Super Simon

Oh man, this little guy has stolen my heart. He gets pudgier and jollier everyday. He's learned how to roll over, and it's so funny to watch, because he's so round and solid it's like watching a snowman roll. So delicious.

We had a little playdate with a 7 month old baby girl who looked smaller than our 3 month old Simon. He's our affable little bruiser. Jeff was a huge baby/toddler too, but he ended up more on the bean pole end of things. I am totally celebrating Simon and each and every one of his rolls. My rolls, on the other hand, still working on celebrating those.

Big milestone for our family today: eating dinner out. We treated ourselves to the delectable goodies from the Corner Bakery. Simon slept the whole way through dinner and Sadie was content to play with the salt and pepper shakers. Meanwhile, Jeff and I scarfed down our dinner knowing that at any moment one of our offspring could go off like a bomb. We got through it, though, and might even try it again someday. Maybe we will be embolden enough to try something fancy like the Olive Garden or Chili's.

MMmmmmm, Chili's.

Adios, Fourth Trimester

I have taken great comfort in the theory that the first three months of a baby's life is really a fourth trimester, because it offers some explanation about why it's so damn hard. The first three months: trying to get to know a perfect stranger who just happens to eat from my breast about 8-12 times per day, and the inexplicable crying, and the farting and the exhaustion. It's a tough and sublime 3 months.

So, for all those reasons we celebrate Simon's three-month birthday today. Hopefully, my breast milk is celebration enough for him. Maybe if I eat the leftover playgroup brownies the milk will taste extra sweet for him.

The Earth is celebrating as well because the sun has made an appearance for the first time this week. OH MY GOD, I am so happy to see the sun. Everything seems possible today. I feel like I could get a Ph.D. in neuroscience today. Maybe I can even get through the day without being a martyr or complaining about the previous 5 days of cold rain. When I say anything is possible, I do mean ANYTHING.

It's also Zenia's last day with us. We made her a book of Sadie and Simon pictures and I expressed my gratitude for all she has done for us. She and Sadie are at music class right now while I work on some nap training for Simon. The anxiety is mounting for me about what to tell my firm about my future plans. For one more day I am putting it off because I want to go walk in the sunshine with Simon and show him the glory that is Target on Elston. He's only been once and he slept the whole time. We have to do it proper so he knows the best strategy for attacking the store.

Here's to Simon's 3 months of life, where just about everything has changed. I love him and his chubby cheeks more than I can say. How lucky we are!

Nanny Schmanny

And I thought looking for a hot pair of jeans was challenging-- that's child's play compared to trying to find a nanny. Yesterday, we met the nanny of my dreams: she was young, compassionate, energetic, and Sadie seemed to love her. In the middle of the interview I had to put Simon to bed so I excused myself and effusively told her how much I enjoyed meeting her, hoping she would understand that I was trying to communicate that I loved her and wanted to bring her on board.

Fast forward about 20 minutes when I return downstairs to Jeff and Sadie having dinner. Bad news, says Jeff. Unfortunately, Dream Nanny is not legally allowed to work in this country. Damn you, Department of Homeland Security. Damn you, legal profession. Jeff and I decided early on that this whole nanny enterprise had to be legitimate. In part, we wanted to pay taxes and be legitimate so we don't lose our law licenses, but also we don't want to participate in exploiting undocumented workers. I know plenty of people who are comfortable with under-the-table payments, but we just don't want to go down that road so another nanny candidate bites the dust.

This is inducing a little bit of apoplexy in me. Zenia's last day is tomorrow. That means, after tomorrow I am the daytime caregiver Monday through Friday. My children should be afraid. What the hell do I know about managing an 8 hour day with 2 kids? How will I go to the bathroom? Who's going to feed them? Oh, I guess me. Who's going to play with them? Me again? Really? All I can tell you right now is that if the sun doesn't come out next week during this little experiment I will have myself committed. In the meantime, I am setting up playdates and looking up activities I can do with the kids so I can maintain my sanity, as fragile as the hold may be.

Betty F'ing Crocker

For the record, this has been the worst weather ever for a maternity leave. Yes, I know, lots of women in other countries would love an unpaid maternity leave during a blizzard followed by a monsoon, but there is no way to put a cheery face on this "spring" in Chicago. I think the City should hand out free Zoloft for everyone who pays taxes. The rain is one thing; the enduring cold temperatures are another; and the unrelenting grayness of the days. It's god awful. It makes me understand that whole "winters in Florida" thing that rich old people do.

But, because I am a survivor and stuck here for now, I am working to make the best of it. I mostly ignore the persistent sogginess of my socks and the extra limpness of my hair due to the humidity and precipitation. It's Wednesday so I woke up with the extra charge of knowing I would get a chance to deal with my unresolved high school issues at play group. I hosted again this week because I have a suspicion that what I put into this whole enterpise is an important ingredient if I hope to get anything out of it. In addition to hosting, I baked brownies. Yes, from a box, but who is this Christie that hosted 4 other mothers and their children, serving hot, moist and delicious brownies? This is not the Christie who used to spend hours surfing the internet at work or "reviewing documents" for a huge litigation case (which means I was probably surfing the internet all day, but billing for it).

Who is the brownie baking woman?

To tell you the truth, I have no freaking idea. I won't pretend to understand where I will end up after I experiment with my identity as mother, as wife, as Betty Effing Crocker. I wish I did know. This period of exploration is fun and excrutiating by turns. I want to know the ending of the story. Am I headed back to work as a practicing lawyer? Am I taking my foot off the gas to spend time with my (most of the time) precious spawn? I always read the end of a book first. I read the ending so I won't be distracted by anticipation or the unknown. It makes me anxious to not know. I read the ending so I can then relax, read the book and enjoy the prose, the stories, the characters.

That's how I feel right now. I just want to know what I am going to decide to do so I can relax, enjoy what soggy days unfold before me and wear my identity with certainty. The flux is so uncomfortable. It's the dark hallway before the next door opens. I hate this hallway. It needs more light and more cheery memorabilia on the wall to distract me from thhe fact I am in the damn hallway.

So, up in the air I dangle. Somewhere between Johnathan Edwards' sinner in the hands of an angry god and an acrobat who's let go of one trapeeze and reaching out for another. I am not sure where I will land, whether the world is led by benevolent forces or if any of this even matters in the Big. Scheme. Of. Things.

All I know is that I bake a mean brownie and that I am starting to like my playgroup.

Friblings

Social Simon has already created a circle of little people to keep him company. One of his contemporaries is Finn, who is younger than Simon by only 11 days. We are lucky that we get to see Finn regularly and you can see that the boys have it it off swimmingly. I like to say that Finn is Simon's fribling-- like a sibling, but from a friend. I hope he is able to form lifelong friendships, and so far, Finn seems like a nice boy from a good family. Finn is polite-- he says, "excuse me," after he burps-- and he's very considerate -- he only cries when Simon is finished crying.

Many of my friends have kids around Simon and Sadie's ages, which is great fun. We can all swap notes and texts about what is going on with our kids. Having just endured a mini-tantrum from Sadie at Costco, I was sort of relieved to get a message from a friend that her very mild-mannered son threw a bit of a fit when she picked him up to leave the toy store. You know, as Jeff, Sadie and Simon and I tool around the City living our lives, it's easy to think that our kid is the only kid who throws fits, or pinches, or won't sleep longer than 3 hours at a stretch, or spits up after every feeding. I can feel the relief wash over me on a cellular level when I hear from a parent whose child seems totally gentle and drama-free that the same little angel I know can also pull a flip-out in the produce aisle.

I actually got a funny parenting email that made me laugh outloud the other day. The subject line was "Your 21-month old toddler," and what followed was a description of what my dear Sadie is likely to be doing or saying at her stage of development. One line that made me laugh was "toddlers like things just so."

Really? I hadn't noticed. When Sadie screamed and banged her head on the floor because I had a slice of her orange (that actually was MY orange that she co-opted) or when she insists that I take her out of her car seat and NOT Jeff but then changes her mind 4 times in 2 seconds, I think I understand what that email is telling me. We can't always understand her, but we know when we've fucked up because she let's us know with her full lung capacity.

There's a funny line floating around from Tina Fey who was asked her impressions of toddlers. She purportedly said that toddlers are d-bags. When Jeff and I heard that on the radio, we looked at each other and laughed. Hard. You just have to have a toddler to understand that.

And Simon's not getting off scott-free either. Newborns are just toddlers in training. God forbid, if I forget to change his diaper within 3 minutes of one of his gargantuan poops (which he only does once he has a fresh diaper, thank you very much), he screams like I just dipped him in acid. And when he needs a nap? You better back his ass into a crib post haste because he can shriek like a howler monkey. He's a smiley and cuddley dude as long as we follow his simple rules.

As for his development, he's found his hands. He sucks them round the clock. It's pretty funny. I was a thumb sucker myself so I was sort of hoping to pass that little habit on to my offspring. I think Simon's going to be our little thumbsucker. He's not looking too interested in rolling onto his stomach or running a 5K, but give him time.

His Good Side

Simon has hit 12 weeks of life. Will you look at that smile? He's so happy as long as his diaper is clean, his ample tummy is full and he's not too tired. Happily, we usually manage to meet his needs so we get to see that blazing smile quite often.

I am so grateful for this little guy. Yesterday, I had a scare when I drove Simon and I to the gym and only once I got to the gym parking lot did I realize that his car seat was not properly fastened. I stood in the parking lot thanking God that nothing happened on the way to the gym. I really feel like we got lucky. To make up for the bad mommy blunder, on the way home from the gym I refrained from yelling obscenities at the a**holes that cut me off.

Simon seems like he's adapting to life in his crib pretty well. I, on the other hand, sort of want him to want to cuddle with me 24 hours a day (ok, 12, but you know what I mean), but he does seem to be thriving despite my wacky ways.

He took his longest nap ever today, and though it was in the car seat, it gave me hope that one of these nights we will be able to go more than 2.5 or 3 hours between feedings or wakings due to his pretty significant gas. That's how I know these are my kids: their gas could stop traffic. It's funnier at 3:00 p.m. than at 3:00 a.m., but who knew such big sounds and smells out of such little people.

Got Milk?

This little stash of breast milk has gotten me into some trouble. Seems innocent enough to have some stored breast milk for the son I am nursing. I, however, got kind of wrapped up in the whole notion that stockpiling the milk was more important than the process of breastfeeding Simon as a way to connect with him. Specifically, I was more focused on how much I was bagging and freezing than how much he needed at his feedings. If I do say so myself, that was a little ass backwards. Sure, having the extra milk is great and brings me relief in case, say, I go into a coma for 5 days because Simon's meals will be covered. Arguably, whether or not Simon gets breast milk when his mom is in a coma is not the foremost concern.

Needless to say, my relationship with the breast pump and the stored milk may be exactly why Simon was so fussy last week at the breast. I kept taking all his meals and putting them in the freezer to be stored until some point within six months. Silly Simon, he didn't give a rat's ass about the horded milk because he was hungry TODAY. RIGHT NOW. Mommy, in her infinite fears about scarcity, was more worried about any potential lack of milk in some distant future moment that may never materialize.

Since the day that I could barely get Simon to latch on for a feeding without screaming like I was forcing him to watch the Glen Beck show, I have gotten my priorities in line. Simon's present needs are most important. Period. Any extra comes only so long as he is not compromised today. There may be less milk in my freezer, but I think Simon's point is well taken: the milk belongs to him and should be offered to him first.

I love how my kids are keeping me in the present. And, it's nice to have room in the freezer for ice cream.