Moody

I'm in a funk, and I don't know why.  I'm not depressed.  I'm not unhappy, at least in the larger cosmic sense of (un)happiness.  Just out of sorts.  Not sure what to do with myself.

Maybe it's because summer is ending, as are these long months of staying home with the boy and generally being a mom.

Maybe it's because I have been staying home with the boy, and I'm tired of it, and there are many weeks before real childcare starts.

Yes, I'm quite conflicted about this whole pseudo-SAHM (or is it WAHM in my case?) thing I've had going for the past 8 months.

Maybe it's because I met with my new (and also former) department chair today, and being at work always makes me snippy.

Maybe it's because I squandered much of my morning writing time looking at blogs because I really couldn't concentrate.  (Yes, I might have cause and effect reversed.)

Maybe it's because despite the fact that I am home all the freaking time with this boy, I can't manage to get anything done.  I spend hours every day trying to get him to sleep, and if he does sleep, then I'm pretty much hostage to my bedroom because I can't get him in the crib without him waking after 20 minutes.

Maybe it's because I'm just tired.  And hungry.  (I am officially down to my pre-ttc weight, which is probably about 5-10 pounds lower than it should be as a nursing mom, but thankfully not as low as it was when I actually got pregnant.)  And that, my friends, was the real blessing of the Head Trauma of 2012.  I basically holed up in bed for 4 days while my mother took care of running my house.

And now Tiny Boy is awake, and maybe we'll go play with blocks. Or his new favorite thing to lug around:  LG's underwear that he filched from the (yes, clean) laundry basket.  Oy.

Tick Tock

I have two weeks of paid childcare left this summer.  TWO.

I did not fully appreciate any of this when I hired my current sitter, who told me up front what her other August commitments were.

The upside is that she CAN watch Tiny Boy the first week in September, before he starts daycare.

I should be making better use of this time.  But I'm tired.  And overwhelmed.

I wish this writing thing were easier.

Sigh.

Sleep Books

I think I have read--and summarily dismissed--all the sleep books one is "supposed" to read these days.  The Baby Whisperer.  Baby Wise.  Weissbluth.  No Cry Sleep Solution.  That one about 90 minute sleep cycles.  I haven't read Ferber but I've read enough about Ferber that I understand the method.

Am I missing something?

Because if there's a book out there that tells you how to get your baby to sleep in his own bed for more than an hour at a time, without making him scream (because he DOES scream) and without sitting next to his crib in a chair while he cries, I will check it out.  I am struggling to figure out how much of Tiny Boy's problem is behavioral and how much is biological/medical.

Yes, the sleep deprivation sucks worse than I ever thought possible.  But it's still much better than the ambien-requiring ttc-induced insomnia of the three years prior.

In Lieu of Prayer a Bedtime Plea

I love Tiny Boy.  I love nursing Tiny Boy.  I love rocking Tiny Boy.

But please, can we be done with the all-night nurse-and-rock-a-thon?  I'd really like to have at least 2 consecutive hours of sleep sometime tonight.  And 3 would be just divine.

Motherhood at 8 months and 8 years

The kids are growing up way too fast.

LG is 8.5 years and going through the beginnings of puberty.  One of her nipples is growing (I assume the other one will, or I'll be calling her pediatrician) and she has the first strands of pubic hair (I wouldn't know this, except she insisted that I examine it up close and personal).  I remember this latter occurrence happening to me at a very early age as well, and I didn't have a period until after 12, so I'm not incredibly concerned.  But still.  She's as close to 12 as she is to the 4 year old preschooler who used to accompany me to the RE's office.

She really is a great kid.  She's wicked smart and funny, introverted but rarely shy.  I really can't imagine what she'll end up doing as an adult, as she's good at--and interested in--almost everything she tries.  Art, reading, writing, gymnastics, swimming, drama.  Math is her "worst" subject but even then she doesn't really struggle.  My biggest gripes?  That she can't manage to put a damn thing away and that she stays up too late reading with a flashlight.  I look at her and it seems impossible that she's the same kid who drove me crazy during that 2.5-4 era, and who screamed around the clock as an infant.  (To be fair, her intensity is the same; she just manages it better.)

And then there's Tiny Boy.  He's crawling (a demented one-kneed crawl, but it gets him places) and cruising and even daring (and sometimes succeeding) in standing unsupported.  The sleeping thing still sucks.  And now apparently he's on some baby food strike and won't let me feed him with a spoon.  Which would be fine, if he was actually capable of self-feeding, which he's not (chunky foods really don't work for him yet, though I did let him suck on a pizza crust last night).  I look at him and see the beginnings of a little boy, not the 5 lb baby he used to be.

It's hard, this mother of two thing, and I imagine it will be both easier and harder when I really go back to work.  Easier because I'll have full-time childcare and harder because there will be even more to do and all the usual work stress.  But I won't have all the ttc and early pregnancy stress (weird to think I haven't been back in the classroom since my second trimester), not to mention being on the other side of the tenure debacle.

This afternoon, when Tiny Boy wakes from his nap, we have plans to have a picnic dinner.  She'll climb to the highest spot she can find, and I'll push him on a baby swing.  In many ways--both good and difficult--life with two is exactly what I thought.  It's nice to be living my life instead of wanting and waiting for it to begin.

We're Back!

• Quebec is a lovely city.  I would like to go back there.
• It is difficult traveling with 10 adults (one of whom is disabled), 1 child, and 3 infants.
• As a result, various people (including moi) had meltdowns at various points.
• I am beyond tired.  More when I have something else to say.

Quebec, anyone?

Heading to Quebec City for the weekend with the extended family.  No real plans other than enjoying good food and walking Tiny Boy around in the stroller.

I know I've got some Canadian--and well-traveled--readers out there.  Let me know what I need to do/see/etc with or without kiddos.

thanks!!!

(now if only I can recall my grad school French)

The Whole SMC Thing

So here's what I found when I logged on to the NYT this morning:

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/15/us/two-classes-in-america-divided-by-i-do.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&hp

While I haven't fully processed this, I felt myself bristling when I read it, at the mere suggestion that my children are disadvantaged simply because I'm not married.  It seems to me, based on the sociological research that I read prior to having kids, as well as common sense, that this article is hugely problematic.  But I will say that I'm not a social scientist by trade.

Now, what seems spot on is that poverty puts kids at a disadvantage and, yes, frequently single mothers in this country are poor.  (That jives with everything I read prior to becoming an SMC.)  But simply adding a husband to the mix does not mean that one is more well-to-do.  That is, I think the examples used here, as well as the basic premise, conflates two ideas (well, more than that, actually).  It seems to compare one struggling single mother and one wealthy, traditional nuclear family.  Not all married families have enough money.  Not all married families are healthy (I can attest to that).  Not all single mothers are less educated.  Not all single mothers are poor.  Not all kids in one-income households have a mom.  Not to mention gay and lesbian couples who aren't allowed to marry their partners.    Etc.  Etc.  Etc.

So in a nutshell, I was pissed off.

But, more than ten years after making the decision to become an SMC and more than eight into the reality of it, I really do have to ask:  what are my kids missing by not having a father?  are they disadvantaged in any way?  and, if so, is there anything I can do to rectify that?

If you asked LG a couple years ago, she'd say she missed someone else to play games with her.  But she also recognized, even as a young child, that if she had a dad he'd be at work much of the time anyway.  What I can see, particularly having added Tiny Boy into the mix, that my time pressures are enormous, and, yeah, it would be great to have another adult around more of the time.  But does that person need to be a "dad"?  I still don't really think so, but obviously I'm hugely biased here.  I also think my kids are missing out on a male role model...but they've got an uncle, and both kids have gone/will go to a daycare with male teachers (as early as infancy).  Now I'm not saying that at some point my kids won't miss having a dad...they might, and I'm sure I won't be able to fully know what they are missing.  But I had a father and a step-father growing up...and as an adult I'm not in contact with either one of them, for extraordinarily complicated reasons (gee, maybe that has something to do with why I became an SMC?)

Clearly what I need, according to the NYT, is a husband to support me while I drive my kids around town doing multiple extracurricular activities and volunteering in their classrooms.  Or something like that.

The Fake Walk and the Swing

When my mother was here while I convalesced, she popped Tiny Boy in the stroller when he was grouchy after a typical 40-ish minute nap.  He fell asleep, and she walked him around the first floor of the house for another hour.  (It was too hot to be outside; thus the designation "fake walk.")

I've used fake walks three times this week; twice to extend too short naps (once I got 1 hr 35 min out of him) and once to see if he'd fall asleep in the stroller.  That third time?  Took a good 20 minutes of walking before he fell asleep, and then he woke after 40 minutes anyway.  I'm really unclear about this phenomenon, but I told A, who is always coming up with fantastic ideas for babygear, that she needs to invent a treadmill for a stroller.  Or something.  My left hand actually isn't working so great after all that pushing a stroller.

Obviously there's something about movement that is helping (right now) keep him asleep.  But actual stroller rides outside often result in him waking (too many noises and being jostled, I suspect).  A. suggested I try a different swing--perhaps one of those cradle-y types.  The one we have is one of those low-to-ground portable ones that only moves front to back, and although it worked great for a few naps during early infancy, he can't stand being in the thing now.  (Despite the fact that he loves the REAL swing, outdoors at a park.)  Trying to decide if it's worth a trip to the consignment shop to see if they have a cheapie swing that might work.  Seems sort of silly for an 8-month-old, but really I can't keep doing the fake walk, and the kid needs more than 40 minute naps.  Apparently the only thing that works is having an actually sleeping mother beside him, which isn't realistic except when one is recovering from head trauma.

You'd think I'd have this sleep thing figured out by now.  Alas, it is a constantly moving target.

My Little Peanut

If you were reading during the era of Beta Hell, March 2011, you might recall that when I went in to my 5w2d ultrasound, fully expecting to be told that my pregnancy was either (a) not viable or (b) ectopic, both Dr. Gorgeous and I were pleasantly surprised to find an appropriately-sized gestational sac and the first hint of a yolk (despite my having a beta of maybe 900).

She told me, in a conspiratorial whisper, I think there's a little peanut in there.

Well, here he is, something like 16 months and the Reign of Terror later:

Big Baby

Tiny Boy turns 8 months tomorrow.  Tomorrow!!!  How is that even possible?

He's huge.  Okay, he's not huge.  He's 16 lbs with a puffy cloth diaper on, which is both small and more than three times his birth weight.

He's crawling.  Within a week, he's gone from taking some crab like tentative scootches forward to crossing whole rooms to find me.  Like, I need to get those baby gates up NOW.  (My friend A. has had one of them through two children, the oldest of which is a first grader.)  He'd really like to get into the kitchen to play with the cat water, which was exactly what LG did at that age.

And this morning, we woke up to a TOOTH.  He won't let me see it, but there's a sharpy in there.  And he's a huge grouch.

So it turns out that loon of a pediatrician was right on all physical counts.  Yes, he still has reflux, and, yes, he's teething.  No, we will not be Ferberizing any time soon (though to be fair, he slept much better last week next to me when I was basically comatose than when I dump him in the crib by himself).

8 months?!  That's like my whole pregnancy ago.  Wow.

To Comment or Not to Comment

Lately I've been thinking about my commenting habits on blogs.  I guess I should be more specific.  Sometimes I find myself reading a post and thinking something like "your RE is a fucking moron and you need to see a new one."*  Obviously I don't write that comment, mostly because it's rude, and I like to think of myself as a nice person.  But I don't usually come up with a more delicately phrased version; I simply don't comment.

Let me take a step back; most of the blogs I comment on I read regularly, and most of those blogs are by folks who also comment here, and I feel like we have a community thing going.  I feel that I "know" them well enough that I can say what I think will support them the most, because really I think that's the point of commenting on blogs.  (Support can take many different forms, but, again, it's sort of like getting to know a friend; sometimes friends need practical advice, sometimes friends need to hear "me too"; sometimes friends just need an electronic shoulder to cry on and someone to say it will be okay.)

These possibly-less-than-helpful comments I choose not to post are NOT directed at any of those people in "my" little corner of the blogosphere.  They're blogs that I've stumbled upon (generally via someone I do read regularly) and read a couple times and really don't have a lot of back story for.  They're blogs I tell myself probably won't return to, but I do, I have to say, because somehow my curiosity is piqued. 

(Have I said I don't particularly like this about myself?)

I guess here's the bigger picture question:  would it be better if I just said to those folks some kinder, gentler version of "your RE is a fucking moron and you need to see a new one"?  Because I sort of feel like stopping by to read and not commenting is equivalent to watching an accident and not doing anything to help.  Then again, I don't think all readers have a responsibility to comment; I have no problem with "lurkers," though I do wonder about folks who "lurk" for a long time and never comment... because there's something kind of voyeuristic about that.  You "know" me and I don't even know you're sitting there with a pair of binoculars watching me undress.  Or something.

And then I wonder how many of my readers have thought some version of "your RE is a fucking moron and you need to see a new one" and chosen not to say anything.  (But seriously, who would think that about Dr. Gorgeous?)

Anyway, I'm just musing.  I'd be interested to hear your take on all this.  Or maybe I'll delete this whole post in about ten minutes.  I've got a book I need to write with some crazy footnotes; talk amongst yourselves.



*  Not always about fertility stuff.  Sometimes it's OB stuff.  Sometimes it's parenting stuff.  It's always something I think I know something about.  I'm kind of obnoxious that way.

In Which We Get Away

So despite the fact that I look pretty horrid--and was so tired and woozy that I didn't even attempt leaving my house, let alone drive a car, until Friday--I took the kids on the mini vacation we were supposed to take.

It was pretty typical as far as those things go.  Google directions suck so we got lost on local roads when we arrived.  LG swam in the hotel pool.  Tiny Boy took 30 minute naps in the stroller.  We ate decent, but ridiculously overpriced, food.  I forgot the camera, but LG and Tiny Boy got their pictures taken in a photo booth for a souvenir.  I nursed/rocked Tiny Boy in the bathroom while LG read with a flashlight to put him to sleep.  LG didn't drink enough and crashed so we left our Sunday Fun Activity about an hour earlier than I'd thought, and no one wanted dinner when we got home.

Between the Ceiling Fan Incident, my mother's unexpected visit, and the getaway, our house is a wreck, though thanks to MMH at least the dishes are done and laundry has made it into the washer.

And now it's back to business as usual.  Until next weekend, anyway, when we are venturing to Quebec.  Never been to Canada.  Looking forward to it.  But getting a passport for an infant, not so fun...   

A Different Kind of Domestic Violence

(rated R for violence and gore)

What happened was...

Tiny Boy is crawling.  Getting into mischief.  Sucking on the blinds next to my bed.  I see dirt everywhere, start some crazy cleaning fit.  I go to get more baby wipes with which to clean the disgusting blinds from the top down.  Does not even occur to me that I'm standing about 4 feet from a ceiling fan until, of course, the pain shoots through my forehead and my left eye.  Not 4 feet anymore.

I scream.  And scream.

LG, who has been reading in her bedroom and usually ignores everything, comes running in.  I think she said, what do I do?  I'm holding my face like it might fall off if I don't, but really don't have any sense of what happened other than it hurts like hell.  I have her put Tiny Boy in the crib (she's never done this before) and ask her to help me to the bathroom.  And it's at that point I notice the blood dripping on the floor, my whole arm, now shaking, covered in blood and slide down on the floor.  I think she said, oh. 

This might all be comical, if I wasn't in so much pain.  I tell her to call 911.  NOW.  At some point, I think while she's still holding the phone, I ask her to get me a towel.  She hands me a roll of toilet paper.  Towel.  Towel.  Towel.  I must have said it five times and it's not sinking in.  TOWEL!!!!  And she gives it to me, finally, her own bath towel, and I curl up on the floor.

Occurs to me it's taking a fucking long time for that ambulance.  I have no idea how much blood I've lost, whether or not I can see from my left eye (at this point, it's still closed tight with a wad of bloody hair on top of it, and I've got my whole face pressed into the towel).  She's still saying, what do I do.  I'm lucid enough, though feeling really faint, that I tell her to go get a neighbor.  Any neighbor.  Just bang on the door.

Fortunately our next-door neighbors, whom she knows, are home.  She brings L upstairs.  He says, oh jeez.  Asks if I can tell how much I'm bleeding.  Calls 911 again. 

Eventually there's a team of EMTs assessing my head.  (We think, all told, it probably took 15 minutes or longer, from the time LG called.  If I'd had a different kind of injury, I'd be dead.  And that's horrifying.)  Not that bad, they say.  Three wounds, two about an inch long on the forehead, one under my left eye.  Head injuries bleed a lot.  It's determined that I can actually open my left eye (sort of).  The blade missed my eye ball by millimeters.

Thankfully I didn't actually see how much blood there was--M cleaned up my house before I got home--but I can guess, as when I went to the bathroom in the ER, even my underwear was covered like I had my period.  I must have sat in a pool of it at some point.  It was on the floors, the wall, my bedding down to the mattress pad.

*

So I'm patched up and doing much better, though at this point I look something like a jaundiced raccoon.  This happened Sunday late morning.  Sunday afternoon, once I was stitched up, I thought I was fine.  Spent Sunday night at a friend's house, because she insisted, which turned out to be a good thing, because I think probably that night I had symptoms of shock.  Alternating feverish and chilled, completely anxious and flipped out.  She also insisted that when my mother asked if she should come stay with us that I say yes.  Which also turned out to be a good thing.  Because I've been napping for the first time in my adult life without the influence of narcotics (turns out they don't like you to have vicodin or valium or any of the good stuff when you are breastfeeding).  Got the forehead stitches out today; the eye ones should come out tomorrow.  My pain level is manageable on tylenol, though last night I had a migraine on top of the bashed-forehead headache, and that really sucked.  I went to bed with Tiny Boy before 8:00.

Which brings me to the unforeseen consequence of the head bashing.  My kid is sleeping.  He's taking actual naps of 1-2 hrs twice a day (about 2.5-3 hrs total).  And he's not waking after 20 minutes.  We'll see how much of it has to do with zantac and how much has to do with me being bedridden and next to him fairly soon, I suppose, as I'm not going to be nursing my wounds much longer.

*

I really will be okay physically (though not pretty, and it's good I don't make a living as a supermodel or something).  And it occurred to me that it's nice to have scars on the outside for once.  But really, this whole thing just proved both how alone I am as a single mother and also how fortunate to have an extended support system.  If LG hadn't been home.  If our neighbors hadn't been home.  If I'd been hurt any worse.  Well, it's all really scary to think about.  LG and I will need to have another conversation about calling 911 and what to do if I'm really hurt.  Because although she did fantastic, I don't know if she would have if I hadn't been able to talk her through it.  I also need to keep a list on the fridge of all our good family friends and phone numbers so she can get a hold of the adults she can count on, if need be.

But holy shit, people, one minute you've got your baby swinging at the park and the next you're bleeding on your bedroom floor.  Just wow, you know?

In Which LG is an Honest to Goodness Hero

I've got a longer post about this but right now just want to say once again how totally awesome LG is.

When her mother accidentally collided with a ceiling fan (yes, on; no, it didn't fall on me) she was able to put her baby brother someplace safe, call 911, and fetch help from next door.

The upstairs looked like a crime scene and she held it together.  Thank goodness for smart, responsible 8-year-olds.  I can't even begin to imagine how much worse this could have been.