Slipping Through My Fingers...

Listening to the hits of Abba sung by Meryl Streep and the girl from Mean Girls (you know, the dumb one) had me in tears tonight. Not because either one was especially Oscar-worthy or stupendous (though they were quite good), but because Meryl was a single mom, who raised a beautiful and intelligent daughter and the whole movie is the night before said-daughter's wedding.

I actually had Emilia with me, thinking she would sleep through the whole thing, but she watched the movie and grooved her little bobble head to the tunes. Holding her tiny hand, I realized that someday her and I will be in the same situation.

It might not be the night before her wedding, or on a gorgeous Greek Island, but one day I'm going to look at that sweet face and realize that she's not my little girl to hold onto... but instead, an adult. And just like the movie, I hope that she wants me there anyway.

I'm not sure why the waterworks are coming on so strong now. I've been a daughter and had a mother of my own my whole life. But the world provides a whole new view through the Mommy window...

So I guess I'm doomed to cry at every movie, song, poem, haiku, bumper sticker and kitchen magnet that mentions daughters, or mothers, or growing up.... forever, I guess.

Bring it on home, Abba...

"Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when she's gone there's that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I cant deny

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see whats in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time"

My new vocabulary...

I've oft been accused of using rare and unusual words both in my writing and normal language. My children's literature professor used to write KISS on my stories... (no, it wasn't a proposition. it means Keep It Simple Stupid). Sometimes I'll say or write a word and not even know where it came from, or why I thought it necesssary to say it at that moment...

Here's a rundown of some of the newest words and phrases I find myself saying lately...

Bumbo, boppy, binky, boo, Elsie-bug, diapie, feetsies, sleepy-sleep, boogie-bear, Snugli, gassie-bubbles, burpies, onesies, Chunky Monkey, noodle, kissy-boo, pajama jam (as in, "let's have one!") and wiggle-worm...

It's not like she even understands any of these items yet, so I could call them anything I wanted, like disposable infant underwear, or upright plastic seat. Or I could call her my "highly active infant" or my "robust daughter." But somehow these things just don't roll off the tongue...

The truth is, it won't be long before she's correcting me and telling me, "No Mom, I'm a kindergartner not a cuddle-bug." So why not use make-believe words and silly phrases for awhile?

It might be the only time I can get away with it...

A few words...

on what I look like right now.

I was about to walk out the door and looked down and realized that there was a spot of spit up on my black pants. Low and behold -- there was a twin spot on the other pant leg. Then I realized I hadn't shaved my legs for a few days, and it was pretty obvious. Ok... time to change my pants.

Then I noticed that my shirt was especially wrinkled, from sitting underneath a pile of baby clothes for a few days. And my necklace was on wrong -- with the gemstone facing in, not out.

My hair is a huge grease ball, just piled on top of my head for now. I was wearing flip-flops until I realized that my nail polish was chipped, so now it's slip on closed-toed flats.

My purse is tan, even though my outfit (new and old) is black -- but I don't have the energy to transfer all the necessary items to a black purse.

But don't worry... Emilia looks great in her ocean blue onesie and ruffle-butt skirt/shorts that match her bright blue eyes.

And the truth is, it wouldn't matter if I had my act together and looked like a super model right now -- because all anyone would see is my adorable baby anyway.

So wrinkles, stubble, grease, chipped nail polish and spit up stains be damned. I'm heading out the door.

Insomniac Baby

My baby is an insomniac (hence the title). Due to this fact, I am a bit loopy right now (hence the redundance of the title and first sentence).

It's not that she doesn't sleep exactly. It's that she fights and fights falling asleep in the first place. If I can rock, sing, read, feed, burp and coax her into drifting off, she stays that way for a few hours. But as the weeks go on, she is getting smarter and more savvy about the "time-to-go-to-sleep" tricks that Mommy has up her sleeve. Just as her eyelids are about to slam shut, they flutter open again and focus on the ceiling fan. Sigh. Time to try again...

And even though her non-sleeping is wearing me out royally, it occured to me tonight that I don't blame her for wanting to stay awake. Look at how much changes every time she gives in to a nap?

About 2 months ago she was sleeping peacefully, warmly wrapped in the womb. The next thing she knew, she was blinded by bright lights, being pushed and prodded by dozens of strangers and expected to be adorable and baby-like for the entire world. On "errand day" last week, she woke up at 9 different places. No joke. Once in her pack n play, twice in the car, once at a government office, once at Target, once at Kohl's, once at Starbucks, once at a friend's house, once at the bank and once at the library. For a person who was content living an entire exsistence in solitude in a warm goo, errand day is a bit ridiculous. Everything changes so fast that she doesn't want to miss any of it to sleep.

And tonight as I gazed down at her 10-pound body, fighting off sleep with every inch and ounce, I realized that I should be thankful for my own lack of sleep. Every day her faces changes a little more, and her arms and legs get longer. In the mornings, her cries for food have been replaced with smiles and gurgles (and then cries when I take too long with the bottle) and her afternoon fussiness is slowly being filled with enjoying storytime. I saw a newborn a few days ago, and she looked nothing like my Emilia. She looked like Emilia used to look -- not all that long ago. Every moment that I have with her is one that I will never get back.

So I may need to put a little extra concealer under my eyes for awhile. Soon enough I will be poking and prodding her to get up out of bed and get ready for school.

And I'm sure I'll long for the days when I tailored Andrew Lloyd Weber's greatest hits to accommodate the name "Emme" and sat up blogging, just waiting to hear her sleepy cries.

Old Shoes

I've heard that after giving birth, a woman longs to squeeze back into the jeans that were once dripping in tequila and led to her giving birth in the first place. They hang in the closet, just waiting for the day she will pull them back out and over her hips (and then look in the mirror and give herself the thumbs up!). While it's true that I would like to wear 99% of my expensive wardrobe that took years to compile (and only 9 months to destroy), it's not those pesky jeans that was bothering me the most.

It was this one damn pair of shoes. There isn't much to them -- they are beige, faux-alligator skin with pointy toes and a half-inch heel. I bought them at Target like 5 years ago on sale, so they weren't expensive. But I LOVE those shoes. They are my "I'm trendy, and professional and five-foot-seven-and-a-half today" shoes. That pair of shoes survived my college apartment, Shelbyville Indiana, my Grandpa's house (he tried to throw them away twice before I put them in a super secret hiding place), the trip down to Florida (when other shoes were left behind) and another move to my current place. I LOVE those damn shoes.

I waited weeks for my feet to un-bloat, and for the occasion to slip them on again. On Monday, the big day had arrived. I had bought some pants for work that were a bit too long (say, half an inch or so?) and had put together the perfectly accesorized outfit. Just before putting the baby in the car seat, filling the diaper bag with blankets, rubbing cream on the baby's heat rash, grabbing my packed lunch, filling my water bottle, giving the dogs a treat, giving the cat a piece of cheese because he saw me give the dogs a treat, grabbing my phone, grabbing my car keys, pouring a cup of coffee and simply heading out the door, I slipped the treasures on my now-skinny-again feet (I'm not trying to brag, but all the fat on my feet has just fallen right off)...

I've also heard that love is blind. Apparently, that was the case on this particular morning because as I carried my baby arsenal into the babysitter's house, she looked at my feet and said, "What's the matter Mommy? Can't afford new shoes?" (which is basically what my Grandpa had said 2 years before) I put the baby down, lifted my pant leg and said, "What?" She just changed the subject.

It occured to me as I got back in my car, after kissing the baby, kissing the baby again, reminding the babysitter what time I'd be back, writing down my phone numbers for the 7th (and then 8th) time, using the restroom, giving her dogs treats and belly rubs, and kissing the baby again, that some relationships just aren't meant to be rekindled. Could it be that me and my shoes had reached the end of the road, and I was in denial?

Even though all that baby-kissing had put me behind my commuting schedule, I pulled in Winn Dixie and bought a tube of super glue. I lined the edges of my shoe, and then stood on my tip toes in the parking lot trying to get the paste to congeal. When it seemed like the task had been accomplished, I got back in the car. The glue seemed to do its job, and the shoes didn't completely give out that day.

At a stoplight on the way home, I pulled up my pant leg to gaze at the shoes I had fought to keep for so many years.

"We've been through a lot," I thought.

And it was then that it occured to me that I wasn't trying to physically hold on to the shoes. I was trying to grasp onto something that I felt represented the old me -- something that defined me in my pre-mommy days. Just like in a human relationship, the wear and tear of what I had put those shoes through was obvious in the faded faux-alligator print and the jagged seams caked in Super Glue. Instead of just letting them go, I kept trying to fix those shoes because they made me comfortable.

It became painfully apparent that nothing I could do would return those shoes, or myself, to our golden days together.

I still have them. I will still wear them from time to time. But it's time to go buy a new pair. And maybe this pair will be more accomodating to carrying 15 bags at once and baby-kissing.

And maybe I can find a pair that makes me stand even taller.

Sex and the City -- My Take

So I can't remember the last time I was as excited for any movie/television event as I was earlier tonight on the car ride to Sex and the City -- The Movie. Oh wait... I remember. It was on the car ride to my pal Veronica's house to see the series finale of Sex and the City on HBO.

Both times I could barely sit still as I dreamed of the high fashion, hot men and glamorous gal pals that would fill the screen. Both times I was wearing Old Navy flip-flops that cost 1/1000th of one of Carrie Bradshaw's Manolo Blanik masterpieces, and I was wearing a Ball State T-shirt (Hello, fabulous?). Both times I was at a crossroads in my career, love life and personal growth. The only real difference this time was that I kept checking my cell phone to see if my parents had called with an update about Emilia (you know, like had she blinked since I was gone?) and 5 years ago it was to see if my roommate had texted the address of the house party.

But I digress... On to the movie itself.

It was like coming home for Christmas after a week of hellish finals. Like drinking strong coffee after sleeping in until noon and reaching for the newspaper. Three words -- Fab U Less

Sure, parts of it lacked the tight metaphoric writing that made parts of the series physically hurt to watch. I can't remember the theme of the last five minutes of the movie, but I immediately tried to write down the last five minutes of the series finale verbatim because it was a quote I never wanted to forget. In fact, the movie's best turn on words involved St. Louis (the city) and Saint Louise (Carrie's personal assistant) and and old Judy Garland classic (Meet Me in St. Louis). Yeah... somewhat disappointing there.

But the truth is, I wasn't looking for clever prose. I was looking for storyline. And I have a feeling that the millions of fans who went and saw it this weekend felt the same way. Would Carrie and Big finally tie the knot? Was Charlotte really pregnant, after years and years of fertility nightmares? Could Samantha really stay with one man (spolier alert -- no, she can't -- and thank god)? And was Maranda's Brooklyn fairy tale still on it's way to a happily ever after ending?
These, and many other questions, were answered. It was like a love fest for the faithful fans who prayed to the chick flick gods that this movie would somehow be made someday. There was high fashion, hot men and a reunion with old gal pals (and the addition of one more!).

And even though it might have been the big screen, or sweeping musical score, it reaffirmed my own faith in love. Faith that there is no reason to settle for less than an all-consuming, life-altering love for someone. A love that would bring your whole life crashing down around you if it were to be lost. A person that you absolutely, positively can not wake up in the morning without seeing.

And that was a message I needed to hear. To give me hope that he is out there, and that there is no reason for me, or any woman, to sell herself short on her soul mate.

Like Carrie tells Maranda in the movie coffee shop, "Sometimes love is not logical, it's emotional."

And worth every complication and plot twist along the way....

Mom's Day

On this, my first Mother's Day as an honoree, I feel more worn out than celebrated. After two and a half weeks of getting relatively "good" sleep at night, Emme woke me up every hour last night, nursed for 5 minutes and then fell back asleep. Even stripping her down to her diaper, turning up the ceiliing fan and watching the George Lopez show especially loud (hey, it's all that's on at 3am) wouldn't rouse her. So I would set her down, and by this time the dogs were awake and wanting to go outside. So I would let those two sillies out in the backyard, drink a glass of water and head back up to bed. By this time, I had to pee. So, I would do that and brush my teeth, or hair, or put on more deodorant, or do something else productive since I was in the bathroom anyway. Then, I would lie down, only to be awakened 20 minutes later by my very loud screaming baby. She would frantically search for her food source (trying to be discreet here), crying her little heart until I could calm her enough to find what she was looking for. A few George Lopez punchlines and commercials later, she was passed out again. By about 5am, I had given up sleeping. Even my new friends, the Lopez's, were off for the night. Now it was time for the infomercials on losing weight (which of course, is on my mind lately) and dandy kitchen gadgets. I was very tired, and very cranky. How could I get her on a schedule that worked for both of us??

But then something happened this morning. I managed to doze off around 7am, and was awaken at 9am by blood-curdling screams (you would think she was a two-year-old, not a two-week-old). I rushed her downstairs to warm a bottle (one of my new attempts -- bottles during the day, and nursing at night to differentiate between the two time frames) and tried to talk to my roommate for a few moments before she headed off to work. I was holding Emme in one arm, warming the bottle in the other, trying not to trip over sleeping cats and dogs sprawled across the kitchen floor, and shouting small talk to my roommate. I looked awful, and frantic. I looked like a first-time Mommy.

And when we finally got her bottle going smoothly, I looked down at my red-faced daughter and her eyes were focused on my face. I don't even know how much she can actually see yet (behind on my developmental reading), but it looked like she was looking me right in the eyes, saying "thank you" with her hungry stare. That one tiny look made me realize that I truly am officially a Mom. Not a cute pregnant girl with glowing skin, and a chestful of hopes and dreams. Not a matyr who just went through labor and needs flowers, gifts, cards and meals to recover. But a messy, smelly, tired Mom who is still learning the most efficient, and best, way to take care of my child. And that made me proud, and thankful that I have been given this time off work to get to know my baby and lose some sleep.

Next Mother's Day she will likely be walking, and maybe even talking a little bit. We will be done nursing, and she will be even doing some things for herself. And while I will be proud of those accomplishments, I don't want to take the time I have now for granted. This is the first, and could be last, time that I will have a newborn and be a first-time Mom.

I've since had a shower, and put on actual clothes (not pajama pants), and am feeling much better. She is napping peacefully -- without a care in the world.

Happy Mother's Day -- if you are one, I have new respect for you! If your own Mom is around, squeeze her extra tight for those late-nights that she sat up with you, watching Nick at Nite, or late-night talk shows. She deserves it.