lesbian motherhood

A day off

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My wife gave me the day off. Really, she gave me permission to take the day off. I’m thankful. Without her blessing, I tend to feel really guilty any time I take some time to myself.

Although today is Sunday, it was going to be a working day. I had planned to spend the day doing legal work to help us get over a little financial slump we’re having right now. Bills are piling up and so is the stress. This morning I wore the stress on my face like caked-on makeup; my wife couldn’t help but see it. You need a break, she said. She’s right.

To give me some time, my wife took Pidge out to a children’s museum—a nice way to spend a rainy day. How will I spend my day?

I sit down in our little gray rocking chair and take out my computer. Although my intention is not to work, the pull is there and I do a little bit. Stop it, I tell myself. I pause for a moment and listen. The rain falls from the sky in two tones – the quick and full rush of steady rainfall on our metal roof, and the drip-plop-splash of the accumulation as it slides from the awnings to the stones and concrete below. Our 13-year-old cat purrs loudly as she snuggles onto my lap, nuzzling her head against my chest and hands. The little baby growing inside of me pushes back against the pressure of the cat on my abdomen. I love that.

I love feeling the baby roll and kick and stretch. I have never felt anything like it before. She doesn’t do it constantly, but it’s frequent enough to be reassuring, frequent enough to bring a much-needed smile to my face. You feel her when you’re still, I remind myself. Be still.

In today’s world of stress and busyness and work, it is hard to be still. I think stillness also goes against my nature. When I was in college, a professor made a comment about me: “She likes to be busy.” I remember being so insulted. No I don’t, I thought. No one likes to be busy. I have to be busy. I don’t have a choice. I am starting to realize that sometimes that is true, and sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes I don’t have a choice—I need to work, and work hard, in order to make ends meet. Other times, I can choose to slow down. In fact, if I don’t choose to slow down, my body will choose it for me by making me so sick that I am forced to take a day off. If I’m going to be taking a day off anyway, it might as well be when I want it, right? I moved to Vermont for a still life—one that wasn’t packed with traffic and hustle and concrete and people. New Englanders work hard, but they also know the peace that comes from quiet, rural living. I need that peace. I need that stillness.

Stillness for me sometimes comes in the form of sitting and reading by the fire, or snuggling with pets. It can also come by engaging in passion projects, which is what I think I will do today. I like creating pretty things, and today I intend to work on figuring out how to transform Pidge’s room into a sibling room. Of course it will be some time before Pidge’s sister joins her in that room, but it might be nice for Pidge to get used to a new arrangement. It also might help my wife and I to feel like we are really expecting another child. It seems odd to say it that way, but it’s true. While we know in our heads that this baby is coming, it has been difficult to fully appreciate our upcoming addition to our lives. It seems surreal at times, and the constant days filled with toddler parenting and work leave little room to sit back and wonder about the changes heading our way.

I put my hand on my abdomen. We are busy, but you are here. We are busy, but we will never be too busy for you.

Our other cat meanders into the room. He and the cat on my lap don’t typically get along, but today is different. It’s a rainy day. It’s a cozy day. It’s a day for shelving tension, for relaxing and engaging meaningfully and quieting the stress. I take a deep breath, exhale, and feel a little bit better.

Known Donor

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Every time he walks onto the playground, I find myself flashing a quick glance at Pidge, looking for signs of recognition. Sometimes she acknowledges him, mentioning him by name later in the evening just as she would for any one of her friends’ parents. Sometimes when he says hi to her she just stares.

We live in a small, rural community, which means lives overlap. A lot. Everyone crosses paths with everyone all the time. The idea of if-you-dress-a-mess-you’ll-run-into-someone-you-know is not a thing here because you are always running into someone you know. It’s the nature of living small.

Using a known donor to conceive Pidge has been an interesting experience. When we were looking to conceive several years ago, we weighed the ideas of using a sperm bank versus a known donor. As an attorney I knew that using a sperm bank was the safer route. Parentage is more easily established that way, and it doesn’t create the possibility where the donor could try to claim legal rights to your child. However, there were also aspects of using a sperm bank that concerned me. In this digital age, I am watching concepts of privacy and anonymity lose their meanings. I feared that even if we chose an anonymous sperm donor, our daughter might one day be able to find out his identity. What if we didn’t like him? Would she suddenly be wanting to spend time or holidays with a man we didn’t know and didn’t like? Would she end up with something like 32 siblings, as I had read about in the news?

We decided to ask a friend of ours who lived across the country to donate sperm. We were nervous to ask, worried it would be weird or jeopardize our friendship. Instead, he eagerly said yes, adding, “Y’all will be great parents.” We were overjoyed. As he is an attorney too, he and I worked hard to ensure that both of our legal rights would be protected. He wanted to help us, but he didn’t want to end up stuck with parental obligations; we wanted his help, but we didn’t want him to be able to claim legal rights to our child. Being across the country from one another, we felt as though we had an added layer of protection—it was unlikely that our paths would cross without concerted effort. After many months of contracts and research and reaching out to other attorneys, we started trying. Each time, the attempt to conceive was unsuccessful. We grew discouraged.

One evening, as I was working late, my wife went out for drinks with a colleague of hers. He was more of an acquaintance than a true friend, but they were friendly with each other and enjoyed each other’s company. He told her about how he and his wife were working on buying their first home together, and she told him about our failed attempts at trying to make a baby. Then he commented, “You know, if you ever need help with that, I would be happy to help.” My wife smiled and said thanks, but didn’t think much of it. When she told me about her conversation, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Do you think he’s serious?” My wife said she thought he was.

“Maybe we should do it,” I said to her. “I mean, what we have been trying has not been working. Maybe it’s because our donor is far away, or maybe there is something with his sperm. Whatever it is, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try someone different.”

My wife thought about it. She thought about her colleague, and his generous offer. “He does look a lot like you,” she remarked.

She was right. He is taller than I am, but has the same color hair, the same texture hair, and the same color eyes. While I didn’t know much about him at the time, I knew he was smart, funny, and kind. Still, I was concerned about the fact that he lived in town, and that it would be possible that our children would be around the same age.

After several follow-up conversations with him, and after he discussed it with his wife, we decided to move forward using him as a donor. Three cycles later, my wife was pregnant.

My wife’s pregnancy was filled with emotion. We were so excited to become parents, but I was worried. What if I wouldn’t feel connected to this child? What if our donor decided to try to assert legal rights at the last minute? What if he changed his mind once our child was born? What if he started seeing the child as his? What if we see each other constantly and it is weird? What if our kids become friends? There were so many unknowns and, even with legal contracts, there was so much trust I had to place in a man I barely knew.

Fast forward two years and I am watching him play with his child on the playground. His child squeals with delight—“Daddy!”—giggling as his father pushes him on the swing. My daughter is playing with another child on the slide. I look over at the swings and I look back at my child. I study her face, looking for his face. I look for similarities between his child and mine. But I don’t see them. At least, not really. Sure, they are both adorable. Some of their features share certain aspects, but you would never pick them out as siblings in a crowd. Her face is not his—her face is simply my daughter’s face, perfect in every way.

Our relationship with our donor has been beautiful. His child and our child are friends, and our daughter knows him as her friend’s dad. Our donor has never once crossed any boundaries or even attempted to cross boundaries, which has been wonderful. His wife is supportive and similarly hands-off. When I see their child, I have a brief moment where I recognize that their child and our daughter are related. I mention that to my wife. She casually says, “Oh, I guess you’re right. That doesn’t really occur to me much.”

Of course, some day we may have to cross that bridge. Our contract allows us to reveal our donor to our child when she turns 18, or earlier with written consent of all three of us: my wife, the donor, and myself. But that is an issue for a later date.

Today, things are more simple and more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. I am pregnant with our daughter’s sibling, conceived with the help of the same donor. Over the course of being Pidge’s mom, I’ve come to realize that genetics mean far less to me than I thought. Still, I am excited about the fact that Pidge and her sibling will be genetically connected—not through their moms, but through the selfless giving of their donor. Their known donor, who we will always be thankful for and love.

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Pidge, after a successful day of painting at preschool

 

 

14 Weeks

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Hello, again. It has been awhile since I have written. I think I have been nervous.

Ever since I saw those two pink lines again, I have been elated and apprehensive. I was so excited to be pregnant again, to have new life growing inside me. At the same time, I was terrified to lose it. Pregnancy suddenly seemed so fragile—a precious gift that could disappear at any moment.

I tried to stay positive. It will work this time. But inside I wasn’t so sure.

Over the next several weeks, I searched my body for signs. Are my breasts still tender? How is my nausea? Are these cramps good or bad? I searched for signs and answers but it was like my own body was a mystery to me.

I sought reassurance from health care professionals. I had ultrasounds and did blood tests. Everything came back normal. There was no reason to fear that this pregnancy might terminate, but still I was afraid.

I am finally starting to breathe a little more. Just over 14 weeks along, we have made it to the second trimester. The risk of miscarriage at this point is less than one percent, and I like those odds. We started telling people we are pregnant, and we are beginning to get excited. Truly excited.

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A few Fridays ago, we went into the doctor’s office where we were able to hear baby’s heartbeat for the first time. Pidge came with us, and was in awe. All night long she kept telling us about how she heard baby sister’s heartbeat in Mom’s “yoo-tus.” It was adorable.

I am pregnant. I am really and truly pregnant.

We are so looking forward to welcoming our rainbow baby next March.

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Happy

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If it’s positive, I told myself, I will keep it a secret and then surprise my wife on June 6, our anniversary.

I placed the cap over the tip of the pregnancy test, setting it down on the counter face-up as the directions on the insert instructed. In the movies they always put it face-down, I thought. I understood why. It seemed safer, less anxiety-producing. Not wanting to compromise accuracy, I placed it face-up. Not wanting the stress, I tucked it behind a picture frame.

I walked out into the kitchen. I picked up Pidge and gave her a little nuzzle. My wife poured us some coffee – mostly decaf, of course. We talked about something, I don’t know what. My mind kept thinking about the test and my eyes kept wandering over to the clock. Three minutes has never felt so long.

My close childhood friend has been trying to get pregnant, too. We both started trying around the same time. Five days ago, I learned that this try worked. She was pregnant. I was ecstatic, but also a little jealous. It happened so quickly for her! Of course, she had a husband and what seemed like infinite opportunities for insemination whereas we only had two tries each month. I worried about how long it would take me. Would our donor get tired of helping us out? My mind was awhirl. The two-week wait between ovulation and when you can learn whether you are pregnant is just awful.

Shortly after I got off the phone with my friend, hopeful and experiencing what seemed like pregnancy signs, I took a test and it was negative. I knew it was an early test, and that sometimes early tests will come back negative even if you are pregnant. I took it after I had been getting mastitis-like symptoms. Given that Pidge has been gradually decreasing the amount she is nursing, this seemed odd. Maybe it means I’m pregnant. . . But no matter how hard I squinted, the test displayed only one pink line, dark and stark in contrast to the white space where the other line could have appeared. I hadn’t told my wife.

I set down my coffee – three minutes were up. I walked back into the bathroom. I was hopeful, but doubtful. The other test was probably right, I thought to myself. I reached back behind the frame.

TWO LINES.

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It was faint, but it was unmistakably there. I could hardly believe my eyes. My hand started to tremble.

Suddenly, all my planning about waiting to tell my wife went out the window. I sprinted into the kitchen, shaking. My wife knew before I could say anything. I beamed, she shrieked. We hugged and held each other. We were overcome with joy.

I took another test, a digital one this time. Pregnant. We could barely contain ourselves.

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My cycle-tracking application gave me the option to switch into pregnancy mode. “You are 4 weeks and 6 days along. Your embryo is currently the size of a red lentil.” The app gave me the option to choose a nickname for my growing baby. While Pidge was developing inside my wife, we called her Sprout. What should we call this one?

I picked up Pidge. “You’re going to be a big sister!” I told her. She smiled. I asked, “What should we call your baby sibling?” She paused and said “hmm,” putting her pointer finger up against her chin like she does when she’s being extra thoughtful. A few moments later she held her little finger up in the air, indicating she had an idea.

“Happy.”

Pidge grinned at me and I grinned back. Happy. It was perfect.

Mother’s Day

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“Good morning, beautiful. Happy Mother’s Day.” My wife gave me a pained smile and hoarsely responded with her own version of the phrase. She was sick. A stomach bug.

I knew the best gift I could give her would be to let her rest, and so began a day focused solely on Pidge and me. Together we cooked breakfast, read books, played with puzzles, danced, sang, baked cupcakes, made videos for my wife (“Happys day Mamaaaa!”), hiked with the dogs and tromped bare-bummed through wet grass. It was exhausting and beautiful; hard work and magic.

It was perfect.

If you don’t have kids, maybe motherhood just comes across as emotional labor and sleepless nights and exhaustion that somehow brews magic but looks like the usual assortment of diaper changes and tantrums. With the advent of blogging and social media, we’re all given the opportunity to peer into other people’s veneers of motherhood, highlight reels depicting sunshine and laughter and toothless smiles. We caption these moments with hard work and magic, because so much of motherhood lies somewhere in between.

I look over at my daughter. She notices my observance and flashes a smile, tilts back her head, and shakes her curls. She pops up to her feet and puts her hands on her knees. She’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to pat-pat-pat my legs or spread my arms wide, both acts an invitation. She squeals with delight and charges toward me. This game repeats and repeats until she inevitably face-plants, tears immediately streaming down her surprised face. I rush to her, scoop her up, and snuggle the tears away. I ask her if she needs an ice pack and she says, “No. Mom, Mom, Mom. Kiss. Snuggle. Mom.” She just needs me.

And in these moments, as I cradle my daughter who somehow seems so big and yet so very small, I realize something. My daughter didn’t just change me into a mom; she changed the way light hits an object. Everything looks different, not just because she exists, but because my own existence is so valuable to her.

Someday she won’t need me like this. Someday I may watch as she runs wide-armed to someone else, or seeks solace or comfort in another. Next weekend we will focus on my wife and her special relationship with Pidge, and I will rejoice with her as we celebrate her Mama. But not last Sunday. Last Sunday it was Pidge and me and hard work and magic and love. Last Sunday it was my Mother’s Day.

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First Try

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Just relax, I told myself. I looked at my phone to pass the time and to occupy my mind. I was in the bedroom alone, preparing myself for my first insemination.

A week earlier, after my first period since our daughter was born had come and gone, I began tracking my ovulation. Tests and mucus and body temperature—before trying to conceive, I had no idea how complicated all of this stuff is. And we’ve got one shot each month, so we have to get it right. No pressure.

Then Thursday morning it happened. The digital indicator on our ovulation predictor kit showed a smiling face. My heart stopped. Oh my gosh, I thought. It’s time.

We called our donor who, several months prior, had signed a contract with us to facilitate the process. He agreed to come over that evening and the next day as well.

I spent the next eight hours desperately trying to focus on work, but my mind was elsewhere. I wish we had tried yesterday, I thought. I knew from my copious amounts of research that it is better to inseminate prior to ovulation. The smiling face indicated that it was likely I would ovulate in the next 6-48 hours, but that’s all. If it was later, we still had time. If it was earlier, we missed the window.

But I had to stay positive and relaxed. Everyone tells you not to stress, because stress inhibits conception. From experience I can say that this is much easier said than done.

I waited in the bedroom. I heard our donor come in, greet my wife and daughter, and then head to the bathroom. A little while later, I heard the sink run. He walked downstairs and said to my wife, “I left it on the counter. Good luck!”

As he drove away, my wife and daughter came into the bedroom. “Mom!” my 18-month-old exclaimed. “Mom, Mom, Mooommmm.” She shimmied onto the bed and climbed on top of me, rubbing her face against mine. My wife got the sterile cup and syringe ready. I laughed. Trying for number 2 is so different than trying for number 1, I thought. My daughter giggled and played with a tube of Pre-seed.

“Okay, Pidge. Let’s go.” My wife scooped up our daughter. “Bye bye!” our daughter waved cheerfully.

I took a deep breath and held my legs up in the air. My wife leaned down and kissed my cheek. She smiled. I smiled back, full of nerves and hope. “As of right now,” she said, “we officially have a chance.”

 

A letter to our (known) donor

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Dear [Donor],

“Adoodookrukra,” Pidge explains what she’s doing matter-of-factly. She flashes a toothy grin, nods, and goes back to her stacker toy. Her bottom lip protrudes as she concentrates. It’s so Pidge. We know this because we know this little girl—her mannerisms, her moods, her desires, her displeasures. She is our whole world; our everything.

How can we possibly express our gratitude? How can we ever say thank you enough?

Pidge was born and time stood still. Our once empty arms were filled with this tiny bundle of joy and wonder. Our hearts felt like they could burst. Over the past year, we have shared every moment with Pidge. From the first time she laughed, to her first tooth, to rolling over, sitting up, crawling, and her first solid foods. Every day has been magic.

You have given us such a gift. Pidge would have been impossible without you. Thank you—for your willingness to help us grow our family; for the self-sacrifice it took; for adjusting your schedule repeatedly to be on our clock; for understanding and respecting your role as a donor. You are more than we could have ever asked for. You are more than we could have ever expected. And we are so thankful.

Not many people would step up and offer something like this, but you did. Your kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity is a testament to who you are. We are so thankful that our daughter will have a piece of that. Many women who want to have a child end up using an anonymous donor at a sperm bank. They have no idea about who makes up half of their child’s genetics. We feel so fortunate that we not only know who makes up Pidge, but that her genetics were contributed by a person who we admire and who we would want her to emulate.

We understand that [your wife] was a part of these decisions as well. That also means a lot to us. Her support for you being our donor underscores how incredible both of you are. You two have given us something more precious than we could ever describe. You have given us family. We will forever be grateful.

Thank you. For offering this to us, for following through, for helping create Pidge, for… everything.

Love,

Us. [Mom, Mama, and Pidge]

Hello, again.

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Busy is an understatement.

Between work and home and baby (now, toddler!) everything is a blur. Days splash into days and tumble into nights that crash like waves. A series of nurse, sleep, comfort, nurse, wake up, snuggle, nurse, nurse, nurse. I’m tired.

That is not to say that it has not been wonderful. Outrageously wonderful.

I’ve been meaning to write about how wonderful it has been. In fact, part of the reason that I have not posted is because I kept meaning to write about my beautiful first Mother’s Day and I couldn’t bring myself to post anything until I had posted about that glorious day. We lounged in bed, open gifts, ate brunch, and then lazed outside, blowing bubbles and adorning our daughter’s hair with dandelion halos.

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It was perfect, and I meant to write about it, but I didn’t. Then I meant to write about other things, and I didn’t. And I grew tired.

Here’s to getting back on track, despite being tired. Here’s to the world’s best Baby (who from now on I will refer to as Pidge, her nickname). Here’s to sleep deprivation for all the right reasons, and here’s to hoping better sleep comes soon.

Here’s to the renewed commitment to blog, and to tell you about all of the outrageously wonderful things that have happened and that are happening in my tiny one-year-old’s world.

Dear Baby

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Dear Baby,

Let me start by saying that you are my world. My sun rises and sets with you. You bring me such joy. Because I am working full-time, I don’t get to spend as much time with you as I’d like, but when I do, it’s so sweet.

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I love waking up next to you each morning. You usually wake me up to nurse shortly before my alarm goes off at 5:30 AM. You make a little searching noise and I know that it’s me you want. I roll on my side and you nurse. Sometimes you coo and grunt while you’re nursing. I feel your tiny little legs kick, kick, kick me under the sheets. Not hard, but rather it’s as if your body is saying, “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

I hear the buzzing of my alarm and I roll out of bed, careful not to wake you. I go through my daily routine — turn on the heat, start the coffee, put away the dishes, clean the cat litter, shower, pump. I wait for you to come down.

I hear footsteps on the stairs and know that it’s Mama. You’re in her arms, bright as a shiny new penny. You look at me with your open little face. Sometimes you give me a big smile. Other times you’re sleepier, staring at me glassy-eyed. Your mama hands you over to me and I melt. We snuggle for a bit and then I put you on your little potty to do your business. You baby-talk and bounce. We tie up your footie jammies in the back and it looks like your donning butterfly wings.

Then we play. We sit together on your rug and play with your book, your stacker, or any other toy. Sometimes you just roll around. I smile and stare into your perfect face, telling you over and over again how much I love you. Sometimes I cry when I have to go to work. Leaving you is really hard.

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But you are there, in my office. Your face adorns my walls and your smile is framed on my desk.

At 5:30 PM, I rush home to be with you. Mama is usually cooking dinner and you’re hanging out in your swing or on your play mat on the floor. Sometimes you give me a big smile but usually you just look up at me like, “Oh, it’s you. You’re supposed to be here.”

I scoop you up and we go upstairs so that I can change out of my work clothes. You sit on the bed and watch me. Once I’ve changed, I bound on the bed. You giggle. I kiss you all over and blow on your tummy. You squeal with delight. I kiss underneath your chin and you chuckle, “heh-heh-heh.” You smile so big that I can see all of your gums and the two small teeth you have on the bottom. After we’ve played, you nurse.

We eat together. I love watching you try out new foods. So far you’re a lot like me — you like things that are saucy. You like to suck the sauce out of broccoli. You like scooping up noodles or rice and slurping out the sauce. You’ve been surprisingly adventurous about spice, but if something is too spicy, you’ll hold your arms straight out to the side and shriek. You’re very good about communicating how you feel about things.

Most nights, we give you a bath before bed. You used to bathe with me but now you’re big enough to sit up in the tub on your own. You splash and play in the water. You like playing with a ping pong ball and with a cup. You watch that ball and you follow its movements in the water. Then you reach hard and grab it, so proud of yourself.

We head upstairs for bed. Mama has gotten everything ready, from your diaper to the sound effects to the twinkly rainbow lights above your bed. I tuck you in and you instinctively roll toward me. We nurse and snuggle and eventually you fall asleep. I kiss your little head and whisper softly, “Sweet dreams, my precious one.”

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Snow Day

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Snuggling under the warmth of a cozy blanket, I watch the snow fall gently through the window. Baby’s sweet murmurs, coos, and simple sounds fill the silence, punctuated by the occasional giggle. I can’t believe she is already six and a half months old.

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This has been a season of firsts. In December, we celebrated Baby’s first Christmas. My wife’s family flew across the country to be with us and we spent our days eating and laughing and attempting to sled through the knee-deep snow in our yard. Our plan was for my wife’s brother and his wife and baby to join us. Unfortunately, their daughter was too sickly to make the journey. They have been struggling a lot with her. My sister-in-law gave up on breastfeeding after four days and our niece has not done well on formula. She developed serious acid reflux and was hospitalized over Christmas. We were all very concerned. My wife and I offered to donate our surplus breastmilk to them, but they were unwilling to accept it. Today, our niece seems to be on the mend, though she is being medicated for reflux and she gets sick often. We feel so fortunate that our daughter has been nothing but happy and healthy during these first few months of her life.

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Although my maternity leave was too short and despite not wanting to work at all, I’ve been fortunate to spend the last six months working from home as a staff attorney for an international animal rights nonprofit. Although this experience was short-lived, it was wonderful while it has lasted.

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The flexibility in my schedule allowed me to be present with Baby as she moved through her early milestones: rolling over, laughing, sitting up, and starting solids. We are trying a Baby-Led Weaning (BLW) approach, having Baby join us during our meals and letting her serve herself selections from some of the foods we are eating rather than spoon-feeding her purees. It has been a joy to watch her discover tastes and textures. So far her favorite foods are green apples, avocado-filled tortillas, and spaghetti.

 

In addition to BLW, my wife and I have implemented other parenting strategies, many that are Montessori inspired. For example, after never using it, we officially returned Baby’s crib in February and replaced it with a full-sized mattress we placed on the floor. We decorated it with bright colors and pillows, but when Baby sleeps on it, all those things come off. We are currently in the process of baby proofing the entire room. For now, the new setup is working great, but we will see how we feel about it when she becomes mobile!

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We have also been practicing Elimination Communication (EC). This approach encourages learning and listening to Baby’s cues, and helping them to the potty when they need to eliminate. The idea is to help Baby avoid sitting in her own mess. Another benefit to doing this is that it often results in getting baby out of diapers much faster. In our experience, not only has Baby been receptive to this practice, she seems to enjoy it. We’re enjoying doing less cloth diaper laundry. In fact, we have not had to launder a poopy diaper in over two months!

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Baby is a traveler. So far, she has been to 15 states! We recently did two trips to New York City and Brooklyn, toured Philadelphia, visited my grandparents’ grave at West Point, and visited my wife’s brother’s family in Virginia Beach. We have taken Baby hiking through the snow and watched as the flakes gathered softly on her long, dark lashes.

 

My wife and I spend every Sunday downhill skiing on our local mountain. We take turns hitting the slopes while the other parent watches Baby. Our daughter spends her time on the mountain charming everyone she meets, from other skiers to the cleaning crew to the lodge bar staff. “A little skier?” people ask. “As soon as she can stand!” we reply.

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I have cherished every moment with Baby. In fact, I have been so present with her that I struggled to find time to update my blog. I am mesmerized by her—the way she discovers the world around her, the hard work it takes for her to do the simplest things such as bring a piece of food to her lips or manipulate her mouth and tongue to form the word, “Mama.” She is a wonder. Her next project is clearly crawling. Baby has been pushing her little hips up in the air from her tummy position, and using her Pikler Triangle to improve core strength.

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As the temperature began to warm (they dropped again this week), I took Baby to watch the ice jams in the river. For those of you who are not familiar, it gets so cold in Vermont that the rivers freeze in thick, icy sheets. As the waters begin to thaw, they crack off loudly and are carried by the current until they are pushed into the river banks. There, they pile up and create what looks like a stone wall. I pointed and explained the phenomenon to Baby. She squinted her eyes in the sunlight and squealed with glee.

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Last week, my mom flew out from California to spend a little time visiting with Baby and with us. We went for long walks, skied, and enjoyed an evening candlepin bowling. My wife decided having a baby on her hip was the key to success!

 

This Monday, I begin a new job with a firm in town. I’ll be focusing on LGBTQ and Family Law litigation, and possibly a little criminal defense. I’m excited to return to community-based practice and to the courtroom, but I am sad to be leaving Baby for nine hours per day. I just need to keep focused on the time I do have with her, remembering that while I may be a lawyer by trade, my primary job is Baby’s Mother. And it is the best job in the world.

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