And Then Suddenly...A Day Opens

Part of my prescription for restoring to sanity after my father's death trip has been to hire my talented, wonderful baby-whispering friend Jennifer to come sit with Bodhi a couple days a week. Then, while she's with him, I can do any number of things all by myself.

So right now I'm at the coffee shop, writing this blog entry. And then, around 4, I'll go take Mandy's class again. (It was great last Thursday evening to take her "grounding the thighbones" class. I stole her Desiree-influenced partner work of having your partner sit on your back leg in the lunge to help you engage your back quad a little more. Ahem. Yum! My hatha star students thank you, Mandy.)

Starting about two weeks ago, I began trading massage with my friend Melissa again. We have done this for the past few years. I gave up doing massage in January 2007, when I got pregnant. I was too sick to be effective as a massage therapist. And then I had all sorts of unsettling complications (that turned out to be no big deal, thank God) so I just went on hiatus. And frankly I have not yet gone back. Until last week. And it felt great to give massage again.

Massage is like spiritual practice for me.

I took Charly's yoga class the night before; working on visvamitrasana, pincha mayurasana, full arm balance and backbending was like WOW. My right shoulder is completely jacked up, probably from hauling around the Bodhi boy. It sucks, because my arm strength is peaking -- carrying around a 22-pound baby boy will do that -- but my ligaments are loose, so my right shoulder doesn't support my massive weight. My triceps are solid. Thanks to Bodhi. So by the time I get back to a more normal weight -- I'm hoping to fit back into my cords by winter -- I'll have done a year or more of progressive weight training. I think there's a way to use the baby to help melt the fat off and build muscle back; squats and lunges, anyone?

By the way, I have lost almost 50 pounds since I gave birth. I still want to lose 20 more.

So taking a yoga class, then giving a massage the next day...I felt like my old self again. But the bonus is that I come home and I have a hot, sexy husband and an adorable baby waiting for me! Glad to see me! It is a dream come true.

The adorable baby is developing new skills every second. A couple nights ago, he figured out how to open drawers and pull things out of them. I'm trying, in vain, to teach him how to also put those things back in the drawers, but he's way more excited about taking them out. He's in a kind of "puzzle" phase, which is so exciting. He likes to put things together, and take them apart. He is figuring out the laws of physics.

And he's still not crawling, but I have realized that rolling like a dervish or a tumbleweed across the room is a very smart way to get where you need to go. And he's now practicing pulling himself up (that was yesterday's victory) with my help, a little, and realizing that he can do it himself on chairs or footstools. And he walks quite well with Mommy or Daddy holding his hands...though he's not as excited about that yet as I know he will be.

I think we might be in deep trouble quite soon.

At night, after his Daddy finishes bathing and reading to him, Bodhi spends a good 30-45 minutes in bed next to me, rolling, squealing, clicking his tongue, mouthing out consonants and vowels, singing, humming, blowing raspberries on my belly and my arm, nursing on all fours and staring at the ceiling in wonder before he finally falls deeply asleep, exhausted. Then I spend an hour reading perez hilton and msn news on my cellphone, in the dark, checking Bodhi's breathing every minute or so, until I too fall deeply asleep.

I'm trying not to use my cell as much, especially after all the recent studies about cancer and cellphones. Which means I read by the hall light. I just finished a very hyperbolic, silly biography about Iggy Pop called Open Up and Bleed. Alas, I can't recommend it. I love rock bios; they are usually sooooo cheesy and tawdry. (Give me Motley Crue's Dirt or Hollywood Babylon any day!) And yes, this one is both. But not NEARLY enough. It's disappointing (and of course revolting) to learn that Iggy has a thing for underage girls, including someone I knew and couldn't stand in L.A. -- what's new, man? how cliche is that? -- but there is absolutely NO dirt on his sexy times with Bowie! Oh sure, there's plenty on their artistic collaboration, but who cares about that? I love Iggy and particularly the Stooges music, but now I'm kind of mad and sad that I read the book because it reveals too much about what a lousy person he is. I always have trouble reconciling my heroes with their problematic personal lives. I've never been able to separate them, though I try.


And so it goes.

















I am trying to get my New Mama friends to do a weekly writing exercise; we put a word out to everyone on email, then they take FIVE minutes to write a response, and we mail it out to everyone. This week's word is "RASH." The idea is to write without stopping, without editing. I find this technique produces the most authentic, beautiful, melodic work. Kerouac's Spontaneous Prose.


RASH


Not to do anything sudden, too quick. To make a bold decision. On the spot. The red spots, the tiny angry bites emerging out of the skin. My baby's virgin skin. Soft as petals. Open to dew. The Jewel is in the Lotus. The hidden heart of my child, the inner recesses. I want to go slow, take time, make time. I am overwhelmed with how much love I can pour into this person, all the love I ever dreamed of giving, always welcome and needed. It takes time. The fever strikes, and it is high. All my love can't keep him well. All my love can't keep him alive. I'm brought to my knees, there's rugburn, there's a scar where I once knelt. Where I once slid down. Where my baby was born, where my old self used to be. Scars on my cervix, scarred mind. The images burn. The rash is almost gone. My lower back aches. My baby smiles. My heart aches with an explosiveness I can't explain. The volcano erupts and sparks fly. Red sparks on white skin. Where the heat was turned up. Where God takes the reins, and we ride.

Bodhi Fever

Poor Bodhi.

He has had a fever, and is starting to get the telltale rash/bumps that is/are...roseola.

Whole lotta roseola.

So we're managing his fever with Infant Tylenol and (hallelujah) Baby Motrin. Though it's been quite a few hours since I gave him any.

Right now Hurricane Dolly is dumping lots of delicious rain on Austin. We are sitting on our back porch, getting misted a little, playing with blocks and typing this blog entry.

Poor Bodhi. He really feels crummy. He's hot, and fussy a little, and really needs his mommy. Yet he can't resist playing. He seems to love the rain so.

If I can erase the Michael Caine voiceover of this poem by ee cummings, it has new depth and new meaning for me when I think of my baby:


[somewhere i have never travelled]

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

Art Day

So we met up with some other Mamas and Babies this morning to check out the Blanton museum, which has free admission on Thursdays and is fairly baby-friendly.

It was great to see everyone; I got some reassurance that even though Bodhi is not crawling yet, he's not the only one his age who isn't...and some true geniuses didn't crawl...at all.

Right now I'm watching him pull his books out of the bookshelf, practically his favorite activity.

He rolled across the floor to get to it.

I have to say that I almost went ballistic today in the parking garage at the Blanton. It's UT orientation time, so the freshmen and their pushy, strident parents are swarming all over the place. Get the picture? We parked our car, I put Bodhi in his little sunhat and plopped him in his stroller, then we stood to wait for the elevator.

After a few minutes, it finally came. There was another baby in a stroller riding with us, and a PSP with her teen UT students and some of their belongings. We were able to squeeze in. When we got to the ground floor, 10 seconds later, I hesitated -- my mistake -- because I wasn't sure if I was where we wanted to be or not. The PSM (Pushy Strident Mom shall we say) felt compelled to say, as though it were not possible to open elevator doors manually or keep them from closing, "This is where we need to get off!" Turns out it was where we needed to get off, too, so we did that, but both she and her brood and the other PSM with the stroller practically steamrolled over us. The other stroller pusher literally tried to cut us off. It was very Keystone Cops meets Ratso Rizzo. I said, "JESUS, Lady! This is a BABY here!" And I swear I felt my blood boil. Even though she was also pushing a BABY, somehow her trying to push in front of me was worse than me not letting her.

I could just see it, all the Moms squaring off in the parking garage at Jester dorm.

We managed to escape unscathed.

So the contrast of the cool, smooth and light museum was welcome. Two other Mamas who met up with us also had harrowing parking experiences.

I forget how crazy it can get around campus when the students come back.

Bodhi is really working hard right now to put a book back in the shelf; it's really cute.

As I write this, I realize even more how much I need to write what is in my head.

The problem with that is that what's in my head is often not so very pretty.

I need to write

1) the story of Bodhi's birth
2) the story of my Dad's death

I used to want to be famous. For what? Poetry, Fiction, Screenwriting...whatever. I just wanted the power and the respect it seems famous people get.

Okay, now Bodhi is chewing on the "babyproofing" rubber corner pad I put on his bookshelf. He simply pulled it off and put it in his mouth. The label on it says it should be good "until baby defeats" it. Really. No shit. And when might that be? Five minutes after I put it on, or ten?

Who in the hell designed all these babyproofing items anyway? Some childless, sadistic monk who has been sequestered in a castle without electricity his whole life?

I digress.

And earlier today, I was about as unyogic as I it gets. I don't want to get in a street fight with another mom. I don't want to set the bad example for Bodhi that problems are resolved with bad words and/or fists.

Oops, gotta go -- he's got the plug end of the humidifier in his hands.

Bodhi Loves His Room

With babyproofing about 1/3 of the way done (um, is that ever really done?) we've been able to set up B's room and let him roll on the floor to his heart's content. Inspired by Jenn and Eila and Lily Belle, we put a futon on the floor to give him a floor bed. It's really wonderful; once we've got all the dangerous objects moved away, he'll be able to just hang out there. As it is, he can roll off the bed and onto the rug or cool numbered pad. (see above, with Bitee.)

He loves his room!


He is really into his books these days, and enjoys tasting all of the stuffed animals he has collected.

I will post pics sometime soon; we have a "Space Cowboy" theme going!

Imagine That!

...so, like, if you go to bed early?

Your baby will wake up early. And stuff.

A Few of Our Favorite Thangs

Here he is, checking out his new favorite book, the one Aunt Donna gave him.

Favorite food, so far, seems to be: CARROTS.

Avocados are running a close second, along with Sweet Peas.

Bodhi doesn't love Sweet Potatoes, really, or Apple or Banana.

Interesting.

Favorite thing to do, or at least in the top five, is turning the pages in the books while Daddy reads to him. Other favorite things to do: try to extract the babyproofing clips on the electrical outlets, grasp Tito's fur and pull, dance around with Mommy to Thievery Corporation, thrash and kick legs while on tummy, gnaw on cell phone.

Also he rode on a SWING in the PARK for the first time -- can you imagine?

Loved it.

Don't Go

A quick comment...

I am always going to be looking for clues that my Dad is still with me; yesterday, while shopping for nails at Lowe's, I heard Sonny and Cher's song "Baby Don't Go." Which I had never heard before until I read that it was one of my Dad's desert island picks, and played it at his funeral service.

The lyrics:

Baby don't go, pretty baby please don't go

I never had a mother, I hardly knew my dad
I've been in town for 18 years
You're the only boy I've had
I can't stay, maybe I'll be back some day

Baby don't go, pretty baby please don't go
I love you so, pretty baby please don't go

I never had no money, I bought at the second store
The way this old town laughs at me
I just can't take it no more
I can't stay, I'm gonna be a lady some day

Baby don't go, pretty baby please don't go
I love you so, pretty baby please don't go

When I get to the city, my tears will all be dry
My eyes will look so pretty
No one's gonna know I cried
Yes I'm goin' away, maybe I'll be back some day

Baby don't go, maybe I'll be back some day


...and I just noticed it was one of the songs I left OFF the list from a previous post; hmmm, trying to tell me something? Next I'll be hearing the other songs I forgot to mention at Terra Toys, or Target...

Falling in Love

I have heard many parents say how fun it is to Fall in Love with their babies. Up until recently, I didn't quite get that. I mean, I absolutely LOVE my son. I think he is the cutest baby ever born. And everything he does strikes me as genius and/or adorable. I can spend hours gazing at him, or into his eyes, and I often do. I believe he was meant to be my baby, and I was born to be his mom.

But falling in Love? As in heartsoaring, butterflies-at-the-sound-of-the-lover's-voice-or-car-in-the-driveway, every-love-song-applies-to-me, the-world-is-so-beautiful falling? I don't think so. Or I didn't think so. But now?

I don't know what has changed. I guess falling in love, really falling in love, takes time. Not always a lot of time, but some. And I've spent some time with this little being. Every day since we met. I stare at him while he sleeps. I can't believe how lucky I am to have such a darling, sweet, gorgeous baby. I celebrate his skin. His skin! It's incredible. I can lazily linger my hands on his skin, try to touch every hair on his head or in his brows, enjoy the texture of his earlobes, soft but crunchy cartilagey, press fingertips into his three serrated tiny teeth, pinch gently his jowly cheeks or the tip of his nose...last night we pressed our fingertips together so lightly and for so long I thought I was going to cry.

Doesn't it sound like I'm falling in love?

He is my favorite companion in the car. He giggles, plays, sings, babbles/talks most of the time. He kicks his legs excitedly as soon as I tell him we're leaving the house, getting in the car, and going on an ADVENTURE. He loves looking out at the sky while we drive. We listen to the radio, and I explain what we're listening to, or where we're driving to, or what's happening in the news or on the streets.

Every song reminds me of him, especially the ones he likes. Do you realize how many songs use the term of endearment "Baby?" Yes, but it's even more meaningful when the love in the song is actually a Baby. I've been listening to my Dad's old radio shows, one from 1967 and another from 1968, and it dawned on me that he was a DJ in California during the Summer of Love. And he was playing all this music that I think of as so my own, so fundamental to my makeup. The Rolling Stones. Beatles. Soul music of all kinds. The Supremes. Jackie Wilson. Marvin Gaye. The Doors. Did I ever talk to my Dad about all that music? Will Bodhi think Death Cab for Cutie is all his own? Or Krishna Das? Or Bob Wills? We'll see. It will always remind me of him, that's for sure.

I love the tone and timbre of his voice, even when (especially when?) he cries. He grunts and gurgles when he nurses. His laughter is water bubbling over stones. Lately he has been growling, making every sound he knows how to make deep in his throat and vibrating in his belly.

I love his hands. When he nurses, he presses his fingers into my breast and lifts his pinky. He falls asleep with his hand between my boobs; it's hilarious. It's like falling asleep on your backpack on the train when traveling: SECURITY. He handles and studies his pacifier like a scientist or a diamond cutter examining a precious stone. He turns it in his hands, practicing and honing the dexterity of his fingers. And then he plops the nipple part into his mouth and chews. Or tries to put it in my mouth, or Daddy's. Or in my navel.

He also pulls my hair, can seem to grab just ONE hair -- ouch, that hurts more -- or pinch my nipple, roll it between his fingers and PULL it hard! Or scratch my face, the inside of my nostril or my ear, reminding me that I need to trim his nails. And he gnaws on my jawbone, on my chin. He sometimes burps and spits up on my cheek or, worse, in my mouth.

But I don't care. And Daddy walks around the house wearing spit up epaulets on his t-shirts.

Lately Bodhi's fascinated by the buckles in his carseat, stroller, and high chair. I can just hear the gears turning in his head, paying attention to how I strap him in and how I release him.

He reached for the velcro tabs on his cloth diaper cover today. Yikes. And he is practically obsessed with the babyproofing tabs in the electrical sockets. Not to mention the remote control, the lamp cord, the blind cords, my laptop and my cellphone, that weird metal box I am always sleeping with or talking into or typing on. It lights up!

I love the texture of his hair. It's fuzzy! There ain't much there, but what is there I love. It sticks up in funny places; he was born with an Alfalfa-tuft on the very top of his head and a little dark cowlick curl on his forehead...and nothing else. Now the areas in between have begun to fill in, and his tuft is sprouting more hair, while his cowlick curl has shaped the hairs on his forehead into a pleasing smooth wave. His little nose tilts up at the tip.

He has dimples on his shoulders! He got this from me. It's not something I ever considered, how I'd feel noticing my own body parts and genes transferred to another person. But it's an AMAZING feeling. I feel like a part of me will live on after my body is gone. Kind of like my Dad and his big fleshy, Buddha-lobe ears...I have his ears, as does Bodhi.

And, like a new love, I have begun to see my baby's face in the faces of strangers, of other babies, his mannerisms and sounds manifesting in the cute little babe on TV or in the grass at the park. All children have become cherished and adorable to me. They have become reflections of my love for my son.



Bodhi has begun to cry instead of play now when we put him on the changing table. It makes me sad. I try to make up songs about diapers and pee pee and poo poo and onesies and jammies and everything. (To the tune of "Paperback Writer," or "Let's Do the Time Warp Again" or "Boogie Fever.") I blow zerberts on his belly, which I am also in love with and obsessed with. His belly button is so beautiful, ovally and a shallow innie. He has lots of baby pudge, but I can see the long leanness of him too, long arms like his Dad, long torso, big muscular thighs and muscular feet.

I am memorizing every detail of him. I can feel him memorizing me, like I did my parents. I can close my eyes and see my mother's slightly crooked front teeth, the mole on my Dad's neck, the outline of their lips or the backs of their heads. The shapes and textures of their feet.

He hugs me when I pick him up. He reaches for me when he wants me. As though we were in "Flashdance," when this happens, I hear "What a Feeling!" chorus through my brain. His eyes flit from my chest to my face in a way that is not subtle, nor is it creepy the way it is when certain men do that. He sleeps with his cheek to my chest, right above my heart. He quiets immediately when I chant "OM." I think of our birth, how I chanted OM almost the whole labor, letting him hear me and know that I was waiting for him, and that all he had to do was hang on to my voice.

He loves rolling. Not crawling, but rolling toward his destination. Doris, my motherinlaw, told me that all of her children rolled instead of crawling. Bodhi rolls like a dervish at night and in the mornings. He gets on his hands and knees and tries to nurse while on his belly. It is really funny.

He also shakes his head from side to side, seemingly out of delight, and sometimes out of tiredness. He's added joyously and vigorously thrashing his hands. And sometimes, I'll put my lips next to his face so that when he turns it to that side I can kiss him, and this cracks him up.

He loves rattles, and tries to makes sounds by clacking objects together.

And guess his favorite food so far, discovered today, when he miraculously asked for MORE and ate almost the entire jar (organic, all-natural, plain and simple, folks) full? CARROTS. Not my favorite, or his dad's, particularly, but HIS favorite. It has made me realize he will be his own person, a person with a unique set of likes and dislikes, preferences and aversions, ways of doing and being that are not at all like my own. I knew this, academically and intellectually, before, and all the poets and parenting pundits mention it like it's the most basic and profound fact of having a child, but it wasn't until I saw him reach for another mouthfull of carrots that it hit me: wait, I don't like carrots THAT much.

Oh. Okay. Cool.


So even though Bodhi and I haven't run through the waves at the beach, or had a candlelit dinner in front of a fireplace, or slow danced to "Dreamweaver," I am definitely, slowly but surely and deeply falling in love with him.