Friday, January 30, 2009
for these past twelve months, I haven't asked much of myself.
(not that I set myself any remarkably rigorous standards in the first place.)
but basically, my big task for any given day was to make sure the baby managed to survive the forthcoming 24 hours. just make sure Wolfie doesn't choke to death or smother to death or freeze to death or boil to death or bleed to death or come down with fatal diaper rash, and everything would be okay. anything else I managed to do, like cook dinner or pee or show loving affection to my partner - that was just sort of extra.
and now, apparently, the easy part is over.
I get the sense that as time goes on, it will get harder. The World will not be satisfied with merely producing a live child once a day for its inspection. I get the feeling that people will require some hard evidence of progress - percentiles, milestones, developmental achievements, other statistics that prove...something. but what?
I fear harsh judgment of my mothering "skills". I fear "solid" foods and their association in my mind with certain and immediate death by choking. I fear all sorts of things going into his second year of life.
whoever told me this gets easier? yeah, tell me again.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
and here's another one:
in about two weeks he'll be one year old. it makes my head spin.
Monday, January 26, 2009
I see you.
we're officially cool.
one could say we've given each other significant opportunities for growth, and, though painful, it was probably at the very least not fatal, and possibly even (at the end of the day) healthy in some respects.
and I can see that you mean what you say.
I apologize for not answering you sooner, but Wolfie's got me on the run lately. No sooner do I get used to one developmental stage but he's on to the next one and I'm left holding the onesie...
(really, if it's not covered in puke, poop or pee, I tend not to notice, whatever it is. and even if it is covered in puke, poop or pee, I tend not to notice that either.)
you know, he's coming up on his first birthday. I never ever expected to be here, man. seriously.
he's whatchacall an "easy" baby, still. "low needs", so to speak. he likes to play with blocks, chew on books (oy), fling stuff out of his playpen (or, as we call it in our house, the +2 Pen of Playing, full of Toys of Amusement). he was never colicky, or particularly screamy. he sleeps soundly, if not through the night, and he has a healthy appetite. he's appropriately appealing in every way.
and as I've been jacked up on oxytocin for the past year, I haven't noticed much else. (most of which I have noticed lately has been traumatic enough that I don't-wanna-talk-about-it.)
but I haven't been completely comatose. I discovered this site, Blue Milk, following a link offa some comment thread at Twisty's, some new skirmish in the Feminist Mom Wars. and she has a bunch of questions that look really delicious.
if I type really fast, maybe I can say everything I've learned about feminism and motherhood in the past year:
or maybe not.
what I can say, here:
when both you and the baby are covered in puke, clean yourself up first. you get to. you'll feel better. there's no extra credit for sacrificing yourself on the altar of motherhood.
of course, now that I have made that bold statement(haha), my freakishly low-needs baby decides he has a need of some kind. but I think I've said my piece for now.
and Ginmar, if I didn't make it clear before, let me make it clear now - I am honored to, internet-ly speaking, shake hands and part friends.