Sooooooo, How'd It Goooooo?

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 work again. My meeting notes look like half-formed chicken scratch interspersed with a series of tornados.

5) If you opt to wear a stiff, suit-like dress with a crossover design in the front, you might want to take it on a test-sit before going anywhere in it, on the off chance that a safety pin is required to keep it from gapping and showing everyone in the room your black lacy bra OH MY GOD.

BABY IKE APPROVES OF THIS DRESS. 

Underthere

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 lot of lingerie. That's a good-sized drawer there, chock full of nighties and see-through naughty frippery. That's a double-decker lingerie collection, collected over the years for anniversaries and Valentine's Days and vacations. Or for extra special occasions, like Going Up Two Cup Sizes From Breastfeeding or WE'RE IN A HOTEL WITH NO CHILDREN HOLY CRAP PARTY.

That photo actually shows the drawer post-organizing-purge, since I recently sat down and went through multiple dozens of lacy silky things in order to edit it all down to a reasonable, well-fitting, non-tacky level. (I used to get the Frederick's of Hollywood catalog in my early 20s, yes. Nothing like one-size-fits-all bras that shed synthetic feathers all over the place, amirite, ladies?) 

At the very bottom of the drawer, I found the lingerie I wore on my honeymoon, almost 14 years ago. And oh, did it all ever make me laugh. Not just the small tag size, but the fact that it was all so...modest. And tame! I was 20 years old and had a butt the size of a postage stamp and a stomach so flat it was practically concave, but I spent my honeymoon more covered up than I usually am on a typical Sunday morning around the house, in front of the kids.

Compared to the plunging/push-up/see-through numbers I've since worn while pregnant, nursing or rocking extra pounds of baby weight, those first little purchases are dripping with old insecurities about how I looked. My boobs were too small, my thighs were too wide, my upper arms were too soft. I didn't really have a good grasp on what "sexy" was, but I remember I definitely thought I was not it. 

I was tempted to hold on to all that stuff, for sentimental reasons, but ultimately tossed most of it in the donate pile. I'd rather make room for things that fit me, now. 

This post was sponsored by Eberjey. Guess what they sell. Guess! Go check them out, then leave a comment here with your favorite item for a chance to win it. (I'm quite partial to the uber-flattering Ingrid chemise, though no, I will not model it for you. You'll just have to take my word for it.) I'll choose a comment at random next week, on 3/14/12. Can't wait that long? Get 15% off your order of lovely things with code AMALAH15 (expires 4/1/12).

BABY WANTS BRAAAAINS

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 of my hair and I struggled to prevent a festive holiday hickey.)

DON'T BE FOOLED

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.)

Happy Spitter Valley

 

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 someone else's bodily fluid. You must be some kind of saint, and thus deserving of cake.  

No. Ike does not "spit up." Ike vomits. Upchucks. Barfs. Yaks. Hurls. Horks. Releases the brechen.

We now use "cottage cheese" almost exclusively as a verb.

STOP LAUGHING IT'S NOT FUNNY.

I guess I will cede the "happy" part, though usually it's more like "nonchalant reverse milk river" or "casual vector-spew." He's not in pain or even mildly uncomfortable. Just happy and sated and then eh, I'm a little over-full, lemme just put some of that back where I got it from, in your cleavage. You know, for later.

MY BRA IS NOT YOUR DOGGIE BAG, KID.

I have mentioned the barfing at every. single. appointment, and he has in fact, demonstrated it live and in person at the pediatrician's office, but...it's nothing. Just an immature, still-developing stomach and neck-tube. He's fine. Look at those chins! And the chubby arms! And the 3-6-month-sized body at barely 11 weeks old! And the cheerful blue diaper that actually contains a baffling number of hidden adjustment options that completely overwhelm me because I swear I have to let out the leg holes and the waist after every washing because he's just growing that fast. 

The doctor usually just points at the scale as assurance that Ike is fine, and then offers me some baby wipes for the fresh crud all over my shoes. 

BARE FEET BE WHERE IT'S AT, ANYWAY

It happens with breast milk and formula (Jason ran out of frozen milk approximately 10 minutes after I left for San Diego, even though I THOUGHT I'd done pretty well on the pumping front) and any variety of bottle. There's no indication that it's an allergy or sensitivity, as we're rash- and congestion-free and he is, indeed, a happy, non-fussy baby. It happens if I nurse him as upright as possible or lying down. One side at a time or both.  It happens after three good burps and keeping him awake for 30 minutes...or if I wuss out and let him fall asleep on the boob because IT DOESN'T MAKE A DIFFERENCE ANYWAY, HE IS GOING TO PUKE DOWN MY SHIRT IN FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO. WHOMP THERE IT IS. 

So I'm trying to resign myself to life with a ticking sludge bomb of a baby, and to be grateful that it isn't really anything more than a semi-embarrassing inconvenience, as opposed to an honest-to-God feeding or health problem. He eats, he burps, he yaks an impressive amount of it back up. We have stacks of ugly cloth diaper burp rags in every room, I use them to wallpaper the torso of anyone who volunteers to hold him for more than a minute, and also to wipe down the floor, the couch, the backs of people's legs when he manages to projectile vomit a good three inches to the left of EVERY RAG IN THE WORLD.

I...sleep on them, you guys, because while I'll wash a dozen outfits a day (for him AND me) plus bibs and rags and milk-crusty swaddling blankets, I just have to draw the line at stripping and remaking the bed that often.

 

YEAH, IMMA GONNA HAVE TO JUDGE YOU A LITTLE ON THAT ONE.

Twitter tells me that it will get better around four months or six or nine or 12. Or when we start solids or when he's sitting up or not until he's walking or weans completely but it will probably come back when he crawls and he might always be that kid who laughs too hard or runs around too much at a birthday party and pukes up rainbow-colored cake icing all over someone else's brand-new carpet. 

SOUNDS AWESOME YAY CAN'T WAIT SEND MOAR RAGS AND SOME TARPS.

I realize it's entirely cliche and trite to end a post like this with a sentence like "it's a good thing he's so cute" but...he really is so cute. I mind a little but not even as much as this entry would indicate. And also I don't really have time for anything BUT cliche and trite because Ike and I need to take a bath. Again.

I BET YOU CAN GUESS WHY. ALSO WHERE IS MY CAKE?

State of the Boobdom, Round Three

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 in my room, once we were reunited. Still no luck. Okay, still normal, I told myself. AND YET HAMSTERBRAIN SAYS ALSO DOOOOOM.

On the third try, I unswaddled him and made my first HEY GENIUS EVERY BABY IS DIFFERENT discovery: Ike would only nurse if his arms were free from the swaddling blanket. (The better to constantly flail them directly in his way so he ends up sucking on his own wrist four out of his five first attempts, apparently, but it is His Way, and I make it a point not to try reasoning with newborns. Waste. Of. Time. And that's my three-time voice of experience talking there.)

So there! I thought, mentally dusting my hands clean of panic and worry. That's our breastfeeding hiccup for this go-round. You always get one. 

BWAHA.

Ike's weight dropped from 7 pounds, 9 ounces to 7 pounds, 2 ounces the first night. Entirely to be expected, though that seemed a LITTLE much to me right off the bat, since I was guesstimating that we'd have to make it until Saturday or even Sunday on colostrum only until my milk came in. (Day five is about my average.) So we nursed and nursed and I choked down cups of Mother's Milk tea and added a fenugreek capsule chaser to my Percoset and Ibuprofen and in no time my nipples were scabbed and raw and felt like I was mashing them into an electric pencil sharpener every time Ike latched on. Just as nature intended.

Second night weigh-in: 6 pounds, 14 ounces. One ounce away from the 10% mark. We had one more night before discharge, I still had no milk, and Ike was showing signs of dehydration, with a dry mouth and increased listlessness. 

AWESOME.

On Friday morning, my mom (who stayed over with me every night, since Jason's back was in no shape for sleeping on the World's Worst Pull-Out Couch Thing) changed Ike's diaper and gasped in horror. Blood! Blood in the diaper! I shrieked and called the nurse. Blood! BLOOD IN THE DIAPER OH EM GEE!

Not blood. Urine crystals in a nice reddish-orange color, thanks to dehydration. 

"Fuck THAT," I said. "Formula, please."

Now, I've actually supplemented with formula both times -- Noah would pretty much always need supplementing, thanks to his size and my crap supply, while Ezra got exactly one bottle to get him over that laaaaast little hump of time before my milk came in, and then we were immediately back to exclusive nursing again. But I'd never had to start formula in the hospital before. So I wasn't really prepared for the nurse bringing about a week's worth of Similac when I'd only asked for one measly little bottle...and a fucking waiver for me to sign.

A waiver that said, essentially, that I was aware that the hospital's position was that exclusive breastfeeding was the best option, and that I'd had that position adequately explained to me, but was choosing to go ahead and give my baby formula anyway, you negligent selfish monster you.

Well, great! If I wasn't already feeling bummed out enough already about my boobs' inability to adequately feed my child, I sure am now. I feel soooo much more informed and empowered about my own decisions now that I've been scolded via Xerox, thanks. 

I swear to God, that goddamn waiver unnerved me so goddamn much that I fucking CRIED when the nurse gave Ike his first swallows of formula -- the formula I'd been completely okay with less than five minutes before -- and I chewed on my nails in self-doubt and pity and worries that I had indeed, just completely and prematurely fucked up our breastfeeding relationship nipple confusion bottle preference crazy personcakes.

Our pediatrician visited a few hours later and agreed that the formula was the right call. I felt vaguely better, but continued to overcompensate by Talking Endlessly About The Subject And How My Milk Comes In Late And That's The Only Reason So Please Don't Doubt My Commitment To Sparklemotion, Okay?

Later, I tried to hide the bottles of formula before my mother-in-law arrived, but couldn't really find a good place for them, and thus predictably spent most of her visit trying to explain that NO, YOU DON'T GIVE BABIES BOTTLES OF WATER ANYMORE EVEN IF THEY ARE DEHYDRATED, YES, I KNOW YOU DID WITH YOUR BABIES BUT WE DON'T DO THAT ANYMORE PLEASE STOP ARGUING WITH ME I DON'T MAKE THE RULES.

I stripped Ike down to his diaper and dropped him down the front of my hospital gown for some hardcore hours of skin-to-skin time, hoping it would help remind my boobs that they really needed to HELP ME OUT HERE. He was...not good. The weight loss was obvious, and he was just...extra floppy and listless, even when he was awake. Which wasn't much. He'd managed to scream himself hoarse the day before so now his cries were a disturbingly weak-sounding bleat. He hadn't wet a diaper in over 12 hours, not since the angry crystal one early that morning.

As the 2 am weigh-in time approached, I alternated between nursing and formula like a madwoman, stuffing the poor baby like a foie gras goose. 

Around midnight, I had to admit, in a quiet whisper, to no one in particular, that I was scared for him. We were in a hospital and my baby was getting weak and sick, right in front of me, and I was doing everything I could but it didn't seem to be enough.

At 3 am, the nurse wheeled his bassinet back in and gave me the thumbs up sign. "Seven pounds even," she said. "You did good."

The hospital had also made me sign something promising not to fall asleep with the baby in bed with me, something I'd been occasionally getting around by dozing with the bed in the full upright position so I could immediately open my eyes and pretend that I'd been wide! awake! the whole time whenever the door opened. 

Turns out I hadn't been fooling the night nurse much at all. After the news of Ike's two-ounce weight gain I flopped back against my pillow, exhausted and relieved. She came over, lowered the bed and put Ike in my arms. 

"Good night," she said with a wink. "Get some sleep, you're going home today!"

When we woke up in the morning, my milk was in. 

EPILOGUE: Breastfeeding could not be going any better. And Ike's pretty great too. 

EPILOGUE TWO: Noah, while trying very hard to make sense of the nursing thing, pointed at my boob while Ike was eating and announced: HEY LOOK! YOUR MILK-HOUSE IS LOSING AIR! 

The Third-Time-Around Hospital Bag

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 ended up needing a hotel-bellhop-style luggage cart to haul all the various loose things we'd pulled out at various points in time but neglected to re-pack. 

By the time we made it to the recovery room, Jason was wheeling around a giant pile of Random Crap, with expensive electronics shoved in tote bags underneath a precariously-perched Boppy while various charger cords dragged on the floor behind him. Once we were in my room I kept finding smashed-up granola bars ("BRING SNACKS FOR YOUR PARTNER") in my nursing bras and rogue tennis balls ("GREAT FOR COUNTERPRESSURE DURING LABOR") in my toiletry bag.

And then! VERY MUCH WORST OF ALL, IN FACT THE WORST THING EVER! In an attempt to streamline and declutter my room later, Jason packed up a bunch of the Random Crap and took it home, but accidentally took the bag containing everything I needed for a shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razor, deodorant, you name it. We didn't realize it at first, because post-c-section you aren't allowed to shower for quite some time. Which was awful. I felt disgusting. I LOOKED disgusting. Visitors came to see the baby and I couldn't stop thinking they were all staring at the oil slick on my head instead. 

So when I finally got the all-clear that I was allowed to shower, I practically dove in headfirst. Only to discover that Jason had taken my things and I was limited to the hospital-supplied products, which included a horrible combination shampoo/bodywash, a bar of antiseptic hand soap and...nothing else.

Jason had just arrived for the morning and said he didn't feel like turning right around and driving allllll the way home, so just to "deal with it" and he'd bring my stuff back the next day.

To this day, you guys, I am still SO SO SO MAD AT HIM ABOUT THAT.  

We were determined to Do Better the second time. Having the scheduled c-section meant we didn't need to worry about the tennis balls and squeezy stress fidgets or labor-coach snacks (plus I'd come to the realization that hey, Jason could PACK HIS OWN FUCKING BAG, IF HE WANTED ONE, WHY DID I CARE IF HE HAD FUCKING TRAIL MIX AND VENDING MACHINE CHANGE OR NOT, JESUS CHRIST). Plus -- with the exception of the toiletry bag, which I was determined to keep shackled to my ankle this time -- I'd learned that duh, you really don't need ALLLLL your things with you right from the moment you show up. Stuff can stay in the car! Or at home, even! Your partner will go home at some point, especially since you have an existing child, and stuff! 

And lo and behold! THERE ARE ALSO STORES NEARBY. STORES THAT SELL THINGS. 

This freedom -- this terrible, terrible freedom -- to not feel limited to packing One Hospital Bag To Rule Them All, did have its drawbacks. I did, in fact, leave everything in the car except for my purse and a camera bag. This meant we had no bag of our own to put our own clothes in, once I was in a gown and Jason was in scrubs. The hospital gave us plastic drawstring bags...one of which we lost completely between triage and the OR (Jason's clothes. They turned up HOURS later.) and the other of which contained my clothes but somehow was missing one of my shoes (MIA to this day). 

Plus, I hadn't done a very good job of making sure that if there WAS anything I really, really wanted right away, that it was in my purse, and not in the suitcase in the trunk of our car. Because apparently, "riding down the elevator and walking to the parking lot" was the new "I don't feel like driving all the way back home so just 'deal with it'" moment for which I still harbor a great deal of unresolved anger towards my husband. He was too preoccupied with the fact that we'd just had a BABY and look at the BABY and I want to hold the BABY and take pictures of the BABY to understand just how hysterical I was getting because I NEEDED MY HAIRBRUSH AND LIP BALM. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GO GET ME A HAIRBRUSH AND SOME LIP BALM.

So! Good God. Hospital bag angst. The most first-worldy problem ever. Other than maybe your cleaning service forgetting to dilute the floor cleaner properly before mopping and LOOK AT ALL THESE OILY RESIDUE FOOTPRINTS WTF NOW I HAVE TO MOP GAH GAH BZZZZTTTT NESTING OVERLOAD.

(I mean, not that that last bit applies to me and my spoiled little life, or anything. Was just a figurative example.) 

So we have one final chance to Get It Right. I would very much like to Get It Right. Or at least not verbally abuse my husband in a drugged-up hormonal haze over some trivial item that I have suddenly decided is the most important thing in the world go get it gogetit GOGETIT.

Here's how the bag is shaping up so far. I think it's at least, a pretty good start, and acceptable should we have another rush-to-the-hospital emergency because OH, I DUNNO, I COULD PEE MYSELF AGAIN, OR MISTAKE GAS FOR CONTRACTIONS, ANY OF THOSE NOT-AT-ALL EMBARRASSING THINGS. 

In My Giant Ass Purse, On My Person At All Times:

Cell phone with all possible needed phone numbers, iPod selections, lifeline to Twitter, Google, blawwwwgs, etc. 

Flip video camera

Kindle (book selections still TBD)

Fancy outlet splitter with USB chargers for all of the above

Headphones

Lip balm, assorted varieties

Hand cream

Nail file (for me or baby, but probably mostly me because my beautiful pregnancy-enriched nails have a history of breaking into stubby, uneven shards within 30 minutes of giving birth)

Hair brush and small variety of hair clips/bands/restraining devices

Oil-absorbing pressed face powder, because I clearly have Priorities

Laptop. I think. Not definitively sure which bag this will get shoved in, but I solemnly swear to not deprive the Internet of a prompt, timely posting with a baby picture and name information, no matter what. 

*shakes fist at sky Scarlett-O'Hara style*

In Small Tote Bag, On Jason's Person At All Times: 

The "real" camera, the big SLR one

Zoom and 50mm lenses

Extra memory card AKA NOT FILM

Extra battery

Charger

Card reader

Room for those plastic drawstring bags of our clothes, provided everyone dresses seasonally appropriate and does not wear exceptionally clompy shoes. 

(Note that Jason has also been informed that IF we are heading to the hospital *in labor* and a VBAC appears to be at all a possibility, it is his responsibility to handle all the Labor Coach supplies -- tennis ball, bathing suit, snacks -- and also I am not reminding him about bringing his toothbrush or a change of clothes or whatever, YOU GO WITHOUT SHIT YOU WANT AND SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.)

(Wow. I know! I should probably see a professional about this.)

In Small Suitcase, To Be Either Left In Car Trunk Or Hauled With Us, Depending On How I Feel That Day Oh Who Am I Kidding I Will Probably Tether It To My Ankle:

Bathrobe

Slippers

Nursing sleep bras

Lanolin, package of gel Soothies, small travel scissors for cutting said Soothies in half because those suckers are expensive and like, four times the circumference of my actual nipples, HEY-YOOOO. 

Mother's Milk teabags to kickstart boobs into production

Gorgeous embroidered shawl a friend brought me from India to use as an alternative to frumpy bathrobe and/or impromptu nursing cover in case of visitors. (While EXCEEDINGLY VAIN, I'm not particularly shy about breastfeeding, but still don't really want to make like, the husbands of my friends and/or Jason's coworkers or whoever else feel weird, but bringing an full-on classic "nursing cover" to the maternity ward seems kind of excessively fussy.) 

Coming-home outfit for baby. Okay, maybe two outfits. I haven't decided yet. Plus one is a newborn size in case of a 7-pound Ezra Variety of Baby, and one is 0-3 months in case of a 10-pound Noah Variety.

Soothies pacifers, because the ones the hospital offers are crappy and never work to stop the screaming and/or endless self-soothing on Mama's increasingly battle-scarred boobs.

Toiletries, including dry/powdered shampoo, actual shampoo and conditioner, body soap, razor, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, makeup bag, all packed directly INTO the suitcase's interior pockets so there will be NO REMOVING ANY OF IT FROM THE ROOM WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Outfit for me to wear home, UNLESS I happen to be wearing my black dress from Old Navy when we arrive at the hospital, because then I will just wear that home as well because it's my best option right now because it fits and it's black and slimming (SHUT UP) and comfy and every time I've tried to wear pants home from the hospital I've ended up kind of maybe crying over said pants and how they fit and look so FUCK IT, I'M WEARING A MUUMUU BUT WE'RE ALL CALLING IT A DRESS, OKAY?  

Ample extra space for robbing hospital room blind. Boo-fucking-yah, free diapers and disposable mesh panties for everyone!

In Secondary Shopping Bag, Out In The Car, And I Promise To Be Okay If These Items Are Not Within My Possession Within An Hour Of Giving Birth Or Maybe Even Two But Three Is Probably Pushing It OH MY GOD GO GET THE BAG JASON:

Nursing pillow. I gave away my Boppy but that's fine since I never particularly loved the thing, so this time I bought one by Balboa Baby. I bought it 100% based on the fact that the cover was cute. I know absolutely nothing else about it. It may in fact turn out to be the worst nursing pillow in the history of the world, but dammit, it's cute. I AM EDUCATED CONSUMER WHO MAKES EDUCATED CHOICES. 

Regular pillow.

Two full-sized towels, because the hospital only provides tiny little handtowels, which, COME ON, I need like 17 of those to properly dry off after a shower. (Why yes, I AM obsessed with the postpartum showering process a little bit). Both towels are old and disposable in case of horror-movie-like grossness* but still totally Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy approved.

Big Brother gifts for when Noah and Ezra arrive to completely ignore the new baby while we try in vain to take Incredibly Preshus Life-Affirming Photographs.

DVDs, because the hospital rooms do have DVD players but last time ours was missing the remote and didn't really have working external buttons that made any sense, so the DVDs we brought mostly just sat there taunting me. Except for Iron Man, which Jason managed to get to play at fucking 11 pm the first night while I was trying to sleep and was the reason I suggested that hey, I know we have a private room this time and all but I think it might still be better if you don't stay over again. Go be with Noah or something. I also fucking hate Iron Man to this day as well.

(Really, you do NOT want me to develop a grudge against you at any point during the immediate days postpartum. I will take it to my GRAVE.)  

*Okay, this might very well launch us into another whole blog entry here, or cause a significant portion of the reading audience to head for the fucking hills**, but OMG. The Grossness. The Bloooooood. I am guessing -- like everything -- the whole lochia thing varies from person to person, but I am a bleeeeeeder. Some of this probably has to do with having c-sections -- you are confined to bed with a catheter for quite some time afterwards, so I guess maybe it all just...pools and stores up more than for someone who is allowed to get up and out of bed right away? Because the first time I get up to use the bathroom and get cleaned up, it really, seriously is like a slasher film set in an abattoir. For this reason, I DO NOT pack my own nightgowns or underwear or maxipads or any of that sort of thing. I am a believer in the hospital-supplied Giant Mesh Disposable Panties and Two-Foot-Long Rectangular Pads. If my (cheap, cheap) bathrobe and slippers survive the stay, I consider that an unexpected bonus. 

**I'M JUST TRYING TO BE SERVICEY HERE! For anyone else packing a hospital bag! I was caught so unprepared the first time! Like this:

OH MY GOD, COMBINATION SHAMPOO AND BODYWASH?!?! WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?!?! THE HORROR, THE HORROR!!

Wrap-Up

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 test for SCIENCE), so he finds other ways to make his presence known. Besides, obviously, being a voracious calorie-parasite sucking up everything I eat. And then apparently working it all off with a nightly gymnastics routine right when I'm trying to sleep. 

I go back in two weeks for the glucose test and another ultrasound. (At the last one, the baby was breech, though I think he still is.) And then I keep going every two weeks after that, because we're officially At That Point Already Oh My God We Are Not Ready At All. We've nicknamed the baby IKEA, in part because we've put off several much-needed shopping trips to there for so long now that it's entirely likely that he'll just be born at the store, among the meatballs and closet organizers. 

Yesterday, we emerged from our weather-and-illness-fueled hermitude and played outside in the neighborhood for the first time in months. And so many of our neighbors were shocked to see me out of a bulky winter coat and timidly hinted around that oh, hey! It's been awhile, WHAT'S NEW WITH YOU GUYS? And then they eyed my stomach with a mix of panic and confusion, locked in an internal struggle over whether to say something and risk the chance that I just got kind of fat in that one localized area. And also got a boob job. Because yeah. I've totally gained four pounds. IN MY BRA. 

We rode bikes and scooters and other various things with wheels (of which I realized we own a frightening, military-sized fleet of, at this point), and Noah invented a game called Harry Potter Escapes From Voldemort, which mostly involved running along the path behind our house until you get to the woods, then turning around and running right back, screaming on the top of your lungs. 

Ezra liked it because even he could understand the rules. Also because it involved screaming.

Ezra insists on wearing the bike helmet whenever we go outside, by the way. Even if we're just sitting on the front steps blowing bubbles. Considering he actively works to thwart my every effort to keep him safe 99.9% of the goddamn time, I'm guessing it's more of a fashion statement than anything else. 

Safety is badass, man.

Noah, on the other hand, outgrew his bike helmet over the winter. 

Along with his fear of the big-kid bike. 

And any trace remainders of toddlerhood.

In exchange for full-on little boyhood. 

PS. Obligatory reminders/thanks-for-visiting links to Mamapop, Moxiebird and the Advice Smackdown. Triple-handedly keeping us in couscous and puddings.  

The Rise & Fall of the Boob Civilization

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 giving him a bottle of formula mid-day, just so I could have a break, relax and uncurl my toes. I tried pumping to replace the feeding but found that after the early months of being a veritable milk machine, I could not produce a single drop via the pump.

One bottle eventually turned into two bottles. His appetite for solids ramped up to a level I could not believe. He was slow-ish to sit up and roll over and crawl but when it came to anything food or eating-related he was an off-the-charts prodigy. Fruits, vegetables, meats, finger foods, real foods, sippy cups. He loved it all, and he wanted more. He ate and ate and ate and nursing slowly became relegated to a comfort-only thing. In the morning, before naps, before bed. Sometimes he'd still demand a bottle afterward. My period came back. My supply plummeted, he bit me and pull away in frustration, he was distracted and twisty and kicked me in the c-section scar and I would lie in bed nursing while he stood up, sticking his butt in the air, as if he hoped to walk off with my boob to someplace more interesting. I knew that if I simply stopped offering, he would not notice.

And yet, I could not, would not wean him. I don't know why. I was talking to some other mothers this weekend -- some still nursing, others who had weaned -- about how I knew Ezra was weaning but I couldn't seem to stop trying to get him to nurse one more time, just a little bit, in hopes that it was just a phase. I told them about the biting and the flailing and I saw the looks on their faces and I finally had one of those moments where a hologram of myself floated out of my body to slap me across the face and say ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELF?

And then I went home and tried to nurse him before bed once again.

Perhaps it's because I believed the websites that went on and on about how "highly unusual" it is for a baby to wean before 12 months, and oh, THIS: "when a mother says that her baby self-weaned before a year, there is a chance that she interpreted a normal developmental stage (perhaps combined with her own wishes) as baby's wish to wean." I'll tell you what, this sentence made me vaguely stabby while I was still nursing, and it's not looking any better to me now. You lying liar! You tell lies to make yourself feel better! You lie to cover up your -- gasp! -- OWN WISHES!

My wishes were to nurse for at least a year. At least. Probably longer. Though if you asked me I'd say that I wanted to nurse according to Ezra's wishes, until he didn't want to nurse anymore, within reason. It simply never occurred to me that his wishes could or would be different than mine. Oh, self.

And so I told myself that Ezra wasn't weaning, that the biting was a phase, the distraction was a phase, and all I had to do was hang on for just a little while longer, we could get back to enjoying breastfeeding again. Like we used to. Since I wasn't so sure I enjoyed it now.

I debated leaving him home during BlogHer. To just wean him then and be done with it. But then the thought of coming home and having him turn towards me expectantly and having nothing to give HURT MY SOUL and I packed him up and carted him (and a package of formula) to Chicago.

I debated it again, over our anniversary. And I still couldn't do it and dutifully returned to the hotel room several times a day to pump.

I came home with completely empty breastmilk containers and a baby who did not turn towards me expectantly. I pulled him into our rocking chair and he settled into my arms and sighed and...sucked his thumb. And fell asleep.

That probably should have been it, but I just couldn't...stop. I could occasionally get him to latch for a few minutes and I could hear him swallow and I would think that oh! No! I better stick with it! Just in case! We can do this! We can make it to a year! Two more months, dude. Give me two more months and a nice solid round number and then you can have all the Red Bulls and Coke Zero you want, I swear.

It finally dawned on me a few days ago that Ezra is not just weaning from me. He is weaning from bottles. Also a "highly unusual" thing for a baby under 12 months to do. But he's just not that into them. A few ounces here and there and then he wants to crawl away, leave multiple ounces of liquid money behind to fester in a bottle kicked under the couch. This has possibly unnerved me even more, because kid: I know you have the appetite of a five-year-old and the palate of a 35-year-old, but you still have the nutritional needs of a 10-month-old and YOU NEED YOUR MILKS. Baby cannot live by turkey-sausage-with-kale fettuccine alone! Your...brain! It needs the...DHA and...uh...ARA and whatever!

A few months ago he'd only take a bottle if I wasn't in the house. Now he'll drink formula out of a sippy cup with his meals, and take a bottle only when he's tired. He wants to walk and explore more than anything in the world, and he doesn't want to nurse. He will, if I insist, but I need to stop insisting, to stop waiting for him to make it even MORE CLEAR that he is done, and just accept that he is done.

So. Okay. I will change my Twitter picture and pack away the nursing bras that I haven't worn in ages anyway and the pump that doesn't work for me anymore and I will talk about breastfeeding in the past tense. I am not a nursing mother anymore.

***

When we moved from the city to the suburbs, I was sad. But I didn't miss the three flights of stairs to our condo and the one bathroom and the tiny kitchen and the roaches and the horrible old windows and the street parking and the tickets and the terrible supermarket that never had anything fresh and how you had to drive 20 minutes to get to a gas station that charged less than $5 a gallon.

But the worst moment was at the DMV, when they asked for my DC license back so they could issue me my new one, my non-DC, boring old giant nondescript state one. A state that I felt no connection to, while that DC license was more than an ID. It was an identity. My identity as a city person. In that moment, it didn't matter about all the less-than-awesome things I no longer had to deal with. My life in the city became glorious and idealized, the best years of my life, a time I still look back on and rhapsodize about how perfect it was and how much I miss it.

***

Dear Ezra,

Thank you for 10 of the most perfect, healing, powerful and lovely months I've ever known. I will always cherish them, and you.

Love,
MamawhoissoembarrassingOMG

Obligatory Pre-Blogher Freak-Out Post

How is it July? Like, the end-ish of July? What happened to June? And May? And that little squishy baby I had? Did this giant one here eat him, just like he ate the dog kibble last night? Repeatedly? Because my babyproofing knowledge is limited to saying "NO!" and then moving him across the room? Which is surprisingly ineffective?

Anyway, I'm bringing this baby to Blogher. No need to vacuum, Sheraton, he'll take care of it.

Yes, you can hold him. My arms and neck and back would very much like you to hold him.

I will NOT, however, be bringing that drum. Fuck that drum. Vamanos, bebe! Cállate, tambor!

Or that refrigerator, even though...oh, I love our new refrigerator. I do not love that we had to buy it, but now that it is here and I open the door and I can like, find stuff I need RIGHT THERE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYEBALLS, I am very happy about the new refrigerator. I'm sure I'll eventually be less happy with it, once it gets more full of food and crowded, but right now it's gloriously organized and spacious, mostly because I enjoy opening it and eating everything.

Luckily I still have plenty of time to lose 10 pounds or so before Blogher, right? RIGHT?

Mmmmmmm glorious fingerprint-y magic food box...

(No, still haven't painted the stupid kitchen. There's a reason. Can't tell you why yet. WINK! NUDGE!)

(Hi, I'm deviously transparent!)

Anyway, I'm doing that thing that I do every year, which is to wait until the very last minute to even think about packing for Blogher, and immediately going from, "whatever, just wear what you're COMFORTABLE in, people, it's not LIKE THAT, no one CARES" to "oh my God I hate everything I own hate hate hate!" And I guess I need to pack some onesies or something? Diapers? They sell Cheerios* in Chicago, right?

So. Listen. If you see me at Blogher, and you would like to say hi or something, please say hi, oh dear God. Please don't feel like you need to apologize for wanting to say hi or assure me that you are not a stalker. You read my weblog! That I write! And publish voluntarily, with the hope that people will read said weblog! I promise you that I am not in any way creeped out by the idea that you read my weblog and recognize me or something.

If I read YOUR weblog, well...be prepared for some agressively inappropriate hugging and reckless disregard for your personal space. I am sorry.

This is what I look like these days. No makeup, ponytail, eyebags and lopsided boobs. Boobs you may very well see more than you'd like of, since Ezra has a habit of yanking my shirt down when he's in the sling without me noticing. I'm not sure that cashier at Petsmart has ever recovered. But I believe it's important for teenagers to learn that p0rn movie scenarios never really translate into real-life all that well. I mean, the guy who delivered my fridge didn't use a single sexy double entendre either.

If you ask me to pose for a group picture, this is how I will ruin it:

This is how I look in every candid picture ever:

And if you still aren't entirely sure who I am, here's a surefire identification technique:

I'm speaking for the first time ever this year, another thing on the long list of Things I Am Woefully Unprepared For, along with Tracey and Catherine. We're discussing "Women Writing In The Age Of Britney: Pop Culture & Gossip & Feministy Stuff, Oh My."

I talk with my hands. I should tell you that now.

Okay, so now I need to take a break from packing (HINT: I HAVE NOT PACKED ANYTHING) and go to the store in search of 1) bras, lest we repeat the Petsmart thing, 2) adorable shoes that cost less than $10, 3) lip gloss.

*This is what my baby** ate for breakfast, by the way: a not-insignificant amount of breastmilk, followed with an 8 oz. formula chaser, three grown-up handfuls of cereal, an entire blueberry waffle, one banana, half of a peach and three strawberries.

**This is what my other baby*** ate for breakfast, just like he has eaten for breakfast since the BEGINNING OF TIME: a bowl of dry Cheerios, a milk/yogurt/strawberry/peach smoothie, possibly some residue from the bit of banana that he demanded Ezra give him but then refused to actually eat.

***I eat coffee for breakfast.