Life in Chicago

Happy Halloween!

The New Me, The Mom Me

 
It's a cold, rainy morning in Chicago and, as I write this, LA couldn't seem farther away. The wind is whistling around the house right now and the tree trunks are black from the wet. Rain drops are beaded up on the windows and wet leaves have plastered themselves against the glass.

I'm finally feeling recovered from my trip but it took a day or two. Traveling alone with a 5-month old was one of the more ambitious things I've ever set out to do, and it wasn't until I was actually there doing it, that I fully realized what I had gotten myself into.

The anxiety set in the moment I saw Greg pull away in the Honda. There I was standing in the middle of O'Hare, a suitcase in one hand, the stroller in another, completely alone with my daughter, on my way to spend three days in Los Angeles, catching up with a dozen friends, none of whom had yet to meet Veronica.

I've traveled alone countless times. I've trekked through the Philippines by myself, gone off to Taiwan, the Grenadines, Sicily and Switzerland, with no one alongside of me. And I'd certainly been to LA enough times. But this trip was different and the moment I found myself alone at the airport my heart began to pound.

Being responsible for another person, when that person is completely helpless, is a big job. I kept thinking about that exercise where they used to ask teenagers to carry around an egg for two weeks, making sure not to break it, in the hopes of giving them a taste of what it might be like to have a baby. And it's true. Imagine trying to navigate the mess that is the airport, while trying carefully not to drop an egg.

Or upset the egg. Because if you do then it's just you standing there in middle of the busy airport with a screaming egg, er baby. And your husband isn't with you so when everyone turns to give you the death stare, it's just you that they give it to. And then you skulk away into the family bathroom, trying desperately to calm your little egg who just doesn't want to be in her stroller, all the while trying not to touch anything so that neither of you contract any kind of fatal airport illness.

I digress. Everything went swimmingly until I got on the plane. And even then, it wasn't so bad. It was just that out of a four and a half hour flight she only slept for 30 minutes. I spent the majority those four hours doing my best to keep her happy, which mostly involved standing in the back of the plane by the bathrooms so that she could make faces at the stewardesses who popped back and forth. This activity coupled really well with my general fear of flying.

As we finally touched down in Los Angeles I was filled, not with relief, but a new anxiety, one that I had not anticipated at all. I suddenly found myself worried that all my old friends in LA, particularly those without children, wouldn't like the new me, the mom me. 

This realization came out of nowhere. Ever since I'd bought these tickets to California I'd been nothing but looking forward to catching up with my friends and showing off my funny little girl. But it suddenly struck me, as I made my way through LAX with my suitcase and stroller and baby and diaper bag that this was not the Claire my friends were used to. Would they like the new me?

Of course they would, I reassured myself. My friends are my friends for good reason. They're wonderful, caring, and thoughtful people and they genuinely didn't seem to mind at all when we had to spend 20 minutes in the parking garage trying to figure out how to fit the stroller, car seat, luggage and baby into a Mini Cooper with three passengers.

But man, I minded! I felt so self-conscious. I couldn't help apologizing over and over, soothing Veronica in between sorrys, and all the while trying to act calm and helpful when all I wanted was to chuck the stroller into nearby traffic.

And so the trip went. I caught up with at least a dozen dear friends in two days, all the while trying to act cool and collected as I strapped V to my chest in the Bjorn or collapsed the stroller  into the trunk of a friend's convertible. Oh no, I'm fine! I do this all the time! Just give me one sec...

By the third and final night of the trip I was utterly exhausted and broke down crying in the parking lot of a restaurant as I tried to walk Veronica around in an attempt to calm her down while my friends sat inside eating dinner.

Being a mom is hard. It's hard because it requires absolutely ALL of you to do it properly. There's no slacking. There's no extra glass of wine or impromptu nap. There's no chance to blow-dry your hair, not when it means you might wake up the baby whom you desperately want to get some sleep because you've dragged her all the way across the country for three short days.

After three days of devoting all of my time to making sure that my daughter was getting absolutely every thing she needed (sleep, sustenance, sun protection, diaper changes, safety, smiles and love), what I had left in me was devoted to being present to my friends, to wanting to genuinely catch up on their lives. But nodding and asking about their writing projects and marriages and jobs while bouncy a fussy baby on my hip just left me feeling breathless and overwhelmed and insecure.

So far, motherhood has been one big lesson in finding balance and being present. On the flight back, as V finally slept blissfully in my arms for a solid two hours, I rested my cheek against her soft little head and knew that even though my life has changed painfully, dramatically, irrevocably, I wouldn't give up a second of what I've had with her to have any of the old life back.

Reading List

I thought I'd link up a few of my favorite blogs today. They're all pretty much parenting blogs, but each of a really high caliber.

And I'm always interested in other good blogs, so if you have suggestion for sites I can add to my daily rundown, I'd love to hear about them.

Neal Pollack's Blog -- Neal is a friend of mine and a hilarious writer. His blog centers mainly around his relationship with his son Elijah, but also around his sometimes disastrous forays into the world of yoga. His new book, Yoga Dork, is coming out in the spring.

500 Pieces of Prudent Advice for my Baby Daughter -- a new find that I just love. Recent entry: "#206 Visit a cave! Caves are incredible."

Dooce -- I'm sure you've all heard of Dooce. I've enjoyed reading about her new life as a mother of two though, especially since her new daughter was born just a week after Veronica.

Girl's Gone Child -- Rebecca Woolf in LA who writes eloquently about also being a mother of two. Her struggles to retain her former identity in the face of motherhood are intense.

The Making of a Family -- Our friends Sarah & Sandy write this blog about their life with son Ezra. It's a great read, and not just because they're friends.

Unringing the Bell -- my former college roommate's blog about her two kids, one of whom has Down's Syndrome. Again, a fantastic read and not just because I know her.

Weekly Wednesday Photo

Veronica, 20 weeks.

Click here to see all the weekly photos.

The Stuff of Myths

Dear Little Bug,

We've been in Los Angeles for the last couple of days, our first mother-daughter trip. You've been a trooper so far and I've toted you all over the place already, meeting various friends and soaking up the sunshine and ocean air. I don't want to go home.

I lived here for 5 years. I moved to Los Angeles just after my 24th birthday, after having lived in Manhattan for four years. I didn't think I would ever leave New York but my father was living in Southern California, his health rapidly declining, and I wanted to be closer to him.

The first few months there were tough. The wide open boulevards and the palm trees were all in stark contrast to my old home in the East Village. I missed the grit and the immediacy of New York. But being closer to my father was why I had moved and any time I caught myself lamenting this fact I had only to look into my father's eyes to remind myself of why I had to leave New York.

Over that first year I slowly came to love Los Angeles. My first apartment was in an old building on the top of Ivar Hill, overlooking Hollywood and the Tower Records building. I used to sit out on the back steps smoking a cigarette and letting the condensation from a bottle of beer seep into the wooden railing beside me as I gazed out over the dusky landscape of LA. There was a flowering tree in the yard and its fat, waxy blossoms fell across the grass, their thick, sweet aroma permeating the air.

I worked as an editorial assistant at Vanity Fair that first year, getting up early to drive down to Wilshire Boulevard, my high heels clicking across the concrete of the parking garage as I made my way up to the office where I would spend 8 hours getting yelled at by an insatiable boss. My father was getting sicker all the while, the radiation treatments on the cancer in his hips rendering him incapable of walking.

Eventually I quit my job and instead drove down to Orange County in the mornings to care for my father. He died in August, a little over a year after I had moved there. I had moved in with him by then, had given up my Hollywood apartment and resigned myself to a life of scrubbing dentures and emptying urinals. But, as I was quick to be reminded, nothing lasts forever, and my father died not long after I had moved in with him. I was holding his hand that balmy, August evening when he took his last breaths and when he was gone I moved outside to the little patio, gazing out across the pool and the palm fronds, California suddenly a place all my own.

I moved to the beach after that, to a little apartment on the Venice canals. Ducks quacked softly at dusk and bougainvillea covered the little, white bridges lacing over the water. At night the ocean breeze blew through the screens and for the first time in a long time, I felt peaceful. Those four years have since taken on a mythical quality, my little home there and the friends I made during that time all remembered with a golden-hued glow.

That's where I was living when I met your father. Back then, when he asked me to move here to Chicago I didn't hesitate to say yes. My life, my world, California, it all seemed an irrevocable thing. And my love for your father and the life I knew we could have together, greater than anything I had then.

It hurts to come back here. I miss the air and the light, and my friends here, so much. It feels like home still and I wish it were. I wish I were at least from here, had grown up here, so that I could lay some claim to this place.  But perhaps it will simply be my adopted home, my mythical home, and a place I know I'll return to someday.

Thanks for coming here with me little bug.

Love,

Mom

In Dreams

This morning, just before waking up, I dreamed that I had arrived in Los Angeles with Veronica but realized that I had forgotten to pack a suitcase. I was quite distraught that I didn't have any of my clothes or V's things with me.

On Saturday I really am flying to LA. It'll be my first trip back to CA as a mom and my first time traveling alone with my daughter. I'm a little nervous, for several reasons (how am I going to go pee on the airplane if there's no one to hold V??), but my dream made me think that maybe I'm a little nervous to go back to LA with my new identity as mother.

I think that may be true in some respects, but all in all, I'm really excited to see my friends and introduce them to Veronica and to take in some of that beautiful Southern California light. We're only going for three days. I thought any longer would be too much for V. As it is we'll be sleeping together for those nights and my social calendar so far isn't leaving a lot of room for naps.

But I think the thing I'm most nervous about, aside from flying alone with V, is just how going back to LA always makes me feel. I still really miss California. I would move back tomorrow, given the chance, the resources...the gumption. I think about that place probably everyday. I think about the light and the air and my friends and the weird energy of that strange city.

I think that my five years there were my favorite years of life so far. But even as I write that I know it's in retrospect, and that I may very well look back on my years here in Chicago even more fondly. I know that I'll look back at the dark October skies shot through with golden leaves and gusts of warm air and I'll miss the rainstorms and the tree-lined streets, the El and the lake, and my friends here.

But for now it's California dreaming...

Weekly Wednesday Photo

Veronica, 19 weeks

Click here to see all the weekly photos.

Oh, and over the weekend we babysat Ezra while his parents went to the movies. We thought we'd subject him to our weekly ritual too. 

Relief

My post last Friday was born out of a lot of anxiety I experienced following an ultrasound I had on Friday morning. But I found out today that there is nothing to worry about.

I went for a check-up with my midwife last week and told her about some cramping I was experiencing so she sent me for an ultrasound to check things out. Being who I am and having the family history that I do, I got a little over-anxious.

On Friday, during the ultrasound, the tech spotted something small on my remaining ovary. Even though I knew it could very well be nothing to worry about I couldn't help but dissolve into a mess for the rest of the morning. I immediately thought about all the worst case scenarios.

The first one was that I had ovarian cancer and would be dead in 6 months and my little girl would never remember her mother.

The second was that I would have to have my ovary removed and would never be able to have any more children. There are a lot of variables to work with in this scenario but it still felt like a pretty terrible idea.

And finally on Friday, after I'd cried in bed for an hour, I took a shower and decided to stop worrying about it. And I really did. I hardly thought about it all weekend or yesterday. And this morning when I drove to the medical center to see the midwife I just felt sure that everything would be fine.

And it was. I most likely have another small dermoid cyst, but it's so small that it could even be an old, collapsed cyst or even just a follicle. It's certainly nothing scary. I go back in 3 months for a follow-up ultrasound to see if it's gotten any bigger.

The funny thing is that Greg and I both wondered if the doctor might tell me that if I want to have more children I should start trying right away. And we were both like, okay. And I meant it. If I'd gone in this morning and the doctor had told me that I would have come home and started trying tonight! But that said, I'm relieved that we can wait a while.

In the first 6 weeks after V was born I remember thinking that I didn't want to have another baby for a LONG time and that I could even understand why some people just have one. But now, 5 months in, Veronica has won me over so much that I can say that I absolutely want to have more babies and would be really devastated if I found out that I couldn't.

I can certifiably say that having my daughter has been the best thing I've ever done. (And that I'm really relieved that I'm not on my deathbed.)

Autumn

Friday Morning Worries

Dear Bug,

If something were ever to happen to me, this is the letter I would most want you to read.

I think a lot about what it would be like for you to grow up without me, your mother. I suppose it has a lot to do with my having lost my own mother and the fact that I constantly fret about my own mortality. Well, actually I go back and forth between incredibly serene moments of understanding about the ebbs and flows of life and death and then extreme anxiety about having to leave this world before I'm ready. And your presence my dear, makes me feel like I'm not ready.

There are so many things I want you to know, so many things I could say. I could write you a letter every day for the rest of my life and probably not say it all. Nonetheless, there are a few choice things I would definitely want you to know if I weren't around.

I think a lot about how, if I were to die now, you wouldn't remember me. You would have no memories of our sweet, little relationship. I think about how that's true for the next three or four years. That in order for you to remember your mother I have to stay alive for several more years. I do know that even if you didn't remember me I know that I would have still had an effect on the person you are. I take comfort in the fact that all the love I've given you, all the care I've provided will always make you that much more of a secure person.

But enough of all that. Here's what I want you to know.

I love you like I've never loved anyone. I love you in a way I didn't realize was possible. I love you in this profoundly transcendent way. This way that, even if I weren't here, you would still be surrounded by my love. It's a love so big that it's never going away. Not when you're 20, not when you're 47, not when you're in your seventies and a grandmother.

I want you to know that I'm always going to proud of you. Even if I were to die today, you can be certain that when you're making your first science fair project or running your first track meet or graduating high school or college or losing a tooth or skinny a knee or taking your first step or going to your first dance or getting engaged or having a baby, that I'm proud of you. Even if it seems like I couldn't possibly be proud of you because I'm not there, I just will be and you have to accept that.

Death is such a strange thing, little bug. It happens to all of us. And it can be so sad and so scary and so unwanted. But the truth of it is that because of death, life is important. Think about it for a moment. It's true. Death gives us meaning. It gives us goals and aspirations and makes us think about just how much we love one another.

I don't know why I think about it all the time. I guess because both of my parents died so early. And because I work in hospice (really need to get a new job next year). But I do. I think about how long I have to live this life. How long I have to love you. To love your father. To be a mother, a wife, a woman, a writer. I think about places I want to see and things that I want to taste and feel. I think about having more babies and I think about you, you, you and your life and all the things I want to see you do and taste and feel.

And all those things make me certain that I just couldn't bear to go yet. And then I think, well, if I did have to go, I'm so very grateful for what I've done and felt and tasted here in my 31 years. You and your father and my mother and father have the height of it all. There's just nothing more important than the people we love.

But I digress. It's a drizzly Friday morning in October. You're 4 and a half months old. You weigh sixteen pounds (my aching back reminds me of this often). You love to suck on your big right toe and you've been squealing and laughing more than ever this past week. You don't have too much hair but you have the prettiest blue eyes and the softest rose-colored lips. You're nursing as I type this and one hand continually brushes against my shoulder, pulling at my sweater and grazing my face. Your eyelashes cast soft shadows on your cheeks and your warm little body is flush against mine.

There is no way I could love you more than I do in this moment. And it's something that will last forever.

I'm certain of it. 

Love,

Mom