Day 75

Ellie is ten weeks and five days old.  I have included a photo above of a typical skeptical Ellie expression.  As astute observers may note, she has returned to her rock n play.  This happened initially by accident one weeknight when Ellie spit up all over her magic Merlin sleep suit and pack n play, generating a lot of laundry and a lengthy delay to bedtime.  She slept soundly and long in her rock n play that night, I didn't manage to wash her Merlin suit the next day, and...she has been back in the rock n play ever since.  I promise that we will transition her out of it before she either learns to talk and asks why all the other three year old sleep in toddler beds or knocks her teeth out with her knees.

We had a merry medical week last week, with a visit to the oral surgeon on Monday to "resolve" her tongue tie -- a euphemism for lasering through some of the tissue connecting Ellie's tongue to her mouth -- and a visit to a physical therapist on Thursday.  The physical therapist was a cross between a Disney princess and a preschool teacher and Ellie was enamored with her, if the not the physical therapy exercises themselves, which are intended to loosen the tension in Ellie's neck. Other notes: we rode a very narrow elevator to reach the PT appointment and I buried my face in Nitin's coat. 

Another development in the past week -- Ellie seems to have become more aware that the omnipresent person whose nipples she chews is her mommy.  I wrote last week about dissolving into tears during my first extended outing away from Ellie.  This week, it has seemed that Ellie dissolves into tears whenever I am out of her sight for more than a few minutes.  I had a similar tendency during my childhood, earning me the moniker "velcro child." Yesterday, I spent the entire day either breastfeeding or holding Ellie while a friend visited, which resulted in me not eating until after noon, and even then, eating a (delicious) omelet that Nitin prepared, because I could not cook for myself.  One exception: Ellie was satisfied with sitting in the one swinging chair she likes, as long as I remained in front of, and not behind, her. 

Today, Ellie and I had lunch with a friend and I breastfed in public for the first time, which went without a hitch.  Emboldened by this success, Ellie and I attempted to walk 1.3 miles to a sweet neighborhood with a fair trade store that I had been meaning to visit.  It was an unseasonably gorgeous sunny day, with temperatures in the sixties and that wonderful scent of  the earth defrosting.  Crocuses have begun to surface on brown lawns and global warming is real, but has its silver linings.

Ellie began our walk in a sleepy state.  About ten minutes into the walk, she fussed a bit, and I knelt on the sidewalk to feed her the rest of her bottle.  When we continued, the fussiness increased, and I stopped repeatedly to chat with her and assure her I was still there, take her coat off, and adjust the stroller to ensure the sun was not beating down on her.  By the time we were five minutes from our destination she was wailing, and I considered turning back, but I hoped to find a quiet spot to breastfeed her and lull her into a nap on the way back.  I powered past other parents with quiet, cheerful children in strollers, beet red and sweating as I pushed my squalling sweetheart.  

I did find a spot to breastfeed Ellie in Westover, and she was calm and half asleep when I strapped her in for the ride back.  Within minutes, Ellie began screaming again, punctuated with extended silences during which she caught her breath.  It may have been my imagination, but it seemed that even cars were slowing down to take in the spectacle (or call Child Protective Services, who knows...) One older gentleman wearing bright yellow parachute pants and a yellow athletic top suggested she was chilly; I explained that I had removed her little jacket because my wailing baby was overheating.

I stopped repeatedly to unstrap Ellie, cuddle her close to my chest, and bounce her.  The moment she saw me, her cries began to diminish, and she was completely silent in my arms.  I realized (or decided) that whenever she could not see me (as was necessary, for me to push the stroller) she felt I had abandoned her.  Each time I bent toward her tear-streaked face in the stroller, I felt more gutted.  

For a quarter of a mile, I carried her in one arm while pushing the stroller with the other, until my arms felt tingly and I worried I would drop her.  Then I tried to pull the stroller from the front, but that too felt precarious, when we began to travel slightly downhill.  I called Nitin, who suggested leaving the stroller in the hospital lobby for pickup later ("Who would steal a stroller from a hospital?") and carrying her home with both arms.  Nitin himself was an hour away in rush hour traffic.  In the end, I felt the safest thing to do was push her home in the stroller, knowing she would be beside herself, but at least in one piece, when we arrived.  That is the story of how a cheerful stroll on a spring-like day in February turned into our daughter's very first emotionally scarring experience.  We are recuperating in our pajamas in bed.

In all seriousness...this has been the week I realized that it is possible that Ellie loves me almost as much as I love her (who would have thought it possible that anyone could love anyone else so much?) And as difficult as it will be for me to be away from my sweet girl for longer periods when I return to work, I hated realizing that it could also be difficult for Ellie.  We see more flickers of recognition from Ellie everyday.  We are trying to work on helping her to practice tracking objects, such as mirrors, but have found that Ellie cries about any barrier that separates her from a human face she loves.  She does have some interest in objects, though, and enjoys batting the objects that hang over her playmat -- we have been impressed by her coordination.

I know very little about mothering, and I am so aware that all that I learn is very particular to mothering Ellie -- she suddenly will not drink milk that is not warm, she will kick off socks unless she wears two pairs at once, she will sleep the longest if she drinks from a bottle rather than the breast.  I wonder many times each day where I am speaking 2100 words per hour to Ellie or whether she is drinking enough milk or we are reading enough to her.  The most important thing is that she knows in every minute of every day how very loved she is, how impossible it is that I would ever leave her, how she will never spend a minute truly alone in the world, even if as she grows she is by herself from time to time.  And perhaps that is why the stroller fiasco was so difficult for both of us.  I am still teaching her that people do not disappear just because you cannot see them, and that the love of your mother does not disappear ever.  And she is still teaching me that she is strong, and that she can withstand the difficulties that she must in order to grow, even if I wish I could preserve her from them.