Never store tubes of KY and Balmex in the same drawer. Balmex does not make a good sexual lubricant.
Don't ask how I know this.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
20 Things I Can Do While Breastfeeding
This is my second go around on the whole breastfeeding thing. I nursed Cassie for 18 months. As of yesterday, I’ve nursed Sam for two months. Twenty months is a long time to breastfeed. The beauty of breastfeeding is that it usually leaves at least one hand free, and sometimes two depending on how you do it. Thus I’ve discovered there are a lot of things I can with a baby latched onto me, a good thing to know considering how much of my time gets devoured by feeding the little monster I call my baby. Please keep in mind that I am a professional mom (i.e. I actually have kids), so don’t try any of the below tasks at home unless you’re willing to deal with a potential mess.
1. I can sleep while breastfeeding a baby (well hell, anyone can do that).
2. I can brush a three-year-old child’s hair and dress it up in pretty flowered barrettes while breastfeeding a baby (that’s a little more difficult, especially if said three-year-old won’t hold still).
3. I can brush a three-year-old child’s teeth while breastfeeding a baby (even more difficult because three-year-olds don’t like to have their teeth brushed).
4. I can instruct a three-year-old child on how to bathe herself and end up with a relatively clean kid while breastfeeding a baby (a minor miracle, because three-year-olds also don’t like taking baths).
5. I can answer e-mail, search the net and write erotic stories and/or blog entries on my laptop while breastfeeding a baby (hey, I can’t not work).
6. I can perform a puppet show while breastfeeding a baby (it was a slow day).
7. I can push a three-year-old child on the swing set at our local playground while breastfeeding a baby (and I did it without flashing the entire neighborhood).
8. I can make French toast from scratch for Father’s Day while breastfeeding a baby (a feat that to this day my husband still doesn’t fully appreciate).
9. I can teach a three-year-old to make French toast from scratch and not have it come out burned, while breastfeeding a baby.
10. I can take an eye exam while breastfeeding a baby.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there are lots of things a desperate mom can do when she has to. Too bad I can never put any of them on a job application.
1. I can sleep while breastfeeding a baby (well hell, anyone can do that).
2. I can brush a three-year-old child’s hair and dress it up in pretty flowered barrettes while breastfeeding a baby (that’s a little more difficult, especially if said three-year-old won’t hold still).
3. I can brush a three-year-old child’s teeth while breastfeeding a baby (even more difficult because three-year-olds don’t like to have their teeth brushed).
4. I can instruct a three-year-old child on how to bathe herself and end up with a relatively clean kid while breastfeeding a baby (a minor miracle, because three-year-olds also don’t like taking baths).
5. I can answer e-mail, search the net and write erotic stories and/or blog entries on my laptop while breastfeeding a baby (hey, I can’t not work).
6. I can perform a puppet show while breastfeeding a baby (it was a slow day).
7. I can push a three-year-old child on the swing set at our local playground while breastfeeding a baby (and I did it without flashing the entire neighborhood).
8. I can make French toast from scratch for Father’s Day while breastfeeding a baby (a feat that to this day my husband still doesn’t fully appreciate).
9. I can teach a three-year-old to make French toast from scratch and not have it come out burned, while breastfeeding a baby.
10. I can take an eye exam while breastfeeding a baby.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there are lots of things a desperate mom can do when she has to. Too bad I can never put any of them on a job application.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Lessons From The Polar Bear - How To Keep Your Marriage And Your Spouse Alive
Scientists state that shortly after giving birth, female polar bears will go out of their way to avoid male polar bears. The reason, they say, is that the females fear the males will attack their offspring and kill them. Well I know better. The real reason why female polar bears avoid male polar bears after giving birth is because the female will kill the male for royally screwing up her life.
Human females go through the same thing, I think, and here’s why I say that.
On Monday, I had a long frustrating morning. Sam had been up all night the past three nights in a row, and I was dead tired. Her recent growth spurt combined with her lactose overload problems meant I was nursing her non-stop and neither of us was getting any sleep. The problem wasn’t that she wanted to nurse so frequently, but that she wasn’t sleeping at all between feedings. The gas caused by the lactose overload simply made her too uncomfortable and the overload was getting worse because she was feeding so much and taking in that much extra lactose, making her even more gassy and miserable. After her third watery green poop Sunday night, I decided it was time to call the pediatrician and ask if I could give Sam some Lactaid. When I called the next morning, a nurse told me the pediatrician was out of the office at the moment. Could she call me back with the answer?
Sure, I said. If I’m not in, just leave a message on the answering machine.
Then I remembered our answering machine was dead.
You see, my husband the genius had set up a program on one of our computers to allow it to answer the phone. For some reason, the program had quit working last week and he couldn’t fix it. So for the last ten days or so, I’d been relying on caller ID to let me know who called and who I should call back. Michael, meanwhile, had started doing some serious comparison shopping to get the best possible deal on a new combination wireless phone and answering machine that also scrubs toilets in its spare time. I kid you not.
Well, if you’ve ever had to call the doctor’s office with a question, you know you don’t want to have to call back for the answer because that devolves into a never-ending game of phone tag. You call with your question. The doctor’s office calls back with the answer while you’re sitting on the toilet. If you don’t have an answering machine, they have no way to leave a message, so you have to call them back, only to discover that the person who has the answer to your question has just stepped out to go to the toilet himself and can he call you back? This leads to you waiting by the phone for two hours with a cranky preschooler yanking on your arm and asking, “Can we go to the playground NOW?” In an effort to keep your arm attached to your shoulder, you give in and head to the playground. Five minutes after you leave, the doctor’s office calls back. Again, no answering machine equals no message so you’ll just have to call them back when you get in. And so on, and so on, and so on.
So I’m standing there, looking at spending an entire day by the phone waiting for a simple answer to my question while Cassie goes into hysterics because we can’t go out to play. And no, I can’t just call back and leave my cell phone number because one of the places we were supposed to go is the YMCA and I’m not supposed to leave the cell phone on during yoga class. It kind of disrupts the mood, you know? Nor can I rely on my cell phone voice mail because we’re really cheap, see, so the voice mail only records that someone called, just like our caller ID at home.
Fortunately, we did have another answering machine, one that didn’t require a computer to work. All I needed to set it up was the right AC adapter and all my problems would be solved.
Naturally, I had no idea where the AC adapter was.
I called Michael to ask. He said it was in the top right drawer of his desk. I went to look. It wasn’t there. Having been properly trained by my mother to find things without having to ask 50 million questions, I went through all the drawers of Michael’s desk. Then I went through my desk, both office closets, a box of spare computer parts, and the desk downstairs in our foyer. No AC adapter to be found.
I had just wasted half an hour trying to find the adapter and I was starting to get a little aggravated. I needed to get out the door if I was going to make it to yoga class. I needed to go to that class, because it yoga reduces stress and at that moment I had enough stress coursing through me to give a bull elephant a fatal heart attack. I called Michael back to ask where the adapter might be, since it wasn’t in his desk. On the other end of the line, I heard a lot of head scratching.
Michael: “Um, did you check the left-hand drawer of my desk?”
Me: “Yes, I went through your entire desk and the rest of the office too. I didn’t see an adapter.”
Michael: “Hmmmm. I don’t know where it might be then.”
Cassie begins tugging on my arm: “Mommy, can we go to the Y now? I want to go to the Y.”
Me: “Michael, I need that adapter. Where is it?”
Michael: “It could be in the box of spare computer parts...”
Me: “I already checked. It’s not there.”
Cassie, still tugging on my arm: “Mommy, I want to go to the Y now!”
Me: “Michael, I really need that adapter.”
Michael: “Honey, I honestly don’t know where it is.”
Cassie begins yanking harder. I feel my arm slip out of the socket of my shoulder: “I want to go to the Y! I want to go to the Y!”
Me, looking at the clock and realizing there’s no way in hell I’ll make it to the Y in time for yoga class: “Look, I can’t spend all day sitting around the house waiting for a phone call. I’m going to head out to Super K-Mart and buy a new answering machine.”
Michael: “No, don’t do that. I’m still looking into getting a new answering machine with wireless phones. I just haven’t figured out which one we’re getting yet. I’ll probably order it next week.”
Cassie, who has now completely pulled my arm out of its socket and is beating me over the head with it: “I want to go the Y! I want to go the Y! I want to go the Y!”
Me: “Michael, getting an answering machine next week doesn’t help me now. I have to get out of the house!”
At this point, the baby wakes up and starts to wail. Cassie continues to pitch a fit because we still haven’t headed out the door. I’m at the end of my rope.
Michael: “Fine. I’ll come home and look for the adapter myself.”
I hear the note of exasperation in Michael’s voice and suddenly I see myself standing by the front door with a chainsaw in one hand and a lawn and garden bag in the other, just waiting for him to come home. I envision the slaughter that follows the moment he enters the house. Then I hear the phone call I make to my best friend Mary who has promised that on the day I finally snap she will help me stuff the body into the lawn and garden bag and then hide the whole mess in our backyard. Once we finish with Michael, we go back to her place and take care of her husband John. Then we pack up the kids and move out to Seattle where we use the insurance money to buy a nice big house and live happily ever after, sans husbands, for the rest of our lives. Maybe we even marry each other because we both know we’ll never put up with another man again as long as we live.
Yes folks, I was all ready to go through with this little fantasy when my inner polar bear raised its head and I thought better of it.
Me: “No honey, don’t come home. I’ll figure something out.”
What I figured out was that there was no way in hell I was going to let Michael come home so I could kill him. I mean, aside from the fact that I would have to mop the floors again to clean up the mess, I just couldn’t imagine how I would explain his death to the kids. “I’m sorry girls, but Mommy had to kill Daddy. He lost the adapter to the answering machine.” Just doesn’t cut it, does it?
So I said screw the answering machine and I went to the Y to work off some stress. I dropped Cassie and Sam off at the gym nursery and hit the cardio machines where I hammered away at the stair climber until I finally felt that I could go home and not commit a homicide. Michael was there when we got back. He had come home to make lunch and found the adapter for me too. The answering machine was working and the doctor didn’t call until two hours later when I was there to pick up the phone myself. Everything worked out just fine and I didn’t have to kill anybody. All thanks to the polar bear.
Grrrrrrrr.
Human females go through the same thing, I think, and here’s why I say that.
On Monday, I had a long frustrating morning. Sam had been up all night the past three nights in a row, and I was dead tired. Her recent growth spurt combined with her lactose overload problems meant I was nursing her non-stop and neither of us was getting any sleep. The problem wasn’t that she wanted to nurse so frequently, but that she wasn’t sleeping at all between feedings. The gas caused by the lactose overload simply made her too uncomfortable and the overload was getting worse because she was feeding so much and taking in that much extra lactose, making her even more gassy and miserable. After her third watery green poop Sunday night, I decided it was time to call the pediatrician and ask if I could give Sam some Lactaid. When I called the next morning, a nurse told me the pediatrician was out of the office at the moment. Could she call me back with the answer?
Sure, I said. If I’m not in, just leave a message on the answering machine.
Then I remembered our answering machine was dead.
You see, my husband the genius had set up a program on one of our computers to allow it to answer the phone. For some reason, the program had quit working last week and he couldn’t fix it. So for the last ten days or so, I’d been relying on caller ID to let me know who called and who I should call back. Michael, meanwhile, had started doing some serious comparison shopping to get the best possible deal on a new combination wireless phone and answering machine that also scrubs toilets in its spare time. I kid you not.
Well, if you’ve ever had to call the doctor’s office with a question, you know you don’t want to have to call back for the answer because that devolves into a never-ending game of phone tag. You call with your question. The doctor’s office calls back with the answer while you’re sitting on the toilet. If you don’t have an answering machine, they have no way to leave a message, so you have to call them back, only to discover that the person who has the answer to your question has just stepped out to go to the toilet himself and can he call you back? This leads to you waiting by the phone for two hours with a cranky preschooler yanking on your arm and asking, “Can we go to the playground NOW?” In an effort to keep your arm attached to your shoulder, you give in and head to the playground. Five minutes after you leave, the doctor’s office calls back. Again, no answering machine equals no message so you’ll just have to call them back when you get in. And so on, and so on, and so on.
So I’m standing there, looking at spending an entire day by the phone waiting for a simple answer to my question while Cassie goes into hysterics because we can’t go out to play. And no, I can’t just call back and leave my cell phone number because one of the places we were supposed to go is the YMCA and I’m not supposed to leave the cell phone on during yoga class. It kind of disrupts the mood, you know? Nor can I rely on my cell phone voice mail because we’re really cheap, see, so the voice mail only records that someone called, just like our caller ID at home.
Fortunately, we did have another answering machine, one that didn’t require a computer to work. All I needed to set it up was the right AC adapter and all my problems would be solved.
Naturally, I had no idea where the AC adapter was.
I called Michael to ask. He said it was in the top right drawer of his desk. I went to look. It wasn’t there. Having been properly trained by my mother to find things without having to ask 50 million questions, I went through all the drawers of Michael’s desk. Then I went through my desk, both office closets, a box of spare computer parts, and the desk downstairs in our foyer. No AC adapter to be found.
I had just wasted half an hour trying to find the adapter and I was starting to get a little aggravated. I needed to get out the door if I was going to make it to yoga class. I needed to go to that class, because it yoga reduces stress and at that moment I had enough stress coursing through me to give a bull elephant a fatal heart attack. I called Michael back to ask where the adapter might be, since it wasn’t in his desk. On the other end of the line, I heard a lot of head scratching.
Michael: “Um, did you check the left-hand drawer of my desk?”
Me: “Yes, I went through your entire desk and the rest of the office too. I didn’t see an adapter.”
Michael: “Hmmmm. I don’t know where it might be then.”
Cassie begins tugging on my arm: “Mommy, can we go to the Y now? I want to go to the Y.”
Me: “Michael, I need that adapter. Where is it?”
Michael: “It could be in the box of spare computer parts...”
Me: “I already checked. It’s not there.”
Cassie, still tugging on my arm: “Mommy, I want to go to the Y now!”
Me: “Michael, I really need that adapter.”
Michael: “Honey, I honestly don’t know where it is.”
Cassie begins yanking harder. I feel my arm slip out of the socket of my shoulder: “I want to go to the Y! I want to go to the Y!”
Me, looking at the clock and realizing there’s no way in hell I’ll make it to the Y in time for yoga class: “Look, I can’t spend all day sitting around the house waiting for a phone call. I’m going to head out to Super K-Mart and buy a new answering machine.”
Michael: “No, don’t do that. I’m still looking into getting a new answering machine with wireless phones. I just haven’t figured out which one we’re getting yet. I’ll probably order it next week.”
Cassie, who has now completely pulled my arm out of its socket and is beating me over the head with it: “I want to go the Y! I want to go the Y! I want to go the Y!”
Me: “Michael, getting an answering machine next week doesn’t help me now. I have to get out of the house!”
At this point, the baby wakes up and starts to wail. Cassie continues to pitch a fit because we still haven’t headed out the door. I’m at the end of my rope.
Michael: “Fine. I’ll come home and look for the adapter myself.”
I hear the note of exasperation in Michael’s voice and suddenly I see myself standing by the front door with a chainsaw in one hand and a lawn and garden bag in the other, just waiting for him to come home. I envision the slaughter that follows the moment he enters the house. Then I hear the phone call I make to my best friend Mary who has promised that on the day I finally snap she will help me stuff the body into the lawn and garden bag and then hide the whole mess in our backyard. Once we finish with Michael, we go back to her place and take care of her husband John. Then we pack up the kids and move out to Seattle where we use the insurance money to buy a nice big house and live happily ever after, sans husbands, for the rest of our lives. Maybe we even marry each other because we both know we’ll never put up with another man again as long as we live.
Yes folks, I was all ready to go through with this little fantasy when my inner polar bear raised its head and I thought better of it.
Me: “No honey, don’t come home. I’ll figure something out.”
What I figured out was that there was no way in hell I was going to let Michael come home so I could kill him. I mean, aside from the fact that I would have to mop the floors again to clean up the mess, I just couldn’t imagine how I would explain his death to the kids. “I’m sorry girls, but Mommy had to kill Daddy. He lost the adapter to the answering machine.” Just doesn’t cut it, does it?
So I said screw the answering machine and I went to the Y to work off some stress. I dropped Cassie and Sam off at the gym nursery and hit the cardio machines where I hammered away at the stair climber until I finally felt that I could go home and not commit a homicide. Michael was there when we got back. He had come home to make lunch and found the adapter for me too. The answering machine was working and the doctor didn’t call until two hours later when I was there to pick up the phone myself. Everything worked out just fine and I didn’t have to kill anybody. All thanks to the polar bear.
Grrrrrrrr.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Dreams Of Divorce?
Babies cease to be cute after three days of sleep deprivation. Same goes for husbands.
I’m not gonna lie. There are times late at night when I’m struggling to get Sam to sleep that I look over at my comatose husband and I want to throw something at him. I actually did throw something at him once when Cassie was a baby. I was up nursing for the ninth time that night and Michael was snoring in bed. He was snoring very loudly, so loudly that I couldn’t even doze while sitting in the glider, which to me seemed way too unfair. So I picked up the book sitting on the table next to me and I threw it at him. Hit him too, with a nice big satisfying thunk. He gave a big snort and a grunt, sat up looking very surprised, and then groaned when I ordered him to roll over and quit snoring. Fortunately for both of us, he had the sense of mind not to complain about having his sleep interrupted, because I had plenty more books within arms reach.
I was able to refrain from repeating the book throwing episode last night, although it was hard to do. I don’t know if Sam’s going through a growth spurt or if we’re just dealing with more problems related to her lactose overload, but she’s done nothing but feed and fuss for the past three nights. Last night I tried to wear her out before putting her down. I strapped on the front carrier and walked around the house with her for over an hour, grabbing a piece of laundry and folding it each time I passed by the dryer. I got two loads put away by the time Sam finally dozed off, and I thought I was home free. Then I put her in her bouncy chair to sleep and she immediately woke up.
Why am I putting this kid in a bouncy chair to sleep, you might ask? Because Sam won’t sleep lying flat on her back. I can get her to sleep on her side, and every time I put her on the floor for tummy time, she falls asleep on her belly with no problem (a fact which bothers the crap out of me, thanks to the SIDS On-Your-Back campaign). But try putting Sam down flat on her back and she howls. So for night times and naps, I’ve resorted to putting her in the bouncy chair, where she can sleep sitting propped up. Not as comfortable for her as tummy time apparently, but she can usually deal with it.
Last night though, I couldn’t get her in buckled into the stupid bouncy chair. The little straps went and hid under her butt, and by the time I managed to fish them out, Sam was awake again and fussing. I was out of ideas and at the end of my rope so Michael picked her up and rocked her for a while. Fed up with the bouncy chair, I went downstairs and grabbed the car seat to put Sam in once she fell back asleep. It would be easier to put her in the car seat I decided, since she could rest in it without needing to be strapped in. Then I crawled into bed and listened to Michael rock Sam. He got her to sleep after half an hour or so. And then my husband the genius put our fussy child in her bassinet flat on her back.
Now I told Michael I had brought up the car seat. I put it where we normally put the bouncy chair. He walked past it twice, had to step over it even, so I know he knew it was there. And yet he decided to ignore it and put Sam down in a position he knows she hates. I couldn’t believe it. Sam stayed asleep for a minute after being laid on her back. Then she started to grunt and hyperventilate. Pretty soon, she was thrashing around and screaming.
“Why did you put her flat on her back?” I demanded as I got up to calm my squalling infant.
“She has to sleep on her back sometime,” he mumbled, already half asleep.
“Michael, we’ve had two sleepless nights in a row. Tonight was not the night to experiment!”
He just shrugged and rolled over. I looked for something to throw at him.
It took me another half hour to get Sam settled and down to sleep. From midnight until 4 AM, she snoozed peacefully in her car seat. During those same hours, I dreamt over and over of divorcing Michael. The dreams were pretty vivid too. I imagined packing up everything I owned, taking the kids and driving off to some imaginary land where no husbands existed. It was a peaceful place where people communicated and actually tried to understand each other. Nobody did anything dumb like shop at Sam’s Club and bring home one hundred rolls of toilet paper when all you needed and had room for was four (“But honey, we saved two cents a roll!”). Nobody turned off the lights while you were still in a room trying to clean up the mess they left behind. And nobody plopped down on top of the pile of clean, freshly folded laundry sitting in the middle of the bed to take a nap. People actually thought first before doing things, and thus a lot of mistakes and homicides were avoided.
Then I dreamt that my computer broke down and I woke up in a cold sweat. I thought about my laptop and my desktop, my scanner and my Wacom digital tablets, my wireless network and my cable modem. I realized that no matter how many dumb things he might do, I needed Michael. Because truth be told, you can’t buy good tech support these days. You have to sleep with it.
Assuming the baby lets you sleep, of course.
I’m not gonna lie. There are times late at night when I’m struggling to get Sam to sleep that I look over at my comatose husband and I want to throw something at him. I actually did throw something at him once when Cassie was a baby. I was up nursing for the ninth time that night and Michael was snoring in bed. He was snoring very loudly, so loudly that I couldn’t even doze while sitting in the glider, which to me seemed way too unfair. So I picked up the book sitting on the table next to me and I threw it at him. Hit him too, with a nice big satisfying thunk. He gave a big snort and a grunt, sat up looking very surprised, and then groaned when I ordered him to roll over and quit snoring. Fortunately for both of us, he had the sense of mind not to complain about having his sleep interrupted, because I had plenty more books within arms reach.
I was able to refrain from repeating the book throwing episode last night, although it was hard to do. I don’t know if Sam’s going through a growth spurt or if we’re just dealing with more problems related to her lactose overload, but she’s done nothing but feed and fuss for the past three nights. Last night I tried to wear her out before putting her down. I strapped on the front carrier and walked around the house with her for over an hour, grabbing a piece of laundry and folding it each time I passed by the dryer. I got two loads put away by the time Sam finally dozed off, and I thought I was home free. Then I put her in her bouncy chair to sleep and she immediately woke up.
Why am I putting this kid in a bouncy chair to sleep, you might ask? Because Sam won’t sleep lying flat on her back. I can get her to sleep on her side, and every time I put her on the floor for tummy time, she falls asleep on her belly with no problem (a fact which bothers the crap out of me, thanks to the SIDS On-Your-Back campaign). But try putting Sam down flat on her back and she howls. So for night times and naps, I’ve resorted to putting her in the bouncy chair, where she can sleep sitting propped up. Not as comfortable for her as tummy time apparently, but she can usually deal with it.
Last night though, I couldn’t get her in buckled into the stupid bouncy chair. The little straps went and hid under her butt, and by the time I managed to fish them out, Sam was awake again and fussing. I was out of ideas and at the end of my rope so Michael picked her up and rocked her for a while. Fed up with the bouncy chair, I went downstairs and grabbed the car seat to put Sam in once she fell back asleep. It would be easier to put her in the car seat I decided, since she could rest in it without needing to be strapped in. Then I crawled into bed and listened to Michael rock Sam. He got her to sleep after half an hour or so. And then my husband the genius put our fussy child in her bassinet flat on her back.
Now I told Michael I had brought up the car seat. I put it where we normally put the bouncy chair. He walked past it twice, had to step over it even, so I know he knew it was there. And yet he decided to ignore it and put Sam down in a position he knows she hates. I couldn’t believe it. Sam stayed asleep for a minute after being laid on her back. Then she started to grunt and hyperventilate. Pretty soon, she was thrashing around and screaming.
“Why did you put her flat on her back?” I demanded as I got up to calm my squalling infant.
“She has to sleep on her back sometime,” he mumbled, already half asleep.
“Michael, we’ve had two sleepless nights in a row. Tonight was not the night to experiment!”
He just shrugged and rolled over. I looked for something to throw at him.
It took me another half hour to get Sam settled and down to sleep. From midnight until 4 AM, she snoozed peacefully in her car seat. During those same hours, I dreamt over and over of divorcing Michael. The dreams were pretty vivid too. I imagined packing up everything I owned, taking the kids and driving off to some imaginary land where no husbands existed. It was a peaceful place where people communicated and actually tried to understand each other. Nobody did anything dumb like shop at Sam’s Club and bring home one hundred rolls of toilet paper when all you needed and had room for was four (“But honey, we saved two cents a roll!”). Nobody turned off the lights while you were still in a room trying to clean up the mess they left behind. And nobody plopped down on top of the pile of clean, freshly folded laundry sitting in the middle of the bed to take a nap. People actually thought first before doing things, and thus a lot of mistakes and homicides were avoided.
Then I dreamt that my computer broke down and I woke up in a cold sweat. I thought about my laptop and my desktop, my scanner and my Wacom digital tablets, my wireless network and my cable modem. I realized that no matter how many dumb things he might do, I needed Michael. Because truth be told, you can’t buy good tech support these days. You have to sleep with it.
Assuming the baby lets you sleep, of course.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Feeding Frenzy
Ugh. Feeding Sam in bed all night last night did not work out like I’d planned. Instead of getting any sleep, I ended up becoming a 24-hour milk bar for a very fussy customer.
We started at 8:30 PM in the glider, where I nursed Sam for an hour. This wasn’t an easy, gentle nursing either, the kind where the baby falls asleep in your lap and just makes the occasional suck for comfort’s sake. This was active, vigorous nursing that started to chafe after the first thirty minutes or so. I tried to let Sam keep going, hoping she’d get her fill and doze off. But when the hour mark hiy and she was still hard at it, I decided it was time to put her down for bed. Not an easy thing to do. I had to wedge a couple fingers into the viselike grip of her tiny jaws and pry them apart. That pissed her off of course, and she instantly went from a hungry but drowsy infant to a flailing, fussy, farting fireball.
It was 9:30 PM at this point, still early enough for me to get a good night’s sleep. Since Sam was only fussing but not actually screaming, I put her in the bouncy chair and left the room. I had this delusion that if I went downstairs for a little while and watched TV, when I came back up she’d be sound asleep. Big mistake. She was quiet up until she heard me enter the upstairs hallway. Then she started to howl. Being too tired to strap her into the front carrier and wear her out downstairs, I just gave in and pulled her into bed with me to nurse.
That was at 10:30 PM. A half hour later at 11, Sam was still nursing. The right side of my body was numb from lying still for so long. Sam, of course, was going full blast, just like earlier and once again I had to pry her off. She immediately started crying and grunting and hyperventilating, so I rolled over and let her have the other breast. Another half hour went by. By midnight, Sam was quiet but still sucking pretty strong. I pried her off anyway. My nipples were raw. She flailed for a bit, then finally calmed down and went to sleep. At 12:30 AM, I very carefully picked her up and strapped her into the bouncy chair, then went to sleep myself.
I woke up to a lot of grunting and hyperventilating. It was Sam again, of course. Her eyes were closed, but she was going nuts in the bouncy chair. I checked my clock. It was only 1:30 AM. I’d expected her to sleep until at least 2:30. How could she be hungry again that soon? Her eyes weren’t open though, so I thought maybe she was just fussing in her sleep and it would pass. I laid there for an hour listening to her thrash around in the chair. Finally, I gave up and pulled her back in bed again. My nipples still hurt, so I tried pulling her close to me and patting her on the back to lull her back into sleep. She dozed off after a while and I put her back in the bouncy chair.
Thirty minutes later, she was back in bed with me, this time nursing again. I swear, I thought she was going to suck my toenails out through my nipples. We went 40 minutes on one side and then another 20 on the other. My neck and back ached from lying curled around her. I wanted to lie flat on my back, but couldn’t do that and nurse Sam too. After another hour, I pulled her off and put her back in the bouncy chair. She raised a fuss. Then her hiccoughs kicked in. Sam has the loudest, most violent hiccoughs I have ever heard. They sound like large balloons exploding right in your ear. I tried to wait it out, but the noise was too much. I grabbed my pillow and went into the guest room. Even in there, I could still hear her hyperventilating and hiccupping. If an adult hyperventilated like that, they’d have passed out long before. Why couldn’t Sam do the same, I wondered as I pressed my pillow over my head.
At some point, I dozed off. Then I woke up again to the sound of crying. I stumbled into the bedroom and found Michael changing Sam’s diaper. It was 4 AM. He held her and rocked her for a while as I tried to get a little more sleep. Sam wouldn’t calm down. By 4:30, she ended up back in bed with me. Only this time, she was so agitated she wouldn’t latch on. She kept taking the nipple and spitting it back out. Then she'd wail each time I put it back into my bra. It took her a good fifteen minutes to finally hook up to the milk bar.
My usual wake up time of 5:30 AM came and went. Sam kept nursing. At around 6, she finally detached herself and went to sleep. I thought briefly about trying to put her back in the bouncy chair but by this time my back, neck and shoulders had seized up so that I resembled a giant question mark. Being unable to unlock my stiffened spine, I laid there and suffered before finally drifting off myself.
We woke up just before 8 AM, when Cassie came in looking for us. What a sweet child. What a loveable darling. No matter how bad her temper tantrums are at times, she does sleep through the night. How can you not love a child who does that?
Meanwhile, the human piranha dozed peacefully with her face tucked into my armpit. Michael took Cassie downstairs. I spent half an hour straightening my spine until I could finally get out of bed. Sam snoozed peacefully as I transferred her back to the bouncy chair. I took a shower and brushed my teeth. She never so much as sighed.
So Sam binged on milk all night long. Now I am dead tired, which means I will be facing my own feeding frenzy today, stuffing my face to sate my fatigue-induced craving for sugar and carbs. The only good thing about this is that I now weigh three pounds less today than I did yesterday. How much do you want to bet that Sam weighs three pounds more?
We started at 8:30 PM in the glider, where I nursed Sam for an hour. This wasn’t an easy, gentle nursing either, the kind where the baby falls asleep in your lap and just makes the occasional suck for comfort’s sake. This was active, vigorous nursing that started to chafe after the first thirty minutes or so. I tried to let Sam keep going, hoping she’d get her fill and doze off. But when the hour mark hiy and she was still hard at it, I decided it was time to put her down for bed. Not an easy thing to do. I had to wedge a couple fingers into the viselike grip of her tiny jaws and pry them apart. That pissed her off of course, and she instantly went from a hungry but drowsy infant to a flailing, fussy, farting fireball.
It was 9:30 PM at this point, still early enough for me to get a good night’s sleep. Since Sam was only fussing but not actually screaming, I put her in the bouncy chair and left the room. I had this delusion that if I went downstairs for a little while and watched TV, when I came back up she’d be sound asleep. Big mistake. She was quiet up until she heard me enter the upstairs hallway. Then she started to howl. Being too tired to strap her into the front carrier and wear her out downstairs, I just gave in and pulled her into bed with me to nurse.
That was at 10:30 PM. A half hour later at 11, Sam was still nursing. The right side of my body was numb from lying still for so long. Sam, of course, was going full blast, just like earlier and once again I had to pry her off. She immediately started crying and grunting and hyperventilating, so I rolled over and let her have the other breast. Another half hour went by. By midnight, Sam was quiet but still sucking pretty strong. I pried her off anyway. My nipples were raw. She flailed for a bit, then finally calmed down and went to sleep. At 12:30 AM, I very carefully picked her up and strapped her into the bouncy chair, then went to sleep myself.
I woke up to a lot of grunting and hyperventilating. It was Sam again, of course. Her eyes were closed, but she was going nuts in the bouncy chair. I checked my clock. It was only 1:30 AM. I’d expected her to sleep until at least 2:30. How could she be hungry again that soon? Her eyes weren’t open though, so I thought maybe she was just fussing in her sleep and it would pass. I laid there for an hour listening to her thrash around in the chair. Finally, I gave up and pulled her back in bed again. My nipples still hurt, so I tried pulling her close to me and patting her on the back to lull her back into sleep. She dozed off after a while and I put her back in the bouncy chair.
Thirty minutes later, she was back in bed with me, this time nursing again. I swear, I thought she was going to suck my toenails out through my nipples. We went 40 minutes on one side and then another 20 on the other. My neck and back ached from lying curled around her. I wanted to lie flat on my back, but couldn’t do that and nurse Sam too. After another hour, I pulled her off and put her back in the bouncy chair. She raised a fuss. Then her hiccoughs kicked in. Sam has the loudest, most violent hiccoughs I have ever heard. They sound like large balloons exploding right in your ear. I tried to wait it out, but the noise was too much. I grabbed my pillow and went into the guest room. Even in there, I could still hear her hyperventilating and hiccupping. If an adult hyperventilated like that, they’d have passed out long before. Why couldn’t Sam do the same, I wondered as I pressed my pillow over my head.
At some point, I dozed off. Then I woke up again to the sound of crying. I stumbled into the bedroom and found Michael changing Sam’s diaper. It was 4 AM. He held her and rocked her for a while as I tried to get a little more sleep. Sam wouldn’t calm down. By 4:30, she ended up back in bed with me. Only this time, she was so agitated she wouldn’t latch on. She kept taking the nipple and spitting it back out. Then she'd wail each time I put it back into my bra. It took her a good fifteen minutes to finally hook up to the milk bar.
My usual wake up time of 5:30 AM came and went. Sam kept nursing. At around 6, she finally detached herself and went to sleep. I thought briefly about trying to put her back in the bouncy chair but by this time my back, neck and shoulders had seized up so that I resembled a giant question mark. Being unable to unlock my stiffened spine, I laid there and suffered before finally drifting off myself.
We woke up just before 8 AM, when Cassie came in looking for us. What a sweet child. What a loveable darling. No matter how bad her temper tantrums are at times, she does sleep through the night. How can you not love a child who does that?
Meanwhile, the human piranha dozed peacefully with her face tucked into my armpit. Michael took Cassie downstairs. I spent half an hour straightening my spine until I could finally get out of bed. Sam snoozed peacefully as I transferred her back to the bouncy chair. I took a shower and brushed my teeth. She never so much as sighed.
So Sam binged on milk all night long. Now I am dead tired, which means I will be facing my own feeding frenzy today, stuffing my face to sate my fatigue-induced craving for sugar and carbs. The only good thing about this is that I now weigh three pounds less today than I did yesterday. How much do you want to bet that Sam weighs three pounds more?
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Recovering From An Off Week
Nothing funny today. I’m just rambling to clear my head and figure some things out.
All last week was just off in terms of getting things done. I’m the kind of idiot that prefers to get up very early and get a jump on the day, but last week was pretty hard. It may be because I tried to run right back into my usual exercise routine after getting the go ahead from my doctor. I didn’t think I had done anything all that hard though. I did a day at the Y and a day at the dojo and then I crashed for the rest of the week. I could barely make myself go for a walk. And as for getting up at the butt-crack of dawn? Forget it.
Worse still, I’ve been dead tired all week, and when I’m tired, my will power is at an all time low. I eat things I know I shouldn’t. It doesn’t help that Michael’s been stocking up on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. As a matter of fact, we went shopping on Thursday and he tried to convince me to get more ice cream. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I said no. It’s bad enough I’ve been eating a small bowl of the stuff every evening. I need to quit before it gets to be a real problem.
I made myself get out of bed this morning at 5:30 AM, even though I was wiped out from nursing Sam all night. I got up, showered, dressed, and started on my morning chores. I was hoping to sneak in 15 minutes on the stationary bike in there, but Sam woke Michael so now I’m back in the glider nursing her again. Must be a growth spurt.
Time to get my ass back on track. I’ve had one bad week and I need to pull myself together. I have better, more productive days as a mom and as a writer/artist when I just get up early, do the chores, and stay awake all day to get the work done. Evenings are what’s been killing me, I think, because I can’t get to sleep soon enough. I’m starting to think that maybe what I need to do is just accept the fact that Sam is going to be in bed with me all night and just start nursing her there at 8:30 PM. Then we’d both be in bed and we could both go to sleep. I may try that tonight. We’ll see how it goes.
All last week was just off in terms of getting things done. I’m the kind of idiot that prefers to get up very early and get a jump on the day, but last week was pretty hard. It may be because I tried to run right back into my usual exercise routine after getting the go ahead from my doctor. I didn’t think I had done anything all that hard though. I did a day at the Y and a day at the dojo and then I crashed for the rest of the week. I could barely make myself go for a walk. And as for getting up at the butt-crack of dawn? Forget it.
Worse still, I’ve been dead tired all week, and when I’m tired, my will power is at an all time low. I eat things I know I shouldn’t. It doesn’t help that Michael’s been stocking up on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. As a matter of fact, we went shopping on Thursday and he tried to convince me to get more ice cream. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I said no. It’s bad enough I’ve been eating a small bowl of the stuff every evening. I need to quit before it gets to be a real problem.
I made myself get out of bed this morning at 5:30 AM, even though I was wiped out from nursing Sam all night. I got up, showered, dressed, and started on my morning chores. I was hoping to sneak in 15 minutes on the stationary bike in there, but Sam woke Michael so now I’m back in the glider nursing her again. Must be a growth spurt.
Time to get my ass back on track. I’ve had one bad week and I need to pull myself together. I have better, more productive days as a mom and as a writer/artist when I just get up early, do the chores, and stay awake all day to get the work done. Evenings are what’s been killing me, I think, because I can’t get to sleep soon enough. I’m starting to think that maybe what I need to do is just accept the fact that Sam is going to be in bed with me all night and just start nursing her there at 8:30 PM. Then we’d both be in bed and we could both go to sleep. I may try that tonight. We’ll see how it goes.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Problems With Preschool
Okay, we haven’t even started preschool yet, and already we’re having problems.
I told Cassie we would be visiting one of the local preschools today to see what it was like. I have to send her to preschool. I just can’t keep her occupied and active enough on my own. Cassie is starting to feel the loss of my full attention now that Sam is here, and it’s making her cranky and jealous. I feel bad about that, but infants take a lot of time to care for. As best as I can, I try to set aside some time to play with Cassie each day, but until Sam’s tummy trouble and late night screaming stop, it’s going to be hard. A lot of times, I’ve been lying on the floor playing dollies with Cassie, only to wake up half an hour later and find Cassie waiting patiently for me to resume our games.
So I’m going to send Cassie off to preschool where she can be with other kids and get in plenty of playtime and activity. She’s very excited about this. In fact, she’s a little over excited. Even though I told her this would just be a short visit and that preschool won’t actually begin until September, she assumes that this is the real deal and she will be starting full blown preschool today. In preparation for the big event, she dressed herself this morning in her favorite pink outfit (“Don’t I look lovely, Mommy?”) and packed two bags of essentials to take with her. Her essentials include a handful of Little People, her Magna Doodle, and some costume jewelry. Michael and I have tried to explain that she won’t be allowed to take all that stuff into the preschool with her. “But I need it!” she claims.
We’ve already had one temper tantrum over this preschool visit this morning. She wants to go right now. However, we’re not leaving for our visit for at least another hour. Needless to say, that was not what she wanted to here. I can already foresee a lot of kicking and screaming when our visit is over and she wants to stay but I need to take her home.
I should have known this was coming. Back in March when I first talked to Michael about signing up Cassie for preschool, I asked him if he thought she was ready for it. Cassie immediately piped up. “I go to preschool. I get on bus and say ‘Bye bye, Mommy.’” Boy if that wasn’t a kick in the head.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to get through this visit without any fuss from Cassie. Hopefully, after half an hour of touring the facilities, she won’t be so in love with the place that she’ll demand to stay. Hopefully, she won’t have a complete meltdown when I tell her it’s time to leave. And hopefully, she won’t spend the next six weeks demanding to go back right now.
Of course, you and I both know what ‘hopefully’ is going to get us.
Pray for me.
I told Cassie we would be visiting one of the local preschools today to see what it was like. I have to send her to preschool. I just can’t keep her occupied and active enough on my own. Cassie is starting to feel the loss of my full attention now that Sam is here, and it’s making her cranky and jealous. I feel bad about that, but infants take a lot of time to care for. As best as I can, I try to set aside some time to play with Cassie each day, but until Sam’s tummy trouble and late night screaming stop, it’s going to be hard. A lot of times, I’ve been lying on the floor playing dollies with Cassie, only to wake up half an hour later and find Cassie waiting patiently for me to resume our games.
So I’m going to send Cassie off to preschool where she can be with other kids and get in plenty of playtime and activity. She’s very excited about this. In fact, she’s a little over excited. Even though I told her this would just be a short visit and that preschool won’t actually begin until September, she assumes that this is the real deal and she will be starting full blown preschool today. In preparation for the big event, she dressed herself this morning in her favorite pink outfit (“Don’t I look lovely, Mommy?”) and packed two bags of essentials to take with her. Her essentials include a handful of Little People, her Magna Doodle, and some costume jewelry. Michael and I have tried to explain that she won’t be allowed to take all that stuff into the preschool with her. “But I need it!” she claims.
We’ve already had one temper tantrum over this preschool visit this morning. She wants to go right now. However, we’re not leaving for our visit for at least another hour. Needless to say, that was not what she wanted to here. I can already foresee a lot of kicking and screaming when our visit is over and she wants to stay but I need to take her home.
I should have known this was coming. Back in March when I first talked to Michael about signing up Cassie for preschool, I asked him if he thought she was ready for it. Cassie immediately piped up. “I go to preschool. I get on bus and say ‘Bye bye, Mommy.’” Boy if that wasn’t a kick in the head.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to get through this visit without any fuss from Cassie. Hopefully, after half an hour of touring the facilities, she won’t be so in love with the place that she’ll demand to stay. Hopefully, she won’t have a complete meltdown when I tell her it’s time to leave. And hopefully, she won’t spend the next six weeks demanding to go back right now.
Of course, you and I both know what ‘hopefully’ is going to get us.
Pray for me.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Interpreting Your Baby’s Cries (yeah, right.)
In just about every magazine and book on parenting, you’ll find articles on how to interpret your baby’s cries. One cry will tell you she’s hungry, one will tell you her diaper is wet, one will tell you she’s bored, etc., etc., etc. This is all part of baby’s first attempts to communicate with you, the parents. Well according to experts I know (my mom and dad), children never willingly communicate anything useful to their parents. In fact, all attempts at communication are usually stringently avoided unless your kids want you to buy them something.
However, I do believe that Sam is trying to tell me something when she starts wailing, and she has a wide range of expressive cries. As a public service to other frazzled, burnt-out moms, I have decided to share with you what those different types of cries mean.
Soft grunting noise - I am not happy. Do something about it.
Hard grunting noise, accompanied by farting or spitting up - I am not happy. Do something about it or I will make a big mess and you will have to clean it up.
Persistent crying, accompanied by arms flailing and legs kicking - I’m ticked off. Pick me up so I may smash my pointed little head into your face.
High pitched screaming, face turns bright red and eyes are screwed shut - I’m getting pissed off here. Make me happy or else.
Mouth is opened wide in a scream, but no noise comes out; baby’s face is livid; her entire body is shaking in rage - I’m really, really pissed off. Make me happy now or you’re going to regret it.
Baby emits the same ear-piercing, glass shattering scream over and over and over again; her face is twisted into an expression that looks like something out of a horror movie; her arms and legs are locked straight out and her entire body is rigid - I hate you. You are incompetent. Who the hell told you that you could be a parent? I want my money back. This sucks. I’ll spend the rest of my life in therapy because you can not figure out how to make me happy. By the way, I’ve got a big messy poop in my diaper again and as soon as you pick me up I will spit up all over your best shirt, which is dry clean only of course.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what your infant is really trying to tell you. Good luck.
However, I do believe that Sam is trying to tell me something when she starts wailing, and she has a wide range of expressive cries. As a public service to other frazzled, burnt-out moms, I have decided to share with you what those different types of cries mean.
Soft grunting noise - I am not happy. Do something about it.
Hard grunting noise, accompanied by farting or spitting up - I am not happy. Do something about it or I will make a big mess and you will have to clean it up.
Persistent crying, accompanied by arms flailing and legs kicking - I’m ticked off. Pick me up so I may smash my pointed little head into your face.
High pitched screaming, face turns bright red and eyes are screwed shut - I’m getting pissed off here. Make me happy or else.
Mouth is opened wide in a scream, but no noise comes out; baby’s face is livid; her entire body is shaking in rage - I’m really, really pissed off. Make me happy now or you’re going to regret it.
Baby emits the same ear-piercing, glass shattering scream over and over and over again; her face is twisted into an expression that looks like something out of a horror movie; her arms and legs are locked straight out and her entire body is rigid - I hate you. You are incompetent. Who the hell told you that you could be a parent? I want my money back. This sucks. I’ll spend the rest of my life in therapy because you can not figure out how to make me happy. By the way, I’ve got a big messy poop in my diaper again and as soon as you pick me up I will spit up all over your best shirt, which is dry clean only of course.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what your infant is really trying to tell you. Good luck.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Another Long Night With A Screaming Baby
I stand corrected. Michael is not going to Disney World for his conference in August. He’s going to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado instead. Not quite as fun a destination, but he still gets to go sans kids and spouse for a week. Quite frankly, I’d kill just to go to the bookstore for a few hours sans kids and spouse. As a matter of fact, after a week dealing with the kids on my own, I just might kill as soon as Michael walks in the door.
We had another long night last night. Sam continues to have problems with lactose overload. I overproduce breast milk and as a result Sam gets too much foremilk and not enough hind milk. The foremilk is loaded with lactose, and when she gets too much in her digestive tract, she has a lot of tummy troubles - gas, fussiness, and messy green poop. It’s painful for her and she screams all night whenever this happens. I’m still experimenting, trying to figure out how to get her more hind milk, which has all the fats in it that will help fill her up more quickly and keep her from overeating. I’ve been pumping off about an ounce of milk before nursing her. I think the problem yesterday was that I gave her a bottle of pumped milk while we were out. There was probably too much foremilk in it and not enough hind. This is going to cause problems if that’s the case, because now I’ll have to pump extra milk whenever I want to have a bottle for her, getting rid of the first ounce or two. I can do it, but it may make me produce even more milk, which causes my breast to swell up like big fat water balloons and only furthers the problem of overproduction.
Sigh. I can’t win.
Anyway, Sam wouldn’t settle down after her 9 PM feeding so it looked like we were in for a long night of back patting and walking around the house. I tried giving her a bath, but that didn’t help much. I let her nurse, hoping she’d soothe herself to sleep while she ate, but that didn’t work either, and probably only made things worse. I tried pulling her into bed with me and patting her back until she calmed down, but she wasn’t having any of that last night. Finally, around 11 PM, I put her in the front pack and headed downstairs to walk around the house with her for a while.
The worst thing about nights like these is that they make me feel totally useless. There is almost nothing I can do to soothe Sam, and what I can do wears me out pretty quickly. I also know that I’ll be up all night, making me even more useless the next day. Not a fun situation to be in, especially on Wednesday, which is Cassie’s play date day. While I was downstairs with Sam, I decided to set up the coffee maker to make my morning a little more bearable. As I was washing out the filter, Sam started to calm down a bit. That’s when I suddenly had an idea. What if, instead of waiting until tomorrow morning to do my chores, I did them then and there while Sam was strapped to me? I couldn’t do everything, but I could do most of my morning routine, and that way I wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning the house the next morning while I was dead on my feet.
I decided to try it. After setting up the coffee pot, I went through my list of chores and did most everything I would normally do at 6 AM. I folded laundry, washed the cat food bowls, swept the floors, straightened up and put toys away, etc., etc. By midnight, the downstairs was clean. Even better, Sam was sound asleep, her little face buried between my overproducing breasts.
I was able to get Sam upstairs and into bed without waking her. She slept for almost four hours before waking to nurse. When she woke, she didn’t seem as fussy. I let myself sleep late this morning, but because I got my chores done, I’m still on track to get out the door in time for Cassie’s play date, AND I’m not dead on my feet. I’ll have to remember this for next time. It’s going to make my life a lot easier today.
We had another long night last night. Sam continues to have problems with lactose overload. I overproduce breast milk and as a result Sam gets too much foremilk and not enough hind milk. The foremilk is loaded with lactose, and when she gets too much in her digestive tract, she has a lot of tummy troubles - gas, fussiness, and messy green poop. It’s painful for her and she screams all night whenever this happens. I’m still experimenting, trying to figure out how to get her more hind milk, which has all the fats in it that will help fill her up more quickly and keep her from overeating. I’ve been pumping off about an ounce of milk before nursing her. I think the problem yesterday was that I gave her a bottle of pumped milk while we were out. There was probably too much foremilk in it and not enough hind. This is going to cause problems if that’s the case, because now I’ll have to pump extra milk whenever I want to have a bottle for her, getting rid of the first ounce or two. I can do it, but it may make me produce even more milk, which causes my breast to swell up like big fat water balloons and only furthers the problem of overproduction.
Sigh. I can’t win.
Anyway, Sam wouldn’t settle down after her 9 PM feeding so it looked like we were in for a long night of back patting and walking around the house. I tried giving her a bath, but that didn’t help much. I let her nurse, hoping she’d soothe herself to sleep while she ate, but that didn’t work either, and probably only made things worse. I tried pulling her into bed with me and patting her back until she calmed down, but she wasn’t having any of that last night. Finally, around 11 PM, I put her in the front pack and headed downstairs to walk around the house with her for a while.
The worst thing about nights like these is that they make me feel totally useless. There is almost nothing I can do to soothe Sam, and what I can do wears me out pretty quickly. I also know that I’ll be up all night, making me even more useless the next day. Not a fun situation to be in, especially on Wednesday, which is Cassie’s play date day. While I was downstairs with Sam, I decided to set up the coffee maker to make my morning a little more bearable. As I was washing out the filter, Sam started to calm down a bit. That’s when I suddenly had an idea. What if, instead of waiting until tomorrow morning to do my chores, I did them then and there while Sam was strapped to me? I couldn’t do everything, but I could do most of my morning routine, and that way I wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning the house the next morning while I was dead on my feet.
I decided to try it. After setting up the coffee pot, I went through my list of chores and did most everything I would normally do at 6 AM. I folded laundry, washed the cat food bowls, swept the floors, straightened up and put toys away, etc., etc. By midnight, the downstairs was clean. Even better, Sam was sound asleep, her little face buried between my overproducing breasts.
I was able to get Sam upstairs and into bed without waking her. She slept for almost four hours before waking to nurse. When she woke, she didn’t seem as fussy. I let myself sleep late this morning, but because I got my chores done, I’m still on track to get out the door in time for Cassie’s play date, AND I’m not dead on my feet. I’ll have to remember this for next time. It’s going to make my life a lot easier today.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
What’s It Worth, Really? A Mom’s Nonexistent Paycheck
Time for me to bitch and whine. It’s 9 AM and I am well into the third week of taking care of the kids on my own with minimal help from Michael. That’s not to say he doesn’t want to help, but right now he’s tied up with a paper he’s got to finish writing for a major conference he’s attending in August.
Said conference is being held at Disney World, of course.
There are times when it just doesn’t pay to be a mom. Now is one of them. I’m busting my ass to take care of two kids and the house, while Michael runs off to work every morning to kill himself over this paper. His work is important - it pays the bills to say the least. My work is important - nobody else is going to scrub toilets, change diapers all day, and clean dirty underwear. So why is it that Michael gets to go off to Disney World on his own for a week while I continue to wallow up to my armpits in dirty toilets and poopie drawers?
You can’t pay a mom to do her job. There just isn’t enough money in the world. For the past three weeks, I’ve had to put both kids to bed by myself most nights. It’s not easy convincing a three-year-old to take a bath when you’re walking around with a six-week infant latched onto your breast. I mean come on, I’ve only got two arms.
In an ideal world, Michael would stay home in the evenings to bathe Cassie, read her stories and put her to bed while I sat in my glider nursing a baby who is determined to chew my nipples off. In my dream world, I would bathe Cassie, read the stories and put her to bed while Michael nursed Sam and tried to determine if our health insurance pays for nipple replacement. Not gonna happen though, is it?
What really ticks me off about this is that I do have work to accomplish outside of the kids and the house. I have a story that needs to be written and two drawings in progress. I have a 3D illustration that I’ve been struggling with for weeks now that I’m only finally beginning to make any headway on. And yet, how much time do I get to spend on any of these projects? Almost none. Yesterday I got to spend five minutes writing before Cassie came skipping out of her room declaring that nap time was over and she wanted to play, thus putting a premature end to my plans for the afternoon.
I know one day the kids will be off at school and I’ll have plenty of time to work. Until then, however, I am on unpaid maternity leave. I hope someone somewhere appreciates that fact.
Said conference is being held at Disney World, of course.
There are times when it just doesn’t pay to be a mom. Now is one of them. I’m busting my ass to take care of two kids and the house, while Michael runs off to work every morning to kill himself over this paper. His work is important - it pays the bills to say the least. My work is important - nobody else is going to scrub toilets, change diapers all day, and clean dirty underwear. So why is it that Michael gets to go off to Disney World on his own for a week while I continue to wallow up to my armpits in dirty toilets and poopie drawers?
You can’t pay a mom to do her job. There just isn’t enough money in the world. For the past three weeks, I’ve had to put both kids to bed by myself most nights. It’s not easy convincing a three-year-old to take a bath when you’re walking around with a six-week infant latched onto your breast. I mean come on, I’ve only got two arms.
In an ideal world, Michael would stay home in the evenings to bathe Cassie, read her stories and put her to bed while I sat in my glider nursing a baby who is determined to chew my nipples off. In my dream world, I would bathe Cassie, read the stories and put her to bed while Michael nursed Sam and tried to determine if our health insurance pays for nipple replacement. Not gonna happen though, is it?
What really ticks me off about this is that I do have work to accomplish outside of the kids and the house. I have a story that needs to be written and two drawings in progress. I have a 3D illustration that I’ve been struggling with for weeks now that I’m only finally beginning to make any headway on. And yet, how much time do I get to spend on any of these projects? Almost none. Yesterday I got to spend five minutes writing before Cassie came skipping out of her room declaring that nap time was over and she wanted to play, thus putting a premature end to my plans for the afternoon.
I know one day the kids will be off at school and I’ll have plenty of time to work. Until then, however, I am on unpaid maternity leave. I hope someone somewhere appreciates that fact.
Monday, July 17, 2006
The Devil Wears Pink - An Analysis Of Little Girl’s Fashions
We got a package in the mail from my mom on Saturday. It was addressed to Cassie and Sam. Inside were a few small toys and a pink dress for each girl.
Why am I not surprised?
Cass is running around with her pink dress, telling me “It’s beautiful!” She can’t wait to wear it. At only six weeks of age, Sam doesn’t have any opinions yet on her wardrobe, but I can foresee the day when she prances about with her clothing, telling me how much she adores her new pink outfit from Grandmama.
If you look in either child’s closet, you will see an endless, monochromatic row of little pink dresses. They come in all shades of pink, from delicate pastel to magenta, but they are all pink. I think Cassie used to have a few dresses that are some other color, like blue or white or purple, but I could never get her to wear those. She’s always got to wear the pink ones. In fact, she wears pink dresses so much I had to institute a rule - no dresses, pink or otherwise, on play dates. It’s just one of those things. I think playing, especially the rough and tumble preschooler kind, is best done in pants and a t-shirt. And besides, I need a break from pink every now and then, otherwise I’ll go blind.
My own wardrobe includes only one pink shirt. That’s it. Everything else is brown, blue, black or red. I have an impressive collection of baggy black t-shirts and a few prized cherry red microfit tops. As for dresses, I think I have two left in the closet somewhere. Haven’t worn either one in ages though.
Cassie is in her room right now, picking out clothing. If I ask her which outfit she intends to wear, I’m pretty sure of the answer I’ll get.
It’ll be the pink one.
Why am I not surprised?
Cass is running around with her pink dress, telling me “It’s beautiful!” She can’t wait to wear it. At only six weeks of age, Sam doesn’t have any opinions yet on her wardrobe, but I can foresee the day when she prances about with her clothing, telling me how much she adores her new pink outfit from Grandmama.
If you look in either child’s closet, you will see an endless, monochromatic row of little pink dresses. They come in all shades of pink, from delicate pastel to magenta, but they are all pink. I think Cassie used to have a few dresses that are some other color, like blue or white or purple, but I could never get her to wear those. She’s always got to wear the pink ones. In fact, she wears pink dresses so much I had to institute a rule - no dresses, pink or otherwise, on play dates. It’s just one of those things. I think playing, especially the rough and tumble preschooler kind, is best done in pants and a t-shirt. And besides, I need a break from pink every now and then, otherwise I’ll go blind.
My own wardrobe includes only one pink shirt. That’s it. Everything else is brown, blue, black or red. I have an impressive collection of baggy black t-shirts and a few prized cherry red microfit tops. As for dresses, I think I have two left in the closet somewhere. Haven’t worn either one in ages though.
Cassie is in her room right now, picking out clothing. If I ask her which outfit she intends to wear, I’m pretty sure of the answer I’ll get.
It’ll be the pink one.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Shake Your Booty, Mama - Dancing To Get Some Exercise
One of the biggest problems I’ve had the last six weeks is fitting in exercise. Normally, I have no trouble getting in at least 30 minutes a day. It’s part of my regular schedule - karate class three times a week, yoga once or twice a week, weight lifting and cardio twice a week, etc., etc. It’s easy to do when I’ve signed up for a class and paid for it out of pocket. And since childcare is provided at most of these activities, I can usually just go do my thing without having to worry about a little rug rat tagging along, constantly asking “Are you done yet?”
Unfortunately, my obstetrician put the kibosh on my normal activities for the first six weeks post partum. My body needed time to recover from labor and pregnancy, he said. What he didn’t mention was that while my body was recovering, my brain was going to explode from the lack of stress relief. Apparently he thought I’d be able to relax and take it easy while constantly breastfeeding an infant and simultaneously chasing a three-year-old around the house.
So I’ve been looking for ways to exercise while being saddled with two kids. It’s not easy. I’ve been trying to walk on a daily basis, pushing Cassie in the jog stroller and wearing Sam in a Baby Bjorn front pack as I zip through the neighborhood, but that has its draw backs. For starters, it’s too damn hot to wear the front pack with a heat-producing infant in it. And second, it’s been raining here a lot lately. Walking around with a screaming baby strapped to myself while pushing a cranky wet preschooler in a stroller doesn’t do much to relieve any stress, although it does provide exercise.
So for rainy days I tried riding our stationary bike. Problem is I have to keep Cassie entertained while I do it. Otherwise, she’ll crawl up under the pedals and get herself kicked in the head, so she ends up screaming bloody murder. That’s a real no-win scenario for me.
As a last resort, I turned to my small selection of DVDs collecting dust in one of my bookcases. Unfortunately, Cassie seems to think the purpose of any DVD is to watch it for sheer entertainment value. She refuses to get up and participate. The last thing I want is to turn my kid into a little couch potato, so every time I do an exercise DVD, I tell Cass she either has to exercise with me or go play in another room. As you can imagine, this has led to more than a few arguments. Cassie starts out promising that she’ll do the DVD, only to stop and plunk her butt down in front of the TV after two minutes of marching around. When I tell her to get moving or go to her room, the whining kicks in big time. She can’t do the exercises, it’s too hard, can she just watch me do it, can she play in the room while I exercise, etc., etc... The whole scenario ends up with her in time out and me fuming as I try to get back into my workout. All of this does nothing to relieve any stress I’ve been feeling, and in fact only increases it.
Then on Thursday I had a moment of inspiration. It was raining outside again, and Cassie was busy dancing around the living room to one of her Wiggles CDs. I knew if I turned off the CD to play an aerobics DVD, she’d howl and then plunk herself down to watch rather than work out with me. What to do? While I pondered the question, I noticed that Cass was actually working up a sweat dancing to “The Big Red Car” song. Hmmm. If she could work up a sweat while dancing, why couldn’t I?
I decided to try it. I turned on my heart rate monitor, to see how much of a workout I was getting and I joined Cassie on the floor. I’m happy to report that after twenty minutes of shaking my groove thing to toddler tunes, I got my heart rate up as high as 130 beats per minutes and ended up with sweat pouring down my face.
Ah ha! Now I had a way to burn calories and involve Cassie too. Even better, Sam seemed fascinated by the music and the dancing. She never made a peep during the entire twenty minutes we were jumping about the living room. I could do this!
“Mommy! We’re dancing! We dance like the pirate girls!” Cassie shouted as we finished up another song on the DVD. That’s when I recalled the Scottish dancers we had seen the weekend before at the Mariner’s Museum. They had performed as part of a pirate festival held that day and Cassie had been entranced. She’d obviously been paying good attention too, because as we danced to the Wiggles music, she started performing some of the dance steps to a Highland jig.
That was my second “Ah ha!” moment. If Cassie liked Celtic music and dance, I didn’t have to limit myself to dancing to kiddie tunes. I took Cassie to our local Borders the next day and picked out an instructional DVD on Irish step dancing. The cover blurb assured me that I too could dance like Michael What’s-his-face in River Dance. Pleased with this idea, I headed to the cash register, day dreaming about jigging my way to a jiggle-free behind. Then a little hand tugged on my sleeve.
“Mommy, what’s this?”
Cassie held up a DVD that showed several little girls dressed in tutus skipping around on a hardwood floor. I read the cover - Baby Ballet: Includes ballet, jazz and tap lessons.
“That’s a dance video for little girls, sweetie.”
“I want to be a ballet girl, Mommy. Please?” she asked, staring at me with huge blue eyes.
How could I resist? I got her the DVD. As soon as we got home, though, I realized I was in trouble. The little girls on the cover of the DVD had tutus, so Cassie decided she needed one too. Fortunately, one of her dress up costumes has a tutu-like skirt, so I convinced her to wear that. Then Cassie demanded ballet slippers. Again, she had a pair of Tinkerbelle slippers that looked close enough to satisfy her. She wanted tights too, but considering that it’s 101 degrees in the shade right now, I convinced her she could do without.
Appropriately attired, Cassie set herself up in the living room while I popped the DVD in. She spent the next twenty minutes following along with a quartet of little girls who danced and glided their way through a series of ballet moves. Cassie did more galumphing than gliding, clogging her way along with so much characteristic three-year-old enthusiasm that I nearly hurt myself from laughing. She was dancing though, and as soon as she was done, she was tired enough to take a nap without any fuss. I had it made, I thought. Little did I realize I had created a monster.
That evening, Michael and I had plans to go out. Our babysitter Megan showed up at 6 PM. Cassie was eager to show Megan her new dance moves. Before heading out the door, I set up the DVD and told Megan Cassie could dance as long as she liked. Four hours later, Michael and I came home and found Cassie dancing along to the DVD. Megan was swaying along with the baby in her arms, looking slightly dazed.
“Wow, she decided to do the DVD again?” I asked.
“We never turned it off,” Megan replied. “Cassie’s been at it the entire time. She did the tap lesson and the jazz lesson a few times too. I think she has them all memorized by now.”
Needless to say, I made Michael give Megan an extra $5 for extreme hardship pay.
Ever since then, it’s been nothing but Baby Ballet. Cassie can’t stop dancing, unless I pop in my Irish step dance DVD. We tried that one yesterday and much to my disgust, I found that I can’t follow the damned thing, much less expect Cassie to do so. Oh, I could probably do it with a year’s worth of lessons under my belt and a couple of jog bras holding the Grand Tetons firmly in place on my chest, but that’s the only way I could do it. So there’s another fitness DVD that gets to collect dust on my shelf.
I did accomplish one thing in all this, which is to get Cassie up and moving. Now if only I could find some way to get me some exercise, we’ll all be doing just fine. Hmmm. Maybe we should try swing dancing?
We’ll see.
Unfortunately, my obstetrician put the kibosh on my normal activities for the first six weeks post partum. My body needed time to recover from labor and pregnancy, he said. What he didn’t mention was that while my body was recovering, my brain was going to explode from the lack of stress relief. Apparently he thought I’d be able to relax and take it easy while constantly breastfeeding an infant and simultaneously chasing a three-year-old around the house.
So I’ve been looking for ways to exercise while being saddled with two kids. It’s not easy. I’ve been trying to walk on a daily basis, pushing Cassie in the jog stroller and wearing Sam in a Baby Bjorn front pack as I zip through the neighborhood, but that has its draw backs. For starters, it’s too damn hot to wear the front pack with a heat-producing infant in it. And second, it’s been raining here a lot lately. Walking around with a screaming baby strapped to myself while pushing a cranky wet preschooler in a stroller doesn’t do much to relieve any stress, although it does provide exercise.
So for rainy days I tried riding our stationary bike. Problem is I have to keep Cassie entertained while I do it. Otherwise, she’ll crawl up under the pedals and get herself kicked in the head, so she ends up screaming bloody murder. That’s a real no-win scenario for me.
As a last resort, I turned to my small selection of DVDs collecting dust in one of my bookcases. Unfortunately, Cassie seems to think the purpose of any DVD is to watch it for sheer entertainment value. She refuses to get up and participate. The last thing I want is to turn my kid into a little couch potato, so every time I do an exercise DVD, I tell Cass she either has to exercise with me or go play in another room. As you can imagine, this has led to more than a few arguments. Cassie starts out promising that she’ll do the DVD, only to stop and plunk her butt down in front of the TV after two minutes of marching around. When I tell her to get moving or go to her room, the whining kicks in big time. She can’t do the exercises, it’s too hard, can she just watch me do it, can she play in the room while I exercise, etc., etc... The whole scenario ends up with her in time out and me fuming as I try to get back into my workout. All of this does nothing to relieve any stress I’ve been feeling, and in fact only increases it.
Then on Thursday I had a moment of inspiration. It was raining outside again, and Cassie was busy dancing around the living room to one of her Wiggles CDs. I knew if I turned off the CD to play an aerobics DVD, she’d howl and then plunk herself down to watch rather than work out with me. What to do? While I pondered the question, I noticed that Cass was actually working up a sweat dancing to “The Big Red Car” song. Hmmm. If she could work up a sweat while dancing, why couldn’t I?
I decided to try it. I turned on my heart rate monitor, to see how much of a workout I was getting and I joined Cassie on the floor. I’m happy to report that after twenty minutes of shaking my groove thing to toddler tunes, I got my heart rate up as high as 130 beats per minutes and ended up with sweat pouring down my face.
Ah ha! Now I had a way to burn calories and involve Cassie too. Even better, Sam seemed fascinated by the music and the dancing. She never made a peep during the entire twenty minutes we were jumping about the living room. I could do this!
“Mommy! We’re dancing! We dance like the pirate girls!” Cassie shouted as we finished up another song on the DVD. That’s when I recalled the Scottish dancers we had seen the weekend before at the Mariner’s Museum. They had performed as part of a pirate festival held that day and Cassie had been entranced. She’d obviously been paying good attention too, because as we danced to the Wiggles music, she started performing some of the dance steps to a Highland jig.
That was my second “Ah ha!” moment. If Cassie liked Celtic music and dance, I didn’t have to limit myself to dancing to kiddie tunes. I took Cassie to our local Borders the next day and picked out an instructional DVD on Irish step dancing. The cover blurb assured me that I too could dance like Michael What’s-his-face in River Dance. Pleased with this idea, I headed to the cash register, day dreaming about jigging my way to a jiggle-free behind. Then a little hand tugged on my sleeve.
“Mommy, what’s this?”
Cassie held up a DVD that showed several little girls dressed in tutus skipping around on a hardwood floor. I read the cover - Baby Ballet: Includes ballet, jazz and tap lessons.
“That’s a dance video for little girls, sweetie.”
“I want to be a ballet girl, Mommy. Please?” she asked, staring at me with huge blue eyes.
How could I resist? I got her the DVD. As soon as we got home, though, I realized I was in trouble. The little girls on the cover of the DVD had tutus, so Cassie decided she needed one too. Fortunately, one of her dress up costumes has a tutu-like skirt, so I convinced her to wear that. Then Cassie demanded ballet slippers. Again, she had a pair of Tinkerbelle slippers that looked close enough to satisfy her. She wanted tights too, but considering that it’s 101 degrees in the shade right now, I convinced her she could do without.
Appropriately attired, Cassie set herself up in the living room while I popped the DVD in. She spent the next twenty minutes following along with a quartet of little girls who danced and glided their way through a series of ballet moves. Cassie did more galumphing than gliding, clogging her way along with so much characteristic three-year-old enthusiasm that I nearly hurt myself from laughing. She was dancing though, and as soon as she was done, she was tired enough to take a nap without any fuss. I had it made, I thought. Little did I realize I had created a monster.
That evening, Michael and I had plans to go out. Our babysitter Megan showed up at 6 PM. Cassie was eager to show Megan her new dance moves. Before heading out the door, I set up the DVD and told Megan Cassie could dance as long as she liked. Four hours later, Michael and I came home and found Cassie dancing along to the DVD. Megan was swaying along with the baby in her arms, looking slightly dazed.
“Wow, she decided to do the DVD again?” I asked.
“We never turned it off,” Megan replied. “Cassie’s been at it the entire time. She did the tap lesson and the jazz lesson a few times too. I think she has them all memorized by now.”
Needless to say, I made Michael give Megan an extra $5 for extreme hardship pay.
Ever since then, it’s been nothing but Baby Ballet. Cassie can’t stop dancing, unless I pop in my Irish step dance DVD. We tried that one yesterday and much to my disgust, I found that I can’t follow the damned thing, much less expect Cassie to do so. Oh, I could probably do it with a year’s worth of lessons under my belt and a couple of jog bras holding the Grand Tetons firmly in place on my chest, but that’s the only way I could do it. So there’s another fitness DVD that gets to collect dust on my shelf.
I did accomplish one thing in all this, which is to get Cassie up and moving. Now if only I could find some way to get me some exercise, we’ll all be doing just fine. Hmmm. Maybe we should try swing dancing?
We’ll see.
Shake Your Booty, Mama - Dancing To Get Some Exercise
One of the biggest problems I’ve had the last six weeks is fitting in exercise. Normally, I have no trouble getting in at least 30 minutes a day. It’s part of my regular schedule - karate class three times a week, yoga once or twice a week, weight lifting and cardio twice a week, etc., etc. It’s easy to do when I’ve signed up for a class and paid for it out of pocket. And since childcare is provided at most of these activities, I can usually just go do my thing without having to worry about a little rug rat tagging along, constantly asking “Are you done yet?”
Unfortunately, my obstetrician put the kibosh on my normal activities for the first six weeks post partum. My body needed time to recover from labor and pregnancy, he said. What he didn’t mention was that while my body was recovering, my brain was going to explode from the lack of stress relief. Apparently he thought I’d be able to relax and take it easy while constantly breastfeeding an infant and simultaneously chasing a three-year-old around the house.
So I’ve been looking for ways to exercise while being saddled with two kids. It’s not easy. I’ve been trying to walk on a daily basis, pushing Cassie in the jog stroller and wearing Sam in a Baby Bjorn front pack as I zip through the neighborhood, but that has its draw backs. For starters, it’s too damn hot to wear the front pack with a heat-producing infant in it. And second, it’s been raining here a lot lately. Walking around with a screaming baby strapped to myself while pushing a cranky wet preschooler in a stroller doesn’t do much to relieve any stress, although it does provide exercise.
So for rainy days I tried riding our stationary bike. Problem is I have to keep Cassie entertained while I do it. Otherwise, she’ll crawl up under the pedals and get herself kicked in the head, so she ends up screaming bloody murder. That’s a real no-win scenario for me.
As a last resort, I turned to my small selection of DVDs collecting dust in one of my bookcases. Unfortunately, Cassie seems to think the purpose of any DVD is to watch it for sheer entertainment value. She refuses to get up and participate. The last thing I want is to turn my kid into a little couch potato, so every time I do an exercise DVD, I tell Cass she either has to exercise with me or go play in another room. As you can imagine, this has led to more than a few arguments. Cassie starts out promising that she’ll do the DVD, only to stop and plunk her butt down in front of the TV after two minutes of marching around. When I tell her to get moving or go to her room, the whining kicks in big time. She can’t do the exercises, it’s too hard, can she just watch me do it, can she play in the room while I exercise, etc., etc... The whole scenario ends up with her in time out and me fuming as I try to get back into my workout. All of this does nothing to relieve any stress I’ve been feeling, and in fact only increases it.
Then on Thursday I had a moment of inspiration. It was raining outside again, and Cassie was busy dancing around the living room to one of her Wiggles CDs. I knew if I turned off the CD to play an aerobics DVD, she’d howl and then plunk herself down to watch rather than work out with me. What to do? While I pondered the question, I noticed that Cass was actually working up a sweat dancing to “The Big Red Car” song. Hmmm. If she could work up a sweat while dancing, why couldn’t I?
I decided to try it. I turned on my heart rate monitor, to see how much of a workout I was getting and I joined Cassie on the floor. I’m happy to report that after twenty minutes of shaking my groove thing to toddler tunes, I got my heart rate up as high as 130 beats per minutes and ended up with sweat pouring down my face.
Ah ha! Now I had a way to burn calories and involve Cassie too. Even better, Sam seemed fascinated by the music and the dancing. She never made a peep during the entire twenty minutes we were jumping about the living room. I could do this!
“Mommy! We’re dancing! We dance like the pirate girls!” Cassie shouted as we finished up another song on the DVD. That’s when I recalled the Scottish dancers we had seen the weekend before at the Mariner’s Museum. They had performed as part of a pirate festival held that day and Cassie had been entranced. She’d obviously been paying good attention too, because as we danced to the Wiggles music, she started performing some of the dance steps to a Highland jig.
That was my second “Ah ha!” moment. If Cassie liked Celtic music and dance, I didn’t have to limit myself to dancing to kiddie tunes. I took Cassie to our local Borders the next day and picked out an instructional DVD on Irish step dancing. The cover blurb assured me that I too could dance like Michael What’s-his-face in River Dance. Pleased with this idea, I headed to the cash register, day dreaming about jigging my way to a jiggle-free behind. Then a little hand tugged on my sleeve.
“Mommy, what’s this?”
Cassie held up a DVD that showed several little girls dressed in tutus skipping around on a hardwood floor. I read the cover - Baby Ballet: Includes ballet, jazz and tap lessons.
“That’s a dance video for little girls, sweetie.”
“I want to be a ballet girl, Mommy. Please?” she asked, staring at me with huge blue eyes.
How could I resist? I got her the DVD. As soon as we got home, though, I realized I was in trouble. The little girls on the cover of the DVD had tutus, so Cassie decided she needed one too. Fortunately, one of her dress up costumes has a tutu-like skirt, so I convinced her to wear that. Then Cassie demanded ballet slippers. Again, she had a pair of Tinkerbelle slippers that looked close enough to satisfy her. She wanted tights too, but considering that it’s 101 degrees in the shade right now, I convinced her she could do without.
Appropriately attired, Cassie set herself up in the living room while I popped the DVD in. She spent the next twenty minutes following along with a quartet of little girls who danced and glided their way through a series of ballet moves. Cassie did more galumphing than gliding, clogging her way along with so much characteristic three-year-old enthusiasm that I nearly hurt myself from laughing. She was dancing though, and as soon as she was done, she was tired enough to take a nap without any fuss. I had it made, I thought. Little did I realize I had created a monster.
That evening, Michael and I had plans to go out. Our babysitter Megan showed up at 6 PM. Cassie was eager to show Megan her new dance moves. Before heading out the door, I set up the DVD and told Megan Cassie could dance as long as she liked. Four hours later, Michael and I came home and found Cassie dancing along to the DVD. Megan was swaying along with the baby in her arms, looking slightly dazed.
“Wow, she decided to do the DVD again?” I asked.
“We never turned it off,” Megan replied. “Cassie’s been at it the entire time. She did the tap lesson and the jazz lesson a few times too. I think she has them all memorized by now.”
Needless to say, I made Michael give Megan an extra $5 for extreme hardship pay.
Ever since then, it’s been nothing but Baby Ballet. Cassie can’t stop dancing, unless I pop in my Irish step dance DVD. We tried that one yesterday and much to my disgust, I found that I can’t follow the damned thing, much less expect Cassie to do so. Oh, I could probably do it with a year’s worth of lessons under my belt and a couple of jog bras holding the Grand Tetons firmly in place on my chest, but that’s the only way I could do it. So there’s another fitness DVD that gets to collect dust on my shelf.
I did accomplish one thing in all this, which is to get Cassie up and moving. Now if only I could find some way to get me some exercise, we’ll all be doing just fine. Hmmm. Maybe we should try swing dancing?
We’ll see.
Unfortunately, my obstetrician put the kibosh on my normal activities for the first six weeks post partum. My body needed time to recover from labor and pregnancy, he said. What he didn’t mention was that while my body was recovering, my brain was going to explode from the lack of stress relief. Apparently he thought I’d be able to relax and take it easy while constantly breastfeeding an infant and simultaneously chasing a three-year-old around the house.
So I’ve been looking for ways to exercise while being saddled with two kids. It’s not easy. I’ve been trying to walk on a daily basis, pushing Cassie in the jog stroller and wearing Sam in a Baby Bjorn front pack as I zip through the neighborhood, but that has its draw backs. For starters, it’s too damn hot to wear the front pack with a heat-producing infant in it. And second, it’s been raining here a lot lately. Walking around with a screaming baby strapped to myself while pushing a cranky wet preschooler in a stroller doesn’t do much to relieve any stress, although it does provide exercise.
So for rainy days I tried riding our stationary bike. Problem is I have to keep Cassie entertained while I do it. Otherwise, she’ll crawl up under the pedals and get herself kicked in the head, so she ends up screaming bloody murder. That’s a real no-win scenario for me.
As a last resort, I turned to my small selection of DVDs collecting dust in one of my bookcases. Unfortunately, Cassie seems to think the purpose of any DVD is to watch it for sheer entertainment value. She refuses to get up and participate. The last thing I want is to turn my kid into a little couch potato, so every time I do an exercise DVD, I tell Cass she either has to exercise with me or go play in another room. As you can imagine, this has led to more than a few arguments. Cassie starts out promising that she’ll do the DVD, only to stop and plunk her butt down in front of the TV after two minutes of marching around. When I tell her to get moving or go to her room, the whining kicks in big time. She can’t do the exercises, it’s too hard, can she just watch me do it, can she play in the room while I exercise, etc., etc... The whole scenario ends up with her in time out and me fuming as I try to get back into my workout. All of this does nothing to relieve any stress I’ve been feeling, and in fact only increases it.
Then on Thursday I had a moment of inspiration. It was raining outside again, and Cassie was busy dancing around the living room to one of her Wiggles CDs. I knew if I turned off the CD to play an aerobics DVD, she’d howl and then plunk herself down to watch rather than work out with me. What to do? While I pondered the question, I noticed that Cass was actually working up a sweat dancing to “The Big Red Car” song. Hmmm. If she could work up a sweat while dancing, why couldn’t I?
I decided to try it. I turned on my heart rate monitor, to see how much of a workout I was getting and I joined Cassie on the floor. I’m happy to report that after twenty minutes of shaking my groove thing to toddler tunes, I got my heart rate up as high as 130 beats per minutes and ended up with sweat pouring down my face.
Ah ha! Now I had a way to burn calories and involve Cassie too. Even better, Sam seemed fascinated by the music and the dancing. She never made a peep during the entire twenty minutes we were jumping about the living room. I could do this!
“Mommy! We’re dancing! We dance like the pirate girls!” Cassie shouted as we finished up another song on the DVD. That’s when I recalled the Scottish dancers we had seen the weekend before at the Mariner’s Museum. They had performed as part of a pirate festival held that day and Cassie had been entranced. She’d obviously been paying good attention too, because as we danced to the Wiggles music, she started performing some of the dance steps to a Highland jig.
That was my second “Ah ha!” moment. If Cassie liked Celtic music and dance, I didn’t have to limit myself to dancing to kiddie tunes. I took Cassie to our local Borders the next day and picked out an instructional DVD on Irish step dancing. The cover blurb assured me that I too could dance like Michael What’s-his-face in River Dance. Pleased with this idea, I headed to the cash register, day dreaming about jigging my way to a jiggle-free behind. Then a little hand tugged on my sleeve.
“Mommy, what’s this?”
Cassie held up a DVD that showed several little girls dressed in tutus skipping around on a hardwood floor. I read the cover - Baby Ballet: Includes ballet, jazz and tap lessons.
“That’s a dance video for little girls, sweetie.”
“I want to be a ballet girl, Mommy. Please?” she asked, staring at me with huge blue eyes.
How could I resist? I got her the DVD. As soon as we got home, though, I realized I was in trouble. The little girls on the cover of the DVD had tutus, so Cassie decided she needed one too. Fortunately, one of her dress up costumes has a tutu-like skirt, so I convinced her to wear that. Then Cassie demanded ballet slippers. Again, she had a pair of Tinkerbelle slippers that looked close enough to satisfy her. She wanted tights too, but considering that it’s 101 degrees in the shade right now, I convinced her she could do without.
Appropriately attired, Cassie set herself up in the living room while I popped the DVD in. She spent the next twenty minutes following along with a quartet of little girls who danced and glided their way through a series of ballet moves. Cassie did more galumphing than gliding, clogging her way along with so much characteristic three-year-old enthusiasm that I nearly hurt myself from laughing. She was dancing though, and as soon as she was done, she was tired enough to take a nap without any fuss. I had it made, I thought. Little did I realize I had created a monster.
That evening, Michael and I had plans to go out. Our babysitter Megan showed up at 6 PM. Cassie was eager to show Megan her new dance moves. Before heading out the door, I set up the DVD and told Megan Cassie could dance as long as she liked. Four hours later, Michael and I came home and found Cassie dancing along to the DVD. Megan was swaying along with the baby in her arms, looking slightly dazed.
“Wow, she decided to do the DVD again?” I asked.
“We never turned it off,” Megan replied. “Cassie’s been at it the entire time. She did the tap lesson and the jazz lesson a few times too. I think she has them all memorized by now.”
Needless to say, I made Michael give Megan an extra $5 for extreme hardship pay.
Ever since then, it’s been nothing but Baby Ballet. Cassie can’t stop dancing, unless I pop in my Irish step dance DVD. We tried that one yesterday and much to my disgust, I found that I can’t follow the damned thing, much less expect Cassie to do so. Oh, I could probably do it with a year’s worth of lessons under my belt and a couple of jog bras holding the Grand Tetons firmly in place on my chest, but that’s the only way I could do it. So there’s another fitness DVD that gets to collect dust on my shelf.
I did accomplish one thing in all this, which is to get Cassie up and moving. Now if only I could find some way to get me some exercise, we’ll all be doing just fine. Hmmm. Maybe we should try swing dancing?
We’ll see.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Ode To My Lactating Breasts
*Sung to the tune of "Do Your Ears Hang Low"
Do your boobs overflow
And shoot breast milk up your nose?
Like a fire hydrant spout?
Do they wear your D-cups out?
Do they sit below your shoulders
Like a pair of great big boulders?
Do your boobs overflow?
Thank you, thank you. Don't applaud. Just throw money
Do your boobs overflow
And shoot breast milk up your nose?
Like a fire hydrant spout?
Do they wear your D-cups out?
Do they sit below your shoulders
Like a pair of great big boulders?
Do your boobs overflow?
Thank you, thank you. Don't applaud. Just throw money
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Time Warp - A Preschooler’s Understanding Of The Hours Of The Day
We just got back from my six-week post-partum check up. Everything looks good, so I can now go back to my regular routine of exercise and activities. Most importantly, I can finally take a bath instead of a stupid shower.
We’ve got a play date scheduled for today. It’s our regular Wednesday play date, including story time at the local library and then lunch at Chic-Fil-A. Cassie is eager to go, and has only asked me a dozen times this morning if we can leave already.
Days like today have taught me that 3-year-olds have a rather distorted sense of time. In fact, I don’t think they’re even in the same universe as the rest of us, temporally speaking. For example, on Monday I had promised Cassie that we’d set up her little wading pool in the backyard after lunch. I made that promise when she got up at 6 AM. Lunch is at noon and usually ends around 1PM. So Cassie spent seven hours asking me when I would set up the pool. It went something like this:
Cassie: “Mommy, is my pool ready yet.”
Me (as I sit down to eat breakfast): “Not yet, dear. We’ll set it up after lunch.”
Cassie: I already had lunch. Daddy gave it to me.
Me: No sweetheart. Daddy gave you breakfast. Lunch won’t be until noon.
Cassie: Mommy, may I have Cheetos?
Me: No, sweetie. Cheetos are for lunch.
Cassie: But it is lunch time.
Me: No, it’s breakfast time right now.
Cassie: But I already had breakfast.
Me (getting slightly irritated): YOU had breakfast, but Mommy did not. She’s eating breakfast now.
Cassie: I’m hungry. May I have some Cheetos?
Me: No, Cheetos are a lunch food. It’s breakfast time right now. You may have some cereal or a piece of fruit if you’re hungry.
Cassie: I want cereal.
(I get up and poor her a bowl of Cheerios. She sits at the table and inhales it.)
Cassie: Now will you set up my pool?
Me (still trying to finish my breakfast): No, young lady. I already told you, we’re not setting up the pool until after lunch.
Cassie: But I just had lunch.
Me: No, you just had breakfast. I gave you cereal, remember?
Cassie: DADDY gave me breakfast. You gave me lunch.
Me (trying hard not to lose my temper): No sweetie, you had two breakfasts. Daddy gave you one breakfast, which you didn’t bother to eat, and then Mommy fed you again because you said you were hungry.
Cassie: I’m still hungry. May I have Cheetos now?
Me (starting to pull out my hair): No. Cheetos are for lunch.
Cassie: But I just HAD lunch.
Me: NO YOU DID NOT! NOW QUIT PESTERING ME AND LET ME EAT!
(Cassie sits very quietly and pouts for a few minutes. Then she perks up.)
Cassie: Mommy, if you eat Cheetos, then it will be lunchtime.
Me: AAAAAARRGGGH!
My advice, don’t ever get into these discussions with kids unless you are prepared for some serious mind bending arguments. Otherwise, you’ll go crazy.
We’ve got a play date scheduled for today. It’s our regular Wednesday play date, including story time at the local library and then lunch at Chic-Fil-A. Cassie is eager to go, and has only asked me a dozen times this morning if we can leave already.
Days like today have taught me that 3-year-olds have a rather distorted sense of time. In fact, I don’t think they’re even in the same universe as the rest of us, temporally speaking. For example, on Monday I had promised Cassie that we’d set up her little wading pool in the backyard after lunch. I made that promise when she got up at 6 AM. Lunch is at noon and usually ends around 1PM. So Cassie spent seven hours asking me when I would set up the pool. It went something like this:
Cassie: “Mommy, is my pool ready yet.”
Me (as I sit down to eat breakfast): “Not yet, dear. We’ll set it up after lunch.”
Cassie: I already had lunch. Daddy gave it to me.
Me: No sweetheart. Daddy gave you breakfast. Lunch won’t be until noon.
Cassie: Mommy, may I have Cheetos?
Me: No, sweetie. Cheetos are for lunch.
Cassie: But it is lunch time.
Me: No, it’s breakfast time right now.
Cassie: But I already had breakfast.
Me (getting slightly irritated): YOU had breakfast, but Mommy did not. She’s eating breakfast now.
Cassie: I’m hungry. May I have some Cheetos?
Me: No, Cheetos are a lunch food. It’s breakfast time right now. You may have some cereal or a piece of fruit if you’re hungry.
Cassie: I want cereal.
(I get up and poor her a bowl of Cheerios. She sits at the table and inhales it.)
Cassie: Now will you set up my pool?
Me (still trying to finish my breakfast): No, young lady. I already told you, we’re not setting up the pool until after lunch.
Cassie: But I just had lunch.
Me: No, you just had breakfast. I gave you cereal, remember?
Cassie: DADDY gave me breakfast. You gave me lunch.
Me (trying hard not to lose my temper): No sweetie, you had two breakfasts. Daddy gave you one breakfast, which you didn’t bother to eat, and then Mommy fed you again because you said you were hungry.
Cassie: I’m still hungry. May I have Cheetos now?
Me (starting to pull out my hair): No. Cheetos are for lunch.
Cassie: But I just HAD lunch.
Me: NO YOU DID NOT! NOW QUIT PESTERING ME AND LET ME EAT!
(Cassie sits very quietly and pouts for a few minutes. Then she perks up.)
Cassie: Mommy, if you eat Cheetos, then it will be lunchtime.
Me: AAAAAARRGGGH!
My advice, don’t ever get into these discussions with kids unless you are prepared for some serious mind bending arguments. Otherwise, you’ll go crazy.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
The Power Of 5:30 AM
Ah, another morning where I’ve managed to wake up early. So early in fact that I was practically blind with sleep when I crawled out of the bed. But, right now it’s 8 AM, and so far I’ve succeeded in getting dressed, feeding the cats, cleaning the litter boxes, sweeping and vacuuming the downstairs, folding the laundry and making the bed. All I’ve got left to do for my morning chores is wipe down the bathrooms and spend 15 minutes cleaning in my kitchen. Then I’m free to do as I please for the rest of the day. Can't beat that with a stick.
It’s amazing how much difference those early morning hours can make. I did not get everything done that I wanted to do yesterday, but I did accomplish a few things, like working on my current colored pencil drawing and setting up a new blog for my artwork. I probably could have done more, but I spent too much time writing my last blog entry. I’m keeping things short today in hopes that I’ll get more artwork done.
It’s hard to play more than one role right now, hard to be both the artist/writer and the mom, but I know if I don’t I’ll eventually snap and kill someone, most likely my poor husband. He doesn’t deserve that (at least not today). So I’m going to keep pushing myself to crawl out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn every morning. That way I’ll get the “me” time I so desperately need.
It’s amazing how much difference those early morning hours can make. I did not get everything done that I wanted to do yesterday, but I did accomplish a few things, like working on my current colored pencil drawing and setting up a new blog for my artwork. I probably could have done more, but I spent too much time writing my last blog entry. I’m keeping things short today in hopes that I’ll get more artwork done.
It’s hard to play more than one role right now, hard to be both the artist/writer and the mom, but I know if I don’t I’ll eventually snap and kill someone, most likely my poor husband. He doesn’t deserve that (at least not today). So I’m going to keep pushing myself to crawl out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn every morning. That way I’ll get the “me” time I so desperately need.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Who The Hell Stole My Time Off? One Pissed Off Mommy Is Ready To Rant
I had one good thing happen this weekend. My best friend came over for dinner Saturday and I got to watch a movie that wasn’t about a Disney Princess. The rest of the weekend pretty much sucked. If I thought people wouldn’t drop dead of a heart attack, I’d lay it all out in my native tongue (swearing), but the way I’m feeling, expressing myself would probably kill someone.
You see some days, everything just clicks. The whole day runs smoothly from 5:30 AM until 10:30 PM and everything gets done. Those are the days when I’m doing things for my family, like house cleaning or shopping or running errands. Then there are days were I want a little “me” time and the whole thing goes straight into the crapper. In fact, on those days, it feels like someone is deliberately screwing me out of my personal time. And I get pretty pissed about it too, can you tell?
I busted my ass last week to finish off a story for ERWA’s Blasphemy theme week. The story got an okay reception, people said they liked it, but the important thing to me was that I got it written and out the door under a tight deadline, in spite stuck in a chair nursing 50% of the time. I’d also gotten some paying artwork finished up as well in the past two weeks, so I was feeling pretty good and figured that after working so hard, I deserved a little time off.
Well, time off when you’re a mom doesn’t exist. I ended up racing around on Friday trying to run errands that I hadn’t been able to get to earlier. We had lunch with my best friend Mary and her son and that was great, but then after they left I had to put up with a couple of fussy kids. Neither one wanted to take a nap, so I got screwed out of my usual free time because nobody would go to sleep long enough for me to do anything I wanted to do. Then Michael came home and informed me he would be working all weekend. Okay, I figured I could deal with that. Mary and I had made plans to get together again on Saturday and as long as Cassie and Sam took a nap I’d still get two or three hours of time to do my fun stuff.
Now I swear to you, all I really wanted was some uninterrupted time to draw. That’s all I wanted. And it’s not like I’m trying to recreate the Sistine Chapel, by the way. I just wanted to practice some cartooning. But to make that one little thing happen, I had to get up at 5:30 AM. I knew if I got up at 5:30 AM, I could get the morning chores done, have time to exercise, and then take Cassie and Sam out to a playground or some place and wear them both out.
It didn’t happen. Sam was up all Friday night. I managed to drag myself out of bed around 8 AM after Cassie ran in and woke up Michael and me. It took forever to finish the morning chores. I did get a walk, but then had to come back and finish up more chores. Then Michael took off for work, leaving me with two cranky kids. I got Cassie down for a nap at 3:30PM, an hour later than I’d planned, but Sam wouldn’t fall asleep, so I ended up lying down on the bed with her to nurse her down. Guess which one of us ended up taking the nap?
So two hours later, I woke up and discovered my free time was gone, thanks to sleep deprivation. I decided I could live with it, as I still had Sunday afternoon to look forward to. Mary called, I told her to come over, and we spent the evening eating pizza and watching the kids horse around while we enjoyed a non-Disney Princess movie (I can recite “Beauty And The Beast” in its entirety, so the breather was much appreciated).
Mary went home, Michael took Cassie and got her ready for bed and then Sam went nursed and went to sleep. I was happy. I was going to get a good night’s sleep and get up early on Sunday so I could get my free time.
Guess what? I was screwed.
Sam woke around midnight, grunting and fussing. She continued to grunt and fuss all night. I was still wiped out, in spite of my two hour nap, so the only thing my tired little brain could think of to do was nurse her in bed. I spent all night curled up around this grunting, fussing, farting little twerp and got no sleep until just before my alarm went off at 5:30 AM. I turned off the alarm and went back to a fitful slumber. Thirty minutes later, Cassie came into the room and climbed into bed with us. Four people do not fit in a queen size bed, let me tell you, especially when one’s a farting infant who can take up three times the space of a full grown woman.
At 7:30 AM, I commanded the family to get out of bed, because I knew daylight was a wastin’. Cassie refused to get out and screamed when I repeated my demand. She got her first time out of the day at 7:35 AM. Somehow, we got through breakfast and then Michael headed off for work again. I spent the next five hours muddling through chores that should have only taken two. Sam kept screaming to nurse. Cassie kept pestering me for milk, or her doll, or to fix her bow, or to do something else. It was non-stop harassment all day. I called Michael before noon to come home for lunch. He asked did I want cheese for the sandwiches. He offered to get some on the way home. Like an idiot, I said yes and told him I’d serve lunch when he got home. Michael then went on a three-year shopping expedition, which I think ended at with him discovering the North Pole. Sometime around 12:45 PM, I had to break down and feed Cassie and myself. Michael came home just as we were finishing up. He had cheese. And yogurt. And milk. And deli meat. And fruit. And about twenty other items I hadn’t asked for. It wasn’t the shopping that took so long, he told me. It was standing in line waiting for the deli clerk to slice the cheese that had been the problem. Riiiiiiiiiiight.
Sam started crying again so up I went to the glider to nurse her. Did I mention that I now have to pump out some excess breast milk before each feeding to keep her from overloading on the lactose in the foremilk? So she howls for five minutes while I hook up my raw, chaffed nipples to the breast pump from hell and bleed off two ounces. Then we nurse. And nurse. And nurse. Sam nursed for fifty minutes and would not let me unlatch her. Meanwhile, Cassie kept hovering around wanting to know when we were headed out for the museum to see the pirates. Again, I’m an idiot. I promised Cassie we’d go do this no matter what, event though we’re rapidly running out of time before her scheduled nap, AKA my free time (2:30 PM). At 1:30 PM, I finally get Sam unlatched and we all hustle out the door to get to the museum.
The museum was nice, if you like taking things at a three-year-old’s pace. We whipped by all the interesting exhibits to get to the kids’ area where Cassie got her face painted up to look like a pirate. She got a sword balloon too and a little pirate doll. Then Sam started to howl AGAIN to be fed. Fortunately, the Scottish Dance Theater was getting ready to perform so I convinced Cassie we should go watch the dancers while I nursed Sam. That lasted about 20 minutes. Then Sam unlatched and howled some more. I wanted to stay to see the dueling exhibition (they had pretty boys dressed up as pirates and enough Johnny Depp look-a-likes to choke a sea monster), but Sam was fussing and Cassie wouldn’t sit still so I called it a day and we headed home.
Cass fell asleep in the car. Sam did not. I had to haul Cassie up to bed and sit and nurse Sam some more. Cassie woke up about five minutes after I put her down. It was now well past 2:30 PM and my free time was rapidly disappearing before my eyes. Over the next hour I nursed Sam while continuing to send Cassie back to her bed. After finally getting Cassie down, I had to soothe Sam was suddenly extremely fussy. I finally got her down for a nap at 4:45 PM. I went downstairs, had a drink and then banged my head against the wall as Cassie popped out of her room announcing once and for all that nap time was over.
And so it went, on and on and on. Things just kept going wrong the rest of the day. Michael didn’t leave work until late, so yours truly had to make dinner while keeping an infant calm and a preschooler entertained. We had waffles and scrambled eggs. Yes, I know. That’s not dinner. I don’t care, it was all I could come up with as there was no chicken thawed out. The rest of the evening flew by in a blur. I recall taking ten minutes of “me” time to scribble down a small cartoon and another five to run up to the office and scan it in. Woo-hoo, there goes my creativity for the day. Michael took over with Cass and got her to bed. Sam refused to calm down until 10 PM. The night didn’t get any easier either. Sam woke up grunting and farting again at 2:30 AM and all I could think of was, “Here we go again.”
By sheer force of will, I made myself get up at 5:30 AM. I felt ugly and vile, but I knew there was no way in hell I was going to get any time to myself if I didn’t get up at the crack of dawn. And somehow, as I muddled through a morning of temper tantrums, household chores, exercise, more chores, more tantrums and a couple of sessions of pumping and breastfeeding, I suddenly managed to click back into my normal routine. It caught up with me at noon, when I found myself relaxing on the couch, holding a contented baby and watching Cassie play happily with her Little People. We were all dressed, the chores were all done, and the afternoon was wide open.
Cass went down easy for her nap today. Sam’s a little fussy, but I can live with that. I’ve had some time to draw and plenty of time to finish off this rant. I may even get a little more work in, if I take Sam downstairs and let her fuss it out on the floor while I sketch. I won’t get everything done that I wanted to do today, but I got something done that satisfies the artist in me, and that’s enough to keep the mom in me from going off the rails.
We’ll see how tomorrow goes.
You see some days, everything just clicks. The whole day runs smoothly from 5:30 AM until 10:30 PM and everything gets done. Those are the days when I’m doing things for my family, like house cleaning or shopping or running errands. Then there are days were I want a little “me” time and the whole thing goes straight into the crapper. In fact, on those days, it feels like someone is deliberately screwing me out of my personal time. And I get pretty pissed about it too, can you tell?
I busted my ass last week to finish off a story for ERWA’s Blasphemy theme week. The story got an okay reception, people said they liked it, but the important thing to me was that I got it written and out the door under a tight deadline, in spite stuck in a chair nursing 50% of the time. I’d also gotten some paying artwork finished up as well in the past two weeks, so I was feeling pretty good and figured that after working so hard, I deserved a little time off.
Well, time off when you’re a mom doesn’t exist. I ended up racing around on Friday trying to run errands that I hadn’t been able to get to earlier. We had lunch with my best friend Mary and her son and that was great, but then after they left I had to put up with a couple of fussy kids. Neither one wanted to take a nap, so I got screwed out of my usual free time because nobody would go to sleep long enough for me to do anything I wanted to do. Then Michael came home and informed me he would be working all weekend. Okay, I figured I could deal with that. Mary and I had made plans to get together again on Saturday and as long as Cassie and Sam took a nap I’d still get two or three hours of time to do my fun stuff.
Now I swear to you, all I really wanted was some uninterrupted time to draw. That’s all I wanted. And it’s not like I’m trying to recreate the Sistine Chapel, by the way. I just wanted to practice some cartooning. But to make that one little thing happen, I had to get up at 5:30 AM. I knew if I got up at 5:30 AM, I could get the morning chores done, have time to exercise, and then take Cassie and Sam out to a playground or some place and wear them both out.
It didn’t happen. Sam was up all Friday night. I managed to drag myself out of bed around 8 AM after Cassie ran in and woke up Michael and me. It took forever to finish the morning chores. I did get a walk, but then had to come back and finish up more chores. Then Michael took off for work, leaving me with two cranky kids. I got Cassie down for a nap at 3:30PM, an hour later than I’d planned, but Sam wouldn’t fall asleep, so I ended up lying down on the bed with her to nurse her down. Guess which one of us ended up taking the nap?
So two hours later, I woke up and discovered my free time was gone, thanks to sleep deprivation. I decided I could live with it, as I still had Sunday afternoon to look forward to. Mary called, I told her to come over, and we spent the evening eating pizza and watching the kids horse around while we enjoyed a non-Disney Princess movie (I can recite “Beauty And The Beast” in its entirety, so the breather was much appreciated).
Mary went home, Michael took Cassie and got her ready for bed and then Sam went nursed and went to sleep. I was happy. I was going to get a good night’s sleep and get up early on Sunday so I could get my free time.
Guess what? I was screwed.
Sam woke around midnight, grunting and fussing. She continued to grunt and fuss all night. I was still wiped out, in spite of my two hour nap, so the only thing my tired little brain could think of to do was nurse her in bed. I spent all night curled up around this grunting, fussing, farting little twerp and got no sleep until just before my alarm went off at 5:30 AM. I turned off the alarm and went back to a fitful slumber. Thirty minutes later, Cassie came into the room and climbed into bed with us. Four people do not fit in a queen size bed, let me tell you, especially when one’s a farting infant who can take up three times the space of a full grown woman.
At 7:30 AM, I commanded the family to get out of bed, because I knew daylight was a wastin’. Cassie refused to get out and screamed when I repeated my demand. She got her first time out of the day at 7:35 AM. Somehow, we got through breakfast and then Michael headed off for work again. I spent the next five hours muddling through chores that should have only taken two. Sam kept screaming to nurse. Cassie kept pestering me for milk, or her doll, or to fix her bow, or to do something else. It was non-stop harassment all day. I called Michael before noon to come home for lunch. He asked did I want cheese for the sandwiches. He offered to get some on the way home. Like an idiot, I said yes and told him I’d serve lunch when he got home. Michael then went on a three-year shopping expedition, which I think ended at with him discovering the North Pole. Sometime around 12:45 PM, I had to break down and feed Cassie and myself. Michael came home just as we were finishing up. He had cheese. And yogurt. And milk. And deli meat. And fruit. And about twenty other items I hadn’t asked for. It wasn’t the shopping that took so long, he told me. It was standing in line waiting for the deli clerk to slice the cheese that had been the problem. Riiiiiiiiiiight.
Sam started crying again so up I went to the glider to nurse her. Did I mention that I now have to pump out some excess breast milk before each feeding to keep her from overloading on the lactose in the foremilk? So she howls for five minutes while I hook up my raw, chaffed nipples to the breast pump from hell and bleed off two ounces. Then we nurse. And nurse. And nurse. Sam nursed for fifty minutes and would not let me unlatch her. Meanwhile, Cassie kept hovering around wanting to know when we were headed out for the museum to see the pirates. Again, I’m an idiot. I promised Cassie we’d go do this no matter what, event though we’re rapidly running out of time before her scheduled nap, AKA my free time (2:30 PM). At 1:30 PM, I finally get Sam unlatched and we all hustle out the door to get to the museum.
The museum was nice, if you like taking things at a three-year-old’s pace. We whipped by all the interesting exhibits to get to the kids’ area where Cassie got her face painted up to look like a pirate. She got a sword balloon too and a little pirate doll. Then Sam started to howl AGAIN to be fed. Fortunately, the Scottish Dance Theater was getting ready to perform so I convinced Cassie we should go watch the dancers while I nursed Sam. That lasted about 20 minutes. Then Sam unlatched and howled some more. I wanted to stay to see the dueling exhibition (they had pretty boys dressed up as pirates and enough Johnny Depp look-a-likes to choke a sea monster), but Sam was fussing and Cassie wouldn’t sit still so I called it a day and we headed home.
Cass fell asleep in the car. Sam did not. I had to haul Cassie up to bed and sit and nurse Sam some more. Cassie woke up about five minutes after I put her down. It was now well past 2:30 PM and my free time was rapidly disappearing before my eyes. Over the next hour I nursed Sam while continuing to send Cassie back to her bed. After finally getting Cassie down, I had to soothe Sam was suddenly extremely fussy. I finally got her down for a nap at 4:45 PM. I went downstairs, had a drink and then banged my head against the wall as Cassie popped out of her room announcing once and for all that nap time was over.
And so it went, on and on and on. Things just kept going wrong the rest of the day. Michael didn’t leave work until late, so yours truly had to make dinner while keeping an infant calm and a preschooler entertained. We had waffles and scrambled eggs. Yes, I know. That’s not dinner. I don’t care, it was all I could come up with as there was no chicken thawed out. The rest of the evening flew by in a blur. I recall taking ten minutes of “me” time to scribble down a small cartoon and another five to run up to the office and scan it in. Woo-hoo, there goes my creativity for the day. Michael took over with Cass and got her to bed. Sam refused to calm down until 10 PM. The night didn’t get any easier either. Sam woke up grunting and farting again at 2:30 AM and all I could think of was, “Here we go again.”
By sheer force of will, I made myself get up at 5:30 AM. I felt ugly and vile, but I knew there was no way in hell I was going to get any time to myself if I didn’t get up at the crack of dawn. And somehow, as I muddled through a morning of temper tantrums, household chores, exercise, more chores, more tantrums and a couple of sessions of pumping and breastfeeding, I suddenly managed to click back into my normal routine. It caught up with me at noon, when I found myself relaxing on the couch, holding a contented baby and watching Cassie play happily with her Little People. We were all dressed, the chores were all done, and the afternoon was wide open.
Cass went down easy for her nap today. Sam’s a little fussy, but I can live with that. I’ve had some time to draw and plenty of time to finish off this rant. I may even get a little more work in, if I take Sam downstairs and let her fuss it out on the floor while I sketch. I won’t get everything done that I wanted to do today, but I got something done that satisfies the artist in me, and that’s enough to keep the mom in me from going off the rails.
We’ll see how tomorrow goes.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Potty Mouth And Baby Talk
One of these days, we’ll all be old enough to go to the toilet.
It’s a sad fact of life that once you have kids, certain adult things go right out the window. Going to the toilet is one of them. In our house, everyone goes “potty,” including my husband and me. I’m not even sure I can say the word “toilet” anymore because I’ve been saying “potty” for so long.
We do not urinate or have a bowel movement anymore either. We have poo-poo or pee-pee. But that’s okay because nobody in the house has a butt. Somehow we’ve all developed tushies instead.
I don’t know where the baby talk came from. I had no intentions of using it with my kids, but somehow it crept in while I wasn’t looking. It all sounds great when mixed in with my usual swearing, I tell you.
What’s really funny is the fact that Cassie is quite capable of speaking and understanding long words. Lately, she’s been asking me if we can have a “conversation” together. That’s her choice of words, not mine. She sounds so adult when she asks this, but once I say yes, things take a turn for the weird. It goes something like this.
“Mommy, can we have a conversation?”
“Of course, sweetie. What shall we talk about?”
“Hmm... Let’s talk about eating people.”
“Uh, okaaaaay, what about eating people?”
“Monsters eat people. People are crunchy.”
“Who told you this?”
“Aunt Khaki.”
“Remind me to thank Aunt Khaki the next time we talk to her.”
“Okay.”
Of course, the conversation with Aunt Khaki isn’t that much more rational. And I have conversations like this all day long. It’s no wonder I think I’m going crazy.
It’s a sad fact of life that once you have kids, certain adult things go right out the window. Going to the toilet is one of them. In our house, everyone goes “potty,” including my husband and me. I’m not even sure I can say the word “toilet” anymore because I’ve been saying “potty” for so long.
We do not urinate or have a bowel movement anymore either. We have poo-poo or pee-pee. But that’s okay because nobody in the house has a butt. Somehow we’ve all developed tushies instead.
I don’t know where the baby talk came from. I had no intentions of using it with my kids, but somehow it crept in while I wasn’t looking. It all sounds great when mixed in with my usual swearing, I tell you.
What’s really funny is the fact that Cassie is quite capable of speaking and understanding long words. Lately, she’s been asking me if we can have a “conversation” together. That’s her choice of words, not mine. She sounds so adult when she asks this, but once I say yes, things take a turn for the weird. It goes something like this.
“Mommy, can we have a conversation?”
“Of course, sweetie. What shall we talk about?”
“Hmm... Let’s talk about eating people.”
“Uh, okaaaaay, what about eating people?”
“Monsters eat people. People are crunchy.”
“Who told you this?”
“Aunt Khaki.”
“Remind me to thank Aunt Khaki the next time we talk to her.”
“Okay.”
Of course, the conversation with Aunt Khaki isn’t that much more rational. And I have conversations like this all day long. It’s no wonder I think I’m going crazy.
Friday, July 07, 2006
My Amazing Three-Year-Old - The Secret To Surviving Life With Child Number Two
I decided to forgo yesterday’s blog entry in order to finish off a short story for ERWA’s Blasphemy theme week. The writers’ group dedicates the first week of each month to a particular theme and I decided to see if I could actually start and complete a story in the five weeks between Sam’s birth and the upcoming theme deadline. The astonishing thing is that I did manage to complete the story and get it posted to the group. I don’t think it’s my best work, but it got done, which is all the proof that I need to know I’m back in the saddle again.
Yes, I think I’m back to a normal life, or as close as I’ll ever get, five weeks after Sam was born. It took a lot of work and a lot of help, but hey, it’s currently 9 AM and I’m dressed, Cassie’s dressed, everybody’s had breakfast, the laundry is folded and all my morning chores are done. Just as soon as Sam finishes nursing, I’m headed out the door for a 30 minute appointment with the jog stroller and my neighborhood walking path. Life does not get any better than this, boys and girls.
So how did this happen? Well, I owe a lot of this success to my oldest daughter Cassie, who’s only 3 ½ years old. Cassie has not only made life easy for me the past five weeks, she’s actually gone out of her way to help me. Now I’m not saying we haven’t had some temper tantrums and whining and all out fits, but for a three-year-old, Cass has been pretty amazing. For starters, she knows how to entertain herself. This is a huge help when I’ve got my hands full with a hungry baby. Right now, as I nurse Sam and type out this entry, Cassie is sitting on my bed reading some of her books. She makes the occasional comment to me, and sometimes asks for things I can’t possibly do at the moment (like run downstairs and get her milk, tie her shoes, etc.), but for the most part she’s keeping herself busy and content.
Cass has also been pretty good about helping out. If I’m stuck in the glider or on the couch, I can ask Cassie to get me something and she’ll usually find it with no problems. Sometimes she’ll give me that vacant stare and shoulder shrug that says, “Cassie’s not in right now, but if you’ll leave a message...” but for the most part, I can ask for something and usually get it.
What other amazing things does my big girl do? She dresses herself most mornings, or cons her daddy into doing it for her. I will admit, she does make some unusual outfit choices. Personally, I wouldn’t wear a Disney Snow White costume with purple sneakers, orange socks and hot pink swimming goggles, but if Cass thinks she can pull it off, who am I to stifle her sense of style?
Cassie also makes her own bed. Sometimes she’ll pick up her toys. She can shoo the cats out of the room if they’re being pests and she’s gotten very good at telling me when it’s time to breastfeed Sam or change her diaper. She also likes to announce when Sam farts, but I’m not really sure that qualifies as helping.
Perhaps the most astounding thing about Cassie is her ability to go potty all by herself. That makes all the difference in the world, let me tell you. I only have to worry about changing diapers on one child, and I don’t have to constantly prod Cassie to use the toilet. She knows when she has to go and will do it by herself. When we’re out, she’ll even ask to be taken to the potty if she needs. We have had a few accidents, but not enough to be a problem.
My girl is so smart! So well behaved! So astonishing to me! It’s hard to believe that she was once a chunky little baby like her sister, who spent most of the day lying across my lap as she sucked the life out of me through my nipples. How did this happen? When did this kid get so big and so capable?
I don't know, but my advice to any mom thinking about having child number two is to make sure child number one can stand on her own two feet first. You’ll be ever so grateful when you’ve got a little helper ready to lend you a hand with your new screaming bundle of joy.
Yes, I think I’m back to a normal life, or as close as I’ll ever get, five weeks after Sam was born. It took a lot of work and a lot of help, but hey, it’s currently 9 AM and I’m dressed, Cassie’s dressed, everybody’s had breakfast, the laundry is folded and all my morning chores are done. Just as soon as Sam finishes nursing, I’m headed out the door for a 30 minute appointment with the jog stroller and my neighborhood walking path. Life does not get any better than this, boys and girls.
So how did this happen? Well, I owe a lot of this success to my oldest daughter Cassie, who’s only 3 ½ years old. Cassie has not only made life easy for me the past five weeks, she’s actually gone out of her way to help me. Now I’m not saying we haven’t had some temper tantrums and whining and all out fits, but for a three-year-old, Cass has been pretty amazing. For starters, she knows how to entertain herself. This is a huge help when I’ve got my hands full with a hungry baby. Right now, as I nurse Sam and type out this entry, Cassie is sitting on my bed reading some of her books. She makes the occasional comment to me, and sometimes asks for things I can’t possibly do at the moment (like run downstairs and get her milk, tie her shoes, etc.), but for the most part she’s keeping herself busy and content.
Cass has also been pretty good about helping out. If I’m stuck in the glider or on the couch, I can ask Cassie to get me something and she’ll usually find it with no problems. Sometimes she’ll give me that vacant stare and shoulder shrug that says, “Cassie’s not in right now, but if you’ll leave a message...” but for the most part, I can ask for something and usually get it.
What other amazing things does my big girl do? She dresses herself most mornings, or cons her daddy into doing it for her. I will admit, she does make some unusual outfit choices. Personally, I wouldn’t wear a Disney Snow White costume with purple sneakers, orange socks and hot pink swimming goggles, but if Cass thinks she can pull it off, who am I to stifle her sense of style?
Cassie also makes her own bed. Sometimes she’ll pick up her toys. She can shoo the cats out of the room if they’re being pests and she’s gotten very good at telling me when it’s time to breastfeed Sam or change her diaper. She also likes to announce when Sam farts, but I’m not really sure that qualifies as helping.
Perhaps the most astounding thing about Cassie is her ability to go potty all by herself. That makes all the difference in the world, let me tell you. I only have to worry about changing diapers on one child, and I don’t have to constantly prod Cassie to use the toilet. She knows when she has to go and will do it by herself. When we’re out, she’ll even ask to be taken to the potty if she needs. We have had a few accidents, but not enough to be a problem.
My girl is so smart! So well behaved! So astonishing to me! It’s hard to believe that she was once a chunky little baby like her sister, who spent most of the day lying across my lap as she sucked the life out of me through my nipples. How did this happen? When did this kid get so big and so capable?
I don't know, but my advice to any mom thinking about having child number two is to make sure child number one can stand on her own two feet first. You’ll be ever so grateful when you’ve got a little helper ready to lend you a hand with your new screaming bundle of joy.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Mystery Of The Green Poop Solved?
I may have figured out what Sam’s problem is. Yesterday morning I did some poking around on the web, trying to figure out what else I could do to soothe a colicky baby. One thing about Sam’s late night crying that’s been bothering me is the green, mucous-like poop she has. She only gets it at night, never during the day. On Friday, when we went to the pediatrician’s office, I asked about this but the nurse practitioner who saw us said there was no connection between the nighttime green poop and the all night crying jags.
Well she was wrong!
At least I think she’s wrong. I finally searched Web MD for “colic” and “green bowel movement” and I came up with one hit, an article that lists everything you didn’t want to know about breastfeeding and ailments in infants. Turns out there’s something called infant lactose overload, which is something that happens when a baby gets too much foremilk and not enough hindmilk.
Some folks may be scratching their heads at this point and asking, “What the hell is foremilk and hindmilk?” Well, breast milk comes in two flavors, and I’m not talking chocolate and vanilla here. When a baby first starts to nurse, the milk that comes out is full of protein and a sugar called lactose. That’s the foremilk. After a while, the milk changes so that it’s got more fat in it and less protein and sugar. That’s the hindmilk. Apparently, if the baby gets too much foremilk, the bacteria in her intestines will latch onto it and cause a lot of gas (which is painful for the baby) and will also cause watery green poop.
How does the baby get too much foremilk? Well, in my case, it’s probably a problem of overproduction. Yes, my D-cups runneth over. Sam gets filled up with the excess milk I make, getting more foremilk before she can get to the hindmilk. Since she nurses more frequently during the day, all that sugar in the foremilk spends all day long fermenting in her little bowels, thus the nightly deposits of green poop in her diapers. The solution to the problem is for me to pump off some excess milk before nursing her. This means that I am suddenly very happy that all my friends donated their breast pumps to me when they were done breastfeeding. I have four Medela pumps and one Advent and it looks like I’m going to be rotating through all of them to bleed off at least two ounces of milk before each feeding to ensure Sam gets to that hindmilk.
The good news is we figured this out yesterday morning so I was able to pump before each daytime feeding. Sam was still wide awake and fussy last night at 10 PM, but she wasn’t squalling like normal. I was able to put her in her basinet and after half an hour or so, she fussed herself to sleep. It was amazing. She didn’t wake up until 2 AM.
She did have some trouble at 4 AM, and I was still dog tired this morning, but holy crap, I actually got almost four straight hours of sleep last night. Do you know how amazing that is?
You do if you’re a mom.
By the way, if anybody is interested in reading more info on infant lactose overload, check Web MD at this link. There’s also a good article on it at Babycareadvice.com and a blog article at Mandajuice who’s motto is ‘Because you can never know too much about boobs.’ You’re right about that, Manda.
Well she was wrong!
At least I think she’s wrong. I finally searched Web MD for “colic” and “green bowel movement” and I came up with one hit, an article that lists everything you didn’t want to know about breastfeeding and ailments in infants. Turns out there’s something called infant lactose overload, which is something that happens when a baby gets too much foremilk and not enough hindmilk.
Some folks may be scratching their heads at this point and asking, “What the hell is foremilk and hindmilk?” Well, breast milk comes in two flavors, and I’m not talking chocolate and vanilla here. When a baby first starts to nurse, the milk that comes out is full of protein and a sugar called lactose. That’s the foremilk. After a while, the milk changes so that it’s got more fat in it and less protein and sugar. That’s the hindmilk. Apparently, if the baby gets too much foremilk, the bacteria in her intestines will latch onto it and cause a lot of gas (which is painful for the baby) and will also cause watery green poop.
How does the baby get too much foremilk? Well, in my case, it’s probably a problem of overproduction. Yes, my D-cups runneth over. Sam gets filled up with the excess milk I make, getting more foremilk before she can get to the hindmilk. Since she nurses more frequently during the day, all that sugar in the foremilk spends all day long fermenting in her little bowels, thus the nightly deposits of green poop in her diapers. The solution to the problem is for me to pump off some excess milk before nursing her. This means that I am suddenly very happy that all my friends donated their breast pumps to me when they were done breastfeeding. I have four Medela pumps and one Advent and it looks like I’m going to be rotating through all of them to bleed off at least two ounces of milk before each feeding to ensure Sam gets to that hindmilk.
The good news is we figured this out yesterday morning so I was able to pump before each daytime feeding. Sam was still wide awake and fussy last night at 10 PM, but she wasn’t squalling like normal. I was able to put her in her basinet and after half an hour or so, she fussed herself to sleep. It was amazing. She didn’t wake up until 2 AM.
She did have some trouble at 4 AM, and I was still dog tired this morning, but holy crap, I actually got almost four straight hours of sleep last night. Do you know how amazing that is?
You do if you’re a mom.
By the way, if anybody is interested in reading more info on infant lactose overload, check Web MD at this link. There’s also a good article on it at Babycareadvice.com and a blog article at Mandajuice who’s motto is ‘Because you can never know too much about boobs.’ You’re right about that, Manda.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Green Poop And Other Midnight Mysteries
Sam’s colic has me pretty confused. I’ve been reviewing everything I remember about Cassie’s colic and things aren’t the same the second time around.
For starters, Cassie’s colic operated like clockwork, starting every afternoon at 4 PM and lasting until 9 PM. She was still impossible to get to sleep at night, but the unholy, ear-splitting screams only lasted for those five hours in the evening.
With Sam, we don’t have the same kind of screaming. She gets fussy instead and starts to hyperventilate, which then leads to hiccups which makes her even fussier. She stays fussy, but so long as someone is holding her and actively trying to calm her, things don’t usually go much farther. Also, her fussy period may start anywhere between 3:30 PM and 9:30 PM. Not exactly the clockwork pattern I’ve come to associate with colic.
Another thing that’s been bothering me is the strange green poop that Sam seems to have only at night. We usually get the first one between 9 and 10 PM, and then maybe get a second one later at night. It’s green, watery, and sometimes even looks a bit like mucous. The nurse practitioner we saw last Friday says it’s not related to Sam’s crying all night, but I have to wonder. Why would she only have green poop at night, the same time as when she cries all night? She’s also having gas all night, and the nurse practitioner did say that was related, so why one and not the other?
It’s a mystery I’ll have to ponder on for a while.
For starters, Cassie’s colic operated like clockwork, starting every afternoon at 4 PM and lasting until 9 PM. She was still impossible to get to sleep at night, but the unholy, ear-splitting screams only lasted for those five hours in the evening.
With Sam, we don’t have the same kind of screaming. She gets fussy instead and starts to hyperventilate, which then leads to hiccups which makes her even fussier. She stays fussy, but so long as someone is holding her and actively trying to calm her, things don’t usually go much farther. Also, her fussy period may start anywhere between 3:30 PM and 9:30 PM. Not exactly the clockwork pattern I’ve come to associate with colic.
Another thing that’s been bothering me is the strange green poop that Sam seems to have only at night. We usually get the first one between 9 and 10 PM, and then maybe get a second one later at night. It’s green, watery, and sometimes even looks a bit like mucous. The nurse practitioner we saw last Friday says it’s not related to Sam’s crying all night, but I have to wonder. Why would she only have green poop at night, the same time as when she cries all night? She’s also having gas all night, and the nurse practitioner did say that was related, so why one and not the other?
It’s a mystery I’ll have to ponder on for a while.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Breast Feeding In Public - What’s Your Comfort Level?
We went to a party on Saturday at a friend’s house. I’ve been noticing lately that the parties Michael and I go to aren’t the same as the ones we went to five or six years ago. I can remember when we went to parties where the guests argued over how much whipped cream they needed to fill a small swimming pool for a wrestling match. Now they discuss the benefits of cloth versus disposable diapers. Boy how times have changed.
Among the guests at Saturday’s were three infants, two of whom (Sam and one other) are breastfed. The other nursing mom and I took turns feeding in the glider parked in the host’s living room. The place was packed with other guests of course, and as I nursed Sam, I got to thinking about breastfeeding in public. I could never breastfeed Cassie in public. For starters, I wasn’t very comfortable with breastfeeding back then. It was a painful, frustrating task most of the time. Cassie also never sat still while nursing, thus making it difficult to feed her without flashing my naked breast at any bystanders.
Sam, however, is far more placid when it comes to nursing. I can sit in a public place, drop a blanket over my shoulder and latch her on with little problem. She doesn’t flail about. She just hunkers down and gets to work. Any time I tried dropping a blanket over Cassie, we got a mummenshanz puppet show, with random arms and legs and the occasional breast popping out from under the blanket.
Different moms do different things, depending on their level of comfort with breastfeeding. As I figure it, there are eight different comfort levels to nursing in public.
Level one - the Hypocrite. Mention breastfeeding in public and the mom says, “Ick! That’s gross. Nobody wants to see a mom go around half-naked in public, flashing her breasts to the whole world!” You’ll never catch this mommy breastfeeding, but you will probably see her waltzing around the local pool in a bikini about the size of a Band Aid with her boobs falling out of the non-existent cups, and trust me, nobody wants to watch that either.
Level two - the Neophyte. At parties and other public events, mom and baby mysteriously disappear every two hours. If you go looking for them, you’re likely to find them in a bathroom, toilet stall, small closet or the back of a car with dark tinted windows. You won’t see this mom breastfeeding either, but she’s doing it. She’s just not giving out any free shows, thank you very much, and if she didn’t fear the “Breast Is Best” Nazis so much, she’d probably bring a bottle of formula with her and use that instead (which quite frankly, she ought to be allowed to do).
Level three - the Cover-up. This mom is perfectly happy with a quiet corner and a blanket securely pinned to her shoulder. She can nurse without being seen. May sometimes wear one of those really ugly breastfeeding cover-ups that makes her look like she’s eating lobster while having a haircut at the same time.
Level four - Almost Normal. Mom prefers to nurse sitting down, with a blanket draped over one shoulder. She has no problems chatting with other party guests while nursing, although she it can be a bit distracting when the baby starts making loud yummy noises under the blanket.
Level five - the Smooth Operator. Similar to level four, but goes without the blanket and just pulls up the shirt instead. Hopelessly horny guys shouldn’t bother hoping for a peek at her breast. This mom’s so quick even the baby doesn’t see the nipple before it starts to nurse.
Level six - A Little Too Comfortable. Mom doesn’t need a chair or a blanket. She just picks up the kid and stuffs him under her shirt to nurse while she stands at the punch bowl and serves herself another drink.
Level seven - the Show Off. Mom stands on one side of the room. The baby is propped up either in its carrier or a Boppy pillow on the other. After calling out “Here’s mud in your eye!” the mom whips out her breast and manually expresses milk so that it shoots all the way across the room into the baby’s open mouth. She’ll do this for about twenty minutes and then switch to the other breast.
Level eight - the Breast Nazi. Just like level seven, only the baby is actually twelve years old and the mom chants “Breast is best!” while shooting milk all over the place. You’re highly unlikely to see this woman at any parties because too many of the guests get soaked when she goes on a rampage.
So moms, what’s your comfort level with breastfeeding in public? Think about it before you head out to your next social event.
Among the guests at Saturday’s were three infants, two of whom (Sam and one other) are breastfed. The other nursing mom and I took turns feeding in the glider parked in the host’s living room. The place was packed with other guests of course, and as I nursed Sam, I got to thinking about breastfeeding in public. I could never breastfeed Cassie in public. For starters, I wasn’t very comfortable with breastfeeding back then. It was a painful, frustrating task most of the time. Cassie also never sat still while nursing, thus making it difficult to feed her without flashing my naked breast at any bystanders.
Sam, however, is far more placid when it comes to nursing. I can sit in a public place, drop a blanket over my shoulder and latch her on with little problem. She doesn’t flail about. She just hunkers down and gets to work. Any time I tried dropping a blanket over Cassie, we got a mummenshanz puppet show, with random arms and legs and the occasional breast popping out from under the blanket.
Different moms do different things, depending on their level of comfort with breastfeeding. As I figure it, there are eight different comfort levels to nursing in public.
Level one - the Hypocrite. Mention breastfeeding in public and the mom says, “Ick! That’s gross. Nobody wants to see a mom go around half-naked in public, flashing her breasts to the whole world!” You’ll never catch this mommy breastfeeding, but you will probably see her waltzing around the local pool in a bikini about the size of a Band Aid with her boobs falling out of the non-existent cups, and trust me, nobody wants to watch that either.
Level two - the Neophyte. At parties and other public events, mom and baby mysteriously disappear every two hours. If you go looking for them, you’re likely to find them in a bathroom, toilet stall, small closet or the back of a car with dark tinted windows. You won’t see this mom breastfeeding either, but she’s doing it. She’s just not giving out any free shows, thank you very much, and if she didn’t fear the “Breast Is Best” Nazis so much, she’d probably bring a bottle of formula with her and use that instead (which quite frankly, she ought to be allowed to do).
Level three - the Cover-up. This mom is perfectly happy with a quiet corner and a blanket securely pinned to her shoulder. She can nurse without being seen. May sometimes wear one of those really ugly breastfeeding cover-ups that makes her look like she’s eating lobster while having a haircut at the same time.
Level four - Almost Normal. Mom prefers to nurse sitting down, with a blanket draped over one shoulder. She has no problems chatting with other party guests while nursing, although she it can be a bit distracting when the baby starts making loud yummy noises under the blanket.
Level five - the Smooth Operator. Similar to level four, but goes without the blanket and just pulls up the shirt instead. Hopelessly horny guys shouldn’t bother hoping for a peek at her breast. This mom’s so quick even the baby doesn’t see the nipple before it starts to nurse.
Level six - A Little Too Comfortable. Mom doesn’t need a chair or a blanket. She just picks up the kid and stuffs him under her shirt to nurse while she stands at the punch bowl and serves herself another drink.
Level seven - the Show Off. Mom stands on one side of the room. The baby is propped up either in its carrier or a Boppy pillow on the other. After calling out “Here’s mud in your eye!” the mom whips out her breast and manually expresses milk so that it shoots all the way across the room into the baby’s open mouth. She’ll do this for about twenty minutes and then switch to the other breast.
Level eight - the Breast Nazi. Just like level seven, only the baby is actually twelve years old and the mom chants “Breast is best!” while shooting milk all over the place. You’re highly unlikely to see this woman at any parties because too many of the guests get soaked when she goes on a rampage.
So moms, what’s your comfort level with breastfeeding in public? Think about it before you head out to your next social event.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
How Sleep Deprived Am I?
We’re going on about three weeks of colic with Sam, and I have to ask myself, how sleep deprived am I really? Am I too far gone to function, or could I be allowed to operate heavy equipment?
Well, let’s see. I’m getting a lot of work done. Since Sam’s birth, I’ve managed to finish up an e-book cover for a client and get the first draft of a website graphic done. I started working on a short story about a week after we came home from the hospital and so far I’ve written four thousand words. I expect the story will be finished in time for ERWA’s Blasphemy Theme Weekend which starts next Thursday. I’ve been able to work on my current colored pencil drawing, and it’s been slow going but I may actually finish it by the end of this month. I’ve also been brushing up on my cartooning and sketching, doing little practice sketches and doodles a couple of times a week. The house is fairly clean, I’ve been getting Cassie out to play every day even if it’s only in our own backyard and I’ve managed to get a shower every evening before bed. So on the surface I seem okay.
However, I just realized that I wrote up my end of the quarter work report back at the beginning of this month. The end of the quarter was yesterday, the last day of June, not three weeks ago. Why I thought the second quarter ended on the 31st of May I’ll never know. I’ve also done dumb things like put on a second set of disposable nursing pads over top of the perfectly clean set I was already wearing. I put my glasses in the refrigerator and then couldn’t find them for half an hour so I had to walk around blind. Twice I’ve headed out and turned right at the entrance to our subdivision when I meant to turn left and didn’t realize it until I arrived at the library on the opposite side of town from where I meant to go. While making lunch I’ve asked Cassie to hand me a frying pan when I wanted a fork. And during several conversations I’ve had to stop talking mid-sentence because I’d forgotten what it was I was trying to say. Oh, and let’s not forget the ugly mood swings and temper tantrums (mine, not the kids). For those alone I should not be allowed to operate any heavy equipment. I might actually be tempted to deliberately kill someone.
I’m a little frazzled I guess, but I am doing better that I expected after the arrival of child number two. Of course when you look back on all the recent blog entries, that sounds kind of scary, doesn’t it?
Well, let’s see. I’m getting a lot of work done. Since Sam’s birth, I’ve managed to finish up an e-book cover for a client and get the first draft of a website graphic done. I started working on a short story about a week after we came home from the hospital and so far I’ve written four thousand words. I expect the story will be finished in time for ERWA’s Blasphemy Theme Weekend which starts next Thursday. I’ve been able to work on my current colored pencil drawing, and it’s been slow going but I may actually finish it by the end of this month. I’ve also been brushing up on my cartooning and sketching, doing little practice sketches and doodles a couple of times a week. The house is fairly clean, I’ve been getting Cassie out to play every day even if it’s only in our own backyard and I’ve managed to get a shower every evening before bed. So on the surface I seem okay.
However, I just realized that I wrote up my end of the quarter work report back at the beginning of this month. The end of the quarter was yesterday, the last day of June, not three weeks ago. Why I thought the second quarter ended on the 31st of May I’ll never know. I’ve also done dumb things like put on a second set of disposable nursing pads over top of the perfectly clean set I was already wearing. I put my glasses in the refrigerator and then couldn’t find them for half an hour so I had to walk around blind. Twice I’ve headed out and turned right at the entrance to our subdivision when I meant to turn left and didn’t realize it until I arrived at the library on the opposite side of town from where I meant to go. While making lunch I’ve asked Cassie to hand me a frying pan when I wanted a fork. And during several conversations I’ve had to stop talking mid-sentence because I’d forgotten what it was I was trying to say. Oh, and let’s not forget the ugly mood swings and temper tantrums (mine, not the kids). For those alone I should not be allowed to operate any heavy equipment. I might actually be tempted to deliberately kill someone.
I’m a little frazzled I guess, but I am doing better that I expected after the arrival of child number two. Of course when you look back on all the recent blog entries, that sounds kind of scary, doesn’t it?
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