Spitting Image

I was talking to my mother on the phone. Next to me, Sophie took a deep breath and let out an extended sigh, “Ahhhhhhhhh.”

“That baby is always sighing,” I told my mom, “she’s got ennui.”

“What?” My mother always says “what” before actually processing what someone says.

“She’s bored with life.”

“She’s immitating YOU. You just sighed. YOU sigh a lot.”

And sure enough, when I started to pay attention, I realized the sigh started with me.

From sighs, we moved onto sneezes. And coughs. And burps. And any other sound that happened to come out of me.

“It’s time for you to stop swearing,” Kevin suggested.

“I'm working on it. I say ‘f-ing’ now, and m-f-er.”

Kevin just looked at me.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try.” I made a raspberry at Sophie. And she spit back at me.

With great power, comes great responsibility.

Blowout

Sophia and I are driving over the Ben Franklin Bridge, back from Narberth where we picked up my ailing laptop, rocking out to a Southern rendition of “On Top of Spaghetti.”
The sun is beating down on the car, and Sophie is joyfully dissembling her carseat. She’s pulled the sun shade down in front of her so I can no longer see her face in my jerry-rigged system of mirrors.

“Pee-eew. Do you smell that, Sophie,” I ask, rhetorically. “Mustardy. Kind of like your baby-poo….” I glance up at the mirror. With horror, my eye lingers over the image that bounces back at me.

One foot, covered in greenish yellow poop is suspended in midair. I am reminded of the first image I saw of her during her high-level ultrasound. One perfect formed tibia, tarsels, and metatarsels, glowing white. I swooned at that foot. And now, I am swooning again—but for completely different reasons.

I am at a choice point. I can either get really really stressed about this, or I can save it up as an anecdote I’ll write about later in my blog.

I go with the latter.

One thought keeps haunting me. If that’s what her foot looks like, what about the rest of her? But I will have to wait until I get home to find this out.

We arrive, 15 minutes later. I stop the car and pause, steeling myself. Step out of the air conditioning into the thick heat of the day. Open the back door. She turns to me, her face already breaking into a smile. Her legs kicking with glee. Shit smeared across her forehead.

It was everywhere. Covering her hands. Down her legs. Staining her outfit. Ground into every crevice of the car seat. I could only hope that she hadn’t sucked her thumb in the last fifteen minutes. Striving to maintain my good humor, I carried her and the carseat into the house.

It’s difficult to know where to start with a poop-covered baby. I weighed my options. The thought of sticking her in the sink grossed me out, after all, that’s where I rinse our fruits and vegetables. I’d have to do a surface clean and then stick her in her tub. I’m embarrassed to say how many wipes I used. In fact, I won’t.

But, eventually Sophia was smelling fresh, the carseat was spotless, and I had washed my hands enough times (out out damned spot) to finally feel like I wasn’t going to play a critical role in a local e. choli outbreak.

Like all things, the incident quickly transformed from reality to memory.

What is this crap, and where's my milk?

We’ve started Sophia on solids. I’m not sure if it was my mother, threatening to feed her lemon Italian ices as her first food or my own guilt that surged every time she reached for what I was eating. And I eat a lot. Thus, I was feeling guilty, a lot. Mom was over, watching Sophie while I worked. C’mon, she said. Just a little banana? She already had it half-way peeled and was dancing around, banana in hand. I have to admit, this was hard to resist.

Okay, I said. Let me text Kevin. Make sure its okay if we do it without him. (I had to learn how to text because my young, hip, very busy husband prefers to communicate with me that way.)

K-OK 2 feed bb if we send pix?

Kevin txted back—Green light. But send pix.

So I mashed the banana, as mom confined Sophia to her Bumbo seat. The the BB tugged uncomfortably at her Green Eggs and Ham bib. “I want to be the one to give her the first bite, mom,” I said, just in case she had designs on being the one. After all, she delusionally refers to Sophia as “my baby.” I just wanted to make sure she knew who was in charge.

I sat down on the floor in front of Sophia. Mom held the video camera, pointed at us, somewhat askew. Is this thing on? she asked, lens still covered. I pulled myself up to a standing position, popped the lens cap off, and pushed the button. Mom backed up, I can’t get both of you in.

Use the telephoto, mom. I said impatiently. I got up again to demonstrate. She played with it and started recording. “Sophia’s first food, take one.” I lifted the spoon, and instinctively, Sophia parted her lips. I shoved the viscous fruit in before she could close them. Sophia paused for a moment, her face neutral, then disgust transfigured her delicate features. Banana oozed out of the corners of her mouth. “MMMMMM….taste….” said my mother, in the background, smacking her lips.

Sophia smiled. She liked the sounds grandma was making. I shoved in another bite. More disgust. “YUM YUM YUM YUM,” said my mother, smacking away. Sophia smiled again. And that’s pretty much how it went—Sophia complicity taking bites, despite her obvious displeasure, my mother smacking away, and my clothes growing sticky with banana orts.

Three days later Sohpia had habituated to the taste, and even seemed to be enjoying it. She now saves her disgust for homemade organic applesauce (which I slaved over a hot microwave to make). Tomorrow, we move onto the truly exotic—avocado. I’ve thumbed my nose at the doctor-recommended baby food trajectory as well as the suggestions of well-meaning friends, opting for whatever I had in my refrigerator that seemed edible. I really don’t think what she eats now is going to dictate what she eats later--despite speculation to the contrary. Maybe I’ll pay for this someday, but I think if I feed her what we like to eat, she will develop a taste for it over time.

And my fears about her preferring solid food over mother’s milk? Completely unfounded. In fact, if anything, they’ve boomeranged. What if she won’t eat solids? What if I have to breastfeed her the rest of my natural life?

I take great comfort in the fact that most people eat a wide variety of foods. And sit up just fine. And walk. And talk. And lead rich lives. Sophia will eat in her own good time.

Dada-ism

Say “mama.”

THffftttttt

Say “mamama”

AHHHHHKKKKKK

Say “mama”

Dada

It’s just not fair that it’s easier for you to say dada than mama. I mean, I’m fine with you saying it. I’m THRILLED that you say it, but can’t I get a little recognition too? Come on, Sophie, throw me a bone.

Dadadadada

Okay. Okay. You don’t have to rub it in.


Actually, it’s not that she never says mama. She does. It’s always in a desperate moment, just before she starts hyperventilating, as she comes lunging at me, her eyes trained on the area just below my neck, welling, “Mamamama!.” Or if she’s pulled herself up against the ottoman, is reaching for my laptop, and suddenly she’s down, headfirst, “Mamamama!” I don’t think she yet associates the word with me. I think it’s much more reflexive and visceral than that. Mamamama stands for comfort.

Dadaddada means fun. It’s her curiosity as she picks through the laundry basket and sucks on my dirty sweatpants. It’s her wonder as she pulls up to the dishwasher and rolls the bottom rack back and forth. It’s her joy as she slams the plush head on the floor. It’s her anticipation as she makes her way across my bed to a pile of books.

In many cultures, “mother” is some variation on “mama” and “father” is a permutation of “dada.” It is a chicken or egg argument, but it seems to me that we have shaped these infant utterances in accordance with our culturally-sanctioned gender-defined roles.

Why can’t I be dada?

Letting Go

Sophia is rarely out of my sight. At first, sleeping without her (I am still on the couch as she languishes in her crib next to my empty bed) was lonely. I remained hyperaroused, waking frequently despite the fact that she was sleeping deeply in her master suite. Eventually, I got used to it and now we both sleep through the night, happily reunited each morning.

The next hurdle was finding a babysitter. I resisted it for sometime, justifying that I could work during her naps and we couldn’t afford the expense. But Sophia only napped ½ an hour at a time—just as I would get into my groove, she would begin startling and tossing—a sign that she was reentering consciousness. I found myself doing work after everyone had gone to bed—sometimes typing into the wee hours of the morning. I was just as exhausted as when I was feeding her round the clock. Something had to give.

We invited a parade of overqualified, baby-loving grad-students into our home. First for dinner and a meet-the-baby session. Then for the occasional evening out. And finally for hours at a time as I worked out of my closet. I trust these women implicitly. They genuinely adore Sophia. Mimi and Roberta, who come occasionally, insist on non-payment—just the pleasure of her company. When they haven’t seen her in awhile, they call, missing her, wanting to know when they can babysit again, asking us to text recent pictures. Stacey, who cares for her while I work, takes her for outings and scours the internet for fun things to do with a baby on her weekends. When Stacey walks in the door, Sophia greets her with a smile she reserves for her most-loved people. I am lucky. Sophia is lucky.

And though I neurotically typed a two page list of do’s and don’ts for babysitters (do narrate what you are doing; don’t let her watch tv), and left in the line about not making disparaging comments about your own body (my things are so fat) or the baby’s body (your thighs are so fat) despite my friend Nancy pointing out that it was “a little weird”….I’m not at all concerned about what they do with Sophia in my absence. I love the fact that she easily goes from me to them. I’m thrilled that they come up with fresh ideas for play and bring a new energy to my caffeine-fueled routine.

What bothers me is that I’m not with Sophia. That she is having an experience—the first of many—without me. That I don’t know what she’s feeling, that I can’t project onto her what she’s thinking, that I don’t know what she’s doing in the moments we’re apart. I remember once marveling at the infant who was me and yet not me. As she grows, she becomes more and more herself and more and more not me.

I tell myself: This is normal. This is what happens. I’m the one who’s developing separation anxiety. Sophia? She’s getting a life.

Kicking and Screaming

No, not Sophia. I have yet to see her kick and scream. I mean me.

I imagine most mothers would be thrilled to watch their child careen through her developmental milestones. And don’t get me wrong. I am one of them. I feel enormous pride as I watch her, at six months, breakdance over to her toy box, pull up to a standing position, lean over the edge and grab a talking plush head (who gave us THAT?). She grins toothlessly, triumphantly, and whips it around mercilessly as it protests (Whee! Achoo! Faceplant!).

I kneel behind her, spotting. I am amazed at her strength. But at the same time I am achingly sad, cognizant of the breakneck speed with which she is growing up. Other mothers with older babies pick her up and exclaim over how tiny and light she is. But she feels pretty heavy to me. One mother sniffed her head and sighed, "she still smells like a baby. My baby lost that smell." I sniffed her child and indeed, the baby smelled grown up. Now, I sniff Sophie’s head, paranoid that her powdery newness will have worn off and all that will be left is hair.

You see, I know Sophie is like me. Or, rather, the way I was. Not content to be a child. Frustrated with the lack of power. Anxious to join the mysterious world of adults: To walk like them, talk like them, be like them. I wished my childhood away. At the time, it seemed to drag on forever. I felt imprisoned. And then suddenly it was over. Now I want to slow down time. No. I want it to stand still. I want to live in this moment forever. Me and my baby.

To make myself feel worse, I put on the Putumayo Dreamland album that we played over and over again during the first days that we had her home. I am transported back to that time, when there was no division between night and day—and time was measured in feeding intervals. When I was in too much pain to sit. Too much pain to stand. When Sophia was either sleeping or clinging to me, uncoordinated and near blind. When we had to take her clothes off, wipe her with a wet washcloth, and finally move her little limbs through a series of calisthenics as my mother chanted, ex-er-cise,ex-er-cise, babies need their ex-er-cise and she still wouldn’t wake for a feeding.

I weep, longing for the most difficult days of my life

Pots, Pans and a Cardboard Box

The whole time Nancy and I were pregnant, we kept saying we need to write down all the things we’d swear we’d never do.

These were some of the things on my list:

• Feed my child fast food
• Allow her to watch television under the age of three
• Have a house that looks like Toys R Us

The idea was to check back in with each other and see what we were actually able to follow through with. I kept joking that all my child would have to play with were pots and pans and a cardboard box.

What I am happy to discover, is that you really don’t need much more than that. Sophie spends long periods of time just trying to climb all over my body, or explore the house, or swipe at a dangling blanket. And I honestly do not think that these activities are any less stimulating than sucking on a multi-colored combination rattle, book, teething ring “toy” designed by Baby Einstein.

She has a small box of such items in the living room—all of which were given to her by friends and relatives. She does like these things. When the mood strikes her, she inches her way over to the box and hoists herself up on her knees to grab whatever’s accessible, and then tries to cram as much of it as possible into her mouth. However, if I give her a spatula she pretty much does the same thing with it.

Having spent a fair amount of time on the floor of my living room, assembling and studying swings, exersaucers, and jumperoos, I have become deeply suspicious of the whole baby industry. It all seems so unnecessary. These bright, ugly toys designed to make your baby smarter, are alarmingly over-stimulating. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have a deleterious effect on brain development. In fact, I would even venture to say that these things were not designed for babies, but for their parents—to relieve them of their infant burdens, to provide time to do other things, to minimize the social interaction and human contact that truly fosters healthy development

I’m willing to bet: if it didn’t exist 100 years ago, chances are we still don’t need it today.