Author Archives: amerrill

blogging

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I have done a complete overhaul on my blog several times since the time I started it, and yet it appears it’s time to do so again. The first year or so, this blog was completely unfocused and I didn’t post with much consistency. I pulled my act together and started blogging daily the following year, but still without much of a theme. I eventually narrowed my focus and set up pages like the New Reader page to make my mission clear (somewhat). But, it seems my mission has changed. 

The blogs that I personally read and love have a clear voice and a story. That is what I’ve been lacking. But, I felt a voice and story begin to emerge from me during my pregnancy and this blog has slowly become something I never intended or imagined it would. I’m hesitant to label it anything at this point, though some could say it’s a parenting blog. I just know that writing about my pregnancy allowed me to share on a deeper, more relatable level and the feedback I’ve gotten has been overwhelming. I’ve received numerous emails and comments, since my blog changed course, that confirm I am moving in the right direction.

I always said that having a child would somehow connect me to an opportunity in my personal life (i.e. career), but I had no idea what that looked like. I have been working on my photography business, little by little, off and on, for a few years now, and right now I feel most drawn to photographing pregnant women, babies/families, and possibly births. I’m so in awe of all those things, and can’t imagine anything more beautiful and meaningful so it makes sense that I would not only want to photograph it (as that is my artistic medium), but also write about it. We’ll see where this all leads…..

So, I will have to overhaul this blog yet again—it needs a new, pithy name (suggestions?), new banner, new tagline, etc. Now I just have to find the time to work on this with a small infant….oh….she just woke up. And she’s hungry. I’ll get around to all this work someday.

Thanks for all your support, dear readers! And thanks for reading!
xo
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boobs

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In honor of World Breastfeeding Week, I’d like to talk about boobs. 


There are a myriad of reasons that I find myself shocked and ashamed of our country when it comes to birthing and mothering. One such reason is our country’s annoying sexualization of the human body. This is something that has always bothered me, but when I conceived a child, I became more bothered by it than ever. 


I’ve always been closer to the nudist colony side of the modesty spectrum, so it’s not entirely shocking that I have a problem with the shame and self-consciousness over our bodies that plagues us in this country. After giving birth, it now feels downright ridiculous. I have often heard that giving birth strips you of your self-consciousness and I wholeheartedly agree with that. It’s kind of difficult to give birth and be modest at the same time. I mean, that baby is going to come out of your vagina whether or not you feel cool with it. And, at least a few people are going to have to witness it. So, let’s face it, once a room full of people (some of whom you’ve never met before) have seen your bare ass up in the air as you try to push a human being out of you while on all fours, or you’ve had a nurse stick a bed pan under you so you can pee in bed (and then that same nurse cleans you up after said peeing has occurred), or you’ve had four hands inside you at once as they try to help your baby out, or you’ve had a blot clot the size of a tangerine fall out of your vagina, right onto a nurse’s foot…..well…..you are less inclined to feel the need to cover up your bare body out of shame or embarrassment.


After I gave birth—in a room full of eight people, two cameras, and a video camera—I saw little need to cover up. Halfway through the pushing phase of labor, I yanked my hospital gown off, and remained naked until about an hour after my baby was born. The rest of my hospital stay, I only put on clothes when family came to visit. The rest of the time, though there was hospital staff coming and going constantly, I hung out in bed with my baby on my bare chest, rocking nothing but the enormous mesh underwear the nurses bless you with after birth. I wanted my baby to have all the skin-to-skin contact she needed (and you are urged to do so by doctors/midwives/baby books). I also knew my baby needed to nurse constantly. Why would I put clothes on when I had to take them off every hour? 


And so, the great boob exposure began. Every nurse, doctor, midwife, pediatrician, blood drawer, housekeeper and delivery person on the maternity ward had to deal with it. The interesting thing was that I rarely even noticed that my boobs were out…..unless I got a strange or uncomfortable look. And yes, there were some uncomfortable looks. That is where my annoyance over the sexualization of the female breast began to grow. I was in a HOSPITAL where one would expect a bare human body to be no big deal (as far as doctors and nurses are concerned, at the very least), AND I had just given birth so my baby obviously needed feeding round-the-clock. Also, the nurses wrote me daily reminders to make sure to get plenty of skin-to-skin time with my infant. But, even under those conditions, a couple of nurses and doctors looked visibly uncomfortable to walk into the room and see me sitting in my bed in only my underwear.


Then I went home. And began living in the normal world, as a mother of a small baby, a baby who is breastfed. 


My breasts haven’t felt like sexual objects since before I was pregnant. As a pregnant woman, my body became a body—a beautiful, strong, miraculous body able to create and nourish life. And that feeling only multiplied after giving birth and breastfeeding. My vagina births babies, my breasts feed babies. And why can’t we appreciate that? Why does everything in this country have to be about sex? Why do I need to use a “hooter hider” to feed my baby in public (I had one gifted to me, but never use it). 


I’m not saying that I never cover my breasts while feeding my baby in public—when I am in public places that feel breast-feeding friendly, I don’t hesitate to whip a bare boob out, and when I’m not, I’m a little more discreet. But, being discreet sometimes feels as if I am valuing random strangers’ discomfort/horror over my baby’s need to eat. And that. That makes me feel sad, because this country has imprinted its sexualized ideals into my psyche thus causing me to feel I have something to hide or be ashamed of for fear of offending somebody. OR, I am feeling the eyes of someone leering at me who clearly has a sexualized view of breasts, and I simply want to make that stop. 


My point is, I am now in a mind space where I often forget my breast is even exposed (there have been several accidental boob exposures after forgetting to snap my shirt back together after a feeding) yet I am often reminded that the vast majority of the population hasn’t been freed from limited thinking. We are a highly sexualized society, with half-naked women on billboards and magazine covers, half-naked women starring in movies, pornographic material clogging up our computers, young girls dressing provocatively well before they’ve even developed breasts. But, at the same time, we are highly ashamed of our bodies and find birthing videos and breastfeeding in public offensive. There is a total disconnect here. 


I’m not a crusader, but I do think this is an important discussion—discussing it is what makes others think and consider an issue. In an ideal world, I’d love to see this country change its thinking. But, for now, I suppose I am making others think about the issue every time I accidentally (or knowingly, without a care) flash them. I’m doing my part, one boobie at a time. 


All I know is that right now, as I write this, my baby is lying next to me in bed, latched onto my breast, drifting off to sleep completely content and it’s one of the most beautiful, heart-warming moments of my day. It’s crazy to me that this could ever be seen as offensive. The end.  


First feeding
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musings on motherhood

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Since Em has been born, the one thing I’ve made a valid attempt to keep going (because, let’s face it, with an infant almost everything gets the back burner) is writing my blog. For a while, I was impressed with my ability to keep up with my writing. I didn’t write every day, like I used to, but a smattering of posts here and there is still impressive with a newborn, as far as I’m concerned. But, for the past few weeks writing has joined the rest of “me” on the back burner and I feel myself slipping away.


I’ve heard so many times that the first month with a baby is the hardest, but I’d beg to differ. Of course, I am sure I will always look back to former phases and remember them as being easier. I suppose it’s like I said in one of my posts last month, it doesn’t ever get easier, it just gets different as things shift. At any rate, right now I am remembering the first few weeks of Em’s life as a time when I was able to maintain a tiny bit of “me time.” That “me time” was always had with a baby in my arms, or at my breast, but it still somewhat resembled time for myself as I would fill it with writing blogs or long emails to friends, editing photos or even watching movies or TV on Netflix (a huge luxury I’m sure I won’t see again for a few years). It’s not that my child didn’t need me during that phase, because she was absolutely glued to my body 24 hours a day and I only left her for 10 minutes every three days to take a shower (yes, I only showered every third day in those early days). But, the majority of time spent with my child—apart from the hours I would spend just staring at my beautiful little angel in awe—was time that I needed to occupy myself, because she was mostly just sleeping and eating. 


Now, I have an incredibly alert, interactive baby who is awake for longer stretches and who has decided in the past few weeks that she only wants her mama. It’s obviously natural for a baby to prefer her mama, and natural to go through these phases, but it doesn’t make me any less tired knowing that. It’s a tough gig, being a mama. And, when your child goes through inevitable “phases,” it’s difficult to remember that the phase won’t last. That’s what Alex and I have been hearing from everyone since Em’s birth—a constant chorus line echoing in our ears….”It won’t last. Things will change. It’s just a phase.” As comforting as it is to hear that, it’s often difficult to remember when in the throws of a 3-hour fight to get your baby to sleep, as your palms sweat and you’ve tried ever baby soothing tactic you know and Dr. Sears’ magical tactics are just plain failing, and you can’t hand the baby off to daddy without cries so hysterical that your boobs start leaking milk and all the mothering hormones in you rush and surge to the point of you wanting to cry, because the pain of seeing your child upset is unbearable…..so you grab the baby back into your chest, though you are running on fumes. Yes, it’s hard to remember that those three hours will ever end, let alone remember that some day your babe will be self-sufficiant and you will be crying for her to want and need you that much again.


So, my writing. My writing has been swallowed up by long cuddle sessions on the couch, guided tours around my house for the little one whose hungry eyes need to just “look at things” for a good few hours each day, running around like a maniac trying to accomplish a week’s worth of household chores in the few minutes a day off of my body that Em graces me with, long chats and giggle sessions on the changing table as Em shows off the new tricks she’s learned each day, bouncing the baby to sleep on an exercise ball every other hour (because it’s the only way she will take her naps right now), animated Dr. Seuss readings, dangling toys and random household objects in front of my baby so she can touch and explore them, and the general trouble shooting of various noises and cries that emanate from my sweet girl round the clock. And, that’s okay. That’s the job. I’m a mama, a mama with a small infant. I wouldn’t give her any less of myself, because I can wait. But, I’m still hoping that I’ll find the time to be “me” once in a while too.


P.S. I’m also hoping I find the time to take more photographs of my little one! Time is moving fast and she looks so different every day, so it’s killing me that my crazy baby photogging has slowed down recently.
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yes, we buried her placenta

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We finally buried Em’s placenta…about ten minutes after I had the brilliant idea to bury it on the uninhabited island in the middle of a lake in the Adirondack mountains where we conceived our baby. I thought it was genius. It would have been so symbolic and that way, we’d all be able to visit it, because someday I’m sure we will leave this house given how restless we are….and then what? Then my baby’s placenta remains in the ground in some strangers backyard? Alex asked me if I was truly serious about packing the placenta in a cooler, driving it five hours to the Adirondacks, renting a canoe, canoeing the placenta and a shovel (and our baby) out to the island, and burying the placenta there. I said yes, of course, it’s a brilliant idea and much more emotionally tolerable for me. Ten minutes later, though, we were in the backyard and the placenta was lowered into the hole in the ground that my husband had already dug in the 100 degree heat. And there it remains.
We didn’t have an actual ceremony like I planned and hoped we would, but I suppose there is always time for that….and now we have spared all those who attend it from having to watch us handle a frozen organ. Surprisingly, this is upsetting to some people (sense the sarcasm;). Grandpa Jack was in attendance and was not as impressed by the placenta as some of us were (ok, it was just me who was impressed).  I admit, as fascinated as I am with placentas, and as emotionally attached as I was to my baby’s, it wasn’t exactly appealing when it was two months old and frozen. The biohazard bag took a little bit of the beauty out of the symbolic moment. And then Alex’s sunglasses fell in the hole….next to the placenta….and I started to scream, because natural or not, it’s still a biohazard.
Emerson seemed to at first be thinking “what are you people doing to my womb?!” But, that quickly became, “Are you done digging, Daddy? I’m losing interest.”
Anyway, perhaps a year from now we will hold hands in a circle around Emerson’s dogwood tree and sing songs and recite poetry and my hippie dreams will be fulfilled.

 

 
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motherless daughters

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I started writing this post a few months before I gave birth. At that time, I didn’t know how to end it, so it’s been sitting around with the other unpublished posts I’ve got piling up on my computer. But, today—the anniversary of my (adoptive) mother’s death— I thought it would be appropriate to take it out and finally finish it.


I wrote this while pregnant….


I woke myself up in the middle of the night calling for my mother last week. There I was, the middle of the night, big belly making my escape from my bedsheets nearly impossible, tears in my eyes, calling for the one and only person that I cannot have right now. I spoke to her anyway, spoke out loud to the darkness, but I found myself alone.


My midwives tell me that women without mothers experience the pain of that absence all over again during pregnancy. In becoming a mother, it only makes sense that you would look back to your own. For me, that’s a complicated thing to do. I’ve lost two mothers in my lifetime. The first was lost to addiction and mental illness. She is not deceased, but was swallowed up by her afflictions so much so that I do not know the real woman beneath them….I do not know who I lost, but have always carried that absence with me on a profound level.


My second experience of losing a mother was quite different, though. There was a woman who was first my stepmother, who relentlessly tried to peel through the layers of pain and fear and protection that surrounded me as a child, a woman who eventually found the little girl underneath, picked her up, dropped the “step” and became my mother. Ultimately, my time with her was short, but without her presence in my life, without her love and affection, without her belief that I was truly her daughter, I know my path would have veered in a dark, troubling direction. But, I lost this mother too. She passed away suddenly at the young age of 48, a few days after my 23rd birthday.


I will always carry these losses with me, the absence will always be in tow. So much of who we are, how we feel about the world and how we feel in that world, comes from our mother. There is a space within us that only she can fill, and if we lose her that space remains empty….at times our memories may float through, filling it momentarily if we focus hard enough to bring her back to life….and then she is gone again. That space is sacred and cannot be filled by anyone else.


So, then what happens when you begin the enormous transition that accompanies pregnancy from the moment you conceive, when you sort through what it means to be a mother and become one yourself? I’ve found the process overwhelming and the memories, both painful and happy, inescapable.


And now I am a mother….


So far, mothering without a mother hasn’t been always easy. The first month of Emmie’s life I found myself crying several times, wishing a fruitless wish. “If only my mother was here….” I’d often think or say out loud. No one else can provide the kind of comfort, guidance and support that your mother can when you are in the early days of motherhood yourself. But, I get by. Because I am a mother. And that’s what mothers do. They soldier on, they push through what’s ailing themselves in order to give to their children, they don’t let their past pain tarnish their children’s futures—at least that is the kind of mother I aspire to be.



When I was in labor, my progress stalled. There was a moment when I was full of fear and I so badly wanted my mother. My midwife was about to massage my cervix for the second time, and I could not bear the thought of experiencing the pain of this again. I found myself reliving a lot of “old pain,” pain from decades ago, long forgotten, but called up in that moment. It was natural for me to then reach for my mother as she is a symbol of protection to me. 


Now I am the protector. I pulled myself through labor for my little girl, and I live each day showing her that she can trust me….that I am here, always. I can tell by the way she melts into my arms, the way she looks to me to hold her when she is inconsolable, the way she gazes up at me when she’s at my breast, that I am doing my job. 


I am not sure that I will ever stop reliving the loss of my mother(s) or stop experiencing the pain of her absence, at least to some degree. I am too often reminded of her, because I am now doing her job. I sometimes find myself slipping into daydreams. It will be a hard day, the baby will be cranky and I will be exhausted, and then my mom will walk in the door. She will take the crying baby from my arms and soothe her with ease, she will tell me to crawl into bed to take a nap, she will cook me dinner and ask if I want her to spend the night to help out. Then there are moments, like the other day when I saw a red Audi on the highway, the same car my mom drove, and I honest to god forgot that she was no longer alive. I quickly thought “hey, I wonder if that’s her!” And then I was shocked to realize that I had actually forgotten for a moment. That hasn’t happened since the first year after her death. As sad as those daydreams or moments of forgetfulness are, they are also somewhat comforting, because my mother is alive in them. 


I’m not sure I’m anywhere near some sort of conclusion about mothering without a mother, as my journey has just begun. I suppose that is why this post feels jumbled and vague. But, I know that trying to put it into words is helpful in sorting it out. The beautiful lesson is that I have part of my mother with me. She was there for me during labor, when I called out to her. She is here for me now as I stumble around and blossom into the mother I am sure she knew I’d become. I feel her pride in how I’ve handled motherhood thus far, and I feel her confidence in the kind of life I will give my child. My cheerleader is still there, whispering in my ear and watching over my baby.

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two months of emerson

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My baby is enormous. I am in complete denial about it. She smiles and laughs, reaches up to touch my face with her sweet hand while she nurses, holds items we put in her grasp, has gone up two diaper sizes since last month, and is already a little chatterbox despite her nonexistent vocabulary. She says “el goo” in response to most questions. Is this Spanish for “goo?” We’re not sure. But, it’s her signature phrase, which is usually followed by her signature noise, “whooo!” The girl cracks me up. She lets out a very dramatic “whooo!” as sort of a sign-off to activities—just changed my diaper, “whoooo!” or just had some amazing boobie juice, “whooo!” God, I love her.
I really can’t believe it’s been two months since I gave birth. While I was pregnant, one of my husband’s friends told him that in parenthood the days are long, but the years are short. I’ve found that to be true already. As I write this there is a fuzzy head brushing against my chin, and a long baby body sprawled out across my chest. But, her legs are so long that they can’t curl up underneath her anymore—instead they dangle past my hips even though they are bent. Her arms reach around my sides in sort of a half hug. And I can’t quite remember when it was that she grew longer than my torso or her head became larger than my breast. I looked back at photos of her the other day to try to piece together when all these changes occurred, and I got as far as the second day of her life (before I had to stop because I was too overwhelmed with emotion) when she was so tiny that her legs would curl up in my armpit while she nursed. That was it. Her whole body spanned my breast to my armpit, and that was it. This morning’s breakfast feels like it happened an eternity ago, but the day she was that tiny never stops feeling like it was yesterday.
This post feels rushed and uninspired, which makes me sad, but this past month the chaos level in our household seems to have ratcheted up. Em has become very attached to mama, and mama, being an attachment parenting devotee, has found herself with a squirmy barnacle that makes it nearly impossible to get anything done. Take for instance the thank you card that I just put in the mail today. Ignore the fact that this thank you card was for a gift I received a couple of weeks after Em was born—normally I am quite good about sending out cards promptly. Pay more attention to the fact that it literally took me weeks to write one simple card. And when I say that it took me several weeks, I mean the card sat on my kitchen counter, open and with a pen sitting on top of it. I would find myself walking by the card and would jot down one sentence before something, or more likely someone, would call me away from it. The writing of this card went on like this for weeks, sentence by sentence, until I was finally able to sign my name and lick it shut just yesterday. I walked it to the mailbox (with Em on my hip, obviously), which was somewhat shocking. I was sure it would take another several weeks for me to actually get the darn thing in the mail. So, it was a big day. And that’s life right now.
What I will (quickly) say (before the barnacle on my chest wakes up) about Emerson becoming increasingly attached to me, is that while my life and my chores and my hobbies (and my hygiene) have been pushed completely to the side in order to parent my little one right now, the benefit is knowing that I am providing the specific kind of love that she so rightly deserves and needs. There are surely moments of frustration and exhaustion, but making this child feel right and safe in the world is the most incredible job I’ve ever had. If I can do that one thing every day, then I should feel more accomplished and proud than I’ve ever felt. And the perk is that I get to fall deeper in love with my babe while I do it, and I get to watch her fall deeper in love with me. I am almost shocked by how much she loves me, and by how much she needs and wants me round the clock. There is nothing more exhausting, but nothing more fulfilling.

 

 

 

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musings on motherhood

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I wish I had had the time to write about motherhood these past 7 weeks. The newborn phase rushes by so quickly and I find myself constantly trying to freeze the moments and lock them away in a place I will never forget them. But, it’s impossible. There is no camera that can capture the looks my baby blesses upon me, no journal that can hold all my thoughts, no video recorder that can film her doing all the things that make her Emerson. Yet, there is so much to say. And I want to be able to share it with her someday.

I have talked about childbirth being a death (albeit in very unclear terms), but it also awakened me to a more conscious existence than ever before. Labor made me incredibly hyper aware of my surroundings, of myself, of life. And now, I find myself trying to find that same kind of aliveness every day, in order to soak up every bit of my child’s life and being. But, it all rushes by in a blur of smiles and coos, poopy diapers and 3 am feedings, cuddles in bed and lullabies sung deep into the night, a bevy of firsts and a mourning of lasts. And then. Then, there are the moments that slow down, that open your heart up to allow tsunami-size waves of love and gratefulness and all things gooey to flow back and forth between you and your babe. Moments where every particle and atom in the room are visible and beautiful and you know you’ll remember them forever. Moments that you can’t write about, because there aren’t words to describe them. Instead they live, impeccably suspended in memory, as small pieces that make up the big love you have for your child. 

But, I wish I had been writing the last 7 weeks.

I was able to get quite a bit of writing done in the first weeks of Emmie’s life,  when I was parked in bed with her all day, and before the exhaustion of motherhood set in. All of that writing was dedicated to chronicling my birth experience before I forgot it (although, the facts were hazy even when written right away). Though the first few weeks were indeed overwhelming, I somehow found *some* time to think. Now, our house is madness. Sometimes it’s blissful madness and I don’t mind the zillion things left undone and complete lack of time for myself, sometimes it’s dizzying madness (with a slight undertone of panic) that leaves me wondering how I will ever brush my teeth before 2:00 pm or answer the phone, ever again. 

As crazy as our life has become, the good news is we’ve been broken in a little bit now. We expect chaos. Those first few weeks were difficult, though. It felt like going from zero to about 875939935932 miles an hour in the time it took for my child to take her first breath. It was more overwhelming than I was able to anxiously anticipate before giving birth. It’s impossible to completely understand how overwhelming it will be before it happens. I thought I had a pretty good idea since I’ve been taking care of other people’s children for half my life, and have specifically been caring for newborns in the last year. But, woah. The first few weeks look a little something like this:

Here’s your child, figure her out, because she needs something. 
What is that something? 
There’s a tiny mouth trying to figure out 
how to eat from a nipple attached to your body. 
Does that hurt? 
Sore nipples, cracked nipples, bleeding nipples. 
Wait, she needs to eat again. Breathe through the pain. 
Is this a 2-week extension of labor? 
Every hour she eats, and I’m hypnobirth breathing to get through it. 
Oops, I shot my child in the eye with a milk duct 
that has a mind of its own. 
Don’t cry, baby.
Now I’m crying. WHY am I crying?
I couldn’t tell you specifically. 
Half a gallon of nipple cream. 
Boobs leaking through every shirt I put on. 
Wear them anyway. 
Endless seas of breast pads. Honey, I need another one. 
Honey, can you pick me up the thickest Maxi pads 
they sell at Whole Foods? Is that embarrassing? 
Oh wait, while you’re there, I need more breast pads, 
and nipple cream, and something to soothe my perineum. 
Thanks, dear.
Does she feel warm to you? Where’s the rectal thermometer?
Call the pediatrician. Do we need to go to the ER?
On our way to the ER. There’s nothing wrong with our baby.
We stop for Indian takeout instead. 
She needs to eat. Again?! Really?! 
It’s 3 am, I’m on Facebook. 
I need to learn to breastfeed while lying down, while still sleeping, 
because there isn’t enough internet to surf 
and I think I might enter a state of psychosis if I don’t start sleeping. 
She spit up in my hair. But, I won’t shower again for 2 days. 
Can you tell? Oh well. 
Why. Are. You. Crying? 
I’ve only known you a week, how am I supposed to know? 
I’m your mama, you say?
We’re in the middle of traffic and you’re screaming.
You need to eat no later than NOW.
Pull the car over, dear.
Pull my boob out— college tour group walks right past me
on the right side of the car,
and look, there are construction workers
working on the road on the left side of the car.
Fabulous.
I took a shower today, with soap and everything.
It felt like I was at the spa. 
Seriously.
Honey, I need you to wash my disposable mesh underwear. 
Yes, the ones that go up past my belly button. 
Yes, I know they are disposable, but I neeeeed them. 
They’re so big and roomy. You don’t want to see me in them? 
Look over here. I’m dancing in them. You like that? 
Oh no, my boob is leaking. Sorry about that. 
You say I have the attention span of a goldfish now? 
I would fight you on that, but you’re right.
Hooray, you pooped! 
You’re such a happy baby when you poop! 
Whennnnnnn am I going to stop bleeding? 
Criminy Pete! 
Something the size of a tangerine just fell out of me. Is that okay? 
Get. Me. Some. Food. 
I have the appetite of a starving wolverine. 
This child is sucking every calorie I have to spare right out of my body. 
I think I just fell asleep while talking to you. 
We have visitors? Fantastic. I’ve been wearing the same nightgown 
for 3 days and my baby just pooped on me. 
I’m standing in the driveway, the neighbors are in their yard, 
I forgot to put my left breast away before I walked outside. 
Did they see that? Oh well. 
Hiiiiiiiiiii baaaabyyyyyyyy, mama lovvvvvves youuuuuu. 
Ohhhhhhh ahhhhhhh gooooo. 
You’re so pretty. Yes, you are. 
Mama loves you soooooo much. 
You’re the most amazing baby in the whole word. Yes, you are.
Oh. my. god.
I’m a mama.
Like, for real. And for forever.
Can she please never stop spooning me in bed,
her tiny body tucked up against me?
Sigh.

Life is a little different at 7 weeks. But, still chaotic. It’s not that things “settle down” per se, it’s more that they shift and become chaotic for different reasons. And you feel a little more used to being a parent. But, also not. 

Overall, though, it’s a beautiful mess.   


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how emerson winter got her name

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Alex and I added the names Emerson and Winter to our baby name list two years ago, before we were even married, in the days of cuddling on the couch for hours, daydreaming about our future. Emerson was actually one of the very first names we ever discussed, and after considering several hundred others we came back to it. Given we are both writers, and very concerned with meaning, our first thought was to come up with a name related to a body of ideas we have both felt inspired by. HD Thoreau was at the top of that list, but we thought Thoreau was a little much for a name. But, Alex and I have equally bonded over Thoreau’s boy, Ralph Waldo Emerson. I vividly remember rereading Self Reliance in my cubicle in California in order to rev up my transcendentalist passion to later discuss my ideas with my then-long distance boyfriend (now-husband)—yes, we are nerds like that.

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s association with liberal thinking, individualism and a love of nature is what drew us in to not only his writing, but to each other. Alex and I share many of the same qualities that we adore in one another, and that we value in general. And the name Emerson was even more fitting given the place we conceived our baby girl:

In the quiet of a deserted forest, on an uninhabited island in the Adirondack mountains, a sweet little life began to grow. She was an earth baby, meant for this earth mama. She was deep, and pensive, and had a mind of her own. She is our Emerson.

During the last week of my pregnancy, a quote from the late RW Emerson kept me company (and is equally applicable to my journey through conception, pregnancy, labor, birth and now parenthood!): “Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”

The origin of the name “Winter” is a little less deep, but still meaningful (to us). The Winter season is a nostalgic time for Alex and I since we had our first date in the winter. Alex drove two hours in a snow storm to come pick me up for that first date. I stood in the middle of the dark road, snow falling around me, a faint glow from the street light, my bright orange jacket acting as a beacon calling Alex toward me. Oh, nostalgia. Alex and I fell in love that same winter, and were engaged the following winter. And so the name.

Originally, I really loved the name Winter as a first name, but I could not get past the fact that people were bound to nickname her “Winnie.” I’m just not a fan of “Winnie.” But, as much as I wanted to name my baby Winter, I know that could not have been her name. She’s clearly an Emerson, and was to me from 20 weeks of pregnancy on.

My wishes for you, sweet baby Emerson: Be silly, be honest, be kind. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
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emerson’s nursery

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Emerson’s nursery took the entire 10 months of her gestation to plan and decorate, and it’s still not complete. But, I thought it’d be fun to post some pictures of it, as is, since I know I love seeing how other people decorate their nurseries.
It took me quite a while to feel inspired during pregnancy. I scoured the internet for ideas, color schemes, patterns, and themes and simply could not come up with anything. I needed a starting point so I had something to build the room around, and I needed it to feel like Emerson, though I had yet to met her. At some point I got a sense of what Em was like and I think her room is a pretty accurate reflection of that—sweet, peaceful, feminine but not in an over-the-top way with artist touches. I began by choosing this fabric, which I ended up using for the crib skirt and window treatment:
Then I began working on some artwork. First I painted a pair of lucky elephants that I hung over the dresser/changing station:
Then I painted a wise owl that is currently keeping these adorable owl bookends company (thanks, Natalie!):
I found this sign—so fitting:
Here’s the crib skirt, handmade by my amazing gal pal, Hannah:
And the matching window treatment:
I decided to go with 3D wall flowers, instead of a traditional mobile:
And I printed a large version of my Pink Light photo on deep matte paper, which I have yet to hang on the big, empty wall opposite the crib.

The nursery was a long-term project. Here are some side-by-side before and after photos that really show how much we’ve changed the room.

 

The room could use a few more touches—rugs and a small table and lamp next to the rocking chair, for instance. But, it’s currently the most “done” room in our house, so I’m happy.
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the many faces of Emerson

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Light on words, big on baby pictures. Emerson had an 80’s type, leg warmers thing going on the other day and I couldn’t get enough of it. Even better, she was feeling pretty animated in those leg warmers and flashed me quite a few hilarious (to me, of course, I’m her mama:) looks.

 
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