look out, there's boobs in this post

Parenting creates chasms between people who may have otherwise thought they had some common ground. This is something I am learning the hard way, over and over and over. I don't mean my childless friends, because they are actually more tolerable than they used to be, in their novelty. Recede from all social activity for almost a year and everything is "cute" -- you're hungover?! Oh, you crazy kid! You overslept and you'll be 15 minutes late to lunch? HA HA
What I mean is that totally normal people with whom you may have formerly struck up pleasant conversation, say, in line for coffee, now have a reason to share with you their Decisions, and you will almost certainly find them horrifying. You will later relay your conversation to another totally normal person, commenting that you under no circumstances judge other parents but can you believe ____? They will then admit to doing exactly what you described, then repeat the process with someone they think is likeminded but is absolutely not.
The only good thing that I've found about this so far is that the people who agree with you and validate your choices are like new crushes. My first parenting crush was Dr. Sears. "Dr. Sears basically says letting your baby cry it out is inhumane," I proudly announced to Nathan. "Dr. Sears says vaccinations are very important." "Dr. Sears believes in sharing sleep." "Dr. Sears thinks this sandwich I just made is excellent."
The downside is when your parenting crushes betray you, and mine almost all have. Dr. Sears is still going strong, and so is at least one other mama who out-hippies me by a longshot. My most disappointing crush moment came when a mother I thought was cool looked at me in a mixture of grossed-out shock and mortification as I undid my nursing bra and tried to wrangle a flailing, crying, hungry George. I'm sad to say that I instictively said apologetically, "Oh...do you mind?" She looked around to see if anyone was watching and shrugged. "I guess not," she said. "That's why I brought a bottle, though." Instead of telling her to go F herself and feeding my son like I should've, I pretended that there was a possibility he wasn't hungry and staved him off for another ten minutes before we retreated, him hollering and confused, me pissed and flustered.
i told you
We haven't hung out since.

a sick, surprising memorial day

Yesterday, this:

a happy baby, jamming with papa.


And today, after a long night of snorting, coughing, startling awake:

A crusted-up nosed, runny eyed, sleepy little sadsack. We had different expectations for Memorial Day weekend. But in the rain, we met some nice people. We were in our first parade.

And while the sicky snoozed in papa's sling, I made some laundry detergent, which left me undoubtedly more fulfilled than the perseverent beer drinkers barbequeing down the street.

extremely loud and incredibly tiny

A few years ago, I got a bit of advice from someone. I was wanting a baby and he'd just had one. His wife had just had one, whatever. He lamented his loss of freedom, which, if you knew this person, would not seem like much of a sacrifice. He is dull, kind of, and doesn't go out much. I don't mean either of those statements to be insulting; I doubt that he'd argue.
His advice, despite seemingly valid complaints about the whole thing, was to dupe someone into having a baby with me. "Poke holes in the condoms," he said. "And name the baby after me." He said in subsequent conversations that despite the hassle and filth and sleeplessness and downgrade you will undoubtedly take in the eyes of your childless friends, it was totally worth it...probably. There was always some amount of hedging, and I thought I understood why at the time. People without children can guess at the trials of parenthood. I assumed that it was something like a 60/40 split with sweetness barely edging out the numerous undesirables that come with babies, with caretaking, with making oneself totally reliable, or as reliable as one can possibly be.
But he was so wrong. So totally wrong. I haven't talked to him in a year. He has been busy being an intellectual and I was gestating, then recovering, then caring for this tiny alien that took over my life.

You guys, he was wrong! It's like a 99/1 split. I have almost emailed him about a thousand times to say look. You must be doing it different, because this rules. But I haven't. Because sometimes people are more comfortable in your past than your present. I realized something, however, when I was thinking about the stories I can tell George about the people mama used to know, the things I did when I was young. The advice I took that led to him (I didn't dupe anyone, but figured out that if I had to consider it, I should maybe move on). While I didn't name him after you, J., I gave him your favorite name. The one you said was vetoed and relegated to your dog. Ha ha.

having a coke with you

I am a sentimentalist in pretty much every way. This is something I have to come to grips with ("come to grips with" is very nearly one of my unsayables -- so, making progress). I find things like this:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDLwivcpFe8]
on the internet and fall in love with life again, for the way it gifts me these snippets of history, of an actual person doing an actual thing to which I was not an original witness.

on sadness

Dear George,
I have wanted to die many times. Literally, of sadness or disappointment or overwhelm. Figuratively, of embarrassment, sheepish and sinking. That wishing to disappear into yourself that comes with unrequited love or particularly spectacular falls. You don't know that feeling yet, but you will. And this idea, that you will someday wish yourself away: it absolutely kills me.

You cry about as much as any baby does -- maybe even a little less. We are lucky in that respect, and try to understand you, what you need, what you are trying to communicate, so your wanting doesn't escalate to desperation. There are other times, though, when you are clearly sad. This also kills me. You have so little to be sad about; what will I do when the feeling is bigger and can't be nursed away?
I read Jenny's blog post about her mother's death and I am terrified of you living through this experience. If I do my job correctly, you will stop clinging to me at some point. You'll stop searching my face for reassurance in questionable situations. You'll be decreasingly reliant on me. But apparently that won't be much consolation if, when I die, you still love me (which I hope you will).
I swear I won't be so egomaniacal about everything.
Love,
mama