Has it been a year?

I wear my age proudly, like a child.

Each year that passes, I look back at what I've come through. I thumb through old journal entries and letters. I think to myself, I have survived this. I made it through the difficult days and the wonderful ones, too. Each year just seems to get easier.

So, why not? Be proud of how I get older, I mean. It's fantastic, isn't it? Like a puzzle I am building - aiming for a picture of grace, wisdom, humour, and compassion.

February 2010

Sometimes this motherhood thing can be intense. It's true that everybody tells you, everybody says: it changes you. But what they don't say is that it can rip the you right out of your body for a while. Right out of your experience. That you will find yourself watching your life pass by as though you aren't even living it anymore.

You are so quickly thrown into the fire of passion and motherhood that you don't even have time to notice how you are not you. You are other. It isn't necessarily bad. It is just so scary, at first, and so different. It can be hard to know exactly where you are going, anymore, and if you are going anywhere at all. I used to be a steam engine, laying tracks seconds before I powered over them. And now I ask myself if I am even going anywhere at all. We've scaled this mountain side, and now we take pause. Which path leads this train to happiness?

Even now, as I explore this new role, I'm still dig dig digging into the back of my mind, deep in self-reflection. Even now, nearly a year later. Nearly a year since I walked out of the hospital wide-eyed in disbelief that they were letting us take this tiny fragile human being home in our care. To our home. Forever. Even now, I'm still not sure who I am.

But I can see myself, coming through the forest, with a steady pace and a more confident step than I have had in years. I can see all the strength inside myself, the willingness to be magnificent and electric. Without ego. Simply to be the best human I can be, for myself, for my son. Within my own boundaries. 

And I like that the glimpses of my old self still shine through in so many tenacious and spectacular ways.

My Brilliant High-Maintenance Baby

I have a confession.

I think I might have a high maintenance baby. As I write this, he is attempting to take a nap because he is exhausted. Every 20 minutes he cries like he has seen the boogeyman and needs me to come to him and gently pick him up so that he can calmly fall back asleep in my arms. I lay him down, he sleeps peacefully, and 20 minutes later we begin again.

Play with me!

If we are having an in-house day, he needs me nearby at all times. He likes to look up into my face and make sure everything is hunky-dory. He wants me to read to him. He wants me to play with him. He wants me to sing to him, change his diaper, sit him up, lay him down, put him in the Jump-mo-tron, take him out, carry him around, nurse him, toss him around, bounce him, nurse him while bouncing him, and GOD FORBID if I try to sneak out of the room while he naps. He knows. It's as if he can smell that I've left.

Does all of this make my baby difficult? No! All of this makes my superfluous life difficult! Blogging is difficult, cleaning is difficult, keeping my etsy store fully stocked is difficult, showering is difficult, having a quiet cup of afternoon tea is really difficult.

But I refuse to think about the time I spend with Baby D as difficult. I'll admit that I have felt overwhelmed. I have felt completely burried by his needs and his heartwrenching little cries. I had to make a choice and the choice seemed clear:

If I can't change this situation, then I am going to change my outlook. 

No longer do I "suffer" through naptime, I relish in our quiet bedtime moments. No longer is Desmond feeling "fussy" he is particular and dependent - he needs one of us to help him feel alright. No longer do I worry about my dusty furniture, uncooked dinners, unfolded laundry. I cheerfully spend my days on the floor where he wants me, singing made-up songs about him and his farts and his toes and how much I love him. I joyfully wear him around the neighbourhood to keep him entertained. I happily stay home in the evenings, missing most of the adult fun my friends are having, just to splash around in the bath, give him a baby massage, and cuddle him to sleep at night.

People ask me if he is a "Good Baby" and I still say yes. Of course he is a good baby, all babies are inherently good. If you want to know my heavily biased mom-pinion, he is more than just good. He is spectacular and brilliant and so emotionally connected. And I'm choosing to enjoy every damn second of his baby brilliance.



Tell me I'm not alone. Do you have a brilliantly high maintenance baby?