Hello, Pushkin

Tarantulas are the biggest spiders on earth. A tarantula can eat an entire frog. Honestly, four-year-olds know the coolest stuff.

Today is Mae's 9 month birthday! It was a HUGE day in our house. Just giant. Not only did she do her first definitely-not-an-accident waving for 'hi' and 'bye,' she also learned how to clap. Also, if you make motorboat lips at her now, she makes them right back. We had a tea party with our neighbour this afternoon and basically spent the whole time making farting noises at each other. It wasn't exactly ladylike and civilized, but a good time was had by all.

I have to say, 9 months is definitely the best age yet (and I do realize I've said the exact same thing about every age she's been so far). But, honestly, 9 months... it can't get better than this. It's just so cool to see the beginnings of communication happening.

The beginning of mobility, on the other hand, I have mixed feelings about. Yesterday Mae spent the whole day tearing around the main floor finding wires to pull on and corners to bang her head on. It was horrible. Every time I moved her away from a dangerous area or tried to distract her with a toy, she'd scream. By the end of the day, I didn't have any energy left. When I called my mom she squealed with excitement (like the good grandma that she is) to hear that Mae was really, really crawling but I couldn't share her enthusiasm. "I hate crawling," I said. "I wish she would unlearn it." My mom laughed at me. I guess she's been there.

Anyway, after a night spent childproofing (even though, I swear, I thought we'd already more or less childproofed), things were much better today and I'm sure I'll adjust. It definitely makes Mae giddy to be so mobile. You can just tell how proud she is when she pulls herself up on the sofa cushions or almost catches the wonderful, lovely kitty she's been crawling after. And if something makes her that happy, I guess it makes me happy too... even if it also makes me tired.

If there was such a thing as the Parenting Olympics, I think the Toddler Diaper Change would have to be one of the main events.

It's pretty much got it all: Precision... (can she get the diaper on with the tabs facing forward?) speed... (while chasing the crawling, rolling, incredibly wiggly baby across the floor) high stakes... (before a poo gets made on the Persian rug?) It's hands down the most athletic thing I do these days, anyway.

We went to Sudbury for the weekend to see my family and, once again, I feel like I've come back with a different baby (we really need to stop going there, I think). When we left home, Mae was kind of puddling around with the whole crawling thing: rocking on her hands and knees and inching forward and backwards safely and at a leisurely pace. But now that we're home, she's speed-crawling with reckless abandon. Blink twice and she's halfway across the living room fiddling with the door of the cabinet where I keep my grandmother's antique china, or in hot pursuit of an unfortunate kitty.

Her crawl is not text-book perfect (if there is such a thing). It's not a diaper commercial baby kind of crawl. It's a bit wonky and special. She sort of walks with one leg while dragging the other and pulling herself along with her arms. Something about it reminds me of a three-legged dog. I doubt she'll really have much time to perfect it though anyway. She's pulling herself up to standing constantly. You can tell that she already thinks this crawling stuff is for babies and that she's got her eye on the next prize.

Me! Reddish hair. Whiteish skin. Totally exhausted. Good riddle, eh? Okay, not really. But it's the best I can do today.

Mae went on a sleep strike last night. She was up for a snack at 1:30, then sort of went back to bed, and then was up again from about 2:30 until 4:00 ish just, you know, wanting to hang out, bounce up and down while holding the side of the crib and talk. She screamed whenever I left the room, but she wasn't hungry. She didn't need a diaper change. She didn't seem to be teething (although I gave her some Tylenol anyway at 3:30 out of desperation).

I rocked with her. I held her. I read to her. I shushed her softly. Then I shushed her in a very angry way. I explained to her in a very calm and rational voice that mommy has only a limited amount of patience after midnight and that she was using it up fast. Then I explained the same thing in a not-so calm and rational voice. I tried to look at her lovingly and remind myself that one day, I'd miss these times, except I didn't believe myself. I snapped "NOTHING," at my husband when he stumbled in, bleary-eyed, asking what he could do to help, then went right back to rocking with her miserably, not knowing what to do.

Eventually she had a bit of a bottle and went back to sleep and everything is fine now. There's not much point to this post, really. I have nothing insightful to say about this. Nothing at all, really, to say except that I'm tired.

I've been thinking about how to fill in that blank for a week now, ever since the Parent Blogger network I'm part of partnered up with a site called Light Iris to issue this blog post challenge.

I am a mother because...

I haven't come up with much. To tell you the truth, eight months after Mae's birth, I still feel like I'm figuring this mothering thing out day by day (or sometimes moment by moment). I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. She's the greatest little person to spend the days with. She's smiley, and healthy and hitting all the developmental milestones.... but, all the same, my confidence is so easily shaken that, some days, I feel like I barely deserve the title 'mother'.

Pushing Mae in the swing at the park, the mother standing next to me makes an off-hand comment: "It's not as warm as they forecast." Immediately, I'm convinced that what she's really trying to comment on is the obvious fact that Mae is not wearing mittens while her golden-haired son has got on adorable teddy bear mitts which he is not even pulling off at every opportunity and this is, obviously, because she is a good mother and I, clearly, am not.

My husband comes home from work and asks, innocently enough: "Did you water the new tree today?" "No," I snap back. "I didn't get around to watering the tree because..." and then I rhyme off a ridiculously long list of the things I did that day, including every diaper change and every meltdown I had to deal with because I wouldn't let Mae eat Kleenex... all in an effort to spell out for him that I am not lazy and that, while he's away earning the money, I don't I sit around all day in my underpants neglecting our daughter while I watch Oprah (Okay, bad example. I do watch Oprah and, sometimes, Mae is only in her diaper, which is a lot like underpants but, I swear, that's the only downtime I have some days between baby care, dishes and loads of laundry).

And, of course, I'm not suggesting that my insecurities really have anything to do with my husband or with the other mom at the swings. There have been a few people (a very few) who have rudely suggested that I should be doing this or that differently when it comes to Mae but, comparatively, I've been about a hundred times harder on myself.

It's like I can't quite shake this feeling that the other moms I know are really mothers, while I'm just in disguise. Sure, I love my daughter with an intensity I didn't know existed before. And, yeah, I'm pushing the stroller. I'm wearing the shirt with spit-up on the sleeve. I can read Mr. Brown Can Moo in the dark, with my eyes closed, with or without the actual book in my hand. But I don't really know what I'm doing. I'm only muddling through, making up the words to the songs as I go. Whenever somebody tells me how good Mae is, I shrug my shoulders: "She just came out that way," I answer. "She's a great baby." And she is. She's got the sweetest, happiest nature; the funniest smile.

But maybe, on this, my first mother's day, I could try giving myself some of the credit. I might be feeling my way through the dark with this motherhood thing, but I'm staying on course all the same. I'm figuring it out one step at a time. I'm raising a great kid. And I'm willing to bet that every mother feels that same uncertainty - even the mom at the swing set. How could she not?

It's not like any of us come into this job with prior experience in being sent home from the hospital with a total stranger who cries, doesn't sleep, can't talk and can't even support the weight of their own head. It's not like any of us can possibly be prepared (no matter how many books we've read, how much advice we've been given, or how much help we've got) to be the primary caregiver; to know how to protect that little person and help them grow up to be a responsible, caring, fully functioning adult. I mean, Jesus Christ. It's huge, and it's hard, and it's scary, even when it's amazing and rewarding and totally magic. It's the biggest, most complicated, most lifelong job I can think of.

We're all stumbling through motherhood and, for the most part, we're doing the best we can. As hard as I can be on myself some days, deep down I believe anyone who takes on the job with a loving heart and the best of intentions deserves to feel proud of herself.

So, I've been thinking about this question all week, and this is what I've finally come up with:

I am a mother because I don't really know what I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway, and I'm doing it with all of my love, and I'm doing it with all of my energy. When it's all said and done, that aught to be enough.

One nice thing about being eight-months-old: When you get naked and play the tambourine, it's incredibly cute. When you get older... not so much.