Vingtieme mois avec Mademoiselle Eloise

Eloise -

20 months old. In 4 months you will be 2. T-W-O. Today for the first time you demonstrated an understanding of counting. One. Two. Three. Four. You said. I followed with five and we were able to confirm that you did indeed have five fingers on your right hand and five toes on your left foot. You need to slow this growing up thing right down.

You are certainly a mummy's girl at the moment. Calling for me in the night when you wake.

Smothering me in the morning when we drag you into bed with us, letting your father sleep peacefully as you jam your elbow into my clavicle and fingers into my eye saying “awww, Mummy, Cuddle”. Though we have discovered that you would probably be more affectionate with your father if he didn’t have that prickly beard. You’ll very happily kiss him through the shower door, or kiss his hand when he covers his mouth. But every once in awhile you plant one on your daddy despite the beard, and it is an adorable sight to see.

You know it is going to hurt, but you’ve gone too long without kissing him and pain or no pain, you’re going to give your daddy a bisous. Then you touch your mouth, say ça pique and laugh. Ah the sacrifices we make in order to love the men in our lives.

We had parents night at your nursery a few weeks ago (which made me feel insanely old) and we’re pleasantly surprised by the feedback about you. The reserved, observant little girl who clings to her mother for twenty minutes before deciding she wants to join in is the girl who immediately makes friends with the new kid. The child who makes her parents run around the kitchen trying to find something she’ll actually eat has 2 helpings of lunch. The girl who will often make her mother spend over an hour trying to get you to take a nap is known as the best napper in the nursery.

The other day I dropped you off at nursery and we were greeted by three of your little friends, running over to see you shouting Ewoweeze! Weeze! Weeze! Ewoweeze! I am becoming increasingly aware that you are your own person, a real individual. And nothing brings that idea home more than seeing a room full of your cohorts call out your name.

You are more accurate, more deliberate than last month. Your dance moves are more precise. You can pick out songs on the radio and sing along. Your vocabulary is ever expanding. Some of your recent additions that I’ve really enjoyed are “pretty” (especially when said about me) “honey” “knock knock” and “jackass”. You can blame Grandma for that last one.

After you're in bed for the night, your father and I can catch up on our day, immerse ourselves in various time-sucks on the tinternet, cuddle on the couch with a glass of wine and a film. And for a brief moment, if feels like it's just the two of us, back to the early days of our relationship. And then I walk upstairs and see your bedroom door, hear the faint snores coming from your room and my heart swells with the knowledge that we are not alone. That our daughter is lying in her bed, surrounded by stuffed bunnies and dreams of stray cats and cuddles and messy adventures to be had. And in those moments I am reminded that becoming your mother was the best damn thing that ever happened to me.

Je t'aime.

Maman (Mummy)

Baby Tings are everywhere

When Eloise turned 9 months, one of the babies we knew around her age started walking and I thought, wow, that's early! When Eloise turned 12 months old a few more of the babies her age had started walking, and I thought, ok, she can take her time, no rush. When Eloise turned 15 months old and nearly all the babies we knew her age were walking but her, I complained to the other mothers. I want her to walk already! It would be so much easier, I said. The mothers said to me, with one eye on their baby who was running away, careful what you wish for! Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts!

And now at 16 months she is walking, and yes, there is more running around and chasing and the danger that she can get into has upped my mom senses to amber alert. But because my friends had prepared me for this next step, I feel ready. And since we waited so patiently, I am still in the proud mama bear phase (ps. Eff you Sarah Palin for taking the "mama bear" concept and smearing your giant Alaskan poo all over it). But what I was not prepared for was the spread of the baby things. Her junk is EVERYWHERE. What used to be contained to little pockets of pre-determined Eloise areas is now invading the rest of the house.

After she is in bed and I go around tidying the house up, I find rubber ducks in kitchen cabinets, baby spoons on book shelves, children's books in the bathtub.

She is taking over the house. And it kinda makes me smile.

A kiss Goodnight

What if I don't remember the little details of being her mother in the days before her memory takes hold? What if I forget that the first time I put her to bed without nursing her I had tears in my eyes while she drank her cup of milk reading Goodnight Moon. What if I forget that when she lay down in her crib, belly full and a smile on her lips, she took her bunny and teddy bear and pressed their lips together with a kiss.

When she gets too old to kiss me on the lips what if I forget the day she first kissed me?

Tonight after she brushed her teeth in her father's arms, he handed her to me and she planted her minty mouth to mine. She pulled away and we both laughed. She kissed me again and again, laughing each time. Then her father said, Et Daddy? Bisous a Daddy? And when he leaned in for her to kiss him, she pushed her father's face towards mine, preferring that he kiss me instead.

What if I forget this? What if the pictures and even the words aren't enough to remember exactly how it felt to have her in my arms at the exact age she is now, to hold her so completely in my heart.

Hopefully some things are never forgotten.

How can I be lonely when she never leaves me alone?

The other day a grandmother at one of the morning play groups Eloise and I go to asked me if I find motherhood lonely. Now you know you're giving out super happy content-with-my-life vibes when a stranger who is currently spending her well earned retirement as an unpaid babysitter asks you if you could use a friend.

And sure, I guess I've been a little mopey lately because I'm unemployed and our savings are slowly seeping out of our bank account and I'm trying to stretch the household income as much as possible which means being frugal and not pampering myself as much (two things I am not good at) - but am I lonely? A 1 year old doesn't really give you time to be lonely, do they? I finish my day with Eloise and my feet hurt from running around with her and my cheeks hurt from smiling and my heart hurts from adoring.

And while I do sometimes need to make sure I get some adult conversation into my day I can think of quite a few people that are far less interesting to talk to than my 14-month old who knows all of 7 - wait - is meow a word, or a sound? - 6 words.

In hindsight

I wish I could go back to that new mother over a year ago and give her a glimpse of what is to come. I wish I could wipe away her tears. Not the tears of overwhelmed love, those were full and beautiful and worthy. But the tears of bewilderment. The tears because she couldn't see past this precious needy creature she had just brought forth in the world. Because she couldn't see that one day this mewling milk vomiting helpless little being who demanded so much of her would turn into a ray of light on toddling feet. That one day this being would wrap her arms around my neck every day and hug me. Hard. That one day she would wake up every morning and say Hi! That one day she would trust herself enough to let go of my hands and take her first steps. That so much sooner than I could have imagined she would love me back. Almost almost as much as I love her.

Getting the laundry done.

One of my favorite activities to do with Eloise is the simple task of hanging up the laundry together.

I'll either put her on a blanket in the garden with some toys while I put the laundry out on the clothes line or better yet I'll put her in the carrier or sling and let her help me. We'll squint our eyes in the sun, Eloise will touch the different fabrics while I attach the clothes with pegs and sing to her.

It's the time of the day I feel most Motherly. And thus the time of the day I am happiest.

Mommy Love vs. Daddy Love

I am of the opinion that mothers and fathers love their children differently, not more or better, but differently. And I think that's a good thing.

I am consumed by Eloise. I see her and I have an actual ache in my belly to gobble her up. I read some where that this desire mothers have to "eat" their babies is Mother Nature's way of making sure that we get plenty of contact with our young, pick up whatever germs and diseases they're carrying so that our immune system can create the antibodies and pass those along in our breastmilk. I don't know about all that, but if those cheeks and thighs weren't made to be snacked on then they shouldn't make them so deliciously rolly polly.

The other day I was telling Eloise that she was my favorite person in the whole world. Her father was in the room, overheard me and laughed. I asked him if Eloise had replaced me as his favorite person and he said non, it was still me his favori.

Now I have no doubt that the Frenchman ADORES his daughter. He worries constantly about her well being. He marvels at her progress, her strength, her budding intelligence. The best part of his day is when Eloise flashes him a big beaming smile when he walks in the door.

But I think it makes sense that while Eloise has become my favorite person, I still hold that title for her Father. Mother's lose themselves in their children - at least at first - and I think part of the Father's job is to make sure the Mother doesn't lose herself completely.

I would have fallen apart a million times over if it weren't for the patience and understanding of this man.

If I am a good mother it is because of the space and confidence he gives me to do so.

Lesson learned. Baby 1 Mom 0

While I was pregnant I had it in my head that I would breastfeed until 6 months as recommended and then put my baby onto formula for the next 6 months until she could drink cow's milk at age 1. It's no secret that my life before motherhood was a rather boozy one and I figured that after the 15 or so months of near total sobriety Mama could use a night out on the tiles.

Of course getting drunk now is a whole different ball game. Not only would I have to contend with baby care on top of hangover, but I am such a lightweight these days it is not even funny. Except that it is funny. Because half a pint of beer and I am GONE. I mean like flashing my lopsided milk jugs for free shots GONE.

But my whole plan of putting my baby on formula after 6 months of exclusive breastfeeding didn't factor in the fact that my baby would have her own opinion on the matter.

After the disastorous Paris trip where Eloise went 20 hours sans eating we had a few more attempts at getting her to take the bottle. Not even formula perse, just my milk but in a bottle. She refused. I decided my last attempt would be her nursery. Totally different evironment, no trace of me, and in the hands of child care experts. After 4 days of them trying to get her on the bottle with no success I finally decided to give up. I mean if they can't do it, it just ain't going to happen.

Your boobs are MINE MilkLady.

So there it is. No big boozy night in my future. My boobs are still being held ransom by a tiny being that is growing remarkably sharp teeth as we speak. A very opinionated being who knows what she likes and won't settle for anything less. And as much as I would love to share a bottle of wine or 5 with friends I am quite proud of my little girl for sticking to her guns.

Mothering Sunday

Happy Mother's Day to all the Slummy and Yummy British Mummies!!

Hope your day is filled with heart felt cards and clumsy art work made by little loving hands.

The Science of Sleep

When I was pregnant the most common comment I got from parents was SLEEP WHILE YOU STILL CAN which was slightly annoying because with the round ligament pain, the pelvic girdle pain, and the intense excitement at impending motherhood a good night’s sleep was rather elusive during most of pregnancy.

The second most common comment from parents was MAKE SURE YOU GET YOUR BABY ON A SLEEP ROUTINE ASAP. Every baby book I read said that creating a bedtime routine is crucial.

The Frenchman and I figured it made sense. Let the baby know there’s a difference between night and day (apparently living in a dark sack of goo for 9 months can mess with your internal clock or something). Give the baby sleep cues so it knows bedtime is a-coming. Teach the baby how to fall asleep on their own so they don’t need you to do it for them whenever they wake up (and BOY do they wake up!)

It’s that last piece of advice that we really struggled with. Most of the books all agree that the best way to teach your baby how to fall asleep on their own is to put them in their bed awake.

I just found this to go against all instincts. I would nurse Eloise before bed (and some would say that’s my problem right there – but I felt the fuller the tank the longer the sleep) and as most babies do, she would fall asleep while nursing. So there I was in the dim light of my bedroom, cradling a warm little creature, heavy with sleep, a small smile on her face drunk with milk – and I’m supposed to wake her up before putting her to bed?!? But the baby snoring and the milk smile and the visions of sugarplums – what monster would destroy that?

And it worked. Sure I was nursing her to sleep – but she was STAYING asleep – 6 hours, 8 hours. Sometimes the whole night. At 7 weeks. My other new mommy friends were waking every 3 or 4 hours and I knew we had it good and saw no reason to change things. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

And so I continued to nurse Eloise to sleep and place her in her bassinet. And she would sleep for 6 hours or more, wake up to feed once and go back to bed. Life was good.

Then Eloise reached 4 months. And it would take me ages to get her to sleep. I would nurse her. She would be asleep in my arms I’d lie her down ever so gently in her bassinet and she would wake up. Feed sleep put down wake-up repeat. And she started waking a lot more often. Like every hour more often.. And I would feed her or her Father would rock her and I would sit in front of the Internet reading websites on baby sleep sites while crying from exhaustion.

And what we found out from our desperate Internet research is that babies fall into a deep sleep right away when they’re fresh on the scene. They have a lot of catching up to do and that sleep helps them develop. Then at around 3 or 4 months their sleep patterns mature and become like ours – when they first fall asleep it is a light sleep – easily disturbable (not a word but it should be) hence the new difficulty at getting her to stay asleep. They also have sleep cycles like we do – around 45 minutes. So when Eloise would finish a sleep cycle, instead of putting herself back to sleep she would cry, wondering where the giant milk bag that put her to sleep went.

We knew we had to fix this. We couldn’t live with a child who wakes every hour crying. We were also aware that it would probably be painful. I decided to buy two different books on baby sleep from both spectrums – one a tough love, no nonsense approach, the other a fluffy, anti-crying, cotton-wool type. I wanted to get both opinions so I could then make my own. We held off on a course of action and just dealt with the sleepless nights until the books arrived in the post.

When they arrived I made the worse mistake of my young parenting career. I gave the fluffy book to the Frenchman to read and I read the tough-love book. We spent the next week arguing about whose book was right until we finished them and switched. My book actually mentioned his by name saying that the methods were rubbish. After the Frenchman read the first chapter of his book he said he now feels terrible that Eloise has spent a small portion of her life in tears. I believe my response was - well my book says your book is crap. Healthy stuff here people.

By the time I read both books I felt horrible. Eloise’s poor sleep habits were all my fault. I had one book telling me how important a good nights sleep is for the development of my child, statistics about how babies that don’t get enough sleep end up being angry, unintelligent and prone to getting themselves knocked-up, in jail or both by the age of 12. The book said it was my duty as parent to get my child to sleep through the night no matter what amount of crying was involved – a couple of bad night’s for the greater good. The other book told me that I’d be a horrible mother if I let my child shed one single tear that I could have some way prevented.

In the end we went for the middle of the road. Whine-it out we call it. We spent more time on our sleep routine with Eloise and instead of nursing being the last thing I did before she slept, I would pass Eloise to her Father and he would rock her a bit and put in her crib awake, but sleepy. We would let her complain for up to ten minutes before intervening and if her complaints turned into a proper cry we would step in.

So far it’s working. She doesn’t sleep through the entire night, but only wakes up twice for a feed. Which is such an improvement from the 7 or 8 times she was doing before that we are ecstatic.

And more importantly we learned that educating ourselves in different parenting styles is helpful – knowledge is power. But that ultimately we need to come to our own decision on what is best for us as a family. That lesson has been worth all the sleepless nights combined. Ok. Almost worth it.

So this is the payback for coming home past curfew all those times.

Ever since I became a mother I am surrounded by accidents waiting to happen. Life-changing accidents that knock the soul straight out of your throat. I notice the cables under the coffee table and see an 8 month old Eloise in a mass of tangles. I think of the huge house plant in the dinning room and see Eloise at 14 months attempting to climb it, ending in a pile of rocks and dirt. I think of her bedroom window to which we have no lock and see her hanging over the decrepit BBQ screaming for us to save her.

Is this normal? Will this be how I view the world for the rest of my life – as potential death traps for my off spring? As soon as you become a mother are you doomed to be overly sensitive to any potential danger to your young? Because this is beyond stressful.

Often instead of gazing at my sleepy daughter as she nurses her last few mouthfuls of milk before bed and being filled with warm delicious wonderment I have my heart in the back of my mouth racing with the frantic images of how my daughter could potentially come to harm.

This motherhood job sure ain’t no walk in the park. Oh God. The Park. What could happen there? Please tell me this uber vigilant over protective mama fear ends at some point.

The white stuff

Some parents are lucky - they manage to get one of those babies that just doesn't spit up. I believe the odds are that 40% of all babies prefer to share their milk feeds with the rest of the world instead of just keeping that white goodness in their little bellies.

We were not so lucky. The spit-up was the part of infanthood that I was really not looking forward to. I've never been a fan of milk. I was never one to ask for a glass of milk with my meal when I was a kid. So it's no surprise that I'm not a fan of milk in its regurgitated state.

In the first few weeks being regularly vomited on was just the icing on the "congratulations you are now a bobble headed poop machine's slave" cake. Eloise throwing up on me for the 7th time in the span of 3 hours could easily make me cry.

So you have no idea how happy I am to see the back of this spitting up phase.

Pictures like this one are finally a rarity.

We can bounce her around and let her lie on our bed linen without a muslin cloth under her head. We no longer feel the need to have 20 odd burp rags lying around the house.

Most importantly I don't spend all day smelling like week old cheese curds.

Adventures in Weaning

My original weaning plan was to go to France with Eloise, enjoy some time off from being at my kid's beck and call while her extended family got to know her better, come back home in January, read a few books on introducing solids to babies, buy some weaning gear and slowly incorporate eating proper food into our routine.

Instead Eloise started waking up during the night. A LOT. And in my sleep deprived state I quickly buckled under various friends and family members suggestions that perhaps giving her solid foods would help her sleep better. After two weeks of severely disrupted sleep I think I would have taken their advice had they told me that teaching my baby how to flap her arms and fly would make her sleep better.

I waited until the Frenchman joined us in France, discussed it with him, and we decided to start feeding her. I told my mother and sister to come over to the Frenchman's parents house so we could all watch Eloise take her first few bites of food. My mother laughed sarcastically " Yeah, that'll work". Turns out I was extremely difficult when it came to accepting solids for the first time and my mother was expecting a similar battle.

Instead Eloise sat there with all of us staring at her as I spoon fed her carrot with a look on her face like, what? Eating from a spoon is a big deal? I got this down you guys.

And to be honest with you, although a big part of me was really proud of my little girl. Proud that she could accept something so novel in her stride. I was also a little sad. Sad that it was so easy for her to accept nutrients from a source other than me.

There are many things I love about my daughter. One of my favorites is her breath. I cuddle her face next to mine, kissing those chubby cheeks and drink in the scent coming from her parted lips. A mixture of milk and innocence.

I want Eloise to be an adventurous eater. I enjoy feeding her and cooking for her. But my milk on her breath will soon be replaced with the smell of swede and papaya. And I guess I'm a little sad to see that trace of me go.

Just a couple of changes then...

My life a little over a year ago:

Favorite Cooking show: Saturday Kitchen, hungover in my pyjamas eating yesterday's pizza.

Hobbies: I'm going to be honest here: drinking. I was once at a business course were we all had to introduce ourselves and give our hobby - I lied and said photography.

Clothing: Lots of black with bright accessories.

Perfume: Anything by Dior

Bed-time: anything after midnight

Social life: The pub.

Newspaper: CNN and BBC online. The Guardian a couple times a week.

My life now:

Favorite Cooking show: Cbeebies I Can Cook

Hobbies: Dressing up my daughter and taking pictures of her. Nibbling on her ear and making her laugh. Learning new songs to sing to her. Buying her stuff.

Clothing: Anything that has easy access to my boobs so Eloise can eat wherever whenever. If it hides milk vomit stains that's a bonus.

Perfume: Milk

Bedtime: I'm impressed when I make it past 9:30 these days

Social Life: Day-time groups with other mothers and their babies.

Newspaper: The Saturday Guardian which takes me all week to finish. Some weeks I only read the Family section.

Did you know I have a baby? Cause I wasn't sure that was clear from this blog.

Somewhere along the way my newborn turned into an infant. A proper chunky little baby ready and willing to discover the world in front of her. It's amazing to think that at one point she couldn't hold up her own head. Now she's grabbing, she's standing (with my help of course) and she can manage a total of 2 seconds of sitting before wobbling over.

I never understood parents that could go on and on about their baby who had just learned to do basic things like eating from a spoon, rolling over, getting on all fours. I mean I've been doing those things for ages - some of them in heels and lingerie - and you don't hear me boasting. But when you go from being the prime witness to someone who started out life as essentially a wobbly headed blob that can't poo and breathe at the same time these milestones are incredible to see.

One family, under Mom.

Not to blow hard and heavy on my own shiny trumpet over here but there are a fair amount of aspects of Motherhood that I was pretty convinced I would excel at. Story telling, sing-a-longs – got those down.

Songs have come flooding back to my memory from childhood – Alice the camel is back, Miss Mary Mack has made an appearance, the monkeys are back on that bed jumping like crazy despite doctors orders, I got grouches rolling over, I got speckled frogs going against common advice and going for a swim straight after eating, Peter Pan, Dumbo and Pete’s Dragon have all come flying out of my mouth. I haven’t stopped at children’s songs. I belt out Helter Skelter when she’s crying until she realizes she can’t compete and stares at her crazy Beatle loving mother acting like she’s preparing for X Factor auditions. I softly sing Joni Mitchell and Johnny Cash when her eyes start drooping. I croon along with Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. when Eloise and I need to shake off the blues .

I’m quite happy spending large portions of my day pulling funny faces, making animal noises, shaking my body like a scarecrow – as long as it makes her laugh. (The scarecrow move kills at our house by the way).



I can jiggle and rock until she rests her head in the crook of my neck and those pink-rimmed little eyes finally shut. Give her a big mama bear hug when she’s upset and whisper in her ear how much I love her.

But I also knew there would be aspects of Motherhood I would not excel at and the biggest one is accepting Fatherhood and its importance in my our baby’s life.



For the majority of my upbringing it was just me, my mother and my sister. Even before my parents got divorced it was a bit of a tag-team parenting style from what I can gather and I rarely saw my mom and dad parent together. My mother did an incredible job raising my sister and me (warning – gross maternal bias about to be uttered in the next 4 seconds) – one of us has devoted 2 years of her life to serve the Peace Corps in Mozambique and lives each day with compassion and integrity and the other one made a baby so cute and edible there are talks of putting her on the Tour d’Argent menu. I think somewhere along the way though I picked up the idea that parenting is a job that should really be done alone. No need to confer major decisions or deal with your kid playing you and your partner off each other. One family, under Mom.

I realized I felt this way when I would fantasize about my future children and never once was there a father in the picture. So when the Frenchman and I decided to have kids I made a point to force him into my mental picture. And I thought that once Eloise was born I would instantly feel that we were a family. Not so.

For a long time I think I kind of felt like a single mother. Having had more experience with children I naturally took the lead in the first few weeks. The Frenchman quickly learned the baby ropes though and by the time she was a month I thought, we’re a family now, right? But I knew deep down I still felt like this parenting gig was mine and mine alone.

And it’s not that the Frenchman is a deadbeat dad by any stretch of the imagination. He LOVES our baby. Adores her. She is his raison d’etre and he continues to be amazed by her beauty and her strength. But it is me that stays up for 40 minutes at 3am feeding her. It is me that takes her to the doctor for her shots. Me that gets vomited on all day. Me that puts her to sleep. Takes her to play group each day. Dances around to make her laugh. Well – until the weekend that is.

Which is all normal. I am of course the one who is at home during the week getting my government maternity pay (that doesn’t cover the rent) to make sure my child flourishes under my watch. My partner of course goes off every weekday to make sure we can pay the rent, occasionally spoil the baby and not starve.

But as the months dragged on I still didn’t feel that family unity that I was expecting. I Still felt that Eloise and I were one unit and the Frenchman an occasional plus one. Until a few weeks ago. 16 weeks after Eloise was born. I was nursing her in her room before bed. Dim lights, Buena Vista Social club playing softly in the background. In walked Eloise’s father, smiling at the two women in his life. Eloise unlatched herself from my breast to turn and look at her Daddy. He came closer and knelt next to us. She then reached out her tiny hand and began to stroke her father’s bearded face. Slowly. Deliberately. She smiled and then turned back to nurse. And there we were.



A family.

29 hours and 20 minutes too long

29 hours and 20 minutes apart. It should have been 53 hours. We have a very stubborn daughter who spent over 20 hours of those 29 refusing to eat. Paris did not turn out as planned. I spent the time there with what felt like a bag of knives in my stomach, fitfully sleeping with dreams of accidentally drowning Eloise from my negligence. 300 euros later I was on a eurostar heading back home to stop my baby from becoming dangerously dehydrated and having to go to hospital.

As I lessened the distance between me and my heart I stared at the ceiling of the train so as not to burst into a fit of guilty tears.

My work once let me go to a conference about women in the workplace. A feisty Canadian was giving us pointers on how to better control our emotions at work. Rightly or wrongly, the ability to burst into tears in an open plan office is not a skill often sought in an employee. The Canadian said if you feel yourself getting close to tears, look up. Looking up is connected with reason and logic. Looking down is connected with our emotions and feelings.

So there I was staring at the ceiling of the Eurostar train in hopes of not turning into the wailing childless mother in seat 62A when it dawned on me. When we raise our children we are looking down at them through an emotional filter. Reason does not apply to a mother whose child needs her. Our hearts are swollen watching their face look up at ours. And then they grow up, and they are bigger than us. If we have done a good job they will have surpassed us. And we will look up to them with reason at the incredible adult before us. It will be their turn to look down at us and be filled with emotion at the sight of us as the aging person who sacrificed what we could to give them this view.

Dents

I put Eloise in her big crib while I went to the bathroom to get ready to go out. She wasn't too happy about it, but I knew she was safe and so didn't mind too much that she was crying. When I came to her a few minutes later, she had pushed her body so that her head was pressed against the bars of the crib. Not the most comfortable of positions and I immediately felt guilty for having left her for so long. I quickly picked her up and calmed her down when I noticed it. Two symmetrical dents in her head from where the bars dug into her skull. I knew kids were impressionable, but this?

Sweet unsuspecting little Eloise

The dents didn't last more than an hour, but it got me thinking about how much power I have to make or break this person. I could have changed the shape of her head for the rest of her life for crying out loud. Think about all the damage I could unwittingly inflict on my beautiful daughter. What if she picks up my emotional instability? My laziness? My appallingly poor math skills? What if she becomes an overweight lush with a weakness for men with accents?

And then there's her Father. She could pick up his OCD. His inability to throw anything away. His need to be overly cautious with nearly all aspects of his life. But then she could pick up his unbelievable kindness and generosity. Eloise's father is the nicest person I have ever met, and if one of the "dents" we leave in her is his kindness I will be so proud of my child.

Of course if she doesn't inherit his kindness she can always sit with her mother at a cafe terrace and make fun of the people walking by while drinking an unladylike quantity of rouge.

Oh my goodness!

I was going through some pictures on my iPhoto to see if I wanted to edit any. My uncle has been going through old photos and sending a few of them to me, which I then put into my iPhoto library.

I came across this picture of my mother and me when I was about 5 months old:



And then this one of Eloise:

It took me a minute to realize it was my daughter and not me. But on further inspection it is so great to see the many differences between us. I cannot wait to watch her grow into her own little person.

I knew motherhood would be hard work, and I knew it would be an intense love but I had no idea how exciting motherhood would be. I spend large portions of the day feeling giddy at just the idea of what is to come. Not just giddy, but ohmygoodness! ohmygoodness! how many sleeps till Christmas? kind of excited. The holidays, the first words, the first swim in the sea,the first trip to the zoo, the first time we bake cookies together, the first time she holds my hand to cross the street, the first time she hugs me back - the list goes on and on.

I had also come across pictures of the Frenchman and me on our last holiday as a childless couple. And instead of feeling a longing for what used to be I thought : ohmygoodness ohmygoodness one day we get to take Eloise to the Aquarium to see the fishies!!!!!

I hold her in my arms and rock her and speak to her and will her to sleep, depserately needing to separate myself from her so I can become human again - take a shower, or a nap, maybe eat a hot meal for a change. And then as soon as she's lying in her pushchair or her crib, I miss her terribly, find myself looking for her if she's not in the room, need to feel her warm head pressed into my neck, or feel her tiny stomach push against mine with each breath as she nurses.

I never knew it was possible to miss someone while they are sleeping at the foot of your bed.