Baby Biology

I admit it. I'm a total slacker.

Nothing has changed from my high school days. . . Still needing some sense of pressure or potential failure to turn in an assignment, even a blog post. Seems I can't conjure up anything until late at night, and rather aimlessly when I do. Not a trait I hope to pass on to my dog, let alone my daughter.

If looks are any hint at whose genes might prevail, then Quinn will do just fine as has her Dad. . . Well I should qualify that: as long as she doesn't get a VW Bus and stays clear of Grateful Dead music.

Then there is the savior of all sciences -- epigenetics. It's the notion that we might turn off whatever DNA isn't en vogue, or we wished hadn't been transcribed from our chromosomes to hers. Love how tidy biology can be!

So far, Quinn seems to have Jack's furrowed brow and (to my eye, his impeccably good) looks, her Grandma Nguyet's chuckles and chortles as punctuations on a conversation (even for dialogue without words), and a little something I inherited from my Mom --a tendency to giggle in her sleep.

With copious amounts of other DNA roaming Quinn's bloodstream and bones, I can only hope that she won the lottery of lineage luck.

Maybe she will inherit her Grandpa Jim's quick wit and comprehension of tomes of information, her Uncle Paul's serenity and modesty, her aunt Stephanie's ability to be methodical and meticulous, her Grandpa Hans' mastery of good design. . .

But she could just as easily wind up getting the less flattering traits coursing through our families' histories: The failure to ever be on time, a weakness for books, a tendency to hoard things that could never be categorized as treasures, some seriously strange feet, a temperamental sense of smell, a near paranoia about the perception of others, and hairy knuckles (oops, looks like she might have already expressed that last little gene!).

While I may not save her head from looking like a paperweight, there is still time to potentially head off some of these untoward genes.

So, with my arms full of Quinn for much of the day, I'm hoping there is some truth that by just having her near me, some of the unforeseen and unwanted genes will stay forever muted.

And if all else fails, if I can at least keep Quinn from working on any kind other than a fire pole, I will have done fine. And if she never even knows what any other kind of pole would be, then I will have really succeeded.

May we all express only the best of our genes!
The Former Firepole Mama & Unknown Quotient Quinn

First Father's Day

Quinn has been working on her gift for Jack's first Father's Day for weeks, maybe months. She has apparently deduced that he, like all modern day men, needs a piece of functional art for his desk; a fixture of her own creation though -- a paperweight, of course.

Not just any paperweight though. The kid has adeptly molded her noggin into just that shape.

Back in the NICU, Quinn started on the makings of this paperweight as she perpetually turned her head to the right-side while peering out of her crib to see what all was going on all around her.

One of her beloved nurses, Galina (a woman who could bring order to a herd of ADD inflicted cats) was so good at correcting Quinn's habit that now she always turns to the left. It's almost as if her neck weren't made of tendons and sinew, but a tightly coiled spring that snaps her head back no matter how many times I try and round out the shape of her head.

And that's not the only new trick Quinn is perfecting to impress her Dad:

- Although her neck doesn't swing either way so readily, Quinn could be crowned the rollover queen. This being the only kind of rollover a parent would want to hear about, let alone see their kid to do, it was an early Father's Day gift when Quinn did a few rollovers for Jack while he gazed at his little girl over our webcam.

- Many times a day, she will take great pride in her personal research. Extending an exploratory hand out to analyze her latest creation inside a loaded diaper, Quinn quickly rejoices in her accomplishment by spreading the evidence of her work all over the rest of her, and anything else within reach.

- Not always waiting until those hands have been cleaned does Quinn then work on perfecting how to suck her thumb. This feat would have been mastered by now if her straight and fanned fingers would just get out of the way as she ends up jabbing herself in the nose and eyes.

- And in the middle of the night, when she needs a little spark of entertainment, Quinn will let out the most heartbreaking cry only to smirk when my body responds by squirting a stream of milk.

Still more stunts to come, but thought we'd share a few for this Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to all!

J & the Jester

Going Amish

Not sure what all I might ultimately contribute to this world, but one thing I'd rather not is a mountain of dirty diapers.

Anyone who's needed to, knows Huggies must have originally been manufactured by the Greek god of soft things for your bum, Plushicretus. Yet, I am trying to pull myself, and Quinn's bum, away from such decadence and become familiar with reusable diapers.

It was fitting that the first day Quinn wore one of these washable diapers, she also had on a shirt that asked "Does this diaper make my butt look big?" Because it looked (and felt) like the poor kid either had a cement bag in her shorts, or had finally exhibited her mother's most obstinate of traits -- an overly pronounced bubble bum.

Admittedly, it feels like I'm embarking into the reverse of Rumspringa -- when Amish teenagers "go English" and indulge in the modern world. This feels like an abandonment of all that is convenient and modern and good (for one's sanity) in the world. I might as well be toiling under a hot sun, hammering a shoe back onto a squirming horse while everyone is cruising by with their stereos blaring, the sunroof open, on the long road to the land of the toilet-trained.

But unlike the Amish, I'm not spending my day making furniture or food, I'm spending it scraping poop from a cloth with a stick. Then fermenting the defiled diapers in a pale of water, stewing up the most vile of soups you could imagine.

My Captain at the firehouse used to shake his head in amazement that I could enjoy the company of a dog enough to pick up her excrement with only the barrier of a plastic bag. What joy a screaming infant could bring me in exchange for this I'm sure he'd conclude to only be delusional.

With a small stash of such reusable diapers, it wasn't long before I was doing a load of laundry, which is the first argument against such "environmental" efforts. Considering the diapers nearly came up to Quinn's chin, she probably would have been more content if I'd just outfitted her with a Ziploc bag and a wad of paper towel. At least then she might not have had the beginnings of a body rash.

Until the arrival of the ridiculously priced assortment of reusable diapers (in more suitable sizes) I succumbed to purchasing, I've reverted back to abolla horribilis (Latin for Huggies). Until then, no more stick or polluted, stinky diaper soup! YAY!!!

Cheers!
Mama Mamish & Not-So-Innocuous Quinn

Mandala of You

Yesterday was a big day. Well, for me, not so much for Quinn as it turns out.

My friend Michael was holding a workshop on an artwork he has perfected -- the making of a collage into a personal mandala.

For years I've admired his work, and wondered what guides him to create the images he does. Originally, I was supposed to take his class in February, but as well all know, someone rearranged my schedule around that time.

So yesterday was my chance to spend the day making my own. But it really was all day; no less than eight hours. Michael was very encouraging and patient with me as I teetered about how I wanted to go, but was uncertain I could even bring myself to ask my parents to watch Quinn for an entire day, or if I could even handle being out of her arm's reach for such a long time.

As you guessed, I moved out of my own way and went. After clearing the hurdle of feeling bad for how much I have already imposed upon my folks, I managed to just ask them. Fortunately, the words stumbled out of my mouth, and I let my parents be the adults they are by simply answering.

For them, the idea was a cinch. No hesitation, no grumbling, they were excited by the idea, and encouraging that I take the class and spend a day doing something that was about being me and not just about being a mom.

With that (and a ridiculous need to lecture to my parents not to hesitate to call 9-1-1 should they be in doubt), I was able to dive into the class and did not feel any distress during the day. Instead, it felt like the tether between Quinn and me lengthened a bit, but was very much in tact, as I hope it always will be.

As I introduced myself as "J" to other participants, Michael and his fiance Jodie would chuckle and say "Quinn's Mom," as they have playfully dubbed me. And it feels kind of fitting to have that tagged on, as it's a new aspect to my persona that I'm still getting acquainted with.

It may be some time before I decode all the layers of my mandala... images reflecting back my own mythology. Much like the deciphering yet to come of our most beautiful piece of artwork... Madeline Quinn.

It will be years, if not decades before we fully capture what commands her fondness, what softens her focus, what tickles her sense of humor, how to translate the meaningful fluctuations of her voice, from where she navigates not only her body but her being through the world, and how we as parents might help her keep her balance and find her keel when she cannot tell up from down.

Yet, I am reminded of the elusiveness of any one's essence as I've reintegrated into my parents' home and been humbled by how little I know just when I'm certain I've finally got them pegged down.

Mastering myself is no different because the moment I've got myself figured out tends to be precisely when I am most prone to being sideswiped by another of my edges.

Discovering and uncovering what it is that makes her Quinn, I imagine will be a momentary insight that will just as quickly slip out of my grasp as quickly as it had settled in.

To the discovery of you,
Q's M and MQ

Could've Been Catholic

It's not infrequent that someone tells me I could have been a Catholic. Not for my knowledge of all things Jesus (which really should be indistinguishable from a good Catholic considering I majored in World Religion in college), but because of my intimate relationship with guilt.

Nothing beats the standard of good ol' Catholic guilt.

Growing up my parents introduced me to the idea of God as a way of being, more than an act of doing. We called ourselves "Christians," but as far as I could tell, that just meant we could celebrate Christmas, which was a-okay with me.

Actually, of all my family members, I was the least resistant to organized religion. In fact, I was a wannabe Catholic who would tag along with my friends to church whenever they would bemoan they had to go. Worse than that, I'd beg that we sit in the first pew so I could get a good look at the priest, so as not to miss a moment.

Like a Sunday School callgirl, I was just a phone call away. . .

What left me wistfully sidelined was the mystifying world of catechism. That was one place I wasn't allowed into, but I'd take whatever I could get, leaving my parents rather speechless that I'd rather go to church than hang out at home and play.

The other place I was forbidden from crashing was the confessional booth. My good friend Khela, a devote Catholic, would appease my creeping sense of guilt by promising to ask for forgiveness of me too whenever she went to confession, even for things like when we ran over a dead bird with our bikes.

One Sunday, up in the front pew, Khela nearly died with embarrassment when at the end of mass I stretched my arm out, imitating the priest, and blessed him rather than making the sign of the cross on myself.

Who knows where I adopted this sense of guilt; maybe after all of the time I spent wishing I were Catholic, I just got blessed with its infamous sense of iniquity.

Even if its origins come from my childhood, it shows up in the middle of the night in my adulthood.

Lately, it seems to be particularly insiduous on nights when the hours, and then days, start stacking up since I last heard from Jack. Before he deployed (i.e. before I had something worth worrying about), it's as though my guilt needed a punching bag. Anguished over dumb thoughts about failed friendships, I'd be haunted by guilt that perhaps if I'd been a better friend, or done things "just right," I could have salvaged those connections from becoming a mere artifact of college.

On nights like these, when all odds say he is just fine, my guilt finds a crack in my foundation and slips into my head. After it kicks the sleeping dog better known as "Fear," Guilt makes me wonder if all that matters in my world might come crashing down because I haven't been the perfect person I should have been. Then it turns my eye to what I "ought" to do better, or just differently. Often it throws in random demands, making me promise to give up small pleasures in life like chocolate, bananas, and cheese in exchange for another day towards Jack's safe return.

Any shrink would surely say this is my way of feigning control over that which I lack; yet I can't help but wonder if I just should have become a Catholic and at least had the upside to all this guilt.

Wishing you a guilt-free existence,
The Derelict and Her Daughter