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Posts Tagged ‘southpaw’

mother and her baby silhouette, isolated vector symbol

mother and her baby silhouette, isolated vector symbol

Just read a really nice essay by the fiction writer Ben Marcus about great writing — it was about short story writing, but I think it applies to great non-fiction writing, too.  The best, he writes, has a “time-release feature . . . to crack open in the body days later, bleeding out inside us until we start to glow.”

It’s not that I want to HURT people with my descriptions of how it feels to be a grandmother. But I do want to affect them, and I’m not quite getting there in these little snippets.

Sometimes when I hold Peaches and gaze at her mobile, mercurial, perfect little face, when I sit on the back porch with her asleep on my shoulder and listen to her creaks and whistles, I feel a here-and-now peacefulness I don’t get much of these days. But too often I’m also thinking about whether I’m being too intrusive as a grandma, whether Peaches’s parents are enjoying themselves here in my house, whether anyone appreciates the food I’m cooking. I’m cooking so much food, so many times.

Too often, too, I’m finding myself a little wistful about Nutmeg’s happiness — not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of yearning to be right there with her and Southpaw amidst their murmured conversations, myself a young woman again but this time with a husband who is one hundred percent on board with anything I do. Not jealousy, exactly, but something unbecoming and inappropriate anyway. And, let’s face it, something that probably actually IS jut a little bit jealousy.

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IMG_1314Despite my angst of a couple of days ago about whether Nutmeg was irritated with me despite my best efforts at laying low — an irritation that iDaddy insists was all in my mind — I have to admit that it’s been a really wonderful interlude, all of us together here at the beach. Nutmeg and Southpaw are easing into new parenting like a warm bath — it’s not a show, not hiding their real feelings just to make us feel better; it’s the real thing. Southpaw told Nutmeg that he hasn’t felt this relaxed and happy since their honeymoon (which wasn’t that long ago — Nutmeg was six months pregnant at the time), and it’s probably for the same reason — there’s nothing much to do except focus on each other and now, also, this glorious baby. He in particular is incredibly smitten with Peaches — it seems he could spend hours just holding her and looking at her, if the world would let him. Supposedly he’s back from paternity leave now, working from our dining room table at the beach — but often when I pass by I see that his laptop is sitting unattended, and Southpaw is upstairs again while Peaches nurses, hanging around with his little family, changing a diaper, engaging in some quality “tummy time” time.

And Nutmeg is happy, too, for much the same reason — her maternity leave lasts longer, till early September, and between now and then there’s nothing much to do but focus on the baby. When I see her at her laptop, she’s not checking in at work, she’s uploading Peaches photos or looking on Amazon for a stroller or a little tent for the beach. When I catch her reading it’s nothing more serious than a novel (though the one she chose from my bookshelf, The Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante, is pretty damn dark).

iDaddy and I are not quite so relaxed, largely because we’re both actually trying to get some work done during this interlude. (Well, Southpaw is, too, but the draw of Peaches is even stronger for him.) And also because we think that our role here partly is a practical one, so we’re thinking about and preparing nightly dinners for 4 more intensely than we otherwise would. But a baby really does bring a sense of balance back into the picture. And occasionally she’s hilarious, all those creaks and grimaces and flailings and yawns that a beautiful baby cycles through. Occasionally, as in this photo of Nutmeg trying her hand at nursing in public for the first time, her parents are kind of hilarious, too.

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speak-no-evil_design (1)Gee, and here I thought we’d all been getting along so well. Nutmeg is finally at the beach with iDaddy and me, having arrived with Southpaw and the delicious Peaches two days ago ,and settling in to the two extra bedrooms we have in the front of the house. (This is exactly why we were happy to have been able to buy this house 5 years ago — for long visits from the grandbabies, who at the time were mere figments of my fevered imagination.) It felt like we had already settled into a nice routine, with iDaddy and me leaving them alone for hours on end so they could do whatever child care things they needed to do, waiting for a full hour without complaint so they could prepare for our first foray to the beach yesterday evening, making elaborate (for us) dinners and letting them head straight to bed afterward without cleaning up (even though they offer — they are sweet kids, after all), serving as eager pairs of arms to hold Peaches as she sleeps. We saw that Nutmeg and Southpaw don’t seem to ever put her down into the bassinet during the day but just walk around with her, or sit with her asleep on their chest, so when Peaches fell asleep on my chest yesterday I just sat with her and relaxed into it, for hours, even though I had work to do and even though I had to pee. Later I checked with Nutmeg and Southpaw to be sure that their hesitation to put her down isn’t out of some sort of baby-rearing philosophy, it was simply because they lovedholding her so much — so now I know that in the future if I really feel a need to put her down I can at least do so without feeling like an interfering grandma.

But today, I was made to feel as though I’m being EXPERIENCED as an interfering grandma after all. At lunch time, as they rummaged through the refrigerator, I announced which leftovers I had already pulled out for them to use to make their lunches. I wasn’t fussing around actually MAKING anything for them; I was eating my own leftover tabbouleh at the time. But Nutmeg chose that moment to tell me, supposedly good-humoredly, that I had a window of one more day, after which I was expected to know that they would have as clear a sense of the refrigerator’s inventory as I did.

As I said, it was said in supposed good humor. And I replied in a sort of good-humored way. But what the fuck? Nutmeg is not usually critical of my behavior — unless it’s something that has bugged her a whole lot more than she lets on in her supposedly good-humored comment. And here I’ve been SO restrained, SO careful about not inserting myself into their routine, SO careful not to grab Peaches from them when I feel like holding her. In fact, I’ve been so restrained that a part of me started to fret last night that maybe they worry that I’m not being grandmotherly ENOUGH.

And what I get instead is a snarky comment about my working too hard to make their lives easier by telling them what food I’ve pulled out of the fridge.

Obviously I should just let this one go, right? And be grateful that they’re here and basically glad to be, and that I get to spend a couple of hours a day cuddling an infant who’s quite wonderful to hold. What I should focus on, instead of the “stop telling us where the food is” comment, is Nutmeg’s comment from earlier today, when she marveled at my comfort holding Peaches at the breakfast table on the back porch. “All I could see from inside was you holding the newspaper,” she said. “And you looked so relaxed I was surprised to see you were actually holding a baby, too.”

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images-1And she’s beautiful, with regular features and big soft cheeks and some black curly hair and one of those perfect bows of a baby mouth. And she seems to be even-tempered, too. iDaddy and I drove Nutmeg, Southpaw, and the baby, whom I’m going to give the blog name Peaches, home from the hospital today, and she whimpered a bit and then actually seemed to be able to settle herself, without us needing to pull over on the Brooklyn Bridge and let Nutmeg nurse.

The new parents are both pretty even-tempered themselves, actually. They were that way even throughout the labor, for which I was in attendance. We all got to the hospital at about 7 pm Tuesday night, and Peaches was born at 7:47 on Wednesday morning. The whole 12-hour labor was all kind of quiet and focused — especially after Nutmeg asked for an epidural about an hour in. She had been in labor at home for most of the day and she was tired of it. Post-epidural, the spirit in the room noticeably lightened, and everyone was pretty chirpy throughout. Even during the two hours of pushing, which was hard for her.

It was also great to watch Southpaw through it all. He was completely attuned to Nutmeg and gave her whatever she needed, even if it was just offering a sip of water, or just knowing enough to be silent. And he grimaced whenever she pushed — it was as if he was pushing, too.

Now I’m just trying to figure out how not to get on their nerves!  This is just my own personal hangup — NOTHING they’ve said so far, even in extremis during the labor, has made me think that they’re anything but glad to have me around. I intend to do my damnedest to keep it that way.

 

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web_schenck-whitney-2014_05_19-dsc_5755_800_800Memorial Day was a study in contrasts for iDaddy and me. We spent the morning at the new Whitney Museum, opened recently in the Meatpacking District of Manhattan right at the southernmost end of the High Line. (Contrary to my expectations, based only on the way the building looked as it was being built, I loved the museum and thought that all the choices they had made, in terms of both architecture and curation of the current exhibit, were just right.) Then we spent the afternoon with Ur-Momma, hanging around with her in her senior-housing studio apartment, having pretty much the same conversation four or five times during the two hours we were there, in predictable rotation.

The conversation veered off into slightly new territory when Ur-Momma started talking about the thing that really bugs her about being 90 years old — that she’s not necessary to anybody anymore.”I don’t have any value,” Ur-Momma said. “Then maybe you should change the definition of ‘value,'” said I. It just comes with the territory, added iDaddy in his kind and gentle way. “We’re a lot younger than you, and we’re not necessary to anybody anymore, either.”

And it’s true, we’re not: our two daughters are fully adults and can get along fine without us, hardly ever check in with us, don’t really give us details about what’s going on in their lives (well, Meta doesn’t, at least). But maybe that’s one thing that a new grandchild will do for us: give iDaddy and me the feeling that we’re kind of necessary again. That’s what drove our actions the day before Memorial Day, anyway, when we spent at least half of it trying to figure out how to get the baby car seat into the back seat of our Toyota. iDaddy’s job — after I’ve done my own assigned job and aided as much as I can during labor and delivery — will be to drive Nutmeg, Southpaw, and the baby home from the hospital. Necessary indeed.

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jicamaI’m not surprised that Nutmeg is turning out to be, as Southpaw puts it, a “hardy pregnant lady.” She’s pretty much been hardy her whole life — or maybe the better word for it is uncomplaining. I actually can’t remember a time when she complained about anything, other than when she got chicken pox at about the age of 7 and seemed to think it was somehow my fault. (She was always very angry at me about her chicken pox, and refused to let me try to soothe her — I have a photo of her glaring at me from a baking-soda bath with terrible accusation in her eyes.)

So it’s nice to see that this hardiness, or stoicness, is getting her through pregnancy. She’s at Week 32 now, her baby currently the size of a jicama — the iPhone app CuteFruit no doubt runs out of less exotic produce to compare fetus sizes to over the course of a whole pregnancy, and this week jicama it is — and yesterday Nutmeg’s doctor did another sonogram, apparently just because she could. All is looking good in there, Nutmeg reports to us. She and Southpaw could recognize a fist and not much else. The doctor assured them that after the baby is born, things like arms and legs will be a lot easier to identify.

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