She Likes Purple

Kyle Monday

Well, my kid has figured out how to get from point A to point B without our assistance, shoot me now, but he's not exactly winning any Crawler of the Year awards either. I did manage to take this highly-annoying video (because of the commentary) of Kyle scooching across the floor over the weekend, to share with you. So, baby-proofing. Added to the to-do list!



Additionally, I took THIS video over the weekend, where I show off my $1 form of entertainment. Grab the nearest burp cloth and play Where's The Baby? Kyle loves this game and could play it for hours, and the only thing he loves more than draping a cloth over his own head is seeing you drape a cloth over yours. Oh, that just kills him! But, it's slightly harder to video.



When we're home, Kyle's usually not dressed. We live in Texas and until November, it's hot. Also, it limits the amount of laundry I have to do. Not that you need clarification on why my child is usually clad in nothing but a diaper, but there you have it. But to prove he does sometimes wear (stylish!) clothes, here's a shot of him in a newsboy hat I recently picked up.



I leave in three weeks for my California Adventure that will end with some much-needed girl time in Sacramento. A month after that, Mike and I are taking a weekend trip to Vegas. In November, I'm in NYC for work and I've just planned a trip back to school for a sorority reunion in October. That's a lot of weekends to be away from this kid, and I know it's not very cool of me to get all lump-in-my-throat anxious about leaving him -- especially since I'm a big ole advocate for getting time to yourself and away from your kids in order to be the best mother you can be -- but, damn, he's an awfully cute thing to leave at home, you know? Even if I'm just leaving him with his dad and not a pack of wolves. Although, I will say, his dad doesn't play the Where's The Baby? game nearly as well as I do. 

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Closing comments on this post later this week; winner to be picked through a very legitimate picking process (random number generator!) and announced this Friday. But, let me say, you all have very good taste in men (and women)! Especially Kerri, who loves Casey Affleck as much as I do, it seems, and Pickles & Dimes earns extra points for picking Mike Rowe, who's a big favorite in our Discovery-channel-loving house!

Fixing my stupid karma

I was pretty convinced I had swine flu yesterday, and I strongly chastised myself for not writing up a will sooner, since I was obviously dying and have both a child and many pairs of shoes to think about.

Turns out, I have a sinus infection.

And a deep addiction to Dr. Google.

In addition to my entire family falling under the weather this week -- including my six-month-old son who totally deals with being sick and snotty and coughy far better than his stupid parents -- I got halfway to work this morning when Mike called to tell me the Jeep wouldn't start. And he couldn't find our jumper cables. Nothing like turning around mid-commute and zipping over to Auto-Zone at 8 a.m. to really start your day off right. On my way to work the second time, Mike called and said he got three tickets on his way to work. I laughed and told him we both needed a mulligan on this day. This week, maybe?

Additionally, our sparkling new LG dishwasher stopped cleaning our dishes, which is one of those pesky little things I require of my dishwasher. I'm hoping Bosch sends us a free one.

(I'm kidding.)

(Unless you're reading this Bosch. Kisses!)

Apparently my karma is a bit out of whack and I need to get it right before the dog starts throwing up or the stove explodes.

Here's my plan: give something away to one of you. How about a $20 Amazon gift card?

I like doing this every now and then anyway. It reminds me there are people actually reading this, and it lets me know who you are. It also lets me make someone a little happier, even if it's just with a silly little low-value gift card. Perhaps it'll also improve my karma and that'd be great as I like my car to start and my dishwasher to wash dishes. 

I'll make this that much easier for you: who's on the top of your Freebie List? Or, hey, who is on the list at all?

I always like to know who people find attractive and why. I promise not to judge! Unless it's someone really weird.

For what it's worth, Eric Bana tops mine.

Who will it be?

I've known her all my life. In fact, she knew my story before it had even begun in a way all life stories start well before someone's birthday. I grew up thousands of miles away from all my grandparents, so I adopted family friends as surrogates. These men and women came to everything important of mine -- birthdays, graduations, going-away parties, and most of them were at my wedding. Including Carol.

She is such a strong, happy woman, and she has a thirst for adventure, which I've always admired so much. My childhood memories are saturated with her, and when I'd come back to California from Texas -- three times a year to visit my dad -- I'd always see her. She'd take us to dinner or have us over, and we'd sit and talk for hours, in her San Francisco flat, settled so close to the park.

It's funny what you remember from when you were a kid. I remember her art work and her steep stairs and the pictures on her fridge and her glass cabinets and her old, sweet dog. When I was visiting her last summer, I climbed those steep stairs and smiled. 

She came to my wedding, and we had a nice dinner together a couple days before the big day. It was just family, close friends, small, nice. When the bill came, things got hectic, and Mike and I -- to make things easiest and get us out the door without problem -- paid for more than our share. We paid for such a big chunk of the bill, it ate up a lot of the money we had budgeted for the trip. Carol heard us whispering about it in the parking lot. "We need to tighten up, so we'll have enough to last us the week." The next day, at our rehearsal dinner, she pulled me aside and stuffed some money into my hands. "You shouldn't worry about anything this weekend, especially cash. Take this. Enjoy yourselves." She meant it. She never mentioned it again.

When I visited her last year, a day after BlogHer '08 wrapped up, I brought along a blogging friend, someone I'd never met before that weekend and someone who needed a place to stay too. Carol didn't find it odd or strange. She welcomed her with open arms and took us to a funky little place for dinner. After that we sat in her front room, talking for hours, about baby names and my dad's infidelity and brothers and sisters and life.

She told me again, as she always does, that if I ever needed anything, ever, ever, ever, I just had to let her know.

She's forgiving in the way actual family never is. If a year slips by without calling, she eagerly answers the first after-the-silence email. She always compliments, always gives, without feeling used or taken advantage of because it's all so genuine, it's all so pure. These kinds of life-long, deeply-devoted friends always see us the way we hope the whole world sees us. 

I brought Natalie, my best friend, to California nearly six years ago, and Carol took us out for fancy burgers in Haight-Ashbury. Now, whenever I talk with her, she asks how Natalie is.

I'm taking Kyle to California for Thanksgiving. It's overflowing with people I want him to meet and I don't know if they'll get a chance to see him as a baby otherwise. He's changing so much, and I want people to have memories of my son in his first year. I've already booked a date with Carol. She's usually my first email, after family, when it comes to visiting. She offered to pick us from the airport. "Do you need a place to stay?" "No, no. I'll have to get a car because of Ky's car seat. We'll stay with Dad, but thank you." "Let me know if things change. Let me know if you need anything."

She went on, "I see on Facebook that you handle motherhood with such humor. That's the key. You're doing great." She tells me this from afar, from thousands of miles away, from opposite corners of the country, but she means it. She means everything she says to me.

Carol has a smart, charming, kind son, who's in his senior year of college. He's her only son, her only child, and she built such a beautiful life for them that he's turned into this wonderful young man. He was also at my wedding, and I've known him all his life, too.

I wonder all the time, every day, who will be Kyle's Carol. What friend of mine will become his stand-in family, the person he calls for dinner when he needs a familiar face and doesn't want to feel guilty for all the Christmas cards he never sends. What person in my life will become invaluable in his? Who will always see him the way I hope the world sees him? Who will watch him grow and then offer to pick him up from the airport when he travels? Who will tell him he's talented and doing great, even if he might not be, even if he might be tripping his way through his first year of fatherhood? Who will love him always and evermore, not because they have to or because they share last names and DNA but because they simply feel their life is better for loving him, knowing him?

I wonder who it will be.

Around our house

We've officially been living in our new home for over a month now, but you'd think we just moved in yesterday. Or maybe this morning. Moving was such a slow process and unpacking has proven even slower. After I put Kyle to bed each night, there are very few things that can lure me off the couch and unpacking the "Important Documents" box sure isn't one of them. So, we did what any certifiably insane couple would do in our positions: we planned our housewarming party for two weeks from yesterday! We thought it would be the perfect motivation to finally get us off our asses. Looking back, it seems it was the perfect motivation to finally push us over the edge.

With this decision, though, I hope to slowly take more and more pictures of the new house to share with you. Like this one!

 

We call our decorating style: Lazy-ass Parents Who Have Better Things to Spend Their Money on Than Mops!

In reality, Mike was fixing some crazy too-short dishwasher cord thingamajig and I plopped Kyle next to him so I could take a shower. I gave Kyle one toy and apparently put it just out of his reach like the qualified, capable mother I pride myself on being. Molly was in the other room and I forced her off her blanket and into the kitchen for this family photo op. She wasn't thrilled.

The laundry is just a photo bonus! I think it adds a certain something to our kitchen, don't you?

If you are coming to our housewarming party, there will be alcohol provided so if the laundry is still there and the floor is still dirty, you'll have forgotten in no time!

The ins and outs of us

Last night Mike surprised me with an overnight date night, although the overnight part happened in our own house, so it was more of a surprise date night and then a surprise kid-free night at home. No matter what you call it, though, it was just what I needed and perfect and plenty of other schmoopy adjectives one would use to describe a romantic night out. There were fireworks, even. Literally, we watched the fireworks a nearby hotel shoots off over the lake every Friday night.

Admittedly, OUR night was much lovelier than Kyle's DAY because our night didn't involve six-month shots, a wicked cold/cough combo and teeth cutting through our gum's. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, wait, you left your poor, teething, sick kid while you laid on a blanket and watched fireworks? Of course we didn't! We also saw a movie and drank very large mugs of frosty beer. 

Kyle has been sleeping through the night ever since the very first night we moved into our new house in early July. Any time we'd brag or boast or just answer "yes!" to the the question "Is your kid sleeping through the night yet?", though, someone would inevitably warn, "Oh, just you wait. He'll start teething and wake up every hour." Which sucked to hear, sure, but also allowed me to get rather complacent in the Is He Teething? department. I disregarded the red splotchy cheeks and how he'd gnaw on everything he could get his poor little hands on because he'd still been sleeping through the night just fine. So, when his new pediatrician noticed the rivers of drool flowing down his chin yesterday during his six-month appointment, I said, "You know, we thought he was teething at three months when all he did was drool, so I doubt he's teething now." And, even though he came down with a cough/cold Friday morning, he wasn't registering a fever, and he was also perfectly happy and perfectly smiley and perfectly not fussy, so when the doctor thought she felt a little something when she ran her fingers across his gums, I came back with, "I've thought that same thing for months! I really doubt he's teething, though." Well, two hours later imagine my surprise to see a tooth cutting through his upper gums. 

God, I wish there were a market for parenting books that specialize in doing everything very, very poorly.

Mike had this surprise date arranged for a couple weeks, to make up for having to abandon our Greenday concert plans a couple weeks back after our fresh-from-the-ER trauma, so he didn't want to abandon our surprise date night plans for a very snotty, drooly, pathetic-looking baby who was otherwise acting just fine. I would not have believed you when I was rocking our screaming month-old monster to sleep every night if you had told me how happy Kyle would turn out to be, but he doesn't get that fussy these days unless he's overtired or bored, and even then he's always easy to distract or calm down or appease. So, my in-laws took on my snotty, drooly, pathetic-looking baby who ate just fine last night and slept just fine last night and who smiled his way through the visit -- in between coughs and sneezes -- so Mike and I could exhale for the first time in a couple weeks.

In other six-month-old news, Kyle weighed in at 15 lbs., 7 oz. yesterday, which placed him in the 25th percentile for weight -- where he's hung out for most of his short little life -- and 26 inches, which placed him in the 50th percentile for height and ... then there is his head. His head circumference is practically in the 90th percentile, which  I think gives him the opposite of what Jonna called Wee Head Syndrome. I think he has what I am now dubbing Giada Head Syndrome, which will only mean something to you if you watch the Food Network as obsessively as I do. Although I know this doesn't technically mean much -- as I've found is the case with many stats and milestones and developmental achievements in the first year -- I like thinking my child is destined for greatness with his very large brain or at the very least destined for some very fancy, very big hats.

I've already written Kyle's six-month letter, so I'm resisting the urge to Go There and get all sappy and Wah! My Baby!, but these last two weeks have been an emotional roller coaster for me with the ER visit and the head injury by ceiling fan and the new day care and the new pediatrician and the Epic Cold and Cough. It's just been a lot, and there have been more evenings I've needed to sit down and sip on a glass of wine than usual because, wow, this motherhood gig isn't just exhausting when it comes to actual sleeping, my god, it's exhausting ALL THE DAMN TIME.

This is the month I won't forget -- not anytime soon at least -- as it's the month that much has happened to send my blood pressure into the Danger Zone. I say to many people if I could have more babies who'd come out at six-months-old, I'd have ten. It's an exaggeration, but it's got some truth. Kyle is this beautiful, adorable, happy, fun boy, and there is practically nothing I don't plain adore about him. He's so incredible, in all the big, cheesy cliche ways and in all the special, unique ways that make him, well, my son. But it's still been quite the month and I could use some uneventful weeks ahead, let me tell you. Universe, BORING. GIVE ME BORING AND DULL, PLEASE.

For a long time, Kyle wouldn't really change expression when I'd walk in the room. I assumed that because he hasn't seen me all-day-every-day since he was very little, he has just adjusted to being away from me. He goes easily to other people, and I like that, so I have tried not to let his doesn't-seem-all-that-phased-by-me reaction really affect me. I remember picking him up from day care maybe a month or so ago and he practically yawned upon seeing me and another mom looked shocked. She said, "Did you cut your hair or something?" "No. Nothing's changed." She looked sad for me, and I tried to make a joke about him preferring his dad to make this woman feel less sorry for me, but I knew my kid loved me and I loved him, and I was fine. Really.

But.

Well.

This week I walked in to pick him from his new center and he lit up. He smiled from ear to ear and kicked his legs in his very futile attempt to get to me. I took him and he buried his face into my chest, hugging me to him.

I like that he goes to other people. I like that he doesn't need just me, all the time. I like that he feels slightly independent, even though I know that whoever he is today will be different by next week. I like that he's not glued to my side and I can pass him off to anyone if I really need to. But walking in the door to his day care -- frantic and stressed from the traffic jam and conference calls and bank account balances -- and seeing him thrilled to see me, just me, his mama, is more healing than all the therapy or deep breaths or early-morning work-outs.

That's the thing about parenthood, it frays your nerves and rips your heart out and catapults you to the edge of extremes, where you feel you can't possibly take one more minute of the worrying and the fretting and then it shoots you to the other side, where you feel happier and more at peace than you have ever felt before. With one smile. With one futile bout of leg kicking.

You feel lower and more terrified than you ever feared you'd feel.

And then they light your world on fire.

Security

For the past few weeks when Kyle finishes his bottle -- and then I take it away from him because his bottle is empty -- he freaks out. He cries and screams and reaches for it with the kind of sad eyes that will totally get him the car keys one day. At first I just assumed this was the one quality my son was going to get from me. So far he's his father's spitting image, in personality and looks, but if he loves food as much as I suspect he loves food, well then there you go. THERE'S MY DNA. But one time I just handed him back the empty bottle to sort of stick it to my six-month old. Look, child, IT'S EMPTY. IT WILL NO LONGER HIT THE SPOT. LET'S MOVE ON NOW. Except, well, he was instantly comforted. Sure, sometimes he tries to drink from the (still empty) bottle, but when nothing comes out he doesn't fall into hysterics all over again; he just turns it over and over in his hands and looks at it curiously. Then he pulls it close to his chest and just sort of ... holds it.

I kind of suspected something this adorable would happen around this age. You know, WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL or a BLANKET or something other than an empty bottle. 

This morning I got home from the gym* and Kyle was down after his morning meal. I crept in to give him a goodbye kiss before heading to work and there was his bottle snuggled in next to him. 

But, MY GOD, whatever works, you know?

 

Here he is asleep Sunday morning on our bed, but there's his bottle, beside him.

*You read that correctly. I got up this morning at 5:30 a.m. and WORKED OUT and no one PAID ME to do it. Would you like me to wait here while you scan the horizon for flying pigs? Go on, I don't mind. Felt good, I have to admit.

Seven Quick (Saturday) Takes

Hello, bandwagon! Mind if I jump on?

1. It didn't surprise me that every single one of you were downright incredible and supportive in the comments of this post. I think we collectively agreed that every woman should choose what is best for her particular family unless she thinks it's best to be a giant douchebag. In that case, she's wrong and we will all judge. Other than that, though, to each their own! As Jonna said, "you didn't make a different decision because you needed to be EDUCATED. You made your decision BECAUSE you are educated." (Amen.) Also, I should mention I'm very seldom met with actual eye-rolling, tongue-tsking judgment, and when I am it's usually by someone who is just kind of a bitch and would probably judge me regardless, especially about all that pre-marital sex I had back in the day.

2. Lately, I've been watching quite a few cooking shows in my attempts to save a buck and shrink my thighs. (I like to think cooking at home automatically means I'm eating better. DO NOT TELL ME OTHERWISE.) I've expanded past Giada and now record most shows the Food Network churns out, including 30-Minute Meals. I think it's an Internet consensus that Rachael Ray is the most irritating television personality there is, but, you know, I kind of like her. Fine, kind of a lot. She's quirky! And sometimes she makes one food "talk" to another food, and it's NOT FUNNY, IT'S WEIRD, but I still kind of love her for it.

In other Food Network-related news, I have a growing crush on Tyler Florence. Recently he did a show on tapas and made this cute little joke at the start of the episode, saying "Let's go tapas! Not TOPLESS, dirty viewers, TAPAS!" And I had to sheepishly put my shirt back on. YOUR LOSS, TYLER. Also, Sandra Lee's kitchen has got to be the ugliest kitchen on the network. I had to stop watching because MY GOD Sandra, why the clutter? Isn't there an intern hanging around, just chomping at the bit for a menial task. HAVE THAT INTERN CLEAN OFF YOUR COUNTERS.

3. I find myself thinking about the characters of True Blood more than is probably normal.

4. At the end of my pregnancy and the beginning of Kyle's life, I let a LOT of thank-you cards go unwritten. So many people were doing so many lovely things for us, and my thank-you list was getting longer and longer and longer, and MY GOD I was such a wreck back then, I couldn't think of taking a shower without having an anxiety attack. I let myself off the thank-you-card-writing hook (my mother is cringing), but now that life is normal and I sleep as much as I did pre-Kyle and there is ROUTINE and STRUCTURE, I find myself wringing my hands over those thank-you notes. I HAVE ACTUAL NIGHTMARES ABOUT THEM. Should I attempt to write them NOW (um, I wouldn't even know where to start) or just send many vibey thanks out into the universe and hope all my friends and family receive them? (And, hey! If you're reading this and were never properly thanked for something lovely and sweet and gracious you did for me and my kid, THANK YOU. It did not go unappreciated. I just couldn't find my mind back then let alone a pen.) 

(Really, Emily Post should add a clause to her book that states all kind gestures shown to a woman in the last three months of her pregnancy and the first three months of parenthood do not require a hand-written note of acknowledgment in return because that woman should focus all her energy on not throwing things against the wall.)

5. Confession: I have very good taste in movies, and I have no problem admitting this. My favorites include Good Will Hunting and Elizabeth and Almost Famous and Dead Man Walking and Gone Baby Gone. But when it comes to TV, I have some SERIOUS sub-par tastes. I enjoy Greek and General Hospital and, well, One Tree Hill. Not only have I been a faithful One Tree Hill viewer from DAY ONE, I've also taken that devotion one step further and have SUBSCRIBED TO THE FEED for One Tree Hill's leading fan blog. It's sort of creepy, the way I have invested in the lives of these characters and how much time I spend thinking about how OFF THE RAILS the writers took the show in season four and beyond. Season six slightly redeemed itself with Julian's introduction and I'm eagerly anticipating season seven and the absence of STUPID PEYTON and her STUPID ANGSTY WARDROBE and STUPID HAIR and I should stop now. I COULD GO ON THOUGH. I have nothing really of value to say except, September 14! Premiere party at my house! (It's going to be just Molly and me, isn't it? Oh, and Kyle because at this age, I can force him to do things and he must do them because he has very little control of his motor skills. God, parenting is pure awesome sometimes.)

6. It's come to my attention on various occasions that I write about my husband and my marriage in a way that makes some people think he and I have it pretty good. And, this makes me feel sort of ridiculously guilty. I feel pretty lucky in terms of our marriage because of what I know (and what I've seen FIRST HAND, as in FRONT-ROW SEAT, MY GOD). I know marriages can crumble quickly and unexpectedly and MESSILY. I feel lucky because I married a good man in all the ways that men SHOULD be good, but I think we have a pretty normal relationship. We fight. INTERNET, WE FIGHT IN ALL CAPS. In fact, we had a pretty impressive fight just Thursday night (OVER MY SHOES). I stomped to our room and mumbled under my breath and he yelled things against our closed bedroom door, and I worked up very eloquent monologues in my head as I fell asleep. We both went to sleep angry. You should know I am not a believer of "Never go to sleep angry!" because, um, sometimes that means not sleeping at all and I like my sleep something fierce. I got up Friday morning still stung, and we kissed goodbye a little forced and there were apology emails later in the day, and you see where I'm going with this, right? Romantic comedies don't usually consist of forced goodbye kisses and apology emails. My husband is STUBBORN and FRUSTRATING and also I think he could sometimes bring me flowers more often than he does and maybe think up a grand romantic gesture or 300 to show his love for me. I could probably go easy on The Crazy and not get so Worked Up about so much, so often. Our marriage falls very much in the realm of Not All That Enviable But Still Not That Bad, and I guess this is all a very long-winded way of saying, I love him a whole helluva lot, and I feel very fortunate when I think of the path I COULD have taken in terms of marriage but we also have ourselves a platter-full of issues that no one would want to take on themselves. So, yeah. You don't want to be us, I promise. But you may enjoy double dating with us. If you like insane people. 

7. Okay, so The Blathering (a blogging meet-up in Sacramento I'm fortunately a part of next month). I'm kind of doing this vacation up ... weirdly, I guess? The meet-up is in northern California from Friday to Sunday, but I'm flying to Los Angeles Wednesday morning (with Kristie) for a quick day trip (where I'll be wining and dining an author) and then a night-stay in a Beverly Hills hotel. The next morning, we're heading up the coast to Carmel, stopping in Santa Barbara along the way. Friday morning we'll head to San Francisco and then onto Sacramento. Now, this is an ambitious trip, I KNOW, but I'm thrilled. I'm sort of crazy anxious about leaving my boy for not the first time but definitely the first TRIP and I may need constant cocktails to keep me out of a state of PANIC, but I am thrilled. I am excited. And, I am interested in a meet-up with any LA bloggers game to hang out in person with me. So, let me know! Also, let me know if there is somewhere I must stop and see along our route. I'd love to pack this trip with as much fun as I can stand, and I can stand a lot.

What's best

(Here's a disclaimer, menfolk, this post is about boobs, but there are no pictures. You should probably just sit this one out.)

When I was pregnant with Kyle, I told anyone who asked -- and many, many people asked -- I would certainly try to breastfeed, but I wasn't going to stress about it. If it worked, it worked. If not, there was a perfectly reasonable alternative, and we would just see how things went. "I'm not worried about it," I'd say. "It'll be fine either way." If I could, I'd go back and offer that clueless girl a very large, very greasy pepperoni pizza to enjoy because little did she know it was going to get very, very bad before it got very, very good.

In retrospect, my delivery hospital was very pro-breastfeeding, and I probably should have researched that or known that or at least been prepared for that in some way, but I wasn't. I had a pretty incredible labor experience, and was on such a high in the hospital, I believe I began to worry family members. Everything seemed lovely and normal and perfect, so I didn't really question a thing except where were the donuts? I just spent nine months eating donuts but not fully enjoying eating donuts because of all the puking and heartburn and, oh yes, also the puking. I WANTED TO EAT A DONUT WITHOUT THE PUKING. I was happy. I was a mom. I had stopped puking. I didn't question a thing.

Breastfeeding was suggested minutes after Kyle was born, and so I tried it. I enjoyed trying it, and it went ... fine, I guess. I mean, I had just given birth. I was looking at my son. I WAS SLIGHTLY PREOCCUPIED. As soon as we were moved to our own room, I was visited by a lactation consultant. A perfectly nice lactation consultant who got way more familiar with my boobs than any other woman ever has. I also requested to see other on-call consultants as often as I could to try and figure breastfeeding out. I wanted it to work, and I am still so thankful for the resources I was given in the hospital. But, I was told a few things I assumed were across-the-board facts, and I think those things probably messed with my had-just-given-birth, there-are-stitches-WHERE-exactly?, post-labor brain. One such thing was that for at least two weeks, I shouldn't give my kid a pacifier, AT ALL, or he would never breastfeed again. Another thing was that I shouldn't pump for at least four weeks, AT ALL, or he would never breastfeed again. I know women who were offered a pump in the hospital, who were given pacifiers by their nurses. That was not my experience, I was not that woman. I was told, nicely and politely, that I needed to avoid those things or risk hurting my bond with my son. Now, these women meant well, I KNOW THIS, but I was a first-time mom. I hadn't read as much as I probably should have during my pregnancy because pregnancy material is offered with many straightforward facts and a few TERRIFYING POSSIBILITIES thrown in for good measure. Pregnancy material caused far too much anxiety for me to stick with it. I'd sit down, open my pregnancy book, be prepared to absorb really important and useful information and then face: BLAH BLAH, NORMAL SYMPTOM, BLAH BLAH BUT YOU AND YOUR BABY COULD DIE. I eventually stopped reading or Googling or doing anything other than napping. So, when my nurses and lactation consultants told me something, I didn't just believe them: I BELIEVED THEM IN ALL CAPS.

(Again I really did love my hospital/nurses/labor experience, and I fault myself for not researching like I should have, not asking more questions, not taking these nurses' advice as simply that: just helpful advice I could have disregarded if I wanted to.)

Kyle screamed a lot that first week, and one night I came out and Mike had given him a pacifier. I may have had a heart attack, and I may have told him he had ruined all our lives forever and ever amen. But, huh, wouldn't you know, Kyle breastfed fine and the pacifier did nothing except allow us all to sleep for longer than 20 minutes. I'd actually like to name our second child after that pacifier.

At home, breastfeeding was really, really painful at first, but it got better fairly quickly, and Kyle soon got into a rhythm, and it was all working out nicely, in fact. Some of my fondest memories are of feeding Kyle in the middle of the night, just him and I, rocking, hanging out, watching Friday Night Lights and Felicity. But, in the back of my mind, I was worried about nine million things (such as going back to work and money and NEVER SLEEPING AGAIN), and then, just like that, I stopped sleeping at all. I went days at a time with very little sleep, and I can't even count on two hands how many nights I watched the sun come up without ever falling asleep. And not just because Kyle wasn't sleeping -- he was, as much as could be expected -- but because I couldn't turn anything off in my brain long enough to go to sleep. The stress and anxiety were crushing, and I think from the beginning stress affected my supply. Kyle never got enough to eat, and he always seemed to want more, but I was terrified of pumping. I was definitely terrified of supplementing. I was terrified of it all.

And that started the fun little destructive Catch-22-like pattern. The stress affected my breastfeeding, which affected Kyle, who screamed his little head off, which caused me stress.

We were also dealing with what could have been colic, might have been gas or reflux, but was definitely NOT FUN whatever it was. So I cut out A KAJILLION things from my diet and yet he still screamed, was still hungry, was still angry most of the day.

So, I started supplementing because my kid wasn't getting enough to eat from me, and that caused Guilt and More Anxiety.

(Seriously, I was a freaking joy those first two months. I'm shocked I wasn't invited to more parties.)

When I decided to stop breastfeeding, a decision I came to because I was returning to work, could never really pump enough, could never really give him enough, I had two reactions: deep relief and the desire to lie to anyone who asked so I wouldn't have to pretend I wasn't deeply relieved.

You know who else was relieved? Kyle.

I look at pictures from when he was primarily breastfeeding and he was an unhappy, skinny little thing. When he was primarily being bottle fed, he was ... a different baby. Everything sort of changed and lit up right around two months, and at right around two months, I stopped breastfeeding.

This is not some long-winded way of saying I think breastfeeding is overrated -- not at all -- but this is my story, and my story includes the truth that what was really best for my son was to have a happy, relaxed, not-stressed-out mother. Everything sort of clicked and fell into place and fit together at that two-month mark, when I let go of all that stress and guilt and pressure and just did what I thought was best for OUR family. What was best for OUR family was to make sure my kid was well-fed and that included giving him formula.

I still have really fond memories of breastfeeding, and if we have another, I'll arm myself with all the knowledge I garnered and try again, with much less pressure.

What I do want to say -- and why I wanted to share this story at all -- is that mothers need to be taken care of and supported and encouraged, not in order to achieve some one-size-most-certainly-does-not-fit-all ideal but so they can feel at peace with listening to their guts and doing what feels right for their family. There are a million different right ways to parent, and just because ONE way doesn't work for ALL doesn't mean that ONE way isn't perfectly right and justified.

 

Look at him. My god. This is all that matters and all that ever should.

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

Post also inspired by Emily's fantastic and ballsy post about her own breastfeeding experience.

Proof

See, look how OK he is! (Also ridiculously adorable, or is that only showing up on my computer?) I'm becoming more and more OK myself, too. Turns out tasty food and perfectly-made margaritas help ease Mom Fret.  

Oh, hey, if you have a few spare minutes, head on over to MamaPop to vote on what movie I should see this weekend.

Have a happy Wednesday, friends. I'll be back tomorrow to talk about breastfeeding because nothing says "keeping the peace!" like a little boob talk.

Fine, you twisted my arm, here's one more to bookend things:

Updates

Thank you for all your comments last week. Thank you, also, for caring enough about my son to spend any amount of time thinking of us at all. To say your thoughts meant a great deal to me falls grossly short of what I really want to say. 

Kyle is still doing OK. There was some choking/gagging on Friday, but by the weekend, he was his normal self again. I feel that by saying he's doing better, I should be able to say I'm doing better, too, but I'm really not. I wasn't expecting to still be as shaken up as I am. I had to throw out the clothes he was wearing that night and the towels I used to clean things up because looking at them caused what I can only describe as a mild anxiety attack. Also: awful flashbacks to the look on my boy's face as he was choking. I will never be able to read the post I wrote about what happened, and I really don't like talking through the events of the night, either, so if I've let your call go unanswered, this is why. It means the world that you care, but I can't detail what happened one more time. I need to stop crying, and putting it out of my mind is certainly one way to do it. We also canceled a Sunday trip to San Antonio we had planned for months because the thought of leaving my boy overnight was too much for me. In six months, the thought of leaving him has never suffocated or pained me as much as it did this past weekend. I hope that feeling fades, but it's still pretty raw right now.

All in all, I am trying to learn from this experience. Sharing it with the Internet was not without a purpose either. I got plenty of emails/DMs/comments that said something to the extent of: "this changed my mind/this opened my eyes/this made me re-think the kind of parent I want to be/this made me re-think judging parents who have strong opinions, etc." That was my purpose. If this helps anyone, then it was a story worth telling.

I have always struggled with caring a little too much about what others think of me. This feeling did fade some after having Kyle because I know I'm a good mom, and the right mom for him. He's a happy, normally-developing, seemingly well-adjusted baby, and that's really all the proof I need. But, like a normal human being, I still want people to like me and for them to validate my choices as a mother. I've had to struggle a little with reconciling my confidence in being a good mom and my desire to want to hear I'm being a good mom. But, this recent experience has certainly shown me that when you make decisions rooted in love, you can't fail your kids.

Also, I am my son's voice until he can use his own, and that's an honor and a privilege, not a burden. I owe it to him to speak up for him, no matter what, no matter when.

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

In other news, Kyle started a new day care this morning. Since moving into our new house, he's been at a new branch of the same facility he was at before (the one I loved so much). His new one was ... disappointing, though. I place most of the blame on the director. You can tell it's poorly run, even though it's a nice enough place. There was a revolving door of teachers, and I never saw the same one twice. He was cold and wet more often than not when I picked him up, and when I requested they leave me notes to update me on his day, they obliged for one week. After that, the notes stopped. Also, when I let the director know when our last day would be, she failed to tell his teachers. My mother-in-law picked him up that day, and they argued with her over taking his stuff.

"HE NEEDS HIS BLANKET FOR NAPS! YOU SHOULDN'T TAKE IT."

"But, see, he will no longer be napping here."

"What?"

"It's his last day."

"What?"

It was just an overall bad fit.

He started a new, much smaller, less chaotic place today, and I think it's going to be better for him and for us. And, we are paying less for more services. Bonus!

So, we're on our third day care and, ironically, our third pediatrician, as well.

Sorry, kid, no consistency for you!

I haven't talked about our pediatrician issues here but the first one was great, we enjoyed her a lot, but one of the nurses was 1) a chain-smoker and 2) really bad with needles and 3) awful with his bedside manner. (He told me my kid bled a lot during his 2-month shots because he "wouldn't stay still.") I simply didn't love the pediatrician enough to request other nurses.

The second pediatrician came highly recommended, and I think he's probably an excellent doctor, but he told me my kid was too sensitive because he started crying during an exam. Also, when he asked what I wanted in a doctor, I said, "I want someone to look me in the eyes and listen to my concerns." He said, "Well, doctors are too busy for that."

Again, bad fit.

So, cross your fingers third times a charm all around!

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

Finally, we're all moved out of our old house and into our new. We spent most of the weekend tying up a gazillion loose ends over at the rental property, after the electricity had been turned off, in the middle of August in Texas. I turned to Mike at one point and said, "I bet people in hell are walking around going, 'Hey, silver lining about spending an eternity here: AT LEAST IT'S NOT TEXAS.'"

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

We have started a Sunday night grocery shopping tradition. It gives us time to spend together as a family, and we're saving money and eating better. (Win-win!) Kyle loves the grocery store, and even if he's screaming his crazy little head off, as soon as we walk in, all the sights and sounds capture his attention. He's usually fairly fantastic the entire time, which gives Mike and I plenty of opportunity to fight over our snack choices without distraction.

Last night in Wal-Mart, just as we were finishing up, Mike got up on the cart's bottom rack and pushed it down the aisle. AND KYLE LOST HIS MIND. He thought that was the funnies thing he'd ever seen in his whole six-month life. He laughed so hard we spent the next 15 minutes doing it over and over and over again, just to hear him laugh and laugh and laugh. After we checked out and were in the parking lot, I tried to do it one more time, but he was totally over it and practically rolled his eyes at me. "God, Mom, that's so 15 minutes ago." Parenthood is a wild, humbling ride.

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

I've been pretty bad about linking to my posts over at Bodies in Motivation and MamaPop, but I'm still writing and enjoying both sites. Go visit and comment, too. (All the other bloggers/writers are wickedly talented, seriously, so you can't lose by reading anything on either site, and, no, I'm not being paid to say that.)

I feel good about my weight loss, so far, even though it's pretty slow going. I believe I'll get there eventually, and I've recently joined our town's rec center (and acquired a fellow blogging work-out buddy!)

I think one cool thing about weight loss (or any lifestyle choice) is how much control we have about changing something that isn't working. Losing weight isn't impossible for anyone, and if you're unhappy with how you look and feel, you can do something about it, no matter what that may be. I'm not saying weight loss is that easy or simple and for someone who has constantly struggled with her weight and body image, I'm not here to try and convince anyone it is. I do think it's an empowering way to look at it, though. I can change this anytime I want. I can make better choices whenever I feel like it. Taking back the power in any situation is an impressive first step, and it's one I feel I've made in terms of living happier and healthier. That's something, it really is.

I can't wait to share before and after pictures with you. No matter how long it takes.

We're OK, you should know that right off

I try to be a pretty laid-back mom. Some of you who know me may have just spit your drink on your monitors, but in many ways, I think it's still pretty accurate. We've let Kyle suck on a lemon and gave him mashed sweet potatoes and other pureed veggies before six months (with the nod of approval from our pediatrician). I pass him to anyone who will take him and, so far, that's kept his Stranger Freak-Outs to a select few people.

So, last night when I took him to a family dinner, I didn't monitor what people were giving him bites of as closely as I should have. He got a bite of a baked sweet potato and a couple bites of a cobbler a la mode. We *think* (although we just can't be completely sure) the ice cream caused what happened after that.

On the drive home from dinner, Kyle started choking and gagging. I pulled the car over quickly and jumped in the back seat. He projectile vomited everywhere. He was covered in it, and his face was a deep red. I was scared, of course, but assumed he was given too large a bite of something and it got stuck when I strapped him into his car seat. I called Mike, a bit shaken, and told him what happened.

By the time I got home -- maybe five minutes later? -- I heard him choking/gagging again. This time, he stopped breathing and his eyes rolled in the back of his head. I screamed and ripped him out of his car seat. Seriously, adrenaline is a crazy bitch. I could have mauled a tiger right then if I had needed. I stuck my finger in his mouth again, and he began to cough and vomit again.

Although much more shaken up this time, I really thought that had to be it. I stripped him down, gave him a bath and decided to cuddle with him on the couch for a little while to make sure he was OK before I put him to bed.

Maybe 10 minutes later, he did it again.

After another couple times, I called an ambulance. The vomiting didn't bother me but the choking and his inability to breathe was too concerning. I was also worried about putting him back in his car seat to take him to the ER. (I feared the tight straps would make whatever was going on worse.)

He was OK in between the episodes, but the loss of consciousness and choking had me terrified. Although he's fine now and probably would have been fine if we had kept him home and simply monitored him, I have no regrets about taking him to the ER or calling the ambulance.

Mike got home right when the ambulance arrived, and we rode together to the hospital. Kyle did it once more right as we arrived at the ER.

He was given some anti-nausea medicine and we gave him water and monitored his heart rate. Once the doctor got to our room, he was almost asleep.

All of his passageways were clear, I should mention, and it never seemed as if there was something actually blocking his airways. He also hadn't been sick at all in the last couple days. Based on a couple other things, the doctor's best guess was the ice cream. He said if it was made with real cream, it could have caused such a reaction. He also said if that were it, it would probably cause quite a bit of gas (which it has).

We were released a while after that. He's been resting and normal most of this morning/today. He's not thrilled with the water/diluted juice we have to give him (only clear fluids for 24 hrs.), but he's happy and smiling and fine today. Thank god.

I'm sharing this story, I suppose, not to freak anyone out, but to try and get across how easily something so harmless can turn harmful. Babies are resilient. They can withstand more than we give them credit for, and I think most of parents' paranoia -- although totally understandable -- is also slightly unwarranted. But to completely contradict myself, you can never be too careful.

I suppose what I really want to get across by sharing this is that you should always go with your gut. ALWAYS. I should have been watching what he was eating more closely. I do blame myself, to be honest. I don't know how you can go through this and NOT blame yourself, even a little bit. Honestly, if I had seen Kyle eating ic cream sooner, though, I don't know if I would have jumped to the rescue as I know I should have. I wouldn't have wanted to embarrass anyone or make a scene. I hate that it caused something like this to give me the perspective I needed as a parent. I don't care if you think I'm a bitch or am overly protective or ridiculous in my parenting tactics. He's my kid, and, plain and simple, my gut is what most matters. Ruffling feathers will never be a concern again.

As moms, we're made to feel like we're being That Crazy Mom all the time. We're told to lighten up and relax and "what's the worst that can happen?" and so on and so forth. Most of the time, this is probably true. We should relax. We should lighten up. But not when our guts tells us to do the opposite. When our guts tell us to do something, my god, we should do it.

Watching my son stop breathing and turn blue was the worst moment of my life so far. Being That Mom hardly seems like a concern in light of experiencing what I experienced.

He's asleep right now, taking a nap with Mr. Pup, his favorite stuffed toy.

Thank god.

Our trip to Oregon

I've been meaning to get this post up, but it's felt like a crazy couple weeks. At this point I'd usually say screw it and just direct everyone to the flickr stream (which is public and can be found here), but I really want this trip to be documented, in some way, for Kyle. And for us when we forget everything we did. So, next month? (Parenthood is good for the soul, bad for the brain.)

First, the vacation was planned because one of my very best friends, Lauren, was getting married (to this guy), and she asked me to be a bridesmaid. (She was one of mine.) I would have gone, regardless. Wild horses and all. But, I'm never one for quick trips or jam-packed weekend getaways. I usually try to extend vacations as long as I can, so we made this into a family getaway.

We booked our flights to Portland for late Tuesday night, in hopes Kyle's first flight would be late enough for him to snooze through most of it. I should say that prepping for this trip sent me into a state of ANXIOUS! and NERVOUS! and SNAPS EASILY AT HER HUSBAND! So much to pack, remember, print out, carry on, etc. (If anyone is interested, I'm happy to talk another time about flying with a baby: what to have, what isn't needed, how much vodka is too much vodka to drink before boarding. Let me know.) As soon as we stepped foot into the airport, though, the anxiety melted. We were doing this together, and it would be fine. We did what we had to, apologized to those unfortunate enough to get stuck behind us in the security line and acted totally clueless so every AA employee would take pity on us. Turns out, acting clueless is brilliant. The flight out was pretty much bump-free.

We landed, picked up our rental car and headed out to Cherie's adorable house, where we were staying for the week. We got in late, and both our hosts had to work the next day, so we all headed straight to bed. We had a pack-and-play set up in another room from us for Kyle, and I was a little worried the new scenery would throw him. He continually likes to make me look uptight and paranoid. He was fine that night, and he woke up about the same time he always does. He basically gave the time change his middle finger.

Wednesday morning, we were lazying around Cherie's house, letting her twin boys and Kyle play together and chomp on each other's toes and such. Once Cherie headed off to work, we packed up and headed a couple hours west to the Oregon coast. 

Easily, one of the prettiest drives I've ever taken. Thankfully, Kyle has always been good in the car. Even when he wasn't particularly good anywhere else, he'd fall quickly to sleep as soon as the ignition turned on. He (so far) hasn't out grown that. He didn't make a peep the entire two-hour drive.

Once we got to Cannon Beach, we parked, packed up and headed for the sand and surf.

Taking Kyle to the Pacific Ocean was a dream of mine. He loved the sand. The freezing cold ocean water wasn't as easy to sell to him.

 

He thought the sand running through Mike's hands was awesome.

Mike stripped him down to his onesie, so he could play in the sand better.

Because he was sitting up so well, I said to Mike, "Take your hands away so I can get a good shot of him in the sand for the first time! He'll be fiiiiiiiine."

Again, for those who missed it yesterday. I think it's still funny the second view or 7,000th.

 

And here Mike is scooping out sand from every crevice on our poor boy's face. Kyle didn't even cry. He just looked at us like, "WHAT. THE. FUCK."

After that, we picked up pounds of saltwater taffy and had lunch at a cute little grill on the main road in town.

It was a quick trip, and we were back in the car and heading toward Portland just hours after arriving, but exploring more gives us reason to go back.

Oh, and here's a beach family photo with really unprepared and inappropriately dressed tourists!

That night, Mike watched all three boys for about an hour so Cherie and I could meet Rhi and Kerri for dinner/drinks at Deschutes in downtown Portland. (The house-baked pretzel and accompanying white cheddar dipping sauce was borderline orgasmic.) Funny enough, Cherie (who I met in college) and Rhiannon used to work together. Again, small world. I was a little nervous about meeting these two bloggers, because, well, I think they're pretty awesome. (Although we'd already kinda/sorta met at BlogHer 08). But we laughed and talked and talked and laughed, and it was so nice. I can't wait to see both of them again at BlogHer 2010 or in Portland the next time I visit.

The next day, we tried our best to get up early and head out to Mt. Hood.

It was another day full of driving, and another day full of Kyle sleeping through pretty scenic views. Ungrateful child.

Once we got up the mountain, we ate lunch at the buffet at Timberline Lodge, and then made the stroller prove it was worth all the money it cost.

 

I love how unsuspecting Kyle is in this photo. He's just enjoying the view, along for the ride, "Oh, look at that chipmunk. My, we're picking up speed."

There was still some snow, so we got to introduce Kyle to sand, surf and snow all in the same visit. He was much more impressed with the sand.

 

He enjoyed himself when we weren't shoving his feet into cold, wet mush.

 

Aww.

 

We tuckered him out and he slept while we looked at the gift shops and walked around some more.

We had to stop at Dairy Queen on the way down the mountain, OF COURSE, and got home in time so I could get cute for Lauren's bachelorette dinner.

We left Mike like this:

 

Babysitting all three babies, with a magazine, a beer and a slice of pizza. He's so level-headed and not-easily-stressable, it amazes me. He even said he was still open to having another baby one day when we got home, which was the real test of how the night went.

The dinner was at Andina, a funky little Peruvian tapas bar downtown. We had a private room, which kept the restaurant noise out. We ordered fantastic local wine and ate off a pre-decided tasting menu. Everything was delicious, except the beef hearts. Those I could have done without.

Friday, we were a bit lazier. We had lunch with Cherie and met her lovely co-workers. Kyle tried to impress the ladies by throwing up all over their office. On the way to the car, Mike said to him, "One day, pretty girls won't think throwing up on their floor is cute. Keep that in mind." Later that day we also took in the Portland Rose Gardens and Japanese Gardens.

That night, Lauren and Evan hosted their rehearsal dinner at Old Town Pizza Company, which was ridiculously good, and I convinced myself it would have been rude not to eat the pizza, so I had three slices. Kyle flirted his way around the room, and we left right before he had a pre-bed meltdown.

Cherie and I spent most of Saturday morning/afternoon helping Lauren get ready and getting pretty ourselves. We headed out to Vista Hills Vineyards, where the wedding was, late afternoon for finishing touches and pictures. The view was OK. I mean, it wasn't bad or anything.

 

MY GOD, WHY DO I LIVE IN TEXAS?

Funny enough, Cherie, Lauren and I all met in Texas and, yet, all got married somewhere on the west coast (California and Oregon). Also, we all put our bridesmaids in brown (Cherie's ladies; mine). 

Anyway, the bride was stunning too.

 

We drank and danced and ate and drank and danced a lot at the reception, so it shocked everyone (myself included) when we actually got up and made our 6 a.m. flight the next day.

We got home and spent most of Sunday afternoon in bed, thankful Mike's mom was willing to watch our kid, so we could sleep off some of the jet lag and sadness from having to leave such good memories behind us.

It was a beautiful trip in a beautiful city with beautiful friends and family.

Six months

Dear Kyle,

Six months? No, that can't be. Three months, maybe, but it can't possibly be six months from when you were plopped onto my chest in the delivery room. It just can't be six months from when you looked into my eyes, annoyed as all hell to have been taken away from the all-day donut buffet you had snacked on for nine straight months. But, somehow, someway, it is. Six months today.

This is a hard letter for me to write. I remember the mom I was when you were first born, unable to be convinced that this day would ever come. Time stood still those first few weeks, and when someone mentioned THEIR six-month-old baby, it was as if they were talking about owning a mythical creature. I simply couldn't believe we'd ever reach this day, and here I go with the tired-but-true parenting cliches: my god, the time flew right by. My god, why didn't I enjoy every damn moment of those first few weeks because, MY GOD, they're gone forever now? I miss them. I miss them so much more than I ever thought I would and even more than I was told I would. Every day I try to conjure up that baby you used to be, the little, skinny, screaming baby who threw me for a freaking loop when you entered the world. That baby is continually replaced by a bigger, more smiley baby, and with each passing day the memory of my wee little guy fades. And my heart breaks over and over and over.

Women have been saying good-bye to their newborns for centuries. All these emotions are totally Universal and Normal and Ordinary. And there are plenty of lovely silver linings that we are offered to cushion the heartache. Such as:

YOU SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT NOW!

(Thank you.)

For a couple months of your life, you'd go down for bed easily and then would wake up sometime in the middle of the night. You wouldn't be hungry, but you also wouldn't go back to sleep unless I lifted you out of your crib and placed you on my chest. There you'd sleep until the morning, and although I never slept all that great while you slept with me, those were easily some of the most beautiful moments of my life. You healed a lot of pain in those late-night moments. You wiped clean a lot of scars.

Aside from those late-night wake-ups, we tried very hard to put you down awake for most of your life, when we could tell you were tired. I have never enjoyed the hold-your-breath-transfer-the-sleeping-baby-to-his-crib maneuver, so even if it meant going in nine kajillion times to give you back your pacifier or rub your head or turn your music back on, this is how I preferred it. And, as you grew, the work we put into getting you to fall asleep on your own paid off, and (sadly, ironically) you can no longer sleep on top of me. You need your crib, your own space, your stuffed dog, your music. When I try to place you on my chest for a nap or to lull you into sleep, you jolt upright, look around, smile that goofy, lovely smile. Our late-night naps together are behind us. I try not to long for yesterday, but sometimes I can't help it.

This past month we took you on your first vacation! You did scream through a couple missed naps and you probably didn't sleep as well as you would have at home, but you stunned us and shocked us with how good you were for the majority of the trip. We planned the things we wanted to do, and nothing had to be scraped or changed or altered because of you. You just went along for the ride. We schlepped you for hours in the car and hours up a mountain and hours at the beach and hours all around the Portland vicinity, and you just smiled and jibber-jabbered and slept through it all. It was a really incredible time, full of memories we'll have forever. Including, THE FIRST TIME YOU ATE SAND:

Yes, we had enough time to take this picture before saving you, I KNOW THAT'S NOT COOL. Also not cool? How hard we laughed. But, hey! Those senses of humor your parents both have will come in handy one day, when you, say, wreck the car or drink too much trashcan punch at your first college party. We'll be able to joke and laugh the entire time we're taking away your cell phone and whatever crazy gadget they think up next.

On our vacation, I was really tired at one point. The time change didn't throw you off quite as much as I feared, but you were still waking up between 6-7 a.m., and, I'm sorry, but I'm old and overweight and that hour is still rather unappealing for me, so I was yawning and sleepy, and then I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the beautiful Oregon landscape, and I realized this would be the trip we'll talk about throughout your life. The first trip. The first family vacation. God, screw exhaustion, this is our life. We are going to live our lives and have adventures and travel and experience things and trek up a mountain to get a picture of you with the snow-capped peaks behind you and we're going to probably grumble at various points about the way the other is driving or how fussy you're being or how damn tired we are, but we're still going to do it all, and we're going to do it together.

 

I've only known you for six months. Oh, but I've loved you forever.

Happy half birthday, buds.

Love,

Your Mama

My (unasked for, probably kind of crappy) advice for new parents

Who knows if we'll have another baby one day. I'm more sold on the idea than I was before Kyle, during my pregnancy with Kyle and in the midst of Kyle's first two scream-filled months, but who can ever really know what's in store. But, I didn't garner all this advice for naught because I have a blog!

Take, disregard, roll your eyes at any of the below!

(Also all babies are annoyingly different.)

1. Sleep in the hospital, if you can. Don't feel guilty if you send your baby to the nursery one night or both nights or for a nap during the day. Of course you want that precious little newborn of yours to be glued to your side, but, NEWS FLASH, those nurses don't go home with you. Take advantage of their experience while you can! Also, they always send the baby back freshly swaddled. Nice.

2. Get out of the house, sans baby, as early as possible. The first week of Kyle's life, my friend Natalie came over and took me to get ice cream while Mike stayed with the baby for maybe a half hour. As soon as I stepped out the door, I felt my chest tighten. I also cried on the way to get ice cream and on the way back, but it made leaving the next time that much easier.

3. So, new moms, this is a tough one, but you're going to lose an obscene amount of weight that first week. In the first 2-3 weeks, you may lose more weight than you gained, and it's going to stun you and also give you this tricky little false sense of power. I can eat anything I want! I can devour the entire contents of the fridge! I am a losing-weight machine! Except, the weight loss eventually stops, pauses and goes full steam ahead in the OPPOSITE DIRECTION. At my six-week check-up, I had gained 10 pounds in three weeks. My crazy, weight-loss superpowers had disappeared but my ass had not. 

4. Ask for help. So many people offered to come over and bring us dinner or just watch the baby so we could sleep, but I didn't want them to see our messy house or my unshowered, milk-stained appearance. I didn't want to try to look presentable. I didn't want to fake conversation when I just wasn't feeling it. I really didn't want all our friends/family to think I was doing an awful job so soon out the gate, so I turned down kind offers more often than not. Turns out, when people care about you, they don't require you to do or be anything. They just want to help. So let them.

5. Take that baby of yours out of the house as soon as your doctor tells you it's cool to. I was TERRIFIED (in all caps) that if I took Kyle somewhere he would cry. When I finally got up the nerve to take him to dinner with Mike and me, he slept the entire time. And he did that the next time and the next and the next. It wasn't until he was roughly four months old that he needed to be entertained or taken out of his car seat in restaurants. Now, he's a grabbing, trying-to-eat-the-napkins, squealing fool. I would have gone out to eat with him every damn day those first few months if I knew how easy it would be compared to taking a six-month old out and about. 

6. You're not doing it wrong, but someone will make you feel like you are. Someone will make it their mission to make you feel like crap. That's their thing. You're doing great and you're a good mom and their kid is probably going to move clear across the country one day just to get away from them. Seriously, you're doing fine and they can suck it.

7. Write down as much as you can. I send Kyle emails and post his monthly letters on this blog for him. Not because I want to be Dooce. I go back and read each one often, and I honestly can't remember 1) writing them or 2) the baby I refer to. He has changed so quickly and so surprisingly and most of the changes are for the better. They become cooler and funnier and more smiley and adorable with every passing day, and you just won't remember all you want to. So write it down. Keep a journal. Send yourself emails. Tear out a page from the phone book and jot down notes. You'll never regret documenting things.

8. Which brings me to: Invest in a good camera and take as many pictures as you possibly can.

9. Remember all you loved before the baby? Keep on loving some of that same stuff. Traveling, reading, going to the movies, painting your nails. You'll have 1/20 of the time to do it, but try, try, try to squeeze in something, sometime. 

10. Finally, you're going to be tired, especially if you want something resembling a normal life. Embrace the exhaustion, drink caffeine no matter how bad it is for you, take up your favorite form of exercise to increase your energy. On our family vacation a couple weeks back, I turned to Mike and said, "I want to have adventures and travel and expose Kyle to the world. So, we just need to accept we're going to be tired." Thankfully, he agreed. Sometimes you're just going to be tired in order to cram everything in you want to do. A full life is better than a nap.

Motherhood trauma

With our new house came a very big yard, full of plants, trees and, fine, weeds, too. Before we had the Terminix guy come out this past Saturday and blast all the yard bugs to smithereens, Molly was frolicking amongst the chiggers and fleas and mites, and she got some nasty-looking bites on the underside of her belly. Since it had also been an embarrassingly long time since her last vet appointment, we were motivated by the bites to find a new local vet and take her in for a check-up. Because that appointment fell precisely during the window the Terminix guy was coming out to save Molly's yard from future belly-biting bugs, we decided Mike would stay home with Kyle and the bug killer, and I would take Molly to the vet.

THAT DECISION WOULD BE FAIL #1.

First, let me tell you something about my Molly: she's kind of skittish around new people/places. She sort of lost her shit at Barktoberfest a couple years back, and she's a barking, cowering fool whenever she meets someone new for the first time. Sounds delightfully awful, I know! Except she warms up easily. She can be won over with a simple bribe (rawhides work best) and you can usually find her curled up and taking a snooze in the lap of someone she was quietly growling at mere hours before. She's ... complicated and ... slightly challenging, BUT SO SWEET AND LOVABLE.

(I should say for the record -- in case there needs to be a record -- she's never bit or snapped at anyone. Ever.)

But, yes, she can get uncomfortable and anxious in situations that are unfamiliar for her. Again, for the record though, I wasn't worried about the vet visit, which should tell you that her neuroses still fall well under the umbrella of MANAGEABLE.

You see where I'm going with this, don't you?

Let me spell it out, just in case you're giving Molly the benefit of the doubt:

IT DID NOT GO SO WELL AT THE VET.

Molly, my sweet, lovable, has-never-hurt-a-soul-in-her-life dog had to be MUZZLED and RESTRAINED and HELD DOWN at the vet. There were reinforcements called and, my god, I had to pay our bill in the exam room to keep Molly away from the other dogs in the waiting room. WE LEFT THROUGH THE BACK DOOR LIKE SOME CRAZY PAPARAZZI-STALKED CELEBRITY. If she lost her shit at Barktoberfest, she sold her shit on eBay to someone in Japan this past Saturday. Meaning, that shit wasn't just lost, that shit was GONE.

At one point, she started flailing and thrashing about so wildly, she hit the wall and caused her own nose to bleed. Yes, that was the precise moment I lost my shit and began to cry.

I don't know what happened, in all honesty. Personally, I think it was a straight-up awful idea for me to take her by myself because she's more protective of me and when she gets worked up, I GET WORKED UP. Mike can remain calm in PET! CRISIS! SITUATIONS! better than I can, and where I was trying to be this pillar of strength and composure for my girl, it obvioooooously wasn't working. Basically, I think she had a panic attack, if dogs can even HAVE panic attacks.

Silver lining: after the reinforcements were called and the patient was muzzled, we were able to continue with the exam and she's perfectly healthy!

That did make blaming her episode on rabies slightly more difficult, though.

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Thankfully, the weekends work out in such a way that I usually let Mike sleep in Saturday mornings and he lets me snooze on Sundays. This past Sunday was no exception. I was being lazy in bed, listening to the sounds of my boys out in the living room. You really should see those two together. The trouble they're going to cause when Kyle is just a little bit older already gives me headaches. Eventually, around 11 a.m., I think, Mike brought Kyle into our room and plopped him down on my stomach and I got greeted with the gummiest, sweetest grin, and it was just one of those lovely family moments you hope you'll have when you're putting the crib together at eight-months pregnant.

ONE ONE'S VISIONS, THAT SWEET MOMENT IS USUALLY NOT FOLLOWED BY BLOODSHED.

Mike and I had a rather busy Sunday planned, actually, and I needed to get right up and in the shower, so Mike picked Kyle back up to take him to the living room. As he picked him up, he started lifting him above his head to either put him on his shoulders or toss him about gently and sweetly. Because nothing says sweet father-son moment like being TOSSED INTO THE CEILING FAN.

My son got his first head injury this weekend. Bloodshed by Ceiling Fan.

He's OK! And the bloodshed was really, really, ridiculously minimal. (Mike is reading this right now and yelling aloud, "THERE WAS NO BLOODSHED!" There was a little bit, baby.) He did cry out of pain for a longer period of time than he ever has before, but he was easy to console and he seemed to forgive Mike rather quickly for, you know, trying to kill him.

Silver lining: I DIDN'T DO IT! IT WASN'T MY FAULT! BABY'S FIRST INJURY WAS IN NO WAY TIED TO ME WHATSOEVER.

Although only time will tell if my obviously-destined-for-Mensa son is now destined for, say, McDonald's. 

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In non-trauma related news: we got couches this weekend (not that color) and, also, I met this really cool, personable blogger for coffee Sunday. She lives less than a mile from me and that, I believe, is what they call a small world.