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Good: He rolled over this week! I couldn’t have been prouder if he’d won the Nobel Prize. It’s so funny to see his little instincts kick in…it’s not like I’ve been teaching him to try rolling over. But he works at it doggedly, first pulling up his fists to slobber on, then curling up his legs. Then in a sort of slow wiggle, he gradually works himself onto his side and then over.

Now if he could just figure out what to do once he gets there; I have to rescue him every time because he ends up face-planting and can’t breathe. He hasn’t got the arms-supporting-him physics figured out.

Bad: we’re back to square one on the sleep thing. Still wakes up every two hours, sometimes more, even when he naps. He can get to sleep, but something always makes him wake up, flailing his limbs and making pitiful moans and whines. I don’t think it’s outside stimuli usually…just some sudden twitch of his own, even when it’s dead quiet and he’s dry, fed, and, as far as I can tell, comfortable. Sleeping in our bed seemed to help for a while, but now it’s doing bupkis. So tonight I’ve been swaddling him again (if I really work it, the swaddle blanket still fits) to cut down on the flailing and make sure he stays warm, because he kicks off all covers even when it’s freezing. And putting him back in his crib. He’s woken up twice in the last hour, and I’ve fed him a little, let him go back to sleep, and put him back in the crib. Don’t know if it’ll work to help him stay asleep, but at least he can flail his legs without kicking me in the ribs. I keep thinking I will find the magic rhythm, the magic combination of feeding/snuggling/letting him fuss a little that sends him off to lala land. Some part of me seems to think it exists, and can be found before he turns 10.

The thing is, he doesn’t wake up all the way. He cries, but without opening his eyes. He WANTS to sleep, but something’s making him fight it. Like someone’s been putting caffeine in his formula. I’d suspect a food allergy or gas, but he doesn’t seem to be in any pain and doesn’t cry at all when he’s awake…in fact, he’s in excellent spirits except at bedtime. An utter mystery.

It really doesn’t seem like a good idea, evolution-wise, to have infants that deprive their parents of sleep and make a lot of noise in the process. Wouldn’t this have attracked all the sabre-tooth tigers in the area, and the sleep-deprived cave people would have been too tired to fight them off effectively? Or maybe the tigers couldn’t take the wailing either. Maybe it’s actually a defense mechanism. At any rate, get-your-kid-to-sleep books remain a growth industry, at least among people unwilling to spike the formula with Nyquil. Not that I’ve ever considered that while I rocked a wailing child at 4 am after days of 4 hours sleep a night. Oh no. Not me.

All seems pretty much normal and hunky-dory for me now, except that I have no money and need a job. But that’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Nathan is doing well, Matt is doing pretty well, and in many ways, I’m doing well too.

But I still can’t think about Nathan’s birth in any detail without tears. I’ve picked myself up, but my sadness and anger haven’t really gone away, just moved to a back burner. I still haven’t written the letters I need to write, to the hospital and the midwives, and it’s time for me to get on that. Now that I’m not so harried. I even start to write the letters in my head, which makes me cry, which makes me put it all off for another day. It’s been so nice, not crying. Being happy, enjoying Nathan. It’s been so nice.

But I don’t want to shirk my responsibility, even though I’m pretty cynical about the effects I can have. And thinking about that, about how births should be and how they are, about how many women have been fighting to make this better and how little we’ve been able to do, just makes me so angry. I’m angry that I have to write these letters, that I have to strike whatever blow, however feeble, against this stupid system we have. When just a little compassion and common sense would’ve made all that unnecessary. The patients know it’s fucked up, the doctors know it, presumably the hospitals know it too. But it doesn’t get fixed. Gah!

If I think about having another kid, the only way I can think calmly about the birth is to imagine myself schlepping out to Tennessee and letting Ina May Gaskin’s midwives take a crack at me. Not because I think they can ensure a perfect birth, but because, dear Jesus, it would be so much easier than having to fight so damn hard against whatever doctors, midwives, and hospitals I’d have to work with in Texas. I guess if I had to have another cesearean, getting the Ina May treatment first would at least let me feel I had done everything possible and gotten the best possible chance at doing it naturally. Because trusting a local midwife or doctor is going to be seriously difficult for me.

But really…is Tennessee the only place in this country where I can find midwives who are really qualified and trustworthy, and not handcuffed by the local hospitals? Because that sucks. That’s like an 800 mile drive. I don’t want to do that when I’m almost due, or when I’m coming home with a newborn. And paying for the whole thing out of pocket, most likely.

Well, that’s all irrelevant right now anyways. Hypothetical Second Child might remain forever hypothetical. Though I worry about him/her/it; I’m one of those odd women who’s never really worried about an unwanted or unplanned pregnancy before, but now I do. If my birth control failed me now, it would be scary. I worry that my body is faulty, or that adhesions or scar tissue from the c-section would cause me problems in a new pregnancy. I don’t know if I will be able to trust my body to take another crack at birth. Every time I get a twinge in my scar, I worry a little that something’s wrong in there. Especially since no one can tell me what went wrong the first time. That makes me angry, too.

I think about becoming a doula, now and then. I fantasize about telling pregnant couples more of the truth than I received. I’m not a believer anymore in the idea that you should only tell pregnant women positive things so that they won’t worry and be in a relaxed frame of mind. I think you should tell them the whole damn truth and let them know that there are things to be worried about, and to prepare for the worst–and to let them know what weapons they have to fight for the birth they want.

All the positive-thinking fooffy-doo in pregnancy books is patronizing and counterproductive in a country that is as hostile to natural and compassionate childbirth as this one. What is the point of learning breathing exercises and labor positions if a woman is going to be faced with a staff intent on forcing her to use Pitocin and labor in bed? Instead of trying to keep pregnant women in a happy oblivious state, hoping for the best, we should arm them for battle. Let them feel confident because they’re strong and determined and prepared, not because they’ve developed pretty pictures to visualize during their labor pains. ( I would like to report that said pictures help not in the slightest.) This would also have the benefit of getting rid of the subtle message in positive-thinking books, namely, that if something goes wrong, well it’s your fault because you didn’t think positively enough! It’s so easy for a woman who had a slow moving labor that went to a c-section to blame herself for not relaxing enough to let the baby move down. But you know, I don’t think it was my insufficient Kegeling that made Nathan’s birth so late and slow. I think it was either something beyond anyone’s control, or a lack of expertise and knowledge of natural techniques on the part of my midwives and the hospital.

Being honest would not be about gleefully terrifying pregnant women with horror stories, but letting them put a face on the boogeyman. Because really, even when I was thinking the most positive thoughts possible during my pregnancy, I was scared. All first time pregnant women are; they know they are facing something that’s beyond anything they’ve dealt with before. In lots of ways, it would have helped me to know what I had to be scared of.

But anyways, I ramble. Wish me courage to get those stupid letters out, ya’ll. I’m really good at procrastinating, so I need all the encouragement I can get.

Artsy Nathan

Originally uploaded by emjaybee.

Dear Nathan,

Where is the little solemn, dark-eyed creature I brought home from the hospital? You can hardly see him in the face you show me now, full of personality and curiosity. You’re done with the whole Newborn thing, that’s for sure. You’re a Baby now, and you don’t waste any time pining for the womb. Too much to do.

This month, that included a sudden ability to arch your back and hold up your still-wobbly head, grab my shoulder, master the art of stuffing your fingers in your mouth (and sometimes, gagging yourself on them), and cutting your first tooth, which is making you more than a bit irritable since it hasn’t broken the skin just yet. You are too big to swaddle, but not quite big enough to soothe yourself to sleep, so you’ve moved into the big bed with us for now. It works just enough better that your sleep-deprived parents don’t give a crap if someone disapproves. Anything to make you sleep.

You have a high, dolphin-y squeal that you’ve suddenly developed, accompanied with a frantic leg kick that makes you even more irresistable and cute, if that’s possible. Everyone loves you, and why shouldn’t they? Even if they throw out their backs trying to lift your 20 pound self that still hangs there like a sack of potatoes. Your Mamaw has started calling you Spud for just that reason. I’ve developed many new ways to make lifting you easier…rolling you over so I can pick you up face down, laying you over my shoulder when I stand up so I have a hand free to brace against the table. All the same, sometimes I misjudge and my back starts killing me. You’re just going to have to learn to walk soon, or else I have to start using your stroller indoors.

I was thrilled to see you start holding up your head and, the other day, nearly push yourself onto your side, because I look forward to really being able to play with you. To read you books that you are able to sit up and look at. To see you splash in the bathtub instead of just being propped up in your baby bath seat. You’re in that inbetween place where you’re a little too big to cuddle on my lap, but not big enough to sit up and choose your own cuddling position. You are most comfortable in your little infant hammock chair, watching the world.

The third month is supposed to be when it gets “easier” and I guess it has. I trust myself more where you’re concerned, and you don’t scare me. I feel like I’ve attained Basic Nathan Competency, though of course, that could all change tomorrow. I’m still tired, not getting quite enough sleep, and dreaming of the day you’ll never need another diaper change. But I’m doing OK, where you’re concerned. I hope that’s a pattern that stays the same.

Happy 3 months, kiddo. Welcome to Babyhood. I hear it’s very nice.

I am a SAHM, a Stay At Home Mom, all of a sudden. It’s temporary unless a lottery win is in the offing for us, but it’s also profoundly strange. Spending this much of my day speaking in high, repetitive phrases to get a response from Nathan wears me out. Going to the library to get a non-baby book to read was the highlight of my week so far. And my bedtimes are being increasingly dictated by a baby who has switched from Lone Sleeper to a Co-Sleeper. Which I don’t really care about, I’d hang him from his ankles if it would make him sleep better.

But the days bleed together, and I can’t always remember the last time I left the house. I’m not stir crazy so much as in Mommy Mode, and of course still looking for a job. In between those two, I have a surprising amount of time for housework, naps, and diddling about. Except that it’s broken in unpredictable intervals by Nathan’s naps, so I can’t really plan anything long term. It does encourage you to live in the moment. It also makes you feel a little frazzled and unproductive. Teaching Nathan to more effectively suck his fist isn’t something you can put on a resume, but I’m pretty sure I’ve spent at least a few hours doing that.

But since I know it’s temporary, I can ease up on myself, and enjoy it without guilt. I can see why people like doing this, just staying home with their kids. It can be fun. You don’t miss the little changes that take place every day in your baby. You set your own schedule. I haven’t had this much unrestricted time since early high school, when I started working in the summer. I could see myself doing this, meeting other at home parents and hanging out, taking the kids to school, doing housework and yardwork and whatever else I wanted to do when I had time. It could be ok.

But I miss working, too. I don’t like commuting and detest business clothes, but I like having tasks to do and doing them well and getting paid for them. It’s rewarding. I think about working for myself someday and wonder if I would like it as much. When the job is good, I like getting up and going to a separate space every day, apart from the rest of my life, to work. Not something I can get working at home.

I’m pretty sure our original plan still holds; I’ll work outside the house and Matt will hold down the fort and do his recording business at home. But it’s strange to be in this between-job limbo and actually enjoying it a bit. I guess I have more than one identity now, so if my work-identity is shut down, I can get by on my mom-identity. In the past, if I wasn’t working, I was biting my nails in frustration at feeling useless and not contributing. I wasn’t myself unless I was out bringing home the bacon. But someone has to change diapers and teach Nathan to stick out his tongue, and for now, it’s me. It’s funny how much I don’t mind it at all.

Poor little Nathan is sick. I think it’s a stomach flu, because there’s lots of foul discharge from the bottom and not the top. His fever’s been up a couple of times today, making him cranky and listless until the children’s Tylenol kicked in and brought it back down. We learned something from Nurse Grandew today, that being that when you take a rectal temp, you should deduct a degree, and if you take one by armpit, you add a degree. Huh. We were very worried about his high temp (101 F) earlier tonight, because a trip to the ER is just no fun at all, and we’d have to sit there forever because he wasn’t bleeding out his eyeballs. But thankfully it came down.

I’m up now because he didn’t get to sleep until 1 and I have to give him medicine at 2; there didn’t seem to be much point in letting myself conk out. Matt has his temp job tomorrow, so I let him sleep while Nathan and I watched Sister Act. A movie for which I have a sad and shameful affection. It’s just so bloody awful, and has that weird “black people are magical and can transform uptight whiteys” vibe. And yet, I’ve seen it a million times. I’ve never paid to see it, at least. And Nathan, confronted by the spectacle of Whoopie Goldberg in a nun’s habit, dropped off to sleep quickly, his only defense, but a very effective one. Smart boy.

Hopefully his bug will pass soon. He’s so dopey and dazed by it, not at all his sharp little self, and I miss his giggling and wide eyes when he’s watching Blue’s Clues, or just talking to me in his all-vowel language of “ahs” and “oeeeahhohhahhs” when he’s especially talkative. Get better, baby.

Last Friday Matt and I sat in a bar in downtown Fort Worth, drinking Shiner and surrounded by middle-aged rednecks (most seemed to be on their second wives or third husbands, by my estimate), and it was…ok. Not that I’m going to make a habit of honkytonkin’, but it was kind of fun to watch the couples on the dance floor. An older group, meaning everyone had some cellulite and wrinkles to spare. There was plenty of junk in plenty of trunks.

But there was also a grace and a joy that fascinated me. No doubt a lot of these couples voted Republican and went to church (probably Baptist churches that technically would frown upon their divorcing and dancing ways). But here they were in the forgiving dimness of the dance floor, utterly absorbed in the twirl and step and slide of their fancy two-stepping. The women were brave in their makeup, tight jeans, and glittery belts that didn’t hide their bulges. The men were unashamed of the bellies pushing out beneath the bright colors of their Friday-night shirts. In a state that claims to hate capital-A Art, that cuts school funding for things like dance and music to make more room for football, there is still a hunger for that kind of beauty that finds its way out in the honkytonk. The dancers might say, if you asked, they’re just having fun. But the faraway looks on their faces while they twirled under the lights seemed to say something different.

I’ve started to notice things like this, the ways that people who claim to know nothing of art still feel the need to create or absorb themselves into creative things. Why do otherwise normal people spend thousands of dollars and hours of their lives constructing elaborate Christmas displays? Or rebuilding old cars? Making horrible ceramic cats? Following bands around the country? Hooking rugs? Why does Martha have such a following when so much of what she makes is patently useless? It’s not just a desire to make things “pretty” or to have something to do as a hobby in your downtime.

Capital-A Art takes place in a tiny bubble, and most people don’t understand it. They may like a piece here and there, but they are excluded by gatekeepers who speak a special code and who aren’t interested in communicating with them anyway. Most people assume that’s what “art” means, and that it has nothing to do with them. And since most of the jobs people end up doing are anti-creative in nature, it’s natural to assume that only a few can be artists. The rest of us are just normal people. “I wish I could draw/play piano/dance/write like that,” they’ll sigh, and then go back to their normal lives. And when you ask them about art, they’ll tell you it’s for other people, they don’t understand it, they’re not creative, they’re too busy, they can’t be bothered. And if you take them at their word, and you’re a person who needs art of some kind to feel like you can breathe, if you feel like your life was saved when you discovered books or music, you wonder if they’re a different species. You despair.

But then there they were, those dancers in the mediocre bar in the middle of Fort Worth, tire-store managers and secretaries and schoolteachers and mechanics, lost in a trance as they glide and twirl each other around the floor. As much a part of the music as any ballerina or Broadway tapper. Even if the music is wretched Nashville pap, they dance, because they need to, because it makes them feel like they can breathe.

That’s why despots are always so eager to take on the arts, to condemn dance and music and painting and theater as evil, wastes of time, anti-authoritarian. Because while you’re thinking about those things, you’re not, for the moment, thinking what someone else wants you to. You’re caught up in a private place beyond political philosophy or religious rhetoric. Under the lights of the honkytonk, for a few minutes, you’re not a secretary or a mechanic or a Baptist or a disappointment to your parents, or whatever. You’re a piece of the music.

That’s what gives me hope, that people who vote Republican and fear homosexuals and all the rest of the red state woes, still have the same hunger I do, even if they don’t admit it or don’t know it. I keep wondering if that hunger doesn’t make a space for us to meet and talk together.