When I had my first baby, I acted like the walking wounded. Whined. Limped around the house in my bathrobe for weeks. Had the devil’s own time getting into that heavy cotton nursing bra.
I remember drinking gallons of water to stock the dairy case, so to speak, and when I spiked a fever and got a lump in one breast I called the doctor in a cold panic thinking, Breast cancer! An episiotomy and now breast cancer!
He took my panicked call and agreed to see me.
“Uh, that’s milk,” he said on examining me.
“That’s just a blocked duct,” he went on and patted my hand. “Put the baby to the breast more often and you’ll be cured in a matter of hours.”
And so I did and so I was, but I was still a wreck for at least the next 12 weeks – right up until the time the baby pushed herself up on her elbows and started smiling like mad at her pint-sized Raggedy Ann doll.
Well this is that smiling baby above. She had a baby two days ago and talk about a contrast.
Let’s just say that I don’t expect much limping and whining.
She did most of the labor at home. When I came by the house, she was calmly reading in the tub while timing her contractions.
She and Chris got to the hospital somewhere after 9pm and the baby came shortly after midnight. When we saw her there 9 hours later she looked as fresh as a bouquet of apple blossoms in her tank-top and skirt, with nice shiny hair and lovely pink cheeks.
In short there couldn’t have been a greater contrast to my experience, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because she played sports in high school whereas when I was in high school there were no sports – unless you called cheering for the boys a sport.
Girls today are tougher than we were, what can I say? They can look sweet and pliant but underneath? Pure steel. You think it’s easy bringing one of these into the world? This is the new little Marotta-Campo baby, to be called Callie, short for Caroline.
I hope she goes easy on these two big brothers of hers (and they think playing games on their grandparents’ i-Phones is a challenge!)
Let’s not sell the young short. There’s a lot you can learn from them, whether they’re little OR big.
It was from the young that I learned how easy it is to push a keychain with its small silver beads far back enough in your nose that you can then reach toward the back of your throat and – Presto! – pull it out of your mouth. Sure, it takes some convulsive gulping but it can be done.
You can also press “Play” on your iPod, insert the two ‘ear buds’ of your headset into your nostrils and say “Ah” and yup, there’s another pharynx trick: the music rolls right out over your tongue.
Some of these things I have learned from my own kids, some from the ever-renewing crop of teenagers I work with in my volunteer time.
My own kids are grown now and gone from the nest, I should explain, but I have a really good memory. And between what I remember learning from them and what I remember learning from these many other young people, I have a whole headful of lessons.
For example, from the VERY young I have learned that as a specimen anyway, I am vastly interesting.
Not as an individual, mind you, but as a specimen.
And as any little child can demonstrate, you are interesting too.
Just think what they do when you hold them: They look in your ears. They tug on your hair to see if it’s stuck down. They put their fingers in your mouth, perhaps asking themselves if a career in the oral health field holds any appeal for them.
Because he was our last and had two older sisters and four or five honorary siblings, our youngest child, pictured here, grew up with a blizzard of talk around him.
This meant that from toddlerhood on, he gave voice to his every thought.
“I love your nice fat arms!” he said to me once, squeezing the place where my biceps would have been if I’d had any biceps.
Another time he returned to our towel at the beach, looked down at what I had vainly imagined were my attractive Coppertone-slicked legs and said, “Your thighs look like hot dogs.”
Learning to befriend my extra flesh was his gift to me.
.Reminding you of your place in the universe is another such gift.
Fret aloud about your appearance and one of them is sure to look at you with pity.
“Mum, it’s fine” he or she will say. “Nobody’s going to be looking at you!” And yet they speak the words so kindly, even lovingly – often with little pats to your arm.
Really what they are saying is that you don’t have to be ‘cool’ or ‘hip’ and only think what effort this knowledge will spare you in the end!
I am happy to know that if I ever trot out my old platform shoes, or my college bell-bottoms, or God forbid, that halter top fashioned from two scarves, they will gently distract me and hide all three items.
One day last summer when we were all together as a family, I pointed to the skin on my arms, now crisscrossed with tiny fine wrinkles.
“Look!” I said turning to one of my girls. “My arms are starting to look like Grandma’s arms!”
“I know,” she said with the most loving smile. “Isn’t it great?”
I got her meaning right away because it is great. Of course it’s great.
Because only the lucky grow old. And the really lucky get to know a few young ones, whose high spirits can gladden any heart.
Billy Crystal’s big night is tonight. I love him; I root for him, even though he now looks a little like North Korea’s newly deceased dictator. Even though to many viewers’ minds it will be as if someone dug up Teddy Roosevelt and asked him to host the Oscars.
It’s not that way for me. And old Teddy Roosevelt could never do what Billy can do, however jovial he might have been with those great big chompers.
Just look at this tape from the early 80’s. It’s so funny with his bit about his high school full of meek Jewish kids facing off against the giants from Erasmus High.. And the part where he talks about puberty hitting. Billy sure had it ~ and my money says he still does.
Never mind the robins acting like nuns in my last post, the seagulls act like fussy little school principals – or maybe like my Latin teacher when I was in Eighth Grade.
He was a plump little man with a named that rhymed with Chardonnay. He giggled at inappropriate moments and rolled his hands one over the other, like Mr. Burns on the Simpsons.
He gave me three demerits for incessant talking and when my fearsome older-mother-of-a-mom hove into sight like the Queen Mary, he giggled some more, did a rapid nervous blink and in a doomed effort to ingratiate himself, blurted out the confession that as someone whose family came from Montreal, he got his Latin and his French mixed up all the time. (That did it for Mom. You might as well have told her you didn’t know the difference between Ireland and Northern Ireland.)
She gave him a devil of a time about the Latin but the demerits were left to stand, right there on my Permanent Record, as they used to always tell us our crimes would do.
I only bring all this up so I can speak about seagulls, who as you know often appear many miles in from the briny deep.
The seagulls I watched a few hours ago reminded me so much of Mr. Chardonnay the way they skittered and plunked skittered and plunked. They really did look like fussy little pedagogues.
I love the way can take off at a trot, the way those drinking straw legs propel their plump bodies, bip-bip-bip-bip across the ice. Bip-bip-bip-bip they go again; then stop on a dime, all turn and face left like Civil War Generals posing for a studio portrait. Then, ten minutes later they all turn right.
There’s always that one you see on the shore standing on one leg like Ahab on the deck of The Pequo . Ahab only had one leg, remember, the other having been chomped by the white whale Moby Dick.
I saw that seagull yesterday too, standing on one with the other tucked up against his body. He was squinting into the wind trying to look like a Civil War general himself, just hoping someone would take his picture.
I’m a nice person. I took it:
I bet he wanted to look fierce, like when Snoopy tries to look like a vulture to scare little Linus here.
“Be afraid! Be very afraid!” he is saying – Unless I’m completely wrong and really he’s pretending he’s a flamingo and would like nothing more than to trade this tan-bland landscape in for something more gorgeously hued, preferably with palm trees and a turquoise pond, where he could stand around striking poses and looking like a lady’s drink in a cocktail lounge in Key West. (They call that projection ha ha. That’s where I wish I was, my one long leg in fish-net hose.)
Remember Simon and Garfunkel’s The Zoo? We humans try to anthropomorphize the animals, as the images in this clip show. It’s so sweet and sad! It says everything about Poor Lonely Us and very little about Majestic Self Sufficient Them.
Because the animals, God bless ’em, just go on being animals.
So what if we do get a little snow today? I’m watching three robins prowl silent as the nuns of my childhood, eavesdropping on the poor worms passing between classes in their underground corridors.
I’m looking at two crocuses holding up their cupped blossom like so many pale-purple shot-glasses. “Fill us!” they say, like young Oliver Twist at the workhouse. “Please, sir, may I have some more?” they are saying to that warming sun.
We laugh at the snow and wind. Look at these blooms from the Smith College hothouse. Soon these blooms will be everywhere
Well, wait a minute.
Sure I can laugh, safe in the land of the Alcotts and Thoreau, in quaint old not-much-doin’ New England where things are generally quiet.
I guess I wouldn’t laugh if I lived out by Boulder County Colorado when these winds came through on Wednesday.
Here is a video of what a wind can do. I’d show you the truck blown over out there but the footage is embedded in the Channel 9 News site and first you have to watch a long ad in which a heavy lady talks about how her life changed when she skinnied out on some miracle diet product.
It’s upsetting to see a truck go over on its side, as bad as seeing a race horse founder and fall, because you know there’s a person in it. It does show what Nature can do though; and it isn’t funny at all.