Samina's First 50 Foods

I am fully aware that this post will be of little interest to anyone but myself and Andrea, but I decided to use this blog as a..well...log!

1. pasta with olive oil
2. capocollo
3. blackberries
4. lettuce
5. bread
6. prosciutto (crudo)
7. banana
8. broccoli
9. breaded chicken
10. prosciutto (cotto)
11. tomato
12. meatballs
13. olive
14. fish
15. cucumber
16. egg
17. zucchini
18. ricotta
19. parmigiano
20. asparagus
21. green beans
22. porcini mushrooms
23. cheese pizza
24. peaches
25. pork steak
26. pineapple
27. kiwi
28. shrimp
29. strawberries
30. arugula
31. stracchino cheese
32. farro
33. potato gnocchi
34. peas
35. liver
36. onion
37. orange
38. apple
39. blueberries
40. sweet potato
41. black truffle
42. 'fiordilatte' gelato
43. banana gelato
44. plum crostata
45. tofu
46. rice
47. malt yogurt
48. soy sauce
49. lemon
50. saffron

Community

Yesterday, we went to a birthday party for one of Sofia's little friends. And when the cake came out, I noticed something fascinating: all of the parents and grandparents in the room were smiling - ear to ear, genuine cheesy grins. Some of them, including myself, for a little girl they hardly knew.

One of the greatest gifts parenting gives you - should you choose to accept it - is Community. I think of my early days of Motherhood and the importance - no, the *essentiality* - of other moms in my life. And that has held true over the past 3 years. I have found genuine friends through my daughter. People who laugh and cry with me along the ebb and flow of daily life. People who have come to care for and cherish my daughters as if they were blood relatives. My go-to community with any parenting doubts, as we dredge together through the confusing waters of pre-school and potty training and what to do on a rainy day in Perugia.

These days, I often find myself citing the old "It takes a village" because, yeah, well, it does. I am even more aware of it now, with little Samina in our lives. Like when we are all at the park (as we almost always are), and someone stealthily grabs her from me so I can sit still for a minute, or when I turn around to find that someone else has dried Sofia's tears before I even had time to notice she was crying.

We parents do often seem smug from the outside, I am well aware of it. We often seem like one of those pompous clubs which requires the worst kind of hazing to become a part of. But that's from the outside. We are really just a bunch of lost, confused, disheveled souls feeling so incredibly fortunate to have found we are not stranded on a desert island. So relieved to cut the boredom of toddlerhood with the laughter of a fellow parent, so aflutter at the notion that there is someone else who might actually be interested that your little kid finally pooped in a public toilet or stopped his war on vegetables or will only wear pink to pre-school.

And so, as I looked around that raucous birthday party room, with what seemed like 1,000 tiny little voices belting out "Happy Birthdayyyyyyy to youuuuu," it was hard not to feel the pride. Pride resonating from the 1,000 parents of those 1,000 tiny little voices, as they saw the birthday girl's eyes grow wide and her electric smile turn to blow out those 3 little pink candles. The community. It had gathered around one of its families and bear hugged it, with the strength that only common experience can provide.

Oversharing

As many of you may well have noticed, I like to share. Pictures, stories, anecdotes, information, links, opinions. All of them, all out there. I am pretty much an open book, and most days I'm fine with that. But, yeah, some days I do feel like a bit of a circus freak.

See, I was sorta just born this way: an oversharer. I look at those people who are dark and mysterious and I literally ask myself how they do it. Some of them, I note in wonderment, don't even *try* to be that way - they aren't even calculating being cryptic. THEY JUST ARE. I know. Total madness, from over here in Shareytown, where everybody knows your name.

People seem to like me this way, for the most part - or at least that's what they tell me. To the Italians, I am very "American," sharing every last detail of my life over our first cup of caffe' (and urging them to do the same). They use words to describe me like solare (sunny) and simpatica (nice). 

To the Americans, I am Good Ol' Jodi. Bridging the gap in my eclectic world of friends with a smile, a joke and some sort of narrative.

These are pretty great ways to be viewed in the world. I realize that, and I do cherish it. I am shy in many things but, over the years, I've learned that sharing myself and my thoughts is not something I mind doing anymore. It helps me connect with people; it gives them a sense of comfort, I think, knowing I am putting myself out there. They in turn open up to me more easily and fully and, poof, a friendship is formed. Empathy is achieved.

The bad side is obvious. The more I talk about me, the more I make myself open to criticism, or just plain opinions. Which I know is the natural part of discourse. It would be highly arrogant of me to think I could just put myself out there and people would simply tell me how wonderful my thoughts are. But, sometimes, the criticism is unexpected and painful, or keeps me up at night because it reveals a side of a situation I had thoroughly missed. Or, worse, it makes me see an aspect of myself I had heretofore completely overlooked. One that, perhaps, was best left secret, overturned under a large boulder-sized rock, as long as we both shall have lived.

Truth is, though, I don't think I am going to change anytime soon. I like connecting with people (this blog post being, ironically, Exhibit A). As much as I spent most of my high school years just wishing I were one of those enigmatic girls who seemed to flow through the hallways naturally raising eyebrows. I am who I am, in all my blabbering glory.

p.s. In doing some research for this post, I discovered that Webster's New World Dictionary announced 'overshare' as 2008's Word of the Year! Validation!

Beyond Baby Blues

I suffered from Postpartum Depression after Sofia's birth.

This is something I have only recently felt ok enough to admit to the masses. It took me a long time to admit it to myself, then to Andrea, then to my closest friends and then, now, to you, the world at large.

Postpartum Depression, popularly referred to as PPD, is a bitch. It goes beyond that first-time mom, totally normal feeling of "Holy shit, I'm really *in* this now." PPD makes it hard to breathe, because you feel suffocated, suddenly, by your own life. It is obviously different for everyone but, in my case, it made me resent everyone and everything - myself included. Or, maybe I should say, myself especially. 


I feel like I need to be careful writing this, because Sofia might someday read it and feel, somehow, that it was her fault I had this problem. And so, before I go any further, let me stress to her and to other moms and to all of you out there that PPD is first and foremost a hormonal imbalance. In fact, most moms who figure out they have it cure it with anti-depressants. I did not. Not because I am against them - quite the opposite - but because shrinks are pretty hard to come by here in Italy, where PPD is still a taboo topic. I just never felt strong enough to ask for help or figure out how to get it. And so I battled through it alone - with poor old Andrea at my side, never knowing what words out of his mouth might make me bite his head off (pretty much all of them...feeling backed into a corner, I frequently lashed out).

PPD brought me to depths I'd never been before. I remember once, in the very early days, my mother-in-law saying conversationally "Now that you have one of your own, can you believe those women who kill their own children?" And my heart sunk. Actually, it went and right broke in half, my poor heart, because my answer was too shameful, too horrible for any mother to actually think, and so I kept it to myself: "Yes. Yes, I can." Sofia was never at risk, mind you; luckily, I never felt that sting of violence other PPD moms might. But, suddenly, I *understood* them in a way I never thought I would and never would have wanted to. Which was such a dark realization, and so difficult to really allow myself to feel. Because I did love my daughter. I did. But, in the beginning, I loved her from afar. While someone else was holding her, if she was asleep, or in my dreams, on those rare nights I was able to rest my weary mind.

Me in the beginning, enduring.

 I'm not sure I can pinpoint the exact moment I felt my PPD had passed and I was in the clear. I am absolutely certain it lasted Sofia's first 6 months, pretty positive it went on well past her first birthday. But it's all a blur now. Maybe it stopped when we finally got to sleeping through the night (that sounds about right, actually, but that was at 2 years...). Somehow I'd gotten through it without medication. Somehow, I found myself willing and able to leave the house alone with her and do all sorts of Mommy-daughter things that filled me with joy, not anxiety.

Anyway. That's all history now; history I'd just as soon not dwell on.  But I decided to write this post because there are a lot of new (or 2nd-time) moms in my life right now, and I just read an article that made me think of them, and made me think of that dark and by-now-hazy time in my early parenting days. (This link here: http://www.postpartumprogress.com/the-symptoms-of-postpartum-depression-anxiety-in-plain-mama-english.) It may seem cliche', but it's true, and from my heart: if I can save just one other mom from silently enduring the guilt of Postpartum Depression, it might have made it all worth it to have survived it myself.

The Parent Trap

One day our children will be grown up, and we will laugh at how many times Sofia got sick because of her hand-in-her-mouth addiction, or how Samina was already so strong at 4 months that putting her diaper on without her rolling over mid-changing was an absolute impossibility. How I never have the time to shower more regularly than every 3-4 days (true story). How Andrea had a physical therapy or massage therapy appointment every day of the week for various body parts because these past 3 years with Sofia and his lack of time for exercise suddenly turned him into an 80-something-year-old.

But, right now, we're not really laughing.

Our own parents, family friends with older children, the old granny who stops us on the street to stroke Samina's chubby feet, they all say it: time goes so fast, enjoy it!

There are so many unfair ironies in life that surround me daily, and this is perhaps one of the greatest. Like the old saying "Youth is wasted on the Young," I often think that "Parenting is wasted on the Parents." We're too tired to appreciate it - too stressed, too busy trying to keep life going, that we can't see the sunshine through the clouds. Or, if we can, it's because we're out of the house so much, busy with work and the outer world, that those 10 minutes we can capture putting them to sleep are sacred.

It's a constant toss up for us poor parents: if we have the time to spend with them, they often suck so much energy out of us, we just dream of time hurrying the heck up, getting them to sleep so we can have a second to ourselves. Or, the alternative, if we work so much that we never get to see them, all we want is more time, more memories, and we beg time to slow the heck down.

This constant toss-up is hard going because, minus those sweet seconds of the day when your kid smiles up at you and says "I love you, too, Mommy!", parenting often equals Guilt. Or, at least in this house it does. The amount of times I kick myself in the pants for too-harsh words spoken in exhaustion.... How my heart hurts when I realize I've thrown an opportunity at bonding away because I just couldn't stand another round of "Sofia plays doctor" or another read of "Clifford the Big Red Dog."

Sometimes I go to bed convinced that I am too selfish a person to be a good parent. To me, being a good mother has always meant putting yourself last...but, the more deep I get into this parenting game, the more I realize that I don't *want* to come last. Sometimes I don't want to leave the last piece of chicken for Sofia, I don't want to give up my seat on the couch so she can put her doll to sleep there. And then I want to smack myself, and I wonder "Are some parents just born with it? Or is this selflessness learned over decades?"

Am I too selfish? Can I really claim it's "unconditional" love if sometimes all I want to do is run away for a few days? Am I ever going to get to a point where this all comes easily to me? Where Andrea and I stop asking ourselves why it seems like *everyone* else is doing a better job than we are?

And, mainly, I feel sad at the realization that there is a very, very fine gap - only those with the keenest, most open heart can feel it - between the days when we can laugh about the past, and the days when we will long for the past. And I know. I *know* that I don't want to be sulking in guilt so hard that I miss that.

School daze

We did it. We got through the first day of preschool. And by "we" I, of course, mean "me." Mommy got through the first day of preschool.

Though, not without a heavy heart -- which was unexpected, being as I've been waiting for school to start for, oh, about 2 months now. And, the more I thought about why I had a heavy heart, the more I realized it wasn't because of the classic "my baby is growing up" syndrome, but because I know. I know that the road lying ahead of her - as much as it will also be filled with new friends and experiences and sights and sounds - will be filled with self-doubt and apprehension, disappointment and anxiety. And seeing her standing amid those other little 3-to-5 year olds in her required pink-checked smock, she just looked so...small. So vulnerable.

Andrea and I stayed for about 15 minutes with her. Then, when we saw other parents were leaving and saw that Sofia had warmed up slightly to one of her teachers, we explained to her that we were leaving and that we would be back in a couple hours to pick her up. She wasn't happy, but she took her teacher's hand and turned toward the other kids. Turned toward her new world.

And then, I cried as we walked home. Of course.

When we went to pick her up, her teacher said she had cried at first (later, Sofia told me she was crying and calling out for me but I didn't come...way to break my heart, kid), but then she did great. We only left her for 2 hours; tomorrow we'll leave her a little longer and progressively longer on Friday, then starting Monday we'll hopefully be in full gear.

She didn't feel like talking about school when we picked her up, but then she did tell us that a little girl named Camilla came to talk to her. They had pizza for a snack and her teachers' names are Chiara and Monia. And, finally, she declared off-hand that she didn't want to go to school for too much time tomorrow....I guess that's better than her saying she didn't want to go at all?

Make believe

I remember that Andrea and I went to a wedding when Sofia was only a couple months old. We were exhausted and run ragged from our new experience and the lack of sleep. As we took Sofia for a walk in her stroller outside (in the hopes she might fall asleep so we could sit and just *be* for a second), I remember we saw a father playing with his son, who was probably around the age Sofia is now. And we both simultaneously thought and commented "I wish we could fast forward to *that* age."

Now, I know all the advice clearly states that we should not wish away time - be they hours or days, much less years, and we were supposed to enjoy every moment. But, truth be told, all I could think of then was the day I would finally wake up (from sleeping a whole night! without argument!) and not only have a being who actually spoke to me, but one who would imagine and create and pretend, and inspire me with her big ideas and even bigger stories.

Fast forward three years. We're getting to that part of Sofia's childhood where she takes orders from anyone who will indulge her for her make-believe restaurant, demands we pet her imaginary doggie and pretends her sunglasses are a cell phone.  The other day at the beach, she spent all day kneading her muddy sand and water mix into dog food for her four dogs: Daniel, Luna, Zoe and Bart. This morning, she insisted I call her "Emily" (her big cousin's name) and she waved to me from her plastic ladybug ride-on toy, telling me she was going to work (when asked what work she did, her response was "2.70"...not convinced she has the concept quite down yet).

My girl is full of imagination right now, and it is a lot of fun -- when she is not throwing a tantrum, negotiating her way out of brushing her teeth or fighting with us over some house rule or other. Though, I suppose that comes with the territory: learning that she has some control over what she believes and creates I guess only logically leads to her becoming more rebellious about any rules we try to place on her. Doesn't make *that* part of 3 any more fun for us, however!

But, right now, this is my favorite age. The part where I can participate in her crazy visions, even add fodder to them. I can see her smile as I fake talk on her pretend cell phone -- she loves that I'm involved and believing just as much as she does...be it an imaginary friend, a pretend phone conversation or a story about her toy horse.

It is the eye of ignorance that assigns a fixed and unchangeable color to every object; beware of this stumbling block. ~ Paul Gauguin

Times Two

There is something incredibly satisfying about having two little girls. "My daughters." Feels like the heaviest, most important phrase I could ever utter. And yet, it is also lightness and airiness and a feeling of complete balance.

Yes, there are the sleep issues and the jealousy - which we've so far kept at bay but are sure will rear its ugly head at some point - and the extra body to feed, bathe, dress and comfort. There are our octopus arms, Andrea and I, as we stealthily pass one child to the other along our parenting conveyor belt. Pick up baby, bathe baby, pass for dressing, bathe other, use one arm to stir dinner, place baby down on play mat for the 5 good minutes it gives for dressing the other child...and so on. (I said it when Sofia was born, and I repeat it with double the zeal again now: I don't know how single parents do it. The organization, the care, the love it takes -- the panic at those times I'm alone at only having 2 hands...)

But there are also those moments when we observe them together. When Samina first felt the cold sea water on her feet and Sofia cheered her on, as enthusiastic as if she were the one having the experience.

Observing Sofia playing peek-a-boo with a hysterical little Samina, all the love and admiration a little being could possibly hold in those two little eyes, for her sister and her sister alone.

Big Sister. Little Sister. I see them and I see their futures. The fights and the secrets. The little one emulating the big one, the big one proudly teaching the little one the ropes. 

People, of course, ask me how it's going with two. If it's double (or triple) the work. And I always take pause and seriously consider this question, because the answer is not what I'd expected it to be. My answer is: no. It is easier. Maybe because I find it less boring? Because I have more experience this time around? Because we're getting a bit more sleep now? Whatever the reason, our household feels complete now. It honestly feels like we were, all three of us, just waiting for little Samina to get here and complete us in our perfectly imperfect family circle.

The S Word

Kids, let's get one thing straight. I did not survive 4 years of a college education only to spend the better portion of my thirties convincing you to sleep.

You're tired? Close your eyes. Feeling cranky but don't know why? It's probably because you decided to rock and roll your butt around your bed for the entire hour and a half you were supposed to be napping.

And another thing (this one's for the newborns): crying? When you should be sleeping? Not gonna get you much. See, the thing is, poor, vulnerable newly birthed being: I CAN'T HELP YOU with this one. I can't sleep for you - though lordy lord knows I've tried. Hungry? Here's my boob! Cold? I'd knit you a sweater using my own two pointer fingers as kneedles. But sleep? Unless you want me to drug you (you don't, do you?), then this one's on you. Sorry, kid.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said "The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to." But he was wrong on this one...the worst thing in the world is to want to sleep and to be succeeding at it until a being smaller in size than you but much larger in obnoxiousness sets off wailing because it doesn't want to miss the party she thinks you've somehow hidden in your closet.

It took Sofia 2 years to sleep through the night and now at least she's pretty reliable on that front. But the naps? Oy. Many people's response when I complain about this (some things have changed in my parenting style - complaining about Sofia's sleep habits is not one of them) is "Well, maybe she's ready to skip her nap." I would like to invite those people over to witness the beastly gnome of a 3-year-old terrorist my daughter is at about 6pm in the evening when nap time has been skipped.

And Samina? My zen sleeping baby has simultaneous teething-jet lag-post vacation problems and so there is not much consistent night sleeping going on right now, either. Though, in her defense, if she were my first child and I hadn't been through this before, these few days of rough night sleep wouldn't seem so bad. But I am like a soldier back from war where this topic is concerned...the mere sound of a waking child brings flashbacks so terrible that my blood boils and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up in two seconds flat.

And so, Sleep, I would like to request this: please pass by our house. Make us one of those sets of parents who boasts about peacefully resting their children in their quiet rooms for the night/nap time and then watches foreign films or writes poetry or finds a solution for peace in the Middle East. Because if I have to live another 2-3 years basing my emotions on when my mini people sleep...oy. I need a nap just thinking about it.

On Sisters

Samina wakes up earlier in the morning than the rest of the clan. I bring her into bed with me; sometimes we fall back to sleep, sometimes I close my eyes while I feel her wiggling beside me. Perhaps in anticipation. Of her Big Sister.

Sofia wakes up a bit later and jumps up, ready to come join us for our cuddle time in bed. While Papa' goes to prepare her a bottle of milk "not too hot, without honey" (he definitely gets the short end of the morning stick), the three of us lie in bed, holding hands and snuggling. Sofia sings songs at the top of her lungs to make her sister smile ("I can't get dressed yet, Mommy, I have to make Samina happy first."), Samina repays her sister's energy with giggles and screams. They already seem to speak a language of their own.

I watch them, sometimes my eyelids closing a bit as I enjoy the laziness of these stolen morning moments. As my lids shut, I am lulled by the giggling and screaming and cooing going on between them. And, almost always, my eyes pop back open with the "OUCH!" that inevitably happens, as Sofia is punched or scratched by an overzealous little sister hand. Her reaction is almost always laughter though..."Samina!!!! Non si fa!" (Samina, we don't hit!). Sofia, who gets miffed at her parents with banal frequency, seems to accept almost anything from this little person with those big, smiling eyes.

Seeing them interact is heavenly. Andrea and I often share a knowing smile at these times, in awe of the bond that we created. The loud symphony they are beginning to write together, little hand pressed carefully into big hand.

Karma is My Friend.

I'm about to make a confession that will make the internet gods keel over laughing, as they plan their spiteful revenge at my hubris. I have a newborn who...wait for it...sleeps (I whispered it, that's why it's in small font).

Yes, ladies and gents, my little girl is a super sleeper*. Sometimes - and this is going to make other parents want to beat me with a pointy stick - she doesn't even want anyone around while she puts herself to sleep. I just put her down, preferably on her side so she can easily rest her thumb in her mouth, and leave the room and normally within 4 minutes she's fast asleep.

At night, the story's similar. 7:30 rolls around, my girl had better already be bathed and fed because she is ready for the sleep fairy. And it's not that she sleeps through the night fully - she normally wakes up to eat 2x a night, but she hardly even opens her eyes to do so, and falls right back into her happy stupor immediately after - possibly during.

Those 2+ years of non-sleeping with Child #1 have finally paid off. So much so that sometimes we risk leaving the house without Samina, or leaving her in the car because she's too damn quiet.

And this, little world, is our proof that karma is alive and well. So watch your back.

*fine, I'll be superstitious and put the damn disclaimer: I do realize it's early and we have all sorts of time for things like teething and sicknesses to throw us right off kilter. Thanks for reminding me, interwebs.

An Ode to Prolactin

Thanks to Prolactin, I find myself wanting to nibble these two faces on a daily basis.

In my breastfeeding post below, I mentioned Prolactin, the hormone that helps a woman's body in the production of milk. I mentioned how it is mainly produced at night: it is the reason why night-time breastfeeding is so important.

What I didn't talk about was the positive effect Prolactin has on nursing moms, namely this one (that'd be me). As I found detailed online:

Prolactin is called the "mothering hormone" because it "physiologically produces in the mother an intensification of her 'motherliness,' the pleasurable care of her child (Montagu, 1971).

In a nutshell: it makes me feel funky-good! The comment I've been getting most often from friends since Samina's birth is how unwaveringly calm I seem. Like nothing can get me down. And it's so weird, but they're right! For the first time in my entire life, I have this calm, warm glow around me at all times (ok, at almost all times...I do have 2 children...and a husband...hi, Andrea!). Most days, I honestly feel like I can and could and would - and do - take on anything. Dealing with our heavy stroller in 100+ degree heat, carrying Samina and a load of groceries up two flights of stairs at the same time, frantically trying to multi-task cooking dinner and folding laundry whilst playing "restaurant" with Sofia, that inevitable and unkind Italian bureaucracy (for the record: it does double when you double the members in your family), the arrival of any unwanted and unexpected extra bills to pay...I've become Superwoman. Or, should I say, SuperMom.


Anyway, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Prolactin and, therefore, Nature for having the foresight to give new mothers their own built-in happy pills. It does, however, disturb me to think of what I might turn back into once the nursing stops...hi Andrea!

Stay Tuned.

To Sofia on her 3rd birthday

Dear Principessa-Sweet Pea-Baby Girl-Peanut,

Tomorrow you turn 3.

Three long and short years on earth, with your Mommy and Papa' by your side. 

Three years, during which we've come to know who you are...a wonderful/exhausting mix of complex contradictions. Introverted in some moments and a chatty firecracker in others, empathetic and kind one minute and obstinate and fickle the next.

Yet, one thing has remained steady: getting to know your truest self, and standing beside you as you, too, learn who you are and how the world works, has been nothing less than an honor.

May this next year bring you only the most joyful new discoveries and friendships. And may you always feel - and never doubt - the warmth and love that your family feels for you.

With much love,

Mommy, Papa' and Samina

My Nursing Story

Probably the biggest difference between newborn life with Samina and newborn life with Sofia is the fact that I am successfully breastfeeding this time around.

It was my greatest goal going into this. In the hospital after Samina was born, the nurses and visitors and doctors all had a nice chuckle about how she was *always* attached to me, every time they came into my room, as I took the advice I'd been given to make sure my milk came in right away. I went into Experience #2 prepared for my nursing battle - I was determined not to end up the way we had with Sofia: pumping my milk for 9 whole grueling months, walking down that angst-ridden road of "EP" (Exclusively Pumping, as all the breastfeeding forums refer to it). 9 months of waking up at night not only to fill her bottle with a freezer stash of expressed milk and heat it up to feed her (Andrea's job), but to pump in order to take advantage of the milk-making hormone, Prolactin, which is produced by our bodies at ungodly hours of the night to ensure your body makes its maximum milk quota (my job).

Exclusively pumping is probably one of the most stressful prospects that a new parent can face. Andrea and I were exhausted, as we both needed to be up at night to take care of this whole milk thing. I wish I could find the picture I'd taken of the enormous white board on which we kept track of all her feedings and times and amounts I'd pumped. Leaving the house, being prepared with sterilized bottles and pump contraptions and cords...plus trying to time our outings with just when Sofia would want to eat, because a warmed up bottle of breast milk (aka "liquid gold") is only good for a certain amount of hours....

This time, I was prepared. Andrea and I spoke to our pediatrician and met with an expert lactation consultant who talked us through what we should expect and how to deal with the problems I'd encountered last time: engorgement, mastitis, severe nipple pain. We realized the number one cause in my case had been stress, caused by exhaustion and an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. We spoke with breastfeeding friends to get advice, I bought new nursing tops and psyched myself up for success. Andrea designed a "side bed" and had our trusted carpenter build it for us, so night-time would mean a seamless transition from sleep to nursing and back to sleep again.

And, it worked. Samina is an A-class nurser. When she nurses at night, I only have to open one eye to pick her up out of her side bed, feed her and put her back to bed (or lull her back to sleep a bit first). Without ever feeling the need to put her on a scale, her pudgy little cheeks tell me she's gaining weight like a pro.

And me? I am tired but not rundown. I don't feel guilty asking Andrea to give me a break because we can actually take turns this time. I feel relief that I can leave the house at any time of the day with Samina and know I don't have to mentally and physically prepare for when she might have to eat next. And, mainly, I look down into Samina's gorgeous little eyes and feel proud that I faced the challenge and won. One of my greatest parenting triumphs thus far.

Things that make me feel Mommy-ish

Inspired by an email with my girlfriends...

THINGS THAT MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A
(REAL LIVE, NOT JUST PLAYING HOUSE) MOMMY

currently, organizing Sofia's birthday party
putting on band-aids
buckling shoes
going to school meetings
seeing the group of us out of the corner of my eye in the video camera picture when we skype
calling the clan for dinner

So, those of you with kiddos, what makes *you* feel like a (real live, not just playing house) parent?

The 2nd time around.

It's amazing to me how truly *different* things are this time around. How much less foreign it all seems, how much more collected I am.

It's like what I told my mom the day after Samina was born, as we sat there and I held her and looked into her little face:  the first time around, with Sofia, I felt like I was looking down on the experience from above. I wasn't myself, wasn't for quite a long time. I felt - with such gut wrenching reality - the absoluteness of my new role as Mother, Protector. I felt it so physically that it often hurt to breathe for the first few months. The fear was tangible, and the permanence...the permanence made my head spin and my soul weary. As much as I loved, *loved* my new daughter, I could not get my head around the fact that I had switched positions and, in a single instant, my perspective had been shifted from Daughter to Mother.

This time? Quite the opposite happened. I am just as aware of that permanence, but I am not afraid of it. I am cherishing it. Every second of it (ok, the late night rocking back to sleep still has me crying, every so often). The bonding with Samina was instant - and seeing her with Sofia, my two girls...MY two girls...doesn't make my gut hurt, but makes things clear and bright and sunny in my heart.

I guess all I needed was a little time, a chance to find myself in the tumult and post-hurricane debris. Because, well, here I am, at it again, but with so much more happiness than I thought I would be able to carry.

New Life

My New Life, as a Mother of Two, in our new Family of Four.

First, our Two Beautiful Girls.

The first, the older...joy and light and loud noise. Overflowing with so many emotions. Her love and fascination with her little sister. The first time we brought the baby home, she literally screamed and ran around the house like a crazy person, the only way she could calm her excitement.

The second, the baby, peaceful and squishy and sweet. Calmed into quiet at the sound of her big sister's voice. The maker of funny faces and the calmer of souls.

Then, the Father. Brave and thoughtful, strong, reliable, selfless, careful.

And finally: the Mother. Improved. Loving. Loved. Content.

How I know I'm officially in my 9th month...

Yesterday, we brought Sofia to the park and they had one of those kids' play areas set up. The ones that parents can't even fit into, with slides and balls and mats and whatnot. Well, wouldn't ya know it, I cried like a baby as we watched her make her way through the maze from the outside. And I've never been one of those moms who mourns the passing months - I love watching Sofia grow up. But...the Hormones have Got me.

Underwear and leggings: the time has come for me to decide whether to just let them roll up under my belly or spend all day pulling them up and over it.

There is no longer any graceful way to get out of bed in the morning (or off a chair, or up stairs).

Sleep is for sissies: guess which mom-to-be is now finding it impossible to sleep between the hours of 2am and 4am. Just so happens that's also scientifically when our best mammal milk production is. Coincidence? I think not.

While people have been so (very) kind as to assure me that I only look different in my stomach, I can see The Change has already started on my face. I remember our pre-birth coach with Sofia telling us that you can always tell if a mom's ready to burst or not by seeing if her face has changed. I am definitely on my way, judging from my expanding nose. As if it needed to get any wider!

I have precisely one week of work left before maternity leave starts. And all I am dreaming of is getting this house in order once and for all. I know from experience that it takes a whole lot of energy to get past the dreaming stage and into the actual thick of it, though.

Chocolate tartufo gelato. That's all I'm dreaming of, same as in my last month with Sofia. That and wishing it was sandals weather - my shoes (and socks even) are starting to cramp my style.

My final (or at least I believe so) Dr. visit. Today, at 5pm.

I am so lucky.

All that we behold is full of blessings.
William Wordsworth

If I had a dime for every time I turned to my facebook page and felt the urge to write "I am so lucky." as my status update.... I always hold myself back, though, wanting to avoid the sentimental. Or maybe it's because it's something I want to keep to myself, letting it be special in the voice inside my head.

But I can't hide it any longer: I am so lucky. Yes, life can be so hard, and it's about to get a whole hell of a lot harder, but it is also filled with lightness and air and sparkle.

There are so many reasons for my luck - most of them are the people I've been lucky enough to connect with through my 37 years on this earth. I've been let down in my life, yes, but few enough times that the bad don't in any way outnumber the good.

Luck. Fortune. Good chance. Whatever you call it, I have been blessed enough to receive it. And I only hope I am able to pay it forward to all the people in my life who have helped it be so.

Anticipating Fear

The anticipation feels similar to when we were so close to Sofia's birth, too. The building excitement at the chance to finally meet this new member of the family. The growing anxiety at not having everything ready in time. The fear at the forthcoming stresses we're about to undergo. The joy at knowing soon I'll be able to sleep on my stomach again.

But this time, there is a new facet to the anticipation. And her name is Sofia.

Sofia's fascinated with little babies: how they get milk from their mommies, how little their feet are, how they cry Waa Waa Waa. After some work and reassurance, I am confident that she is going to be the best big sister in the world.

It is just this work and reassurance that saddens me, though. A sort of mourning of our Family of 3. When it was just Andrea and I, and Sofia's birth was only a couple months away, sure, I worried about how this new life would change us as a couple and in how we related to one another. But mostly I was sure of how our new child would make us stronger, more whole, more symbiotic. With Sofia, some of that same sureness is there, but there is also a painful fear that she will feel inferior, insecure, abandoned, unhappy. That she will worry that we don't love her the same, that she will be sharing us. Because, well, she will be sharing us. We will be loving two children, but within the same time constraints, with the same limited patience and energy that we've been (with extreme exhaustion) using to raise one child.

One beautiful, soaring, poetic little child. One sensitive little girl. And if I ever look into her little eyes and think she may feel lesser...that she may feel like she's lost something. That would crush me.

Over the past couple days, Sofia's been pretending to be a little baby. Fake crying (Waa Waa Waa) and saying "Mamma, Mamma, Mamma". I pick her up in my arms and shush her, sway her back and forth like I used to do when she was just born. And I am touched with the irony of this, because when she was that very little, I was so frustrated at how I couldn't understand what was wrong, how all I had to console her were my "shushes." And now...now that she has the ability to tell me exactly what it is that's wrong...all she wants anyway are the "shushes." And her strength and fragility - mixed with my own strength and fragility - make me want to protect her from any trauma she may feel upon the birth of her new little sister.

But that, of course, is impossible.

Playing around

My little girl seems to be growing by the nanosecond, so I thought I'd stop this moment in time and, for the record, create a list of her favorite games and free time fun right now:

Playing doctor with Mommy: Sofia is infinitely obsessed with my right hand middle finger that has a callus on it. She is also infinitely obsessed with doctors, medicine and all things boo-boo related. So the game is this: she cures my finger. "Mommy, do you have a boo boo?" to which I respond "Yes, Dr. Sofia, can you help me?" and then she grabs whatever's lying around, rubs it on said finger for a few minutes, gives my callus a kiss and, voila, yo' healed!

I never said she was normal.

Playing doctor with Papa': Papa' doesn't have any special finger like Mommy, so their game is a bit different. His involves his stomach. He lays on the ground, she listens to his stomach with her stethoscope, rubs whatever toy is around on it and, voila, Papa's healed too!

Playing school with her dolls: She lines them up, puts them to sleep, feeds them hearty snacks, changes their diapers and cuddles them. Oh yeah, and yells at them. A lot. For hitting, mostly, or for whatever she herself just got a time out for.

Watching videos on youtube: Remember the days I wished she'd get into videos so I could have a minute or two to myself? Well, in true Sofia style, she took that wish and one-upped it so she could get everything she wanted and I would get nil. Now she loves videos (Sesame Street, mainly) on youtube. But only if she's holding my infamously callused finger. So: videos, without the Mommy break. The horror!

Playing supermarket: Santa brought Sofia a cash register, and she loves playing store. We take turns working the register, adding up all our plastic fruit and vegetable purchases, and then the other one pays. With Sofia, the total is always the same: 2.70. No idea where that came from.

Reading books: I feel so lucky, happy and relieved that Sofia loves reading so much. She has a ton of favorite books and sometimes re-reading Clifford the Big Red Dog for the umpteenth time can get tiring, but we are always happy to comply with this request. My smarty pants.

Playing with her Playmobile farmhouse: Santa also brought her this fantastic house for Xmas and, when I have the patience to take out all the tiny little parts and set them out, we have a grand old time setting up the house and farm for the little included dolls.

Playing with Legos - especially with Papa': This one's a new Sofia find. We've had this box of Legos for almost two years, but only now is she actually enjoying them. She always seems to make lego beds to put the lego dolls in (I'm beginning to sense a theme: sleep, food and doctors...) and she almost always shoos me away because she wants her awesomely creative, mechanically-minded Papa' all to herself. Can't blame her - he made her a lego cash register in little over 3 seconds the other day.


I am seriously loving getting to re-live all these childhood games that I also remember loving. Now if I could just comfortably sit on the floor with her without my big preggo belly getting in the way, we'd be set!

Birthday Thoughts

My birthday is precisely one week after New Year's. Which means that, while most people are busy being nostalgic and making resolutions that one week earlier, I am very happy to totally ignore the importance of that holiday that I hate so, and make my own Start of the New Year my very own birthday. Handy how that worked out (thanks, parents!).

Which means that, now that I'm older, I always feel a bit pensive on my birthday. Thinking of what the past year has brought me, good (a new pregnancy, new family members and sleep, finally!) and bad (Sofia's terrible two's, loss, and all those months *without* sleep), and ruminations about my hopes and dreams for the next year. Health and true joy for my dear family, friends and myself, a healthy (and easy!) new baby and many continued chances to witness the twinkling, happy eyes of my Peanut and her Papa'.

I am lucky. I can't tell you how many times that thought goes through my head. I know I can complain a lot -- seriously, not sleeping just Grinches you out, there ain't nothing you can do about it -- but I am fully aware of my luck. And of my gratitude...at seeing another year, one bursting at the seams with such promise and hope, and of having people I love to share it all with.

So...well...Happy 37th (gulp) Birthday to Me!