To Eleanor On Her First Birthday

Our second baby was a badly-timed baby. I was ready for our second child from the time Margot turned two. 

“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.

To Margot, Age One

You were born during the coldest Spring for more than 50 years. A record-breaking cold-front swept through the city the night you were born, but we had no clue. We were shut away in a hospital room, completely isolated from the outside world, only caring about ourselves: you, me, and your pops.

We had arrived at the hospital shortly after noon that day, after my contractions had amped up to the every-three-minutes my doctor had told me to watch for. They were dull contractions that had begun the night before, too uncomfortable for sleep but too weak for the hospital.

I managed three hours of sleep that night. The next morning Ian called in to work. We knew you were coming soon.

That morning I squirreled away graham crackers and gatorade to sneak into the hospital bathroom and anxiously watched the hours tick past.

We timed contractions and by 11am, I could feel them coming closer together, still dull. Shortly after noon, we motored off to the hospital.

"They don't hurt at all even though they're close together. We're going too early."

"You wanna get Bubble Tea? Or go to the thrift store?"

"Nah. We're almost there; just keep going."

Sometime after 1:00pm the nurse checked me for the first time: "Three centimeters."

After she walked away, I wailed, "Three centimeters!? We're going to be here for hours! We're going to be here all afternoon and all night and into the morning. They'll give me pitocin. This is horrible."

Five hours later, you came screeching into the world, pitocin-free.

Immediately after you came into the world, the nurse whisked you away to your baby station next to me. You were born with a fever. The nurses nudged your dad towards you, reminding him to take pictures.

He snapped some photos and then sheepishly walked back to me, where he clutched my hand and quietly watched the chaos. The nurses chuckled at him, but the doctor kindly remarked, "I stayed with my wife, too."

When we finally held you, we stared at you, a stranger. We were confidants, lovers, introverts, and now, parents, who were going to let you, a strange little interloper, into our lives to share our home and our secrets.

It felt vaguely terrifying.

Your infancy has flown by. I spent six glorious months at home with you on maternity leave, and I loved every moment of it despite your clinginess.

Daycare has been the hardest part of your babyhood because my heart breaks every time I leave you at your little school.

I talk wistfully about the days I stayed home and wonder aloud whether I could stay home again, even while you're shrieking angrily and your dad is pulling a face because my god, woman, the screaming. Are you nuts?  

You always hated baby food. You demanded table food as soon as we started you on solids. You eat everything.

I snuck you some white cheddar Cheetos once and have paid for it dearly ever since because you screech when you see me eating them, begging for a bite. And, well, they're the organic Cheetos, so why not?

When you eat, you rub food onto your head for reasons we shall never understand. You drag grease and sauce through your hair until it's standing on end. After every meal I must scrub your head with a dishcloth, lest you attract ants.

I have hauled my breast pump to work everyday for the past six months and dutifully locked myself away, fielding awkward questions and ill-timed knocks so you can feast on breast milk rather than formula.

Studies have recently scandalized our Breast is Best world because they show that breast milk doesn't really make a difference in the long run, and, hell, I've been saying that since you were born.

And I'm so tired of pumping that I declare you are starting on formula tomorrow, first thing, bright and early. But then morning arrives and I doggedly pack my pump and bottles like always, lest one drop of evil formula passes your precious lips because I am clearly an insane hypocrite.

You are so adorable that your dad and I can hardly stand it, and we sappily declare you the cutest baby in the world. Your dad acknowledges that every parent thinks this but goes on to decide that maybe, just maybe, you really are the cutest baby in the world.

You say "Mama", "Dada", and "Kee Cat." You call every animal you see a "Kee Cat", including the horse who lives next door.

We were constantly sick from the daycare viruses this winter. You dad and I have never been so sick in all our adult lives. I briefly considered hanging a sign upon our front door that reads "Abandon all Hope, Ye Who Live Here."

But your dad gazes fondly at photos of you grocery shopping just before a winter storm hit and remarks, "This winter was the greatest. I usually feel down during the winter but having Margot in those little outfits made it happy."

Your hair is slowly growing in, blonde fuzz that sticks up wildly. You have your father's features but your mother's face shape. Your skins is as sensitive as your father's, and we have to rub you down with a trifecta of lotion, diaper cream, and lanolin every evening.

You love electronics: iPhones, iPads, remote controls, and electrical cords. You pay little attention to your toys and no attention to your stuffed animals. You'd rather have the wires from your dad's latest project.

You like to pet the dog but get annoyed when she licks you, screeching in frenzied protest. You adore beating on the cats like they're oddly-shaped drums, but only the fat one allows you close for any length of time.

You love the other babies in your daycare class. You crawl over to crying babies and pat their backs. Your teacher calls you "a big help."

You've been the oldest baby in the class since you were 8 months old, and you know it. Your other teacher calls you "Queen Bee" because you go from baby to baby, patting their arms and bouncing their seats.

"Margot's very motherly," she tells me.

The baby in you is slowly disappearing. We take you to some gardens to snap photos just before your first birthday, and I'm shocked by the sudden appearance of relatively spindly legs.

That same weekend, you suddenly explode into a non-stop babbler, earnestly trying to impart your wisdom using your bizarre alien language.

You love "reading". You flip through your books and babble about each page. When I ask you to read me a story, you fetch your books and earnestly chirp through each one. I can't wait for you to talk with real words.

I have snapped a million photos of you as a baby, desperate to remember everything, knowing how fast it's going, and knowing the days of you needing me so terribly will rapidly vanish. But I'm so excited to see you grow and change.

Happy birthday, Margot. I'm so glad you're ours.

Bye Bye, Birdie

I have sad news: a fox snatched up Bernadette two nights ago.

Bernadette was our gold and white chicken. She was our prettiest chicken with the best coloring. We had given her two nicknames: Goldie and Birdie.

 

She had freakishly human-looking eyes. I snapped a ton of photos of her one day trying to capture those eyes.

Waging a constant battle against foxes, hawks, and raccoons brings home the fact that chickens serve as a food source in life. Alas, Birdie was one of our original five, who we raised from babyhood  to almost-adulthood. My heart is broken.

Baby Birdie 

Of course, chickens only have a life-span of approximately seven years which is pretty darn short.

And as you brood over your poor pet chicken, you start to brood over your other pets and realize dogs and cats only have a life-span of about twelve to fifteen years. But they bring so much joy, the inevitable heart-break is worth it, and you should just live in the moment and savor every smelly, barky, hissy, squeaky, squawky moment.  

My brain knows it. Deep down, my heart knows it. But I still need a moment.

Last night in the dark, in the haze just before sleep, I snuggled up to Ian and half-whispered, half-whimpered, "Our Birdie Pot Pie went to chicken heaven."

Bye Bye, Birdie.

 

Engaged

During the week he wakes early while I continue sleeping. Every morning in the hazy light, he leans down to kiss me good-bye. I'm usually burrowed under covers, and I hear him laugh as he searches for me.

When we arrive home from work, we hug and sway, spinning around slowly. It looks like we're dancing. Ian asks, "Why do we do that?" I reply I don't know, but it's comforting.

Later I chance upon an article that explains the science behind something we already know: rocking relieves stress and provides comfort. It's why mothers rock babies to sleep and people sway back and forth at concerts.

The New York Times recently published an article about the brain on love: "If you’re in a healthy relationship, holding your partner’s hand is enough to subdue your blood pressure, ease your response to stress, improve your health and soften physical pain."

It sounds obvious, but it goes a long way in explaining why I've felt so calm over the past couple of years.

We constantly scheme about our next big move: enterprises, non-profits, homesteading. We're still so poor we can only dream of some things. We share politics and ideology. We share a similar approach to life.

When I was younger, my friends dubbed me "Logical Laura." When Ian and I began dating, my practicality was one of the first traits he noticed.

One night in those early days, he remarked, "You're very pragmatic." I replied, "Yes, I am." It's a trait that makes me feel disconnected from other women sometimes, but it's a trait Ian admires. I can be myself.

One of Ian's friends suggests a nail polish color for me, and Ian instantly feels amused. I haven't worn nail polish since I was a kid. He knows me better than anyone.

I sometimes feel like I bring him down. When we began dating he would send me romantic messages, and I would feel embarrassed and wouldn't know how to respond.

Ian: "I tried to romance you."

Laura: "I know."

Ian: "You weren't into it."

Laura: "Nope."

He expresses himself with ease. He talks about his day, the people he encounters, how certain plants and animals make him feel, why he loves nature, and the things he's learned. He people watches all the time. He's intuitive.

I'm often quieter. I find it difficult to express myself sometimes. It drives my mom nuts. He knows when I'm upset because I grow very quiet.

We attend a party where I laugh and joke with friends. A guy makes harsh comments to no one in particular. I shrink back, silent and suddenly exhausted.

Ian whispers in my ear, "Are you okay?" I whisper back, "Yes."

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yes."

So we go home.

He is a gentle man, so gentle that we make off-colored jokes about the domestic violence he supposedly incurs and then roll with laughter.

We go to a thrift store, where he examines the tools and spots some shelves he'd like to buy. He also sees a dainty picture book about cats, containing a drawing of two tuxedo cats who resemble his own. He opts for the picture book. He chuckles at himself: "I could have gotten shelves but instead I got a book about cats."

He loves tinkering with electronics, taking things apart and putting them back together. And, of course, he loves the natural world. He sees a beauty and calmness in nature that many people overlook. He plaintively wonders why modern society eschews the natural environment. His favorite word is "sustainable." 

We talk about our past, about our bikes and pets and parents and the things that brought us joy and the events that brought us heartache.

We talk about the present, which wholly encompasses the two of us. When I think about my life now, I think of Ian. And we talk about the future, a future we will share.

Ian and I got engaged in early December 2011. Over the next several months we quietly told friends, prompting many, "Well, duh" reactions.

Since our first date in October 2010, we've done everything together. Every decision is a mutual decision: every dinner we eat, every show we watch, every appliance we buy.

Ian is my first truly serious boyfriend, the only one I've lived with. I remember feeling nervous about sharing everything with him, but it quickly became innate. I became a part of him and he became a part of me.

I can see crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles and gray hair in his widow's peak. I look at him and try to envision what he'll look like when he's older.

He's two years older than me. When I was 19, I took a sociology of marriage and family class. My professor warned, "Ladies, marry someone a few years younger than you if you want to avoid widowhood. Women outlive men."

I think of that and hope he and I live for a long time yet. I realize that I don't mind growing older, because I will be with him and he will think I'm beautiful. We crawl into bed late one night, and he tells me I'm beautiful. I suddenly feel shy even though he's told me many times before.

We both agree that we already feel married. In my own quiet way, I feel jittery with excitement. I can't want to become Mrs. New Daddy.