Today, Thorn and I prayed over a snack:
Me: Shall we pray?
Thorn: Ok!
Me: Say with me: God...
Thorn: God...
Me: Bless...
Thorn: Bless...
Me: Cookies!
Thorn: Cookies! No way! Silly God.
Thorn giggles, ascribing humor to God. "Silly God!" he repeats, wondering why I'm laughing so hard, but eager to get extra applause. Later, as I munch a few grainy, gluten-free squares with my boy, I consider Thorn's clarity of vision. Even though the first cultural constructions have already begun to box him, his mind is still amazingly unfettered. He sees nothing odd about pouring tea on his soy yogurt, calling his Latino soccer player doll "mommy," or praying for his uncle's dog's knee. It has been particularly interesting to me to see his theological development. What is God to a child?
Papa: Where is God?
Thorn: In the picture.
Papa: No...where is God?
Thorn: Oh no! Missin'.
Thorn has always seen Jesus in pictures, and the similarity in how he is portrayed allows Thorn to point out "God" whenever there's an image in his picture Bible, framed on the wall, or in Sunday school. (Amusingly enough, the similarity is less in skin color and more in the white robe and red sash.) For Thorn, God has a definite shape. God is also a person, because Thorn talks to God, and expects to be heard. How, then, can God be there when Thorn prays, but missing when he looks for a visible presence? Then again, we're talking about a kid who thinks he's invisible if he covers his eyes...
What are your own experiences with young children and God?
--
Addendum from the breakfast table (Thorn calls himself "Tah"):
Me: God loves Tah.
Thorn: God loves Tah so much.
Me: Where is God?
Thorn: God follow Tah home in car.
Me: From church?
Thorn: Uh huh. God see mommy from back chair.
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Time Boon Go Boom
I've divided my life into fifteen-minute increments, stolen here and there around childcare. Some exercise here, some laundry-folding there, some book-reading while feeding, some character development while in the shower--as I've said in earlier entries, you make it work, or you go nuts.
The boon is that I can now fit into fifteen minutes more than twenty-something me could have done in two hours. Heck, two days. I remember reading that Octavia Butler told aspiring writers to read when they were young, because they'd never have that much time again. Amen.
Fifteen minutes is all I need to accomplish most things. So what happens when both the toddler and the baby manage to sleep for two hours in the afternoon? First, of course, you don't know it will be two hours, and you go sneaking around, desperately cramming in all of the fifteen-minute things you can. I did tendonitis exercises. I put my legs on ice while finishing a book. Then, not believing my luck, I wrote one, then two, 1,000-page letters. I revised a short story, pausing to look at Kit's crib every few minutes. Mania increasing, I did the dishes. I read a poem my brother had written. I reviewed vocabulary, wondering how I'd construct THANK YOU GOD FOR TIME in ancient Greek. I sketched out ideas for a couple of characters. I read a commentary on the Biblical book of Numbers, and began reading a book on Mohammed.
By the time I got to the readings, the mania was becoming bewilderment. When would they wake? What could I do next? What would happen if, heaven forbid, I ran out of tasks? I was walking in an unexpected garden, but instead of admiring the plantlife, I had begun to worry about bees. Or if I'd lost my keys. Or where I'd parked my car. So I stopped. I sat down. I freaked out at the stillness, and then looked outside.
Trees. They're always there outside the window, but I don't look out, unless I'm giving Thorn some lesson on the weather, the seasons, or the rampant deer. I believe everyone ought to know their neighborhood trees as a courtesy, because they'll still be there, most of them, when we've gone. I made a pact with myself to identify the trees closest to the window. When the boys awoke in tandem, screaming, I bundled them out the door and into the grass.
The trees were wild apples. I confess this knowledge pleased me more than any other accomplishment today.
The boon is that I can now fit into fifteen minutes more than twenty-something me could have done in two hours. Heck, two days. I remember reading that Octavia Butler told aspiring writers to read when they were young, because they'd never have that much time again. Amen.
Fifteen minutes is all I need to accomplish most things. So what happens when both the toddler and the baby manage to sleep for two hours in the afternoon? First, of course, you don't know it will be two hours, and you go sneaking around, desperately cramming in all of the fifteen-minute things you can. I did tendonitis exercises. I put my legs on ice while finishing a book. Then, not believing my luck, I wrote one, then two, 1,000-page letters. I revised a short story, pausing to look at Kit's crib every few minutes. Mania increasing, I did the dishes. I read a poem my brother had written. I reviewed vocabulary, wondering how I'd construct THANK YOU GOD FOR TIME in ancient Greek. I sketched out ideas for a couple of characters. I read a commentary on the Biblical book of Numbers, and began reading a book on Mohammed.
By the time I got to the readings, the mania was becoming bewilderment. When would they wake? What could I do next? What would happen if, heaven forbid, I ran out of tasks? I was walking in an unexpected garden, but instead of admiring the plantlife, I had begun to worry about bees. Or if I'd lost my keys. Or where I'd parked my car. So I stopped. I sat down. I freaked out at the stillness, and then looked outside.
Trees. They're always there outside the window, but I don't look out, unless I'm giving Thorn some lesson on the weather, the seasons, or the rampant deer. I believe everyone ought to know their neighborhood trees as a courtesy, because they'll still be there, most of them, when we've gone. I made a pact with myself to identify the trees closest to the window. When the boys awoke in tandem, screaming, I bundled them out the door and into the grass.
The trees were wild apples. I confess this knowledge pleased me more than any other accomplishment today.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Work Stations
Kit has...paused. He needs some serious sleep, owing to the fact that he hasn't slept since he woke up this morning at 6:50am. Oh sure, maybe he has closed his eyes for a few minutes. That's it. He demanded constant motion on the partof mommy. I hope he sleeps for three hours. And Thorn, for that matter. I need the break.
A long morning. An impossible morning, in fact, if it hadn't been for two things: Sparrow's adoring notes in the office and dining room, and work stations.
I've come to the conclusion that work stations are essential for any stay-at-home parent. Like we keep toys in every room so as to amuse the boys, I keep some small bit of work in every room so as to make good use of time and limited energy. There are books in the bathroom, by the lamp in the living room, at my desk, and behind my pillow on the bed. My Christmas sock knitting project is on the coffee table. An ancient Greek textbook is currently at my desk, but it is usually at the dining room table by the omnipresent cup of tea. There are portable Greek flashcards to carry around with me. There's a handwritten journal near my daylight lamp. My story idea book follows me, but usually ends up in the office. And of course, the newly-minted sketchbook for character and map ideas. If I had all of these things at my desk, I'd never get any of them done. As it is, I can squeeze in an artistic-intellectual life around my toddler and baby. And that is the first step toward sanity, my friends.
Now to go and meditate until I feel normal again. And then to work on a problematic third chapter. I've playful thoughts in my mind that haven't had a chance to find paper. With mommy brain, it's quite possible they'll fly away before I capture them.
...or Kit could wake up. Arrrgh.
A long morning. An impossible morning, in fact, if it hadn't been for two things: Sparrow's adoring notes in the office and dining room, and work stations.
I've come to the conclusion that work stations are essential for any stay-at-home parent. Like we keep toys in every room so as to amuse the boys, I keep some small bit of work in every room so as to make good use of time and limited energy. There are books in the bathroom, by the lamp in the living room, at my desk, and behind my pillow on the bed. My Christmas sock knitting project is on the coffee table. An ancient Greek textbook is currently at my desk, but it is usually at the dining room table by the omnipresent cup of tea. There are portable Greek flashcards to carry around with me. There's a handwritten journal near my daylight lamp. My story idea book follows me, but usually ends up in the office. And of course, the newly-minted sketchbook for character and map ideas. If I had all of these things at my desk, I'd never get any of them done. As it is, I can squeeze in an artistic-intellectual life around my toddler and baby. And that is the first step toward sanity, my friends.
Now to go and meditate until I feel normal again. And then to work on a problematic third chapter. I've playful thoughts in my mind that haven't had a chance to find paper. With mommy brain, it's quite possible they'll fly away before I capture them.
...or Kit could wake up. Arrrgh.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Almost There
I write this from home. I have had to return to the apartment. Thorn needed looking after, and since Fox's health was good, I was persuaded to stay with him. Thorn has a cold, and so we didn't get to visit his mother today. We did talk to Fox on the phone, which was good for the boy, less good for me. I do not like leaving her in the hospital, even though I know she has the best of care. I miss her terribly, and I worry. Her physicians have scheduled little Kit's birthday for the fourteenth of July. That means he and Fox may come home on Sunday. I do hope so. And I hope that their health holds. I will bring Thorn to his grandparents house tomorrow, and then I will return to the hospital. The morning of the fourteenth brings many procedures, needles, and other stresses for my lady, and I want to be there when she needs me.
I taught the first section of my (second) Classical Mythology course this afternoon. The first session ended last week. It is strange to teach a course back to back without a pause. But I'm glad to be done with the night class. I was not at my best between the hours of 6:00-9:00 pm. I do much better earlier in the day. Since this new section is at 1:00 pm, I'm feeling just fine and full of energy as class starts. I also like getting home in time for dinner. Tonight Thorn and I had chicken and cucumbers. Tomorrow we'll make our way through the broccoli and asparagus that I purchased on Monday. Green food! The tastiest, you know.
Our waiting is almost over. We look forward to the end with great love. Very, very soon we'll have a new brother for Thorn, and a new son, and a newly formed family.
Life is still good. Waiting still stinks.
I taught the first section of my (second) Classical Mythology course this afternoon. The first session ended last week. It is strange to teach a course back to back without a pause. But I'm glad to be done with the night class. I was not at my best between the hours of 6:00-9:00 pm. I do much better earlier in the day. Since this new section is at 1:00 pm, I'm feeling just fine and full of energy as class starts. I also like getting home in time for dinner. Tonight Thorn and I had chicken and cucumbers. Tomorrow we'll make our way through the broccoli and asparagus that I purchased on Monday. Green food! The tastiest, you know.
Our waiting is almost over. We look forward to the end with great love. Very, very soon we'll have a new brother for Thorn, and a new son, and a newly formed family.
Life is still good. Waiting still stinks.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Twenty Week Balloon
Twenty weeks pregnant. My baby is the about the length of a banana, but I have been feeling more like a balloon. I weigh less than I did with Thorn at this stage, but my tummy is larger. The dreaded swelling has already begun. I waddle a bit more, I sleep a bit more, I heartburn a lot more, and bending over is like... well, bending over a balloon. So I put on a red shirt today. Because if I must be a balloon, I will be an AWESOME RED balloon.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Preemptive Plea
First-time mothers can be silly in a lot of ways. One of the worst ways, in my case, was to avoid taking much of the help people kindly offered me. So I'm going to preemptively beg, in this case:
Since Sparrow won't have nearly the same amount of time off after the Raspbaby is born, I'll be stuck alone with a new baby and a toddler, trying to exclusively pump while recovering from a c-section. This is a recipe for depression.
I know many of you have suggested you would like to come to see us. I ask two things:
First, that you avoid coming to the hospital. With Thorn, our room was over-filled most of the day, and while I loved everyone there, at night I paid for it in exhaustion and panic attacks. If you must come, I'd love to see you, but limit your time, and then take Sparrow out for dinner so I can sleep. :P
Second, after you've given us a few weeks to recover, by all means, come visit. Come in droves. Come and STAY. I'll need the help and the company! Especially in September.
Since Sparrow won't have nearly the same amount of time off after the Raspbaby is born, I'll be stuck alone with a new baby and a toddler, trying to exclusively pump while recovering from a c-section. This is a recipe for depression.
I know many of you have suggested you would like to come to see us. I ask two things:
First, that you avoid coming to the hospital. With Thorn, our room was over-filled most of the day, and while I loved everyone there, at night I paid for it in exhaustion and panic attacks. If you must come, I'd love to see you, but limit your time, and then take Sparrow out for dinner so I can sleep. :P
Second, after you've given us a few weeks to recover, by all means, come visit. Come in droves. Come and STAY. I'll need the help and the company! Especially in September.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Thorny Week
Thorn is in bed, though not asleep. Some nights, if he is particularly cheery, he'll sing the "dadada" song, a vaguely verbalized homage to the old man, before he goes to sleep. This may be coupled with coos and vrooms as cars get in on the action. Not that I give him cars to sleep with, but one always ends up in the bed. Maybe toys do move when you're not looking...
It has been a momentous week for little Thorn. He has grown gastronomically and verbally.
As you may know, our child is a picky eater which, when compounded with his many allergies, makes Sparrow and I nervous wrecks at mealtime. Thorn will eat any green vegetable and all sorts of veggie-derived milk products, but it has been an uphill struggle to get him to eat fruit and meat. This week, as always, we tried a few new contenders. Not only did we discover he will eat kale like candy, but that he'll eat chicken if it is made succulent through Sparrow's genius. Coupled with jerky, Thorn is actually getting a non-soy protein for once! Another problem was solved in the fruit arena: red pears are apparently wonderful. Poor kid thought an apple I was cutting up today was a red pear. I should say poor me, because I got to clean up the results!
Even more exciting for us was Thorn's sudden verbalization of two new words this week. His first two-syllable word, "nummy," applies to all non-liquid food, and he now uses it a thousand times a day. A differentiation much appreciated! Even better was his sudden identification of me as "mama" this morning. I had begun to wonder how much longer I would be "dad" or a noncommittal grunt. I'd almost given up, but Sparrow was diligent, and it was he who got the precious "mama" out of Thorn's mouth. Preen, Sparrow, preen.
We took Thorn out today to our 13 week prenatal appointment. He was very charming, offering all and sundry items from his bag of gluten-free Cheerio alternatives. He sat between my legs and watched Dr. B curiously as she rubbed down my abdomen with various instruments to find the Raspbaby's heartbeat. These were ultimately to no avail. We were sent downstairs for a sonogram. While an active, headstanding Raspbaby was a great relief for Sparrow and I, such an image did not impress Thorn in the slightest. The bright red biohazard box did, though.
Afterward, even though we were getting into his naptime, we went to Red Robin, which Thorn loved. He watched everyone come and go, rocking and pointing at the enormous carousel horse decorations. The only food he can have much of there are the fries, but he did tolerable justice to them. I feel as though I am projecting the image of a bad mother, with my son sitting there eating fries with water. I want to explain to every passing frown that he's actually thin for his height. That he eats asparagus at home! Ah well. Strangers had best forgive what they don't know.
It has been a momentous week for little Thorn. He has grown gastronomically and verbally.
As you may know, our child is a picky eater which, when compounded with his many allergies, makes Sparrow and I nervous wrecks at mealtime. Thorn will eat any green vegetable and all sorts of veggie-derived milk products, but it has been an uphill struggle to get him to eat fruit and meat. This week, as always, we tried a few new contenders. Not only did we discover he will eat kale like candy, but that he'll eat chicken if it is made succulent through Sparrow's genius. Coupled with jerky, Thorn is actually getting a non-soy protein for once! Another problem was solved in the fruit arena: red pears are apparently wonderful. Poor kid thought an apple I was cutting up today was a red pear. I should say poor me, because I got to clean up the results!
Even more exciting for us was Thorn's sudden verbalization of two new words this week. His first two-syllable word, "nummy," applies to all non-liquid food, and he now uses it a thousand times a day. A differentiation much appreciated! Even better was his sudden identification of me as "mama" this morning. I had begun to wonder how much longer I would be "dad" or a noncommittal grunt. I'd almost given up, but Sparrow was diligent, and it was he who got the precious "mama" out of Thorn's mouth. Preen, Sparrow, preen.
We took Thorn out today to our 13 week prenatal appointment. He was very charming, offering all and sundry items from his bag of gluten-free Cheerio alternatives. He sat between my legs and watched Dr. B curiously as she rubbed down my abdomen with various instruments to find the Raspbaby's heartbeat. These were ultimately to no avail. We were sent downstairs for a sonogram. While an active, headstanding Raspbaby was a great relief for Sparrow and I, such an image did not impress Thorn in the slightest. The bright red biohazard box did, though.
Afterward, even though we were getting into his naptime, we went to Red Robin, which Thorn loved. He watched everyone come and go, rocking and pointing at the enormous carousel horse decorations. The only food he can have much of there are the fries, but he did tolerable justice to them. I feel as though I am projecting the image of a bad mother, with my son sitting there eating fries with water. I want to explain to every passing frown that he's actually thin for his height. That he eats asparagus at home! Ah well. Strangers had best forgive what they don't know.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Craving Oranges
This pregnancy has been different from the last. Not very different, but different enough that I've needed something of satifying sameness, so that I could be assured, in my irrational pregnant way, that this pregnancy is as normal as the last.
Things which were different:
* This morning sickness came earlier and hit much harder. It also hasn't lasted as long, fading around the twelfth week. I was still sick nineteen weeks into my last pregnancy.
* Pregnancy brain has started earlier. I'm as forgetful as a... a...
* A much more intense sense of smell.
* I haven't put on nearly as much weight as I did in the first trimester, last time. Probably due to the morning sickness. Or running after a toddler.
* I don't have this sense of impending change. Partly because this was such a surprise that I'm still in shock; partly because I've done this before.
But never fear! One thing is definitely the same. I'm craving INSANE amounts of oranges. At least one every day, and juice. And anything citrusy, like pineapple on pizzas, blood orange sodas, grapefruit, even lemons. And I know this is because of pregnancy and not just because of this horrid infectious disease I happen to have, because normally? I despise oranges. Especially in juice form. I'd eat a thousand grapefruits before I'd touch one orange. I'd even eat a lemon in the raw before an orange. And yet here I am, devouring the things like candy. If the pregnancy didn't sink in before now, this is the turning point. I can't crave oranges and not be pregnant. No can do.
Things which were different:
* This morning sickness came earlier and hit much harder. It also hasn't lasted as long, fading around the twelfth week. I was still sick nineteen weeks into my last pregnancy.
* Pregnancy brain has started earlier. I'm as forgetful as a... a...
* A much more intense sense of smell.
* I haven't put on nearly as much weight as I did in the first trimester, last time. Probably due to the morning sickness. Or running after a toddler.
* I don't have this sense of impending change. Partly because this was such a surprise that I'm still in shock; partly because I've done this before.
But never fear! One thing is definitely the same. I'm craving INSANE amounts of oranges. At least one every day, and juice. And anything citrusy, like pineapple on pizzas, blood orange sodas, grapefruit, even lemons. And I know this is because of pregnancy and not just because of this horrid infectious disease I happen to have, because normally? I despise oranges. Especially in juice form. I'd eat a thousand grapefruits before I'd touch one orange. I'd even eat a lemon in the raw before an orange. And yet here I am, devouring the things like candy. If the pregnancy didn't sink in before now, this is the turning point. I can't crave oranges and not be pregnant. No can do.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Riboflavin's Complaint
Riboflavin recently complained that I don't blog enough. Always quick to self-justify, I looked back over the blog, and behold! Not a single entry since I started working at Logos. So here, in a nutshell, is what has been eating my life:
First: I have had two colds, each lasting for over a week. Minimal functioning.
Second: Editing deadlines. They eat your soul.
Third: Childcare, shared with the adoring Sparrow and on the weekends, with my parental units. Thorn is a genius, but a demanding genius.
Fourth: Spare time spent freaking out about the cold and knitting scarves for babies. Also editing various writings by Sparrow and Aunt Violet.
Fifth: D&D some weekends, but a lot of travel otherwise. Went to Colonial Williamsburg with Sparrow for our tenth year together.
Sixth: I learned everything there is to know about assessment writing, DOK levels, and multiple-choice options, and wrote "the guide" on the matter for Logos freelancers.
Seventh: Art history, as per my editing deadlines. As far as writing and editing (re-writing) goes, I started with Antiquity and have gotten up to the Quattrocento thus far. Major stops included Mesoamerican archaeology (of course), Byzantium, Gothic illuminations, tempera techniques, 15th century Italian painting from Masaccio to Mantegna, and (currently) 15th century art of France, Germany, and Spain. All of which are fascinating to me. Like the Ghent Altarpiece's Virgin, my twin. Or the perfect breast spheres of Fouquet's Madonna. Dürer's beguiling self-portrait. Masaccio's intense Expulsion. Mantegna's Dead Christ--aaagh, it gives me goosebumps!
The best thing about all this art history is that it has forced me to read a lot of books in order to get my source material. Which means that I'm only two books shy of my 50-books-a-year goal. Once I've gotten to fifty, I promise I'll post the list and my thoughts. After which I can read The Lord of the Rings again without guilt!
Oh, and if you wondered, the election didn't make me bat an eyelash. Lack of a landline and no television made my November wonderfully free of political advertisements. Americans have given no mandate to anyone. They want jobs, and if you start with that racist immigration crap again, Republicans, you will see one of your biggest fans give you the finger. Just balance the budget like good small-government types, pat-pat.
Happy now, Riboflavin?
First: I have had two colds, each lasting for over a week. Minimal functioning.
Second: Editing deadlines. They eat your soul.
Third: Childcare, shared with the adoring Sparrow and on the weekends, with my parental units. Thorn is a genius, but a demanding genius.
Fourth: Spare time spent freaking out about the cold and knitting scarves for babies. Also editing various writings by Sparrow and Aunt Violet.
Fifth: D&D some weekends, but a lot of travel otherwise. Went to Colonial Williamsburg with Sparrow for our tenth year together.
Sixth: I learned everything there is to know about assessment writing, DOK levels, and multiple-choice options, and wrote "the guide" on the matter for Logos freelancers.
Seventh: Art history, as per my editing deadlines. As far as writing and editing (re-writing) goes, I started with Antiquity and have gotten up to the Quattrocento thus far. Major stops included Mesoamerican archaeology (of course), Byzantium, Gothic illuminations, tempera techniques, 15th century Italian painting from Masaccio to Mantegna, and (currently) 15th century art of France, Germany, and Spain. All of which are fascinating to me. Like the Ghent Altarpiece's Virgin, my twin. Or the perfect breast spheres of Fouquet's Madonna. Dürer's beguiling self-portrait. Masaccio's intense Expulsion. Mantegna's Dead Christ--aaagh, it gives me goosebumps!
The best thing about all this art history is that it has forced me to read a lot of books in order to get my source material. Which means that I'm only two books shy of my 50-books-a-year goal. Once I've gotten to fifty, I promise I'll post the list and my thoughts. After which I can read The Lord of the Rings again without guilt!
Oh, and if you wondered, the election didn't make me bat an eyelash. Lack of a landline and no television made my November wonderfully free of political advertisements. Americans have given no mandate to anyone. They want jobs, and if you start with that racist immigration crap again, Republicans, you will see one of your biggest fans give you the finger. Just balance the budget like good small-government types, pat-pat.
Happy now, Riboflavin?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Loving Thorn
I can scarce remember last September.
Was it cold? Did I have a lot of work?
It was the first September of life with Thorn. I thought, during the long nights and the frantic days, that we had a new status quo, and that life would eventually settle into a new pattern. I was wrong. Life didn't settle, and the status quo kept changing. In fact, it is still changing. What was true yesterday is not true today, and so I'm living in my own personal version of the post-modern universe.
What is truth?
Something I'm daily discovering anew.
Life with Thorn is wondrous. It remains frantic, though not nearly as much as last year. And he is changing. He is bigger, of course. He has more hair. But that doesn't impact as much as the little personality that is rising in him. He isn't saying very much beyond 'dad' (of which I'm still inordinately pleased) and 'dog' (which is now beginning to settle on the correct species rather than all animals), but he understands. He learns quickly. If you show him something, like how to put a block in a slot, or how to turn pages, flip cards, open cans, or stack boxes, he replicates your actions. When left to his own devices, he will eventually figure out how to get through most barriers and locks that bar his way. He will not be contained. He likes certain things now. He loves books, dogs of all sorts, and dancing. He doesn't like having his diaper changed, but who can blame him. He has begun to imagine. Yesterday with Drake, Fox's brother and Thorn's uncle, he pretended to drink from a large, yellow cup. He knew there was no liquid inside, but he still made the slurping sound, still brought the cup to his lips. I know imagination of this sort does not seem remarkable, and in the fact that nearly every human being alive has this capacity it isn't, but to watch it begin -- to watch a child begin to separate and to play with the boundaries of the real and the fantasy is amazing.
Every day I look at our Thorn, and every day he surprises and delights me. What will you do next, my son? What dreams will you weave? What will I teach you? What will you teach me?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Goodnight Moon
Thorn, our 15-month old (on Saturday), went to bed clutching his copy of Goodnight Moon. He does not have a single toy or doll that he likes to accompany him into the realm of sleep and dreams, but he has never (as far as I'm aware) taken a book to bed before. I'm absolutely delighted. He wants to read every day, although, of course, reading consists in flipping rapidly through as many books as possible, but he loves the tome, he loves the images, and I think he will learn to love the words. My bibliophilic heart is warmed. I look forward so much to the years and the days and the hours that are ahead.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Fatherhood: The First Hour
Thorn will be a year old at the end of May.
A year ago, when Fox was nearing the end of her pregnancy, when the fateful moment was weeks and not months away, I made a decision. I decided that I would capture the memories of my first year of fatherhood in a special journal, and then I would share the best parts with whoever would listen. I chose a happy blue journal--we knew Thorn was a boy, and so blue seemed only fitting. Affixed to the front was a lacquer turtle, and, because it was cute, it fit with the sentiment of a father's journal about his son. My pen scratched in some small details of the day Thorn was born, but the rest of the journal is bare.
I never understood how much work it was to raise a child. I knew, of course, that it was work, but the time, the hours, the exhaustion…these were things about which I possessed no accurate sense. I have spent a little time beating myself up for not keeping to my original plan. But that type of self-indulgence just doesn't sit well for long. No, there is no point getting upset about work you haven't done. Don't cry over spilled milk. Clean it up. Dear friends, here is the beginning of that process.
---
Thorn entered the world eagerly. Weeks ahead of his due date, he decided to squirm his little body out into the bright light of his first day. Unfortunately, his attempts met with little success. Simply put, his head was too large and Fox's bones too delicate and slender. The most exceptional physician knew what to do, and so Fox and Thorn (still wriggling away, perhaps aware that his moments in the womb were swiftly departing) were ushered off to the nearby operating room. Never before in my life had I observed a crew of people move so quickly and so calmly. I, alas, was anything but calm. C-section. Surgery. They were going to cut open my love, and she was out the door before I had time to get the green frock they'd tossed in my direction over my head. I did manage to get garbed. Many thanks are owed to my mother-in-law, who maintained her serenity when I had lost mine to the rush and the winds. The pants were several sizes too large, and so I had to hold up the ensemble with one hand. For minutes (exceedingly long minutes) I waited just outside the operating room. A nurse eventually arrived to convey me to Fox's side. The operating room was small. A huge curtain had been raised above Fox's midsection. The anesthesiologist sat by her head. His small corner of the room was filled with enormous machines that hissed and whistled as they pumped merrily away at their appointed tasks. Another nurse, or perhaps the same who led me in, provided me a folding chair. I sat down, my legs trembling, my breath short, and my heart pounding. The surgery had already started. I could hear it, though blessedly, I couldn't see it. Fox and I comforted one another as best we could, as the most exceptional physician did her work.
We knew the baby was out before we heard him. There is this terrible and intense moment, when, blinded by the curtain, you cannot see the babe they've pulled from your love. You wait, counting heartbeats, straining to hear a breath, a cry, a squeal, anything to confirm that your child is healthy--that your child is alive. There is a sound that comes first, a strange suctioning sound, and then, finally, you hear the intake of breath and the cry. Loud. Throaty. Indignant. Little Thorn wailed to the world that he had arrived and that he didn't think it was as great as he hoped. No doubt it was too bright, too cold, and too crowded with strange and mysterious folk garbed in sterile greens and blues. Thorn was cleaned, placed in a plastic bed atop a cart, and then wheeled over where we got our first look.
He was thin. His long limbs of bone thrashed about while the nurses measured, poked, and prodded to see if all was well. All was well. I think I cried a little, and I kissed Fox, and she kissed me. We were parents. Here was our child. He was red and distressed. His skin was wrinkled and filmy. And yet, he was beautiful.
The most excellent physician restored Fox's body to its closed state, and then they once more wheeled my love away. I remained behind to stand as a witness to the marking of my child. Hospital rules require that each parent and child receive wrist-bands that indicate you belong together. These bands come off only on the day you take your baby home. Fox needed to be in post-surgical recovery, and so I stood, jittery, dancing from foot to foot, as the nurses took samples of blood from Thorn's foot, and then placed identical tags on each of us. I got my first good look at him. He was well-formed. A strong torso and the lungs to inhabit it extended into four bony limbs that twitched and flailed passionately. He had hematite eyes -- I will never forget them, though now they've gone, replaced by browns and lighter grays. His skin was warm and dry when I touched him. I was not permitted to hold him yet, but I longed to. He was my son. My boy. My firstborn. Together, once he was tagged, diapered, and bundled, we went to find his mother in recovery.
I thought the most stressful time was behind me.
Silly me.
---
More on Fatherhood in a later installment.
A year ago, when Fox was nearing the end of her pregnancy, when the fateful moment was weeks and not months away, I made a decision. I decided that I would capture the memories of my first year of fatherhood in a special journal, and then I would share the best parts with whoever would listen. I chose a happy blue journal--we knew Thorn was a boy, and so blue seemed only fitting. Affixed to the front was a lacquer turtle, and, because it was cute, it fit with the sentiment of a father's journal about his son. My pen scratched in some small details of the day Thorn was born, but the rest of the journal is bare.
I never understood how much work it was to raise a child. I knew, of course, that it was work, but the time, the hours, the exhaustion…these were things about which I possessed no accurate sense. I have spent a little time beating myself up for not keeping to my original plan. But that type of self-indulgence just doesn't sit well for long. No, there is no point getting upset about work you haven't done. Don't cry over spilled milk. Clean it up. Dear friends, here is the beginning of that process.
---
Thorn entered the world eagerly. Weeks ahead of his due date, he decided to squirm his little body out into the bright light of his first day. Unfortunately, his attempts met with little success. Simply put, his head was too large and Fox's bones too delicate and slender. The most exceptional physician knew what to do, and so Fox and Thorn (still wriggling away, perhaps aware that his moments in the womb were swiftly departing) were ushered off to the nearby operating room. Never before in my life had I observed a crew of people move so quickly and so calmly. I, alas, was anything but calm. C-section. Surgery. They were going to cut open my love, and she was out the door before I had time to get the green frock they'd tossed in my direction over my head. I did manage to get garbed. Many thanks are owed to my mother-in-law, who maintained her serenity when I had lost mine to the rush and the winds. The pants were several sizes too large, and so I had to hold up the ensemble with one hand. For minutes (exceedingly long minutes) I waited just outside the operating room. A nurse eventually arrived to convey me to Fox's side. The operating room was small. A huge curtain had been raised above Fox's midsection. The anesthesiologist sat by her head. His small corner of the room was filled with enormous machines that hissed and whistled as they pumped merrily away at their appointed tasks. Another nurse, or perhaps the same who led me in, provided me a folding chair. I sat down, my legs trembling, my breath short, and my heart pounding. The surgery had already started. I could hear it, though blessedly, I couldn't see it. Fox and I comforted one another as best we could, as the most exceptional physician did her work.
We knew the baby was out before we heard him. There is this terrible and intense moment, when, blinded by the curtain, you cannot see the babe they've pulled from your love. You wait, counting heartbeats, straining to hear a breath, a cry, a squeal, anything to confirm that your child is healthy--that your child is alive. There is a sound that comes first, a strange suctioning sound, and then, finally, you hear the intake of breath and the cry. Loud. Throaty. Indignant. Little Thorn wailed to the world that he had arrived and that he didn't think it was as great as he hoped. No doubt it was too bright, too cold, and too crowded with strange and mysterious folk garbed in sterile greens and blues. Thorn was cleaned, placed in a plastic bed atop a cart, and then wheeled over where we got our first look.
He was thin. His long limbs of bone thrashed about while the nurses measured, poked, and prodded to see if all was well. All was well. I think I cried a little, and I kissed Fox, and she kissed me. We were parents. Here was our child. He was red and distressed. His skin was wrinkled and filmy. And yet, he was beautiful.
The most excellent physician restored Fox's body to its closed state, and then they once more wheeled my love away. I remained behind to stand as a witness to the marking of my child. Hospital rules require that each parent and child receive wrist-bands that indicate you belong together. These bands come off only on the day you take your baby home. Fox needed to be in post-surgical recovery, and so I stood, jittery, dancing from foot to foot, as the nurses took samples of blood from Thorn's foot, and then placed identical tags on each of us. I got my first good look at him. He was well-formed. A strong torso and the lungs to inhabit it extended into four bony limbs that twitched and flailed passionately. He had hematite eyes -- I will never forget them, though now they've gone, replaced by browns and lighter grays. His skin was warm and dry when I touched him. I was not permitted to hold him yet, but I longed to. He was my son. My boy. My firstborn. Together, once he was tagged, diapered, and bundled, we went to find his mother in recovery.
I thought the most stressful time was behind me.
Silly me.
---
More on Fatherhood in a later installment.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Food News
Today we have seen a converging of events, so it seemed the best time to write a blog entry. This way, if some of the information is tedious, I'll be too busy going onto the next item for you to get bored. How considerate of me. Really.
Thorn will be eight months in two days. He's right on target, leaping over his baby milestones one at a time. He crawls, he babbles ("dad" is still his favorite word), and he's eating solid foods with only an occasional raspberry splatter. Today, I gave him his first bite of meat, which smelled of dog food but didn't taste awful (yes, I taste His Highness's food first). Having secured the viscous pink goo in his mouth, I sat back to see what would happen. After a pause in which he rolled the stuff around his tongue, he closed his eyes and shuddered. Seeing as I've read so many Pearl S. Buck novels lately, the first thing I thought was, "Heavens! He's a Buddhist!" I've since come to my senses and mixed the chicken with vegetables. Now he's fine. He wasn't a Buddhist; he was a gourmet.
Thorn is also about to secure another milestone, too: today, having felt Thorn's gums, Sparrow exclaimed, "I think we'll be seeing a tooth soon!" His words were prophetic, for pulling back Thorn's lower lip revealed a tiny ridge of white. This, of course, touched my alter ego (who, for those uninitiated, is a rather flamboyant fey thing), who instantly began to wonder what color Thorn's toothbrush should be. I think he might be settling on orange.
In other news, I put on my engagement ring today. It fit. Breastfeeding is the best diet ever.
Thorn will be eight months in two days. He's right on target, leaping over his baby milestones one at a time. He crawls, he babbles ("dad" is still his favorite word), and he's eating solid foods with only an occasional raspberry splatter. Today, I gave him his first bite of meat, which smelled of dog food but didn't taste awful (yes, I taste His Highness's food first). Having secured the viscous pink goo in his mouth, I sat back to see what would happen. After a pause in which he rolled the stuff around his tongue, he closed his eyes and shuddered. Seeing as I've read so many Pearl S. Buck novels lately, the first thing I thought was, "Heavens! He's a Buddhist!" I've since come to my senses and mixed the chicken with vegetables. Now he's fine. He wasn't a Buddhist; he was a gourmet.
Thorn is also about to secure another milestone, too: today, having felt Thorn's gums, Sparrow exclaimed, "I think we'll be seeing a tooth soon!" His words were prophetic, for pulling back Thorn's lower lip revealed a tiny ridge of white. This, of course, touched my alter ego (who, for those uninitiated, is a rather flamboyant fey thing), who instantly began to wonder what color Thorn's toothbrush should be. I think he might be settling on orange.
In other news, I put on my engagement ring today. It fit. Breastfeeding is the best diet ever.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Tormented Face
Our son struggles against his bonds: his swaddle, which I have re-fixed for the eighth time tonight. He struggles because he wants to scratch his face, where pinpricks of blood mingle with interstitial fluid in a haphazard brickwork of red upon red. The creams I have applied, the ointments with which I have slathered his face -- these do nothing to keep him from his suffering. There is an itch to scratch, and the more he scratches it, the worse it will become. Or he won’t scratch it -- by some miracle I will manage to stay awake through the night, holding his hands down in their swaths of cotton -- but it will begin again tomorrow.
His face looks better. It ought to be better. He only wears cotton, now, which has been laundered and double-rinsed. He gets soaking lukewarm baths every day, and facial washings several times a day. He only drinks my milk, from which I have removed every trace of dairy from my diet -- why must it take weeks to remove the traces from his body? Why must the almighty cow -- a benign-looking, silly beast -- attack his skin so terribly?
How am I supposed to sleep? A moment could have his hands free; a moment could have him dragging blood-glazed gloves across his cheeks. How am I supposed to sleep? His head rocks back and forth. We used to think he was fighting sleep: now we know he’s trying to scratch his cheeks by rubbing his head against the mattress. How am I supposed to sleep? My son suffers, and he does not have the capacity to reason through it.
His eyes are crinkled with tiny blisters and sleeplessness. He opens them, sometimes, and stares at me when I breathe cool air upon his broken face. Too tired to smile at the relief. He knows too early that life means suffering. Or maybe he doesn’t think he suffers: maybe he already considers this normal, as I did with my persistent allergies. A tissue in every pocket, every room. My allergies, which gave him his eczema.
His face looks better. It ought to be better. He only wears cotton, now, which has been laundered and double-rinsed. He gets soaking lukewarm baths every day, and facial washings several times a day. He only drinks my milk, from which I have removed every trace of dairy from my diet -- why must it take weeks to remove the traces from his body? Why must the almighty cow -- a benign-looking, silly beast -- attack his skin so terribly?
How am I supposed to sleep? A moment could have his hands free; a moment could have him dragging blood-glazed gloves across his cheeks. How am I supposed to sleep? His head rocks back and forth. We used to think he was fighting sleep: now we know he’s trying to scratch his cheeks by rubbing his head against the mattress. How am I supposed to sleep? My son suffers, and he does not have the capacity to reason through it.
His eyes are crinkled with tiny blisters and sleeplessness. He opens them, sometimes, and stares at me when I breathe cool air upon his broken face. Too tired to smile at the relief. He knows too early that life means suffering. Or maybe he doesn’t think he suffers: maybe he already considers this normal, as I did with my persistent allergies. A tissue in every pocket, every room. My allergies, which gave him his eczema.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Words
The baby is finally asleep, aided by the lullaby CD his godmother bought him, swaddling to keep him from striking his little face, and my presence beside him on the big bed, reading Lavinia by Le Guin. At one point, tired of looking at the colorful book spines on the wall, he turned to me. I showed him my book, the only color of which was ivory with rows of black letters. I read a sentence to him, pointing to each word. He grinned, and the pacifier fell out of his mouth. In his wordlessness, I imagine him to be cleverer than he is -- that he understands these words and is using his vast intellect to put them together. I know it is not true: my conceptions will collapse into his first words, so powerful is our written language. But it is always a mother’s belief that her child is a genius, is it not?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Foot Empowerment
The difference between pregnant, swollen feet and the feet of a mother? The first are slightly moist, featureless dough dumplings; the second are fox-thin, veined and calloused and spread-toed. The first are for resting on dainty cushions, or propped helplessly into stirrups. The second, for standing on tile or wood or pavement – they are as impervious as shoes, even though they can finally wear them. The pregnant foot is sufferingly elegant as it is rubbed, oiled, manicured. The mother foot is superhuman, slender, beautiful in its efficiency. No colors are needed on its nails: it sneers at the pampered feet of the waddling masses. Mom feet are ruthless. Mom feet are sexy. Mom feet kick the asses of pigeon-toed misogynists. Mom feet have power.
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