Ramble on, my friend
It's Thursday night. For a while I was getting out with a friend on Thursdays, but life happened and here I am, sitting in the dark, sipping marshmallow vodka and cherry coke through a straw while Adam plays Awesomenauts for the millionth time. (I am prone to exaggeration.)
I would like something significant to fill in this space, but I was sort of holding on to it for Nora's one year post.
Did you know that Nora will be a year old on Sunday? I know. It's all I can think about these days. Sure, part of it comes from the anxiety of planning this totally ridiculous party that my husband has hijacked but, other times, the reminder comes in the moments when she's standing on my lap and we're staring out the second-floor window at the world and I'm trying to teach her about trees and birds and sunshine without really knowing how.
There is something so awkward about being a parent. Here I am, totally responsible for teaching my kid absolutely everything about the world, and no memory of how I learned it in the first place. I feel like a complete tool repeating colors and words in an overly-cheerful tone, hoping to engage my daughter in learning a color or animal. Meanwhile, she's staring at me with this blank expression and I can't tell if she's bored, or simply not understanding what I"m trying to say.
That isn't to say I don't see Nora's intelligence. I do. She's amazingly sharp, but creating a bit of time where I"m actively teaching her feels forced and embarrassing. It is those moments when I feel most like my mother.
I mentioned this party on Sunday. I had all of these grand ideas, but Adam has shot everything down. This is where our different upbringings comes in to play and we begin to butt heads. I was raised away from family, so my parents made a point of exciting parties so that we wouldn't be four people around a cake singing "Happy Birthday" off-key. Adam had two other brothers and various family and they always kept birthday celebrations small. We're trying to meet in the middle, at least for this year, but it means that a lot of the planning is still up in the air. I hate for there to be any uncertainty.
I bet you can see how this is going.
I'm doing my best to let things go, but it's difficult. I'm recognizing, as I get older, while I might compromise at the drop of a hat, I don't really put my faith in someone's plans. It can make for a very tension-filled life. I imagine that a lot of people who care about me don't feel entirely supported because they can tell I'm holding a piece of myself back, even though I've agreed to do something their way. Now, if only I could find the balance between knowledge, acceptance, and healing.
This is the last week I'll be fully engaged in breastfeeding Nora. I'm going to be introducing milk and slowly working her away from nursing sessions. Part of me is relieved; I'd like to have my breasts back. When I'm snuggling my still-sleepy child and she's rubbing my arm, I want to do it forever. In the blink of an eye, though, her soft gestures become annoying tugs and Nora's gone from sweet baby to vicious attacker.
I have large moles on various parts of my body and Nora has a vendetta against three of them; my right arm, my left arm and my upper chest. No matter what side she's nursing from she is compelled to pick, pick, pick until I bleed. So. Annoying. I'm not going to miss that at all. I keep band-aids on them for protection.
Holy crap, I have no idea where I'm going with this.
Adam has gone to bed. The fish tank is gurgling in the dark. Hermione is curled at the foot of my chaise and the cat is downstairs in his room to sleep, or chase shadows, whatever cats do in the dark. I've had just enough to drink that I wish that I could stay up longer. It's a good time to wrap this up and find my sleepy self before I get out of hand.
I would like something significant to fill in this space, but I was sort of holding on to it for Nora's one year post.
Did you know that Nora will be a year old on Sunday? I know. It's all I can think about these days. Sure, part of it comes from the anxiety of planning this totally ridiculous party that my husband has hijacked but, other times, the reminder comes in the moments when she's standing on my lap and we're staring out the second-floor window at the world and I'm trying to teach her about trees and birds and sunshine without really knowing how.
There is something so awkward about being a parent. Here I am, totally responsible for teaching my kid absolutely everything about the world, and no memory of how I learned it in the first place. I feel like a complete tool repeating colors and words in an overly-cheerful tone, hoping to engage my daughter in learning a color or animal. Meanwhile, she's staring at me with this blank expression and I can't tell if she's bored, or simply not understanding what I"m trying to say.
That isn't to say I don't see Nora's intelligence. I do. She's amazingly sharp, but creating a bit of time where I"m actively teaching her feels forced and embarrassing. It is those moments when I feel most like my mother.
I mentioned this party on Sunday. I had all of these grand ideas, but Adam has shot everything down. This is where our different upbringings comes in to play and we begin to butt heads. I was raised away from family, so my parents made a point of exciting parties so that we wouldn't be four people around a cake singing "Happy Birthday" off-key. Adam had two other brothers and various family and they always kept birthday celebrations small. We're trying to meet in the middle, at least for this year, but it means that a lot of the planning is still up in the air. I hate for there to be any uncertainty.
I bet you can see how this is going.
I'm doing my best to let things go, but it's difficult. I'm recognizing, as I get older, while I might compromise at the drop of a hat, I don't really put my faith in someone's plans. It can make for a very tension-filled life. I imagine that a lot of people who care about me don't feel entirely supported because they can tell I'm holding a piece of myself back, even though I've agreed to do something their way. Now, if only I could find the balance between knowledge, acceptance, and healing.
This is the last week I'll be fully engaged in breastfeeding Nora. I'm going to be introducing milk and slowly working her away from nursing sessions. Part of me is relieved; I'd like to have my breasts back. When I'm snuggling my still-sleepy child and she's rubbing my arm, I want to do it forever. In the blink of an eye, though, her soft gestures become annoying tugs and Nora's gone from sweet baby to vicious attacker.
I have large moles on various parts of my body and Nora has a vendetta against three of them; my right arm, my left arm and my upper chest. No matter what side she's nursing from she is compelled to pick, pick, pick until I bleed. So. Annoying. I'm not going to miss that at all. I keep band-aids on them for protection.
Holy crap, I have no idea where I'm going with this.
Adam has gone to bed. The fish tank is gurgling in the dark. Hermione is curled at the foot of my chaise and the cat is downstairs in his room to sleep, or chase shadows, whatever cats do in the dark. I've had just enough to drink that I wish that I could stay up longer. It's a good time to wrap this up and find my sleepy self before I get out of hand.
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