I have to face the facts. I was timid and, um, lazy when it came to introducing new foods to Eva. Shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right? But when you’ve worked with food for the majority of your professional life, it’s easy to over-think it and create yet another source of mommy guilt. (Great.)

Eva liked mashed bananas, so I was happy to serve them as breakfast or an occasional on-the-go snack. And she’d eat anything mixed with greek yogurt, which was great for hiding pureed peas. (Jessica Seinfeld was clearly onto something.) I read about spices and different cooking methods on all sorts of baby food blogs. I’d add ground cinnamon to a mashed banana and greek yogurt mixture, and I’d occasionally puree a big batch of steamed zucchini, serving it for a few days straight, with some single-portion amounts set aside to freeze for back-up meals.

So when my husband’s college roommate and his family came to stay with us at our home upstate, I found myself being schooled by another mom when it came to making baby food. She’d buy a grass-fed New York strip steak and puree it with sautéed onions and call it baby food. I tried it, and no joke, it reminded me more of a low-fat pate or meat spread (read: tasty!). The only thing that separated it from something I’d eat myself was that it wasn’t seasoned with salt and she used very little fat during its preparation. Granted, her daughter was a few months older than Eva, but still, the difference between us on the baby food spectrum was closer to light years than months. I felt like I’d stalled at what food marketing teams call Stage 1. The other mom was at Stage 3 with honors.

And with their visit came the point where everything changed. Suddenly, Eva was eating steel-cut oatmeal with cooked peaches for breakfast and we snuck in a few meals featuring ingredients some may have called “advanced” for Eva’s then 9 months of age. But by the time our friends left, I’d nailed down winning combinations like pureed steak, roasted beets and parsley or lentil soup pureed with Greek yogurt. I joked with my husband that Eva’s pureed diet involved ingredients that were healthier than the foods we were eating as her parents.

So when I was asked by an editor if I was interested in developing baby food recipes, I jumped at the chance. They wanted to pay me to come up with unusual baby food recipes that I could test out on my 10-month-old daughter? Done. Where do I sign?

I was in pureed baby food nirvana, coming up with combinations that included foods like wild salmon, dill, sour cream and baby peas. But I felt myself stalling again, content to let my daughter gain all her nutrients and satisfy her palate through a daily diet of pureed food. Good pureed foods, but nevertheless, pureed.

We were at a friend’s birthday at a bowling alley when I noticed my friend’s 16-month-old son carrying around a dry bagel that he tore through using his teeth and hands. Up until this point, Eva has been more a of finger food eater, using very few utensils as she was more of a pincher-grasp connoisseur. I asked my friend when her son had started biting into foods and she said she’d started by giving him whole bananas. Duh. It was too obvious. For dinner, my daughter ate a pureed cauliflower, rosemary and white bean concoction. And for dessert? A whole banana I picked up on the way home from the bowling alley.

It was fascinating to watch. As soon as I set the banana into her shatter-proof melamine bowl, her little hands reached out and seized the thing and tore it in two. She then jammed one-half into her mouth and I watched and smiled as she chomped into the banana. She grinned back at me and continued eating away, occasionally taking bites so big that her immediate response was to push out the offending chunk with her tongue and spit it out. (Chalk one for Mother Nature giving babies the ability to react accordingly.)

So for dinner tonight, I decided to make Eva a little pasta meal of chopped up whole-wheat fusilli tossed with a bit of olive oil, freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese and black pepper. It’s one of my favorite meals (Cacio e pepe, as the Italians call it, and they sure know their food.), and I figured it was soft enough to mash with her gums and small enough to swallow in case the mashing didn’t go so well. It was also the perfect size and texture for her fingers to pluck.

As soon as I set it down at the table, along with a few cubes of roasted butternut squash, Eva reached for the pasta and swatted it around with her fingers for a few minutes before gingerly putting a piece in her mouth. She kept her eyes on her plate and smacked her lips together a few times, as if mulling over whether it needed more parm or pepper. Apparently, the dish passed her muster and her fingers went in for more. She had finished a few bites before she looked at me and smiled, baring a few teeth and a whole lot of gums. “Mmmmm,” Eva said.

I sighed, happy.

Last week, I came home after a rare late night out with friends to a quiet apartment. Husband, baby and dog were all asleep. The living room lights were off save for the eerie green glow that emanated from Eva’s baby monitor. Maybe my exhaustion had caught up with me or the glasses of wine I’d consumed had me feeling punchy, but the sight of it left behind in the living room instantly angered me.

Eva doesn’t cry out to be freed from her crib once awake. Part of me suspects this is from the fact that once she’s up, we’ve always seen it on the monitor and gone it to get her. An interesting phenomenon to ponder, yes, but it doesn’t bother me much as I figure I’ll be using the monitor for quite some time, so I needn’t worry about her quietly spending hours trapped in the crib.

So on my night out, I was looking forward to coming home a teeny bit tipsy, brushing my teeth and collapsing into bed. Instead, I collected the monitor and set it up quietly in our bedroom so as to not wake-up my unbothered husband, and fumed silently about the fact that even when I wanted to pretend to be irresponsible again, I was still responsible.

How do men do it? How do they end up unsaddled and nonplussed by the responsibilities of parenthood? What about the Mr. Moms of the world? What about gay couples? I don’t mean to generalize, but I don’t think I’m being wholly inaccurate.

We didn’t finish setting up the nursery until Eva was about two months old. (Yes, you read that right.) Luckily, I had a baby nurse at that time. Casey was working around the clock on a project, and with a high-maintenance beagle that needed to be walked and nonstop snowstorms on the forecast, I needed the extra pair of hands. Those extra pair of hands helped me arrange furniture in the nursery, remove tags from baby clothes and basically provide support for me as I loved and cared for my newborn while regretting the fact that we’d waited so long.

So why did we wait? Let’s just say it involved a marital squabble late in my third term of pregnancy centered around my husband’s point that Eva wouldn’t be sleeping in the nursery initially anyway, so why rush? His poker buddies—the majority of which were already dads—all confirmed for him that our daughter would sleep in her bassinet right next to our bed, so why bother with the act of setting up the nursery considering I was then hormonal, cranky and unable to bend over. My type-A personality was not pleased one bit, but as anyone that’s married knows, you have to pick your battles. But, of course, once Eva was born, I realized my maternal urge to nest and set things up stemmed from the fact that I now no longer had the time to nest or set things up. Lesson learned: Take care of it yourself if you want things done. It’s not like I’d never learned that before.

On Sunday morning, just after putting Eva down for a nap, I found myself feeling a bit stressed as I went through my mental checklist: place diaper order, send in Eva’s laundry, buy groceries for dinner, clean up Eva’s toys, make Eva’s lunch…oh, and finish writing two stories for tomorrow’s deadline. And while I allowed my flustered mind to get the best of me, my husband sat on the couch reading his Sunday paper, a ritual he had loved since long before I ever entered the picture. I started to nag him a little (ugh—how I hate that quality…), essentially projecting my frustrations a bit, and asked him to call the Laundromat to come pick up Eva’s laundry and clean up Eva’s toys.

I watched him nod silently with his eyes still glued to the sports page and sat there for a few minutes in disbelief at his ability to sit there and ignore me and totally lost it. I named all the items on my list of things to do, some squabbling ensued and it wasn’t until Casey uttered the line, “Do you want me to itemize all the things I do?” that I realized I’d chosen a pointless battle.

Even if he did help with the list, I knew he’d forget something or not do it the way I’d want it done. (The better way, if I’m being honest and snooty with myself.) If he picked up the groceries, he’d come home with unripe produce that would be useless for tonight’s dinner. If he called the Laundromat, I’d have to remind him to label Eva’s bag separately to ensure that they washed it using the baby detergent I’d left with them behind the counter. These were things that if I wanted done correctly, it was easier to do them myself. And faster, too, so that I didn’t have to deal with explaining how I wanted them done. Call me a control freak, fine. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that—or thought that—unfortunately. But I am (mostly) fine with it.

Later that afternoon, I was at the playground with a friend who juggles motherhood and a high-octane career and listened to her complain about how her husband manages to run a thriving Manhattan club yet has no idea how to place an online diaper order. With their working hours being at odds with each other, her husband has their son solo for part of the day during the week before their nanny arrives, and every morning my friend finds herself preparing a snack and lunch for her son while feeding him breakfast in order to avoid having her husband feed their child cheese slices and processed food for all his meals. It’s her way of battling mommy guilt and being in control, she says. I hear this story and all I can think is, “Why can’t our husbands, the dads, learn?”

I love spending the days with Eva going for walks, playing on the swings and just watching her take-in all the world has to offer, but at the end of each day, I’m pooped. And when my husband walks in through the door, sometimes all I want to do is sit on the couch and watch them play, too physically drained to do much else and too mentally drained to tackle another work deadline.

Today I watched my husband breeze through the door after work, let our dog George off his leash and shout to Eva in a boisterous, booming voice, “Come to me, my daughter!” Eva squealed with laughter and thundered across our hardwood floor on all fours, crawling as fast as she could right up to her dad. He swooped her into the air, tickling her, and she continued to laugh hysterically as he did the same. I collapsed onto the couch and we chatted intermittently about our days as I watched him build her a towering castle made up of her alphabet blocks and other odds and ends. As he searched for other bits to use to build turrets and other wings of the castle, I watched my daughter crawl after him, gazing up at him adoringly and happily, all the while knocking down different towers and waiting for him to build them right back up.

I’m envious of my husband’s carefree relationship with our daughter. Their time together is unfettered by responsibility. I can’t explain why Casey and I have fallen into our roles, and I can’t explain why sometimes it bothers me and other times it doesn’t. It’s just how things are in our household. But the one thing I do understand is that being a good parent doesn’t mean being the best at placing prompt and efficient diaper orders. Somebody has to deal with all that business, yes, and in our family, that someone is me. But for all those times when I’m tired from being responsible and unable to be the fun, playful parent I aspire to be, I’m glad to have my husband walk through the door, unfettered from the reality of responsibility and excited to play with his little girl. It’s how we balance our family, I guess. And it’s fun to watch from the couch.

When I hear the words “young mom,” I immediately picture a woman in jeans and a t-shirt, bent over running after a mobile being on all fours clad in footie pajamas, weighing under 20 pounds and wearing a diaper. I am pretty sure that all moms picture an approximation of the same thing.

This was the week of Chasing Down My Daughter. If Eva wasn’t crawling towards our dog’s water bowl to splash her hand in it mischievously, she was heading towards the electrical outlet to poke and prod at the plastic baby-proofing cover. She’s been crawling for about a month now, and with each week, her speed has picked up exponentially. (Or it feels like it anyway.) She is on a path of exploration around our apartment, with each lap around the living room revealing a new random hazard such as a wayward coin or tiny pebble that’s been transported into our apartment by a pair of shoes—all objects that peak my daughter’s curiosity. Continue Reading »

After much hemming and hawing over the tricky details involved in a quick weekend trip with a baby, we finally bit the bullet and booked two tickets to Chicago so Eva could meet her great grandparents this past weekend. Without fully understanding the emotional magnitude, Casey and I signed up for a weekend that couldn’t have been better in terms of time well spent—my daughter was meeting her great-grandparents. My husband’s grandmother is a woman whom at 85 remains sharp as a whip and doles out so much love and support that I am struck by how much I alone even care about this person I see so rarely and have only known for a short time. Casey’s grandfather passed away before he was born, but his “Poppa,” his grandmother’s husband, has been very much a part of his life and brought his own children and grandchildren to the mix once they married. As I sat there watching his grandparents soak in the next generation of their lineage, all new and ready for the world, I found myself moved in a way that I’d never before considered.
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In the last two days, both my mother-in-law and a girlfriend in Australia with a daughter 3 months older than Eva have told me they consider 9 months to be the most fun baby age. There is something about that month, they both said separately, that is magical: “Your baby’s personality starts shining through.”

You can now add me to that club. Sure, I can easily describe Eva’s personality since the moment she was born, with her observant and peaceful little ways, but with Eva having just hit the 10 month benchmark, I look back on the last month and it’s pretty much how it was described to me: magical. Suddenly, I can say like fact that Eva has never met a sweet potato she didn’t like, and that she would spend the entire day in the swings if she could, clapping her hands and kicking her legs the entire time. As soon as she sees the playground come into view, Eva starts up with her dolphin kick, where both legs flap up and down in sync, giddy with anticipation for her favorite place away from home.
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Late last week, in the early evening, an old cedar toppled over on the country road leading up to our house in the Catskills, taking with it an electrical wire and all the electricity for our house and our surrounding neighbors. The power was down for two and a half days. That’s a long time when you’re used to the bright lights of a big city—or a computer keyboard—and it turns out it’s an even longer time when you’re reliant on a baby monitor to see if your little one is awake, an oven to warm up batches of homemade baby food, and a hot water tank to draw a warm bath to kick off the daily night-time ritual. Continue Reading »

Our last houseguest had driven off in the morning on the day my daughter decided to crawl. We were sitting on the living room rug, Eva’s hands full with these plastic animals she likes to clap together. We call that “band time” around here, where Eva passes a plastic pig or cow to another band member, and then we all sit there clapping the bits together loudly and in sync as my daughter giggles. I was the only other band member present that afternoon, and was enthusiastically clapping together the orange chicken and blue cow.

Eva was holding onto the pink plastic pig when she decided to get onto all fours. I was playing my instrument while leaning against the couch and keeping an eye on her. Pushing up on all fours wasn’t anything new to Eva, as she’d been doing so for a few weeks now, usually with her eye on something out of reach. From there, she’d collapse onto her belly and begin pulling herself across the floor, unhurried but determined to get what she wanted. Continue Reading »

I noticed it first on the monitor. Usually I glance at the screen, expecting to see a bird’s eye view of her little body stretched out asleep or sitting upright so that only the crown of her head and two chubby little legs are in sight. Eva might be sprawled out across the crib, or spooned up against the side, but the baby on screen is always set against the same graphic print of her bedding so it’s almost like watching the moment captured at a slow shutter speed: Eva, asleep.

So when I glanced at the screen and saw that the legs were missing, I looked closely at the monitor and squinted. Instead, I saw the half-moon of her soft head of hair on screen, with the rest of it cropped out of frame. Eva was standing up in her crib, with her little body pressed up against the side. And in the same moment I was able to absorb that my daughter had pulled herself up in her crib, I watched her collapse backwards against the bumper-lined rails of the crib on the other side. Even with the cry that followed, I felt little pangs of pride as a huge smile spread across my face. Eva stopped crying as quickly as she began and sat up, then reached for something and began gnawing on it. It took a few seconds of intense monitor-scrutiny to realize she had untied the bumper ties—which I double-knotted before tying—and was sucking on one of the ends.

This week Eva’s little body became physically hers. Sure, she’s been sitting up and dragging herself across the room by the elbows, and she’ll stand when we pull-her up onto her plump little feet. But up until now, she’s been more bobblehead doll or marionette—capable, but not intentional.

But all of a sudden, this has changed. Eva’s been doing things like holding onto daddy’s head and sitting on his shoulders (with dad’s hands firmly clamped around her legs), waving when she hears us say “bye”, and just…responding to the world as if she understands. It’s totally crazy.

Our visit with Elizabeth’s family was coming to an end when this all started happening. It’s something only parents notice, these physical nuances that say so much more than the action itself. I wasn’t sure if Elizabeth’s presence had inspired these big bounds in Eva’s development. Or maybe it was the experience of going from New York City to southern California suburb to a mountain in the Catskills in less than a two-week period. But one thing was for certain, my baby was growing up.

Recently, Eva’s started to sleep with four lovey blankets. There’s a brown puppy, white lamb, blue bunny and even another brown bunny whose head came unstitched. The soft body still lives in the crib with Eva, but the head now lives in a toy bin, sort of strange and odd-putting and a favorite of Eva’s to drag around by the ears.

Her favorite lovey, apparently, is the blue bunny. A wonderfully soft toy my husband has named “Bop Beaufort, the southern belle.” (Don’t ask.) And we can tell, because in the last week or so, each time either one of us has walked in to grab her from a nap or in the morning, Eva’s got Bop in hand, as if ready for the next adventure with her best bud in hand.

Rachel, Elizabeth’s mom, had suggested I give Eva a security blanket when I mentioned feeling like I missed the boat on pacifier as instant-soother. I hadn’t even thought of that. I spent so much time worrying a pacifier was going to give us nursing problems (to add to my list of nursing problems) that I never really caved into the binky phenomenon. And by the time I realized how handy it might be to be able to literally put a cork in it, it was too late. Eva wasn’t really into it and I wasn’t really into making an effort to teach her how to like it. We were fine without it.

But I liked the idea of this security blanket because I liked the idea of the memory we could create, of what it would mean, and because this blanket could stick around—unlike the binky.

There is nothing better in the world than getting to know your child. When Eva was a newborn, she had this cooing noise that she uttered when being calmed down from tears. And now, I swear she makes a similar noise, but it’s morphed into almost a humming sound. She makes this noise when she’s tired or about to fall asleep in the crib. The silliest or strangest things in life can take on such endlessly interesting meaning, all because you love this person so unconditionally. It’s the only love I’ve experienced that’s taught me to be patient and accepting. And as my daughter comes more and more into her own, with intent and the capacity to do things, I suspect that I have no idea how much more this love will grow.

We have visitors for the week. For ten days to be exact. And while I normally subscribe to the belief that houseguests are like fish—they get old after three days—the right kind of family can make or break the visit. This family includes an adorable 13-month-old named Elizabeth. By some stroke of luck, the babies are on the same napping schedule, so life is currently a neverending playdate. Exciting for Eva and convenient for me.

Elizabeth’s mom is also a baby food-making magician, providing me with the inspiration I need to concoct drool-inducing meals for Eva. We take turns preparing the girls’ meals, and there’s always a batch of leftovers to pull from for a quick snack. I know you’re supposed to follow the 3-day rule after feeding your baby a new food, but I’ve thrown caution to the wind and introduced Eva to everything from roasted beets to curry powder and my personal favorite, the rich, sweet treat of avocado-banana puree. My daughter is in baby food heaven.
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The funny thing about being a working mom is that no matter what you do, the work is never done. If it’s not an errand I forgot to take care of last week, it’s a thank you note for a baby gift received months ago. If I’ve turned in a monster project that’s haunted me for the last month, another deadline looms around the corner (like, tomorrow). If I’ve helped Eva learn to drink from a sippy cup, I’ll stumble onto the annoying realization that I’m late with moving her onto more solids and fewer purees.

When I left my job to pursue the unpredictable path of a freelance writer, I never set out to be the most ambitious or most inspired. I planned on working my tail off when focusing on my assignments, but chasing after career-making freelance projects wasn’t the goal. I just wanted to keep my toe dipped into the work pool as I dove headfirst into becoming a mommy.
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