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Blackbird: Joel was teaching himself to play the Beatles classic while I was pregnant. A different and more, em, fluid version of the song was on constant repeat on our CD player, the King's Singers a capella version that faithfully reproduces not only the string parts but the audible click on the original recording. Those men can sing. Just beautiful. When I got the call that I would be induced, I got in the shower and put on that song. I cried as I soaped up by belly and sang to my unknown baby, "You were only waiting for this moment to arrive."
Born at the Right Time: This great Paul Simon tune kept coming to mind in Paula's first weeks of life. I would snuggle her into the Maya Wrap, wrapping my arms around her, and sing to her, "Never been lonely, never been lied to, never had to scuffle in fear, nothing denied you. Born at the instant the church bells chimed, the whole world whispering, 'You were born at the right time.'"
In the End: The Linkin Park anthem of futility and frustration hit a particular chord with me during Paula's first summer, and again last summer. Why in the summer? Maybe because it's such a great summer song, a song that is just perfect to sing along with as you're driving down Lake Shore Drive with the windows open. Also because its refrain, "I tried so hard, and got so far, but in the end it doesn't even matter," spoke to my frustration and sense of failure after doing my best with attachment parenting, only to have a child who was not all the things they say attached kids are supposed to be. Now I realize why: the hearing loss, the sensory integration disorder. But at the time I just had to sing it out, "In the end, it doesn't even matter."
Mexico Yo te Llevo en mi Alma: When my strategy for teaching Paula Spanish was to play great music en tu idioma for her, this was a favorite. Aside from the evocation of Mexico's beautiful colonial cities, warm people and excoriatingly hot food, the concept of sprouting wings and flying away definitely appealed to me as I dance around the kitchen with Paula and winter raged outside. Yes, I wished I were a bird, too, and could fly not only to a Mexico's warmth and sunshine, but to a time in my past when I felt almost carefree. The six months I spent in Mexico as a teen were golden for me: my mother was in relatively good health and able to do lots of mother-y things she hadn't been able to for a long time, I had few responsibilities at home, my father was home a lot and we were all basking in the enthusiastic welcome we had received from the Baha'i and general communities. I had three girlfriends with whom I took day trips to the little towns around Celaya, and a little group of Baha'i friends I loved to go to Queretaro to visit. It was my adolescence.
Pres des rampart de Seville: Last fall between finding out about Paula's hearing loss and getting her hearing aids, we watched a lot of Bizet's Carmen. Loud. This song is what the title character sings as she is held at the jail by Don Jose, the poorly-developed male lead. She tells him, if I could I would go to my friend Lillas Pastia's place near the walls of Sevilla. There I would dance the seguidilla and drink chamomile. I guess chamomile was considered a more exciting beverage then. Anyway, I took to singing the song around the house, attempting to reach volumes that Paula could hear. I'm sure it was quite something to behold, and in future years Paula will probably look back on that time with relief that she couldn't hear me so well.
I am so wiped out today. Paula was up from 1:00 in the morning until after 4. I'm searching on the web for some way to get her a weighted blanket for less than it would cost if it were made from solid gold. They are supposed to help children relax, it's a sensory integration thing. I'd link all these terms if Paula weren't urgently signing "EAT" and Coco whining about needing to go out.
Okay, Paula has been fed, Coco has gone out, and here is the other part: Do I really have to take Paula to swim class today? I barely slept!
I just had to get that off my chest. Sometimes, as an adult, I get that urge to whine about things that are totally up to me.
I ran into an acquaintance with a new baby last night at the Naw Ruz party (that's the celebration of the Baha'i New Year - Happy New Year!). She said it was the first big outing with her five-week-old, and that she had hovered near where he slept in his carseat all evening, worrying he would wake up and Not Be Fine.
My high-need-baby-mama antennae began to quiver.
"How are you doing?" I asked her. "It's a wild time with a new baby." I raised my eyebrows sympathetically and waited.
"Oh, you know, it's such a steep learning curve, and then once you think you've gotten the hang of something, they move the goal posts!"
I nodded. "And how's he doing, just in general?"
Her tone was light. She said, "He's had a little bit of reflux, but we're trying some new medication for it, so hopefully that will be improving soon."
Reflux. "That's hard," I said. "It's hard to have a baby who's in pain."
"Oh, yes?" She looked a little uncomfortable, but I felt we were still on steady ground.
"Listen," I took a step closer to her and reached out to take her forearm. "Try to find a support group for moms of babies with reflux. Reflux is a really big deal. You need to have someone to talk to who understands about their baby being in pain so much of the time, vomiting, crying - "
She interrupted me, "Oh, the screaming!" Her face was a mix of eagerness and relief.
"Yes!" I rushed on, "You need people who understand about getting angry sometimes, about having to put the baby down and go in the other room. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you - you're still a good mom."
She laughed a little and looked sad. I recommended Marrit Ingman's book, Inconsolable, and told her about a mutual friend whose first child had reflux.
And then Paula was dragging me away, and we said brief goodbyes.
I felt like I had just been possessed by the spirit, like I was on a personal crusade to make sure the mothers around me know that they can talk about all the different truths of mothering: The great love that burns in your chest and makes you feel happy and high like you never imagined. The sweet and quiet times with a tender babe in your arms. And the despair, fatigue, anger and fear that come with loving someone, being totally responsible for someone, who needs things you can't fathom. You can only hear your defenseless baby crying in pain for so long before the sound eats into your heart and mind: why can't I make it stop?
I hope I didn't overstep last night.
But even if I did, maybe it will mean something down the road. Maybe it will come back to her later and it will help her feel it's okay to seek out whatever kind of help she needs as she goes through this rollercoaster ride with her baby. Maybe it will help somehow. I hope so.
It's like we're all waiting for permission to tell the gritty, beautiful, misty-eyed, raving-mad and truly heroic truth about mothering a high-need child. So I'm handing out permission slips to every new mother I meet. The truth is it's not all "worth it" all the time. Sometimes it's just really hard. But we mothers do it because we're made of tough stuff. We're made of heart and nerve and muscle, love and pain and quick wits. We do this work called mothering, and it really, really matters.
Paula got up early this morning and by seven was in the bath. I was exhausted after attempting to sleep in the family bed, then getting up with her at five.
Paula is in the bath, playing with her sea animals: shark, dolphin, whale, red fish, blue fish, octopus, sea turtle, sea weed "tree." She gets out of the bath and I take out her toys, put them back in their clear plastic canister, take them to her where she is sitting on the potty in the living room (where else?).
I go back to bed and lie down.
Outside the bedroom door I hear, thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, "Bidubai?"
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, pause, thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, "Bidubai?"
Joel gets up to investigate.
Paula is still stark naked and running back and forth between the living room and bathroom. In the living room she picks up one sea animal toy at a time, then runs with it, thump-thump-thump-thump-thump, to the bathroom and the un-drained tub.
"Bidubai?" She asks it with her eyebrows raised. "Take a bath?" Then throws the toy in.
And so on.
My girl. I love that kid.
Paula and I are alone in the house. Joel will come home from North Carolina this afternoon. It's Sunday morning, unseasonably warm, feels like springtime already.
This morning would be perfect for brunch at Wishbone, followed by shopping for new and cute clothes. And while I'm indulging in pipe dreams, those clothes would look great on my size-12 bod and pert, buoyant breasts. I'd pay for all of it with a debit card that links to a bottomless pit of money, and the three huge milkshakes I would then consume would fuel me to run a totally effortless marathon later in the week.
Those are my fantasies: leisurely meal that doesn't involve black beans flying through the air, leisurely shopping for things I don't actually need, being slim (uh, yeah, size 12 is slim, people), and superhuman powers of calorie consumption and combustion.
This morning I've entertained the possibility of taking Paula out to brunch and to do a little shopping (shopping for me, that is). That would be fun, right? We'd sit kitty-corner and sign to each other about how delicious our cornbread and red eggs are, play peek-a-boo, then I'd try on dresses and Paula would light up and swing her skirt around.
Oh, yeah, and then we'd both sprout wings and fly away to Zanzibar!
I think it would be more like this: Paula and I would sit down at our table and I would immediately move the salt and pepper, pepper sauce, silverware and glasses out of her reach. She would be hungry and I would beg the passing busboy to bring her a plate of refried beans. We would play a little peek-a-boo, a little wriggly-finger psychological tickle game, then I would wish for some adult conversation and would take my book out. Paula would struggle to get down from her high chair and I would yearn for someone nearby to stop eating and talking and being so selfish and start entertaining my child so I can read in peace.
And then, after brunch we'd hit Marshalls, where I would pick out some clothes and go in the dressing room to try them on. Either I would leave Paula strapped in the cart outside the dressing room and she would commence screaming, or I would take her into the room with me and she would crawl under the door, getting her hands all black and then crying as I tried to clean them with a wet-wipe. No clothes would be tried on. But think of the money I'd save!
Don't get me wrong, Paula and I have a lot of fun together a lot of the time. But after Joel's been gone for a couple of days, I appreciate a little grown-up fun. And some things are truly beyond my reach if it's just me and her.
So instead of going out and pretending that Paula is a girlfriend, not a girl child, we're staying in this morning. Eggs and beans for breakfast, me reading at the table, Paula watching a video from her high chair. No, it's not the language-rich interaction our audiologist and speech therapist dream that we have at every meal ("You like black beans, don't you? The beans are black! Yes, black! Good signing!" or "That's a lot of eggs on your fork! Your mouth is going to be so full! You like eggs, don't you? Eggs, yes! Good signing!").
As an aside, I think reading at the table isn't all bad. In fact, I think it shows Paula something important: who her mama is. Paula, your mom is a reader, someone who loves books, loves words, loves language. That's why we read together, that's why she sits and looks at her books alone. That's why when we're sitting at the table, just the two of us, and we've played peek-a-book and the wriggly-finger psychological tickle game, and I've asked you if you like your food, I turn to my book.
That book is as close to a satisfying shmooze with a girlfriend as I'm going to get today. Today is about being a mom, not a rich, svelte, childless woman enjoying grown-up conversation in a restaurant. But the sun is out. Starbucks is three blocks away. I think I can make it work.
Check out my baby brother Kit (okay, not an actual baby, more like a grown-up young man) in his film debut, A Meditation on the Speed Limit.
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