I took a blogging break for a bit. Three weeks in MN visiting family and attending and participating in weddings, followed by two weeks of walking pneumonia for me. And now, the holidays.
So much has changed with Ingrid. She's 15 months now, and running, not walking. She took her first steps at 14 months, but it took her another 4 weeks of crawling/walking/crawling/walking to get comfortable being a biped. She runs like a little marionette, limbs lifted by invisible strings at the elbows and knees. Her favorite activity is being chased and slamming the toilet seat down. She is also talking up a storm. In addition to body parts, she's got animal sounds down, as well as "numb nuts," her father's favorite epitaph for her. Everything is "keys!," "cheese," "deer!," "milk!," and "knitting needles!'' all the time. That last one is my fault.
This year I've decided to knit or crochet all holiday gifts. I learned how to knit years ago, but never really became obsessed until this year. Mostly I think that's because motherhood has made me infinitely more patient and willing to work through tedious and frustrating things, like deciphering a fair isle pattern or feeding a toddler a bowl of soup. But also, motherhood has made me poor. And I'm not the kind of person who can just browse the mall during the holidays; if I'm there I'll spend money, and so it's best to just stay home and knit. Besides, in the last decade, the Internet has exploded with the most insane and brilliant knitting sites and bloggers. And if you can't figure out a stitch, youtube will have some patient women named Marlene explaining it to you in 3 minutes. It's unreal.
I still have the make all the women in my family (mom, sister, SIL) their cowls, which is the project I hope to start during this naptime. I'll post pictures later.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Monday, October 7, 2013
Farm animal disease
Ingrid never gets sick. She's like the Bruce Willis character from "Unbreakable." I've had the Norovirus and several sinus colds/infections in the last 13 months and she's always healthy. It could be the amazing breast milk business, or maybe luck. Erik's maternal grandma, however, was born in the 19th century, lived through two world wars, moved from Sweden to Chicago and didn't die until she was 97, so I'm hoping Ingrid just got those genes.
Four weeks ago, Ingrid started going to PMO, Parent's Morning Out. This is a Southern thing. Baptist and Methodist churches around the city have very affordable mini-daycare/play-schools for four hours each morning. Ingrid goes on Mondays, and this has allowed me some time to work on deadlines and also clean the toilet without Ingrid eating Clorox wipes. It's very nice, even though I've been told Ingrid hogs a teacher and cries a lot when she's not being held. Ingrid's ego needs a lot of stroking.
Anyway, last week I heard another mom explain to the PMO boss that her son (who's in Ingrid's class) had a fever over the weekend but was now fine. The boss said he could come for the day. Fast forward to Friday. Ingrid has been crabby all week, and now she's crying and poking inside her mouth with her fingers. The dreaded molars. I give her some icy chew toys and ignore it. Later, Erik gives her a bath and asks me if I saw "all the red marks on her butt." Now, in addition to never being sick, Ingrid has never had diaper rash, so I assume Erik is just dramatically identifying a common problem. I peak at her bum, and am horrified by what I see. Those cute cellulite cheeks covered in blisters, and blisters on the soles of her feet, and one on her wrist. Thirty seconds of googling leads me to the diagnosis: Hand, Foot, & Mouth Disease. First, let me say that name disgusts me. It sounds like something industrially farmed poultry gets. Second, wtf? Our daughter is bathed nightly and attacked with wipies throughout the day. And she never gets sick!
Not 48 hours after Erik saw Ingrid's rash we get an email from the PMO boss. There's been an outbreak at the school. Unfortunately, HFMD is very contagious, and typically babies get a mild fever for a few days and THEN breakout in the telltale blisters, so parents often allow them to go to school or daycare assuming they're fine and/or teething. Instead, they're contagious little farm animal disease time bombs. HFMD isn't that dangerous, and Ingrid is on the mend, but it's still really gross.
I don't know which little snot-nosed baby belongs to the mother I heard talking to the boss, but I'll withhold blame for now. Ingrid is a finger-sucker (she sucks her Pointer upside down in her mouth, the "Upstairs" cousin to the plebeian "Downstairs" thumb-sucker), so she probably touches a lot of crap and gets the germs in her trap in the blink of an eye.
Four weeks ago, Ingrid started going to PMO, Parent's Morning Out. This is a Southern thing. Baptist and Methodist churches around the city have very affordable mini-daycare/play-schools for four hours each morning. Ingrid goes on Mondays, and this has allowed me some time to work on deadlines and also clean the toilet without Ingrid eating Clorox wipes. It's very nice, even though I've been told Ingrid hogs a teacher and cries a lot when she's not being held. Ingrid's ego needs a lot of stroking.
Anyway, last week I heard another mom explain to the PMO boss that her son (who's in Ingrid's class) had a fever over the weekend but was now fine. The boss said he could come for the day. Fast forward to Friday. Ingrid has been crabby all week, and now she's crying and poking inside her mouth with her fingers. The dreaded molars. I give her some icy chew toys and ignore it. Later, Erik gives her a bath and asks me if I saw "all the red marks on her butt." Now, in addition to never being sick, Ingrid has never had diaper rash, so I assume Erik is just dramatically identifying a common problem. I peak at her bum, and am horrified by what I see. Those cute cellulite cheeks covered in blisters, and blisters on the soles of her feet, and one on her wrist. Thirty seconds of googling leads me to the diagnosis: Hand, Foot, & Mouth Disease. First, let me say that name disgusts me. It sounds like something industrially farmed poultry gets. Second, wtf? Our daughter is bathed nightly and attacked with wipies throughout the day. And she never gets sick!
Not 48 hours after Erik saw Ingrid's rash we get an email from the PMO boss. There's been an outbreak at the school. Unfortunately, HFMD is very contagious, and typically babies get a mild fever for a few days and THEN breakout in the telltale blisters, so parents often allow them to go to school or daycare assuming they're fine and/or teething. Instead, they're contagious little farm animal disease time bombs. HFMD isn't that dangerous, and Ingrid is on the mend, but it's still really gross.
I don't know which little snot-nosed baby belongs to the mother I heard talking to the boss, but I'll withhold blame for now. Ingrid is a finger-sucker (she sucks her Pointer upside down in her mouth, the "Upstairs" cousin to the plebeian "Downstairs" thumb-sucker), so she probably touches a lot of crap and gets the germs in her trap in the blink of an eye.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
But does she eat pastries?
Wednesdays are my favorite day of the week with Ingrid. First, I like the natural hump day vibe, an almost celebratory workman's feeling of making it through. Second, we have music class in the morning followed by a weekly picnic with some mom friends in the Duke Gardens. It's my only super scheduled "mom" day of the week.
The Duke Gardens are surely one of Durham's crown jewels: A koi pond, rose garden, petting zoo, vegetable garden, natural plants reserve and several fountains all open to the public. The university's gift of a garden is one of the (only?) most elegantly mediated town-gown overtures in Durham. And the mom's I meet there always help get me through the week.
When Ingrid was first born, I signed up for a mom group and found myself in the awkward position of trying to date mom friends. My two best friends in Durham are not moms, but they adore my child and I love them, so it was hard not to constantly compare the moms I met to these women. Still, I'm sure talking about nap schedules would be annoying for my friends, so I tried to meet other moms. While all the moms I met were nice, none had that spark that allows you to keep. talking. forever. Last fall at this time, I joined a newborn group and after everyone was done talking about poop, I said, "Who here is watching 'Homeland'?" Radio silence. Then, another time during a meet and greet we were going around the rooms introducing ourselves, our babies and why we live in Durham. That last bit was a chance for every woman but me to explain that Samir's dad was a hand surgeon doing a medical fellowship at Duke. When it was my turn I gamely said, "We're also in Durham because of Duke, but sadly Ingrid's dad is the wrong kind of doctor." I thought it was a great line! But instead of laughing, everyone just played with their babies' footie outfits.
I love talking about my child, but, especially in the early months, there wasn't that much to talk about. Or, what was sanctioned for discussion -- poop, tummy time, introduction of oatmeal -- was boring to me. If one of the mom's wanted to talk about the overwhelming sense of love they felt for the baby when they nursed, I'd have been game. If someone else would have shared that they too were bored to tears by the endless days in the life of a four month old, I would have cried along with them. But so often the talk was just a veiled attempt at making sure each baby was keeping up with the group. And, none of them ever ate any of the baked goods at these playgroups, which for me was always the most compelling reason to go.
Luckily I found these new moms through a mom friend I could talk to forever. And thankfully they talk about toddlerhood and Netflix in equal measure. Maybe it's a better group because we're all just more comfortable in our roles as moms, and it doesn't feel dangerous to say that we love our baby but they're driving us crazy because of X, Y or Z. Or maybe these are just women who like to eat pastries and don't have hand surgeons for husbands. For whatever reason, it makes for a good hump day.
The Duke Gardens are surely one of Durham's crown jewels: A koi pond, rose garden, petting zoo, vegetable garden, natural plants reserve and several fountains all open to the public. The university's gift of a garden is one of the (only?) most elegantly mediated town-gown overtures in Durham. And the mom's I meet there always help get me through the week.
When Ingrid was first born, I signed up for a mom group and found myself in the awkward position of trying to date mom friends. My two best friends in Durham are not moms, but they adore my child and I love them, so it was hard not to constantly compare the moms I met to these women. Still, I'm sure talking about nap schedules would be annoying for my friends, so I tried to meet other moms. While all the moms I met were nice, none had that spark that allows you to keep. talking. forever. Last fall at this time, I joined a newborn group and after everyone was done talking about poop, I said, "Who here is watching 'Homeland'?" Radio silence. Then, another time during a meet and greet we were going around the rooms introducing ourselves, our babies and why we live in Durham. That last bit was a chance for every woman but me to explain that Samir's dad was a hand surgeon doing a medical fellowship at Duke. When it was my turn I gamely said, "We're also in Durham because of Duke, but sadly Ingrid's dad is the wrong kind of doctor." I thought it was a great line! But instead of laughing, everyone just played with their babies' footie outfits.
I love talking about my child, but, especially in the early months, there wasn't that much to talk about. Or, what was sanctioned for discussion -- poop, tummy time, introduction of oatmeal -- was boring to me. If one of the mom's wanted to talk about the overwhelming sense of love they felt for the baby when they nursed, I'd have been game. If someone else would have shared that they too were bored to tears by the endless days in the life of a four month old, I would have cried along with them. But so often the talk was just a veiled attempt at making sure each baby was keeping up with the group. And, none of them ever ate any of the baked goods at these playgroups, which for me was always the most compelling reason to go.
Luckily I found these new moms through a mom friend I could talk to forever. And thankfully they talk about toddlerhood and Netflix in equal measure. Maybe it's a better group because we're all just more comfortable in our roles as moms, and it doesn't feel dangerous to say that we love our baby but they're driving us crazy because of X, Y or Z. Or maybe these are just women who like to eat pastries and don't have hand surgeons for husbands. For whatever reason, it makes for a good hump day.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
My Blessedly Average Toddler
Ingrid turned 13 months on Sept. 17. Technically, she is a toddler, even though she still cruises along furniture, babbles and tries to eat crayons instead of draw with them. According to her pediatrician, she is perfectly normal, healthy and well-adjusted and for that I am so grateful. I know parents that don't have such an easy road, and I count my lucky stars every night.
Besides her dimples and her enthusiasm for balls, Ingrid's most distinguishing feature is her size. Ingrid is big. As in, off the charts for height (33 inches) and in the 96 percentile for weight (24.6 pounds). Because she's so huge, people out in public assume she's older than she is and thus say things to me like, "Don't worry, she'll walk soon."* I nod and say I'm not worried, but my behavior betrays me. Instead of eye-rolling my way across the Huffington Post's parenting page, I read it religiously. Same with BabyCenter updates, any baby-themed coverage in the NY Times Well blog and all the damn Slate pieces about how creating spreadsheets of your child's behavior patterns make you a good mom.
I fall victim to all this anxious consumption; my husband, however, does not. When Ingrid is a little slow to walk, it's hard for me not to assume I'm doing something wrong, that her laziness is not somehow a black mark on my mothering card. But when Erik looks at the situation, he just sees Ingrid. He totally parents without narrcissism. I don't know if this is because he's just very gifted at being a father, or if he has crazy low expectations of himself. I think it's the later. That sounds harsh, but it's true: As long as Erik keeps Ingrid alive and relatively happy on his watch, he thinks he's done a good job parenting. Most mothers I know don't judge their efforts so generously. With Pinsanity, public debate about parenting philosophies and social media that allows us to voyeur into other people's domestic spheres, we start to believe there's a right way to be parenting, a formula for mothering, and if we get it wrong there will be terrible consequences. I have my unoriginal theories about why this loss of confidence is so rampant, especially among a certain educated set of women, but I think regardless of its cause the result is the same: We're driving ourselves crazy.
I talk to my mom throughout the day. When Ingrid is being particularly crabby and I have a work deadline, Mimi Jen is quick to offer some solutions: Put her in the pack n' play with some toys and leave her alone. Turn on the TV. Put her in the crib with her books and shut the door. Now, these suggestions sound to me like the epitome of unenlightened Baby Boomer advice. Isn't she worried about screen time? What about mixing up her sleep associations with the crib? What if she gets lonely and thinks I'm abandoning her or not meeting her needs? My mother's response to all these questions is the same: Well, you turned out fine.
I did (in theory). I certainly don't remember if my mom put me in a play pen while she made lunch for the other kids. It wasn't a big deal, and doubt she thought twice about it. It's the not thinking twice thing that makes me envious of my mom's generation. I don't believe in screen time, and I don't think play pens are super healthy, but I do think it's healthy to have a mother who is pleased with herself, and confident in her abilities. A mother who isn't ashamed to say that her child is totally, completely, blessedly average.
Besides her dimples and her enthusiasm for balls, Ingrid's most distinguishing feature is her size. Ingrid is big. As in, off the charts for height (33 inches) and in the 96 percentile for weight (24.6 pounds). Because she's so huge, people out in public assume she's older than she is and thus say things to me like, "Don't worry, she'll walk soon."* I nod and say I'm not worried, but my behavior betrays me. Instead of eye-rolling my way across the Huffington Post's parenting page, I read it religiously. Same with BabyCenter updates, any baby-themed coverage in the NY Times Well blog and all the damn Slate pieces about how creating spreadsheets of your child's behavior patterns make you a good mom.
I fall victim to all this anxious consumption; my husband, however, does not. When Ingrid is a little slow to walk, it's hard for me not to assume I'm doing something wrong, that her laziness is not somehow a black mark on my mothering card. But when Erik looks at the situation, he just sees Ingrid. He totally parents without narrcissism. I don't know if this is because he's just very gifted at being a father, or if he has crazy low expectations of himself. I think it's the later. That sounds harsh, but it's true: As long as Erik keeps Ingrid alive and relatively happy on his watch, he thinks he's done a good job parenting. Most mothers I know don't judge their efforts so generously. With Pinsanity, public debate about parenting philosophies and social media that allows us to voyeur into other people's domestic spheres, we start to believe there's a right way to be parenting, a formula for mothering, and if we get it wrong there will be terrible consequences. I have my unoriginal theories about why this loss of confidence is so rampant, especially among a certain educated set of women, but I think regardless of its cause the result is the same: We're driving ourselves crazy.
 |
| Here's 13 month old Ingrid. Blessedly average. |
I did (in theory). I certainly don't remember if my mom put me in a play pen while she made lunch for the other kids. It wasn't a big deal, and doubt she thought twice about it. It's the not thinking twice thing that makes me envious of my mom's generation. I don't believe in screen time, and I don't think play pens are super healthy, but I do think it's healthy to have a mother who is pleased with herself, and confident in her abilities. A mother who isn't ashamed to say that her child is totally, completely, blessedly average.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Back to Blogging
I haven't blogged since 2009, when I moved from Germany to North Carolina. Back then my blog was a way to write about life abroad, keep my family and friends abreast of my expat existence, and kill some time as I tried to illegally download American television shows. It was fun, and, moreover, easy. When I started the blog in 2008, I didn't feel the need to justify why I was writing; I moved to another country and it was just something silly to do. But now there are mommy blogs and cooking blogs, fashion blogs and lifestyle blogs, blogs that get people book deals and TV shows, etc. According to an email that I just got, Gwyneth Paltrow has been blogging for five years! My point is, it feels much scarier to be dipping my toe into the proverbial Internet waters. I don't recall ever worrying if I had something novel to add to the cacophony of the web back in 2008. I was just impressed with myself when I figured out how to hyperlink text.
In the five years since I last blogged, I went to gradate school, bought a house and survived the first (and second, third, and fourth) years of marriage. I also had a baby. Ingrid Rosemary joined us last August, and for the last 13 months, I've been a work-from-home mom. It's only been five years, but motherhood and married life is a time warp. Sometimes it feels like it's been a whole century.
When Ingrid was five months old, I was still giving her a bath in her baby bathtub. I loved her tub; she looked like Cleopatra floating down the Nile in it. She sat in a reclined position, and at five months had the sort of luxurious rolls of inner thigh fat only an ancient monarch could have. I was rinsing her hair and she was splashing me when I started crying. Erik came in and I explained that I was so so so sad, because 100 years wouldn't be enough time with this girl. It all goes much too fast, even on the days when you look at the clock and realize it's only 1 pm, and she won't nap, and you can't legally put her to bed until at least 7, and if you have to read "Brown Bear, Brown Bear" one more time you might start day drinking. Even those days end too quickly. So, like roughly 15 million other American moms, I'm starting a blog so I can make time go a little slower on some days, and faster on others.
In the five years since I last blogged, I went to gradate school, bought a house and survived the first (and second, third, and fourth) years of marriage. I also had a baby. Ingrid Rosemary joined us last August, and for the last 13 months, I've been a work-from-home mom. It's only been five years, but motherhood and married life is a time warp. Sometimes it feels like it's been a whole century.
When Ingrid was five months old, I was still giving her a bath in her baby bathtub. I loved her tub; she looked like Cleopatra floating down the Nile in it. She sat in a reclined position, and at five months had the sort of luxurious rolls of inner thigh fat only an ancient monarch could have. I was rinsing her hair and she was splashing me when I started crying. Erik came in and I explained that I was so so so sad, because 100 years wouldn't be enough time with this girl. It all goes much too fast, even on the days when you look at the clock and realize it's only 1 pm, and she won't nap, and you can't legally put her to bed until at least 7, and if you have to read "Brown Bear, Brown Bear" one more time you might start day drinking. Even those days end too quickly. So, like roughly 15 million other American moms, I'm starting a blog so I can make time go a little slower on some days, and faster on others.
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