Mother's Day

Yesterday, I celebrated my first Mother's Day with the lil' dude . . . I am a Mama.
Last year, Mother's Day was during the 12th week of my pregnancy, we were days shy of hearing her heart beat for the first time. My mom snuck me a package, as it was still a secret to most people. The Dad gave me a card, careful to not jinx anything. It seemed surreal.


Yesterday was, in a word, perfect. We had the morning to ourselves, and we were slow and lazy about it. We had coffee and oatmeal (one for each), read a magazine, played on the floor, went outside, and cleaned out the li'l dude's closet and dressers. I really fought back tears as I packed up a third Rubbermaid tub full of too-small clothes.

I got some great gifts . . . that girl has taste! And, knows her Mama well.


Music and coffee, high on the I Heart lists.


A photo album, titled appropriately.


My favorite gift of all, though? These three things.

Wordless Wednesday: (late) Big Pimpin'

1961

47 years ago today, someone very special was born.

My own Mama.

I know I've blogged her up in the past, I probably always will. She is undoubtedly my favorite. She deserves every accolade, every award, every poem written, every song sung, every pot of coffee brewed.

When I was born, my mom was 18, a month shy of her 19th birthday. She was a freshman in college, living with some second cousins. She walked to classes each morning, studied hard, ate well, and never wore maternity clothes. She was alone. She was determined. I was born on a Friday, during the noon hour, after a long, uneventful delivery, three weeks late. She marveled at the similarity when the lil' dude was born on a Friday, during the noon hour, after a long, uneventful delivery, one-and-a-half weeks late. That weekend I was born, my grandparents drove the hour to visit my mom, peek at me, then they took me home. My mom went back to school the next week. She walked to classes each morning, studied hard, and wore the same jeans. She was alone.

She would visit me at her parents' farm on the weekends, reading and doing homework on the Greyhound bus the whole 120 miles one way. She didn't have any money, she didn't bring me fancy presents with each visit. She simply came home to see her daughter. She would put me to bed and rock me and take me for walks across the river. Or, we would sit together at Grandma's famous kitchen table, the one she still has today, and play with what looks like a camera in the photo above. She was my Mama, I knew that from the very beginning.

One June when I was three, my mom got married to my dad. They both had graduated from college that May, and had jobs lined up. They had a small wedding with one attendant each and had their reception in the church basement. Grandma made punch and cream-cheese mints. They played horseshoes all afternoon back at the farm, and there are pictures of the kids on the swings being pushed higher and higher by various women in nylons. I was their flower girl. I distinctly remember crying that day back by the washing machine; I was sad to be leaving my grandparents'. I learned how to read the paper there, how to appreciate Dan Rather, what goes into Ham Spread Funeral Sandwiches, and a whole lot about love and sacrifice and family. My grandma cried too; you see, Grandpa worked over-the-road construction during the week, so it was just her and I during the days, give and take some cousins, aunts, neighbors, or church ladies. Grandma was my first friend.

Then, we went Home.

As I got older, my mom shared everything with me, and answered all my questions. She said that weekend when I was a few days old was the hardest part of her life. Leaving her newborn baby and returning to school. She said she knew if she didn't make that decision, she wouldn't be doing what was best for us, for me. She knew it was our way to a better life. When the lil' dude was born, people naturally asked my mom about what type of a baby I was, my tendencies, patterns, quirks. She would mention how my grandma did daycare for her while she finished college, and how they both have distinct memories of me as a baby. She was never ashamed.

And that "better life" she referred to? I've had nothing but the best life, since that weekend as a newborn I went to stay at my grandparents'. At the time, they had a little house dog of some shaggy sort, named Uffda (yes, my heritage is Norwegian) who would bark at my grandma when she would hear me cry from my crib upstairs. Baby monitors, circa-1980. To this day, Grandma still refers to that tiny bedroom as mine. But I have always belonged to my mom. I grew up the same as everyone else did, in a house that was loud and smelled like wonderful food, with homemade outfits and quilts and toys, and a huge family who loved and loved and loved. And still loves.

Mama? Happy birthday, daughter loves.

Letter from Mama, v5

Happy 5 months-old, Miss Lil' Dude!

Five months. Last night I said to Daddy, "Five months?" all incredulous-like, as in, where is time going. You're growing up so quickly, peanut. Your daddy said, "Is that what it is? It feels longer than that, like she is 3." Silly Daddy!

The biggest change I've seen in you over the last month is how it appears that we now exist in your world. When I pick you up from your crib in the mornings, you grab my face with both your little hands as if to say, "Lemme get a good look at you here now, Mama. Let me see your face," then you grab my lips like you are saying, "now say those words to me, Mama, tell me those little things with your mouth that are words." You look at my face so intently, so fiercely, I can feel I exist to you. You know who I am. I've seen it happen in rooms full of people; our friends, our families. You get busted scanning the other faces looking for me, straining to hear my sounds. It makes me feel like my heart will break wide open . . . you know me, I am your Mama.

Our household noises no longer startle you; the dog's cling-clanging collar, my sneezes, or Daddy yelling at the Celtics. You've become comfortable with you surroundings, your home. Before you'd about jump out of your tiny skin, and sometimes you'd cry making us feel bad. And now, lil' dude, your noises are so loud YOU startle us, or the dog. You owe us that I guess.

Along with your emerging personality and ability to relate to us, you have the urge to grasp anything you can get your hands on. Beer bottles, bags of chilly carrots, my earring, the dog's flappy ear, a piece of chicken on Daddy's plate. I love to tell you stories of each object you make contact with, "This necklace here? This is the necklace Daddy gave me for our first Christmas together. Or, "That is a napkin. You use it to write down cute boys' numbers on in about 20 years." Two nights ago we sat in the yard and played with handfuls of grass and we talked about spring and being new to the world, like you are. I love to teach you things, tell you stories. You're such a good listener.

For being so small, you have a big impact on me. You make me want to be nice to mean people. It's strange . . . but when I think of you and your ridiculous grins and toothless smiles, I can't help but feel like I'll be happy forever. It's a shame not everyone can be your Mama, because they are missing out. You are so good.

One of my favorite things to do with you is feed you in your highchair. We usually start the day this way. It's quiet, and I only focus on you. Before it was too easy to flip through channels while balancing the bottle of formula against my chin, not paying enough attention to you. Now, it's you, me, and the spoon. Nothing else. We're usually quiet, just taking each other in. You're like Daddy in you don't like to talk when you eat.

And, sweetheart! You learned a new trick this month! You have perfected the Little Fake Cough. You use this to get Daddy's and my attention . . . it's so staged and so overly dramatic I can't help but scoop you right up. You're smart, lil' dude, you already know how to get what you want. Good for you!

Mama loves.

Air

Yesterday was amazing.

I woke up feeling nasty, like I had a piece of Wonder Bread lodged in my throat. I sounded like Kathleen Turner and my right cheek had a heartbeat all its own. But. That's not the part of the day I am referring to in amazement though . . . obvi.

Spring finally cracked wide open here yesterday, the sun was hot, the breeze mild and warm. The lawns are starting to get mowed and you can smell bonfires here and there. I heart spring!

I went to work for a few hours in the afternoon, after I had slept enough for Kathleen to retreat and I could manage swallowing most of my spit. I was anxious to pick up the lil' dude from daycare so we could get home and Go Outside!




When we did, we tied this little blue bonnet under her chin (that's vintage, baby, my baby bonnet circa 1980) and let her soft pudgy arms feel the sun without a hoodie or her jacket. FOR THE FIRST TIME! We wandered around the yard, inspecting the buds on the flowering crab apple tree, looked at Mama's lilies poking through the flower beds, and peeked at the neighbors' pool still floating with winter-dead. We made circles around the new dirt pile that soon will be a veggie garden. We leisurely laid in the front yard on a blanket, watching the Dad spray off the truck. The dog yawned, and the baby sat up, showcasing her new core-strength talent. Neighbors waved and honked as they drove by. Girls from the local college roller-bladed the sidewalks with tan legs and very short shorts.

It was the best afternoon I've had in a long, long time. I felt so relaxed, super calm. I was happy and carefree . . . I felt like a commercial for wetness protection for shit's sake!

New spring, new baby. Each day brings something new, something that wasn't there the day before. It's all new and perfect.

McLittles

I stopped by McDonald's last night to get some vids from Redbox for girls' night.
The place was pretty dead, the evening weather being so nice probably meant people were outside.

As I waited for Redbox to dispense 27 Dresses and Juno, I couldn't help but hear three wee-voices saying PINK ICE CREAM PINK ICE CREAM.

PINK ICE CREAAAAAAAAAAM!

I looked at the counter, where three mini-brunettes with glossy Posh-hairdos stood peering over the ledge. They were completely stairstepped in height, from tallest to shortest. They looked identical.

The employee asked the woman with the girls, presumably their mother, or handler, if any of them were twins.

"No," she sighed loudly, "They are all 13 months apart."

The girls delighted in their strawberry milkshakes (pink ice cream) and ran to get first dibs on the booth by the window.

Their mom told the McWorker all she wanted was a large order of fries, and opened her wallet.

Fries? Lady, you shoulda asked for a Gin and Tonic, extra lime, Supersized.

On Being a Mom

You turn 18.
"Where are you going to college?"
You turn 22.
"What are you going to do for a living?"
You turn 25.
"When are you getting married?"
14 seconds later,
"When are you having babies?"

And then once your lil' dude pops into the world, it's all, "When are you having the next one?"
And I'm all, "When I can sneeze without my v-j-j hurting, or when she can read, whichever comes first."

But, one of my all-time fave questions since having a baby is, "Has becoming a mom changed you?"
Oh, has it, internet friends!
At my 7-week postpartum check-up, my OB/GYN congratulated me on losing the 25lbs that comprised the lil' dude and her house and all her fetal stuff. She even mentioned the additional 7lbs I lost on top of that.
"But . . . why don't my jeans fit me then? Like, at all?" I asked, pulling up my V.S. sweats.
"Little Dude's Mama, you are now a Woman. Having a baby has made you a Woman," said the doc.
I wondered to myself what Mrs. Skogen, my 7th grade health teacher, was talking about then, about becoming a woman during puberty?

Being a mom has changed me in that I now own a soft, squishy mom-roll. That. Won't. Budge. When I go to the gym, I feel obliged to read "Parents" on the Elliptical so people Know why my body looks the way it does. I wish the chick on the stair-climber yesterday morning at 5:15am (AM, as in, Morning, as in, not PM) with ASS SWEAT already would read a magazine called "Starving" so I would know why her body looks the way it does. It'd be helpful and make it easier to make snap judgments, no?

Being a mom has changed me in that I now head straight for the baby section in each and every store I go to. But, just because things are littlier does not mean they are any less expensive.

Being a mom has changed me in that I now think of more creative ways to swear.

Being a mom has changed me in that I now found myself liking a new John Mayer song. Seriously? Then, days later, I caught myself like the new Coldplay song.

Being a mom has changed me in that I now have all sorts of annoying voices. And words, especially anything that starts with "missy" or ends with "pants". Example: "I wuv you, you wittle missy cutie-pants!" Barf. I know.

Being a mom has changed me in that I sleep more. That's right, more. Being prego + sleeping = not happenin'. Since 5 days post-birth, the lil' dude has slept 9, 10, 11, even 12 hours at night. No, I will not tell you what we feed her.

Being a mom has changed me in that I love my husband more than ever. God, the things he does for me, the house, the babe. He should have more sex.

Being a mom has changed me in that I have become (even more) sentimental. I heart all the hand-me-down toys and books which adorn her nursery. I love the bonnets and dresses and quilts that were mine as a babe and are now hers. I love bringing the lil' dude to spend time with her g-grandparents.

Being a mom has changed me in that I think the TV is too loud. I automatically turn down the V anytime I enter a room, whether or not the lil' dude is present. But, you'll be happy to know I still love to drive with the radio on the obscene volume level- not when I am chauffeuring the kid around though.

So far, I am proud of the changes I have undergone, and feel honored to be Mama to such a kick-ass person. I am also proud I haven't taken motherhood to The Next Level. My license plate does not read "Lil' Dude's Mom" nor do I discuss poop colors with strangers at Walgreen's. I haven't hunkered down in the house and refused to leave the babe with anyone except me. I haven't started wearing clogs nor have I abandoned my reality shows on MTV. That's all crazy-talk!