• you’re just now reading the great gatsby because they’re making a movie version.  coupla things, you troglodyte: 1. if you’re that lazy, there already is a movie.  and it stars robert redford at maybe his hunkiest and sam waterston.  yes!  that guy from law & order wasn’t always jack mccoy, you know.  and mia farrow!  everybody loves mia farrow.  except woody allen.  but who likes him anyway?  i sat through anything else, my good man.  you owe me $7.  2. that book was assigned in high school.  if you didn’t read it then, the ship has sailed.  you might also have missed out on sideways stories from wayside school but now that you’re like 40, you don’t get to go back and give it a shot.  the same goes for all of you who just picked up on the road, life of pi, etc.  you’re gross.
• you speak to nail technicians as if they’re morons because they speak fewer words of english than you do.  for one thing, based on what i see of the general public’s facebook usage, nail techs speak english about as well as you write it, what with your apostrophes used to make plurals (“there are so many house’s for sale!”), random capitalizations (“I think we might see the Stars tonight”) and general tomfoolery (“they’re is so much cool stuff here!”).  i may eschew capital letters, but i understand their purpose.  and secondly, no matter how paltry the nail guy’s english vocabulary may be, i guarantee it’s significantly more extensive than your vietnamese.  so as long as he speaks more of your language than you speak of his, he’s actually accomplished more than you.  so let’s do away with treating him like some sort of primate, yeah?
• you misunderstand causation and correlation.  for instance, a study came out today that shows that parents who “clean” their child’s pacifier using their own mouth have children with fewer allergies.  cut to the people in the comments carrying on about “oh, i was never allowed to have a pacifier and this is why i have such bad seasonal allergies!”  false.  for one, you just didn’t have a pacifier, not one that was sterilized every time the wind blew.  and, absent the pacifier, you still might have put all manner of vile thing in your mouth, thereby providing the same immune boost thought to be responsible for these decreased allergies.  but also.  the study finds that less likely than it being the germs on this pacifier that reduce the incidence of allergies, it’s that the parents who do this to pacifiers are similarly relaxed about other germ vectors.  these parents are less likely to purell their child’s hands, more likely to let their toddlers gnaw on their own shoes.  i once heard a co-worker argue that the reason women with advanced degrees have a lower divorce rate is because they learn negotiation and conflict resolution in graduate school.  my head almost exploded at the stupidity.  women with advanced degrees are more likely to possess a myriad of other traits–higher income, marriage at a later chronological age, more education–that make them less likely to divorce.  guh.  i feel like i should print this on a sandwich board and wear it around my office.  correlation ≠ causation.
• you heat up fish in the office microwave.
• you’re a man who sits on the subway with his knees approximately 19 feet apart.  sir, there is a man on the real housewives of atlanta called “ri-dick-ulous.”  he earns his living by taking off his clothes at women’s parties and swinging his wang around, windmill style.  when bravo has to put the big black bar censor over it, it looks like a digital baseball bat.  but i can promise you, even ri-dick-ulous does not need to sit in upavistha konasana to be comfortable.  all you have me thinking about, like men who drive sports cars, is how small your dong must be.  and i don’t need that on my mind at 8:30am while i try to read the new david sedaris (which has been underwhelming, if you really want to know).
• EDITED TO INCLUDE: you’re a fan of tweety bird.

the chaplain read psalm 23, a passage that is sort of like the coca-cola of bible verses: it would be played out if it wasn’t so good.  and i got really frustrated that a belief in God (the one with the capital-G) and a knowledge of the Bible have been so co-opted by crazy people that i don’t even feel like they can belong to the sane among us anymore.  “surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and i will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”  what a lovely, optimistic, and comforting thought.  the assuredness of that statement, the certainty that in the face of your enemies, you declare that goodness and mercy will follow you forever.  if it weren’t from the Bible, it’d be all over pinterest along with those “go confidently in the direction of your dreams” inspirationals.

my relationship with God and religion and spirituality are complicated, to say the least.  it’s not something i feel comfortable talking about very much, and never really have, even as a child.  in a church and a school where “sharing your testimony” was pretty much de rigeur to demonstrate to everyone that you were a Real Christian, i’d have rather been a total outcast who everyone thought was going to hell than talk about my “walk with God.”  it’s mine–that’s the whole point.  stay out of it, nick lachey.

i grew up believing fervently in God, spent about a decade certain he didn’t exist, and now the pendulum has kind of swung back to the middle, where i feel i’ve divested myself of prior notions and am looking at religious texts with new eyes, sussing out what strikes me as something i believe.  and psalm 23 strikes me that way.  and when i heard the words, i kind of wanted to post them to facebook, like, what a lovely notion.  surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.  what a beautiful affirmation.  and then i thought, but will my gay friends think i’ve turned into a bible thumper?  will they think i’ve abandoned my politics if i quote the bible?  and what the fuck, man.  when did bigots corner the market on the bible (answer: i think circa 2001).  martin luther king jr. was a reverend.  and sister simone campbell is a nun.  the quakers are pacifists who believe in equality not in spite of their religion, but because of it.  it’s so frustrating to try to figure out what you believe in the context of what other people believe.

so.  here’s what i think.  i think marriage is a civil right.  i think the progressive tax is important and probably what Jesus would do.  i think abortion should be safe and legal, and i don’t think a non-viable fetus is a human.  and i also think this is nice:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters
He restoreth my soul:
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest
my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

here’s the thing.  i was raised to have a very strong belief in equality.  i’m not sure why my parents, especially my mom, felt so strongly about it–if it’s because of detroit’s storied past of racial strife or if it’s just because she’s a good person who believes in civil rights–but she did.  and she really raised me to believe in fairness and justice, to admire people like Martin Luther King, Jr., to stand up to kids who used slurs or disparaged non-white classmates.  that wasn’t some natural toughness i had, it’s something my parents cultivated in me.

but i’m also an upper-middle class white girl who was raised in an upper-middle class white suburb.  i didn’t actually hear someone use the n-word until i was 19.  i remember my grandpa would say it, mostly to piss off my mom, but i always heard about it second-hand; he never said it in front of me.  i was in my sophomore year of college before i met a group of kids whose casual racism was absolutely baffling to me.  they didn’t seem to feel any shame about calling a faint mustache a “spic-stash”, about chastising a friend for having “n—– breath,” about having seriously vandalized Louis Farrakhan’s house.  i’m somewhat ashamed to say i stayed friends with these people–not close friends, but friends.  i made it clear that it wasn’t ok to say such things in front of me, but now that i’m older and more secure in the things i believe and less interested in being liked, i wonder why i didn’t just tell them to take a hike.

speaking of being older, i’m now almost 30 and married and about to have my first child.  i happen to be married to a mexican man and carrying a son who, obviously, will have his father’s and my ethnic heritage.  my frustration with and intolerance for racism has definitely increased since edgar and i have been together–”spic,” “wetback,” even “illegal” become very different words when applied to the man you love.  they aren’t abstract epithets anymore.  they’re brutal and cruel attacks on the person you love more than your own life.  in a political climate where mexicans are described as alternately lazy or stealing american jobs, but regardless always unwanted, i want to stand up and scream about how my husband and his family risked their lives to be here, that he works harder than anyone i know, that he’s a better person than any natural-born american i can think of.

and then there’s the baby.

anyone who’s a parent or is about to be a parent will tell you that even more than the love you feel for a child, the extraordinary, primal need to protect your child is something to behold.  i was relieved when i learned i was having a baby boy because i was honestly worried that if i had a girl, she’d be compared to my niece, who is so cute it hurts.  i mean, near-strangers have friended my sister on facebook to be able to see photos of jonah.  she’s that cute.  she’s like, baby mary tyler moore.  (oh man, i have to teach her how to toss her beret in the air.)  even the notion that someone might say, “oh, yeah.  courtney’s baby is cute, but ooh, not as cute as jonah.  who could be?” hurt in my bones.  and not because i care if my kid is cute, but because i hate the idea of anyone saying anything mean about my baby.

i’ll tell edgar about news stories like those linked to above and he’ll shake his head and laugh sardonically.  i told a black friend about it yesterday and she did the same.  people who grow up being personally subjected to racism seem to build up a resistance, like they’re inoculated against it.  but i don’t have any of that.  in fact, what i have is worse: a deeply held belief that racism is fading, that justice will win, that my child will be raised in a world slightly better than mine.  people like edgar have never had that belief.  part of it is his personality, part of it is not having raging hormones that make me scream, “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY ABOUT MY CHILD??????” when i read a story like the first one, but part of it is the simple fact that there is no powerful racial slur anyone can or has called me.  honkey?  that word is hilarious.  it sounds like donkey.  i call people that all the time.  cracker?  probably my favorite “dave chappelle” sketch of all time was when he asked white people who loved the confederate flag if the’d mind if he modified it.  and one design replaced the stars with saltine crackers.  i. was. dying.

there are a lot of challenges that i knew edgar and i would face.  i know the notion of miscegenation is not such a thing of the past as i’d like to hope.  i know we come from different cultures and that blending the two, especially when you create your own family, can be complicated.  i was prepared for some bigot to look at us sideways.  but i never thought about how it would impact my children, and how much it would break my heart to see my child subjected to something that i can neither take away nor honestly say i’ve experienced and understand.  i guess that piece is something his dad can help with. but i’m experiencing for the first time the pain of seeing your child hurting (though this is really my vicarious hurting for him) and knowing there’s nothing i can do to take it away, except continue to believe in justice and equality, and raise my children to believe in it (despite experience to the contrary) like my parents did with me.

Dear Sebastian,

I keep hearing stories from parents with newborns who sleep through the night – even as early as one month old. This concept is completely foreign to me since the longest you’ve ever slept is probably 6 hours straight. On a good night you’re asleep by 8, up for a quick nosh at 2 and 5 and then up for good around 6. On bad nights – well – I’m working to block those from my memory. You’re helping by flashing me your delightful grin when it is time to get up and face the day. It brings light into my life. Who needs sleep when I’ve got that smile.

We moved you out of our bedroom this month. Hoping the distance would make me less likely to jump up at every little fuss, and would settle you into your own space. While it basically just means I am walking further to feed you a few times a night, I’m still happy we made this change. At night you rest your head on my shoulder as i take you out of your crib. You let me stroke your cheeks and rub your head as you nurse. You remind me that you are still a baby, even though you’re growing faster than the tulips that this frigid Spring has yet to reveal. You’re still my baby. You don’t have any interest in nursing during the day anymore, so I continue to cherish these fleeting moments before my body is done helping you grow. This is more difficult for me than it probably should be, but creating you and nourishing you has been the most amazing thing I’ve ever done.  Logically of course you’ll still need me in many ways for quite some time, but terminating this bond triggers an emotional response that you somehow will need me less. I’m not ready.

Are you teething? I’ve thought you were teething since you were maybe 5 weeks old what with your drooling and  gnawing on anything that enters the vicinity of your mouth. I keep expecting to wake up to your giant grin revealing a couple of chompers, but they seem to be taking their time fighting through your gums. Maybe this is why you sleep so poorly. Your teeth may be as stubborn as you are. You do not like when I take away something you shouldn’t play with or try to get you to do something that prohibits you from your endless exploring (like say- change your diaper).

In addition to gaining crawling speed every day you are now pretty efficient at pulling up. You crawl up to my legs and reach out for my hands so we can “walk” around together. You can climb up the ottoman and the couch and whenever you do you make sure I’m looking at you and beam as though to say “look what i just did!”.

I couldn’t be more proud of everything you do buddy. I’m a little terrified by what you might get into next, but still so so proud.

Love,

Mama

Luckily I was at my parents house, so my mom sweetly gave up her sleep to feed Sebastian when he woke up. I was grateful for the chance to recover, but the helplessness of being the kind of sick where you just can’t control your body was compounded by the fact that I couldn’t take care of my baby. I cried as my body heaved.

When Jason text that he too had the evil, from a hotel room far far away, I was even more grateful we both weren’t home together (fighting over our only bathroom). I knew it could have been so much worse. I have a tendency to linger in hindsight about how bad things could have been under different circumstances. Maybe it’s my way of trivializing what happened. It still sucked.

After we got over the worst of it we both made our way home and spent what had been planned as a bonus family weekend day still recovering. Jason napped with the baby while i handled a work call and cleaned the kitchen. “You don’t seem sick still”, he commented. I glared at him through my chills.

I don’t remember my mom being sick when I was a kid (sadly she caught the evil just after I left). I think it’s because as moms we put our baby’s first. My mom did it again when she took my place that night- we probably should have changed the sheets.  I did it as I wrapped up in a blanket as I played peek-a-boo and tried to keep my non-sick child entertained.  Being sick as a mom doesn’t change the fact that the infant still needs constant care. His smiles overruled my feverish body.

Dear Sebastian,

As i write this you are napping (finally) in your stroller parked in our kitchen, after we took a nice long walk in the frosty chicago weather. generally speaking, you are not a good napper, but this ones creeping up over the 1 hour point so things are looking up. this morning was a different story when you fought me hard as i tried to get your over tired self to sleep in your crib after an ill-fated attempt to lull you to sleep on the way to the grocery store. we got the groceries fine. we did not get a nap.

i think you have trouble sleeping during the day because you see so much you want to explore. you’re full on crawling now, although sometimes you drop down to an army scoot since it gets you around a little bit faster. we took you to your grandparents last weekend and with the extra space to wander around you pretty much tripled your speed in one afternoon. once you reach an object it is immediately subject to a full investigation by your mouth. soon though, its on to the next item to discover.

you don’t like laying on your back. ever. especially not during diaper changes which has been making them difficult. i’m tempted to just let you run around nekkid, but that would probably just make a mess. its a good thing your little baby butt is so cute. i’ll work on mastering the upside down diaper snap.

you’re growing big and strong and eating like a champ (85% for height). you’re not a huge fan of peas, but you looooove some sweat potatoes and avocado. bananas hurt your tummy if they aren’t super ripe (if they aren’t mostly brown you’re). you especially like them with rice cereal.

If someone could figure out how to bottle your smile i’m pretty sure it could cure the world of pain. its just not possible to feel anything but pure joy when your face lights up, which is often. your babbles are just about the sweetest sound i’ve ever heard, although you’ve discovered the ability to create a hacking noise that sounds like a lawnmower that won’t turn over. Usually it indicates when you are becoming unhappy, but sometimes you use it as a fake cry since sure you know i don’t like that sound. it’s one of the glimpses i’m getting into your personality, most of which indicate you will be very strong willed child. we likely have many trials of stubbornness ahead of us, but even through the roughest of patches, one smile makes it all worth it.

Love,

Mama

Hi Kate,

No, we didn’t lose power.  We had some minor damage to our apartment in Astoria but were mostly unaffected.

Truthfully, as I’ve had some time to think about it, I’d rather not participate in an article for the Post.  While I have nothing against you personally, of course, I have been deeply offended by many stories and headlines the Post has run, from the photo of Ki Suk Han moments before his death, to the “No Wonder Bill’s Afraid” headline about Secretary of State Clinton.  I’d rather not be involved with a publication whose values are not my own.

Thanks again for your interest.  I wish you the best of luck with your story.

Courtney

It’s worth mentioning that the columnist asked me, “Did you loose power?”  That misspelling alone kind of sealed the deal, but ethics also played a part.  Grammar, then ethics.

7:48 am

…things are going swimmingly. The baby is fed and dressed and playing happily while I finish eating and packing up for work. Jason asks if he can get a ride to work. “Sure!” I say happily. Bossman is out so its no big deal if I’m a little late. Time to get the boy in the car seat and hit the road. Oh wait! He is stinky. I guess those play grunts were more about working something out. Ok! Quick diaper change and then we’ll be on our way.

7:53

…so this is was poop looks like when your baby starts gobbling up solid food…

8:00

F***** we have to go NOW! I snap when confronted with the arbitrary “we must leave now!” deadline my brain has apparently assigned to this specific time. I inexplicably tense up and feel anger bubbles boil just below my skin. At what? I guess because we’re going to be out the door 3 minutes after I wanted to be. Because I didn’t want to send the baby to the nanny with a dirty diaper. Because I’m going to be late. Because I didn’t get it all done ON TIME.

I continue to snap at and be short with Jason down the stairs, and getting in the car. He tries to tell me I need to calm down. There is no Sara, only Zule. We arrive at the nanny share a full block and a half from our apartment and I bolt out of the car, and pull on the door to the back seat. Goddamn auto-locks. I unreasonably pound on the door for Jason to unlock it so I can get the baby out.

He understandably doesn’t want a ride from the creature I have become anymore. He storms off toward a bus. I freak out. He was not helping ANYTHING.

I head up the stairs to drop off the baby. The tension lifts as I head into the apartment. I emerge from the fog of ridiculous rage. What the heck just happened? I take a deep breath, and unpack his things. Make some remark about it being “kind of a stressful” morning, but I’m no longer the Thing that I was only moments ago. I kiss the baby goodbye. Rub his head and wish him a good day.

8:12

Back in the car and tears quietly stream down my face as I merge onto the Kennedy. I wish I could tell my husband to have a good day. I wish he hadn’t thrown sweet tarts at me.

8:28

I arrive at work. 2 minutes early. Stupidly sad.

Six weeks later I went back to work and things got harder. The euphoria faded. Being a mom was somehow still the easy part. But I had to go back to being an employee.  I certainly am not the worker I had been pre-baby. Back then I put almost all of myself into my job. That’s just not possible now that I have to give so much of myself to being a mom. I’m sure some women have figured out how to do it,  but I’m still struggling with that major shift in my identity.

At around 4 months my milk supply dropped.  I blame an overnight work trip that depleted my frozen stash and introduced my son to a world of formula and more than just one bottle a day. The guilt of choosing work over him stabs like a thousand knives. Trying to nurse my baby and having him turn away over and over, and fuss and cry, only to slurp up a bottle hurts my heart. I’ve tried skin-to-skin time, oatmeal, and I’ve probably drank gallons of Mothers Milk tea.  We’ve spent whole days just focused on nursing, but I cant seem to maintain a strong enough supply. Some days when I’m home we need no formula. He doesn’t seem hungry but I still worry he is not getting enough food.  When he’s with the nanny  I’m only able to pump about 50% of his intake. So I guess I only feel like half a failure.

It’s gotten to the point that even the sound of the velcro on the pump case makes me cringe. I can barely tolerate the maddening whoosh whoosh whoosh, and let’s not even talk about the whole dairy cow analogy. Just when I’ve managed to sterilize all the parts it’s time to use them and then clean up again, and it’s just so disheartening. It makes me grumpy, and then I snap at Jason or even the baby even though I know it’s not their fault, and I feel bad about feeling bad. I know its not my fault, but I’m helpless to do more. I just don’t think I’m ready to stop trying.

I think back to those days when it was “easy” and I get so so sad. I remember that euphoric feeling and I’m sure it had everything to do with post-partum hormones. I’m probably lucky to have gotten the happy end of that stick. A lot of what I’m feeling now probably is also related to hormones and adjusting to nursing less and overall still getting back to pre-pregnancy levels.  The roller-coaster women’s bodies takes a long time to come to an end even after the baby is born. None of it is easy.

Dear Sebastian,

You’re five months now and I am in awe of how quickly time passes. Every week seems to bring on new changes.

You’ve lost some of that “baby” look on your face and sometimes I’m startled by how much you look like a little boy. You’re quite the smiley guy and I’ve gotten pretty good at getting giggles out of you by doing something you think is funny. It might be jumping up and down or making funny noises with my lips or bouncing you on the couch cushions. When I get it right I am rewarded with the sweetest “Heeeee”, and sometimes a full on chuckle. This pretty much means I am making a fool of myself all day long trying to get the next laugh out of you.

You might be trying to mimick the weird noises I make trying to get you to laugh but some strange sounds have started to come out of you. Your coos are more like squawks and your babbles are pretty much just you spitting all over everything. One time you did a spot on impression of a crow. It’s pretty entertaining to see you start trying to express yourself. Sometimes you will just lay on your floor gym and cackle and squee as though you are having a conversation with yourself. With your new noises comes new volume, both for the sweet sounds and the bad. Your cry is no longer that of a newborn but sometimes a full on scream. I’m getting a taste of what tantrums are going to be like and they sure aren’t going to be fun.

You’re getting better at rolling over in particular from your back to your tummy. Sometimes you get a bit stuck on your arm, but when you make it all the way around you don’t hold still for long. You can scoot yourself 360 degrees but haven’t yet figured out how to propel yourself forward. I don’t think that is far away. We’re less cautious when we play with you now since you seem to enjoy a bit of rough-housing. We are guaranteed a smile when we flip you upside down by your legs. You love when your dad plays ”Rocket Ship” and blasts you off to fly around the room.

This month you started 3 days a week with the nanny, and we’re finding our rhythm with the change. We split weeks hosting with the other family, so when I need to drop you off I’m still figuring out how to get out the door without forgetting something. It’s still hard for me not to tear up when I leave you but I know you are in good hands. Whenever I pick you up you are playing quietly and reward me with a wonderful full faced grin.

I won’t pretend that every day is easy and perfect. The peaks are higher but the valleys are lower. There are days when you struggle to nap no matter what I try, and we both end the day tired and frustrated. Sometimes we’re cooped up by the January cold, or struggle to leave the house because you can’t seem to last more than a few minutes without spitting up or having a diaper malfunction. But no matter what, when I put you down at night I brush my hand along your check and whisper how much I love you.

Love,

Mama