Selfless

A life-long friend, always Mary to my Half-Pint, the one friend my sister and I shared willingly over the years and who is still among the people I am closest to in the world, informed me a few days ago that she is eleven weeks' pregnant with her first donor egg cycle. This friend who means so much to me, who shared in my infertility struggles, knew all along that she would not be able to have biological children, knew she would have to go down the road even further than I, but never said a word. She comforted me, cheered me on and took joy in my success without a hint of frustration or jealousy.

I don't think I really understood selflessness until the babies came, and then it seemed like the overriding requirement, and the highest hurdle. But Suz, my good, kind friend, you are already there--you've mastered the hardest part of motherhood.

And then there was none

Has your milk ever taken a holiday? Just decided to kick off its pointy heels (its pointy shields?) and head to the a B&B on the coast for some relaxation and a good book?

Mine took off for parts unknown for one entire workday on Wednesday, one ten-hour workday in which I pumped for two hours and got about six drops of bluish, watery milk. It came back to work on Thursday but its mind was clearly still on the B&B's fluffy goose-down pillows, and maybe those crumbly cranberry-hazelnut scones. Its continuing lack of focus and productivity will be noted in its semi-annual review. Frankly, I question its dedication to the position.

Why? Why does this happen? The pediatric nurse practitioner, when I queried her today at Josh's five-month appointment, asked if I was getting enough sleep. (Lady, what do you think? I have an infant and a toddler and a career. Take a guess.) Her recommendation was to drink tea.

Now, I love her to pieces (for a whole variety of reasons that I would like to think are the just appreciation of her kind and attentive nature but probably have more to do with the fact that she always tells me that my babies are doing wonderfully and are so beautiful, even if I know she says that to every parent) but, really, tea? Is that the best we can come up with?

There's no real point to this. I know, I disappear for weeks at a time and then come back with something this mundane, but it's really got my goat. On that note, baaaa! (Or is that a sheep? I can never remember.)

I want a mini-break, too. And maybe a scone.

Things

In the long years before Olivia and Joshua, I would, not too often, let myself imagine who I'd be as a mother, the grand roles I would play, the different "me"s I'd be: a teacher and a student, doctor and nurse, maid and playmate, nurturer, rulemaker, enforcer, coach, comforter. To some extent, yes, I guess I am most of those, at least some of the time. More often, though, it is the things I am--the physical items I stand in for--that are the essence of who I am now, what my life is now.

Like today. Today I am Kleenex. I am also a hand towel, a doormat, a scratching post and a chair; a ladder, a radiator, an engine and a lift.

I am a garbage disposal, swallowing half-chewed bites of soda bread from my daughter's proffering hand. I am an uncomplaining post against which she leans when in need of a rest.

I am a Jack-in-the-box and a radio. A Crayon-hued canvas. A carousel. A conveyance. A Cuisinart.

I'm a barrier. A windshield. A purse. A pacifier. Food.

I am a soft, conforming pillow for a dreaming, peaceful boy. And I am his blanket.

I am all these things. Taken together, I suppose they are a role after all--the universal role of Mom.

The Great Divide

Joshua, hatless and swaddled in his soft green blanket, is snorining softly in his shabby carseat. He is two months old now. Olivia, still wearing a valentine-hued getup of her own choosing, is passed out in her crib. Her purple hiking boots, such a hassle to put on, were even harder to get off without waking her.

So, the kids are asleep. The kids, plural. I repeat that word to myself at night when I can't sleep, over and over, marveling at it and wishing I could make myself believe in its veracity. Soon, maybe.

There are days, today included, when we are a family of four. We went for a long walk together, ate lunch together, sang silly songs. And there are days--most, in fact--when we are not, when we are divided into our natural pairings. I am near constantly with Joshua, for reasons obvious and otherwise; when he's not working and she's not with a caregiver, Jeff is with Olivia. It is the pragmatic tack to take, the sensible way to handle the demands of two babies at once. And, it seems to me, a little sad and isolating.

Until Josh's arrival, Jeff and I marveled together over Olivia's every ounce, every sound. The shape of her head, the directness of her gaze, the curve of her mouth, the angle of her chin, the plumpness of her wrists, the timbre of her laugh. We had the luxury of being a team with a single objective, a single project. That project is now a blooming, determined toddler who needs a river of attention and energy--needs that are incompatible with the simultaneous care of a newborn. So she jumps and runs and paints and babbles and throws tantrums in the company of her father, while Josh and I keep to gentler activities in another room, and I marvel at his gaze and chin and wrists on my own. I have breakfast time with Olivia each morning and "special time" each evening--a time to do whatever activity inspires her at that moment--but it's not nearly enough.

When she falls down, the sympathy she wants is from her dad. When she masters a new skill, she wants his approbation. When she's full and still has food on her small plate, the mouth she wants to feed with her plastic fork is always Daddy's. Josh, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to be with me, to be comforted by me, to smile with me, and tracks me with his eyes regardless of whose arms are holding him.

It hit me hard the other night when I came in from a few minutes' play time with Olivia to find Jeff cooing and smiling at a burbling Josh. I realized that it was the first time I had seen Jeff look unreservedly delighted to be a father to his son, a delight I was so used to seeing him feel for Olivia. There was no taint of overwhelm or worry or exhaustion, no how-the-hell-are-we-going-to-manage crease in his forehead, no vague accusation in his eyes. Just delight. Pure delight.

I want more of that. I want Jeff to have more of those moments with Josh. I want more of those moments with Olivia. Some day, I'll probably ask for some of those moments between Jeff and me again, too, but I don't want to get that greedy just yet.

* * *

I realize that I haven't given Josh much of an introduction, and I want to give you a picture. He is an exceptionally easy baby. He eats, he smiles, he sleeps. He does not scream and spasm and shake after feedings, he doesn't need to be walked in endless loops through the house at 3 a.m. No GERD, no thrush, no ear infections. Not even diaper rash. In short, he is a delight, an unexpected counterpoint to the colicky misery of Olivia's first months. I am flush with gratitude.

The Adjustment

Several of you have been so thoughtful as to ask how Olivia is reacting to the new baby. I thought I'd answer it with a quote from today:

"No, Olivia, don't bang on baby brother's brain. It's not nice."

--Jeff, upon finding Olivia turned around in the double stroller, pounding gleefully on Joshua's fontanelle.

I have a post brewing on the unmerited cockiness of a second-time breast-feeder and the horrifying sight of your baby spitting up blood he ingested from your own nipple. But perhaps that is enough on that and I'll leave it there.