Megan Stielstra's Blog

Posted by Megan at 6:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

A couple of weeks ago I got an email from a friend. She and her family are going through something pretty rough right now, and she thanked me for blogging about Caleb and making her laugh, seeing as she's not getting much of the laughter these days.

I've been walking around with her words in my head.

Of course what I want to do is rush into a phone booth, put on my superhero suit and save her, and while I'm at it, save the world, but it's all just too fucking big.

And maybe it's the little things that mean more, anyhow.

SO. A little thing:

Dear T,

If I were there, here’s what we’d do: I’d pick you up in my jeep—I don’t really have a jeep, but since we’re in my imagination we get to have cool stuff. Like, let’s say I’ve already lost the baby weight (HA!) and am wearing Marc Jacobs and super-cool aviator sunglasses (usually I don’t wear sunglasses, ‘cause I sunburn easily, and one time in college I got a sunburn AROUND my sunglasses so there were these white raccoon circles around my eyes for three months and it really sucked so now I’m scared to wear them and instead I just squint) and you’ve got on a black vinyl catsuit (think Trinity) (unless you’d rather wear something else, in which case just email me and I’ll change it, ‘kay?) and also one of those Marilyn Monroe scarves around your head so your hair doesn’t get mussed in the wind ‘cause the top is down on my jeep and we’re going super-fast. So fast I left Caleb at home ‘cause even in my imagination it’s irresponsible to drive that fast with an infant (BABY ON BOARD! says the sign suction-cupped to the back window of my Honda—‘cause really I have a Honda—who DOESN’T have a Honda in Chicago? When I leave my house there’s like twenty cars exactly like mine parked on the street, and I say, “Dude, where’s my car?” and then I laugh at myself HAHAHAHA I’m SO WITTY!—because drivers in Chicago have a lot of road rage, yes, they do, and I don’t want any of them fucking around when Caleb’s in the car. So I hung the sign. Because that will, like, make them drive nice, right? Am I so gullible you can’t even handle me?), fast like Action Movie Chase Scene fast, and we both have our hands hanging out the zipped-down windows, our palms flat and pushing against the wind, and in my other hand I have an extra-large caffeinated frappucino with bourbon, which I guess means I don’t have any hands on the wheel then, right? If I’m pushing the air and drinking my frosty beverage?—So okay then, it’s a magic jeep, and I can drive it with my mind, or maybe the jeep can talk, like KITT and I can just tell it what to do, thus keeping my hands free for my caffeinated bourbon (I REALLY WANT SOME CAFFEINE AND I REALLY WANT SOME MAKERS MARK BUT CALEB DOESN’T NEED EITHER OF THOSE THINGS SO I AM PATIENT CAN YOU SEE HOW PATIENT I AM) and the wind beneath my fingers.

Anyhow, T, we’re driving these precarious winding trails through the mountains, past ginormous valleys and snow-capped peaks, and pretty soon we’re running parallel to a train (because in my imagination trains are on windy tracks through the mountains, FYI). At this point, you’re thinking we’re going to hijack it, right? We’ll get the jeep right up close and then we’ll jump aboard with some Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon move, and we’ll save whoever’s being held against their will or steal back the medicine that somebody else stole from some dying villagers. That’s what you’re thinking, right? WRONG! What we’re going to do is lay on the gas to go even faster. GO FASTER, I’ll tell the jeep. GO FASTER THAN THIS TRAIN! Our tires will be screeching, squealing, burning into the asphalt; your scarf will come loose and whip away; my coffee will taste SO AWESOMELY GOOD and soon we’ll be well ahead of that train, far enough that we can pull over, run to the side of the tracks and wait.

We’ll wait for it.

We’ll feel it coming first, the ground trembling beneath our shoes (GREAT shoes, of course, I’m thinking Louboutins but of course you can have whatever you like). Then we’ll hear it—the whistle, wheels churning on the tracks—and finally, there it is: the huge front engine, car after car behind it for miles curling around the winding tracks. It’s coming closer, faster, getting louder, louder, LOUDER, WE CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING OVER THE IMMENSITY OF SOUND and we’re so close to the tracks, our toes a few feet from the hammered metal, and when it passes us—that’s when we do it.

We scream.

We open our mouths and scream holy hell as that train pounds past—car after car and we scream and scream ‘cause there’s so much inside that needs to get out: anger and longing and no sleep and time moving too fast and sorrow and fear. We scream so long, so loud, it’s like our throats are bleeding, rubbed raw on the inside, and by the time the last car passes it’s all been drained, like we’re sponges squeezed dry. We sit on the ground, exhausted with the energy it takes to let go, and lay backwards in the grass. The sun is shining on our faces, and the backs of our closed eyelids glow red. There’s a breeze, and the grass is soft, and I move my arms and legs to make snow angels even though there’s no snow, and it feels nice to be so gloriously empty, so open for new things to fill us up, like spring and laughing and entire futures and amazing memories and past experiences and all the things we’ve been lucky enough to do and the knowledge that we still have, at the very least, this one day to live and remember and roll in the grass and drink good coffee and imagine.

After a long time, we get up. We go back to the jeep—except it’s not a jeep anymore, it’s something more practical (but still edgy. Like maybe an Element? Or a Rav 4? I TOTALLY don’t know cars) ‘cause Caleb’s in the backseat, strapped into his carseat and laughing in his sleep. We change into comfy clothes (‘cause couture and catsuits are, sadly, not for R&R) and drive down the mountain, still with our arms out the window but now the wind pushes the backs of our hands instead of our palms. After a half hour or so, we pass a little café with outdoor seating, and we order wine and watch the sun set over those snowcapped peaks, color exploding across the sky: yellow to red to midnight blue. I tell you then how sorry I am for what you’re going through, and that my thoughts are with you and your family. I tell you it SUCKS SUCKS SUCKS and nothing is fair and that SUCKS. I say words like strength and hope even when I know that lots of people have probably been trying to say the right thing to you, and there just isn’t anything right—so I stop talking and just hand you Caleb. He sits in your lap, his little fists wrapped around your thumbs, and the three of us watch the stars come out—stars for REAL, not like in the city where you can only see one or two but THOUSANDS, MILLIONS and it’s just. so. beautiful.

Posted by Megan at 12:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Caleb and I are up at random hours of the night, so I’ve caught bits and pieces of all kinds of cable.

Eighties movies—Flashdance, Airplane, Ghostbusters, Blues Brothers, The Lost Boys (like nine times I’ve watched The Lost Boys at three a.m.), Pretty in Pink (Dear Duckie, I love you) and The Goonies (Christopher and I play a drinking game to this movie: you chose one character, and recite their dialogue AT THE SAME TIME THEY DO for the entire film. Every time you screw up or miss something, you take a drink. Every time you get it right, the other person takes a drink. This works well if you chose secondary or tertiary characters [Chunk and Sloth are the favorites, naturally], but gets sloppy pretty fast if you pick Mikey or Bran [although who can resist the DOWN HERE IT’S OUR TIME IT’S OUR TIME DOWN HERE speech?]).

Infomercials—ShamWOW!

Soap operas—Luke and Laura are STILL ALIVE? How can they even justify that? Is it like Menudo, where the guys can retire and be replaced by new fresh-faced young things, thus deceiving the public that Menudo never ages, that their music is the sound of eternal youth were etermal youth to have a sound?

Charmed—it’s comforting that at any time of day, I can see Alyssa Milano’s hipbones.

Law and Order—Law and Order is on 24 hours a day. You know that super-dramatic two-note transition theme they’ve got? DUM DUM! I hear that in my SLEEP.

Last night, though, I watched something truly amazing: this HBO documentary on the Beslan Elementary School seige. I started it with Caleb, and then stayed up to finish once he fell back asleep (which is really saying something, people, ‘cause these days there’s not so much of the sleep in my house, so to give it up voluntarily is the biggest of deals).

Do any of you remember the Beslan school siege? A group of Chechan terrorists took more than a thousand little kids hostage in September 2004, holding them for three days before Russian forces stormed the school. Christopher and I lived in Prague during ’04 and this event received 24-hour nonstop coverage from the entire international news media, including the BBC and CNN International–

Sidebar: in case you didn’t know, CNN International and the CNN you watch are very, very different. As is Newsweek and Newsweek International, MSNBC and MSNBC International, etc. For example, in the months leading up to the U.S. election in ’04, all the media I watched and/or read (and not just Liberal sources, FYI. This is International sources I’m talking about, period) was so fervently anti-Bush that I didn’t think there was a chance he’d win. I can’t even explain the shock … it made me realize just how powerful the media really is. Our Czech friends asked, “How could America do this when the world is so against him?” and it’s like, how do you even answer such a question? Whatever, I’m not talking about Bush here (Dear Obama: Hi! Hi! Hi!), I’m talking about International media. Christopher and I sat in front of our TV for three whole days, watching breathless as the Russian government deliberted and the eventual, horrible climax of hundreds of children running to safety in their underwear, and at one point I called my mom back in Michigan. “Are you watching CNN?” I asked, trying to get a hold of my words ‘cause I was crying so hard. She turned it on and said, “Bill Clinton’s book was just released and they’re interviewing him.” That’s when I realized that there were things going on all over the world that I wouldn’t ever know about. God. That sounds so naïve, doesn’t it? And it’s like, D'UH. OF COURSE I KNEW THAT, theoretically, but theory and practice are two very different things. Exhibit A: having a baby. Exhibit B: writing fiction. Exhibit C: the media.

What I’m saying here is, I remember the Beslan siege as one of THOSE events, like September 11th, the Challenger explosion, when the US first bombed Iraq—like my parents remember the Kennedy assassination, maybe. I know where I was and what I was doing. I didn’t move from the television. I cried and hugged my friends and had this overwhelming appreciation for life and love and the air in my lungs and the color of flowers and the cobblestone underneath my shoes and my shoes and my feet in my shoes and the wonderful gift I had in enjoying these things for even one day more. Someday, when Caleb studies history in school, I'll tell him about my experience of THOSE events.

Flash forward to last night, me on my couch, watching this documentary where they interview the kids—some of the lucky ones who made it out of the siege alive. The kids take the cameras around the school—empty, blackened, untouched for four years—and point: this is where they held us. This is where they shot my mother. This is where we drank pee ‘cause there was no water, and it was so hot, and so many bodies crammed together, and everyone was scared. To hear these stories coming from children is the very definition of horrible; yet, at the same time, they’re so strong, those kids. Resilient. They’re still alive. One of them talked about how sad her little town was now. Everyone wears black, there’s no dancing, no laughing, and she wants to grow up so she can leave and find a place where it’s okay to be happy again.

Had I watched this documentary a year ago, I would’ve been affected in a very different way. I’d still be horrified, for sure, but I probably would’ve been focused on the film itself—how a piece of art is so potent; it’s a reminder of an event that the greater world can easily forget. How three years after the fact, such art is necessary to keep these events in the forefront of our minds so, hopefully, we can continue to dialogue about how such things can be avoided in the future. Or—and I’m thinking about Hurricane Katrina now—how the art can remind us that there’s still work to be done, to repair lives and communities. We need the art because the media moves on to other things.

But watching it now? When I have a little kid? After turning off the TV and going back to bed, and there he is next to me in the bassinet, breathing heavy and healthy and safe? I want to shake the walls, people.

Everything is different now: eating, sleeping, watching the news, walking my dog in my neighborhood, appreciating a piece of art, voting, writing, deciding what to write about, deciding what I’m willing to fight for—what battles I’ll chose, what dragons I’ll slay. What dragons I CAN slay.

Posted by Megan at 9:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Thanks so much to all of you who came out to Martyr's last night for 2nd Story at Story Week! We had an absolute blast, you guys were like the dream audience (by which I mean big, fun and tipsy!) and I drank a whole GLASS AND A HALF of wine! And wore HIGH HEELS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN TEN MONTHS! And MASCARA. Caleb didn't even RECOGNIZE me, he was all, who's THIS lady dressed all fancy? MY mom wears pajamas all day!

Someday, he'll learn that I'm sort of cool, right? Although, by then, all my cool stuff won't be cool because I'm his mom and moms inherently aren't cool. I'm thinking of this one time last summer: I was out walking Mojo and I passed this woman and her daughter. They looked out-of-place, like tourists: Mom in her late forties in head-to-toe GAP, her hair shellacked into place, obligatory fanny pack; the daughter maybe twelve in those Ambercrombie tight shirts and too-long cargo pants. She was NOT happy, the daughter. She did NOT want to be hanging out with her mom, that was for sure. She was waaaay too cool. Anyhow, they were standing in front of the Aragon, this rock music club across the street from my house, and the mom said, "Daddy and I saw the Violent Femmes play here one time!" and I'm like, No SHIT, you saw the Violent Femmes LIVE? but the daughter just rolled her eyes, like, Who CARES about the Violent Femmes! The Violent Femmes are so totally NOT Miley Cyrus or whomever the kids are listening to these days.

I learned two things from this incident:

1. Christopher and I can't be the one to tell Caleb about the cool things we've done. We're his parents, ergo we are dorks (or whatever the word will be when he's twelve. Back in my day it was DORK [which is a really weird word if you think about it. Say it five times fast: dork dork dork dork dork], but it's probably changed now. Anyone? What's the new word for DORK? Why don't I KNOW this, God, I'm ALREADY not cool and Caleb's only six weeks old!), THEREFORE, our friends who are cool will have to tell him we're cool, and maybe if they say so then it will be true. Jeff? Amanda? Michael? Dia? Make sure to tell Caleb how cool I am, 'kay? How I did this kickass show at Martyr's and felt like a total rock star 'cause I got to sound check and shit?(except don't say, "and shit," 'cause I don't want his kindergarten teacher to call me all miffed that my sweet little boy sounds like a late-night comedian).

2. He needs to learn, as soon as possible, how great the Violent Femmes are. That little girl who rolled her eyes? She should be FLOGGED.

Posted by Megan at 8:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I am SO SO SO excited for next week, like, three SO's worth! Story Week is one of my favorite times of the year--the Fiction Department at Columbia College brings in writers, agents and editors from all over for a week of readings, conversations and panel discussions (all free and open to the public) which culminates with Literary Rock and Roll at the Metro, which, in my opinion, is consistently the best reading I've ever attended, fun and shocking and thought-provoking and did I say FUN? Readings should be FUN! (Dear Dorothy Allison: that reading you did a few years ago at Literary Rock and Roll made me wet myself. It was, like, HOT. You made a READING sexy. I rushed home after that reading to have sex which is usually not what literature inspires but, by God, you'll change all that, won't you? You are my total idol). This year it features Junot Diaz (drool), ZZ Packer (drool drool), Aimee Bender (I want to BE her) and Hillary Carlip, a writer/performer who publishes Fresh Yarn (LOVE me some Fresh Yarn. Best personal narrative stuff I've read).

This year, I'm going to throw Caleb in the ergobaby and we're going to check some of this stuff out (Dear Caleb please be good and let your mom stay through Aimee Bender's whole reading), except he'll probably stay home and play video games with dad while mom goes to the Metro. I've gone to this show every year and all sorts of shenanigans not befitting a baby go down there, which I know 'cause I've taken part in some.

AND this year, and Ohmygosh this is so awesome I can't even deal, 2nd Story is opening Story Week with a free ALL AGES show THIS SUNDAY at Martyr's. I'll be reading along with Jeff Oaks, Sheree Grier and Bobby Biedrzycki, with music by dj white russian. This will be my first show and FIRST NIGHT OUT since Caleb, which means I will probably read, have half a drink and go home before I leak milk all over myself.

(was that too much? That leaking milk thing? Did I push it too far there?)

I'd love love love to see you all (three loves worth of love!)!

More information including schedules, location, bios, etc. is here.

Posted by Megan at 3:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

We've gotten all sorts of wonderful emails from people, asking about Caleb and checking up on us, and I'd like to thank you all.

Here are some FAQs:

Where’d his name come from?

Caleb is from Steinbeck. James is Christopher’s grandfather. Jobson is our name.

How’s he doing?

Awesome. Getting chubby (he better be. He eats like a champ, this kid, although sometimes it feels like I’m getting milk everywhere EXCEPT inside the baby). Last night (and I’m scared to write this ‘cause I might jinx it) he slept for FIVE STRAIGHT HOURS which, like, I can’t even explain the glory of that much uninterrupted sleep. As I type this, he’s chilling in this bouncy-baby-lounger seat. I set it on the floor, and bounce it with one foot while he checks out the apartment, and me, and the dog, and the air, and the plants, and the sky … all this new stuff. I’d kill a dragon to know what’s going on in his head as he takes everything in. Anyhow, this arrangement earns me an hour or so of writing time every now and again, unless he gets hungry, or poopy, or bored—whatever’s making him wig out at any given time.

For the record, this got a LOT easier as soon as I realized that sometimes he’s going to wig out for no reason at all, and instead of driving myself batshit trying to solve any and every possible problem—THE BABY IS COLD THE BABY IS HOT THE BABY IS TOO LOW TO THE GROUND HE WANTS TO FLY THE BABY HATES ME HE HATES CHICAGO HE HATES OXYGEN,—we ride it out. Sometimes, you just need a good cry.

Me AND Caleb.

How’s Christopher?

ME: I’ve been getting these emails from people asking how you are.
CHRISTOPHER: Tell them I’m doing great. Tell them I’m happy-thrilled to be a dad. Tell them I’m waiting for the weather to warm up so we can go on long walks to the lake and help Caleb with his first bicycle riding lesson.
ME: Shouldn’t he, like, be able to hold his head up on his own before you start talking bikes?
CHRISTOPHER: Don’t deter him.

How’s Mojo?

Wonderful. He loooves the baby. He stands guard at the bassinet. He wants nothing more than to lick Caleb, especially when he’s crying (he does the same thing when I’m crying, FYI). He is the greatest dog in the Universe and I want to give him bones and squirrels and people food under the table for all eternity to make up for the reduced attention he’s gotten as of late.

Since the weather is getting better (or, GOT better, past tense, ‘cause I read it’s going to be poopy again [I’m trying to clean up my vocabulary here, people, ‘cause we all know I’ve got a mouth like a sailor and I figure I have a year or so to forget certain words before my sweet darling son starts repeating whatever comes out of my mouth. While POOPY does not have the same weight as SHITTY, it’s a start. And, certainly, there’s been a lot of discussion in my house about poop as of late. “Did he poop? When did he poop? He POOPED!” are oft-uttered phrases. If Caleb was ready for his first word, it would be POOP for sure. Or maybe CALEBPLEASEGOTOTSLEEP. Or MOJO. Wouldn’t that be awesome? If his first word was MOJO? I should get on that.

Uhm, what were we talking about?

Oh yes, language] No, the weather’s getting bad) No, the weather’s getting better, so I put Caleb in the sling and we walk Mojo around the block. I am OVERWHELMINGLY proud of these walks. Funny, how taking my dog for a walk used to be the simplest of tasks: leash, plastic bag, let’s go. Now , it seems mountains must be moved to get out the front door. I have to DRESS MYSELF (‘cause who are we kidding, I’m lucky if I get out of my pajamas. Out of pajamas, face washed, bed made: if I can accomplish these three things in any given day, than I am successful indeed); get Caleb into the sling; get Caleb CALM in the sling; get Mojo’s leash on (bending over in the sling is sort of terrifying, and squatting after having an episiotomy is no joke, people. Happily, that’s healing nicely, and now I can get up and down with greater ease. Like, I REFILLED MOJO’S FOOD AND WATER BOWLS yesterday with Caleb in the sling, which involved squatting between floor and cabinets, and afterwards I looked around for applause. Or someone to give me a high five). I think he (the dog) knows I’m having a rough time of it, ‘cause he’ jumps on the couch and puts his front paws on the back cushion, thus bringing his neck level with my hands so I don’t have to reach down; time praising my dog and telling him he’s a genius for executing this couch manuevre to make my life easier, and sometimes tearing up a bit because he’s just so GOOD, and he loves me ALL THE TIME, and my baby only loves me SOMETIMES, it feels like; get into my coat; get down the stairs (we’re on a third-floor walk-up); and onto the street.

All this before we’ve even GONE ANYWHERE, let alone PICKED UP DOG POOP.

But, oh, getting outside is breathtakingly wonderful, and Caleb always conks out in that sling after fifteen minutes or so, and he’s such a little angel when he’s sleeping, curled up into my stomach, and having both hands free is a joy, and the dog is so happy to be out of the house—we just ooze joy, the three of us, when we’re outside. Even when it’s cold. Even when my pants fall down as I walk (‘cause, see, I still have that baby bump. This is one of the things they don’t tell you: you still look pregnant after having the baby for the first six weeks or so. There’s still a bump. Not as big as the nine-months bump thank Our Lord Jesus Christ, but big enough where you still need the Pregnant Pants instead of the Before Pregnant Pants, but—f’ing Catch-22— the Pregnant Pants are too big and they fall down. Which is fine in your living room, but not so fine walking down Lawrence Avenue towards the dog park).

For the record, I know all this gets easier. It takes practice, is all. It’s navigating an utterly new lifestyle, and we’re getting used to it.

So to answer the How’s Mojo question—he’s good, even better now that there’s sunshine.

I can say the same about myself.

What kind of music does Caleb like?

Christopher made the Caleb Mix: Juana Molina, Sigur Ros, Orba Squara, Iron and Wine, Ladysmith Black Mombaza. He falls asleep to that Brian Eno song, Music for Airports. Calm stuff.

Also, a neighbor gave us this musical seahorse development toy that makes ocean sounds and plays Bach. You’re supposed to have it near the crib and it’ll help put the kid to sleep. I’m not sure if it works for Caleb yet, but it sure the hell works on Christopher.

Also, I sing to him a lot (mostly so he knows where I am if I leave him in the bassinet or the bouncy chair, which you’ve got to do sometimes to, like, eat. Or go to the bathroom) and the songs that work best in calming him down—especially when sung repetitively in a very dark room—are My Little Buttercup, from the movie Three Amigos (?) and Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog (????).

Also, Christopher sings to him, too. A very spontaneous, inspired song called My Dad is Super-Great.

Have you had any Maker’s Mark yet?

HA.

No. Probably not going to do the bourbon while breastfeeding, but I’ve had some wine. My mom was here last week (Dear Mom Oh My God thank you for lifting the beaten shell that was my former self up off the floor and putting me back together) and on her last night she took the baby and pushed Christopher and I out the door. We went to this little French place in Bucktown and ate mussels and cheese and chicken and profiteroles and it was so good I thought I’d die. We ordered a half bottle of wine (the couple we used to be would kill two full bottles during a dinner like this, followed by cognac or Muscat or something) of which I drank half a glass and was TANKED. TANKED, people.

Gone is my tolerance, and it was an impressive thing, FYI. One that I worked hard over the years to cultivate, and while I have no doubt I can gain it back with diligence and fortitude, now is not the time for liquor. Not so much because of the breastfeeding (this is why god made pumps), but because the idea of willingly engaging in something that will make me MORE TIRED seems the greatest of all insanity.

So what products would you recommend now?

This question, I’m assuming, is in reaction to this post about STUFF, specifically what is necessary for a new baby. Which I didn’t know. ‘Cause I had no baby. But now I do, and while I don’t feel qualified to speak to babies in general I can certainly speak to THIS baby, because my life is currently devoted to his needs to the exclusion of all else. Including sleep. And personal hygiene.

note: my kid is five weeks old. I’m sure, were I making a list for an eight week old or a four month old or whatever, it’d be different.

1. Good Friends.

2. Lactation Consultant. This woman saved me. No joke.

3. Blankets. Cute outfits bedamned—our kid wears diapers and blankets. It saves time. There’s just. too. much. poop.

4. Sling. OHMYGOD I LOVE MY SLING. He falls asleep in the sling. I have my hands free in the sling. I can, like, brush my teeth. Change the laundry. Leave the house, go for a walk, buy a decaf latte, and, sometimes, write.

5. Chair. My kid likes to rock.

Do you get any writing done?

Sort of. A lot of journaling, for sure. I have about one tenth of the time I used to have, but I use it better ‘cause I respect it more. There’s no surfing the internet now, no dicking around—just getting to it because who knows how long I’ve got. It helps having shows in the future that I need to be prepped for (hint hint!).

Who does he look like, you or Christopher?

I’ll let you decide.

Caleb:

Christopher:

Me:

Posted by Megan at 6:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Posted by Megan at 8:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

It's always nice to hear stuff like this, but especially now, when I feel I've accomplished something if I can just make the bed, when creative problem solving involves figuring out how my kid pooped in my hair (his butt is down THERE and my hair is up HERE), when I feel light years away from that side of myself.

Thank you for the reminder, Dana. I needed it.

Posted by Megan at 1:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Caleb was born one month ago yesterday, which is definite proof that my condo sits on top of a space-time continuum.

One month? ONE?

Such a short period of time to have experienced so much: Joy. Exhaustion. Exhaustion. Frustration. Purpose. Guilt. Lovelovelove.

Such a short period of time to have lost my mind so thoroughly.

Such a short period of time for my life to have changed so completely, and not in any abstract, “Now I’m a parent and what does that mean philosophically” sort of way, but the very concrete minute-by-minute script of my day, my night, my week, my always.

I hope that later, when I look back on this month, I’ll laugh. I’ll have shed some of this New Mom unknowingness. I’ll have learned—from experience, not because other moms have said so—that this is all normal. “HAHAHA,” I’ll say. “That first month! What a riot!” ‘cause, granted, some of this stuff is fucking hilarious. Like this morning I had Caleb in bed with me, and he puked on the sheets, so I’m trying to strip the bed and he’s crying ‘cause he wants breakfast –I think? Or maybe he’s crying because he suddenly two days ago went from pooping nine hundred times an hour to only once a day in great mind-blowing quantities and does this mean he’s constipated? In which case how do I help him? I looked it up on the internet—warm bath, massage his tummy, pump his legs like a bicycle—and then call the pediatrician. I’ve got my crying son in my arms, the phone precariously balanced between ear and shoulder, the nurse is talking (“he’s not constipated,” she tells me.” Baby poop changes”) and about the time I notice I have puke in my hair the dog comes into the bedroom and starts to puke, also (is this sympathy puking?) at which point I hang up the phone, sit down on the floor and cry. But also laugh. ‘Cause it’s funny, I get that, but there’ve been other things that aren’t so funny, like we’re having a hard time with the breast feeding, Caleb and I, and there is nothing more demoralizing then not being able to feed your child. We’re working with a lactation consultant and are figuring ourselves out, slowly, slowly, but still: the mental job I’ve been doing to myself over this is the equivalent of taking an electric drill through the shoulder blade.

Something else that took me by surprise was the crying. Not Caleb’s—mine. There’s all these hormones, and no sleep, and I’ve lost it pretty much on a daily basis. I’ve cried in my living room, my bedroom, my car, my kitchen, Amanda’s kitchen, Jeff’s kitchen, the grocery store, the dog park, and the pediatrician’s lobby. I was filling out paperwork on our first visit, and there was this list of questions regarding the mother’s post-partum health, number five of which was HAVE YOU BEEN CRYING EXCESSIVELY, and I read that and immediately start crying excessively. In the lobby. With its colored walls and playroom and happy toddlers toddling around, and there I am crying my eyes out with Caleb sleeping at my feet in his infant car seat. The receptionist—and there should be a five-star hotel suite in Heaven for this woman—came over with a box of Kleenex, leaned over and whispered, “Look at the woman to your right in the blue coat.” I turned, and there was a woman, also with an infant car seat at her feet, crying HER eyes out. “Totally normal,” the receptionist whispered. “You’re all totally normal.”

Hearing that just about saved my life.

Posted by Megan at 1:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)