time flies by; you can't stop it.
Sophia must get her snoring technique from her mother. She is much too quiet for an Adler!!
Two years ago: I get my hair done and arrange flowers for my sister's wedding. Today's news question:
The Supreme Court is hearing arguments about which medical procedure, which some states want to outlaw?
(Don't send me your answers. This is just a little way to expand your horizons. Honest.)
Sophia had her two month checkup today, which meant she got weighed, measured, and lots of shots. She's a big girl -- she's grown 3 inches (I think it's more like 4, but I am outvoted), she's gained 4 pounds, her head's grown 4 centimeters (didn't catch it in inches).
My widdle baby's growing up.
Actually, I knew she was a lot longer now, even without the official word. I used to use the "football hold" on her when nursing -- she would lie along my side, with my arm tucked around her, as though I were toting a football, natch. I stopped doing it on the rocking chair because suddenly she couldn't fit against the back of the chair any more. About a week ago in the living room I put her on the pillow to do that hold and realized, She doesn't fit on the side of the pillow anymore.
I wondered when she'd grown -- was I not paying attention? I have this weird desire to stop time, to be able to go back and forth between moments like points on a hard disk. To be able to go back and look at my newborn 7 pound baby and compare her to the current 11 pound one. But it doesn't work like that: life is linear, and once it's gone, it's gone. I have to enjoy each moment as it's happening, enjoy her now as she is, because she won't be that way for very long. Of course, I start berating myself periodically: Am I paying enough attention to her? Do I get too annoyed that she takes up so much of my time and energy and I can't multitask when she's awake? (I feel guilty whenever I get annoyed, because I do get enough time by myself, and the time to appreciate her is now.) Am I spending enough time focused on her and not merely taking care of her?
I digress.
I couldn't watch her getting the shots. I am much better about not crying at the drop of a hat now when something apparently upsets or threatens her. But I'm not that much better, not when I hear my baby scream like that. Darin stayed with her during it, and he reported that when the needle went in, her eyes would get huge, and then she'd start crying. Her cry was so pitiful and so loud it was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears.
Since the doctor's appointment she's been asleep in the car seat -- Tip #3: The car seat is just fine; leave 'em sleeping -- and humming a bit. I know I should have used this time most effectively and done some writing on one of my screenplays, but the writing here is just going to have to suffice.
I have noticed a pattern emerging though: she sleeps from about 9 to 11 or 10 to 12, another two hour stretch in the afternoon, and she falls asleep for good around 10, waking up at 4. (Yes, she is sleeping a 5 or 6 hour stretch these nights! Whoo hoo!) So perhaps, should I ever get my act together, I can work out times to get some writing done. I think I may do like Mary did and tuck my baby and husband in bed before settling down to do an hour or two of writing. It's too easy to get scattered during the day with other things, and in the evening I like to spend some time with Darin when he's not a)working or b)thinking about work. (And even then, I can't always catch him at times when he's not thinking about work.)
There's an article in the New York Times today about the children of famous authors getting published. One of the children mentioned is Molly Jong-Fast, daughter of Erica Jong.
I know this is going to happen to me a lot over the next 40 to 50 years, but... I remember an article Molly's father wrote when she was born, talking about how they came up with her name (Molly was a tough name; she has some middle name also beginning with "M" in case she wanted a softer name). I think her nickname was Bean. Every baby's nickname is Bean, of course, but I remember her father referring to her as Bean.
Ohmygod, I'm old.
Okay, I know that by many yardsticks I'm not, but... I was always the youngest, it seemed. Youngest in my family. Youngest in my class, but the best student. Youngest to undertake various projects. I went to Stanford right after my 17th birthday, graduated when I was 20. I was, you know, going places.
I don't know what I was expecting. No, that's false, I do know what I was expecting. I would be rich and famous by the time I was... Well, maybe that was the problem. I never came up with an exact age or an exact image of what I wanted. And time doesn't stand still, you know. It doesn't wait while you think about what you'd like to do and plan, endlessly, to get around to it. It just keeps going.
Ten years ago I had already been living by myself for a year (having moved out from a particularly bad living situation -- turned a friend into an ex-friend) in the apartment over Damon and Chuck. I had my Integra (having given my Celica to my parents for $1000). I'd been working for Apple for a while. I didn't have a boyfriend (and I got bummed out about that sometimes). I think I took my first film class at DeAnza but dropped it because it was too hard -- I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do. 1990 was a terrible year for everyone I knew, it seemed like: I declared it didn't count for any of us.
Ten years.
A lot's happened in those ten years, so it's not like I wasted my time, I don't think. But it sure seems to have gone by faster than I thought it would.
I know I have plenty of time to do any number of things: I could have quite a few children yet, thanks, and there's certainly no statute of limitations of success in other fields, such as publishing.
But I doubt anyone's going to use the term wunderkind for me anymore. And I didn't make that million by age thirty.
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Copyright 2000 Diane Patterson
Send comments and questions to diane@spies.com