Life in Chicago

Weekly Wednesday Photo (Lien Ta Edition)

Veronica, 9 months

My friend Lien is visiting from Los Angeles this week and so I, of course, made her sit in on the weekly photo session. 

In other news, I can't believe Veronica is 9 months already! Whaa?! Where did my little infant go? Peter Pan complex she has not -- this girl cannot wait to grow up and run around and take over the world, one cat at a time.

 

Follow the link below to see the rest of today's photos. To see all the weekly photos, click here.

How to Make a Baby Laugh (Video)

How to make a baby laugh?

Aggravate your cat.

What I Tell My Daughter Before She Goes to Sleep

Ever since the dawn of sleep training (which has been an absolute, life-saving success), I've developed a little bedtime routine with Veronica that I'm quite fond of.

Each night, after her bath, as I nurse her in the glider next to her crib, I talk to her about life. These moments have become the most favorite of my day. They come after we've changed her into her pajamas, after we've walked around the house saying a careful goodnight to each cat, after we've turned on her turtle nightlight and turn off her monkey lamp. They come after I close the door to the nursery and settle down into the glider with Veronica in my arms.

Okay, little Bug, it's time to go to sleep. I started talking to her like this during those first nights of sleep training when I wanted to reassure that everything was going to be okay.

We had a nice day, didn't we? It's here where I remind her all about the day we just had.

You slept in late in mommy and daddy's bed. And then Daddy was there when you woke up and he made funny faces until you finished yawning and started smiling. And then we had breakfast together, you and me (and Pal), remember?

And then Daddy took us to the aquarium and you saw dolphins and crabs and seahorses and turtles and hermit crabs and so many other creatures. The world is full of life, in a million different shapes and incarnations and I want you to see as much of it as you possibly can. I promise to do my very best to make that happen.

But right now it's time for sleep. And we want you to get a good night's sleep so that you can be a happy little bug tomorrow.

And then I always remind my daughter of the following:

You are so loved, little Bug. In just a moment I'm going to put you down in your crib to sleep but you're nice and warm from the bath and you have a clean, dry diaper on. You've got your pink doggy pajamas on and we said goodnight to all the cats. We turned on your turtle light and your sleep giraffe and we've got your favorite snuggly blanket. Daddy and I are going to watch a movie and eat dinner but we'll be right outside the door, and if you need anything at all we'll be here and we love you so much.

And then I gently stand up and place my little girl in the crib to sleep and I'm so struck by how much love we are capable of in this life.

Clapping and Crying

Next time you're upset just try this:

Weekly Wednesday Photo

Veronica, 8 months + 2 weeks

Now that we've had a taste of spring we've got cabin fever. Can't wait to take these shots outdoors soon!

To view all the weekly photos, click here.

Follow the link below to see the rest of today's photos.

Going Out in the World Doesn't Change Who We've Become, Only Who We're Becoming

I grew up in Atlanta, a place I hardly ever think about, a place I sometimes forget that I even have a connection to. You see, my family isn't Southern. My father was raised in Michigan, my mother in Connecticut -- our time in the South simply a brief, consolidated period in our family history.

I left as soon as I could, heading to Vermont at 18, never looking back. I've now been gone almost as long as I was there. New York, California and now the Midwest shaping me just as much as Atlanta ever did.

Like I said, I hardly ever think about the South, and so touching down at Louis Armstrong airport just outside of New Orleans last week I was surprised to feel such a rush of familiarity. I can't even say what brought it on. The light touch of humidity in the air? The flatness of the surrounding land? The lilting twang in the voices around me, or perhaps the dogwoods and magnolias already in bloom in February.

Whatever it was, my four days in New Orleans last week were suffused with memories, things I hadn't thought of in years, singular moments with my parents, parties at old Southern homes, spring in the South, Spanish moss and the smell of wisteria.

We arrived in New Orleans last week on Ash Wednesday, the day AFTER Mardi Gras.

I've visited New Orleans several times in my life, but my last time was there was close to a decade ago. Greg and Veronica had never been. We chose New Orleans back in December when we decided that, instead of giving each other Christmas presents, we'd put our money towards getting out of town during Chicago's least desirable month of February.

But I started getting anxious about the trip a week before we left. When we planned this trip there was a part of me determined to prove that we could still take fun trips even though we have a baby, but suddenly I was filled with doubt. Why did we pick New Orleans again? With a baby? The day after Mardi Gras? We should have just gone to the Bahamas or stayed home altogether.

But off to Louisiana we flew.

You see the thing about being a parent is this: You're fighting a constant battle between retaining your sense of self while simultaneously giving yourself over to what's best for your kid. It's tough. And I can't shake this determination to still do things like this trip.

Before we left I promised myself that I wouldn't get upset about the limitations that would be surely set by Veronica (early bedtimes, low alcohol consumption, etc), and that I would try to remind myself that it was enough that we were all just out in the world together.

Easier said than done.

Cut to me trying to force Greg to drink a mint julep from Pat O'Brien's in the middle of the afternoon...just because I couldn't.

For the most part though we had a fantastic time, even if we did manage to watch an entire season of Entourage due to Veronica's early bedtimes. I kept thinking about the differences between this trip and my last, one of them being that the last time I was in the French Quarter I had a fake ID and this time no one was even asking for my ID.

I saw things on this trip that I'd never seen on previous trips, beautiful cemeteries and hidden nooks of the French Quarter. We focused a lot on food, which I'll write about in full on Friday. And we walked and walked and walked, taking in the city the way you take an exhibit at the museum, meandering slowly from piece to piece.

At night in our hotel room I closed my eyes and remembered my childhood. I couldn't even help it. The moment we turned off the light and I turned to one side, my arm tucked in under the pillow, the memories came. The house we lived in Sandy Springs, the magnolia trees with their flat, waxy leaves and the creek in the woods that ran red with Georgia clay.

During the day we took turns strapping Veronica to our chests and walking the city. Her eyes grew bright as we strolled through the square or listened to jazz music at Cafe du Monde, her hand opening and closing in a little wave at no one in particular.

Parenthood has changed everything, and I thought about this every time the three of us sat down in a little cafe somewhere, Veronica in between us, her little existence the conduit for all the energy that flows between me and Greg. I thought about how in another year we'll have been parents as long as we were a couple. About how one day we'll look back and realize that our time together just the two of us will have long been eclipsed by our time with her.

This made me sad in moments, but grateful in others.

And I guess that's the thing of it. We can't change who we've become. We can only move forward from here, we can only continue to become more of who we are now.

Back From The Big Easy

We're home from our trip to New Orleans and there's lots to tell. For now, here's a preview:

Dreams of Our Mothers

I've been dreaming about mother loss for the last couple of days. Just vague, hazy dreams about mothers dying, not even my own.

I feel so far away from those dark, early years surrounding my mother's death. But the more I bond with my daughter, the more I understand how profound that separation was for me. How profound it is for anyone.

The first year after my mother died was a warm haze. Those first 12 months a mere lesson in survival, in how to remember to breathe, in how to pick myself up off the floor.

The year after her death I moved to New York and my grief became forever intertwined with all those skyscrapers and sidewalks, no one in that vast city having known me as anything but a motherless daughter.

I was a mess. Fraught with anxiety and a tightness I could never release. I remember walking through Tompkins Square Park and envying the old Russian women who leaned into each other as they strolled past the benches, plastic grocery bags and unrequited hopes clutched tightly in their gnarled hands. I wanted to be them, to be past the bottomless ocean of pain that roiled inside me. I wanted to be at the end of my life already, looking back from a place of solid resignation.

It makes me sad to think that I ever felt that way, sad that I wanted to hurry through such an already fleeting time in my life. Because even now when I look back on myself at age 20 in New York I see such beauty and strength, neither of which I felt at the time.

I often wonder what my mother would think of the path I've followed, of the life I've created for myself. It's one that, in a lot of ways, is quite different than the one she chose. At the age I am now my mother was living in Manhattan, twice divorced and struggling professionally. She wouldn't meet my father for another 5 years, wouldn't have me for another 8.

I remember nights in high school when we'd be sitting on the couch together and she'd lean over to me and say something like, "Be an archaeologist, Claire. Go out in the world, be part of it. Don't get caught up in some idea of what you're supposed to be." And I already find myself whispering the same to my own daughter, even though I never quite followed my mother's advice.

It's true that your children feel like an extension of you, like they are going to get to live the life you didn't. It's easy to understand why parents push their children towards seemingly unattainable goals. You want for them what you never had. You want to be the retainer for all of life's mistakes, never sharing something like divorce or broken aspirations with them.

I watched Veronica fall asleep in my arms for a morning nap just now, watched her lids grow heavy, felt her body relax, her lashes fall against her cheeks, and I wanted to keep her safe like that forever, to never let her misstep or misguide.

But she will.

And I will.

And we will continue becoming who we are no matter what we want for each other.

Lady & the Tramp

8 Month Letter

Dear Veronica,

You are eight months old this week.

I remember meeting moms who had 8 month old babies shortly after you were born and feeling as though that age was so far away from where we were. Years from now, it felt, yet here it is. 

You have 5 teeth and you weigh 20 pounds.

You have claimed free reign over the entire house, spending your days crawling over the rungs in the chairs under the dining room table, chasing the cats, and emptying drawers so that you can chew on Tupperware. When I return home from work these days you crawl all the way across the house to get to me, an act that melts my heart every time. Quite a departure from your larvae-like newborn days.

You like blueberries and baths and you keep trying to eat all the houseplants. Your daddy can make you laugh more than anyone else and I still harbor a secret hatred of the nanny for making your face light up the way she does.

I think more and more about our relationship, about the long, winding path we will walk as a mother and daughter. My path with my mother was cut short. I know nothing of mothers and daughters past the age of 18. You'll have to teach me. I don't doubt that it will be complicated.

And I don't mind if it's complicated. I just want to be close. I want you to always feel connected to me, supported by me, protected and loved and listened to. I want you to feel heard and seen, not for who I want you to be, but for who you truly are. (I'm just asking for payback for that shaved-head-nose-ring-tattoo phase I put my mother through aren't I?)

I know that you will break my heart a thousand times. And that I will forgive you every time.

I know this because I broke my mother's heart a thousand times. I just didn't know how connected we truly were until she was gone. I didn't really understand how much a part of each other we were until I created you.

I don't doubt that it will be this way for you too. You'll shove me away, claim that I know nothing of you. And I will let you go, knowing the opposite is true and knowing that no matter how hard you push me I'll never turn away. My job is to make sure you know that too.

I'm not sure why I'm musing on these experiences that are surely years away. Perhaps because these 8 months have gone by so fast. At this rate you'll be 18 next week. Perhaps it's because I see you assert a little more independence every day. Be it when you wriggle out of an embrace to chase a cat or when you purse your lips, refusing to take one more bite of something you don't like. I suddenly see the teenager in you, the woman, the person.

While being a mom is the best thing I've done yet, it's been incredibly draining. Some days it feels like you've sucked all the beauty and energy out of me. I looked at myself in the mirror yesterday and took note of the dark circles under my eyes, the decidedly different shape of my body, my newly brittle hair. This is not what I looked like 2 years ago. Some days it feels like the stronger and healthier you become, the more haggard I appear.

Way to make you feel bad, huh? And on your 8 month birthday, no less. Eh, you'll call me in about 30 years all hopped up on post-partum hormones after you've had your first baby to tell me how sorry you are for ever having been a pain in the ass, and gosh, you had NO idea how much I loved you and how much I've done for you.

At least you better.

Love,

Mom

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