Evolution

When I started this blog, I planned to be witty and profound, writing on everything from food to politics. There are some embarrassing early attempts in the archives, which I won't link to. You can dig if you want. I realized that there was a glut of political bloggers who did it a thousand times better than me; same for the food; same for the pop culture. I floundered around for topics. I read lots of blogs. I became hooked first on Amalah. Like heroin hooked. She led me to Miss Zoot and Her Bad Mother and Dooce and Sweet Juniper and so many others that were writing eloquent, hilarious, tear-jerking, dark, sweet, outrageous, and amazing things about just being themselves as parents. The term mommyblogger (or daddyblogger, as the case may be) seems to me a derogatory, minimizing term to these wonderful writers, yet they embrace it, own it, write it, inspire it. These were the blogs I went back to, over and over, for smiles, tears, humbling inspiration.

You're always supposed to write what you know. So my blog evolved into tales of neighborhood snow shovel thievery, life on the Hill, the documentation of our endless house renovation, my ballooning belly, and the baby. Oh, this baby. My universe both shrunk and grew to consist of six pounds, six ounces of pure, astonishing tiny life and boundless love. I have struggled to find the words to say it all, but have found again what I know, what I love, what to write about. I am trying to embrace this, to make it as good as the other writers I admire have made it.

***

I always said I wasn't a baby person. I never wanted to hold them. They might spit up or something - ewww. When I waited tables in a restaurant in high school, the other girls were always oohing and aahing over the "baby tables" when allegedly cute babies came in. I just rolled my eyes, and hoped for a good tip for the inevitable mess. I always liked older children better. They talked, you knew what they wanted, you could run around with them, and roughhouse, and play games and read, and discuss things. Ages three and up were much more my speed. I used to joke with my friend Janine that I wanted to hatch a fully-formed five-year old. Who needs babies?

Then I had Helene. Suddenly, I got it. I understood the awesome fragility and power coexisting in a tiny newborn. I was attracted like a magnet to other little babies that I saw in the store and on the street. I wrote crazy, hormone-fueled sappy entries like this. And this. I mourn for all of the so-quickly passing baby stages at the same time that I revere each new and wonderful thing she does each day.

Now that Helene is nearly eight (8!) months old, it's surprisingly hard to recall exactly her newborn-ness. We visited and held the week-old baby of friends over the weekend, and we were amazed at all we had forgotten. You have to support their head! They barely open their eyes! Was Helene really this tiny? Yet what we remember is being just as fascinated with her then (Look! Her eyes are open....oh, maybe not...wait, I think she pooped.) as we are now (She's rolling! She's scooting! She's almost crawling! She wants to jump! I think she said "Dada!"). She is perpetually wondrous to us.

***
I hadn't bought shoes since Helene was born. I went almost EIGHT MONTHS without buying shoes. Nearly THREE QUARTERS of a year. Anyone who has seen my closet and my Zappo's account knows there was some kind of catastrophic tremor set off in the universe somewhere by such an unprecedented occurrence. I did buy several pairs right before she was born, in an insane frenzy of Trying To Feel Pretty When I Really Feel Like A Bloated Hippo, mistakenly believing (a) that the shoes would still fit on my "oh, they're not that swollen" nine-month pregnant feet; and (b) that in my temporary career as a stay-at-home mom I would be wearing those sleek kitten-heel, pointy toe, glove-soft brown leather boots all the time (they were worn exactly once, to the exactly one baby-free fancy dinner we've been to since Helene's birth). My "mom" shoes thus far have consisted of: clogs, running shoes. Uhhh, yeah. Oh! And black leather ballet flats when I'm really fancy! I dug out the Keens and flip flops to update for the summer. And then I went ALL OUT a couple of weeks ago and bought some flat leather sandals, because for some reason, I found it hard to schlep the baby and all assorted baby gear over uneven brick sidewalks in all the summer sandals of my previous life that all have no heel shorter than 2 inches. How did I wear all those heels? How did I walk in them all the time? What the hell was I doing?

There is a thin layer of dust on many pairs of fabulous shoes in my closet.

***

I was sure that I would be one of those moms who was ready to go back to work, antsy at home, ready to jump back into the sheer, heady power of being a mid-level beareaucrat (kidding on that last one here). The truth is that I don't miss work at all. I wish I didn't have to go back. I love the freedom from sitting in an office in front of a computer all day. I love walking all over our neighborhood with Helene. I love getting to know all of the other mamas and babies. Yes, it would be nice to have some adult time, where I do get to wear the aforementioned heels, and dress up, and go to places that don't have high chairs and changing tables. Yes, I do get bored sometimes by reading the same books over and over, or by trying to entertain a fussy baby for just one half-hour more until Papa gets home! Papa, where the eff ARE YOU??? I love this life, where I am usually the first person Helene sees when she wakes, giving me a gentian-eyed bright smile; where I go for a run at the Arboretum while the baby naps in the jogger, and my glutes get some extra work pushing the stroller up all those hills, and I stretch in the shade of a garden, while Helene plays on the grass; where I put her in the Ergo and get coffee around the corner, and the shopkeepers smile and coo at my baby who smiles and coos back; where I have made wonderful new friends, and we get together and watch our babies try to pull each others' hair and gnaw on each others' toes; where I stroll on Monday evenings to get our farm share, and come home to wash and cook vegetables, while the baby bounces in her jumper, and bounces more and flails her arms and says "ooh!" when Seth comes home. I have gotten used to this life, and I don't want to surrender it. My reprieves will run out, though, and I will have to go to work, still feeling that Helene isn't old enough or big enough to be without me.

I will have to get over it. I will have to get used to having her for so many fewer hours a day, get used to missing her. I will have to treasure the time more (if that is possible) and continue to rationalize that I am doing what is best for her by working.

***

I've been less attentive to my blog these days. Sidetracked by trying to find a nanny share, losing a nanny share, being relieved, getting a reprieve, making the most of my ever-shortening career as a stay at home mom, distracted by bright blue summer skies, practically civilized not-that-hot summer weather so far, playdates in the park, and cooking all of the luscious summer farm produce that finds its way to our kitchen, it hasn't seemed all that appealing to sit down and write. And what to write? How to be fresh, new? What is there to say about babies and motherhood and life that hasn't already been said before in a better, funnier, more articulate way? How to get my stupid registered domain name to actually work because I am an internet idiot and Blogger's instructions didn't work? How to get a new banner designed, and how much would it cost? Maybe some widgets? I have begun to feel myself chafing at the restrictions of Blogger, of this DC Zia alias, of this place in the interwebs, of my own strictures of what I should write about, of my concerns of causing offense to certain readers. I am wondering if it is time to move on from this particular interweb cave, to another virtual room of my own.

I don't know yet. I don't have that answer yet, as I also don't know when Helene will really start to like solid food, when I will go back to work, how we are going to find a nanny, when I will be ready for a babysitter and a dinner out, alone, with my husband. I have only mostly figured out how to muddle along in the present; the future is an ever-changing point in the distance.

So we evolve, as we must.

Reprieve

Sometimes, good news comes in wolf's clothing. Or something like that. Sometime after this totally deranged post (you're a real fan if you managed to read it, and sorry about that), we hooked up with another daycare-waitlisted family to embark on a phenomenon known as a "nanny share." In sum: 2 families + 1 nanny = less cost.

I responded to a post from our badass Cap Hill parents listserve, a post from a mom who had a six month old girl to do a nanny share. I responded with interest. As soon as she wrote me back with their address, I knew who it was. "We know these people!" I laughed to Seth. I once described them as the "alternate universe us" at the Axiom (the beige apartment). It was Christian, the building manager, his wife Jennifer, and their daughter Ellie, born a week after Helene.

Jennifer and I engaged in a tornado of nanny interviews, online research about how to legally compensate nannies (no Dan Snyder syndrome for us), how to get an employer Federal taxpayer ID number, workers comp insurance, the cost of a double stroller, etc. etc. etc. Jennifer had a new job that starts July 1, so the pressure was on. They would host it at their apartment, fabulous for us, since it's a five minute walk from our office. The babies are the same age - they'll be like sisters! I could nurse the bottle-recalcitrant baby at lunch every day! We'd be apart from her for less time! It costs a bit more than daycare, but fewer viruses!

We interviewed. We met women from Brazil, Togo, Trinidad. One had been granted political asylum. One had taken time off because her mother had died. One spoke limited English but promised to speak French to our babies. They all conscientiously washed their hands and were gentle and sweet with our babies. I wanted to know the political asylum story, but couldn't just ask yet. We were delighted with two of them, satisfied with all. One's references did not return our calls. We made a job offer to another. It was turned down - she wanted to take care of only one child. We floundered. We worked on setting up more interviews. I got a deal on a Phil & Ted's second-hand double stroller, and hauled it home. We tried again for references.

My stomach began to hurt. Seth tried for several hours one day to give Helene a bottle, while I tried to relax in the hot tub at the gym. I bought new bottles, new bottle nipples, a sippy cup. I tried to get Helene to open her mouth for rice cereal, bananas, pears. I made plans to adjust my work hours, to give up my cherished Regular Day Off every other Friday, so I would spend less time away from my baby, my girl. I wondered if I could nurse her every day at lunch for the next four or five or more months. My stomach still hurt. I laid awake, wondering why I had jumped into this nanny share, when I didn't really have to go back to work until September. I wondered how I could get out of it, my mind exploring dead ends like a mouse in a maze.

Then Jennifer called. They'd gotten a place at a daycare next door to her office. I could hear that she was nervous over the phone, nervous about telling me. All I felt was relief, giddy, happy, relief. Of course they needed to take it! They had to do what was best for them! No, you don't need to pay anything for the stroller - we might use it, or I can easily resell it. Please stay in touch!

I e-mailed my office. Could I go back to the "return in September" plan? My nanny share just fell through. I don't know how long it will take me to find another. (Meanwhile, there are at least two posts for nanny shares on the Cap Hill listserve that very day.)

I took a long walk with Helene in the Ergo and hugged her close to me, kissing the top of her head. More time, more time, more time. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This rug fringe is the best thing ever! Have you tried it?

It was supposed to be like this

Children. Plans. Hah, says the universe. It was supposed to be like this: Helene would have slipped out of my body into a warm tub, the waiting hands of her father, and would have then been placed on my belly, umbilical cord still pulsing between us. We'd be into our dream daycare, just a few blocks from our house, and our baby would happily lie in her father's arms and drink expressed milk from a bottle. I would have had a miraculous Mirena IUD placed in my uterus, without complication, to be removed easily with a tug upon the occasion I decide to reproduce again. But none of that is what happened. This is what happened: I had a surprise breech baby, a murky nightmare of a Cesarean section. We have no childcare; only a vague promise of "fall looks good, " and a muddled running of numbers, researching of nannies. Helene has refused with all her might and screaming to drink from a bottle, after doing it happily for a couple of months. The Mirena, in a one-in-a-gazillion occurrence, slipped up sideways into my uterus, and now lies there awkward and useless on the right side, to be removed only by laprascopic surgery. These things were not supposed to happen.

Here's Helene's room.
The one that we were supposed to bring her home to, just about six months ago. Well, you know how that went. Recall what it looked like in the "during construction" phase. You know that we were still in the rented beige apartment when Helene was born, that we brought her home there, because our house was still a dust-covered deathtrap construction zone until the end of January. I guess it doesn't really matter, since the baby has slept in our room (wherever it was) since she was born. But I missed it, that lovely frantic hormone-infused nesting, nestling, getting everything clean and pretty and placed and ready for the beautiful known surprise. Better late than never. Except for this stupid mobile, which I got as a shower gift.

Which says it's good for ages '"0 to 5 months." Well, fuck. Because my baby is just about six months old so I'd better just take down this insanely mesmerizing mobile that I JUST PUT UP. Oh no. We're using that damn mobile, even if it means it stays up there until the baby can stand, pull it down upon her small head, and yell "I hate you! I have a dent in my head now and I will never have a prom date! You have ruined my life!" at her stupid mother who put the thing up in the first place. So yeah, the baby has a real room now that actually looks like a baby lives in it. I think she's taken a total of three naps in there now, looking all stranded and small in the giant island of her lovely dark wood crib. She hasn't slept at night in there yet. Because I can't let her yet. I am still too attached to placing a hand on her little body in the co-sleeper next to me to quiet her when she cries out in her sleep, or to just feel the soft, solid rise and fall of her breath in the velvet dark, or to slide her into bed next to me for a precious hour or two of snoozing in the early morning, so I can watch her stir and stretch, and see her big grey-blue eyes open wide to the morning, wide smile to follow.

And then there's this. The Precious Planet Jumperoo.

Because Helene loooves standing, loves being bounced up and down, cannot get enough, and Mama's arms are tired from being a human jumperoo every day (though it is helping my triceps). So I decided we needed to buy this most elaborate and complicated plastic piece of baby paraphernalia (definitely the biggest, gaudiest, plastickiest baby thing we've bought to date) so the baby could jump! And bounce! And spin! And entertain herself for maybe dozens of minutes at a time. The Jumperoo was dutifully purchased at a big suburban baby store, wedged in the trunk, hauled home, and assembled (despite the usual horrifyingly bad instructions). The baby was placed in the seat that looks like a giant monkey is eating her, and voila! Let the fun begin. Just one problem with this whole plan. Our darling, precious petite flower of a baby? Her feet? Do not touch the floor. So she just kind of....dangles there....in the monkey head. Sigh.

I should stop getting so attached to plans.

Mothers' Day? What? Me? Oh yeah, right.

Yes, I really did not realize for a time that Mothers' Day applied to me this year. Seth: "So, Sunday is Mothers' Day." Me:"Oh yeah. We should definitely call my mom and do a video chat with her, and don't forget to call your mom." Seth: "Uh, I meant what do you want to do?" Me: "Oh....me....huh." Seth gently points out (as if speaking to someone who is mentally impaired) that I am the mama and that the proof is the babbling, flailing baby over there on her play mat. It was a weird feeling to be included in Mothers' Day until I realized that it's like getting another birthday. Presents! Dinner! Pampering! Adult beverages! I will be sure to milk this a lot more next year.


Mothers' Day breakfast. Mmm, bacon.

Despite my advanced age, I still feel too young and stupid to have a baby. Yet, here we are. I think one of the surprises of Mothers' Day for me was the bond that I suddenly realized I feel with all the other mothers. Friends sent profound and beautiful messages to me on e-mail and Facebook. We went for a stroll through the azalea gardens at the National Arboretum, and so many people were so friendly to us, their faces alight with smiles as they congratulated me on my first ever Mothers' Day.


Yesterday, one of my friends wrote: "To have a child is to agree to have your heart live outside your body." Yes. Thank you, my little heart, for the fact that I get to be your mother.


Sappy, but true. No matter how tired or jet-lagged I am, seeing this face first thing in the morning makes me helplessly smile. Her father is so doomed when she's older and asks him to buy her stuff.

This post brought to you by jet lag and insomnia

3:43 AM. We got back from Australia yesterday (uh, Tuesday, May 5, to be exact) and got home around midnight. We all managed to sleep last night and stay awake all yesterday. We all crashed around 8:00 last night, and I slept for awhile, but sleep, it is not happening any more just now. For awhile, Seth, Helene and I were all awake at the same time. The other two seem to have gone back to sleep for the moment, so I guess two people sleeping is an improvement over three people not sleeping.

And with no sleeping and lying wide-eyed in the dark often comes contemplation. Which often leads to more insomnia. How is it that my little baby will be six months old in less than two weeks?

When I'm on vacation, I feel like I've stepped out of time, and that it stops or slows. Then, I come home, and step back into the pace of regular time, and sometimes, it's kind of shocking. It happened to me on our honeymoon in Hawaii almost four(!) years ago. My dad died suddenly two weeks before our wedding. After the memorial service, we all had no choice but to go on, and plunge headlong into the whirl of the wedding. Our wedding was amazing and wonderful and perfect - my dad wouldn't have wanted us to be sad or to change things because of him, and we didn't. Then Seth and I had two weeks in Hawaii that are always secreted away in a special box of my memory as utterly relaxing and beautiful, removed a world away. I cried for my dad in Hawaii, when I saw things he would love to see, or when I wanted to ask him a question and realized I could not, not ever. But I was buffered by the timelessness of a perfect vacation, by the staggering beauty of Hawaii, by the joy and sweetness of a new marriage to the person that is my partner, my balance, my life. When we got home it was a different story. My dad was dead, and my life had to at least pretend to resume as normal. All the grief that had been buffered in Hawaii came rushing back in with the normality of my every day life. There were memories of my dad everywhere. I think I managed to go to work every day, but I cried every day too, for weeks - behind a locked office door, silently in a bathroom stall, on the treadmill at the gym. I hysterically sobbed with disappointment when we got the proofs of our wedding photos back. In reality, the photos were stunning, but all I saw were the photos we forgot to take, the photos that were missing. It wasn't the photos, of course. It was my dad that was missing, my dad that was supposed to have been there. It took me several weeks before I could really look at our wedding photos and see that they were actually breathtaking and artful.

This time, returning from the stop-time of a full month in Australia, I gasp that my little baby Helene is almost six months old. She ticked off a ton of developmental milestones in Australia, and she's so fun and funny and engaging right now. Now that we are home, I can see how she's grown - how that one footie sleeper that just fit her when we left wouldn't go on last night; how much more of the co-sleeper she fills up with the length of her body; how deft her little hands are when she grasps toys; how quick her eyes are to see something new in the room. And then I panic, because it's going too fast. If we were sticking to the original game plan, I would be going back to work in a couple of weeks, and Helene would be going to full time daycare. But despite being on the waiting lists for over a year, Helene does not yet have a place at a daycare. One of the five says that September looks good; the others have pretty much said, uh, nope, never, no chance in hell. It's a reprieve in a strange disguise. When we found this out Seth said that we could probably afford for me to stay home until September. When I told my office that I did not have daycare yet, but that I might in September, and that I was exploring all options, they said they could do without me until September, but no longer.

I think I just need to grab this gift and run. I have an overdeveloped sense of obligation, though, and I feel like I should be going back to work, like I owe them, like it's been incredible hardship for them to do without me. I get antsy, and feel like I should be going back in two weeks because I told them I would. But the truth is, they're just fine without me. And they seem, incredibly, to be fine with letting me be gone longer. I hope that's true. Because I don't want to go back. Not yet. I will have to go back - this house renovation and the kid's college tuition aren't going to pay for themselves, unless Seth's plan to sign Helene over to a former Romanian gymnastics coach and get her in the Olympics and on a Wheaties box works out. Yeah, I have to plan to go back to work. What's killing me is the thought of being away from Helene for so many hours every day. I haven't been away from her for more than a couple of hours since she was born. I've seen her change before my eyes, witnessed all the new things she can do. I have her every expression and the softness of her skin etched on my heart. How can I just give that over to someone else, to let someone else see the newest thing she does, let someone else just tell me about it? It hurts too much. How does everyone do it, all the mothers who have to go back to work when their babies are even smaller? I know they do it because they have to; we all do what we have to.

So, around and around in my head, I've been whirling my options around. Part time work would be ideal, but my office won't allow it. They're always afraid that if one person does it, everyone will do it. Should we hire a nanny, and I could work from home a couple of times a week, so I would get to be with Helene during the day? I thought I wanted group daycare, to have Helene around other kids, to learn to socialize. Now I think maybe I want her at home, with one person who cares for her, with playgroups and classes arranged. Could we just get a nanny a couple of days a week now? Probably not- that's money going out that isn't coming in. I have to be working for us to have a nanny, and if I work, it has to be full time. Could I find another job? Part time? Maybe. Maybe not. Damn, why did I not just marry rich?

I thought at six months that Helene would be less dependent on me. I imagined she would be eating solid food, breastfeeding less, needing me less. So far, not the case. She loves to watch us eat, but isn't interested yet in eating her own food. She's still breastfeeding exclusively. She can't sit up without a lot of assistance. She won't go to bed at night without me lulling her into sleep. She cries if someone else tries. She won't drink from a bottle. She did willingly, until two and a half months. Then she began to refuse, and it became an awful screaming, crying ordeal for Seth, who would try for a couple of hours in the evening while I hid upstairs. He even tried when I was out of the house. My mother in law tried when we were out to dinner. No dice. It just makes her screaming mad to offer her a bottle now. So we just gave up. She didn't have to drink from a bottle, not anytime soon, and it wasn't worth the heartache for us. It's another hurdle/cause of stress for daycare - many places aren't too tolerant of babies who won't drink from a bottle. I don't know what I'm going to do about that. We might try going straight to a cup, or we might try one of these uber-suggestive boob-like bottles that seem to work for some folks. Again, another reason I need to just grab this reprieve of time and run. In September, she will be almost 10 months old. She will certainly be eating solid food, and I hope she can drink from a cup.

And I will have a few more precious months, days, hours with my baby. I don't know yet if I'm going to have another one. This might be my only chance. To be the first one she sees whenever she wakes up, to be the one who rocks her to sleep, to be the one who sees first what she does next, to play with her, make her laugh and to just watch her beautiful eyes and wide smile. I am still struck breathless by how much I love her.

The land down under

This is my nephew, Zach. He lives in Melbourne, Australia. He hangs out with wallabies. We think Zach is very cool, and he knows where the wallabies live, and will introduce us, so we are going to visit Zach in Australia. We are leaving tomorrow and will be there for a month. What? It's a long way - we might as well stay for awhile. I'm on maternity leave - this seems like a good use of my time.


Are we insane for traveling with a 4 1/2 month old baby to Australia? Probably. There has been a lot of hassle about car seats, and bassinets in the bulkhead seats and pre-approval of car seats, and what have you, but we think we have it all sorted. Seth's parents are meeting us in Los Angeles for the super-long part of the trip to Melbourne. I think it's 16-ish hours or something. I try not to think about it. I do think about the favorable 4:1 adult to baby ratio for the flight. Seth had it worked out as 4 hours per adult.

I've made packing lists, hauled out the suitcases, done most of the laundry, and thought extensively about what to pack. Actual packing has not yet occurred. But I did get a pedicure.

We will be petting wallabies and kangaroos, and seeing koalas, emus, duckbilled platypuses, fairy penguins, beaches, and vineyards. We will not be eating Vegemite. I've tasted it and its English cousin Marmite, and that was quite enough of that culinary adventure.

We think Zach is excited to see Helene, though he may be a bit disappointed that she does not do too much stuff yet, by his 3-year old standards. You know, like say words or play trains with him. When he first met her in December, he definitely expected that his baby cousin would be a little more exciting, and not just a tiny sleeping lump that everyone was inexplicably entranced by. I'm sure she will happily hold and gum a Thomas The Tank Engine, but that might not fit in with Zach's plans.

So, there might not be a whole lot of posts on here for the next month. I'll try to stick up some random photos of us with kangaroos and on the beautiful Melbourne beaches just to make you jealous, but I'll probably be too busy petting wallabies and tasting wine and enjoying grandparent babysitting services to exert myself too much. (Could I be traveling to AU just to get free babysitting? It's possible.)

I wonder what Helene will learn or do over the next month. She does something new every day, it seems. She's almost rolling over. She talks expressively to the ceiling fan. She is discovering her feet, and on a recent warm day, she rubbed her little feet and toes together to test out the feeling of barefootness. She is a little sponge, gazing with wide-open blue-grey eyes at everything in sight, drinking it in, as I carry her down our street. It's my favorite thing about her right now - watching her see and be amazed by the world for the first time.

Her look clearly says "Holy cow! I can hold my head up!" She's Australia-ready.


Gratuitous baby toes picture. No pedicure needed - cuteness is more than enough.

Updatery

(1) Feeling MUCH better since the day of this post. Immediately after that, I signed up for a baby yoga class, made plans with some other moms to take our babies out to a movie, bought a jogging stroller, and vowed to go to my neighborhood "Eaters and Sleepers" playgroup/coffee klatsch every week. Yes, I realize this is a long list of things. Overcompensate? Me?

(2) And since this post, the baby and I quite successfully flew cross-country to visit Grandma. Helene was quite fabulous. She fell asleep about 30 minutes before we boarded our first flight, from Newark to Salt Lake City, slept for a couple of hours, was awake for maybe an hour, and slept for the rest of that flight. She also slept for most of the second flight from Salt Lake to Boise. We had kind fellow travelers, who got bins for us at security, held things for us, and generally admired the baby (it does help when your baby gives a wide, gummy smile to pretty much anyone who makes eye contact). We had a kind flight attendant on our first flight who was happy to hold Helene, and who knew which airplane bathroom had a changing table in it. The pressure changes on takeoff and landing didn't faze the baby at all. I plopped her in our sling to carry her through the airports and to sleep. I tried to travel light, taking only a (crammed full) diaper bag on the plane. But I still had a change of clothes for both me and the baby in case of Diaper Blowout Emergencies. Which didn't happen, thankfully.

Now we just have to get back home today. I'm trying not to be superstitious about ye olde Friday the 13th and all, and am keeping crossed fingers that our previous good travel karma holds out. Because, wow, is four and a half hours a looooong time when you are on a full plane holding a completely cooperative/happy/sleeping baby. I don't even want to let thought enter my head about what it would be like if the baby was NOT cooperative/sleeping/happy. It's hard for you to sleep, hard for you to read. I tried to doze and watched the in-flight movie with no sound because I was too cheap to buy the $2 headphones on the plane. I might buy them this time. One of my friends won't travel with her young daughters because she had such a horrific experience with her oldest at five months (screaming baby, complete diaper explosion all over baby, stripping down, cleaning & changing baby in aisle of plane)- she says the memories still make her twitch. Yikes. So, fingers crossed, folks! Keep watching CNN to make sure you don't see us.

Flying the fearful skies

Some god of some kind help me, but I'm getting on two planes tomorrow with a 3-month old to go visit Grandma Wanda in Idaho. Alone. With the infant. And the fucking airlines. And fucking TSA. And all the other fucking people. Who all might be mean to us. I am utterly terrified. I've been having anxiety dreams and even anxiety daydreams about this for a week. So, should you be flying from Newark to Salt Lake City tomorrow, you might want to (a) reconsider your plans; or (b) just be sure you really do like babies before you get on that plane. I am simply hoping for dry pants and no newsworthy incidents. So keep scanning CNN. You'll know if something happened.

Dude, where's my village?

Those last few nagging pregnancy pounds? Want to lose them? Simple. Just contract yourself a case of the Horrible Stomach Flu of Death, and voila! Pounds=gone. Holy crap, I never want to have an illness like that and take care of a 3-month old nursing infant again.

I woke up Wednesday feeling kind of hungover - headache, dry mouth, mild queasiness - which was odd, since I sip about one and a half drinks over an evening on a really wild night these days. This morphed into something horrific from the end of the digestive tract that afternoon, and gave way to full-on college-style lying on the tile floor moaning over the toilet by late afternoon. I gamely laid on the floor of the baby's room with her as long as I could, shaking toys, and playing silly songs on iTunes. Then I gave up, cried uncle, updated my Facebook status to "mostly dead", and called Seth and begged him to come home while I lay in bed shivering with fever and making sure Helene was in a safe place when I had to bolt to the bathroom.

Did I mention I NEVER want to do that again? Seth took the baby at all times except when she was sleeping or nursing. He'd lay her beside me to nurse - I couldn't really even pick her up. Seth did this Wednesday afternoon, Wednesday night, and all day Thursday. I almost sobbed because I wished my baby would drink from a bottle (she did for awhile, and now refuses), tried to keep down water, hoped this wouldn't make my milk dry up, and scrubbed my hands raw trying to keep the plague away from Seth and Helene and our poor houseguest Seamus who last saw a glimpse of me sometime Tuesday night and could only hear the running down the hall and the hurling (so sorry - will try to be better, biohazard free hostess next time).

I was so glad Seth was there and so afraid he would get sick too, or that I would get sicker. I was really afraid of passing out or needing IV fluids for a little while because I was so dehydrated. Then what would we do? We have no babysitters yet. Our friends all work. Closest family is in New Jersey. I guess we would have called Seth's aunt and uncle to come down here, or trolled the Capitol Hill moms listserve in desperation for any available babysitter. And if a three-month old gets a virus like this, it's hospital time. Nature, though, she knows what she's doing. As Seth pointed out, even before I knew I was sick, Helene was getting the antibodies my body was producing through my milk. Nature is smart, and shit, you know?

On Friday, Seth had to go back to work, so I had to deal. The fever had broken, the various projectile bodily fluids had ceased, liquids were staying down, but I was still the consistency of a limp, wet rag. I can't say that Helene got optimal stimulation on Friday. I'm afraid I plopped her on her play mat, collapsed on the sofa in front of a Style TV "Clean House" marathon, and made sure she was alive once in awhile. In my exhaustion, I daydreamed about the days when I lived in an English basement apartment just a few blocks from here, single, independent. No plants, no pets, no significant others. If I got sick, I just had to call into work and go to bed and sleep as long as necessary. To just be able to lie in bed sick and have no other obligations seems like pure luxury now. Then I daydreamed feverishly about daycare, about nannies, about babysitters, about my mom helping me, about Seth's mom helping me, about anyone's mom helping me. I wondered why we didn't live closer to family. Oh yeah, because we don't want to live in Idaho or New Jersey. I know I was very tired, and maybe it was the illness talking, but I suddenly felt very alone and like I didn't want to be a full-time stay at home mom anymore. I wanted to just sleep. Read an entire book. Wear heels and dressy clothes without having to consider the logistics of nursing. Shop for frivolous things. Go out for long dinners with bottomless glasses of wine which I could drink with abandon because I wasn't nursing.

Then Seth got some e-mails on Friday about our status on the many Federal daycare wait lists. Some are pipe dreams, some look promising for the fall, none look good for May, which is when I had planned to return to work. Seth mentioned that he'd run the numbers, and we probably could afford for me to not work until September. I don't know how I feel about that. Or how my office would feel. I know I can't do it that long without some help. Maybe a sitter or nanny a couple of times a week. Something. Anything. The idea of being home with Helene more is a gift, a burden, wonderful, fearful.

I told Seth that staying home with Helene on Friday while I was still sick was about the hardest thing I've done. Maybe it wasn't, but it was pretty hard. Part of it is caring so much about her, and knowing I have implicitly promised to tend to her every need, especially when she is still so tiny. It was extra-hard knowing that there wasn't really anyone to help me, other than Seth. I guess I could find someone, if I called enough and begged enough. We need a network. We need to find babysitters, because we don't have family close by. I need to get out, have Helene be a little less dependent on just me for me to survive. I know this is old refrain on the mommyblog circuit, but it doesn't feel old when it happens to you, and you are the one torn between wanting to lovingly do everything on earth for your child, and needing to hand her over to someone else to do it too.

Come Saturday, I was feeling quite a bit better, if still Bambi-wobbly on my weakened legs. I could not wait to get out of the house. I hadn't left since last Tuesday night. We went out to breakfast, to our favorite neighborhood greasy spoon, and the outside air and the sight of other people were just as tasty as my biscuits and gravy. Though I watched the twenty-something Hill staffers stumble in, bleary-eyed from their night-before, and I let myself envy their freedom for a few moments.

I've got to get out more. I've got to find that network. I've got to use my gym's babysitters, now that Helene is old enough. I've definitely hit it, that point where the shiny new baby novelty is a little bit dulled, and I just need to see some other humans and fill some hours, because as amazing and wonderful and lovely and happy as Helene is, I just can't sit around the house with her all day or I am going to chew my own foot off. I know it gets easier, right? Everyone says the baby stages go so fast, so enjoy them, and I am trying, and I do, but there has to be some better balance. Just tell me it gets easier, and that this too shall pass, and all those other cliches. Please.

You say it's your birthday

And so it was, on Sunday. Thirty six. Yow. Leaning more towards a decade that I'm not even going to say out loud or type because if I don't acknowledge it, it won't exist. Let's just remain firmly in the present.

There were a lot of bigbigbig changes in the Thirty-Fifth Year Of My Life. You know, baby, major house renovation, BABY. I'm hoping that the Thirty-Sixth Year will be more of an even keel. We certainly aren't moving. Ever. With the money we spent on this renovation, we are staying here until they peel our cold, dead bodies off of the very expensive granite. Or until the real estate market recovers sufficiently for us to recoup the funds and do something insane like move into another house and start all over again.

It's amazing to be home, but I'm still feeling sort of scattered. I'm thinking that one day soon I will feel like I have my shit totally together again, but then I talk to a more experienced, wiser parent than I, and I realize that no, this is probably not going to happen. Showers will continue to be optional on any given day. I will continue to be grateful for good hair products that make those long minutes I used to spend on my hair unnecessary. I will pay for things at a store and forget them on the counter, and have people run after me to give them to me, because I was so caught up in making sure that I had the baby, the diaper bag, the stroller, my wallet, my credit card, my keys, that I completely forgot that I actually bought something and that I should now take it with me, per the usual custom in our society. The line between the clean and dirty baskets of laundry will continue to be blurry and shifting as I continue to forget which is which.

And I will continue to worry. Worry, with a capital W. I was unprepared for the volume and intensity and constancy of the worry. Is my baby too small? Is she eating enough? Is she hungry? Why is she hiccuping? What is that little red spot on her cheek? Is she cold? Why is she crying? What does she want? Am I doing this right? How much therapy is she going to need? She spat up - does she have a stomach disorder? SHE'S BREATHING, RIGHT? RIGHT?? And then this spawns other worry. How much overage did we pay for the renovation? Was it worth it? What's wrong with our roof now? What can we afford? Am I really going to be able to stand to go back to work in three more months?

I try not to get mired in the worry, and to just chill and enjoy. Which is hard when your time is divided between keeping the little larva entertained and alive, and frantically flying around by the seat of your pants while she's asleep to try to get things done that need to be done, and to try to do something for myself. Like drink some water or go to the bathroom or read the New York Times headlines. I used to get shit done, y'all, and it's hard to let go.

So. Once again. Let's try to stay in the present, be in the moment, and enjoy what's here now. Like the fancy new kitchen. Which really is well worth enjoying. Here's the "before" and "during" for comparison. Enjoy the pretty kitchen photos, cuz that's all I got, unless you want to sing the songs from "Philadelphia Chickens" with me and Helene.

Looking towards the front of the house.

Looking towards the back of the house.

Brave new world

I've been all over the place about what to write. Probably because all of my stuff is all over the place, and I have clothes and hygiene products on three floors due to the re-moving into our house a week and half ago. I do not deal with clutter well. In college and law school I would clean my entire dorm room or apartment and do all of the laundry and grocery shopping (Ramen? Check. Diet Coke? Check. Takeout menus? Check. Chocolate covered espresso beans? Check.) before final exams because otherwise I could not study because the mess would stress me out and I would have to clean it, thereby not studying, thereby stressing even more. Controlling? Type A? Me? Hence, because my stuff is scattered, I am scattered. I'm also only half-assed or maybe even quarter-assed effective at doing anything about it because most of my day is spent tending to this precious little monkey.
But we're getting there. Everything almost has a place in the kitchen. Except the damn can opener, because we can't find any of them. We are sure we had at least two when we left the house, and now we have none. Every other kitchen gadget known to man, yes, but a can opener? No. U cannot has can opener. I refuse to buy a new one because THEY HAVE TO BE HERE SOMEWHERE. Somewhere.

We're learning to live in our house all over again, because it's kind of the same, but also really different. We have more space in some places; less space in others; and a new little resident and all of her belongings to find room for. Since our basement is now actually nice and not creepy, we can't just chuck everything down there haphazardly anymore. This means Organizing. Lots. Necessitating a trip to the Container Store and two (2) shopping carts(!) full of boxes, bins, and baskets. We're getting there. Rather than complain about less space in certain places -- like in our accidental new bathroom vanity, because the old vanity which had all kinds of nifty storage space was mistakenly thrown out -- I am trying to be Zen and use it as a reason to have less stuff. We are mercilessly sorting, tossing and donating. We're like our own "Clean House" show, except that we actually want to get rid of the stuff and aren't deranged clingy pack rats like the people on those shows. We have a few weak spots: me = model and toy horse collection from childhood; Seth = allll the history books from allll his history classes in college. But Progress is being made.

I oversaw the removal of the beige rental furniture from the rental apartment last week, and it was a surprisingly emotional couple of hours. We brought Helene "home" to that apartment, we did so many of her first things there - baths, smiles - and we spent many hours playing, cuddling, napping and nursing in that apartment on that rented furniture. I got weepy at saying goodbye to the place where Helene spent her first sleepy newborn days with us, where we graduated from being a couple and really became a family.

It was a simpler life there, a bubble of babyness, in that small apartment. Very few of our clothes and personal items were there (well, with the exception of the piles of baby things)- just what we really needed every day - and the few rooms of the place revolved around Helene at their center. It got more complicated when we moved home to our creaky, drafty, beloved old house, packed squirrel-like with our hoards of boxes and books and cherished tchochkes, all the accumulated furniture and belongings of our lives until now.

Though it feels undeniably good to be home, worlds are colliding a la George Costanza as I work to mingle my pre-baby life with my post-baby life. Some observations: (1) "Lady Chatterly's Lover" now shares my bedside bookshelf next to Dr. Sears' "The Baby Book." (2) I had to resist the urge to use the baby bottle brush to wash a residue of cognac out from our brandy snifters (but it would have been just the right size to fit through the narrow mouth of the glasses!). (3) I now lay on the living room rug for Tummy Time with Helene with a Reidel glass of vidal blanc in my hand.

So we're still working on finding new places for everything, and our place in the new everything, figuring out how to live with Helene in our half-new house, fitting all the puzzle pieces together again in a new picture. The weather has been warm, so Helene and I strolled to the dry cleaners, where they'd missed us and they oohed and aahed and tickled the baby so much I was kind of afraid they would steal her. Then we walked to one of our neighborhood coffeehouses for an absurdly caloric milkshake because, hey, I'm nursing and I need calcium. Helene snoozed in the Ergo on the way home as I walked slowly to watch the afternoon light on the detailed woodwork on the rowhouses in the blocks near our house. I turned the last corner, and brought Helene in the door of our old-new home, our own new world.

No place like home

And we didn't even need ruby slippers to get back here. Though they might have helped with all the moving of boxes. Oh my god, the boxes. Somehow, we always pick the worst weather days to move. We moved into this house 4.5 years ago during the tail end of a hurricane in a torrential downpour. This time it was freezing rain and ice. Seth did 98% of the moving himself, with a U-Haul van, sloshing shin-deep in freezing water and sliding on the ice in the alley behind our house. I'm just not much help, since as the milk cow, I have to attend to the baby. (We tipped our movers really well for the hurricane rain four years ago; Seth is still thinking up his sufficient compensation for this move. I'm afraid to ask, because I fear costume rental could be involved.) By the time all the stuff was in the house, Seth was just done. D.U.N. Stick a fork in him. Or at least a couple of draft beers.

And I know I have said it before, but my god, tiny little babies come with a lot of stuff. I think 75% of what we moved from the apartment back to the house belonged to Helene. Look, here it is. And that's not even all of it. There were a few more boxes downstairs.
Halp! Drowning in boxes of baby accessories! Seriously, THIS ALL BELONGS TO THE BABY.


Tucked in to our very own bed on our first night back with our very own wireless internet. Yeah, we might not know where our dishes or clothes are but we have the Interwebs (and apparently seven chins), thanks very much.

The long renovation goodbye

It's really, truly, for real almost done. After so many conversations with our contractor that were the renovation equivalent of "are we there yet??" we seem to almost be there. A few strong words and almost-temper tantrums were required. We appeared at the house on Saturday with a cadre of (amazing, wonderful!) friends who'd volunteered to help us move the mountains of boxes back to their assigned places in basement and kitchen and to move some furniture around. We kicked the guy out who was working on the backsplash in the kitchen, dusted out cabinets, and started putting things away. I think our contractor knew we were serious then. Our friends schlepped boxes down the stairs and teetered on stepladders to wipe construction dust from shelves while Seth and I discussed punch list items with the contractor, and I intermittently nursed the baby, who supervised the whole production. But this is it. We are moving in this week, come shelf readjustments and leaky faucets. (We have some of both - the mudroom hooks and shelves were made for someone who is 6'6", not 5'3", and our kitchen faucet was somehow leaking quite copiously all over our very goddamn expensive kitchen cabinets yesterday. Great. Just great. Seth did some freaking out and ranting. I just smiled. Teflon. I am Teflon. Nonstick, but toxic when pushed to my limits.)

Upstairs bathroom. A serious improvement over the previous version.

Mmm, shiny!

Mmm, granite!

Holy crap, look at all that garbage. Our yard used to look, uh, kind of different.

Change the location of that toilet paper holder or I'm setting the baby loose.

Today's post is brought to you by The Number Six

Six is the magic number. Suddenly, at six weeks post-Cesarean, I feel like I could go to the gym. My incision doesn't pull uncomfortably deep inside anymore when I walk. I can walk close to my pre-pregnancy impatient-brisk pace. I can stand fully upright when I walk. My abs feel stronger. I think I might try a gentle spin class this week.

Nursing also rather suddenly got a lot easier at six weeks. The Books said it would, but I didn't believe Them, since They lied about lots of other things. I still wouldn't call it "feeling good" and but it's tolerable to neutral, and no longer at all painful. Take note, ladies: it could indeed take a full six weeks for this milk cow gig to be a heck of a lot easier. It was a progression - getting gradually easier day by day after the first two weeks, but....Yeah. Keep that lactation consultant and your nursing/have nursed mom friends on speed dial.

At six weeks, the baby also started sleeping most nights in stretches of up to six hours at night. Amazing. And lucky! Six full hours, plus another couple of hours after an early morning feeding make me feel practically like a regular human. (Of course, the first time it happens everyone wakes up in a panic, because they are impossibly well rested! Something is terribly terribly wrong with the baby!)

I could say that I am six pounds from pre-pregnancy weight, but I don't know if that's strictly true. I will say that in a surprising development, a second pair of pre-pregnancy jeans went on, zipped and buttoned today. A new pair of jeans for the baby to poop on! I also need to reintroduce myself to The Belt. I haven't worn one for almost a year, and I'm recalling that that particular accessory prevents unsightly need to hitch up pants and the more unsightly sliding down of pants to produce plumber butt or Monica thong.

We have at least six ridiculous nicknames for Helene. In utero, she was "Little Fish." We've now moved on to such endearing terms as "Little Barracuda," "Little Piranha" (enthusiastic eater, is this baby), "Little Pterodactyl" and "Baby Bird" (based on the funny reptilian squawks and pecking motions she makes when hungry or frustrated), and "Beast" (as in, "I hear The Beast stirring). We do call her "Sweetheart" and "Sweet Baby" occasionally too, but hey, we don't want her to think we adore her unconditionally or anything - keep her guessing.

When she finally sleeps during the day, I rush around, vacillating unproductively between six thousand possible things I could be doing. Shower? Laundry? Dry hair? E-mail? Read a book? Download photos? Take the 600th photo of cute baby sleeping? Install new Photoshop software to make cute baby photos even cuter? Call and speak to another adult? Eat? I tend to start one thing, and then abandon it halfway through, as some unwashed dishes catch my eye, or I have to rock the bassinet for a few minutes or re-install a pacifier, and I end the day with a lot of half-done things, and occasionally completed things and a lot of undone things. Somehow, e-mail and Facebook always get checked. Sometimes at the expense of say, personal hygiene or actual clothing. Priorities, y'all.

Sometimes I try to go somewhere with Helene like a regular human, and end up taking an hour to leave the house due to multiple poop episodes and diaper/clothing changes for all involved, and because I can't find the one warm hat I have in this apartment (all others are somewhere in the house, covered with a thick coat of drywall dust) (but I can find all 278 of the baby's warm hats - too bad they don't fit me), and I can't figure out how the stupid stroller frame thingy folds. And then I get out, and feel horribly self-conscious and kind of lonely among the crowds of well-dressed Hill staffers walking to and from lunch on Pennsylvania Avenue, because I don't see one other baby stroller in sight. I decide not to go into Firehook for lunch because there is a huge step at the door, and I'm intimidated by trying to get the stroller over it. I also avoid Cosi because of the cramped quarters. Burrito Brothers is uncrowded, and with no giant steps at the door, so I get lunch there, and victorious in my hunting/gathering, take the long way home through Bartholdi Park. When I get home, the baby wakes, and I nurse her, and then sit on the floor with her, scarfing my (hard-earned) burrito as I play with her. She seems entertained and perplexed by the act of eating.

And I am grateful that I am able to take six months of leave from work. Much of it unpaid, but we tried to plan for it financially, even amid the house renovation wallet suck. I can't even fathom going back to work now, or even in a few more weeks. I'm already slightly anxious about going back in late May, as planned. Because I still don't have an identity as a mother here. I'm still floundering in this transitional time. I was pregnant for what felt like an eternity, and suddenly, oh hey! Not pregnant anymore, and fully, overly occupied with the overwhelming delights and frustrations of baby-rearing. I sure don't miss actually working, though I do kind of miss dressing up and looking nice every day. I can work on that - it will help when I am back living with the full contents of my closet. I don't have a lot of "mom friends" here yet - my closest friends with children live far away. Figuring out where to breastfeed and change diapers outside of my own home can put me to the edge of panic, because mah babee has needs, damn you inadequate cramped grungy public bathrooms and disapproving boob bigots! (Not that I have actually encountered any breastfeeding negativity yet, but I imagine and fear it.) In other words, I feel kind of like my old self, but I'm not my old self, and I don't know what my new self is or what the "new normal" is. This new life requires a bit more planning, yet a bit more flying by the seat of the pants. And it's even all going to change again when we (hopefully soon) get to move back into our real home. There will be a lot more stairs, for one thing. But a better kitchen, and a lot more rooms to bounce the baby through when she's fussy.

It's just a lot of change. And there will be forever more, as Helene seems to change and grow before our eyes each minute. I'd better take a deep breath and hold on.

The theme of this post was actually just an excuse for six gratuitous photos of Helene.

Milestones and resolutions

MILESTONES

1. We survived our first extended car trip with the baby. It was a medium-distance jaunt to New Jersey for Seth's family's annual Hannukah fest.

2. During this road trip, I survived my first public restroom diaper change, at a rest stop on I-95. Honest to god, my knees were shaking, as I awkwardly schlepped Helene in her car seat through the throngs of Northeasterners carrying hot coffee, and doing some paranoid eagle-eyeing of anyone coughing or sneezing within 30 feet of my child.

3. I also managed the Superfund cleanup of the first official diaper blowout. This was, unfortunately, also at the above-referenced I-95 rest stop. I still have not figured out exactly what type of physics of force or trajectory or high-pressure compressed gas results in the baby having poop all the way up her back, dear god.

4. I have been peed on for the first time. After Helene was weighed without her diaper at the pediatrician's office, I didn't put her diaper back on before picking her up. Total rookie mistake.

5. I can wear most of my regular clothes again. The official tally is that I'm 10 pounds away from pre-pregnancy weight. There is an awful lot of....squishiness yet to be resolved in my midsection. I try not to think about it too much. I just focus on the proud moment when a favorite pair of pre-pregnancy jeans actually zipped and buttoned. This is however, the only pair of real pants or jeans that currently fit. They have therefore been worn a lot, and have been, uh, exposed to a lot; see, e.g. Nos. 3 and 4, above. I really need to get some more pants.

6. We took Helene to both New Year's Eve and New Year's Day parties. She was awesome - mostly sleeping in our arms and being thronged by many admirers for the duration of both events. Go baby!

RESOLUTIONS

I'm usually opposed to New Year's resolutions. I just don't do them. Most of the time when people make them, they fall by the wayside in mere days or weeks, and they're just empty promises, rather than real changes. On the other hand, anyone who knows me knows that I will doggedly stick by a word or a promise or a goal, sometimes doing so to the point of ridiculousness, or at least major inconvenience to myself.

Seth talks to Helene about her 2009, and tells her what her resolutions will be: that she will hold her head up, that she will crawl, that she will walk.

My resolution - one that I instantly, automatically, instinctively made when I held my tiny newborn baby in my arms in the first days of her life - is to take care of Helene. When I watch her sleep, she is so peaceful and so tiny and vulnerable, and I fiercely, desperately want to protect her from all dangers. My heart already breaks, as I imagine days and years to come. I already dread the first time she gets sick, and I won't be able to take the illness or pain away. I hope she has her father's eyesight, so she doesn't have to be a nearsighted little girl with glasses, as I was. I hope she does not inherit her father's asthma and allergies. I know that we overcame these hurdles, and that we are fine, healthy, productive members of society, but it just kills me to think that she might feel that pain or anxiety or discomfort. I want her to be lucky and bold and confident and blithe and strong.

A few days after Helene was born, Seth held her, gazing at her face, and said, "When she gets older, for the rest of her life, I'm going to look at her and see this tiny little baby, aren't I?"

Yes. Oh yes. In an instant, we became parents. I look at my tiny sleeping baby and resolve to do the best that I can.

Yule tidings to all!

It looks like Santa left us a baby under the tree.

She's pretty cute. We think we'll keep her. (Though - who has the elf blood around here? Seriously, look at the pointy ear. They were even pointier when she was born. Should we change her middle name to Arwen?)

We slept in, and have been sitting around in our jammies. We made a delicious breakfast, complete with Hawaiian macadamia nut coffee and delicious mimosas. I have been waiting nine goddamn months to enjoy a mimosa again, and ohhh, the bubbly, citrusy loveliness (made with all organic orange juice and Gruet sparkling wine from New Mexico. Yes, sparkling wine from New Mexico. Highly recommended.)


This Christmas isn't precisely the way I imagined it. OK, it's not at all what I imagined. I thought we would be back in our new and improved house, and I'd be making mimosas in my glorious new kitchen, and we'd sit in the sunlight streaming into our new breakfast room, and we'd have a crackling fire in the fireplace, a chicken roasting in the shiny new stainless steel convection oven. But instead, we are in a rented apartment with rented beige furniture. And in the sleepless timelessness of baby daze, I forgot to get Christmas and Hannukah presents for my husband until the very last minute, so we aren't opening gifts today, and I'm feel like a horrible, thoughtless wife. Time just....got away from me.

But I did manage to get a tree, because mah baby was not going to have her first Christmas without a tree. Even if she can't even really see it. It's definitely her tree, too. Can you spot the H'es for Helene?
Here's one. Yes, she will be this spoiled forever. It's our new lifelong mission.



Merry Yule and a happy Christmas to all.

Self-indulgent whining and gratuitous cute baby photos

Self-indulgent whining:

I have to realize that there are some days I will not get out of the house. Yesterday, it was due to the baby's imminent need to eat, and the fact that my husband had the car keys with him at work. There we were, all car-seated up and ready to go on a super-exciting outing to Whole Foods, when I realized....no car keys. We put down the grocery list, took off our eleventeen layers of clothing, fed Helene, and watched a movie instead.

I hate the blurry-soft, serene woman in this breastfeeding how-to video. I sincerely hope that she has sore nipples.

I am absolutely committed to breastfeeding, but damn, it's tough. I knew it could be/would be hard; I knew that lots of women I know had a very difficult time with it at first. I haven't really even had that hard of a time, based on stories that I have heard. But I don't think anyone really tells you how painful/challenging/frustrating/overwhelming it can be, even when you ARE doing everything right. The first few days were fine, and bearable, but even though Helene was getting more than adequate nutrition, and was sucking like a champion little Hoover, we weren't getting a premium latch, and my nipples were a little, well, chewed (you'd be awfully surprised at how pointy little newborn gums are). I definitely did the right thing by going to a lactation consultant when Helene was five days old. She helped us with the latch-on, and did confirm that it would probably still feel kind of uncomfortable or painful some of the time, but that it should feel better at other times, and should get better. It has gradually gotten better, due to another check-in with the consultant, and a precious little container of miraculous all-purpose nipple cream. But I'm still not on board with the La Leche folks and others who blithely proclaim "breastfeeding should feel good!" Horseshit. I've downgraded it from "excruciating" to "uncomfortable/unpleasant" after a couple of weeks, and I think I'm about at "uncomfortable/not awful/sometimes neutral" right now. And we're doing things well. The baby has stellar diaper output (which is the only good way to measure input) and was gaining right on schedule at her last pediatric appointment. But my nipples are still awfully sensitive; the baby is sometimes fussy at feedings due to a fast letdown from one boob (she wants a drinking fountain and gets a fire hose, basically) and pops on and off, not latching on properly, which leads back to the sensitive, chapped nipple thing. She also wants to comfort suck sometimes, and is indignant that my boobs have the audacity to release milk, for god's sake, which leads to screeching, rejection of many pacifiers, and the sucking of my little finger for what seems like a long time, especially when all of this happens at 3:00 am, while I try to let my poor husband sleep in peace, because someone in this house has to actually get up and go to work. I may have to try the Soothie-on-boob effing genius solution that Amalah came up with, after having similar issues.

So, for all of you about to have babies. Breastfeeding: it can feel painful and icky decidedly not good even when you ARE doing things right, and may be tremendously frustrating and it will make you cry. Get thee to a lactation consultant ASAP and find some other breastfeeding women to whine to who will completely understand your pain and frustration.

Enough of that. Have some lovely cute squishy delicious baby photos instead.

Le chapeau

[Note: I don't speak French at all, except for the phrase "menage a trois" which also happens to be the name of quite a delicious white wine, so if my article or gender or something is wrong in the blog title (does French have genders?) you'll please excuse it.]

So, Grandma Fran dusted off her crochet skills to make Helene a hat. This was actually quite necessary, since all the hats we have for the baby end up sliding down over her entire little pin head and rattling around her neck. She has probably inherited her mother's small noggin (I buy kid-sized baseball caps, y'all). Not only did Fran crochet a hat, she used YouTube to do it. She found a video showing how to make a baby hat, and away she went. I think my mother in law is now the first person I know to use YouTube for a useful, productive purpose. Who knew it could be done?

The making of the hat.
The trying on of the hat.
The final fitting of the hat. Helene is so thrilled, she could just....sleep.