At the end of the day, she's perfection

It's funny---no matter how fussy or difficult or contrary Maya might be on any given day, I always go to bed at night thinking about how magnificent and beautiful and bright and funny she is, and how very grateful I feel to have a child who far exceeds my expectations, just by being herself.
Believe me, I do way, way, way more than my fair share of worrying about her, and if she's ill or especially upset, or if she spent the evening crying non-stop for reasons unbeknownst to S and me, I'll feel edgy and helpless and half-crazy in the hours after we put her to bed. However, the overarching feelings I have for Maya are appreciation, admiration, and intense love, even at the end of a tough day.
I hesitated before typing perfection up there in the headline, because the last thing I want to do is to give the impression (to Maya and everyone else) that I desire and expect perfection in my child. No, no, no! What I mean is that I love Maya, all parts of her, even the difficult parts. She's perfect in that there's nothing about her that I don't love---see what I mean? She's perfect because she is Maya.

The end of "packing light"

I've been scurrying around our apartment for the past two hours now, feverishly checking my to-pack list and squirreling away clothes, medicines, personal-grooming items, toys, books, bottles, sippy cups, and about three-million other assorted items into various suitcases and carry-on bags in preparation for our Thanksgiving journey to Albany, New York. We leave tomorrow morning.
If I may bitch and moan for a moment, I would like to play Mistress of the Obvious here and announce that PACKING "LIGHT" IS IMPOSSIBLE ONCE YOU HAVE CHILDREN. I mean, damn, people. Maya, a toddler, requires way, way, way more gear than I do. Her suitcase is crammed full to bursting, and my two big old carry-ons are jam-packed with all manner of toys and snacks for her for the plane. (In contrast, the only personal "fun" items I've packed for myself are a Newsweek and a novel. Oh, and some gum. And a pot of lipgloss.)
I realize a child does not necessarily require 600 new toys for a five-hour, cross-country airplane ride. However, I am desperate for her to behave and remain reasonably occupied and contented during this flight. The only sound more panic-attack-inducing than a child crying in a car is a child crying on an airplane. Am I right? I'm just really, really hoping to keep the wailing and tantrums to a minimum while we're 30,000 feet off the ground. S and I are going to stuff this kid full of Cheerios and read her stories till we're hoarse. Then, when all of that has lost its novelty for her, we'll start pulling out the toys, the coup de grace of which is a borrowed Mr. Potato Head, courtesy of one of my mom-friends. Maya has never laid eyes on a Mr. Potato Head before, and I know the interchangeable eyeballs and lips and ears and shoes are going to blow her mind, rock her world, and the like.
So yeah, I'm packing a ton of toddler gear and about one square foot of stuff for myself, and my old, pre-baby strategy of "packing light" for Thanksgiving has been totally shot to hell.
Buh-bye, packing light! I'll see you again in about twenty years, maybe.

A mess of a post

Hi. To make a looooong story short, I slept roughly 4 hours last night and am currently barely functioning. We've got a bit of a sleep crisis on our hands as far as Maya is concerned, but I'm not going to bore you with the details (for once).
Suffice it to say, I'm here to make my requisite post, then I'm sprinting to bed to get whatever sleep I can before Maya wakes up and the hell begins.
First of all, thanks, J and A, for the lullaby suggestions! I'm going to search for them at the iTunes store and hopefully add them to my mix.
Secondly, and utterly apropos of nothing, I'd like to tell you that I made my first two "30-minute meals" last night and tonight, courtesy of the Rachel Ray cookbook of the same name, and both were successes, though not resounding successes. I'm lazy and cheap and put off by loads of hard-to-find ingredients, so I scoured the book for the two simplest-looking recipes possible, and found "Super Sloppy Joes" and "Spinach Calzones."
S loved the calzones, which took me much longer than 30 minutes to make because I'd forgotten to defrost the spinach or acquire a second cookie sheet beforehand (I had to get one from a neighbor, who ended up bringing me a Teflon casserole dish, but oh well, I used it.) The other weird thing with this recipe is the the quantities called for didn't quite jibe with what was available at the supermarket. For instance, S (who did the shopping) couldn't find 10-oz. tubes of premade pizza dough, so he brought home a 13-oz. tube. As a result, the calzones were effing ginormous, really comical-looking, actually. Take a medium pizza, fold it in half, and there's the size of calzone we're talking about. Furthermore, the bottoms of the calzones browned much faster than the tops, which didn't seem to bother S (or Maya) but really irked me. (J, do you know why this might've happened?) Regardless, they were good calzones; I'd just make some adjustments next time I make them.
The sloppy joes---those were really and truly a 30-minute dish. Actually, you could throw those bad boys together in 25 minutes, if you were determined and had better knife skills than I do. (God, my knife skills SUCK!) Also, they were good. Nothing special, really. But satisfying, tasty. It's funny---I was nervous about them because I had in my mind what, exactly, a sloppy joe should taste like based on the ones my mom and grandma made when I was growing up. These weren't the same, but they were close enough and contained a couple of vegetables, which I liked. We had them with a garlicky broccoli-cauliflower mix.
Wow, I am so boring tonight. Oh well. Let's wrap this up, shall we?
I called the lead-test company (see prior post), whose representative advised me to take a Q-tip soaked in vinegar to the red toy piece in question. If the swab turns red, he told me, it's paint transferring to the swab, and the toy does not necessarily contain lead. Well, I did that, and the vinegary swab did NOT turn red. So then, it appears we've got a lead-tainted toy in our posession, one Maya has spent countless hours gnawing on, back when she was big into the gnawing. I'm going to make one more call to the lead-test company tomorrow to discuss this further, but I'll likely end up taking Maya SOMEWHERE for a blood-lead test. If her pediatrician won't do it, we'll find someone who will.
I'm trying VERY HARD not to panic. Yet.
Goodnight.

Lullaby and good night

As I type this I'm also creating a playlist of lullabies for Maya. S and I are going to try playing a lullaby mix for her as we put her down for bed each night. She's been having a lot of trouble falling asleep on her own; maybe she would feel less lonely if she had some lovely music to keep her company as she drifts off.
So far the "Night Night, Maya" mix contains all tunes she'll recognize. They are songs that her daddy and I sing to her often: Edelweiss; Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star; Moon, Moon, Moon (from one of her children's-songs CDs); Alright for Now; and Rock-a-Bye Baby.
What's funny, though, is that I've spent about the last 40 minutes or so finding and choosing these songs, and as a result, I feel so very soothed and relaxed! Listening to these songs is chilling me right out. It's so nice, and it's even prompted me to ask S if perhaps we could try playing lullabies in our bedroom before we fall asleep each night.
I mean, doesn't that make sense? Why shouldn't we adults use soft, sweet, simple music to lull ourselves to sleep, like we do for our babies?
(An aside: Since I've become a mother, I've often found myself wondering why we parents seem to know how best to nurture our children but not ourselves. Examples: We work hard to feed our children vegetables and fruits and low-sugar treats and lots of milk, yet we cut corners in our own diets. We insist on our babies' getting their full 12 hours' sleep, yet we figure we'll make do on five. We rush our children to the doctor at the first sign of significant illness, yet we fail to do so for ourselves. Don't we deserve the same level of care our children do? Or at least something similar? I think we should all make loving ourselves, as well as our children, a priority, too. After all, we were babies once!)
OK, I've just now made a "Night Night, Mommy" mix for myself. So far it contains Edelweiss; Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World; Twinkle, Twinkle (hee!); and Alright for Now. (Ahem. Maya and I have similar tastes.)
What else should I include in my "Night Night Mommy" playlist? Your suggestions are welcome!

This isn't good

Well, I had hoped to post something light and fluffy and sweet and whimsical tonight, to counter last night's heavy, long entry. However, what's top-of-mind right now is all this mother-f*cking lead in all these mother-f*cking Chinese-made toys.
Here's what happened: Earlier this week I received the latest issue of Consumer Reports in the mail. The magazine included a very thorough, straightforward, well-researched, and UTTERLY FRIGHTENING story on lead in myriad, seemingly harmless household products and toys. One of the sidebars for this story rated a handful of home lead tests, for use on such items as toys, dishware, jewelry, etc.
I read the article, experienced some mid-level panic, went online to buy one of the lead tests, and waited impatiently for it to arrive.
The test came today. It includes 8 testing swabs; I've used five so far. First, the good news: a yellow, painted wooden ring from one of Maya's toys contains no lead. Also, a yellow plastic ring from another of Maya's toys (a Mattell product, I might add) contains no lead. And surprisingly, a crappy little metal trinket box that some street vendor gave her for free is also lead-free. (Each of these items has found its way into Maya's mouth numerous times.)
Now, the bad news, the news that is causing my nerves to explode like popcorn and my mama-bear rage to ignite: another part of the toy that includes the yellow, painted (lead-free) wooden ring I mentioned earlier does appear to contain lead. I say "appear" because there is one teeny, tiny part of me that hopes the lead-test swab turned pink not because the toy contains lead but because the red paint on it bled onto the swab. (Normally, a swab that turns pink indicates LEAD, LEAD, LEAD, according to the test-kit instructions.)
I have a feeling, and it's not a good one, that the damn red-painted part of that toy does contain lead, just like some of the recalled toys from earlier this summer had tainted red paint, and that's why the swab turned pink. To know for sure, I'll be calling the lead-test manufacturer on Monday to ask whether the swabs ever turn pink not from lead detection but from bleeding red paint. I'll let you know what I find out.
If I get bad news, which is likely, I'm going to call my pediatrician and ask ONE MORE FREAKING TIME for a blood test for Maya to determine her lead levels. So far, the doctor has declined to test her because we don't live in an old-old house, and Maya's development is "right on track." Hmph. Whatevs. I say, let's test this kid! If it turns out there's lead in that one toy, I'm insisting on it, or taking Maya to another doctor who WILL test.
...and that is the end of my angry rant. G'night, everybody!
Tomorrow's post: light, fluffy, sweet, and whimsical. I promise!

Blow Me, NaBloPoMo

Sorry, that was totally juvenile and inappropriate. I'm in a terrible, terrible mood---although, it was actually worse about 90 minutes ago, before I embarked on The Great Broccoli Casserole Project. After a very challenging afternoon and evening with Maya (which followed a very sleepless Sunday night for the whole family thanks to poor Maya's gagging on her own phlegm and then vomiting at 1:45 in the morning), I dragged my frustrated, fatigued, and teary self into the kitchen to put together dinner for tomorrow. It's a casserole my Grandma W used to make when my whole family gathered at her house, back in the day. It's special to me, though it wouldn't be special to anyone outside the family, but anyway, tonight was my first time making it, and it proved to be a rather enormous undertaking not fit for my small kitchen and limited collection of pots and pans. Anyway, 90 minutes later, I'm done, and I actually feel a tad better--a little like I just had a nice long workout or something. (I'm even sore!)
But still, my mood is pretty crappy. I just sometimes feel that no matter how hard I try, I cannot be as good a parent as I'd like. Some stupid hurdle (self-set or otherwise) will thwart me when I'm least expecting it. And then a long, tiring day of Trying But Not Succeeding will come to an end, and I'll realize I look gross and never actually showered. Or that there are five million dirty dishes in the sink, and oh---I still haven't vacuumed.
I know, I know. I need to get over myself and recognize my copious good fortune. Self-pity is totally annoying.
I do recognize the many ways in which my life is wonderful. Just sometimes, my vision becomes very narrowed, and I can't seem to see past the problem of the moment.
I'm working on it! (See this previous post.)

Fall Fantasy

This afternoon, as S and I were walking Maya to the playground for some fresh autumn air and much-deserved playtime, I asked S how he thought the two of us might be spending the day if we didn't have Maya.

S: Well, I'd be going to a movie every weekend. Or, OK, almost every weekend. Including this one.
Me: Oh, you would? Just you then?
S: Well, OK, fine, we would be going to a movie every weekend. Also, we would sleep in. Nothing crazy---just till like, 9:30. 10:00!
Me: And then we'd wake up---
S: Go get brunch somewhere---
Me: Then come home---
S: And feel too full to do anything---
Me: So we'd snuggle up on the couch and watch whatever's saved on TiVo...

We enjoyed our cozy little do-nothing Sunday fantasy. But then I started thinking about how having Maya has forced me to grow up a little, take a little more responsibility, strive to be a better person. For instance, I'm enormously proud of the fact that I now plan our family dinners for the week on Sunday, and I always make sure a vegetable is included. It's just a small thing, but it's the kind of planning that was utterly foreign to me before Maya came along. Also, I waste a lot less time than I used to. I mean, believe me, I still waste time. Just not as much. When I'm home with Maya on Mondays and Fridays, I seize every free minute I can get (when Maya's napping, when she's watching Elmo) to get some small task accomplished. I'll actually think, "Yes! I've got some time to clean the kitchen!" and get to it, which is just, well, weird, considering the way the old, childless me operated.
So, yeah: There's always a smidgen of longing when we think about the Lazy, Slow Weekends of Yore. But these new, structured weekends of errand-running, playground-hopping, and meal-planning are pretty great, too.

Today in highlights

Today was a really good day! Here's what went down:

• Maya slept through the night and snoozed contentedly till 9:15 this morning.
• Maya and I spent a lazy morning in our pajamas, playing in the living room, eating a late breakfast, and finally taking a walk to run an errand.
• After lunch, Maya went down for a nap WITHOUT A FIGHT. That's so incredible, it bears repeating: She went down for a nap without a fight.
• I had dinner with friend J at Su Casa while S took Maya out for sushi. (The report from him is that she essentially ate her weight in rice and miso soup.) It was sooo nice to spend an hour in uninterrupted conversation with J while eating delicious tacos!
  
• Maya did not cry for 45 minutes after being put down to bed for the night in her crib, as has been her near-nightly routine the past couple of weeks. After less than five minutes of fussing, she was out.
• S and I just finished watching an episode of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," which was really, really sharp and clever. Its production reminded me of that of "Entourage," which S says is because it, like "Entourage," is shot with a single camera. Also, one of the main actors reminds me a little of Jeremy Piven...and the cast of "buddy" characters is similar. Anyway, it was great and quite funny, and we'll be adding it to our little lineup of Genuinely Funny Weekly TV Comedies, following "The Office" and "30 Rock."

Hooray for good days!

What it feels like for a girl...who's anxious

I thought I'd kick off my participation in National Blog Posting Month by getting all TMI on you and describing what it's like to be in therapy. I started therapy a month or so ago, for the first time ever, when I found that some of my obsessive, anxious thought patterns were intruding on my ability to carry out my normal daily activities. I felt that I had "hit rock-bottom," so to speak, one day at work when I was so consumed by obsessive worry about Maya that I couldn't focus on work tasks or finish them. My working relationships were affected, too---I felt unable to really converse with anyone or simply "act normal" in the office.
My brother-in-law J, when he lived out here, had a wonderful therapist whom he was forever raving about, so I got her number from him and gave her a call. A week or so later, I was sitting in her cozy, homey little office on a big furry couch, patting her cute little dog on the head and verbally spewing all over the place. It was an experience unlike any I'd ever had in that I found myself spilling the majority of my life story, at top speed, to a person who, minutes before, had been a complete stranger. A few tears were shed, too. By the end of it, I felt like a bad date: all self-involved and "me, me, me!" and overly talkative and emotionally volatile. The therapist ("C") reassured me that therapy is an appropriate place for talking about oneself for an extended period, but still, I left there feeling kind of guilty that I hadn't been all, "So, C, tell me about your life!" I mean, in my normal relationships and interactions with people, I would consider it rude to talk about myself exclusively for 50 straight minutes, you know?
Now, with about four or five sessions under my belt, I feel mostly comfortable in C's office, bursting forth with whatever comes to mind and going off on tangents. C is a nice combination of friendly and warm plus professional and goal-oriented. Additionally, we seem to have similar philosophies regarding diagnoses and treatments. Also, she's probably the best listener I've ever met (followed closely by my mom).
A typical session tends to begin with C's asking me what I'm "feeling right now," and my surprising myself with an answer. Most of the time I don't arrive "prepared;" that is, I don't think through what I want to talk about. It's all pretty spontaneous, and that was initially unnerving for me but now seems OK. Next, we usually revisit a Big Issue or two that was established during our first meeting.
Toward the end of my two most recent sessions, C and I have taken turns reading aloud from some relevant literature on the subjects of feelings and anxiety, and while the readings don't necessarily apply to me 100%, they are informative and helpful. Sometimes we'll come to an excerpt that makes me think of S, or my dad. And we'll wrap up with her giving me a strategy to try, something from the literature.
I still have to fight the urge at the end of each session to ask, "And how are you doing this week, C? What's new? Any weekend plans?" because I'm pretty sure that's not appropriate, even though I'm genuinely curious and would really like to know more about her. But, on the other hand, I am paying this woman to get to know me and my history and help me manage my thought patterns, so that fact helps me feel less "selfish" during my sessions.
In all, therapy is helping. It sometimes feels a little scattered, or messy, or that it's taken some turn I didn't want it to, but I think that's just an unavoidable facet of conversation in general, whether that conversation is between friends or coworkers or family members or a service provider and her client.

Hello? Anyone? (sound of voice echoing in an empty, high-ceilinged hallway)

A-hem. Um, hi there. As you well know, I had a baby! So, yeah, that explains why I haven't posted since...before she was born. Well, let's just jump right back into it, shall we?
So, Baby M. She's petite and blonde, with dark-blue eyes and enormous rosy cheeks. She's the love of my life, and I feel like we're getting to know and appreciate each other more every day. Just this past Sunday, for instance, S, Baby M, and I accepted an invite to join S's friend D at church. (Yes, church! Entering the sanctuary was like setting foot on the moon, I swear. It had been a long, long, long, LONG time since I'd been to church. It felt so foreign.) Anyway, we tried dropping Baby M off in the nursery with the other little cuties, but we were retrieved from the service a few minutes later by one of the caregivers, who told us Baby M "just won't stop crying." When S and I followed the caregiver back to the nursery and I scooped teary Baby M into my arms, she stopped crying within moments, and it made me feel really good. (One of the caregivers even remarked, "Isn't that amazing?") It was the first time I could think of that I was able to stop Baby M's crying so quickly and easily. In the early months, Baby M cried inconsolably, and it took all of my effort and creativity to put an end to it; often, she'd just cry herself out, and nothing I'd do would squelch the meltdowns any more quickly. It made me feel so incapable and hopeless. Now, I see from time to time that Baby M trusts me and responds to me and feels obviously comforted by me. It's a relief.
Tomorrow I start back at my old company working part time. I'll have Mondays and Fridays home with Baby M---hooray! I've never felt so confident and right about a decision I've made as I do about this decision to stop working full time. Granted, S and I will be eating lots of 49-cent Ramen noodles and cutting back on such luxuries as, you know, buying shoes and whatnot to be able to afford our apartment, but it's worth it.