This Is What A Relationship Looks Like From The Inside

It's early morning. Alice has just woken up and I'm in her room, changing her diaper, when I let loose with a gigantic fart.

It's only after I do it that I realize the baby monitor is still on in our bedroom, where Spiceboy is attempting to get a few extra minutes of sleep.

"Hey!" I yell. "Did you hear that one?"

"Um...yeah," says Spiceboy.

"So what do you think? Good one, right?"

Spiceboy ponders for a moment before answering, "Nice reverb."

Birthday

One year ago today--at this exact moment--I went into labor.

And at 2:53 am on August 16, 2008, Alice made her entrance into this world.

Every day, she teaches me about patience, and laughter, and about the utter uncertainty of everything.

Oh, and poop. Every day, she teaches me something new about poop.

I remember holding her in my arms when she was just days old and weeping. "She'll never know, I sniffled. "She'll never know how much I love her until the day she becomes a mother herself."

And that, dear readers, is the irony of being a mother.

Happy birthday, monkey girl!

Before (39 1/2 weeks pregnant)

During (Alice, minutes old)

After (Alice, 11 months)

So Much Unobstructed Sky

Last night, I stood at my back screen door (yes, I have a back door now!) and held little Alice in my arms and watched a summer thunderstorm roll in.

As the sky went from bruised purple to black, Alice beat her little fists against the screen door. The trees grew still and the birds grew quiet. And then the wind kicked into high gear, blowing our hair back from our faces, a welcome relief after a day of typical Pittsburgh humidity.

We listened while the thunder cracked across the sky, and watched the lightning pierce through the clouds, Alice curled like a hot little comma against my neck. We watched until the sheets of rain splashed through the screen and splattered against the window, blurring the world outside.

Later, Spiceboy and I put Alice to sleep, whispering "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" while the cracks of thunder faded to distant rumblings.

Afterward, we stood in the kitchen, making dinner (yes, we now have a kitchen that's large enough for BOTH of us to stand in at the same time!). In the distance, I spotted the sunset, bright pinks and oranges nudging out from under the black clouds.

"Oh, look at it!" I cried in delight to Spiceboy.

"It's been a long time," said Spiceboy, "since we've seen so much unobstructed sky."

First Day in Pittsburgh

For the first time in four years, I reside in living space that is more than one room! I've spent the morning walking around in wonderment.

Just a little while ago, I was toweling my hair dry in the bathroom when I heard a strange squeaking sound coming from somewhere in the apartment. I listened closely, and decided it must be Spiceboy working on something. It took me several minutes to realize the squeaking sound wasn't Spiceboy doing his fix-it magic on our new place.

The squeaking sound was coming from birds.

Birds that are chirping right outside my window.

What a concept!

19 Days

In honor of the fact that I only have 19 days left on the island of Manhattan, I will list 19 things I will NOT miss about the city:

1. Climbing 48 steps to get to my apartment. With bags of groceries. And laundry. And a baby. And a dog.

2. Carrying Alice's stroller up and down the subway steps.

3. The horrible pee/bleach smell that permeates the Canal St. station early in the morning.

4. Second Avenue subway construction.

5. Crowding into the 6 Train at rush hour.

6. The uncaring and mostly inept employees at the neighborhood Walgreen's.

7. The incredibly long lines at places like Ikea, Trader Joe's, and Whole Foods. Seriously. It's not to be believed.

8. The enormous cockroaches.

9. And rats.

10. The pervy doormen who work at the next building over. Ick.

11. Not having a real oven. Or refrigerator.

12. The way our bathroom water goes from normal to hypothermia-inducing-cold to third-degree-burn-hot in under two seconds.

13. People doing the "Blackberry stop" in the middle of the sidewalk, crosswalk, etc.

14. Women who push their dogs in strollers.

15. Women who dress their dogs in Burberry. I mean, really.

16. The odd, fishy smell that emanates from the restaurant on the corner, thus prompting us to call it "The Stinky Beach."

17. Fighting for seats at the movie theater.

18. Not being able to find really obvious ingredients at the grocery store.

19. Living in 350 square feet. With a husband. And a baby. And a dog.

24 Days

In honor of the fact I am packing up my family and departing my beloved city of Manhattan in just 24 short days, here are 24 things I will miss about living in New York:

1. Central Park before 9 am.

2. The strange old man who dresses as a wizard and hangs out by Bethesda Fountain, and who is unreasonably afraid of Betty.

3. The rare moment when you step into a subway car and realize that it is completely, blessedly empty...and NOT because someone has peed/puked/pooped in it.

4. The "tamale lady." She's the woman who sells homemade tamales out of a metal trash can on the street for $1 a piece. It sounds weird, but you really just have to try it.

5. Levain Bakery brioche.

6. The way there is always some sort of music playing when you exit the train at Union Square--boys beating on trash cans, kids playing guitar, groups of men singing a capella.

7. The bitchy hipster baristas as La Colombe Torrefaction. God, they are so mean. 

8. Random acts of kindness from complete strangers. New Yorkers are not rude...they're just in a really big hurry!

9. Grocery shopping at Citarella.

10. The way the sunlight shines across the floor of my apartment during the summer months.

11. Essa-a-Bagel. Pumpernickel. Toasted. Scallion cream cheese.

12. My friends.

13. The fact that even though you're walking down the sidewalk or riding the subway or sitting in the park by yourself, you're never really alone.

14. My crazy dog-sitting neighbor who has, as far as I can tell, worn the same exact outfit every day for the past four years.

15. Taking Alice to the playground.

16. Not having to drive anywhere.

17. The way that Alice can charm even the grumpiest people on the subway into smiling at her.

18. The Chrysler Building at night, as seen from the FDR.

19. Walking down St. Mark's Place, with the loud radios and the Japanese kids lining up for yaki tori and the tourists and the few remaining punks.

20. Ordering Thai, Ethiopian, Afghani, Italian, Southern, Japanese food at any time of day and having it delivered to my door.

21. The way the streets look in the fall when they're covered in yellow and orange leaves.

22. Walking down Spring Street in the early morning.

23. Cappuccino from Si Caffe.

24. The way the sun sets over Houston Street in the summertime.

Perfectly Normal

If you are a very lucky parent, you are familiar with the title of this post. It’s what your pediatrician tells you every time your baby does something that freaks you out. And make no mistake: your baby will do many things to freak you out.

The baby is projectile vomiting? Perfectly normal. The baby’s poop is the color of a shamrock? Perfectly normal. The baby hasn’t pooped for a week? Perfectly normal. Baby won't stop screaming? Perfectly normal.

Sunday evening, Spiceboy and I experienced the most terrifying and yet—according to our pediatrician and numerous websites—perfectly normal episode we’ve ever had with Alice.

It was a tough day, by parenting standards. Alice had been super sensitive all day, clinging to me every time I tried to put her down, refusing to go to her dad—very unlike her.

By the end of the day, she was especially inconsolable. I decided that wearing her in the baby sling was the best way to keep the peace, so I handed her off to Spiceboy while I put on the sling.

Alice was having none of that.

She began wailing, then screeching. That’s when inhaled a huge breath, as if she was about to scream, but she just kind of froze that way. Her mouth was open, her little fists clenched tight up around her tearstained cheeks, but no sound was coming out of her mouth.

I took her from Spiceboy. Thumped her on the back. “Breathe, Alice,” I said, not liking the panic in my voice. “Take a breath.”

Except she didn’t. She just stayed in that frozen scream, no air coming in, no air going out.

That’s about the time her face turned blue. Then, as interminable seconds ticked by, her eyes drooped closed, and she slumped against me.

I felt as though I was wading through quicksand. Every second was an eternity. I couldn’t move quickly enough, couldn’t think quickly enough. I bounced her on my arm, patted her on the back again, thinking my daughter isn’t breathing, my daughter isn’t breathing, my daughter isn’t breathing. Oh. Dear. God.

Then she exhaled with a cry and opened her eyes. Her color returned, bright splotches of red dotting her chubby cheeks. Spiceboy handed her a teether, which she grasped in her sticky little fist, lifting it to her mouth with all of the solemnity of a churchgoer receiving communion. She perched on my arm, gnawing her teether, looking around with wide, wet eyes, like what’s the big deal, yo?

I bounced her a little, watching her breathe. In and out. In and out.

Only then did I permit myself to breathe. In and out, in and out. Then I covered my face with my free hand and I sobbed.

Later that night, I sat on the bed and read Alice her stories. While I read, I buried my nose in the top of her head, ran my hands over her chubby legs, her tiny wrists. I help up my palm, and she pressed her tiny palm to mine. I breathed her in, this daughter of mine. I breathed her in and with each exhalation, sent my thank yous out into the universe.

Then I put her to bed and went straight to Google, best friend of frantic parents worldwide. And I discovered that my daughter had just had her first breath holding spell.

Now THERE’S something they don’t tell you about in parenting books or classes.

Apparently it’s fairly common among children under five years of age. They become frightened or upset, and they hold their breath until they pass out. Perfectly normal, the websites (and my pediatrician) assured me.

And that, I suppose, sums up the entire parenting experience in a nutshell: Perfectly normal, except for when it scares you shitless.