What do I do all day?

My husband asked me the other day, "So, after I leave for work, what do you do all day?" I had to think really hard about it. I came up with nothing. After 6 months of motherhood, I'm STILL in my bathrobe at the end of the day, still not showered, still trying to empty the dishwasher in less than an hour, and the obvious: STILL tired.

I feel like a failure. How, please in god's name, tell me how does an entire day go by and I've hardly found time to go to the bathroom? I have tried several times to at least have some sort of dinner ready by the time my husband comes home so that we can have some semblance of normality. And my husband isn't picky. If I threw on the table a frozen pizza still in the box and an old carrot in a bowl for "salad" he would not complain. He loves me that much. AND... he would even say with complete sincerity, "Thanks for making me dinner." I don't even have to come close to June Cleaver-ville for acceptance.

It takes me five times as long to complete a task. I've been trying very hard to do some research on new car seats for the boy. This has been going on for about two weeks. Now the pressure is on because he's ounces away from being over the weight limit for the car seat we have now. However, two weeks ago I had "plenty of time" and yet I am no closer to making a decision. Every time I sit down at the computer, things just happen. I've also tried four times this week to add to my blog. And it's not like I can't think of what to write about. Trust me, my list is LONG... It's just that my ability to get sidetracked has greatly improved.

I know, I know. I will get all kinds of advice on how to manage my time better. But let's take yesterday as an example. I put the boy down to sleep at 2:35 pm for a nap. I figured I would have at least two hours because his morning nap was cut horribly short by a doorbell, barking dogs, and the electrician working on the house. So, he was definitely tired. I raced around the house so fast trying to do stuff that I even carried my peanut butter and jelly sandwich around with me so that I wouldn't waste time sitting down. My plan: do a few little things that needed to be addressed, then attempt to download pictures from our Vegas trip so that I could send them to the grandparents (the downloading part was considered a "big" task because it would take longer than 6.5 seconds). Not a lot on the agenda. In fact, not overly ambitious yet I would still feel productive. Then my phone rings and it's a friend that I haven't talked to in about nine months. That's a long time, there's obviously quite a bit of catching up to do.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Screen my calls. Don't answer and just call her back. Stick to my plan, for the sake of sanity!!! DO NOT DEVIATE! But, I tried that whole "screening my calls" business and I have found that after six months of screening calls the only thing I ever got out of it was just that: a bunch of screened calls. A whole lotta voicemails saved on my phone. I didn't talk to anybody. Ever. Because I never had time to call anybody back. This is how you lose yourself. I've decided trying to maintain friendships was more important than having time to do things like brush my hair. And anyways, "stick to my plan" is absurd! PLAN???

My new way is much more fulfilling. Now, I answer the phone and say, "HI!!! It's so great to hear from you. I have five minutes. Go."

So I did answer this phone call, excited to have a real adult conversation, and after five minutes, I cut her off and said, "Look, the boy is asleep now and I've got a trillion things to do." I hope I haven't lost her as a friend. She sounded understanding. But in my head I imagined her hanging up the phone and grumbling, sounding like the "adults" do in the Peanuts cartoons, about how lame it is that I couldn't even take ten minutes to talk to her. Okay, maybe that was my own grumbling in my own head.

Anyway, I abruptly end my only opportunity at a two-way conversation, and I continue racing around. And soon, way sooner than two hours, through that darn working baby monitor, I hear movement. It's 3:40pm. Do you know what I accomplished?!?!?! It's pathetic. It's so small it didn't even make it on my to-do list, so I can't even cross anything off! A product registration card that has been sitting on my desk for five days. It's for some toy that we just bought for the boy and in case it is discovered that it has lead paint or that it can spontaneously combust I must send in my registration card for safety notices. After I finish filling it out (which only took two minutes) I decide that I don't trust this flimsy little card to make it to it's destination. Or what if Joe Schmoe who works at the registration office punches in my contact information wrong? Or what if he hates his job and doesn't care if my card falls on the floor and gets lost? So, the neurotic mother decides to go online and register my purchase there. It's simple enough. I find the website easily and the online form is short and sweet. I hit "submit" and get back some stupid message about my product number being wrong. How can this be? I'm getting the number directly from the card itself. Why is the universe making this difficult for me? I still have a million and a half things to do!!!! What god did I piss off?!?!? I type it in again. Submit. ERROR! And again, thinking third time is a charm. Stupid thought. So then I go to the Fisher-Price website and look up the damn product online to get the correct number. Of course they have 500 products that all look the same. I find it and make my comparison. It's the SAME number: PO291. Why are they telling me I'm wrong? I go back to the registration and decide fourth time is a charm. Again, stupid. And it isn't until fifteen minutes after starting this silly little task that I begin to realize perhaps, just maybe perhaps, that "O" is really a "0". Get it? Yeah, somebody smarter than me would have tried that 14 minutes ago. But in my sleep deprived state, I think there's no way it could be that simple. (You really have to see their font to believe me that it really does look like an "O". Undoubtedly. Really.)

Needless to say, that was the issue. I register successfully and that's when he woke up. The remainder of my afternoon mission has been aborted. What's new.

Oddly enough, I started this blog around 6am just to say that I was sorry that I haven't written in a while and that I would have to write later. I needed to go back to sleep. But then, I sort of vomited a whole rant about how I never have time to do anything. I didn't mean for this to be the topic. Were we talking about getting sidetracked? Why was I awake in the first place? Tell me again why I came into the kitchen? Oh yeah, who left the jelly out?

It's now 8am. I'm not getting back to sleep. In the past two hours, I nursed the boy, changed his diaper, rocked him back to sleep, let the dogs out, chased the dogs back into the house because of some squirrel that they insisted on barking at, and attempted to apologize for not writing in a while. Oh yeah, I've also been meaning to add more pictures. Thanks for your patience. I'm still trying to figure out what exactly I do all day.

Confessions of a (Homeopathic) Drug Pusher

I've discovered this "stuff".  I'm hooked.  It's fantastic for the boy while he's teething.  It's like a drug and I don't ever want him to be off of it.  I must have a problem.  

We now have a baby that cries, very loudly, very angrily, and I'm not sure if he's the same child I started out with.  We started out with this sweet cherub baby that spent his days giggling and smiling 24/7.  When he was first born, he also slept straight through the night.   This was my son.  Now, as night falls each night, I'm really not sure where that baby went.  The child I now have is feverish, cranky, inconsolable, moody, and misunderstood.  And all my EC attempts are laughed at- by him.  I have gotten peed and pooped on more times during his teething days than I have in his whole six months of life.  

I've learned that growth spurts and illnesses are very trying times if you are a practicing EC (Elimination Communication) parent.  In fact, the lesson for today should just be: why bother trying?

This diaper free business is GREAT for my floors.  I have had so many missed pees that I spend a lot of time cleaning the floors, which really needed it anyway.  My dear friend who is also an EC (Elimination Communication) parent emailed me and told me that during a particularly "off" day, they are practicing EM: Elimination Miscommunication.  I laughed so hard, I almost peed my own pants.  I'm not really sure if you have to know what EC is all about to get the joke, but trust me, it's hysterical.  Get peed on a few too many times because you've missed his "signals" and hopefully you'll start laughing too.  There's a wonderful online store called "The EC Store" where you can buy great products for this practice.  I told my friend that we should start our own business and call it "The EM Store".  We would sell Brillo pads and cleaning products in bulk.  I type this now in my underwear because my pants just got peed on.  

In case you don't know me well, I'm kind of a super-natural, organic loving, anti-meds, save stray dogs, home-birthing, veggie eating hippie.  (Okay, so I probably lost half my readers right there.)  I don't really like using a lot of medicines, so when the boy started teething I began to wonder if he or I will make it through this phase alive.  Yes, I know, every single baby who made it to the age of two had to suffer through getting teeth.  But when my son is screaming at me with tears rolling down his face, I all of a sudden don't really care about anybody else's baby.  In fact, I'm sure that my son is feeling more pain than anyone else in the history of teething babies since the Dark Ages.

And I've tried it all.  The teething rings that you put in the freezer, cold washcloths, ice cubes, etc.  But unless I somehow jerry-rig a freezer to his gumline, those damn things just can't stay cold long enough.  And I've participated in more mind-numbing distracting games than I'd like to admit.  Last night, he woke up in an angry sweat and was determined to not go back to sleep without a fight so we took him outside.  He became fascinated by a wind chime.  So, in order to keep him satisfied I had to move the chimes so that they made noise.  Over and over and over and over...  I came in half deaf, but I had a quiet child.  

Oh yeah, I should write a Part Two to my "The (Un)Graceful Art of Breastfeeding" entry.  Teething while breastfeeding is a whole new arena.  That will have to come when I've developed a sense of humor about it.  Give me a year or two.  

Anyhow, when he wakes up every hour on the hour crying in pain there had to be a solution and I had to find it immediately.  I didn't want Tylenol or some yucky grape flavored sleep aid.  So, I researched.  I found.  I bought.  

I've been giving the boy this homeopathic stuff that works GREAT!!!!!  It calms him so that he can sleep, brings down the fever, reduces the pain, there's no side effects AND it doesn't taste bad so it's super easy to give it to him.  It is the miracle drug.  Really.  At first, I was really conservative in giving it to him.  Just the minimal amounts for safe measure.  You know, pure and natural.  That's me.

A few days later?  We've reached maximum dosage.  I have no shame.  I am a pusher of drugs.  My son may grow up an addict of Chamomilla, but I am getting uninterrupted sleep for four hours now.  Hell, I'm going to start taking this stuff too.  Maybe freebasing it.  

Who are these so-called "EXPERTS" anyway???

I was lying next to the boy tonight on my bed trying to see if sleepytime would take over. Despite what the "experts" say there is no real set schedule in our house. It's a similar gripe as my "Pattern Schmattern" entry from earlier this month. All I have to say is: Schedule, Schmedule. I try to have sleepytime start somewhere in the vicinity of the 8 o'clock hour. But realistically, often it's as late as 10pm. For one week he went to bed at 8pm on the dot. That was marvelous and the closest thing resembling a schedule. That was also a very, very long time ago.

Now, the boy is teething so he's very clear about letting me know when he's hurting mildly and a silly distraction will work, vs. when he's in severe pain and even armpit farts stop being funny. So, anyway, tonight's sleepytime routine started at 8ish. But instead of the regular rocking, singing, and nursing us both into oblivion, I thought I'd try something different. I laid on the bed with him as he scooted backwards, flipped over numerous times, showed me Michael Phelps-esque arm and leg movements, rocked vigorously on his hands and knees, and giggled at his many stuffed toys. Clearly, this is not sleepytime. It is however, naked time. So it's really hard not to smile at his cute little naked baby butt.

After about an hour of him playing happily on his own, sleepytime sets in. For me. Not him, he's alert, happy, and is really enjoying this time with his mom. Unlike last night when he was screaming at the top of his lungs and pissed off that I wasn't doing anything to ease his pain. So even though the experts would scold me for letting him stay up this late, my gut response is, "Go to hell."

He is having the time of his life climbing all over me, wildly knocking me in the chin, poking me in the eyes, grabbing violently on to my lower lip or one nostril, and my all time favorite: getting three or four strands of hair stuck in his sweaty palms and then pulling. Since he is distracting himself from his teething pain, I let him continue.

It is possible to fall into a deep sleep while all this is being done to you. (I have proven it many times.) But tonight, I do see an end coming, soon. The erratic movements start to slow down and his eyes start to glaze over.

And then it happens. The exact same thing that happens nine out of seven nights in the week. Just as he gives in to his heavy lids, my husband's car pulls up in the driveway, the car door slams, the car alarm beeps, all three dogs start barking and running towards the front door, the front gate slams, then the front door slams, and last but not least Peanut yelps because she just got stepped on or run over by the other two bigger dogs. And then, we start all over again. Kien's eyes shoot open, his hands spasm and swat me in the face, and it's like play time never ended.

I am going on six months now being a mom, and you are correct. I haven't learned a damn thing. You'd think that after months of this routine I would have figured out a solution. Lock the dogs up, give them a sedative, find them new homes, etc. I can't. I love them and they will always be our "children" as well. It's gotten to the point now where I just laugh. If I didn't find a way to laugh about it, I would cry until the sun came up. And we all know that I need sleep. No longer do I act surprised or mad. It's just part of the routine. To save face a little bit, I have to point out that my husband comes home from work at various times. If he was on a regular schedule (again, regularity is a big joke around here) I could at least plan around this major disruption. That would make me a smart mother. But, believe it or not, Kien is always almost asleep right when Daddy walks in the house, no matter what time it is.

Depending on how frustrated I am, I either hand him over to Daddy and say, "Your turn." as I walk out of the room to gauge my eyes out. OR with intense animation I make him back out of the room, silently scream at him that he's ruined everything, and oh by the way, can you get me some water? And somewhere in there I have remembered to laugh because some idiot told me once to remember to keep my humor. I have learned one thing that is certain: If Kien catches sight of Daddy then FORGET IT!!! It's like the circus just landed in our house and bed time is now pushed to midnight.

Tonight, I choose the latter option and use my omnipotent glare to get him to leave immediately. I protect Kien's eyes from the sight of the circus tent, and at long last, he's asleep. See? I don't need some know-it-all expert to tell me how to get my son to sleep. Cry it out? Routine? Pish-ahhh, I say.

It's 10pm. A mere two hours from when we started. But who's counting?

Our boy is growing!

Our family trip was great.  It turns out that we did not dry up to little raisins in Las Vegas.  The road trip out there wasn't as daunting as I had expected.  So naturally, that could only mean that our trip back was definitely going to be a nightmare.  That's me... positive thinker.

In case you didn't realize from my last blog, it's really hot in Las Vegas.  We never did get used to the dryness; I think we need more than 4 days to grow humps on our backs like the camels do.  It also threw off our timing for EC'ing dramatically.  At home, I think I'm pretty in sync with his schedule.  I can successfully potty him 90% of the time during the day and often times have dry diapers through out the night.  In Vegas though, he hardly ever peed because it was so dry.  After every squirm (which is usually a good indicator) I'd put him on his potty and think, "He's gotta go!  He must have to go.  It's been two hours."  But then, NOTHING!  So the poor fellow experienced most of his first visit at his grandparents house while sitting on the pot.  I hope he didn't think it was attached to his butt.  

The family was incredibly supportive of our EC'ing efforts and jumped right in trying to potty him.  Of course, with Kien's timing so far off they didn't have a lot of success either.  This is unfortunate because I know that when I first started learning how to EC I would get very discouraged when I had a lot of misses.  But everybody seemed to take it in stride and I felt comforted to know that we had their support.  In fact, Grandma and Grandpa got peed on more than once.  I like to think of it as a nice initiation.  But alas, on our last day both Grandma and Auntie got two pees!  

Sunday night my hubby and I went out on our date.  This was the first time for Kien to be babysat.  So, as I had griped about before, I still hated the breast pump but I had to do it.  The dairy cow went to work.  It was really tricky pumping on this trip.  Normally, I overproduce milk.  I'm always looking forward to that next opportunity to shrink an extra bra cup size smaller after a good, long nursing session.  My bras fit again, the lumps are gone, and I look less lopsided.  This glorious moment lasts for about an hour until I get full again.  However, since it was so dry in Vegas I needed to make sure that Kien was drinking enough to stay hydrated.  This meant that he sucked me dry.  Then after his nursing I would try to pump.  Ha!  The image is pretty clear but in case you're having problems: it's like trying to syphon an ounce of water out of an empty old, saggy, leather water pouch.  You know, the kind cowboys (or Indians?) used to use in the old days.  This is a pretty good description of what my breasts have turned into.

After a few attempts, I managed to collect 4.5 ounces.  I knew this would not be enough so we decided to make our dinner reservation at 9pm so that I could try to get him to sleep before we left.  That way, in case he woke up he would only want to nurse back to sleep and therefore not drink that much.  This sounded like a good theory at the time.  

We left with full confidence that the boy was in good hands.  In fact,  I did get him to fall asleep before we left~ knowing full well that this slumber was not going to last long.  But I didn't want to let anyone else in on the secret.  I figured they would soon be thrown into an hour long tantrum so I might as well let them enjoy the silence while it was there.  So, I just left with a big smile and said, "Good luck!"

Our dinner was nice.  Very nice actually.  In retrospect, I don't think I enjoyed it enough.  I should have reveled in the fact that I was eating a hot meal.  I can't believe that I didn't stop once to let that sink in.  It's probably because I ate my meal in about 7 minutes.  I habitually swallowed my food whole.  On some deeper level, my body was anticipating having my meal interrupted for a feeding, changing, burping, or some other divine baby task.  Despite that, I still enjoyed my first night out sans baby.  We had wine, we discussed things other than the boy, and we were sickeningly sweet and in love.  Honestly, I didn't worry once about how Kien was doing.  

When we got back, we got the full report.  Apparently, 45 minutes after we left then the boy awoke.  And he was angry.  The bottle feeding of 4.5 ounces was barely enough to whet his appetite.  So, naturally, he was even more angry.  Lucky for him, he has some baby chub that prevents him from starving to death but Grandpa had to perform every trick in the book for 1.5 hours before he tired himself out.  Go Grandpa!!!  While I knew he was fine, I still hate thinking about his little tears rolling down his little face.  

Aside from our monumental date, we also witnessed Kien sitting up by himself for the first time!  It was really exciting.  Yes, my boy is getting bigger.  The new fun thing is rocking wildly on his butt.  Today I made the big mistake of sitting him down on his playmat and thinking he will sit up by himself for the next 90 seconds while I did something.  I turned just in time to see him fall down backwards and hear his little head clunk onto the floor.  Boy, did he cry.  I guess I got a little overly ambitious about his new capabilities.  Sorry, Kien.  Again, tears streaming down his face.  Luckily I had Sesame Street on so Big Bird made him laugh through his tears.  

Oh, the 300 mile car ride home?  Piece of cake.  Except for the lengthy four hour pit stop in Barstow (also 110 degrees) to give us all a good stretch, Kien slept peacefully in the back seat.  That's my boy!

Even at (-)109 degrees, it would have melted

So, here I am in Las Vegas in the middle of July and sweating. It's (+)109 degrees by noon. And they say that is not the hottest part of the day. We anticipate that it will reach 115 degrees by 3pm. I never did pick up the dry ice that I wanted for our trip out here. And now that I know what "hotter than hell" actually feels like, I'm not too sure my plan to transport frozen breast milk would have worked.

I had every intention of getting the dry ice. In fact I had a lot of intentions the day before our big road trip. I had my day all planned out but my first errand took longer than expected. They always do, but I keep thinking that will change. After 35 years, I still think that. And 35 years plus a baby in the back seat means I'm a moron for being so optimistic about my time management.

I had to go to the AT&T store to pick up a new phone, one that I vow to take great care of. (My old phone found it's way to the ground a few too many times. It's hard to blame the phone service for dropped calls when I needed to hold the battery cover on when I used it.) The guy at the phone store was SLOW. So, at 4:55 pm I remembered that I had another errand. Yes, it's possible to forget why you left the house in the first place. So, I called the ice store which closed in five minutes, and told him where I was. "I'm two blocks away. Can you wait for me to get there to get some dry ice." The guy apologized and said "I'm sorry, I don't think so. Everything shuts down." You mean to tell me that the ice store is so high tech that everything computerized just stops working at 5pm on the dot? So then I ask if I can just pay with cash and they take care of it tomorrow. A solution I thought worthy of a chance. And he said, "Oh no. We have to balance out the cash drawer every day." I'd like to point out that I was only going to spend about $5 there. Couldn't he just put the $5 on the side and ring it up the next day? Just give me the damn dry ice! However, in retrospect, I realize that my measley $5 was precisely the reason why he had no interest in waiting for me. He stammered like he knew his reasons were stupid, so he kept talking, a lot of backpeddling. I just kept quiet to see what new reason he would come up with. He says, "I'm really sorry. I wish there was something that I could do. We're taking inventory." They sell ICE! What kind of inventory could they possibly have to keep track of. And what if it melted? How are they gonna keep track of that inventory? Hhmmm. So, I resigned myself to the fact that I will not be able to transport my frozen breastmilk. I will just have to bring that damn breast pump on my vacation... Despite the fact that I have gallons of breastmilk in the freezer at home, all of which is expiring in a few weeks.

I packed it, though I was tempted to "forget" it.

I did get my phone an hour after I told the guy that I was in a hurry. You see, my optimistic attitude towards my time management would work seamlessly if other people would just get out of my way. Then, within two hours of owning my new iPhone, I dropped it. Again, optimism does not win out.

While I'm happy that it stills works, I had to continue on to my next task. I had to say a very sad "good-bye" to my dear friend Allison. She is my friend who has a son two weeks younger than Kien and we have become great friends. And of course, our boys are best friends. We would swim in her pool often and chat about mundane mom stuff. Like how long our boys slept that night, how much sleep we didn't get, were we wearing clean clothes that day, or ask each other when we washed our hair last. Sometimes we would even daydream about the future when our boys would have been in the same class and sitting next to each other because their last names started with the same letter. Yes, sounds silly to some of you, but this is the type of person that I have become. And Allison was not just a good friend, she was also a fellow EC parent (Elimination Communication). A topic that we would spend hours discussing together, supporting each other's efforts, laughing about, and witnessing huge explosions right before our eyes. Sometimes these explosions would happen right when we were talking about the last great EC miss. And she was also a fellow HypnoBabies mama so we had similar experiences with our labors which was fun to share. (Writing all this now makes me realize what a great big (dirty) hippie I am.)

Anyway, I said good bye to the one friend I had. Then went home and attempted to pack for both myself and my baby. A feat not easily accomplished. By the end of it all, it looked like I had packed to move out of the house.

I fell into bed at 1:30am but realized it was sort of pointless to even go to sleep. We were in the car by 6:30am (half hour later than my husband's firm departure time) and I was highly anticipating this great adventure of ours. This is a five hour trip by car when there are no infants to consider. I was deathly afraid this would turn into a 10 hour road trip thru Death Valley. You know, the kind where the car breaks down, we just drank our last sip of water, and we're 20 miles away from the nearest po-dunk town, and the baby decides to grace us with a bout of diarrhea.

Well, I hate to disappoint. Kien handled it beautifully. We made two pit stops. He even sat on his potty in the middle of two parking lots. No modesty what so ever! And the whole trip took only 6.5 hours. I think I got more cranky being in the car than him.

So, here we are in the desert. It's hot. It's dry. And the weather is only adding to my already cracked, falling apart body. This is hard to believe, but the water that actually comes out of the "cold" faucet is not cold. It's slightly warmer than luke warm. It's bizarre. But on the plus side, I get to see the family and there's more love for Kien than he knows what to do with. Translation: lots of baby holding time in arms other than mine. Everybody wins.

My breastmilk frozen at (-)109 degrees F

Again, proof that when it comes to breastfeeding, there's very little room for tact. I am anticipating a very long drive this week to visit my in-laws. What is normally a long, boring five hour drive could very well develop into a 10 hour road trip to hell, depending on everyone's mood. (Five month old baby, strapped in a car seat, driving in 120 degree weather. I would rather shoot myself in the foot and then walk there.) However, while on our mini-vacation, my husband is taking me out on a "date" over the weekend. In fact, it will be the first time that we'll actually have some time alone, just the two of us. To prepare for this date, we have decided to try to transport a whole lotta frozen breastmilk so that the baby can be fed while we're out. Yes, I do have a breast pump (one that cost $200+ which my husband likes to remind me of). One that I thought I would use all the time. I mean c'mon! A fancy machine which would help liberate you from being tied to your baby 24/7? How wonderful that sounded. But I have to say quite honestly, I HATE USING IT. And besides, I happen to like being tied to my baby 24/7.

Nothing about using that machine is pleasant. The horrible sucking sound it makes~ like your 90 year old grandmother who suffers from emphysema whose oxygen tank is running out of air. (And that's when it's on the lowest setting.) The stupid plastic shields that get suctioned to your nipples~ AS IF your nipples haven't already been through enough trauma. And for god's sake, whose idea was it to make those damn plastic shields clear? Why would I want to watch the torture that is being inflicted upon my already sore breasts? It's like two clear funnels suctioned onto your breasts and then for each suction of the machine, you see your nipples being vigorously pulled thru the small end of the funnel. Breastfeeding alone takes all the "sexy" out of your breasts. They are left misshapen, saggy, and most of the time two different sizes. I do everything in my power to avoid having them be touched or bumped. But after watching them being sucked through plastic cones for 20 minutes actually makes putting on my bra a painful experience. (Yet another reason why wearing clothes at home is a stupid idea.)

And then to top off the whole experience, you have stupid little plastic bags taped to the end of the funnels which catch the milk being drained from you. These bags have little numbers on it which tell you exactly how many ounces you produce. As if I'm going to take my "liquid gold" down to the corner lot and trade them in for some cocaine.

I swear, as women, do we ever get away from the importance of numbers? It's numbers on the scale, our clothing size, our waist size, how much money we make, how many people came to our wedding, how much we dilate, how many hours our labor was, how big our babies were... AS IF pushing out a 6 lb. baby is any easier than pushing out a 9 lb. baby. I mean, really? Do you think our vagina can tell the difference between three pounds? No. A human head is a human head is a human head.

Again, I digress. So, the breast pump situation is pretty miserable. Imagine having two cones and two plastic bags hanging from your chest. There is a reason why the box for these breast pumps don't show a picture of a women actually using it. They could not make it look appealing with even the best photoshopping in the world. It really is that horrible. I've yet to meet a woman who uses it regularly who doesn't want to throw it out the window.

So, to avoid having to use the breast pump while on vacation and because I have bags and bags and bags of frozen breast milk in the freezer I am trying to transport the milk all the way to Las Vegas. The trick is to keep it frozen, otherwise if it thaws I only have a certain number of hours to use it before it spoils. It's like this crazy science experiment. So today I had the pleasure of describing to Dan at the dry ice store what my mission was. I'm not very familiar with the properties of dry ice but I do know this could be a good solution. So thank you Dan, for properly explaining how to pack it, how much I should buy, and the correct term for when dry ice turns from a solid to a gas (sublimation). While he was very sweet, I could tell that he just did not want to say the words "breast milk". It would have been much too embarrassing for him to utter those words in his place of business, as I'm sure that Dan was surrounded by a bunch of men.

I am now ready to begin my travels by placing my frozen breastmilk in a styrofoam cooler full of dry ice. Let's just hope that the gas that it produces does not make us all pass out on our first cozy family road trip. Regardless, is has to be better than using that damn breast pump.

Getting and Staying Clean

Why do I bother to shower?  Seriously.  I don't really socialize with anyone anymore.  And the one woman that I do see regularly also has a five month old child so her guess is as good as mine as to which one of us stinks.  This is why we should stick together.  No feelings will be hurt.  My friend also has a pool.  But I have noticed that even after swimming regularly that cool and refreshed feeling is short lived.  I tell myself that a dip in the pool is as good as any bath can get.  AND... I am multi-tasking.  A skill any mother worth her salt should be able to do.  The first and most important: I am providing daily exercise for my son.  He loves kicking and splashing around, and even at this young age I think he would play in the pool for hours if I'd let him.  The second task is more of a benefit: he is pooped after our swimming session so he sleeps really well afterwards.  Thirdly: I am getting clean.  And fourth: My son also gets clean.  And I'm sure that some of that chlorine must disinfect parts that need disinfecting.  Right?

So many times when I have taken the time to shower... wait a minute, "taken the time" to shower?  Ha. Ha. Ha.  I haven't taken my time to do anything lately.  After I shower, I am almost immediately "dirty".  Spit up in my hair (which I incidentally find hours later), dried breast milk which makes my shirt stick to my skin, and food on my clothes.  I have not yet mastered the art of eating one handed.  A skill which I practice every day but see little results.  I have to keep the plate, the glass, the fork, and the napkin as far away from the edge of the table as possible because my son's new goal in life is to touch absolutely everything around him.  So, with my plate in the middle of the table, I am challenged to get a fork full of pasta with spaghetti sauce into my mouth.  I have now decided that wearing clothes while at home is a stupid idea.  

Last night, we went to have sushi for dinner.  (I did determine that wearing clothes outside of the house is a good idea.)  Luckily, eating sushi does take care of that issue of never eating your meals hot, ever again, for the rest of your life as a mother.  Sushi already comes cold.  However, it comes with other obstacles.  Chopsticks (sharp, pointy wooden sticks), rice, and a small bowl filled with soy sauce is another really stupid combination when holding a child in your arms.  I am so unsuccessful at staying clean during mealtime that often times my son looks like he has taken over the job of a napkin.

Today I thought I would redeem myself by demonstrating success at another opportunity.  I was to meet some friends of my husband who I've never met before.  Surely, I could make a good impression this one time.  I showered and washed my hair, although my hair went right back into the bun that it came out of for the washing.  (In fact, it's still wet from six hours ago.)  I put on clean clothes and headed out the door.  I said hello, shook hands, and all the nicey-nice stuff goes really smoothly.  We're at a picnic and I am served a veggie burger.  I even cut it in half because I think this can only aid my challenge to keep clean.  My veggie burger was really yummy, and Kien was a big hit.  An hour or so later, I am chatting with someone whose name I forgot because I was too busy getting the handful of hair out of my son's death grip.  My eyes are drawn to a dark spot below my chin.  And of course, it's a large drop of relish/ketchup/mustard which has slid about an inch down my white shirt.

Another very obvious tip from Motherhood 101 that I ignored: NEVER wear white.  The other tip: cut whatever remaining hair you have on your head, as short as possible.  Immediately, as soon as your baby is born.  I stubbornly chose to hang on to the one remaining trait that I had pre-baby.  And, as demonstrated above, buns, no matter how tightly wound, do not mean that your hair is pull-proof.  My only choice is to get used to the feeling of having each and every hair pulled out of my head, one by one, slowly.  As if he is trying to strike a deal with me.  "Look, Mom." My son barters with me, "If you would just stop taking the hair that I have out of my hand, I wouldn't have to keep going back for more."

Hence, yet another reason why washing my hair is pointless.

The (Un)Graceful Art of Breastfeeding

I'm in the Mac store the other day and I feel that my shirt is wet for some reason. I look down and see a small wet circle getting larger and larger before my eyes. I have started to leak. My son is 5 months old and I was told early on that the leaking stops. This is a lie. But what is even more dumb is my insistence each day that perhaps this is the day that I will stop leaking. I had forgotten to put on those handy absorbing bra pads so again I am reminded that my breasts still leak milk. I had no idea that these bra pads would be so integral to my everyday fashion. They are lying all over the house. Used, new, the wrappers, the re-usable kind... I have tried all brands and sizes. I change them more than I change my underwear. And I have unintentionally left them in various places through out Los Angeles county. Stuck to the table at some fancy restaurant (probably covering up some poor waiter's tip), on my dashboard, in Kien's car seat, restroom countertops. I have also found them a few days later accompanied by my new common phrase, "Oooohhhh, that's where that is." I have rediscovered them inside the leg of my pants, in my dog's mouth, stuck to the washing machine, caught in my hair, etc. Even stuck to the back of my shirt as I am walking out the door. I am at one with the bra pad. This does not mean that I enjoy wearing them. While they do work, it feels like I have two giant maxi pads stuck in my bra. And let's talk about, for just one quick second, about how crappy it is when you realize that you have stuck the wrong side to your breast. Instead of the semi-soft, absorbent side against my breast, I have accidentally placed the plastic side against my nipple. You know, the side that has the sticky part which helps it to stay put in your bra. Try ripping that sticky tape off of your boob when you're in a hurry.

Before Kien was born I knew that I was definitely going to be breastfeeding. There was no question. I did have a few issues in the beginning, but I was one of the lucky ones who managed to survive the first few weeks without actually losing something valuable, like say, a nipple. It was one of those things that no matter how many people tried to warn me, it would never have come close to what it truly felt like. Take "engorgement" for example. Before you experience it, you think that your breasts will get larger and fill with milk. Okay, one or two cup sizes. Not a problem. I am prepared to handle that. No one told me that engorgement might also mean it is possible for one breast to stay the same, while the other becomes ENORMOUS. Not one or two cup sizes larger, let's be conservative and say five cups larger. And it's not just the size that I was freaking out about. Let's talk about how completely weird my one breast felt. Hard. Very Hard. Full of knots. And HEAVY! Let's imagine filling a balloon with small pebbles and then tying that to your chest. Your swimming days are over. It's just as well, you'd never be able to find a bathing suit to cover up the anomaly. Just to make sure you have the full image in your mind I will attach fruit to the analogy. One side is a small grapefruit, the other side is an extra large cantaloupe.

We call the lactation consultant to come over immediately. She doesn't even flinch. Apparently, this happens all the time. Yet, I don't remember these warnings in my "Breastfeeding 101" class. Then she tries to get me to hold my newborn baby to my breast with one hand, and hold my 10 lb. breast with the other hand. AS IF women do this successfully all the time. I could not. I failed miserably. Excuse me, but I forgot to do hand strengthening exercises before the baby arrived. I was not only supposed to hold my overly engorged breast with one hand but then she wanted me to have precise control over it so that I could guide it into his mouth. By the time we actually got my baby to eat, three people were involved holding various body parts. Why then, would she think that I could do this on my own? One job my husband had was wiping my eyes as tears poured down my face.

Yes, it's true: it DOES hurt. Don't let those La Leche League people tell you otherwise. I experienced a number of problems. Infection, engorgement, sore nipples, and clogged ducts. The last is like a cruel joke. So your breasts produce the milk, yet the ducts get clogged so the milk can't come out. This is when it looks and feels like your breast is a bag full of pebbles. And all while this is going on, your breast(s) is very hot because it's being traumatized. And wouldn't you know it? The solution from the lactation consultant is to put a hot compress

on it. Exactly what I was hoping for.

There's also something called the "let down" which I think is when the milk actually starts coming out. It has been described as "pins and needles". To me, it feels similar to when your foot or hand falls asleep and you try to get the blood flowing again. If I'm not getting any sleep, then at least my breasts are.

In regards to the let down, I had what was called an "overactive let down". Yes, there is a name for everything. This is when the milk comes out so fast that I water log the poor boy with my milk because it's shooting out like a runaway fire hose. Seriously. This is not an exaggeration. Milk comes spraying, not dripping, but spraying out of four or five little holes in every direction. It hits him in the head, up the nose, in the eye, in his ear, and douses his clothes which just took me 45 minutes to get one arm through because he likes to squirm. Milk every where, except in his mouth. Now, not only is he still hungry, but he's soaked and so I have to change him again.

When he does actually try to drink from the fire hose, he fiercely gags and coughs because he can't swallow fast enough. Then he pulls away from the breast to once again get sprayed in the eye. It's a total bummer being a newborn.

There have been many, many times in the middle of the night when he has screamed in hunger but can't latch on because I'm too full of milk. That's when I sit on the bed, rock my crying baby as I watch my breast shoot milk across the room hitting the sleeping dogs beside the bed. Again, not an exaggeration.

Of course, breastfeeding can not escape the many gadgets out there which claim to help make it more "special". My favorite of all gadgets: My Breast Friend.

First of all, the name is enough to make me hide the product far away in the closet. Admittedly, it was helpful. It's basically a very firm pillow which wraps high around your waist and you secure it with a buckle. You then lie your baby on this pillow so you don't have to hold him/her during the whole feeding. This saves you from shoulder and neck aches, and in my case very sore wrists. (Something else they didn't warn me about: some new mothers actually suffer from carpal tunnel because of all the new stresses.)

Anyway, what makes me laugh about this product is that it has been renamed by my husband as the "cigarette tray". A far better name than My Breast Friend, in my opinion. Imagine if you will, it's 3am, I've had no sleep, I've given up on wearing bras, or clothing for that matter. (I just can't seem to keep anything clean.) But I have this disk buckled around my waist. It sticks out about 12 inches in the front so it's very convenient for holding a plate of food if you're really in a jam. Also try to imagine getting through doorways. It's like a very large bumper for fragile people. Reaching down to get anything below waist level is also forgotten. So, in my topless and sleepless state, I would just roam around the house saying "Cigarettes. Candy. Gum."

This is what you do to keep humor in the house. What really gets me is this: I roam around the house looking and smelling like road kill because I haven't showered in days, I'm strapped down with my cigarette tray knocking anything down that gets in it's way, the recently emptied boob is sagging and flopping around while the engorged boob (the bumpy, lumpy one) leaves a milk trail on our wooden floors. Oh, I forgot to mention that one of my dogs follow me around the house because she thinks this milk on the floor is snack time. The sight is frightening. Not the woman I thought I would become. Yet my hubby will still look at me and tell me that I'm beautiful. I mean really. What in god's name has he been smoking?

Despite it all, I love breastfeeding. I really do. And I know that I'm very lucky to be able to do it. I know there are some women who don't produce enough milk, or don't have jobs where they are allowed to continue breast feeding. And there are some women who barely escaped the first 6 weeks still intact. So, I count myself to be one of the lucky ones. And I don't judge those who don't. It is incredibly hard to learn and I felt it was more painful and difficult than giving birth to Kien. Sounds crazy, but it's true. There are a lot of different thoughts on the whole issue, but I say, "To each their own!" I've heard so many crazy stories about the trials of breastfeeding that there is absolutely no room for judgement. I honestly feel like it's a secret society where the real information is hidden, otherwise women would be too scared to try it. At long last, I'm at a place where I feel the great privilege to be able to provide him with everything he needs to grow. The bonus is that I burn so many calories breastfeeding that I get to eat as much as I want! But it's not the least bit a one-way street. Even now, since we've mastered the art, we still have to work together to do it right. It's one of the most special times of the day, every day. And it is during these times when I see the grace.

Pattern Schmattern

It's true.  Once you figure out their pattern, they change it on you.  And I think they actually laugh at you when you look dumbfounded because you're trying to figure it out, once again.  Well, okay, I understand that I'm speaking in general terms.  I am quite certain that MY child is laughing at ME because of my constant confusion, while I scratch my head looking like an ape.  

I was very excited because for almost one week straight Kien was waking up at 7:30am on the dot, then I'd put him on the potty and he'd poop.  I would be very confident for the rest of the day that his pooping was done with.  Then we would play happily until his mid morning nap, the one where I too got in an extra 1.5 hours of sleep for myself.  

After four days of this, I thought "I got it!  I can do this.  In fact, this is EASY!!!!  Bring it on.  Why, I dare say that I'm ready for child #2."  

Day five: I AM A PROFESSIONAL MOTHER.  GET OUT OF MY WAY!  

Day six: "Let me tell all you other mothers just how easy this is."  

Day seven: Kien is wide awake at 5:30am, smiling, laughing (at me), hitting me in the head as I lay next to him.  Most of the time I think it's cute that he still doesn't have full control of his arms and legs, so I'm amused when I see his chubby limbs swinging wildly thru the air.  However, there are other times when I think he actually wants to beat me unconscious.  This is one of those times.  How many times have I tried to lay next to him thinking that if he sees me with my eyes closed then he'll get the idea that he too should close his eyes for "sleepytime"?  He's five months old.  Yes, when I think about it I understand completely that this is an absurd demand.  But this is my problem: I don't want to think.  I have no energy to think.  Thinking uses up valuable resources and I am in no position to waste resources.  So, back to my pattern idea: WHAT PATTERN???  I humbly return to accepting my position as know-nothing, dehydrated, un-showered, stay at home mother.  

So, now at 5:30 in the morning, I try to read to him while laying in the bed together.  I am much too guilt ridden of a mother to allow him to spend his awake time staring off into space because no one will play with him.  "Stimulate his brain" they say.  So I whisper the words so Dad can sleep, and hold the book up above our heads because I'm too lazy/tired to sit up with him.   Then before I know it the book is hitting one of us right in the eye or stabbing us in the throat because I've dozed off.  Yes, dozed off while reading to my son.  It is possible to get thru an entire book, make all the funny voices, point to all the pictures while still being asleep.  This is possible because I have read the book so many times that I can turn the pages and point to all the objects with my eyes closed.  I know that in the book "Mimi's Toes" that Mimi's toes gets tickled by her mama on every page.  This makes Kien smile, every time.  I, on the other hand, can not pretend each time that I am surprised.  So, naturally, when my eyes are closed the next step is, quite logically to fall asleep.  Go ahead, make your judgements.  Here is the problem: when I am asleep I lose some muscle coordination so I am not able to hold a book up over our heads.  Again, more proof that I am not a super hero.  But it's a damn good thing that "Mimi's Toes" is a spongey type book for the bathtub so there are no sharp edges.

We're on day #4 of the "new" pattern, so now I can look at the clock without disdain when it reads 5:32am.  I understand that it will soon change.  I still look confused, mostly to make sure that I continue to humor my child.  And of course, the other pattern that has changed is his pooping schedule.  As I mentioned before, his intestines go to work between 7:30 and 7:40 every morning and after he gives me a pretty clear signal, his morning poo is cleanly deposited into his potty.  He smiles, laughs, and sings while making his deposit.  I smile, laugh, and sing because I know his bowels are moving regularly.  Well, during this new pattern, I no longer smile, laugh, and sing.  I spend the early morning wondering when the big explosion is going to happen, try to read his "I gotta poo!" signal, and stare at his penis more than his face because that tends to be more accurate.  (My son has a truthful penis~ now that is an attribute that any mother can be proud of.)

Ah-ha, at 6:42am his "deposit" has been made and I can move on with my life.  Thank god I caught the signal, cuz it was a biggie!  The anticipation of this event has weighed heavily on my mind.  I am very excited for my 1.5 hour nap.

Daddy took over

What a wonderful father of my child I have.  Last night we had a little upset in the sleep cycle.  In the middle of the night (4am) I tried to change my son's diaper while I was still half asleep.  I think somewhere along the way I must have made a mistake.  Because he got more and more upset and then eventually started howling at the top of his lungs.  Maybe I was doing it backwards, maybe I stuck him with the Snappi fastener, maybe he still had to go pee and was angry that I didn't recognize his discomfort.  But why make the reason so complicated?  I probably was just taking too damn long and he got annoyed.  So, the crying woke up the husband.  And truthfully, this time, I was apathetic.  My husband works hard~ every day.  He works hard so that I can stay at home with the baby.  (As most of you know, it's cheaper than daycare.)  (Hey, wait a minute!  If it's cheaper than daycare, why aren't all the stay-at-home-moms getting paid what daycare workers get paid.  At least half!  I suppose that's another angry blog from another angry mom.)  Anyway, often times my wonderful husband will work 13 hour days times six days a week.  And because he's self-employed, he doesn't get such benefits as overtime, health benefits, or even a company vacation.  In other words, he works six days a week so that I can stay home.  And I appreciate him.  But this morning, at 4 am, I was not feeling sorry for him that the baby woke him up.  Nope, not even an ounce of remorse.  Yes, horrible wife.  Say it.

So, my lovely husband got out of bed, stood naked in the kitchen and asked what he could do to help.  Isn't that sweet?  He didn't even take the time to put a bathrobe on.  My answer was: Just hold him.  I had had it.  I was EXHAUSTED from the previous night and quite honestly I don't think I've slept for more than 5 hours in the last two weeks.  And let's not kid ourselves~ I'm not even talking 5 hours of uninterrupted sleep.  Now, I don't want to make my case sound too tragic.  I do on occasion get a lengthy 1.5 hour nap in the middle of the afternoon.  So, as my husband is racking his brain trying to find out why his son is wailing at 4am, I get myself a drink of water.  It occurred to me that I should recognize the parched, dry desert called "my throat".  Somewhere in my foggy brain I remember some stupid advice about remembering to take care of myself.  Yada yada yada.  "You can't take care of your child unless you take care of yourself."  Whoever said that did not have a child to take care of.  Was it the advice I was remembering or was it the simple fact that I had no saliva in my mouth to form words?  Oh, that reminds me.  Before I got into bed last night, I put lotion on my hands for the first time in 3 MONTHS!!!!!  This is not an over-exaggeration.  I looked at my hands and saw lines and cracks so deep it reminded me of large raisins, with fingers.  I told my husband, "I've seen myself age more in these last five months than I have in the last decade."  

I digress.  So, here's the hubby thinking, is he teething, does he have a fever, did he get a sunburn today at the pool, did his UTI come back, did he have a nightmare, did he get struck by lightening, did the bed sheets come alive and try to swallow him?  "No." I said, "I think I just took too long to change his diaper."  After I regained composure, I took him back in my arms and he fell asleep.  We rocked in our rocking chair, with husband rocking in sync with me on the ottoman.  A chair that I have sat in many times.  When he was first born, I remember spending as much as 10 hours in that chair thru out the day.  Let's talk about mind-numbing experiences.  

So, the family goes back to sleep~ it's after 5am.  But all too soon, it's 7am.  The boy stirs and we're at it again.  He clearly has to go potty.  He regularly goes poop around 7am.  (Remember what it was like to be "regular"?)  With my eyes still closed, I stick him on his potty and lo and behold, he goes.  I use my other senses to notify me of when he has gone.  (The audio signal is quite loud.)  I force my eyes open with pitch forks, but his eyes are wide open and he starts his morning singing routine so I know that there's no chance to get him to go back to sleep.  I, on the other hand, NEED at least another 30 minutes to function properly today.  This time WITH remorse, I wake up my hubby and tell him to take over.  The idea of starting my day already is unfathomable.  This is my reasoning: today is my husband's day off.  If I can get him to let me sleep now, then I'll be good to go for another week of insufficient sleep.  And even though I like to let my husband have a real "day off" on his scheduled day off (ie. sleep in), this new plan will really be the best for the entire family.  I'm unclear as to whether he sees this plan as good or just agrees to it out of fear, but he does wake up.  As quickly as I know that Daddy is awake enough to comprehend his duties, I am asleep.  Unconscious before any protests are heard.

I am allowed to sleep until 9:30am!  I awake to the sound of the boy crying, but also greeted with the happy sight of Daddy thawing out the breastmilk from the freezer to give Mommy just a few more minutes of solitude!  It's true.  My husband is a saint, my boy is still alive, and I can take just a few moments to scrape away the crust from my eyes, the breast milk that leaked, and the baby slobber on my shoulder. 

Just need sleep...

So, the scenario is: it's 6am and I just finished feeding the baby. I try to lay him back down so his feet are actually pointing in the right direction. He arches his back and rolls over so that now he is perpendicular to the way most humans sleep on beds. Fine. I will just lay on my side and pray that I don't fall off. I'm so excited that I may get some more sleep before my alarm is set to go off at 8:30am.

Eyes closed and this is what I hear: one of my three dogs is snoring. Loudly. Oddly enough, it's the tiniest one who weighs only 18 lbs but she sounds like an overweight 50 year old man. Then dog #2 starts snoring. I stupidly think that it's so loud that surely my husband will wake up from the noise. He is sound asleep. I reach over into my handy dandy Arm's Reach Cosleeper and grab a baby blanket. I ball it up and throw it over and across the room to hopefully hit one (or both) dogs. The snoring from both dogs cease, but for only 30 seconds. They go right on back to dreaming about chasing squirrels.

So, I would not call myself a lazy person. Just tired. I know full well that I could get up and gently wake the dogs to get them to stop snoring. However, my main concern is that I will lose my place in the bed. I am selflessly taking up only the last 10 inches of the bed. My son's feet are pressed firmly into my side, occasionally using my ribs to strengthen his quads. If I get up, I know that he will scoot over and sprawl himself out onto my designated 10 inches. Then, for sure all hope for sleep is lost. I lay there wondering what to do. Of course, I tell myself if I was THAT tired I would be able to sleep thru anything. Snoring dogs is not that big of a deal.

Then, to add insult to injury the husband starts to snore. How is it possible that three living creatures are sleeping so soundly? It's as if they are snoring to remind me exactly what sleep is. In case I forgot. In case I wasn't sure how to do it. In case they need to let me know just how enjoyable it is. Forget enjoyable, just essential. So again, selflessly, I don't think, "Oh god, shut up so I can get some sleep." I think, "Oh god, shut up because you are going to wake up the baby." We can not have that.

I decide to turn onto my other side, carefully not to disturb the slumbering babe. Perhaps with my back to my son and facing the cosleeper next to me will help the "feet in the ribs" issue. I am sure to get some sleep then. I am met with my son's potty, filled with urine, inches from my face. Forget it. The alarm is going to go off.