Slowly, slowly, I pull myself out of the mental fog that followed the birth of my daughter, Frances Carol Slater, on Nov.

Wednesday, February 16, 2000

Slowly, slowly, I pull myself out of the mental fog that followed the birth of my daughter, Frances Carol Slater, on Nov. 23.

It was a fog – albeit a nice fog – that was to remain with me throughout the weeks that followed before my return to work on Monday. It seemed my every waking moment was spent caring for her: physically and emotionally.

I would meet people at the grocery store and not know how to talk anymore. I didn’t read. I didn’t write. I didn’t even talk on the phone much. I spent my time with the baby, Brady, the television and the thank you notes. I became socially inept.

I became a new mother.

Poop suddenly became tremendously important. I wrote the number of bowel movements (hers) and the consistency (watery) on the whiteboard in the dining room for the first few weeks after her arrival. A bit of fecal trivia: Did you know that breast-fed babies have been known to go 10 days without pooh?

Poop also became a conversational topic between Brady and I – we who had previously spent hours talking politics. We marveled together the time she did a number two mid-diaper change. It hit the hat rack 18 inches away.

I panicked when I noticed a rash on her body one night and woke Brady up immediately (this was roughly 2 a.m.) to figure out how to take her temperature with the ear thermometer. I looked up rash in "What to Expect the First Year" and in the revised Dr. Spock. Spock provided the more thorough answer – basically babies have lots of rashes and here are the most common ones – and I finally knew why my mom always had that book next to her chair in the living room. I’d always wondered, especially knowing she didn’t like Star Trek.

Frances Carol is named after my mother, who was born Carol Frances Vilt in Austin 60-some years ago. Mom married Dad and they moved south. I moved back. Frances reminds me of my mother, she even had roughly the same hair style when she was a newborn. Short, fine, and somewhat wispy. It looked as though some heavenly hairdresser had given her a Carol-cut while she was still in the womb. Now it just looks like she needs a cut.

My pregnancy ideas of wandering the world with Franny casually slung over my shoulder or in a backpack were popped like an overblown balloon when I realized how much gear a person has to pack for a newborn, not to mention the car seat that seems to pop out so conveniently but actually weighs about 30 pounds and even more after you’ve been carrying her around in it for awhile.

So much for India; we’ll be lucky if we see Indiana this year.

We have, however, been to the first Hafla (women’s party sponsored by the local Arabic dance troupe) to chill with other females (and several men as it turned out). And she’s seen her first movie, "Girl, Interrupted" at the Mall of America, where they made us buy a ticket for Franny, too. Thank goodness it was a matinee, I would have insisted she stay awake and pay attention had we been forced to pay the usual $8.50.

Now 12 weeks old, Frances does a bit more than eat, defecate and sleep. She chatters a lot and smiles at the strangest times. She looks at you like she knows who you are. She cries harder when she’s mad or hungry and she loves lying on the cedar chest and having her diaper changed. She also spends a lot of time looking at the ceiling. Even when I’m holding her, she’ll arch her back and look straight up and smile and coo at that unexciting white ceiling.

I’ve been told that babies can see angels, so it’s obvious that she’s having a word with her Gramma Carol or possibly learning how to count to 10 in Bohemian from her Great-Grampa Frank. Or maybe Great-Gramma Margaret is telling her about her long ago trip across the Rockies and up into Canada.

Whilst I’m breaking the rules and writing unashamedly about myself and my family, I’d like to thank all of the wonderful people who sent flowers and cards, gifts and good wishes our way. I think Franny’s gotten off to a wonderful start here in Austin.

Thank you.

Jana Peterson’s column appears Wednesdays