Quiet in the Stacks

A family that pukes together stays together.

2009-12-02T08:11:00.005-05:00

Hi, everyone. I haven't felt much like blogging these days. It's one part illness, one part shitty economy and two parts delicious little boy who takes up much of my time when I'm home. I'm not sure how much longer I'll have these 2.5 days at home with him each week, so I'm trying to make the most of them.

On the other hand, I could end up being home every day of the week. Who knows.

But what I do know is that once I get online, time starts sliding by and suddenly the twenty minute limit I've set for myself has turned into an hour and a half. And my blinds are too damn dusty/my bedroom is too damn messy/ my sink it too damn full of dirty dishes to be spending that much time online.

My toilets, on the other hand, are sparkling clean at the moment. Come quick!

Those of you who are Facebook friends saw that we we've been dealing with various illnesses for a while now. First Lion was sick with some kind of upper respiratory infection. Then I got a stomach bug (am I the only one who can't help but calculate how long it's been since I last vomited, even as I'm hanging over the toilet bowl? Me: Wow, I haven't thrown up since I was in labor, so it's been approximately one year, two months, three weeks, and six days. Stomach: you're way overdue, bitch. TAKE THAT!), and Mike came down with the same thing. Thank god his mom doesn't live far away and isn't afraid of a little puke, because I was so weak I couldn't even think about Lion without feeling dizzy.

Tired and weak but on a nearly 48-hour no-puking streak, we disinfected the house just in time for my parents, my grandmother, and my sister to arrive a few days before Thanksgiving. They were the only house guests, but we had 14 people for dinner. It went swimmingly.

But that night, disaster struck again. First my sister started throwing up, followed by my father, and then most regrettably of all, my mom. My mom has some health conditions that make it very dangerous for her to be throwing up, and I ended up having to speed her to the ER early Friday morning. On the way to the hospital, the sun not even a hint in the sky yet, I was amazed by all the traffic. Then I realized it was Black Friday.

Indeed.

So we spent the rest of our days restocking the ginger ale supply and cleaning toilets and using Lysol disinfecting wipes on every surface imaginable. The silver lining is that no one else who was at my house for Thanksgiving dinner got sick, including my 90-something grandmother and my 14-month-old son.

So I'm sure you can understand that I'm a little tired. I'm fine, just considerably rumpled in spirit (to quote Anne of Green Gables) (I think).

More soon.

I can't argue with that.

2009-11-05T08:07:00.006-05:00

Me: I bought a new song on iTunes today.

Mike: Which one?

Me: That Las Vegas song.

Mike: Dean Martin?

Me: No, it's a new one. It's something like, that's what you get for waking up in Vegas...

Mike: (laughs) Are you supposed to throw your arms around while singing it?

Me: I'm waking up, see? Stretching. But in Vegas, so I'm also wearing a feathered boa.

Mike: Are you sure they wear feathered boas in Vegas?

Me: I think they do.

Mike: I've never heard that song.

Me: Here, I'll play it for you.

Mike: (listens for a minute, trying not to roll his eyes) That's Katy Perry. The same one who sings that song about I kissed a girl and I think I liked it.

Me: Oh, really? Well, I like it! It'll be a good song for jogging.

Mike: This is like when you were obsessed with that Avril Lavigne song.

Me: Only for exercising. It was peppy.

Mike: Do you hear what she's singing about?

Me: Las Vegas.

Mike: Yes. And she lost her fake ID, and she's wearing some guy's class ring.

Me: You're saying I'm too old to listen to angst-ridden songs involving fake IDs and class rings?

Mike: You said it, not me.

Beeeeeeeeep

2009-11-03T20:18:00.005-05:00

All I have to say is this:

I am so fucking glad this fucking election is OVER. If I get one more fucking political call at my fucking house, I will fucking* lose it.

(*sorry, mom)

And now we shall mourn.

2009-10-20T08:50:00.011-04:00

Don't let me near your children, for these days I seem to ruin everything I touch.

Exhibit A, also known as Oatmeal Cookies That I Have Made At Least 500 Times, So How Do You Explain This?:

Flat. as. pancakes. Super crispy. Which isn't a terrible thing, if you like super crispy cookies, but I like my oatmeal cookies chewy. I'm thinking I may have accidentally put too much butter in (which Paula Deen would probably say is impossible, unless you add so much butter that there's no room for the bacon, in which case you should probably watch a different show on Food Network).

I feel reasonably confident that I can blame these cooking mishaps on Lion, since getting interrupted fifty times while measuring your ingredients can only lead to disaster.

I know I put the flour in, I have been extremely careful to remember the flour after an unfortunate incident several months ago when I made four loaves of flourless banana bread.

Flourless chocolate cake is so delicious, but flourless banana bread?

Not so much.

These horrible pictures do not adequately portray how flat these cookies were. But don't worry- I have some amazing close-up pictures of cow dung on the heel of my shoe!

Recently we attended an outdoor wedding. I loved the setting, truly I did. It was on a big farm, and the ceremony took place at the edge of a vividly green, rolling field, where you could see cows grazing in the distance.

(they'll come into play later)

The bride and her father came across the field in a horse-drawn carriage. Gorgeous.

I wore a brown and white print dress. I'd say it was an animal print, but then you'd probaby want to know what kind of animal print, and I don't know.

Anyone?

Leopard? Cheetah? Spotted pig?

As a side note, I felt positively gleeful as I dressed for this wedding. During my pregnancy with Lion, and during the months and months of nursing that followed, all of my beloved little dresses and most of my non-stretchy shirts were banished to the guest room closet, also known as The Land of Abandoned Clothes.

Reunited, and it feels so good.

Exhibit B, or The Shoes I Was Stubborn and Foolish Enough to Wear, And So I Deserve Every Bit of Heartache:

I paired the dress with these little heels, which I love, mostly because of the little sparkly buckles on the straps:

They look fantastic in candlelight.

Anyhow! I knew the wedding was going to be outdoors, but I thought the most I'd have to worry about would be my heels sinking into the grass. I decided that I would just walk on my toes, as millions of women have done before me.

However. I did not know that we would have to park at the top of hill, and then walk nearly a quarter of a mile down a (sometimes steep) gravel road to the ceremony site. I should have just worn flip flops, pulsed the heels in my food processor a few times, and saved myself some work.

Sigh.

The bit of green? Is cow dung. I narrowly sidestepped a massive pile of horse poop and was mentally congratulating myself when my heel speared a cow patty.

That was lucky, I suppose. Had my whole foot landed on it, I can only imagine the unladylike slipping and falling that would have followed.

So, a question: could I take these to be repaired? I have no experience with shoe repair. Is it only for Good Shoes, or are these worthy? They're nothing special, just Chinese Laundry, but I do like them and would like to keep them around.

Don't worry; I'd clean them first.

Proposition

2009-10-12T10:53:00.007-04:00

Dear God,

I really think my son has enough teeth now. I'm not claiming to know better than you, but I am his mother and I would appreciate your hearing me out.

It seems it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a tooth to break through the gums of my son. (I'm not trying to rip off Matthew, but the camel bit is perfect for this situation and I thought it would help present my difficulties in a way that you would understand, Lord. Not that you don't understand things.)

(of course you do.)

Since there are so many other issues deserving of your attention- wars and health care and Britney Spears, perhaps?- please don't worry about sending any more teeth. The dozen or so that have already broken through are doing the job quite nicely.

In exchange for putting a stop to the constant, torturous arrival of teeth in my son's mouth, my husband is prepared to give up peanut butter. If you know him, and I think you do (9 a.m. mass every Sunday- holla!), you know the magnitude of this sacrifice.

Not that you don't know great sacrifice. I mean, obviously.

For my part, I am prepared to give up impure thoughts of Colin Firth.

We are all very, very tired and appreciate your consideration of our proposal.

Of course, from what I hear, you are all-knowing and this entire exercise was probably unecessary. As is my signature. But I simply cannot leave a letter without a proper closing and signature.

Which you already know.

Sincerely,

Liz

It certainly does suck.

2009-10-06T11:16:00.000-04:00

Our vacuum up and died. To be specific, a large plastic thingy on the bottom of the vacuum broke in two, a plastic thingy that looks awfully important, and I don't think Super Glue will be able to save me this time.

Is there anything more annoying than shopping for than a new vacuum? I say this as someone who's shopping under the glare of a very strict budget. If I had hundreds of dollars at my disposal I'd probably have fun shopping for a vacuum, and I'd buy a Miele simply because I like the way they look and the different models have names like "Salsa" and "Twist" and "Jazz". I like jazz! And salsa. And it's been quite a while since I've played Twister, but yes, I like that, too. Those names make me feel like vacuuming my house will be exciting, possibly even hot.

Yes, I would run out and buy a Miele without first studying all available consumer research and reviews, so you know I must be drunk or high. Or both.

I want a pretty, sleek vacuum. I want a S 7580 Tango Deluxe in Titian Red Metallic.

Instead, I bought a Bissell 82H1 Cleanview Helix Bagless Upright. In... er... Plastic Hearse Black.

Somehow it doesn't have the same zing.

However. It was $75 on sale, it got good reviews, and it has a Turbo Brush attachment that I can use on the stairs, so I can avoid teaching my son all the best four-letter words as I struggle to move that beast across every one of the five hundred steps in my house.

This is my first experience with a bagless vacuum. Instead of a disposable bag, this has a clear plastic cup that catches all the dirt. I know! All these new-fangled inventions! Next I'll tell you about this amazing invention called... what was it... Blackberry? It's like a telegraph and a digital slate all rolled into one OMG.

The first few swipes of our living room area rug captured quite a lot of gray, fuzzy matter. Watching that cup fill up is both satisfying and disturbing. Do I want to know exactly what's in my rug?

Oh, god. I do not.

For those of you about to embark on a vacuum odyssey of your own, I'll leave you with this tip: people who review vacuum cleaners on sites like Amazon love to give their reviews titles like, "IT SUCKS!" and "THIS IS THE SUCKIEST VACUUM EVER!".

For a while, I couldn't for the life of me figure out why these people were giving four and five-star ratings for vaccums that they clearly hated.

Yes, I'm slow. And it's been far too long since I've seen Wayne's World.

Assumed

2009-10-04T10:03:00.004-04:00

Liz: I'm so tired.

Mike: Maybe you should just tell me when you're not tired.

Liz: That would save me some time, wouldn't it?

Fast Food

2009-09-29T11:58:00.006-04:00

Lion, Alex and I were on a long walk this morning, enjoying the impossibly blue sky and sunny, cool breeze.

As we passed a section of forest, Alex stopped short. His stumpy tail slowly rose and then stood quivering at attention. He craned his neck and flared his nostrils as he inhaled the scent of something interesting. And just like that, he dove into the brush.

Two seconds later a few stray sticks and leaves went airborne as Alex reappeared, leaping victoriously to the sidewalk, an entire loaf of Italian bread clenched between his teeth.

An entire loaf of Italian bread.

And you thought dogs couldn't grin. This was practically the best day of his life, second only to the day he found a pepperoni Hot Pocket with only one bite missing at a school bus stop.

It makes you wonder. I mean, it's not as though we were anywhere in the vicinity of a bakery or grocery store. Exactly how does someone lose an entire loaf of Italian bread in the woods? Was it a lovers' picnic gone wrong? Could I hope to find a wheel of Brie nearby? Did someone else's husband underestimate the importance of the differences between Italian bread and baguette, driving his wife to complete and utter insanity?

I could see the car passing that exact spot, the automatic passenger-side window sliding down to reveal the wife's scarlet face, the golden loaf flying unceremoniously into the woods, the echoing Baguette! I said BAGUETTE! bouncing off the trees and mingling with the car's exhaust as they disappear from sight.

How do you think the bread got there? And what's the weirdest thing you ever found when you were out walking?

Stupid pet tricks

2009-09-27T09:13:00.002-04:00

Liz: I can't tell you how weird it is to see Lion walking around the house.

Mike: I know. I see him crossing the room and I have to do a double-take.

Liz: It's like he's a miniature human!

Mike: He is a miniature human.

Liz: I know. I just can't explain what I mean.

Mike: It's like watching a dog walk around on his hind legs.

Liz: YES! Exactly.

You'll never believe what I saw in Safeway yesterday

2009-09-22T09:45:00.007-04:00

You know how sometimes you're at a party and the conversation is flowing and people are laughing and having a great time when all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, everyone stops talking at the exact same moment and there's this awkward silence? And as the seconds tick by it becomes more and more awkward and someone should say something, but everyone's waiting for someone else to say the something, and then- blessed Jesus- someone says, "Oh my god, so you'll never believe what I saw in Safeway yesterday...", and everyone laughs gratefully and pretends that the silence never existed.

Crisis averted.

Things have been strange around here. See, we went to the beach for Labor Day weekend and while we were there, a real crisis was averted. A tragedy, actually. A family member (or three family members, perhaps) almost drowned right in front of me.

A riptide was to blame. Once I swam out to the person in trouble (who I initially thought was having a heart attack) and realized that we were caught, I wasn't really worried about myself. I'm an excellent swimmer and I know what to do if I get caught in a riptide. But as I was out there, with no flotation device and a very tired man who kept saying, "I'm not going to make it, I'm not going to make it," plus two other family members who had followed me out there and were also exhausted and panicking, I felt certain that there was going to be a tragic outcome. I remember a giant swell washing over my head, and as I turned toward shore and screamed for someone to get a boogie board, I could see all the people who had been playing in the sand and surf just minutes before gathered at the water's edge.

They were expecting a tragedy, too.

There wasn't one, thankfully. After it was all over, after we had returned home, I kept going back and forth about whether I wanted to talk about it here. I decided against it. But ever since then, every time I've tried to come up with a post about the annoying house painters, or how I broke our camera by dropping it on a tile floor, or how my son is suddenly walking everywhere and getting into everything, it just seemed silly, and I'd hit DELETE POST.

Maybe now that I've gotten it out of my head I'll be able to return to my usual nonsense.

So! To be completely honest, I haven't seen anything weird in the grocery store lately. Aside from the locked display case of black truffles in the produce section, that is. I mean, other people might look to the stock market or real estate trends or employment levels for signs of economic recovery. Me? I look to the produce section. If the local grocey store is stocking truffles, things must be looking up.

Seriously?

2009-09-01T09:19:00.004-04:00

In case you were wondering...

And seriously, is my baby turning one this week?

2009-08-27T09:02:00.007-04:00

It's been a while since Alex has made an appearance on this blog, right? I feel bad about that. Stupid baby, taking up all the ~~film~~ memory!

So, say hi, Alex! Here you can see the haircut I gave him on Sunday, a haircut that required Mike to hold him in a headlock while I trimmed his legs and paws.

"SIT! STAY!" I'd command uselessly, as Alex panted and flailed, apparently equating "grooming" with "fate worse than death."

I even held a treat between my teeth and made that noise that Cesar makes when he's trying to show a dog who's boss, thinking I could hypnotize him into behaving.

Focus on the treat, Alex! You're feeling veeeeery obedient.... veeeeery obedient!

(I mean, I've seen Flip Orley perform four times- at the very least I should be a moderately funny hypnotist by now)

(Which, I just had a GREAT idea. Do you think Flip would be my doula the next time I give birth? I couldn't think of anything better than being under hypnosis and laughing hysterically through hours of contractions! Throw in a margarita and I'll call it a VACATION.)

This is the fourth time I've groomed Alex at home. I've groomed my dogs in the past, but when we adopted Alex I decided that there are some things I'm willing to pay someone else to handle. Climbing a ladder three stories above the street to paint the trim on my house, for example, or- YES- grooming my black dog in the suffocating heat and humidity of August.

But when you're trying to save money and a grooming table and a decent set of clippers will pay for themselves in six months, well, you buck up and get hairy.

The only thing we continue to pay for is having his nails trimmed. Alex has black nails, and I can't see where the quick is, and I'm terrified of hurting him. So I'm happy to pay $10 for that until I can work up the courage to bust out my Dremel.

Which I will.

Someday.

He's got beautiful soft, shiny fur, by the way, and I have a whole bag of it. Anyone want to make a sweater? Should I try to sell it on eBay??

********

This morning I was talking with Mike about a play date Lion had earlier in the week.

Liz: I asked if she'd taken Lila to the library, but she said she hadn't because Lila doesn't grasp the concept of the "inside voice" yet.

Mike: And?

Liz: I said, well, Lion can be the loudest kid on the planet, but we stay in the children's section and I don't think it bothers anyone. Plus, at that library they have a soundproof quiet room, so if someone really objects to the noise, they can always go in there.

Mike: I hate those quiet rooms. It's creepy when you're in there with a bunch of people, but no one's talking.

Liz: That's because you're an extrovert. You have this urge to chat with everyone and ask, "Hey! How's it going? What are you reading? Do you like it?" People like me LOVE quiet study rooms. Having complete silence was the only way I could study when I was in college and grad school.

Mike: See, that's weird. I always had to have the radio on, or I couldn't concentrate. Silence drives me nuts.

Liz: It's amazing that we ever got together.

Mike: Opposites attract.

Liz: In college I used to hole up in the tiny study carrels in those creepy stacks in the middle of the library, where there were no windows and it was completely deserted. I could study in there all day and never see a single person. I mean, someone could have ATTACKED me or KILLED me and no one would have known!

Mike: Right. Once you got past that, it was great.

Liz: It was. Totally great.

Stress

2009-08-23T16:57:00.004-04:00

Stress! Stress! Stress!

Work-related stress!

Which means that I can't write about it here. What a shame, because I think poor Mike is about to keel over from my dramatics.

Sigh.

The mature response would be to say how thankful I am to have a job. Which, I am. But you can only shovel your anxiety into the closet for so long before the door explodes off its hinges and sends a stiletto-heeled shoe flying toward your face, intent on giving you the nose piercing you never wanted.

Or... something like that.

I try not to think about work when I'm not there. But I do.

I tell myself I won't check my work email when I'm home. But I do.

I tell myself I won't blog about work.

So I won't.

In other news that isn't likely to get me fired: Alas, the missing library card was never found. I've lost and found it so many times that I was SURE I'd eventually discover it under the seat of my car, or in a different bag, or in the dryer. Eventually I broke down and paid a dollar for a replacement, but this time I got a mini card that can be attached to my keychain. In case you didn't know, this means that I am now destined to lose my keys.

One thing I can't seem to lose is the Washington Post, whose salespeople seem to think that making call after call is the way to make me smile and say, "Yes! I'm so glad you called again, because I really didn't mean NO the first four hundred times. Please sign me up for daily delivery!" We get Sunday delivery only, and have for years, simply because we know we won't make the time to read the paper every day. I want to help save journalism, but letting unread papers pile up in my garage isn't the way to do it.

Not only am I not reading the paper every day, but I'm also avoiding online news and television. This is my very mature approach to reducing the stress and anxiety I feel whenever I hear anyone talking about our disaster of an economy. Of course, I was slammed with news of a dismal forecast at work the other day, so it will probably take a while for me to get back to a state of 99% ignorance. I guess I could distract myself by preparing for H1N1.

So, particulate respirators. Would you go with one that's NIOSH-approved, or live dangerously?

"They just say, 'I know I can do this. I don't know how. I just know I can.'"

2009-08-21T11:47:00.001-04:00

The Baby Catcher, by Peggy Vincent

My god, what a beautiful, beautiful book. There was something in almost every chapter that brought me to tears, so many things that reminded me of my son's birth, so many awe-inspiring moments. I rarely buy books, preferring to borrow them from the library, but this is one I'll be adding to my bookshelf. There were just so many pages that I wanted to flag, passages I wanted to underline, that I must have my own copy.

I wish I'd read this when I was pregnant, because 99% of the accounts in this book were exactly the sort of positive, beautiful birth stories I was craving. If you have any interest at all in midwifery and childbirth, if you're pregnant and hoping for a home birth or natural childbirth in any other setting, you will love this.

You know, ever since a well-known blogger recently gave birth to her second child and shared her natural childbirth story, I've seen a lot more discussion in blogland about birth and the birth experience. Some good, thought-provoking, level-headed discussion, but also a great deal of finger pointing and name calling and defensiveness.

There are women who take issue with the term "natural childbirth," feeling that it indicates that any other experience is therefore "unnatural." There are women who have had C-sections who wonder if they can say that they gave birth. There are those who think that women who share stories of natural childbirth are bragging or trying to compete in the "Mommy Olympics," and still others who do make it seem as though epidurals and C-sections are the work of the devil. The range of comments and feelings relating to birth show that it can be an emotionally complicated endeavor.

There are lots of people out there, men and women, who say that so long as there is a healthy baby and a healthy mom at the end, that's all that matters.

For some, that is all that matters, and there's not a single thing wrong with that. They couldn't care less whether their births were "natural" or not, at home, in a hospital, via C-section, or in a field full of wildflowers in the middle of nowhere. Birth can be amazing and thrilling no matter how it happens, I'm sure. But for others, while the outcome of a healthy baby and a healthy mom is undeniably important, it isn't the only important thing. Surely you can understand this by reading the numerous posts and comments on the topic: the detailed accounts of what was hoped for and what was actually experienced, the joy and pride of reaching a goal, overwhelming love and appreciation for beautiful children, mingled with regret.

I can only speak from my own experience. I had a dream for my son's birth, and with some preparation and some faith and some luck, it was realized. Had things gone differently, I know I would have mourned the loss of that dream. I don't think I would have been, like, fall down and die sad, but yes, I would have been sad. So I can only imagine that being told, "Forget it- you should be grateful to have a healthy son. That's all that matters!" would have felt like having my deepest feelings thrown back in my face.

The way Lion got here matters. My way wasn't only way to have a beautiful birth, it wasn't the only way to feel empowered, it's not any more or any less amazing than anyone else's path to motherhood. But the experience mattered to me. And that should be enough.

Lost

2009-08-14T08:01:00.001-04:00

I've lost my cell phone and my library card. Guess which one I'm most upset about.

Overheard at Babies R Us

2009-08-13T09:45:00.001-04:00

"Wait, honey- do you think we should register for this tub instead? Because this one has a little thing that tells you if the water's too hot."

"Having bathed on numerous occasions, I feel pretty confident that I can tell if the water is too hot."

Shorts

2009-08-06T09:30:00.000-04:00

While using the bathroom at a college I was visiting, I noticed a PLEASE FLUSH sign mounted inside the stall. If you have to be told, perhaps you're not ready for college?

*************

Lion and I were having a "conversation" while I was driving him to daycare last week. A big, noisy truck in the next lane was making it difficult to hear him, so I twisted the stereo's volume knob all the way to the right before I realized what I was doing.

In other car-related stupidity, before I left for work yesterday I folded up my accordian-style sun shade and stuffed it between the front passenger seat and the door. As I was leaving work late last night, I made my way through the creepy, empty parking garage and opened the passenger door of my car to deposit my bag. The sun shade sprang from the car like a snake-in-a-can gag, and my echoing shriek brought a nearby police officer running to my aid.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I was too tired to make up a good story, so I told him the truth.

He seemed disappointed. I guess it was a slow night.

*************

We recently watched the movie Milk. Mesmerized, I watched the entire thing without once thinking, You dick!. I guess that means Sean Penn is a pretty good actor?

*************

A colleague I hadn't seen in a while spotted me walking down the hall and bellowed, "Liz! It looks like you haven't had a good meal in a long time!" He patted his own ample stomach.

"Um, thanks?" I replied.

This colleague and I both enjoy food and wine and used to trade tips and stories about local restaurants. He told me about a new place that he and his wife have been several times, then about his recent two-week stay in Turkey.

"You need to get a babysitter and get back out there!" he said.

"Oh, we have several willing babysitters," I told him. "It's the money that's scarce."

He, a father of three grown children, smiled kindly. "I remember those days," he said.

I kind of like those days.

wonderful

2009-07-28T06:32:00.008-04:00

won⋅der⋅ful [wuhn-der-fuhl]
–adjective
1. excellent; great; marvelous: We all had a wonderful weekend.
2. of a sort that causes or arouses wonder; amazing; astonishing: The storm was wonderful to behold.

(http://www.dictionary.com/)

I never knew that having a baby would be so fascinating. In the beginning he was just a little lump- and adorable lump, for sure, but a lump- who didn't do much but sleep and nurse and stare up at the corner of the room, pondering (I presume) the contrast between the beige paint and the white ceiling. But then he learned to smile, and babble, and focus on the objects I held up for his viewing pleasure (rash cream! OMG!), and things took off like a rocket.

I was standing in front of his crib this morning after he woke up, calling the dog in from the hallway. Lion loves the dog. "DAH-GAH!" he screeched, and then slapped his leg repeatedly, just like I was doing.

He didn't do that leg-slapping thing yesterday. When did he learn that leg-slapping thing?

Now, at nearly 11 months old, he makes signs for "eat" and "more." He says DAH-GAH for dog, and KEE-KAH for cat. Music of any sort makes him clap and bob his head. If he hears someone laugh, he'll do his own little fake laugh a couple of beats later. He waves hello and goodbye. He shakes his head NO. He gives us the stink-eye because he knows it cracks us up. He can turn the lights on and off. He cruises around the room and toddles behind his little push-cart, and every once in a while he'll let go with both hands and stand there, beaming, before his bum crashes to the ground.

He eats our food now, chunks of fish and fistfuls of brown rice, roasted asparagus and sweet potato quesadillas. If he's not sure about something, he'll usually try it after he sees Mike and I eat it. He loves fruit above all else. The sight of a nectarine practically sends him into fits of joy.

He calls for Dada after he poops. I can only assume this is because of the way we divided the work for so many months: when Mike was home, I nursed and he changed the diapers. Now in the morning we'll hear Lion call out, "Dadaaaaaa!" and we know what's waiting in his diaper. "How did Liz train him to do that?" my friend marveled. Ladies, the formula is this: dumb luck. "He just likes the way you do it!" I tell Mike, stealing the trick men have used since the beginning of time.

It's not always fun. Of course it's not. There's way he suddenly minds if we take something away from him, or attempt to redirect him (like yesterday in the library, when awful Mama wouldn't let him pull all the board books off the shelves, and when he had to give up my library card to the check-out clerk- oh, the injustice!). The way his bib is suddenly his mortal enemy, and he rips it from his neck every chance he gets (pocketfuls of spaghetti sauce and noodles on the floor! Like a Jackson Pollock masterpiece!). How I was changing his diaper this morning (Dada was in the shower, that lucky bastard) and he grabbed a fistful of his own waste, then peed on me while I was disinfecting his hand. There's all the times I hear myself say, "You know, kid, you don't have to offer your mouth as a receptacle for the dog's tongue."

I wish I could go back in time and visit that woman who wasn't sure she wanted children. I would tell her yes, everything you fear will happen. It will be the hardest thing you've ever done. You'll be exhausted. You might not wash your hair for four days. You'll have very little spare time and money.

But I would also say this: if you do this thing, if you go for it- if you just hold your breath and close your eyes and trust and jump- you'll be so glad you did. You'll love like you never thought possible. Your life will be in Technicolor.

Your life will be... wonderful.

Back from Florida, where the MLS overfloweth but the jobs do not

2009-07-19T08:51:00.006-04:00

After two weeks and 28 hours of driving, we're home again. We packed up the dog and the baby and left on Friday morning, July 3rd for Charlotte, North Carolina. For the first time ever, Mike, his two siblings, and all related spouses and children gathered at his dad's house. We had a good time, and Lion traveled very well, as usual. I keep waiting for his good nature to fall apart, but so far it hasn't happened. I think he's lulling me into thinking that he'll always be easy and then he'll give it to me good when he turns two.

It was nearly impossible to get him down for naps and bedtime at any reasonable hour while we were there. He was so switched on from the constant attention of his three cousins that he seemed convinced that he would miss something great if he closed his eyes for a couple of hours. Also, the second night there he had a temperature of 102.5 and a runny nose, which we would soon realize was due to three more teeth coming in. However, while the lack of sleep was hard on us, it didn't seem to bother him a bit.

On Sunday, July 5th we packed the car again and headed to my parents' house in Florida. It took us about 8 hours with stops. I found myself feeling somewhat thankful that Lion is no longer breastfeeding, because while roadside nursing on the way to and from Florida last December was fine, I wasn't so anxious to do it in the 90 degree heat. Instead, we just stopped for gas and diaper changes, and we were free to zip along as I fed him and gave him bottles in the back seat.

Lion is currently fascinated by anything with a buckle or lid. I included a small Gladware container in my bag of tricks and he would happily study it and play with it for a good ten minutes at a time. Also popular was the empty Eclipse mints tin, with its shiny blue surface and hinged lid. Makes a great racket when you beat it against the window!

(and this is why we don't buy many toys. Why should we, when the most random househould objects are so endlessly entertaining? Here! Play with this can of green chiles!)

After Lion turns one on September 3rd, we'll finally be able to turn his car seat around so it faces forward. He's been in the 95th percentile for height since he was born, and his legs are so long that he has to sit with them folded up against the back seat. Can you imagine how annoying it is to be a baby, with so little control over the position and movement of your body? If we do any more lengthy car trips before his birthday, maybe I'll let him ride in the car top carrier. Which, yes, we bought a car top carrier. God. Mike summed it up perfectly, after securing the bungee cords to the roof rack: "I feel so dad."

Anyhow, we made it to Florida and had a great time. Mike and I even got away for a couple of nights, soaking up the ocean view from our hotel room and swimming, sleeping, and sunning to our hearts' content. Granted, I woke up at 4:30, 5:30, and 6:00 our first morning there, but managed to sleep until 7 the second morning. And as we discovered, the days seem so luxuriously long when there is no schedule! There were no meals to prepare or nap times to work around or dirty diapers to wash. No, all we had to worry about was drinking that mango margarita before it melted.

Bizarre. What did I do with all my free time before Lion came along?

Oh, right.

We also spent a day with our real estate agent, who showed us several lovely neighborhoods. I already knew which one I like the best, though. It's an older neighborhood, with modest, well-built homes that went up in the 1950's and 60's. There are towering oaks, biking trails, good schools, and it's a ten minute walk to shops and restaurants, or a 15-minute drive to the beach. And there are lots of nice houses for sale. There's only one problem, and I'm sure you can guess what it is.

No jobs.

The agent was brutally honest. "It's very, very difficult to find work here," she said. "It's bad."

While there were lots of great bargains, we were always painfully aware that the low price on our MLS printout was coming at the expense of some other family's dream. It was sad to tour some of the foreclosed homes, gazing into what was obviously a child's room or a baby's nursery as the agent told us that the home is now worth only 40% of what the previous owners paid. I wondered where they all went. I wondered where those children were sleeping.

So for now we will continue to live here, and be thankful for our good jobs. Like so many other times in my life, I wish I could close my eyes and see what the future holds. Another child? A new home? Job loss?

Would you want to know?

You know it's hard out here

2009-06-27T09:39:00.002-04:00

Mike and I watched Hustle and Flow last night, which is about a pimp who tries to become a rapper. Good movie. Terrence Howard was awesome.

Just a moment ago, as I was perusing Florida real estate listings on Realtor.com, I hear, "You know it's hard out here for a pimp, when he tryin' to get this money for the rent! You know it's hard out here for a pimp..."

I turn to see Mike singing in the kitchen, wearing a baseball cap, a God Bless America t-shirt and holding a can of Endust. I stare at him. He stares back, daring me to laugh.

"...when he tryin' to dust his breakfast nook!" he finishes.

It's a very gangster-looking breakfast nook.

Songs for Fathers

2009-06-24T10:20:00.006-04:00

Music is really important to Mike, and it's been a big part of his life since childhood. So when I was pregnant, it seemed right to make him a CD of songs about fatherhood (wow- I almost typed "mix tape" instead of "CD"). Trouble was, I could find plenty of nice songs about fathers and daughters, but most of the father-son songs I came across had themes of anger and bitterness. For example, Cat's in the Cradle came up every time I tried a new Google search for fatherhood-related songs. Not exactly what I had in mind, you know?

So here's what I ended up with. Not all of them are about fatherhood, exactly, but they all fit. Mike loved it, and he still plays it while he and Lion are hanging out together.

Beautiful Boy - John Lennon
So Damn Lucky - Dave Matthews Band
Gassenhauer - Carl Orff
Little Potato - Metamora (this song is ADORABLE- we called Lion Little Potato for months)
Blackbird - the Beatles (we used to sing this to my belly)
The Things We've Handed Down - Marc Cohn
Kooks - David Bowie
In My Life - the Beatles
My First Child - Nil Lara
Still Fighting It - Ben Folds
Just the Two of Us - Will Smith
You Belong to Me - Jason Wade
Slumber My Darling - Allison Krauss
You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You - Dean Martin (Mike sings this to Lion a lot)
Lullabye for Wyatt - Sheryl Crow
Two of Us - the Beatles
Danny's Song - Loggins & Messina
Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) - Billy Joel

Which songs would you add to this list?

Making up for lost time. Bear with me.

2009-06-23T07:51:00.008-04:00

Stressful, stressful situation in the worky world, which of course I will not discuss here, but suffice it to say that I was up until 1:30 a.m. watching Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, and not because I particularly enjoyed it. For once I can't blame my lack of sleep on a teething baby (now that tooth #6 and tooth #7 have broken through, he's been sleeping fabulously); no, it was simply a tornado of thoughts that wouldn't go away. That hasn't happened in at least 18 months, mostly because I've been so consistently tired that only a pregnant belly or a crying baby could keep me awake. Other than that, I'm so exhausted that I can-- for the first time in MY LIFE-- sleep soundly through just about any noise you could think of, including the Earth-shaking rumble of my neighbor's obnoxiously huge pick-up truck as he starts it up at 4:30 each morning, mere steps away from my bedroom window.

For the love of God! I used to want to shout at him. Don't you want to BUY A NICE, QUIET PRIUS OR MINI COOPER LIKE EVERYONE ELSE AROUND HERE?

I will say this: stressful worky issue doesn't have anything to do with my job share, which was finally approved for the coming fiscal year. That was a big relief. Daycare is great for Lion- many times he laughs and pumps his tiny fists in the air when he realizes where we're going, and he loves being around the other babies- but still, I'm glad he's there part-time.

I'm still amazed at the expense of daycare, even part-time daycare. We'd love to have another baby, we're sure of it, but in these parts, two kids in part-time daycare would practically cancel out my financial contribution to the household. Which doesn't mean another baby is out of the question, not at all, but I'm not sure I buy into the whole "There's never a right time, you just have to go for it and you'll find a way to manage!" thing. I'm the kind of person who likes to have "a way to manage" mapped out ahead of time. Also, things still seem shaky to me. Thoughts on the economy's recovery, real or imagined? Anyone? Bueller? Should I just consult my old Magic 8 ball?

I love my career and I want to work (also, I need to work, for sanity's sake), so it's not just about the money. But money's important, especially if you want to save for retirement and college and not stress when you have to visit the pediatrician five times in one month and if you'd like take the occasional road trip to Florida.

Which, yes, we're going to Florida again! In July. And we'll be meeting with the same real estate agent we saw last time (which, huh! in reading those old posts I see that I forgot to mention the real estate thing. Guess I was too distracted by a certain embryo). We're going to spend a couple of days exploring different neighborhoods and touring some houses, and just... see. I really doubt we'll move anytime soon, because while I'm pretty sure we could sell our house fairly quickly and I'm absolutely sure we could find a new one in Florida, the pesky job thing stands in the way. It's a good thing we didn't move the last time we got serious about this, because the school system with which Mike had a promising phone interview has since laid off hundreds of people, and we'd probably be living with my parents right now.

The problem is that I already found the perfect house for us, a house that has enough storage space and lots of windows and isn't RIGHTNEXT to the neighbors' houses and backs up to a state park and has a yard big enough for the garden of my dreams and is in a good school district and is painted the most becoming shade of green and topped with a charming metal roof. We'll go see it in a couple of weeks.

Internet, Magic 8 ball- I know what you're going to say! We should just get pregnant again, sell our house, buy The Perfect House, and move to Florida without any job prospects, right? We'll find a way to manage.

Confessions

2009-06-16T13:59:00.003-04:00

Confession #1:

I've had my cell phone for two years, and I have yet to memorize the number. Whenever someone asks for it, I have to check the phone. Of course, this is problematic when I'm already engaged in a cell phone conversation with that person, because I haven't found any way to get my number to display while I'm talking.

Me: Uh, don't you have Caller ID?

Them: No. Why don't you just tell me the number?

Me: Ha ha ha! Who doesn't have Caller ID?

Them: What?

Me: Seriously, who doesn't have Caller ID in this day and age? Ha ha ha ha!

Them: You don't know your number, do you?

Me: I wouldn't say that.

Them: Just tell me the first six numbers.

Me:

Them: You don't know your own number. ADMIT IT.

Me: Oh, fine.

Confession #2:

I don't eat them very often, but I harbor a secret love of Hostess cupcakes. The orange ones. The chocolate ones are disgusting, but the ones with the R40, Y5, and Y6 food dyes and fake orange flavoring? Delicious.

Updates aplenty

2009-06-09T08:31:00.013-04:00

Am I really dying?
No.

You exaggerate a lot, don't you?
Yes.

Is Lion walking yet?
No, but a couple of days after the crawling began I walked into his nursery one morning to find him standing there in his crib with a huge grin on his face. Why sit when you can crawl? Why crawl when you can grab onto that teeny tiny edge of the oven, pull yourself up with shaky arms and sway like a happy, drunken little man while a pot of water boils one foot above your head? Babies! It's like they'd never survive without us.

Insect bites or chicken pox?
Neither. The pediatrician thought the spots were a side effect of the antibiotic Lion was on for his ear infection, though when they disappeared completely after 24 hours (while he was still on the meds), I wondered if it could have been a food allergy. I'd made Lion a dish with shredded zucchini, quinoa, olive oil and cumin, and the cumin was the only new ingredient. I'll wait a while, then try cumin again and see what happens.

Temites?
No, thank god. Flying ants, which, gross, but at least they're not eating my house. I could have sworn they were termites. I caught a few in a jar and studied them, comparing them to flying ants v. termites pictures I found on Google Images, but hey. The professional exterminator who could have charged us a zillion dollars for an unnecessary termite treatment said they were ants, so I'll believe him. Of course, before he came I'd already conjured up a worst case scenario in which the termite-riddled joists under the second floor of the house crumbled in the middle of the night, killing all of us. The termites decided that although they prefer wood, they could not pass up the six wet, delicious eyeballs of the former homeowners.

Did you go naked to the wedding?
No, although I probably could have. My brother and his wife have a bunch of very nice friends who look much more artsy and trendy than I could ever hope to be, what with their horn-rimmed glasses and vegan shoes and Canon 5Ds hanging from their necks. They probably would have taken my nudity as a sign of my commitment to the environment.

I returned the Anthropologie dress and found another one three days before we had to leave for New York. Ha ha! I bet you're thinking that I was the type of college student who needed the pressure of an 8 a.m. deadline to type a 10-page term paper the night before. And you would be right.

I planned to post a picture of myself in the dress, but 1) Mike was in the wedding and I was wrangling the baby, so I don't have many pictures of the wedding, period, and 2) I'm holding Lion in every picture taken with my camera, and you know I don't post pictures of him here. But I guess I could, just this once.

I found the dress for a great price in Off 5th. It's a nice soft jersey, and the first time I tried it on at home, Lion grabbed the stretchy neckline and pulled it clear down to my waist. So! I paired it with a black camisole, and a cute pair of black peeptoe canvas wedges.

And now that you know what I wore, you'll be wondering what Lion wore. Tie & vest onesie from a shop on Etsy**, black pants, and skull & crossbones shoes. He was obviously the hit of the party.

He was such a good baby the entire time, from the car trip to the late-night rehearsal party through the wedding and reception the next evening. He pooped out before the bonfire, but everyone was amazed by his good nature. He was the only child allowed at the wedding, and I'm sure the bride and groom didn't regret sending him an invitation. No crying or fussing, even when he was clearly exhausted. He just took it all in with those big, blue eyes. The people, the noise, the lake and the sun and the trees.

I had the best date there, I'm sure of it.

**edited to add a link to the Etsy shop where I got the onesie, for those who emailed or commented.

Excuses

2009-05-29T07:46:00.005-04:00

Hello there! It's me. I meant to call or stop by, but obviously, I didn't.

First, I seem to have been sick for a solid month. I thought I was finally feeling better last Friday, except for this nagging, dry cough, and then I completely lost my voice the next morning. After not being able to speak for three days, I developed a hacking cough, the kind that keeps you up all night, makes your eyes water, and forces your lungs up into the space where your brain once resided. Of course, I had dinner with Bdogg last Friday night and told her that I was simply tired (which wasn't a lie; see below), so if you haven't heard from her in a while it may be because I infected her with the plague. So sorry, Bdogg.

My body might have a chance of healing itself if I could get more than two hours of sleep at a time. Poor Lion had an ear infection, then his top two teeth broke through, followed by a third on the bottom, and it looks like there are more on the way. Like, SOON. I guess he takes after me in that he'd rather get something difficult over with in one fell swoop? Send bibs; we are drowning in drool over here.

In other Lion news, he started crawling last week and is getting faster and more self-destructive by the hour. Forget the nice, safe toys Mama scattered around the room- I'm heading straight for that power cord! And the stairs! And then I'll repeatedly aim my eyeball at that sharp, sharp cabinet corner. My god, our house is full of sharp corners I never noticed before. It's a miracle we've all survived this long.

Lion woke up this morning with what appeared to be insect bites. Lots of them. They're either insect bites or... chicken pox? Either way, the daycare won't take him unless we have a note from the doctor saying he doesn't have chicken pox.

So I'm waiting for the pediatrician's office to open. And also for the exterminator, because we might have termites. Do termites also eat baby flesh?

In case you were wondering, I will definitely be going naked to the wedding. Unless I die first.

Let's go off on a tangent

2009-05-19T09:48:00.012-04:00

Questions:

1. Am I going to be working part-time for the next year?

2. What the hell will I wear to the wedding?

So, question number one. I submitted the paperwork to have my job share renewed for the coming fiscal year (which is coming very soon), but it's been over a month and no reply. This is making me anxious. If it's renewed, great. If not, what will I do? I guess this is a two-part question. Sigh. And sigh.

Question number two: will I go naked to the wedding? I mean, it's outdoors and all, so nudity might fly. Ha ha! Just kidding, but I have a little story about nudity coming up.

I bought this Anthropologie dress in purple after it was recommended by someone else. It's jersey material, so baby-friendly and not too formal. But after I wore it for a few minutes, I decided I didn't like the ruching around the waist. It kept riding up every time I bent or turned and was making a pest of itself. And I can't do my patented Brick House dance moves if my dress is riding up, now can I?

Anyhow, there is an Anthropologie store here but I decided to save time by ordering online, which never saves time. Right? I keep forgetting that last part. I've had great success with virtual shoe shopping, but clothing rarely works out unless it's something that I know will fit well based on previous experience.

(that reminds me of this time I bought an Ann Taylor sweater on eBay. I felt supremely confident that it would fit, as Ann Taylor is the one brand that always works for me, and the seller said it was NWT (New With Tags). What I actually got looked like a child's sweater, it was so badly shrunken, and the "tag" attached to it was just the plastic fastener SANS tag, and it was ORANGE. Which, if you've ever shopped at Ann Taylor, you know they don't use orange tag fasteners. So I email the lady and politely tell her she's full of shit, there's no way that sweater is new. And she gives me some story about how she gets her clothing at this big warehouse and sometimes the clothes are in piles on this dirty floor, so she always does her buyers the service of washing the garments before shipping and she hopes I appreciate her going the extra mile. I was like, FURTHER BULLSHIT, and I am never buying anything from you AGAIN, and then I flounced out of the virtual room.)

What was I talking about? The dress, right.

So the dress doesn't work, and now I have to either pay to ship it back or I have to go to the Anthropologie store anyway. Someday I will learn.

The morning the dress arrived, Lion was napping and I was getting ready for work. I'd just gotten out of the shower when I heard a truck pull up outside. Alex started barking. Why do dogs hate UPS trucks? Even if we're out on a walk miles from our house, if Alex spots one coming up the street he'll puff up his practically nonexistant tail and growl menacingly, like HOW DARE YOU, SIR. And he's so wee and so puppy-looking that the drivers usually smile and wave patronizingly as they pass. "Hewo, wittle puppy! Oh my, wook at your big teef!" No wonder he has a complex.

So Alex starts barking at the truck and I run downstairs (naked) to quiet him before he wakes the baby. I look out the peephole see the truck driving away, and realize that my dress must be on the front step. Squee! I am understandably anxious to try it on but loath to make a trip upstairs just to grab my bathrobe (as I am very into saving time, remember?), so I hide behind the door and open it a crack to see where the package is.

It's right there, but just far enough to the right that I can't simply reach my arm around and grab it. It is obviously impossible, but that doesn't stop me from making several attempts and even using an umbrella to try to drag it closer, but I only succeed in knocking it off the step.

So I shut the door and sit there on the floor thinking about how I will get the package. By this time I could have driven to Maryland and purchased a brand new bathrobe, but I want to save time by being ridiculous. In the nude.

I wonder if I am brave enough to simply fling open the door and hope that my neighbors won't be looking in my direction at that particular moment. No, I decide, I really should cover up. So I look around and notice the basket of laundry sitting by the couch. Too bad it's Lion's itty bitty clothing. But there's a hand towel in there, so I grab that and return to the front door.

I figure that if I squat on the floor and drape the hand towel over my front, that will cover everything long enough for me to open the door and grab the package. So I get into position, hold the small towel across my chest with my elbows, and open the door.

Towering over me is a pizza guy distributing fliers.

His mouth falls open.

I yelp and slam the door in his face.

You know, this sort of reminds me of the time my sister accidentally locked herself out of her house while naked. She had to wrap herself in the grill cover and climb in through an open window in the front.

I'm not sure where I was going with this, but you get the picture. We're all idiots.

My first tissue paper flower

2009-05-09T11:28:00.004-04:00

Happy Mother's Day.

this and that

2009-04-28T09:44:00.004-04:00

Mike was out for most of Saturday, and by Sunday I needed a little alone time. So I volunteered to mow the lawn. Yes, folks- what once qualified as "tiresome chore" is now "peaceful alone time". Behold the magic of parenthood!

Once I'd mowed, the edges looked sloppy, so I got out the edger. Once the lawn was edged, the bushes looked sloppy, so I got out the hedge clippers. Guess I needed that alone time! I also guess we've been a little distracted since last summer, because the bushes were seriously out of control. It took me a solid hour to hack them down to size, and two days later I still can't move my arms. In fact, I'm typing this with my tongue! Don't say I never did anything for you.

After I'd given the bushes their girlish figures back, I was quite annoyed to notice that only the tulips on the right side of our patio bloomed this year, leaving the left side without a pleasing pop of color. To correct this imbalance, I hacked down all the tulips, too:

Still life of tulips with plastic crap.

On Monday, upon hearing a prediction of mid-90s on the NPR weather report, I busted out a pair of capris to wear to work, which necessitated a pair of sandals.

Problematic.

I know you won't believe this, but I've largely given up on heels. Temporarily, at least. It's just too hard to haul Lion and everything else down the stairs to the garage and then into the daycare wearing Nikes, let alone 3-inch heels. Now, now, I haven't gone to true flats, mostly because I don't think they look good on me. I'm a wedge girl for now.

Anyhow, the only black sandals I have that are suitable for work also have a heel, and while it's not a very big heel, it's narrow enough to make the morning marathon a bit precarious. Then I remembered them... the loyal black Aerosoles slides that I wore to work almost every day for four solid months when I was pregnant last year.

Those will work, I decided. I had a hazy recollection of Mike wrinkling his nose in distaste the last time I wore them, but I also remembered telling him that they were my only comfortable shoes and I wasn't going to buy new ones when my feet were swollen and he could just deal with them, unless he wanted to take the 30 extra pounds I was carrying.

(he politely declined)

But when I pulled them out the box yesterday, I was horrified that I'd worn these things out in public, let alone to work.

Dude.

That is some nasty shoe.

See that edge near the toe of the shoe, where a bit of
padding is peeping out?
I super-glued that sucker at least four times.

Classy.

I felt bad throwing a pair of shoes into the trash, but I'm certain that even in today's crappy economy, no one is desperate enough to want these.

So, not only do I need a new pair of black sandals, I have a wardrobe dilemma.

This June my brother is getting married to a girl I adore- that's the great news. The bad news, as far as my wardrobe is concerned, is that the wedding will be at a campground in New York, about 45 minutes from Manhattan. It should be a blast- after the ceremony there will be dancing and a bonfire, and my whole family is going to camp there that night.

The recommended attire for the ceremony is "campground chic". Ha ha ha! I told you, I love that girl.

Anyhow, as the sister of the groom I know I'll be in lots of family pictures that evening, so I do need to look presentable.

I need a dress:

That is appropriate for an outdoor wedding in early June
That I can dance in
That can get dirty
That can stand up to a squirmy, grabby (no strapless dresses) 9-month old (who will presumably be on my lap the entire time, since Mike is one of the groomsmen)
That is nice enough for pictures
~~That provides easy access for nursing~~ Thanks for taking care of that issue, Lion!

I need shoes:

That go with the dress
That are flats or wedges
That are comfortable for walking on unpaved trails

So! Who has the perfect solution?

Blip

2009-04-27T14:57:00.006-04:00

As I was telling Frema this morning, I gave Lion his first bottle of formula on Saturday morning, and he didn't appear to detect any difference. Good thing, since I bought a ginormous tin of it and if Lion didn't like it, Mike and I were going to be drinking it in lieu of milk, because I was not about to throw out $33 worth of magic powder (which I can only assume is made from Colin Firth's fingernail clippings, it's so damn expensive). Naturally, the day after I opened the tin I found the exact same tin at Wegmans for almost five dollars less.

That burns, Whole Foods.

To update those who care about such things, I'm still pumping three times a day, which means that I only have to use 2-4 ounces of formula per bottle, depending. I plan to keep doing that for as long as my supply holds up. Lion continues to dig night-time nursing only, and I am happy to oblige.

Buying the can of formula last Friday was a bit hard, because I felt as though I were admitting defeat. But opening it on Saturday morning was fairly ho hum. I decided to give him his first taste in the morning, in case he had an adverse reaction. I scooped it into the bottle, added water, and shook it up. Lion happily drank it.

The end.

After the roller coaster that was the first week of the strike, the new routine is a relief. I know where we stand. I'm not afraid he'll go hungry; I don't have to worry about how much I pump. I don't have to keep running through every trick recommended by La Leche.

Someday this unexpected transition will be a mere blip on the radar. Even in the thick of it, I knew that. But I needed to try everything possible before I could let it go, and then I needed to mourn. And that's what I did.

I can sleep tonight.

The post I didn't want to write

2009-04-23T20:00:00.011-04:00

The strike goes on. It's been a full week, and Lion will only nurse in the middle of the night. Every other attempt is met with polite refusal, a response that rapidly escalates to wailing and flailing if I persist.

So, bottles it is. I've been pumping like a fiend to keep up with him, and for a week, I've been able to do it. But in preparing two bottles for daycare tomorrow, I had to defrost four bags of frozen breastmilk. There simply wasn't enough pumped milk left in the fridge, and I am tired. I'm tired of smelling like maple syrup from all the fenugreek I've been stuffing down my throat. I'm tired of pumping every two or three hours to make enough. I want to spend real time with my son when I'm home with him, not sit there on the couch, waving my feet at him and making my socks talk so I can entertain him while I milk myself.

There are only a few bags of my precious frozen stash left, which I'll use to supplement what I pump, but I'm guessing it will only last another few days. Soon, unless the strike suddenly ends, I'll have to supplement with formula.

Typing "I'll have to supplement with formula" makes me cringe a little, because I know there's nothing at all wrong with using formula, whether out of necessity or simple desire, and I never want another parent to think I'd judge. But my personal goal was to breastfeed exclusively for one year, and anyone who's been reading this site since Lion was born knows it hasn't been an easy goal to meet. I remember making it to two months and feeling immensely proud, and in the next moment realizing I'd have to go six times that to make it to a year. And while I'd be lying if I said I didn't die a little inside, I bucked up and kept going because that was what I wanted to do. That was my choice.

Ah, but there's the rub. It's always been my choice. And now, it's not.

On Strike

2009-04-20T10:59:00.005-04:00

Yay. A new event in the Breastfeeding Challenge.

Lion has been on strike since Thursday morning. I wasn't too worried at first, since nursing strikes are common. A day or two and we'd be back to business, I thought.

But Lion has other ideas. He'll still nurse readily in the middle of the night, and sometimes first thing in the morning, but he has steadily refused me for every other feeding. You'd think my pump would be happy about the extra bonding time, but she's such an ungrateful little bitch.

Medela: WTF? Why aren't we going to your office?

Liz: Sorry, you're needed at home now.

Medela: I see how it is.

Liz: What do you mean?

Medela: You only want me when you have mastitis, or when your nipples are bleeding, or when you own baby rejects you. Oh, Medela, come back! NOW I need you!

Liz: Oh, come on.

Medela: This sucks.

Liz: Actually, you suck. Ha!

Medela: You're sad. So very sad.

Liz: Boy, I'm glad you don't have teeth.

At first Lion was just biting me whenever I tried to nurse him, and I figured more teeth were on their way. But then he was clamping his mouth and turning away whenever I offered.

Things I have ruled out:

A loud noise startled him when we last nursed (I can't think of anything that's startled him recently)
Some new scent is wigging him out (I haven't changed soap, deodorant, etc.)
Ear infection (no sign of this thus far)
Milk tastes funny (he'll happily drink it from a cup or a bottle)

Things I haven't ruled out:

He's teething (drooling to the extreme & chewing on everything, but I don't see any signs in his mouth that teeth are on the verge of pushing through)
It's a developmental thing (he's so. close. to. crawling.-?)

Things I have tried:

Different positions
Not pushing it when he refuses
Waiting until he's really hungry
Offering before he's really hungry
Reducing the amount of solids I give him
Giving expressed milk from a cup
Giving expressed milk from a bottle with a slow-flow nipple
Giving expressed milk from the bottle with the slow-flow nipple, then attempting a quick switcheroo (note to self: do NOT try that one again)
Offering when he's just waking up from his nap
Offering just before his nap
Napping together
Trying to sneak it in during his nap
Dark room with gentle music playing
Dark room with no music playing
Every room in the house
Center ring at the Barnum & Bailey circus

I did call La Leche League this morning and the very nice woman basically told me that I'm doing everything right, and to keep trying.

I'm writing this post in hope that by sharing my problem with the Internet at large in a fit of emotion and overreaction, Lion will wake from his nap and easily resume nursing, no problem, and I'll have to come back and say, uh.... never mind.

Pre-baby, I'd read accounts like this and think, really, is it the end of the world if the baby drinks from a bottle instead? You've nursed for almost 8 months and if it falls apart at this point, why should you feel bad? You've done your best. This is beyond your control. Go easy on yourself.

But when it's your baby, and you've endured a lot to be able to breastfeed easily, and you've come to understand what a special and emotional thing the nursing relationship really is, well, it's hard not to feel bad.

So GO, magic powers of publishing things on the web! MAKE ME EAT MY WORDS.

Or at least bring me some people who can commiserate.

Can I borrow your shield?

2009-04-16T10:36:00.004-04:00

Here's the deal: I had to post something to get rid of the last post. I don't like to be reminded of "the incident". In fact, for a couple of days I tried to avoid that part of my house altogether, as even looking at that spot on the floor made me feel a little sick to my stomach. Kind of like when my dog saw some avocados ripening on the windowsill and was so traumatized that it was several days before he could bring himself to look out the window again.

Yeah, exactly like that.

Look, I know that falling off the bed is small potatoes compared to the things Lion and I are likely to encounter in his lifetime (suggestion for the next Dr. Seuss: Oh, The Places You and Your Mother Will Go! a.k.a. The Emergency Room, The Bully's House, The Principal's Office, and The Psychotherapist). I know I can't prevent every bad thing, nor would that be good for him, but still- sometimes it feels like motherhood requires a natural armor that I have yet to develop.

I was dropping Lion off at daycare a couple of weeks ago, and sat down on a small bench just outside of the infant room so I could remove my shoes. Lion, perched on my knee, was watching some bigger kids across the way with a look of utter fascination on his face. A couple of boys noticed him and moved closer, pointing their little toys at him.

"Hey, BABY," said one boy.

"Yeah!" said the other, with disdain. "He's just a BABY."

Little Lion smiled uncertainly, then looked up at me. My arm was wrapped around him, my hand on his soft, round belly.

"We don't play with BABIES," said the first boy.

I know it's completely normal for kids that age to want to separate themselves from babyhood. I get it. But a little wave of anger surged up in my chest.

"You should be nice to everyone, even babies," I told them, getting up. "Especially babies. They look up to you."

The boys blinked at me.

You little assholes, I finished, silently.

Since having Lion, I find myself thinking more about my own mother, wondering what she experienced after I, her firstborn, arrived. There are a few short entries in my own recently unearthed baby book, which I greedily devoured within seconds. I wish there were more. And so every so often I write a letter to Lion in which I tell him how he' s changed, the milestones he's reached, and what it's like to be his mother. I'll give them to him someday, if he's interested.

This is from a letter I wrote when he was around three months old:

At home you slept in your bassinet, right next to our bed. I woke up any time you stirred, and kept a nightlight plugged in so I could always see that your chest was rising and falling. Even when I was exhausted, I felt it was a privilege to care for you. I felt lucky. I thought of my own mother, and wondered how I could have lived so long without understanding the powerful love she had for me. A couple days after your birth I was holding you as tears slid down my cheeks. “What if something happens to him?” I wept. “I couldn’t bear it.” My mother stroked my cheek and said, “You never stop worrying about your babies, even when they grow up and have babies of their own.”

It's a wonderful, terrifying life sentence, this motherhood business. So many women tried to tell me, but I just didn't understand until he was here.

Forget the cowbell. We need more guilt!

2009-04-03T06:00:00.002-04:00

Yesterday my son was at home, not at daycare. He was supposed to be spending time with his loving, attentive mother, the one who only has one baby and can therefore immediately respond to his every need. The care she provides at home is so superior to that available at the daycare. Remember?

That mother laid her baby on the bed and surrounded him with pillows. She walked four feet away to the bathroom sink, the baby still in view. As she bent over the sink and was washing her face, she heard a sickening thud.

There he was, face down on the floor. The unforgiving hardwoord floor. The hardwood floor that was there because she had insisted upon ripping up the carpet.

I don't even remember running to him. I was just there, and he was in my arms before he'd even gathered enough enough breath to scream. I quickly checked for blood, for arms that bent the wrong way, for focused eyes. I apologized over and over. He cried; I cried.

We were due at the pediatrician's office at 10:00 anyhow, but it was only 9:00 and I was too worried to wait. I called the nurse help line to see if I should go to the emergency room. Lion's screams were so loud, I could barely hear her.

Bring him in to the office now, she said.

I laid him in his crib and raced to get the diaper bag. What if the pediatrician sent us to the hospital? I stuffed a week's worth of diapers and wipes into the bag, a pair of pajamas, his favorite tiger blanket. I stuffed my fuzzy-socked feet into my Nikes and threw a coat on over my pajamas. I gingerly picked up the still-sobbing baby and got him into the car.

Baby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, baby.

The instant I started driving, he fell into an exhausted slumber.

When we got to the pediatrician's office, I gently woke him and carried him inside. He smiled at the receptionist.

"Uh," I said, trying to speak quietly so the other waiting parents wouldn't find out what a horrible mother I am. "We were supposed to come at 10:00 for two vaccinations, but he fell off the bed and was screaming and the nurse told me to bring him in right away."

She looked at Lion and smiled. "Were you doing your Humpty Dumpty impersonation?"

His grin grew wider, revealing his two bottom teeth. His teeth! I hadn't even thought to check his teeth.

"Ghee!" he declared.

As we sat in the waiting area, I noticed that Lion's pants and shirt were messy from the morning's oatmeal. His fingernails needed trimming. His nose was running. Oh, AND he had just fallen off my bed and landed head-first on the floor.

I was feeling better and better.

We were called back a minute later, where I had to describe to a nurse and then the pediatrician how he fell off the bed, and how high off the ground it was, and how he had fallen onto hardwood floors. My voice wavered each time, but Lion was beaming and happily waving a toungue depressor around in his little fist.

He was fine. He is fine. But I think it'll take me a few more days to recover.

Daycare musings...

2009-03-31T09:03:00.003-04:00

I still have mixed feelings about daycare.

Sometimes I leave Lion there and I feel great about it. I mean, I miss him while I'm at work, but I think he really digs being around the other babies and he has almost zero stranger anxiety at this point, which I'm attributing to the interaction he gets there. I think the women who work in the infant room really do love the babies, and there's one in particular whom I adore (you might remember Ms. Thelma from previous posts).

There are many days when we walk into the infant room and things are quiet, the babies seem happy, and everything is under control.

But some days I walk into the infant room and it's not quiet. Sometimes multiple babies are crying, needing various things while the outnumbered caretakers try to meet all the demands. Sometimes I decide I'll just be late for work, and I stay for a while, quietly playing with Lion in the corner of the room until it seems like the women have a handle on things. It's not that the environment is unsafe; it just breaks my heart to see babies crying in bouncers and swings, and no one is able to immediately respond.

On those days, I worry: Will this be stressful to Lion ? What if he starts crying and no one can get to him? Will he feel alone and worried? Will he think I don't care? Should I take my concerns to the director of the daycare?

And I counter my worry with these thoughts: Babies will cry sometimes, even if their needs are met. If that baby has to wait a few extra minutes for his bottle, it won't kill him. If we had multiple children at home, Lion wouldn't always have his needs met immediately there, either. And maybe you'd be more relaxed, because he wouldn't be the center of your universe. Maybe your expectations are unrealistic.

Look at me, I'm barely seven months into this motherhood gig and already buried under a mountain of guilt.

If I felt like the women didn't care, or that Lion was at risk, we'd be out of there. Immediately. They do care, but it's not like having a private nanny, you know? There are X number of babies and only X number of caretakers. It's the nature of the beast.

Right?

Perspective needed. Help.

Back in the saddle

2009-03-29T10:02:00.006-04:00

I didn't think it would ever happen to me. I thought I simply wouldn't allow it. And yet there I was, sitting by and watching as the money slipped through my fingers month after month.

I had become one of those people. I had a gym membership that I didn't use.

I've always exercised regularly, simply because I enjoy it and the rush it gives me (especially in the winter, when I can use all the endorphins I can get). While I'd work out on machines from time to time if I had to, group exercise classes have always felt the best to me. Being surrounded by other people and music makes it feel more like a party. I've taken all kinds of classes- step, kickboxing, cross-training, and on one embarrassing occasion, a dance aerobics class (which I actually loved, but since I resembled Shrek in a sports bra as I bumbled about a studio full of seemingly professional dancers, I never went back).

After I got pregnant, I kept it up for a short time, but fatigue soon took over and I limited myself to walking and swimming. I did that right up until Lion was born, and started walking again post-birth just as soon as I felt up to it. As the months went by, I thought about that gym membership payment being automatically deducted from my bank account, and it bothered me- but not enough to do anything about it. I'd snagged a pretty low monthly rate when I first joined this gym back in 2003, and I knew it was lower than anyone could get these days (lower even than the discounted rate offered through Mike's employer). I was afraid that if I cancelled and then wanted to join again, I'd be stuck paying a higher rate.

(That's always bugged me. Why don't they just have set, advertised membership fees that are the same for everyone? Why does it feel like you're dealing with a car salesman the second you walk up to the front desk?)

This weekend, I finally got up the spunk to go back. My muscles had started sending signals that they wanted to be used for something other than walking. It bothered me that even when I tightened my abdominals, I could push my fingers into them. It was gray and rainy and I needed a lift.

I went to my old Saturday morning step class, where the instructor did a double-take as I entered the room.

"Hi, I'm back!" I said, as though I'd just returned from a quick trip to the bathroom.

"I thought that was you!" she said. "Where have you been?"

And suddenly everything I've experienced in the past year flashed before my eyes, and I looked down at my Nikes and flexed my calf muscles a couple of times before answering simply, "Maternity leave."

I was afraid that my body, now unaccustomed to such rigorous exercise, would give out after the first ten or fifteen minutes, that I would have to slink away, red-faced and doubled over. But my feet remembered how to move, and my legs supported me (though shakily at times), and it felt good to breathe hard and work hard. I even stayed for the next class, a combination of yoga, Pilates, and tai chi.

I felt like myself. I felt great.

Wow.

2009-03-24T10:53:00.001-04:00

Have you seen this? It's absolutely breathtaking:

Man on Wire

Ma'am, I assure you- we don't carry that.

2009-03-22T10:02:00.003-04:00

Here's what happens when the baby starts hollering before you can finish your grocery list:

This one is a bit too full-bodied, but has a nice finish

2009-03-19T09:29:00.008-04:00

Okay, I already mentioned this one a while back, but I really do love bumGenius diapers. We've only had a couple of leaks in several months, one of which happened recently when Lion took a huge dump while he was bouncing in the doorway jumper. In all fairness, there was really nowhere else for the poop to go but down into the leg of his footie pajamas (score one for the cold of winter- a onesie would have been far more disastrous). Imagine squeezing a full tube of toothpaste with brute force over and over again. Get it? Or... is this maybe too much for you?

If you will henceforth not be able to brush your teeth without thinking of my kid's poop, I apologize.

(that's another book-thing I wanted to try when I was a kid. Remember when Ramona Quimby squeezed out an entire tube of toothpaste? When I read that, my eyes got huge and I sucked in my breath, because how could it be that another girl had the exact same idea?)

(except I knew my father would kill me, so for me, sadly, it remained a dream)

I'd also like to give two thumbs way up to PJ at Birth and Baby. We all know of the breastfeeding troubles I had after Lion's birth. One of my problems was not having a comfortable nursing bra that fit. I had a hard time finding a store close to my house with a good selection and a knowledgeable sales person who could fit me properly. I was also in a good amount of pain and didn't relish the idea of a bra fitting, even though I desperately needed one.

Birth and Baby was a godsend. I followed PJ's instructions for measuring myself (gingerly, in the comfort and privacy of my own home) and she gave me advice over the phone on which bras she thought would be best for me. Shipping costs only $1 per order, no matter how many you select, and she encourages you to order lots so you can try them on and return anything you don't want. This woman knows her product. After receiving the first shipment, I called her and we talked about which ones worked and which ones didn't, and why. Based on what I told her, she made further recommendations for brands, types, and sizes.

Thanks to her, I was soon comfortable for the first time in weeks.

And now for something that doesn't involve children or poop or bras: WINE. Go out and find yourself a Banrock Station 2007 Cabernet Sauvignon. It's a delicious everyday wine, and retails for around $8 per bottle.

You're welcome.

I fully intend to submit my newly-invented psychiatric condition for possible inclusion in the DSM-V

2009-03-16T15:34:00.009-04:00

When you drive, do you typically look at other drivers? Like when you're passing someone, or stopped at a red light?

I almost never do. Maybe this stems from my college days, when I had to drive a fairly lonely stretch of highway every day to get to my senior internship, and encountered way more than my fair share of dirty truckers. Or maybe it's because I prefer not to confirm my suspicion that other drivers are texting/shaving/reading the Washington Post while steering the car with their knees. BABY ON BOARD! Please, for the love of God, TRIM YOUR NOSE HAIRS BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE.

But I must be in the minority. On the rare occasion that I glance to the left or the right, nine times out of ten there is another driver looking at me. Not in a lewd manner (most of the time), but like they just want to see who's in the next car over.

This unsettles me, and I realize that my reaction says more about me than about the other drivers. Apparently I'm so introverted that I'm content to remain wrapped in my Subaru cocoon, listening to my own thoughts and staring straight ahead, I-touch-no-one-and-no-one-touches-me. It's a raging case of automotive avoidant personality disorder.

Do you have AAPD, or do you look? And if you're a looker, do I want to know what you've seen in the next car over?

Go ahead, tell me. I'll just grip my steering wheel while you type...

Bon Appetit

2009-03-15T10:14:00.009-04:00

My blender is once again humming away on a regular basis, but it's baby food, not margaritas, that won it a permanent spot on the kitchen counter.

(Ah, margaritas. Don't forget me. Someday we'll reunite in paradise, if I'm not too tired.)

Lion is now eating solids three times a day. I was giving him two solids a day until I took him to the pediatrician last week. I asked her, "How do I know if he's ready for more?" and she said, "He's ready."

(she's from Boston and I love her because she always says, "Oh, Lion! You're so smaaaaaat!" and you know how I feel about accents. She could tell me Lion is unbelieveably stupid and I would still sit there all day long with a goofy smile on my face.)

I know it must seem like there are better things to worry about than whether your baby eats pureed whatever once, twice, or fifty times a day, but, you know. First-time parent and not wanting to do my baby irreparable harm and all that.

So now I'm that annoying person who buys organic everything for her baby. Mike and I do not eat an all-organic diet because 1) it's often too expensive, and 2) sometimes you can't find an organic version of what you need. And I never worried much about it. But for a small baby? Avoiding synthetic pesticides & hormones can't be a bad thing, and he doesn't eat that much, so it's manageable.

Check back in two years, at which point I'll probably be letting him lick the toilet.

So far my baby food-making repertoire includes oat groats, apple sauce, bananas, sweet potatoes, avocado, cannellini beans, and lentils. Lion liked lentils for a few days, but now acts like I'm trying to poison him when I sneak a spoonful into his mouth. Have you ever witnessed a baby's expression of complete betrayal? It's hilarious and heartbreaking all at once.

Anyhow, making your own baby food is very easy and cheaper than buying it. Even if you think you can't cook, don't worry- baby food is the non-cook's dream. Everything is supposed to be mushy!

Oat Groats for Baby:
(recipe from Ruth Yaron's book, Super Baby Food- highly recommended!)

Measure 1/4 cup oat groats (or use brown rice, barley, etc.) into your blender; blend 2 minutes for beginner eaters (or less for chunkier cereal for more experienced eaters). I usually grind a cup or two at a time and store what I'm not going to use in an air-tight container.
Bring 1 cup water to boil on stove. Turn heat to lowest setting. Sprinkle ground oat groats into water, stirring briskly with a wire whisk.
Cover pot and cook for 10 minutes, whisking frequently to remove lumps and avoid burning.
If cereal is too thick, thin with a little formula, breast milk, or water. Don't thin it ahead of time, though- wait until you're about to serve it.

That's it. Very bland, but Lion loves it. Soon I'll start making it with a combination of grains.

Also: I bought eight of these Ball half-pint mason jars (Wegmans carries them), and they're perfect for baby food that I'm planning to keep in the fridge for use within the next few days, and for sending along to daycare. Take off the lid and the jar can go straight into the microwave for warming.

My parents were visiting from Florida last week and we had several outings with Lion. One day we were eating lunch in a small cafe and Lion was completely enamored of the waitress. Any time she passed through the room, his eyes were glued to her, and anytime she spoke to him, he smiled like a fool. Once she was on the other side of the room and he shrieked at the top of his lungs to get her attention. Without missing a beat she called, "I'll be right with you, sir!" Everyone in the place laughed.

Good morning

2009-03-12T11:11:00.002-04:00

When the baby woke at 5 a.m. this morning, I stumbled into his room and nursed him, then tried to get him back to sleep. Even though he was clearly tired, he fussed and grumbled and flipped onto his belly, then onto his back, then onto his belly again. He whipped his tiger blanket from side to side. He looked up at me with sleepy eyes and furrowed brow, like, "HELP."

So I picked him up and carried him to my bed, which we almost never do, but I was so tired and he was so tired and it seemed like the right thing to do. And together we drifted off to sleep, and we didn't wake up until 8:30. When he opened his eyes and saw me there, he smiled.

Good morning.

The answer is now YES

2009-03-05T08:42:00.011-05:00

Yesterday it occured to me that at some point since Lion's birth, I reclaimed my dignity.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, or where. I won't be able to tell my grandchildren, "Oh yes, I remember it exactly. I was in Wegman's buying avocados, and I was wearing my favorite fuschia sweater..."

I'm not sure when I got it back, but I definitely know when I lost it.

During my labor and delivery I did everything in front of everybody without caring a whit, and after Lion was born I was too worried, then too exhilarated, to notice who was coming into the room while I was lying there with my legs up in the air. HI, come on in! I just had a baby! He came out down there! It was awesome!

And then! As anyone who has given birth in a hospital knows, the nurses can come in and poke and prod at your uterus and sensitive bits whenever they feel like it, around the clock. And they do.

"I'm just going to check you!" they sing, and before you can even utter a token grunt of permission, the sheet has been pulled down, along with your mesh panties, and they are looking at things and pressing their fingers into the pile of dough that used to be your stomach while you lie there and stare at the ceiling and pretend that you are elsewhere, anywhere else, like even stuck in a 5-mile back-up on the Beltway.

And then you and your crazy, overachieving boobs might require the assistance of multiple nurses and two hospital lactation consultants, and since everyone and their mom has already seen everything down below, ripping open the top of your hospital gown at the slightest suggestion seems like no big deal.

At one point an LC was struggling to help me with my pump as I sobbed, giant tears splashing down onto my stomach and mingling with the milk drips. "Oh, cover up, honey!" she said, removing the pump and trying to pull my gown closed. "The pediatrician is coming in!"

And I stared at her with bleary eyes, wondering why she cared, because I certainly didn't. Cover up? Whatever for?

And then there was the time the fire alarm went off when I was alone in the room with Lion. I waited a few seconds to see if it would stop, or if an announcement would come over the intercom. When the alarm continued with no word from the hospital staff, I struggled out of the bed, put my purse on the bottom shelf of the bassinet (I remember being very proud of the fact that I remembered the baby AND my purse), and wheeled Lion into the hallway, my gown flapping open behind me. Nothing like flashing a few dozen people while saving your baby's life. I felt so maternal.

For weeks after I returned home, my body was alien and I continued to offer it up without question to whoever needed to examine it. My mother, my husband, midwives, doctors, more lactation consultants. I held my baby, rocked my baby, nursed my baby- and my body belonged to him still, even though he was no longer inside of me.

I had a little test to help me determine if I was back to my old self, which I repeated as the days went on:

Do you care if a complete stranger sees you without your pants on?

If YES, congratulations! You have taken an important step toward reclaiming your body!

If NO, I'm sorry. Please try again later. And in the meantime, definitely keep your pants on.

Yesterday I was in a store's changing room when someone tried to open the door without knocking. The lock was engaged, but I experienced that reflex of half-crouching.

"Sorry!" the person called, and moved on.

I stood there for a minute, then straightened.

A complete stranger almost saw me naked, and I cared. Now that's progress.

Generosity

2009-03-03T08:56:00.005-05:00

So our VCR broke and our local electronics repair place wanted $50 dollars just to diagnose the problem.

"Well," Mike said, "I took it apart and I can see what the problem is. There's a gear that doesn't turn."

"Right," said the repair guy, smugly. "Leave the diagnosing to us."

Like they've been sitting around just hoping for a juicy VCR mystery to sink their teeth into. I can picture Jerry Orbach saying that at the end of a Law & Order scene.

In the electronics repair system, the electronics are represented by two separate and unequal groups. The stupid people who own the electronics, and the genius super-repairmen who know everything and aren't afraid to charge accordingly. These are their stories.

Dunk dunk!

For $50 we could buy a new VCR, so we decided to pass.

Anyhow, I was telling my co-worker this story and she said that we were welcome to her old VCR, which has been sitting in her basement, unused. Thank goodness, because we were getting tired of this conversation:

16-Year-Old Sales Clerk: Hello, thank you for calling _______.

Mike: Hi. Do you sell VCRs?

16-Year-Old Sales Clerk: Are you looking for a DVD player, sir?

(I imagine this kid feels the same way I feel when someone comes into my library and wants to know where the card catalog is)

Mike: No, I have a DVD player. I'm looking for a VCR.

16-Year-Old Sales Clerk: Uh.... you definitely don't want a DVD player?

Mike: Correct. I do not want a DVD player; I want a VCR.

16-Year-Old Sales Clerk: It's probably better to just use your DVD player, since you can't get movies on VHS anymore.

Mike: Right. I just need the VCR to record stuff.

16-Year-Old Sales Clerk: To record...?

Mike: Like, we don't have TiVo.

16-Year-Old Sales Clerk: That's horrible, dude.

Mike: So do you have any VCRs?

16-Year-Old Sales Clerk: Dude, I don't even know if they still make those! I'll have to check.

Also, the other day we asked Mike's mom to keep an eye out for some kind of wicker storage box for Lion's toys. His nursery is very small and already filled to capacity with a crib, dresser, and rocking chair, so toy storage will have to be located elsewhere in the house. (the bedrooms in most of our neighborhood's houses are tiny. Many people have installed lofts for their older kids so they can put a desk or dresser underneath. Just like college! Ah, reminds me of the tiny, ancient dorm room I shared with my friend when we were sophomores. She had a loft, while my bed was up on cinder blocks piled so high, I practically had to pole vault into bed. But there was a working radiator in the room, and it was very cozy).

Anyhow, I thought that a toy box made of wicker could go anywhere in the house and just look like a piece of furniture. Since Mike's mom is a thrift store maven, I asked her to keep an eye out for something that might work. She's already found several items for Lion at bargain basement prices, like a brand-new snow suit for two dollars.

The next day, she sent us an email saying that she had ordered a new wicker toy box online and that it should be arriving at our house within the week.

Wasn't that nice? Still, I feel like we have to be careful about what we say around her, so as not to abuse her generosity. It feels weird, and wrong, somehow, to accept gifts when it's not someone's birthday or a major holiday. I know a toy box is a relatively small thing, but still, it cost around $100 plus shipping, and we wouldn't have spent that much if we'd done the buying.

Is it wrong to accept pricier gifts from parents? Or is it just me?

Writing Assignment: Things I Have Tried After Reading About Them in Books

2009-02-24T09:45:00.010-05:00

In Little House in the Big Woods, I was fascinated by the candy Laura and Mary made by drizzling syrup on snow.

One morning [Ma] boiled molasses and sugar together until they made a thick syrup, and Pa brought in two pans of clean, white snow from outdoors. Laura and Mary each had a pan, and Pa and Ma showed them how to pour the dark syrup in little streams on to the snow. They made circles, curlicues, and squiggledy things, and these hardened at once and became candy.

I tried this once, but all I had was Aunt Jemima pancake syrup and a bowl of Delaware snow that would certainly be defeated in a taste test against the fresh drifts of an 1860s Wisconsin forest. Sadly, the syrup soaked into the snow rather than freezing prettily on top, and I was left with a brown Slurpee-looking mess. I tried a little bit anyhow, but it tasted as bad as it looked.

(I have many, many more stories about trying to live like Laura Ingalls- surprise, surprise!- but I'll save those for another time)

::::

After reading Lois Duncan's Stranger With My Face as a pre-teen, I spent hours attempting astral projection.

I was there on the bed; then, I was over it. The thing happened so quickly it was like flinging myself off the end of a diving board. I took one great leap, and was free... I was over water, and then over clouds, I saw the edge of the sun curve over the eastern horizon, and I was traveling faster than it was. If I kept rising, I would be above the sun and beyond it, moving faster and farther until I became a part of the great, incredible forever that lay past everything.

After many attempts, I decided I was failing because I wasn't able to erase all thoughts from my head, as Laurie is urged to do in the book. After that, I simply worked at "not thinking", which inevitably led to my thinking, "Don't think, don't think, don't- DARN IT."

After which I decided to just keep all parts of myself together. Much easier.

::::

I once read a book in which a kid wanted to stay home from school, so he (she?) drank a mixture of mustard and milk to make himself throw up. (I can't for the life of me remember which book this was- does anyone know?)

Anyhow, I did try this once when I was desperate to get out of going to school. I remember squeezing big ribbons of French's into a blue plastic cup filled with milk, then mixing it up with a long iced tea spoon until it was a pale, cloudy yellow. Alas, while it certainly made me feel sick, the desired outcome eluded me. I settled for making myself look pale and wan, which is pretty much my natural look, anyhow. Success.

::::

Your turn. What are some of your book-inspired childhood antics?

Luxuries

2009-02-23T18:06:00.002-05:00

So we got a pizza on Friday night and Mike went to pick it up, as usual, since we are too cheap to pay the home delivery fee and a tip on top of that. He took my car, and when he got back he declared, "Your car is awesome for picking up a pizza."

"Why?" I asked.

"The seat heaters!"

Yeah, those are pretty nice when it's this cold, I thought.

It wasn't until the next day when I got in my car and saw the passenger seat heater turned on that I realized.

He'd used it for the pizza.

What happened to my tiny baby?

2009-02-19T11:52:00.005-05:00

I've been giving Lion rice cereal mixed with breastmilk once a day for the past week. He gets more and more in his stomach each time, but he loves to bite down on the spoon with his two little bottom teeth and grin at me. He also likes to grab the spoon from me and put it in his mouth. Mike thought maybe he was trying to feed himself, but Lion puts his own toes in his mouth, if you know what I mean. I figure he has a 50/50 chance of choosing the right end of the spoon, so he looks smarter than he really is. :) I now use two spoons when I feed him, so that when he grabs one, I can use the other to sneak the cereal into his mouth.

This morning I had to put a 12-month onesie on him, which makes me wonder if those sizes on the tags are ever accurate (Lion will be six months in 2 weeks). Most of the moms I know say their babies wear larger sizes. He's not a very fat baby, though he was in the 90th percentile for height and weight at all of his check-ups and I still call him Chub-Chub (I have my parents saying it, too... Mike says we'll have to stop so he doesn't get a complex). It's his length that tends to be problematic. He may have plenty of side-to-side room in a 6-month outfit, but I can barely snap the crotch closed. I do have a couple of those garment extenders, which are great, but they don't work with all onesies.

I'm a big fan of his BabyLegs leg warmers. I bought a couple pairs for fun, but they've turned out to be really useful, especially in these colder months. They keep his legs warm when his pants are too short. They're also good for when we put him in the stroller or the Ergo carrier, as the pants always seem to ride up. The women at his daycare think they are hilarious and want to know if he has any off-the-shoulder shirts.

Happy Heart Day

2009-02-15T09:50:00.003-05:00

Mike and I usually avoid going out for dinner on the weekend of or closest to Valentine's Day. The restaurants are overly crowded, the kitchen and wait staff overworked... it's just not the best time to enjoy ourselves and get our money's worth. This year we decided to eschew dining out altogether. And what did we do instead?

We went grocery shopping.

And the weirdest part is that I didn't even care! There we were last night, pushing our baby in a grocery cart around Wegman's at 6:30 p.m. on Valentine's Day, wearing sweatshirts and sneakers, and it was exhilirating because I WAS GETTING THINGS DONE. Plus I had a coupon for 10% off our entire purchase, which is close to having the best sex of your entire life.

And the store was really crowded, so either people were getting provisions for a romantic night in or they were just running errands, like us. Actually, I did see quite a few befuddled looking men in shirts and ties wandering around the produce section. One asked me in a hushed tone, "What are leeks?"

Me: They look like giant scallions.

Him: Scallions?

Me: Come with me.

When I told Mike about this, he shook his head. He prides himself on his produce identification skills.

We did make an effort, buying some strawberries and a bottle of wine for later. After we got home, I nursed the baby while Mike put the groceries away and heated up the leftover stuffed shells for dinner. Lion passed out around 7:30, we made a salad of spinach, scallions, toasted almonds and mandarin oranges, and ate on TV trays in the living room.

Later that evening, Mike was whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

"I'm going to dust the living room tomorrow," he purred.

"Oh, baby."

"I'll vacuum, too."

"YES."

"And I'll get up at 3 a.m. and breastfeed Lion so you can sleep."

"I will do ANYTHING YOU WANT right now."

We'd agreed not to exchange gifts, but I'd been working on making a DVD for him for months, comprised of photos and videos of Lion. So I finished it just in time, and Mike absolutely loved it. I'll put it up on Facebook for a while, so if we're friends, you can see it there.

It turned out to be a pretty good Valentine's Day. What did you do?

I know where we should go for spring break- maternity leave!

2009-02-12T08:09:00.007-05:00

So I just watched one of those Momversation videos, in which a bunch of bloggers talk about various issues related to parenthood. The one I watched was "Childless by Choice", and the topic was, obviously, people who have chosen not to have children. The Momversation montage reached the typical conclusion of, "Hey- we all have choices, you make your choice and I'll make my choice and let's not judge each other!" Which, great. I'm all for not judging people, and I don't really care WHAT choices you make, as long as you refrain from sunbathing nude in my yard.

However- one thing I can't get past is this idea that it's not fair for moms to get benefits like maternity leave.

I don't know about other women, but my maternity leave was the bare minimum required by federal law- 12 weeks of unpaid leave, and then I was allowed to have my job back. The Family Medical Leave Act may be a big step up from what women used to get, which was nothing at all (maybe with a little shame thrown in for doing the thing that got us pregnant in the first place), but there is much room for improvement. Under FMLA, this same 12 weeks of unpaid leave is also available to anyone who is unable to work due to a serious health issue, or who needs to care for an immediate family member who is seriously ill (if you work for a public agency, or one that employs 50 or more people, etc.). You don't have to be a parent to qualify.

There is a reason that having a baby is lumped in with taking time off to deal with a serious health issue. Because having a baby IS a serious health issue. If people could see what maternity leave really looks like, would they still begrudge my 12 weeks?

Try this:

Run five marathons, vomit frequently, breathe and moan until your throat is raw, burst a few blood vessels, don't sleep for 24 hours, and get someone to pummel and maybe slice up your stomach and sensitive bits. Now you might have a slight understanding of how it feels to come through labor and delivery. But wait, there's more! You'll need to take lots and lots of hormones so you can experience the crazy crying jags that characterize the post-natal period. And while it hurts to walk and sit and do just about anything else, you'll need to make your way to the bathroom fairly frequently to deal with the heavy blood flow that will require football field-sized maxi-pads for the next two weeks. Also, don't forget to take your stool softeners, because even the tiniest poop is going to feel like giving birth all over again. Of course, if you're like me and you lost a ton of blood during the birth, you'll be taking massive amounts of iron that will render the stool softeners laughably ineffective.

Breastfeeding? Let's hope you're blessed with an easy time of it. But if not, you might have to deal with breasts and nipples so tender that even taking a shower is excruciatingly painful. Regardless, you might need to wander around the house topless for a few days because there is not a bra or a shirt in the world that will fit you. It can sometimes take 3 months for your breasts to stop going haywire on you. Six months later you will still be discovering dried milk splashes on the hardwood floors.

Now, before you start each day of your maternity leave, you will need to get up every two or three hours the night before. Or maybe more often! When you're finally up for the day, fix yourself a plate of food. Wait until you're really, really hungry, and then just as you're sitting down to eat, get someone to snatch the plate away. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Too bad, because sleeping and eating peaceful, well-balanced meals on a regular basis would probably help you recover faster. Oh, well.

Having a baby is a physical trauma. It is a trauma you invite when you decide to have children, and it is worth it, but maternity leave is not a vacation. It's a very necessary time of healing.

Do you still want it?

I am dead serious.

2009-02-05T08:53:00.004-05:00

1. How do you accomplish grocery shopping with your baby when he a) has outgrown the infant carseat that could easily be transfered from car to shopping cart, b) is not yet steady enough to sit up in the front of the cart, and c) is not liking the Ergo baby carrier these days?

2. I was just looking through my recipe box and just now noticed (after 10 years of owning and using said box) that there is a section for recipes beginning with "Mc". There's J, K, L, M, and Mc. WTF? PLEASE- I would love for someone to name one recipe that starts with "Mc". If you can, I will immediately print it out and add it to the box, even if I will never, ever cook it, just because that empty section is suddenly driving me crazy.

Pet Peeves

2009-02-03T15:15:00.004-05:00

Okay, I know I just blathered on about focusing on the positive when the world around you is going to hell in a handbasket, but can I have the luxury of a few complaints about the world's struggle with vegetarian cuisine?

1. I was searching Epicurious for some new main-dish vegetarian recipes to try and the majority of them were some kind of pizza, lasagna, tart, or quiche. I mean, I love cheese and crust as much as the next person, but it IS possible to construct creative, delicious vegetarian meals that do not include those things. I subscribe to Vegetarian Times and highly recommend it for anyone who seeks delicious, practical vegetarian and vegan recipes.

2. I am a Top Chef fan, absolutely. But I want to throw santoku knives at the contestants when they're told they have to cook something without meat and they act like it's the end of the world. Did you see last week's Superbowl episode? Stefan chooses to go head to head with Andrea in part because she's vegetarian- meaning, of course, that she's a weak chef. If a chef is worth his salt- if he can learn butchering and myriad cooking techniques to produce a delicious meat dish- then he should be able to do something interesting with vegetables.

As you were.

Little Celebrations

2009-02-02T11:39:00.001-05:00

So I recently finished Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris. It was funny and highly entertaining (I still laugh when I think of Chris Yop saying "buckshelves" instead of "bookshelves"- it's just one of many memorable details), but I also felt some degree of discomfort all the way through. For those who haven't read it, the story is set in 2001, when the dot-com bubble has burst and employees at a Chicago ad agency are getting laid off left and right. Who's next? is a pervasive fear.

Maybe it wasn't the best reading choice given the current economic crisis.

So far, neither Mike nor I have heard anything definite about furloughs or layoffs. But as the economy tumbles a bit further every day, I have stopped wondering if and now wonder when. It seems inevitable that we will face some kind of income reduction. Being told that a job share is no longer an option now seems far from the worst that could happen.

I've never worried about being laid off. I figured my sector's stability made up for the fact that my salary, while adequate for us, would never be huge, and that things like bonuses and commissions would always just be nice ideas. Now it seems no one is safe- except maybe the bankruptcy and employment lawyers.

I don't like to be pessimistic, but I also don't want to be caught unprepared. And I'm not looking for sympathy, so please don't feel obligated to leave a "Atta girl!" comment- many of us are worried about our jobs, or have already lost them. I'm simply thinking with my keyboard.

When I'm worried, I do something. Action feels better than just sitting around, waiting for the monster to jump out of the closet. So Mike and I are donating diapers and formula to our local women's shelter. We may be concerned, but we still have plenty. Do unto others, and all that. I'm also considering some kind of volunteer work that I could do once a week with Lion in tow. Driving for Meals on Wheels, maybe? I'm not sure yet. I'll keep you posted.

I am also making a concerted effort to remember all the things I should be thankful for. And so I bring you the following:

Little Celebrations

1. Mike's stepfather is a closet mechanic. He has saved us hundreds of dollars on car repairs. He and Mike's mom also have a second car that they lend us when Mike's on the fritz.

2. A baby isn't really a "little" thing, but I love him so much. I am very, very thankful for him.

3. My nipples aren't bleeding anymore. That's always good.

4. Netflix. We signed up for the one-at-a-time unlimited plan right after Lion was born, which costs just $8.99 per month. It's our main form of entertainment these days, and it's a cheap one. Renting two movies from our local video store would cost more that that.

5. Impromptu dance parties in the living room.

6. The library. Really- I know I'm biased, but can you think of anything better than your public library? I have a nice, big stack of books that I'm slowly working my way through, and they didn't cost me a dime.

7. iTunes. A song costs only 99 cents! (see #5)

8. I roasted a big mess of Brussels sprouts, yams, carrots, and cauliflower with rosemary and thyme on Saturday night, and there are plenty of leftovers.

9. Some friends of ours just offered us all of their childproofing equipment. Cha-ching!

10. Another friend offered us her gently-used dog clippers, just as we were about to buy some. (mental note: look for a short-haired dog next time. Grooming a fluffy black dog when it's 90 degrees and humid as hell is no fun, unless you like looking like a very hairy man)

11. Mike graciously offered to clean up the impressive amount of dried diarrhea that I discovered on our rec room carpet yesterday. Alex's housebreaking is usually rock-solid, so I think it happened right after his surgery, when he was still feeling the effects of the anesthesia. (mental note #2: you might want to visit the rec room more often)

12. Lion has already outgrown his infant car seat, necessitating the purchase of two (pricey) convertible car seats, but hey- he's growing, and it's thanks to my boobs. I'm glad breastfeeding worked out for us.

13. My upcoming haircut. I've been trying to stretch the number of months between cuts, and haven't been since October. Having my hair shampooed in a quiet salon while Mike watches the baby sounds like sheer heaven.

14. We're having friends over for dinner this weekend. We haven't done this since Lion was born, and I'm really looking forward to it.

15. Mike's mom lives just 30 minutes away, and would babysit every weekend if we'd let her. Sometimes she comes over just so we can clean the house or do mundane errands. Having a loving, experienced sitter nearby is priceless.

16. Mike's stepfather never had children of his own, and is beyond tickled to have a grandson. He eagerly comes along for every babysitting job, and it's so touching to watch him playing with Lion. My son has three attentive grandfathers, that lucky boy! I never got the chance to know either of mine.

17. My brother is getting married in June, and I love his fiancee.

18. I ended up with a $35 store credit at Macy's after I returned a baby gift that we didn't need. I'm saving it until a good use comes along, but I like knowing that card is in my wallet.

19. My dog doesn't have cancer.

20. There's a very delicious-looking red velvet cupcake waiting for me in the kitchen.

What are you celebrating these days?

Not cancer.

2009-01-29T10:47:00.006-05:00

That's the good (wonderful, fabulous) news. The bad news is that Alex is not loving the stylish plastic cone we forced upon him after he nearly pulled his stitches out with his teeth. All the pain and suffering might be worth it, though, as the wound gives him street cred. And a perpetually puppy-faced six year-old dog needs all the street cred he can get.

Who you gonna call?

2009-01-26T14:17:00.011-05:00

Alex is out of surgery and doing okay, and we'll be able to pick him up in a couple of hours. The vet said that Alex offered a weak wag of his little stump after he came out from under the anesthesia, so his spirit is a bit rumpled but not defeated. We'll get the biopsy results in a couple of days. Surgery is no fun, but Alex is very pleased to once again be the center of attention, because going under the knife for possibly cancerous tumors certainly trumps diaper rash. CHECKMATE, baby. We will be smothering him with treats and love when he returns home.

In other news, Lion has been drooling like a Saint Bernard, woke up repeatedly last night in fits of discomfort and woe, gnawed my tender flesh during both attempts at nursing this morning, and STILL I didn't realize that his two bottom teeth were coming in until the women at his daycare pointed it out.

"Seriously?" I asked. I mean, the American Dental Association told me his teeth would start coming in at six months, and I believe in the American Dental Association, you know?

"Seriously," Ms. Michelle said. "Take a look- you'll see them!"

Huh! She was right! Two little evil white nubbins had poked right through his gums. And here I'd chalked up his sleeplessness to a stuffy nose, nearly drowning the poor boy in saline nose drops all night long.

I guess you can see why my career with the FBI never took off.

Speeaking of my investigative abilities, I freaked myself out but good the other day. I was stuffing clean towels into the hallway linen closet when I heard an eerie sound coming from the bedroom.

wooooooooooooo!

I took a cautious step toward the noise, peeking into the room.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

My heart went cold. It sounded like a baby ghost.

aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa!

My eyes jumped to the shadowy corner near the dresser. And suddenly,

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, SILLY MAN?"

I yelped and grabbed the phone- for what, I don't know. To call 911 and report a ghost in my house?

"DO YOU HAVE A DIRTY DIAPER, SILLY MAN?"

Then I saw it, and my heart slowed considerably. It was the baby monitor. I'd turned on the recevier, but not the baby's end. I was hearing a baby in someone else's house. A baby who sounds like a spirit of the dead, apparently.

Let this be a warning to those of you who live in close proximity to your neighbors. None of my neighbors have small babies, so I have no idea where Silly Man lives or from what distance my receiver is picking up his howling. And I've heard even more from that house since then, oh yes! Let's just say that I am now exceedingly careful about what I say and DO when I'm around the baby monitor.

As a sign of my considerable maturity, I am fighting the urge to growl into the monitor, "Sorry, Jack...Chucky's back!"

That would be wrong, right?

Right.

Spoilsports.

"My little dog - a heartbeat at my feet."

2009-01-24T13:05:00.006-05:00

I was going to write about when Mike and I had dinner with some friends recently and he was trying to tell a story about Michael Moore but couldn't remember his name and he said, "Who's that crazy fat guy with the beard?" and I said, "Santa Claus?"

See? It's not as funny now.

So anyway, Alex is going in for surgery on Monday morning. He developed a lump on his leg last year, so we took him to see the vet. She told us to keep an eye on it. And we did, and we watched as it got bigger over the following months, so back to the vet we went. This time she recommended that it be removed. So it will be, on Monday morning.

It's probably nothing. I hope it's nothing.

I remember how after Lion's birth, I saw our sweet dog in a different light. He was bigger, all of a sudden. Heavier. His teeth seemed sharper, more dangerous. A creature who had only ever been soul-soothing was now extra work at a time when I didn't even have the energy to wash my own hair. This made me feel tremendously guilty, that I should suddenly look at him with anything other than the love I'd always felt for him.

Things evened out, of course. I love him as much as ever, and he's been an absolute dream with the baby. He's a good, sweet dog.

It's probably nothing. I hope it's nothing.

IMHO

2009-01-14T08:58:00.001-05:00

As many of you know, I research everything. I am most definitely not the person who flies by the seat of her pants (or, for you When Harry Met Sally fans, the person who flies off to Rome on a moment's notice), and as much as I wish I were a spontaneous sort, well, I'm just not.

When I was pregnant, I researched nutrition and natural childbirth and car seats and cloth diapers, and which stroller was safest, and which crib wouldn't attack my baby in the night. Since Lion's birth, I've researched things like baby sign language and vaccinations and and how to get your baby to stop biting your nipples while nursing (because SERIOUSLY, my nipples have been through ENOUGH, thank you). I enjoy research. Good thing, given my profession.

While I like to rely on books and articles written by reputable people, I also love a plain old first-hand account, the kind found on blogs. Even if the information isn't really useful to me, I'm endlessly fascinated by the ways other people do things, and why. I just like to know. Because I'm NOSY, I guess.

Here's what I'm using/doing/thinking about these days:

1) www.babyplays.com

BabyPlays has been described as Netflix for toys. You go online and place the toys you want on a wish list, then the company ships them to you (sanitized and guaranteed lead-free) with a pre-paid return shipping label. Keep the toys for as long as you want, then drop the box off at any UPS location when you're done. Once BabyPlays receive your toys, they send the next batch from your wish list. Ideal for people who don't have a lot of storage space (that's us) or who don't want to shell out a lot of money for toys that will only be played with for a short time (also us). My mother-in-law got us a three-month trial membership and it's kind of fun. I personally wouldn't spend the money on it myself, simply because I grew up playing happily with measuring cups and canned corn, and Lion can, too! But it's been a nice gift, and Lion does seem to enjoy some of the things we've gotten. So far, so good.

2) Bum Genius cloth diapers

When I got pregnant I decided that I really wanted to use cloth diapers, but I was a little afraid of them, too (maybe I was flashing back to my infancy and the time when my father pinned the cloth diaper to my tender skin?). I needn't have been. After lots of research I decided to go with Bum Genius diapers, which operate much like disposables, though of course you don't throw them away. We have to use disposables when he's at daycare, and we also use them when we're going to be away from home for a long period of time, but we're using the cloth at home. They're easy to use, super-soft on Lion's bum, and cute to boot. On the down side, these probably wouldn't be very convenient for those who lack a washing machine in the home, and the up-front investment can be a bit hefty. But we're definitely going to get our money back several times over, and even more if we have more kids. Recommended.

I have some more reviews, but it's taken me several days just to write this, so I'm publishing as is. The baby calls.

(Speaking of babies, could you imagine living here in the DC area and going into labor on inauguration day? Holy cow. Better put the waterproof sheets on the bed and read up on home birth.)

You've missed my traffic posts, haven't you?

2009-01-08T08:02:00.008-05:00

People. It took more than TWO HOURS to get home from work last night. This is a drive that normally takes around 30 minutes.

Sure, hair-yanking commutes like that are rare, but they still happen more than I'd like. I was pregnant last time, with a very small bladder capacity, and I cried several times before I finally made it home.

Last night I only cried once, so I'll consider that a victory. But this time, instead of longing for any one of the four toilets in my house, I was eyeing the little green numbers on my dashboard clock and wondering how long Lion would be able to wait before I could get home and nurse him.

I work three days a week now, one of which is a half-day. I try very hard to time it so that Lion gets as much nursing time as possible, and as few bottles as possible. I nurse him right before I leave for work, so he has a full stomach when I drop him off. Leaving work on time is a priority so I can get home for the next feeding. I pump every 3-4 hours at work to maintain my supply and to have enough milk for Lion's next stay at daycare.

Anyone who thinks it's easy to be a working, breastfeeding mom has never tried it. I'm happy to do it, and I'm glad I can make it work- but it's challenging, and I can only imagine how much more so it must be for those who work full-time. I now understand why there is only one other breastfed baby in Lion's daycare.

Anyhow, I was figuring I'd be home by 6:00 last night, and that obviously didn't happen. Mike was defrosting frozen milk as I slowly inched past one accident, then a second, and was no more than one mile down the road when another ambulance came screaming past.

Then, just as I was finally crossing the last intersection before my street, a truck rear-ended a car right in front of me.

You might read this and assume that there was ice on the road, or that we were having a blizzard, or even a rash of earthquakes!

But no, it was only raining. Granted, rain makes the roads slick, and it was dark, but haven't we all learned how to drive safely in those conditions?

And despite all this- despite the multiple accidents and injuries and car wreckage all around us- there were STILL people tailing me, weaving from lane to lane, blocking intersections and refusing to let people merge, and participating in general driving assholery.

I've never understood this. If the road is solid breaklights for miles ahead, where exactly do you think you're going? How much time do you think you're saving? Why risk an accident, or injury, or MANSLAUGHTER, to get to your destination one minute sooner?

We are all frustrated in conditions like those. We all want to get home. But your time is not any more important than mine. Your LIFE is not more valuable than mine. I'd wager that your boobs are not about to explode, but I'll still let people merge as needed, and I'll still stop at a green light to keep an intersection clear, you and your honking horn be DAMNED.

In Florida, we could drive the speed limit on any road, at any time, and no one tailed us. We could slow down on a tow-lane road to look at a gator baking in the sun on the bank of the river, and no one honked. People used turn signals, obeyed speed limits, and, most shocking of all, waved happily when allowed to go first at a four-way stop.

Driving can be pleasant. I know this now!

Augusten Burroughs had a great idea for teaching bad drivers a lesson. Those of you who have read Possible Side Effects may remember how he and a friend used to punish rude drivers by flashing enlarged photos of hard-core porn. Every time I picture the shock on the drivers' faces, I laugh myself silly.

Unfortunately, I don't have any enlarged pornograhic pictures. But maybe I could just lift my shirt and flash my near-bursting bossoms. That might be punishment enough.

Happy New Year! This is about my sinuses and such.

2009-01-02T11:32:00.005-05:00

Yes, folks, it was another rarin', rockin' New Year's Eve in the Liz-Mike household!

We started the party a bit early this year, spending the night of December 30th in a stale-smelling hotel room in Florence, South Carolina. Florence was almost exactly halfway home for us, and this particular hotel was pet friendly! More importantly, it was budget-friendly, which is AMAZING considering our lovely view of the empty pool and Interstate 95. The hum of the semi-trucks provided great ambience, the comings and goings of other hotel guests kept the dog growling all night long, and the damp room sent my willful sinuses into a complete state of rebellion, leaving me with a raging infection that made me feel like I'd been pummeled in the face.

I was thinking that pushing through and driving the 12 hours with a screaming baby in the back seat would have been preferable to spending the night there, but my judgment may be impaired due to my still-aching molars.

Miraculously? In the hotel, the baby slept like... well, a baby.

In fact, Lion was an absolute dream during our travels. He slept a lot, spent time gazing out the window, nursed happily in whatever parking lot we managed to find, and maintained his look of amazement as I read Hop on Pop fifty thousand times.

Forgive me, but after the first twenty readings I had to start ad-libbing and using fake accents.

ALL FALL
Fall off the wall.
This is what happens when you don't listen to your mother.

RED NED TED and ED in BED
Not that there's anything wrong with that.

PAT SAT
Pat sat on hat.
PAT CAT
Pat sat on cat.
PAT BAT
Pat sat on bat.
Pat, were you held back a lot in school?

THING THING
What the hell is that thing?
I do not want to hear
that freaky thing sing.

BACK BLACK
Brown came back.
Brown came back with Mr. Black.
Mrs. Black is calling her divorce attorney.

Lion was a hit with the family. He absolutely loved the beach- squishing his toes and fingers in the wet sand, putting his salty, sandy hands in his mouth, the birds, the sun, everything. The only thing better than watching him was watching my father, who grew up on Daytona Beach and was Lifeguard of the Year once. I let him carry Lion onto the beach and touch his toes to the sand for the first time. He is a very proud grandfather.

And once again, Mike and I perused real estate listings and talked about moving. Oh, I know. CALL MY BLUFF, Internet! Tell me to put up or shut up!

Just... do it quietly, would you? My head is still throbbing.

Since I was in the back seat with the baby, Alex got to ride shotgun and was the calmest he's ever been on a road trip. Huh- all he ever wanted in life was to ride in the front seat! We put him in charge of the iPod. Maybe that's why Who Let the Dogs Out was played repeatedly?

Just call me DJ Alex, yo.

Anyhow, we got back home on December 31st, I went to bed at 8:00 with a warm compress on my face, and Mike had to kiss the dog at midnight.

Don't look at me that way. Jealousy is so unbecoming.

So tell me how your New Year's was either better or worse than mine. It will make me feel better! And remember, making shit up is completely acceptable around here.

So long, farewell

2008-12-20T09:46:00.009-05:00

Speaking of songs from The Sound of Music, I sing "Do-Re-Mi" repeatedly to Lion because it's the song that never ends. I also sing "American Pie" a lot, because while that song does eventually end, it takes a hell of a long time to get there.

Speaking of taking a hell of a long time to get there, we're leaving for our road trip bright and early tomorrow morning, when- SURPRISE!- they are calling for the dreaded "wintry mix". I decided to stop for nursing rather than pumping in the car, because even if we can save some time by feeding him a bottle as we drive, I will still have to spend time cleaning bottle and pump parts in nasty bathrooms, and the baby will still need to be burped, and spit-up will still find its way to his clothes and my hair, and- let's face it- there is no real saving of time to be had. It will be what it will be, and it will take however long it takes. We will most likely stop overnight on the way back from Florida, since I am grudgingly admitting that you people might know what you're talking about when you say that trying to make it home in one day is insanity.

Speaking of insanity, (would you LOOK at me with my righteous segues?) I will not be doing anything Internet-related while on the road. If I am to make milk, feed the baby, amuse the baby, wrangle the dog, change diapers, change books-on-CD discs, scrape poop out of the treads of my Nikes, scrape poop out of the car seat, and sing American Pie fifty thousand times, then I cannot also be online.

I know my limitations. But I will try to post from Florida in a few days.

(insert segue here. I am all sold out.)

I got home from work last night after a gray, dreary day and gratefully scooped my son up in my arms. Leaving him at daycare is still hard, but I no longer fear the worst. I know now that I was full of unfair judgment when I dropped Lion off that first day. I feared that daycares were dismal places where my baby would be seen only as "work". That he might go hungry for too long, or be forced to sit in a dirty diaper, or cry to be held, to no avail. That *I* was the only one who could love him and care for him the right way.

Nothing could be further from the truth. When Miss Thelma greets him in the morning with a cheery, "Hello, Mister Chunky!", when she knows that he loves to look at himself in the mirror and prefers sitting to lying down, when she knows that he detests "tummy time" and will howl in red-faced protest every time, but STILL attempts it every day because she knows it's good for him, it's clear that he's not just "work" to them.

Hey, Lion even rolled over for the first time while he was there, and the world didn't come to an end. They were so excited and proud when they told me, the jealousy that pushed its way up into my throat couldn't last. I figure those women spend hours dealing with the crying, poop, snot, and vomit of other people's kids. They deserve some of the good stuff, too.

So anyway, I had scooped Lion up in my arms and was basking in his huge, delighted smile when Mike pulled something out of a little gift bag.

"Look," he told me. "A gift from Miss Thelma."

It was a handmade Christmas ornament. A clear, beribboned plastic ball with a round disc down the middle, featuring a nativity scene on one side and a picture of Lion's sweet face on the other. Little iridescent snowflakes drifted gently to the bottom of the ball as I held it. Love, Miss Thelma, the tag read.

There was a little lump in my throat as I hung it on our Christmas tree. I put it in the best spot- right in front, about three quarters of the way up.

Sometimes the best gift of all is finding out that you were wrong.

Happy holidays, everyone.

Halp

2008-12-15T20:36:00.005-05:00

So, after ONE WEEK of daycare, the baby got sick. Suddenly he was congested and snuffling and waking up every hour or two at night with the most pitiful mewing you've ever heard. I knew the doctor probably wouldn't do anything except tell us to run a humidifier in his room (which we've been doing anyhow, to help with his dry skin), but after three nights of no sleep I asked Mike to take him to the doctor so we could waste $20 to get our egos stroked because, YES, YOU ARE GENIUSES, KEEP RUNNING THE HUMIDIFIER THAT IS ALL PLEASE PAY ON YOUR WAY OUT.

The hilarious part was when they weighed the baby (15.9 pounds at 14 weeks) and Mike asked if they could also measure him.

"No," the nurse said seriously. "Length measurements are only covered by the insurance during routine check-ups. Today I can weigh him, because his weight could be affected by his illness. But a length measurement isn't necessary."

Mike stared at her, then at the scale where the baby was still lying, the scale that has a convenient RULER right there on the tray, a ruler that was so convenient, all she had to do was simply stretch the baby's legs out to see his length. By the time Mike had recovered enough to close his mouth, she could have measured the baby a dozen times. But I'm really glad she stuck to her guns. I mean, insurance fraud hurts everyone!

In other news, we will soon be leaving for our annual holiday trip to Georgia and Florida. Mike and I will cram ourselves, our infant, our dog, and assorted gear and luggage into our ever-shrinking car and "drive" ourselves insane, ho ho ho! The trip down shouldn't be too bad, as it usually takes us 8 hours to get to Mike's brother's place in Georgia, and then it's another six hours to my parents' house (I dunno... maybe we should assume that all travel times will be DOUBLED and then we won't be disappointed when we make miserable time?). It's the trip back that I'm concerned about. It usually takes us 12 hours to drive home from Florida, SANS infant. Okay, there was that one time we made it in 11 hours, a victory that we celebrated by stopping at Chipotle and waiting in line for 45 minutes.

I'm open to any and all suggestions that might make this trip easier for all of us, but the real dilemma is how to feed the baby. Breastfeed at rest stops and gas stations? Bring my pump and some bottles and take care of bidness while we zip down 95 South?

I'm at a loss. Tell me what to do and I'll give you $20.

Transformation

2008-12-09T08:14:00.012-05:00

As a veteran with four whole days of daycare under her belt, I'll say it's... fine. Really fine. I cried a little every morning that I dropped him off last week, while Lion was his usual happy self, smiling and showing off his dimples and completely oblivious to the fact that his mother had been having anxiety-related intestinal problems for THREE DAYS.

"You can come visit or breastfeed him any time you want!" consoled one of the women in the infant room. More tears leaked out. "I w-w-work too far away to do that," I gulped. "Well then," she said. "You call on the phone as often as you want. We'll tell you what he's doing."

Shuddery sigh. I smiled bravely and handed Lion over to Miss Thelma.

"Come on, little Lion," she said. "Come with me while I give Natalie her drink. Sometimes a little drink makes everything better." She winked at me, and I desperately wanted to fling myself at her and clutch her pants leg and say, "Yes, that's exactly what I need. LET'S GO TO A BAR."

On the first day I asked Mike to call and check on him, then call me with the report. I guess I didn't want to seem overbearing, especially since that was my half-day and he would only be there for a few hours anyway and would you just RELAX, mommy? Nothing like daycare subterfuge.

I'm still exclusively breastfeeding, and pumping at work has been a challenge. The fact that I don't have a private office makes it difficult, as does the fact that the "special" designated area for pumping where I work is esentially a shower stall.

And no, there's no law against that.

The first few times, I scambled to find places to pump. First in my supervisor's temporarily empty office, looking at a picture of my son while the machine whirred and I wept. Then I attemped a bathroom stall, where I got the pump set up on a baby changing station, had myself exposed and ready to go, and the battery pack died on me. Then behind my desk in my shared office with no lock on the door, as I hid under my nursing cover and a tower of empty boxes, just waiting for someone to ignore my Do Not Disturb sign and burst in on me.

A professor heard of my struggles and came to offer me a key to her office, since she's rarely there. I promptly burst into grateful tears.

"You know," she said as I blew my nose, "I had to go back to work four weeks after my daughter was born because I was a single mom and I couldn't afford to take any more time off. I pumped one time in a bathroom stall, cried the entire time, and then said fuck this shit, I'm switching to formula. You come use my office any time you want."

I have to tell you- back when I was pregnant, I fully expected to go skipping back to work after maternity leave ended. I thought being home with an infant would eventually drive me crazy, and while I would of course love my baby, I'd be longing to ditch the sweats and get back to heels and adult conversation and challenges that didn't involve bodily fluids.

It turns out that I'm pretty good at holing up with a baby. Once we got past the horrendous period that was early breastfeeding, I loved caring for him every day. During those first few weeks, my favorite part of the day was our afternoon nap, when we'd lie skin-to-skin under a warm blanket. I'll always remember holding him to my chest, breathing in the sweet smell of his breath, stroking his impossibly soft skin, and kissing his downy head as I drifted off to sleep. Even the sight of his hair sticking up could bring me to thankful tears. The fierce love I have for him, and how I want to be with him so much that my arms literally ache, has been the surprise of my life.

But that doesn't mean that it would be good for me- or, ultimately, for him- to be home full-time. I need the structure and stimulation of my job, in a way that I didn't fully realize until I went back to work that first day. I am not interested in starting a debate on stay-at-home versus work-outside-the-home. Everyone makes the choices that are right for them, whether the reasons are moral, emotional, professional, or financial. Live and let live.

What I do find interesting is how I now view the world through Lion-colored glasses. Everything I do, I do with him in mind. It's like I'm becoming a better version of myself. I want him to be proud of me. I want him to know that I did things that were hard because I love him.

I want to be proud of myself. And I am.

Quiet

2008-12-04T09:19:00.005-05:00

I'm still taking a break. The very existence of this post would seem to indicate otherwise, but it's true!

Blogging has brought me many friends, some of whom I've had the pleasure of spending time with, and some of whom I'll probably never meet. I like sharing bits of my life with all of you, and I love reading about yours. And while my little corner of the Internet is hardly a font of Pultizer Prize material, it's been a great creative outlet.

But.

At this time in my life, what I most often feel like sharing is related to my son, and for now I'm simply not comfortable doing any more of that here. Using an alias for him does not seem like enough. I don't like the idea that what I write about him is available- and will be, for years- to everyone in the world. I don't feel comfortable with the thought that someone could lift a picture of him from this blog and do whatever they please with it. I'm aware that many bloggers write about and post pictures of their kids- heck, some make a living of it!- and I don't criticize that choice. I visit their blogs and hope for pictures, in fact. I'm just no longer comfortable reciprocating.

Look, I blogged here for several years before my son came along. I know there are other things to write about. I'm not obsessed with him, nor is "mother" my only identity. But for now, I'm going to extend my little blog vacation while I sort out my feelings.

I recently joined Facebook (and the twenty-first century, apparently?) (although we still own and use a VCR, so...huh.) and while I don't consider it a substitute for this blog, it does give me some control over who can view my pictures and daily drivel. I suspect I'll be back here someday soon, but in the meantime, let's meet up there.

Today is my day off and I have delicious baby cheeks to kiss, so I'm signing off for now. I'll be checking up on you, though, so be sure to vacuum under the couch and put on clean underwear. ;-)

Thankful

2008-11-24T07:30:00.000-05:00

Internet, I am taking a break. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but at the very least I'm going to enjoy my last week of maternity leave and my baby and spend as little time on the computer as possible. I'm also going to enjoy Thanksgiving, even though there will be 13 people in my house for dinner. I know! We were going to scale back this year and yet... huh. That didn't happen. At least I managed to swallow my [very large, bulky] pride and allow people to bring some of the food, which means that I will not have to spend all day in the kitchen.

This year it's pretty obvious what I'm most thankful for: my beautiful son, who was only a dream at this time last year. Life with him is better than I ever could have imagined.

I'll leave you with his smile and a wish for a wonderful Thanksgiving. May your plate be full and your heart happy.

MOST people know that I have excellent bowel control. Humph.

2008-11-20T10:28:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, chatting with Mike about my day:

Liz: So we jumped in the jumper for a while. Yes we did!

Lion: Woo!

Liz: And then we ate!

Lion: Wee!

Liz: And then we ate again!

Lion: Goo! GAH!

Liz: And then we pooped our pants!

Lion: Ahhh!

Liz:

Lion:

Mike: You... uh... had an accident?

Liz: What?

Mike: You pooped your pants?

Liz: WHAT? Not me. Your son. YOUR SON pooped his pants. Oh my god!

Mike: Oh! Well, you said "we."

Liz: I also said WE jumped in the jumper. Did you think I somehow managed to cram myself into that contraption?

Mike: Sorry.

Liz: So you really think I would crap my own pants?

Mike: (laughing) Well, you've said that sometimes it's hard to find time to go to the bathroom. I thought that maybe... you know... you didn't make it in time.

Liz: I don't even know what to say.

Mike: (still laughing, wipes tears from eyes) Sorry.

Liz: You think I would poop my pants.

Mike: Sorry!

Liz: YOU BELIEVED THAT I POOPED MY PANTS. THAT SEEMED COMPLETELY WITHIN THE REALM OF "NORMAL" AND "LIKELY"?

Mike: I'll just shut up now.

Bulletin

2008-11-18T14:01:00.006-05:00

I interrupt Yankee Doodle Sexual Innuendo Day to say Holy cow, actual snowflakes are falling from the sky.

Okay, everyone living in the DC area- this is your cue to start rush hour early! MUST BUY TOILET PAPER OMG.

Better break out the puppy dog hat, which I have been saving for just such an occasion.

May I recommend diapers?

Yank Yer Noodle

2008-11-18T08:15:00.004-05:00

Last night I was bouncing Lion on my knee and singing Yankee Doodle. Or trying to, rather. I guess I haven't attempted to recall the lyrics to this song for a long, long time, for this is what came out of my mouth:

Yankee Doodle went to town
Riding a big pony
Stuck a feather in his hat
And called it macaroni

Yankee Doodle keep it up!
Yankee Doodle dandy!
Keep it up and keep it up
And let the girls be handy!

Mike burst into laughter.

Liz: What?

Mike: What was that?

Liz: I know I didn't get all the words right. How does it go?

Mike: I don't know, but yours sounded like the raunchy version.

Liz: Huh?

Mike: Riding a big pony? Keep it up and keep it up? Let the girls be handy?

Liz: Oh.

Gallimaufry

2008-11-15T12:50:00.006-05:00

The sensation of spit-up running down your neck and back isn't so bad. It's when it soaks into your shirt and starts to cool that it becomes unpleasant.

:::

I stepped on the scale the other day and discovered that I'd lost all the baby weight, so I gleefully pulled out all my old pants and tried them on. Most are still bit tight around the waist. I wonder if the rubber band trick is still acceptable if you're not in the early stages of pregnancy?

:::

I took Lion to the pediatrician for his two-month check-up. As I placed him naked on the scale, the nurse announced, "Two feet long and thirteen pounds, four ounces!"

Suddenly he peed all over the scale and the wall.

"Make that thirteen pounds, three ounces," she corrected.

:::

My baby has this huge smile where his nose wrinkles and his eyes crinkle and looks like he just heard the best joke ever. I live for it. No one ever told me that a toothless grin could be your drug of choice.

:::

Passing a gaggle of teenage girls in the grocery store, one of them gazes at Lion and says, "Oh, I want a baby!"

"Bloody nipples," I tell her as I pass.

I do what I can.

:::

I've been doing all the grocery shopping since I've been on maternity leave, so there's been a severe shortage of grocery store conversations. However, we managed a short one the other day:

Mike: Hey.

Liz: Hi.

Mike: I'm at the store.

Liz: I know. Hey, can you get me a pint of Haagen-Dazs Rocky Road while you're there?

Mike: Ice cream craving?

Liz: No. I just like the way the almonds get stuck in my teeth. It's strangely satisfying.

Mike: Uh, okay.

Liz: Thanks.

Mike:

Liz: So, why were you calling?

Mike: I knew you needed something. I'm like Lassie.

Liz: Seriously.

Mike: So, seriously, this grocery store doesn't sell condoms.

Liz: They don't?

Mike: Nope.

Liz: I thought all the grocery stores had them.

Mike: Not this one. I even asked at the pharmacy counter and they said no.

Liz: Peculiar.

Mike: Maybe it's the Catholic grocery store.

Liz: What, do they sell calendars instead?

The Lesser Evil

2008-11-12T08:18:00.008-05:00

So, which would you rather: shots in your tender thigh or a trip to Wal-Mart?

Right, I'm with you. Needles it is.

Natural childbirth redux

2008-11-09T09:40:00.008-05:00

A pregnant reader stumbled upon my blog a while back and emailed me to ask for some feedback on my experience with natural childbirth in a hospital setting. And like a good blogger, I neglected that email inbox for a good month or so and didn't see her note until yesterday. I tried to respond but my email was bounced back. So, Sarah, if you're still out there and haven't given birth yet, I hope you'll find this post helpful. (and I'm sorry)

Standard cautionary statement: I AM NOT AN EXPERT ON NATURAL CHILDBIRTH. Or anything else.

I'm worried the hospital staff will mess up my plans [for natural childbirth]. I've written a birth plan, but other than that- how were you able to get around that?

Sorry, there isn't a short answer to this question. Get comfy!

I was under the care of a practice that included both midwives and doctors, and their philosophy is that natural childbirth is a natural (duh) and desireable way to give birth. If a patient decides that they want drugs, that's fine, too, but I knew in advance that they would support me. I didn't have a birth plan because everything I wanted was their standard approach to care (no drugs or episiotomies, baby goes to mom right away, any non-critical treatments for baby are delayed, etc.), but in general, I think a birth plan can be a good thing if it's not too lengthy.

Another important thing: the hospital didn't require continuous fetal monitoring. I don't know about other women, but being chained to the bed with a fetal monitor probably would have been the end of natural childbirth for me. Lying down isn't a good position for labor and birth anyway- standing and walking makes the most sense so that gravity is working in your favor. Aside from that, I really needed to be able to move around so I could manage the pain. Ask if you can be checked intermittently instead, preferably with a Doppler.

If the above doesn't apply to you, some of these other approaches might help:

We hired a doula who we liked and trusted, and she was a great resource to us before, during, and after the birth. Completely worth the money, if you can afford it and find someone you're comfortable with. She was there for us, and only us. While our midwife was also wonderful, she had lots of other patients to tend to that night. The doula stayed with us the entire time. It really gave me peace of mind.

My husband was on board with natural childbirth, and we'd done lots of preparation terms of understanding labor and how we could work together (and with the doula) to avoid interventions. We did perineal massage, practiced breathing and labor positions, etc. We had a "bag of tricks", if you will, or props. The doula had things like scarves and aromatherapy supplies and a birth ball. We also brought some items, like an ultrasound picture of the baby for me to focus on, a (washable) gardening knee pad for when I knelt on the floor, a small electric fan, a boom box and some meditation CDs, and lots of Gatorade, Jell-O, and breath mints. The bathroom had a shower where I could labor (but alas, no tub).

In addition, I'd invited my mom and Mike's mom to be there for the birth. I told them in advance that if they couldn't handle seeing me in pain, I couldn't have them in the room with me. People freaking out and saying, "Don't you want medication now?!" would have been completely awful, because I needed to feel confident and capable. Fortunately, the moms were great and I was so glad they were there.

So, in a nutshell: surround yourself with people who will support you and believe in you.

Also- labor at home for as long as you can before you go to the hospital. We spent all afternoon at home with the doula, and left for the hospital when my contractions were about 2 minutes apart. In retrospect, we could have stayed home even longer than we did, but we had no way of knowing for sure how far along I was. The more established your labor is when you arrive, the better, but you have to be comfortable with your decisions.

What worked for you?

Besides what I wrote above, I tried to prepare both physically and mentally. I exercised right up until the day I went into labor. I meditated a lot, and visualized myself having the experience I wanted. I sought out positive feedback and birth stories from other women (Roxanne, for one- thank you) and tried to ignore people who implied that I was crazy or a martyr or wouldn't be able to do it. The book Birthing from Within (by England and Horowitz) was really, really helpful. I also practiced self-hypnosis before the birth, using Hypnobirthing: The Mongan Method as a guide, but ultimately, I didn't end up using it much in labor. I don't know why- I just didn't. Before the birth I feared that I might lose control and feel unable to handle the pain, but that never happened. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Honestly! And it was incredibly empowering.

Is there anything you were disappointed with, or would have done differently?

Yeah, I was disappointed that my baby decided to take a gigantic crap before he was born! The large amount of meconium in the amniotic fluid meant that we had to speed things along, and the pushing stage ended up being different from what I had visualized and wanted. It also meant that my husband couldn't help catch the baby as we'd planned, and I wasn't able to hold my son right away. I was sad about those things, but in the end, it didn't matter that much. In all, Lion was treated by the neonatologist for only about ten minutes post-birth, though it seemed like an eternity at the time. He could have ended up in the NICU, and we are thankful that didn't happen.

I wish there had been a tub in the room. I wished for one many, many times. The hot shower was enormously helpful, but a tub would have been even better. If we have another baby, I will seriously consider a birthing center or a home birth for that reason.

In all, the experience was pretty much what I wanted. It took preparation, support, and a little bit of luck.

Hope this was helpful. I hope you have (had?) the experience of your dreams.

(if anyone else has feedback on NCB in a hospital, feel free to chime in)

His future's so bright, he's gotta wear shades

2008-11-07T08:00:00.001-05:00

We were out with Lion the other day and ran into a friend of ours and her four kids. It was the first time the kids had seen the baby and they were quite enchanted.

Fifth grader: He's so cute!

Third grader: Look! He lost his pacifier. (she puts it back in his mouth)

Mike: Thank you.

Fifth grader: Hopefully he won't be a thumb sucker like Garret.

The three girls glare at the two-year old.

Me: Hey! I think it's okay to suck your thumb.

Seventh grader: It's just that it's bad for his mouth. He might have to get into orthodontics.

Fifth grader: (wisely) It's okay for babies to suck their thumbs. But if you're a teenager, FORGET IT.

Third grader: What sports will he play?

Mike: Hmmm... I don't know. Maybe he won't play any sports. We'll have to see what he likes to do.

Seventh grader: Yeah, Claire. Not every boy has to play sports.

Claire: I know that. I was just wondering.

Seventh grader: Maybe he'll be a writer.

Fifth grader: Or a dog trainer. Like Cesar!

Claire: (dreamily) Maybe he'll have a hair salon and be fabulous.

The fabulous Lion has a message for E and Bearette:

Rock on, Obama!

2008-11-05T12:29:00.003-05:00

Lion was very, very pleased about the election results. In fact, he's still out partying.

BABES & CANINES FOR OBAMA!

2008-11-04T12:09:00.005-05:00

Happy Halloween

2008-10-31T20:46:00.003-04:00

You're only getting a picture of the baby this year, since Alex was very obstinate and refused to wear a costume. Mike and I went to a costume party last weekend and dressed up as pirates, but alas, there is no photographic evidence. Just know that I look unbelievably hot in an eye patch (and that wasn't even part of the costume!).

Yo ho ho.

The Adventures of Lion and Nip

2008-10-31T09:46:00.002-04:00

So I'm thinking that the last book in the series will be titled Nip Goes to Live on a Beautiful Farm in the Country, and the cover will show the giant breast collarless and leashless and being tossed unceremoniously from the window of a speeding car. Closer inspection will reveal that Nip has thrush AND mastitis AND nipple trauma and is looking a little fat for her pants. Really, it is Nip's time to go live in the country. Also, Lion is twelve years old and enough already.

New children's book idea

2008-10-30T15:04:00.005-04:00

I'm thinking about writing a new children's series about a beautiful baby boy and his best pal, Nip. You might think that Nip is a dog, but you would be wrong! The first book will be called My Friend Nip and the cover will feature a giant breast sporting a leash and collar.

I briefly considered creating this cover in Fireworks, but I figured you all have plenty of imagination.

Chub-Chub

2008-10-26T10:59:00.006-04:00

The post title is the latest of many nicknames I've bestowed upon Lion, even though he's not an especially chubby baby (I think he might end up being long and lean like his dad). But he has some chub on his cheeks and chin, and I love to plant them with copious amounts of kisses and coo, "My little chub-chub! Hi, chub-chub! I love my little chub-chub! May I kiss my chub-chub? MWAH! I'm going to eat my chub-chub for my breakfast; yes I am!"

Okay, you can go ahead and throw up now. But I cannot be held responsible for my sickening baby babble- it takes over my brain. When Lion is napping I read the dictionary just to balance things out.

He's been smiling and babbling a lot lately, and he also recognizes Mike and I and lights up when he sees us. This doesn't sound like much, but these small rewards can feel exhilirating. He's no longer a floppy newborn who does little more than eat, poop, and sleep-- he spends more and more time awake and alert, and I can practically hear his brain buzzing as he takes in the world around him.

One night the Lion slept for six hours straight. When I woke up and realized how long it had been, I flew to his room in a panic and woke him up to make sure he was okay. He was fine, just righteously pissed that I had disturbed his slumber. I will definitely not make that mistake again.

I took him to work on Friday afternoon to meet all of my co-workers and he was a hit. He was nice and quiet while we were in the library (what a good library baby!). Everyone exclaimed over his long fingers and his deep blue eyes and his reddish-blond hair and held him and rocked him for two hours, and it was great. But I couldn't wait to get home and have him all to myself again.

He'll be 8 weeks old on Wednesday, and I go back to work the week after Thanksgiving. I've still got a job share lined up, so long as our tanking economy doesn't interfere with our plans. It's possible that my part-time arrangement will make my entire position vulnerable, in which case my boss may tell me that the offer is off the table. I know they can't afford to lose it. At the very least, a hiring freeze means that it will be a while before my library will be able able to hire someone to work the other 20 hours of my position, which means we'll be short-staffed even after I return from maternity leave.

I feel a little bad about that, but I don't feel too bad.

There's also a good possibility that Mike's work contract could get cut from 12 months to nine. This would significantly reduce his income just as mine is being cut in half.

I look around me and feel a certain amount of rage at those who have created this mess. We've been careful. We've never lived above our means. We've planned and saved and worked hard to create what we feel is the best arrangement for our family.

Twelve weeks of unpaid maternity leave and a part-time schedule after that is not too much to ask.

And yet.

I'm certainly not going back full-time unless I have to. If I have to, I will do it and be thankful that I have a job.

But while I love my job, I love a certain little chub-chub even more.

Breastfeeding: Let me count the ways

2008-10-23T11:16:00.014-04:00

Disclaimer: this post is not meant to scare you or deter you from breastfeeding. It's simply an honest account of my own experience thus far.

Let's consult some of my breastfeeding books to consider a few of the challenges some women may face while breastfeeding.

Engorgement

Check. I got painfully, horrifically engorged when my milk came in during my second night in the hospital. Panicked, I called my nurse, who took one look at me and then RAN from the room to get me a pump. Mind you, I had a generous rack before becoming pregnant, and it became more generous during pregnancy. When the milk came in, my cups didn't runneth over- they were too rock-hard for that. They just hung there like boulders.

Anyhow, I didn't sleep at all that last night in the hospital, between pumping for dear life and trying to get my baby latched on every two to three hours. By the next morning I had at least 25 ounces of milk pumped and I was sobbing uncontrollably for the lactation consultant. I was told that she knew I was in dire need of help and that she was on her way. When she still hadn't arrived after two hours, Mike went upstairs and found a different lactation consultant who wasn't supposed to round on my floor, but came immediately. I think the words "boulders" and "hysterical" were used.

When we left the hospital, I didn't have a bra or a regular shirt that fit. I was wheeled out wearing a stretched-out tank top and sweatpants and looking like death warmed over. Out front, I was parked next to two other new moms who were wearing cute, coordiated outfits and looked like they'd hired professionals to do their hair and makeup. I sat there, gingerly holding the baby and trying not to move, blinking stupidly in the sunlight and wanting to ask them how they'd managed to look so good.

At home, it took lots of cabbage, cold compresses, and pumping n' nursing to make it through the next three days. But make it I did! And I was proud of myself for sticking it out! And then came the

Nipple Trauma

The second week home, I developed cracked, bleeding nipples. For a while I was able grit my teeth and nurse through the pain, but eventually I broke down and went to see yet another lactation consultant. It was enormously helpful and well worth the money, and I felt really optimistic about breastfeeding. However, that was before I got the

Yeast Infection

No sign of thrush in Lion's mouth, but the midwife took one look at my boob and was positive that it was a yeast infection. This meant a prescription for me and a call to the pediatrician so I could also get one for the baby. After a few days, things were looking up! I was able to stop pumping that side and latch the baby on, and it was good! That is, it was good until I got a visit from my old friend

Engorgement

It was not nearly as bad as what I experienced when my milk came in, but nonetheless, the breasts randomly got really full and hard and for a couple of days it was hard for Lion to latch on. Instead of pumping a bit prior to nursing (to soften the area and make it easier to get a good latch), I just grimaced and let Lion chow down. This was really stupid of me, and I would live to regret it when I saw the return of the

Nipple Trauma

More bleeding, more pain. I nursed when I could and pumped when I couldn't bear it. Finally, they healed yet again. Cats may have nine lives, but my breasts apparently have fifty.

All was well until I got

Mastitis

I knew it was mastitis when I went to nurse Lion and suddenly thrust him at Mike, saying, "Ow, ow, owwwwww." Within minutes I was shivering under five blankets and I couldn't get warm. My skin hurt, my muscles ached, and Mike had to take emergency leave the next morning because I could hardly lift the baby without weeping. For the second time, I found myself sitting on an exam table and gingerly peeling the nursing pad away from my gimpy breast as a midwife clucked sympathetically.

The dramz! The dramz never ends in this house!

Or maybe it does?

Knock wood, I've recovered from the mastitis and so far have not experienced any other issues, other than some relatively minor pain at the beginning of our nursing sessions. Of course, it's barely been a week, but I'm feeling optimistic. Again! I guess I just have a lot of

Determination

While the pain and frustration of breastfeeding has sometimes made natural childbirth seem like a walk in the park, I have not quit. Not that I would blame anyone else for quitting, for any of these reasons or for none at all. I'm not a martyr or a masochist; I just don't believe that I can't be successful at this. It's natural, for godssakes! Wild animals birth their young in the bushes and feed them just fine without ever having to apply lanolin to their nipples or pay lactation consultants $85 per hour or use nursing stools or nipple shields or double electric breast pumps.

I know that it's not this difficult for everyone. I think it's important for moms who are considering breastfeeding to know that there are many women who never suffer even a single sore nipple. And man, I wish I were one of them, but I'm not.

But I'll go ahead and put the Victories label on this post. I'm persevering, my son is healthy and thriving, and life is good.

Life is really good.

Cheeky onesie a gift from Babelbabe.

My skin hurts

2008-10-14T19:20:00.003-04:00

The next event in the Breastfeeding Challenge 2008?

Mastitis.

Keep your fingers crossed that I'm feeling better before approximately 50,000 relatives descend upon us this weekend for Lion's baptism. Somehow I imagine the Catholic church will frown upon me walking around the church topless and moaning.

Especially since I'm not Catholic.

God, what will I do when he goes away to college?

2008-10-13T08:30:00.006-04:00

There's a school bus stop right across the street from our house. I've seen many parents weeping there on the first day of school as the bus drives off with the newly-minted kindergarteners.

"That's sweet," I've always thought. Still, how emotional should one become over this milestone? After all, all children must eventually go to school.

Just as all children must eventually sleep by themselves.

After Lion was born, he roomed in with me at the hospital, sleeping right beside my bed or in my arms at all times. After we came home, he spent his nights within arm's reach, sleeping swaddled and peaceful in the bassinet of my own babyhood.

But recently my sleep had been routinely interrupted by the sounds of grunts and wiggles as the baby struggled to free himself from the carefully-wrapped receiving blanket. Or I'd peer in and see him puddled at the bottom of the bassinet, his feet kicking against the padded frame as he slept. One night we tried putting him down unswaddled, but his little arms flailed and hit the sides, waking all of us.

"He takes up a lot more room in there than he used to," Mike mused.

Reluctantly, I agreed. Suddenly our tiny baby was too big for the bassinet.

Last night we finally worked up the courage to put him to sleep in his crib, in his own room. We dressed him in a little nightgown and socks so his legs and feet wouldn't get cold. We cleared the crib of every superfluous blanket and toy and potential suffocation hazzard. We carefully positioned the baby monitor next to the crib, testing it several times to be sure we could hear any alarming noises.

"Gah!" Mike said softly, leaning down by the crib.

"I heard it!" I called from our bedroom.

Next I took a picture of him in the crib, already asleep and oblivious to the flash.

Lastly, I cried.

And you know what? Those four hours he slept before the night feeding were the best sleep I've had in weeks.

Still, I'm glad he's too little for kindergarten. I don't think my heart could stand it.

Happy Friday

2008-10-10T13:24:00.006-04:00

(click to enlarge)

His daddy rocks

(mom's not so bad, either)

Birth Story, Part Four

2008-10-07T09:46:00.009-04:00

(Part One)
(Part Two)
(Part Three)

Margie was up in there for what seemed like forever. The baby’s head was so low and tight against the bag that it was difficult for her to tell if she had broken the membranes, and she was afraid of hurting him (when Lion was born, he did have a few small lacerations on his scalp from the amnihook, but they healed just fine). It took a few minutes, but eventually the fluid began to leak out of me. I had to announce this to the people in the room when this happened, as I was once again sitting on the bed with Mike pulling on my arms and Cathy massaging my back.

“I’m leaking!” I told them. They helped me stand up so they could replace the Chux pad. Unfortunately, Margie saw that the fluid was stained with meconium, which means that the baby had already had his first bowel movement in the womb. This isn’t great news to hear during labor, since there is a risk that the baby could aspirate the dirty fluid as he takes his first breaths. I heard Margie saying that she was going to call the neonatologist.

I’m not sure how long I continued to labor after Margie broke my bag of waters. An hour, maybe? I can’t even tell you if it made the contractions worse, because I felt like I was in another world, becoming less aware of what was happening to me and around me.

When Margie came to check me again, she said that I was eight to nine centimeters dilated.

I moaned and covered my face with my hands. I felt like I would be at eight centimeters forever! Margie spoke with the nurse, then said she wanted me to try a few pushes during the next contraction while she put pressure on my cervix, to see if we could get me to ten centimeters.

I hadn’t wanted to push until I had a natural urge, but I was so tired that I agreed. Later I found out that Margie and the nurses were seeing much thicker meconium in the fluid that was still leaking out of me- it was no longer just staining. I was vaguely aware of an increased sense of urgency in the room, but I was too out of it to understand exactly what was happening.

When I felt the next contraction coming, I told Margie and she told me to push. I pushed through the next couple of contractions while she put pressure on my cervix.

"It's working!" she told me.

Then Margie had to leave the room to catch the baby across the hall, and the nurse said they needed to hook me up to the external fetal monitor. She had me lying flat on my back while the monitor was on, which was the worst possible position for me- the pain was excruciating. Cathy and Mike helped me struggle to my feet and I told them I needed to push, but I didn’t want to be on my back.

Cathy pushed some buttons on the bed so that it was transformed into a giant chair. I kneeled on the lowest part and leaned forward on the “seat,” sort of like I’d been doing on the stairs at home.

A contraction came, and I pushed.

I’ll just put it out there, even if it’s TMI, since I know lots of women worry about pooping during birth. Yes, I did poop while I was pushing. And yes, I was aware that it was happening, and no, I didn’t care. I’d read that so many women are afraid having a bowel movement during birth that they don’t push effectively, so I made up my mind that I would push as well as I could, no matter what. And so I did.

But suddenly the nurse was grabbing my arm and telling me that I need to lie down on the bed. Later I found out that the baby’s heart rate was dipping crazily each time I pushed in that position. I begged her to let me try another position.

“It hurts too much to be on my back," I panted. "I want the bar!" We’d been told that there was a bar that can be attached to the end of the bed, so you can hang onto it and squat.

“There’s no bar,” the nurse said firmly. “It is protocol that you must lie down in the bed!”

“There is a bar that can be attached to the end of the bed!” I heard Mike arguing with her as I writhed on the bed. He knew I’d planned to use it, and he was advocating for me. “We were told that she could have it! We were told she could push in any position she wanted!”

I was furious at the nurse, because I knew what I had been told and I knew she was wrong. But again, I wasn’t aware of everything that was happening. Cathy later told me that they were clearly worried about the increased meconuim in the fluid and the baby’s decreased heart rate. My mom said that the nurse seemed scared.

“Never mind- you’ve got two strong people here who can help you squat,” Cathy told me. “You put your right arm around me and your left arm around Mike, and we’ll hold you up.”

We started to get into position, but then Margie came back from catching the baby across the hall. There was a flurry of activity and I saw supplies being brought to the foot of the bed, the neonatologist arrived, and Margie donned a pair of gloves.

“We need to check and see what’s happening,” she told me. “You’re doing great. We’re all so proud of you!”

And suddenly I was flat on my back, in exactly the position I hadn’t wanted, and Margie was encouraging me to push with the next contraction.

This is not what I wanted, I remember thinking, blinking back tears, but the reality that the baby's health was at risk was sinking in.

“Liz, listen to me. You need to push your baby out,” Margie told me, looking me in the eye. “It's time. You can do it!”

I looked over and saw my mom holding up the laminated 3D ultrasound picture of the baby that we’d brought to use as a focal point. I stared at his little face. Help him, I told myself.

Mike held my left leg, Cathy my right. As the next contraction built, I took a deep breath and pushed.

“Curl around your baby, Liz.” Cathy told me. I tucked my chin to my chest and brought my upper body forward as I pushed again.

“Give me one more!” Margie kept saying. "You're strong, you can do it!"

Later I found out that this was the point at which Mike’s mom looked down and realized that the cup of ice chips she’d been feeding me had melted into water. Wide-eyed, she looked over at Mike, then down at me.

“I’m out of ice chips!” she whispered. Clearly she didn’t want to miss seeing the baby come out.

“Then you’d better run!” Mike told her. She flew from the room and returned quickly with two cups of ice, which I crunched during the short time between contractions. I have sensitive teeth and have never been able to stand anything cold touching them, but that night I didn’t feel a thing. I was parched and the ice tasted like the best thing ever.

“You’re bringing your baby into the world!" Margie told me. “Here's his head!”

“I can see it!” Mike said, squeezing my hand and shaking with excitement. “You’re doing it! You’re doing it!”

“I want to see!” I panted. “Can I have a mirror?”

Margie called for one of the nurses to bring a mirror, and she wheeled it in. I could see a little bit of the baby’s head. It was amazing.

“Push!” everyone urged.

It’s hard to describe what pushing felt like. It didn’t hurt, but it didn't feel great, the way I’d heard some women describe it. It was just really hard work. I would bear down as hard as I could, and then somehow find that I could push just a bit beyond that. When I did that, Margie would cheer and praise me. I was sweating like crazy and Mike’s mom was aiming our little personal electric fan at my face. The cool breeze felt great, and between contractions I heard Margie and the nurses marveling over the tiny fan.

“What a great idea!” she said. “Where did you get that?”

“Target,” Mike told her.

Are we really discussing Target while I’m giving birth? I wondered. It was surreal.

The neonatologist had been sitting on the couch, but now he quickly made his way over to the bed and started to get ready.

“Liz, listen to me,” Margie instructed. “When the baby’s head comes out, I’m going to tell you to stop pushing. The neonatologist needs to take care of the baby to make sure the meconium is cleared from his nose and throat before he breathes, okay?”

“Okay,” I panted.

With a couple more pushes, I felt a pop! and immense relief and I heard my mom crying. “His head is out!” Mike said, squeezing my hand. “Oh my god, look at him!”

“Don’t push!” Margie called. I saw the neonatologist working quickly.

“The head is the hardest part, right?” I gasped. “The pushing will be easier now?”

“Right,” Margie and Cathy said. “You’re almost there!”

My mom told me later that she was thinking no, the shoulders are the hardest part because they’re the widest part of the baby, but she kept quiet. I disagree with her, though. It felt like it took much more work to get the head out- the rest was easy in comparison.

The neonatologist gave the all-clear and with everyone cheering me on through a few more pushes, my son slid out of me. Mike and I were crying and so were our moms. Margie called for Mike to come quickly and cut the umbilical cord, and then a nurse whisked the baby to the table so the neonatologist could tend to him. I saw him putting tubes in Lion’s nose and I kept asking, “Is he okay? Is he okay?”

“He’s okay!” the neonatologist called to me. “He came out like a lion!”

We heard the baby wail and it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. "Thank you," I breathed. I thanked everyone in the room over and over again. I was riding a wave of euphoria and couldn't stop shaking and crying and laughing.

“Oh my god!” I cried. “I did it!”

The neonatologist called over that Lion’s Apgar scores were 8 and then 10. He cried while the neonatologist was putting the tubes in his nose, but then he lay there, looking curiously around the room. We asked the nurses to delay the eye drops for as long as possible. I could see his face in the bassinet and his eyes were huge and alert.

“Is he okay? Is he okay?” I couldn’t stop asking.

“He’s perfect,” the neonatologist told me, as a nurse finally, finally placed my baby on my chest so I could hold him and nurse him.

“I know you,” I breathed. He grabbed my finger and looked up at me, a sweet, peaceful expression on his face. His eyes looked exactly like Mike's.

It was 3:30 a.m. on September 3, 2008. It was the best day of my life.

Success

2008-10-02T11:27:00.004-04:00

Dudes, it's 11:30 and guess what I've done so far? Nursed the Lion twice, napped, administered medications, changed three diapers, brushed my teeth and got dressed, went for a 45 minute walk with the baby and the dog, stretched, showered, moisturized, checked my email, and made egg salad for lunch.

I fully expect Lion to start squawking for his lunch at any moment, but if I don't accomplish another blessed thing today, I won't care in the least.

Want to come over for egg salad? I mean, carpe diem, people. I'm smelling good today.

Going Nuts

2008-10-01T11:25:00.007-04:00

So maybe I'm giving too much credit to a fairly stupid animal, but I swear that a squirrel is playing head games with my dog. He's been stalking our house for three days now, and his favorite move is to jump up on the railing of the front steps, in EXACTLY the spot he needs to be for my dog to see him through the window, and then proceeds to screech wildly and whip his tail in frenzied circles.

This drives Alex to spinning in frenzied circles and growling very menacingly, and if I were a squirrel I'd probably be frightened, though somehow I suspect that this squirrel understands the concept of windows as barriers and knows the dog can't get to him. Of course, this usually happens at the exact moment that I'm trying to create a peaceful nursing environment in the living room.

This happened again just a few minutes ago, except this time the squirrel upped the ante by taunting Alex while he had a huge nut stuffed in his mouth, as if to say, Ha ha ha, don't you wish YOU had a nut, too?

And Alex stared sadly out the window as though remembering that he used to have two nuts, actually, until his mean owners told the vet to cut them off.

And how are you today? Tell me you've brushed your teeth and I'll be totally jealous.

What? You brushed your hair, too? Calm down, you OVERACHIEVER- it's only 11:30 in the afternoon!

Onesie courtesy of Babelbabe. ;)

Scenes from New Motherhood

2008-09-26T12:53:00.002-04:00

I love this little boy. Love, love, love.

My infant son inspires me sing silly songs like this:
He’s my baby
Bless my baby
Tastes good with gravy
Don’t mean maybe!

I could kiss those cheeks over and over again.

Cry. Cry, cry, cry. We are both crying.

This is hard. This is the hardest and best thing I’ve ever done.

I think of that scene from Juno in which Jennifer Garner is holding the baby in the hospital nursery and asks Allison Janney, “How do I look?” and Allison Janney replies kindly, “Like a new mom. Scared shitless.”

So tired. Sleep when the baby sleeps! Except that I want to unload the dishwasher and check my email and, I don’t know, maybe I should take a shower? I haven’t showered in three days. That’s disgusting, and yet I don’t want to waste my time that way.

Since when is personal hygiene a waste of time? Holy cats.

First outing alone in the car with the baby. I carefully obey the speed limit. I get to the grocery store and look around for other moms in the parking lot. There are none. I fumble with the car seat until I figure out how to secure it to the shopping cart. This feels like a major accomplishment.

I remember how Mike’s cousin was too scared to take her baby anywhere for several months. Suddenly, that doesn’t seem so odd.

Still, I don’t want to be her.

Shop. Shop quickly before the baby wakes up and wants to eat! I keep one hand on the cart at all times, lest someone try to steal my baby. How did my mom manage with three children under four and two shopping carts full of stuff?

Cashier asks if I would be willing to trade my baby for groceries. This makes me smile and I am grateful to her. I feel spunky enough to stop for coffee on the way home.

Back home in one piece. No one smashed into my car, no airplane parts fell from the sky, no noticeable earthquakes.

It’s been three weeks. Such a long time, and yet no time at all.

Scared shitless, but moving forward.

Birth Story, Part Three

2008-09-25T20:43:00.007-04:00

(Part One)
(Part Two)

I’m guessing it was only a couple of minutes that we waited for the nurse to take me to my room, but it seemed like much longer. We later found out that L&D was unusually busy that night at the small hospital. Over the course of my labor and birth, ten babies would be born.

Pausing once for a contraction, we made our way to my room. I took a quick look around and saw that the room looked exactly like the one we’d been shown on our tour a couple of months earlier. The next day I found out that it was the nicest, biggest room in L&D, the one usually reserved for the births of hospital employees. I got it because it was the only room available when we arrived. Impeccable timing! Too bad I was in too much pain to appreciate it. All I cared about was getting through the required 20 minutes of fetal monitoring so I could get in the shower.

They hooked me up to the monitor, and I sat on the edge of the bed while they checked the baby’s heart rate and confirmed my name and birth date and snapped hospital ID bracelets onto my wrist. I still couldn’t believe that I was going to have my baby, but it must be happening if they were giving me a bracelet, right?

The baby was doing fine. Margie the midwife came in to check me. I was glad she was on duty that night, since she's one of my favorite midwives.

“You’re six centimeters and 100% effaced!” she announced. “Great job.”

I was a little disappointed, as I was hoping to be further along. But I pushed the number out of my head and made my way to the bathroom so I could get in the shower. I felt like I was underwater, moving slowly. Margie came in with me and asked if I wanted any pain medication.

“No,” I told her. "No meds."

“She’s planning to go without,” Mike explained.

She and the nurses never offered it again.

I stripped down, Mike got into his bathing suit, and we got in the shower. Cathy the doula used the massaging shower head to move the hot water over my back and belly, which felt great.

“She’s done this before!” I remember saying to Mike.

I still wished for a tub, but the hot shower made things much better. I’m not sure how long we were in there- it might have been an hour or two. Cathy asked if I wanted to sit on the shower seat or the birth ball while the shower ran. I tried both, but standing and leaning on Mike made the pain more bearable. I took a deep breath as each contraction began, and breathed slowly and deeply through each one as I made low, guttural noises. My throat would be very sore the next day from doing this for so many hours. Cathy had plugged the aromatherapy machine in, and I smelled oranges. The ocean sounds & meditation music CD was playing in the background. The lights were dimmed and I was only aware of myself, Mike, and the doula.

At some point I got too hot, and we got out of the shower. I changed into a hospital gown. Cathy asked if I wanted her to call Margie so she could check me, but I said no. If I hadn’t progressed, I didn’t want to know. Every once in a while Margie or a nurse would come in and check the baby’s heartbeat with the portable Doppler.

I walked the room for a while, and when a contraction came I would hold onto Mike and sway while Cathy massaged my back. I vomited several times, though there was nothing left in my stomach. Since my mom was busy recording parts of the labor on our camcorder, Mike’s mom was in charge of keeping a supply of ice chips and fetching things we needed from the suitcase.

At some point, I stopped walking and switched to sitting on the end of the bed and clasping Mike’s hands in mine as he stood and pulled rhythmically on my arms, while Cathy massaged my lower back with firm, downward movements. For several hours that was the only way I could manage, focusing on just one contraction at a time. Mike and Cathy kept going and going. Any time I called for them, they were there in an instant.

Time had no meaning that night. It was as though Mike and I were in another world. There was no clock in the room and I was glad, because I didn’t want to break my concentration by focusing on how much time had or hadn’t passed. But every once in a while I would hear a nurse or one of the moms say, “It’s midnight.” “It’s 1 a.m.” and I would marvel at how the night seemed to be both standing still and passing at warp speed.

At some point I consented to have Margie check me and I was 8 centimeters dilated. I got back in the shower, and we stayed in for nearly an hour. After I got out, I walked the room again. I went to the bassinet that was ready and waiting for my baby, and touched the blanket inside. I saw a picture hanging on the wall, that Got Milk? ad with Mariska Hargitay and her baby. I remember thinking, Didn’t she have her baby, like, YEARS ago?

The room was still dimly lit, smelling of citrus and with the sound of the ocean in the background. I wasn't actively aware of the ocean sounds CD while it was playing, but any time it stopped, I noticed immediately and asked for someone to start it again. Cathy and my family later told me that Margie and the nurses were impressed with how serene the environment was. Apparently they were also impressed with how "polite" I was. I laughed when I heard that. I tend to be a fairly quiet, introverted person, so wouldn't it make sense that I would be the same way in labor?

From time to time I would hear a baby cry as it was born. That was really encouraging, but at some point I also heard a woman's screams coming from down the hall.

"Shut the door!" I called. Cathy took care of it.

The contractions were coming faster, and I was glad because I hoped that meant I would soon be at 10 centimeters. The pain enveloped me, and during the contractions I moaned softly, “Please help me. Please help me.”

“You have lots of people here to help you,” Mike would answer. “I will help you.”

Mike didn’t worry when I said this (although apparently it was ripping my mom's heart to shreds). We had a code word that I would use if I couldn’t take it any more and really needed medication. A code word allows the laboring woman to say anything she needs to, to beg for drugs or to say she can’t do it, all the while knowing that the secret word is there if she really needs it. I can honestly say that I never thought about using it.

Sometimes I asked Cathy, “How much longer?”, even though I knew she couldn’t really answer with any accuracy. But she would say, “It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“An hour?” I would gasp. “Okay. I can do this for another hour.”

“Let’s go for another hour,” she would say.

Margie came back into the room and asked if I wanted her to check me. I said yes, certain that I must be at 10. My heart sank when I saw her shake her head. After nearly three hours, I was still at eight centimeters.

“Do you want me to break your bag of waters?” she asked. “It could make the contractions harder to handle, but it might speed things along, especially if you're getting tired.”

Another contraction passed, and I told her yes. Do it.

(Part Four)

Birth Story, Part Two

2008-09-19T15:53:00.006-04:00

(Part One)

We sat down in Catherine the midwife's office. I fidgeted in my seat, as I was feeling crampy and uncomfortable from the membrane stripping.

“So…” Catherine began. She knew I wasn’t going to like this. “The physicians usually talk about scheduling an induction when you’re one week past your due date. For you, that would give us an induction date of Friday, September 5th.”

I nodded. “But my cycles tend to be longer than 28 days. I actually calculated my due date as being today, September 2. Couldn’t we add a few days to the deadline? Please?"

Catherine smiled wryly. “Don’t confuse the doctors with facts.” She looked down at her desk calendar. “Okay, here’s what we can do. If the doctor beats me up a little for not clearing this with her first, well… I can take it.”

She made some notes. “We’ll schedule another office visit for this Thursday, day after tomorrow. If you end up still being pregnant that day, we can strip your membranes again. Then we’ll schedule an ultrasound for Friday to check on the baby. If you make it to that appointment, they’ll check to make sure the baby has enough amniotic fluid and isn’t too stressed. If everything looks good, we’ll wait until Monday for the induction.”

“And if everything doesn’t look good?” I asked.

“Take your bag with you and be prepared to go straight to the hospital.”

I agreed, and Catherine called the hospital to schedule the induction for Monday morning, September 8th. Meanwhile, I silently begged the baby to come soon.

Mike and I stopped at a grocery store on the way home to buy some Kleenex. I threw a few other things in the cart, whatever struck my fancy- fresh pineapple, oatmeal cookies from the bakery, and a frozen Amy’s Organic Indian dinner to have for lunch. Every so often I had to stop and lean against Mike as contractions washed over me.

We didn’t get too excited, though. This had happened once before.

At home, I heated up my Indian food but only got halfway through. “Oh God,” I said. “This is disgusting. I can’t eat another bite.”

My mom made me some plain scrambled eggs and toast, saying that I should try to eat something in case this was real labor. I managed as much as I could, but suddenly my appetite was gone. The pineapple and cookies sat on the counter, untouched.

The contractions were still coming, but we weren’t timing them. Every time I felt one coming I went to the stairs and leaned on my knees and elbows, moaning, my face buried in the carpet. Mike called the doula, who told us to start timing them. They were coming three minutes apart, each one feeling like a mirror image of the last.

By now it was 2:00 in the afternoon, and Mike called the doula back and asked her to come to the house. We moved upstairs to our bedroom and I paced the room, stopping to lean on my dresser each time the contractions hit. Sometimes I sat on the exercise ball and leaned forward on the bed. The contractions felt like an intense squeezing around my lower abdomen and back. Alex sat near me on the bed, sniffing my head and licking my hand.

Mike called Catherine the midwife, who encouraged us to stay home for as long as possible. “I’ll call and tell them that you’ll be in eventually, but if you want a natural birth, try to stick it out at home for a while.” She wanted to speak with me, but I could only mumble at her.

"You're sounding like you're in pain," she said as we hung up. "This is good!"

Our doula, Cathy, arrived. She had brought all her tricks with her, including an aromatherapy machine. She knew I liked citrus and had bought some citrus oil for me. Soon the room was bathed in the fruity scent. Mike put our special CD of ocean sounds and meditation music on the CD player. My mom hovered nearby with ice chips and a trashcan, as I was gradually throwing up every bit of the Indian food I’d consumed earlier.

(a word of advice: if you even THINK you might be going into labor, don’t eat curry. You are welcome.)

Somehow, four and a half hours ran and blended together and soon it was after 6 p.m. The contractions were now less than two minutes apart. I was pretty much not speaking at all, so Cathy asked if I wanted to stay home or if I wanted to go to the hospital.

“I want to stay here,” I breathed. Suddenly, getting in a car and driving to the hospital seemed like the worst idea in the world. I couldn’t bear the thought of seatbelts and bumpy roads. I wanted only to climb into our giant bathtub and float in warm water. “I wish I was having a home birth!”

Everyone laughed. “I understand,” said Cathy. “But we’re not equipped for that.”

After some back and forth, I told Cathy that my biggest concern was getting to the hospital before I went into transition. I didn’t want to be in the car when that happened.

After a few more contractions, I decided that we should leave.

Mike called his mom and told her to meet us at the hospital, since I’d invited her to be there for the birth. There was a flurry of activity as the car was packed, the dog was taken out to go to the bathroom, and our next-door neighbor was called upon to care for him that night. Mike and I got into our car, my mom ran to hers, and Cathy followed behind us.

On the way to the hospital I remember gazing at the drivers and pedestrians around us. They were going about their business without realizing the huge thing that was happening to me. I wondered if anyone could tell that there was a woman in labor in the front seat.

We reached the hospital shortly after 7 p.m. I remember stopping in the parking lot and holding onto the trunk of a tree on the way in, moaning as another contraction squeezed my body. The thought of “Hey- I’m a tree hugger!” drifted somewhere in the recesses of my mind, but I couldn’t laugh. I was aware of my mom recording me on our camcorder, and Mike stroked my back.

On we moved, through the front entrance of the hospital. I was vaguely aware of people watching me as they passed. “This is it!” I told myself. “You are having a baby!”

Once inside, my group moved to the front desk. I heard the receptionist calling for a wheelchair.

“No!” I said feebly. “No wheelchair.” Standing was the only thing that felt bearable.

“What?” the woman asked, confused. “She doesn’t want a wheelchair?”

“No chair,” I gasped, pressing my forehead against the wall and rocking back and forth. “NO CHAIR!” Mike called to her. She backed off.

After that contraction passed we got on the elevator, but another one hit just as the doors opened on the labor & delivery floor. I stood with my face pressed into the cool metal wall as the door pinged and attempted to close over and over again. Finally I could move, and we got off. “Sorry,” I mumbled to the people who had been waiting to board.

We had to be buzzed into L&D by the nurses. One of them asked for my photo ID, and I tossed my purse to Mike’s mom as another contraction washed over me. She ran down the hall, waving my driver’s license. As the pain slowly ebbed, I realized that I was standing in the doorway of the waiting room with an audience.

“Ow,” a little boy said sadly, looking at me.

“Ow is right,” I told him, trying to smile.

It seemed to take an eternity, but finally a nurse came to take us to our room. We were off to the races!

(Part Three)

Boob Wars: Liz Strikes Back

2008-09-18T11:52:00.007-04:00

(alternate title: More Than You Ever Wanted to Know About My Boobs)

So after my tearful post on Monday, we saw a lactation consultant that our doula recommended on Tuesday morning. God, I was dreading it, as I was already in pain and I couldn't bear the thought of "practicing" over and over. But this woman was wonderful, just the right combination of authority and compassion, and she didn't mind when I snotted all over her shirt. We practiced on the least sore side, and though I wanted to shrivel up and die the first time, it did indeed get better and better. She recommended that I alternate breastfeeding on the left (less sore) side and giving the Lion expressed breastmilk from the right side.

We're using a bottle for that, and there is no nipple confusion in sight. I mean, I'd been using a nipple shield on both sides for two or three days, and what is that if not a bottle nipple that you attach to your body? My son is not easily confused, I guess.

The lactaction consultant confirmed that my supply is fabulous, as if I needed anyone else to confirm that. GOT MILK? Yes, gallons and gallons o' milk! Will end world hunger with my awesome milk supply! Come one, come all! Just PLEASE BE GENTLE.

Mike had to help me the first couple times after our appointment, as I was highly anxious about pain and all that. He'd recorded the session on our camcorder, so I watched it a few dozen times and then finally worked up the courage to do it. Now I can do it by myself, though I'm still clumsy enough that I can't imagine doing it in public anytime soon.

And I just have to say that Mike is just... the best thing ever. He's been so supportive and wonderful, and still tells me that I look beautiful when I'm sitting there hooked up like a cow to my breast pump with milk stains all down my pants. I totally don't believe him, but I appreciate it all the same.

SO, it looked like things were getting better, just like the LC said they would, when I developed an infection in my right breast. OF COURSE I DID. So now the Lion and I are on antibiotics and I'm still pumping that side until it looks less... scary.

Anyway, do you see why women truly need maternity leave? It's for shit like this. I'm finally feeling better down under and now I've got a new world of pain happening upstairs.

And here I thought I'd be sitting around getting pedicures and eating bon bons all day.

Good thing he's so beautiful. He is worth it, every single gnashing of my teeth.

Love Hurts

2008-09-15T14:59:00.003-04:00

We interrupt this birth story with news of cracked, bleeding nipples requiring use of a nipple shield. Tell me I am not a shitty mother already, because I know, I KNOW- if we were doing this right, it wouldn't hurt. It would be like taking a trip to Disney World or visiting my favorite spa multiple times a day, right?

At least, if that's what your experience with breastfeeding was, I don't want to know. I just can't understand how having a small person sucking on your breasts for hours a day wouldn't hurt after a while, since said breasts were previously used to a quiet, peaceful existence. Especially when the owner of said breasts has very pale, sensitive skin?

I soldier on, don't you worry- no one is starving in this house. Supply is fine, it's just the hose that's a bit busted. But I can't really bear the thought of seeing a lactation consultant and practicing latching on again, as I am doing everything that two lactation consultants told me to do in the hospital.

Insider tip- buy stock in Lansinoh lanolin. When you retire early you'll have me and my bloody nipples to thank.

Birth Story, Part One

2008-09-13T16:07:00.007-04:00

My mom left early this morning to drive back to Florida, and the house is so quiet without her. My dad had also been here for a couple of days. He was up in New York during the birth, helping to care for my sister after her accident (she ended up needing surgery and is now enduring hours and hours of physical therapy to get full range of motion back in her arm). When she was finally able to get around on her own, Dad took a bus down from NYC to DC on Thursday and had been holding and kissing his grandson non-stop until last night.

We said goodbye last night, just in case we were still sleeping when they left this morning. But around 5:30 a.m. I heard them wheeling their luggage to the car and I scooped Leo up in my arms and ran outside barefoot so they could say goodbye one last time. We were all crying, except for Leo.

I am trying not to cry right now. I think back to when my mom offered to come help me for these three weeks, and how I briefly wondered if it would be better for Mike and I to muddle through without a witness. Not that I didn't want my mom here, but I thought I might need my space.

I couldn't have been more wrong. I honestly don't know how I would have survived those first days without her. Mike is home from work for one more week, and then I will be on my own.

I am sort of terrified.

Anyway, to distract myself from her absence, I am working on my birth story. Here is part one. And please don't worry about me- I really am feeling better every day. I just wish there was some way to hurry these hormones on their way.

In the meantime, this is making me smile:

Birth Story, Part One

We had scheduled our last midwife appointment for Thursday, August 28, 2008—the day before my estimated due date. At the appointment I was 90% effaced and still just one measly centimeter dilated. A little disappointing, but I tried to remind myself that it didn’t mean anything. I could go into labor right here, on this examination table! Like, RIGHT NOW! Or… now! Or… in thirty seconds! Or I could go into labor on my way to work and have to call for an ambulance and end up having a stranger deliver my baby on the side of the highway! I could be on the evening news!

(this is my version of positive thinking)

Back to reality. Catherine the midwife was checking for the baby’s heartbeat with the Doppler. The seconds ticked slowly by as she moved the Doppler over my belly, looking for that familiar whoosh whoosh whoosh. Back and forth, back and forth. I remained calm until her fourth attempt, during which my breath came quickly and my eyes filled with tears. Oh, god. WHERE ARE YOU, BABY? Here is was, the realization of my worst fears! My baby was dead, my precious baby, and I didn’t even get to meet him! And then suddenly Catherine moved the Doppler to the right and

WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH

I burst into tears and Mike rushed up to the examination table with a box of Kleenex.

“You scared the shit out of me!” I sobbed to Catherine.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Sometimes they like to hide. He’s very much alive and his heart is beating like crazy!”

Then it was time for Catherine to strip my membranes, after which she pulled out her gloved hand and announced gleefully, “Look, blood!” Mike paled slightly. “That’s good,” Catherine assured him.

I smiled gamely.

We made a follow-up appointment for the Tuesday after Labor Day weekend, just in case nothing happened before then. Before I left, Catherine remarked to Mike, “You both want a natural birth, and I think this one can do it.” She patted me on the shoulder and I felt my eyes well up again.

Have I mentioned that I love midwives?

I’d been planning to go to work after the appointment, but soon felt so crampy that I had to go home instead. My mom had been at our house since Monday evening, eagerly anticipating the beginning of my labor. And within a couple of hours, it seemed that all of us would get our wish. The general cramping had given way to contractions that lasted all day and had me hunching over the shopping cart as my mom and I wound through the aisles of Target and Wegman’s. The contractions were irregular, but painful. We called the doula, who agreed that the signs were good and encouraged me to sleep if possible. That evening I took a hot bath to help me relax, and then drifted off.

At some point I woke up in the blackness of my bedroom and realized that the contractions had stopped. No. NO! I got up and walked briskly around the room. I marched up and down the stairs. But my uterus was quiet once again.

Friday morning I woke up depressed and without even a stitch of pain. The long holiday weekend stretched ahead of me, and we had no plans besides, you know, HAVING A BABY. I knew I would not be pregnant forever, and yet I couldn’t help believing it. Ridiculously, assurances from my mother of “You WILL have this baby!” were enormously helpful.

“I WILL have this baby, I WILL have this baby!” I repeated to myself as needed. I wandered around the baby’s room, touching his clothes and crib and trying to picture myself in the rocking chair with a baby in my arms.

On Labor Day Monday, there was still no baby. My mom and I went to see Mama Mia! as a distraction. I normally despise musicals, so that tells you how desperate I was. The baby kicked crazily during each ABBA song. “My son likes disco!” I whispered to her, and we watched as the popcorn bucket hopped and bumped along my belly.

Finally, it was Tuesday morning and time for the “just-in-case” appointment. DAMMIT. I smiled grimly at the receptionist and told her that it was nothing personal, but I was really hoping that I wouldn't see her again for six more weeks. She nodded and said she would pray harder this time.

Mike and I mentally prepared to hear that there was no further progress, but to my surprise, Catherine announced that I was 100% effaced and 3 centimeters dilated. Seems my cervix had not just been playing around last Thursday! I was elated.

She stripped my membranes again (again showing me the bloody glove), and then handed me a pad and told us to meet her in her office. We had to talk about scheduling an induction.

(Part Two)

Surviving

2008-09-10T18:40:00.006-04:00

I haven't had a tear-free day yet, but things are getting better and better. No one told me that the days following birth can make you feel like someone scraped all your skin off with a vegetable peeler.

What? You did tell me? I guess I didn't believe you. I don't know if it's possible to anticipate what such raw emotion will feel like.

We took the Lion to his first pediatrician appointment on Wednesday and he was already above his birth weight, which means that I am doing fine in the breastfeeding department (despite the hospital lactation consultant's prediction). More on breastfeeding later- o, the trials and tribulations! Let's just say that undersupply was NOT my problem, and that cabbage is good for more than just making eggrolls.

Lion is such an easygoing baby, sleeping well and rarely crying. A good disposition, the pediatrician said. Funny, I remember the vet saying the same thing about Alex.

Speaking of Alex, he is fascinated by the baby and wants to know his whereabouts at all times. He's very protective. Here he is in his "I'm the Big Brother!" shirt that my mom put on him for our homecoming:

Keeping watch, as usual:

More soon. Thanks so much for all the good wishes!

Meet Leo

2008-09-07T11:07:00.004-04:00

A hare, upon meeting a lioness one day, said reproachfully, "I have always a great number of children while you have only one or two now and then." The lioness replied, "That is true, but my one child is a lion."

an Ethiopian fable written by Lokman (c. 1100 B.C.)

Leo arrived at 3:24 a.m. on Wednesday morning, September 3rd weighing 8 pounds, 3 ounces and measuring at 21 inches long. (can we say IN YOUR FACE to all the people who predicted I would have a tiny baby?) I labored at home with Mike, my mom, and our doula all Tuesday afternoon, then we left for the hospital that evening. I was able to have the natural birth I wanted, and it was beautiful.

I'll write more about that later, I promise. Right now I can't think about it without sobbing. (It's a good kind of sobbing, I promise)

We got home from the hospital on Friday afternoon. That evening and yesterday were really rough, hormonally-speaking, but today I'm starting to feel more normal.

So yes, the baby's name is Leo. His middle name is Sir Paul's last name. A neonatologist had to be present for the birth because there was meconium in the amniotic fluid, and when Leo came out he pronounced, "He came out like a lion!" Mike's mom and my mom were there and everyone was crying.

My little lion is beautiful.

Labor Day- it would be SO appropriate, don't you think?

2008-09-01T09:27:00.006-04:00

Sorry, sorry! I thought you guys would be partying all Labor Day Weekend long and not even remember that I've got a ripe fetus in my belly over here.

I've been in false-start labor land, where the contractions start up and really start to hurt for a while and then disappear. Mike had to put the kibosh on people calling for updates, like, WE WILL LET YOU KNOW WHEN THERE'S ANYTHING WORTH KNOWING. I mean, would a good Italian boy lie to his own grandmother?

I think not.

We thought Thursday night was going to be the night. A couple hours after the midwife swept my membranes the contractions started coming, owwww, and we called the doula and said maybe this is it, as they lasted all day and evening, and I even got the point where I had to take a hot bath because I was so uncomfortable. We even re-packed the suitcase and watered all the plants and my mom barely slept a wink, she was so excited. But sometime during the night they went away.

My uterus just really, really likes to practice. If practice makes perfect, I now have the most perfect uterus in all the land.

Anyway, my own calculations (months ago) put my due date a bit later than the 29th, so I was mentally prepared to go "late". But so many people vowed he would come early that I guess I had come to expect an early birth, too, which may explain why I turned into a sobbing snot-face on Saturday night after another stretch of phantom labor.

Mike: He'll come... we just have to wait.

Liz: Phhhwaaaaaaaaah!

Grandma: Is Liz in labor yet?

Liz: FUCK OFF, NANA!

That was my low point. I've since stopped cussing out innocent elderly people.

(you'd never guess that I studied gerontological social work in college, right?)

We're excited, I'm patient and in good spirits (for now), and if nothing happens by tomorrow morning, we have another midwife appointment, during which I expect her to get aggressive with my cervix again.

Keep your fingers crossed.

(LABOR DAY, baby! Go toward the light!)

There's no bumper sticker for this one

2008-08-28T10:14:00.003-04:00

I GOT MY MEMBRANES SWEPT IN VIRGINIA!

90% effaced, still 1 cm dilated.

The midwife swept my membranes this morning, and the whole time I had to fight the urge to call her Sensei.

Kreese: Sweep the leg.

Johnny: (looks almost capable of human emotion)

Kreese: DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT?

Johnny: No, Sensei!

Kreese: NO MERCY.

Yes, it was as uncomfortable as they say, but compared to what I'll feel later, it was downright enjoyable. So I enjoyed the sweeping of my membranes as much as one is capable of enjoying such a thing.

39 weeks and 6 days.

NO MERCY.

You think?

2008-08-26T06:37:00.009-04:00

I thought Sunday night was the night. I really did. I was getting contractions that were pretty uncomfortable, pain radiating from my lower back to my abdomen. But after an hour, they stopped.

So I went to work in the morning and proceeded to exhaust myself. Not that it takes much, mind you. But my back was killing me and I was feeling crampy and so I was still thinking, "Well, maybe today!"

(Baby says, HAAAAAAAA! Also: hiccup.)

I should have worn a big shirt that said YES, I'M STILL HERE!, as every. single. person. who walked past the reference desk exclaimed, "You're still here?" New students who don't already know when my due date is smiled and asked when I'm due, barely able to conceal their horror when I answered, "Friday!"

Is it that crazy to work up until your due date (or beyond)? So long as I can make it through the weeks by taking a sick day here and there, I don't want to waste my maternity leave by sitting around at home.

There was a very amusing day when I walked into a staff meeting and heard a chorus of gasps. "I can't believe you came in!" my boss said. I'd been out the previous day due to a slight cold and general infirmity NOS, so I said, "It was nothing! I'm fine."

Later I found out that there was a miscommunication between her and the person I talked to when I called in sick, and somehow she got the idea that I was 8 centimeters dilated. In a fit of excitement she told a bunch of other people, so when I showed up at work the next day everyone thought I was freaking Wonder Woman.

It was kind of awesome. Yes, Wonder Liz can fly! Leap tall buildings in a single bound! Whip her own uterus into submission! Eight centimeters? It's nothing, I'm fine!

(Baby says, HAAAAAAAA!)

I have no idea if I'm any further dilated, as my next appointment is this Thursday. I have to admit I'll be pretty disappointed if there's been no progress, so I'm mentally prepared for the worst news.

Midwife: Sorry, Liz- your cervix has regressed so remarkably that you're not even pregnant anymore.

Liz: Dammit.

I can take it. Am Wonder Woman. Though seriously- I keep drifting into this dreamlike state where I feel certain I'll be pregnant forever. I don't mean that in a I'm so miserable and this baby is never coming out! way. Rather, I think I can't imagine existing in any other body. I am Pregnant. That is my identity. I am simply destined to carry a bowling ball in my belly for the rest of my life.

In other TMI, Mike had to go out and get some more KY for our perineal massage. He was planning to buy just the KY, nothing else, so I wondered if he would go through the self-checkout line to avoid embarrassment. But would that really avoid embarrassment? Those machines talk, and they talk loudly.

Machine: THANK you! Please place your KY JELLY on the BELT!

Machine: ERROR! ERROR! Please RE-SCAN your personal! LUBRICANT!

Machine: (lights flash and a siren wails) ALERT! ALERT! Please call a store clerk! to ASSIST you with your SEXUAL ENHANCEMENT AID!

Turns out he just took it to a cashier and wasn't embarrassed in the least. What a man.

GAH!

2008-08-21T08:08:00.004-04:00

So yesterday I was walking down the hall at work when I spotted a someone coming my way. She looked familiar, and I figured I'd probably helped her with some research at some point. I smiled as I passed by.

"Ooooh!" she said, stopping and eyeing my belly. "You're pregnant!"

(I've been getting a lot of that lately, as people who have been gone for the summer return to campus)

"Yes," I said. "I'm due a week from Friday, on the 29th."

"Just like your twin!" she beamed.

I paused for a moment. There are identical twin sisters in my workplace and they're roughly my age, so I thought maybe she was mistaking me for one of them (even though we look nothing alike).

"No," I told her. "I don't have a twin."

"Yes, you do-ooo!" she sang.

And Internet, suddenly it hit me. I knew who she was, but it was too late to run away. Or hobble away, to be more accurate.

"TORI SPELLING!" she crowed. "Your TWIN, TORI SPELLING, just had a baby!"

I stared at her, wondering if she would ever, ever get tired of this conversation.

"SERIOUSLY, no one has ever told you that you look like Tori Spelling?"

And figuring that any jury in the country would buy a plea of temporary pregnancy-induced insanity, I ripped her head off and ate it for lunch.

A promise

2008-08-20T14:58:00.006-04:00

I can't chat for long, but I wanted to let you know that I'll do my best to post here when I go into labor. Because that's the kind of Internet friend I am, see? I'll post that the contractions are coming, oh yes they are, and then I'll let you sit for a day or two and freak out while you wait for the birth announcement.

It's the least I can do.

Between the impending birth, my parents dealing with Hurricane Fay in Florida, and my sister's accident last night, this is too much excitement for one family! (my sis had just returned to her apartment building in Brooklyn and carried her bike up to the third floor when she lost her balance and fell backwards down the stairs, breaking her arm and several bones in one foot. Some of you may remember that my brother was hit by a cab while biking in Manhattan a while back. Perhaps bikes and my family don't mix? Just to be safe- I will not get on a bike today.)

Later.

80% effaced, 1 cm dilated

2008-08-18T12:19:00.004-04:00

A quick update, since every move I make (or don't make) has people gasping, "Are you in labor?!"

I have learned to preface every phone call with, "I'M NOT IN LABOR." The other morning I called my mom and was uttering those exact words as I heard my dad exclaim in the background, "IS SHE IN LABOR?"

Of course, they're more interested than most, since my mom is hoping to be here for the birth and if the baby comes early, she's got her suitcase packed and will immediately jump into the car for the 12-hour drive. She's got directions to the hospital and the phone number and knows which floor L&D is on- we are PREPARED.

So, anyway, I'm not in labor. I'm still going to work every day, where people eye me fearfully. Mike and I hit some garage sales on Saturday morning to scavenge for baby clothes, and he got a taste of what I hear 10 million times a day:

"You don't look 38 weeks!"

"You're so tiny!"

"That baby is REALLY LOW. Must by a boy/girl/alien."

"You'll go into labor on Saturday- there's a full moon."

"You must be having a girl- I can tell by your facial structure."

(on that last one- WTF??)

Anyhow, we wait. I'm feeling good and we're excited. Stay tuned. :)

She's a maniac

2008-08-11T06:12:00.007-04:00

You're getting a post this morning because Alex puked at 5:45 a.m. and I couldn't see how going back to bed for 45 minutes was going to ease my fatigue in any significant way.

In the darkness, I heard the soft gulping noises that indicate **PUKING IMMINENT**. Mike tends to be a heavy sleeper while even the beating of a humingbird's wings could break my delicate slumber, so I'm typically the one who hears the pre-puke noises and snatches Alex from the end of the bed, rushing him onto the safe (easy-to-clean) tile of our bathroom floor.

I guess it's been quite a while since this has happened, because when the gulping started I tried to bolt from the bed, only to find that I was stuck pitifully in the land between lying and sitting, my regrettably NON-Go-Go-Gadget arms outstretched toward the heaving dog.

(I CAN get out of bed by myself, but these days it takes a while)

Fortunately, Mike somehow woke up, saw me flopping like a catfish on a hot, dry dock, and immediately sprang into action.

Unfortunately, the puking started mid-sprint to the bathroom.

Fortunately, the puke landed on a pillow, and not on the off-white area rug.

Unfortunately, it also ran down Mike's leg.

"Oh well," he said, as we began the clean-up. "This definitely won't be the last time I have puke all over me."

~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, the baby's name. Part of his name was correctly identified, but no one came up with the other part. I'll wait and tell you after he's born, just in case we change our minds. Which is impossible, actually, because we already have a blanket with his name embroidered across it, and that's like cancelling your wedding after the invitations have already gone out. I mean, what the HELL are you going to tell Aunt Millie? That she has to return the tea pot?

It's on the blanket. That's his name.

To be serious- we quite like it, but I won't be using it on this blog after the initial announcement. I don't want his future bosses to Google his name and find out what a weirdo his mother is.

~~~~~~~~~~

I'm here to tell you that the nesting instinct is not a myth. On Friday night, as Mike nodded off on the couch (you are so jealous of our exciting nightlife, best to just ADMIT IT), I was struck by the sudden, urgent need to refill every soap dispenser in the house. Then I had to wipe down all the sinks, and clean the tops of the various q-tip holders, etc., because you know how they get dusty and grimy over time and I can't stand that.

Note that we have four bathrooms in our house, so this took a while.

Then I noticed that the kitchen faucet had seen better days, so I polished it. I POLISHED MY FAUCET.

And on and on until 10:30 or so, when I woke Mike up so we could go to bed.

On Saturday, the madness continued. Here is a partial list of my accomplishments:

cleaned all the baseboards and moldings in the house
vaccumed kitchen floor, including under the fridge and in the tiny pantry
mopped kitchen floor- twice
mopped floor of main bathroom
cleaned bathroom's mirror
took count of all the spare toilet paper rolls in the house (six; NOT ENOUGH FOR MY COMFORT)
scrubbed microwave inside and out
scrubbed freezer and reorganized contents of (hey, no one wanted that homemade spaghetti sauce from 3/07, right?)
cleaned any visible yuck from inside fridge
cleaned stovetop
de-crumbed toaster oven
cleaned blender (I haven't made margaritas in a long time- it was a tad dusty)
did four loads of laundry
sterilized 10 baby bottles and their assorted parts
went swimming at the pool

And though my back was killing me at the end of the day, I was not nearly as tired as I expected to be. All this from a woman who has barely had the energy to get up from the couch.

Weirdest thing ever.

37 weeks. I am not playing around.

Photo extravaganza! (or: Better Late than Never)

2008-08-04T08:59:00.018-04:00

Oh, Internet. I've had so many ideas for great posts, and none of the energy to sit down and write them. Bearette aptly described third trimester fatigue as a "lack of life force".

Yes, that's exactly it.

But otherwise, I simply cannot complain. Things are going well, I am healthy and I have to assume that the baby is, too. He gets hiccups several times a day, poor little guy, but he continues to move around and amaze me and doesn't kick my rib cage too much anymore. I'm still going to work every day, although it took only the smallest bit of encouragement from my doula to "rest when needed" to call in to work last Wednesday night and say that I was turning off my alarm and would be in whenever I woke up on Thursday morning.

The car seats were installed with only a smattering of expletives, the essentials have been purchased, and Mike and I have been doing our nightly perineal massage. If you don't know what that last one is, you can Google it, though you may not want to do so at work (the massage OR the Googling of, just to be perfectly clear).

But enough about my perineum... you'd rather see pictures of the baby's room, right?

This isn't technically in the baby's room, it's in my room. But this is the bassinet that my brother, sister and I all slept in as infants. And yes, I know that the use of old bassinets and cribs is strongly discouraged by the President of the United States and many other important people, but I think it will be okay. Really.

Here's the baby's room. It's quite small, but it will work just fine.

The crib, a gift from Mike's dad:

Baby's view of the mobile:

Rocking chair, a gift from Mike's mom (my mom crocheted the blanket on the back):

My antique dresser-turned-changing table. How better to reward your furniture for decades of faithful service than to expose it to baby pee?

A picture of Mike and I with the pee stick. I assume we will replace this with a picture of the actual baby at some point.

Hanging above the door- Mike's mom made this for him when he was a baby:

Hanging inside the closet, a gift from Mike's brother. This is a clue to part of the baby's name. Anyone care to take a guess? (if you already know the name, you're disqualified. I mean, do I have to say that? Probably not. But I will anyway.)

Wee baby socks! Which I have managed to keep track of, thanks to you geniuses with your brilliant MESH BAG suggestion!

Wee baby clothes! Those little pants with the drawstring just slay me. We've gotten lots of items that sport lions... another clue to the baby's name.

BabelBabe was kind enough to send a boxful of much-needed baby clothing, things that her fourth and last son (or so she says) has outgrown. This is one of my favorite items:

And here's a onesie from Mike's brother. NOT one of my favorite items, but I figure the baby will be too young to be frightened by Gene Simmons and his bloody, snake-like tongue.

Swaddling for cheaters:

Stuff my friends said I should have:

Things my mother said were essential:

(is it clear yet that this nursery is powered by the suggestions of Other People?)

Hat and bib made by Lisa, who is currently in Malawi:

Cozy blanket that makes me laugh, from Bdogg:

Beautiful quilt made by Betsy:

Giraffe models the cloth diapers we'll be using at home:

Librarians have librarian friends who like to give books as gifts, and I love that. The baby has a small library already. (BTW, Bearette sent a really cute one that I can't show you, because it has the baby's name on it and I don't want to spoil the guessing game).

Note that while I did NOT use the safety strap on the changing pad while diapering the giraffe, I do have safety plugs in the outlets. I get half-credit, right?

So, we're ready, thanks in large part to the many kind and generous people in our lives, some of whom we've never even met. Thank you.

And meanwhile, we wait.

"Wow, that head is low."

2008-07-29T06:38:00.010-04:00

So sayeth the midwife at yesterday's appointment. I'm nearly 36 weeks and 50% effaced. I wouldn't know this if I hadn't already been undressed from the waist down for the Group B Strep test. But since I was, the midwife offered to check me.

"Sure, why not?" I said. The midwives don't routinely check you "down there", mostly because it's very uncomfortable for some women (although not for me) and if you're in the safety zone for delivery (usually 34 weeks or later, when most babies can survive without major problems) it doesn't really tell you much, as you could walk around partially effaced and dilated for weeks.

So who knows- I could remain 50% effaced with no further progress for four-ish more weeks, or it could mean that I'll go early. Mike and I started packing the bags and got the car seats installed over the weekend, just in case.

Two confessions:

#1: Sometimes I worry that the baby is lonely in there. I try to talk and sing to him a lot. So far Blackbird by the Beatles seems to be his favorite, although he gets really excited when Mike sings Dean Martin songs. Also, whenever I'm at home, I tend to pull my shirt up to keep my belly exposed. No, this isn't a great look, but as I told Mike, "Otherwise it feels like I'm keeping him under the bed!"

#2: Something you might not know about being pregnant is that a hormone called relaxin (don't you love it?) gets all jacked up with the mission of loosening the joints of your pelvis. The goal? For the baby to be able to fit through the birth canal. Between that and the baby's head being so low, walking makes me feel like my legs are about to pop off. I frequently envision this happening, leaving just the stump of my upper body sitting in the hallway at work as I frantically wave my arms at the security camera.

Speaking of work, my co-workers threw a lovely shower for me last week. The cake alone would have been enough-- it was a heavenly confection that rivaled my wedding cake (and I really loved my wedding cake- so much that I ate the entire top "anniversary" layer within two weeks of our honeymoon). I also got a number of nice things for the baby, including a gift certificate for three infant massage lessons. And the infant massage expert will come to our house!

If you've never heard of infant massage before, there are a number of organizations and institutions dedicated to it. It's supposed to have numerous benefits.

To round out this disjointed post, I need a good seque.

Uh, SPEAKING OF SOAP, a couple of weeks ago I made laundry soap using the recipe that Caro kindly emailed. It was super easy, and it took just a fraction of my ingredients supply to make a two gallons of the stuff. And it works. Just a little washing soda, some Borax, and grated laundry soap.

For some reason, Alex was obsessed with the Zote soap. I held it out so he could sniff it and the fool licked it, and tried to keep licking it, despite its obvious SOAPY SMELL. He probably would have devoured it if I'd put it in his food bowl.

I don't get it.

Mmm... soap!

Head down!

2008-07-22T11:06:00.005-04:00

The baby is indeed in the preferred position. The ultrasound tech tried valiantly to get a good picture of his face, but it wasn't easy, since he's pretty well down there and things are a bit crowded now. I was actually a little sore afterward, because she really had to be aggressive with the wand to get the pictures they needed.

Not that the picture of his face was necessary- that was purely for entertainment purposes.

In case you can't tell, his face is on the left and his hand is covering part of it, just to the side of his nose. Feel free to ignore everything on the right, as I have no idea what that is. According to my dad, it looks like my hip bone and part of my spine.

I'll take his word for it unless you have a better guess.

They took some more pictures of the calcification on his liver, and we'll find out more at our next midwife appointment. I'm not thinking about it too much anymore. It didn't look like it had gotten bigger, although we've already established that I'm an ultrasound interpretation moron, so what do I know?

I recently dreamed that my son was four years old already. He was sitting on the kitchen counter while I showed him how to make scrambled eggs.