November 24, 2008
1) I want to wake up in the morning on my own terms, at an hour of my choosing.
2) I want to feel driven and passionate about my occupation.
3) I want to figure out what that occupation will be.
4) I want to travel to Australia, Cuba, Spain, California, Brazil, Italy, New York....in that order.
5) I want a neighborhood park and a neighborhood coffee shop, both within walking distance.
6) I want some new earrings.
7) I want a new tattoo.
8) I want my kids to feel Cuban.
9) I want my friends to love my kids.
10) I want my family to visit me.
11) I want you to burn me your favorite playlist.
12) I want to learn to play the drums.
13) I want to kiss Eddie Vedder, for old time's sake.
14) I want to play piano with my grandmother.
15) I want something delicious.
Showing posts with label raising twins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label raising twins. Show all posts
Monday, February 16, 2009
brain, child
June 23, 2008
Out of respect for my mental and emotional health, I'm taking a break from people, and moving back into my head for a little while. In preparation for my social hiatus, I've made a couple of trips to the library, and subscribed to a new magazine--Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers. In addition to the quarterly issues, I also purchased a collection of their greatest hits, all 194 pages of which arrived today.
After reading a couple of the essays while my kids splashed in the kiddie pool at my feet, I dragged them inside, put their clothes back on, and drove to Target to purchase a reading lamp for my bedroom. It's almost like discovering the eighth Harry Potter--I cannot put it down.
An excerpt:
From "Why I Hate Dr. Sears" by Cynthia Eller
(Of course that was the first essay I read. I've got some serious issues with Dr. Sears, and this woman articulated them beautifully and with way fewer cuss words than I would have used.)
Want to stay at home with your kids? Then do it. Do it because you want to and because you can. Want to leave your kids with someone else while you go work, or play, or follow out your own interests? Then do it. Do it because you want to and because you can. If you don't have a choice, do what you must out of necessity, and know that love, real love, matters more than time or money either one, as generations of children from many classes and cultures can attest.
But when you have a choice, don't choose to do what you'd rather not do out of a sense of beleaguered duty. Don't suffer on your children's account. Chances are, they will not thank you for it. Love them, enjoy them, let them see who you are (who you already are, not the Stepford Mom you think you need to be). Given enough time, they will become whoever they will be.
Out of respect for my mental and emotional health, I'm taking a break from people, and moving back into my head for a little while. In preparation for my social hiatus, I've made a couple of trips to the library, and subscribed to a new magazine--Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers. In addition to the quarterly issues, I also purchased a collection of their greatest hits, all 194 pages of which arrived today.
After reading a couple of the essays while my kids splashed in the kiddie pool at my feet, I dragged them inside, put their clothes back on, and drove to Target to purchase a reading lamp for my bedroom. It's almost like discovering the eighth Harry Potter--I cannot put it down.
An excerpt:
From "Why I Hate Dr. Sears" by Cynthia Eller
(Of course that was the first essay I read. I've got some serious issues with Dr. Sears, and this woman articulated them beautifully and with way fewer cuss words than I would have used.)
Want to stay at home with your kids? Then do it. Do it because you want to and because you can. Want to leave your kids with someone else while you go work, or play, or follow out your own interests? Then do it. Do it because you want to and because you can. If you don't have a choice, do what you must out of necessity, and know that love, real love, matters more than time or money either one, as generations of children from many classes and cultures can attest.
But when you have a choice, don't choose to do what you'd rather not do out of a sense of beleaguered duty. Don't suffer on your children's account. Chances are, they will not thank you for it. Love them, enjoy them, let them see who you are (who you already are, not the Stepford Mom you think you need to be). Given enough time, they will become whoever they will be.
my identity crisis
May 2, 2008
To anyone not really paying attention (or the gainfully employed), it may seem that my life is one of relative leisure--swimming at the Springs, splashy parks, Wheatsville lunches, mama happy hours. And, while it is true that I spend a good portion of my time in flip flops and a bathing suit, I wipe A LOT of ass on a daily basis.
My babies are 18 months old, and are now becoming little people. They walk and talk and dance and sing and scream and kick, and live every single moment with eyes wide open. And, 90% of the time, those eyes are watching my every move. When I sing along to whatever's on the radio, they babble along in their beautiful falsettos from their car seats. Or when one of them gets into something they shouldn't, the other immediately wags his/her finger and says, "uh uh, Manu. No no no no".
So, a few months ago, when I started to lose my patience and freak out on them for clinging to my legs or whining when I left the room, I started to worry that the person they were watching was turning into a miserable grouch. It was rainy and cold, and I was stuck at home with two little people who wanted nothing more than my undivided attention. Meanwhile, I was bored and lonely, and wondered if I was starting to get depressed. Without a job to regulate my weeks, Mondays were no different than Fridays, and the only days I really looked forward to were the days when Jeremy was off. I'd never wanted to raise babies in a nuclear family setting. It always seemed so isolating and dull. Yet that was exactly what I was doing, and it was really starting to wear me down. My mind needed stimulating of the adult variety, and I could no longer stand the boredom of my domestic routine. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen. (Didn't someone famous say that?). Though "idle" is not exactly the right word when it comes to toddlers, I definitely felt like my star wasn't burning so bright...
Now, 4 months later, everything's different. I'm busy as a bee and happy as a clam. Though I'm really only working very part time and only two days a week. it's exactly what I needed to feel like a person again. For 10 hours a week, I can drive fast with the radio loud and pop in and out of the car in seconds! No strollers or wagons or babies to haul. I make phone calls without apologies for the babies in the background. I send emails with both hands on the keys. I eat lunch in peace and don't have to share a single bite! It's perfect. And, at the end of the day, when I walk through the door, they squeal out an excited "MAMA!" and run towards me with giant grins on their faces. Though it's only been 5 hours since we last saw each other, we have so much to catch up on--what they ate and read and played, were they good, did they fight? And I know that more important than the money I'm making is the person I'm remembering.
Before I was Mama, there was a person I was working on and I needed to find a way to bring her back. Going to work for a few hours makes me miss them, and make the most of our time together. Now my laptop is only open at nap time and after they've gone to bed. The occasional night out or singing with BEM energizes my social gas tank, so lazing around in the mornings and doing puzzles or reading books is just where I want to be. So, as cliche as it sounds when a mother says that she "did it for the kids", I can now truly relate. Because, ultimately, the happier I am, the better I am. And, from my vantage point at the tail end of this decade's identity crisis, I think I'm doing pretty good. And, as far as I understand their budding language, I think my kids think so, too.
To anyone not really paying attention (or the gainfully employed), it may seem that my life is one of relative leisure--swimming at the Springs, splashy parks, Wheatsville lunches, mama happy hours. And, while it is true that I spend a good portion of my time in flip flops and a bathing suit, I wipe A LOT of ass on a daily basis.
My babies are 18 months old, and are now becoming little people. They walk and talk and dance and sing and scream and kick, and live every single moment with eyes wide open. And, 90% of the time, those eyes are watching my every move. When I sing along to whatever's on the radio, they babble along in their beautiful falsettos from their car seats. Or when one of them gets into something they shouldn't, the other immediately wags his/her finger and says, "uh uh, Manu. No no no no".
So, a few months ago, when I started to lose my patience and freak out on them for clinging to my legs or whining when I left the room, I started to worry that the person they were watching was turning into a miserable grouch. It was rainy and cold, and I was stuck at home with two little people who wanted nothing more than my undivided attention. Meanwhile, I was bored and lonely, and wondered if I was starting to get depressed. Without a job to regulate my weeks, Mondays were no different than Fridays, and the only days I really looked forward to were the days when Jeremy was off. I'd never wanted to raise babies in a nuclear family setting. It always seemed so isolating and dull. Yet that was exactly what I was doing, and it was really starting to wear me down. My mind needed stimulating of the adult variety, and I could no longer stand the boredom of my domestic routine. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen. (Didn't someone famous say that?). Though "idle" is not exactly the right word when it comes to toddlers, I definitely felt like my star wasn't burning so bright...
Now, 4 months later, everything's different. I'm busy as a bee and happy as a clam. Though I'm really only working very part time and only two days a week. it's exactly what I needed to feel like a person again. For 10 hours a week, I can drive fast with the radio loud and pop in and out of the car in seconds! No strollers or wagons or babies to haul. I make phone calls without apologies for the babies in the background. I send emails with both hands on the keys. I eat lunch in peace and don't have to share a single bite! It's perfect. And, at the end of the day, when I walk through the door, they squeal out an excited "MAMA!" and run towards me with giant grins on their faces. Though it's only been 5 hours since we last saw each other, we have so much to catch up on--what they ate and read and played, were they good, did they fight? And I know that more important than the money I'm making is the person I'm remembering.
Before I was Mama, there was a person I was working on and I needed to find a way to bring her back. Going to work for a few hours makes me miss them, and make the most of our time together. Now my laptop is only open at nap time and after they've gone to bed. The occasional night out or singing with BEM energizes my social gas tank, so lazing around in the mornings and doing puzzles or reading books is just where I want to be. So, as cliche as it sounds when a mother says that she "did it for the kids", I can now truly relate. Because, ultimately, the happier I am, the better I am. And, from my vantage point at the tail end of this decade's identity crisis, I think I'm doing pretty good. And, as far as I understand their budding language, I think my kids think so, too.
giving thanks
March 6, 2008
I can't wait til November. I feel like my latest adventures have given me a new appreciation for that which I had begun to take for granted. So here goes.
Dear Lord*, thank you for:
Making me Cuban.
Making me my mother's daughter, and my sister's sister, and my husband's wife.
Giving me two perfectly imperfect babies.
Giving me a voice to match the size of my ass.
And thank you, Austin, for:
Boggy Creek Farm on Wednesday morns.
All the babies' mamas.
And the babies' mamas' mamas.
And the future (though they don't realize it yet) babies' mamas...
And, of course, the babies' daddies. Especially mine.
And the freedom to nurse toddlers in public without the constant threat of stink eye.
And mama margarita lunches on sunny days in stuccoed patios.
And my wonderful house in my awesome neighborhood with my kick ass neighbors.
And my friends' wonderful houses in equally (if not more) awesome neighborhoods.
And my kick-ass personal assistant gig that has brought the pep back to my step (and the green back to my bank account).
Though it is not easy to live so far from the ocean, and from my family, and from the influence of latino culture, this is exactly where I want to be. And who I want to be here with.
*loosely. Interpret as you see fit.
I can't wait til November. I feel like my latest adventures have given me a new appreciation for that which I had begun to take for granted. So here goes.
Dear Lord*, thank you for:
Making me Cuban.
Making me my mother's daughter, and my sister's sister, and my husband's wife.
Giving me two perfectly imperfect babies.
Giving me a voice to match the size of my ass.
And thank you, Austin, for:
Boggy Creek Farm on Wednesday morns.
All the babies' mamas.
And the babies' mamas' mamas.
And the future (though they don't realize it yet) babies' mamas...
And, of course, the babies' daddies. Especially mine.
And the freedom to nurse toddlers in public without the constant threat of stink eye.
And mama margarita lunches on sunny days in stuccoed patios.
And my wonderful house in my awesome neighborhood with my kick ass neighbors.
And my friends' wonderful houses in equally (if not more) awesome neighborhoods.
And my kick-ass personal assistant gig that has brought the pep back to my step (and the green back to my bank account).
Though it is not easy to live so far from the ocean, and from my family, and from the influence of latino culture, this is exactly where I want to be. And who I want to be here with.
*loosely. Interpret as you see fit.
the trade economy
January 24, 2008
Radical mamas and the trade economy: this is why I live in Austin, despite the fact that the allergies are slowly killing my husband, there's no beach worth a damn around here, and no family to help me raise these babies.
For the past few weeks, a combination of crappy weather and a crabby child have pushed me almost over the edge of reason. Though I've been toying with the idea of physically going back to work in some capacity, it's never seemed right. I don't want my kids in daycare, and other options were eluding me so I sat on it for a few months. Today, however, I was offered a wonderful position with the flexibility to grow into it at my own pace so I've decided to jump back into the working world on a very part time basis and see what happens....
In the meantime, my babies will be under the care of some radical mamas twice a week so, not only do I know they will be safe and sound, I'm excited about the influence these women will have over my kids on a regular basis. In exchange, I hope to babysit and offer my varied and eclectic mix of services as payment. As I've said a hundred times before, I am not enough for these babies--they need aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and neighbors and friends to teach them about the world. But that is really hard to achieve in our isolationist society so this feels like one step closer to the community child rearing model that feels more natural to me. At least until I pack up our things and get the hell out of the US for a few months.....
Radical mamas and the trade economy: this is why I live in Austin, despite the fact that the allergies are slowly killing my husband, there's no beach worth a damn around here, and no family to help me raise these babies.
For the past few weeks, a combination of crappy weather and a crabby child have pushed me almost over the edge of reason. Though I've been toying with the idea of physically going back to work in some capacity, it's never seemed right. I don't want my kids in daycare, and other options were eluding me so I sat on it for a few months. Today, however, I was offered a wonderful position with the flexibility to grow into it at my own pace so I've decided to jump back into the working world on a very part time basis and see what happens....
In the meantime, my babies will be under the care of some radical mamas twice a week so, not only do I know they will be safe and sound, I'm excited about the influence these women will have over my kids on a regular basis. In exchange, I hope to babysit and offer my varied and eclectic mix of services as payment. As I've said a hundred times before, I am not enough for these babies--they need aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and neighbors and friends to teach them about the world. But that is really hard to achieve in our isolationist society so this feels like one step closer to the community child rearing model that feels more natural to me. At least until I pack up our things and get the hell out of the US for a few months.....
isabel marina
January 18, 2006
Isa was born first. When they pulled her out of my belly (don't ask) and we first heard her cry, my heart exploded from my numb and tired body. While the nurse brought her over for me to see her, Dr. Polon tugged Manu out. Entranced by the beauty of our baby girl, it took us a minute to realize that we didn't hear him cry. A moment of terror set in as the nurses scuttled around and drained the mucus from his lungs. Our midwife conferred with them and reported back that everything was okay, he just needed some drainage. A few minutes later, he cried out in protest and then joined his sister on the scale.
While Isa slept and slept, Manu lifted his head and looked around the hospital room. In those weeks before the colic set in, he inspected the world around him with the furrowed brow of a wise old man. His gross motor skills from day one were far ahead of the curve.
Meanwhile, Isa nursed, slept, and pooped. She made no effort to hold her head up or keep her eyes open beyond the absolutely necessary. By the time they were 2 months old, Jeremy and I secretly wondered if there was something wrong with her. Not only was she impossible to excite, it was difficult to take a good picture of her compared to the hundreds we already had of her photogenic brother. My poor homegirl just wasn't that cute. Sometimes she looked like a monkey with her puffy eyes and puckered mouth. Eventually, our families even started to wonder if she was okay. Even our friends made comments about her lack of eye contact and alertness. Meanwhile, my midwife and every doctor we asked said she was totally fine and that I shouldn't compare her to her brother. But the difference between them was striking, and we were starting to prepare for the possibility of caring for a special needs child.
Then, suddenly, she started to smile. And then she laughed. And then she played with rattles and teething rings and my hair and my earrings... And slowly our fears diminished as our daughter settled into the world outside the womb.
Today, at almost 15 months, she's wise beyond her years. Her vocabulary consists of at least 25 words, and her gross motor skills, though still behind her brother, are on the lazy end of the spectrum but normal.
At bedtime, when we exchange kisses and I love yous, she says "uh ya yoo" back and presses her face into mine. And then the other night she woke up crying at 5am. I waited a few minutes to see if she'd go back to sleep before giving up and bringing her into bed. I nursed her for like 10 minutes as she played with her feet and tugged at my hair. Tired and frustrated, I said, "it's night night, Isa. Go night night!" and then I rolled over and away from her. She sat up and climbed over me, cupped my face in her hands and pressed her nose to mine. I gave her a kiss and said, "Night Night, Isa. Go night night". And then she patted my head and said, "nigh nigh nigh, mama. nigh nigh nigh", climbed back over me, and went to sleep. As my heart exploded from my chest once again, I knew that I would never forget that.
Isa was born first. When they pulled her out of my belly (don't ask) and we first heard her cry, my heart exploded from my numb and tired body. While the nurse brought her over for me to see her, Dr. Polon tugged Manu out. Entranced by the beauty of our baby girl, it took us a minute to realize that we didn't hear him cry. A moment of terror set in as the nurses scuttled around and drained the mucus from his lungs. Our midwife conferred with them and reported back that everything was okay, he just needed some drainage. A few minutes later, he cried out in protest and then joined his sister on the scale.
While Isa slept and slept, Manu lifted his head and looked around the hospital room. In those weeks before the colic set in, he inspected the world around him with the furrowed brow of a wise old man. His gross motor skills from day one were far ahead of the curve.
Meanwhile, Isa nursed, slept, and pooped. She made no effort to hold her head up or keep her eyes open beyond the absolutely necessary. By the time they were 2 months old, Jeremy and I secretly wondered if there was something wrong with her. Not only was she impossible to excite, it was difficult to take a good picture of her compared to the hundreds we already had of her photogenic brother. My poor homegirl just wasn't that cute. Sometimes she looked like a monkey with her puffy eyes and puckered mouth. Eventually, our families even started to wonder if she was okay. Even our friends made comments about her lack of eye contact and alertness. Meanwhile, my midwife and every doctor we asked said she was totally fine and that I shouldn't compare her to her brother. But the difference between them was striking, and we were starting to prepare for the possibility of caring for a special needs child.
Then, suddenly, she started to smile. And then she laughed. And then she played with rattles and teething rings and my hair and my earrings... And slowly our fears diminished as our daughter settled into the world outside the womb.
Today, at almost 15 months, she's wise beyond her years. Her vocabulary consists of at least 25 words, and her gross motor skills, though still behind her brother, are on the lazy end of the spectrum but normal.
At bedtime, when we exchange kisses and I love yous, she says "uh ya yoo" back and presses her face into mine. And then the other night she woke up crying at 5am. I waited a few minutes to see if she'd go back to sleep before giving up and bringing her into bed. I nursed her for like 10 minutes as she played with her feet and tugged at my hair. Tired and frustrated, I said, "it's night night, Isa. Go night night!" and then I rolled over and away from her. She sat up and climbed over me, cupped my face in her hands and pressed her nose to mine. I gave her a kiss and said, "Night Night, Isa. Go night night". And then she patted my head and said, "nigh nigh nigh, mama. nigh nigh nigh", climbed back over me, and went to sleep. As my heart exploded from my chest once again, I knew that I would never forget that.
on the subject of...
November 29, 2007
on the subject of...
MAKE UP
I hate lipstick. Unless it's red. Park Avenue Red, to be precise. When I do wear make up, it takes me about 30 seconds to apply it. Eyeliner, mascara, some Burts on my lips. And then I'm out the door.* * *I wonder if wearing make up is a job requirement for dental hygienists. All you see as you peer up at them from your vulnerable slack-jawed vantage point is their eyes. Beautiful, eye shadowed peekaboos staring into your mouth as they scrape out the leftovers.
DEATH
A dog was shot across the street from my house on Thanksgiving morning. When I heard the gunshot, I was sitting in the living room with my cranky son on my lap while my daughter slept fitfully in a crib in their bedroom. Immediately, I asked Jeremy to check on her, terrified that the bullet had somehow made its way inside our house. Turns out both she and the dog were fine. Now I worry that the dog (who was shot by a cop because it had charged him and a neighbor) is going to jump the fence again and attack my kids as they follow me like baby ducks into and out of the car.* * * My grandmother isn't doing so well. She's old, and that's just how it goes. But she's my grandmother, and I am not quite ready for her to go.* * * Sometimes, when Jeremy wants to go to the store to pick up some smokes or milk or ice cream, I worry that he's going to get into an accident and die on the way there. I want to ask him not to go. Twenty minutes later, when he comes back through the door, I exhale and chastise myself for being so fucking morbid.
MARRIAGE
It really is a compromise. I get it now. My whole life I've done whatever the hell I wanted, or else. These days, it seems more and more selfish to continue pitching fits over stupid shit so I'm learning to compromise. He wants to watch football, I want to be social. Why don't we invite people over to watch the game? Perfect. He wants to sleep in, I want to make breakfast. Hmmm. Not so perfect. We're still working that one out.
MUSIC
In high school, I worked at a trendy record store. There I discovered The Smiths and The Pixies and Bryan Ferry and the Cocteau Twins. And so much more. It was such a huge part of my life and of my identity. It seems kind of strange to me that I now listen almost exclusively to NPR and the classical music station. If I'm in a mood, I might find the oldies station while driving around, or sing along to R&B jams on 105.9. But, usually, I want either calm or quiet, and I'll eventually switch back to KUT or 89.5. When did I get so old and boring?* * * I love the living shit out of the Arcade Fire. Maybe that's yesterday's news to all of you in the know, but it still brings me to tears sometimes.* * *I want to find a group of women and sing. Like in college, with the Moiragettes. Or in Catholic school, in the choir. I don't care how cheesy the music or how old the ladies. I just want to stand in a group of women and let it all out. Maybe I should join the local Baptist church and beg to sing in their choir.
on the subject of...
MAKE UP
I hate lipstick. Unless it's red. Park Avenue Red, to be precise. When I do wear make up, it takes me about 30 seconds to apply it. Eyeliner, mascara, some Burts on my lips. And then I'm out the door.* * *I wonder if wearing make up is a job requirement for dental hygienists. All you see as you peer up at them from your vulnerable slack-jawed vantage point is their eyes. Beautiful, eye shadowed peekaboos staring into your mouth as they scrape out the leftovers.
DEATH
A dog was shot across the street from my house on Thanksgiving morning. When I heard the gunshot, I was sitting in the living room with my cranky son on my lap while my daughter slept fitfully in a crib in their bedroom. Immediately, I asked Jeremy to check on her, terrified that the bullet had somehow made its way inside our house. Turns out both she and the dog were fine. Now I worry that the dog (who was shot by a cop because it had charged him and a neighbor) is going to jump the fence again and attack my kids as they follow me like baby ducks into and out of the car.* * * My grandmother isn't doing so well. She's old, and that's just how it goes. But she's my grandmother, and I am not quite ready for her to go.* * * Sometimes, when Jeremy wants to go to the store to pick up some smokes or milk or ice cream, I worry that he's going to get into an accident and die on the way there. I want to ask him not to go. Twenty minutes later, when he comes back through the door, I exhale and chastise myself for being so fucking morbid.
MARRIAGE
It really is a compromise. I get it now. My whole life I've done whatever the hell I wanted, or else. These days, it seems more and more selfish to continue pitching fits over stupid shit so I'm learning to compromise. He wants to watch football, I want to be social. Why don't we invite people over to watch the game? Perfect. He wants to sleep in, I want to make breakfast. Hmmm. Not so perfect. We're still working that one out.
MUSIC
In high school, I worked at a trendy record store. There I discovered The Smiths and The Pixies and Bryan Ferry and the Cocteau Twins. And so much more. It was such a huge part of my life and of my identity. It seems kind of strange to me that I now listen almost exclusively to NPR and the classical music station. If I'm in a mood, I might find the oldies station while driving around, or sing along to R&B jams on 105.9. But, usually, I want either calm or quiet, and I'll eventually switch back to KUT or 89.5. When did I get so old and boring?* * * I love the living shit out of the Arcade Fire. Maybe that's yesterday's news to all of you in the know, but it still brings me to tears sometimes.* * *I want to find a group of women and sing. Like in college, with the Moiragettes. Or in Catholic school, in the choir. I don't care how cheesy the music or how old the ladies. I just want to stand in a group of women and let it all out. Maybe I should join the local Baptist church and beg to sing in their choir.
the news is killing my buzz
October 5, 2007
Between the killer amoeba that's eating children's brains after swimming in Texas lakes and the old lady that died of West Nile here in Austin, I'm starting to fixate on all the possible ways my kids could die. Yesterday, I was driving in the car, singing happily to a mix CD while the babies gurgled at each other in the backseat. During a red light, I turned around and smiled at them and ruffled their hair, and then thought to myself, "what if we get slammed into by a semi right now and that's the last I see of my kids?". Buzzkill.
It's not a good sign when every cough is a prelude to pneumonia or a slight fever threatens meningitis. I've never been much of an alarmist when it comes to stuff like this, but I'm entering a new phase of paranoid parenthood and I don't like it.
Between the killer amoeba that's eating children's brains after swimming in Texas lakes and the old lady that died of West Nile here in Austin, I'm starting to fixate on all the possible ways my kids could die. Yesterday, I was driving in the car, singing happily to a mix CD while the babies gurgled at each other in the backseat. During a red light, I turned around and smiled at them and ruffled their hair, and then thought to myself, "what if we get slammed into by a semi right now and that's the last I see of my kids?". Buzzkill.
It's not a good sign when every cough is a prelude to pneumonia or a slight fever threatens meningitis. I've never been much of an alarmist when it comes to stuff like this, but I'm entering a new phase of paranoid parenthood and I don't like it.
mamamoons and a minivan
May 28, 2007
For Mother's Day, I got a minivan. Sort of. I had to convince Jeremy that it wasn't the lamest idea ever and that it really didn't matter who thought we were cool anymore. We deserved a little bit of comfort. So we got one and it's awesome and now he loves it. Check out pictures of it (and our babies) at www.flickr.com/photos/ayleencita. Driving it around this week has made me think of how much my life has changed, how my priorities have shifted, and how being "cool" now has a meaning that is not at all associated with the kind of car I drive.
All alone, without family in town or consistent help, the first six months of these babies' lives were the most challenging months of my life. Most days, I sat in an arm chair with little nurslings in my arms (and watched way too much television) while the world outside my door seemed to blossom into spring. Talk about being left out. In retrospect, we probably should have high-tailed it to Miami and accepted my family's help. It would certainly have been less isolating. But I'm proud of us for sticking it out. Having gotten through the last 7 months, I really feel like there's nothing I can't do...like the sky is the limit and we can do anything. And I'm especially proud of Jeremy for working his ass off to support us, and for being a thoughtful and gentle father to his babies. There's no sweeter sight than the grins that explode on their faces when he comes home from work.
So after months of exposing the ugly underbelly of new mamahood, I think I'm finally done with the wild-eyed exhaustion and embarrassing emotional outbursts. Thank the Lord. I was really starting to lose my mind. These days, my kids and I spend hours playing and singing and swimming and napping and eating. It's awesome. I'm starting to understand the bittersweet nostalgia with which parents view the passage of time. They really DO grow so fast. Soon my babies won't be babies anymore. And I'm going to have to start watching my mouth, and teaching them to walk then run then climb, and figuring out how to balance discipline with free will, manners with honesty.
This lady told me the other day that new parents have it all wrong. We have the impression that we're able to mold these babies into the people we wish we'd become. But raising kids isn't at all like molding a lump of clay. She said it's more like being handed a jagged rock and an emery board. They come into this world with their own ideas and direction, and the most you can hope for is to soften the hard edges. I'm not really sure what that means but it's been stuck in my head. Maybe I just like it because it means that I'm not 100% responsible for who they become. Or, like a mama friend said when I told her about the clay/rock metaphor, she said we're the lump of clay and they mold us. I like that. I feel softer already.
For Mother's Day, I got a minivan. Sort of. I had to convince Jeremy that it wasn't the lamest idea ever and that it really didn't matter who thought we were cool anymore. We deserved a little bit of comfort. So we got one and it's awesome and now he loves it. Check out pictures of it (and our babies) at www.flickr.com/photos/ayleencita. Driving it around this week has made me think of how much my life has changed, how my priorities have shifted, and how being "cool" now has a meaning that is not at all associated with the kind of car I drive.
All alone, without family in town or consistent help, the first six months of these babies' lives were the most challenging months of my life. Most days, I sat in an arm chair with little nurslings in my arms (and watched way too much television) while the world outside my door seemed to blossom into spring. Talk about being left out. In retrospect, we probably should have high-tailed it to Miami and accepted my family's help. It would certainly have been less isolating. But I'm proud of us for sticking it out. Having gotten through the last 7 months, I really feel like there's nothing I can't do...like the sky is the limit and we can do anything. And I'm especially proud of Jeremy for working his ass off to support us, and for being a thoughtful and gentle father to his babies. There's no sweeter sight than the grins that explode on their faces when he comes home from work.
So after months of exposing the ugly underbelly of new mamahood, I think I'm finally done with the wild-eyed exhaustion and embarrassing emotional outbursts. Thank the Lord. I was really starting to lose my mind. These days, my kids and I spend hours playing and singing and swimming and napping and eating. It's awesome. I'm starting to understand the bittersweet nostalgia with which parents view the passage of time. They really DO grow so fast. Soon my babies won't be babies anymore. And I'm going to have to start watching my mouth, and teaching them to walk then run then climb, and figuring out how to balance discipline with free will, manners with honesty.
This lady told me the other day that new parents have it all wrong. We have the impression that we're able to mold these babies into the people we wish we'd become. But raising kids isn't at all like molding a lump of clay. She said it's more like being handed a jagged rock and an emery board. They come into this world with their own ideas and direction, and the most you can hope for is to soften the hard edges. I'm not really sure what that means but it's been stuck in my head. Maybe I just like it because it means that I'm not 100% responsible for who they become. Or, like a mama friend said when I told her about the clay/rock metaphor, she said we're the lump of clay and they mold us. I like that. I feel softer already.
boob over my hammy
April 5, 2007
in anticipation of our flight to miami (babies' first plane ride), i bought a box of 200 earplugs at the suggestion of my friend haley. i figured that, if the shit hit the fan and the babies lost it on the plane, i could at least offer earplugs to my fellow passengers in order to avoid their scorn. for good measure, and at the suggestion of our pediatrician, i also dosed them with a little benadryl moments before take-off in the hopes that it would knock them out for the duration of the flight.
except for a few tummy-clenching moments of isa crying as we were landing in miami, i have to say that the flight there was virtually painless. my sister sat across the aisle from me and expertly rocked, patted, and shushed her lap baby from take-off to landing. as the babies yawned and stretched and slowly awoke on our way to baggage claim, christie and i exchanged a triumphant high five and exhaled for the first time in hours. only five minutes of crying in over five hours of airplane travel....not bad at all.
the way back, however, was a totally different story. this time, my dad was my travel companion. as we settled into our seats and prepared for take-off, the babies seemed to be slipping into benadryl's dreamy embrace. i even took out my US weekly and began flipping through the gossip columns as the other passengers settled around us. somewhere between take-off and the beverage service, isa decided that it was a good time to make a massive and incredibly stinky poo. as she wriggled in my lap, grunting with the effort, loud and stinky baby farts filled the air around us. with every noisy blast, my dad and i laughed harder and harder. finally, certain that she'd finished with her business, i asked a flight attendant where i might find a changing table. "unfortunately," she said, "this airplane is an older model. there is no changing table. you'd really be better off changing her in your seat". you've got to be fucking kidding me, i (and the woman eating in the seat next to me) thought. just as i was debating whether it was better to change her diaper or let her ass rot for the duration of the flight, manu starts pitching a fit on my dad's lap across the aisle. i hand my dad a baby bottle filled with water, in the hopes that this will keep him entertained long enough for me to figure out what to do with isa, but this only makes him fussier. shit. ok. let's switch. i'll nurse manu, and my dad can hold isa for a minute and then i'll deal with her turd situation.
so we do the hand off, and as manu settles onto my breast, isa starts howling as my dad fumbles to hold her comfortably. oh, jesus christ. "dad, she doesn't like to be lying down. you have to hold her up. but snuggle her, and pat her.... maybe bounce her a little." but it's been a while since he held babies and his clumsiness is only making her scream louder so, after some shifting on my part, i ask him to hand her over. at this point, i'm trying to discretely tandem nurse two fussy babies in an AIRPLANE seat! "i'm really sorry," i say to everyone giving me stink eye, "i have earplugs. please take some, they're right in here." no one takes them, but they keep glaring at me as i shush and wriggle in my seat and try to keep both babies on a boob despite their flailing about in protest. it's from HELL. people are really starting to get annoyed. i'm embarrassed and frustrated and doing the best i can. my dad keeps smoothing the spot on his head where there once was hair, and nervously chuckling to himself. this goes on for AT LEAST twenty minutes.
finally, after what seems like hours of screaming, they start to settle down and i've got them both nursing quietly. passengers around me are just starting to shake their shoulders down and loosen into their seats. i close my eyes and pucker my throbbing lips which are white and achy from being tightly pressed together for so long. i start to think again about the steaming stench emanating from isa's diaper and wonder what the hell i am going to do about it. and then my dad reaches across me for his coke, which i placed on the tray table next to me, worried that he would spill it during the baby swap fiasco. as he leans over us to grab his drink, the baby bottle that he'd put in his front shirt pocket falls to the ground. anxiously, he looks at me to see if i notice and i shoot him a "good job, dad!" look. as he bends over to pick up the bottle, he spills HIS ENTIRE CUP OF ICE COLD COCA COLA onto manu's nursing head!!! the kid sputters as the soda fills his ears, his eyes, his nose....and then lets out a blood-curdling scream which sends his sister into a tantrum. i look at my father in disbelief, but i see from the look on his face that he is mortified and paralyzed with shame. people around us are shifting around in their seats and looking at us in horror as the airplane is filled, once again, with the sound of wailing, pissed off babies.
a woman from the back of the plane comes up to me, as i sit there trying to console my screaming children, one of whom is COVERED in sticky cola, and says, "m'am. please let me help you. i have four kids." "no thanks," i stammer and awkwardly get up from my seat and march toward the back of the plane, shushing and bouncing avoiding the gawking stares of the passengers along the way. once i reach the back of the plane, the flight attendant squeezes my arm and then gently pulls down my shirt to cover my exposed breast.
awesome. not only did i walk down the entire length of the plane with two screaming babies. i walked down the entire length of the plane with a screaming baby, a boob, and a screaming baby (covered in coke). this is awesome.
long story short, i stayed in the back of the plane until they were both asleep. and then i walked back to my seat, squeezed into place, and did not move a muscle until we landed in austin 3 hours later. there's one for the baby book.
in anticipation of our flight to miami (babies' first plane ride), i bought a box of 200 earplugs at the suggestion of my friend haley. i figured that, if the shit hit the fan and the babies lost it on the plane, i could at least offer earplugs to my fellow passengers in order to avoid their scorn. for good measure, and at the suggestion of our pediatrician, i also dosed them with a little benadryl moments before take-off in the hopes that it would knock them out for the duration of the flight.
except for a few tummy-clenching moments of isa crying as we were landing in miami, i have to say that the flight there was virtually painless. my sister sat across the aisle from me and expertly rocked, patted, and shushed her lap baby from take-off to landing. as the babies yawned and stretched and slowly awoke on our way to baggage claim, christie and i exchanged a triumphant high five and exhaled for the first time in hours. only five minutes of crying in over five hours of airplane travel....not bad at all.
the way back, however, was a totally different story. this time, my dad was my travel companion. as we settled into our seats and prepared for take-off, the babies seemed to be slipping into benadryl's dreamy embrace. i even took out my US weekly and began flipping through the gossip columns as the other passengers settled around us. somewhere between take-off and the beverage service, isa decided that it was a good time to make a massive and incredibly stinky poo. as she wriggled in my lap, grunting with the effort, loud and stinky baby farts filled the air around us. with every noisy blast, my dad and i laughed harder and harder. finally, certain that she'd finished with her business, i asked a flight attendant where i might find a changing table. "unfortunately," she said, "this airplane is an older model. there is no changing table. you'd really be better off changing her in your seat". you've got to be fucking kidding me, i (and the woman eating in the seat next to me) thought. just as i was debating whether it was better to change her diaper or let her ass rot for the duration of the flight, manu starts pitching a fit on my dad's lap across the aisle. i hand my dad a baby bottle filled with water, in the hopes that this will keep him entertained long enough for me to figure out what to do with isa, but this only makes him fussier. shit. ok. let's switch. i'll nurse manu, and my dad can hold isa for a minute and then i'll deal with her turd situation.
so we do the hand off, and as manu settles onto my breast, isa starts howling as my dad fumbles to hold her comfortably. oh, jesus christ. "dad, she doesn't like to be lying down. you have to hold her up. but snuggle her, and pat her.... maybe bounce her a little." but it's been a while since he held babies and his clumsiness is only making her scream louder so, after some shifting on my part, i ask him to hand her over. at this point, i'm trying to discretely tandem nurse two fussy babies in an AIRPLANE seat! "i'm really sorry," i say to everyone giving me stink eye, "i have earplugs. please take some, they're right in here." no one takes them, but they keep glaring at me as i shush and wriggle in my seat and try to keep both babies on a boob despite their flailing about in protest. it's from HELL. people are really starting to get annoyed. i'm embarrassed and frustrated and doing the best i can. my dad keeps smoothing the spot on his head where there once was hair, and nervously chuckling to himself. this goes on for AT LEAST twenty minutes.
finally, after what seems like hours of screaming, they start to settle down and i've got them both nursing quietly. passengers around me are just starting to shake their shoulders down and loosen into their seats. i close my eyes and pucker my throbbing lips which are white and achy from being tightly pressed together for so long. i start to think again about the steaming stench emanating from isa's diaper and wonder what the hell i am going to do about it. and then my dad reaches across me for his coke, which i placed on the tray table next to me, worried that he would spill it during the baby swap fiasco. as he leans over us to grab his drink, the baby bottle that he'd put in his front shirt pocket falls to the ground. anxiously, he looks at me to see if i notice and i shoot him a "good job, dad!" look. as he bends over to pick up the bottle, he spills HIS ENTIRE CUP OF ICE COLD COCA COLA onto manu's nursing head!!! the kid sputters as the soda fills his ears, his eyes, his nose....and then lets out a blood-curdling scream which sends his sister into a tantrum. i look at my father in disbelief, but i see from the look on his face that he is mortified and paralyzed with shame. people around us are shifting around in their seats and looking at us in horror as the airplane is filled, once again, with the sound of wailing, pissed off babies.
a woman from the back of the plane comes up to me, as i sit there trying to console my screaming children, one of whom is COVERED in sticky cola, and says, "m'am. please let me help you. i have four kids." "no thanks," i stammer and awkwardly get up from my seat and march toward the back of the plane, shushing and bouncing avoiding the gawking stares of the passengers along the way. once i reach the back of the plane, the flight attendant squeezes my arm and then gently pulls down my shirt to cover my exposed breast.
awesome. not only did i walk down the entire length of the plane with two screaming babies. i walked down the entire length of the plane with a screaming baby, a boob, and a screaming baby (covered in coke). this is awesome.
long story short, i stayed in the back of the plane until they were both asleep. and then i walked back to my seat, squeezed into place, and did not move a muscle until we landed in austin 3 hours later. there's one for the baby book.
have i lost my latin flavor?
January 29, 2007
my grandmother has been here for two and a half weeks. when we discussed her visit, i was desperate for help and kind of losing it by myself with two tiny babies all day long. even though my mom warned me that she was old, losing her mind, and not as spry as she used to be, i really needed an extra pair of hands and a warm bosom to help me hold these babies. i also felt that this would perhaps be my last long stretch of quality time with her, and that i would be glad to have her here regardless of her age (and the fact that she speaks no English despite having lived in the US for 30 years). and, although i am happy to see her and will even gaze fondly at her as she snores in the armchair with a baby in her arms, i have to be honest and say that SHE IS DRIVING ME CRAZY! she leaves on wednesday and, although i am not looking forward to being alone again, i can't wait to have my house to myself again.
i've never felt as white as i've felt the last few weeks. i am disgusted and annoyed at the ridiculousness of the telenovelas that have replaced the chatter of npr from my kitchen radio. women in mini skirts and tube tops shake their asses and play dumb on almost every single show she watches. then there's the day time talk shows that make jerry springer look like it belongs on pbs. has spanish tv always been this trashy, or have i lost my sense of humor?
and at what point does her experience trump my maternal instincts? why does it make me so mad when she suggests that emmanuel's crying might be a belly ache, or that isa's probably cold and needs a sweater? i can't figure out why it irritates me so bad, but it drives me absolutely nuts! his belly does NOT hurt, he's just being a brat. and she's not cold, YOU are. you go put on a sweater and leave her alone! am i reacting to what i perceive as an alarmist attitude, or am i just annoyed that she thinks she knows what's wrong better than i do? i hope i'm not that ridiculous, but i might be. in any case, i have to watch myself and roll my eyes behind her back because i am trying REALLY hard not to hurt her feelings.
i love my grandmother. i want us both to feel like we shared a special time together. but i'm no good at the contrived "quality time" and time is running out.... as much as i'm looking forward to peace and quiet again, i'm also a little sad that her visit wasn't the hallmark moment i wanted it to be.
my grandmother has been here for two and a half weeks. when we discussed her visit, i was desperate for help and kind of losing it by myself with two tiny babies all day long. even though my mom warned me that she was old, losing her mind, and not as spry as she used to be, i really needed an extra pair of hands and a warm bosom to help me hold these babies. i also felt that this would perhaps be my last long stretch of quality time with her, and that i would be glad to have her here regardless of her age (and the fact that she speaks no English despite having lived in the US for 30 years). and, although i am happy to see her and will even gaze fondly at her as she snores in the armchair with a baby in her arms, i have to be honest and say that SHE IS DRIVING ME CRAZY! she leaves on wednesday and, although i am not looking forward to being alone again, i can't wait to have my house to myself again.
i've never felt as white as i've felt the last few weeks. i am disgusted and annoyed at the ridiculousness of the telenovelas that have replaced the chatter of npr from my kitchen radio. women in mini skirts and tube tops shake their asses and play dumb on almost every single show she watches. then there's the day time talk shows that make jerry springer look like it belongs on pbs. has spanish tv always been this trashy, or have i lost my sense of humor?
and at what point does her experience trump my maternal instincts? why does it make me so mad when she suggests that emmanuel's crying might be a belly ache, or that isa's probably cold and needs a sweater? i can't figure out why it irritates me so bad, but it drives me absolutely nuts! his belly does NOT hurt, he's just being a brat. and she's not cold, YOU are. you go put on a sweater and leave her alone! am i reacting to what i perceive as an alarmist attitude, or am i just annoyed that she thinks she knows what's wrong better than i do? i hope i'm not that ridiculous, but i might be. in any case, i have to watch myself and roll my eyes behind her back because i am trying REALLY hard not to hurt her feelings.
i love my grandmother. i want us both to feel like we shared a special time together. but i'm no good at the contrived "quality time" and time is running out.... as much as i'm looking forward to peace and quiet again, i'm also a little sad that her visit wasn't the hallmark moment i wanted it to be.
mom hair
January 10, 2007
i've never been one to shower on a daily basis. most weeks, i'd say i average two to three showers. maybe more often in the summer and less often when it's cold out. mostly, if my hair is starting to stick to my head in a weird way, it's time for a shower. or maybe i'll catch a whiff of an armpit and realize it's been a few days. so, clearly, showering has always been more of a necessity for me than a luxury. but it's always been my choice. if i WANTED to, i could take a shower. i just usually have something better to do.
except that lately, i am DYING for a shower, dreaming of the hot water pounding my back, as i sit in a chair with babies asleep on me. maybe it's because it's the only time when i am truly all alone. maybe it's because it gets a little sweaty with two warm little bodies on top of me all day. maybe it's because i am often covered in spit up. yesterday, i was holding isa on my lap while checking email and i felt her tense up, a telltale sign of an imminent poo. next thing you know, there is a loud squirting sound and i feel a warm puddle on my lap. yep. her shit squirt out of her diaper and onto my lap. a stinky puddle of mustard-colored poo soaking into my pants and dripping onto the carpet.
so when jeremy gets home after an 11 or 12 hour day, i struggle with the urge to just hand them over and disappear into the bathroom for 30 minutes. i try to give him at least 5 minutes to put his keys down and settle in. and even that doesn't happen every day because i'm the mama and i'm the one that they want. so when i am able to sneak into the bath, the last thing i want is for my entire shower time to be spent untangling my dreading curls. so i now have mom hair. i actually *cut my hair* because i don't have time to untangle it. i find that a little ridiculous, honestly. i mean, a girl should be able to determine her haircut based on preference or aesthetics.
my hair has now been added to the list of things i've given up in the name of motherhood. other items on the list include:
sleep
sex
privacy
personal space
the right to use the bathroom as needed
the ability to eat when hungry
button-down shirts (not practical for nursing)
parties
shows
movies
travel
but, i will dutifully say that the list of things i've gained is far greater! :)
seriously, i love these babies. for real. but i was really unprepared for all the things that change when you've got little mouths to feed and comfort.
ps--they'll be 12 weeks old on friday. i can't believe it. they're smiling and laughing and sucking each other's heads and basically getting grown. my biscuits.
i've never been one to shower on a daily basis. most weeks, i'd say i average two to three showers. maybe more often in the summer and less often when it's cold out. mostly, if my hair is starting to stick to my head in a weird way, it's time for a shower. or maybe i'll catch a whiff of an armpit and realize it's been a few days. so, clearly, showering has always been more of a necessity for me than a luxury. but it's always been my choice. if i WANTED to, i could take a shower. i just usually have something better to do.
except that lately, i am DYING for a shower, dreaming of the hot water pounding my back, as i sit in a chair with babies asleep on me. maybe it's because it's the only time when i am truly all alone. maybe it's because it gets a little sweaty with two warm little bodies on top of me all day. maybe it's because i am often covered in spit up. yesterday, i was holding isa on my lap while checking email and i felt her tense up, a telltale sign of an imminent poo. next thing you know, there is a loud squirting sound and i feel a warm puddle on my lap. yep. her shit squirt out of her diaper and onto my lap. a stinky puddle of mustard-colored poo soaking into my pants and dripping onto the carpet.
so when jeremy gets home after an 11 or 12 hour day, i struggle with the urge to just hand them over and disappear into the bathroom for 30 minutes. i try to give him at least 5 minutes to put his keys down and settle in. and even that doesn't happen every day because i'm the mama and i'm the one that they want. so when i am able to sneak into the bath, the last thing i want is for my entire shower time to be spent untangling my dreading curls. so i now have mom hair. i actually *cut my hair* because i don't have time to untangle it. i find that a little ridiculous, honestly. i mean, a girl should be able to determine her haircut based on preference or aesthetics.
my hair has now been added to the list of things i've given up in the name of motherhood. other items on the list include:
sleep
sex
privacy
personal space
the right to use the bathroom as needed
the ability to eat when hungry
button-down shirts (not practical for nursing)
parties
shows
movies
travel
but, i will dutifully say that the list of things i've gained is far greater! :)
seriously, i love these babies. for real. but i was really unprepared for all the things that change when you've got little mouths to feed and comfort.
ps--they'll be 12 weeks old on friday. i can't believe it. they're smiling and laughing and sucking each other's heads and basically getting grown. my biscuits.
addendum to obsession: loneliness
December 15, 2006
i have to admit that, despite the beautiful moments that i am lucky enough to have with these babies on a daily basis, i'm kind of lonely. jeremy works ALL THE TIME. seriously. like 10 or 11 hours a day, six days a week. and we have awesome friends who check on me all the time, bring me lunch, or just stop by to say hello. but i'm still kind of lonely sometimes. maybe it's just the usual holiday funk, maybe it's hormones, or maybe it's the fact that i keep missing out on awesome parties and art shows and concerts. i know it seems ridiculous to care about parties when i have newborns to take care of, but i feel so isolated in baby land sometimes that i can't help but be jealous.
i know we did the right thing by buying this house and "building equity" but i also miss living in the heart of the neighborhood, where you sit on your front porch and watch your friends ride by.... the whole "it takes a village" mentality. so, instead of staying home and feeling sorry for ourselves, me and these babies hit the road most days. it's the only thing that keeps me going when i'm about to scream because they're both crying at the same time, or i haven't slept, or the dogs are driving me nuts....
don't get me wrong, i love these babies. i'm just adjusting to this whole motherhood thing.
i have to admit that, despite the beautiful moments that i am lucky enough to have with these babies on a daily basis, i'm kind of lonely. jeremy works ALL THE TIME. seriously. like 10 or 11 hours a day, six days a week. and we have awesome friends who check on me all the time, bring me lunch, or just stop by to say hello. but i'm still kind of lonely sometimes. maybe it's just the usual holiday funk, maybe it's hormones, or maybe it's the fact that i keep missing out on awesome parties and art shows and concerts. i know it seems ridiculous to care about parties when i have newborns to take care of, but i feel so isolated in baby land sometimes that i can't help but be jealous.
i know we did the right thing by buying this house and "building equity" but i also miss living in the heart of the neighborhood, where you sit on your front porch and watch your friends ride by.... the whole "it takes a village" mentality. so, instead of staying home and feeling sorry for ourselves, me and these babies hit the road most days. it's the only thing that keeps me going when i'm about to scream because they're both crying at the same time, or i haven't slept, or the dogs are driving me nuts....
don't get me wrong, i love these babies. i'm just adjusting to this whole motherhood thing.
sweet dreams are made of this
November 24, 2006
i would give anything in the world for a dark, cool room with fluffy pillows and a down comforter and 8 solid uninterrupted hours to myself. actually, 8 hours and a bed of hot coals sounds just fine at this point. most days, i get an average of about 6 hours of sleep, in one and a half to two hour increments. at night, i sleep sandwiched between two babies, turning towards one and then the other to stick a nipple in a sleepy mouth and drift back off to sleep while they nurse (it's a wonderful position we recently discovered called "side lying". i recommend it). but with jeremy teetering on the edge of the bed, our intimacy has been reduced to holding hands across the bed or playing footsie under the covers. in the morning, he goes off to work and i'm left to fend for myself and juggle two tiny little humans with only my two hands and a couple of swollen breasts to get us through the day. it's absolutely nuts. i feel like a warrior.
but my kids are f*ing beautiful. as exhausted as i am, and as maddening as it is when they cry and cry (both at the same time) for no reason i can decipher, i find myself staring down at their little faces while they nurse and being absolutely transfixed by the beauty of it all. i imagine part of it is hormonal (oxytocin, i think it is. the hormone that makes you sleepy and fall in love with your baby while you nurse) but it's also incredible to see pieces of yourself in such a tiny little person. i even marvel with tenderness at their bodily fluids. for instance, my son is anal retentive and requires a glycerine suppository in order to poo. this means that every two days, i stick my finger in his ass in order to stimulate his "tight rectal opening". and my daughter produces enormous slimy boogers on a daily basis. unless i suck these out, homegirl grunts and snorts like a little pig when she nurses. not to mention the mustard-colored poo that leaks out of their diapers, the constant spray of spit-up that i wear, the rings around my nipples from leaking milk, or the fact that my son has peed on me countless times already. it's a messy world and i am not disgusted by any of it.
i would give anything in the world for a dark, cool room with fluffy pillows and a down comforter and 8 solid uninterrupted hours to myself. actually, 8 hours and a bed of hot coals sounds just fine at this point. most days, i get an average of about 6 hours of sleep, in one and a half to two hour increments. at night, i sleep sandwiched between two babies, turning towards one and then the other to stick a nipple in a sleepy mouth and drift back off to sleep while they nurse (it's a wonderful position we recently discovered called "side lying". i recommend it). but with jeremy teetering on the edge of the bed, our intimacy has been reduced to holding hands across the bed or playing footsie under the covers. in the morning, he goes off to work and i'm left to fend for myself and juggle two tiny little humans with only my two hands and a couple of swollen breasts to get us through the day. it's absolutely nuts. i feel like a warrior.
but my kids are f*ing beautiful. as exhausted as i am, and as maddening as it is when they cry and cry (both at the same time) for no reason i can decipher, i find myself staring down at their little faces while they nurse and being absolutely transfixed by the beauty of it all. i imagine part of it is hormonal (oxytocin, i think it is. the hormone that makes you sleepy and fall in love with your baby while you nurse) but it's also incredible to see pieces of yourself in such a tiny little person. i even marvel with tenderness at their bodily fluids. for instance, my son is anal retentive and requires a glycerine suppository in order to poo. this means that every two days, i stick my finger in his ass in order to stimulate his "tight rectal opening". and my daughter produces enormous slimy boogers on a daily basis. unless i suck these out, homegirl grunts and snorts like a little pig when she nurses. not to mention the mustard-colored poo that leaks out of their diapers, the constant spray of spit-up that i wear, the rings around my nipples from leaking milk, or the fact that my son has peed on me countless times already. it's a messy world and i am not disgusted by any of it.
family
October 25, 2006
disclaimer: i'm overwhelmed with emotions due to hormones and circumstance so pardon the post partum rambling.
for the last two days, i've sat in my living room in an old lazy boy recliner with a baby on a (raw and enormous) breast and surrounded by my family. my mom, stepdad, sister and little brother are here until saturday, and it's moments like these that i realize why i fell in love with this house when we bought it. despite the tacky 70s wood paneling and ghetto carpet, this living room was made for family. christy reading on one couch, jose snoring on the other. andy playing on the floor with the dogs. mom pacing back and forth with a screaming baby in her arms while jeremy runs back and forth with diapers and extra blankets and socks and baby wipes. meanwhile, cell phones ring and babies cry and it feels like total chaos but it also feels more like home than ever. with the smell of my mom's cuban food drifting over from the kitchen and the sounds of univision on the tv, it's easy to forget that i'm not in miami and that soon i will be left to raise my own family with whatever words of wisdom and tricks of the trade i absorb from my mother in the few days she's here.
i'm overwhelmed and sleep deprived. my nipples are sore as hell and my hair is starting to dread from lack of maintenance. my ankles are still the size of pumpkins and i have an achy scar on the underside of my belly from where they pulled my babies out. this morning, i was ready to punch someone in the face after being up all night with fussy babies that kept up their crying til almost 2 in the afternoon. but, at the same time, i am so happy, i could cry on command. i love my family, old and new, more than anything in the world. jeremy is already an awesome daddy and so far i'm really into this whole mama thing.
disclaimer: i'm overwhelmed with emotions due to hormones and circumstance so pardon the post partum rambling.
for the last two days, i've sat in my living room in an old lazy boy recliner with a baby on a (raw and enormous) breast and surrounded by my family. my mom, stepdad, sister and little brother are here until saturday, and it's moments like these that i realize why i fell in love with this house when we bought it. despite the tacky 70s wood paneling and ghetto carpet, this living room was made for family. christy reading on one couch, jose snoring on the other. andy playing on the floor with the dogs. mom pacing back and forth with a screaming baby in her arms while jeremy runs back and forth with diapers and extra blankets and socks and baby wipes. meanwhile, cell phones ring and babies cry and it feels like total chaos but it also feels more like home than ever. with the smell of my mom's cuban food drifting over from the kitchen and the sounds of univision on the tv, it's easy to forget that i'm not in miami and that soon i will be left to raise my own family with whatever words of wisdom and tricks of the trade i absorb from my mother in the few days she's here.
i'm overwhelmed and sleep deprived. my nipples are sore as hell and my hair is starting to dread from lack of maintenance. my ankles are still the size of pumpkins and i have an achy scar on the underside of my belly from where they pulled my babies out. this morning, i was ready to punch someone in the face after being up all night with fussy babies that kept up their crying til almost 2 in the afternoon. but, at the same time, i am so happy, i could cry on command. i love my family, old and new, more than anything in the world. jeremy is already an awesome daddy and so far i'm really into this whole mama thing.
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