“It’s time for a new baby.”
“But I just started this electrician
thing. I make no money. We can’t afford a new baby. This is a dangerous job.
I’ll probably zap myself, and you’ll have to raise two kids by yourself.”
“It’ll be all right. We have a
little savings. We were feeling poor when we were expecting Margot. And then
your income shot up and we were fine.”
I brushed off Ian’s worries, but it
certainly was a bad time for a new baby. When I was ten weeks pregnant, Ian’s
income shot up. And we were fine.
The pregnancy was healthy but
I did not feel fine. I had slept through Margot’s pregnancy. Two year old
Margot would not let me sleep through this one. I ached from exhaustion.
The fetus never had a name. It
stressed me out.
“Everyone says we’re having a boy.”
“Well, when it’s a girl, what are we
going to name her?”
We assumed from the beginning we
would have two girls. Everyone else thought our second was a boy.
Ian always wanted girls. He wanted
them so badly that during both pregnancies, he pretended we were having a boy
in the early months as a defense against gender disappointment (or more
accurately, sex disappointment. Yee haw).
“The pressure is off with this one since
we already have a girl.”
That dude was polite but lying. He
wanted another girl.
The confirmation of a second girl
was a relief, confirming our deepest instincts. Ian felt so lucky he
figured he should buy lottery tickets.
I assumed I
would have a quick labor since I had experienced rapid active labor with
Margot. I was correct.
Early labor
began around 10:30pm. Three hours later, I checked into the hospital. Within
minutes I began to feel the urge to push. The nurses were decidedly not ready
for the baby to arrive. For one, there was no doctor. They called his cell
phone frantically.
Suddenly my
body involuntarily pushed so hard I lurched forward.
“Shit!” said
one nurse.
“Don’t push!”
said another.
I’ve read
enough horrific stories to know that when you feel the urge to push, you push.
I ignored the nurses and pushed the baby out in three or four pushes.
Eleanor Xanthe
arrived a mere thirty minutes after checking into the hospital, a med-free and
doctor-free birth. It was
stunningly simple. That entry into the world defines Eleanor to her bones.
Eleanor, from
the moment she arrived, was an easy baby. Having a newborn the first time
around stressed me out, but the second one? She was enchanting. Captivating.
She started
sleeping through the night early in her infancy. Where Margot had been
perpetually fussy and over-stimulated, Eleanor was cool and calm.
Eleanor was
born with eyes so enormous, she looked alien. Her birth weight was heavier than
Margot’s: a big, fat, happy baby.
She arrived
with thick brown hair on the back of her head, an oddity on my side of the family which tends to birth
bald babies. Her hair has since lightened to blonde, but still sits thick on
the back of her head. She appears to have inherited my dense hair.
She has always
been a physically strong baby. She held her head up early and she rolled early. As a small baby, she took sinister glee in scratching Ian’s face and chest. Every time I handed
Eleanor to Ian, he would howl in pain as she raked her sharp nails into his
skin.
Newborn Eleanor also yanked my
hair with surprising strength. Ian often had to pry a fistful of hair out of her
tightened fist, and she’d still be clutching a strand or two that he had been unable
to fully wrench from her grasp.
Her devilish
hair-pulling has extended to her sister. When Margot blocks her from toys or
attempts a painful hug, Eleanor jerks on Margot’s hair while Margot
screams.
Eleanor has
grown into an exuberant baby, throwing herself headlong into climbing and shimmying.
She has bashed
up her head and lip several times at daycare climbing the toy shelves and using
bouncy seats as make-shift trampolines.
While Margot
was gentle and nurturing with the younger babies in her infant class, Eleanor
regularly yanks toys from their hands and attempts to climb on the infants in their baby
seats.
All the moms
and dads in the infant room are besieged by Eleanor when they drop off or pick
up their babies.
She crawls manically over to root through their bags, play
with their car seats, jangle their keys, and attempt to steal the toys clipped
to the bags or seats. She has been successful a few times, keeping a stolen toy
all day until the parent returns.
“We all know
Eleanor!” a mother told me with a smile.
Margot destroys
me with sweetness towards her baby sister.
“Eleanor is my
best friend. She’s the best baby ever. Someday she'll talk to me!”
At
Thanksgiving, she gave all her thanks for Eleanor. Of course, when Eleanor is
plowing through Margot’s carefully arranged dinosaurs, it’s difficult for
Margot to feel the love.
I do think they
are on the path towards a meaningful and loving relationship though: “Like Roseanne and Jackie!”
The first signs
of toddlerhood are upon: the fits, her shaky first steps, her attempts at
talking. Eleanor’s babble of choice is “gidden gidden.” (For the curious,
Margot’s babble of choice was “deedle dee”).
Her first word
is “kitty.” She calls both the cats and the dog “kitty.”
“She’s growing
out of babyhood too fast,” I grumble.
I cling to her
infancy so hard that I scheduled a haircut before her 1 year old pictures, a
desperate attempt to keep her looking like a baby. The hair dresser cut off the
tiniest start of a mullet, sheering off the bit of toddlerhood that had crept onto Eleanor’s head.
I want the baby
months back, desperately.
I missed a lot
of her infancy. I witnessed only 12 weeks in any real detail. I shuffled her
off to daycare as soon as my 3 months of “maternity leave” were over.
If I think
about it too hard, I grow despondent so I try not to think about it. The first
several weeks away from my infant were viscerally harsh. No amount of
repressing could take away that particular pain.
“You were
mean,” Ian says.
I know I was. I
remember picking fights just for the hell of it.
Repressing
those feelings eventually worked, but I do worry about what repressing that
level of rage does to one’s psyche.
Meanwhile
Eleanor has thrived in every aspect of life. She forms strong bonds with the
people in her life. Her daycare teachers adore her and tell me how much they
dread Eleanor moving up to the toddler room.
“I don’t know
what I’ll do. Eleanor is so attached to me, and I’m so attached to Eleanor,”
one teacher tells us.
On the day
Eleanor turned 11 months, she sadly pointed out, “Only one more month until
Eleanor is old enough to move up.”
We’re 2 for 2
at having babies whose first word is “Mama” and who scream until they are
plopped into said Mama’s arms.
It’s a nice
feeling to be needed so badly, even when it has screeching overtones of American Psycho: The Baby Edition.
She has an
obsessive need for me, particularly at the end of a long day at daycare in
which she has only seen me two hours tops the entire day.
I really,
really get it. I try to respect her instincts by letting her cling to me in the
morning before daycare and in the evenings until bedtime.
Eleanor has been a total joy: a charmer, a basher, and cool little cucumber. She smiles easily and laughs quickly.
Ultimately, Eleanor has brought us a sense of peace and completeness. She was our missing puzzle piece, a
person who made our family whole. As happy as I felt meeting Eleanor the baby, I'm even more excited about knowing Eleanor the person.
Happy first birthday,
Eleanor. You’re exactly who we needed.
