I’ve mentioned before that I’m working my way through Babyproofing Your Marriage, right?  It’s a good read and I find myself nodding in agreement at least three times on every page. Except for one thing.  

The part where it says that the mother is the protective, gentle parent. 

Also.  Over the last few weeks I’ve read blog posts by other great mommas who talked about their protective nature, their response when the baby cries and their love of having the baby close.  I identify with them.  Sort of.  Erika talks about how she and her husband are so different when it comes to parenting.  Uh huh, totally with you.  And  Brandee talks about how she’s not the mother she thought she would be.  Yep, that, right there.   

I am not the mother I thought I would be. But in a different way.

I’m not the gentle parent.  I’m not the parent that jumps when my daughter cries.  I’m not the parent that hoovers over her like a helicopter to keep her from bumping her head. 

The week before I went back to work, I wanted to move C to her own room.  In all honesty, she was outgrowing the bassinet.  But also, I was afraid it would be a tough transition and wanted it to be over before I had to be in heels and a skirt at 8AM.  The first night of putting her to bed in her own room, it was Craig wholooked at me and said, “why do we have to do this again?” 

Now that she sleeps through the night, when she stirs at 3 or 4 in the morning, I wait it out.  Often times, I take the monitor out of the room and wait outside her door.  Because if he hears her, he’ll go to her.  And I know that if I wait, just five minutes, she’ll drift back to sleep.  But if we pick her up, she’ll be up for an hour. 

When I pictured Craig and I as parents, I pictured him tossing the baby in the air, while I cringed and chastised him to be careful and “don’t drop her.”  But now, in my living room, you’ll find me wrestling with baby, tickling her to hear the belly laughs and letting her test her boundaries and bump her head while I get the side eye and the “be CARE-ful”  from my husband. 

When I think about the mother I thought I would be and the mother I’ve become, I’m not sure whether to be proud or ashamed.  Some days I feel like it makes me cold and uncaring.  I worry that I will push her too much as she grows up. I worry that I will always be the one to tell her “no”.   Is he parent that makes her stick to a bedtime, lets her throw the tantrum and doesn’t give in, the same parent that doesn’t let her quit at soccer after the season starts or pushes her to take her SAT’s one more time? Is that the parent who judges too much, too quickly and pushes too hard?

And other days, I’m proud that I know my daughter will not break. She will cry when occasionally when I put her down for a nap, but she will still grin at me when she wakes and I pick her up.  She will hurt herself on the corner of furniture and on our tile floors as she learns to crawl and (God help me) walk.  But she will get back up and try again. 

Am I alone in this? Does anyone else worry about the parent they will become when their child hasn’t even celebrated a birthday?  Are you the good guy at home or the bad guy? Do I worry too much about what the books say, that I lose a connection to my kid? Is it different between mothers and sons or dads and daughters?

I’m accepting that there’s a balance between Craig and I as parents.  And if I had to guess we’ll switch good guy, bad guy roles many times as C grows up.  I may be the parent that makes her go to bed and clean her room, but he’ll be the one to greet the boys at the door.

Ever since she was born, all I’ve heard is how much C is her father’s daughter.  A few days after we were home from the hospital, he handed me a picture and I awed over it, asking who took that picture of our little one. In my groggy, sleep-deprived, new mommy state, I didn’t realize it was actually a picture of Craig as a newborn.  A few weeks after that, I left our bedroom for a minute with the little one sleeping in the bassinet and Craig asleep in bed.  When I came back, I saw them both still asleep but in identical poses with their hands up over their heads. 

If I hadn’t been for the fact that I was there when she was born, I would be beginning to doubt that she was, in fact, my daughter. 

Until yesterday.  When she tasted my Oreo and fell in love.  The “oh, that’s yummy” look in her eye was one I’ve seen in the mirror.  She may not have my nose, my chin or my dark as night brown eyes, but by God, my child has a sweet tooth! 

The first Mother’s Day with a baby really gets a girl thinking.  Thinking about all the times I blew off with a quick card for my mother because I didn’t think it was a big deal.  Thinking about the lessons I’ve learned from my mom.  Thinking about the memories and recipes that both of my grandmothers have shared with me. Just thinking. 

Yesterday I found myself in the same position that many mothers do.  Wanting to enjoy the day and just be with my child, but also wanting to celebrate with my family.  So, because really, having someone entertain my child while I cook IS fun and relaxing for me, I hosted brunch for Craig’s parents and dinner for mine. 

There was a plan to eat brunch at 11:30.  The plan included my child napping around 9 so I could shower and get the hashbrown quiche started by 10:30.  Are you laughing yet?  For an hour, as I battled with my daughter to nap, begged, pleaded and swore under my breath, I thought about the contradiction of motherhood. 

Motherhood is rewarding and it is thankless.
Motherhood is instinctive and it is learning.
Motherhood is lonely and it is never being alone. 
Motherhood is raw and it is breathtaking.
Mohterhood is being vulnerable and it is being strong.
Motherhood is heartbreaking and it is uplifting.
Motherhood is having too many pictures and never having enough.

Motherhood is ordinary.  And it is amazing.

These moments, these challenges, these everyday contradictions of being a parent are what make me a mother.  Without the frustration, I wouldn’t feel the love so deeply.  Without the guilt I wouldn’t appreciate the sacrifice.  Without the joy, the tears might just be too much. 

It is the contradictions that keep me grounded.  There is nothing special about these moments, except that they are mine.  They are ours.  They are what make us mother and daughter.  And she is what makes us a family. 

So, on Mother’s Day we still celebrated.  We just celebrated an hour late. 

“Someday when you have a daughter, you’ll understand.”

I heard that phrase from my mother 346,876 times growing up.  When I slammed doors after being told that I couldn’t go out for the third night in a row in high school.  When I cried on her shoulder over rumors that were started when I was senior and looked up to see tears in her eyes too.  When she tried to talk sense into me in college because I didn’t understand that the way I was being treated was not acceptable.  She would hug me and say “Someday, honey, when you have a daughter, you’ll understand.” 

I didn’t need to wait.  I didn’t need to have a daughter to know that a mother is fiercely protective of her child.  I didn’t need to have a child to know that when they hurt, the mother hurts.  I didn’t need to become a parent to know that sometimes you do what’s best for your child, not what’s easiest. 

Somewhere between the ”my life is over, I can’t believe you won’t let me go” rants of a teenager and “can I come home for the weekend and heal a broken heart” tears of my early 20′s, I learned what being a mother meant.  And the one thing that she was wrong about was that it would take me having a daughter until I would understand.

Today was a bad day.  If I had to guess it was the combination of an overwhelming workload and PMS.  PMS on a Saturday I can handle.  An overwhelming workload on a day that my hormones aren’t all out whack from recently growing a human I can handle.  PMS on a Tuesday at 10 AM when I realize I’ve missed another deadline and look at the next three months of planning where enough work exists for four of me?  Not so good. 

It was a day that 18 months ago would have been rewarded with a cold beer and fried cheese.  And for a moment, just a moment, I found myself missing the ease of having a bad day and wallowing in it.  Coming home and soaking in a hot bath with a glass of wine and a good cry. Or bitching to a co-worker at happy hour.  Or running to the mall and buying new shoes. 

Then, I came home to this face. 

Bundled up in the car seat for the 100-yard ride from Nauni's house to ours. What? It was cold out.

And we giggled.  I clapped while she practiced rolling.  I put her down on one side of the floor and picked her up when she rolled to the other.  She ate carrots and yelled when I didn’t get them in her mouth fast enough.  We gave her a bath and I laughed as she splashed me.  I took pictures, calling her name and making funny noises to try to capture her smile. 

And when I rocked her to sleep and felt her head heavy on my shoulder and the rhythm of her breath on my neck, I found myself wondering why my day was so bad.

Don’t let those big eyes pull you in or the loving embrace of the doll fool you.  She looks all sweet and innocent here.  All loving and gentle.  All ” OH  MY GAWD what a sweet baby, I just want to reach into the computer screen and scoop her up.” And she is a sweet, sweet child with her doll and her father.  But with me…. no such luck. 

When I feed her, I get clawed in the face.  When I change her diaper, my hair gets pulled.  She scratches, she pinches, she tears earrings out of my ears and she tries to pick my nose. (In the interest of full disclosure I’m constantly picking hers too, so we’ll call that one even. )  Twice this week I’ve had to change clothes ten minutes before leaving for work thanks to diaper blowouts.    Have you ever tried to bath a baby in heels and a dress?  Not easy and usually ends in only a slightly better disaster than in which it began. 

It’s a good thing that this little girl doesn’t pack much heat behind her punches or I’d have some explaining to do!  So, someone tell me, when can I expect my kid to stop trying to kick my ass?

At just a week shy of five months old, C has clearly left her newborn stage in the dust.  Gone is the teeny tiny human that would lay on my chest in the afternoon and sleep for hours.  No longer can I cradle carry her in the sling.  She needs to be up, facing out, ready to take on the world.  Her hands and her legs are in constant motion, as if, given half a chance, she would take off running.  

While things may not have changed greatly – our days are still all about the rhythm of bottles, diapers and sleep – there is a definite difference between our baby girl at 4 weeks and our girl at 4 months.  I don’t want to be eating her birthday cake this fall and not remember the weight of a newborn who spent 16 hours a day in my arms. I want to file away the moments that she gazed into my eyes while I was feeding her with a look that said “I trust you.  I need you.”  I want to close my eyes and remember how the sound of my voice or the comfort of being wrapped up in a sling would immediately put her to sleep.  I want to remember the sweet smell of milk on her breath and the lavender scent of the lotion I used after her bath.   

Those first few weeks were filled with nerves and anxiety, with excitement and visitors and complete love and adoration.  The three of us became a family the moment she was placed in my arms and I want to remember how I felt when I looked at her.  How she screamed her head off until they laid her in my arms when she briefly stopped as I pressed my lips to her head and softly said “Hi baby girl.  I know you.”   

3 weeks in, giving a new meaning the phrase "sleep when she sleeps."

So much has changed.  Every milestone she reaches equals a stage or a moment of time that she’s leaving behind.  Instead of laying on my chest, she likes to lay on her side curled up next to me.  She no longer likes being held up to my shoulder for fear that she will miss what’s happening behind her. When I feed her instead of just looking at me, she’s touching my face, reaching for my cheeks or pulling on my ears.  She is slightly more predictable and just as opinionated as always.   She recognizes my voice, reaches for me when other people are holding her and follows me with her eyes when I leave the room.   

In possibly a few weeks, definitely a few months, this stage will have passed as well.  She’ll be crawling, or scootching across the room; we’ll be playing games of throwing things on the floor to see if Mommy will pick them up; and instead of the shoulders of my shirts having milk stains her bibs will be stained with baby food.   

My hope is that when that time comes I can remember the milestones and the every day moments that we’ve passed in the process; the tiny bits of time that have shaped myself, my baby and my family.

Damn, I hate it when he’s right.  But he was.  From the beginning.  The day I peed on the $14 stick and announced our pregnancy status to Craig, he said “it’s a girl.”  I was not as convinced.  Throughout the pregnancy he held firm that we were having a girl, while I waivered.  And secretly hoped. 

Some say that every woman wants a baby girl.  That we all want little girls that we can outfit in pink dresses and take shopping.  Others say that the bond between a little boy and his mother is unlike any other.  I’ve heard both sides.  But I still wanted a girl.  I had visions of doll babies, cheerleading camps and prom dresses.  I saw myself pushing her through the mall in a stroller and graciously accepting comments about how cute she was. 

Now that I have a daughter, I’m beginning to comprehend the responsibility of raising her. She’s not just my baby.  She will be a classmate, a friend, a partner, and, if she’s lucky, a mother.  While I still want to dress her up, buy her dolls and have long talks about boys, I also want to teach her many of the things that my mother taught me.  I want her to learn to be independent but not be afraid to ask for help.  I want her to identify the things worth fighting for and work like hell until she gets them.  I want her to always be safe, but take risks and push the boundaries a little. I want her to know how much she is loved. 

This baby that squeals when I blow raspberries on her belly will have her toes stepped on and her heart broken.  She will try and sometimes she will lose.   She will want things that she can’t have.  My job is to help her grow with each loss and praise every win.  To be her biggest champion but not carry her through life.  To let her struggle as she finds her way.  To support her every single time.   

And to teach her that a new pair of shoes can cure almost any bad day.

May the sun shine, all day long,
everything go right, and nothing wrong.
May those you love bring love back to you,
and may all the wishes you wish come true!
~Irish Blessing
 
I love making wishes.  I make wishes on stars.  I make wishes when the clock says 2:22 or 11:11 or 3:33. When I find an eyelash on my cheek, I make a wish before blowing it off of my finger.  And, the wishbone of a turkey? Oh yeah.  I’m all over that. 


Or, I was.  Until all of my wishes came true.  Now I’m trying to get better at being grateful for my blessings.  Today (even though it should have been yesterday) I count them:

• I have a husband who I love with all of my heart
• A baby I love more than that and who brightens every moment of every day
• Parents who are not only loving and helpful but who are a source of inspiration in my marriage and in parenthood
• In-laws who live close and are supportive enough to babysit when I need to work, shop or go for the occassional drink – thus allowing me to feel like the person I was before I became a mom
• Girlfriends who were mothers before me and now provide me with an unending source of advice on sleep schedules, product reviews and date nights.
• Siblings I would do anything for, especially now that I see them as an aunt and uncle to my daughter
• Friends who over the years have offered me their shoulders to cry on, phone lines to burn up with phone calls or texting, or a seat next to them when having a drink became the obvious solution
• A job that challenges me and has given me an opportunity for professional growth.

So, when I realize that I have all of that in my life, what’s left to wish for? 

Forget writing thank you notes (its been a month, what’s another few days), going through clothes (that’s depressing anyway) or cleaning my house (like I need an excuse to avoid that)… today I am doing nothing but holding my baby, because tomorrow I am leaving her ALL DAY to go to a meeting for work.  ::sigh:: 

Yes I know my maternity leave doesn’t end until next week and I made the choice to be involved with 2010 planning while I was off and I offered to attend the non-mandatory meeting tomorrow.  Do not remind me that all along I’ve talked about how I could not be a stay at home mom, how I needed to get out of the house for ‘adult conversation’ and to feel productive and how I was pretty sure I could rock as a working mom.  Seriously, do not go there, because right now the words to the “You’re Gonna Miss This” song are running through my head and all I can think about is how much I’m going to miss tomorrow and every other day that I’m at work while she is home.  The way we cuddle in bed early in the mornings, and the way she smiles and gurgles after being fed and changed mid-morning, or the way she curls up on my chest to take an afternoon nap. 

So, tomorrow, I will go to the meeting, stop at Dunkin Donuts for a hot chocolate and put on my happy face about how it feels good to be back; but today, I am holding my baby and trying not to cry.  And seriously, the first person to say I told you so, loses blog reading rights.