On Turning 5 Months and Having a Boy

It's been a long time since I wrote you. Such is my life as a working mom.

You turned five months on Monday, and each day you become more and more active. A few weeks ago you mastered the roll, every way. You now prefer your tummy, even sleeping on it. You're beginning to army crawl. Your giggles fill our house. It's Christmas time. And I'm in love.

***

I thought you were a girl.

My high school seniors are writing about love, their relationships. One of my male students writes about his girlfriend who doesn't treat him well. He spends too much money on her. She seems ungrateful. She seems to be using him. He seems sad.

As your mother, as a mother of a son, I now look at everything differently--especially love, how I treated boys, how I hurt boys, how I hurt mothers' sons. It kills me now to think of love in my teens and early twenties. How selfish I was. How if someone did that to you one day I'd be heartbroken.

I want you to know that I will be here through all the pain. No one will love you like I do.

***

Here's something I wrote recently on your friend Veronica's mom's blog about anticipation:

It's weird remembering being pregnant...it feels so far away now. Some days when I'm driving home from work and Noah's in the backseat sleeping, I think of last year being pregnant and all the things I could have done and didn't do, the freedom I had--but didn't know I had. On those days, I wish I was pregnant again, to anticipate the flutters of his tiny feet, with me every day, swimming in me. How wonderful that was! Everyone said, "You'll know when it happens." Waiting for that first real kick. And they were right. I knew it. And it was Noah, without being Noah yet, and that's an overwhelming thing to think about. To look at him now and imagine him in there, in me. His breath within my body, without breathing yet.

Now, I anticipate every day I get to spend with him. Christmases. First days of school. Swim lessons. Road trips. And the first glass of wine we share.

***

Tonight, in the bath tub, I watched you kick those feet. Who will you be? Whom will you love? Your life is yours to do something great with.

Pants and Bare Feet

I've missed your feet. They been hidden from me for five weeks. Trapped in white cloth.

We started weaning you from your Pavlik harness. You have less than two weeks left, and then you'll be out of it for good.

It's so exciting to put pants on you again. You look like a little boy.

You rolled over twice in a row, day two out of the harness. You're staring at your feet, touching your toes, discovering them for the first time.

Tonight, your dad cried because he loves you so much.

I live for your smile.

Back to Work (Sort of)

I thought it would be easy. For weeks I've been saying how I was ready to go back to work, how I loved my job, how you'd be right down the hall...

And when I dropped you off at daycare today and I went into my office for four hours to try to get some work done before I go back to teaching full time next week, it was easy.

But when I picked you up and then we drove home and you were asleep in your car seat, I became sad--sad that I wasn't exactly sure how you spent your four hours away from me. Sure, I know you ate 3 times, got your diaper changed twice, and slept in your crib for 45 minutes (and somehow Abbey got you to fall asleep on your own--a feat you never do at home), but I'm used to hearing you babble back at me all day long and I know the difference between your "I'm hungry" cry, your "I'm bored" cry, and your "I'm overtired" cry. It hurts to let go a little bit--four hours this week; eight hours next. I'm just thankful that you're close by, down the hall really, and that I'm a teacher and we will have plenty of vacation days and summers to play and cry together.

Know today that I love you, even if I can't spend every minute with you. And know that I hope this experience makes you more social and independent and well adjusted in the future. You will always be my baby boy--even when I'm driving you to college...

Officially 3 months

Today you are 3 months. You are so fun. We spend most of our days, smiling, talking, and laughing at each other. You love to babble. And I babble back. I call you my Tweetie Bird, my Tweetie, after the song "Rockin' Robin," which I started singing to you during tummy time while you played with a bird toy your Nonni gave you. Actually, the bird looks nothing like a robin--it's blue--but I sang this song anyway, and it stuck. It has replaced "The Wheels on the Bus" as our daily song.

I took pictures of you today with your Obama doll, and--just like everything else these days--you brought him to your mouth. Are these the early signs of teething? All the drool and hand-to-mouth movements. One of my favorite moments was when you held his hand in yours. See the slide show below for more highlights:

A Fall Day and the Last of Our Summer Tomatoes

Yesterday was the epitome of a fall day in the Midwest: Sunny, 60 degrees, a light breeze, fall leaves. We went for a long walk; you slept the entire time, lulled by the crunch of yellow leaves on the sidewalk as your stroller rolled over them. I took in the day. The moment. It was so peaceful, making circles through California Park, watching the sun beat down on the Chicago River.

When we returned home, you woke up, voraciously hungry. I feed you outside, as I told you we had to enjoy the nice weather while it lasts, because soon the snow arrive. And instead of depressing me, as it usually does when I think about the ice and cold that is to come, I smiled--the image of you in the snow, a winter hat on your head, Christmas, all that it used to be returning now.

After you ate, we picked two tomatoes from our garden. I held them up to your nose so you could smell them. I said, "tomato." I said, "red." I watched your eyes focus on the tiny balls that one day I hope you like to eat.

All Things Medicial

My whole life I seemed to have been plagued with minor medical ailments, often many little things wrong with me at the same time (and it never helped that I'm a hypochondriac). Most of the times, these ailments, as I call them, resulted in funny stories afterward that I would share with my friends. Like the time my mom gave me an enema in high school or the patch I wore over my eye on a date and, of course, there was the bug bite in Texas that sent me to two emergencies rooms in two states and almost killed me (okay, this one was more than minor).

Anyway, my love, it seems you have been cursed with the Lauer genes. Since you were born, the minor medical ailments have been adding up: acid reflux, horrible constipation (some day we'll tell you about your Nonni pulling out a hard poop with a rubber glove), torticollis, and now hip dysplasia. When you were diagnosed with torticollis (a weakened neck muscle that results in a favoring to one side) at your one-month appointment, I thought it couldn't get any worse. As the doctor hurled words like "facial deformity" and "therapy for a year," fear spread through my body, but it wasn't until I held you under an x-ray machine, you screaming in discomfort, that I shed tears too. Here you were, just four weeks old, and being subjected to machinery of this kind. It wasn't fair, I thought. And I thought: You are truly my responsibility and if anything ever happens to you...

But after more than a month of PT, your torticollis is improving, your neck muscles getting stronger, and I love watching you hold your head up high. Now, your torticollis seems easy to manage. I'm used to the exercises and positions. The difficult part is that just as I was getting used it all, your doctor felt a click in your hip at your two-month appointment, which lead us to more tests, an ultrasound this time, and a trip to an orthopedic surgeon at Children's Memorial. On Friday, this doctor, who specializes in kid's hips, diagnosed you with a very mild case of hip dysplasia, and immediately you were fitted for a Pavlik Harness, the go-to treatment for infants under 4 months. The doctor seems optimistic; he said he'd be surprised if you have to wear it for more than 6 weeks. But it was so hard seeing you be fitted for it; I cried, flashing to my own brace fitting when I was 12.

From 6-8 grade, I wore a Milwaukee Brace for Kyphosis 24-7, except to bathe and swim. And throughout high school, I wore it at night. Thankfully, you're adjusting to your brace easier than I did. I fainted during my fitting and was nauseous for a week. You are all smiles. And we're surprised how easy you're able to move in it; it really doesn't seem to phase you. We've heard that the first few days are often very challenging, so we were worried, but you've been amazing!

I've been overwhelmed. Being a new mom is tough enough. We spend a lot of time at doctor's offices and at hospitals, but every time we're at Children's Memorial outpatient center (we're there twice a week now), I realize how blessed we are. You are for the most part a healthy, happy child, and your father and I love you more than life. It scares us. You are our baby boy. You will not remember all these doctor's visits and therapies. You will not remember wearing this harness. But, I believe, it will make you stronger. You've been through a lot as a three month old, more than most, I'm sure.

Here's a picture of you in your harness, still looking at cute as ever!!

From Letters to NMW

And I should end this letter, letting you know that it's wonderful being a Lauer too. Hopefully, you'll get the Lauer gene of being a social butterfly, of loyalty to friends, of laughter, and enjoying life. And, secretly, I hope you get the Evelyn Lauer gene of creativity. Maybe you'll be a poet. Sshh...Don't tell your Dad.

Vowel Sounds

To get you to smile, all I have to do is make vowel sounds. You also love when I say,"the cow goes MOO!" When I do this, you smile and giggle and coo back. This interaction is the highlight of my day, and it makes me so excited for you to talk.

As a poet, I find these language games so interesting--watching you develop words is more exciting to me than seeing you controlling your head. I read you poetry every day. So far, I've introduced you to some of my recent favorites: the German poet Celan; the Greek poet Ristos; and the Serbian poet Popa. I hope you're sucking in words, listening to the sounds they make, feeling the cadence and the caesura between my breaths.

To utter. To make music with words. To hear your voice. To hear your voice...

The Elephant Toy

At about 6 weeks, you started obsessing over your elephant toy that hangs above your changing table. I call this toy Ellie; your dad named it Harry. Now at almost 10 weeks, you continue to smile and goo and giggle at this silly toy. Your father and I joke that you like it better than us because it receives more smiles from you than we do.

When you watch this video when you're fourteen, remember this time when simple things made you smile.

P.S.

There is nothing more
precious than you
sleeping, your hands
relaxed on your belly, your feet
turned inward, touching
each other.

2 months old: 11lbs 7 ounces, 23 7/8 inches

Officially 2 months old. You screamed through your first round of vaccinations, but now you're sleeping soundly. As I type this, I am watching you sleep. I wonder what you dream about. What I dream for you is a life full of family, good friends, learning, travel, and--of course--love. I imagine the day you fall in love, the day someone breaks your heart, the moment you realize you'll be fine, that life goes on, that you'll fall in love again, and again, and again. I only hope to be there for you, to share with you the great highs and lows of love.

Remember, I held you inside me.
I will hold you always, anywhere, anytime.

The world is wide open. Go. Do. Be.

Included here are pictures of your 2-month photo shoot with your Barak Obama doll. I took two different series. This month Obama upset you...

Leaf, Red

Yesterday, I gave you your first red leaf. I placed its stem into your tiny hands and you clenched it, waving it above your head, placing it on your chest.

Last November, when I found out I was pregnant, I sat on the living-room couch and stared out through the stained glass windows at the tree in our front yard. The leaves were all red then, most of them cluttered on the sidewalk. Fall was almost over; winter just ahead. I dreamed of holding you--although I did not know you were Noah yet--under the umbrella of red leaves.

September thus far has been summer-like, but our tree is turning red. Yesterday, I picked up one of its bright red leaves and placed it in your tiny hand.

You are Noah Michael. And I love you like I love red leaves.