a child’s sense of wonder

When I was a little girl, my family drove from Michigan to Lebanon, Pa., (where my mom is from originally) and on to Bethany Beach for summer vacations. I have visions of these long drives: I loved entering the tunnels that were cut into the hills on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I mouthed the words to Debbie Gibson’s “Foolish Beat” on my yellow walkman as I looked out the window smeared with rain. On one drive, I was transported to Jean Valjean’s Parisian underworld when I read Les Miserables.

When we arrived at my granddad’s house in Lebanon, which to me felt like a mansion, I loved going to the sunroom streaming with light and putting conch shells that he collected in a bowl up to my ear. “That’s the sound of the ocean,” my granddad told me. His house had a grandfather clock that ticked and tocked at the base of a grand wood staircase. But it was the back stairwell that led to the kitchen at the back of the house that excited me — a maid’s staircase that conjured up stories of royalty — and a perfect gateway to a prime hiding place during hide n’ seek.

In those warm summer evenings, my brother and I would chase and catch fireflies in the backyard and put them in jars that had lids with holes poked through. We’d carefully place stick in the jars, so the fireflies felt like “home” and as we fell asleep on the cots in the basement (where I also watched “Silver Spoons” and had a crush on Ricky Schroder), we’d watch the fireflies light up until they slowly died out. (Sorry fireflies.) 

Lately, I’ve been trying to conjure up my childhood memories — and how wide-eyed and innocent I was. What impacted me the most? When I think back, what comes to mind first?

I recall long summer evenings playing hide n’ go seek with the neighborhood kids, riding my bicycle to Perry drugstore to buy Teanbeat and Bop so I could paste photos of my movie star crush Kirk Cameron on my bedroom wall (swoooon!), dressing as ET for Halloween and sorting through the heavy bags of candy for my favorites (Twix, Reese’s peanut butter cups, M&Ms), losing my first tooth and putting it under the pillow for the tooth fairy, waking up Christmas morning with a pounding heart, swinging on the vine of a weeping willow with my fourth grade boyfriend, Brian, who kissed me on the cheek.

I want to remember, if I can, what it felt like to be young so I can help little C. foster that sense of wonder, imagination and joy only children can have. Oh, the freedom of childhood!

 

 

 

sleep, and how quickly he’s growing

Little C. is almost two months old. Two months! And my little chubs is currently taking a nap in his crib (this is monumental). I was so worried that he would never sleep on his own and gain terrible sleeping habits — keeping us up all night, every night for a year — that I bought a few books like The Sleep Lady’s Good Night, Sleep Tight and sent a note to a mom’s group pleading for tips. My job right now, while on maternity leave, is to teach this boy, and sleep is top priority while he’s young enough to be trained.

So after a week of working at it — rocking, pacifiers and gently putting him down and tip-toeing away — he’s taking two-three hour naps in the morning in his crib. And he transitioned smoothly from being sprawled across me all night (god, did I love that stage) to sleeping next to me in the co-sleeper. He’s so close to me that I can rub his soft cheek and look in his baby blue eyes to help him fall asleep. (Though, if I think too hard about how tiny he used to be and how he’s already getting so big, I get a little teary.)

Speaking of tiny, here he is at 12 days — the photos were taken by my best friend, Stacey Vaeth Gonzalez.

This was before he could focus on us, before he started coo-ing (we call it gu-ing) and smiling, before he had a double chin, and before he could sit on his own on the couch without freaking.

oops. i meant to eat that.

One part of mom-hood I didn’t expect was how often I would drop food on the floor — and even better — on C.’s chubby cheek. I’m constantly wearing C. against me — the heat box that he is — and it’s not easy to navigate a fork full of dinner over his gigantic baby head into my ravenous hippopotamus mouth (I’ve got a voracious appetite, and am constantly thinking about food. Especially oatmeal chocolate chip cookies). But I keep trying to shovel food up over C.’s head. Spaghetti bolognese? Splat. On his 1-week-old cheek. Salsa? Splat. On his white hat. I’ve dropped grapes and tomatoes and eggs on our hardwood floor. Too bad we don’t have a dog (and never will, sorry C.). My clumsiness must be preparation for when C.’s older and throwing spaghetti against the walls and giggling. And then he can say, “I learned it from watching you!”

all smiles

So I’m very conscious that I’m becoming “that parent.” The parent who takes a video of her child every day (often sending them on to the grandparents, who are probably the only people who will watch a video every day and not roll their eyes and think “This mom is batty out of control.”) I can’t help it — munchkin is growing so fast and I want to capture his chirps and squeaks and grunts. The boy sounds like a barnyard animal and breathes like a heavy smoker.

And now he’s smiling. Oh man, do I love his smiles. He had been smiling in his sleep, but now he smiles with eyes open. He still looks a bit dazed when he smiles — I think he’s still trying to figure out what the hell is going on. But all the same, it’s just so damn exciting.

All smiles from Erin Killian on Vimeo.

Life with a one-month old has been pretty good (mostly cause I have the best partner in A. I could ever hope for). I’m operating on little sleep, but as long as C. and I get out of the house every day, I’m happy. Even just a 2-mile walk to Tryst and back gives me a spring to my step (and seems to be good for my waistline, too.)

Today, I took advantage of the 60 degree weather and walked down to P Street for a bagel, over to the Phillips Museum for the Degas exhibit of paintings of ballerinas (one woman turned to me and said of C. “Now that is the real work of art”) and down to Filter, a coffee shop at 20th and T streets (I love discovering new coffee shops). C. slept through it all in the Moby wrap and I was so happy and inspired. The goal is to keep having days like today — Baby & Me Yoga, music class, art exhibits, cooking and baking, learning Italian, planning trips and a wedding — and mostly watching little C. grow. And being “that” mom along the way — as discreetly as possible.

the best and worst of early babyhood

Almost one month old

Over Christmas at our apartment in D.C., my sister-in-law B. asked me and A., “What’s the best part of having a baby, and what’s the worst?” She’s 16 weeks pregnant and starting to prepare for her baby days. Of course, C. was only three weeks old, but it was still an interesting question.

A.’s immediate response was that the best part was when C. peed on his face. C. was five days old and we had to go back to the hospital to fill out a paternity form to verify that A. is the father since we’re not married. On the way home, we wanted to challenge ourselves and meet a friend at a coffee shop in Adams Morgan. C. was squirming and crying, but instead of rushing him home, we changed him and fed him in the car. A. laid him down on the front seat to change him, and then I pulled out my boob in the back seat. Of course, just as he was getting full, C. released a large wet fart. (And so it is with babies). So I passed him back up to the front seat to A., who changed him again. And while his diaper was off, C. innocently squirted a stream of pee on his chubby cheek — and over his head onto the floor mat. We laughed belly laughs before walking a mile for chais in the warm coffee shop.

My response to B. about the “best part” was more general about how much C. makes us laugh. Like when he’s sleeping against A. and wakes up hungry and he grunts and pushes his way down to his nipple, licks it, and cries. I mean, who really wants to suck on a hairy, milk-less nipple? I would cry, too. But man is it cute. And hilarious.

nothing is sweeter

To me, nothing is sweeter than a photo of a dad sleeping with his newborn. Especially this doting dad, who I overhear telling little C., as he changes his diaper and C. screams (C. would rather sit in his own excrement than get his diaper changed), how much we love him.

A. holding an 8-day-old C.

our baby boy

Seven hours after he was born, in the recovery room at Georgetown.

Last Saturday, on Dec. 3, A. and I met our son Colin Michael Olsen at 10:11 a.m. at Georgetown Hospital. Labor was the most intense, painful 12 hours I have ever endured — and A. cried several times throughout the night — but it was all worth it when I held our baby boy, about a minute after he popped out sunny-side up, crying and squirming, red-faced and bruised from 3 1/2 hours of traveling down the birth canal (I plan to write his birth story eventually). He weighed 7 pounds 14 ounces at birth and was 19 inches long.

Nine days later, he’s passed his birth weight at 8 pounds. I’m sitting on our couch on this chilly Monday, listening to David Berkeley with A. and Colin has snuggled his chubby cheeks against my chest — his soft, warm body slumped in sleepy contentment. I want to savor every detail about these fleeting moments with our beautiful baby boy, who is already growing and changing. I can’t get enough of his soft skin, curious eyes and mousy squeaks. It’s amazing how quickly you can love a tiny being — and I expect the love to grow and expand with each day.

when long-held dreams slowly morph into reality

OK, I’m starting to get uncomfortable. Some of those side-effects of pregnancy — that I won’t get into here because, well, they’re embarrassing and I have friends who want to get pregnant — are starting to kick in.

Yesterday, A. found me in the bathtub after work trying to soothe my over-sized body and said, “Is it go time?” His face looked so bright, it made me smile. Later, he was sure he felt a contraction as we cuddled on the couch together, listening to Chopin. And then another a while later. “OK, contractions are 20 minutes apart,” he said, joking. Maybe it was a contraction — I did tighten up, but there was no pain. I think A. is trying to will this baby out of me.

Ten days till my due date. Is it strange to say that it still blows my mind we’re having a baby? That there’s a full-sized baby inside of me? I guess I won’t believe it’s real until I’m looking into my son’s or daughter’s eyes.

I’ve always dreamed about being pregnant, about having a newborn. One picture I had in my mind is of lying on a full bed with my partner and baby in a small studio apartment (in my mind it’s New York) listening to classical music with the city noises below (such a strange, romantic snapshot — mostly cause now I don’t imagine us in New York and I’m really glad that we have a two-bedroom.)

But after more than 20 years of various dreams, the reality that I’m about to give birth — even as I feel a leg push under my left rib cage — is really hard to grasp. Exciting, but still mind blowing.

baby o. still needs a name

A. and I still don’t have names for Baby O. When we tell people this, they say, “Oh, you probably just don’t want to tell me.” And then I say, “No, really, we don’t have names yet.” And then there is silence — people are really afraid for us and our baby.

Early on, like eons ago (three months), A. called the baby Carrie, after his favorite movie (we don’t even know the gender). Yes, the 1970s thriller Carrie, about a troubled, awkward girl who is voted homecoming queen at her high school. But then at the dance, her classmates rig a bucket of pigs’ blood above the stage so that when she’s crowned, the blood soaks her — to her horror and humiliation. So she goes nuts and burns down the school. Yes, that Carrie — that’s the movie A. wants to name our baby girl after (should we have a girl). I bought the DVD for A. for our first Christmas together. We watched it one cold Sunday in his Virginia apartment and laughed hysterically at the sound effects (ree ree). I had no idea it’s really a comedy. But to name our daughter after that movie seems to me… I dunno. Just wrong.

Then, as luck would have it, when A. heard his mom say Carrie with a New Jersey accent, he said, “OK, no, no, can’t go with that.” [Thank you, Vikki!] That was more than two months ago.

Since then, A. adopted the named Cholula (have I mentioned we don’t know if it’s a boy or girl?), after his favorite hot sauce. A. started dousing all of his food in Cholula when he was in Afghanistan, and has been addicted ever since. He even puts it on plain Greek yogurt (I just gagged as I typed that.)

holy shit, i’m almost full-term

36 1/2 weeks

In a few days, I’ll be full-term — the baby’s organs will be fully developed and he or she — in all of his or her wriggling, red-faced, squeamish glory — will be able to breathe on its own should it decide it’s tired of the womb.

I can’t tell you how happy this makes me — but holy shit, I’m almost full-term.

These days, I’m having trouble putting on my socks. I often dribble liquids on my protruding belly and look down at the mess like a 3-year-old. I can hear myself breathing hard just sitting at my desk. And when A. and I lie down in our king-size bed, snuggled up on either side of the body pillow, our faces inches away from each other, I can feel my heart pounding twice as hard as it usually does. Dr. M. said it was nothing to worry about — that even at rest, my heart is working as hard as if I was working out.

Most evenings now, A. and I have “story time,” where he leans down to where the doctor says the baby’s head is, and tells him or her a story. He talks to my whale-sized swollen belly, kissing it and rambling about the day’s events. It’s so cute, I should record it. I always try to stifle my laughs so that they don’t drown out his voice — I want this baby to recognize its father’s voice. But can the baby really hear him? I wonder what the baby senses or feels.