The Sister Aggravation

I want to punch my sister in the face.

End of story.

Ok, fine, let's backtrack and see how I came to this shocking (or not so shocking) conclusion.

The four or us have always gotten along pretty well managed to get along. In past years we have found enjoyment playing beach volleyball during our annual family beach vacation. Eventually this led us to play recreationally with sports in our area (the most epic being soccer but most successful volleyball).

It's nice to see my siblings and spend time with them. I look forward to it, especially now that I can play again after having Anna.

Except this week. I go to the game and my sister M was there. First thing she says:

"Why didn't you have D bring Anna?"

Right. Cause hauling a 3 month old to a rec volleyball game at 7:00 at night seems like good parenting. Her bedtime is 8:00, and I'm sure my husband just wants to sit there watching for a whole hour.

Uh, no?

As we warmed up, somehow the conversation got into whininess and how annoying it is. Then my sister says:

"You should hear E, she's a whiner. Especially when she's pregnant."

Excuse me?

First, as a pregnant woman at the time, I am entitled to bitch my way through all 9 months if I so choose. M has never been pregnant, and therefore believes it is her right to judge me as her body has never been the subject of a foreign hostile takeover by an alien-like being. Why should I be allowed to whine about morning sickness, swollen feet, sore back, general discomfort, kicks got the ribs, or the fact that my boobs can't be touched for a least a year?

Second, I am pretty sure the night my husband and I got engaged, and every family gathering thereafter she has asked when I was going I give her a niece or nephew. So shut your piehole about a few gasps of surprise at being drop kicked in the spleen from the inside out. You got what you wanted - say THANKS.

And third, WTF? What the hell did I ever do to you? Oh, that's right, I gave you the niece you wanted. And P.S.: if my own husband fathoms at the fact that I don't complain about my 2 hour commute to work, you really expect me to believe I was a "whiner" through my whole pregnancy?

I might have been a winer. Maybe.

If I drank wine.

The Heat ....

I can't wait to move.

Into a house where the study has A/C.

I can't even think.

And I can't type because my glasses keep sliding down my sweatting face.

GROSS.

The Battlestar Cluster****

I spent most of my 12 weeks home with Anna in our house, alternating between sleeping, feeding, changing diapers, catering to the dictator, and watching TV.

When pumping, I transitioned from watching every episode of LOST on my iPad to...you guessed it....writing a blog surfing the internet. I returned to my lady-cave every four hours or so, and therefore didn't shut the computer off.

Like ever.

So my husband asked me the other day about the electric bill. It was higher than usual, and he asked if I could take care of it. He carefully casually mentioned that maybe it was because the computer had been left on.

Uh, yeah.

And I've been home watching TV for three months. Hello?

When I had finished with LOST, he recommended I finally start watching Battlestar Galactica. I'm a big sci-fi fan, so I thought why the frell not?

Turns out you have to watch the mini-series first.

Which is about three hours long.

And starts off with a Cylon touching a newborn baby and it stops breathing.

WTF.

JUST what a rookie mom wants to watch at 9 PM before bedtime.

I'd say that earned him a good slap upside the head.

The Lyric Duality

So as a mom, I in general do a lot of crying.

Just cause.

But lately, even while I was still pregnant, the cause of the crying has changed somewhat.

For example.

I find myself crying watching the end of Harry Potter.

Well. Maybe that one's a given for everyone.

In the car, when songs come on the radio, it seems that they have alternate meanings since the last time I sang along. For example, "With Arms Wide Open" by Creed is no longer about some long lost lover hoping I find a better man (and seriously, listening to the lyrics more closely, WTF was I thinking?)

It also becomes a lesson in what is appropriate to listen to in the car. Working with teens I already have some experience with this. Lately, my music choices have become limited since every song seems to be about getting some, giving some, or shaking your behind. What happened to good old fashioned love songs anyways?

And since the oldies station was cancelled, there is only one safe alternative left.

Shutting the damn thing off and singing her the classics myself!
 

The Commute Paradigm

My commute is 3-4 hours long total.

And today it has kicked my butt. Along with the pollen count. See you tomorrow (maybe).

The Photo Experiment

It has come to my attention that Anna is a cute kid.

Like really cute.

Like crazy cute.

And while I am at a loss for how we created such a cute-tastic child, I'm slightly ashamed of one of my first instincts.

To enter her into a cute baby photo contest.

Now look, I'm not talking Toddlers and Tiaras or anything (that show sickens me, by the way). Just a harmless baby photo contest where maybe she could win and pay for a semester of college. Or half a semester. At the rate college tuition is going, I'll have to sell her just so the next kid could have a shot at going to community college.

Anyhoo.

I feel like if I enter her and ask folks to vote, it's sort of like a "Hey you, I need you to vote for her cause she's so damn cute and that's all that matters." Which isn't true.

We're in it for the money, not the cuteness award. Cause that's much more noble.

I mean seriously, how cute is she? She could totally win.

I think I need a vote.

The Pants Option

Our nephew decided he wanted to go for a walk in the rain.

But he didn't want to get his pants wet.

You rock it dude.

The Uncle Transformation

My uncle is a pretty decent guy. He's gone through quite a few changes in the almost 30 years I have known him. I've seen him as the happy-go-lucky uncle who is playful and jolly, and I've seen him as the sober, morose, skinny and generally unhappy uncle who rarely smiles, and NEVER smiles for photographs.

For many years he has been the latter. Holidays and celebrations with my mother's side of the family have been spent watching the Patriots/Bruins/Celtics/Red Sox/whatever sport happens to be on at the time, listening to my cousins criticize the refereeing (they are all umpires) and heavy drinking.

Until this past Easter. When he finally met Anna.

He held her. For like an hour. He allowed my mother to take a photo of him with her.

And actually smiled.

OK, I'll chalk that one up as a fluke.

Until we went to visit my aunt. My uncle decided to stop by.

HE DOES NOT STOP BY PLACES.

He stopped by. I handed Anna over to him in the first two minutes. He stayed for three hours.

It was like a whole different person.

He talked to her, cooed at her, fed her her bottle, burped her, played with her, walked around with her (and nearly decapitated himself on the ceiling fan he was entertaining her with), and perhaps the most impressive:

HE STARTED A CONVERSATION.

With me. With my husband.

And I'm pretty sure it's the most I have ever heard him speak. Ever. Like if you combined all 30 years of conversation it would not equal what we heard tonight.

And then it was dinnertime. And my uncle said "I'll take her, you go eat."

WHO ARE YOU? WHERE IS MY UNCLE?

I take it back. I like this new guy! Maybe it's just a man who had three sons who really wanted a daughter just enjoying a baby grand-niece.

Whatever it is, it's awesome. I hope Anna can cause this effect on demand. Cause that would be even more awesome. Talk about a superpower!

The Work Renormalization

Today was my first day back at work.

I missed it, to be honest.

Not that I don't love Anna, but it was nice to spend a day talking with folks who can talk back. I enjoy the efficiency and orderliness to what I do, and it's a nice balance to watching a baby.

My work-coming (homecoming to work?) was nice. I got there early to try and get a head start on the day. I had kept up with my personal inbox out of boredom during midnight feedings and to make my transition back a lot easier.

I'm something of an organization freak. When we did silly superlatives at work, the only thing anyone could come up with for me was "Most Colorful". And it wasn't because of my language. It was because of my desk.

Everything is color coded.

EVERYTHING.

I really hate it when people touch my stuff. Or use my desk.

So imagine my delight when I come back to find my desk relatively organized and clean.

Practically the way I left it.

I was excited.

Until I tried to find my stapler.

Gone.

Tried to find my notebooks for phone calls and to do lists.

Hidden in a drawer.

Looked eagerly for my coffee mug.

Missing in action.

Sigh. I could deal with those.

Did I mention I kept up with my inbox? I did. Did I mention that I maintain 4 inboxes?

While my inbox was nice and neat, the other three....

Holy disaster Batman.

I spent ALL DAY sorting out one of them. And I'm still not done. Did I mention someone was supposed to be maintaining each inbox?

There were two people. And a third.

More organizing? Challenge Accepted.

P.S. Pumping breast milk at work is weird. More to come on this.

P.P.S. Behind locked doors ONLY. Because signs of "Please Do Not Disturb" apparently mean nothing....

Ugh

I just discovered what happens when you wait 6+ hours in between pumping.

Holy hell Batman.

This was NOT my intention.

I fully intended to wake up two hours ago to pump so I could wake up at 4 AM to pump again so I could start my first day back to work.

Dammit. Now I'm all thrown off. And I hurt. : (

The Hair Annhilation

So as my last free day before I go back to work, I decided to get some things accomplished.

My husband dropped Anna off at daycare. I woke up at 7:30 AM completely perplexed at how I had missed him getting up, showering, getting Anna ready, and leaving the house without waking me at all.

Well, maybe it wasn't such a miracle.

I headed off to my oil change (with a bonus large Coolatta instead of the medium I ordered and paid for...), and then managed to make it a productive day by:

1. going to a sport store to get new running sneakers
2. getting new sandals at Kohls
3. doing some food shopping for dinner
4. sent away for my husband's father's day gift
5. went for a run
6. got a haircut and eyebrow wax
7. dropped off my Zumba waiver
8. picked up milk from the butcher's
9. tidied up the house (does anyone still use the word tidy and its associates?)
10. made dinner

Yes, all in the same day. It was awesome. I'll never be only slightly exhausted this productive ever again.

Number 6 (the haircut) was necessary. I hadn't had it cut since March (okay, January) and I want to look good when I go back to work. I wanted it to be long enough to pull into a ponytail for Zumba and volleyball and running.

I love the cut. But it's not quite long enough to pull back.

Which also poses a problem on another front.

The, can't-pull-my-hair-back-out-of-reach-of-my-newborn dilemma. Now that she's in her grab-on-and-refuse-to-let-go-EVER stage, I'm pretty sure I'll be bald within a week.

At least I won't have to worry about overheating while exercising if I'm bald....

The Zumba Saturation

When we first moved to this town, we didn't have any children. It's a small town, and we're not really social butterflies so we didn't really get out to meet new people.

Until I decided to try Zumba at our local school. I needed the exercise and I needed a FUN way to do it.

So I tried it.
Loved it.

Been doing it ever since. (If you decide to do it, I recommend going in the front row and not giving a shit who sees you doing your moves. Honestly NO ONE else will care and if you're not the instructor NO ONE is looking at you. No, really.)

I met a few friends there (one of which knew my husband from family vacations to summer camp, but I digress) and all three of them are named Jen. Well. Jen, Jen, and Jenn. I was surrounded by Jen(n)s. The front row of class was made up of the Jen(n)s and me (not a Jen). We had a great time. Eventually I talked one of the Jen's into becoming a Zumba instructor. Long story short, she's ultimately taken over the class in our town.

I loved going, and tonight was my first night back in over a year. When I got pregnant, I was so nauseous I couldn't even fathom climbing stairs much less Zumba. And once it passed, the idea of jumping up and down with a huge belly - yeah not appealing WHATSOEVER. (Congrats to the moms that CAN do it though).

Tonight marked my imminent return to Zumba. Our town doesn't allow drop ins, so I had to wait until tonight to go back. The Jen(n)s have been bugging me for weeks reminding me to go back. I was excited; my exercise clothes fit, I had new shoes, I was READY.

I checked the time this morning, and eagerly went into the study to empty the boobs before the class.

Something was bothering me. I hooked myself up, turned on the pump, and decided to check the Zumba Facebook page.

F*ck.

Class started at 6:30. Not 7:15. It is now 6:31.

Needless to say, I ripped off the breast pump (DON'T EVER DO THIS), threw on a non-holey sports bra, shoved in breast pad shield thingys, threw on a t-shirt, grabbed my sneaks and left.

I literally RAN into the school in flip flops and was greeted with a chorus of cheers and hugs. I was only two songs late, so I jumped right in.

What a mistake that was.

I didn't warm up. I didn't stretch. And of course, I didn't take it easy. I went pretty much full blast.

Which means this is REALLY going to hurt tomorrow.

The best part? Doing Zumba with FULL BOOBS. Holy freaking ouchies Batman. Now I know why they recommend wearing TWO sports bras. But at least my boobs didn't leak everywhere. The last thing I would need is for peeps to see my imminent glorious reception and then slip in breast milk and sprain an ankle. EMBARASSING.

So here I sit, covered in sweat and breast milk, proud of myself for at least getting the workout in, and cursing myself because of course, I have a full schedule tomorrow while Anna's at school.

FANtastic.

The Crying Revelation

Anna went to preschool this morning.

And of course, I cried. A lot.

Like, nearly-throwing-up kind of crying. Luckily I held it in until I got home. I got emotional last night giving her her bath, and Anna could tell. She went from her normal holy-crap-baths-are-the-best-thing-ever face to seeing Mommy all teary eyed and giving me the pouty "what's wrong?" lip.

It was freaking adorable.

And this morning, when I left, I was getting teary but kept trying to smile. But she could tell. She cried when I left, but according to her teachers, got over it pretty quickly.

She loved it.

Well.

As much as a two and a half month old can, anyways.

I knew she would be fine. I cried for at least an hour. I called my husband. I called my mother. I sobbed like a baby. I asked my mother how she could possibly have done this FOUR TIMES.

And then I picked her up (yes, a bit earlier than we normally will  be, but hey, I missed her) and she saw me and gave me that cute smile, and I melted.

And all was right with the world.

The Daycare Instability

Tomorrow will be Anna's first time at daycare.

You know, I don't even like the word daycare. I'm going to call it school. Preschool. Yes. That sounds better already.

Tomorrow will be Anna's first time at preschool.

And I'm f*cking terrified.

She'll only be there three days a week. I'll have her at home one day, my mom will have her the other. But I'm still afraid.

What if she thinks I abandoned her? What if she cries the whole time? What if one of the other kids hurts her? What if the adults don't understand her? What if what if what if what if?

You see where I'm going with this. I'm going to cry my eyes out tomorrow. I'm happy leaving her with family or trusted friends for a little while, but this? This is different.

I've seen other daycares preschools. Some of them are HUGE. Like 250+ kids. Separate classrooms, lots of milestones my child has to meet to move to the next classroom. Lots of rules. One of the places we looked at, the guide only showed us the infant room. That was it.

Um, hello? She won't be an infant forever? What else you got?

We had to ask SO many questions. Not just for us, but because it wasn't obvious. What was obvious is that she didn't really seem to care for our child or our business. See ya.

Our nephew goes to a small preschool too. In a house, little play yard, small groups of kids. He does really well there. Probably why we chose the place we did. Plus, I don't have to fight 200 other moms for a f*cking parking space whenever I have to pick her up.

There are a million questions you're SUPPOSED to ask when finding a preschool. What's the adult/child ratio? Are you licensed? What do we need to provide? What does their day look like? How much?

Then you look at reviews for the place to see what it's REALLY like. We actually have a friend who's mother works at a preschool in town. And advised us NOT to go there.

Comforting....

I feel a little better after dropping off her stuff last week so she'll be ready for Monday. It's a small place, inside of a house, and the classes are small. There are bright colors, windows, and a good sized outdoor play area. The teachers are nice. The owner remembers a lot about her clients even after only meeting them once. And she was onhand to reassure every one of my fears.

Preschool will be good for Anna. Socially. Intellectually.

Stay at home mom is a tough job. It's not for everyone.

You can call anytime you like. 100 times a day if you want. They will always answer.

You can stop by anytime you like. Anytime.

Another little girl Anna's age is starting there too. She'll have a playmate.

And so on.

I know she'll be fine. I know it'll be good for her.

And I think that's what matters most: how you feel about the place. Do you feel comfortable here? Then your child probably will too.

For all you other mommies out there who might need some reassurance, I found this being passed around on Facebook yesterday (I believe it originated with someone called Jill Smith):

To the mom who's breastfeeding: Way to go! It really is an amazing gift to give your baby, for any amount of time that you can manage! You're a good mom.

To the mom who's formula feeding: Isn't science amazing? To think there was a time when a baby with a mother who couldn't produce enough would suffer, but now? Better living through chemistry! You're a good mom.

To the cloth diapering mom: Fluffy bums are the cutest, and so friendly on the bank account. You're a good mom.

To the disposable diapering mom: Damn those things hold a lot, and it's excellent to not worry about leakage and laundry! You're a good mom.

To the mom who stays home: I can imagine it isn't easy doing what you do, but to spend those precious years with your babies must be amazing. You're a good mom.

To the mom who works: It's wonderful that you're sticking to your career, you're a positive role model for your children in so many ways, it's fantastic. You're a good mom.

To the mom who had to feed her kids from the drive thru all week because you're too worn out to cook or go grocery shopping: You're feeding your kids, and hey, I bet they aren't complaining! Sometimes sanity can indeed be found in a red box with a big yellow M on it. You're a good mom.

To the mom who gave her kids a homecooked breakfast lunch and dinner for the past week: Excellent! Good nutrition is important, and they're learning to enjoy healthy foods at an early age, a boon for the rest of their lives. You're a good mom.

To the mom with the kids who are sitting quietly and using their manners in the fancy restaurant: Kudos, it takes a lot to maintain order with children in a place where they can't run around. You're a good mom.

To the mom with the toddler having a meltdown in the cereal aisle: they always seem to pick the most embarrassing places to lose their minds don't they? We've all been through it. You're a good mom.

To the moms who judge other moms for ANY of the above? Glass houses, friend. Glass houses.

I'm a good mom. I'm a good mom. I'm a good mom....

The Whale Excitation

Part of my job includes the use of a 42 foot long inflatable whale. Pretty fantastically awesome.

It is always a hit - no matter what age group we bring it to (adults included) - they are always amazed and have lots of questions. One of the most common is of course "What is the whale's name?"

The whale's name is Calvin. It was named for a North Atlantic right whale who had several struggles as a young calf, including the loss of its mother before it was a year old and entanglement. It was named Calvin after the cartoon Calvin and Hobbes, for its resilience and spunkiness.

Calvin surprised scientists a third time by having a baby whale of her own; finally revealing her gender to be female (and yes, the resulting baby whale was named Hobbes.)

We tell age appropriate modified versions of this story during our program with the whale. One of our staff in particular was leading the introduction for a group of first graders. He very enthusiastically and dramatically led up to the following statement:

"And in just a few moments, we will blow up my friend Calvin!"

The reaction? General happiness.

Except for one little boy. Who got up, turned, and RAN to his teacher across the room in fear.

Why?

His name was Calvin.

He thought our staff was going to blow him up.

From then on, he makes sure to say "inflate" instead of "blow up".

That kid didn't come near us for the rest of the program....

The Reproduction Postulate

I would like to propose something.

A license to breed.

At the rate humans reproduce, and the resources we waste consume, it's a wonder this planet will ever be able to sustain us. In the interest of humanity, I propose requiring some sort of testing to be allowed to have children (yes, I realize this may result in the downfall of mankind, but hear me out).

Why?

Because of a conversation I overheard teaching a kindergarten class.

Teacher's Aide (TA): Oohh I have a question!

Me: Yes?

TA: How do the hermit crabs have...(pauses to think) b-a-b-b-ys?

Me: Uh....

TA: Wait wait, that's not right.

Me: Whew...(pause)

TA: How do they have b-a-b-y-s?

Me: (facepalm)

OK, #1, why are you spelling it out? It's totally fine for kids to ask where babies come from. And even if you don't want the kids to know what we're talking about, do you really expect me to respond back to you by spelling?

#2, she had just finished a story about her own child.

Dear God, please tell me she only has one child. And that's why she can't spell babies.

If you are opposed to the license to breed, I have an alternative:

Please? I swear we are de-evolving as a species...

P.S. The answer to her question is, the male carries the female and her shell around, and when she molts, he makes his move. Bow-chicka-wow-wow. : )

The Blog Experiment

So I guess I might have skipped this part a little bit. Why start a blog? What's my motivation? What do I hope to achieve?

To be honest, I think I found mommy blogs by accident during a late night feeding. I found one or two incredibly helpful and funny and follow them fairly regularly (thanks Top Mommy Blogs!). I think I found them comforting in a way only a new mom really can. I found a reassurance in them that I was not the only one thinking I was losing my mind, being a bad parent, or ignoring my husband. They've made me understand that every child and every parent is different, and the most important thing you can do is trust your instincts.

And if your instincts fail you, Google that shit. Cause I have no idea how the hell I'm gonna clip this kids nails without her losing a digit.

Anyhoo.

I've always been a decent storyteller (at least in person), and I've always had a passion for writing (wait till you hear about the Star Wars fanfic - welcome to Geekville : ) ).

So why not? I had plenty of observations regarding pregnancy, a couple of good stories, and a decent sense of humor regarding parenthood. Maybe my blog would help someone else the way others have helped me.

Maybe I wanted to document my inner thoughts on being a parent. Maybe I do it so I don't freak out at my husband over the small stuff. Maybe I do it so others have an easier time finding answers (or comfort) than I did. Maybe I do it to document my daughter's hilarious antics (and with parents like us, she will be quite interesting) for her to read about when she's older (MUCH older). Maybe I do it because it feels good to get it all out of my system. Maybe I do it because it comforts me.

Or maybe I do it because the breast pump is in the study. Where my computer is.

Nah, that can't be it.

Well, regardless of my why, I'm sure that I will figure it out. Parenthood is an adventure, and I intend to learn and share as much as I can.

The Shopping Collision

I've recently headed out on my first and few excursions with Anna in tow. These three outings have given way to small revelations in the field of traveling with your newborn.

1. I have been food shopping with her once, and since she's too small for the cart, I had to keep her in the car seat.

Placing the car seat in the carriage (read: shopping cart!) meant I couldn't see where I was going, so I put her in the lower part of the carriage - you know, where all the groceries go. This WOULD have worked out...if we didn't need so many groceries.

We managed to get out of there with what we needed.

I realize they make carriages with baby seats attached, but I couldn't find any and I doubt their sanitation is up to my meager standards. And really, hard plastic? Would YOU want to lay on that for a good half hour or more?

2. Our recent trip to Walmart had me repeating my experience with food shopping, only we needed less stuff, the shopping cart was bigger, and the aisles were much wider. My observation here is that if you are traveling with a newborn, you could probably walk out with half the store for free and the only thing the greeter will remember is that you had a gorgeous newborn with you. I brought my own bag (YAY less plastic - learn more about plastic and how to reduce it from a friend's blog about her year long plastic collection/reduction), and I could have put ANYTHING in it.

And gotten away with it. Because I had a newborn.

3. Kohls. WTH. This was my first experience shopping using Anna's stroller. I didn't need much, and the Chicco strollers have a HUGE basket underneath (although using the car seat with the stroller means it's nearly inaccessible) and maneuver fairly well. Plus they fold up pretty easily and don't weigh a lot a ton. I was armed with my Mommy Hook (SO helpful) and the small diaper bag squished under the stroller. What I wasn't prepared for was the narrowness of the aisles.

Holy freaking skinny Batman. I barely would have fit down those aisles when I was pregnant, much less with a stroller. I lost count of the things I ran into with that stroller. You could only fit one person down a shoe aisle at a time (regardless of your stroller status). EXTREMELY disappointing, considering Kohls has a pretty decent selection and prices and gimmicks to get you in the store (and I criticize as a former employee). Seriously, do you not want me to shop there? Your carriages suck (and I mean really), your aisles are so narrow Victoria's Secret models would have trouble with them, and it takes so long to get a backup cashier I have to go back to the kids section to get Anna a bigger size (and the backup cashier ALWAYS looks pissed off. Why? Because they come from a department, which now has probably no one in it, and they are getting behind on their work, which they will get yelled at for later. It's a no win situation).

So now, when I'm up in the middle of the night with Anna, I can Google helpful shopping tips with newborns and share them with you.

All of my spam readers. In Russia.

I'll start you off. Tip #1. Don't take the kid with you. Get a sitter. Problem (almost) solved.

The Nap Indeterminancy

So lately things have been a little crazy.

Well.

Crazi-er.

We decided we wanted to move.

You heard me. With a 10 week old kid, 2 weeks before I go back to work, we decided we want to move. Like right now. So we got an estimate on the house, and we said we'd be ready in a week to start showing it.

Our realtor emails us the next day to ask us if we'd be ready before then because someone may be interested.

Talk about lighting a fire under your ass.

So basically we've been furiously packing for days trying to make this place presentable. A good thing since half our shit is already in a storage unit (my primary motivation is just to have all our shit under one roof), but with Mother's Day weekend and my husband working an overnight shift, I've basically had the baby all to myself.

Since Saturday morning.

It is now Tuesday morning. I think.

Basically my life has become a series of naps versus actual sleep. My existence hinges upon making it from one nap to another.

And I know my husband is exhausted too. But then he goes away to Dallas for work for several days...and I'm alone again. So at least he can get a shitload of sleep, while - right - I'm still here catnapping from day to day.

I would like to cash these in now, please.

YAWN. See you in the morning, when maybe I remember all those blog topic posts I thought of in the "in between time" some of you call wakefulness.

Mother's Day

Remember my list?

Yep, not one thing on my list (there were only six things!) happened.

Ah well. Still a good day.

There's always next year....and the next...and the next.....

Happy Mother's Day to all the mommies out there!

The Meme Equivalency

You might have noticed that every once in awhile you get a meme from me instead of an honest to goodness thought out entertaining post. Mostly because on those nights I am EXHAUSTED. Tonight is one of those nights.

Yes, it is the eve of my first Mother's Day. And my husband is getting ready for an early morning shift at work. Which means I get the baby.

All night.

I had her all day yesterday, all afternoon and evening with the exception of 30 minutes. I gave her a bath. I put her to bed. I pumped. I made a grocery list. I dozed off for ten minutes. I am pumping again.

And then I'm praying this kid chooses tonight to sleep through the night.

Because somehow I am magically supposed to get enough sleep to pump on time, go food shopping, and be back here in time to shower and head out for Mother's Day celebrations, of which I need to prepare cards and a dessert for.

F*cking awesome.

Two for good measure.

I find this one hilarious. Enjoy.

And I found out why breast pumping is making me sick. F*ck you Oxytocin.



The Feeding Dilemma

Argh. This whole breastfeeding thing breast milking thing takes a lot out of me. I hate the way my boobs feel. I hate that it is uncomfortable to put on my bathrobe after a shower (really like WTF is up with that?). I hate that I feel violated by my breast pump. I hate that I've found a way to pump without having to actually take my current bra off. I hate how they feel when I don't pump on time. And I hate getting up every four hours to do it and feeling sick to my stomach half the time.

But I love the fact that I seem to be losing weight, and that I can give my child milk instead of formula. I wish there was another way, though. I don't want to take the formula route if I don't have to, although I've seriously considered it as I sit here patiently waiting for the pump to do its thing. Poopy breast milk diapers aren't as smelly (that shit is YELLOW!) and if they spit up on you, it washes out. NOT the case with formula. It smells way worse, it doesn't come out of clothes, and it ain't free.

But dear GOD some nights I wish she would latch. Anna has never latched. I've tried everything, and that kid just thinks my boobs are the AntiChrist. I partially blame myself, partially the nurses. It would probably have helped to have some basic instructions (or if I had thought to take the breastfeeding course offered at the hospital, but seriously, $150 and on a Saturday?) and then just had everyone get the hell out. Not have an audience, not have random women with nurses badges grab my breasts (without asking!) and try to force them into erectness to shove in my screaming (and I mean DEFCON 1 here) child's mouth. Anna was apopleptic.

If we have another child, my first instructions for feeding will be to BRING ME A BREAST PUMP AND GET THE HELL OUT. EVERYONE. I will bond with my child on my own terms - now get the f*ck out.

Some nights....

I just want to yank my husband out of bed and yell at him.

"Get UP! I am up every four hours or less to let the breast pump feel me up. GET UP AND FEED OUR DAUGHTER OR SO HELP ME GOD...."

But I don't.

Because we don't yell.

We barely even fight.

But I have perfected the art of the subtle guilt trip.

But seriously dude. Move it or I will LOSE IT.

The Mother's Day Implementation

Sunday will be my first Mother's Day.

And all I really want are these few things:

1. To sleep longer than 3 hours consecutively.

2. Jewelry. Like something AWESOME.

3. A Long Island Iced Tea. Top Shelf. A BIG one.

4. To be ALONE for at least an hour. Two or twenty four hours would be great.

5. Someone to make food for me all day. I want sushi, crab cakes, salmon casserole, alcohol, soda, and eggs Benedict.

6. I don't want to change a diaper. All day.

I really secretly hope my husband finds this blog and can accomplish this.

Why would I tell him? He should know this stuff already..... :)

The Rock Star

Um, yes, I totally feel that way.

The Baby Name Paradigm

As an educator who goes out to schools, I've seen a lot of kids.

And had to learn their names.

When my mother first found out we were having a girl, there was an endless stream of questions regarding what our child would be named. Between her, my aunt, and my sister, they tried every trick in the book.

"What letter does it start with?"

"I want to monogram things for her!"

And so on.

Needless to say, I held my (our) ground. We didn't tell ANYONE our name choices. Because honestly, it doesn't matter. If you tell someone, then they immediately judge the name. IMMEDIATELY. They may or may not keep their judgment a secret. And now you have others influencing your choices when really, you probably had a pretty good name to start with.

Example: My brother-in-law and his wife kept the sex and names to themselves. When our nephew was born, they surprised us with his name: Patrick.

Patrick? I thought. Eh, guess that's OK.

I was not a fan. But I thought Hey, not my kid. Who am I to judge?

And now? That kid is TOTALLY a Patrick. Couldn't think of him any other way. Plus, once you name the kid, no one can argue with you. It's named: DEAL WITH IT.

Now I'm not inviting you to name your kid whatever the hell you like. Take some time to think this through. I reassured my family that our child's name would be fairly normal, and you would be able to spell it. Because who the f*ck wants to spend the rest of their life spelling their name?

Example: I have met children with seriously f*cked up names. Like Xyta (Zi-Tah). And Eros (the god of sexual love). That will TOTALLY work for him when he gets older. Or a teacher I met who had a child in her class who's name was Shithead (shah-tay-ed).

My advice for naming your kids (compiled from hints all over the internet)

1. Don't tell anyone your choices. If you do, you might get stuck with it or someone might put the name on something and then you can't use it if you change your mind. Or, in the case of my messed up cousin, naming your baby after your baby's daddy (NOT husband) and the jerk turns out to be a lying cheater. And you STILL name him after his father. DON'T DO THAT SHIT.

2. Keep it simple - spelling included. Your kid is not going to be any more special because her name is spelled Ayvah instead of Ava. You'll get sick of spelling it, and so will she.

3. Look up popular name lists to see if your choices are on it. If they are, consider nixing the name. You don't want your kid to think his name is Matt B. because there are three other Matts in his class.

4. Double check the initials. You don't want Sunnye Theresa Davis or Zachary Ian Thomas to one day get teased for their initials STD and ZIT.

5. Consider nicknames (both shortening of names and mean rhyming ones). My boss once told me her husband preferred names you couldn't shorten (like Amy or Lucy). We decided we could live with Anna Banana as a nickname, and if we make light of it, hopefully she will too. Nicknames are somewhat endearing in my family, so do what works for you. But if you would hate for a Richard to be called Rick, Dick, or Richard the Lionhearted, reconsider. Because the only thing worse than spelling your name all the time is sounding like a dick when you tell them "It's RICHARD, not Rich." Jeez. Sor-ry.

6. Say it out loud. You'd be surprised how some names sound ALL WRONG when you say them aloud. Write them down too - make sure it looks aesthetically pleasing on paper (no, seriously).

7. Settle. Once you have a name, stick with it. The last thing you want is a nameless baby for 3 days in the hospital while your family visits and bugs the hell out of you after you just pushed a bowling ball out your vajayjay. You've got 9 months - you can at least be prepared for SOMETHING.

8. Have a backup. Just in case Sam turns out to be Samantha, or in the case of messed up cousins, your baby daddy is an asshole. OR, as in our case, a beloved family member dies and you name her after her. (We named Anna after my husbands grandmother who died 1 month before Anna was born. Her name was Eleanor, and she told us NOT to name our baby that. We called her Nana (note the anagram to Anna). It seemed fitting.)

9. Consider sibling names. Don't put too much stress on this one right now. Just be wary if you decide to have more children if the names will go together. Or if they do, how they will sound. If your kids are Sam and Ella, shouting that off your back porch will sound like salmonella. Ew.

Happy naming!

The Smiling Reaction

My daughter Anna smiles a LOT. Quite a bit for a newborn. Few things make her smile as big as this:

What is she looking at?

A ceiling fan.

Yes, really.

The Movie Seat Excitation

Went to the movies tonight to see Iron Man 3 with a friend. Old friend, new theater.

We were the first ones there, took prime seats.

Apparently this theater has assigned seating, as we were told rudely by very obvious comic book nerds that "we were in their seats".

Assigned seats in a theater? Really?

We moved elsewhere. Note: they were the only ones in the theater with "assigned seats". The rest of us didn't give a shit.

P.S. I like nerds. I am one. I just like my-age nerds. Like my husband. Who stayed home and introduced our 2 month old to TRON. OOOOHhhhhhh yeahhhhh.

Conversations with my husband

Me: She's really cute honey. (Regarding Anna)

Husband: (nods in agreement)

Me to Anna: Daddy's going to have to buy a shotgun when you grow up.

(pause)

And a shovel.

Husband: And a chainsaw.

Me: (quizzical look)

Husband: It'll be easier to bury them.

Me: (nods in agreement) True.

The Tulip Experiment

About two years ago my husband started on an endeavor to clean up our yard. The previous house owners had planted a plethora of various plants, flowers, and shrubs which I had no desire time to keep up with. It was impossible to tell what would bloom next, and there was always a friggin bee convention located on, near, or under the front stoop.

It had to end.

We methodically started pulling things up and getting rid of them, including a beautiful bed of tulips planted around this random rock (it IS the Granite State) in the yard. I felt horrible yanking each one and tossing it away, so I hid one away from my husband and secretly shoved it under the soil planted it in the bed surrounding our lamppost. This area was apparently restricted to daffodils ONLY.

I forgot about it until a few days ago.

See that?

One splash of red among our sea of daffodils. Kind of like a defiant "up yours".

My perfect little tulip!

Rock on, tulip, rock on.



The Snap Triangulation

Like for real? You want me to button up 15 snaps on a baby outfit?

WHILE the kid is moving?

No bullshit?

Ain't nobody got time for that.

Where are all the practical baby outfits?

And your tips for choosing baby outfits are watch the weather, look for natural fibers, and don't buy outfits with feet?

Right. Or how about shit with zippers?