Don’t feel sorry for me; I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
A few months back I was wrapping up a meeting with a potential client, when the topic of children came up. I mentioned the blog and its title (“clever,” she said) and how it became even more apt when I learned of Aisha’s Down Syndrome diagnosis.
Her brow furrowed in concern and she reached out to touch my arm.
“Oh, your daughter has Down’s? I’m so sorry…” Read more
Was in the shower t’other day, thinking about how completely uneventful 2015 was for me, and how I’d like to do things differently for the New Year. And then I found myself feeling guilty for not celebrating the year my girl had, because, Down Syndrome be damned, the kid knocked it out of the fricking park in twenty-fifteen.
A recap of sorts. Aisha (in no particular order):
Turned one. Started feeding herself. Drank from a straw. Held her bottle on her own. Learned to push herself from prone into a seated position. Started daycare. Learned to say “hi,” “bye,” and “Aisha.” Can act out the entire words to “The Wheels on the Bus.” Read more
sometimes a girl could tear her hair out.
My life has been fraught with anxiety for the better part of a year, now. It’s not the bills, squabbles with the boyfriend or any of your other run-of-the-mill daily annoyances…no, it’s something much bigger than that:
Parent-friends (and sometimes, strangers), often say to parents to be – or even the childless: wait’ll you have kids; then you’ll see how much you worry. for as many times as I’ve heard and rolled my eyes at this nugget o’ wisdom, i’m now loathe to admit that it’s true.
The last shot of 2015; me with long hair. (*and with apologies to The Zombies…)
I’ve been contemplating doing a hair post for some time, as I’ve been getting a lot of questions and compliments over the past year about my waist-long locks – mainly about maintenance (do them myself), and how long I’ve had them (just over six years), or what I put in them (nothing). As my hair grew longer, the response was almost exclusively enthusiastic, while my own feelings about it were increasingly less-than.
And so, on Tuesday night, while I sat in front of my laptop, dreading (ha) the idea of washing 19 inches of locks (and spending the next 19 hours indoors as they dried), I decided that I’d simply had enough; I grabbed a pair of scissors and headed to the bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror, examining my hair and scalp beneath each lock, and asked myself if I really wanted to Read more
What is she? Cute as a button, that’s what!
When we’re oot ‘n’ aboot, my daughter’s appearance garners many inquisitive stares. Because of her fair complexion and silken hair, passersby sometimes try to discern without asking outright if there’s a familial connection. Aisha has inherited my prominent forehead and mischievous expressions, so more often than not, they realize that she’s mine. And since it’s pretty obvious that she is of mixed race, people often really want to know which one(s).
It’s because of her eyes.
The way I were – fuzzy, but fit.
So, uh…I hate my post-partum body.
Two months and five days after having had Peanut, I am mostly back to my original size, but the body I once had (and loved) is a lumpy, misshapen shadow of its former self.
Where do I begin? I haven’t any stretch marks, but my stomach looks like a deflated black balloon, sagging and dark after having been stretched and distended for the better part of nine months. My thighs, once strangers, now chafe and rub like two sticks making a fire. And at least once or twice a week, someone comments on how much wider my hips have become. While I have never been busty, I loved my pre-baby A-cups (and my A+ cups during), but in such a short span of time, regular pumping/hand-expressing have already taken their toll. Once firm and perky, my feeders are now kind of squishy and a little bit sad-looking.
Nothing fits. I still can’t squeeze into my clothes pre-Aisha, but all of my pregnant-sized attire is either too big or too loose. My c-section scar alternately throbs and stings, so anything that fits at my waist or lower is out.
But it’s not just the *visible* after-effects of pregnancy that have me down. Read more
Apple of my eye.
Peanut is now about 10, 10 and a half pounds, and isn’t quite as easy to cradle her in my arms as it once was. When she was a six- or seven-pounder, I would hold her close and wrap her tightly in this marled grey sweater that I wear around the house.
The other day I was trying to get her to sleep; she’s quite squirmy now and wriggles a lot before nodding off. Just as her eyelids began to droop, I pulled the sweater around her and started rocking her slowly. I thought I detected a small smile (becoming more frequent these days), and it gave me a chuckle. Read more