Ruthie Grows

More teeth are in the works. New techniques are developing for fighting naps and sleep. Words are beginning to form. Feedings are getting easy, if messy, since Ruth often insists on feeding herself. The appetite is growing, and she is always in need of an audience.

What a difference a good night's sleep makes.

The biggest drama of our lives in the past year has always been sleep. Getting Ruth to sleep through the night, at its various stages, has had its triumphs and setbacks. Now that she's 13 months old, it's reaching a tenuous place; right between genuine psychological need, and the beginning stages of--dare I say it--brattyness.

Nights in which I wake up once (due to pregnancy thirst), or twice (just listening to a whimper or two) are still common. Sometimes, however, we are plagued with nights of crying, crying, and crying. We're still out on the futon in the living room most nights; it seems as though Ruth has a sixth sense for when we're in the bedroom (which is when she can persist in getting us up).

It feels cruel to leave her there. Her frantic voice still breaks my heart. But what I think I've learned is my waffling & heartsickness have probably made things more confusing and complicated for her. It's hard to push my conflicted feelings away and be consistent.

Regardless, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. As Meg counseled me last night, she won't be 13 and still waking up at night.

The coming year will be a challenge; I imagine that in the first three months after #2 comes along, I'll feel even more a zombie than I did after Ruth arrived. But at least I'm experienced at it. All I've got to do is put a few folks on speed dial for those days when I'm barely human and losing it.

Maybe I'll publish a book after all my children are grown. I'll call it Adventures in Sleep: One Bleary-Eyed Mom's Epic Story.

When it comes to how tidy the house is, I'm definitely a lot more laid back now than I was about six months ago.

That's not saying much, though.

Living in a one-bedroom apartment means that if anything is out of place, it is an intrusion. Anything unnecessary, unused, or uncared for sticks out like a sore thumb. When things aren't put away, I feel as though a parallel messy universe exists in my brain; things must be tidy in order for me to think straight!

However, I'm slowly but surely creating a mental filter for toys. Ruth's toys, I tell myself, are not my mess, because they are generated by her business. Ruth's business is that of play and discovery, and my businesses is that of photography, and running the home. They both generate different sorts of messes: mine on my hard drive and in the kitchen, hers, well, nearly everywhere else.

So each morning, Ruth's business creates a minefield all around the apartment (except the kitchen and bathroom, which I quarantine with baby gates and feel should be treated as Different Adult Spaces in which Necessary Vital Things must occur and so Children's Messes Should Not Be In There. The bedroom? Trashed. The living room? Destroyed.

Every night, after Ruth goes to bed, I gather up all the toys, and put them all into a large laundry basket I have in the living room. I barely bother to sort them nowadays, reserving that as a once-in-awhile kind of activity. It usually happens when I realize that Ruth can't put her puzzles together because all the pieces have sunk back to the bottom of the basket where she can't reach.

Cute Ikea toy organizers where things are labeled? Please, I'm saving that for grade school when she can actually read or recognize a picture label.

It is nice to think that in less than a decade, I will be able to communicate to my child that it is important to clean up after one's self. We'll see how that goes.

Nursing is on the rise. Towards the end of December, we were down to once a day. Today, it's back up to three or four. I'm not too nervous about it; I will get nervous, however, if she doesn't decide to stop on her own soon. I'm all for breastfeeding, don't get me wrong, but tandem nursing is not something I'll be up for right after moving to a new place.

With the rise of nursing is the rise of mommy-exclusivity. Holding, playing, eating, bathing, bedtime; it's all for mommy to do. This makes it painful, sometimes, when Steve takes his turn with her. She whimpers for me, but goes along with it. Sometimes, though, she cries. I know that this, like other clingy phases, will pass soon, and she'll be on to something new. I may miss it sometime; she'll wave a cheery goodbye without looking back, and I'll long for the day when she tentatively clung to my legs.