Of Cabbages and Kings

Double Bed

2012-01-28T18:50:00.000-05:00

Subtitled: Manifest Destiny

Sub-subtitled: Imminent Domain

Jackson: This isn't as cool as I thought it would be. Meh.

Katie: Are you fucking kidding me with this? *seethe*

One Order of Womb Fruit, Please

2012-01-26T16:03:00.001-05:00

Hey now! I know it's been keeping you up at night, so let me reassure you that my saline sono was fine (not NEARLY as painful with the RE doing the procedure as it was with the resident at the local hospital, who had me doing the crab walk trying to escape the procedure table. This time we talked about toe nail polish and OPI color names being wacky and then she was done). My ute is lurvely. My nurse coordinator ordered my meds. I start estrace in about a week and stimulation in 2.5 weeks.

I couldn't resist asking the RE about my high(ish) FSH and she waved it away. It's not THAT high, and it's fluctuated before (nearly 10 one cycle, down to 7 the next). And...it is what it is. And it's not surprising since my ovaries are sluggish about the stimulation, anyway. I echoed her sentiment and said, "Yep, the cycle will either work or it won't" and she hugged me -- fiercely -- and said, "No, we want it to WORK so Jackson can have a baby brother or sister." She's alright.

My Friend, The Wand

2012-01-23T10:24:00.000-05:00

We're all sensitive people with so much to give. Understand me, sugar.

I am back in the stirrups again. We got pre-cycle bloodwork out of the way this morning and looked at my typically unimpressive antral follicle count (ooooh....11 follicles....my ovaries are lazy bitches). As soon as the nurse calls me this afternoon to confirm that my FSH and prolactin aren't completely fucked up, then we'll schedule the saline sono for this week. More wanding! I have a very active sex life, y'all. With medical devices. I'm sure that's a fetish of some sort.

I had those weird, anxious butterflies going into the RE's office this morning, but frankly, as soon as I got home and scooped up my little dude and got a hug and a kiss from him....just, whatever. All good. That's going to be my focus on this upcoming cycle, just keeping my eyes on the prize I already have.

4PM Update: My nurse coordinator called. My FSH on Day 4 (which she says is equivalent enough, if that's a scientific measure, to Day 3) is 12. Blargh. That's a little high for a 33-year-old. Oh, well. It is what it is and we are undeterred. Also, fuck you, ovaries. We're doing this whether you like it or not.

4PM The Next Day Update: My nurse called back to day I have to go back on Synthroid. Cause, oh yeah, I just stopped taking it after Jackson weaned without talking to any licensed medical professional first. The only reason I was ever on it was for attempting to conceive. And the only reason my thyroid hormones are out of whack in the slightest is the cumulative effect of over a year of exogenous hormones while trying to conceive. But, when I got a second RE opinion after failed IVF #2, he looked at my thyroid labs and said I was on the high side of normal and didn't need Synthroid. So there you have it: ART is more an art, less a science. Qualified experts can't even agree on some details.

Mommy vs The Molars

2012-01-21T08:24:00.001-05:00

Our sleep has been shit for the past week, and Jackson hasn't napped more than 15 minutes a day while we wait for these fucking molars to come in. He's been cranky, anxious, and tired (WE ARE ALL TIRED). He's been refusing most food and instead living on a steady diet of Advil and Orajel. He used to hate Orajel and now he opens up like a baby bird....

And Lo! Last night he slept through the night once again. And even woke up happy. I can feel one of the molars has cut through the gum, so maybe we're past the worst of it? But it's just one molar so far, and there are at least 47 more yet to come in, right? Fuck. And this time around teething has made his poops utterly foul and liquid and his farts have been mushroom clouds of disgust. Awesome.

Also, this week I had a major communication problem with a client that got someone in their department in beeeg trouble which I feel lousy about (plus I have to continue working with him...yay). And THEN on Thursday, it was snowing hard and I was trying to turn right into the parking lot to drop Jackson off at daycare and someone thought it was a good time to use a parking lane to pass me on the right. But who do you think got cited as being at fault? DING! DING! DING! Yep, I got a ticket for an illegal turn, even though she told Officer Friendly she saw me slow down and put my turn signal on and attempted to pass me on the right using a parking lane to cut across a right turn only lane in the middle of an intersection. So now I have to explain all of this to a magistrate in fucking traffic court. And take my car in to have the dents and scrapes patched up. Double fuck. I'm just a million times grateful that it was a minor accident, because getting hit with Jackson in the car nearly made my heart stop. And if another driver is in such a hurry that they'll pass someone on the right, while watching that person turning right...it could have been much worse. Bullet dodged.

But in better news, I suppose, my period just started with a vengeance (think: Carrie at the prom) so I have the privilege of undergoing a saline sono next week and then waiting for the results of bloodwork to start Estrace. So, it's almost cycle time, bitches. Time to get impregnated up in herr.

Step One: Have Lots of Fun

2012-01-11T19:41:00.001-05:00

The RE consult went well. I mean, it went as expected. I brought Jackson with me and the staff oohed and aahed and fawned over him, which I like to imagine is fun for them given how much they watch people endure to get to where we are. And then we got down to bidness. We still have insurance coverage (except for meds, boo!) so we can afford several cycles if needed. New bloodwork for me and KB, to have current proof that neither of us picked anything up that one night in Bangkok. Another date with the jizz cup and a magazine in a medical clinic bathroom for KB. And then a saline sonogram for me, about 2 weeks from now, that will be the last piece of evidence we need to march on. So, yeah, if everything checks out (mainly, if Jackson didn't leave behind a mess when he vacated my uterine accommodations, in which case I'm taking the full deposit from him with no refund whatsoever) then we could be starting a cycle in mid-February. For those of you keeping track, that's in a month.

This time, things are different. They have to be. And they also just are. For one, my RE told me that continued weight loss (I'm at my pre-pregnancy weight but not yet at my pre-IVF weight) and aerobic exercise 5 days a week is considered beneficial for fertility and IVF. That wasn't the case 2 or so years ago, when I was advised to limit heavy exercise due to its potential effects on metabolism. You know about medical research, right? If you don't like the guidelines, wait a couple of years and the conventional wisdom will change. So my efforts to exercise (I'm going back to my personal trainer/torture buddy next week to get this weight loss show on the road again) and drop ell-bees apparently will dovetail nicely with my desire to get knocked up. But that's the surface stuff. The biggest difference this time is that it's not all or nothing. We don't emerge from this as either parents or not parents. And it's not an endless tunnel with no light. KB and I haven't set any limits on how many cycles (in my head I am prepared for 3, since it took that many to get Jackson) or discussed whether or not we'd move on to donor egg (which we were thisclose to doing last time around). I have no idea if I will feel emotional or sad if the first, or any subsequent, cycle isn't going well (I sort of expect it, as none ever did), or if they fail. I reserve the right to be a raging hormotional bitch when I'm jacked up on megadoses of gonadotropins, but for now I feel a sense of calm. Of determination. Of hope. I don't even feel cynical about it. I think, after all this time, I've finally accepted that this is our normal, our shifted baseline, and with that I can let myself daydream about another pregnancy, another baby, a completion of our family on our terms. I already have the baby's nursery theme figured out, you guys.

And so until my next period starts and the testing begins and then the next period starts and the cycle begins, I just live my life. I've got prescriptions for doxycyclene (for the saline sonogram) and estrace (for priming the antagonist cycle) sitting in my purse from this morning. In a remarkable show of restraint, I did not fill them today. See? Whole new approach. This is the new normal.

Rollin', Rollin'

2012-01-04T11:59:00.000-05:00

Hey. What's up?

I just made an appointment with my RE.

I KNOW. Right?

The consultation is next Wednesday morning. It'll just be talky-talk, probably not even a blood test; since I'm thinking about taking Jackson with me, so she can meet the nice chap she helped us sprout, I think my hands will be full o'toddler and unavailable for any sort of poking. I'm kind of excited to get this ball rolling. And kind of meh. You know, self-preservation-style.

So. Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Auld Lang Syne

2011-12-31T19:09:00.001-05:00

Should Clomid cycles be forgot
And rounds of IVF
More take-home babies all around
For friends in the Internet

Happy New Year, everyone. Happy 2012 ahead.

Infant, Toddler, Dog

2011-12-23T17:39:00.002-05:00

Merry and Bright

2011-12-19T19:18:00.000-05:00

I found this wrapped in Christmas paper with a bow when I picked Jackson up from school one day last week. He made it during a special art project.

OH. You guys. My kid's first fingerpainting. I cannot describe to you how much I love this. How much I love him. The holidays make me all mushy and gushy and hormotional. Weep.

There are a couple of babies (TINY. Baybees.) joining Jackson's class in the next month, between 3-6 months old. And he is due to transition out of the Infant (Baybee) Room and into the Toddler (Big Boy) Room some time in the spring or early summer. So the next few months will bring observations of Jackson's big brother potential around the babies. And his blooming independence in the Big Boy Room. And I will be moving slowly toward the next things, the hopeful plans for a little brother or sister, the savings for a new house, the rest of the pesky baby weight to lose while we wait for Operation Take Two Nummer Zwei Le Bebe Dos to commence. Working to keep myself sharp and afford all these things. Trying to just be here and in the moment and happy.

So Merry Christmas (or Happy Chanukah), you guys. Also, Happy Festivus for the rest of us.

Odds vs Ends

2011-12-06T12:02:00.001-05:00

Random deep thoughts, meine Damen und Herren.

The Girl is Crafty Like Ice is Cold: I borrowed (stole) Jen's idea for her little dude and made these as Jackson's Christmas present:

Note: I (sadly) did not sneak off and have a second kid. Katie is our rescued dog (side note: what is it with animal rescue people giving animals human names? Scratch Katherine/Katie/Kate off the potential girl's names list). Eagle-eyed readers may notice I have a spare block for our family just in case. You know. In case we grow another baby. I made blocks for the entire family:

I modpodged like a muthafucka, y'all. I might decoupage every surface in my house.

Miss(ed) Manners: We went to our irritating-as-shit neighbors' Christmas party last Saturday. We go solely out of a sense of obligation, and take solace in the fact that other neighbors do the same. At least we like the other neighbors and can chat with them (and make plans to hang out with them on the sly). So, the less-than-awesome-total-asshole neighbors started handing out Christmas presents to select friends and neighbors in the middle of the party, including a giant Thomas-the-Train set for their friend's 17-month-old. And they insisted he open it up and play with it. I didn't expect or want a gift from them, for KB and me or for Jackson, and I didn't bring them a present (other than a host/hostess gift of a bottle of wine BECAUSE WE HAVE MANNERS) but how do I stop a toddler from wanting to play with another kid's toy when it's right there in front of him and everything else in the room is a "no-no -- please, Jackson, no-no -- oh gawd, don't grab the glass ornament or painted pinecones, etc."? The other kid's parents were nice about it, but in the kerfuffle Jackson got a huge cardboard cut on his cheek while packaging was flying around the room. That angered me so much I cannot even tell you. Gurgling, bubbling, seething anger. Not only were these jackholes being obnoxiously rude about handing out presents to just a few people, and oohing and aahing as loudly and mega-obscenely as they could, but they couldn't even muster enough class to have a small toy for Jackson while lavishing gifts and opening them for another kid nearly the same age. And then the cut on his face. Oh, and their two giant dogs roamed freely and humped the kids. Their solution? Scream at the dogs in front of the kids and otherwise do nothing. I CAN'T WAIT TO MOVE TO ANOTHER HOUSE. Did I say that out loud? No, fuckers, I shouted it. I now return to my usual programming of avoiding these un-neighborly assmonkeys like a fratboy with herpes.

Broken Social Scene: I have a playdate with a friend from grad school and her daughter tomorrow. Like, a real playdate, at my house. This is uncharted territory for me, you guys. I think this makes me a legit mama now. (I take Jackson places, I swear, and we meet other friends and their kids for activities, but people? coming to my house? a first.) This grad school friend is living a similar life now -- she did the academic postdoc (check) and left to do freelance pharma and tech consulting (check). She's also part-time and uses a nanny for her 16-month-old daughter when she works and sends her older son (around 3, I think) to pre-school. I'm looking forward to swapping stories about how we are finally free from the academic slave trade, and how part-time freelance consulting rules (uh-huh), and inquiring about how much harder it actually is to have two kids about 2-3 years apart (I'm leading my own study, ya'll, and recruiting subjects to survey). This is kind of a big step for me because I'm possibly the Greatest Homebody Ever. We'll see how it goes.

It Takes Two to Make a Thing Go Right: I poas-ed last week, everyone. Stifle your laughter, it's not nice. I realized that KB and I had done Le Deed at precisely the right time for ovulation and thought it might just be possible. Guess what happened when I tested? Besides the obvious, that it was stark-white-negative? My period started approximately one hour later. Oh, universe. *shaking fist at sky* KB's surprise was manifested as, "Oh, you mean my super-sperm didn't impregnate you?" I guess not. And we are now within the month or so in which we said we would meet with the RE to begin the process all over again. So why haven't I made the call to schedule the appointment? I should call. Maybe tomorrow.

Napster

2011-11-25T16:05:00.001-05:00

Jackson has become (note the perfect present tense, it is intentional) a good sleeper, but not without some hurdles to overcome along the way. In the wee early months (oh gawd, months) we had colic. He transitioned to his crib just fine but liked to get up 3-4 times minimum each night to nurse, for a long time (oh gawd, months). In the past 4-6 months, we've made huge strides in sleep with him going to bed quite easily around 7pm and sleeping through the night until 4-6am, when he wants to cuddle and have some milk (I used to nurse until The Strike led to the Self-Weaning, and now it's just a sippy with a few ounces of moo-milk). He then goes back to sleep until around 7am or so. Last night we began the project of eliminating the wee-early-morning milk run. If it was consistently happening around 5-6am or so, I wouldn't really care because, seriously, cuddling with your bebe when he's half asleep and the house is quiet is like leisure time. But some nights he's up for that sippy as early as 3am, and we've tried comforting him back to sleep without it and it fails. Must.have.milk. Last night went okay, with minimal fussing, and he slept in until 8am. Win-win so far. Wish us luck tonight.

And the napping. He's been a crap-napper since day 1, hardly staying out longer than 30 minutes. He whittled his naptime down to one per day a few months ago and would not fall asleep in his crib at home. Bollocks. So we've been strapping him in the car and running around town doing errands to get him to nap in his carseat, which works but can be a pain in the asshole. Last weekend I said, "Enough." He naps at school, even if only for half an hour and once a day, ergo he can do it at home. I plopped him in his crib with a blanket and a toy and some rain forest-y sounds and he babbled and played for half an hour and then, boom. Slept for an hour and a half. Hour and a freaking half. He did it again today, twice. Twice. I'm kicking myself for waiting so long to get to this. The more you know.

And speaking of, he's waking up from his second hour-plus nap today, right now. Huzzah. Off I go.

p.s. Here was this morning's prelude to a nap:

Giving Thanks

2011-11-24T11:33:00.001-05:00

I'm thankful today and every day for my boys. And for all of you, Bloggy Friends. That is all. Now let's stuff our faces with turkey and side dishes. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.

(To my International Bloggy Friends, today is Exhibit A, as to why 115% of Americans are obese. Gluttony, it's what's for dinner.)

Bosom Buddies

2011-11-18T19:36:00.001-05:00

The long-forgotten post about my therapist/bosom buddy is here. Stop holding your breath, darlings!

She was recommended to me years ago by a friend who is also a therapist. The friend is a bass player and we played in a band together at the time. To cut a 33-year story short, after my wedding reception, during which my mother made it all about her and provided the 100-pound straw that broke the camel's back, I decided ENOUGH. I knew at that precise moment that I could not manage her brand of crazy anymore and I had to figure out what to do. So I explained enough about it to my friend to convey my therapy goals, and with recommendation in hand, I was off to get my head shrunk.

We started right off the bat with some deep, dark shit. Abusive and neglectful childhood, narcissistic and delusional mother, and so on. I left most sessions crying a mix of agony and relief. And then we worked through a lot of that, and I came out the other side with a confidence I had not felt before. I did not have to endure this anymore. I could walk away. And so I did. My therapist essentially, actually literally, gave me permission to cut my mother out of my life to preserve my own happiness. And so I have. It still requires a degree of active management (Krazy™tends to not take hints or honor requests) but it's been a huge weight lifted. So, yay therapy.

When my job at that time (management! business development! travel! 60-hour workweeks!) started to feel shitty, and then we got The Diagnosis (super shitty sperm syndrome, SSSS), I continued going to therapy to deal with these emerging issues. And we worked through them, too. But once I got pregnant and had started a new work-from-home job, I stopped going to therapy. I thought, I've got this.

Oh, stupid me. You've never got this.

So in the wake of returning to work full time after a nearly 4-month maternity leave, at which time I kind of lost my shit and my mind, I quit the job and immediately called to make a therapy appointment. Like, 5 minutes after I gave my resignation. I was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety and we talked about drugs, talked about behavioral modification, talked about self care, and without even needing the drugs, things started to get better. She shared stories with me about her kids' colic and breastfeeding struggles and sleepless nights and the first thing she said after our first session back together was, "Girl, we've got to get you some sleep." So, once again. Yay therapy.

Now for the interesting part. The friend who recommended her to me started a private practice, and my therapist joined him in a shared office. (I now typically go to appointments a few minutes early to catch my friend in between his appointments, and we chit chat.) Anyway, the friend just got married and both KB and I AND the therapist and her husband were invited. No, scrap that. We were all in the wedding. Yeah. KB and Mr. Therapist were both groomsmen, Dr. Therapist Lady gave a reading (the "love is patient" one for you biblical scholars), and I sang a couple of songs. We all sat together at the rehearsal dinner. We looked at pictures of each other's kids. We drank tequila together. We also sat AND DANCED together (white people dancing, natch -- it included The Lawnmower) at the reception. It turns out we have a lot in common as civilians and we make good company. Huh.

Both KB and Mr. Therapist said to us (separately), "Jen needs to find a new therapist so we can all hang out." What a strange compliment, you guys. But the truth is, if I had met Dr. Therapist Lady at our mutual friend's wedding or anywhere else under different circumstances, I think we would have become fast friends. When we talk about my mother-in-law issues in sessions, it almost feels like two friends bitching together. (Except I get a bill.) It's simultaneously weird and comforting. But that's how I'd sum up therapy in general, anyway.

Our current discussions center around A) how to deal with my in-law's brand of crazy (the mild variety) and how to deal with the anxiety that creeps in over planning for Operation Der Kinder Nummer Zwei. And I learned my lesson about foolishly thinking, I've got this. Maintenance, man. Just because you change your oil doesn't mean your taillight won't go out. I plan on continuing to go, even if we cut back on frequency (every 2 weeks now and longer stretches around the holidays) through the next 6 months or so, at least, as we embark on another embryological journey to the center of my bank account and my uterus. And then I'll be sure to go back after Hypothetical Bebe Deux is here to head off postpartum-whatever at the pass. This dog can learn new tricks.

Ugh. Times Twenty.

2011-11-08T17:23:00.001-05:00

The Duggars have bred again. Good grief.

Don't Be a Fool, Stay in School

2011-11-03T22:07:00.008-04:00

So, here goes.

I'm glad Jackson is in daycare. Er, school.

Side note (aka, just the facts, ma'am): His daycare is actually accredited as a school, since it is a certified Montessori program. They have an infant classroom that takes babies from 3 months to around 18 months, after which they transition to a toddler classroom that holds kids up to 3 years, and then there is a pre-K and a Kindergarten program. Parents who have put their older kids through public school Kindergarten have all told me they intend to put their younger kids in the Montessori Kindergarten because they believe it is better. And since Jackson has a fall birthday that would make him one of the youngest kids in a public school Kindergarten class, this might be a good option for us in a zillion years when the time is right because my baby will never be that big (denial, it's not just a river in Egypt!). The teachers have childhood education degrees, the kids all know each other, and the parents are really involved. It's everything I could hope for as a learning and social environment for Jackson and a place to meet other parents for KB and me.

So, anyway, when I returned to my full-time job back in January, when Jackson was 14 weeks old, I was worked to the bone right away and I got sick with repeated mastitis and sinus infections and crippling anxiety and I quit THE END. KB and I were in a financial situation where we could live without my salary and that suited me just fine. I had a vague notion I might return to work, but I desperately wanted to find a way to make it more flexible, part-time, and overall less stressful. I didn't object to sending Jackson to school full-time in general, but it added to my then-horrific level of post-partum anxiety about Making It All Work and Being Everything to Everybody. That shit will kill you. I actually kept him in school while I stayed home, starting seeing my therapist again, and just relaxed my schedule with him so that I dropped him off whenever I felt like it, after we'd spent time together in the morning playing and having breakfast and maybe going for a walk, and then I picked him up as soon as I felt like I had gotten some chores done around the quiet house and felt ready to give him my undivided attention for the afternoon before KB came home. Lucky for me, he warmed up to the teachers and his classmates/friends right away, and they are as thick as thieves to this day. They've learned to crawl together, walk together, and play hide-and-seek together every weekday. He gets visibly excited when we pull into the parking lot. It's about 6 hours a day of pure playtime joy. And they have a Spanish and a music teacher. Jackson plays a mean tambourine. Educational. And Jackson has never suffered a single serious episode of separation anxiety (he whines for me sometimes, but never throws a fit). He's learned to play with other children, to respect other adults, and is by everyone-who-meets-him's account an extremely happy and easy-going kid. Huzza. Oh, and to squash one favorite counterpoint, he's had just one ear infection (which occurred while I was home with him), only a couple of minor colds, and one bout of pinkeye. Kid is healthy as a horse.

When I decided I was ready to begin picking up freelance work, and the contracts came in, and then more contracts came in, I was careful not to overdo it. I had some wicked anxiety and do not desire to fight that demon again. I successfully avoided Better Living Through Chemistry (and no judgement passed on anyone who is on that path), and have had a successful transition back into working on a part-time, flexible basis. It doesn't hurt that I make as much doing this part-time as I did on full-time salary (no corporate overhead, higher consulting rates). This sounds like a humblebrag, and I guess it totally is, but I am now in a position to make more doing less and I have never been happier about it. I get to interpret cool clinical data, write cool regulatory documents outlining the key results, and help send it off to the FDA. I get to run meetings with other scientists and statisticians who listen to what I have to say and then do what I say. I get to learn new things and use what I've learned and it pays bills. To me, that rules. And I need this to be the best "me" I can be. Otherwise I just see myself sitting alone in a room peeling yellow wallpaper until I die. (Where are my literary nerds?) And our family is better off financially for it. We live more comfortably; we know Jackson will be able to go to college. And it's the only way we afforded IVF (times three) in the first place, and are able to consider it again, to even HAVE children to think about putting in school or not. It makes our life as we know it possible.

But none of that is really the point. The whole situation boils down to this: I like having time to myself. I like being able to engage in something I find intellectually challenging (work) and also having time to finish the laundry or prepare Jackson's meals in advance or sip a cup of coffee in silence. I like the break. And it has taken me a while to accept that this does not make me a bad, or in any way worse, mama. It makes me human. It's just how my brain is hardwired and my chemistry balances. And I can tell you, when I send Jackson off to school, and then pick him up, it ensures my time with him feels special and that I'm not too worn down from a long day of chasing him around and the random toddler-ish standoffs and struggles (see also: tantrums) to enjoy playing with him or to do the necessary wrangling to get him into a highchair or in his sleepsack for bedtime.

And there's no way this doesn't sound judgy to the stay-at-home mamas, but I like to think that I am sending an important message to Jackson as he grows and learns that both mama and daddy earn a living for our family. My job clearly is different from KB's, and is sort of a hybrid of stay-at-home and work, but I like that Jackson will know that ladies bring home the bacon, too. I will be proud to tell my son that his mama is a doctor. A lady doctor, y'all.

Second side note: I detest getting mail addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. B___" almost as much as I loathe seeing something addressed to "Mrs. K. B_____." ZOMG I did not surrender my identity for realz use my goddamned name and by the way I am a doctor. Full stop.

So, to my bloggy friends who stay home with your bebes, I salute you. You do what I cannot, and I am okay with that. And to my bloggy friends who work and send your bebes to school, I salute you, too. We all do what we must to make ends meet for our families, and to enrich ourselves. And THAT makes us the best mamas we can be.

The Great Pumpkin

2011-10-31T14:28:00.002-04:00

Step One: Audition a field of pumpkins to find the best one.

Step Two: Yoda, you are. Thoroughly disgusting, pumpkin guts are to me.

Step Three: Seriously, Yoda, you are. A nerd like your parents, you may be.

Step Four: Not to be outdone, Katie the Dog sported this (tragically unrelated) costume.

Happy Halloween!

I'll Tell You Who Gives Two Shits

2011-10-25T10:49:00.003-04:00

You guys, I'm worrried that my baby might be dumb.

I let him run around the house naked while we were preparing to take a bath, and for no good reason at all he crouched down and shat on the floor. What kind of baby does that? It's uncivilized.

What happened next was akin to Neo dodging bullets in The Matrix. I cried out "NOOOOOOOO!" in slow-mo and reached for wipes, only to discover that the bin was EMPTY. I ripped open a brand new container of super spendy gDiaper wipes (biodegradable! chlorine-free! requires a small loan to purchase!) and used them to poop-scoop while Jackson toddled away, laughing hysterically.

BULLET DODGED.

Only not.

Do you think I learned any lessons from this turdy near-miss?

No. No, I did not.

Feeling confident, I let Jackson continue running around with his bits n' pieces flapping in the proverbial breeze. And then. He crouched down and took a mighty dump. Again. AND HE WAS LAUGHING WHILE HE POOPED. ON THE FLOOR. AGAIN. Only now he knew that poop was imminent, and as I scurried over with more wipes, he REACHED FOR A TURD. I batted his hand away, which was apparently part of the game and made him laugh even more hysterically. Maniacally. And while I flushed his turdle down the toilet across the hall, he starting WHIZZING ON THE FLOOR. And for the first time, he made the connection between pee itself and the act of peeing. As in, ohmahgawd the pee is coming out of mah pee-hole and I MADE IT DO IT I AM SO AWESOME LIKE A MAGIC BEHBEH WIZARD YAY! He grabbed at his junk and laughed while the pee just.kept.coming. People, all I could do was stand there and watch and laugh with him. His total delight was pretty contagious. I wiped up his puddle with a nearby burp cloth and off to the kitchen sink bath we went.

True story. The end.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

2011-10-19T11:05:00.019-04:00

Oh, Bloggy Friends. I am a terrible, terrible blogger and I love and miss you all. Hugs and kisses, y'all.

I am reduced to bullets. Again....

Jackson WALKS. No, wait. He RUNS. He rarely crawls anymore, and instead of his late evening eye rubs to tell us he's ready for bed, we wait until he starts stumbling and falling. This new activity wears him out so thoroughly that he's ready to start his bedtime routine by 6:30 some nights. He's beginning to sleep in a little longer some mornings, too, so we're on the verge of getting more and more sleep at night. Hallelujah, rejoice!
He's saying actual, real, for-serious WORDS now. He says "mama" and "dada" and "do" (for doggy), "hi" and "bye" and then a bunch of nonsense we haven't decoded yet. He waves and says "hi" and "bye" to people. Hearing it in that twee little voice is the awesomest. Then again, when he's tired or irritated and moans "mama-mama-mama..." over and over....well, that's still awesome.
We made the move to cloth diapers at daycare. We've been spared any serious diaper rash until recently, when the near-constant emergence of new teeth (we're up to 8) means increased quantity and weirder quality of pooping. So the poor kid has had a red-baboon bottom for a few weeks now. Even triple paste (holy shit! this stuff is spendy -- I practically had to offer collateral to buy a tub) isn't clearing it up. I discussed with the head teacher in his classroom, explaining that we cloth diaper at home and it helps, and SHE suggested we bring in the cloth diapers. It turns out that another kid in the infant classroom has been using gDiapers all along. (*DOH!*) So Jackson gets all gPants all the time (except at night time, when he is a super-soaker complete with leaky diapers in recent weeks) and Mama gets to do laundry all the time. It's a fair trade for the sake of his bottom.
Since we got the all-clear to give Jackson moo-milk at his 12-month check-up, we've noticed he pees A LOT MORE. Especially at night. I can only hazard a guess as to the reason, perhaps something related to the protein and liquid composition of cow's milk and how the kidney processes it. I'm too lazy to consult Dr. Google on this. At any rate, he leaked through, no, SOAKED through, his night time diapers a few times in the past couple of weeks, to the point where I was waking up to a sopping wet baby and crib every morning for days in a row. Changing his diaper in the middle of the night is counter-productive to all the sleep progress we've made, so we tried the special night time diapers (complete with Branded Cartoon Characters! Oh yay! Take a piss on Elmo, sweetheart! Crap out a turd on Pooh!). They were an epic fail. They actually leaked WORSE. I tried stuffing a gDiaper disposable insert inside the night time diaper for extra absorbancy, but still no dice. Just a wet, pissed off baby and wet, pissed-on crib sheet. In the past week we've cut back on his milk consumption and substituted water and snacks, and that has helped. So word to the wise, moo-milk might equal human hydrant. The more you know.
Freelance work is going really well so far. I've been working just 2-3 days per week and have some long-term (4-6 month) contracts committed, so I don't have to spend time looking for more work until after the holidays. And it hasn't been too stressful since my current clients are actually pretty organized and friendly (you don't always get so lucky -- it's a grab bag). I just made an appointment to meet with an accountant (*gulp*) to figure out how to address my taxes for the remainder of this year and next year, and to determine if I need to create an LLC or just keep operating as a sole proprietor. I don't really want the hassle of forming a bona fide small business, unless there are significant tax liability incentives to do so (i.e., if the income can be classified as business profit/reinvestment at a lower tax rate or something), since there's no career development advantage to the LLC designation. So I'll let Mr. Professional Beancounter tell me what I should do and abide.
I've come back full circle to having baby-on-the-brain. I've been thinking a lot about calling to make that initial consultation with our RE to schedule retesting and sort out a treatment plan for Operation Baby B Take Two Part Deux The Empire Strikes Back II. KB and I loosely agreed a while ago that we would do that after the holidays, which are getting closer and closer and closer....and I am getting itchy to make the appointment. I'm doing my best to pull back on the reigns a bit, since I'm just hitting my stride with the freelance gig and we have a few home repairs that need to be addressed as we map out the next year or so in preparation for trying to sell our house and move into a bigger house. Whew. When I think about all of this, my brain shorts out because A) how will the timing of treatment and potential (hopeful) pregnancy work out against the backdrop of trying to sell a house and move? B) is this a big deal considering it's only a cross-town move? C) can I ramp up my work efforts in the next 6 months or so to stash some money in case I need time off (or, in freelance terms, to stop taking jobs) during treatment, during pregnancy, and after the Hypothetical Baby B Numero Dos Take Two Part Deux The Second is born? 8) how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? $#) what is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything? (42. And at least I have a towel.)
Feel free to give me a virtual bitch slap, but I am trying to cope with the fact that things are going pretty great right now. I am NOT used to this. I've lived my entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop, and things are, for once, falling into place. Set aside the fact that to grow our family by +1 more, we still have to go through infertility treatment, and that we are trying to perform financial and real estate magic to find a bigger house. And forget about the fact that the timing of all of this seems a little compact. I am working hard on focusing on the present. Things are good. Life is good. Amen.

Feets Don't Fail Me Now

2011-09-29T19:14:00.000-04:00

Party Like It's Your Birthday

2011-09-28T10:14:00.018-04:00

On Friday, there was this:

KB made Jackson's first birthday cake, which proved far less interesting than the plate it was on:

After we put him to bed, KB and I enjoyed some damn fine devil's food cake. Someone had to eat it.
And then Saturday, we unleashed the gates of hell...I mean, we invited the whole family and some friends and neighbors to celebrate Jackson's birthday with more cake!* and presents:

He wore that bow on his head for quite a while, which is more than I can say for his birthday hat:

We took this picture mere milliseconds before he enthusiastically ripped the hat off and chucked it.
He also got to play with a friend**:

And spend some time with his only cousin***:

I sent everyone home with these:

And to ensure they all got The Diabeetus, some of these, too:

And at the end of a long day, Jackson got to enjoy his loot:

That stinkeye was directed at some irritating neighbors.****

That's better.
Disclaimer: I did not make any of the crafty-type stuffs you see above. What I made was this:

And the highchair banner here:

I mean, come on, you guys: I sewed! I have sewn! (Not to be confused with the conjugation, "I sew.") Most everything else was from Etsy. (I heart Etsy, people. Hard.)

*The cake is from Cake Nouveau in Ann Arbor. The owner has competed (and won!) on Food Network cake challenges, which I became addicted to watching while pregnant and melding with the sofa. That and HGTv. I know how to build, fix, landscape, and/or stage a house, y'all.

**I have a mommy friend! For real!

***I don't count my stepsister and her redneck clan, since I don't really even know her. Plus, I bet she would think my party was lame since it wasn't at Hooters. Backyard barbecue, boring! Not a single stripper or a clown in blackface or a confederate flag or a gun or a can of Bud to be seen!

****Oh, the annoying neighbors. They walked in and stood in front of the small pile of gifts, refusing to put theirs down. I had Jackson in my arms and had to put him on the floor to take the gifts from their hands, pivot 15 degrees, and bend over slightly to place on the pile for them. Then they shouted, "Where's the alcohol?" (When you think, "Kid's first birthday party," don't you always also think, "Let's get shitfaced!"? They pounded a bottle of wine and about half a dozen beers by themselves.) And then...we had made a decision before the party started to not open gifts since Jackson has the attention span of a gnat and the patience of Joan Crawford on a wire hanger rant; everyone seemed to get this. Most everyone. After all but a couple of people (family members) had left, and we were starting to clean up, we realized the neighbors were parked on our sofa staring at us. Drinks in hand, natch. They sternly requested we open their gifts, right then and there, thankyouverymuch. So we did, to avoid their wrath, which is when I captured Jackson's insightful look, above. I look forward to moving, you guys. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to write a thank-you note to these charming people and then sprinkle it with sugar and perfume and maybe wipe my ass with it before mailing.

Where the Buffalo Roam

2011-09-21T14:52:00.007-04:00

Well, we were not eaten by bears. And we did not drive off the steep side of the mountain a la Thelma and Louise. We also did not see a single goddamned buffalo. My life is not yet complete.

Jackson did remarkably well for about 75% of our air travel, falling asleep during takeoff and napping through much of the flight. That is, for three out of four total flights (two each way). And so he made up for it on the fourth, which happened to be the Minneapolis-to-Detroit leg that brought us home. Holy hell, y'all. He squirmed, he cried, he fussed, he bit, he hit, he rubbed his weary little eyes BUT HE WOULD NOT SLEEP. And that was how I lost my mind, The End.

Other than that, we did fine. After the first night of adjusting to the time zone change and the day of travel, he slept through the night and awoke cheerfully every morning. We took him to the wedding rehearsal Friday afternoon and he charmed everyone with his toothy grin and played peek-a-boo over the church pews. There were a bunch of the bride's family members there with even more bunches of kids (this is a rather fecund Catholic family) including two newborns who are merely days old. They were dragged, er, invited, along to all the events and their parents were run ragged trying to get them to sleep in strollers and carseats, late into the evening during the rehearsal dinner and late into the night during the wedding reception. Dude. I am so grateful my sister was able to come and "nanny" for us during the wedding events because I would have lost whatever is left of my marbles if I'd had to deal with that on top of the travel stress and the nervousness of singing in someone's wedding. (Thank goodness I didn't mess it up. We'll see -- and hear -- when the wedding video is edited.) We were able to actually relax and enjoy the dinner and the reception. We even danced! Well, white-people-style, but still. (Actually, KB got down on the ground and did a little breakdancing for us. And I moonwalked, as much as someone in high heels can.) We had a little fun. Maybe even more than a little. Go us!

And so with our extra days there, we got all vacationy and saw wildlife, the Badlands, Wall Drug, the Crazy Horse monument, and Mount Rushmore. See? See:

And now we are home (sweet home!), cleaning up the house and preparing for a certain little man's first birthday party on Saturday. And I keep muttering under my breath, "serenity now!" as if it will keep me sane. Because, you know, having the whole family over plus kid-centric event plus a couple of other kids to entertain divided by it might rain equals Mommy is scheduling a massage for next week.

And on the next edition of Jen's Random Infrequent Updates: how I became friends with my therapist.*

*She shares an office with the groom, our mutual friend, and so was at the wedding; we socialized as civilians, and now KB and her husband are like bona fide friends. And I think my therapist and I might be, too. So....huh. We'll analyze this, my Interweb Armchair Psychologists, another day.

Pants Off Dance Off

2011-09-12T08:59:00.001-04:00

Thing 1 and Thing 2

2011-09-11T10:53:00.005-04:00

Packing for Le Trip: We haven't been gone this long on our last couple of semi-local trips (Chicago, Saugatuck) AND we'll be in the prairie-boonies, so I want to be sure we have what we need for das kind. They have a washer and dryer at the resort, so I'm bringing cloth diapers (although we'll stick to disposables for the airport and while my sister is babysitting). The poor bebe has raging diaper rash right now that gets better for a day, then worse again, then better, then...lather, rinse, repeat. I think it's partly due to formula *blech* making his poops disgusting with the contribution of the teething/increased saliva/fever constellation of shitty symptoms *rimshot**pun*. I have extra bottles of pain reliever and numby-gummy gel to stash in my purse (after we clear airport security, of course; until then it will be crammed into a fucking useless if-we-put-our-belongings-into-tiny-goddamned-clear-plastic-bags-and-take-our-shoes-off-then-the-terrorists-won't-win bag). Because, oh yeah, tooth #6. The weather is supposed to drop from 80 to 60 while we're there, so lots of clothes will come. And we'll have to bring actual socks and shoes for Jackson...his barefoot summer days are coming to an end. I'm not sure how sleep will go since we'll be 2 time zones behind his 7pm bedtime, and coming in and out of the cabin while he's sleeping. I guess we'll see. Fingers crossed for minimal horribleness. Okay, I guess we can be a tad more optimistic and hope for actual pleasant fun. Why not.

Look Who's Talking: I initiated (or re-initiated) the conversation with KB re: when-to-go-back-to-the-RE. Here's some relevant info: KB has been followed by a urologist since we received our super-awesome severe male factor infertility diagnosis, and the only clinically significant physical or biochemical flaw ever detected is a testosterone level just below normal, which could explain the fucked up sperm. On our last IVF cycle, KB was on Clomid and we actually saw our 0% normal morphology leap up to an incredible *brace yourselves**are you sitting down?* 1% normal. I'm no mathematician, but that's a 33% improvement relative to the 3% cutoff for normal! Yippee-ki-yay-motherfuckers! Motility never showed improvement, but I dare not dream for actual normalcy. Even since discontinuing Clomid over a year ago, KB's testosterone level has remained in the normal range, which might (key word) mean a prolonged period of better sperm production. Maybe. Possibly. We don't know. (And there it is: hope. Creeping back in. Asshole.) Although I wouldn't bat an eyelash at a surprise pregnancy (bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...that cracks me up), I think that 2-3 years between kids is about right. This would mean trying to get pregnant over the next year. So I asked KB if he thought we could make an appointment with the RE after Christmas to repeat all the testing that led to our diagnosis in the first place, and he thought that sounded fine. It's not a commitment to do anything just yet, but it'll tell us where we stand. Gawd, would I love it if our RE told us we were candidates for timed sexiness, or medicated IUI, instead of IVF. Wouldn't that be something? *le sigh*

And Then There Were Five

2011-09-06T15:50:00.001-04:00

Five ta-ta-toothies. They JUST. KEEP. COMING. Fortunately (I guess?) the cutting of this new tooth was masked by the head cold we've all had for the past week. I just noticed this new little bottom tooth had already cut the gum this past weekend, having assumed all the fussing and nighttime waking and sniffles and whatnot were from the cold.

Because, yeah, that's how we celebrate holiday weekends -- Sudafed and Gatorade-tinis! We went ahead (foolishly?) with plans to have the whole family over on Labor Day and hoped for the best. And did not get it. Things were fine until, well, the people showed up. I was trying to feed Jackson before the Distractors were here but one of them arrived early and proceeded to hover and talk and shake toys at and otherwise prevent the feeding of one hungry little boy. We asked politely (as we have had to before, as always to no avail) for the distracting to wait and, predictably, the request was ignored. Whatevs. I shoved some food down his gullet anyhow and we moved on. Then a while later, when Jackson was rubbing his eyes and falling down from exhaustion (did you know the Distractors are also masterful Overstimulators?), I took him back to his room to try and settle him down for a nap. He's become a great nighttime sleeper, but daytime naps are not as easy. We usually take him for a walk or a car ride, which I thought might be kind of rude with people over at our house. Plus they had my car blocked in. So I rocked, sang to, and walked around with a fussy, sleepy boy for half an hour before he finally sacked out in my arms for another half hour. I stayed back there for my own respite, and because sleeping moppet = bliss. When I re-emerged with a well-rested baby, there had apparently been serious dramaz. KB was accosted by an older family member who sneeringly accused him of "coddling" the baby by asking people to keep their voices down while Jackson slept, and he didn't back down from his request nor did he take this insult lying down....so a brief fight ensued and the family member stormed out of our house. Jayzuz. Who's being the baby, here? He got an apology today that included something to the effect of, "...but YOUR words hurt me deeply..." so it's not 100% apologizing, more like insinuating that by pushing back against her stupid remark, KB drove her to madness or something. Ferchrissakes. Can't we all just get along?

In other news, I am starting to prepare for our 1-week adventure to South Dakota. Yes, one of the fly-over states is our vacation destination. KB and I are in a friend's wedding, and my sister is joining us for a couple of days to watch the munchkin. I am hopeful (but not counting on) that away-from-home sleep and cloth diapering and airport shenanigans will not break me. I already think I have a touch of the crazy, and it might not take much of a push to get me over the edge, y'all.

Ranting and Raving

2011-08-23T20:06:00.009-04:00

Ahem. Le bullets.

My period is now regular (~30-day cycle). Yay? This means it should come again while we are on vacation at our friend's wedding. Not yay. *shakes fist at mother nature*
Jackson is still anti-nursing. He may have effectively weaned himself. All the super-pro-breastfeeding information sources (LLL, kellymom, Dr. Sears, etc.) swear on a stack of What To Expect baby manuals that babies under the age of 1 JUST NEVER EVER self-wean, but I've tried to encourage him to nurse for over a week now and he is simply not interested. He no longer fusses about it, but makes no attempt to latch and just waits for the bottle to come. So, that's that. I'll keep offering, I suppose, because I like the feeling of my head against a brick wall. And I'll keep pumping so he can continue to be breastfed until we switch to moo-milk in a few weeks. But I doubt I'll be able to pump enough to cover his usual consumption, and when the freezer stash runs out I'll have to supplement with formula. It's not what I planned, and not what I want, but it's probably just necessary. And so I am pushing myself toward the acceptance phase of this grief. I wish I could keep nursing him, but the stars aligned in some fucked up way and it appears to be over. Like, ovah. At least he's still cuddly while he slurps his bottle. I've got that going.
He just cut two teeth at once. I don't believe it's twice as bad as one tooth at a time, I think it's actually on a logarithmic scale. The poor kid gets a fever (in the morning and fever all through the night...) and a whole-body rash to add insult to his sore gum injury. But both of these teeth (upper front two) have cut the gum, so hopefully the worst is over. His sleep is still pretty decent outside of a couple of nights last week with frequent wakings and a lot of rocking back to sleep (my secret weapon -- nursing -- has been disarmed). His smile is gummy no more. Now it's ta-ta-toothy.
I am planning the shit out of his first birthday party. It won't be a huge thing, just family and a few friends, but it's super important to me that it's special. That every birthday is special. I don't recall ever having a birthday party, or even a big deal being made of my birthday, for a variety of reasons traced back to shitty parenting. So, at the risk of sounding like one of those parents who live vicariously through their children, I want to plan really special celebrations for him. Starting either next year or the following, I'll let him pick the theme and invite his "friends" but for this year, I get to go nuts with it. The theme: sock monkeys. There will be pictures. Also, I've made crafty shit for it. Involving a sewing machine. Truth.
I am getting worse, not better, at keeping my shit together when family members get in my parenting bidniss. I sometimes envision punching them in the face to make myself feel better. Seriously. Situational examples:

Deliberately distracting him while I am trying to feed him in his highchair
Offering him cookies and passive-aggressively insulting me when I say "we don't give him cookies," including trying to convince me that cookies don't have sugar in them and then switching the rationale to "well, I raised my kids on it..." like I'm supposed to give a shit about that
Crowding around and hovering when I change his diaper like he's a circus chimp performing for their entertainment -- it's shit, people, very smelly and foul shit accompanied by piss, so let's take a step back and let me tend to it

Speaking of, we are having huge success with cloth diapering at home, and it's just downright helpful when he gets rashy from the teething, or heat, or wearing sunscreen a lot, or whatever. He has delicate skin I guess. We're using mostly gDiapers at home and it's so stinking easy. I let KB use the biodegradable inserts so he doesn't have to handle the cloth insert, but we just use those sparingly (spendy!). It helps with diaper rash and heat rash so, so much. I haven't sent them to school yet, but I may request a meeting with the head teacher in the infant classroom to discuss it this fall (like, next month). It's really just not that hard. I wish I had known more about and been more confident of it sooner. If we have another baby I wouldn't hesitate to use cloth right away.
I am grappling with mixed emotions as my teensy weensy baby becomes a toddler. He's on the verge of walking! He babbles with purpose and seems to "know" a few "words"! He eats honest-to-god grown up people food by the tiny fistful! It's amazing and fascinating to watch him grow and develop his personality and skills, but it also breaks my heart to cross things off the list as we move past all the milestones. No more nursing. No more baby sleeping on my chest. No more helpless newborn. Instead, I have this massively funny little moppet with curly blond hair that seems to grow an inch a week and who is ready to lead me on chases around the house and who loves to swing at the park and who gives me hugs before bed and when he wakes up in the morning. Bittersweet. To say the least.
Will we try to have another baby? I don't know. A few months ago I felt so confident about it, and now maybe a little more ambivalent. I think that's mainly a product of wanting to focus on Jackson and not put energy into thinking about a hypothetical baby. But I still think I want to try, maybe early next year. Now that my periods seem to be regulating, I am surely going to have a surprise pregnancy any day. For sure. You'll all be the first to know.

Locomotion

2011-08-18T13:08:00.000-04:00

Strrrrrrrrike

2011-08-16T11:24:00.002-04:00

Aaaaaaand....you're out. Almost.

Still no go with the nursing. Day 3 of the strike. He's not afraid of my boobs anymore, but won't even attempt to latch. He just fusses until I give him a bottle. I might try toughing it out tonight and refuse to give him a bottle so that nursing is the only way to get milk. I just don't know. Will that work? Will it make it worse? Now I'm going H.A.M. on this breast pump from 4am until 10pm. Fuuuck.

Natch, the pediatrician says I should just switch to formula for the last month until it's time for cow's milk. Of course he would say that. Most moms are already on formula at this point, and I am the breastfeeding zebra among horses. To all of which I say, again, fuuuuuck. I don't want to switch to formula. I want to nurse my baby. Neither of us is ready for this to be over yet.

I hate this.

Strike

2011-08-15T06:11:00.003-04:00

Jackson has been on a nursing strike since Saturday afternoon. Not only does he seem to be on the verge of cutting another tooth or two, which made nursing difficult for maybe 10 minutes with each of the first two teeth, but he bit me Saturday (not hard, thank goodness, but enough to elicit a surprised and firm negative response) and may now be afraid to nurse. Which means I have to pump more. Which is shit. I can't produce as much with a pump as I can nursing him, and a meager freezer supply is all I have to help and once that's gone, it's gone. And I feel like total shit. Like I caused this by scaring him after the not-really-that-bad bite. More than anything, I feel like shit because when I try to nurse him he pushes me away and cries. I can barely stand it.

I've read every reasonably credible interweb resource there is and am trying to take solace in the fact that A) everyone assures it's not my fault (though I feel like it is) and B) strikes usually resolve within a week. But in the meantime. Shit.

9am Update: I got him to latch a couple of times this morning by distracting him with my phone case (his most beloved plaything). He tentatively latched, took one suck, let go, then did it again. It's pretty obvious he's carefully making sure I'm not gonna scream and backhand him. I tried again a little while later and no dice, but I am at least encouraged that we might be headed in the right direction. So back to being hopeful instead of crying, y'all.

Oh, Baby

2011-08-04T11:32:00.001-04:00

Out

2011-07-24T16:01:00.001-04:00

I just saw a post from someone I "know" on fb....well, actually, let me show you:

"____ is completely consumed with the thought of you this week...our Angel would be celebrating birthday #10 on July 27th! I think of you everyday, but especially this week as we were never given the opportunity to hold you in our arms. Nonetheless, I fell in love with you the moment I found out about you! Happy birthday, baby! With all my love, Mommy♥."

I was both surprised and deeply moved by seeing something like this posted publicly. It gives me a lot to think about in terms of keeping infertility on the down low.

Baby You Can Drive My Car

2011-07-22T20:28:00.003-04:00

Man, is this kid getting big. He might still be a baby, but he sure is inching closer to Toddlerville, population: Jackson. Today he waved bye-bye while saying "baa-baa" for the first time. It makes me wistful, people. I miss my teeny little baaaaaybeeeeeee. *sniffle* But this guy's pretty fun.

I can't seem to muster up the time or energy for a Big Post about Big Things, but I can parcel some out here. Freelancing as a writer is going very well, and it seems to not be that hard after all to work a few days a week and stay sane and spend time with my kinder. So far, so good. The part I'm not looking forward to is marketing myself to new clients. Maybe the same old clients will keep coming back to the Jen B Freelance Buffet so I won't have to look too hard elsewhere. Incidentally, I was offered a staff writing job by one of my clients this week, which is tempting (they would let me work from home part-time, 4 or possibly even 3 days per week). The big trade-off is that, in exchange for a biweekly guaranteed paycheck, I lose a substantial amount of income potential. I can make more as a freelancer working three days a week than I could at this company full-time. And I feel like I have a pipeline of contract work. So. I am planning to turn it down. I may be crazy, y'all. Crazy like a fox.

My mother-in-law continues to drop not-so-subtle hints about wanting to babysit, although we've mastered the art of selective hearing or of saying, "We already hired a babysitter" and then immediately changing the subject. (Random safety issue-as-evidence: Jackson crawls to her fireplace, opens glass door, and she says "Oh, that's okay" while I run after him to scoop him up. Okay with whom?) But NOW she wants us to come visit her in Florida in the winter. And presumably stay in her condo. And spend all our time with her cuckoo friends getting smothered by their overbearing Italian-ness. What a vacation, where do I sign up?!? This came up after we told her we're going to a friend's wedding out-of-state in September -- actually, we are IN the wedding -- and taking Jackson with us. She has volunteered several times, more like strongly suggested, that we leave Jackson with her. For a week. I've used the "he's still nursing" excuse to avoid eye contact on that one, because the real reason is JUST NO. Anyway, once it sunk in that Jackson is going with us (my sister is actually flying out for two days to watch him during the rehearsal and the wedding, which makes her tremendously awesome), my mother-in-law made the connection that Jackson will have already had flying experience...hence, there is no reason at all why we can't fly with him to Florida. Except to avoid a nightmarescape of a trip. It could work, in theory, if we A) get a hotel, as I'm not staying in her 1000-degree cramped condo where we are surrounded by her assvice-wielding old-lady friends; B) rent a car, as I want the freedom to retreat to the hotel when Jackson needs a nap or WE need some peace and quiet as well as not having to gate check a carseat; and C) make it clear that a substantial portion of our trip will be devoted to family time, just the three of us, maybe spent down in Miami. I know we'd get endless shit for that, but whatever, it would be necessary to salvage this trip as somehow fun. Otherwise, it would be nonstop show-and-tell-and-overstimulate-and-dole-out-assvice-apalooza. I also know as soon as we showed up (during this still-hypothetical trip) she'd try to rip Jackson out of our hands and tell us to go out so she can babysit, which 'tis not going to happen. Not here, not there. The drag in this is that we can't say "no" to Florida and then hop on a plane to go anywhere else, as that will be tantamount to firing a shot across her bow. I would love to just book a trip to Napa, or Cabo, or where-the-fuck-ever and when she sulks just say NOTHING at all about it. It's our family vacation plan, and we want to do what WE want to do. (My sister-in-law didn't make the Florida trip with my niece until she was about 5 years old. Every day I better understand why.)

I dunno what else. I'm still working out and losing weight, kind of slowly. My fucking period is back with weird 40-ish day cycles, and that jacks everything up. Like milk production -- it seems to drop off sharply for a few days right before my period starts, and then catches up a few days later. And boy, did I not miss the Period Bloat. Fuck. Nothing makes a dieting girl feel worse than the return of the bloat. My trainer asked me this week if I want to kick it up a notch and start shedding pounds a little faster, to which I said yeah, motherfucker, let's get skinny. I don't know what "kicking it up a notch" will amount to, but I can only envision getting pummeled to a pulp with blunt objects and beaten senseless with sharp things. I might not be able to hold up a fork to feed myself. Maybe THAT'S the secret.

Ol' Blue Eyes

2011-07-16T19:30:00.001-04:00

So we had a professional photo shoot at our house a few weeks ago, and here are a couple of the photos that went up on the photographer's blog:

There are a bunch of great shots, even a few with me looking not entirely like a beached seacow.

I'll think of something interesting (to me, at least) to post about soon. Pinky swear. Working, in-laws, thinking about more behbehs. Until then, eat up pictures of this Barbizon behbeh. Nom.

Nom Nom

2011-07-11T09:24:00.000-04:00

Or, Hide Yo Rice Puffs, Hide Yo Yogurt Melts, Hide Yo Snacks

Shoo Fly Shoo

2011-07-09T22:12:00.001-04:00

Or, SERENITY NOW!

So, tonight I finished pumping (which I do every night before bed) and left my Precious sitting on the living room table while we finished watching Louie (which YOU, TOO, SHOULD BE WATCHING. It's so good it makes me all shouty. Also, give Wilfred a try. It's nuts, but in the good way. There's a talking dog. I mean, a guy in a dog suit who talks. To that hobbit. You know, Elijah Wood. Man, it's hard to believe I give out these recommendations for free. You're welcome). So I got up to put away my Liquid Gold and discovered that a fly -- a beady-eyed fucking fly -- had landed inside the neck of the apparatus (the little doohicky that connects the flange to the bottle with the filter on the inside). Which means I just dumped 4.5 ounces of milk, that took an hour to pump on the left side, down the drain. GODDAMNIT.

I am not a violent person, but I made sure that Jeff Goldblum took a tour of the In-sink-erator.

Le sigh.

Good night.

Ask And Ye Shall Receive (Muchly)

2011-07-09T19:59:00.002-04:00

If you ask your loving spouse to pick up baby snacks at the grocery store, this is what may await you:

Every snack ever made, ever. In large quantities. That's a lot of yogurt melts and rice puffs, people.

In No Particular Order

2011-07-04T20:01:00.009-04:00

Death trap! Oh, wait. Higher! Higher!

Cheerios are the shit.

It's cool. I'll clean up my own turdles and change my dipe.

I would LOVE to take a nap. Let me in, please.

One-handed! How you like me now?

Babies love to exercise. FACT.

Ta-Ta-Toothy!

I'm Bad, I'm Bad, You Know It, Shamon

2011-06-27T22:48:00.000-04:00

Is there a fancy award for Shittiest Blogger? I would like to self-nominate!

So, I have my first freelance project that kicked off last week. Which means I'm working. Meh. I try to visualize a fat check in the mail (within 60 days from my invoice, anyway) and I feel better. I'm managing to keep it to 3 days this week, and so far so good. The other 2 days are filled with doctor's appointments and errands, so lucky me. I'm always working; at least now I get paid sometimes.

And the boy? He may be getting a second tooth. GAH. We're locked into a wakeful nighttime routine that is almost cry-it-out proof. I say almost because I don't really know. I can't really stand to hear him cry, even if it's to get himself back to sleep, when I know (or at least suspect) he has real growing pains. Poor little gummy bear. Poor haggard mama.

And he's going through some interesting digestive changes. More solid food will do that to you. He had SEVEN shits today, y'all. SEVEN SHITS. Not skidmark shits, but full-on turdles. Good lord.

And he's crying right now. Off to stand outside his door for 5 minutes and then go nurse him for the first of many times tonight. It's a glamorous life.

38w4d

2011-06-20T11:05:00.000-04:00

As of today, Jackson has been in my arms for as many weeks and days as he was growing in my belly. (We'll just gloss over the fact that 2 weeks of gestation time are actually bogus, since he was an immature, unfertilized antral follicle during those first couple of weeks; and that he spent his first 3 days of life as a freshly fertilized zygote living in a plastic tissue culture dish feasting on liquid culture medium and 5% CO₂ in a sterile incubator. Details.)

And even though The Teething resulted in every-1.5-hour awakenings last night, and I am running on coffee and fumes this morning, and I am prepared to buy serious stock in infant Motrin and Orajel...this kid is the shit. When he falls asleep in my arms after nursing, I could hold him like that forever. When we play on a blanket in the yard and he curls up to cuddle, I can't help but smile (and choke back tears, sometimes). He is the best part of me and of KB, all wrapped up in one perfect little bundle. I'll take a million sleepless nights and growing pains so long as I have one of him.

This, That, and The Other Thing

2011-06-09T22:03:00.004-04:00

This: Pre-pregnancy pants!

I rummaged through my closet last night to find interview* clothes and tried these on, tags still dangling, expecting to weep from a sausage-casing-like fit but instead discovered surprising comfort. Hells, yeah. I have a few more pounds to go to reach pre-pregnancy weight, and then a few more to get back to pre-IVF weight, but I'm getting close. And then I can try to wreck it all over again.**

*That: Oh, THAT! I had an interview today for a freelance writing job working with a university hospital department that needs a little help getting clinical papers finished (or in some cases, started) and submitted for publication. It would be a part-time contracting, sort-of-consulting, gig with occasional commutes into Ann Arbor. And I had a phone interview last week for a freelancing job at a pharmaceutical company near DC. That one, I got hired over the phone and have already started the paperwork. I'm excited to bring sexy back (okay, a second income, at any rate) since it will get us out of this house and into a new one sooner (we figure in just under 2 years is doable) but I'm also nervous about The Return of The Anxiety. That, we do not need. So I'm taking it one step at a time. My goal is to take on enough projects to work about 20 hours per week. I'm incredibly fortunate to have solid contacts in my field and for these opportunities to have fallen from the sky when they did, and I hope I can avoid being my own worst enemy and finding a way to fuck it up. It's a talent, y'all. Freelance writing can be quite lucrative if you keep at it, but I am most interested in the fact that I can earn that helpful second income, do something (working, being a scientist, writing) that defines part of who I am in a big way, and still preserve a big chunk of my week to devote to my family. And I can give myself a vacation (even if unpaid) whenever I want. Holla.

**The Other Thing: Or I can take time off to go back to my RE and try to get impregnated a second time. Yeah, so. That. KB and I have talked about this in general terms, most generally agreeing to revisit it after Jackson's 1st birthday. And that's a few months away now. *gulp* The plan in my head (where all good plans live) is to keep working out and eating rabbit food until I am back to my pre-infertility self (physically, at least, because emotionally and psychologically -- well, that's impossible) and establish my little freelancing thingy and then have a sit-down with our RE to discuss plans to start back at square one. See, remember, we of the poor-quality-embryo-making-guild have nothing on ice to transfer, so we have to start fresh. And that never went very well, either, oh we of the shitty-sperm-and-ovary-club. But we did hit one out of the park on cycle 3, aka Jackson, for which we added megadose vitamin C for him and her and Clomid plus Proxeed for him. We saw teensy weensy improvements in sperm and eggs, so perhaps we could do it again. Maybe it's possible to get pregnant in less than 3 cycles. Or maybe not. There's really only one way to find out. So, in my head there will be a consultation appointment in the late fall or early winter to arrange for new blood tests (yay!), another HSG (kickass!), and another semen analysis (woot!). And then we'll see what happens from there. Because who wouldn't want a little helper monkey to hang with this guy?

IF from A to Z

2011-06-01T21:21:00.014-04:00

A. Age when you started trying to conceive*: 30

B. Baby dancing** or sexytime: Once we started IVF, and then got pregnant and had a behbeh, sexytime became both recreational and rare

C. Children wanted: We always said we wanted to have 2

D. Dogs/Cats/Fill-in children: 1 a-hole dog

E. Essential oils/Vitamins/Snake oils: Flintstones chewable -- you read that right; for my third (successful) IVF cycle, I downed shit-tons of vitamin C

F. Fertility meds I’ve taken: Clomid, Estrace, Crinone, Ovidrel, Ganirelex, Menopur, Follistim, and Progesterone in oil (both olive and sesame!)

G. Gain: On the verge of pre-pregnancy weight, and then must lose the IVF weight that preceded it

H. HSG (Hystosalpingogram): Performed by (I assume) a myopic radiology resident I will call Dr. Butterfingers -- ouch -- but all clear up in the ute and shoots

I. Infertile pet peeves: Being asked when we're going to have another one (as if we can just roll over in bed one evening and decide to bump uglies and make a baby)

J. Job title: Full-time mama and (perhaps) (maybe) (possibly) soon-to-be part-time freelance writer

K. Kid’s names you’re afraid will be taken by the time you can use them: Nacho bidness

L. Length of time trying to conceive: 18 months

M. Miscarriages: Thankfully, none

N. Number of times you’ve switched OB/GYNS, REs, FSs: I changed my OB/GYN after spending over 6 pointless months on Clomid, Estrace, and Crinone while doing IUIs for which I had to send KB to the RE clinic near our house and then go pick up his centrifuge full of defective-ass sperms ('fuge o' spooge) and transport it in my cleavage (yes, this is how they instruct you to keep it warm) to drive it across town so I could sit in my OB/GYN's waiting room full to the brim of pregnant bellies and shoot daggers at anyone curiously eyeballing the protrusion in the top of my bra and shirt and then after waiting for at least 45 minutes, get put in a room to wear the paper shirt and no pants and then wait 30 more minutes to have what I assume were 100% dead-ass sperms shot like a pointless cannon of despair into my awaiting and soon-to-be-disappointed ute*** -- after that, we self-referred to the RE and got a second RE opinion after our second failed IVF cycle (and chose to stay with original RE since opinions were the same and our insurance covers medical procedures at her clinic)

O. Ovarian quality: All good on paper (with the occasionally borderline-high FSH -- ruh-roh), but poor response to mega-doses of gonadotropins a la IVF stimulation (probably a hormone receptor polymorphism, resulting in a lower number of available receptors that can respond to a sub-occupation physiological level of gonadotropins, but causing a blunted ceiling effect when you flood the system with hormone)****

P. POAS or wait for ye ole period: Golden showers make May flowers...er, something

Q. Quote from an obnoxious fertile: "At least you don't need birth control"

S. Sperm: Rock star (if that rock star is Keith Richards) (severe male factor infertility characterized by markedly low motility and 0% normal morphology, improved to a whopping 1% normal after 3 months on 50 mg/day Clomid and Proxeed)

T. Time you tried naturally: 6 months with charting and ovulation predictor kits, and off and on between Clomid/IUI cycles for 6 more months

U. Uterus quality: Bee-you-tee-ful

V. Vagina: Present?

W. What baby stuff do you already have?: Thanks to Jackson, we have every baby gizmo and gadget known to humankind (but his favorite toy is still my iPhone case)

X. X-tra X-tra hear all about it! How many people know the ins and outs of our crazy trying-to-conceive journey? Most of our immediate family, some extended family (details offered on request), and most friends

Y. Yearly exam (do you still go in even though someone sees your lady parts most months?): Back to annuals now (between the OB/GYN and RE, I didn't need a general practitioner for over two years)

Z. Zits: I'm a picker, I'm a grinner

* I'm no fan of the conception-related lexicon of shorthand and acronyms (no offense intended if you are)

** Lordy, do I despise this term -- let's see how stupid it sounds used in a sentence by a grown-up: we baby danced our goddamned brains out until it almost wasn't fun anymore and still didn't get knocked up

*** So, I have some mixed feelings about my original OB/GYN's ability to diagnose infertility and manage treatment; does it come through?

**** For all you science nerds

Babyzilla!

2011-05-26T14:35:00.004-04:00

What the shit, y'all? He crawls, he climbs, he pulls himself up to stand!?! He fights Mothra and Cloverfield and whatever JJ Abrams cooked up in Super 8? BABYZILLA!

And no longer lays on the floor like a stranded turtle. Nope, he sits up and plays. He rummages through his toy bin, picks out something to nom nom, and plays. Like a person and stuff. Weird.

And this. I heart this. Being his personal human jungle gym. His favorite toy.

Enough about the baby, already! What about me? Meh. I have a few leads on part-time freelance work that I'm following. I may be gainfully employed again next month. We'll see. I'm trying to be enthusiastic about it, since it's good for our goal of moving within a couple of years (there are so very many house repairs and projects that need to be done, and we have to save for a new down payment since we'll undoubtedly lose money on our house in this market). At least I'm able to keep it part-time, and not worry about staring down the barrel of full-time work as a nursing mom overwhelmed with anxiety about working all the time and with guilt about sending her baby to daycare for 8+ hours a day. I don't want to go to there (again). Some can handle it; I am not among them.

And the diet and exercise continue. I have a few sessions left with a personal trainer and am getting my ass thoroughly kicked twice a week. It kind of hurts to hold up a toothbrush, people. But it's working. And dieting, well, it sucks donkey taint but it's also working. All you have to do is eat food devoid of flavor and joy, and you can lose weight, too! It feels like I subsist on twigs and berries, but it's not all bad. For instance, Piedmontese burgers. Just, yes. (Wouldn't it be awesome to get back to fighting weight and then try to get pregnant again? Ah, but that is still a post for another day.)

Happy long weekend, all.

Speed Demon

2011-05-19T13:40:00.001-04:00

The boy, how he grows. A month or so ago, he learned to flip on his belly. A couple of weeks ago he was figuring out how to hoist his behind in the air and get up on hands and knees. Now he crawls. And pulls himself up by the rails of his crib. And can climb. And I have a heart attack. I die.

The motivation to move? Get to my iPhone case. The prize? Get in mah mouth!

Jump, Jump

2011-05-13T19:31:00.000-04:00

Y'all, that's wiggity wiggity wiggity wiggity whack.

I especially love the multitasking with jumping, babbling, and blowing raspberries. Kid's a hard worker.

Also, note the tremendous chunky monkey thunder thighs. So fun to pinch and squoosh.

On My First Mother's Day

2011-05-08T21:19:00.003-04:00

KB let me sleep in until 9AM.

I had a lavish breakfast made for me.

I was presented with lovely gifts, each one more awesome than the last.

But what I think about most on this day, a day that was never special to me at any time in my life until now, is how my son is a brand new source of continual joy in my life. He is living proof that good things can happen. He is a constant reminder of how healthy it is to keep hope alive. Even when things are hard, seem insurmountable, and the days feel long and sometimes the nights longer -- he is still my beautiful little boy. I love him. I have the privilege of watching him grow, seeing a bit of myself in him and a bit of his father, observing and helping him learn, and marveling at the light in his eyes.

He made me his mother. And every day since renews my hope in all that is good in this world.

Hells, Yeah

2011-05-07T14:17:00.000-04:00

After over a year of insurance-wrangling, thinly-veiled smiley-faced threats that I would owe a 5-figure balance, and so very many phone calls to the insurance lackeys and the clinic finance lackeys....I not only do not owe any more moolah to the clinic, but just received a refund check from my RE for $268.81. Boo-ya! Jackson, yo mama's down with a discount!

I will consider it a Mother's Day gift from my RE.

And One to Grow On

2011-05-06T12:25:00.002-04:00

Happy birthday to me
Now I'm 33
Two years til I'm high-risk
If you ask my OB

"."

2011-05-01T20:13:00.001-04:00

Who has two thumbs and a bleeding vagina? This girl. My first period in over 16 months started today. Ack. Also, boo.

Should I be scared that I could get pregnant again, now that Mother Nature has decided to reinstate the reproductive-oriented function of my erstwhile dormant ladybits?

HAHAHAHAHA.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Ha.

Thank you, The Onion. I like "falling to the Communists."

Developments

2011-04-29T10:07:00.006-04:00

So I'm feeling....better. Some days are better than others, for sure. I'm trying to keep myself from getting overwhelmed with anxiety or sadness or bullshit feelings or house projects, taking care of them piece by piece, and pulling back on the reigns of impatience over wanting to feel perfect and do everything at once and find a new house (we're talking several years down the road and many necessary home improvements along the way). I'm also willing myself not to lose my shit over little stuff. Because there's so goddamned much little stuff, if you let it get to you, you could lose your mind. And by "you" I mean "me."

Like Easter brunch. Jackson had not napped at all that morning, and was rubbing his eyes as we loaded up the car to take off. So when we got to the restaurant, I told everyone in no uncertain terms, he needs to be left alone until he's napped. He needs to stay in his carseat and have peace and quiet so he can fall asleep. I turned my back for one minute...and he was out of his carseat being passed around and kept wide awake. Oh, and anytime someone (whether friend, family member, coworker, stranger, hobo) says he looks like me, someone in KB's family swoops in to boldly refute and inform me that, oh no, he looks 1000% like KB or [insert random probably distant sharing-only-8%-DNA-with KB family member]. So I got a fair amount of that, as usual. It's such a stupid little thing, but it gets under my skin like nothing else. Why do family members have to act like such asshats?

But we have a full docket of outings over the next few weeks, so I am mustering up my inner-oomph to brave these and other assbaggeries. My therapist pointed out to me recently that, unlike some people in my position, I don't retreat from things that are hard, I push through them, and I should feel very good about that. So I am pushing onward and through. When my mother-in-law tries to sneak ice cream and milk and juice and whatever else into my 7-month-old tomorrow, I will quietly prevail. When the family Mother's Day brunch turns into another "ignore/defy/enrage Jen and keep the baby awake and perpetually hand him to anyone but her and also tell her at every turn that he barely even looks related to her even though he clearly does" Festival of Fights, I will roll my eyes in my mind and keep a smile on my face. Sometimes you have to suffer fools. (And when I feel insecure or sad or anxious I will push it down and tell myself "you are okay." And maybe eat a piece of chocolate.)

We're also going to a school fundraiser this weekend and I am leery of how it will go. KB and I are total homebodies, so mingling is not a competitive sport for us at all. But we figure we need to start getting to know other parents, and this seems like a good place to start. I just hope it doesn't devolve into some compare-and-contrast child brag-a-thon. I have - 400% interest in the whole "this is what MY child can do/is doing/is doing better than yours" bullshit. KB's strategy is to play 20 Questions with each person we meet and let them blather. He hypothesizes that people LOVE to talk about themselves, so if we feed that ego monster we'll be a big hit. We shall see.

And as for The Milkman himself, he is going through some mammoth developmental growth right now. He's rolling and up on his haunches trying to crawl. TRYING TO CRAWL. Holy shitballs, y'all. We're scrambling to get less-than-safe furniture (is a coffee table made of metal okay? how about one made entirely of glass? no?) out of the room so he has space to move without braining himself. I'm hoping his basement playroom will be done by end of May so I can take him down there and let him roam free-range. I think he's also teething (for real now, not as everyone and their assbag neighbor has been suggesting since he was 6 weeks old). The best part of teething, besides waking up at night with gum pain? Practicing biting. My nipple. Yeah. His new move is to clamp down with his nubby little gums and TURN HIS HEAD quickly to the side. I'm pretty sure this is a plot point right out of Saw VI. [In order to escape the clutches of the evil Jigsaw, Jackson must rip his mother's nipple right off of her tit while nursing.] It's pretty awful. I've yelled "ouch!" as loud as I can, not out of some planned response, but just out of pain and so far it has startled him pretty soundly. Hopefully he'll stop on his own. I am so not ready to give up nursing, but also not ready to part ways with my nipple.

And now, time for random cuteness:

When I look at this, I die.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to play prog rock.

Peek-a-boo-pee-pee. He's utterly fascinated by his own junk despite being unable to really see it.

"You think this blanket can contain me?"

Happy Cadbury Day!

2011-04-23T19:41:00.000-04:00

Have a a lovely Easter, from Jackson and Mr. Creepy the Bunny!

(Cause nothing celebrates this day better than a man-sized bunny wearing no pants whatsoever who purportedly shits chocolate eggs and hides them. Yay, Easter!)

In Which I Get All Stabby

2011-04-20T20:38:00.020-04:00

My dad inexplicably blocked me from viewing his fb wall. I guess the status quo of me not paying attention to or commenting on his immature, bigoted posts wasn't good enough -- he felt it necessary to make it known to me that I cannot even see them. I don't know what his motivation is, but it's like a mini slap in the face: I can reject you in a million ways, even at arm's length, even on fb. Thanks, pops. You're a peach. The tender, fatherly love just keeps oozing out of you.

Also, my stepsister is squirting out another baby this September, having announced it on fb when she was a mere 5 weeks pregnant, and has been posting for over a month about how very intensely she hopes it's a girl. Guess what she's having? A boy. Or as she ever-so-flatly and unenthusiastically (I can interpret this because her enthusiasm is marked by adding "lmao" ubiquitously after every other post; poignant example: I can feel the baby kick. lmao.) posted it, "Well, looks like we're having another BOY." It was just missing the frownie face emoticon for the full force of her complete disappointment. Good thing you documented your prejudice all over fb ad nauseum so we all know how utterly let down you are now by your own fecundity. And good thing you can just keep crapping out more babies until you get that elusive girl. Because gender bias is a fine motivation to have more babies. (And to think, infertiles bear the brunt of science fiction-y designer baby/gender preference shenanigans...)

All of this reminded me, for some reason, of something my stepmother said when they came to visit after Jackson was born. She was extolling the fantastic parenting my stepsister does (she of the Hooters birthday parties for a toddler, and of the gun show sniper rifle practice for a toddler, and of the video games for a toddler, etc.). The evidence? Well, didn't you know, M___ used to work at BabiesRUs! That's how she got her wicked awesome parenting skillz!

*facepalm*

*eyeroll*

*headhittingthetable*

AND THEN ALSO, we had dinner with neighbors the other night and I found myself trapped in a Parenting Contest that I did not enter, which went something like this:

Neighbor: My friend J___ has her 10-month-old son in swimming lessons and they're taking tumbling, and they're going to Gymboree 2 days a week and they're going to Mommy and Me groups..."

Me: *mentally making a shopping list because this is bullshit*

Neighbor: What are you and Jackson doing this summer?

Me: Uh. Prolly roll around in the grass, go to a coffee shop, hang out. And drool. One of us may drool.

(Witty retort in my head: "Uh. Prolly get him hist first violin and start Suzuki training, then enroll him in AP Calculus and Organic Chemistry and Quantum Physics for Babies. Oh, and we're shopping around the rights to his first screenplay and a publisher of his first book of prose. I'm a Tiger Mom, bitches!)

Is it too much to ask to purchase a small island with temperate weather outside of both hurricane and earthquake radii and just live there with my little family, our dog, and a few chosen friends who also deserve reprieve from The Bullshit That Is All of This*? Anyone else want to come?

* Because I keep getting these unambiguous messages from the universe that humanity is, by and large, a big stanky bag of shit left on fire on your doorstep. Or maybe it's the semi-retarded teenagers who left it there. I dunno. But it sure does stink sometimes. What more evidence do you need, really?**

** Need more? The Voice: that new shitty show, wherein self-promoting musical prodigies Xtina, that sleazy guy from Maroon 5, some countrified dude, and Cee-Lo (for whom I make an exception, because he IS a genius) pose for the camera while the next Taylor Hicks croons karaoke at us. It's just Diet Idol by way of America's Got Very Little Talent. That should be enough to convince you.***

*** Still no? Then, Guy Fieri. That's the punchline.

Welcome to Crazytown, Population: Me

2011-04-19T11:58:00.007-04:00

Well. Where to begin. Let's try some bullets.

Working out with a personal trainer suuuucks but it's getting the job done. I'm pretty much sore and aching all the time, but I've lost a few pounds in the last 2 weeks, so I'm encouraged. At this rate, I'll have the baby weight and IVF weight off by Christmas 2016.
Going back to therapy is a bittersweet thing, because I need it but I also hate that I need it. I'm experiencing some massive anxiety coupled with on-again, off-again depression. Motherfucking yay. I don't know where some of it comes from, other than my poor genetic lot in life and the fact that my family is full of The Certifiable Crazy. We've got bipolars, schizoaffectives, and straight-up depressed. And that's not counting all the personality disorders! It's like a goddamned DSM-IV-TR bonanza! I'm not too keen on being put on crazy pills, but if that's what my therapist ultimately recommends while we keep talking it out, or if I reach a point where I think it's necessary, then so be it. I just want to feel better. Crying for no reason and feeling like my head will explode from panic is not cool.
And as for the stuff that I do know is fueling it? There's a whole lot of history with my Certifiably Crazy™ parents, that includes some really shitty, dark stuff. I am chock full of abandonment, trust, and self-esteem issues thanks to their crackerjack parenting. It's 100% of the reason I became an academic-over-achiever-perfectionist, and why I become psychologically paralyzed if I can't do something perfectly and can't handle compliments. Nothing weird about that. Anyway, I had pretty successfully learned to manage those issues through therapy years ago, and then the whole infertility beast reared its ugly head and brought it all back to the forefront in a new and introspective way. That's not an entirely bad thing, because it forced me to think very long and hard about how I will parent my child(ren) and break the cycle of Crazy that pervades my family. But now that Jackson is here, and I know with every fiber of my being that I would do anything for him, right up to and including taking a real or proverbial bullet to ensure he is safe and happy and fulfilled in his life, it stirs up a lot of shit about my parents and how they wouldn't do much at all to ensure the same for me. Not then, and not now. It hurts. And it sucks. It hurts and it sucks to know how little I was loved. The contrast of that feeling with the love I feel in my little family -- KB, Jackson, Katie the Dog, and me -- just puts that hurt under a magnifying glass and burns it up until it scars. So, that's lurking underneath every feeling of insecurity about being a good parent, every anxiety about keeping Jackson safe and alive and happy, every worry that my shit will become his shit if I don't deal with it effectively. So. Good times.
While I wait to hear about a part-time job offer in the next month or so, I'm taking on ambitious house projects. Most are small -- replacing the fugly front door of our house, doing some gardening -- but the biggie is clearing out the basement and turning half of it into a playroom for Jackson. It's already partially finished, so I just need to keep decluttering (or, in a stroke of genius, I've decided I could just pile the clutter to the ceiling and throw a couple of banana peels on top, then call the producers of Hoarders and get my basement cleaned for free). Then I have to clean the floor and window sills (how many winters' worth of dead bugs are on that sunny graveyard sill?). And then put down some cheapie carpet. Voila! Playroom. I figure I can find a little kid-sized table and some bookshelves from garage sales or used furniture stores and repaint them, to keep this on the cheap. And while I'm at it, I'll reorganize the utility half of the basement, where laundry and pantry shit ends up sprawled everywhere without the confines of an orderly shelving system to contain it. It's exactly like me to take on some huge project when I'm hitting crisis mode, and then to alternately let it take my mind off of things and also stoke the embers of the Crazy fire. Because in the process of starting this project, I've begun to realize how much I hate our house. BOOM. Bomb dropped on ya. Yep, I hate our house and I want to move in the middle of the shittiest housing market, like, EVAH. We'll have to save for a year or two (or twenty?) to make up the shortfall between what we owe and what we can make if we sell and another down payment, hope that the housing market stabilizes and possibly (even if only slightly) improves our home's value, and will try to pump up our home's value as much as possible by making the most sensible improvements: basement repurposing and organization, new roof, new driveway, new front door and minor landscaping for curb appeal. This is already a long-ass post, so I'll let it suffice to say that I want a house that doesn't have creaky wooden floors but still has character, and has enough room for us to consider a second baby. BOOM. Another bomb. I'll write about that another time.

Most of These Are Accurate

2011-04-12T20:39:00.000-04:00

Done and Done

2011-04-08T22:03:00.002-04:00

Hulk SMASH!

2011-04-08T11:04:00.007-04:00

So, I still have not received my form letter response that I was asked, ne told, to be patient for.

But while I wait, here is something to share that you will no doubt love. It's taken from an email response to another blogger, received from PETA (complete text is in the comments of this post):

Many who choose to have a vasectomy consider it a moral conundrum for some of us to be spending thousands of dollars trying to reproduce ourselves when there are homeless children, including some with disabilities, who want for homes, and when the environment is being ravaged as human population increases.

First: Bwahahahahahahahahaha!

Second: Fuck.

So now we're immoral?

Hold up. Lemme get this straight. People who are able to conceive on their own, who are fertile, have the right to choose to have child(ren) and/or use birth control and/or become sterilized. If they choose the latter, they are helping to suppress the global human population (and bully for them!). But people who are infertile and seek treatment to conceive with medical intervention, who are far more likely to have fewer children than fertile people if they ever conceive at all, are the problem. And not only are infertile people therefore responsible for adopting all the orphans of the world, but the homeless ones with disabilities in particular. Shit, I didn't get that memo; I'll hop in my car right now and drive on over to the nearest orphanage/homeless shelter to pick up my own little Oliver Twist. Because it's my goddamned duty and/or lot in life. And also, because adopting is just like picking out a cat from the Humane Society. (Although, by their reasoning, if you happen to be allergic to cats, then it is your responsibility, ne your fate, to adopt the mangiest, patchiest, most broken-down old three-legged diabetic feline you can find -- there are homeless mangy cats in this world and it is immoral for you to take home a healthy, well-fed cat, you selfish brute!) I said it once before and it bears repeating: fuck.

And get it right, twatwaffles. I spent tens of thousands of dollars to reproduce myself.

I have a solution to the moral conundrum of homeless children, including some with disabilities, who want for homes, and when the environment is being ravaged as human population increases. They can be adopted by PETA employees, who are all no doubt spayed and neutered. You're welcome!

Also, you'll be delighted to know that PETA has bowed deeply to our demands and has changed the verbiage of their contest to read "during" National Infertility Awareness Week, rather than "in honor of." Whew. Mission accomplished, hang a banner on a battleship. Except...um...they're still insisting on referencing infertility in the context human population control, vis-à-vis voluntary sterilization. Motherfuckers. When you look at the screenshot, you can see that there is no explanation tying the two together; but by simply juxtaposing them, they make their implicit point. Which is that infertility is beneficial to population control. Eugenics, people. Why don't they just get back to throwing paint on fur coats and objectifying women in nude ad campaigns? I think Pam Anderson probably needs the work.

I know as well as any of you that their PR lackeys are classless asshats who do this sort of thing specifically because it gets a rise out of people, but that they chose to pick on a patient community that is already treated like lepers by the ignoranuses of society and is just beginning in recent years to make strides in awareness and educational campaigns....well, that just chaps my hide.

Don't Stop Til You Get Enough

2011-04-07T13:22:00.003-04:00

So I got a lousy one-line auto-reply from the dicks, erm, I mean, caring animal activists, at PETA. It included the sentence, "Be patient." Oooh. Not my strong suit.

So I fired off another email, this time taking a slightly different approach and trying to explain 1) why their contest language re: population control and "reproductive-free living" in the context of infertility is fucktarded and 2) how little they know about infertility. Imma catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Dear Ms. Newkirk,

I'm disappointed that I haven't received a reply, even if only a form letter, to my email sent yesterday regarding PETA's "win a vasectomy" contest, which you are touting as a prize in "honor" of National Infertility Awareness Week later this month. I can only imagine you have received many such emails, due to the sensitive nature of a campaign that invokes any prize in "honor" of infertility awareness, and I know from personal experience how passionate the infertility patient community is about our medical diagnosis and the public perception of it.

I'd like to try and reattempt communication with a less passionate, perhaps more explanatory approach. To begin, I am actually quite simpatico with PETA's mission to protect animals and prevent overpopulation of companion animals. I also agree that global human overpopulation is a serious problem that requires effective and sensible solutions. I am in absolute agreement with your organization's supposition, as expressed explicitly in the contest in question, that voluntary birth control and "reproductive-free living" is one way to address the growth of our human population. Where I diverge is when you suggest or imply that the medical condition of infertility is an effective and desirable method of population control, and when you attempt to equate it with a voluntary birth control measure such as a vasectomy. It makes me wonder if you are clear on what infertility actually is. I would like to try and explain why your association of infertility with voluntary birth control is inaccurate.

Infertility is a medical term that encompasses multiple specific conditions that cause a patient to be unable to conceive or carry a baby to term, including but not limited to: endometriosis, Fallopian tube damage, ovarian cancer, cervical cancer, uterine cancer, pituitary tumors, uterine fibroids, testicular cancer, sterility secondary to chemotherapy or radiation therapy for cancer, bleeding disorders, and a variety of genetic anomalies. None of these medical conditions in any way involves a voluntary decision to live "reproduction-free." And most of these conditions, like many medical diagnoses, are treatable with appropriate reproductive endocrinology care so that individuals and their partners can conceive a child. Patients with infertility are usually lucky if they can successfully conceive one, perhaps two children, if any at all. We are not significant contributors to overpopulation in the way that, say, lack of access to birth control and sex education are worldwide.

To give away a vasectomy in conjunction with a contest to neuter your pet is cute, and attention-grabbing, and not at all offensive to me or most people, including the infertility patient community at large. But it is a bridge too far to suggest that we have chosen our infertility and/or that it is some method of population control. Let's be level: you included National Infertility Awareness Week in your contest language precisely because it's a controversial stand to take on the issue of human population control. Why not suggest that AIDS or cancer are helping to curb the population? Why not praise suicide as a way for individuals to thin the herd? How about lethal birth defects and severe mental retardation, since they get rid of people on the planet, too? Why not celebrate miscarriage? I suspect it's just because you know that advocacy groups for these diseases and conditions are extremely visible and powerful, so you picked a fight you felt you could more easily control. All I can ask is that you consider the people you are hurting. We are responsible people who engage in carefully thought out and hard-fought family planning and we deserve to be treated with respect and dignity. The contest is only objectionable insomuch as it ties voluntary birth control and population control to infertility by mentioning National Infertility Awareness Week. This association is scientifically inaccurate and extremely insensitive. I personally think your campaign would be just as effective if you removed language related to National Infertility Awareness Week, and respectfully ask that you do so.

Regards,

Jennifer B___, PhD

Hunh?

2011-04-07T08:26:00.007-04:00

So, I have not received a canned response from PETA, but several lucky! bloggy friends have. And in this paragraph of a PETA email (the full correspondence is posted here), you can see the problem:

...we are absolutely not “celebrating the infertility community,” that is not the intent at any level. We are celebrating infertility itself, though, meaning the decision not to contribute to the overpopulation problem. I just want that to be clear.

Oh, you ARE clear. PETA thinks infertility is a good thing, and a decision!, that helps keep the human population down. Apparently, WE ARE PART OF THE SOLUTION! Yay, us! I wonder why they feel it's okay to pick on us and trash reproductive rights, rather than, say, to "celebrate" AIDS or cancer or suicide or murder or tsunamis. Aren't they, too, part of the solution? Doesn't this all begin to sound like eugenics in a weird way? I doubt that PETA will do a single solitary thing to acknowledge the hateful and misinformed contest language, as they have always resided firmly in the camp of "no such thing as bad publicity." Who would've thunk PETA and Fred Phelps could be so simpatico?

You can sign the ongoing petition (link here) to demand PETA end the offending contest. It won't happen, natch, but it might make you feel like you were part of the solution.

People for the Efficient Thrashing of Assholes

2011-04-06T10:32:00.003-04:00

So, read this first.

And then this.

And the series of initial responses here.

And here is my contribution, emailed this morning:

Dear Ms. Newkirk,

Let me first explain, I am an animal lover. I rescued my dog after she had been dropped off pregnant at a kill shelter, then transferred by caring animal activists to a no-kill shelter where she had her puppies with proper veterinary care and was then spayed. She is part of my family and we cherish her. I don't possess the fervent level of dedication to animals rights that PETA proclaims to, but I do care and I am responsible.

Now. With regard to your campaign, ne, stunt, to offer a free vasectomy "in honor" of National Infertility Awareness Week, in exchange for the "lucky" recipient getting his pet spayed or neutered, I take issue. On a very basic personal level, I am deeply offended. My husband and I hoped to start a family, and learned we had severe male factor infertility. Despite taking care of our bodies, our pets, and our planet, we were given the devastating news that we would be unable to have a child to share our lives with, to raise to responsible adulthood in a loving home. We were referred to infertility specialists and eventually conceived via in vitro fertilization, and are now the proud parents of a beautiful baby boy. I am telling you my story to put not too fine a point on it: making light of infertility as a PR trick is cheap and hurtful. And claiming that it is "in honor" of National Infertility Awareness Week is simply deplorable.

Do you, or anyone on your staff, have children? Do you, or anyone on your staff, have a diagnosis of infertility? Please ponder these questions carefully. For all of your claims that the human population is out of control, I certainly hope none of you have "bred" any human babies. For if so, how can I ever trust that PETA practices what it preaches? And certainly, all of your male staffers should have had vasectomies by now, and your female staff should have had tubal ligations, at the very least. And I dearly hope that any staff who have suffered infertility, in exchange for doing their part (albeit unwillingly) to keep the human population lowered, have received free spaying and neutering services for their pets. (Does any of this help you see how awful and outright ridiculous your campaign is?)

It is idiotic to equate animal population control through spaying and neutering, with the size of the human population and infertility. All animals, including humans (or didn't you know that, technically speaking, we're animals, too?), are driven by biological imperatives to reproduce. There is evidence that even animals grieve when they lose a baby, demonstrating just how hard-wired the desire to produce and care for young truly is. Responsible adult humans who desire to create and raise a family, but are unable to do so as a result of infertility, have every right to seek treatment and find ways to grow their family. And you, an organization dedicated to treating animals with dignity and care, have no right to mock, belittle, or trivialize the struggle and pain endured by those of us who are unable to conceive children on our own. Being infertile is not a choice, it is a medical condition that can (in many cases) be treated; it is physically, emotionally, and financially devastating in ways that you clearly are incapable of understanding. Infertility is not a method of reducing the world's human population; responsible family planning, which includes having reproductive choices, is the way to address the human population. A vasectomy is not an appropriate "prize" to honor National Infertility Awareness Week. Offering a vasectomy "in honor" of this medical condition is akin to offering a free bolus of intravenous potassium "in honor" of heart health awareness.

I understand that part of PETA's mission is to use shocking images and campaigns to get attention for your cause. But I ask you to cease and remove all materials from your "win a vasectomy" contest, because it is degrading and inhumane. If you must use such tactics to further your cause, that's your prerogative, but to do so by denigrating a large group of people (of over 7 million infertility patients) is unacceptable. Please find another way to advance your organization's mission that does not involve petty mischaracterization and hurtful antagonism of a large community of people suffering from the medical condition of infertility.

Until this campaign is ended, I will continue to share my concerns about PETA's treatment of humans with infertility with my friends, family, and a large blogging community that includes mommy blogs, parenting blogs, infertility blogs, and the broad reach of the RESOLVE network. I encourage you to be proactive and immediately end this contest, if for no other reason than to retain support and a modicum of respect from these individuals.

Regards,

Jennifer B___, Ph.D.

If you want to help:

Send an email expressing your concern and anger with this campaign to ingridn@peta.org
Don't open or link directly to the PETA contest page, which would increase their pageviews; instead, use this screenshot link (provided by the fine blogger behind Hannah Wept Sarah Laughed)
Share this with friends, family, fellow bloggers, and anyone who cares to listen

The Morning After

2011-04-06T08:16:00.000-04:00

My muscles hurt. I guess that's how I know it was a good workout. I'm pretty sure I woke up with full-blown muscular dystrophy today. Please call Jerry.

Also, Jackson officially discovered his penis this morning. The level of difficulty of diaper changes just shot up a full point. Hopefully I can make up for the loss of technical scoring with artistic effort.

Tangential

2011-04-05T14:25:00.013-04:00

I had my first appointment with a personal trainer today. (KB bought me a gift certificate for Christmas and it took me this long to make this appointment.) In discussing my goals, I hardly needed to finish the sentence, "I had a baby 6 months ago..." The goal? Transform from cow to gazelle. I watch The Biggest Loser. I want this dude to go all Jillian on me and break me down, to build me back up. To borrow a term, I want to get all Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger on this.

One of the things I haven't mentioned much here, and that I think often gets buried in the avalanche of life that having a baby brings, is fucked up body image. I remain convinced that it's only magnified by pregnancy through, not after, infertility. I spent a year and a half faithfully popping pills, injecting syringes, avoiding aerobic exercise, taking and upping doses of thyroid medication, and basically using my body as a roving laboratory for attempts at babymaking. So, the experiment finally worked, but it left the facility a little trashed. I was already up about 20 lbs over my comfort level when I got pregnant, and proceeded to gain over 50 lbs in less than 10 months. I didn't eat like pig; I was too nauseous to do that. I had a few crave-inspired cheeseburgers, but I generally tried to be reasonable. I just gained. And gained. And swelled. And it didn't stay confined to my belly (though plenty settled into a new home there, where it continues to be a squatter even after the baby moved out). I lost some of it postpartum, but not all. In fact, I had cankles for 3 weeks after I got home from the hospital -- big, pitting edema-filled cankles. I dreaded having people come over, for fear of more assvice AND because it meant I had to find clothes to put on. I've been moping around the house in leftover maternity pants all this time because they are still way more comfortable than the post-IVF pre-pregnancy clothes (which were still a little bigger than what I used to wear, when my body was a temple and all that). I know it's contributed substantially to feeling bummed out so much of the time. I've been walking the fine line between apathy and motivation to do something about it for -- let's see -- 6 months minus the 6-week postpartum period now. And really, it's about more than my body image now -- I have to set an example for my son. I want him to grow up understanding that responsible food choices (both in terms of nutrition and environmental impact) are important, and that physical activity is better for you, for its own sake and versus couch potato-ing. And as for the body image part, I have craftily avoided being in pictures and going out where I have to wear fancypants because I HATE feeling like a fatty lumpkin. And it makes me sad that I don't have many pictures of me with Jackson. So, it can't go on like this. Self-loathing aside, I have to work at this and feel better. Anyway, I really hope I see some initial results SOON from this personal training business. I could use the pick-me-up.

And I hope the weather takes a turn. I've never thought of myself as having seasonal affective disorder, but DUDE a little sun and a nice 60-degree breeze does wonders. I am OVER the cold weather, the freezing rain, the gloom. I'm really, really looking forward to taking Jackson out for walks in his stroller, or in his jogging stroller (listen to me talk the big talk!) and getting some fresh air.

I also need to work out details for babysitting for all the summer weddings and whatnot we have to attend this year. KB's mom still has this vague notion that she will babysit, overnight natch, so we can go out of town. It doesn't help that KB sort of promised her this many months ago, well before we knew as much about how far she'll go to undermine our parenting decisions and how his sleeping and eating habits would shape up. I'm leaning hard on the fact that he still nurses at night to keep the overnight babysitting dream at bay. The truth is, I don't want her to babysit AT ALL; I want for her visits to always include me being around. Control freak much? (Believe me, this is a recurring theme in therapy sessions.) My concerns are myriad. 1) Her food issues. She shuns healthy food choices and makes a HUGE deal about how much better her white bread, white rice, sugar-coated-everything treats are to my 7-year-old niece (whose parents, like us, prefer wheat pasta, wheat bread, organic, etc.). I don't think she's trying overtly to do this, but the end game seems to be to convince the kid that Nonna offers you GOOD food, not that garbage your parents force you to eat. It's already begun with Jackson, who is hardly out of the gate eating solids. She's asked about giving him ice cream, and when I say "no" she mumbles under her breath (but audibly) "well, he can have it at Nonna's house." Um, no, he cannot, if I already said so. (I won't even give him off-the-shelf jarred food; it'll be either organic or homemade.) I think it's part of a larger issue of wanting everyone to love her best. And food is her weapon of choice. 2) Her everything-else-parenting-related issues. I should let him cry more. Holding him all the time spoils him. Daycare ruins kids. We're wrong to not have him christened in the Catholic church (oooh, there's a topic we can get into another time. Controversy!). And so on. It's all come up off and on over the past year. I imagine him under her care, crying his eyes out because she lets him (to "teach" him something, I don't know what), being taught the rosary (against our wishes), being spoon fed ice cream and who knows what else, and generally being a sugar-addled, napless mess when I return home. Not to mention that she's well into her 70's and has a bad knee and our house is like a boobytrapped obstacle course of steps and furniture. We're putting baby gates and door safety latches up soon, so it will be even more challenging to navigate this place with a 16-lb sack of squirmy potatoes in your hands trying desperately to wriggle free every moment. KB is on the same page as me, but he's more willing to look for "compromises" -- let her babysit for a few hours, let's say. I say "no." I've watched her claim dominion over our niece and sneak food to her, undermine or badmouth her parents' rules and routines, and make passive-aggressive color commentary on their parenting choices in general, and I am not cool with it. She can see Jackson whenever she wants, but I will be there. She's already begun asking about our trip to South Dakota in September, to attend a friend's wedding, and the bottom line is: Jackson is coming with us. My sister has volunteered to fly out for a couple of days to babysit (which is full of the awesome), so we're all set (notwithstanding the travel nightmare our recent trip to Chicago became -- we're planning another go at it this summer, to somewhere closer. Live and learn!). My mother-in-law handily forgets our choices for Jackson where routines and parenting are concerned, but can easily recall minute details of every trip outside of the city limit we have planned for the next year, during which she might swoop in*. Hunh.

And speaking of the wedding...KB is IN the wedding, and I am singing a couple of songs in the ceremony. Yeah, little ol' me. Here is one that I'll be doing, a lurvely Dylan tune (that will be performed more like the Adele version). Listen to this, think about your baby (or the one you're working on), and TRY NOT TO CRY. I don't know how I'll get through this song without bawling.

* I always feel the need to apologize for bagging on KB's mom for her behavior, but it is SUCH a hot button thing for me. I take parenting choices very, very seriously (that'll happen when you grow up in an impoverished and abusive home). I simply can't stand for that to be disregarded so easily to satisfy her fragile ego. *le sigh* Hopefully she'll start to see a trend and get with my program. Hopefully.

May the Dork Be With You

2011-03-31T15:00:00.001-04:00

Looky what showed up in the mail today!

Oh, be still my nerdy heart. I'm looking forward to a future that includes papier-mâché acklays.

Don't Panic!

2011-03-31T13:30:00.001-04:00

I must have this.

Product Description

BABIES. Maybe you’re thinking of having one. There might even be one inside you right now, draining nutrients from your system via a tube growing from its midsection. Or maybe you’ve already got one around the house, somewhere, and you’re responsible for its continued survival. You’re saddled with a helpless being whom you’ve agreed to house and feed and love with all your heart for the rest of your life, more or less. Either way, you’re confused, you’re frightened, and 911 won’t take your calls anymore. But don’t despair! Let’s Panic About Babies! is here to hold your hand and answer some important, age-old baby-related questions, including:

- How can I be sure I’m pregnant? (Torso swells gradually until baby falls into underpants.)
- Did I just pee myself? (Yes.)
- What happens if I have sex during my pregnancy? (Your baby will be born with a full, lush beard.)
- How can I tell if I’ve chosen the wrong pediatrician? (He/she can’t pronounce “stethoscope.”)
- How do I make sure my baby loves me back? (Voodoo.)

From the moment they’re created until the day they steal our cars, our babies demand center stage in our lives. So join Alice and Eden as they tell you (and your lucky partner!) exactly what to think and feel and do, from morning sickness to baby’s first steps. They know everything!

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

2011-03-31T10:33:00.000-04:00

Roly Poly

2011-03-29T10:19:00.001-04:00

A week of firsts...

We talk*! And eat our feet! (Multitasking, man...)

We roll over! And rage about it! (It was a fine idea at the time...)

And now we roll over in the middle of the night and sleep on our belly until morning. Which a few months ago would have scared the bejeezus out of me, but he's pretty mobile with the head and arms now, so I'm much less worried. I mean, I still go in and check on him several times per night, but there are no panic attacks over it. It's also translated into him sleeping a longer stretch after his 3AM feeding, so he essentially skips his usual 6AM feeding and pushes it back to an 8AM feeding (I used to do both before taking him to school). Yay for more sleep, for everyone!

* Sounds a lot like "da-da" although he's addressing his feet, so who knows....

Boomerang

2011-03-26T20:03:00.007-04:00

Aaaaand we're back.

We lasted 1.5 days away from home.

The boy would not sleep in a hotel room. I (more to the point: my milk supply) was too close and we couldn't make the room dark enough to get him to sleep. We fed him a bottle. And I nursed him. And nursed him some more. And walked circles around the mostly-dark room. And finally, after eleventy-thirtily-thousand attempts to put him to sleep in the pack-n-play, he went down. Like I hit him with an elephant tranq dart. Except...30 seconds later, the front desk CALLED OUR GODDAMMED ROOM to ask us if we got the memory foam pillows we requested. KB told them in his quietest voice, yes, and don't ever call back again or we'll get all stabby and it just took us an hour to get a screaming baby to sleep so you don't want to make us all stabby. And THEN we realized we hadn't eaten anything for hours, having arrived in Chicago just an hour or so before Jackson's bedtime (a miscalculation on our part, mostly due to failing to factor in the two 30-minute stops to nurse him on the way) and having spent that hour hopelessly taking him on a walk (he raged in the general direction of every passer-by, and they still were polite enough to smile and declare him cute -- Midwestern affect, y'all). So KB tiptoed out of the room to get some sandwiches, which upon arrival, stank to the heavens above of the rankest onion smell. Since we dared not turn a light on and wake the boy just 10 feet away, we ate in the dark. IN THE DARK. And sneaked around on tippytoes, hunched over, like the motherfucking Hamburglar. We resorted to playing Scrabble on our iPhones for a little while and went to bed at 9PM. It's a glamorous life. Especially when Jackson starting waking up and demanding nothing short of a milky happy meal every 1-2 hours ALL NIGHT LONG. His final wake-up time? 5:30AM. Duuuude. We made an on-the-spot decision to try and enjoy Friday and head home early.

We were fooled on the way there (Thursday), because Jackson slept like, uh, a baby. I had to wake him up to nurse. (And by the way, there's no better place to nurse than the front seat of your car in the parking lot of the convention center in downtown Gary, Indiana. Trust.) He didn't get an unusual amount of sleep, he just got it all at once; I don't think napping ruined his bedtime. I just think he likes his own bed, his routine at home, and perhaps also to not be in a car seat for 5 hours. As do we all.

We did get a chance to go to super-awesome Shedd Aquarium, or as I likened it on Friday -- Crazy Town, Population: All the World's Fieldtrip Students. Buses and buses full of them. Yikes. But it was fun anyway, and Jackson got to eyeball some big fishies.

And SHARKS!

And when we got home yesterday and put him to bed, he slept through the night like nothing had happened. The chap just wanted to be home. And so now we are. We had a lovely day at the local mall, people-watching and strolling. (It'll be a while before we attempt another vacation. Or else, it will be a cabin/suite with a second bedroom and no adjoining neighbors. No witnesses to the crying.)

The Windy City

2011-03-23T22:42:00.005-04:00

Tomorrow morning we're off like a prom dress, to Chicago for a long weekend. It's a celebration of our wedding anniversary and Jackson's 6-month half-birthday. Whuh?! When did I become the mama of a 6-month-old? (Six months ago today at 2:34AM, for those keeping track at home.)

I used to scoff at people who packed a gazillion things for their kids on trips and now I totally fucking get it. Jackson has his own suitcase. And some of his stuff is overflowing into my suitcase. Then there's the stroller. And the travel chair in case their high chair is rubbish. And we're thinking of bringing the full-size pack-n-play (that we've never used) just in case the crib either seems rickety or smells of the funk of forty thousand years. And then there's the breast pump, bottles, and other milk-related paraphernalia. Am I forgetting anything? A shit-ton of diapers, extra pajamas and sleepsacks, and blankets. Hopefully there will be enough room in the car for the baby.

I'm nervous about the car ride, and whether Jackson will mostly sleep, play nicely with his favorite toy in his lap, or scream his face off for 4 hours. He's usually pretty calm in the car, so I'm hoping as long as we stop midway and I feed him, he will be cool. I'm also nervous about putting him to bed in a hotel room. We just made enormous sleep strides with tortuous cry-it-out methods, but if he regresses at all we can't really let that fly in a hotel with other guests all around. I'm also worried about his runny nose, which just started this morning. Is he coming down with another cold? Are KB and I going to start sniffling soon? Gah. Hopefully I'll find time to enjoy our trip in between anxiety attacks.

Off we go!

Stinky Feets

2011-03-18T09:59:00.001-04:00

Please excuse the twee Mommy voice.

That Tingling Sensation Means It's Working

2011-03-16T10:05:00.022-04:00

Last week we officially abandoned all hope for the kinder, gentler modifications of cry-it-out for nighttime sleep. They just weren't working. So, we turned the monitor volume waaaay down, decided on a middle-of-the-night feeding time that was acceptable (between 2-3AM or later), and went to bed. The first night he cried. A lot. We stealthily peeked in there periodically to make sure he hadn't poked himself in the eye with a wee little finger or jammed his foot into the crib rails or something, but otherwise did not enter his room until 2AM. The crying lasted for over an hour at one point. I quietly begged KB to just please go ahead and waterboard me, for I would gladly give up state secrets rather than listen to this anymore. Then I went in to feed him that night and he was curled up on his side, in the fetal position, rocking and crying. I wanted to die. The second night, he cried but put himself back to sleep after about half an hour. The third night we reverted again to the prolonged crying. I died a little more inside but kept on truckin'. And by the fourth night....it worked. He woke up a couple of times, rolled around and cried for just a few minutes, and put himself back to sleep. Just like that. And he's been doing it the past few nights, sleeping soundly for 8-hour stretches before his nighttime feeding. This means I am getting roughly 4-5 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Hoo-fucking-ray!

Oh, and the swaddle. Gone. He figured out how to stretch the Woombie out by linking his hands and pushing them waaaay out, so that the neck of the thing was all stretchy and allowed him to work his hands out of it. The effort he was putting into this endeavor, while admirable in its singular focus, was helping to keep him awake at night so we decided to just ditch the swaddle while we're crying-it-out anyway. And he's sleeping just dandy, thankyouverymuch, in his sleepsack. I still don't love that his little hands get cold, but when I go in for his nighttime feeding I tuck his paws in close to me and warm them up. It's our new "thing." (And for the record, Your Honors, I am keeping the nighttime feeding for as long as he wants; I like it, too, since it's our quiet time. Breastfeeding expert-types suggest that once-nightly feedings may last up to a year, after which you can night-wean in good conscience.)

So I am getting caught up on rest, starting to feel better, and turning a corner. I wonder if some of the congestion I can't seem to kick is A) due to the weather changes and/or B) due to hormones while breastfeeding (I remember being a mucous monster during pregnancy). Either way, I still have headaches and the remnants of a bronchitis cough, plus the snot, but it's under control now. And by that, I mean I don't feel like it's actively trying to destroy me. I might be able to start winning at the game of life again. I have more therapy tomorrow, and am making an appointment with the trainer for early next week. I can't really start the exercise routine with the trainer until after next week because...

...we're going to Chicago for a long weekend! It'll be our first family vacation, in good ol' Chi-town (one of my favorite places evah). We're hoping to get back into Alinea for a 12-course meal of AWESOME, but are waitlisted (somebody didn't call for the reservation until it was too late...so somebody made a backup reservation at some other fancypants restaurant just in case). My sister lives in the burbs and is coming into the city to babysit and hang out with us at Shedd Aquarium for the day. And if the weather holds up, some window shopping. Maybe some museums. Who knows? It all kind of depends on how this trip impacts our recent sleep victories. We can't let him cry his face off in a hotel room, but getting up every hour again is not an option. So, I guess we're prepared to turn around and come home if the first day and night is a fail, but here's hoping it's an epic WIN.

Nickel for My Thoughts

2011-03-14T14:05:00.003-04:00

So, back-to-therapy session #1 was helpful. No tears. Surprisingly. Just goal-setting. I got her all caught up with the fascinating story that is my life (the cliff notes version) since we last met: changed jobs to work from home, started IVF cycles, failed, failed again, wanted to curl up in a ball and weep, almost went donor-egg-IVF, did the Hail Mary cycle that ultimately worked, KB's dad died the day of retrieval, got pregnant, stayed pregnant, got sick, stayed sick, work sucked, got round and waddly, gave birth, fell in love, tortured by colic, still in love, got 800 lbs of unwanted assvice, returned to work, work sucked, quit job, no love lost to The Man, nothing but love for my Boys. Whew.

Here are my goals, in exact, particular order:

Deal with constant level of anxiety that manifests as physical stress (unhealthy, headaches, unable to work out) and depression. Get under control, hopefully without need of drugs.
Create constructive ways to fend off unwanted assvice and repeated requests by elderly family members, who've declared their intentions to do things however the hell they want (and contrary to how I want), to babysit because, eh, it ain't happening. Also, learn how to communicate this effectively with KB and keep us on the same page (it's his family we're talking about, and although he agrees they will likely not respect our parenting choices because they either disagree or simply believe they know better, and that this is unacceptable, he feels bad. I do not. You either respect mah authoritah where my kid is concerned, or you don't watch my son without me around. The end, fin, thankyouverymuch, remember to tip your waiter.)
Sort out whether I want to A) return to work at all (because if not, I'll pull Jackson out of daycare completely -- he's only there now while I sort my shit out), B) work part-time (and keep Jackson in daycare 3 days/week), or C) find another full-time job that might simply be a better fit (and keep him in daycare full-time). I have to balance my grew-up-poor-always-worry-about-money self with my grew-up-without-loving-parents-around-and-won't-make-that-mistake self. It doesn't have to all be extremes, but the constant high level of anxiety I'm feeling makes clarity difficult. I feel like working part-time would be the best possible solution, but I want to think it through carefully to be sure that staying home isn't an overlooked option, since it is available to me. I need to figure out the balance between wanting to be the best parent to Jackson and also being good to myself. I would like to rid myself of career ambition, if I can, and not worry about money and just focus on being the best wife and mommy I can be. It's a work in progress.

In the meantime, I'm just now starting to feel recovered from the plague that has been killing me slowly for the past 2 months. I can breathe out of both nostrils again! Oh, it's the little things that thrill me.

How I Love to Hate You

2011-03-09T16:16:00.006-05:00

Therapy. I know I need it, yet I dread it. I leave every session feeling raw, like I've just ripped a bandaid off an almost-healed wound. But that's the mirage, you see -- it's not really that close to being healed. So, more therapy. I have work to do. Anxiety issues, control issues, post-pregnancy body image issues, identity issues, issues issues. Most of what I want to talk about with my last-of-a-dying-breed-talk-psychotherapist can probably be tossed into the garden-variety-parenting-stress bucket, but I am one of those people who showed up to the party a few drinks in already. Sometimes even the little things, maybe especially the little things, unravel me a bit. I haz coping ishews.

So far, being voluntarily unemployed isn't so bad, really. I took a nap yesterday (!) to make up for the sleep I am not getting at night, courtesy of one 15-pound overlord. Our sleep regression has reached a new high (or is it a low?) with nightly wakings every 1-2 hours for several nights in a row, punctuated by a normal night of sleep with 1 or 2 wakings (acceptable), then lather, rinse, repeat. Last night we began a modified Ferber method. Hate. But have to do it. We let him fuss and cry for a few minutes, checked on him, let it go a few more minutes, checked on him, and did this for close to an hour with 10 minute intervals. We had to repeat it twice last night before he went back to sleep. So, no one is sleeping. I sincerely hope it works itself out with minimal repetition really fucking soon because I don't know which is worse, getting up every 1-2 hours and ending up nursing a baby who demands it only because he knows I'll provide it, or listening to him cry off and on for an hour. Twice. Hate this cry-it-out shit, even though we're taking a very moderate approach. Still. Torture on every front.

On an utterly unrelated note, I am going to my neighbor's daughter's (got that?) bridal shower on Saturday. And (Ripley's!) believe it or not, I have never attended a bridal shower before. Never had one of my own, either. Not my thing. She has a registry, as pointed out on the shower invite, but it's all full of the marital property crap -- colanders, table settings, etc. Is this what she wants for her bridal shower gift, then? Should I go rogue and buy her something unique? I assume some jackhole will probably show up with furry handcuffs as a gag gift or something, although this is a Very Catholic Family, so perhaps not. But I would never. Not unless it could be done anonymously. At any rate, what say you, Bloggy Friends, re: bridal shower gifting? Other than the registry items, was there something you got or gave at a bridal shower that was capital-A-Awesome?

All Roads Lead to Rome

2011-03-04T12:32:00.000-05:00

Early this morning, around 6AM, I crept into Jackson's room for his very-early-morning feeding and after he released his latch, satisfied and softly sighing, I rocked him in my arms for a little while before putting him back in his crib for the remainder of his "nighttime" sleep. I studied his face, his breathing, his fine blonde hair, the quiet noises he makes when he's dreaming. And I wept. I thought about so many things I've been through in my life, many of them awful and inexplicable, and how I've survived. I thought about the roads less traveled, the opportunities taken and passed upon, the sacrifices and the choices. They have all led me to him. To this beautiful, perfect, round cherub-faced boy. KB and I are lucky beyond measure. Just a few days ago, we were standing over Jackson's crib watching him kick his crib aquarium, having figured out how to turn it on and off with a foot or a fist, and laughing over what a clever boy he is. And KB turned to me and said, pointing at our son, "You did good."

And so today, I contemplate what is important, and I thank every atom of the universe for my family. To get to here, I would endure it all over again. For the first time in my life, I know where I belong.

Loose Ends

2011-03-02T10:24:00.008-05:00

Three more days to go. I am trying to actively disengage from work (telling myself as often as is necessary: "____ is not my problem, I will no longer work here after Friday"). It's not my style to be lazy or lackadaisical, so it's proving to be a real learning experience for me to just let go.

Not-random aside: I've worked nonstop since I was 14 years old. I've always worked as much as was possible, even holding down two jobs in college to pay the bills and my own tuition. It started out as simply necessary, and became my modus operandi by the time I finished college and began working to save for grad school. And then there was grad school, and the postdoc, both are which are gauntlets in their own right. I immediately moved into a corporate position in the pharmaceutical industry (thus beginning my medical writing career) and was shifted upward through the ranks into management at breakneck speed. And then infertility kicked my ass like a tin can up and down the street. So I backed off, took another job working from home as a writer with no management responsibilities, and decided being a good worker bee would have to suffice. And then the baby came. And the job became harder-than-expected hard. And now I am three days away from being unemployed. As the kids say, FTW?

I've already had another potential job offer floated my way, which would be another full-time, work-from-home gig but with a smallish company I know a lot about (including a friend working there and another potentially taking a position there soon). This company has a strong reputation for treating its employees well and being flexible, so if I get a call about the job, I will seriously consider it. I just can't seem to fully wrap my head around the notion of staying at home and not working for a while. Does. not. compute.

Until then, I have my to-do list for Friday afternoon, and it looks like this:

Call and make an appointment for a haircut (it's been moooooonths)
Call and make an appointment for a pedicure (while my last paycheck is burning a hole in my pocket; my feet deserve to be treated like Sheen-esque goddesses minus the confusing Sanka brewing directions and the suitcase full of coke)
Call and make an appointment to meet with a personal trainer (KB bought a 12-session package as a Christmas gift but I have had zero time to use it, so I've gotta start sooner than later to whip this saggy postpartum ass back into fighting shape)
Call and make an appointment with my therapist (we haven't met in over a year and a half, but I feel like there's some work to do to get anxiety and stress dialed down under "11")

Ooh, and take some naps. That is high on the priority list as we are in the throes of a shitty, shitty sleep regression thingy right now. Like, up every hour after midnight for the past three or four nights, thing. Woe.

Back to pretending to give a shit for a little longer today. Three more days...

Bring Out Yer Dead

2011-02-22T22:16:00.004-05:00

It's Tuesday and I'm still alive. Two visits to Urgent Care later, on antibiotic number 3 with an inhaler. Superbug, supernerd. Praying to the Nipple Gods I don't get thrush. Please, Nipple Gods. No thrush.

Toiling away to get work wrapped up. Taking sick time around the boluses of work, to reclaim whatever is left of my lungs and the sinus holes in my face. Where the bacteria made such a hospitable home. Fuck you, bacteria. Hope you like your housewarming present: erythromycin. Enjoy, assholes.

Focusing on what comes next: more time at home, more time with this guy:

Order 66

2011-02-18T14:26:00.012-05:00

It is done. But first, my day yesterday.

I went to Urgent Care to find out if I could maybe please ohgawdhurryup get some elephant-strength antibiotics for my deathcold. After an unnecessary x-ray (they asked me if I was maybe pregnant, and I chortled and mumbled something under my breath about needing eggs and sperm for that), explaining to my ditzy doctor what mastitis is (it is not, as she suspected, an infection of the mastoid bone -- I was stunned by her presumption and in my daze just pointed to my boob and gave her a what-the-fuck look) as well as spelling the name of the drug I was taking for it (blah-blah-blah-acillin), and waiting and waiting and waiting, she told me what I already knew: sinusitis and bronchitis. Augmentin twice daily for about two weeks. Two doses in and I still have a raging fever. I am so tired, y'all. Almost ready for a dirt nap. Oh, and the doctor has a 4-month-old and delighted in telling me how her baby sleeps through the night for 10 hours, and how was mine? Not as much, I said, but getting there. She then asked me (hold back my punching fist, please) if I've started him on rice cereal, because then he'll sleep more. And then she gave me the greatest assvice-ish statement I've been gifted to date: maybe he's nursing at night because he's hungry. Wow. Did you learn that in medical school?

Then last night, while washing/wiping my ass with/spit-shining/sterilizing my pump parts, a little yellow valve went flying and the dog ran in to investigate whether the Meat Fairy or French Fry Fairy might have just dropped in to spread some canine culinary joy. Cause in the dog world, on-the-ground equals fair game, whether edible or not. You see where this is going. KB and I were on our hands and knees looking for this thing and could only conclude...that the dog ate it. Neither KB or I felt great, so I decided I would schlep out to le Target to buy a replacement. Let's just say, there is nothing dignified about standing in line at the checkout counter, face red from a 102-temp, hair a disaster of hobo proportions, sniffling, having uncontrollable spastic coughing fits and furiously ripping open the bag of cough drops hastily grabbed from the checkout-counter-temptation-rack, and then being asked cheerily by the clerk, "How are you this evening?" I felt like busting out in a raucous and rousing rendition of "I Feel Pretty," but I just stared blankly at her with my puffy dead eyes, and she knew I did not want to be offered a Target credit card and did not care if I could save 15% on my first purchase. That was the fastest sale in history. And with the warm weather and melting snow, I'm now kinda tempted to go scour the yard for yellow valve-shaped protrusions in the dog turds. Okay, not really. But wouldn't that make a great story for the next time (if there is a next time, which gods-willing there won't be) I get mastitis? Well, I do steam sterilize the parts, but this one time I fished a valve out of some dog dookie...I think, if the occasion unfortunately arises again, I will say that. For grins.

And then. Today. I gave my two-week notice and emailed a letter of resignation. I feel a weight lifted. They have two more weeks to squeeze blood from this rock and then they can consider themselves taken, and shoved. I feel some uncertainty, but mostly hope that I can start taking better care of myself at no one's expense. I am looking forward to more time with Jackson, working out, maybe rekindling my intimate relationship with my therapist (for a tune-up, since I'm in that mode), and spending some actual quality time with KB, which we both sorely miss and deserve and need. Glory be. Hallelujah.

Bad to Worse to Better

2011-02-16T11:20:00.007-05:00

Stick a fork in me. I'm done.

After being up all night unable to breathe, with painful coughing fits and fever and chills, I conceded to KB that I CANNOT DO THIS. THIS being working full-time, sending Jackson to daycare full-time, pumping to facilitate all the full-times, and trying to live in between. Cause I'm not, really. I'm just barely, barely surviving. He admitted that he's been really worried about me having post-partum depression*, and that he wants me to quit my job and worry about the details of finding freelance work later. I am relieved, and yet still feel like a failure. Mostly relieved. I'm gonna go with that.

I'm taking some sick days at work because, well, shit, I'm really fucking sick, and have been for two months, and I'm spending my awake time (when not pumping, cause there's always THAT) hunting online for part-time contract medical writing jobs. I'm just going to pepper the interwebs with my resume and online applications and see who bites. I'm also going to compose an email to our daycare/school principal to formally request rates for downgrading to part-time, either 3 or 4 days per week. My preference would be 3 days, maybe Monday-Wednesday, giving us four-day weekends together. If no job materializes and the money gets tight over the next several months, I will pull him out of daycare and stay at home full-time for a while. Anything is better that where I am at this moment. And I might surprise myself -- I might really like that. You just never know.

So, Interweb Bloggy Friends, fingers crossed that I haven't spat in the universe's eye too much and that things work out for the best in all this. Time to set my life on track and thoroughly enjoy this delicious little bundle of joy we worked so hard to have.

*I don't think I do, but I'd bet at least a couple of acres of the farm on situational depression. Since antidepressants aren't indicated for that anyway, I'm just gonna go with the behavioral modification approach -- that behavior being, taking this job and shoving it.

It's a Guaranteed Bestseller

2011-02-14T20:09:00.007-05:00

"A Tale of Two Titties."

"The Tell-Tale Tit."

"Oliver Tit."

"Tits of d'Urbervilles."

"The Fall of the House of Udder."

(But, wait! I've got a million of 'em!)

Three doses of antibiotics and extra-super-strength ibuprofen and my boob feels nearly normal again. I think it just needed a good feeling up by the doctor today, and the threat of a needle poke should the duct blockage prove to be an abscess. I was advised to clean my pump equipment as thoroughly as possible, considering the frequency at which it's used (and how the recent increase in use correlates with the onset of perpetual mastitis). So I guess that means no more letting the dog lick the breast shields or spit-shining the screw cap adapters. Perhaps I'll install an autoclave in the basement.

Third Time's the Charm?

2011-02-14T12:27:00.003-05:00

Mastitis. Again. Bollocks.

Big Boy

2011-02-12T12:42:00.009-05:00

I bought this outfit when Jackson was a newborn, because it was too stinking cute to pass up. The tag read "6-12 months" and so I snickered, "well, it'll be a long while before he can wear it, but it'll be so cute when he does -- in about a year* from now!" Here is my almost-5-month-old wearing The Outfit:

Proud milk belly bulging out, casual death-grip on the rocking chair arm. He talks (kind of), he sits up (sort of), he laughs at our jokes (in his way), he thinks kicking my face** as I sing "Boom Boom Pow" to him is hilarious. Mah boy is growing up, y'all. Time stops for no one.

*Being a noob, I didn't understand the laws governing baby clothing sizing. Always assume it's too small and you'll choose correctly.

**The only appropriate reaction to this song.

I Coulda Been a Contender

2011-02-07T16:08:00.032-05:00

My ambivalence about work has turned to sour. I just don't like doing it. It doesn't like me right back.

Here's a history lesson: once upon a time, I had a very promising career in academic science ahead of me. I landed a prestigious postdoc at a top-tier institution, where Nobel laureates teach medicine and my would-be advisor has Howard Hughes money. I would have worked like a dog had I taken the job, as such labs are known to be postdoc factories where they crank them out like widgets, but I would have had a nearly-limitless budget to do whatever floated my boat for research and probably would have had several Nature or Science publications and a grant or two and then an academic position somewhere. To miss on getting a tenure-track assistant professorship after that kind of experience, I would have needed to show up to the interview in an SS uniform and lipstick smeared crazily all over my face, wielding a carving knife. But, I passed. I took a postdoc position at my graduate institution working for a middle-of-the-road guy, doing middle-of-the-road research. I wanted to stay close to KB because I thought (correctly) that we would soon get married and have a family. I got a couple of papers out of the deal, but walked away from it as well to pursue a different career path as a medical writer. Why? I was super good at teaching, pretty good at bench research, and very good at writing papers and grants and presenting my research. But I saw the women around me struggling to balance academic work and family, and I didn't want to go that route. I didn't want the lifelong struggle. So I bailed. I don't think of it as "giving up" something to be with KB, and ultimately with Jackson, but I suppose that's what it was. I gave up something to get something. I don't regret it, but I do sometimes fantasize about what my life would be like if I had continued down that path. I might have my own lab by now. I would be a few years away from a tenure decision. I would have students (labslaves!) and postdocs (minions!) and would teach classes in my field of expertise. I would be The Shit, giving seminars and speaking at conferences on Very Important Topics and mesmerizing students the world over. I would have been great, I think. But I chose differently and try not to look back. It's not productive to do so, and I don't feel like I made any mistakes. Not yet, anyway. I don't think. Well...

So, you can take the girl out of the overachievement but you can't take the overachievement out of the girl. When I began a new career as a medical writer, I was quickly rewarded with promotions and responsibilities and promises of fast-tracking to the top. Let's make a long story short and say that some things transpired between the senior management of that company and me and I decided they could go fuck themselves, and got myself a new job. Also, I was about to start IVF cycling and I couldn't continue to do the mandatory travel for business meetings and marketing that they demanded. So I changed courses again. I found my present job, where I do the same work, sans management, and I get to work from home. There's an inherent amount of flexibility when working from home, but the volume of work is still high, sometimes staggering. The company has been undergoing massive changes on an almost non-stop basis for over a year now, and each new thing brings renewed stress and uncertainty. During the last few months of pregnancy, I was miserable from the physical discomforts of pregnancy and the 10-12-hour days that were becoming common due to the project load I carried. I complained, tactfully, to my boss, and was thoroughly ignored. (Of all the managers, he is the standout ignoranus, and I am just lucky enough to get to work for him -- yay for me.) I put in a full day of work on the day I went into labor and ended up in the hospital to have the baby -- not by choice, but because my boss was so not on-the-ball with helping me create a transition plan. I had to do it myself at the last minute and actually held "knowledge transfer" meetings while in active labor. So, you can imagine how excited I was to return to work for this same nincompoop. Not much has changed. Except everything.

My day revolves around Jackson, as it should. I don't rush him to daycare; I take it slow with him in the morning, let him wake when he's ready, take my time nursing him, and then drop him at school. This usually happens by 9AM. I then have to rush home and cram in some work, pump, wash pump parts, cram in some more work and work meetings, take a shower (I sacrifice this in the morning to spend more time with Jackson), pump, wash pump parts again, do laundry or some other household task (I try not to leave this for the evening to have still more time with Jackson), then go pick him up from school around 4PM. He falls asleep in the car, so I drive around the neighborhood for half an hour or so to let him nap, then we come home and nurse, play, and wait for KB to come home. I have to pump several more times in the evening, during which I try to cram in some deferred work not completed during the day, and then I go to bed and get a couple of hours sleep before the nighttime awakenings begin. I struggle with the pumping because I have to do it ~5 times daily to get enough milk to send to daycare with him, yet pumping is so much less efficient than nursing at emptying my breasts that I've suffered mastitis twice already since returning to work, and usually have to manually express after pumping to try to empty (so I don't continue getting mastitis). We're on our third head cold in 6 weeks (which we can probably thank daycare for) -- oh, and being sick reduces milk supply, too. And part of the reason I take Jackson to daycare a little later and pick him up a little earlier is to avoid having to send even more milk with him -- I just can't pump that much. I could supplement with formula, but I'm stubborn and I make enough milk for him to nurse, so I am determined to keep giving him breast milk until he doesn't need it anymore. Just the name formula sounds like fake food. I don't judge others for their decision (or lack of choice in some cases) to use it. But I don't want to. Maybe I'm just clinging to some semblance of control, but I can breastfeed, so I will breastfeed, goddammit.

When you look at my weekday as a whole, I probably only spend about 3 hours during the day doing actual work for my employer (although another hour or two gets done at night and wee hours of the morning, while I pump). I have no time to work out, to try and tame this lumpy mass back into a healthy human form. KB and I hardly spend any time together, with all the Jackson-centric activity and my attempts to squeeze in work around the clock while I'm hooked up to the pump like a mama cow. I feel completely ineffective and as though no one is getting my undivided attention. I feel like I am failing at everything. All I want is to succeed as a wife and mother and make a little dough on the side. It's not asking too much. Is it? See, I don't even know how to answer my own rhetorical questions anymore. Cuh-razey.

I don't regret giving up an academic career in the slightest, but I am starting to resent this job for making all my life decisions seem moot by robbing me of the ability to fully enjoy anything I have, since I am constantly being pulled in some direction with no way to keep my balance. I wish like hell I had the option of going part-time, because that's what I need. I need a little time to do something intellectual, to use my neurons, but I also need time with my son. Time that I am currently stealing from my employer. I can't quit and not work at all, because if my financial contribution dries up and I can't afford any kind of help, ever, then I will surely lose my mind. I love my kid, but I know my limits, and I know that I need some time to myself once in a while. I also grew up dirt-ass poor, so I tend to over-worry about money and need the security of a comfortable income; KB and I have never sat down and budgeted as a one-income family, or with me going part-time as a freelancer, so I don't know how that would impact us economically. The plan was always for me to return to work full-time. So, I feel stuck. I feel like I have no choices. I feel like I am just spinning plates, waiting for one to escape my reach and come crashing down. It leaves me exhausted. Stressed. Maybe a little depressed. Leaving my job to freelance on a part-time basis is something that would (will?) take a lot of careful planning, and a long time to execute. I can't make it happen overnight; it might take months. I've talked to KB about it but don't get a very good read on whether he thinks it's a good idea or not. I think his version of the solution to all of this is for me to flip the happy switch and start loving my working mother status, and simply not feel bad about my fractured days and sub-par performance. Lordy, I wish I could do that, that it was so simple. While I can accept not being a World Famous Scientist (heh), I am struggling with being a shitty employee and part-time mom and nearly absent wife. None of these titles suits me. But right now, any of them could describe me.

I feel like this really should be simple, that I should be able to just say with conviction, I want to quit and find part-time work and only send Jackson to daycare part-time. There, I said it. But I feel like if I depart from the original plan, somehow I am letting everybody down. My inability to be superwoman is a giant FAIL. A black mark on my life's resume. A big fat demerit on my official record.

So, as with so many things in my life over the past few years, I take a wait-and-see approach. I hope the solution will reveal itself in good time. Before the nice men in the white jackets come to take me away. They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa...to live on the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time...

Random Saccharin

2011-02-03T21:10:00.002-05:00

Swaddle Love: A Pictorial

2011-02-03T13:49:00.000-05:00

Number One With a Bullet

2011-01-29T15:45:00.001-05:00

Sleepy-Bear: I have a habit of calling Jackson ____-Bear. Most of the time, it's Boo-Boo-Bear (he just wants a pic-a-nic basket). When he grins, it's Gummy-Bear. And today it's been Sleepy-Bear. We're on Substantial Nap Number Three. Hells yeah. One was even in his crib! The other two have been in his swing. And he's been in a great mood all day to boot. He slept better last night, giving me an 8PM-2AM stretch, but went back to his every-two-hourly wakings after that. Progress is progress, I guess.

Woombie WIN: ding! ding! ding! The Houdini Woombie is our winner! Two (or is it three? I've lost track) nights in a row now, he's gone to bed nice and snug in his thus-far inescapable Woombie swaddle. It's like a huge, stretchy tube sock with a two-way zipper on the front (so you can do diaper changes by unzipping from the bottom). He can bring his hands together and get them close to his face, which he likes, but hasn't yet succeeded in getting his hands or arms outside of the confines of the swaddle. I'm sure that day will come. The boy loves a challenge. But for now, it is working and we seem to have bought ourselves more time in the swaddle. Unswaddling hell is postponed until further notice.

Take This Job and...Well, the Checks Still Cash...: Work still mostly stinks. We're moving to a new kind of billing system for our writing services that requires lots of training, tons of asinine questions from newbies, and this past week we learned that our parent company (a mega-huge publicly-traded for-profit insurance company) has sold our asses to a private venture capital firm. Blurg. While the top brass continue to pat our heads and assure us that nothing will change, I think we all know how these things go. The VC bean-counters want huge return on investment, so the bottom line will rule all. I work hard (try to these days, anyway) and am good at what I do (try to be these days, anyway) so I'm not concerned about job security should headcount become an issue...but they can certainly decide to force fewer of us to do more, making the days longer and the work more miserable. We'll see how it goes. I got a call from an executive VP of I-forget-what-she-said (can't even remember her name) to "check in" with me in light of all the recent news, and to tell me what a great job I do (as if she knows), so I assume my job is safe. They like me; they really, really like me. I just don't know if the job will continue to be good for me. Too much is changing too fast. A good friend and coworker, who recently got promoted and is HATING it now, keeps asking me, half in jest but half seriously, what we should call our new medical writing freelance business. We're getting together for lunch as soon as either of us has a free hour during the week to talk about Plan B. Because you should always have a Plan B. And since being a rockstar didn't work out for me, I guess this is gonna be it. I'll be updating my CV soon as a just-in-case move. I'm thinking of adding "booger-wiper" and "breast pump engineer" to my duties. That should make my application stand out, no?

Come to the Dork Side: I made these for KB's birthday: UltraSuperGeek cakepops. Yeah, I know, poor Jackson. If it isn't bad enough that his parents are dorks, he actually has our DNA. Anyhoo, Leia was most delicious since her construction involved peanut butter candy melts, junior mint hair buns, and devil's food cake with cream cheese frosting. Yum, it was.

Here's the candle from KB's cake:

Yeah. Poor Jackson.

FAIL, 3 Ways

2011-01-27T12:22:00.012-05:00

Or, Failure: A Dish Best Served With a Warm Compress

Yup, full-blown mastitis of the right tit. Seven shades of super awesome. Or, rather, pink and red. Back on the antibiotics and pumping like a muthafucka along with deep tissue massage (oh, if only squishing my tender boob was as relaxing as a massaaaaaaage) to empty as often as possible. The only silver lining is that I can see how far I can shoot a milkstream while pummeling my poor infected udder, which I like to the think is the feminine equivalent of peeing your name in the snow. At least I'm treating it before the flu-like bullshit starts, which is what happened last time. Last time. Shit, y'all. One of the risk factors for getting mastitis is having already had it. Fucked. But persevering. That should be the motto on my family crest. Or an ironic headstone.

We tried the sleepsack Tuesday night and it seemed fine for about 3 hours after bedtime and then...FAIL. Big time. He woke up and WOULD NOT go back to sleep until I fed him an hour and much screaming later. It may have also been due to the vaccinations he got that afternoon, which may have made him feel icky (I know I did after getting my flu shot), so we'll try again this weekend (or as soon as we feel like we've gotten enough combined sleep to cope). In the meantime, we are the proud owners of a sleepsack/swaddle combo, a Woombie, and possibly soon a Peke Moe. There's no sleep attire too crazy that we won't try it. I just don't know if he's completely ready to stay asleep during the night without being wrapped in something, but we'll keep trying from time to time until it works. He still escapes from his swaddle several times per night (we'll see how the new contraptions fare -- the Woombie we ordered is called a Houdini swaddle -- I'm sure Jackson will laugh in the face of this new challenge), but that's better than the screaming we endured with the sleepsack trial. And as an aside, for anyone who has used a sleepsack (or nothing at all), how do you keep your baby's hands warm? I know they have poor circulation in their hands and feet and it's nothing to be overly worried about, but I do anyway...I would feel better if I could keep his little hands warm at night and the sleeveless sleepsack doesn't cut it. And the pajamas he wears now don't really have a fold-over-mitten option anymore; I'm not sure we could keep anything over his hands, anyway, since he favors bringing them together near his chin most of the time. I am realizing as I type this that the question is becoming more and more rhetorical, but I pose it to you, anyway. How do you keep their hands warm until they're old enough to have a blanket in the crib? Bueller? Bueller?

KB thinks we should start rice cereal, soon. His coworkers (a cackle of mother hens) SWEAR to him that Jackson will sleep longer if we give him cereal with his evening bottle (or around dinner time, before bed). I explained to KB that, per the pediatrician (who has a medical degree and specific training in the care and management of babies), solids do not produce more sleep since at this stage, they are not a significant source of nutrition or calories. They are stunt food at best, and something to fuck up the baby's poops at worst. KB still thinks all those other women can't be wrong. Hmmm. This presents a quandary for me, since I have been thinking this over for a while and have decided I would rather wait at least another month to introduce solids. I guess we'll have a longer talk about it over the weekend and reach some compromise. I'm not completely opposed to starting a little bit of cereal, but I don't want to rush into other solids (unless Jackson absolutely adores being fed from a spoon and starts shouting out, using his first words, "Feed me more solids, Mommy, I heart them!"). Maybe we could try a little spoonful here and there, so KB can see for himself that the baby's sleep pattern is unlikely to change as a result (sleep may change coincident with, but would be unlikely causally-related to, eating cereal). And if constipation occurs, KB can glove up and shove the suppository up his little pooper and then clean up the consequent blow-out diaper afterwards. Just sayin'.

This and That

2011-01-25T20:07:00.005-05:00

My Humps, My Lovely Lady Lumps: I think I'm getting mastitis. Again. In Ms. Righty this time, just for something completely different. I'll put in a call to my OB/GYN tomorrow and ask if he can phone in a script. Crikey. And things were just starting to look up.

Doctor Feelgood: The 4-month pediatrician appointment went well. Round 2 of vaccinations went off without a hitch, and growth and milestones are all on track. Then we talked about the next steps for feeding and sleeping habits. Lordy. Can we really be here already?

Sleepyhead: The Era of the Swaddle is over. The swaddle is dead, long live the sleepsack. Tonight is the first night we're switching from the increasingly ineffective swaddle to an arms-free sleepsack. We're not sleeping well anyway, having to get up many times per night to shush or feed, so we figured we'd just go cold turkey and see what happens. According to the pediatrician, a 4-month-old should be able to sleep for 8-10 hours without a feeding. What the shit? So this weekend we will return to our sleep training roots, the methods that worked for us at 2 months to get 6-hour stretches without any cry-it-out torture, and hope for the best. It worked before, it can work again. We think. And hope. Yeesh.

Peaches Come in a Can, They Were Put There By a Man...: We now also have the good doctor's blessing to start rice cereal anytime we feel like it. Hmmm. I'm in no hurry to start solids, but I do want to give us lots of time to slowly introduce new tastes and textures without worrying about the nutritional contribution, so by the time the nutrients are needed from solid food, we'll be in a comfortable place in which eating purees from a spoon is a funtime activity and not gawdawful torture. I've watched friends struggle to make their picky eaters take solids, and don't want to end up going down that road. I also asked about the recent increase in nursing and/or bottle-guzzling frequency, from every 3-4 hours during the day and night (except for that lovely 6-hour nighttime stretch we used to enjoy) to more recently, every 2 hours like clockwork. This has been declared either "snacking" behavior and/or a result of not getting enough sleep at night with too much nighttime feeding. Thus, if we sort out the nighttime sleep habits, the daytime feedings should fall in line with more consumed less often. We shall see.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T BPA-Free

2011-01-24T13:13:00.007-05:00

Twice now I have had to tell Jackson's Nonna that I won't give him anything made of plastic unless it clearly states on the packaging that it's "BPA-free." And twice now I've had to toss or exchange two different teething toys for this reason. *sigh* I know the rules of the road have changed considerably over the years, and are vast and varied, but FOR SERIOUS please remember the ones about safety, people. I don't ask for much. (I would have just smiled and accepted the BPA-riddled gift and exchanged it quietly later, but she was insisting on unwrapping it to shove it in his mouth right. then. and. there. So, no. Had to crack some proverbial skulls.)

So why the hell are there still BPA-containing consumables on the market, anyway? Huh? Powerful political lobby, that's why. Despite the multitude of studies linking BPA to neurological impairment, endocrine disruption, and possible (though not proven) carcinogenesis (but, hey, who needs cancer when you already have fucked up dopaminergic and estrogenic pathways?), the FDA and other federal agencies are dragging ass on regulating or, more appropriately, banning BPA in plastic drinking cups, bottles, and toys. Did you know that there is BPA in infant formula? Pretty decent levels, too. And in some canned goods (it's used in the can liner)? Holy hell, y'all. Between the BPA we're gulping down and the pharmaceuticals dissolved in our potable water, it's any wonder we haven't all grown tails and hooves. Actually, it's no wonder at all that infertility is so rampant (since much of the pharmaceuticals that drinking water tests positive for are contraceptive hormones and antidepressants or other prescription drugs not compatible with pregnancy, and BPA alters estrogen effects).

Also, Nonna asked if Jackson will be able to have ice cream soon. Uh, no. Why not? How about when he's eating solids? Well, because I don't believe ice cream would rank highly on the list of nutritious solids to try, and also because he doesn't need to have any processed sweets so soon, or really ever. But it's made of milk. Yeah, and a bucket o'sugar. And it's cow's milk, which he doesn't need to have until he's weaned from breast milk (and I'm hoping to make it to 1 year before that happens). I plan on giving him cake and ice cream for his first birthday, and no sooner. And sweets only on special occasions thereafter. Have we not all seen the epidemic of unbelievably fat children all around us? Crikey. These questions are always very leading, with an inflection of, If you won't give it to him, I will, as though the horrible deprivation I subject him to must be righted; this is why babysitting is still off the table for the foreseeable future. Lordy. Why can't my simple, responsible parenting decisions just be respected? KB doesn't disagree with me on this and other decisions, but he feels bad about telling his mom "no." So I guess I'll be the bad cop. Whatevs.

This PSA and general bitching session is now concluded.

All By Myself

2011-01-21T22:12:00.001-05:00

(Ripley's!) believe it or not, tonight is the first night in over three months that I have put Jackson to bed. It's been KB's thing since we started putting him in his crib to sleep -- he gives him a bedtime bottle, swaddles him, walks him around and rocks him, and then puts him to bed. I can usually tell by A) how long KB is in the nursery and B) how weary KB looks when he leaves whether it was a rough bedtime routine or an easy one. You see, Jackson has become a swaddle ninja. He usually fights it while it's being applied and then squirms out of it several times per night thereafter. It wasn't always this way. *sigh* Once upon a time, for such a brief, blissful few weeks, he slept peacefully and awoke only once (rarely twice) for feedings. And stayed swaddled. Ah, the good ol' days.

Anyway, we're re-sleep training (more or less at square one) plus bedtime with me instead of KB both represent departures from the usual routine, so I was afeared of what torture might await come 7:30PM. But...drumroll, please....nada. He took a cat nap after I nursed him this evening, then woke up and thoroughly (and noisily) pooped his pants, got a fresh diaper, took a bottle, let me swaddle him without a struggle, and fell asleep two minutes after I put him in the crib. What? Could it really be this easy? Yet here I sit, two hours later, without a single awakening. *knocks all nearby wood* KB will be home from his concert (Robert Plant's new band, I forget the name) probably around midnight, so as long as there are no shenanigans before then I am golden. *crosses fingers*

Of course, Jackson was grinning like a fool and laughing as I swaddled him. He might have an escape plan...

All in the Family

2011-01-19T11:21:00.012-05:00

So, Imma brag for a moment -- yesterday the head teacher in his daycare classroom told me that Jackson is their best sleeper and their best eater. Best, y'all. An overachiever like his parents.

If only he didn't use up these talents during the day, as if there's a limited supply and he's met his quota mere moments before I pick him up. He's generally pretty happy, or sometimes sleepy, when I pick him up in the afternoon and is in a reasonably good mood through our dinner time. (We've started putting him in the high chair, in the reclined position, and bringing him to the table with us so we can eat as a family. I am training myself to eat one-handed whilst shaking a rattle/stuffed animals/fill-in-the-blank in his face to distract him if he gets fussy). But then...the return of the nighttime fussing. It is upon us. It's not nearly as bad as colic was *shudder* but he's been thrashing around while KB gives him his bedtime bottle, and fighting the swaddling, and then busting out of the swaddle several times per night. Handily. Our little Houdini broke out the Miracle Blanket, y'all. Twas no miracle. ("Hundreds of thousands of well-rested babies" CAN, in fact, be wrong.) And those blissful weeks of sleeping through the night (from 8PM to 2-4AM), waking me only once per night to eat, are OVAH. He's waking 3-4 times per night now, and doesn't stop raging until his milkhole is sated. WHAT THE EFF, BABY?!? It could be teething (popular theory), could be motor skill milestones (he does roll around and thrash in his crib at night now, and has managed to faceplant in his swaddle a couple of times), could be your garden variety growth spurt (hungry, hungry hippo), or could be that the universe is fucking with me because it can. (Universe: "Did you enjoy your full nights of restful sleep for those few weeks? Did ya? Well? Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Suck it, peon! I am the muthertruckin' universe and I will ruin you! Ruin you!"; me: "Yelp.") We're contemplating leaving one arm out of the swaddle to slowly transition him out of it, one limb at a time, until we switch to a sleep sack. Dammit. I was hoping to keep him swaddled until high school. I mean, how great would it be to walk up to a babies-r-us employee and ask where the large swaddlers are: "Do you have a size 5T or larger? What about in the juniors department?" I'll ask the pediatrician about this at our 4-month (!) appointment next week. I am also excited/fearful/curious/etc. about whether it's time to start adding some rice cereal to his diet to ramp up towards solids in the coming months; maybe he needs more calories during the day and guzzling breast milk can only get him so far. We shall see. Do you have any war stories about the 4-month sleep regression? About swaddling? Any ideas, Bloggy Friends?

I need to give a huge THANKS! for all the great assvice I got about pumping during the day. It has improved immensely over the past week. I am eating lotsa oatmeal (add chocolate powder to it -- yum!) and pumping every 2-3 hours, on a lower setting for up to 1 hour, hitting the letdown button a couple of times. I also tried a novel approach recommended by I-forget-which-website, which is to simply send what I pump and see if that's enough. I was sending four 5-oz bottles and having to raid the freezer stash, and have tapered it down to four 4-oz bottles I can pump every day. And guess what? No difference. I just nurse him an extra time before taking him to daycare, regardless of when he last ate, and as soon as I get home after picking him up, to avoid reverse cycling (i.e., more nursing at night to accommodate less milk consumed during the day -- noooooo!). I have read that when you switch to mostly or exclusively bottle feeding, babies can over-eat a bit (and recent studies clearly show that bottle-fed babies eat more than breastfed babies, in support of this idea that the bottle may have something to do with it). Anyway, we're in a decent rhythm now of daily scheduling, and I get some quality time with him every morning and afternoon while still managing to get some work done. And even though I'm chained to the pump all day like Leia in her gold bikini, I'm figuring out how to work my day around a pumping schedule. So far, so good. I still don't love being back at work, but I'm adjusting and accepting. Isn't that a late phase of grief?

But I still miss my little man. My over-achieving, good-sleeping and nom-nom-eating little man.

Stupid Is as Fecund Does

2011-01-14T22:18:00.000-05:00

My stepsister (the one who celebrates her toddler son's birthdays every year with a fun-for-the-whole-family Hooters bash) announced her second pregnancy on fb at 5 weeks. Like, pee-is-still-drying-on-the-stick early. Oh, the fertile, they are cavalier, and how. I didn't dare utter a public peep until I was holding a bebe in my arms. I do wonder: if she has a girl, will she have her birthday parties at Hooters, too? Role models for everyone! And hot wings!

It Had to Be You

2011-01-11T09:05:00.000-05:00

One year ago today, one reluctant egg and one wonky sperm were introduced on a bit of a blind date, and gave us this:

What Doesn't Kill You...

2011-01-09T15:04:00.000-05:00

...simply makes you long for the sweet release that death would surely bring. My gastroenterofuckedness only lasted for about 24 hours, so whatever caused it seems to have been cast out of my soul now. But the after-effects of a gut-gone-wrong are no picnic. I'm still chugging the Gatorade (distant memories of OHSS and retrievals haunting me...) but solid food has regained its appeal.

Now, if I could just make myself look forward to another work week.

Okay, Maybe Some Holds Barred

2011-01-07T18:51:00.005-05:00

It might be a stomach bug. If so, let's hope it's the 24-hour kind. But the physical evidence suggests that the weird black capsules o'herbs from WholeFoods have caused a reaction, the violent kind. Somewhere around the middle of the night I started to feel nasty and by first thing this morning, I couldn't keep a sip of water down. Is it a bad sign when your poop looks like a 4-month-old baby's poop? Yeah, I figured. Oh, whoops, totally forgot to warn you -- TMI! Heh. When the puking started this morning, I began to suspect the weird black capsules because it seemed to this detective (I fancy myself to be Quincy but sexier -- much sexier, or maybe Dr. House but less cantankerous -- slightly less) that the weird black capsules' content had pooled in my unsuspecting gut all day yesterday until critical mass was reached, at which point it decided (I'm pretty sure it's some type of organism that makes decisions) to launch itself from every available orifice with minimal warning and maximum velocity. Maybe it's the black oil that infected Scully (NERD ALERT!). Oh gawd. It was nice knowing all of you...*weep*

I've subsisted today on Gatorade and my first meal now, a bowl of soup, and had to cancel all work meetings lest I have to excuse myself to go on mute and evacuate my stomach. That might be disrespectful to the caller, no? I'm feeling a little better but am rocking a 100-degree fever that won't break. I'm pretty sure it's not from the mastitis, which is already improving on day 2 of antibiotics, and not from the antibiotics either since I've been taking them all day and that hasn't stirred the internal pot further, so to speak. The worst part of all of this? Poor KB had to unexpectedly single parent today, drop off and pick up Jackson from daycare, and now is entertaining him until bedtime. Since we're not sure this isn't an infection, I'm keeping my distance from Jackson until my fever is gone. Sad mommy. I also didn't pump much today, since I was in bed trying to sleep in between barf sessions. And what I have pumped, KB is feeding the baby tonight (unless I miraculously recover by the middle of the night feeding time). Super sad mommy.

The moral of this story is...aw, fuck it. There's no moral. I can't take the weird black capsules or the fancy tea (same ingredients) to try and boost milk supply -- or I'm assuming so, since this isn't an experiment I'm willing to conduct to see whether it's just been a stomach bug or the weird black capsules are to blame. I had nothing but time today to think about the formula supplementing thing, and I have to accept that it's probably necessary. Hopefully it will be temporary and I can eventually get my supply up. We'll see. Either way, lesson learned. You can't control everything.

Survey Says....

2011-01-06T20:37:00.001-05:00

On Food: I sent four 6-oz bottles to daycare today instead of the usual, four 5-oz bottles, since getting the call at 2PM yesterday that he had already gobbled up his fourth bottle. Yikes. I apparently have a hybrid baby: part cute human, part hungry hungry hippo. So how did the extra 4 ounces go over? Hardly, that's how. He added a grand total of 1 ounce to his daily intake today. That's it. And he spread his feedings out quite a bit more. Curiouser and curiouser. But also reassuring, that I don't need to suddenly and dramatically increase his milk supply. Tomorrow I'm sending three 8-ounce bottles for him to nosh on as he wishes, and see what comes home for an evening snack*. I suspect this is either the beginning of or the precursor to another possible growth spurt (4-month growth spurts aren't necessarily standard, but still fairly common). I'm hopeful that my no-holds-barred approach to boost milk volume and ongoing efforts to pump at every available opportunity will get me through the next week, since it can take that long to see an adjustment. Fingers, toes, and nipples crossed.

On Sleep: Jackson is a champion napper, apparently. The ladies who teach in his room at daycare (or "school") remarked several times this week that he's the best sleeper in the class, and goes right out when you put him in his crib. Holla! Today he even took three 1-hour naps in the morning, midday, and afternoon, and two of the three were in his crib. My boy, the head of the class. He's also the youngest kid in the class, so he's really kicking their infant asses by a mile in the nap department. Go Jackson! As for nighttime sleeping, he's holding his own but has been getting fussy a little earlier lately, so we moved his bedtime up to 7:30PM. He's still sleeping until around 1:30 or 2AM, when he wakes for a feeding, but the last couple of nights has started fussing at 11:30PM or so and had to be shushed back to sleep. KB gets a gold star for being the one to wake up and do the shushing (we learned a while ago that if I go in there, I'm not getting out without giving him the boob -- he just knows). Last night the suspected culprit was a swaddle FAIL -- when I peeked in on him before I went to bed, one entire arm was free and I knew this spelled trouble. He startles himself awake without the swaddle, and now we know for sure it will be a while before we take it out of the bedtime routine. I'd like to give him a free arm or two, but not just yet. Hopefully his much more secure swaddle tonight will keep him asleep longer. Sleep training is not a destination, y'all, it's a journey.

On Bouncing: Jackson weighs 13.6 lbs now, and is about 24 inches long, but can't quite touch the floor in his bouncer. It's more of a dangler. I stuck some pillows under his feet and helped him bounce and he luuuuurved it. He discovered he can gum the rim of the seat, which is made of fabric, and happily slurped on it while getting hypnotized by the lights and monkey sounds.

On Being Royalty: bumbo** throne! Highchair***! Lord of the Dog!

*Yep, I save unused breast milk from bottles he's already sucked on. After much internetting, I have decided it's fine to toss it back in the fridge until the next feeding. Another reason breast milk kicks formula's ass in my book: it doesn't spoil as readily.

**Yep, his bumbo is on the countertop of the butler pantry. Waaaay up high, where it's not supposed to be. But I stand in front of him, ready to scoop him up, the whole time. I keep his playmat on the countertop, too, so I can look at him at eye level more easily. But I do always buckle him into his swing, so, you know...safety first!

***Yep, that's one of those "outfits with pants" I've raged about...but now that he's in daycare, I can dress him in whatever I want to maximize cuteness and it's THEIR problem to track down the socks he kicks off (or just leave him barefoot, as he was when I picked him up today) and to tear through the layers to change his diaper (or just change him into a sleeper, as they did yesterday).

The "F" Word

2011-01-06T15:27:00.006-05:00

Jackson has been drinking 25 ounces of expressed milk per day (in four bottles at daycare plus one bedtime bottle) and otherwise nursing once in the morning, once in the late afternoon, and at least once during the night. I am expressing only 18-20 ounces per day, and that's with pumping four times per day for looooong periods of time. And I currently have mastitis leaving my left tit feeling like it was on the losing end of a fight with only rope-a-dope moves. Oh, and the daycare called yesterday to tell me that he had finished his fourth 5-oz bottle by 2PM, so I should either send more bottles or more milk in each bottle from now on. So today, I sent four 6-oz bottles. I'll find out in an hour or so how that worked out, but this could raise our daily total to 30 ounces per day.

Now I'm no mathematician, but...25 to 30 minus 18 to 20, carry the 1....anyway, I would seem to be a few ounces short of an adequate supply here. The mastitis sure as hell isn't helping matters in general, but I don't think it's directly impacting the problem one way or the other. I'm dipping into my frozen stash, which I expected to do this week, but I also figured I'd be able to restock it somehow once I started pumping all the livelong day. Not so much. Fuck.

But that's not the "f" word I'm alluding to: formula. Accompanied by the "s" word: supplementing. I really don't want to do it. With all apologies to my bloggy friends who feed formula by choice or otherwise, I just don't want to go there. A) I produce perfectly good breast milk and am willing to nurse and pump, so I want to extend the benefits of this to Jackson as much and as long as possible. B) I can't shake the feeling that formula is "fake" food, and worry (probably excessively) about the potential digestive and other consequent issues we might face having to try different formulas in a painful trial-and-error fashion. C) I'm stubborn and arrogant and am determined to make this pumping and nursing thing work on my terms, because -- just because, goddammit. I started out wanting to make it to 6 months, and when nursing got easier I decided I could stick it out to 1 year. Now it feels like I'll be lucky to surpass 4 months. I'm feeling like another "f" word" failure. Fuckity fuck.

So I'm all in on the homeopathic, wives tale-inspired, and working mom-relayed remedies. Trying to drink more water than is humanly possible. Eating oatmeal every day. Switching to larger flanges for the pump apparatus and pumping every 2-3 hours during the day and 1-2 times at night, low and slow for 45 minutes (just like good barbecue). Taking some crap from WholeFoods that comes in a capsule and is black and smelly and tastes weird. Drinking some expensive special "mother's milk" tea. I will keep trying whatever I can to boost supply while I burn through the frozen goods, and then supplement if I have to when no options are left. At the rate I'm going, this may happen some time next week. Fuuuuck.

Just one more thing to make returning to work more awesome than I thought was possible, y'all. All I can do is, chin up, keep trying. Onward, ho!

Daycare: Day Two

2011-01-04T11:51:00.023-05:00

We survived yesterday. Okay, what I mean is, I survived yesterday. Jackson, it seems, could care less. He had a great morning, got some quality booby time, got his fancypants changed (and by that I mean, his diaper and a fresh pair of footie pajamas), cooed happily on my bed while I put on some "in front of other people" clothes, and gurgled all the way to the school. He was grinning like a dummy when I left him there, while I was holding back tears until I was locked in my car. I did not want to drive away. But I did. I ran some errands before coming back home to start my first official day of work. I needed distraction. Walking past the baby aisles at le Target was not what I had in mind. More tears. More woe. I channeled all that misery into effort, mostly mindless and menial tasks. And now my office is the Cleanest Place on Earth.

And now for a whole lotta TMI. If you're a boob-man kind of girl, read on. If not, skip this post brought to you by the letters OW.

I had my first experience with pumping all day yesterday. Um. How did I not realize that the breast shield flanges might be too small? How did this escape my attention, even with only 1-2 pumping sessions a day until recently? Because OW GODDAMMIT. Nipple trauma, y'all, it's no joke. I ordered two larger sizes to try, and await my amazonian delivery with bated breath. And sore nips.

I also didn't pump nearly the volume I'd hoped for all my effort, which worries me. I have a meager stash in the freezer (started with 100 ounces and using some every day this week....) and need to at least make enough for the next day, if not enough to freeze some extra. Not happening right now. I'm pumping every 2-2.5 hours regardless of how much I get to try and get my supply up, so I need to stick with this plan for a couple more days to see if it worked. If not, I dunno. I don't want to use formula and worry about potential digestive issues. And I just don't want to, anyway, for general reasons. I should be able to do this, dammit. Of course, one unpleasant side effect of my increase in pumping lately, if the two are related, is that since I started pumping 2-3 times or more per day, nursing has become painful, mostly on one side. I may have caused a harder let-down reflex to occur, in turn causing the Milk Monster to nom-nom my nipple to clamp down on the flow. Yikes. Think about it. Just, yikes. I had a clogged duct that was on its way to mastitis a couple of weeks ago (Merry Christmas! Love, your dickhead ducts xoxo) and had to pump and nurse like mad to get rid of a milk blister and then empty the duct(s). Since then, ol' lefty has not been the same. I can empty after nursing or pumping, but the nipple still feels terrible. So you can imagine how good Jackson's nom-noms feel on said booby. Gah. Until my shiny new super-sized flanges arrive later this week (I could not justify spending twice the amount the things cost for expedited shipping, although maybe this would have been a great time for an exception), I am trying to turn down the suction and just pump longer. I got the same volume this morning doing it that way as before when was I cranking up the motor to move things along.

My nipples, they weep. Woe is them.

And, side note: the pumping volume thing makes me curious. If pumping all day is representative of how much milk the little guy is getting each time I nurse (as I'm pumping more or less on his usual nursing schedule, getting anywhere from 2-5 ounces total each time), and yet he is taking full 5-oz bottles on the same schedule, what gives? Was he starving before and too polite to say anything? Or is he being a little piggy with the bottles? Huh?

And as for how I'm feeling today about the whole letting-someone-else-care-for-my-son situation? Still tears this morning. But I feel better about it overall. He was happy and playful when I picked him up yesterday. He nursed and napped in my arms while I rocked him and told him I love him. Then KB came home, we played with him, and forced a little Torture Time, er, Tummy Time, on him until it was time for bed. He slept pretty well last night and woke up happy again. So I guess it's successful so far. I'm hoping each day will bring more confidence and less sadness when I drop him off.

But for now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to more mind-numbing work-related drivel and also (and more importantly) counting down the hours until I pick up my little monkey.

...And They Lived Happily Ever After

2010-12-31T20:14:00.006-05:00

Well, I guess it's not that simple. But 2010 was a big year for the B household, and I'm looking forward to a pretty sweet 2011. I just printed my work calendar for next year and circled all the company holidays, planned vacations, and Jackson's birthday. Let's rumble.

What New Year's Eve post would be complete without resolutions?

Live -- really live -- in the moment. As in, not think ahead two steps and plan for the worst case scenario all the time. I owe it to Jackson, KB, and not least of all myself to enjoy the company and love of/for my husband and watching my son grow up each and every day, and to just be.
Get back into fighting shape. This will involve a personal trainer, some sweat, a fair amount of excruciating pain, and a whole lot of ass-kicking. Eye of the tiger, bitches.
Stay positive at work. I wish I could conjure up some magical unicorn farts that, when huffed in a paper bag, would make me lurve my job or make me a more competent stay-at-home mom. Alas. I duz not haz unicorn. So, I am committed to making the most of work, trying hard to achieve job satisfaction by speaking up and being assertive about my work-life balance, and staving off the guilt of being at home, working, while my little boy is away, in daycare. At least he's in a kickass daycare. He gets to learn español.
Continue and permanently extend my lifetime boycott on Ed Hardy everything. Also, avoid Ralph Lauren because the new logo is supersized douche. And no Chico's. So much bedazzled leopard print, so little time.
Stop. playing. angry. birds. Addicted. Need help.

Happy New Year to everyone is Bloggyland, O Interweb Friends!

With Teeth

2010-12-29T21:19:00.011-05:00

I suspect that Jackson has begun teething at 3.5 months of age. Yay. I mean, yay! I'm trying to be excited about this milestone except that I have read (thank you, O! Interwebs!) that teething can last for months before the tooth actually cuts through. Oh dearsweetbabyjesusno. I'm just not sure if he is, but I present to you, Great Citizens of Blogland, the evidence, Your Honors:

Exhibit A: buckets o'drool. We call him Droolio (or Droolie Andrews or Droolia Droolie Dreyfuss) because in the past several weeks, he has produced enough drool to to generate hydropower. This, of course, leads to lots of chin-wiping which leads to irritated and dry skin which leads to lotioning which leads to anger which leads to hate which leads to suffering. And then he becomes Darth Vader, the end.
Exhibit B: biting. Mainly his own mighty FIST! and fingers. (Side note: up until last week he only believed he had one FIST! but he now recognizes the existence of two FISTS! and brings them together, or punches one with the other, marveling at their feats of strength. Just in time for Festivus.) He bites and sucks and noshes his hands not only when he's hungry, but in between feedings. This effectively spreads the aforementioned drool everywhere. Often focused with laser-like intensity on my sleeves and shoulder.
Exhibit C: the return of nighttime fussiness. We thought the end of The Colic by 3 months meant easy-going nights ahead...and there were several. Now we have seen the resurgence of pre-bedtime fussiness that, according to the worldwide Series of Tubes, may be due to increased awareness of gum pain when the distractions of the day are over. Or, maybe he's just being an asshole. Could be a little of Column A and a little of Column B.
Exhibit D: agitation when eating. One thing this boy has never concerned himself with is being finicky about getting some food into his milkhole. Once our nursing struggles were more or less over after the first few weeks, it was pretty smooth sailing all the way (as long as we don't count my periodic re-engorgement when he goes through a growth spurt and coincident feeding frenzy, sore nipples, a recent bout of mastitis accompanied or perhaps caused by a milk blister, and total empathy for cooped up dairy cattle every time I pump). We've even had great success with the bottle since around 1 month (he would sometimes fight it at first, and we sorted out that I needed to be out of the room so that the feedbags weren't within his sphere of want, 'cause boobie>bottle). Once or twice in the past week, he has gotten upset while taking a bottle and tried to stick a fist (excuse me, FIST!) in his mouth instead of the bottle (despite being hungry), and has even been a little fussy while nursing a couple of times (my aching nipples -- hey, what a great name for a band -- My Aching Nipples suggest he's nom-noming on me while nursing.) Again, the sage internets say this could all be due to gum soreness.

My question to you, Blogmistresses and mamas, is when and how did your kiddos start teething? As in, what signs did you notice and when, how long did it last, and how did you cope with the agony of it all? I'm not looking for stories about outer fringe limits of normal, as in, "my cousin's friend's daughter's babysitter's niece was born with a full set of teeth" or, "I saw this article on the interwebs about a kid who grew, like, four sets of teeth like a shark." I'm pretty sure my son, despite being created by evil mad scientists in a petrie dish, is all human, so only within-normal-range stories about human babies, please. Because, and I hope I'm not being insulting here, those tales of dramaz are not helpful and only believable/applicable to inbred hill people. Who have no teeth, anyway.

P.S. I should add that for the past 1.5 weeks, the little man and I have been battling a head cold, so it's entirely possible that the bulk of these symptoms are attributable to that. But, the drooling and FIST! noming started several weeks ago, before any cold symptoms had appeared. Methinks they are independent.

Dear Abby

2010-12-28T14:29:00.024-05:00

Oh, the things I wish I'd known. Well, wonder no more...

Sleep: white noise, man. We leave it on all night (not on a timer) so if he wakes he can put himself back to sleep (babies need consistent conditions to do this). Music might work, too, but the musical stylings of Fisher Price through the monitor all night might get old. We try to put Jackson down for bedtime and naps while he's still a little awake so he gets used to putting himself to sleep. So far, it's been successful. Also, we chose a bedtime we liked (early enough to have adult time) but that coincides with his sleepy/hungry patterns. We picked 8PM and usually get him in the bedtime routine between 7-8PM without any shenanigans. We had 2-3 hour wakings like clockwork until recently, when we worked very hard to "sleep train" him to skip a nighttime feeding. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't a cry-it-out experience (that I am leery of) and he picked it up quickly. So, the first stretch is 5-8 hours (variable) and then he usually sleeps 2-3 hour stretches until morning. Not bad. I'm still getting up at least once, and sometimes as many as 4 times, each night, but he's not hard to put back down after feeding and changing. Yay for that.
Food: you won't scar your child for life if you refuse to wait until he's, like, 10 years old to introduce a bottle. We had to supplement with formula his first week to treat jaundice and weight loss, and he's had no problems with nipple confusion. He seems to correctly identify mine as the ones attached to me, every time! If you pump and bottle feed once or twice a day, you also get a much-needed break. We include a bottle from Daddy in our bedtime routine, which was a good starter for transitioning to more bottles (as full-time daycare looms).
Bathing: I love, love, love the Puj tub. It has no bells or whistles, but fits perfectly in the kitchen sink and hangs flat to dry. We don't bathe more often than once per week, since it's bone dry in the winter here in Michigan and the little man has delicate skin. If you have to deal with dry skin or rashes, I have seen miracles performed before my very eyes by using calendula cream (sold under the brand name California Baby) -- the heat rash rearranged to form the image of the blessed Virgin Mary on his chest. It cleared up his infant acne, dry patches on elbows and in creases, and any signs of heat rash from sweating. Miracle cream. Amen.
Medicine: no matter what benign medical terms you enter into the search field, Dr. Google will return the following results -- "your behbeh is on fire and dying and ohmahgawd go to the ER." It's hard coming away from years of infertility searches on The Google (which always returned the result -- "your uterus is a feral cave of doom and on fire and ohmahgawd you are barren") and going cold turkey with the pediatric concerns. But seriously, just call your pediatrician instead or find a single, solitary trusted site to consult for minor stuff. I searched for info on infant colds (because my little man and me, we haz it) and started to wonder if we should both be put in an iron lung to treat our raging consumption. Turns out, only time and Kleenex will heal.
Clothing: people love to gift "outfits," and you'll be tempted to buy some yourself, but there's no practical reason to dress the baby in anything besides footie onesies for at least the first 7 years of life. I plan to send Jackson off to college with them. Pants and socks are stupid, and baby sweatshirts and sweaters (with all those tiny stupid buttons) are crazy. Zip-up footie pajamas (also called sleep-and-plays) are handy for frequent diaper changes, but I actually prefer snap-ups for nighttime. If you swaddle, I have found that the velcro cheater-swaddles, as we call them (from Kidopotamus), allow for diaper changes without unraveling most of the swaddle -- just slip his feet out of the middle "pocket" to unsnap/change/re-snap, and leave his arms velcroed together like an asylum patient. A groggy, freshly diapered asylum patient. I don't know if that description adequately distinguishes a baby from an actual asylum patient.
Diapering: this may fall into the "Pure Coincidence" bucket, but I use sensitive skin versions of everything for laundering, lotioning, and diapering and we have not had any episodes of diaper rash to date. I also use diaper ointment (Aquaphor, Desitin, etc.; nothing special) with every dirty diaper change. Oh, and as your sweet sugar-scented baby gets older, his poops will become more ripe and foul, so consider abandoning all hope of using the diaper pail for those diapers and instead remove them from the living spaces of your home tout de suite. We take the shitbombs to the garbage in the garage and use the diaper pail for wet diapers only. (The poop rate seems to slow down as the digestive tract and the baby it lives in matures, so you won't necessarily be making a dozen daily pilgrimages to the garage.)
Assvice: notwithstanding my own here, I just hum a little tune in my head as relatives, neighbors, random strangers, and grocery store clerks tell me how to raise my behbeh. Yankee Doodle Dandy is a fine song.

Naturally, I am speaking from personal experience only with a three-month-old, so as for what comes after this, shit, search me. Also, I will concede that I have a relatively (not always, but usually) easy baby and so -- despite the standard issue struggles with breastfeeding, napping, nighttime feedings, and now our first cold -- well, my greatest assvice is to experiment and do whatever seems to work. That's what I credit for our good fortune with Jackson thus far. Also, if you try any of this and your baby is still an asshole, it's because my baby is just that much more super awesome. Heh.

Santa Baby

2010-12-22T14:55:00.001-05:00

To Have My Cake and Eat it, Too

2010-12-22T12:11:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I've said repeatedly that I don't think I would survive as a stay-at-home mom. But I didn't think sending my little boy off to daycare would be so hard, either. Shit, shit, shit.

We're transitioning him in this week, adding a few more hours each day. This morning was supposed to be a trial run of the "usual" morning drop-off time, with me picking him up around 1PM (so, a half-day). Well, he decided to sleep for 8 consecutive hours last night (!) after his 8PM bedtime, which I refuse to complain about (because, awesome) but it threw off his early morning schedule a little and then I slept in too late...and we didn't get to daycare until almost 9AM. My target had been 7:45AM. Hahahahahahaha. Hahaha. Ha. How dopey am I for thinking I could pull it off? So after feeding and cleaning and changing and spewing and cleaning again and getting in the car, we made it with him in a great mood (which makes me feel tremendously better, dropping him off and seeing him happy and playful). And by the time I got home, I just wanted to cry. My house is quiet. Still. Sure, I can do leisurely things like the laundry without rushing to feed a waking baby. Right, I have the glorious luxury of going to the bathroom whenever I want (wheee!!!! look at me, having a carefree pee!). Yeah, I can spend a little more quality time with the poor neglected dog. But I miss my baby. I don't want to drop him off with someone else all day, regardless of what I can get done when he's gone. I don't want to go back to work. I don't want to be a full-time stay-at-home mom. I want to live in a universe where this is reconciled nicely.

If I insisted, we could be a one-income family. I am not insisting. I (mostly) like having a job and the second income, and we couldn't economically justify (or afford) the expense of daycare or a nanny if I'm not working. And if work is beastly and doesn't get better within a few months of my return (and when you work for a shitty manager, who knows?), I can leave and freelance instead of or until finding another job, if I feel compelled. I am watching and waiting to see how this shapes up. I just wish I was returning to a job I loved and missed terribly, so that leaving my son in the care of others every weekday felt like a necessity worth having, but...I dunno. It does get tiring to care for him all day, every day, with only a few hours of reprieve while KB puts him to bed and he sleeps until his nighttime feedings begin, but when he's not with me I just miss him. Does. not. compute.

I am going to have to Ferberize myself.

Odds and Ends

2010-12-19T15:48:00.027-05:00

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time: We hosted the annual family Christmas party again this year. It was kind of a lot of work, to drag extra tables and chairs and decorations and food from the basement or wherever to accommodate around 30 people (with a baby in tow), but we did it. I even made time to make these:

That's right. Gourmet cupcakes (homemade! fondant!) and cake pops (thank you, bakerella). I mean -- cake pops, bitches. My sister made the fondant and decorated my cupcakes, and I made the cake pops and decorated with her help. I had to make them in stages, step by step, around Jackson's schedule. Step 1: bake cupcakes (in between 8AM feeding and pumping). Step 2: make cake balls and stash in fridge (during swing nap). Step 3: coat cake balls in white or chocolate candy and let dry (pausing to shush awake, crying baby after every 2-3 cake pops are coated). Step 4: add decorations to cake pops (this part takes an eternity, so my sister and I alternated between decorating and entertaining the boy who was wide awake at this point and uninterested in taking any sort of nap). Step 5: EAT. Nom. They're pretty tasty and not that hard once you get the hang of it. I can't wait for the next excuse to make them -- I have plans that'll BLOW YOUR MINDS. You'll see.

The party was a hit, although one branch of the family tree has total monsters for children who are hard to manage (they LOOK sweet but they are hideous inside). They're mean, don't share, have never been told "no" in their tender young lives (7 and 4 years old, girl and boy) and are utterly impossible to leave unattended for 10 seconds lest your house get burnt to the ground. Except their parents totally leave them unattended at all times. I had to pull the 4-year-old out of our baby swing, off of the baby playmat, etc., etc. repeatedly (like, many, many times) because I would tell him so very nicely -- in my twee mommy voice -- to please not play with those things because they are for a tiny baby and he is such a big boy, and he would just stare at me with dead eyes and keep working with all his might to break whatever was in his cold, destructive little fists. Just, dude. It's not just a "kid thing" because the other kids at the party, whose parents apparently do believe in boundaries and respect for others, were pretty well-behaved and when told "no" would stop what they were doing without question and find something more productive to do. So, yeah, next year we have to process-improve and a) remove all things we don't want touched by little Damien out of the main floor of the house and completely out of sight and b) designate an attentive, responsible parent (so, not one of theirs) to be the Kid Wrangler and keep them busy with appropriate activities. I mean, the rest of the kids sat in the living room and colored on the coffee table (even Beelzebub's sister sat with the other kids and colored, although she was nasty to the other kids and generally annoyed the snot out of everyone). Our house will be kid-proofed by next Christmas because Jackson will be over a year old (!) and crawling or walking, so that may help minimize temptation. I can't make Thing One and Thing Two into better children just because they're in my house, and I doubt they'll improve with age. *le sigh* I guess it's useful for me to observe little Voldemort's behavior so I build up my arsenal of what-not-to-dos. Oh, and there was also an endless parade of assvice from the elders (we're spoooiiiillling him by holding him so much!) but generally everyone was in love with our little monkey and just wanted to hold him themselves. He slept through most of the party, pausing only for his usual 2PM and 5PM feedings and a couple of britches changes. I did have to change his cute party sweater in favor of footie pajamas after he failed the smell test from a bout of milk-spew. Or, he's just a diva and needs wardrobe changes during his special events. (For this appearance, he got paid in boob juice. But you should have seen his rider.)

Back-to-Work Blues: I start work in 2 weeks. We start the daycare transition this week. *sob* My boss apparently told one of my coworkers, "I can't wait until Jen is back from maternity leave, so I can load her up with tons of projects!" Fuck. I carried more projects than my colleagues when I was pregnant and sick as a dog, and I constantly requested and was denied appropriate support. Not because my employer, as an institution, is inattentive to its employees; just my manager. In fact, everyone uniformly dislikes him and thinks he's a total douchenozzle, except (inexplicably) his own boss. Part of the problem is that he has a team of talented writers who cover for his terrible management (or lack thereof), so senior management only sees the work getting done with him taking all the credit. But performance review time is upon us, so I hope that either he gets his ass handed to him for being a total twatwaffle (thank you, 360 reviews) and/or I get transferred to another team. Because, oh yeah, I got reassigned to a different type of work than I was hired to do without my consent while on leave, and the new designation forces me to take regulatory writing projects that are chaotic, urgent, scope-shifting, and generally a pain in my asshole. Uh, not cool. I wrote my manager an email reminding him of my return to work and spelling out my reasons for rejecting this new designation and the shitball assignments that come with it. No response. No surprise. The slippery slope started happening last March, when I was put on his team and agreed to pick up a few random projects, and I fought it unsuccessfully during pregnancy (I didn't want to rock the boat when I was about to be out on an extended leave)...but I'm baaaa-aaaack and I'm kicking ass and taking names. I like this job, but I am not so in lurve with it that I will do literally anything to keep it. And this problem can pretty much all be chalked up to a totally out-to-lunch manager. My best bet is to get transferred to another team where I can go back to writing manuscripts for a living, which is what I signed up to do.

I'm just in the midst of a priority shift that feels right to me -- I want and need to work, but I'm not okay with work taking over my life and at any point being more important to me than my son. I don't want to be the mom who's always running late to get him from daycare, or who can't go on the fieldtrip with his class because I have a deadline, etc. I grew up as a latchkey kid with no parental guidance (under totally different circumstances, but still...) and I want for Jackson to know that he comes first, always. So, I'm being as deliberate as I can, asserting myself at work so they know that if they value me, they need to meet me halfway. I want the original job back that I interviewed for and accepted, not this hot mess they're asking me to do now. I want to flex my schedule to get work done by Thursday evening or Friday morning, so I can pick my son up early (or keep him home) on Fridays and have special time with him. (I maintained this schedule for the past year and a half, as do a lot of folks who work from home, but it depends upon me getting assigned a reasonable amount of work -- that's in question right now with my current manager). I want to determine the right set-point for work-life balance and have that honored. Or else. Just because I am capable of working like a slave doesn't mean I am willing. I have made the mistake in the past (well, it made sense at the time), agreeing to pick up extra projects -- particularly difficult projects and urgent projects -- but I am not *that* girl anymore.

Holla Back!: Some birth announcements happening our there in blogland...so happy for you girls! Nothing better than new babies.

Random, Gratuitous Cuteness: My monkey!