OPRAH!

I love Oprah Winfrey. I really, really do. But for as long as I’ve known him, because he is apparently not interested in living his best life, Cody has refused to watch more than 5 seconds of  her show. Even when Chris Rock is on. CHRIS ROCK! Okay, maybe he watched 30 seconds of that episode.

So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when Cody sent me the following email, regarding her decision to end her network show.

 

Subject line:  OMG!

Message:

http://tv.yahoo.com/the-oprah-winfrey-show/show/32704/news/tv.accesshollywood.com/tv.accesshollywood.com-harpo-president-confirms-oprah-winfrey-ending-talk-show-run-network-tv

oprah!  Why!

Then, when he came home from work, we had the following conversation.

Cody: [In expectant, "aren't-I-hilarious" tone] So, did you get my email?

Me: [In deadpan, unamused, "joke?-what joke?" tone] About Oprah? Yeah… Looks like I only have one more year to reach my goal of being on the Oprah show.

Cody: Better get out your vision board.

Stella hits the gym

Stella enjoyed her first Gymboree class ever today. By letting her go until 15 months without being enrolled in a “structured program”, I let her become a delinquent, apparently. Well I’m making amends! Not really. Stella’s just incredibly active and we were getting bored. I thought it would be perfect for her.

She just turned 15 months old yesterday. But mainly because she’s been walking for so long and is so good at balancing and climbing and other physical feats, I took her to a class for 16- to 22-month-olds, rather than the one for 10- to 16-month-olds. The woman at the front desk told me they were pretty flexible with the age ranges of the classes, which made me feel more confident about it. We arrived a couple minutes late and I was flustered and wondering if we should even be there, but the staff really put me at ease.

Stella watched solemnly from my lap for much of the time. Two teachers went above and beyond to assure me that it’s totally normal for kids that age who are new to the program to simply watch the others at first. Stella definitely stood back. She seemed awed, fascinated and, while not at all upset, a little nervous. She did explore a bit. She walked up some plank that you are supposed to crawl up. She jumped off a platform, went to town on a giant rocking horse contraption, slid down the slide, kept throwing two balls overhand at the same time with one in each hand (with impressive form, a small thing but I so appreciated it), and approached a couple of kids in a friendly manner.

I was reminded again today, in looking at the slightly older toddlers, how lean Stella is. She’s just as tall as they are, but appears small because she’s so thin. Perhaps that’s why she already seems like such an athlete. After all, her triceps are more defined than mine! (Okay, that’s not saying much.) While her eating has received way too much attention, I’m starting to believe that her build has less to do with intake and more to do with her insane activity level. I was reminded today that her leanness serves her well. Stella climbed up on a teeter-totter, with seats on both ends and bars across the middle. She climbed up onto it, unfazed by its rocking motion, and sat right the middle with her skinny legs stuck through the slats, arms outstretched and holding the side of the teeter-totter behind her, moving side to side. The teacher said she’d never seen anyone use it that way before. What a trailblazer!

At the very end of the class, as Jimbo the puppet said his goodbyes to everyone, Stella got up from my lap, ran away on her tippy toes and pointed at Jimbo. She was finally comfortable, and it was time to go. Of course. I had to peel her off of the rocking horse.

This could be the beginning of a lot of gym time for Stella, and I am prepared to be alternately dazzled and supportive.

Boots for standing up in

Babies and toddlers are social magnets. Compliments zing through the air to make their way to you. Strangers swoon in your direction. Silly commentary slides along the sidewalk and lands at your feet. It warms my heart to see people react in an open and friendly way to Stella and all children for that matter.  That’s the way it should be.  Children, especially little ones, are still deciding just what this world is all about and gauging their place in it. A warm reception to this planet is what they need and deserve.

But that magnet sure is powerful. I’ve noticed that once in a long while, a baby’s magnetic magic can draw out the ugliness in some not-so-well-adjusted folks, the ones who perhaps were not warmly received here on earth themselves. So, not all of our run-ins with people on the street have been positive. Maybe it’s because we live in an urban area, where there are many people living very close together yet somehow with much distance separating them.

I’m still processing what happened, but while strolling Ballard this morning, we had a disturbing run-in with two men. I really don’t want to ever repeat what they said, which apparently seemed to them to be a harmless, hilarious joke.  It was too disturbing. Beyond inappropriate. Pretty much unfathomable to me or any parent.

Here’s what I’ll say about the interaction. They said something friendly to Stella. They seemed happy to see her. I said hello on behalf of Stella and myself, Stella stumbled, they reacted in a jovial manner, and I smiled and moved Stella along. They laughed a little too hard as we walked away.

Then, a block or two later, I processed their jovial response. And I got the joke. And it was not okay, not remotely okay. And I’d smiled at them as we parted. Did they think I was in on the joke? Oh god, no. No, no, no. I turned around. They were nowhere in sight. I made a quick, admittedly unfair judgement based on the way they were dressed that (at that non-commuting hour) they may have been headed for the bus stop. Two or three blocks later, I found them there. I confronted them. I confronted them because it was not right in any way. Because that kind of bullshit toward children can not be tolerated, and because I desperately, desperately needed to defend Stella (and me).

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt as confident heading into any other confrontation in my life. I was so calm, so lucid, so certain of what I needed to do. With Stella in my arms, I approached them and said, “Excuse me. Did you make an inappropriate joke about my daughter?” There was a brief but possibly telling pause. Or maybe they were in shock. They denied everything, and explained what they’d said. They made very sad expressions. I looked them both dead in the eye, I told them I’d heard the joke and heard their laughter. Again they tried to explain it. I took in their solemn faces and their responses. I so, so wanted to believe them, but upon reflection, my gut did not. There was nothing more I could do, and it didn’t really matter. I’d done what I had to do. I told them, “Okay, I hope not. I’m a protective mom and I needed to stand up for my daughter.” The more vocal of the two said, “That’s good.” We turned and left them there, waiting for their bus.

This had not been on my agenda, but I proceeded to walk into the boutique behind the bus stop, where I bought a pair of ass-kicking Frye boots for me, and some rain boots for Stella. Somehow, it seemed entirely appropriate.

Moving on.

Look what Stella can do!

Stella says “Thank you.”

Originally uploaded by codatious1

I wanted to share a few of Stella’s latest tricks…

She not only uses the more sign (that’s old hat) but she says “more”, with the inflection of a question, while she does it.

She’s starting to string words together. Stella says, “Thank you!” a lot. We were at the park the other day, and saw a baby. When the baby was carted away in her stroller, Stella waved and said, “Bye, baby!” I also heard her say “Bye, daddy!” when Cody left for a basketball game.

She can climb anything: rocking chairs, pianos, couches, dining chairs, benches, parents, etc. The core strength required for this is impressive.

Stella’s been giving us kisses for a couple months now, but it’s starting to happen more and more often, and we relish it. The kisses are mostly tongue, and sometimes snot is left on my cheek, but I love them so much.

Stella refers to some of her books with appropriate words. For example, one of her favorites is called, “Is Your Mama a Llama?” She points to it and says “Mama” when she wants to read it. She points to “Daddy’s Girl” and says “Daddy” when she wants to read that one. She roars when she wants to read the book featuring a lion.

By now she can make a good number of animal sounds: pig (really sounds like sniffing as opposed to snorting but you get the idea); lion, bear and tiger (all are scruffy roars); dog; cat; snake; cow; bird. If you ask her what an animal says and she doesn’t know, she’ll make something up. To me, that’s just as fun to see as her getting it right.

Stella can point to her: bellybutton, toes, head, hair, nose, eyes, ear, and elbow, and she can say most those words too. If I say “cheek,” she’ll kiss me on my cheek, causing me to melt into a puddle.

She waves to random people on the street. Some people respond by brightening up and waving back. Some people don’t notice or pretend not to notice, so I wave back to Stella myself.

Stella is getting more demanding and can throw one heck of a fit. I refer to this development area as her “tantrum skills.” They are excellent, very advanced.

She says new words just about every day, even if she doesn’t use them very often. Hearing her say a new word never gets old. I can’t wait to have actual conversations with her.

Goodbye, breastfeeding guilt.

I destroyed the structural integrity of my boobs–what little there was–with an expensive, rented hospital grade breast pump in order to collect 500 ounces of milk that Stella would never drink. It sucked in every way.

Worse was the guilt and anxiety. None of it made any sense, but thankfully, it’s over. I was not able to breastfeed Stella past 11 and a half weeks and I am officially 100% okay with that. I feel a new sense of freedom and confidence. I really, really do. This can only be very good for me and Stella.

In an attempt to completely resolve any lingering bad feelings, I’ve been reading a blog called The Fearless Formula Feeder, where I found a link to this article in The Times. Against a backdrop of breastfeeding mania, this article is explosive. This exploration of the data (or lack thereof) behind breastfeeding’s benefits seems more comprehensive and credible and less emotive and debatable than Hanna Rosin’s notorious Atlantic article,  “The Case Against Breastfeeding”, which I also greatly appreciated. The bottom line is that it’s just not that big a deal. Breastfeeding is wonderful for some women and their babies, but its benefits have been greatly and widely overstated. Guilt and judgment toward formula-feeding moms has been unfair, out of control, and as it turns out, baseless.

I overthink things. So naturally, instead of letting go, I’d been doing a bit of research that helped chip away at my disappointment and breastmilk’s holy image. When you look closely at the actual studies, the mirage disappears almost completely. Of course there are some benefits to breastfeeding but they appear to be relatively small.  Furthermore, while there’s no way to know for sure, most of the benefits shown are likely due to the fact that breastfeeding moms are a self-selected population and are simply “the kind of moms” who tend to be more educated in general and in regards to childcare, more responsible, interested and engaged as a whole, and more financially ABLE to give their kids “the best” in many areas. It’s difficult if not impossible for studies to account for this.

The media tends to jump on any studies that suggest potential breastfeeding benefits, while completely ignoring the many, many studies that show no difference between breastfed and formula fed babies. Science has not been able to back up the “breastmilk as miracle cure” message. The main advantage of breastfeeding, in my experience, is that you don’t have to deal with the hassle of preparing and cleaning bottles, and you avoid the cost of formula. On the other hand, if you are frustrated with a feeding or parenthood in general, plastic bottles are great for throwing across the room–a major plus that can’t be overlooked. Ahem.

Like Rosin and the author of the Times article, the Fearless Formula Feeder is by no means anti-breastfeeding. She simply wants to defend formula feeders, and cleverly calls herself a “factivist.” It’s interesting to now look back and think about the “facts” I received about breastfeeding from all kinds of people and sources. I remember hearing in childcare and childbirth classes, in broad terms, that “breast was best.” This message is also plastered on every can of formula (thanks for rubbing it in, by the way). I was told that breastfed babies are smarter and healthier, and have better bonds with their mothers. More specifically, I heard that breastfed babies have fewer incidences of diarrhea and ear infections.

At the end of the day, I know my child better than any study. Here’s what I’ve experienced: Stella’s brilliant, ahead of the curve in every area. We share an incredibly close bond. She’s 14 months old and has never had an ear infection. And, drum roll, please… her eight-week bout of diarrhea STOPPED with her first bottle of formula. Just sayin’.

At this point, my only regret is that I didn’t stop breastfeeding sooner, so as to more quickly relieve her pain, prevent her feeding aversion, and end our stress and suffering. I was not able to stop until all hell broke loose and Stella wound up with a feeding tube. Why? Because of all the “facts” I heard about breastfeeding. It simply wasn’t possible that we could fail at breastfeeding, because breastfeeding is perfect and miraculous. I contacted a La Leche League leader and the very rude Jack Newman and several other breastfeeding experts over the phone or via email, and these well-known experts’ conclusion was that I must be doing something wrong. One supposedly all-knowing Ph.D. / IBCLC, after hearing the horrors of our situation, suggested, “Hold her more securely–don’t let her feet dangle. Babies need to feel secure.” If I could have punched her through the phone, I would have. Other high-profile experts said the problem was latch and that at Stella’s advanced age (10 weeks), it was too late to fix. This was stated with disapproval and disappointment, because clearly I hadn’t enforced proper latch. I cut out dairy and soy and tried even the dumbest suggestions. This led to a lot of crying and failure and desperation. To all that, I can now officially say, “BULLSHIT.”

I must  note that thankfully, at that difficult point in our lives, not all voices of authority shared an insane breastfeed-at-all-costs mentality. A renowned lactation consultant and a wonderful pediatrician helped me make the decision to stop breastfeeding. They said I may want to consider formula-feeding and that it would be okay. That breastfeeding’s toll was clearly too high, and that it simply wasn’t the be-all-end-all of child health. I didn’t believe them at first. But eventually, I was able to do what was best for us. I will always be grateful to them for being so sane, for being a voice of reason and compassion not just for Stella but for me, too. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

All is not lost.

How can a mere misplaced item spark such rage?

This morning, I could not find:

• My boots. The ones I wear all the time. Eventually found them in the front closet with the rest of our shoes. I’m pretty sure Cody put them away just to mess with me.
• Stella’s right shoe. It was nowhere near the left one. Later discovered in a far, dark corner of the living room between our hutch and the wall. Of course.
• The ERGO carrier. Turns out it was in the same place as always.Where it belongs. In the kitchen by the back door. Hadn’t used it in a couple weeks, and it hadn’t moved in that time.
• My mind. Still looking.

Minor inconvenience? To most. For me, it resulted in clenched-fist fury! I could not see straight, which only made the hunt more difficult. I was so angry, because we’d already been awake for two and a half hours without doing anything semi-productive or quasi-enjoyable (productivity is  not how I measure a morning, trust me) aside from picking at breakfast. Where do those hours go? I remember reading Stella a few stories, which slowed down my post-breakfast clean-up efforts. Then I sort of just hung out with her on the couch in the office for a while, helping her do somersaults–she recently figured out how to climb up on the furniture and treats couches as gyms. At some point, I wet my hair and dried it about halfway so I didn’t look quite so nuts and disheveled. We brushed out teeth together. I rinsed off my face, which is close enough to washing it–I’m out of cleanser and moisturizer and resorted to using olive oil last night. From the permanent pile of clothes on top of my dresser, I unearthed yesterday’s jeans and deemed them clean enough to wear. I cobbled together an outfit for Stella that passed my minimum cuteness standards. I packed a makeshift diaper bag with the bare essentials. And that’s precisely when steam began pouring out of my ears as I tried to pinpoint the location of our footwear and ergonomically superior baby backpack. Of course, as I searched high and low for these items (ie looked in the same potential hiding spots over and over again expecting them to suddenly appear), Stella grabbed books, brought them to me, tugged on my pant leg, and cried. The entire time.

At one point during the morning’s madness, I actually stopped and listened to what I was saying to myself. I’m pretty sure I called myself an idiot about a dozen times, not to mention a frighteningly disorganized failure and lazy mom whose shoe-losing ways are no doubt eroding Stella’s potential and endangering her even foot development. And to make matters worse, I’m pretty sure that the stack of thank-you cards on the bookshelf, with names written on them but no addresses, looked at me and nodded in total agreement with these negative thoughts. Not only is my mental dialogue insane and uncool, it’s melodramatic.

I have phases where I get so down on myself so fast. Examples abound, but Facebook comes to mind. I want to quit Facebook, but can’t. I’ve noticed that the oh-so-sunny and wonderful virtual representations others create of themselves using pictures of their gorgeous new homes and perfectly happy children and new cars and other symbols of “success” lead me to feel crappy.  Don’t get me wrong, if we owned a lovely home, I’d be showing it off for sure, because due to the hard work and pride naturally involved. But status updates like, “Feeling so grateful for my life. Everything is wonderful!” kind of make me want to vomit, especially when posted every other day. I hope that these are genuine expressions by well-intentioned people, but come on! No, Facebook is not all bad. I do enjoy some fun banter with Facebook friends which helps me feel less isolated, but sometimes, I log off feeling “less than.” It sucks. I’m reminded of a brilliant quote along the lines of, “Don’t compare your inside to someone’s outside.” I try to keep that in mind, but it doesn’t help. I’m holding myself up to some high standards, and I’m not sure they’re even possible to meet.

Well, after a couple of emails to my husband, who has nothing better to do at work than help me find things that are right in front of me, I found all the “missing” stuff. Almost three hours after waking up, Stella and I headed downtown on a birthday mission for Cody. He turns 38 today. Happy Birthday, sweets! (I’ll report on the birthday festivities once they are complete, this weekend.) While he and Stella attend Waterbabies, I’ll be cooking a German feast for him, with ingredients sourced from Pike Place Market, to be followed by his favorite dessert in the world: Dahlia’s coconut cream pie. We won’t eat until just after 8:30, when Stella goes to bed. You know, so as to spend more than five minutes with a meal.

Our morning completely turned around once we were out and about. Funny how that happens. Stella clearly loves Pike Place Market, and being downtown with all the people, sights and sounds, and I love that about her. We had a fabulous time. The ladies at the bakery were fittingly sweet. We snacked on Dahlia’s sour cream vanilla bean coffee cake and sampled organic plum and pear. We stopped to listen to a piano man, and Stella particularly enjoyed (judging from all her bouncing) the old timey tunes by The Tallboys. One of the gospel singers that are stationed near the original Starbucks cheerfully called Stella “a bottle o’ joy” and pretty much made my day with his enthusiasm. Stella took a stroll down the less-busy Post Alley, where she tried on some boots and an old woman in a tall leopard-print hat stopped to chat with her. We watched and waited as someone spent about $500 on ingredients for an Oktoberfest dinner at Bavarian Meats Delicatessen. I was inspired but all I had left on my list was swiss cheese for spaetzle. On our way out of the Market, I grabbed some plums and pluots and Stella and I shared a smoothie in which every single ingredient was grown at a local farm. They use their own cider as a base and Stella and I agreed that it really worked.

Then I saw it:  the parking ticket. We were ten minutes late. But to my surprise, fire did not shoot out of my eyes. I simply didn’t care. We lingered at the car, continuing to enjoy our smoothie. It dawned on me in that moment to appreciate how content Stella had been throughout our long-ish adventure. It was worth an extra $25.

This calls for a new Facebook status: “Wow, what a fabulous morning. Life is good and I’m truly blessed!” Gag me with the truth.

My other baby

Sweet, sweet coffee, I love you.

The unnameable, rambling post about mommy blogging, growing up, and all that is sacred about parenting, with a special shout-out to Oprah, Heather Armstrong, and Stephanie Nielson. The end.

In our pre-Stella existence, with all our disposable income and endless free time, most of which was spent dining out, Cody and I faithfully attended Bumbershoot. My favorite performance by far was Public Enemy, though we saw a lot of big names along with some fabulous unknowns and rising stars. To us, the festival was not just about catching bands but also comedians like Patton Oswalt, who remains a favorite of ours. During one particular show, he spent quite a bit of time interacting and improvising with the audience. He saw that someone brandishing an inflatable sword and, of course, engaged him. The dude answered Patton’s question, then launched into some rambling tangent (similar to this blog post) about medieval history and how he has studied it for years, yada yada yada. Patton listened for a minute or two, clearly amused, and then perfectly delivered one of the best lines I’d heard in a long time, “Save it for your blog, man.”

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t even really miss Bumbershoot. It got too crowded and annoying. Or maybe we got too old. Either way, we’re not hankering for the music festival experience. Not at all. Though, I hope to someday we’ll attend such events, as appropriate, with Stella when she’s old enough to get something out of it. These days, I’m home with Stella every day. I tackle  freelance writing projects during her naps and after she goes to bed. In the little spare time that I have, I don’t really know what to do with myself. So, usually, I waste it online. Brilliant, I know. I bet you wish you thought of that! Really though, I’m used to sitting at a computer for ten hours a day. That’s what I did at work for the ten years before Stella made her grand entrance into the world and our lives. So, I try to cut myself some slack and think of it as a process of breaking old habits. Slowly, I’m spending less and less time on the computer. And it feels good.

Blogging is also an online spare-time activity, but I’ve been reluctant to do it lately. Blogging started out as a way to celebrate and find humor in our parenting journey, and to share milestones and memories with family members, all of whom live so far away. Then Stella had her feeding issues and  the blog mainly became a form of therapy for me and a way of possibly helping others going through the same thing. And I enjoy writing. It’s my profession, and how I am best able to express myself.

Then I saw this National Post article by Christine Rosen, a scathing indictment of the mommy bloggers and so-called “hipster parents” of today.  Rosen claims that many parents today are hipsters, permanently stuck in adolescence. She observes that coolness and self are our top priorities rather than the needs and development of our children. Rosen blames this on the fact that we were the first generation to be bombarded as children by well-intentioned commentary about our uniqueness, how special we are. (Praise without actual achievement, she reminds us, has been shown to undermine self-esteem.) And so, today’s parents dedicate our lives to proving that point right. Our children are left by the wayside, merely pawns in our efforts to feel good about ourselves.

Now, I could hardly be called a hipster. Hey, I’ve only bought TWO (or five or six) things on Etsy.com. I drive a tan Ford Focus. I’ve never, ever been considered “cool” and working at an ad agency confirmed that beyond a shadow of a doubt (though I know am good at what I do). Sure, I’ve made attempts to be stylish–I even wear not-too-tight skinny jeans sometimes–but I’m pretty freaking mainstream in my Banana Republic cardigan. I “given up” Bumbershoot (though, as I said, very voluntarily) and many other activities from my pre-parenting days. Yet, I felt a sting when I read Rosen’s article and couldn’t help but feel it was at least partially directed at me and other moms who find mothering challenging, even painfully difficult at times, and aren’t afraid to say it.

After seeing, in that article and elsewhere, harsh attacks on the most famous mommy blogger (I know, I hate that term, too!), the bold and hilarious and honest Heather Armstrong of Dooce,  I began to feel more self-conscious about blogging. Even a sense of dread. I’d worried about posting our names and pictures online, because you just never know who’s looking. It’s scary. I wish I’d never posted my last name–a mistake made in the fog of new parenthood, I suppose. At times, I noted that I was writing more about my own feelings than Stella’s experiences. I was aware of this, but conflicted–maybe it was best not to share too much of Stella’s life with the world? Maybe I should stick more to my own stuff? With all of this swirling in my mind, I thought about taking the blog down, and did a bit of soul searching. Was there any truth in Rosen’s article? I had to investigate. And I realized something.

I was not a grown-up until Stella arrived. That much is true, Rosen. But I that’s about it.

This will sound familiar, perhaps. Three or four times a day, I get down on my hands and knees and clean up the five square feet of food debris that was left behind by Stella, as if a miniature pasta squall hit that area of the kitchen, and then I wipe down the high chair tray. Then the table in front of her chair, because the edible storm inevitably spills over. This act is one small example of the million little chores/rituals a parent comes to know. And I have to admit, that until recently, I really only thought of it as a drag. A pain in the ass that I would often put off for a little while. That’s not really true anymore. Something has shifted. And I think it had something to do with an episode of Oprah, the one featuring Stephanie of NieNie Dialogues.

Stephanie is a wonderfully positive, sweet, talented, and popular mommy blogger who, about a year ago, suffered severe burns on 80 percent of her body when the small plane her husband was co-piloting crashed. As viewers, we got a glimpse into her daily life, how she struggles with intense pain and can’t pick up and embrace her children, yet she continues to enjoy, relish, and appreciate the big and small tasks of motherhood. My revelation crystallized when Oprah said, to a mother who’d been feeling really resentful and bored by her role as a stay-at-home mom, that making lunch for your child, along with all the other duties of motherhood, is sacred work.

It hit me. I saw the frustration, complaining and, yes, boredom I’ve experienced over the last year in a new way. I’m evolving, slowly and, in my typical style, awkwardly. I am becoming a much less selfish person. I look back at some of my behavior from the days of Stella’s tube feeding, and I feel so sad. I was so worried about her, I couldn’t see straight. Mostly, my love for her and desire for her to be healthy and at her best drove my emotion and reactions. But I think there was a small part of me, I’m ashamed to say, that also saw it as an inconvenience and as a way in which Stella was “not right.” Man, I’m having a hard time holding myself together right now.  I think my panic was somewhat to blame on immaturity and impatience, and because I was unaccustomed to real sacrifice–certainly not the level of sacrifice that our situation demanded. I made the sacrifices. In fact, I went over the top. But I suppose I didn’t handle it very well at times. I’ve just begun to reassess that time in Stella’s life and my own, and there is still more to learn. It’s eye-opening, to say the least.

I saw meal time, until recently, mainly as a source of stress, instead of the privilege that it is. The fact is, I get to be with, eat with, and play with Stella every day, all day. Yes, I need a break now and then to re-charge. And some major financial sacrifice was made in order to achieve this arrangement. But we are *just* fortunate enough to make it work, mainly because before Stella’s birth, we paid down all our debt and saved most of a down payment for our first home (still renting at the moment). Many mothers have absolutely no choice about whether to stay home with their children. I had a choice. So I get to make all of her meals, clean up after her to make sure she lives in a safe, tidy and pleasant environment, read to her endlessly, and see her smile a hundred times a day. (Her smile is a heat source, I swear. We no longer need to use our fireplace.)

Side note: Self-consciousness is kicking in again. This entire post, especially what follows, may come across as cheesy. I know I have a tendency to do that but I can’t help it! I’m not looking for sympathy or anything like that, just expressing myself. God, look what the haters have done to even us unknown mommy bloggers. We can’t say anything without over-analyzing and second-guessing our feelings and writing.

Last week I began to say to myself, whenever I felt reluctant to do my big clean-up during Stella’s long mid-day nap, “This is sacred work.” I said it again and again, and it took root.  Bouncing her to sleep until our backs ached, inserting her NG tube, blogging about her adventures, the tough but ultimately necessary switch to formula, making her favorite pasta and beans, wiping smashed banana off her car seat, changing her poopy diapers… all the work I’ve done for Stella has been sacred. My life isn’t all about me, anymore, and frankly, it’s refreshing. Of course, there are still times when I think I’m going to go mad. I’m not a monk. (Stephanie, though Mormon, may secretly be one, however.) But I look back on all of these experiences with such fondness and from a whole new perspective. I am very lucky. I knew it all along. But now I really feel fullness of this truth.  And yes, I’ll save some of it for my blog.

Stella for President

Please nominate “The Life and Times of Stella” in The Bump’s Mommy Blog Awards (in the “Best Baby Blog” category)!

Yep, it’s a long shot. But we could use the $1,000 prize to recoup our losses. Hypoallergenic formula and therapy are expensive, y’all.

Thank you for your support. If we win, Stella promises to deliver successful, bipartisan healthcare reform.

3 reasons to smile

Stella’s Auntie Corinne (my youngest sister) and Uncle Colin (the duo also known as “C squared”) flew in from Boston for a few days, but now they are gone, and Stella and I are suffering from withdrawal.

Just before C and C’s arrival, Stella’s stranger anxiety went through the roof. As we entered the park a few days ago, we saw a couple approaching from the opposite entrance, all the way across the green expanse. Upon spotting them, Stella retreated to her hiding post behind my knee. She remained there until they passed, which took a while, and eyed them intently the whole time, eliciting a laugh from the two suspicious characters. In light of experiences like that, I was wondering how quickly she’d warm up to our house guests, whom she hadn’t seen since April. Well, five minutes after they arrived, she was doing stuff like this:

Kicking back with C squared

I think they share some kind of bond. It was a given that Stella would take to Corinne, having spent more time with her in the past. But I was impressed by how she fell in love with Colin. They really connected. But then again, come to think of it, these three have something in common. They are survivors.

At one point during the visit, Uncle Colin carried Stella up our steep front steps, of which there are many. This brought tears to my eyes. In fact, this was never supposed to happen. Colin is lucky to be alive. A couple years ago, he was in a devastating single-car accident. To keep him alive, they had to pump more blood into him than the human body actually holds. He was told he’d never walk again. His spine literally moved sideways within his body, and that was just one of many horrific injuries. From the blog that documented his incredible recovery:  “Colin has endured four very difficult surgeries: one to remove a portion of his lung torn from broken ribs and to stop internal bleeding, two back surgeries to repair the spinal cord and stabilize shattered vertebrae, and a fourth to mend three breaks in his right arm.”

During their visit, Corinne thought back about their natural defiance, their bold assumption that he would indeed walk again–their refusal to accept anything else. After waking up from the surgery on his spine, Colin was asked to move his toes. To everyone’s astonishment, he could. The doctor blew it off as spasms–he told them not to get their hopes up, that Colin would not walk. But C squared knew spasms could not explain this on-command movement. They KNEW he would walk again–in fact, they thought it was obvious. Corinne laughed on recalling it: “We were like, ‘he can move his toes!’ DUH! He’ll totally walk again, no problem!” In hindsight she realized that the leap from slight toe movement to walking again was Grand-Canyon-sized. But the important part of all this is that they had hope. Hope! Hope is huge. Hope is what makes us and keeps us human. Granted, it was a very, very long road. Colin worked his ass off. They fought insurance battles and had about a year’s worth of dark days, but they knew he’d get there. Against all odds, and with the support of the community that rallied around him, he did.

Oh, did I mention that Colin’s accident happened five weeks after their wedding? And a several years after a sleeping Corinne rolled out of her third-story dormitory window, cracking her skull and vertebrae, and shattering her arm? She sat in the gutter alongside the building until someone heard her moaning in pain. I remember the moment I got the news about Corinne’s accident and how I could not breathe. I remember flying to Boulder, Colorado to see her, and wishing with all my might that I could trade places with her yet being blown away with how strong she was during the recovery process. And I recall feeling similarly sucker-punched when I got the call about Colin, whose life was dangling by a shredded thread. Those are those frozen moments that stay with you–slaps in the face that keep you from sleeping on the job of life.

While not really comparable to the life-threatening injuries Colin and Corinne endured, Stella went through quite a bit in her first year, the lowlights being a scary feeding aversion, blood in her diaper, and The Tube. So when I saw Colin, Corinne and Stella all together, happy and healthy, I could not help but feel amazed, and overwhelmed with gratitude. Miracles do happen, and my family is proof of that. I could not be more proud.

"Just tell 'em we're survivors!" (I love these three people and, I'll admit it, the movie "Cars.")

P.S. I’m also thankful that we had gorgeous, sunny weather for their visit. “C squared”, being bionic and all, have enough metal in their bodies to shame Wolverine. Their joints get uncomfortable as rainy weather approaches in the distance–nevermind when gloom settles in for days on end. It will surely descend soon, but Colin and Corinne left enough of their light to keep us going for a while.

P.P.S. Corinne and Colin helped Stella embrace her sippy cup. This is also a miracle. Trust me.