Momentary difficulties

Charlie's the first baby born of my body, and the only one I'll have. I am always aware that he is my single chance.

I don't mean that I'll never again have the pleasure of watching a brand-new baby wake up to the world around him and gradually make it his own. If our second child is an adopted newborn, I'll feel the same sheepish awe I feel now — sheepish because in my conviction that Charlie is deeply brilliant for, you know, learning to focus his eyes, I'm no different from any other parent, ever.

And I don't mean that I think I won't love this much again when another child joins our family. It'll be different, but I know it'll be good. I have my friends inside the computer to thank for that certainty; those of you who've written so honestly and beautifully about your adoptions have made me confident of that.

What I mean is as simple as this: this is my only chance to be a first-time mother. It's changing me, and for once I'm not talking about my rack. I'm learning surprising things about myself, inspiring and appalling things, things I otherwise never would have known.

Realizing this, I try very hard to stay in the moment. I try to let myself feel every emotion of his babyhood, good and bad. I try not to wish even the hard parts away, because they bring with them split-second glimpses of beauty and joy that don't come any other way. But there's a problem with living in the moment: once you've gotten good at it, it's hard to see beyond it.

On a day like today, it's hard to believe that some things will get easier, that Paul and I will have grown-up fun again, that one day Charlie will go for more than 30 minutes without needing something urgently, that eventually he'll make his needs known in ways that aren't uniformly unpleasant. I know those things are true, but when you live resolutely in the moment, you lose the knack of taking a longer view.

When you forget, because you're living so immovably in the moment, what everyone's told you — that the naps will get longer, the nights will become more peaceful, the interactions will grow richer, that above all what bothers you now will change — it's easy to sink into a shell-shocked sadness. I'm not convinced that living in the moment is everything it's cracked up to be, not when the moment's so hard.

(Oh, and it's "retarded," and that's a nasty thing to say no matter how much Jesus loves you.)

wow, you are rediculus. i dont even have time to waste explaining how absurd it is to say that (essentially) abstinance is useless. you are retarted, but i pray for you...

Um...thanks...I think.

It's hard to know where to start with this comment on an old post of mine about abstinence pledges for teens. The fish-in-a-barrel approach — I'll cop to being "rediculus," but "retarted"? The keep-your-laws-off-my-body-and-your-prayers-off-my-booty approach? The not so sporting but oh, so satisfying post-the-commenter's-damningly-specific-IP-address approach? The you're-not-gonna-believe-what-this-character-was-Googling approach?

You know, I think for once I'll play it straight.

No, really.

I want to be perfectly clear: contrary to what our learned friend above asserts, I think abstinence is just dandy. I think it's a real and respectable stance for anyone of any age, but particularly the subset of teenagers who aren't prepared to deal with the consequences of sexual activity. It's the institutionalization of abstinence that concerns me.

It should surprise no one to learn that I have a tremendous problem with the notion of foisting abstinence pledges on teens. Aside from any philosophical qualms I might have about the religious underpinnings of any such programs deployed in the public schools, and any sputtering rage I might (okay, do) feel at the fact that my tax dollars are funding the fundies, there's the indisputable fact that public virginity pledges simply don't work.

It's been demonstrated that teenagers who take these virginity vows are almost exactly as likely to contract sexually transmitted diseases as teens who don't. Plus, while they may delay vaginal intercourse longer than other teens, they're more likely than the overall teen populace to engage in other risky sexual behavior. Pledges may work for kids who live up the them, but the vast majority — a staggering 88% — don't. And these teens who don't plan to have sex don't have condoms at the ready (PDF file) when they break their pledge.

Isn't an organized push to urge teens to take an abstinence pledge worth it, if even 12% will benefit? Well, no, not when the result — ignorance and avoidance of contraception and STD prevention — is so damaging to the rest. I'd suggest that those few teens who do stand firm are predisposed to self-knowledge and good judgment; they're likely also to have made a private commitment to themselves out of personal moral conviction. It seems obvious to me that because of their intrinsic values they'd make the same decision not to have sex if they were presented with facts instead of, um, lies so breathtaking I'm surprised I can't smell the pants burning from here.

If public virginity pledges worked, the groups that sponsor them might legitimately claim that their efforts are inspired by a concern for public health rather than a drive to save souls. But the pledges don't, and the sponsors can't, despite any frantic scramble to strip the religion out of their message in the face of public scrutiny. True public health advocates agree that promoting abstinence is an important facet of helping teens stay healthy, but insist that access to unbiased information about sexual health is every bit as critical, a stance that virginity pledge programs categorically oppose.

It's a fact: teens are having sex. It's not just the heathens, either. Teens who take public virginity pledges are having sex, too. And a lot of those would-be virgin teens are putting their health at risk. Why? Because they haven't been given solid information about how to protect themselves. Because they're discouraged from taking a pragmatic look at the best way to take care of themselves. Because their normal desires and behaviors have been driven underground in the face of faith-based pressure.

Their well-being is being compromised because some religious organizations find it more important to look after their souls than to educate them about their bodies.

Is it "rediculus" to be upset about this?

Fine. I guess I am "retarted."

Six months

Six months ago this minute, I was lying on a table in Norwalk, Connecticut, listening to a scrub nurse count Alice clamps to make sure I didn't make off with any. My plan had been to sneak out with a few extras secretly tucked into my uterus — or as I like to call it, my crime pouch — but my diabolical scheme was thwarted in its infancy, and I was wheeled out without Alice one.

I asked Paul earlier if he's happier now than he was six months ago. I was fishing for some kind of warm affirmation, a definitive statement of contentment, harmonious agreement that, yes, things have been hard, but they're getting better, and our lives are growing richer with every passing day. "Oh, yeah," Paul said fervently, and I thought I was home free.

But he continued. "Am I happier than I was exactly six months ago?" He looked at his watch.

"Oh, yeah."

...

I am also happier than I was six months ago. First, I no longer feel as if I've just chugged a jeroboam of Liquid-Plumr followed with a frosty chaser of lye. Second, I'm not especially worried that I'm going to suddenly, you know, get all dead and stuff. Third, now we have Charlie.

Today Charlie had his six month checkup. The doctor examined him, posed a few questions about his developmental progress, and then asked, "And what's his personality like?"

I was utterly tongue-tied. He's...well, he's...he's just Charlie.

He wakes peacefully. If I'm there when he opens his eyes, he smiles up at me. He cries to get our attention if no one is cribside when he checks, but it's more of a call than a cry.

He is righteously offended by any attempt to feed him when the temperature of the liquid is not precisely to his liking. I can see him composing the acid review he'll pen for Zagat's (when he can eventually write, that is).

He is visibly fond of that Muppet song. I make up lyrics, and I punctuate them with noisy kisses to his cheeks:

You are my baby [kiss, kiss]
My baby boy [kiss, kiss]
You are my baby, my bunny, my buddy, my birdie
And you always bring me joy. [kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss]

I got my first belly laugh with this, and it doesn't even include swear words. I think I am going soft.

Seductively sprawled on the rug in front of the fireplace, he makes sweet, sweet love to his Lamaze worm.

He currently dislikes being cradled unless he's being fed or rocked before sleep. He prefers to sit up in my lap, though he still needs support to do it. Best of all is standing on my lap, held high above me. I amuse myself by making Godzilla-storming-Tokyo noises. He amuses himself by smiling down at me, leaking long strings of drool in his excitement.

In the main, he enjoys his bouncy seat, and in this he is not alone, but too long in thrall to its noisy toy bar and he gets a little frantic, unable to stop kicking and making noise, casting about for someone to rescue him.

When confronted with new experiences, he's alert but not alarmed. When we take him for walks in the woods and show him leaves and mossy stones, he furrows his hairless brow in concentration, thoughtfully taking it in.

When we give him a bath I like to pour a trickle of warm water over his head, letting it run down his face in thin streams. He smiles and opens his mouth to catch the water.

He's crazy about the baby in the mirror.

You know. Nothing exceptional. Just Charlie.

...

He got three booster shots today, three long needles plunged deep into the meat of his small but hammy thigh. A year ago I felt that pain myself.

Despite a good stiff shot of Tylenol, this afternoon he was still wretched, crying from 4 until bedtime. He cried when we held him. He cried when we didn't. So of course we held him close.

And this may sound crazy, but I could see that he wanted to be happy. He'd catch my eye and smile, forgetting how much he hurt, but then suddenly he'd remember, and the tears would come again. He wobbled on the line between laughter and misery, and it almost broke my heart, this stouthearted boy trying hard to be friendly while he was in pain.

...

Six months ago this minute, I was waking from an opiate stupor just long enough to remember where I was and why I was there. I thought about the boy down the hall, whom I'd seen for only a quick count of five and wouldn't see again for a day and a night. I knew he was small, and I knew he was sick, and I knew it could all end badly. I knew the hardest part was ahead.

Oh, yeah. I'm happier now.

Keep your powder dry and your wipes wet

Most of you will laugh that I even bother to post about this.

Yesterday we were taking Charlie for a ride -- ostensibly to the cheese-and-chocolate outlet by way of the gas station that for no good reason appears to charge 20 cents a gallon less than anywhere else in the state. He's been a bit fussy since getting stabbed three times in the leg for his six-month birthday, and we thought it might calm him. (As a science geek, I also pointed out that if he started crying really loud we could just run the car up to mach 1 and outrun the soundwaves.)

Of course, halfway through the trip Charlie went from twisting his head around to look forward at me with big appealing eyes to calling out for attention to calling out rather more urgently for food. No problem, we just waited him out for a few miles and pulled into the first available parking lot, at a disused carwash, and I got the bottle out of his carefully prestocked bag. He fit neatly across my lap as he ate, only occasionally kicking his carseat or thumping his head against the passenger door.

Cue one gastrocolic reflex. Also no problem -- the bag has long been stocked with diapers -- in his current size yet -- and moist wipes. Which were after a month or so of no in-car events about as moist as a civil-defense cracker from 1955.

We are gifted improvisers, and Charlie did just fine being changed and mostly cleaned under the shelter of a liftgate and an open carwash booth. Whoever empties the dumpster at the apartments across the way, my thanks and apologies.

So now we know to rotate our stock of moist wipes, and all the more-experienced folks out there are shaking their heads at the exponentially more messy hijinks that await us. But every day we do something new with Charlie without utterly screwing up I like to imagine at least a tiny glow of accomplishment, and that was yesterday's.