Following Elias

Just Because

Happy Friday Photos

A Snowy Morning Reflection

Sometimes being a parent means stretching thin the line between self and other, till the threads of who you are unravel and trail behind the person who rocks, feeds, holds, and comforts another. You barely remember what it felt like to wake in the mornings on your own time-clock, with only your individual needs to fulfill.

A late February snowfall covers the unfamiliar trees in my new backyard, fat flakes, relentless in their tragic beauty. Somewhere underneath the layers, up in the mountains, on the tundra, in the caves and hollows, Mama Grizzlies give birth to their cubs, where they wait out spring, entwined in the darkness, tongue to nipple, fur to fur, skin to skin.

This morning, as I lay in bed nursing Olive, Elias asked, "Did you use to nurse me when I was a baby?"

"Yes, babe."

"Was I in your belly?"

"Mm-hmm," I responded, eyes still closed, not quite ready to rise to this ongoing conversation we've carried and nurtured and expanded since the arrival of his sister.

"What room was I born in?"

"The surgery room."

"Did I have to have surgery?" he asked, as he leaned over Olive and put his head on top of mine.

"Yes, as a baby you did." I said, awake now.

"Where did I have to have surgery?" he asked, cutting our conversation deeper, to questions I haven't yet answered.

"On your heart, your brain, and your eyes."

As I said this, I looked at his eyes that rarely look at mine, for a sign of comprehension, wondering if the next question would be "Why?"

Heart. Brain. Eyes.

Three different doorways to the soul.

And I may not attend an indoor church, or identify with a specific religion, but I still search for deeper meanings, for spiritual awakenings, and redemption.

When it comes time to answer Elias's brewing storm of why's--Why do I need canes? Why was I born early? Why can't I...--I'll try to give him multiple layers to wrap around his growing sense of self, so that he looks in the mirror and sees himself as whole.

In order to do this, I need to do the same. Embrace my own completeness, my own soul.

I will always be Elias and Olive's Mommy, and with this title comes a blurring of edges, a run-on sentence in which my subject leads to theirs, without semi-colons or periods, barely a comma rests between us as we breathe the same air, like Grizzlies entwined in their winter den, snowed-in till spring comes.

But spring will come. And little paws will grow wide. And wander off to find their own blueberry bushes, their own salmon streams, their own honey-scented air to breathe.

He's obviously never met my son

I'm a little distracted by the Olympics. And well, you know, the new house, newborn thing.

But I just needed to say screw you to this guy.

Now back to the should-be Olympic sport of baby bouncing. 

breathing space

As we attempt to organize Elias's room he asks something about his closet door--I don't remember exactly what since he asks arbitrary questions all day long such as: Why are the fish in here? Is this our house? What color is red?--so I continue to unpack a box of books and say, "I don't know."

I don't know. My answer to so much these days.

He stands by his closet door, holding onto it for balance and says, "It's kinda freakin' me out."

The boy is a language sponge, soaking up expressions and squeezing them out, often dousing me awake.

I laugh and ask him, "Where did you learn to say that?" I picture one of Elias's kindergarten classmates saying it during recess and Elias laughing at the sound of the words before repeating it as he watches the kids run around the playground from his perch on the platform above the slide.

No response.

For all his words, he is often unable to follow the give and receive of a conversation, especially with questions that ask him to recall or project. Past and future events elude him as he turns, points, and asks: "What's that?"

Sometimes I love his present focus as it shifts me into a more sensory awareness of my immediate surroundings. This moment. This breath.

So on this Friday I guess I want to say happy everyday. Throw away the milestone charts, toss off expectations, forget about "what if" and "if when" and live today. I know its cliche' but maybe it is so because we need to be reminded again and again to be here now. I know I do.

Right here.

Now.

Even if this moment includes a colicky two-month-old baby.

For she won't be two months for long.

And Elias, oh Elias, there's nothing delayed, impaired or different about him if I drop my sense of time, my ideas of what is supposed to be, and just embrace the quirky impish boy before me, just hold him and sigh. For he is here. 

For now.

Ssshhhh!

Its past midnight. And I'm awake.

But.

No-one else in the house is.

No-one is crying. Or nursing.

At least not yet.

Why am I awake?

Because i just returned from a late-night hockey game and man oh man does it feel good to use my body for something besides procreating, gestating, incubating, birthing, recovering, feeding, or holding...

Damn.

She's up.

And now we are all cranky

Oh colic, colic, joy, joy...

I have just begun week two of a two-week elimination diet to see if something I'm eating is causing poor Ms. Olive pain.

This means I've given up:

Dairy

Alcohol

Coffee

Chocolate

Spicy foods and curries

Garlic and onions

Legumes and beans

Cabbage family vegetables

And I'm not allowed to eat too much fruit.

Fun huh?

What is not on my list but could be is wheat, corn, soy, and peanuts.

Sometime this week I'll get the results back from a blood-test for 195 foods I could be sensitive to and I'm hoping that this list gives me more information and results.

Because just blindly giving up my favorite foods feels like major deprivation; especially when Olive still arches her back, turns red, and screams. Not all the time. But often. Often enough.

And man a milk-chocolate, spicy, spiked coffee drink would sure help to smooth out my frayed edges...

I taught Elias to cover his ears when she's really loud and sometimes he gets confused and covers his eyes-- but his desire to escape the noise is understood. He's grinding his teeth more than ever before and we even received a note home from his school that he hit one of his T.A's with his cane. 

That's right, my sweet little Elias.

The same one who started sobbing yesterday when we left the cart in Lowes instead of taking it to our car to unload. Who walked back inside and pushed the cart himself out the door as he cried, "I want to take the cart to the car."

When I picked him up and carried him across the parking lot he continued to cry: "I pushed the cart outside...now the carts freezing."

I worry about Elias.

Especially if Olive's temperament doesn't improve at the magical three to four month mark. Right now this whole baby sister thing doesn't jive so well with him. A screaming pooping bundle of sobs who stole his place in his mama's arms. Or at least made his hollow more crowded.

But last night he said, "I love you Olive," before going to bed.

I often ask him in the mornings if he dreamed the night before and he has yet to answer yes. Yesterday, he finally did.

"What did you dream about?" I asked.

"Olive," he said.

"Really, what happened in your dream?"

No reply.

We sit next to each other in bed as I nurse his sister and I run my fingers through his whispy blond hair.

"Was it a good dream or a bad dream?"

"Bad," he says.

Sigh.

In Honor of Valentine's Day

 

 

 
 

Happy kisses to all!!!!

Following Elias, Olive Too

I had the chance to rename this blog when Parents.com ended their blogging contracts and I started writing for myself. But I chose not to, even knowing Elias had a sister on her way. In part because I already had to change names once, on my editors request, when I moved from Clubmom to Parents.

It was during our family bike trip from Washington to Wyoming, as we pedaled over mountain passes and through small western towns, that I thought of possible names as a way to pass the time. I didn't think of Following Elias, my husband Nick did, and I liked it right away, even if it was his creative impulse and not mine.

I liked the simplicity of it.

And the layers. 

Those of you who read regularly are following Elias's journey. As his mother I'm often literally walking behind him, holding his hood, ready to catch him when he stumbles. He leads me to places I didn't expect to go, teaches me, forces me to grow. I've learned to work on his timetable and not mine, not child development experts or doctors or school specialists.

Elias time.

And now his sister Olivia, whom we call Olive, has followed him into our family and will forever be the second child.

I am also the second child, the younger sister of my brother Andrew, who is two years minus two days older than me. When I arrived and my parents friends came to check out the new baby, Andrew would say, "I'm cute too!"

Before long it was me who followed him around saying, "Me too, me too, me too!"

I am defined by his presence, by my desire to keep up with the boys, or to choose a different path than my big brother's. Whether I wanted to do exactly what he did or wanted to do the opposite, he was one of the mirrors I judged myself by.

Not as smart as Andrew. Not as social as Andrew. Not as strong as Andrew... 

I still remember my sixth grade teacher telling me that my creative writing book of poems and short stories was one of the best in the class, but it was her next line that made me beam: "Better than your brother Andrew's". More often I failed to live up to the standards he set. At least in my own mind--in my own impulse to measure and compare. I remember thinking my parents loved him more because his baby book was fatter than mine, his Christmas stocking bigger, and more pictures of him in diapers could be found in the albums on our shelves.

But oh, do I get this now. Its not about lack of love but lack of time. Olive will always share us with Elias but he had almost six years of our undivided attention. We could take more pictures, collect more, sew a bigger stocking...that is, if I knew how to sew.

Olive will always follow Elias.  

Her cries seem louder than normal because her brother rarely cried. She seems so round and pudgy compared to Elias's bony frame. The other day, after watching a 12 to 18 month-old baby jump from a picnic table into his mother's arms, I turned to Nick and said, "You know, this feels weird to say but I'm excited about Olive's physicality."

"I know me too," he said.

And by this we mean compared to Elias. At seven weeks, I can already see the difference in her strength and ease of movement. Her grasp of objects, the way she kicks her legs, or when I hold her in a standing position, how she supports her weight for a moment and takes a mock step forward.

I wouldn't appreciate this in quite the same way if it weren't for Elias. A part of me feels guilty, like I'm somehow cheating on my devotion for my son by admiring his presumably able-bodied sister. Not sure if that makes sense. It's the same part of me that struggled with my desire for a full-term, healthy baby during my pregnancy, as if this took away from my love for Elias because I hoped for a different situation this time. As if I wanted someone different from him.

And I did, but not because I don't love him to pieces.

Just as Olive's second place in line doesn't mean I love her any less.

A glimmer

I sit up in bed nursing Olive, again, my back aches, my nipples throb, my eyes water as I try to read the time on the clock.

Did I sleep an hour? When did she wake last? Why won't she settle? Is she in pain? I'm just so damn tired...

I listen to Nick's soft snores with envy, I just want to close my eyes, to dream about running free with no mouths or hands that need me.

The minutes slowly pass until Olive pulls off, eyes closed, body relaxed, and as I look down at her soft cheeks, her heart-shaped lips, I'm struck with this revelation: I am the lucky one.