- We are both still awake, and there are birds chirping outside and What. The. Fuck.
- Way, way too many skinny, pale, almost-vaguely-ethnic, blonde chicks up in my fashion editorials right now. Diversity, PLEASE.
Month Nine
Published November 13, 2009 | 
Dear Maia,
Today you turn nine months old. Today is also a Friday the 13th, just like you were born on, and I have to admit that this makes me smile. Oh sure, I’ve heard a few times that it’s “too bad” you didn’t hold off your arrival for a day so you could be a Valentine’s Day baby and share a birthday with your Grandma, but I’m pretty sure that being born on a Friday the 13th is going to give you way more street cred when you hit your goth phase. Never forget that, baby girl, you totally owe me.
Like I do every time I sit down to write you this letter, I check out the pictures I’ve taken of you over the past month so I can review in my mind what we’ve done together and how much you’ve grown. Unlike most months, however, I am shocked at how much your presence has changed and matured; between October 13th and November 13th, you seem to have become a completely different baby. In fact, sometimes I stop thinking of you as my baby, and I think of you as my kid and yes, those are distinctly separate entities. A baby is reliant on other people for everything. A kid has some autonomy, and if there’s one thing you like demonstrating to us, it’s your need to have some autonomy.
See, here’s a picture I took of you on October 14th. And whatever, don’t be hatin’ on your hair, this picture has SERIOUS high school yearbook potential. Don’t you look so cute? So sweet? so YOUNG?
In comparison, here you are at the park the other day:
See what I mean? You’re totally bigger now. And I still can’t do your hair properly, but you’ll notice that you’ve now graduated to adult sized clips.
This month has been a great one for all of us. We are in a rhythm now, the three of us, working in tandem with one another. You have a certain time when you wake up (around 7:22) except for once or twice a week when you decide that waking up at 6:30 would be way, way cooler. And then Mama or Daddy, whichever one of us is getting up with you that day, walk around like zombies while you bounce around the house and squeal. You go to bed around 7:30pm, after we read your favourite book (which is borrowed from the library… we really must buy you a copy instead). You wake up two or three times a night still, but that’s alright, because you just want to eat. Sometimes you want to eat and then snuggle and while that’s great in theory, when your very tired Mama wants to sleep, it kinda stinks. Because, you see, while I am totally willing to put you in bed with us so we can snuggle and sleep together, you seem to think the bed is a place to romp around regardless of the hour, and then when I put you in your crib you act like this is THE GREATEST INDIGNITY babykind has ever known. Tough luck, honeybuns. Trust me, all three of us need our sleep.
You can totally walk, but for some reason you seem to be convinced that walking unsupported is not worth your time and that you would much rather hold onto the table, or me, and walk. However, sometimes you will trot back and forth between Daddy and I four or five times in a row, giggling and smiling. Or I’ll catch you sitting on the floor before pulling your legs into a squatting position, then you will stand straight up without supporting yourself on anything and take a few steps over to wherever you want to be. I have to admit, though, that if I could get carried everywhere, I might be tempted to pretend I could not walk.
You like to do this thing we call “drama hand”. You hold one arm out in front of you, palm upwards, your fingers outstretched, then clench and release your hand repeatedly. Usually, you have a very earnest look on your face. We can just imagine you being on stage, delivering some dramatic line or another in a Shakespeare play, and posing like this. It’s completely hilarious and I have yet to capture it on film, because every time you hear my camera turn on you immediately have to turn and start posing. Or try to grab it.
Hey mom, whatcha got?!
Your grandma came up from Florida this month and you pretty much love her. You two got along like peas in a pod, except for, apparently, when she was babysitting, and you wanted to walk around. So you grabbed her hands and started walking, only she didn’t come along, at which point you started screaming and shrieking your little head off (a sound Daddy and I are very familiar with). When recounting this to me the next day, she laughed and laughed, saying how much you reminded her of Daddy when he was a baby. I said you remind me of Daddy as an adult. She agreed.
Actually, you remind everyone of people that aren’t me. You look like Daddy. Your uncle Sean. Your grandma. Your great-uncle. Your auntie Katie. You do not look like me.
Whatever, though, we’re totally gorgeous together. Maia, I’ve never been a terribly confident person, but when it comes to parenting you, I know we’re doing it right. You are so beautiful, intelligent, and altogether vibrant that Daddy and I often look at one another over your head and smile, unable to articulate how much we love you and how happy you make us. Life right now is amazing and better than I ever could have imagined it being. Who knew that being a mom is wicked awesome?
We love you, baby girl. Always and forever.
Love,
Mama & Daddy
Date night!
Published November 10, 2009 | My mother-in-law, MJ, was up last week from Florida. She wanted to watch Maia overnight, and while I was hesitant about it for awhile — because of 1) my boobs 2) that’s a long time not to see my baby 3) Maia being in a strange place with a relatively strange person — Chris and I decided that we could really use the time with one another (and the full 8+ hours of uninterrupted sleep).
So we drove out to where MIL was staying at her brother’s house, a drive of about an hour, and got Maia settled in there. We went over any last-minute instructions we had — which to be honest, there really weren’t. Maia snuggled into her grandma as we kissed her goodbye and walked away, and I heard her squealing and laughing as the door shut behind us, so that was a good note to leave on. Even if my heart did clench a little because seriously? Didn’t she miss us?!
Chris and I ended up going into Toronto and eating at Milagro (warning, the website is Flash and plays music, because this is 1997, right?), where I had two large margaritas and an amaaazing steak dish. The bartender, who was also our waiter, was really hot in that sort of American Eagle way, you know, the chiseled jaw and sandy blond hair and … well … let’s just say I apparently made it VERY CLEAR that I thought he was totally do-able, which might have had something to do with the two margaritas but I’m not saying for sure either way, because Chris ribbed me about it the moment we left the restaurant.
After eating, we headed to Second City Toronto theatre to see the show “Shut Up and Show Us Your Tweets”, which was hilaaaarious. One part had me laughing so hard I was literally crying. It had very little to do with Twitter other than the opening skit, but there was this:
Smirnoff Vodka, lime juice, and Rose’s Blue Cordial. It pretty much tasted like raspberry lemonade. Did I enjoy it?
Ohh yes. I enjoyed it so much that I had two. You know why I had two? Because after my margaritas, I needed to continue drinking to ensure that I would not end up with a headache. That’s completely logical. Poor Chris. He’s always our designated driver. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a control freak and have to be the one driving the car.
After the show, they had an improv set, but we ended up leaving before that started. It was almost 10pm, and the drive home is about 35 minutes, and we were both feeling a little sleepy (fuck we’re old).
We talked about Maia off and on, but we did try to talk about everything else in our lives. You know, like my job, his hopefully upcoming job training, my NaNoWriMo novel (he’s so good at helping me hash out plot points, even when we get into fights about them), the dogs… sometimes, though, there would be silence, we’d look at each other, and he’d say, “I’m sure she’s fine.”
When we got home, I agonized over whether or not to call MJ to see how the night had gone, but she had sent us both an email that soothed my nerves:
Hope you’re having a wonderful time. Maia is just fine. She had a nice dinner tonight. We played for a while and read her book. She wasn’t ready to go to bed so we went down stairs and she played around. She was a bit fussy but she was really getting tired. I took her upstairs and put her blanket around her. I rocked her for while and she fell asleep within 2 mins. She has been asleep since 7:30pm.
I made her a nice mixture of homemade applesauce and strawberries for breakfast. I bet she will sleep through the night. If not I will rock her back to sleep. See you tomorrow.
Love you both,
Mom
Of course, I didn’t sleep through the night myself; I woke up a few times wondering where Maia was. It was sad to wake up and know she wasn’t there next to me.
When MJ brought Maia back to us the next morning, I was SO HAPPY to see her, and she was just as happy to see me. She wanted to nurse, and nursed longer than she has since she was a newborn. I seriously thought my boobs were just going to give up and fall off my chest, that’s how long she was there.
As it turns out, Maia didn’t sleep through the night either (she rarely does), but MJ pulled her into bed and they slept that way. And yeah, I totally cried when I heard that because seriously, HOW CUTE IS THAT. Of course, Maia roams all over the bed when she sleeps, so MJ didn’t have a very restful night.
It was so nice, though, to have a date night with Chris. We needed it. It’s easy to forget to look at each other as spouses as well as parents.
Now I think I’m a date night addict. I totally want to toss Maia at her uncle and aunt for a night and be like SEE YA. That’d be nice. They’re moving into a house with three bedrooms and they don’t have kids, so they can make one of the rooms hers. I mean, that’s reasonable. Right?
Why Maia will eat spaghetti every day for the rest of her life
Published October 19, 2009 | I laugh and laugh every time I watch this. SHE CRACKS ME UP!
Month Eight
Published October 13, 2009 | Dear Maia,
Nothing makes one so aware of the passage of time as becoming a parent. As usual, I’ve had a hard time accepting that you’re growing up, and even though I’m typing this at 11pm on the 12th, I still call you my 7 month old. I can’t believe we’ve been together for so long, and at the same time that I am so proud of you growing up healthy, smart, and strong, I stare at my face in the mirror and wonder where time has gone, how I’ve ended up this close to being 27 — so close to 30. 30? That’s how old your Babcha is in my mind, eternally.
As you might be able to tell from that paragraph, this has been a mind-blowing month, one that has left me feeling alternately scatter-brained and ultra-focused. The month began in a devastating fashion: you went on a nursing strike.
One thing this showed me, however, is that you are a stunningly independent child (also, that you’re very stubborn). I think that independence is at the root of why you decided to reject nursing, and then return just as suddenly: you felt like exercising your free will. And to that I say YOU GO, GIRL (that is, now that I have a breast pump). We’ve recovered from this just fine, mostly, except now we face the challenge of you biting me nearly every time you delatch. I still yell “NO!” or “OUCH!” or the very Canadian “EH?!” (I wish I were joking) when you do, but instead of crying as if you’re the one that got bitten, like you used to, you now let out a little chuckle and stare up at me innocently. Pro tip: if you want me to think you did it unintentionally, DON’T LAUGH AFTERWARD. I’m totally on to your game.
The pain of these bites is from your two little teeth, right in the center of your bottom gum, which have finally begun showing enough that people notice them. This is a source of constant pride for me, although you’ve now gone nearly a month and a half without any other teeth coming in. I’m kind of wondering if they’ll ever show up. You’ve been drooling like a damned fountain for a few weeks now, so I’m expecting something relatively soon. I figure if I keep thinking you’re teething, eventually I’ll be right.
Oh Maia, YOUR HAIR. I love it. There are strands that now reach to the back of your shoulderblades. I’m so impressed with it. Everyone insists that it’s growing in blonde in the back, but I know better; it’s just that you have less at the back, and so it looks lighter. The fact is, if you had dirty blonde hair, you’d end up looking VAGUELY like me, and we all know that can’t happen. We have discovered that you and I have two things in common: we both have big feet and big butts. Congratulations my dear, you’ve got the biggest and best baby badonkadonk on the block.
Can we talk about how huge you look? You are thisclose to outgrowing your infant car seat. It’s good up to 30 inches and you’re hovering around 27.5. If we count your crazy pigtails, you’re probably at 30. This is the first month we’ve put your hair up like that and I must say, I think it’s very fetching. Little wisps of bangs escape to brush your forehead and the nape of your neck, and I just want to gobble you up. Maia, NO ONE can pass you by when you have pigtails without remarking upon it. It’s clinically impossible.
Physically, you’re still not quite walking, although you have taken a few steps on your own. You get so excited about the fact that you’re learning how to balance yourself this way that you invariably end up flapping your arms around and falling over, which infuriates you. So I have to pick you up and soothe you, and then when I try to set you down you’re apt to start babbling “Mamamama” in between whining, until you’re over being butt-hurt about losing your balance.
You have decided that solid food is the most amazing thing ever. This means that on Sunday, at your first Thanksgiving, you ate turkey, cranberry sauce, scalloped potatoes, green bean casserole, and some squash. Also, I let you have a taste of key lime pie, apple pie, and pumpkin pie. Your favourite food is, by far, butternut squash. I am forever roasting it up for you to nibble on. I also love squash, so I’m delighted that you have good taste. You seem to like everything that I make and let you try, except for the Moroccan-spiced lentils and brown rice which you promptly spat out and started screaming at me for feeding you. But then later, when they were cold and we tried again, you liked them, so who knows. You’re just a little gourmande.
You still haven’t quite gotten the hang of drinking from a cup. You love when I hold your sippy cup up so you can drink from it, but the second you have to hold it up yourself, you get pissed and bang it against the floor until the top flies off. Have I mentioned that the dogs really love when I give you a sippy cup? I decided to outsmart you, and got you a cup with a straw instead, but that just made you even angrier. So our interim solution, until you set your mind on drinking on your own, is for me to hold an “adult” glass to your lips. You kind of chew on the rim of the cup, causing the liquid inside to slosh all over your face and in your mouth, then smack your lips together and lean forward for more. You love sharing orange juice with us in the morning.
You’ve had your first real injury, in the dressing room of a department store, when you put your hand in a baseboard heating unit that was then turned on. Believe me, I feel like the WORST parent in the history of ever about this, and I only hope it doesn’t scar too badly. You’ve definitely coped with it far better than I, and it’s healing beautifully. When we took you to the doctor to have your burns checked out and see if we needed any ointment for them, she said I could just keep applying breastmilk to the burns because they looked great. You know, as great as hideous burns on a little baby hand can look. I know that someday you’ll be like “MOM THAT IS SO GROSS THAT YOU PUT BREASTMILK ON MY HANDS” but hey, whatever works.
Your favourite thing to do right now is watch this video of “I Gotta Feeling”. I don’t think it’s possible for me to put into words how much your father and I hated that song, until one day he for some unknown reason (fate?) clicked on a link to the above video, with you in his lap, and you sat there absolutely mesmerized for the entirety of it… then started whining and complaining when it ended. Want to know how many times a day that video is played in our household? Let’s just say that the video has 1.4million views at the moment, and I think we’re responsible for the .4.
I returned to work, leaving you and Daddy together. The first few days were rough, but when I came home one night to see you two like this… well, I knew everything would be okay:
Do you see the little smile he’s trying to hide?
Yeah, we kinda like having you around, papaya.
All our love,
Mama & Daddy.
Nursing Strike, day three.
Published September 18, 2009 | Well, she’s still striking.
I feel miserable and rejected. The fact that she won’t nurse is constantly on my mind when I interact with her. I’m trying so hard not to let my frustration with it change the way I feel about myself as a mother, but failing.
Failing.
Worse than that, this stress, this ball of guilt and anger in my chest, is impacting my milk production. I sit in the nursery with her with that fucking pump attached to my chest and I WAIT, WAIT to see the bottle fill with my milk, WAIT to make a meal for her because she won’t just take it fresh from the source.
But I’m not making “enough”. I’ve pumped out only eleven ounces today. I’ve divided it up — three, four, two, two. Three for breakfast, with a bowl of cereal. Four for lunch. Two in the late afternoon, with some bread and green bell pepper.
Two for bed.
Not enough.
I mixed that last two ounces with formula to total five ounces, after trying desperately for half an hour to pump out more. I feel like a failure. What am I supposed to do? Put her to bed hungry? Watch her cry and whine and sob, refusing my breast? I’m not going to starve her in the hopes that she’ll decide to come back to me.
I stood there over the crib, watching her drink from the bottle, her eyes fluttering shut. When she fell asleep I took the bottle. I wanted to throw it across the room and scream.
How can my body be failing HER?
Did I inadvertently step into a musical?
Published September 11, 2009 | We took Maia to a “Baby and Me” playgroup today at a local Ontario Early Years Centre, to check it out. Originally, Chris was going to take her by himself, but I decided to go along for the first trip. Um. It’s safe to say that now I will be the one taking her, and he’ll hang out at home. I’ll explain later.
There were a lot of moms and babies there, and approximately a BILLION toys. I set Maia down on an empty spot of carpet and sat down on a chair nearby. She didn’t even turn around and look at me or Chris, but grabbed a toy and started chowing on it. Okay, I thought, you could totally do that at home, but whatever…
Then I realized something: Chris and I were the ONLY parents not physically hovering over our child. Every other baby capable of sitting or moving had a parent right beside them. I felt kind of sad when I saw this… why can’t our kids just interact with one another and their safe environment?
Anyway, Maia crawled over to a nearby baby (and her mom), and tried to take the toy out of this baby’s hands. I’ll admit, I felt a little bad — like what, is my kid a bully or something?! — but I know that she doesn’t really have any concept of “possession” or “sharing” or whatnot, and won’t for awhile, so no big deal. If that baby’s mom hadn’t been sitting right there, I would have let the two girls interact with one another and the toys however they decided to (as long as they didn’t try crawling on or hitting one another!) but since that wasn’t the case, I felt pressured to run over, tell Maia “No, that’s not your toy” and pull her away.
I found myself doing a lot of that — reacting to Maia despite not feeling I should, simply because other moms watched. I finally ended up just sitting in a chair and letting Chris take care of everything.
It made me wonder if these other moms actually hover over their children THIS DAMNED MUCH when they’re at home, or if this is something they just do around other parents. If anything, I hope it’s the latter.
Anyhow, the time came for the playgroup to draw to a close. A worker at the centre declared, “It’s Circle Time!” AND THEN ALL THE MOMS STOOD UP AND STARTED SINGING AND NO I AM NOT EVEN JOKING, it was even freakier than it sounds. They sang some song about cleaning up, picking up all the toys, and Maia sat there in the centre of the carpet staring at these crazy people taking away the toys surrounding her like what the fuck is going on with these bitches?! (I mean seriously, if you had seen the perplexed look on her face, you would have laughed and laughed) while I glanced at Chris, wide-eyed and amazed. He sheepishly bent down, took the toy from Maia’s hand (and here’s where you know she was in shock, because she didn’t even notice), and put it away.
Then all the moms gathered up their children and began forming a circle around the edge of the carpet. I threaded between them, picked up Maia, and found a spot for us, while Chris sat in a chair nearby.
We wrote novels with our eyes.
The worker lead us through a series of exercises accompanied by songs and rhymes, and I tried so hard not to laugh while being the ONLY mom there who had no idea what was being sung, trying desperately to mimic the movements of the other parents around me. It was as if I had stepped into some elaborately choreographed routine. Maia was Not Happy with me wiggling her arms and legs, and kept flopping backwards to try and escape to the toys. I can’t say I blame her. Toys are infinitely cooler than exercising.
After everyone sang the goodbye song, we left. Chris and I were silent as we walked out to the car and buckled Maia in.
“I was okay with everything until the goddamned singing,” I finally said.
He laughed.
“I just wish I hadn’t come along,” I continued, “because seriously? If I’d sent you two to this, you’d have come home like TATIANA YOU WILL NOT EVEN BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED and it would have been pretty much the best story ever.”
He shook his head. “No, I would have told you, ‘That was fun. Next time, you take her.’ ”
Translation: He’s never going again.
Next playgroup? Tuesday.
I’m totally going.
You can actually hear him whimper SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE!
Published September 8, 2009 | Maia’s all over the place, crawling, standing, cruising around holding onto furniture, and experimenting with standing on her own. She’s trying all sorts of new foods — oranges are a recent favourite — and being generally charming.
One thing she’s begun doing is chasing the dogs around the house.
WORD OF WARNING: This video opens up with a really loud, shrieky Maia.
She cracks me up! If you’re not going to watch the whole 78 seconds, at least fast forward to the 40 second mark and watch what she does there. CRAZY.
Recently, Maia had her first playdate, with @cindyambrose‘s daughter Lily. I didn’t get any good pictures, but Cindy did & they’re posted on her blog. Check them out! Our little girls are so different from one another physically, but they played together really well. And they kissed each other, which was probably THE CUTEST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED.
We’ve looked up the schedules for some local drop-in play centres and will be taking her to one tomorrow. I can’t wait to see her interact with more of her peers!
Being a twenty-something
Published August 15, 2009 | I introduced myself as a “writer” at our CPR course this afternoon, because I felt ashamed to call myself (just) a “blogger”.
I’d rather be a writer who blogs than a blogger who writes.
The other woman who was part of the class — and 36 weeks pregnant! — told me that blogging is the wave of the future, and while I agree in theory, I still feel… funny… introducing myself that way. “Hi, I’m Tatiana, and I’m a blogger.” As I explained, 13 year olds on MySpace are also “bloggers”.
But then, there are numerous professional bloggers, people who get paid to write editorial-style pieces. Perhaps there’s not so much of a stigma attached to it in the public eye as I feel like there is. Maybe my hesitance is born from the fact that I’m a “mommy blogger”, a title that has been growing increasingly derogatory as the dramas of this summer continue, even among those I’d consider my peers.
Sometimes, though, I have to laugh at myself. I suppose what I’m going through recently is the existential crisis that plagues twenty-somethings. I always assumed I’d skip it and that I knew myself, but I look back at who I was when I turned 20 as compared to who I am now and I’m hardly the same.
Then again, I’m not even the same person I was six months and one week ago.
I think I’m better now, in some ways. I love my family, appreciate life, and trust myself more. Yet at the same time I’ve found such anger smouldering inside and have rediscovered the genuinely hurtful side of my personality that dominated my teenage years, and Chris is the person who bears the brunt of that. Sometimes I feel like I use all my love on Maia, so when I turn to him or the dogs, I have nothing left but frustration and fury. They deserve better.
Most days, being a wife is harder than being a mother.
Motherhood comes instinctively and innately. There is not a cell in my body that is satisfied when she is hurt. I’ve never snarled something intentionally cruel at her and stalked away. I’ve never sat in self-righteous indignity with my back turned to her. Yet I’ve felt and done all those things to Chris since we brought her into this world.
The truly sad part is that I try to be a better wife, a better woman, and I fail. Miserably.
You know that “50% of all marriages end in divorce” wisdom that is so prevalent? I wonder how many of those marriages involve children.
Balancing these dual identities — wife, mother; husband, father — is the real challenge of parenting thus far. I wonder how long it will take for me to figure it out.
Because this is difficult. Sometimes it’s downright impossible.
Month Six
Published August 13, 2009 | Dear Maia,
This will go down in history as the month you grew too quickly. Oh yes. You see, Mommy just went back to read her Month Five letter to you, where she says such quaint things as “you’ve finally learned how to roll from belly to back” and “you are learning to crawl“. Haha. I know, right? You’re totally thinking GOSH MOM, THAT’S OLD NEWS, GET WITH THE PROGRAM.
You crawl like a speed demon all over the house, and we’ve had to put up gates or build mini-walls of laundry baskets to keep you in a safe, baby-proofed space. For a few days we didn’t even have to do that, but then you discovered you could go around the corner of the couch and that was it, your life changed forever. When Daddy and I blocked that area with a table and a rolling laundry cart, well, you just tugged on that cart and made it roll out of your way. While we appreciate (and are somewhat awed by) your intelligence and determination, it’s actually quite frightening.
A day before you really got the hang of the crawling thing, you mastered sitting. Literally, Maia, you had no interest in sitting, and then one day you were playing on the floor near the kitchen while I got a drink, then I looked over and there you were, SITTING STRAIGHT UP, all like “What up, homegirl?”
(you’re surprised to see me here, like “oh shit, she caught me!”)
Of course, all this movement comes with a price (besides my sanity): you fell down this month. You fell down A LOT this month. You’d sit up, beam at me, and in your excitement… THUNK! You’d topple right over, bonking your head on the carpet with this horrible, hollow, melon-esque sound. You tried to climb everything in the house and often ended up whacking your head against them. Your grandmas have a picture of you with all of your war wounds labelled that I will not share with the world, but it’s an accurate representation of how often, and how fast, you hurt yourself as you learned to move. Sometimes you’d wait a second before crying, as if in total shock, but most of the time you’d just start wailing. Mommy wailed with you a few times.
Yet you recovered more quickly than I did, and you have kept your sunny disposition this month.
Uh.
Actually, funny story, Maia: you’ve developed quite a personality, AND IT IS EXACTLY LIKE YOUR FATHER’S. So help me God, I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next eighteen years, but I think it might involve a lot of booze, hoarded chocolate, and expensive day-long trips to the spa, because your father used to be the most stubborn person I knew, but now you’ve taken that crown. You are also … mercurial. You will snuggle into me like I am the most precious person in the world, but then when I lean over to set you down you start to grunt, and the second your butt touches the ground you start the wailing and the teeth gnashing and the OHMIGOD MOMMY CATS SLEEPING WITH DOGS. This is when your father looks at me and says, “You know, maybe you shouldn’t kick her in the ribs, it seems to upset her,” but I’m pretty sure that even if I did, even if I were somehow an evil enough person to kick you in the ribs, it still would not make you cry as much as me setting you down when you want to snuggle does.
(And for the record, I tend to pick you back up, cause I like to snuggle you too. Don’t tell your grandpa.)
Very often this month, I’ve sat on the couch with a notebook or novel in hand as you roamed around on the floor. You really love your rattles and will often sit smashing them on the ground, then throw them a few feet away before chasing them down just to do it again. One time, I had a water bottle set next to the couch, and you smacked that bitch over before proceeding to chase it around the living room for literally fifteen minutes, squealing with glee every time it rolled away from under your hands. Do you know what I could have done with that fifteen minutes? I could have written a blog post, talked to your daddy, painted my finger nails, applied for a job, read a chapter of my book, played with the chihuahuas, made a sandwich… but no, I watched you. Because you were so vibrant in that time, so unbelievably charming and intrepid, and I both treasured and coveted your sense of wonder.
However, now when I sit on the couch, you do this:
You stand. Against the couch. You stare at me, and talk to me, and try to grab my book or eat my knee. Sometimes you even let go with one hand and flail your arm around as if you’re intentionally trying to give me a heart attack, and no word of a lie, you even let go with BOTH HANDS once. Then you laid your hands back on the couch and scooted over a few steps to slobber on my leg.
Last night, you were trying to stand while holding your stuffed turtle toy. You were having some difficulty grabbing on to the couch, so you stuck one of his fins in your mouth long enough to stand. And let me tell you, Maia, I was proud of you, but you were even prouder of yourself, because you looked up at me and your face just LIT UP as you smiled so big that you released the turtle, who promptly fell to the floor.
You watched him fall as if it were happening in slow motion, then bent down to pick him up. You wobbled back and forth, one hand gripping the couch, the other extended, inching towards the turtle…
… and then the Earth imploded.
Or at least, that’s how you acted. OH, THE HUMANITY! OH, THE HORROR! What an utter indignity against your person, that Mommy witnessed your ass plopping to the floor when you were trying to pick something up! This wasn’t your hurt cry or your “give me attention” cry, this was a pure, gut-deep wail of embarrassment the likes of which I had never heard before but imagine your father must have also given when he was your age. Because, again, you are his clone (with a vagina) (also no ding-a-ling).
As if sitting and standing weren’t enough, you’ve also taken to reaching for the food on our plates (and getting very pissed when we won’t let you have it, as you evidenced last night when I wouldn’t share my fried okra with you — I love you Maia, but NO ONE gets my fried okra), so we’ve begun exploring solids with you. You’ve had mixed reactions to these:
Maia, if next month goes at the same pace last month did, I fully expect you to be trying out for the next season of “So You Think You Can Dance” (which is our favourite show to watch together now that “Canada’s Next Top Model” is finished and we were both pissed over who lost). I suggest that you specialize in Broadway because, judging by the hysterics you’re so keen to share with us, you’re just MADE for drama.
The good thing about drama, though, is that it can be deeply loving and kind, just like you. You raise your arms for us to pick you up and hug us when we do, one arm around our shoulder and the other resting on our chest. You laugh and laugh when we kiss you or try to teach you how to kiss us. At bedtime, we all snuggle into bed, lie on our backs, and read nursery rhymes, and you stare up at the book as we point out the words to you or glance back and forth between us as we sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat. When the book is done, you invariably roll over towards your Daddy and stroke his face as if amazed at the stubble on his cheeks and the roughness of his goatee. And you smile, smile, smile.
Thanks for letting us be supporting actors in your drama, Maia. We couldn’t be happier to watch you on centre stage.
Love,
Mommy & Daddy
Nursing in public
Published August 4, 2009 | 
It’s World Breastfeeding Week! To celebrate, each day this week I’m going to have a breastfeeding-related post.
In some ways, I feel militant about breastfeeding — or perhaps more accurately, I feel militant about my right to breastfeed, any where and any time. In Ontario, nursing in public is protected as a human rights issue.
I nurse Maia anywhere that she wants to eat. This means we’ve tried it in a sushi restaurant (which didn’t go over too well with her… I ended up having to take her out to the car, where it was quieter), at a festival (which was just lovely, out in the fresh air, music playing), in a stadium (she fell asleep here, despite the fact that we were watching my sister graduate from university and people were cheering and clapping all around us), and on the patio at a restaurant.
On the patio, there was a little boy, maybe two years old, beside us. When Maia snuggled against me and began to nurse, I saw the little boy watching us. I smiled at him and the two women he was with, then continued eating my nachos (pro tip: not a good food to eat with one hand and a baby). Later on, as they were leaving, one of the women came up to me and said, “He’s never seen a baby nurse before. I told him the baby was eating, and he was really interested in it.” Her broad smile left no question that she found it amusing and endearing, so I just laughed and said something about being happy that he was curious.
I know there are people who have issues with nursing in public, whether they’re a participant or a spectator. To the latter, I say “Look away!” but to the former, I want you to know that I — that all breastfeeding mothers and lactivists — support you doing whatever makes you comfortable. If that means you’re wearing a nursing cover, or facing away from people, or even going into another room, I’m fine with it; you need to be comfortable.
I have yet to see a public place where there’s a space dedicated to a nursing mother’s comfort — that is, an area with couches or chairs, soft lighting, maybe a quiet atmosphere. I’m picturing a corner shaded with gauzy curtains, fluffy couches, throw blankets and burp clothes folded atop a table, a changing area available… you know, someplace that, when you’re there, your husband is totally jealous that he’s sitting on a hard restaurant chair or an uncomfortable mall bench or whatnot. I do NOT want a nursing mother to be “confined” to that space, but I would like spaces to be available if a woman desired a bit more privacy or comfort while nursing (I would have loved something like this in that sushi restaurant, since my only options for a relaxed place for Maia to eat were in the washroom or outside).
What are your thoughts about nursing in public? Have you seen any sort of “nursing mother” areas in public places?