Working out the kinks...

It's tough being a baby. There's the sleeping and the constant nursing to contend with, not to mention all the shiney, crinkly toys at your disposal and that mommy lady who caters to your every whim at the first sound of a cry. One can imagine the stress, right? That's why all babies need massages. You know, to ease the tension of every day baby life.

In another lifetime (okay, 5 years ago), I seriously considered leaving my teaching career to pursue the life of a massage therapist. The thought of being surrounded by aromatherapy, candle-lit rooms and the "plinky plunky" music (Phoebe's words, not mine) of new-age artists piping through the sound system appealed to me beyond words. I imagined the sense of peace and well-being I have after a massage and figured that giving a massage must be almost as good as that. I was *this* close to drop-kicking my teaching certification out the window and enrolling in the local massage institute---I even went on an interview at the massage school, looked into buying the anatomy text books and gave my notice at the snooty private school I was working at. For any number of reasons, the switch never happened and now here I am.

Enter "Infant Massage"--yes, the class where I get to live out, in some tiny little way, my dream of being a massage therapist AND my poor little overworked, stressed out baby gets the much needed deep tissue massage his hectic life demands.

E and I took a 3-week massage course taught by my yoga instructor, Jennifer, who I LOVE. Her favorite little mantra is "I honor farts, poops and belches in my class." This is a woman who understands babies, people! Far more than the old ladies in the cereal aisle at my local grocery store, who fail to find amusement in my son's colossal adult-sized gaseous emanations while Mama selects her Special K Red Berries. Jennifer also makes up fabulous little nonsense phrases that I find myself repeating to Ethan when he is fussy....example, "ooohka linka lakka shinka, that feels good! (after a yoga pose or a massage).

Aside from the fabulous bonding time with Ethan and the miniature dream fulfillment, I also met, interacted with and established budding friendships with other new mommies. I find myself almost giddy at the prospect of having people over the age of 6 months to actually do things with on week days. And at the thought that perhaps Ethan will have other children to socialize with, lest he become that weird, socially awkward kid in kindgarten who is way too smart and grown up, thus making him the most likely to be picked on until college.

There has been talk of going to matinees, and there has been one bona fide Starbucks *date* between me and two of the yoga/massage mommies. If all goes well, we MIGHT even invite a few couples over to our house for a dinner or game night. But wait, I'm really getting ahead of myself--we've only had one date. Maybe we're not ready for that kind of commitment yet.

So infant massage really worked out quite a few kinks; my son's muscles, aching from all that sleeping, eating and rolling; and my own fear of throwing myself out there into a social world again, as opposed to hiding at home and wallowing in my own sense of "otherness" now that my life has changed so dramatically.

And here we are, "graduating" from massage class: Massager & massagee



















namaste!

A Room of One's Own...at the Raddison

So while on my blogging hiatus, Old Man Time snuck up behind me & beat me severely with the "YOU'RE 35 NOW!!!" stick. It was not pretty. I am not someone who generally minds a birthday. I loved turning 30--I felt all strong & powerful & centered in my life. Not so much with 35...it's tipping the scale each day closer to 40. FORTY. Four. Zero. Forty. yikes....

Having survived nearly six months of motherhood, I deemed myself deserving of a day "off" and informed Husband that I was going to take a day of obscene indulgence; this included ahhhhhhh, a facial (and is there anything sweeter than a facial that starts with a foot massage...ahhhhhh), a leisurely stroll through Barnes & Noble sans ginormous stroller and screaming child secured in ginormous stroller, 2 hours sitting in a dark movie theater, popcorn and soda all to myself (even if the movie sucked), and, the icing on the cake---I checked into a hotel downtown, took myself out to dinner and ice cream (Stone Cold Creamery is proof of God's existance, if you ask me) and then slept for....wait for it....11 hours. Un. Interrupted.

Happy. Birthday. To. Me.

Now, yes, I experienced major pangs of guilt during the course of my ME day. I thought of rushing home to hug and squeeze my baby and beg his forgiveness for leaving him for a whole day and night. I called home probably more than I needed to. I missed Husband and the E man. But I'm an only child and I think only children thrive on some amount of solitude. And that was some sweet solitude, my friend. Besides, I considered the case of engorgement I woke up with after not pumping for 12 hours to be my punishment. Nothing like carrying around almost 10oz of breastmilk IN your breasts to start your morning off right.

I started writing this post in my head last night as I laid in bed, unable to sleep. It was way wittier then and once again, I should have gotten off my lazy ass, come downstairs and written it as it was first popping into my head. But alas I did not, so what we have is just mediocre at best. But you know what? Three days, three entries. :-) And besides, I'm gearing up for the big SIX MONTH recap in 2 days...

Baby's First Halloween...sort of.

May this offering of the little peapod appease the blog-gods whom I have offended with my absence. :-)

Yes, Husband and I (okay, I) decided that since we called little E "pea pod" when he was in mah belly that he should be a "pea pod" for his first Halloween. You know, for old time's sake. Well, that and it's so freaking cute.

Halloween for us was actually just dressing Ethan up the day before Halloween and snapping about a hundred pictures. When the actual day arrived, we attempted to do the "dress up" again, and wound up with a very pissy pea pod. Please note exhibit A...

Clearly, Ethan was unaware of his own irresistable cuteness in this outfit, because he was having none of it. Also note the mellow and lovely leopard, Miss Chloe, chilling with Ethan as he melts the hell down. Trick or freaking treat, mom.

So after about a nano-second of that, we stripped him down out of his peapod-ness and he seemed content-ish again.

I guess the first Halloween isn't really for the kids, is it? I mean, without teeth, what's the point? And really, no one's handing out my breastmilk but me, so going door to door really isn't an issue yet. Maybe next year...

All right, Amy...I'm back! :-)

At the urging of my bloggosphere BFF, I have rejoined the world o' the blog. I have much to share. But not tonight. Must go to sleep. Tomorrow I will read up on everyone else's blogs and then dust off this poor neglected blog and get started again....if anyone's still reading! :-)

Oh, the Guilt...

Yes, I know. I know. I've neglected you. I've been ignoring you. I didn't get a chance to write the 5 month update on October 5th and since then I have felt too guilty to come back. What kind of mother doesn't find time to recount in writing a recap of her son's 4th month, when she's already done the first four? Sigh...tsk, tsk. Bad mommy.

So I considered letting the whole thing drop by the wayside and forgetting that I blogged. I mean, I am taking yoga now and baby massage classes and getting out of the house more. Maybe I don't need to blog anymore....

Nah. I dig mah blog. I miss mah blog.

And so here I am, internet, hoping that someone still reads this. But then I guess, even if no one does, I do. And maybe someday Ethan will. So that's good enough for me.

OH! Update--I'm semi-famous (in my own mind...) As I bowed my head and uttered "Namaste" at my last yoga class, I couldn't help but notice one of the other girls in the class was looking at me funny. I am very self-conscious in yoga, so immediately I assumed that a boob had popped out of my nursing tank top. But the tank was intact and the boobs were concealed (although that's no longer a given in my world), so I let it go. As I was rolling up my mat, she said, "You're Sarah, right?" Ummmmm...indeed. "I recognize you from your blog. Forty-five degrees something, right?"

F.r.e.a.k.y. But very cool. I have never been recognized by a stranger for any reason whatsoever in my life, so that was fabulous. And then she said nice things about the blog, which was way better than if she had said, "Yeah, you suck." So I was happy.

I am also nearing the end of my quest for a tolerable Mom's group, the holy grail of the stay-at-home-mom. Like Amy, I fret and stress when I am going to be in contact with other moms, potentially cool new mommy friends. It is, in some ways, worse than preparing for a blind date, because you REALLY can't look like you're trying too hard the way you kind of can on a date. So you dress nice, but not too nice; you put on makeup, but just a little for that *natural* look (god forbid they think you're a frump OR a tramp--it's a delicate balance!) And then you don't want to talk too much or share too much.

So sitting cross-legged on my massage instructor's livingroom floor, in between two moms and their adorable little ones, I commiserate, but not enough to let on there's PPD lurking in here; I offer advice, but not enough that they might think I'm a *know it all* just because Ethan is older than the rest of the babies; I laugh at jokes, but not enough to sound seem totally desperate for company and adult interaction. When one of the other moms suggests the group exchanges emails/phone numbers and starts meeting outside of class, I try not to run across the room and hug her in relief that someone has stepped up and made the first move.

So I have Zoloft and I have new mommy friends, but I still need mah blog.

What was once two blue lines...

...is now babbling away contentedly in his swing, chewing on the ends of his crinkly fabric book "Fluffy Chick and Friends".

Yes, it was a year ago today that I stood in the bathroom looking down at the pregnancy test as the second line ever-so-quietly appeared in the first window, sort of a "psssst, hey you. Yeah, you. You're pregnant," in the form of two blue lines. It hardly seemed possible. It was only the second month we'd even considered it and it never occurred to us it could happen so fast (um, hello, 8th grade health class, dumbasses...)

*****excuse me, please--it's bed time for the little man. I'll return to finish when and if he decides to grant me the peace and quiet of sleeping tonight******

It was the first night of Rosh Hoshannah and instead of attending services like good Jews, we were simply being "Jew-ish" and celebrating the new year with a culinary feast from Whole Foods---turkey, potato laktes, noodle kugel, tzimmis (potatoes, noodles and honey in one meal--no wonder I packed on 40 pounds...). While Pedro heated up our feast, I casually announced I was going upstairs to "pee on a stick". It never occurred to me that the next time I walked down the stairs I would be someone's mother.

But here it is, a year later and I just came down those same stairs after rocking the little man to sleep---for the third time tonight (it is 8:24pm...God help me). I marvel at how life has changed in the past 365 days. What a journey it has been that has brought me to this day....

Follow the boucing ball...

How did I finally come to accept that I have a fabulous case of post partum depression?

Could it have been the fact that I am still wearing clothes two sizes bigger than I should be and have no motivation in my gut to lose the gut? No.

Could it be the fact that I have all but forgotten how to put make up on? No.

Could it have been going out to dinner with two of my pregnant friends recently and realizing as I sat across from them that I was struggling to say something positive about being a mother that day? No.

Could it have been the fact that poor Husband has become a master of walking on eggshells in my presence, never knowing what combination of words is the one that will set me off on a "you don't think I'm a good mother" tirade. No.

Want to know what made me realize and finally accept that I needed to address this new gloom residing in me?

I wasn't blogging and I wasn't reading other peoples' blogs.

Strange that realizing I had essentially stopped blogging would be my *lightbulb* moment, but it was. Blogging is something I started doing for myself when I was first on bedrest--it saved my sanity from the clutches of boredom, and while I am no Shakespeare, it was fun to tap into my creative energy and occassionally, my sense of humor (let's face it, every English teacher is a frustrated novelist). It became a part of my identity and my sense of self; it was a record of my life.

But I stopped. I haven't been too busy. No, I still have a baby sleeping on one of my arms most afternoons for at least an hour (yeah, the independent napping thing pooped the bed as soon as Ethan got his first cold--then it was right back on Mommy). I have plenty of time to blog. I just don't. I sit and watch TV. Ugh.

And I stopped reading other peoples' blogs, with a few exceptions. Amy, Becki and KMW still got my daily attention, because we all went through similar pregnancies and because Becki and KMW just had their little miracles (congrats, girls!). But the blogs I usually read simply for a laugh--"eh, why bother??" is how I've been feeling. Seriously. Why bother clicking on that link and running my eyes over the words on the page that pops up? Why bother laughing? Sigh....

So I dragged my sorry butt to the doctors, said, "PPD" and walked out with Zoloft. Husband & I used to laugh at the gloomy little bouncing ball in the commercial, bouncing his way over to the other, happier balls. Now I am that mopey little bouncing ball. Depression isn't new to me, so I think deep down I've known it's been gnawing it's way back into my life for the past few months. But how do you admit, when you are supposed to be at your very happiest, that there is a part of you that feels so utterly alone and lost?

Yes, poor me. It's all so melodramatic. I just wanted to explain where I've been and why I've been neglecting the blog. Hopefully now I will be able to kick my butt in gear and write more regularly. I have no intention of turning this into my PPD blog; that sadness is something that feels totally separate from my relationship with Ethan (ironic, isn't it?) and this blog is about him and how wonderful watching him grow has been and continues to be. And to prove it, check this one out...

One Year Ago Today...*

We made this:
















I think it was a pretty good year...

*thanks to Amy S for the idea

Ommmmmmm...

Years ago, after a devestating breakup, I dragged my weepy ass to a therapist and began the uphill climb out of a mind-numbing depression. Among other things the therapist did to help me untangle the mess that had become my life, she gave me the assignment of joining a yoga class. I was so utterly disconnected from myself and wrapped in a blanket of self-loathing (if he didn't love me, how could I possibly be of any worth??), she thought enrolling in yoga would, at the very least, force me to concentrate for one hour on something other than the emptiness that consumed me the other 23 hours of the day.

I half-heartedly attended a class at my gym. I spent much of the class just hoping I could get into the postures and not fart while I was in them. I definitely rolled my eyes at a lot of the soothing "oommms" and whatnot during the class. I was distracted by the sound of the racquet ball cout adjacent to our "studio". I certainly didn't focus on my breathing.

Until the end. The last pose, Savasana, the "corpse pose", isn't really a pose at all; it is "simply" lying still on your mat and allowing all your stress to drain away through your breathing. The instructor takes you on a tour of your body, from toes to head, telling you to release the stress from each part of your being. Something inside me broke open in those few minutes of listening to myself breathe. I found myself sobbing as silently as possible as, for the first time in months, maybe even years, I felt, for a moment, a fleeting sense of ME, of who I was. The instructor read a short piece at the front of the room about self-acceptance and I felt the cool tears slide down the sides of my face and into my ears.

I went to yoga two times a week for the next four years. I broke free of the depression, eventually I started to feel whole again and got on with my life.

****
Today I took my son to a Mommy & Me yoga class for the first time. I had signed up for the instructor's prenatal yoga class and irony of all ironies, was put on bedrest the very day I was to attend the first class. So much for that. But I always dreamed of being the cool, hip, yoga mat-toting mother who zens-out with her peaceful, placid infant.

Of course, some of you may know that my son is anything but peaceful and placid. I may have mentioned here in one of any numer of posts and some of you have witnessed the famous melt-downs in person. Others still don't believe in the demon-child that resides in my son and comes out when he's not being held to his satisfaction or when he is otherwise miffed at the unfairness of the life of a baby ( I mean, all that breast-feeding and napping--what a raw deal). Anyway, suffice it to say that I spent much of the day leading up to the class in fear that my child would be the only child screaming and wailing in a mad attempt to ruin everyone's zen-buzz.

But something amazing happened. My drop-of-a-hat freaker-outter turned into uber-mellow buddha baby. The class was hardly yoga as those unfettered by little humans know it. There was crying, baby farts and stopping mid-sun salutation to drop onto the floor, whip out the boob and nurse. But Ethan was all smiles, all curiosity and all "whatcha doing?" as I stretched and breathed my way to some vague sense of peacefulness. He was mesmerized by the other babies, and the yoga instructor's voice, always soothing and sing-songy at times, captured his attention to the point that he forgot that I wasn't holding him every. single. second.

At the end, in Savasana, I laid next to Ethan on the mat, closed my eyes and tried to relax. He spent most of the deep relaxation time playing with my face. I took a moment to drink in the feeling of his little breath on my face and his curious fingers getting to know mommy's features. I thought for a moment about my body's recent struggles and "incompetence". I thought about how I have beaten myself up for months that I couldn't have a normal pregnancy like normal women and how I will never carry another baby. I haven't talked a lot about it, but it's been on my mind.

I realized--I have let myself get caught up in so much negativity in my own sense of my body and self--not nearly as badly as I have in the past, but enough for the lightbulb to go off. Enough for me to realize that I have to let those sad feelings go and appreciate what my body did accomplish and how amazing it is to have that accomplishment lying next to me, breathing with me and zen'ing out. I can't wait 'til next Wednesday...

And so here he is, showing that he can do yoga in his crib, even without a class--in a perfect "child's pose"....Zen Master E

"Mommy, look! Ommmmmmmm....."

Choosing My Battles...

And by that, I mean, coming to the realization that I am indeed, Ethan's bitch.

It just so turns out that unless you want to deal with a red-faced, silently screaming infant, you pretty much have to let them sleep when they want to and where they are comfortable. Huh, go figure. You would have thought that considering babies are so tiny and all that, they'd be pretty easy to convince, "Hey, it's nap time. Close those eyes and take a little nappy-poo in the crib that Daddy and I spent a crapload of money on. Enjoy those cushy bumpers and crib sheet that cost Mommy a freaking arm and leg."

But no. Babies have an idea of where they want to sleep and I'll give you one guess....it's on their mom. Not next to their mom or near their mom. Nope. ON their mom. And I'm the Mom. That means I am the crib. ku-ku-ka-choo...

Since day 1 (really, since day 7 when he was evicted from his tanning bed in the NICU), Ethan has preferred to nap in the crook of my right arm. Swaddled, unswaddled, naked, or onesied-up, this child insists that a good nap can only be had during the day if he can be sure his mother is completely incapable of doing anything but typing one-handed and watching TV. This is stay-at-home-momness at it very finest.

I haven't really minded it. It means I get a front-row seat for one of my very favorite things in life--my baby's yawn. I cannot describe how adorable it is to see a baby open that little tiny mouth, throw his head back and then exhale the yawn out in a little puff of baby-breath air. The best is when he grumbles after it, like a crotchety old man. It's the freakin' BEST.


the fabulous baby yawn...

However, now he's four months old and I am starting to realize that if I don't make some changes, and soon, I am going to be lugging around twenty pounds worth of clingy baby before I can say, "My right arm has been asleep for a year...."

So for the past few days, I have been attempting a "transition" with Ethan. It's called the "I'll make you think I'm letting you nap on me and then....switcheroo, sucker!!" Fans of "Friends" will realize it is something akin to the move Chandler tries to teach Ross so that Ross can lead Rachel to believe they are cuddling at night when really, they're not. On the show, it is the "hug for her, roll for you" technique and consists of hugging the girl realllllly tightly once she's asleep and then, rolling her over to her side of the bed and slowly slipping your arm away.

Yes, there is a mother/baby version of this and it consists of rocking, cuddling and the like until little E is drowsy to the point of no return. This is a good point to put the plan in action. It involves moving to a big blanket in the middle of the room and lying down together, still all cuddly. Once we've been lying down for a few minutes, I have, four times now, been able to, slide my way sloooooooowly away from the little man and give my arm a much needed opportunity to, well, move.

I feel almost guilty that I have deceived him into thinking he will be spending the duration of his nap all snug in mommy's arm, but then I dare to imagine the freedom of two entirely free arms for an hour, or...or two!! Ah, to dream the impossible dream.

Sadly, my arms have only remained free for about twenty minutes at a stretch because the little man is on to me. He will lie there, as peaceful as can be and oh-so-cute and then, just as I am letting my guard down, maybe daring to pick up a book, as if by baby radar he senses that I am not, in fact, holding him. Then there is some crying and a bit of Mommy running to the rescue, to start the whole process again at the next nap. Dammmmmmmmmmmn. I am his bitch.

So, I will leave you with a couple images of my commander in chief.


shhhhhhh, don't wake the baby, or my right arm...


Ethan's first solo nap...

September 5th--Four Months...

Dear Baby Boy,

Has it really been four months already? I cannot believe how the days blur together and have brought us here to this point. At this moment you are downstairs cuddling with Daddy. You’ve had a very sleepy day because you are smack dab in the middle of some kind of superhuman growth spurt. We took you to the National Zoo today and you slept through the entire thing. Grampy Schuster says when you wake up tomorrow you’ll be walking and doing your own laundry. And while Mommy would love the extra help with the housework, I can’t help but be happy that tomorrow you will still be my little baby boy, because I am starting to realize just how fast the time is flying.



Man, are you two shopping again? I'm just going to kick back and snooze.

This month it is all about the mouth. Yours, that is. It’s been busy, that’s for sure. It has been making a lot more noise and has been mighty curious about everything around it. You are showing all the classic signs of the first stages of teething—drool that will not quit (if baby drool was of value in any way, we would be rich, I tell you, rich!!), an intense, almost desperate need to suck and “chew” on your fingers, or mine if they are available, and an ability to be soothed at times only by something coooooold on your gums. It blows me away that at some point, a little white tooth is going to pop out of those perfectly pink little gums of yours!


Daddy, you're funny...looking!

You have also been experimenting with sounds this month—you’re making a lot of them. Coo’ing sounds, a-coo’ing sounds (apparently that “a” sound at the beginning is very important, so thank goodness you’re making it!) and chuckling throaty giggles compete for “airtime” and you’ve developed one particular cry that Daddy and I can’t help but smile at. When you are not really hurting or in need of anything, but are Mr. McGrumpstein, for no apparent reason, you pout your lip and literally say “wah” at us in the snootiest little tone. Just once. As if to say, “Really, people. I’m pissed. You’d better fix it. Now.” All that accomplished with just one, “Wah” and a pouty bottom lip. I could eat you up.


How you doin'?

Your hands are another area of great development this month. You’ve decided that when they aren’t in your mouth, or gripping my hands to shove them in your mouth, they should be exploring the world around them. This has led you to finally grasping at objects—particularly rings on your play mat. I loved the look of “what the hell did I just do??!!” the first time you actually got your fingers closed around the ring. After mastering the ring-grab, you decided to move on to your crinkly fabric books. You can’t get enough of those and apparently they taste pretty good, too.


Hello, you delectable, crinkly book. I will look at your shiny parts; then I will eat.

Aside from Mommy and Daddy, the one true love of your life right now is the lamb-y mobile above your crib. I know, without fail, I can put you in your crib for 5-10 minutes, crank that sucker up and you will watch the fluffy little guys dance round and round and play their tinkling little song and you will babble away happily until they stop spinning. There really isn’t anything else you own that makes you as happy as that mobile at this point. I love to watch your smile when it comes into view—it’s like you’re recognizing friends.


Penny is starting to realize that you're not going away. She's not too thrilled.

You’ve been around a lot more people this month, too! Mommy and Daddy went out to celebrate their first anniversary at a real restaurant, wearing real clothes and ordering real wine! This means you got to hang out for the evening with your first babysitters, our friends Chrisanne and Jason. Fortunately for them you were feeling mellow and sleepy that evening and didn’t give them a hard time at all. We also spent time with our friends Jamie and Veronica and their little girl, Chloe—you two have shared Chloe’s pack and play, and this month you shared play mats as well, with great success. Mommy and Daddy have taken you out to dinner with them several times now and each time you give us a little bit of time to relax and eat before you NEEEEEEED to be held.


Ethan and Chloe digging the play mat scene...

Last week I went to a mother’s group at the hospital where you were born. You were the oldest baby there and you were such a champ! It was the first time you were around so many people and you were just fascinated to look at all the other faces and listen to all the other sounds in the room. Seeing the other moms with their teeny tiny newborns made me realize just how far we’ve come.

Daddy went away on his first business trip this month, so you and I got to spend some serious quality time together. We generally spend our days together, but when 6pm rolls around and Daddy comes down the stairs from his office, it’s “Daddy time!!” from then until bed. But for 48 hours this month, it was all Mommy, all the time. I have to admit, I was a little nervous about doing the whole parenting thing all on my own for 2 days straight, but you picked those 2 days to be the best little boy in the world and we got through it without any stress at all. Thanks for looking out for your mom. I owe you one.


Hey, who's that handsome guy in the mirror?!

You did, however, give me quite a bit of grief just this past weekend when you decided for 24 hours that the boob just wasn’t your thang. Yes, my dear boy, you pulled a good old-fashioned nursing strike and threw your mother into a tizzy the likes of which few have ever seen. From 5am Saturday until 5am Sunday, almost exactly 24 hours, you acted like my boobs were kryptonite to your Superbaby super powers. There was screaming. There was twisting and arching. There were all KINDS of protestations at the mere indication that a boob might be within nursing range. Fortunately this inexplicable phenomenon only lasted 24 hours and by 5am Sunday morning, you were once again a milkshake lovin’ fool. Thank god. Don’t do that again. Mommy doesn’t need more grey hair. When you’re older she’s going to want people to believe that she had you at a very young age, and all that grey ain’t going to help…

You still look so much like Daddy, but some people are finally starting to say they see me in there somewhere as well. We were shopping for clothes the other day and a woman stopped us just to tell us how beautiful you are. We know. J Your eye lashes are still a mile long and your eyes have parked at this beautiful grey color. Your smile is to die for; even when you are sucking on your pacifier, your smile is so clear through your eyes. It’s just too much! We’re still waiting for your hair to fill in beyond the patches that you were born with. Of course, those patches continue to grow, so you have some serious bangs going right now, but not a lot on the sides. I wonder if the cute, too-young-to-practice-medicine doctor will spike your hair back up again at your appointment next week. .


Just try to resist me. You can't.

Today we got you a new play mat, complete with brighter colors and more hanging, squeaking things. You managed to be fascinated for an entire 30 minutes while we ate dinner with Grammy and Grampy Schuster. This was after the deep naps you take with your growth spurts and I couldn’t wait to see what you would be trying to do once you woke up. Sure enough, aside from more pronounced giggles and grabbing at objects, you have decided to start trying to roll again. There have been no rolls since the first one mentioned last month, but this evening you rolled from belly to back without even really trying and then you set to work at trying to roll from back to belly. So far you are only getting up on your side, but I can’t wait until tomorrow to see what kind of progress you make. I love watching the concentration on your face as you try to figure out which arm moves with which leg to make things work.


Mr. Tummy Time--he drools, he rolls, he looks too cute to be real!


Little man, you are the love of my life. Sometimes just looking at you takes my breath away completely and I cannot remember a world in which you didn’t exist. Each day brings some new experience or discovery. The month ahead of us holds all kinds of adventures—your 4 month check up, our Mommy and Me yoga class, more outdoor time as the weather starts to cool down enough to be outside without melting into little puddles of ick. I can’t wait to see what I have to say about September when our next monthly check in comes along. I love you to itty bitty pieces, my prince.

Love, Mommy

More Incompetent than a Cervix...

Sometimes I wonder how people get the jobs they do. I wonder what they said or did in the interview that gave the employer the confidence that this person could indeed do they job they claim they can do. Once, at the private school at which I taught, an English teacher was fired because she claimed on her resume to have been published in Time Magazine and to have held some professorship somewhere. One would think the decision-makers would have checked these "facts" prior to hiring her, but somehow in Education, that doesn't always happen. It wasn't until a student's parent who actually did teach at the college the teacher claimed to have been on staff at, outted her as a liar, that she was escorted from the building and out of our lives. Why don't employers check more carefully before handing over a job to a moron?

Yesterday I was out to lunch with my friend Amy. I fed Ethan, crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. Ethan behaved like a pro. The waiter, however, seemed to be under the influence of something that made him very, very stupid. Whether he was sneaking out back to smoke up or he was naturally just that vacuous, we'll never know. But believe me when I say that he rivalled the dumbest of the dumb.

I am no one to complain about bad restaurant service; being a waitress would have to be one of my biggest nightmares. I doubt I would last through one night, what with the keeping track of who ordered what, remembering to smile, carrying giant plates of food without dropping stuff and let's not forget the math involved in settling checks. BUT...

He seemed utterly confused that we wanted food at all in the first place. "Can't you people just sit here quietly for awhile, then get up and leave?" Taking our orders seemed to confuse and pain him, even though it was as simple as "I'll have spaghetti and meatballs." Amy ordered spaghetti and meatballs. He asked if she wanted Alfredo sauce on it. Alfredo on meatballs?? i.c.k. He returned to our table no fewer than three times to reassure himself that he had our orders correct. Seriously...spaghetti and meatballs, people. And he wrote it down...this was not a fancy, "I'm so skilled I can recall your 5 course order off the top of my head. Go ahead make substitutions, I can handle it" sort of place. It was Bertucci's.

We were at a "bottomless salad bowl" place--he brought us two separate salads that had definite bottoms to them. Huh??? We longingly watched the table-sized bowls go by on other waiters' trays and cursed the lucky patrons who got that waiter. When Amy asked for more salad, our waiter seemed offended that we didn't appreciate what he clearly saw as the "individualized attention" he was giving us by deciding for us how much salad we were allowed to have. Finally, he caved (seriously, we had to put our collective foot down about the more salad thing), and brought us the "to be shared" bowl of salad.

When our entrees arrived, he stood at the table, holding each bowl up, hesitating, clearly unable to remember which one of us got what. Even after the whole "do you want alfredo sauce on your spaghetti and meatballs?" query to Amy, he didn't remember it was her who got the spaghetti and meatballs---with tomato sauce. We had to remind him. Please keep in mind, he had only taken the order moments earlier. It was lunchtime; you know there was no chef out back preparing each meal individually and taking 30 minutes to do so. All he had to do was reach into the big vat of spaghetti, put it in the bowl and bring it to the table.

By the time we had finished eating, Little E decided he was no longer content to nap quietly in his stroller and needed to hang out in mom's arms. That's fine, right? No problem to have a 3 month old lounging in mom's arms at a restaurant after a meal, right?

Well...unless your waiter decides to come over to the table and clears it by attempting to balance every plate, glass and utensil in one hand, creating a potential scenario in which plates, glasses and knives fly everywhere within inches of said 3 month old. Amy and I sat there, unable to see eachother through the "leaning tower of tablewear", but when the waiter walked away, our expressions said the same thing..."I cannot even believe this guy is for real!"

I left the restaurant irritated at the lousy service, but on the other hand, relieved to find that there really is something out there more incompetent than my cervix...

Sleep Blogging...

Two quick notes before I begin:

1. CONGRATS to blogger KMW, of www.mycerclage.com, and her husband. After months of anticipation and cerclage-y fun, they welcomed their baby boy into the world this week. Welcome, baby boy KMW!!

2. On a far less significant note, the slab of beef I threw into the crockpot yesterday turned out to be edible, and depending on the morsel of meat on your fork at any given minute, pretty tasty indeed. Some bites were like a mouthful of sand and I'm definitely not getting my own Food Network cooking show anytime soon, but at least it kept the pizza delivery guy from darkening our doorstep.

Now, onto my intended rant for the day...

Last night after getting up for the 4am feeding, I lay back down, my brain all abuzz with something that I apparently thought would be an excellent blog topic. I distinctly recall writing and revising said post in my head, in expansive detail, cracking myself up all the while. I remember thinking, "I should really get up, go downstairs and write this up now, so I don't forget it all." Then I thought, "How would I ever forget this gem? It's the best blog entry I've ever written!!" and drifted contentedly to sleep.

This is called "sleep blogging", because, internet, you know damn well I woke up this morning with absolutely NO idea what my greatest blog entry ever was actually about. I have only the vaguest memory that there was an idea, it was fantastic, and nearly completely written inside my head and now, alas, it is gone...lost somewhere in the recesses of the unused 90% of my human brain, never to be heard from again.

so instead, here--have a picture of the little man practicing his tummy time....

What a Crock

So when Husband and I got engaged, we partook in the time-honored tradition of gift-grubbing, I mean, registering for a variety of house-hold goods, the vast majority of which, we neither needed nor had the space for. (By the way, could I have more hyphenated words in that sentence?)

Something came over me when as we walked through the aisles of Bed, Bath and Beyond. Maybe it was the heady power of toting the sku-gun (another hyphen!) or the shiney, shiney small appliances, but something akin to a really out of control sugar rush, or a dose of terbutaline (remember those??!) came over me and I suddenly needed one of everything, and it all needed to be stainless steel. Mini-food processor, cooking utensils and holder, measuring cups. I became a simple, simple girl who just wanted shiney stuff. And shiney stuff I got.

One of the shiney gifts Husband and I received was a crock pot. Neither of us knew a thing about cooking in a crock pot--is it called 'crock pottery'? I don't know. I'd never used one. I have no idea why I registered for one. The combination of the glinting stainless steel finish and the desire to channel a "short cut" version of June Cleaver in my new identity as wife? Who knows. There was something intriguing about throwing a bunch of ingredients into a pot, pressing a button and then coming back 12 hours later to...a meal. Isn't that just one step away from putting a little pill on a plate, wetting it with three drops of water and having an entire meal just sprout up before your eyes? That only happens in cartoons, but a crock pot! That's real life!

So after countless trips to the "pre-prepared meal" and sushi sections of our local Whole Foods, I decided enough was enough. I was never going to channel June Cleaver with these yuppy urban habits of mine. Something had to change.

Out comes the crock pot...and in goes a big chunk of meat. Meat and potatoes and carrots and mushrooms and celery and onion. There was some confusion about the whole "coat the meat in flour and brown it" segment of the directions...a giant pot roast looks pretty stupid in a frying pan; and then there's the issue of how do you turn a big old slab of meat like that without spattering fat all over the place? Spatulas seem inadequate.

And how do you coat a big old hunk of meat with flour? I think I might have channelled Lucille Ball more than June Cleaver. I realize now that perhaps I should have taken the roast out of the frying pan and rolled it around in the flour, but instead I sort of tossed flour on the roast as it sat in the pan, then rolled it over a little with the aforementioned inadequate spatula and tossed more flour on it. There was a lot of flour flying in my kitchen this morning at 8:30. And I noticed that flour and beef juice makes a glue that is really hard to dig out from under your fingernails. Good times...

And so we wait. For pot roast or the pizza delivery guy...

Eat here, Get gas....

Aside from the fact that people are still trying to blow up planes, and this time with such materials as will necessitate my tasting my own breastmilk going through security to prove it's not an incendiary device, I have found yet more reasons to avoid contact with the outside world.

1. Bug bites. Before Ethan was a little peapod in my belly, I had some sort of anti-bug force field surrounding me which prevented me from being bitten by mosquitos or bugs of any kind. I swear, I had citronella coursing through my veins or something. It was fabulous--while those around me were swatting unsuccessfully at the hungry little buzzers and welting up under the onslaught, I sat undisturbed in the summer twilights, sipping my beer, not a blood-sucker in sight.

Fast-forward to this past weekend, where I spent both Saturday and Sunday evenings outside with friends. Apparently pregnancy does something to one's body chemistry (go figure--as if the horrifyingly expanding butt isn't enough of a slap in the face); if my body were a mosquito restaurant, it would have been sporting a neon sign, flasing the words, "Under New Management". Whatever went on in my body during pregnancy turned me into an irresistible culinary temptation for those disgusting little pests. I am awash in little red itchy welts.

I cannot adequately explain what a shock to the system bug bites are to a person unaccustomed to being an all-you-can-eat buffet to mosquitos. There isn't enough hydrocortizone cream or calomine lotion to take away the urge to scratch. There are about four bites on my left foot and at least ten times a day I am tempted to chew off my own foot at the ankle to get some relief.

And on top of my own agony, yesterday as I was admiring my napping little E, I noticed a tell-tale red bump on his otherwise perfectly soft and kissable forehead. A BUGBITE ON MY BABY???!! OH NO, THEY DIDN'T!! My poor little man, accosted by those heartless blood-sucking fiends!!! He, of course, shows no sign of even being aware of its existence and he certainly isn't Itchy McScratcherson like me, but STILL! A BUGBITE ON MY BABY, PEOPLE!!

When I'm done over-reacting, I'm sure I'll notice the vampire-like speed with which his skin bounces back and is once again bite-free. I am amazed by how quickly babies heal from scratches, acne and bug bites. Ethan can wake up with a patch of acne that on a teenager would require two weeks and an entire bottle of pro-activ to combat it; by lunchtime that patch of skin is again as smooth as....well, as smooth as his butt.

Speaking of his butt....I come to reason #2 why I should just stay home....

2. It wasn't me; it was the kid! My son has quite the talent. He passes gas like it was his job. He could enter a fraternity sponsered farting contest and put the beer-guzzling meat-heads to shame. He is good. In both volume and duration, it is a marvel; I had no idea babies were capable of such adult sounding bodily functions. It reminds me of that adorable one-toothed, diapered baby in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", who looks so cute and cuddly when the camera is rolling and the second they shout, "Cut!", he is swearing like a sailor and smoking a cigar. That's my boy.

It's funny, but not so funny when you are, oh, I don't know, say, in Target, pushing the baby through the photo album aisle when he decides to let one rip. Especially when that aisle is full of people. People who couldn't possibly believe that the raging fart just ripped could come from that adorable little baby boy in the cart. People who believe it came from that vile. disgusting. shameless woman pushing the cart. Even when you smile at baby and say, "Goodness, little man! Excuse you!", they look at you like they aren't quite sure they believe you; like you might be the type of person who would pass loud, rambling gas in public and then blame it on an innocent, sweet infant. For shame....

So, to avoid the swarming mosquitos and the giant Scarlet "F", I think it's probably best if I stay inside until bug season is over and the bulk of winter clothing muffles my son's butt music...

You'll Be Hungry Again in an Hour...

Scene: I am changing Squirmy E at the wrong time. One can never tell when the surprise poop attack will sneak up on you. As I reach for the wipes, I hear the explosion. Then I see the results of it on the changing table. The following dialogue takes place...

Me: "Husband, you have to come see this! It looks like...like hot & sour soup!"

Husband walks casually into the room. Surveys the hot & sour soup like poo.

Husband: "We haven't had Chinese for a long time. We should order in Chinese tonight"

Husband casually walks out of nursery and back up to his office.

Clearly we need to get out more...

Three Months & Some Change...

Dear Ethan,

So I couldn't do my little monthly musing on the actual day you turned 3 months; forgive Mommy, she's been a little under the weather & on that day, a nap, rather than blogging, seemed essential to her very survival. But I am here now...

This month, as the other two, has flown by at an unbelievable pace. Partly I think it's because I was sick for almost half of the month, but also because I am realizing that when you fall madly in love with someone and want to squeeze the most out of every second together, the time/space continuum plays a dirty trick on you and speeds things up, so everything seems to whisk by before you've even noticed it.

Your Daddy and I are amazed at how much you are changing every day these days. Yesterday I decided to start packing up some of your preemie clothing, which stopped fitting you about 5 lbs ago. Being the big old sap that I am, I held up my favorite preemie outfit against you as you lay in your crib--it's neck came up to the middle of your chest--it was just so tiny. I can hardly believe you were ever that itty bitty, now that you are tipping the scales at about 10 lbs and turning into a pudgy little baby.

Your hair, which when you were born reminded us of a middle-aged comb over, continues to grow and fill in, leaving us wondering just what color it is going to be when it decides to settle down. It is dark, seemingly brown, but in certain lights it has mahogany red highlights in it that leave us wondering if a couple days in the sun might not turn you into the elusive redhead that hides within our families' genepools. It also has quite the mind of its own in terms of its daily style. Your pediatrician likes to take the hair on the top of your head and spike it up while he examines you (we LOVE him). Yesterday you had a bit of a "flock of seagulls" thing going on--a baby pompadour, if you will....you are stylin', my little man.

Your eyes are doing their slow change from deep blue to whatever color they are going to be. In some lights, they are already a honey brown. In others they are grey, greenish or still clinging to the blue they have no hope of retaining. Regardless of their color, they have been so attentive the past several weeks, watching Mommy and Daddy (particularly Daddy) so carefully. You make eye contact like never before and you watch our mouths as we talk to you. You have also developed a love of the TV; I hope it is the bright lights and primary colors that attract your infant eyes as opposed to the initial signs of a couch potato in the making. Please rebel against mommy and daddy in the future by watching way less TV than we do; if it weren't for TiVo, we might leave the house more often. Or maybe not. We try not to let you watch it, but sometimes when we are holding you, you manage to sneak a peak. I see years of "Don't sit so close to the TV; you'll hurt your eyes!!" in my future.

A couple weeks ago you did something amazing. You insisted on nursing basically every hour during the day for almost two days straight. Then you slept almost an entire day. When you woke up the next day, you were a new little boy, with smiles and half-giggles and an entirely new awareness of and interest in your toys. Rather than crying yourself awake in the morning, I got a real smile as you woke for the day and saw me coming to get you. Instead of 3-4 minutes on your play mat before melting down and needing to be rocked for hours on end, you now enjoy 10-15 minutes of kicking and exploring on the mat, bouncy seat or swing before needing to be rocked for hours on end (that hasn't changed so much). It's so much fun to watch you explore and imagine what is going on in that little baby brain of yours.

Then Mommy got sick and went to the hospital; those were the hardest days of parenthood so far for me. Mainly because I practically stopped being a parent. The day we went to the ER, my fever was 104 and I thought I MIGHT stay overnight one night. If I had known that I was going to be dragged into a blackhole of medicinal incompetence that would take me from you for six days and render my boobs virtually useless, I would have just packed myself in ice and taken the antibiotics I'd been given by my OB.

Since being home, we've had to readjust to eachother. Daddy did such a good job taking care of you while I was away that we really had to find our rhythm again and it took a little time. Of course, that's mainly because the milk-machine was on the fritz. Pumping and nursing weren't very compatible with a raging fever and short daily visits, so the boobs just about completely forgot that they have a job to do. We're working on getting the factory going again, ramping up production and working overtime. We have good days where everything is going to be fine and bad days that remind me of the very first times we tried to nurse. We are only at three months; I hope we get to the six month exclusive mark; the last week or so has really challenged that goal, but we're sticking with it.

Speaking of sticking with it, this is sort of a 3 month and 3 day thing, but your tummy time paid off earlier this week and you ROLLED OVER!!! Of course, I screamed at your daddy to come see, but not only was it all over by the time he got there, but your daddy nearly killed himself running down the stairs because he didn't know what I was carrying on about. Ooops. It was so exciting, though, to see you set your mind to something and accomplish it! Once you got over, you just sort of laid there, relieved it was over and happy to stare at your lamby mobile going round and round---you love that thing!

No pictures this time around, just because I want to get this published already and blogger's been a bitch about pictures lately. You know there are already albums filled with pictures of you! Next month I promise I'll be more on the ball and get your monthly update done before you head off to college...

Mommy and Daddy love you more and more everyday. I can't wait to see what the next month has in store for us!

i'm home...

Have been since tuesday when I basiclly begged and insulted the doctor "caring" for me. I'm not sure I adequately described these quacks to you, internet. My main doctor was a ditsy soft-spoken woman who told me she wasn't used to dealing with patients under 60. This put me about 25 years outside her comfort zone. She seemed truly disconcerted by my c-section scar and she was totally antsy everytime she came in when Ethan was there with Husband.

The other main doctor I saw, I couldn't pick out of a line-up. You see, he did his rounds after midnight. Yes, that's right. 12:30 am & my overhead flourescent lights burst on and there he is. I know he has a big head and is exceedingly pale (what with the vampiric hours he keeps), but that's really it. I haven't a clue what he did for me in the 5-6 days I was there. I just know he is the infectious disease guy.

So on Tuesday, when I started truly panicking that my son was forgetting he has a mother, I basically told the doctor of 60 year olds that she wasn't doing anytghing for me in the hospital that I couldn't do for myself at home. Truly, how hard is it to give myself tylenol every six hours and an antibiotic twice a day??? Granted, we are lacking MRI anf ultrasound machines at our house (space issues, you know...), but how many of those little amusemrnt park rides can you go through in one hospital visit? With an ultasound, MRI and chest xray, I really felt like that was enough superfluous medical gadgetry for one stay.

And here I am; at home. With my baby and Husband, away from the creepy vampire doctors and the med students who don't wash their hands or wipe down their stethescopes (did I mention that I got a cold while in the protective care of these professionals?)

I still feel like all kinds of crap, it's good to be home.

The Magic Tube of Doom

So I had an MRI today. Yes, one of those long skinny tubes they slide you into in order to see your insides a little more clearly. See, the neurologist came to visit me yesterday as my fever edged closer and closer to 105 and I was literally packed on ice; bags of ice on my head and under each arm, the high-tech method of fever reduction. My headache, a localized piercing pain on the left side of my head that I really thought was eating me alive prompted me to ask him through sobs (yes, internet--I was damn near delerious and I was crying to this man), if I was going to die. It did not seem like a ridiculous question at the time. I asked if I was having a stroke, an aneurism, a blood clot, and on and on and on. I almost asked about little brain gremlins that feast on the grey matter but I didn't want him to think I was crazy...okay, crazier than I was.

Fast forward to this morning when my fever is gone and it seems though magically, my headache is, too. Mind you, its still there, but it's so faint and mild it is almost a joy by comparison. I try to order breakfast and the nurse informs me that they'll "be coming for you soon." This sounds like "dead man walking" to me, as I have slept so soundly and fever-free that I've almost blocked the embarrassing girly cry I had in front of the neurologist about how I didn't want to die. I may have even said at one point, "I have a 3 month old at home. He needs me!" I also recall informing my husband that I hadn't changed my benefits at work to make him my beneficiary. Yeah, I felt that bad. And I was that delerious. OH, and I might be a bit of a drama queen, but this time, that was truly, truly the least of the three ingredients playing into my hysteria. Even the doctors looked at each other with concern each time my fever shot back up. That is not reassuring.

Anyway, "they" were the transports to the MRI. I told the nurse that maybe I didn't need it since I was feeling so much better and that sort of got a chuckle, like I was a little kid trying to get out of taking a bath or something. She may have thought that next I was going to start bargaining with her--"I'll share my french toast with you if you make that MRI disappear"...but I did not.I do have some dignity. And I don't share my french toast, people. Have you learned nothing?

So, the MRI, that little tiny tube that they slide you into that everyone says is a total claustrophobic nightmare? Loved it. Seriously. They secured my head nice and comfy, put a cool cloth over my eyes, gave me a button to press if I started to freak out, and then sliiiiiiiiiid me into the tube. The noises were weird and loud--almost like what I imagine the noises in a bad acid trip would be like or a truly awful techno dance club. They key, though, is that they were consistent and repetitive. So I fell asleep. Yup, I had a nice little nap in the MRI tube and before I knew it, the whole thing was over.

It was back upstairs to my french toast.

Oh, and by the time the frenchtoast was gone, I knew that my brain is time-bomb free and not at all threatening my life in anyway. Phewwwwww. I have been almost completely feverless for the past 24 hours and my pain is more under control. My blood work isn't the mess it was a couple days ago, so mayyyyyyybe they'll be letting me go home tomorrow. Think good thoughts. Think good thoughts. Think good thoughts....

You Can't Make this Shit Up....

"Sarah, where on earth have you been?!" you ask. "It's not like you to go so long in between entries. Is everything all right?" Hmmmm...funny you should ask.

I'm in the hospital. A-g-a-i-n. What can I say, a girl needs a little institutionalized food every now and again. You'll recall how I loved the frenchtoast at Hotel Highrisk.

This time my hospital stay is clearly not pregnancy related. No, no, having conquered reproductive incompetence, my body is on to new, exciting and as of yet unexplored region on which to wreak havoc. I swear, if I could get up, I'd be twirling round and round in front of the bathroom mirror like a dog chasing its tail looking for the big [REJECT] stamp that I am sure was slapped on my backside on the conveyor belt up in heaven the day they made me.

I had a UTI. I say 'had' because now it so much more. the gift that keeps on giving. See, I am probably the only woman in the world for whom a UTI causes no symptoms. None of that tell-tale burning for me, thank you! I'd like to wait until I have a raging fever, backpain and a heinous headache before even getting a clue that something might be wrong, thanks. What, you say? By then it will be a bladder and kidney infection and I'll require hospitalization?? Wellll..as long as it doesn't burn when I pee....

So here I sit, day 2 and a half of the kidney/bladder fiasco that is my life right now. The backache is gone pretty much. The fever comes and goes in this rollercoaster of shaking and sweating--it almost feels like exercise. But it is a whole new kind of scary with the fever goes up to over 104. The headache is the worst of it right now and several times in the past couple of days I've been fairly certain that my head was going to explode or some sort of frightening creature was going to come chewing it's way out.

Aside from me, me, me, this is awful for Husband who is suddenly single dad and my poor little man, who I only get to see for a little while each day. I can't describe the heartbreak of being separated from them right now. Can't even make a joke about.

So this is my stranger than fiction reason for being out of the loop, internet. Hopefully when I stop sweating and my head stops throbbing and they bust me out of this joint, I'll be able get back up on the blog horse. Until then....

Lunching at the OG...

Ah yes, food of the suburban gods, unlimited salad and breadsticks. How I love you and your bottomless bowl/basket tasty goodness. My friend V and I descended upon the Olive Garden this afternoon, a whirlwind of baby carriers, diaper bags, strollers, burp clothes, pacifiers and oh yeah, babies.

It is the mommy lunch date! My very first. I spent most of the morning fretting. Yes, I've been out with the little man dozens of times at this point, even to restaurants; but this would be my first foray into the lunchtime crowd with potentially cranky son in tow and no Husband to defray the anxiety and work involved in a 10 week old's public meltdown.

I was unable to leave the house without packing and repacking the diaper bag. I totally tapped into my "WHERE'S MY PASSPORT??!!" stress generally saved for international travel, only this time it sounded like, "WHERE ARE THE WIPES??!!"....oh, there they are. The contents of the diaper bag for this trip were as follows:

three diapers (because service can be realllly slow and you just never know what is going on in this boy's intestines), rash cream, wipes, antibacterial hand cream, changing pad, two receiving blankets (in addition to the one draped over the car seat) two bibs, three burp cloths, three clean onesies (in case he was suddenly hired to emcee an awards show and needed several wardrobe changes, apparently), a hat (it was 100 degrees, duh), three socks (you think keeping track of adult socks is hard? please.), aspirator, pacifier, one breast pad (apparently they can share?) and my wallet.

This was for one lunch time outting. Clearly, to travel any distance with this child, my house will have to be ripped from its foundation and hauled down the highway trailing a "WIDE LOAD" flag behind it.

My main concern with the lunch date was that the timing of it was worked out a little before Ethan's feeding schedule for the day was solidified. By mid-morning I have a pretty good idea of what times his little belly is going to demand the boob and I can schedule my day's out-of-home activities accordingly. I am not against public breastfeeding. As a matter of fact, don't get me started on a woman's right to feed her child wherever the hell she chooses, in front of whomever happens to be there at the time. And if the government is going to go saying that all women should breastfeed for at least six months, they'd better start educating people who find it "icky" and they'd better start making insurance companies pay for lactation consultants, because it's fucking hard to breastfeed without at least visit to the boob lady. It was not pleasant to have women I hardly know pulling at my breasts and torturing my nipples, but the kid really seems to be attached to the whole nursing thing, so it's worth it. But let's just say, my inner "Yeah, I'm in public and yeah, that's my boob! take that, bitch!" and my outer "oh god, please don't get hungry in public. I don't want to take out my boob!" don't quite match up yert. So I was fretting.

I chose the Olive Garden because I figured we would be in a booth in a fairly dimly lit room so that if either of us had to breastfeed, at least we had a prayer of being discreet about it. Ah, how the universe loves to punk me. We ended up in a regular, middle of the room table, in a room that was all windows out onto the bright sunny day. Surrounded by business men. Let's just say, had either of us had to feed our children, we would have been the main attraction in the diningroom.

I blame our waiter. Had he been remotely competent, we could have eaten our entire meals in the amount of time it took us to have the manager apologetically bring us our diet coke and water. So it was about two bites into my salad that Ethan had, what my friend Jamie calls, "a bit of a screech". Jamie is British and in my opinion all things sound quaint and lovely when expressed through British understatement and in that fabulous accent. So when my son is screaming bloody murder and I feel like my head is about to explode, I remind myself, "'T'sall right. Just a bit of a screech is all..." and somehow I manage to crack up through the wailing and get through it.

So Ethan had a "bit of a screech" midway through lunch and I feared the worst--empty belly. Fortunately, it was just empty mouth and a pacifier (thank god I had one!!!) seemed to do the trick. I held him throughout the remainder of the meal, so I am eternally grateful I only ordered the soup, salad and breadsticks--one hand required. Although I had to eat the soup like my arm was a crane, swinging way out and away from Ethan and then back in and around to my mouth, lest I spill the hot minestrone on his bare arm or leg and award myself "worst mother of the year" award for burning my baby's skin (yes, by this point the soup was tepid at best, but still, I don't want that award!)

Overall, lunch was a success and V and I agreed that we should do this at least once a week until she goes back to work by August's end. Perhaps sometime between now and then my inner public breastfeeding diva biotch will step up and take over. I hope so, because I think she's going to be super cool.

Home Improvements...

When Husband & I moved into our home, we did so with a mental list of all the things that had to be done to this place to make it tolerable to live in and representative of our personalities. Some of it had to be done before we could even move in, such as tearing down a wall-to-wall built-in book case which blocked a window in our livingroom, and painting almost every room in the house to change the feel from circus freakshow (seriously, flourescent green in the stairwell and upstairs hall--flourescent green, people!) to subtle sophistication (ha ha ha).

Once those "must do"'s were done and we moved in, we went ahead and steamrolled our way into pregnancy, leaving 90% of those other projects gathering cob-webs on our mental "to do" list. The first trimester found me crawling to the couch to nap moments after returning from work each day and by the middle of the second trimester, I was bed-bound (ah, the "good old days")--nothing in the way of home repairs got done. Not that I would have been doing them single-handedly, but Husband had more important things to do than rip up the carpet on the stairway during my bedrest months--he had to entertain me. This was not an easy task. The stairs remained carpetted; the front door remained purple and the porch red (circus freaks, people; I am not kidding); our basement and kitchen seemed to have been in mid-renovation when we bought the place and not a professional renovation.

I do believe the people who lived here before us were addicted to the show "Trading Spaces" and they would walk into a room of their house on a Friday, decide to "redo" it and by Sunday, they were either done with the sloppiest renovation ever in the history of home repairs (Bob Villa would freak) or they had lost interest in the renovation and just stopped. A.D.D. home repairs. "Honey, let's paint the room a lovely sunshine yellow (including the ceiling!) and hang purple curtains! Let's tear out those cabinets and re-tile the backsplash! Don't forget to paint all the outlet covers, sweetie! (pause) ooooooooh, Desperate Housewives is on! (dropping all supplies to the floor, grabbing a snack and leaving the room, never to return....)

So now that the little man is closing in on 3 months old and we have somewhat of a grasp on what our lives are now, we've started to look around and say, "Damn. This house needs some work!" First order of business...a back porch. I have fantasies of sitting on the back porch, watching the fire flies (we have tons of them) as the sun goes down, enjoying a glass of wine or a cold beer. Perhaps a little backwards, to add something to the house when there is a list of things already here that need some attention, but hey...we deserve a back porch after the year we've had! Hopefully the porch will be done by fall; of course the way summer is barrelling on by, I am not sure this week's laundry will be done by fall, so I shouldn't really hold my breath.

My sister-in-law and her husband built their own back porch--it is much bigger than the one Husband and I are thinking of and it has a built-in bench wrapping around one side of it. Gorgeous. They showed us pictures of it this weekend with almost the same enthusiasm we exhibit when we show pictures of Ethan to people, and who can blame them--talk about a labor of love. For a moment I felt guilty that Husband and I are hiring people to build our porch. I mean, wouldn't we appreciate it more if we constructed it with our own two hands? Mixed and poured the concrete together? Laid the boards ourselves?

Then I realized, as far as labors of love go, I've had my fill this year. Yes, they built a beautiful porch, but I gestated an entire human being--that's all the "building" I'll be doing this year. I'll be happy to bake cookies and make iced tea for the big sweaty men with 2X4's and hammers in my backyard during August. And I'm more than happy to go shopping for the deck furniture when the workmen leave...

Sleep Wars...

My son is not a fan of sleep. I can't wrap my head around this because, I for one, love sleep. LOVE. IT. Back in the day, when I actually worked for a living, the first thought that went through my head when the alarm so rudely disturbed me from my blissful slumber, was how many hours had to pass before I could reasonably crawl back into bed without seeming too lazy or depressed. I love sleep like Homer Simpson loves donuts, "mmmmm, donuts..."

Seriously. Ask Husband about the "Pajama Song". The lyrics and the tune change all the time, but the general message is the same--pajamas make me damn happy. I love all things associated with sleep--pjs, dreams, pillows, comforters...zzzzzzzzzzz...

oh, sorry.

So how is it that my son, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, carrier of half my genes, is so opposed to sleeping? Or should I say, sleeping when we want him to sleep? Husband and I are up half the night convincing this little man that sleep is, indeed, a good thing. There is rocking, there is swinging, there is shhhhhushhhhing, there is a vibrating pack and play, there are lullibies and soothing nature noises. He overpowers them all with his grumbly, groany declaration of "Nope. You can't make me! I'm awake!"

He seems to take the most joy in the fake-out. He will buy into our rocking and swinging, our lullibies and the rest. He will close his eyes and relax his little arms and legs. Sure. He'll do all that. And while you are mentally high-fiving yourself as you put him down, he's thinking, "Sucka!!!" and then there is much squirming and groaning. "Fooled ya, mom! I'm still awake!" Grrrrrr...

It'd be fine that he didn't like sleep if he could, say, go downstairs, make himself a sandwich and turn on the TV. Then he could stay up all night watching Noggin or Conan O'Brien if he wanted. It's not like he's got a demanding daytime schedule that he's got to be well-rested for. But he's got this whole 10 week old "I can't sleep. What to do? What to do? I know! You should hold me!" thing going on. And try as I might to explain to him that mommy and daddy need a few hours of shut eye in order to keep themselves remotely sane, he doesn't seem to grasp the concept. Go figure.

His saving grace is that he's so damn cute. And we tend to make up for the lack of night sleeping during the day. This is where I would insert a cute picture of Ethan and me snoozing on the couch, but stupid blogger.com is not cooperating...

Got Music?

Yesterday I read an article in Mothering magazine by the mother of a 13 year old boy. She shared the story of how she and her son were connected by music; as a baby they listened to all the cheesey little kid music (how I fear the day Ethan wants to go to a Wiggles concert) and once he grew into that "ugh, my mom is so freaking lame" teenager, she delved into the world of his musical tastes, at the same time sharing with him her favorite songs from her own childhood and adolescence. This, she claims, is how they maintained a close bond during those years when children typically pull away from their parents with all the force of opposing magnets ends.

It made me think about the impact of music on my life, especially in those years I spent pretty much stuck up in my room, being a sullen and moody only child and avoiding contact with my own parents. Now, the mid to late 80's didn't really offer a plethora of quality musical choices, by my recollection. We went from Madonna & Duran Duran to Bon Jovi & Guns N Roses. But somehow I found a way to make music a cornerstone of my sense of self & identity.

I kept a notebook of song lyrics that I felt adequately captured my angst and listened avidly to the words to the songs I loved to be sure that I knew them all by heart. It always floors me when Husband says he likes a song, but doesn't know more than two words of it. Just liking the beat or the music means nothing to me--I need to know what the song is about and whether it speaks to my life and my experience; if not, I can't really ever love the song. I can listen and enjoy it, but the songs that stay with me forever are songs that I find something in, something that reminds me of my own life, either through lyrics or the circumstances of where/when/why I first heard it, etc.

So I've been thinking--what are the songs/who are the artists that I will want to share with my son when he is old enough? So, in very "High Fidelity" style, here are "My Top Ten Songs/Artists to Share with Ethan"...

1. U2--"Pride in the Name of Love" & "One" in particular--from the time I was in high school until today Bono's voice and lyrics are simply ever present. Edge's guitar riffs have dictated an entire generation of musical influence and I am willing to bet that Ethan will be listening to u2's music during his own teen years, even without my intervention. I want Ethan to know that music can be more than a good beat and bubble gum lyrics; that it can have a conscience and motivate people to try to change the world. I think U2's music is a fairly pure example of this (well, maybe with the exception of "Discotheque", but whatever...)

2. David Bowie/Freddie Mercury--"Under Pressure" Although I never knew the song even existed until Vanilla Ice ripped off the beat for "Ice Ice Baby" (such a sad, sad confession), there is something about Mercury's voice as he croons, "Can't we give ourselves one more chance? Why can't we give love just one more chance?" that makes my eyes water and my heart soar. His voice is amazing and paired with Bowie's it is simply musical poetry. I want Ethan to be moved by the sound of voices mingling and creating a whole new sound.

3. Cold Play--"Fix You" & "Clocks" I wrote a post a few months ago about how "Fix You" was sort of the soundtrack of my pregnancy--about wanting to protect and shield a loved one from all that could hurt in this life. The opening piano of "Clocks" is the music that Husband and I entered our wedding reception to, down a gorgeous marble staircase; we agonized over what little snippet of music would represent us as a couple, making our grand entrance for the first time as husband and wife. Hopefully Ethan will realize that music stays with you; hearing a particular song brings you back to a specific moment in time--I hope he has those extraordinary moments and the pathway back to them that music can be.

4. Indigo Girls--"Galileo", "Closer to Fine" & "Virginia Wolff" He may not dig these three; admittedly, you don't see a ton of dudes rocking it at an Indigo Girls concert. But in the interest of focusing on songs that have meant a lot to me, I suppose I can't leave them out. The idea that "each life has it's place" and that we are all connected to each other in some way through history or inspiration has always moved me and made me feel both teeny tiny in this world and at the same time, a significant part of its very fabric. I want Ethan to feel that.

5. Duran Duran "Planet Earth" Simply one of the first songs and the first band I remember ever really liking. I was one of those Duran Duran freaks in the 80's to the Nth degree. I could have started a college fund for Ethan with all the money I spent on magazines and British import tapes and LPs. He should know Duran Duran so he understands why he has to apply for scholarships and work study to pay for his tuition.

6. Peter Gabriel "Salisbury Hill" & "Biko" The first one, while I always loved it, makes it onto my list because it was on the radio the afternoon I left the hospital, leaving Ethan behind in the NICU. The line, "'Son,' he said, 'Grab your things, I've come to take you home'" reduced me to a little puddle of tears at the thought that I was driving away from my baby. To this day, I am grateful that I was so preoccupied with the pain of the c-section and the frustration of pumping my seemingly non-existant breastmilk that I never truly grasped how gut-wrenching it was to be separated from Ethan during those seven days.

"Biko" makes the list for the same reason that U2 is on it--a song about Stephen Biko, and anti-Apartheid activist, Gabriel's song helped to highlight such a hideous practice to an audience that may not have ever learned of it otherwise. Let's face it, there was no chapter on Apartheid in our social studies books in high school--without the music I listened to, I would never have known. I remember playing this song for my "Modern World Literature" class of Honors Juniors several years ago. We listened to it as we read "Cry, the Beloved Country" early in the year. At the year-end course evaluations most students cited this song's lyrics as some of the most powerful and memorable literature of the year. Several students in the class joined Amnesty International after I played this song for them. Enough said.

7. 10,000 Maniacs "These are Days" The quintessential nostalgia song, "Never before and never since, I promise, has the whole world been as warm as this". It is a song about pure joy and elation. I hear it in my mind when I think of any number of happy memories in my life. Husband used it as part of our rehearsal dinner slide show. Just the opening beat makes my heart race with joy.

8. Israel Kamakawiwo'ole "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" You might know it as the music from the Dr. Mark Green's death scene on ER. It is the soundtrack of my wedding and honeymoon--two classic and beautiful songs melded together with a island feeling. What's not to love?

9. Bee Gees and/or Credence Clearwater Revival--Pretty much anything by either. This is a shout-out to the musical tastes of my parents in the 70's. We are all influenced, as small children, by the music our parents listen to. How they managed to cram both the disco of the BeeGees and the southern-fried rock of CCR into my consciousness is beyond me, but I know the lyrics of almost every song either group ever produced and would be hard-pressed to say which I'd rather listen to.

10. Sting--all of it. I hope that Sting's music will transcend time and be as cool when Ethan's a teenager as it has been in my generation. How can I not choose Sting? I'm an English teacher and Sting's lyrics are poetry, plain and simple. Sometimes I don't even hear the music when listening to his songs.

So there they are--my top 10. Hopefully someday, when Ethan hits that wall of adolescence and wants to get as far away from me as possible, I will be able to find a pathway to him through these songs/artists and whatever is passing for music thirteen years from now.

July 5--Two Months

Dear Ethan,

Today you are two months old. Where to even begin? Usually I just banter on about some little observation I've made about our lives, but on these posts I want to capture you. I want to make sure I remember every little thing that has gone on in your world in these past thirty days so that someday you can look back and understand how you became who you are and know how intensely you have been loved from the moment you came into the world.

This month has held all kinds of changes for you. For one, you "woke up", which means that the previous schedule of eat, sleep, poop, eat, sleep, poop is a thing of the past. Now there are entire hours at a time when you demand attention and stimulation. And so I stimulate. with books. with tummy time. with your busy little swing. with walks to the park. with larry the lion and the musical inch worm. with your aquarium kick and crawl. with my endless rambling and off-key singing. You usually end up paying more attention to whatever is happening just above you to the left rather than anything I present to you, but every once in awhile you reward me withe some bonafide undeniable interaction and eye contact. You are also developing some serious strength in your neck, back and shoulders--pushing yourself up during tummy time and scooting along with your legs. It won't be long until you are rolling over and if you don't watch out, you're going to end up crawling wayyyy before you're supposed to!



taking a break during the tummy time



First, a little shmooze with Larry the Lion. Next, the Sunday Crossword...

You did quite a bit of getting out and about this month. You went to visit Grandma Judy and Grandpa Harry a couple of times. You made your first foray into the land of yuppidom by hanging out with mommy & daddy at Starbucks. You also got in touch with your inner fashionista when mommy took you to Georgetown when Tress came to visit. You were quite the hit at Sephora, as you insisted on being held rather than making do in your stroller.


Baby's first latte! Relax, people, it is an empty cup; there is no steaming hot beverage wedged into my son's stroller!



"To H&M, Jeeves!" Tress chauffered you around Georgetown this month.

That's another big "thing" this month---HOLD ME, MAMA!!! Yes, I know you can't speak, but you are a remarkably proficient screamer and you have a fairly distinctive "if you don't hold me, there'll be hell to pay" tone. You won't find me complaining; I know there'll be a day when you won't want to be in the same room with your lame-o mom, so right now while I am the center of your universe, I will soak it up with every fiber of my being, even if I do kvetch about it after 6 hours of sitting on the couch.

To avoid the constant couch potato-ing, I have attempted to "wear" you in a variety of different slings and gizmos so that you are smooshed against me and therefore content, yet I can still accomplish something other than widening my butt all day long. I think we may have struck gold just in the past week. We tried the NoJo sling, the hot sling and the moby wrap. No-go on the NoJo, and you were not at all warming up to the hotsling--apparently you don't feel like hanging out in a pouch anymore. The Moby wrap was nice, but it is about 50 feet of stretchy fabric that I am pretty sure I would end up accidently hanging myself with in an attempt to wrap it around myself correctly. I did love how snug you were in it, and perhaps we will revisit it when I am a bit more coordinated in the ways of the baby-wrap, but for now, you are a Bjorn baby. You finally hit the weight requirement, so I plopped you in that contraption as soon as I could figure out how to put it together. Voila!!! I cleaned an entire room of the house with you babbling at my chest, playing with your fingers and watching the world go by. You were on me, you were secure, you were happy and I was not vegetating on the couch!! Ahhhhhhhh...


You made your first friend this month, too, when little Chloe Marie came into the world. Imagine, two months old and already chatting up the ladies. We are going to be in so much trouble with you...


Little E and Little C live it up in the pack and play

Speaking of trouble, this month your digestive system decided it needed to liven things up a bit by creating more acid than your little belly needs. This is loads of fun for all of us, as you tend to scream like you're feet are on fire just moments after eating. And there's the spitting up. I may have mentioned it in previous posts, no?

Well, Monday I could take it no more and we went to see the doctor. She gave you a prescription for Zantac and now, even though the stuff apparently tastes horrifying, you seem to be a happier little man already. We have to mix some of mama's milkshake in to the dropper to even get you to consider ingesting it (such discriminating tastes for a two-month old!), but you are getting it down, and fingers-crossed, we have heard the last of the reflux wails.

You are moving tonight from your pack and play next to the bed to a "snuggle nest" that we are going to fit in the bed between Daddy and me. I have wanted to have you in bed with us all along, but you've been so tiny, I was afraid of smooching you. Hopefully the snuggle nest will get you that much closer and we will have an easier time getting together for those midnight snacks you seem to like so much.

Eating has become such an easy routine for us, thank goodness. You've definitely struggled to make peace with the boob on its own--no bottle (okay, one bottle at night from daddy), no shield, no nothing but you and the boob. But you're there now and you could give any other little kid lessons on how to eat like a champ. How the human race survived considering all the difficulties some women encounter with breastfeeding is beyond me, but it is definitely a worthwhile endeavor and I'm so glad I didn't stop. At the doctors this week, she mentioned adding rice cereal into a bottle of the milk to help with the reflux and I almost keeled over--unless I can eat the rice cereal and have it come out a few hours later in the milkshake, we'll pass on that, thanks...obviously mama's milk is good enough for you considering you have almost doubled your birth weight in these past two months.

At 8 pounds, 4 ounces, you have grown completely out of your preemie clothes and fit perfectly into most of your 0-3s, although I don't know what it is about 0-3 pants--they all still look like parachute pants on you (ah, the 80's). In your little jeans you look like you should be rocking it old school with MC Hammer. This is not a look I want for my son. So we take off the jeans and wait for you to grow. But I have to admit, I love seeing how your once skinny little frame is filling out into rolls and chewable little chubby parts. Daddy says you're starting to look like the Michelin Man--you'll never know in a million years what that means, but it makes me laugh.



"Can't touch this..." Ethan rocks it old school with the parachute jeans a la MC Hammer

You're finding your voice beyond the screaming, too. You have this funny little "terydactle" noise you make (your friend Chloe makes it, too and sometimes you make the noise at the same time--quite a chorus) and that is now spanning out into coo's and surprised sounding "ahh!"'s. Alas, the sneezescream is gone, but there are so many other little sounds coming from you these days, I hardly miss it.

There are smiles on your face these days, too, although they seem to still be random and directed at something going on in your mind (dare I dream?!) rather than at Daddy or me. My favorite face you make is the little "o" your mouth turns into when you see something interesting or new...there is almost mischief in your face, even now at two months. It is almost too much to bear. I do a lot of melting these days.






The look of discovery...

We go through growth-spurts, you and me. Together and as individuals. I love watching you change each day and I love knowing that every day you change me, too. I am becoming a mother; something I've always wanted to be, even though I never really, truly knew what it meant. I am so grateful I have you as my teacher, my sweet little man.


GO, SOX!!!

The Crying Game...

This just proves that yes, my cherubic little bundle-o-love has his moments. We call him the "Mayor of CrankyTown", "Cranky Pants", "Sir Cranks a Lot" and then there's always, "Sweet Jesus, what the hell is your freaking problem?!" (okay, that's not so much a nickname as a verbal precursor to my own mental breakdown, which generally immediately follows).

Apparently an incompetent cervix wasn't enough. Fifteen weeks of bedrest wasn't enough. An emergency c-section wasn't enough. A week in the NICU wasn't enough. Struggles with breastfeeding, nope. Not enough. The universe decided that Husband and I really needed to add "colicky baby" to our list of trials and tribulations.

Now, I don't know it he's really colicky. Colic is, by definition, an enigma. No one knows where it comes from, what causes it or who will get it. I do know that about 2 weeks ago, he started crying. ALL. THE. TIME. That is only a slight exaggeration. There are exceptions for sleeping (which happens a lot less than it used to) and those rare moments when we have managed to distract him with our goofiness or our back-breaking side to side swishing.

It is disheartening to have a baby who starts crying the second he wakes up (and sometimes while he's still asleep) and continues to cry almost to the moment he falls back to sleep. If you weren't already feeling inadequate as a mother and a human being in general by the "normal" experiences of dealing with a newborn, try not being able to comfort that newborn when he is screaming his face red and punching at you with aimless fists. That, my friends, is good times.

We give him something called "Gripe Water"---sounds like something pumped out of a swamp, but it is actually a mixture of ginger and fennel seeds that seems to calm him for a little while (about a millisecond in colicky baby land). It's damn expensive at Whole Foods, but it makes him feel better. A drop of it on his tongue and he gets this "ooooh, yum. I can stop crying for this..." look. I love that look. I wait all day for that look. But alas, I know it is fleeting and that as soon as the Gripe Water wears off, the griping will start again.

There is also a LOT of spit up in our lives these days. Painful, scream-inducing spit up. Hello, reflux, anyone?! Earlier in his culinary life, I gave up the various foods prone to give breastfeeding babies gas--had to make sure the milkshakes were Ethan-friendly before I served 'em up. No difference. Ah, the mysteries of the infant digestive system.

On Thursday we go for Ethan's 2-month check up. We will be grilling the cute young doctor about colic and reflux and demanding that he earn his damn pay by doing something to make Ethan's little belly feel better. Mommy is getting close to replacing her daily intake of water with gin and tonics and I don't think a "G&T milkshake" is really on Ethan's "acceptable foods" menu.