Friday, October 12, 2012

Baby (not) on Board

I was in a fender-bender this week--really very minor, and Nola was not in the car with me. And yet I have had bad dreams involving Nola for the past two nights, for the first time ever (although probably not the last).

I have this little twinge in my shoulder now, probably from the seatbelt, and it's not a big deal. But every time I feel it, an image of Nola being jerked side to side in the carseat pops into my head. And I feel sick. How little would it take to hurt her? Babies are tougher than we think, but not tough enough for a car accident, especially one involving side impact, I fear.

So when I dropped off my sad little Prius yesterday (and wrangled the carseat out of it and into the rental car by myself in the rain--ah, mommyhood), I was incredibly paranoid about driving with the baby, in a way I have not been since she was first born. This was motivated, not in small part, by a horrible experience of one of my colleagues, who, well before my time at my institution, was involved in a car accident and whose young daughter died as a result. When I was late for a meeting because of the accident, one colleague said that she thought immediately of that situation. And so did I. I remember her anguish on what would have been her daughter's 16th birthday, and it makes my chest hurt.

I don't know if I have anything funny or clever to say this week about this experience. It was scary, and minor, and quick, and inconvenient, and it in no way involved my daughter. But there it sits, on my shoulder, making sure I tighten the chest strap on her carseat enough, even though doing so makes her cry. And although she's getting bigger and stronger every day, it reminds me how fragile and how dependent on me for her safety she is.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

On Being Pregnant and then Not Pregnant Anymore

First: no, I'm not pregnant again.

Now then: for some reason today, a moment from one of my baby showers popped into my head.

A brief aside about baby showers. They are awesome and intimidating. People offer advice, if they have kids, or had lots of siblings or nieces and nephews (which I loved getting--keep it coming, people), or look vaguely as if they are wearing particularly itchy wool skivvies, if they don't. As the pregnant person, I was on both sides of this equation at once: a former dreader of baby showers and all that talk about hoo-has and nipples, and yet the person desparate for advice and craving people's MOST horrifying birth and baby stories. If you needed 800 stitches in your nether bits, I was the person who wanted to hear ALL about it. In detail. All the sentimental parts of the baby shower--well, that still made me a little nauseated (except for opening presents. I don't care what anyone says. Presents are always good, so sit your ass down and watch me open 300 different onesies, bitches). For me, all the sentiment happened after she was born.

Anyway, so there I am, being all ambivalent and trying to think of nice ways to cajole people into telling me awful stories about their kids, when someone asked me what was the best part about being pregnant. I was literally unable to say anything for a ridiculously long time. And not because I hated being pregnant or anything (although really, enough with the peeing).

So I had to corral my frenzied brain to answer this serious question. I thought really hard. Was it the blissful glow of pregnancy? No. Decidedly not. In fact, I realized I had not thought about this at all, although I had bitched about virtually every aspect of the experience, from not being able to sleep on my back (NOT cool, baby), to giving up wine (mostly), to wearing maternity pants (which are clearly made by the devil). So what was it that I liked?

And then it came to me. I had been watching some ridiculous Entertainment Tonight-like show, and the ubiquitous go-feel-bad-about-the-size-of-your-ass-because-this-celebrity-works-out-8-times-per-week-and-eats-one-almond-per-day segment came on. I usually flip channels at this point, and I did the same that day. But the feeling I had at that moment was one of liberation instead of fleeting shame. I realized that I was removed--temporarily, to be sure--from this obsession with weight and appearance. I was exempt. I was exempt because I couldn't possibly worry about getting thinner or why I wasn't doing anything to get thinner, or critiquing myself for worrying about getting thinner. It was like I could shut out of my brain a whole part of the world. And it felt delicious.

During my pregnancy, I went to the gym probably 3-5 days per week, and walked the dogs almost every day too. I ate pretty well, largely because inside-Nola was not terribly interested in food, beyond demanding that I eat a doughnut after most workouts, and telling me stoutly to fuck off if I even considered eating rice. In essence, I was probably healthier during my pregnancy, and I had nothing to really feel bad about--but that wasn't even the point. The point was that when I went to the gym, it wasn't about how my pants fit, it was about what I wanted my body to be able to do: at first, I wanted to make sure I wouldn't be completely disabled by my pregnancy at 39 weeks, and later, I wanted to make sure my body would be able to kick labor's ass.

What drove me to the gym was not what I wished to look like, but my desire to be strong for delivery.

It's not that I don't like the gym--I really do. But there's so much icky crap invested in our perceptions of "health." And I could just blow all that off when I was pregnant.

After this conversation at my baby shower, I became acutely aware of this sensation, and reveled in my new dismissal of body-shame culture, as I silently did a count-down to when I would have to start worrying about how long it would take me to "get my body back."

Gross. This is a phrase I hate. I love what my body was able to do when I was pregnant. It was always mine. I just shared it for a little while with this stunning little person.

So last week at the gym, an older gentleman stopped me to tell me how great I look. It wasn't creepy or anything--he actually witnessed a contraction shoot down my belly when I was pregnant and doing reverse curls, and was one of the only men at the gym who ever acknowledged that I had something going on down below my neck when I was pregnant (most of the older men at our very ritzy gym generally looked horrified and felt certain I would give birth on a weight bench, I think, and handled this by averting their eyes whenever I walked by). His compliment made me feel good--and I was grateful to hear it.

But now it reminds of the sense of my body that I lost when I achieved my fitness goal, ran my marathon, swam my English channel--whatever metaphor best suits 21 hours of contractions followed by shooting a human being out a tiny tiny hole. I want that pregnant sense of self back. I want to love my belly, instead of feeling like I should loudly make declarations about how I still have a little baby (and therefore cannot be judged) whenever I put on spandex.

But to conclude on a happier note. One of the best moments of my life--aside from seeing that amazing little person for the first time--was that first night after she was born. I got to sleep on my back again. And it felt glorious.


This is me doing squats on my due date:

Saturday, September 29, 2012

When was the last time I washed my hair?

So here's my metaphor for parenting. I shower less, but shave my legs more.

I know that's weird, but bear with me.

Before I had a baby, I didn't understand when parents would say they couldn't take a shower. Why not just put the baby down for ten minutes and wash yourself? What's hard about that?

But it's not about just putting the baby down. It's about the 800 things you have to do competing for that ten minutes. In ten minutes, I could get the mail, or water the plants, or fold my laundry, or grade some papers, or empty the dishwasher, or let the dogs out, or...write this blog.

So when I do choose to spend those ten minutes on a shower, it had better be good.

Before Nola, I knew the next shower could be had any time. I could say, nah, not right now, hairy legs. I'll shave you later. Now, the next shower might be days away. And I might need to wear a skirt tomorrow. And there will definitely not be time for a shower between now and then, because God knows I need to wash some underwear. Or grade some papers (because English profs always need to grade papers, unless it's between June and August).

And now you can infer that you should not sit too close to me today, because I spent that ten minutes on this blog.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Skyping It In

Yesterday, I skyped in for a regular weekly meeting. This was my third time skyping in (the first time: okay, the second time: not so much). All went well, but managing a baby and participating in a meeting, while looking at documents on a computer is, well, hard.

I'm very fortunate that all the members of the committee are so generous. They would love for me to come in and bring Nola--and I'm sure she would love being there and seeing everyone, too. But I'm not up for the hour-long screaming festival drive there, and then back again that would be required. Nola is not a fan of the carseat. Vehemently not a fan.

Nola is usually napping for the first part of the meeting, but she usually wakes up about 20 minutes in. I angle the Skype screen up to just my face and feed her, and when she's done, she burps for all to hear (I kind of love watching people look around before they remember there's a baby). Then she spends much of the rest of the meeting playing in her Exersaucer and smiling at me. This part is hardest, because she clearly wants to engage with me and play, and she hears me talking, so I suspect she thinks I'm talking to her. Still, the committee never hears her cry for more than a second (when she wakes up from her nap), and I'm able to participate pretty effectively.

But there was this one moment that was awkward for me. The person who normally takes the minutes was absent, and so they asked me to take minutes. This was weird for two reasons: 1. last week, I kept getting kicked off skype, so I missed most of the meeting. Not so good for the minutes, if it should happen again. And 2. seriously? I'm managing a baby! You want me to nurse her, pay attention to all of what's being said, look at the required documents on my computer, and take notes? I'm good, but I'm not that good.

So I awkwardly said no (something I actually am pretty proud of--especially in academic committee work, I think women often are asked to do things that they feel they can't say no to). I reminded them that I would be managing Nola and that I might have to step out for a moment or two to take care of her, so that I wouldn't necessarily hear everything and be able to note it effectively. There was a moment of silence, and the duty was redistributed. The rest of the meeting went smoothly, and I like to think I was a bit of a phenom, feeding my baby while balancing my laptop just outside the Boppy pillow on the very edge of my knees, while Skpying from my IPad. God bless technology, and long legs.

Still, I feel guilt about not taking the minutes. I'm sure no one else thinks anything of it, but it's just another of the million accomodations being a working mom requires. Everything is just a little bit harder: infinitely worth it, but I always feel a little inadequate. And I hate the moments when I have to pull out the mommy card. The I-would-love-to-but-I-can't-because-Nola-is-napping/eating/sleeping/crying/playing. People seem pretty nice about the mommy card right now, but I can see my future. When she is less teeny and adorable, I suspect my excuses will not be received with such forgiveness. And I know she's actually easier now than she will be in about a year.

Maybe by then I just won't care as much.

But I do right now. I miss being capable.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

The Politics of Social Spaces, or Stay at Home, Mom.

Today, my husband and I tried, again, to see a rated R movie. We got kicked out of the theater.

We were turned away once before. In fact, we were turned away the first time we wanted to see a movie with baby in tow. Nola was a little over a week old when we tried to see Cabin in the Woods. We were shocked when the ticket sellers told us babies weren't allowed in rated R movies. We saw Lock-Out instead (boo), because it was PG-13, and, apparently, that is okay for babies. Nola slept the whole time.

The first time, we were such new parents, and we were so shocked, we really didn't argue. I am, after all, a follower of rules and good girl at heart (despite my smartassy propensities). I am not a smooth criminal, as my husband reminds me repeatedly, and fail to even sneak into a double feature. So when they told me that my 6 day old baby couldn't see Cabin in the Woods, my first reaction was, well, I guess she's not 17.

And then I was reminded by my husband, and facebook friends (because I posted about this experience, of course. You don't keep this stuff to yourself) that parents can decide to take their children to R-rated movies. No. The movie theater's policy is that no children under the age of 6 (I think) are allowed into R movies. Not for their well-being, no no. No, apparently, people who choose to see R-rated movies do not expect to have children in the theater.

Okay, that's fair. But is my sleeping infant less disturbing, really, than a six-year-old? I think not. Do people in PG-13 movies want to be surrounded by people who are less than 13? I think not.

So I started out, feeling shamed for thinking I could lead my normal life, but I ended up fuming, and coming up with further and further-fetched scenarios involving babies and rated R movies. Baby gotta gun? In her pants. Boobs? Not a problem for babies. Seriously, babies are way better equipped for rated R than 6-year-olds.

Over time, my husband and I went back to the theater, and apparently didn't see anything rated R in the last 4 months (really, what has happened to us?), because Nola has been to at least 12 movies. And she has never uttered a peep or created a problem. She happily nurses and naps for the 90 minutes we are in the theater, and I doubt anyone even knows we have a baby with us.

But today, we thought we would go see Lawless. Oh no. Not on this manager's watch.

Here's the scene: Drew and I walk into the theater. I have Nola in the Beco baby carrier, and she is sleeping against my chest like a sweet angel. Drew has the diaper bag over his shoulder and the Boppy nursing pillow balanced on top of his shoulder, like some cheery pastel tribal armor. He tries to buy a ticket. The manager comes up and says "Are you planning to take the baby?" No. No, we were just going to leave her in the lobby while we see a movie. That's cool, right? OF COURSE WE'RE BRINGING THE BABY.

But no we're not. Not in her theater. It is 11:30 AM on Sunday, and there are literally three cars in the parking lot. But she's not about to let us take a BABY into a rated R movie. Because that would be ridiculous. I ask for complaint forms and for the phone number of someone over her in the company. I fume silently. We leave the theater and go to another theater (IPic at Bayshore--please do give them your business, because they are not baby-haters), and see another movie (it's all about showtimes and the baby timeline, friends).

So here's the lesson I draw from this scenario. Some places hate babies. Fine. My (former) hair salon hated babies, and uninvited Nola when I wanted to come in for a bang trim (thank god I called first. I would have lost my shit). So I polled my mommy friends and found a salon that is baby-friendly, which, thank god, is not code for dowdy and horrifying.

But the other lesson is this. I'm an older mom and I have a pretty significant sense of self, and I was shamed when this 20-year-old movie theater employee rejected my desire to participate in public and social culture. How do moms who are more nervous and less obnoxious than I handle this? My guess: they learn the implicit lesson. Stay at home. If you have a baby, sit your ass on a couch, and only attend events that feature cartoon characters.

I used to think it too: get a babysitter! But you know what? I don't want to, and it's not that easy. If my daughter was going to throw spaghetti in someone's face and barf in public (well...), I might not want to take her out. But she is not in that stage, and I know how to manage her (at least at the moment). And even if she was in a spaghetti-freak-out stage, does that mean she should never be seen in public? Does it mean such a child's parents should never leave the house, except for all child-approved (read: Elmo-related and barf-tastic) events? NO. But our social culture is a contradiction. We want kids to be free and creative. We oppose hours of sitting in precise rows behaving perfectly (or at least we should), UNLESS that child somehow appears in a public space that is not specifically child-approved. Then that kid better be seen and not heard.

So many of the parents I know probably shame themselved into staying at home because, prior to having their own babies, they looked annoyed when a baby dared cry at the mall, or a toddler wouldn't stay in his seat at a restaurant.

I'm fomenting a revolution. I don't want my kid to piss you off. But I don't want to be trapped at home for the next 7 years. And I don't like the implication that if you can't afford a baby-sitter, or you're not lucky enough to have family nearby , that you can't ever go do anything fun again.

And this time, I'm totally writing a letter to that theater's owner.

Perhaps I'll include my office boobie nursing sign. That I still have to make.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Pumping Confidential

So here I am, pumping in my office. Today, my second full day back, I mastered (i.e. did not fuck up) pumping in my car on my hour drive to school. I felt like a ninja, pumping away underneath my nursing cover while driving jauntily down the highway. I got to school, used my baby's stroller to transport my new mini fridge through the parking lot, into the building, up the elevator, and all the way down to the hallway to my office. Now I don't have to freak out my colleagues with breastmilk in the common fridge in the main office. I taught my class (which was awesome), and now here we are.

Pumping.

There are two schools of thought on pumping productively: focus on the baby to help make more milk, and stay occupied so you don't worry about how much you're making. You can intuit my strategy, I think.

So day one of pumping in the office, I didn't lock my door (I don't know why--there was this whole scenario in my head about a fire, and I've been knocked unconscious, and no one could save me if my door was locked...whatever). Of course someone knocked on the door within seconds of me starting to pump. I panicked, and yelled some largely incomprehensible version of  "I'm pumping in here! Give me 10 minutes!"

And then I pumped for 20 minutes.

Poor student, standing in the hallway waiting for me. He'd never met me before. What a lovely introduction.

So here we are today. The door is locked (don't think I'm not thinking about that fire), but I think I need to make a sign. Maybe I'll make a boobie sign. That should be sufficient warning.

Friday, September 7, 2012

First Cold: Or, What the Hell is Coming Out of my Face?

So Nola got her first cold, accompanied by her first fever. It sucks for all of us.

What happened to my beautifully sleeping baby? She is broken! She won't nap, she won't go to sleep until 2 hours past bedtime, and she insists on being cuddled all day long, while eating nonstop.

Oh wait. She's pretty much exactly like me when I'm sick. Except I understand about snot.

Nola does not understand snot.

It keeps pouring out of her adorable teeny nose, and any attempts to wipe, suck, or prevent it are met with great cries of passionate objection. Kleenexes are bullshit! Swedish snot suckers are bullshit! Nasal saline is bullshit! And fever-reducing acetamenophin is particularly grape-flavored bullshit.

Poor little lady: she will be playing happily and then burst into tears for about 5 seconds, because she remembers that she feels like crap. And then mommy (traitor!) tries to wipe away more of the free-flowing snot waterfall.

I believe I've said the word snot enough for a first blog post ever. Now I'll make an actual point. I blame daycare.

Daycare is a great thing, and I'm grateful we have it. I think the caregivers at our daycare are genuinely loving and careful. I don't think the other kids are germ factories (okay, maybe they are, but only in the cutest of ways). But I'm mad that I have to put my daughter in daycare. And I KNOW I have it better than 90% of the working moms out there.

A good friend in Canada just had her first day back to work after the birth of her child. He is two. Nola is 5 months old, and she just had her first day, thanks to the miracles of an academic's flexible schedule. She will only be in daycare two days per week until I feel better. Right now, she won't take a bottle. And you know what? She shouldn't freaking have to. I don't WANT to give her a bottle. We worked so hard to get breastfeeding to work (she didn't learn to latch until she was 4 weeks old, so I pumped 12-15 times per day, finger fed and bottle fed her, and tried to teach her to latch while she screamed in frustration). Breastfeeding did NOT come easily for us; it was a hard-fought battle, and it was worth every tear. I don't care how other families choose to feed their babies, but this is how I want to feed mine.

Except I can't, two days per week. Again, I know we have it so much better than so many mommies out there, and I do love my job and my students. But in Nola's one seven-hour day of daycare, she sort of ate (not much and not well), and she sort of napped (also not much and not well), yet she was sweet with her caregivers and so happy to see daddy when he picked her up, and mommy when she got home. The result: she nursed all evening, went well past her bedtime, and woke up 4 times to eat from 2 AM to 7 AM (when she usually sleeps through, and has, thankfully, since shewas 4 weeks old). I didn't even mind--anything to make sure my girl gets enough nutrition! But then she got the cold.

Was this because of not napping? Not eating? not sleeping enough at night? the aforementioned adorable germ factories at daycare? I don't know. But I would be lying if I said I didn't care. All I can think, as I recover from yesterday's snot festival (slightly improved today) and fussy no-napping baby (which kept me from doing the work I needed to do and freaked me out about the future of work for this semester), is that this wouldn't be happening if she didn't have to be in daycare.

Now I know kids have to develop immunities some time, and that daycare is great for them socially, and all that. But as I watch my baby girl gargle her own snot with such a sad little look on her face, I can't help but be mad. At myself. At the way we perceive work in the country. At the...oh, I don't know. But I had better stop ranting and go play with this sweet sicky baby.