Vino, Snaps, Bath, and Love

What a day.

By the time Jason arrived home I was so tired of hearing the sound of Storey crying, I think I filed my teeth down a cm or two from all the gritting and grinding. She had better be just about to do something developmentally amazing, because her sleep, day and night, is crap, CRAP I say!

It's sooooooo defeating when your kid is on your lap (for the third time since nap time should have started) screaming, kicking, wailing, arching. Ug. Again, thoughts of failure readily entered my mind. I even had to put a screaming her in her crib and leave the room at one point. I was so angry. At a baby. Angry. I am such a rotten person...

Regardless, when Jason got home, I fixed dinner, then declared that depreciating savings account be dammed, we (I) needed a glass of wine and some ginger snaps. So off I went to the store. Jason gave Storey a bath and when I arrived home, I fed her and then he graciously whisked her away to put her to bed. I married a good man. (God, that's such an understatement...)

Anyways, inspired by the wine, I drew my own bath. A bath that was mine, all mine.

As I soaked, I looked down at my floating self. I weigh less now than I did when Jason and I met. Breastfeeding, lots of walking around town pre and post baby, and eating like 11 little meals per day whenever I can grab something rather than three big ones, has led to me loosing around twenty pounds of pre-baby weight, around thirty-five pounds if you count the bulk the kid added on during pregnancy. That's a lot of me, all gone. But that's actually not what I noticed.

What I noticed was the absence of her. The kid, in utero. The last time I had a bath and had time to brush warm water over my belly, I was pregnant, with Storey. I remember how huge I thought I was, but now that I think of it, there was a KID in there, so I was actually pretty small, considering the kid and all. A KID people. SHE was in there. That's frikkin' CRAZINESS.

Now there's nothin' there. Instead we have a little person. She laughs. She sits up. And yes, she cries. This is the first time I've had a moment to consider the fact that all her little parts, her fingers, hair, eyes, ears, all those parts were there, just waiting, as I floated in the bath, belly cold, protruding out of the water like a hardboiled hen's egg.

That's amazing.
Really amazing.


She's really amazing.

You Are Where You Sleep

Slowly, as Storey recovers from the flu, we've been moving parts of her upstairs nursery to her bedroom downstairs. First the crib, then the dresser, yesterday the changing table. I've started putting her down for naps in that room. I expected her to object, but surprisingly she seems to like it. Eventually, nighttime sleep will occur in there as well. In fact, it's not that she's not ready, but rather more like Jason and I aren't willing to sleep without her in our bed. These connections between us and the girl are oddly powerful. Who would have thought we'd WANT to give up our adult, marital space and delay in taking it back? Not me. But here we are, dragging our feet. We talk about it every few weeks, checking in to see if the other has had a change of heart. "She's still so little." we say. It's that whole thing where half of kids growing up is parents letting them go/grow.

In addition, I'm sure there's some book somewhere that says I should put Storey in her crib awake rather than rock her to sleep. I do both, actually, which then blows all the rules of consistency. But in my opinion, whoever wrote that book, or any book that mandates a single, rigid solution, they've likely missed out on some really wonderful, soft, quiet moments holding their baby, while they were still small and still enough to rock, rock to sleep.

I'll take my chances and continue to indulge. Wouldn't you?

Boob Head

(Hat: The Littlest Nipper from Etsy.com.)

It's funny. Prior to the whole flu thing I started to consider weening Storey early. I had wanted to breastfeed her until at least a year, but at times, nursing, something that seems like it should be naturally easy, has been anything but.

I've always had just enough milk, but no more than what Storey needs. We have no reserve supply for date nights. She's four months old and still nursing every 1.5 - 2 hours around the clock. As those lofty, modern goals of sleeping through the night and having a life kept tugging at my sleeve, I desperately looked for boob-solutions. Rice cereal? Will it stick to her stomach and get her to sleep longer? No, not really. How about herbal tea? Will it double my milk supply as promised? No, not really. Feed more often and more milk will follow? More often? Are you kidding me? Let's just say, some days I've been happy to be her milk cow, others I've just felt like a failure.

Then she and I got this flu.

Amidst the vomiting, the doctor on call at the physician's office meant well when she gave me this advice: "Feed her in smaller amounts every half hour. If she sleeps, don't wake her." It was that last bit that got us in trouble. Storey slept, I didn't wake her, the boobs got full, and even though I pumped, over time my body must have figured she wasn't eating, so she didn't need the milk anymore. Plus, I was dehydrated from being sick myself. I suddenly found myself with a near-dehydrated baby, who wouldn't drink the stupid Pedialyte the doctors kept saying she needed in order to stay out of the hospital, and my milk supply had dwindled down to next to nothing.

Enter, the La Leche League. I called the local league lady and left a teary message. She called me back and told me to camp out, skin-to-skin, in bed for a day or two with Storey, nurse her all the time and my milk would come back. She also said to forget the Pedialyte.

This probably all sounds like common sense. The thing is, I was tired, second-guessing myself, worried and sick, I wanted to do what the doctors said and avoid feeling like I'd screwed-up every possible decision put in front of me. I put my instincts aside, and did what I had hoped was best. Thank goodness the boob-lady set me straight.

I did what she said instead, and it felt right. My milk is back. Storey's thriving. All with no medical/supermarket intervention. From her birth on, Jason and I have had to make choices, discerning between what's medically and commercially available (and often times recommended) for Storey versus what's actually necessary. I'm sure this won't be the last time either.

The ironic thing: once threatened with the possibility that I might not be able to continue to breastfeed her, I wouldn't give it up for anything now. She can eat every hour for all I care (and in fact, she is...)

P.U. The Nasty Flu

Yuck.
First I got it. (Nursing while nauseous then running to the bathroom to puke with baby still at the breast. Priceless.)

Then, while I still had it, she got it. Way worse than I did. Then, Jason got it. Let's just say January's water bill will be steep and we've all totally had it up to here with vomit, headaches, fevers, chills and the like. At one point Storey was so bad we ended up taking her to the emergency room, because for days everything she ate, she threw up tenfold and babies + dehydration = dangerous.

Some of the most difficult moments about having a kid so far came about during this nastiness. There's nothing finer than guessing whether or not you should put your kid through the unpleasant experience of a few nights in a strange hospital bed, needles, IVs and lots of poking and prodding or keep her at home and hope that she's getting and retaining enough fluid. I've never doubted myself so much in my life. We opted for the stay at home, cross your fingers and wait it out route, but not without a lot of tears and sleepless nights (and of course, those were mine, not the kid's).

It's been a full seven days already and she's still blowin' out the bottom end, but is slowly getting her strength back. Yesterday she decided that as testament to her recovery she was going to start sitting up on her own. What a big kid! Look at her, all peaked and upright. Yes, she'll be doing a face-plant on the hardwood soon enough.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaay

Storey has always been a thumb-pacified baby. Once or twice, in desperation, we even tried to introduce a pacifier. She hated it. Hated various different models. Hated all of them. How dare we offer something other than a thumb or boob?

So, our thumbs have been her friend, her comfort, her security. They've put her to sleep every night, helped soothe her stomach after every feeding, dried her tears when scared and kept her quiet in the checkout line at the grocery store. There's convenience built into this approach. Thumbs never fall on the floor and get dirty. They never get gummy, never need replaced, and YOU get to decide when to take them away.

Ah, yes, the thumbs rocked. Up until a week or so ago.

Anything in excess causes problems I suppose. Looking back, I think we might have over pacified things a bit. Any grunt, cry, whine, fuss and wapam! friend thumb would appear. Having every little complaint met with comfort was fine for the first few months, but then Storey started to form her own little personality and test the amount of control she had over her environment. This became most apparent when our dear sweet baby found a voice and started shouting at us, really shouting. Not crying, shouting, like, "HEY!" Yes, shouting for the thumb. Downright bratty.

And so, thus began the Era of Thumb-Weening. Immediately. I don't do well being shouted at by anyone, let alone a baby. Babies turn into toddlers who turn into kids who turn into teens and then adults. Bottom line, we want her to feel loved, but loved does not = entitled. Better to let her know now that that's not how we do things.

The first night she cried for 34 minutes. The second, 10. Last night 3, then after every middle-of-the-night feeding, she soothed herself to sleep without a peep. Today's noontime nap: just a whimper and then zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I'm so proud of her. Our big girl. She turned 4 months old yesterday. What a hard won but victorious birthday present. The Fonz, I know, would approve.

Not So Fresh

P.U. Babies stink. Or at least our baby stinks.

She naps, and wakes, kicks and coos and I go up to say "Hi baby!" and feed her. I lift the blankets that cover her, and pweeeeew! Baby dutch oven! She's been laying up there, tooting away, making a baby stink bomb just for me.

Gross.

Fresh

You're looking at a baby about to breathe fresh air. Oh dear.

The past few days we've had a break in the weather. It's been around 60 degrees with a nice pleasant wind to stir up the stagnant winter air. I opened the windows, strapped the kid in the Bjorn and headed out into town.

At a crosswalk, an older woman addressed me. Not with, "Hello", "Good morning", "Nice baby" or "Ugly shirt" even. No, instead she hissed, "Your baby is going to get sick from the wind in its face." Oh.

This has happened more than once. Apparently babies shouldn't leave the house before the age of one. Apparently they shouldn't feel sunshine on their face. And they most certainly should not inhale fresh, warm air traveling at any speed other than zero. The sling I carry her in when not using the Bjorn will certainly hurt her back and if not wearing pink she MUST be a boy. MUST.

What I wanted to say in return to the windy lady was not nice. I wanted to tell her thank goodness she was out walking at the same time we were. Otherwise how would I've ever known how to mother my own child? Or, how about, well, maybe if you stick your face in her face a bit more and breathe a little more on her she'll develop immunities to all the germs flapping about in the wind.

I didn't say those things. I did make a mental note to self, that when I'm older and Storey is grown, I'm to walk up to strangers with children and comment only on the ugliness of their shirt ~ nothing more.

Maestro, A Little Shower Music Please

O.K. I'm a parent, therefore I've become weird.

This morning I'm in the shower and Storey's in the magnificent Lights, Sounds and Music swing we borrowed from our friend Lisa that buys me about 4 minutes to clean myself, dry and dress each day. Then suddenly, above the sound of water I hear a burst of canned midi music, the kind the swing only makes if someone pulls on a ring that dangles from the top bar. This can only mean that Storey has accomplished a very exciting milestone! I look out, mid-shower, and ta-da! She's did it! All by herself!

Listen people, this is no easy feat. The swing is moving, the ring is swinging, and there's a limit to how much arm and hand control one has as a baby. Her arm to head proportion/ ratio is right up there with that of a T-rex for crying out loud.

Anyways, here's where I become weird: I get so excited as I watch her repeatedly cycle through a variety of midi tunes and lights, I cheer, "Yay!" at her, a floating head popping out from behind yellow plastic curtain. Then, I decide I must have a photo before this amazingness ends! I turn off the water and run half-naked and dripping wet to get the camera and hide outside the bathroom door, snapping photo after photo discretely as to not interupt her extreme genius.

Whatever. I know.
But I called Jason at work and told him, and he was all "Yay!" so at least I'm not alone in my weirdness.