SAVOR MY SOL

My days and weeks are flying by.  Seriously, 9- or 10-hour workdays fly by in what seems like 45 minutes. Monday happens, and then all of a sudden it's Friday afternoon and I can't remember what happened this week.  I can't remember if Sol did anything fun on Tuesday, and I can't remember what we ate for dinner last night.  At work today I got a peek at the large desk calendar that's been buried under mounds of work, and I saw that I was still looking at February.  When did it become March?  And as I started marking off each consumed day in March (with a pink highlighter, BECAUSE I CAN), I realized it was March 22.  Honestly, I could've just waited a week and flipped straight to the April page. 


The time is going by too quickly and I feel like I'm not really experiencing anything.  We do our daily routine: I go to work while she spends 80% of her waking time with strangers, and we come home and eat and bathe and go to bed.  And the next day is the same.  All of a sudden I find myself looking at photos from when we went to visit Santa at the mall, and there I am, but I'm holding this chubby-cheeked child... whom I barely recognize.

Why am I taking someone else's daughter to meet Santa?

Oh wait, that child belongs to me. 

And then I look at the picture of the little lady I took to daycare this morning.  

That child belongs to me too.

The child in the picture above (you know, the one clutching the pink bunny) has has a rough few weeks.  She survived the Bubonic Plague of the Bierlein Household in early March, she's left one daycare, tried 3 more... all the while with a runny nose and a constant cough.  She's been sick and thrown into new situations.  And while she's trying to adjust, things don't always fall into place so easily.  And I get that.  My heart breaks as I see her struggling.  I see my 1-year-old child trying to establish a normal routine in the midst of new people, new colors and noises and sounds, trying to take naps in a new place.  Trying to eat sweet potatoes and peas at daycare while all the other kids are eating green eggs and turkey sausages in honor of St. Patrick.

In the midst of all that turbulence, Sol and I both take comfort in one thing: the unyielding, unshakable, interminable bond that connects us as mother and daughter.  I am hers, and she is mine.  I knew it from the moment I saw a positive pregnancy test, from the moment I felt the flutter of a tiny human in my expanding belly.  I knew it as I held my child for the first time, terrified, just seconds after she took her first breath.  A mother's love for her child is absolutely indescribable, and to see Sol upset is like taking a knife to the heart.  So in these days of instability all I can do is love her.

We spend quiet nights on the couch, just the two of us.  After a year of refusing to snuggle with me, she's finally taken comfort in sitting on my lap, clutching her pink bunny, laying her head on my chest and feeling the rhythm of the heart that beats for her.  I talk to my sleepy Sol about how incredible she is, and I tell her of the grand plans I envision for her.  I tell her how much I love her; and after sending up a silent prayer of thanks for the miracle in my arms, I thank her for the life she's given me.  I thank her for every frustrating 3am wake-up that helps me learn patience.  I thank her for every snort/chuckle hybrid that escapes her mouth and makes my soul do a somersault.  I thank her for showing me that perfect love is not only possible but necessary.

Before I know it, I've talked her to sleep and she's snoring softly on my chest, her eyelashes laid delicately atop her resting eyes.  Her chubby hand is still gripped tightly around the soft pink bunny that's clearly become her source of security in a world of uncertainty.  Just when my mind starts to wander and I think, 'If I had chosen a different route...'  her tiny snores snatch my attention and I fall in love all over again.  In moments like these, I get to savor my Sol.

Peace and Quiet... Yuck.

I'm getting settled into my new place, loving it a little more every day. I'd like to say that I miss my old casa. But I do not. Nope, not even a little bit. I do not like the Walnut Trail. I wouldn't like it in a pail, with a snail or with a tail. I do not like the Walnut Trail.

My former residence had just one advantage to where I'm now living. I had some sort of television reception there. Don't get me wrong. I DO NOT watch a lot of TV. Hear this: no one living in my household is going to just sit in front of the TV all day.  However, I do find it fulfilling to listen to the news as I get ready each morning. And I absolutely need Desperate Housewives on Sunday nights, at least for this season (the very last season... *single tear*). And if you've spent any time with me at my home, you'll know that I CAN NOT HAVE PURE SILENCE. The TV is always on, even if just for background noise. I might drive myself crazy otherwise.

You can imagine my disappointment when I found out that no channels come in on my tv, not even with a fancy-schmancy digital antenna. I have never before chosen to have cable. Ever. Never ever. It's my principle. You can also imagine my disgust when I first shopped around for cable prices ($40 a month just so I can watch the news in the morning? No thank you!). I refuse to get cable.

So I returned the fancy-schmancy antenna to Target and I've found other ways to occupy myself. Pandora radio, for example... A miraculous feat of online engineering with which I've lost touch over the past few months. And then there's the archives of the Dave Ramsey radio show. Nothing like stimulating the financial half of your brain for several hours a day.

So thats become my life. At the ripe young age of 24, I spend my evenings sitting at home, alone with my daughter, eating soup and listening to financial advice from Dave Ramsey. I'm soooo cool. I've been Ramsey-ized, though. I now spend my days working out my financial future (something I absolutely love doing, by the way!), and I'm working on a 5-yr plan to rid myself of all debt (yep, including those blasted student loans). So I can move.

So I can move somewhere like Oregon.

Or Fiji.

Or Ireland.

Or Guatemala.

Or Greece.

Okay, okay... Maybe that's not exactly realistic. But according to Dave, becoming debt-free IS realistic! But I digress. The point is, I refuse to pay for cable. I refuse. Even if that means a lifetime of listening to talk-radio. But I eventually want my basic channels. Anyone have any advice?

I WORRY

1. I worry about my car. Affectionately dubbed “The Starship,” my car is a rather new purchase, a dependable and compact Honda Civic that somewhat resembles something from the Ringling Brothers. In case a Civic weren’t small enough, consider the fact that it’s a coupe. I took it to the local baby superstore to try out various infant car seats in the back seat. Only one worked. Now, I’m not saying that the majority of car seats were snug, or that there wasn’t much room when I tried them; I’m saying that both front seats were impossible to lock in place when the car seat was installed properly. So even if Baby B. is buckled in safely, I’ll be sliding forward and backward as I man the Starship. Needless to say, my car seat options are mighty slim pickin’s.

2. I worry about my finances. Babies are expensive. And even though I hold a special place in my heart for Microsoft Excel and I adore creating spreadsheets, I detest my semi-weekly review of my current budget vs. après-baby budget.

3. I worry about the first night. I don’t think I know anyone else who’s raised a baby totally on her own, right from the very beginning. I’ve heard from people who have “had someone there, but he wasn’t much help,” etc. But even if their support persons weren’t much support, they still had someone else there. I’m absolutely terrified of the first night I’ll spend alone with this new little person.

4. I worry that I end too many phrases with “That’s what she said.”

5. I worry about baby-proofing my home. Example: At this very moment, I have a Nicaraguan machete leaning against the wall on the floor near my dining room table. What am I supposed to do with that?

6. I worry about how I’m going to get a tan. Skin cancer awareness groups, avert your eyes… I like the tanner. A) I may not be able to afford it anymore, and B) I can’t bring the baby to the tanning salon with me. Now what?

7. I worry about my wardrobe. Now that I’ll be spending all my time and money shopping for the little person in my life, how am I supposed to maintain my own fashion? Call me a materialistic bum if you want, but I won’t deny that I’m worried about it.

8. I worry about not having time to myself. I worry about no longer knowing peace and quiet.

9. I worry about being single. Like any other young woman, I want to find love. I want to find Mr. Right. I thought it was hard before. I think it just got a gazillion times harder.

10. I worry about being selfish. (see numbers 5-9)

11. I worry about fighting the urge to down the whole jar of baby food myself while feeding Baby B. My name is Melanie and I’m a huge sucker for baby food pears and plums.  I was born this way.

12. I worry about blaming Baby B. for the changes he/she will bring to my life. I worry that I’ll forget to remind myself that Baby B. is a human to be loved, not an inconvenience to be managed.

13. I worry about setting a good example for Baby B. How am I supposed to teach Baby B. all the right things when I’m far from perfect? Isn’t that hypocritical?

14. Above all, I worry about the day when my child asks me where Daddy is. I worry that Baby B. will wonder why every other kid in daycare sees his/her father, even if only part-time, and Baby B. has never met this “dad” person. I worry that Baby B. will wonder why he/she wasn’t good enough for Daddy to want to be a part of our life. I worry that Baby B. will resent me for making poor decisions, or for not choosing adoption so that Baby B. could have a mom AND a dad. I worry that Baby B. will grow up missing out on a huge part of childhood because we’ll be absent a parent. I worry that I won’t be enough. I can hide the machete and do without tanning sessions. I can fight the urge to eat the baby food pears, and I can go without a new pair of jeans. But I can’t be a dad. I guess I’ll just have to be the best mom I can be.