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.

2007

What a year.

I had a baby.
And my mom had a brain aneurysm.
I think, in general, a new life tends to breathe new life into the lives of the living.
And really, who doesn't benefit from a little new life now and then...

On November 30th my mom was putting gas in the car on her way out to see Storey and I. She lost her balance, fell to the ground, got up, drove home and threw up in the driveway. My dad called to let me know that she wasn't coming out - something about her ankle hurting from the fall. I hung up, then called back. Something wasn't right about her falling and throwing up. My mom is never sick. I remembered seeing somewhere that dizziness/fainting and nausea are the two most common signs of stroke or heart attack in women. Dad said her head had started to hurt and they were on their way to the hospital. 50% don't make it this far.

They get to the ER. The doctors there do a CAT scan. She's got a brain aneurysm that's ruptured. They life-flight her to the Cleveland Clinic. We wait through what was the longest night ever as they figure out how to fix what's happened.

The next day, December 1st, mom had brain surgery. Of the 50% that make it to the hospital, only about half survive to see the operating table. A man named Shaye Moskowitz performed surgery, filling my mom's aneurysm with tiny threads of platinum, saving her life. Something he's likely done many times in his career. Something that meant everything to our family. Jason proposes that each year, on December 1st, we toast Shaye, thanking him. I say, if we have a second child and it's a boy, Shaye is an excellent name to keep in mind. Either way, neither gesture is thanks enough for what he and the others who cared for my mom have done. They're why my mom is still here today. They're why Storey gets to grow up enjoying two grandmas. They're why I get to be a mom but still be a daughter. It's painfully overwhelming to think of life otherwise and I guess I've been made to think about it a lot these past few weeks. Of the 25% that survive to undergo surgery, two thirds survive the surgery itself.

My mom spent less than a week in ICU. I think by the 8th of December she was discharged to Metro for therapy. This past Tuesday, the 18th, she returned home. Overall, she had roughly a 16% chance of surviving what happened and an 8% chance of surviving without serious disability.

My mom is amazing.
We're all amazingly lucky.







They're beautiful together aren't they?

Privileges

I finally finished a book I've been reading called Baby Catcher: Chronicles of a Modern Midwife by Peggy Vincent. This memoir detailing 40 some years of delivering babies made me cry more times than I could count. It also left me with a feeling of profound gratefulness that I delivered Storey the way in which I did, with the support that I was lucky enough to have, and that the result was a healthy, happy baby. Such is not the case for everyone.

Birthing a little person is so strange. On one hand, it's happened everyday to thousands of women for thousands of years. Part of life. On the other, it's such an amazing gift. Such a privilege, to be someone's mother.

Sideburns Baby!

Ahh, the holidays...
Just when things are approaching normalcy (sleep, eating, smiles), family visits, visiting family, car rides and late night bedtimes throw a baby's life into delightful chaos. I do mean delightful though. Sure, I have a cold, am back to feeding every 1.5 hours around the clock, grabbing 45 minutes chunks of sleep at night, and sigh in resignation at our whiny girl who only wants Mama lately - however...

The trade-off: the pleasure of watching Jason's mom coo back and forth with our girl, spending time getting to know his cousin's teenage daughter and her tattooed & pierced boyfriend, helping oneself to two pieces of Uncle Dylan's awesome pecan pie (yum dammit!), and sharing baby photos of Uncle Wes around the table at his 16th birthday party.

The latter happened really fast... when did he become this furry young man?

Sleepy Bees

She was playing away, talking to her bee, having grand old time, for nearly an hour. Then suddenly, silence. I look over, and...

Hands Are Amazing

Who knew? But they really are. Storey will sit for ages looking at her own hand, turning it this way and that, making it do what our hand is doing, grabbing our hand and moving it over here, over there. Hands are amazing.

Yum

She's nearly sleeping through the night, loves to play, chatter and flirt and saves all her poop for one day out of very six or seven. One, some or all of these developments are making for a very sweet and happy baby. Don'tcha just want to eat her up?

Big, Big Things

Bath photos must be shared. They are so happy. We LOVE the bath. There's lots of grinning and laughing and cheery conversation going on in there every evening. It's a party.

On a more prickly note, today was Storey's two-month checkup at the doctor's. She got her first round of shots. I cried. So did she. But at least I negotiated the number from six down to three. It was sad. But we both got over it, indulging in an afternoon of just napping and nursing. Could we have had a better excuse?

The rest of the doctor's visit was super though. Storey got to share with the doc all the big girl things that she can do. She impressed the hell out of everyone. Holding her head up, grabbing at things, wiggling, sucking fist, staring at fist while it zooms in and out via arm, standing, tracking moving objects and people, whipping head around to follow mama and her voice where ever she goes, babbling and smiling and laughing away at everyone. These are all signs of absolute genius at two months, of course.

Never mind that she needs assistance washing her bum. She's well on her way to big, big things. Right after her bath.

Lucky Ducks

Yesterday was really grand. First Storey gifted me a 35-minute scream-free car ride out to my folks' house. Then she bestowed lots and lots of smiles, grins and dancing on my mom, who of course can't get enough. A peaceful nap followed while the two of us enjoyed a nice lunch and chatted. Next we headed off to my dad's workplace, where the girl smiled and flirted with the wonderful ladies he works with.

But best of all was the visit with my Grandma; Storey's Great Grandma. (What a lucky duck - she actually has three Great Grandparents!)

My Grandma Ginny is 85. She lives with my Grandpa about 5 minutes from my folks' house. She is one swell lady. Anytime we were sick as kids she'd stay with us, fix us her famous pot roast or Apple Betty, or my brother Dylan's favorite, cottage cheese on toast with black pepper sprinkled on top. We'd watch Price Is Right, then her "stories" and when we'd feel up to it, she'd play a rousing game or two of Aggravation and beat our pants off every time. She's a lady of many hugs and by example has taught us that often it's best to just have a good laugh over whatever life might bring. She has Alzheimer's now, but that didn't keep her from remembering Storey, and in turn, my girl saved the biggest smiles, best stories, and happiest coos for her Great Grandma. The two of them sat chatting for longer than I've ever seen Storey do before. I couldn't bring myself to post the photos of my Grandma gazing at my baby's face while she slept sweetly on her lap. It's a memory I'll keep close however, and share with her when she's older.

The ride home and a last minute trip to the grocery store were fussy-free as well. We couldn't have asked for a better day. Our girl's growing up. It's something to see her start to take in the world - and give back to it as well.

Little Birdies in the Bath

What's funnier than a pear-shaped, pudgy baby in the bath, flippin' all the bird because bath time's over?

Were you a Good Witch or a Bad Witch?

My guess is that there are two audiences that tend to ask what your child was like when they were a new baby: new mamas and, at some point, your own child. I've wondered how I'll answer that question on more than one occasion and I've noticed that, over time, my answer seems to change right along with our growing girl. The older she gets, the easier it gets - of course. So lately, I feel my answer morphing into regarding Storey as being an easy baby - because lately, that's starting to be the case.

Oddly enough, what I don't want to do though, is forget the hard times. The loss and redefinition of self, the inevitable stress on our gratefully solid marriage, the trial and error attempts at soothing, the lack of sleep, the sometimes constant fussing and screaming and the sight of her grumpy little face has been just down right hard in these early weeks. Really.

Not that I plan on telling Storey that she was a difficult baby, but especially if a new mama asks me, I don't want the patience, support, tears and triumphs to go forgotten in the haze of that all-too-cheery selective memory mamas of older babies sometimes seem to develop.

Bottom line, taking care of a small infant 24-7 has been one of the hardest things I've ever done. But, I will say that when I see the little person that's emerging due to our Herculean efforts, it's way, way worth it.

Mad, Mad, MAD!

Storey spent last week smiling, cooing, laughing, flirting. She was sleeping in regular intervals and eating at a rate that allowed me to complete a small task or two in between. Then...over the weekend...some other baby arrived in her place again.

Our smiling, cooing lovey has turned into Lou Ferrigno, crying inconsolably, kicking, resisting sleep, eating every 12.2 minutes... turning green and ripping her clothes off at the seams. (Hulk mad! You make Hulk angry! Very angry! Rarrrr!)

It would be really funny if after she came out of it she'd give us a bewildered David Banner monolog, wondering about the cars she overturned and trees she uprooted during her time as her nasty green self.

Make New Friends

Storey's only 6 weeks old or so, and already she has what must be her dearest friends. 10 of them to be exact. There were 12 - Rat Ox Tiger Hare Dragon Snake Horse Sheep Monkey Rooster Dog Boar - but two of them must have met some demise before coming to hang blessedly over her changing table.

This mobile was one of my most favorite of items inherited from my mentor the first year I taught Third Grade. Now it's Storey's most favorite item (in the world). She can be screaming, totally inconsolable, and if we take her to see her friends, poof! she starts smiling, cooing, laughing, dancing. We say, "Look! There's your friends!" and the madness ends, joy begins.

Like I've said in previous posts, it's a lucky thing to have such great friends.