Freedom

I joined a group for new moms. It's not a support group. At least they don't say it is. It's largely a group of unshowered, sticky women with babies hanging from them. So, basically your average support group.

As today was the final day, we were asked to go around the room and discuss loss we've experienced, an inevitable piece of taking on any new role. Some said they once had clean floors, others reflected on their pre-sagging hard bodies sculpted daily at the gym. Some people missed coffee, others wished they could simply say "booze," but covered it up with the always safe "time with my girlfriends."

Since birth, Baby Pasz has been swaddled. If you're not familiar, it's the process of wrapping small humans in circulation-cutting blankets - when you really mean business, sometimes equipped with velcro. The goal is to create "womb-like" security. Or, force, sorry, encourage them stop screaming and sleep all night. Grandparents think its horribly cruel and carefully say things like, "She...she likes that, you say?" Whether or not you are down with the swaddle, parents across the world are sleeping soundly tonight, my friend.

When considering the most significant change since becoming a mother, I thought of all of the times we spontaneously booked plane tickets to wherever we wanted, spent what felt like entire paychecks on magnificent meals, changed our minds and our plans within seconds to suit our mood. Though much of those decisions were made to soothe our ache of wanting a child, they are carefree, fantastic memories that I'm grateful we created.

After her 5:30 a.m. feeding, I always release her arms and unswaddle her, letting her lay in bed with us for the remainder of the morning. She happily stretches for what seems like hours, discovering her new length every day. Though she refuses to sleep without it and does so with great content, I know she can't wait to stretch out in the morning.

It's a funny thing, freedom and motherhood. Looking back on mine doesn't give me anywhere near the sense of loss I know I'll feel when she gains hers.

Mind your own breastness

People really extend themselves when you have a new baby. They bring casseroles, offer to clean the floors, say things like, "you look fantastic!" when you clearly have runny, yellow, infant feces in your hair.

Some, however, take it one step further by offering super helpful baby advice. The kind they think you need when the baby is screaming bloody murder. The kind they offer when you're trying to arrange your sore, unsightly mammary glands in some kind of suitable fashion inside the screaming baby mouth. "You're breastfeeding? You're not feeding her enough. That's why she's crying."

Ah, yes. I've not thought of that. I must have been preoccupied drinking herbal teas made of dirt and fertilizer, taking supplements I can't pronounce, spending hours around the clock with a plastic pump attached to my chest like the prize cow at the county fair. I may be feeding her nothing but granola bars and the highest amount of wine that website said I could safely drink in a 2 hour period, but I'm feeding her. At least I thought I was.

It's one thing when friends and family express opinions, often well-intentioned. It's quite another when complete strangers observe you, frazzled and defeated, in an elevator, and say this.

Stranger: "Cute baby."
Me: "Thanks. We're on our way out for a walk. It helps her to stop crying."
Stranger: "Are you breastfeeding?"
Me: "Um, well, yes. Yes, I'm....yes, breastfeeding."
Stranger: "That baby's not getting enough from you. You should give her formula."

She said it in a very "I'm with Child Services" kind of tone, too. It really infuriated me.

If I didn't have yellow poop in my hair and negative six hours of sleep, I really would have knocked her block off. Gotta run, baby's hungry....

The Shot

I was nervous about it the night before. Just picturing the cold, sterile room, the mean, old, smelly nurse whose cigarette break was immediately before. She walked into the room carrying a shiny needle dripping with poison, just salivating at the thought of stabbing it into innocent flesh.

I cried when it happened. I couldn't help myself. It was everything I have always found overbearing about my own mother - all of her fussing over me, worrying about my health and happiness and overall well-being - it was that full-circle moment that makes you so aware of all of the things you dismissed as a child, the things you should have appreciated or been more sensitive about.

I cried. During her vaccination. Which lasted .5 seconds and resulted in a very cute purple band-aid that I'm sure she'd love, if she were generally more aware of her surroundings and could identify her own hands. I cried.

On the way home, I tried to explain to her that life will be difficult, it will include needles and stubborn freckles you'll try to erase with hydrogen peroxide and people who aren't wise enough to see your beauty. I told her that she'll have to be strong.

As I rambled on in the backseat of the car, the one the husband couldn't wait to park and release the hormone-infested contents of, I realized she was asleep. Happily asleep with her purple band-aid and the whole experience behind her.

Maybe she was pretending to sleep. To get me to stop talking. And crying. And checking her band-aid for any escaping blood.

God help her.

Isn't she lovely?

It's early in the morning. Or very late at night. On Wednesday. I mean Thursday.

I'm a new mom. And I'm exhausted. Saying it out loud helps.

She was born 5 weeks ago and she's unbelievable. Unbelievable in that she's beautiful, mysterious, precious. Also unbelievable in that I honestly still can't believe that a tiny hand wraps itself around my finger.

Everyone tells me to talk to her more, that she needs to come to understand language patterns. I certainly try, but for some reason I can't put a sentence together to greet the UPS man, let alone effectively transfer rhythmic language patterns to my daughter's developing brain. So, I sing Motown songs to her. Seems like that should work. She should measure nicely against the babies with nannies that only speak Mandarin. I mean, how many of those babies will be able to belt out Stevie Wonder on demand? Exactly.

I know that, beyond this fog I'm living in, there will be smiles, steps, sleep. Purpose.

I struggle with my qualifications for it, whether I'm enough. I think about how to better approach my own professional and creative future, redefined by her arrival. Fueled by wanting her to be proud.

I often forget to put socks on her. Well, not often. Always. I'm learning to forgive myself for it. Maybe she'll be a yogi who never needs to wear socks. One who knows every word to Stevie Wonder's greatest hits. Not exactly the resume of the next Secretary of State but she's only 5 weeks old. She'll be fine, right?

Right?

I'll do better tomorrow.

Spooked but Strong

It's been a while. Infants are now toddlers, Bieber has a girlfriend , Bin Laden is swimming with the sharks. I've been blog-neglectful for a solid 8 months and though I know it felt like a well-deserved vacation, the party is over, people. I'm back.

I should start with the most joyful update: The family Pasz will make 3 in just a number of weeks. The husband and I are expecting a daughter. We're indescribably excited, grateful, euphoric...and spooked. History has conditioned us to play it cool, let the universe decide our fate when it comes to family expansion efforts. And though I admire those who boldly post the sideways tummy shot on Facebook, I'm fairly certain a large beam from the ceiling would fall on me immediately after I make the same choice. We've digested this experience slowly, cautiously and with private appreciation and not only has it been incredibly lovely, it's been easy and painless. Until last night.

I'll spare my brother my hundreds of male readers the anatomical references because let's be frank, no one wants to hear about pregnant lady parts. Last night, I suddenly felt a tightness in the place where the baby lives (oh hell, my uterus) and realized I was having legitimate contractions. This would be glorious and exciting if I were anywhere near my due date. As I am not, it was less glorious than one would imagine.

Trying to remain calm, I slowly told the husband that something not so typical was happening and requested he get my handy Dr. Oz YOU! Having a Baby! book. That title really does it for me - it's like a big high-five from him every time I open it on a job well-done. Dr. Oz told me that contractions are normal at my stage and explained the difference between "practice" contractions and pre-term labor. My symptoms applied to both. This is when my kind, compassionate, scared-out -of -his-brains husband made the executive decision.

Husband: "I'm packing your hospital bag."
Me: "You....you are?"
Husband: "Yes, what goes in it?"
Me: "I have absolutely no idea. The largest underwear you can find. And some snacks?"

As I watched my husband move at Olympic speed packing my hospital bag, I realized two things. I never loved him more. And we have absolutely nothing to bring the baby home in.

Then, like magic, he emerged with a hand-me-down onesie gifted from a relative. It was Halloween-themed and said, "I Love My Mummy" on it. Seems reasonable.

In the end, they were just contractions - a signal that she is on her way but not necessarily before her time. We're still spooked and likely will be until we hold her in our arms. The good news? She's all set for Halloween. And you thought I wasn't prepared for this.

Wounds

I'm here - wobbly, but here. As I've said before, everyone has sad stories so we're no different. We work every day to get up, dust it off and get back in the game. We're trying to move forward. In the meantime, it's all about stress management.

It was a spontaneous decision, I arrived at the gym after work and instead of dragging my suddenly concrete feet to the punishing treadmill, I headed for the spa.

Me: "Hi, sorry for the short notice. Any massages available tonight?"
Irritatingly calm, serious spa employee (ICSSE): "Yes, I believe we can accommodate you ma'am."

Ok, never call me ma'am. Ever.

Me: "Really? Great! But I have to warn you. My legs are a lit-tle hairy."
ICSSE: Long pause. "Um. Right. Ok. Do you prefer a man or a woman?"
Me: "Probably a woman. You know, because of the whole hairy leg thing."
ICSSE: "Melissa will be with you shortly. Please put on this robe and wait in the front."

It was my only chance. I grabbed the robe and sprinted into the locker room. To a girl from Indiana, it's one of those fancy locker rooms. With Kiehl's products and a steam room and free Q-tips. And disposable razors.

I turn on the the water in the shower, cold because of my obvious time constraints, and make rapid blade to skin contact. My first sensation is relief, purely housed in my self-esteem because Melissa won't have to comb through the forest and will perceive me as woman of great grooming standards.

Melissa met me in the Zen place.

Melissa: "Hello Megan"
Me: "I shaved my legs!"
Melissa (clearly trained by the spa's personality-crushing methods): "I see. Is there anything that's bothering you, in particular, today?

I wanted to tell serious, socially repressed Melissa that it's all really hard right now. That I swallow my tears daily, that it's hard to get out of bed in the morning. But I think she wanted me to reference my hamstring tightness, so I did. Anyone who references their hamstrings is clearly in great shape and likely, well-groomed.

The table was warm and almost enough to warrant the $120 service alone. Within moments, blood began to squirt from my extremely pale, dry, raw chicken-like limbs. They burned like flames, only intensified by her overly fragranced, kinky massage oil. I begin to wonder if Melissa would now refuse to friend me on Facebook.

My next massage will be much more relaxing, I'm sure. And I probably won't have to steal the bloody table sheet. And the robe.

How come nobody told me that?

Slowly but surely, the tomato plant is growing. I water it most days, other days I find it too daunting to climb 4 flights of stairs and just pray that it will survive. Like any good caretaker.

Though I contained it in a "cage," or one of those wire stake-like situations, it's becoming a bit unruly - jaunting out in all directions and growing hair on its leaves. Yes, hair. Or fuzz. Think menopausal tomato plant leaf.

The other night as the hubs was grilling dinner, I spent some time examining the tomato plant. As I looked closely, I noticed some peculiar yellow flowers. At first, I thought they were sort of pretty. Like the dandelions that my dad used to scoop up with the lawn mower because he said they were weeds, even though at the time, I thought they were so beautiful I planned to populate my entire wedding bouquet with them. After considering it further, I decided they were just that. Weeds. Weeds on the stem of hairy leaves. They had to go.

While visiting my parents this weekend, this happened:

Dad: How's your tomato plant coming along?

Me: Oh fantastic. Not to brag, but I seem to be getting the hang of this gardening thing.

Dad: Do you have any tomatoes yet?

Me: No, not yet. But I have been weeding it.

Silence.

Me: You know, those yellow flower weeds. I pull 'em right off every time I see 'em.

Dad: Brilliant. Those are tomatoes.

There's always next summer.