On the eve of preschool...

(from this site)

I don't know who was more apprehensive as we walked into the classroom—Madam or me. Certainly her small hand clutched mine tightly. But I wasn't exactly letting go.

It's a perfect childish wonderland of a classroom. Trains, a jumble of dress up clothes, blocks, stacks of books. A little fish tank in the corner.

Tomorrow she begins preschool—her feet taking their first steps on a path that may wend towards a PhD!

I have been known to get ahead of myself.

But I want her to love it. I do. I loved school—loved the feeling of mastery when I learned something new—that snick (Laini's wonderful word) when a fact settled into my brain and knocked all of the other things I knew delightfully askew. I loved how safe I felt as I burrowed my legs deeper under my desk, pressing my knees against the metal bottom with a clang. A little breathless with a secret I couldn't have explained.

I know the name of that feeling now. It was belonging.

I would be remiss if I pretended that my excitement about tomorrow is all about her starting school. How could I be? I am about to be handed that most precious gift—time. Chunks of time I have not had at my disposal since before she was born. And in the middle of the day! How utterly decadent.

So, yes, excited....but nervous too. As though I am about to go on a blind date, or meet a blog friend. I want to impress myself with wit and fascinating topics. I want to play with creativity and have long, fruitful conversations with myself. I want to get something done, finally. Not just writing this blog (and oh, I am so out of the habit, where I would once think, “Oh, that would be a great topic for the blog,” more often than not now I think, “Ugh, I WANT to write but have nothing to say!”) but also working on that Project that Shall Not as Yet Be Named.

I am afraid I will bore myself, and that now I will see that it has never really been time that stopped me, but fear and lack of talent.

No. I must MAKE this time work.

After all, I just signed up for a one day writing workshop and I need a partial something to bring with me. I was so nervous that my fingers shook as I clanged the mailbox door shut. That poisonous little inner voice that says, “You spend all of this money and try all of these things and NOTHING ever works for you.” was hissing its vicious mantra.

But I need to start again. How many times will I say that?

Until I start. Again.

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On Madam and the Universe

It's strange that I don't write that often about Madam, considering that she's so central in my life. Part of it is that I have not yet mastered the gift to converting our little inside jokes and outings into stories that would interest anyone except immediate family. Also, whenever I am inclined to complain about tantrums, etc, I like to take a little time to let those particular feelings blow over. So I end up not writing much at all.

But, honestly, the main reason is that I am waiting for the day that I can write about all of the cute things she says.

We're not there yet.

I've mentioned that Madam is having speech difficulties, yes? After some dithering about whether or not to screen her for possible intervention, we finally decided to go forward and test her.

It's a peculiar feeling, watching someone test your child. I was sitting on my hands the whole time, to keep from jumping in. I wanted to pass Madam a cheat sheet, or something. I wanted to tell the nice tester that “she KNOWS this, no really...she does.” Mostly, I managed to behave (although I may have blurted out an answer or possibly two). The whole thing was complicated by the fact that Madam is EXTREMELY shy around strangers, thus, I could barely get her to say ANYTHING to the teacher, or to follow her directions. It took a very long time for her curiosity to overpower her foreboding.

I knew the tester was not getting an accurate picture of Madam. But there was no way for me to prove it.

She's gotten evaluated a few more times since then, and while now she can say some words, they're pretty much unintelligible to everyone except TEG and me. So she's been recommended for services—not just speech therapy, but also possibly occupational therapy to help with the shyness.

This is all good news. But as a mother, of course, it's hard not to feel that I've failed her. We've been working on all this for so long-the shyness, the speech, but I just couldn't help her. And of course, I start questioning every decision—have I been too lenient? Not lenient enough? Does she remember those days in NICU, and not feel sufficiently bonded with me? Did I eat too much tuna while pregnant? You get the idea.

So, I've been a trifle blue the past few days. This has been compounded by the weather—I have SAD and it's been consistently gray for over a week. And my loneliness—I feel like I AM loneliness lately, and people have to recoil to protect themselves from my contagion.

And just forget the writing. Why did I sign up for Nanowrimo 2007? Oy.

Last night, as I went to bed, I was worrying all of these issues around like beads on a mental string. Thoroughly worn, I did something I have not done in a while. I prayed...just a simple request for relief. “I just want something good to happen.”

Well, today, I went to check my mail and there it was. A Laini's Lady and Not for Robots pin! Just a little treat from one of favorite people.

So, thank you, Universe. That is EXACTLY what I meant.

Now I'll be getting out of my own head and helping my Madam in anyway I can.

PS: Please excuse any misspellings or weirdness in this post--I have scratched my retina (I think) and so I can only see out of one eye--barely. :(

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East, West, Home's Best

From here

When is a vacation not exactly a vacation?

When it leads to an unintended blogging break. I was prepared, nestling my new Macbook into the diaper bag like a cherished egg. Already anticipating the time I would have to write, while sipping some delicious cafe Cubano in my parents' sunny kitchen.

But, alas and alack...someone tampered with their wireless router and despite my best geeky attempts, I was unable to fix it.

It wasn't all terrible, though. I'm always inspired at my parents' house (which is strange, since they tend to be so critical of me) and this time was no different. Without the distraction of the internet, I was able to sit down and patiently retrace my steps through my story, figuring out where I was stuck and planning a tentative work-around. I was also able to read three wonderful novels, and two writing books besides. So, productive.

I missed this place, though. It was strange to be around people who aren't obsessed with what they are writing, or painting, or thinking.

I like our way better.
One slightly worrisome question for the parents out there—is it normal for Madam to be so uncomfortable around my parents, still? She saw them in July for her birthday (for a week) and just spent ten days at their house. And yet, she won't be alone in a room with them (seriously, she was my little toddler shadow for ten days; I had to shower with her sitting on the floor of the bathroom, watching, unless I waited until after bedtime) or even really allow them to carry her. Am I doing something wrong? It makes me feel horribly guilty, especially since my parents adore her and would gladly spend their time lavishing her with loving attention.

More later when I am less exhausted. I cannot WAIT to catch up with all of your blogs!

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Procrastination

(from babycenter.com)

I've always taken my inspiration from one of my favorite literary heroines, “I'll think about that tomorrow.”

Yes, I've always been a procrastinator. I counted on that late burst of adrenaline to power me through the hard part of papers in college. When I worked in publishing, many nights saw me hunched over the kitchen table, flipping through a manuscript I needed to read by the next day, praying that the words would take over and make me forget the sleep I was missing. Besides, there was always the weekend. I could sleep in!

Moment of silence for the weekend sleep-in.

So, yes, I've always procrastinated, but I vowed that after Madam, I would get things done efficiently. Like a good mother.

For the most part, I have kept to this pledge. Oh, sure, the writing goes slowly more often than not, and let's not talk about the state of my nails, or my waistline. But mothering tasks, those get done promptly—bills paid, appointments made, dinner made, laundry done (and done...and done...).

I'll try not to hurt myself with the back patting.

But this post is about a mothering task I AM procrastinating about...I can't seem to find my way into it, and oh, it so needs to be done, like, yesterday.

I am talking about weaning. I need to night wean, desperately.

And I have no one to blame but myself. Everyone said it. Don't let the baby associate sleep with nursing. Don't don't DON'T!

I was so careful on this point, so aware. I would nurse her until DROWSY, just like the books said, and then rocked or walked or sang her the rest of the way. And TEG took at least one of the night wakings. Anyone, with enough patience and a soft touch, could put her to sleep. TEG, my mother, sister, MIL, SIL, friends, heck, even my Father-in-law could do it.

And it was good. I was smug, I admit it. Madam was a good but fairly indifferent nurser, and I had apparently dodged the “nurse/sleep association” bullet.

I was kicked out of Eden at about six months. Madam and I got sick, and in order to get us through it, I did the awful, terrible, very bad, no good thing. I started nursing to sleep.

And now I can't seem to stop. I've tried sleeping away from her. I've tried singing, rocking, patting, stroking. Madam's had a taste of the good life, and she'll be damned if she'll let go now.

So...here I am. Exhausted—she wakes about seven times a night. Aching (not to get too graphic, but Madam has all her teeth and enjoys a bit of thrashing while she nurses. You make the connections). I've always loved nursing her—her little sighs of contentment, her plump hand like a sleeping starfish on her breast, her little head nodding yes, yes while she drank.

But...it's time to stop procrastinating now. Beyond time. At least at night. Have I mentioned that I am tired? And achy? And that I live in an apartment building and thus can't just let her cry, even if I wanted to (and believe me, lately I am more than open to that)?

So, I appeal to you, lovely internet readers—please, break it down for me—night weaning? Without screaming? How?

And here is my public service announcement—don't do the awful, terrible, very bad, no good thing. Don't nurse to sleep. No, no...not “just this once.” Because there will BE no “once.” Once the baby's figured it out, there is no turning back. For either of you. It's just too easy. So..like the Ancient Mariner (who I resemble more and more these days), heed my tale of woe!

Thus ends my PSA.

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