The Bouncing Remote, Baby TV, and Why Doesn't My 17 Month Old Walk...

So I just had this memory. Five minutes ago I was sitting on the couch, remote balanced on my tummy, watching some Primetime hidden camera special (there is seriously nothing on TV tonight). Suddenly, I got a little abdominal muscle twitch and the remote started to bounce up and down. And I had this memory...

When I was pregnant the same thing happened. I had the remote on my ever-growing stomach, and suddenly the baby kicked and the remote bobbed over my belly like a boat on a stormy sea (appropriate image given my nonstop "morning" sickness - did I mention I puked on every major holiday from Christmas to St. Patty's Day that year? More than once on most of them?). But when it happened the first time, it was so surprising and delightful that I was absolutely transfixed. Doc hubby and I sat on the sofa, watched the remote bob up and down, and giggled and gawked.

I remember people talking about this concept of "Baby TV"...that when your baby is born you are so totally mesmerized by her that you just sit for hours and watch her little face like TV. This seemed not only inconceivable to me...but honestly, totally boring. I figured, you know, you love your kid and all, but to stare at her for hours? Really?

So then I got pregnant, and then the remote started flopping around on my belly, and then I found myself staring at that for maybe not hours, but certainly long minutes on end. And I thought to myself, "if I spend this much time watching a small, battery-powered device bobbing on my belly....maybe that whole idea of baby TV isn't so far off base.

The baby took two steps today. On her own. I haven't written much about this...my 17 month old doesn't walk on her own, and while it kinda freaks me out, she has her crazy strengths and I just think we're all geniuses in our own way and walking early isn't her way. But I have been embarrassed to take her to music class or on playdates lately because I'm afraid people will look at me funny and tell me I need to have her checked out. My mom is an early childhood specialist. So I have kind of had her checked out. And she cruises like a champ and walks with a walker all the time and walks holding on to only one of my fingers. I feel in my heart that she's fine. She's just cautious and she lives in a really small apartment and she doesn't like to fall down. I'm all those things too. I get it. We have many of the same other strengths and so I appreciate her. I said to my friend Katie the other day, "well she still isn't walking..." and Katie said, "yeah but she's writing her memoirs, isn't she?" Which is sorta true. She also hits herself in the head when she gets mad. See I'm afraid even to write this because I fear I'll get all kinds of comments from people saying "Yeah my kid didn't walk and hit herself in the head when she got mad and she went crazy and lives in a yurt and I never see her..." Or much worse. Yurts are pretty green and all. I could get behind a yurt...

Anyway, when she took the two steps I totally started to cry. I was ridiculously proud of her. And she sort of didn't seem to notice that she did it. She immediately fell and she didn't like that at all. And she was transfixed by her bottle and "Pinky Dinky Doo" (yes I also let my 17 month old watch some TV...more comments here we come...). I think that's why it happened, honestly. She's just her own schedule and her own person and all that makes me a little weepy.

Because she used to just be a remote bouncing around on my belly.

What Does It Mean to Eat Your Children?

"What Does It Mean to Eat Your Children?"

I had a teacher in grad school who asked us that question. She was crazy but to her credit it had a context. One of those horribly horribly Greek tragedies in which someone ends up being fed his own children in a pie. I was an acting student. I suppose if you are going to act eating your children you need to take a moment to consider what that means.

I have had the opposite experience for the last two plus years. I have been eating for my children. Unborn or otherwise. It was about two and a half years ago when we started trying to get pregnant. And from that moment on every single bite I took, every single drink I sipped, every breath of air I breathed, contaminated or otherwise, did not enter my body without being assessed for its potential harm to my unborn and then newborn child. I suppose that makes me sound fairly obsessive compulsive. I have a streak. I’ve actually returned from the subway platform, having PAID MY FARE, to make sure the gas stove was off. And I’m a bit of a hypochondriac and worrier. So yeah, I didn’t eat hotdogs or drink or enjoy soft cheeses when I was pregnant. And I thought about how well I could metabolize the Splenda and caffeine and ginger ale and peach schnapps when I was breastfeeding. Did I mention I’m also a lightweight? Yeah I totally am.

So I have done this obsessive monitoring…oh by the way don’t let that lead you to the oh so erroneous conclusion that I gained the perfect 25 pounds during pregnancy. So far as I know, no brownie ever led to fetal brain damage. Yeah I gained forty five pounds during my pregnancy. So I have monitored potential pathogens obsessively…until today. Coincidentally my 13^th wedding anniversary. Here’s how it went down. We had raviolis for dinner at home since my husband couldn’t get home early from work today so we could go out. I left two on my plate. I am still trying to lose those 45 pounds. But they are really good raviolis, and my husband was in the process of taking the plate to finish them off when I said “oh wait” and took a few forkfuls of the very nice, tomatoey sauce because it has really good things in it for the baby. And then I remembered. This morning was probably my last breastfeeding. Ever.

I know that weaning can be really difficult. Friends have told me of sleepless nights and engorgement. But my baby was one of those who pretty much decided she was done. She just really likes sweet potatoes and cheerios. And though nursing was pretty successful for both of us for ten months, it never reached those transcendent otherworldly planes I have read about. It hurt and I had blebs and then her teeth came in and I never felt like I had a huge supply (as witnessed by the fact that I leaked once and could really only pump about five ounces from both sides combined at best). We are close. We are snuggly. But nursing was fairly utilitarian for both of us. Which maybe made it a self-fulfilling prophecy. I always said I wanted to make it to Memorial Day. I just never kind of thought that she’d hear me and then say “ok Mama I agree.”

I stopped pumping at night last night. And this morning she latched on for about three minutes and then happily guzzled her organic formula. And had a great day.

So when I reached for the tomato sauce and thought “these great lycopene thingies will be really good for the baby” and then stopped suddenly, I was genuinely surprised to feel myself tear up. For the first time in years, what I eat will not go directly to someone else. For the first time in years, I do not have to weigh every mouthful. For the first time in years I don’t have a little being dependent on my good judgment for her very sustenance. And while it is liberating, it is much sadder than I expected.

I still don’t know what it means to eat your children. But I know what it means to have my children eat me. And then move on.