The Grandmother Curse

All that hand washing is for naught - another 10 days of amoxicillin has moved into our house.

There has been an alarming trend of Addison being with a Grandma and then getting sick.

Last December we went to pick up Gramma Kathy from the airport for her Christmas visit and poor little lady came down with one of the nastiest rashes I have ever seen. February 2009, we were visiting Gramma Kathy and Addie came down with a cold, a fever and another rash from hell. What an enjoyable flight home.

This past August we spent a few days playing with Papa and Grandma Johnson in Chicago and Addie came home covered in snot and coughing like an emphysema patient. A week later she spent the weekend with Grandma Patty, while we played in New Haven, and came home sounding even worse than her visit with Grandma Johnson, not to mention she had a raised blotchy rash all over. Ooops, turns out she had walking pneumonia.

We dropped her off this Saturday for some quality Grandma Patty time (translate: we had a neighborhood party to attend that had TONS of "grown up juice"). When we picked her up on Sunday morning her nose was practically cemented shut with boogers. She was hacking up a lung, her eyes were glassy and her cheeks were red.

Today our wonderful, adorable doctor (who I wish was my friend and that we went out for wine together) confirmed that, once again, Miss Thang was sick. Ear infection. Yucky throat. Mucusy cold. Ten days of amoxicillin prescribed and a referral to an ENT doctor.

Nope, they don't want to shove tubes in her ears. They would like to rip her tonsils out. Sweet little girl has "kissing tonsils" or almost kissing tonsils. I guess her tonsils are on their way to first base, but just a little shy of making it. Those stinking tonsils cause horrid snoring, occasionally raspy breathing and apparently exacerbate her colds.

While she has inherited my amazing coordination and grace, it seems she has inherited her Dad's lymphatic tissue. Turns out sweet husband of mine had killer tonsils as a child - big enough that they made it hard to understand what he was saying (how hard is it, I ask you, to understand GO!TAR!HEELS!). His were yanked out.

And soon we'll find out if hers will be too.

Shhhh, the baby is sleeping

A big theme in our house these days is SLEEP. Or, more accurately, the lack there of it.

Don't get me wrong, at night we have been getting good quality sleep. Addie has been going down for bedtime without a fight - a few books, a song, a couple of cuddles and a rock or two in the chair, and waah laah - asleep.

Nap time, however, is a definitively different experience. It usually has a lot of No ninight mama. Nooooo ninight, pweeese. No nap mommy. NO NAP. Which is then followed by a lot of crocodile tears and pleading. Which is then followed by very slow process of picking out her nap time book. The book is then read. The songs are sang and rocking happens.
I get a hug and kiss and an I love you. And waah laaah - total fake out.

Almost every time, over the monitor I hear her talking to giraffe and pulling the musical toys that are still attached to her crib. I can hear roll around, play with her covers, and name the stuffed animals sitting on her shelf.
And then I start to hear the creaking.
Creeeak, crrrreeak, creak, creak, Creak, CREAK. The lovely rhythm of her forcefully jumping up and down in her crib. Creeeak, crrrreeak, creak, creak, Creak, CREAK. Creeeak, crrrreeak, creak, creak, Creak, CREAK.
And then the tears and loud pleas to. be. LET. DOWN. DOWN MAMA. Down Mama. DOOOOWWWWN.

Today after thirty minutes of my attempting to ignore her, I finally gave into her shrieks. I climbed the stair. I half stomped down the hallway and I opened her door.

Only to find my wide awake, overly energized daughter, jumping up and down, giggling.

Naked as the day she was born.

Not a stitch of clothing. On the floor around her crib - her pants, her shirt, her diaper.
On her face? A huge smile.

A reminder to breathe.

A reminder to revel in the little moments.

A reminder to slow down and take it all in.

Swinging in the front yard tree at the end of the day. Bliss.

Contentment

Sometimes, right as Andy and I are falling asleep, I like to wrap my index finger right around the end of his nose and then inform him it's the most comfortable I've ever been. He does not particularly care about my comfort and shoos my finger away, usually while grunting something in a grouchy tone.

Last night, and again tonight, while I Addie and I sat huddled on the couch reading bedtime stories, she leaned into me, reached up her left hand and held my chin between her thumb and index finger as I read. I shooed her away once last night, and right after she turned to me and said: "Cudd, Mommmmeeee, cudd" and then she sighed.

Tonight, when she reached up to hold my chin again, I asked her if we were cuddling...she said yes and sighed oh-so deeply and contentedly. I kept reading. She kept a firm grasp on my chin.
I realized, she might be feeling the most comfortable she has ever felt.

And I didn't shoo her hand away.

Shouldn't I have it figured out by now?

Last week my mom was in town. It was my chance to sleep in, to avoid poopy diapers, to drink more wine than I should, since I knew my mommy would take care of me and that tiny little person I am responsible for.

But I didn't sleep in.

I still changed diapers.

I did drink wine - but not that much.



I blew the perfect opportunity to recharge.
It's not that I didn't want to sleep in. It's not that I love wiping poopy butts. It's just that I apparently do not know how to take my mom hat off. I think it may be stapled to my scalp.



Is it just my issue, or do Mom's ever really take a day off?

It's not that I can't, it's that I don't know how.

Even when I have left town with Addie being cared for by Daddy or Grandma or Papa or Gramma or GG, I still find myself checking in a bit more than frequently.
A night out while she's being baby sat? I call to make sure everything is okay.
A night in? I still take a glimpse in her room before bed to reassure myself that she is breathing.

It seems an inability to not "mother" is hardwired in me.
Even when I think that I am not thinking of her, I am.
Wondering and hoping and worrying and thinking about her is like breathing to me ~ it's part of my daily routine.
It is totally unconscious, but completely necessary.

There are days when I find myself terrified by the gravity of being someone's mother.
It is my job to teach her to be a good and kind person.
It is my job to fill her confidence and curiosity and courage.
It is my job to make sure she knows how to put on her shoes, how to use a fork, how to walk down stairs and how to play nice.
It is my job to make sure she pays attention to the world and learn the lessons it is teaching.

How in god's name will I get this all done?

How will I teach her all of that and how to do a cartwheel?
Or throw a ball?
Or ride a bike?
Will I have time to teach her how to braid hair?
Or hold her breath under water?
Or how to whistle?

In all this teaching will I remember to let her play?
And makes mistakes?
And fall down and get hurt?
Will I be patient enough to not yell at her when I trip over her blocks for the fourteenth time in one day?
Will I be able to give her the freedom to mess up and disappoint me?
Will I be able to step back and watch her make a bad decision?

Ahhh, will I? Will I? Will I? Can I? Can I? Can I?

And then it occurred to me...my Mom let me navigate the world.
She held my hand tightly when I needed it, and she she gently pushed me forward when I needed it.
Because of her I know how to make a bed, read a recipe, problem solve, act silly, be kind, muster up some patience.
She put thousands of band aids on all my scrapes.
She survived dozens of emergency room visits due to my lack of coordination.
She let me climb higher than I should have in the trees, all the while hold her breath.

I survived it all. And so did she.

Addison will survive it all. And so will I.

Maybe I should not get so mired down in the checklist of things I have to teach her.
Maybe I should marvel at the fact that she can run. And jump. And climb the ladder to her playset.
Maybe I should be amazed that she knows how to share, and self-soothe, and ask for what she wants.
Maybe I should enjoy that fact that she likes to snuggle, and that she thinks books are cool, and is convinced that all animals want to be her best friend.

Instead of letting my "hardwiring" take over, I think I'll attempt to sit back and breathe and watch the wonder of this motherhood thing unfold.
Lord knows there are thousands of lessons coming my way...and I won't always be the teacher.

On occasion it will be my purple-loving, cat-kissing, puddle-jumping, mustard-obsessed, silly, goofy, loving little girl.


So Happy Mother's Day to me...to my Mom...to all the Mom's who have and are surviving the gravity of Motherhood...particularly to those of us who have taken a breath, remembered to laugh, and know that we have the most demanding, most exhausting, most incredible, most rewarding job in the world.