All I Want for Christmas

"Do you know what Christmas is really about?" Tom asked Ben.


"Being greedy and getting lots of presents," Ben replied with a smirk.


I tried to convince myself that his contrary, five-year-old response showed, in a roundabout way, that he knew what the right answer was. Now that Ben's a kindergartener, with his own strong preferences and ideas, we've been trying to be mindful of how we celebrate the holiday season. His smart-alecky answer notwithstanding, he does seem to be learning that the spirit of the holidays involves more than just receiving gifts.


In November, we all made up our Christmas lists. Each one had four sections: 3 things I'd like for Christmas, 3 things I'm going to get other people for Christmas, 3 ways I can help others this Christmas, and 3 things we can do as a family this Christmas. Some of my fondest Christmas memories are the family traditions: making Christmas cookies, playing carols on the piano, going to the Christmas Eve candlelight service, eating sticky buns on Christmas morning.


Ben quickly got into the spirit of the list. When he shared his ways of helping, I was reminded that a 5-year-old has a different perspective on the world than I do; while I see Christmas service as helping anonymous strangers through organizations such as Toys for Tots, he had more direct ideas, such as helping Meg open her presents. He's at the age where he loves secrets, and when he talks about people opening the gifts he picked out, he starts bouncing up and down. I'm just glad to know that, while he can spend hours scrutinizing the Toys R Us catalog to decide what he wants, he is also learning to think of others.

The Second Child

Today I pulled two items out of Meg's mouth before she swallowed them: a penny, which she picked up in the hallway, and what appeared to be the wrinkled inside of an acorn, which she found somewhere in the yard. Those little lapses in maternal attention made me think about how I'm approaching parenting differently this time around.

--The second child has had a Happy Meal before turning one. In fact, when Tom was out of town we had McDonald's twice in one week. In my defense, I'll note that she had apple slices as a side instead of french fries. In general, we've been less uptight about food this time around, and Meg usually eats bits of whatever we eat.

--The second child has even less in her baby book than the first child. We've noted that she was born, but not much past that. In all honesty, Ben's baby book still has gaps, so there wasn't much hope for Meg.

--The second child has a mother who is not adhering strictly to the AAP guidelines of no TV ever for kids under 2. In fact, when I had the swine flu I desperately tried to get her to watch Sesame Street. I am less uptight about the influence of licensed characters over my child.

--The second child has a mother who is not as concerned about when she'll hit baby milestones. Ben didn't learn to crawl or pull up until after he could walk, and now he's a normal five-year-old. I am, however, dying to hear Meg say her first word. She says "mamamamama," but I'm not convinced she knows what it means.

--The second child has a brother whom she finds fascinating and who adores her. I love watching them crack each other up.

--The second child was born into a family that already knew what to do with kids. We could just lug the crib or the booster seat up from the basement instead of scrutinizing all the reviews on Amazon. We know how to juggle a baby and a diaper bag and a car seat.

--The second child is growing up in a whoosh. I remember what another mother told me about babies: "The days are long, but the years are short." It seems like Meg just arrived, and now she's only a month away from her first birthday.

Is This Thing On?

Yes, it's been a while, hasn't it?

Since Meg was born, I've composed many blog posts in my head, on topics ranging from running (which I am somehow doing several times a week) to Missouri's dumb new texting law (it's illegal to text and drive--but only if you're 21 or younger), but none of these posts have made it from my head to the keyboard to the computer screen. Now that the baby's napping more consistently, I've resolved that some of my ideas will actually make it into cyberspace.

I credit two things with giving me the nudge to log into Blogger today: 1) I just finished reading It Sucked and Then I Cried, a memoir by Dooce/Heather Armstrong, and 2) my friend Karen emailed me recently to say she sometimes thinks of the questions I asked myself when Meg was in the hospital last winter. Both of those things reminded me that putting words on the page or screen can influence people in big and little ways.

So it's fall, and the leaves outside our new front windows glow a gorgeous yellow-orange. The baby is asleep and the house is quiet. And here I am, coffee mug by my side, writing again.

A Few Pictures

Last summer when we were visiting Tom's parents, I spent quite a bit of time sitting queasily on their front porch, trying not to throw up. (How glad I am not to be pregnant this summer!) All the flowers Tom's mom was growing made the porch a lovely place to sit and take deep breaths.


This year, I told Tom I'd like to create a similar screen of flowers on our back deck. I am not the designated gardener in our relationship; my preferred method of growing things involves flinging seeds over a patch of dirt and hoping that plants will magically grow the way they do out in the wild. Luckily, Tom has decided that gardening provides a welcome change from the intangible labor of trying to become a tenured professor, so in addition to growing various berries and vegetables he started growing flowers.


A few days ago, I took pictures of something I hadn't photographed for a while: non-child objects. My children are well documented at this point, so I decided to capture a few of the flowers.


The geraniums look vaguely patriotic against the backdrop of the hosue:



It sounds terribly cliched, but these lilies look like a burst of sunshine, even on overcast days:



Once I started taking pictures, I was intrigued to find that ants seemed to be enjoying the flowers as much as I was:



They liked these pink and white ones too:

A Poem

This month, the online magazine Literary Mama has published a poem of mine called "Meeting the Train." When Ben was a baby, I didn't have time to write very much, but I did write several poems that captured the disorientation and emotional rawness of being a new mother. Now when I have similar experiences with Meg, it's comforting to think of those poems and remember I've been through this once before. I may be horrible at scrapbooking or filling out baby books, but at least I get words down on paper sometimes.

Food = Love

At one point soon after we were married, Tom made the observation that my family equates food with affection. "Doesn't everyone?" I asked in surprise. When I was growing up, family dinner time was sacred. Birthdays gave us the right to dictate a dinner menu and choose a cake. We weren't particularly religious, but the sticky buns on Christmas morning meant as much to me as any sacrament.


Maybe that's why I have been so touched by all the food we've been given thanks to Meg's birth. One of the mom's groups I'm in holds "food showers" for expectant mothers, and two of my friends organized mine as a lovely afternoon tea, complete with finger sandwiches and decadent desserts. They even mixed their own loose tea to serve. After Meg was born and we started making our way through all the frozen dishes, I felt cared-for and happy not to have to worry about cooking.


The other mom's group I'm in coordinates meals that are dropped off after a baby is born. When people started delivering the meals, I realized the strength of this approach: It gives people a chance to check in and make sure new moms are okay.


Then two weeks ago someone from the Unitarian church we've been attending called to tell us they wanted to coordinate some meal deliveries for us. When Tom and I were both feeling sick, it felt like a minor miracle to have someone show up with soup and rolls and chocolates. Meg and I returned home from the hospital to find that a friend had dropped off a salad and homemade macaroni and cheese.


Sometimes when I'm home for a visit and my mom and I are in the grocery store, she'll bring up Tom's comment: "I know he says we show love through food, but that's not a bad thing, right? At least we're showing love, right?"


I always reassure her. Sure, people can have problems with mixing up food and love, and I don't mean to minimize that. But my nursing newborn reminds me many times a day how closely linked the two really are.

Parenthood Is Hard

At Meg's one-month appointment on Monday, I congratulated myself on not crying during her shot. With Ben, I couldn't stand the thought of him being in pain and not understanding why. This time, I knew the pain would be brief and she'd get over it; someday, she'll be a 4-year-old who grumbles at shots but is willing to be bribed with stickers and a piece of candy.


Then Monday night, Ben started throwing up, but I still kept my cool. I had a cold and was feeling tired and achy, but I cuddled him and washed sheets and blankets, and he learned how to throw up in a bowl. "Stay with me a while," he said, and I lay next to him and held him.


The next morning, though, everything got worse. Tom looked gray. Meg felt hot and was acting sluggish. I took her to the doctor and discovered what happens with a newborn with a fever: you go to the ER without passing Go or collecting your things from home.


After we checked in with the triage nurse and Meg slept in her car seat, I struggled to keep my mind from racing. When I started to have awful thoughts about what could happen to her, I sternly brought myself back to the present:

What am I being asked to do right now?
I'm being asked to sit here.
Can you do that?
Yes.

So I did my best to practice sitting-in-the-ER meditation. I did what people asked me to do. When Meg needed to be held, I held her. I still felt tired and sick, and I thought of the story my dad tells about the morning my mom went into labor with me. He had hurt his shoulder and was in a lot of pain, but he realized that when his wife was in labor no one wanted to hear about him. That's what parenthood does to you; yes, I was tired and stressed and sick, but that really was beside the point. Instead, I tried not to think too much and be there for Meg.


The nurses tried to talk me into leaving when they did the spinal tap, but if Meg was going to have it done I wanted to be there. They held her down on the bed and she turned red from screaming, and then pooped all over the sheets. The resident wasn't able to get clear fluid from her spine, so the attending doctor had to come in and try again. After that bout of screaming, Meg slept for a long time.


After the first 7 hours in the ER, I started to lose it. Staff had been telling me they'd admit Meg "soon," but then they'd disappear for a long time. Finally, I asked a nurse for some water. When she returned bearing ice water, crackers, and Sprite, I couldn't help myself--I started crying. It felt good to be taken care of. I desperately wished we had family in town. I didn't feel nearly grown-up enough to handle all of this.


After 9 hours in the ER, we were at last admitted and taken to a room in the hospital. The first night, I soothed Meg to sleep five times, and each time she was awakened by medical staff who wanted to poke and prod her. When they closed the door, I sobbed with exhaustion and frustration. Finally, we were left in peace to sleep.


The next morning, though, everything felt calmer. Meg's temperature was down, and the preliminary tests came back negative. The sun shone. I ate breakfast. Tom came to the hospital and held her for a while, and I went to the rooftop garden.


The sunlight felt wonderful, even if the breeze was sharp. Several wind chimes tolled in what sounded like music. Little birds chirped in the bushes, and a stream trickled below a crust of ice. From the rooftop, I could see traffic, the bare branches of Forest Park, and blue sky. Many of the benches and bridges were gifts "in memory of" or "in celebration of the life of" various people. After my rough day and night, I felt a little ashamed of having lost it, but I was humbly grateful for all the people who had planned and paid for this garden to give people who are tired or sad or scared a peaceful place to rest.


Now, two days after being admitted, we're waiting for the final test results to come back negative so we can go home. I have great sympathy for the families I saw who are staying here for a long time because they have children with serious health problems. I can't imagine the strength they've had to develop. As I waited for the elevators to go to the cafeteria, I looked at all the floors of the children's hospital I hope never to visit--oncology, the cardiac cath lab, intensive care. I find it reassuring to know, though, that if we ever end up in one of those unthinkable places, we will find the same little flashes of thoughtfulness and compassion to help us make it through.