Greek Tragedyhi

bratfest at stephanie's

It was bound to happen. So now it's out of the way. I grabbed a handful of your hair and chopped it off. Better now than when you're eight and on the verge of a bratfest. It's hideous, and I'm sorry. You wouldn't sit still, and, um, all I had handy were eyebrow trimming scissors. Had your father done this, and I'd come home to see your hair the way it is now--basically a mullet--I'd have shrieked, and quite possibly, mentioned a trailer park or Dairy Queen. You've got bangs where you shouldn't have bangs. It's horrendously uneven, but if I try to even it out.. well, we all know what happens when mama tries to even things out, don't we? She gains five pounds and finishes the whole damn pie. So I'm walking away. At least you're still smiling, even if you do have summer teeth (sum'er here and sum'er there).

first birthday

A year ago today you were born.  Lucas and Abigail.  I wasn't allowed to touch you.  I was pumping and on the phone with loved ones, telling them we had both a boy and girl.  You were such a surprise.  We were finally able to hold you, to practice our kangaroo care, skin to skin with you.  So small and hungry.  We were afraid we'd hurt you.  They told us not to rub or pat your back, that your skin was too sensitive.  There was a point, Abigail, where I didn't know what your face looked like.  They had you hooked up to a machine with big tubes, and tape covering your face, a curly little hat, and a sleeping mask.  I could only see your neck, really.  And I remember the day you switched to nasal cannulas.  I was so excited to see you, the daughter I never knew was coming.  And sweet Lucas, when you were angry, you turned beet red, and it scared me.  You cried like a lamb.  And we wanted to soothe you but didn't know how.  So we sang.  Your father sang Happy Birthday whenever they needed to take blood.  It was the first song that came to mind.  "No!  Not that!  They'll learn to associate that song with pain!"  Then we laughed trying to think of a good giving blood song.  We're still working on a tune for that. 

I got kinda teary today.  I'm not one of those mothers who gets upset at each new milestone, feeling bittersweet knowing you're growing up.  I don't think I'm the kind of mom who'll cry on your first day of kindergarten, either.  But we've got time to prove that theory wrong.  Today I got teary when I remembered.  It comes in snapshots, really.  Still frames that I somehow still have a hard time piecing together, even though I was there for all of it.  It just happened so fast.

This morning, when I was alone with you both, and just talking to you without really paying attention to what the hell I was saying, I pulled one of these:

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Us.
Us?  Us, who?
You know who.
No, you aren't supposed to come yet.  Get back in there.
Get used to it.  It'll never be the way you planned, mama. 

And then you two came, and today we're celebrating those two minutes, the minutes you two were pulled from me, the moment you entered this world.  It has been a year.  You were born on a Thursday night.  I know this because when the doc said I was going into labor, I joked, "No, it can't be!  I'll miss Grey's Anatomy!"  I joked because that's how I panic.  He assured me it was a rerun.  You two came so quickly after that.

Then the tears came today, right after the knock knock joke that wasn't a joke.  "I'm sorry I'm so emotional," I told you both as you climbed into my lap, hoping to eat the buttons off my sweater.  "I'm just so thankful."  And then I squeezed you both and kissed the top of your heads remembering you were once inside me, that I used to feel you kicking each other, used to watch you on a black and white ultrasound screen, a tiny blinking white dot of a heart, and now, now it's,  "Let them eat cake!"  There's a lot to celebrate.  You are both exquisitely loved.

these days with little miss

You now clap on demand, young miss, especially after a few rounds of "If You're Happy and You Know It."  And when you drink your bottle, you lounge as if you're reading The New York Post with a farm-boy fanning you, one leg crossed over the other.  You have two teeth on the bottom.  The second one came in the day after your first one.  You love to eat these little star banana puffs, melt-aways.  You steal your brother's when he decides he doesn't want his, so it's not really stealing.  And he laughs when you're near him.  The other day, you crawled up to him, leaned near his face and sneezed.  Twice.  And he laughed more than I've ever seen before. 

You have a funny crawl, with stiff soldier legs, when you're sporting a dress.  When people meet you, the first thing they say is always, "She's so petite!"  They usually squeal this.  Then they follow it up with an observation about your eyes, how round, how blue, how beautiful.  "She's such a girl."  And you are.  You took seven steps on your own, but mostly, you like to crawl, then stand, then clap and say, "Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma," but you're not saying mama yet.  You're nine months and three weeks old, but next week we're celebrating the day you were born, calling it your first birthday, well, because it is.  Because you two couldn't wait.  I felt guilty about that, even though it wasn't my doing.  I don't so much anymore, especially when I look at you, how well you're doing, how happy.  How big, despite being "so teeny!"  You're all smiles and claps these days. 

Our Eskimo kisses make me want to nap, or eat you.  I can't decide.  You usually need to be tired, or just waking from a nap, all sleepy with hair every which way, your eyes as wide as banana slivers, and somehow new and blinking.  You crawl up to me and touch my face, then I rub my nose on yours, and you always smile. I love these days. And you.

beans

It’s a Friday, and you’re both asleep.  The three of us are in the media room in the dark.  Your father has converted the room into an obstacle course: an activity yard abuts a papasan swing, then an exer-saucer, a bouncy seat, and some contraption with hanging rings and an Elmo who pops up and giggles at you.  You both looked so happy today. 

I was sitting on the sofa watching you, Abigail.  And at one point, with a toy alligator in your mouth, you looked up at me, stopped mouthing your toy, and gave me the biggest smile, the dimple on your upper right cheek spreading. Then you said, “Ma ma ma ma ma ma.”  It’s the only sound you really like to make, aside from your piercing squeals. 

Lucas, you were on the activity mat putting your foot in your mouth, your hips rocking gently.  I’d smile at you, and you’d reflect it for me, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything but come down to you and kiss your belly then whisper how much I love you in your sweet potato ear.  I can’t wait to get in there and q-tip myself content.  Your doctor tells me not to put anything in there smaller than my elbow, but I don’t care.  I love grooming you, almost as much as you’ll always hate it. 

I watched a movie today while feeding you both.  It wasn’t very good, but I liked it.  It was about a brother and sister who loved the same woman--which I'll explain to you one day.  I was touched by the footage where the siblings were shown as children, racing through a yard, or down a street, competing, pulling hair maybe.  You’re very lucky to have each other.  You won’t always know this, but eventually you will. 

There was a point today where you were both reaching for the same crinkled leaf on the activity mat, and I loved seeing you both sitting, legs touching, abiding by some unspoken baby rule.  I love you both so much, loved holding you both in my lap today, your chubby little legs on mine, our small little family, taking up as much space as one pretzel made of legs and knots that will keep us together forever.  I love you. 

go scratch

It seems I need to do a better job at trimming their nails because I refuse to keep bundling them up in mittens!  So please pardon the scratches on Miss Abigail's sweet face.  She's just now starting to smile.  Lucas, on the other hand, looks like The Godfather.  CLICK THE IMAGE, and it will automatically scroll through to pictures of Lucas (as well as more of Abigail).

march

We're in March now.  Lucas and Abigail were born in December.  My father still hasn't been able to see them, not for lack of trying. This Friday he'll finally meet the children of his first born.  He'll cry.  I can already picture it now.  I wonder which you love more, your children or your grandchildren if there is a "more" with that kind of thing.  I'm sure it's just a "different" kind of thing.  In writing MOOSE today I was combing through boxes of my past, where I've stored everything camp-related: photos, fight songs, variety skits, and letters.  I've kept all the letters my grandparents sent me.  Today, I read a letter from my grandmother.  She told me she loved me more than anything in the world, and that there's nothing she wouldn't do for me.  It's wonderful to be loved like that, so completely, for just being you.  I love that my father will love my children that same way, the way his mother loved me. 

the race of your lives

It’s frightening being home alone with the two of you.  This isn’t the first time, but it’s the first time I know you’ll be awake, wailing for me to feed you.  There is an order to things, a particular way of doing, and I won't do it the way your father does.  The right way, will be the less efficient way, with me.  The new mother way, where I'm not quite able yet, to grab you with only one hand.  You're resilient and hardy, I'm sure.  It's what they say, but you're mine, and I have dreams of dropping you.  And enough of your life will move too fast, so we'll live, in these moments, stretched out, and tortured, not savored, because it's all I can do.  I just want you to be back asleep, quiet, so I can sleep too. 

I’ll have to navigate the changing table alone, first one of you, then the other.  I’m frightened your cries will throw me into a panic.  I’ve got the DVD rigged with stacked chick flicks, bringing you both into that world of mine, where things are scripted and endings are happy.  It’s a sing-song world where if babies are crying, everything is still right.  I’m afraid of being overwhelmed.  Of all the steps and all the minutes and all the ways to do things.  Of snapping out the changing table above your bassinet, placing you there, undressing you fast enough to soothe you again, turning a filthy defiled diaper into a rubber glove, getting into all the cracks and folds good with a wet wipe, then wrapping the diaper up tight and new, hoping the plastic lace is all out, that you won’t soak it through.  Swaddle you, feed you, listen as the other of you wants your turn.  It’s hard and frightening and overwhelming when all I want to do is hush your cries, so I move too quickly and forget to breathe.  Babies cry; it's what you do, but when I hear it, and it's my turn, when it's all up to me, I want to soothe you as quickly as I can, which leads to your mother as a blur, in a blink, passing by, rushing forward, with clumsy hands she's trying to keep steady.  It’s why I need the chick flicks with the happy endings, to comfort me, to get me through the race of your lives.

only fair

I was drinking a wine flight the other night, out at an actual restaurant (Trulucks), thanks to my very helpful in-laws.  I was surprised, and delighted, to see how helpful they've actually been, from cleaning dishes to cooking, but much more than that, hanging (and shopping for) blinds, building us a swing for our porch, and dealing with all the feedings and crying and diapers, to the point where Phil and I were actually able to go out, alone.  And in being out, and after a glass of wine, I admitted something to Phil. 
"All this time, I've loved Abigail a little more."
"..."
"What?  I can't help it.  She has red hair and is a girl, and she's such a little actress, and... well the point is, now I think I like Lucas more."
"You're not allowed to have favorites."
"It's more like having moods, not favorites really.  Sometimes I can appreciate Lucas more than I appreciate Abigail."
"Keep drinking."
"No, no.  I know this sounds bad and all wrong.  Of course I love them equally, but it has taken me a while to appreciate what a little bean lover Lucas is.  Besides, he's good at breastfeeding.  She kind of wants to take me out back and kick the shit out of me."  So for the record, since I posted so many photos of Mr. Lucas the other day, well, it's my girl's turn. 

View her photos here (scroll down for the latest) >>

And since there are always questions about my photography: I used my Nikon D100 with a 105mm Macro lens.  I used manual focus and also shot in both manual and aperture-priority modes.  As for how I created this particular collage, it's an action found inside Photoshop.

wireless

They've gone wireless, and they're now in our home calling area. 
"I'm calling from the back of the getaway car."
"..."
"We've sprung the hospital."
"You mean you're with the babies right now?"
"Yeah, my ass is squeezed between two car seats.  I haven't fit in the middle seat since I was eight."
"They're really coming home?"
"Yes, they're really, really coming home." 

Then I started to tear a little, looking down at their sweet squishy faces, tucked into their oversized car seats.  They're now wireless and officially ours. 

dear abby

You're nearly 35 weeks gestationally here, 4 weeks old, weighing in at 3 lbs. 10 oz.  You're up to two bottle feedings a day, and when I give you my nipple, you go for it right away then decide you're bored.  Because you don't get the immediate satisfaction, you wait for a bottle, then DOWN IT in five minutes, without spitting up.  My girl can eat!  And it's wonderful.

If you were a boy, you would have been a Simon. Your father insisted any boy named Simon was begging for a wedgie and a donnybrook or two on the playground.  I liked the Sunday morning cartoon, when I was younger, of a smart boy named Simon with oversized spectacles who liked to draw.  “Simple Simon” the kids might have chanted, which didn’t frighten me.  Toughen you up.  The sad fact is, no matter what your name, kids will find a way to pick on you.  For your red hair or freckles or your height.  And you’ll come home and cry, and we’ll want to fix it for you.  And when you’re tucked in bed, behind the safety of blankets and a nightlight, we’ll talk about it in whispers.  But all we can do, as your parents, is equip you.  That’s what parents do, teach you to protect, defend, and comfort yourself.  Teach you what really matters.  Your father is a wonderful teacher; he teaches me still. 

He threw in some veto power over Simon, so if you were a boy, alternatively, you might have been a Jacob.  We feared Jacob was too popular, though, so you’d always be known as “Jake B,” which wouldn’t do.   Though I do think “Jake” is a whole different animal than “Jacob,” in the same way “Luke” isn’t the same as “Lucas.” Jake drives a Porsche and likes awkward redheads who dress in pink.  Jacob is argyle smart and wears pocket squares and corduroy patches on his elbows.  You would have always been Jacob, not Jake, to me. Though I think I like the name Jonah more.  Be thankful you’re a girl.

You were such a surprise to me.  I wanted a girl and felt guilty for it.  “As long as they’re healthy,” everyone said.  But really, come on!  I wanted you, my little girl, to pull your hair back into rag curls and watch Grease II, singing songs about bowling.   Kerri lotion and foot massages in a big bed.  Ruffles.  And let me tell you now, I already know your color is Lavender; you glow in it. And while I’m sharing the little things a mother just knows: we always knew, without a doubt, if you came into the world, you’d be Abigail. 

When the doctor delivered you, he told me I had a daughter.  “She looks just like her mom,” he said.  And I remember thinking, mom?  I’m a mom?  A second ago I was pregnant, probably with two sons, and now I’m a mom?  “Really?” I squealed, “Oh my God!  We have to call Phil.”  Yeah, that’s right, your dad was on the phone, but that’s a story you’ll hear over and over again… and so will he.  The thing you don’t know is when they first presented you to me, swaddled, your eyes covered with a hat, all I saw of you was your nose and lips behind a manual plastic pump, helping you breathe.  But you were my little girl, and I loved you before I even saw your eyes.

In the following days, I acted like a newlywed, enunciating things.  Instead of “Oh, I’ll have to check with my HUSBAND,” or “may I introduce you to my WIFE,” your father and I began to hold onto our new words.  I’m her MOTHER.  I tell it to you every day, so close to your face, our noses nuzzling.  “That’s right,” I tell you, “I’m your MOTHER.  And I’m going to show you how to walk in heels, break hearts, and dress like you’ve just shed ten pounds.”  Yeah, yeah, and I’ll teach you how to make a phenomenal bouillabaisse, to write from the heart--or at least your name and phone number--and to live fearlessly, my brave, sweet girl.  Your father will teach you to play the guitar and how it feels to be loved unconditionally.  I’ll teach you to wrap presents, when to use nutmeg, to build a fort, and how to hear the ocean in a seashell.  You’ll teach us, every day, how much more there is to see and love in the world.  Patience and laughter and what it feels like to love so much it hurts.

I gave you the middle name Ruby because it’s red and sweet and sounds juicy like the grapefruit you made me crave when you were busy kicking my ribs.  You’re named after your father’s grandmother, Ruth, whom I haven’t met either.  But you’ll learn about her from your grandmother Barbara.  I wanted to give you the middle name Brave, but your father said it was a made up name, so you’re a Ruby, which suits you perfectly. And be thankful your father stepped in when he did or you might have a stripper name like Savannah or Emanuelle. 

And whether you like it or not, despite how embarrassed you’ll grow to be, part of you will be just like me, the way part of me is just like my mother.  Because that’s the cycle of mothers and daughters, trying to outgrow their reach on us, their habits and particular ways of speaking, but we inherit facial expressions, intonations and cadences, and wherever you go, you’ll know you’re mine.  And I’ll be yours, always.  So forgive me for holding on so tight, now that I can, because soon you'll be walking, and learning to talk.  Your first word will probably be "no," and at some point you'll scream that you hate me as you lock me out of your room.  You'll ask for some space, and I'll invade yours and learn when to give it.  And before all of that,  I'll have to cry myself, probably outside your bedroom door, as I listen to you cry for me in the middle of the night.  But for now, I'll rock you to sleep on my chest and let you wrap your small fingers around my finger or a curl, and I'll sing to you, my daughter.