What We Must Teach Our Children...

Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again ... And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work - we must all work - to make the world worthy of its children.-- Pablo Casals

While surfing the web tonight when I should've been asleep, I came across this quote, and it really resonated, especially in light of all of the tragedy in India and around the world. Our children are gifts--miracles. They are born full of possibility, innocent beings with an unlimited capacity to love. Somewhere along the way, we as adults, teach them hatred. We shatter their beautiful spirits. We focus so much of our attention on providing for our children's comfort. We spend millions of dollars as a nation on baby wipe warmers and bumbos and bedding. We make sure our children go to the best schools and strive to protect them from harm. Yet it seems that we spend little time protecting their innocence, their spirit. When I look at Lucy, I am awed by the endless possiblities for her. I want to provide her with every opportunity to achieve her dreams. But most of all, I want to sustain her innocence, her belief in good, and in the beauty of humankind. I don't want her to judge another on the basis of skin, or religion, or culture. I want her to know that she IS a marvel and never want to harm another. Perhaps I'm overly sentimental tonight as I sit in the quiet after my Thanksgiving guests have left. But when I look at my precious little girl who has finally fallen asleep, I am almost overwhelmed with love and hope. And I pray each day that I can help to make the world worthy of Lucy and all of its children.

Lucy Elf's First Christmas

Ever since baby Lucy was born, we've always lovingly called her our little elf. During a recent trip to Barnes&Noble, Jamie and I found out that Lucy really is an elf--she's on the cover of a book! Actually, we were out for the first time without our Lucy. In celebration of our 3rd wedding anniversary, we went to dinner at Saffron's (love some Indian food...) and then decided to walk around the book store. The whole time, though we enjoyed each other's company, we couldn't help but feel a bit fractured. When we went to the back to browse in the kid's section, we came across a fun little book called "Baby Elf's Christmas." Both of us laughed as we realized that the elf on the front was a spitting image of our daughter. Of course we had to buy it. But just seeing the cover of the book made us eager to get back home to our baby girl. We've already read it to Lucy several times, and she seems quite enthralled. Do you see the resemblance????

Daddy Time

Lucy is her Daddy's girl. One of her favorite things to do is sit in her Daddy's arms, pacifier in mouth, and watch tv. Not just any tv show--she only likes things her Daddy watches. We first discovered her affinity for all things "Jamie" when she was being particularly fussy one night after dinner. Jamie sat down in the recliner and, much to my chagrin, turned on a recorded episode of the British car show "Top Gear." I grumbled, but stopped complaining when I looked over and noticed Lucy intently staring at the screen. Jamie gave me a triumphant look. "That's my girl," he said. I couldn't help but smile. A few days later, she enjoyed a great episode of "Wasted Spaces," a total snooze of a show for me, but fascinating for Jamie as it involves lots of woodwork and building. This picture, from earlier today, is Lucy doing what she loves best--snuggling with her daddy watching a "man show."

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.