Happy Baby, Maniacal Baby

It's a fine line.

Give Me a Hand. They're Like Magic.

When my best friend had children while I was desperately hoping for my own, I was taken by the innocence with which her children grabbed her shirt, her face.  The surity with which they touched her skin anywhere, without inhibitions.  I would lie in bed and feel jealousy over those hands, the special relationship they had with the mother. 

Baby hands. The chubby, grimy, inifinitely sweet hands of my sweet children stop me in my tracks. I think all moms have a body part. The part that they swoon for, the part that melts their hearts.  The hands get me.  Special K grabbing the neck of my shirt while he nurses, Ell asking to hold my hand, certain it will be waiting for him, Brooklyn rubbing my chest as she quiets for sleep.  Nothing  else makes me feel more a mom. 

Now that I think of it, nothing made me feel closer to my own mom.  Her hands were always cool, soft and comforting.  That touch could wipe away pain. My sister's hands are petite, slim, graceful.  My Nanny's hands were wrinkled, gentle, powdery soft.  So maybe I just like hands.  The power of touch.  I think we don't touch enough, there is much comfort to be found, but so much exposure, too.  Maybe that's the magic of a child's touch, the certainty of comfort found in simply reaching out to someone they trust.  AND. . . like most other things, the lessons we need to learn often come from the smallest among us. 

 

Special K's hands in action.  He puts them together now and it calms him and I love it.

 

Holding tightly to the edge of his swaddle.  That grasp.

Returning to Work. And a Gift

Yep.  I'm back at work.  Full-time.  With three children.  Whoop.  I get the standard questions that I have no idea how to answer:  are you glad to be back at work? how is it leaving your baby?  how is it going with three kids?

Here's the truth.  There are days that leaving my babies really, really bites the big one.  BUT most days it is just fine.  It is rewarding to me to have quiet moments where I'm only worrying about myself and not three (four, if you count the husband) other people.  I feel like that statement exposes the dark underbelly of parenting, but I promised the truth.  So it's a conundrum--I miss my kids like crazy during the day but am also thankful for moments to myself (hello, using the bathroom without an audience).  I also know they are in good, safe hands, where, true story, Brooklyn didn't want to leave yesterday (that broke my heart just a wee bit).

The other odd thing is that I am way more tired back at work than during maternity leave.  I got a nap all but 3, maybe 4, days of my leave, which kept me sane.  Unfortch, nap time isn't included in my workday, but if you know my employer, put in a good word for it, m'kay?  So there you have it.  Not always pretty, but it's a pretty good life.  Even better (this is where the gift comes in) is that the tiniest of my tribe has been sleeping from 8:30ish until 3:30-4:00am.  That's seven hours, my friends.  Seven hours, roughly three of which I am not sleeping, but still, of sleep.  Seriously amazing.  I think it took Elliott six months for that feat, so gift for mom, indeed. 

Wishing you all health, happiness and controlled chaos. 

Two Months of Lurve

10 months of shock has led to 2 months of joy, exhaustion and a lot of screaming (the baby, not me).  I wasn't sure I really wanted a third baby or that I would love him, but let me tell you that as he takes his (relatively) large hands and grasps the neck of my shirt and holds on or flashes a gummy grin or his special baby scent floods my nose during those late night feeding sessions, love him I do.  Following the trend of his brother and sister, he is skinny--10 pounds, 8 ounces--in the 10th percentile, but fear not because he has a giant noggin like his brother--95th percentile and is 24.25 inches long, the 75th percentile.  Now that we know I make skinny babies there is less cause for alarm, more embracing of this special soul in which we have been entrusted.  Did I mention he's phenomenally cute? Yep.  See for yourself.  AND he's meeting all his milestones.  Rolling, smiling and cooing.

Cheese.

Mommy caught some of those elusive smiles for the picture books.  On my phone.  Don't judge.

I Love a Good Sale

It's basically in my genes.  My mom hasn't paid full price for something since at least 1979, likely before, and is a genius at hunting down a good deal.  It's an obsession, an addiction, and something at which she excels.   I believe she learned this from her mother, my Nanny.  So it's a family legacy is what I'm trying to say. 

Most of the time I am letting the family legacy down, I am more of an on-line shopper, forsaking fashion for comfort unless my mom decides to tell me what to wear or give me her hand-me-downs.  BUT I am a huge fan of the consignment sale.  HUGE.FAN.  I knocked out most of Ell's winter wardrobe today.  I say most because my mom and I are headed back tomorrow because its 50% off day.  The words "fifty-percent off" make me all jittery and hand-flapping excited because I can smell a bargain.  Today it was Calvin Klein jeans for $5 and a Ralph Lauren TCU purple long-sleeved polo for $8.  Tomorrow--I venture into the baby section.  And maybe, just maybe, the GIRLS' section. 

The joy of a bargain totally overcomes my desire to hibernate.  It's intense. 

I am Prepared.

In my head, I am nesting.  It's true.  In reality?  Nope.  Unless you count my husband bringing down the one box of newborn boys clothes we have currently.  And those are still in the garage.  Unwashed from when they were packed away two years ago and G$ wore them.  And these are only the clothes my sister deemed possibly unisex.

Newborn diapers?  Nope.
Coming home outfit?  Nada.
Pre-registered for the hospital?  NO. (this is one of my more brilliant choices)
Crib bedding?  Huh-unh.

I am prepared.  Poor third baby.

Freedom of Speech?

There is an unspoken horror to being pregnant.  It is the freedom with which people choose to comment on your size, the baby's name, how you should parent, and on an on.

This week?  The receptionist at my OB's office said in confusion, "You're not due until September?! And it's just one?  Hey, Suzie--Look, she's not due until September!"   A parent of patient said something along the lines of, "That baby is really growing! I'm surprised you're still getting around so well!"

Both times, I stuttered and stammered to explain that's what happens when you're pregnant with your third child  only 7 months after your second.  I'm not good on the spot.

Take away lessons:
*Only comment on announced pregnancies--nothing worse that being asked when baby is due when baby is 4 months old.
*The ONLY acceptable comment to someone's pregnant belly is, "You look GREAT."r

Candidate for MOY*--That's Me.

Remember how I said that Brook-Brook was on a sleeping strike?  Monday we had it confirmed that no, she's not just rebelling, she has strep throat and a double ear infection.  This is one of those moments that you realize that parenting is full of ups and downs, and just like when your child yells in a public bathroom, "You poopin', Mommy?" this is one of the 'downs.'

I am happy to report she's back to her happy, clapping, paci-sharing self today.  And went to sleep with no issue.  Antibiotics saved the day on this one.  

*MOY=Mom of the Year

She's a Rebel.

It got real today.  The sweet child of mine who has peacefully slept without issue the majority of her short 10 months is rebelling.  Sleep is over-rated in Brooklyn's book.  Over-rated for the past three days.  My assumption is that she would much rather be pulling my ear, sharing her paci or just generally being held while sleeping rather than rest peacefully in her crib.  What's the harm, one might ask?

The result:

She's a delicate flower full of modesty, just like her mom.    And I don't know what it means that she looks more like me when she's crying.

Baby Stuff is 'Spensive, Y'all

It is easy to get swept away in the romantic pretty-making of decorating a nursery.  I get that.  My sister sent me a link to this bedding today.  Yep.  You read that right--free shipping on a crib set for only $494!

If there's one thing that parenting has taught me, spending that kind of money for something that will be used for around two years and thrown up upon, shat upon, and peed upon is a bit foolish.  Did that stop me from wanting the $375 stroller this weekend?  Nope.  I didn't say I wasn't a fool.  I'm just a fool whose income doesn't allow for such luxuries. . . otherwise . . . there would at least be a great internal debate.

Lazy Bargain Hunting

A bargain is a total rush for me.  But I also really don't love to have to work for a bargain.  I'm lazy.  Lazy and cheap.  Sometimes this works in my favor, mostly by accident.  I'm convinced that the huge consignment sales are geared to me--I'm the perfect customer.

With the impending arrival of Jose (Tres, for some), came the realization we need just a couple of important items--a double stroller and a pack-and-play.  And y'all, it's consignment season.  I hit two today.  Despite my $8 entrance fee ($5 for parking and $3 for shopping), the first stop was a bust.  I had sweet Brook-Brook with me and one look at the lack of furniture and then no stroller that was fitting, along with the line wrapped around the room convinced me to cut my losses.

Enter sale number 2.  Turns out that many were swayed by the lure of the big sale and the smaller one was calm and fully stocked.  Ha!  There it was, the double stroller.  One hundred dollars cheaper than retail.

It has a little bit of wear and tear, the seats need to be cleaned up, but it will accommodate an infant seat and sweet Brook-Brook with no problemo.  Now, it's not the uber-fancy stroller that I took for a test drive today in buybuy Baby, but remember how I'm cheap?  Yeah.  So the price tag of $375 +tax, I had to walk away from that five-foot long dream monstrosity.

To top off the score, I got some adorbs hairbows on super-sale, 3 pieces of work-worthy maternity clothes for $12, 2 cute polos for the Ell-monster for $5, a Hanna Andersson dress for $6 and a couple of other fab spring outfits for next year for B-B.  

It was a successful day. . . until I spent 20 minutes wrestling that damned amazing stroller into my car because I couldn't figure out how to make it fold up.  I kept hoping someone would take pity on me and come to help, but no such luck.  I think I don't look pregnant enough yet.  I mean, because people are much more likely to help a super-pregnant lady, right?

Run-Away Day. . .or Life

Sometimes life gets away from you.  You're all, we make dinner, we save money, look at our kids, aren't they great?  Then the universe slaps you back into reality--you know, unplanned pregnancy (at 35) and then chronic exhaustion, husband has to work late, three doctor appointments in one day (we're all fine, don't worry) and you are back in check.  Hell, I was even behind on reading my blogs.

Now I'm all, there are piles of laundry everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, endless whining of a three-year old, we ran out of homemade baby food, and had to order in 2 times this week out of necessity.

(As for the 3 doctor appointments, B had a follow-up GI appointment (she's doing great), I had an OB appointment, Jose [Baby Three], is doing well and then Brooklyn had a visit with the pediatrician because she's got a cold/ear infection. So nothing major, but it was quite a day).

I get it Universe.  I get it.  Consider me warned.

Three Year Old Logic

Ell:  Mommy, you got a baby in your tummy?

Me:  Yes, I do.

Ell:  Why? (he asks this of everything0

Me:  I just do.

Ell:  It's Minnie's baby.

Me:  Noooo, it's not Minnie's baby. (said through church giggles)

Ell:  Why?

Me:  (stumped)

Blocked by the Big Decisions.

I think I have Blogging-Block.  I have brilliant blogging topic ideas while laying in bed or making a sandwich, but sit down to write and. . . nothing.  For serious.  Or the ideas that come to mind are dumb.  Uninteresting.

The current status of my life is diapers, making formula, working, saying "wait" to one child or the other about 50x per day, rinse and repeat.  The current hot topic for Chris and me is if we will be forced to buy a new vehicle.  You see, the back seat of his truck is pretty small, especially with two carseats.  Add a third?  Ha.  Well, it turns out that there is a super-skinny, super-safe, super-expensive carseat on the market that might make fitting three carseats in his truck a reality.  I say expensive, but compared to purchasing a new-to-us vehicle, there is no comparison.  See?  This is why I have Blogging-Block.  The sheer excitement is too much.

Keep your fingers crossed those darn carseats will fit.  I mean, I'm ready to be a mini-mama, but would rather not incur yet another payment to make.

Yep. They are Related.

Everyone wants to know who a baby most resembles.  At 8 months old, I still see so much of my husband in Brook-Brook, but there is definitely no denying she and the Ell-Monster are related.  Let's do a side-by-side and see what you think:

Let's Get Real

I'm all for being honest.  Most of the working moms I know talk about how much of a disaster zone their home is--to the point where we won't see each other in our respective homes because of the mess.  I told two of my friends today that if I'm waiting for my house to be perfect, I may never see them again.  I need to get over my mom's voice in my head that a mess makes it unacceptable to have anyone enter my door.  So here's my attempt at transparency.  It's okay.  You can judge.  And let it be known that my house looks this way and I still choose to do things like write a blog post, take a nap (if it's the weekend) and create a huge mess of popcorn and chocolate for little Christmas goodies.  Smart?  Likely no.  I'm just surviving--knowing there are things more important than folding laundry when I get a scant 2 hours per day with my kiddos during the work week and that by the time they are in bed, I am toast.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not one of those perfect moms.  I know I'm not the only one.  I'm definitely not like a co-worker of mine who told me, quite seriously, that she doesn't check her email or have a Facebook account because those things would have her waste time.  So if you're all for wasting time on the interwebs while unfolded laundry takes over your house, CHEERS!  Now be brave and post about your own unfinished chores.  Let's live a little and show that a little mess doesn't matter in the scheme of things.  

And some baby cuteness.  Actually, I can't decide if I like this squenched up face she is making, but the picture makes me smile, so I'll include it.  

And finally, if you were wondering how Chris and I look gussied up, here's a pic from my company Holiday Party that happened to be on my birthday Birthday Bash!

I'm THAT Mom

I'm that mom.  I gave my baby juice in a bottle today.  Yep.  Totally true.  I need that girl to poop.  I need it so much that I'm that trashy mom.  The juice isn't even diluted, peeps.

Making the Switch

So today I'm waxing poetic on exercising my parental rights.  I mean, seriously, aren't we conditioned to think that the words of a doctor are just to the right of God?  Right?  In my world growing up, doctors were pretty fancy, not people who moved in our social circles or went to church with us.  Heck, there wasn't even a doctor in the nearest 4 towns until sometime around the year 2000.

But I'm on a roll, y'all.  Granted, the roll is moving at a snail's pace, but I've moved on from 3 different doctors in less than 3 years since I've been a parent and I feel like a rebel.  (You can laugh, I know I'm not really a rebel.)  I made the call and cut the ties with the third doc today. . . I write that like I marched into his office and gave him what-for and fired him.  Yeah.  That didn't happen.  I just followed my instincts and called another ENT for my Monkey.  Old ENT none-the-wiser, but mama feels a whole lot better.

I guess the point of this post is to say, do it. If something doesn't feel right, don't swallow it and think that maybe you are blowing things out of proportion or are being too sensitive or expecting too much.  What I've forced myself to think?  The doctors once so infallible?  I realize now that they work for us.

The "You Should Switch Doctors IF _____" list 

(in the vein of Jeff Foxworthy's "You might be a redneck if. . .")

1. You tell the pediatrician that your child might have reflux because there is spit up on every.single.item. in your home.  About 50x per day and the doctor responds, "Oh, that's NOTHING!  My sons were way worse than that!"  Not. Helpful.
2. You get into the car after an appointment and burst into tears because the doctor made you feel worse instead of better about something.
3. The doctor is in the examination room for less than 8 minutes while discussing a surgical procedure (albeit small) on your CHILD.
4. Questions feel like an imposition.  You know, like if you ask questions you are somehow implying they don't know anything when really you just want to make sure every possibility has been explored because, I don't know, it's your CHILD?
5. Diagnoses don't come with a discussion.  Like when the specialist looks at the notes and says, matter of factly, "Oh, so we have a purple-horned unicorn disease here" with no respect or concern that purple-horned unicorn implies that there is something seriously going on with your child that perhaps you've missed until now.  
6. Even though you explain that you actually have experience in child development, the answer is "hmm" and then they move on to the next topic.
7. If you call because the plan suggested by the doctor is leading to a side effect, say stopping up of 'pipes,' suggesting a small explosive to clear the clog might be failing to individualize care.  
8. Not to say appearances are everything, they aren't, BUT there comes the realization that every doctor is getting the same reimbursement from insurances.  So when you are a factory for small surgical procedures,say, removing purple horns from unicorns, and your office hasn't been updated since 1986, I wonder where the money is going.  I'm guessing it isn't being invested in state-of-the-art equipment. . . or even state-of-the-decade equipment.
9. The office staff is rude.  If you forget your insurance card, yet everything on file is current and they still threaten to cancel your appointment, then chances are they hate their job.  
10. You feel rushed.  Last time I checked, doctors are still part of the helping professions.  Helping takes at least two people to be involved.  Every family is different.  Every body is different.  Of all people, a doctor should know that.  Minimizing my child's difficulties because there are kids much worse off doesn't make me feel anything but neurotic and pushed aside.  I am there because I'm worried about my kid and health and well-being, how this will affect them later-- and on and on.  And the thing is?  I want the doctor to be worried about my kid, above all else, in that moment, too.  

I'm confident and brave enough to say that if my needs aren't met, I'm out.  Sionara.  Check ya.  

Privacy?

Our house has no privacy.  None.  It's a good thing that my husband still loves me after witnessing me birthing two darling children, because there are horrific moments when he's seen me pee.  On the toilet.  Which makes me think our marriage is doomed just like Janene Garafolo's character proclaims her parents' to be in the ultimate 90s movie, Reality Bites.

All of this is to say that my. . . ahem. . .you know. . .my period is back.  Shh.  This makes me blush like an 8th grader.  I promise that I only share this news for the purpose of humor.  My child is the epitome of curiosity.  For the first time in what I am sure will be a long, long tradition--I stumbled over the answers to his questions.  Stuttered.  Sputtered.

"What dat, Mommy?  What dat?  Dat for me?"

"Uh. . . it's for mommies.  It's just. . .a. . .thing."

"What for, Mommy?"

Silence.

"What for, Mommy?"

Now I know why my mom used to say things like, "I just want to poop in peace."  No 2 1/2 year old BOY is ready for the truth about tampons.