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
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
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
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
Monday, June 8, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
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
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
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Sleepless Slumber
The countdown is over. Quinn, the three dogs, two cats, house and garden are all in tact -- not counting my mental acumen.
For the last seven days, Quinn had to tolerate being held, fed, burped, changed, and talked to by none other than me. By the end of it, I'm certain she was questioning my sanity as I babbled and blathered on and on.
If ever there was a time for a recession, this is as good as it could get for my family's business. Normally, my folks are on the road 45+ weeks a year, but as with most industries, ours too is limping through this anemic economy. The upside, and I'm just thankful there is one, is that the one year I'm back in my parents' nest, with grandchild in tow, is also the one time they happen to be home more often than not.
This past week though, was one of work in the Rockies for my folks. While there, they also spent a few extra days with their other grandchildren, Ben and Bridget.
At first it felt like if not Quinn, I would surely go into shock from having a house full of people (with Tom and Jill in town), to no one else to pass the kid off to just so I could shower, or do something more productive -- like get the cat stoned on catnip.
But by the second day, Quinn and I had found our groove. By week's end, it wouldn't be the stress of caring for her alone that would overwhelm me, but the desire to draw out the time so I could horde her to myself a little longer.
The intensity of an infant's stare, or the grip of such miniature hands didn't mean much to me before I went through the portal of parenthood. Now, when she's unfurls her first long enough to reach out to me, or loosens the suction on her pacifier so her whole face can beam a smile in my direction, she cements a new degree of happiness into my heart.
That's an awesome feeling, but what parenthood has done for my cerebrum and coherence is still in question.
Just the other night, I had a dream I was at the firehouse and we had a call, but I couldn't find my radio. When I did find it, I became obsessed with keeping it in hand.
Invariably since leaving my job as a firefighter, my dreams have such themes, and this one seemed rather innocuous.
That is, until near dawn I sauntered into the bathroom, and while trying to avert becoming fully awake, did my thing, then reached for some toilet-paper, only to find it gone!
Not empty. Not dislodged and on the floor. It was gone.
My bleary eyes bolted open and searched the room. The toilet-paper was nowhere in sight. Adios. Bye Bye. Quite literally, I was S.O.L.
Not sure how one can be embarrassed or humiliated in complete isolation, but I managed to verify it is indeed possible. Let's just leave the remaining details as an unfortunate burden on my own memory, rather than share the pain.
What's more curious though is that two days later, I found the roll of toilet-paper. . . in my clothing closet. I hardly grab anything out of there when I'm awake; so what I was doing in there amidst a slumber remains a real mystery.
Apparently, four months of intermittent "sleep" is catching up with me, with frightening effects.
Yesterday, after searching the house, I found my cell phone. . . when a filing cabinet drawer started to ring.
Last week, before anyone even left town, I woke up just after rolling over to shut off the alarm clock. That's when it dawned on me -- I hadn't set one.
It wasn't the alarm clock I had just shut off, it was the baby monitor!
Thank goodness I realized what I had done or Quinn would have had to holler her head off before I would have risen from my wishful coma.
This little hiatus of help has made me conclude that living with others is probably less imperative for sharing the weight of watching Quinn, than it is to ensure I have even a modicum of sanity before I'm even allowed to operate the TV remote!
All the best from the cuckoo's nest,
J & Miss Q
For the last seven days, Quinn had to tolerate being held, fed, burped, changed, and talked to by none other than me. By the end of it, I'm certain she was questioning my sanity as I babbled and blathered on and on.
If ever there was a time for a recession, this is as good as it could get for my family's business. Normally, my folks are on the road 45+ weeks a year, but as with most industries, ours too is limping through this anemic economy. The upside, and I'm just thankful there is one, is that the one year I'm back in my parents' nest, with grandchild in tow, is also the one time they happen to be home more often than not.
This past week though, was one of work in the Rockies for my folks. While there, they also spent a few extra days with their other grandchildren, Ben and Bridget.
At first it felt like if not Quinn, I would surely go into shock from having a house full of people (with Tom and Jill in town), to no one else to pass the kid off to just so I could shower, or do something more productive -- like get the cat stoned on catnip.
But by the second day, Quinn and I had found our groove. By week's end, it wouldn't be the stress of caring for her alone that would overwhelm me, but the desire to draw out the time so I could horde her to myself a little longer.
The intensity of an infant's stare, or the grip of such miniature hands didn't mean much to me before I went through the portal of parenthood. Now, when she's unfurls her first long enough to reach out to me, or loosens the suction on her pacifier so her whole face can beam a smile in my direction, she cements a new degree of happiness into my heart.
That's an awesome feeling, but what parenthood has done for my cerebrum and coherence is still in question.
Just the other night, I had a dream I was at the firehouse and we had a call, but I couldn't find my radio. When I did find it, I became obsessed with keeping it in hand.
Invariably since leaving my job as a firefighter, my dreams have such themes, and this one seemed rather innocuous.
That is, until near dawn I sauntered into the bathroom, and while trying to avert becoming fully awake, did my thing, then reached for some toilet-paper, only to find it gone!
Not empty. Not dislodged and on the floor. It was gone.
My bleary eyes bolted open and searched the room. The toilet-paper was nowhere in sight. Adios. Bye Bye. Quite literally, I was S.O.L.
Not sure how one can be embarrassed or humiliated in complete isolation, but I managed to verify it is indeed possible. Let's just leave the remaining details as an unfortunate burden on my own memory, rather than share the pain.
What's more curious though is that two days later, I found the roll of toilet-paper. . . in my clothing closet. I hardly grab anything out of there when I'm awake; so what I was doing in there amidst a slumber remains a real mystery.
Apparently, four months of intermittent "sleep" is catching up with me, with frightening effects.
Yesterday, after searching the house, I found my cell phone. . . when a filing cabinet drawer started to ring.
Last week, before anyone even left town, I woke up just after rolling over to shut off the alarm clock. That's when it dawned on me -- I hadn't set one.
It wasn't the alarm clock I had just shut off, it was the baby monitor!
Thank goodness I realized what I had done or Quinn would have had to holler her head off before I would have risen from my wishful coma.
This little hiatus of help has made me conclude that living with others is probably less imperative for sharing the weight of watching Quinn, than it is to ensure I have even a modicum of sanity before I'm even allowed to operate the TV remote!
All the best from the cuckoo's nest,
J & Miss Q
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Nutrients of Regret
The last time I saw Jack's best friend, Tom, was last January when we were skiing in Park City, Utah... Back then, I was a much smaller person, in a much bigger body.
Today, I'm still plenty plump, yet am utterly ruled by the most petite person I know. Not only does she dominate my day, this little girl is challenging me to grow into a much bigger person than I've ever been.
It was an absolute treat having Tom and (his wife, my godsend) Jill here for a few days, and to watch them get (re)acquainted with Quinn. Mesmerized within minutes, Quinn doled out all her attention on Jill. Maybe she has a way with babies, or perhaps it is something unique to Quinn, but Jill made an indisputable impression on her little "niece."
Although not as impressionable as an infant, I couldn't help but notice that spending time with them left its mark on me too. Being around them was a reminder of what extraordinary people I have known, still know, and so many yet to know.
More than that though, it also felt like a metric for the kind of person I have yet to become. Yet, sometimes regret edges out an awareness for what potential I still hold. . .
How useless and paralyzing the past proves to be when only redolent of regret. The veracity of which I stumbled upon in the most unexpected of places as Tom and Jill observed a beach full of harbor seals with their infant young.
Watching as their mothers plunged below the water's surface for food, and then how they bellied up onto the craggy rocks, the baby seals mimicked their mothers as best they could, often failing first many times over.
Sounds silly, but it was a reminder to me that I don't need to chastise myself endlessly for my foolish feats of the past. Rather, to gather up the knowledge from those experiences, map out what pitfalls I can help Quinn avert, and leave the rest to be learned by molding myself into the person I strive to be, and modeling that for her.
There is much I have learned about what in life, work, love, and friendships is nourishing; and what might look like good fodder, but is hardly filling, and far from sustaining.
Of course, she will be sure to make her own blunders; and more than anything will likely crave that I just be present for her as she heals from her falls.
But as I learn to be a bigger version of myself, I hope to have shown her all that is nourishing, as well as how to forgive herself for the time spent diving after those things that weren't. As life appears to be at least as much about discerning the two, as it is about ultimately getting it right.
Murphys Under Metamorphosis
Today, I'm still plenty plump, yet am utterly ruled by the most petite person I know. Not only does she dominate my day, this little girl is challenging me to grow into a much bigger person than I've ever been.
It was an absolute treat having Tom and (his wife, my godsend) Jill here for a few days, and to watch them get (re)acquainted with Quinn. Mesmerized within minutes, Quinn doled out all her attention on Jill. Maybe she has a way with babies, or perhaps it is something unique to Quinn, but Jill made an indisputable impression on her little "niece."
Although not as impressionable as an infant, I couldn't help but notice that spending time with them left its mark on me too. Being around them was a reminder of what extraordinary people I have known, still know, and so many yet to know.
More than that though, it also felt like a metric for the kind of person I have yet to become. Yet, sometimes regret edges out an awareness for what potential I still hold. . .
How useless and paralyzing the past proves to be when only redolent of regret. The veracity of which I stumbled upon in the most unexpected of places as Tom and Jill observed a beach full of harbor seals with their infant young.
Watching as their mothers plunged below the water's surface for food, and then how they bellied up onto the craggy rocks, the baby seals mimicked their mothers as best they could, often failing first many times over.
Sounds silly, but it was a reminder to me that I don't need to chastise myself endlessly for my foolish feats of the past. Rather, to gather up the knowledge from those experiences, map out what pitfalls I can help Quinn avert, and leave the rest to be learned by molding myself into the person I strive to be, and modeling that for her.
There is much I have learned about what in life, work, love, and friendships is nourishing; and what might look like good fodder, but is hardly filling, and far from sustaining.
Of course, she will be sure to make her own blunders; and more than anything will likely crave that I just be present for her as she heals from her falls.
But as I learn to be a bigger version of myself, I hope to have shown her all that is nourishing, as well as how to forgive herself for the time spent diving after those things that weren't. As life appears to be at least as much about discerning the two, as it is about ultimately getting it right.
Murphys Under Metamorphosis
Friday, May 22, 2009
Our Good Fortune
Saturday evening, Quinn will be reunited with the woman to whom we owe all our health and sanity.
It all started with Jack's best friend Tom, who had the perspicacity (and sheer luck!) to marry Jill, an incredibly smart and good-natured woman.
Auspiciously, Jill is the friend I was cross-country skiing with in Utah when I went in premature labor. A former labor and delivery nurse, now a nurse anesthetist (the first cut in that profession is just being able to pronounce it!), Jill was writing down my twinges of discomfort when I was confident I wasn't in labor.
It is entirely to her credit that I made it to the hospital in time to deliver, rather than being my usual dumbass-self by heading to go the gym to "sweat out" whatever discomfort I was having.
Not only did Jill coax me to take a shuttle, if not ambulance, on the 20 minute drive to Salt Lake City, she had Tom (back in Kansas) on the phone emailing my blackberry directions to the hospital (and thank Baby Jesus she did because the driver didn't have a clue where she was going, but was thrilled by the idea that she might have a kid born in her van. . . to the extent I swear she was delaying things when I tried to pay her as we were running into the ER).
By the time it was confirmed my water breaking was no aberation, my heroine Jill had already changed her ticket back to Kansas, rented a car, talked to Jack's commander's wife to get word to him, and was ready to crash on a cot until the kid made her debut.
With all my joking, crying, and intensifying groans, there wasn't much sleep to be had by the time Quinn was born. Nonetheless, Jill sprung into action videotaping the whole thing for Jack (who appears to be too squeamish to watch it), cutting the umbilical cord, and then helping me get collected and moved to yet another room.
Within a couple of hours, Jill scurried back to Park City to pack up the rest of our things, check out of the hotel, bring our other friend Dar to the airport, and then returned to save my sanity as I started to come unglued from the shock of all that had unfolded.
What's really remarkable is that about four days before Quinn was born, I had a dream that I had given birth and someone who was a sister to me, but not my actual sister, stood next to me to lend her support. In the dream, the delivery was such a breeze it made it hard to fully comprehend what had just transpired.
The morning after that dream, I mentioned it to Jill and Dar over breakfast. That dream is still so clear in my mind, as was the thought I had afterward "Yeah, if only a delivery could be so fast and relatively painless! And that other woman's presence was so serene, the whole event was rather calm and peaceful. . . " And then, as if following a script, that's just how it went in reality.
Even after seven months of pregnancy, that was only the second dream I had about the baby. The first one was startling because in it I was unaware I had given birth, and instead of seeing a screaming, gooey, puffy-faced kid, I saw one clothed and bundled and lying on a bed away from me.
Obviously, after those two dreams I've just canceled my subscription to dreams all together. That's just too freaky. Although, having Jill come to my rescue -- in both a dream and reality -- lends me the fortitude to face the prospect of both my sleeping and waking reality.
Wishing you only the sweetest of dreams,
Mama Murphy & MQ
It all started with Jack's best friend Tom, who had the perspicacity (and sheer luck!) to marry Jill, an incredibly smart and good-natured woman.
Auspiciously, Jill is the friend I was cross-country skiing with in Utah when I went in premature labor. A former labor and delivery nurse, now a nurse anesthetist (the first cut in that profession is just being able to pronounce it!), Jill was writing down my twinges of discomfort when I was confident I wasn't in labor.
It is entirely to her credit that I made it to the hospital in time to deliver, rather than being my usual dumbass-self by heading to go the gym to "sweat out" whatever discomfort I was having.
Not only did Jill coax me to take a shuttle, if not ambulance, on the 20 minute drive to Salt Lake City, she had Tom (back in Kansas) on the phone emailing my blackberry directions to the hospital (and thank Baby Jesus she did because the driver didn't have a clue where she was going, but was thrilled by the idea that she might have a kid born in her van. . . to the extent I swear she was delaying things when I tried to pay her as we were running into the ER).
By the time it was confirmed my water breaking was no aberation, my heroine Jill had already changed her ticket back to Kansas, rented a car, talked to Jack's commander's wife to get word to him, and was ready to crash on a cot until the kid made her debut.
With all my joking, crying, and intensifying groans, there wasn't much sleep to be had by the time Quinn was born. Nonetheless, Jill sprung into action videotaping the whole thing for Jack (who appears to be too squeamish to watch it), cutting the umbilical cord, and then helping me get collected and moved to yet another room.
Within a couple of hours, Jill scurried back to Park City to pack up the rest of our things, check out of the hotel, bring our other friend Dar to the airport, and then returned to save my sanity as I started to come unglued from the shock of all that had unfolded.
What's really remarkable is that about four days before Quinn was born, I had a dream that I had given birth and someone who was a sister to me, but not my actual sister, stood next to me to lend her support. In the dream, the delivery was such a breeze it made it hard to fully comprehend what had just transpired.
The morning after that dream, I mentioned it to Jill and Dar over breakfast. That dream is still so clear in my mind, as was the thought I had afterward "Yeah, if only a delivery could be so fast and relatively painless! And that other woman's presence was so serene, the whole event was rather calm and peaceful. . . " And then, as if following a script, that's just how it went in reality.
Even after seven months of pregnancy, that was only the second dream I had about the baby. The first one was startling because in it I was unaware I had given birth, and instead of seeing a screaming, gooey, puffy-faced kid, I saw one clothed and bundled and lying on a bed away from me.
Obviously, after those two dreams I've just canceled my subscription to dreams all together. That's just too freaky. Although, having Jill come to my rescue -- in both a dream and reality -- lends me the fortitude to face the prospect of both my sleeping and waking reality.
Wishing you only the sweetest of dreams,
Mama Murphy & MQ
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Making a Four-Chambered Heart
Hard to believe in just a few days it's only been (and at the same time, already been) four months since Quinn was born.
We went to her doctor today for the customary stuff. For some reason, I constantly catch myself saying that I took Quinn to the "vet" rather than the pediatrician.
Granted, she did get a round of shots, and the doctor made all sorts of sounds that definitely weren't part of the vernacular, and she is shedding her head of hair about as rapidly as any distressed cat . . . so I guess there is some room for confusion in my head.
Perhaps I can't help but feel I'm taking her to the vet rather than a human doctor because she is such a different and ever-evolving creature than us plain and mundane adults (although I barely qualify as a "real" adult with so much growing up yet to do).
Being the life-long learner (aka pathological dork) that he is, my Dad has been spending what free time he can scratch up to master the anatomy and functions of the heart. It's been some time since I used those synapses, so it's been stimulating to hear an aspect revisited now and then.
What was never taught in any biology class I had was that prior to birth, a fetus' heart shares blood between the chambers of the heart. Within moments of birth (premie or full-term), the separation of the left and right ventricles has to be intact. Not only that, but an axillary valve that in utero recycled blood into the heart (rather than to the lungs), has to be disengaged.
And that's just the heart! It's nothing short of miraculous what the human body can perform, let alone a body that was virtually just conceived.
As it looks today, this little human is progressing just fine. Quinn was just under the double digits, weighing in at 9lbs 13oz, but she had gained some good length to make up for the slightly slow weight gain. Her smiles and giggles, and attempts to mimic me sticking out my tongue, are all healthy meters for her measured growth.
Having nothing to fret about, it was a rather pleasant visit, until -- of course -- she got another round of shots. Once we got home, she settled down on her Grandpa's chest, where she eventually fell asleep listening to his heart beat out a cadence for her own to eventually follow.
A heartfelt hello to everyone from,
JMama & the Maturing Madeline Quinn
We went to her doctor today for the customary stuff. For some reason, I constantly catch myself saying that I took Quinn to the "vet" rather than the pediatrician.
Granted, she did get a round of shots, and the doctor made all sorts of sounds that definitely weren't part of the vernacular, and she is shedding her head of hair about as rapidly as any distressed cat . . . so I guess there is some room for confusion in my head.
Perhaps I can't help but feel I'm taking her to the vet rather than a human doctor because she is such a different and ever-evolving creature than us plain and mundane adults (although I barely qualify as a "real" adult with so much growing up yet to do).
Being the life-long learner (aka pathological dork) that he is, my Dad has been spending what free time he can scratch up to master the anatomy and functions of the heart. It's been some time since I used those synapses, so it's been stimulating to hear an aspect revisited now and then.
What was never taught in any biology class I had was that prior to birth, a fetus' heart shares blood between the chambers of the heart. Within moments of birth (premie or full-term), the separation of the left and right ventricles has to be intact. Not only that, but an axillary valve that in utero recycled blood into the heart (rather than to the lungs), has to be disengaged.
And that's just the heart! It's nothing short of miraculous what the human body can perform, let alone a body that was virtually just conceived.
As it looks today, this little human is progressing just fine. Quinn was just under the double digits, weighing in at 9lbs 13oz, but she had gained some good length to make up for the slightly slow weight gain. Her smiles and giggles, and attempts to mimic me sticking out my tongue, are all healthy meters for her measured growth.
Having nothing to fret about, it was a rather pleasant visit, until -- of course -- she got another round of shots. Once we got home, she settled down on her Grandpa's chest, where she eventually fell asleep listening to his heart beat out a cadence for her own to eventually follow.
A heartfelt hello to everyone from,
JMama & the Maturing Madeline Quinn
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Playful Posse
Granted she's a bit young, but Quinn is off to a good start with establishing her posse of friends.
Borrowing from my meager stash of local high school friends, Quinn had her first play date with the ever giggling and inquiring Theo -- a friend's seven month old munchkin who has more charm than most seventy year olds.
A bundle of giggles and inquiry, Theo didn't wait to be entertained -- he discovered his own objects of interest. Meanwhile, Quinn sat nearby, curious but not eager to engage with him. Quietly she assessed and observed Theo, who must have looked like a kid on 'roids to her because he looked like a toddler to me.
Being that his hostess wasn't particularly intriguing, Theo discovered something far more captivating: a healthy stockpile of magazines (to gnaw on, of course).
It appears the world takes on a totally different nidus and flavor when your gums are continually being punctured by incoming teeth, and magazines are a delectable treat!
Overall, Quinn's first play date was a real success.
No one bit or was bitten, there wasn't a spelling bee-like competition of swear words (that will come), and no one took a crap in the cat box (yet another reason to hope Jack's genes prevail). A grand time I'm looking forward to repeating again!
To the good times ahead,
Mama Murphy & Quizzical Quinn
Borrowing from my meager stash of local high school friends, Quinn had her first play date with the ever giggling and inquiring Theo -- a friend's seven month old munchkin who has more charm than most seventy year olds.
A bundle of giggles and inquiry, Theo didn't wait to be entertained -- he discovered his own objects of interest. Meanwhile, Quinn sat nearby, curious but not eager to engage with him. Quietly she assessed and observed Theo, who must have looked like a kid on 'roids to her because he looked like a toddler to me.
Being that his hostess wasn't particularly intriguing, Theo discovered something far more captivating: a healthy stockpile of magazines (to gnaw on, of course).
It appears the world takes on a totally different nidus and flavor when your gums are continually being punctured by incoming teeth, and magazines are a delectable treat!
Overall, Quinn's first play date was a real success.
No one bit or was bitten, there wasn't a spelling bee-like competition of swear words (that will come), and no one took a crap in the cat box (yet another reason to hope Jack's genes prevail). A grand time I'm looking forward to repeating again!
To the good times ahead,
Mama Murphy & Quizzical Quinn
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Squirt Has Soul
My apologies for being such a sloth of a blogger. It seems unlikely anyone could really care to read this, and then I get emails and phone calls that folks actually do . . . If anyone is really interested in reading my blather more regularly, I'm happy to oblige. And should that interest quickly turn to disgust, well then at least Quinn will have something to reflect upon as yet another way how not to be like me.
Thankfully, it's already in the cards, Quinn isn't the slacker her mom is.
Within a week the kid has completely kicked her puking tendencies; heck, she doesn't even gag any more. And now, she is gobbling down both formula and breastmilk, or whatever gets within reach of her lips (frequently, that would be my shoulder or neck while I'm trying to burp her).
At times, Quinn still has fits of screaming and yowling at what I can only presume to be a severe belly ache from eating too quickly, her gut being still a bit undeveloped, or from the ubiquitous lactose. Later this week she'll have a weigh-in; unless my biceps are deadbeats too, I suspect the reason they burn when holding her lately is because the girl has been doing some good working on her girth.
Now that Miss Quinn has obtained her brown belt in the the banal functions of swallowing and digesting, she has moved on to activities that may not be quite as attention-getting as projectile vomiting, but far more fun.
One morning last week, as soon as my face greeted hers, Quinn blessed me with the biggest grin. Now she is like a genie: she will bestow numerous smiles on anyone that grants her one first.
Perhaps more profound than these smiling sessions is that she also bellowed out her first real laugh.
According to Aristotle, a baby lacks a soul until she has her first laugh. By his measure, this "human ensouling" is to occur around the child's 40th day (after birth). Well, for Quinn, that day has long come and gone . . . Like the President, she just passed her 100th day -- on terra firma.
However, it was the 36th day since her due date that she had her first laugh; so if there's any validity to Aristotle's curious theory, at least this kid is on schedule (unlike her ever-tardy mom)!
This whole parenthood thing feels as miraculous as the human soul is mystical. A smile from this little being fills me with such delight, and certainly the first of many gifts of parenthood. It's an awe-some experience I can hardly wait to share with him when Jack is back, and with friends as they too pass through that threshold.
(And for those who decide not to become parents in some capacity, I'll just torture them with endless pictures of our kid, and subject them to the various smells and stories that will only reinforce their insight into why they were smarter than to play the breeding game.)
All the best from,
the Mystified Mama and Quinn with Official Quintessence
Thankfully, it's already in the cards, Quinn isn't the slacker her mom is.
Within a week the kid has completely kicked her puking tendencies; heck, she doesn't even gag any more. And now, she is gobbling down both formula and breastmilk, or whatever gets within reach of her lips (frequently, that would be my shoulder or neck while I'm trying to burp her).
At times, Quinn still has fits of screaming and yowling at what I can only presume to be a severe belly ache from eating too quickly, her gut being still a bit undeveloped, or from the ubiquitous lactose. Later this week she'll have a weigh-in; unless my biceps are deadbeats too, I suspect the reason they burn when holding her lately is because the girl has been doing some good working on her girth.
Now that Miss Quinn has obtained her brown belt in the the banal functions of swallowing and digesting, she has moved on to activities that may not be quite as attention-getting as projectile vomiting, but far more fun.
One morning last week, as soon as my face greeted hers, Quinn blessed me with the biggest grin. Now she is like a genie: she will bestow numerous smiles on anyone that grants her one first.
Perhaps more profound than these smiling sessions is that she also bellowed out her first real laugh.
According to Aristotle, a baby lacks a soul until she has her first laugh. By his measure, this "human ensouling" is to occur around the child's 40th day (after birth). Well, for Quinn, that day has long come and gone . . . Like the President, she just passed her 100th day -- on terra firma.
However, it was the 36th day since her due date that she had her first laugh; so if there's any validity to Aristotle's curious theory, at least this kid is on schedule (unlike her ever-tardy mom)!
This whole parenthood thing feels as miraculous as the human soul is mystical. A smile from this little being fills me with such delight, and certainly the first of many gifts of parenthood. It's an awe-some experience I can hardly wait to share with him when Jack is back, and with friends as they too pass through that threshold.
(And for those who decide not to become parents in some capacity, I'll just torture them with endless pictures of our kid, and subject them to the various smells and stories that will only reinforce their insight into why they were smarter than to play the breeding game.)
All the best from,
the Mystified Mama and Quinn with Official Quintessence
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