Dreams Don't Come True (with kittens)

The fierce and adoring Grandma, the day-dreamy and whimsical me, and Mads (kicking and punching in my belly)

The Breaking Bad News With Baby Animals postcard I sent to Grandma the other day announced (with kittens), “Dreams don’t come true.” It just happened to be the one I grabbed from my stationery box, but also, it seemed a particularly astute message for her, regarding me. My grandma had a lot of big dreams for me--she has dreamt bigger, longer, wider, in more vivid technicolor for me than any other person ever has, myself included. And I wonder: if she is disappointed (and how can she not be), is that disappointment directed at me or at the unfair, chaotic, unsympathetic world in which I live. Is it the economy’s fault that when my name is Googled one finds - nothing -. Or is it mine?--my timidity, my lack of ambition and resolve, my belief that the world is an unthinking, unfeeling place and a person like me never had a chance?

I never became a writer (not in the way that counts, anyway). I don’t have any money and struggle constantly upstream. Since high school, I’ve managed to keep my figure more or less, but even my once beautiful mop of wild, curly hair has since diminished into a straggly, thin, lackluster mess.

My grandmother believed me to be not only a great beauty, but a great mind. And here I am toiling away in the service industry--I am a retail automaton--the highlight of my work day when a sales rep brings in grocery store deli cookies as a bribe. I am dropped off at work most days, wearing a backpack and carrying a lunch bag, like a child.

Has my lack of success and mobility hurt my grandmother, the one who dreamed for me?

I think about this a lot because now I dream. I dream not for myself but for my son. Even if I make nothing of myself, I have made him--a great beauty and a great mind. How could he not make more of himself than I have? It’s so obvious he’s destined for great things. He is better than me. I love him, and his dad loves him. I was damaged, you know, by people who did not dream for me so ardently as my selfless, obsessed grandmother. But my son--he’s not damaged. He doesn’t need to struggle.

But what if he does anyway?

When I talk about, ponder aloud, the things my son will become, am I doing him a disservice? Should I shut my mouth and just give him the space to be and breathe and become?


Or, is my dreaming for him a vote of confidence, one which will bolster and sustain him when he's a man making his way in the world? Will he pack my dreams for him into his rucksack when he leaves my arms and home to go to college or travel the world or protest tyranny or divide and conquer or whatever it is he will do?

Grandma's dreams for me have certainly never felt like a burden, but they haven't done much to propel me forward either (through no fault of my grandmother's). And, I suppose my attitude regarding my son's future, the weight on which I put success, depends in part on what my definition of success (for him or in general) is. Do I want him to be happy more often than he is sad? Absolutely. Or, at least, content. Do I want him to give and receive love freely and gracefully? Yes, of course. Do I want him to have money? -- Well, it's not the most important thing compared to contentment and love, but I imagine having just the right amount of money might make his days run that much smoother.

I consider the example I set for him in reaching those goals. I am hard on myself, often aloud. I get frustrated not because my life is not as my grandmother imagined it, but because it is not as I imagined/imagine it. I'm not talking about my family, my home, my town, or even my job; I'm talking about the little daily burdens and messes that trip me up--the unending dishes, double booking events for my son, poorly planned and hastily tossed together holiday and birthday celebrations, the inability to consistently schedule in time for my creative pursuits (like this), the list of projects and To Dos with not a thing crossed off.

My son has witnessed me cry and tantrum because we arrive at the Dorthea Dix sunflower field one week too late and discover all the flowers have shriveled up and died. He has heard and felt me snap because I wake too late and now must hurry through my day without transcribing that nagging thought/reverie/idea onto paper.

And, my son has wailed at a busy playground at the realization that he and Ella won't be able to play on the swings at the same time, that image he held of the two of them side-by-side and in the air after a week apart, squashed. He has groaned, "I can't do anything," and "it won't be perfect," when attempting to paint a portrait of himself doing barre work at his ballet studio. He has the paper, the pink and grey paints, but when he puts brush to paper he is dissatisfied and hurt.

I tell him, "there's no such thing as perfect," and when he still grumps and thrusts his paintbrush down ask, "Do you believe me?"

This is the work of his childhood and my parenthood (and adulthood). All my dreams for him, however loose and magnanimous, will mean nothing if we cannot get over this hump and heap of defeat regarding the disparity between expectation and reality--our imaginings of what life should look like and what we should be capable of, he and I both.

The lesson, of course, the one I am learning on behalf of myself and my son is not that dreams don't come true, but: Dreams Aren't Real (with kittens).

Birthday | I will ride on that train; I will be the fisherman, with light in my head, you in my arms

August 9, 2015 - Mama, 31-years-old / Mads, 2-years-old

My boy's second birthday has arrived.  For two years, my life has been focused on this one, tiny being.  He is my everything. Nothing matters but him, and that is a scary thing, that love. I don't even understand that love; if I attempt to quantify that love, I'm sure my heart and mind will just give out from exhaustion. So, instead, we live in dailiness, my love and me--diaper changes, walks, tantrums, meals, giggles, chases, shows, books, fart noises, oh so many fart noises, baths, bedtimes, morningtimes. 

There is already so much about this kid, his personality and the hint of the man he will be that just amazes me, just stuns and slays me. He loves the rain. He loves being in the rain, standing in it. "Water all around," he says.  One morning recently he stood outside with his dad and asked, "Want rain?" We thought he was requesting that of his father, that Wolfman provide the rain (he is a shaman, after all), but when it started storming later in the afternoon I thought, was he predicting the rain? Was he telling us? Did the rain clouds hear him? Is he a rain god? Does the rain love him like he loves it, like I love him?

He loves trains and cars and carts, all the things with wheels. My grandma has a little car he can sit in and maneuver with his feet, Fred Flinstone style, at her house.  He can spend entire hours getting in and out of it, turning it, backing it up, moving it forward, collecting treasures and storing them in the backseat. He touches car wheels sometimes, in parking lots, in our drive way. Does this mean something? Is he just being a boy? Or does he already have that fever of movement, that nomad nature, that desire to be always away, that deep-seeded appreciation for the sound of traffic on a high way like the sound of waves washing on a beach? Did I pass this to him? Will he do what I couldn't and see the world? Will he send me postcards?

I think about the man he'll be constantly. I'm not sure if this is normal, but I think it's healthy.  He won't be little forever. Already, if I ask, "Martigan, are you a baby?" he'll say, "No!" with an inflection that says, "don't be daft, Mommy." I see young men sitting at the counter at Waffle House, stepping up into pickup trucks, holding hands with young women, walking dogs, and I think about the man Martigan will become, and the hand I have in shaping that man. He prefers the company of men to women, warms up to men much more readily. He's studious around older boys and men, he already seems to be looking for clues as to how to behave, talk, walk, be. But, the first two years of his life were spent in my company very nearly exclusively, listening to my talk, watching my movements, nestled close to me awake and asleep, both. Things are changing now. His dad will be home with him, his primary caregiver, and I'll be off to work--in my gypsy duds and out the door, leaving my menfolk to their own devices. But when he's angry, when he's sad, when he's hurt, it's my name he calls, and it will be for quite some time.

That's a big responsibility, and saying so is a big understatement. So, what is it I want for this one-day-man; how do I want to contribute to his life, and thus, this world?

I want him to be happy. First and foremost, always, I want this guy to be happy--it's the best any of us can hope for in this life. I want him to have a sense of purpose. I want him to be kind. I want him to be unafraid.

Mads loves to dance, and I joked once that while some parents want their kids to grow up and be doctors, I want mine to grow up and post videos of himself dancing on Youtube. What I really mean is that: I want him to be comfortable in his body; I want him to be confident; I want him to have a sense of whimsy.

I want him to look at this world as a place full of magic and potential. I want him to be optimistic. I'm optimistic for him. Life gets messy, and events and people can disappoint. Despite that, I can make the best of things, and see the best and most beautiful in life, because I have Mads here with me, seeing the world for the first time. I hope that's the lesson he learns from me, that life can be as beautiful as he makes it. He might not get to have as many adventures as I hope for him. He and his love might live in dailiness, but oh-my-god that love.

August 9, 2014 - Mama, 30-years-old / Mads, 1-year-old

August 10, 2013 - Mama, 29-years-old / Mads, 12-hours-old

"Fisherman's Blues," The Waterboys

Adventures in Parenting | With a Rebel Yell

Lesson #3485: From the very first moments of his life outside of my body, Mads has been two things: vocal and emotional.  Maybe that statement can be made about all infants, but with mine, it felt more so, amplified.  That first month of his life--I swear this is not hyperbole--if he wasn't nursing or sleeping, he was crying--screaming, actually.  Longest, loudest month of my life. 

By month two, almost exactly, his screaming fits, though still regular, were no longer his only way of communicating with me--he began smiling, cooing, waving his arms about in baby wizard spells. As he gets older, those between-screaming-fit communications become clearer and more endearing.  (He's about as charming as someone nicknamed Booger Breath can be.) But, screaming fits still happen, on average about once a day, some days in public. 

A screaming child in public produces a variety of reactions from bystanders, and I've become something of an anthropologist in my study of those reactions. I've witnessed three basic camps: 1. The Ignorer - either from politeness, stoicism, or the careful application of noise-eliminating earbuds, me and my screaming child may as well not exist to these people, and that is a blessing. 2. The Grimacer - These people do more than grimace. They roll their eyes. They make their aggravation known. And, look, I get it. A screaming child is unpleasant. I used to be a grimacer, at least inwardly. I would think, "if this kid is just going to scream, why bring him/her here?" The answer: because parents need to get out of the damned house, run errands, attempt to have a normal life. I'm mindful of my child's naptimes, moods, patterns, sure, but I can't be at the mercy of his every moody whim, or I'd never leave the house. I'd never get anything done. I'd starve to death because I would have no groceries in my pantry. Grimacers are not only the childless. I've been on the receiving end of ugly looks from fellow parents too, either because they're being judgmental, or because they think I'm making them look bad, I have no idea. To these people I say, I'm sorry I chose to have a child and my life choices or parenting style (hah) are inconveniencing you right now; to tell the truth, he's annoying me, too; children can be obnoxious, I say we all just get over it. 3. The Smiler - Typically, these are fellow parents, mothers mostly, young to old.  Commiserating smiles are offered in my general direction, sometimes chuckles and shoulder shrugs, sometimes even encouraging words. Strangely, these are the people I tend to apologize to, not the Grimacers, and my apologies are always met with some version of, "he's just doing what kids do; don't sweat it; we've all been there."

The key to coping with a screaming child is, of course, keeping your cool--easier said than done. Just yesterday, I removed a wailing, flailing Mads from a[n undisclosed] shop, let him cool his tits on the sidewalk outside, asked, "Do you want to try another shop now?", answered his "yes" by forging ahead, and, as soon as I opened the door to this [undisclosed] place of business, was met by a shriek the pitch of which could/should easily have cracked glass. On that occasion, I admitted defeat, buckled the little tyrant in his car seat, and home we went.

At a park, however, out-of-doors where the only business done is by squirrels behind trees, I have a little more cool to pull from.  I've learned that distraction is key to luring Bubba out of his funks.  "Martigan, do you see any trees?" is typically the first question I ask, because it is the easiest for him to answer. If he's in a truly funky funk, he might answer, "No," even if we're surrounded by trees, but to answer in the negative, he must stop screeching, and so it is a victory for me. A typical dialogue might sound like this: "Martigan. Mads. Baby, do you see any trees? Martigan, do you see any trees?" "HUH!?" "Martigan, do you see any trees?" "...Yes." "Do you see any water?" "Huh?...Yes." "Do you see any water?" "Yeah!" "What lives in the water?" "Um..." "Do fish live in the water?" "Yes!" "Do crawdads live in the water?" "Yes!" "Do mermaids live in the water?" "Yes!" "Do krakens live in the water?" "Yes!" And then, I proceed to list every real or imagined creature I can possibly think of that might live in water, and Mads has been distracted out of his tantrum.*

When I complain about Martigans fits to my grandmother, pro nurturer for 50 years running, she points out, rightly, that he's only expressing himself. I know she's right, and I also know that sometimes I have to express myself by complaining to her, my husband, fellow parents, this blank white text box, you. But, I have to give myself some credit. Sure, I lose my cool every once in a while and hit the momguilt jackpot. But usually, I don't. Usually, I'm listing sea creatures. Usually, I'm gently but firmly wrestling a bucking toddler into his car seat. Usually, I'm telling him, in as affirming and empathetic a way as I can, with back rubs, hugs, and patience, "To tell the truth, I'm annoying you, too; parents can be obnoxious, I say we all just get over it."

*Pro-tip: This does not work as well with husbands, or, at least not with my husband. #bummersauce

"Because they are strong-willed toddlers can be infuriating at times, but human beings are never again so cute and unwittingly funny." - John Rosemund

"Rebel Yell," Children of Bodom (cover)

Adventures in Parenting (Dreaded Weaning & Ritualized Snacking)

"I love you, but don't hurt me, okay?" - a thing I say to my son (he'll be two in a month)

— thewolfpeople (@thewolfpeople) July 5, 2015

Martigan is a person now.  I mean, no, okay, let me disclaim here. Martigan, of course, has always been a person.  In fact, I'm just woo woo enough to believe he was a person even before he traveled through my body and made his debut into this bright, cold, loud world.  I believe he was a person before the moment he was conceived.  I believe his little soul, his personhood, has been traveling this Universe for eons, just waiting for me (my soul) and his dad (M. Jared Vaughn's soul) to get down to [unprotected] business and pull him into this side of existence. But, since entering Toddlerhood, he's begun asserting his personhood in a new, obvious way, which makes my job with him a little different.  In fact, I now more than ever refer to my relationship with him as a job (though it's much more than that, too).  We're not like the Madonna & Child paintings and frescos that hang in the art museums of the world; now, we're Mama & Madmartigan.  He doesn't live his life connected to my body, as an extension of me, like a limb that cries and poops.  He runs, he climbs, he demands, he tells. I am not just mothering him, I am parenting him.  He's crossed the threshold into Toddlerhood, and I into Parenthood.

 

My kid is uninterested in 94% of the food I offer him, but every time we're out in the backyard, I catch him snacking on cat food. #animorph

— thewolfpeople (@thewolfpeople) July 18, 2015

Lesson #3102: Mads and I have been taking our sweet time with weaning--so sweet that up until this week, Mads was not even aware that's what we were doing.  Over a month ago, I cut out daytime for-no-reason nursing sessions, though he still frequently petitions me for boob throughout the day.  He says, simply, "boob" (bewb) while reaching a hand down my shirt or, more often, "wanna nurse" (wannur). To answer these requests, I've started giving him snacks--lots. Though, like his father, or perhaps because he's still been nursing before naptime, bedtime, and frequently during the night, he's just not that into the whole food thing.  If given a choice between a snack and my boob, he will always take my boob. I introduced him to food at exactly six months--mashed up avocado with a little breast milk and a powdered probiotic mixed in.  He hated it.  He continued to hate everything I gave him, for weeks.  I put so much effort into the selecting and making of his rejected meals--buying the best fruits and veggies, steaming them, mashing them first by hand, then in my food processor, then by hand again. I sat down each night after putting the baby down, in the comfy arm chair with a book and a big cup of red tea, making the best of pumping milk, which I always found uncomfortable. My reward was the stock pile of plastic baggies of my milk in my freezer, frozen to bricks and oddly bluish, a sight I found incredibly satisfying; I could start making breast milk lotions and soaps if I wanted; I could take an unexpected holiday from baby and know he wouldn't starve. Nestled next to those breast milk bricks in the freezer were little cups, labeled and dated, of all the varieties of mashed foods I'd made Mads. I got very wrapped up in this whole process and lost sight of the truth that met me each night as Mads spit out and flat-out refused the mushed carrots and bananas on his rubber-tipped baby spoon: food before one is just for fun, and neither of us were having much fun at all. 

 

A year-and-a-half has passed since his first meal of avocado, and he still doesn't much care for it.  And, you know, I'm okay with that.  Mads has always been a terrific nurser.  The moment I offered my breast to him in the Birth Center, he latched on expertly, and not once has he ever refused. (No jokes about my son being a "boob man" necessary.) He gets nourishment and comfort from my breasts, and that is as it should be. I'd happily go on nursing him for another year, but I can't.  The ticking clock of our time bonding this way is winding down.

 

After much discussion, Wolfman and I have decided to switch places.  Namely, I will start working full-time, and Wolfman will cut his hours down to very part-time and become Martigan's primary caregiver. Before Mads was even conceived, in those dreamy, hopeful talks Wolfman and I would have about our future and children, we always knew we wanted to be home with our kids as much as possible.  We were already poor, and neither of us were truly, deeply satisfied with our work, so it was not much of a sacrifice for us to say one or the other would stay home to raise our child or children. Plus, it didn't make sense to us to work in order to pay somebody else to care for our progeny. Our plan had even been so precise as to include the switching of places every few years--I'd stay home during infancy, and as our babe turned into a child, Wolfman would take a turn at home.  Not only are we getting to the place in Martigan's development where he might benefit from his father's specific parenting skill set over mine, but Wolfman is feeling a little burnt-out with his work and is eager to focus on other things--his writing, his leather-crafting, his various creative pursuits, all of which can be done at home.  I, on the other hand, am experiencing job satisfaction for the first time in my life (more on this later). But, there is something I can offer Mads which Wolfman can't, no matter how many times Mads points to Wolfman's shirtless chest and inquires otherwise: bewb.

 

In order to make this transition of rotating parents comfortable for us all, Mads has to be weaned from naptime and bedtime nursing.  And it's not going to be easy.

 

Much advice on weaning begins with finding a replacement for breast milk. Mads doesn't care for almond milk or coconut milk, much to my chagrin. He's okay with kefir but it has to be sweetened with something, and he only drinks it 50% of the time. He likes the juice I mix for him (majew) (tart cherry juice, plain yogurt or whole milk, and a little honey) but even then if he asks to nurse and I respond, "how about some juice?" I'm answered with immediate upset.  "It's not the same thing, mom," his tears and shrieks and thrashing seem to say. But you know what he does like? Applesauce.  Ap-ple is a fine replacement.  Ap-ple-straw-ba (Ella's Kitchen's applesauce and strawberry pouch) is even better.  

 

To expedite the weaning and switch his alliance from breast to snacks, I created the Special Magic Snack Basket Cornucopia (I don't have a real name for it yet). How do I solidify habits in my own life and make things more magical? I ritualize everything.  I gathered together all Martigan's snack foods in one place and arranged them so everything is visible to him. Rather than reaching in and pulling something out for him automatically, or asking him "do you want ___?, do you want ____?, how about ____?", I do this: I take the entire basket out of the cabinet, hold it close to my body because it is something precious, lean down to his level, and I present it to him. "What do you want, baby?" I ask. His eyes widen, he approaches the basket almost vibrating with excitement, he examines the contents within, and... he plucks out a pouch of applesauce.

 

It's not a perfect plan, obviously, just ask his diapers last week. I'm learning I have to rotate certain snacks out behind the scenes (though, if he is presented with the basket and doesn't see any applesauce pouches, he will ask, "Where ap-ple?" with his hands thrown up and a shake of his head). I'm constantly googling and pinteresting ideas for new snacks.  I worry that he's becoming too reliant on snacks and even less interested than before in actual meals (ahem, like his father, a grown ass man, supposedly). And, I'm thinking of jazzing up the basket with ribbons or something. But. If he's demanding to nurse, throwing a fit, and I say, "Hey, I have something special for you. Come into the kitchen, let me show you," it always distracts him and at least piques his interest.  We're getting somewhere.

 

 

 

"There's no great time to be a parent.  You just are one." - Gilmore Girls

It Takes a Laundromat

We had a full day yesterday.  In the morning, got laundry done, and I daydreamed quite a bit while at it, as I do.  Laundromats make me dreamy.  I pictured Mads as a young man, doing his own laundry at a laundrette, because he's too sweet to make me do his laundry, too helpful to his Mama, though I hope, I think his home base will still be with us--with his Mom and Pop and Grandpa (because Bob will still be around)--between travels, that is, and classes, and whatever adventures he might be having.  Anyways, he's at the Laundromat, this very same Laundromat, with an open book, but he's not sitting in the dim back corner as is typical of the good-enough-looking young men with books at the Laundromat. He's up front, in the sun, so he can get the door for people coming in with heavy loads, so he can smile and converse and harmlessly (never aggressively) flirt with the pretty Mexican girls who come in, in Spanish, because I'm sure he'll be, at least, bilingual.  Maybe Francesca will still be working there; maybe she'll be the one who, over the years, helped him perfect his Spanish, and she will think of him indulgently and sweetly and admirably, because she watched him come in with his parents Sunday after Sunday, until he'd grown into the man before her, and because she'll know that she had some part in the character of that man.  I want Mads to have little aunties and little mothers everywhere.  I want him to be the community's greatest project, better even than a well-organized garden.  ("It takes a village" is a thing I believe.)

 

Of course, that requires Wolfman and me to be a lot friendlier, a lot more sociable.  I already smile at people more often, for Martigan as much as myself or those people I smile at.

Genius/Fail

I think the most genius parenting/life moment I've had in recent weeks has been reigniting my love of podcasts.  I downloaded iTunes onto our new Christmas Gift Computer (thanks again, Bob!), and immediately went about capturing all my old favorite podcasts from my bus riding days, as well as some new ones recommended to me by friends (Dear Friends, See! Eventually I get to your recommendations, even if it takes me months).  Now, I have something to occupy my brain while tending the various chores of my days, without exposing Mads to too much "screen time" as the crunchy mamas tend to call it. (No more binging on Supernatural and Pretty Little Liars; the baby is paying attention.)  Among those new podcasts is One Bad Mother, recommended by my friend Selena, who though not herself a mother, still finds the podcast entertaining, which is a gold star review if there ever was one.  I like One Bad Mother because it's funny and irreverent; each episode begins with a disclaimer, "Do not listen with your kids; there will be swears."  Of course, I do listen with my kid, which maybe we can count as a fail. 
 

What's with the genius/fail thing you ask?  Every episode of One Bad Mother includes the two hosts as well as listener call-ins telling of their genius parenting moments and failed parenting moments throughout the week, followed by laughter and the most supportive thing a person can say to a parent, "You're doing a good job."  I love it so much, I decided to share a couple of my own genius and fail moments from the past month.

 

GENIUS!

Mads is over the whole sitting in grocery carts thing.  He's got boots, and they were made for walking.  Of course, walking around big box stores with a toddler is exhausting.  Not only do I have to be hyper-vigilant keeping an eye on him (how quickly he disappears around corners if I turn my head for even a split second), but anything that catches his eye on a bottom shelf gets touched, picked up, inspected--meaning not only do I spend the day tidying my own home after his inventories, but our neighborhood Target as well.  Or, I did until I made the very simple request, "Martigan, can you put that back where you found it?"  This may not work with every toddler, but mine has always been rather fastidious (like his Mama and Papa).  Typically, I only have to repeat myself once, if that, and he will put whatever thing he picked up back on the shelf, exactly where he found it, which garners much praise from his parents and curious strangers alike.  Hurrah!
 

It only took me 19 months, but I have finally ritualized nap time, and to great success.  The tart cherry juice I give Mads twice daily has extended his naps from 30 minutes to an hour-and-a-half, some days even two hours.  But the pre-nap routine has made getting him down in the first place so much smoother.  Mads knows what to expect, and he's even an eager participant.  Hallelujah.  Now, if only bed time was as easy.
 

FAIL :-(

Twice this past week, I have called Martigan a "little shit," within his hearing.  And, though my husband has made many a request that I stop this, I still have not retired calling my son a "turd."  (In my defense, usually I say it semi-affectionately?)

One Sunday this month, after being out in the morning doing laundry and errands, we came home and commenced a lazy afternoon.  Wolfman and I finished watching The Winter Soldier, and when it was over though Wolfman left to be more productive during the rest of our daylight hours, I decided to be lazier still and finish part II of Comanche Moon (I deserve this one thing: Karl Urban as Woodrow Call, I thought). When, in the midst of Comanche Moon, Mads began to fuss at me, to climb into my lap uninvited, to tug at and stick his hand down my shirt, I assumed he was just bored or antsy or being a jerk.  I refused to nurse him (my body; my rules!) and insisted he sit on the floor and play with his toys, to which he threw a massive fit.  It wasn't until the credits began rolling on my mini series that I looked at the clock and realized it was WELL past Martigan's dinner time.  He was trying to nurse because he was hungry.  I felt like shit (though Wolfman seemed less concerned about this than the turd thing).  Daylight Savings has fucked me up once again.

Bad Mama

Baby boy was wide awake and ready to start his day at four this morning, as he is every morning.  Unlike all the four-in-the-mornings which have come before, however, I was not so eager as Mads to greet this one.  He wiggled, kicked his feet, punched his little hambone fists in the air, cooed and chatted, and I rolled over and buried my face into my pillow--for twenty minutes (or so Wolfman informed me--he woke in the other room, and watched the clock while listening to our baby's noises become more heightened and disgruntled; why I feel guilt over letting Mads fuss and my husband does not is clearly an essay for another time).

I was not feeling the whole Mommy thing this morning (if four hours before dawn can be called morning).  My right wrist hurt, the muscles in my arms and back ached, my nipples were raw from the hourly feedings all night (that's right, hourly).  Twice in the night I'd had to scoop Mads up and carry him into the living room to bounce him back to sleep on the yoga ball.  The second time, he kept spitting out his pacifier to smile at me, and I worried he wouldn't fall back asleep at all.

These are the tedious complaints of new mothers the world over, and I don't expect some special compensation or pity.  I'm only explaining that for the sake of my very sanity, I needed those twenty minutes of laying on my belly with my face buried in the pillow, the way I used to sleep before Mads existed, before he took over every aspect of my life, including my sleep (the position I sleep in, the room and bed I sleep in, the quality and quantity of my sleep, the subjects of my dreams).  During my fit of temporary, elective deafness, Wolfman rescued Mads from my neglect, and I took an extra ten minute vacation to brush my teeth, dress, attempt to tame the nest that is my hair these days, rub coconut oil on my face and frown over the newly acquired wrinkles gracing my forehead.  (My husband refused to commiserate with me over my rapid aging post-partum.  "I've had forehead wrinkles since I was seven," he said, then made monkey noises at the baby.)

Being a bad mother does not, surprise, come easy.  Every instinct I have urges me to put the little'un first, at whatever the cost, which is why I went two full weeks without showering in the first month of Mads' life.  I exist now, biologically speaking, to feed, nurture, and shelter this (admittedly precious) new life, and it's been a struggle to find my way back to myself.  For two months, I skipped showers, I skipped meals, I skipped opportunities for me-time in favor of caring for (serving, really) my baby boy.  But day by day, as he smiles more and grumps less, as he shakes off the PTSD symptoms after being pushed and squeezed violently through my body and out into this bright, cold, loud world, I reserve little segments of time to do things that make me feel like me, an autonomous human being.  

I've managed, lately, to write in my journal, send a couple letters, begin the process of emptying our storage unit and rearranging and filling our home, and, even, getting a little naked with my good looking husband (ahem).  Little things, these--writing, organizing, sex--but huge boosts in Mommyland morale.  In the mornings, I do a few yoga stretches and twist my hips and torso belly-dance style (the greatest and most fun ab workout) while Mads watches me placidly (usually) from his crib or Fisher Price vibrating hammock, which I carry with me from room to room of the house throughout the day.

He's not the most patient fellow yet.  He fusses if I spend more than a few minutes at a time without looking at him or speaking to him.  He's an energy vampire if ever there was one.  I spend, easily, 85% of my day with this boy in my arms, but that baby-free 15% of the day has been revolutionary for these hands and mind of mine, and I don't mind so much stretching that percentage bit by bit as Mads' development progresses.  We jumped from the laying-in period to an intense mommy-only phase; I've been sapped (but somehow not dry?) for two-and-a-half months now.  So, stolen moments here and there, even if and when he complains, are special.  This blog update, for example, took several of those stolen moments, and I was shouted at mercilessly during a few of those moments by the boy.  What he doesn't understand is that being a bad mama some of the time is a requirement to be a good mama most of the time--call it the Mommy Paradox.