DotMoms

One

By Martha

I fear that I put my baby Simon to bed for the very last time. As I write this, he's 11 months and 31 days old. By the time you read it, he'll be a year. The difference is just a day. So why does it seem like today he's my little baby and tomorrow he'll wake up a little boy?

I remember having this same feeling with my older son, Donovan, on the eve of his first birthday. I remember sobbing in the rocking chair after I put him down in his crib that night. I also remember getting him up the next morning somewhat surprised that he looked like just the same baby that he had the night before, even though he was officially ONE.

I'm sure that I'll be greeted with the same surprise when I get Simon up in the morning, right? Right? The difference is that this time, we don't plan to have any more children. I'm fully conscious of the fact that this is very well the last time I'll ever put my less-than-one-year-old baby down to bed. I'm about 98 percent comfortable with the idea that we aren't having more children. But it's milestones like this that really make that decision hit home.

So, as I sat with Simon in the rocking chair after he fell asleep in my arms drinking his bedtime bottle, I held him a lot longer than I needed to. While he was sleeping with his mouth agape, I lifted his face up to mine and sniffed in his little sweet-smelling sleeping baby breath. Then I closed my own eyes, said a little prayer, and asked him, "Simon, if you'll still be my little baby, take a nice deep breath as a sign to let me know." And he did.

Rainmaker

By Martha

Raindrops are pretty rare things here in Arizona. I mean, it is THE DESERT, after all, and we are in the middle of a very nasty drought on top of that. My three-year-old son, Donovan, has seen precious few rainstorms in his life.

Until this weekend. On Saturday afternoon, due to a Pacific storm, the skies opened up, the wind went at it, the rain drove sideways, and Donovan smiled like he was at Disneyland. My husband took him outside and let him go to town running around in the rain. Many tears were shed when it was finally time to come inside.

Sunday morning, Donovan awoke and immediately began demanding rain. Not exactly the easiest order to fill. Chocolate ice cream for breakfast? I can manage that every once in a while. Demands for rain? Not exactly within my powers.

"Sorry, it's not raining right now, sweetheart," I said. "Mommy, MAKE IT RAIN," he replied. I thought that I might appease him by taking him outside barefoot, still in his jammies, and letting him run around and splash in some leftover puddles.

We got outside, and he again insisted: "Mommy, RAIN!" A minute later, it started raining.

He began beaming and jumping and looking at me like I held the power of God. The rain was sporadic -- it started and stopped in fits and starts, and each time it stopped, he would yell for me to make it start again. Inevitably, within a minute or two, it would.

I don't know when I've ever seen him smile so widely. He was like a kid let loose in a candy store. And he totally thought that I was making it happen. Ah, the power of being a Mommy.

Untrodden ground

By Martha

What is it about my baby's feet that makes me feel as melty as a freshly-baked Toll House cookie? Is it because they're softer than anything in the world? Is it because the toes are disproportionately long and pudgy? Is it because the toenails somehow seem to need to be cut each and every day?

Of course, I love all of his parts. His sweet-smelling head covered with peach fuzz hair, his short fingers with the dimples at the knuckles, the thighs getting so chunky that they have little rolls of baby fat around the knee. But it's the feet that really get me.

It was the same way with my older son. I feel this irresistible compulsion to kiss each little toe, to play "this little piggy" over and over, and to make up silly songs regaling the glory of the tiny baby foot. What is it that's so special about those feet?

I think it's the fact that the soles are completely unblemished -- not the slightest trace of a callus, no need for a pumice stone to scrub away a week's worth of walking. Because no walking has yet been done. Those feet have yet to take even one step in the wrong direction. And that's what it comes down to.

Those feet can carry my little baby wherever he wants to go in life. They can carry him far from home; they can decide that they're not the wandering sort. They can run him down the fast track to success; they can lead him down the wrong path altogether.

They're his feet, and it will -- some day -- be for him to decide. Meanwhile, all I can do is keep clipping the toenails and try to offer him gentle guidance down a good road.

That smell

By Martha

I'm changing to get ready for bed. As I go to take my T-shirt off, my nose ends up caught in the shoulder of my shirt, stuck there while I try to wrestle it off over my head. And then the smell catches me.

I had Simon up on my shoulder for maybe three minutes tonight. He's not normally an up-on-the-shoulder type of baby -- he likes to be held facing out, with adult hands laced together underneath his butt so that he’s in a sitting position. But tonight, for about three minutes, he was happy up on my shoulder.

The kid is a drooler. I swear, even though he’s only four months old, I think he’s teething. He is a veritable fountain of drool. It spews from his mouth like it's red hot lava flowing from Krakatoa. My life is a constant battle to wipe the ever-present drool from his chin. I've taken to putting him in a bib at all times to avoid having to change his shirt four times per day.

With my shirt stuck on my head, I catch a whiff of the smell that lingers there. The smell is quintessentially Simon: Formula mixed with drool. But not just any formula -- Enfamil Prosobee with LIPIL. And not just any drool -- the drool of my colicky four-month-old son.

This smell gives me a pang through my heart that feels deeper than a stab wound. It is a smell of love. It is a smell that means that I was holding him while he cried, that I fed him when he was hungry, and that I paced around with him in my arms until he fell asleep for the night.

I swear, often I think that this kid is trying to kill me. Sometimes in a bad way: I will cry and cry and cry and cry until I think you can't take it for another minute. Sometimes in a good way: I will smile at you and my eyes will light up so brightly and I will say in my unspoken little baby voice, "Mom, I totally think that you are The Shit." Tonight, that smell just about killed me in the good way.

I changed my mind

By Martha

For as long as I can remember, I never wanted to have kids. I was always the "nope, not me, it ain't gonna happen, I value my independence too much to have kids" lady. I think it started back when I was in high school and did a lot of babysitting for the children of other people, most of whom I think were particularly wretched and did a pretty good job of scaring me off the whole prospect of having children altogether. Couple those bad early experiences with a healthy dose of selfishness, a scoop or two of laziness, a fiercely independent streak, and a total lack of maternal instinct, and I thought that made a pretty good recipe for a woman who should probably remain childless.

My husband and I agreed on this. He, I believe, is the type of guy who could be happy with kids or without. He knew very early on in our relationship that I was the "without" type, and he said okay. So that was the plan. Move ourselves to New York City and enjoy everything that life had to offer. Work hard, play hard. Go two months without ever using our kitchen. Sleep late every weekend. Decide to go off to Paris on a last-minute whim. Spend our discretionary income on ourselves instead of on diapers and college funds.

I spent at least 15 years telling the world that I didn't plan to have children. I spent at least 15 years hearing the words "Oh, you'll change your mind" from just about EVERY SINGLE PERSON I told. I spent at least 15 years wanting to kick those people in the shins and yell to them, "You know what? Even if I do change my mind and decide that I want to have kids, I'm not going to follow through on that desire JUST TO SPITE YOU."

I was very sure of what I did and didn't want, and I did not appreciate the superior attitude. The "oh, you'll change your mind"s were uttered with such a smugness that the speakers might as well have just said "oh, you silly, silly woman you -- you'll snap out of that self-deluded stupor some day and come to your senses and decide to procreate, as that is your one true destiny in life and without children you are destined to become an unfulfilled, bitter, lonely bad person."

You know what? As much as it pains me to say it, they were right. Well, not about the destiny and the bitterness and all of that, perhaps, but about the "you'll change your mind" part, at least. I think it was about three days after my 29th birthday when I went to bed at night, happily thinking to myself "oh yes, being childless and free is a wonderful thing -- no children for me, nosiree!" and woke up the next morning suddenly thinking "oh my god, I NEED TO HAVE A BABY." Honestly, it happened overnight. I didn't even say anything to my husband right away, as I assumed that this unfamiliar and unnatural desire would just go away as quickly as it came. But it didn't. It stayed.

We discussed it and finally decided, what the hell? We're educated, intelligent, stable, and reasonably capable people -- we could do this! Ten months later, I gave birth to my first son. Not quite three years after that, I gave birth to my second. Damn if those people didn't tell me so.

But you know what? I promise up and down and back and forth that never ever ever will I utter the words "oh, you'll change your mind" when someone tells me that she doesn't plan to have children. Nope. Not me. And really, I'm NOT changing my mind about that one.

Riding the short bus

By Martha

My 3-year-old son rides The Short Bus. He has a speech delay. Nothing that anyone thinks he won't get past with the appropriate speech therapy, but a delay nonetheless. Even though he sees a private speech therapist, he also qualifies for the special needs preschool here in our school district.

Those are really hard words for a mother to type. We all want our kids to be perfect, and the fact is that in this way, my son is not. Granted, in some way, every child lags a bit on the perfection scale, I'm sure, but not every child qualifies to ride The Short Bus. But mine does.

My son is the most wonderful 3-year-old child on the planet. I can't even count how many people have commented on his amazingly pleasant disposition. Honestly, he is the happiest boy that I've ever known. The Terrible Twos? Pretty much nonexistent in my house. Granted, we have occasional whining and pouting, but my son spends most of his time smiling and giggling.

As a parent, I want to take some credit for that, as my husband and I do everything that we can to make our home a happy, fun place for our children. But am I allowed to take credit for his happiness and not for his speech delay? Because my natural instinct is to credit nature for the good things and blame nurture for the bad things. That's the Mommy Guilt talking.

In any case, the fact is that four mornings per week, The Short Bus comes and picks my son up, takes him to his preschool (where speech therapists, occupational therapists, physical therapists, and the like come to work with the various kids on a daily basis along with the regular teachers) and then drops him off at his regular daycare three and a half hours later.

As a parent, it's hard to reconcile yourself to the fact that your kid has special needs. But, when it comes down to it, it's not about us as parents. It's about our kids and giving them everything that they need. So, even though it might hurt my pride a bit to admit that my son isn't (yet) among the most outstanding children in some respects in his age group, my job as a parent is to suck it up and send him a packin' onto that Short Bus every morning.

And you know what? Although at first it might have pained me to do it, it didn't pain him for a second. He loves that preschool, and even more than that, he LOVES riding that bus. Believe me, I know. Because every single morning he stands by the door with his little bitty Thomas The Train backpack on, yelling "School bus! Ride school bus!"

He gets to ride a school bus every day, and none of the other kids that he knows does. That makes him think that he's extra special. And you know what? He's right.

The Mommy guilt

By Martha

I am convinced that Mommy Guilt is the third stage of childbirth that no one tells you about. First, you deliver the baby. Then, you deliver the placenta. Then, the Mommy Guilt is delivered upon you, and it forever shall follow you no matter where you may go.

I never considered myself a particularly guilt-ridden person before I had children. Now, that guilt finds me at every corner.

Whether the source of worry be that one of my children is behind (even marginally) in some developmental milestone, that my toddler refuses to eat anything but raisins and grilled cheese sandwiches for three weeks straight, or that my son isn't as verbally advanced as my best friend's daughter; whether the source of worry is something that was within our outside of my control, my inner guilt speaks to me in the same way:

Is it because I didn't play him classical music and read him books while he was still in utero? My God, I'm a horrible parent! I meant to do those things. Really, I did. Good lord, I was messing this kid up before he was even born!

Is it because I caved in and had sushi that one time while I was pregnant? I tried so hard for eight full months to resist the siren song of the Unagi and the spicy yellowtail roll, but in a moment of weakness I gave in. Bad Martha! Bad mother!

Is it because I didn't give him enough tummy time as an infant? How in the world could I have let two whole days pass without remembering to put him on his tummy? Surely, his neck muscles will be underdeveloped because of that, far far into his adulthood. I hope he doesn't end up needing neck muscle enhancement surgery or something because I forgot tummy time. Note to self: must start neck muscle enhancement surgery fund so that I can pay for it when the need inevitably arises.

Is it because I didn't breastfeed him? And not only that, he was formula fed before they even had that DHA/ARA formula! How on God's green earth is any baby supposed to survive, much less thrive, without LIPIL?

Is it because I let him eat French fries sometimes? Potatoes are vegetables, right? Oh, the guilt!

Oh good lord, is it because I let him watch Thomas the Tank Engine videos more than I probably should? Because I curse myself every single time I put on one of those videos, but how am I supposed to resist "Percy? Thomas? James? Pleeeeeeeeeeease?"

Rationally, I know that these things aren't really my fault. But since when does reason play a part in parenting?

Because, one thing that I have learned is that the Mommy Guilt can overcome all. It is a powerful force to be reckoned with.

The "C" word

By Martha

Hello, my name is Martha and my baby has colic.

It's time for me to come out of denial and admit it. Until now, I've tried desperately not to use the "C" word. "He has tendencies towards fussiness," I'd say. "He just likes to holler," I'd say. "He's a very needy baby," I'd say.

But it's time to call it what it is. Colic.

I don't know if there is another word in the English language that can inspire such a powerful combination of fear and awe in a new mother. Because no one seems to know exactly what it is, what causes it, or what (if anything) can be done to ease the pain. Admitting that your baby has colic is basically admitting that you are helpless.

That you have no choice but to lick your wounds, roll up your sleeves, hold your screaming child, and wait it out. That, for the foreseeable future, your days are going to be focused on The Face: a face once precious but now turned painful, with tiny eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down scrunched up cheeks, mouth opened up in an O that looks so incredibly ferocious, face turned red as a beet with creases at the brow, a ghostly white in stark contrast.

And The Sound: hysterical shrieks that come out of nowhere, building and building, coming more and more quickly until your baby is crying so hard that no more noise can even come out. A second or two of silence, then an even louder wail once he regains his voice. Rewind and repeat. For hours on end.

Originally, I danced around the term colic. tried to skip the sections in the "What To Expect" type books that talk about it, out of fear that somehow I would be dooming myself and my baby to this fate if I allowed my eyes to really focus on the word. But it happened nonetheless.

And now that I'm allowing myself to read the parts of these various books that discuss colic, I'm like a woman who has been on a low-carb diet for years and has suddenly been set free in a room filled with nothing but crusty bread, French fries, pasta, and chocolate cake. I'm devouring these pages one after the other, because when I read them I realize, for those few moments at least, that I'm not alone. That others have gone through this too.

And the fact that I am reading about it means that, presumably, these other people have survived the screaming. Because they did live to write about it, after all. Just like I'm doing now.