Today is Maggie's half-birthday, a holiday that is rarely given the attention it so deserves. As an adult, I use my half day to reflect back on my year so far andus it as an excuse to get a really great summer drunk on. Today is Maggie's first big milestone, in my eyes, and even though so isn't quite old enough to appreciate a big fuss, I'm still looking forward to making one. The past six months have been the best of my life, hands down. When I was pregnant, well wishers would tell me how fast the first year would go but halfway through the whole ordeal, it seems more like Maggie has always been here then that she just arrived.
So tonight we'll celebrate our short time together, taking the time to appreciate the blessing of our daughter. And in honor of our daughter's love of the bottle, we'll be hitting it ourselves. Happy 6 Months, Maggie Mooza... Mommy loves you!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
What's In a Name?
My husband and I decided early in my pregnancy that we wanted to find out the gender as soon as possible - it would help with planning and preparation and, in a funny sort of way, we thought it would help us to get to "know" our baby a little better. When I was twenty weeks along, the ultrasound tech pronounced us proud expectant parents of a baby boy. You can imagine my surprise when, a short months of pregnancy and a few long hours of labor later, the doctor held my beautiful child in the air. The first thing I thought when I saw my brand-new little baby was, "Oh my God, he has no penis!" It took a few moments for me to wrap my mind around the fact that it was not a birth defect but a mere case of human error - my son was perfect, he was just a she.
The hospital I delivered in allowed only two people in the room for birth - one per leg, it turned out. My husband, sister, and mother worked in alternating shifts through the night, keeping me comfortable and sane as we waited for the big moment. My mom opted out of watching the actual delivery - she had been there, done that twice before and had no interest in doing it again. She was sitting on the couch in the waiting room when my sister rushed in to tell her - It's a Girl! A sick sense of humor is a recessive gene that runs in our family and my mom claims she didn't believe her until she laid eyes on her granddaughter. Her granddaughter named Margaret.
The nurse was holding her when my mother walked in. "Here's Grandma!" she whispered to my daughter. The nurse looked up at my mother and smiled, "Meet Margaret." And my mother cried.
We aren't a particularly emotional family, my mother especially. Our hugs are short and end with an awkward pat. I love you's often go unanswered, if they are said at all. We show our devotion with sarcasm, rides to the airport, and well-intentioned but often useless Christmas gifts. My sister and I cannot make eye contact when we're discussing emotional things and the conversations always end with a, "Let's never speak of this again." I get itchy thinking about watching people cry. Feelings are private. Emotions are to be kept in. We are the WASPY-est bunch of Irish-Catholics I know - and that's the way I like it.
But my mom's name is Margaret. Her mother's name was Margaret. My sister's middle name is Margaret. My name means Margaret in Gaelic. And although I would never say it, at least not to her face, my mother is the most important thing in the world to me. She raised my sister and me on her own, in every way you can imagine, but we lacked nothing. She attended every soccer practice, not to mention game, chaperoned Girl Scout camping trips (picture Troop Beverly Hills with a brunette, chubby Shelly Long), and never spoke badly about our father, who broke her heart and her home. My mom is super rad and killer awesome in a way no sixty year old has any right to be. She's a sassy school teacher with cropped pants and ballet flats whose social life is more packed then mine. She is an active and avid volunteer in her church who counts among her friends a Madonna loving priest and a hard nosed former financial executive. My mom knows everything about everything, is never wrong and seldom mistaken, and has a knick knack stashed away for every occasion. She is everything I aspire to be as a person and a parent and I love her with all my heart. I say it here because we don't talk about things like that in my house. My mom would roll her eyes or change the subject, get uncomfortable and leave the room.
So I gave my daughter her name. It was my way of saying without words - Mom, I love, respect, and admire you. And, through my daughter, I hope to honor you. But don't ever let me catch you crying again, woman. Really.
The hospital I delivered in allowed only two people in the room for birth - one per leg, it turned out. My husband, sister, and mother worked in alternating shifts through the night, keeping me comfortable and sane as we waited for the big moment. My mom opted out of watching the actual delivery - she had been there, done that twice before and had no interest in doing it again. She was sitting on the couch in the waiting room when my sister rushed in to tell her - It's a Girl! A sick sense of humor is a recessive gene that runs in our family and my mom claims she didn't believe her until she laid eyes on her granddaughter. Her granddaughter named Margaret.
The nurse was holding her when my mother walked in. "Here's Grandma!" she whispered to my daughter. The nurse looked up at my mother and smiled, "Meet Margaret." And my mother cried.
We aren't a particularly emotional family, my mother especially. Our hugs are short and end with an awkward pat. I love you's often go unanswered, if they are said at all. We show our devotion with sarcasm, rides to the airport, and well-intentioned but often useless Christmas gifts. My sister and I cannot make eye contact when we're discussing emotional things and the conversations always end with a, "Let's never speak of this again." I get itchy thinking about watching people cry. Feelings are private. Emotions are to be kept in. We are the WASPY-est bunch of Irish-Catholics I know - and that's the way I like it.
But my mom's name is Margaret. Her mother's name was Margaret. My sister's middle name is Margaret. My name means Margaret in Gaelic. And although I would never say it, at least not to her face, my mother is the most important thing in the world to me. She raised my sister and me on her own, in every way you can imagine, but we lacked nothing. She attended every soccer practice, not to mention game, chaperoned Girl Scout camping trips (picture Troop Beverly Hills with a brunette, chubby Shelly Long), and never spoke badly about our father, who broke her heart and her home. My mom is super rad and killer awesome in a way no sixty year old has any right to be. She's a sassy school teacher with cropped pants and ballet flats whose social life is more packed then mine. She is an active and avid volunteer in her church who counts among her friends a Madonna loving priest and a hard nosed former financial executive. My mom knows everything about everything, is never wrong and seldom mistaken, and has a knick knack stashed away for every occasion. She is everything I aspire to be as a person and a parent and I love her with all my heart. I say it here because we don't talk about things like that in my house. My mom would roll her eyes or change the subject, get uncomfortable and leave the room.
So I gave my daughter her name. It was my way of saying without words - Mom, I love, respect, and admire you. And, through my daughter, I hope to honor you. But don't ever let me catch you crying again, woman. Really.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Not Your Mama
I was reading one of my favorite blogs last week (ISawYourNanny.com, if you're wondering) when a certain posting caught my eye. A nanny was fired after her charged called her mom, terminated almost immediately by an insecure employer with mixed-up priorities. I was instantly sympathetic. In a past life, I worked for a family in an affluent Manhattan suburb - two working parents, more then willing to pay me my exorbinant fees in exchange for never having to deal with their children. In some ways, it was a dream job. I saw my bosses for a total of 30 minutes every week, give or take, and was given almost free reign to do what I wished with their children. I did not abuse that priviliege - they had three spectacular children that I loved and cared for as well as a twenty-year old girl knew how. Their two older children were school aged so I spent the majority of the day with their baby, a precocious five year old girl who loved puppies, playgrounds, and playdates. We went everywhere together, holding hands and singing songs and developing a special kind of friendship that I treasure to this day.
She cried when I left - not for good (which I eventually did) but Every. Single. Day. Her father would come home and her little arms would circle my leg, refusing to let go until I promised to return bright and early the next morning. Occasionally, she would call and check in on the weekends, making her big sister dial my number and then leave the room so we could have a "private" conversation. She drew me in her family pictures, asked me to read to her class, and introduced me as her Best Friend to anyone willing to listen to her. I loved her and she loved me and it was a good thing, I think. But it wasn't easy, on me or on her parents, I would imagine. I couldn't handle the pressure - and they couldn't handle the truth.
The situation came to a head on Special Person's Day at her school. I had left the flier for her parents to handle - it was 8:00 pm on a Saturday, not my territory. Someone marked it on the calendar and I put it out of my head, as it had already been dealt with. The Friday before, as I got ready to leave, my sweet friend asked me what I was wearing to the festivities the next night. I reminded her that it was on a Saturday and she would be going with her parents. And she lost it. "THEY ARE NOT SPECIAL! THEY ARE NOT SPECIAL!" Her father calmly told her that they were going as a family, that Mommy and Daddy were her special people and Red Meghan would be with her family and friends and could not come. But she did not care. She did not stop. When I finally left, at least thirty minutes later, she was still inconsolable. But what could I say? What could I do? A few months later, it became too much and I moved on. So did they. She loves her sitter now, as much as she loved me, maybe more - who knows. But I will never forget how I felt in that moment - frozen to the floor, afraid to speak. Unafraid to speak what had always remained unspoken - that she had parents, parents who loved her and cared for her and did what they thought was best to give her the life they thought she wanted. And then she had me - a person who was always there for her.
I love my daughter's childcare provider - almost as much as she does. And every morning, when she squirms in her seat, reaching up to touch Cidalia's face, cooing with pleasure at the sight of her - I feel a sigh of relief. Because I don't work because I want to - I work because I have to. And I have found someone who shares in the joy and love I have for my daughter. She is not Maggie's Mommy and I know that. She knows that. Even Maggie knows that. But the more love she has for Cidalia - the better. It's a blessing, not a curse, to have a caregiver who loves your child. And when the feeling is mutual? The best feeling in the world.
She cried when I left - not for good (which I eventually did) but Every. Single. Day. Her father would come home and her little arms would circle my leg, refusing to let go until I promised to return bright and early the next morning. Occasionally, she would call and check in on the weekends, making her big sister dial my number and then leave the room so we could have a "private" conversation. She drew me in her family pictures, asked me to read to her class, and introduced me as her Best Friend to anyone willing to listen to her. I loved her and she loved me and it was a good thing, I think. But it wasn't easy, on me or on her parents, I would imagine. I couldn't handle the pressure - and they couldn't handle the truth.
The situation came to a head on Special Person's Day at her school. I had left the flier for her parents to handle - it was 8:00 pm on a Saturday, not my territory. Someone marked it on the calendar and I put it out of my head, as it had already been dealt with. The Friday before, as I got ready to leave, my sweet friend asked me what I was wearing to the festivities the next night. I reminded her that it was on a Saturday and she would be going with her parents. And she lost it. "THEY ARE NOT SPECIAL! THEY ARE NOT SPECIAL!" Her father calmly told her that they were going as a family, that Mommy and Daddy were her special people and Red Meghan would be with her family and friends and could not come. But she did not care. She did not stop. When I finally left, at least thirty minutes later, she was still inconsolable. But what could I say? What could I do? A few months later, it became too much and I moved on. So did they. She loves her sitter now, as much as she loved me, maybe more - who knows. But I will never forget how I felt in that moment - frozen to the floor, afraid to speak. Unafraid to speak what had always remained unspoken - that she had parents, parents who loved her and cared for her and did what they thought was best to give her the life they thought she wanted. And then she had me - a person who was always there for her.
I love my daughter's childcare provider - almost as much as she does. And every morning, when she squirms in her seat, reaching up to touch Cidalia's face, cooing with pleasure at the sight of her - I feel a sigh of relief. Because I don't work because I want to - I work because I have to. And I have found someone who shares in the joy and love I have for my daughter. She is not Maggie's Mommy and I know that. She knows that. Even Maggie knows that. But the more love she has for Cidalia - the better. It's a blessing, not a curse, to have a caregiver who loves your child. And when the feeling is mutual? The best feeling in the world.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Last night, the fire alarm went off. 4:15 a.m. I was blasted out of bed. I live in a 15-story apartment building, old fashioned brick and concrete - it will outlast the cockroaches when the apocalypse comes, I'm sure of it. We didn't evacuate. My husband looked out the window, watching the fire trucks pull up, their snail like pace a sure sign nothing was really burning. I felt like I was in college again, waiting in bed until the last minute when an R.A. would force me outside, emergency or not. But no knock came - everyone for themselves in the adult world, I suppose, and I waited until the alarm went off, until my husband came back to bed, before falling asleep. Through the whole ordeal, Maggie didn't stir. I could hear her soft, rhythmic breathing alternating with the shrill alarm and I smiled smugly to myself - my baby could sleep through anything.
This morning, I woke up terrified. What if the building HAD been on fire? What if it had been too late by the time we realized? The town we live in has a volunteer department - what if their slow response was due to lack of training, not lack of urgency? This time, we gambled and we got away with it. But who knows what next time will bring? When I was pregnant, I would joke about how having a baby wouldn't change me, that the same old, same old would continue just with another person in tow. So, so, so wrong. Every thing I do, every decision I make, revolves around the well-being of this little person. Or should. Old habits are hard to break and Lord knows I'm as selfish and self-involved as they come, but just thinking about what could have happened. Sometimes, I make myself sick.
This morning, I woke up terrified. What if the building HAD been on fire? What if it had been too late by the time we realized? The town we live in has a volunteer department - what if their slow response was due to lack of training, not lack of urgency? This time, we gambled and we got away with it. But who knows what next time will bring? When I was pregnant, I would joke about how having a baby wouldn't change me, that the same old, same old would continue just with another person in tow. So, so, so wrong. Every thing I do, every decision I make, revolves around the well-being of this little person. Or should. Old habits are hard to break and Lord knows I'm as selfish and self-involved as they come, but just thinking about what could have happened. Sometimes, I make myself sick.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Allow Myself to Introduce... Myself
Doesn't my name say it all? Probably not, actually. I'm a young(ish), bookish(!), stylish(?) mom to my brand-new best friend, Margaret (formerly known as Baby Bigolyps). I juggle, with little grace and no dignity whatsoever, a full-time job, a handsome husband, and the messiest apartment this side of the Mississippi. I have a fantastic childcare provider (Hi Cidalia! I love you!) who provides me with comfort, peace of mine, and stunning pictures of my daughter with her baby friends. I still hang out with my friends from middle school, own a stunning handpainted shirt of all the modern-era Disney villians (sequins. shoulder pads. stunning) and am not above shouting at the television. If you enjoy Wally Lamb, t-shirt sheets, Boston baseball, orMiller Lite - we could be friends!
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