UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.
So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.
My Newest Suckling Infant May 25, 2007
Meet my new suckling infant; Baby “M”
One day I’ll tell you about the birth of our son. One day I’ll give you all the boring details only a mother needs to share. One day. Today is not that day.
There was only so much I could do for Baby O. I couldn’t teach him how to breath. I couldn’t clear his lungs. Hell, I couldn’t even hold him. But I could try to produce milk and antibodies. And I tried. I AM trying.
It’s not only not going well, there is no chapter in the “Breast Feeding After A Reduction” bible about what to do if your child is in the NICU. Nobody says how to succeed when you can’t even see him. Nobody chapter says what to do when your breasts dry up in four days.
We taunt nursing mothers in public. We lecture them to cover up. We guilt bottle feeding mothers when they purchase formula. But where is everyone at 2AM and your nipples won’t produce anything and you’re in tears?
If a picture is worth a thousand words May 22, 2007
Then I have nothing more to say…
The Short Short Version May 20, 2007
We went to soccer on Friday.
She got a haircut on Saturday.
I had contractions the entire time.
Born via emergency C-section on May 20th at 2:04AM, weighing 5 pounds 15 oz and 19 inches long:
Who now lives in the NICU. We’re hoping he starts breathing better so we can spend some time with him.
I sordof miss my baby belly. At least he was with us all the time.
Hormonal Reflections May 17, 2007
I’ve been thinking a lot during these last few weeks. My thoughts swing from “GET THE DAMN BABY OUT! NOW! OUT OUT OUT!” to “This is the last time my daughter will be an only child.. the last time she’ll get every ounce of my attention; aside from the blog and the laundry and that shiny thing over there, that is.” Lately I’ve been romanticizing every aspect of her tiny little person because look! We made a tiny little person! Who turned out to be pretty damn incredible! Don’t we rock?
We somehow survived those first few months of reflux, screaming, not sleeping. We made it through the first winter with our newborn, we figured out how to feed her, to swaddle her, to get her to sleep. I remember sitting with her in various locations feeding her and telling her I loved her, even though the words landed on an unresponsive baby who couldn’t comprehend what I said any more than I could. I remember those first few months of struggle, telling myself this is what I wanted, I wanted to be a mom, I loved my daughter, I really did. I just wasn’t so convinced at first. I remember the guilt I felt over admitting those feelings and how relieved I was when so many others confessed the same thing.
In thinking back, I’m sad for my first-time-mom self. I’m sad that nobody said it’s OK to cry on the bathroom floor and it’s OK to become so insanely over-protective and it’s OK to bottle feed because your boobs can’t squirt more than three drops of milk. Maybe people were telling me it was OK, I don’t remember, I just remember the loudest voice of all was my own guilt, my own fear, my own self-loathing.
That voice got quieter and my mom voice got a lot louder.
We learned we could still do the same things we loved. We found out it’s so much more fun to go to a park with your child, to watch her swing with such a joy, you think you’re flying. We celebrated her first birthday in awe and relief; somehow we managed to become parents that first year. We took our collective gene-pool and created a person we loved to show off, to let see our places, we let in to our hearts.
We created standards for her life. We collectively pulled together as a team, the parental unit, and came up with a secure home with lots of love and respect but also high expectations. We waited a whole year before letting her try her first beer. We made sure it was classy.
Even during the toddler years, the struggles of being two, the independence that takes a two minute task and turns it in to a three hour event (called “Getting Dressed”), we still somehow found a way to mesh. The three of us make a pretty fine team. She makes us laugh with her expressions. She comes up with stories on her own. She is still incapable of lying and tells on herself almost daily. “LB? What are you doing?” “I’m pooping on the carpet! That’s a NONO!” I respect her honesty.
LB, during the past two and a half years we’ve come a long way together. We fell in love, we conquered the big issues like eating and sleeping. We taught you how to talk and walk and you taught us how to be parents with high standards and a classy kid. You’re someone we can take to your dad’s work and be proud of how well you handle your tiny two-year-old self. We’re proud of how often you choose to listen to us even when we know you’d rather not. We are amazed at how much you can do on your own now and how helpful you are to me during the day. I’m so proud of how well you’ve accepted your new role and how you already set aside one of your favorite stuffed toys for your brother. You already hand me your Yellow Buddy and tell me it’s for Baby O. Your kindness is inspiring. It’s because of all this that I know you’ll be the best big sister ever. It’s because of all this that I know you’ll always be someone we can respect and rely on. It’s because of all of this that I know you’re going to handle doing all of this over again so well. I hope I handle it even better than last time but honestly? It didn’t turn out half bad. And I have you to thank for that.
I love you.
If mad nesting prevents PPD, I’ll be Mary Freaking Popins May 16, 2007
In case you are ever curious why I am not here:
on social awkwardness May 15, 2007
Yesterday when we met Mr. Flinger at lunch (read: Starbucks coffee), the three of us were sitting drinking our allocated beverages when a group of three men about our age walked in. Mr. Flinger stares at one of the men, leans over to me, and whispers, “He went to our High School. I’m sure of it. He graduated in my class.” I was sure he was lying because just three weeks ago he saw Ross Perot at Safeway and two weeks before that, Wade Boggs at Quiznos. So, apparently, a lot of people get “spotted” when out at lunch time with Mr. Flinger.
I’m just saying.
So we stared a little too long at this man who looked only vaguely familiar when I realized OH MAH GAH! I had a huge crush on him! Like, in college! Like, he was, like, TOTALLY hot Freshman Year! And OH MAH GAH! I instantly, like, turn in to, like, a teenager! Because! He’s! Still! Hot!
Mr. Flinger kicked me, mumbled something about him still having his hair and tended to our child while I recovered by saying, “Um, yea, I think I remember him.. his name is Ben.. I remember him.. a little bit…” I threatened to talk to just ask him if he went to our high school. “Uh, don’t do that,” Mr. Flinger begged, “You’ll make us all weird and crap. I didn’t even know him back then.” I try to make it better by saying, “I knew him! I hung out in the same circle freshman year at college. I had friends that had friends of his. I ate lunch NEAR him. He’ll totally remember me.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have made eye contact. Maybe I shouldn’t have said, “Uh, did you go to [ enter hickville high ]? Graduate around 1992? Then go to [ enter tiny town community college here ]? Because I knew you? Your name is Ben, right?”
:: crickets :: the sound of his friends snorting cofee out their noses :: a blender in the background ::
Uh. Right! Because My name is Mrs. Flinger and this is my husband? We both went there, too! And I knew you in college? (Thinking, I was the super hot chick you never dated? Remember?)
Apparently, he did NOT remember.
“So, you live up here now, hu? Yea. It’s nice out. :: cough :: Ahem :: Shuffle :: Well, it was nice seeing you.”
Oh, holy hell, that was painful. Much more than necessary. At least, that’s what I say to Mr. Flinger in hushed tones after they leave. He, on the other hand, thinks it’s exactly how that would’ve played out.
Maybe I’m an optimist. Maybe I am too social for my own good. Maybe I have no fllter when I’m 36 weeks pregnant and don’t give a flying rats ass what people think anymore. Or, maybe, I was raised in the south where if you make eye contact with someone, it’s OK to say something to them and not run in to a hole in the ground like the moles that are bred up here do.
Again, just sayin’.
But when we got home and my expecting neighbors are walking out the door and I rush to “bump” in to them, only missing them by minutes, Mr. Flinger shakes his head, “You’ll never learn will you….”
If learning to never take a chance at making a friend is the lesson here, no, I guess I won’t. But if learning I’m a social freak who tends to make good situations a bit.. awkward.. then why yes! Thank you! I do know that.
I just do it anyway.
Mother’s Day: A summary May 13, 2007
I had a fantastic weekend. Full of all kinds of boring details and sentences that start with “why I love my family” and end with “I had three sips of beer!” Instead of boring you with all the details I’ll cherish for months to come, I’ll just give you the brief overview:
The short short version? Even on the best of weekends, a mom’s job is much the same.
Hope yours was just as wonderful.
Satisfying like a Rice Cake May 12, 2007
When I was a little girl, I had this feeling I would describe as a used-up audio tape.* In my limited understanding of the world at seven years old, I knew enough to use objects to express my feelings to others. So, when I found myself completely dissatisfied with the length of audio one could obtain when using her Fisher Price Tape Recorder, I realized I felt this way sometimes with my life. My poor, pathetic, seven-year-old middle class life. Oh, woah-is-me, I know.
I quickly learned not to tell my Mom I was bored. This usually led to raking the yard or cleaning my room. So to say, “I feel like a used up audio tape,” I was actually saying how completely unsatisfying the day was turning out to be and how even if I tried to rewind and go back, it would just be the same crap I heard before.
I was deep for a seven year old, yes?
I’ve actually thought of this analogy from time to time. Like, now, for example, when I’m sitting here wanting something…. something… but I really couldn’t say what. If I said to you “I’m bored,” you might point to the various projects and the todo list I really should be working on. I would then glare at you and flip you off behind your back like the thirteen year old girl inside me. If I said, “I just want to have my body back,” you’d remind me that I won’t be sleeping for a year or so and there’s a long, hormonal roller coaster waiting at the top of this ride. Wheeee! HORMONES! It’s not as thrilling as it sounds. Trust me.
Some days, like today, I can sift through my music collection and find nothing that fits. I can thumb through the books on my shelf and not find a single thing interesting. I can look in my closet only to sit on the bed and exclaim, “I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR!” (which, as a very large pregnant lady, would be absolutely correct, and not some teenage exaggeration.) Days like today, I feel like I’m missing something… something… but I can’t put a finger on it. Whatever “it” is.
The only comforting part of this feeling is that I know I’ll have it again. And again. Just like I’ve had it before. I guess the lesson here? It doesn’t matter what stage in life you’re in, working mom, single gal, very large-esque pregnant woman; sometimes you just feel like a used-up audio tape.
And that’s ok.
*(I’m sorry, for those of you born after 1988, an audio tape, or cassette if you will, is a magnetic tape that records sound. It’s a lot like VHS. What’s that? VHS? Well, you may be lost on this analogy. I promise to bring back Britney Spears and Paris Hilton for the younger generation.)
His first video May 10, 2007
Little Man will be staying put until the already appointed eviction date. As much as I’d like to kick him out early, I also know I’ll be screaming to put him back in about two weeks later, so I’ll just use this time to freshen up my mad nesting skillz and organize the closets and myriad of children’s clothes he’s already accumulated. We’re all just about ready. We’re putting the final touches on things like “put together cradle” and “wash clothes” and “install car seat.” LB is repeating what happens when mommy goes to the hospital and how she’s a big sister just like Dora. (Including how Boots is also a big sister and will be coming home from the hospital with her baby brother. I let this one go.)
Since we have four weeks until we meet the little man first hand, I’ll be re-watching his Ultrasound Video over and over. Thank god it’s not VHS. I think I’d already ruin the tape by now.
**What you see here is my favorite 2 min segment from our 32 week ultrasound. The gal tickles his back with the wand and he arches in response, then pushes his nose on my uterus, which looks like a screen in the video. He smiles, grins, opens and closes his mouth and then tries to eat the umbilical chord. Yes, I realize it’s nearly impossible to actually get all of that from this tiny video screen, but I assure you, he’s extremely active and completely hilarious. If your his parent, that is. I think shortly after I cut the video off here, he tap-dances and looks directly at the camera and says, “Hey yo!” but I didn’t want to show off or anything.
***You’ll need the quicktime plugin to view it.
Call God or maybe Bruce Lee; the baby is EATING MY BRAIN May 09, 2007
Hi there! Well, hello! I can’t seem to keep my mind focused on one thing longer than .2 seconds, which is not long enough to write a post, mind you, and thus have attempted to write FOUR THOUSAND posts in the last two days, all of which look something like this:
“You know how when….”
“One day I was…..”
“It was a dark and stormy night….”
Ok, no, that last one was the start of my latest best-selling-novel that never got past seven words long. It was a damn fine read, though, in my head.
I’ve started seven projects, three websites, two loads of laundry and a grocery list, all of which remain unfinished. I believe I washed half the kitchen floor, but the kitchen floor runs in to the dining room floor and runs in to the living room floor and that’s just too much floor to wash at one time. So I took a nap instead.
My daughter is loving the new thrilling life we lead. She seems to communicate better with me on this level. “You want to watch Sesame Street?” “Yes!” Three minutes later we’re both bored and unsure of what we were going to do. “How about we go to the park?” “OK!” Five minutes in to packing the bag I’ll remember an email I need to send, which is just fine because she’s now engrossed in a village of little people and unaware we had plans. Thirty minutes after I download six songs from iTunes, start another website and email two people, none of which was the original email I remembered I need to write, I’ll stand up, stretch, and say, “Should we watch Sesame Street?”
She seems to like this new Mommy.
I, on the other hand, am having a hard time remembering to go to the grocery store or, say, shower once a day, which does nothing for one’s social life. It’s funny, at first, this new dizty version of myself that I’m carting around. It’s almost as if I should go back to that year I was blonde, start wearing makeup, and show more cleavage. Instead, I’m waddling around town with my head up my ass, totally unaware that I’ve knocked down three small children (I can’t see you down there, FYI), stepped in a pile of dog crap and clothes-lined some old lady crossing the street.
I have an OB appointment tomorrow. I may ask to move up the C-section if it’s at all possible. I’m no longer asking for myself. I’m asking for the good of all man-kind. And also my shoes.