The word of the day is persevere. This is the kind of day (or, rather, pair of days) where I would eat an entire dark chocolate bar to take my mind off what's going on in front of my ears. Maybe 2 bars. You see, Miles is getting a tooth up top and unlike the last time he got a tooth, he is a screaming mess of a human being in pain.
This means that he is up every 3 hours for at least 2 hours at night, screaming bloody murder, and spends his days cranky and also crying. Today, as MW and I drove back from a run to Babies R Us, he screamed and screamed for 45 minutes as I sat with my foot on the clutch waiting for the light to turn green on 130. I wanted dark chocolate and a cupcake like I have never wanted those things before. The car reverberated with his shrill, breath-holding screams and I couldn't help but scream right back at him in frustration. I almost threw on the e-brake to run into CVS on the corner. Lord knows, only one car was getting to move each green light and I would have had time.
But I didn't. I clenched my jaw and dealt with it. And when I got home, I didn't have time to scrounge for candy because I had to feed that baby and then feed myself and by then, it was time to put Miles to bed. Which makes me really, really want something sugary. I feel like I "earned" it. During the first 100 or so days of my son's life, when every day was spent like this one, I treated myself to sweets whenever I felt proud for making it through an hour or a minute or a 15-second stretch without spontaneously combusting.
Well, by God, I made it through nearly 24 straight hours of crying and fussing, and I want some fucking fudge. But I don't have it in the house and I don't have the energy to procure some. So instead I am drinking a beer and breathing deeply, slowly, purposefully. And really? It's just not the same. I feel an almost crippling craving for something sugary.
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Friday, February 19, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Tempting Fate
Miles sleeps now. Each night, we start putting him to bed as soon as Jeopardy is over. We carry him upstairs and put him in pjs with soft lights on. We put him in his night diaper and sleep sack. Sometimes, he gets totally ready to go at the sight of the sleep sack. Other nights, the three of us just hang out on the floor in our bedroom and maybe read books or just let Miles touch our faces.
Then, on with the static, off with the lights, and within 15 minutes he is generally sound asleep.
He wakes up once at night to nurse (which, according to numerous articles I've read, is totally normal for breastfed babies) and then sleeps til morning--generally 6:30 or 7:00.
I cannot quite explain how much of a difference this has made in my life. I feel more like my self, more ready to face the world. Being well-rested totally changes my outlook, my ability to parent, my mood...everything. I find I can set goals again, and work to achieve them. I look forward to every moment chasing him around as Miles rolls from one room to another, shoving things in his mouth.
There was a time, when I was sleepless, where I regularly spoke with a mental health professional to determine whether I had postpartum depression. She explained the list of symptoms, all of which I was exhibiting, and then showed me the symptoms of someone who was suffering from extreme, debilitating exhaustion. They were identical. She wrote me a prescription for sleep.
Months later, I sometimes dig out that prescription note. I used to stare at it and beg the universe to fill my doctor's orders. Now, I can laugh about it. Seriously! When Miles falls asleep in his carseat or rubs his eyes near bedtime, I can chuckle a bit at how damn ridiculous it was to march him up and down the stairs or stomp around the block to get him to snooze.
Obviously, in writing this and putting it out there for the world to see, I have cursed myself and Miles will cease to sleep. But something tells me, as he yawns and rubs those eyes over on his quilt, that he has started enjoying this whole "resting" thing.
UPDATE: Obviously, Miles woke up 4 times last night because I teased fate. I dangled a big carrot in front of her face and she bit it right off. We think one of three things happened to Mr. Man last night to interrupt his sleep:
1) nightmares--we think this because he went from sound, sound asleep to SCREAMING every hour for the first 3 hours after we put him to bed
2) constipation--I gave him some cheese yesterday. And some oatmeal.
3) earache--he keeps touching his left ear, but has no fever. He is always a fidgety dude, though, and usually pulls hair or does something else repetitive while he nurses. Ear tugging could just be his movement du jour.
Then, on with the static, off with the lights, and within 15 minutes he is generally sound asleep.
He wakes up once at night to nurse (which, according to numerous articles I've read, is totally normal for breastfed babies) and then sleeps til morning--generally 6:30 or 7:00.
I cannot quite explain how much of a difference this has made in my life. I feel more like my self, more ready to face the world. Being well-rested totally changes my outlook, my ability to parent, my mood...everything. I find I can set goals again, and work to achieve them. I look forward to every moment chasing him around as Miles rolls from one room to another, shoving things in his mouth.
There was a time, when I was sleepless, where I regularly spoke with a mental health professional to determine whether I had postpartum depression. She explained the list of symptoms, all of which I was exhibiting, and then showed me the symptoms of someone who was suffering from extreme, debilitating exhaustion. They were identical. She wrote me a prescription for sleep.
Months later, I sometimes dig out that prescription note. I used to stare at it and beg the universe to fill my doctor's orders. Now, I can laugh about it. Seriously! When Miles falls asleep in his carseat or rubs his eyes near bedtime, I can chuckle a bit at how damn ridiculous it was to march him up and down the stairs or stomp around the block to get him to snooze.
Obviously, in writing this and putting it out there for the world to see, I have cursed myself and Miles will cease to sleep. But something tells me, as he yawns and rubs those eyes over on his quilt, that he has started enjoying this whole "resting" thing.
UPDATE: Obviously, Miles woke up 4 times last night because I teased fate. I dangled a big carrot in front of her face and she bit it right off. We think one of three things happened to Mr. Man last night to interrupt his sleep:
1) nightmares--we think this because he went from sound, sound asleep to SCREAMING every hour for the first 3 hours after we put him to bed
2) constipation--I gave him some cheese yesterday. And some oatmeal.
3) earache--he keeps touching his left ear, but has no fever. He is always a fidgety dude, though, and usually pulls hair or does something else repetitive while he nurses. Ear tugging could just be his movement du jour.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Bewbs!
I stopped nursing Miles in public when he took to pulling off my breast and leaving my nipple exposed to the world at large. Plus he makes noises while he eats--Tasmanian devil noises straight from a Warner Bros. cartoon. He is just such a high maintenance nurser, rhythmically kicking his top leg while using his free hand to either smack me in the face or pick seeds out from between my teeth, that I decided to make sure he was well-fed before we left team headquarters.
Also? I am rocking a 34G bra right now. When my boobs get engorged, that bra shrinks and clings to my chest like hole covers on a bowling ball. So there is pretty much no such thing as modesty. The Motherwear shirts I bought with their advertised panels and delicate, lacy shelving for "discreet" or "versatile" nursing were not meant for what I've crammed into them.
But when Miles and I flew to California, I had no choice but to nurse him in front of others. I initially tried to rig up some privacy with clips and a blanket, but he kicked and yanked that whole thing down before pulling off and sending a stream of spurting milk into the seat-back table (which was in the full upright, and locked position). I got really frustrated, to say the least. It made me even more determined to nurse him in private.
One day on our trip, we went to the beach. I love the beach. I find the mass expanse of the ocean to be really soothing and humbling. Miles and Patsy and I walked around in the sand, jumping out of the icy tide, watching the surfers, and Miles needed to eat. I was inspired to just stretch out on a driftwood log and feed him right out in the open. No blankets, no hunching, no looking both ways to check for passersby. I just hoisted my udder out into the salty air and let Miles go to town. It was great!
He ate like a gourmand and I forgot to feel tense, forgot to look all around to see who might be staring. Miles was true to form, digging in my nose and kicking me in the crotch while he made loud oinking sounds and ate. I kept thinking, "It's like he doesn't see anything embarrassing about this at all!"
And of course he doesn't! He is just eating. I sometimes make moany sounds when I eat something delicious, and I sure do fidget and kick my legs when my feet don't reach the ground. Why shouldn't my baby do the same thing? The whole experience really recharged my batteries. I didn't even try rigging up machinery to fake privacy on the rest of our trip, not even on the flight home and not even in the holding tank waiting for my rescue in Cleveland.
When Miles was hungry, I fed him, no matter where we were. And you know what? He wasn't as kicky or flaily when there weren't curtains or blankets or "hoods" dimming the lights on his feeding operation. When I wasn't super tense, he relaxed, too. My whole body just surrendered to the process. I haven't had the opportunity to leave my house since we returned, what with snowmageddon and all, but when I do, I will feel free to exercise my right to publicly nurse my baby. I reclaim the ability to not feel embarrassed by that act.
People will probably stare a little bit--I would stare, too, if I saw a boob that enormous--but since when (before Miles) have I cared about that? This is going to be a liberating revelation. I can just tell.
Also? I am rocking a 34G bra right now. When my boobs get engorged, that bra shrinks and clings to my chest like hole covers on a bowling ball. So there is pretty much no such thing as modesty. The Motherwear shirts I bought with their advertised panels and delicate, lacy shelving for "discreet" or "versatile" nursing were not meant for what I've crammed into them.
But when Miles and I flew to California, I had no choice but to nurse him in front of others. I initially tried to rig up some privacy with clips and a blanket, but he kicked and yanked that whole thing down before pulling off and sending a stream of spurting milk into the seat-back table (which was in the full upright, and locked position). I got really frustrated, to say the least. It made me even more determined to nurse him in private.
One day on our trip, we went to the beach. I love the beach. I find the mass expanse of the ocean to be really soothing and humbling. Miles and Patsy and I walked around in the sand, jumping out of the icy tide, watching the surfers, and Miles needed to eat. I was inspired to just stretch out on a driftwood log and feed him right out in the open. No blankets, no hunching, no looking both ways to check for passersby. I just hoisted my udder out into the salty air and let Miles go to town. It was great!
He ate like a gourmand and I forgot to feel tense, forgot to look all around to see who might be staring. Miles was true to form, digging in my nose and kicking me in the crotch while he made loud oinking sounds and ate. I kept thinking, "It's like he doesn't see anything embarrassing about this at all!"
And of course he doesn't! He is just eating. I sometimes make moany sounds when I eat something delicious, and I sure do fidget and kick my legs when my feet don't reach the ground. Why shouldn't my baby do the same thing? The whole experience really recharged my batteries. I didn't even try rigging up machinery to fake privacy on the rest of our trip, not even on the flight home and not even in the holding tank waiting for my rescue in Cleveland.
When Miles was hungry, I fed him, no matter where we were. And you know what? He wasn't as kicky or flaily when there weren't curtains or blankets or "hoods" dimming the lights on his feeding operation. When I wasn't super tense, he relaxed, too. My whole body just surrendered to the process. I haven't had the opportunity to leave my house since we returned, what with snowmageddon and all, but when I do, I will feel free to exercise my right to publicly nurse my baby. I reclaim the ability to not feel embarrassed by that act.
People will probably stare a little bit--I would stare, too, if I saw a boob that enormous--but since when (before Miles) have I cared about that? This is going to be a liberating revelation. I can just tell.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
In Which Miles Goes Flying
My two overarching fears in traveling with Miles were screamsicle relapse and explosive poop mid-air. I did a lot to alleviate my other anxieties (rented a carseat, spent the weekend cobbling together replacement straps for the Ergo when someone in my family lost the chest strap hoisting MW up the stairs in the Cathedral of Learning, etc.), but knew I couldn't control the things that came out of my son. As it turns out, these things were the least of my worries! What I should have been leery of was "free" parenting advice! (And also morons)
My first bit of free parenting advice happened when we went through security. I had MW in the carrier, declared his liquid medication, got through the metal detector with ease. When it came time to reinsert him in the carrier and gather up all my belongings (they even made me take off Miles' shoes!!!), I suddenly lost my ability to function. I just didn't have enough arms to buckle the baby in the carrier and grab things off that damn conveyor fast enough.
I got my first parenting tip of the day from a business traveler who shoved me with her hands: "Move faster! You're holding up the line."
I felt a fiery, raging beast well up inside me. The only other time I felt such anger was when an opposing rugger dangerously cheated in a scrum once and I called her an Effing C right there in the middle of the field. This time, I screamed at the top of my voice, "STOP SHOVING ME! DO NOT SHOVE ME!" It was my first use of a Mom Voice and I found it to be effective in getting people away from me. I earned a huge bubble of space, concerned looks from the TSA people (though no assistance from these same persons), and finally got everything strapped back on.
We just went on our merry way, boarded the plane, and happily discovered it to be nearly empty! Hurrah! A whole row of seats to ourselves! Until a moron got on the plane.
I was sitting by the window and had started nursing Miles in anticipation of takeoff. The moron sat in my row--not in the aisle seat, but right there in the middle. Pressed up against my person. In a nearly empty airplane. It was so unbelievably strange. After takeoff, she looked around and asked me, "Isn't this B2?"
I told her I had no idea what she was talking about. She showed me her boarding pass stub and said, "My seat. Aren't I in B2?"
Let me pause to mention that MW and I flew Southwest. Every person in the universe knows that Southwest doesn't have assigned seats. And if you don't know that, by the time you get on the airplane you should because they say it over and over and over again: There are no assigned seats on our planes! They are all open. Open seating!
I reiterated this to the moron, who just nodded. AND THEN DID NOT MOVE. She sat there, pressed up against me, the whole 2 hour flight to Chicago. Also? She gave me odd looks when MW kicked her as he nursed.
Apart from this moron, the flight was amazing because not only did my baby not cry, he giggled and laughed the whole time. What a flirty, happy kid! I entered the long leg of the trip feeling strongly positive.
We had another nearly empty flight, but this time a little grandma-looking woman had the aisle seat while we took the window. At first, I felt like this grandma was a great seatmate, but each moment I spend thinking about the flight brings new little timebomb memories of truly shocking things that she said during transit. She had all kinds of advice to give out, such as:
"You need to get him on a schedule so he doesn't eat so frequently."
"He only sleeps a few minutes at a time!! He shouldn't have woken up from his nap yet. You need to get him sleeping longer!" (My immediate reaction to this statement was the thought, "Oh! Of course! That's what has been wrong with my life. We just all need to sleep for longer increments. I should have thought of that myself but didn't.")
"I didn't know his knees were so fat until you took his pants off." (This is not really advice, but is also really not nice)
"Just change his diaper right here on the seat. Nobody cares." (This was only bad advice because he had pooped a mighty poop and it sort of got all over the seat. Note to future travelers: your airplane seat might have baby poop remnants on it and you should wipe it off before you sit)
And, my favorite, "You change his diaper too often. He sure does pee a lot."
Now, this woman did hold Miles so I could eat my sandwich, so the flight was not a total bust. Also, the babe was a dreamboat the whole time, so I chalk it up as a victory.
As I mentally prepare for my flight home I realize I am an experienced enough mother to handle a baby on an airplane. I won't tempt fate and predict that he'll repeat his awesome travel debut, but even if he screams I feel like I'll just handle the way I always handle it if he screams. What I doubt is my ability to avoid arrest when reacting to people handing out great tips about baby-raising.
A very wise mother once told me that I am not bitchy enough when it comes to Miles and people touching him or otherwise affronting his aura. I suspect that is rapidly changing. Go ahead and give me a little shove or some judgment in the airport on Saturday and try out my new armor!
My first bit of free parenting advice happened when we went through security. I had MW in the carrier, declared his liquid medication, got through the metal detector with ease. When it came time to reinsert him in the carrier and gather up all my belongings (they even made me take off Miles' shoes!!!), I suddenly lost my ability to function. I just didn't have enough arms to buckle the baby in the carrier and grab things off that damn conveyor fast enough.
I got my first parenting tip of the day from a business traveler who shoved me with her hands: "Move faster! You're holding up the line."
I felt a fiery, raging beast well up inside me. The only other time I felt such anger was when an opposing rugger dangerously cheated in a scrum once and I called her an Effing C right there in the middle of the field. This time, I screamed at the top of my voice, "STOP SHOVING ME! DO NOT SHOVE ME!" It was my first use of a Mom Voice and I found it to be effective in getting people away from me. I earned a huge bubble of space, concerned looks from the TSA people (though no assistance from these same persons), and finally got everything strapped back on.
We just went on our merry way, boarded the plane, and happily discovered it to be nearly empty! Hurrah! A whole row of seats to ourselves! Until a moron got on the plane.
I was sitting by the window and had started nursing Miles in anticipation of takeoff. The moron sat in my row--not in the aisle seat, but right there in the middle. Pressed up against my person. In a nearly empty airplane. It was so unbelievably strange. After takeoff, she looked around and asked me, "Isn't this B2?"
I told her I had no idea what she was talking about. She showed me her boarding pass stub and said, "My seat. Aren't I in B2?"
Let me pause to mention that MW and I flew Southwest. Every person in the universe knows that Southwest doesn't have assigned seats. And if you don't know that, by the time you get on the airplane you should because they say it over and over and over again: There are no assigned seats on our planes! They are all open. Open seating!
I reiterated this to the moron, who just nodded. AND THEN DID NOT MOVE. She sat there, pressed up against me, the whole 2 hour flight to Chicago. Also? She gave me odd looks when MW kicked her as he nursed.
Apart from this moron, the flight was amazing because not only did my baby not cry, he giggled and laughed the whole time. What a flirty, happy kid! I entered the long leg of the trip feeling strongly positive.
We had another nearly empty flight, but this time a little grandma-looking woman had the aisle seat while we took the window. At first, I felt like this grandma was a great seatmate, but each moment I spend thinking about the flight brings new little timebomb memories of truly shocking things that she said during transit. She had all kinds of advice to give out, such as:
"You need to get him on a schedule so he doesn't eat so frequently."
"He only sleeps a few minutes at a time!! He shouldn't have woken up from his nap yet. You need to get him sleeping longer!" (My immediate reaction to this statement was the thought, "Oh! Of course! That's what has been wrong with my life. We just all need to sleep for longer increments. I should have thought of that myself but didn't.")
"I didn't know his knees were so fat until you took his pants off." (This is not really advice, but is also really not nice)
"Just change his diaper right here on the seat. Nobody cares." (This was only bad advice because he had pooped a mighty poop and it sort of got all over the seat. Note to future travelers: your airplane seat might have baby poop remnants on it and you should wipe it off before you sit)
And, my favorite, "You change his diaper too often. He sure does pee a lot."
Now, this woman did hold Miles so I could eat my sandwich, so the flight was not a total bust. Also, the babe was a dreamboat the whole time, so I chalk it up as a victory.
As I mentally prepare for my flight home I realize I am an experienced enough mother to handle a baby on an airplane. I won't tempt fate and predict that he'll repeat his awesome travel debut, but even if he screams I feel like I'll just handle the way I always handle it if he screams. What I doubt is my ability to avoid arrest when reacting to people handing out great tips about baby-raising.
A very wise mother once told me that I am not bitchy enough when it comes to Miles and people touching him or otherwise affronting his aura. I suspect that is rapidly changing. Go ahead and give me a little shove or some judgment in the airport on Saturday and try out my new armor!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Top Gifts for This New Mom
I would be remiss to express gratitude for Operation Angel Miles and not also mention the other things that made my life better during the first months of motherhood. APART from 3 months' of weekly friend-helpers, the best, best, best things I got (in no specific order) were:
1. Coupons for Wheel Deliver. Corey and I could pick any restaurant we wanted and have our favorite food delivered! We chose, I believe, Mediterranean.
2. Money specifically designated for a housekeeper. I cannot begin to tell you how wonderful it was to not care about dust or filth while we used that gift.
3. Free babysitting. Beware, all ye who said, "Just give me a call if you ever want/need me to watch Miles." If I haven't already called you, I will soon.
4. Freezable food.
5. Commands/requests to leave the house for a walk or beverage. I was forcing hermitage upon myself when Miles was a screamsicle, so my friends who insisted I leave the house did me a great service indeed.
6. Beauty products. Corey's mom gave me some frou-frou stuff just when I was beginning to feel gross and disgusting. Afterward, I still felt gross and disgusting, but I had healthy, clean skin and a pleasing odor about my person.
7. Electronic pictures of my baby. It is shockingly difficult to remember or find time to upload pictures and everyone far away wants to see them. I love it when people take pics and put them online FOR me!
8. Moral support. Emails and voicemails and facebook messages reinforcing the fact that I could indeed be a great mother were (are!) an invaluable gift.
9. Romance. We got a gift certificate for a date as a Christmas gift. It was our first date in 6 months. I tried to make Corey hold my hand, but his eczema felt scratchy...
10. Disinfectant wipes. Now, I am trying to rid my household of bleach-based cleaners, but I must say that having a baby is messy and those tubs of wipes are pretty darn awesome for quickly eliminating poop from the bathtub or sweet potato from the television screen or even Corey's fried chicken oil splatters. When they are all gone, I will probably even buy more (even though they are cost-ineffective). So there's a gift that changed one of my household habits!
Now I am just waiting for a few of my friends to give birth so I can copy some of these fantastic gift ideas and make some other mom's life a little bit easier. Isn't that the best feeling???
1. Coupons for Wheel Deliver. Corey and I could pick any restaurant we wanted and have our favorite food delivered! We chose, I believe, Mediterranean.
2. Money specifically designated for a housekeeper. I cannot begin to tell you how wonderful it was to not care about dust or filth while we used that gift.
3. Free babysitting. Beware, all ye who said, "Just give me a call if you ever want/need me to watch Miles." If I haven't already called you, I will soon.
4. Freezable food.
5. Commands/requests to leave the house for a walk or beverage. I was forcing hermitage upon myself when Miles was a screamsicle, so my friends who insisted I leave the house did me a great service indeed.
6. Beauty products. Corey's mom gave me some frou-frou stuff just when I was beginning to feel gross and disgusting. Afterward, I still felt gross and disgusting, but I had healthy, clean skin and a pleasing odor about my person.
7. Electronic pictures of my baby. It is shockingly difficult to remember or find time to upload pictures and everyone far away wants to see them. I love it when people take pics and put them online FOR me!
8. Moral support. Emails and voicemails and facebook messages reinforcing the fact that I could indeed be a great mother were (are!) an invaluable gift.
9. Romance. We got a gift certificate for a date as a Christmas gift. It was our first date in 6 months. I tried to make Corey hold my hand, but his eczema felt scratchy...
10. Disinfectant wipes. Now, I am trying to rid my household of bleach-based cleaners, but I must say that having a baby is messy and those tubs of wipes are pretty darn awesome for quickly eliminating poop from the bathtub or sweet potato from the television screen or even Corey's fried chicken oil splatters. When they are all gone, I will probably even buy more (even though they are cost-ineffective). So there's a gift that changed one of my household habits!
Now I am just waiting for a few of my friends to give birth so I can copy some of these fantastic gift ideas and make some other mom's life a little bit easier. Isn't that the best feeling???
Saturday, January 23, 2010
What Rugby Means to Me
In college, our coach always gathered the team in someone's living room or a hotel room before a big match and made us share what rugby meant to us. Things always got emotional as people laid bare their souls and talked about the transformation the sport catalyzed in their lives.
Well, I'm not in college anymore and I'm not even playing rugby at the moment, but I feel called to share what rugby means to me right now. I have been searching for months for the right words to express what rugby has meant to me lately, and I just can't find them. There is no way to measure in words what my rugby team has done for me. But I'll try.
One morning in November, as the Angels headed to Texas for nationals (without me), I woke up horribly depressed as Miles suffered a major sleep relapse. I sat on my sofa, shaking and rocking, with my head under a blanket and sobbed as we blared static through the house and Corey marched the screaming baby up and down the stairs through the wee hours of the night. I decided to check my email and found a note explaining Operation Angel Miles.
My teammates knew we were having a hard time. They knew I was finding it impossible to cope with the isolation of months spent in my living room, marching a baby up and down the stairs. They knew that the sleep deprivation was compromising my mental and physical well-being, that I had to stop driving and that my eyelashes fell out. And so, before they left for Nationals, they left me an IOU.
My teammates set up a schedule and, every single Tuesday for the past three months, two of them showed up at my house to do whatever we needed. I have had ruggers washing dishes and getting Fenugreek for me. They swept my floors and took out my trash and marched my baby up and down the stairs. They engaged me in adult conversation, helped me decorate my Christmas tree, and took dictation while I nursed.
And that was just the surface. The true benefits of Operation Angel Miles were not just the immediate help with chores. The ripple effects are immeasurable! Some nights I got an extra two hours of sleep because my work was finished, which snowballed into a more coherent day and better mothering. Or certainly better teaching. Who knows what student benefited from my regained ability to think critically?
And, the part that matters most of all, I gained confidence the hard times would pass. I got to close my eyes every second and know I was supported by this amazing network of women who would not let me disintegrate. This gift was a boundless gesture of grace. I never knew what it really meant to experience grace before, but I will not forget how it feels enveloping my family.
How do you begin to express gratitude for such an act of love? How do you put into words what the bonds of this sport have meant to me in my darkest and most difficult hours? Operation Angel Miles saved my life this year.
What does rugby mean to me? This:
Well, I'm not in college anymore and I'm not even playing rugby at the moment, but I feel called to share what rugby means to me right now. I have been searching for months for the right words to express what rugby has meant to me lately, and I just can't find them. There is no way to measure in words what my rugby team has done for me. But I'll try.
One morning in November, as the Angels headed to Texas for nationals (without me), I woke up horribly depressed as Miles suffered a major sleep relapse. I sat on my sofa, shaking and rocking, with my head under a blanket and sobbed as we blared static through the house and Corey marched the screaming baby up and down the stairs through the wee hours of the night. I decided to check my email and found a note explaining Operation Angel Miles.
My teammates knew we were having a hard time. They knew I was finding it impossible to cope with the isolation of months spent in my living room, marching a baby up and down the stairs. They knew that the sleep deprivation was compromising my mental and physical well-being, that I had to stop driving and that my eyelashes fell out. And so, before they left for Nationals, they left me an IOU.
My teammates set up a schedule and, every single Tuesday for the past three months, two of them showed up at my house to do whatever we needed. I have had ruggers washing dishes and getting Fenugreek for me. They swept my floors and took out my trash and marched my baby up and down the stairs. They engaged me in adult conversation, helped me decorate my Christmas tree, and took dictation while I nursed.
And that was just the surface. The true benefits of Operation Angel Miles were not just the immediate help with chores. The ripple effects are immeasurable! Some nights I got an extra two hours of sleep because my work was finished, which snowballed into a more coherent day and better mothering. Or certainly better teaching. Who knows what student benefited from my regained ability to think critically?
And, the part that matters most of all, I gained confidence the hard times would pass. I got to close my eyes every second and know I was supported by this amazing network of women who would not let me disintegrate. This gift was a boundless gesture of grace. I never knew what it really meant to experience grace before, but I will not forget how it feels enveloping my family.
How do you begin to express gratitude for such an act of love? How do you put into words what the bonds of this sport have meant to me in my darkest and most difficult hours? Operation Angel Miles saved my life this year.
What does rugby mean to me? This:
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Circles
Six months ago this very moment, I was standing in the shower at Magee moaning in time to Snatam and waiting for Miles to evacuate my body. Man, I was hungry. Why can't laboring women at hospitals eat food? Anyway, for the next few months AFTER July 17, I spent most of my time marching up and down stairs as this was the only way to soothe my high needs, screamy baby.
Many other wonderful people in my life took stints marching those stairs. Corey spent more time, more hours marching up and down stairs wearing Miles than anyone in the world. I remember like yesterday those long, multi-hour stretches of Corey marching while the static blared and we prayed and begged Miles to just go to sleep already.
Today, to celebrate his half birthday, we took our giggly, farty, rolly baby on the adventure of his lifetime. We took him stair climbing in the Cathedral of Learning! We marched his ass up 36 flights of stairs over and over again. It was like giving him a million dollars or 80 bars of super dark chocolate or a blank check for the bike shop or anything else you can think of that constitutes your ultimate fantasy.
I wish you all could have seen that kid in his Ergo on Corey's back. He loved himself! He fell asleep a few times, he stared at things, he giggled, he chewed on the straps. And Corey and I moved our bodies and felt good. It was like a great family date.
As we wound circles up that giant building, I couldn't help but think of the exercise as a rite of passage. I felt like telling Miles he'd better appreciate this stair climb, because it is probably the last one he'll ever get. I am so thankful that he no longer needs such endeavors to be a calm and happy baby! How very far we have come together...
Many other wonderful people in my life took stints marching those stairs. Corey spent more time, more hours marching up and down stairs wearing Miles than anyone in the world. I remember like yesterday those long, multi-hour stretches of Corey marching while the static blared and we prayed and begged Miles to just go to sleep already.
Today, to celebrate his half birthday, we took our giggly, farty, rolly baby on the adventure of his lifetime. We took him stair climbing in the Cathedral of Learning! We marched his ass up 36 flights of stairs over and over again. It was like giving him a million dollars or 80 bars of super dark chocolate or a blank check for the bike shop or anything else you can think of that constitutes your ultimate fantasy.
I wish you all could have seen that kid in his Ergo on Corey's back. He loved himself! He fell asleep a few times, he stared at things, he giggled, he chewed on the straps. And Corey and I moved our bodies and felt good. It was like a great family date.
As we wound circles up that giant building, I couldn't help but think of the exercise as a rite of passage. I felt like telling Miles he'd better appreciate this stair climb, because it is probably the last one he'll ever get. I am so thankful that he no longer needs such endeavors to be a calm and happy baby! How very far we have come together...
Saturday, January 09, 2010
No Idea
Warning: This is a post about poop. Lots of poop.
This morning, Miles farted a mighty fart. The force of that fart lifted his butt and legs off the ground, like Denise Austin working her lower abs. He then proceeded to loudly poop right there in the living room, like what's the big deal? I'm pooping here!
I gave him some time to finish and then carried him upstairs to change him in his crib. He had still been in his pjs, so I took those off thinking it was time for some clothes. Then I opened up the diaper and started to clean things up. Only, he wasn't done pooping! More and more and more poop just started coming out. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't fast enough with the clean diaper, so it was just flowing out of the dirty diaper.
I knew one thing: I didn't want poop in the crib because I had just changed the sheets and anyone who has ever changed a crib sheet knows what a miserable freaking job that is. But what I didn't know was what do to about the poop.
Panicking, I scooped up the baby and ran into the bathroom with him, catching the poop in my hand as he pooped it out. I held him above the toilet, where he started to scream and cry. Probably because there was icy water splashing back on him as his poop feel into the bowl.
So I'm standing there covered in poop holding him while he poops and cries and I'm saying, "It's ok! You're such a big boy! Look at you pooping on the potty!" But I can't figure out how to clean us off. Should I put him on the cold tiles on the ground? Should I put him on the bathmat? I had no idea.
In the end, I used my elbows to get some toilet paper, ripped it with my teeth, and did a sort of cursory wipe job. Then I put him in his crib.
I turned around to take off my shirt, covered in poop as it was, and grab a diaper. But then I heard a horrible splashing sound.
I turned back around to see Miles, sputtering and choking as he forcefully peed into his own mouth. He started trying to swat the pee away, getting it all over the walls, the pictures on the walls, the toybox, the crib rails, the floor, and of course the damn crib sheets. Then he started to cry. And also shiver, because he was naked (remember, I was going to put clothes on him and had taken off his pjs).
So I clutch my pissy, shivering, crying child to my naked chest and I have no idea what to do. I mean, what do you do? Where do you put the baby down while you gather your thoughts? What can you touch without contaminating it? Why doesn't anyone tell you what to do when you have poop on your hands and pee and poop on your chest and you are holding a piss-covered, naked, shivering, crying, cold baby?
There is certainly not a chapter in ANY parenting book (I'm looking at you Dr. Sears) telling you what to do in this scenario. I had no idea. I pretty much stood in the middle of the room saying, "It's ok! It's ok! Everything is ok!" as the pee dripped onto my slippers.
I was paralyzed by my inability to know what to do. Should I touch the doorknob on the closet to get a towel, spreading more feces and urine around the room? Should I just put him on the hardwood floor and then have to mop later? I had no idea! No freaking idea!
Here is what I did: I put Miles back in the urine-soaked crib. I ran into the bathroom and prepared a warm, wet, soapy washcloth. I gave him a vigorous scrubbing and put him on the carpet on the floor of his room, draped a blanket over him, and immediately secured a diaper over his junk.
Then I washed my hands.
Then I ran back into the room and put him in a warm, fuzzy sweatsuit.
Then I moved all the furniture away from the walls so I could scrub pee-pee off the crib, the floor, the toybox, the walls, and the artwork. I was still mostly naked, wearing pee-pee slippers. I heaved all the dirty toys and sheets and mattress pad into MW's hamper and just scrubbed and mopped up and scrubbed, saying, "It's ok! You're such a good baby right now!"
Meanwhile, Miles rolled himself over, got one arm stuck in the ottoman for his glider rocker, and started pulling the pissy toys out of his hamper and putting them in his mouth. Which I didn't notice because I was cleaning and muttering.
At this point, my mom tells me I should have cleaned out the inside of his mouth. It makes sense. He had peed directly in there and was then sucking on urine-soaked animals. But I had no idea.
I put Miles in a safer area (the floor of my bedroom), finished cleaning, wrestled with the sheets for a half hour to get the crib back in order. At this point, Miles was hungry. But I was all covered in pee still, so I had to take a shower since I didn't want to put a pee-pee nipple in his mouth after all of that. Then I gave my baby some milk and some cuddling time, because we both needed it.
This morning, Miles farted a mighty fart. The force of that fart lifted his butt and legs off the ground, like Denise Austin working her lower abs. He then proceeded to loudly poop right there in the living room, like what's the big deal? I'm pooping here!
I gave him some time to finish and then carried him upstairs to change him in his crib. He had still been in his pjs, so I took those off thinking it was time for some clothes. Then I opened up the diaper and started to clean things up. Only, he wasn't done pooping! More and more and more poop just started coming out. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't fast enough with the clean diaper, so it was just flowing out of the dirty diaper.
I knew one thing: I didn't want poop in the crib because I had just changed the sheets and anyone who has ever changed a crib sheet knows what a miserable freaking job that is. But what I didn't know was what do to about the poop.
Panicking, I scooped up the baby and ran into the bathroom with him, catching the poop in my hand as he pooped it out. I held him above the toilet, where he started to scream and cry. Probably because there was icy water splashing back on him as his poop feel into the bowl.
So I'm standing there covered in poop holding him while he poops and cries and I'm saying, "It's ok! You're such a big boy! Look at you pooping on the potty!" But I can't figure out how to clean us off. Should I put him on the cold tiles on the ground? Should I put him on the bathmat? I had no idea.
In the end, I used my elbows to get some toilet paper, ripped it with my teeth, and did a sort of cursory wipe job. Then I put him in his crib.
I turned around to take off my shirt, covered in poop as it was, and grab a diaper. But then I heard a horrible splashing sound.
I turned back around to see Miles, sputtering and choking as he forcefully peed into his own mouth. He started trying to swat the pee away, getting it all over the walls, the pictures on the walls, the toybox, the crib rails, the floor, and of course the damn crib sheets. Then he started to cry. And also shiver, because he was naked (remember, I was going to put clothes on him and had taken off his pjs).
So I clutch my pissy, shivering, crying child to my naked chest and I have no idea what to do. I mean, what do you do? Where do you put the baby down while you gather your thoughts? What can you touch without contaminating it? Why doesn't anyone tell you what to do when you have poop on your hands and pee and poop on your chest and you are holding a piss-covered, naked, shivering, crying, cold baby?
There is certainly not a chapter in ANY parenting book (I'm looking at you Dr. Sears) telling you what to do in this scenario. I had no idea. I pretty much stood in the middle of the room saying, "It's ok! It's ok! Everything is ok!" as the pee dripped onto my slippers.
I was paralyzed by my inability to know what to do. Should I touch the doorknob on the closet to get a towel, spreading more feces and urine around the room? Should I just put him on the hardwood floor and then have to mop later? I had no idea! No freaking idea!
Here is what I did: I put Miles back in the urine-soaked crib. I ran into the bathroom and prepared a warm, wet, soapy washcloth. I gave him a vigorous scrubbing and put him on the carpet on the floor of his room, draped a blanket over him, and immediately secured a diaper over his junk.
Then I washed my hands.
Then I ran back into the room and put him in a warm, fuzzy sweatsuit.
Then I moved all the furniture away from the walls so I could scrub pee-pee off the crib, the floor, the toybox, the walls, and the artwork. I was still mostly naked, wearing pee-pee slippers. I heaved all the dirty toys and sheets and mattress pad into MW's hamper and just scrubbed and mopped up and scrubbed, saying, "It's ok! You're such a good baby right now!"
Meanwhile, Miles rolled himself over, got one arm stuck in the ottoman for his glider rocker, and started pulling the pissy toys out of his hamper and putting them in his mouth. Which I didn't notice because I was cleaning and muttering.
At this point, my mom tells me I should have cleaned out the inside of his mouth. It makes sense. He had peed directly in there and was then sucking on urine-soaked animals. But I had no idea.
I put Miles in a safer area (the floor of my bedroom), finished cleaning, wrestled with the sheets for a half hour to get the crib back in order. At this point, Miles was hungry. But I was all covered in pee still, so I had to take a shower since I didn't want to put a pee-pee nipple in his mouth after all of that. Then I gave my baby some milk and some cuddling time, because we both needed it.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Just When...
Just when I am at the end of my frayed rope with Miles, when I can't stand for another instant to be a human pacifier or to feel milk squirting out of my body into someone's mouth for one more nanosecond...Just when that happens, he blows my mind.
This morning, I was nursing him to sleep for a nap. He was fighting the nap. For a long time, he wrangled and mangled his little body and looked around and I was about to give up, stomp downstairs and feed him a papaya. But then he looked up at me and made eye contact and he settled down.
A sense of calm came over his face, I felt his body relax, and his little palm opened and rested there on my breast. He fell asleep. In that little face was such a perfect sense of calm, the most untroubled of little minds. It was a miracle. His peacefulness radiated through the whole room and I hated to leave him there.
But I did! I left him in there and went on to do other things.
This morning, I was nursing him to sleep for a nap. He was fighting the nap. For a long time, he wrangled and mangled his little body and looked around and I was about to give up, stomp downstairs and feed him a papaya. But then he looked up at me and made eye contact and he settled down.
A sense of calm came over his face, I felt his body relax, and his little palm opened and rested there on my breast. He fell asleep. In that little face was such a perfect sense of calm, the most untroubled of little minds. It was a miracle. His peacefulness radiated through the whole room and I hated to leave him there.
But I did! I left him in there and went on to do other things.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Demoralizing, Soul Sucking Torture
My baby still won't sleep at night. I can't stand it. It has been six months and he still wakes up repeatedly. Corey and I had what I thought was an acceptable system where I would diaper and feed him during one waking and Corey would do the next so we both could get a little bit of sleep.
Only now, Miles has changed the rules on us. He no longer goes back to sleep after eating and getting his ass wiped. And he's too damn heavy to march up and down the stairs anymore. His night wakings take a minimum of 75 minutes and usually include screaming and yelling from both frustrated parents. Ok, it's me doing the screaming and yelling. Corey just angrily gets back in bed and fluffs the covers over and over and over again, silently.
Miles makes me ache. Just when his sleep resistance shreds me into a writhing heap, he sticks out his little arm and holds my finger with all his strength. I just know he is equally devastated that he can't figure out how to fall asleep. He seems to be begging me to help him, but I have NO IDEA what else I can do for him.
We get two schools of support through this situation. One group of people tells us it's time to let Miles cry it out, that he needs to learn to self soothe and that enough is enough with this nighttime bullshit. Another group of people tells us that parenting is a 24-hr job, and that we should view his night wakings as nighttime parenting and just surrender to our hungry, high needs baby. This group reminds us how long it took us to get Miles gaining weight, that he really seems to need all the night time calories. Again and again and again.
It always seems like those are the options: martyrdom or Ferberizing.
My gut tells me not to let Miles cry it out. I can't bear it. Plus, when he becomes really upset he vomits. He vomits so much vomit that he smears it in his hair, in his ears, on the sheets, on the walls. When we leave the room, frustrated that he won't sleep, we inevitably come back 10 minutes later to a vomit whiteout. That doesn't feel like good parenting to me.
I just wish I could figure out what the hell this kid needs. There is still no consistency from one day to the next. A nap could be a half hour or 2.5. He could wake up for the day at 4am or 830. And so I stagger on, sleepless, filled with the high anxiety of never, ever knowing what will come next for this baby.
This, too, shall pass. That mantra has been the only consistency in my life since July. This, too, shall pass is all I have left. It seems those words will have to spell me a little bit longer.
Only now, Miles has changed the rules on us. He no longer goes back to sleep after eating and getting his ass wiped. And he's too damn heavy to march up and down the stairs anymore. His night wakings take a minimum of 75 minutes and usually include screaming and yelling from both frustrated parents. Ok, it's me doing the screaming and yelling. Corey just angrily gets back in bed and fluffs the covers over and over and over again, silently.
Miles makes me ache. Just when his sleep resistance shreds me into a writhing heap, he sticks out his little arm and holds my finger with all his strength. I just know he is equally devastated that he can't figure out how to fall asleep. He seems to be begging me to help him, but I have NO IDEA what else I can do for him.
We get two schools of support through this situation. One group of people tells us it's time to let Miles cry it out, that he needs to learn to self soothe and that enough is enough with this nighttime bullshit. Another group of people tells us that parenting is a 24-hr job, and that we should view his night wakings as nighttime parenting and just surrender to our hungry, high needs baby. This group reminds us how long it took us to get Miles gaining weight, that he really seems to need all the night time calories. Again and again and again.
It always seems like those are the options: martyrdom or Ferberizing.
My gut tells me not to let Miles cry it out. I can't bear it. Plus, when he becomes really upset he vomits. He vomits so much vomit that he smears it in his hair, in his ears, on the sheets, on the walls. When we leave the room, frustrated that he won't sleep, we inevitably come back 10 minutes later to a vomit whiteout. That doesn't feel like good parenting to me.
I just wish I could figure out what the hell this kid needs. There is still no consistency from one day to the next. A nap could be a half hour or 2.5. He could wake up for the day at 4am or 830. And so I stagger on, sleepless, filled with the high anxiety of never, ever knowing what will come next for this baby.
This, too, shall pass. That mantra has been the only consistency in my life since July. This, too, shall pass is all I have left. It seems those words will have to spell me a little bit longer.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Judgey Judy
I took Miles to Whole Foods yesterday because we had eaten literally everything in the house. I'm talking we had even consumed those random little half bags of whole wheat pasta hiding in the back of the pantry. We were stocking up on non-perishables!
So we made it through most of the store and saw there was a sample lady in the cheese section. Excellent! I'm back on dairy anyway. I shot out my left paw for a cheese sample when this douchebag lady in stretch pants grabbed my arm and said, "You know that's RAW cheese, right?"
I said, "OK" and popped that cheese in my mouth.
She looked at Miles, dangling from the front of me in his polar bear costume (so cute!) and said, "Oh. (sniff) You must not be nursing."
First: nursing moms aren't supposed to eat cheese made from raw milk. Just like we aren't supposed to drink alcohol. But I can have a glass of wine now and again and by God! I can eat a cheese sample from the cheese lady in Whole Foods!
I became so enraged by this woman's audacity. I thought of all the many months I have just spent struggling with nursing, the many hundreds of ccs or whatever of Fenugreek I ingest daily. The hours I have spent watching this video (where the woman's yield is truly staggering and makes me feel competitive/inadequate). And this grocery store judgey woman wants to get all up in my face for indulging in some local cheese?
What if I weren't nursing? She doesn't know anything about us. Maybe I had some sort of breast disease. Maybe Miles was adopted. The way she emphasized NOT and NURSING implied that I was totally garbage to her. I was so agog I just stomped away and told Miles he wasn't allowed to be like her when he grew up.
People NEVER have any sort of filter when it comes to sharing their ideas about your baby. When I was super pregnant and walked around with my skirt tucked into my underpants it took many blocks on a crowded city street and many floors in a crowded building before anyone said something to me. But dangle a baby from your chest and eat some cheese and everyone has an opinion to share!
Sometimes I know I am a pretty judgemental person, but I like to think that I would never approach a stranger in a grocery store and judge her parenting choices.
So we made it through most of the store and saw there was a sample lady in the cheese section. Excellent! I'm back on dairy anyway. I shot out my left paw for a cheese sample when this douchebag lady in stretch pants grabbed my arm and said, "You know that's RAW cheese, right?"
I said, "OK" and popped that cheese in my mouth.
She looked at Miles, dangling from the front of me in his polar bear costume (so cute!) and said, "Oh. (sniff) You must not be nursing."
First: nursing moms aren't supposed to eat cheese made from raw milk. Just like we aren't supposed to drink alcohol. But I can have a glass of wine now and again and by God! I can eat a cheese sample from the cheese lady in Whole Foods!
I became so enraged by this woman's audacity. I thought of all the many months I have just spent struggling with nursing, the many hundreds of ccs or whatever of Fenugreek I ingest daily. The hours I have spent watching this video (where the woman's yield is truly staggering and makes me feel competitive/inadequate). And this grocery store judgey woman wants to get all up in my face for indulging in some local cheese?
What if I weren't nursing? She doesn't know anything about us. Maybe I had some sort of breast disease. Maybe Miles was adopted. The way she emphasized NOT and NURSING implied that I was totally garbage to her. I was so agog I just stomped away and told Miles he wasn't allowed to be like her when he grew up.
People NEVER have any sort of filter when it comes to sharing their ideas about your baby. When I was super pregnant and walked around with my skirt tucked into my underpants it took many blocks on a crowded city street and many floors in a crowded building before anyone said something to me. But dangle a baby from your chest and eat some cheese and everyone has an opinion to share!
Sometimes I know I am a pretty judgemental person, but I like to think that I would never approach a stranger in a grocery store and judge her parenting choices.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Cross This Road When You Come To It
Here is a piece of context: on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I am on campus all day. Meanwhile, my breastfed baby is at home slowly sucking down my hard-pumped nutrients. I have increasing difficulty pumping, mostly due to this and similar incidents with the dean. When I do finally get home, I generally burst in the front door, change my pants, and immediately nurse his starving face off. I can't dally after work. I have a baby to feed! I rush-walk with elbows out to get to the bus and I pinch my own fingers with anxiety if the bus sits in traffic. The journey home is the most stressful part of my whole darn day.
Here is another piece of context: At the writing center, I have been working with this blind student lately. He tends to schedule my last appointment of the day and then, since we are headed in the same direction, he asks me to help him walk to the bus shelter on 5th and Bigelow. At first this was a really interesting experience. I never helped a blind person walk before, so I liked having to talk about bumps and steps and inclines. But then, it takes MUCH longer than my race-walk with elbows out. Much, much longer. And I usually get the bus at 5th and Atwood, where there are typically still seats, instead of 5th and Bigelow, by which point the seats are all gone and the aisle is packed tight like my new back fat in my old shirts.
This means that if I help this student to the bus stop, I generally miss the EBO and have to catch the next one 7 minutes later AND I have to stand the whole way home. So my baby is crying, I'm standing, I'm freaking out, and I'm pressed against the mushy stomach of another bus rider who may or may not have Ebola/Swine Flu.
I, thus, had to tell this student I couldn't help him walk to the bus. And even with all of these factors considered, it took a lot of guilt and self-pep-talking to finally not offer my services to help this student!
Here is what happened after work the other day: I finished my shift, threw on my coat, and was race-walking down the hill. My elbows were really pumping, because I saw my bus approaching and I was about to miss the light to cross 5th Ave. There is nothing worse than being stuck across a 4-lane street and watching your bus rumble past as you wait for the light to change!
My stars aligned. The light stayed yellowish-green, the EBO rumbled onward, and I was going to be ok! Just as I crossed 5th Ave, a little, hunchy old lady patted my arm (elbow flying! Look out!) and said, "Ma'am, can I ask you a big favor?"
I paused. "What can I do for you?" I figured she'd ask me for change for the bus or something. I was even ready to give it to her, so excited was I to have made the light and see my bus approaching.
"Can you help me cross the street?"
THUNK! That was the sound of my heart hitting the pavement. Really???? I said, "Oh, dear. I just came from across the street...."
Then, before I could finish, this woman got irrationally furious with me. She started swearing and yelling and calling me names. Using profanity about young people these days! I got so fucking angry at her that I started yelling right back. "Look, I have to get home and feed my newborn baby! And my damn bus is coming!"
"Oh, sure. Yeah, yeah!" And she started sort of lumbering away. As I got on the EBO, I saw a nice couple helping her across the street. I spent my whole ride home wallowing in guilt. There I was, the woman who refused to help an old lady across the street.
But you know what? I'm glad I chose Miles over that damn lady. I walked in my front door on schedule and he was so happy to see me. We had a lovely nursing session and then he had a great night's sleep afterward. And for that, I refuse to feel badly.
So why can't I stop thinking about that lady?
Here is another piece of context: At the writing center, I have been working with this blind student lately. He tends to schedule my last appointment of the day and then, since we are headed in the same direction, he asks me to help him walk to the bus shelter on 5th and Bigelow. At first this was a really interesting experience. I never helped a blind person walk before, so I liked having to talk about bumps and steps and inclines. But then, it takes MUCH longer than my race-walk with elbows out. Much, much longer. And I usually get the bus at 5th and Atwood, where there are typically still seats, instead of 5th and Bigelow, by which point the seats are all gone and the aisle is packed tight like my new back fat in my old shirts.
This means that if I help this student to the bus stop, I generally miss the EBO and have to catch the next one 7 minutes later AND I have to stand the whole way home. So my baby is crying, I'm standing, I'm freaking out, and I'm pressed against the mushy stomach of another bus rider who may or may not have Ebola/Swine Flu.
I, thus, had to tell this student I couldn't help him walk to the bus. And even with all of these factors considered, it took a lot of guilt and self-pep-talking to finally not offer my services to help this student!
Here is what happened after work the other day: I finished my shift, threw on my coat, and was race-walking down the hill. My elbows were really pumping, because I saw my bus approaching and I was about to miss the light to cross 5th Ave. There is nothing worse than being stuck across a 4-lane street and watching your bus rumble past as you wait for the light to change!
My stars aligned. The light stayed yellowish-green, the EBO rumbled onward, and I was going to be ok! Just as I crossed 5th Ave, a little, hunchy old lady patted my arm (elbow flying! Look out!) and said, "Ma'am, can I ask you a big favor?"
I paused. "What can I do for you?" I figured she'd ask me for change for the bus or something. I was even ready to give it to her, so excited was I to have made the light and see my bus approaching.
"Can you help me cross the street?"
THUNK! That was the sound of my heart hitting the pavement. Really???? I said, "Oh, dear. I just came from across the street...."
Then, before I could finish, this woman got irrationally furious with me. She started swearing and yelling and calling me names. Using profanity about young people these days! I got so fucking angry at her that I started yelling right back. "Look, I have to get home and feed my newborn baby! And my damn bus is coming!"
"Oh, sure. Yeah, yeah!" And she started sort of lumbering away. As I got on the EBO, I saw a nice couple helping her across the street. I spent my whole ride home wallowing in guilt. There I was, the woman who refused to help an old lady across the street.
But you know what? I'm glad I chose Miles over that damn lady. I walked in my front door on schedule and he was so happy to see me. We had a lovely nursing session and then he had a great night's sleep afterward. And for that, I refuse to feel badly.
So why can't I stop thinking about that lady?
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Bubbly Baby
Miles has stopped screaming. It's pretty official, I think, since it's been more than three weeks since he's been a scream flavored popsicle, as my friend Kathy calls him. Instead, he talks and burbles and (when he gets upset) cries. There is such a pleasant difference between crying with tears and back-stiffening, blood-curdling, teeth-gnashing screaming. We'll take crying any day. Honest.
Not sure what the difference is. Perhaps weighing 12 pounds, perhaps just being 4 months old, but even with sleep troubles, he is a different kid. I want to run across the street and knock on Anna's door and tell her to ask me again if I'm having so much fun over here. Because now? Most of the time? We are!
I mean, look at this family enjoying a trip to the zoo. Who wouldn't want in on that action?
Not sure what the difference is. Perhaps weighing 12 pounds, perhaps just being 4 months old, but even with sleep troubles, he is a different kid. I want to run across the street and knock on Anna's door and tell her to ask me again if I'm having so much fun over here. Because now? Most of the time? We are!
I mean, look at this family enjoying a trip to the zoo. Who wouldn't want in on that action?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bedtime Ritual
I think Corey and I are guilty of providing an inconsistent bedtime ritual for Miles. So I am renewing my dedication to making it so, in hopes of ever improving his sleeping habits. We had something like a routine going, but daylight savings effed everything up and then he went on another sleep strike and I became a zombie again...last night was a good night so I want to keep things that way! Here is the ideal evening gameplan:
1. Bath when appropriate (like the days when he excretes all over himself from all possible orifices)
2. Massage with the lovely apricot oil and his red light
3. PJs, bag, medicine
4. Read 2-3 books in his chair in his room
5. Hug quietly for a few minutes
6. Nurse to sleep
The big problem with this is timing. We would like his bed time to be 8pm, so this ritual would start at 730. Only, some days he does not nap AT ALL and is super exhausted and a big fat mess by 6pm. MAH-eessssssss. What do we do then? Start the ritual early? Force him into a massage and book readin' while he squirms all over the damn place?
Everyone keeps telling me babies need routines and I need to help him have a routine and make his days all identical, yada yada. There are never two consecutive days where Miles does the same anything. I can't even say bedtime is the same time each night, because everything depends on his daytime behavior.
We are hoping that a bedtime ritual can be the keystone in a consistent lifestyle for Miles. Maybe he just needs a good jumping off place.
1. Bath when appropriate (like the days when he excretes all over himself from all possible orifices)
2. Massage with the lovely apricot oil and his red light
3. PJs, bag, medicine
4. Read 2-3 books in his chair in his room
5. Hug quietly for a few minutes
6. Nurse to sleep
The big problem with this is timing. We would like his bed time to be 8pm, so this ritual would start at 730. Only, some days he does not nap AT ALL and is super exhausted and a big fat mess by 6pm. MAH-eessssssss. What do we do then? Start the ritual early? Force him into a massage and book readin' while he squirms all over the damn place?
Everyone keeps telling me babies need routines and I need to help him have a routine and make his days all identical, yada yada. There are never two consecutive days where Miles does the same anything. I can't even say bedtime is the same time each night, because everything depends on his daytime behavior.
We are hoping that a bedtime ritual can be the keystone in a consistent lifestyle for Miles. Maybe he just needs a good jumping off place.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Baby Soothers
Over the course of my adventures with Miles, I have come across a number of women who also had screamy babies. I never knew such people were out there, screamy baby survivors. But they are. And when you find one, a real one, you feel the sort of bond that immediately makes you lifelong friends. It's like meeting a rugby player for the first time. You just know so much about this person that you can get right to checking each other's armpits for deodorant skids upon first meeting.
So in talking to these fellow survivors, I learned that the screaming babies tend to fall into categories. It's true.
I classify Miles as an "up and down" screamy baby. This means he needs to be moving up and down in order to not be screaming (although he screams much less now at week 17 of being alive than he did at week 3). At our house, we get our up and down action in on the stairs. We go up and down the bottom step again and again and again. At first we used the bouncy ball. Now only the stairs will do. Occaisionally, he will tolerate the back porch step. Mostly, it has to be the bottom step of our upstairs staircase.
Another mom with an up and down baby did lunges. Millions upon millions of lunges over and over again until she had thighs like Katherine Zeta Jones in Chicago. Beth from work had an up and down baby and they did the entire flight of stairs, up and down. So did the lady from yoga. One neighborhood mom walked up and down Vilsack Street until her kid was four months old. Luckily, he was born in spring and not, say, January.
Other moms had "around and around" babies who need to be circled around and around something. My friend does laps around the dining room table. Other people use the block, circling the neighborhood until the residents think they are stuck in a continuous mobius. I met an around and around baby who preferred the coffee table. I feel for that mom! The small circles! Oh, the vertigo!
Not to be judgy, but I don't feel the same empathy for people who had driving babies. Maybe it's because you can sit down while driving and it doesn't hurt your back? Not that there is anything fun about the gas money and carbon emissions, not to mention hours spent in a confined space with a screaming child. The ones whose babies needed the bus or subway are another story entirely. When public transportation is involved in pacifying a jetsetting baby, then others are witness to the humbling experience of a writhing little body and a grownup pleading, begging, praying for the screaming to stop. I am glad Miles is not a jetsetter, I think. At least the stairs are private.
What other kinds of screamy babies are out there? I am so curious to hear what soothed these little imps. Not because I am seeking advice, but gathering information about something that completely fascinates me even as it drains the hairs right out of my eyelids. What the heck is wrong with these babies that they scream for four months unless very specific conditions are met? And what, in fact, are the conditions others deal with in pacifying their screamy loved ones?
Do you have a screamy baby? What made this baby stop screaming? I am dying to know!
So in talking to these fellow survivors, I learned that the screaming babies tend to fall into categories. It's true.
I classify Miles as an "up and down" screamy baby. This means he needs to be moving up and down in order to not be screaming (although he screams much less now at week 17 of being alive than he did at week 3). At our house, we get our up and down action in on the stairs. We go up and down the bottom step again and again and again. At first we used the bouncy ball. Now only the stairs will do. Occaisionally, he will tolerate the back porch step. Mostly, it has to be the bottom step of our upstairs staircase.
Another mom with an up and down baby did lunges. Millions upon millions of lunges over and over again until she had thighs like Katherine Zeta Jones in Chicago. Beth from work had an up and down baby and they did the entire flight of stairs, up and down. So did the lady from yoga. One neighborhood mom walked up and down Vilsack Street until her kid was four months old. Luckily, he was born in spring and not, say, January.
Other moms had "around and around" babies who need to be circled around and around something. My friend does laps around the dining room table. Other people use the block, circling the neighborhood until the residents think they are stuck in a continuous mobius. I met an around and around baby who preferred the coffee table. I feel for that mom! The small circles! Oh, the vertigo!
Not to be judgy, but I don't feel the same empathy for people who had driving babies. Maybe it's because you can sit down while driving and it doesn't hurt your back? Not that there is anything fun about the gas money and carbon emissions, not to mention hours spent in a confined space with a screaming child. The ones whose babies needed the bus or subway are another story entirely. When public transportation is involved in pacifying a jetsetting baby, then others are witness to the humbling experience of a writhing little body and a grownup pleading, begging, praying for the screaming to stop. I am glad Miles is not a jetsetter, I think. At least the stairs are private.
What other kinds of screamy babies are out there? I am so curious to hear what soothed these little imps. Not because I am seeking advice, but gathering information about something that completely fascinates me even as it drains the hairs right out of my eyelids. What the heck is wrong with these babies that they scream for four months unless very specific conditions are met? And what, in fact, are the conditions others deal with in pacifying their screamy loved ones?
Do you have a screamy baby? What made this baby stop screaming? I am dying to know!
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Got Milk?
This is a post in which I will describe my milking machine, so be forewarned!
I am a working, nursing mother. This means that each day I am at work, I have to retreat into some sort of cave and hook myself up to a pump. I call it my milking machine. When I was still pregnant and didn't think much about such things, Corey's cousin offered me her $300 breast pump since she was done having kids. "Sure," I said, noncommittally, "Whatever."
If you are not a working, nursing mother (or nursing mother in circumstances which necessitate pumping), you have no idea, none at all, what it means to invest in an electronic double breast pump. You just don't stop to think about the fact that once every three hours or so? You are going to have to milk yourself. Like a cow. It even makes little moo sounds, like WHEEEEE! hunh, WHEEEEE! hunh...WHEEE! hunh...
I feel darn lucky now that Ambika gave us this pump, because it's a good one. Very powerful and whatnot. Good suction.
So I have this milking machine, the plastic things that suck the milk from my boobs, a few bottles, a package of sanitary wipes to whisk the milk drips off the phlanges before I put it all back into my tote bag, a cooler, ice packs, a hand pump just in case, and spare nipple pads. I have to haul all this luggage with me each time I go to work. Then it takes like five minutes to rig it all up. There are plugs and tubes and lids and little white rubber things that always fly off into the bottle or get stuck in the crud catcher in the sink drain...what a mess. It's a whole process, I assure you.
Let's say I finally get myself situated in a chair, shirt bunched up, both tatas hooked into my milking machine. Let's say I am staring at a picture of Miles and trying to make milk come out of my body for this milking machine. I close my eyes, eat my sandwich, and imagine that I have a cuddly baby on my lap instead of the Ameada "Purely Yours" milking machine going WHEEEEE! hunh.
At long last, the milk starts to go into the bottles. Sometimes. Only if I've taken 9 fenugreek capsules each day, which makes my urine and sweat smell like maple syrup. The point is that it is damn difficult to offer forth milk to this machine. There's plenty of milk in my body! Wooo boy! It's in there! But it won't come out for me, generally--only for Miles in person.
Last week, I was in the conference room beneath the Writing Center, milking myself. Conditions were ideal. I was two squares away from finishing the Thursday NY Times crossword, an accomplishment in itself, and about 3.5 ounces into a good bottle for Miles. Yes!!! I thought, This is a good milking session.
All of a sudden, the door to the locked conference room burst open. The dean of undergraduate studies, who has the keycode apparently, came bustling into the room with a few undergrads. There I sat, on the floor, crossword puzzle on my thigh, milking machine all over the place, tubes and bottles and cups and plastic boob-suckers of various sizes at arm's length (depending how swollen my boobs are on a given day, I need different size milking accoutrements) when the DEAN of undergraduate studies was inches away from my milk-spewing nipples.
"Ohmygod I'm sorry," I said. Why was I sorry? I don't know. It came out. "I didn't know you were coming in here."
"Oh, that's ok," she said. "We're using the room for different things." She and the students kept on coming in, hanging some sort of poster. My nipples had, by this point, stopped offering milk. But the machine kept milking. WHEEE! hunh WHEEEE! hunh.
"What ARE you doing, anyway?" she asked as I sat there, mouth agape.
"I'm....pumping my breast milk."
"OH!"...
"OH! I had no idea you did that in here."
pause. awkward, awkward pause.
"Sometimes I do," I stammered.
"Hmmmm. Well just let us know when you're done." And she and the students backed out of the room.
Needless to say, there was no more milk aflowing that afternoon. Oh no. I started the long and arduous process of bottling up and cooling my milk, disconnecting my hoses, sanitizing my utter-pumps, packing up. Breastmilk was dripping everywhere, all over my pants, and I kept trying to wring it into a bottle, because every drop counts!!! But no dice. I was in such a snit. I had to get out of there.
I didn't even make eye contact in the hallway, not with the DEAN who had just seen my H-cup boobs and my milky nipples. Oh no. I just marched back up to work to tutor students for the rest of the afternoon as if nothing had happened.
I haven't had a good milking session since.
I am a working, nursing mother. This means that each day I am at work, I have to retreat into some sort of cave and hook myself up to a pump. I call it my milking machine. When I was still pregnant and didn't think much about such things, Corey's cousin offered me her $300 breast pump since she was done having kids. "Sure," I said, noncommittally, "Whatever."
If you are not a working, nursing mother (or nursing mother in circumstances which necessitate pumping), you have no idea, none at all, what it means to invest in an electronic double breast pump. You just don't stop to think about the fact that once every three hours or so? You are going to have to milk yourself. Like a cow. It even makes little moo sounds, like WHEEEEE! hunh, WHEEEEE! hunh...WHEEE! hunh...
I feel darn lucky now that Ambika gave us this pump, because it's a good one. Very powerful and whatnot. Good suction.
So I have this milking machine, the plastic things that suck the milk from my boobs, a few bottles, a package of sanitary wipes to whisk the milk drips off the phlanges before I put it all back into my tote bag, a cooler, ice packs, a hand pump just in case, and spare nipple pads. I have to haul all this luggage with me each time I go to work. Then it takes like five minutes to rig it all up. There are plugs and tubes and lids and little white rubber things that always fly off into the bottle or get stuck in the crud catcher in the sink drain...what a mess. It's a whole process, I assure you.
Let's say I finally get myself situated in a chair, shirt bunched up, both tatas hooked into my milking machine. Let's say I am staring at a picture of Miles and trying to make milk come out of my body for this milking machine. I close my eyes, eat my sandwich, and imagine that I have a cuddly baby on my lap instead of the Ameada "Purely Yours" milking machine going WHEEEEE! hunh.
At long last, the milk starts to go into the bottles. Sometimes. Only if I've taken 9 fenugreek capsules each day, which makes my urine and sweat smell like maple syrup. The point is that it is damn difficult to offer forth milk to this machine. There's plenty of milk in my body! Wooo boy! It's in there! But it won't come out for me, generally--only for Miles in person.
Last week, I was in the conference room beneath the Writing Center, milking myself. Conditions were ideal. I was two squares away from finishing the Thursday NY Times crossword, an accomplishment in itself, and about 3.5 ounces into a good bottle for Miles. Yes!!! I thought, This is a good milking session.
All of a sudden, the door to the locked conference room burst open. The dean of undergraduate studies, who has the keycode apparently, came bustling into the room with a few undergrads. There I sat, on the floor, crossword puzzle on my thigh, milking machine all over the place, tubes and bottles and cups and plastic boob-suckers of various sizes at arm's length (depending how swollen my boobs are on a given day, I need different size milking accoutrements) when the DEAN of undergraduate studies was inches away from my milk-spewing nipples.
"Ohmygod I'm sorry," I said. Why was I sorry? I don't know. It came out. "I didn't know you were coming in here."
"Oh, that's ok," she said. "We're using the room for different things." She and the students kept on coming in, hanging some sort of poster. My nipples had, by this point, stopped offering milk. But the machine kept milking. WHEEE! hunh WHEEEE! hunh.
"What ARE you doing, anyway?" she asked as I sat there, mouth agape.
"I'm....pumping my breast milk."
"OH!"...
"OH! I had no idea you did that in here."
pause. awkward, awkward pause.
"Sometimes I do," I stammered.
"Hmmmm. Well just let us know when you're done." And she and the students backed out of the room.
Needless to say, there was no more milk aflowing that afternoon. Oh no. I started the long and arduous process of bottling up and cooling my milk, disconnecting my hoses, sanitizing my utter-pumps, packing up. Breastmilk was dripping everywhere, all over my pants, and I kept trying to wring it into a bottle, because every drop counts!!! But no dice. I was in such a snit. I had to get out of there.
I didn't even make eye contact in the hallway, not with the DEAN who had just seen my H-cup boobs and my milky nipples. Oh no. I just marched back up to work to tutor students for the rest of the afternoon as if nothing had happened.
I haven't had a good milking session since.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Notes from a Sleep Deprived Madwoman
Snacky D's parents came over yesterday to meet Miles. They revealed that Snacky himself, Eagle Scout extraordinaire, was once a shitty sleeper, constantly screaming baby like Miles. And look how he turned out! Our friend now falls asleep on couches and in car rides. I once helped carry his sleeping carcass into his room and he never even woke up. So someday, the theory goes, Miles will be just as cool and good at being asleep.
When will that someday start? Can someone tell me a specific date so I can write it on the calendar? When I complain about my delirium, I think people think Miles wakes up briefly once or twice at night. No.
Miles goes to bed at 830. Sometimes he wakes up immediately and Corey marches him up and down the stairs for a half hour. Like last night. Then, when he is asleep at 9, he wakes up again at 1130 and eats for 45 minutes and needs to be marched up and down the stairs for another half hour.
Then he wakes up less than an hour after that and eats for a half hour and falls asleep.
Then he wakes up an hour after that and eats for a half hour and falls asleep.
He repeats this until 6am, when he craps his pants audibly for like 20 minutes and then laughs his face off, ready to greet the day. Nonplussed.
Each time I hear his grunty cry in the middle of the night, my body is so sad. I think I am starting to hear things, I am so tired. Even Corey agrees, we can still hear Miles crying after he stops.
He is three months old now. I was setting so much stock in the fact that colicky babies typically outgrow their issues by three months. This was supposed to be the magic number, the day when he would sleep for, like 3 hours. Three hours! In a row!
This will pass, I know this logically. But my God. I had no idea how crippling it could be to experience such exhaustion.
Channel Snacky D, Katy. Miles will one day sleep like Snacky D.
When will that someday start? Can someone tell me a specific date so I can write it on the calendar? When I complain about my delirium, I think people think Miles wakes up briefly once or twice at night. No.
Miles goes to bed at 830. Sometimes he wakes up immediately and Corey marches him up and down the stairs for a half hour. Like last night. Then, when he is asleep at 9, he wakes up again at 1130 and eats for 45 minutes and needs to be marched up and down the stairs for another half hour.
Then he wakes up less than an hour after that and eats for a half hour and falls asleep.
Then he wakes up an hour after that and eats for a half hour and falls asleep.
He repeats this until 6am, when he craps his pants audibly for like 20 minutes and then laughs his face off, ready to greet the day. Nonplussed.
Each time I hear his grunty cry in the middle of the night, my body is so sad. I think I am starting to hear things, I am so tired. Even Corey agrees, we can still hear Miles crying after he stops.
He is three months old now. I was setting so much stock in the fact that colicky babies typically outgrow their issues by three months. This was supposed to be the magic number, the day when he would sleep for, like 3 hours. Three hours! In a row!
This will pass, I know this logically. But my God. I had no idea how crippling it could be to experience such exhaustion.
Channel Snacky D, Katy. Miles will one day sleep like Snacky D.
Friday, October 02, 2009
The Bjorn Ultimatum
I might have mentioned a few times that Miles is not the world's best sleeper. Of all possible inherited traits, this is the one I most wish he got from Corey. I mean, Corey is famous for falling asleep on couches at parties. It was his MO in college. That man will sleep for 14 hours every day if you let him. Miles? Not so much.
I think that, like mine, Miles' mind must race and prevent him from sleeping. I can just see his little inner monologue. If I sleep now, I might not get the breast milk for awhile. Oh. Look at the ceiling fan. That's cool. Ow. My nail hurt my eyeball when I jabbed it in there. Did I poop today? Do I have two of these arm things? Will they give me the breastmilk if I stop crying I wonder? No? Ok. Hey. My whole hand fits in my mouth. Don't I have another one? I do! I think it might fit in there, too. Nope. I should cry again...
But there is one thing that will ALWAYS eventually put him to sleep: walking around in the Bjorn. No matter how long he has been awake, no matter how wound up he is, if you march him up and down the stairs or stomp around the neighborhood long enough, he WILL go to sleep.
And here is the big problem. Typically, he only stays asleep if you keep him in the Bjorn. Moving. Which is all well and good if you're well rested and down for a 90-minute walk so he gets some sleep. I've sure done that before! Lots of times! Or else I'll just march up and down that bottom step until my legs are on fire and pretend I'm at Crossfit instead of in my living room.
But most of the time, I don't have the energy for this. So I am left with this huge conundrum. Do I put him to sleep in the Bjorn? Because if I do that, he'll sleep, which is good, but I can't put him down or stop moving at all. Which is bad. The alternative is to spend, like, 100 years shushing and nursing and blaring static and rocking in the chair that Corey refuses to oil. So it creaks like one of those old pirate ships you hear in movies. Or maybe a shopping cart with a bum wheel. And Miles spends this entire hundred years wailing and screaming in your damn ear and it's just agony. But at least you're sitting down.
Today, I felt up to sticking him in the Bjorn. We walked. And walked. And just as I was running out of bottles of beer on the wall, I looked down and the turd was asleep! So I walked awhile more to make sure he wasn't just faking (he does that sometimes). But then I was sweaty and hungry and it was beginning to drizzle. So I did a scary thing: I attempted to remove him from the Bjorn and put him down.
Most times, he is awake before you unsnap the top snaps. And that, friends, is the worst moment of your entire life, because you know what you have ahead of you, and it's not fun. I have changed my mind about Hell, in fact, to believe it involves spending hour upon hour with screaming, sad little infants because there really isn't much in the world that's worse.
So today, I risked the wake-by-jostle inherent in Bjorn removal. And by God! It worked in my favor! I couldn't believe it. My child fell asleep not after hours of agony, but on a cute little walk. I even chatted with some neighbors on this walk, got some fresh air, felt, in fact, wonderful. And then I put Miles down and he stayed asleep. Like a real baby!
I was so scared it wouldn't stick that I choked down some lunch, pumped out a bottle, and ran back upstairs to stare at him.
Still out.
I dug out my kettlebell and did a wee little workout. I went on facebook. Still out. It's been two hours now and I totally could have done, like, real writing or work or at least made lesson plans. But I am so scared he will wake up just as I get in the groove that instead, I choose to watch internet television and eat dark chocolate.
I think that, like mine, Miles' mind must race and prevent him from sleeping. I can just see his little inner monologue. If I sleep now, I might not get the breast milk for awhile. Oh. Look at the ceiling fan. That's cool. Ow. My nail hurt my eyeball when I jabbed it in there. Did I poop today? Do I have two of these arm things? Will they give me the breastmilk if I stop crying I wonder? No? Ok. Hey. My whole hand fits in my mouth. Don't I have another one? I do! I think it might fit in there, too. Nope. I should cry again...
But there is one thing that will ALWAYS eventually put him to sleep: walking around in the Bjorn. No matter how long he has been awake, no matter how wound up he is, if you march him up and down the stairs or stomp around the neighborhood long enough, he WILL go to sleep.
And here is the big problem. Typically, he only stays asleep if you keep him in the Bjorn. Moving. Which is all well and good if you're well rested and down for a 90-minute walk so he gets some sleep. I've sure done that before! Lots of times! Or else I'll just march up and down that bottom step until my legs are on fire and pretend I'm at Crossfit instead of in my living room.
But most of the time, I don't have the energy for this. So I am left with this huge conundrum. Do I put him to sleep in the Bjorn? Because if I do that, he'll sleep, which is good, but I can't put him down or stop moving at all. Which is bad. The alternative is to spend, like, 100 years shushing and nursing and blaring static and rocking in the chair that Corey refuses to oil. So it creaks like one of those old pirate ships you hear in movies. Or maybe a shopping cart with a bum wheel. And Miles spends this entire hundred years wailing and screaming in your damn ear and it's just agony. But at least you're sitting down.
Today, I felt up to sticking him in the Bjorn. We walked. And walked. And just as I was running out of bottles of beer on the wall, I looked down and the turd was asleep! So I walked awhile more to make sure he wasn't just faking (he does that sometimes). But then I was sweaty and hungry and it was beginning to drizzle. So I did a scary thing: I attempted to remove him from the Bjorn and put him down.
Most times, he is awake before you unsnap the top snaps. And that, friends, is the worst moment of your entire life, because you know what you have ahead of you, and it's not fun. I have changed my mind about Hell, in fact, to believe it involves spending hour upon hour with screaming, sad little infants because there really isn't much in the world that's worse.
So today, I risked the wake-by-jostle inherent in Bjorn removal. And by God! It worked in my favor! I couldn't believe it. My child fell asleep not after hours of agony, but on a cute little walk. I even chatted with some neighbors on this walk, got some fresh air, felt, in fact, wonderful. And then I put Miles down and he stayed asleep. Like a real baby!
I was so scared it wouldn't stick that I choked down some lunch, pumped out a bottle, and ran back upstairs to stare at him.
Still out.
I dug out my kettlebell and did a wee little workout. I went on facebook. Still out. It's been two hours now and I totally could have done, like, real writing or work or at least made lesson plans. But I am so scared he will wake up just as I get in the groove that instead, I choose to watch internet television and eat dark chocolate.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
For the Love of Sleep
For ten days in a row, I got fewer than 90 minutes of consecutive sleep. For ten weeks before this, I was getting between two and three hours in a row a few times each day. This took a toll on my body such that I did not feel safe operating a car. I was a walking, weeping mess. A disaster. I spent the days sobbing and feeling like there would be no tomorrow, that I would surely die of some unknown cause. Perhaps I would fall into the bags under my eyes and suffocate?
Anyway, it reached a tipping point where I simply had to sleep. Corey and I fabricated a plan. I made pumping breast milk a priority--it is hard to pump when your baby still sometimes eats every hour OR is in constant need of being held or soothed. Not much spare energy for extra milk production...but that day, we made it happen. I pumped and I pumped and I pumped until I had a spare bottle.
Then, I nursed Miles at bedtime. I immediately retreated to a cave we made in the basement. On the cement floor, on a camping pad, in a sleeping bag with ocean waves playing on the ipod, I hid from the rousing sounds of my baby's wails. I went in there at 830pm, scared I might not sleep through the disaster I was sure would happen above my head.
The plan was that Corey would pacify Miles until he got hungry again, give him the bottle, then pacify him until he got hungry AGAIN. We figured this would buy me 5 consecutive hours of rest--the most I would have had since Miles' birth. I couldn't allow myself to believe it was possible. Five hours of sleep? It might as well be 14. I had to use a Benadryl to get to sleep.
So my head hit the concrete at 830 and, apart from a few brief wakings up for no apparent reason, I slept like a lichen until Corey shook me awake...at 5am.
Miles slept from 830 until 1130 (that alone would have made me a new woman) and then drank his bottle and then slept until 5am. Let's take a minute and appreciate the enormity of this. Miles slept for 5 hours. In a row. Without drugs. I swear.
There are not words to describe the difference the cave has made in my life. I have never known such exhaustion as motherhood brings. I know that new parents are supposed to complain of tiredness, but I never could have imagined the weariness of ten weeks without delta sleep, without a second of restorative rest. Wee little catnaps and then full days of constant nurturing...it seemed unbearable. It IS unbearable.
But I have slept down there about four times now and each time, Miles sleeps for most of the night. This morning, he slept until 6am! I had to wake Corey up for work when I crawled out of the cave on my own. You see, we had stopped setting alarm clocks because what's the freaking point? Miles would make sure we were up in a half hour even if we drifted off, right? Not with the cave!
I don't know what it is about the cave situation, whether it's that Miles can't smell/sense me and thus stays asleep or whether the full bottles knock him out better than breast alone or whether the fates are just effing with me. But by God, I am sleeping in my cave until this kid works out how to get himself asleep. I will take a sore back over a slow death by exhaustion any day.
Anyway, it reached a tipping point where I simply had to sleep. Corey and I fabricated a plan. I made pumping breast milk a priority--it is hard to pump when your baby still sometimes eats every hour OR is in constant need of being held or soothed. Not much spare energy for extra milk production...but that day, we made it happen. I pumped and I pumped and I pumped until I had a spare bottle.
Then, I nursed Miles at bedtime. I immediately retreated to a cave we made in the basement. On the cement floor, on a camping pad, in a sleeping bag with ocean waves playing on the ipod, I hid from the rousing sounds of my baby's wails. I went in there at 830pm, scared I might not sleep through the disaster I was sure would happen above my head.
The plan was that Corey would pacify Miles until he got hungry again, give him the bottle, then pacify him until he got hungry AGAIN. We figured this would buy me 5 consecutive hours of rest--the most I would have had since Miles' birth. I couldn't allow myself to believe it was possible. Five hours of sleep? It might as well be 14. I had to use a Benadryl to get to sleep.
So my head hit the concrete at 830 and, apart from a few brief wakings up for no apparent reason, I slept like a lichen until Corey shook me awake...at 5am.
Miles slept from 830 until 1130 (that alone would have made me a new woman) and then drank his bottle and then slept until 5am. Let's take a minute and appreciate the enormity of this. Miles slept for 5 hours. In a row. Without drugs. I swear.
There are not words to describe the difference the cave has made in my life. I have never known such exhaustion as motherhood brings. I know that new parents are supposed to complain of tiredness, but I never could have imagined the weariness of ten weeks without delta sleep, without a second of restorative rest. Wee little catnaps and then full days of constant nurturing...it seemed unbearable. It IS unbearable.
But I have slept down there about four times now and each time, Miles sleeps for most of the night. This morning, he slept until 6am! I had to wake Corey up for work when I crawled out of the cave on my own. You see, we had stopped setting alarm clocks because what's the freaking point? Miles would make sure we were up in a half hour even if we drifted off, right? Not with the cave!
I don't know what it is about the cave situation, whether it's that Miles can't smell/sense me and thus stays asleep or whether the full bottles knock him out better than breast alone or whether the fates are just effing with me. But by God, I am sleeping in my cave until this kid works out how to get himself asleep. I will take a sore back over a slow death by exhaustion any day.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Doorbells
When we first moved into our house, there were a lot of little things missing/broken that didn't seem like such a big deal until they were. Like the doorbell. We had this mangled, broken, rusted, corroded piece of crap dangling from the door frame for a long time. And people would hesitantly bury their fingers into its depths, hoping for a sound to chime, and nothing did.
This is because, and we searched, there were no chimes inside the house. One day I couldn't stand the sight of the eyesore any longer and tried to rip the button unit from the brick. Only the screws were so mangled, the thing wouldn't come out. Corey and his friend Harry finally exhumed the thing from the wall and left a gaping hole until we could decide on a replacement.
We bought a fancy wireless doorbell and set up the chimes inside. We set them super loud because when Corey is down in his man cave, he can't hear ANYTHING except, miraculously, the notification that dinner is ready to eat. So now we have a loud doorbell. Then we had a baby. Whoops!
I keep meaning to either dismantle the doorbell or hang a sign near it. Because, my god, when Miles finally gets to sleep it is a shame and a half for something to wake him up. Our doorbell is super sensitive, so sometimes people ring it accidentally every time they walked into our house (not naming names!). Sometimes, it just goes off when a cat walks by our house.
Sometimes, delivery people ring it when they bring some of the metric tons of clothing Miles gets in the mail or the fruit baskets that are sent by angels. But today? Today was my last straw.
Since Miles is now a human being instead of a wailing changeling, he reluctantly takes naps. He started to look tired around 845. I had fed him not moments before, so I changed his diaper and started patting and rocking him. Nothing. Then I put him in the bassinet and just let him suck his thumb and stare at his monkey toys. Nothing.
I took him to the basement and stood by the dehumidifier. I marched up and down the stairs. I set him near his mobile. I played yoga music. I rocked him. I cried. I fed him again. He barfed. I changed his clothes. Nothing. Finally, eighty minutes of love later, he tuckered out. Slipped into slumber. I breathed a great sigh, stood up from the bed, and prepared to do something. Like maybe brush my teeth? Or pee?
But then I peeked out the window and saw them. Evangelists. Walking up toward my porch! Before I could sprint, before I could bellow, before Hell could freeze over, they marched their prairie clothes up my creaky steps, thrust out their plump fingers, and RANG MY DAMN DOORBELL!!!!!! Oh! They rang my doorbell!
I think I just sat down on the floor and melted. I know I hollered something out the window. Something about my baby, who HAD been asleep, and not having time to speak with them just now. Could they please leave? I might have been polite like that. (Although I was terribly impolite with Peyton, who worked the parking booth at the Irish festival this weekend, so who is to say WHAT I said to those buxom ladies who woke my damn baby?) It's ok, though, because they slipped a brochure about Armageddon in the screen door for me to peruse later. Like when my baby is napping I guess.
And, because this is what you do when you have a baby, I went back upstairs and started again. Luckily, he just needed a wee toot on the tit to drift back off. And as soon as it was very clear that he was under, I made a sign to hang near the doorbell: "SSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH BABY SLEEPING! Please knock SOFTLY! Do NOT ring bell!"
I didn't take the bell down. Why? Because it's so sensitive that I am deeply afraid I will breathe near it and cause it to ring. And damn it, I need him to sleep at least until I can wash my face and put on deodorant. Maybe later, when Miles wakes up, I will dismantle our fancy, loud doorbell.
The moral? Be careful which DIY projects you wish for, I guess.
This is because, and we searched, there were no chimes inside the house. One day I couldn't stand the sight of the eyesore any longer and tried to rip the button unit from the brick. Only the screws were so mangled, the thing wouldn't come out. Corey and his friend Harry finally exhumed the thing from the wall and left a gaping hole until we could decide on a replacement.
We bought a fancy wireless doorbell and set up the chimes inside. We set them super loud because when Corey is down in his man cave, he can't hear ANYTHING except, miraculously, the notification that dinner is ready to eat. So now we have a loud doorbell. Then we had a baby. Whoops!
I keep meaning to either dismantle the doorbell or hang a sign near it. Because, my god, when Miles finally gets to sleep it is a shame and a half for something to wake him up. Our doorbell is super sensitive, so sometimes people ring it accidentally every time they walked into our house (not naming names!). Sometimes, it just goes off when a cat walks by our house.
Sometimes, delivery people ring it when they bring some of the metric tons of clothing Miles gets in the mail or the fruit baskets that are sent by angels. But today? Today was my last straw.
Since Miles is now a human being instead of a wailing changeling, he reluctantly takes naps. He started to look tired around 845. I had fed him not moments before, so I changed his diaper and started patting and rocking him. Nothing. Then I put him in the bassinet and just let him suck his thumb and stare at his monkey toys. Nothing.
I took him to the basement and stood by the dehumidifier. I marched up and down the stairs. I set him near his mobile. I played yoga music. I rocked him. I cried. I fed him again. He barfed. I changed his clothes. Nothing. Finally, eighty minutes of love later, he tuckered out. Slipped into slumber. I breathed a great sigh, stood up from the bed, and prepared to do something. Like maybe brush my teeth? Or pee?
But then I peeked out the window and saw them. Evangelists. Walking up toward my porch! Before I could sprint, before I could bellow, before Hell could freeze over, they marched their prairie clothes up my creaky steps, thrust out their plump fingers, and RANG MY DAMN DOORBELL!!!!!! Oh! They rang my doorbell!
I think I just sat down on the floor and melted. I know I hollered something out the window. Something about my baby, who HAD been asleep, and not having time to speak with them just now. Could they please leave? I might have been polite like that. (Although I was terribly impolite with Peyton, who worked the parking booth at the Irish festival this weekend, so who is to say WHAT I said to those buxom ladies who woke my damn baby?) It's ok, though, because they slipped a brochure about Armageddon in the screen door for me to peruse later. Like when my baby is napping I guess.
And, because this is what you do when you have a baby, I went back upstairs and started again. Luckily, he just needed a wee toot on the tit to drift back off. And as soon as it was very clear that he was under, I made a sign to hang near the doorbell: "SSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH BABY SLEEPING! Please knock SOFTLY! Do NOT ring bell!"
I didn't take the bell down. Why? Because it's so sensitive that I am deeply afraid I will breathe near it and cause it to ring. And damn it, I need him to sleep at least until I can wash my face and put on deodorant. Maybe later, when Miles wakes up, I will dismantle our fancy, loud doorbell.
The moral? Be careful which DIY projects you wish for, I guess.
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