dec-O-blog

The Cohen Tribe

2011-09-09T21:15:00.000-04:00

If you've landed here lately, read some of the old stuff. It's pretty much my heart and soul.

Plenty more heart and soul where that came from, though. So join me on www.thecohentribe.com to keep up with all things dec-o-blog. It's just as fun.

Thanksies!
E

The Safety Years

2011-08-22T12:15:00.000-04:00

We are in what I like to call, "The Safety Years." Everything is about safety. (You know, injuries.) I've lost the ability to open, close, enter, exit, and and generally use most things in my home without first needing to unlock, unlatch, or ungate something. There is a latch to open and close the oven. There is a gate both at the top and bottom of my stairs. (This is following an incident during which I casually made a salad in the kitchen and entered the living room to find my son not playing with his toys on the floor but playing with his toys on the SECOND floor. Had a heart attack, died, ran up the stairs, grabbed him, and drove to Target to buy a bottom gate.) There are safety latches on most cabinets in the kitchen, sans the ones with knobs close enough together that we can use rubber bands instead. Abraham likes to "play" the rubber bands; a talent I call "Strumming the Cabinet Harp."
Every cord in our house that comes close to the floor is now tied around something tall, like a chair, so that my son can't put them in his mouth. We've already lost two Apple computer chargers to my son's desire to turn them into lollipops. There is a giant, rubber frog head wrapped around the spigots in the bathtubs which is, frankly, pretty disturbing if you know anything about heads and they way they attach to the body.
We have no pictures, table lamps, and no vacation momentos out anymore. Actually, to be clear, we do not set anything on anything. Tables are now for show and not for actual use. My son finds the entertainment center to be just that, which is why we can no longer turn any of the electronics ON in case he tries to push buttons that can never be unpushed in combinations that Bobby Fischer couldn't keep up with. Computers, cell phones, and iPads must only be used in the attic.
Plants must be hung from the ceiling or stored at the top of our closets. The one potted plant that is too large to move has given new meaning to the term "mud pie" on more than one occasion.
We can only load/unload the dishwasher during nap hours. All window shade cords must be tied up high, meaning that we never open/close the window shades anymore. Garbage baskets now reside in closets, cabinets, and sometimes on top of tables. (Oh! I guess we do use the tables.) Toilet covers must be put down, baby wipes must be put up, and no fun can be had out of doors unless someone is permanently holding Abe's hands away from his mouth. We even have a crib tent now in anticipation of the day he figures out he can get out of there without me.
It wasn't until I began writing this blog that I realized just how much of my house is some kind of "proofed" with this child in mind. I always said, "I'm just going to teach my child what he can and cannot touch," which was adorable of me. Because "no" is so effective at this age.
None of this madness happened at once. We didn't wake up one day and think, "We should make everything about our house inconvenient." It was one safety latch at a time until going to the bathroom required a schlage lock, a set of fingerprints, retinal scan, voice confirmation, and a secret knock. So think ahead if you might have to pee while at our house.

11 Months

2011-07-29T18:23:00.000-04:00

Dear Abraham,

You are 11 months old today. I didn't even know babies got that old. I definitely never thought you would get that old; at least, I didn't think that in the first 4 months of your life.
So here's a little bit about you and the last two months:
You learned to pull yourself around the floor in a sort of, "my legs don't work but my arms do" kind of way at 9 months. You did that for over a month. I was worried we should be signing you up for the short bus, or at the very least, art school. As it turns out, you were just warming up. When you turned 10 months old you started crawling. And as they say, you never looked back. You're a FAST crawler, too. Your little hands and knees sounds like mice galloping across our wooden floors.
Dogs barking and mommy's hair are the two funniest things in your life. Also, handing things to people is a total gas. It never gets old and always deliver the perfect, little giggle.
You love just about every food there is. Even pulled pork.
You've got three and a half teeth. One of the top ones keeps tempting you with cutting through. Some mornings your little gums are all bloody and bruised. It's so incredibly sad for me when you are in pain.
You can climb. Everything. You climb stairs, cabinets, stools, window sills, the dogs, the dishwasher, the list goes on. You do not have great spacial awareness, as often times you hit your head and then get very angry. I try to warn you but you never listen.
Walks make you introspective and incredibly quiet. People who talk to you make you scream (I think you think you're talking to them). The swing gives you a sweet, peaceful disposition. And you're a perfect angel in every store. I love that about you.
You're not really a stay-at-home-baby. As long as we are out and about, or you are figuring out a new place, everything is kosher. Home, however, is a different story. You've learned how to throw tantrums at home. Whenever your daddy or I open the front or back doors, you RACE to get to them. Then, when we close them (even when no one has left), you lose your marbles. You throw yourself, face down, on the floor and scream and kick and seemingly shout, "WHY WOULD YOU OPEN A DOOR IF WE'RE NOT GOING THROUGH IT?? WHYYYYY?"
You also sincerely love dog food. There's no fair way for me to explain to you why you shouldn't eat it, and a happy Abe that does not make.
We've done so much traveling this summer and you've been a real champ. I think it's been harder on me than on you. Thank you for loving traveling as much as your daddy.
You are strong, strong-willed, handsome, determined, focused, and funny. I love your super tight hugs and your sloppy kisses and your scratched up knees. I am so thrilled to have you in my life everyday. And in one month, I'm going to look at you and say, "Happy Birthday, bud!! You're 1!" (Can you believe that?!)

I love you,
Mom

Wanna Do Some Good?

2011-07-28T10:31:00.001-04:00

There are a million places to put your money.

I'm putting mine on the Do Good Bus.

The Do Good Bus is an opportunity to get involved and help your community. Just get on the bus and we do the rest. Each trip is different and the locations are a secret. You never know where you’ll end up and what you might end up doing. You will be wined and dined while on the bus and learn about causes in your neighborhood. If you have always wanted to get involved, volunteer or help others but didn’t know how, hop on the Do Good Bus!

They're partnering with Foster the People to do more than just tour around the country taking up space. They're making changes everywhere they can. Good changes that folks of our generation rarely take the time to think about (like planting a garden in the middle of an exit ramp...I did that once.)

SO DONATE...EVEN 5 BUCKS

And if you have a few minutes, get inspired and watch Rebecca (The Do-Gooder) talk about how important this is to her personally.

Multi-Tasking

2011-07-27T09:57:00.000-04:00

Multi-tasking is a blessing and a curse. Mom-Erin can do about 11 things at once and get them all finished correctly and in a timely manner. It's a gift that mommies are given in exchange for pushing another person out of their bodies. Not totally sure I would have turned down a Macy's shopping spree instead of the whole, "I can cook dinner, mop the floor, write an email, change the baby, and pick an unknown sticky substance out of the carpet without ruining my nails all in under 30 minutes," but whatever. You get what you get.

That being said, I've come across about 70,000 things in my daily life that I don't understand why someone hasn't redesigned yet for women like me who need to get things DONE. Like fitted sheets. Hello? Everytime I make the beds I put fitted sheets on a MINIMUM of 6 times before I get it right. WHY DOES THE SHORT SIDE ALWAYS END UP ON THE LONG SIDE?? IT SEEMS TO GO AGAINST THE VERY LAWS OF PHYSICS. There is a very simple fix to this. Just put a little tag on the bottom left corner that says, "Hey. I go on the bottom left corner." You hear that sheet-manufacturers? Do it or we'll stop buying fitted sheets.

Or bacon. I love bacon. It's full of good fat and protein and salt and good lord now I want bacon. But why did an OCD bacon packager design the layout of all bacon sold everywhere? All the slices are perfectly stacked and stuck together in a way that only a professional sushi chef could filet them. Why would no one come up with a better way to present the bacon to me? I would cook it soooo much more often if I didn't spend 3-4 minutes per slice trying to separate it from its neighbor. Not to mention, the plastic it's wrapped in is the LEAST user-friendly packaging in the world. I don't have a fix for this one.

How about Chinese take-out containers? Who's the Steven Hawking subordinate that decided it would be smart to include a metal handle? Are we supposed to heat up our Chinese food in the convection oven? I can't tell you the amount of times I've forgotten that metal handle and nearly blown our kitchen into Canada. And who wants to live in Canada? Chinese food is meant to be easy; a night off from cooking. I don't want to scoop the congealed leftovers out of the take-out containers, put them in a microwave safe bowl, and then heat and serve. I want to eat them directly from the container with a fork. Or chop sticks. Just take the handle off, guys. We don't need a handle on our take-out containers. We're not traveling with them.

Last one, I promise.

Can someone please design a dishwasher rack that makes some freaking sense? I've never seen one that fit normal bowls or normal plates. Whose tiny glasses are they using for their design strategy? The next time someone designs one of these things and they contact some kind of household item consulting firm, they should just save their money and ask someone who lives in a house with a dishwasher. Ask, "Hey, what kinds of things do you wash?" I can tell you what they won't say: shot glasses and lobster pots. All. Day. Long.

Multitasking is an awesome gift that makes me feel like superwoman at the end of the day, so all in all I'm really glad I got it. The only problem with multitasking is now, I have no clue how to be leisurely. It is impossible to just watch a show or take a walk or go to sleep. Or go to the bathroom. I must be doing 7-12 other things at the same time or I feel useless and like I've lost touch with reality. And eventually Abe is going to go to school and I will be alone for 6 hours a day. Maybe I'll start redesigning bacon packaging...

Mom Romance

2011-07-20T09:38:00.001-04:00

Hello World. It's been a while. It turns out, parenting takes up a LOT of time.

About a year after I got married I saw an interview with Julia Roberts during which she remarked her first kiss with her husband made her stop and think, "That will be the last first kiss I ever have." So sweet. Very romantic. Until I realized that my last first kiss happened in 2004 and I never acknowledged it and then I started getting very anxious why didn't I realize I'll never have another last first kiss again oh my God I'm going to be 30.
Romance is different after being with someone for 7 years. It's not that get-your-heart-racing-every-time-the-phone-rings. And after you have a kid, it's even MORE different. And for a minute I considered I might miss it forever; that is, until, I discovered Mom Romance.
When Abe was 6 months old we started going to Baby Gym. Thinking it was a gym, I wore a sports bra and running shorts to my first class. (I have since adjusted my wardrobe.) I entered the room to a bunch of moms who knew each other and knew each other's children.
"Oh he's crawling!"
"Hi Sydney, you are getting so big!"
"I don't know, he's still not napping."
I introduced Abraham and myself to a number of the moms who looked to be on my wavelength. Most were very nice, but their kids were five and six months older than Abe. Not a big deal when you're 30. A VERY big deal when you're 6 months old. We had nothing in common. But I stuck it out and attended week after week until Abraham became a Baby Gym favorite. And I got to know a lot of the moms. There are a few stereotypes that I have found in every baby-centered activity:

There's always that mom who needs to interject something amazing about her child and does so at a time that makes no sense. Like when we're standing in line to hang from the trapeze and she turns around and says, "When I put him down last night he waved at me and said, 'Buh buh!'" You want to care, but you don't. So you smile and say, "Wooow." This only encourages her to expound and then you're stuck listening to story after story about "amazing" things her child does.
There's the mom who brought her friend and only hangs out with her friend and even when you try and relate or make a joke she looks to her friend to decide if they think it's funny. You often want to high five these women in the face with a wet sponge. These are women who were popular in high school. Mean girls still exist. They're just not as thin.
There's the mom who knows more than you. About everything. So shut up.
There's the mom who clearly lives on a commune and refuses to cut her child's hair or wash her jeans. She makes comments like, "His energy is off," and can be seen lying on her back in the corner watching her child climb a ladder while the rest of the class is having circle time. Don't worry. She's benign.
There's vanilla mom. She's just sort of there. She giggles at the appropriate times and participates in conversations when it's right, but never really adds anything to the room. If you try and have a chat with her it is always awkward and forced. She also seems to be on the verge of tears for about 30% of class but no one knows why. Pretty much everyone is uncomfortable around her.

And finally, there's the awesome mom. I like to consider myself to be an awesome mom. It's something I strive for. We're a rare breed. "Normal" people who don't expect others to parent the same way we do. A "brush your shoulders off" kind of tribe who don't mind when other people scoop up our children to play in the middle of Baby Gym; in fact, we welcome the break. I met a few of these awesome moms, but their children were quickly aging out of the infant program. I soon found myself the only awesome mom left. Until I met Kick-Ass. (That's not her real name.)
Kick-Ass is just as frazzled as I was most days. She is always in jeans and t-shirts and usually cracks up when her kid falls over instead of rushing to his side. She laughs loudly and never cuts in line. I quickly realized I wanted this woman to be my friend. And the Mom Romance began.
I started engaging her in conversation. I totally love her kid and told her how great he was. A lot. I said things I figured she'd think was cool. Then I thought, "What am I doing!? Just be yourself, Erin!" When you meet a mom as kick-ass as Kick-Ass, you don't want to ruin the friendship before it even begins. You second-guess everything and wonder if she thinks you're rad like she is. It took me about 6 weeks to work up the nerve to have a personal conversation with her that didn't involve, "Where did you get that onesie?" I think I started with, "What side of town do you live on?" The conversation grew exponentially until we were revealing our hometowns and favorite foods (she loves sushi, I love everything). It was a whole new kind of romance. Mom Romance. And I was a smitted kitten.
Then, suddenly, Kick-Ass wasn't coming to class. Oh my God, did her kid age out and she never said goodbye?! Why wouldn't she at least ask me for my number?! Or meet me during Free Play?!?! Baby Gym started becoming this thing I anticipated every week. Would Kick-Ass be there? Should I ask about Kick-Ass? I didn't want to seem desperate.
Week after week, I watched the door for Kick-Ass. And finally, and with no warning, there she was in a vintage Fraggle t-shirt and a big rat's nest on her head. Man she's so kick-ass.
She immediately sat next to me in the circle and we picked up right where we left off. Where had she been? VACATION. Her family goes on a month-long vacation every summer. And by the end of class it was clear she felt the same way about me as I did about her. We were ready for the next step in our relationship.
PLAY DATE.
She invited me to lunch and we planned a play date for our sons and I practically floated home. No. It's not the same as when my husband got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife. But who said life as a mom would be any less romantic?!?! Now the only question is, do you think she'd prefer ants on a log or goldfish puffs?

Tricks, Shortcuts, and Talents

2011-06-21T10:33:00.000-04:00

1. I don't believe in bibs. They either stain their clothes or stain their bibs. Either way, it's laundry for me to do. So Abraham eats naked. Every meal. If we're out to eat I will occasionally give him a bib only because of the judging stares. Otherwise, it's chicken and sweet potatoes, hold the onesy.

2. I have a VERY hard time wasting food. I clearly starved to death in a former life. I save chicken fat in case we "need" it someday. I also can't bring myself to become one of the moms who cleans up after their kid by eating what's left on the tray. So when Abraham is finished with a meal, the highchair tray goes onto the floor. I sweep out any crumbs from the seat directly onto the floor. And I call the dogs. Abe lunch? Check. Dog's lunch? Check. Two birds.

3. Abraham has a nasty habit of spitting up. I've done everything they say to do but he continues to spit up. The doctor assures us he's growing and his gut is fine, so we just have to wait until he matures out of it. If I had a burp cloth for every spit up, I'd have a LOT of laundry. So sometimes (ok, all the time) I get Abe undressed on the floor in the living room and leave his jammies there before breakfast. That way later on when we're playing and he spits up, I can use the jammies that I was already going to have to wash. Two more birds.

4. There came a point in my life when frozen breastmilk was taking up an entire section of the freezer. This was both disorganized and unattractive (and embarrassing when I had to direct my friends to, "Reach past the breastmilk to get to the vodka"). Then I saw a trick on the Oprah show (RIP) about freezing soup in ziploc bags lying flat. Then when they're frozen you can stand up them and stack them like files. So I did it with the breastmilk and viola, they all fit in the door and the vodka is in plain sight.

5. We have iPads. They are a completely unnecessary object that I LOVE and use every night before bed to read, play games, etc. And in the morning when Abe joins us for morning snuggles, he very quickly loses interest in us. This is where the iPad becomes my best friend. I put on a baby app and away he goes. He will know how to email by the time he's 11 months old. I'm also not afraid to load it up with Baby Einstein videos for road trips (why do kids LOVE that series???).

6. Every baby toy on the market requires batteries and the loudest, most annoying sounds on the planet in order to be labeled "6+ months". However, I have developed a keen ability to hear and discriminate the meows of baby kittens whispering in the other room amid the songs, beeps, and cranks of every toy that makes a noise in my house. I can have a complete telephone conversation with the president while shaking a rattle, sending the cars down the zoom zoom racetrack, and pushing the musical lady bug's head. It's a new gift that I attribute to motherhood.

A Car Ride

2011-06-17T16:58:00.001-04:00

Oh, I'm going to pass Target on the way home. I could stop and take back that deodorant David didn't like and pick up a Father's Day card.
"Bah bah bah bah bah."
"Yeah, bud? What else? Tell mama!"
I need gas. Wonder if Abe will last long enough to go to Target and get gas.
"Bah bah BAH BAH bah bah."
"Wow, bubba. You're a loud dude! What else?"
"Bah bah BAH BAH BAH BAH BAH BAH..."
"OK OK! Mama hears you! We'll just get gas and go home. Almost home."
Does he...oh. Damn. He kicked the mirror. I can't tell if he's got his sippy cup.
<try turning around>
Hm. I don't see it.
"Do you have your sippy cup, Abe?"
"BAAAAAAAAAH, thhhhbbbbbbbt."
Red light. Perfect. I'll turn around and...yep. There is it. Shoot. Unbuckle my seat belt, reach, almost...
"BAH BAH BAH."
"I know, I'm getting it bud."
...got it.
"Here you go, sweetie."
Maybe that's why he was...
"BAH BAH BAH BAH..."
...yelling. Maybe not. It's 20 minutes from nap time. He's probably super tired.
Good lord. Please stop playing Rhianna.
<change radio station>
Jesus, how many singles does she have?
<change radio station>

We can listen to NPR. Maybe Abe will feel like I'm talking to him. I should probably talk to him more. Especially when we're driving.
"Hey sweetie! What are your feet doing? Kicking? Looks like so much fun! WOAH..."
CHRIST! HELLO? BLINKER? NICE BLINKER! Asshole.
God, don't these people have children? Or know children? Or know about the fact that there are children?
"Bah. BAH."
"You tell 'em, Abe. USE YOUR BLINKER."
Gas station! We can stop quickly and then run to Target. He'll make it.
<pulls into gas station>
"I'm going to put gas in the car, Abe. I'll be right outside your window! Ready! We're going to play the window game!"
Shit, where's my wallet. Oh come on, are you kidding me? WHERE'S MY WALLET? Ugh. I've been driving around without a wallet. That's just great. Where is it?
How many miles do I have left, what's the range?
8.
Hm. I'm probably 4 miles from home. We can make it. And Target is on the way. So it's fine. Ok.
"Ok, all finished, Abe. Let's go to Target. Mama couldn't find her wallet so..."
Oh for God's sake, how am I going to go to Target if I don't have my wallet??!
"BAAAAAAAAAAH BAH BAH BAH bah bah bah bah."
"Almost home. We're going home now. No Target. We can just go straight home."
It's fine, I'll do laundry. I can go to Target tomorrow.
"BWAAAAAAAAAH, WAAAAAAAAAH."
"I know sweetie. We're going home right now. You're hungry, huh sweetie?"
Ok, I can give him carrots, sweet potatoes...no wait. He didn't eat those yesterday. I don't have chicken cooked. I think we're out of sliced turkey. Gosh, we don't even have an avocado. I could give him...hmm...bacon? No, I can't do that. Eggs. I have eggs. He can have an egg and some carrots. God, that's an awful lunch.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH."
"Almost there, baby. Mama's going to feed you a yummy lunch and then we'll have a nice nap."
WHY IS EVERY LIGHT RED?
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."
I've gotta get him the pacifier. I'll have to put it in park. Reach. I can't keep my foot on the...
<HONK>
Oh, right, ok, HONK at me. It's been green for like 5 minutes, right?
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."
"Next light, sweetie, I'll get it for you. Next light. Almost there."
I should just pull over. We're so close to home though. AH! Red light! Perfect!"
<reach back, pacifier to Abe>
"There, baby. Now we can just relax because we're almost home. Only 3 more turns. I looooove you."
Alright. I'll get inside, I'll pull the carrots out and I think there's a hard boiled egg in there. Great. Oh, and I'll let the dogs out. Or maybe leave them in while I get lunch so Abe can see them and play and be distracted. Ok, dogs with Abe, get lunch out, feed him and put him down. And then laundry. Perfect.
"Home bubbah! Ready for lunch? Look! It's raining outside! Just in time for lunch and a nap."
Aaaaand he's asleep.
Perfect.

Nine Months

2011-05-30T20:25:00.000-04:00

Dear Abe,

My boy, you are 9 months old. You are incredibly curious and extremely short-tempered. There is nothing you love better than experiencing something new. You enjoy meeting new people, new babies, new animals. Everything new is good. Everything old, ordinary, and routine is BAD. Certain days I need to work from home or get some cleaning done typically leave you a heap of screaming baby on the floor, desperately trying to convince me in your baby language that you are bored and need to get out and DO!

Speaking of floor, you can crawl; sort of. You pull up to your knees, rock back and forth as if you're revving your engine, and then you flatten out like a pancake and inchworm to wherever it is you wish to be. It's a slow, painful process to watch. But it gets you places, typically near a dog or electrical cord. You like to explore items around the house that require you to figure out "how they work". You love gates, doors, cabinets, etc. You don't really care about what's on the other side. You just care about the opening and the closing.

Your recent growth spurt left you so much more aware. There are mornings during which I put you down for a nap, you fall nearly asleep, and then pop up remembering there's a whole world out there to explore. You rarely cry in your crib, though, opting instead to talk or squawk while exploring from one end to the other. You also discovered you could bang your pacifier against the side of the crib to make a loud noise. It did get me to come upstairs a few times, but I've caught on now. Bang away, Abe. I'm not coming in.

While I don't care what you choose to be when you grow up, I can tell you that at nine months old you are SUCH a boy. You found your little friend's tea set and decided to bang the cups as hard as you could against the saucers. When a toy is nearby, you pick it up and throw it around as if to say, "I'm picking you up, I'm throwing you, I'm getting you. I'm picking you up, I'm throwing you, I'm getting you." When you need more food on your tray you slam your hand down over and over again. You explore every new person, place, and thing by hitting. And heaven forbid you get near a magazine or other paper-made periodical...

Your smile is still like gold, and your laugh like platinum. You're careful to save both for special occasions. You squeal with delight when you see your Daddy or me. You refuse to let me feed you. You MUST feed yourself. And you love pretty much anything edible, and some things that aren't.

This week I watched cousins and past students post their "Class of 2011" updates all over Facebook. It occurred to me that someday you are going to graduate. Hard to believe I could be more proud of you than I am today. You are amazing and strong and so full of personality. I love spending my days with you. And I love you. Every inch.

Love,
Mommy

Different and the Same

2011-05-26T09:08:00.000-04:00

Everyday things are different with a 9 month old. I do all the same things I did before I had a child, but I wear a different hat. I'm veiled with baby, if you will. I'm constantly thinking about where in the parking lot I can grab a cart so I don't have to carry Abe and the cart seat-cover all the way to the store front, hold him while trying to (always unsuccessfully) correctly install the cart seat-cover, and then put him in. You won't catch me leaving the house without diapers, puffs, a pacifier, extra socks, sippy cup, wipes, did I mention pacifier?, hand sanitizer, extra clothes for everyone everywhere, burp cloths, toys, blankets, and a pacifier. And that's just to go to the store. (I won't bore you with the overnight trip packing list.)
Drivers definitely tick me off like never before. Like the Ford Broco driver who is completely distracted by the cd holder velcroed to his driver side viser. It's not that I can't forgive the simultaneous display of camouflaged deer antlers and, "Horn broken, watch for finger," bumper sticker. However, while The Offspring did put out one good album in the early 90's, it does not mean blaring it out his duct taped windows is enough to warn me of his impulsive desire to move into my lane. Unfortunately, there's no appropriate way to express my exasperation for the lack of blinker or HUMAN DECENCY while my child is in the car except to mentally wish ill upon the man driving while muttering, "There's a baby in this car! Don't you know babies are on the road, too? YOU COULD KILL SOMEONE."
How about stroller etiquette? I can't tell you the number of times I have rolled up to Starbucks with Abe in tow and faced the big, glass door. Attacking it straight on never works. So I must turn the stroller around and attempt to back into the door, open it behind me (of course it has to open out), hold it open with with my free arm and pull the stroller backwards through the door with the other. Inevitably my arm isn't log enough to synchronize the "door holding" pose with the "stroller pulling" maneuver. The door begins to close on the stroller and I have to lean forward over the back of the stroller, batting at the door and trying to pull the stroller hard enough to get it out of the jam. The cherry on top of this entire scene? The person standing behind the stroller WATCHING it all happen like he/she doesn't know what to do. Hello? A little help here? I may shoot a look like, "Gosh, I'm so sorry we're keeping you from your precious coffee person who has never seen or heard of children before," which often is enough to send the hint. He or she might say something like, "Oops. Sorry," and then hold the door just long enough for me to get the front tire inside. My hero.
As crazy different as this all seems from my "former life", it also feels absurdly normal. I can't imagine how boring grocery shopping was before I had a buddy in the cart or how lonely Target could be without Abe staring at the mirror in the dressing room making faces at himself. I never want life to be different from this again. But seriously, if one more person touches my baby's face without asking, I'm going to ram them with the stroller's front tire and then coyly whisper, "Oops. Sorry."

Better than High School

2011-05-19T20:00:00.000-04:00

You know when you're in your senior year of high school and every single day is one step closer to the biggest celebration of you're entire life, the one that is both the most exciting and the scariest? And with every passing class you put your head down and just go go go to get through final exams and college applications and entrance essays. And sometimes it's maddening and other times you have an amazing moment with friends or a strong teacher and realize that this isn't going to last forever. And you eat like crap and you try to join the right groups and steer clear of the drama, although there's always drama anyway, and you remind yourself every morning that one more 6am wake up won't kill you because it will soon be summer and then, on with real life. So you sing as loudly as you can in the car with your friends and you shrug your shoulders and bite your lip on the days when the shit hits the fan and laugh at anything and everything with gusto and full heart. This is kind of what life with an 8 month old is like.

Whoever gave Abraham the 6:30 alarm clock, I request you take it kindly back. That is when my day starts; with a quiet cooing from a little monster who has just noticed nighttime has ended. My husband retrieves him from the second floor and I nurse him and snuggle him in bed. It is the quietest, calmest 30 seconds of my entire day.
"Can he crawl yet?"
No, no he can't. But he can scoot.
The scooting is remarkable really. Abe gets up on all fours and scoots his knees closer to his hands. Within a millisecond, he flings his arms forward and lands flat on his chest (he's learned to lift his chin the hard way); he'll repeat until he reaches desired object. It is neither a prompt nor comfortable method of transportation. I often don't really notice he's moved until he is halfway across the room.
I, on the other hand, am now faster than it has ever been. My life is composed of 5-15 minute increments, during which I see just how much I can accomplish before the next round of, "Guess what I figured out how to pull?" starts. If I had known years ago that I could unload, reload, and run a dishwasher in under 6 minutes, I would have saved enough time to sit and think of a way to invent a faster washing machine. I was also unaware how much I could accomplish at Target. Did you know Target carries every brand of every thing ever invented? There is no need to go to any other store. Ever. Not to mention when you're there you learn of many smaller items you didn't even realize you needed. Like picture frames. And decorative pillows.
Nights are always a mad rush to finish dinner for my husband and I, eat, feed Abe, bath him, put him down, and spend 10 minutes catching each other up on our days before we watch a show or engage in parallel reading. It's non-stop and every time it's Friday again I turn around to look back at the week and wonder what I did.
During all the madness, one every few days, there is a moment when time stands still and Abe does something he's never done before. This week it was holding himself up on the end of the bed and cruising around the corner to reach my computer. I held my breath for about 5 minutes. What I'm saying is, my baby is growing up faster than I can understand and before I know it, he is going to be ready to go to school. I am loving every minute, or at least the ones that I remember. And what makes this whole thing way better than my senior year of high school is that no one has posted signs everywhere declaring I'm a lesbian. Or a troll. Or a lesbian troll.
Life is good.

20/20 Part 3

2011-05-03T10:32:00.001-04:00

After googling "Zoloft and breastfeeding" (for like 3 hours), I finally decided I would try the medication. I got q-tips and birthday cards at the pharmacy so I wasn't just buying antidepressants. Maybe the pharmacy techs wouldn't notice my prescription. Because clearly I was the only woman to ever buy antidepressants before.
I got them home and I set them on the counter. I started making dinner. David came home and saw them. "Happy pills, huh?" I tried to laugh this off, but in my gut I felt so stupid that "happy pills" might be the only thing to make me happy. I decided not to take them and to try it by myself for a few more days.

A few hours later Abe was screaming, the dogs were barking, and I burned half the dinner I was cooking. I turned around and like a movie camera I zoomed in on the pill bottle.
Fine, I thought. I'll try it.

So what's the irony of reading every possible side effect of Zoloft and breastfeeding? Not reading the possible side effects for the person who's actually taking the drug. Abraham slept for 8 hours that night. I, on the other hand, did not sleep a wink. At about 4am, I googled "Zoloft side effects." Guess what was #1?
I decided to wait a day and the start taking the medication in the mornings.

It took about 2 weeks. One morning I woke up and felt less cloudy. I had forgotten what it felt like to wake up feeling anything but cloudy. It's what I imagine someone feels like after they lose their glasses and find them after 6 months, put them on, and suddenly remember that trees are made of individual leaves and branches, not just a big blob of green and brown up high.
Day after day, I felt further and further away from sadness. And one day, Abe began screaming in the grocery store (for no apparent reason other than to emabress me). I hurried along getting the groceries and holding him while simulataneously shoving a pacifier into his mouth. We got into the car and I sang him songs on the way home. I nursed him in his room until he fell asleep and laid him down to go unload the groceries. It was that day I realized I was better. A few months ago, that epiosde would have put me so far down the rabbit hole that I likely would have forgotten the groceries in the car and laid on the bed until my husband got home or the baby started screaming, whichever came first. But instead, it was like water off a duck's back. Babies cry. They scream, even. It's a little bit of a bother, but it's not the end of the world. Not like it used to be.
I guess my point of all this is that it's hard to know when you're suffering from postpartum depression. A lot of women have a few days of blues, some crazy hormones for months, and many are terribly affected by sleep deprivation. But if you've never felt postpartum depression, you can't know how to tease out the side effects of a having newborn from the side effects of something more serious that you can't control. Looking back, I truly had no control over my feelings. I was sad, and all the things I tried to do to "fix it" didn't work because it was past the point of anything I could do on my own.
Today I am so madly, passionately, crazy in love with that kid. I want to squeeze him until he pops, kiss him until he's 18, snuggle him so long he can never learn to crawl away from me. This is what I was meant to feel. And for all the lies I told about being in love with him during his first 4 months and glorious fibs I told about how great life was, I feel so fortunate that NOW it is real and I can truly understand what people are talking about when they say they never knew they could love someone so much.
If you think it's even remotely possible that you suffer from postpartum at any point during the first year of your child's life, don't wait as long as I did. Just chat with your doctor about it. Even if it turns out you are just sleep-deprived, it's better to know that than to find out you could have been the mom you wanted to be 6 months ago. Either way, give yourself a break. Remember, WWAWIATD? She would ask for help from her friends.

20/20 Part 2

2011-05-02T08:28:00.002-04:00

It wasn't until Abraham was 5 months old that I started to realize there might really be a problem with me, not Abe. He was eating well and feeling fine, sleeping most of the night, and even smiling all day long. And I was miserable. I put on a HUGE smile and big brave face. I made fun small talk with people at the grocery store and made jokes about my new role as a mom to all my friends. I wrote blog after blog about how funny all this was. And only those people closest to me knew how bad it got. Anxiety attacks, sweeping bouts of depression, and fly-off-the-handle anger. When Abraham would hit a new milestone, like sitting up or holding his own bottle, I would experience a temporary high thinking, maybe that was it. The cure. So I began waiting on the next milestone like an oxygen tank underwater. And when each one came and went, I felt amazing and then worse than before when I realized I was still miserable.

I tried exercising. I began walking, jogging, lifting weights, dance classes. I started taking time to myself while my husband took the baby. I talked to a therapist regularly. I even tried changing my diet to include more Omega-3s. No dice.

On a particularly bad day, I began googling postpartum depression and found a "postpartum hotline" of sorts. You could call or email and this doctor would help you. So I emailed and waited. I received a response fairly quickly and after listing my symptoms, the doctor told me she was surprised I was so honest and definitely felt as though I needed help. She told me about a postpartum group in the area and asked me to join. She also told me I could make an appointment with her anytime and that she knew some psychologists in the area as well. I thanked her and then didn't write back again. I never mentioned to her that I lived in a completely different state. I guess I wanted an unbiased opinion. And I got one.

Finally, at my 6 month postpartum check up (which I had scheduled for 5.5 months postpartum), my gynecologist asked me how I was doing. I began to ramble about Abe not sleeping and being so busy and blah blah blah. She looked at me and asked how my anxiety levels were. I shrugged. "Normal for a new mom, I guess." My doctor doesn't know me well, but well enough to know that I probably wasn't being forthcoming about everything in my head. By that point it had gotten so bad I think I subconsciously made it pretty clear that I was in desperate need of help. "What do you think about taking something for it?"

"No," I replied. "I'm not taking medicine."

"Ok, no problem. It's just a suggestion to get you through this time. I've got a dear friend who has 6 babies, birthed them all at home in a tub. She has been on antidepressants since #2. Her hormones just can't swing back after she has a kid. It happens to a lot of women."

"Yeah. That's tough."

"Do you want to give it a try?"

"No," I said. "I don't think so." I paused. "Maybe just write the prescription so I can think about it."

"Sure," she replied.

I sat at home with the prescription wishing this wasn't what it was going to take. Can I really not do this by myself? It's embarrassing. I tried for months to have a kid. I saw specialists. I prayed and cried. And when I got pregnant, I worked my ASS off to stay healthy and deliver a healthy baby. Now I battling the feeling of not even wanting a baby. I loved him so much, but didn't want him. I felt so conflicted. Was it all a huge mistake? And the only way to feel better is in this pill bottle? I don't want to rely on pills. Will I tell my friends? Will I tell my mom? Will I blog it?! There was so much to think about.

20/20

2011-05-01T11:06:00.000-04:00

Ok peeps. We're getting honest again. They say hindsight is 20/20. I say postpartum is sneaky.

I started looking at pictures last week. First pictures of my big old belly, then of Abe's birth, and then of the subsequent weeks and months. I stared for a minute at one particular picture. This one:

So, so beautiful. But I don't know who that child is. I don't remember him. "Oh the first few months are hell but you forget it all and then you'll have another one in a few years." But I didn't experience that kind of "forget". I remember vividly lying on the couch with Abe asleep on my chest wishing someone would just come take him away. I remember punching pillows in the middle of the night when Abe woke up for the billionth time. I remember screaming and crying one evening when my husband came home and wishing I was a drug addict or an alcoholic so I would have some way of escaping it all. I remember asking a friend, "When did you fall in love with your baby?" and hearing her say, "Oh, the minute I saw her. The minute I brought her to my chest," and then feeling thankful that my head isn't made of glass and my thoughts weren't visible for her to see.
Those are the things I remember. What I forget is Abe. He doesn't look like anyone I know in his early pictures, let alone anyone I recognize as mine. I spent months assuming that I was just sleep-deprived and overwhelmed with new motherhood. Friends invited me out and I always came up with an excuse. My husband offered to help me but I often refused. Other mommies recommended fun baby classes to go meet other moms, but I always commented on how much I hated "small talk" and didn't want to go. Everyone kept reminding me that it would get better, but it didn't. It got worse.
I started demanding one day that my husband find the money for a nanny because I "couldn't do it all." I couldn't work from home, raise a baby, take care of the house, cook his meals, etc. Mind you, my husband wasn't asking me to do any of that except for raise a baby. But he agreed that I needed some help and got me a nanny. I think he was hoping the same way I was that she would help ME, not just the baby. She was truly amazing with Abe and, to be honest, I spent most of the day asking her questions. How do I get him to sleep, eat, be happy?? What I really wanted to know was why wasn't I happy?
As much as I hoped having someone else in the house with me was going to take the edge of this constant pain in my chest, it didn't. I was stuck with this pain for as long as I had Abe, and that would be forever. There was no way out...

Seven Months

2011-03-29T16:03:00.001-04:00

Dear Abraham,

I don't even know what to say to you. You're 7 months old. How did that happen?

I don't have as much time to blog as I used to! You and I are constantly on the move; you so that you don't get bored and me so that I don't fall asleep. We go to the baby gym, swim lessons, lunches with friends, baby play dates, the list goes on and on! It seems that teething has been particularly hard on you and we try to keep you comfortable at night so you can sleep. It turns out that some of the ingredients in homeopathic teething remedies keep you AWAKE instead of calming you down. If only we'd figured that out sooner. You do your best and, to be honest, I think you're such a trooper.
You don't yet crawl. In fact, I don't know if you ever will. You don't really get it. You seem to just want to stand up and walk away. I'm wondering if you'll just get up one day and wander on into the office and start paying bills.
You love to swim and to float in the water. You still jump in your Jump Up everyday. Now you have a baby walker and last week you figured out how to walk in it. It's great practice for me, watching what you go for and get into. I've already begun moving pieces of furniture around so there's less for you to knock into like a drunken sailor.
I'm pretty sure you could eat a pizza at this point. You love to eat. You don't yet have a pincer grip, but you have NO interest in purees or eating from a spoon. You want to eat what I'm eating, and I usually let you. I help you get it in your mouth and you "chew" with your knobby little gums. You also hold your own bottle now (and scream like we've spent your college fund on frivolous dinners out and trips to Mexico when we take it away).
You. Love. Your. Dogs. Every time one of them walks into the room, you coo and laugh and reach out for them. You love to pull Bella's jowls and tug Charlie's ears. Sometimes you just sit and watch them play like it's a live show just for you.
I love the way you stare at people who try in vain to make you laugh or smile with dumb baby tricks. And I love the way you smile at people who treat you like the little person you are. I am in awe of your patience and your strength (you held YOURSELF on a trapeze in the baby gym without ANY help!!).
You are waking up from your nap now, so I'm going to run upstairs and snuggle you all up while I still can. I want to freeze you at 7 months so I can hold you forever. They say it only gets better, but I just can't imagine loving you any more. We'll see. I've been surprised a lot already.

I love you,
Mom

Dateline

2011-03-22T15:16:00.000-04:00

Every time I'm about to make a questionable decision regarding Abe, I run the Dateline test:
Is this something that could possibly earn me a starring role on an episode of Dateline during which viewers across the country would exclaim things like, "What an idiot!" and "Who does that?!"?
For example, the other day I momentarily contemplated giving Abe a bite of my spicy curry lunch dish. I ran the Dateline test. The outcome? Yes, in fact that could easily earn me a spot on a Dateline episode about a mother whose child lost his taste buds from a curry burn at the age of 6 months and would never taste again. I envisioned myself weeping and sobbing to Chris Hanson, "He was screaming for food! I didn't have anything else to give him! I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO!" Needless to say, Abe was hungry and angry, but he can still taste.
Until the other day when a long car trip and low blood sugar caused an inaccurate set of Dateline test results. After 4 hours in the car, Abraham was SO finished. He wanted to get up and stretch and get naked. So I brought him into our bedroom when he got home, took off all of his clothes and blew raspberries on his belly. We laughed and giggled for a few minutes until Abe made that unmistakable poop face. When it was clear he'd finished, I took off his diaper and cleaned him up. Seeing how happy he was to be completely naked, I decided to let him enjoy his birthday suit for a while. I tickled his feet and he grabbed some of his favorite body parts; and then my hunger overcame me. I decided to run to the kitchen to get a pear. I ran the Dateline test.
Would leaving my baby on the bed pass the Dateline test?
Sure it would. I'm only going to be about 15 seconds.
Dateline test FAIL.
Before I even began walking back to my bedroom, I heard a sound no mother ever wants to hear.
SPLAT.
It was the clearest "SPLAT" noise I've ever heard. I ran through the wall (I think) to the other side of the bed where Abe was on his belly, up on his hands, looking around like, "What the hell just happened?" I paused, he looked at me, and the following sequence of events came next:
1. Deep breath.
2. Horribly sad face.
3. Slight wimper.
4. ALL OUT SCREAM.
I grabbed him and kissed him and apologized profusely until he finished screaming a whopping 45 seconds later upon noticing the remote control on the bedside table. Ordinarily an object I try to keep away from him, I immediately grabbed it and handed it to him. All was right with the world again.
Abe left nothing to the imagination about his trip to the floor. His path was marked by the stream of pee he left like Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs off the side of the bed. He clearly scooted and then rolled onto Floor World as noted by the pee path. Before I put him to bed that night, I ran my hands all over his head and body to ensure I couldn't feel an welts or possible broken bones. I checked his eye contact and responsiveness one more time to ensure he didn't have one of those deadly concussions. Finally when I was satiated, I put him down to sleep. I put on jammies and washed my face before slipping into bed after an exhausting day. It was only then that I realized I'd forgotten to change the sheets. And the pee was on my side. I was laying in my son's pee. I was so tired and in desperate need of rest. I contemplated moving to another bed or perhaps the couch. But you know what I finally decided to do? Put on long pants so I couldn't feel the wet. Yep. That's what I did.
Dateline test?
There's a good chance I would have failed that one, but the ratings would be so high I'd likely get a book deal out of it so it seemed like an appropriate, if not lucrative, option.

Schedules

2011-03-11T16:51:00.000-05:00

You'll hear two lines of thinking when it comes to parenting: parent-led and baby-led. Do you incorporate your child into YOUR life or do you incorporate your life into your CHILD'S? Whose schedule rules? And now that Abe is 6 months old, what would I even put into my schedule?? I just started leaving the house again a month ago and to be honest, human interaction is still a little foreign. The other day a woman asked me how old Abe was and I said, "Thank you."

Most people who aren't yet parents will tell you that your child should fold into your life. They should do what you do. The world isn't going to bend for them. I hear this all the time and I, myself, preached this line of thinking B.A. (Before Abe). These people have clearly never lived with a 6 month old. It's true, if I want to go to Target, we are GOING to Target. However, I can't guarantee we'll be able to stay more than 15 minutes before nap time starts calling and the mission is aborted.
I agree that you should teach your child to go with your flow. A child cannot be in charge, that's way too much pressure. As Abe's mom, it's my job to plan our days. However, as a parent, it is also my job to give my son what he needs. Abe needs 2 naps a day. For some kids it will make no difference, but for him it will ruin 2 or 3 days of happiness. And if he needs 2 naps a day, I don't get to go to the mall during one of those naps just because Old Navy is having a 50% off sale on winter coats. (This is why, I believe, God is a woman and she invented the Internet.) Earlier this week my husband tried to get me to take Abe on a whirlwind trip to NYC for 2 days. For a split second I thought about it, and then I envisioned lugging a breastpump onto an airplane, trying to get a carseat into a cab, sitting in a hotel room at 1pm waiting for Abe to wake up from a nap, and brushing my teeth at 8:30pm before bed while the rest of New York was just putting on lipstick. I quickly lost interest.
So what's a fashion conscious Broadway-loving girl to do? My conclusion at the end of the day is if it's truly important to you to keep it a part of your life, you will be willing to suffer the consequences of a skipped nap or an early bedtime. And you get to weigh whether or not it's worth it to you individually.
Yeah, if it's really important to you, your baby should follow your schedule. But I find that after having a kid, a lot of things that used to be important just aren't anymore. And that's why I don't mind bending my schedule around. I can usually get everything done everyday that I need to without interrupting a nap or pushing bedtime back too far. It's become like a multi-tasking game called Motherhood, similar to Jenga, except all the wooden pieces have been rolled in a sticky and/or crumbly unknown substance and 7 of the pieces are missing altogether. Oh, and if you lose the game, you don't get to sleep more then 2 hours for several days. Take your time. Play it right. I hear it's over pretty fast anyway.

Six Months

2011-03-01T10:45:00.000-05:00

Dear Abe,

Today you are 6 months old. We've lived together for 1/2 a year. I've never been away from you for more than a few hours. There is no one else on the planet I could possibly be that close to for 6 months and still like so much.
This past month you learned how to sleep at night. You still wake up once to eat, but I love that time I spend with you in the middle of the night. It's quiet and sweet. And I literally praise God everytime I walk up the stairs to your room for helping you learn how to sleep through the night. Sleep is so severely underrated.
You can now roll over both ways and if I prop your knees up underneath you, you can hold yourself up in the crawl position and rock back and forth. Yesterday I sat you upright surrounded by pillows and gave you a bunch of toys. You entertained yourself for nearly 20 minutes. It was amazing considering a month ago you could barely sit up in my lap.
Everyday you re-discover your hands. You'll be playing or waving or batting at a toy and suddenly you say to yourself, "Oh! The hands are back!" You open and close your fingers, twirl your hands, and bite your fingers.
We've decided to introduce you to solid foods. You eat avocado now. Sometimes you eat it with your fingers, sometimes I put some on a spoon and give it to you. You eat the avocado and chew on the spoon and smile. It's crazy we're starting this phase of life already. I'm hoping you don't eat me out of house and home within a year because you are a big kid. You're already over 16 pounds. And while you'll cringe at this when you're older, I just have to mention that you grew from 7 to 16 pounds because of my BOOBS. That is so sci-fi.
You still love walks in the stroller and the Johnny Jump Up. You also love the car seat now. Never thought I'd see the day!! One day I had to take a friend to the airport during your nap time and instead of screaming the whole way, you quietly played with a toy until you fell asleep. I will probably never forget that day.
The other day, you laughed. Abraham, it was the most incredible sound I've ever heard. Your father was bouncing a toy on your chest and as clear as day, you giggled. We laughed and screamed. Your daddy exclaimed, "That's the best noise in the world!" I think all of our hysteria frightened you a little bit because you haven't laughed audibly since then. But that's ok. That one laugh will get me through the next month. It was that good.
This month we are starting swim classes. I'm also going to start going to a gym that has daycare. That's right. I'm leaving you with people I don't know while I run on a treadmill or take a yoga class. I'm pretty scared, but I know that you are going to be fine and that the folks running the daycare are going to LOVE you. Everyone does. We are also going on an airplane for the first time to see where I used to live and re-introduce you to your Aunt C and Uncle J. You'll also get to see your twin cousins and a bunch of other people who already really like you. I hope that you are a baby that likes to travel, because we have a lot of plans this summer!
Six months ago the month of "March" sounded like the year 2022. I am so happy that the first six months of your life are over (they were very hard but very worth it), and I can't wait to watch you change and grow through the next six. I love you more than words can say.
Love,
Mom

Dance

2011-02-23T12:48:00.000-05:00

Since my darling Abraham began sleeping 11 and 12 hours a night, I have been very, very busy. Mainly catching up on sleep. Though after a week of sleeping I decided it was time to have a little bit of a life again. And then I took a nap.
There is a local workout here called Dance Trance. This form of exercise is NOT your typical jazzercise or aerobics class. This place is for DANCERS. And seeing as how I danced for 10 years as a kid and young adult, I thought this would be the perfect way to get back into the real world of exercise and remember that part of my soul that loves to dance and express all those feelings that get bottled up in the first few months motherhood. Also, my husband bought me a month's worth of classes so I didn't really have a choice but to use them.
I showed up to my first class wearing tennis shoes. Amateur. Everyone else in the class had dance shoes on, as well as adorable workout outfits that ONLY women who haven't ever breastfed could wear. I was wearing two bras and some yoga pants with panty lines like a mountain range. I desperately wanted to put on a sandwich board that read, "I have a 5 month old at home, this is OK."
I took my place as close to the back of the class as possible between two women who were newbies as well. We enjoyed laughing at ourselves and bumping into each other as the new kids in town. We commisterated at the end of the class about how we should definitely try the beginners class next time. But then Jay, the class instructor, asked my name and told me I did a great job in my first class. Ha. Ego meet helium tank. I practically floated back to my car. Yeah that's right. I'm a dancer.
I got home that night and glowed all over my husband. I practiced a few of my dance moves in the shower and planned out my audition piece for So You Think You Could Dance because I am clearly next season's winner. I picked out a somewhat cuter outfit than my first Dance Trance class and went to bed dreaming of night 2.
I walked into my second class with my pass and my water and my "I know what to do, don't worry, I'm not new" face. I took my place in the second to the last row and started stretching. The music started and a female instructor shouted, "New faces? Any new faces tonight?" A few people raised their hands (not me obviously, this was NOT my first class), including a blonde girl next to me. We'll call her Flippy. Flippy looked to be about 19 years old and clearly didn't realize she should be in the BACK row being new, but I didn't say anything. The first song started and I did my best to keep up, feeling fairly confident about how quickly I was picking up the steps. As we began to rehearse the song, I couldn't help but notice Flippy. Flippy was picking up the steps, too. Faster. And adding her own flair. Like jazz hands. And hip thrusts. I began to resent Flippy. I began to compete with her. I started adding flair. And hip thrusts. By the end of the class, I was completely exhausted. Flippy was...well...flippy. She flounced off to the locker room while I caught my breath. It was the first time in my life I wanted to use the, "I'm almost 30" excuse. Thirty isn't old! But it's not 19.
When I got home, my husband was feeding our son a bottle and putting him to sleep. I was so filled with love and life listening to him whisper to Abe and care for him that I forgot about Flippy. Yeah, 30 is a little older than 19. I don't have the freedom or the flexibility or the body. Don't get me wrong, I still look great, but great in a, "I just had a kid" way. And I love that. I doubt that Flippy had a beautiful husband to go home to. And she probably looks in the mirror and thinks she's fat. Flippy is just another reminder that life is pretty flippin' perfect right now. And I'll see Flippy tonight when I dance her off the floor.

Pacify

2011-02-09T09:38:00.001-05:00

I am not an addict. I don't have the personality. You tell me I can never drink again? I'd be sad, but I'd oblige. You tell me I can never exercise again? I would always be emabressed about the extra flab on my tummy, but I'd live. You tell me I can never eat spaghetti again? I might fight you a little bit on this one, but OK.
My son, on the other hand...my son is an addict.
At about 1 month old he began the uncontrollable crying. He wouldn't sleep, wouldn't play, wouldn't snuggle in my arms. The only thing he would do was eat. And I can promise you, there was only so long I could feed him before the boobs needed a break. So, I ignored every fiber of my being that stood staunchly against the use of the pacifier from the moment I learned of Abe's existence. I reached into the cabinet and opened a package we received at a shower. I sterilized 2 pacifiers and put one in his mouth. Viola. My kid stopped crying.
A few weeks later, I shouted, "INSTINCTS BE DAMNED," once again. At 2am, in a desperate attempt to sleep, I put the pacifier in his mouth again. He instantly began sucking, fell asleep, and slept for FOUR HOURS. FOUR. This was the longest stretch I'd had since he was born. I became a believer. And Abe was hooked.
Fast forward. Abe is now 5 months old. He can sleep 8-hour stretches. He only needs to eat once a night. So what am I doing at 10pm, 11pm, 1am, 3am, and 5am? PUTTING THE DAMN PACIFIER BACK IN HIS MOUTH. Abe screamed all night when it fell out of his mouth. I imagined him negotiating with me when I walked in: "I can't come down now, mom. It hurts too much. Please, the withdrawals. I'm only 5 months old. I can get clean when I'm 6 months." And being the co-dependent woman that I am, I ate that dirty spoon of addict lies. But no more.
We decided to try and help him find his hand. I'd put the pacifier in his mouth, let him start to suck, and then pull it out and quickly replace it with his hand. I did it again. And again. Unfortunately, after 4 or 5 times Abe's laughter made it clear that this was the best game ever invented, but it wasn't solving the problem.
Then we decided to help him learn to put the pacifier in his mouth himself. We practiced and practiced and sure enough, he figured it out within a few days. "HE DID IT!" I shouted from upstairs. The cruel irony was that as fun as putting the pacifier in his mouth was, taking it out was even better. Why didn't he just replace it again, you ask? Because he's 5 months old and didn't understand that it was HIM taking it out of his mouth, not me. He'd get angry and scream and I'd be forced to put it back in myself.
Finally, the time came. My husband took me aside and said, "Erin. You're enabling him."

"But I'm his mother, David. I'll always be there for him."

"He has to learn to live without it."

"But what if it hurts him? What if he cries?"

"It's not Abe crying, Erin. It's Abe on the pacifier."

"He's too young to do this alone."

"He's 5 months old now. It's time for him to do this on his own."

"But I'd rather know he's here safe with the pacifier than ~~somewhere out of the STREETS~~ keeping me up ALL NIGHT LONG!"

It was time for an intervention.

We gathered around him and I started. "Abe, your pacifier use has negatively affected our lives in the following ways: We cannot sleep. We cannot put you in the car seat without doing yoga to get the pacifier back into your mouth while driving down the highway. We cannot go anywhere without panicking that we forgot the pacifier. And your father and I cannot get through an entire conversation without the word 'paci'."

Then his father continued, "We're here because we love you, son. We love you and we don't want to see you suffer like this anymore. It's time for our family to heal."

And then, we took it away. Cold turkey. And I'm not going to lie to you folks. It was rough. For 3 nights I went in and out of his room for hours calming him, encouraging him. It was awful. We agreed to try this for one week and by the end of night 3 I didn't think I could make it. Abe was tired. I was tired. My husband was tired. THE DOGS WERE TIRED. Maybe we were all destined to live with a pacifier addict forever.

And then came night 4.

Sweet, sweet night 4.

My child slept for 12 hours. Straight. Without crying. Without screaming. Just slept.

I slept about 4 hour of those 12 hours, waiting for him to wake up and scream. But he didn't. He just rocked his head gently back and forth and went to sleep. And our family began to breathe again.

I'm not saying he won't relapse. Relapse is a part of recovery, as any good 12-step program will tell you. But for him to see that he can do it without the ~~drugs~~ pacifier was a wonderfully positive step in the right direction.

If you or someone you know is addicted to the pacifier, I encourage you to reach out. Get help. Find a sponsor. It could be the different between sleep and no sleep for your family.

Traumatic

2011-02-06T09:43:00.001-05:00

Leaving the grocery store the other night, David and I proudly answered questions all the way through the check-out line. "Ooo, how old is he?" "He is so cute, what's his name?" "Look at the baby, is he your first?" One woman, though, she knew what was up. She smiled knowingly at the bags under my eyes and said, "I know they all say it, but it's true. They do grow up fast. Is this your first?"
"Yes," I smiled.
"Kids are so much fun. Ours are grown now. But to be honest, that first year is pretty traumatic."
And there it was. Right out on the table. "Traumatic." And that about sums it up. It's not that a new baby is horrible, or creates resent and regret. And life isn't always sweet dreams and butterflies with a new addition, either. It's traumatic. It's a trauma to your life. Things you expected to happen don't and things you never banked on happening cash in wearing a ski mask and holding a black bag. Everything flourishes and everything suffers all at once. Like relationships, for example.
My husband and I like to walk the dogs with the baby at least once a week. It's our family outing. Living on no sleep and carrying little patience, my husband began telling me a story. I tried to listen. I really tried to care. But it was such a dumb story. And you know how he ended it? "I mean, that guy couldn't find his way out of a...paper bag."
Now, on a good day I'd just let this slide and move on. But I couldn't. I had to rain on his parade; this is likely because my parade was not only rained out, it wasn't even rescheduled.
"You mean out of a wet paper bag."
"No, just a paper bag. He can't even find his way out of that."
Ok, granted, he was exhausted too and probably didn't even realize how ridiculous his defending that statement really was. But his tone was just snotty enough to make me shoot back.
"That makes no sense. It's wet paper bag because a wet paper bag just falls apart. Someone who can't find their way out of a wet paper bag is an idiot because all they have to do and push on one side of it and it will fall apart."
"Oh. Well, whatever. This guy was a real idiot."
It's moments like this that make me realize how precious sleep truly is. And moments like this:
My husband wanders into a room and asks, "Where is the..."
I wait.
"Where's the, um..."
"The what, David?"
"The..." He opens a drawer and pulls out all the neatly folded towels. "I thought I kept it in this..." He shoves them all back in the drawer.
"What, David?"
He opens another drawer and pulls out all of tea and shoves it back in all willy-nilly as if I didn't spend 10 minutes of nap time one day organizing it. "No, not in there..."
"I can't help you if you don't tell me what you're looking for."
"I know, I know. But I always, did you move it?"
"DID I MOVE WHAT?"
"Did you move the, um..."
" DID I MOVE WHAT DAVID? DID I MOVE WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR???"
"THE INCENSE, ERIN. WHERE IS THE INCENSE?"
"I DON'T HAVE ANY FREAKING CLUE WHERE THE INCENSE IS, DAVID."
"Well, I thought I put it in the..." and he wanders away.
Traumatic.

Be Specific

2011-01-31T20:10:00.000-05:00

I've decided that it's not the millions of "just you waits" and "just remember to cherish its" (while I'm teasing spit-up out of my hair) that I've heard in the past 8 or 9 months that bother me so much. Sure, it seems completely counterintuitive for everyone to congratulate you on your pregnancy and then warn you that your life is now completely ruined. But it's more that no one is very specific about what it is I am waiting for or exactly how much cherishing I should be doing. It's just this vast, generalized unknown fear that parents lay upon each other with the best of intentions but an overwhleming lack of clarity. It's like when my husband tells me my boobs look huge. I know that what he MEANS to say is, "Man you look beautiful and I'm lucky to be married to someone I'm so attracted to." His delivery just sucks. And because of that, I can typically look at him and say, "Thanks so much, hun." It took a good deal of therapy to get to that point.
New parents simply can't understand what "just you wait" and all the similar warnings mean. Now that Abe is a little bit older and a little more sturdy, I see what they were all trying to say. So I'm going to try and translate:

You should cherish them when they're little. Sure you should. But know that if even ONCE during the first month you take a moment and truly realize just how tiny and beautiful your baby is, that counts as "cherishing". You're allowed to feel miserable the rest of the time.
Just you wait, you'll never sleep again. It's true, you aren't going to sleep very well for a while. And if you get my kid, it'll be 5 months and counting. But it's not like before when you couldn't sleep. It's waking up in the middle of the night to see a person you MADE. Way easier.
Cherish your freedom. It's over when your child is born. I don't know about you, but I'm free to take my kid anywhere I go. I have yet to see a sign that says, "No babies allowed."
Just wait until he starts crawling/walking/fill-in-the-blank. Now I can't speak for all the milestones, but I can tell you that every single one of them is awesome and exciting. And your life changes with every single one. I remember the first time Abe screamed when I walked away, as if he actually wanted me around. I did a double take and asked, "Who, me?" Don't dread the milestones.
Cherish your time with your partner now because it'll be gone when baby gets here. It's true, my husband and I do not go out to dinner weekly anymore. But we do order out and bring it home. We also lay on our bed every night with our naked son and laugh hysterically together at how much he loves life sans clothes.
Just you wait. It goes by so fast. Your child will learn at an unfathomable rate. Literally overnight he/she will learn to do something you thought was weeks, even months away. Sometimes it's hard to keep up with it all, but don't worry: if you miss something, there's another something right around the corner.

So just you wait, new parents. Your life will completely change and yet stay inexplicably the same. My husband looked at me tonight and said, "I just love every single minute with him because it's always something new." He's right. Don't "just you wait!" Enjoy this minute right here. It's the most beautiful minute of your life so far.

Five Months

2011-01-29T12:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Abraham,

You are 5 months old today. FIVE. Five months ago, a five month old seemed like the oldest baby ever to me. And now, here you are. A five month old baby living in my house. The first three months didn't fly by, but the last 2 sure have.
So who are you today?
You are funny. You blow raspberries and mimic the inflection of my words. You smile HUGE smiles when I toss you up over my head. When daddy went away for 2 days on business, your ENTIRE body danced when you saw him again.
You are strong. You barely sit down in my lap anymore. You love to jump and kick your legs and experiment with what your hands can grab. You reach out for people and objects in a way you never did before. There is no telling how long a Johnny Jump-Up lasts, but you will see it through to the end of its days if left to your own devices. When I put you on your belly, you swim like a fish, desperately hoping it will get you closer to moving. Some days I feel badly for you because I know how much you want to move.
You are smart. Boy are you smart. You've learned which noises make mommy come running and then you smile when I get there. You know which toys on your Exersaucer make sounds and you immediately start pushing them when I set you in it. You know that when Bella walks by, all you have to do is open your mouth and lean and she'll give you doggie kisses. (And I think you also know how crazy that makes me.)

You sort of like your car seat now. The other day you fell asleep in it and didn't even cry. You've decided walking in the stroller is the BOMB and so we do it almost everyday. You've not exactly mastered the art of sleeping at night, but you're getting really good at taking naps. I miss you when you nap.
Every morning you and your dad greet me in bed with coffee. Daddy lays you down next to me and you smile and coo good morning at me. It's one of my favorite times of any day I've ever had.
I'll be honest, I've had a lot of anxiety and sadness. And the reason I know it's not normal "new mom" anxiety anymore is because you are an amazing, happy, easy baby as compared to 3 months ago. You go with the flow. Yes, I'm still sleep-deprived because, even though you go back to sleep when I give you the pacifier, I don't. But even sleep-deprived, I'm not sure I feel like my brain and body are communicating properly. I'm going to talk to my doctor about it next week. I want to be the best mommy, the one you deserve, and I don't feel like I'm able to do that right now.
This morning you woke up with your first cough. I freaked out for a while, but you have been smiling at me all day as if to say, "It's fine mom. I'm fine. Relax." So I'm going to try and do that.
You are amazing, amazing, amazing. I'm so excited for the next month. You grow everyday and I just can't imagine what you'll do tomorrow.

Love,
Mom

P.S. Please sleep.

Tribes

2011-01-20T14:04:00.003-05:00

After another night of no sleep, I laid in bed wondering what in the hell to do next. I've lived by the baby-led boob schedule for 4 1/2 months now. Things are not getting better when it comes to sleep. He's up every 2 hours, 3 if it's a "good" night. This, of course, leads me to ponder how badly I would ruin his chances of getting into college if I gave him rice cereal or, wait for it, foooorm-uuuuu-laaaa (echo, echo, echo). Oooooh, the La Leche League just began making the signs they will use when they organize their picket in my front yard. I've only fed him breastmilk to this point, but I can tell you I might try anything just short of feeding him Hungry Man frozen dinners to get some sleep. And I use the phrase "short of" loosely.
Thoughts like these make me worry that I'm giving in to the modern-day niceties of raising children at Abe's expense. Pumping, bottles, pacifiers. Whenever I'm tired and worried that my parenting style is going against nature, I think to myself, "WWAWIATD?" (I thought making an acronym out of "What Would A Woman In A Tribe Do?" might be funny. Turns out it just looks like a misspelled word.) Anywho, what do they do when their babies don't sleep? Granted, they are more focused on survival so their day-to-day is gathering food or preparing food or seeking shelter. But that doesn't mean they don't need sleep. Can you imagine if in a sleep-deprived state one of them mixed up the red poisonous berries with the red nutritious ones?! The whole tribe might break out in hives. I guess it's not likely they reach for the formula or use a coconut to hold some extra pumped milk so someone else can feed their babies. This is about the time during this line of thinking I announce, "IF THE WOMEN IN THE THIRD WORLD TRIBE CAN DO IT, SO CAN I." But then I get a few hours of sleep and wake up thinking, "Erin, you dope, they wet-nurse each other's children. That's how they do it."
We do terrible things to motherhood in this country. We expect our moms to feed the babies, care for the babies, go to work, keep themselves healthy, and, of course, keep the house in order. Oh, if there's a husband or partner involved, don't forget to take care of him/her as well. The human race was created to raise children in tribes, within which the moms help each other ALL DAY LONG. I mean, did you see the documentary Babies? Those women don't even wear tops. They just sit together in a circle mashing corn until somebody's child wanders over and wants a drink. But the guilt we mothers feel for supplementing our children's diets to give ourselves a break, or for hiring Mary Poppins even when we might just take a nap instead of working while she's there, or for (G-d forbid) letting our babies cry while we finish lunch, it's overwhelming and unbelievable. Nope, we can't do ANYTHING we feel might be unnatural, but we're cool making a Starbucks run and pumping our bodies full of caffeine and sugar to get through the day. (I don't say this in judgement if you've done it, as it's what I did this morning.)

The amazing thing about the time/place we live in is that we have so many choices. I'm lucky enough to have incredible mommy friends who support each other despite the fact they may disagree or choose another route for their own kids. But I don't think everyone has this gift. So if you are a mom, I implore you to educate yourself and form your opinions while still supporting and accepting other moms for theirs. Give each other advice and ideas, and then be kind and understand that every kid is different, every mom's situation is different, and everyone has the right to do what works for them. In doing so, I think we create our own tribe in the modern world. Do what works for you and let me do what works for me. And the second you start to feel your Judgement Bone itch, maybe you should whip out a boob and feed a friend's kid. No? Then shut up and drink your latte.

I work from home for my good friend's Writing Management and Book Packaging Company. I started a year and a half ago after the economy took a dump and no school on the East Coast was interested in hiring a school psychologist. I might as well have walked in with a resume that said, "Touchy-Feely Overpaid Educator" because everyone looked at me like I was nuts for actually wanting a job using my degree. As it turns out, I really like working from home and am pretty good at this job.

Now, why NONE of you decided to mention that having a kid and working from home would turn out to be IMPOSSIBLE is a little bit of a sticking point. But bygones, right?

On another note, we are in the midst of what is affectionately deemed the Four Month Sleep Regression. We moved from sleeping 6-8 hours at a stretch to 2 hours on a good night. And we moved right into this new phase of non-sleep OVERNIGHT. No warning. No slippery slide. Just BAM. Stop sleeping everyone! Ha! So now was I not only was I not sleeping, but I was completely unable to get myself back to work. The kid is four months old. Most moms go back to work at 12 weeks. Did I mention the anxiety this caused??
One day in my sleep-deprived haze I wanted to put out the Bat signal. "We need a nanny. I have to get back to work and I might also need a nap. And my son needs a healthy, whole mom." You can imagine how much it cost to write that whole thing across the sky in lights. So what did my husband and I do instead? We Facebooked it. "We are in search of a nanny." We got a few responses, interviewed a few folks, and found Mary Poppins herself. She's in love with Abe and is ALSO in love with doing my dishes. I started working and running errands and getting life back in order one day at a time. I finally began feeling like myself again.
Except for one thing...we still weren't sleeping. And everytime I put Abe down, the anxiety crept in as I lay awake wondering, "How long until he wakes up and starts screaming?" And it never failed. The nights he didn't wake up, I waited until it was too late to get any sleep. And the nights I decided to just go to sleep, he woke up 45 minutes later. I began going mad. MAD.
MAD MAD MAD MAD MAD.
It got to the point that I began cry when he began to cry. 8:30pm, 11:30pm, 2am. It didn't matter. He cried, I cried.
I had to do something.
There's no telling if it was my therapist or my husband who told me to simply accept where I am in life instead of looking forward and waiting for the next phase. But that thought reminded me of something that started the change in my thinking. You know those maps at Disney World that say, "You are here"? It suddenly occurred to me that there is no escape and there is no cure. This is just where we are in life. We are here. And someday, we'll walk over to the overpriced soft pretzel stand and then we'll be there. Maybe next we'll hit up Magic Mountain or Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. But for now, we're here. And the only way to get to the next place is to keep walking. We could stand at the map and get totally freaked about how long it's going to take to walk to the Mickey and Minnie Go to Vegas Show (not sure that one actually exists, but it should), or we could just start walking.
So this week, I started walking. And I replaced the "Try (Less) Hard" words on my bathroom mirror with "You are here."

Anxiety

2011-01-09T09:20:00.000-05:00

There's an intense amount of anxiety related to new motherhood. So much so that I began having anxiety about my anxiety. "Oh gosh, should I do that? I might get anxious, and then I'd get anxiety." I found myself talking about my anxiety constantly; people were starting to get sick of hearing the word. Lack of sleep, a diet that consists of "Oh, is that food? Or sort of food? Or was it once food? Either way, I'll eat it," and a complete inability to get organized over the past 4 months created the perfect storm for AnxietyFest 2010.
So, it became my New Year's resolution to stop the madness. I started reaching out to other moms to find out if they experienced this and what they did to stop it. I can't TELL you how many new moms experienced anxiety that was unlike anything they'd ever felt before in life. It was so common that I stopped asking, "Did you feel anxiety?" and replaced it with, "When you felt anxiety..." Why are there a gazillion books on Yoga but only like 2 on postpartum anxiety?! WHO LEARNS YOGA FROM A BOOK? Moms had all kinds of suggestions, including supplements, exercise, meditation, and talking to a therapist. I tried all of them. Every suggestion definitely helped, but it wasn't until I went home over the holidays that I found the ultimate anxiety pill.
My cousin and his wife (I call her "Girl Cousin") gave birth to beautiful twins 3 weeks after Abe was born. We both wanted kids so badly and both worked hard to have them, so to share in the experience of pregnancy and raising kids at the same time was soooo Hallmark in a good way. I asked my Girl Cousin if she had anxiety. She laughed that laugh that was a little bit like, "Oh yeah, I sure have" and a little bit like, "Ha, like I have time to think about anxiety right now." Her answer to the problem? Have twins. She said that her days are so full of baby that she doesn't have time to have anxiety.
"But don't you get nervous when your kids scream in public?"
"Nope. I usually laugh."
"But aren't you worried about someone holding them who might be sick?!"
"No, I just ask if they're sick and if they say yes, then I ask how sick and whether or not they can still hold a baby."
"Really? But what about sleeping? And growth spurts? And college???!"
"There's two of them. I can never keep them both happy at the same time. So I just try to keep them alive at the same time."
Then, a little switch in my brain got tripped. In the days that followed, that switch tripped a bunch of other switches. Pretty soon it was like a physics experiment in high school and sparks were flying everywhere. Ha! She doesn't care if her kids get water in their ears when they're in the bath, because they're both still alive! This completely changed my perspective on parenting. And while it falls under the heading of Try Less Hard and Good Mom/Bad Mom, there was something about this one explanation of it all that turned it around for me. If I had two kids at once my main concern would be keeping them alive because I wouldn't have time to do much else.
So I told David we must get pregnant again immediately in order to quell my anxiety.
This gave him anxiety.
Now we're back to square one.

New Year's Past

2011-01-01T07:59:00.000-05:00

Three years ago today I was waking up for the first time as a wife with my amazing husband. I ate spaghetti in bed because I hadn't had carbs in 3 months so I could look awesome in my wedding dress.

Two years ago today I was waking up with my friends in California after the best New Year's celebration ever. I went straight for the coffee. I had a lot of champagne the night before. And sake. And I think beer.

One year ago today I was waking up after having announced to the family that I was pregnant. Then I immediately went back to sleep.

This morning I woke up after going to bed at 9:30pm to a smiling, cooing little baby in my bed. I told him Happy New Year and sucked boogers out of his nose with a bulb syringe.

I'd say I've had it pretty good. Happy New Year, everyone. Here's to good sleep in 2011. :)

Four Months

2010-12-29T09:46:00.000-05:00

Today you are 4 months old.
There's no telling the amount of stop signs I've run or small items I've inadvertently stolen from the grocery store on account of sleep depravation. I sing your playmat songs in the shower and I hummed your bouncy chair song while pumping gas the other day. I eat every meal at lightening speed, even when you're asleep or when someone else is taking care of you. And I can now hear your first wake up noises from 500 paces.

But enough about me.

You are no longer a pet rock. You are now a person. One morning, the week after you turned 3 months old, you woke up and announced you were no longer going to stand idly by watching the world turn. You decided to become an active participant on the spot, and you haven't looked back. Except for when I'm nursing you...you constantly look back to see what is behind you, in turn detaching from my boob, and proceeding to scream as though someone has ripped it away from you before you latch back on and start that whole process over again.
You are very smiley, so smiley that I can't believe sound doesn't come out yet. You strongly dislike being held like a "baby". You want to be upright viewing your surroundings. You have learned how to grab objects and bring them to your mouth, talk to your Dad and me as though you were truly having a conversation with us (and sometimes I think you're desperately trying to tell me all about God and heaven before you forget it all with age), and you finally rolled all the way over on Christmas day. There is no television too close or too big for your viewing, and I find no shame in the fact that I've propped you up in your Bumbo chair many evenings in front of the TV while I cook dinner. You love The Electric Company, and who wouldn't?
You are getting a little bit better at sleeping, though there's always room for improvement in this house. Some nights you require my attention a lot more than others, and just when I think I can't take it anymore you sleep for 8 hours. I usually stay awake from hours 6-8 wondering if you will ever wake up again when you do that.
You continue your ongoing rivalry with the parrot that hangs from your playmat. Today, for the first time, you chewed on its tail without sticking its wing in your eye. Victory! You practice overpowering parrot everyday and because of this, you've learned to grab on to many other toys and body parts (I won't name which one you've just discovered, but let's say it'll only be cute for another year or so). Some mornings you lay on the changing table and stare at your hands as though they are their own independent theatre group with a puppet show just trying to earn a few extra dollars on the Santa Monica Promenade. You cheer for them and coo with delight at their stories until you remember you're a baby and can't move on to the next show without my help.
You drool as though the president of the united states asked you to single-handedly solve the clean water crisis in Africa. It's incredible that you are not constantly dehydrated. And you produce more boogers than any anyone else I know. I don't know how those two talents combined will help you earn a living later in life, but if Johnny Knoxville can do it, I'm sure you'll be fine.
I love smooshing my face into your belly and watching you play in the morning; you always look bigger in the morning. I love bath time with you. I love lifting you up like Super Man and watching you smile all the way back down to Earth. There are still days when I feel some loss for the spontaneous life I used to live. I try to remind myself that it is inevitable: I will be able to eat out at a restaurant again without anxiety that you need me or that you're crying. I long for the ability to get in the car without speeding to my destination because you might start screaming in the back seat. I pray you learn that sleep is just as important as eating someday soon. That's just mom being honest.
You're my sky, bigger than life and always shining. I'm really proud to be your mom and I'm so grateful you chose me and your Dad. We may not always make the right choices, but we will try everything and anything it takes to make you happy and keep you healthy. I love you. Happy Four Months, Abey Baby.
Love,
Mom

Busting Out

2010-12-24T12:32:00.000-05:00

I take everything back I said in the last blog. Abe busted out of his swaddle last night like a convict from prison. There was no getting him back in that thing. He ran like Shawshank Redemption until he hit freedom. And between being completely confused about his flailing limbs and my utter frustration as to what to do at 3am, no one slept. Don't have children. I'm exhausted.
Merry Christmas Eve.

Why It's Not So Scary

2010-12-23T12:31:00.000-05:00

So, it has come to my attention about 20 times in the past 3 months that I have succeeded in scaring the living crapola out of many a girlfriend. Suddenly they're terrified of becoming pregnant, giving birth, and raising children. You've heard of the Baby Boom? I'm a little concerned that my blog will single-handedly create the opposite phenomenon within my circle. So I give you:

Why It's Not So Scary

A Somewhat Sappy Explanation of How Much Better it is Than I Make it Out to Be on my Blog

Pregnancy was actually kinda fun, in hindsight. WHAT?! Yeah, I had a really hard pregnancy, but I also loved the changes my body went through. I felt much more primal, in touch with my cavewoman roots. Feeling him swim around in there isn't a feeling I miss, but it is a feeling I'm so grateful I experienced. And people are SO nice to you when you're pregnant. It's fun to see the brightest side of the human race for a few months.
Labor sucks. No getting around that. But the high you feel in the days after delivering is unlike anything you can possibly imagine. Way better than the high I felt after taking that glaucoma medicine in college...
I am now completely used to getting up in the middle of the night. Only about 1 night out of 7 do I run into a wall or trip up the stairs anymore. The other nights I'm sort of excited to go up and see Abe. WHAT?! Who said that? Yep. He's really cute in the middle of the night. Plus, he's only waking up between one and two times and since my husband takes the second shift, it's no big deal.
My life is completely different, it's true, but I still get to take long showers a few times a week and once Abe turned about 2.5 months old, he was cool to hang out with me in the bathroom while I got ready. Different day, different bouncy chair.
The attention isn't all on me anymore. Some might find it shocking that I consider this a perk, but I love that I don't have to make stupid small talk with people anymore. Everyone just immediately locks on to Abe and all I have to do is stand there and hold him repeating his name, age, and how many hours he sleeps in a row.
I sit outside Abe's bedroom sometimes while his Dad gives him a bottle listening to Abe chat. He tells his Dad all kinds of secrets at night and just recently started grabbing his Dad's face. It was so cool it almost made me cry. It's gross, but I'm totally becoming that mom.
I ALWAYS have an excuse to go to bed early and no one questions me. I also have an excuse to stay in my pajamas until 1:30 and again, no questions.
After watching my body expand and contract, I'm much less hard on myself. No, my body is no where close to what it was before Abe, but I'm ok with it. I mean, my body grew a person and that makes it so much more than just something to look at (or something I'm concerned others are looking at).
Breastfeeding, while killer at first, is actually a lot of fun now. I don't have to warm up a bottle or even hold a bottle for him to eat. I don't have to constantly check to see if a bottle is empty while Abe is eating so that he doesn't start sucking air. And I don't ever have to carry anything with me for him to eat. Plus, we only have a total of 4 bottles. I can handle cleaning four bottles. And did I mention breastfeeding burns 500 calories a day? Let's just say I take FULL advantage of this fact.
I never have to go through the first 3 months of my first born's life again. And now that it's over, it's much easier for me to look at other new moms and say, "If you're having trouble, please know that it gets so much better if you just hold on to hope."And I know if there is ever an Abe 2.0, it won't be as hard or scary.

If I could ask for one part of my old life back, it would be the 45 minutes I used to dedicate to reading at the end of everyday. I desperately miss reading and I feel fierce jealousy and resentment when my friends tell me about a book they just read. But right now, sleep is too precious.

So fear not my fine feathered friends. It is the most challenging thing you will ever do in your life, but it gets easier and more fun everyday. I still have mornings that I stare in the mirror and wish I had my old life back, and that's when I turn to my girlfriends who have experience and wisdom to share. And if you need a girlfriend with experience and wisdom to share, consider me yours. We all have to pass it on.

Awareness

2010-12-21T15:39:00.001-05:00

Just a little update. We're approaching the four month mark...it feels like we're getting ready to send him off to college.

Abe is aware enough now that when he's pissed off it can no longer be attributed to random baby pissed-off-ed-ness. He is actually trying to tell me specific things that aggravate him or make him sad. And I actually have to try and respond appropriately. Prior to 3 months, I could chalk it up to, "Babies cry. Who knows why?" But infancy is a slow rise to toddlerhood for a reason: the stakes grow higher an inch at a time until your 2 year old is screaming, "JUMP WOMAN!" and you're sobbing, "HOW HIGH???"

The cloak of anxiety that shrouded me for three months began to lift several weeks ago and I emerged my old self. For a while. But in the past few days it's back with new and improved cloakiness. Now that Abe recognizes me from farther away, I can see when he is looking at me from someone else's arms, as if to say, "I don't understand why you would leave me. Was I not a good baby? I tried, mother, I really tried." I set him down in his bouncy chair and he immediately checks to be sure I'm still there. I lay him down on his playmat and he squirms until he can clearly see my face. I sneak into his room to give him his pacifier and I duck and run out so he can't see me when he inevitably opens his eyes to ask, "Who's here?" This becoming more aware stuff was fun for a few weeks and now it's caused me to be glued to my baby the way I was in the beginning!!

On the flip side, he stores up new tricks to display several at a time one day. He can back-scoot (push with his feet so that he can scoot around the floor on his back), lean his head back to check out what's behind him while on the changing table, and even reach out to try and grab things. The grabbing skills are not yet mastered and often lead to a screech of disapproval, typically directed at the parrot that hangs from his playmat. He and that cunning parrot have a rivalry to last the ages. Damn parrot always slipping from his shaky grasp...

I am so looking forward to the next big milestones of thumb-sucking (so I don't have to put that freakin' pacifier back in his face every 5 minutes) and upper torso control so I can stick him in one of those exersaucers things while I have a beer and do some yoga.

Two Pieces

2010-12-16T12:52:00.000-05:00

The one good thing about infertility is that I can exactly pinpoint the time that I went from not pregnant to pregnant. And it was one year ago today that Abraham was one little piece of me and one little piece of David looking for each other so they could shake hands. It was one year ago this week that those two little pieces found each other and created the little guy I hang out with everyday.

One short year later, I'm having these conversations with my husband...

David: I need you to take him while I send an email.

Erin: You can hold him and send an email at the same time.

David: Well, I need to be able to type.

Erin: I do it all day. You can do it.

David: He also has a dirty diaper though so can you just...

Erin: You should change him then, too.

David: Harumph.

OH how those two little strangers completely changed our lives. :)
Love you, husband.

Who am I?

2010-12-15T16:39:00.002-05:00

There are pros and cons to getting through the first 3 months with a baby and choosing not to donate him to a worthy cause.
Pro - You get to see him start smiling and cooing and learning to grab toys and all kinda of other neat little milestones.
Con - You think all these milestones are the most incredible things you've ever seen which means you no longer know who you are anymore. "Incredible" used to include Broadway shows and hurricanes, but now "he found his own feet" will suffice.

I'm a completely different person than I was just a short time ago. When Abe was a few weeks old and sleeping just an hour or two at a time, people told me that as soon as he started sleeping longer I wouldn't be able to sleep. I laughed in many a face over this one. Really? You think so, huh? After months of not sleeping because of a little, screaming monster, I'm going to get a straight 6 hours and decide to stay awake?
Yep.
They were right.
Now I sit up waiting for him if he isn't up by 2am (which is often lately). I stare at the clock wondering when he's going to get up. And then I start asking myself, "Is he breathing?" Why wouldn't he be breathing?! "Maybe I should check the monitor." So I fumble around and turn on the video monitor and stare in the darkness to see if I can see his chest rise and fall or hear his breath. It's completely sick. Then, if and when I do fall asleep, I spend the entire time DREAMING that I'm really AWAKE and frustrated that I can't sleep so that when I do wake up it takes me 20 minutes to realize I actually DID get some rest.

After one sleepless night in particular, I decided we needed a real plan of action. Abe is three and a half months old...he should be sleeping 5-6 hours straight without waking up for a pacifier or a quick look at mom every 45 minutes. I decided to "sleep learn." This is a sort of cry-it-out method that allows you to comfort your child while still helping them learn to sleep without your assistance. By about 4 months of age, most babies are developmentally ready to sleep on their own, and mommy is DEFINITELY ready. I read an entire book that a lovely friend recommended and got all of my sleep learning tools together. We will begin sleep learning in the middle of January.
And then, last night happened. No, Abe didn't sleep all night and change my mind. He did the opposite of sleeping. He was up almost every hour. And I was exhausted. And while nursing him at about 2am, do you know what I thought to myself? "If we start sleep learning next month, by the end of January, I won't see him in the middle of the night anymore. Maybe we should wait until 6 months to sleep learn." Wait. What?! Who said that??? WHY WOULD I WANT TO STAY UP ALL NIGHT FOR ANOTHER 2 MONTHS? AND WHO IS TRYING TO CONVINCE ME I SHOULD?!?!

Having babies does really weird things to you.

Try (Less) Hard

2010-11-30T21:13:00.002-05:00

Abe is a really cool kid. He was pretty much the perfect baby for his first holiday, Thanksgiving. He decided it was best to show off his skills for fear of the dead bird on the table and how it got there.

After Thanksgiving, my darling son became a monster once again. You know, this tricks me everytime. He will be a smiling angel from God and suddenly, the lord leaves us and we're left once again with the Baby Monster...he chose four of my shirts he hated and spit up on all of them, redecorated the couch, cried out to the government for better work laws for babies loud enough so they could hear him from DC, bitched and moaned about the price of gluten-free bread all day, poked me in the eye, poked himself in the eye, refused all of his toys/chairs/swings/playmats/other ridiculous things that now riddle our living room, and refused to sleep for more than 15 minutes without "checking" to ensure I hadn't gone deaf. I literally punched a pillow at 2am out of pacifier-replacement frustration.

For most moms, this is just a bad day. But I'm not most moms. I have major problems. A bad day in my brain means there is no tomorrow unless the bad day is first labeled, defined, and treated. Google becomes my best friend; the kind of best friend you hang out with because you've known each other for so long but you secretly hate each other and you never deal with it so you just go on pretending you like each other until one of you dies or moves to another country and it's "too hard" to stay in touch. I start entering things into Google like, "Why is my baby spitting up so much?" and "3 month old has gas" and "baby stomach virus". I then start reading like a heroine user. I find a million reasons why, why not, how come, how many, how long, and how to. I decide Abe has one of 70 babies diseases and/or afflictions and begin panicking about how quickly I can get my hands on the antidote. My husband usually attempts to peel me off of my computer when I start doing this only to hear me snap, "I need to read this." ("Just one more hit.") Finally, when I feel I have come up with a good enough solution as to why my baby is upset or crying, as well as the steps I must take to help him, I can resume worry and anxiety in another part of the house.

Last night, I began this process. I decided that someone had slipped dairy into something I ate over Thanksgiving and Abe was having a reaction. I researched enzymes I could give him and probiotics I should take to help avoid his further discomfort. I read about skin rashes, poop colors, you name it. And finally, I started reading one of my favoriate question-and-answer mom sites. The question yesterday was, and I'm paraphrashing, "When does it get better? I work my ass off reading and researching to ensure I know as much as I can about my baby and this still sucks and she's still screaming." All the moms who answered clearly understood and empathized. But one mom wrote something that caught my attention. She said the best thing for someone like her was to "try less hard." That's right. Try LESS hard. She went on to say that if your baby has a rash, gas, colic, sleep issues, or anything else, it will all eventually go away because it's a baby and that's what happens. I couldn't believe this was advice. I'm his mom, I should be trying my hardest!! And then my husband laughed and said, "You should write it on your bathroom mirror." Really? I should try LESS hard?!
I got a dry-erase marker and wrote it on my mirror and stared. Hmm. Try less hard. How do I even do that?
I decided the best way would be to make a list of things I wanted to accomplish that didn't involve Abe. I started first thing in the morning and I worked on my list all day. In the mean time, I fed, changed, and sang to Abe while he was awake. But I never stopped to Google, stare at the rash on his cheek, or diagram any of his noises or cries. In fact, I even put him in the Swing of Death while I folded the laundry and he didn't cry once. Guess what? He's still alive. And he's fine. I tried LESS hard and he's just the same, and I got to clean the kitchen.
The moral of the story is I'm going to try and stop personalizing my son's moods and/or bad days. It's probably a good idea that I adopt this principle now because if I don't, I will likely need to be medicated by the time he's 16.

Thankful

2010-11-25T19:38:00.001-05:00

There is a fierce opposition in the world to a sleeping method known affectionately as "Crying It Out". This method, coined by Dr. Ferber, originally stated that a baby should be put to bed awake and allowed to cry or fuss until he/she eventually falls asleep. The idea was that babies don't know how to soothe themselves to sleep and that they must LEARN. Sleep is natural; going to sleep is a skill.
Dr. Ferber's ideas were popular for several decades until Dr. Sears finally got loud enough. Eventually, a whole new world of parenting gained momentum. Dr. Sears said NEVER let your baby cry. If your baby is crying, he or she NEEDS something and you could damage your child's psychological skin if you do not help to build your bond of trust by responding to every sound of discomfort. Dr. Sears' following grew so vocal that Dr. Ferber was forced to adapt. An updated version of his book included a modified "Cry It Out", checking on and soothing your baby at intervals instead of just leaving them to cry.
As there are thousands of methods that fall somewhere in between these two extremes, I was forced to research and read about all of them (when I should have been sleeping) to try and decide what kind of parent I was going to be. Am I a CIO or a Sears? If I'm a CIO, am I willing to suffer the slings and arrows of my peers who aren't? Do I wear the badge of "monster mom"? If I'm a Sears, do I give up a majority of my days and nights to ensure my son never, ever has to cry without his mother racing to his rescue? Sure, I brought him into the world and knew that it would be my job to care for him, but does that mean I'm never allowed to sleep again as a consequence?
Then I remembered something about food. That's right. Food. Michael Polan, author of The Carnivore's Dilemma, is often quoted on talk shows as saying, "Don't eat it if your grandmother wouldn't recognize it as food." I decided food is much like sleep, so I referenced Abe's grandmother. I asked, "Did you let me cry until I fell asleep or did you cuddle and love me as much as you possibly could?" And as I suspcted, the answer was indeed somewhere in between. My mother told me that I would cry everytime she talked on the telephone and so, when the phone rang, she put me in my crib. I would usually cry in my crib while my mother chatted. At night if she knew I was fed, clean, and safe, she would let me cry. Occasionally she could come and pat me on the back (because I slept on my belly, too) so that, as she puts it, "I knew she loved me and that I was safe." And on particularly fussy days, my mom would walk back and forth through the living room holding me because she knew I wouldn't be this little forever.
What's the right answer? The right answer is that you do what works for you. On the days that Abe makes me wonder why I gave up pedicures and primetime TV, I may let him cry it out a bit longer. But on the days I know he really needs to be held securely in my arms, I will hold him all day. So on this Thanksgiving I am thankful for friends who don't judge, a baby who smiles so big his face can't even hold it all, a husband who sings ridiculous songs all day long, a mother who remembers in detail the way she raised me, and for my instincts that tell me exactly what is right for my baby boy (the way no book could).

Sleep

2010-11-18T20:21:00.000-05:00

You do what you have to when you become a parent. Rules do not apply, espeically when it comes to getting enough sleep. We've created some interesting methods for getting through life with an 11 week old.

My husband and I began sharing nighttime shifts when Abe was 5 weeks old. David came home one day from work and I was a used dish rag on the floor with Abe, crying and probably rocking back and forth like a mental patient. My husband had just begun giving our son bottles that week and I incoherently explained to him that he would now be giving Abe a bottle during one night feeding so I could sleep. Swiftly he realized his wife had been diminished to a babbling pile of milk ducts, so he agreed.

Nights at our house then: Dave came home at 5:30 while Erin was finishing dinner. We'd sit down, watch a tivoed show or just chat at the dinner table with dogs at our feet and wine glasses full. After dinner we'd clean the kitchen and catch up on house projects, movies, or maybe a nice long walk with the dogs. We'd get in bed around 10 and read for a half an hour or so before hitting the hay. Sometimes on a weekend or special week night we'd go out to dinner with friends of maybe catch a movie!

Nights at our house now: I feed/fight with Abe through his crankiest hours until about 8:30pm when he finally begins to give in to exhaustion. I feed him one last time, swaddle him, and put him in his crib by 9pm. I rush to brush my teeth and get into bed so that I am sleeping while he is sleeping. I put in my ear plugs and this begins first shift. (We trade off first shift every other night.) At around 1am, sometimes earlier if it's a crummy night, I am woken up by David informing me that Abe is squealing into the monitor. I take out my earplugs, walk upstairs and put the pacifier back into his mouth and fall asleep in the bed in Abe's room. I usually wake up once or twice more to put the pacifier into his mouth before he actually wakes up to eat. Between 2 and 4am, Abe eats while simultaneously sleeping for about 20 minutes. Once he's back in his crib, I then walk back downstairs and get a bottle ready and set it on the counter. I go back to bed and put my earplugs back in. Second shift has begun. David gets up between 4 and 6am when Abe, again, announces he's hungry. He walks to the kitchen and gets the bottle I've prepared and walks upstairs. Most nights he trips or stumbles up the stairs and wakes up the dogs. He feeds Abe several ounces and then changes his diaper. This is when he begins to pray that Abe has not peed through his diaper. If he has, he then changes his entire outfit while repeating, "Please don't wake up, please don't wake up." He gives Abe the rest of the bottle and puts him into the crib. Then he comes back downstairs and gets back into bed. And finally, at 7:30am, he wakes me up to tell me he is getting ready for work and I have to take out my ear plugs to listen for Abe. Every. Single. Night.

Good Mom/Bad Mom

2010-11-17T16:38:00.000-05:00

Reasons why I'm a bad mom:

People take one look at Abe and say, "Oh my gosh, he is ADORABLE!" I'm all, do you not see that baby acne? Or the stork's bite on his forehead? And speaking of his forehead, you could play football on it. It's that big. The hairline isn't doing much for him either. He's almost sporting a mullet at this point. Is it crazy that I don't always find my baby to be the cutest creature on Earth?!
I don't boil the pacifiers. I mean, maybe once a week. I rarely even wash them off. I lick them. I'm one of those moms. As long as there's no visible bacteria or spiders on them, I lick them and put them back into his mouth. I also lick my (dirty) thumbs to wipe shmutz off of his cheeks. He seems to be fine so far.
I wear him in the grocery store only because it's really cute and people will talk to me about it. I don't have anyone else to talk to all day so I have to manufacture relationships this way.
I rarely, if ever, accomplish giving my son "tummy time" for more than 5 minutes in a day. For this reason, I doubt he will ever roll over, crawl, or run for public office.
Folks are always asking if they can hold Abe, which is fine with me. The part that gets me is they all say, "Oh! Should I wash my hands?" I always respond, "Oh. Yes. Good idea." Because it is a good idea. Meanwhile I'm thinking, when is the last time I washed MY hands?!?! Early August, I think.
I let my dogs lick Abe. Sometimes on the mouth. Sometimes in the mouth.
I bathe my baby everyday. Doctors will tell you it's completely unnecessary and can dry out their skin and a whole host of other awful, life-altering side effects. But what else do we have to do? There are only so many times I can stand the songs his bouncy chair plays, and only so many times he can stand staring at the creatures on his play mat. He's 11 weeks old.
Occasionally, if there is little to no spit up on it, I will let Abe wear the same onsie for 2 days. The only reason I would change him is to see him in something different and frankly, that just adds to the laundry.
I give him belly raspberry kisses, even though it makes him cry.

Reasons why I'm a good mom:

Abe is healthy and still alive.

Better

2010-11-11T08:48:00.000-05:00

Not going to lie, motherhood still sucks some days. Abe is doing many, many cute things that help me stay motivated to keep driving when we come up on a fire station. Sleep is more common at night, though there is little of it during the day. They call it "consolidated" napping when Abe sleeps more than 20 minutes without screaming, spitting, or writing a novel about how he was "wronged" in his early life. Needless to say, he's up to chapter 5.
In other news, people are still lying to me. You'd think that with all the blogging I've done regarding the truth about being a mother here in the beginning that people would get it: I don't take well to lying. Now, I'm not claiming that the whole, "It gets better," catch-phrase that the entire world has apparently had a meeting about and decided to use on me is a lie. I'm sure it does get better. He has to move out eventually, right? What I don't understand is why people keep telling me the exact week it will get better. "The first 3 weeks are the hardest." Yeah, it didn't get a whole lot easier week 4.
Then when I continued being honest about my troubles after four weeks, I got, "He'll turn the corner at 6 weeks, you'll see!" Guess what? No corner. Why would you say that if there's even a remote possibility that my baby will not turn a corner at 6 weeks?
Then it just got funny. When 6 weeks passed, I was spoon-fed, "They start sleeping at 8 weeks." I bought that hook, line, and sinker.
Finally, it almost became comical when I was told, "You'll really see a change in personality at 10 weeks." Well, we're at 10 weeks. And if by "personality" you mean "tone of voice while crying," then yes, his "personality" has changed to a higher, screamier pitch.
I'm hopping off the Negative Nelly Horse now to tell you that "better" is relative. What I've been missing all along is that "better" cannot be a comparison to my old life. I will not sleep until 9:30 on a Saturday for a long time. I won't even sleep through the night for a long time without waking up to wonder what my baby is doing, if he's hungry, or whether or not my boobs will explode if I go back to sleep without pumping. I won't run by Target to "grab" something again for many, many years. My husband and I won't have meaningful conversations over casual dinners and a good glass of wine anytime soon. HOWEVER, I will find some new and weird little game to play with my baby that makes him laugh, and I'll play it day in and day out for a week with nearly the same satisfaction I feel when I find a sale at Old Navy on top of the 15% off coupon I have in my pocket. "Better" is now defined by only getting up twice in the middle of the night as opposed to 8 times. It's now 40 minute naps instead of 10. It's baby poop everyday instead of once a week. It's spitting up RIGHT BEFORE I change his outfit instead of right after. It's Abe's eyes tracking a toy and his hands holding onto my shirt. It's watching him think and discover. It's actually enjoying the time I spend with him and looking forward to him waking up.
So, if you were one of the people who gave me the next, "Everything will get better in 2 weeks" line, there is a special place in heaven waiting for you for giving me a reason to live for two more weeks.

FUMBLE!!

2010-11-06T14:24:00.000-04:00

From "Bonnie"

When my first born was 2 weeks old, I was bound and determined to get a haircut. I loaded him up in the car seat and away we went. Somehow I got lost along the way and was late to the appointment. In a rush to get inside, I grabbed the car seat and walked briskly into the building where I promptly slipped, tripped, and slid across the room. I dropped the car seat, baby and all. I lunged for the seat, pulled it towards me, and began checking to see if I’d broken my baby. I then sat bawling on the floor of the hair salon because I was certain that he would never recover and that I'd scarred him for life. Of course, the baby was fine. The worst thing that happened was he woke up!

Make a Scene

2010-11-02T12:40:00.000-04:00

So much has been said about bullying in the past few months. I love seeing people like Ellen using her celebrity to bring attention to how bullying can affect a child. The girls who bullied me in high school did it with such perfect manipulation and judgement that I couldn't even tell someone how badly it hurt me because I wasn't even sure how to explain their actions. I just knew I was alienated and alone. Sure, I was a drama nerd, but even drama nerds shouldn't have to eat their lunches in the bathroom. No one should.
Then came the dad in the Orlando area who got onto his daughter's school bus and went all "Florida" on the kids, threatening every child with death or severe pain if any one of them bullied his little girl. Extreme? Sure, but the kids were taunting her, hitting her, pulling on her ears, smacking her bottom, and even throwing things like condoms at her head for weeks. Now that I have Abe, I can't exactly say I would do much differently if I knew my little boy confided in trusting adults that kids were hitting him on the bus and no one did a damn thing about it. Who else will protect my kid?? And now that dad is facing jail time because he stood up for his baby when no one else would. (Sort of a parent's job, wouldn't ya say?) Where are the parents of the bullies? I don't see them facing any consequences.
Since becoming a parent, my brain has been flooded with memories of my father (who passed away when I was 7) that were long since buried. And when bullying became a hot topic in the media I was reminded of an ordinary school night when I was about 5 years old. My dad was all of 5'4", maybe? He was broad-chested and had a firey spirit (yep, that's where I get it). I came home one day and told him that a big boy on the school bus was bullying me. The boy was in 2nd grade and he would tug on the lace of my pretty clothes and laugh at me, or flick my hair and call me a baby. I was terrified of this boy and everytime I got on the bus I felt like I was going to throw up. My dad told me the best thing to do is ignore the bully and sit far away from him. I think my parents told the bus driver because she always tried to make sure I wasn't seated near to him, but she had a whole bus to worry about. Moving away from him worked for the most part.
One night my dad asked me if I wanted to go out for I-C-E C-R-E-A-M. He spelled it and because I was only 5, I had to write the letters one by one on a piece of paper and try to decipher his message. I figured it out in a few minutes and shouted, "ICE CREAM!!!!" The moment we walked into the ice cream place, I saw him. The bully was waiting to get ice cream, too. I whispered, "That's the bully." My dad looked at me and I saw a flame light in his eyes. He turned around and, rather loudly, asked me, "Him? That's the bully?" I think the bully was taller than my dad, but that didn't matter. My dad marched up to him and started SCREAMING right there in the middle of the ice cream place. I only remember him saying, "YOU SEE THIS LITTLE GIRL? IF YOU EVER..." , and then I remember both the boy and his mom running out of the ice cream place before they even got ice cream. He didn't bother me anymore after that.

I hope more parents start standing up for their kids instead of waiting for the schools to do it for them.

I remember feeling so safe and protected by my dad. He did what a lot of parents would be too scared to do. He made a scene. I can't say that I will chase any kids out of an ice cream store, but I can tell you that if anyone bullies my boy for any reason at all, I know how to make a scene. A pretty big one. And I'll do it.

Through a Husband's Eyes

2010-11-01T14:14:00.001-04:00

I asked my husband to write a blog from a man's perspective on what it is like to be a first-time dad. It took him a few days, and this is what he decided to send me. It is the text-transcripts between himself and Doula Schmoula in the days and hours leading up to Abe's birth. I realized that my husband was somewhat freaked out while I was in labor, but even I was surprised to read his level of concern and self-doubt throughout those early morning hours.

2010-08-26 Afternoon, Three Days before Abe was Born

2:28:23 From Husband At doctor now. 4cm and 80% efaced. Doc said we are in labor. Still talking. Will keep u apprised. I think he wants to admit us. Fighting to go back home.

2:37:22 From Husband Ok. We wiggled our way out. Gonna head home.

2:37:30 From Husband Call you in a bit

2:38:12 From Doula Schmoula Um. If you're not contracting, you're not in labor. ;)

2:44:38 From Husband She is contracting. Several times an hour. Nothing consistent or regular, but strong enough to stop her from doing anything

2:47:27 From Doula Schmoula Ok.

2010-08-29 The Early Morning Hours of the Day Abe was Born

04:13:41 From Husband Were up. She's still exhausted and having some contractions. It seemed like she got some rest

04:14:36 From Husband From about 10-3 there wasn't much but now were moaning. She says she wants to be done. Dunno what the next step is

04:16:59 From Doula Schmoula The only way to get to the end is to walk through it. Do these contractions seem like before or do they seem different?

04:18:29 From Husband In the middle of one. Seem the same as when we left for the hospital From what I can tell

04:20:18 From Husband She's just too exhausted. Says she can't take it anymore. Dunno what the threshold is. Should we go in?

04:21:24 From Doula Schmoula Ok. The key here is to not ask her to do things but to tell her, i.e. "this is the next step". Put her in the tub and feed her something. Toast and egg maybe?

04:22:18 From Husband In tub now. I gave her some melon.

04:24:43 From Husband Making toast w peanut butter now

04:26:22 From Doula Schmoula That is good. As far as the "i can'ts" go, we know she can. And it is best to try to keep her in the moment and out of her head. Is she relaxing or is she fighting them?

04:28:10 From Husband They are progressing. The mental is tough on her. The I cants are rolling in

04:29:49 From Doula Schmoula How long as she been in tub?

04:31:25 From Husband Maybe 20. She's out now. Got out on her own while I was making toast

04:32:35 From Doula Schmoula Ok. Eat some toast and then go for a walk. Is she shakey?

04:33:33 From Husband She is walking the room. She is shakey she said. Walking and moaning

04:34:15 From Doula Schmoula Moaning with contractions or the whole time?

04:35:08 From Husband Pretty much the whole time

04:35:35 From Doula Schmoula How quick are they coming?

04:35:55 From Husband 3 min or so. On the bed in her knees for contractions. Kinda doing what she wants. Doesn't wanna listen

04:37:43 From Doula Schmoula That's fine. She is following her instincts. Knee chest is good. Or on ball doing big circles. How are you feeling?

04:38:31 From Husband K. She is discouraged. I’m worried for her. It's tough. She said she doesn't think you understand. Dunno what that means. They seem to be getting more intense to me

04:40:16 From Doula Schmoula You think i should head back over?

04:41:06 From Husband Maybe. If you don't I would probably take her in. Just don't have the confidence

04:42:50 From Doula Schmoula There isn't an absolute right or wrong here. Let me change clothes and i'll see you shortly. Need coffee?

04:43:46 From Husband If you're already stopping. If not just come here and we can make some here.

04:45:18 From Husband Ohh. Maybe come here? It's making me nervous. Seems to be getting stronger

04:45:29 From Doula Schmoula K. I'll hurry.

04:46:18 From Husband K. Call when you're here. I'll let you in

04:46:26 From Doula Schmoula K

05:18:59 From Husband You could probably get coffee if you want. She might have hit a rhythm

05:20:28 From Doula Schmoula K. I'll run back to the Gate Station. Whaddya want?

05:21:37 From Husband Just a coffee. Thnx.

05:22:09 From Doula Schmoula Sure

05:40:39 From Doula Schmoula I'm here

Doula Schmoula Left the Delivery Room to Update the Moms

10:58:14 From Husband they're getting delivery cart ready

2 Months

2010-10-29T10:08:00.003-04:00

Dear Abe,

Today is October 29 and you are 2 months old. Two months ago I first met you and it seemed like I'd always known you. It still feels that way, mixed in with feelings of, "Who the hell is this person?!" Becoming a parent is an extremely surreal experience. Don't let anybody tell you differently.
Over the past 2 months, you've learned where your hands are and how to hold on to things (especially my hair). You've learned to follow objects with your eyes and you love looking out the window. You started out screaming everytime I changed your diaper, and now we have fun at the changing table with Puppy and the pretty seagulls on the wall. You've learned to smile and you make sounds that range from happy to inquisitive to extremely pissed off. You figured out who your dad is and how much you LOVE him. And you also found the bath, your favorite place to be.
Last night you slept for 5 straight hours. And this morning when you woke up, you stretched, kicked your legs, and smiled at me. I think you're beginning to like it here on Earth, though from what little I know of you I kind of doubt this is your first time here.
I hope you know that for all the days I hated being a mom in the beginning, I'm getting better at it now and starting to like it. I never hated you; I'm just not that great with change. Your dad and I wanted you SO much, but didn't know what we were getting ourselves into. That's the only reason it felt so chaotic and unhappy at first. We have learned so many lessons that help remove all the obstacles that get in the way of loving you. The biggest lesson I've learned is that you don't need me to follow a plan or a schedule. You just need me to listen, and I can do that.
I really do love you madly. I promise that I will continue to be as present a mom as I can be. Sometimes I'll forget or make big mistakes that you'll tell your grown-up friends about later and say things like, "She did the best she could, bless her heart." I'm only human, after all, but I'm always going to do the best I can. That's all you can ask for, and that's all I can ask of you. Besides, what's life without a little therapy?
Thank you for choosing me to be your mom. I love you.

Love,
Your Mom

My Philosophy

2010-10-27T13:43:00.000-04:00

Whether you love Dr. Sears, Dr. Ferber, The Happiest Baby on the Block technique, Healthy Sleep Habits Happy Child, or The No-Cry Sleep Method, you soon learn that none of them are right. At least, for very long. And I've tried them all...and then some.
It seems everyone chooses a parenting philosophy (yes, that's what all these different books and websites are called, "philosophies") at some point. You read a book and you think, yeah. That makes sense. So you decide that when your baby cries it means he or she has a deep need to feel you close. Or when your baby fusses before a nap, it's just his or her way of settling down. Or if you give the baby a chance to cry and he or she takes a good long sleep afterwards, then the crying was all worth it. You pick one of them and that's how you're going to raise your child.
Then you have your baby and whatever parenting philosophy you bought all the books for doesn't work at all and you have to start reading the other books. Except now you're sleep deprived. And soon, you've chosen a different philosophy that suddenly makes MORE sense than the first one, not to mention completely contradicts it. You try that one for a few days and once it proves to be utterly useless, you begin to adopt the philosophies that you swore you NEVER would because "That's ridiculous" and "I'm not going to be one of those parents."
And then that stupid philosophy works. And you eat your words and take a nap because your baby is finally sleeping.
As hard as I tried to convince Abe that attachment-style parenting was what he wanted, he has proven otherwise. He is extremely independent. He doesn't particularly care to sleep next to me ("co-sleep") or snuggle. He's perfectly content to sleep in his crib, upstairs, many feet away from us. If he's fussing in his crib, he does best when I just leave him alone. It took a while for me to figure this out because I was NOT going to be one of those parents who just let their child CRY. I would go to him and assure him I loved him forever. But you know what? When he cries or fusses during a daytime nap for 5 minutes BY HIMSELF, he usually sleeps for an hour afterward (at least!). When I rush to his crib-side and furiously pat his bottom and assure him that I would never leave him, his crying gets louder and angrier. GOD FORBID I then pick him up. The head-butting and boob punching then begins. And sure, I can try to nurse him to calm him down, but he typically just plays around for a few minutes and then goes back to screaming until I set him down to nap. I imagine he's saying something like, "WOMAN! PUT ME DOWN! I have to grunt like that in the crib to turn my head to get comfortable! Oh great, now you're going to pick me up. That's just perfect. Exactly what I wanted when I was half asleep and about to be fully asleep again if you would have let me finish CHANGING POSITIONS. Oh, boob? Ok, well, I mean, I'll hang out around here for a minute. But I'm not really hungry. So I guess there's no point. WOMAN! PUT ME BACK DOWN IN THAT CRIB!" He likes his sleep. He is his father's child.

Now don't get me wrong, these books all have interesting and somewhat helpful points. They certainly made me think about new ways of approaching my baby. But the truth is, parents don't choose philosophies. Babies do. So if you don't yet have a kid and you're thinking of buying a book about how to best help your baby sleep or eat or poop, stop yourself and decide you won't be another sucker to donate to Dr. Whoever's great-grandchild's trust fund. Dr. Whoever doesn't have to live with Abe and unless I tent the books over Abe's face when he's screaming to help muffle the sound, it doesn't do me much good at 4am.

You Were Right

2010-10-26T15:59:00.000-04:00

Ok, ok, ok, you were right. I like my kid.
But in my defense, he smiles now. And he appears to smile for a reason, not just because the muscles in his face involuntarily worked their way upwards when he pooped. Like when I wake him up, sure he's really grumpy for a few minutes. But then, suddenly and as if it's a whole new world all over again, he looks at me and smiles like, "Oh! Right! You're my mom and I'm a person and you make the milk! Great!"
Eight weeks and he's so much more alert now. He looks to see where I am in the room and when I'm talking to him he often makes eye contact. He also really likes bouncing all his arms and legs at once. This isn't an indication of any emotion or need. I think he just discovered them and is celebrating.
We're starting to get to know each other and I'm learning his likes and dislikes, which is so interesting. It's not at all what the books said it would be like. Don't read those books, by the way. None of those books have met your baby.
It's weird how people reacted in the grocery store when I told them he was 2 weeks old as opposed to telling them he's 8 weeks old now. At 2 weeks, people were astonished that a human could even be that young. "TWO WEEKS? Wow!!! THAT'S AMAZING!" Now they say, "Oh yeah. 8 weeks. I blocked that out. You getting any sleep?" I'll give ya three guess, check out guy at Publix.
To be honest, though, sleep is getting better. Abe totally gets "night" now. And napping isn't too bad either.
He still screams in his carseat until he's hoarse. And he does not yet care to be "worn" facing out, by either David or I. "Why would you force me to see the evils of the world so soon when I could be comfortably nestled into your chest?!"
Overall, I get it. I get why you all do this over and over again. I'm not saying I'm going to do it again. Don't start paying each other off on all the bets you made as to how soon I would cave in; we're not there yet. But Abe is cool and he's funny and he does stuff that makes me want to keep him. So fine. You win. A little.

FUMBLE!!!

2010-10-22T14:31:00.002-04:00

From "Cara"

Our first night home with our baby, I followed all the steps I knew to soothe him and help him sleep. When I finally laid him down, he screamed. So I changed him again and laid him back down. Still crying. I fed him again and laid him back down. Still crying. Then I thought it might be gas so I gave him some Mylicon. No dice. I checked his temperature. We’re fine there. It seemed he was only happy if I was holding him. I tried lying him down all night long and every time I did, the crying ensued. This lasted for hours and hours until I was so exhausted I woke up my husband and told him I couldn’t do it anymore. He agreed that it was his turn. I watched him wrap our son up in a blanket and lay him down and poof. Our baby was asleep. The blanket. IT WAS THE BLANKET! I couldn’t believe I had wasted an entire night’s rest because our baby was COLD! It was my body heat keeping him warm when I held him and the moment I would set him down, he would get COLD! No one ever tells us to think about that!

The Nurses...The Doctors...That Guy...

2010-10-21T14:38:00.000-04:00

My doula made a joke after I had Abe that I should skip the hospital next time and have a baby at the birthing center in town. And after the onslaught of invoices pouring in from the hospital, I'm considering it. It all started with the first bill: the big one. You know, the one that covers our one night stay, meals, etc. I won't tell you how much, but you know how much it costs to fly round trip to France? It was more than that. Luckily, insurance did cover a chunk of it. But the trouble was that while I was pregnant we'd paid for our OBGYN to go to France. Now, the hospital staff was brushing up on their French, too.

Then we got a bill from the neonatologist. We saw him for exactly 28.2 seconds. And guess what? France.

Then we got a bill from a pediatrics group who apparently looked at Abe once. They're not going to France, but they could make it to Canada if they felt like it.

Then there was the bill from the audiologist who checked Abe's hearing. I could have done her job. You breathe funny and this kid's whole body startles. But whatever. That lady's on her way to NYC on my dime.

Our pediatrician, who we love, sent us a bill which included a "phone consultation." Mmmhmm. And thanks to that phone consult, they're taking a nice little trip down to the Keys for a long weekend.

Don't forget the anesthesiologist who performed my epidural. He's meeting up with the OB and the rest of the hospital staff in France, and then meeting another anesthesiologist friend in Italy to buy shirts that say, "Americans are suckers."

Overall, my baby is sending a lot of people on a lot of trips, and I've been stuck in the house for almost 8 weeks. My big trips out have been to Babies R Us, Target (for a flu shot) and the chiropractor. I realize I get a brand new human being out of the deal, but it seems like if anyone should be getting a prize vacation it should be ME. I did the fertility treatments, the pregnancy, the birth, and the first 8 weeks. I'll settle for Arkansas at this point.

The Top 8 Things I Couldn't Live Without

2010-10-19T12:01:00.000-04:00

The Itzbeen
This little gadget is brilliant. Everytime I feed Abe, I hit the "bottle" button. When I change him? "Diaper" button. When he goes to sleep? "Zzzz's" button. So the next time my husband walks in wondering if Abe is crying because he's hungry or because he's an angry baby, he can just check the Itzbeen. Then he'll say, "Look, it's been 2 hours since he's eaten. He must be hungry! I don't need to wake my wife. I can just warm a bottle and take care of it myself!" See? He leaves me alone. It's also a MIRACLE for the middle of the night when I can't remember if I changed him at his 1:30 feeding or if the dirty diaper on the changing table is from yesterday.

The Miracle Blanket
Speaking of miracles, The Miracle Blanket. My girl cousin recommended this to me, touting it as the "Baby Straight Jacket." This term turned me off until my baby screamed for 3 days straight. Then a straight jacket didn't seem like such a bad idea. It keeps his arms SNUG by his sides so he can't punch himself in the eye while he's sleeping and then wake up, scream, and blame me. Do you know how hard it is to explain to a 7-week-old, "You punched yourself, dude."?

The Remote Control Light Switch
Ever try to latch a screaming baby to your boob in the darkest of night (men excluded)? Or worse, ever try turning the LIGHT on while latching a screaming baby to your boob in the darkest of night (men excluded, again)? My husband came up with a solution. He hooked up this little remote control clicker to a bedside table lamp with nice soft light. I never have to get up out of bed to turn on the light. I just keep this little remote under my pillow and click it to help get my bearings when I'm half asleep. Then, I click it back off to ensure Abe knows it's still night time and he has to go BACK to sleep.

The Belly
I know, I know, I know. Babies are supposed to sleep on their BACKS. And sleeping on their bellies causes SIDS and ingrown toenails and throat cancer, but you know what? My baby sleeps best on his belly. In fact, he sleeps only on his belly. When I lay him on his back, he lifts his legs STRAIGHT up in front of him as if to say, "Look! Wheee!! Look what I can do with my legs! Why sleep when I can do this?!?!" Which brings me to the next best of...

The Angel Care
This amazing thing has saved me HOURS of worry. A little plate sits under Abe's crib mattress. When turned on, it detects even the slightest movements. If it does not detect movement for 20 seconds, an alarm begins to sound. So, if Abe stops breathing I will know within 20 seconds and probably break an elbow throwing walls out of my way to get to him. And trust me, it works. I am reminded of how well it works every time I pick him up in the middle of the night and forget to turn it off. RIGHT about the time I hit my remote control light switch and get Abe latched on is when it starts beeping like a dump truck on steroids backing up through the bedroom.

The Poop Chair
This little vibrating chair is what my husband and I have dubbed The Poop Chair. Everytime I set Abe in it, the chair keeps him at the perfect angle and delivers just enough vibration to get his little tummy moving and the poopy flowin'. No joke, at least once a day I set him in the poopy chair, turn it on, and away he goes. It has completely eliminated my need for alternative measures to help him poop, and if you read my blog on rectal temperature (read here), you know it's a real blessing for me. Side note: I got this chair for $3 at a flea market. Washed all the cloth pieces and viola, I'm thrifty.

TONS of Receiving Blankets
Poop...Abe has a gift for blow-outs. For those of you without kids, a blow-out is when the poop is so plentiful, or forceful, that a diaper springs loose like the weakest kid in class during a game of Red Rover. I put receiving blankets on EVERYTHING. I put them on top of his cradle sheet, his swing, the car seat, the Poopy Chair (of course), the changing table...I save myself so much time. In fact, just this morning I got the stroller all set up with a comfy, fancy blanket to go on a walk. Right before we left, I threw a receiving blanket in and set Abe on top. And wouldn't you know he had a blow-out before we hit the driveway. Did I panic? Nope. Just cleaned him up, threw the receiving blanket in the wash, and pulled out another one before the walk resumed. No scrubbing the stroller, no dirty fancy blanket.

The Washer and Dryer
Oh. And in reference to receiving blankets, PLEASE be sure to buy a set of these before you have a kid. I have never done so much laundry in my life. Between the poop, the pee, the spit up...it's a wonder we can still pay our energy bill.

P.S. If you work for any of the companies that manufacture these 8 items, please pass them the link to my blog in case they're interested in giving me free stuff.

Anxious

2010-10-14T19:59:00.000-04:00

One thing that's hard to understand is the anxiety that comes along with being a new mom. At least it's very hard for me to understand. When my kid is in the car seat and screaming as if someone is murdering him, bringing him back to life, and then murdering him again, I just want to pull the car over and get out. Go for a walk maybe, or get a latte. Then resume mom duties again after about 20 minutes of peace. Our Honda Pilot does not let any noise out or in, so when I close my door on my way to get him out, I often take a few extra seconds on the walk to the back. It's so peaceful in those moments.
But what gets me is when other people have him. While in the doctor's office yesterday, David sat with Abe in the waiting room trying to feed him. Abe was pissed off, tired, and generally ungrateful for being alive. I felt so free walking to the nurses station to have my blood drawn. Then, and without warning, anxiety hit. I heard a brief scream. I'd know it anywhere. And I looked at the nurse and said, "That's Abe." She smiled. SMILED. As if it's just like, oh wow, some baby is screaming. NOT some baby. MY BABY. He's SCREAMING. Do you not HEAR THAT? I got super squirmy and told her that I got anxiety whenever he screamed. He screamed again. Ever fiber of my being jumped and wanted to be NO WHERE but there where Abe was screaming. What is going on? He's with his dad in a waiting room with other babies about 30 feet away. I don't even like this kid and I HAVE to get to him when he screams?
Finally, after the longest 10 minutes ever, she told me to go back to the waiting room. I ran like a bat out of hell. My husband looked like his head was going to explode which made me angry, a strange response. I wanted to say, "Seriously? It's been 10 minutes! I do this all day! Suck it up buttercup!" Then, the fact that he got so overwhelmed after only 10 minutes gave me, you guessed it, anxiety.
All this anxiety has got to affect Abe. This could be causing him to have trouble eating or bad dreams or sleep apnea or diabetes or SOMETHING. And then when I think about how my anxiety level is affecting his temperament, I get more anxiety. I do the things Dr. Sears tells us to do: go for a walk, eat right, drink plenty of water, sleep when you can, etc. I even asked his website if I could take Xanax while breastfeeding. Turns out that's a bad idea. Vodka, however, he didn't mention...

The Aftermath

2010-10-13T15:48:00.001-04:00

It's incredible how AWESOME my body looked in hindsight. How ridiculous was I spending hours in front of the mirror worried about a thin layer of fat (which, as it turns out, was skin) or a pimple? Today I'm lucky if I look in the mirror on my way to feed my baby (and completely ruin my boobs, which I didn't appreciate back then either). They warned me that my stomach would take a while to go back down, but I didn't realize that 6 weeks out I'd still look 6 months pregnant. It's embarrassing. I want to tell everyone who looks at me, "I just had a baby, ok?" Bright spot: I have a little extra junk in the trunk now, which I've always prayed for. Those of you in the Flat Butt Society understand this prayer.
I also didn't realize how little I would care about anything going on in the world. I mean, just today the TV was on as I passed through the room and I saw that Courtney Cox and David Arquette separated and some woman in Texas says she didn't kill her husband on a boat. Two months ago, this would have stopped me in my tracks and I would have sat taking note about every detail. I then would have referenced People magazine, followed by an episode of The People's Court, and then on to CNN.com. But I just don't care what's happening to anyone else. If anything, those people should be caring about what's happening to ME! My life is COMPLETELY turned upside down and sometimes it's hard to catch my breath. Where's my segment on the 6 o'clock news?
Oh, and my dogs. My poor dogs. They are used to snuggles and attention and barking at the mailman. They were the KIDS in our house. Now, they get in trouble for everything. They can't lick the baby, they can't bark, they can't run around in the house. I feel like they're going to think their names are "Shhh!" and "STOP IT!" soon.
I haven't started losing my lovely, thick hair yet. I know this starts to go at around 3 months. So by Thanksgiving, this kid better do something REALLY cool. Otherwise, I gotta say it'll be tough to convince me this was all worth it.

One Week

2010-10-12T09:54:00.000-04:00

One week is how old Abe was the day I turned to David and sobbed that I was incredibly sorry for completely ruining our lives.

One week is all it takes for Abe's size, shape, temperament, and routine to completely change.

One week is as far ahead as my brain goes. It means Abe is a week older, and a week closer to milestones that make a screaming baby all worth it.

One weak moment is all it takes to turn a fairly good day into what feels like the worst day of my life.

One week ago I reeeeeeally disliked my baby. Today, I kinda like him. A little.

Noel

2010-10-11T09:42:00.000-04:00

I've dealt with an inordinate amount of death in my life. It seems like every year my family got smaller and smaller as I grew up. But it wasn't until I lost my first friend at 21 that death stopped becoming a part of life and started poking holes in it.
I moved into the theatre dorms when I was just 17 years old. It was full of some real dramatic personalities, as you can imagine. I met Noel on my very first day. He had on a dirty old hat trying desperately to cover a displaced mass of curly, crazy brown hair. He was the only one I remember who seemed comfortable in his own skin. "This guy isn't afraid to be leaving home and trying to live life without his parents," I thought. And to be honest, it didn't take long for him to offer us all a drink.
I acted in shows with Noel over the years and watched his free spirit laugh, joke, and fly through all kinds of get-togethers. He was the party at the party for sure. One show Noel and I were in together was not made up of a cast that meshed well outside of the script, and we all knew it. After the last show, the cast decided to meet at Olive Garden for a final dinner (whoopdie doo). Noel invited me home before that dinner and, to be perfectly honest, we indulged in some libations that would make the night a whole lot more fun. We spent the entire evening kicking each other under the table, cracking up at our "secret" trip home (and I'm sure it was no secret to anyone else at the table who even glanced at us). Months later, a picture of that dinner ended up in our college yearbook. Remember that song from Sesame Street? "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." It was pretty clear we were having a whole lot more fun than everyone else in the shot. We gave each other a quick look and a silent laugh amid the crowd of people surfing through the pages when we saw it. What fun he made life.
Noel was not a typical theatre kid, frat boy, or Tennessee native. He was more than fun and funny, he was incredibly smart. He was in law school when he got sick. The fact that it was his brain that was chosen by cancer makes cancer one of my biggest enemies in the world. The idea that he was forced to withdraw from life's party before he could celebrate another anniversary with his beloved or see his baby girl being born sends my eyes straight to the sky, praying with everything that I am that his soul will still get to experience it all on some level we can't yet understand. It's true that life isn't fair, but this particular twist seems a much crueler trick than fair or unfair.
Noel and I were not best friends. We didn't even stay in touch after college was over. Though he left a strong impression on everyone's life who knew him, including mine. And with every email update I received about his fight against the "c" word in the past 2 years, I was reminded to live that day like it was my last and be grateful that I get to spend it with the man I love and now, the child we made. He was a great reminder to seize the day in college, and he will continue to remind me for the rest of my life. I can't imagine spending today writing about anyone else.

Shine on, Noel.
Shine on.

The Best I Can

2010-10-07T10:34:00.000-04:00

When my mom comes to visit now, it's a whole new ball game. She's got a JOB to do. She's a grandma, a whole new career. And let me tell you, she kicks ass at work.
While driving home from lunch with a screaming Abe in the car, I was starting to feel weary. Here I am doing everything I can possibly think of every single day of my life to keep him happy and healthy and he screams like someone is pinching the back of his arm (come on, you know that hurts like the dickens when someone does it right).
After opening the back window, turning up the music, singing, and mimicking his cries (in an attempt to communicate with him), I finally shouted to the back seat, "I'M SORRY, ABE! THERE IS NOTHING ELSE I CAN DO!" And that is when my mom said one of the most peace-invoking statements I've heard in 5 and a half weeks.
"And that's the truth, Erin. There is nothing else you can do."
It was like a light bulb went off. I'm doing everything I know how to do, and there is nothing more I can do besides just that! When he screams and I try everything I know and he still screams, I'm not a bad mom. I'm not doing it wrong. I suppose if I purposefully left him screaming in an empty room you could go with the "bad mom" label. Or if I KNEW he was hungry and I decided I just wasn't going to feed him that day, you could call somebody to come haul me away. Or if he was clearly exhausted and I forced him to ride Space Mountain over and over and over again, someone could file a complaint and take full custody of Abe (and the dogs, for that matter). But I do try and if it doesn't work, it's ok. I'm not creating a future drug dealer just because I can't figure out what his vampire face means and he will likely not join a cult because his hands were clearly too cold this morning when we woke up. I am trying my best, and as a mom (forever) I have to remember: I'm doing my best and there is nothing else I can do.

Lies, Lies, Lies, Lies

2010-10-01T18:34:00.000-04:00

There are a number of lies floating around about mothering a newborn that have to be addressed. It's amazing how many women claim to "forget" what life with a newborn was like. You just plum forgot? That's amazing.
I never want to forget this time, and I want as many women as possible who have never had a child to know how unbelievably hard the first few weeks are so they don't feel as unprepared as I did. No sugar-coating it. Someone's gotta be honest!

Lie #1 : You'll love your baby immediately.
I do not love my baby. I mean, I love him because he's mine and I'm super glad he's healthy and here on Earth. But I'm not all ushy-gushy in love with him. In fact, he's really an obligation more than a son. He's a need-machine with absolutely no give back. He doesn't smile, he doesn't coo, he doesn't hug. He screams and poops and eats (all after ruining my body). And when I smile or show him a toy or make eye contact, he makes the most sour, unhappy face I've ever seen. I don't have postpartum depression. I just miss The People's Court and going out to dinner.

Lie #2 : "My babies were sleepers"
This one is just mean. Women say to me, "Is he sleeping?! My babies were sleepers." You're a liar or you have a terrible memory. Breast-fed babies don't sleep in the first 3 months. Now maybe you packed your baby so full of formula that he slept for 8 hours at 3 weeks simply because he couldn't move. But there is simply no such thing as a 1 month old "sleeper". Saying that to me simply makes me feel inadequate and more tired than I already am. Stop it.

Lie #3: You should cherish them at that age because they're never that small again.
Really? Cherish them? As I mentioned in Lie #1, they don't do anything but scream, poop, eat, and occasionally sleep in bursts just long enough for you to start a dream and finish it with a milk-drinking monster only to realize it's actually your offspring. This is not a time of my life I am cherishing, and I think it's perfectly OK to admit that. I realize there is an end to this period and eventually my child will smile at me and I will possibly melt off the planet. But in the mean time, I make no bones about not cherishing this and I'll never insist that anyone else cherish it either.

Lie #4: Breastfeeding shouldn't hurt if you're doing it right.
So you're telling me that a human being sucking as hard as he can on my NIPPLE hurts because I'm DOING IT WRONG? No, I disagree. It hurts because a human being is sucking as hard as he can on my NIPPLE. Sure, once we got our latch going it didn't hurt as much, but if I could choose between a pedicure with a glass of merlot and breastfeeding, you better believe my toes win. And P.S. on breastfeeding: yeah, you burn 500 calories a day doing it, but some women (like me) have to be so careful with what they eat that it's not even worth it. I WANT PIZZA.

Lie #5 : There is very little a father can do to help in the first few months.
No, my husband cannot feed our child right now. But you know what he can do? Laundry. And dishes. And the lawn. And he can constantly clean up behind the natural disaster that is Erin and Abe on most days. He can take our son for a walk while I sleep and he can grocery shop for things that don't contain dairy or soy. Thank God for him.

I wake up everyday remember that someday Abe will look at me and say "mommy" and hug my neck and giggle. And I think it's OK that women prepare each other and support each other for how mind-numbingly tiring these first months are. I give thanks every day for the women in my life who are giving of advice and an understanding ear when I've been pushed to my limits. I'm very lucky. And now I'm going to go clean another load of poop-stained laundry.

FUMBLE!!!

2010-09-29T10:27:00.000-04:00

"Monica"

I got up in the middle of the night to change my newborn son. I was

completely exhausted, hair matted, the shower a distant memory of

days gone by. I got the fresh diaper on and took my baby back to bed

in hopes of getting a little more rest before morning. I got up the

next morning, fed him, and moved back to the changing table. When I

took his diaper off, I discovered that I hadn’t exactly “changed” my

son in the middle of the night. While I did put on a fresh diaper, I

neglected to take off the dirty one. My son was wearing one very

soiled diaper underneath one very pristine one! After sitting in his poo for a good few hours, I had to pour warm water over his little nuggets to release them from the diaper!

Communication

2010-09-25T18:33:00.000-04:00

People say babies can only communicate by crying; that's why it's so important to respond to a baby's cries as immediately as possible. Today, however, my baby wouldn't stop crying all afternoon. I fed him, I rocked him, I changed him, I even gave him a new outfit. We got in the car, the swing, mommy's chest, daddy's chest, the vibrating chair, the glider...nothing was calming him down. So finally, after one last attempt to lay down with him, I sat straight up and sat him straight up in front of me. I looked him right in the eye and asked, "Abraham? What is wrong with you?"
At that very moment, my son pooped a poop so big that it came out of every single side of his diaper, through his onesie, and through his blanket.

Mmhmm. Tell me babies only communicate through crying. Mine talks using poop sounds. He's asleep now.

FUMBLE!!

2010-09-17T11:16:00.000-04:00

Since bringing Abraham home, I couldn’t believe the amount of mistakes I would make even after reading all these books and attending all the classes. I didn’t even know how to put a diaper on a newborn correctly until my husband showed me. MY HUSBAND showed ME. Now that is humbling. Swaddling was a joke for the first week. My baby Houdini could find his way out of anything. Oh, and it’s important to secure your baby in the car seat even if you’re just going for a walk with the stroller…’cuz you feel REALLY badly when you open up the sunshade and see him doubled over on himself, head on knees, trying to somehow continue his nap.

I started talking to other moms in an attempt to feel somewhat normal about my fumbles, and the stories I heard were incredible! Some of the ridiculous things we moms have done in the first months of our childrens’ lives MUST be shared. So over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing some real mom stories I’ve collected from friends and family. Email me or Facebook me if you want to share yours. Of course, all stories are anonymous!

I’ll start:

After about 4 days of breastfeeding, my milk came in. As everyone predicted, I did turn into Dolly Parton for a hot minute. But the transition happening in Abe’s tummy was more of my concern.

A new mom, poop had become a military-esque mission. I tracked every poop down to the minute. Poop was the ardent new word in my husband and I’s conversations. “When did he poop?” “Did you change him, did he poop?” “Was that gas or a poop?”

When Abe didn’t poop for an entire 24-hours, I began to get nervous. I called the pediatrician, who assured me this could be perfectly normal. She suggested a few different massages to help get things moving. She also explained how checking his rectal temperature could stimulate his bowels. Well, I massaged and massaged and the poor kid remained all stopped up. I decided to try and take his rectal temperature, something I’d never done or even seen done to a newborn. Afraid I would hurt him, I just barely put the tip of the thermometer in his bottom. He didn’t seem to notice it, so I twirled it the way our pediatrician described. Nothing. A little sleep deprived and a little curious, I decided the best thing to do would be to get eye to eye with his bottom to ensure I had the thermometer in the right place. Not my brightest moment. The second I got eye level, you guessed it, poop. Not just poop. Projectile hot orange poop…straight in my face. I stood up, stunned, reaching for wipes or diapers or anything to get this off me. Furiously wiping myself off I looked down at Abe, who was now peeing directly onto his own face. This was half awful and half amazing. Both of us covered in poo and pee, I decided this was a perfectly acceptable situation in which to laugh hysterically as opposed to my go-to emotion of the week, sobbing uncontrollably. I laughed through all the clean up and the new diaper. And I learned a good lesson!

Ever After

2010-09-15T09:29:00.000-04:00

There were a lot of things I didn’t know about life AFTER delivering a baby. Someone should absolutely mention the shaking. My body shook so hard after Abraham was born that I could barely hold him. Some say it’s the epidural and some say it’s the adrenaline. Either way, I felt like my own personal earthquake.

It would also be nice to get a head’s up on the amount of blood loss you can expect to see. When it was time to change rooms, I sat up and freaked out! I told Doula, “I think I’m hemorrhaging!” The nurse checked and told me I was actually not bleeding badly compared to some. She reminded me I had been carrying 50% more blood for the past several months and my body would need to get rid of it.

How about trying to pee after an epidural? I stood up in my postpartum room, looked at Dave and exclaimed, “Oh! I’m peeing!” After 3 months of feeling like I needed to pee every 5 minutes, I now had absolutely no sensation of needing to pee until it was actually happening. I called my mom and told her to buy some adult diapers before I came home. This was a really good move and saved me many a panicked moment in the days to come. “Eek! I’m peeing! Oh, it’s ok. I’m wearing a diaper.”

Stitches. Ever get stitches? Well, a few days after you get them, they itch. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Skin, hair, and nails are so crazy beautiful during pregnancy. Then the baby comes out and all the moisture in your body laughs and runs away. My hair, which is always naturally oily, feels like straw. My skin is sooo dry. And because I'm so busy worrying about the other person who now lives in our house, I often forget to moisturize. I'm concerned I may lose my entire epidermis within a few days.

Two weeks later and I’m just now getting to the point where walking isn’t excruciatingly painful without Darvocet and Ibuprofen. And five minutes alone is kind of like a Hawaiian vacation. :)

Feel free to comment and share any postpartum symptoms you were surprised by...I could use the head's up!

Birth Story Part 6: The Final Push

2010-09-12T09:16:00.001-04:00

The anesthesiologist arrived within seconds, it seemed. He carefully explained to me everything he would be doing. I looked up at my husband who sat on a bench in front of me with Doula. He seemed like he was crying, scared for me. He later told me that was the worst moment of the entire experience. He said my eyes didn’t just communicate pain, they screamed with fear. And he was right, I was terrified. I didn’t know it, but he had to leave the room at one point to keep from losing it himself.

The kind nurse held me as I sat on the edge of the bed through contractions. It took the anesthesiologist 5 tries to get the epidural into my back. Five pokes, five contractions, almost ten long minutes. The nurse kept pushing my head down into my stomach so that my spine would stretch and separate. I am such a small person that it took an act of God to spread my vertebrae enough to get the needle in. The anesthesiologist tried to administer a local anesthetic so that I would not feel the needle going in, but after screaming, “I CAN FEEL EVERYTHING” and realizing that only slowed him down, I decided that feeling a needle going into my spine was the trade off for ultimate relief.

Finally, and within minutes, the epidural took effect. I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face, and breathed as fully and calmly as I could. It had been almost 26 hours since I could relax. I shared a few kind and quiet moments with my husband before I dozed off. The nap was short, but when the nurse woke me up to check me again I felt a new mental preparedness for what would come next.

The nurse smiled. “Ten centimeters! You’re ready to start pushing. Do you want to try to push now?” I was so shocked and excited that Abe was ready. I tried to push but couldn’t feel anything.

“Am I pushing?”

The nurse sweetly replied, “Not really.”

I focused hard on my body and the muscles I needed to use to push Abe out. I tried again and again until about the fourth time the nurse said, “Oh! That’s it! That was a push!”

The midwife at my OBGYN practice agreed to be on call for me through the weekend despite the fact that she wasn’t working. She’d arrived at the hospital shortly after I did, which I was so thankful for. The last thing I wanted was the scary doctor there repeating things like gestational diabetes, giant head, huge shoulders, or big baby.

The nurses quickly dismantled the bed and set up trays of metal instruments and plastic bins. During this time, my husband and I took a moment to reflect and even cry about how amazing and exciting this was. I was so grateful to be engaged and alert enough to be present in that moment. It is my favorite memory of Abe’s birth: my husband’s face on mine and both of us saying, “He’s coming!”

The nurse continued to instruct me to push with each contraction. Epidural or not, I could feel the pain of Abe’s head descending. Doula held one leg, I held the other, and my husband sat behind me supporting my head. I asked for a mirror in my birth plan, which turned out to be extremely helpful. I could see what was working and what wasn’t with each push. David could also see everything that was happening without leaving my head. I moved Abe so quickly that the nurse told me to stop and wait for the midwife.

When the midwife walked in, so did scary doctor. He just “happened” to be in the neighborhood on a Sunday and thought he would stop by. I later learned that convinced I would be having a c-section, he asked to be informed when I was admitted so that he could perform it. I’m not sure I spoke to him or even acknowledged him for the brief moment he was there. I just pushed as hard and as long as I could to show him I didn’t need him.

Pushing got more painful each time and I began to let out those primitive grunts you hear women making on TV. Sometimes the midwife would count 3 pushes and I would throw in an extra fourth before the contraction was over. I began to repeat from my gut, “Get him out. I have to get him out.”

Suddenly, the room went blurry. I could still hear voices, but no longer was I a part of it all. I entered a tunnel of my own, staring into the mirror and watching my baby.

“Erin! Reach down and feel his head! He has so much hair!” someone murmured in the distance. I reached down because I was told to, but I didn’t really put effort into feeling. I just kept pushing.

“You’re almost there! He’s turning the corner!”

My husband’s was the only clear voice. He shouted and laughed, “You’re doing it! Yes!”

When Abe’s head turned the corner and straightened out, I stopped watching the mirror. I went inside myself to push with everything I had. I don’t remember anyone telling me the head was out, or that his shoulder was out, or that he was born. I don’t remember Doula shouting, “Grab your baby!” I remember pushing until I looked down on my stomach and there he was. There was the person I’d been waiting to meet, pink as a rose and loud as a train.

David cut the cord and followed Abe to the scale and then to the warmer where the nurses tended to him for five long minutes. Doula was at my side smiling. I remember her saying, “Isn’t this cool, Erin?!” Finally, they handed Abe to me and I placed him on my chest. Here he was, and everything felt right. Life was never life until he fit right there beneath my chin.

Birth Story Part 5: The Labor I Needed

2010-09-10T13:14:00.000-04:00

It was 9am on Sunday. I’d been in labor for 25 hours.

Of course, I was immediately given instructions to pee in a cup and put on a gown and get hooked up to the monitors. There was absolutely no way I could do any of these things, and when I started to go mental on the nurse who helped me into the bathroom (I think I started crying and shouting, “I can’t even pee!”), she started backing up like I was the exorcist. “Ok, no problem sweetie. You don’t have to pee in the cup. It’s fine.”

I made it back to the bed and felt the worst contraction yet. It hurt to cry and it hurt to breathe and Doula grabbed me under my arms and let me hang beneath her, my body limp on the floor. It was truly one of the most humiliating moments of the entire experience; hanging there like a rag doll, no control, sobbing and screaming.

My husband picked me up and placed me on the bed. Nurses began furiously poking me with needles in my left arm. I wasn’t sure why this was happening now as opposed to last night until I heard one nurse comment that I was spilling keytones in my urine and was extremely dehydrated. I didn’t remember peeing so I wasn’t sure how she knew this, but as the next contraction came I didn’t care. My body sucked down a liter of saline in 8 minutes (according to my husband). They put up another bag immediately, and another one after that. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, too much mascara, and a sweet southern voice laid her head next to mine on the bed. I felt so comforted by her. “Erin? Sweetie, I read your birth plan. We can easily accommodate everything for you, but I want you to know right now that pain medication is available to you if you need a break. I won’t ask you about it again after this.” Doula began explaining to her I’d been in labor since 8am the day before and she felt like it may be time for me to accept some help.

This was not the plan. The plan was for me to be a super hero and finish the job myself. This is what women were made to do and I was going to do it and carry the bragging rights in my pocket forever. I couldn’t surrender. It wouldn’t be my perfect birth. I said all of that to Doula with my eyes and she stared hard right back at me. Then she said the words that completely changed my life. “Erin, you get the labor you need. You don’t have to be perfect. You’re allowed to take the help.” I cried through the next contraction, feeling half like a failure and half like a woman finally free of a lifetime striving to be a hero. It all hit me at once like an emotional ton of bricks. It was finally time for me to admit that being a hero didn’t mean doing it all myself.

I continued to cry in pain and a little in relief through the following contractions while the nurse checked my progress.

26 hours in I was 8cm, 100% effaced.

The nurse smiled and got close to my face again. “Do you know how well you’ve done? It’s time for you to rest so that you can push this baby out.” I nodded and accepted help genuinely and from my heart with no ego. I’d been broken that there was no energy for ego anyway.

Stripped down to my soul, I felt a peace I’d never felt. I suddenly wasn’t disappointed that I hadn’t achieved the goals I wrote down on paper. In fact, it was the opposite. I was proud. In that moment, I changed as a person and began to see the beauty, strength, and courage in myself that I’d only pretended to see before. I couldn’t become a mom without accepting help. That was my lesson. That was the labor I needed.

Birth Story Part 4: Primal

2010-09-09T11:07:00.000-04:00

Before I left the hospital that Saturday night, the nurses all suggested I take something to help me relax for the night as I would need my strength for the next day if labor were to continue. Doula agreed it might be a good idea. I rolled over and took one of the most painful shots in my behind I’d EVER felt (how is THIS supposed to relax me?!) and went home.

Defeated.

It was late, but Doula suggested we call my chiropractor (a close friend) to see if she would make a house call to help me loosen my pelvic muscles. Amazingly, she raced to our house with her suitcase of tools.

The muscle relaxer didn’t kill the contractions, but it did make me high as a kite. I flowed in and out of crying and sleeping and breathing through contractions, which were now about every ten minutes. My chiro worked on me for 40 minutes, none of which I clearly remember except for the moment her head disconnected from her body and floated over my face repeating, “You’re doing great.”

Was it the best choice to accept the muscle relaxer? I still can’t say for certain. It did help me relax, though I still felt every contraction and only slept in 5-minute intervals over the next 4 hours. At about 3am the drugs wore off and I began working hard to breathe through contractions again. I hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before and barely drank anything since leaving for the hospital. David woke up and saw that I was back in the swing of things. Doula Shmoula had gone home to get some rest, so he did what he could to coach me through. He put me back into the bath. The pain increased and was like nothing I’d ever felt. I floated there, writhing in pain, and in between each contraction I looked David in the eye and apologized because I couldn’t do it anymore. “I tried,” I told him over and over again.

I got out of the tub at about 4:30am and began pacing the house. I entered a primal state of being, grunting and groaning and ignoring everyone and everything around me. David tried standing in front of me with food and water, at one point even offering me a sandwich. I shouted, “I HATE THE CRUST,” and pushed past him. I’ve never had a problem with sandwich crusts, not even as a kid, but at the moment it was the only control I had.

Doula came back at about 5:30am. I could hear her and David whispering over me while I rolled and twisted in agony on the bed, but I never caught anything they said. I remembering thinking that I hoped they were both in agreement that labor was over and I could go eat some chicken noodle soup. I even sat up after a contraction and announced I was finished and I was going to the table to eat a meal. The trouble with labor is that no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop it. The end to the pain comes when it wants, not when you decide.

I labored through the worst four hours of my life there in my bedroom. I cried and screamed and begged Doula to make it stop. She continued changing my positions and suggesting new alternatives. In the end, I found myself in the tub again. I screamed in desperation, “TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL.” Doula asked me what was going to happen at the hospital and I snapped that I didn’t know, I just needed to go somewhere. I needed to do something different. Doula looked me in the eye, the sunlight beginning to peer through the bathroom window, and said, “If you do three contractions in the squatting position, we’ll go to the hospital.”

I looked straight back and asked, “Are you f*&king kidding me?” She shook her head no.

“I want your water to break,” she whispered. “I want your labor to progress. Now let’s do three contractions. You’re doing great.”

I did those three contractions in the squatting position and like a lioness, roared through the house to the car. I don’t remember the second ride to the hospital. Nor do I remember the security guard who apparently told David to just park in a handicapped spot because he was so fearful of the noises I was making. David said he thought I was dying. I do remember being pushed in a wheelchair straight to labor and delivery and walking directly to the same room I’d left. I didn’t even stop to ask where to go. That was my room and I was taking it back.

Birth Story Part 3: Deep Breaths

2010-09-08T15:51:00.000-04:00

Doula Shmoula arrived and gave me a big hug. “See? I told you eventually you’d go into labor!” I’d been contracting since about 8am. It was now 2pm. Doula held the space while my friends watched YouTube videos and played games on their phones. It felt like a totally normal day, except that every 5 minutes I stopped participating to breathe.

At about 4pm, contractions got a bit stronger. Doula suggested I lean on my birthing ball for a while on account of the nasty back labor I was feeling. My friends, good instincts and all, decided it was time to pack up and go. My husband turned off the TV and put on some of my favorite music. He fed me melon and water in between contractions.

I was staying on top of each contraction by taking deep breaths, focusing on filling my lungs, and changing positions at least every half hour.

Doula Shmoula was key. She had all kinds of creative positions for me to try. Some of them gave me great relief, and some of them increased the pressure so much that my teeth started chattering uncontrollably. Watching me in pain was scary to my husband, but Doula reassured him that we were doing everything right. She was trying to help me position Abe’s head in such a way that would continue the forward progression of labor and make it easiest for him to make his debut.

It had now been about 12 hours since my contractions started, and things felt intense. Doula had me in the tub and I was feeling a lot more pain. I could tell David was starting to get on edge, concerned that I was now so verbal with each contraction. As she had done all day, Doula asked me a series of questions at this, what seemed like a transition point. “Are you feeling the need to bear down? Is the pressure in your back coming and going with contractions? Can you feel the baby moving lower?” She concluded that it was probably time to make our move. Her concern was that if contractions got much stronger, my water could break and labor could progress very rapidly. And while I admire home births, it wasn’t on my short list for the day.

The ride to the hospital was pretty terrible, I'm not gonna lie. I could tell my husband was driving like a bat out of hell and in between contractions I shouted from the back seat, “Don’t get a ticket!” I’d seen those shows where women were in labor and their husbands got pulled over and they ended up delivering in the car.

I slowly walked, contracted, and walked again to labor and delivery. They checked us in and forced me to do a ridiculous amount of things that no woman in labor should have to do. Pee in a cup? Right now? This doesn’t seem like the time. Lie flat on my back so that you can monitor my contractions? Lady, I can tell you myself when the contractions are coming. Just listen.

The pain throughout these hospital intake rituals was horrible. I felt like I was losing control. Then came the questions: “Who will be taking care of this baby when you get home? Do either of you use heroin? Does anyone in your family have cancer or acne?” David answered everything as best he could while holding my hand and breathing with me. I began to get so aggravated with all the questioning that I started twisting and turning in the bed to get the contraction monitor to move so she would have to reposition it and stop asking. Doula stayed at my head, reminding me to focus and breathe.

Finally, after an hour of questions and protocol, it was time to check my progress. I felt like I had to be at 8 centimeters, but I would settle for a 6. I pleaded with the nurse, “Gentle, please be gentle,” as I anticipated the pain of the next contraction. She checked. I waited. And finally…

“Four and a half, or so. That’s good.”

WHAT? I screamed fairly loudly at that point. FOUR? I’VE BEEN FOUR SINCE THURSDAY.

“Oh, ok,” she replied. “Well, let’s see if you progress over the next hour and then we’ll formally admit you. If not, we can just send you home. It’s best.”

Send me HOME?! Pardon my French, but are you FAR-REAKING KIDDING ME? I’ve been in labor for 13 hours and you want to send me HOME? I panicked, refused, insisted I was having a baby, but alas. My contractions began to slow down. We walked the hospital and tried a few new positions, but nothing kicked me back into gear. My morale was completely obliterated. I went back to the room, sunk into the bed, and cried. Doula, David and I talked to me for a while about how frustrating this was, trying to coax me out of the hospital. The nurse checked me again. Fourteen hours, and still 4 centimeters. The nurse told me this was fairly normal for a first pregnancy, but it didn’t matter. I was sunk. And I was giving up. I felt like a complete and utter failure.

Birth Story Part 2: I'm Not in Labor

2010-09-07T11:41:00.000-04:00

(If I don't break this story up into parts, you'll be reading for an hour and a half, so bear with me.)

After another day of no contractions, I started to get frustrated. Come on! Four centimeters? People get epidurals by four centimeters! I called Doula Shmoula to complain. She told me to pick out a recipe for dinner and cook something scrumptious for my mom and husband. I snapped out of my funk, watched Food Network, made fun of Rachel Ray (what is she talking about half the time?) and finally decided on a chicken and pasta dish, followed with homemade crepes. The dinner was delicious, and I was still pregnant.

I slept well and woke up disappointed on a Saturday morning. By this point, I was beginning to resemble a fat Eeyore. “Woe is me. I guess I’ll just be pregnant forever. Nobody seems to care anyway.”

My friend sent me a link to Deepak Chopra’s 21-day Meditation challenge. I didn’t have anything else to do and decided I would try to meditate on labor. I can be hippy dippy. I sat, holed up in my room, lotus position on my bed, listening to some guy tell me to watch my thoughts float or something. It was super hard to concentrate:

“Right here, there is only right now. Mmm, do I smell pancakes? Is my mom making pancakes? No wait, clear my mind. Was that a contraction? Clear my mind, CONTRACTION! Wait, did I make that up? Did I just feel one? Right, clear my mind. Float back to the now. Here and now. There is only now. I wonder if that was a contraction. I should probably open my eyes and look at the clock to see if I can time them. But then I’ll break my concentration on the now. I’ll just peek with one eye. Then, it’s right back to the now. 7:44am. Ok, remember that. Back to the now. I wonder how long this meditation is. I should have looked at the time before I started. Then I’d know how long I had to sit here in the now. Is that a contraction? Or a cramp… CONTRACTION! Right?”

This went on for 30 minutes until I finally got up and took a shower. I decided in the shower to invite all of our friends over for lunch and walk up to the store to pick up a few things. I’ve been fooled before, clearing my entire schedule in anticipation of Abe’s arrival. Not anymore.

CONTRACTION!

I was pretty sure I felt another one. But I just kept drying my hair and getting ready for my day. I’m not falling for this.

CONTRACTION!

These don’t even hurt. I casually mentioned to David that I was feeling contractions on my way out the door and he stopped me. “We have to call Doula Shmoula!” he exclaimed.
“No, no, don’t be so gullible. This is what always happens. It’s not labor. I’m going to the store.”

“Well, I’m coming with you! Your water might break.”

“Fine.”

CONTRACTION!

David immediately pulled up the contraction timer application on his phone that he’d downloaded weeks before and started timing. As soon as each one was over, he announced how far apart they were, as well as duration.

“6 minutes, lasted 45 seconds! Good one!”

When the woman in the store asked me when I was due, I smiled and said, “Now. I’m in labor now.” I mainly did this for the shock factor, not because I thought I was actually in labor. It worked. Her jaw dropped and that made me happy. I'd been waiting to say that for 9 months.

CONTRACTION!

When we got back home, David asked me if I wanted him to cancel lunch. I explained that if he cancelled lunch, we would sit around waiting for contractions and they’d stop. So all of our friends piled in with subs and smoothies. We watched The Hangover and tossed jokes back and forth. I was still contracting regularly, but I was easily breathing through them and getting back to the movie.

Finally, David couldn’t take it anymore. He called Doula Shmoula, who agreed it was time for her to stop by the house and hang out for a bit. Fine, waste her time, I thought. But I’m not in labor.

Birth Story Part 1: No Admittance

2010-09-06T12:23:00.001-04:00

On a Thursday afternoon, I went in for my bi-weekly NST (aka worthless time spent sitting in the uncomfortable chair). While hooked up to the machine, I started having contractions. They didn’t hurt at all and made lovely mountains on my side of the paper print out. Immediately after the NST, I had an ultrasound to check Abe’s amniotic fluid and growth.

“You haven’t delivered yet?!” asked the nurse as I walked by. Isn’t that an adorable thing to ask a woman who is 38 weeks pregnant?

Suddenly, my doctor waltzed in, completed an ultrasound in 6 seconds, announced that I was 4cm and in active labor and must be admitted to the hospital immediately.

Um, what? I’m not contracting regularly. I don’t even feel most of them. Don’t I have to have contractions to be in LABOR?? I told the doctor I wanted to go home and he acted extremely reluctant, as if he was going to strap me to a chair and force me to be admitted. He called in the midwife, who seemed much less concerned.

“She lives 2 miles away, she’ll be fine.”

“Well, I don’t want her to drive home with contractions.”

“She can’t feel them. Can you feel them? She can’t feel them.”

“If her water breaks, she could go fast.”

“She’s not going to deliver at home. She can come back in the morning and go on the NST again if she doesn’t deliver tonight.”

All the while, I’m laying on the exam table wondering if I’m still in the room. When the two decided it was safe to send me home, I praised God and called my mom. She packed a bag and came up just in case things started happening that night.

Thursday night came and went and I drove back to the doctor’s office on Friday morning. I had no contractions for the previous 8 hours so I felt confident I would be sent back home, which is what I desperately wanted. After all, I had a Doula Shmoula. If they admitted me, I wouldn’t get to labor in my tub or on my birthing ball or on my bed or anywhere that was comfortable and serene to me.

The nurse hooked me up to the NST machine and I began to read my book when suddenly … a contraction. What? I haven’t had any in 8 hours and I get one now in this chair!? Well, certainly one isn’t enough to send me to L&D.

A second contraction five minutes later. Seriously? Now?! My contractions couldn’t wait until lunch?

A third, 5 minutes later. This is just great. I’m contracting regularly but ONLY when I sit in this uncomfortable chair. The midwife came in and looked at my mountains. I desperately tried to explain to her that I only contract when I sit in that chair.

She smirked, half believing me and half assuming I just wanted to go home. “If you are any more dilated, I’m going to have a hard time justifying sending you home.” She checked me. 4 centimeters. Everybody breathe a deep sigh of relief. We’re going home again.

My Cave

2010-08-24T18:46:00.000-04:00

The last weeks of pregnancy are very strange. Not only do I feel an intense need for pregnancy to be over, but it's almost completely overpowering. I can't focus on much else than nesting and preparing myself. Being someone who works from home, I assumed I could work up until the day I delivered. But suddenly, at about 36 weeks, it became incredibly taxing to think about work. It's not even hard work. The smallest, most mundane task that doesn't include preparing for Abraham is like asking me to run a marathon in my bare feet.
They say in the wild that mother animals go into a cave or far off place when they're ready to deliver. In fact, even animals at the zoo will halt their own labor until they get away from the crowds of people and hide in a safe place. I suppose my mind was telling my body it was time to find a cave. I've got a really nice cave with some unbelievably soft sheets and air conditioning. And today I finally turned on my work email's automatic responder and let all the clients know that it was time for me to retreat.
So at almost 3cm, 37.5 weeks, and other encouraging numbers as well, I am surrendering to the fact that this last phase of pregnancy could certainly last 3 weeks or more and there's not a darn thing I can do about it. First pregnancies go past due all the time. The worst part of it will be answering, "Yes," everytime someone asks me if I'm still pregnant until early September. But, if that's the worst part and I end up with a healthy, fully-cooked Abe, it's worth it.

The Latest Numbers

2010-08-22T10:17:00.000-04:00

2cm
70% efaced
-1 station

Translation?

Locked and loaded, but we all continue to wait...

BOOYAH

2010-08-20T17:31:00.000-04:00

In the ongoing quest to make my life difficult, my OBGYN and Endocrinologist seem to be having a letter-writing war over whether or I not I visit a high-risk OB specialist. The Endo insists it's necessary (more than likely because she's liable), and my OBGYN sees no reason for it as he has treated me for 9 months. So finally last week my OBGYN showed me the Endo's requests and told me he didn't care either way if I wanted to see a specialist for my last ultrasound, that he would be glad to refer to me to get this Endo off his back (my words, not his). So I begrudgingly agreed.
The specialist, Dr. Stone, is in a different hospital. The waiting room was FILLED with people who looked like they needed "special care", if you know what I mean. After waiting 45 minutes and avoiding contracting hepatitis, we finally heard my name called.
"I'm the nurse, I'm going to ask you some questions about your medical history." You can imagine my uncontrollable jubilance for having to give another medical professional my medical history. I answered all her questions, wondering why there isn't some database somewhere that contains all my medical history for all these information-hungry people without taking up an hour and a half of my day. You can get my address and favorite food off the internet in 3 clicks. Why not what drugs I'm allergic to?
As with all medical professionals, to her I resembled a giant checked box with "Gestational Diabetes" written next to it. She described my risks, including a stillborn baby (thanks for bringing that up again), and encouraged how incredibly important it was that I keep my sugars under control. As she spoke, my husband could feel me posturing. I wanted to stand up and yell, "LADY! I KICKED INSULIN'S ASS. MY BLOOD PRESSURE IS BETTER THAN MOST OLYMPIC ATHLETES. I HAVEN'T HAD ICE CREAM IN 6 MONTHS. THERE'S YOUR MEDICAL HISTORY." She could tell I was incredibly annoyed and sped up the questioning. This was, admittedly, not my shining moment.
After waiting another 15 minutes to get into the ultrasound room, a lovely woman walked in and began covering my belly in goo and taking Abe's measurements faster than I could even watch them on the screen. "Femur, looks good. Heart, looks good. Head's down. Here's a foot. There's his package. (She really said that.) Head is big. Ok all set. The doctor will be in in a moment." By this point I'm thinking, hello? I came to you people because you're specialists. You're SPECIAL! Do something SPECIAL!
That's when Dr. Stone walked in. Dr. Stone is apparently Javier Bardem's incredibly hot, middle-aged uncle with an unbelievable Spanish accent. He began looking through the pictures with me on the screen and I listened to his pronunciation of every word, big and small, and probably giggled more than I have since high school. My husband could have chosen to be intimidated, but that's so not his style. He thought this was pretty much one of the coolest doctors ever, too. Dr. Stone even answered his iPhone in the middle of our conversation, hung up and said, "That was my wife. If I don't answer, she gets pissed off. You understand (motioning to David)." I love this guy.
And I love him even more when he tells me what he sees. A 6 pound 11 ounce baby boy in the 53rd percentile, measuring exactly where he should. His head is the only big part of him, but it's in the right spot and facing the right direction. He tells me my sugars are fine, the placenta is fine, and the baby is fine and not to worry. And then he looks at me and says, "You know what you need to do? Stop checking your sugar so much. Your sugars are fine. Relax." HOW MUCH DO WE LOVE HIM?
He checked our due date using an app on his iPhone and shook both of our hands before congratulating us and leaving the room. BOOYAH GIANT BABY THREATENERS. MY BABY IS NO GIANT! Now, the giant head could pose a small problem with the exit strategy I have in mind, but we're going to think positive, yes?

Spot

2010-08-19T12:22:00.000-04:00

I have not eaten a meal that didn't result in this stain on this spot of my stomach for 3 months.

A Little Bit Louder Now

2010-08-18T12:29:00.000-04:00

I cooked dinner last night for my husband and I after a day of doing nearly nothing else. The moment I sat down to eat with him, I started feeling a tightening in my back. My husband was chatting with me about his day and I interrupted him to say, "My back hurts, suddenly."
"Oh," he replied. "You want me to rub it?"
"No," I said. "I'm fine."
My husband kept talking while the tightness in my back slowly spread around to my sides. I sort of drifted away from the table and stared at the wall. His voice started sounding like a quiet Charlie Brown's mom. Then the front of my belly started cramping and within in a few seconds, it felt like a huge belt was being tied around my midsection. While my husband talked, I froze like a statue with my hand on my fork. Finally, my husband stopped eating and talking long enough notice I'd become a wifesicle.
"E? You alright?"
"Yeah," I said. I wasn't alright-eat-your-dinner-I'm-normal alright, but I was alright. Finally, the belt started to loosen and I picked up my fork and ate dinner like nothing happened. It was a little out-of-body.
Nearly the same thing happened at lunch.
So when I went in to the doctor to get an update on Abe and I's mountain ranges, I asked him about that feeling. "Oh yeah? Sounds good. Those are real contractions," he smirked.
"REALLY?" I asked a little louder than necessary.
"Sounds like it. Make sure if you start feeling them often you time them."
"I had real contractions?! Like to have a baby?!?"
"Yep. It's normal."
"WOOW! I'M A CENTIMETER DILATED AND I HAD REAL CONTRACTIONS!"
At this point the doctor replied only with nodding. He sees this happen everyday so if I'm having contractions a dilating a cm, he's not really that impressed. I was smiling like someone bought me a huge ice cream and I was actually allowed to eat it. "Any other questions or changes?"
"Oh yeah, one more. There's been a lot of...stuff...coming out of...my lower regions."
"Ok. What color?"
"Yellow."
"Oh, that's your mucus plug. You're slowly losing it. Also normal."
"MY MUCUS PLUG??? IM' A CENTIMETER DILATED AND I HAD REAL CONTRACTIONS AND MY MUCUS PLUG IS FALLING OUT??? SHOULD I BE ADMITTED?"
"It's all normal. You're fine. It could be weeks. Just go home and relax."
I couldn't understand how the doctor was so casual with all this information. I mean, this means we're on our way to having a baby, people! This is it! Shouldn't there be some kind of confetti or presentation of beautiful flowers or SOMETHING? If I ever become an OB-GYN, I'm going to have streamers and noise-makers all set up in a special room where women find out they're in the early stages of labor. It's only right!

Measuring Mountains in Centimeters

2010-08-15T10:00:00.005-04:00

Twice a week I have to go in for an NST, non-stress test. They wrap a bunch of cords around my belly, sit me in a broken and uncomfortable recliner, and agitate Abe until his heart rate goes up enough times in 20 minutes that they consider him "reactive". Abe hates this. I hate this. It's uncomfortable and long and frankly, worthless. I have figured out that if I eat an apple in the waiting room and chug ice cold water as soon as they hook me up to the machine, Abe is "reactive". Kinda fishy that I'm able to manipulate the test so easily? Rotten salmon fishy if you ask me. But whatever. I oblige twice a week.

This pic is upside down, so flip your screen over for a minute.

So there I sat in the chair Friday, all wrapped up in cords, waiting for Abe to make enough mountains on the paper print out to prove that he is still fine.

When the nurse came in, she was very please at all the mountains Abe made on her printout. But more than that, she was kind of surprised by another mountain range. "Is he kicking you a lot?" she asked.

The lefthand mountain range is Abe's, the righthand mountain range is mine.

"Well, yeah. I mean, he's definitely moving around in there, why?" I asked. She sat and watched the printout for a minute or so.
Finally, she said, "It looks like you're having contractions. Are you feeling them?"
"Me?" I asked. Admittedly, this was a dumb question.
"It looks right here like you had a contraction." She pointed to a mountain. "You're not feeling them?"
"No, I'm not feeling them." Kind of awesome if I am having contractions, I thought. Labor is EASY.
I met her in an exam room and she measured my belly. Thirty-six weeks, dead on. She pushed around and asked about pain, blah blah. She sat down and opened my chart. Then came the words any perfectionist kills to hear. "You know, Erin, no other patient in the last 15 years I've worked here has ever kept their sugars so consistently logged and level as you have." Some women like it when men compliment their bodies. Others love to hear that they're kind, selfless people. I swoon over being commended on my rule-following ability.
"It's probably a good idea for us to check you and make sure you're not dilated." I laid back. No modesty with the "checking", I can assure you.
"Oh," she said.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm not going to check all the way so I don't encourage dilation, but I think you're already about a centimeter. And you're definitely thinning." Translation? Labor has begun! Now, labor can begin weeks before you actually pop the kid out, but still. My body, with a million doctors telling it that it could never handle this on its own, had started doing EXACTLY what it was meant to do. I almost cried on the table. I was so unbelievably happy. I also cried earlier that day when I realized my husband bought me two tubs of cottage cheese, not just one. Nonetheless, it was a poignant moment.
At 36 weeks, the docs aren't quite ready for me to give in and just let Abe fly out. So I'm ordered to modified bed rest for the next week. Basically, I have to lay down whenever possible, but if I need to make a sandwich or go to the store, I still can. They should rename modified bedrest "Dream Come True."

I'll Have the Vindication, and a Side Salad

2010-08-12T12:24:00.003-04:00

My husband and I went out to dinner that night. I sat at the table daydreaming about how great it will be when Abe is out and I don't have to deal with these doctors anymore. I decided earlier that day that despite this pregnancy being stressful and difficult (as I'd imagine most are), I want to have another kid JUST to try different doctors and start with what I know now.
At 8am the next morning, my husband was putting on his fancy shoes and getting ready to hit the road. I was still rolling around in bed because, honestly, peeling out of bed before 8am feels like a sledgehammer to the soul. He came in to give me a kiss goodbye and the phone rang. Oh dear lord, I'm not ready for the fight. I'm half asleep. Please don't let it be the Endo nurse.
"Sure, yes, I'll see if she's available...Erin? It's the Endo nurse."
DARN DARN DOUBLE DARN.
I tried to perk up and make it sound like "good morning" weren't the first words I'd uttered that day when I picked up the phone. I had that half adrenaline, half heart palpitations thing going, hoping that I was awake enough to make sense in my arguments and remember all of my questions.
"Hi, Erin. How ya doin' babe?" she asked.
Wait. Babe? Hmm. This is new.
"I'm doing just fine, thanks, how are you?"
She skipped the answer and told me she'd pulled my file and spoken to the doctor, who she calls "Doc". I find this insulting to people who have actually been doctors for more than 10 years and earned the nickname "Doc." She went on to say that Doc had no idea I wasn't on insulin. (Well, surprise, surprise. Doc hasn't spoken to me in 8 weeks and you forgot to write it down in my chart. But who wants to dredge up the past?) And then...she said, "And Doc said that's fine."
Wait again. "Doc" didn't argue?? Ooooh reeeealllly??
"Doc said as long as you're keeping your daily numbers in check, there's no need to go on insulin now since you're due in 4 weeks."
I was ready for a fight. This sudden compliance with the validity of my concerns COMPLETELY blindsided me. My first instinct was to say, "Now you listen to me, nurse lady..." but I didn't need to.
"So, anyway, doc said that if your numbers do start to go up, we'll need to revisit the insulin but for the mean time, you're doing a great job with the diet and you don't need to go back on it."
"Oh," I said. "Ok, great. So there's no concern about my sugars?"
"Nope. You're all set. Just keep faxing in those numbers every week and let us know how you're doing, ok dear?"
Dear?? WHO ARE YOU?
I hung up the phone and sat in stunned silence for a moment. My husband was waiting for me to tell him what she said. When I gave him the other side of the conversation, he smiled and raised his hand in the air. "High five! Team Cohen! Way to be an informed patient who thinks for herself and listens to her instincts!!"
Ha! Yeah! Booyah! Abe and I are fine! I questioned injecting myself with toxins everyday for the "health" of my baby, and vindication was mine. I felt so proud that finally, for the first time during this pregnancy, I listened to my body FIRST. Now, none of this is to say that I won't have lunch with Clyde again if my baby's health depended on it. We are lucky enough to live in a country with immediate access to life-saving medical solutions. But somewhere along the lines, we forgot that we can think for ourselves instead of nodding and carrying our prescriptions to the pharmacy. Scary!
So Abe and I continue to live a protein-rich, insulin-free life together. Hopefully, though, he'll choose to live that life SEPARATELY from me sooner than later. :)

Who Ya Gonna Call?

2010-08-11T15:43:00.001-04:00

After Clyde and I broke it off and I told all my doctors our relationship had ended, I continued getting my Bonnie Numbers four times a day and faxed them to the endocrinologist weekly. My numbers have been lovely and steady, thank you body. So far, so good.
And then the poo hit the fan. Last week my endocrinologist's nurse asked that I get a hemoglobinA1C blood test. This is a simple test that looks at red blood cells and gets the average glucose percentage in your body for the past 3 months. Anything between 4.9 and 6.0 is normal. Mine was 5.1 several months ago; totally normal. But she wanted me to take another to get an update. Rule-follower that I am, I didn't ask questions. I took my veins down to the local blood suckers, who actually know me AND Abe by first name now, and left a little sample.
This week, the nurse called back and left me a message.
"Hi Erin. This is Dr. Endo's nurse. She said your hemoglobin A1C went up and she wants you to up your dosage of insulin starting this week. Call me back, thanks, bye."

Several things wrong with this message:
1. Will I ever talk to the endocrinologist again, or just the nurse?
2. She never mentioned what my A1C percentage was now? I'll be completely panicking about that until I get back in touch with her.
3. I'm not taking insulin anymore, and I told her that 2 weeks ago. How do I up the dosage if I'm not taking any?

I called her back and she told me my A1C was 5.6, and then immediately had to run and "would call me back to answer more questions." Now, I'm not sure how good you are with numbers, but to me, 5.6 still appears to fall within the "normal range." I mean, double check my math...but...
So instead of calmly determining my next questions before the nurse called back, I started crying and getting very angry.
Irrational, party of 1? Your table is ready.

My husband was out of town and I didn't know any friends who would understand why I was so angry and felt in my BONES she was going to tell me I had no choice but to go back on insulin despite my awesome Bonnie Numbers and normal A1C and how FRUSTRATING THAT WAS!

And then a little song began to play in my head.
"When a doctor's nuts, and you need some guts, who ya gonna call?
DOULA SHMOULA!
When they don't make sense, you need good defense. Who ya gonna call?
DOULA SHMOULA!"

I rattled off the whole story to Doula and she agreed, it didn't quite make sense yet. She helped me formulate my questions (Why are you recommending insulin? Is 5.1 to 5.6 a big jump? Is there lab variability? Do my Bonnie Numbers mean nothing?) and armed me with a little pep talk about trusting my instincts. And when that nurse called back, I was ready. An informed patient, I offered up my questions and encouraged her that I was glad to take the insulin so long as I understood why. First, she was appalled that I wasn't taking insulin (apparently she forgot to write that down in my chart 2 weeks ago when I told her), and second, she couldn't answer any of my questions except to say that she had no idea I wasn't on insulin. Finally, she released the biggest, most frustrated sigh I've heard since I last learned we were out of cottage cheese and said, "Well, I guess I'll have to pull your chart and discuss your questions with the doctor because I don't know the answers."
Um...thank you? For doing your job?

Nearly 3pm by that point, I had a sinking sensation I wasn't going to get an answer anytime soon. I sat, completely terrified that I was missing a precious day of insulin that could be saving my baby just because I was raising a stink about why I should take it. Am I completely selfish? Am I one of those patients that assumes to know more than the doctor? Are my instincts clouded by pregnancy hormones?

TBC...

Herman

2010-08-09T14:34:00.000-04:00

This is where it gets personal, folks.

Everyone assures me that eventually during my pregnancy, I will meet a little guy named Herman. Who is Herman, you ask? Herman is a hemorrhoid. I didn't really know what one was. It's the one thing EVERYONE warned me would happen (just you wait), and it never did.
Until one night.
I had a mad craving for a certain fondue restaurant. I found a coupon (which makes food taste better, if you ask me) and invited my husband out for a date. It was the first time in months that I ate until I could barely move. I whined and moaned the ENTIRE drive home, "Oooh I'm completely full of baby and food, and the baby is kicking the food. Oooooh."
I immediately stopped in the bathroom to pee when we got home. It felt so comfortable there on the john, that I picked up a magazine and read for a few minutes. I never do that, but I was secretly hoping that if I sat there I could convince my stomach to empty its contents and give me a little more room. (I'm saying all this as politely as I can...)
I stood up to walk into the living room and stopped dead in my tracks.
"What?" my husband asked.
"Hemerrhoid,"I replied.
"You got one?"
"What does one feel like?" I asked, but it came out more like pleading.
"I don't know. I think it's like something is coming out. Or hanging around," he responded.
"Oh. My. God."
I stood there staring at him, like if I stared long enough he would tell me he was sure it wasn't a Herman and we could all move on.
"Well," he finally said, "touch it. Is something there?"
I went into the other room and started sobbing. "I touched it!" I screamed. "I have one! I have a Herman! I have a huge belly, an aching back, leg cramps, sore feet, and a hemerrhoid! Babe! No! I don't want this!"
"It's fine, honey!" my husband spoke through the door. "It will probably be there for a while and then it will go away, I don't think it's a big deal."
I continued sobbing. My husband went into my drawers to get the antidote; I always kept hemerroid cream around because I saw on the Today show that it can help reduce under-eye bags (and it really does work, you should check it out). He cracked the door, handed it to me, and told me to try it. I sat there, sobbing, and "tried it." Then I walked back to the bedroom, more crying, more whining, and tried to go to sleep.
"Erin?"
"Yeah?" I sniffled.
"Are you going to blog about this?"
"Of course I am. The people have a right to know."
I woke up 15 times in the middle of the night to pee and everytime, I grabbed the antidote. I'm not sure what the maximum usage in a 24-hour period is, but whatever it is I'm pretty sure I quadrupled it at least. This was war.
I woke up the next morning and hopped in the shower. I'd almost forgotten about Herman. He suddenly flashed across my mind like a swift right hook and I closed my eyes. Please, lord. Take Herman away.
Several minutes later I came running (well, walking at a pace faster than the slowest saunter you could possibly imagine is "running" right now) out of the bathroom in a robe screaming, "Babe! IT'S A MIRACLE!! IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!"
"What?" he shouted.
"HERMAN IS GONE!"
"HERMAN IS GONE???"
"YES!! I'VE KILLED HERMAN!"
My husband remarked that that was wonderful and went back to his coffee.
I felt very good about myself the rest of the day having killed Herman in one night. And to all those threatening that Herman will return, I laugh at your threats. I have the antidote. And I know how to use it.

Analyze This

2010-08-06T12:48:00.001-04:00

Ok, dream analyzers. Tell me what this one means:

So I'm 9 months pregnant and helping a friend get out of a maze. I black out and when I wake up, I'm in a hospital room and I've given birth. There are about 30 nurses meandering around, as well as my whole family. One of the nurses is holding my baby, so I approach her and she asks me if I want to hold "my baby." I say yes, remarking to myself how strange it is that I can walk without any pain.

I take the blanket and in it is an African Parrot. I'm trying to hold the parrot like a baby, but it's really fighting me. It hates being on its back. It starts pecking me with its beak and eventually gets out of my hands and flies away. I'm really disappointed; I want to see Abe.
So I turn around to wash my hands in my kitchen sink, which is there in the room, and someone hands me "my baby" again. It's a little Filipino girl, probably about 6 months old. She has a really runny, crusty nose. I start to feel horrible about myself as a mother. I don't want this little girl at all. She's cute and nice, but I don't love her. I love Abe. And I can't find him. I wipe her nose and put her on my hip.
Then the doctor emails me. My computer in there in the room (luckily) and I read that he has never seen a patient like me before in his entire career and that it's all really strange. I concur in my head. I turn around and ask how much Abe weighed when he was born. My mother, in scrubs, tells me he weighed just over 4 pounds and if I had carried him any longer I would have had a lot of pressure an felt very uncomfortable. She still didn't tell me where he was.
Then another doctor comes in to give my family, and all the nurses, a power point presentation about pediatricians. He recommends to me that I should see one pediatrician in particular, an Asian man, because my daughter is Filipino. My mother agrees (she's sitting behind me and wearing black skinny jeans with a ton of jewelry now). I turn and tell her I like the pediatrician I chose and I don't want to change and she looks at me like I'm crazy. "Oh," she says. "Well, I like this Asian one." I leave the room and start walking down a hall to find Abe. I'm sobbing because I feel terribly that I don't like that little girl.
And then I wake up and pee.

Analyze. Go.

Defying Gravity

2010-08-05T14:25:00.000-04:00

I got a little more floor in this one than I'd prefer, but the point is this: That is one good-looking kid, no?

The Break Up

2010-08-04T14:43:00.003-04:00

So, Bonnie and Clyde (read about them here and here) have been by my side for a little over a month now. My Bonnie Numbers are good. I'm always within the perfect range and Bonnie has been as gentle with my fingers as she can be. But to be honest, Clyde and I have been having some trouble in our relationship. He's VERY demanding, and even though I know he means well, he starting to hurt me. It was all well and good at first, but slowly I felt like things got abusive. He's one of those guys that assures me the bruises are all going to be worth it if I just keep up our relationship; he likes to remind me he's the only one that can help me with Gestational Diabetes. There have been many nights I looked him right in the eye and said, "I can't do this, Clyde. I don't feel right about it. This feels toxic." And then he just slyly responds, "It's your choice, but do you really want to hurt your baby? I need you and you need me, and we both know it." How do I argue with that?
Well, I'll tell you how. One morning, I woke up and decided I couldn't take part in this co-dependent relationship anymore. After talking to Bonnie, I stood up and walked right past Clyde. I didn't even wake him up to tell him I was leaving. I didn't want the arguing or to feel the guilt I'd knew he'd try to smack me with. I just left.
That first day was hard. I constantly thought about what Clyde said: "Do you really want to hurt your baby?" The last thing I ever want to do is hurt my Abe, but something told me that I could do this without Clyde. It took a lot of Bonnie Numbers and a lot of protein, but I did it. And with each passing day, it got easier and easier to ignore Clyde.
The next big hurdle would be to tell my doctor that Clyde and I broke up. My doctor has not exactly demonstrated himself to be the most flexible when it comes to my relationship decisions. Plus, he REALLY likes Clyde. He feels like we're perfect for each other. My aunt gave me a pep talk, reminding me that I'm a grown up and my doctor is not in charge of my life. So at my next appointment, I told him. No, he wasn't thrilled. But I think my forthright attitude gave him little room to argue. I was finished with Clyde, and that was that.
So, it's been a little over a week since I've seen Clyde. He doesn't even live by my bed in anymore, he's completely moved out. Bonnie has been a big support during this time, and we both knew it was right. She's helped me to see that. Maybe someday Clyde and I will be friends again; maybe we'll find a way to have a mutually beneficial relationship. But for now, we're not good for eachother. And I feel stronger for having made the choice to let him go. I appreciate all the support I've gotten from friends and family, and if you hear from Clyde, please tell him I hope he's well.

I Saw the Sign

2010-08-03T09:14:00.000-04:00

These should be posted in EVERY parking lot ACROSS AMERICA. FOREVER.

I'm a Decorator

2010-08-02T09:35:00.000-04:00

I am NOT good at decorating. It has taken me a year and a half to get our living room into a configuration that's both attractive and functional. The walls are still bare. People give me ideas constantly, but they all seem so monumental that I just anxiety and take a nap.
So while I spent an entire afternoon on the internet trying to decide how to decorate Abe's room with more than just a glider and a crib (and subsequently rearranged his clothing for the 823rd time), I came upon some very cool vinyl stickers on Etsy.com. Of course, I bookmarked them and then took a nap because it was too overwhelming to commit to buying them. But when my husband saw them, he immediately picked a few that he thought would look nice in our bedroom and Abe's room. He's more of a do-er. I'm more of a list-maker and organizer. And napper. (Have I mentioned naps?)

We first got these big beautiful birch trees with sweet little brown birds for our bedroom. I think it helps to complete the West Elm look we've been going for.

Don't let the simplicity fool you. It took us about 4 hours to get them onto the wall. First I cut them out, then my husband taped them up, and then he painstakingly smoothed every inch of them onto the wall once section at a time (ensuring that each section lined up perfectly so each one looked like a single tree). If left to do this on my own, I ABSOLUTELY would have been covered in wrinkled, torn vinyl birch tree stickers and sobbing within 45 minutes.

I added the brown birds, which was easy enough because they were each one sticker. It's probably best you don't mention to my doctor or mother that I climbed my 8-months-pregnant-self to the top of a ladder to do it. It'll be our little secret.

Once I did the birds around the trees, I decided to tackle the wall above the changing table in our room. The dresser is my husband's maternal grandmother's. After she passed away, she left many beautiful old pieces of furniture in a storage unit and we snatched this one up. Such character. Neat that her great grandson will be changed on her dresser. :)
Anyway, the birds add a tad of whimsy and remind both my husband and I of one our of favorite books, Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

We added an owl above the bed in Abe's room because it's freaking adorable, and because it came free with the birch trees.

My friend Tamara made these AMAZING letters by HAND for Abe.

We hung those above his crib and finally agreed upon a place for the hippo and viola! Abe has a few decorations! I'm a decorator! Kind of!

A Shameless Plug

2010-07-30T14:14:00.000-04:00

My girl Rebekah shot my wedding (at the last minute, I might add, thanks to my husband's complete lack of planning) on New Years almost 3 years ago. You know how there are girl's girls and then there are girls who act like girl's girls but are really just kinda self-involved snots? (Guys, you know what I'm talking about here, right?) Rebekah is an ego-less crazy-talented girl's girl who has become an inspiring friend. She's a momma and a wife and a preggo and a professional photographer all at the same time right now. I know. It made me tired just typing it.
Anywho, she's a blogger, too, and interviewed ME this week for her blog. I'll admit, I totally considered getting an agent or some form of representation for a minute, but once my head shrunk back down to size I just answered the questions honestly. Thanks for making me feel so special, Rebekah!

Check out her weekly LLPs (Life's Little Pleasures) as well as her unmatched photography. Oh, and read the interview.
http://imaradmom.com/

Belly Notes

2010-07-29T15:02:00.002-04:00

Good One

2010-07-26T13:50:00.000-04:00

Heard this one this weekend:

“Oh wow! When are you due, like, now? I mean, am I going to need to drive you to the hospital before I leave??”

Yep, yes you are. And I’m going to make you hold a leg.

Tops

2010-07-23T12:11:00.000-04:00

One thing I loved about maternity clothes in the beginning was that there weren’t too many of them in my closet. This meant that for every time I had to choose an outfit, I could pick from 2 pairs of pants, 2 pairs of shorts, and about 10 shirts. Easy peasy! Getting dressed had never been so stress-free. But now, my perspective is changing. It’s not that I’m dissatisfied with the amount of clothes I can currently wear. No, it’s not that at all.

I have found myself staring at women the past few days. No, I'm not considering a lifestyle change at this point (though, it's not altogether out of the question considering it was a man who did this to me). I look at women and reminisce about how fun it used to be to wear tops. I don’t wear tops now. I wear sheets of fabric. Nothing is fitted. Darts are no longer a possibility. I don’t even wear t-shirts well, as most of them are now too short (unless they’re maternity and have that ever-glamorous rouching down the sides). I miss going to Forever 21 or Target and just picking up a cute top. Even without trying it on I knew if a top would fit my body-type. And I’d flounce home and pop my brand new, usually sale item top into my closet and feel like I’d changed my whole wardrobe. I won’t even bore you with the sadness I have about my jeans. I actually had a dream about wearing my favorite pair again, which may never happen.

Now, I haven’t experienced the big feet thing. My feet have stayed pretty much the same size, which I hope means the shoe rack I just bought (because Abe cannot be born into a family where we store shoes on the floor) won’t need to be restocked. If my feet do happen to grow, I’ll accept this. Because it means it’s perfectly acceptable to buy all new shoes. Right?

No one can truly prepare you for how much your body is going to change when you get pregnant. My mother told me that I should be buying bigger underwear and I didn’t believe her until all my Victoria’s Secret undies started screaming for their very lives when I put them on. And for all the sundresses my friends assured me I could still wear while I was pregnant? Pah-lease. Some of those dresses would now be shorter than anything Britney Spears would dream of wearing. My belly uses up all the fabric in the front that was once meant for modesty. And I don't suppose clothes are going to fit much better when my belly starts to go down but my boobs begin to resemble cantaloupes. What they should really tell preggos is pregnancy lasts 2 years. And then, you get your body back and wear cute tops and start thinking about having another one...this has all been such a trick.

Everyday Eggs

2010-07-22T13:20:00.000-04:00

After meeting with a dietician a few weeks ago, I quickly learned that endocrinologists know NOTHING about eating. As it turns out, gestational diabetes should be treated with a very specific diet including certain carbohydrates at certain times of day. The placenta, that big sponge in my uterus responsible for feeding Abe everything I eat, apparently has something against insulin. It sends all kinds of hormones picketing throughout my body with signs reading, stop answering the door ANY time insulin knocks! They even shout it. "We are here to shout it out, close your doors - keep insulin out!" I guess cells are really gullible because they all believe the picketers and lock up tight. However, as the day wears on, the cells eventually have to open their doors a little bit. I mean, come on, it's the dead of summer. They need some air circulating in there. Not to mention they probably start to feel a bit of cabin fever. So sometime after about 2pm (time of day is different for all women, for me it's 2), my body suddenly starts processing sugar correctly again. This completely explains why my blood sugar shot up the moment I had a piece of toast with peanut butter in the morning, but remained a beautiful 115 every night after a huge, carb-loaded meal and chocolately dessert.

So for the past 2 weeks, I have had almost no sugar/carbohydrates before 12pm. This leaves my morning options very limited, unless I start eating sausage and bacon everyday (which I can't knowingly do). A typical breakfast consists of an egg, a piece of canadian bacon, 1/2 a cup of cottage cheese, and 3 cherries. No pancakes, no jelly toast, no cereal. It kind of makes getting out of bed in the morning akin to eating big, prickly bugs. I desperately miss oatmeal. I long for a sliced banana. Yogurt and granola, we will meet again one day. But, it's all worth it if it keeps Abe healthy and growing at a reasonable rate. If anyone has good protein-rich breakfast suggestions, pass them along. Even the eggs are getting bored.

She Does Exist!

2010-07-20T12:21:00.000-04:00

Doula Shmoula is even more fantastical than the stories would suggest!

The moment my husband and I met her, we both began to sigh a large sigh of relief. Finally. Someone who gets it.

Doula suggested that we wait until Abraham is ready to come into the world (novel idea), and that when I go into labor, we'll soon know if he is too big or in the wrong position to come out naturally. And if he is, then guess what? We'll have a c-section! IMAGINE THAT! We'll wait to see if I NEED a c-section before we SCHEDULE one!!

This all seems like a very obvious conclusion, but as I told Doula, when a doctor in a white lab coat tells you there's no other way, one tends to believe. It's not until a gal your own age, wearing the sweat pants she wore the night before while delivering a baby, tells you that you have options that you snap out of, what my husband calls, The Doctor Kowtow.

Am I scared to approach my doctor with MY plan? Yes. I am. I'm a rule-follower. I like to impress people by how well I can follow rules. I ALWAYS use my blinker and never hold the Windex closer than 10 inches from the bathroom mirror. But in this particular case, I know that this plan is the right plan for me. And as Doula said, this doctor works for me. (My voice cracked even as I TYPED that sentence.) It's my husband and I's choice how Abe starts his process of entering the world. We won't have control of everything. We get that. But now, we'll have a starting off point and a magical woman who will rub my back and encourage David and repeat over and over again, "This is completely normal."

By the way, we'll be having a bake sale this weekend to raise the money we need to hire Doula Shmoula. And because I can't eat sugar, it will consist mostly of fresh vegetables and lunch meats. I guess "bake sale" is sort of false advertising, but "vegetables and meat sale" seemed harder to market.

Doula Shmoula

2010-07-19T12:08:00.001-04:00

After my doctor properly frightened me out of all my birthing options, I spent a good deal of an afternoon lamenting. Lamenting is not NEARLY as fun when you can't eat chocolate or potato chips. So I cut it short and started doing some research. My studies were continually interrupted by women in my life calling or emailing to tell me that the road to vaginal birth was not necessarily completely blocked off for me. You see, there may actually be a woman who knows the way straight to Vaginal Birth Lane, a woman who has been living on that very street for quite a while.

This mythical creature's name is Doula. Doula Shmoula. She spends her days advocating for women who want to live on Vaginal Birth Lane and who find C-Section Avenue to be a little disconcerting and out of the way, even though it's easier to find. Doula has maps, lists, and a GPS system that she doesn't force women to learn to use, but rather uses herself to guide them while explaining information about the different tools she uses. She also explains to Vaginal Birth Lane police and other nasty nay-sayer neighbors that it's not actually their choice where I choose to try and live. And these tools all help her do that.
Now, I've never actually met Doula Shmoula, but I did email her once several months ago. Since I did not receive an answer from her, I assumed that mythical creatures did not use the internet. I was destined to navigate the confusing streets of BirthTown myself.
What's interesting is that the night I was lamenting, I asked the universe to send me the answer as to how Abe will best enter the world and that whatever that method may be, I would surrender to it. Low and behold, Doula Shmoula emailed me the next morning. Apparently, even mythical creatures have a spam box and sometimes, emails get stuck in there. So today, I am officially going to meet Ms. Shmoula herself. Maybe she'll have some special routes mapped out for me, and then again maybe she won't. I definitely can't afford to hire Doula Shmoula, though I've often found that things I can't afford but really need have a way of paying for themselves. So, I'm excited that at least Vaginal Birth Lane is back on the table of birthing destinations. Once I see her with my own eyes, I'll let you know if Doula Shmoula really exists.

It's Abraham and I

2010-07-15T15:55:00.001-04:00

We went to the doctor to get an update on Abe's development. The big fear with Gestational Diabetes is that babies will be too big, deliver early, and not have sufficient lung development to function. So, we're keeping a close eye on things.
First I had an NST. This is a fetal non-stress test. They hook me up to a printer using several different little "remote controls" on belts around my belly that monitor Abe's heartbeat and movements with squiggly lines. At first, Abraham got extremely annoyed. He began to kick like a mule and twist and turn, almost in an effort to avoid the heart monitor. It took two nurses to find his heartbeat. We can safely conclude he's stubborn like his mama. Also, he is not a morning person, again like his mama.
My husband noted that his heart rate was really high and I snapped, "Well, of course it is! He was sleeping and they pushed him all around in there!" I put my hand on my stomach between the remote controls and said, "It's ok, bud. You can relax." Within 10 seconds, his heart rate went back down to normal! I'm obviously some kind of Eastern healer. We sat with the remotes for 30 minutes until eventually a nurse came in and said everything looked great according to the scribbles on a long piece of paper that printed out. I think they made this entire process up, but whatever.
Next we went in for an ultrasound with the doctor. Of course, it was great to see Abe there on the screen with his big cheeks and long legs. He's such a good looking fetus. However, the doctor measured him about 12 times to conclude that he is in the 76th percentile for weight and height. Translation? He's a giant. And in case you didn't know, I am very much not a giant. And right then and there, my childbirth education classes, my lamaze breathing, the bag of massaging instruments I've been collecting from friends, my focus objects, my birth plan, all of it blew away like a stack of extremely important papers on a windy, wet day. No point in even running around to try and collect them. My doctor was extremely kind and encouraged me that the choice would always be mine and he would never force me to choose c-section, but he also explained the risks involved with Abraham trying to come into the world naturally. Not only can my body split in half from the inside (well, basically), but Abe can become stuck, distressed, and God knows what else.
On the way home, alone in my car, I began searching the radio stations for songs that might make me feel better. A song I've been hearing over and over again came on, and I began to wonder why this particular tune kept following me. When my dad died, songs started following me and I would always get a wonderful or foreshadowing message that reflected the way I felt or how things would turn out. And this song, called The Outsiders, has been following me for weeks and made NO sense. I was almost annoyed that it was this song I was listening to because I didn't hear the message (but I also didn't turn it off). My husband and I don't feel like outsiders. We don't do taxidermy on squirrels from our yard. We're not hoarders or drug addicts or recluses. Hell, we're never even late on our bills. Why does this song keep calling us outsiders?! WE'RE NOT OUTSIDERS!
And finally, it hit me like a ton of bricks. It wasn't my husband and I this song was singing about. It was Abraham and I. We're the outsiders. We're the ones looking at all the happy moms and babies with normal pregnancies and deliveries and feeling so different. And you know what? Like the song says, "I'm not leaving without a fight." So today, I might feel like an outsider, but I know Abe is with me and we are gonna fight like hell to get through the coming weeks together, happy and healthy.
Yeah.
We got this.

Ahhhhh!!!!!!!!

2010-07-14T15:35:00.000-04:00

IT'S TAKING OVER!!!!

Under Pressure

2010-07-12T20:44:00.000-04:00

Last week I was walking out of lunch with David when the pressure down below suddenly got really strong. I discretely grabbed my "self" to ensure Abe didn't fall out and waddled quickly to the car. I sat down with a sigh of relief, though nervous that the pressure got so strong so quickly.
Later that same day, I was walking through the grocery store and had to find the nearest chair to sit down. The pressure was back and it felt like either I was delivering Abe or I was delivering my entire bladder in the deli. I took deep, cleansing breaths and relaxed my body as much as I could. When most of the pressure passed, I checked out and drove home.
I called my doctor who told me to go ahead and come in to get checked out. Simultaneously, another mom was going into labor and my midwife couldn't see me right away. I had to sit, half naked, on the big stirrup bed, waiting for her for half an hour. And while my worst nightmares were kept at bay in the hours leading to my doctor visit, sitting on that stirrup bed of death did something to my brain that left me helpless against the What If Monster. By the time my midwife arrived, I had already placed myself on mandatory, full-time bed rest to include only water, chicken, and olive oil. I could not laugh, cry, or talk on the phone and my c-section date was already set. And Abe would be in the NICU for 6 weeks, though I hadn't quite finished determining what for yet when she walked in.
With absolutely no modesty, my midwife "checked" me and said, "Your cervix is so high I almost can't reach it and it's completely closed, so you have nothing to worry about. You're probably feeling the weight of your body starting to give gravity the upper-hand. Maybe a bladder contraction or two, depending on where he's lying. But you're both fine. You just need to stay off your feet during the day as much as possible. It's the end of the pregnancy, it's going to be uncomfortable."
What? No bed rest? No c-section? Abe's fine?! Not that I'm disappointed but come on, this seemed a lot worse than just a little GRAVITY. So, I'm working on staying off my feet and stretching out far enough that there's not room on the couch for the What If Monster to join me. Occasionally he slips onto on open cushion when I get up for a sugar-free snack, but 90% of the time I kick him off before I start crying and calling family to find out what date in August is best for the planned c-section.

Getting Ready for an Abe

2010-07-09T12:48:00.002-04:00

Abe’s room is coming together nicely. My husband chose a lovely color of blue from a huge stack of paint samples I stole from Lowe’s. I know these are free, but when you take more than 10, it suddenly feels like stealing. I taped and he painted until I couldn’t stand the smell anymore. Then I emptied out an entire upstairs closet in another room for no reason other than WE DON’T NEED ANYTHING UNLESS I’VE USED IT IN THE PAST 5 MINUTES. Not sure if David ever used anything in that closet, but the urge was too strong to bother asking. And when he was finished painting? Streaky. It looked like the paint wasn’t mixed right. So he went back to Lowe’s, they gave him a free gallon of paint, and he painted the ENTIRE room again. Small speed bump on the road to Abe’s dwelling being perfect.

We put together his crib and glider (that’s a rocking chair, for you men who read this), and set up much of the baby stuff we’ve received so far. We still aren’t sure what we’re doing with the walls, except for this awesome hippo picture David’s parents gave us from their own wall (“Well, he has to have the hippo!”). And we still have to hit up Ikea for a dresser and some cute mirrors I can hang close to the floor so Abe can look at how handsome he is.

Last week, David got the “must buy a baby-friendly car” bug. This isn’t an actual bug because if it was, I may have squashed it without telling him and flushed it down the toilet. However, he did an amazing job of negotiating price and style and even agreed to trade in HIS car so that I could keep my Mini Cooper (which is baby-friendly, if you ask me). We bought a 2011 Honda Pilot, which is incredibly cool. It’s rugged (so I don’t feel like I’m in a mom minivan), extremely spacious, and way easier to get the car seat in and out of. (David practiced putting a “baby” in the back seat the other day.)

So at this point, if this kid moved in tomorrow, we could handle it. And as my aunt says, “Grandma brought your aunt home and put her in a drawer. You’ll be fine.”

Pitty Party

2010-07-08T11:48:00.000-04:00

The other day I began climbing the steps to get out of the pool and immediately looked down to see if I had forgotten about a weight belt I’d put on earlier or perhaps to see a friend hanging onto my legs shouting, “Don’t get out of the pool! It’s so fun!” Nope. I had become so comfortable not feeling the extra 25 pounds in the water that when I tried to get out, my body was in shock. Nope, I thought. No weight belt. That’s just me.

The latest? I’m pret-ty tired of being pregnant. Around the 5 month mark, pregnancy really gets fun. You can feel the baby and people know you’re pregnant and not just fat (they’d been guessing until that point, and sometimes incorrectly). Around the 7 month mark, though, you start to get tired. Not so tired that you can’t function, but tired enough that a nap sure would help. You start to notice that the big t-shirts you were wearing, you know the ones that used to hang off of you, are now too tight to even sleep in. And going from one side to the other at night makes one ponder renting a crane. As I stare down month eight in its beady little eyes, I can already tell I’m on the losing end of this flinching contest.

My belly is now too big to do most anything that involves being close to counters, people, or grocery shelves. I’m sure Abraham already has some kind of cranial trauma from the amount of times I’ve bumped into things. I can no longer lean forward close to the bathroom mirror to ensure my mascara is not clumping without smooshing into the sink (this is only applicable to the days I actually make it to “self-improvement”). Washing my face is sort of a comedy of errors, as it’s nearly impossible to get close enough to the sink to prohibit the water from splashing everywhere. I cannot reach the top shelf without knocking everything off the middle shelf at the grocery store. And hugging people is just sort of out of the question. I have to do the lean in, pat on the back, try not to lose my balance and fall forward into the person I’m hugging thing.

I do not have swollen feet or ankles and I’m not gaining a lot of weight. This means that Abraham is gaining weight while I lose muscle mass. This is exactly what I need right now: fewer leg muscles to hold up a growing baby perched in my uterus. The gestational diabetes makes it nearly impossible to eat anything fun or satisfying without risk of the nurse’s voice in my head repeating, “Just remember to think about what the food you eat will do to your baby before you eat it.” Yeah, she knows a new mother’s weak spot, huh? So that leaves not sucking my stomach in. Right now, that’s the best part of pregnancy. I don’t have to suck my stomach in. And you know what? That leaves my scale of justice pretty lop-sided.

Aaaand, pitty party…FIN.

Save the Baby

2010-07-06T12:16:00.002-04:00

I attended an infant CPR class with my husband. We both felt it was important to know just what to do in an emergency situation. We didn’t realize that the class was also a veritable bullet pointed list of everything else you should be scared about. We thought we were just learning what to do if the kid choked on a grape.

The teacher introduced herself and proceeded to explain how many children die each year from accidental drownings in bathtubs, parents backing over them while pulling out of the garage, and suffocating from eating peanutbutter straight from the jar. We learned just how unsafe 90% of cribs are and how if you put ANYTHING in the crib except for the baby, they jump to 99% unsafe. This would kill your baby...

We learned that if you have stairs (which we do) you need 2 James Bond-proof gates, one at the bottom and one at the top. You need 2 sets of banisters on both sides, a bottom one for when they’re under 3 feet and a top one for when they’re over. If you have rungs on your banister like these...

...you have to cover them in plywood so the kid can’t get stuck in them (a la, the Growing Pains episode when Carol Seaver was babysitting and the kid’s head got stuck and they used butter and shortening to try and slide him out). Basically, we have an entire portion of the house we have to rebuild.

If there are any flowers, plants, or trees in your yard (and grass, don’t forget grass), it needs to be fenced off so that baby can’t eat anything potentially poisonous. If you have a baby pool in the summer, you can put one inch of water in it without threatening your baby’s life. Never buy a house with an actual pool. If you have one, fence it off and cover it with nets and concrete.

Every piece of furniture you own must be secured to the walls or floors in order to keep from tipping over and crushing the baby. TVs are especially well-known for this, and must be nailed, glued, or tied down to an entertainment unit that, itself, is nailed to a wall. (My husband and I high-fived on this one; our TV is mounted to the wall. Point 1, Cohens.)

Kids should not climb trees, ladders, or tall chairs…or short chairs. They should not eat hot dogs that aren’t pureed and must never go to sleep wrapped in a blanket. Mobiles are a choking and strangling hazard. Rugs should be secured to floors so children can’t trip; actually, just, no rugs altogether, ok?

Babies shouldn’t play with keys, writing instruments, or phones as they might stab themselves in the eyes, cut their hands, or...call someone they don’t know. No toy should be smaller than a bread box, or something like that. And pets. Get rid of all of your pets. They’re all dangerous and could hurt or kill your baby. See? Bella just killed a baby.

Now, I may have been highly concerned or even frightened upon leaving this scare-fest of a class if the teacher hadn’t ended on one statistic. She solemnly but sternly asked if the class knew the NUMBER ONE reason children die before the age of 18 in this country. We all began to search our brains for the top news stories of children dying. Car accidents? Drugs? Abuse? As she announced the answer, she nodded her head as if to commend herself for sharing this all-too-important and shocking piece of information with us.

“Injuries.”

I slowly turned my head to look at my husband, who was slowly turning his head to look at me, so that neither of us could be perceived as overreacting. We made eye contact, immediately began to crack a smile that could have quickly gotten out of control and ended up with laughter, and instead we diverted our eyes to stare directly at the teacher with a slight smirks on our faces.

“70% of the children we lose under 18 years old we lose due to injuries. Keep that in mind, people.”

Isn’t this like saying 90% of all divorces are caused by…marital problems?

Or that a majority of all people with a runny nose are suffering from…sinus trouble?

I carried our bag of “scare you” pamphlets into the house when the class was over and promptly trashed every single one of them, but not without announcing, “Oh! Look at this one. Injuries. Injuries written all over this.”

7 Months, Just Sayin'

2010-06-26T10:25:00.002-04:00

It's getting more difficult to write ironic little anecdotes on my blog when all I want to do is sleep and eat and politely ask that everyone stay the hell out of my way. A simple trip to the grocery store or out to dinner is about the longest I can typically contain my anxiety, frustration, or outright pissed-off-ed-ness at nothing and everyone. I'm working on giving myself credit for the whole "making a person" thing. :)

Abe had an appointment this week and the doctor measured him right on par at 29 weeks. He's always been a very good measurer. Bonnie numbers have been fairly stable and Bonnie and Clyde are becoming a part of the family. I wake up, say good morning to Clyde (sometimes begrudgingly, because I'm not a morning person), say a quick hello to Bonnie (I know I'm going to see her again in an hour anyway), and then go about my day eating only the things that make us happy and healthy and completely miserable that we can't have cake. Most days I'm very excited for him to be here, but there are those days that I make a quick run to Target or the dogs bark maniacally at the UPS man when I think, "Crap. This is going to be really hard with a kid on the outside." I know, I know, just you wait.

On a "hey, that's neat!" note, we took a birthing class and a breast-feeding class this past week. (David did come with me to the breast-feeding class, bless his heart.)
Did you know that a baby turns itself into the right position twice during labor?! Yep. Once to fit the head through the pelvis and again to fit the shoulders through. The doctors don't even need to tell him to do that. He just does it. (Smartest baby ever already.)
And did you know that if you place a newborn on his mother's chest, eventually he will find her breast and start nursing on his own?!?! You don't even have to plug him on there. If only the La Leche League knew...they'd be scared out of their minds.
If nothing else, these classes have been a fabulous distraction amidst all the growing and spreading and eating. And the ridiculous students in class make it all worth it. You know, like the guy who asked if a woman can take Tylenol during labor for the pain. Yeah. I'd like to be there when you offer her Tylenol. (Can we all take a minute and picture it?) Or the guy who asked if caffeine/alcohol during labor might help relieve stress. Wrong on so many levels, I'm not even going to touch it. Or, my personal favorite, the girl who asked if there was colostrum (that's the sugary, clear stuff that comes out of the breast before milk) in baby formula. If I was the teacher, I think I may have just stared at her for a few blank seconds before answering, "Yes, sweetie. Yes, there is colostrum as well as magic."She's probably too far gone, anyway.

Clyde

2010-06-22T12:03:00.001-04:00

Someone suggested I name my insulin pen Clyde, a suitable partner for Bonnie. I like this. They're both a little bit evil, but they work together as such a good team. Inseparable, really.
I set up a pretty glass jar with all my needles and lancets and alcohol swabs next to my bed so that at least when it's time for Bonnie and Clyde to go to work, it seems like a sweet, pretty job. "Oooh! Good morning, Bonnie and Clyde! Look at the sun bouncing off your beautiful little jar." Honestly, Clyde doesn't hurt at all. He goes right into the side of my belly quietly and quickly. And he seems to be helping a little bit. My Bonnie Numbers have been fairly even over the past few days.
My fingers, on the other hand...Bonnie has mangled my fingers. Four pricks a day and sometimes I forget which finger I last used. They're starting to get sore and covered in little red dots. I need a better system. And a manicure.

The Bonnie Numbers

2010-06-18T16:59:00.000-04:00

After getting the gestational diabetes diagnosis, I had to wait more than a week to meet with the endocrinologist who would decide what the next steps were. This was totally asinine to me. Wait a week?? My baby could grow 7 pounds in a week and I could be one of those women in India with a 15 pound baby and no lady parts left to speak of.
My insurance company was nice enough to keep all arguments to themselves and send me a glucometer free of charge. It's really quite adorable.

I've decided to name her Bonnie Bloodchecker. I call her Bonnie for short.
I didn't know how to use Bonnie when I first got her and because my appointment was over a week away, I felt like Bonnie and I couldn't yet forge a friendship. But, as it turns out, my sister-in-law just happened to have an odd affinity for, close to an obsessive love for, glucometers. It's a very strange and lucky twist of fate that I married into a family that happened to have someone with the ever-elusive Glucometer Fetish. She showed me how to take my blood and check my sugar and I started doing it on my own twice a day. I had no idea when to check my Bonnie numbers, but I figured some numbers were better than no numbers when I met with this week-away doctor. I also started keeping a detailed food journal so that I could see patterns between my blood sugar and what I ate. And every time my blood sugar went higher than 130, I had a decent-sized pity party.
Finally, the day came to meet with the endocrinologist. Somehow, I thought that if I had all this information with me (the food journal, my Bonnie numbers, detailed questions, meal plans, exercise regimen, etc) in a neat little folder, she would tell me everything is fine and not to worry. So you can imagine it came as quite a shock when she complimented my dedication to health and wellness in one breath, and prescribed me daily insulin injections in the next. Insulin injections?! But I'm doing everything everyone in the world has recommended and I'm even writing it all down in my neatest handwriting. How could I be reliant on insulin at 28 weeks?! I'm the perfect patient and the picture of self-care!
I'm sure she could tell I was about to cry, and David told me to take a deep breath. I whispered, "Deep breaths make it worse, shut up." She assured me that we were being preventative, and Abraham would be completely fine if we kept our awareness high and stayed preemptive with our treatments. She told me insulin would never hurt Abe and that he was at no risk for having diabetes after we was born. I, however, now face a 50% increased risk of developing Type 2 diabetes later in life. Great. So my kid is fine, but his mom will be in a diabetic coma by the time he graduates high school. Not helping.
The sweetest nurse ever taught me how to administer my daily insulin shots. She gave me paperwork to fill out everyday with my Bonnie numbers and instructed me to fax them twice a week so that the doctor could determine when my insulin needed to be "upped". I have to get my Bonnie numbers 4 times a day and shoot insulin twice a day. That's six shots a day. Six needles. Everyday. You're jealous.
In the elevator on the way out, David smiled. "We got this." That helped a little bit. Then he went on. "Come on, babe. You've got too much panache to have a normal pregnancy! We had to shake it up a little bit somehow!" Then I laughed. He's kinda right.
So here it is, my insulin injector pen. It does not have a name yet. I'm open to suggestions. Anyone?

Just You Wait

2010-06-17T14:02:00.000-04:00

Dear Blog,
I'm sorry it has been a week since I've written. It's been rough lately, but I'm getting back in the saddle. I gave you a little makeover in hopes that would make up for my absence. Thanks for always listening.
Best,
Erin

I'm beginning to think that the trouble is not that no one understands how difficult it is to be completely exhausted at 7 months pregnant in the dead of summer with gestational diabetes and lower-back pain that feels like a leprechaun is following me around with little daggers in his hands, continuously tripping on his own hooked shoes and shouting, "Oops! Oh, sorry again, m'lady." No, I'm beginning to think that people enjoy watching a pregnant woman suffer. Why do I think that? Well, it's the only conclusion I can reach when everyone's favorite thing to say to me is, "Oh, you just wait..."
If I had a nickel...
Oh, Erin. You have no idea. You just wait!
Wait for what?
Is the next step having my baby, feeling little to no excitement for having had him, and feeling resentful of the fact that he keeps selfishly waking up to eat?! After all this support and love, does my husband decide to leave for a younger woman immediately? Do all the people that have volunteered to help us by cooking meals and doing our laundry for the first month after Abe's born suddenly back out because they totally forgot they have to "be somewhere"? Am I guaranteed that no matter how difficult and frustrating life feels right now in my never-ending search to feel normal, I will STILL have it worse AFTER my baby is BORN?!?!
JUST YOU WAIT!!
I don't think people are considering just how inappropriate this reaction seems to the already irrational pregnant woman. Imagine if we applied this logic to other difficult times in life. The last time you got a paper cut or were in a minor car accident, did your friend look at you and say, "Just you wait. It gets worse"? No. Because you would smack your friend in the mouth, or at least apply a devastating wet willy to their ear. Or if you were diagnosed with a mild case of shingles, would it be everyone's first reaction to say, "Just you wait. Those shingles are only the beginning of your suffering and strife." You'd rub your shingles all over them and run away laughing and maniacally shouting, "NOW YOU WAIT, SUCKAH!"
Bottom line is some women float through pregnancy and others trudge the way soldiers do in the thickest jungles of Afghanistan. (This is an exaggeration, for the soliders out there; thank you for serving us and keeping us safe.) I am not a floating pregnant woman. I'm a trudger. And at no time does someone insinuating that my future is much less bright than my present help me find the will to get to the grocery store today and ensure my husband has food in his belly when he gets home tonight.

So pregnant women, unite. The next time someone says, "Just you wait," I want you to look them dead in the eye and say, "I know. It's going to be absolute hell when I give birth to the person I grew inside of my stomach and get to hold him in my arms everyday, watch him learn, and experience all the ups of downs of parenting with my unbelievable partner who has chosen to go through it all with me. You're right. It's gonna SUCK!"

The Floor

2010-06-10T20:54:00.002-04:00

While all of these tests and test results flew in and out my life, my husband rested comfortably on the beaches of Aruba. You think I'm kidding, right? Ok, perhaps he wasn't resting comfortably, and maybe he didn't spend much time on the beach, but he was away on a business trip in Aruba. And for that, he will forever pay.
Not only was it emotionally taxing going through all of these changes and potential complications, it was worse doing it alone and then trying to sleep in a big, empty bed. I suppose it falls under the heading of, "When it rains, it pours." My husband did his best to provide empathy and sympathy through chat dialogue and spotty Skype service, but none of it came close to the big strong arms that hug me when I'm scared or overwhelmed. In a word, it sucked.
While all of these emotions swirled around my house like an angry tornado, frustration began to build on top. No, not frustration over "the diabetes" (said in a deep, southern accent). Frustration over the amount of things I can no longer lift, move, and/or carry. And because of this, there are an inordinate amount of things on the floor of my house waiting for my husband to come home and move. The dog's giant bag of food is currently sitting next to the giant dog food tupperware on the floor outside of the laundry room. Abraham's awesome new swing only made it to the bottom of the stairs in its original box (dragged, like a dead body). The new carseat and stroller lay all willy nilly on the garage floor waiting for someone to place them somewhere with more dignity. The giant bean bag chair in the living room remains shoved up against my husband's grandmother's old dresser where the dogs somehow pushed it while trying to reach a tennis ball under the couch. Oh, the dogs' tennis ball is under the couch. They've been whining for 5 days.
It's incredible that turning the "third trimester" corner so quickly resulted in my inability to do 50% of the things I could do last week. Now, if everyone reading this would please tell my husband that he is never allowed to leave the house, let alone the country, again until Abraham is at least 12...it might come across better from all of you than an overly-emotional, irrational whale who can't reach her favorite hair clip that rolled under the bathtub on Tuesday and ALL I WANT TO DO IS PULL MY HAIR BACK IN MY FAVORITE CLIP.

Same Nurse, Different Day

2010-06-08T10:49:00.000-04:00

Well, she was nicer this time when she called. I'm not sure if she knows I'm the one who ratted her out for being an insensitive mouth-breather, but she sure did deliver the news carefully and kindly.
"Erin, I've got your results. Are you ready?"
"Um, yes."
"Well, ok, here they are..."
So, I've got the gestational diabetes. I passed the fasting blood sugar test, but when it came to that unreasonably sugary drink, my body was thrown for a loop. The diet changes are going to be very minimal, since I already eat a fairly low-sugar diet. And I get one of those glucometers, for free no less! That should be fun at parties.
I have to go see an endocrinologist, different from the reproductive endocrinologist I was seeing before (you may remember Dr. New York?). I wish I could just go back to the doc I was seeing before, but I guess in order to properly treat me they have to keep things as complicated and uncomfortable as possible.
Am I sad? Yeah, pretty sad. And I'm fairly scared. My best friend gave birth to a beautiful, healthy, perfect little boy yesterday. I want that more than anything in the world. But I have to admit, the selfish side of me also just wants to have a freakin' normal moment for once. I keep having those pitiful woe-is-me thoughts: "First I can't get pregnant, then I finally do get pregnant an I'm sick as a dog for the first trimester. Sure, that's fairly normal, but then I gain more weight than I expect and I have to start watching my calorie intake instead of happily feeding my face the way most pregnant women do. Now I've got gestational diabetes in the third trimester and 'fetal demise' is floating around in my head like an angry balloon on a windy day." Then, of course, I feel guilt for not worrying more about my unborn child and too much about myself.
I'm fairly certain I'm going to be a good mom. But why does it all have to be so difficult? And why does the most challenging part of my life have to come precisely at the time I have virtually no control over my irrational emotions and while the only thing that really helps quell the sadness is a Snickers bar?? This is a cruel trick. Cruel.
Is this because I never finished converting, God?

I'm Guess I'm Just Sweet

2010-06-07T12:47:00.001-04:00

Between 24 and 28 weeks, pregnant women are asked to participate in a glucose screening. There are several different ways to conduct this screening, though the most common is to first arrive at the butt-crack of dawn at a neighborhood clinical laboratory. Then, while maneuvering around a number of different levels of sickly people, you approach the sign-in area. Once at sign-in, a nice nurse or phlebotomist hands you a small bottle of juice. Remember the little, plastic juice bottles we used to get in school with the foil top? It looks like that. Oh, except that it tastes like someone poured artificial flavoring, water, 50 grams of sugar, and a little bit of feet into the bottle instead of juice. You have 5 minutes to drink this concoction, and you can't vomit. Then, you sit and watch all the crazies come and go for an hour while your body starts screaming and throwing itself into walls, trying to deal with the ridiculous amount of sugar you just ingested. Then they take a bunch of blood while you crash in the chair and you drive home (though, you might not remember the drive home). Sounds like fun, right?
This test is probably the most arbitrary, archaic thing I've experienced during my pregnancy so far. I learned from my nutritionist the numbers chosen as the "normal range" were arrived at after a sample of about 20 people. Compare that to the millions who take it every year. And it literally takes an act of Congress to change those numbers. If you fail the test by even one point, you can be diagnosed diabetic or, in my case, a gestational diabetic.
So, if normal is 130, my results were 202. For those who aren't paying attention, that's frackin' high. But the worst part was not how high the number was. The worst part was the nurse casually called me to tell me that I would have to go back and take the test over again, only this time I would have to drink MORE of the drink, stay for THREE hours, and have my blood drawn four times. That's right. I'm not metabolizing sugar correctly so the western medical world's response is to feed me MORE sugar, and then take more of my blood. Oh, and when I asked what some of the risks were, she told me I could be forced to take insulin later in my pregnancy, as well as being at risk for fetal demise. Yep. Fetal demise. Say it out loud once so you can hear just how scary it sounds. That nurse told me that my baby could die in the same breath as the fax number I needed to send my information to the lab. Remember bedside manner? She didn't. Needless to say, that was a bad day...
If anyone wants that nurse's direct phone number or home address for any reason whatsoever, just email me directly and I'll be sure you get the information you need.

A Beautiful Name for a Beautiful Boy

2010-06-02T18:04:00.005-04:00

When I got married, the rabbi blessed my family members with Jewish names. I began the process of converting to Judaism through practice and classes, but I am not Jewish (I prefer to think of myself as a little Jew-ish). Nevertheless, our very progressive rabbi agreed to welcome myself and my family into the Jewish faith during our wedding ceremony. It was an honor to say the least. I was given the name Ariel. My mother and father were aptly named Abraham and Sarah. (This is how the lineage of Jews-by-Choice is often written.)

My father died when I was 7. I remember it vividly. While I didn't know him all that well, I feel like I got to know him as I grew up through family, friends, and a little psychic connection. I'm told I'm a lot like him.
Plenty of stories are passed around the table when his name (Gene Arthur) comes up. Sometimes folks are laughing at what a grumpy old coot he could be, but most of the time people reminisce about his Rennaisance Man-like life. He grew up the son of two Lebanese immigrants who came straight through Ellis Island. He took over his father's businesses, went bankrupt, and clawed his way out to become an extremely successful business man who provided for an entire family. He had a wine cellar to be reckoned with, he carved his own beef out of half a cow on the kitchen counter (much to my mother's dismay), and he had no trouble floating on a pool chair and enjoying a cold beer at the end of a long week. When my brother married an incredible woman and their son became the next to carry on the Salem name, I think my father was probably pleased. But when my brother went on to honor my father by naming his son Gene Arthur Salem, I think my father was probably overjoyed.

Two years after we married, my husband and I learned we would give birth to a baby boy. I immediately asked that we name him after my father. Knowing that our son would get David's surrname, I felt that Gene Arthur Salem Cohen would be a bit much. Besides, my brother took some of the pressure off; dad's name would live on in a brilliant young man already. And so, in homage to my father and with honor paid to my husband's lineage, our little boy inherited my father's Jewish name, Abraham.

Abraham Cohen.

(You can call him Abe.)

Name that Baby

2010-06-01T13:39:00.000-04:00

I completely respect people who don't want to know the sex of their babies before they're born. I'm sure it's super exciting in that moment the baby pops out that not ONLY do you get a baby, but you get to find out who he/she is!
I could never do this. It's so fun knowing there's a little boy in there. I feel like I know him so much better because he has a name and an identity. It made it so much easier after a must-quell craving for P.F. Chang's last weekend, when I insisted that David and I spend the rest of our date NOT at a movie but in Lowe's, to pick out paint colors for our little boy's room. But knowing the gender does mean that I get one extra question from every stranger who notices I'm pregnant.
1. When are you due?
2. Is this your first?
3. Do you know what you're having?
Bonus Question: Do you have a name picked out?

Well, the answer is, yes. I do have a name picked out. And it just doesn't feel right that the postman knows his name and you people don't. I like the postman, but I doubt he's a devoted dec-O-blog reader.

The only trouble with telling people his name is gauging their reactions. It's hard not to take it personally when someone's response is, "Ooooh." No smile. No giggle. Obviously, you hate my baby's name.
Or, "Oh, I haven't heard that one lately." Translation: Way to pull a name out of 1965.
Here's one I love: "That's nice. Is it a family name?" Translation: No one would ever name their baby that name unless it was a family name.

Please, people, when a pregnant woman tells you her baby's name, or anything else about her pregnancy for that matter, just smile and say, "That's wonderful," in a genuine tone. It's your only job in that situation.

So, I'll only tell you his name if you tell me it's wonderful and then smile.

Just A Little Whine

2010-05-26T15:49:00.000-04:00

My husband had to go out of town for business, so the night before he left I decided to cook a pot roast just to ensure he would miss me. I got all of the ingredients out and ready and realized I forgot wine. I don't cook much without wine, but certainly not a pot roast.
Our grocery store is right behind our house so I zipped on over and went straight for the vino. As I walked through the bottles, I caught a few stares. I realize it may be a little strange to see a pregnant woman in the wine aisle, but come on. Mind your business.
I chose a wine after a few minutes and carried it towards to checker. Each person I passed did the same thing: looked at me, looked at my belly, looked at the bottle, back at my belly, and back at me. I'm not wearing a scarlet letter here, people. It's a bottle of wine.
I got to the check out and while another woman finished up in front of me, the checker looked at me, my belly, the bottle, my belly, and me. "Who are you buying that for?" she asked. Yep. She went there. Has she not read my blog?
"I'm buying it for me."
"Oh. But you can't have that, can you?"
"It's for pot roast," I smirked.
"You use that kind for pot roast?"
"Yes. Cooking wine is too vinegary for me."
The woman in front of me came to my defense. "Yes, but you can have wine if you're pregnant."
"I know," I announced, "I drink wine several times a week. And it's delicious." The checker was not happy with this.
She asked for my ID. "Pot roast, huh?"
"Yep."
I swiped my card and the bagger looked at me, my belly, the bottle, my belly, and me. "You can't drink this, can you?"he asked.
I paused, smiled, and looked him right in the eye. "I think I can do anything I want, actually."
He laughed, nervously.
"She says it's for a pot roast," the checker piped up again.
"Oh," he said.
"It is for a pot roast," I snapped, "but after this little exchange, I think I'm going to have a glass while I'm cooking. Hell, I might need to open it up in the car. Have a good day."
I didn't actually look back to see their reactions, but I hope they both passed out, or at least fell down.

dec-O-blog

The Cohen Tribe

The Safety Years

11 Months

Wanna Do Some Good?

Multi-Tasking

Mom Romance

Tricks, Shortcuts, and Talents

A Car Ride

Nine Months

Different and the Same

Better than High School

20/20 Part 3

20/20 Part 2

20/20

Seven Months

Dateline

Schedules

Six Months

Dance

Pacify

Traumatic

Be Specific

Five Months

Tribes

You Are Here

Anxiety

New Year's Past

Four Months

Busting Out

Why It's Not So Scary

Awareness

Two Pieces

Who am I?

Try (Less) Hard

Thankful

Sleep

Good Mom/Bad Mom

Better

FUMBLE!!

Make a Scene

Through a Husband's Eyes

2 Months

My Philosophy

You Were Right

FUMBLE!!!

The Nurses...The Doctors...That Guy...

The Top 8 Things I Couldn't Live Without

Anxious

The Aftermath

One Week

Noel

The Best I Can

Lies, Lies, Lies, Lies

FUMBLE!!!

Communication

FUMBLE!!

Ever After

Birth Story Part 6: The Final Push

Birth Story Part 5: The Labor I Needed

Birth Story Part 4: Primal

Birth Story Part 3: Deep Breaths

Birth Story Part 2: I'm Not in Labor

Birth Story Part 1: No Admittance

My Cave

The Latest Numbers

BOOYAH

Spot

A Little Bit Louder Now

Measuring Mountains in Centimeters

I'll Have the Vindication, and a Side Salad

Who Ya Gonna Call?

Herman

Analyze This

Defying Gravity

The Break Up

I Saw the Sign

I'm a Decorator

A Shameless Plug

Belly Notes