Week 21: Leaving the baby with someone else

Sophie, for the first time, spent time with her grandparents and uncle without Mom and Dad.

Equally as noteworthy, “Mom and Dad” transformed back into “Tara and Dominique” for a couple of hours.

It was fabulous.

We put the top down on the Mustang and cruised around the city. Stopped at a brewery with a fantastic view of the old town. Sipped beers. Snacked on pretzels.

It felt like a layer of something — maybe my mommy suit — was peeling back and I could feel a part of my life I hadn’t noticed in a long time.

Dom and I actually get a couple of “us” hours every day after the little person goes to sleep. But there’s something rejuvenating about knowing we’re not the ones who are caring for her at that precise moment. That little voice in my head that is constantly on guard, even while she sleeps, took a back seat.

Dom commented that when he was a baby, his mom and her neighbor would just take turns wheeling the bassinets to each others houses for a bit of free time. He and his brother were tiny babies when they left their parents’ side for the first time.

But it wasn’t that easy for me.

First, I had known his family for all of a couple of months before Sophie was born. The thought of leaving her with them felt, at that time, like handing her over to our mail lady.

Second, I had new mommy anxiety. I imagined every possible bad, stupid, annoying thing that could happen while someone else watched my baby. Somehow, the family that raised my partner could now turn into idiots. Were they going to shove french fries in her mouth, turning her into a 50 pound 4-month-old before a movie rolled credits?

Third, there was a part of me that felt a little bitter that my “in-laws” would get to spend this time with her when my parents couldn’t.

Waiting until I had worked through all of those issues helped me to enjoy the time with Dominique instead of constantly worrying. I trusted that they would know how to distract Sophie if she got upset, that they knew how to call emergency services if she chocked on peas.

After a beautiful late afternoon on the town, we returned to collect our little person.

When the door opened, Sophie was in tact and in her grandma’s arms. As soon as she saw us, her tears started flowing and her little arms reached out for us. In a matter of minutes, though, she was happy and down on the floor exploring and babbling.

Sophie and her family bonded. Mom and dad took break.

Everyone agreed. We need to do this again.

Week 20: Laugh at the little things

Just a quick post to say, well, laugh at the little things. Babies are great reminders of this. Enjoy. (Oh, and yes, I know it’s a week late. Sorry. But you’ll like it.)

Week 19: Keeping track

One of the most amazing things I’ve learned as a stay-at-home mom has been watching Sophie unfold from a swaddled newborn into a cruising, curious hurricane of destruction.

Sophie turned 9 months old on Saturday and to say time has changed our lives is an understatement.

She’s digging in plants, doing pull ups from cupboard handles and just last week standing for a few seconds without holding on. Her drive to explore is fascinating, a little dangerous and sometimes, like when she uses her high chair as a walker, absolutely hilarious.

But as we approach her first year I realize I haven’t done a fantastic job documenting my favorite Sophie-isms.

Of course, I’ve taken a million pictures. One year I may even organize them.

But even so. Sometimes I’m just not fast enough with a camera. I’m too busy watching or hovering close enough to catch my falling bobble-head.

What I should be doing, what I wish I’d been better at these nine months, is keeping a journal.

It takes more time than snapping a picture, sure. But the words on a page can remind me, and, one day, Sophie, of how I felt when she smiled the first time, or how she was the biggest hit with the school kids on the train into Bern.

Those little moments that just happen, that you share with your partner at the end of the day, that you think you’ll remember, they have a way of slipping into the deep and blurred by so many other days’ memories.

I’d like to keep a few more of those times closer to the surface.

So this week, I plan to shop for a little Sophie journal. Something I can keep by my bedside and jot a few sentences down about the little things. Hopefully it will turn into a cherished keepsake. And be a great help when I get old-timers brain.

 

Week 18: Little lessons everywhere

We recently went to visit Sophie’s great-grandmother in a small Western Switzerland village, Môtiers.

I adore this place.

Strolling the streets is like walking back in time. The centuries old cobblestones, fountains and buildings lead you on a walking museum tour.

Leaving Les Six-Communes restaurant

Walking in the woods of Môtiers

Sophie’s great-grandmother’s apartment where Rousseau lived

Entrance to Rousseau and Sophie’s great-grandmother’s apartment

Bridge in Môtiers

Sparkling wine and absinthe flow from local distilleries. Old farms. Stone bridges built hundreds of years ago arch over the creek.

Each visit to Môtiers starts with a meal at Les Six-Communes restaurant. Absolutely amazing food and service to match.

The owners recognize and greet Sophie as soon as we walk in. They kiss us hello and goodbye.

We then make our way to Sophie’s great-grandmother’s apartment. On the way up the stairs is a sign announcing the Jean-Jacques Rousseau Museum, Môtiers.

The first time we visited, I was asked if I’d ever heard of Rousseau. With my insufficient French skills, I heard: Blah blah blah, Jacques Bla…ousseau, blah blah. I said: “Jacques Cousteau?” HA. Uh. No. Not the French explorer.

Rousseau, the Swiss philosopher whose works, according to Wikipedia, “influenced the French Revolution as well as the overall development of modern political, sociological and educational thought.”

So, just a minor figure. I jest.

Rousseau spent a few years living in Môtiers. In fact, in Sophie’s great-grandmother’s apartment, from 1762-1765. He had been running from the French authorities after some of his writings ruffled their feathers. He stayed in this apartment until some equally angered residents stoned his windows.

Sophie's great-grandmother's apartment where Rousseau lived

“The house I live in is big and quite comfortable. It has an outside gallery where I walk in bad weather. And what means more than anything else is that it’s a refuge offered in friendship. I have a very beautiful fountain beneath my window and the sound of it is one of the things I love. These tall fountains in the shape of columns or obelisks, with water running through iron pipes into big pools, are a typical feature of Switzerland. I can’t express how agreeable it is to see all this beautiful water flowing in the midst of rock and wood during the hot weather. You feel refreshed just by looking at them, and tempted to drink from them when you’re not even thirsty.” – quote found on this tourism Web page.

I was inspired to come home and read a little about this philosopher. I was struck, not only by the enormity of one person’s contributions to society, but I realized there are so many opportunities to pick up a little bit of knowledge all around.

Especially in today’s world of information at our fingertips. You don’t have to scour library shelves if you don’t want. You can just spend 20 minutes on your computer or phone or tablet or TV. There’s always something to learn all around you.

Week 17: Aiche two oh

I must admit. I feel a little lame for writing a post about this. But.

Water. H2O. A little ol’ molecule that is a big challenge for me.

I love to watch it roll in tides. I love to listen to it trickle over rocks or pour over falls.

But I cannot ever seem to drink it like a good girl should.

During pregnancy, no problem. I was hooked to my water bottle, refilling it and nearly simultaneously emptying it over and over again, every day.

But once I got the OK from my doctor that a little caffeine wouldn’t harm my breastfed daughter, I rekindled my love affair with a certain diet cola.

I’d sip a 20 ounce bottle throughout the day and barely anything else. I don’t think one pop (yes, I’m from the Midwest) is so bad. But the taste made me want nothing else. Make no mistake, I am an addict.

Recent attempts to kill the crush have failed me. I tried to drink just half a bottle and switch to water. It never lasted. There is no self control.

So this week, I purposely left cola off the grocery list. It’s all water all week (aside from my morning tea) and I have the headache to prove it.

Surprisingly, it’s working. I have been drinking tons of water these past few days. Helped by the fact that we have a carbonating contraption to bubble up the tap water. Throw in a splash of lemon or lime juice and it’s a quite-nice refreshment.

Even temptation is subsiding.

As I took Sophie on our walk today, I passed the market with a few Francs in my pocket and started salivating for my drink. Luckily it was lunch break for the workers and the doors were locked. Ah the joys of Swiss living with the stores closed from 12-2.

The same can’t be said for the walk back. I imagined my excuses. What’s one pop compared with my typical six or seven in a week? But no. I kept on walking. I resisted.

Why is it so hard to change one little thing? I know H2O is so much healthier for me. More hydration. Fewer chemicals. Etc. It matters not.

Still. I’ve done this before. Quit pop. I can do it again. It starts this week. Now I just need to cut my head off till this withdrawal passes.

Week 16: A week of “didn’ts”

It’s week 16 and I wanted to write a little about week 15. Cuz I skipped it. I didn’t do much last week. In fact. I’d say week 15 was a week of “didn’ts.”

I didn’t write. Didn’t run. Didn’t do yoga. Didn’t care that I ate a grocery store aisle worth of Easter chocolate.

I felt, somewhere inside, that I wanted the week to be different. To do those things I hadn’t been doing. But want had too small a voice to change how I spent my time.

What I did do was wonder where my motivation had gone. I heard a quote that said: “If it matters to you, you find the time. If it doesn’t you find excuses.”

I normally subscribe to this sentiment. But I could feel what “mattered” somewhere inside. And I wasn’t making any excuses.

The truth was I just needed a break. I was exhausted. Run down. Not sick. Just blah. (Well, there were very nice moments last week with family for Easter and Dominique’s birthday. But my personal wish list was on the back burner.)

A book called the Four Agreements reminded me that we should always do our best. But the essence of “our best” is fluid, not fixed. It’s not a rigid schedule or a check list of must-dos. Our best is being in the moment, even if that moment isn’t what we planned.

We can’t put the same level of effort in when we’re sick as when we’re operating at 100 percent. And we can’t beat ourselves up for doing less on some days than on others.

So I gave in. I still felt tired. I still wanted to do more. But my week of didn’ts reminded me to be in the moment. To allow myself to go off script and give myself a break.

And that felt like, ahhhhh, balance.

Week 14: Three kisses

I wasn’t raised to kiss non-family members hello and goodbye.

If I unblock memories of my teenage years, I suppose I might find a few random, squealy, girly hugs in there somewhere.

Hugs and kisses between adults don’t seem to be America’s cup of tea. An exception could be for someone we haven’t seen in a while. Maybe. We shake hands with acquaintances. But not much else. At least not in my neck of the woods.

Sophie kisses Daddy

I figured hugs and kisses were for Europeans.

While studying in Copenhagen, though, I honestly don’t recall if the Danes did much outside of verbal greetings. But then again, I was a little distracted by the leather pants phenomenon that swept northern Europe in the 1990s.

My baptism into personal-space-invasion hellos came when I moved to Florida and met “the crazy Germans.” They were actually a group of partying Austrian and German neighbors and whenever I saw them, the socialite ring leader would swoop down (she was 6’3) and give me a hug and cheek-to-cheek kiss. “Mwah.”

It felt a little odd, but it was her deal so I went with it.

Then I realized it was a fad catching on with some of my clubbing friends.

Soon I didn’t know where to draw the line. Who was a kisser, who was a hugger, who stood back like a cold fish looking at you with crazy eyes if you stepped in too close?

Nothing more awkward than a non-hugger getting bear-armed.

Turns out, it’s not just a European thing.

I spent some time in New Zealand to interview a group of Armenians for a project I was working on.

They were welcoming and friendly. The work was fascinating.

But etched in my brain was the time they laughed at me when I bumped noses with and stared wide-eyed at the “elders” as I tried to back away from the hello kiss. Apparently, Armenians aren’t satisfied with one kiss on the cheek.

They need three. Alternating cheeks. Right-left-right? Left-right-left? I can’t remember. I just recall them all smiling, proudly saying: “We Armenians kiss three times.”

Years later, when I met Dominique’s Swiss parents, I figured the kiss was coming. But on our first visit I was nervous and my old habits came pouring out. I stiffly, quickly stuck out my hand for a hearty shake. But that didn’t do for the goodbye. I leaned in for what I thought was the standard European kiss on the cheek. Once again, I found myself fumbling around some strangers’ faces.

The Swiss kiss three times, too.

(Thanks for the warning, babe.)

I’ve been in Bern for 10 months, now, so I know the three kisses are coming. It’s no surprise. I’ve got this. I’m so Swiss.

Except now I’ve been getting out of the house more and the people I see are a mix of expats and locals. Men and women. All with their own hello / goodbye protocols.

Just last week, in three separate instances, the kiss tripped me up. I went in for the triple kiss with a one-cheek-only friend, one woman saw my hesitation and announced “we’ll do it the Swiss way” just to set me at ease, and a goodbye wave to a fellow American turned into a Swiss kiss adieu after the back-and-forth dance went on a little too long.

So I’d say, if you’re traveling, learn a little about the local greetings. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself in some close-quarters confusion. And if you stop by Switzerland, lean in for the long haul. The Swiss love their three kisses.