Friday, September 30, 2011
Happy Birthday, Squeak!
I can't believe my baby is already a year old. And what a year it has been!
I had an immensely healing birth experience. That was immediately followed by a rough (though, oddly, also healing) breastfeeding experience.
I struggled with some anger, and I'm still not sure if that was postpartum depression?
In June, Squeak transitioned from the chillest little baby ever to the chillest older baby ever while with me at a local restaurant/cafe with a friend. It ended up being the perfect storm of bad days (mine, Squeak's, and the restaurant owner's). The restaurant owner's very exaggerated telling of the (otherwise forgettable) meal made rounds on Facebook and eventually off. And that telling included admitting she had overcharged us as "a petty revenge." (Though she later tried to backpedal over that particular aspect. An overcharge did actually happen in two parts of the payment process, whether on purpose or by accident...). It was drama. And it got me thinking about all kinds of stuff, including the insane level of control mothers seem to be expected to have over their children and why the heck dads aren't held to the same standards.
In July, we celebrated Baby's First Colonoscopy (sigh), and soon after it was clear I needed a break and some help. And I got it.
Throughout the spring and summer, my thoughts turned a lot to my mother, her death, and her legacy. I could not tell you at the time that it was my sister Tamara's becoming a Go Red spokeswoman that was bringing all that up. If you'd like a different and more in-depth perspective on this, Tamara has started a blog about her journey since Mom's death.
Of course, Squeak has also transitioned from a newborn to an almost-toddler in the last year! He still loves to snuggle, but he also likes to climb. He loves to rough house with his brother, but he still requires protection. He can stand on his own, but he doesn't realize it. He loves to eat and he loves to feed the dog. He's on the move, but usually toward me. He no longer squeaks, so I think he needs a new bloggy nickname. I'm going with A-Train. It's something we actually call him (as in "Hey, Babe? Could you take the A-Train so I could go pee?").
Happy Birthday, A-Train! I'm honored to be your mother, still the center of your universe.