Post-Christmas

The Alexanders thoroughly enjoyed their first holiday season as a family. The few days leading up to it were emotionally tumultuous for me. We bought Lilah her little swing set (eBay for 50.00!), a baby doll, a handmade teddy bear, a small bead maze, and a toy hammer and owl for her stocking. When some people at work would ask me what we got her, I excitedly told them, having spent many hours hunting and bargain shopping for age-and-developmentally appropriate toys. We bought her things we could afford that she wouldn't just grow out of in a month. More than one gave me a raised eyebrow and started reciting the literally thousands of dollars they had spent on their children. One co-worker of mine actually bought her 10 month old a tiny four wheeler. She can't even walk! Another "just" gave her 10 year old son 500.00 to spend, since he put off making a list until the last minute. Yet another "had to spend almost a thousand dollars on Alexis (her 11 month old granddaughter) so we would be the favorite grandparents. Gotta out-do Katie's parents, ya know!" I came home in tears more than once, feeling completely inadequate as a mother and sure Lilah was going to look at me in disappointment on Christmas morning, Santa having betrayed her. After many pep-talks about the real meaning and spirit of Christmas and being a good parent from Dano, Kim, and Ann, I was just barely feeling like a decent parent.

Needless to say, Christmas morning came and went without said disappointment. Lilah was presented with her stocking treats, and we had to take a break for almost an hour. She was that enamored with them, especially her toy hammer. Larry has nickname her "Thor", since she can rarely be spotted without hammer in hand. Lilah chased the cat around with the hammer for awhile, then we sat down to the rest of her presents. She finished opening the bead maze, and it was over. Dano opened her other two presents for her, because she was so overwhelmed with a maze, a hammer, and an owl. Even now she hasn't fully experienced all her toys. Her attention span just isn't long enough. I felt sorry for those other poor babies who got thousands of dollars worth of presents on Christmas morning. They must have ended up overstimulated and overwhelmed.


Today was her 9 month appointment, and her last appointment with Dr. Hatfield, who is leaving the practice to stay home with her kids and spend more time with her family. She told us via letter about a month ago, and I promptly burst into tears upon reading it. She is such an amazing physician and patient advocate. If she told me, "I think Lilah would benefit from eating nothing but candy for 24 hours," I would trust her. Obviously that's an extreme, but never have I met a doctor who is so in tune with her patients' physical, emotional, and spiritual needs. She spent over an hour at one of Lilah's appointments talking with me about my parents and how my issues with them could be affecting my ability to feel like a good mother and enjoy Lilah. She was present for 4 straight hours of Lilah's delivery, and was on the L&D floor for 100% of it. Any OB/GYN I've ever seen has run into the L&D room to "catch" the baby at the tail end of the proceedings. Many times, the RN ends up delivering most of the infant. "Stuck in traffic!" one doc called out jovially during my clinicals, still chewing food in his mouth. Dr. Hatfield drove to MGH as soon as my RN told her my water had indeed broken and stayed there all night until Lilah was born. She coached me through labor like a mother would, and has applauded my choice of a husband/father every time I've seen her. "It's very rare to see a father who is so interactive and genuinely excited about his relationship with his new baby from the very first second. You're so lucky to have him."


The day after Lilah was born, she came up to the hospital and spent 30 minutes in our room just holding Lilah and talking to her. She even discharged us earlier than is recommended (22 hours after giving birth!) because I told her I couldn't eat the hospital food and the dayshift staff wouldn't allow me to co-sleep with Lilah or nurse her for comfort. She's been supportive when she's needed to be, and stern and inflexible when necessary. She wasn't afraid to say, "I really don't know" about Lilah's corneal adhesion and send us to a specialist, and she listened when I insisted there was something irregular in her pupil. Last night, I dreamt we went to her appointment today and she had already left the practice and we couldn't find any flowers to give her as a thank you, and her replacement doctor was mean and didn't even read that Lilah was a girl in her chart! Apparently, I was more anxious about losing her than I had realized.


We drove through a blizzard to the appointment, stopping only to buy a live white lily for her. Lilah was still mid-16lbs and is now 28 in. That's 50th percentile for height and 30th for weight. If you're plotting her on a breastfeeding chart she's in the 60th for weight, so I'm not concerned. Lilah got two immunizations, but didn't even flinch! She just scowled blackly at the nurse who did it and complained at her. She never ceases to amaze me. As soon as Dr. Hatfield opened the door to the exam room, Lilah acted very strangely. She took one look at her, gave this loud and excited squawk, and held out her arms for her insistently. Normally Lilah is friendly with people, but not like this. Dr. Hatfield took her from me, and Lilah nestled into her arms and spent the remainder of the appointment perched contentedly on her lap, periodically laying her head on her chest. I was really amazed at her odd behavior, but it was darling. It was almost as if she could sense she would never again see the woman who brought her into the world. The rest of the appointment went as they usually do. She said not to worry a bit about Lilah's plentiful bruises or what I call her growing habit of getting "ballsy" and overestimating her abilities. She also told me it was absolutely fine that she consumes such large amounts of food and water as often as she does, and that she was nursing an adequate amount for her health and weight. She asked if my parents had met Lilah yet, and I told them they still aren't interested, but my brother Nick and I were talking now and he had seen her. She shrugged it off and said it was their loss, and that Lilah has all the grandparents she needs in Dano's parents, having met and been pleased with them at the hospital. She thanked us for the beautiful lily and said her kids would really enjoy seeing it. She told us to take care and left, quietly closing the exam room door behind her, although the sound seemed to echo inside my head.


I wanted to run after her like a child. I wanted to hug her and thank her and tell her I really don't think I could have gotten through so many things without her. I wanted to cry and let her know what a beautiful person she is, and a blessing to all her patients, clearly called to life as a healer. I wanted her to feel responsible for my empowering and magical pregnancy, labor, and delivery of my only child, and let her know how that experience has made me so much more confident as a person and parent to fiercely take on the rest of the world. How that experience has completely transformed me from a scared little girl - one who still relapsed now and then into needing her mother -  into a woman - complete and whole - and a mother to a little girl who will never know what it's like to go without one.

I wanted to tell her all that, but I sat frozen and still under the florescent lights. Instead, I gave her a single white lily in hopes that it would say enough.

Has anyone seen my baby?

I haven't seen her lately. I have, however, seen a small creature (usually dressed in footy pajamas) cruising about my house like she owns the place. She is mostly crazy. Lilah Rose has become this strange babbling thing who mocks me for fun. When I had a cold, she would grin at me and fake cough every time I had a fit of coughing. Dano found this wildly hilarious. If she attacks me to chew on my face and I yell for help, she sits back and give a mock shout to rival mine. After months and months of her parents trying to entice her to accept a pacifier with no luck in her early weeks, we gave up and settled for one of our fingers in her mouth to soothe her if she wasn't nursing. In the past few weeks, she discovered a pacifier laying about somewhere and has decided she loves it. To chew on, to throw around, and to suck on (normally upside down). Not at all a pun on my maiden name, but my baby is feral.

Not to say this time in her life isn't enjoyable. Fun would be an understatement. Dano and I often find ourselves breathless with laughter at her shenanigans and antics. I could watch her explore for hours. It's so amazing how the little wheels turn in her head, and how obviously those synapses firing are displayed on her quizzical face. Last night, I came home from work and Dano got her out of her crib so I could nurse her (as much for the benefit of my over-full breasts as for Lilah). After she finished, she spent a good 30 minutes "talking" to us and making strange noises and faces. She's fully convinced she's conversing with us and she's turned into such a mimic. She tries so hard to recreate any word we say to her. If we say "mama", she starts prattling away - "Mama. Ma. Mamama. Maaaaaama." The same goes for any other word blend we say. If she can't make the sound, she either starts into a new topic of conversation or just looks at us and shouts, "Aaaaah!" in a high-pitched, squealy tone.

I have forced her to sit through several hours of holiday favorites. She enjoyed Charlie Brown's Christmas, was indifferent to How the Grinch Stole Christmas other than the Whos breaking into unintelligible song, and barely paused her playtime during Eloise at Christmastime. Her playtime consists of much crawling about into corners previously unexplored by her immobile state. I bought her a lovely little toy called a Busy Ball Popper. While playing a happy tune, a fan uses bursts of air to pop colorful balls into the air, allowing them to momentarily hover before shooting them onto the carpet, theoretically causing the child to give chase to retrieve them. On the box, it proclaimed in large red letters, "Encourages crawling!" I fell prey to clever advertisement, paid my 17 dollars, and set it up on the living room rug. Lilah loved it and had the on-button figured out in less than a day. The only downside to the toy I could see was having a short daughter. She had to sit on her knees to reach the button. "She'll grow," I thought to myself. 24 hours later, Lilah had gone one step further. She had discovered that if she simply placed her hand over the chute where the balls popped out, she could prevent them from being dispersed throughout the room, therefore cutting down on the amount of time needed to go fetch them, put them back in the chute, and do it all over again. I was floored. How did my 9 month old outsmart the Busy Ball Popper in less than 72 hours?

Oh, and not only did she outsmart it, but as I was contemplating writing PlaySkool a letter requesting they take the cleverness level of their toys up a notch, I witness a new revelation dawn on Lilah's face. Rather than sit on her knees to activate the Popper, she could simply turn it on its side and push the button. This turned the toy from a Ball Popper into a Ball Cannon than launched balls at top speeds across the carpet at the cat, whoever happened to be in the way, or simply the wall, causing them to bounce back to her. With a squeal of delight at her discovery, I watch the makings of an Evil Genius. Look out, world.

The Library

Yesterday was the second time I have taken Lilah to the Children's Area of the Peter White Public Library in downtown Marquette. They have an enormous book selection, but we can't take any home without paying a membership fee since we live outside city limits. They also have an arts-and-crafts area (Lilah is a little too small to participate or care). The main appeal for me is the giant, softly-carpeted play area. There are puppets and a puppet-theater, a kitchen with pretend dishes, pots, and pans, a large train play-table, wooden blocks, puzzles, and Lilah's personal favorite - several colorful bead mazes. I like to sit her on the carpet and give her a maze to play with. She alternates between zooming the beads around their metal tracks, attempting to eat the beads and getting told no, and watching the other running, screaming, laughing children play. She never moves or crawls for more toys. She's so engrossed in watching the scene around her, since her usual playmates are her daddy and I and the occasional cousin every couple of months.

To be honest, I'm engrossed in watching as well. The first time we were there, a mother sat down near us with her little girl who was about 12 months old. It only took me about 60 seconds to figure out the mother was actually a man dressed in women's clothes. I'm not sure what's PC and what's not, but I'll say "she", because she really was the girl's mother, even if not biologically. She had an obviously and awkwardly padded bra that kept going crooked and needing adjusted, flowery embroidered jeans, bracelets, earrings, necklaces, women's blouse, and heavily made-up face. She had the build of a man - narrow hips, broad shoulders, angular face with a wide jawline - but what really gave the game up was the stubble from at least a day of not shaving. Dano was pretty taken aback, and I just talked back politely when she struck up a conversation. I actually felt kind of sorry for her. She was obviously trying so desperately to be a woman, and referred to the little girl's father in conversation. The little girl loved her and called her Mommy. Who was I to judge what made them a family? To each his - or her - own.

The second time, it was just me and Lilah. I'll be honest, I've put a little effort into my appearance lately. I really hope this doesn't offend anyone who read this, but I found myself slipping into the "mom" role very easily. Hair thrown back into a pony-tail, lounge-clothes I don't mind getting a little spit up or drool on, and if I'm going out somewhere, a little bit of concealer or eyeliner so I don't look dead. I know full-well that regardless of where we go, all eyes will be on the cute baby who charms all she meets. When people actually address me, they never break eye-contact with Lilah who (though she comes from two unassuming parents) has somehow learned that if she smiles winningly, tips her head "shyly" to one side, and bats her long lashes, people eat it up and fawn all over her. She coos and squeals to reward them, and they think she is "just a doll". All the while, I'm trying not to groan watching how she plays them and thinking, "This doesn't bode well for us." So upon realizing that I'm not that happy with looking like a "soccer mom" as Dano puts it (no offense to any soccer moms), I got my hair cut and styled, got put on some actual makeup, dressed in jeans and a sweater (I'm not a fashionista, by any means), pretty new earrings, and cute brown wedge heels (a poor choice on the slushy sidewalks). Feeling rarely self-confident, I sat down on the carpet next to Lilah and took in the scene around me.

There was a tired-looking woman pacing the bookcases on her cell phone, brushing her son away whenever he bothered her. There was a younger mother with an NMU laptop who answered her son's questions without her eyes ever leaving the screen. There was a grinning, unblinking brunette wearing an over-sized sweatshirt and (yes, really) Carhartt overalls. She was eerily cheerful and took it upon herself to make friends with every other mother. Most perched on the couches like eagles in their eyries, one eye on Oprah's latest book-club novel and one eye on their offspring, clearly poised to fly in at a moment's notice and intervene if necessary. Grinning Mom fluttered from Book Mom to Book Mom exchanging childhood developmental factoids ("So I suggested to him, 'Nathan, that little boy likes trains too. Maybe you should play with him,' and it was like a lightbulb going off! I'm pretty sure I read this is about the age they learn to share. Isn't that just fascinating?") or crock pot recipes ("And the chicken is really moist and tender. It's amazing for little teeth that can't eat big chunks, and even my pickiest one loves it.") or making connections ("Our girls look so adorable playing together! Write down your number and we'll have to get together for a snow day!"). Lilah and I sat in the middle of the carpet, both with one hand on the bead maze, both with two eyes on the room around us, and at least one of us feeling like a complete island. No one said hello, most of them made eye contact, and every one of the ones who did notice me made me feel (possibly completely irrationally) like they were sizing me up. I didn't fit in with the College Moms who were there to keep their kids busy and safe so they could get homework done. I certainly didn't fit in with the Book Moms, not because I didn't enjoy cooking or making new friends, or childhood development, but because it just felt so fake. I'm young and still working on my degree as a mother, but I'm not a single parent just trying to get through school. I'm a mother who loves to do crafts, bake, and keep a clean house, but I'm also a career-minded individual who loves her job. I absolutely love to read, but Oprah's stamp of approval reads "Never touch this book" to me (perhaps out of sheer stubborn will). Honestly, I've had most in common with Cross-Dressing Mom. I feel like I'm in between roles and not sure which one I'm most comfortable assuming. I don't know where I fit in, but somehow, despite all the wonderful toys and kids at Peter White Library, I don't think I'm a Playgroup Mom.

And the Holidays are here!

Having just completed our first-ever Thanksgiving with Lilah, I need to pause a moment and catch up on all that has happened since then.

The drive to Detroit was memorable. The time passed quickly, and Lilah was an angel. In between naps, she cooed contentedly and had a running commentary going on everything she saw out the window. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving. All the ladies helped cook (me, Kim, Ann, and Kate), the men manned (no pun intended) the small ones, Max did the dishes, and Adam cooked the turkey. It was a splendid effort all around. I learned two things this Thanksgiving. Lesson #1 - don't drink two glasses of wine before cooking a pumpkin cheesecake and Lesson #2 - don't cook said cheesecake with the help of 2 and 5 year old nephews. The explanation...
After my two glasses of wine, Zedd, Ephraim, and I undertook the cheesecake task. My head was merrily buzzing, but I was cooking, not driving, right? What could possibly go wrong? I read and re-read the directions I had scrawled down on an already-stained sheet of notebook paper. I had gathered my ingredients and measured as carefully as my fuzzy concentration would allow, all the while trying to keep small fingers out of the batter and supplies. I noticed a funny smell and realized with horror that in my hand being sprinkled generously into the batter was cayene pepper and not cinnamon at all. I stopped and scooped out what I could find. Zedd asked what I was doing and I told him I had accidentally grabbed the wrong spice. "Great. So it's going to be ruined now?" he asked, his 5 year old blue eyes filled to the brim with judgement. "No, it shouldn't be." I don't think he believed me. We added the three (yes three) packages of cream cheese, one for each of us. Zedd and I unwrapped them without any issues and were trying to free them of their foil wrappers when I glanced over to check Ephraim's progress. He had taken a largish bite out of the brick of cream cheese and was munching happily on it. "EJ! We don't eat bites out of the cream cheese!" He flashed me a creamy grin. "I like it, Auntie Allison!" After it was all said and done, it turned out fine (although it was almost ruined when the bottom fell out of the pan, but I saved it with my amazing reflex skills). It was a little spicy, but I blamed it on the ginger and wasn't even teased very much.

Lilah learned to really-and-truly crawl while we were there. We had a nice visit with the Sherfield and Severn families in Coldwater, and Dano took Lilah to the Build-A-Bear Workshop where he assisted her in the creation of her very first teddy. I finished her Christmas shopping. The ride back was a little more trying (mostly because Lilah decided that sleeping in the car was for squares, and also that she had no intention of being in her carseat for more than 2 hours at a time without wailing), but we made it back to the UP nonetheless more or less intact.

We now eagerly await Christmas. I work afternoon shift Christmas Day, but we'll have a nice Christmas morning and I get double time and a half holiday pay, so I'll live. It's not like Lilah has any idea what's actually going on. As far as she's concerned, she's seen a lot of brightly colored packages of toys being ferried into the house and out of her reach, and she is not pleased.

12 years in the making

Things have been going comparatively well. Lilah is growing more mobile and more crafty by the minute. I was a bit concerned for a very short while that she wasn't adequately meeting her milestones. She could sit up easily enough, but the moment she saw something mildly entertaining and seemingly within arm's reach, over she toppled so she could better scoot after it (these amusing things included anything from one of her toys to a piece of fuzz on the carpet). I never could tell if her muscles were developed enough to support her, or if her spine was straight enough for her to sit up for long periods of time. Strangely enough, when her attention span lengthened, so did the amount of time she spent sitting up on her own.

Crawling was something else I was wondering about. Don't get me wrong - my kid could move. She could scuttle around the carpet until she made it to hardwood, and then she was off. She'd simulate a breaststroke as fast as her little arms and legs could flail. She could also get on her hands and knees and rock back and forth, grinning up at us, and propel herself backward at top speeds. I recently discovered my little daughter had been holding out on me.

It was one of those days Lilah wanted every member of her family within reaching-distance of her chubby arms while she played. We didn't have to be interacting with her just as long as she could touch and see us at all times. This meant no leaving for extended periods of time, no unnecessary bathroom breaks, and a lot of non-floor activities being conducted on the floor (such as decorating a cheesecake). I had to get the cappuccino cheesecake decorated before Max's confirmation party, but Lilah wasn't having any of it. I ended up transporting my cheesecake on a plate, bowl of Kahlua-infused whipped cream, and chocolate decorative autumn leaves to a place on the rug about three feet from Lilah. She wasn't that fast on carpet, and I would have plenty of time to stop her before she got too close. I set to work on my masterpiece, but it wasn't too many minutes before Lilah started fussing over one thing or another. Exasperated, I went to her and gave her a tiny taste of whipped cream. Her pretty blueberry eyes lit up like purple stars and she was placated. I went back to work and was shocked when a tiny fist dove into my bowl of whipped cream literally seconds later. She had clearly teleported from her toys three feet away to my workspace after realizing I had sweet stuff she normally wasn't allowed to taste.

Upon cleaning out the closet today, I fondly opened up several boxes of my American Girl Doll collection. I remember the Christmas I got my first doll. I had asked my mom if I could have the one named Felicity the first time I saw her smiling back at me from the glossy pages of the catalogue. I had been told very apologetically that one doll was almost a hundred dollars, and her entire collection of beautiful things almost a thousand, and the money for something that extravagant just wasn't there that year. I was 10, I think, and cried pitifully, promising I'd go without birthday presents, or presents for Christmas next year, if I could just have this doll. The answer didn't change. By Christmas, I still hadn't forgotten that in the modest pile of brightly wrapped packages, there should have been a pretty green-eyed doll. I hadn't opened very many when I noticed that beneath the paper of one rectangular box, there was a white cardboard box with burgundy trim - clearly the American Girl colors. Nestled inside was my treasured doll. It was one of the happiest Christmases I can remember and I flashed back to it vividly when I was cleaning. I collected for years and ended up with thousands of dollars worth of dolls, beautiful dresses, furniture, and accessories. In the back of my mind after I outgrew tending to my doll family, I always made sure to take meticulous care of my treasures. Somehow, I knew I would someday have a lovely daughter and I would be able to pass down my collection.

I pulled Felicity out of her watermarked and wrinkled box, smoothed the wrinkles from her dress, and took her downstairs. I knew full-well that Lilah was far too young to appreciate or probably care at all. She doesn't have any dolls currently. I had put my foot down with all our well-meaning friends and family. "No dolls. I want to get her her very first doll, and I don't want it to talk, pee, cry, walk, get sick, eat, or do anything at all." My wishes were respected, and this Christmas, I will buy Lilah a doll of her very own and I wanted to see how she would react. Doll under one arm and Lilah under the other, I plopped her down on the couch and placed the doll in her lap. She let out this amazing squeal and her eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she held out her arms to the doll's face. I told her "gentle", and she softly ran her fingers through the vinyl hair and touched the green glass eyes that opened and closed. She was completely in awe and full of happy coos and I did my best not to cry. That moment had been 12 years in the making, and it was absolute magic.

Somebody call someone

I probably don't deserve to be going anywhere tonight. I should be grounded. However, at my husband's insistence (for fear of my becoming homicidal), I am going to L'attitude with Kevin Rush tonight for a martini and perhaps edamame. I like Kevin and greatly enjoy conversing with him. I'm turning off that part of my brain that's constantly whispering, "Dano talked him into it. He wouldn't be going on his own. He likes Dano and just tolerates me. He's doing it out of pity to help out a buddy." All of those might be factual statements, but I'm going anyway. The following is the series of mishaps that led me to be undeserving of it.

The heating and plumbing guys came today to fix the sink and hot water heater. Unlike the electricians, they were friendly, respectful and efficient. Example: Electric men take hours out of two separate days to stomp through the house while the baby is asleep and wake her up, stare rudely at me when I say good morning, and yell at each other from different floors of the house while slamming the occasional door. Heating/plumbing men make polite small talk, compliment my child (although calling her a "nice little fella" didn't win any major points, especially after I made a point of calling her by her name), fixed all three problems in an hour, and didn't turn up their noses at the piles and piles of dirty dishes that resulted from no running water for nearly a week.

When they left, I decided to take a shower with Lilah. We went to the doctor's yesterday for some rashes and blisters, and Lilah was diagnosed with very mild eczema. I was relieved. We're treating it with bathing only twice a week (bathing her, that is. We're continuing to bath regularly), olive oil in her bath, only organic lotions and soaps, and Bactraban ointment on any blister or open area to prevent infection. Our bathroom is located off our bedroom, so as usual, I places Lilah on our bed, surrounded her on all sides with large pillows, gave her a toy, and went to fill her baby tub and start the shower at an appropriate temperature. I sat on the toilet seat while it's filling so I could keep an eye on her, as usual. When her tub was half full, I leaned forward and added a cap full of EVOO and as I did so, I heard a very ominous thud. I believe expletives were the only coherent things running through my brain and I'm fairly sure I teleported the three feet out the bathroom to the floor where my child was lying face down on the floor, screaming. I picked her up to assess the damage, which included another bruise to her forehead (she conveniently pitched herself headfirst into Dano's computer while on the selfsame offending bed not a week ago; I yelled at my husband for not being more careful with the baby, as he had let her play on the bed with him in the presence of a deadly laptop), and a rugburn-esque abrasion to her right eye which was bleeding on both bony prominences above and below her eye, leaving her actual eye-socket remarkably unscathed. Being a nurse and an idiot, I promptly started doing "neuros" on her. At work, whenever any of the residents' falls happen to include a bump on the head, we do neuros every 15 minutes for an hour, every hour for 4 hours, every 4 hours for a shift, and then once a shift for 2 days. We check equal pupil reactivity and size, proper pain response, blurred vision, slurred speech, equal movement and reflexes to extremities, any numbness or tingling, and change in mentation. I, in my infinite wisdom (i.e. panic), attempted assess these things on a scared, screaming, bleeding 7 1/2 month old before giving up (since she was, for some reason, unable to tell me if her vision was blurred or had any numbness and her eyes were closed). She calmed relatively quickly and I stopped acting like an idiot and did an age-appropriate assessment on her. Her battle wounds were uglier than they were serious with a swollen, red scrape near her eye and matching bruises on her forehead - one green and old and one purple and new. Her screams subsided to hiccupy gasps, and I decided to proceed with the shower.

We stepped in, and I plopped her in her tub. The wisest would have foreseen the folly of placing a child in a tub full of water and...wait for it...oil. Under the water she slid, and my arms shot in after her to haul her up, sputtering and (again) screaming. Sure the neighbors were on the verge of calling CPS, I soothed her as best I could, assuring her I wouldn't let her drown, crawl off the bed, concuss herself, or bleed again. Today. It took a little longer the second time around before I could put her down again. I dumped all but a 1/2 inch of water out of her tub and sat her in it again before starting to wash my hair.

It was at this point I noticed the shower floor was filling with water and, after a closer inspection, realized there was a Bandaid stuck in the drain. I leaned down to pull it out and while I was leaning down, heard a gasping/sputtering/trying-really-hard-to-cry-but-can't sound and glanced over at the baby. Lilah's moronic mother hadn't given a thought to what would happen to the spray of water from the shower head if she weren't standing in it anymore and leaned down to unclog the drain. If she had, she would have realized it would pretty much catch Lilah full in the face, who was in her poor little tub and unable to escape. At this point, I was terrified of killing her if she spent another hour in my care, so I hauled her out of the tub, turned off the water, and called it a day. I dried and dressed her, not even bothering to comb her hair before she fell asleep, exhausted from her ordeal(s). I called Dano to tell him to come home and rescue his daughter as soon as he could, or he might not have a daughter to come home to.

I went downstairs to collect myself and had a French candy shaped like a log made out of dark chocolate and filled with milk chocolate fluffing. And it was good.

Three short, three long, three short.

That's all I know of Morse code, but I feel like I'm mentally sending out a constant S-O-S.

So Lilah learned how to say "Mama" with meaning less than a week ago. Saturday, I believe, was the first time she said, "Mama" in distress, for only me. It was darling to hear her call for me in the middle of the night if she woke up scared (we were house-sitting and she didn't do well at all sleeping away from home for so long). It seems that for every exciting new stage of development, there is a flip-side I never considered.

We're trying to work on "Papa" with her. She'll make the "P" sound, then grin and say, "Mama".

As I type, she is on the couch next to me crying for me. Her blues eyes fill with fake tears and she moans, "Mamaaaa! Mamaaaa!" until I plop her in my lap. Then we're happily playing with toys again. We have hardwood floors, so she scoots after me as fast as she can, crying if I so much as take my eyes off her to make my breakfast. It seems like she was only independent and mobile for a few weeks before hitting this separation anxiety. I feel like house-sitting made it worse, because she was out of her element and insecure. I've been working even less than normal lately, so it can't be added separation. Teething makes her clingy, too, and that's an on again/off again affair. It seems like the gods of motherhood are working against me so I lose my mind.

If Dano wants any "husband time", at this point I honestly feel like slapping him or screaming. Or both. I want to dress in jeans that make my butt look good, NOT wear a nursing bra and easy-to-pull-aside shirt, gather a small assortment of girls (hell, I don't even care if I like them at this point), and go do something fun. Gone are the worried days of new-motherhood where I checked my watch continually and imagined my poor child suffering without me. I love my daughter dearly and realize this is a normal stage of development that we will work through as a family, but other than going to Bible study once and out for drinks once, I haven't had any time away from work, Dano, and Lilah in almost 8 months and I'm a woman on the edge.

The walls are closing in. In my mind, I see Marquette as an island floating in a sea of pines. Driving here at night scares me because there aren't the brilliant lights of the city to guide me. Nashville had its faults, but it was so easy to navigate. The interstate ran north/south, so no matter where I was, I could jump on I-65 and get home. I feel panicky here. I have water on all sides of me, and miles between gas stations and tiny towns. I fear becoming delusional but I feel like even Lake Superior is menacing with over 350 shipwrecks to her name. She's a bloodthirsty empress with complete and irrevocable sovereignty and I feel trapped.

I think of the friends I want to rescue me - Bekah, Deidre, Kalli, Kim, Danielle, Sarah, Richelle, Mia, Sara, Kristina. Bekah is the mother of Sofia Milan, born only days ago, and in Texas. Deidre is in Ohio. Kalli is adjusting to life with Mellisa Sophia, and I know full well how crazy that transition is from newborn to infant. Kim is in Ireland having amazing adventures. Danielle is in Coldwater and going through her own trials right now. Sarah is tending to 7 month old Gavin in middle-Michigan. Richelle is in Utah but keeping me from becoming a homicidal maniac with her enlightening online chats. Mia is wonderful, but also a full-time student (and I always feel like Dano's friends are friends with me out of pity). Sara is wonderfully 12 1/2 weeks pregnant with Emma's little brother or sister in Hillsdale. Kristina is working hundreds of hours in Nashville. I'm here in Ishpeming singing a song by City in Colour, a band I don't even like. "Someone come and, someone come and save my life. Maybe I'll sleep when I am dead but now it's like the night is taking up sides with all the worries that occupy the back of my mind...Madness fills my heart and soul as if the great divide will swallow me whole. I'm breaking down."