Glory Ho

We’re still in shock I think. I mean, we don’t have time to think, we just do: Dab, hold, feed, pat, soothe, change, snap, wipe. It’s all just a series of tasks. Like an old game of pin the tail on the donkey, we’re blindfolded and we keep pinning bits of this and that to the wall, entirely afraid of stepping back far enough to see the big picture. That we have a baby. A real, live, kicking, cooing baby. And she’s staying.

We do a lot of staring, too. We stare at each other and stare at her and then stare at each other again and realize that we created this being. A creature who sometimes sounds like a little gremlin and other times more like a pigeon, and often looks like a little shepherd in a nativity play–her cream-colored swaddle around her, hands just barely visible, calm, watching her new flock of peeps.

Have I told you about her arms? On the changing table, she’s a classic music conductor, her arms jerking out and in and over and through, excited for the symphony of life. When she is placed in the bath, she is a storyteller, eyes wide and arms straight out as if she is describing a ghost and a really big fish in one breath. When interrupted from sleep, she is a dancer, arms floating up through the air—she floats, she flits, she fleetly flees, she flies.

Our favorite move is the Scarlett Stretch. After being released from her swaddle, her arms go up and over her head, her feet scrunch up toward her stomach in a big curl and her head tilts to the side, lips in a pout, eyebrows up as if to say: Why thank you, Jeeves, I’m ready for my breakfast now.

She love her sling. Babywearing is all the rage these days, you know. Its what all the third world countries do. It keeps her close to Me, feeling safe and secure. It allows Mommy to be all she can be in a world that honors multi-tasking. One day I will tell her all about it and by then, surely, they will have found evidence which proves that wearing your baby causes cancer.

I touch her head a lot. When my brother Philip was born, my Mom explained to my six year old self that he had a “soft spot” on his head–that all babies did. I was fascinated by this. Now I touch Scarlett’s soft spot, smoothing down her strands of hair. I think I am comforting her, but perhaps I am just comforting myself.

Birth was exhausting, but finite. Motherhood is forever. What if I’m not good at it? What if my instincts don’t show up? What if Scarlett can tell?

But I am surrounded by souls who support me every step of the way.

At my baby shower, Eva had the idea to create a paper chain for the nursery. Each attendee was to write a blessing, a piece of advice or a wish for my birth and my baby on a link of the chain. Everyone once in a while, I read one. Today’s said this: “If you ever doubt your ability as a mother, just know that you were chosen, before the beginning of time, to be this child’s mother. And you ARE good at it.” Whoever that was, thank you.

Dear Scarlett,

When you rose to meet me, you looked like a little old woman and a little baby bird at the same time, an old, wild soul, all scrunched up and sweet and full of ethereal wisdom, yet completely pure. There were no tears or screams, just awe and confusion on your pinker-than-expected skin. I felt every moment. Mommy was very tired and Daddy held you in his arms. Then we gave you a bath.

That first month of your life, I sat on the porch swing in my purple ruffles and sang Hush Little Baby, Old Shep and Jolly Playmates to you. I cried with confusion, exhaustion and happiness. I called Grandma Great. I called Grammy. I called Aunti Maury. I called Erin. They all told me it would be okay.

Thanks to Facebook, everyone knew about you right away. When I announced your birth, you got 57 comments and 27 likes all that first day.

I knew how to hold you, and I knew how to change your diaper and feed you. But I was still nervous a lot. I wasafraid that I will change you. You are so pure, so untouched, sun has never burned your skin. . .words have never bruised your emotions. . .guilt has never dented your conscience.

Daddy kept reading Dr. Sears’ Baby Book. We learned to shoot saline up your nose and take your temperature and with all this H1N1 stuff, Daddy got the flu and had to stay and Nonna and Papa’s for a couple days. One night, you wouldn’t stop crying. . .we were so scared, so we swaddled you and rocked you and eventually I cried with you. It was all I could think to do.

Your favorite activities were hanging out on my shoulder and peeing just as I slide off your diaper. You are a truly beautiful baby. Everyone says so. Then people say how they say that to everyone, but this time they mean it. Even the girls at Mountain Midwifery said you were beautiful. And they see a lot of babies.

On the third morning of your life, my friend Amy called from New York. We hadn’t talked in several months. Sometimes, relationships are complicated. She wanted to know all about you. Someday I’ll take you to New York City to see her. We’ll sing the TMBG song and meet my blog friend, Frances and we’ll go to a poetry reading.

But first, we must master breastfeeding.

Caitlin, the blond nurse with pixie features and Nordic skin from Mountain Midwifery came to see you last week. I was nervous for the dirty house, but Daddy said if our floors were too clean, well that wouldn’t paint us as very good parents, would it? She measured you and looked around and called you Madame and you loved every minute. She also found my Linea Negra, the faint line down my middle, a trace of you, still in my belly. It just means “black line” in Latin, but Caitlin made it sound exotic and beautiful. And to me, it was.

Do you remember living in my belly? When your sleep grins shine through, what are you smiling about? Do you hear Julie Delpy singing that waltz? Do you taste creme brulee? Do you dream about your previous life as a whirling dervish or a deep sea fisherman?

Do you like us?

Love, Mommy