Uncomfortably Honest and Honestly Uncomfortable

My 'Dear Abby' Letter To You

2012-02-28T11:24:00.001-05:00

Have I thanked you guys, my wonderful friends who spend your valuable time reading my ramblings on motherhood and crazyhood? Thank you. And I'm not just saying that because I need some help...Um, but I do need help in the form of advice from my smart mommy friends. And you, too Mr. Donohoe, if you read this. I do think you are my only regular male reader besides Zeke who is contractually obliged to read every post and I don't want you to feel left out. Particularly because you've done the potty training thing once already.

So. Potty training. Seems like we are finally ready. I mean, I've been ready for over a year. Think Z has been ready that long as well. But now T is on board. On Friday he told me he didn't want to pee in his diaper. Each day he has been peeing in the potty more and more. Yesterday he asked to wear big boy underwear, which stayed on his bottom for less than 10 minutes. He spent the morning in a shirt and socks, peed 6 times on the pot and only had one accident-conveniently on the hardwood floor for easy clean up.

At nap time I told him he needed to wear a diaper and I zipped him into his footie pjs facing backwards. He's been wearing that getup to nap and sleep in for over a month, since he figured out how to take off his pjs and diaper and pee and poop all over his room. He cried for a bit about injustice of having to wear the pjs, which he hasn't done before. And when he woke he had pooped in the diaper. After I cleaned him up I told him he didn't have to wear a diaper if he didn't want, but he wanted a pull up. Throughout the afternoon into evening I asked him again and again if he had to pee, but he always said "No!" Then this morning he went comando again until it was time for school. I told him he had to wear pants to school (I know, I'm a bitch), but he could wear big boy undies or pull ups. He opted for the pull ups, although he carried the underwear. And as soon as we entered the classroom he full on blew his nose into them, which is another matter altogether.

Here's my questions, folks: I don't push it, right? If he doesn't want to use the big boy potty in the afternoon I need to not press the issue, right? What did you guys do for naps with your kiddos? If I give him the option to go to the bathroom during nap he'll use it as an excuse to not nap at all. And he needs to nap, not just for my sanity. Dude still sleeps for two, sometimes three hours in the afternoon. If he doesn't he is a wreck. He needs his sleep, just like mommy. What did you guys do at night? What did you do when you needed to leave the house (like for school, or for the dreaded airplane trip on Saturday) in the middle of potty training before the kid really got it?

Please friends, help me. Because this feels like a mine field. I don't want to screw it up, I don't want to pressure him, I'm cool with cleaning up accidents and all that jazz I just don't want to do something that is going to freak him out and make him regress.

He scrunched up the wrapper from his chocolate and said, "Look Mommy! It's a 'C'!"

Later he grabbed his brother's arm and shouted, "Brackium Emendo!" Name that Harry Potter moment....

His tiny hiney is so damn adorable.

C can't keep his tongue is his mouth, T was the same way as a baby.

Seriously unsure what he is doing here.

If You Can't Laugh At the Anxiety...

2012-02-25T11:57:00.000-05:00

The anxiety has been on hyper drive over here for the last few weeks. At least there are clear reasons. In a week I'll be taking two little guys on an airplane solo to go see my folks. My shrink even thinks it's a bad idea, but whatever, I really want to see my family. C's sleep has deteriorated terribly. We've got him back on track with the nights, but he isn't napping, which makes me want to slit my wrists (Metaphorically, people, metaphorically. I'm not suicidal at all). The boys just came off antibiotics and are getting brand new colds, and the whole being pulled over thing did not help matters.

So what happens when I get like this? I feel fat. Last night I was making pizza for dinner and I suddenly couldn't stand it for a minute longer. I told Z I had to run upstairs. Where I promptly took off every item of clothing I had on and got on the scale. My relationship with my body is so damaged that it didn't even help that the number was smaller than I expected. Because I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself and felt total disgust and shame. Then I put yoga pants and a comfy top on and trudged back downstairs.

I told Z what I had done when I started making diner again. He grabbed my shoulders and begged me to take a chill pill. Me, "Hell yes! But we have to wait until I get C down."

And I did take a pill after C fell asleep. It helped. Checking out pinterest helped. The NCIS rerun helped. On the nights where I'm spiraling into anxiety overdrive Z deserves a break. Thankfully there is a bar within walking distance that has beer for $2.50. He got a quiet night without a crazy wife. I was asleep before 10. Which I know because I was passed out when C's crying woke me at 10:03.

The question is what is going to help today? I can't take a chill pill every day. We don't get on the plane for another week and my family and I can't bear my mental state for 7 more days, one or all of us will explode. I'm going to try to keep my clothes on and stay off of the scale of doom. I'm going to make a key lime pie and some red sauce that will simmer on the stove for hours. We are going to see friends we haven't seen in several years tonight. Maybe by playing at being normal I'll start to feel that way.

And please, if you struggle with anxiety, please, thing of me wildly stripping off my clothing and standing naked and shivering on a scale, breath held until the number appeared. Because, come on, it's fucking hilarious and demented. Because if laughing at me makes you feel one tiny bit better then I'm doing something right and this whole over-sharing blog thing is worth it.

C considering the long term effects of having a crazy mommy.

Did you know I enamel? I've been doing these for some friends. A penny from the year you were born, a penny from the year your sweetheart was born, first initials stamped on both of them, and into the kiln. The quality of the photo stinks, but this is mine.

The No Shampoo Thing

2012-02-24T16:51:00.000-05:00

And now for something completely different....Back in early November I decided to take the plunge into the world of no shampoo. Don't get all grossed out, I still clean my hair. I just do it with a baking soda and water combo followed by diluted raw apple cider vinegar. I'd first heard of this method over the summer, but I wanted to talk to the knowledgable lady who cuts my hair before I started myself. She told me it sounded like it would work and told me I should give it a shot. I'm almost 4 months in, and honestly can't see going back to shampoo and conditioner. Today I got my first haircut since the switch. The lovely lady I go to has been cutting my hair since we moved here and she said my hair has never felt so good. She said it was fuller looking (and I've just experienced extreme post partum hair shedding), shiny, and soft. She owns the salon I go to, and she sells shampoo and conditioner. But she said she was going to suggest the method to some of her clients. There is absolutely no reason for her to blow smoke up my ass about this, it seriously has made a change in my hair. I've thought so, but it made me feel great to get a professional's feedback. I've chronicled a bit of the experiment on facebook and a couple of friends asked for details. So here goes:

I bought plastic measuring spoons, and a plastic 1 C measuring cup. Yes plastic isn't environmentally friendly, but seriously, it is bathroom safe. At the hospital they gave me a 1 C capacity squeeze bottle to wash my lady bits with warm water postpartum. Yes, I'm going to gross you out and admit I use it for my hair now. What? It was free. And I totally ran it through the dishwater. A lot of people mix quantities in advance, but I find it easy enough to mix what I need the day I wash my hair. I put just less than 1 tablespoon of baking soda in the measuring cup and fill it to 1C with hot water. I swirl it around and pour it into the squeeze bottle and then set it on the rim of the tub. Then I wash out the measuring cup, shake the bottle of vinegar to incorporate the sediment, pour in 2 tablespoons of vinegar, and fill it to 1C with hot water and then set the measuring cup on the side of the tub. Before I get in I comb my hair. Then I wet it down, shake the squeeze bottle, and really saturate my hair with it, getting all parts of my scalp. For a minute or two I massage my scalp and then I rinse really well. I grab the measuring cup of vinegar and drop the ends of my hair (which tend to be dry) in for a minute or two. Then I pour it on my scalp. Let it hang out for a bit, then rinse it really really well. The last thing I do is comb my hair with the water running on it. I do this about every 4th day. On the other days I just wet my hair, massage my scalp for a bit, and comb it with water running on it. Days I'm washing doesn't take much longer than conventional shampoo and conditioner.

This is what works for my hair. The bummer is it might not be exactly what you need, so you need to experiment until you get it right. But once you do it will be worth it.
Stuff to know:

A friend who also does this mentioned she used shampoo out of convenience and two days later her hair was greasy. This is because shampooing completely strips your hair and scalp of oil. That's why it feels "clean". But it sends your scalp into crazy oil over production. So if you give this a shot, well, for the first several days or weeks your hair might be greasy until it stops over producing. Which sucks. But stick with it and you'll be rewarded.
While visiting family over the holidays I needed to wash every 3 days, rather than every 4 because of the soft water at my family's home. Evidently, how often you need to wash can change with the seasons as well. Just pay attention to what your hair wants.
My hair cut lady told me all hair product is water soluble. My hair is dreadfully flat and fine, so I use gel at the roots every day. Because my ends are dry I also rub a bit of oil into the bottoms every day. On the days I don't clean, the water rinse removes those items and I reapply.
No, you don't smell like vinegar. I promise. Sometimes I can still faintly smell it at the end of my shower, but never when it is dry. You just smell like...nothing. Which is super disconcerting after a lifetime of shampoo fragrance. The body oil on the ends helps with that. The kind I like is extremely expensive, though. So I've gotten some jojoba oil and the essential oils in the pricy one I like and I'm mixing my own. Be careful to just use a tiny bit if you are going this route. The ends can look really greasy really fast if you use too much.
If your hair seems dry, cut back on the amount of baking soda. If you hair seems greasy, cut back on the amount of vinegar.
We traveled for three weeks to two different locations over the holidays and I had no problem doing this. I brought my cup and spoon and bought apple cider vinegar (regular stuff, not the braggs and it was fine) and baking soda at the locations.
Before I did this I washed and conditioned my hair every single day. I've learned that was too much no matter if one does this method or sticks to the shampoo. It's not good to strip your hair every single day. So if you're doing that, cut it out. Even if you don't do the hippy dippy no shampoo deal.
The meaning of "clean" changes for you. When I used shampoo my hair would literally squeak when I ran my hands over it after rinsing. And I loved that feeling. But that feeling was actually terrible for my hair. So I've just gotten used to life without it. But I honestly don't feel unclean. And I'm one of those hyper vigilant people about cleanliness. But now my hair is clean and healthy.

If there are any questions I'd be happy to answer them to the best of my ability. But this is all just my experience and I'm not expert. This post really does have great info. If any of you decide to do it, please do let me know how it goes!

My supplies. Yes, I should put the vinegar in something non-breakable. I am courting disaster. Don't be as dumb as me. I do store the vinegar and soda in a childproofed cabinet, though.

So this is my hair back in mid November after a few shampoo-free weeks. I don't have one from before I started for comparison. Sorry.

And this is today. It's grossly flat because I didn't ask for any gel when I got it cut. And there's a hell of a lot less of it than there was in November. Do you know about postpartum hair shedding? It is horrifying. The hair comes out in clumps, and it is all over everything in you home. Add it to the list of super awesome stuff that happens to your body during breeding.

Guess who asked to use the potty twice today?

He peed in the potty three times yesterday. During lunch he looked at me and said, "I don't want to pee in my diaper." I do not have the words to express my excitement. Those of you who have changed diaper after diaper of full on grown up human type poop know what I mean. I'm not trying to jinx it, but we are headed in a very good direction.

Somehow It Always Comes Back to Breastfeeding

2012-02-22T16:38:00.000-05:00

What's the old saying? If you want to make god laugh tell him your plans? A couple of posts ago I said I couldn't image doing CIO with C. Um, he's stopped sleeping since then. He's miserable and Z and I are definitely miserable. In the last few weeks C has gotten his first ear infection, he is teething though no teeth have broken through, he's been nursing more frequently, when he does wake he isn't my happy little guy, rather he's really pissed off by life. And I've somehow lost the damn sleep training book I used with T. I'm not saying we are going to do CIO tomorrow. I don't know exactly what to do. But going from waking zero times a night to waking two times a night and getting up for good between four and five isn't working for any of us.

Little dude is changing. Stands to reason, we are days from him turning 6 months. He's left newborn status behind and is a full fledged baby. Boy, am I not ready. I can't make dinner while holding him with one arm while he nurses anymore. He's too big. The transition from the nursing in the rocking chair to the crib isn't nearly as smooth these days because I can't scoop him up and remove the boppy without jostling the hell out of him. And the constant nursing? I am ravenously hungry and so incredibly thirsty all the time. Listen, the fact that he's growing up is undoubtably a good thing. To not grow indicates an alternative too horrible to contemplate. But it's bittersweet. They are tiny for such a short time, I'm trying my damnedest to actually appreciate every moment but it goes so fast. The second time is flying by even faster than the first.

I'm trying to soak up all the details. Did you know that breastfed babies have sweet breath until they start on solids? Probably sounds creepy, but I could sit with him in my lap, smelling his sweet little breath for hours on end. Um, did you also notice all this stuff about growing up is seeming to revolve around him being breastfed? That wasn't the direction I was planning on taking this post, I was planning on concentrating on the sleep stuff. But sometimes writing helps me sort out what the real issue is for me. He's going to be 6 months old next week. It's time to start him on cereal.

Before I started this blog I wrote a few notes on Facebook. This is one I wrote just over two years ago. I could have written it this afternoon. Falling in love with T was simple. But the first few months were still hard because you don't get much back from a baby. They just sort of lie there, it's a huge deal when the roll over or reach for a toy and that stuff isn't really riveting. Parenting a toddler is incredibly frustrating, but the payoff is so huge. Toddlers are hilarious. They also tell you they love you, ask you if you are sad and give you hugs, they are pretty amazing. So I have all that wonderful affection from T, I really don't give a crap that C doesn't give it to me. I get to enjoy him without needed anything in return. I've got to remember to thank T for that when he gets up from his nap. So falling in love with T was simple, but falling in love with C was even easier.

The selfish part of me doesn't want to let go of the control of exclusively breastfeeding, I don't want him to stop being mine. I'm just as panicked by it this time as I was last time, even though I know he is going to be even more fun a year from now. But every day he grows a bit closer to leaving our little family and growing up. We get them for such a short time. I feel like 18 years ago was just yesterday. Senior year of high school. I mean, it just happened. Didn't it Robinson Rams? And the verdict is still out on if we are going try for a third. There is a strong possibility that this is the last time I get to do this. It's time to stop being selfish and start getting used to the idea I need to let him go. In the meantime there is the important business of trying to teach him to be a good man. Recently I came across this quote by Frederick Douglas on Pinterest, "It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men." (thanks T. Tara) What an incredible reminder of what parenting is all about. It is easier. But it's still damn hard work. Zeke and I are doing our best, though.

This picture hangs on a wall of photos that lines our stairway. When I asked T who it was he said, "Thomas!" I'm probably around 18months here.

He's definitely my kid.

And sweet C isn't miserable all the time, mostly when he's trying to wake up, or when he's sleepy, ok, so a lot of the time. But the rest of the time he's like this.

And the Winner is...Anxiety

2012-02-18T10:26:00.000-05:00

It seems like a little thing, removing T's car seat from the car and leaving it at preschool so he can go on a field trip. But I'd been dreading it for a week. New stuff scares me. In fact, I'll do anything to avoid learning how to do things that seem overwhelming. Sadly, figuring how to maneuver a toddler car seat falls into that category. The fear comes from the possibility that I am too stupid to handle even the easy stuff. So moving the car seat is Z's thing. Except Z teaches while T is in school, and I had an errand to run. Otherwise I would have attended the field trip simply so I wouldn't have to learn how to move the seat. That's how convoluted and cumbersome an anxiety disorder is.

Z taught me how to install it the night before, and of course it was completely manageable. But I still woke up with fear gripping my belly. I knew if I made one false step in the day something terrible would happen. When was the right time to leave for school? If I forgot one thing and had to turn back would that be the catalyst for the terrible thing? Would there be a sign? Would it be luck? Would I fuck it up?

I got the seat out of the car and T's teacher actually came out to grab it so I wouldn't have to make two trips, then she recruited the school's director to take T in so I didn't even need to take C out of the car. Several hours later T's teacher was back in the parking lot when I arrived to hand me the seat and I got it installed with no problem. I breathed a sigh of relief and went inside to pick up T.

I thought I'd passed the test orchestrated by my anxiety. My guard was completely down as I pulled out of the parking lot. The roads of south campus are winding and filled with stop signs. Three turns out of the lot I noticed the campes security car with its lights flashing. I didn't recall doing anything wrong, so I pulled over and assumed the car would go around. It pulled behind me. And it sat there. And sat there. And sat some more. What the hell was going on? After a few minutes another security car with its lights on pulled up. I couldn't imagine that this was for me, I started to get out of the car to find out what the deal was and an officer in the second car shouted at me to get back inside. I started to get really scared. T wanted to know what was going on and I didn't know what to tell him.

Finally an officer in the first car approached my window. "What the hell is going on?" I asked. Looking back, that was not a great opener, but while I haven't been pulled over that many times this was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, "What the hell is going on?" he yelled, "You blew right through that stop sign?" I gave him a blank look. I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. "You didn't stop at the first sign, and then you stopped at the second," Long pause. "I need your licence and registration." I gave it to him without saying anything and he walked away.

I don't think I ran the stop sign. I really don't. But I can't say for sure because I don't clearly remember. But the traffic violation really isn't the point here. The whole tenor of this event with the long waits and two vehicles was terrifying. And confusing. And I felt completely unwarranted. He was taking so long in his car my fear just grew and grew. And finally he got out of the car. But another officer got out as well. They were both slowly walking towards the car from either side. The man on the passenger side put his hand by his weapon. What the fuck was going on? Was I going to be arrested? For running a stop sign? Why did this man have his hand near he weapon as he was looking in my rear window and at my boys? I was so paralyzed that I couldn't take my eyes off the man. Time seemed to stand still and I was jolted back to reality by the other officer rapping on my window. I'd completely lost track of him because of the second officer. I didn't say a word as he handed me my license, registration, and ticket and explained how to plead guilty or innocent. They pulled out at I put my papers away. I saw one of them in a parking lot ahead.

I pulled back on the road behind a bus. That didn't completely stop at the next stop sign. In view of the cop. Which I know is neither here nor there, but it still rankled me. And I kept it together until I got home and was unable to reach Z on the phone. I did get a hold of my parents but still I didn't start crying until I got to the part about the officer with his hand near his gun.

So it was a shitty scary thing. So while I am positive I didn't "blow through" the stop sign the possibility does exist that I didn't come to a full stop for three seconds (which I seem to recall is the law). So the behavior of the officers was (in my experience) incredibly unusual. So this event was not orchestrated by my anxiety disorder to keep me in line and let me know I was not, under any circumstance, to try to learn new things and take a more active role in my life. But sweet jesus, that is what it feels like.

The sick part of me says, "Karen. You were right. You shouldn't have dared learn how to do the car seat. Who the fuck to you think you are? You are nothing. You are useless. You deserved to be shamed and if you try and face things that scare you in the future I will make you pay." And now I am scared to drive on South Campus. T's wonderful school no longer feels safe. And since Thursday the dread has settled into my bones and my throat and my belly. Z had a work obligation last night and I put the boys down alone for the first time since their bedtimes became the same time. When I got downstairs I should have been relieved, but my anxiety took hold. I was waiting for something terrible to happen, for someone to break in, for something awful to happen to one of the boys. I sat on the sofa until Z came home, frightened in my own home, the anxiety punishing me. I am stuck, positive something truly terrible is going to happen. And it will be my fault.

For the boys I need to fight this off. And I hope I will. But right now I feel completely defeated. I feel like the anxiety is the only part of me that is truly strong. I feel like I will be punished any time I try to fight it, I feel like the boys will be punished if I surrender.

I mean, who would want to fail a face like this?

His smiles for the camera are getting a bit less menacing.

I love putting T's hand-me-downs on him, it's like visiting old friends. And who cares that my uterus seems incapable of growing babies with hair when you get to wear awesome shirts like this?

New clothes from wonderful friends are a lot of fun as well. Thanks again, Chris.

This Job Is Hard

2012-02-08T15:38:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I have no clue how to do this parenting thing. I was just putting T down for his nap which is quite a production. He tries to draw it out for as long as possible, Z and I have come up with an order of events and we work hard not to deviate from them no matter how much he whines/sobs/pleads. We got to the second drink of water portion of naptime prep (no, I'm not kidding) and he said, "I'm being Molly!" and he went limp in my arms, head back, mouth open, tongue out. My breath caught in my throat and I started to cry.

"Molly" is the not-real-name of one of the little girls in T's preschool. Her developmental issues are so severe that she is unable to sit up unassisted, she is blind, she does not speak, and from what I understand it is unclear if she will ever be able to do those things. She is the youngest of 3 or 4 kids and I think she is the only member of the family with developmental issues. Every time I see her my emotions cycle so quickly I have whiplash. I hurt for her and her family, I rail at god for being so unfair, even though I know it isn't useful and her family probably would resent me for it I pity her, and the small, selfish, shitty part of myself feels fear. I want another baby. I'm 35 now, we have two healthy boys. Would I be temping fate if we have another? But ultimately I'm happy she is there. I'm happy she has qualified professionals with her at school helping her to participate and enriching her life. I'm happy she has a caring family.

T's school partners with an awesome preschool in Syracuse that has been educating "typical children" and "special needs children" in the same classrooms since 1975. There are trained special needs teachers in each class. I love it. Kids who need something extra are quickly identified by the wonderful teachers and the school facilitates getting those kids help. I also love the idea of T growing up with special needs children as a way of de-stigmatizing them. It is so easy for kids to fear or reject "different". I want my son to be the kind of kid who accepts all kinds of people and who will help others who need it. Pretty lofty goals, I know. But exposing him to all kinds of kids and making them part of his normal seems like a great start.

So when he started mimicking Molly I didn't know how to explain to him why he shouldn't do it. I like to think he's a pretty smart kid, but he isn't quite two and a half. I understand he is just "trying on" what he is seeing and that it is normal. There certainly wasn't anything malicious behind it. And I asked him to stop. I told him that Molly isn't playing, she actually can't sit up and needs to be held. So it isn't nice to pretend to be like her because she would love to be able to talk, and sit up, and play with the other kids. I don't know. Was that the right thing to say? Am I expecting him to understand too much? What is the correct way to handle that situation?

I handed him the cup of water and held him tight and said a prayer to the god I'm not sure I believe it, thanking him for my two perfect boys, begging him to forgive my selfishness and send me one more, and asking him, "How could you? How could you do this to Molly and her family?"

The guy at our local firehouse are so awesome. T loves to watch them work on the trucks and they are kind as can be to him, he always comes home with a hat.

So I realize this looks like he is leaning on the chair, but I swear he wasn't. Dude is sitting up by himself!

This might look like just some stick from our yard, but I assure you it is not. It is a mighty magic wand!

He just disarmed me. Expelliarmus is one of his specialties.

The Dreaded Sleep Training

2012-02-02T21:27:00.000-05:00

Back when T was C's age I vacillated between feeling wretched and defiant that we did Cry It Out (CIO). At this point in time there is no way we will do CIO with C. Did I have some crisis of conscience and see the error of my ways? Nope. This isn't going to turn into some indictment of CIO, I am more convinced than ever that we used the right method for T.

Can I tell you how annoying I find it when people say that every kid is different? Totally drives me bonkers. Except it turns out that every kid actually is different. Parenting is all about rolling with the punches. I would never do CIO with C because he doesn't need it. T needed it. I will not force the same parenting methods down both kid's throats. They are individuals and need to be treated as such.

C isn't sleeping through the night anymore. I'm more tired than I was when he was new, but dude was an extraordinary newborn. I can't complain about him going to bed around 8 and waking up between 4 and 5 to be fed. He's 5 months old and he's been getting up once in the night since we returned from the holidays. According to the wise internet this is totally normal. He isn't eating as well during the day because life is so exciting. If I try and nurse him anywhere that isn't a dark room with no one else in it he keeps breaking off to grin at whoever is around. Stands to reason he wakes up hungry.

The sleep training crisis was much more straightforward with T. That child simply wouldn't sleep. We did CIO because there was no other option. All three of us were sleep deprived and miserable. Before he was born I was sure (of so many things that didn't happen) that we would have a family bed. I couldn't wait to cuddle up to my sweet baby and my husband and have a peaceful night of sleep. Not only would T not sleep in bed with us, he wouldn't sleep in his crib, he wouldn't sleep if we were holding him and trying to soothe him, he wouldn't sleep if we drove him around in the car. He screamed and cried for hours on end. That first night we did CIO and he wept for 2.5 hours it was so awful. Listening to him was so painful my skin hurt. But that sensation wasn't new, it had been happening for months. The difference was he was a floor away and he wasn't screaming in my ear. Which made it both better and much, much worse. T had no idea how to sleep and we needed to teach him. And he got it, he became both a champion sleeper and napper. Until his brother was born, but that is a story for another day. So yes, there was a simple answer for T's problems, but let's get real, that simple answer was incredibly hard to execute.

T needed a rigid schedule. The bedtime routine started at 7pm, nap at 9am, and at 1pm. If we deviated from those times at all we would pay the price for days on end. C doesn't even have a morning naptime. He catches a cat nap here and there, but we have too much going on in the mornings and he doesn't make a fuss. If we don't get him down to bed at the exact same time it doesn't make any difference to him. After being a slave to T's needs it's rather amazing. But the times C is hard to soothe, when he wakes 3 times a night instead of once, if he cries for an hour from 10pm to 11pm I feel completely helpless and lost. There isn't a "right" answer that I can believe in. I'm still trying to figure out what he needs in those difficult moments.

I'm grateful to C for so many things. His existence has soothed the pain of the miscarriage. That pain will never fully go away, but it is now a dull ache. I remember and mourn the loss, but I celebrate the life of my sweet baby. I'm also grateful that he is so different than T. My eldest is a rascal, he's a clever kid ready to have fun, and play with words, and work an angle to get what he wants. Watching his little brain synthesize all the information that is thrown at him blows my mind. Even when he was 5 months old there was a mischievousness in his smile. C really looks at you and thinks about it and then rewards you with a smile. He makes you feel like you've earned something grand when he smiles at you. He is full of sweetness. With all their differences it is easy for me to remember that I must be a different mom to both of them. I must pay attention to what they need and not just give them the same thing out of some sense of "fairness". T needed CIO. C needs, well I'm not quite sure what he needs, but I know it isn't CIO. And when he does have rough nights I'm trying hard to figure out what I can do to help.

There will be a potty training post soon. I'm thinking of calling it "Adventures in Excrement". Pretty catchy, right?

Notice his footie pjs are on backwards. That will be covered in the post.

Thanks for the amazing overalls, Chris! Z loves them!

Yeah, he's a big 5 month old. He can sit when carefully propped up.

Until big brother comes along.

Go Read My Friend's Blog

2012-01-27T16:09:00.000-05:00

Kelly was an acquaintance in high school, and I was rather terrified of her. She was all sorts of confident and sexy and all the guys wanted to get in her pants, but the amazing thing is they also wanted to be friends with her. She was by far the coolest member of the drama crowd, which I know isn't saying much, but she'd be cool no matter who she hung out with. It was like she almost legitimized the band of freaks that we were to the rest of the school. So fast forward a decade and a half and she and I become friends on facebook. And we somehow morph into actual friends. Z, T, C, and I visited her and her family a few weeks ago at her home in NC. First time I'd seen her in 17 years. The internet is weird.

Anyway, her blog is awesome. It is incredibly honest about the hard stuff and honesty is like crack to me. She had a baby last week and today she posted about the hormonal nuttiness that happens when you are very recently postpartum. She wrapped it up with a photo of her belly one week after giving birth. And it made me think of this post that I wrote 30 days before C was born. I included pictures of myself in all my huge glory and promised to post pictures in the same dress a few weeks after C arrived to show how a flabby postpartum belly looks.

I've felt guilty about not putting on the dress and taking pictures ever since. But the reason I didn't do it wasn't that I didn't want to show my gross postpartum self. As someone who struggles with positive self image, any opportunity to rake myself over the coals in a public forum is welcome. Instead I felt guilty because I was one of the ladies who ended up losing weight quickly. And I felt like posting pictures would have been bragging. Look at me! Yes, I'm technically still overweight, but I weigh less than a did when I got pregnant! How gross. It wasn't just the bragging aspect of things that kept me from posting the picture. The rapid weight loss was a direct result of the hemorrhage that occurred six hours after C was born. It was another example of my body failing me. With T there was the preeclampsia and retained placenta. With the miscarriage there was THE MISCARRIAGE, and the D&C because it was an incomplete miscarriage, and then the never ending saga of passing all the "products of conception". With C there was the hemorrhage.

It was hands down one of the scariest moments of my life. A few weeks after it happened Z told me it was one of the scariest moments of his life, too. He said that blood was actually gushing out of me, he said it was like a bad horror movie because if you saw that much blood on the screen it would look fake and ridiculous. And the next several weeks were scary as well. I was so incredibly weak. My postpartum emotions were tied up in the fact that I was physically unable to care for my newborn and toddler. I was so lucky to have my parents there and desperately clung to them and their help.

Kelly was able to have the birth experience that she wanted, unmedicated at a birthing center. I am so proud of her for achieving her goal. But I'm jealous, too. Not so much of the unmedicated part, I'm a total epidural gal. And I'm not interested in the holier-than-thou battle of epidural vs. natural (though I chafe at the term natural-it indicates there is something not natural about giving birth any other way). Like in most things I think there is a choice to be made and just because my choice was epidural doesn't mean I look down on those who made other choices. I admire the hell out of the unmedicated ladies and the c-section ladies. All roads to birthing a baby are tough. Hell, sometime circumstances dictate the situation no matter what choice you make. We should be supporting each other rather than judging those who have different ideas than our own. And honestly, C's actual birth couldn't have gone any better. I still get the warm fuzzies when I think about pushing him into this world.

What I'm jealous of is that her body didn't betray her. She didn't hold on to a piece of her placenta, she didn't gush blood while doctors took turns reaching into her uterus to pull out blood clots, her body behaved itself. When I think of my body's weakness I feel shame and guilt and fear. I think about those first few weeks of C's life when all I could do was lay in bed. I think about the middle of the night calls to the doctor's office when I was convinced I was going to hemorrhage again and needed to be talked off the ledge. I think about wanting another child and being scared my body can't handle it. I was too ashamed to post a picture of who I was at that time, I might have had a relatively flat stomach, but I felt like a colossal failure.

The picture Kelly posted is beautiful. She looks strong and happy. This is the woman who left the birth center hours after having her daughter and walked into her home while carrying that baby. She is a total rock star. I may be jealous of her, but I don't begrudge her the success of her experience one bit.

Sometimes your kids are sitting on the sofa and looking totally adorable and you want to share that adorableness with the world and this is what you get instead.

Check out this kid's lashes. I've always had the shortest thinest lashes ever, it amazes me that my boys have such thick beautiful ones.

What Scares the Marrieds

2012-01-20T20:26:00.000-05:00

Do you want to know a secret about married people? Or at least this married person? I am terrified when couples split up. Terrified. Crazy, panicked, Terrified. Separations have been on my mind a lot this week because of this and this. It is scary enough when people split who aren't doing well, but when it's folks who seem to have figured it out, even if you don't know those folks in real life, it is actually devastating. Why? Because, at least in my experience, marriage is the hardest thing in the entire world. It is harder than pushing two babies out of your vagina, it is harder than struggling with mental illness, it is harder than the hardest job you have ever had. And it is constant work. So when people bow out of the marriage game you start to wonder if anything is really forever. If anyone actually makes it. If even though things are going really well right now, it all might just explode in your face next year. Except it isn't about just the two of you anymore, there are two kids who will have to deal with the repercussions. There is strength in numbers, when couples split my selfish, asshole, knee-jerk reaction is "could this happen to me?"

Do. Not. Get. Me. Wrong. I adore marriage. I love my marriage in particular. I am better when part of a team, I have no intrest in not being married. And I only want to be married to Z. He is my rock, he is my roll, he cracks me up and I find him wildly attractive. He also drives me bat shit crazy every single day. Back when our marriage almost fell apart we made a commitment to do the fucking work to save it. That doesn't mean we worked for a while till we were back on track and then all was peachy-keen. We decided to do really hard, really tiresome, really bang-your-head-against-the-wall work forever. We stopped chasing perfect, there is no such thing. Just like in any endeavor we nutty humans undertake we know there will be shitty times. We will hurt each other (though we try not to), but what matters is we will try to be better to each other next time. We accept we are flawed and the marriage is flawed. The key is we are on the same page with our decisions. One member of the team can't make the whole thing work, and the choice to stay in it needs to be made again every single day. We are in a better place in our marriage than we have ever been, yet we still go to couples therapy every other week. So yes, we do the work, but there is no guarantee that both of us will keep our end of the bargin. We might do the work for years and years and still blow it. It is crazy blind faith that we both try every day. I guess it is like religion. Because I'm not sure I believe in God I guess it is the only religion I believe in. But even believers have doubts.

Z feels like we had our crisis, we both decided we are all the way in, and we don't have much to worry about. If you haven't noticed I live in constant fear of everything. I think if I'm not worried about my marriage every minute, if I take my eyes off of it for a second, I'll lose everything. And there. Exactly there it is. The terror comes from the fear of losing everything. Marriage is the hardest thing I've ever done, but it is also the best. To be able to let every single wall you built to protect yourself down, to lay yourself so bear that you've even shed your skin, and to have someone say, "Yup. It is pretty freaky in there, you are twelve kinds of looney tunes, but whatever. I love you anyway. I accept you. I will spend my life with you. I AM ON YOUR SIDE." The idea of losing that is the most frightening thing in the world. Seriously. It is honestly as scary as the thought of losing one of the boys. Z knows me better than anyone in this huge crazy world, he knows things no one else knows, my absolute deepest and darkest shames, and I'll be damned, he still loves me. How fucking crazy and wonderful is that? It is the most precious gift I will ever receive. I can't bear the thought of losing it.

And dude is not perfect, but I'll tell you what. I love every imperfect inch of him. Ok, if he stopped crunching chips so loudly I'd be super cool with it. But I see him. I see who he really is and I accept him. I want him to keep growing, keep becoming a better man, and I believe he will. I make the choice to take him, noisy chewing and all. Until death do us part. I hope, I pray, I believe.

So here's T back when he was C's age. Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith

He's in a cradle that has been in Z's family for generations. Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith

Here's C in the same outfit.

He's super yum.

I can't seem to stop posting pictures of his cuteness.

C getting ready to take a dip in the tub. Does he look like T in the first picture, or what?

The Hardest Part

2012-01-17T16:11:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon we met up with some friends to take the boys sledding. We were late, of course. And when we got to the hill we discovered T didn't have his gloves on. After a few minutes in the cold poor C's little eyes were watering and he'd make this confused sucking noise when the wind stirred up, looking at me with eyes that were asking what the hell was going on. T took one ride down the hill with Z and held out his red little hands, "Mommy! My. Hands. Are. Cold." Thankfully, I found a spare pair of mine in the pockets of my jacket so we didn't have to go home. And I held C tighter to try and shield him from the wind. As I stood there holding my baby and watching my son and husband chug down the hill on the old sled Z found at the flea market the most obvious thought in the world hit me-Holy shit. We are a family of four.

We went from couple to two kids really fast. We are still incredibly green when it comes to the whole parenting thing-see forgetting gloves for our toddler to go sledding. I mean, come on. We were still getting used to being parents of one when we got all crazy and went and had another kid two years, two weeks, and three days later. All things considered, transitioning from coupledom to kids has been pretty painless. I thank the god I'm not sure I believe in for that luck every single day.

But so far the hardest part of this whole parenting business (and I realize I haven't had to deal with the real hard parts that can hypothetically happen-health issues, developmental issues, bullying, teen pregnancy, drugs, accidents) have been the times when T is such a complete and utter shit that in that exact moment in time I really can't stand him. That sounds incredibly harsh, but I think every parent has been there. Or rather, I hope it isn't just me, that I'm not some kind of patience-less monster. It is impossible to like the people in our lives 100% of the time. We certainly don't like ourselves 100% of the time. I never ever want to lose my cool and tell T that I don't like him in the moment. Because it would be horribly cruel and not actually true. The moment doesn't define the relationship.

The difficulty isn't only the white hot rage directed at the little person you simultaneously love and want to kill. It's the crippling self doubt. The questions like "How can I be raising such a brat?" or "How can I have so little control over a toddler?" or "How can he be doing what I swore no kid of mine would do before I became a mom?" It's the shock that you find yourself reacting with such venom to situations that aren't actually a big deal. He isn't acting like you want him to, but the truth is you aren't either.

Z had to run an errand after the boys went down for their naps yesterday. And I had to get the pot roast in the oven. It was a small roast for 2.5 people, but even so it needed a bunch of hours to get tender and the clock was ticking. T started shouting for me, so I went upstairs and sure enough he had pooped. I changed him and got him the water he asked for. He took a huge sip, looked me right in the eyes, and very deliberately spit the water all over himself and the bed. It just kept coming and coming. I couldn't believe he could hold that much in his mouth. I was speechless. And while I was trying to collect my wits he said, "Mommy, clean me up!" I told him not only was I not going to clean him up but he couldn't have more water. He chose to have wet clothing and bedding and he needed to live with it. And I left. This was not a popular choice.

Since he transitioned to his big boy bed he hasn't had toys in his room. Nap and bedtime were playtime until we removed the temptation, but slowly we've been bringing stuff back in. As he cried I heard him start to play with the toys. There is a wooden box filled with train tracks and toy trains. He became hulk-like in his anger and managed to throw the box. I still don't understand how C slept through it. And I was so angry I couldn't even speak to T. I entered the bedroom, just like he knew I would. But I wouldn't engage, I just took out every single toy and left again. A couple of minutes later he was sound asleep on his bed. Yet I was so pissed I was shaking.

He was trying to get me mad in order to delay the nap. But let's be serious, he didn't understand I needed to get the roast in the oven. He didn't understand that the afternoon is the time I get a break from the two of them to do household stuff. He didn't understand that my anxiety has been pretty bad since we came home from the holidays. But my anger was so encompassing that I couldn't remember all that stuff. I could only seethe and wonder how a toddler could be such a spiteful ass.

I'm the grown up. I shouldn't let him crawl under my skin. And most of the time he's a great kid. He deserves better. If I find this stage so hard what the hell is going to happen when the real difficulties hit? I hope that being honest with myself about my shortcomings will help me learn from them, I hope that over time I become the mom that he deserves.

His awesome hair post-nap.

Yup, he believes this is a smile.

By this point all was forgiven. I cannot resist his adorableness.

And I cracked up at his reaction to being told he needed to eat a bite of carrot before Daddy would give him any bread. Dude ate the carrot.

Mr. C learning to play the guitar.

He has turned into such a little smiler, but I can't seem to capture that with the camera. Evidently, playing with the strings a very serious business.

Back at home

2012-01-12T15:38:00.000-05:00

The other day my mom asked how we were settling back into life at home after a lengthy trip down south and I told her all was fine, but I was feeling like I really was missing C. Kind of a strange thing to say when you consider I'm a stay at home mom and he's my kid. But it's true.

Back in July I wrote about knowing C would not get the attention T got as a first born baby. He's gotten even less than I hoped, mostly because he is such an easy going kid. But also because Z and I are much more laid back ourselves, and because a toddler needs so much more than a newborn does.

[A couple of the more benign examples my "relaxed" mothering include being at a holiday party on campus where I was introduced to a colleague of my husband's. She asked where my baby was and I sort of waved my hand toward where the bulk of people were. She looked for a baby in that direction and didn't see one, so I confessed I really wasn't sure. My good friend had walked off with him about 20 minutes before, I knew he was in safe hands and I didn't give him another thought-I was too busy chasing T. The woman looked at me and said, "Wow. The baby really is a second kid, huh?" And then there was the time our babysitter and I miscommunicated and she gave C a bottle of formula that belonged to a friends baby that had been sitting in our fridge for about 2 weeks. I had no idea if mixed formula went bad, but C barely drank any of it, he seemed fine. I sort of took a deep breath and let it go. I'd have been on the phone with the doc's office immediately had that happened with T.]

No matter how relaxed I've gotten, or how many times the pediatrician tells me C isn't really missing out on anything because he has a fabulous older brother to learn from I still feel guilty. Forget guilty, I also feel incredibly sad in a very selfish way to miss out on that intense uninterrupted time T and I had to get to know each other. But for a short while, while we were with our families, I got a taste of it. T had cousins to play with, grandparents to fawn all over him, and a dad who would like nothing better than to spend all day playing. C and I were often left to our own devices, and it was pure bliss.

It's been a major adjustment to be home. Z is back at work this week, and T's school doesn't start until Monday. I've had a number of gross anxiety attacks in the last 5 days. We aren't back in a routine and I've really let myself wallow a bit. I'm overwhelmed because I've realized things aren't going to be like they were last fall. C was so little and so easy then. He was happy to be on his play gym or in his bouncy seat or in the Ergo or the car seat while T and I got on with the business of the day. Well, little man is four and a half months old now. He wants to be in the thick of the action and he lets us know it isn't cool to leave him hanging out by himself for long. This two kid thing doesn't seem quite so easy when both kids are clamoring for attention. I can't just let C chill while I put T down for a nap. For the first time in T's life I'm using a movie (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets-T can't get enough of Dobby) to entertain. After lunch I settle T on the sofa and start the movie so I can take C upstairs to nurse him without distraction and get him into his crib for a nap. Then I plead with T to be quite as we tiptoe upstairs to get him down for naptime. On top of juggling the kids and their needs, C isn't sleeping through the night anymore. He's been ending up in bed with Z and me where I nurse him whenever he starts to cry. I wasn't this tired when he was new. This fall was a gift, now is when it gets tricky. And stays tricky for a really long time.

My delicious baby boy.

The fellas finishing HP after nap time. It's hard to make out, but the boys were holding hands.

My current favorite picture, an outtake from the Leonard family photo shoot. I have no memory of this being taken, but what the hell are we doing? Why do I look like I'm doing some particularly awful acting after getting the direction to "enjoy the sunlight on your slightly upturned face with a dreamy smile"? Why does Z look like he is going to nibble my face off? I adore it. Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith.

And here's a nice one of the fam. Ellie's the best! Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith.

Karen, Mighty Procrastination Queen

2012-01-11T17:46:00.000-05:00

Do you remember the post about getting an SU ID card? So I could take a class? Classes start next week and I haven't even begun to look at the catalogue to find something to take. Do you remember the post about a new tattoo? We didn't stop in Baltimore on the way home. The gift certificate is lost and it expired at the end of December. I contacted the artist and he is cool with doing it this month, but I've still got to actually get my ass down there. And, um, find the damn certificate. It's been almost a month since I've posted last, I've begun a half dozen posts in my head and none of them have gotten further than a few sentences down on the computer. Procrastination is my art form, I don't think it would be bragging to call myself a master.

I can hear my old shrink in my head asking what the payoff is for my bad behavior. The list is long. Proof that I'm a lazy fuck is at the top. Yes, I've always thought the mental illness was a big fat excuse. I've always known I was worthless. The more I procrastinate the truer that is. Fear is a big one. Life is going pretty well right now. Trying something new could really rock the boat. Or I could discover I couldn't hack whatever I want to tackle. I'm better off not knowing I'd be a failure. Shouldering more responsibility might crush any productivity I've got going now right out of me. There are so many compelling reasons to keep procrastinating.

We got a new car at the end of March. It is standard transmission. The timing was perfect for me to learn how to drive it. Spring was arriving and the snow was melting. I'd have good weather to learn, be all set before snow started in the fall, and be able to help with the drive down south for the holidays with our families. I mean, I had nine fucking months to learn to drive the thing. The week before the trip Z told me I'd have to figure it out on the highway. He was only half joking. And I was seized with terror. That week I convinced myself that I would cause an accident and kill my children. Yes, I recognize that I have a ridiculous and over active imagination. Knowing it doesn't ease the dread. We got into the car on December 19th as I was having a crippling anxiety attack. Z told me to take a chill pill. I sat in the front seat and tried not to cry as we drove south. Midway through Pennsylvania I screwed up the courage to tell Z I couldn't drive. I couldn't put our boys at risk. I wasn't scared of driving on the highway, I was scared of stopping during a traffic jam and not being able to start. I was scared of sudden stops period. I was scared to navigate the roads off of the highway when we stopped for gas or food. I was scared to drive at night.

One of my favorite things about Z is that when I am in a flat out panic, when I really fall apart, he makes me feel loved. He always tells me he is on my side, and it is true. He promised I didn't have to drive. He promised we would stop at a hotel if he could no longer drive safely. He asked why I didn't just tell him all this sooner. And he told me that when we arrived at my folks we would take the car out every single day, because there was built in childcare, and there would be enough time for me to learn how to drive before we started the next leg of the trip.

It wasn't easy or pleasant, but Z is a teacher by trade. At the end of our visit I drove the 3 hours from my folks place to Greenville, SC to meet friends for lunch. And in the middle of the big drive home I drove another 3 hours to spell Z. Now this isn't some fabulous victory story. My driving ended for the day when I almost got the car stuck in mud off of a dirt road. Don't ask. Z just gently suggested I get out of the drivers seat and let him get the car back on the road. I was super impressed that we didn't need to call AAA. And even now the thought of driving that car makes my palms get all sweaty and my stomach cramp. Now that we are home I proposed the four of us take a car trip at least once a week with me driving, but we'll see if that actually happens.

A dear friend sent me an email out of the blue recently, telling me s/he wanted to be more like me because I was learning new things and facing my problems. I felt like such a fraud. I have two days to get my ass in gear and figure out how to register for a class. I need to figure out the tattoo thing before all that money we can't afford to lose disappears. I need to learn how to drive the damn car proficiently. I need to stop being scared to look at our bank account and address that we spend more than we earn. And all this stuff makes me want to curl up on the sofa and watch an NCIS marathon while pretending that the real world doesn't exist. How could anyone want to be more like me?

My fab sisters-in-law gave us the idea for the sign. It's pretty clear how I feel about getting behind the wheel, huh?

The Cordano sisters and kiddos during part one of the trip.

The extended Leonard clan on New Years day. Photo by the ever amazing Ellie Leonardsmith.

Gene Mark's Mind-Boggling Ingorance

2011-12-16T16:55:00.000-05:00

I resisted reading this week's Forbes piece by Gene Marks "If I Were A Poor Black Kid" until today. I knew it would enrage me, and boy it sure did. But I was surprised about how very sad it made me.

After looking at some of the comments and his response to them I think Gene Mark's heart was in the right place. So how did he miss the mark so completely? Well, he showed a complete lack of imagination and empathy. He outlined what he would do if he were a poor black kid who was actually a middle aged white man. Yes, I think his heart was in the right place, but his astonishing naïvety, his inability to understand the realities of poverty in this country were breathtaking and left me completely disgusted.

I'm embarrassed to say that he reminded me of who I was in high school. I grew up with parents who coddled me so completely that I didn't have a job (other than babysitting) until the summer before I left for college. I barely did chores, had no idea how to do my own laundry when I went away to school. Every moment was spent doing schoolwork, or activities that would enrich my resume and get me into a good school. The summer between my junior and senior year I even attended a theater program at Northwestern University. And when I landed at Sarah Lawrence I was sure that discrimination didn't exist. Why would we possibly need an ERA? I was a woman and nothing held me back! I have written about my IBS, my mental illness, my assholic-ness, but admitting who I was back then is the most humiliating disclosure I've made yet.

We are all products of our upbringing. Yes, I got into a terrific college. But I was groomed for it my whole life. I did work hard. My parents didn't do my homework, write my essays, or do my extracurricular activities. But they made it easy for me to succeed. And I was too myopic to comprehend that the circumstances surrounding my achievements were as significant as my hard work. Just like Gene Mark has disregarded the realities and nuance of growing up poor in America be it hunger, homelessness, unsafe public housing, crime, no parents, drug addicted parents, foster parents, parents with multiple low paying jobs who want to be there for their kids but can't because they are trying to put a roof over their heads. It is fantastic that Gene Mark had his basic needs met and was able to concentrate on education, but does he really think that school can be a child's number one priority if they don't know where their next meal is coming from or if they have a bed to sleep in? That sort of callousness dressed up as concerned advice truly nauseates.

So yes, I used to think the same things as Gene Mark back when I was a teenager. The thing is, I grew up. I gained the ability to look beyond myself and understand that even if I didn't face discrimination that doesn't magically make it not real. To understand I live a charmed life. To know that any success I achieve cannot be credited to me alone. To wonder what choices I would have made if I grew up as a poor black kid and to reach the uncomfortable conclusion that it is easy to make good choices when you have a safety net the size of Montana, but if I grew up in poverty chances are I would still be there as an adult. I am astonished that he hasn't been able to realize the same things. Shame on him for not growing up.

Alrighty, got a little serious there. How about some happy pictures? T put this hat on my head yesterday and said, "You look like Daddy!"

And looking at a picture of my sweet, sleeping C makes my blood pressure drop after getting all riled up.

The Next Tattoo

2011-12-14T21:06:00.000-05:00

Last Christmas Z gave me a gift certificate for a tattoo from the only guy I want to work on me. My very first tattoo wasn't done by him, but all my others were, and he actually added a bit to that first one. When you are a dork as big as I am entering a tattoo shop and procuring a tattoo is pretty stressful. Even though I am an enormous baby when it comes to pain, I hold it together while being tattooed. It would just be too humiliating to be that girl that couldn't hack it, I'd be confirming the suspicions of all the too-cool-for-school folks in the shop. But Charlie never made me feel that way, I've never seen him be anything but kind. He worked at a shop in Brooklyn when I was going to him, but a few years ago he moved to Baltimore and opened his own shop. When Z bought the gift certificate he was hoping we'd stop in Baltimore on the way home from our visit down south, that was before we knew I was pregnant. I called and asked my doc if it was cool for me to get a tattoo in the first trimester and was advised against it. I'm sure it would have been fine, but I was so spooked from my miscarriage that I wasn't willing to risk it. So we'll try and do it this year.

I'm thinking this will be one of my last pieces. The plan is to get something for the boys. I'd also like to get something small to remind me of the twins I lost. I'm on the hunt for a font I like. Because T was born on August 13, and C on August 31 I'd like to do a circle of the numbers 1 and 3, no ending, no beginning. Not sure if I want it around my arm just below my elbow or on the inside of my wrist. I do want it to be delicate, not the traditional lettering like my "vote" piece. Any and all suggestions of font and placement are welcome. I'm at a loss for the remembrance tattoo. Perhaps the date I found out I'd lost them, perhaps an infinity symbol. That one I want to be small and not as noticeable. Because it will be for me, rather than a public declaration.

So I've had tattoos on the brain. My parents really hate mine. It bothers me because I respect them so much, but I'm an adult and I am well equipped to make decisions concerning my body. I didn't get my first tattoo until I was 28, it wasn't an impulsive action. At this point my folks just try to ignore them. But shortly after I got the first one my mom told me what bothered her and my dad was they thought my body was perfect the way that it was when I was born and it pained them to see it altered. At the time I thought it was such a bogus reaction. Eyes were definitely rolled. But a few weeks ago Z and I were bathing T. And I was marveling at his sweet and perfect little body. The thought that he might get a tattoo some day flashed through my mind. It was like a physical pain. I might have them, love them, and not regret them for a second, but the idea that my lovely little son would make the same choice? There were tears in my eyes.

I keep thinking that C is looking more and more like his own little person. But then I take a picture like this. And I get a strong sense of deja vu.

Until I remember a picture I took two years ago. Does my uterus only know how to make one type of baby?

A Trip to Main Campus

2011-12-03T15:53:00.001-05:00

Z and I were discussing an acquaintance of ours (Not you, I promise is isn't you. It's someone very much on the periphery of our lives, this person has no idea I blog) who seems to alienate people over and over, yet who doesn't have an understanding the problem is him/her rather than the other people in his/her life. Z pointed out that the the hardest thing in the world is to be self aware. I smugly thought to myself that after many years of therapy surely I was one of the few who was. Later that night I was rereading my posts since C was born (See? Told you I was self absorbed) and although there were only a handful of them there was a painfully obvious pattern. I'd talk about how well things were going this fall, and then I'd talk about how the anxiety is increasing and I'm scared it is going to take over. The funny thing is each time I'd write about it would feel very much like I was making a great revelation, rather than rehashing the same story and probably boring my kind friends who are gracious enough to read this.

It has been a good fall. It can be a good fall while my anxiety is increasing. The anxiety is going to be around for the rest of my life so it is nice to realize good times and the crazy can occupy the same space. Even if I have to realize it over and over before it sticks. At least this fall I've been making an effort to not let the crazy take over. The effort might increase my anxiety in the short term, but I am in the game. I'm not giving up.

On Thursday I dropped T off at nursery school, which is on the south campus of SU. South campus is very spread out and dotted with ugly housing probably built in the 50s. It is mildly depressing and not at all intimidating. Main campus, on the other hand, scares the shit out of me. It is huge and imposing, there is a chapel for god's sake. I went to a tiny college where you recognized every face on campus. And there certainly wasn't a chapel. But I promised Z I'd go to main campus on Thursday. After kissing T goodbye C and I got back in the car, I ended up parking only 8 or so blocks from our house, but the neighborhood feels very different that close to SU. My car sat in front of a rambling house with a screened in porch that was lined with empty liquor bottles. I rolled my eyes and made C promise to decorate with less predictability when he was in college.

I swallowed the fear that was bubbling in my stomach and rising up my throat, marched onto campus and emerged 15 minutes later with an SU ID in my wallet. Only took me two plus years to do it. One of the perks of working at a University is free classes for you and your dependents. Z has been begging me to take classes since we moved here. It is time for me to stop dragging my feet, time to start figuring out what the hell I want to do with the rest of my life. There are a bunch of things I'm interested in pursuing. I could continue with baking, go to school for psychology or social work, or try to get an MBA. And then there is my crazy fantasy of enameling and metal working classes as a way to become a jewelry designer. It is easy not to make a decision because I get to feel like all the options are open to me. I've been not making a decision for years. But the reality is life is passing me by while I do nothing. The spring semester begins on January 17th. What the hell should I take?

The new ID!

Adorable C. It's hard to tell from this picture, but his eyes are so blue they are almost violet a la Liz Taylor. I fervently hope they stay that way, they are lovely.

My incredibly handsome boy rockin' out on the banjolele his Daddy made. Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith.

My other incredibly handsome boy. Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith.

On Turning Molehills Into Mountains

2011-11-30T17:08:00.000-05:00

This morning I stuck my foot in my mouth a bit. I was on a walk with a friend and we ran into an acquaintance. Turns out all three of us have lived in Brooklyn and we got to talking about it. The acquaintance moved up here last year and she lived around the corner from our last apartment in the fine Borough of Kings and I replied, "Oh the apartment we owned was at the south east corner of Prospect Park!". As soon as the words left my mouth I knew it sounded like I was bragging about owning an apartment in Brooklyn. And it is not what I meant to do. Z and I lived in three apartments together during our near decade in Brooklyn. And in my mind they are the apartment we were priced out of, the apartment in Bed Stuy, and the apartment we owned. I forgot the name of the street it was on (Winthrop! Why couldn't I remember Winthrop!), so I described it in the way I think of it. In the scheme of things this was a little mistake. I sounded like an asshole. But I guess we all sound like assholes every once in a while.

If I didn't have an anxiety disorder this wouldn't even be a story worth telling, hell it's not terribly interesting even with the disorder. But I've had that swollen burn-y feeling in the back of my throat all day. The one that means I'm fighting off tears. The minute the sentence was out of my mouth I wanted to apologize. But I thought I'd sound even more stupid if I made a thing about it. After we left the acquaintance I wanted to explain what happened to my friend, but the further away we got from the conversation the weirder it would have been to bring it up.

So here I am six hours later worrying that two women I like think I'm a bragging gross person. They probably found my remark very off putting, but I doubt I have crossed their minds since the morning. And here is where the chronic insecurity turns to narcissism. Because it is narcissistic to think that I constantly occupy the thoughts of people in my life even when I'm sure those thoughts are all negative.

Really and truly it has been a great fall mental health wise. But my insecurity has experienced a marked increase. I am constantly worried that I have offended my friends. I replay moments over again and again, filled with shame over things I have said. If there is a touchy subject in someone's life I am sure to bring it up accidentally. I am convinced people only put up with me because they are friends with Zeke, I think friends are avoiding me even if I can't figure out what I've done to offend. I feel unlikeable, unloveable, an embarrassment, someone only to be tolerated. Even when I try to do something nice I screw it up and become simply an annoyance. I think if I met myself I wouldn't want to be friends.

This fall I have been making a tremendous effort not to give in to my agoraphobic tendencies. Not only have we been leaving the house, we've done some entertaining at home. When Z wants to do something I try my damnedest to make it happen. My anxiety is largely situational and putting myself out there guarantees it will increase. I am trying not to give in to the voice in my head that tells me I am pathetic and no one wants me around. So the progress is being social despite my insecurities and being able to understand it is ridiculous to think people spend all that much time and energy hating or feeling sorry for me. I'm glad about the progress, but I'm also pissed off. I'm tired of feeling like a piece of shit, I'm tired of taking chill pills, I want to be fucking normal. I hope the anger will keep me going, I want it to keep me from giving in. I'm cool with being angry if it will get the damn voice in my head to shut up.

Time for a little levity. The awesome Ellie Leonardsmith did a little photo shoot while she was here for Thanksgiving. This was a test shot, she told us we didn't have to smile. Oh my lord, I adore it so much.

Another test shot. Z is doing a fantastic job miming baby-holding.

And look at these absolutely adorable gals. They started a blog with some friends recently. It's about their efforts to start a family and their friends impending nuptials. Check it out.

Giving Thanks

2011-11-25T22:36:00.000-05:00

Is there someone in your life that you totally idolize? Who you have wanted to be friends with for years and years? One who could never actually live up to your expectations in real life? When I was a freshman in college there was a first year grad student who I basically wanted to be when I grew up. If I couldn't be her, then I wanted to be her little sister. People thought we looked alike (which was very flattering to me) and she very kindly played along with the little sister thing. We didn't see each other for years and years, but thanks to the wonders of Facebook we've gotten back in touch. Over the last few years we've actually become friends. And the magic thing is she is even more amazing than I imagined her to be. She's done the impossible and managed to live up to my ridiculous expectations. So when she says something it holds a lot of importance to me.

We were visiting her back in January and she told me that she had a feeling this was going to be a huge year for me, that really good things were going to happen. So all year I've been waiting. For fame, fortune, the whole nine yards. Because I look up to her so very much I've been sure that something wonderful and life changing would happen. And now we are a couple of days away from December. Things are starting to look bleak in the fame and fortune departement.

She and her mother spent Thanksgiving with us this year. And while we were talking yesterday, I brought up her prophecy from the beginning of the year. She was kind enough to say that I am thriving as a mom. After more discussion we decided that might be it. Having my sweet Charlie made this a huge year, my family fills every day with good things. Maybe it is time for me to adjust my expectation of what wonderful means. Fame and fortune don't seem to be in the cards for me. If the 16 year old me saw what the 34 year old me turned into she would have been deeply ashamed. She'd see me as a huge failure. But truth be told, she was a self absorbed idiot.

Yes, a tiny bit more money would make our life feel more secure. But the stuff that matters, that makes a full life wasn't even on the radar of that idiot teenager. What I want for myself has shifted and the reality is I have a husband who is a partner in every way, two sons that I will do everything in my power to raise into kind men, a beautiful house in which we feel truly at home, Z has a job that fulfills him, and I am fortunate enough to make the choice to stay at home with the kids for now. This has been a huge year. It has been big. I need to adjust my dreams to fit the life I have, not some crazy glamorous life that not only isn't going to happen, but might not be as great for me as the one I've got going. How many women are lucky enough to feel not only adored, but actually liked by their husbands? How many get to live in their dream home? How many are afforded the choice to be at home with their kids? We might be broke all the time, but the trade off is more than worth it to me.

So here's to a big year! Here's to growing up a bit! Here's to family! Here's to dear friends! Here's to a beautiful table made by my husband's hands, filled with delicious food and surrounded by people we love! Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

Boy, does this guy clean up good or what? Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith.

Our happy baby. Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith.

T dancing along with the T-Day Parade. Photo by Jenn Mattern.

Gingerbread Latte

2011-11-18T14:38:00.000-05:00

This Fall has been going really well. Well enough that sometimes I forget that I'm the crazy. I've been leaving the house like a champ. I've been brimming with love for my little family. We have a bit of a schedule going on and it is making the days fly by. My grasp on good mental health does feel more tenuous at night. I've always dreaded nighttime, it makes me feel lonely even when my life is full of good things. That is when I worry about the agoraphobic symptoms rearing their ugly heads, it's when I think I will fuck my boys up terribly as a mom because I struggle with mental illness. But since our New Guy showed up I've woken up feeling hopeful more often than not.

Over the last week a number of little things have happened and rather than brush them off I haven't been able to let them go. They have festered in my mind and their constant presence has convinced me that I'm worthless, that no one likes me, that I'm the object of pity, that I should just give up. Because I've been in such a good place emotionally I've been able to try and fight back a bit. I do not want the fear to take over, I want to stay positive for my boys, and I'm realizing I want to do it for myself as well. But I am scared that the anxiety will come roaring back, that this week is the beginning of the end of my carefree Fall.

Sometimes I feel so close to normal, but then I'll be jolted by a reminder of the anxiety. And normal people don't take controlled substances on a regular basis. Because I'm nursing I need to be very careful with my chill pills. They probably won't hurt C, but there is very little research. If I need one I must take it directly after nursing so most of it can be metabolized the next time C eats. And on top of that they are highly addictive. My therapist is also my prescriber, so the situation is closely monitored. I've found myself feeling so self conscious and guilty about taking the pills that I report the exact number I've taken during ever session. I'm averaging about two a week. And I know I need them. I know if I let the anxiety spiral out of control and do nothing that I'll be creating a bigger problem. But I recently explained to my shrink that I am so pissed about relying on them. There are tons of mothers out there who get through the tough shit in their days and don't have to turn to psychotropic drugs just to keep going. Why am I so weak? Why can't I just pull myself up by my bootstraps? There is no one in the world luckier than me, I've been given a great education, we have a huge safety net because of my parents. What right do I have to struggle with anxiety when there are real problems in this world? Why am I so pathetic?

I get that these aren't helpful questions. I get that it doesn't help to compare myself to other moms out there. But I can't help it.

....................

Every fall I look forward to the return of the Gingerbread Latte at Starbucks. I know, I know, it's an overpriced gimmick and the chemically syrup added totally obscures the taste of the coffee. Whatever. I can't help it, I love them. I wanted one on Wednesday. It isn't like I didn't get out of the house that day. There was an early morning trip to the grocery store and a walk with a friend. But as the day progressed so did a creepy-crawly feeling of dread that covered my skin. The anxiety was actually making me itch. The house felt like it was closing in on me, like I needed to escape even for just a few minutes. Believe me, that was a bizarre sensation for someone that struggles with agoraphobic tendencies. T napped until almost 5pm. I got it together to make the pizza dough for our dinner, albeit later than I wanted. And I felt like I would be an abject failure if I did not get out of the house and get a latte. That stupid expensive drink became a measure of good mental health in my mind, a sure sign that I wasn't doing well in that department.

A few minutes after 5 I hustled the boys into the car. The pizza dough didn't have to be punched down until 6ish, which was when Z was due home. I remembered that a Starbucks a few towns over had a drive through and that's where we headed. The drive was only 10 or 15 minutes in the little rush hour traffic we get in Syracuse. But the closer we got the tenser I was. Did it really have a drive through, or did I imagine that? Should I have fed C before we left? Were we going to get home before Z? Was I going to get dinner on the table before 7? Was I going to spend the whole winter stuck in the house yet be unable to clean, do laundry, and provide meals for my guys? Were we going to have enough money in savings to get us through until I find a job sometime in the next few years? Was I ever going to find a job that paid enough to cover child care? Um, I was a mess when we got to Starbucks, and of course I imagined the drive through. But I got the boys out of the car and into the store. I got my latte.

The funny thing is it didn't even taste good. And the chill pill I took several hours later barely took the edge off.

Our sweet sweet boy. Photo by Jenn Mattern.

He smiles all the time now, and I think we are pretty close to laughing. Photo by Jenn Mattern.

Crazy hair in the tub. And this is the face he makes when you ask him to smile for a photo. Photo by (you guessed it!) the amazing Jenn Mattern.

Gross. Motor. Skills.

2011-11-04T11:49:00.000-04:00

The other night at dinner T said, "Gross. Motor. Skills." out of the blue. Z and I looked at each other and tried to stifle our laughter. T verbal skills are incredible. Yesterday after preschool one of the student teachers told me that he corrected the pronunciation of another little boy. She said she was getting ready to correct the boy herself, and T just beat her to it. I'm totally bragging, but it's true. He's a talker. Like toddlers everywhere he's a sponge. He is also taking everything that happens around him in and he is regurgitating it, no matter if he understands it or not.

After the urge to laugh passed at dinner I started to feel pretty worried. I know where he heard "gross motor skills", it was from me. And the only time I say those words is when I'm explaining that his aren't that great. Now, I am usually also saying his fine motor skills and verbal skills are off the hook. And they are. He loves to watch videos of himself we've uploaded to facebook and recently we were watching one from when he was 18 months old. Over the last 9 months his skills have gotten better and better. He speaks in sentences a lot of the time, he can start to drive a nail into wood without any help, I can talk all day about the wonderful stuff he does.

But the gross motor skills have been slower in coming. He only just started hopping, and frankly he it's hard for him not to trip over his own sweet little feet. He is constantly covered in bumps and bruises. He had one hell of a lump on his forehead a few weeks ago and I started calling him my little unicorn. And all that stuff is perfectly ok. It is extraordinary that he is so ahead of the curve in two areas of development, and really he's at the point where he should be enjoying life and I shouldn't be thinking about where he is compared to other kids. He doesn't need that kind of pressure. I don't need it either.

That stuff isn't the point of this post, though. I'm worried about him hearing me being critical of him to others, and I'm pretty ashamed of how often it happens. I'm casually unkind too frequently, and not just about him. It starts with my overwhelming insecurity, my compulsion to call out everything wrong with myself before others can notice it to quell the feeling I have that everyone in the world is pitying me behind my back. I know I've written about this before, and I understand it developed in my mind when I was extremely unwell. It just might be my least favorite part of my crazy. I've been able to realize it's bullshit, largely because people aren't spending scads of time contemplating me to begin with (hello self-absorption!).

I fall back on criticizing everything connected to me when I'm uncomfortable, so unfortunately social situations are when this behavior happens the most. I get hot, my tongue swells up and fills my whole mouth, and I just start pointing out my faults, T's faults, Z's faults because I think that they are all the person I'm talking to is seeing. And I desperately don't want to be the fool. I don't do this because I hate my kid or my husband, I do it because I struggle with hating myself. Of course, being unkind about my husband and kid makes me hate myself even more, I'm guaranteeing that my self hatred is justified.

For years Z has asked me to work on this when it comes to him. He is never unkind about me to others, he always has my back. One of the refrains from my breakdown was him saying, "I'm on your side." He still says it and it is still true. But when I start to get uncomfortable my self control goes out the window. I didn't give a shit when I was being mean to myself. When I started to understand I was being mean about Z there was progress. Yes, I was oblivious to my own assholicness until Z pointed it out to me. With T I'm realizing it simply needs to stop. It isn't the example I want to set for him, it isn't the baggage I want to thrust upon him that will need to be unpacked in therapy in a few decades, it isn't who I want to be anymore. When people hear me criticize those I love I'm not showing them I know what is wrong in my life, I'm showing them I am a bitch. That realization was a real slap in the face. I don't want to be an unkind person. I need to be better than that for T and for his brother. They deserve it.

Sweet C nursing.

Our friend Sue gave the boys these super tough skull outfits.

T helping Daddy chisel during the install of a new/old door.

T is very into markers right now.

I Yelled At My Kid

2011-10-26T15:03:00.000-04:00

T's behavior is deteriorating in a very typical two year old way. The problem is as his behavior gets worse and worse so does mine. A few weeks back he was a little shit all morning. He wouldn't cooperate to the point that I was worried we were going to be late for nursery school. He did something he shouldn't have and it was just too much for me. I screamed at him. Like the loudest I've ever screamed at him. And it wasn't even something that was a big deal, it just was an accumulation of the whole frustrating morning. I know intellectually that when he gets a rise out of me I am giving him an incentive to continue the bad behavior. I know I need to be calm and discipline without emotion in order for it to be effective. But in that moment it all flew out of my head and I lost control, furious that he was pushing my buttons with such precision.

Um, at this point it is his job to push my buttons. And if I don't respond correctly I'm the one making it worse. He needs good positive parenting right now way more than he does when he is being an easy kid. And I fail again and again and again. I started writing this post a few hours after the yelling happened. But then parenting two kids got in the way. This blog ain't gonna get me a book deal, or make me famous, or provide me a salary. Just a few of my friends read it (thanks guys!). But writing here helps me figure stuff out and I wish I was able to keep up with it regularly. The cool thing is it has been more than two weeks since the yelling and I've managed to not lose my shit with him again. I'm sure I will at some point, but the incident did help me take a step back and calm the fuck down.

At first I was so disgusted with myself for freaking out the way that I did. He burst into tears when I lost control. As soon as I got him into his time out (still his exersaucer, he hates being in there) and walked away the adrenaline started burning off and was replaced with shame. I felt sick to my stomach for the rest of the day.

But over the last two weeks I've realized some stuff. First of all, he isn't going to remember that one time I really screamed at him when he grows up. It isn't going to be a defining event to him, he won't bring it up in therapy some day. But it can be a defining moment for me. I can either look back on it as one of the many times I lost control with my kid, or I can learn from it and remember to keep my cool. I can continue to rake myself over the coals about it, or I concentrate on fixing the problem. It's easy to beat myself up about it, but the right thing to do is change my behavior. I need to try and do better, and in the short term I've proven to myself that I can. I actually feel pretty good about it.

Z and I often talk about how lucky he is to love his job so much, the thing is I'm lucky as well. This SAHM thing is awesome in so many ways, there is no other job I want right now. But no job is perfect (yeah, for example, I don't get paid to do mine). No one loves their job every day. Being at home with the kids might not seem like work to some people, but it really can be more frustrating than any job I've ever had. There are days when I basically throw the kids at Z when he gets home. And it's usually not to relax, it's so I can get dinner on the table, or clean up a bathroom, or wash poop out of clothing. The poop thing was my Monday. Not a banner day at our house. Mommy had to take a chill pill that night.

And yes, my two year old is a royal turd sometimes. It's the truth. But he's also a sweet kid. The turd stuff is totally age appropriate. I forget that if we don't spend a lot of time with other kids. Last week I was the parent helper at T's preschool. It was a great experience all around, but it especially served to remind me that to be two years old is to be a turd at times. They were all turds at least once, every last one of them.

Identifying stuff on the wall of tools at Lowe's is huge entertainment for both T and Z.

Seems hella uncomfortable to me, but whatever works for him.

T working at the bench his Daddy made for him.

This baby is very concerned.

Hard Days

2011-10-10T16:25:00.000-04:00

And then there are the days when your son throws the biggest tantrum of his young life, one so intense that it interups the uninterruptible sleep of a newborn so there are two small beings screaming at the top of their lungs in the house. When this happens you will be shaking with hunger and will resort to shoveling granola into your mouth because you are resigned to not eating a meal for a long time. You will also be deliriously tired because the baby was up until 1am the night before, you had to get up before 6:30am so your husband could get to work. And you will be panicking because your sister and her family will be flying in that evening and your house will not be anywhere near as clean as you want it to be. The longer the tantrum goes on the more desperate you'll feel because his very limited capacity to listen to reason slips further and further away. And you'll hold him as he sobs hysterically and tries to explain why he is so upset, but your mind won't be completely with him because you are listening to the newborn wail and you feel wretched for not holding that son. You'll be grateful for the nursing pads you are wearing because the sound of the newborn crying will trigger your letdown and you'll feel milk shooting out of your boobs. And if you are me, all this stuff will make you feel so anxious and so terrible and so defeated that you'll suddenly feel tremendously fat.

So far this SAHM thing with two kids has been going incredibly well. There have only been a few days that have descended into absolute chaos. My anxiety has receded far enough in the background that I have been managing to leave the house on a regular basis and I've been wearing something other than yoga pants all day long. But when the anxiety comes back it does so with a vengeance. I've been functioning so well that it almost takes my breath away when the anxiety manifests itself in a way that reminds me I'm not normal. I'm guessing that most moms don't feel physically repulsive when things get a bit out of control. Maybe I'm wrong about that, maybe it is a perfectly normal response. I'd love it if you moms out there would tell me what it's like for you. It would make me feel less alone.

Thanks to the 3rd trimester diet combined with the unfortunate postpartum hemorrhaging I rapidly lost the baby weight plus an additional 10+ pounds within 3 weeks. That sounds much braggier than I'd like. To put it in perspective my BMI is still in the overweight column. It's not like I became a skinny-minny overnight, if I want to get to the "normal" weight range I've got another solid 10-15 to lose. But I do weigh less than I have in about 8 years. My food choices really shifted for the better during the latter part of my pregnancy and I've kept them up since C has joined us on the outside. I do have a lot to be proud of when it comes to my relationship with food. And yet, when I start to feel overwhelmed and out of control my automatic response is to feel fat. Not only to I feel fat, but I feel like anyone who sees me will be both disgusted by me and filled with pity for me. Which is bizarre because I certainly don't feel disgust or pity when I am around overweight people. Whenever it happens I feel profound relief that I'm not parenting girls. How could I model positive self esteem when mine is so damaged? I don't know how to stop the feelings, even though I want to. At this point I'm just grateful they have been rather intermittent. For the most part I've been able to cope with the craziness of parenting two boys two and under.

On the flip side, there are also the days when you are trying to not cry because your sister and her family just left for the airport at the end of their trip. And you are only doing a half assed job keeping it together as your toddler whines and begs for goldfish crackers while you try to figure out what it is he'll eat for lunch that day. The baby will be sleeping soundly when you start make the grilled cheese sandwich for the toddler and you figure you have enough time to make a quick one for yourself because yet again you are shaking with hunger. But as soon as you start you'll hear the baby take a tremendous crap from the other room. Moments later he'll start wailing. So you'll run to him and change the tremendous crap while you pray your sandwich doesn't burn. You'll run back to the kitchen to flip the sandwich with the baby in your arms and you'll have to do it with your free hand because you won't be able to find the spatula. Too late you'll realize you're using the hand you wiped the kid with and you didn't wash it. You'll realize that as the sandwich opens up and spills all over the place. The baby will still be wailing because he is starving and you'll gently place him on the filthy kitchen floor in order to fix it. Then you'll grab him and awkwardly attach him to your breast while standing at the stove (a maneuver you wouldn't have dared attempt with your first kid). As you try and put baby carrots on your plate he will start to choke because he has a cold and your letdown is so strong it would drown an olympic swimmer. He comes off the breast and you spray milk all over him, your clothing, and the already filthy floor. You'll get him back on the breast, get the sandwich off the stove, and go sit and eat with him still attached. And on this day you won't feel desperate, even though you were crying when lunch started. You'll laugh at the lunacy that is your lunch hour and life as a stay at home mom. And you'll feel pretty triumphant that all three of you are sitting at the table eating at the same time.

More apple picking.

My beautiful and sweet nephew.

Sisters with our babies.

The Cordano cousins take a bath.

Loving My Boys

2011-10-04T21:38:00.000-04:00

Part of my problem with taking a bit of a blogging break is it's somehow overwhelming to get back into it. So much has happened that I've wanted to write about but I'm worried that I'm forgetting details and missing opportunities and frankly I'm so damned tired it is just easier to look at cool things on Pinterest than to write. Have you guys checked out Pinterest? It. Is. Awesome. And yet another time suck. So here I am almost 24 hours after the last post and I still need to get writing.

It is beyond amazing to have Charlie in our lives. I remember when T was tiny feeling incredibly overwhelmed. I was happy and completely in love with him, but especially before he started smiling it was frustrating to get absolutely nothing back from him. This time there is a toddler in the house who is giving back all sorts of affection it doesn't matter a lick that the baby just blankly stares off into the distance. It's amazing to feel two completely different kinds of love at the same time. We know T, his personality is very well developed, he is becoming more of himself every single day. Our love for him is not just based on the fact that he is ours, we really do adore who he is. We are biased, but we think he's a neat kid and we are tickled we get to be his parents. And at this point our love for Charlie is intense, instincutal, almost animal. We are starting to see glimmers of who he will be, and we think he is beautiful. But we are hard-wired to feel that way. And evolutionary imperative or not, it is a heady and exciting love.

Before C was born I couldn't comprehend loving another child as much as I love T. It's not that I didn't believe it would happen, I just couldn't imagine it. But as soon as I held C my heart swelled. I'm not trying to make a tired Grinch analogy here, I'm saying I felt my heart's capacity increase. The tired Grinch thing actually happened. And I know it would happen again if we were to have another baby. In fact, it was such an intense rush it almost makes me want to have another baby. This whole impulse to continue the species is a powerful thing.

Everything is different this time around. During T's infancy I was so overwhelmed and terrified. I couldn't believe we were allowed to be parents. I was sure everything I did was somehow wrong. It is so much more relaxing this time. The nursing only hurt terribly for under two weeks. C is an amazing sleeper, he barely cries. He's just a pleasant little blob. The flip side is he spends way more time in his bouncy seat than T did. We always had T in our arms, but that just isn't possible right now. T needs too much attention.

T smiled very early at around 5 weeks. Last night Z and I were cooing over C and I said I felt so guilty about not being able to give C more attention. I'd put money on C's first smile being later than T's. We aren't constantly in his face, trying to get him to do it. I feel very conflicted that I can't give the boys the same experience. They have the same amount of my love, but I need to get used to the fact that I will never be able to give them the same exact parenting. The circumstances are different and they are different people. They are going to need different things from me, and I'm going to respond to their personalities in different ways. My parents went to extremes to let my sister and me know they wouldn't play favorites. I don't want to favor either of my boys, but I also want to be realistic about the fact that they are individuals and I will never be able to provide the exact same experience for them. I want to get over my guilt because deep down I think it is good that we recognize they are individuals. All that said, I still wish there was more time in my day. I wish I was able to spend much more time holding my sweet baby who is already growing too fast.

Brothers cuddling.

C was not thrilled with his first bath. He's really warmed up to them recently.

He did enjoy getting dry.

He so isn't allowed to do this.

Still Here, Just Really Burnt Out

2011-10-03T21:50:00.000-04:00

Every morning I get up and promise myself that I'll write a blog post that day and every day I fail. And now it's after 9:30 and I really need to get into bed. So I thought I'd do a short post in which I declared I will write a proper post tomorrow. Maybe about how disorienting and difficult those first few weeks postpartum are. Maybe about how my ass is in awful shape. Maybe about how happy Z and I are to be a family of four. Maybe about the difficulties T has been having adjusting to being a big brother. Maybe about how much easier a newborn is the second time, but at the same time being at home with two kids can be really, really, REALLY hard some days. I've partially composed all of those posts in my head. Arranging the time to type them out has been nearly impossible and I miss it. So tomorrow. I'll write something tomorrow.

In the meantime here's a shot of C taken by Ellie Leonardsmith.

And here's a video of T using a hold fast on the workbench Z just made. Before yesterday I'd never heard of a hold fast and yet my two year old knows how to use one. Crazy the stuff Z is teaching him.

Love Letter to My Parents

2011-09-20T15:25:00.000-04:00

Hey, is anyone still hanging out in this corner of the internet? No? Well, I've been pretty crappy about posting, so that is completely understandable. But I'll happily post to no one!

This morning my parents drove off to get back to their lives. The last couple of days have been tear and dread filled as we got closer and closer to them pulling out of the driveway. Granted, the emotions have been heavily influenced by my messy postpartum state. But that is a post for another day, hopefully one in the near future. Now that I'm alone again during the day I hope to get back into the swing of things blog-wise.

So Mom and Dad. They drove up here 5 weeks ago thinking I'd have C at any moment. Um, it was a really long two weeks and one day for all of us. Especially me. Especially Z. Especially my folks. Yup, for all of us.

Since I became a mom I've had several occasions to spend extended time with my parents. And unsurprisingly it makes me think a ton about growing up. My family life hasn't been perfection and daisies and unicorns, I'm not trying to whitewash anything here. None of us were or are perfect. We've all hurt each other in pretty catastrophic and creative ways. But what family doesn't do that stuff? No one is perfect. People hurt each other, it's life. It my opinion it's worth it because the good so far outweighs the bad. That comparison is something a boyfriend once said as he was breaking up with me. He said it doesn't make sense to stay together when the bad outweighed the good. It was an awful relationship, thank god he had the balls to end it. And what he said really had a profound influence on the way I view any kind of relationship, that one sentence was one of the best things he gave me in our more than two years together. Over the years it has made me think of the ebb and flow of good times and hard times in any close relationship in my life. It made me start to accept that people won't be perfect and things will be hard no matter what. It helped me start to forgive people close to me for perceived hurts that I nursed for more than a decade and made me realize I'd done plenty of hurting myself. I bet you a million bucks he wouldn't remember saying it. It's funny how small moments in life can be so important to one person and so insignificant to the other. So yes, my family isn't perfect. But there is a lot of good there.

It isn't like I won't talk to them every day. T will still see them via Skype (the world's greatest invention for grandparents who live far from their offspring). But living with them again for a month made me feel like a kid again. Or it made me remember being a kid more than I usually do. And there is something incredibly melancholy about knowing that time is gone forever. As a kid all I wanted to do was grow up. Don't get me wrong, now that I have my own family I wouldn't give it up for anything. I just wish I'd appreciated my life as a kid when I had it. The other reality is my folks are getting older. Thankfully they are in great health, but they aren't the same people I lived with in high school more than a decade and a half ago (gulp). This idea that I could exist in a world where they do not is inconceivable to me. I still need them. My boys need them. Again, they are totally fine. In my mind they are going to be around for several more decades. But it makes every moment we can spend with them feel important.

They were a tremendous help with both T and C, and frankly, with me as well. I was in pretty rough shape for the first two weeks after leaving the hospital. Having my Mom there to take care of me and my kids helped me get better faster. They did the cooking and cleaning and childcare. Z only missed teaching two classes while I was in the hospital, they helped make it unnecessary for him to have to miss anything else. We were spoiled rotten. Of course I'm going to miss all that stuff. It made my life ridiculously easy. But it isn't what I'm going to miss the most.

To me the best part of their visit was how much I like them and enjoy being around them. Swear to god. I'm not blowing smoke up anyone's ass here. I really do feel like they are friends that I look up to and seek out for advice. I also have a ton of fun with them. We laugh all the time. And the way they are with T? I'm so grateful he's exposed to their brand of silliness. Every morning my mom would bring T into their bedroom so he could wake my dad by jumping on him. And my dad would throttle him with a pillow as he laughed hysterically. My mom would shout "Cowabunga!" and jump on the pair of them. Before I put him down for a nap today T pointed to his belly and said "Operation! Liver! Onions! Bologna!" to me. Every day my dad would pretend to operate on him by pulling liver and then onions out of his belly and telling him his belly was full of bologna and it needed to be sewn up before it all fell out. When he said goodnight to T he'd pretend to pull birds out of his ears. They both would chase him around the first floor of the house, all three of them shrieking and laughing. And T's constant refrain was, "Again! Again!" My folks know how to have a good time with a two year old.

They know how to have a good time with a 34 year old as well. I admire them and I don't have the words to express how grateful I am to them for everything they do for us. I already miss them so much.

He really isn't supposed to be in the bassinet.

And yet, here he is, having a ball.

Um, here it is being used properly.

He loves chewing on metal. We have no idea what it means, but it makes us laugh pretty hard.

Super-Grandma and her boys.

The two Ts.

C's Birth Story

2011-09-10T14:58:00.000-04:00

The first several weeks postpartum are completely overwhelming. Duh. And yet, I sort of forgot they would be. So sorry for the lack of posting. I keep meaning to, I keep wanting to, but life keeps getting in the way. Which I've realized is totally OK. There is a lot about the last week that I do want to write about, but I'm 10 days out from giving birth to C and I'm already forgetting details, so I'll go back to hospital visits 3 and 4 and delivery for today.

Shortly after midnight on the early morning of August 31st I felt a gush of water that woke me up. I waddled to the bathroom and felt a bunch more come out in the toilet. Then I peed. Then I woke Z and my mom and we got going to the hospital. Since it was my second visit in a 24 hour period they put me in triage. I explained what happened to the nurse and she got the resident to do the test for amniotic fluid. No dice. They waited two hours to redo the test and to see if I progressed from 4cm dilated, all the while my contractions strengthening. Again no dice. I asked what they thought happened. They said there could have been a second amniotic sack (they did an ultrasound and my fluid levels looked good) or I could have peed myself (I really didn't think so. I'd peed right after, they were two completely different sensations. But I was still only 4cm dilated, they'd talked to Doc A and he said to send me home.

At this point I was so frustrated I didn't know what to do. My contractions were really strengthening and getting longer, and I knew I shouldn't go home, but I was so confused and upset and exhausted I didn't communicate that to anyone. My mom came and got us at around 4am. When she pulled up I was having a contraction that was so strong I couldn't move to get into the car. Back at home Z took a snooze and mom timed contractions. After an hour I couldn't bear it anymore and we roused Z and went back to the hospital. The receptionist clearly thought I was a nut ball, but the same nurse was there and she said she thought she might see us again before the end of her shift. Even though we were back in triage I told her I wanted an epidural as soon as possible. I was scared it would be too late because I knew I was progressing fast.

You need to have tests and be hooked up to machines for a while before the epidural can happen. The resident came back and found I was more than 5cm, so I was admitted. Shortly after that Doc A showed up. He said I could get out of bed and move a bit to work through the contractions, even though they want a bunch of fetal monitoring before they do the epidural. It really helped to sway and hang on to Z and moan and grunt through the pain. By then the contractions were so severe that when one would happen I'd be rooted to the ground, the pain was so profound I remember thinking I wouldn't know what to do if I didn't get an epidural. I had no idea how I'd push because the contractions paralyzed me completely. Doc A checked me out, and sure enough I was already at 7cm. Thankfully the anesthesiologist was waiting. Z was fascinated by all his glass vials and needles and the two of them hit it off discussing the intricacies of the procedure. Even through the blinding pain I was amused and a little proud that Z has such an incredible thirst for knowledge. So Z watched his new buddy insert the needle in my back with great interest while the student nurse in the room suddenly rushed out. Turns out she got lightheaded.

Within one contraction I realized I had no idea what an epidural really was before. The one I got with T helped for a few hours, but when it was time to push the pain was bewildering. I had no idea what to do or how to push past it. This time I was as jittery as hell, and my left leg was extremely numb. It's not a group of sensations I'd ever seek out recreationally, but sweet jesus, it was a million times better than the contractions. After about 5 more I could sort of feel when I was having them, but the contractions were a very far off sensation, and not at all unpleasant. At the next check I was 9cm dilated. I continued to drift. Not loving the jitters. Not loving the numbness. And I did want it all to be over. But I was so grateful to be out of the pain. I started to feel some pressure, again it wasn't unbearably painful. I just knew it was time to push. Doc A confirmed my suspicions.

There was a flurry of activity. The room was filled with my nurse, the student nurse, the nurse who was teaching the student, a med student, my doc, and the Chief Resident who'd been my doc on the first two visits to the hospital, and of course Z. They gathered around in a semicircle and the doc told me to start pushing like I had to poop. So I did. Even though I thought I'd have no idea how to do it, I somehow did. I had wanted to grab Charlie's shoulders and pull him on to my stomach the same way I did with T, but there wasn't enough time. It was all over in 5 pushes. On push 3 my water broke, on push 4 his head was out, and on push 5 his shoulders slipped out right along with the rest of him.

He was set on my belly and as soon as Z saw his face he said, "Another Cordano baby!" I didn't get a good look at the face until a while later, I still can't get over how much he looks like T. Delivering the placenta was easy as pie. In fact, I pushed so hard that it shot out and Doc A said, "Hey! Slow down or I'm gonna drop this thing!" And Z did get to use his great grandfather's snips to cut the umbilical cord. As I lay there holding my baby and feeling so completely happy with everything in the universe I heard Doc A mumbling to the Resident. Turns out I tore along the scar tissue from T's birth. From what I could make out it was clear he thought the original repairs were not well done. As Z and I cooed over our New Guy I half listened as Doc A explained to the Resident how to fix me up right. It was Greek to me, him telling her that it would look fine if he just went through the blah blah tissue, but tearing would happen again unless he went deeper into the blah blah blah tissue. It was so cool to hear him teaching, and I felt like I was in such good hands. I was also 100% happy with my epidural decision. I wouldn't have wanted to go through the stitches without one.

When the stitches were done I asked Doc A if all the placenta was really there. I didn't get to see it with T, and I was shocked at how small it was when he held it up. For some reason I thought it'd be as big as the baby. I guess it's held such ominous significance in my life it really has seemed larger than life. He said it was all there and then he explained to everyone why that was so. It was something about the veins crisscrossing the entire thing. All the people in the room (save me and Charlie) had gathered around him to check it out, even Z. The camaraderie in the room among the medical staff was amazing. It was just so fucking positive and awesome to see people learning. I felt relaxed and grateful and I was thrilled Doc A was using my placenta to teach new medical professionals. It was the least I could do after having a birth where I felt supported and encouraged and comfortable with my care.

Ellie Leonardsmith and her lovely wife/photo assistant were in town yesterday and they did a newborn shoot with C. Naturally, all photos by her.

And here is the photographer herself. Photo by Kelsey, the lovely wife/photo assistant. Thanks to both of you wonderful ladies!

New Guy Is Here At Last

2011-09-02T03:11:00.001-04:00

Charles Abraham Cordano Leonard was born August 31st and 10:05am weighing 7lbs 2 oz at 20" long. He'll go by Charlie. We are in love with him. As much as I cringe in writing this (it's the kind of turn of phrase that usually makes me want to gag) his birth was a deeply healing experience.

There are these kind of birthmarks called "stork bites" or "angel kisses" that tend to fade within the year. T had some on his nose and eyelid. C has them all over his face, but the best one is the lightening bolt on his forehead. He's my little Harry Potter.

I can't wait to write about trips number 3 and 4 to the hospital, and his delivery. Especially his delivery. That is going to be one happy post. But I'm going to skip ahead to about 6 hours postpartum first. Get the kind of gross story out of the way so I can really focus on the happy stuff. First, let me assure you guys that I, and most importantly C, are 100% fine. Second, I know, I know, if it's not one thing it's the other with me, but certainly nothing is every easy...

Bare bones: I hemorrhaged kind of a lot. The amazing staff at this hospital handled it with compassion and efficiency. Everything is totally cool now.

Details: Postpartum it appeared that my uterus was shrinking nicely. The bleeding made me nervous, but it was more the memory of what happened postpartum with T than a super excessive amount of blood. Z was monitoring things for me and when I suddenly passed a large clot he sort of freaked and grabbed the nurse. The nurse and I thought he was being nuts. But then more came out, and then more. And then the nurse got her supervisor. The supervisor thought it wasn't a big deal. But then more came out while she was there. And then more. And the supervisor got a resident. During this process my parents and T arrived and got to see C for about 15 seconds before they were hustled out to the waiting room.

The resident started pulling really large clots out. It was painful, I was starting to have contractions again, and I was really starting to panic. Z went to the waiting room and sent my folks and T away. I'm pretty grateful about that part because they didn't hear the screaming that came a few minutes later. A call was placed to my doc. The chief resident came in. So did a third resident who had experience with "boggy" uteruses. They were trying to be gentle because I had a 3rd degree tear along with several other tears (will explain about that in the birth post to come). But they were reaching into my uterus to get at the clotting. It hurt more than the contractions before I got the epidural. That's when I started screaming. I'm deeply ashamed that I also started begging the poor woman who was helping me by taking away the clots to stop hurting me. Z was by my side the whole time, usually he is incredibly stoic during crisises, but he was terrified.

Meds were being administered to try and contract the uterus, lots of pitocin in an IV, a shot of something in my thigh, tablets wedged between my cheeks and jaw that slowly disolved, pink pills. And the amount of clots combined with the blood flow was completely overwhelming. And the pain, the pain felt never ending. Finally the docs seemed sure all the clots were out. The bleeding began to slow. They cleaned me up and the bleeding stayed under control. Everyone became much less worried.

So what the hell happened? There was no retained placenta. A clot blocked the flow of blood, so a bunch of blood got caught behind it. And more clots formed. And more blood got caught behind them. And so on and so on and so on. My uterus seemed to be shrinking and firming up, the bogginess was sporadic. And when they pressed on my belly and it would seem soft, some blood would squirt out (sounds gross, totally normal postpartum) and it would feel firm again. My medical care was excellent. It's my uterus that is the problem.

The upshot is I lost more than a liter of blood, so I've been pretty damn weak. But I don't need a transfusion. They are giving me iron pills and vitamin C tabs to help with absorption. As painful as the vaginal and rectal areas are, it isn't as bad as it was with T. I've been rockin' the percocet and they are going to send me home with a prescription for more. My recovery is going to be a bit longer, but my folks are here to help. Z has been amazing. And best of all, Charlie is total perfection.

I'm leaving a bunch of stuff out, but it's the middle of the night. The only reason I'm up is because the percocet has worn off and I'm waiting for more. The climb out of the haze of pain relief and into my ladybits throbbing and burning sucks and I couldn't sleep.

Again I want to emphasize that everything is now cool. I'm still going home tomorrow afternoon. C is doing a great job nursing. T thinks C is the most awesome thing going. My care at the hospital has been fantastic, both by the nursing staff and the doctors. Doc B showed up briefly after the hemorrhage to check on me. She checked on me again early this morning and my wonderful Doc A was here later in the morning. It's easy feel relaxed about this whole thing when the care I've received has been so wonderful.

OK, now that we have the unpleasantness out of the way the next post will be full of the warm fuzzies and details about C, all the really blissed out good stuff.

I think we're gonna keep him.

Yup, definitely.

Doesn't Z look particularly handsome here?

T dropped to the floor and begged to hold him when he first arrived. He cried when anyone else tried to take a turn. He says C is his baby.

The Never Ending Labor

2011-08-30T18:13:00.000-04:00

*Thanks for the post title, Stacey Red!*

We went to the hospital at about 12:45. We came home again at about 4. Good fucking times. I'd been nauseous all morning, but after lunch it got severe. And I'd been rocking the chills and the sweats since last night. Didn't sleep much either. Lots of pain. So suddenly it seemed urgent that we go. The awesome nurse and my doc said I'd be able to tell. And I thought I could.

But when I got to the hospital the contractions seemed to stall a bit again. New Guy was doing great on the fetal monitor. They measured my amniotic fluid and that also looked great. The doc who did the measurements on the ultrasound asked how far apart the contractions were. According to the monitor (and to me) they were still about 10 minutes apart. She asked when they started. I told her Saturday afternoon. She looked at me and said, "I always feel so bad when it drags on like this." I told her it hasn't been a picnic. I seriously had no idea one could have pretty regular contractions for days on end, especially with a second pregnancy. But there is some progress. I'm at a solid 4cm dilated now. I'm headed in the right direction. Sometimes the contractions are stronger, sometimes they are weaker. And overnight they seem to get way further apart. The weird thing is I have a bit of a fever. But nothing else except for the nausea is going on, so they don't think it's anything serious. I got a fancy anti-nausea prescription and I just took the first pill, so hopefully that won't be a problem for much longer.

The really nice news is as soon as we walked in we saw our nurse from Sunday. And she was our nurse for the main part of the the visit. As soon as we were alone in the room with her we told her that my Doc thought we made the right choice on Sunday and as much as we were ready for this to be over we totally agreed. It was so nice to have a friendly face there. Another nurse handled our discharge papers (my wonderful doctor told them to send me home-no crazy talk about breaking my water) and we told her how much we loved her colleague. She got a postcard thing for us, like a compliment card and said we could fill it out for the nurse. It's already in the mail.

I wonder how many times we will visit our lovely labor and delivery department before New Guy makes his grand entrance. Anyone want to place bets? Anyone as bored of this as I am? Anyone as grumpy and uncomfortable?

Z hasn't been able to spend a lot of time with T over the last few days. So as soon as we got home they went for a walk. T took his baby.

A couple of days ago my folks to T to the playground. He had a blast.

Quicky Update

2011-08-29T19:15:00.000-04:00

New Guy stayed in until Monday and my doc is back at work. And for once I feel certain about my decision making, coming home yesterday was the right thing. New Guy clearly isn't ready quite yet, but if we'd stayed in the hospital he would be born by now. And there is a good chance his birth would have needed to be forced because clearly my body wasn't ready to go into active labor on its own.

Yesterday afternoon into evening my contractions got pretty hot and heavy for a while, but by about 9pm they slowed way down. I was able to sleep better than I have in a long time, waking about 6 or 7 times from contractions. This morning I felt delightfully rested. And the contractions started coming again, but they weren't as hard or regular as they had been on Sunday. It was such a relief to see my doc at the appointment. They had me on the fetal monitor and New Guy looks great. He did a quick exam and said I'm about 3 1/2-4cm dilated and 80% effaced, which is terrific news. I'm progressing from 3cm yesterday.

Z and I were mum about the nurses who may or may not have had a little talk with us at the hospital. We told him we decided that we didn't want my water broken and he said it was the right choice. He said when I went into active labor it was going to go really fast, so I'd have to hightail it to the hospital. But our place is less than a 10 minute drive away, so I'm not really worried about getting there. I told him the hospital said I didn't need to call in advance because I'd already been there, but he told me they were nuts. He said if I didn't call him when I was on my way he might miss the birth, he really doesn't think my body is going to fool around.

And he told me to go home and rest. He said there wasn't anything I could do to make it go faster, and all the things I would do (take long walks, etc.) were a waste of my energy that I needed to store up because labor is hard work. We have an appointment on Thursday, but he said he doubts he'll see me then. He thinks it's going to be tonight or tomorrow. We'll see if he's right. I asked if it was normal for the contractions to start more than 2 days early for the second kid. He sort of shrugged and said, "It can happen." I love his laid back attitude about this whole baby birthing endeavor.

Z was able to go in and teach his first class of the semester. I took a nap this afternoon. I'm feeling pretty crummy right now, just in pain and tired and super grumpy. But I am still happy. It's nice to have no regrets with the decisions we've made concerning this birth. Now all I have to do is actually have the damn kid!

T is deeply in love with his grandparents. It has been so great to have them here this week.

Big smooch from Grandma.

One of my favorite parts of how they interact with him is how silly they are. T gets up every morning and jumps on his Grandpa to wake him. Right after this was taken Grandma jumped right on T, so they made a crazy T sandwich.

Our dear friend was in town all weekend. Watching me labor for 2 days didn't make for the most fun trip, but we always feel better about life when he visits. And T loves it when his Uncle Kevin reads to him.

Labor But No Delivery

2011-08-28T14:43:00.000-04:00

Turns out a lot of moms out there have no idea what it is like to go into labor on their own, moms who were induced, moms with scheduled c-sections, moms with major complications that lead to preemies. I was induced with T, so this is my first time waiting, waiting, waiting for the labor to start. Yesterday afternoon my contractions started to get more regular. At about 6 we began to time them. I called the doctor at 9 when they were 10 minutes apart and about 30 seconds long. Doc F and I decided that I'd head to the hospital when I felt like it. Maybe I'd be able to get some sleep overnight at my place, if they started being more frequent I'd go on in.

At about 5am I was up for good. At 5:30 I asked Z to shower and mom drove us in at about 6:30. T was up so we were able to give him huge goodbye hugs and kisses. They hooked me up to a fetal monitor at the hospital and New Guy was clearly doing very well. I could also see my contractions, which made me feel better. One the more charming side effects of my anxiety disorder is I'm convinced people think I'm a liar. So on my due date I actually was concerned the doctors/nurses/Z/my family would think I was making my labor pain up. Pretty crazy. And sort of sad that I pointed out the contractions on the monitor to Z. Along with a, "See! See! I really am in labor!" Um, he hadn't doubted me for a second. Because a) I actually don't lie much and b) I'm 85 years pregnant. Yes, so far to go in the getting well department.

Eventually a doc came to see what was going on with my cervix and it was 3cm dilated. At that point the contractions were between 5 and 7 minutes apart and about 40-60 seconds long. Things were progressing. The doc went to call Doc F and ask what she wanted to do.

I really didn't want to go home. Leaving the hospital as a heavily pregnant woman is akin to taking a walk of shame to me. The idea that I don't know my body well enough to make a good decision about when to go for delivery just feels humiliating. And if I'm all settled in I don't want to go home and have to do another stressful ride to the hospital later. I wanted a one trip situation.

So, I don't want to get anyone in trouble here. Not that I think my doc or Doc F or anyone at the hospital is aware that I blog. Or that they would check out said blog if they found out about it. But just in case, let's just call the rest of this post hypothetical.

Let's say that two nurses slipped into the room and closed the door behind them. And let's say that they told me they were worried I wasn't going to be getting all the info I needed. They said the resident would be coming back to tell me Doc F wanted to break my water. But if my water was broken and I didn't progress I'd have to have pitocin, I'd be induced with no reason. And I was still carrying really high, so if my water was broken there'd be a risk for a prolapsed umbilical cord which would mean an immediate c-section. They said it was my decision and it was my right to go home and do the early stages of labor there where I could eat (if I stayed no more food and I was starving) and try to be comfortable. But if I stayed I'd be strapped to an uncomfortable hospital bed because of the fetal monitor and the antibiotic IV (no matter when I go into active labor I'll get that IV because I'm Strep Positive) and the birth would run the risk of becoming unnecessarily medicalized. I asked what they would do if they were me, and they told me they'd go home until the contractions were so intense that I couldn't read (what I was doing when they came in) or hold a conversation. Or when the contractions were 5 minutes apart and a minute long. Or if my water broke. Or if I started bleeding.

I looked at Z and said, "Can I be honest with you? Doc F was my doctor and she delivered my son and it was sort of a disaster." They told me they knew and that was why they were there to talk to me. Oh good lord, I was THAT patient. The one with the reputation and history. I told them I was so embarrassed that the folks at the hospital knew, but they said not to worry and pointed out that I might not go into active labor until tomorrow and if that was the case Doc A would deliver me. They said they knew him and that he always had the patient's best interests at heart and that he wouldn't break my water in this situation. And suddenly it didn't seem so shameful to go back home. In fact, it seemed like a really healthy choice. Yup, I want an epidural, but I don't want this whole business medicalized before that if it doesn't have to be. I don't want to get myself in a situation where I need to be induced or I suddenly need a c-section. And I don't want to be tied to a hospital bed before I need to be.

I told the ladies that I knew they didn't need to come talk to me, I knew they were sticking out there necks for no reason and I appreciated it so much. I brought up the nurse who knew something was wrong the first time around. She still works at the hospital, but wasn't on duty. Even though I was supposed to be out of delivery two hours after T was born she kept me there for five, fending off the docs who wanted the room while trying so hard to get me help. It wasn't her fault that no one would listen. And I knew I wasn't supposed to say anything to the resident about the little visit from the nurses. They could get in real trouble. The hospital I go to is a bit on the shabby side. After delivery there aren't single rooms like the hospital across town. There isn't a natural birthing center. But I don't give a shit. The nurses are incredible. I couldn't feel luckier to have them, or more grateful for their care.

The resident clearly wasn't crazy about the idea of me going home. She talked a lot about the risks of me not making it back in time. But even though I think of all doctors as authority figures and it was really hard for me I told her I was sure about my decision. So here I am in my own bed after gorging myself on food from my own kitchen and getting to play with my sweet son for a bit. The contractions aren't speeding up, they aren't slowing down. I'm going to take a nap. And then maybe a bath. And if I'm still home tonight we're getting take out pizza, which means mozzarella sticks for me! Much better than being chained to a hospital bed. And if I need to go in tonight and be delivered by Doc F, well I'm doing it on my own fucking terms, thank you very much.

With T I packed a diaper bag to the gills to take to the hospital. With New Guy it's part of a Babies R Us bag roughly the size of my small cat.

Thought I'd document the grumpy lady in the mirror who I noticed after realizing I was in labor yesterday afternoon.

The only fresh veggie Mr. Picky-pants will eat.

Chowing like he means it.

It is way better to be near this kid than it is to be in the hospital.

Change of Plans

2011-08-26T16:19:00.000-04:00

Sunday the 28th is my due date. Throughout the pregnancy I was absolutely sure I'd have New Guy well before then. Partially because classes start on the 29th for Z, and it would be beyond inconvenient for us to have the kid after the semester began. Partially because I just convinced myself he'd come early. But as of yesterday I really don't want to go into labor before Monday.

Last week when I made the appointment for yesterday the receptionist told me my doc (Doc A) was on vacation this week, but not to worry, he wasn't traveling, he'd be available to deliver me. I was totally cool with that. But yesterday the doc (Doc B, who we really like) told us she wasn't aware that our doc was planning on delivering anyone this week. And then she told us that she'd been on call for the first part of the week and the doc that delivered T (Doc F) would be on call until Monday. And then I started to cry. She knew about my experience with Doc F, which was why she told us about the on call situation. She also said she'd call Doc A and ask what his plans were. She figured she just might have been out of the loop and he was planning to come in for my delivery. She said she'd call me later and let me know.

Doc A really is an amazing medical professional. Doc B has recently finished her residency. She's about Z and my age and it is clear that she looks up to him as well. The other doc we see in the practice (Doc C, she's part time and doesn't have hospital privileges, so no chance of her delivering) is another younger woman who we like a great deal. She's the one that gave us the news about the miscarriage so gently. And she also thinks highly of our doc. The fact that his colleagues both respect and admire him only makes us love him more. They have both told us how much they have learned from him, he obviously loves medicine and sharing his knowledge. On top of that he actually cares about his patients on a personal level. He is the real deal through and through. I was pretty sure he'd come through for me.

And when Doc B called last night she said his plan was to do what he could to deliver me. If I go into labor this weekend I'll call the after hours number and speak to Doc F. She will call my doc and hopefully he'll be ready to go. Doc B made it clear that nothing is 100%, and I totally know that. I also appreciate that my doc is on vacation and he is really going above and beyond for me. And Doc F is a colleague to the other docs, they all know about my experience, I feel like a turd for putting everyone in a difficult position. I'm sure that Doc F has been a great doc for hundreds of women, but sometimes people fuck up, and she did with me. But just the thought of talking to her makes me break out in the cold sweats. Should I have left the practice altogether? Z and my folks think not. Last night when I was freaking out a bit they pointed out if I went to another practice it would have been a shot in the dark. I changed to my doc because he helped me when I was at my most vulnerable. He made me feel listened to at a point in my life when I was truly terrified and he got me help.

But I do not want to deal with Doc F, especially when I'm in labor. And I hate the idea of interrupting my doc's vacation. Hence, I'm cool with keeping this baby in until Monday. No more complaining. It's only 3 days away. And one of our best friends in the entire world is visiting us to get away from the hurricane this weekend. I can't wait to spend time with him. I'll be surrounded by people I love and who love me. My folks are here, Z will be home, friends will be in and out, and of course there will be T. It will be a great weekend. So what if I'm a tad bit uncomfortable? And if labor does start Z will have my back for sure. If Doc F delivers New Guy I'm sure she'll be a hell of a lot more careful than last time.

Last Christmas Mom and Dad gave T these awesome Star Wars sheets for his big boy bed. We didn't have room to get them home then, so they brought them up and we got them on the bed the day they arrived. And no, we aren't putting toddler safety rails on the bed. T doesn't move that much in his sleep. And my mom said she just threw some pillows on the floor for us when we were little and we lived. Yes, he did fall out the first night. But it didn't tame his enthusiasm for the bed and it hasn't happened since.

T was suitably impressed. You can't really see, but his t-shirt has a big X-wing on it.

I told Z I was buying a bookcase for T's room and he had this made almost immediately. It's the first furniture he's built specifically for T that T will be able to use into adulthood and I absolutely love it.

He was able to source some waney-edge boards that came out of a tree sequentially.

The room is really starting to come together. Z tried doing green/yellow trees on this wall, but we don't like it. One of the millions of things I've learned from him is it's only paint and we can always re-do it. So he got some chalkboard paint and the current plan is to do the whole wall with that. Then he's going to paint white silhouettes of trees on it. If we hate it we'll figure something else out.

On my parents first full day here we went grocery shopping. After we loaded the trunk Dad grabbed T and threw him in there, too. Then he closed the door. He opened it half a minute later and T was cracking up. "Again!", he shouted.

Two Unrelated Things On My Mind Today

2011-08-22T15:58:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow afternoon my parents arrive to help out with the baby I'm starting to believe is never coming out of my uterus. So today is the last full day we have as a family of three. This makes me pretty melancholy. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I fully understand how lucky we are that my folks will drop their lives for weeks on end to help us out. T absolutely adores them both, and having them here is going to help smooth the transition for him from being the center of our lives to being a big brother. My mom has trouble sitting still, she'll be cleaning, cooking, and running errands like a wild woman. I'll be even more spoiled rotten than usual. There is not a single part of me that wishes they weren't coming. But it always saddens me when a chapter of our life ends. I wish I was a glass-half-full gal. I'd be able to focus on the beginning in front of us. And I know the change is going to make me all of our lives richer. Hell, I want this baby as much as I've ever wanted anything.

Just before T was born I felt the same exact way. I mourned the loss of Z and my relationship as non-parents. The responsibility we were undertaking seemed completely overwhelming. Last night as we were bathing T he was cracking us up with his adorableness. The thought that it was our second to last bath as a family of three kept intruding on my enjoyment of him. It's the moments when my participation in our life is hindered by the sadness that accompanies my emotional problems that really frustrate the hell out of me. As much as my shrink insists there are upsides to being excruciatingly over sensitive, anxious, pessimistic, and insecure I'd much rather not be a crazy person. Even if it made me a less empathetic individual. I mean really, how far is an abundance of empathy going to get me in this world? I'd kind of rather enjoy my current kid while being super excited about my kid on the way and not give a shit that the door is closing on one phase of life and opening on another.

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So who knows when New Guy will choose to make his appearance. Today would be nice. It's my favorite Aunt's birthday. I'd love to have the baby share that day with her. His due date is my best friend's son's birthday. That would be pretty awesome as well. I've talked about how healing September 3rd would be (please god, don't make me wait that long). I'm trying to be more roll with the flow and have a "he'll get here when he gets here" attitude.

But here's the thing. I'm fucking terrified. As T's birth was sort of a shit show I should have listened to Z and taken a birth class or prepared in some way for this time. But I did what I usually do and ignored the thing that scares me the most. In my brain I think if I don't acknowledge something I wont' have to deal with it. Can you believe that line of thinking regularly backfires on me? Now that the labor part of things is imminent I am out of my god damned mind with fear. What was I thinking? I'm going into this situation as blind as I was was T. There are a few things that will make this time better, Z and I will both speak up if we feel like something is wrong, and we both completely trust my doctor to do right by me. But the pain part? When it was time to push with T I told everyone in the room I simply couldn't do it. It hurt that bad. The pressure was so intense, I've just never experienced pain so acute before. I don't do well with pain, even the little stuff. And this is in no way little. So I've known it is coming for nine months. What is my strategy? To not have a strategy. To probably beg for an epidural the minute I get to the hospital. To walk the line between not making a huge fool of myself and completely freaking out in front of a bunch of strangers. Hell, I am freaking out here and labor hasn't even started. Freaking. Out. Also, I'm an idiot. Wish me luck.

T fell and cut of the inside of his mouth today. He loves the idea of having his picture taken (execution- a bit harder, he doesn't get the "hold still" part yet) and I was trying to cheer him up.

He'd recovered at this point, but then climbed on the chair, started crying, and called "Mama! Boy bonked mouth!" It's been a refrain all morning.

But I think he'll live. Distracting him is pretty easy.

The melancholy part of the post had me looking at old photos of T. Wasn't he just this size? What the hell happened? His round baby face just slays me. God, I miss him.

Think I've posted this one before. It's one of my all time favorites of my two guys.

Emotional Pregnancy Garbage

2011-08-21T21:00:00.000-04:00

The physical changes during pregnancy are completely overwhelming. But they are so in your face that it is easy to write and talk about them. The emotional changes are a bit more tricky and, of course, unique to each person. Successfully capturing the emotional toll of pregnancy has been alluding me. I've tried to write this post several times, and I've really struggled to get it right.

During T's pregnancy my state of mind really bothered me because I had no idea what would happen when the baby came. I felt no connection to him. The only thing that comforted me in the "am I fit to be a mother?" department was I knew despite my reservations I did not want to lose the baby. I knew a miscarriage would be devastating, so on some level that meant I must want the baby. Several friends had warned me that I might not bond with him immediately, and judging from my prenatal feelings I was sure that would be the case. It was a delight to fall deeply and immediately in love with him.

When I got pregnant last summer it didn't bother me at all that I felt no connection to the baby, I knew I would when he or she got here. To find out there had been two embryos and that I'd lost them both was even more devastating than I anticipated. So in a really straightforward and predictable way this pregnancy has been difficult emotionally. I've wanted this baby so intensely, but the experience with the miscarriage has meant I've lived in fear that something terrible is going to happen. Other moms who have had miscarriages have told me the fear passes when the baby quickens, but that hasn't been the case for me. I'm scared I will hemorrhage, he will be stillborn, I'm slowly leaking amniotic fluid and don't know it, and a million other things each more far fetched than the last. I don't know if my fear comes from my anxiety disorder or not, but it has been my constant companion. I still don't feel bonded to the new guy. But that doesn't bother me at all. I will fall in love with him. Even if I don't immediately I trust that I will eventually.

All that emotional garbage feels pretty normal. The frightening part about this and the other pregnancies is how isolated they make me feel. It is very similar to how I felt when I was in the middle of my breakdown. My limited comfort in my own skin has been removed. I've never been good at sharing, the truth is I really resent it when someone else is relying on my internal organs. My body no longer belongs to me, and I feel very stingy about it. The only control I have it how the rest of the world interacts with me. I don't like to be touched by anyone and the feeling intensifies as the day progresses. In the morning I seek Z out for our hugs, but by the evening I actually shrink away from being touched.

I hate it. Because if I am comfortable with the person I adore physical affection. And with Z it is more like a necessity. A basic part of what makes me me is gone. But the thing that scares the shit out of me is I don't feel like a stranger. This is what life was like when I was rockin' that borderline personality disorder. I feel like that girl. And let me tell you what, things were pretty bleak then. Thankfully, it isn't all the time, and it isn't anywhere as severe as it was. Every morning I wake up in decent shape and my emotional state deteriorates throughout the day. By the time I go to bed I feel like I'm becoming that person I used to despise. In the morning she's gone, and if this transition to postnatal is anything like last time she'll be gone for good after I get the hang of breastfeeding again. Except what does gone for good mean? Gone unless we decide to have a third? Gone until I relapse? That's my biggest fear, especially now that I'm a mom.

I don't have the ability to describe how awful life was in the middle of my breakdown. When I got better, but I was still so close chronologically to the events that nearly destroyed my marriage, I would get the cold sweats every time I thought about how things had been. How could that have been me? How do I make sure I never ever go back there? The longer I've been better the less I think about it, but it is always there. I will never be free of the fear that I'll suffer a clinical depression because if it happens there is nothing I can do to prevent it. Mental illness isn't something you can control or completely prevent. The only thing you can do is manage it. I do not believe it will ever be as bad as it was. I don't believe I'll regress into a borderline personality disorder again because we know better. We would get me help and we would never let it get to the point where I would be so desperate.

I do wish that pregnancy didn't bring me so close to who I used to be. But the absolute truth is it's temporary and it's completely worth it. I love being T's mom. And I can't wait to be a mother to New Guy.

Today was overwhelmingly humid, and little man's curls were going crazy. As a stick straight hair gal I was green with envy.

I was doing some hardcore cleaning in the kitchen (nesting, nesting, nesting) when I heard the dulcimer. I'm still not sure how he got the thing on his lap, but I advised Z to put it somewhere T couldn't reach it in the future.

My boys clinking glasses and saying "Cheers!" Z and I have a million little unobserved traditions like the frequency with which we toast each other. The thing is, they are observed now. And T wants to take part. It's pretty damn cool.

Battle of Wills

2011-08-19T15:23:00.001-04:00

I don't have a lot of intrest in being friends with T right now. When he doesn't need constant monitoring I do want to be pals, when he grows up and the day to day parenting is done with I dearly hope we will be close friends, and the best parts of my day are when we have enormous amounts of fun together. But I am in charge of teaching him to make his way through this world as a kind and responsible member of society. Friendship is a sacred thing, and it's very much a two way street. It makes me nervous when parents talk about the friendships they have with their kids. How can a two year old participate in that reciprocal relationship? And frankly, I feel like the parent-child relationship, while different from friendship, is every bit as rich and fulfilling. I can't be his friend right now, I need to be his mom. All that said, I really don't want to be his adversary either. I absolutely do not want to engage in a battle of wills with him. It's something I've observed parents do since I babysat back in high school. And it confounded me then. Isn't the parent in charge? How is the kid ever going to respect them if they let themselves get so caught up in a situation that they obviously care about who is "winning"? Kids are going to push back, shouldn't firm boundaries be set, and if the kid crosses the line previously discussed repercussions be handed out?

When I was a babysitter I cared about the kids, but my emotional investment wasn't huge. I calmly made the rules and if the kids didn't follow them I calmly dealt with it by following through with what I said would happen if they didn't listen. And I shamelessly told the parents everything. Easy right? What could be the problem with your own kid?

Again, what an idiot I was. No one can get under your skin like your kid. Particularly when you are the one spending the most time with them. Particularly when you are trying to teach them right from wrong, how to be safe and how to treat others. We are in the middle of transitioning T to his big boy bed. He's actually doing much better at night than he is during nap time. It is taking him longer to wind down and fall asleep, but a big boy bed is a pretty exciting thing so it totally makes sense.

Z has been the last one in with him at bedtime. He sings songs, gives T sips of water, and down T goes. His first night in the bed was Sunday, it took him over an hour to fall asleep, and last night he was asleep in 5 minutes. Um, the intense jealousy I feel when Z sets up parameters that encourage T to succeed while I am stupid enough to lay down a really rigid set of rules that no two year old could resist disobeying shall be explored in a post sometime in the near future. I've been doing most naps. And yup, my poor judgement insured that T and I would be tangled in an epic and hugely frustrating battle of the wills.

We have a video monitor. I told him I was watching him and if he got off the bed he would have to go back to his crib. He made it clear that he didn't want to go back into the crib, but it has been impossible for him to resist testing me to see if I'm looking. He hangs off the bed, feet dangling near the stool he uses to climb in, eventually lowering himself on to the ground. Then he hops back into bed in the hopes that I've missed it, gives it a few seconds, and the cycle begins again. I set up the rules, so I'm left with no choice but to go in and tell him to cut it out, the next time I SWEAR he is going in the crib. I went in three times yesterday and he finally did fall asleep. Even though I realized I was causing the problem today I was stupid enough to again warn him I'd be watching. After the third time I did what neither of us really wanted and put him in the crib.

Needless to say it wasn't a popular choice. He sobbed hysterically, he begged me for his big boy bed. But I'd backed myself into a corner. Yes, he needs to figure out how to sleep in his bed. No, it really isn't the end of the world if he gets out of it as he is settling down. But for some reason I decided he needed to do this nap thing perfectly. I put an enormous amount of pressure on him and basically set him up to fail. It wouldn't help matters at all if I suddenly didn't follow through with what I told him. He had to go in to his crib today. And it sounds like he has fallen asleep. But tomorrow I'm not saying a damn word about watching him. Even then it might take a while for the damage to undo itself when it comes to him horsing around at nap time. And next time I need to remember that my two year old isn't going to be perfect. And if I set up expectations that he should be it's just going to lead to frustration for both of us.

I want to do right by him so badly. And again and again I fuck up. The only option is to try and be aware of it, pick myself up, dust off and do better tomorrow. I still believe setting firm paramaters is important in a lot of parenting situations, but I need to do a much better job of differentiating between situations like keeping him away from a hot stove, or grabbing a sharp knife compared to the big transitions like big boy beds or potty training, where extra stress is only going to make the situation worse. God, I hate the days I feel like a shit mom.

In other news, my cervix is still tightly shut.

The bummer is we had an awesome morning playing with play doh before the nap time debacle. He thought it was important to use a hammer and chisel to beat the play doh into submission.

I made some play doh tools, which he seemed to enjoy using as much as his toy ones.

He asked to have his "ear muffins" on. I love how safety conscious he is.

Sleepy guy chewing on grilled cheese.

Less than a minute later he is out. Yup, dude was that tired and I managed to screw up nap time anyway...

Are You Guys Bored of My Pregnancy Yet? Because I Sure Am.

2011-08-18T15:00:00.000-04:00

Did you read this post, in which I discussed some of the more unpleasant aspects of pregnancy? It's a real charmer. I wrote it less than three weeks ago. Oh, how some things change in that short amount of time. I briefly mentioned I didn't have stretch marks on my belly. Well, I didn't then. Pregnancy is supposed to be 40 weeks long and I didn't get the stretch marks until I was almost at 38 weeks. Of my second full term pregnancy. Now I know it is a petty thing to be upset about, but are you fucking kidding me? And they are getting bigger every day. It's almost like I can watch them spreading. Just another reminder that there are new humiliations around every corner when you are growing human beings inside your body.

My due date is August 28th. But I don't let facts get in the way of what I decide is reality. Somehow I got it in my head that there was no way I was carrying this baby for 40 weeks. T was 6 days early, second babies tend to come even earlier, so we'd have this kid out and about by mid August. The thing is T was induced. I have no idea how much longer I would have carried him if preeclampsia wasn't part of the picture. The 28th is a really inconvenient week to have a kid. Classes start for Z on the 29th. The other professors in his program have stuff going on in their lives as well and can't be expected to cover for him. That's the other reason I want to have this kid like yesterday. Z would be able to be a bit more relaxed and actually spend time in the hospital with us without being worried about what was going on at work.

A couple of days ago I waddled into T's room on the way to the shower to tell Z something while he was dressing T for the day. He looked up at me and said, "Jesus, you are carrying that kid high." I informed him he wasn't helping and flounced right out of the room. Well, I would have flounced if I hadn't been humungous and unwieldy. Z was just speaking the truth, though. I've carried both boys extremely high and New Guy hasn't dropped at all. When I go into the doctor's office this afternoon I've decided to not try and delude myself. He'll check my cervix. And he'll tell me it hasn't opened at all. I'm starting to have a horrible feeling New Guy isn't going to show his face until September.

Many months ago I remember writing it would be cool if New Guy arrived on September 3rd, our 11th wedding anniversary. Because we found out about the miscarriage on our 10th anniversary. Please, let me reiterate, don't ever make doctor's appointments on your wedding anniversary. You probably won't get bad news, but why take the risk? If you do find out something awful it'll really color that day in the future. Just don't do it. As nice as it would be to have a wonderful new memory on that day, I would sincerely like to punch the me of several months ago in the face for suggesting it.

So yes, still pregnant. Super grumpy.

T has insisted on sleeping with so many stuffed animals there is barely room for him. But it seems like the transition is complete. He's in his new room full time.

This was our big present for his 2nd birthday. It'll go into his room during the winter. And the purple will match his sheets! Z didn't make it, we got it at an open studio event in our neighborhood in the spring. Support local artists!

Today I was sitting in our yard and it was really cool to look around from his point of view. It seems much more jungle-like if you are under 3 feet tall.

Prepping for Z to use the router. I love how his safety gear squishes his sweet face.

The First Successful Diet of My Life Started at Week 28 of Pregnancy

2011-08-17T22:16:00.000-04:00

Among the most loaded issues during pregnancy is diet and weight gain. The mixed messages you receive from different sources are completely overwhelming. Your friends tell you horror stories of gaining 80 lbs, but then magically losing them all in 3 months due to the wonders of breastfeeding. Other friends struggle with putting on weight and not being able to take it off postpartum. Still other friends looked smugly perfect, all belly while carrying the baby and seemingly back to normal in a matter of weeks. The pamphlets at the doctor's office talk about healthy eating and stress that you shouldn't indulge in whatever you want. The pregnancy books instruct you to never ever diet during pregnancy. So what the hell are you supposed to do? Because on top of all the different stories you are getting from the universe at large your own body can't decide what it wants.

I love food. A lot. Like almost as much as I love Z and T. Um, my relationship with it might not be the healthiest in the world. It was perplexing to have food become my enemy during the first half of my pregnancy. I was nauseous all the time, strangely eating took the edge off the nausea, but I couldn't think of anything that was palatable enough to eat. Suddenly one of the most pleasurable parts of my life turned into something to dread. And then at about 20 weeks that phase was mostly over. Food tasted great and as time went on started to taste even better. My body told me it wanted carbs, lots and lots of carbs. And sweet stuff. And salty stuff. And carbs. Failing the first glucose screen, which is the test for gestational diabetes, should not have been a shock.

Here's how my fabulous doc explained it to Z and me: every pregnant woman in the world has gestational diabetes. The placenta sucks the nutritional value of food right into your blood stream, not just the sugars, but the fats, and the proteins, and the vitamins, everything. It's part of the parasitic relationship that is gestation. Back when women didn't have access to unlimited amounts of food it undoubtedly saved the lives of many fetuses. Now that many of us in first world countries can eat whatever we want whenever we want it, the gestational diabetes can quickly get out of control and create a negative health impact on the fetus and the mom.

We were on vacation for two weeks starting the day I found out about my failed glucose test so the 3 hour screen (the next step) was put off until I got back. The nurse told me I needed to immediately cut out sugar and refined carbs and limit whole grains. So at about 28 weeks I found myself on a diet. Um, diets haven't worked so well for me in the past.

It's not that I wasn't raised in a home that modeled good eating. Mom made our lunches which included a sandwich, small bag of chips, piece of fruit, and dessert. The vast majority of the time we ate dinner as a family and there was usually meat, potatoes, a veg, and always a glass of milk. I sucked at rebelling in general, but food came to symbolize the promise of making my own adult decisions. And I demonstrated really poor judgement that was a pretty big indicator of how I'd handle being a grown up for the first decade or so.

There was a coke machine in my high school and I spent 4 years having a can of coke during first period. Which started at 7:50am. I think I pretty much ate the lunch mom packed because I sucked at lying and she'd ask about the damn apple. But I remember being on a theater trip either my sophomore or junior year and visiting a food court with no adult supervision for dinner. I got an ice cream sundae, you know, because I could. College wasn't any better in terms of food choices. By my last year breakfast was that good old can of coke, a huge NYC bagel with tons of butter from the place around the corner from my northern Manhattan apartment scarfed down between cigarettes on the drive up to Bronxville. God, it was delicious. And lunch for almost every day of the four years I was at Sarah Lawrence was fried eggs, bacon (extra crispy), and cheddar cheese on a bagel. I'm nothing if not a creature of habit. And holy shit, I can't think of a better lunch. The thing is when I graduated I was about 120lbs. There were never any repercussions for eating like total shit. You know, until there were. By that time I'd been eating crap for so long I refused to acknowledge there could be a correlation between what I ate and what I weighed. Then I started on high doses of antidepressants and rapidly put on another 50lbs. In my mid to late 20s I became overweight for the first time in my life.

I took no action about my weight except to complain about it constantly. And to use it as further proof that I was completely worthless. Adding to the problem, during my 20s I started working in the food industry and Z and I developed a love of fine food together. Going to restaurants we couldn't afford became one of the highlights of our relationship as everything else about it was falling apart.

When I started coming off the antidepressants I did lose about 20lbs. But I was older and my metabolism had changed and I needed to actually do something about the other 30lbs plus the extra I'd put on before the drugs. Again I did nothing. Expect complain about how I looked.

So why the boring history of my food issues? Well, I figure a lot of you ladies have them as well. If you aren't the best about taking care of your body and you get pregnant it feels like a shitty time to try and get yourself on track health-wise. But I am living proof that it is possible. In fact, when a doctor tells you to modify your diet because if you don't you are putting the health of your baby at risk the it becomes achievable. Now that I know I actually do possess the willpower to not eat potato chips when everyone else at the table is having them I feel like continuing with this healthy eating thing might just be possible after the baby finally arrives.

And I did pass the second glucose screen. But my doctor told me to continue to stick to the modified diet for the remainder of the pregnancy. Don't get me wrong, it's been a bummer. I crave carbs all the time. Right now I could really go for a soft serve twist cone, or a Butterfinger Blizzard, or just a really excellent piece of bread covered in half an inch of butter. I'll settle for a bowl of glamourous Weetabix. And my doc did tell me I could have one serving of ice cream a week. Friday is my lucky day. I look forward to it all week long. Listen, I've flat out made terrible nutritional choices for my whole adult life. And who the hell knows if I'll be able to continue to motivate after New Guy comes. But if this situation happens to you I can tell you it is a hell of a lot easier to make the right choice for the safety of your child than it is to make the right choice for yourself. If I can diet during pregnancy anyone can.

T's Aunt sent the awesome doll for his birthday, and our friends gave him the stroller. He loves pushing that baby around our house.

Drawing while waiting for dinner during our family date night.

T charmed our waitress so thoroughly that she arranged this surprise for him. The crazy kid wouldn't take a single bite! He's incredibly suspicious of new foods and we can't seem to convince him that ice cream rocks. Z, who isn't crazy about dessert, took one for the team and ate it. Full disclosure: I had 2 bites.

Birthday

2011-08-14T16:22:00.000-04:00

T turned two yesterday, and it was awesome. A friend who I absolutely idolize spent the night on Friday and she brought her sweet dog, who T fell deeply in love with. We had a small BBQ for T Saturday evening, just the folks we are very close to here in town. I've never been the type to have a million friends. I enjoy developing more intimate relationships with a few folks I really enjoy. Z and I call 'em "our people". And it is amazing that we have kind of found a group of our people in just two years here in Syracuse. Last night I was feeling particularly happy and grateful for our imperfect perfect life.

The imperfect stuff is always going to be there. When I was younger I didn't understand that. I wanted Z to never mess up. While it's unacceptable to be dicks to each other without trying to correct that behavior, I would ride him for every single mistake, from the big stuff to how he ordered cold cuts at the deli counter. I still have a long way to go, but I've loosened up quite a bit with him. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out how to be less exacting with my expectations of myself. High expectations along with an anxiety disorder is a stupid, destructive combination that guarantees I'm perpetually furious with myself. And I almost let my failure ruin T's day.

Z made an amazing chainsaw out of wood for T's birthday.

Notice the serious emphasis on safety!

Z has a wide ranging skill set that enables him to make fantastic stuff for T all the time. As I type this he is at the shop at work making a bookcase that is going to go in T's new big boy room. I can do some stuff with my hands, but I have a difficult time motivating because my expectations are too high to meet. I'm convinced nothing I do is good enough, so I don't start. Watching NCIS reruns and surfing the web is much safer than messing up on a crocheted hat or enameled piece for his wall. It's one of the things I despise most about myself.

I have to convince myself not to make "making" a competition between Z and me. Just because he does something for T it does not mean I need to do something as well. And as Z often tells me, spending all day with him is its own kind of gift. But I decided it was really important to me to contribute something to his second birthday. So I made him a Star Wars themed cake. And I wasn't really happy with any of it. The devils food cake recipe I used is off the hook delicious, but it isn't very firm and is therefore difficult to ice. The buttercream is literally the best I've ever tasted, but when it comes to baking I feel the true creativity is in recipe development and any fool that can read and execute a set of instructions, so the fact it tasted good didn't score any points with me. Decorating does requie skill and practice, but I didn't hot knife the cake, so the icing job was full of pock marks. I've forgotten how to properly use piping tips for boarders, so I did a lame star thing around the edge. I had decorated Star Wars fondant cut outs to use (don't get me started on the imperfections in those), but never came up with a firm plan on how to use them. I used a completely arbitrary color for the royal icing to write on the cake. Lettering on cakes is not my strong suit. But I looked up a Star Wars font and tried to use it. So the cake was done, which was great. All I could see when I looked at it were my mistakes, which wasn't great, but was completely normal.

Notice anything wrong?

Yup, I left out the "H" in birthday. When I realized it I totally fell apart. I was so disgusted with myself I wanted to punch it and just throw the mess away. I had spent hours on this cake. I was unhappy with it, but before discovering the mistake I was willing to try and bite my tongue rather than tell every guest who came over exactly what was wrong and explain that it was a really lame effort for someone who was actually given money in exchange for baking in the past. I tried to articulate to Z how worthless this mistake made me feel. How it made me never want to try again. Because every time I do try I only prove to myself that I can't do things properly.

Z listened. He pointed out I could fix the lettering after the royal icing dried. Can I have a "Duh?" I was so focused on my failure that it's like I stopped operating within reality. And that, that my friends, is my anxiety disorder in a nutshell. As usual Z got me through it. I fixed the cake, still wasn't crazy about it, but I didn't obsess about it. I was able to move forward and enjoy the day with my son (thankfully he was napping during my freak out). As crazy as I know I was being, it is amazing to realize how far I've come. Back in 2005 I would have wanted to cancel the party or humiliate myself by explaining to every person who came over exactly what was wrong with the cake. I was the queen of making people uncomfortable. And I still have that charming ability, but it has gotten so much better. As much as this is a self absorbed post about me, the great thing is in real life I didn't hijack the day and make it about my shortcomings. Instead it was all about T.

He didn't give a crap that it wasn't perfect.

T lovin' on his favorite (and most amazingly patient) pal Jack.

Tuning up his awesome personalized new guitar with a handmade strap from our wonderful friends. He is one lucky duck who was loved hard by so many people yesterday.

A Boring Lesson on Being Strep Positive

2011-08-11T22:23:00.000-04:00

Hey non-preggers people, you might find this pretty dull! Just trying to be friendly and give you a heads up!

Today I went in for my 37 week 5 day visit. First of all, my cervix is still closed. Phooey. Last week I had my Strep B swab, and just like with T's pregnancy I'm positive. So what is Strep B anyway? Here's a really great article from the American Pregnancy Association. If there is a nifty article than why am I still writing about it? Because my doctor, who I adore, explained it in a really cool and helpful way.

Some background: I'm a huge pussy. Big surprise, I know. I hate and dread pain and can't handle it at all. Therefore I'm a huge fan of the epidural. I really admire those ladies who go the natural route. As long as there aren't extenuating circumstances that put the mom and babe at risk I think home birth ladies are kick ass. But that isn't me. I need drugs. All that said, I don't love the idea of a lot of medical intervention when it isn't needed. Being induced is evil and beyond painful. You NEED an epidural faster because you are immediately in the thick of huge contractions. Your body doesn't have time to warm up. And sometimes the epidural can slow down the contractions, so more induction drugs are given, so the epidural needs to be turned up, and on and on and on. That didn't happen with me. T came quickly, but my body was not warmed up and I tore horribly even after having an episiotomy. But, I had preeclampsia. My blood pressure was worrisomely high. My doctor waited as long as she felt was safe before inducing, and I made it to 39 weeks, which was pretty good. She was not inducing for convenience, but for my health and safety. Yes, I have big problems with her and how I was treated, but they have nothing to do with her decision to induce. And yet, I made it clear to my current doctor that I'd like to avoid it at all costs this time around.

Part of the medical intervention crap was being hooked up to an IV drip. I wanted to avoid that (until epidural time), and I wanted to avoid antibiotics. I had tons of IV antibiotics with T because I was Strep Positive and because of the D&C to remove the left behind placenta 5 days after his birth. And in my humble opinion that is why we got a nasty and painful case of thrush. Um yeah, I really don't want to go there again.

But here is what my doctor told me about Group B Strep that changed my mind. He said about 25% of all woman carry it in their "natural flora" (Z loved that turn of phrase and has been using it nonstop since). He said it wasn't weird, it wasn't bad, it just was part of some ladies. He also said it comes and goes. If you've tested positive in the past you will always be a carrier. And if you test negative at 36 weeks there is no guarantee you won't be positive when you give birth. That said, the risk to the baby is low unless your water broke ages before you deliver or you go into labor before you're full term. But if the baby gets it, well there is a good chance he'll get really sick. Or die. And the antibiotics make that low risk much much smaller.

I'm not a big risk gal. Suddenly the thrush thing didn't seem like a big deal. He said if I tested negative they would only give me the antibiotics if I asked. I told him to tell me when to ask and I'd do it. I trust him completely. Turns out it's a moot point. I'm positive so I'll be getting the drugs. The sucky thing is you need to stay in the hospital for 48 hours after the baby is born so they can make sure he doesn't have it. But, whatever, I can deal. And now I know if we go for a third that I'm a carrier. And I'll probably request the antibiotics during the delivery no matter what.

Yes, I know antibiotics are massively overprescribed in this country. I try to avoid them at all costs under normal circumstances. I also try to only buy meat and dairy for my family that is free from antibiotics. I know that a lot of people will find my doctor's recommendation suspect. If it's a pretty low risk why bother with antibiotics? But minimizing a real risk to my son during childbirth is worth it to me. Also, having a doctor who takes the time to explain his reasoning makes a huge difference. My doc the first time around explained nothing about the positive test (among many other things). And I was too intimidated to ask her.

The difference I feel with this pregnancy, the way my doctor will take all the time in the world to explain my smallest question, has changed my expectations when it comes to medical professionals permanently. I trust him, I am grateful for his wisdom, when he tells me stuff that makes sense I'll basically follow him to the end of the world. And now that I've experienced someone like him I'll always expect that level of excellence.

Purple sheets! Boba Fett Lamp!

Cuddling with Daddy.

Hard to see what is going on here, but he was so unbelievably excited during the fight at Jabba's place on Tatooine in Return of the Jedi.

Mood Swing Whiplash and A Little Humble Pie

2011-08-09T15:10:00.001-04:00

Good mood alert! It's currently 71 glorious degrees and rainy. I actually almost feel cool. One of the few good things about the third trimester is food tastes amazing. As I was eating a nectarine a few minutes ago I was thinking it was the best nectarine I had ever put in my mouth. God, I adore food. But the really good news? That would be the call I received from T's pediatrician letting me know that his lead level was only 3.5! It needs to be under 5 to be considered normal, so he more than qualifies. Woo fucking hoo! I am so incredibly relieved. And happy.

So clearly I overreacted to the great lead paint scare of '11. But we are going forward with contacting the Lead Abatement folks. And in a way I'm really glad this happened. It is an issue we needed to deal with that got lost in the craziness of the last two years. We will be able to find out how much lead is actually in the house, and we will hopefully be able to take steps to correct the problem. And the doctor was totally cool with retesting him in a year if a lot of lead is found in the house. Bottom line is T is perfectly fine. Which is the real reason I'm a happy camper today. The other stuff is just the cherry on top.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

T and I ventured out in rain to pick out sheets for his big boy bed. We ended up at Bed, Bath, and Beyond and they didn't have a real kids section. But they did have cheap bright colored sheets for college kids. I told T he could pick out the color. The first thing he did was point and say, "Pink!" Yup, he wanted pink. And this was neon pink. I sort of had a headache just looking at it. Now Z and I pride ourselves on our progressive thinking when it comes to gender roles. T loves to play with dolls, he loves to play with tools, he loves to play with kitchen stuff, he loves to play with trucks. We are naturally introducing him to stuff that we love (tools, kitchen stuff), but we are trying not to direct him toward traditional boy stuff. He gets to choose what he likes.

So I am deeply ashamed and kind of confused to say I didn't want to get him hot pink sheets. I can try to justify it by saying he has never gravitated toward pink. Or that I've always sort of had a problem with pink. It's a charged color when it comes to gender. But the bottom line is I didn't want him to have the damn sheets. We talked about blue, we talked about green, and then he saw the purple. If T does have a favorite color at this point it has got to be purple. He wanted those sheets fiercely. He wanted to hold them on the way to the register. He fell asleep holding them in the car. Yup, for some reason I was totally fine with the purple. Maybe because he has a history with it, maybe I'm justifying again.

Z and I tend to feel very self-satisfied with our liberal parenting ideas (for the record he wanted to know why I didn't just get the hot pink sheets), and frankly with the way we run our marriage. Why just this very morning on FB I poked some gentle fun at the grad students he is teaching this summer who were shocked that I don't make his lunch for him. I hold tight to the idea that no tradition or person is going to dictate my role as a wife. And yet, I've realized there are tons of things I do in our marriage that would be considered traditional wifely duties. Hello, I'm a stay at home mom. I also do almost all the cooking (and I don't consider sandwich making for lunch cooking), except for grilling. Z grills. Z takes out the trash, Z snow blows the driveway, Z mows the lawn. I could go on all day.

I'm fine with the choices we've made and how we divide responsibility, though. We take on the tasks we don't mind doing. I love cooking. When Z cooks I inevitably take the knife right out of his hand and do it "the right way". I'm a little insufferable. I don't grill because the grill scares me. I just have no desire. And the stuff we both hate? We either don't do it (it's frightening how infrequently the toilets in this house are cleaned) or we share (the dishes...grudgingly). I'm grateful that none of the jobs fall to either of us because they are "supposed to" be men's or women's work. Like ironing. Ha. I don't iron my cloths, so why the hell would I iron Z's? If he wants his shirts pressed he does it himself. We approach our relationship and our parenting as a team. There is no leader, we are equals. And that is exactly how I like it.

So what was my problem with the pink sheets?

He was desperately trying to open them.

Passed out. Yes, he's still rear facing. I know he turns 2 on Saturday, but it's indisputably safer. And I don't think it's doing him any psychic damage.

Swinging with Daddy last night.

He didn't want out of the swing, he just wanted to hang there while Z mowed the lawn.

Worrying Through the Bitter End

2011-08-08T15:59:00.001-04:00

Wanna hear something nice about the middle of pregnancy? You don't have to take your pants off at the OBs office from the end of the first trimester until you are around your 36th week. Unless something weird happens. Even during the big ultrasound they do to make sure the baby is developing normally you only loosen your pants to your hips. For the rest of the visits they just put a microphone thingy on your belly to listen to the heartbeat and assure you the baby is in awesome shape. Which I find a bit shady. I'd love to get a glimpse on the old ultrasound, but if things are normal you don't see the baby from that major ultrasound visit until the day he is born. For the last month of my pregnancy with T I got to see him via ultrasound twice a week because of the preeclampsia. Bed rest sucked. Seeing that my guy was in good shape with my own eyes rocked. But even during those ultrasounds your pants stay on. They come off so the good doctors can check what is going on with your cervix. It is open? Is it thinning? Is the mucus plug in place? Sadly, the answers were No. No. Yes. for me. Seems like New Guy wants to cook a little longer.

My boobs have been getting that achy feeling which means they are getting ready to make some serious milk. They are also flooding my body with even more hormones. Which is causing me to reflect on the last two years with T. We haven't adhered to a strict philosophy when it comes to raising him. We just have gone with our guts and have tried to respond to what he seems to need. No one in the house was sleeping? I bought some books and decided to go with sleep training. He wasn't ready to give up nursing at 12 months (and neither was I...)? We kept on trucking. He started pushing boundaries? We started counting to 3 and doing time outs. He can't handle having has nap or bedtime changed? We make sure he is in his crib by 1pm and we start the bedtime routine by 7:45pm even when it's inconvenient to our plans. It's a mix of granola crunchy stuff and old fashioned stuff. Our granola crunchy friends are secretly horrified we used Cry It Out on him. Our old fashioned friends are secretly horrified I nursed him so long. The cool think about being a parent is the longer you do it the less you care what other people think. You do what's best for your kid. And you realize you don't know what is best for those kids in your friends families even though you might be secretly judging choices they make. I think it might be called growing the fuck up.

As much as I'm ready for the pregnancy to be over I've been trying to warn my doc that I'm probably not going to do really well with this whole delivery thing. One visit I tell him I'm scared to go into labor myself because I was induced last time. He tells me he is going to take care of me and he knows I can handle it. The next visit I tell him I need him to be super sure my placenta is all out of my uterus after delivery. He tells me he is going to take all the time we need to make sure it's all out. When he said that to me I just felt my whole body relax. It was exactly what I wanted to hear. During this last visit as he was getting ready to leave I blurted out, "I've never been away from my son overnight before. When I go into the hospital it'll be the first time." He could tell I was trying not to cry. He told me I was a good mom. I really hit the jackpot with him.

Out of all the stuff I'm scared of the being away from T is the biggest thing. Don't get me wrong, getting all the placenta out is a super close second. But when it comes to being away from him for long periods I'm definitely on the granola crunchy side of things. I also know he'll be completely fine. He doesn't need me around every morning or even every day. I need him. It's always interesting to discover when I'm motivated by my own selfishness rather than T's needs. Another thing I need to work on.

My brave boy showing off his bandaid after the blood draw. He wasn't really crazy about the info bracelet on the other wrist, but he didn't want it taken off either. We should get the lead level results soon. And I didn't end up even going to the lab with them. Z thought it would be better for us all if I just stayed at home and cried on the sofa.

T and Z jammin' on their guitars.

T goes crazy when he solos. He looks like Slash laying on his back with the guitar held over him. He's major hard core.

T has been really hard on the awesome table Z made for our living room. So we are replacing it with a kid's table for the time being. The top of the table is made from wood taken from a tree cut down on the grounds of the Reynolda House Museum of Art. Z's mom worked there for more than 20 years.

And the legs are made from saplings cut down by the father-in-law of a friend.

Lead Paint

2011-08-04T15:30:00.001-04:00

Our sweet little house was built in 1930. And we absolutely adore it. Neither Z nor I are particularly good with money. You sort of hope one half of a couple has some financial savvy, but our positive personality traits are in other areas. We hit the jackpot when we became homeowners in NYC, it was pure luck, a friend tipped us off to a foreclosure in his building, and we were able to buy a one bedroom for $35,000. Yup, we bought an apartment in Brooklyn in 2004 for less than the cost of an SUV. Dumb, crazy, once-in-a-lifetime luck. And the profit we made on that place meant we could buy this one. Real estate stock in the city of Syracuse is incredibly inexpensive compared to a lot of places. Our house isn't big or fancy, but it is perfect for us. We say we can never move because we will never be able to afford anything like it elsewhere in the country. So even though we do a crapy job managing our finances and probably never could have gotten it together to save a reasonable down payment, we have stumbled into happy homeownership.

Older homes are right up our alley aesthetically and I can't imagine us living in anything else. I grew up in 9 different suburban houses, and we were the first or second inhabitants in all but 2 of them. So as weird as it sounds I have a lot of nostalgic feelings about new construction. Z grew up in a house built in the 60s, and he is very fond of it. But when it came to our family we agreed that we want to live in old places. We love the musty smell, we love fantasizing about the families that came before us, and we love trying to restore original details. There are definite downsides to owning an older home. For safety reasons we had to do a major electrical upgrade. The spoiled part of me really would love a bathroom in the master bedroom. Or a clear master bedroom, period. The windows are original, so our heat bill is horrifying. And there is undoubtedly lead paint everywhere.

When you don't have kids you don't give a crap about lead pant. Z and I really don't have a problem controlling ourselves when it comes to eating paint chips. But when we bought the house we knew we needed to investigate the issue for the safety of our son. Fast forward to T's two year wellness visit yesterday. He'd been tested for lead at 9 months, but he wasn't really mobile at that point and his levels were fine. But yesterday they were high. And we haven't done a damn thing about the lead paint issue in our home over the last two years. I am so infuriated with myself.

The test is performed by pricking the child's heal and collecting some blood. The results are ready in about 4 minutes, but it isn't very accurate. We don't even know what T's score was, and it didn't occur to us to ask because it wouldn't have meant anything to us. She said it was high, but not extremely high. We need to take him to a lab that draws blood from the vein and when we get the results of that test we'll know more. In the meantime I found a Lead Abatement Program in Syracuse and we are filling out the paperwork needed before they come for a home inspection. And clearly our guy is on track developmentally, so I don't think we've done irreparable damage, but damn it do I feel guilty.

Therefore, I've acted like a turd for the last 24 hours. I was about as calm as T when the heal thing was happening. Then I jumped down Z's throat when we got the results in a really unfair way. Physically I've been a clumsy mess, yesterday morning I dropped a glass of water in our bedroom. Last night I dropped the dinner I'd just made all over the kitchen and myself. And I started ugly crying. When Z suggested he take the more messed up portion of dinner (which was really decent of him) I threw a tantrum involving foot stomping to make sure he didn't. He actually had to ask me to stop acting that way in the view of our toddler, who is probably looking for tips on how to improve his own tantrum throwing. When I asked Z to come with us for the blood draw on Friday because I wasn't sure I could handle it he said, "Um. Yeah, I actually don't think you should be in the room when it happens." It is often like Z is taking care of two children.

The hope is this won't be a big deal. The shitty part of having an anxiety disorder is everything feels like it's the end of the world. So here is some good news: T is now in the 25% for height and he's almost at the 25% for weight. For the last year he's been hovering around 7-10% in both. He's feeling like a big boy to me now.

Exactly two years ago today we bought our sweet little lead filled house, we moved in the next day, and T was born 8 days later.

He loves the tupperware cup (orange, of course) that I played with when I was little.

Sippin' on his water.

Little Man singing 'Angel Band' which his dad sings to him at bedtime. Notice how he tries to eat the ukulele. Everything goes into that mouth, which is probably a big part of the reason we have a problem... And please, feel free to judge the mess in our home. It's bad.

Day Care Dilemma

2011-08-02T15:35:00.001-04:00

Z came home with big news yesterday. The SU day care called and T's name had come to the top of the list. We put him on the list when he was brand new because we were told it would be a couple of years before there was room for him and we thought I might be working at that point. We had no idea I would be pregnant again, which would put the job situation on hold. His first day in the program would be the day after my due date. Z told me it was up to me, but he was worried about me coping with taking care of the New Guy, T, and myself this fall. When I pointed out there was actually no way in hell that we could possibly afford it he said that shouldn't be the deciding factor. And then said he was leaning towards T going.

I burst into really hard core tears. This place is full time only. I know you don't need to send the kids for the whole day, but it's 8am to 5:30pm and I just couldn't handle the thought of him being gone all that time. I wept out statements like, "He's too little!" "It's too long!" "I can't be away from him all day!" I felt physical pain at the thought of him not being with me, just the idea of it made it hard to catch a breath. Now, I am heavily pregnant and I have an anxiety disorder. My reaction was completely ridiculous, as were my statements. I can see that with a little distance.

The reality is I have no problem with day care, in fact I think it is a wonderful thing that can be really beneficial to kids. I also fully realize it is often a necessity. Clearly he would be perfectly fine if we put him in the SU program. But I am not on maternity leave here, I'm a stay at home mom. I don't have a 12 week period that I want to spend one on one with my newborn before he goes to daycare himself and I go back to work. If the transition to two kids in the family is messy for T, well, we've got time to deal with it. If T needs extra attention and it puts New Guy at a bit of a disadvantage we will work it out. T is signed up for preschool two mornings a week in the fall, and Z had offered to hang out with T at home one morning a week. If we get a babysitter for a few hours on another day that mean there is only one full day that it is just me and the boys. Sounds reasonable to me. In fact, it sounds like I'm on easy street.

Most of the moms I know are not home full time with their kids. Some wish they were, some are glad they aren't. I understand both impulses. Full time child care is not for everyone, hell I'm shocked I love it so much, I never dreamed about being a stay at home mom growing up. It didn't intrest me in the slightest. And I know Z and I are incredibly lucky/irresponsible to be making the choice we are making. The fact that Z supports my decision, that he never ever has made me feel like I'm not contributing to our household by staying home, is amazing. I have never felt, and he has never made me feel subservient to him in our relationship. We've both carried the burden of financially supporting the family at different points. But my panic at the prospect of T going to full time day care made me realize something, now for the first time in our 13 year relationship we both have jobs that we find completely fulfilling. It's pretty awesome. Life isn't perfect. Duh. I have an anxiety disorder that colors EVERYTHING, there really super-duper isn't enough money to go around, and we are adding another family member to the mix. But we'll figure it out, just like we always seem to. I love my job. Z loves his job. That is pretty damn important.

I nondenominational pray the anxiety disorder stays under control this fall. A part of me is hurt that Z wants T in daycare because he's worried I'm going to have trouble handling both boys. But I also understand it is a legitimate concern, and that Z has my back when it comes to the anxiety. There have been times when the crazy has been so acute I haven't been able to even handle myself. It's a pretty disheartening truth. But I want to be well for these boys. I know I won't let myself sink far into mental illness without getting help, I care more about functioning now than I ever have because of my kid(s). There is a support system in place here and I have taken advantage of it and will have no compunction doing so again if the need arises.

And I do realize a big motivator for Z concerning daycare is we've both heard so many amazing things about it. We were encouraged by many parents to put T on the list the second he was born because the program is so excellent, and it has taken two years for his name to come up. Who knows if he'll get another chance if we put him in the back of the line? But sending him to daycare just because he's been waiting for years is not a good reason if it doesn't fit in with what is going on in the rest of our lives. I've already left a message for the director of the program, and when she calls back I'm going to ask her to put T and New Guy at the back of the list and hope she calls back in a year.

T when we put him on the list for daycare.

T this morning. How the hell did the last two years go so fast? And yes, he's wearing the same outfit as yesterday. I did the laundry this morning, OK?

My sweet man painting my toenails last night. Before he got started, "You gonna wash your feet first?" Me, "Do you want me to?" Z, "Well, you wrote half a blog post about how gross your feet are. So, you know, it would be nice." He makes a solid point. I washed my feet.

Yes, I posted this on FB last night. But I can't help the repeat. He loves this book and always "reads" the last page himself. See? I'm teaching him stuff. He doesn't need the fancy day care to be awesome! Yes, I am trying to convince myself we are doing the right thing...

Watch the Gal With the Anxiety Disorder give Self Image Advice...

2011-08-01T14:05:00.001-04:00

There are a few things that even a Grumpy Gus like me find pretty cool about pregnancy. OK, well I'm sure there are a few, but I can only think of one at the moment. When you really start to show your belly gets hard. It isn't doesn't feel like a bowl of jello, which is what I anticipated. It almost feels like smooth hard muscle. Less so when you are seated, but rubbing your hands over it while you are standing is kind of addictive because why is it so taut? And when you are showing you feel no compunction about wearing a shirt that hugs your belly. For several reasons, the first is I'm not sure they sell tents large enough to hang loosely on a pregnant lady's frame. And the second is the world is very forgiving about pregnancy bellies. You don't necessarily feel fat, you just feel huge and unwieldy. It must be a continuing-of-the-species evolutionary thing, but when I in all my curmudgeoniness (yes, I just made up that word) see pregnant ladies even I can't help but thinking they are adorable.

Fast forward to the postpartum you. First of all you feel FUCKING AWESOME because you are no longer carrying a watermelon under your skin that is messing with your equilibrium. If you are a selfish ass like me you are so excited you don't need to share your body anymore you feel like you could run a marathon. Of course, the reality is you are a physical mess, you might even have a shit ton of stitches in your lady bits, so the marathon thing is actually out. As the docs and nurses loved to tell me, my experience giving birth to T was not "normal" (though let's face it, it was the only experience I'd had. So it was 100% normal to me) which was born out by the copious amounts of percocet they freely gave me. But even through all that "abnormal" discomfort, and the struggle to figure out breastfeeding, and the return hospital trip 5 days after T's birth so the rest of that pesky placenta could be removed, I was enormously relieved to no longer be pregnant.

OK. So no longer being pregnant equals great news. Here's the not so great news: your old body has gone on a permanent vacation. I've had some friends who packed pre-pregnancy stuff for the trip home from the hospital. I admire their optimism so very much, but nothing makes you feel worse than trying to pull your jeans on and realizing they won't go over your thighs. Ladies. Please. Pack maternity gear. Preferably yoga pants and the largest shirt you have. Because you will still look pregnant. I'm sorry, it's not fair, it's not cool, but it is reality. And your belly won't be cute. It won't be hard. It will be simultaneously big and flabby.

After a week or two you might fit into some pre-pregnancy shirts. They'll kind of be OK everywhere, but they will cling to your flabby belly. And while you are out and about someone will ask you when you are due. It happens to all of us. You will want to cry, heck you might not be able to stop the waterworks. But please know it isn't just you. I'm not entirely sure where the expectation that our bodies will just snap back comes from, but it is ridiculous and unfair.

And it doesn't do a lick of good to compare yourselves to your friends. There will always be those who buck the trend. My friend who just had a baby? She was wearing her pre-pregnancy jeans two weeks after giving birth. THAT IS NOT NORMAL. I still think she might be an alien. My sister was back to her pre-pregnancy weight within 6 weeks of giving birth. Totally not normal, either. But her weight settled differently and her pre-pregnancy cloths still don't quite fit several months later.

So your old body is gone, and the new one is never quite going to live up to your expectations. But you know what? Postpartum still rocks. You have a baby! And after the blur of the exhausting first few months you're gonna have a baby who interacts with you! And then you'll be completely confused about how quickly your sweet little baby had turned into an amazing toddler! And you are going to love that little thing so much it just isn't going to matter that you are carrying extra weight, or your boobs sag, or you have stretch marks on your belly. OK, it's still going to matter. But I swear when that little kid starts saying, "I love you!" it'll matter a hell of a lot less than it would have before.

Self image is such a slippery and dangerous topic. My own battles with it are pretty well documented here, and my personal self image sucks balls. But I do wish there was more support available for how hard it is to come to terms with the changes in our bodies during and after child-bearing. So I'm taking it upon myself to declare to all those pregnant ladies and mamas out there: It's OK! It's OK if you weigh more! It's OK that your boobs droop! It's OK that you have stretch marks! And if you really want to do something to change your body that is also OK! I believe in you! Your kids don't give a shit what you look like! But it is your prerogative to do whatever you need to in order to feel good about yourself!

I'm not sure what is motivating my urge to be a crazy positive cheerleader this fine day. But suddenly I feel like I have so much to say about how we treat ourselves during pregnancy and beyond that I could write a book. I think about my friends who are such kick ass ladies, and I think about how they feel about themselves. And, damn it, it is simply unacceptable.

This non-maternity tunic/dress from Old Navy is starting to get dangerously short as it is stretched further and further over my nearly full term belly.

And although it is not a maternity dress I don't see myself wearing it after the baby. I can't imagine feeling comfortable in something so form fitting next summer when I'm not pregnant. But to demonstrate what I'm talking about, and because I have no shame I promise to put this same outfit on a few weeks postpartum to show you exactly what I'm talking about in the belly department.

Someone wanted to rock out on the canjo.

He can really play.

36 Weeks, Not That Everyone Forced to Deal With Me Is Counting...

2011-07-31T14:41:00.000-04:00

At this point in my pregnancy with T I'd been diagnosed with preeclampsia and was on bed rest. The plan had been to pack our apartment in Providence to get ready to move to Syracuse in two weeks and my mom was joining us to help Z because I was so useless. We didn't anticipate me being quite as useless as I was. We didn't anticipate needing to be in Syracuse full time for twice weekly doctor visits. I didn't anticipate having to exclusively pee in a jug for 48 hours so my urine could be tested. That was flat out gross. So Z was stuck packing alone and Mom drove me to Syracuse so we could check into the glamorous Extended Stay America. I got into bed and didn't get out much until we drove to the hospital so I could be induced 6 days before my due date because my blood pressure was getting rather worrisome.

Bed rest is not glamourous or in any way enjoyable. Even for a lazy person it is fucking boring to just sit in bed all day. You sort of nap on and off and can't sleep well at night. You read, you surf the net, you watch a shit load of TV. My mom brought me my meals in bed. I felt like I was a kid. And I felt like a tremendous hinderance. But being on bed rest meant I wasn't moving around during the last few weeks of pregnancy. And this time not only am I moving around, I'm caring for T. Whenever Z is around I take complete advantage. I rest a lot on the weekends. Yet I'm in a surprising amount of physical pain. Which is making my hormones go crazy and my anxiety heighten.

I remember my sister being in her last month with her most recent son. She told me she didn't think she could do it any longer. She just hurt too much. In the evenings after work she couldn't even take care of her older son. And I had no idea what she was talking about. Another example of those smart friends giving me good information I'm too thick to digest.

So to add to my list of gross pregnancy stuff: On your second pregnancy your body has already stretched out and this means more ligament pain, you might feel many more pre labor contractions (I felt none with T, when I over exert myself, i.e. go to the grocery store with T, they start and don't stop until I put my feet up), when the baby moves around it can be unbelievably painful, if he moves around and you are constipated you feel like you might die from the pain, you might get lightheaded for no reason, your heart might race like crazy (I believe that has to do with all the extra blood, your body makes 50% more during pregnancy and it's extra work to get that stuff pumping). The bottom line is I feel worse right now than I did the day I found out I had preeclampsia. At that point my hands, feet, and ankles were really swollen, but otherwise I felt pretty darn good.

Last night our friends invited us over for a cook out. They set me up in a super comfy chair with a huge cup of ice water. And I started to feel worse and worse. I was short with T and Z, I wasn't friendly at all. I was nauseous and I had a headache. At one point I realized I was so lightheaded that if I was standing I might have fainted for the first time in my life. We left pretty early and abruptly. And I'm so embarrassed by my behavior. What a drama queen. So the last gross pregnancy thing I'll add is you might turn into a huge brat who is absolutely no fun to be around and who is pretty ashamed of herself the next morning.

We are cat sitting this weekend. Z knotted up this rope and had T pull it. T shouted, "Oh, man! That was awesome!" It was pretty hilarious. And it helped pull me out of one of the many weeping jags I've indulged in this weekend.

Little Man demonstrating his mad harmonica skills while skyping with my dad.

I've posted a shot of his bean covered face before, but it never fails to crack me up.

A Message To Ladies Considering Pregnancy

2011-07-29T15:32:00.000-04:00

And to my 4 male readers: You might feel better giving this one a pass. Amanda, was this what you were talking about? Or did I go to the too much place?

After my miscarriage last year I would like to say I'm honestly grateful for every single horror I'm going to lay out for you. Yup, I hate being pregnant. But I love being a mom. And I want this little critter who is ruining me from the inside out. I may not feel bonded to him yet, but that's totally cool. It's more like I feel a fierce curiosity about who he is and what he looks like. Will he be a mini T? Or will he look like Z? In my heart of hearts I want him to look like Z. We have one Cordano baby, I'd like to see what a little Leonard boy is like. Bottom line, to me this pregnancy awfulness is totally worth it. That said, I think it would be helpful if we talked frankly about it a bit more. Not the sanitized shit in the pregnancy books, but the real, gross, and surprising ways it affects your body.

Of course, all of this stuff might not happen to you. Your pregnancy grossness is going to be unique! I haven't experienced many of the yucky things that some women deal with. And then there are those magic women who have great and easy pregnancies. This is not very gracious of me, but I hate their guts. The thing is, you know your body. You might not love it, but you know it. If you've waited as long as I have to get pregnant you've known it for a really long time. It is enormously disconcerting to have it rebel and turn into something you aren't sure how to handle. The changes aren't fun, they make you a stranger in your own body.

Here is my abbreviated list of super disgusting stuff to keep in mind while considering pregnancy. I will try not to be too graphic. If any of you have specific questions feel free to email.

As you get super pregnant you start to sweat like a pig. Like. A. Pig. I use a prescription deodorant called drysol, OK, so I use drysol even when I'm not pregnant. I have a sweating problem. Yes, I am gross. Chronic diarrhea, excessive sweating, anxiety disorder. Can you believe that Z got so lucky? And please, don't tell me how it is giving me cancer. You won't change my mind about using it. Because seriously, the sweating is even worse than usual during pregnancy. And it certainly smells worse.
The foot sweat? In the second half of the pregnancy it's bizarre. Since it's summer the only shoes I wear are my flip flops. They will be tossed as soon as summer is over. When I am in public I'm sure that others can smell them. As I walk my feet actually slip around my shoes and I'm constantly scared I'm going to fall because of my own sweat puddles.
During the 3rd trimester you will feel about the least sexy you've ever felt. And yet, the amount of, um "discharge" will increase so alarmingly you will ask the doctor if there is something wrong with you. You will actually start to wear panty liners to save yourself from having to prewash your underwear. Because nothing makes you feel worse about your physical repulsiveness than prewashing underwear. Even though one of the few upsides of pregnancy is not dealing with your period and its accoutrement, even though you hate panty liners more than anything, you will use them every hour of every day.
Clothing will feel disgusting, but being naked will feel disgusting as well. You won't have anything to wear because you will feel so physically uncomfortable in anything.
If you are overweight in any way (or even if you're not in some cases) your flab will rub together and you will get rashes. You'll get them on your inner thighs, you'd get them between your boobs, you'll get them under your boobs, you may even get them in your armpits. If you are pregnant in summer the rash between your boobs might be visible to others even if you aren't wearing a very revealing shirt.
If you groom your lady bits in any way, well you won't be able to anymore in the 3rd trimester, earlier if it's not your first pregnancy. If it's really important to you you'll have to go to a professional. Otherwise, just cross your fingers when you put on a bathing suit if you're pregnant in the summer. It's not like you're gonna be the one seeing it.
Out of the blue you might develop subdermal cysts all over your body. One on your arm might even be visible to the naked eye. You will ask every medical professional you meet about them, they will all say they are normal. You will still lay awake at night feeling even more physically repulsive, but as a bonus you will also be sure you have cancer.
You might not get stretch marks on your belly! Which rocks! But you might get them around the circumference of your upper thighs. Which sucks.
You will constantly lube up your stomach to prevent the worst itching you've ever experienced in your life as your skin stretches.
Your bowels will be in an uproar. This can mean diarrhea, or constipation, or both. But I have never talked to a heavily pregnant lady who hasn't suffered in this department (I don't know why, but we always talk about poop, even if we are strangers. Pregnancy totally makes you lose your inhibitions). I implore you, DO NOT FORCE IT. Anal fissures are one of the most painful things I've ever experienced. Yes, I got mine post partum. But they don't just go away. After I'm done procreating for good there will have to be surgery. I have your best interests at heart, do not do this to yourself!
You might pee yourself when you sneeze or cough hard in the first two trimesters. The good news is this might pass by the third trimester. The bad news is you will wake every two hours all night long having to pee worse than you have ever had to pee in your entire life. And you will literally limp to the bathroom because if you walk normally you will wet yourself. During the day out of nowhere it will feel like your unborn child is grasping your bladder with both hands and squeezing. And if you don't get to the bathroom immediately there will be big wet problems.
If you are 3rd trimester pregnant in the summer don't even try to put rings on. Don't look closely at your hands and feet, they will belong to someone who weighs roughly 100lbs more than you and they will just make you sad.
I will end on a high note. Your belly button might not become an outie, which will crush you because you might be obsessed with your belly button. But you might get to see the bottom of it. Which will be FUCKING AWESOME for you because your belly button is normally so deep it goes all the way to your spine. Um, or that might just be me.

Let me reiterate, all this shit is worth it. I promise. Even the anal fissures. I'm not trying to freak you out, this is the stuff I'd have liked to known about before my first foray into the wilds of pregnancy. But remember, I love being a mom so much that I actually knew about all this shit before I got pregnant for the second time and I chose to do it anyway. That is how much motherhood rocks.

We had to drop by Z's work today and he was welding. His gear scared the crap out of T. First time ever T didn't want to go to him.

But he was cool once Z took the face shield off.

He insisted on climbing onto the potty himself today.

It was a very laborious process.

Almost there...

Finally settled with the book he picked out at the bookstore himself. Still no pooping on the potty, but he is very very interested.

If You Didn't Think I Was an Insecure Dork Before....

2011-07-28T15:22:00.001-04:00

T and I had a pretty huge morning. We finally walked the 3 blocks to our public library and I got a card after living here for two years. We hung out in the kids section and read board books. Then we walked home a slightly longer way (T was following two older boys on bikes) and went by the pizza place he sometimes visits with his Dad. He pointed and asked for pizza, it was a few minutes before 11am. I figured they opened at 11, so I waddled across the street and T got the first slice of the day.

Totally normal stuff, and we were back at our front door in less than two hours. But man, was my mind racing the whole time. I kept thinking is this what normal feels like? This is the stuff that other moms do without thinking every single day. They surely don't feel like they should get a gold star, but I was so proud of myself. And then, of course, I felt dumb for feeling proud over such a small thing. The negative feelings were close to the surface because of another hurt feeling situation. But this one was real, and it was aimed at someone I love. It's not my place to discuss the details, the gist is someone I know was a complete and utter dickhead to one of the people I am closest to. It makes me feel so angry and impotent and vulnerable and just plain old sad.

So when the two boys that T followed out of the library showed up and started looking at books my mind was on overdrive thinking about all the social situations T was going to have to navigate during his life. He sweetly followed those boys around to every shelf they looked at. When one of them sat on the reading mat T sat right across from him, book in lap, copying the kid's every move. When the boys left, T was crushed and ready to leave himself. Out front he saw them climbing on their bike and he called, "Bye guys!" I was proud of him for being so brave, but it also broke my heart to watch him seeking approval from two kids that didn't even act like he existed.

Don't get me wrong, those boys were perfectly pleasant and age appropriate and it was in no way their responsibility to play with my kid. What I was reacting to was thinking about my own longing to fit in when I was the perpetual new kid growing up, and how so many of my peers didn't have the time of day for a new girl. Again, most of those kids weren't cruel. They were being normal kids who already had friends, it wasn't their job to coddle the new people. But I've never gotten over wanting people to like me no matter what. And not everyone is going to always like me, I often do very unlikable things.

Now, this is an embarrassing confession, but it's also been bugging me all morning that overnight I lost two friends on FB. I have no idea who unfriended me, and I know I shouldn't give a crap. I'm just as honest and uncomfortable on FB as I am here, I offend people all the time and am often unfriended. And yet...it makes me feel bruised. Pretty ridiculous. It also made me think about a friend request I sent out months ago to a childhood friend. The request hasn't been accepted, and it hasn't been denied. And I've thought about it on and off quite a bit. It was a kid I had a crush on, a sensitive and quiet kid, and I was aggressive in what I thought was a joking way with him. I vaguely remember him ending up in tears as we played several times, and suddenly it hit me that he probably felt like I was bullying him. I've written about bullying before, and my abhorrence of it, and suddenly I'm realizing I may be the bully remembered by a contemporary. I really liked this kid, and I feel terrible that he probably remembers me as the cause of hurt. I kind of want to send him a message in which I apologize, but I've already reached out. I've realized the kindest thing I can do is leave him the hell alone.

Someday T is going to be hurt and do the hurting over and over again. He is going to make his own mistakes and have his personal victories and I'm going to have to stand to the side and let it all happen so he can learn how to navigate his way through interpersonal relationships. I'll always be there to step in if needed, and I'll be there to listen. But he needs to get hurt and pick himself up and figure out how to deal with people himself. I hope he is more successful than I have been.

A hot date at the pizza parlor with my sweet boy.

Much to my anxiety-ridden surprise, it was pretty fun. We'll have to do it more often in the next few weeks before his brother joins us.

My serious guy at a cookout in our backyard this past weekend.

Ouch

2011-07-26T22:08:00.000-04:00

Today my feelings got hurt. When you are as ridiculously over-sensitive as I am it's a pretty common occurrence. And often times what has been said was not meant in any way to be hurtful. I'm constantly worried people are mad at me, or worried I've offended people, or worried people don't like me. It's a big part of the self-loathing aspect of my anxiety problems. It consumes my thoughts, makes my throat burn, my stomach feel hollow, tears prick at my eyes. I mean it's all so over the top it makes my eyes roll.

This afternoon when T got up from his nap I was still feeling pretty bruised and vulnerable. It got me thinking. Do you remember when you were a kid and something hurt your feelings? If you were anything like me you'd fantasize about being an adult because they had it all figured out. And for the first time I wondered how many times my mom nursed bruised feelings while caring for my sister and me while we were oblivious that something was hurting her.

T and I were sitting on the floor playing with his blocks. I'd ask him what a letter was and then I'd match it with a word, "C! C is for cookie!" or "G! G is for Grandma!" or "B! B is for Boy!" He brought me a block with the S facing up. He said, "S! S is for Mommy!" And my stupid hurt feelings evaporated. Replaced by how much I love this little person, how much joy he brings me, how lucky I am to spend every day with him.

When Z came home tonight I was telling him this story. And I added that I have a babysitter coming tomorrow for a few hours so I can run some errands. It's getting harder for me to go to multiple places while lugging T around without those pesky contractions starting these days. I told Z I almost didn't arrange the sitter. I feel like it's a wasted day when she comes because I see so little of T. I told Z I missed T already even though he was right there with us. We only have four and a half weeks or so until we add another number to our crew. And then I started to cry. But as I explained to Z I wasn't sad, I was just crazy and hormonal and grossly pregnant, and they were sort of happy tears. I'm lucky to love T and Z the way I love them. And that matters so much more than stupid hurt feelings.

Yesterday morning Z worked on the window seat for the 3rd floor in his shop before going to work. T isn't a fan of loud noises, so he rocks the ear protection while Z runs the table saw.

Z made this while I was pregnant with T. If its flipped over it's a rocking goat, and if put on its end it's a high chair. But he was doing very important work at his desk on this fine morning.

One of the best parts of today was visiting our good friends for a bit. Baby Emily was born just over two weeks ago and T loves to hug her.

In Which I Whine About Being 8 Months Pregnant

2011-07-23T18:44:00.000-04:00

As I was making myself lunch today I started to sob and couldn't stop. Z was so confused. Thankfully, he was also incredibly comforting. I'm frustrated and disapointed with myself. This morning we started loading books on the bookshelves in the 3rd floor because the reno is complete. Doesn't seem like an overwhelming job, but we are book lovers and book collectors. So we're talking about a shit load of books. The bending over to lift them was making me terribly lightheaded and then I started getting contractions. I was so pissed I couldn't do a simple job without my pregnancy getting in the way. I was pissed Z had to lug the futon mattress and frame up the stairs by himself. I was pissed I need a nap in the middle of the day to make it to the end of the day. I was pissed I haven't been a trooper about this heat, instead we've had the A/C on all week. I also might have been a smidge hormonal.

T and Z just left the house to go to a cook out at a neighbor's place. For the first time in a while I couldn't get it together to get out of the house to join them, and that is adding to me feeling pretty low. The heat has really kicked my ass this week. I've been working on keeping both me and T hydrated and in good health, but that has meant we have been house bound in the merciful air conditioning. Yesterday morning I had to go to the grocery store, and even that short trip before the heat of the day took hold was too much. I was having contractions in the check out line while praying I'd just make it home before anything freaky happened.

And I did make it home just fine. Z came home from work early (already planned) and then T went down for his nap, so I got to spend most of the afternoon sitting on the couch. We had a doc appointment late in the afternoon and my wonderful doc said the contractions were totally normal and not the kind that opened the cervix. He said I did the right thing by getting my feet up and that I'd have them for the remainder of the pregnancy when I exerted myself. Then he told me not to exert myself.

I'm a pretty lazy gal, so I can't imagine what this stage of pregnancy is like for those Type As out there. It's bad if even I'm frustrated that I can't make it to the grocery store in a little heat without having contractions. I have shit to do! We need to get T's new bedroom ready and his old room ready for New Guy! And I need to be doing stuff with T during the day! Poor guy is bored out of his skull from hanging out inside with me. I don't even have enough energy to take him to the mall to run around and it's too hot for both of us to take him to the park. He's been acting like a little turd this week, and I absolutely don't blame him. He needs more stimulation. He needs to see other kids.

We had him outside in the sprinkler for a little while this afternoon. As we were setting things up he walked part of the way down the driveway and saw the much older kids who live across the street were out. He started waving like crazy and shouted, "Hi Kids!" and it absolutely broke my heart and make me feel so guilty. He just wants to be around other people. And he will be tonight, which is terrific. And preschool is going to be great for him in the fall.

I just feel like I'm failing him in the socialization department. He gets to play with my one mom friend's kids frequently. And he adores them. He also adores a couple we hang out with all the time, and they are wonderful about playing with him. And on Monday we are having two families over who have small kids for a BBQ. I could see us being friends with both the couples, it feels very much like a first date and I have my fingers crossed it'll go well. But we don't do play groups, I haven't met a bunch of other moms, mostly because of my anxiety issues, and I absolutely don't want the same for him. This winter when it's snowing like crazy and I've got a baby to deal with I'm really worried about making sure T is getting what he needs as well. I feel like I'm doing a shitty job meeting his needs before the baby comes, how am I going to cope after?

Yes, I'm having a bratty pity party over here. The nachos from my favorite place are helping, though. So is the venting. And I'm guessing Z will suggest we watch a Harry Potter movie of my choice tonight. That'll really help. I really married the right man.

One of my favorite parts of the day. His tiny bottom slays me.

T's new room. Needs a little work, huh?

Playing in the sprinkler.

This is only a tiny fraction of the books. But we are taking the time to do it right, separating by topic and alphabetizing.

My Brain Needs More RAM, and Yet Another Question for Parents

2011-07-22T20:31:00.000-04:00

The week-by-week pregnancy book that sits by our toilet has remained closed since I was somewhere in the mid 20 weeks of this pregnancy. I'll be 35 weeks in two days. I've mentioned it before, when you've got a kid on the outside you just don't have time to think much about the one on the inside. But I'm realizing there's another thing going on. When you are a parent you only have enough room in your brain for the stage you kid is at today. I didn't believe my friends when they told me I'd forget about hating pregnancy and my terrible delivery. But they were right. Turns out I've also forgotten what it is like to parent a newborn. I'm not talking about forgetting the lack of sleep and all that jazz, I'm talking about the nuts and bolts.

When my sister had her second in May she couldn't figure out why his diapers kept leaking pee all over the place. She didn't remember it happening with her first son. After a couple of days she called and told me she knew what the problem was, they weren't changing his diaper enough. Seems simple enough, but when you have a toddler that is going through maybe 5 or 6 diapers a day that becomes your baseline (she was changing the baby more than 6 times a day, just not the upwards of 15 times it seems newborns need). Her reasoning seemed perfectly sound, I would have done the same exact thing. Over the last few months she's called me time and time again with reminders of what it means to have a newborn. And I recently realized I haven't remembered a single thing she's told me on my own.

Let me start this story by saying my sweet little nephew is perfectly fine and healthy. A few weeks ago her whole family got sick. Her husband didn't touch the baby and she wore a face mask while nursing him to try and protect him. But the little guy still caught it and spiked a fever which led to a middle of the night call to the pediatricians. The on-call doc told her she needed to take the baby in to the ER immediately. The good news was the doctors at the ER chose not to do a spinal tap because everyone in the house was ill, so it made sense that the little guy got it, they released him after some blood tests and his fever didn't spike again. When she called me the next morning to let me know what happened it already seemed he was on the mend. As she was giving me the play by play she mentioned his fever was 100.8. I was flabbergasted. I couldn't believe she had to take him to the ER for a temp so low. She gently reminded me that fever is really bad in babies under 3 months and that if it is higher than 100.5 the doctor needs to be called immediately.

I felt like such an idiot for forgetting something so very important. And I really worried about what my poor New Guy was in for. If I forget to change his diaper enough and he gets pee on his clothes it's not a huge deal. But the big stuff? If I can't remember the important stuff he's in big trouble. My brain can barely keep up will everything it needs to remember to meet T's needs, I'm really worried about caring for both little guys at one time. Thankfully I have my sister to remind me what to do, because judging from her experience (and she is a great mom along with being one of the most responsible people I know) it doesn't all come rushing back. I need to dig out the book I got about the baby's first year. Been meaning to do it since my nephew's trip to the ER, and it still hasn't happened. I feel pretty secure that I'll be a more relaxed mom for my New Guy, and yes women have been having multiple children for a kabillion years and it all works out. But I still worry about being an attentive mom to both the boys. My head is full of almost-two-year-old information. How do I make room for newborn info without sacrificing space for T?

..................................................................................

Here's another quick question for the parents out there: What do your kids call adults who are family friends? Z and I are having a disagrement over how to handle this issue. He grew up calling adults by their first names. I grew up calling them Mr./Mrs. Last Name. Now, I do have major authority issues. I'm 34 years old and I still can't refer to those family friends as anything other than Mr. and Mrs. And I don't want that for T. I proposed that he refer to adults as Mr./Ms. First Name as a compromise. I just feel like kids should show some respect to adults. Am I being hopelessly old fashioned? Z is against anything but first names and the last thing I suggested was asking the adult what they preferred and going with that. What do you guys do? My endgame is not teaching him to blindly respect all adults, rather I'd like him to approach adults with respect as a starting point. He can draw his own conclusions from there as he matures. I'm just not sure how to make that plan a reality.

Things got suspiciously quiet in the living room this morning as I made my coffee. I poked my head around the corner to see this. He's clearly very focused on learning how to build a house.

I put one thing on the registry for T's shower that was completely for Z and me. The wood and velcro food is cool to begin with, but a sushi set? Pure awesome. T is now old enough to play with it and he adores it as well (Thank you again, Stacey and Steven!) This morning he said to me, "Boy play sushi! Boy knife!" and I taught him how to cut through the velcro.

He can't get enough of it.

Family Hand-Me-Downs

2011-07-20T15:01:00.000-04:00

Z and I started our make-room-for-baby 3rd floor reno by going through all the crap we'd dumped up there over the last almost two years. This is the first house we've lived in together, we've been apartment folks up till now, so it's the first time we've had extra room for storage. Both sets of parents sent up a bunch of stuff they'd been saving for us for years. Included in my shipment was a ton of toys from my childhood. Sadly, much of it was covered in mold and had to be tossed (farewell sweet My Little Ponies). But I was able to salvage a bunch of cool toys I'd forgotten about. Like the extensive Tupperware set that matched a full size one we used growing up. And the Fisher Price School Days Desk. And my Pound Puppy and Cabbage Patch Kid. And maybe most excitingly, the group of homemade Cabbage Patch Kids sewn by the mother of our favorite childhood babysitter.

Watching T play with these things that meant so much to me as a kid has been surprisingly gratifying. Being we moved so much I can't share physical locations from my youth with him. My parents are on their 7th home since I last lived with them. It's very different when we visit Z's folks. We stay in the room he occupied in high school. They moved into their home more than 30 years ago. There are memories around every corner and I'm glad that T will be able to match the stories of his dad to the home we often visit.

This morning I was in the kitchen when I heard T climb upstairs. It sounded like he was playing in his bedroom, but the other bedroom doors were open and I didn't love the idea of him being alone up there unsupervised for long. So I dragged my huge pregnant butt up the stairs. It seemed suspiciously quiet on the second floor so I hurried to his room and found this:

My grandparents had that blue chair reupholstered for me when I was a baby. It had belonged to my mother when she was a girl. And now it is T's. We hope to have it reupholstered for him sometime soon using leftover fabric from a chair we had recovered that belonged to Z's great grandfather. I love seeing him sitting in it. My family is pretty far flung (although thankfully the days of me being the only one that actually lives in USA are over) so it's one of the most tangible ways for me to feel his connection to our history.

The homemade Cabbage Patch Kid has become a special favorite of T's. This isn't the first time we've found him holding the baby while sitting in the blue chair. Yesterday when T was hugging him I asked what the baby was named (We've been using our New Guy's name freely around the house to let T get used to it. One of the millions of things I swore I'd never do before I became a parent. Thought it was bad luck and just not right to give an unborn babe a name. God, I was a judgmental idiot.). And he called the doll by his brother-to-be's name. I'm not gonna lie, there were tears in my eyes. Then again, I'm an over-sentimental pregnant fool. There are sort of always tears in my eyes these days.

I can't wait to take a picture of T holding his new brother in that chair. Um, at that point I promise I'll tidy the room a bit. And the doll? When my sister and I played with him more than 25 years ago we called him Tommy.

Victory and a Parenting Question

2011-07-19T11:55:00.000-04:00

We did it. We went to the movie. We even held hands a little bit, which is huge right now being my core temp is similar to that of the sun and I can't bear to be touched because it makes me even hotter. He cried at the right places (Huge relief. During the last movie he didn't cry when Dobby died and I almost left him.) and we had a very satisfying talk about the series on the way to dinner.

And when I felt my stomach seize up after the movie I did not, repeat, DID NOT suggest we bail on dinner. I sucked it up, told myself there was a bathroom at the restaurant, and kept my mouth shut. I'm pretty proud of myself. We went to a fancy restaurant and the food was supremely mediocre, but even that was sort of interesting. I'm a food snob through and through, but it isn't about gourmet for me. I just want food to be delicious. Z told me about another place he'd like to take me to that's on the fancier side of things, but he said if I don't love that we can stick with the awesome (and cheap) pub across the street from his work where I can get a half order of most excellent fish and chips and be happy as a clam. Bottom line: I agreed to more dates. And I'm looking forward to them. As long as he stops trying to convince me that I will magically start to like meatloaf if I make it at home for him. We wasted a bizarre amount of time on that topic. Zeke: I love you. I will happily make you meatloaf. I will not eat it myself. I will not ever start to like it. Please never bring it up again.

So we are feeling pretty good at our house. I'm not loving the lows of last week combined with the highs of the last few days, but I'm aware of the crazy mood swings. And I think the pregnancy hormones are bringing more to the party than I acknowledge a lot of the time. So on to a quick question or two for my fellow parents...

How do you instill empathy in your children? When is it age appropriate for your child to develop empathy? Little man is so very wonderful in a million ways, but he goes not get that his actions can cause pain in others. It might be completely ridiculous that I'm expecting him to have that realization at 23 months, but his comprehension and verbal skills are so advanced it just makes sense to me that he'd also develop some feelings about those around him. Last week our lovely friend invited us over to play with her two dogs and they were excellently behaved around T. And T was just too rough. Both dogs were significantly larger than him, and he had no problem stepping on them and using the opposite of gentle touches. About a month and a half ago I caught him purposely stepping on another dog's leg. I was so embarrassed and frankly, frustrated at him. I think part of the reason he isn't careful is our cranky old cat loves babies and will let him do anything to her without repercussion, but I also want him to know he is hurting these animals! And I want him to want to not hurt them! How do I teach him? Smart parents out there, please share your secrets! And would you mind assuring me that these are not the signs of a sociopath?

Z took this pre-date. Next time perhaps I'll actually iron the dress and do something with my hair and maybe for the love of god put on lip gloss or something.

After the date. Crap pictures, but I was just trying to get him to stop making crazy faces. And to cut it out with trying to lift the baby off of my body. Was not successful in that department. I assure you it was not physically comfortable for me, and I'm guessing New Guy wasn't crazy about it either.

T was pretty excited he could see us in the phone. We couldn't convince him to look in the mirror.

Date Afternoon

2011-07-18T09:41:00.000-04:00

Yesterday we decided to schedule a babysitter for this afternoon so we can go to Harry Potter and then grab dinner. At first I was so excited and happy about the prospect. Then I started thinking about the last time we'd had an honest to goodness date. And I couldn't remember when that was. But I did remember the last time we planned a date, it was for our 10th wedding anniversary. Needless to say, that didn't work out very well. So I started to get anxious. And then I thought about seeing HP on Friday and the anxiety attack I had during the movie. And I got even more anxious.

Of course, I've partially convinced myself that something truly awful is going to happen today. All things considered, I've led a very charmed life. The worst thing I've ever gone through is my miscarriage. And in my head the miscarriage is somehow tied into us trying to do something nice for ourselves. Or having the hubris to celebrate 10 years of marriage like we are some sort of experts and deserve a pat on the back. I don't understand why I've had the dumb luck to be so fortunate in my life and I am constantly waiting for the, I don't know, fates? To even things out somehow, to punish me for having every opportunity handed to me and squandering those opportunities by having an anxiety disorder.

But there is a small part of me that trying to be heard and it is saying I'm full of shit. I want to have a nice date with my husband. And damnit, I'm going to try and enjoy myself. I'm at very least going to try and not let my anxiety disorder bully me. And that, my friends, is progress.

Yesterday was stellar and that is helping me have a more positive outlook. We are friends with an amazing couple who took it upon themselves to give their Sunday to us. He arrived at 9am sharp and over the next 8+ hours proceeded to caulk, sand, prime, and paint all the trim on the 3rd floor. The work he did would have taken Z two or three days. She came by a little while later and provided me with some excellent company while I tried to clean up the living room a little bit. Then she ran out and bought lunch for the crew. All the sudden we didn't feel like we were caught in the never ending reno. Z was able do a bunch of little jobs that got him to the place where he is ready to do a last coat of paint on the floor. As soon as that happens it's time to move furniture in. We are really almost done. Later we had take out from my favorite place for dinner, and out of the blue they stuck a huge chocolate chip cookie in the bag with a piece of tape stuck to it on which was written "a gift". And as soon as the boy was down a friend showed up to have a drink and some very pleasant conversation for the rest of the evening. After a day like that I don't want my anxiety to take over. I just want to keep having days like that!

So fingers crossed Z and I make it to the 3:30 show at creepiest mall in Ameraca, good old Shoppingtown in sunny Dewitt, NY. Seriously, if you are ever in Syracuse you've got to pay this place a visit. And then you can feel thankful that your mall is nothing like it. Fingers crossed even harder that we make it to Pascale in Fayetteville at around 6. And fingers crossed hardest that we have a wonderful time.

Before yesterday we weren't even sure if the carpet was going to get off of the stairs this summer. Now the stairwell is painted and the steps are waiting for their first coat of paint.

Three weeks ago that wall did not exist.

Oh my lord, I love the menacing look on his face as he wields the 5-in-1 tool. And yes, we supervise him while he handles Z's tools.

This chalkboard hung in Z's grandmother's kitchen for decades. Last summer he made it into a coffee table with a hidden drawer for chalk. I asked T what he was drawing and he said, "Daddy playing guitar!"

Twofer Tuesday (Except it was Friday)

2011-07-16T16:09:00.000-04:00

Very occasionally I'll go ahead and have two separate anxiety attacks in one day. After having one I like to think I'm sort of safe for the rest of the day, so I often get disoriented when the second one rolls around. Last night we were eating dinner outside when my heart started pounding again. And as unbelievable as it sounds I couldn't figure out what was going on. I thought back about the day and decided to fixate on what I'd eaten at the movies.

Because the movie was a big deal to me I thought I'd disregard my diet on this very special occasion and I got a small popcorn (layered with the simultaneously disgusting and delicious fake liquid butter and generously sprinkled with salt) and a small Coke Icee (which was actually huge). It's my standard movie theater order and I wouldn't have thought twice about getting it before the whole gestational diabetes scare. It was the first soda I'd had in over a month. The whole thing sat in my stomach like a brick. It made me feel so gross I didn't even want lunch when I got home. The only thing I ate yesterday before making dinner was a nectarine even though I'm usually ravenous all the time now. Yup, the unhealthy food made me feel bad, there are no two ways about it. I mean, the anxiety attack didn't help matters. But the truth is when you consistently eat healthily you really feel gross after the instant gratification of the junk food. Um, that is a new lesson to me. I've basically eaten junk for my whole life. Since working at Whole Foods it's been expensive and usually all-natural or organic junk, but it's been junk all the same.

Back to the anxiety attack. So I convinced myself that I was having some diabetic reaction to the stuff I'd eaten half a day earlier. Even though it's been established that I do not, in fact, have gestational diabetes. I asked Z if he thought it was possible that the soda I'd had more than eight hours previously was affecting my physiology. He gave me that old standby look of his, the one of pity and incredulity simultaneously, and told me no. He said he thought I was having an anxiety attack. I asked why he thought that and he said, "First of all, you've said it yourself a bunch of times over the last few minutes." I thought back and I didn't remember saying it once. Evidently I did realize I was having an anxiety attack on some level, and I was actually talking about it, but I wasn't conscious of it. Weird, right? Hearing that sort of jerked me back to reality. I told Z I was going to have to go ahead and take a chill pill.

As much as I wanted to get through this pregnancy without one, I knew I had permission from my doc, and I thought my poor New Guy had been through quite enough for the day. I needed to calm the fuck down as much for him as for myself. Z totally agreed with me. The pill did what it was meant to do. New Guy was moving around a lot as it started working, which set my mind at ease. He was also active through the night and through the morning.

There are probably plenty of people who would be critical of me using medication during pregnancy, even once. Hell, they probably would wonder why a crazy lady would think she had any business being a mom in the first place. Thankfully those folks haven't found my blog. But you know what? I'm doing the best I can here. I am actively working on my problems and I have strategies in place to deal with emergency situations. After years of anxiety attacks I feel like I have multitasking down. During the AM attack I was paying attention to the movie as I was figuring out what the hell was going on with my body. During the PM one I managed to play with T and feed him and change his diaper as I dealt with attack number two. Do the attacks suck? Um, yes. Yes, they do. But they are part of who I am. And most other parts of my life are beyond wonderful, so I don't really have a lot to complain about. Besides, they are kind of funny in retrospect. I didn't know I was having an anxiety attack, yet I was telling Z I was having an anxiety attack? You can't make that shit up.

T is being a little more cooperative about standing still and smiling for photos. Man, he looks like a Cordano here. And man, is he turning into a big boy. Breaks my heart and makes me proud all at the same time.

T on a rather funky and rustic stool Z made from a piece of trunk that was hanging around the yard.

Z and a dear friend loaded a hunk of wood on our friend's truck to get milled this morning. Of course, T helped.

Harry Potter and the Humongous Anxiety Attack

2011-07-15T17:49:00.000-04:00

*Spoilers for the final Harry Potter movie in bullet points at the end!*

There are a number of close friends and family members that text me while they are having diarrhea. You know, to let me know they are thinking of me in their moment of discomfort.
I. Love. It.
I love being the Diarrhea Guru, it totally cracks me up. Because if you can't laugh about literally 20 years of chronic diarrhea, you will weep with frustration that your anxiety disorder manifests in such a gross and unfair manor.

Over the last few months of this pregnancy I've been pretty constipated. For just about the first time in my life. And I hate it. Diarrhea sucks, but like anything you get used to it. I'd rather deal with the enemy I know than some new thing. So I haven't had diarrhea in a few months, probably my longest run (I'm cracking myself up here) in that 20 year period. It started up again a few days ago, and I was almost relieved. At least I don't have to deal with the constipation anymore...

I ended up not seeing HP 7.5 last night at midnight. I was stupid and thought I could get a ticket the day of. Who knew there were that many people in Syracuse that wanted to see a movie in the middle of the night? I realized later it was those damn teenagers that are out of school for the summer. They spoil everyone's fun. As bummed as I was, it all worked out fine. I got to go to the first showing this morning and Z and I watched the first HP last night. But my stomach was a mess today. And I took Imodium for the first time in ages before the film.

On the way to the theater I was fighting back tears. I felt frighteningly alone and overwhelmingly sad and weary. Someone with my history is at higher risk for postpartum depression (which didn't happen at all with T, thankfully) and I started worrying that the depression fairy was visiting early. I've only had one severe depressive episode in my life, and that was plenty. In my opinion, those who suffer from chronic depression deserve our sympathy and support. Anxiety is a million times easier to manage, depression is beyond terrible. No matter how many people who love and want to help you are nearby you feel completely and utterly alone. Everything gets fuzzy, nothing in your life has definition. You are separated from everyone and everything by an insurmountable and invisible barrier.

But it wasn't depression. About 15 minutes into the move I had the kind of anxiety attack wherein one questions whether a trip to the ER isn't a good idea. My heart was absolutely racing. I was sure that my blood pressure was so high that I was endangering the New Guy. I was unbelievably hot and dizzy. After about 20 minutes of wondering if I should stay or go I started to realize what was going on. It's amazing how slow I am when having a little episode. All semblance of self-awareness goes right out the window. In another 20 minutes my heart had slowed considerably and I knew the attack was passing.

Z is sure that the attack had to do with confronting the end of something very important to me, with the last of the new HP stuff, but I don't quite buy it. Yes, I really don't handle change and the end of things well, but there are plenty of stressful things going on in my real life. I still have the HP books and movies for comfort. I'm more concerned with the reno project that has become more complicated and time consuming than originally planned. Z is having a hard time because he doesn't have any help from here on out, all the work falls to him, there is a ton of work left to do, and there is a very hard deadline. He's on edge, so I'm on edge. I'm concerned about how the next few months are going to affect T and the New Guy. I'm concerned that I won't be up to the challenge of mothering two instead of one. I'm worried that we are broke and I really need to get a job but I don't know what I can do or want to do and I'd have to bring in a significant amount of money to make day care fees worth it. HP ending is very sad, but it is the least of my worries.

Jeeze, this is getting long. I'm rambly when I'm feeling unwell. So a few quick thoughts on the movie and I'll wrap it up:

A lot of quippy and silly little lines have been added to the battle scene stuff. I found them embarrassing and stupid.
It's easy for me to separate the books and the movies, the movies are going to be watered down. It is the nature of the beast. But some of the scenes were so beautiful that it really bugged me this time when the subtlety was lost. When Snape is dying and asks Harry to look at him in the book before we know for sure that he is a good guy it is a strong hint and a rather lovely moment. Him telling Harry he has his mother's eyes before that moment in the movie is like getting struck over the head with a bag of bricks.
That said, the journey into the Pensieve exceeded my expectations. I adore Alan Rickman and it was such an amazing emotional payoff after 7 movies to learn he was motivated by a very pure love. It was excellently done.
Though I love the books more than the movies, I find it fun and interesting, rather than off putting, to see how they put big moments in different contexts, like Ron and Hermione's kiss, Fred's death, Percy's return (didn't even happen).
There was a moment added in the Pensieve flashbacks of Lily telling Harry how loved he was as she was waiting for Voldemort to climb the stairs and kill them. Much like the awkward Harry/Hermione dance scene of the 7th movie, it was not from the book, but it was perfect and enriched the movie considerably.
Chris Columbus and his casting director deserves major kudos for their casting work. I see most of the movie characters in my head when reading the books now, and that is rarely the case with me.
It's an incredible experience to be so invested in a group of characters you've watch grow up over a decade, and I think it's completely unique in movie history. That the same group of people were in all eight films creates a much stronger reaction from the viewer. We love and hate them all the more because we've watched them for so long.
There is also an incredible self reflection that happens while watching this film. Where were you guys ten years ago? How much have you changed? I was a 24 year old newlywed living in Brooklyn and desperately trying to process the events of two months prior. The breakdown hadn't happened yet. We were happy. I hadn't gotten better. We hadn't worked to save our marriage. Z hadn't decide he didn't want to work in theater. I didn't know I'd work in bakeries professionally, hell I was just learning to cook. We certainly weren't parents. Yes, the kids on film have grown, but so have we. If I'd seen the clip of Lily trying to put her consuming love of her son into words in the last few moments of her life a decade ago I would have been moved, but I wouldn't have felt it in my bones like I did today. I'm grateful that the movies have provided a framework for that reflection. Being a fan of this series has been an amazing experience.

He's gotten very expressive when he tells us long and complicated stories.

He wants to drink out of any glass or bottle, but the ones that are for him.

Photo by Ellie Leonardsmith

This is my favorite one of Z and me from the July 4th weekend. I look at it and I can see how much we love each other. It helps to look on days like today when I feel so alone and helpless. It's hard to explain why someone who has a mostly happy and functioning relationship can feel such terror and doubt about one's place in that relationship. Mental illness is scary and majorly fucked up. I really hate it.

Handling (Or Not Handling) Bumps in the Road

2011-07-13T14:52:00.000-04:00

Before I get going I just want to make it clear that everything is A-OK with the pregnancy. Last night during one of my seemingly constant trips to the bathroom there was a little blood. I didn't bleed at all durning my pregnancy with T, not until the water broke anyway. Yesterday I was 33 weeks and 3 days pregnant and spotting really seemed like not a great thing.

I suppose the smart and rational thing to do would have been to immediately call the OB's answering service. But we of the anxiety disorder club, we like to bypass rational. We go straight to crazy town. I sat on the sofa and thought about my options. I didn't want to bug my doctor. Z was hanging out at a friend's house. It's been a stressful few weeks with our little reno project and I really wanted him to have a nice time, so I didn't want to bother him. Then I started to think about how I overreact to every situation in the world and how frustrating Z finds that. I decided I was going to be calm and just wait until Z came home. And then I decided that when he came home I'd be careful not to pounce on him, give him a space and then let him know. The funny thing is while I was thinking all this stuff I was sure I was being rational. Instead I was simply retreating into myself. It was like I was proving something by not freaking out, except I was freaking out, just in a really quiet way. And I was oblivious to the freak out in the moment. For example, I felt like Z and my doctor and anyone who would hear about the spotting were judging me before they even knew what was going on and I was going to show them all that I could handle this situation. I'm even confused by that part of it. Judging what? How did that line of thinking make sense to me? It's clearly ridiculous.

So Z came home about half an hour later. And he got himself some ice cream, grabbed his computer, and sat down next to me. I casually told him what happened. He asked what I wanted to do. I told him I didn't know, but maybe I'd wait and call the doc's office in the morning. He asked why I hadn't called already or why I didn't call him. I told him I didn't want to bother anyone. He tried to touch me and I shrank away. When my anxiety gets out of control I can't bear to be touched. That tipped him off that I was really struggling. He told me to call the answering service so I did. And my doc was on call, he told me to call the office in the morning so they could check on things and he told me to call back if contractions started. He also told me to lay down. Great excuse for the freaking out (in a very quiet way) lady to go to bed for the night.

And this morning everything did turn out to be fine. I was on a fetal heartbeat monitor for a long time and New Guy not only sounds great, but I wasn't having contractions. The doc I saw checked and my cervix is nice and tightly closed, as it should be at the stage of the game. The blood could have come from any number of places and was probably nothing in the scheme of things. It might happen again, it might not.

I'm more discouraged by my continuing inability to deal with normal bumps in the road without freaking out or shutting down. My lack of self awareness in the middle of rough situations is also really demoralizing. I'm tired of the paranoia that leads me to believe everyone in my life will think I'm a pain in the ass when I need to ask for help. Anxiety disorders suck. They suck ass. At least I have a therapy session tomorrow.

Not sure what the attraction is, but does he ever love the laundry basket.

We helped look after an adorable kitty last week.

T's first sprinkler adventure.

He's first impulse around any kind of water is to drink it.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

2011-07-07T16:43:00.000-04:00

On Tuesday T and I took a stroll around the block. I was telling him all about the visitors we were getting in the late summer/early fall and he said to me, "Grandmom Granddad go home." We had dropped off Z's parents at the airport earlier in the day. They were here, along with one of Z's sisters and her wife, for the weekend to celebrate the 4th and help us make major headway with our little reno project (Thank you times a million Leonards and Leonardsmiths). After we worked through talking about family I started talking to him about the nursery school he'll be attending in the fall and all the cool things he'll do and excellent kids he'll meet there.

Little Man is turning into very good company. He has certainly increased my capacity to love. Yup, T has made me love Z even more. Z hasn't hurt things by being an amazing father, but it's true that I love them both more fiercely than I have ever loved anything. Putting all that mushy love stuff aside for a moment, any SAHM will tell you (at length) that we crave adult contact. Z has to beg me not to hover when he comes home from work and all I want is to talk to a grown up while all he wants is a minute to decompress. But lately that loneliness has been tempered by my delight in T and my gratefulness that he is my daily companion.

I get that the next phase in our lives is going to be awesome as well. We can't wait to meet the New Guy. In some ways I can't wait for it to be two years from now when the New Guy and T are actually playing together and developing that magical sibling relationship. But I've got until about the end of August and then it isn't going to be me and T against the world anymore. First the baby arrives and then T goes off to school for a few hours a week. Both excellent things. Both so important for his development. But I'm still mourning in the most selfish way possible.

It seems crazy that two years is all I get before outside influences start shaping him. OK, it's not crazy, although it's probably crazy that I have such a problem with letting him go. I need to not be such a control freak and he needs to be shaped by lots of other people besides me. I know that. It's just that the two years went so fast. Nothing about this parenting thing, no nothing about life period is permanent. And for some reason my brand of crazy makes me desperately grasp at life the way it is now. I was scared when I had my messy breakdown, then I got used to being crazy and was scared to get well. I was petrified to become a mother. And now that we are on the cusp of having this New Guy, this baby I want so desperately and already know I will love I'm petrified again. I don't know how to do change gracefully or willingly.

Our comfortable warn-in daily existence is coming to an end. Of course it's going to get even better, but it will be different. We will be a trio rather than a duo during the workday and I'm sure we will get into more trouble and have more fun by adding our New Guy to the mix. I'm just overwhelmed by the prospect of navigating the change. Welcoming this baby into our family won't be a problem for Z and me, but we don't know how T will handle it. And if he reacts poorly, well, that is completely natural. I'm just not sure how to help facilitate a smooth transition.

Additionally, I feel tremendous guilt over the introduction to life in our family the new guy will have. Actually, I sort of feel bad for every kid who isn't a firstborn. When T was new he was held nearly always. His every mood was catered to, he got plenty of tummy time, he was the exact center of our universe. It was the same way for my nephew G. My sister had her second son in May and I am so glad that we spent a week with her family in June. It was incredibly eye opening. The six adults in the house were no match for the time and energy suck that is two crazy toddlers. And there seemed little time left over for the sweet, well behaved baby who sat in the bouncy seat unless he needed to be changed or fed. Granted he never cried. He was the most content baby I've ever met. He was also loved and cuddled and smothered with kisses, but the attitude that surrounds the first kid, the constant attention and stimulation, was gone. Made me realize how lucky firstborns are. Until the next sibling shows up and then no one gets that glorious constant attention ever again.

And New Guy will have a couple of things T never got. He'll have a big brother to show him the ropes, he'll have a mom who is a tiny bit less uptight and certainly way more experienced. We've already made a bunch of mistakes on T that we won't repeat. We won't be learning to be parents on the fly with him. And the one thing we will be able to do is love him as much as we love his brother. That is a hell of a lot of loving for one little guy.

All photos by the amazing Ellie Leonardsmith. T helping Z put up a new wall.

Later on the same day T learning to use a rolling pin with some left over pie dough.

I still can't quite believe we are lucky enough to have a professional photographer regularly take pictures of our little family.

Ellie is available for maternity photo shoots! Any pregnant ladies in the Boston/Providence area should totally check her out!

Yummy T.

The "Vote" tattoo is my favorite. I only regret the location because it's covered up most of the time. In honor of the 4th of July here's why I got this particular one: I feel like super duper liberal folks (like me) are often unfairly characterized as un-American. And I'll tell you what, I love America. Feel like it's the best country on earth. I've lived overseas and traveled extensively, so I don't feel like that is a terribly uninformed opinion. So yes, we wacky liberals love America, too!

A Little Something to Lighten the Mood

2011-07-01T15:32:00.000-04:00

Of course my anxiety has taken off into the stratosphere since I had the hutzpah to write a post about how happy I am. It's been a rough couple of days including a stupid, unnecessary, and unusual fight with Z and an absolute weep-fest in couples therapy last night. The story of T's birth and it's aftermath had never really been discussed in our therapy. Both Z and I thought we'd covered it at some point, but our therapist didn't understand why I kept referencing T's birth as a reason for my huge anxiety about the birth of New Guy, and asked what happened. I really thought I was over it, but as I started telling the story the waterworks just took over until I was an incoherent mess. I hate crying in therapy. It's such a fucking cliche. And it makes me feel terrible about myself. I think those who witness the tears must think I'm just being manipulative by turning on the water works. Being that vulnerable is so distasteful to me I'd rather think people believe I'm an evil manipulative ass than simply weak. So yes, I'm in a bit of a funk. And clearly I have a ways to go in the getting well department.

I'd really like to get out of this gross mood so it feels like a good story is in order.

Back when I was still pregnant with the babies I miscarried (I know it isn't a great start, but seriously I promise this isn't a sad one) my father-in-law sent Z these:

"Do you know what these are?" Z excitedly asked me. I did not. He explained they were antique umbilical cord cutters. My father-in-law is a retired ER doc and a collector of antique medical equipment. Turns out these cutters weren't just any antique. Z's great grandfather, who was also a physician, owned and used them.

I could see the wheels turning in Z's head. "If I take these to a tattoo parlor and have them sterilized in an autoclave I could ask the doctor if I could use them to cut the baby's umbilical cord! How awesome would that be?"

Me, "No."

Z, "Why not?"

Me, "Are you fucking insane? No. Just no."

Z, "Well it doesn't hurt to ask."

Me, "DO NOT embarrass me at the doctor's office. Do not do it! I will kill you dead!"

We all know how that pregnancy worked out, so the conversation didn't happen and I forgot all about it. Until almost a month ago when Z pulled the cutters out of his front pocked during my doc appointment. I felt my face get very very red and said, "I can't believe you are doing this."

Z explained what the deal was. My doctor was clearly excited by the snips and asked to hold them. He was giving them the once over as I was composing in my head exactly what I planned to say to Z on the ride home. Let's just say it was a good thing that T wasn't with us. I've been doing a really good job of not swearing in front of him.

"Here's the deal," the doctor said. "The part of the cord attached to the placenta is just going to be thrown away. And the part of the cord that's attached to the kid is going to be clamped and recut within about 20 minutes."

There was a pause in which I almost started to apologize for my insane husband. But I shit you not, the doc said, "So if you brought these into the delivery room, yes. Yes, I'd let you use them."

It would be an understatement to say Z has been triumphant about the whole matter. Insufferable might be a better word for it...Although he did not float the nuttier part of the idea to the doctor, the part in which he took them to a TATTOO PARLOR to be sterilized. But as Z has pointed out to me (numerous times) you really never do know until you ask. And he hasn't said, "I told you so!" to me, not once. Speaking as the sorest winner in the world, I can honestly say he really is a good guy.

T's favorite person in the world is Z. But this young man runs a very close second. He is the sweetest and most patient 5 year old I've ever met. He's also a Star Wars super fan. Here he is reading the Star Wars ABCs book to T and his sister. They were a truly rapt audience.

Happy and Trying to Stay That Way

2011-06-28T14:23:00.000-04:00

Out of the blue I keep being struck by the fact that I am happy right now. I love my life. I love our home. I love our little family. I love the smoker Z got for his birthday, we are on a pork shoulder smoking jag right now. I even love that we are in the middle of a little home reno project to make room for New Guy. If any of you ever have to visit Syracuse make sure it is in the summer. This place is off the hook amazing. The highs vary from 80s to 70s, there is usually at least a thunderstorm a day, the nights are in the 60s, all that rain means it is as green and lush as a jungle. And most of the students are gone. It's heaven on earth.

Everything feels better here in the summer. I don't even mind how overcast it is because all the green makes up for the darkness, and the weather changes so fast there are usually a couple of minutes of sun a day, which is an improvement over the never ending darkness of wintertime. We have people over on the weekends. I love to cook even though I keep telling Z I'm getting too big and I'm ready to slow down in the kitchen I send him to the farmer's market with lists for local fruits and veggies with all sorts of recipes in mind. I keep thinking things like I won't get a chance to do a strawberry pie with local strawberries till next year if I don't make one now. And I'll tell you what, that pie was worth the body aches I had on Sunday night as I tried to ease myself into bed.

In the past, when my anxiety and agoraphobia have been severe I've sat on the sofa in a semi-catatonic state for hours at a time, remote nearby and computer on my lap. I didn't make dinner, I didn't clean up, I did manage to meet T's basic needs but not much beyond that. I felt like a weight was pressing down on me, physically preventing me from getting up and taking part in life. I haven't felt that way in several months, it feels so removed from my life right now that I can't believe it was me.

One of the insidious ways my anxiety works is to plant little thoughts in my head and no matter how hard I try to dismiss them they come back over and over. I am happy most of the time right now. And I'm grateful for that. Back during the great breakdown of the mid aughts I couldn't enjoy happiness at all because I was sure it was fleeting. As I've gotten better I've been able to enjoy the happiness while it lasts and swallow the terror of what will happen when it inevitably passes. But even though I'm loving life right now I also can't shake the dread that has accompanied this pregnancy. I'm still scared something catastrophic will go wrong. The change is I've also started to believe everything is going to be OK and I will deliver a healthy baby boy on or around August 28th. So when the fear hits it feels especially shocking. I will be living my current happy life, making plans for this baby I want so much, and the certainty that I will deliver him stillborn, or go into labor two months early, or that he will be born but will have a significant health problem (though our genetic testing looked terrific), or any other of a million terrible scenarios will happen take hold of me and won't let go. My nightmares are never ending. I wake up because I need to pee and when I fall back to sleep I'm back in the same awful dream and unable to get away.

Anxiety is smart, much smarter than I'll ever be. Maybe this is its way of letting me know who is always in charge. Now that I've gotten past its threat of future unhappiness when I'm feeling good maybe it is just shape shifting into the worst fear I currently have. My feelings of inadequacy and failure surrounding the miscarriage last fall and my fear I lack the ability to carry another healthy baby to term certainly are ripe for the picking. Maybe I just need to figure out how to fight this particular demon. The discouraging thing is it feels like no matter how many times I learn to manage the current situation my anxiety will come up with a new one that I am completely unprepared to battle. It knows my deepest fears and exploits them with frightening efficiency.

It is weird to feel so happy and so fearful at the same time. But I do feel stronger now. When I was seriously unwell I didn't believe in Z's commitment to me. I believe it now. I didn't have the responsibility of a little boy who is counting on me. It is so much easier to fight for myself now that I recognize there is so much to fight for. Yes, the unrelenting anxiety is overwhelming. Part of me just wants to give up. But the mom and wife part of me is stronger. And that rocks.

It's probably because I'm his mom, but his sweet little face totally undoes me.

Visiting Z at work. Is there anything cuter than a toddler in a Hawaiian Shirt? Thanks EF for the hand-me-downs!

He was so excited to discover the clamps hanging exactly like they do under Z's workbench at home.