ReFormed By Motherhood

On things that are discouraging

2010-02-15T18:50:00.000-08:00

Somehow, our entire city was absolutely gripped and waiting for a huge (by Louisville standards) snowfall. And somehow, I missed this memo. There isn't a lot of television happening here. We listen to NPR during the day, but I didn't really hear anything. Or, what I heard I immediately chalked up to local news sensationalism and the general weather hype.

We've had snow on the ground all of the last few weeks. This has taken a toll on my floors. Salt and gummy shoe prints were more visible than the wood grain. So, like an idiot, I decided to sweep and mop and scrub the entire first floor of the house yesterday. And when I was finished, I felt a little bit like god, gazing at my own creation of zen cleanliness.

And the snow came again last night. We are right back to salt stains and gummy boot prints. But also, we are right back to cracker crumbs and Pirate Booty lurking under the couches. At dinner tonight, Bug of course threw pasta - which is, right now, likely festering somewhere under the cupboards and growing the loveliest shade of molded green - because I never find that crap until three weeks later when I'm horrified by the thought that I've cleaned the floor countless times and suddenly I discover remnants of dinner from so many weeks prior. How does that even happen?

Why do I continue to try? And when is this baby going to learn to clean up after herself?

Titties!

2010-02-13T19:32:00.000-08:00

I started this about a month ago, and was a little too sedentary to finish it. Some of the references (i.e. Bug will be 16 months in January) are a little off. Still, here it is.

“Stop acting like you’ve never seen a titty before.” – Rihanna

I just quoted Rihanna, yes I did. But, it’s a sentiment I wholeheartedly sympathize with. Not for reasons surrounding text messages which contain my topless form (or sext messages, if you’re young and hip enough to use such a term) – although, I am always a little fearful of the day I hear that someone has leaked (yes, leaked, because I’m a celebrity like that) a certain video from my early twenties. Ack.

No, I quote Rihanna because like her, I do not believe there are many people left (friends, acquaintances, strangers, anyone) who haven’t seen my breasts at this point. I believe there are strippers whose breasts have enjoyed less viewing than mine. Buggy will be 16 months at the end of January. That’s 16 long months of breastfeeding – at home, in restaurants, in parked cars, while shopping, in rest stops, in the park, on a pumpkin farm, at soccer games, in friends’ houses, on airplanes, in airports, on the beach, on the front porch, on the back porch, while walking through the aisles at Target, while actually walking down a major thoroughfare in this city – everywhere. And the reactions range from total obliviousness and ambivalence to utter shock, and everything in between.

I don’t belong to the La Leche League simply because I was too lazy to ever sign up or get so involved. But I do feel kindred with their motivation and agenda.

A few weeks ago, I was out to dinner with my whole family – brothers, sister, nieces, nephews, significant others. There were probably 15 of us in all. Bug, being her usual contrary self, wasn’t interested in actual food. No, she wanted to nurse. So, fine. I nursed her right there at the dinner table. Not by any stretch the first time I’ve done this. Yet, for some reason, the reactions in this particular establishment reached almost into the absurd.

One couple, following a few severe looks and a little speaking with their server, promptly settled their bill and left. Another table, a family – yes! a family! – was in close enough proximity that I actually heard them complain to the manager that such behavior was “inappropriate for a family establishment.” What? A family in a family establishment takes offense to breastfeeding? Well, I swan! I did at least hear the manager say to this family that she couldn’t see how it would be fair to deny my child her meal while everyone around her was enjoying theirs. And further, that I had a right to breastfed my child anywhere I pleased. Thank you, Ms. Manager Lady, for a) not apologizing for me; and b) for speaking not only the truth, but the law – because it is legal in most states (good, old, backwards Kentucky included) to breastfeed in public places.

I do think that much of the general shock of seeing breastfeeding actually take place has to do with the ridiculous sexualization of women’s breasts. I sincerely doubt that many people are actually against breastfeeding – they just live in some bubble where it happens only behind closed doors.

But breasts are breasts. I mean, this is why women have them. Not to fulfill the sexual and Freudian (ugh, Freud) fantasies of our partners. But to feed our children.

Obviously, breasts become sexualized for their ability to signify fertility – or so says evolutionary anthropology which often reiterates the strikingly inane. I think it goes without saying that most of us understand why breasts are attractive and sexual. But I think it is seldom mentioned, beyond the circles of mothers and lactation consultants, that size has absolutely no weight in the success of a woman trying to breastfeed her child. And size has somehow won out, at least on the attractiveness spectrum.

I have digressed.

It has come to kind of sicken me that breasts are these things with their own public persona. It is just fine to leave your house in a tube top or deep v-neck shirt or even, as evidenced by J.Lo at the Oscars (I think) some years ago, a dress which is really no more than a swath of fabric to cover your nipples. This is fine. But if I wish to feed my child, in a public place, with the most natural of apparatuses – this draws the stares, the sneers, the ugly looks, sometimes the ogling looks. Gross. What the hell is wrong with people?

I can go on about this for days. Seriously, just google the phrase “nursing cover” and you will be amazed at the bevy of consumerism aimed at hiding your hooters – actually, that is the name of one, “Hooter Hiders.” Classy. Not to mention the strange hat-thing that you put on your child, a Moboleez, sort of like a day at the beach – but rather than protecting your face from the sun, it protects others from the unseemly sight of your nipples.

The funniest part of all these products: most babies will not tolerate such foolery. I know Bug wouldn’t. Ever. That baby won’t even have the softest pashmina cover her face whilst she breastfeeds. So clearly, hooter hiders are a strong no go.

Back to the sexualization of the titties. I get even pissier when this sexualization spreads to children themselves. Last summer, when I was in Florida with the Buggster, at the beach, I put her in swimming bottoms (no top) at approximately 10 months old. This was likely as scandalous as if I, myself, had gone topless on a Florida beach. To fully register our current notions of “good mothering,” it was probably on par with sending her to the beach sans sunscreen.

As an aside, I don’t think I covered my breasts at all until I was at least ten years old. We lived in Florida at the time, and having two older brothers, I never quite understood why I should have to wear a top and they never had to wear tops. Later, I would develop into an awful teen who wouldn’t be seen with naked elbows. But at that point, I can clearly remember running around with no shirt, no shame, no awkwardness, feeling sort of free. Why would we ever choose to raise our girls to shame and hide a part of their bodies before it even arrives?

Let’s break this down. To cover something is to say that it is unfit, in one way or another, for public viewing. We do, all of us, cover ourselves everyday – unless you are a nudist and then, I just think you’ve gone a tad extreme. So, perhaps unfit is too harsh; rather, it is polite to cover one’s self in certain circumstances. I swear, I don’t take Bug to the grocery or science museum without a shirt. But the beach?! To cover a child’s breasts, which are not yet breasts, which are merely nipples, connotates a break between current reality and the future potential. Little boys at the beach never have any sort of cover over their chests. (Do you see how, even now, ranting about breasts and sexuality, boys have chests and little girls have future breasts? This is pure word choice, yet it shows how deeply this difference is ingrained.) It is all troublesome.

Hey people, they’re boobs! Breasts, chests, nipples, hooters, the twins, mammaries, jugs, bosoms, racks, air bags (that’s precious), knockers, etc. Get over it. And more importantly, children of any sex have none of them. So please, let them run topless at the beach (with all sufficient sunscreen) without any knowledge that this part of their body will too soon become the source of shame/pride/scorn/judgment/attraction/plastic surgery (god forbid). Just let them be kids. And by the way, let us womenfolk feed them when they need to be fed from our own chests without your judgy sneers.

miss you like I miss you

2010-01-15T17:06:00.000-08:00

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been on the old blogness. I swear that some days it’s all I can manage just to breathe and keep my head straight. For whatever reason, the fallout of this whole breakup has become worse than the initial breakup itself. It takes some undefined amount of time for the totality of the situation to plum smack you in the face.

This is real. This has happened. This person who I thought I might spend the rest of my life with, who I loved and let in, who I had so much riding on – this person is gone in every way except in his role as a father.

I so hate coming on here to gripe and wallow. And that is the sole reason I haven’t been on here. Because, unfortunately, I guess it takes time to feel this loss all the way through. At least, I hear that it takes time – especially when that time isn’t being spent with twenty three year old bar maids.

But Bug is great. She speaks more by the day. Lately, I find myself greeted every morning with her kissing me and doing her best to say I love you! There cannot be any better way to start the day. She climbs everywhere, which is totally frightening, especially when I find her on top of a table, bouncing and so proud, because look! She climbs! She is into it – never mind the possibility of falling and putting a mark on that sweet noggin of hers, that’s for me to worry over.

And I am back – I swear!

oh, holler

2009-12-09T19:17:00.000-08:00

Writing about your personal life can become hard. Especially when the life you happen to be living falls short of cupcakes and fairytales. You start to feel like the downer in the room, holing yourself in a corner and, when someone might approach, meeting them only with morbidity and vitriol.

I really don’t mean to do that. Also, I am almost back to the land of cupcakes and fairytales and sparkly dildos. So speaking (or writing) about the bad stuff has a way of seeming uncouth at the moment. Although, speaking too candidly on these interwebs has always seemed a bit uncouth. Some things are personal and are meant to be kept that way.

Last week, Daniel and I began seeing a therapist. We did this with no expectations for the romantic relationship. Rather, we decided that since we will be linked irrevocably for the entire life of the Bug, we should be able to stand in the same room without hoping and plotting to slit each other’s throats.

I won’t talk details about our problems. (Because I know you read this blog, little Daniel!) I’m bigger than that. (No, I’m not.)

As part of this therapy, we received assignments. One of which is that Daniel is to have the Buggy from 2 p.m. until her bedtime (7:30 p.m.) everyday. I suppose this came as a result of my saying that I think he doesn’t spend enough time with her. I emphatically did not ask for this and in fact, met the suggestion with serious reservations. What do you mean, I will be apart from my baby for such a long time? What am I supposed to do with this time? (Apparently, per her instructions, I am supposed to do something nice for myself every day. What?)

So, the first the day of our new schedule came and Daniel picked Bug up at 2. I sat for approximately 20 minutes in the living room, not knowing what to do with myself. I am someone who has not worked a real job in almost 3 years. You take away what little I have – and by little, I mean my great big huge Buggy – and I really don’t know what to do with myself.

I sat for 20 minutes. Then, I thought “Oh lord, there is more to do in this house than most people have to do as jobs.” But first, I went to the gym. Because that is my own personal therapy. Running 10 miles on a treadmill or doing an hour on the elliptical, that makes me feel better than any talk therapy or any bottle of wine. After, I came home and cleaned the kitchen – a phrase that always makes me laugh, since an old friend of mine who is both gay and male made that his own euphemism for “tossing the salad,” or licking someone’s rectum. (My, how that sounds clinical!)

Since that, Daniel has taken her everyday at 2. I always miss her around 3:30 or 4. I always wonder what she’s doing, if she’s okay, is she happy. But also, I feel like myself again for the first time in, well, I don’t even know how long. I actually feel like Megan. With funny things to say, and little obscene puns thrown into to regular conversation, and finishing a crossword puzzle faster than most people can read through the clues. Like me and not like the me who once smashed bar glasses for fun or cozied up to the next person buying drinks. Like me. Like the actual me. And I didn’t even know that I had lost me.

It’s so strange how that works. I was someone so constantly caring for someone else, that I never paid myself even a second’s notice. And now, I totally see how I became the stereotypical naggy, bitchy, awful person – and only because I never had two seconds to rub together as my own.

Everyone tells you, every mothering book out there, all of your friends with babies – everyone tells you to take some time for yourself. And I swear (or as my grandmother always said, I swan!) please do it. It is a whole other realm of wholesomeness where you can actually greet your baby as you, and not as some half-you who hasn’t slept or hasn’t washed her face or hasn’t cleaned the crud between her toes. You.

I mean, OH GOD! Daniel never did this when we were together. If he had, we might have saved our relationship. It took a professional therapist to say, You – take the baby every day. And you – take some time for yourself. It is seriously like HALLEJUH!

hardness

2009-11-30T17:53:00.001-08:00

It's pretty hard to have words for the internet world when things are bad. The Daniel thing lingers, of course. Bug and I are both suffering colds. So then, I leave you with pictures instead.

fast friday

2009-11-20T16:57:00.000-08:00

I will admit that I read almost every parenting book that hits the shelves - well, within reason. I'm not into Ferberizing or cry-it-out, so books that espouse those sorts of parenting philosophies never make home with me. But I do own most of the Sears Parenting Library, as well as The Vaccine Book, The Happiest Baby/Toddler series, Baby Signs, books on organic foods, books on making your own baby food (which all turned out to be a waste since Bug never liked baby food and only wanted what she could pick up and feed to herself), books on babywearing, The Wonder Weeks (which I always recommend since it sorts through all the sleep regression stuff and actually tells you what's going on in their little heads), How To Raise a Reader From Birth, Nurture Shock (my most recent purchase) and more. Oh, I almost forgot Jonathan Safran Foer's new book Eating Animals - since I haven't given Bug any meat yet, and being sceptical about meat anyway (its safety, the huge farming industry it comes from, the environmental impact, etc.) I thought it was a wise read and I would totally recommend it to anyone in the same wishy-washy boat I was in before reading it.

Obviously, I am little bit of a wreck when it comes to gathering information. I want it all right in front of me, right now. I'll sort through the conflicting advice and studies and hullaballoo later on, in my own head - well, hopefully in my own head, as opposed to someone else's head. All the advice in the world never seems to trump a steady philosophy of moderation. And all of these parenting gurus, doctors and child phsychiatrists - read them if you want, I do. But take everything with a grain of salt. Do what comes naturally, except, of course, neglect or abuse or other awful things. But if that's what is natural to you, please seek help (and I don't mean this in a judgmental way).

My point is: it would seem, mostly from my reading frenzy, that I might be well on the path to becoming one of the so-called "helicopter parents." Please, do not ever let this happen to me. I loathe these people - even as I understand their motivation - I truly do detest this type of parent.

But America (god bless her little heart), being the bastion of hyper-functional, non-functional, marketing mecca that we are now has a cure for over-parenting. And you too could learn the ins and outs of how to schedule downtime for your child to rediscover his or her own toys. And you too can create your own toy library. All for the low cost of attending a seminar on de-overparenting or even having someone visit your home to create a custom plan to curb your helicopter parenting ways.

This article at Time should make you sufficiently squirmy on whether your on parenting style is enough, too little or too much for your child. And this article at Jezebel is pretty much a spot-on critique of said hysteria.

Sheesh. Everything with a grain of salt people.

shoes or choose!

2009-11-18T17:31:00.000-08:00

Some nights I sit on the front porch drinking a glass of wine and smoking a cigarette.* I can’t help but look across the street – I mean, really, their houses are right in front of me, so I can’t help but look at them – and wonder about the lives being led in those walls. I’ve met, at least in passing, almost everyone in the houses across from and beside ours. I do know something about these people.

Also, Kate, one of my best friends since we randomly met in Latin class (talk about a bunch of losers) almost eight years ago now, lives across the street and two doors down. And as of this September, Maya, another best friend and my roommate from Chicago, now shares the apartment with Kate. Obviously I know all about their lives, since we see/text/call each other constantly.

But the other neighbors. I know only the barest bones of their stories. And because of this lack of information or intimacy (because honestly, their lives are not my business) I can sit on the porch and glance their figures moving behind the curtains and only imagine all of their lives as perfect – without the heavy detritus I know to pervade all of the lives around me.

It is an odd street where I live, such that the houses, some massive and some totally miniscule, are slammed together one on top of the other. An odd street even further crowded by the little stretch of pavement with parked cars lined up and down where only one car can pass at a time and everyone who drives it is forced into a game of chicken even though it is a two-way street. You can’t possibly live here without wondering about all of these inhabitants and their lives.

Sometimes, the lesbian couple directly across from me will be on their porch while I am on mine. And it is so easy to see them sitting outside, smoking and laughing together – to then imagine theirs as the perfect relationship. Unfettered with distrust and suspicion.

And the gentleman who lives to the right of them – he is single, mid-fifties. I imagine his house clean and outdated, perhaps with a plaid couch or two. Maybe some wood paneling in the hallways. But always with order and a constant routine which, to me, would sound like a lullaby.

But what do we really know about anyone with whom we share our space? (See how I made that sentence grammatically correct, even though its correctness takes you out of the flow of words. How dreadful.) It is too easy, when we are down or depressed or whatever euphemism you’d like to use – it is too easy to see everyone else as some ideal figure that we (I) cannot achieve.

But these are things I have to remember: it is easy to see perfection in lives that aren’t your own; it is easier to find happiness in memory and nostalgia than in the grit of day-to-day; that there will be tomorrow and we (I) can choose** to go willingly into that day.

*I know, the horror! A mother who smokes. But I had quit totally until my father died, and then it crept up on me again. First I would have 3 a day and then 4 and then now where I’m probably smoking around eight. Gross, I know. And I do really want to quit again. But, as a disclaimer, no one smokes in the house, and no one smokes and touches Buggy without first washing their hands.

**I almost wrote “shoes” since little Buggy is absolutely obsessed with that word lately. She wants only to grab everyone’s shoes and announce its terminology as “SHOES!”

doppelganger

2009-11-16T18:28:00.000-08:00

So, Kate found my Italian doppelganger on The Sartorlialist

I’m not entirely sure what to think. Outdated glasses – check. Dark curly hair – check. Affinity for scarves – check and check.

But, that bag – sadly enough, no check. Those particular glasses – double sad, no check. The generally chic sensibility – only if that includes blouses stained with spit-up.

You judge:

Also, I clearly had to take my own damn picture, since no one else was around. Poor me. I really think it's the sweetest thing that the lovely woman in that picture reminded Miss Kate of me. What a compliment.

The end.

eau de toilet

2009-11-12T18:06:00.000-08:00

I realize that everyone lands squarely on one or the other side in the great co-sleeping debate. Personally, I am a huge fan of the family bed/co-sleeping arrangement. But I’ve mentioned this before and will spare you another lengthy diatribe listing my reasons.

I will, however, say that co-sleeping with a mobile infant can become a dangerous experiment. If a baby sleeps in a crib, you can at least rest knowing that it’s fairly unlikely that your child has escaped her confine only to wander the house unsupervised. Whereas with co-sleeping – well, I’d say that it is still unlikely your child could get away without waking you in the process. But then there are those stealthy few, like Bug, who possess some super secret ninja skill which allows them to get out of bed and rage unnoticed.

So, this morning when I woke without her still next to me, I was filled with sheer dread at what I might find. It wasn’t unrealistic to think that I could possibly find the worst of the worst, the horror of her dead or maimed in some way – though I like to think I would wake upon hearing anything too odd or jarring.

She walks and now she’s begun climbing pretty much anywhere that she can (literally) get a leg up. But she hasn’t yet mastered operating a traditional round doorknob – so far it’s only the long, lever style handles she can manipulate. But, the bedroom is totally baby-proofed: the outlets are covered; I’ve put away my switchblades until she’s a little older; heroine needles usually get disposed of before she goes down for the night. We sleep with the hall door (with a round knob) closed thus pretty much enshrining her for the night. So all in all it’s pretty safe.

That is, until we come upon the little matter of the door to the bathroom which is of the lever variety. This, combined with her current obsession with toilets and her inherent love of shoes (this bathroom leads into my closet) proves irresistible. She fixates on the bathroom to the point of total insanity. She will stare at the closed door while furrowing her brow and screeching to be let into that damn bathroom. In the mornings, while I get dressed, I let her play on the floor with some old makeup brushes and shoes – and for her, it is pure joy. Well, except that I won’t let her play in the toilet. Because that’s nasty and we all have our limits.

Twice now, she has given me the slip. And twice now, I have found her in that bathroom. The first time, a few weeks ago, I found her sitting quite contentedly with a dirty pair of my underwear wrapped around her neck like a scarf, holding my favorite fancy shoes which I bought the last time I was in Paris, and tearing the pages from an old issue of Lucky magazine. WTF, Buggy? I know that Lucky totally sucks, but it’s a mindless way to spend my time on the treadmill. Lighten up, lady.

This time, this morning, I found her in the bathroom, again with the underwear around her neck (I think this is some sort of imitation, since I am totally addicted to wearing scarves), again with the same pair of fancy shoes. But this time, she was sitting crosslegged inside of the toilet, dabbling my shoes in with the shitwater and splashing around like the Jacques Cousteau of the sewer. Well, this is lovely.

The really stupid and ironic part of everything: I bought a toilet latch to keep the lid locked down just 3 days ago and procrastinated putting it on.

it's not you, it's me

2009-11-08T15:55:00.000-08:00

I haven't had much to say lately. I guess that when things start turning to shit, there isn't really much to be said at all. I just find myself moping and thinking and thinking about moping some more.

So, Daniel and I are breaking up. And that's just about all I have to say about that.

I'll write more when I feel a little less defeated. Today, however, is not that day.

halloween

2009-10-31T16:33:00.000-07:00

And now back to your regularly scheduled inanity. Halloween. Daniel and I had a few words regarding each other's choices for Bug's halloween costume. I thought she would make an especially charming little panda bear. He was of the opinion that she would make a better zombie. This mess started about a month ago and the disagreement left us in something of a standoff. Neither was willing to compromise, so naturally no costume was actively being made nor purchased. Until, my mother just up and bought her a costume without really giving either of us a choice thus ending the quarrel altogether.

So Bug went as a witch. Was it what I would have chosen? No. But it certainly was better than dressing a one-year-old as a card-carrying member of the flesh-eating undead.

This was the first and last moment she would tolerate her witch's hat.

I swear that some days I can feel myself aging. Unfortunately, this was one of those days hence the expression.

While Bug would have nothing to do with the hat, Daniel showed no qualms about trying it on. What we have here is not nearly as witchy as it is Hasid.

The girl and her cat.

Thomas the cat with Daniel in the background.

In the spirit of the day, I dragged out the hat to an old bee costume.

healthcare

2009-10-29T19:51:00.000-07:00

This is the line stretching around the building.

Today we lined up with hundreds of other families to get the H1N1 vaccine for Buggy. Our regular pediatrician’s office only received 50 doses, which is obviously insufficient given that there are over 10 doctors in the practice and who knows how many children are patients. They allotted all of their doses for children whose health was already comprised in one way or another – and rightfully so.

This left us at the health department, somewhere most frequented by the very poor and uninsured. More importantly, this left us somewhere I could see firsthand the absolute necessity of this country’s recent push toward nationalized healthcare.

Before I start receiving your glaring eye rolls and negative feedback – like, oh, you just now think that you understand the plight of the poor and uninsured after having to stand in line for something for once in your life … before all of that, let me say that I have supported government healthcare since before Obama and before this almost-actualization of it. (Note to self: knock on wood, keep your fingers crossed, never speak too soon. Just please let it happen.)

Thank god or whoever your deity of choice may be, thank luck if you believe in no deities at all, that this country is willing to pay for these vaccines, that they are handed out for no cost to whomever wishes to attend these clinics. But please, do not forget that every nation has a huge, vested interest in the health and wellbeing of their citizens – and that, by extension, we as citizens have an interest in the health of our fellow citizens.

We do, after all, live next door to these people, we speak to them and play with their children, some of them serve us food, and some of us take care of them in hospitals or law offices. They ride our public transportation and smile at us on the street. They handle our produce and check our baggage – they are, all of them, us. So if you are truly loath to taking a basic humanistic view of other people’s health, you can at least see the imperative that we all be healthy, disease free, interactive people.

For those of you who are detractors, I will say this: I do not hail from an immigrant family - not that this should ever come into consideration in my book, though I know of people who are afraid healthcare reform would benefit immigrants - as though clearly immigrants should simply be used for the jobs they perform and discarded. (Wake Up!) My family has been in these United States for hundreds of years. Well, except for some interloping Jews here and there. And maybe some of those pesky Native Americans who we all but obliterated – but wow! We conquered this land and they should just get the fuck out! Obviously.

I come from a family of educated, beyond-college educated people. I was raised in a very typical, post-feminism, upper middle class atmosphere. (My parents had a brief foray into the hippie kingdom and came out on the other side.) I have lived according to the accepted, natural timeline of women in this country. I went to school, went to college, traveled Europe, went back to grad school.

And then, all hell broke loose. My younger sister died at the age of 26 – we were only eighteen months apart. My father was in the advanced stages of Parkinson’s Disease. For approximately a year and a half, I could be counted on for being nothing but drunk and mourning. Which is actually what I mean by the title ReFormed by Motherhood - that I'm no longer drunk and mourning. Not that I've seen Christ's light or been saved. Only that I seem to have come out on the other side.

Buggy came just in time to save my life. I say this with no irony or nuance. I was seriously drinking myself into death. I was working at the time. I had moved back to Louisville from Chicago to be close with my family, because honestly, after she died I couldn’t be anywhere but right beside them. Still, even within the close confines of family-ville, I was seriously killing myself in mourning. (And if you ever wake up one day and feel the immediate need to check on your sister only to find her dead, unbreathing, cold and unresponsive to CPR, well, then, you tell me how to get through it.)

My point being – not my sob story – I have played by the old, white man’s rules. I have run my tour. I did my duty on the upper-middle-class scale of how-to-live-your-life. But then, I found myself here. Unin-fucking-sured.

So, I do commit insurance fraud (fraud with a capital F) every day. Why, would you do that, you ask? Lets see: Daniel works a full time job that offers no benefits. After my father finally died of Parkinson’s my family’s assets were so wasted in paying his $8-10,000 prescription bills a month that we had nothing left. (And, yes, when you have Parkinson’s or cancer and the insurance company won’t pay, guess where it comes from. And guess how much that would be if you were diagnosed at 40 and died at 60. And guess how much it takes to figure transportation to doctors and remodeling the bathrooms so that no one falls and to have an on-call nurse there at the house to help and treat and administer.)

I commit insurance fraud. Yes, I do it. But you know what, Bug and I are both covered. And you do what you have to do. Poor Daniel is not covered. And I worry about him incessantly.

My greater point is, simply: how does it ever get to the moment, this moment, where all of the people of America believe that if you don’t have health insurance, you simply deserve to die? Because that is, in fact what is happening now and what has happened for too many years. You have money, okay, you get a pass, you get a free pass to the joyous land of preventative care and a primary practitioner. You don’t have money – well, so sorry, you essentially die. Lack of healthcare is truly, at its very nature a death sentence.

The majority of my friends are uninsured or underinsured. They all hail from similar backgrounds – for the republicans out there that means white, educated, middle to upper middle class working people. One of my closest friends pays into her insurance plan, but due to money, has opted out of maternity coverage. Seriously, at our age, maternity coverage is likened to having plastic surgery. Elective. Disgusting.

I will always ask this question: how is it that we have an inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness if we don’t first have our right to health?

(senti)mental

2009-10-27T18:41:00.001-07:00

All this fall, the leaves and colors and chill, has made me a touch sentimental recently. Pre-baby, I went through the years so absent-minded that I barely recognized their passing. Now, I sit here recalling one year ago and all the wonder of her newness. Bug has really punctuated my life in the sense that I literally count the months since I've had her, almost 13 now. I can't remember any other period when I was so conscious of time passing and so certain of every moment's impermanence.

These baby things are hard work, especially the first four months when it seems like you’re stuck in a constant cycle of sleep, poop, nurse, bathe, sleep, nurse, poop, cry, etc. I was missing from any sort of social gathering from September to February. It’s a wonder I managed to keep even one of my friends since I never answered phone calls or texts or emails. (I am totally lucky to have kept all of my BFFs, despite my poor etiquette. Thanks bitches!) And I never noticed my own hermitage until well after that little phase was over.

I remember wrapping Bug up in the Moby and her tiny self almost getting lost in all the fabric. I looked like some sort of American Apparel reject, tying jersey all willy nilly across my chest.* I often think of one day in particular, when she was extra gassy and having all sorts of fuss. I wrapped her onto my chest and she slept all afternoon while I ate Oreos and watched the second season of Seinfeld on DVD. I think it rained all day that day. But inside, with her like that, I can remember a feeling of fullness and comfort unlike any I had ever experienced. She is cozy, that baby.

So this is parenting. This barrage of sentimentality and nostalgia. Next year I’ll undoubtedly be nostalgic for this year, and so on into the rest of our lives.

Me with Buggy on my chest at the pumpkin patch last year. She's not even 1 month here. I swear there is a baby in there somewhere.

*That willy nilly was just for Daniel. He's always accusing me of secretly being an old woman for my use of outdated colloquialisms. Willy nilly, cattywampus, etc. - I'm just bringing that shit back.

our sleepless train station

2009-10-24T13:51:00.000-07:00

After not sleeping during Miss B’s sickness last week, I was really looking forward to a few good nights of solid snoozing. But no. We finished with the sickies and went straight smack into a huge wall known as a developmental leap. So, she's talking even more and walking all around, opening doors and climbing on things and all kinds of shit I wish she'd save for later - once she reaches an acceptable age to endure a good beating.

I generally can’t be counted on for knowing much about what’s going on my world. Give me less than 4 hours of sleep at a stretch and I am rendered utterly useless. Yesterday I actually put a dirty diaper in the refrigerator and a full carton of milk in the trash. Fucking brilliant.

Most nights, she seems to go down to bed without much more than her usual “but I’m too excited to sleep” fuss. And usually or up to this point, she had been sleeping from 7:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m. religiously. But this week we’ve been up at 1:30, 3:00, 4:30 – like I’m running a damn train station in my bedroom and those conductors will not deviate from the schedule. I’ve tried going to sleep earlier since it has become obvious what’s coming and inevitably, I lay there in bed, unsleeping, totally awake and checking dlisted on my phone or reading the latest book of New Ways to Raise Your Child So She Doesn’t Turn Out Like You.

Then at 1 or 1:30, she rolls over so quick I swear I wonder whether she’s been asleep at all and says “Mama?”* Just like that, with her wee voice trailing off at the end into a question as if to ask “are you still there? Are you awake? Let’s rage!” That voice just melts me. All the grumpy, sleepy, old shrew meanness drains right out of me and I can’t help but kiss her on the lips as I drag us both to the rocker.

So I am tired. Chronically, painfully tired. I think I’ll go as some kind of zombie for Halloween – at least I won’t need any makeup. And what about Ambien for babies? Why hasn't big Pharma figured that out yet?

*And yes, we are still co-sleeping. I am an idiot and this child will walk all over me for the rest of my life. I do realize the consequences. But I get all the sweet cuddly action I could ever want and it is worth it.

saga with pumpkins interrupting

2009-10-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

Life has been totally void of peace, quiet or sleep for the last week. But before that, we went on a little excursion to a particular pumpkin patch North of the city and spent the most serene afternoon tromping through the vines and visiting farm life.

Then, Bug came down with a nasty virus last Wednesday. No Swine Flu, thankfully, but nasty nonetheless. Not that we didn’t properly expose ourselves to the piggy flu, because we did. 3 doctor’s visits within a 5 day period, all in a waiting room where every other person donned the trademark surgical masks and generally looked the part of Michael Jackson progeny.

I say it was a nasty virus, but perhaps that isn’t fair. It perhaps was a merciful little virus who left Bug with virtually no symptoms other than fever, sleeplessness, more fever, more sleeplessness and then … Friday her body temperature went down to a shocking 94 degrees. 94! In the house, wearing a sleeper, under a down comforter, in my bed, next to my warm body. 94 degrees.

So I woke her up and put in the sling next to my bare skin and wrapped a fuzzy bathrobe around both of us and put a hat on her and warmed 2 blankets in the dryer which I then wrapped around us both. 2 phone calls to the doctor and a very sweaty Megan later, she was back at 96 – safe enough to let her go back to sleep, but not safe enough for me to close my eyes long enough to let the thermometer out of my grasp. It was like that through Saturday and Sunday until just yesterday. She seems finally to be coming out of it.

It is heart wrenching to have a sick child. The worry and fear of only 5 days has left me in a hole. I sat up every night listening to her breathing, its rhythm and regularity registering as sensitively as earthquakes on the richter Scale. I can only remember a handful of times when I’ve been struck with such fear and dread and such demolishing lack of control.

I have idea how anyone can get though the constant trauma of having a chronically ill child. My heart and thoughts go out to them.

party

2009-10-08T17:42:00.000-07:00

Some shots from little Bug's birthday party. She is truly going to despise me when she is old enough to know better.

besties from the besties

2009-10-01T18:43:00.000-07:00

Though Bug may be very, extremely, adamantly vocal on her likes and dislikes at any given moment, material objects are not yet on her radar. This is, after all, a girl-baby who has never developed an attachment to anything other than the people she sees on a regular basis. We have no lovey, no favorite toy, no pacifiers or bottles or anything.

And then, Kate and Maya brought her the loveliest birthday gifts. Suddenly, Ms. Cold-and-Distant decided on the spot that she loved these things. And therefore, these must be the greatest gifts since Frankincense and Myrrh.

She named the bear Teddy Sue. Yes, this is an uncommon feat for a 1-year-old, and yet, she looked at the bear and kissed it twice and said Sue. Now she looks at the bear and says Sue, as though that was always her name and why were we ever referring to this poor bear as a Teddy?!

Lately, we’ve had a cold snap. A little uncommon for the south this time of year. In the house we went from air conditioning to heat in one 24 hour period. So today, while I was gardening, I made her wear her new dog hat. And lo and behold! She didn’t try even once to take it off! This baby who hates hats, made peace with her new doggy and totally chilled whilst I took care of the weeds.

And then these lovely shoes. I do really want to squeeze her little footsie toes right in them, but they just won’t fit. So, tomorrow, maybe we’ll do the return. And we’ll have the best little wolf shoes this side of the Mississippi. I mean, really, Buggy's clearly not going the way of Little Red Riding Hood if she learns the lesson this early.

one year

2009-09-30T18:20:00.000-07:00

One year ago today, we woke before the sun had risen and got into the car and drove. I was huge, swollen. Daniel drove me to the hospital and we spoke very little. That quiet held more anticipation and fear and hope than any other moment I can remember. I can remember the sun barely coming up over the Ohio, and the feeling that things would change in ways I couldn’t even imagine.

And then there was Buggy! And things have never been the same.

What a year. Every day has had its own specific mix of triumph and minor tragedy. From the first time she smiled (without being prompted by gas), to the first time she rolled over and laughed, all of it has been a whirlwind. I barely recognize myself from the person I was a year ago, six months ago – but only in the best way possible.

It is such a personal moment that I feel like even writing this little snippet perverts something grand between her and me. But the joy! Oh the joy! This little baby just amazes and grows and astounds me every day for 365 days now. What a baby. What a year.

It’s time to celebrate!

*As a disclaimer, I did not hand her that bottle of wine to play with, though I am sure there are those who would assume as much. She pulled it out of the recycling bin by herself, thank you ever so much.

party season

2009-09-30T17:06:00.000-07:00

We are currently in high birthday season around here. Saturday we went to a joint party for my niece and nephew. Sunday we had a party for another nephew, followed by an early evening dinner for Daniel’s brother. Bug turns 1 today (also my sister’s birthday) although her party isn’t until next Saturday. Then, the weekend after that we’re hosting a small dinner party to celebrate our friend Kate’s birthday. Like, whoa.

Absolute insanity. I think that is the only honest description of any child’s birthday party. The screaming, wrapping being thrown around like confetti, the minor tantrums – it is enough to put me off the wagon (or on the wagon, I’ve never figured out how that goes). Daniel caught me licking cupcake icing out of Bug’s hair yesterday. I didn’t have a wipe handy, so hey! It works!

Saturday’s party was at an indoor playground in the mall. My mother hosted, and as exhausting and infuriating as it was to chase them through tunnels and ball pits and up and down slides all afternoon, I have to say that the little people all loved it.

There were other children present who were not in party attendance. Apparently they don’t close the place down for parties and instead just give you a party room to come and go from. One little girl, maybe 6 or 7, took a particular liking to Bug, following her everywhere, in the ball pit, into a play house, down the slide, etc. She was totally fixated on picking her up and carrying her around, which I continually had to stop. Not safe! Bug is wriggly and wily and can be quite a handful for me to carry at times. I tried to be nice to her, even though I found myself wanting to scream at her to leave us alone. So, at one point I asked if she was a big sister, since she was so good with younger children (or at least she really wanted to be around them). And then, this:

“No, I don’t have any brothers or sisters. But I really want a little sister. My mom and me live in a motel and she says I have to wait ‘til she gets a job and my daddy comes back.”

The saddest little statement I think I’ve ever heard a child speak – and with such nonchalance. Like, of course they live in a motel, and of course her mother is out of work, and of course her father is absent. But what else would she know? To her, it was akin to stating the color of her own hair. This is the way things are in her life. And then, it was right back to playtime with Buggy.

So, after being around so many children and so many slobber-covered surfaces, I’m now convinced we’re all going to come down with Swine Flu at any moment.

long overdue

2009-09-20T17:45:00.000-07:00

So, it’s been a little while. It’s daunting at this point to write any sort of a lengthy catch-up. Instead, a quick list of the past few months’ happenings for your reading pleasure. I’m lazy and negligent, I know.

Buggy will be a year old on the 30th. This I cannot fathom.

She stood up and cruised around for a while and then …

2 days ago, she took her first step. Heartbreaking.

After much turmoil and gnashing of gums (not to mention my poor nipps) Bug has 4 teeth! With 2 more cutting through just now.

Daniel and I had a little relationship hiccup – actually, it was more like a relationship throw-up. But we’ve managed to shove the vomit back down our throats and into our stomachs again in order to carry on.

We moved a month ago. Same neighborhood, different park. We are now Tyler Park people, a little less posh and a whole crap ton more friendly.

Miss Bug now officially has a larger vocabulary than yours truly. I can’t possibly list all the words her little lips can mutter.

Did I mention that she’s turning 1? My ovaries are punching me just thinking about it.

Having said all of that, I will try to be more of a regular blogger now. Pinky swear.

playing house

2009-04-21T17:10:00.000-07:00

Some days I cannot believe that I am here, the mother of an almost 7 month-old girl, the keeper of a house, an adult. It will totally strike me sometimes that I’m actually living this life and not merely going through the motions. 30-ness is very odd. It loops me back to days when I was 6 or 7 and played house with my sister. But this shit is no play, this is life.

As if Buggy wasn’t enough for a perfect, smiley birthday gift, she decided to go one further and gift me again. After not taking a bottle since she was approximately 2 months old, she made her mind up that the bottle was cool, not a problem – and on my birthday of all days. So considerate, that Bug.

We left her with Daniel’s parents while we went for dinner and drinks. It is always agony doing this because I’m left to worry the whole time that she’s gotten hungry and fussy and mean. (It has also led to zero possibility for social life outside the house, since I don’t even have the option of being away from her for more than 3 hours.) But instead of her little tizzied-out self, we came home to find a happy baby who had been fed and who was so, so sleepy she immediately went to bed.

Then last night, after learning of her new-found love of the bottle, I decided that we shan’t ever go a day without giving her a bottle again. What else is there to do? This is a baby who took a bottle just fine until she was 2, maybe 2.5 months old when she declared firmly “no mas.” So, last night I gave her a bottle. This will become a normal part of every day. I demand it.

I gave her the bottle at 6:30, anticipating that she wouldn’t want it to be her last feeding and thinking that instead she would prefer the closeness of skin-to-skin contact. And, I thought it might go better if I wasn’t holding her, fearing that she would reject it for the more familiar booby. But no. She took her bottle and fell asleep right there, in the middle of a full force bounce while nestled in her jumper.

Whose baby is this? She clearly can’t be mine. My baby needs at least an hour of jostling and bouncing and singing before she finally closes those eyes. Or maybe, she’s actually growing up. That is the saddest realization of all.

the big 3-oh

2009-04-19T08:58:00.001-07:00

It’s officially time to pull myself up by the nursing bra and put my sexy face on. I have reached adulthood and my, how things are nowhere I would ever have imagined them. But the best surprise of all? I am so perfectly happy with all the unplanned, unexpected messiness of this life.

So what if I’m still 10 lbs. away from pre-baby sexiness? So what if I no longer have the wee bitty, carefree boobies of my 20s? Who cares if being in love has made it kind of hard to be a slut?

I have this gorgeous Buggy who wakes me everyday, without fail, smiling and happy to see me. I have this lovely Daniel who brings me coffee and vegan baked goods. I have an awesome mother, a family I adore as much as I sometimes want to kill them and friends who listen willingly to my constant gushing over Bug. Overall, I’ve got it pretty good in ways I couldn’t have predicted.

Gray hairs can fuck off. This aging business isn’t bad at all.

milky

2009-04-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

Spit up can happen in the darnedest places.

resentment

2009-04-15T06:09:00.000-07:00

We’ve been listening to a lot of She & Him lately. For some reason, it totally calms Bug during nap time. It’s that whole kinda twangy, traditional song, smoothness – makes me want to curl up right beside her and snooze. We’re still mourning the loss of our sleep sheep. He warbled his way to an untimely death from overuse. I tell Buggy he’s with the real whales now, somewhere in the ocean. She doesn’t understand. According to Maya I’ve already messed her up by associating whale sounds with sheep. This could get really interesting when she starts talking and wants to know why other sheep say BAAH when hers glurps out whale calls.

I’ve been thinking about resentment. A friend of ours recently had a baby with his girlfriend and calls/texts Daniel for advice all the time. We ran into him during a walk a few weeks ago and he had a few questions for me. Particularly, why was it that his GF seemed so angry so often. Before I answered, I asked the typical questions: is she breastfeeding; could it be postpartum depression; is he keeping the house clean and doing the laundry and keeping the fridge stocked and keeping her fed? All these things were attended to, so I was left with resentment.

There is not nearly enough discussion on this and I think it must be common. I had some deep resentment for D in the first few months after Buggy came. The whole phenomenon is bizarre, so I’m not sure where to start talking about it. It’s a total mind-fuck.

You have this brand new person and the immediate feeling of love so great, so profound that you feel like crying/exploding/dying at any given moment. All the hormone-fueled, angsty outbursts of my teenage years have nothing on this feeling. It is huge and uncontrollable like nothing else.

Then, also, there is a new and deepened love for your partner that is profound in its own way. You sort of look at each other and you look at this person you’ve made and immediately you are a family, a unit. The bond is almost frightening. And, as ridiculous as it sounds, I actually felt grateful toward D that he had given me this perfect, beautiful baby – the best gift in the world. Gross, right? Like he really had to work to get his rocks off. But that’s emotion I guess, all nasty and hallmark and cringe-worthy.

Here the resentment comes in. As a woman it is nearly impossible to reconcile the new, womanly responsibilities of motherhood with having been raised in a typical, post-feminist environment. And unfortunately, I think this impossibility breeds resentment toward the menfolk. (Poor Daniel.)

We’re raised thinking that our positions in the world and all the attending duties are equal; that we can do what men do; that we’re entitled to the same education and careers and even, if we’re given a sex-positive attitude, the same exploits as men. Also, we’re hopefully given the sense that these things are possible without being labeled as bitches or sluts or any of the other negative terms that are sometimes used to define empowered women. And yes! We are also led to believe that equality exists in parenthood. Such lies.

We all know the truth too well. Equal pay, equal opportunity, a world without slut-shaming, evenly divided parenting duties – these are all as elusive in reality as Bigfoot. And what grows out of these dashed expectations? Resentment.

Parenting is sort of necessarily mommy-centric, especially if the wee one is breastfed or if you’ve bought in to the whole attachment parenting hoopla. It isn’t that you resent being needed in such an extreme – in fact, that feeling is one of the most unexpectedly pleasant extras. The resentment centers more around the man’s freedom. He can come and go as he pleases, without bundling up the bebe and lugging the carrier around with a ridiculous diaper bag on his shoulder. He needn’t even take advantage of this freedom, it’s just the existence of such freedom that settles under your skin and begins to really, truly piss you off in the worst way.

But you get over it, I think. Once everyone’s settled in to their own gender-prescribed roles and your resentment has given way to resignation. Stop expecting anything, ever.

I need to go smoke on some Deepak Chopra and find a chakra or two to settle down. I’ve had enough negativity for the day. Sleep Sheep take me away!

repeat

2009-04-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

My mother found an old picture of me and my father yesterday. It is my new favorite thing to look at – especially since my dad died last fall. There is something so comforting about his hands holding me up and his pipe looming in the background.

I am always struck by how much Buggy looks like me as a baby. That is all.

poor blog, you

2009-04-10T17:06:00.000-07:00

Life must be hard for a neglected blog. Ah, me. But blog-damnit, there’s just so much going on. There’s a Bug and then there was a visit from a certain out of towner and of course there is the reality of living life in a 3-ring circus.

So, Florida happened. Then it happened that we returned. It all seems so long ago already that I haven’t much more to say.

Yesterday we had our 6-month check up at the doctor’s. Everything is fine, Bug is growing gangbusters and hitting all the milestones right on time. The only thing notable about the visit? It was not with our regular Md. And instead was with a particular nurse practitioner who I have requested not to see. Apparently they put this right on the chart where she can see it and being generally unprofessional, she confronted me about why I prefer not to see her. Awkward.

We saw her for Buggy’s 2 month check up and I left nearly in tears. Among other things, she accused me of supplementing with formula (since surely no baby can actually grow from breastmilk alone), suggested I start feeding her solids at 4 months rather than 6 (since a baby in the 70th percentile needs to slim down – what is with all these fat babies? Also, totally wise with a family history of allergies.), and then the motherload. She practically turned me into CPS for co-sleeping. This bish put on her best fear-mongering mask and warned me of the risk of SIDS as though it was a personal threat.

I read, or at least I know how. I know that the APA discourages co-sleeping because of the risk of SIDS – even though there is no definitive link among the piles of research they try to cite. It’s just typical American puritanical tsk-tsk.

I think I handled the confrontation well. She asked why I requested not to see her. I told her that I felt like she launched a wholesale attack on my overall parenting philosophy and that parenting is a very personal thing which shouldn’t be subject to personal judgment. That was that. She apologized. I’m still peeved.

To change gears, Buggy’s on the move. I left her on her play mat for no more than 2-2.5 minutes the other day and found her half way across the room, ass under the couch and looking at me like she knew she was caught. It’s on.

inside out

2009-03-14T17:33:00.000-07:00

I'll leave you with these pictures from the last time I was in Florida, about 2 weeks before Bug came out. Don't worry, the middle finger just means that I'm classy like that.

mom-fia

2009-03-14T07:20:00.000-07:00

I took myself off of Myspace last week and I’m feeling the urge to do the same with Facebook.

When Bug came this gigantic switch went off inside me – a switch that controlled everything. Of the minor things, it changed any desire I ever had to maintain a public life. Maybe it’s linked in to the whole motherly instinct to protect, I’m not sure. But right when she came into my world, I quickly grew disgusted by all the casual acquaintances and their questions about Bug and the delivery and the pregnancy.

I don’t want to discuss my baby with someone from the high school wrestling team who I spoke with twice. Same goes for all the idiots who only ever knew me from going out to bars – what in St. Angelina’s name do these people think we have in common? Whatev.

Also, it is too humbling when said people start tagging pictures of you with fluffy hair and red lipstick from 1994. That is not funny. That is an atrocity.

This is going somewhere, I promise.

So, one of the people who recently contacted me on Facebook is a girl I was actually good friends with in high school. And, yes, she did post some horrific pictures of me which I promptly untagged. She also had a baby this year and invited me to join her new mother’s group which meets once a month.

Enter the Mom-fia. I have an almost unnatural fear of other mothers. Perhaps not all of them, perhaps just a very specific sort of mother which I think I don’t even have to describe. You know who they are. So, I could never participate in things like this. I can’t even get up the gumption to go to the mother-baby yoga classes that I really, really, really want to attend for fear that the Mom-fia might be there.

I do realize that at some point I will have to conquer this aversion. Buggy will need interaction with other babies pretty soon. Aunt Sarah and aunt Kate coming over with a bottle of wine probably doesn’t count for the kind of socialization she needs. This spring, once she’s crawling, I’m going to join a playgroup and, of course, I know that any playgroup I join will harbor this unseemly crowd. Dread.

buggy's first bikini

2009-03-12T13:25:00.000-07:00

In other news, we (Bug and I) are leaving for Florida on Sunday. This Sunday. Spring break, woot woot! Don’t tell Xenu, but we’ll be in Clearwater for 10 days. I know it’s the Scientology capitol, so please pray to your inner thetans that they stay away from me. Well, except maybe Suri – she is such an intriguing toddler.

I am totally freaked at the prospect of flying with a baby for the first time – and flying alone, without any help. I can just see myself at the security gate, trying to fold up the stroller and take my shoes off and hold Bug and my bags. What an eff-ing disaster! And then, the nightmare scenario of her screaming on the plane. Yuck. How my former self would so have avoided my current self.

I’ve been grappling with the whole idea of having a blog. Why would someone with virtually zero free time endeavor upon the most time-wasting, self-involved modern pastime?

I don’t have a good answer. Maybe I enjoy starting things I’ll never finish or see through. The past certainly speaks to the truth of that. But honestly, I do want to record the trials of this first year with Bug, even though I’m 5 months late in starting. And, I don’t see any sort of adult interaction most days. (It’s just me and Buggy hanging out, taking walks, learning new shit.) And lastly, it’s nice exercise for an imagined day in the future when I might actually write something of substance again. For the last 2 years now, all my writing has consisted of text messages and 3-line emails.

sleep crisis

2009-03-12T06:25:00.000-07:00

I’ve already mentioned that Bug is going through a sleep regression. Oy. Sleep is the subject of our number one argument in this house.

Basically, I’ve signed on to all of the vaguely hippy-dippy parenting philosophies: breastfeeding, co-sleeping, baby-wearing, alternative vaccine schedules, g-diapers, attachment parenting. None of these is necessarily the easiest option. I often wonder if life would be rosier were I to stick her in the crib with a bottle while she cried it out and I went about my way. But, I don’t think that’s any kind of long term game plan.

I’m not always certain that Daddy Bug agrees with all my crunchy-granola baby raising ideas. Especially co-sleeping. There is a point in every night when Bug wakes up and Dad declares that we must, MUST, get her sleeping in her own bed.

Let me just say that I am so in love with this bebe. So naturally, I love going to bed at night and curling up with her all close and snuggly. I love watching her sleep and seeing her gorgeous face first thing in the morning. But there are also very practical reasons I am adamant about co-sleeping. She’s still on the booby – so when she wakes up hungry in the middle of the night, I don’t even notice. She finds her way to the nip and feeds herself – way better than waking up to her crying in another room, dragging my tired self out of bed and going to feed her. Also, by the time she’s crying, she’s most likely fully awake. This way, she never has to get to that stage of complete wakefulness.

Whatever, I could go on and on. I just think that co-sleeping has nothing to do with our current nighttime waking. She’s teething, she just had vaccinations and she’s in the middle of a huge developmental spurt. Buggy is just going to wake up when she wants. This isn’t forever. And, in the grand scheme, this little bit of time when she’s happy to be close to her mean, old mama is so small that I really want to make it matter.

In the interim, I have renewed my love affair with coffee. So essential.

the nerve

2009-03-11T06:29:00.000-07:00

You spend 9 months worrying about your waistline and stretchmarks (thank Cheesus that’s the one indignity pregnancy spared me) and constipation. Then one day, there’s a little Bug all your own. Suddenly, you could swear that all of the world’s anxiety came together and wheedled its way under your skin for you to fret over this Buggy.

I’m certain I must be the most nervous mother in history. I can remember being a child and laughing with the brothers and sisters at how my grandmother constantly complained of her “nerves.” “Oh, my nerves!” she’d say – somewhere between 15 and 20 times a day. That poor woman. I had no idea one day that would be my mantra. Oh, my nerves, indeed.

Buggy had another vaccination on Monday. Gross. We’re doing the whole alternative vaccination schedule just to be safe. It seems cautious to me. If there’s one thing a nervous mother is good at, it’s caution. I just worry too, too much about all the hullabaloo they put in those dang shots. Aluminum, mercury, monkey kidney cells and something known as cow serum (I shit you not), live viruses – how are those itty, bitty bodies ever supposed to handle it? It’s appalling and disgusting, but you still want desperately to protect that sweet Bug.

So, Monday: vaccine. Tuesday and Wednesday: cranky Bug. Oh, my nerves.

We’re also going through the dreaded 4 month sleep regression (even though Bug’s now 5 months, the regression can last for 2+ months). More fun for my nerves.

And, we’re teething.

I would climb head first into a bottle of wine to calm these damn nerves. But that would not be okay. No one wants a drunken Bug at 3 a.m. And no one wants a mentally challenged Bug ever. Though it is very sad when you wake up at 7 in the morning and think how perfect it would be to follow up that cuppa’ joe with a nice pinot grigio.