All Tucked In & Ready For ZZZZZZ

Hello from the flip side, yo. I am typing this post-surgery, from my phone, while on ALL THE MEDS IN THE WORLD. Everything went well on Saturday, aside from the things that didn't, and I will spare you details because gross gross gross. (It involves the words "wear-at-home surgical drains" and "loss of suction" and oh dear, I believe I've said too much.) It's all good now though, and much less like a scene from Carrie. (AMY! SHUT UP!) (I was sent home with something called an "ON-Q" pain relief system, in addition to a bazillion pills. It's basically an IV of local anesthetic housed in a spiffy little fanny pack I wear around my waist. Tres chic!) It turned out that the umbilical hernia was far worse than expected. Very deep and much larger. The entire surgical team agreed that it was a very, very good thing to get corrected now, because that bitch was a total stealthy punk-ass troublemaker. (And it's the wound area that hurts the fucking most. Go figure.) And the ear lump was a classic ol' cyst after all, not a lipoma. It's all gone now, being biopsied (not concerned about it), and the scar... Read more →

I spent the morning in an Actual Office, where Actual Other People do Actual Work. Wearing Actual Clothes because they have also Actually Showered, because Actual Reality! It was so real, you guys. A few observations and assorted tips for any fellow Work-At-Home Hobbits out there, contemplating a return to the corporate fishbowl: 1) Office furniture has not changed ONE BIT since the last time I sat in an office. Which was in 2006, and I'm pretty sure that there hadn't been any big innovations in the Dark Cherryesque Laminate Desk-and-Bookshelf world for a long time before that, either. 2) Office phones, however, are as terrifyingly complicated as ever. Pick it up, press 9 for an outside line, BEEP BEEP ERROR AUTHORIZATION NOT RECOGNIZED BEEP BEEP JUST USE YOUR CELL PHONE IDIOT. 3) I don't look nearly as skinny as I used to in elevator-door reflections. Sigh. 4) Always bring a back-up pen to a meeting. Mine ran out of ink about 10 minutes in and rather than admit that I needed a new pen, I sat there like it was the damn SATs, scribbling frantic circles all over the edges of my notepad in hopes of getting it to... Read more →

Sponsored post ahoy! In which I talk about my underthings for money. What? Weird? A little? Whatever, there's free stuff for you at the end, so we can all be weird together. Mmmmm, creepy. My relationship with lingerie is...complicated. On the one hand, I am a 34-year-old woman who has been pregnant three times. Then hacked open for childbirth three times. I have breastfed three babies and eaten more than my fair share of leftover Halloween candy. I've fallen off the exercise wagon so many times I think it's circled back around and run me over, just for kicks. I am currently at my heaviest non-pregnancy weight, which is also technically slightly more than I weighed at nine months pregnant with Ike, thanks to an extended, shameful holiday love affair with ALL THE BAKED CARB-Y THINGS. Forget stressing about being naked and/or scantily clad -- these days, I spend enough time trying to look sufficiently non-muffin-topped and saggy while fully dressed. Stretch marks and cellulite? I can't even. I will deal with you later. (STRETCH MARKS: No worries! We'll still be here when you're ready.) (CELLULITE: Yep, totes not going anywhere either.) On the other hand: I have an awful... Read more →

At some point, Baby Ike moved past that phase where he would attempt to latch on to anyone who happened to be holding him right when the milk cravings hit. Oh hi, General Chestal Region Of Random Human! I am hungry. Your shirt angers me so much. Now he seems pretty clued in to the fact that I, alone, am Milk Lady, and that my General Chestal Region is special and magic and all that. And also this: WHY DOES MILK NOT FLOW OUT OF YOUR FACE ARGH NOM NOM GRRR This is Ike's special Milk Lady greeting. If I'm holding him, chances are he will be attempting to suck on my cheek, lips or nose while squeezing whatever else he can get his fists around AS HARD AS HE CAN. I believe it is technically done out of love and affection, but if you're feeling a bit left out, you can easily recreate the sensation at home by attacking your own face with a vaccuum cleaner attachment. (That also has teeth.) (I think Dyson makes one.) (Thanks to Tracey for taking the above picture on Friday, but not for laughing hysterically while my face-sucking amoeba baby yanked out handfuls... Read more →

Yeah, yeah. Wookit the wittle face with the big eyes and the round cheeks and the blond hair and blah blah blah, this child BIT ME SO HARD this weekend that I kept checking the front of my shirt for blood afterwards. At first my shrieking startled him and I thought he was going to cry -- his eyes went all extra-Precious-Moments on me and his bottom lip began to tremble -- and then after a few seconds of studying my wincing-face-of-pain expression, he decided it was all terribly funny and laughed while I struggled to determine whether or not he'd broken skin on the underside of my boob. And did I mention this was all happening in the parking lot at Whole Foods? Greetings, hippies and fellow earth mothers! Say hello to MY BREASTS: THE OTHER OTHER WHITE MEAT. I am currently sporting two teeth marks and one large angry bruise on my left boob. (WORST TWILIGHT FANFIC EVER.) Read more →

So it appears that puke is totally the new poop when it comes to mommyblogging. Or mommytweeting. Which is kind of the same thing, only with less monetizing. YET. This morning I asked Teh Twitter if anyone had any experience with a "happy spitter" (which I swear is an actual name for an actual thing) and at what age could I possibly expect Ike to stop barfing all the freaking time. The response was INSANE. I should've hashtagged that shit. Five hours later and we are still talking about it. So if you've been waiting for a reason to finally join Twitter, well. This is probably not it. This is probably the opposite of it. So. The "happy spitter." There are so many things wrong with that term I don't even know where to start. For one, Ike does not "spit up." That's what my other babies did -- the occasional burp with a side of cheese. "Oopsies! Spit-uppsies!" you might say in response, because having babies makes you say stupid shit like that. And then you grab a burp rag and gently dab at the side of their mouth and marvel at your ability to cope so well with... Read more →

The first thing I managed to freak out about was the fact that Ike would not latch on in the recovery room. So, 20 freak-out-free minutes, I made it this time. A personal best! Poor third baby, already doomed to live with non-stop comparing to his older brothers, BOTH of whom latched on and sucked during our first breastfeeding attempt. Ezra hit the ground (and the boob) snarfing like a champ, and while Noah and I would struggle mightily later on (UNDERSTATEMENT), everything seemed just fine during our first go at it in the recovery room. Not Ike, though. He was not too impressed with the boob. It mostly just got in the way of his indignant, rage-filled screaming over everything that had just happened to him. He'd been all cozy and floaty and warm, right when someone opened a side door and yanked him out. WHAT THE HELL, YOU GUYS. The nurse assured me his disinterest was normal and that it might take a few tries, and sent him off for his bath and check-up while I tried to keep up the "third-time mother everything is cool nothing rattles me" schtick I'd had going all morning. I tried again... Read more →

So. You may be happy to hear that I finally up and packed a damn hospital bag. (You may also be mildly ambivalent, profoundly disinterested, or experiencing nausea and dry mouth. Side effects may vary, please consult your doctor.) Packing the bag, I believe, is the sure-fire way to prevent a repeat of Tuesday's events, and guarantee that absolutely NOTHING of baby-and-labor-related interest happens until June 1st, when we are scheduled to go in and get 'im. The first time I packed a hospital bag I used one of those checklists from the Internet. (Many of which, I've noticed, still mention FILM. Like several times. Make sure your camera has FILM. Bring extra FILM. The hospital gift shop will overcharge you for FILM. It's like a glimpse into childbirth circa 1994!) Anyway, the checklist I consulted was a very, very looooooong checklist, and I ended up hauling a tremendous amount of useless shit with me. And none of it was organized very well, and since we changed birthing venues multiple times during my labor with Noah (an extended stay in triage due to overcrowding, then a birthing suite, then the OR, then recovery, THEN my non-private, exceedingly small room), we... Read more →

You know? All things considered and ruthlessly mentally compartmentalized, we had a really lovely week around here. Jason made me an amazing dinner for Valentine's Day. I opted for Just Buy Something Shiny route and picked out a Le Crueset tagine for him, thus ensuring that he would ALSO make me dinner for the rest of the week in his excitement to try it out. Our house smells like a Moroccan restaurant all the time now, and Noah thinks couscous is the best thing ever. Noah is not wrong. On Wednesday, I had my 24-week OB visit, where I finally got to celebrate the packing on of FOUR WHOLE POUNDS. I know I sound like such a dick every time I bring this topic up, but holy hell, this pregnancy is so weird. Me at 24 1/2 weeks (and looking so very terribly excited about it!). No, those are not maternity jeans. Yes, that is a belt. Because somebody ate my hips off. I at least look pregnant from the side, right? The kid is big and strong enough to visibly jiggle a bowl of pudding balanced on my belly with the force of his kicks (what? it was a... Read more →

AND THEN, on top of everything else, the baby weaned. It's been a long time coming. It's been a long time happening. It ended this morning, officially, when I finally realized that it is time to stop trying for that Last Chance Nursing Session, Come On, Really? You're Really Done Here? No, You're Not, Take It. TAAAAKE IT. Yes, it is time to stop doing that. Better now than in kindergarten, when it just gets hella awkward. The weaning started with a biting phase. A biting phase that started the day he sprouted fangs teeth and ended, oh, THIS MORNING. The biting was unlike anything the books and websites described, and there was no solution offered that ever worked, other than yank 'em off and glare at him tiredly. (My favorite "solution" that I read about involved wagging your finger and sternly saying "No biting!," which never failed to make the little sociopath crack the hell up.) During the worst of it, I got so sick of being bitten -- and bitten HARD -- and so tired of spending every nursing moment clenched up in anticipation of the biting, with my fingers poised for a rapid de-latching that I started... Read more →