Working It

"I work from home."

I feel like this is the punchline to the joke that is my daily routine. It sounds so clean and easy. I get up, I put on some pants, I boot up the laptop, and I get all productive up in here. Right? Tee-hee. No.

I get up, I feed a squalling baby. I go back to bed. I get up, I feed her again, I go back to bed. My husband gets up, gets ready and goes to work. I get up, fetch the now unnaturally happy baby, and together we go downstairs to start our day.

She'll only be awake for about two hours, and it's better if she gets at least one nap at home before daycare (where she is never able to sleep for any appreciable length of time). During those two hours (7am to 9am) I pretend I'm working. What I'm really doing is begging her to stop chewing on the electical chords, trying to climb the stairs, or sucking on the heating vents while I just send this one email! Just one email, baby! One!

But she'll have none of it. If I'm super lucky, she'll play happily for about an hour while I intermitently pull her off the stairs and away from electical outlets. After that hour, though, she's done. She knows what she wants and what she wants is me. Now. Right now. It doesn't matter that I'm RIGHT HERE on the other side of the play gate. It doesn't matter that I'm happily singing her songs while I desperately try to finish a work project. It doesn't matter that every thirty seconds I turn around and play peekaboo with her. No. This is not what she wants. She wants me. Not just the leftovers. Not just what I can spare while I get my work done. She wants the best of me, my full attention, all of me. And as long as I'm sitting right there next to her she'll happily play for another hour until naptime. Just so long as I'm there with her. No necessarily holding her, but available for a good snuggle whenever the mood strikes her.

I guess I'll take it.

Into the woods

As much as I do miss the proximity to almost any ethnic food which we had in our little apartments, there are some upsides to living out here. One of those upsides is the fact that winding around our neighborhood are these gorgeous wooded paths that twist and turn and can easily get you lost even when they aren't covered in beautiful fall leaves.

(Believe it or not there is an asphalt path in this picture)

Not only are these miles and miles of paths ideal for an evening walk, they also lead to little hidden swings and playgrounds, right here in the woods. You never see them coming. You're just walking along, pushing a stroller with a cranky 8 month old down a leafy trail and BOOM, swing-set.

Susan was equal parts excited and terrified about this. I feel her, though. Swings are weird like that.

A Space for a Tiny Nerd

Listen, eventually I'll tell you the rest of the birth story. Maybe. I mean, it's not outside the realm of possibilities. All you really need to know is that she was born, she's fine, I'm fine, we're all fine and dandy.

We spend three months after her birth in our adorable but small one bedroom condo in the oh-so-dreamy historic neighborhood we loved so very much. It was pretty great, honestly. The house was small enough that I could keep it clean pretty easily. The neighborhood was ideal for taking the stroller out for a walk. The bedroom was plenty big enough for her bassinet and a bookshelf full of her stuff. We made it work, and for those three months it worked perfectly.

You can see her little bassinet in the lower right corner here. At night we put it next to my side of the bed.

But we knew it couldn't last. Eventually she would outgrow that bassinet. Someday we would want an actual changing table, rather than just putting the changing pad on the bed as needed. One day we might even want her in a different room so we could...um...play scrabble. So, we bought a house.

Hah. Hah, hah, hah. Oh that makes it sound so much easier than it really was. Picture me sitting at the computer laying out a new publication for my office, with a two-month old trying to nurse in my lap and the telephone to my ear as I talk to the lending agent on one line and my realtor on the other. This is not an exaggeration. I started working from home, handled all the financial mumbo-jumbo, did all the legal paperwork and closed on a house with an infant alternately crying at me, pooping on me, and sucking me dry. I am woman, hear me roar.

And now we live in the woods. The house is much newer, much bigger than our little rental, and it has an actual backyard (and front yard, for that matter). We even have a garage. The first big project we tackled once we got ourselves moved in was the nursery.

You know all those campaigns to get girls more excited about science careers? You know, the ones that insist there aren't enough girls interested in STEM, and that we need to tackle that problem early on in a girl's life? Well, consider this our contribution to the cause. I present to you, a very nerdy nursery for a very girly nerd:

The mobile spells out her name in periodic elements. Ten points if you know where Adamantium comes from without googling it.

The solar system mural is made of fabric, which I ironed to the wall using double-sided Pellon. It's to scale, including the sun, but I went back and doubled the size of the planets inside the asteroid belt because they seemed too dinky otherwise. And yes, Pluto is there. You just can't see him because in a compromise with my husband (who agrees with NDT on the "not a planet" thing) I hid it behind the door.

The curtain is made of fabric I designed myself and had printed at Spoonflower.com. Picking out the equations to include was the fun part. Painstakingly getting them right, character by character in Illustrator was the hard part. But I'm pretty pleased with the result.

Would you like to know where I got everything? A detailed list of stores where you can get that lamp, the dresser and nightstand, that adorable crib? Okay.

Ikea.

The rug and little laundry basket are from Homegoods, but everything else is of quality some-assembly-requried Swedish design. Tack, Ikea!

So far, the little bug loves it. The letters on the mobile have glitter in them, and the contrast between the black letters and bright colors is fascinating to her. When we first hung it up, she stared at it for like fifteen minutes straight, waving her little hands at it and smiling. It was pretty great. The mural is an even bigger hit, though. She loves to be held up close to it while we recite the names of each of the planets in turn. We've worked it into our nightly pre-bedtime routine with her, and it's safe to say that's her favorite part of the whole routine now.

I adore this space. The walls are pained a nice neutral grey (it's actually called "quietude") and the trim is all "polar bear" white. That calming pallet with the little pops of bright colors and plenty of baby pink makes the whole place so peaceful and whimsical. I could hang out in there all day. Instead I should probably get cracking on the master suite, so I can enjoy spending time in my own room as much as my daughter's.

Heartbeats

I had never been more terrified in my life than I was on the way to the hospital on Sunday night. I was not in labor. No contractions, water fully intact. But we were on our way there to see about changing all of that, and I was terrified.

Despite the fact that at four days past my due date I was not at all dialated and having no real contractions, the procedure went much more quickly than anyone anticipated. One good dose of the medication and my body was like, "Oh really? Fine. Let's do this thing." And we did.

I mentioned before that I had never been more terrified that I was on the way to the hospital. But the moment I heard the monitor measuring my baby's heartbeat start to slow, and saw the doctor come rushing in with a surgical mask on her face shouting for the nurse to give me oxygen, my heart nearly burst with fear. All I could think was that I would lose her. Lose this little one, like the others, so close this time. So close. As the nurse sat next to me, telling me this was normal, that the baby was fine, that it happened sometimes and all I needed to do was keep breathing deeply, I just laid there and let the tears run down my cheeks. So helpless. I would do anything for this child, and all I could do was breath deeply. Just breath. And listen as her monitor went back to it's cheerful little bleeping. She was fine. She was going to be fine.

And she was.

To be continued...

Ten Reasons the Internet Should Stop Making Up Dumb Lists

Oh the joys of the internet during pregnancy. Every other day I come accross an article telling me the "10 Essentials for New Parents" or the "Seven Things No New Mom Should Be Without".  It's a good thing I don't rely on those lists for actual information about what to buy for a new baby, because if I did I would end up with three pairs of designer shoes, an organic water bottle, and no diapers whatsoever.

But then I recently came across a website claiming to have advice for tall expectant parents. You know, things like which glider to buy, what strollers work best for longer strides, and where to find tall maternity clothes. I won't link to that site because it was full of crap. The other sites I've read sort of amused me, but this one just plain angered me.

So, you're 5'7" huh? Newsflash sweetie: You're not tall. Those pants you love come in a 34 inch inseam? Talk to me when you find something with at least a 36" inseam, because a 34 is pathetic highwater nonsense on someone who is ACTUALLY TALL. 34? Pfft.

Oh, so you think because I'm tall I need a glider with a bigger seat? I'm sorry, you may be confusing "tall" with "large bummed". (Don't worry, stranger things happen. Payless, for example, seems to equate "large feet" with "octogenarian". ) But, really, what tall people need in a nursery chair is something they can stand up out of while holding a sleeping baby. In other words, the seat needs to be higher off the ground, bucko. Not bigger, higher.

And your big tip for tall pregnant women is to buy maxi dresses? Really? Darling, where exactly do you expect us to find all of these mythical dresses which are long enough on us not to look like we accidentally shrunk them in the wash? Also, have you never heard of business appropriate attire? You know, the kind of things those of us with soul sucking office jobs have to wear everyday, pregnant or not? Because if your advice on that is truly to just "buy more expensive brands, they are often longer", I need you to come over here and repeatedly smack your head against the wall for me. "Often longer"? By how much, an inch? Gee, thanks. I'll go right out and max my credit card for that one extra inch, so that I can look like I shrunk my clothes only two times, instead of three. Good thing I have tall friends like you to help me out. What's that? You can't reach the formula on the top shelf of the grocery store? Oh honey.

YOU ARE NOT TALL.

And for those of you who are tall and looking for maternity advice, here's what I've got: nothing. But at least I'm being honest about it. I hear there are some stellar water bottles out there to keep you hydrated while breastfeeding, though.