Monthly Archives: May 2012



Sometimes I really feel like I must be a horrible mother.

Days like today when my son wakes up an hour earlier than usual, when it’s my turn to wake up with him.

When I wake up and I just desperately want to be alone and do my own thing and not be responsible for anyone or anything.
When I just don’t know how to entertain a ten month old properly and when I’m pretty sure he’s sleepy but he refuses to fall asleep and just clings and fusses and I lose my patience because I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOU so I swing him up onto my shoulder, probably too abruptly, storm downstairs, clip him in his stroller and take him to the daycare ten minutes after they’re open.

On my day off.

When I guess most good parents are cherishing the extra time they can spend with they’re babies.

But instead I’m stomping down the street, feeling frustrated and inadequate and selfish.

I’m rushing to leave my son for the whole day with people who he likes and who know how to properly keep him busy and give him enriching things to do for 8 hours.
And all the while I’m seething and boiling under my skin.

Raging at the depressing, dank, gray skies that have been non stop since the cold weather broke in March.
Furious at the puddles the stroller splashes through because the puddles never end because it won’t stop raining here, EVER, or so it seems.
Livid because if I hear one more conversation in Turkish or Arabic, see one more piece of old food or garbage left on our windowsill by the neighborhood brats, wade through one more ignorant crowd of roma hogging the sidewalk and blowing cigarette smoke in my face, I swear I’m going to scream and claw someone’s eyes out.

I want to sleep past 9 o’clock in the morning, but even when I have the opportunity, my body wakes me up around 6.
I want an entire weekend free where my husband is not busy with his father rebuilding the house and the weather isn’t too shitty to go out and do something with our son as a family.
I want to feel like a good mother who doesn’t get exasperated when my son shows little interest in a book and doesn’t want any of his toys, and doesn’t seem to want to do anything but cling to me and whine.

I don’t want to come slamming back into the house and have to answer to my husband who thinks he’s done something wrong to cause my anger regardless of how many times I tell him I’m not mad at him.

I want to write this and hit publish and not worry that as soon as he reads it, my husband will come to me feeling hurt that I could write what was bothering me here and let other people read it, but not tell him the problem as soon as I got home.
I want him to know that I’m ashamed of how little patience I seem to have sometimes when it comes to my son.
Or my husband.
Or my cats.

Or, I suppose, underlying it all, how much loathing I often have for myself.

Ten Months


Tay is ten months old today.

He’s still a big boy, weighing in at 10.5 kilos and measuring 72 cm (23 pounds and 28.3 inches) so people tend to think he’s already a year old.
He fits in 12 and sometimes even 18 month old shirts, but his 12 month old sized pants are always too short.
From what I can tell he’s built a lot like my brother: a little bulldog.

His two bottom middle teeth are definitely in although there have yet to be any more.

He crawls around like a little demon but is becoming more and more confident standing and cruising from piece of furniture to piece of furniture. He can walk using the little wheeled baby walker we borrowed from friends and enthusiastically walks across the room several times until me or his Papa get tired of turning him and the walker around so that he can cross the room again. When he standing in one place he is often balancing himself with only one hand and raises and lowers himself easily.
He still doesn’t have any words yet, but I know it’s still early for most kids to start talking.
He still claps, usually to music although sometimes just when he’s happy or excited or even sometimes when he’s upset. He knows the end of Bumba means bedtime and he understands when I say “come on” and follows me on hands and knees.

A week or two ago he gave up his evening bottle and now he has dinner with Piet and I, usually some pieces of fruit or vegetable with a slice of brown bread and some quark or yoghurt. We’re trying to encourage him to drink more water now that he only has one bottle and he’ll only oblige if he gets to drink from a real glass.

He continues to be mellow and friendly and sweet. He adjusts easily to strangers and is well liked at his day care.

He’s a happy, wonderful little boy and he’s making us all very happy.