The Pact

They say that there are no qualifiers to become a parent. There are no exams, no Litmus tests, not even any blood tests required to spread a seed. The thing that is asked of us is that we sign a non-binding agreement with our baby, our child.

Our end, the Mommy and Daddy-end of the bargain is pretty involved. We will be awake on command. We will pick noses when they are crisped over with boogers. We will wipes asses, kiss foreheads, cancel dinner plans when fevers spike, and compromise parts of ourselves for the good of our offspring. We will gaze at baby photos, brag to unsuspecting cashiers, and squirt ibuprofen down a throat if it will cool her forehead. She'll stun us when she walks, propelling that body on her own when it was so grounded mere weeks ago. We'll love the wee thing ferociously, becoming the parent we couldn't imagine we could become before she was ours, and wake up eager to be Mommy and Daddy again today.

Her end of the pact is simply this: Outlive us. Outlive us.

The unspoken first rule for every baby is that she is to go on living long after her parents are gone. She is to be the harbinger of the customs, the sayings, the love of her family, well beyond the day that we die. No matter what else she does, what other joys or griefs she brings to her family, her end of the pact will be upheld so long as she goes on living.

When the pact is broken, hearts break. So when I read the story of this little girl, Madeline Alice Spohr, I wept for her parents. I called home to check on Violet.

I think of her parents during Violet's baths and during her dinner, when she is playing and especially when we go to sleep. I think of the incredible emptiness I felt for months after my Dad died and can only imagine that emptiness mutated and multiplied when a parent loses a child and not the other way around. The unspoken pact, the rule of nature, the DNA that was crafted with all intentions being sent on down the line; all gone in an instant. The ache of it all is too much and I only wish there were some way to give this Mommy and Daddy, and all Mommies and Daddies who have lost a baby, a shred of consolation.

All In The Family

Before I got pregnant, I remember my mother telling me that she would not be waiting around at any given time to have grand kids dumped with her. She had a life. Fast-forward to May 12, 2008. Her tune changed a bit. Grammy couldn't stand to have her only granddaughter in daycare--so she gave up the retired life and volunteered to stay with Violet 4 days a week.

The situation has really been perfect in almost every way. First, who could be better to care for my precious daughter than my own mother. If I had to drop off my tiny 12 week old at a daycare center back in August, I think I would have quit my job after my first day back. Second, the time and work that Grammy has put into Violet over the last 8 months has forged a very special relationship between the two of them. That bond is evident whenever Violet sees her Grammy and I think these formative months Vi has spent in my Mom's arms will keep them linked in a special way forever. Very cool for Violet, especially in this day and age when so many families are spread out across the country and the only time kids see their grandparents is the week between Christmas and New Year's.

It is also pretty cool for my Mom to have such a close tie to her only granddaughter. Our family has had so much loss in the last 2 years with my Granny's death following my Dad's passing by only a year; I think Mom needed a new itty-bitty to remind her of the wonder surrounding the beginning of a person. After holding her husband and mother's hands as they struggled out of this life, I'm sure holding Violet's hand as she huffs and puffs through her first steps as a toddler is a welcome change.

The only problem with relying on only my Mom to watch Violet is that when she's sick, Shawn and I are scrambling to find an alternative baby watcher so we can both make it to work. Barb was down with pneumonia for two weeks this month and Shawn and I were making phone calls to family and friends each evening, trying to patch together a plan for Violet's care for the next day.

Lucky for us, my sister-in-law Aly and my brother Jeff were both in a position to pinch hit and did so frequently during Grammy's illness. Aly has two little guys of her own, Jack age 3, and Charlie, age 9 months, and I suspect she felt some sympathy for Octomom when I repeatedly showed up to add my 11 month old to her already busy household. She grinned and bore it beautifully, however, and actually had me almost believing her when she said 3 babies aren't any more work than 2.

Uncle Jeff, Violet's godfather, also stepped up to the plate to do some babysitting in our time of need. Talk about a crash course in babies, Jeff learned the ins and outs of diapering, the importance of dicing food in chunks smaller than babies' windpipe, and how to socialize with other mommies at Kindermusik all in 2 weeks. Violet learned that ham and bacon together make a delicious meal.

Jen, my BFF, also spent her day off tending Violet. Her 2 and a half year old Avery helped out quite a bit, I understand! Because of the generosity of all these people, Shawn and I were both able to keep our jobs. And it is these people, relation of blood and marriage, people I've chosen to surround myself with and those who were chosen for me, who tie me to Indianapolis and the Midwest. They are the reasons Shawn and I want to bring Violet up here and no where else.

UltraViolet

I read a blog called Her Bad Mother and the author (years ago, it would seem, I am so behind blogolistically speaking) called for others to write about the physical nature of their love for their children. I read some, was enthralled, and couldn't wait to give it a whirl myself.

Before Violet, I always heard moms and grannies talk about how they wanted to "eat a baby up." What a horrible, Rosie O'Donnell-esque turn of phrase it was: "Eat a baby up." It was in the same vein as 'cutie-patootie' -- makes me want to puke. First off, ingesting a baby makes no sense. After carrying one for nine long months, going to all the trouble of getting it out, who would want to put her back in? I didn't understand why holding her, cuddling her, rocking her might not seem like enough. Who are these crazies who can't get enough baby via the typical routes? Who are the loons that want to devour poor little babies?

Turns out, I am a baby-eater. Or at least, I would be, if I could be. I suppose, figuratively, I am one. A baby-eater. I really only have an appetite for my baby, but, I think eating just one baby is all it takes to fall under the heading.

The delight of her skin under my fingers is the most soothing sensation I have ever felt. Now, in late winter, with temperatures still lingering below freezing most nights, I have a terrible urge to let her frolic in only her diaper, just so I can glimpse those wondrous new skin cells in all of their rosy, dimply, glory. But just seeing her skin isn't enough, I need to stroke it; with my fingers, with my lips, pressing my cheek to her round belly.

I feel thankful that we are still nursing; I don't know how I would ever get my fix of hands-on baby time if she didn't have to collapse in my lap and snuggle close to me 5 or 6 times a day. She is such a baby on the move these days: crawling, cruising, chasing her dog, I would never be able to justify pinning her down to squeeze her meaty thigh if she didn't need to nurse. And as basic as her need is for her sustenance, my milk; so basic- so primal really- is my need to hold the tiny girl in my arms. When I curl her to me, Violet's slender fingers will find their way to my mouth, inspecting my teeth, my tongue, gently nipping at my lips, as if she understands the urge I have to gobble her up. She's willing, if only for the moments we are connected, baby to bosom, to let me have a nibble; to enjoy again what is surely going to be a fleeting consumption.

Tentative Symbiosis

The Scout-Violet relationship is growing day by day but still uncertain at best. Violet is a dog enthusiast already, but her enthusiasm does little to quell Scout's baby loathing. Now that Violet is mobile (no, not crawling; but scooting, reversing, butt-pivoting, and toddling with help from a friendly finger), Scout has more to fear. When and if Violet does begin actual forward crawling, I have no doubt it will be the dog that motivates that movement. Her smelly fur is irresistible to the baby and Violet would like nothing more than to suck on her long, hairy tail, oblivious to the fact that it probably grazes every dump Scout takes.

The baby-dog attraction I definitely get. Scout is the best toy in the house; unpredictable and unattainable. What I don't get is why Scout doesn't get the hell out of Violet's way. The dog is way faster on the ground and able to jump up on any piece of furniture in the house. Yet, there she sits, a mere 10 inches from the baby, and then growls and bears her teeth when Violet yanks her furry rear end again and again. She yips but hasn't bitten; so far Shawn and I are always close at hand to scold her. I have even gone as far as to pick Scout up off of the floor where Violet is playing and put her on the sofa. She immediately jumps back down and goes back to laying within a foot of the baby. Go figure.

I would like to think Scout's constant proximity to Violet is related to some primal protective instincts, like that dog that suckled the tiger cubs. But knowing Scout, I think it has far more to do with Violet's burgeoning consumption of human food. Human food, any variety, is ambrosia to Scout. She is consumed by the desire to get her mustachioed under bite around even the smallest morsel of human food. Now that Violet is eating, and doing so messily, I might add, Scout is much more interested in her. Scout sits under her high chair during meals and is right there when we pick her up after eating, cleaning every grain of rice that falls from the baby to the floor within seconds. In many ways, this is nice and eases the burden of cleanup for us parents. But in other ways it is annoying, as Scout rears up and whimpers begging for the leftover baby vittles if we don't immediately wipe out the seat of the high chair.

Forget giving Violet a pretzel or some cheerios to nibble while she plays on the floor. Scout is there like a vulture, gently but persistently weaseling the food out of Vi's hand. And it doesn't help that Violet's eating patterns involve a lot of sucking followed by waving the food around for a while. As soon as she goes to wave her gooey pretzel in Scout's general direction, the dog politely removes it from her hand and devours it with minimal chewing.

I realize Cesar Milan would probably be having a heart attack if he read this. This certainly is not how a pack leader would behave, letting a lower order canine steal food from her pup. And I also realize that it is just a matter of time until Scout crosses the line with Violet and that is something I really don't want to deal with. So if anyone has any suggestions on how to deal with dog-baby relations in the Pierce household, I'm all ears...

Life on the Outside, More Violet than Felicia

Violet passed the 9 month marker this week and celebrated by going shopping at Carter's. Nothing but the finest sweatshop cotton for my little one!

Nine months old means that Vi has passed a milestone of her life and now has spent longer out of utero than in utero. What a host of changes her little life has already seen! For example, on the inside, she did not have to breathe. All that pesky inhaling and exhaling she does now was done for her by me. However, in my belly, she didn't get to eat Snyder's Homestyle Pretzels, her new fave.

But, the more things change, the more they stay the same. In utero, Violet frequently had the hiccups. That didn't change--several times a week she still sounds like an IU student after playing Sink the Bismark at Nick's. While she was in my womb under the pseudonym Felicia, she was covered in vernix, a white cheesy substance that protected her baby skin from the water she was afloat in. This morning she was covered in actual cheese; whipped cream cheese, to be specific, that was on the English muffin she and I shared. During gestation, especially during the last 2 months or so, Felicia did a great job of making me uncomfortable by resting her girth on my bladder. Violet, too, likes to make her mother uncomfortable, but prefers going the route of pinching any of my exposed skin whenever we are nursing testing my conviction never to spank my child.

The biggest thing that I've noticed as Violet turned 9 months this week, is what an unignorable symbol she is of the passage of time. Like marking big red Xs on a calendar, Violet is a human countdown--or, more aptly, a count-up. She changes quickly yet subtly making it hard to tell if she is actually acquiring a new skill or just stumbling along doing baby stuff. Then--POOF--baby stuff was a new skill and she is opening every cupboard door in the house looking through the treasures that lie within. I have always been both fascinated and saddened by the way we perceive time and having Vi around intensifies both of those feelings.

Oooo, That Smell

Standing over Violet, wiping off her highchair and face after she gummed down some Cheerios, I smelled the smell of baby. Not the sweet, yummy, baby smell that grandmas and other older women always report when they take a whiff of a newborn's head, but the sticky, oaty, scent that accompanies a growing human who has begun to eat real food, take real craps, but not really wash themselves.

Shawn and I bathe Violet every other day, more frequently if needed, so I'm pretty sure the smell isn't a hygiene issue. I don't even know if it comes directly from Violet though I know she causes it. Right after a bath, Violet smells like her soap, a lightly-perfumed lavendery concoction that, when combined with a certain baby giggle, is probably the root cause of all the spoiled little girls in this country. And even when she is covered with sticky biter-biscuit residue, has peas mushed in her neck-creases, and has a full diaper, she doesn't stink, not really. The diapers smell bad, yes, but they are easy enough to change and dispose of and most of the visible food can be wiped away.

I wonder if having a baby living in your house isn't kind of like sharing your home with a cat. When someone walks in who doesn't have a cat, they can tell right away that one lives there. I love cats, grew up with cats, don't have a cat right now, but probably will own a cat in the future. The thing that I never realized until I did not have a cat living in my house is that cats, as clean and fastidious as they are, have a certain feline odor that is impossible to disguise. It probably has something to do with those scent glands near their whiskers they are always rubbing on your legs and sofa. No matter where you put the litter box or how often it is emptied, the cat smell is a part of your house and easily identifiable to those people who do not have a cat.

I assume the infant smell is the same. No amount of Clorox in the Diaper Genie or Dreft in the laundry can hide the baby smell. Even if we were able to find enough closet space to contain the papasan swing, the Cruise n Crawl Jungle, the Sit to Stand Activity table, the Rainforest Jumparoo, and every other large, colorful, molded Playskool monstrosity that sits in our living room screaming "Baby Lives Here!," I am sure that someone without a baby would know that we had Violet. All the baby stuff has a smell and that smell permeates your home. From the artificial, sterile, lemony/powder scent of baby wipes, to the MRE aroma that accompanies anything packaged by Gerber, to the indescribable smell of plastic covered in drool that is all of her toys, Violet has marked her territory at the Pierce house.

The other funny thing about the smell that is Violet: I love it. I remember going to babysit when I was younger and smelling the baby smell at my charge's house and being sooo happy that my house didn't smell like that. In all likelihood, my own house with two teenage boys and a gross pre-pubescent girl probably smelled much worse, but it was our smell. And now, just like that, the baby smell is our smell, too. And I wouldn't trade it for all the cleaning ladies in the world.

OK, a cleaning lady would be pretty awesome. Maybe I would just ask her not to scrub the highchair too hard...

A Blurry Line

The dangers of drinking alcohol during pregnancy are well documented. Every pregnancy pamphlet, book, and website will warn the expecting mom that alcohol can cause birth defects. The Surgeon General has even spoken up about the danger of drinking alcohol on an unborn fetus and put his warning on the back of my cheap bottle of 2007 California Red. The common wisdom is that there is no way to know how much booze is too much booze for an unborn baby and Mom's best defense against fetal alcohol syndrome is to just avoid the stuff all together. Some mommies (like me), chose to live on the edge during our pregnancies and indulge in the occasional glass of wine during dinner. I suppose knowing when to say when when you are 40 pounds overweight becomes a little easier. The temptation to have just one more drink and stay out late dancing just wasn't as strong when I'd been constipated for 4 days.

The clearly defined line in the sand becomes a bit windblown when you are talking about the rules for alcohol consumption and breastfeeding. Somehow, the"pump and dump" method became the accepted method for a breast feeding mom who wanted to drink. I guess if I wanted to go on an 8 hour bender and get really shitfaced, I might need to express milk at some point in time just so I didn't get too engorged. Breast milk, like blood, does not hold on to alcohol indefinitely when a mom drinks. About an hour after a drink is consumed, the alcohol content in blood and milk is at it's peak. As her blood alcohol level falls, so does the amount of alcohol in her breast milk. So if I have a glass of wine before bed and fall asleep without pumping, my milk will not have alcohol in it the next morning as my body processed my wine while I slept. There is no need for me to rid my body of any alcohol laced milk, my liver will do that job for my whole body.

Since Violet is still nursing on demand, it is rare that I go very long when I'm not at work without nursing her. And I admit, I'll have a couple glasses of wine during the evening and I still nurse Violet that night. I am usually drinking with my meal, over the course of several hours, and would never nurse her if I felt even a little drunk. That's not to say that I haven't worried about the safety of drinking while being a breastfeeding mom. I've read as much about it as I can (curiously, there isn't a lot of research on the topic), and talked to lots of moms. It seems that lots of breastfed kiddos have survived their mom's social drinking and I am pretty confident that my minimal alcohol consumption has no affect on sweet Baby Violet. The first time I drank after Violet was born I was so nervous, I asked Shawn several times if he thought it would be OK for me to feed her. I have gotten over that fear, as you can see by the accompanying photo. No real staging was needed for this; I have a glass of wine 3 or 4 nights a week.

I think, more than any worries I have about Vi's health or development, I worry that people will judge me as a bad or negligent mom. I certainly don't want to give people who are ignorant about nursing any ammunition. That's why I was so disheartened when Shawn told me about the Connecticut mom who was arrested for breastfeeding her infant while intoxicated. You can read the story here. Clearly, this mom was in the wrong, having 7 drinks with a 3 week old baby is just too much, but it sounds like she needs some treatment for post-partum depression, not a trip to county jail. Anyway, I think a good rule of thumb for parents of infants, breast feeding or not, is that if you have had too much to feel safe holding the baby, you've had too much to be an infant's caregiver. But if the police are going to start arresting moms for the crime of drunk nursing, there needs to be some clear rules about how much is too much.