Shopping online for a new postpartum bathing suit (previous options: too small, too small, too big, and hello, milk jugs!), I get up and go to the kitchen to retrieve a tape measure to record my new postpartum measurements. I return to the computer with two Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and not a clue as to what I was supposed to be doing in the kitchen.
Go figure.
So, we're unexpectedly headed to London for a few days next week. This will be our first overseas trip since Ellie has been on a consistent schedule, though we've had a few domestic trial runs. (Houston was horrible, sleep-wise, which may have been due to teething; New York was great.) Also, we'll be traveling overnight, which I actually think will work out well since she sleeps best at night (nap times can be dicier) and particularly because international flights have the bassinet option for babies.
More importantly, though, other than being ecstatic about seeing a few friends while we're there, I'm hoping to get some closure about whether moving to Baltimore was the right decision. My secret hope is that I'll think, "Oh, yeah, I hate London" and be reminded why we moved back to the US. Living here is for sure easier--especially now that we have a car--and lord, so much cheaper, but I can't help but miss the Brits. The sense of permanency that we have back stateside is nicer (we were never going to be in London longer than five years) but I do wonder what it would have been like for Ellie to grow up in a culture that is just kinder, gentler, and more easy going in general (I say this as memories of me cursing various customer service offices conveniently fade...). I think my big regret is that I had planned to spend my generous maternity leave really exploring central London and getting to know it intimately, and now I will likely never have that chance. And though I did not like the job I had in London, it was nice knowing I had something to return to rather than floundering around here trying to find a new career. Trade-offs, I know. But I'm looking forward to seeing what this trip will reveal.
We took Ellie to my favorite place this weekend, the place I'd thought she'd grow up: New York. As we were walking back to our hotel after a long dinner with my brother and his expecting wife arguing over whether we'd kept her out too late, she suddenly started laughing and laughing, not at us but at the city itself. The happiest, most joyous sound I've ever heard.
New York is wonderful for a baby because there's so much to see, hear, and smell: lights, traffic, Times Square, loud tourists in groups, and yes, even the sour smell of garbage in the streets. I'm so glad we could share that love of the city, if only for an instant.
Rockin' the activity center for her new favorite parent, DADDY!
Dear Miss E.,
My god, you are six months old. How did that happen? And where have I been? I guess I have been here all along, though I can hardly remember now how small you were when you were first born. I think I offended the mother of a six-week-old at playgroup a few weeks ago when I kept exclaiming over and over again, "He's so little! I forgot how small they are!" and she repeatedly assured me that he is actually quite big for his age. Just wait till she sees what she's in store for! What a lovely age six months is--you are all broad smiles and toothy grins and sunshine and personality and personality and personality.
You have decided that our beagle, Mandy, is your new best friend. She often accompanies us upstairs for your first nap for the day (oddly never the second) and your evening bath, and now, as we head up the stairs, you crane your neck over my shoulder to see if Mandy will be joining us. When you eat your meals in your Bumbo seat on the coffee table, you extend your little hands for Mandy to lick. And, unfortunately, you drop things on the floor that she is happy to retrieve--and eat. Your daddy came home the other day to find a sippy cup in the dog bed. And Mandy, by extension, has learned with the advent of solid foods that you are not all bad and do not exist simply to make her miserable. I have a feeling that you and Mandy will be quite unstoppable together in the future.
There is a lot I didn't know about babies before you were born. I thought I knew about babies--well, I knew I liked babies anyway--and I have to say that I know that I am incredibly lucky, but you have mostly been one big pleasant surprise. I had no ideas babies were so sunny. I didn't know you'd smile so much, love me with such intensity, or be so easy to please. I think I sort of had a vague notion that all babies had colic. That they had colic and never slept and rarely smiled and were basically just grueling effort until they were a year old or so. Instead, I find myself lamenting the fact that you only get to be a baby for such a short amount of time. Rationally, I knew that babies started walking and saying words at around a year old but I never really thought about babyhood being so fleeting.
I have worried a lot about going back to work and when that might happen and whether or not I identify myself as a stay-at-home mom, but once I realized how short this time in your life is, I am really grateful to be able to be home with you. I know that you would be perfectly happy and healthy and safe in somebody else's care, but then I would miss this special time with you and so for selfish reasons I'm glad we're in a position where I can be with you all day and not miss a thing. However, I do worry that you will become so attached to me that when I do decide to go back to work it will be really hard on you, so just this week Kate and I (another mother from the playgroup) hired a nanny to watch you and Grady two mornings a week. Kate actually works full time but Grady goes to his grandmother the rest of the week, so she asked if you would be interested in joining Grady for two mornings because we thought the two of you might be a good influence on each other. Grady is only 11 days older than you but he is already crawling and climbing and generally making trouble, so I'm hoping he'll encourage you to do the same. You are rolling now and starting to sit and occasionally considering that you someday might like to crawl (or "swim") but for the most part you are content to lie on your back, pull off your socks or suck on your feet, and smile, smile, and smile. I'm thinking Kate's hoping some of your stillness will rub off on Grady as well!
In any case, my little moo, mostly what I wanted to tell you this month is what a pleasant surprise it has been to be your parents. I completely understand why people want to do this all over again. We love you to bits.
Love,
Mama and Daddy
On my way home from Ellie's six-month pediatrician's visit this afternoon, I was stopped at a red light trying to air out my sweaty gas pedal foot when a man knocked on the window. Surprised out of my weird little reverie, I rolled the window down a crack.
"Don't be scared," he said. "I don't look homeless, right?" He was missing most of his teeth, so he in fact did look like he could be homeless, but who am I to judge? "Uh, no." I faltered. He thanked me for smiling (apparently nobody else he'd approached had) and told me that his car--he pointed to my right across the lanes of traffic--was broken down and he just needed four more dollars to get it fixed.
Stop right here. You know where this is going, right?
I've lived in Austin, New York, and London and heard versions of this story a million times: "My daughter is in the hospital and I need two--no, three--more dollars for cab fare," "Somebody stole my wallet and I just need 5 pounds to get something to eat." "I'm trying to get to Florida to see my family and I need ten more dollars for bus fare." Or my very favorite, in the 14th Street subway station in New York: "Can I have some money for Starbucks? $5 would do it."
I usually approach these situations by making a compromise with them. Listen, I'm no fool--I know they are likely lying (except the Starbucks guy. Even if that was a lie, it was a good one)--and I know they approach me because I am (or look) young, am female, and it's true, I smile a lot. I'm an easy target. But what if they are telling the truth? What if their daughter really were in the hospital and my money would get them that much closer to where they need to be? Or let's face it, if they just really, really, need a beer or some other quick fix? What if I were in that situation and nobody believed me? So what I normally do is offer up a dollar, two at most. I consider this to be a fair deal--I can afford to part with the occasional dollar--and if they are lying, it's no skin off my teeth. Whatever the truth of their situation is, it's not easy having no money.
But today I let myself get taken advantage of.
"I just need $4. I can give you change for a five," he said. When I opened my wallet, he peered in through the window and saw my two 10-dollar bills and a one. "I only need eight," he said as I removed the $1 bill. "If you give me ten, I can give you $3 back." (I know, none of this was making any sense.) I was put on the spot, the light had changed to green, and I had the baby--grumpy from her vaccinations--in the back seat. I handed him the ten. "How can I get this money back to you?" he asked, handing me a pocketful of change that included two quarters, four dimes, and several pennies, including a Canadian penny. "Don't worry about it," I answered predictably, as he headed away from where his car was supposed to parked. An (I assume empty) laptop bag banged against his hip as he walked.
And I don't know why, but the whole interaction made me feel terrible. I am actually OK with being kind of gullible (or at least people assuming that I am)--I never want to be somebody who is rude or spiteful toward the homeless or anybody else when a simple "no, thank you" or "sorry, I don't have it" will do. One of the saddest things I saw in New York was a man carrying several large black trash bags worth of stuff and smelling of dirt riding the train during rush hour one morning. The only free seat in the entire car was the one next to him and person after person (including myself, although I had gotten on before the train was full and sat down across from him) raced to that seat and then, realizing who was sitting there, quickly veered away. For most the trip he appeared to be asleep and unaware of what was going on around him, but at one point he looked over just as a man in a suit made the same mistake all the previous riders had made. And the homeless man--an older guy, possibly somebody's grandfather--looked so very hurt by it that it makes me unbearably sad even thinking about it now. I spent the rest of the ride impotently wondering if I should go and sit beside him myself, but he had closed his eyes again and I never could work up the nerve.
But back to today's state of affairs. I think what depressed me so much about it is that dishonesty lay at the heart of the transaction. It's not so much that I'm upset over being separated from my 10-dollar bill--though it does sting a little--but if I had called it for what it was and parted with $1 instead (all I had to say was "I'm sorry, $1 is all I can spare." I've said it countless times before), I would have felt like the playing field was closer to even. Instead I was left with a feeling like the man left thinking, "Ha! She bought it." It was unfair.
Part of what was different about today was that I was in a car. Other than the occasional forced window washing, all of my transactions with those asking for money have been on foot or on a train. The car somehow changed that dynamic, though I suppose next time I will be more prepared. Not that it's any of my business, but I do hope that the guy uses the $10 to buy a meal or something. But if he just needs a quick fix (whatever that fix may be), well, then that's his business as well. I continued home to my comfortable house with my beautiful, healthy infant daughter and was greeted by two dogs who probably eat more regularly (or at least get better dental care) than this man. Take that for what you will.
Wow. I haven't posted in a while. That's because we've been busy loading our stuff into storage, getting out of our lease, and moving back to England.
I kid. Although given this recent news (Hi, Mara!), it is tempting.
Actually, Ellie and I were in Houston paying respects to my old house and my hometown for one of the last times before my parents retire to New Mexico. I'm thrilled for my parents but selfishly very, very sad that Ellie won't have Texas roots.
Also, I have been preparing to host my first infant playgroup, which (gulp!) took place this afternoon. So much for me and all those SAHM types having nothing in common. I am now officially one of them. At least for now. And I am OK with that.
We think about 12 babies and moms came to the playgroup today. Do you have any idea how many babies that is? Well, for the level of noise it created, it could have easily been 100. Playgroup begins around 12 and ends promptly at 2 pm. The thing that always strikes me about this is that people sort of roll in noonish and by 1 pm things have reached a fever pitch. Babies are babbling or rolling over or pulling hair or staring into each other's faces at maximum output and then by 2 pm sharp they are either sleeping or crying and being ushered out by their moms in infant car seats. Ellie's never been one to sleep in my arms, so at this point she's usually got her thumb in her mouth and her head on my shoulder and is being startled awake over and over again. I get her into her crib and she absolutely crashes for two or three hours.
But the best part about playgroup today? It was noon and nobody had showed up yet. I was patting myself on the back because the food had been put out and the dogs had been put away, I had successfully showered, dressed myself and the baby, laid out blankets and toys for the wee ones and was completely ready. The first person to show up? My husband. He surprised me by taking a rare (read: only) long lunch and coming home to help me man the fort. He doesn't want to miss an instant of this child's life and I just love that. Every time I looked up during playgroup, he had a different baby in his arms. And the women liked having him around to help lug bulky strollers up and down our stoop. After I left, everybody told me what a great husband I have. I do. How did I get so lucky?
Am missing the UK today. I just made several calls to retrieve my medical records and close some accounts and spoke with a few really nice people. I forgot how nice everybody is there and I'm always so excited to hear the different accents. Then I spoke with somebody at the mobile phone provider and remembered about the terrible customer service! But still in an "awww" sort of way. I also just received an email containing a slide show from a friend who recently went on a trip to South Africa with her husband and new baby and I was sad about all the travel we had planned to do during our originally intended three- to five-year stay there. Oh, well.
Is it wrong that I keep hoping that all of my American friends there will pack up and come home just so I can feel like we made the right decision?
Here are some shots of our old flat:
Blurry picture of garden
Living room with fancy flat screen we sold using an eBay store that went bankrupt and ran off with our money
Kitchen with clothes-eating dryer and pregnant lady unfriendly mini-fridge
Hallway to bedrooms featuring Italian landlord's eclectic paint color choices (and shelf of HUGE faux art deco mirror) and London's ubiquitious "blue carpet problem"
Yeah, it was pretty small (and, um, messy). Living in America is much easier--if (a lot) less exciting.
Never ever in a million years did I picture myself as a stay-at-home mom. In fact, I will admit that I was actually a little contemptuous of stay-at-home moms. I mean, what kind of feminists were they? And what kind of roll model were they setting for their children (that mommy was constantly at their beck and call?)? What did they have to talk about with their husbands anyway? And what did they do all day? Sit around in sweats watching Oprah? Even though I myself am home full time, I considered going to the working mother's playgroup posted on the parents list serv I belong to rather than the regular one that meets from 12 to 2 every Friday afternoon.
Me? Socialize with a bunch of SAHM types? What would we talk about?
Well, joke's on me.
I've been to a few activities recently--story time at the library, Baby Loves Disco, and two infant playgroups--and I have to admit that when I first walked into each and every one of them I thought, "Oh, no. This is sooo not me. I'm outta here just as soon as it's polite to leave."
Story time involved sitting in a circle and singing songs with our little ones. I thought, "My God, I used to get dressed up for work and go to an office every day. This is total culture shock." But I looked down at Ellie, who at two months was completely engaged with what was going on. She sat in my lap and cooed and smiled and looked at all the other babies and moms. And during the last 30 minutes when it became "play time," I met another mom with a baby Ellie's age who was smart and interesting and returning to work just two days a week. I hoped to see her again.
At Baby Loves Disco, my husband and I walked in and thought, "Oh, no, she is much too young for this. And we should put off having to deal with these large crowds of noisy children for as long as possible." But you know what? She loved it. She laughed harder than I've ever seen her laugh watching my friend's 5-year-old dance around in front of her. And what's more, we had fun. Yan said he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
I was the first one there at the first infant playgroup I attended. I must be the only person in the world with a new baby who is chronically early. I am always so worried about getting out the door with the baby and all her gear, plus giving myself time to get lost as I learn this new city, that I am always embarrassingly early. It was awkward to say the least. The other mothers had started going two weeks beforehand and had been getting together on other occasions as well (there is also a walking group I've been trying my damndest to make but Ellie usually naps right through it) so as they rolled in, it was clear I was the interloper. Many of them had on full makeup and had dressed up for the occasion. I had put zero thought into what I had on (makeup? what is makeup?), paying more attention to what I dressed Ellie in. Eventually, there were in-depth discussions about nanny cams and vacuum cleaners. One mom was bragging about her son's (completely normal) milestones. I tried to engage a few people but had little luck. "This is my worst nightmare," I thought, planning my escape.
Then a woman walked in, plunked her baby down and said, "So, does everybody here stay at home?" (The answer, to my surprise, was no.) I liked her immediately. A few minutes later, another woman walked in and put her baby down on his stomach for some "tummy time." The baby immediately burst into tears and she was so uninhibited about it and so open with everybody about her experiences (she was older and had experienced two miscarriages before this little guy; he had been early so was a little behind in his milestones) that I immediately took to her as well. The mom who had been bragging about her own son's milestones looked at her and said, "Do you always let him cry like that?" "Yes," she said. I admired this because while I may let Ellie cry in the confines of our four walls, I do not have the balls to do it in public and particularly in front of other moms who may pass judgment.
The three of us stayed after the playgroup and made plans to meet up again. One of them is back at work part-time and the other is dedicated to staying home after a long career. Ellie and I got together with one of them at her house on Tuesday and made plans to go on a walk with the other some time next week. The woman I met at story time back in December was at the second playgroup I attended. I don't know how long I'm going to be home, but I think I just may be finally starting to enjoy it.
Have to run--gotta get ready for another playgroup this afternoon.
Home of the McBaby.
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