burning bridges and other more celebratory sentiments.
La Critika, thanks for the sound advice. I refrained from the email, so no written record, but much of the sentiment of the last post was conveyed over the telephone last night. Not pretty. Especially when C. was discussing the plant-repositioning issue with the landlord and I demanded that he hand me the phone. At one point the landlord "claimed" there was a bad connection, but I think he was just scared, as in "when I rented this place to a Kiev-er, I never thought she'd get all post-Soviet on me."* The upshot is that the plants can stay in the sun. And: we/I may have burned a serious bridge--the bridge to homeownership--because should we decide to put in a bid on our place, there's just about no way he'll sell it to us. Unless he really hates us and sees saddling us with an unrealistic mortgage as the ultimate comeuppance.
Anyway, it was a great way to relieve some tension, and now I feel very calm and centered and prepared to enjoy the day. That's right, it's my birthday. There was a beautiful plant on my desk this morning, a box of chocolates and my coworker bought me a latte. Off to a good start.
*I don't know what I mean by that.
defending the turf
Stop me from sending this email...
Dear Landlord and conspiring Realtor:
I accept that use must invade our home (we may not own it, but it is still our home) with your inconvenient open houses, and I assume that you accept that we will not "stage" our place to accommodate you. All I can promise is a flushed toilet, no underwear on the floor, and about half of the dishes done. You may also notice that many of the dirty dishes are filled with water because the faucet has leaked off and on for years. Oh, and that brown water spot on the washing machine--I will not wipe it up like I normally do because I want prospective buyers to see how the pipes leak from the "quaint mud room" upstairs. I don't expect this will affect the sale of the property because I know you expect your buyer to have vision, so much vision that they might even see a garage and a parking spot where there is now only a basement. In return for our tolerance, I would like you to refrain from repositioning my plants. You have already destroyed our garden, our vegetable boxes, the mini-yard we planted for T., and all of the other happy little volunteer plants we cultivated. You had no respect for the money, time, energy and general karmic good will we imparted to our little patch of earth, and that hurts. As a result, again, I ask that you stop repositioning our potted plants. They sit where they are to take advantage of optimal light conditions. If, however, you must move them to achieve some sort of open house feng shui, then at least move them back to their original positions before you leave. And just so you know, no one is going to bid more for this place because our plants are placed symmetrically around a concrete slab next to your crap-ass new sod and cheap, overgrown tropical houseplants.
Sincerely,
the tenant
becoming the mother of a one year old
One.five weeks and two teeth (one up, one down) later, and we're almost back to normal. The recovery from our trip should make me want to hibernate for a while, but instead my thoughts and energies are turning to the upcoming anniversary--in three weeks, the little dottir will turn one. Aside from the more ponderous thoughts of having my little fur creature, as we've come to call her, round her first circle, I'm more and more excited about what her birthday means for me, for my time and my space and my body. I don't mean that to sound callous, but ever since we returned from our travels, I've been obsessed with weaning (when to do it, how to do it), but as the days pass, I've realized that I'm not all that interest in weaning T. per se, I'm only interested, you might say focused strategically, on weaning myself from the machine. I cannot wait to sever my relationship with that blasted pump 'n style. I have a small hand-drawn calendar taped to my desk and at the end of every day, I make an "X" to represent one less day of pumping. I've calculated how much frozen milk I have stored and how I can gradually cut down my pumping at work while using up the stores, all to reach the finish line precisely on May 3rd at which point, T. will gladly accept a full sippy cup of Strauss organic cream top milk at daycare.
I know it won't be as scripted as that, nor do I want it to be, but I really do want to bid farewell to the pump. Really. But, as the days go by, I'm less and less sure about weaning overall. Last night was the first night that I wasn't home in time for bedtime, wasn't home in time to nurse T., and the thing is, it's all fine. C. put her to sleep and I had time to write this. It's pretty excellent, but also really humbling. It reminds me of when she started on solids, but now my role as nutrient-provider will be diminished even further.
Some days I think about how I would describe nursing to someone who's never done it. It's impossible to do without falling back on some biology 101 concepts. It feels primal, but totally right, something in the realm sex--both logical and ridiculous, possibly embarrassing, strange at first in the out of doors, but then a nice mix of defiant and refreshing and exhilarating. On other days, the days when I can't get to the pump room on schedule, the days when I'm late to pick T. up, it feels like all the bad parts of being human rolled into one--pain and doubt and anxiety and well, heartbreak. That's when I can't imagine weaning any time soon.
So, for the short term, the machine, and the longer term, time will tell.
taking the "break" out of spring break.
I'm sure we'll learn this lesson many times over--a vacation with baby is not a vacation from baby. Like a scene from some survivor episode, removing the baby from all that is familiar, and replacing the safe confines of home with 15 hours or so of flying time, a harsh tropical sun, perilous cliffs and dangerous insects proved to be a bit of a challenge, but we've returned safely and are dealing with an airborne-defying cold and some serious jet lag. Fortunately the stresses of the journey are fading and the digital smiles are firmly taking root in my memory so that by the end of the week, T's first passported getaway will be all blue skies and splashing.
The girl loved the water, continued on her way to total cousin idolatry, and showed herself to be an adaptable, resilient traveler (perhaps more so than her mother). She could not get enough of the tropical foliage, the sand and the surf. When a wave that would have made me cry hit the shore where we were wading, pulled her from my arms (fortunately her Dad had my back) and tossed her, she looked surprised, let out a small "wah," and continued to bounce her way across the sand. Such a brave girl.
Still ingesting the experience. More to come.
