Ways You Can Actually Be Helpful to a New Mother

As a new mother, I’m always delighted by offers of help.  It’s generous and good of friends, neighbors and loved ones to pitch in.  But honestly?  Some help is more helpful than others.  A few ideas for being a real help after the jump.

 

Staying Calm … Sort Of

So my last few posts have been very, very insane.  I don’t actually feel like the raving lunatic those posts imply.  It’s just cathartic for me to throw it all out there, into the universe, whenever panic strikes.

And yet I am nervous.  Change always make us nervous, right?

 

Sad About the Mouse

I’ve recovered – more or less – from my slumpy, sad mood of the other day.  First, I did some searching for jobs on Monster, and here’s what I’ve concluded:

 

1. Yes, the job market is tough.  But it’s not nearly as bad in our metro area as it is in rustbelt manufacturing towns, like the one we left behind.  A friend of mine there is really feeling like she’s facing an uphill search.
2. Yes, the job market is tough.  But it’s not as bad in my field, in this town.  I quickly found two jobs that seem like they could be perfect fits.  Would I get an interview, much less an offer?  Who knows.  But I can find jobs to apply for, and that’s half the battle.
3. While leaving a newborn is rough, odds are pretty good that my daughter will be three months – probably older – by the time I’m back to work full-time.  That’s a lot of transition time.  I couldn’t leave her in two more weeks.  It would crush me flat.  But I don’t have to leave her that quickly.

 

But here’s the one thing that still bugs me: our annual pilgrimage to Disney World will almost certainly become an every-other-year, every-third-year or even less often outing.

I’m missing the Mouse.

 

Shiver

My darling daughter is here, in my arms.  At my breast, actually.

I’m so happy and yet I’m shivering with anxiety, too.

Dear reader, I need to find a job.

 

Babar, Nemo and Other Heavily Edited Tales

When Kyd was smaller, we were in a 700 square foot apartment without cable for a few months.  Kyd and I regularly escaped to the suburban quiet of my mother’s house, or at least to the urban playgrounds and libraries closer to our temporary lodgings.

When the rain poured down in sheets, I turned to our trusty friend – the DVD player.  At the time, Jimdear carefully skipped past the opening scene in Kyd’s favorite flick, Finding Nemo - the scene where the Bad Fish devours Nemo’s mom and all of his potential siblings in their eggs.

At the time, I thought it was silly.  But I found myself starting the movie one scene later, too, and now that Kyd has discovered Babar, I’m glossing over yet another maternal demise.

I’m just not ready to explain the horrors of the world to my toddler.

 

Is Dat Baby Kickin?

Kyd asks all the time, whenever I stop or slow on our walks.  Is dat baby kickin, Mommy?

Oh yeah.  Her feet are tiny little anvils.  I feel her heels beneath my skin.  Sometimes she kicks hard enough that my entire midsection jumps.  She’s kickin’ and I’m grateful for every little whack.  It’s good to know she’s alive – and fond of orange juice, the sound of my voice and the touch of her father or brother’s hands, pressing back on her feet to let her know she’s not alone.

Despite the discomforts – I’m awake at odd hours, eating strange and unhealthy things (an entire box of Kraft mac’n'cheese for linner yesterday, 8 molasses cookies for my mid-morning snack), waddling where I used to stride – I’m truly enjoying these last few days of pregnancy.

It’s my last chance to enjoy these sensations, and I’m trying to be Very Aware of it.

 

By Appointment Only

Dear Daughter,

In precisely ten days, you will be in my arms.  I know this because we have chosen to schedule your birth.  It’s the first of a long list of choices I will make on your behalf – cloth versus disposable, breast versus formula, public versus parochial versus private, to work or stay home.  And that’s not even counting the dozens of everyday choices, about your clothing and your bedtime and whether you can watch one more episode of Blue’s Clues.

In some ways, it feels incredibly unfair that I’m taking away the one bit of control you have early days and reducing it to an appointment.

 

The Elusive Balance

Here is what I want from life:  a reasonably rewarding career, one that leaves time for my family and friends.  Enough money to keep a roof over our heads, food on the table and hey, maybe take a Disney vacation every third year.

In other words, I want a job that doesn’t eat my life and my soul.  I want to earn a paycheck without forfeiting my sanity, my marriage or my children’s formative years.

Why does that feel like a difficult proposition these days?

 

Aunt Indie? No Way!

I’m a dozen years older than my baby brother, Ross.  For as long as I can remember, we’ve had a strange relationship – he’d rat me out for exceeding the 55 mph speed limit in my Ford Escort while driving him to kindergarten; I’d have to explain to him that yes, Lenny Kravitz was a big deal in the early 90s before that Butterfly song.

Still, I love Ross and he’s the only one of my three siblings to have as tortured a path as I had through the college years.  (It took me six years to earn a bachelor’s degree.  Ross is on track to smash that record by at least a year, probably two.)  We’re not close, but I love him.  And I suspect that I understand him, more than I ever will most other people on this Earth.

Except that there’s an outside chance that my baby brother Ross, at the entirely too young age of 23, might be headed for premature parenthood.

 

Exhaustion

What’s the military lingo?  T-x days and counting?  Then I’m D-14 days and counting – I’m due in two weeks.

And suddenly, I’m back to that early first trimester exhaustion that leaves me unwilling – even unable – to do much of anything.

Okay, that’s not exactly true.  It’s just that I can’t do all the things on my list for any given day.  Basically, I can exercise or clean the house or get lots of writing assignments done or cook.  I used to do all of the above and then some, but I’m just not able right now.

I know I should give myself a break, but that drumbeat reverberates:  it won’t be any easier once the baby arrives.

Which is in D-14 days and counting.

If I weren’t so sleepy, I might be freaked out about that.