Carrying On

I’m arriving very late to this party, far too late to call it fashionable.  And, really, what would I know about being fashionable anyway?  I am always on time.  I’m usually so early that I have to drive around the block for 30 minutes so that I don’t bother the hostess by ringing the doorbell while she’s in the midst of hiding all of the toys and shoes and clutter (wait– maybe that’s just what I’m doing minutes before people arrive?)  This is one reason that I always keep a book in the car, which brings me, at long last, to talking about the book itself.  I enjoyed reading Water For Elephants and my husband can attest that I was inordinately excited to see an actual Ringling Bros train pass through the town we were visiting in Pennsylvania last month just after I finished the book.  And now, for the discussion!

What is your favorite circus related memory?

It feels like so many of my memories from early childhood have evaporated each time I try to dredge them up, but as it turns out, I do specifically remember going to the circus with my parents.  The memory is probably so vivid because an artifact from the occasion, a small white stuffed unicorn (gold horn, naturally, and teal blue hair for the mane and tail) still sits in among the odds and ends of my childhood possessions.  My parents took me to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus at the coliseum in my hometown and left my younger sister and brother at home with a sitter.  I loved having my parents to myself, eating pink cotton candy and seeing the “real” unicorn that was part of the show.  Oh! And people riding motorcycles around in a metal cage.  I was quite impressed with that part of the show.

On page 109, old Jacob complains about how his family keeps secrets from him:  “And those are just the things I know about. There are a host of others they don’t mention because they don’t want to upset me. I’ve caught wind of several, but when I ask questions, they clam right up. Mustn’t upset Grandpa, you know… Why? That’s what I want to know. I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page. If I don’t know about what’s going on in their lives, how am I supposed to insert myself in the conversation?… I’ve decided it’s not about me at all. It’s a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death…”  Reading this, I could see myself in both Jacob & in his family members, both in respect to our infertility situation and other matters. Whose viewpoint do you relate to most in this passage and why?

This is an interesting question.  I mostly relate to being in Jacob’s position, of being excluded from receiving interesting or pertinent information, though my experience relates more to past events than current ones.  My family’s way of coping with painful subjects is to try to bury them, usually without dealing with the emotional aspects of them first.  Things don’t stay buried forever though and it is so frustrating to receives wisps of our history without knowing the whole, especially since those missing pieces of information are important, medically and emotionally.  Over the years, my sister and I have been able to tease out the back story of several major events but we’re still missing pieces and clearly the trauma of those events is too great for us to ask any further questions.  On the other hand, I respect and understand the need to close the door on something too painful to face everyday, and don’t want to force someone to discuss such things.  More directly to the point of the passage above, I think that the failure to disclose upsetting things is possibly not so much to protect the family member from the pain of someone’s death, but out of embarrassment and trying to protect the way the person views them.  

(From the discussion questions at the end of the book) Looking at himself in the mirror, the old Jacob tries “to see beyond the sagging flesh.” But he claims, “It’s no good….I can’t find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?” How would you answer that question for Jacob or for yourself?

This was one passage in the book that I related to strongly.  I have experienced flashes of what Jacob describes, of looking into the mirror and not seeing myself, not recognizing myself, of realizing that I had so gradually lost myself that I hadn’t even noticed that I had disappeared.  During my freshman year of college I slid into a deep depression so that by Thanksgiving, I was a shadow of myself and it wasn’t until a weekend with friends from home that I realized that I wasn’t myself anymore.  It took several more months to find my regain my sense of myself.  In my case, I stopped being me when I left the people and places that I made up my history, that had served as my touchstones.  I was right to put my faith in those people, I’m still regularly in touch with them and in some ways they helped me rebuild myself, but I had to learn to be a whole person apart from them and to open myself to new relationships as well.  It was character and life-skill building, but it isn’t something I ever want to experience again.  

Hop along to another stop on this blog tour by visiting the main list at http://stirrup-queens.blogspot.com/.  You can also sign up for the next book on this online book club: The Empty Picture Frame by Jenna Nadeau (with author participation because she’s a blogger!)

L learned how to wave hi and bye on Monday, thus melting me into a puddle of adoring goo.  It was so neat, the first thing we’ve really taught him how to do.  Rolling, sitting, gummy-grinning like it’s going out of style, those are all things he’s done as part of a natural progression.  But this is something I have been working on with him for weeks and when he lifted his little hand into the air and opened and closed his fist… I loved it.  I love his hands, they always remind me of starfish. 

He’s still a toothless wonder.  I’ve been convinced that he’s teething… since January.  At this point, I should really stop proclaiming that surely he’ll have teeth by the end of the week.  That’s okay.  He can only bite me so hard with his gums.  The idea of my nursing baby armed to the teeth with, well, actual teeth, scares me a little. 

Teeth or no, he started feeding himself puffs last week as well.  He thoroughly enjoyed gumming a piece of asparagus during dinner one evening.  I’m making chicken pot pie for dinner and am going to give him some small pieces of chicken and veggies on his tray to try tonight. 

We’re trying to be more intentional about sleep patterns.  Thus, a new bedtime routine (bath, book, I’m sure you can fill in the other “b” blank) and trying to stay awake long enough after feeding him at night to move him back to his bed.  I enjoy cuddling with him and actually do like co-sleeping, but it wrecks my back and I sleep so lightly when he’s in the bed that I wake up in pain and exhausted.  The first week of making gentle changes went so well that I almost wrote a giddy post proclaiming it a success but then it sort of went downhill starting on Sunday and we’re still rolling in the wrong direction.  Maybe he’s teething?  Heh heh…

If you are not normally what one would call “very active”, it is a bad idea to walk 4 miles in an hour. Uphill. Both ways.  Okay, just the first part, though if you could manage the second, I imagine that that would also be a bad idea.  Ouch.  And also: if you should choose to ignore my advice, don’t forget to stop on the way home for a gallon of epsom salts or some icy hot.  See again: ouch.  I am very relieved to have recovered from the horrible sprain my ankle sustained in January when I dared to get out of bed at 3 AM to use the bathroom (I took three steps and it just snapped.)  But perhaps I should celebrate my recovery a little less enthusiastically next time…

And also: The Office is back on tomorrow night! Weeee! 

Last Sunday, I wrote what I felt was an almost perfectly articulated post about some things I’ve been thinking about lately. And then, WordPress ate it.  I had saved the draft and then *poof* it was gone.  It put me off of blogging for the rest of the week.  I’ve tried to write it again and I can’t and I hate that those words, those thoughts, are lost now and I can’t capture them again.  It is especially frustrating since I usually just blather on about nothing here and for once felt like I was writing something worth reading.  I need to let it go.

So, in the spirit of moving on (and blathering)… We’ve all be sick and cannot seem to shake this cold/bug/plague/whatever.  I think I may have an ear infection on top of it.  There’s nothing quite like revisiting childhood illnesses to knock you off your high (germ-phobic) horse.  I gave up on sending up an SOS from beneath the mountain of laundry we’re buried under and am slowly restoring order to my chaos filled household.  I am naturally a bit of a slob but clutter makes me anxious.  It’s a rather annoying conflict of interest.

I’ve been reading, learning, and crafting more lately.  It’s nice to do something more creative than making up verses to “The Wheels on the Bus”.  I love spending all of my time with L and watching him grow, it is exactly what I want to do, but I’ve been neglecting other sides of myself in the process.  I loved being a student, it was huge part of my identity and when I graduated from college, I felt lost for a while.  Working (as in: getting paid, also see: commuting, traveling, and developing a growing distaste for the words “margins”, “marketing report”, and “conference call”) didn’t correspond to a sense of self.  It was just something I did.  And then we were ttc and I was completely focused on that and then waiting for L.  Now that I’m coming out of the newborn fog, it’s exciting to rediscover my interests and learn about new things again.  It’s also good to make things again, since I’ve banned myself from buying any new crafting supplies until I use up or give away the closetful that I already have. 

Our first week of cloth diapering went really well.  Two leaks, one of which was definitely user-error (poor baby practically had a wedgie) and the other may have been the result of mid-diaper-change peeing and not an actual leak.  Ist weird that I was both disappointed and relieved when L pooped in disposable diapers instead of cloth the first few days? Okay, yes, it is weird.  But true. As it turns out, dealing with dirty diapers wasn’t a big deal and I wish we’d made the switch earlier.  The laundry side hasn’t been bad at all.  Once I have enough diapers to go 2 days between loads, I’ll be set.  

Oh yeah, and I went to the OB/GYN for a routine exam.  I’d say something snarky about how fun that was, but I saw a new doctor and he was surprisingly great and funny, so it wasn’t too bad.  It was kind of amusing that the entire staff recognized me even though I haven’t been into the office in 6 months.  I guess when you go in 20 times in 38 weeks, you make an impression.  Or maybe it’s because of my sparkling personality.  Yeah, that must be it.

Thus concludes my random post about last week. 

Hopefully not into the toilet…

That’s right, we’re embarking on a cloth diapering adventure.  I think I’m going to need some serious hand-holding.  I have detergent that is free of bad-for-diapers stuff (if you are interested, here is a chart that I found really helpful), 4 bum genius 3.0 diapers, 4 thirsties fab fitteds and two thirsties covers.  And a sock monkey wet bag because when I saw it, I actually squealed “Sock monkeeeeeies!” It was rather embarrassing.  I had to buy it.  It’s only taken six months for me to stop agonizing over the options and just buy some to try already and, of course, because I’m me, I’m already doubting myself.  So I jumped in with both feet, which is to say, I’ve taken off the tags and dumped the diapers into the washing machine.  And I am such a third-grader for thinking that using the words “dump” and “diapers” in the same sentence is kind of funny. 

Did I mention that I’m on cold medicine?  Actually, I’m not, but I should be.   L came down with a cold first and passed it on, so generously, to us.  P isn’t breastfeeding, so he can ingest all of the pseudafed in the world (or not, that would be baaaaad…) but I am afraid to take anything that might decrease my supply, since I am always paranoid about it.  I wish my boobs came with a convenient gauge.  Like a gas gauge.  But for milk.

Since I’m now on the subject of bf (am I? I guess so), after a really rough start, we made it to 6 months of exclusively nursing, which I am really thrilled with.  And having made it to that goal, I honestly wonder why I didn’t cut myself some slack and use formula on occasion.  I hate pumping and I’ve been keeping myself up late for the past two months just to eek out an ounce or two at a time to make up the rare bottle that L (grudgingly) takes when I’m briefly away from him.   Sometimes I feel like my stubborn refusal (inability might be a better word) to deviate from my plans is a blessing and a fault.  Anyway, L started solid foods on his half birthday and he loves it.  For the first time in his existence, he is not 100% dependent on me for survival and sustenance.  I’m both a little sad and a little relieved about that.  On one hand, it’s another sign that he’s growing up and away from me, as he has been from the moment that P cut his umbilical cord.  On the other, my body is not solely responsible for keeping him alive and after worrying during my pregnancy that my body would fail him somehow and worrying over the past few months about my supply and his growth, it’s liberating to know that someone else can share the responsibility of feeding him. 

And I know.  I know that I’m odd for having worried about all of these things in the first place.  My anxiety has improved dramatically in the past two months.  I’m not entirely out of its grip, but I am able to relax and enjoy things more and am less likely to find myself worked up into a frenzy of nerves over things.  Also, I can now go a whole hour or two without checking on him while he sleeps, which I’m sure he appreciates as it must be really annoying to get poked while you are blissfully dozing.   Sleeping… well, we’re still not logging as many consecutive hours as I would like, but I’m sure we’ll get there.  Hopefully, after we all get over this cold, we’ll work on moving L into his own room for the whole night.  Again, less poking from me will probably make that a successful venture. 

In other L news, he started sitting up unsupported last week (with a generously padded fall out zone because I’m not interested in worrying about whether or not his pupils are still dilating normally after he tips over while trying to lick the dog.)  He’s had a huge growth spurt recently and weighs in at a whopping 16 lbs (almost.)  That’s almost 10 lbs more than his birth weight.  Crazy.  He looks (and feels) so huge to us.  He’s happy and sweet and funny.  And very very interested in eating the remote control, my earrings, and if you don’t mind, he’d be happy to slobber all over you if you’ll just come a little closer.  If teething consists primarily of covering both fists in drool and gumming everything in sight, we have officially entered that stage.  I am both excited and dreading seeing (more specifically: feeling) those little pearly whites pop through his gums.  My little baby is growing so fast.

Anyway, that’s a (not so) little update on us. 

Why is it that every time I think we are getting ahead in our finances, something else breaks?  “Hey! We are actually getting money back on our taxes this year, that never happens anymore, woohoo! We can completely pay off the credit cards and save some money! Yes! Lalala, going to deposit the check, let me just grab my shoes from the closet.  Huh, those feel rather damp…  Crap! Is that? No. NO! Water?!?!” Instead of savoring the delight of extra income (well, it’s much more pleasant to think of it that way than to think of it as a free loan to the government), it seems that I’ll be experiencing the bitter aftertaste of writing a check to the roofers.  Ugh.

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I wrote that little torrent last night, with every intention of coming back to write more, since, hello, that would be a tiny little out-of-nowhere entry after abandoning the blog for a few too many weeks.  And then I woke up vomiting and, um, other unpleasantness.  While I can multitask taking care of L, particularly breastfeeding, and a variety of other activities (look! I cook, I clean, I walk around the room talking on the phone, crocheting, and gesticulating wildly all with a baby firmly attached to my boob!), it turns out I cannot care for or feed the boy and puke simultaneously.  At least not without substantially adding to the number of loads of laundry and the number of people I have to hose off in a day.  Ick.  It was a bad start to the morning.  And also? I am never eating hot-dogs again.  I knew I should have kept that ban in place.

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After my last miscarriage, I joined a group online and two years later, it is still active.  Last week, one of our members gave birth at 24 weeks to a little girl who is feisty and strong-willed. Her name is Sydney and her parents have been waiting a long time to have her.  If you pray, please send up some thoughts for them. 

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Since we are on a budget (one that, thankfully, still includes chocolate or else I would cry), I’m trying to cook more often and be more resourceful.  As part of that (and a paranoia about chemicals and environmental nasties), we’re trying to go greener.  If anyone has any suggestions for alternative (especially home-made) cleaning solutions, I’d love to hear them.  Also, any tips for reducing paper towel waste without getting completely grossed out about germs/bacteria/all of the other nasties that freak me out even though they shouldn’t?

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Finally, L will be six months old next week!  I can hardly believe it.  Probably because he’s still waking up at least 3 times a night and so I am tired enough not to keep track of the days.  Which is fine.  He’ll sleep eventually.  Right?  We’re going to start introducing solid foods next week and I am really (probably disproportionately) excited about that.  I’m probably going to make most of his food, so that will be a new adventure.  Pureed meats. Yum. 

And… I don’t feel well again so I’m ending this now!

L is on the small end of the growth curve for weight.  Below the 10th percentile, usually above the 5th.  But he’s still on the damn chart and he’s healthy and normal and lately, I find myself growing increasingly annoyed with comments about his size.  “Oh, he’s tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiny! How old is he?” Which is often followed with a helpful guess at his age (4 1/2 months) of something like, “Two months?”  It shouldn’t irritate me so much, I know that.  But I’ve been hearing variations on this since the first time we took him out in public and my cheerful response of his actual age is met with looks ranging from disbelief to disapproval to (give me a word for neutral or nice that starts with a “D” so I don’t have to break this alliteration streak I’m working here!)  He is just right, people!  Geesh.  (And I know it works both ways, so you will never hear me tell another parent that their baby is soooo big, gosh what are you feeding that baby because s/he is INCREDIBLY HULKISHLY HUGE because that would be rude and besides, they are just the right size too.) 

Um, so yeah, I had to get that off my chest.  Other than innocent (irritating) comments from strangers who probably mean no harm, things are going swimmingly.  I wonder where that phrase originated?  I like it, it is a cheerful and sunny metaphor.  Unless, I suppose, you are doing the backstroke in a river filled with crocodiles.  Moving along.  L is a happy and funny little guy.  He suddenly seems to think that sticking out his tongue is a requirement for smiling and it delights me, especially after all of the tongue-tie issues from the first few weeks.  I love seeing him stick it out almost to his chin.  He doesn’t hate being on his stomach with the fury of a thousand suns now, just maybe 450, give or take.  He loves to stand up and likes percussion sounds.  And, he’s stirring, so I’d better go reinsert the pacifier.

I am working on getting out of my shell lately.  I’m trying to comment more on the blogs I read (it’s a start) and have been going to a playgroup even though I feel awkward in a roomful of strangers.  My anxiety seems to be less intense lately.  I still have to check on L a few times at night and I’m not sure when we’ll move him into his room (I guess when he outgrows the weight limit of the pack and play… hey– there’s another bright side to him being small– he’s got a few pounds to go!) I took him to visit my sister this week and it was fine.  I’ve never enjoyed driving and driving him around used to make me so nervous so that is significant progress.  Hopefully I’ll continue to feel less anxiety and learn to live with the amount that is inherent in parenting.

I think I just ate my son’s weight in chocolate.  Too bad it won’t look so tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiny on my thighs.  And on that note…

Five years ago today, my husband and I exchanged rings, made vows, shared our first dance, cut the cake, celebrated with family and friends, and set off into our married life. 

Four years ago, we celebrated our first anniversary in Nashville, a welcome get-away after a rough few months of living in Alabama for P’s job.  P gave me the wedding band I wear still (my first band never fit comfortably.) I don’t remember what I gave him.  I found out during the drive home that I had landed a new job that would improve my feelings about living there for another 8 months.  One of our biggest arguments of the first year started with a discussion of how to properly load the dishwasher.  I am happy to report that, though we’ve had a few more arguments since, the dishwasher is always loaded perfectly.

Three years ago, we were back from AL and happily settled into a comfortable life together.  P gave me earrings. My boss had just been canned and though I didn’t know it at the time, I would soon be taking over that position.  Our friends were starting to have children.  P was almost done with school.  I was looking at grad school programs myself.  We started house hunting.

Two years ago, we celebrated our anniversary in the darkest restaurant we could find because I had a blinding migraine that afternoon and was just getting over it.  We bought new paint and chocolate.  Ever practical.  We were both establishing careers, decorating the new house, putting down roots.  We had started trying for a baby and didn’t know it yet, but I was pregnant. 

One year ago, we had a subdued anniversary dinner.  Two miscarriages in that year.  OPKs, HPTs, charting, googling, reading, finding blogs.  Work was increasingly stressful and unsatisfying.  I was struggling.  We selected a painting of two blooming trees against an evening sky.  P contacted the artist and added an inscription to the back about looking forward while holding the past in our hearts.  We hung it in our living room.  Two days before, we had been in the RE’s office to learn that the results of our RPL testing had revealed homozygous MTHFR mutations.  We didn’t really know what that meant.  We didn’t know that I was pregnant again. 

Today, we ate lunch at Chik-fil-a (very Edwards family, no?), I received two bra-fuls of hot, acidy spit-up (I really should stop wearing scoop-neck shirts), and we spent the day playing with L.  We’re adjusting to living on one income and learning how to raise a child.  L’s personality is emerging and when he’s not trying to stuff both fists into his mouth along with his pacifier, he gives us gummy grins.  It was a happy day.

I hope that we have a lifetime of years together.

For the past three nights, L has slept 6-8 hours straight.  Wheeee! Granted, those stretches start around 8 or 9 pm and I am still having a hard time falling asleep myself, but after 12+ weeks of no more than two or maybe three hours of consecutive sleep, I am thrilled.  By putting that into writing, I’ve probably earned myself another 2 months of sleep deprivation, but there it is. 

I didn’t appreciate my own ability to sleep through the night until it became dependent on someone else growing into doing the same.  My expectations about him sleeping were very low, so I wasn’t upset about it, but that didn’t make it any easier on my body.   I have the luxury of trying to recover by napping with him the next day at home and, I’ll be honest, I’m a little lazy at times, so I hadn’t done much to encourage or change his sleeping patterns until the past two weeks when I felt like I was going to crack from lack of sleep.  That kind of exhaustion does something funny to my vision and my sense of my own body, not to mention how hard it is to think or finish sentences when my brain is that fuzzy.  I starting reading Elizabeth Pantley’s “No Cry Sleep Solution” before L was born and I dug it out again.  Boring story short, I started watching for his tired cues and making a point of helping him to fall asleep before he became completely overtired.  I did this during the day and over the course of the past two weeks he’s doubled the length of his day time naps and also started sleeping better at night.  I’m sure that finally topping 10 lbs has helped him too.  That said, I know that his sleep patterns may shift again and don’t take credit for the changes I have seen, since I didn’t do much and may have just lucked out for the time being.

Speaking of weight… We went back to the ped yesterday because his reflux has really ramped up again.  Turns out that at 11 lbs, he had outgrown his previous dose of medicine, resulting in a 50% increase in each dose.  Hopefully that will get it under control again.  He’s still in the 10th percentile for weight but he’s now doubled from his lowest weight.  No wonder he looks huge to us.  He has little chubby thighs and smooshy cheeks now.  It’s a huge difference from the way he looked when he was born.  Strangers, on the other hand, frequently exclaim over him and how tiny he is and ask if he’s two or three weeks old. Um, more like almost 13, but feel free to tell me how cute he is again. He’s just long and skinny like… uh… well, not like P or I.  Maybe a grandparent?  No matter, he’s healthy and happy.  And currently sleeping on my shoulder, so off I go to put us all to bed.

Is there such a thing as post-partum anxiety?  I don’t think I have PPD (based on my previous experiences with depression), but I feel like my anxiety is at times too much to be typical.  And then I feel completely normal again.  Rinse.  Repeat.  I don’t know if it’s normal, if it’s due to continued sleep deprivation, or if it’s a cause for concern.  I’m having a lot of trouble falling asleep most nights and worry about something happening to L.  And then there’s the increasing need to make sure that L is breathing when he’s not beside me.  Do all parents feel that way?  Last night, I couldn’t fall asleep to begin with and then I kept myself awake for another 30 minutes or more because I felt like I needed to check on him even though I already had checked on him a few minutes before.  I feel nauseaus a lot of the time.  But all of that gets better when I’ve had more sleep.  So maybe at the root it’s a sleep issue?

Moving on… I booked a flight to take L to visit my parents in Delaware for February.  By myself.  For 10 days.  What was I thinking?  First there’s the flying alone with a baby (and I don’t like to fly anyway) and then there’s the not being with P for that long.  My parents will certainly help me out, but P and I are such a team and I’m used to balancing L’s care with him.  In trying to do something fun and different, I’ve given myself a whole host of other things to worry about.  

Enough self-pity/introspection/worrying crap for now.

L is 12 weeks old today!  He’s smiling now, he loves to “talk” to us, and he LOVES our ceiling fans.  Loves them.  Every morning he looks at me and at P and smiles at us, but then he looks up at the fan and starts grinning and cooing and flirting like he can’t believe his luck that it is still there.  P has named three of the four fans, that is how much L loves them.  L + ceiling fans= bff.  Our baby (and, let’s face it, my husband for the previously mentioned naming) is a little weird.  I love him even more for it.