When Edie urped an entire meal all over the brand-new outfit my mom and I had just put her in, I pushed away the disappointment that several ounces of milk was now dripping down the front of her onesie and my mom’s arm. I could care less about the extra laundry; I regretted the meal no longer in Edie’s belly.
Edith’s first time wearing ruffles and anything pink was short: Baby puke necessitated a wardrobe change.
I’m still trying to get over the feeling that my milk is in short supply. After almost two months of cringing through every minute she nursed, I saw each drop that she drank as a victory. We recently had another scare that she wasn’t gaining enough weight, which has me even more on edge.
I want to capture the drops that trickle down Edith’s chin after a feeding. I scrape out the fatty milk stuck to the sides of bottles like a kid licks the ice cream bowl clean so none is wasted. Seeing any milk spill, let alone cascading as spit-up, makes me want to dissolve. Thankfully, Edie Mae has spit up only about a half-dozen times since she was born.
The morning that Edie urped on her striped onesie, instead of ruing her volcanic reflexes, I laughed. Edie seemed unperturbed; she just looked at me with her signature serious face as the drool-milk pooled where my mom’s arm met Edith’s belly. When I got Edie to the nursery for a quick wardrobe change she smiled, too.
She didn’t care that spit-up had soaked through her clothes. Maybe she liked the feel of the fuzzy changing pad on her bare skin or the face-to-face time with her mama. As I slipped a pink and ruffled onesie over her head, she squealed and enjoyed the moment. I did, too.
One of the many benefits of spending so much time with Edie Mae is observing and interacting with her. I witness her firsts and the incremental changes in her development, personality and appearance. I love everything about my baby, but I’m partial to a few things about her.
She may have woken me up at 6:30, an hour and a half since she last fell asleep, but who could be mad at this face?
First thing in the morning, when the soft light of the day is just brightening the bedroom, Edie is alert and cheerful. She looks delighted to see me—”Oh, you’re here! Wonderful!”—and rewards me with the widest, silliest smiles. Lately she’s throwing gurgles into the mix in what I imagine will later become laughs.
We also spend this time playing. I bounce her around on my lap, swipe a blanket over her face in peekaboo and hold long conversations. (I gave her an anatomy lesson this morning—”And this is your elbow. It connects your upper and lower parts of your arm and lets it bend.”)
Edie is smiling more each time we swim in the bath.
Bath time is my other favorite activity. I take a soak most nights (the most welcome order from my midwife!) and after the water has cooled, Eric brings in Edie for her bath. Washing her squirmy and slippery body on my lap is much easier than in a baby tub, and she doesn’t cry. After all, she rests on my legs instead of on hard plastic, and she stays warmer.
To rinse her, I lower her into the water. Keeping her head dry, I move her forward and back. She looks a bit bewildered but happy—”What is this? I like it!”—as she floats on her back. Perhaps it feels like being inside the womb, or maybe it’s a glimpse into her future as an Olympic backstroke medalist.
Friends who first meet Edie swoon over her itty fingernails and soft feet, but I’m especially drawn to the tips of her ears. They’re dainty yet are covered in fine hairs. She’s my tiny hobbit. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at her verve for food!
A full belly and a perfect belly button
My other favorite body part is her belly button. To start, it’s in the center of her round tummy that gets even rounder after a meal. The skin folds this way and that to create a unique pattern like the petals of a rose. The best part, though, is that it’s the site where we used to be connected. It’s the evidence that I once provided everything she needed. When I was pregnant, I did everything I could to ensure she was healthy and secure.
I hope that she admires her own belly button when she grows up. Whenever she feels sad or alone, she’ll have it as evidence that I still love her completely and unconditionally. Her belly button is proof that even though we’re no longer connected, I am always here for her.
Now that Edith is two months old, I think of her as a big girl. The changes that have happened in the last month sure seem to make it that way: She’s vastly different than 30 days ago.
Don’t worry, Duck fans: She has an Oregon onesie, too!
I vividly recall when the midwife placed Edith Mae, purple and screaming, on my chest immediately after her birth. How big and scary the world must have been. She was accustomed to her cozy, warm home inside me for 40 weeks; so much space, light and sound surely felt alien.
Edie is beginning to notice the toys on her play mat.
Now Edie wants to explore her surroundings. When we took a family walk the other night, she began to scream when Eric put her in the carrier. As soon as he took her out and held her, though, she quieted. She spent the next 20 minutes staring at the trees, the sky and the pattern of light filtering through the leaves.
A rare moment of zen when she’s on her back. Must be the dog hair toupee.
At home it’s much the same. About a week ago, she changed from a happy baby as long as she was being held to screaming unless she was carried face-out. And the view isn’t enough; the scenery must constantly change. I probably walk miles by pacing our two-bedroom apartment every day. And if that fails, I just take her out on the balcony. I don’t know if it’s the fresh air or the sound of cars going by, but this child loves the outdoors.
Snagging a few hours of extra sleep in the early morning
As she grows up and wants to take in the world, she spends much less time cuddled on my chest. I know it’s silly, but I miss her frog-legged snuggles with her head tucked just below my chin. So when she does fall asleep that way, I savor it. I don’t get any work done, but I’m past caring. (Usually.) Her head is the perfect distance for kissing, and I take advantage of that, too.
Who knew that Julia Child, who revolutionized the idea of the home cook in America, spent a good chunk of her young years rudderless?
I took on the challenge to #LiveLikeJulia for a week and adopted Rule #3, Learn to be Amused, from Karen Karbo’s new book Julia Child Rules. I expected it to include lessons in laughing at unfunny situations; instead, the chapter suggests we might be happier if we bided our time enjoying ourselves instead of constantly seeking self-improvement.
Julia Child spent a bulk of her 20s living at home with her indifferent father, hanging out at the country club and not knowing what to do with her life. Yet her diary entries weren’t filled with laments about her directionless lifestyle. “All I want is to play golf, piano and simmer, and see people, and summer and live right here,” she wrote. She might not have found a career or a mate or a passion, but she enjoyed herself while she figured it all out.
I, on the other hand, have always been driven. During graduate school, I taught undergrad classes, taught GRE prep courses and freelanced while staying dedicated enough in my coursework to earn the Kappa Tau Alpha outstanding graduate student award come graduation. My planner was full of lists; my schedule was micromanaged. The little down time I had was overshadowed by unfinished tasks.
Needless to say, I was a little stressed.
Now, as a mother of an infant, my daily accomplishments look a little different. Today, I:
Fed Edie. A lot.
Cared for Edie. This included letting her nap on me (she tends to wake up within moments of my putting her down, even in a swing), shushing her when she cried, changing diapers, narrating our every move (“And now we put your other arm in the onesie!”) and enough bouncing to get my butt into pre-baby shape.
Wrote this blog post. I do most of my typing one-handed on an iPad while I hold Edith.
Ate lunch. Yes, this counts as an accomplishment in my world.
Sometimes I stress about all the pitches I’m not writing, the projects I’m not working on and, of course, the fact that our floor hasn’t been vacuumed in at least a month. But there’s much pleasure to be taken in the miraculous ordinariness of motherhood
Rule #3 of Julia Child Rules was a good reminder of that. After finishing the chapter (while holding a sleeping Edith), I closed my computer. I brushed my cheek on the fine down that only partially covers Edith’s head. I noticed the lace-like pattern of veins on her eyelids. I searched for traces of myself and Eric in her features. I marveled at how huge her hands and feet look, compared to their size eight weeks ago.
Our tiny caterpillar is expert at sneaking an arm out of her snuggly swaddler. (Please ignore the week-old newspaper and dog-chewed popsicle stick on the floor.)
I did my best to push aside my mental to-do list. I didn’t set Edith down to crank out a story idea or put away dishes. I held my baby girl and felt her breath rise and fall on my chest.
Now is not the time when I make strides in my career. I never had a home clean enough for HGTV before, and I certainly won’t now that nearly every surface is covered in burp cloths and baby gear litters our minimal square footage. And that’s ok.
In fact, it’s more than ok. This is an irreplaceable time of our lives together. I want nothing more than to “simmer” here. I think Julia Child would approve.
