The 1,000th Post Spectacular!

So my weblog stats inform me that this is my 1,000th post. Or more accurately, the 1,000th post as the archives stand today, not counting the many entries I've gone back and bahbleeted out of 1) shame, 2) post-chill-pill-calming-the-fuck-down, and 3) omg, I was like, sooo totally drunk.

Kind of a shame that the 1,000th post now falls on Halloween, when I am obligated to post nothing more substantial than CUTE WIDDLE BAYBEES IN COSTUMES NOM NOM.

Number Two on your Halloween Threatdown:

PIRATE MUMMIES!

Number One on the Halloween Threatdown remains, as ever, BEARS.

NOT FEATURED in this year's Threatdown: mothers who only give enough of a shit to pull an orange-ish sweater from the bottom of the laundry hamper before attending their son's school party, trying to hide the fact that she outsourced her ONE JOB of providing enough paper plates and utensils for 15 three-year-olds to her husband, who originally came home with 60 plates, no utensils and one package of giant black Solo "no officer, we're just drinking grape juice over here"-style cups.

***

Oh, Noah.

I originally ordered him a Dash-from-Da-Increbulls costume. I was quite pleased with myself. The Incredibles! He's going to be SO EXCITED! Mama, you are SO AWESOME.

Of course, when the cheap, hideous polyester-ish thing actually arrived, Noah took one look at it and simply said, "No." Any attempts to get the costume on, even over regular clothes, resulted in a sensory freak-out over the feel of the fabric. I can't say that I blame him.

Our next attempt put him in charge -- we led him to a costume display and told him to pick one out. He chose a plush blue monster suit. He wouldn't actually put it ON, but he seemed to at least be open to the IDEA of wearing it at a later date, so we went with it.

We talked about Halloween. We showed him pictures of last year's monkey suit. We tried WEARING last year's monkey suit. We practiced trick-or-treating and dear God, we've watched "Blue's Big Costume Party" over and over and over, trying to get him comfortable with the idea of putting a costume -- any damn costume at all -- on.

"NO," he said, every time. "No costume. I just Noah."

How do you argue with that?

You don't. You just resort to TRICKERY.

A little searching led me here and then here, and voila. Steve from Blue's Clues it is.

Of course, he opted not to carry Blue during his school's costume parade, so in the end he still pretty much looked like the kid who refused to wear a costume. But hey, in a sea of costumes where a good 65% of the wearers were crying their eyes out, MY KID was having a damn good time being Just Noah.

The New Normal

First of all, my dad is home from the hospital, and also, GO PHILS!

***

Thank you so much for all the "Noah = hideous, yet NORMAL" comments yesterday. If one could physically cling to hope via Internet Comments, I'd be that scrawny kid in gym class stuck halfway up the rope climb.

After I posted, we left to pick Noah up from preschool. He seemed like he was in a good mood, like we still had some time before the Wall of Nap, and we were out of diapers, so we decided EVER SO UNWISELY to go stroller shopping.

I hate the Big Box Baby Stores as much as anybody, but today marks the first time I ever left one sobbing.

I would consider the fact that we got out alive and with two packages of newborn diapers (SIZE ONES. I BOUGHT NOTHING BUT GIGANTIC SIZE ONES.) to mean the trip was a success, but once we got home I realized we're also out of Pull-Ups, and I promised to bring plates and utensils to the school's Halloween party on Friday, so I have to go out -- outSIDE. outSIDE of my HOUSE. -- again.

Plus, you know, the sobbing. Not really a sign of a successful shopping excursion.

Our original plan was to stick with our single stroller for as long as possible -- we figured when we all went out together we could SO TOTALLY HANDLE Noah in the Maclaren (or on foot, you know, because he's such a GOOD BOY) and Ezra in the snap-n-go dealie, and when going out solo we'd put the baby in a sling or carrier. This is still a smashingly good idea, were it not for the addition of Noah Version 3.0: Hellmonster Unleashed.

(And oh, lord, yes. We take our newborn places. OutSIDE places, even. We also let our snot-nosed three-year-old touch him, sometimes while the dog licks him and I pick up his pacifier off the floor and spit on it. You know, if we have company I need to impress with my mothering skills.)

Two weeks in and we've both already had more moments of frustrated, frazzled OMG I NEED THEM BOTH CONTAINED IN ONE SINGULAR CONTRAPTION than we were expecting. So! Double stroller time!

Our mistake -- beyond going there in the pre-nap witching hour in the first place -- was trying to get Noah to sit in the strollers we were considering. I can see that now. Involving him in any way whatsoever in our purchasing decision was just bad, bad judgement. He cried, he screamed. He arched his back and flailed. He kicked over the substantially stable Phil & Ted's. When strapped into the Joovy tandem he threw himself forward and got his feet on the ground and very nearly toppled the whole thing over on himself. His howls echoed throughout the store, sounding for all the world like a child being beaten within an inch of his life rather than one being bribed with Elmo books and Thomas trains to please, DEAR MERCIFUL GOD, just let me push you around the Bumbo seat display for one cotton-picking minute.

And there I was, trying to ask a nice salesman a few questions while clutching Ezra to my boob under a nursing cover, while Jason tried everything he could think of to calm Noah down and pregnant shoppers walked by with the fear of God Almighty in their eyes, and finally we realized that lo, this was BEYOND a bad idea, this was the seventh circle of HELL ITSELF, and opted to get the fuck out of there.

Outside, Noah continued to scream. We sat down on a bench and tried to get his coat back on, assuring him that dude, you're okay. We're okay. We're sorry. We're going home.

Aaaaaand...that's when he hit Jason. And then he kicked me as hard as he could.

I immediately lost it and burst into tears. Who WAS this child? What happened to MY child? My sweet, loving child who -- sure, is quirky and sensitive and has had public meltdowns before, no doubt about it -- would never, ever be this ANGRY and DEFIANT and downright MEAN. I LOVE my child, but I don't even vaguely LIKE this one.

Save for some weepiness in the delivery room at the sound of Ezra's first little squawks, I haven't cried since his birth -- something of an accomplishment, I thought, since I remember crying for probably two solid weeks after Noah was born.  But I cried yesterday, because I'm so tired, and I feel like I must be doing something terribly wrong.

We came home and I immediately escorted Noah upstairs to his room. I ignored his shriek of NOOOO! when I asked if he'd like to read a story. I tucked him in and gave him kisses, and so did Jason. Then we climbed into his narrow little Ikea bed -- the SULTAN LADE bed slats creaking under our collective weight -- and cuddled with him under the covers for awhile. I felt like if I could just hold him tightly enough I could remind myself -- and him -- that some things will never change, that he is still my baby, that I still love him, that (oh God, please) this is just a phase phase phase PHASE, and that we'll get through it. Of course we will. The gypsies haven't been 'round these parts in AGES.

Then I came back downstairs and read your comments. So you can only imagine how much I needed to hear that this IS normal post-new-sibling behavior (and normal three-year-old behavior, like yaaaaaay), and that it will get better at some point. Just ride it out, continue to love on him and do special things (even if those special things, I.E. GOING TO THE MALL FOOD COURT FOR CHOCOLATE MILK AND RIDING ON THE COIN-OPERATED SCHOOL BUS, end in tantrummy disasters occasionally), be glad he's NOT taking it out on the baby or at school and remember that hell, you can TOTALLY get better prices on strollers online anyway.

I also realized how very, very badly I needed a break from him. We emailed our babysitter and -- after going back and forth and back and forth about whether Noah would be happy to have an evening alone with his favorite person ever...or be terribly upset that we were taking the baby with us and leaving him behind -- went out for dinner, just us and a sleeping lump in a carseat who didn't make a peep all night. I ate oysters. They was reallll good.

Of course, we spent most of the night talking about Noah, about our mistakes and frustrations, and then devising a Better, Stronger, Parentier Plan of more positive reinforcement and a heapload of Ignoring The Fuck Out Of Everything Else. You'll be happy to know that I quoted from the comments section generously, since once again, y'all remain my number-one resource for parenting advice.

Noah had been screaming when we'd left the house. When we came back, he was in bed, happy as a bowl of clam chowder. He told us about his peanut butter and jelly sandwich dinner and playing hide-and-seek. A few hours with an adult 100% dedicated to his amusement appeared to be a hugely calming force. Since it wasn't TOO late, Jason brought him downstairs for a Very Special Big Boy Showing of It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. He cuddled and laughed and hugged Baby Brother and us. We watched the fireworks display from the World Series a couple times, to his endless delight. He was...NOAH, not the vile Pod Person we'd been dealing with all afternoon.

I have no idea which version we'll pick up from school today. Either way: dude, we love you. We're doing our best, as shitty as it may be sometimes. But we'll always try to do better tomorrow.

And Everything Else

My dad is back in the hospital. On Monday night he had a coughing fit while taking his medication (nothing super out of the ordinary -- he chokes very easily since losing his larynx to cancer) and aspirated a pill into his lung. He's now being treated for aspiration pneumonia. The good news is that he appears to be responding very well to the treatment and we're hoping he'll come home today. My parents got to "see" the baby via webcam a few hours before the accident, and I spoke with him on the phone yesterday and as always, he sounds great.

***
We're all sick too, although in a much less dramatic pneumonia-ish way. Noah came down with a bad, baaaaad cold last week -- he woke up wheezing on Thursday, and because Daddy was home scored himself a trip to the DOCTOR, where Daddy was told that it was indeed just a bad, baaaaaad cold. As we all know, Mama would never have taken him to the doctor, but would have instead smeared some Vaseline on his chest and called it a day.

***
I did take Ezra to the doctor yesterday, obviously because he's new and shiny and like soooo the favorite, and his weight is officially back up to 7 pounds, 8.5 ounces. I returned the hospital-grade rental pump and plunked down money for my very own Pump In Style, like a real breastfeeding mother with real boobs that work and sustain her child and stuff.

***
I feel the need to clarify my somewhat slapdashy post from Monday, the point of which was unintentionally hijacked by the idea that I actually sterlize my breastpump parts after every feeding. Which I promise you I do not. Not at all. Once a day, tops, and only because I HAD THRUSH ONCE, and once you have thrush you cannot ever forget having thrush, and I guess one of the lifelong side effects of thrush is a compulsion to sterlize pump parts in the microwave every morning. But that's it! The only time! Usually I just run everything under hot water for a bit and pile them up glamorously on a handtowel in our master bathroom. Anything to keep the romance alive, folks.

***

Don't even get me started on this one. Photos like this are the only thing keeping me from selling Noah to the gypsies. He's been challenging. Very, very challenging.

SYNONYMS: SEE ALSO: WILLFUL, TANTRUMMY, DEFIANT, BRATTASTIC.

But that's a topic for another day. Another day when I have two hands free to type and more than two hours of sleep to ruminate on my own failings as his mother and finite amount of patience and when I can actually bear to think about Monday, when I spilled an entire cup of soda on the legs of two well-dressed business people at the mall food court because I was trying to balance a tray in one hand and pull Noah up off the floor where he had melted into a puddle of NOOOOO I WANNA SIT OH DER with the other and everybody was staring at me, ME, the terrible mother who couldn't control her terrible kid and I apologized over and over to the man and woman who I'd splashed with soda but they just glared at me and I could tell she was mentally reminding herself to re-up her birth control prescription, and finally I hauled Noah off by the hood of his jacket and prayed that the ground would just swallow me up whole.

Towards the baby, he is nothing but loving and gentle and proud as can be. His teacher hasn't noticed any change in his behavior at school, and says that he loves talking about Baby Brother and has been more social than ever with his classmates. But towards US, he is downright awful. He yells, he tantrums, he laughs at our panicked faces when he slips away from us in a parking lot.

This isn't how Noah behaves, except that now it totally is, and I'm ashamed to admit that I am not coping with it very well.

The other night, after many time-outs and tantrums, Jason ordered Noah to an early bedtime and was trying to get him into pajamas while desperately clinging to his last bit of patience. I didn't hear the conversation, but apparently Noah started signing that he was scared, and said that he was scared of Daddy, because Daddy was always so mad.

The sound of Jason's heart breaking? Yeah, that I heard.

But...yeah. Let's save that topic for later. Let's all just look at this photo for awhile instead.

***

Thank you to Heather B, Nicole and Jessica for filling in for me this week over at the Advice Smackdown.

Good Baby

Ezra is a good baby.

He cries when he is hungry (a sweet, braying, lamb-ish sort of cry), when he wants to be held (which is pretty much all the time, thank God for the half a dozen or so slings I purchased in string of neurotic fits, although he'd probably be just as happy slung around my torso in a Thomas the Tank Engine bedsheet), and when he's naked on his back during diaper changes with his limbs madly flailing wot wot halp halp mayday MAYDAY!

He spends more and more time each day in a state of quiet, awestruck alert, looking around with his eyes wide, the corners of his mouth just starting to dance around the idea of a smile, giving us a peek at what we think might be some dimples.

He eats every two hours during the day -- a frustrating bit of math, as he takes at least a half hour to eat, then it's 10 minutes of pumping, a diaper change, a new outfit, a scrubbing of the pump parts, maybe time to pee and retrieve my cup of room temperature coffee from wherever I left it, and then...huh. Time to nurse again. Every free minute is a luxury -- if you asked me what I'd do with a morning to myself I'd say that I would eat an English muffin as TWO SEPARATE HALVES, MY GOD, instead of mashing it sandwich-like into my mouth in as few bites as possible during the minute and a half it takes to sterilize the breast pump. But hey, he eats, and he eats well.

And he sleeps, as little sleepy newborns are wont to do. We've had two nights of solid, uninterrupted sleep, though the norm usually involves one brief waking around 3 am for the briefest of nursing sessions and then several more hours of silence until it's time to wake up slightly late and scramble to get Noah to school on time.

Yes, Ezra is a very good baby.

But of course, he is a BABY, and therefore prone to changing the rules on you at any point in time, particularly in the late hours of the evening, and maybe again in the wee hours of the morning, and all the hours in between, and I guess that explains why I brushed my teeth with face wash this morning and only barely noticed.

Next up, the old "jigger of pumped breastmilk in my coffee" trick.

Click

I first noticed Ezra's tongue-tie the morning after he was born. Something increasingly felt "off" in his otherwise picture-perfect, open-wide baby-bird-mouth latch,  I'd yet to see his tongue protrude past his lower lip, and when it did, it looked exactly like the top of a heart. I immediately started looking for someone capable-looking to snip that sucker back, but after a few dozen more increasingly painful latches I was ready to hand my baby off to anybody with a pair of scissors. You there! Orderly! Wanna make a few bucks? Go sterilize your car keys.

So by yesterday afternoon, when I FINALLY had an appointment with a pediatric surgeon, I had no patience for the millionth assurance that a frenectomy was no big deal, that it was better to get this taken care of now rather than later, that it would only hurt him for a split second or two. I briefly wondered if I came across as heartless, and if the proper response to being officially told that yes, Ezra most definitely needed his frenulum separated was possibly not what I said, which was: GIDDY UP.

The surgeon asked me to leave the room during the procedure and go next door to a small private room with couches where I could nurse Ezra afterwards, and again I wondered if I was supposed to be deeply emotionally affected by the pain I was about to put my precious newborn through -- like mothers who stay during the procedure are prone to hysterics and fainting spells. But frankly, after seven full days of sticking my boobs into his pencil sharpener of a maw, I was running a tad low on pity.

In the time it took me to walk eight feet or so to the next room and plop myself down on a couch, the snippage was over and done and my furious baby (who looks EXACTLY like his Grandpa, by the way, when he gets good and righteously pissed-off. Grandpa with a shade of Alien.) was back in my arms and looking for boob. There was not a single drop of blood to be seen, and after a good nursing session he sighed contentedly, let loose a tremendous poop, and all was forgotten.

***
FILE UNDER THINGS I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SAY: Damn, I need more breastmilk storage containers.

***
During the five months that I nursed Noah, I can probably count the number of times I could have described it as "blissful" or "wonderful" or even "pleasant." It was...mildly tolerable, most of the time. The early days were so fraught with anxiety and fear and rejection -- he was simply TOO BIG and TOO HUNGRY and I was doomed to become his second choice of a food supply from the moment that first (completely necessary) bottle of formula touched his lips. He was so prone to nursing strikes that I never even tried to nurse in public lest he refuse to latch and draw attention to how awkwardly bad I was at the whole thing. We occasionally had those moments when everything worked fine and our eyes would meet over the small curve of my never-very-full breast and...sigh. This is nice. But we had plenty of those moments when he sucked down a bottle, as well. 

When my milk dried up, it was mostly a relief to stop, although I always felt sad that I'd never really achieved the successful nursing relationship I wanted, the kind other women must have, otherwise why in the world do people get so worked up and preachy about it? Breastfeeding sucked, and I was a little glad to be done with it. I will never, ever judge anyone for quitting. Sometimes it just doesn't work, no matter what the high-and-mighty tongue-cluckers say.

This time has been completely different. Unbelievably different. When the nurse first plopped Ezra rather unceremoniously across my chest in the recovery room post-surgery, leaving me to struggle with positioning him while mostly numb and immobile (because I'd breastfed before, and therefore didn't need any help or even a little refresher course don't get me started on my hospital's breastfeeding support for second-time mothers oh my God GAH), I was able to get him on and nursing vigorously almost immediately -- you'd never know that his birth had been such a rude surprise for him, and so heavily medicated. He was awesome. I'm using words like awesome and wonderful and blissful a lot these days. We're good at this. It works. It insert-Keanu-Reeves-style-WHOA works.

I did things differently this time too, though. I packed Mother's Milk tea and fenugreek capsules in my hospital bag to boost my supply, and probiotic supplements to fight off another thrush infection from the post-c-section antibiotics. I also packed (and unabashedly used) a pacifier to save my breasts from the ravages of non-stop comfort sucking. And I had sterilized bottles and formula at home. I promised myself that I'd give it my best shot, and nothing more.

Ezra did get a couple ounces of formula those first nights at home -- he cluster feeds (we call it clusterfuckfeeding, because OF COURSE WE DO) at night for hours and hours until I'm raw and bone-dry, and since his weight was questionable and his pooping not satisfactory, we topped him off with a bottle and a preemie-flow nipple. And then my milk came in three full days before it did with Noah, and now a couple quick five- or 10-minute pumping sessions post-feeding in the morning gives us all the breastmilk we need for his evening topping off.

He'll take the bottle grudgingly, suck it all down, and then demand one more go at the breast to fall asleep. Because he loves to nurse. And, amazingly, so do I.

***

I had one recurring dream during pregnancy: I gave birth to a baby boy, and I breastfed him. And everything was fine, and then I woke up. So while I will resist the urge to end this post with a trite and corny saying about dreams coming true, you should know that I'm totally thinking it.

The Mighty Ez, Boob Man.

nOT yET Mastering teh 0ne-handed Typing Thing

Baby may be cross between vampire and those newly hatched velociraptors from Jurassic Park, what with the FEEDING and FEEDING and rarrrry little squawks and howls. I sometimes stick my face in front of his during the frantic rooting, because it amuses me when he attempts to latch on to my nose.

***

Yeah. So I typed those two sentences awhile ago. Three days, two days, something like that. It's time to admit that entries involving "words" may still be beyond me at this point. You guys like pictures, right?

(Photos ahoy after the jump, so you won't want to kill me over the slow load times.)

Family 4.0

Duuuudes. WTF day is it? Childbirth brain ate words not forming so good also boobs. Booobs! Dude. Etc.

Ezra Harrington Storch was discharged from the hospital Saturday morning, weighing in at a rather puny six pounds, 12 ounces.

He was put on a strict regimen of Moar Boobage. Expectations were low, as the boobs in question are known for their losing record in past seasons.

Young Storch is also having problems with his frenulum (AKA that stretchy bit of uselessness under the tongue), a condition his mother first started pointing out to people on Thursday morning, but oh, do you think anyone listened to her? Do you think she ever got the visit from a lactation consultant she requested over and over and OVER? Do you think it was at all helpful when the LC showed up AS WE WERE WALKING OUT THE DOOR POST-DISCHARGE to announce that hey! This baby is tongue-tied! How about that? I bet your boobs are KILLING YOU.

Do you think maybe someone is still just a tad annoyed by this, a little bit?

However, the teeth were gritted and the milks came in and  the Soothie gel pads were applied and GODDAMN, this kid is cute and at today's weigh-in we are back up to seven pounds even and the tongue-tie will be dealt with on Thursday and GODDAMN, this kid is cute.

WIN!

Anyway. I am tired, but Internet, I am so HAPPY. I know! I'm shocked too. I remember these days from last time, and I distinctly remember my hormones crashing through the floor sometime around day five. I remember much weeping.

I love him so much already. I love looking at him, feeding him, praising him for such good pooping! Best pooping ever! My in-laws left today and for now we're on our own, and yeah, I sure would like a little more sleep and a LOT more patience for Noah and his Terrible Attack of the Threes, Oh My God, I Love You So Much Too But Get A Freaking Grip On Yourself Already. But then he hugs and kisses the baby and the baby smells so good and is so tiny and Noah is so handsome and gigantic and there's little to do but just drink in the chaos and admit that it's still all kinds of awesome.

This, however, is not so awesome.

This is what happens when you bring home an infant who is a good three pounds under your clothing expectations, so even after a frantic trip to Target for some newborn footie sleepers you still aren't particularly well-stocked in clothing that won't swallow your baby's head up whole, and then you promptly go through every single one of those outfits in one day.

And then the dryer breaks.

Grill pan or pants? Take your pick.

(At least it wasn't a leg this time. I definitely prefer a busted appliance to a busted-up dog.)

Please give me a sec to catch my breath

Oh, this boy.

So many things to write to about, but I can't keep my hands off of him long enough to type a single one. Suffice to say: we're all fine, though stuck at the hospital for a couple more days, Ezra is perfect and perfectly healthy (and surprisingly patient about his lack of a middle name), although his size (HIS SIZE!) makes him an entirely different species of newborn than what we're used to. We've probably said, "He's SO SMALL!" about four bazillion times already, and are hoarding the hospital newborn-sized diapers like nobody's business, because ha haaaa! Weren't we so smart to not buy anything newborn-sized this time? Oh, but we are such experts. Which is also why I needed to be reminded after 12 hours or so that I'm supposed to burp the baby after feeding. Right! That!

So far Ezra loves 1) boobs and 2) sleeping. I'm...in a good amount of pain. It's like I had major abdominal surgery yesterday, or something.

Noah was initially unimpressed, but seems to be coming around.

In summary, we're good. So really very much just tons of good.

Ezra

2:24 pm
7 pounds, 7 ounces
21-1/4 inches long

One Day More

Or, I Feel the Urge To Wave a Big Flag Around a Rotating Stage In Front of a Barricade While Singing a Seven-Part Musical Montage

Or Or, AAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Today marks the second of my five or so hypothetical due dates, and the one I secretly thought was the right one. We have no mucus plug or water breakage or contractions worth even talking about. So. That's probably that.

My in-laws are coming today, I will head to the hospital for pre-op bloodwork, I will play Legos with Noah, Jason and I will go out for one last dinner together and I will try very hard to not freak out about the fact that by tomorrow afternoon I will be the mother of TWO CHILDREN. TWO BOYS. A few years ago I assumed I would maybe have one child. A girl, of course, because boys are ew.

Noah seems to understand that tomorrow is Baby Brother Day, but then again, he also seems to understand that yes, We Wear Pants And Pants Are Good, but that doesn't stop him from collapsing in a pile of misery when it's time to actually wear pants. Not pants! Nooo! Oh, woe. I think he'll be okay. I hope so. God, I can't even really think about it right now. I can only chew on his face and tell him how much I love him, because he's been so great, so funny, so amazing, coming home from school singing the alphabet song and reciting the days of the week and talking talking talking talking talking. Tomorrow night I'm going to see him hold his baby brother and...and...I can't even imagine what that's going to feel like, or how profoundly my words will fail to describe it.

(Not ew in the slightest, although maybe the stained ratty tank top I've been wearing for three straight days is a little ew.)

(I got a pedicure this morning [THANK YOU HILLARIE FOR THE GIFT CERTIFICATE OMG], by the way. I assume it looks pretty nice. I'm looking forward to actually seeing my feet again at some point this week, maybe.)