July 18, 2008 — Practicing with Daddy this past weekend for today’s big event. Note, in addition to the lack of clothes (it was very, very hot in NJ, even at 7 a.m.), her “walking sneaks,” courtesy of her Mimi from the previous day’s trip to the shoe store in Summit.

Truth is, I actually miss writing on my blog even with a scheduled hiatus. Am writing today mostly to mark a milestone for eternity in the ether: Little Buggy walked today for REAL. She has been taking a few steps between chairs and counters, or walking from a few steps away towards you, with prompts (and lots of applause and exclamation at the end!) for a few weeks. Since we’ve been down in New Jersey, however, she’s had a lot more room to walk, both around the house and outdoors on the patio, where there are lots of fun things to explore like flower pots, bushes, ants, and even a fountain. She had gotten to the point this weekend where she actually wasn’t crawling anymore, but she’d come over to you and literally grab your hand so she could hold on to a finger while walking around. But today she did it on her own.

We weren’t prompting or praising — it was like she was testing it out on her own while she thought we weren’t noticing (as if). Taking a few sneaky steps around the TV room, and then all the way across it. Later in the day, there she was: just walking across the patio. And then she realized what she was doing. And she did it again. And again. Over to the flower pots. Over to the front steps. The patio table. The fountain. Back to the flowers. And then, fortunately, again for Henry’s video camera. Am kind of heartbroken that Tim isn’t here to see it — although he has seen many of the preliminary steps and attempts. She’ll be running by the time he arrives on Friday!

Will post a picture tomorrow. Once Henry broke out the camera, my mom came and got me out of study mode so that I could be in the video. “Ew, not looking like this!” I protested (i.e., greasy, blemish-y, bloat-y, overcaffeinated). But as she pointed out, I can always remember that Little Buggy walked during that summer I was back in New Jersey studying for the bar, and someday I’ll laugh at my appearance. But, more likely, I will be much more focused on the day my little baby became a toddler.

And with that, Marbury v. Madison Ave. will take a brief haitus to acquire a law license in the state of Massachusetts. Little Bug and I are hopping on the Acela to Jerz tomorrow morning (that should be an adventure!) for two weeks of studying at my mother’s (who, I’ve mentioned several times, herself took the bar with three children. Though now that I think back on it, two of us were away at summer camp and the third — me — was apparently more than happy to stay far away from the house and out of my mother’s hair because I honestly don’t even remember her taking the bar! Which only shows you how self-absorbed a 15-year-old girl can be…)

I’m actually looking forward to diving in fully, knowing that my mom will be handling all of life’s mundane distractions (cooking, etc.) and taking very good care of my baby during the long days — and knowing that I’ll surface having done the best I can do.

See you on the other side!

Taken this morning…

Not all that much I can put into words, but this has been the best year of my life. “How fast it goes,” one always hears, but it’s true — too true. Still, I wake looking forward to the day ahead, starting with the moment I go into her room to see her standing in the crib waiting for me with a big smile.

July 14, 2007

Tim and I have been saying to each other, “Remember when she just used to lie on the ottoman?” “Remember when we used to swaddle her up?” “Remember when she didn’t used to eat real food?” It’s almost hard to — and yet as much as those days of baby-hood have slipped away too soon, every day is more fun: another step, another word, another discovery. I am in awe and wonder, and grateful for the joy my daughter brings everyone around her. Happy Birthday, my Little Bug!

July 11, 2007.  Note the flowered “hospital bag” in the background…

My due date, etched into my head for more than nine months.  We marked it with a big glass of California Zinfandel (yes, on my part. She was cooked, right? I was done!) and spicy food at P.F. Chang’s, and I woke up at 5 a.m. the very next morning with my first contractions.  Was it the hot peppers? The wine? Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t hurry her out…

Someone likes her new bedtime routine. She looks like a little girl…

July 1, 2007 — puts it all in perspective (see below post!)

Not so much studying, but lots of family and friends. Priorities, priorities! Mimi (aka, my mom) was here from Thursday through this morning, which meant we also got to see lots of Auntie Jen and Uncle Dav, and Auntie Erin.  Friday night was a bit too much wine (although it was a wine tasting), but I had sort of anticipated that Saturday would be a wash from the start, so didn’t beat myself up too much for not really working. 

The Public Garden in the Murphy family seat

Summers, I’m beginning to learn, are Murphy family visiting season.  Various Murphy siblings descend from the opposite coast, from across the pond, and from down South for their annual pilgrammage to Boston (seat of this Murphy clan and, of course, many, many others!)  Last week we saw Susan and her kids from Ireland; today it was Karen and Ryan from Texas.  For the Fourth it will be all of them plus more (Paula and Griffin, Stephanie and her family, Babs — there are lots and lots of  Murphy’s…) in Falmouth. 

Tonight is our Sunday night ritual of pasta and pesto and a few Arrested Developments — we’re almost done with season three, the final season, but are buoyed by the news of a 2009 Arrested Development movie.  Are we cliche?  Decide for yourself, here.

I spent my first Mother’s Day as a mother frantically finishing my final law school paper, while my own mother and daughter buzzed about in the background.  I have a bit more time to reflect on Father’s Day — a Hallmark holiday of ties and golf clubs and grills, but one I nevertheless find poignant.  I haven’t had a father to celebrate father’s day with for nine years. Father’s Day 1999 was a hot, muggy one in D.C. — I remember the silencing heat as much as anything else.  My sister and I sat in the loudly air-conditioned townhouse watching my dad drift in and out of morphine consciousness.  I actually haven’t thought about that day in years — it was horrible, and it’s difficult for me to write about.  I remember my dad staggering outside to watch the dog (whose name I can’t even remember:  I’m still aghast that he went ahead and got a dog in the first place) race up and down the back alleyway in the stifling heat, as he feebly called out “Good boy!” and wondered aloud if the dog would miss him.  But no one really thought he’d have just two weeks left.

Father’s Day was always forced for me — a time to supposedly celebrate a relationship that was far from easy.  One that mostly made me more unhappy than happy.  I’ve read so many times that, psychologically, a young girl’s most important relationship is with her father, and how true that was for me.  As a small child I idolized my father:  his pitch-perfect baritone, his intelligence, his skinny, bony knees, the scent of cigarette smoke on his starched collars, his jet-black hair. I relished the days I’d take the bus into NYC with him; I would color under his desk on the back side of legal documents and every so often his secretary would take me up to the cafeteria for a Coke. I relished the hot August days on Cape Cod Bay sandbars and the Saturday mornings he’d be home (before going back to the office, natch) to make us pancakes on an electric, plug-in griddle.  I like to remember those days the most.

And this Father’s Day, I will, grounding them with new memories of a father as in love with his little girl as I hope my dad was with me.  A father who crawls around on the living room floor, chasing his chubby, dimpled baby.  A father who gets up every morning wants to be the one to lift his smiling daughter from her crib with a big “Hi Buggy! Hi Angel!”, and then brings her into the bed to snuggle with me before making her breakfast (”Would you like apple-meal today? Or banana-meal?” referring to his special concoction of baby oatmeal and fruit.)  A dad who bundles up his baby and carts her off to “swim lessons” (which actually consist of a bunch of babies and dads, singing “The Wheels on the Bus” in a circle in the B.U. pool) every Saturday for his self-termed “Daddy-daughter day.”  A father who reads to his baby with patience, makes up silly songs, and will look at me seriously over one of our few-and-far between dates a deux at a fancy restaurant and say, “Isn’t she the most beautiful baby in the world?” A father who supports his child’s mother as she juggles her family through school and work. 

Ironically (or perhaps not so much so?), Tim looks at times strikingly and hauntingly like my dad:  the black hair streaked with silver, the crinkley eyes, the dimples.  And watching him with my daughter is a conduit to those really, really good memories of my own father.  For that I am so grateful. 

Graduation day was almost perfect — a blue sky, warm (but not hot).  A beautiful bouquet of flowers arrived in the morning from my Princeton girls, reminding me that this was indeed a special day.  The ceremony was quite lovely, as well.  Attorney General Michael Mukasey did draw some protests — from the protesters at the school gates dressed in orange jump suits with paper bags over their heads, to the professors who handed out pamphlets expressing their opposition and held white carnations, to my friend Ellen who almost walked out! — as well he should have, since his speech was almost devoid of any “graduation” qualities and was instead entirely a defense of torture.  (As he started speaking, a friend sitting two seats down leaned over to whisper to me, “He’s going there!”)  At the very end he threw out something like, “At sometime in your legal career you might be asked to make a decision that seems unpopular, but remember there is a difference between what is political and what is actually legal.”  I want to add that he also said something like, “I hope you’ll have the courage to do the right thing,” but my writer’s brain might be making that part up.

The highlight, of course, was getting my diploma.  Tim walked the Little Bug up to me from the stands and I carried her across the stage.  I had tears in my eyes and yet a huge smile on my face because who would have thought?  Not only that I’d go to law school at 30 (well, I’d argue that some would have thought that might happen), but that I’d also acquire a husband and daughter in the process. 

Friday would have been my grandmother’s 90th birthday (or maybe her 94th or 92nd — she was sort of cagey with her age!)  She was so proud that her two daughters were lawyers, much as I have always been proud of my aunt and my mother, explicity and subtly following in their footsteps.  Law school gave me my life back.  I loved the rigors of the first year, I made incredible, life-long friends, and I rediscovered my sense of self — which led directly to everything else:  finding Tim, having my daughter, pursuing a great job.  As I walked across stage, holding my tired, fidgeting baby, hearing my degree announced, it all became very, very real.  And I was elated.

After the graduation ceremony (which concluded with the second-highest dean of the school remarking that the judge who had presided over the Salem witch trials stood in front of his congregation years later and apologized.  “You can always go back and admit you are wrong,” Dean Clay admonished [a not-so-subtle dig at Mukasey, obviously]. “Congratulations, graduates.” Hmmm.)  there was a champagne reception up the hill, and then the Rodgers-Beaumont-Murphys retired Chez Murphy for a little after-party with the Little Bug. 

Little Bug meets the Dean (this one’s for you, Monique)

More posts to come on the law school experience, but I did want to mark the happiness — its utter thoroughness coming as somewhat of a surprise – of this day for me.

The after party!

And…I’m back! My blogging mini-vacation is over, and it’s time to get back to some real, serious posting.  Such as this one, a version of which I have emailed to several pregnant friends, who have encouraged me to post it on my blog in the hopes of, you know, enlightening the masses.  The topic was what to wear after having a baby, and, specifically, “Do I really have to buy a hideous nursing bra?  Do I really have to keep wearing maternity clothes?  Does it matter?”  The answer is maybe, no, yes.  I discovered after some trial and error — as I did with everything pregnancy and baby related — that having a post-baby “uniform” is key, for several reasons.  First, since I was not one of those “I fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans the day I left the hospital!” type of new moms, NOTHING I used to wear fit.  For months.  And some things (mostly tops) may never do so again.  So if you buy yourself a new uniform of sorts, you stop longing for your old clothes.  Second, you have to change your clothes about as often as you change the baby’s.  You will be covered with milk, spit-up, poop, and Starbucks.  And hopefully also a little wine.  So you don’t want to go through the whole “what to put on?” dilemma ten times a day.  Finally, you feel pretty gross for awhile.  Even if you take the baby for a walk or even eventually make it to the gym later in the day, getting up and showering first thing wakes you up and makes you feel like a real person.  Then, you put on your new clothes and you feel pretty good!  Anyway, for what it’s worth, here’s my post-baby uniform (a variation of which I’m still wearing!)

1. Nursing bras are hideous. By all means buy one, but I thought they looked awful under a shirt and are annoying to use.  Also, I didn’t like my stomach showing when I lifted up my shirt to nurse (I bought some of those “nursing tops” that they sell at Gap Maternity and the like, but they were also pretty unflattering, and had supposedly easy to open clasps that never actually stayed clasped.  More on this in a minute.)  Instead, I found these tanks by Glamourmoms: http://www.glamourmom.com/NS_productpage.php?ItemNum=18  These ones with the lace at the bottom are a bit longer than the other ones they sell (I tried them all!), so I like them in particular because I’m not only long-waisted but because it was even more insurance that my stomach would never see the light of day.  I bought several in white and black and wore them under everything.  They are suprisingly supportive (I definitely had a large nursing, um, bosom…), and I liked the way there was just enough spandex to keep everything covered and secure.  The straps were much easier to use than any nursing bra, too.  Some of my friends with less, um, bosom employed the same strategy (tanks, not nursing bras) with just regular old Gap tanks and just pulled them aside.  At first, I sometimes wore a regular nursing bra under these tanks when I was going out somewhere (it wasn’t that hard to unclasp the tank and then the bra underneath), but eventually the nursing bra got tossed. 

2.  OK, so you have your nursing coverage.  But what to do about a top?  The nice thing about the tanks is that even if you are wearing a regular t-shirt, you can be pretty discreet when lifting up the shirt to nurse (i.e., your fleshy stomach doesn’t show!).  But I found a better solution to the whole “nursing top” thing (a marketing gimmick! Which I fell for hook line and sinker, and then tossed the nursing tops about two weeks in because they just scream, “I’m nursing! I’m frumpy!”).  Old Navy makes deep v-neck t-shirts which are great because you just pull the v-neck part down and to the side a bit when feeding.  Moreover, they are (1) cheap and (2) a bit ruched and thus super-flattering.  They are form fitting without being tight — which is just what you need post-baby.  I bought a bunch in white and black — wearing them with the appropriately coordinated Glamourmoms top — and then one or two fun colors.  I bought size L for after the baby, and have since gone back and gotten size M just to wear all the time now because I love them so much.   www.oldnavy.com/browse/product.do?cid=7525&pid=507719&scid=507719002

3.  Pants are a problem.  You can wear your maternity jeans for awhile, but that’s kind of depressing.  You can also wear your black yoga pants, which of course is a great option.  But what if you want to look a bit cuter?  Again, Old Navy has some suprisingly cute and flattering capris (for all of the elastic and draw strings involved) with a low-riding, elastic waist.  http://www.oldnavy.com/browse/category.do?cid=35158  I also bought some Gap jeans two sizes larger that I knew I’d wear only for a (relatively) short while, but it was nice to wear regular jeans (as opposed to maternity). 

So, there you have it:  black and white tanks to go under black and white t’s, to wear with khaki and white capris.  All machine washable!  I’d put one of these combinations on daily with a bright-colored button down cardigan (worn unbuttoned, of course), and then flip flops or cute ballet flats.  (Note: if you have a summer baby, be warned:  your feet do not go back to normal for a few weeks! I was particularly shocked and horrified by this discovery…)  If it’s winter, you can still do this but with maybe a heavier sweater and more reliance on the jeans and nice yoga pants.  But ballet flats can do wonders!  So can a shower and a cute non-diaper-bag-looking diaper bag. 

My whole point is:  it’s nice to prepare yourself with this sort of outfit because it saves you the angst of feeling like you look horrible not only because you’re exhausted, leaking milk, hormonal, etc. etc., but because you can’t fit into either your old clothes and don’t want to wear your huge maternity clothes.  You have some cute things ready to go.  It took me a good five or six months to figure this out, having bought and not worn a variety of nursing tanks, too-big tops (which you don’t really feel all that great in, either…) and pants, etc.  And most important, I think that these clothes are flattering enough while being forgiving that you can enjoy these first few months without being anxious about getting your “old-self” back.