A Confession

There has been quite a bit in my life that has not come easily. Really, the number of things is staggering-- everything from telling time to volleyball to understanding the unspoken social code of this or that situation. Just learning to swim took about three years, several camp counselors, and an unfortunate incident with my older brother and a hotel pool.

My years in Catholic school were a blur of blind terror and stomach acid, rather transparently covered over with a blithe "who cares" attitude and a lopsided embrace of my awkwardness. Frankly, childhood was like an exit with a really nasty gas station bathroom. I'd prefer to move on down the road if at all possible.

Though adulthood has been easier, with a history like that and a genetic disposition to fear change, I've met every "next big step" with more than a little trepidation. That's why, as much as I wanted a baby, part of me was just certain we were in for it when I saw the double pink line. I prepared for motherhood like some people prepare for war-- discussing worst case scenarios, deciding I could live through them, and saying goodbye to the things I enjoyed, hoping to meet them again on the other side of retirement. After all, as I've often been reminded, I was the embodiment of the most difficult child my mother could have imagined. It was time to prepare for payback. I was certain I'd bear a mini-me.

Ladies and gentleman, I have a confession to make. In this case, I was wrong.

I was wrong, because it takes two to tango, and exactly 50% of Eva Daisy's genetic make-up comes from her father, who in most ways is about as opposite of me as one can be. Sure, I think he also probably sucked at volleyball, but whereas I've always been anxiety-ridden Bert, frightened and confused by the world outside his pigeons, Mr. Milkweed is happy-go-lucky Ernie, jumping from twin bed to twin bed extolling the virtues of his toothbrush.

The mothers in my playgroup bemoan their children's sleeping habits, their fickle moods, their refusals to eat from a spoon, drink from a bottle, be pushed in their strollers or be carried by their fathers. My sister-in-law can't understand why my nephew would refuse to nap, even when he is so tired he's grinding his face in the carpet. Babies at the library scream and turn purple, enraged at their mothers for turning the corner in the picture-book section and stepping out of view for three nanoseconds.

Even with stumbling blocks like her reflux and early sleep issues-- the latter of which weren't even that bad, seen in hindsight with a month or more of solid sleep under my belt-- Eva is an easy baby. Every new shift in her environment, which I've approached balacing on a chair with my skirts in a bunch, she's taken to quickly and calmly. Bassinet to crib? Yawn. Switching from breast to bottle and back? Yes, please. Sleep training? There was fifteen minutes of crying the first night, and none after the first week. Oh, you want to feed me from a spoon now? Great! I love it! Is there a total stranger shoving her face in mine? Hi, lady!

Eva is totally, unequivocally, one-hundred percent her father's child in tone and temperament. And all I can do is stand back in wonder, a goofy grin plastered on my face as she meets yet another stage in her development laughing and smiling. We have two Ernies in the house now, waxing rhapsodic about the letter M, cajoling me with silly songs to unfurl my unibrow and just be happy.

I would, of course, have loved her if she'd been any other kind of muppet at all. And will love her if she still turns out to be a Bert, though I've been assured by many, many other mothers that her basic temperament is here to stay. There will no doubt be many moments when she is-- forgive me-- Oscar the Grouch. Times when I'll look back on this blog posting and question my reasoning. And if she ever shows signs of an inner Bert, I'll hug her tightly and let her know that really, I know just how she feels.

We're not done growing our family. With luck, there will be at least one other addition , and I can't help but thinking that next time, it'll be our turn for a baby like me. At least by then I'll be a little more experienced at this parenting thing. If sleeping and eating and meeting new people turns out to be a real battle in the trenches, at least I won't have the spectre of new parenthood haunting my every decision. I'll walk the floors, introduce new experiences ever-so-slowly, and make sure that Bert-baby knows he or she is just as perfect as his or her older sister. For now, though, I'm going to relax my grip on the panic button and start to enjoy my sunny, adaptable firstborn. She is a treasure in her own right, but a real treat as well. A major thing that's happened that has been a lot less rocky than I would have predicted.

Eva Daisy, she's a joy. When I squeeze her, she makes noise. Eva Daisy, I'm awfully fond of you...doo-doo-bee-doo....