Pampers Dry Max and other evils on the shelf

Bird is at school and Squeak is sleeping in his bouncy seat. He slept on my chest for 90 minutes, but then want to move, so he's vibrating and snoozing, and I have two free hands. Two free hands which should be cleaning something, writing thank you notes, doing laundry, or organizing the boys' clothes for storage - but I'm actually trying to put writing back into my list of priorities, so here I sit.

I have a copy of Healthy Child, Healthy World that I have been putting off reading because I'm scared of all the things I could be doing better for my children. That's so lame. After this week of recalls and dangerous products, I'm thinking it's time to dive into it.

Squeak had almost finished his trial size bottle of Infant's Tylenol that has been recalled. It could have tiny particles - of what, they didn't say - in it or it could contain too much of the active ingredient. Either way, it's not good for him.

Bird had on a Pamper with their new "Dry Max technology" the other day. When I went to change it, he started grabbing the inside of his thigh and telling me that it hurt. I lay him on the changing table, and he began to scream before I could even get his shorts off of him. The blisters on his legs and bottom were unbelievable. I immediately began trying to calculate when the last time I changed him was and starting cursing myself for letting him have a wet and dirty diaper - even though I hadn't done anything different that day than from any other day. I changed him right when I noticed, and it wasn't that long from the last change.

I was mortified and cried right along with him. I stopped trying to clean him up at the changing table and put him straight into the tub. I wanted to make sure he was 100% clean, and rubbing the blisters wasn't an option.

After I put him to bed that night, I noticed a buzz online about Pampers and their new Dry Max diapers. A friend from my LLL group had posted a news story, and after watching it, I started searching for more information. What I found was unbelievable.

Thousands of reports of chemical burns and unusually bad blistering and rashes have been reported with these diapers. I couldn't believe it. The pictures I saw of those poor babies look just like Bird. The bigger than a quarter raised blisters - they were on all of these babies.

No more Pampers for us. I don't care how much that box cost me. I'm not using another Pamper ever again.

So begins my foray into cloth diapering. I tried it with the gCloth inserts for our gDiapers and hated them. They were terrible. But I've got some friends who are willing to give me lessons in all of the other ways to cloth diaper, so we are getting ready to make the switch. And for the times we need a disposable one, I'll be using a Huggies natural or a Seventh Generation diaper.

I feel so strongly right now, that as a mama and a consumer, I have got to start making better choices for my family. Choices based on their well being instead of cost and convenience. I did that for Squeak's birth, and now I need to continue that throughout their lives. I owe it to them to keep them safe and healthy.

It's frustrating to not be able to trust as a consumer.

Lonely doesn't mean alone

I forget that I should never whine about loneliness or a lack of friends. Even though I might feel that weight bearing down on me from time to time, to voice those feelings (and indeed, they are just feelings and not necessarily reality) only plays injustice to those who are here for me.

In whining about how much I miss my friends who live here in this box with me, I also ignore the fact that this box keeps me in closer contact with people who have been in my life practically forever. Including, but not limited to Susan and even my momma. Sure, I give my momma a hard time when I find out life changing information on her Facebook page, but really, I'm quite glad that she has a presence on the internet. It gives us a chance to be in each other's daily lives.

There are new friends for new developments in life. That happened after my divorce, after I remarried, and certainly after I became a mama. I have friends here in town from my La Leche League group who I would shave my eyebrows for or even consider giving up Diet Coke for. Well, at least the eyebrows part.

I guess I just have a hard time with the change in climate of friendships. It's not surprising. I have a hard time with change in general. Especially change that is incremental. Rather than riding out whatever storm or hard times there are with people, I tend to just detonate the relationship and walk away from the wreckage.

Now. Aren't you glad you're getting to know me? Doesn't that sound lovely?

All this to say - lonely doesn't mean alone. There are some wonderful people in my life. Lonely means that I isolated myself for a time and needed a kick in the pants to get back up again. I'm getting back up again. Next week.

So expect a phone call or a text or Facebook message. There are too many people who are here in the flesh or wherever they are in the flesh for me to sit around being lonely.

I know these things. Sometimes I just need a good whine.

Lonely real life

I didn't expect to make friends on the internet. Certainly not ones that I would travel to visit or that would take a weekend to come see me. I didn't expect to make friends that I would miss or that I would long to live closer to so that we could hang together in the flesh.

But I have.

Lately, and maybe it's the hormones to some extent, a lot of my in the flesh people have been letting me down. Granted, I've been told I hold people to unfair high expectations, but I can honestly say that the Zoloft has been helping that. Still, I just can't count on some of the friends I once could count on and that hurts.

But, in my new found quest not to be crazy these past months, I've found a way to still love my friends for who they are and not necessarily what they are to me at the current moment. It's hard, but I think it will be good in the long run.

Today though, I'm missing people that I only get to interact with online. All my mamas on the board especially - I wish that we could have a playdate, get some coffee, go shopping, or just take a walk. Liz L., who I wish I could learn to be a doula with - I think we would make a great team. Patricia, who I recently reconnected with on Facebook and just got to see for a moment in April. All these people make my life richer, and a little lonely at times too, because they are far away.

It's just one of those lonely days. Especially when compared with Monday. Pardon my pity party. It will be over soon, I promise. How can it not be when this is what I get to see everyday:















Happy babies make great SSRI's.

Today

I've been on maternity leave. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

It's hard to get back in the habit of writing when you slump off like I have. I still have blog brain. You know, when you walk through the grocery store checking items off your list while simultaneously thinking about which of the carts you are passing would make for good blog fodder. I still have blog brain.

There are too many things going on right now that I just can't blog about yet. When something is holding me back a little, I have a hard time saying anything at all. But I'm going to try. I'm missing out on chronicling some of the best times of my life - watching my boys grow up.

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Today, I had changed both of the boys' diapers. I had stepped out of the room to wash my hands when Bird tripped over a bag of dry cleaning. He wasn't hurt, but he was whining for me to come help him. He was still whining when one of Squeak's shoes came off.

Bird got up by himself, picked up the shoe, and declared, "Oh no! Colin's shoe!" He brought me the shoe, insured that I put it back on his little brother properly, and then he went back to the bag of dry cleaning. He repositioned himself over it, as if he had fallen again, and started back in with, "Mama, help! Help, Mama!"

Snort.

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Today, I took the boys to a Durham Bulls game with Abby and Linus. We had great seats (once Abby convinced me to move into the shade), and Linus was kind enough to share his Matchbox cars.

There was arguments over Wool E. Bull being a cow. There was popcorn. There was hand holding and running through the grass. Squeak fell asleep by the fifth inning. The Bulls lost, and I think they need some new pitching, but we still had a great time.

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Today, I took the boys on a walk with my friend and doula, Julie. Her boys, my boys, a couple of strollers, and a bicycle defied the rain back into the sky and took our walk with just a few sprinkles. The Greenway in Raleigh is one of my favorite places to be, and walking it with a friend is the best way to be there.

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So you see, we are busy. There are stories to tell. I want to get back here telling them. Maternity leave is officially over.

My love

Your eyes are navy blue. They captivate me.

Your ears poke out like my father's. Currently, you also share a hairstyle with him. I think you will grow out of that.

Your mouth has learned to smile and laugh naturally. You started laughing at your daddy yesterday and couldn't stop. You laughed until you gave yourself the hiccups.

That is one thing that I love about this house. More often than not, it is full of laughter. Granted, that means that your daddy and I are terribly silly people, but I think it might be a fun way to grow up.

Tonight, you took a bath with your brother. At first he was scolding you for kicking and splashing, but when you just smiled at his reprimand, he gave up and started washing your feet. He can be surprisingly sweet to you. Whenever someone asks him about his little brother, his standard reply is, "Colin. So cute."

You still sleep with us. Partly because there isn't anywhere else for you to sleep yet, and partly because you are so snuggly. You spoon perfectly, wake up to nurse a couple of times, and go right back to sleep. Usually. Occasionally, you want to stay awake and smile at me. If I have to stay awake in the middle of the night or wee hours of the morning, I have to say, I don't mind staring at your beautiful smile.

There is only one small complaint I have, and that is your hatred of the stroller. I love your stroller. You have a little hide-away compartment, and your brother sits in the jump seat above you. And. You. Hate. It. Unless you are asleep, you scream. Even when you are asleep, you usually wake up and then scream. Our long walks designed to help me burn this baby fat before you enter the first grade? Are torture for both of us. I would wear you, but you seem to hate that too. You just want to ride up on my shoulder and be able to look around at the world, cheek to cheek with me. It's a lovely feeling, cheek to cheek, but dang. You are heavy. I tell myself that I'm just working my arm muscles. Walking, pushing the stroller, and carrying you. Ridiculous.

You have such a sweet nature. Easy going. You like to be at home and nurse on your Boppy. As much as I don't mind nursing you anywhere, anytime, and here you are, just wanting your comfortable football hold where you and I can just gaze at each other. I have to admit, I like it too.

Today, you and your brother nursed together. We don't do that often, but today, you each latched on, and you stared at him. You hadn't ever noticed him before - even when he would stroke your head while you nursed together. But today, you and he locked eyes and I felt the urge to stop tandem nursing fall away again.

You are a big boy, you know. Not even three months old and you are already wearing 6 month and up clothes. I spent yesterday packing away two full boxes of clothes that you have already outgrown. I'm not sure what I will do with them yet.

I know that I will miss these tiny baby days. I feel them slipping away. But I have to say, I'm really looking forward to the things we will get to do when you can crawl and walk and run and talk and play and all of the amazing learning you have already started to do.

I'm going to try and write more. There is so much to say about you and your brother. I'm just not willing to do it at the expense of staring into those captivating navy blue eyes. You are my love.

Another battle in the war

I hate cancer.

That's a really stupid thing to say. It implies that maybe someone out there doesn't hate it.

Momma's numbers are down and her scans show improvement. Not enough to get a break from chemo, but improvement nonetheless.

My friend Susan, however, did not have clean scans and is facing another battle.

The thing that makes me so angry is not the cancer itself. It's the freaking inconvenience. Susan has things to do. Great things because she is a freaking genius. Great things because she is an awesome mom. Great things that the world will have to wait on because of cancer.

We're brushing off our Team Whymommy badges. We're remembering when the wall of support started. We're lifting prayers and positive energy.

Keep fighting, SuSu. It's worth it. You make the world a better place.

In which we take the mall by storm

I don't frequent the mall. Most of my shopping is done online for now. Of course, most of my shopping is for two small boys. My clothes, at least the ones that aren't maternity clothes, are all three years old if not much older.

Yesterday, I had a shirt from Gymboree that I needed to return because the sleeve fell apart the first time I washed it. I figured it would be easier to just pop by and swap it out at the store rather than mailing it and all. I also wanted to get Bird some Crocs for the summer, so I had two reasons to go. I always have to have at least two reasons to go to the mall.

I dropped Bird off at preschool. Squeak and I headed to Crabtree. On the way there, I realized that we didn't have any money in the account. Kevin was in a meeting and couldn't make the transfer. I didn't want to go home because I was almost there and dang it - I had worked out my day so carefully. So I called Momma and walked her through (she has the patience of a saint, I tell you) transferring money online for me. Crisis averted. Ha.

Squeak and I returned the shirt and wandered over to the Crocs store. Did you know there was a whole store of Crocs? Do we really need that many different kinds of Crocs? And are there really enough adults still wearing them to warrant an entire store? Apparently so. Who knew?

Anyway, I found some navy blue Crocs for Bird and went to check out only to find that I had no debit card. No way to pay. I wasn't sure what I was more upset about - losing my debit card or having my shopping day ruined.

By the time I got home, I remembered that Kevin had taken my debit card to use at the ATM. It wasn't lost, so I was free to just be annoyed that my shopping trip was ruined.

All of this to SAY, we went back to the mall last evening as a family. We left the mall with more questions than purchases.

1. When did the mall become the place for strippers to shop?
2. Okay, so that was harsh. How about this: When did the mall become the place for 14 year old girls who want to look like strippers to shop?
3. How come I can't find anything between Ann Taylor and Target that I might possibly want to wear?
4. Why does our Food Court have two Greek restaurants, but yet there doesn't seem to be one decent one outside the mall?
5. When did stores stop taking checks? Like at all?
6. Is it ever possible to get past the hair straightening kiosk without one of those women chasing you down with a blazing hot iron? As in, I'm wearing my infant child, so no, I don't want you to sample your burn maker on me.
7. When did everything get so expensive?
8. When did I get so old?

By the time we were done eating dinner and shopping, we had come to some clear realities about ourselves. We are old. We are cheap, but with expensive tastes. We are more crunchy than 99% of the people at the mall. We probably shouldn't go back anytime soon.

It's true. We really should avoid it for awhile. Considering that some of the highlights included Bird's gDiaper leaking a river, causing us to let him go pantless for the rest of the trip AND Squeak needing to nurse in the middle of Ann Taylor, but Bird needing to go to bed, so I compromised and got Squeak latched on in Ann Taylor and then just walked through the mall to the car while nursing Squeak and trying to get Bird to quit screaming . . . well, let's just say we created a bit of a scene.

Bird: no pants and very loud.
Squeak: latched on and grunting.
Me: half a boob hanging out and mei tei dragging along behind me.
Kevin: stroller, diaper bag, and all purchases hanging from each arm.

Crabtree will never be the same.

Common sense

It's amazing how very little time I have at the computer where I have two free hands. If I'm sitting down, I'm either nursing or holding a sleeping baby. If neither of those things are going on, then I'm on the run. And I cannot type with one hand. If my fingers can't keep up with my brain, I get very bored.

There has been plenty going on. Both boys have been to the emergency room, and Squeak was admitted and spent 3 days in the hospital. Both boys are fine now, and I've learned a great deal about being a parent in a worst case scenario driven health care system.

First, Bird was sent to the ER in the middle of the night by the call service nurse for our pediatrician. After days of fever from a fever virus that had finally climbed to 104.9 that morning, we found him crying in his crib with a temperature of 95 that night. Weird. So I called, and we were sent packing to the ER.

The short version, which is just as interesting but far less painful than the long version, is that Bird was just fine. In fact, by the time the doctor saw him, he was dancing around the exam room like Mick Jagger in his footie pajamas. We felt ridiculous for being there when what we should have done was gotten him up at home and observed him there for a little while before calling or going in. Lesson #1 learned.

Being the generous big brother that he is, Bird shared his virus with Squeak. Even though I know fever is serious in itty bitties, I wasn't that worried. His fever was 100.8 though, and I felt more comfortable taking him to the pediatrician. He looked good. He was eating, peeing, and pooping normally. So she ordered a blood culture and a urine sample and sent us home after consulting with some of her colleagues because of his age. I admit, I was nudging her along to the "go home" decision. I did not want to end up in the hospital with Squeak.

Beverly, our pediatrician, wanted to see him the next morning, just to be on the safe side, so we went back in and she declared him fever free and looking good. Big sighs were issued on a dodged bullet on this one, and we said our good byes.

Then, around 4:00 that afternoon, another doctor in the practice called and told us we had to get Squeak to the hospital NOW. As in, I was nursing him at the time and was supposed to stop and go to the ER. Weird, since he hadn't had a fever all day and seemed fine.

Again, the short version is far more interesting. He's fine. Not for a lack of invasive testing though. Bacteria in the blood is serious - if it's making you sick. However, there are instances where it's not making you sick, and there are even more instances of blood cultures being wrong due to contamination.

After three blood cultures (one out of each arm and the last out of his ankle), two catheters for urine cultures, one spinal tap, and a weekend of IV antibiotics, they decided that Squeak had a virus that he had kicked on his own.

Duh.

While I think we all did the right thing at the beginning, there was definitely a point when I should have stood up and argued more. Demanded that they start using common sense and stop following the doctor rule book. I understand that rules are there for a reason, but Squeak was so obviously NOT sick anymore - it was just ridiculous to keep torturing him with that IV and more blood culture draws.

I should have stood up for my baby and said no to the last round of tests. I know now.

The nurses we had were wonderful though. It was refreshing to be around nurses who assumed that as Squeak's mama, I had it under control. They treated us with common sense actually. I stayed with him, and he co-slept with me the whole time. They never questioned whether I was feeding him enough and never suggested that I didn't know what was best for him. Since he showed every sign of a healthy baby with faulty test results, they treated him that way. Instead of following the clock, they followed his cues and took his temp when he happened to be awake. They made the stay quite bearable, and I am very grateful.

It's hard to argue with a doctor though. One of them asked me at one point if I actually had a scientific background. I guess I wasn't supposed to question so much? I told her that I did not, but that the definition of stupid was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Okay, so I didn't really say that, but I wanted to, and said some extremely nice version of it that went something like, "doing the same test over and over again until you get the result you want seems very unscientific to me."

It's hard to argue with a doctor when they have the scare card in their deck. "IF" is a very powerful word when it comes to your child's health.

There has to be a balance when it comes to listening to the parent and following the doctor rule book.

I wonder if they wrote common sense into the fancy new health care bill? The health care system could use a huge dose of common sense for sure.















Home again and happy about it.

Dumb rules I made before I had children

I will never buy my children clothes with licensed characters on them . . .

I've added a new category to the blog. It's called "Dumb rules I made before I had children."

Certain, I think.

Today was my last appointment for this pregnancy and birth. The six week check up. I'm officially released into the wild again.

I am sad.

The thing is, I loved going to the Birth Center. I looked forward to my appointments and now they are over. I loved this journey of learning to trust my body and my baby. I loved the whole experience. And now with the help of Zoloft, I'm loving the postpartum period too.

I'm so happy with the way everything went and how everything is, I could be pooping rainbows.

Only now it's over.

I know what people will say. Nice people will reassure me that there might be another one. You never know what the future holds. Maybe you'll have one more. They will be trying to make me feel better.

The problem is, I know in my heart that we're done. It's not that we only wanted three children; truth be told, we would enjoy one or two more. There are so many things to consider though, the biggest of which is time.

Kevin and I didn't get married just so we could have kids. We got married because we love each other and because neither of us can think of another person we would rather spend time with. We got married because we love to walk together, cook together, travel together, make music together, go to concerts together, and 100 other things together. Selfishly, we would like to get back to some of those things as a couple before we turn 60. If that's going to happen (and we remain the kind of parents we want to be), we have to stop having kids.

Another issue with time is that Lovely is entering high school this year. That means in just four more years, she'll be heading to college. We want to be able to spend time with her. We want to go to the football games if she's in the marching band. We want to support her in whatever she chooses to do. A lot of what she'll be doing will take place at night, and right now, I would have to stay home with the boys. And taking a 3 year old to a piano recital? Not a good idea.

And still another time limitation is that I truly believe each child deserves some valuable one on one time with each parent during the week. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, Kevin works his hiney off. Between the amount of work he has to do and the commute, he is easily gone 50-60 hours a week and then still might have work to do from home. Add to that the never ending home addition, and you have a daddy whose time is stretched pretty thin as it is. Another child would likely mean someone's going to end up shortchanged.

I probably don't even have to mention our age. Neither of us are spring chickens, and by the time we would be ready to add another bambino to our clan, I would be 39 and Kevin would be 48. He wants to be able to keep up with his boys and be a fun, active dad. As do I (inserting "mom," of course). Watching him doing flips in the inflatable bounce house on Sunday, I marveled at his youth and called BS on his claim of being an old man. However, I respect the fact that he doesn't want to be 66 when his last kid graduates from high school. I get that.

I know I'm going to have to be talked down from the baby bug again and again. Shoot, even though we've planned on a permanent contraceptive procedure, I still brought home information on an IUD today. Just in case.

But really, I know. And really, I'm okay with it.

It says a lot about a place and the people that work there though, to have them make me want to have another baby just because they helped make the experience so wonderful. Thank you, WBWC. I love y'all more than you know.

Parkinson's brothers

Disclaimer: My family can be weird. Shut up. So can yours. Yes, I'm about to tell you that I read important family news on my mother's blog. It's better than when I read it on her Facebook page.

This morning I was catching up on some blog reading, including my momma's blog. It's a good thing I did, because I learned some big news. My uncle has Parkinson's. My father's little brother has been diagnosed with Parkinson's. Just like my father.

My first thought was how horrible that is for him. Just in general.

Then I jumped to how horrible it is that he has watched my father's plummeting decline for the past six years. He has a good idea of what is in store for himself, and it isn't pretty. I think this would be a case of ignorance being bliss.

Finally, I jumped to the selfish thoughts. About heredity and genetics. Two brothers hit with the same disease at almost the exact same time in their lives? My mind jumps to my twitching leg and my recently diagnosed depression. Is the anxiety I battle a precursor? Because I know my father battled it. I fight many of the same battles I watched him succumb to as I grew up. The temper, the nervousness, the paranoia. I see myself in him so very much.

I had been convinced that my dad's illness was tied up to his chemical exposure in Vietnam. That it was completely environment that made this happen to his body. I guess we know now that's not the case. The obvious answer would be genetics, but then again, it could be toxins from when they were children. They have never lived in the same place as adults though.

I want my husband, who works in genetics research, to figure this out. Ironically, he'll probably be the first to tell me that trying to find a genetic link will just give us more questions rather than answers. Or something like that. Stupid science. Dumb genetic research.

Is there prevention? I guess that's the question that I really should be seeking an answer. It's worth a shot at the very least, and more than likely, any prevention is tied up tight within a healthy lifestyle that I should be living anyway.

Yes, I still blog here

Gratuitous picture of my beautiful boys. Bird always wants to hold Squeak. It's sweet and a little dangerous all at the same time. He's going to love his little brother to death if we don't watch out.

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Remember that last post? The one with the bullets? With this bullet in particular?

• I don't feel well. I've had a low grade fever all week, have some sort of weird rash on my legs and back, my skin aches to the touch and itches, and some of my joints hurt. How weird is that? I'm almost embarrassed to call for an appointment because those symptoms are just lame. But dude, I really don't feel well.

Yeah. The next day, I couldn't walk without help. We headed to the urgent care and found out that I had a nasty case of shingles.

Fair. Not. All that work to be back up and going right after Squeak's birth was hosed. I was down for the count for at least a week and have just now, almost 3 weeks later, gotten back to being able to handle a normal day of activity without my leg crying out in pain at the end of the day. The not very creative way to put it is that it completely sucked.

The salt in the proverbial wound is that my leg, which is currently one of two parts of my body that aren't pudgy (the other being my wrists), and is my husband's favorite part of me, is pretty scarred up now. I'm not sure if it's going to go away. I suppose only time will tell. I hope so, but I'll take the scars over the pain any day.

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This morning, Squeak and I are headed to our La Leche League meeting. Poor Bird is sick again, so he's staying home with his daddy. Bird had to be picked up from preschool yesterday, and by 5:00 this morning, I had him in a lukewarm bath trying to get his fever of 104 to break. He's better this morning, but I'm grateful that Kevin stayed home to help. Yesterday was not easy.

Anyway, I've been thinking about La Leche League and wondering if I might want to become a leader. In theory, I would love to. I'm just not sure that I'm "LLL enough" to be a leader. I'm pretty moderate in my parenting philosophies if you were to average them out. As in, we vaccinate on schedule for the most part, but an artificial nipple will not touch Squeak's lips. As in, we co-sleep until the baby is ready to move, but eventually we are going to do some sleep training if we need to. Basically, we do what works for our family, and at the end of the day, I think that might be "LLL enough," but I'm not sure.

I really believe though, that moms need support and encouragement to breastfeed successfully. If that is something I could do, I think I would like to. I'm a little fearful of the commitment also. Sound wishy washy? Yeah. I know.

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It's March, and I haven't written about Bird's second birthday. So many people just flat out ignored his birthday this year. I wasn't one of them, but I didn't do as much as I would have liked. But it hurt my feelings for him - being ignored for your birthday is rotten, even if you are only 2 and don't realize it yet. Hurts my mama heart.

That's all I'll say about that now. He deserves a full post for his big 2 year old day.

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Amazingly, I got to type all of this in one sitting and didn't have to hold any children while doing so. If I don't stop now, that will no longer be true. So I end here, with way too much left to say, and a severe lack of editing in this wad of words. My apologies.

Biting the bullet

There is a point that is reached in blogging - a point of no return from whatever has been keeping you from writing. It is at this point where we turn to the cop out of all blogging techniques: bullets.

I am at this point of bullets.

• Bird turned two. I have pictures and stories about his second birthday, but they aren't here yet. I'm working on it. He turned two just two days after Squeak was born. I can see it now - the little brother teasing the big brother that his birthday comes first. I'm considering just lying to them and telling them they were both born on the 25th. Split the difference.
• Squeak had his two week appointment earlier this week. Not only has he regained up to his birth weight, but he has also put on a pound. He is a big tub of squishy baby love.
• I don't feel well. I've had a low grade fever all week, have some sort of weird rash on my legs and back, my skin aches to the touch and itches, and some of my joints hurt. How weird is that? I'm almost embarrassed to call for an appointment because those symptoms are just lame. But dude, I really don't feel well.
• Wednesday, at the grocery store, the nice lady handing out sushi samples asked how old Squeak was. When I told her that he was 2 weeks old, she exclaimed that I looked "great!". She followed that lovely compliment up with this, "I mean, you chubby, but you not 2 week old chubby. You like six month chubby," grinning the whole time. I could hardly stop myself from laughing out loud before I could get my sushi and get out of there. Or waddle my 6 month chubby self out of there, as the case may be.
• I broke my new phone. Because I suck.
• Our new urologist's name is Dr. Weiner. Because I am 12, I laughed and laughed before I realized the other people in the room were not laughing with me. Then I apologized for being 12.
• I cannot stop eating Kara's homemade granola bars. Can. Not. Stop.
• Need to insert my foot in mouth on this post, because my gut instincts were right. Some times people are just what they seem to be on the surface. Probably more times than not. But for whatever reason, Kevin and I both have the fatal flaw of assuming that people are good no matter how many clues they give us up until the time it completely bites us in the ass.
• My stolen purse? Recovered in Fayetteville, which is about 90 minutes from here. Cards and phone are gone, but my license and keys were still there. We tried to go pick it up before Squeak came, but the evidence room was closed on MLK Day, which they neglected to mention to us when they said, "Come anytime between 8:00 and 5:00, Monday through Friday." The other postscript to that story is that Holly Aiken is amazing. She found that post and offered to remake the purse for me for free. Because she is amazing. I'm waiting to take her up on it until I see what condition the original purse is in. Maybe it's alright, or maybe they used it for an ashtray. I won't know until I can make it back to Fayetteville when the evidence room is actually open. I've been a little busy having a baby and all.
• My husband is awesome, and has been doing so much to help out with Bird and Squeak and making sure dinner is on the table every night. He rocks.
• After a holiday season of watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" waaaaaay too many times, Bird now calls all jazz, "Brown music," which I will no doubt have some explaining to do if he says that in certain situations.

I suppose that's enough for now. Life is crazy. I can't believe I'm the mom of two boys now. I can't believe we're done having kids. I can't believe my own life's checklist is getting back to finding some time to do my own recording. I can't believe I got to have the birth experience I so deeply desired. I can't believe I'm still rambling on when I could be using this time to actually bathe. I smell.

Pictures soon, I promise.

Squeak's water birth

This is how I started Bird's birth story, and I think it still applies with some minor edits:

I'm reminded more and more that this space, though shared with many, is still first and foremost a personal journal. So as I begin this journey through becoming the mother of two, I'll most likely drone on and on. Don't feel badly to skip some posts, come back later, or even just skim. I'm going to just record it all for the record.

For the record, for my record, the very long birth story about about a not so long birth.

It was noon on a Saturday. The day before my due date. I realized that I had forgotten to get a baby book for Squeak, and I had library books to return (which are still in my car at this moment), so we loaded up the family and headed to Borders with plans to go by the library after that.

I'm walking through the bookstore, mumbling to myself that they are always moving things around when I became uncomfortably aware that my water had broken. A quick escape to the bathroom and a couple of curses at my unpreparedness confirmed it for me. I came out with a sheepish grin on my face, and Kevin didn't even have to ask.

"You're kidding me," he said.

He wanted to bolt and started rounding up Lovely and Bird. I wanted to buy the dang baby book I had come for, and I did. It's not the most wonderful baby book in the world, but at least he has one. Maybe he was just waiting on me to buy him one before he came.

We grabbed some lunch at a drive thru and headed for the house. I called the midwife and my doula to let them know that my water had broken, but that I didn't have any contractions. It was just like Bird's beginning except that I wasn't freaked out by it, and I didn't have a jackass OB telling me that it was a worst case scenario to have no contractions and have my water broken.

I made a list of things to encourage labor to get on with it. The midwife had suggestions and so did Julie, our doula. I sent Kevin to Whole Foods to get me some more raspberry leaf tea and a king cake. The king cake didn't have anything to do with labor, but it was awfully yummy. I sat on the birthing ball and bounced. I walked steps. We did some other things that are none of yo' beezwax.

By 7:00 or so, there was still nothing, and the midwife started talking castor oil. I really didn't want to go there, but I was willing. She gave me until the morning to do it because she wanted me to get a good night's sleep.

Julie paid lip service to the good night's sleep as well, but confided in us that she had taken a nap in preparation because she knew that as soon as I lay down to go to sleep, the contractions would start. She showed us some acupressure points, and told us to call her when contractions were coming 10 minutes apart for an hour.

From that point on, it was like whatever was suggested, my body took as a command. I went to bed around 10:30 and wasn't there 5 minutes before I had a contraction. By 12:30, we were calling the midwife to let her know they had been 10 minutes apart for a little over an hour. She said to call back when they were 5 minutes apart for an hour. The very next one came at five minutes, lasted for 2 minutes, and an hour after the first call, Kevin was making the second call while jumping into his blue jeans.

Meanwhile, I was changing the sheets for our neighbor, Cyndi, who was coming over to stay so we wouldn't have to wake the kids in the middle of the night. I did forget to leave out a clean towel for her, but I think I can get a pass on that.

I gathered up our meal for after labor, a Trader Joe's Moroccan chicken dinner, some juices, bananas, and the bags I had packed three weeks ago, and we hit the road.

Halfway to the Birth Center, the contractions had me gripping the door handle so hard I thought I might pull it off. They were way different than the ones at home. When we arrived, we parked in the back where I thought we were supposed to, and couldn't get in the building. After a phone call and a few more contractions, I finally just started beating on the door. Turns out, we could have just walked around to the front.

When we got inside, I tried laying down on the bed again to get some rest. Lee Ann, the midwife on call, checked me and declared (once again) that I had a lovely pelvis, which is nice to hear when you are aware that it is about to have to squeeze out a small watermelon. She also declared me to be pretty well effaced and about 3 cm. I was disappointed in the 3 cm, and assumed that we had a hella long road ahead of us. Lee Ann went to take a nap, because I think she assumed the same thing.

It was a little after 3:00 AM at this point.

By 3:27, I was standing up and having trouble focusing through contractions that were coming about 3 minutes apart and giving me just enough time to vomit in between them.

By 3:31, I was trying with all my might to subliminally will Kevin to put me in the car, take me to UNC and get me a freaking epidural.

It was best for me to quit watching the clock at this point. So I did.

The fear though, was that it was going to be like this for another 10 hours. I figured that 3 cm and my dang marathon labor with Bird were indicators that Squeak wasn't going to pop out for a good long time. I didn't think I could do what we were doing for much longer.

Julie kept saying to take it one contraction at a time. I heard her. I tried to heed it. I'm not sure how successful I was, but it was the only way to make it.

Some time before 5:00 AM, I asked to be checked again. Jewel, the midwife who was on nurse shift for the night, presented a brilliant diversion of the tub. I agreed to get in the tub. I needed to get off my feet, and I couldn't sit or lay down, so the tub seemed like a great plan to me. Much better than the plan I had concocted of getting checked, finding out I was only 4 cm, and running for my life towards the nearest medical intervention.

They started running the water in the tub, and it was like someone had put headphones over my ears and turned up the volume to eleven. It was so loud, and I couldn't keep to a low moan during contractions because I wanted to drown out that sound. I don't know why it was so awful, but it was. Finally, the tub was ready. I've seen women be all prepared and leave on their bras or a swim top or something. I just stripped completely naked and got in, trying to beat the next contraction.

As soon as I got in the water, my body gave me a five minute break. I slept soundly for five minutes. I only know it was five minutes because that's what they told me. It felt like an hour. That sleep was broken by a manageable contraction, which was then followed by the most freaked out I have ever been in my life.

I don't know how I came up with the scenario in my mind, but even though I knew I was going to be allowed to push naturally and with the rhythm within my own body, for some reason, I still thought that they were going to tell me when to start doing that.

Um, no.

The second tub contraction, I found myself pushing with all my might. The shadowing nurse jumped up and ran to get Lee Ann. She had just asked me if I was feeling some pressure, and I didn't answer her. I was trying to figure out what I was feeling when WHAM! Pushing.

All of the sudden I didn't feel the contractions anymore, but I knew when I should be pushing. I could feel his head almost immediately. Kevin grabbed one leg, giving me resistance to push against, while some of the other team members grabbed the other. I kept pushing and not getting him out until Lee Ann told me that there was a drop in his heart rate and I had to get it done.

At some point, Kevin thought it would be a good idea to document this water birth with a flashing camera. All he got was a blurry picture of me flipping him off and telling him to, "Cut it the f*** out!" Nice of me. I also remember screaming at anyone in earshot to "Take. Him. OUT!" because I was certain that there was plenty for them to grab and just pull. Crazy, I know.

Time was morphing. I thought for sure I was pushing forever, but really it was only about 15 minutes before I finally felt Squeak's head make it through. It was quickly followed by a chunky little body which before I could sigh with relief, was placed on my chest.

While the cord was pulsing, the team tried to get Squeak to cry. I'm not sure if there was tension or worry, because I was just soaking in the warmth and squishiness of my new son. But they kept at it until Squeak finally let out one good "WAH!" and then was quiet and content again.

After the placenta was delivered (which by the way, is really messy to do in the tub), I passed the little guy over to his daddy, who was ready for skin to skin (I love that man) with his new son.

I got out of the tub and dried off. Walked to the bed and sat down, watching my big man and little man bond. The midwife checked me out and declared me tear-free. Not a single stitch was needed, which amazed me since it felt like my vagina was turning inside out and being ripped apart.

We nursed. We rested a little bit. I got hungry, and NOT for Moroccan chicken. After all, it was morning. Kevin went out and got us breakfast.

The thing is, all of this post delivery stuff - I'm telling it like it's mundane. But it was the unknown bonus to Squeak's non-medicated entry into this world. I was knocked out from Bird's birth. Stayed in the hospital for two more nights and then took another week at home to be able to move around painlessly.

I was totally ready to go home about five hours after Squeak was born. It was awesome. Bird barely knew we were gone. He just had a lovely morning playdate with his BFF, Pippi, and then we were home with his baby brother.

I think the biggest difference in the whole experience is that I surrounded myself with people I trusted and put myself in an environment where I felt safe. I didn't go into the experience feeling like I would have to fight for simple things like being allowed to eat or drink if I was hungry. I was confident and had visualized the experience over and over again as positive and successful.

The whole thing was as close to perfect as I could have hoped for, except for the end result, which is far more perfect than I ever dreamed.







Welcome to the world, Little Squeak.

Squeak

It's difficult to find time to write when nursing is a two handed - who are we kidding - a 4 to 6 handed adventure. By the time little one has nursed himself to sleep again, I can't bear to put him down. So either way, nursing or sleeping, my computer has sat dormant this week.

The update is that things are going fine. Nursing is far more successful this time, even though we've still got a latch issue on one side. I'm getting plenty of sleep at random times throughout the day and night, and Kevin is making sure that I'm eating and drinking. Bird is not so crazy about the adjustment in family structure, but he's digging the reappearance of overflowing na-na's. Did you know that even toddlers can have the yellow seedy breastmilk poop? Not that you needed or wanted to know that. You're welcome.

Butterbean needs a new blog name. Mainly because I'm too lazy to type Butterbean all the time, and good heavens, he's a big chunk of rolly love, so "bean" just doesn't cut it. Kevin has started calling him "Squeak" because most of the noises he makes are just that - little squeaks. He rarely cries, but even when he does, it's not much more than some over zealous squeaking. He's still a mellow little dude. Maybe we should be calling him The Tiny Lebowski. Or maybe not.

I have to admit. I am already sad about Squeak being "the last one." Things have been so different this time. As I keep running into things that I only needed for pregnancy or birth, I get these twinges of blue that I won't need those things again. This coming from me, a woman who declared that she really didn't like the newborn stage. I take that back. Apparently, on Zoloft, I like the newborn stage very much. Or, it could just be that second time around, I'm a little better at it, and of course, there is the factor of Squeak being a totally different baby than Bird.

While I might be a little blue about it, there is that nagging bit about having to be responsible for that other person for at least the next 18 years. That's keeping me grounded. That, and the fact that we are too stinking old to have any more. We old and tired and would like to have some time to ourselves before one of us turns 80. So, we stop here, and it's alright.

But I feel a shift in priorities. I feel that pull towards spending as much time with my boys as possible. I want to shed off the things in my life that might take my attention from them. I savor the moments on the couch or on the bed where I have a nursling on either side of me. I love that this is my life now.

And with that, before I even get to work on that birth story, Squeak calls. Maybe I'll make it back here before another week passes.

He's beautiful

He's here and he's beautiful. I'm working on his birth story, but I don't want to leave any little bit of it out. Any part of Colin Henry's birth.

I can tell you this much. I didn't expect for him to be born in the water, but he was. And it was wonderful.

Welcome to the world, Little Squeak. Your mama has fallen in love with you already.

To the tune of Morning Has Broken

So I'm not going to live blog this birth or anything, but I'll probably Tweet it. Or at least update my Facebook status. That's just how it rolls these days.

Apparently, I have a method to giving birth. A method which involves my water breaking before contractions actually start. Boo hiss. If you Google some stats on that, I'm in a low 8% of women who that happens to.

Of course, last time, we were under the care of an OB and hospital who told us that it was a "worst case scenario" and to have some Pitocin.

Meh. Maybe we'll end up at the hospital again, maybe not. This time, we are under the care of midwives and have several things that we are doing to get those contractions going. In fact, I'm bouncing on my birthing ball as I type. Go, me.

Funny story, or at least mildy amusing, we were in Border's today because I realized I hadn't bought my littlest a baby book yet. I'm wandering around, trying to find the parenting section, when my water breaks. I guess I really waited until the last possible minute to buy that baby book, didn't I?

I'm so predictable. My water broke with Little Bird the day before his due date, and he was born the day after his due date. Hopefully though, this little dude will show up tomorrow, right smack dab on his due date. I wouldn't mind being in that low percentage there.

Wish me luck. I'm going to walk the stairs now.

Water has broken
Like the first labor
I hate Pitocin
It's evil stuff
So I'll just bounce here
Drink tea and do squats
Stimulate nipples
And walk the stairs.

It's a new folk song hit, people. Just wait.

Savoring

The silence doesn't mean much. It's just me turning inward a little, focusing on the job I have to do in the next couple of weeks. Focusing on the tangible now.

There was drama on the interwebs, and I knew that my emotional state and my big mouth needed to take a break. Step away for a little bit so that I could not waste my energy on fighting a battle that would soon dissipate into thin air as people simply moved on from it.

Besides, I have a job to do.

Week 37 presented with contraction after contraction. My face broke out, my tummy was upset, and I felt ready. So ready that I almost said "yes, come on" to my heart friend who I would love to be here for the birth. I'm glad I didn't though, because my littlest is still tucked warmly inside my belly, waiting on just the right moment to appear.

Week 38 presented with hardly any contractions and the energy to get some things clean around here. Kevin helped me with the kitchen, even cleaning off the bookcase which until now was simultaneously displaying my favorite Gail Pittman pieces, his favorite power tools, and a pound or two of dust. I am so happy to have it back to being pretty.

Week 39 is here. My littlest is a little less active; he tends to squirm most when I'm trying to sleep of course. I am peaceful. He will get here, one way or another, and within the next three weeks. I'm comfortable with all of the midwives. I have my bags packed. I have wonderful friends who are standing by to help us.

I'm into savoring.

Savoring each nursing session with Little Bird, as I don't know when it will be his last time not to have to share me. Savoring each morning that I get to roll over and lay on Kevin's chest while we snuggle and listen to the chit chat over the baby monitor. Savoring each turn and stretch that I feel inside me as I remind myself that this is what life is about now. No matter what parts of me remain - musician, arts advocate, teacher - the parts I love most are wife and mother.

The last days as a family of four are precious to me. I'm savoring them as best I can because once we become that family of five, I know that it will immediately replace these days as the best days of my life.

Dear Asshole Who Just Stole My Purse

Dear Asshole Who Just Stole My Purse,

Really? You take purses from the parking lot of a nice city park where families take their children to play? Did you happen to notice that I'm 39 weeks pregnant and toting around a 2 year old? Did it occur to you that carrying a purse too was just too much for me today?

I guess you did, since you stole it right out of my car.

All the cards and checks are canceled. The phone too. I don't carry cash. There is nothing for you there except my address. Which, if you had any decency about you, you would just drop off my favorite bag intact some time tonight. At which point I will forgive you and we'll call things even.

You took the pictures of my son that were on my phone. You took my day planner and all the information on my son's upcoming surgery. You took our evening. You've certainly tested my ability to hold it together.

I hope that you found my blogging business cards and come by for a peek. There was nothing for you to gain by taking my purse. If you happen to be the little shits who were throwing mulch all over the place where toddlers were trying to play, then yay for you. Maybe you feel some vindication because we asked you to stop.

More than likely, you're just some asshole who ruined our afternoon and took my most favorite Holly Aiken bag. Congratulations. I wish I had the pleasure of being around when karma comes back to you and gives it to you good.

Sincerely,
The sucker who forgot to lock her car today

A little holiday magic

Right before Christmas, Kevin and I took the kids to Great Wolf Lodge. It was a great way to get away with them before the new baby comes, and it was a great way to get me to slow down and not worry about everything I thought HAD to get done for the holidays.

I admit, it is a cheesy place. But it's supposed to be. It's for the kids to have fun and the parents to have fun watching them. That's exactly what we did.


I got my picture of the kids with Santa, and I didn't have to fight the mall to do it.

I got my Christmastime snowfall, and I didn't even have to wear a coat.

I got my time with my family, away from any schedules or hurry.

I got a lovely vacation only a couple of hours from home, and I got to don a swimsuit while 35 weeks pregnant. Mmmmmm, belly.

It was so very lovely. Honestly, it was a little magical. I think we could add it to the "tradition" list with just a little coaxing.

And no, Great Wolf Lodge did not compensate me for this post. They did send me a coupon code after I badgered them on Twitter endlessly. And we did go there on their dime in April which was also lovely, but not what this post was about. So there.

Microwave Smores Maker

This past holiday season, my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I pointed her to my Amazon wish list. She replied, "But it's the same as last year. You haven't updated it."

Well, that's because I didn't get anything off of it. Ahem.

I retold this anecdote to Kevin, my wonderful husband who had NO time to shop this year, and voila! My Amazon wish list appeared under the tree.

Minus a Kindle. But that's because I never use the iPod he bought me two years ago. Well, not never, but rarely. He's deemed me unworthy of new technology. I can't disagree I suppose.

Anyway, along with a Tom Waits TRIPLE cd set, an immersion blender, a book called Weekend Sewing, a pastry scraper, and a digital picture frame - was THIS:

A microwave smores maker.

I married the most wonderful man in the world.
















A few essentials from the store:














Set up of the high tech machinery. The little arms hold the smore together since the marshmallows go CRAZY in the microwave.














The finished product in the microwave:














Kevin tries a bite:














Kevin declares them to be quite lacking:














The overall result was lacking. The marshmallows don't have the chance to char over an open flame, which is my favorite part of smores. Kevin was definitely not sold on them. Me? I'm headed into the kitchen to give them a second chance. After all, melty chocolate goodness can never be far from wrong.

Split Pea Soup

Kevin and I have tried to marry our very different family culinary traditions during the winter holidays. I have loved learning to make pirogi, and tolerated learning to eat pickled herring. My favorite recipe of his mother's that we've adopted though is split pea soup.

Never in a million years did I imagine loving a thick green soup with barely any spices in the recipe, but I do.

Split Pea Soup

16 oz package of green split peas
3 qts of water or enough water to cover
1 small ham shank or bone (with plenty of ham left on it)
1 large onion, finely chopped
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 1/2 cups finely diced carrots
1 cup finely diced celery
1 cup finely diced potatoes

In a large pot combine peas, water, ham shank or bone and simmer for 1 1/2 hours. Remove ham shank or bone. Stir in carrots, potatoes, onions, and celery. Simmer an additional 1 1/2 hours or until soup reaches desired thickness.


Of course, by now you know that I've got some "but I do it this way" to add to any recipe. This one is no different.

First of all, we cut up even more ham and add it to the soup at the half way point. We use big chunks of potatoes. And of course, I use stock instead of water. Usually I have plenty of turkey stock left over from Thanksgiving, and I'll just use that.

However, this year, my fabulous brother and sil sent Kevin a rack of ribs from Dreamland. They were delicious. We ate them for lunch the day we made the soup, so I collected the rib bones and made stock from them.

Let me tell you. There is no other way to make pea soup now. That stock was amazing, and lent the perfect marriage of our southern and northern roots to an old recipe.

Yum.

Starting

Kevin has declared 2009 the year in which nothing was finished. My new shiny outlook gets to declare 2009 the year in which many things began.

Either way, we still have major construction going on at our house.

It's going to be lovely when it's done.

That's my mantra. I say it three times as I breath slowly and stare out the back into the mud and mess. Really, it's not that bad. It is going to be lovely, and Rob, our contractor, is an amazing miracle worker. Truly.

2010 will be the year for finishing a lot of thing though. The house will get finished. Our family will be complete. Kevin will finish up a lot of lingering projects at work. He's really looking forward to it.

I'm okay with not being finished though. I'm kind of looking forward to starting a bunch more new things in 2010. Here are a few that come to mind:

1. Becoming a mama of two boys.
2. Learning to live without the extreme highs and lows I've had.
3. Tandem nursing.
4. Writing and recording again finally.
5. Getting back in shape.

Lovely will be starting high school. Little Bird will be starting multiple days of preschool. And my littlest boy will be starting life.

So here's to never completely finishing and finding plenty of new things to start in 2010.

Happy New Year, everyone.

None of us is the only one

Why is that during the times I have the most to say, I find it hardest to say anything at all?

Two weeks ago, I had the most productive appointment with a health care professional that I've ever had in my life. I left it feeling defeated and broken. I thought I had received terrible news that would pigeon hole me and leave me with an unshakable stigma.

It only took four days after that for me to realize that I didn't care about the pigeon hole or the stigma. I felt so much better in just four days that I couldn't believe I ever cared about any of that.

I have clinical depression, but I don't look like those commercials you see on TV. I don't sit around in my pajamas and ignore all of the people around me. Mine manifests itself in anger, anxiety, and irrational reactions to stuff that should roll off my back.

When Sarah suggested that I start Zoloft, she might as well have said to me, "You are a complete failure, and you aren't capable of managing your life." I didn't want to hear that my issues weren't something that I could fix myself. Of course, that was some seriously small minded thinking. Because I am fixing them myself. Starting with an itty bity dose of Zoloft every night.

Four days. That's all it took for me to pull out of the black place I was in, look around, and realize that I should have done this so so so much sooner. It's not going to completely fix me, but it's helping me become a better mother and wife and person by allowing me to stand firmly on both feet. It's given me some stability.

It's taken me two weeks to write about this because I wasn't sure that I wanted it out there for everyone in the world to see. However, when I was feeling at my lowest after that appointment, I only knew one person to call for advice. Lucky for me, she answered the phone and talked to me as long as I needed to.

Since then, though, I've found out that I'm really not alone in this. More friends have stepped up with, "Me too." None of us is the only one.

So I'm out, and I'm saying that this is one of the better decisions in my life. A tiny little pill. A whole lot of clear headedness.

I'm on my way to being the wife and mother I should have been all along. It's a great feeling.

My 12 days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A broken washing machine.

On the second day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the third day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the fourth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the fifth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the sixth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the seventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the eighth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the ninth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the tenth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the eleventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Dog poop on the floor
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me.
A high of 65
Dog poop on the floor
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

Ho, ho, freaking ho. Thank goodness for the fifth day of Christmas.

Here's to time with whatever part of your family you get to be with, whatever food you get to eat, and however full your stockings are. Christmas is coming tomorrow whether I like it or not. Might as well enjoy it as it is.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

Twas the night before Christmas Eve

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care.

The presents are wrapped and under the tree.

The pirogi are in the fridge and Papa has bought the ham.

And none of the rushing around or planning matters because Little Bird has a fever of 102. Funny how all of the sudden I don't care about finishing the family's pajama pants when my little boy just needs me to hold him while he fretfully sleeps.

All I want for Christmas is for my little boy to get well and stay well. Poor Little Bird.

I'm still no scrooge, but . . .

I have a confession to make.

I'm not really in the Christmas spirit. I know. I'm supposed to be the jolliest elf of them all with my trees, my Santas, the celebration of each day of Advent, the baking, the wrapping, the Little People Nativity every day. I'm supposed to be the annoying holiday neighbor.

But I'm just not. I haven't been playing much Christmas music. I've baked one batch of cookies. The outside of the house isn't decorated because the yard is so destroyed and nasty right now - I just don't feel like calling even more attention to with lights in the dogwood and the adorable animated elephant I bought last year.

I'm so tired. The thought of baking everything I usually bake makes me want to cry. It's just not going to happen. My poor lingering two students came and went today without even a card from me. That's never happened before.

I didn't mail our Christmas cards until today. They've never been that late before. I think it's fine - except for the one headed to Sweden.

Kevin asked me to not cook for Christmas. This usually would have insulted me greatly, but this year I was actually relieved. I'm probably going to buy the pirogi from The Fresh Market and spend the energy I would have used making them to hunt down some decent pickled herring. That card that is going to Sweden? Is going to the woman who made me a pickled herring fan. It was really awesome, but she's not here anymore. I just cannot go back to the jar from Costco.

Christmas day, Papa is going to cook a ham. I'll do some cheese grits, but other than that, nothing special. Some fruit. Some pastries, that I'll buy. It's all just too tiring.

This is so not like me. I love the holidays and all of the busyness that comes with them. I love the baking and the shopping and the wrapping and the getting to everything at church that happens. But between Little Bird being sick all of last week and how absolutely miserable I feel now, I just can't live up to my own expectations.

So I guess I'll just have to lower them a little. That will be alright for this year.

Forgotten birthday

Today was my father-in-law's birthday, and we completely forgot. It's just another stupid thing I've done this week. I can't keep anything straight and keep making the dumbest mistakes. I don't remember being this flaky when I was pregnant with Bird. Maybe I should check my archives.

I teach on Wednesday afternoons, getting done at 5:30. Tonight, I finished up and asked Papa if he was going to stay for dinner. He said he would if he was invited. Of course he was. He had picked Lovely up from school and brought her home. Then the two of them were helping with Bird while I finished teaching. Dinner was the least I could do. Except that I had completely forgotten that he eats with us every other Wednesday, and had only thawed two chicken breasts for dinner.

Luckily, while Papa and Bird were in the other room, Lovely said quietly to me, "Did you know today is Papa's birthday?"

Oh, crap. I had forgotten. Totally forgotten. I started to cry. It's my job to remember these things, and if we don't celebrate Papa's birthday, then who will? I felt awful.

Here's where I got creative. Perhaps I should have just told him that I forgot both dinner and his birthday and moved on, but I just couldn't. I cut the chicken into tenderloins so that it could be shared by all of us. I pulled the turnips from last week and this week's CSA delivery and roasted them all. I tossed in some of the green onions, and steamed the greens from the turnips to bed it all on. Then, just in case, I heated up some English peas, because I didn't think Papa liked greens very much. While all of that was going, I made a chocolate chip pound cake, but poured it in a sheet cake pan so it would bake faster.

After everything in the kitchen was put together and the table set, I ran upstairs and raided the stocking stuffers I had already bought for him. I pulled the movie that was supposed to go in his stocking and wrapped it for his birthday instead. I can always buy another movie before Christmas. I put it on the table in front of his place.

A phone call to Kevin while he was commuting home served as a warning that we had forgotten Papa's birthday, but don't let on.

We sang to him. Even Bird helped out by wishing him, "Happy DAY! Happy DAY cake!!!" He opened his present. Then we said good night and bid farewell.

I'm too chicken to ask him if he could tell we forgot. I hope that he didn't. Because forgetting his birthday is not how we really feel about him. You don't forget the birthdays of people you love. And we love our Papa.

Next year I'll make it up to him. I hope.

So it's not a tradition. That's alright.

I love traditions. I especially love long time traditions, but I'll take the new ones too. This time of year is full of traditions, and having children makes me want to establish even more.

Last year, Lovely and I took Bird to see Santa. She is such a good sport, and even sat on Santa's lap with her little brother. While we were waiting for Santa to finish his lunch break, we went to Build-a-Bear and got reindeer with twinkling lights on their antlers. It was a really fun afternoon, and I declared it a tradition.

Today, we attempted the second year of this tradition and included Kevin. Can I just say that doing this on a Sunday close to Christmas was not a great idea? Plus, it was Bird's first outing since he's been sick, and he got tired pretty quickly.

When we arrived at Santa's lair, the line wound all the way around, and Santa was nowhere to be seen. I'm not sure how I'm so adept at showing up when he goes on break.

So we decided to go to Build-a-Bear first. I'm pretty sure that a good time was had by all, which is good, since we went back to an even longer line at Santa and went home with no pictures. Lucky for us, Santa is going to the Great Wolf Lodge at the exact same time we are! I think we'll just wait for our pictures then. I declare the mall off limits from now until January.

Necessary cuddling

My absence here was necessitated by the need to be holding my child with both hands and arms for the past three days. On Tuesday morning, he woke up with a fever of 101.4 and it didn't go down until last night. By Wednesday night it was spiking up near 104, so Little Bird came to bed with me, and I basically watched him sleep all night long.

I have to admit. He has been so snuggly this week, and sleeping with him was so awesome. Granted, I didn't sleep, but having him cuddle up to me and sleep with his little head on my shoulder was heavenly. Poor Kevin had to sleep on the couch because Bird pretty much slept perpendicular in the bed, but still. One night of snuggle blissdom. I'm just sorry that it had to be because Bird was so sick.

He's better today, although I'm sneaking in a blog post during a very unusual morning nap. I'm just glad he's sleeping. He woke up without a fever this morning, but still with no appetite and no desire to do anything but be held by Mama and watch the Charlie Brown Christmas special over and over and over again.

I guess one more couch day with the remote and a stack of books won't kill either of us.

If you are wondering where my usually ridiculous prompt Christmas cards are though, they are still sitting unsealed and unstamped in the chair across the room. I have had some cuddling come up that just couldn't be ignored.

Cookies, anyone?

Last night, after Little Bird was in bed, I started making my first batch of Christmas cookies. There was a cookie exchange for my woman's circle at the church this morning, and I was supposed to bring 10 dozen cookies.

Best laid plans, right?

I went to get started, opened the fridge and found that I only had one stick of butter. I needed five. My dear, sweet, wonderful husband changed out of his pajama pants and went to the store at 8:30 at night.

By 11:00, I was finally finishing up baking the cookies. I still had to turn them into oh so delicious little double doozies with my frosting, and roll them in my crushed candy canes, but I went to bed instead. Figured I could do that part in the morning.

This morning, Bird woke up with 101.4 fever. That meant no school for him, no cookie exchange for me, and a trip to the doctor.

I can't decide if I'm upset by the 120 chewy chocolate double doozies on my counter or thrilled to death. A little of both, I believe.

Cookies, anyone?

Acceptance

We have an interim minister at our church right now. I don't envy his position at all. There is a huge staff and the previous senior pastor had been at the church for a long time. His delivery is stiff and not particularly inviting. He looks and sounds more like a Baptist minister, if you know what I mean.

Not that any of this is relevant. Other than, regardless of his demeanor, he struck a chord in me today.

The Advent liturgy always stumbles through John the Baptist. Like the brussel sprouts you have to eat before you can have your figgy pudding, you have to have a Sunday in Advent where somebody talks about John the Baptist.

Today though, I realized that I really don't mind it. Adding in the repentance in Advent actually is something to enjoy. A clean slate. A dumping of the baggage you've been carrying. It makes it far easier to celebrate when you've had a good helping of repentance.

What Bill said this morning that was so striking was about victims. It wasn't a main point of the morning, rather just something he was mentioning on his way to repentance. He said that it is all too common today for people to have no concept of repentance because it's always someone else's fault. Our society is full of victims who aren't really victims.

I should have taken notes, because that's not exactly it, but it's close.

I guess that's why I don't mind the repentance part though. I like to own it all, the good and the bad. Even when I was in therapy trying to work through the emotional and sexual abuse I endured my senior year of high school - even then, when we got to the part about how none of it was my fault and I was the victim - that was when I stopped. I had to own the fact that I chose to stay silent. I had to own the knowledge that regardless of the threats made against me, I knew I could find help, and I didn't.

There have been plenty of mistakes in my life. Mistakes that I've made. Some of them I'll be happy to drag out into the public eye, and others I'll keep between me and God and Kevin if he wants the laundry list.

There is only one aspect of my life in which I truly feel like a victim. Where there was nothing I could have done to change things. Nothing I did to have such a horrible outcome. Nothing that I could have done to stop it.

That would be the pregnancies I have lost.

After that first loss, I tried. I tried so hard to figure out a way to own it. I wanted to find a reason that I could place the blame on myself so that I wouldn't be a victim.

I hate being the victim.

But then I lost another. And another. And I began to accept the fact that there really was nothing I could do or could have done.

I guess it's December, and I'm going to be thinking about the babies that will never be along with some of my other friends. And I repent how I was arrogant enough to believe that I had complete control over my pregnancies. It just doesn't work that way.

I'm ready to quit trying to own it now and let the victims just be victims.

Unfiltered

The birth center called. My thyroid test came back normal. I'm thinking I'm supposed to be glad about that, and I am in regards to no drugs and baby is okay. However, the flip side to that is that if everything is normal, then I'm just a little bit crazy. Awesome.

I suppose if my dear family can hang with me until about June of next year, I'll be leveling out again by then. I'm pretty sure Kevin can hang that long. Poor Papa may not make it though. He is so lucky that I'm comfortable enough around him that I don't feel like I have to fake things. Yes, that was sarcasm.

If I could just get a filter, things would be better. Things that actually are annoying, I tend to just call as they are instead of filtering a socially acceptable response. As in, the neighbor who was talking to another neighbor and her two dogs IN my driveway AT naptime. True, it was annoying to have them choose my driveway to stand in with the dogs, thereby driving my dogs insane and waking up Little Bird. However, I wish I could have thought of something to say other than, "Hey, y'all. I'm trying to get my child to sleep and you are driving my dogs insane. Could you please move?" Something nicer. I can only think of meaner things, not nicer ones.

I'm harsh. I know it. No filters. It makes for the crazy to come across even crazier. Awesome.

Twitchy

It's been awhile since I've had a really soul bearing session here. I have to admit, ever since I linked up to Facebook and also found out that not everyone in the blogosphere who claims to be your friend, isn't after all? I haven't been so free to just let it all out here. It's still my space though, and some days, I need to use it like I need to use it. Now is one of those times.

In short, I gots me some issues.

Pregnancy exacerbates the problems. I've thought many times that it's a good thing this is our last baby. I don't think I could do this again.

I have highs and lows that are driving me and poor Kevin crazy. Anxiety and panic attacks. I'm exhausted, but I can't sit still.

The biggest problem is that it comes and goes. I'll have a great week and then an awful week. So just when I convince myself to do something about it, I get better again and forget about it.

Then, I crash.

Lucky for me, I crashed today when I had a midwife appointment. After giving Kevin all sorts of hell before I left the house, I show up for my appointment and have to wait 45 minutes with a toddler at his lunchtime. There was no way for me to hide how upset I was, but instead of just being angry about waiting, something prodded me to just tell her about the crashing. Explain that I was angry at everything, even puppies and sunshine.

When she asked me if I had anything I needed help with today, I believe my exact words were, "Yes. My legs and ankles are really swollen, and I seem to be a bitch, but I don't want to be."

She didn't blow me off or offer me someone to talk to or a pill to take. I liked that. She did mention that it sounded like a thyroid issue and we could do some blood work to check. I liked that too. It felt proactive.

For now, I'm continuing feeding my ridiculous chocolate obsession and have just finished some hot tea with the Rescue Remedy I had stowed away for former foster dogs. I do feel better.

Still twitchy though. And still crying for no reason. And okay, I'm still kind of pissed off at the world when the world hasn't really done anything to me. Most of it anyway. There are a few places where I could be justifiably irritated, but right now I'm too tired to think about it.

Maybe I can sleep straight through until the next high. That would be nice.

Here comes Santa Claus

It's December 1st. All neighborhood pumpkins are on notice. Starting with these.

The Christmas season is upon us, and I have plenty of felt. Loads of it.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.