ever-fixed mark

Husband read the comments on my last post and was sorely cast down. “Doctor Mama says her baby always wanted to be held, too. What are we going to do?”

I had read Doctor Mama’s comment, too, but I hadn’t gotten past the part where she said, “When I was on maternity leave….”

Muh-tur-ni-tee leeve? What is this muh-tur-ni-tee leeve of which you speak?

With Aitch, I took about three days of vacation before I was back in the grind again. With his brother, I had planned to take more, but ended up back at work last Wednesday or Thursday (the days are starting to blur together, so I’m not sure). It’s not that I’m a workaholic or even one of those people who gets off on being indispensible. When I worked for a big corporation I was always happy to make use of every week of vacation available, but I don’t work for them anymore.

I am, technically, self-employed, so theoretically the maternity leave policy at my “corporation of one” should be generous. I’m free to take as much maternity leave as I like. My customers, of course, are free to stop returning my phone calls when I decide I’m ready to work again. Since projects do come to an end eventually, and are sometimes not immediately replaced by other projects, I’ve become reluctant to turn down work when it’s on offer. Since both Aitch and the little one have arrived in the middle of huge, important projects, I’ve decided to keep working so I won’t be shut out of months of billable time.

Now, our agency requires parents adopting from Korea to spend at least two months without an external caregiver, to help the bonding process. When we had Aitch, it was four months. I think it’s an excellent idea. Since Husband and I both work from home, we’ve decided that we would both keep on working—me on a somewhat abbreviated schedule—and take turns caring for the children so that one of us can work while the other is occupied with the baby. (Aitch still goes to day care but usually comes home mid-afternoon.)

This is either the most ingenious, flexible solution to the work/childcare dilemma ever devised, or it’s sheer idiocy. With one child, it seemed doable. We were busy, but just as we gave each other free time to work during the day, in the evening we could give each other down time, too. Now with two kids home in the evening it’s tough to get that down time.

As I go through my day, I think, “This would be so easy if I didn’t have the stress of the job.” To fit everything in, it all has to go like clockwork. Then I find myself literally watching the clock and panicking: If Aitch doesn’t go to bed on time, I’ll be up all night finishing the X project! If the baby continues to sleep the day away, I’ll be up all night with him and too tired to get up early and work in the morning! I wonder how blissful life would be if I didn’t have that anxiety.

But there’s a catch, of course: I don’t know if I could really enjoy all that mothering time without something to counterbalance it. I really like my work, and I like having the flexibility of being self-employed, enough to give up maternity leave benefits of a big corporation to do it.

So, we balance. About ten times a day we question our sanity in taking this approach, but we keep going. Already, the baby seems more comfortable and secure. I can see the beginnings of a routine starting to form. In six months, it’ll all be different anyway.

The baby, who does not yet have a nom de blog, is sick again. After a few days of antibiotics, he seemed to perk up, but he had a relapse on Thursday and we had to change his medication. A few days later, he doesn’t seem to have improved that much. He’s still rubbing his ears, and his stomach is upset from the medication. During waking hours he must be both held and kept in motion at all times. It’s like attachment parenting with an added weight-loss plan.

Between Aitch and secondo I had forgotten that awful muscle tightness and joint ache that sets in and keeps you from sleeping too late even when your husband tells you to take it easy. I had also forgotten how important it is to have the right stroller for every activity, and how your day can be ruined by a canopy that collapses when you try to move it to shade the baby from the rising or setting sun. The amount of time it takes to get a baby ready for an excursion had faded from memory, too.

But all those things are manageable. Right now it’s the baby’s discomfort, and resulting need for constant movement, that are getting us down. I don’t know how the attachment parents do it. Sure, you can hold the baby and walk about 55 minutes of every hour, but there are those five minutes when you need to empty the knives out of the dishwasher or put a casserole in the oven or do something else that would be dangerous to a Björned baby. Are you just supposed to sit–excuse me, pace—around all day and let the house collapse in shambles around you? I mean, normally, when the baby isn’t sick, you’re allowed to put him down for a few minutes a day…right?

There is a school of thought that says that any time a baby is separated from his birth mother, no matter how young, he suffers a primal wound that never quite heals. Many adoptive mothers use the term “grieving” for the adjustment period that the baby goes through after arrival. I don’t really buy into this, myself. At four or five months, I don’t think babies have emotions that are really separate from their physical wants and needs. They are “sad” or “angry” because they are hungry or sleepy or their routine is upset, but not because of any separate emotional concern about missing their birth mother or foster mother. But, what do I know? Many people buy into the concept of grieving. All I know is that his ears are still red after over a week of antibiotic therapy, and when we show up tomorrow to get the antibiotic equivalent of the neutron bomb, the cure will have side effects that will be almost as severe as the cause. Poor baby.

There is a bright side to all this. First, other than the baby’s discomfort, he doesn’t seem to be that sick. He doesn’t have a fever or other symptoms other than the pain and redness in his ears. Second, he is a champion little nighttime sleeper, dropping off around 7:00 p.m., sleeping in his crib, and waking only briefly for one or two feedings. (Aitch was a bear to get to sleep, both initially and after every three-hour feeding interval.)

And, finally, in between bouts of gastric distress, the baby is just as sweet as can be. Every time we look into his eyes he dissolves into laughter:

He is more beautiful than I ever imagined. I think I can discern a mild-mannered, affectionate little personality underneath. All I can do is be patient: hold him and walk him until he feels better. As I look at him I find myself thinking of those of you who are adopting from China, who have had such a long, trying wait. Your patience is being tried sorely even before you meet your daughters. I figure if you can do it, I can do it.

The baby is adorable. There is so much to say, but not much of a delivery story. We drove down to the airport amid gathering storm clouds. I was certain the plane would be delayed, and I was feeling terribly sorry for the poor escort and baby who had to endure three legs — Seoul to Tokyo to Chicago to Boston — over 24 hours.

The airport was practically deserted. For some reason, there’s never much activity at Logan after 8:00 p.m., and the few stores and restaurants in the terminals I usually use are mostly closed by 8:30. We — Husband, Aitch, my mother, and I — had not eaten, so we ordered some burgers and waited for the plane’s status to be updated. The greeter came to meet us and give us the rundown (basically, “Show me your ID, sign these forms in duplicate, and take the kid”). Then, suddenly, the plane’s status changed from “Delayed” to “Landed.” It was right on time.

Like last time, we lined up right outside the security area for the gates on the left side of the terminal. Unlike last time, we could stand right in front of security, because we were the only people awaiting the flight. There were no other babies traveling, and the hourly flight from Chicago to Boston, full of business travelers, does not necessitate pick-ups by excited relatives and friends like the San Francisco flight Aitch was on two and a half years ago. A few minutes after the greeter disappeared through security, she was back with the escort and the baby.

He looked just like his fat baby picture, and not so much like the scrawny-chicken baby picture, although he does, under all that fat, have an awesomely pointed “Reese Witherspoon” chin. The escort was very agitated. She didn’t speak English fluently, but she communicated that she had a headache and hadn’t slept for 24 hours. She was not quick to hand over the baby, but not because she was cooing over him or anything like that; she just seemed exhausted and distracted. I was eager to hold him but didn’t want to annoy her when she had just come all this way to bring him. Finally, the greeter stepped in, and the baby began to scream as soon as he was in my arms. The escort told us he had eaten three hours ago, and from my experiences with Aitch I knew that Korean foster mothers feed babies every three hours like clockwork.

I went off to change him and make up a bottle. He took it eagerly, confirming my suspicion that he was hungry, but he also gulped a lot of air and cried until he was burped. The crying seemed to upset Aitch. I suddenly realized that, although we had prepared Aitch for the fact that a baby was coming, he had no practical experience of babies. For Aitch, anyone crying was a big deal; maybe he even thought that he was causing it.

When we got back to the greeter and escort, we discovered that the escort was planning to fly to D.C. the following morning, but she hadn’t made hotel arrangements. She thought that the adoption agency would have a guest house where she could crash. She didn’t have a credit card and was horrified by the cost of a Boston hotel, as most people would be. Husband tried to reserve a room for her, but the few hotels that had vacancies wouldn’t take his card over the phone if he wasn’t going to be available to present it later. We tried some other options, but eventually we left her to spend the night in the airport. She asked us where the restaurants were, but even the concession stands had closed. The greeter seemed irritated at us for getting involved, and said that it was the escort’s responsibility to figure it out.

The baby was reasonable good-natured for the walk to the car and then fell asleep during the car ride, but woke up about halfway through. I sat in the tiny space between the baby’s enormous rear-facing seat and Aitch’s enormous front-facing seat. Whenever the baby cried, Aitch became very quiet and got a worried look on his face. We tried to reassure him. I had had no idea that he would take the baby’s distress so hard; if anything, I thought he’d be oblivious to the baby, and more concerned with the attention the baby was taking away.

When we got home, the baby would not let us put him down. He didn’t even tolerate being held in in a sitting or lying position; it was chest-to-chest contact or screeching. We took turns walking around with him until about 1:00, then tried to go to bed. I rocked him until 3:00, then put him down to sleep between us. He slept pretty soundly in the rocker and in bed, but woke around 5:30 with a fever. Our pediatrician appointment was not until Monday, but the office told us to give him some Tylenol and bring him to sick call at 9:00. The verdict: double ear infection. For the next 24 hours, he yelled whenever we moved him from the chest-to-chest position. Then the drugs started to kick in, and his little personality began to emerge–just in time for Husband to leave for a two-day business trip, and for the contractors to show up to demolish our third floor–but that’s another story.

Once again, I feel like I’ve told a very pedestrian story, as though there was no emotion on one of the most momentous days of our lives. I can’t deny it: it’s downright weird to acquire this little stranger on a quick trip to the airport. The poignancy comes later, during the hours and hours in which you lock eyes with him as you feed him, change him, bathe him. Adopting a child is kind of like getting married. It doesn’t matter if the big day is perfect, as long as all the other days are rich.

So far, so good.

I wrote this on the train on Thursday, but didn’t get to post it then. It’s Part I of the delivery story.

I spent most of the early afternoon Tuesday making travel arrangements.

First, my mother was due to arrive at the airport at 6:00, and I had to find some way to get her to our house. Normally I would just drive down and get her, but the floods had shut down one of the major routes, forcing all the traffic onto the highways—five hours round-trip. The guy who usually drives me for business trips agreed to do it, but then she was delayed, then rescheduled, then rescheduled again, so I had to spend a lot of time on the phone.

I was also scheduled to go to New York at the end of the week, so I had to figure out the train and find a hotel. The whole city was sold out (due, apparently, to the Stationery Convention—that’s going to be a wild time). That gave me a good excuse to book something much pricier than usual, at a cost that didn’t seem to faze my clients at all. I also booked a ticket for the New York City ballet on Thursday night. It’s one of the few perks of business travel; since you’re out anyway, you might as well do some fun grown-up stuff.

Since my mother was going to be there for the weekend, and some friends were getting together in Boston on Saturday, I impulsively decided to book a hotel room for Husband and me downtown. I had enough points in the Marriott account I didn’t even know was there to get yet another overpriced room.

Then the phone rang. I glanced at caller ID, wondering which one of my to-do list tasks was finally returning my call. The bank, about the loan to refinish the attic? The contractor, finally giving us a start date? The furniture people, who were three weeks late delivering the dressers for the nursery?

It was our social worker. I knew it was the call. They don’t call people during the referral-to-travel interval unless it’s good news, because it’s too crushing otherwise. “I have good news!” she chirped. “Your son is coming home on Friday. I don’t know the flight details yet, but I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I do.”

I spent most of the late afternoon Tuesday changing travel arrangements.

I moved the New York trip up a day, so I’d be back in time to get to the airport. (Ladies who do it the old-fashioned way: when you tell someone you’re being induced on Friday, do they say, “Great! Well, if you hurry you can make it to New York and back before the birth”?) I rescheduled the train ticket, and thought about canceling the second night in the New York hotel, but I must have lost momentum there, as I found out later. I called the Boston friends to cancel dinner; I canceled the Boston hotel and, miraculously, got my points back. I spent a few minutes on the New York City Ballet web site trying to figure out how I might change the ticket.

Then, I stopped and took a few ujjayi breaths and tried to achieve some measure of inner calm. It was then and only then I could hear my subconscious screaming OH MY GOD WE’RE HAVING ANOTHER BABY.

Like, oh my God! Another baby!

Sometimes my subconscious sounds like a Valley Girl, circa 1982.

So. Here I am in New York, while Husband and Aitch and my mother are at home, getting ready for the baby. It’s actually been a great trip, even though I overslept and had only an hour and ten minutes to shower, pack, and drive 60 miles to the train station. After that, though, everything went smoothly. The hotel graciously allowed me to cancel the extra night after I told them I was suddenly having a baby; this explanation also worked on the New York City Ballet, who not only exchanged my ticket but gave me a very good seat for Wednesday night. (Excitement is contagious. The next time I want some customer service person someone to help me out, instead of giving them a sob story I’m going to tell them that something wonderful—an Oscar nomination, a MacArthur grant, a lottery win—is the reason I need to exchange merchandise without a receipt/upgrade to first class without enough points/get a lower interest rate on my credit card.)

It has been very stimulating, rushing from midtown to the Village to Lincoln Center in a taxi, watching all the people rush around me, and thinking, this is not the most exciting thing I’ll be doing this week.

1. Deposit check
2. Get nails done
3. Buy a gift
4. Pay bills
5. File expenses
6. Pick up new son at the airport.

At last.

The next town over, Amesbury, is something of a poor cousin to Port City, at least if property values are any indicator. I’m not sure why, because its architectural and natural beauty rivals that of the Port.

One of the spectacular things about Amesbury is its market square. The Powow River courses right through it, with dramatic waterfalls that provide a great view to anyone crossing the bridge from the municipal parking lot to the amphitheatre-like space in the center.  Our favorite restaurant in town, the Powow River Grill, was planning to build a deck cantilevered over the falls.  We were really looking forward to having dinner outside there some future summer day.

Not any more. Amesbury is effectively the epicenter of the storm system, and the river’s position has left the town vulnerable.

This morning, as I was shooting these clips, the restaurant and other buildings that border the falls were being evacuated. Groups of kibbitzers, many with kids in tow and ice cream in hand, were standing just outside the police tape, surveying the damage. Since schools were closed and the rain had kept us all inside for over a week, parents were grateful to have something to do, I suppose.

At the moment, the dam is holding, and we’re all holding our collective breath. It would be a shame to lose this great town space.

An ark.

Seven days of rain behind us, with rain forecast an additional seven to ten days.

Even if there’s no flooding, shouldn’t seven days of ceaseless rain be recognized as a natural disaster? Surely the economy must take a hit if all the Boston area tech workers, science professors, and yoga instructors become depressed and unproductive. If we had Republican senators, the National Guard would have been on its way by now with crates of Prozac, DVDs, and Sudoku.

Last weekend, before the Deluge (only 34 days and 34 nights to go!), our Port City elementary school hosted a 5K road race. I had just bought a running stroller in anticipation of numero due, so I optimistically entered myself to give it its maiden voyage. Before the race, they had a series of “fun runs” for the kids, including a third-of-a-mile lap around the pond for children second grade and under. The parents were allowed to run with the kids, so I thought I’d see if Aitch wanted to participate. I thought he might be intimidated by the big crowd, but it was for charity so I paid the small fee and figured we could bow out at any time.

So, this is what the starting line at the Boston Marathon would look like if they lowered the qualifying age, and allowed the racers to run with their mommies:

Aitch is the child who’s clad in the sportif sweater with elbow patches. (I was not going to go through the bother of changing him on the off chance that he might be running a third of a mile.) Even dressed like a geek, he had a wonderful time. When the Korean Jim Thorpe grows up, though, don’t tell him that his mommy had to carry him for a few steps in his first big race.

My official time in the 5K was 31:47. Since I hung way back at the start to avoid running anyone over with my baby SUV, I’ll take another 20 seconds off that. It isn’t my best time, but it is my “personal running stroller best.”

If television has taught me anything, it’s that if I’m ever going to discover a dismembered body part, it will be when I’m out walking with my dog. On the local news, as well as the various “CSI” and “Law and Order” franchises from which the local news is barely distinguishable, body parts are always found by someone walking his or her dog.

Thus, I was not wholly unprepared for, but still plenty disgusted by, this (viewer discretion advised). (more…)

Last night, I dreamed I was entering data in a database: the same record, over and over. I’d go through the laborious process of entering it once, wake up, think, “That was tedious,” and fall back asleep only to re-enter the record in my sleep.

The night before, I dreamed I was folding laundry: one piece after another.

I thought dreams were supposed to be the raw outlet for all kinds of unconscious desires? If so, my id is even more boring than I am.