Love Hurts

He looks very cute and innocent, I know.
Don't let him fool you.

I know I haven’t written much about Baby Oren (or as I like to call him, Sir Poopsalot. Or Baby Boo Boo. Or Smooshers McDuff. I really call him everything BUT his actual name).

Oren is the “Clifford the Big Red Dog” of babies. He’s a very adorable, huggable, smooshable, GARGANTUAN child. He’s only four and a half months old, weighs about 150 pounds, and is about 17 feet tall. He already fits into my husband’s clothing.

Yesterday, my dentist’s assistant asked if she could hold Oren (he was flirting with her). Not two minutes had passed before she handed him right back to me, telling me she had to go set up a new appointment with her chiropractor. She then hobbled away, groaning, with her hands supporting her lower back.

He’s big.

Much like Clifford the Big Red Dog, Oren has the best of intentions. He simply wants to love and be loved. But because he is such a huge, strong boy (with rather unrefined motor skills), his displays of affection generally turn into unintentional displays of physical abuse.

One of Oren’s favorite pastimes is gnawing on my chin like it is a chew toy (oh yes, I forgot to mention he is already teething. Actually, I am pretty certain he came out of my womb teething). It starts out innocent enough, with Oren just trying to tongue kiss my face (strangers at the playground think it looks so adorable). But soon the kissing turns into full throttle chewing, as Oren clenches down with his baby jaw and waves his head back and forth like he is trying to rip my chin off my face (strangers at the playground start to think this might not be so adorable after all).

Oren has given me quite a few chin hickeys. Unfortunately, they are not very becoming, and kind of hard to disguise (I can’t exactly wrap a tiny scarf around my chin). I just try to ignore my co-workers staring at my face, wondering what kind of kinky games my husband and I get into once the kids are asleep.

Oh. Then there is the very random, very thrilling, middle-of-the-night nose punching thing.

Although I had truly intended NOT to co-sleep with Oren, as I had with Emmy, I’ve ended up sleeping in bed with him by my side, every night. For the most part, it works out well, and allows me to do night feedings without having to keep getting up out of bed (yes, I am lazy. Especially at 2 in the morning). It also allows me the distinct pleasure of being punched repeatedly in the nose by my son. I’ll be sleeping peacefully, dreaming of bucolic country meadows and rainbows and dancing fairies, when WHAM! Baby Boo Boo lays the smackdown on my face.

And then he starts kicking me. Repeatedly. Right in my belly, by my c-section scar.

I’m pretty sure it’s just his way of making sure I am still lying next to him.

So now, in addition to “hickey chin,” I also have “fight club nose” and a black and blue tummy.

I should also mention Oren’s miraculous ever-growing fingernails. I swear to you, I clip my baby boy’s nails on an every-other day basis, thinking that perhaps it will keep his talons in check. But its not enough. Oren is still able to scratch “I Love Mama” or “This is great mom, but I would really love a prime rib” on my forearm as I breastfeed him.

Speaking of breastfeeding, have I mentioned Oren is teething? I have. Have I mentioned that I feel like I am in grave danger every time I breastfeed him? I do. I watch his face very carefully, waiting for that exact moment where his mouth transitions from “cute sucky-milk” mode to “Hannibal Lecter” mode. Then I say “no biting,” in a gentle but firm tone, and Smooshers McDuff smiles back at me in a “this is a fun game, mama!” way. I try to explain to him that it is not a game. He smiles back at me in a “I’m four months old and have no idea what you are saying, but I’m sure it’s funny” kind of a way. And then he bites down.

Baby Boo Boo also seems to thoroughly enjoy pulling my hair, pinching my neck, and sticking his thumb in my eyeball. Waaaay into my eyeball. Super fun times.

So next time you see me, if I am wearing a ski mask, and a helmet and breastplate, and perhaps holding a sword and shield, I’m not trying out a new “look”. It’s just that I have a BIG baby boy who loves me very, very much.

A Day Will Come...

I know a day will come when Em will no longer find my funny faces very funny
And I know a day will come when she no longer wants to hold on tight to my finger when we visit the playground
And I know a day will come when Em no longer hugs me with her entire body
And I know a day will come when her chicken costume will no longer fit
And I know the day will come when she will understand all of the words I speak
And I know a day will come when peekaboo will be passé
And I know a day will come when she no longer wants to sing along with me in the car
And I know a day will come when Em no longer puts bowls on her head and pretends they are hats
And I know a day will come when she tells me she is too big for lullabyes
And I know a day will come when Em no longer finds bubbles to be completely fascinating
And I know a day will come when Em won’t need me to push her in the swing
And I know a day will come when our hands will be the same size
And I know a day will come when she won’t run to me each time she bumps or bruises
And I know a day will come when Em will think of dirt as dirty, and not as so much fun
And I know a day will come when she will outgrow my lap

I try not to ask for a lot, but please, please, don’t let these days come quickly. I am loving THIS day too much.

There's Never a Good Time

I am not a “by-the-book” mom. If you asked me what method of child-rearing I use to make sure my daughter is not being totally traumatized by her early years, I wouldn’t be able to name an “ism,” or refer you to a doctor or parenting guru. For the most part, I’m just parenting “from the hip,” the way my gut tells me to. I’ve been using my instincts as my compass, and hoping for the best. When I run into a real parenting fix, I have a wise older sister who I consult, as well as many online parenting forums that will either tell me I am doing a horrible or super job, depending on their perspective.

So I’ve made some major parenting decisions over the past 17 months, not because I read about them being amazingly beneficial to my daughter, or because a professional told me to do so, but just because they felt “right”. I’ve chosen to breastfeed my daughter for an extended period of time, and have been co-sleeping with her since the day she was born. Again, I’ve made these decisions not out of an allegiance to “attachment parenting” (though I’ve been told that is what I am doing), but just because they made me feel like I was mothering the way I wanted to mother.

Of course, these two decisions have had quite the impact on our family lifestyle. Up until this point, I’ve let Emmy breastfeed on demand, without limits, regardless of whether nursing was being used as a source of nutrition or as a source of comfort. Nursing was the first way we bonded when Em emerged from my womb, and has remained a steadfast way for us to have some important mommy-daughter time over the past many months. But as Em’s now nearing the year-and-a-half mark, the process of weaning has been pretty huge on my mind, and I am beginning to think we need to start pumping the breaks on our endless feeding sessions.

As for the co-sleeping, well, as a family we’ve half-heartedly attempted (on many occasions) to get Emmy to sleep in her crib for more than an hour or two, but it hasn’t worked. So I’ve gotten used to having Em in bed with me, her arm slung around my neck, or her entire body draped over me in some weird, contorted position that only a toddler finds comfortable. To be honest, I kind of love it. I love watching my daughter’s sleeping face, or kissing her when it seems she is on the brink of having a nightmare. But I also really miss cuddling with my husband. And I miss sleeping for more than two hours at a time (without being woken by a breastfeeding or screaming Emmy). And I know that as long as Em’s in bed with me, the night feedings are not going to stop, which means that the process of weaning cannot begin.

I’ve been talking about transitioning Emmy away from co-sleeping for months and months now, as a first-step towards the weaning process. In my mind, I’ve been waiting for a “good time” to begin this transitional phase, but that time never arrived. First, Emmy started teething, and I hated the idea of making her sleep by herself in her crib when she needed more comfort than usual. Then she got sick, and I didn’t want her sleeping by herself for fear that she would stop breathing because of congestion, or choke on her own vomit. Then Em started teething again. Then she started daycare, and I was afraid that too much change at once would send our little girl over the edge into a state of toddler-sized depression. Then she got sick again. Then she started teething again. And on, and on.

As my husband told me (during a long heart-to-heart session this weekend that proceeded an argument about our current family dynamic), there is never going to be a good time for change. If I continue to wait for the perfect time to transition, I will still be breastfeeding Emmy as she walks down the aisle on her wedding day, and her future husband will have to be ok with us all co-sleeping together. None of us want that to happen.

After a long good look in the mirror, I have admitted to myself that the excuses I have been making, in waiting for a good time to transition my daughter out of co-sleeping and breastfeeding, are excuses born out of my own fears. I am the one who is afraid of change, because I am as attached to my daughter as she is to me. It may make me a horrible mom, but I kind of sort of definitely LOVE Em’s dependence on me. It makes my heart a little sad and heavy to think about the fact that she is growing up, and she doesn’t really NEED me for her basic human needs, like eating and sleeping, anymore.

So the truth? I need this transition as much as Em does. I need to learn how to show my mommy love to my daughter in new ways, and how to encourage her independence as a part of that love. I need to understand that my daughter will still love me, even if she is not curled up in my arms for eight hours a night. I get it. I need to do this. And as much as I want to say that now’s not a good time, it’s probably as good as its gonna get.

Let Me Count the Ways....

You know how there are those times when, in the midst of a humdrum day (or maybe a not-so-humdrum-day), your child does something subtle (or not so subtle) that just kinda blows your mind? You pause, breathe, and take a second or two to honor and appreciate the fact that your baby girl or boy is a kinder, braver, smarter, or more talented soul than you generally give them credit for? And maybe, like me, you start reciting to yourself “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways….”

After having two of these moments just yesterday, I’ve decided I better start writing these little revelations down. My hope is that one day, when Em is more grown up and maybe worried that she’s not smart enough, or brave enough, or a kind enough person, I can find these words and read them to her, and help her see the truth of her own value.

So here’s a few reasons I love my daughter...

Yesterday, when I picked Em up from daycare, I knew right away that something wasn’t right. Despite the fact that her teacher told me she had a great day, and had enjoyed playing on the playground and “reading” (looking at) books with her friends, my mama instincts told me Em was not feeling herself. Her body looked like it was on red alert. I knew something was about to go down.

Sure enough, en route from daycare to our home, as we winded our way through the mess of rush hour traffic, Em suddently started crying. And, just as suddenly, Em started projectile vomiting. It was HORRIBLE. She was screaming, gagging, crying, and puking all at the same time. I started to panic. I was in the inner lane of bumper-to-bumper traffic, and I couldn’t pull over without running the risk of a bad accident. Drivers are SO NOT friendly at the end of the workday, I have learned. With my hands clenched on the steering wheel and my rearview mirror turned (not so legally) so I could make sure Em wasn’t choking, I drove the rest of the three long miles home as quickly as I could, with me crying and her wailing the whole ride.

Of course, the minute we pulled in the driveway, I pounced out of my seat and pulled Em out of the car and into my arms (yes, pukey dookey and all). She immediately stopped screaming and snuggled in real close, wrapping her arms around me. I could feel both our hearts racing. Do you know what my daughter did? With her little 16 month old hand, she gently patted me on my back. My little girl KNEW I was scared, and even though SHE was the one who had just gotten sick all over the car, and she was the one soaked in vomit, she comforted her crying mama.

Emmy, you astound me. Let me count the ways…

Em got sick five more times yesterday. After each bout of sickness, we got undressed, cleaned up whatever floor, rug, or upholstery had been obliterated, and got in the shower to wash the germies off our bodies. And wouldn’t you know, each time we stepped under the running water, my exhausted, ill, slightly dehydrated daughter started singing. Minutes after puking her little guts out for the fourth or fifth time, Emmy was still cheery enough to sing a little tune as we scrubbed her body.

Now I don’t know about you, but when I get sick, I don’t exactly feel like singing. I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in my own disgustingness. I throw myself a huge pity party, where no one’s allowed to sing. Everyone must be silent and miserable. Especially me.

But not Em. She’s better than that.

As we toweled ourselves off from our fifth shower, I looked my daughter in the eyes and said “Em, next time I get sick, I’m gonna try to be like you and sing in the shower. Thank you baby girl.” and kissed her forehead.

How do I love you, Em? Let me count the ways…