Sometimes when I spill or drop something, I'll log it away in my brain's to do list for a bit later to avoid derailing my current task. I must train myself to clean up all messes immediately...
I was making lunch for Gabrielle, Danielle and myself and managed to step in the cat's food bowl and upturned it on the floor. (AGAIN!) I sighed, then headed to the table with my armload of foodstuffs and sat down. After all, the invisible high chair clock is already running and Gabi's patience only stretches so far...
Danielle observed that I made a mess.
"Yes, I stepped on the cat's bowl, but don't worry I'll clean it up after lunch," I replied.
Danielle got up, magnanimously grabbed the broom and said, "I'll do it Mama!" Dum-dum-da-dum!
Her untamed strokes of the broom sent kibble floating all over the floor. After corralling about half of it (and some other dirt) she took the dustpan and managed to sweep some up, while sending more around the floor. She then whipped open the cupboard door and tried to dump it in the garbage by shaking it, which instead shot it all over under the sink. Miraculously not one kibble landed in the trash. It's like it had a force field over the top of the can.
At this point, inconspicuous intervention is necessary. I put the baby in the playpen and pull out the garbage can and start cleaning up under the sink. She does a bit more sweeping and drops a few kibbles in the can this time. (Yay!) She then dropped the broom and dustpan in the middle of the floor. Whack! Now that the floor cleaning complete she moves on to the next task. She pulled out the big bag of cat food and refilled Loki's bowl. Then she laid on the cat food bag to admire her hard work.
"I cleaned up your mess Mama, wasn't that nice of me?" she said.
I said, "Baby, I love you. Thank you for cleaning up my mess." She skipped away. Gabi started to fuss in the playpen so I soothed her, then went back into the kitchen and swept the floor, put the broom and dustpan away, put the garbage can away, and put the cat food bag back in the cupboard.
I have a wonderful kid. She tried with all her four-year-old skill and zest to help me clean up a mistake I made, just because she loves me. Although, next time I think I'll just clean it up right away and give her a big hug instead.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Hi Baby!
(Article seven of the "On Being Pregnant Series")
I wasn't one of those moms who just couldn't wait to "get the baby out." While I was pregnant I was well aware of how good I had it, relatively speaking. All I had to do to be the perfect mom was take my vitamins, eat well, rest and get a breath of fresh air now and again. That was it. However, as my time approached I felt increasingly restless. Here I was nearly forty pounds heavier than usual and unable to sit still, as I buzzed around doing a bit of this and a bit of that, then this again, and then that again.
"Amy, just sit down!" I'd hear.
I was generally in good spirits and unafraid for the most part. Towards the end of my first pregnancy, I was getting anxious about how much pain would be involved. Then during a phone conversation my friend Carmen said, "Amy, it's just a day. You just have to do one day and it's over and you'll have your baby."
Quantifying the duration as she did, erased my anxiety. I can tolerate anything for a just a day. My first experience ended up lasting two days; but the spirit of the advice is that it's there, and then gone. And it was, and was.
I also had great faith in my obstetrician and St. Vincent's hospital. So long as I could just get there, (and stay there—they do love to send 1st time mommies home) I knew that the baby and I were in good hands. I have never felt like as much like a VIP as I have during my two deliveries there. The nurses are compassionate and attentive and the doctors are amazing. I thought that if I was ever to work in health care, I'd want to be involved in this side of things. Everyone just seemed to be happy. It must be uplifting working with life coming into the world instead of the majority of medicine which deals with life going out of the world; the yang to the birthing yin.
If the birthing process were a musical composition played by a symphony, it would start slow and quiet, staying that way long enough to make you wonder if you're really hearing anything. Then just as doubts would surface, here come the bass, brass, then the strings. Then cymbals and tympani come in and the music starts to crescendo, crescendo, then, then, then.... nothing. Back to the quiet music, layered under with intensity that wasn't there before. Sweat is pouring down the conductor at this point as the lights burn into her shoulders. She frantically motions for the brass, strings, percussion, which join in turn then crescendo, crescendo, crescendo the pressure building, she loses a button, the member of the symphony are showing obvious signs of great fatigue, crescendo, hold, hold, HOLD!! then cut. The conductor collapses in a heap as a baby's tiny cry pierces the stunned quiet of the auditorium.
All this great symphonic composition and as my angel is being brought to me and laid on my chest, do I spout the poetry with meter that keeps time with the pounding of our united hearts? What sonnets burst forth as she goes from crying to peaceful upon contact with the skin of her mother? My fingers explore her features, my eyes drink her in, I absorb her through my breath and touch of her skin. What words come forth to articulate this eruption of emotion??? "Hi, Baby!"
After Gabrielle's birth, my very next thought was, "I'm not pregnant anymore. I'm never going to be pregnant again."
It is a bitter sweet phase of life to see come to a close, as it will be with the baby phase, then the toddler phase. I'm sure I'll even miss the teen years when they come and go. So with the conclusion of this article I can put this phase in a pretty box, tie a ribbon around it and tuck it away in the annals of my mind and get myself ready for all the fun of toddlerhood, bigkiddome and the challenges of sibling rivalry.
I wasn't one of those moms who just couldn't wait to "get the baby out." While I was pregnant I was well aware of how good I had it, relatively speaking. All I had to do to be the perfect mom was take my vitamins, eat well, rest and get a breath of fresh air now and again. That was it. However, as my time approached I felt increasingly restless. Here I was nearly forty pounds heavier than usual and unable to sit still, as I buzzed around doing a bit of this and a bit of that, then this again, and then that again.
"Amy, just sit down!" I'd hear.
I was generally in good spirits and unafraid for the most part. Towards the end of my first pregnancy, I was getting anxious about how much pain would be involved. Then during a phone conversation my friend Carmen said, "Amy, it's just a day. You just have to do one day and it's over and you'll have your baby."
Quantifying the duration as she did, erased my anxiety. I can tolerate anything for a just a day. My first experience ended up lasting two days; but the spirit of the advice is that it's there, and then gone. And it was, and was.
I also had great faith in my obstetrician and St. Vincent's hospital. So long as I could just get there, (and stay there—they do love to send 1st time mommies home) I knew that the baby and I were in good hands. I have never felt like as much like a VIP as I have during my two deliveries there. The nurses are compassionate and attentive and the doctors are amazing. I thought that if I was ever to work in health care, I'd want to be involved in this side of things. Everyone just seemed to be happy. It must be uplifting working with life coming into the world instead of the majority of medicine which deals with life going out of the world; the yang to the birthing yin.
If the birthing process were a musical composition played by a symphony, it would start slow and quiet, staying that way long enough to make you wonder if you're really hearing anything. Then just as doubts would surface, here come the bass, brass, then the strings. Then cymbals and tympani come in and the music starts to crescendo, crescendo, then, then, then.... nothing. Back to the quiet music, layered under with intensity that wasn't there before. Sweat is pouring down the conductor at this point as the lights burn into her shoulders. She frantically motions for the brass, strings, percussion, which join in turn then crescendo, crescendo, crescendo the pressure building, she loses a button, the member of the symphony are showing obvious signs of great fatigue, crescendo, hold, hold, HOLD!! then cut. The conductor collapses in a heap as a baby's tiny cry pierces the stunned quiet of the auditorium.
All this great symphonic composition and as my angel is being brought to me and laid on my chest, do I spout the poetry with meter that keeps time with the pounding of our united hearts? What sonnets burst forth as she goes from crying to peaceful upon contact with the skin of her mother? My fingers explore her features, my eyes drink her in, I absorb her through my breath and touch of her skin. What words come forth to articulate this eruption of emotion??? "Hi, Baby!"
 |
| Baby Danielle |
 |
| Baby Gabrielle |
After Gabrielle's birth, my very next thought was, "I'm not pregnant anymore. I'm never going to be pregnant again."
It is a bitter sweet phase of life to see come to a close, as it will be with the baby phase, then the toddler phase. I'm sure I'll even miss the teen years when they come and go. So with the conclusion of this article I can put this phase in a pretty box, tie a ribbon around it and tuck it away in the annals of my mind and get myself ready for all the fun of toddlerhood, bigkiddome and the challenges of sibling rivalry.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Other People
(Article six of the "On Being Pregnant Series")
The reaction people had to my baby belly seemed to divide along age groups, kids, teens, adults, parents, grandparents. I'm not a person that's used to bringing about a reaction from other people, quite the opposite actually as I tend to blend in with the wallpaper; not so with a baby belly.
Kids are the most fun, although toddlers didn't really seem to notice. I think it's because they're still developing a baseline for what's normal. Many a parent said, "Look honey, there's a baby in her tummy!" The toddler would usually look for moment then squirm away and run off. After all, everything is a miracle to a two year old. Open the door to the big box in the kitchen and cold air rushes out and lights turn on. Pull the handle and water shoots out. Push the lever and G.I. Joe disappears in a whirlpool. Baby in her tummy?? Big deal!
Add just another year or two of sophistication and suddenly the baby-in-her-tummy idea is a lot more interesting. These kids loved putting their hands on my belly and some would even run up to me and pull up my shirt for a better look and give the baby a shout out. Their stream of questions almost always started with, "How does the baby get in there?" Being a biology buff I had no trouble answering this question for my daughter, but in attempt to be sensitive to other people's beliefs and boundaries I would answer, "You should probably ask your mom about that, kiddo." What did I tell my daughter? Excellent question. It went something like this: "Mommies have organs inside their bodies called ovaries. Once a month, these ovaries release an egg. If the daddies fertilize the egg within a few days then a baby will start to grow. That's why babies look a little like their moms and a little like their dads. The baby starts out very, very tiny and gets bigger every day. Then one day, a long time later, the baby will be ready to come out." I was pretty proud of my simple yet accurate description of human reproduction, until I figured out that my daughter assumed the fertilizer was "rubbed on the mommy's tummy." I think I mumbled out an "ummm hummm". I guess my frank honesty only goes so far.
With regards to teenagers, some of the girls would show some enthusiasm but most teenagers would deftly avoid any eye contact. It was like I was a drop of oil in a saucer with pepper flakes. Firstly, they're wise enough to know how you got yourself in this predicament, (tee-hee-hee) but really the idea of pregnancy to a teenager is painted with a thick coat of scandal and over a primer coat of fear. There was nothing more scary that the idea of being a "teen mom" when I was a teen and no scandal bigger than one of us turning up with a baby bump. So their reaction was predictable but also lacking in perspective. I've seen teenage parents do an amazing job and lead a great life.
Among adults it was immediately obvious who was and wasn't a parent. The non-parent types would treat you with mostly indifference, (nothing wrong with that) but fellow parents are quick to light up with excitement and run through the typical script of questions while peppering your responses with their experiences. Dads were generally not so forthcoming but occasionally I'd catch a tough looking, rough-around-the-edges-type with a big sappy grin at the sight of my engorged belly and I'd think, "Yep he's got a little princess at home too."
Some of my favorite reactions came from people who were older. They come from a place of such experience, wisdom, and best of all, perspective on how fleeting these moments are. They'd show unabashed happiness at the gift I'm about to receive and know firsthand that the discomforts and trials are not what I'll remember, nor what really matters. Even from a casual exchange I'd feel uplifted, as though I just had a nice visit with doting grandparents.
I've never been a person to elicit much of a reaction from people, particularly strangers. There's just something special about a pregnant woman. She holds the magic of creation and the hope for our kind in one neat, adorable, little bump. Which is what I think people really meant when Id get the usual, "You look great!" I'd think these people were crazy or lying for my benefit. My internal dialog would shout, "What do you mean, I'm huge, my face is fat, I'm tired, and I haven't seen my toes in ages!" But now that I'm normal again, (well a new normal anyway) when I see a pregnant friend the words fly right out of my mouth, "You look great!"
The reaction people had to my baby belly seemed to divide along age groups, kids, teens, adults, parents, grandparents. I'm not a person that's used to bringing about a reaction from other people, quite the opposite actually as I tend to blend in with the wallpaper; not so with a baby belly.
Kids are the most fun, although toddlers didn't really seem to notice. I think it's because they're still developing a baseline for what's normal. Many a parent said, "Look honey, there's a baby in her tummy!" The toddler would usually look for moment then squirm away and run off. After all, everything is a miracle to a two year old. Open the door to the big box in the kitchen and cold air rushes out and lights turn on. Pull the handle and water shoots out. Push the lever and G.I. Joe disappears in a whirlpool. Baby in her tummy?? Big deal!
Add just another year or two of sophistication and suddenly the baby-in-her-tummy idea is a lot more interesting. These kids loved putting their hands on my belly and some would even run up to me and pull up my shirt for a better look and give the baby a shout out. Their stream of questions almost always started with, "How does the baby get in there?" Being a biology buff I had no trouble answering this question for my daughter, but in attempt to be sensitive to other people's beliefs and boundaries I would answer, "You should probably ask your mom about that, kiddo." What did I tell my daughter? Excellent question. It went something like this: "Mommies have organs inside their bodies called ovaries. Once a month, these ovaries release an egg. If the daddies fertilize the egg within a few days then a baby will start to grow. That's why babies look a little like their moms and a little like their dads. The baby starts out very, very tiny and gets bigger every day. Then one day, a long time later, the baby will be ready to come out." I was pretty proud of my simple yet accurate description of human reproduction, until I figured out that my daughter assumed the fertilizer was "rubbed on the mommy's tummy." I think I mumbled out an "ummm hummm". I guess my frank honesty only goes so far.
With regards to teenagers, some of the girls would show some enthusiasm but most teenagers would deftly avoid any eye contact. It was like I was a drop of oil in a saucer with pepper flakes. Firstly, they're wise enough to know how you got yourself in this predicament, (tee-hee-hee) but really the idea of pregnancy to a teenager is painted with a thick coat of scandal and over a primer coat of fear. There was nothing more scary that the idea of being a "teen mom" when I was a teen and no scandal bigger than one of us turning up with a baby bump. So their reaction was predictable but also lacking in perspective. I've seen teenage parents do an amazing job and lead a great life.
Among adults it was immediately obvious who was and wasn't a parent. The non-parent types would treat you with mostly indifference, (nothing wrong with that) but fellow parents are quick to light up with excitement and run through the typical script of questions while peppering your responses with their experiences. Dads were generally not so forthcoming but occasionally I'd catch a tough looking, rough-around-the-edges-type with a big sappy grin at the sight of my engorged belly and I'd think, "Yep he's got a little princess at home too."
Some of my favorite reactions came from people who were older. They come from a place of such experience, wisdom, and best of all, perspective on how fleeting these moments are. They'd show unabashed happiness at the gift I'm about to receive and know firsthand that the discomforts and trials are not what I'll remember, nor what really matters. Even from a casual exchange I'd feel uplifted, as though I just had a nice visit with doting grandparents.
I've never been a person to elicit much of a reaction from people, particularly strangers. There's just something special about a pregnant woman. She holds the magic of creation and the hope for our kind in one neat, adorable, little bump. Which is what I think people really meant when Id get the usual, "You look great!" I'd think these people were crazy or lying for my benefit. My internal dialog would shout, "What do you mean, I'm huge, my face is fat, I'm tired, and I haven't seen my toes in ages!" But now that I'm normal again, (well a new normal anyway) when I see a pregnant friend the words fly right out of my mouth, "You look great!"
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