Poor Lucky Me

I bought a bottle of wine at the supermarket on Sunday and the cashier didn’t ask for my I.D.  There’s a sign on the cash register that says “If you look under 35 we ask for ID!”

I’m 33.

I also didn’t have my ID with me, and had spent 10 minutes waiting in line worrying about what I would say when I was asked to produce it.  I thought I could prove my age with my knowledge of 90′s sit-coms and music, or point out my grey hairs that I can’t find the time to color anymore.  I was getting tense about having to prove my age.

Then I was offended when I didn’t need to prove my age. When I got home I put on half a bottle of face moisturizer and so much hand cream that I got trapped in the bathroom because I couldn’t grip the door handle.

While it’s true that I assumed I would go on looking like I’m in my 20′s well into my 40′s, I don’t actually mind getting older.  My age has taught me to keep a savings account- very useful to pay for the endless parade of dental work, dog ACL surgery, and medical bills.  I’m slowly learning how to keep my mouth shut when people don’t ask my opinion or advice, and I hope soon to learn how to stop talking about my problems to people who try and “cheer me up” or help me “look at the bright side”.  Growing up has taught me the importance of networking, and to have a couple of outfits on hand that I can wear to weddings and funerals.

I try not to feel inadequate for living with my parents, and I focus on being grateful that they are so generous and fun to be around.  I try not to compare what I have or what I’ve accomplished to my friends, because we are all on such different paths.  I try not to feel discouraged that many of the things I dreamed about as a teenager are almost hopelessly far away, because other, newer dreams have come true.

When all that trying doesn’t work, and I’m crabby and discouraged and bitter, I think about my daughter Hazel.  She is so beautiful and clever and funny.  She doesn’t even know how loved she is, and takes it for granted that someone will always be there to hug her and fawn over her and discuss her poops with enthusiasm.  Her arrival gave me a new life, and it’s one that I want her to be proud of.  So I’m going to commit to exercising regularly, and Weight Watchers, and creative writing, and keeping my room clean.

And if I skip a few days or have set backs, I’ll remind myself that Hazel is not sleeping through the night yet, and getting those 3 am snuggles give me enough energy and joy to try again the next day.

Happy Birthday Tommy Jr.  Thank you for making Dad and I parents.  You taught us so much in such a short time. Our hearts will always ache for you but we promise to be more happy than sad.  We think you must be very proud of your little sister, and you might be the reason she’s always laughing and smiling.

See you later little man. We adore you.

Before I was a working mom, I took it for granted that it was a very easy, functional role-  I saw moms do it on TV, I know other working moms, I just figured it’s very manageable.

I was very lucky to get 12 weeks of maternity leave.  Those really hard weeks from 3-10 I could just concentrate on learning how to parent my child.  No need for showers or matching outfits, no reason to keep track of my wallet or book of stamps.  All I had to do was figure out what Hazel wanted, and provide it for her.  The easiest way to accomplish that was to get in the mindset of a baby.  We woke and slept on the same schedule, although she was able to pee and poop with much more luxury than I.

Now I’m back at work and the demands on me have drastically changed.  Now I’m expected to wear clean clothes, pay attention and reciprocate adult conversation.  I have to return phone calls and emails and participate on conference calls without sounding like a stoner.  This wouldn’t be as challenging except Hazel and I are still not sleeping through the night.  I tend to take a crying break while pumping breast milk at work, and I try and get a frustration cry in at least once during the weekend too.  For informational purposes only, I’ve compiled a typical daily schedule.  The gaps in the schedule are when I’m working or trying to take care of the needs of the non-Hazel people in my life.  Please enjoy a day in the life of a working mom…

2:00 AM Hazel declares her hunger and asks in coos and squeaks if  I want to get in her room and feed her or what?

5:00 AM Hazel awakens and wonders what I’m doing.  She decides to have an early morning snack, then wants to either snooze or play.  The crib is not an acceptable place to do either, according to Hazel.  So we either play in the living room or catnap together in the rocking chair or my bed.

6:15 AM Alarm goes off.  Dad and I pass Hazel back and forth while we shower and find clean clothes or spray Fabreeze on dirty ones.  We call to each other “Quick! You’ve got to see what she’s doing!” so many times that we’ve shortened out personal grooming time down to the bare minimum.  Dry hair is not at all as interesting as watching Hazel bat at her pig toy.

7:15 AM Go downstairs to feed Hazel rice cereal and a little baby food.  We’re just practicing eating solids but she’s getting the hang of it and being adorable in the process.  Hazel likes to spend this time observing her Grandparents and laughing between spoonfuls of green beans and loading her hair up with fistfuls of rice cereal.  It is now obvious why most babies aren’t born with a full head of hair.  You can probably just hose the hairless ones down after a meal.

7:50 AM My awesome darling wonderful cousin/nanny picks Hazel up.  We spend a few minutes chatting and I try not to stare at the car as they drive off and whimper.

8:00 AM Get Tom and Ramona in the car and drive the hour commute to work.  Ramona gets to come to work with me, which would ease the pain of leaving Hazel except Ramona spends almost the entire day laying on the plushest carpet in the other room.  She emerges at lunch to beg for scrapes and occasionally to whine for a walk.  When I call her in to let me pet her because I’m feeling lonely, she acts suspicious.

9:00 AM Start work.

9:10 AM Wonder what I’ll have for lunch.  Focus on work to distract my stomach, which is only hungry because my brain is trying to convince it that food will make me happy.  My stomach is very dumb and believes my brain, despite my body protesting that a huge lunch will wreck the work it does at the gym.  Brain and stomach roll their eyes at body.

10:30 AM * Pump.  Look longingly at pictures and videos of my daughter.  Wonder if she even cares that we’re not together.  Conclude that she probably doesn’t but that just proves what good cares she’s getting.  Ponder the possibility that I’ll spend my whole life wanting my daughter to like me best and hope that I’m able to learn some trick to feeling ok when she doesn’t.

11:00 AM Loudly announce that I want to eat lunch.

12:00 PM Ignore reservations about emotional eating until last bite of ham & brie sandwich.  Upon taking last bite, make equally loud announcement that tomorrow I will only eat salad.

1:00 PM Work

1:30 PM Wonder if I can convince co-workers to get cupcakes with me so I don’t feel so much shame.

2:30 PM * Pump again.  Text Awesome Nanny (A.N.) while pumping for pics and updates about Hazel.  Feel sad.

3:00 PM Introduce cupcake idea.  Test co-workers’ willingness to be enablers.  Be disappointed either way.  Announce that tomorrow will only eat celery for snacks.

3:05 PM Work

5:00 PM Run out the door, leap in car, peel out of parking spot.  Commute one hour to pick up Hazel from A.N.’s house.  Drive another 30 minutes to get home.

6:30 PM Arrive home.  Snuggle Hazel briefly then feed her rice cereal and veggies or fruit for dinner.  Laugh as she squeals her demands that I spoon the food in faster.  Sigh loudly that we can’t be together more.  Watch Ramona circle like a coyote to lick Hazel’s hands and face clean of rice cereal as soon as I look away.

6:55 PM Wipe down baby, chairs, table, floor, my own hands, arms and face.  Play with Hazel for 15 minutes, until she starts yawning.

7:10 PM Start baby bath.  Follow with clean jammies, bottle, story time, kisses and bed.  Look with wistfulness as she settles down to sleep.

8:00 PM Close Hazel’s door and pass the video baby monitor back and forth as we watch her sleep.  Talk in hushed tones about how awesome she is, what chores have to be done, what bills have to be paid, what our upcoming schedules will be.  Eat dinner. Try not to feel anxious that none of the chores or bill paying we talked about last week got done.  Think for the 200th time about all the thank you notes I have to write, and wonder where my stationary is.  Decide (again) that I’m too tired to look, but will surely do it tomorrow.  Wonder if my jeans are too filthy to wear again tomorrow.

9:30 PM I go to bed (Unless I go to the gym from 8:45-9:45 PM, shower, go to bed at 10:30).  Usually I read baby advice websites or baby blogs or look at pictures of my baby until about 10.

11:00 PM Tom gives Hazel another bottle, then he comes to bed

The trouble is that when I am with my daughter, I feel like I’m doing all the care taking and little bonding or playing.  I worry that I’ll be the non-fun parent, the tired parent, the sad parent.  I know it won’t always be like this, if nothing else she won’t always go to bed so early.  But for the time being, being a working mom is very very very hard.  It’s so hard that it’s forcing me to just live one day at a time and not think about the future.  I just have to get through today, and rely on the giant heart that my children gave me to keep smiling and laughing and hiding my tears.

*I started this post last week, when I was still pumping.  I have had to stop nursing this week because Hazel was on a nursing strike and I couldn’t keep my supply up through pumping.  Sad-sack post about that to follow

I could never tell if Tom was serious when we would have baby-name brainstorming sessions.  For a couple of weeks, he fixated on naming the baby the same name of past and present pets.  ”Not after them, just using the same name.”  I had to treat these suggestions seriously just in case.  ”I think Casey would be a good name for a baby”.  Casey is the name of the labrador I had growing up.  She was a really special dog, and certainly if I were going to be named after a dog, Casey would be the dog I’d want to be named after.

Still, it didn’t strike that naming chord you wait for as a parent.

“You know what is a really cute name?” Tom asked later.  ”Ramona.  I love that name!”

Ramona is the name of our current dog, a sweet orange mutt we adopted from Anti-Cruelty.  She is named after Ramona Quimby, a character from a series of children’s books I loved.  I didn’t know if Tom was inspired to suggest our dog’s name, or if he also wanted to name our daughter after the incorrigible Ramona Quimby.

I had to gently threaten that he might soon be kicked off the baby-naming committee.  I think the threat came at just the right time, because the next name he suggested was Hazel.

I put my hands on my belly and said “Hazel. That’s it.  That’s her name.”  We picked two others to have in our back pocket, because I was afraid she’d come out looking nothing like a Hazel and we’d be stuck naming her Ramona because we couldn’t think of anything else.

Hazel was Hazel and is more Hazel every day. Except when I’m really tired.  Then Hazel, while still retaining all of her Hazelness, gets called Ramona.  And Ramona, standing at the window and barking at the Fed Ex guy, gets called Hazel.

I was talking to my co-workers the other day about Ron of Japan.  One of them pointed out that I talk about Ron of Japan almost every day.  I realized that I also think about Ron of Japan almost every day.  When Tom and I have been able to have post-Hazel nights out, most of them have been spent at Ron of Japan.

This may be a manifestation of a deep psychological problem.

Ron of Japan is a Japanese Tappenyaki Style restaurant where you sit at a communal table with other diners. The menu features seafood, steak or chicken cooked right before your eyes with plenty of oil and magic sauce: a sauce with healing properties made primarily from egg yolks.  This sauce is so powerful it transcends the dread of having to sit with strangers- or worse- people you vaguely knew from high school. It also gives you the dizzying sensation of having your blood pressure and cholesterol raised immediately to dangerous levels.  Only a super mai-tai can correct this.  Or make you not care, anyway.

My parents try politely to hide their revulsion at our restaurant-of-choice.  They encourage us to have a night here and there on our own (even though most of the time we’re not with Hazel, we talk about Hazel or look at pictures of Hazel).  We try to branch out, we want to branch out.  But inevitably we find ourselves seated in red vinyl chairs, nervously trying to avoid eye contact with the other people who, for reasons unknown, also love Ron of Japan.

Maybe my affection for Ron of Japan (is “Ron” a common Japanese name or does it mean something in Japanese?) has something to do with a temporary return to the bubble we lived in when we lost our first child.  We were devastated, but we still felt very close to him…he wasn’t all the way gone yet.

After Tommy Jr died Tom was very indulgent, and since we lived down the street from the Streeterville Ron of Japan we ended up there too many Sunday evenings to count.  We didn’t want to be around people we knew, because they were too sympathetic or they didn’t know what to say.  We didn’t want to be around people we didn’t know, because they might ask innocent questions that rubbed our raw hearts.  So we went to a restaurant where the waiters never try and banter with you, and where we could stare into each other’s eyes and talk quietly and quickly to avoid conversation with our table mates.  No one knew us or what we’d been through.

There’s something weirdly intimate about staring at your spouse and talking to them so intently that the other bafoons at your table wouldn’t dare to interrupt.  (Except for “Craig” who recently interrupted our heated argument about politics to boast about his college football record.  He kept swigging gin and tonics while his 15 year old son hid his face in his hands.  And there were the hilarious newlyweds who were into trying new things, so they ordered sushi.  The whole table laughed with them as they gagged their way through spicy tuna rolls.)  We could just eat our lobster and steak and suck down super mai tais until the waiter was stuffing the grease scrapings into a gag-inducing little hole in the tables.

I had the blues after Hazel was born between bouts of giddy, insane happiness.  For a while, after she went to sleep I would cry in Tom’s arms.  I was so happy, but I was reminded of how much we had to lose to get here, and I wondered if my joy would ever be completely free of sadness.

It took a long time for me to realize there were a few places, a few people, a few songs, a few driving routes that would transport me back to a time in my life that was simpler.  I don’t want to relive that time, because Hazel isn’t there.  But a visit for a couple of hours when she sleeps is nice once in a while.  And if they serve lobster smothered in egg sauce, it’s twice as nice.

I’m a Hazelholic.  I’m completely and utterly addicted to Hazel and 90% of my mental and physical energy is completely devoted to getting my next dose.  I even wake up in the middle of the night jonsing for a fix.  Hazel addiction has a few side affects: sleeplessness, disinterest in socializing with peers, difficultly concentrating on non-Hazel topics, as well as a loss of interest in personal care and chore-doing.  But one look at a baby toe, one glance at the funny cowlick in the front of her hair, a coo, a kick of her feet and I’m ready to forgo sleep and socializing for the rest of my life for another hour of Hazel.

When I’m away from Hazel, I challenge myself not to think about her constantly.  I try not to look at the 1,236 photos of her on my phone. I use thinking of her to motivate myself to get things done.  ”I’ll make ten calls then wonder what she’s doing right now.”  ”I’ll answer all these emails then imagine how fun it’ll be to take her to the park this summer”.

Like a true junkie, all I really want to talk about is Hazel.  On the few occasions that Tom and I have been out alone, I try not to talk about her.  We’ll talk about politics or our family or our jobs but after five or six minutes I have to ask: “What do you think Hazel is doing right now?”  Tom is always eager to indulge my addiction.  My Hazel tolerance is so high it would be impossible for me to overdose.  And the more I get of her, the more right I feel in the world.

I have to take my Hazelholism one day at a time.  I can’t let myself be overwhelmed at the thought of us spending so much time apart.  I try not to scowl at the stay-at-home mom’s I see when I’m on my lunch break (deep down inside I know that’s not all it’s cracked up to be).  And I certainly don’t let myself think about how I’m missing all of her milestones.  Instead I try and focus on how I’m her mother, and how this is the thing that I’m the very best at.

My maternity leave is over.  For the second time in my life the little family bubble we made had to get broken.  Tom and I couldn’t stay insulated with our child any longer (we were so lucky to have the time we did).  I haven’t been able to write about it because I have such mixed feelings.  I’m happy to be back at work, I’m heartbroken to have to leave Hazel.  That’s the simplest breakdown of how I feel.  The more complex version is that leaving Hazel everyday feels like a violent, catastrophic tearing of my heart. But that violent event is good and necessary to support my family, and I feel lucky to have a job that I enjoy and am good at.

When Tommy Jr was born my heart went through so many changes.  Meeting him made it grow ten times its size, trying to care for him tore it apart, watching him die softened then scarred it.  As that scar healed I changed a lot.  I lost a lot of my laughter and my ability to sympathize with people.  I feel harder now, more serious.  Sometimes it is harder to push my feelings into words.

This is one of those times.  I don’t know what to say, other than I don’t know exactly what to say right now.

“Ok class” the woman said, “can you tell me what this is?”  She help up a household item so we could all see it.

“Toothpaste!” we shouted enthusiastically.

“Wrong” she said smugly.  ”It’s poison, and the cap is a choking hazard.”  And thus began our infant CPR class, which should have been called “How Everything in Your Home Can be Weaponized By Your Baby” or “How There’s No Way Your Baby Will Survive Unless You Raise it in a Cage”.  The class cost $70 per person, and I guess they thought just teaching us infant CPR wasn’t going to satisfy a room full of new parents.  Actually, we were the only new parents, every one else was a million months pregnant.  If I had taken this class while I was still pregnant, I would have decided that I’d have to give Hazel to my mother to raise because there is no way I could keep her alive.  According to the implications of the nurse who taught the class, even wolves had a better chance of keeping Hazel alive because they didn’t keep disposable razors or cleaning supplies in their dens.

Each warning was followed by anecdotal evidence.  ”You think your child-proof caps are childproof?  Here’s a story of someone I personally know who’s child took all their medication….”  ”You must cover your outlets because your baby will stick his fingers in the outlet and be electrocuted. And if you buy the wrong kind of outlet covers, they will pry them off and choke on them, like my friend’s baby…”

This went on for 45 minutes.  By the end I was searching my purse for a paper bag I could breath into.  I wasn’t just horrified by the instructor’s constant misuse of the word “literally”, I was terrified at the prospect of inadvertently maiming or killing my child because I use the wrong knob covers to the garage door and Hazel sneaks out there once she’s big enough to crawl and gets in my car and puts it in reverse and smashes through the garage door and doesn’t have her seatbelt on…

And then the CPR video began.  While I am very cynical about the crappy acting in instructional videos (I once contemplated quitting a new job because I was so offended by the lack of effort they put into the sexual harassment video).  The first scene introduced a young couple and their infant daughter “Emma”.  Mother explained that “Emma” had been off that day and as she goes on the explain her symptoms she glances over and notices that “Emma” isn’t breathing!  She begins her well-practiced Infant CPR (spoiler alert: She saves “Emma’s” life).

It was the first time in my life that I rolled my eyes and fought back tears at the same time.  As the video progressed, and two more couples narrowly saved their plastic babies using Infant CPR I had to hide the tears of fear and panic from my fellow classmates.  Tom G took my hand when the spunky interracial couple found their plastic baby choking in his high chair at what looked like an Outback Steakhouse. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that the video ended with the first couple having a awkward conversation about how glad they are that they “took that Infant CPR class at the local hospital”.  Kind of beating a dead plastic baby since we were all already sitting in the class, paid in full.  But I guess the director of the film just wanted to hammer the message home: Your baby is about to perish at any minute unless you’ve armed yourself with the proper classes, videos and brochures.

The last thirty minutes were spent practicing CPR on our own plastic babies.  I couldn’t bare to call the dummy “Hazel” during the part where we practiced shouting the infant’s name before starting chest compressions (Baby’s Name! Baby’s Name! Are you Ok!?!).  Without heavy medication I don’t think it’s safe for me to imagine doing chest compressions on my daughter.  Although when I got home I cut my nails painfully short, since the instructor made a point to say that if you have long nails you just dig them into the child’s skin, because what’s the difference if you cut her if she stops breathing.

We finally left, feeling more prepared and more panicked at the same time.  We raced home to Hazel, and I tried not to picture pushing her sternum down an inch and a half in order to pump blood throughout her body.  I told my brain to file that information away in the part of my brain that saves essential but unpleasant information, like how to make myself throw up and what poison ivy looks like. I tried to ignore the niggling thought that if I found my baby limp, not breathing and unresponsive I might not have the composure to start CPR.

In the meantime I’m relieved that I don’t have a stash of Mardi Gras beads, because according to Infant CPR class Hazel would break them apart and stuff them in her mouth the second I turn my back on her.

Hazel began life with a very mild, relaxed expression.  She cried when she needed help, but other than that she seemed sort of contentedly aloof. As she got a few weeks older, she started opening her eyes more and studying us.  I pretended I wasn’t worrying that I wasn’t measuring up to her expectations.  ”I’m usually much funnier than this,” I would say as we stared at each other “you’ll see, when I get a good night’s sleep I’m so funny.”  Hazel would blink passively.  Another week or two went by.  She stuck out her tongue, I started to actually enjoy breastfeeding (it still hurts like hell though).  Her staring started to feel more concerted.

Then she smiled.  A day or so after that she smiled and squealed.  Another few days and I figured out what made her smile.  It’s seems like Hazel had learned how to be happy.

This was the moment that I really didn’t understand would happen: the moment when I finally realized that I have a whole new life ahead of me.  Watching a child arrive on earth with a personality really makes you reconsider your own life and experiences.  Happiness is something you have to learn and practice, even when you’re too young to work or have heartache or worry about making car payments.  There are a few times in my life when I felt hopelessly unhappy, and I decided to change.  I forced myself to smile more and accept invitations and after a few weeks (maybe it was months, maybe even years) I was a happier person.  But it took work and practice, and watching my daughter go through her first phase of learning to be happy is exciting and scary.  I hate to think of the days where she lays tangled in dirty sheets on a crappy college bed, pressing the snooze button 36 times until she has safely missed all her classes and can spend her day smoking cigarettes, eating Mr Goodbars and watching Blind Date.  I can’t stand to think of the first party she doesn’t get invited to, her first disappointing grade, her first broken heart.  Hopefully she can help me gain some perspective so I don’t go on a murderous rampage the first time she has hurt feelings.

Hazel and Tom and I are in this together.  Seeing how much Hazel does on her own make me breath a little easier.  She and I can be partners in her happiness.

Oh my god, prepare yourself to read about the most incredible things that have ever happened to anyone ever:

Hazel rolled over today.  Then Hazel took a bath without crying.  Then the Amazing Hazel spend 10 minutes looking at her Daddy, laughing and smiling.

I’m pretty sure I am the first mother in the history of the human race to ever witness such a brilliant child grow and learn so much in one day.

That’s how it feels anyway.  I have a vague intellectualized notion that this feeling is part of new motherhood.  But this baby is a genetic product of Tom G and he is one of the most incredible human beings on the planet, so it would be logical that she is more incredible than other babies.  I don’t know.  Maybe this is just how everyone feels about a 10 pound person who manages to actually change the axis upon which the earth revolves.