DotMoms

Best of both worlds

By Jessamyn

On the morning of the day I flew to New York City, my husband Geoff drove me and my suitcase to work. At 7:30 or so, as we were pulling up to the building - which is in busy, downtown Chicago - a street cleaning vehicle came up behind us. I had been planning to crouch in the back seat in front of Katie for a few minutes before I went in to work.  I would have told her that I loved her, that I would miss her, that I would be back in a few days, that I was going on a trip, that I hoped she and her Daddy had a good time without me. I would have kissed her and hugged her and asked her for a kiss and a hug in return.

Instead, since the street cleaner was waiting, I kissed Geoff goodbye, poked my head in the back seat and kissed Katie goodbye, went around to the back to get my suitcase out of the trunk, waved to them both, and shut the trunk. They drove away, and I walked into my building. 

I admit I was a little sad. I felt cheated of my heartfelt goodbye. I was afraid I was going to miss Katie horribly, and I was afraid it was going to be worse because of our hurried goodbyes. 

But at the end of the day, Rebecca and I went to O'Hare and flew to New York. We met up with Laurie at the hotel. And then we had our adventure. Over the next few days, we took the subway, wandered through Times Square and Hell's Kitchen and Rockefeller Plaza and the Village. We walked and walked and walked some more. We went through Bryant Park and Central Park and the New York Public Library and Grand Central Station. We went into the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building and the Waldorf Astoria. We ate Italian food al fresco one night, and we ate dinner at a restaurant at 11 p.m. another night. We wandered and shopped in the Village and Chinatown and Midtown. We went on the Staten Island Ferry and we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. We complained about our tired feet and endlessly consulted maps. We drank wine and we ate cheesecake. We had no schedule. We were responsible for no one but ourselves. And as we were doing all of these things, we were laughing and talking and being silly and praising each other and insulting each other and laughing some more. 

And an amazing thing happened: I stopped feeling like a Mom and a Wife. And I was so happy.

It's not that I mind being Katie's mother or Geoff's wife - in fact, I love those things more than almost anything. But lately I had been feeling like the non-Mom non-wife part of me had disappeared. You can't get around it: part of being a wife is compromise, and part of being a mom is sacrifice. I love being Geoff's wife and Katie's mother anyway, because there are so many benefits. I wouldn't choose to give them up permanently.  But just being Jessie for a few days was so liberating! I found out what I think I knew deep down all along - that the non-Mom non-wife Jessie has not disappeared - at most, she is in hibernation, waiting for the right opportunities to come out to play. 

Despite the short goodbye, it wasn't until the plane ride back to Chicago that I felt a sudden heart-twinge from missing Katie. When Geoff and Katie picked me up at the airport, I was so happy to see them. As I watched the car pull up, with their smiling faces inside, I realized that my weekend had given me the best of both worlds: I got to go away for a while, and I got to come home when I was ready. 

Jessamyn lives in Chicago with her daughter and husband.

The human heart

By Jessamyn

For the past few months, I've been having a recurring dream. In the dream, everything is fine. I'm playing with or taking care of Katie, my 18-month-old daughter. She and my husband Geoff and I are at home, doing what we do. Maybe we draw with crayons or watch Elmo on TV or eat dinner together or dance to music. In the dream, I find myself very focused on Katie, enjoying being with her, watching her beautiful face, loving the sound of her voice and her laughter.

After a while I realize that Geoff keeps leaving the room that Katie and I are in to go do something else. Sometimes in the dream somebody else is there -– a family member or a friend –- and they will leave with Geoff. Before long, I look over and see that they are holding a baby, and for a second I wonder where the baby came from and why it is here until suddenly it hits me: that baby is my baby, my second child.

Then a wave of guilt washes over me, because –- my God! –- I had forgotten that I had a second baby. I look at the baby, and it is cute (I can never tell whether it is a girl or a boy in the dream). It's not a newborn baby, either; it smiles and looks around and tries to crawl. It's a lovely baby, but I don't know this baby. This baby is starting to change and learn and grow, and I have missed it. How did this happen? I wonder. How have I allowed this to happen? I feel awful. And then I wake up.

It's not the world's most baffling dream. Lately I have been looking forward to having a second child. We had always said that we wanted to try to have two or three children. Katie is 18 months old now, and I turned 35 this summer. Katie is old enough to understand at least some of what's happening if I get pregnant. All three of us have been sleeping through the night for about a year now. And so we have been talking about trying to have another baby next year.

In my waking life, my feelings about this have been pretty uncomplicated. I'm a little anxious about how much more difficult it will be to go through pregnancy and the newborn months (and beyond) with Katie added into the mix. But mostly, I look forward to a new baby –- and I know that my first feelings toward that new baby will be so much more meaningful, since I've seen Katie go from newborn to now.

I'm thinking the dream is telling me that, deep down, I have other anxieties, too. When Katie was a few months old, Geoff and I talked about how wonderful she was. On the one hand, she was so great that she made us want to have another child even more than we'd already wanted one, because if future children were anything like her, they would be amazing. On the other hand, she was so great that she made us want to never have any other children, because how could any other child live up to how we felt about Katie?

Now I think my dreams are reminding me of those early conversations. I wonder how I can possibly love another child as much as I love Katie, and how I will be able to give Katie and a new baby all the love and nurturing that they will both need. I do believe that when and if we have another baby, we will be fine. I trust that I have enough love in my heart and mind to love as many children as we decide to have. So I don't really question that it will work; but part of me does question how (do you understand just how much I love this child of mine?). 

Maybe the only answer is that the human heart is an amazing thing.

Jessamyn lives in Chicago with her daughter and husband.

First day off

By Jessamyn

I haven't had a day off in over a year and a half. (Not coincidentally, my daughter Katie is now a year and a half old.)

I have had time off from my salaried job, of course. I've had off for weekends and holidays and a few other vacation days. Katie and I have left Geoff alone for a few days when we've gone on trips to Indiana, Kentucky, and Seattle. In February I took a week off so that all three of us could go to Nova Scotia to visit my husband's family. I just took a couple of days off before Labor Day weekend so that we would have some extra time to spend with my family in Indiana. But even on the days when I didn't have to do any title insurance work, I have still had responsibilities related to my second job –- taking care of Katie.

I'd have to say that my job as Katie's mom is a dream job if ever there was such a thing. It's a job that utilizes (and challenges) my mind and my heart and my creativity. It's a job that makes me laugh (and cry) and often fills me with immense satisfaction. And even after a year and a half of doing this job, I already sometimes feel a little sad about how my job will change in 18 years or so (I expect that my hours on the job will likely be drastically reduced).

But even those of us with dream jobs could benefit from an occasional day off.

So at the end of September, two of my women friends and I are going to New York City for a long weekend. I've only been to New York once, on a high school trip when I was a senior.

I'm looking forward to the trip, but I might be a little rusty at making non-child-inclusive plans –- actually, now that I think about it, I might be getting a little rusty at making any kind of travel plans. I'd love to get some suggestions. If you were headed to New York City with your friends in a few weeks, what would you want to do?

(I am absolutely sure that we will have a wonderful time. Is it horribly uncool of me to admit that as much as I'm looking forward to the trip, I'm also looking forward to how excited I'll be to see Katie when we get home?)

Jessamyn lives in Chicago with her daughter and husband.

Symptoms with no disease

By Jessamyn

Lately, every day is filled with Katie's sneezing. And coughing. And yawning.

I don't know exactly when it started, but at some point during the week before last, when my mom was taking care of Katie during the day (my husband was out of town at a conference), Katie's symptoms grew out of control. The other day, in the car, she must have sneezed 10 times in a row.

No, she's not sick. All of these behaviors are completely voluntary. Still, she expects us to say "bless you" after she sneezes, and she covers her mouth when she "coughs." And sometimes her yawning, although contrived, is still contagious.

I don't know why, but I'm incredibly interested in the fact that she is doing all of these things. When people ask me what Katie is up to these days, the first thing that comes to mind is that she's "doing fake things" now. For some reason, this kind of imitation seems like a significant developmental step. Maybe it's because these behaviors are the first time I've ever been aware that Katie is pretending –- and that she knows she is. She's perfectly aware that although she sometimes does these things involuntarily, she can now also do them on demand. Not only does she entertain herself when she does it, but it's clear that she expects us to be entertained by her, too –- and of course we almost always are. Usually, she also wants us to play the game, too, and to follow her sneezes with loud fake sneezes of our own.

Katie is 17 months old now. I have no idea whether her "fake things" are typical of her age or not. Still, the fact that this little person, who can only say somewhere around 10 to 15 words, and who can't even figure out how to jump up and down, is smart enough to differentiate what's real from what's pretend. This amazes me.

And it's also another sign that she is watching us closely, and not only imitating what she sees, but also making judgments about whether we really mean what we say and do. Before too long, I may have to use all my acting ability the next time I need to stifle a grin.

Jessamyn lives in Chicago with her daughter and husband.

We always hurt the ones we love

By Jessamyn

My 16-month-old daughter has picked up a new habit: hitting me in the face. 

She's not just being playful. It's not accidental. Katie doesn't mean to hurt me when she does it, but she does do it out of anger, frustration, or irritation. When I tell her no.  When I pick her up and carry her somewhere that she doesn't want to go. When I turn off the television that she keeps turning on. (And by the way, how did my helpless baby get so capable and smart that she is now capable of turning the TV on whenever she feels like it?) 

When we're in those situations and she lifts her chubby hand to swat my cheek, I am usually proud of the way I respond. I tell her "no hitting," and I keep her from hitting me again. Occasionally, the situation even lends itself to a good lesson. One day at the store, she didn't want to ride in the front of the cart anymore; she wanted to be carried. But each time I picked her up, she swatted at my face. After the third time I returned her to the cart immediately after hitting me, she learned something. When I picked her up a few minutes later, there was no more hitting. In fact, I do believe I got a few sweet baby kisses. 

But there are other times when she hits me and the only reason seems to be that I've gotten my face close to hers when she doesn't want me near her. I wish I could deal better with that. 

The other day I got off the train at the end of the day and my husband was waiting for me with Katie in the stroller beside him. Katie smiled when she saw me, but when I knelt down to give her a kiss, she reached up and hit me, and it just so happened that she accidentally poked me in the eye. It hurt. Tears sprang into my eyes and I backed away immediately. Katie stared and then smiled. 

First I had the very strong urge to get even. She had hurt me –- emotionally more than physically -- and I wanted to hurt her back so she would know what it felt like.

I didn't do that, of course. I stood up and turned her stroller around, and we started walking toward home. But then my good mood was gone. I know, intellectually, that Katie loves me, and that her hitting me is a reflection of her stage in life, not her love for me. But in the moment just after it happens (and it almost always takes me by surprise), my emotions trump my intellect, and although I tell myself it's not important, my heart still sinks into my stomach. 

I've been reminding myself that this is a different type of relationship than any I've ever had before. In any other type of relationship, if the other person was hitting me on a frequent basis (never mind the fact that the hitting usually doesn't physically hurt), that would be a sign that the relationship had some serious problems. In any other type of relationship, if the other person purposely tried to hurt me and then smiled happily when I expressed sadness or anger, that relationship would be headed for the end. In this relationship, I am the parent, and she is the child, and we are creating this relationship as we go. She isn't yet capable of sympathizing or empathizing with my pain. Her ways for showing displeasure are also very limited, since she doesn't have the vocabulary to explain what she wants. We are both learning.

With this in mind, I've decided it's OK for me to be upset when she hits me. After all, as her parent, I hope that one of the things I eventually teach her is that it's not OK to intentionally hurt the people we love.

But I can't say I'll be sorry when this stage has passed. 

Jessamyn lives in Chicago with her daughter and husband.

Exercising my right to change

By Jessamyn

The alarm went off at 5:31 a.m. When I got out of bed I was bleary-eyed, and I was so tired I had to pay attention to keep from bumping into anything. But I washed my face and put up my hair. I got dressed in the clothes I'd laid out the night before. I grabbed my purse and my husband's iPod, went downstairs and started up the car.

I was on the treadmill by 5:50. It's the start of a new routine, I hope.

For years, I've acted like working out and eating right were things that somebody else was trying to force me to do, but this time, when working out left me feeling happy and relieved and energetic and light on my feet, I realized what a bad attitude that is. 

Nobody else is trying to force me to take care of myself, and nobody else can possibly make me take care of myself. I'm the only one who can do it, and I am the one who will most benefit from it. Several years ago, at my highest weight, I went to Jenny Craig in desperation, and I lost 40 pounds. As of this morning, I weigh 40 pounds more than that "highest weight." And although I'm tired much of the time, I don't sleep very soundly.  Maybe worst of all, I'm really starting to get depressed and ashamed about the shape I'm in.

It's hard to change your routine. It's also hard, when you've spent the last year getting up exhausted at 6:30 or 7:00, to look into your future and see an infinite number of days of waking an hour even earlier to go and do something that takes energy and that -- admit it -- seems boring. So many times I've started a new routine but have been unable to keep it up. And after a few days or weeks have passed without a workout, it's been easy to let the whole idea fall by the wayside.

So this time I'm not putting the pressure of "forever" on myself. Instead, I've issued a temporary challenge to myself: how much can I do before August 4th, when I turn 35 years old? Maybe by then I can make myself proud. Maybe that would be the best birthday present I could give myself.

After just one day, I'm already reminded that a certain amount of exercise doesn't make you more tired, even if you're getting one less hour of sleep. The miracle of exercise is that even while it tires you out, it also gives you energy. Already, I am less tired than yesterday. Already, I am more proud of myself than yesterday.

Ask me how I feel four weeks from now. And wish me luck!

Jessamyn lives in Chicago with her daughter and husband.

Be like Mom

By Jessamyn

Lately it's been a little more difficult to use the computer than it used to be. As I type this, Katie is standing next to me, one arm on my leg, the other arm reaching for the computer mouse. She wants that mouse! If she gets it, she will click it and move it around -- windows will pop up, minimize, maximize, and disappear, and the task bar will move around the edges of the screen.

In the last couple of weeks, Katie will grab any Kleenex she can get her hands on, and she'll walk around the house clutching it to her nose and mouth, blowing "phtphphpthtphpt" into it. I figured out what she's doing: she's imitating me blowing my nose. 

There's no real mystery about why she does these things, of course. She's doing things the way she has seen Mommy and Daddy do them. She wants to do what we do. She wants to be like us. 

When I was 8, my Mom went back to graduate school. She started reading a lot more books, and reading them in a different way than she used to. Instead of sitting in a comfortable chair or lying in bed, she would often read at the table. And when she did sit in a chair, she would have a pen in her hand, and as she read the books, every so often she would carefully underline some words on the page she was reading.

I started underlining, too. I remember feeling important as I picked out which words, out of all the words on the pages in front of me, were worthy of being underlined. The other day, as we were packing up some books, I came across a few books from my childhood. Some of the pages were practically covered with ink underlining. It's obvious that I didn't know exactly what I was doing when I underlined things in my books -- I just wanted to do what Mom did. I wanted to be like her. 

I'm sure all of us, and all of our children, have imitated our parents' behavior. It's natural and healthy, but it's still a little awe inspiring to know that even at 14 months, my child is already modeling her behavior after me. I better watch my step. 

What have you or your kids done to try to be like Mom or Dad?

In flight

By Jessamyn

I held Katie on my lap on the plane home from D.C. So far, she has been relatively easy to deal with on flights; she smiles at me, she drinks her bottle (or, the first time we flew, she nursed), she babbles at a volume quieter than that of the plane's engines.  Mostly, she sleeps.

On Sunday she was feeling sick, so she was fussier than she'd ever been before. She pushed away the bottle, the teething ring, my hand. Then she squirmed and cried loudly - after a couple of minutes of that, the flight attendant came and took her from me and walked up the aisle. I let her hold Katie, but I was thinking, Boy, this is not an idea that's going to work. As upset as Katie was with me holding her, I figured it would only get worse with a stranger holding her.

I was right, she kept crying. But I was also wrong, because after a minute or two, the flight attendant handed her back and smiled at me: "Now she'll be really happy to be with you," she said. My baby leaned toward me, arms outstretched, and snuggled her head against my chest. She smiled at me. I smiled at the flight attendant.

I offered Katie her bottle again, and she took it. I held her with her head resting on my left arm, her body across my lap, my right hand holding her bottle for her. As she drank, I watched her face. I looked into her eyes. They are round and blue. They were calm.  She looked into my eyes, too. (Mine are not-so-round but also blue.) 

There we were, hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour, strangers all around us, engines droning, and yet we might as well have been alone - our bodies touching, me staring into her eyes, her staring into mine, a wordless connection forged and re-forged between us. I did what I often do when I find us staring into each other's eyes: I told her I loved her.

And right then I realized that this will end, that no one else stares into each other's eyes this way except lovers. Some day, I will look at Katie and she will turn away out of boredom or irritation or interest in something else. I will catch glimpses of her profile, so similar to the one she had when she was a baby; I will be grateful for the times she is so tired that she wants to sit on my lap again; I will go back and look at baby pictures and marvel that my baby is now so grown up. Some day, instead of staring into each other's eyes while her body rests on mine, I will find myself watching her from a distance, grateful just to be in the same room with her. I will cherish every split second hug or kiss.

The flight attendant started down the aisle with a basket of snacks, and I looked up. I tried to wipe my eyes before she got to me.

Moving pains

By Jessamyn

When we last saw our heroine, she was in the midst of a discouraging house hunt that seemed as though it would never end. She thought she and her family might never find a home to buy that would not make them very sad. The places they could afford were often depressing; the places that weren't depressing they often couldn't afford. Would they ever find a home???

I am happy to report that the answer is yes! Or at least, we hope so. We found a place in our price range that we really like. We exchanged offers and counter-offers with the sellers. And we are now under contract to buy a condo! Closing is not until the end of May, and (as I remind myself) things could go wrong between now and then, but for now, there is relief and happiness and much rejoicing in the North household. 

Rejoicing, that is, until I remind myself of what must come along with buying a home: moving.  I have tried to calculate the number of times I've moved in my life, including moves from dorm room to dorm room but not counting college moves home for the summer or moves I don't remember (from when I was under the age of 5), and I've come up with an estimate of about 20 moves -- 10 or so as an adult.

I swear to you, each move was worse than the last. Each move was slower, more tiring, and less organized. The last time we moved was in March 2003, and we were so behind on our packing that we ended up throwing clothes into trash bags. Friends were at our place, ready to help us move, and we (and our friends!) were still sorting through what to pack and what to throw away. Not only were we slow, tired, and disorganized, but I was embarrassed that our kind, volunteering friends ended up spending way more time helping than they would have if we'd been prepared the way we should have been. 

Moving is always pretty awful, really, but this time, for the first time ever, we have the added bonus of moving with a young child. I think we need help. As step one, we have decided that we are definitely hiring movers. 

Please submit your moving tips here!

A place for us

By Jessamyn

We are trying to buy a home in Chicago. (We have never owned a home; we currently rent an apartment.)   

We have seen quite a few condos by now, and most of them aren't what we're looking for. Many are tiny or dirty or ugly. Some are in bad or faraway neighborhoods. Some are beautiful but out of our price range (our realtor doesn't take us to those, but we can't help ourselves from looking at listings online). Some are nowhere near an el stop, or don't allow dogs, or have no parking. Some are OK, but nothing special, and we have started asking ourselves, sadly, is special too much to ask? 

There was the second place we looked at, which we loved and were going to make an offer on, only to discover that the condo board doesn't allow dogs over 40 pounds (ours weighs about 65). 

There was the place we saw, weeks later, that we had decided to settle for even though we didn't love it, because it had three bedrooms and parking and was in an OK neighborhood, and we could fix it up (we started researching the cost of renovating kitchens and bathrooms). Then we found out that the condo association had zero dollars in reserve to pay for any repairs or maintenance. 

There was the place we liked so much that I said "Wow" upon first entering it, so much that we had our realtor put together an offer less than an hour after walking through the door. We ended up in a three-day bidding war with several other potential buyers, which culminated in our offer finally being accepted (cue much rejoicing). A half an hour later, the offer was withdrawn. (What?) 

Each of these times (plus a few others now), we have gotten our hopes up. We have started discussing which room will be Katie's, which will be ours. Where will guests sleep? Will we need a sleeper sofa, or will we have room for a guest bed? What colors of paint will look good in the space? What will our new neighborhood be like? 

Each time, when we find out that our plans were all for nothing and that we have to start looking again, our hopes come crashing down to earth and shatter into pieces on the sidewalk. It takes a lot of energy to put them back together again, but we do. It's a roller coaster ride, except a lot less fun.

I'm sure that when and if we do end up buying a home, all of this frustration will be forgotten. But for now, we are tired and stressed and emotionally overwrought. We are wondering if we will ever find the right place. The other night, past my bedtime, I was staring sleepily at the computer, scrolling through new listings, and I caught myself starting to hum "Somewhere" from "West Side Story," and I laughed at myself a little. "There's a place for us...somewhere a place for us..."

I really hope it's true.