Coming Home

Last night may have been my final night as a script supervisor.  I can't say with absolute certainty that I might never put on the stopwatch and fill out the timecard as a script supervisor again, but for now, as of 2am this morning, I'm done with that life.

I knew I'd never pursue it with the gusto of my child-free days.  The hours are too long, the situations and locations often too difficult to schedule with a little one.  After calling all of my potential babysitters for the day and finding no takers, I loaded my little girl into the car and drove upstate to my friend Meredith's so she could watch Eliza.  The commute from her place to our shooting location was about the same as from Manhattan and it would mean less tag teaming (ie, two sitters for Eliza) on my end.

I left Meredith's house around 10am.  I got home from work at 2:45 am.  It was the last day ever on the show I've worked on since 1999.  As it was always my favorite job, it felt like a fitting end to my former life.  We went out with a wimper; at that hour people are more focused on getting home than celebrating eight years of a life. 

I enjoyed the day, chatted with my coworkers about Eliza's fondness for the word "yummy," didn't even let my nerves about the weather ruin the night for me.  I have pretty bad eyesight and I don't see well when driving at night.  The weather forecast called for heavy rain so deep down I feared the drive back to Meredith's.  I thought about my sleeping daughter and how all I wanted was to get home to her.

But a beautiful thing happened.  The moon appeared in the sky, the ground stayed dry and the heavy downpours never came.  Even without the rain, I could only muster about 55mph on the Garden State Parkway due to my poor eyesight.  Had it rained, I may have had to pull over for the night.

The dog woke up my friends when I returned but they quickly went back to sleep.  I peered into the room Eliza slept in and saw the outline of her form in the dim white bulb of a nightlight.  She wore her green pajamas with the ruffled butt and lay stretched out fully on her stomach with straight legs.  She slept so fitfully, she didn't feel my presence as I stood above her. 

I took in her perfect, peaceful little body and felt a surge of joy to be home, with my hand on the side of her crib.  My "career" may be over but I'd had a good night.  Now I stood in the home of my best friend, staring down at my magical daughter.  An exciting new chapter had opened up for me and instead of feeling remorse for the end of something, I felt hopeful for the life still ahead for me.

I never knew coming home could be that wonderful.

Moving, Cont'd

We moved on Friday which wasn't as bad as I thought but the pain continues. C left a lot of stuff at the apartment, necessitating return trips. In the end, I gave up stuff I would have liked to take with me. It became necessary for my sanity.

The new place is spacious and Eliza loves having her own room (sort of-it's an alcove that needs a wall) and closets to hide in. Unfortunately, I'm trying to unpack and find things and I haven't much patience or time to spend with my darling daughter. As I write this, she's looking at me, smiling and waving. I agreed to work tomorrow but I couldn't find a sitter, so I'm taking Eliza up to my friend Meredith's tonight, commuting to work tomorrow and then hanging with Meredith for a few days. I feel bad abandoning C with all these boxes but work has made this necessary.

Eliza has figured out how to open my bedroom door (yes, I finally have a bedroom and it's lovely) so I best tend to her.

Moving Day

We're moving on Friday. I spent Sunday with friends only to return to find C booked movers for this Friday. I thought we'd move next week. So I've hardly packed a thing due to a lack of boxes and a lack of notice. Call it a form of denial.

So that's where I'm at right now. C says not to worry, that the movers will bring boxes for whatever's left on Friday. I hope they're ready to pack up a one bedroom apartment that houses three people. Every shelf, every cranny, every cabinet is filled to capacity. I think I've put off boxing things because I can't mentally deal with the horror that is moving. Plus, packing up boxes while my toddler stands along side me yanking stuff out and tossing it on the floor is hardly a fun excercise.

Movers, be ready. This won't be a fun one.

The End of Something?

I went for a job interview today that seems promising. And that's a good thing. I've missed working, I know my daughter is going to grow up and move past me and that I'd need a life of my own. Some days at home we've barely spent an hour together because I'm cooking, cleaning, yammering on the internet.

So why do I feel like crying?

It's the idea of separation from my daughter. But whether I go to work or I stay home, that separation is coming. She's intensely social, toddling behind other children at playgrounds like a stalker. I have quickly gone from be-all-to-end-all to gatekeeper in her eyes. It's time for me to let go of her and karma has potentially plopped a good opportunity into my lap.

I know she has to grow up, she has to be on her own and I love the person she is becoming. But oh how I miss the baby who never let me put her down. That baby has been replaced by a feisty 17-month-old who cried when the babysitter left today. She's never done that to me before. Oh sure, she cheered up and happily waved bye bye as my friend walked out the door but two minutes earlier she'd been crying and reaching for her inconsolably.

I miss being her hero. I know in order to stay her "hero" I have to do something for me, I have to be happy with myself. But I can't help but cry for the end of our time together, the long days of lying on the bed together, of bathing together, brushing our teeth together. Seated side by side at the table while we both enjoyed our gourmet lunch of grilled cheese. I will still eat meals with her and brush my teeth with her. But I won't spend practically every moment of her waking time with her. Yes it's liberating.

And yes it hurts. I never knew I could love like this. I never knew there could be this little being who would consume me so much. I always said I never wanted to put all my eggs in one basket and now here I am, with all my love, energy and attention formed in the shape of a little girl. I go out with friends and I enjoy myself but it feels mechanical, polite, a diversion before the main event. My favorite times are the playdates, the time I spend with friends and my daughter.

Whether I get this job or go back to school, I realize what I'm looking at right now is the end of an era. And though I'm excited about the idea of new opportunities and a new life, oh how I'll miss this time, this moment that went by so, so quickly, this great, arduous time of just me and my girl.

Losing It

I screamed at my little girl today. Louder than I've ever yelled at her, as loud as I can yell. And though I'm angry at myself for it, I'm writing about it here today to say it happens. I'm not trying to excuse my bad behavior, I'm only trying to say to any other Mom out there who may have a bad moment, bad moments happen. No matter how hard we work to ensure they don't.

We have to be out of this one bedroom apartment by the end of the month. I've done very little packing to date and suddenly feel completely and utterly overwhelmed. Eliza has entered a new and horrible climbing stage that makes my days revolve around diverting disaster. Monday she climbed up onto a chair, stood up and fell into the table, giving herself a nosebleed. I was right there and somehow I still didn't catch her fall. Today I carried the breakfast dishes into the kitchen, put them in the dishwasher and came back to the living room to find her on top of the dining table, digging in to her older sister's Easter candy. I tried moving the chairs away from the table but she knows how to move them back. Later this morning, she climbed onto the top of my electric keyboard then promptly fell off. She also climbs onto the computer table and messes around with the computer if I don't turn it off.

What would you do?

I'd really appreciate feedback on this matter so if you're one of those people who reads but never comments, I'd love to hear your story. As C and I aren't married, the concept of in-laws never came into play for me until I had a baby. It took a while for me to adjust to the fact that these two people, who lurked in the margins of my life, were permanently bound to my daughter. I'm still learning how to deal with them.

It started to respect them as Eliza's grandparents shortlly after Eliza turned one. Though I've always respected their need to see her and forge a relationship with her, I didn't like or respect them as people. Then I realized they weren't so bad and though I didn't exactly look forward to seeing them, I could enjoy them.

As C and I are trying to work things out, I agreed to go to his parents beach house for Easter weekend. This is a big tradition for C and his other two kids. Last year I managed to skip the festivities by deciding to spend Easter with my father. His parents haven't seen Eliza since December so I felt obligated to take her to them.

Unfortunately, on our first night, I argued with C's mother and I really have no desire to bring my daughter back to the beautiful beach house. It wasn't anything major, certainly not the sort that should make me feel like I do so that's why I'm looking for some opinions here.

C's mother is the social type who likes to make every family dinner into some kind of dinner party. The table must be set nicely, C's oldest daughter must take "drink orders" and trays of finger foods are passed around before the meal. Dinner usually occurs at an hour past Eliza's bedtime so I asked for an unbreakable bowl in case Eliza decided to hurl her food bowl off the high chair.

This prompted a big, rather nastily delivered speech on how there would be no throwing of food because she didn't want it on the floor or on the walls and how it took them 38 years to get their beautiful beach house and she believes in the word no and in her house I'll play by her rules. I calmly assured her I'd clean up any mess and that Eliza's a baby, discipline didn't really work until they were beyond 18 months and that most children throw bowls. She continued her dissertation on her beautiful beach house and her life and how upset she'd be if food went flying and I suggested she do what my aunt does. She replied she didn't care what my aunt does but when I broke in by saying "she puts a plastic bag under the chair," C's mom stormed out of the room to get a garbage bag.

Shocked by the ridiculousness of it all and angered by the venom in which it was delivered, I took Eliza upstairs. When I returned to find a plastic bag on the floor and a tupperware bowl of chili on the table I told C's mom I preferred to feed Eliza upstairs. She said this wasn't an option as she didn't want food upstairs and that they had the plastic bag ready and did I know how fond she was of me? I told her I was a little too shocked to talk to her about it right now, that this sort of conversation would never happen in my family and that I needed time to cool off. And that was the end of it, sort of.

The following day, she came down to see Eliza eating lunch and dropping hummus on the plastic bag. She didn't say anything and I thought perhaps my point was made and that things would be okay. However, later that day, when I wanted to serve Eliza a snack, his mother offered to help fix it. Her help in fixing it also included her walking up with a plate and spoon and forcing my daughter to take the cut-up avocado with a spoon.

Eliza hasn't been spoon fed for months. The only thing I'll still spoon feed her is yogurt and even that has become more of a challenge. She's starting to use utensils as she wants to do whatever she sees me doing. And I love it, I love her independence, her desire to get to the next level.

At first, as I sat Eliza on my lap, Eliza obediently took the spoon-feeding and part of me was angered by her lack of moxie. She started to reach for the spoon but C's mom pulled the spoon away, waited, then swirled it back towards her mouth. Quickly growing bored with this game, Eliza turned away from C's mom and reached for a bowl of grapes. Eliza doesn't even like grapes but I got the message; she'd rather eat something she doesn't like then be spoon fed. C's mom wouldn't give up, pushed the grapes away and kept cooing and offering her the shiny spoon. The look on his mother's face frightened me. I know I'm reading too much into this, but to me her face said, "you eat my way or you don't eat."

I also have to add that his parents refuse to do any kind of childproofing to their beautiful beach house. I don't expect every home we visit to be babyproofed but I really hate that they keep light bulbs, hammers and nails in the lowest drawers of the kitchen island. Eliza's a busy kid, she's a climber and the word "no" doesn't work like it used to. When C's mother realized that a quiet "no" wouldn't do the trick, she repeatedly got down in Eliza's face and said very firmly and very loudly, a little too much like yelling for me in fact, "NO!" C's 10-year-old son did a carbon copy of this behavior when Eliza went after the school project he'd left on the floor. I don't feel it's anyone's place to shout at my daughter and I'm not going to make a big deal about this but unless Eliza's about to stick her hand on a hot burner or hitting a kid, I don't want her yelled at.

So, how would you feel in my situation? C loves to go to the beautiful beach house and his way of dealing with his mother is smiling, nodding robotically and then doing whatever he wants when she's not around. I realize it's her right to set limits in her home but I also want respect for my style of parenting. A mess is fixable, usually nothing a mop and vacuum cleaner can't fix. But shouting at my daughter, even in the name of discipline, and forcing me to feel uncomfortable at every meal, this is something that hits me on an emotional level that will only get worse as Eliza gets bigger and so do her messes.

And C's mother is doing herself a great disservice. Eliza doesn't respond to her at all.

I'd love to hear from you all. Tell me what you think, tell me your in-law stories, whatever you think.

Working--The Good, the Bad, the Ugly

I worked as a script supervisor today on the television show that always felt like my second home. They'd offered the final episode to me but I couldn't imagine being away from Eliza for four straight weeks and said "no." Today I filled in for the woman who said "yes."

Although I worked for this show for five seasons, they never got a chair that said my name on the front and the name of the show on the back. Although this woman is only working one episode, I was stunned and saddened when I saw a chair with her name set up. Here I was, so happy to return to my "family," to people I was told were so "excited to see me." And one of the first things I saw was proof positive that I my career never quite made it to where I'd wanted to go.

The woman who's doing this episode is a big name in the world of script supervising. She's done Oscar winning films, even attended the academy awards as the date of a well-known actor. So the chair back was probably a thank you for her decision to come down off her movie pedestal for a television show. It still hurt.

And I didn't get to kiss or hug or snuggle my yummy little girl all day today. As I'm still nursing, my boobs hurt to the point where I might actually have to pump tonight. I can't even remember the last time I pumped.

I have to look on the bright side, around 5pm the caterers set up a wonderful sushi bar. I certainly don't get that at home as I chase my toddler around with cottage cheese stuck in my hair.

Mama

Eliza says "Dada" all the time. She says it as she points to the man in front of us in line at the post office, to random men in the elevator, when a photo of her big brother pops up on the computer screen. Tonight, she pointed to a homeless man passed out on the stoop behind the movie theater and said "Dada. Dada."

So you can see the word isn't an expression of paternal regard, it's more of a moniker she attaches to everyone of the male gender. In fact, when a drag queen bent into her for some coochy coo last week, all lipstick and Adam's apple, Eliza looked confused and after a few moments said "Dada?"

Some one on the elevator once told me that it was nice to see a girl so interested in her father. When I told this woman I was dying to hear the word "Mama" the woman laughed and said, "pretty soon you'll hear it so often, you'll be desperate to hear anyone else's name."

I'm not there yet. Although Eliza has been saying the syllables "mama" for months, once she realized those sounds signified me, she stopped saying them. If some one asked her who "mama" was, she'd look at me. One morning she tapped my leg, looked at C and said very pointedly, "Mama." My heart felt like it would leap right out of my chest from pure happiness but that was it, she didn't say it for a long time after that day.

A few days ago, I went into her room in the morning and Eliza looked at me and very calmly said "Mama." I smiled and said "yes, I'm your Mama" and picked her up out of her crib.

"Mama," she said again, tapping my shoulder and again I felt that adrenaline surge of pure joy.

I spent this past weekend at my mother's, in the upstairs bedroom on a bed that feels like a cloud after the lumpy futon of my apartment home. Not only to I get to sleep in a bed, I get to listen to Eliza over the airwaves of a baby monitor. I can turn the volume up and listen to her breathe and I can turn it down when it's time to sleep so that only a full-on cry can be heard.

This morning, as Eliza woke up from a delicious, twelve-hour slumber, I heard the lovely, wonderful sound of my little girl saying "Mama."

Finally, my little girl knows and says my name and the stars are shining, the air smells like sweet violets and the world is a delightful, glorious place.