Tick, tick...

We're almost there, folks.  The misery of living in this lead-encrusted house is almost over.  On Wednesday the packers come.  Then I drive The Boy to VT straight from daycare.  We have his birthday (angel food cake, chunky cardboard blocks, a mini piano, some puzzles, balls, and maracas...) and Christmas (inasmuch as my family "does" Christmas, as we all fall somewhere on the atheist/cynic spectrum) and return here for one night so I can get The Boy to his 12-month appt, after which Boy and I will head straight down to NYC to visit friends for a couple of days while Speedy takes care of the closing on our new house and oversees the demolition phase of the renovation.  Boy and I return on Friday to oversee the actual move while Speedy works, and on Saturday we will wake up in our new house.
We have our new car, and after a tragic mishap involving Speedy, a low-clearance underground garage and our brand new roof pod, all is well on that end.
What concerns me is that while we have been extra diligent in trying to minimize The Boy's contact with the lead-lined walls and floors of this house, we had his lead checked in November and it was already 5 mcg/dl.  FIVE.  Now, that's below the federally-determined danger level of 10, but  above the average level of 2-3, and much above the ideal level of ZERO-- certainly not at all okay with me.  On his 12-month appt we will have it rechecked via a venous draw, but I am totally freaked out.  One, almost two months will have passed between test 1 and test 2, and if his level went from a presumed 0 to 5 in just one month, what will it be now, especially since he has outgrown the confines of the lead-safe room and has been toddling like crazy everywhere; and two, It's TOO FRIGGIN' LATE.  The exposure has happened, whatever his number is.  I am not too worried about there being any long term consequences-- The Boy continues to be extremely bright and active-- but just the thought that we have allowed him to be poisoned makes me sick.  It is possible that he was exposed during his nanny share-- they had a kind of crusty apartment and honestly it never occurred to me.  I have asked the mom to have the other boy tested just to see if that's part of it. 
Whatever the case, our landlords are just pure dumb-asses.  They had a choice; they could very well have not rented to us.  Instead they chose us because they thought we were "cool" (seriously, they said, reproachfully, that when we first told them about the lead, as if our wanting to protect our child from lead was somehow un-cool. I guess being "cool" and all, we should have just rolled with the lead situation.  Not to mention the mold infestation in the basement.  And the fact that it's 20 degrees outside and about 25 inside because this place has no insulation). But I digress.  They promised to pay our moving expenses and refund our deposit, and right now I am just hoping they are not dumb enough to renege on those promises, because I will drag their asses to court if they try to mess with us.  And I will call the State on their asses and report the lead situation to the officials. [Breathinbreatheout]
What infuriates me is they just don't appear to care at all.  When I wrote to them to tell them about The Boy's lead level, they didn't even respond.  They are trying to rent the house for the day after we move out, which I guess means they have no intention of doing squat about the lead, even though they have no way of knowing whether any prospective renters are or will become pregnant-- even if they don't have any kids at the moment.  The more I think about it, the more I feel like we should report them regardless.  But that threat is the only power we have over them to ensure we get our $3000 deposit back.
OK.  So I disappear for weeks only to resurface with some clearly only semi-processed angry ranting...sorry!  I will make it up to you and post some video of the boy dancing very soon. 
I kinda thought it was an every-baby-does-it thing, but his daycare teachers have remarked on it:  every time he hears music, he drops everything he is doing (literally, with a crash) and strikes a little butt-out squat pose, throws his arms up into the air and starts bopping.  It's seriously the funniest thing I have ever seen, but almost impossible to catch on video.

A brief update and an apology

So it's nablopomo and I have been silent. I have been reading along but because my computer bit it when we moved, it has been hard for me to comment consistently. I am sorry about that. The good news is that I finally bought a new laptop which should be ready any day now. (I am typing this on my iPhone.) Not only that, but we may have found a daycare, thus relieving me of 24/7 childcare duties. And we seem to be within reach of a new car (one that does not flood inside every time it rains). AND we are in contract on a new house ... So if all goes well we will move in by the new year.
Or, actually, Speedy will move in while the boy and I stay with my parents in VT until the kitchen renovations are complete. (And I swore I never wanted to renovate again!)
Some day I may even get to work again if the daycare works out. We take the tour tomorrow.
But as of now, all these hopeful developments are still just shimmering on the horizon, oases or mirages, it is impossible to say. At the moment we are still living out of boxes, and showering every other day because of the disgusting bathroom and lack of towels. (They are in a box somewhere in the filthy mold-infested basement.) The boy is running (no that's not an exaggeration!) around in circles, frustrated by the constraints we pit on him to keep him away from the lead hazards. (Are we too paranoid? I feel bad that he doesn't have more freedom, but I am terrified of the possibility of him consuming lead.)
We are just getting by, trying not to focus on the obvious miseries of the present... Six more weeks, knock on wood....

And another week bites the dust...

You guys.  I feel like it's been months since I've been able to write a good blog entry about what's been going on.  It's been seven months since we started gearing up to sell our co-op in Brooklyn.  Seven months since we started shuttling things into storage. Seven months since we've felt our house was our home.  And still the saga continues.

We've closed on our co-op, and have paid off my student loans (can I have a halle-fuckin'-lujah?!) and our consumer debt and put a chunk of change in the bank (a local non-whoop-de-doo bank, thanks) but we're still in a lead-painty, chipping and peeling paint house.  And our power went out for two days thanks to an October snow storm (Welcome to New England, yo!) And we're still keeping The Boy in one well-vacuumed and duct-taped room.  We fetch things we want out of boxes on an as-needed basis, and the cats are going stir-crazy from their confinement because we haven't bothered erecting a cat-proof fence so they're stuck indoors.  And my computer died an ignoble death so Speedy and I are temporarily sharing her laptop while I  figure out what to do to replace it.

It is exhausting and demoralizing.

But.  I spend almost all day every day with The Boy and Speedy and I eat together every morning and every night, spend every weekend and many weekdays together.  Our family has become re-centered, and we have made some important decisions.  To value our life over our lifestyle.  To never ever spend more than we can pay. To work less and be with each other. To travel, even if it means we can't buy fancy sheets and matching dishes.  It feels good.

If only we can clear this final hurdle, and find a real home, where we can unpack and put The Boy down and let him run as he loves to do.  We think (hold your breath) we may have found the place for us.  But we need bank approval and all that.  It's not a sure thing, but I'm holding onto it, because it's been seven months since I've had even that much.

And The Boy, oh my god.  The Boy is running now.  Like a maniacal midget, ten months old and cannot be stopped, or even slowed.  I barely remember those too-short baby days now that he is a full-fledged toddler.  And how I love him even more every day.  Oh, yes.

Follow my lead...

Hah, ha.  I kill myself with my punny, really!  And I thought of changing my facebook status to "Well, at least we won't have to worry about college tuition," but then I stopped myself, because that's not quite funny.

Anyway, the short story is we're still here, in this lead-lined casket of a house.  Because the sad thing is that while where we have landed is ohmigawd gorgeous it is not a good place to find rental houses.  We have found three-- count 'em-- and each one has had a drastic, can't-live-with-it issue as in: 1) too far outta town and an eight-month lease for too much money; 2) ew, can't live in that and it's way too far away anyway, and 3) next to a fcking CRACKHOUSE, needisaymore?!

So. We have sealed off the rooms with the most peeling, chipping lead paint, vacuumed the sh!t out of the rest of the house and sealed all windows and door frames with duct tape, and are looking into our options as far as buying...stat.

And living in what we have deemed shelter housing.  Our boxes are still packed, only the necessities out.  The Boy has his playroom, with is duly taped to hell, and he has free range there, but must be carried or contained in all other rooms.

This is temporary.  Thanks to metalstork, I know our rights-- we could force our landlords to de-lead the place, but doing so could take 120 days and cost $50K (to them) and it time we don't have and money they don't have, so.  They have agreed to let us out of the lease and pay our moving costs just as soon as we can find a good place to park ourselves.

In the meantime, it is seriously gorgeous here.  Fall leaves, and sunlight.  Tomatoes that taste like dirt and sunshine.  Apples that taste like laughter and rain.  People that smile and say hi just because they're passing you on the street.  An awesome playgroup for The Boy. Nature trails just steps outside our door.  Squirrels, birds, crickets all day and night.  I saw an ermine for chrissakes, just walkin' the dogs! Stars.  Quiet. Air that smells clean and damp, like fall.

We definitely made the right move.

Oh, and.  I spend almost all day almost every day with the Boy and Speedy works much less, and today we walked into town for ice cream and to go to the toy store for the Boy just because.  And we had the time and energy that it was not a big deal, just a Friday afternoon, nothing else going on.

So it's good.  Sincerely, unironincally good.  Now we just have to find a permanent home.

Stay tuned for next up:
Ohmigawd, my father's an alcoholic.  Now that explains everything!
Oh and: To breed or not to breed?  Is it "two" much?  Questions from a restless lesbian couple with extra jizz on ice..

Settling in

We're here.  We have left Brooklyn.  It seems unbelievable, improbable-- crazy even.  The reality is beginning to settle in, even as settling in for us seems to be impossibly out of reach.

The move was awful; the movers did not get a big enough truck (despite packing us the previous day) and the move took three days and two truck loads-- and we're still missing our vacuum cleaner.  There are boxes everywhere, some broken down, cluttering our entryway, and some yet to be unpacked.  We sleep on a mattress on the floor in the nursery.  Our bed, as yet unassembled, is strewn in pieces across our unused bedroom floor, along with a suitcase with a dwindling selection of clean clothes we brought along to be immediately accessible.  There is a crib, but no time and not enough free hands to put it together.

On the up side is the location-- a lovely, friendly neighborhood abutting a wildlife sanctuary on one side, and walkable distance to town.  And the dogs have their own "room"-- we have to use of our couch again. The Boy has a playroom (shared with the dogs) and we can eat in the kitchen without constantly battling back the encroaching canine beggars. (They just look wistfully through the glass door that separates them from us.)

But as quaint as old farmhouses are, they are drafty, moldy, full of hidden safety hazards.  On our second day here we discovered that the paint is full of lead and the basement is full of mold.  Now the windows and doors of the play room are covered in duct tape (at least we found white duct tape, a slightly less hideous look) but everywhere else he must be carried until we get our HEPA vacuum back and duct tape every flaking surface of every window and every door frame.  

I have not-so-subtly hinted to directly and repeatedly pleaded with my mother to come help us-- just to watch the Boy while we unpack some boxes, assemble the crib, do the things it takes two people with two hands each to do, but she does not seem to understand the difficulty we are facing trying to do this on our own.  I am beginning to wonder-- did she have kids?  I know she did-- I am here, of course-- but does she remember doing everything one-handed?  How impossible it can be to do the simplest thing-- switch a load of laundry-- if you have to watch the child at all times?  

I know we will get through this part.  I know in a couple of weeks it will be all better, but damn.  This is crazy.  And looming in my mind is the fact that we will have to do this all again in a year when we find a place to buy (not this place, for sure.)  

The Boy, for his part, loves the new space though he hates being constantly constrained to one room or being carried.  He's walking like an old pro now and wants to show off his skills whenever possible.  He gets frustrated with us treating him like a baby and carrying him around all the time.

Though I am not working at the moment, with the space in chaos and the need to be constantly carrying he boy, I feel like I can't take advantage of the extra time in any meaningful way.  But it does feel lovely waking up each morning to see trees outside our window, to hear the blue jays in the morning, the crickets at night.  

So much to say, so little time- UPDATED W VIDEO

1. The Boy is officially walking. Like a drunken sailor, but walking nonetheless. (the above is from about a week ago-- he's made some improvements since then.)
2. The Boy had his first official tantrum.  Is it too early for the terrible twos?
3. Our apartment is 60% packed in boxes, rendering it unbearably cluttered and claustrophobic.
4. We move in 8 days.

Life these last weeks has been more hectic than usual; Speedy has been spending days up in MA working already, and I have been single-momming it here, no childcare.  There is still a long list of to-dos, but thanks to our newly adopted mandate (Don't list it. Do it.) we are chipping away.  Eight days to a new life, people.  I'm drinking Grumpy's cappuccinos like it my job.  I'm going to miss that most of all.

Did I mention walking? Nine months, eight days.

A lease, a plan, a date

We've done it!  We've signed our lease on a lovely place, a charming farmhouse just a five minute walk from the center of town (as defined by the Starbucks) and two minutes in the other direction down a dirt road brings you to a meandering road through a nature preserve.  Does it get better than this?

Now it is a matter of filling those boxes that are now lining our walls with all of our earthly possessions, coordinating the movers and the dog transport, and the cleaning of our old place.  On October 10, two days before my birthday, we officially become residents of Western Mass. Look who's ready!

Wow. 

Progress

I had my last day at my job.

Speedy found a new job.  Part-time, but with my freelance, it's enough to float us.

And we have an address in Northampton.  A sweet little farmhouse that I have not seen, about a five minute walk to cappuccino (Speedy's benchmark of civilization) and a five minute walk to a nature/wetland preserve (my benchmark of quality of life).  Speedy assures me that that it is big enough for the three...(er, ten)... of us (three humans, three dogs, four cats).

This is actually happening!!

Oh, and this: The Boy has decided that walking with the assistance of a five-gallon bucket is the most efficient mode of transportation. Oh my goodness, please mute this so you don't have to listen to our inane commentary!

Daddy dearest

Hey all! We're from vacation, and we had a fantastic time on the rocky shores of Maine.  Walking on the beach and through the woods, and just generally lounging about. We even did some badly-needed shopping. It was wonderful.

Unfortunately, we also returned armed with new (old) knowledge about my father: he is never going to change.  He is rigid, unreasonable, angry and controlling.  And those are his good points.  While we-- Speedy me & the Boy, as well as Ex, PA and la Prima-- had a great time in general on vacation, the moments of interaction with him were miserable. Even though he insisted on booking our tickets in July just to ensure that we would actually come, from the moment we set foot in the vacation house he acted as if we were unwelcome intruders.  Even though in July he was just thrilling in anticipation of five days to spend with the Boy, he was appalled at the reality of spending even a minute with the actual boy, who makes noise, gets cranky, drops food. 

In short, my father is a much better grandfather in theory than in practice.

On the last night he was there (he left a day before we did), he barked at me for taking a few noodles out of the serving dish to set aside to cool for the kids, and then suggested we feed the kids before dinner "because they get cranky" (apparently he was under the impression that the vaporize after feeding.)  During dinner itself, the Boy did indeed get cranky, and I promptly removed him from the table with Speedy, so we could put him to bed. When we returned, everyone was through eating, so we grabbed a plate (literally, we shared a plate because one of ours had vanished in the interim) and put some salad and the rest of the pasta on it. It was then that my father exclaimed disgustedly, "Well, there goes dinner!" Because apparently we had forfeited our right to eat dinner when we left the table, and were practically taking food from people's mouths by finishing the pasta after everyone else had eaten. 

I was shaking with rage at this point, and Speedy had had enough and left the table.  The next day he left without an apology, or even a goodbye. 

*Le sigh*

In other news, our buyers are approved, and we are working on finalizing the closing.  My last day at work is tomorrow.  And we still have no idea where we are going.

Lessons from vacation

1. It is impossible to post comments using my touch, but I am reading, promise.
2. My father is still an ass.
3. No amount of sand, no matter how minute, is ok on one's pink parts when pumping.

Crib Training

UPDATE:  Night six: 2 hours, 45 minutes!  I know this might be a pitiful triumph to those of you who have children that actually sleep all night in cribs, but it is HUGE to me.  I had my whole evening free, and slept alone in bed for half an hour, which was pure bliss.  Ironically, when I woke up, I was so excited I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

The Boy has been sleeping with us for the better part of a year now.  In that time, he has grown into a thrashing, punching, kicking, biting honey badger crawdler, who (independence be damned), insists on having a nipple in his mouth at all times when in bed.  This has had a rather negative impact on my sleep.  And while I am not a fervent anti-sleep-training activist, I cannot for the life of me steel myself against the sound of my child crying for minutes at a time.  Just not going to happen.

It's funny, because prior to The Boy's debut, I was totally pro-sleep-training for me and everyone else.  But the fact is, I am not there yet.  Maybe I will get there, if what we are doing doesn't work.  But not now.  And hopefully what we are doing will work.

What we are doing is in no small part owing to Speedy's vet training and my own long history with dogs and dog training.  It's a modified version of crate-training.  Make the crate a happy place.  Let them spend increasing amounts of time in it when you are near.  Play with them in it. Reassure them that it is not a place to be afraid of.  Make good associations.  And slowly lengthen the periods they spend in it.  At first with you, then, for brief interludes, when you step away.  Then longer, and longer.  Until you can leave them in it more or less as long as you want them to be in it without them feeling abandoned or scared.

So lately, when The Boy falls asleep, instead of tucking him in bed next to me at 7:30 p.m. (I was getting lots of reading done, but little else) I wait until he's good and knocked out and then I put him in his crib.  At first he'd wake up and fight.  I'd take him out, nurse him some more, put him back.  Then he'd just wake up and whine a bit, then start idly playing by himself until he was overcome with sleepiness and he would sag against the rails.  Now, I can put him in there for...well, a while.  And he just opens his eyes, sighs, and goes back to sleep.  The longest stretch to date (this is day 5) has been an hour and a half.  And it seems to be working.  Every night it is a little longer.  Today we even got a few stretches in at his two nap times.

This means he is sleeping less because we spend a lot of time taking him out and putting him back in, and when he is awake, he wants to get up rather than go back in the crib. So he is crabby and tired, but I expect this will be a temporary phase as I hope he will spend more and more time in there and be less and less perturbed by waking up there...

This is very, very exciting, because it has been about a year since I have had quality time in my own bed without him or my pregnant belly getting between me and good sleep.  And I miss it.  Truly.  And I miss Speedy.  Fingers crossed that this continues on the current trajectory to well-rested bliss...

P.S.  On the Dom and totally loving it.

My fur jar: unholy housekeeping...tell me your secrets!

Well, I been thinking it's about time for some good ol' confessional blogging.  Speedy's been gone for...five days, and counting.  She's been down in FL taking her veterinary acupuncture exam.  (She passed!) But Irene, that bitch, has messed up air travel and now Speedy's cooling her heels in Ocala while I deal with a post-illness baby, three dogs, four cats and the household crap all by myself. 

And so ("so, so, so, here's ANOTHER good game that I know..."*), it's come to this:  the fur jar.

You see, once upon a time, I was a wee bit on the anal side of clean.  And then.  Dogs, cats.  Baby.  You know...

And now, well, I do the best that I can.  And sometimes that means, instead of vacuuming with a needball baby screaming and tugging on my pants the whole time, I turn the fans all the way up and collect the furballs from the corners, stowing them in the trash.

But this weekend, things got a bit more, um... hairied (snig), what with Speedy in Ocala 'n' shit....and so, once,  instead of putting it in the trash, I accidentally kind of stuffed the furball I collected in a jar I had put on the counter to go to recycling.  And then another, and another.... and now, I have The Fur Jar.

When I saw it on the counter this morning, a glass jar full of fur-- ugh!-- I remembered that my own mother used to mortify me with The Tick Jar, which she partially filled with alcohol in the early summer and put on the mantel.  Then all summer long she would collect ticks from the dogs and pickle them in it, until at the end of the summer she had a half inch or so of ticks preserved in this unholy amber-colored marinade...

And I know that one day The Boy will probably regale his friends with stories about the Disgusting Fur Jar (since I think the idea is a total keeper!) And I got to wondering:  what are YOUR unholy housekeeping habits?  C'mon, dish me!

*bonus points if you get the reference.

Send your love

Mommies Making Miracles have lost their son Parker after he was born at 27 weeks.  His twin brother, Zachary, big brother, Ryan, and the mommies all need your love and support. [Updated to add: Pair of Moms has a memorial support button.]

Photo bonus

I know I have been lax on getting photos up, so here' a handful...

The boy is sick this weekend, woke up hot and whiny yesterday morning, feverish and crabby all day.  At 4, I took him to the doctor because Speedy is out of town this weekend and we expect the hurricane to shut stuff down... After his jaundiced debut during the winter storm that inexplicably crippled Brooklyn ("Snow? Winter?  Oh, shit...") I was not taking chances on being stranded in the house with a sick child and no way to get help.  The doctor rightly suggested rest & fluids, and his fever broke at 4 a.m. today, when he woke screaming and burning hot.  One dose of baby ibuprofen, and he slept till 9 and woke calm and cool again.

Now he is just sleeping the rest of it off while I wait for the storm after dutifully sandbagging the basement door with cat litter (hey, we'll use it eventually...) and filling the bathtub with water, the freezer with anything that would fit, the cabinets with dog food....

So without further ado:

Oh, and there's this:
Teeth: 6
Seconds he can stand without support: 12

Feel-good video of the day...

Oh how I adore him...

It is crazy how much this boy is the very essence of joy in my life.  How just wrapping myself around his warm body as he sleeps is still the most delicious thing in the world.  How I marvel every day at his outsized feet, trying to envision the man who will one day occupy them.  How I want to kiss him all over every day and hoover up all his goodness. 

What I am saying is that when they say that you fall in love with them every day, it's actually true.

I miss him when he's away.  I want to eat him up when he is near.  He is the gravitational center of my thoughts.  I can't believe we have only known him for 7+ months.  I don't know how we lived without him.

His latest deeds....

• He is now standing independently for seconds at a time, testing his balance.  
• He is working on teeth 5, 6 and 7 all at once, and intermittently inconsolable about this. 
• He is cruising like a champ.
• He is decidedly a hot breakfast kinda guy, which means I am scrambling more eggs than I have ever scrambled before in my life.
• He loves swimming, loves the shower, loves the bath, which is a great boon to my own hygiene (as explained by Puffer).
• He categorically rejects the idea of a "lovey."  Every night time nursing session seems to end with a graveyard of discarded stuffed animals and blankies by the side of the bed, as he pitches one after the other over the edge as soon as they are proffered.
• He is still sleeping in bed with us, heaven help us.  But sleeping really well.
• He is far more interested in animals than people, but seems to consider other babies as an acceptable compromise.

Life with a crawdler

No sooner had I written the title than the Boy came crawling at top speed over to me and climbed up my leg, smelling like a fresh poo.  Off we went downstairs for a wash of the relevant bits in the sink, a ten-minute power struggle over getting the diaper on ("I WANT TO BE ON MY BELLY!!!"  "But darling you must be on your back, just for ten seconds."  "NOOOOOO!!!!!" etc., etc., but without actual words, only cries, screeches and grunts.  He is mostly quiet the whole time.)

The Boy has taken life by the horns, and by "life", I mean OUR lives, mine and Speedy's, and by "horns", I mean his thorny little goat horns-- he is tossing us about like helpless rag-dolls in his efforts to conquer the world.
I am typing frantically because right now he is momentarily stilled by the mesmerizing sound he can make by hitting two blocks together, one in each hand.  Each day is full of these fascinating discoveries.  At the rate he is going, I expect him to find the gravity particle in a few more weeks.  I have to take advantage of these brief interludes of independent play.

He is, to put it mildly, insatiably active.  Two weeks ago, I spent the weekend at the beach with my BFF and her son, who is 6 weeks younger and still at that blessedly simple stage where he could be put down while she went off and did something-- made dinner, hung laundry, painted her nails-- and he would still be in the exact same spot when she returned 10, 20 minutes later...  Not our little goat.  No.  To avoid spending long chunks of time prisoner to my bed for his naps, I would put him to sleep on the floor in the living room surrounded by cushions.  Every so often he would wake up and immediately begin crawling toward the most dangerous item in sight.  My friend astutely remarked, "My god, he wakes up already in motion!"

(As I typed this last, he was babbling happily behind me, then I heard a sudden thud.  I turned to see him flat on his back on the floor, not crying, but waiting for me to notice.  As soon as I turned around and exclaimed, "what happened?" he got up and made tracks for the dog, whom he is now amorously embracing.)

He eats with gusto almost anything we put in front of him.  If it does not meet his immediate approval, he sends it flying off the table with a dramatic sweep of his arms.  After he is done, I ask, "All done?" and the dogs scramble to be the first under his seat for canine clean-up crew.  I take The Boy for a dunk in the sink and then turn him loose-- whereupon he takes his place under his seat with the dogs, re-examining the scraps that he dropped, searching for lost treasure.  You may be picking up the phone to call child protective services, but please put it down.  The child will have a very strong immune system and is otherwise unharmed by daily hourly innoculations of dirt and dog hair.

One of the many questions I did not manage to answer during the UNchallenge was, "What surprises you most about parenthood?"  And I want to answer that now-- Speedy and I have the same answer:  How much I like it.  Though it is definitely as challenging in some ways as everyone says...I really didn't expect to find s much joy in it, in him.  My crazily active little goat.

So it begins....

Closed-door meetings without me.  Boss refusing to make eye-contact.  Awkward hellos in the kitchen.

Really?  I have been here four years and have never been ANYTHING but professional and pleasant.  I can't explain this, because I truly believe my boss was a great boss-- until now.  There must be something I am missing that would explain this current weirdness.  As it now stands, I cannot WAIT to walk out of here, because this is just hellishly awkward and I don't know how to take it. 

The good news is, I know I will stop caring the minute I walk out the door for the last time.

In other news, Speedy's been up in MA this week exploring houses and I can't wait for the full report.  Sounds like Florence is the place we are headed, if we can find a decent rental for Oct 1.

Being single mom while Speedy was away was quite a challenge: The Boy has been super clingy and needful, refusing to be put down for even a second, which has made getting dressed and out of the house an exercise in persistence, and yes, selective deafness.  Because though he howls with heart-wrenching anguish the moment his feet hit the floor, I have to have both hands to run a comb through my hair and button my shirt.  He stops instantly once I pick him up and he is riding on my hip again.  All is right with the world.  My mom says I was glued to her hip until I was three.  I have a sense that The Boy might be repeating that pattern.

The Dom

So.... my milk supply seems to be waning.  Today, I will be lucky to pump 10 oz., and the boy generally goes through about 14 oz. during this period.  I am considering starting domperidone.  I know some of you ladies have used it successfully.  Any suggestions?  Where do you start?  Can you get a prescription?  How do you get it filled.  [insert angry epithets about the FDA here.]

Changes

So my boss came into my office at 4:56 yesterday afternoon and said, "I'msorryIcan'tsupportyourideatotelecommutesorry." and left. 

His official reason?  I "need supervision", which, when he said it completely threw me, because 1) I most certainly do not; and 2) NEVER before has he ever expressed any issues with my performance at all. 

And then I realized that the sole subjective criterion of our company's new telecommuting policy is that employees seeking that arrangement must not need supervision.  All other criteria are objective and true of my position (does not need to attend meetings, has a "thinking/writing" position, etc.)  So his claim is bogus, but it's the only objection that he could come up with.

I just. Don't. Understand.  My boss has been absolutely wonderful-- flexible, personable, warm and funny.  I thought that his personality combined with the telecommuting policy would have made our transition an easy adjustment.  I could keep us insured and paying the bills while we settled into our new life in our new home.  Now, not so much.  We have to reimagine the whole scenario.

It'll be okay.  We will figure it out. But this is a total bummer.

On a separate note, the prospect of never working in an office again is unbelievable freeing.  I am pushing 40.  It is time for a second career.  One of my closest friends is a political documentary maker.  My SIL is an Emmy-nominated wildlife documentary producer.  Writing and researching for political/wildlife films?  Yes, thank you.  I think that sounds very good.  And with the financial freedom of zero debt... why not??

Dibling Duo!

I know there are divided opinions on this in blog world, but I see nothing but the positive side in introducing the boy to others that share the same donor. The more the merrier! I do not think tha the boy will be confused about who his "real"* family is-- Speedy, me and the rest of our entourage-- and by knowing others in the same situation, I hope he will 1) have a network of acquaintances or even buddies his own age who will be able to discuss the donor thing with, and 2) see his situation as not uncommon, normal even.

Anyway, I think you can see her name embedded in the photo file name.  How cute is that??

* edited as per Strawberry's comment below-- in the original version, it was easy to read "real" as "bio" which was exactly not what I intended.  Yikes.

In Contract

I have to apologize, blog-style, for the protracted absence of substantive posts in this space; Speedy and I have been going through a very busy, high-stress period, not only as the boy seems to be hitting a new level of mobility and activity daily, but as we try to sell our co-op and envision a new life, unecumbered by urban pressures and the financial strain of debt.

Add this to the fact that Speedy has not one, not two, but maybe four or five new gigs in lieu of her old job, and we have a very new routine to adjust to. A non-routine. Have I mentioned how I am a creature of habit and enjoy need my routines? Yes, it's true that Speedy used to work until 8,9, 10 three or four nights a week, leaving me with the dogs, the cats and most of all the boy-- and now she is home, usually before I am, the dogs are walked, the boy is picked up, and she is often embroiled in or contemplating a cooking project for the evening. And yet, it feels busier and more stressed out that ever. I feel less in charge of the time, because now Speedy is there with her wants and agennda. No longer do I have a stretch of 4 or 5 hours after work that I can schedule to the minute in order to get done the things I need to get done, and reward myself with 20 minutes of youtube watching or a phone chat with a long-distance friend. Things feel freer, yes. But less structured, too.

The struggle to find a new routine is further complicated by the fact that soon all routines will be out the window and remade. We are officially in contract on our co-op and will be moving probably by September 1. New town, new place, new life. I will try to keep my old job for now-- for the steady income and the insurance, but that's about all we are trying to maintain. And that's just one of many unknowns, since I have yet to work up the courage to ask my boss about it. We don't know what town we're gong to live in, where Speedy will work, how we will manage the boy and working, or even if we are going to rent or buy. We might not even have a place lined up in time, and may well spend a period of time living over my parents' garage in northern VT. I have not written this down before, and I can actually feel my fingers going a bit tingly at the prospect of all that's about to happen. @#$%^&!! Or, as Ex texted me, fat-fingered in her vicarious anxiety, "Holly Balls!"

There is so much I am going to miss about this life. My friends most of all. The ones that we spend almost every Sunday with especially. I have been fast friends with Michelle since 2001, when I rented a room in her ex-girlfriends apartment, and, on the first day when I was unpacking my stuff, Michelle came in, sat on my bed and started a conversation that we've never stopped. The GF disappeared, I moved to a different neighborhood. Michelle move across country, then back again, and we're still as good as family. I know that won't end, but it pains me to be the one moving away this time. My other friends, including Ex, and my very strong support system here that I have never doubted. Whether I needed a shoulder, a glass of wine, a free meal or a baby-sitter, I have never ever gone in need for long in this city. Having that network so far away will be very hard.

But I am ready. This past week I have spent at my parents' house in VT (without internet access. I am still catching up on the goings on in blog-town (does anyone else think of it as a very homo-friendly, fecund version of "Our Town"?) I have much more to share-- the boy's first swim lesson, the drama of a cruising baby, the breath-of-hell heatwave we've been having, and, oh-will-this-child-ever-sleep? worries... Slowly but surely I am trying to catch up. More surely and less slowly, I hope, going forward.

On the go

Life is suddenly fun and terrifying; the boy has perfected his crawling and is now working on his speed.

He is all action now, still frustrated that his ambition to move far exceeds his ability. He's sitting, he wants to stand; he's crawling, he wants to walk; he's cruising, he wants to run. Mama pick me up, mama put me down. Mama I need you, mama let me go!

One minute I am blearily pouring coffee (ahh, addiction, how swiftly you return!) and FLASH the boy is under the table, attempting to pull up to standing. I scoot him back toward the relative safety of the living room floor, and FLASH, he's standing, holding on to the bewildered (but very patient dog). I redirect him toward the blocks and pots and pans we have scattered for his amusement on the floor, and return to the kitchen for my toast and BANG, he's knocked over a pile of books and papers.

He gets fussy and crabby from hunger, but doesn't want to miss anything and refuses to nurse anywhere but our darkened bedroom.

Yesterday we spent the day at Ex's house on the beach and he refused to eat all day (save for gumming some grilled chicken and veggies), and we actually had to leave so that I could get him home to nurse. My b00bs were on the verge of exploding.

But the mobile boy is so much fun. I put him in the kiddie pool, and he sat in his baby float happily scooting around in the water trying to scoop up all the floating toys. He would have stayed in for hours if I had not scooped him out when he started shivering. Even so, as soon as he warmed up, he insisted on being put right back in.

On the way home he started screaming in his car seat. We assumed it was hunger and pulled over (well, what was meant to be a quick pull-over ended up with us on a bridge to another borough, but that's another story) and he did nurse but continued to be inconsolable for the rest of the drive. Only when we got him back did we discover the fantastic amount of poop in his pants and his angry red butt. How is it, six months in, we can still forget the basic three (hungry, tired, dirty diaper) when trying to figure out what is bothering him?! Are we baby-challenged?

Next week he starts swim lessons-- something for us to do together on the long weekend days that Speedy is now working. (Her new schedule has us working opposite days-- me during the week, she on weekends.) Judging from his enjoyment of the kiddie pool, it should be a blast!

lunchtime antics

We are blessed with a good eater.  Today he stayed home from the nanny share onaccounta some pink eye.  But even crusty, he's adorable.

Six Months!

You know how it is kind of annoying when people are all, "I don't know where the time goes, I can't believe s/he's already XX months old!" And you secretly think, "Dude, time is a constant. It's no freaking mystery." And then you look at the cute pictures and make a nice remark and go on with your day?

Well, DUDE, I CAN'T BELIEVE HE'S ALREADY SIX MONTHS! WHERE DOES THE FREAKING TIME GO???? The boy is amazing. I can hardly get over it. He has two teeth, can get from lying to sitting, from sitting to crawling and from crawling to just about anywhere. He's still a little bald pinhead, but long and lean-- 27.5 inches and 16.5 lbs.-- with luscious green-grey eyes and a smile that he makes you work for. But when he smiles the whole world lights up, especially if he crinkles his nose. He is eating everything we put before him: grilled salmon, fruit salad, broccoli, pasta, even baguette.

He still nurses all night long, so I have got to find a way to change that if I ever want to be fertile again for Speetus 2.0. He has outgrown his corner crib now that he can go from lying to sitting to standing in 6 seconds, and threatens to topple over the rail reaching after a cat or a fallen toy. I think he may have spent a total of 2 hours in it actually sleeping if you add up all the 15-minute naps he's taken there for the last six months. It's super cute, though and I hope to pass it on to someone who will make better use of it....

Because....that is one of the things we're gonna have to get rid of for the move!!

We are thisclose to being in contract, and we have every reason to believe that this deal will go through quickly and easily. So very soon-- within a couple of months-- we should be packing and moving our collective butts to Western Mass! It's not ideal-- we would have liked to get more money-- but we can't control the market and we suspect that things will get worse before they get better, so selling now seemed like the most prudent path. This will enable us to pay off all our personal debt, my goddamn student loans (I was on the $500 a month FOREVER plan) AND have a nice cushion for when we buy again (or to invest if we decide to rent for an indeterminant period while the market does its thing.) I have to convince my boss- once we are fully in contract-- that it would be great for him if I continued to work from a distance, maybe travelling in every couple of weeks. That way I could keep my salary and the family insurance, and Speedy could take care of the boy and take her time finding work in the area.

I can't tell you what a load off this is, and how excited I am at the prospect of living somewhere green and spacious, without this looming mountain of bills to pay each and every month.

Now this is what you have been waiting for. It is from May 8, and I think it was one of the last official baby pictures we got of him. Now he looks like a toddler. I am obviously very behind in updating photos on my computer, but I love this one.

Overwhelmed

Sorry... the non-challenge completely overwhelmed me. And I went on vacation. And the Boy and I both got sick. So, there is not so much creativity flowing in these parts as snot.

The big news: we're officially on the baby-led weaning program, which I am loving, not only because it's so easy, but because it's ridiculously cute. To whit:

Also, he is standing like a pro, "walking" (with assistance), and trying desperately to master the art of crawling. This mostly consists of him launching himself face-first at whatever object has caught his attention, usually a dog.

Catching up

Day 1: A picture of where you blog.

This is it, folks. Note the shadowy thing to my left is the Pack n Play, and the flowers and black thing in the right fore are actually on a coffee table. This is our living room. The black thing is the breast pump bag and you can just see two fresh bottles that I didn't quite frame out of the photo. This may be one of the only photos of a room that I have ever posted without an animal making a cameo in the background. Not seen is Oyster, snoozing in the Pack n Play.

Day 2: High school.

Puffer's experience most closely resembles mine. Except chubby. I was anorexic (to the point of hospitalization) in middle school, and in high school I continued my disordered eating, but by then it was socially acceptable-- desirable, even. Despite that, I was awkward and unpopular. I went to a private school and made friends with the theater crowd and the choir, even though I was decidedly lacking in both acting and singing talent. I also made friends with the drop-outs, pot-smokers and goth-style wiccans that hung out on the retail strip near my school to round out my social circle. I was a slut, sleeping with both inappropriate boys (older, smarmy) and my straight girlfriends. I went to prom with my gay gay gay boy BFF (on the right) and spent the night groping my straight straight straight girl BFF. *le sigh.*

Mary Gauthier said it best:

I hated High school, I prayed it would end.
The jocks and their girls, it was their world, I didn't fit in.
Mama said, "Baby, it's the best school that money can buy,
Hold your head up, be strong, c'mon Mary, try."

Day 3: Guilty pleasure:
Icanhascheezburger. How does it make me laugh every stinkin' time?

First Tooth!

Thanks to Adventures I have the perfect onesie to mark the occasion.  Slow down, little Speedster :( Mamas just got used to having your gummy little smile to brighten our days.  It's now officially a little less gummy.

The UNresponse

Well, you see, I will be intermittently participating in the UNchallenge (thanks to Strawberry and Offering of Love!) But not today!

I already feel like time is slipping away. To put this in perspective, I want to share what we are dealing with these days:


1) Speedy’s impending unemployment, which was—surprise!—pre-empted by her DUAL-employment, when she TOTALLY FREAKED OUT (not that I blame her) about the looming joblessness and went out and got a new job at 4 a.m. that started, like, the next day. While she still had job #1 and all….

2) The Endless Open House. OMG, this is NOT the time to sell, folks. Did I not learn this lesson last year??? The EOH means that we have to keep our place freaking spit-shined every minute of every day, especially on the weekends. No small feat when we have three dogs (Oh, Ozzie….) and four cats, and, oh yeah, the boy. And when Speedy is working all the time (see #1).

3) My freelance bonanza. Don’t get excited, unless you want to be writing direct mail to the 75-year-old conservative-leaning demographic who cannot get enough of keywords like “patriot”, “hero”, and “values”. But they pay. And more importantly, they pay ME. I have to admit I get a kick out of the fact that I—me! Little ol’ Bkln lesbian, who is sitting, most likely, in a nursing bra and underwear—am writing this stuff. I do have my limits, however, and declined a gig writing for the RNC.

4) House hunting. Mostly in theory, and on the internets in previously described attire. But still, time-consuming, and emotionally draining.

5) The boy, the boy, the boy. Did I mention the boy? And oh, how we adore him. But law, what a load of work he is! The cooing, the fawning.  The endless adoring.  It can really put a f'in' crimp in your day, lemme tell you.

I hate that I have so fallen down on blogging. How typical! Have a kid and disappear… I will come back. Now that the Stupid Work Conference is behind us and we are slowly, slowly getting our shit together, I will come back. First, I hope, with a video of the boy and some seltzer water. I want to get on that brilliant suggestion, stat!

Oh, btw... This pumping 3x a day is totally working.  (see that big area with no data points?  That was when things all went to shit and I couldn't even remember to write anything down.)

Good Morning!

I am typing this with BOTH HANDS, which is an amazing treat after five months with Mr. Hold Me.  Mr. Hold Me has suddenly become Mr. Independent:  He is grunting happily and throwing his plastic keys around in his Pack N Play, after I removed him from an ebullient session in the Jumperoo.  For those reading between the lines, yes, our sophisticated and spartan apartment has been recently overrun with brightly-colored plastic stuff.

The Boy has undergone a major transformation in the past couple of weeks.  Right after Ozzie died, we had to go to Denver for a Stupid Work Conference.  Speedy watched The Boy for the long hours that
I labored with a plastic smile under fluorescent lights in the bowels of the vast convention center.  The Boy was spectacular, not only on both flights, but during the long days away from his familiar surroundings and off his schedule.  During this time, he learned to sit unassisted and pull to standing.

Now he practices those tricks with a nonchalance that still kills me:  where did this little boy come from?  There are subtler advances: hand-eye coordination, the ability to entertain himself, evidence of his own independent being ticking within.  This boy eats breakfast in his booster seat (organic pear/banana puree, hummus, seltzer water*-- all preceded and followed by long nursing sessions) then stands, clinging to the top bars, in his Pack N Play watching the animals.  When he tires of standing, he sits down with a thump and gathers his toys around him, chews on Sophie the giraffe, rattles his keys, throws his blocks.

I am shocked to find myself the mother of this busy, curious boy, when I am still emotionally processing the terror of having lived through having a newborn, but what a delight he is!  Of course, sometimes he hits his limits...

*He makes a grab for anything within reach, and if it nontoxic and safe for babies we usually let him try it.  Thus, seltzer has become an unexpected hit:  he will sip some from his tiny cup (a sake cup, if you must know), makes a horrible face and lets it drizzle down his bib, only to reach for the cup and demand more.

Reactivated

It's official:  Jacques said yes. The forms have been signed, scanned and sent.   CCB has debited our card.  Project: Speetus 2.0/sperm acquisition phase is underway.

Happy five-month birthday to the boy!  We had Ex and her wife over last night (hereafter known as Auntie Baba and PA) and their 11-month-old girl, who we call "Prima".  Prima and the boy celebrated PA's early announcement of her second pregnancy (five weeks) by drooling on each other's faces.  You can't tell it from this photo, but the boy was loving it, and returning in kind, drool for drool.

Five months

Tomorrow the boy will be five months old.  In lieu of updated photos (... Ahem, Speedy.  Ahem!!) a list:

• The boy is a prodigious eater (has not found a food he doesn't like, though we are still only in the tasting, not feeding, zone.) 
• He can sit for minutes at a time, diligently working to bring all the toys within sight in a tight pile around him.  That he occasionally spastically flings one away just adds suspense and excitement to the game.  
• He can roll over both ways and has for months, but he vastly prefers to roll from his back to his stomach and then will flail and kick angrily until we put him on his back, only for him to roll over again.  
• He can pull to standing on his crib (which is really where he plays while I fold laundry-- he has spent mayyyybe an hour in total actually sleeping in the thing.) But he prefers to use our fingers to hoist himself up from a prone position, bypassing sitting altogether.  His new-found verticality has introduced a well-deserved new perspective.  He can now grab at the mobile that he used to watch passively from below.  But it also comes with new frustrations.  He wants to move but cannot master being both upright and moving at the same time.  Sometimes this leads to toppling over, which may or may not include a bumped head and tears.  Also, he is a afraid to sit down once standing, so will cling to the edge of the crib with an increasingly forlorn expression until we help him down. 
• He thinks peekaboo is hilarious, and starts giggling before we even uncover our faces.
• One of his favorite games is a homespun game I like to call "Where da baby?"in which he lies on his back and I unfurl a sheet over him and let it drift slowly down.  He giggles and kicks and twists as it comes closer, squealing in pleasure.
• He is extremely munchable and ticklish, a delectable combination.
• He is coming out of his no-neck phase, and is becoming even cuter than ever.
• We are still sleeping in the family bed, something I am still shocked that we decided to do (in a mostly good way) because we had never intended to.  However, I have to say that despite the obvious drawbacks (the 24/7 mommy milk bar; lack of space; lack of, er, privacy) it feels 100 percent natural and positive.  We will put him in his own bed soon, but we feel like, for us, providing him (and us) with this safe, nutrturing, bonding environment will only be a good thing for all of us in years to come.
• We are in process of reactivating our donor at CCB.*   Fingers crossed.

*Edited to add: the reactivation process can take a year or longer, including the mandatory six-month quarantine period.  Since I am staring down both barrels at 40 (October, 2012), we thought we better get the process rolling.

*Edited FURTHER to add:...and rolling it is.  No long drama here.  Our donor said YES :-)  Jacques, it turns out, is game to give!  A faxed-in form and a credit card payment ,and we're officially in the sperm-procurement phase of Project Speetus 2.0. 


On Ozzie:  Thank you so much for your support and understanding.  I am still devastated.  In fact, I partly did this post just to move the post about Ozzie down.  Every time I see that picture I start crying. 

I know this is not losing a child or a pregnancy, but I can't stop.  The grief is real.

She was a quiet wheel among many squeaky ones.  She was supremely lazy and most content to lie on her bed, knowing that the treats would come to her. Instead of hovering two millimeters outside of the forbidden kitchen zone along with the rest of them, she would wait on her bed, occasionally thumping her tail, just to remind us she was still there.  We always brought her treats to her, and if she could manage to use her tongue to reach whatever tasty item was proffered, she would not even raise her head fully off the bed.  She made laziness an artform.  When she would see friends in the park, she would do this slow, loping loop around them, windmilling her tail in a joyful greeting. When we came home, or when friends would come by, she would greet us or them at the door, carrying her favorite orangutan toy, the only time she would deign to leave her bed when inside. For months, she carried an oversize tennis ball that she had found in the around like it was a puppy.  If I said "Ozzie, where's Wilson?" she would go and lie next to the book case or the couch or the coffee table, wherever the ball had gotten stuck.  Long after Wilson #1 mysteriously vanished, she had a procession of favorite balls, all also named Wilson.


With so many animals, it is hard not to feel like my time and attention is too divided, that we could have or should have done better by Ozzie. She did not spend much time on the couch or within easy reach, so perhaps did not get as many pets as the others, though we tried to fairly distribute them.  I am obsessed with how we might have made her life better, even though I know she had a damn good one.  It is just hard to know that there will be no more pets and treats to give her, and I can't help wishing I had given more when I had the chance.

missing her

The short story is that my wonderful dog, Ozzie, passed. 

The long story is that she had a terrible spinal tumor, and despite aggressive surgery, it came back with a vengeance.  After a week or two of being better, she became increasingly painful, and increasing the meds only made her nauseous and unhappy.  I never really thought that it would come back so quickly, so when I woke up one day to see that look in her eyes I was shocked and devastated—she looked just tired, defeated, and done. I was not making it up.  Even though she was walking okay in the morning, by noon, she could not walk. She did  not want to eat, so we took her off the meds, gave her a dose of Xanax and pain relievers and spent all day feeding her her favorite foods—rotisserie chicken, ice cream and cheese.  All of her best human and animal friends were with her.  My ex, who adopted her with me, came to see her, and so did my best friend who had known her since she was a puppy. In the end, she had a wonderful day.  Her sister came and lay down next to her before they gave her the shot.  She was surrounded by her loved ones at home and feeling comfortable and safe.

Update! dogs: good news/bad news; boy: fantastic

Thanks for your support over the dog crisis.  It has been unimaginably awful here this past week.

The good news is that Ozzie is having a strong post-op recovery.  We do not know her prognosis, but at least she is recovering her strength and spirit quickly.  We will keep her as happy and healthy as we can for as long as she has.  We have a consult with an oncologist next week, but my feeling is that extraordinary life-extending measures are undesireable if they come at the expense of quality of life, so I don't know what options will be available to us. 

Sophie, too, is doing well post-op-- they found she had a twisted stomach and a necrotic spleen.  While they could not guarantee that there was not some underlying disease process that was driving it, right now it does not appear to be cancer.  She is still in the hospital but is alert and eating and will probably come home tomorrow or Saturday.

Milo is stumping around as irritatingly as ever with his cast--tick tick tick, thump; tick tick tick, thump; tick tick tick, thump-- all day, all night.  He seems to be unabatedly himself despite the broken toe. 

And now to what you really care about: the boy.  The boy is just pure delight (minus the toenails!)  While I am committed to keeping him on 100% breast milk until six months, I am afraid he might have other plans-- he launches himself head-first off our laps toward whatever food item we happen to be ingesting, and grabs our fingers to stuff them into his mouth for a taste-- pesto, mashed potatoes, butter, ricotta, pickles, mangoes.  I dare say he eats the best of all of us these days.

We are still sleeping with him in bed, though he peaceful infant slumber has given way to this new phase of constant motion, and it's a little like sleeping with a tazmanian devil, or maybe a rabid wombat.  The kicking, thrashing, head-butting and snoring.  Still, I am not ready for the battle of putting him in his crib full time.  He slept there for a 25-minute nap last evening and we felt victorious.

As with sleep, he is all movement when awake-- arching out of his swing, precariously twisting in his bouncy seat so as to stop my heart as I dash to rescue him from the force of gravity, yet again.  Bouncing, standing, kicking...and biting.  Oh yes, we have moved onto a new phase of nursing misery... as he is constantly watching what is going on around him, and sometimes his attention is at odds with his appetite.  He twists his head to watch a cat walk by, the nipple slips, and he in turn, clamps onto it with his gummy vice-grip so as not to lose it.  I have been closing his nostrils when he does this to make him release, but omg, the OUCH!  Not to mention the hair-pulling, glasses-grabbing and face-mauling he does every time we pick him up-- all lovingly, of course.  Wow.

But I have to say that this new interactive, giggling, flirty boy is so much fun.  I can't get enough of his smiles and blooming curiosity.

But there is this...

Sorry...can't embed video because my iTouch is not linked to my google account or some such nonsense, but please click & enjoy a silly baby vid.

youtube.com/watch?v=1qqcD25Dcp0&feature=youtube_gdata_player

You've got to be effin' kidding me!

I want to write about the boy because he is so stinking cute these days, but we are in the middle of a canine health crisis of epic proportions! Ozzie is home, but cannot walk with her back legs and needs drugs which make her pee pretty much constantly. The sling that we use to help her get around makes her pee before we get to the door as often as not. Since we are trying to spiffy up the place to sell, every puddle of urine is even more stress than usual. No one wants a place that smells like an animal shelter. (For the record, we are pretty persnickety about animal smells and stuff even on a normal day.) Poor Ozzie. She is in pain but is on the mend. Each day is better than the last.

Cut to.... SOPHIE, my Lolo, the sweetest giantest dog in the world who has had two knee surgeries over the winter....well, Lolo was off her food, which is unlike her, so after ascertaining it wasn't the antibiotics she was on following knee surgery #2 that were turning her stomach, I brought her in to be worked up...and she has a mass on her kidney that will require surgery.

Not to mention the small dog, who somehow hurt his toe and is hopping around on three legs (which is no less annoying than him on four legs, but just adds to the overall WTF?!?! gimpiness which has swiftly overtaken our household.)

This is the straw, I am the camel.

Update on Oz

I visited Oz last night, and while she was loopy from the drugs, she was happy to see me. Surgery went well; they were able to remove most of the tumor that had been encroaching on a nerve, causing her all that pain and weakness. After recovery, her pain should be much alleviated. We still do not know what kind of cancer-- or how aggressive it is. We will find that out when the biopsy comes back. In the meantime we will spoil her as much as we can.

In case you are keeping score at home, of my four dogs, two have had major surgery in the last four months-- two knee surgeries for Sophie (who is still recovering, but doing well) and now this for Ozzie. Lucky for us, Speedy is a vet so gets a deep discount on these procedures. Lucky for them, we are committed to doing everything we can to keep them whole, happy and healthy.

I guess with this many animals, we are bound to have times like this. But it truly sucks when you can't explain to them why they hurt or why you are crying.

Oz

My beloved dog Ozzie, who I adopted at seven weeks, whose original name was, bizarrely, phonetically identical to mine (and thus, was changed), just had surgery to remove a spinal tumor.  This will buy us time to lavishly spoil her in the months she has left with us.  She is only 8 and a half but I feel like I've known her my whole life.  Lots of tears for her.

Dairy Production

Milk Yield Over Time

So, despite my neuroses (as evidenced above) it seems that my production is holding steady.  This is my milk yield in ounces over the course of my work days; the dates with no points are dates that I did not go into work or had incomplete data.  The pumping 3x a day at work is definitely paying off, at the expense of me being able to go to the gym or have lunch away from my desk.  In 3-4months life will be different, I think-- we hopefully will have moved and I will not be pumping 3x a day in a glorified closet.  But for now I am just bringing the body to the task.  My pump speaks to me.  Some days it says "Keep going, keep going, keep going."  Some days it says "Give it up, give it up, give it up."  Then, randomly, it will throw in a "RuPaul! RuPaul! RuPaul!"

But a question for all y'all BF'ers (current and former):  Anyone a little, um... lopsided?  Because I can tell you that my right b00b is producing at about 3-4x the rate of my left and is about 1-2 cup sizes larger.  It is totally noticeable, and nothing I do seems to make a difference in the yield.  I had a piercing there years ago (on the right one, too, but that doesn't seem to have made a difference)-- could that be the issue?  It doesn't spray so much as dribble, and while the right side will fill a 5-oz. bottle in the morning, I'm lucky to get 1.5-2 oz. out of the left side.

And another:  libido.  I hinted at this earlier, but I was still in the bona fide post-partum lull.  Now we're going on four months!  And while I have no issue with, you know, being there for Speedy... I have NO, ZERO, NADA desire for anyone to be anywhere for me.  I mean, you could encircle my bits with razor wire for all I care;  nothing is going to get close anyway!  Is this some weird ptsd or something?  Anyone shed some light?



Jobs, Schmobs.

So, that's that.  Speedy gave notice.  She had a great confrontation with her boss in which she stuck to a FOX News-type script; she had two points ("I'm not taking less money, and I am not working more hours.") and three ways to get back to them again and again ("I understand your point but I really don't agree with you;" "That's really not the point;" and, "I'm sorry you feel that way.")  We rehearsed these lines again and again the night before, in preparation for her meeting with him.  (I could now play her boss in a TV miniseries...are you listening, Lifetime?) 

We expected her to get fired. 

What we did not expect was her boss to roll over, essentially forcing her to quit.  What we did not expect was her boss to practically beg her to stay and offer to keep her on as long as she would allow it-- at the same salary and same hours.

So here we are, the best of all possible outcomes:  Speedy is still gainfully employed and yet has the keys to the car-- she can leave at any time.  I have a conference for my company in May, after which I will tell my (exceptionally wonderful) boss that I am jumping ship. 

We are putting our co-op on the market at the end of this month.  We are going up to Western Mass to house hunt when our weekends allow it.  And we are actively planning to flee.  I still can't quite believe it. But even as I type, Speedy is going to pick up some moving boxes so that we can pack away our tchotchkes and make our place at least appear pristine for the professional photographer who is coming Monday to take promotional pictures. 

Hey, Mass: anyone know the insurance deal?  If I sign off on Project Speetus 2.0, we'd be looking at a January start date, which means if neither of us has gotten a real job by then, we'd be buying individual insurance after COBRA runs out.  Does Mass have a law about maternity/prenatal insurance?  If I buy insurance, can I expect any prenatal/maternity care to be out of pocket until a waiting period has passed?  Do I have to purchase that insurance separately?  Or should we expect to come out of pocket for all fertility/pregnancy/maternity expenses?

I am scared and suddenly pre-remorseful, the way I get right before a haircut-- I almost always wake up the day of, thinking, my hair looks fantastic-- why would I want to change it now?  But we all know that it is time to hack off the split ends.  And, yeah, Brooklyn.  Now you're a split end.  But I will miss you terribly.

Here is The Boy who will resent us horribly for selling our Brooklyn co-op well before he was able to appreciate it.

P.S. Add this to "Things We Thought We'd Never Do": Oh shit, we're co-sleeping!

Like Sands Through The Hourglass...[updated]

[ I just received this text: "I quit; he cried."  We are flying without a net, ladies.  Wish us luck.]

These are the Days of Our Lives.

So Speedy might get fired today.

She is a phenomenal vet with more than 20 years' experience and 14 years at this particular clinic.  At this clinic she gets 0 sick days, 0 vacation days.  They calculate pay on this cockamamie "production" system-- i.e., she gets 25% commission on the cases she treats.  A few years back, she negotiated for a higher base salary, to get away from the vagaries of working on commission like a car salesman.  In the last year she has taken off 2 weeks for our honeymoon in Spain and 3 weeks' unpaid maternity leave.  Because of that, her "production" has fallen below her base salary, which is none too high considering her experience and NYC standards.  Thus, her boss, who views the veterinarian thing as solely a means of making money, wants to cut her pay or extend her hours.  (She works 10-12 hour days, 4 days a week, takes client calls on her personal cell phone, spends untold hours on her days "off" in the clinic doing call-back and paperwork, consults with the other vets on her off hours about cases, and regularly goes above and beyond to help clients and their animals with no thought to herself or getting paid-- just to do the right thing.)

So, neither extending her hours nor cutting her pay is feasible for us, nor should he have the gall to ask! He has no scruples and no compassion.  This is a man who combats the bad economy by doubling prices on routine labwork and implementing medically unjustifiable bloodwork requirements. Last year he suffered a terrible biking accident that nearly left him temporarily paralyzed-- and required three surgeries on his neck and back.  Speedy and another senior vet ran the clinic while he was out for several months.  And when he got back, he changed the healthplan offerings to one that would pay 90% of hospital care...or one that would pay 80%.  Speedy jumped onto my plan at that time even though we have to pay more for it and it's a taxable benefit-- we are not willing to risk one hospitalization that could bankrupt us for good!

All of this is to say that there is absolutely no good reason for this other than that his business is losing money and he's looking for someone else, not him, to take the hit.  And Speedy is not going to stand for it.

We are going to be fine-- Speedy can cobble together enough per diem work to float what I can't pick up while we expedite our plans to flee.  But if we ever needed a boot in the ass to get us out of this city, this is pretty much it.

And... I KNOW I owe y'all pics of the boy, so....

One year ago

So it began...

How unreal that so much has changed in just one year!  (And how I miss cooking like I used to do!  One day the boy will let me cook again, right?)

The things we thought we’d never do

Bionic's post from a while back got me thinking...

Here is the first question I didn’t have to think about when I found out that I was pregnant and that the pregnancy would, despite my many worries, in all likelihood result in a baby: What kind of birth do you want?

While it was not always so, by the time I got there, the answer was imminently clear: I wanted to feel every twinge of it. I had my reasons—chief among them: control and fear. Now I recognize that these might not be the noble reasons you would associate with “natural childbirth” so while we’re gliding by that phrase let me just say, I don’t believe in “natural childbirth” unless you happen to be in a field under a full moon or something.

“Natural” implies not just unmedicated, but unmediated. And our world of fetal monitoring, cervix checks and isolettes just does not have much room in it for “natural childbirth.” “Natural childbirth” mostly happens in countries with terrible medical infrastructure where women suffer and die in far greater numbers than necessary, or are cast out of their societies altogether after the pain of stillbirth because of obstetric fistulas or worse. “Natural childbirth” is a misleading and romanticized term that hides reality like a blob of Vaseline smeared across a camera lens. You can make of the blurry shapes what you will but you will never see what was actually there. Not that there are not homebirths and places liek Ina May's Farm here, but those are by far the exception-- and neither was a realistic option for me.

Anyway. As I was saying.

Fear and control. Control and fear. Two of the same thing, actually. I was—am—afraid of losing control over my body and my wants. I was afraid of goinbg into the hospital and being railroaded into a series of procedures that I didn’t want. Fetal monitoring. Epidurals. Pitocin. Clocks ticking. Nurses bossing. Doctors chastising. My plan was to stay away as long as I feasibly could, because I was much more afraid of the hospital than of the pain. The other side of that is that I do have an unusually high pain tolerance and a quirky way of processing pain. Case in point: when I was racked with debilitating contractions for hours and the doula asked me—as I was gasping to catch my breath from the last one—what my pain level was, I considered for a moment, then said, “Eight”—because I could bear the pain. The definition of ten, which I will probably never experience, would be unbearable pain, inconceivable pain. Self-immolation: that would be a ten. Napalm. And while my contractions were "rip-roaring" (as the midwife termed them), and pushing was DEFINITELY a nine, I could bear it.

And also, a part of me, a small, incredibly stubborn part, wanted the pain. To know what that was like. To have the full range of sensation in labor and birth, just because. Just because I could. Because I might not do this again. Because I had the option to with the safety net of opting out if it became too much.  That safety net was, ultimately as much a part of the experience as the pain itself.  I knew I had a choice and that every moment I was making one.  If it had become unbearable and the equation made the pain worse than the possible loss of control, yes, of course I would have chosen an epidural.

All that said, the hand-wringing and moralizing that goes along with birth plans and birthing classes and childbirth preparation books…it all honestly seems like a load of crap in retrospect.

What I learned from my birthing class? Never to commit to anything at 7 on a weekday evening because you will end up grabbing a Power bBr and calling it dinner and getting very sugar-crashy and grumpy by the end of the two hours, especially when they make you hold ice, (like that is anything like labor at all!) And that all those so-called "pain management" techniques were not worth the notebook paper I scribbled them on when it came to actual labor.

What I learned from the childbirth preparation books? That some people like to squat. For me, that felt like splitting in two. Ditto baths, showers, etc. Some people like it. I happened to hate it as labor advanced. Also: annoying people couch the pain of labor in new agey euphemisms, like “rushes” and “sensations” when what they mean to say is “holy mother of hell that really freaking hurts!”

Finally, I learned birth plans are useless. What you need is a supportive partner who knows how to say, “Yes, dear,” a doula who knows the midwife/OB and the hospital where you deliver, your insurance card and pre-registration papers. Everything else is a waste of everyone’s time.

I did not expect labor to hurt as much as it did—I did not expect to be the woman clutching at the wall and screaming as a contraction overtook me on the way to L&D. But there is no way to describe, anticipate, ameliorate or even remember that kind of pain. It fills your whole being until you are nothing but the feeling itself. I am glad I experienced it, because I didn’t do enough drugs when I was younger and I crave mind-altering experiences that are more befitting a woman of my age. I would do it again because it didn’t kill me the first time and in the end I think I got something out of having that experience, even if it is just to say, every time I look at the growing boy, “Damn, and I thought he was big when he came out!”

But that’s all it was and is: an experience that I chose to have a certain way. And while I could choose to have a root canal without pain relief I’d rather not. I think anyone who feels the same about unmedicated birth—she’d rather not—is making exactly that kind of choice, stating her preference not an identity or a moral standing.