“I’ll have what she’s having”

The Peanut says, “You know, I know you’re supposed to pair white with shrimp, but I just always enjoy a nice petit syrah. Anyone else feel like a nice glass of syrah?”

Adventures in Daycare

Last Wednesday I Returned to Work Full Time.  Which means it was also the start of Full Time Daycare for the Peanut.

On day one of Daycare, the Peanut first clung to my leg, but then quickly got distracted by a new toy.  I was the one with separation anxiety. I walked around all day feeling like . . . it sounds cliché, but like I had a hole in my chest.  I felt gutted and empty.  Depressed.  But I actually managed to not cry.  I thought this was a success. 

And then I went to pick the Peanut up at the end of the day.  She had refused to nap. She was red-eyed and clearly exhausted, the picture of pitiful. Her day had clearly been just as rough as my own.  But still, I held it together.  I gathered her up in my arms and she rubbed her face on my shoulder.  I put my nose to her neck and sniffed, smelling her babyness.  It must be one of those primal things, left over from when we were animals. A mother identifies her baby by smell.  Because I notice instantly.

She smells different.  I never truly noticed her smell until this moment.  I must have just smelled something of myself in her before, which made it sweet but unremarkable to me. What I smell now is her daycare provider.  Her daycare provider’s lotion. Her daycare’s hand soap. And here’s where the day catches up with me. Here’s where I finally come undone.

I sob on the drive home, cursing bank accounts, student loan creditors, and all the other practicalities that demand I return to work.  I regret every time I told someone, “You know, I’m kind of looking forward to getting back to work.” This is wrong. This was a mistake.  How did I ever get used to this with Ms. B.?

On day two of Daycare, our morning goes smoothly and the Peanut again easily becomes engrossed in play with a new toy.  Separation is harder for me than it is for her. At work I’m actually so busy I simply don’t have the time to devote to wallowing in my separation anxiety. When I go to pick her up, she’s again refused to nap all day, is again clearly exhausted. But she’s also in reasonably good spirits (even with no naps). I can almost think, “It’s an adjustment period, but we’ll get there.”

On day three of Daycare the Peanut comes home with a runny nose.  Fantastic.

Over the weekend the Peanut demonstrates what else she has brought home from Daycare this week:  a high-pitched blood curdling scream. On Friday night, when the Peanut gives her first performance of The Scream, D and I just look at each other with wide eyes.  “That’s new,” we both say.  By Sunday evening, after The Scream has had numerous repeat showings, D says, “I’m going to teach her how to bite the kid who taught her how to do that.”

On day four of Daycare, after a weekend of lots of snuggles (and naps!), the Peanut is tightly hugging my shoulder as we walk into Daycare.  She starts to whimper as I set down her bag, her little fingers tightening into a death grip.  It becomes a full-fledged cry as I try to lower her to the floor. She tries to scale my face in an effort to get to the top of my head. Maybe her rationale is that the top of my head is the furthest from the floor?  Maybe it’s that once she’s up there I just might forget about her and won’t leave her in This Place. Instead I’ll just take her to work with me, completely unaware of her presence, thinking I’ve just chosen a particularly heavy hat today. 

Her strategy doesn’t work, of course. I peel her off my face and leave her writhing in her daycare provider’s arms, crying “Mama, Mama, Mama,” over and over and over.  It’s the Peanut’s first real bout of separation anxiety. The Daycare calls me later in the morning to tell me she just cried for a minute or two and then was fine. I can hear the Peanut babbling happily in the background.  “See,” they say,” Can you hear that?”  Fine? I remain unconvinced.

On day five of Daycare, the Peanut repeats her separation anxiety demonstration when I go to drop her off.  This time her strategy is to press herself as close to my body as possible. I have to unfold her fingers one by one from the collar of my shirt so that I can leave.  “This is just a phase,” I try to reassure myself.  “This won’t be your every morning.”

Try Not to Panic

Today is Ms. B’s last day of school.  Which, in our house, means she will come home, pack her bags, and have a goodbye dinner.  Tomorrow morning she leaves for her dad’s, we’ll see her for two weeks in July, and then won’t see her again until just before school starts in the fall.

When Ms. B. was a baby, I decided that the volatility of my relationship with her father would do more harm than any benefit a traditional nuclear family could possibly provide. So I left. And the trade-off is that I don’t get to physically be there all the time. Ms. B. is with us during the school year, so I get to be there for soccer games and violin concerts, school plays, skating parties and sleepovers with friends, homework and parent teacher conferences. But she spends summers with her dad. So I’m not there for trips to the pool and camp outs and all of that vast swath of unstructured fun time that defines summer.  That’s the trade-off.  And I accept it. It doesn’t make sending her off for the summer any easier.

As I was going through some pictures yesterday, I came across this one, taken the day she moved back home last August:

What struck me in this picture was not how much the Peanut has changed; that’s to be expected with a baby.  No, what was surprising is how much Ms. B. has changed from that day last August. Over the last ten months, Ms. B. dropped a clothing size while simultaneously growing three inches, stretching like taffy as the school year wore on.  Her hair grew, her face changed, she just looks older.  But those aren’t really the changes I was thinking of.

As we were finalizing plans for how and when Ms. B. would get to her dad’s, he asked, “So. . . is there any . . . Girl Stuff I should know about?”  Oh ho, my friend, is there Girl Stuff. 

You will be both her best friend and the worst possible person to exist. On the planet. Ever. This is new. The likelihood that you will be both of these things in the course of a single evening is increasingly high.  

Last year we would get on her case because she was trying to wear the same pair of sweat pants two days in a row, or because “Honey, didn’t you sleep in that shirt?” Now, you will have to tell her that her shorts are too short or her swimsuit is too small or (gasp!) her bra strap is showing. (This last one is mortifying to her. Try to handle it delicately).

I know she was always social, but her friends have become so much more important to her over the last ten months.  They say they’re ‘like sisters.’ They share jewelry, books and magazines. While chatting online they will simultaneously text each other.  I know. This is inexplicable. Should you glance at her phone to discover that, good God, she sent forty texts in the last hour, you will also realize that not a single one of these forty texts appear to be written in English or any other known language.  You will vow to work on that spelling homework a little bit harder next time.  But those girls, her friends, are so important to her. And they’re all such good girls. Seeing her leave them for the summer makes me as sad as any of my own selfish reasons for wishing she could stay.

It’s quite possible that you will have more than one conversation with her that goes something like this:

Me: So, it’s just the two of us for dinner.  Let’s go to the grocery store and pick out something to eat.

Ms. B.:  (silence)

Me: We could just make some salads or get stuff to make tacos, or whatever you want.

Ms. B.: (silence)

Me: Or I could just leave you here and you could share a bowl of dog food with Marvin.

Ms. B.: (silence)

Me: Oy! I’m trying to feed you! Are you listening to me at all?!?!

Ms. B.: Huh?! What!?

Recently D offered to stay at home with the Peanut so Ms. B. and I could have a ‘date night.’   I took her out to dinner at a place on the Plaza where we could eat dessert first.  We laughed. She shared some of the school gossip.  Things were going well. And then the conversation hit one of those natural lulls.  And I felt myself start to panic.  “Quick!” I thought. “Say something important, some lesson you want to make sure she really hears. You don’t have many opportunities like this, and look!  There’s a captive audience, locked in the chair across from you!”  I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say that I thought was important for her to hear, and my panic only increased.  The silence between us stretched and I worried I might start to hyperventilate.

“Ooh, I like her dress,” Ms. B. said, pointing to one of the many girls in their prom dress wandering around the Plaza that night.  I latched on to the topic, thankful  and yet vowing to try and think of something, anything, of value to say to her before the night was over. We spent the rest of the evening walking around, admiring prom dresses, window shopping, talking about who liked who at the school and I never did say anything that I thought had any lasting value beyond that evening.

As we walked back to the car, Ms. B. linked her arm in mine.  “Thanks, Mom,” she said.  I smiled and leaned my head on hers.

Try not to panic.  I think it’s just the being there that’s important.

Maybe a Little Harsh

When Ms. B. was really little, people who didn’t know me and saw us in public frequently assumed I was her babysitter.  Then around the time she hit elementary school it all kind of quieted down for a while.  But this year, as Ms. B. entered tween-hood (is that even a word? D. has problems with even the word ‘tween’), crossed the 5′ threshold, and started looking more like a young woman than a child, I’ve started to encounter the occasional assumption that we are sisters.  On a plane trip to Houston last week a gate clerk was particularly persistent about it:

Clerk: “Where are you two girls . . . wait, you are sisters, right?”

Me: “Ha ha, no. This is my daughter.”

Clerk: “What? No. You two are sisters.”

Ms. B. (horrified): “No! This is my mom.”

Clerk: “You’re foolin’ me. You two are sisters.”

Me: “Okay, moving on.”

Clerk: “Hope you sisters have a nice flight!”

As we walked away, Ms. B. turned to me,

Ms. B.: “That guy was an idiot.”

Me: “I think he was just trying to be nice.”

Ms. B.: “Jeez. I mean, there’s, like, ten years between us.”

Me: “Just ten?”

I’ve been chuckling about it all week. I’m not sure what it is. The way she hissed “idiot?” The assumption that ten years is a sufficient age difference between a mother and daughter? Her absolute horror at the thought that anyone would think I was her sister?

Veggie Monday: Broiled Veggie Wraps

I first made these last week, and my non-vegetarian hubby asked for them again this week, so that’s always a good sign.  They’re also super-fast and super-easy, which is always appreciated on a week night. So put down the take out menu and try these instead:

Ingredients: 16 thin asparagus spears; 1 bell pepper, sliced (red is nice for color, but green is nice for cost); 1 small yellow squash, sliced into 1/4″ rounds; olive oil; salt & pepper to taste; garlic roasted hummus; thin slices of red onion; baby spinach; 4 sun-dried tomato tortillas

Step 1: Pre-heat the broiler. Toss the asparagus, bell pepper and squash in a dash of olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste, and spread out on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil (it makes for easier clean up). Broil for 4-6 minutes, flip the veggies, and broil for 4-6 minutes more.

Step 2: Spread the hummus on a tortilla.  Top with some of the broiled veggies, a handful of baby spinach, and some slices of red onion.  Roll up. Consume.

This should give you the basic idea, but I think it would be fun to play around with the veggies you use. And although this made four wraps (served 3), you could easily increase or decrease the amount of veggies you broil to serve 2 or 8.

On Two Babies, a Decade Apart

The lovely Michelle Horton, over at EarlyMama, has posted an interview of me today.  EarlyMama is about creating a community for young women who have become mothers before their peers.  When I discovered the site, I sent Michelle an email saying that although I’m now 30, I had Ms. B. when I was 19 and I would have loved having a forum like EarlyMama. Something that was targeted towards young mothers without all the negative stereotyping and baggage.  Michelle suggested doing an interview, and I eagerly said “Yes! I’d love to help out!” And then I sat down to answer her questions.

Some women talk about child birth as a magical experience. Some say how becoming a mother made them a better person. It’s beautiful. And it’s touching. And it’s just not what my experience was when I had Ms. B.  When the nurses in the hospital first left me alone with Ms. B., I broke down sobbing. Not because I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the moment, by how much I loved my baby, by how I instantly felt she made me something more, but because I was scared shitless.  I didn’t have any younger siblings. The kids I babysat in high school were all in elementary school.  I had zero idea how to take care of a baby.  Holding Ms. B. in my arms, alone for the first time ever, I think I realized the enormity of what lay ahead of me.

Answering Michelle’s questions forced me to look at a time in my life that was undeniably difficult.  I was scared. I was confused. I felt alone a lot of the time. Michelle asked for a picture to go with the interview – I looked through a box of early photos of me with Ms. B. from that time. There wasn’t a single one where I wasn’t so exhausted I looked like I had been hit by a Mac truck. And thinking about my pregnancy and early years with Ms. B. inevitably lead to me comparing them with my pregnancy and these early months with the Peanut.

Even this early on, personality differences between Ms. B. and the Peanut are starting to show. The Peanut would happily stay snuggled up on your lap with a blanket all day. Ms. B. was not a snuggler. From the beginning she wanted to be facing out, down on the floor, exploring her world, always pushing for a little more independence than you felt comfortable giving her.  On her first day of Kindergarten, Ms. B. asked me to leave her at the corner, a block away from the school. (“I’m good, Mom. I’ll take it from here.”)  Ms. B. would eat absolutely anything you put in front of her and treat it like her favorite food.  For the Peanut, every new taste and texture is something to agonize over and be endured.  The list of ways in which my two girls are different could go on and on.

Most these personality differences can probably be attributed to the simple fact that Ms. B. and the Peanut are two different people.  But how many of these differences are a result of the fact that, even though I gave birth to both girls, they are each the products of their time and are being raised by different mothers?  In the last eleven years I’ve grown up. I’ve mellowed.  I’m not as stressed out and unsure any more. I’m no longer trying to keep all of my plates spinning at full speed like I was when Ms. B. was little: Now, I focus on my “Mom” plate and just give the other plates a little shake every now and then to make sure they’re still wobbling along up there.

My pregnancy with the Peanut was a joyous, celebrated event. My pregnancy with Ms. B. was scary and stressful.  What if all of my fear and stress, despite all my best intentions, had a negative effect on Ms. B.? Ms. B. was, God bless her,  a little moody and colicky as a baby. Today, everyone comments on how the Peanut is the smiliest baby they’ve ever seen.  What if Ms. B. was unhappy as a baby because I wasn’t the mother for her that I am for the Peanut?

Or I play the reverse game. Maybe I was doing something right eleven years ago.  What if Ms. B. is so easy going and willing to try new things because I had so many friends and family members in and out helping me watch her? If it’s because I didn’t have the time or energy to indulge separation anxiety every time I went to class, or hunger strikes if she didn’t like what I served for dinner? What if I’m making the Peanut shy and neurotic by not exposing her to such a wide variety of people and experiences early on? Did I do anything to give Ms. B. her wicked fast sense of humor? It would be nice to repeat that one with the Peanut.

The whole thing is more than a little stupid.  It’s no different from comparing yourself to another mother in your play group and thinking “If she’s doing something right, then I must be doing something wrong.” And we all know it’s a little stupid and we all do it any way. I’m just not sure there are many other mothers out there comparing themselves to themselves and worrying that they’re somehow not measuring up.   For all of the girls’ differences, here is what I know is the same: Both girls are beautiful and smart. Both are growing up with a mother who loves them unconditionally, who’s doing the best she can with what she has available.  Isn’t this what most of us are doing? So cut it out with the comparison shopping, even when the other mother is your self.

Either Or

I can’t decide how I feel about this new headband for the Peanut.

I think part of my problem is because it’s white. Does this make you think: “Hey, look at that cute baby with the headband?”

Or is it more: “Hey, look at that poor baby with the bandaged head wound?”

I just don’t know…

Classic

Ms. B: Mom, how tall are you?

Me: 5’6″

Ms. B.: I’m only one inch shorter than you now.

Me: What?!

Ms. B.: Yeah, we measured at school. I’m 162 inches tall now.

Me: No, you’re not.

Ms. B.: Yes I am! My friend measured me!

Me: Are you sure it’s not sixty two inches?

Ms. B: No! It’s 162!

Me: You can’t be 162 inches tall. Do you know how tall that is?!

D (the voice of reason): Here, let’s measure. (Gets out measuring tape) See, sixty-two.

Ms. B. (downtrodden): Oh. Well. Still. I’m only one inch shorter than Mom.

D: Sorry, still no.  Mom’s sixty-six inches.

Ms. B.: Oh. Well, I guess what I mean is I wish I was only one inch shorter than Mom.

Gone Fishin’

Well, not literally. But something like that.  “I miss your blog,” my mom said over Easter. Crap. I hate disappointing my mom.  Now I feel like I’ve let down my only reader.  It’s just, I’ve been a little distracted by Will and Kate….

I kid. Actually, I’ve been distracted by violin concerts and soccer games, putting in a spring vegetable garden and making baby food, teething and swimsuit shopping with an adult-sized preteen daughter who is not buying my argument that turtleneck tank suits with skirts have a certain retro appeal.

I’ve also upped my part-time, work-from-home schedule with the idea that next month, when I Return to Work Full Time, my case load will be at full speed.  Mid-winter I would have told you I was SO READY to get back to a normal work routine.   I guess that’s still true.  It will be nice to have a dedicated office space and office hours, where I can earn the money needed to pay the bills without worrying about what the Peanut is putting in her mouth or pulling off the coffee table or, when that fails, how much I can get done in those increasingly short nap times (“What do you mean you don’t need a morning nap anymore?!”).  But then, spring arrived. And we started going on long walks to the park. And I had to go through the agonizing process of finding day care,  which made it all too real. And I had to take an overnight trip away from my family, which made me realize how much I would miss in a day. And now I’m thinking, WAIT! STOP!

Unfortnately, stopping time isn’t an option.  So with those last few weeks of spring that I have left, we’ve been doing a little of this:

And a whole lot of this:

Linky Linky

This week’s favorite things:

Chipotle Bean Burritos:  I went vegetarian at home this past fall (I’ll still eat meat occasionally when I go out to eat. I think this makes me “flexitarian”) and have been struggling to find easy weeknight meals that were inexpensive, used only one pot, didn’t use excessive amounts of bread, eggs or cheese, and still felt like a meal to my other non-vegetarian family members.  These fit the bill.  Also, I am completely addicted to this salsa.

Salman Rushdie’s Luka and the Fire of Life:  I’m not quite sure what to make of this. There’s something sort of childish and silly about it, and also something undeniably endearing.  Knowing that Rushdie wrote the book for his youngest son helps.  I imagine him writing it, wanting to write a story his son would enjoy while also passing along those more difficult life lessons: The fluidity of time – while still in the present your spirit can be stuck in the past or daydreaming only of the future; the importance of finding your own way through life; that sometimes its our children who save us.  Favorite line: “They turned into his closest allies and most loyal protectors, so fierce in his defense that nobody would ever have dreamed of bullying him when they were nearby, not even his appalling classmate Ratshit, whose behavior was usually out of control.”

Moth and Sparrow’s animal hats: Does the Peanut need me to make these? Technically speaking. . .  no. . .  But, actually . . . YES! The only remaining question: Is the Peanut more a fox, an owl, or a raccoon? 

Hans Keilson’s Comedy in a Minor Key: The inside jacket cover described this as a dark comedy.  I think I have a fairly dark sense of humor, but I didn’t get it here. Nevertheless, I loved this elegant little novella. The story of a Dutch couple in World War II who hide a Jewish stranger in their spare bedroom, not out of any political activism, but more out of a sense of  neighborly decency.  When their houseguest dies of pneumonia one year into his stay, the Dutch couple struggles with the aftermath of their decision. I think this was particularly interesting in that, unlike most of the other WWII novels I’m familiar with, Comedy focuses on the struggles of those doing the hiding, not the hidden.  Favorite line: “He had defended himself against death from without, and then it had carried him off from within. It was like a comedy where you expect the hero to emerge onstage, bringing resolution, from the right. And out he comes from the left.”

ABC’s the Bachelor: Don’t hate me. I already sort of hate myself for this. I’ve only watched one other season of The Bachelor. It was during a semester of law school when I was literally in class for 12 hours straight on Mondays and would get home at 8:00, just in time to flop down on the couch and mindlessly turn on the TV.  We also didn’t have cable at the time, so the most mind-numbing worthless television starting right at 8:00 was The Bachelor. It was the season with Brad, the guy who chose no one and is now back for another go at one of the most absurd dating gameshows in history. I was morbidly curious. I watched the season premiere. It was gloriously awful: the early signs of desperation, the shameless struggle to be noticed, do I even need to mention the girl who wears vampire teeth (they appear to be some sort of dental implant)? Oh God, we shall never speak of this again.