A Much Needed Lament.........

     I realize that I have neglected this blog in the same way I have neglected other things over the past year.  It's hard to find space to come up for air when you have an infant.  It's hard to even remember what you used to do in your other life.   It's wonderful, having Nora, but I have been battling my own demons this past year.
    It's the typical things that most women go through after having a baby:  the figure I once had and the clothes that once fit me are a bit of a distant memory.  It took me a while, (and weekly Pilates sessions) to even get my core strength back.  It's nice to have that, at least, even if my old jeans are still packed in a box.  I ended up giving away some beautiful clothes from my "skinny mini" period because I decided I would rather have things that fit me than lament over the days when I barely registered 130 pounds on the scale.
And my vintage collection, packed away in storage back in the states, is no longer wearable - it's  inspiration only at this point (except for the hats, and the shoes, but without the beautiful suits and dresses, they stay packed away.)
   I look at pictures of myself and I cringe:  I see the bags under my eyes from sleepless nights, My hair, which fell out in clumps about 3 months after Nora came, (right on cue according to all of the literature) is almost back to normal, (but, since I cut a lot of it off, I feel funny with the length and the style - I miss my long hair.  It was just too depressing to lose the hair and the length of it made it seem more extreme).  My boobs are huge, (but I'm determined not to wean Nora until she is one year) and I'm dying to wear a real bra again someday.  My waistline?  Ha! I used to be the epitome of wasp waisted.  I never had a muffin top until now.  That, amazingly, doesn't bother me so much.  But what does is seeing my small wrists and thin hands, my always narrow long neck and small head on a body I don't recognize.  I used to be sample sized!  Now I have a mummy tummy.
   I'm longing for  a week on the beach, a day at the spa, a full night's sleep.
I envy my 11 month old daughter's beautiful hair, brown with copper highlights.  She has my natural hair color and I think that the next salon visit I make will be to say:  give me that color, one last time before my hair goes all gray.  Let us be the same, let me live that moment of youth one more time.
Her eyes are a beautiful sea gray/ green.  She has my heart shaped face, but a mouth from her father's side of the family, (I think - we'll see what it looks like when most of her teeth arrive).
     I'm 40, I'm an older mom. I'm an ex-pat.  I'm Gen X.  We were talking about food co ops at one of my ABA meetings and I admitted to them that I had helped in a food co op when I was a girl.  My parents - co op members, organic gardeners, etc.  Born in 1969, the summer of love, 2 towns over from the Woodstock Festival, upstate NY girl.  Talking to a woman in her 20's who kind of looked at me with her mouth hanging open when I told her.  Born in the sixties.  I'll be 58 when Nora graduates high school.
   She's probably the only child I'll ever have.  I admit that when my younger friends talk about having more, and that when I see little bubs sleeping peacefully, I feel a pulling in my heart.   I should have started earlier, I think.  But, at what cost?  Would I have traded the travel, the dancing, the creative work,  the life of a single gal in NYC?  I might have traded the six years wasted on an older man who didn't have the strength to commit to anything.  But, mostly, I have no regrets about living my life how I did.  So, Nora is my autumn child. The day we brought her home from the hospital, it smelled like fall at home.  The air was crisp.  The fallen leaves were blowing and twirling in the breeze.  It was a good day.  I was scared out of my wits, but it was a good day.
     She is my romping lion, my funny, sunny smiling girl.  She smiles at almost everyone she meets.  She loves music.  She sings to herself.  She bounces with the beat.  She loves maracas and tambourines. She loves playing with her older brother and sister.  They have no idea that babies need to nap.  That over stimulation is a bad thing.  She cries like an opera singer.  She is trying to stand by herself and is frustrated when she falls, again, onto her padded bottom.  She points at everything and says "da!".  "Cabinet", I say, "picture, flower, tree.."  She loves books,  she turns the pages and points.  She has a special shelf where she will place certain toys.  She took her sippy cup down from the end table today, had a drink, and put it back on the table.  She bit my shoulder, she bit my boob, (ouch!).  She throws the ball and chases it.  She rolls it to me.  She plays peek a boo with her blanket in the pram.
She claps.  She plays by herself and says "Hooray!", (thanks to dad and a certain song about being happy).
     I love her with a fierce love, I am her protector, her sleep aid, her meal ticket, her mom.  But, where am I?  Where is the me I once was?  Can I be mom and Jennifer?  Can I be Jennifer and stay sane?   I look in the mirror, place my hands on my cheeks and subtly pull the skin back: 20, 40, 20, 40.
Once I had the face of a twenty year old, but who appreciates that when you have it?   It's not so bad, really, my 40 year old face.  But it looks tired now.
   I wish that I had that village around me that everyone talks about.  I wish that the few friends I had in oz before I had Nora had stuck around after I had her.  I wish that my mom didn't have to watch Nora on Skype like she is watching TV.  I wish that my aunts were around because I miss my family.  I wish that Nora would know her Grandpa Comar the way I knew him when I was a little girl.   I wish that my American mommy friends were around the corner.  I wish that I could curl up on the couch with my cats; one in the bend of my knees, the other in the curve of my chest.
It's getting better, though.  I don't mind it here.  Sometimes I even like it.  If only we had American Target.
Sigh.  Thanks for letting me get that out.