Feb. 1st, 2005, Blog Day One but not Mama Day One
So I've decided to join the other bloggers out there on my newest adventure here though I'm coming to the party a bit late. Late not only in my understanding of the whole blog scene, which you'll see, but late in posting my life as a new, middle-aged (probably) mother out here on the web. It started with a journal I tried to keep everyday so I wouldn't forget the snorts and puckered-lemon faces my baby made one month that are gone the next and bloomed into an experience I wanted to share.
Yeah, there's plenty of encyclopedia-sized books out there about the first year of motherhood but those are written by the literary equivalent of that guy who does the voice over for clear eyes. You know that guy, he hosts his own game show on some cable station and he played a teacher on the TV show "The Wonder Years," for those of you who were watching TV in the late 80's early 90's. He has a droning montone and somehow his voice sounds oddly scientific. That's the tone of many of these books. There are other tones as well, the hippie doctor tone, the "I'm a comedian tone," the "I'm a former Wall Streeter now Stay at home Mom" (SAHM for those in the know) tone.
I don't really know what my tone but if anyone reads this they can tell me. All I know is it'll give me a somewhat creative outlet every day and it'll satisfy my urge to stop every person on the street screaming "How cute is my baby." I can share my experience with the world and even if no one's reading, due to my non-internet savvy status, I'll never know that.
If I'd done this right, I would have started this on that cold day in November when we first brought home my darling daughter Eliza. I remember how cold that day was because the nurse, an ancient woman so old her ethnic origin was blurred, kept saying in some kind of broken English "It's as cold as Siberia out there." Perhaps she was in fact from Siberia, though I do imagine this description was a bit of an exaggeration. But we bundled up Eliza accordingly in thermals, coveralls, bunting, a cashmere blanket and some other receiving blanket. And we made the long drive from Mount Sinai hospital to our apartment in Chelsea, with me in the backseat so I could look at her, and her father whom I'll call C driving us like he was driving Miss Daisy.
I suppose I should also tell you right now I live in New York City and Eliza's father and I cohabitate but are not married. Living in New York poses apartment space challenges and living unmarried poses verbal label challenges. Should I call a 30+ year old man and the father of my darling child my "boyfriend." Should I refer to him as "Eliza's father" like he's some kind of platonic sperm donor. I'm still trying to figure this out so for your purposes and I suppose my own here, I will just call him C. Jennifer Egan did just fine referring to a character in her latest novel as "Z."
But that Siberian Tundra day was over two months ago and now my daughter and I have changed. I have to gloss over the first two months here to get you up to speed--my recovery from a c-section because Eliza was 8 pounds, 11 ounces and I'm only 5 feet tall, the first week where she cried all night every night, how upon the second night while feeding her I dubbed her "my little savage" because she's grunt and rub her head all over me like a wolf devouring a deer carcass, how I went to the bathroom one night with her attached to me (really not easy), how the visitors trickled in on a daily basis to ooh and aah, how the first real bath made me feel like an enforcer during the Spanish Inquisition, how the first smile felt like every light on the Empire State Building went on in our bedroom, oh and how just every day I stop to marvel over just how cool this little lady is.
So here we are, in the middle of Eliza's tenth week of life. It's her and me alone right now, as it often is and I wouldn't have it any other way. I gave up a job on a prominent New York TV show (take a guess, yes it's the one that every actor lists as having a credit on when you go see a theatrical play) to stay home with her. Sometimes it's dull, sometimes it's lonely, sometimes it's just plain loud and smelly but mostly, it's kind of mundane and kind of cool. Right now, at 9:39 NY time, she's asleep in her swing and I'm here typing like a maniac so I can finish this and stuff some oatmeal in my mouth before she wakes.
She's gorgeous, but I'm biased. She smiles a lot and it's like sunshine (cliche). She likes to poop a lot (you wondered how long it would be until I got to there, being a new mother and all. The great bands of the childless really don't want to hear about poop, I imagine). She likes her binky and it just fell on the floor, gotta take a break to get another one (yes new mom here, replaces floor binky with new binky).
Okay so that's done, back to happy writing but it looks like she's up for now so I got to make it quick. After two months, she's no longer my "little savage." Like I said earlier, she used to feed with the snorting, grunting intensity of a wild animal, lusty and primal with life. Now she feeds sedately, more ladylike, the only noise really a series of quiet, girlish content-sounding sighs. In fact, Eliza used to snort so much we called her "Snorty." The snort seems to have fallen by the wayside as well and oh, how I already miss it.
But the smiles have replaced this beloved behaviors of old. The smiles and her seeming desire to talk to me. I swear it sounds like she says "hi" back when I say hi to her. She loves to press her feet against whatever she's lying against and push herself away like she's already trying to stand. At eleven pounds and 24 inches, she seems awfully strong for a 10 week old. She's already survived her first shots and her first cold. And she seems her happiest in the morning when she wakes up, so excited to embrace the new day, like she's aware of every new day and it's infinite possibilities.
But for now, I think you know more than enough. More tomorrow.
Yeah, there's plenty of encyclopedia-sized books out there about the first year of motherhood but those are written by the literary equivalent of that guy who does the voice over for clear eyes. You know that guy, he hosts his own game show on some cable station and he played a teacher on the TV show "The Wonder Years," for those of you who were watching TV in the late 80's early 90's. He has a droning montone and somehow his voice sounds oddly scientific. That's the tone of many of these books. There are other tones as well, the hippie doctor tone, the "I'm a comedian tone," the "I'm a former Wall Streeter now Stay at home Mom" (SAHM for those in the know) tone.
I don't really know what my tone but if anyone reads this they can tell me. All I know is it'll give me a somewhat creative outlet every day and it'll satisfy my urge to stop every person on the street screaming "How cute is my baby." I can share my experience with the world and even if no one's reading, due to my non-internet savvy status, I'll never know that.
If I'd done this right, I would have started this on that cold day in November when we first brought home my darling daughter Eliza. I remember how cold that day was because the nurse, an ancient woman so old her ethnic origin was blurred, kept saying in some kind of broken English "It's as cold as Siberia out there." Perhaps she was in fact from Siberia, though I do imagine this description was a bit of an exaggeration. But we bundled up Eliza accordingly in thermals, coveralls, bunting, a cashmere blanket and some other receiving blanket. And we made the long drive from Mount Sinai hospital to our apartment in Chelsea, with me in the backseat so I could look at her, and her father whom I'll call C driving us like he was driving Miss Daisy.
I suppose I should also tell you right now I live in New York City and Eliza's father and I cohabitate but are not married. Living in New York poses apartment space challenges and living unmarried poses verbal label challenges. Should I call a 30+ year old man and the father of my darling child my "boyfriend." Should I refer to him as "Eliza's father" like he's some kind of platonic sperm donor. I'm still trying to figure this out so for your purposes and I suppose my own here, I will just call him C. Jennifer Egan did just fine referring to a character in her latest novel as "Z."
But that Siberian Tundra day was over two months ago and now my daughter and I have changed. I have to gloss over the first two months here to get you up to speed--my recovery from a c-section because Eliza was 8 pounds, 11 ounces and I'm only 5 feet tall, the first week where she cried all night every night, how upon the second night while feeding her I dubbed her "my little savage" because she's grunt and rub her head all over me like a wolf devouring a deer carcass, how I went to the bathroom one night with her attached to me (really not easy), how the visitors trickled in on a daily basis to ooh and aah, how the first real bath made me feel like an enforcer during the Spanish Inquisition, how the first smile felt like every light on the Empire State Building went on in our bedroom, oh and how just every day I stop to marvel over just how cool this little lady is.
So here we are, in the middle of Eliza's tenth week of life. It's her and me alone right now, as it often is and I wouldn't have it any other way. I gave up a job on a prominent New York TV show (take a guess, yes it's the one that every actor lists as having a credit on when you go see a theatrical play) to stay home with her. Sometimes it's dull, sometimes it's lonely, sometimes it's just plain loud and smelly but mostly, it's kind of mundane and kind of cool. Right now, at 9:39 NY time, she's asleep in her swing and I'm here typing like a maniac so I can finish this and stuff some oatmeal in my mouth before she wakes.
She's gorgeous, but I'm biased. She smiles a lot and it's like sunshine (cliche). She likes to poop a lot (you wondered how long it would be until I got to there, being a new mother and all. The great bands of the childless really don't want to hear about poop, I imagine). She likes her binky and it just fell on the floor, gotta take a break to get another one (yes new mom here, replaces floor binky with new binky).
Okay so that's done, back to happy writing but it looks like she's up for now so I got to make it quick. After two months, she's no longer my "little savage." Like I said earlier, she used to feed with the snorting, grunting intensity of a wild animal, lusty and primal with life. Now she feeds sedately, more ladylike, the only noise really a series of quiet, girlish content-sounding sighs. In fact, Eliza used to snort so much we called her "Snorty." The snort seems to have fallen by the wayside as well and oh, how I already miss it.
But the smiles have replaced this beloved behaviors of old. The smiles and her seeming desire to talk to me. I swear it sounds like she says "hi" back when I say hi to her. She loves to press her feet against whatever she's lying against and push herself away like she's already trying to stand. At eleven pounds and 24 inches, she seems awfully strong for a 10 week old. She's already survived her first shots and her first cold. And she seems her happiest in the morning when she wakes up, so excited to embrace the new day, like she's aware of every new day and it's infinite possibilities.
But for now, I think you know more than enough. More tomorrow.
posted by Litgirl Mama at 6:21 AM
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