Fulfillment

I just figured something out in my head.

The reason I am so crazy about breastfeeding and the reason I still have serious guilt about giving up on cloth diapering (stupid right, who cares about what diapers she wears?) and the reason I obsess over every little detail of Elise's life and care (other than because I am generally obsessive) is that I feel like being a mom is now the only thing I have left that I can still not disappoint myself with.

I do still plan to finish school, but I will never be any of the things I wanted to be. I’m never going to be a doctor or a research scientist or a biotechnologist or a genetic engineer. I probably will never be any of my consolation prizes either – not an editor, not a writer. I feel like I wasted a brilliant mind (sorry, but I do have a pretty good brain) and maybe cheated the world out of some kind of contribution I could have made. I’m learning to be okay with that even though I feel like I totally let myself down and really wasted all my potential. I’m trying at least.

But the thing I can still be my best at is being a mom. I can give Elise all the chances and opportunities that I wasted. I don't care what she chooses to do with her life as long as she uses her potential to create the best Elise she can make of herself. But I’m worried that that won’t be enough and that I will always feel unfulfilled, and that’s the reason I pour everything into her. Maybe making her the best she can be will also make me the best I can be in the end. Maybe she will be my contribution to the world. Maybe she already is. 

No dada...

While Elise makes a variety of sounds, of course her favorite is "da." I repeatedly tell her that there is no Da, but she does not care much what I have to say. Obviously she doesn't mean anything by it, but no matter what sound she starts out with (mamamayayayazazaza), it always becomes dadada.

Sometimes, she will just repeat it to herself while she's playing. Occasionally, she will grab my neck and lean in close and whisper "da" so seriously that I can only imagine she thinks she is telling me some grand secret. Maybe she's trying to divulge whatever mystical meaning of life we are all born knowing and forget by the time we can think to tell anyone about it.

I think she does get that words and sounds have meanings. When she is upset, she now repeats mamamamamama. And she's starting to understand words. She knows what her cup is. She grabs for the light switch when I tell her to turn off the light. She knows a book is a book. I think she's even starting to understand inflection and tone of voice. We play a game where she picks up a toy and I tell her what it is, and sometimes if I don't tell her right away she'll say "da?"

I guess one day, I'll have to explain why there really is no Dadada. But I'm not so worried about that. She has two parents who love her as much as anyone ever loved a kid. We wanted her and deliberately went about making her. She is both lucky and unfortunate enough to be growing up in this weird and crazy family. She's the first grandchild on either side, and so she will always be the golden child.

For now, I'll just wait and listen to everything until one day dadada becomes ball or duck or mommy or #*^%. I can't wait to hear what she has to say.

Before I had Elise, I kind of thought that if I had somehow gotten pregnant very young (not sure how that was gonna happen, but that's another story) that I would have been okay. I never thought it would be easy, but I always had this idea in my head that I would handle it better than most people. Looking back, I still do think that I would have been okay, but I can't imagine what my life would be like right now. I don't think I would be the same person I am now.

You know how sometimes they update the dictionary and add new meanings to old words so that over time the original definition gets bumped down to the bottom of the list? Each new definition builds on the last, but eventually the original is almost forgotten. I think people are like that. We redefine ourselves over the years. At our core, our first meaning is still there, but the other ones become more prominent. I think this redefinition is important. And when something happens to force an update before it's really ready, it can be tough to ever move on from what we used to be.

It was harder than I thought it would be to become "Mommy." I don't mean to conceive and give birth, but to take on this role that I always thought I was totally ready for. It was rough to let go of how I had thought of myself for so long. I could do what I wanted and go where I wanted and suddenly there were so many things I had to think of and do and juggle just to go to the grocery store or gas up the car or go to the doctor. My time, my life, suddenly belonged to somebody else in a way that I never imagined. I did everything I could do to physically prepare for Elise's arrival. I bought all the items and got her room ready and installed the car seat. But I'm not sure this is something that you can prepare for emotionally. I have spent years caring for other people's children, but at the end of the day I could go home. Now I can't imagine it any other way, but I have to admit I went through a time where I resented the fact that I couldn't even take a shower without figuring out what I was going to do with Elise.  But that passed quickly and now I miss her all the time I'm not with her. It feels wrong to be anywhere without her. I have fallen into the role as well as I could have hoped for. I have redefined myself. I am Elise's Mommy.

Bad mommy

I am (completely irrationally) feeling like a bad mom tonight. For the second night in a row, I was not home to put Elise to bed. I barely saw her today. I rushed her home so that I could get everything ready to go see Holly at the hospital. I had planned on sitting and playing with her for a while before I left, but instead I left her to crawl around on her own while I did a bunch of meaningless busywork -- emptying the dishwasher, sweeping the floor, wiping the counter. None of that stuff meant anything. It could all have waited.

I know I'm not being rational. Elise had fun crawling around, chasing after the cats, playing with her ball and her toys. She didn't have a clue that I was being neglectful. She is a happy girl. And I know that not putting her to bed for a couple of nights doesn't make me a bad parent. Holly needed me at the hospital, and Elise's needs were being met by her Grandpa who loves her as much as anyone could ever love another person.

But I miss her. I miss her face and I miss the way she nestles herself into my arm when she nurses at night just before bed. I even miss the way she snakes her one arm behind mine and ruthlessly pinches and pulls at the skin on the back of my arm.

I think this intense need to be part of her every moment started not long after Elise was born. Holly was able to stay home with us for a couple of weeks, but then she had to hit the road again. Elise was already showing some small signs of reflux by then, and I now realize that I was spiraling into some pretty significant postpartum depression. I think I dealt with that by becoming hyper-vigilant and obsessed.

The reflux was rough. And Elise was such a trooper. I remember one night so clearly. She was having such a hard day, and I was trying to put her to bed. She had been crying for hours and I was wiped out. I probably hadn't eaten more than a handful of pretzels in 2 days, hadn't showered in at least 3, hadn't slept in longer than I could remember, and probably hadn't spoken to another adult in a week. I had finally just gotten her to calm down. She was still doing that shuddering breathing babies do when they've just stopped crying really hard and are trying to pull themselves together. I looked down at her, and she gave me the biggest smile. What a great kid that she was smiling after all that.

That's why I need to be her everything. Because we weathered the storm together. Because I finally found the right medicine to make her pain go away. Because I'm the only person that she has seen every single day of her life so far. Sometimes it feels like such a weight on me. Not a burden, not something I don't want. But it's heavy . . . Maybe all parents feel this constantly on the edge of obsession and failure. Maybe this is how it's supposed to feel--this frantic, panicky love.

First post

I had grand plans of starting a blog for Elise the day after she was born. But like many of my plans, this fell to the wayside during the whirlwind that was the beginning of her life. Oh well. . . she won't know the difference. At least until she becomes internet savvy and stumbles across all the embarrassing things I'll be writing about her.

The past 8 months have been crazy and wonderful and horrible and magical and exhausting. I have helped take care of other people's children for most of my life, but nothing could prepare me for having my own child. Elise is a marvel, a wonder, a maniac, and a delight. I could never have imagined my every waking thought being consumed with the thoughts and care of this crazy beautiful creature.

I know I would never have known the difference, but I am so glad that this particular borrowed sperm met up with this particular egg at that particular time to create this particular kid. If only about a million little nuances had happened instead of what did, I might have never seen this smile or held this hand or heard this laugh. I'm so glad that my Elise is this Elise and no other. She's my girl. She's our girl.