Blank Page

Yesterday I was sitting in downtown Bethesda with Rachel. We were playing together and giggling up a storm. I was having such an amazing time. I get endless pleasure from seeing this child smile. I’m not going to pretend that it’s all fun and easy, but that’s just the thing. A lot of the time this parenting this is absolutely exhausting, and involves rather unpleasant and smelly experiences. When it IS easy - like sitting on a park bench singing, dancing and giggling easy - that’s the time to relax and enjoy. No matter how fantastic she turns out to be, the days that she will love standing on my knees, balancing with her little hands wrapped around my pinkies and dancing as I sing to her are surely numbered. Meanwhile it’s pure heaven.

An added bonus is that, because Rachel is so smiling and friendly, people stop to admire her. When strangers tell me that Rachel is adorable and sweet, I feel like I’m doing a good job. Because this is truly the hardest job in the world it is infinitely satisfying to receive random and unprompted praise. It’s also really fun to see how much Rachel’s smile can light up someone else’s day. This part has nothing to do with me. I just feel like putting so much love and joy out there into the world can only create good kharmic energy for Rachel. Plus, it’s just cute!

So, I’m sitting on a bench on Bethesda Row goofing around with Rachel when two “women of a certain age” walk by. If I was forced to guess, I’d put them at about 70. This is Rachel’s target audience. Such women usually are parents and grandparents, and generally enjoy the pleasure that children bring - particularly if it’s from children to whom they have no diaper-changing responsibilities. Rachel saw them coming, and let out a coo and smile. I heard one of the women gasp. I expected to hear “what’s this precious little one’s name?”. Instead, I heard “Look! A new Apple store!”.

Okay, I wasn’t that into Scrubs in the first place, and I stopped watching it at all once it switched networks. But, as Josh watches the show, in the interest of spending time together I sat through the episode called “My Full Moon”. I was mildly amused, and somewhat entertained, but then in the final moments I went to full on pissed off. The show ends with Elliot, a female doctor, saying that someday when she’s married, has children, and is financially independent, she will quit being a doctor. Call me crazy, but that bit about being “financially independent” seemed an afterthought by the lone woman in the writer’s room. The real idea was that this educated, experienced doctor, who in the course of the show demonstrates her strength as a good mentor and diagnostician, will give up her career once she’s married and has children.

The sentiment expressed in this show is exactly the opposite of what I want my daughter to see on television. It reinforces my idea that marriage and children have historically weakened the role of women in society. Someone tried to sell us the idea, several hundred or more years ago, that it was a good thing to stay home and raise kids while the men go out and work.

Update for those who like to live in reality. The men made this up. No, really. If you go back a thousand or more years, you’ll find that children were raised by the community, usually by the elderly or a few nurturing sorts, while both men and women went out to do work. The men usually did the hunting, because as much as I hate to admit it they usually can throw spears further than we can. The women did the gathering, because we have more patience, and being closer in to the children is a good idea when you ARE the food supply. Not to mention that whole thing about not being able to run very far, or very fast, when you’re enduring the inevitable and endless number of pregnancies that occurred in the absence of modern birth control. Anyway, this was fairly functional because there was a lot of work to be done, and everyone had to do what they could. The adults worked, and the children thrived because they were socialized into the community early on and learned the necessary social skills while being taught history and some basics of life by the elders. I like to think of this as the very first daycare system.

Somewhere around the industrial era it became apparent that machines were going to perform some of the jobs that used to require the brute force that men are able to supply. John Henry aside, the men were rendered useless and they went into a tizzy. Then it occurred to one of them that office work was actually a really good alternative to manual labor, but that women, being the less able to lift big stuff of the two sexes, had taken many of those jobs. That’s when the whole “angel in the house” thing got into full swing. A PR campaign got underway saying that the perfect woman was one who stayed home and suffered. Fabulous! Bring on some of that womanhood for me. There was an immediate backlash, thanks to Ibsen, but the majority of people kept on with that angel idea.

As to why woman would buy into such a ridiculous concept, my best guess is because it’s easier. Not the actual staying home. The staying home is hard. Those kids demand your every second, you don’t get time to yourself, and you’re left with the feeling that nothing you do is important or good enough, because you don’t earn money and there’s always more to do that you just can’t get done. So, the actual staying home is way hard. When I say that it’s easy, what I mean is that it’s devoid of risk. It’s akin to hiding. You can’t get reprimanded, fired or judged. There’s no evaluation. There’s no chance that someone will tear you down just because they can. When you have a bad day, if you cry, no one takes you out of the running for the promotion. There ARE no promotions, so you can’t get passed up for one.

There is one risk though, and most people never consider it. That’s the risk that suddenly, after taking no risks in life, the social structure you’ve bought into will get yanked out from underneath your slippered feet. One day you can come home and find that the husband is gone, but the kids and the mortgage are not. Then what? What resources do you have? What skills? What sense of self? What balls?

The way I’m raising my daughter is back to the REAL good old days. The ones when women and men alike contributed to society, while the young were raised with other children and cared for by those with the most nurturing personalities. My daughter is going to be brought up knowing that her mother took risks, tripped up sometimes, and foraged onward, and that is the role model I want her to have. If I ever have a son, I want him to see the same. I want children of mine, regardless of sex, to know that a real woman is one who can take care of herself. That their mother is the sort of person who doesn’t need anyone else to survive, and stays married by choice. That no matter how much money there is, the work isn’t about making money. It’s about being a woman.

My baby has survived her first cold. Also her second and third colds, from the looks of things. She’s had a sniffle for about a month. The cough is new. Every time she coughs during the night, I wake up. As a result, I haven’t slept much lately.

It’s so hard to watch Rachel’s little body tense up as the cough comes on. And the little tiny nose on that baby is capable of producing boogers bigger than anything I’ve seen come out of my own nose. Of course, without the advantage of knowing how to “blow”, the only way to clear out the boogers is for me to get in there with an aspirator. So, Rachel now knows what an aspirator is, and when she sees one coming she screams, arches her back, turns her head, and tries to beat my hand back with her fist. Sweet child.

Fortunately, most of the time she feels well enough to play. She loves toys with faces. She’s got the Baby Einstein bouncer (thank you HCMG accounting department!), and it’s one of her favorite places to hang out. We put her in there when we need a break because once in she can’t get out. Adult time for us, and play time for her. Good stuff. The bouncer has places where you can hang jingley toys. Each one of the toys has a face as they are a lion, a chicken, a bunny, and so on. Rachel has a fascination with the chicken. It’s her first best friend. She sits there, staring down the chicken, for extended periods of time. Way longer than is polite for prolonged eye contact.

Rachel now smiles when smiled at, which is very rewarding. Even when she’s been at her most sick, when I show up at daycare to get her, and she sees me smiling at her with my arms out for a hug, she reciprocates. I don’t know if a three month old can miss someone, but it makes me think that she at least notices I’ve been gone. That feels good. It’s hard to leave her, especially when I know she doesn’t feel well. Even though I know she’s in a good place, with kind staff and sweet children, and even though I love my job and wouldn’t change a thing, there’s a piece of me that’s missing when Rachel’s not in my arms.

Contrary to how I thought I would feel, I miss being pregnant. I didn’t like anything about pregnancy, except for the anticipated outcome, for the whole 39 weeks. Now I realize that when I was pregnant I could be close to Rachel all day. I could protect her, and control her environment. She could come to the office with me and snuggle all day. I know one day she’ll grow up, and then I doubt we’ll snuggle at all, but for now I find myself nostalgic for the little baby I had three months ago. As I tell her all the time, she’s getting to be such a big girl.

Today I woke up at 3AM when my hand hit a wet spot on my shirt. Slightly disturbed to find most of my t-shirt wet, I checked myself for the source of the problem. It was my boobs. They even got the sheets wet. As Rachel was sound asleep, I pumped for a while, and then went back to bed too tired to change into a clean shirt. I guess my body is telling me to either breast-feed or pump more than I have been. What I’m wondering now is what will happen in February when I go back to work. I’m trying to imagine the look on a client’s face if I leak in a meeting. Ugh. One more question for my pediatrician.

I’m not going to say that last Saturday was the first time I’ve fallen asleep at 4:30AM on a couch, with sore nipples, surrounded by empty bottles, with someone else on top of me. Or that, then and now, I wasn’t scared to move for fear of waking the other person. But, I am going to suggest that if I’d been married during a previous instance, my reaction upon hearing my husband walk into the living room would not have been “this is yours. I’m going to bed.”

I weighed Rachel last night, and she is 11.5 lbs. That’s one big seven week old kid. My only complaint is that she always wants to eat. Then again, anyone who can increase her body weight by more than 50% in seven weeks on just milk…well, I suppose she should be hungry. As a result of her hunger, she can’t seem to get to sleep. She struggles against the Miracle Blanket, otherwise known as the baby straight jacket, and the expression on her face says “Can’t sleep. Must. Stay. Up. Food! Where’s the food!” So, I have a baby who can sleep through the night, but can’t get to sleep at night. I’m back on my college sleep schedule of staying up late and waking up early, only I’m about to turn 35, and that just isn’t going to work for me. And her defiance against the straight jacket is working. Most mornings I find her partially, if not entirely, busted out. I’m raising a little Houdini. I’d better start preparing now for her teenage years.

Josh is back to work, and most days I wish I was back to work. This job is way harder than my other one. At this job I take orders from someone who’s younger than me, way shorter than me, and I have no assistant. I still think I’m a very lucky woman to have such a precious girl, but when I go back to the office I’m going to feel like I have nothing to do all day. Still, I’ll miss that face.

I haven’t been writing anything longer than a paragraph lately because I haven’t had enough energy. That can be explained by the best news I’ve ever shared. Rachel Weslee Pitlick. She arrived November 18th. Thanks to a rather smallish head, and what I can only assume is an indomitable will, she came the day before I was scheduled to be induced, after only 6 hrs of labor. She’s healthy, and to my eyes one of the prettiest babies I’ve ever seen. See for yourself. http://www.solidpcs.com/Rachel. She was 20.5 inches and 7 lbs, 6 oz at birth, but at her two week visit to the doctor she was already 21 inches and 8 lbs, 4 oz. Quite a little handful for someone so young. She’s an angel all day, and we’re working on nights. We’re getting there…slowly.

I didn’t know how much I didn’t know. I didn’t know how unconditional my love could be. I spent the majority of the first three days of her life just holding her and looking at her in awe. I automatically wake up minutes before she cries out for food. My body just knows she’ll need me, and even when it hurts to move that’s all that matters. Motherhood is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but when those eyes look up at me, and I feel that petal-soft cheek rub against mine, I know that Rachel is the best part of what Josh and I have together.

Can’t write. Can’t think. Brain obsessed with counting contractions and feeling for “something different” in my cervix. Not that I’m in labor mind you. Oh, that would be too easy. I’ve been having regular whatever they are pains for several weeks now and it could last for several weeks more. It’s a little hard to focus on anything else when I’m constantly looking at a clock trying to figure out if my contractions meet the test for driving to the hospital. Co-workers are joking that they’re going to put a bassinet in my office. Just in case.

When this actually does happen, and it will, I’ll update here asap. There will be a birth story. There will be pictures (of the baby - nothing gross - ick). I’m hoping it’ll be very, very soon.

With four weeks left in my pregnancy (maximum) there is both absolutely no chance that I can think straight, and a million things I want to say. This makes it incredibly difficult to write. My head is spinning with every pivotal moment in my life. I want to write it all down so that I don’t forget what to tell my daughter. I want her to know that it’s okay to be strong and have a broken heart at the same time. That if she tries drugs I’ll understand, but that she really shouldn’t because in the end she’ll either decide they’re not for her and feel stupid about her choice, or she’ll make a lifestyle out of drugs and actually be stupid. That she might love people and hate them at the same time, and that I might be one of them. That someday she will do something, whatever it is, that she will regret…and that’s just a part of life.

I’ve always wanted a child, and always pictured myself having a little girl. It’s the mini-me concept. I see myself raising someone just like me only with a completely unwritten path in front of her. Of course, I’ve recently realized that I could be completely wrong. My daughter could turn out to be nothing like me, and nothing like Josh. I grew up in a family where we are, for the most part, all exactly alike. There are some differences in personality style, but basically we think about the world with one vision. My husband grew up in a family where everyone has very distinct personalities, and important differences, but still only one set of values. What if that isn’t how this turns out? What if I raise someone who I can’t relate to. It does happen. I hear people talk about their parents as these lovely people who they care about but barely talk to. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. Even on days I can’t stand my parents I call them to talk about it.

This little person growing inside of me, whose squirmings have turned into distinct efforts to get out and know the world, will soon be here and my life will change forever. I couldn’t possibly be more scared and excited. The joyous vision I have always had in my head of the kind of parent I will be is about to explode. Now I’m just hoping to fuck it up as little as possible. As Chris Rock says, your only goal is to keep your daughter off a pole - if she’s on a pole wearing clear heels you’ve failed as a parent. I’ll admit I want a little more than that out of my parenting, but basically that’s the idea. I’m taking it in baby steps. First goal, figure out how to feed, change and bathe my child. Second goal, figure out how to get my child to sleep. From there I’m going to make it up as I go along.

As I’m sitting here at my desk, my daughter-to-be is wiggling inside of me. Thirty-nine more days til I’m due. Thirty-nine days, at most, til I get to meet this little girl who will both love me and rebel against me, but who I will always just love.

When I got pregnant I was only looking forward to this, but now I’m scared to death. The pregnancy has been uncomfortable. Every morning and every night I change the pad in my underwear so that I don’t pee on myself when I cough, or sneeze, or laugh, or turn to the side. I used to be able to reach every part of my body, even the middle of my back (okay, not my elbows), with both hands. Now I’m lucky if I can reach most parts with one. Damn my short arms! And why didn’t someone tell me to buy a few pregnancy clothes up a size? I believed Ann Taylor when she told me to buy everything in my regular clothing size with “maternity” at the end. Ha!

Still, none of that is such a big deal next to the enormous joy of having a child. I wish I could be one of those women who says how much she loves being pregnant, but I’ll settle for being someone who loves the end result. Even though I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me learning to be a mom, I’m excited. Marriage has been a very good thing so far, and I keep telling myself that the strength of that relationship will be the foundation of our newly expanded family. So, I guess it’s just about time to bring on the baby! I’m still reserving the right to be absolutely scared of fucking this up beyond belief and having to pay for the therapy bill later.

This morning I had to make one more quick trip to the dentist to drop off the mold for my new night guard. I wanted to pick up a bagel on my way to work, so I took a route from the dentist to the office that put me past a little cafe with good bagels and coffee. The cafe shares a parking lot with a few other retailers including a large grocery store, so it gets relatively high traffic. I parked in the closest available space, and got my everything bagel with light veggie cream cheese, and my small coffee with skim milk and splenda, and cheerfully headed back towards my car. The time was approximately 8:50, so I was planning on reaching the office by 9AM.

When I got to the car it was apparent that the Mommy Mobile (a Honda Odyssey with a toddler seat in the back) that had parked next to me sometime during the 3 minutes it took to buy a bagel was way too close to my car for a seven month pregnant woman to successfully open the driver’s side door and slip into the seat. The van was so close that I barely would have made it into my car even if I wasn’t pregnant. I tried to get in anyway. When I got wedged into the door I said outloud, to no one, “you’ve got to be kidding me”, unwedged myself, and stood there looking at the car. Then I thought about getting into the passenger side, and climbing over the center console. Normally, I would have done this without hesitation. Reason kicked in, and I thought to myself “you can’t even put on your own socks”. I was hoping that the Mommy who drove the Mobile would come out any minute, but no luck there. At 9AM I called my office to tell them that I was going to be late against my will. They laughed at the situation, which is better than laughing at me, and told me to just sit in the passenger side, eat my breakfast, and go with the flow.

At 9:15 I called Josh to complain and ask for ideas. He suggested throwing one leg over the console to reach the brake, turning on the car, and rolling it back enough to then place it in “park” while I got out and climbed in the other side. Driving my car from the passenger seat didn’t seem like something I should ever attempt, much less attempt with the impaired reflexes of a pregnant woman in her third trimester. At least he was being creative.

At 9:20 desperation kicked in. I tried to climb over the console. This was unsuccessful. The best thing I can say about this was that no one else saw the results.

By 9:30 I knew I had to get out at any cost. I decided that the only way was to find a trustworthy looking skinny person, and ask for help. A young woman came by - maybe 17 or 18 years old - wearing a University of Maryland sweatshirt. She looked like a high school student, and not at all like a car thief. I took my chances, and felt even better about my selection when she hesitated at the idea of driving someone else’s car. I insisted that she’d be gaining infinite karma points by doing a pregnant lady a favor. That she didn’t really have to drive, just sort of roll. Thank goodness she said “yes”. I felt better about myself when this teenager, who couldn’t have been larger than a size 2, struggled to get into the car. When I got to work, I parked at the far end of the row next to the curb.