Captions

If I was to caption this photo, it would say "Oh Mama, 'Wheels on the Bus' is my FAVORITE song!"

The Baba's caption is much more eloquent:  
Tu ab se pehle sitaron mein bas rahi thi kahin
Tujhe zameen pe bulaya gaya hai mere liye*


Translated from Hindi, it says, "You were sitting in a star somewhere, but you were called down to earth just for me." 


*It's a lyric from a film song; the Baba is eloquent, but he's not a poet. He's also not a native Hindi speaker. He is a native Bengali speaker, and Mira is being raised bilingually, but that's a whole other subject. 


Also, yes, this is unsafe! I know!

Martyr Mamas

It seems as though much of the parenting corner of the internet is consumed by the recent Time magazine cover. More than that, it is and has been consumed with both engaging in judgment and condemning said judgment. Personally, I find that judgment is everywhere, but it's mostly within ourselves.

My husband and I share my bed with our baby. Bed sharing is one of the main tenets of attachment parenting, but that's not why we do it. We do it because that's how we all get a good night's sleep. I'm comfortable in my choice; comfortable enough that when a professor of mine recently told me that I ought to do CIO because "Ferberizing is right for everyone," I just shrugged it off. It's not right for my family. Despite that, when I read about how well other people's babies are doing sleeping independently, I feel like a schmuck. I feel uncertain, and envious, and ultimately, defensive. I find myself telling people that cosleeping is great or that "babies are such individuals" out of defensiveness rather than a positive motivation.

I really am content with my decision--at least, I'm content enough to not make any changes. Importantly, I don't feel like I'm am giving anything up doing it, largely because my husband is as happy as I am sharing the bed with the baby. If it felt like a sacrifice, I'd question my judgment. 

"Selfish" seems to be a word of the day. Are we selfish to not breastfeed? Are we selfish to do extended breastfeeding? Is it selfish to work? Is it selfish to look forward to nap time? Personally, I think a little selfishness is good for everyone. I've known since I was a little girl that the last thing I wanted to be was a martyr. There are quite a few martyrs in my family, and their misery ends up hurting the people they martyred themselves for. "I gave up ____ for you!" isn't exactly an endearing phrase. And yet, just being a mother requires sacrifice. We sacrifice our uninterrupted dinners and leisurely chats over coffee with friends. We rush through showers and clean up messes. We worry and watch and care.

So, where does that leave me and all the other mamas out there? I don't know. I know I want my daughter to be proud to have me as a mother, but I know that there are many reasons to be proud of one's mother. Right now, it's all just a patchwork of doing the best I can.

Mother-in-Laws

Mother-in-laws (and mothers) can be both awesome and very trying. The Baba and I are lucky, of course, to have Didama staying with us to care for Mira while we work and study. She'll be here until Mira is a year old, at which point Mira will go to daycare. When I have a break, though, Didama leaves for greener pastures, which is where she is now with her six other grandchildren.

My mother took advantage of Didama being away to stay with us for a few days and attend my graduation. My mother is young. As in had me when she was twenty years old young. And she has more energy and works harder than any person I've ever known. And she freaks the Baba out because she zealously wants to "improve" our home. It was a long weekend. BUT my mom scrubbed my kitchen and helped me move and install new bookshelves, so I'm pleased as punch. And exhausted.

The Baba and I agree that we function better as a couple when there are no mothers-in-law around. We feel bad about this because our mothers are helpful people, especially Didama, and we're grateful to have them around. As is almost unavoidable, though, it's tough to live with one's mother/MIL day in and day out. We have our own way of doing things that we developed over years as a couple alone in our own home. I know someone who enjoys living with his MIL, but he's lived with her for as long as he's lived with his wife, which must make a difference.

We made a big mistake when Mira was born in inviting both our mothers to be here. Afterwards I read lots of advice to be just the two parents with the new baby for the first week, and that advice would have saved us a lot of trouble (and perhaps would have preserved the now almost impossibly strained relationship between the Baba and my mother).

Anyway, now it's just us until June 2nd. Delightful.

More Milestones

I officially graduated today. I have a J.D. No more school for this one! Well, except for the studying for the bar that will take place all summer. The ceremony for the law school is on Friday though, so my mom is coming in tomorrow morning to be here for it.

Mira's six month well visit was also today. She's a peanut, but we already knew that. Twenty-fifth percentile for height, but fifth for weight. I found myself hoping she wouldn't poop before she was weighed to have those extra couple of ounces! I'm always so conscious of her tinyness, but the doctor is never worried, so I should probably just get over it. She's healthy and strong.

Wild Child

Mira stood up today. Like idiots, we're still using her co-sleeper for naps and for a general place to stash her. Today, we looked over and said, "Oh my god!" We rushed over to pluck her from danger and only then registered that she actually pulled herself to standing. She did it again later, this time with a ready audience.

Yes, I'm pleased to have a strong baby. Maybe. Her locomotion is stressing me out. I have to send back the second gate I bought for the stairs because it doesn't work. The first one didn't work either. Incompetence. I own it.

Emotion

When I'm outside of the house, alone, these days, I feel a melancholy settle over me like the Dhaka smog. It's the same feeling I've battled, on and off, for more than a decade now--one that had a lot more power when I did not recognize it. Now, when it comes, as it does every couple of years, I'm not as afraid as I once was. I recognize my feelings of inadequacy and apathy for what they are--transient migrants through my brain, not the essence of me. I know I can use medication to oust them should I need to.

What is remarkable these days is how differently I feel when I am alone and when I am with Mira. Alone, over the past few weeks, I have felt as though I'm sinking slowly. When I arrive home, that feeling vanishes. I see Mira's face, so delighted to see me, and I light up from within. The deep joy is in stark contrast to the hopelessness I'd felt outside the door. At home, I am Mira's Mama. I have a husband who adores me, a loving extended family, a home in a city I'd always dreamed of living in, and a blossoming career that can take me as many directions as I choose to go. I have a baby who giggles with delight when I grin at her, and who sleeps in miniature adult poses between the Baba and me at night.

I worry sometimes that Mira is too much like me. I don't worry about depression, though it runs deeply through both sides of her family, slashing scars through the family. She's not likely to escape it, but it need not swallow her, as it hasn't swallowed her parents. What I worry about is that she will care too much. She is already a fiercely determined little baby, what I see sometimes as portending too much work and worry. She is also both deeply attached and insecure. The other day, as I began to lay her down when she was sleeping in my arms, she began to tremble. Her eyes flew open and she looked at me with panic for a few moments before the trembling became tears. I picked her back up and soothed my darling baby, worrying about the intensity of her need for me. The Baba doesn't worry, recognizing her desire to be held and affirmed as something he finds endearing in me. It's not the need that worries me because I know that can coexist with independence; it's the intensity. She seems bound to live on the outer edges of emotion with a drive that will resist feelings of settled contentment. But as she sleeps in my arms, I find myself feeling overwhelmingly glad and hopeful. Of all the worries to have, this, that she will be like me, is most benign.

In Our Home Right Now

This picture sums up pretty much everything going on in our home right now. The plate of food (held by my sister-in-law, who was cut out for her privacy) that's totally inappropriate for a baby but that the baby is dying to eat. The exersaucer to keep the baby away from the wild tangle of wires and the totally not baby-friendly stereo equipment and random crap. The stacks of law books and papers.

Fortunately, the baby was totally happy with the carrots and spinach she was given to nibble on instead of pizza, and the picture below shows what's also going on in our home right now.

Eventually, I'll get it together. Until then, we're doing just fine.

Thought Vomit Thursday

I just don't have time to do a coherent post these days, so Thought Vomit Thursday it is.

I walked a lot today and think I may have aggravated what I think is the second stress fracture in my foot. I haven't had time to go to the doctor to confirm that's what it is, but what is he going to do? Tell me not to walk. Well, I am tired of not walking. I live in a walking city. I don't even have a car!

Mira is crawling. It is scaring the bejeezus out of me. She crawled right off the bed yesterday. She didn't fall because I was standing right next to her an caught her, but seriously. No instinct for self-preservation. We are not babyproofed. At all. I can't figure out how to install the gate on the stairs. Instead, I bought an exersaucer second-hand and Mira's going to spend alone time there until we can get a handyman to come over.

We've been looking at a lot of daycares. There are quite a few in our neighborhood, but they're almost always full. We're not starting daycare until November, and parents and daycare providers do this strange dance to find spaces. My sister in Minnesota will be paying $200/week, but here we'll pay $320-450/week. I think we'll actually go with the one that both has a space we can reserve and that is among the least expensive. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I felt really good about it when we visited. It's larger than the others (it's mostly in-home type daycare around here), so it has an entire room for one year-olds, it has a nurse on staff (which means they can give medication), and they're really safety and hygiene conscious. When we visited, the babies looked so happy there, even late in the day, which was the most important thing to me. I liked it more than most places. I get the feeling, though, that in our neighborhood, sending your child there is a bit like using a Baby Bjorn instead of an Ergo (which I do) because it's not "homey." There's always someone to judge. The serious thing is that a baby died there last year. It was a three-month-old, and it was SIDS--the center was determined by the health authorities to have done nothing wrong. I'm sure they are even more rigorous now about monitoring, Mira will be past that age, and all that, but it's still a scary thing. I'm sure that's why they know they have a slot available (though there are plenty of kids there, and the sheer number of slots makes a difference too). Anyway, we're going back tomorrow to visit again and will probably put a deposit down. We can always back out.

I'm a week and a half away from being done with law school forever. It's finals period, which usually would mean I was studying all day every day (law school is CRAZY), but that's just not possible now. Mira is way too mobile and curious for me to study with her. Fortunately, I have only two exams. I have been going away for exactly four hours during the day and working like a madwoman. It's really tiring--I didn't realize how much distracting yourself with things like websurfing was refreshing. I try to do a little work in the evenings too, but it's harder. I usually end up reading blogs or the news and emailing at least part of the time. Oh well. I have modest goals at this point.

Milestones!

Mira is six months old today

AND

I had my very last law school class.

Plus, Mira finally pooped after a bout of constipation. Now, if I can just get through finals and get that degree, we will all be even happier over here.

Maximum Messiness

Mira has started eating solids. After an aborted attempt at starting rice cereal too early, I stayed away from "solids" until well past the time when Mira was demanding food in earnest. She's been anxious to eat for months, grabbing at our food, but I felt her digestive system wasn't ready, and since she's just shy of six months now, I felt perfectly justified in holding off.

I looked into baby led weaning, and while I like the approach, our household is not disciplined enough for it. Anyway, it feels strange to me to follow some instructions in a book to a t. As a result, Mira has been eating some baby food and some appropriate food from our meals, and I try to let her experiment with feeding herself.

Mira joins us for most meals now, and, oh dear lord, is it messy! We end up with food all over her and me. Letting her try to feed herself means that she digs her hands in and swacks her spoon everywhere. We end feedings with food not just all over her tray, hands and bib, but also all over her clothes and my clothes, bib or no. If I take her top off, the food just migrates down to her bottom. Soon we'll be eating naked!

Now that Mira's ingesting food, we've had to say goodbye to the breastfed poop. This evening, Mira got pureed peas and prunes all over herself at her evening meal. Then she pooped. She was coated in prune puree from her hair down to her diaper. Then, where her diaper started, the poop was oozing out in all directions. Thick, sticky, mustard yellow poop. When I pulled her pants off, the poop migrated down her leg. It was the first time I gagged changing Mira's diaper. We had a good run.

Inconsistency

At home, I am absurdly happy. Mira is an utter delight. She's rolling and scooting, gnawing on food, and generally entertaining all of us. She has an unexpectedly deep laugh and intense attachments to The Baba and me. My heart just overflows with adoration. The Baba and I are going through a lovely period, and I deeply admire him as a father, husband, and son. Didama and I are also getting along well, more like old times. As I write this, I realize that I'd better be knocking on wood, but that's not really what this post is about.

Today and yesterday I found myself crying in public. I am part of a scholarship program to support legal work in the public interest (as opposed to corporate law), and at our closing event yesterday everyone went around and talked about who they were when they law school and how they felt coming out. It's a lovely group of people, all of whom worked prior to law school and who have inspiring passion for the work they do. Listening to everyone made me start processing my feelings about having done this thing, having gone to law school and changed so much of my life. When it was my turn, I just started crying and couldn't say anything at all.

Today I went back to my ob-gyn office. I've been really frustrated that sex has been almost impossible because of pain. As it turns out, I have scar tissue IN my vagina. I had a pretty bad tear through my perineum, but that seems to have healed nicely. I'm going to be going to physical therapy, which is pretty weird, provided I can get an appointment and have insurance coverage. Anyway, at the office, the nurse practitioner, who was very sweet and told me she had a similar problem after she gave birth, started asking me about my foot/ankle. I just couldn't take it--all those gynecological questions and then the reminder of my fragile bones--and I started crying.

I grew up in the upper midwest, where we repress, repress, repress negative feelings. But I live in New York, and I consider myself a New Yorker these days, and we're all about psychotherapy. I have a terrific therapist, but no time to see her. It's not that randomly crying in public is anything new to me, and it's not as though I've never had negative emotions about law school or my piss-poor functioning body, but it scares me that these feelings are hitting me from what feels like nowhere at times when I'm simply not prepared for it. I can't say I wish to go back to the often desperately unhappy place I was in before Mira, but at least that was somewhat consistent. 

Forebearance

A pretty common theme of the PAIL monthly posts is that people's ideas of what kinds of parents they would be changed when they met they new little human being. It's been wonderful to read the posts though I've read mostly only the ones on the blogs I usually read. I'm looking forward to reading the rest.

Which brings me to my present thought: I keep wanting to smack my pregnant friends down. For some reason, pregnant (very fertile) first-timers are popping up in my life like the plague. Okay, not the plague. But there are quite a few, and while I am farting a few rainbows of my own these days, these ladies really take the cake. Yesterday, one told me she chose a daycare where they were doing what she would be doing if she stayed home. I wanted to smack her. I also wanted to smack her for her statement that "labor ends" with regard to doing it without pain medication. I love her dearly, and she may be entirely right about her projections for her experiences both with childbirth and with child rearing, but I keep fighting back my urge to say in not so many words, "How presumptuous." When I look back at my own pregnancy, I can only recall my mother doing that to me (but that's probably because I was pretty noncommittal about most things). I'm really struggling with being supportive and not obnoxious!

On Gender Roles

The Baba is very good with the baby, and he tries very hard to pull his weight. I did not expect this before Mira was born. He was, in fact, a pain in the ass up until the minute she was born. I had to tell him to put his computer away in the delivery room. I worried that his mother coming would mean that he would brush his child rearing duties off onto her, but he turned out to relish chores like bathing and diapering. For the first three months, when Mira had reflux that required holding her upright after eating, he got up almost every time she did in the middle of the night to do the upright time when I was finished feeding her. On the weekends he makes an unprompted effort to take her out by himself at least once a day, and he has been making the daycare-search calls.

All that being said, our responsibilities are not equal, and it's hard to imagine them being equal. When the Baba pitches in, and he does a lot, he is doing it to help me or because it gives him pleasure. While I know that I am the line of last defense--if the baby is not clean, fed, and happy, it's on me--he doesn't feel that same sense of responsibility. Of course, when I am away, it is his responsibility. He's had a fair share of days on his own with her, and even when his mother is here, he feels some responsibility, I know. But when I am home, it's all me. Baby starts to fuss, hand her to Mama. In many ways, this is my own doing; I race home every day to scoop her up and I adamantly prefer breastfeeding to the bottle.

There's more to be said than I have time to delve into, particularly about perceptions in the workplace and about our comfort levels in taking the baby out in public. It seems like men who "help" get many plaudits while women are criticized and judged endlessly. Fathers can travel for work, but mothers face guilt and recrimination for being away. Women who expect to advance in some career paths are supposed to work late at night and early in the morning to make up for being home for dinner, sacrificing sleep. They're also supposed to be home for dinner, however, and not just because they want to or because of internal pressure to be a good mother. When I bring my baby into a cafe, I worry that people will be irritated, though she's not a crier, because I live in a neighborhood with lots of politics about "stroller moms." When my husband brings her to a cafe, he walks in confident that everyone will be delighted, and they usually are. No one ever says a word about "stroller dads."

I know men feel mirror pressures, particularly men who are stay-at-home dads. The fact that I attach my perceptions of my own husband's masculinity to his ability to do housework says a lot. We live in changing times, and things are mostly changing for the better. Sometimes, though, these are hard roles that can be frustrating and difficult to navigate.

Attachment Parenting: PAIL Monthly Theme Post

If you'd have told me even a week before Mira was born that my parenting style would most closely approximate attachment parenting, I'd have smiled tightly and said I doubted it. I was appalled by the thought of a family bed. I had no interest in an alternative vaccine schedule. I still think kids need clear boundaries and adult-free time, and I never, ever want to be a helicopter parent.

Mira had her own ideas. In the hospital, she woke and fussed every hour. The concerned nurse said that maybe my milk would come in faster with such a hungry little baby. She said it was bound to get better and offered to take her to the nursery. "So I can sleep while she fusses?" I wondered, "No thanks." When we brought her home, the tiny thing refused to sleep alone. She woke in her co-sleeper and she despised the swing. The Baba and I desperately took turns sleeping while the other held her. For weeks, I resisted sleeping with her though it was clear that that was the only way real sleep was going to happen. Finally, I started reading about co-sleeping, and I found, to my surprise, that it was actually quite safe for breastfeeding mothers to sleep with their infants under the right conditions (see: http://cosleeping.nd.edu/). So, we co-sleep. And I love it. We finally bought a real crib a few weeks back, but neither the Baba nor I want to move her.

Here I am, five months later, feeding on demand and co-sleeping. We also follow Mira's lead on her sleep schedule (which happens to be a pretty good one--she usually has three good naps a day alone and sleeps 10-12 hours at night). But, oh, does she wake at night. She has a good first sleep, usually about four hours, but I waste most of that on the computer (like, um, right now) while she sleeps on my chest. Then, almost every night, she wakes every two hours. And I'm not willing to do a damn thing about it. I want to keep feeding my tiny little peanut when she wants to be fed, which is, apparently, every two hours. I want to keep sleeping with her in my bed. She still wakes at night if she's left alone, and I don't want her to cry. And that's okay. The only person it hurts is me, and I'm perfectly good at deciding what works for me.

Now, at some point, Mira is going to have to sleep alone. And I can't get up in the middle of the night every two hours for eternity. But it won't be eternity. She'll be a baby for such a short time. Maybe that's what it's about--I almost certainly won't have a second chance, and I want to milk this for all it's worth, even if it means not getting a full night's sleep. The only thing that concerns me is that I might not know when the time comes to start drawing the line. I still firmly believe that kids need boundaries to thrive and both children and parents need space. I know I'm good at boundaries and follow through from being a nanny and a teacher, but I worry that I'll keep treating Mira like a baby for too long. I guess I just have to trust that I'll know what's right when the time comes.

A New Approach

Yesterday, a woman making small talk in the bathroom asked what bone I broke and proceeded to give me advice about how taking calcium supplements will help me heal faster. I thanked her appropriately, but in my head I was all, "Lady, you have no idea. My doctor just told me my x-ray indicated osteopenia, and I'm collecting my urine for 24 hours and getting my second bone scan. I'm already doing absolutely everything they recommend for healthy bones. Calcium. Pff."

But, see, that's the thing. I AM doing everything I can. I see the endocrinologist every six weeks to keep up with my wild thyroid, for heaven's sake. I just have to shake off all these negative feelings about it. I'll continue to be responsible, and I'll make all those damn doctor's appointments (including my second post-partum follow up, which I desperately need because, well, my lady bits ain't so happy). That's all I can do.

Three years ago, when sending me for my first bone scan following getting me off steroids and proton pump inhibitors, my GI recommended that I do pilates. My endocrinologist put it more bluntly, "Do pilates so you don't fall down." Fine, I want to do pilates anyway. I like pilates. In fact, this is a damn good excuse to make the time for it.

Mira in the Mirror

Five Months!

This was a big month. Mira has become a communicative, entertaining, almost mobile little monkey. She rolls over in both directions now, but she often makes a great effort to flip onto her tummy only to be irritated that she's "stuck" on her tummy. She's been rolling from tummy to back for two months, but she still doesn't seem to realize that she can do it on purpose. Silly baby. Sometimes she turns in circles on her tummy, and sometimes she turns herself back over, but I think that's still a little mysterious to her. With great effort, Mira can put her legs underneath her and push up, lifting her midsection entirely off the ground. It will probably be awhile before she crawls, but the rolling and the scooting make her quite mobile already, and I really need to get the gate up over the stairs--it's only a short distance from the living room rug to the precipitous stairs down to the lower level of the apartment. We're so not babyproofed!

Mira's still not sleeping well. Every once in awhile, she gives us a teaser good night of sleep, but mostly she wakes up every two hours. She fusses and frets, with her eyes tightly shut, until I feed her. When she wakes, she's already being cuddled, and I can put her back down after feeding with her eyes wide open and she'll fall asleep without nursing or patting, so when she fusses persistently, she seems to be genuinely hungry. I've come to the conclusion that she probably needs to eat. She's a tiny little peanut, sticking steadily to the 10-15th percentiles for weight. We finally bought and set up a crib, but honestly, neither the Baba nor I are ready to move her from our bed. I know that we're asking for trouble when we're finally ready to move her, but we'll deal with that when we get there. Mira does nap in her cosleeper and sometimes sleeps in the crib in the morning while I'm getting ready for the day.

Mira increased her milk intake this month, at least while I'm at school. She eats up to five ounces at one time. She often eats more than I can pump, though not every day, so we haven't gotten through the freezer stash yet, but supplementing may be in the near future (thanks to those of you who commented with advice). The doctor said we could begin rice cereal at the beginning of the month, but I held off for a few weeks and then tentatively gave her only a teeny bit with a lot of milk. She LOVES to eat; she always wants our food (I once let her suck on my nectarine to her great joy) and she likes eating with the spoon. I let The Baba give her the cereal the third time, and they were both so excited that when he asked for more I acquiesced. Mistake. Mira's ready for ingestion, but not so much the digestion. She was fussy and burpy for days afterwards. I was exhausted all week because she woke constantly during the night thanks to all the burping. Thankfully, things are back to normal. We won't be giving her more rice cereal any time soon.

I am really loving this time. A lot of things are really hard--I've been having mobility problems for months, and law school is sucking up far too much of my energy--but in baby-land, everything is amazing. I'm so delighted to be Mira's mama; she's a fantastic little bundle of joy and wonder. I'm sure I'll love her just as much as she grows up, but I often find myself wanting to grasp moments to hang on to. I love being her mama at this moment. 

Push Up. Superman!

The most hilarious thing happening in our house these days is Mira's self-imposed exercise regime. A couple times a day, when I set her on the floor, she'll roll to her tummy and start doing what look to me like exercises. She'll push her chest up way off the ground, then she'll sink back down and hold up her arms and legs in what we used to call a "superman" pose for a good 10-15 seconds. Then she'll repeat. Over and over. Core strengthening! Sometimes she'll grunt with the effort of doing this, but she'll keep right on at it. Every time I think about it I crack up. She is one determined baby. Who knew that babies had built-in exercise cues? It makes sense, but it's beyond funny to watch. And impressive.

My Broken Body

I almost forgot that my body was The Enemy. I'd (finally) attained, maintained, and successfully completed a pregnancy with just a little help from my friends, Syn.throid and Met.formin. True, I did have a crisis in the first trimester that required emergency visits to the gastroenterologist and some scary rectal steroids thanks to a probable flair up of my strange brand of colitis that was keeping me from keeping anything in my body (unrelenting diarrhea is it's own form of hell). But other than that, The Enemy performed beautifully.

I was reminded this week of just how much my body hates me. I have no major problems. I don't have diabetes or cancer. I'm grateful for that. What I have is the equivalent of a million paper cuts, a paper cut a day (an acquaintance wants his minor superpower to be the ability to give one paper cut a day--bizarre, right?).

I went to the doctor on Friday because my toes were feeling weird--stiff, swollen weird. Turns out I have a stress fracture. A stress fracture in the same foot that I had an avulsion fracture from falling down three stairs. My endocrinologist proclaims this abnormal, so I finally acquiesced to the osteoporosis tests she wants to do.  Fabulous.

On Thursday, I went to the dentist, where the student dentist (I go to a faculty practice) proceeded to tell me that the work they wanted to do was so close to the nerve I may need a root canal. I said, "Hold it." I can't pay for it out of pocket, and my insurance won't cover a root canal or the replacement of my baby tooth (maybe my husband's will, or my work next year). My teeth are a freaking disaster zone, and have been since I was a little kid, which is unfair because I might be one of the only people in the world who actually brushes and flosses as I'm told to. I once took an anthropology class in which the professor discussed common tooth problems in developing countries where malnutrition was common. He was describing my teeth. What?

Anyway, these things reminded me of the experiences I want to forget. Like collapsing on the bathroom floor in college prior to an emergency colonoscopy. Like collecting ovarian cysts instead of ovulating. Like burying the little embryo that was supposed to become a baby.

A few years ago I had a minor infection in an old root canal. As they cleaned it out and redid it, I had the ridiculously hopeful thought that maybe this would solve everything. Maybe it would stop the colitis and the eczema and the cysts. For some reason, I persist in believing they're all connected. They could be. No one's found a reason for my body to constantly battle itself. No allergies. Nothing. The Hashimoto's is an autoimmune disorder, and everything else sort of is. Maybe my body was just overreacting to this little infection. Nope.

Anyway, I can't dwell on this. I almost regret writing it. It doesn't make it better, and I've learned to live with it all. It could be much, much worse.

Guilt, or the Lack Thereof

I spend a lot of my time these days not apologizing. I spent all of last year working with a therapist who told me I spent too much time and energy apologizing and explaining myself to people. That they and the situation usually didn't merit my detailed explanation. That sometimes I can just do what I need to do and say what I need to say without making sure everyone understands.

That's not a problem anymore.

Most people think I'm crazy right out of the box, and I've found that it makes my life easier. It's somewhat uncommon to have a baby in law school (at least as a woman), and people at school who know I have a baby, which, frankly, is most of the student body, a good chunk of the administrators, and now all of my professors, tend to be a little awestruck (as in, "That woman is crazy beyond comprehension," not "I want to be her."). Being on crutches sealed the deal. People tell me they're tired and then hasten to add that they don't have any reason to be compared to me. Ha! So, while my work is less than perfect, it's acceptable, and that's enough.

I'm slacking in all areas of my life. The apartment is a mess. I almost never talk to friends or even my family. The Baba and I have been on exactly one date night since January. The list could go on and on. I just expect that everyone will understand, and I hardly even concern myself about it. My apologies are totally lame because I am basically shrugging and saying, "It's the best I can do" and genuinely meaning it. For the first time in my life, I truly believe that I am doing the absolute best I can do. I'm trying to work out more time with the Baba, but other than that, it is what it is. Much of the time it's far from ideal, but until I can freeze time, it's my best.

Somehow, amidst all the mess of things I have to do, the miracle is that I've felt like I've been able to be Mira's mama in the way that I want to be. I'd rather be home with her all the time, but since I can't be, I'm present when I'm home. I do a lot of work with her in my arms or kicking about on the floor, but I'm there and she's there, and I'm being her mama. It's easier to feel this way when she's not desperately unhappy that I'm gone. She's done well the past few weeks, and it's made me feel like a much better mama than I was feeling when she was so cranky during the days I was gone. I get to be here for so much, and she also gets quality time with the Baba and Didama when I'm away.

The bottom line is that things are okay. They're hard. I'm something of a zombie from the lack of sleep, I have no recreational time whatsoever (except maybe writing this post), and the Baba and I are struggling from a total lack of privacy and couple time, but we're getting through it, and we have an amazing, adorable, charming little monkey whose smiles and antics light up our days.

Thought Vomit Thursday

I haven't done this before, but today feels like the day. Here goes:

I love having Mira sleep in my arms. I put her down now that I can walk and no longer have an excuse for holding her all night instead of getting things done, but there is no better feeling than holding this little baby and hearing her steady breathing.

Mira gave me five and half hours of sleep in a row last night. I was shocked! Then The Baba told me this morning, without prompting and without a trace of irony, "I love your postpartum body."

Didama is obsessed with an Indian family whose children were taken from them by Norwegian child welfare authorities. I mean obsessed. Really obsessed. We hear about it day and night. I sympathize. I have actually worked with parents whose children were removed and I would like to continue that in the future, but obsessing about the details of this one very far away family's life is a little much even for me.

It's so good to be able to walk. The Baba, who hurt his back, is also starting to feel better. Thursday is the end of my week, so I took a breather and the three of us went for a walk in the beautiful weather.

Today was a huge day of firsts! Sleeping through the night, rolling from back to front, and eating "solid" food. Crazy! Mira has been trying so hard to get from her side to her tummy and she finally did it! She liked the rice cereal well enough it seems. Most shockingly today, she pulled herself up on all fours this afternoon during tummy time. I am so not ready for her to crawl!

All in all, this has actually been a kind of amazing day.

Not Winning

Today I found myself sitting on a bus in New Jersey using my hand pump under my jacket. I never realized how similar the action of pumping is to male masturbation until that moment. That may have been the pinnacle of the losing proposition that is my life these days. I can't even use the milk because the pump is not clean. Now it's just the slow slide down. I'm still on a bus, probably hours from home and my baby. I'm losing there: It's been three days in a row of being away for more than ten hours. I'm also losing at my professional life: I cut the trip today short, not just for myself but also for others, to get home an hour sooner, missing something relevant to the purpose of the trip to do so. I'm so not winning at this whole mom/student thing.

Supplementing?

We're back and Mira's wildly happy to be home. She's even been happy on Monday and Tuesday, which are my long days that are usually so hard on us both. I'm so much happier when she's happier.

Down to business: This baby is eating like a champ and I can't keep up. Up until this week, I've routinely pumped more than Mira ate, but it's been a dramatic switch this week. I pumped twelve ounces today and she ate eighteen ounces during that time. Yesterday, in a slightly shorter amount of time, it was ten ounces pumped and fifteen eaten. Ahk! I'm pumping less and she's eating more and it doesn't add up. Right now my freezer stash is making up the difference, but it won't last long at this rate.

I'm so glad she's eating more--this baby is a little peanut (rocking the 10-15% on both weight and height), and she can use it, but I'm not sure what to do. I'm going to try to see if I can hydrate and pump my way to higher production, and I'll talk to the pediatrician about supplementing, but I thought I'd throw this out there to see if anyone has advice/experience. I'm worried that if I start supplementing, it will mean the beginning of the end of breastfeeding, and I know nothing about formula. Mira's ready to start a little rice cereal, but she's not ready yet for it to be a real part of her diet. Thoughts?

In Minnesota

Mira and I traveled to Minnesota, where I grew up, on Saturday, and I'd have to say that my status has risen. This is unexpected and not at all unpleasant. My mom, with hopes of luring me and Mira to Minnesota more often, bought all my favorite foods and cleaned the house from top to bottom. My dad and his wife (my parents have been divorced for eons) gave up their own bedroom for Mira and me when we stayed with them.

My dad's relatives showed up en masse on Sunday for an impromptu baby viewing. This is funny because it is not a small family; Mira is my grandmother's thirty-second great-grandchild (the oldest graduated from high school last year). This has not stopped my grandmother from framing pictures of Mira and putting those framed pictures in a place of honor. I had a wonderful visit with her, and I learned quite a bit. To begin with, I now know why I call Mira "monkey"; that's from her. I learned that some things have changed dramatically since my grandmother had her first babies in the 1940s, and some things have hardly changed at all. When my grandmother delivered her first baby in rural Minnesota, the Catholic hospital in her small town wouldn't let her Jewish doctor use their facilities. The hospital that she delivered in wouldn't allow her father to visit (only husbands and mothers were allowed), so he had to sneak in to see his tiny new grandbaby in the hospital. More familiarly, when my grandmother delivered her third baby, the doctor induced her because he was going on vacation. She said that was her longest and hardest labor and seemed to remember it intimately--so much for forgetting the pain of labor after you go through it.   

Now Mira and I are hanging with my mom and stepfather. I'm even hoping for a baby-free nap tomorrow. Dreaming big.

A Good Night's Sleep

I haven't had a good night's sleep since Halloween. I could count on one hand the number of times I've gotten four or more hours in a row. There are nights, thanks to the Mira-law school combo, that I get less than five. Total. But faced with alternatives, this is the way I want things to be. ("Craaaazy," a voice sings out in my head.)

Mira is almost certainly it for me and The Baba. Every single moment is the last time I experience something. I find myself saying several times a day, "Soon you'll be grown up and we'll miss this so much!" (And I do believe that makes my MIL think I'm insane.)

This means that when the pediatrician says that Mira doesn't need to eat as often as she does at night, I shrug in my head and think, "Well, I'm not moving her out of my room yet, and I'm certainly not ignoring her, and it's surely not hurting her." Sometimes I feel like an incompetent mother because Mira's not sleeping through the night and so many babies in our neighborhood and in blogs I read are. In our baby carrier, organic food filled neighborhood, cry-it-out is the norm, and I just can't imagine doing it. I just can't. I'd stay awake for the rest of my life for this little baby before I could let her cry when I knew I could end her tears. I know there are softer ways of getting a baby to sleep, though, and that's where my feelings of incompetence come in.

There is some crazy to this. Every once in awhile, Mira doesn't sleep until midnight or later. She wants to eat constantly (growth spurt behavior, though this peanut has miniature growth spurts if that's what they are) or she's gassy or some such thing. I have moments at those times when I curse the world and cry because I'm exhausted and know I have to get up early in the morning, but given the option to hand her off to my MIL, I refuse. I'll hand her to The Baba at those times, but just can't imagine sharing that love-filled frustration with anyone else. Another woman in my school just gave birth and hired a night nurse, which my SIL also does with her twins, and I just can't imagine having someone else take care of Mira all night. Not that I could in a billion years ever afford that, but even if I could, I wouldn't. I mean, hey, I refuse to let my MIL help once in awhile. Maybe that is crazy.

In a book on sleep that I read, the author tells the reader that the reader has to know she wants the night nursing to stop before trying her no-cry methods. I don't think I'm there. Being a worrier, I start thinking, "Oh my god, am I going to be one of those people who infantilizes her five-year-old?" I hope not, but I just have to take this one day at a time.