Confessions of a Paranoid Mom

I've tried to fight it, but I've lost the battle. I'm that obsessive-compulsive, paranoid mother from the sitcom re-runs. It all started innocently enough--with a single sheet of paper. Each day, Lucy's teachers send home a document letting us know when she ate, was changed, etc. Standard reporting procedures for daycares across the country. No problem...good information for parents to know. But at the bottom of the page is one little line that says "Something to make you smile." The first few days of school, and occasionally since then, Lucy had comments like "Lucy is a joy" or "Lucy had a great day today. She loved watching the bears on the swing." Yes, I know that to most people these comments wouldn't mean a whole lot. But to a mother who fights guilt each time she drops off her baby girl, they are like little pearls of affirmation that she's not permanently damaging her daughter.

As the weeks have gone by, the comments have grown scarce. Now those who know me probably disagree, but I do like to think of myself as a semi-rational being. I realize that taking care of a classroom of infants doesn't leave a lot of time for Lucy's wonderful teachers (they call themselves the Grandmother brigade and really are great) to write extra comments on each baby's sheet. But when another mother came in to pick up her little one, looked at his sheet, and exclaimed, "Oh, how cute. Thomas loved the excersaucer!" I couldn't help but feel a stab of envy. The white glared extra bright on Lucy's paper. She had no comment. Of course I called Jamie to give him this news. "I think they don't like her," I said, fighting back tears. You can imagine his response. I blamed my hormones and let it go. Yet though I tried to ignore that little nagging voice, I couldn't.

My insecurity was worsened on Friday when I picked Lucy up. "Just get her sheet off the counter hon," they told me. Lucy's was on the bottom. As I went through page after page, I noticed that each of them had a fun little comment. I found out that Owen loved his peas and Brandon laughed out loud on the activity mat. My excitement grew as I wondered what Lucy had done that day. And then I got to hers. Blank space. No comment. The little nagging voice grew stronger.

Finally, my paranoia reached its climax on Monday. When I went in to get Lucy, her afternoon teachers mentioned that they had made art projects for Thanksgiving. You're probably wondering what sort of art project a 3 month can old do, but it's actually quite cute. When I was leaving, I peeked into Lucy's morning classroom and saw several of the little turkeys with each child's tiny handprints making up the turkey's feathers. I couldn't wait to see Lucy's. And then I noticed one sad little turkey down on the bottom. This turkey only had one feather. And rather than a feather, it was more like a little balled up fist. Alas, whose name was on the bottom? Lucy Copeland.

The nagging voice became a scream. "They don't like her," I told Jamie as I got into the car. "She never has comments on her sheet and her art project was the only one that wasn't finished." What could he say? How can you rationalize with a crazy, OCD new mom?

As I got angrier and found myself comtemplating going to Target, getting paints, re-doing the picture and taking into the daycare to replace Lucy's current one, I realized that I'd completely lost my mind!

No, Lucy doesn't usually have anything written on her sheet, but she sleeps from the time she's dropped off until the time I pick her up. Doesn't leave a lot of time for interaction. As for the turkey art project, Lucy doesn't like people messing with her hands. In fact, I have to give her teachers credit for even getting a little balled fist print from our sleeping beauty in the first place.

I don't know about lessons learned here other than the fact that I'm crazy and paranoid. I found a strange comfort though when telling Patrick this story and he remarked that he'd heard another lady complaining to her husband that she was afraid their infant son's teachers didn't like him. Patrick said to me, "I rolled my eyes and thought to myself that she was ridiculous. And you are too." Gotta love a sibling's honesty.

For now, I can't wait to add Lucy's first art project, a sad little turkey, to her baby book.

Our little techno girl

Over the past few weeks, Miss Lucy has really begun to "talk" more and more. Jamie's convinced that he has taught her to say "uh-oh." I think his determination may stem from the fact that "uh-oh" was one of his first words. Now, Lucy talks to us when she's happy, when she's excited, and especially when she's displeased. On our way into daycare this morning, she chatted the entire way. She's never too happy when I have to wake her up in the morning and drag her out into the cold, fall air.

I took this video clip last week. She adores her bouncer seat. You can see her excitment as she kicks her feet and waves her arms. I'm afraid she's going to have Jamie's affinity for all things technical and shiny!!

Most Babies are Born Bald for Good Reason

Wherever we go, people stop us to comment on Lucy's hair. Since I see her all of the time, I forget that most babies don't come into this world looking like they're wearing a wig. Other mothers wistfully stare at the little bows in Lucy's hair. One even told me about using toothpaste to keep her daughter's bow in. And yes, at times like these, I feel lucky, special even.

You see, MY munchkin always stands out in a crowd. Each day when I walk through the door of daycare, it's easy to spot her among the other precious baldies. I'll usually spy her shock of dark brown hair right away, and I always feel as if I could burst with joy.

Yesterday, when I walked into Lucy's room, I looked around and immediately the phrase "One of these Things is not Like the Others" came to mind. I spotted Lucy and yes she stood out among the other babies. But for different reasons--MY little precious bundle was the ONLY baby in the classroom with socks on her hands.

When she realized I was there to get her, she looked over at me, attempting to put her little sock hands in her mouth. For an instant, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Her teacher looked at me with hesitation and even a bit of fear as she said, "We had to put socks on her hands to keep her from pulling her hair. She's got a strong grip." I don't know if they thought I would be angry or if they thought I would accuse them of some strange form of baby punishment. Really, I just wondered why I hadn't thought of that brilliant idea myself.

Now, I'm feeling confused. Do I invest in more socks in order to color coordinate Lucy's outfits? What rules of fashion apply? Should socks on both hands and feet match? Should I coordinate the color of the hand socks to her shirt and the foot socks to her pants? Is it still considered a fashion faux pas if the white socks you're wearing with black pants are on your hands rather than your feet? So many questions, yet so little has been written about hand sock fashion sensibilities.

The moral of my story? For all you mothers who wish your babies had more hair: be glad you only have to worry about what sticky substance you're going to use to get that little bow to stay in and not how to color coordinate your infant's hand and foot socks. :-)

Not a Fan of the Lobster

Before having Lucy, I was a smug single. I'd visit restaurants with various friends and enjoy my quiet dinners. If by some chance there happened to be a wailing child sitting in the vicinity, my disdain was evident. What nerve did THOSE people have ruining MY dinner? Last weekend, I became THOSE people.

Our Saturday started off pleasant enough. We drove up toward the mountains to a tiny little place called Pumpkintown for their annual fall festival. The drive was gorgeous. Lucy slept and continued to sleep as we strolled her around. She even slept through the annual pole-climbing contest, which basically involves a bunch of people attempting to climb up a crisco-greased utility pole to grab a flag--but I digress.

As we headed home, I suddenly felt the urge to "Set My Sails for Kingfish." But sadly, the only Kingfish restaurants are a good 400 miles away. Instead, I told Jamie I'd like to go to Red Lobster for dinner. Lucy sat in her carseat smiling and looking around while we waited for a table.

Soon enough we were seated. That's when things took a turn---a bad, bad turn. We'd been sitting for less than 5 minutes when the first whimpers began. I quickly offered Lucy her pacifier. Immediately, she looked at me, gagged, and spit it right back out. Her whimpers became louder, and the squirming began. Maybe she just needs her diaper changed, I thought. I ordered my food and then whisked her off to the bathroom. I wasn't too concerned. We'd been out to eat many times, and she'd always been perfectly pleasant.

I got back to my seat, planning to rock my little furry-headed angel until she drifted to sleep. But as soon as I sat down, what were once whimpers became loud cries. My face getting hot as others at the tables around us shot us subtle glances, I tried my litany of calming techniques. But nothing worked. My mind began to race:

Ok, I'll feed her, I thought. I can handle it. I'm armed with my cover-up. So what if this restaurant is right next door to a bastion of modesty? I'm a modern woman. We live in a free society. If I want to feed my daughter, damn it, I should be able to. It's perfectly natural.

I tried desperately to maneuver myself into place. Yet Lucy's cries became wails. And as I fumbled to offer her what she wanted, I looked up to find a very large and very unpleasant looking man staring at me. Forget it, I said. I scooped my screaming baby up and made the walk of shame out of the restaurant.

But an odd thing happened. As soon as we crossed the threshhold to freedom, Lucy stopped crying. By the time we got to the car, Lucy was looking around smiling. I fed her and eagerly anticipated going back in to finally eat.

Walking back into the restaurant, everyone marveled at the sweet little sleeping baby. I put my little pumpkin back into her carseat and began to eat my food which had gotten cold. For the record, tepid shrimp scampi isn't so tasty. Less than a minute after sitting down, Lucy's eyes opened. She scanned the room, took note of her surroundings, furrowed her brow, and immediately let out a wail. Just get the check! I told Jamie. We've got to get out of here!

We hurriedly packed up and made the walk of shame once again. Yet as soon as we crossed the magic line into the night air, Lucy stopped crying. This time, before we even made it to our car, she was sleeping soundly, which she continued to do for the next few hours.

Now, some may say that we just had a case of a baby fighting sleep. But I disagree. My theory? Red Lobster is some sort of portal into newborn baby hell. One thingI do know for sure: there will be no Red Lobster in our foreseeable future.

Memories of Starlight

Looking back on childhood, some of my fondest memories are of my mom taking my brother Patrick and I to Huber's Farm in Starlight, Indiana. Though I know we went during other times of the year, it's those autumn visits that were the most fun.

Back then, going to Huber's was a big deal. We would pack up the car and head out on what seemed an endless road trip. Winding around the mountainous roads, Patrick and I would work to find creative ways to kill the time-sometimes by picking on each other!

As kids, Huber's offered a feast for the senses. We would gorge ourselves on cheese, summer sausage, tart apples, and homemade pumpkin ice cream. We were perfectly content feeding crusty bread crumbs to the fish down at the pond while waiting for the next hayride to take us out into the fields to pick pumpkins (We usually didn't buy one. "I'm not paying Huber's prices for the same pumpkins the farmer down the street charges less than half for!" my Nanny was particularly fond of saying). After the hayride, we would make our way into the old-fashioned market. After being out in the chill, autum-in-Indiana air, the warmth of the market and scent of freshly baked apple fritters enveloped us. Mom would give us $5 each, and we'd peruse the store picking out $.10 candy sticks for grandaddy, a jar or two of apple butter, and a gallon of Huber's famous apple cider. The day was complete only when we were sufficiently stuffed, happy, and ready for a nap.

Last weekend, I went to Huber's again, only this time I was the parent taking my child. As we headed over to Huber's, I couldn't help but notice how quickly the trip went by. What used to seem like hours was merely 30 minutes. Those "mountains" I remembered from childhood, while still impressive in height for the Midwest, were nothing more than hills.

Pulling into Huber's grassy parking lot, my excitment grew. Yet as I looked around, I felt my heart would break. An intense yearning for my mom took my breath away. How much I wished she could be there with us. That she could meet Lucy and hold her and cover her with kisses. I wanted her to be with us as we took pictures of Lucy on the pumpkins, as we savored our ice cream out in the crisp autumn air. I wanted her to push Lucy in the stroller down by the lake and hold her in her lap on a hayride out into the pumpkin fields.

It's funny how motherhood changes you. How many times did I hear "You'll never understand until you're a mother?" And now I do. As we walked around Huber's making new memories, I thought about mom and how she must've loved watching our glee as kids at Huber's. And I thought about how difficult it must've been for her to know that she would have to say goodbye.

Nothing Sweeter

Yesterday, after a long, stressful 10 hours of work, Jamie stumbled home tired and deflated. He came through the front door with his usual greeting to the dogs and made his way into the kitchen where I was managing to put together salads while balancing Lucy in one arm. "How was work?" I asked, knowing full well what his answer would be. "Busy..." he responded, hardly audible. Suddenly, I felt a stab of guilt. Though being at home with Lucy can be tiring and even trying during times of extreme fussiness, spending hours cuddling my sweet little pumpkin is priceless. I thought of the contrast between my day and Jamie's day. While I nibble on little baby toes and lose myself in our daughter's slate blue-gray eyes, Jamie spends his time solving network problems. And while I'm confident in my connection with our baby, in the past few weeks as he's come home from work later and later, I know he has questioned whether or not Lucy even knows he's her dad. But all of that changed in one indescribably beautiful moment last night. When he bent down to kiss her head, he said "Hey little girl, daddy missed you so much today." But instead of looking past him, Lucy looked him in the eyes and smiled. Not the little half smile of newborns--this smile lit up her entire face as she stared into her dad's eyes. And she continued to smile as her dad scooped her up into his arms, saying, "You really do know I'm your daddy. That makes my day." Suddenly, all of the stress melted away and for the first time in the weeks since Lucy came, Jamie could soak up every ounce of the joy of being a dad.

Giving Into the Dreaded "P" Word

As an inherently guilt-ridden person, I should have known that parenthood would bring about a whole new meaning to the word. Yesterday, after three days of watching Lucy attempt to force her little balled up fist into her mouth, listening as she made loud sucking sounds, and cringing in pain as my little "barracuda nurser" spent hours upon hours comfort nursing, I finally gave in to the dreaded "P" word. After what seemed to be a particularly dramatic crying spell, Jamie had taken our little raven-haired beauty upstairs in an attempt to soothe her. When the house became strangely quiet, I made my way upstairs to the bedroom only to find my husband lying on his back with Lucy vigorously sucking on his pinkie. In a moment mixed with desperation, frustration, a bit of disgust mixed with horror, and overwhelming guilt, I tore open the various packages of silicon goodness and popped the first of these objects into her mouth. Suddenly there was blessed silence--immediately followed by gagging, crying, and more gagging. For a moment, the guilt was crushing. As I reached down to cradle my little soprano whose voice is often at its finest at 4 am, I decided to give it another try. I reached for the next selection, this one sporting a fashionable turquoise trim and gingerly tickled her lips. To my absolute, albeit guilty, delight, the silence was golden. The three of us lay in bed for the next hour, Jamie watching old episodes of Heroes on his laptop, Lucy laying in between us contently watching her daddy, and me watching as my little one happily sucked on her Pacifier. At long last, I had given in.