The bigger picture

This morning my cleaning lady, confidant, fellow mother and I were talking about cleaning things, groceries and motherhood.  Motherhood being the one that dominates all of my conversations these days - and I won't have it any other way.  Anyway, in between the broken mop and recipes for mango pickle, I asked her how big the age gap is between her two children.  (Yes, I am already thinking along these lines.)

With that seemingly simple question, she unzipped her heart.  The short answer was 18 months.  The real answer was that her second, a son, was "an accident".  So much so that she wanted to abort him, but couldn't.  I felt that this was the end of her sharing.  I remarked that life was funny.  And how, ultimately we are not the ones in control.  

 The story now follows that 15 years after the birth of their son, her husband fell ill.  And from that day to the present, an accident has been taking care of them.

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Comfort

As a child I had a black and white panda teddy.  This teddy was my lifeline.  Not so much to cuddle or talk to.  I had a little habit of rubbing pieces of fabric between my thumb and middle finger.  And panda happened to have the perfect tag for it.

I would rub and rub the little tag with washing instructions until it came apart.  At this stage, wanting to prevent the end of the world, or something very much like it, my mother would turn to her bag of fabric off-cuts.  She would sort through the bag until she found a couple of possible replacements and then she would present them to me for testing.  Once I had approved of the replacement swatch, it was carefully sewed onto panda where the tag once was.  This little ritual was repeated many times.  It must have looked like madness from the outside, but on the inside, it provided perfect calm.  It provided comfort.

Babies often have a little doudou to help them fall asleep.  Or their parents might rely on a dummy to pacify.  Right now, Lily still finds comfort at my breast.  And I'm hoping, as she goes for her one-month injections today, that the doctor won't be offended by a little show of comfort.

Sharing is caring

New babies.  They smell so delicious.  Even better if you wash them with just water.  So they can smell like  themselves.  I walk around the house all day inhaling the sweet scent of my baby.  I am sure that she would be extremely embarrassed by all the attention if she was a teenager.

But thankfully (Amen!) she is still only 3 weeks old.  A lot of sweet sniffery still to be had.
I realise that I still have hours and hours with her.  Years even.  And, in the middle of the night, she is all mine.  But something happened the other day that surprised me about myself.

Friends came to visit to meet the little poo.  And for the entire visit, I could not put her down.  I refused to hand her over.  I just didn't want to share.  What if someone else had a moment with her that I should have had?

This reminds me of a time when I watched a kiddies ballet concert.  They were rolling balls to each other.  And then rolling the balls over their tummies, saying "mine, mine, mine".  Well, sometimes that is exactly how I feel.  Mine.  All mine.  I made her.  Carried her.  Gave birth.

Why wouldn't I want to share this beautiful thing I made?  Why wouldn't I want to brag.  Let other people inhale the wonder.

Cause, after all, isn't sharing supposed to be caring?

It's blue. It's true.

It is very easy to pretend to be a duck when you are getting advice before you have your baby.  The old "it won't happen to me" water does come off your back easily at that stage.

And so, giving yourself a long list and not enough time, space or realistic expectations will obviously get your feathers wet.  I like to make lists.  They generally help me do things.  These lists (that I write down) include groceries, emails and other household things.  Those are not so scary.  And, because they are out in the open, you can have the satisfaction of ticking things off.

The problem lies in the lists that you keep to yourself.  I have many of these.  They are, at this stage, in danger of becoming an epidemic in my life.  Much like an unattainable new years resolution.  Like the aim to loose 10kgs in a week.  Before a wedding.

My list, at this stage, is all about pregnancy, parenting, surviving, getting medals.  Obviously I am the one handing out the medals.  So, when I cannot give myself the medal I was aiming for, I feel defeated.  Blue.

If truth be told, I feel like I may have figured out that, if I was to avoid being swallowed by the bluest of blues, I'd better make my lists public.  That way I can bank on the wonderful pep-talk that is the support of friends and mothers.  And maybe they can tell me about their lists.

And maybe, just maybe, other people will be more likely to hand out medals.

I'll have a cliche, please.

I once told a friend that her proposal on top of the Eiffel tower was the biggest cliche and the most romantic thing ever.  Needless to say, thanks to my big mouth and my stupid pride, we are no longer friends.  Pride is a dangerous thing.  Basically, I think it likes to pretend that you are so different and special that you will never do the predictable, run of the mill things.  I suspect it goes hand in hand with being a little bit jealous.

Now, I am not referring to being proud of someone or something.  For example, if your brother wins a race, you are allowed to feel proud.  Usually the kind of pride that is dangerous is the pride you feel for yourself.  It puts you in a different box.  That being said - I was always annoyed by people who would upload tons of photos of their children to Facebook.  I always told myself that sharing that pose of the baby asleep on the dads chest was such a cliche.

Until this morning.  And let me tell you - when that picture presents itself for the first time - the only feeling you can feel is overwhelming, beautiful pride.  So I snapped away and uploaded the moment straight to Facebook.  Never passed go, never collected $200.

From now on, I think I will re-think things a little.  And appreciate the beauty of the cliche.

Early morning mercies

I have never been one to take much interest in other peoples' religions.  But this morning I realised that, maybe having as many arms as a hindu god would be useful.

I was trying to carry bottles and baby down the stairs when I dropped the bottles, waterfall fashion.  They made it all the way to the bottom. And, while I realise that baby may not have had the survival power of plastic bottles - which made me grateful for the waterfall effect - I felt annoyed.  How is it that my previous multi-tasking skill level has dropped lower than my gym attendance?

Along comes freshly showered, ready for work, man on a white horse.  He smells wonderful and not like breast milk.  He manages to tidy up the bottles, put the kettle on, get breakfast and entertain his daughter in one smooth move.  Man, has he ever been more handsome?

I realise now that, maybe dads are heroes, not purely because of their strength, but because they have the ability to rescue momsels in distress.

An ode to grandparents

The word grand, according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, refers to something of a higher rank than others bearing the same general designation.  To apply this status to something as challenging as parenthood, may possibly begin to explain the roll grandparents play.  Not only in the lives of their grand children, but also in the lives of their own.

My parents came to visit me shortly after my daughter was born.  Some nights were long and never-ending, as they often are with newborns.  But having my parents there made it all ok.  Somehow I wanted more to spend time with them than catch up on sleep.  I wanted to share with them, the miracle that I made.  I wanted them to feel what I felt.  And, seeing the wonder in their eyes for something (or someone) that is not their own, yet their own blood, was fuel enough to keep going.  Love seems to know no limits in it's tonic-like qualities.

Grand parents.  They have a higher rank, not only because they have done it all before.  But maybe because they have space enough in their hearts to let more in.  Because they just keep giving more and more love.  They know no fear for fear bringing, decibel registering screams.  They are not afraid of the dark, or the monsters in the closet.  They just smile.  And love.

Grand.

Lily

The most wonderful thing ever happened to me 12 days ago.  A little voice came into the world.  She tested her lungs with great vigour - she cried.  And the world rejoiced.  And with those first utterings, I knew for sure that I was in love.  And that the rest of my life would be dedicated to this love.

Now, there is love for your other half.  But that's a different kind of love.  This love, so big that it would probably fill my whole house if I was to try and measure it in jellybeans or grains of sand, renders you at the same time powerless and completed.

Is this love?

Only love can make you endure pain and be satisfied.  Only love can make you feel grateful for a dirty nappy.  If this is not love, then surely it must be madness.  And love, in the words of Norah Jones, "is the closest thing to crazy I have ever been".

Welcome to the world little blessing.  This blog serves to share you with a world that has waited for what felt like forever for your arrival.  We are all crazy about you.