Baptism

This past Memorial Day weekend, instead of heading to the shore or attending a backyard barbecue (there are more "backyards" than you think in New York) we strapped our six month old daughter into her rapidly shrinking car seat for the long drive to Pittsburgh, PA. It's a seven hour drive from New York City so it's a pretty safe bet we weren't going just to sip brewskies and eat hot dogs along the steamy Monongahela. No, the event that drew us to the city of the Steelers but no steal was Eliza's christening. Although I haven't been to church since the special mass honoring my grandmother's 90th birthday in July of 2004, and I'm first in line with Alter Boy jokes, I still wanted my daughter's forehead annointed by the hand of a Catholic Priest.

I fully realize the scope of my hypocritical behavior on this one. I stopped going to church as soon as I was old enough to say "no" because I refused to go anywhere that looked like a train station waiting room and yet wouldn't allow me to read magazines while bopping to a walkman. As a child, I would sit in those uncomfortable wooden seats and read the bulletin over and over and over again. A mass for Joe somebody, a communion mass for some one else. I was communed and confirmed and remember the pageantry of those days but I had no desire to go back. Then I had a child and maybe I hadn't found God, but I suddenly wanted to formally celebrate my daughter's arrival and give her the option to pursue her own faith.

It started while Eliza was still sloshing around inside me. I realized I wanted my friend M to be the Godmother. I imagined the service taking place in some ultra liberal, unitarian facility. I've never been inside a liberal, unitarian facility but I thought it must exist, a place that accepted people of all beliefs who now wanted to gather with people of similar, faithless views for significant rites of passage. Then C chimed in with his desire to do it in a Catholic church as a way to please his father, a devout Catholic. From there, the event began to take on wedding like proportions when I asked him if he would agree to do it in Pittsburgh so my grandparents could attend. He wasn't happy about the Baptism in the heart of Steeler country, but he agreed, using the phrase he's coined frequently of late, "if that will make you happy."

So there it was, some months, one church, and one caterer later, a family celebration in Pittsburgh. St. Stephen's Church is where my grandparents were married, my mother, her sister, various cousins and other assorted family members. It's a large, beautiful church with the old pageantry of a building that existed when attending Sunday Mass was a blessed event. I'm a graduate of the University of Pittsburgh and see the city as my old stomping ground. The arrangements for everyone went very smoothly, thanks to a lot of help from my family. My cousin, a travel agent, set us up with inexpensive accommodations at the hotel alongside my grandmother's assisted living facility. My mother gathered information from various caterers, helped choose one and then met with him in the common room at my grandmother's facility to make sure it was a suitable space. The menu was adequate, if not kickass, and my family responded in kind with only three invitees not in attendance. C was not thrilled about a Memorial Day Weekend trip to the Burg but this was the only date that could accommodate my two families (my mother's and my father and his wife), my grandparents, his parents and my friend M who I really wanted there. His brother, the Godfather, would be unable to go and C's kids had other plans but I was determined C would have a nice weekend.

Our hotel room, in an all suite hotel, could rival our New York apartment in size. For the first time since we came home from the hospital, C and I had our own bedroom. I felt a little wistful closing the door on Eliza at night but there was something thrilling about the prospect of reading in bed. We got to Pittsburgh late Friday night and settled in to our happy room, excited about the festivities ahead.

Now I've never had a wedding or any of the other rites of passage (save for the ones listed above) so I was a little nervous about my responsibilites on this one. Not that I had many. I merely had to pick up the cake on Saturday and get the forks and centerpiece photos over to my grandmother's room the day before. Even in this, I failed to bring over the forks. Our hotel room, with it's full-sized refrigerator would accommocate the cake and the champagne until right before the brunch, so C and M could pick up that stuff after the Mass. My Aunt had lovingly packed the Christening gown bought back in the sixties for one of my grandmother's grandchildren (there was some dispute about weather my Grandmother bought it for my cousin or my mother bought it for her goddaughter, another cousin). Either way, there was a lot of history in the little gown that looked like it had been purchased last week.

So really, you see there was very little I had to do and yet still I was a nervous wreck. Saturday started with my waking up with breasts fuller than heat seaking missiles. I slipped into the living room hoping to pump before Eliza woke up (we'd need a bottle for church) but too late, she was awake and grinning at Mama. I started to put the pump together and she started to cry. I just wanted to pump for a few minutes so she wouldn't be overwhelmed but her crying escalated to wailing proportions. I took her out of the hotel crib and placed her on the floor alongside me but she continued to cry with the force of an unbridled animal. I rushed to snap the last pieces of the pump together and then started my business, all the while her crying beside me so forcefully, her little red face was covered with tears. I flashed a couple of glances towards the bedroom, hoping C would rescue my daughter from her misery but the door didn't open. After two minutes, I couldn't take it anymore and pressed her to me.

After she fed and seemed content, I placed her on the floor (Eliza is still in the precrawling stage, she'll do mini-pushups and swim but she doesn't go anywhere) and raced into the shower. After a few minutes in there, I came out to find her still doing her mini-pushups while C still slept. Quickly, I got dressed and ready to take her down for breakfast. C got up and asked what was the day's agenda. Since it was a nice day, I suggested we go to Schenley Park and check out Phipp's Conservatory, a lovely indoor botanical garden. Afterwards, I would head to my Grandmother's to do a few things for the brunch. I explained my fear of forgetting to pick up the cake and he suggested I get it out of the way right after breakfast, a good suggestion.

So we went down to the breakfast buffet, a dangerous place for both of us, myself now having a tendency to overeat, then C and Eliza went back upstairs while I took the car to Bloomfield to get the cake. I was excited about this cake, it being my idea to send the bakery the invitation and tell them to make the cake look like the invite. I was pleased to see the cake didn't disappoint, it had a lovely chocolate colored outline of a Christening dress under two branches with green leaves surrounded by a peach border--just like my invite. Several people oohed and ahhed and I felt vicorious, Supermom, the kind of person that can come up with ideas that make an occasion. The fact that no one else at the brunch would find this cake as a symbol of my genius didn't occur to me at the moment. Now I just had to get the cake back to the hotel without slamming on the breaks and ruining it.

After numerous out-of-towner detours, I made my way back to the hotel, eager to start our day of sight seeing. We walked the 20 minute walk to the Park and enjoyed Phipps. Eliza slept through most of it, waking up as it was time to leave and I was starting to get that so full feeling. We sat under a tree in Schenley Park with Pitt's imposing Cathedral of Learning in the background and I fed my daughter. I had to marvel at how much my life had changed. That Cathedral was once the site of classes and a fond landmark of my party going, bar hopping college life. Now it symbolized the neighborhood in Pittsburgh that housed my grandmother in her assisted living state.

After lunch, we headed to my grandmother's tiny apartment. My mother, her sister and my grandfather were visiting and the quarters quickly grew tight. I shooed C back to the hotel to work out and finished putting together plastic champagn goblets with my mother.

For those not in the know, my grandfather still lives in the house he and my grandmother lived in until the day when Eliza was born. November 21st not only marks the date of my daughter's birth, it's the day my grandmother fell, broke her hip and was ushered away from her home on Johnston Avenue never to return. The house is currently on the market with the popular theory being that my grandfather will move into my grandmother's apartment when it's sold. But in truth, there hasn't been any interested buyers, my grandmother's apartment is too small for the two of them and my grandfather doesn't belong in this facility. It appears that every resident there has a walker or a wheelchair and my grandfather, about to turn 100 in August, still mows his own lawn.

Finally, everyone left and it was just me and my grandmother and a wonderful thing happened. My grandmother finally started bonding with my daughter. Eliza suffered from severe stranger anxiety during our last visit to the Burg but on this visit she was all smiles. She even let my grandmother hold her and chatted away in her animatedly baby talk while I snapped a few photos. It was lovely and I was truly enjoying myself when the staff came to whisk my grandmother to dinner. Now it was back to the hotel to meet up with C's family and perhaps my father who'd been on the road with his wife and the godmother M since the morning.

Back at the hotel I found our suite empty. I set about cleaning up after the morning and enjoying the relative solitude until C entered with his grandfather. Quickly, the night's plans were made. We would dine with C's parents and grandfather and my father, his wife and M at the eclectic Italian restaurant across the street in two hours. I was grateful for a reprieve from family togetherness and C used the time to shoot a few baskets in the makeshift court outside the hotel. When he returned, I jumped in the shower, dressed and fed Eliza and we enjoyed the quiet before his parents would meet my father for the first time.

We made the mistake of making our dinner reservation 7:30. I should have known this time was too late for Eliza but they pulled up a high chair and I took out her food, thinking somehow she'd be fine with very little daytime napping and the attention of eight people. The restaurant, filled with people who looked like extras on Sopranos and odd chairs furnishings that must have come from various estate sales. also followed European dining rules. I don't even think the bread hit the table until 8pm. I spent most of the evening walking Eliza around the bar up front and stepping outside to the side garden that held four middle aged men drinking beer. Eliza seemed more entranced by the ceiling fan than anything else and spent the majority of the time I held her with her head tilted back, watching the fan turn in circles. She was dressed in a short and tank top set that her babysitter bought her with a matching headband. I loved the look on her face as her big eyes took in the fan, her one leg kicking slowing back and forth over my arm. Bob Dylan played "Blowin' in the Wind" on the radio and I looked at my daughter and thought I wouldn't trade this moment for anything.

When my arms got tired, I returned her to C who walked her around the restaurant and outside the front. My father took her at some point and when I realized Eliza was okay with him, I went in and enjoyed my meal. My father's wife went out to tell him dinner was served and after I finished mine, I went outside to find Eliza red faced and crying.

"She was okay until a few minutes ago," he said. I took Eliza in my arms and she immediately stopped crying.

"There's no one like Mom," my father said and I beamed. I realize how much easier Motherhood has become when I allowed myself to believe I am a good mother. Taking your baby in your arms and silencing her cries is one of the best feelings I've experienced.

When I came back into the restaurant, I found C had ordered dessert and coffee. I was surprised and desperate to get out of there but still the evening continued. Finally, Eliza went into complete meltdown mode and C and his mother ushered her outside. C's mother returned moments later to tell me C had taken her back to the hotel. I was jealous of his escape and wished the bill would come. It did, about a half an hour later. By the time I came to our hotel, Eliza was asleep.

I couldn't sleep that night, perhaps too excited about the following day. I tried sleeping on the couch in the living room but still found myself wide awake. I went back into the bedroom and fell asleep at some point, maybe around 1:30a or 2 and then woke up at 6. I pumped, knowing we'd need a bottle for the church and waited for the clock to advance to about 8. I showered, put in my contac lenses, tried to figure out what to do with my hair.

Finally C woke up and we went into the living room and pulled open the dark curtains. Eliza woke up and we went down for breakfast. I was grateful C's parents had arranged to ride to the church with my father. I told C that M would meet us in the hotel lobby and that my grandmother, with her walker, would probably be waiting in the lobby a half hour before our scheduled pick up time.

It was a hot day, with the high expected to be around ninety. With Eliza's new love for rolling, dressing her in even the simplest garments has proven quite challenging. Getting the Christening gown so rich in family history on her was like fastening on a corset. The back was a series of tiny buttons that would have been difficult to button with out a child determined to roll away. After putting it on her, I held her up to C who was dressed and reading the paper.

"Trying to keep myself clean," he said.

I asked him if the gown looked bad without a onesie under it. With the heat, I didn't want to put too many layers on her. The gown also came with a matching white jacket and hat. I thought the onesie would be too much. Unfortunately, it was also see through so we now had a bird's eye view of the picture of Big Bird on the front of her diaper.

"It looks kind of weird," C said, turning back to the paper.

I went back into the bedroom, put Eliza back on the bed and wrestled with her to get the gown off, a onesie on and then the gown back on again. It was ten, now, one half hour before we had to be at the church. I still wasn't dressed. I handed Eliza to C so I could put my dress on. I gave him the jacket, hat and the booties my Aunt had knit for her when she was born. I asked him to finish dressing her but he didn't, suggesting we do the rest at the church because of the heat.

I agreed, not having time to argue but I'd wanted her dressed fully so we could take photos of her. I wasn't planning to bring my camera to the church and or the brunch and I'd wanted one photo of her in her Christening gown. But I had to get dressed, my grandmother was waiting, M was waiting, I didn't have time to explain it all. Hopefully my father would bring his camera into the church and get photos then. I pulled on my dress quickly, grabbed the jacket I'd have to wear because my dress had spaghetti straps and my grandmother would never let me hear the end of it if people saw my shoulders in church, packed up the diaper bag and we raced out the door. I was pretty tense at this point, just hoping all would go well.

M saw us in the lobby and waved. She looked great, though I can't remember her outfit well enough to describe. Before we left for dinner the prior night, she'd given me a beautiful heart and cross necklace she had engraved for Eliza. The gift meant so much to me and I anticipate the day she can give it to Eliza herself and tell her how much Eliza means to her. I know I couldn't have picked a better person than M to be the Godmother.

My cousin Mike and his wife and their two kids were meeting us at the church as Mike would stand in for C's brother, the Godfather who couldn't be there. There was a bit of a mix up with this as I'd asked Mike and apparently C's brother had asked C's father to stand in for him but fortunately for me, C allowed Mike to be the stand in. I'd asked Mike mainly because he lived in Pittsburgh and I knew he'd be there but when presented with it, it wouldn't feel right to have C's father on the podium with us. It's nothing personal against C's father but I didn't like the idea of choosing one grandfather over another.

Grandma waited in the lobby and I loaded her in the car, folded up her walker and put it in the trunk and we set out for the church. I pulled into the handicapped parking entrance and let Grandma out. I escorted her into the church with M while C parked the car and then brought in Eliza. A nun, happy to see my grandmother who hadn't been to St. Stephen's since she broke her hip in November, then told us to sit in the second pew. The other family whose baby was being Christened would sit in the pew behind us. Other people affiliated with St. Stephens came up to greet my grandmother. She sat in the front pew, holding court in the church she's spent so much time in.

C came in carrying Eliza in the car seat carrier followed by Mike and his family. We gathered together in the pews, C on one side of me, M on the other and Gram in front of me and I felt suddenly, giddily euphoric. My family was around me. This would be a great day.

I realize this posting is getting incredibly long so I'll stop here. The next posting will detail the baptism ceremony and how lovely it all was.

Hallelujah

Lately Eilza and myself have been listening to a lot of good music. I can't really say for sure what Eliza likes but together we listen to Arcade Fire, Nada Surf, Peter Gabriel, Wilco and most recently, Jeff Buckley. Unfortunately, close to ten years after his death, Jeff Buckley might be sorry to find himself in the $8 rack at the Virgin Megastore. I know those deals are gimmicks but I've wanted his cd "Grace" for some time now, specifically for a song called "Hallelujah."

I was thrilled to bring it home last week and play it repeatedly while Eliza grinned and squealed in her doorway jumper. She loves to jump on her forceful little legs and with music blaring I was happy to stand opposite her, mimicing her flailing arms and noisy exuberance. It reminded me of a free concert I attended with Eliza a few Sundays ago, when two kids, approximately age three, got up and started jumping up and down to the accompaniment of a jazz band. The kids, a little girl dressed in a spagetti strapped sundress and high heeled wedges, faced a blond boy in a Ralph Lauren sweater vest ensemble. They faced off and then started to jump and jump and jump, the kiddie bounce apparently being the only step they knew. Eliza, seated on my lap, turned to look at them and started to wiggle her little arms, infected by their enthusiasm. The kids threw their heads back, their laughter audible over the music, their faces red with concentration and pure happiness. I wanted to get up and jump with them, their joy so palatable, that time when jumping up and down was simply the best thing in the world.

I used to have a habit of jumping up and down on the bed in hotel rooms, especially on location jobs when a broken bed wasn't on my tab. You see, I brought up work as a way to let you know I did this as an adult, not a child, an adult aware of what jumping up and down can do to a bed. I used to do it at boyfriend's apartments, on sets when no one was looking and in the privacy of some one else's house. I know the jubilation, the sheer joy of being a live a good jump can bring and I'm thrilled to see that unadultered glee on the face of my own child, especially with the Jeff Buckley accompaniment.

Finally, the cd came to song six, Hallelujah, a song I realized recently, is actually a Leonard Cohen song. Suddenly jumping seemed inappropriate and I extended my arms in a graceful porta-bras, all the while my eyes following my hands as my fingers curved and reached in what I picture as beautiful postions but actually look more like ping pong paddles. Eliza stopped jumping to watch me and egged on by my audience of one, I continued to demonstrate what learned from grade school ballet. Eliza's joy released me to be only in that moment, only to be a body with hands extended towards my daughter as the power of the music guided me. It felt like the first time I really heard the music of Chopin and thought this must be the voice of God or saw, really saw Balanchine's ballet "Apollo" and thought that would be the vision of God if God could make ballet this great. It could be Michealangelo's "David" or the latest album from Beck, we've all got our own Gods, the artists who show us what it's like to truly live in that moment, seeing or hearing nothing other than that art experience.

On this day, it was Buckley's voice, a voice that manages to be decidedly male but almost girlish at the same time, crooning a chorus of Hallelujahs. What this song means, I haven't a clue, something about a king and somebody who doesn't really like music anyway. And then there's that word, repeatedly sung in a gentle fashion, a word most wouldn't argue is seen as a holy word, a word that will make one who doesn't quite believe in God, some one like myself, wonder. As some one who practices no religion and doesn't feel the presence of a God, except at the New York City Ballet or in front of my stereo sometimes, there is no afterlife, there is only this one, my daughter in her Johhny Jump Up, me pretending to be twinkle toes in front of her. Suddenly I'm no longer rolling with the music but thinking about how this faithless life will affect my daughter and poor Jeff Buckley, a guy who died before he released his second album. A freak accident, drowning after he decided to swim in a river in Memphis, wearing boots that were too heavy. His close friends don't believe his death to be a suicide but there are some who still do. Since Buckley's biological father, a folk singer, died of a heroin overdose at a young age in 1975, Jeff's early death seems, in an odd way, preordained.

I say biological father because Jeff Buckley was raised by his stepfather, in fact carried his stepfather's name until he met his father for the first and only time. Jeff Buckley met Tim Buckley once and yet the fact that they were both musicians says a great deal about the power of biology and what gets passed down through the gene pool. And as Buckley, the younger's voice reaches out to me through the power of new stereo speakers, I can only wonder what, if any, of me Eliza will carry.

I'll admit to being on the morbid side but I've never considered myself to be Woody Allen obsessed with death. It's one of life's certainties, along with taxes, but I see myself as one of those blissfully unaware few, the kind who only thinks of that reality on airplanes, when the latest bouncer guns some one down in my neighborhood, and when I step onto the subway late at night. As they say, having a baby changes everything and in my case it's caused me to think long and hard about my mortality, my faith or lack there of it, and life insurance. I've never before thought of myself as some one who should have a will but about a week after Eliza was born I became obsessed with it. It's not about money because I don't have that, it's about who will look after my daughter if I'm not here.

And truthfully, it comes from my own almost overpowering desire to watch her grow up. Nothing put the fear of death in me the way having a child has. I don't even think about the future, hardly think of stuff planned a few months down the road because I want to be here, in this now, watching my tiny little baby learn to jump and sit up by herself. The idea of not being here for her is almost too unbearable, much more so than the idea of dying before I see, say London, or before I win the lotto or accomplish those now less important career goals. I want to be here with her, from now on, every day, to revel in her smiles, her innocense, her neediness, her triumph in the simple act of eating some jarred peas. Just folding her into my arms in the morning after I've woken up is like a daily visit from God, an act that fills me with such happiness, sometimes I think I might split in two.

Now Hallelujah has ended and I wonder about Jeff Buckley, a man who's father didn't really know him and died when Buckley was only 12 years old. Was Tim Buckley ever depressed about all the day to day stuff he missed with his son or did he rarely think of it? Oh yeah, I had a son, the way some people think, oh yeah I used to have a pair of black loafers. They're both dead but they left their music behind, that always serves as some kind of consolation to people. Look at what he accomplished, look at what he left. But what does it matter when they're not here to enjoy it? It's hearing Eliza babble in her crib in the morning, it's how she throws her arms around me now like she's almost hugging me, the little things that make this now count so much. These two men never had that.

The next song is faster, more upbeat and Eliza starts to jump again. Even at six months, she seems to understand there are major and minor keys in music. Some music you jump to and some you just stand there and watch Mama pretend she's Maria Kowroski. And maybe for that one moment, in her eyes, I was the vision that Maria Kowroski is for me, that vision that transports me to another world, that body that when in motion cancels out everything around me. When Maria moves, I can only marvel at what that body can do in that moment, there is only now and that leg that can kick to the sky like a Titan. There is only this moment and the power that human body created to the music another human being created and a series of human beings must keep alive with the strings of a violin or keys of a piano.

Eliza giggles and takes me out of my Maria Kowroski fantasy. Her giggle fits come more frequently now but they are still rare, spontaneous and occur from no specific origin. I dance some more and the giggle gets louder then dissolved into a series of shrieks. She throws her head back and jumps some more, higher and higher, her giggles filling the apartment, almost drowning out the voice of Jeff Buckley. If I could, I would stay here in this now, with her in front of me laughing and me wondering what on earth could be so funny and yet still thankful for whatever can cause that much joy. I would still be young and agile and pain free and she would be my baby, full of vim and vigor and the promise of a brand new life that will grown and flourish and bloom into some one so much more complete than me.

The Mom Rant

Recent computer troubles have now limited my online time so today's piece is going to take the form of a rant. I'd say a comic rant but since I'm no comedien, it'll just be a Mom rant, the musings of a Mom on the go whose six month old daughter doesn't like to take her morning nap anymore.

My day started when I packed up the laundry bag, strapped Eliza in her stroller and headed for the elevator. A guy waiting for the elevator made goo goo eyes at Eliza and then grabbed her foot. What's up with that? Since when is it okay to reach out and touch some one. Did I need to remind that guy this wasn't his baby? Instead I forced a smile and privately berated myself for not yelling at him. At least it was her foot, not her hands, right?

Walking in New York is always somewhat hazardous, even with this being the best walking city in the United States. Add a baby to that mix and it's downright terrifying. I'm nearly knocked down by angry driver's determined to make their green light at least four times a week. I don't really get the hurry, being that the next intersection they come to will inevitably have a red light. It's hurry up and sit there. Why would you honk and glare at the mother trotting across the street with her baby? The worst occurred when a policeman with no siren on, made a U-Turn in the middle of 10th Avenue (so he was now going the wrong way) then turned on 23rd Street and made it clear he'd mow me down if I didn't stop. Two guys chatting on the opposite corner were horrified and shouted out the license plate with glee. New York City police officer, license plate number 1215. Dude, if you're reading this, you suck.

Things that are gone--Eliza no longer snorts, not even when crying. I miss my little savage. And I'm sad to say the little sleep Superman pose is gone. When I saw it one night last week, I realized I hadn't seen it for a while. I became hopeful I'd see it again but now it's been a week and I haven't. No more Supergirl, my little lady is moving on.

What's new? When propped into a seated position she can stay there for a while. I wrap her fingers around the side of the crib and she sits there grinning. She's now faces out in the stroller so I can no longer look at her while we promenade. She's not crazy about the stroller these days but more on that later. For about a week, her favorite toys were her feet but that's passed. Now she reaches for the real thing, the toys she had no interest in up until recently. I can't say she has a favorite, other than whatever it is I'm holding in my hands. She drops things and tries to get to them now. She spends most of her time in the stroller or the swing reaching for what she just dropped, or looking at her waggling feet.

What else is new? She's not sleeping through the night again. She's gotten up once a night the past three nights either to nurse or just to get a little cuddling. Although I'll miss her terribly the day she gets her own room I'm really ready to start looking for that two bedroom apartment. I think we'll all sleep better when she doesn't have to hear me blowing my nose, her father snoring or the horrid creak the bedroom door makes whenever we open it. Maybe today I'll remember to get that can of WD-40.

Eliza started on sweet potatoes on Sunday in honor of her growing body and mother's day. I had a lovely mother's day of flowers, gifts and C heading down to the basement with the laundry cart. I was so grateful for the laundry faction of my celebration. Now that we've started Eliza on sweet potatoes, you can take a guess as to what color her poop is. Makes the idea of the peas I plan to impose on her tonight that much more terrifying.

Oh and what else is new, temper tantrums. I thought six months was two early for this but apparently I know nothing. Yesterday she ripped off my glasses and nearly ejected herself from the stoller, so determined was she to not go in there. The other night, she made two fists and held them up against her red face to let me know what she thought of her booster chair and the book I was reading. The terrible twos--already. Can't wait.

That's all for today. The little one's awake and grunting for my attention.

Fresh Mama, Fresh Child

"Most people feel that can say whatever they want to pregnant women and new mothers. With new fathers or the guy next to you on the subway with his nose stuck in the Post, most people will be tactful, they won't make eye contact, disinterested. But new mothers, people won't hesitate to tell you what they think."

Eliza's pediatrician said this to me after a particularly frustrated message I'd left concerning Eliza's "puking" problem. Eliza's always been a big spitter upper but she was gaining weight and very happy so I tried not to worry. Others, however, seemed to see my lack of Emergency Room visits as proof positive of my poor mothering skills. Eliza's still a big puker, but regular checkups and good health care indicate this to be more of a laundry problem, a big laundry problem mind you, than a medical one. This has not stopped the shaken heads, the looks of worry, the quiet accusations of neglect from people on the outer perimeter of my life.

And then there are the old ladies in the Rite Aid, the guy at the dry cleaner, the nosy old lady who lives next door whose told me several times my daughter has colic. I'm glad my next door neighbor, who's seen my daughter exactly six times in Eliza's five months, knows my daughter better than me. I don't take these comments seriously but they sting, still make me feel like I'm not doing my job well. I've always been hard on myself, particularly when it comes to work and my "job" as a mother is no exception. I've cried about the diaper I forgot to change, blamed myself for Eliza's puking problem, called myself a bad mother when I checked my email for two minutes before I fed my daughter. I can shrug off the comment at the moment but the part of me that worries about what kind of mother I am gets fueled by strangers lack of confidence in my parental capabilities.

Eliza has a small head, in fact even a hat designed for a three month old falls off her little peanut head. Now that we're hitting a sunnier season, I have to put a hat with some kind of brim on my daughter. Within minutes, the hat covers her tiny face. Just like the puking and the loud music I play, these state of temporary blindness is of little consequence to my daughter. I'll push back the hat only to find the face beneath it split into a big smile. But walks with other people take on the constant strain of rush hour traffic. Every few minutes my companion will point to the hat and we stop, I push the hat away and we resume only to stop a few feet ahead.

Yesterday, I dressed Eliza in her pink corduroy coat with it's matching, sassy hat that despite its fetching appearance is too big for little Miss Eli. I strapped her in the bjorn and rushed to the bus. As I got on the bus, running for it I might add, some woman tapped my shoulder and very angrily said, "That hat is covering her eyes. Your baby, she can't see nothing."

I nodded and pulled the hat off Eliza's head. There were plenty of empty seats in the front of the bus, the part reserved for the elderly and handicapped so I sat down. At the next stop, some old man apparently wanted my seat so badly he practically sat on me. I'm happy to give up my seat for the elderly, but like I said there were plenty of empty seats around and I don't like to get up with Eliza attached to me on a moving vehicle. The man didn't care however, basically forced me and the baby out of his way then thanked me when I practically fell over as I moved to another seat. Hey old man, if you're reading this, might I suggest you sit in the nearest seat and then ask me to move when the bus comes to a complete stop next time.

Now I found myself seated near an old lady who smiled at Eliza, then pointed to her head.

"She's going to get a cold head. You should put something on it."

I smiled back at the woman, was about to say something about the size of the hat when suddenly I just didn't feel like it. Why should I constantly have to justify my actions as a mother to complete strangers?

"Isn't it wonderful," I said, the smile forced on my face. "When you have your own kids, you can tell them what to do. You can put hats on them. Isn't that great?"

The woman thumped her forefinger against her chest. "I'm a grandmother," she said. "I know."

"How wonderful for you. You can tell your children what to do with your grandchildren. That's great," I answered.

The woman shook her head, now visibly angry. "You have a fresh mouth," she said. "Fresh mama, fresh mama. A fresh mama will have a fresh child."

She dramatically turned away as if to say "this conversation is over."

I had no desire to continue speaking to this woman, but I will say now, if by telling strangers to mind their own business, Eliza will be "fresh" than I don't mind it. There's a difference between some one trying to help out of genuine consideration and some one who offers you advice as a way to put you down. I really don't think the person who tells you your baby needs a hat is concerned with the welfare of your child. If they were, they might interact with the baby a little before they decide that the baby needs help.

My job as a script supervisor is often referred to as a thankless job, one that's very necessary but goes unnoticed unless there's a problem. No one was going to come up to me after a seamless episode of "Law & Order" and say, "Boy the continuity in that episode was great!" They will have plenty to say, however, if they notice if the character has a bruise on the right side of his face when in the earlier fight scene he was clearly punched on left. My job was about making mistakes not happen.

I find the role of mother to be very similar in that no one really tells me what a great job I'm doing. I realize in life, very few people get accolades in the workplace on a regular basis. But there are promotions, raises, employee of the month picture smiling from the walls. Being a mother is the greatest endurance test I've ever taken. The rewards, my daughter really, are great but I spend half the day feeling guilty about the things I could have done better. I try to remind myself that Eliza's happy so I must be doing something right but there's no real way of knowing exactly how well I'm doing at this new task I've taken on.

So for mother's day people, I propose everyone who passes a mother on the street should maybe take a moment to watch a little mama/baby interaction and then compliment that mother. Because even the most secure, confidant mother can benefit from a little reassurance. The child will get a great lesson as well--what it's like to give some one a real show of support. and i the meantime, I'd like to ask clothing manufactures to please make hats for babies in smaller sizes. So maybe, if I have another, this one will be shielded from the sun and shielded from the world at the same time.

Mama Goes to Work

Before I segue into what it was like to be back at work for a day I have to say, last night, as I peered at my sleeping daughter before I myself turned in, I was surprised to find her asleep in her Superman pose. I've referred to that Superman pose so many times on this blog, I can't believe I didn't notice its disappearance. So last night I saw her asleep on her back with her little arms straight out to the sides and I was happy to see the recurrence of something I didn't even realize I missed. Or would have missed if I'd bothered to notice that as of late, this little T-pose has largely become a thing of the past.

But anyway, let me get on with my first day back at work since Eliza's birth. That makes for six months of work free life. As many of you know, I'm a freelancer, hired on an as needed basis. Producers call me if they need me and if I'm available and want to take the job, I say "yes." I never know where I'll be working or what time until the day before. I also frequently don't know what time I'll be home.

I've been getting calls for work pretty regularly since February but haven't had the time or the inclination to say yes. Some jobs required a three week commitment, something I'm still not ready for, and the one to two day jobs fell on days when C was out of town. It's pretty hard to say to a sitter, "Hey, I need you Thursday but I have no idea when you should show up and how long you're gonna need to stay" so in order to accept work, I need C around to back me up if the job goes into the wee hours of the night.

The call for this job came from a producer I'll call May. I like May, she's considerate, professional, low-maintenance and smart. But mostly what I like about May are the jobs she produces. I can count on one hand the jobs I've done for May that have gone into overtime. I often refer to her jobs as "paid days off." May's also pretty forthcoming with information before the job. For instance, when she called me a month ago to offer a different job, she made it clear the job would shoot overnight. As a new Mama, the idea of staying up all night on a shoot then coming home in time to nurse and start my day with Eliza sounded terribly like bootcamp in Cambodia. So I was thrilled when May called again to offer me another job that would shoot in a Manhattan loft that "wouldn't be a long day." As providence had decided I would take this job, it also shot on the day my part-time babysitter comes. So C could cover me in the morning and then relinquish the responsibility to my very capable babysitter, Kim.

All the stars seemed to be aligned on this one so I said "yes." For my first day back I work, I couldn't ask for a better scenario then a ten hour day in a Manhattan location. C or Kim might even be able to bring the baby by for my coworkers' subsequent oohs and ahs.

I packed up my work kit of forms, pens and stopwatches and took the bus across town to the loft. I had no idea what we were advertising, which is usually the case. Most people don't understand how I can go to work without knowing the product but my answer in this case is, "as long as they pay me, I don't care." I've worked on national commercials, local spots, in-house industrials, public service announcements and various spec spots. When I do TV or movie jobs, I tend to know more info as those jobs require more from me and have a cooler party banter cache than "I worked on that EPT test commercial with that girl on an escalator." This commercial starred a fashion designer so famous even the guy from Iowa who does all his clothes shopping at Wal-Mart is likely to be familiar with her. Her dresses and gowns are seen on celebrities and supremely wealthy people world-wide. She doesn't advertise so I expected this job to be an in-house kind of instructional video about her company.

Wrong, it turns out this designer isn't so famous she won't lend her name to a line of fancy mattresses. In a few months, if the ad airs, I may have just given her away. But for now, let me protect her privacy by referring to her as "Gus." Having spent a day with her, the nickname fits, trust me.

My job started as I walked into this very cramped "loft" to find Gus standing amongst seven mannequins. She shouted loudly to a trio of Goth-looking art assistants "This one shouldn't be in front." "This isn't the jewelry I ordered!" The steamy loft air indicated a disabled air conditioner. The director, a buff Austian man who appeared pumped to pump us up, bellowed in Ahnauld like tones to his lighting director. In the sea of this hot and huffy chaos stood May, whose usual calm, collected air of competence seemed to be replaced by a look that suggested Bambi in the headlights.

"I don't know where to tell you to go," she said when she saw me. "You know Pierre, the first AD? He can walk you through the job."

My only goal upon entering had been locating a corner to stash my breast pump. However, it appeared that every inch of this studio apartment, I mean loft, was occupied by agency, art directors, technical crew, camera assistants, personal assistants and the other assorted looky-loos who tend to accompany celebrities of our talent's caliber. I temporarily dumped my pump and work kit onto the video playback guy, a charming fellow called Clem, before embarking up the steep steps to the makeshift production office.

In this area, basically a landing that overlooked the activity of the "loft," I was overjoyed to find the production coordinator quite swollen with an Eliza to be. Surely she would not mind if I set up and pumped a few feet from her. Off of her area was another small room where a production assistant had set up a kiddie table and his laptop. The area was small, but removed from the chaos and the production coordinator, a woman named Jane, said she was happy to house me and my breasts. Breasts taken care of, Jane handed me the storyboards, dialogue and shot list for the day. The schedule has us camera wrapped at 7:30. Though that seemed a bit of a pipe dream with the unfurling disorder downstairs, even if we wrapped at 8:30, I'd still probably see Eliza before she went to bed.

Pierre then went over the day for me, rolled his eyes at Gus and said something like "she's so busy worrying about which dummy wears what get-up she hasn't even hit hair and makeup." I looked at Gus, who athletically waves scissors around a dress bow, then waved off a harrassed looking woman approximately 50 years of age. The harrassee nodded and heartily hammered the keys of her blackberry. Beside Gus stood a tall, well dressed woman who screamed into a cell phone "where is the jewelry? We asked for this hours ago! You need to get in the car and get over here. Forget about the messenger."

I scrolled down the call sheet to see that although we only had one on-camera talent, we had two make-up artists, one hair stylist, one manicurist, two clothing stylists, and three assistants. The mayham that surrounds famous people always amazes me. I was happy to have a little baby at home to remind me of what was really important and it wasn't lost jewelry and blackberries. I passed around photos Eliza and enjoyed the role of proud, proud Mama. I reconnected with co-workers who seemed to find my giddiness contagious. Truthfully, it felt good to be out of the house Eliza instead of stuck in the apartment in my bathrobe as I carried her to the mirror for the 15th time for her amusement.

"Okay, I think the dresses look good," Gus said. It was 11:45, the time we were scheduled to start shooting. "I haven't even figured out what I'm wearing," she said, then vanished into the makeup room.

"Why do I get the feeling this is going to go late into the night?" Clem said.

"I hope not," I said, suddenly panicked. I wanted to see my little one before she went to bed.

Gus took a lot less time in hair and makeup than I had expected. She came out, stood in the middle of the set and had Clem tape her amongst her creations. He played the video image back for her on the monitor and Ahnauld told her, "You look great, yah."

"This dress looks like a sack," Gus said. "Let's try it without the shirt."

She yanked a large black shirt over her head revealing a lovely, sleevleless black dress. She wore knee high black leggings and high heels. She marched back onto the set for another video image.

"What do you think of the leggings?" She asked her posse of looky-loos.

The well dressed one answered. "They should stay on, otherwise it's too much skin."

Gus stroked her arm. "We'll need to do my skin. The hair and makeup look good otherwise."

I was surprised. Usually people of this caliber are never satisfied with the hair and makeup, no matter how liberally applied.

"What do you think?" Gus asked her harassed assistant.

The woman looked up from her blackberry. "You need to keep the leggings on."

Gus stared at the monitor. "I don't know, maybe we'll shoot with them on and then off. We have all day, right? Let me try something else."

Gus went back into the dressing room and well-dressed and harrassed turned to each other.

"That dress looks like a shapeless sack," Harrassed said.

"I think it looks okay with the leggings but without, just too much skin. And where the hell is that jewelry? This is ridiculous!"

She then pulled out a cell phone and held it up like a Samarai swordsman. I stepped away, seeing this as a good opportunity to pump. I climbed the stairs, donned my modest poncho and put together the pump. When all the pieces were in place, I sat down to free my breasts from my nursing top when a videographer came upstairs to watch a promotional video on May's computer. He was soon followed by an agency type who went over the fine points of the video. After about ten excruciating minutes of this, they went back downstairs and I started to pump.

About two minutes into my ceremonial milking, the camera assistants came up to look at the space.

"We need to move our stuff up here," they said, matter of factly, as they most likely wondered about the strange noise from beneath my chair and the stiffness of my pose. Still needing to "drain the main vein" as they say, usually referring to another expelling activity, I sat still in my chair. They moved up camera cases, a table, a changing tent all while I sat on my perch, my hands hidden behind the poncho.

You may wonder why I didn't pick the bathroom. Basically that's why, there was a "bathroom." Not a ladies room, not a men's room but one room with a toilet and sink that not only served as the facility for a 50 person shoot but for the other attendees of all the lofts on our floor.

Sufficiently pumped, I came downsairs to find Gus in a black sweatshirt and black leggings.

"This is me," she said matter-of-factly to the director before stepping onto set, now ready to start our shooting day.

I was surprised the outfit was chosen with that little fanfare. I was even more surprised when the shoot went rather smoothly. Gus complained and said the dialouge livelier than the director liked, but for the most part she was very healthily low maintenance. She even thanked me sincerely when I corrected her on the lines. Now I've had to tell actors large and small their correct lines and some of them thank me and some of them roll their eyes and some of them scream. Though there are exceptions to every rule, for the most part, the ones who thank me are the better actors. I can't say Gus was the greatest spokesperson I've worked with but she was refreshingly direct and very, very smart.

"Just as long as I don't come off like Martha," she said several times while she watched the playback.

I arranged for Kim to bring the baby during lunch after double checking with Pierre than no matter how far behind we were, lunch would happen at 3pm. So imagine my surprise when Pierre shouted out "Lunch" at 2:15. Quickly I called Kim and told her to come now. I stood outside the building and waited about 45 minutes for them to arrive. As the clock ticked away my lunch hour I grew more and more excited to see my baby. I kept looking up Broadway, my heart flapping like a teenager on prom night.

And then through the sea of hot, sweaty New Yorkers, there was my darling daughter facing out in the Bjorn as Kim clutched a white paper and looked up at building numbers. I ran over to them, the excitement I felt would surely be contagious.

"Hi," I yelled, expecting a huge smile from my daughter.

Instead, I got the mouth open, quizzical "who are you?" look from both Kim and Eliza.

"I thought you were another crazy person, coming to gawk at the baby," Kim said. Eliza regarded me curiously, as though I were some crazy old lady on a bus.

On the elevator, Eliza realized who I was and then yelled when I stepped away to get my poncho. Thrilled my duaghter now wanted to spend time with me, I donned my poncho and found a quiet area in the hallway. Eliza curled up under my poncho and started to feed.

"Hot in there," Kim said. "Why don't they have any air conditioning?"

At the sound of Kim's voice, Eliza popped out from under the poncho and flashed Kim a huge smile. Kim grinned back.

"Hi baby," I said, but Eliza stared and giggled at Kim.

"Your mama's talking to you," Kim said but Eliza kept her eyes and her smile on Kim. Finally, she crawled under the poncho for some more boob without ever turning her eyes towards me.

"I feel used," I said, not exactly joking.

"She's not used to seeing you outside the home."

When Eliza was done feeding and I'd paraded her around the set, Kim put her back in the bjorn and the two of them waited for the elevator. I was smiling and waving to Eliza who looked at me with a bored look on her face. Yes, my going to work to "get a life" outside my daughter now seemed mandatory as my daughter had already gotten a life that didn't involve me. A production assistant sat on a chair beside me as I waved and waved to Eliza. Finally, Eliza lifted up her arm and drew it across her body in a half wave. The Assistant and I both squealed with delight.

"That just made my day," the assistant said.

"I didn't see it," Kim said, disappointed.

I ran over to Eliza and gave her one last kiss before they disappeared onto the elevator.

The day passed as days will. It got later and I got more worried I wouldn't see my daughter before she went to bed. But the client and Gus seemed to like me and this made me feel useful and intelligent. Gus went through the motions, struck several poses on several mattresses while her entourage fanned and fussed.

"Does she have to lie on her stomach?" Harrassed finally screamed during the last shot. Harrassed now appeared ready to descend into a nervous breakdown. "She's very uncomfortable! Between the hair spray and the heat, she's about to pass out!"

But then the shot was over and with it, our day with Gus. She left quicky, thanked us all whole-heartedly, and then we started to light for the final shot, a glowing shot of a mattress with Gus' name on the wall behind it. It was close to 7:30, our proposed wrap time.

We didn't make 7:30 but by 8:30 I was standing outside, my arm raised for a cab. C would hate my taking a cab home when we live so close to the loft but I had to get home, just had to, before little Eliza went to sleep. The doorman chatted as he handed me a package and I had to tell him, "I went back to work today and I'm dying to see the baby before she goes to bed!"

I ran into the apartment to find Eliza in her hooded towel, fresh from her bath. And then there it was, the big smile and the excited, flapping arms that had alluded me at lunch.

"She wouldn't nap," C said. "I gave her cereal, I took her for a walk, tried everything. I think she was waiting for you."

"I'm here," I said. "I'm here."

I dressed her in her pajamas and carried her into the living room where she nursed until she fell asleep. C offered several times to take her to the crib but I wouldn't let him. I held her against my chest throughout "My Name is Earl" and "The Office." My little baby, asleep on Mama, just like the old days.

Finally, having relished that hour, I put her in her crib. So maybe she was still my little baby after all.

That night, Eliza woke up vomiting. She vomited most of the night. I blamed myself, I should have pumped before I nursed her, I was too full, blah blah. Eliza seemed largely unphased by the events. She'd cough, I'd run to the crib, sit her up, she'd puke and then go right back to sleep. C changed her sheet twice before finally coming up with the genius idea of lying a towel on top of the sheets. The next day, Eliza continued to puke though she was her typical, peppy self. My little baby, smiling, quite happy, with vomit. Finally, I called the pediatrician who said it sounded like a stomach flu that would pass and it did. By Saturday she was my baby again, happy, without vomit.

So there it is, my first day back at work. It was a nice change but I'm very glad it was only a one day job. In time, I suppose I'll be able to do two days, then three, maybe even four. But for now, one day was enough, especially considering the events of the night after. This morning was a rough one but here I am, typing away, still happy to be a new mama, year one.