Back From the Beach

We've been on vacation with my family. The squeaker and the pipsqueak had a blast with their three cousins, two of whom are close in age, and one of whom is older (which inspires much awe in the little ones).

I wondered what my boys would think of the ocean. After the car wash incident, I thought the pipsqueak might be fearful. But no, no, no -- the pipsqueak was as fearless as the squeaker. Maybe more so. While their little cousins stayed far, far away from that noisy, crashing ocean (which meant my sister was able to relax in a beach chair!) my boys made a beeline for it. The squeaker ran in the surf, throwing handfuls of sand in the water and shouting, "Good one, Poseidon!" when a wave knocked him down. The pipsqueak simply ran full tilt at the ocean, and when we held his arms in the water and let the waves wash over him, he shrieked, "Again! Again!" while giggling like mad. Every morning he woke up saying "Ocean. Fun."

We tried to show them how to build sand castles and other cool things, but the squeaker was far more interested in destruction than construction. He'd rather be the dragon, swooping in to level a village and its castle than a king constructing a castle. This caused some consternation (the girl cousins were determined builders with a dark view of wild dragons), but it all seemed to work out OK.

The beach house was crowded and full of ants, but it was a short walk from the beach. At the end of the week I was pretty worn out and ready to go home, but when I woke in my own bed the next morning, I felt so sad that we have to wait another whole year. The pipsqueak seemed to feel the same way; when he awoke saying "Ocean. Fun." and I told him it was all over, his little face fell. "Sad," he said. Sad indeed.

Reading!

The newest, most exciting news is that the squeaker can READ. He is not very proficient yet, and it is still more burdensome than fun for him. It may take a good, long while before reading feels like leisure to him. But in the last week or so, I’ve noticed that he GETS it. He understands the concept of sounding out words, and when he tries, it’s clear that the words are no longer just a jumble of letters to him. He knows, theoretically, how to make sense of them, though his efforts are still very nascent, and thus quite clumsy. But I am excited for him. I really got chills down my spine when I realized something had clicked for him!

Books have always been such an important part of my life. I can remember so many long summer nights when I would read in bed all night long, or winter days of snuggling in a chair with a book, or long rides in the car while reading (I was always lucky to be able to read in the car!). I was an early reader; my mom says I started reading with proficiency at age 3. She remembers the first book I read. My husband and I spent many, many hours when we were dating driving around and talking about our favorite books. I majored in English, and the main appeal of law school for me was that modern law is all about the written word. I hope that he will love reading. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a child as enthusiastic about books as he is, but it is being read to that he loves. He has long resisted our gentle efforts to encourage him to read. In fact, he has told us flat out that he doesn’t want to read. I’ve been able to appreciate that, to some extent – it is lovely to relax while someone reads to you, and I know he has worried that if he can read himself, we will no longer read to him. Plus, he perceives being read to as pleasure and reading to himself as work, and that certainly seems true of reading in early stages.

But he just loves books. His father orders him many books from Amazon, and he checks the porch nearly every day to see if there is a package. When there is, he opens it with enthusiasm. Yesterday, two new Spiderwick books arrived – “Beyond Spiderwick” books, actually – and he was beside himself about them. He paged through them carefully from beginning to end, even though most of the pages have no pictures. It’s as if he just loves the way the words on the pages look, and loves knowing there is a new, untold story embedded there. I cannot wait to share all my books with him. I am going to try to be patient so that he develops reading skills at his own pace -- he is still reluctant. But I am delighted to know that when he looks at a written word, it no longer is a meaningless jumble to him. He knows how to decode it, and that seems like an enormous step to me.

Time Marches On

Lately, the pipsqueak has seemed so very big. He and the squeaker played in the playroom yesterday while I made dinner, and when I checked on him, he was sitting on the floor with this puzzle we have where the wooden pieces have a metal button on them, and you use a fishing pole with a magnet to lift the pieces. He was ever so carefully using the pole to lift the pieces, and he just looked like such a little kid, and not a baby anymore.

Yesterday, he also said "chocolate milk" very clearly, and then he looked extremely pleased with himself.

He is 21 months old now, and his second birthday is on the horizon. Last year when we went to the beach, he crawled around a bit but was mostly happy to sit on my lap. This year, he'll be running after the seagulls with big brother. Just one year. It's amazing what a difference that year makes in babyhood.

We've been getting rid of baby things that we have recently realized have not been used in months. Time to get rid of the crib, the glider, the playpen, the breastpump, the bjorn...I guess we'll be hanging onto the stroller, but that's about it. We use the wagon more often than the stroller, but it seems premature to get rid of the latter.

It is definitely bittersweet.

All the World's A Stage

Yesterday, the squeaker caught a frog. It was a teeny, tiny brown frog, and he was holding it when I got home from work. The pipsqueak did not like it one bit (“Scared!”), but the squeaker was ecstatic. I told him to release it into the woods, and I hoped it wasn’t too squashed. It’s important to me that my boys both love and respect the natural world and the living things in it, but I also don’t want to be draconian about that when good intentions are present.

The squeaker spent the rest of the afternoon as a frog, leaping around and looking for bugs to eat. The pipsqueak enjoyed telling the tale of the frog (“Froggie. Awww!”) but he left out the part about being scared.

We’ve been thinking a lot about things the squeaker can do – music lessons, foreign language classes, art classes, martial arts classes, and so on. He takes swim lessons and enjoys them, and swimming seems like a good activity for a child as uncoordinated as he is. His papa also got him a bike recently and we’ve been pleased to see that he can actually pedal it. Steering while pedaling still seems to be a challenge (we spend a lot of time watching him and yelling “Turn! Turn!”, and he did run over the pipsqueak once), but he is working on it.

I don’t really want to enroll my kids in a gazillion activities, but as long as whatever he does is meant to be fun and not too serious, I think some activities would be a good idea. However, he has absolutely no interest in music lessons (and virtually no interest in music, despite a family pedigree that would suggest otherwise). He is mildly interested in painting or drawing monsters, but art holds little appeal outside of that. I don’t think he’s quite ready for martial arts, though we will probably eventually do that because he is so very tiny (only 30 pounds) and some physical confidence would be a very good thing.

So lately we’ve been musing about enrolling him in some kind of drama program. It would seem to be a good fit for a child who is always pretending to be something or somebody else. I just don’t want to spoil his games of the imagination with too much structure...or self-consciousness. But I think he might like acting, and it would be nice for him to meet some other kids whose imaginations are such a prominent part of their lives. There is a little theatre program in the city near us, so I’m thinking that I might look into it.

Literary Pipsqueak and his Swashbuckler Brother

The pipsqueak is warming up to books. Last night, he wanted to read Does a Kangaroo have a Mother Too? over and over and over again....I think we read it six times. But he points to the cover and says “Kangeroo again?” in the cutest voice, so I could not possibly say no. Then we read Goodnight Moon, which we read most nights. Sometimes he really enjoys it, but other times he’s anxious for us to finish up so that we can snuggle and nurse. When he’s in a hurry, he’ll say, “Close it, close it,” to which I’ll say, “But we’re not finished yet!” Then he’ll whisper, “Everywhere!” This is because the last line of the book is “Good night noises everywhere,” the last word of which I deliver in a whisper, or so I realized after he started whispering the word while we were reading. I guess he figures that if he gets the last word in, we’ll be done reading, and he can nurse.

When he’s more patient, he’ll offer some commentary throughout the book. The cow jumping over the moon is “kicking,” so we pause while the pipsqueak kicks his own feet. The pipsqueak notices that the little toyhouse has a light on, and that is always worthy of comment. And he corrects me every time I refer to the kittens – “Cats,” he’ll say firmly. I am not sure why he is so resistant to having them called kittens, but he never misses a reference to them. He also likes the clocks in the books and will point them out, and I always pause for him to fill in what the old lady is whispering – “Hush!”

The squeaker has been reading the Spiderwick Chronicles with his papa. This means that there is a lot of discussion in our household about hobgoblins and griffins and swordfighting. He says he’s not scared, but I’ve noticed that he does routinely take his foam sword with him when he has to go upstairs alone for something.

Thinking about Loss

When I returned to work after the squeaker was born, I remember feeling heartbroken. I missed the warm, snuggly feel of the squeaker, his little round limbs, his smooth baby skin. My arms felt so empty – and my breasts uncomfortably full in a way that reminded me all day long of my baby. I worked with many women who had young children, and quite a few of them stopped by my office to see how I was doing and to let me know that while returning to work was so hard, it would get easier. I pumped milk three times a day, sometimes crying the whole time, and I rushed home every afternoon to hold my tiny baby boy close. I left for work in the darkness of early morning, desperate to return home by mid-afternoon.

One day, I remember sitting in the office of one of my colleagues; she was a few years older than I, and she had two daughters, the younger of whom was three years older than the squeaker. I told her that I found it wrenching to leave my baby every day and that I missed him so very much, and a funny look crossed her face. She seemed surprised that I felt such sadness and loss, and then she said, “I think having a baby feels a lot like falling in love. It’s so intense. But that feeling does go away.” And she said that last part as if it was a good thing, and I remember thinking how awful that sounded. How could I lose this love for my baby? What kind of mother would say such a thing?

But now I know what she meant, and I understand that it wasn’t a terrible thing to say at all. Once, I ached when I was separated from the squeaker all day. Now I miss him, and I am glad to be at home at the end of the day, but I don’t feel that acute, even painful longing for him. There’s a kind of synergy between a young baby and his mother that creates a feeling of oneness between the two of them; with the pipsqueak, I sometimes find it hard to remember where his pudgy little limbs end and mine begin. At night, his warm little feet brush against me, his fingertips rest against my arm, and sometimes in the middle of the night I wake to find his little nose nearly touching mine. I can stroke his soft dark hair, rub his tiny little feet, place a hand on his chest to feel it rise and fall.

The squeaker was even more snuggly. For the first four months of his life, he slept every single night on my chest. He was so small. I would hold him all night long. When he got bigger, I would roll him off so that he curled up right next to me instead. I remember how the squeaker would weave his tiny little hands in my hair, his little elbows and knees pressed against me, his tiny feet touching my knees even as we both slept.

Even in the daytime, mom and baby have a constant and interdependent rhythm, as meals are fed and diapers changed, with lots of hugs and kisses all day long and frequent breaks to nurse. A mother knows every inch of that baby’s skin, every curl of his hair, every quirk of motion. The pipsqueak is me and I am the pipsqueak, and when I pick him up and he rests his head on my chest, I feel complete.

I imagine that this is how it was for Maddie and her mom, and every day I read her mom Heather’s blog and I think about loss in the middle of that intensity between mom and baby. I look at my own baby’s smooth arms and round blue eyes, touch his warm soft skin, squeeze his little toes, and I think about that dark, unbearable, unfathomable grief.

I don’t think the pain of losing a child varies with that child’s age; each age must present its own unique kind of loss, its own special pain. I remember when one of my mother’s friends lost her teenage son to an allergic reaction to peanuts. He died in her arms, gasping for breath, while she frantically tried to open the packaging of his epinephrine shot. At his funeral, people whispered about when his mother might “get over it,” and they tried to comfort her by telling her she shouldn’t be sad because he was in heaven. I remember that such sentiments made my mother angry. “There is no other such sadness,” she said. “She’ll never be the same. It will hurt every day forever.” I had never thought before about how there are some losses from which we do not heal, and some hurts that we must somehow live with forever. We do not get over them, and they do not go away, though the nature of the pain may change over time.

Because the pipsqueak and Maddie were so close in age, I read about Heather’s grief and think about my own boy, my love for him, and the unique way that mom and baby are woven together at that stage of life. Because my colleague was right. A mother’s love for a baby has the intensity of a brand new relationship, the obsessiveness of infatuation, the delight and discovery of new love. As a mother, you see the future stretching out before your baby, full of possibilities and potential as this new person, this unknown personality, blossoms right in front of you. As the baby becomes mobile and language develops, each day you learn a little more about this new person. And as time passes, your baby begins to feel less like a part of you, and more like a separate person, an individual in his or her own right. Obsessive infatuation becomes the more comfortable love of knowing and appreciating this little person, this separate being. You can stand back and look at each other, and you both know and love deeply, but more quietly and evenly. More peacefully. That shift feels like a loss, because the intense love felt so good, but also a gain and a relief, because you discover the boundaries of yourself again and you learn to appreciate your little child’s own separate identity and personality which has been emerging all along, of course, but really takes off in the toddler years. It’s a revelation that underneath that intensity is a deep, steady love for your child that persists and grows even as the synergy that mom and baby have is changed by a toddler’s growing sense of independence and self-authorship.

Loss of a child at any stage would cause a unique kind of pain; when my mom’s friend lost her teenage son, I remember my mom feeling particularly sad for her because he’d been going through a rebellious phase and he’d been at odds with both his mom and his dad. If they’d had a little more time, said my mother, they would likely have worked through that, but because they hadn’t, the grief was compounded by a sense of unfinished business, the absence of reconciliation, the guilt of reprimands and hard line discipline in the midst of teenage angst. But a different stage of the parent/child relationship would only have presented its own unique grief, I think.

Thinking about loss – which I think must lurk in the back of every mother’s mind – throws the best parts of motherhood into high relief, and it makes the most mundane moments sublime. Life could be so different next year, next week, 10 minutes from now. There is a last day of your life, and most of us won’t know when that is. A last morning that you wake up. A last time that you get the mail. A last hot shower. A last time that you make love. A last time that you kiss the top of your child’s head. A last time that you see a fabulous sunset. It comes for all of us, sooner or later. And I don’t think keeping that in mind is necessarily depressing or morbid or dark. It just is. Knowing that gives the good moments a special sweetness. And I like to think that keeping that in mind gives the dark moments their place, which they will take regardless of our willingness. Somehow, acknowledging the dark moments seems to make them a little less scary.

Boys on Vacation

The squeaker wants to know why we don’t fall off the earth. He’s asked a lot of questions lately about why the moon changes, what makes day and night, and why the sun sets and rises. I’ve tried to explain, but I can tell it’s all very abstract to him. He’s seen globes, so the concept of a spherical earth is not completely unfamiliar to him, but he is struggling to make sense of it. Still, I thought his question was great, even if “gravity” is an unsatisfyingly mysterious answer. I will have to find a good model of the solar system for him.

Meanwhile, The pipsqueak is making great strides in the art of persuasion. He’ll ask for something – “Cookies?” “Nurse?” – and then he’ll add “please” in the cutest little baby voice if he senses any resistance at all. If the answer is still no, he’ll hold up one little finger and say, “Minute?” This could have many slightly different meanings – a cookie in one minute? Nursing for just one minute? But the general sense is clear – just a little bit, pretty please???? If he doesn’t get what he seeks, his little face just crumples, and he runs away, tears streaming, to throw himself down on the floor and sob, while crying “Sad! Sad!” Ever the expressive one, the pipsqueak has already labeled many of his emotions – sad, scared, mad – and he apparently feels each acutely. He is such a contrast to his reserved big brother.

We’ve been on vacation for the last week, and we spent some time at Deep Creek Lake in western Maryland. The location is very pretty, but so empty. I sometimes tell people we live in the middle of nowhere, but now that I’ve really been to the middle of nowhere, I am not so sure I’ll describe our area that way. The lakes were beautiful, but I kept longing for the beach. We stayed with my husband’s sister and her family in a cabin they rented and generously offered to share with us. She has a son who is just 3 months older than the squeaker. However, our boys didn’t really get along. They are different in just about every possible way. Their entire family watches a lot of television – as in they leave TVs on in their bedrooms 24/7. I could hear their TVs droning at 4 a.m. I don’t know how they could sleep! Perhaps because of TV, the squeaker’s cousins are more...I don’t know how to describe it...fractured, maybe? They jump from task to task frequently, and they have trouble focusing on any one thing. For example, neither of the cousins could sit through a full-length movie on a DVD. After a while, it didn’t hold their interest. It’s as if they aren’t used to actually focusing on what is on the TV because it provides a kind of perpetual background noise; periodically, they watch what is on the screen, and then they drift away to do something else while the TV drones on, and then their attention will eventually turn back to the TV. And they do this over and over again, day and night.

The squeaker generally entertains himself by becoming involved in some game of the imagination – he’s a T-rex, or a crocodile, or a bear. But his cousin found this kind of playing strange and dull. He kept saying that the squeaker played “baby games.” And the more the squeaker persisted in trying to get his cousin to play, the more his cousin pushed him away. The squeaker was puzzled and sad, which worries me a bit because maybe that’s how most kids will respond to his games. I am hoping that his cousin is an anomaly, but the squeaker is very naïve. We shall see, I guess.