Ms. Super Planner

My parents left today. And I am a mess.

Ms. Super Planner has been here for most of July. It’s been a Godsend. I don’t think I’ve done Missy’s laundry all month. Ms. Super Planner did it. She did my laundry, too. And my husband’s. She also unloaded the dishwasher as soon as it stopped. Reminded me to run the dishwasher. She dressed Missy every morning. And took over the soothing process at 10 PM every night so I could get some rest until the 2:30 feeding.

She even cleaned the guest bathroom before she left.

I tried to have it all together. To run the household and care for the baby while Cowboy brought home the bacon. So 1950’s, I know. With Cowboy’s new job and a new baby, we knew we’d be in boot camp for awhile. Then I took on a part time gig, which was stupid, but I really, really wanted to work for this client.

Cowboy’s dream job is still his dream job, but he quickly figured out that "we’d love to have a fresh set of eyes on things," during the interview process is code for: please come in and clean up this mess that someone else got us into.

He leaves the house at 5:45 AM and often doesn’t come home until 7 or 8 at night. He’s exhausted and stressed. I feel so bad handing a baby with the evening fussies off to him so I can get a break. That’s not fair to him. Or Missy.

Missy isn’t colicky. But she is moderately fussy. She’s also past the snuggle-on-the-chest-while-you-zone-out-in-front-of-the-TV-phase. She wants to move. This is not a baby that likes to hang
out by her lonesome. Take her to a coffee house and she’ll sit quietly and gaze in wonderment at everything for an hour. But she’ll fuss mightily after 5 minutes in the baby swing while you try to get some semblance of dinner together.

We’re also still doing the dream feed at 9:30 or so, which means she’s not soothed until 10, 10:30 or 11 and later. And it’s that last hour that is soooo exhausting. I’ve almost lost it a few times. I’ve had to put her in her crib crying and walk away.

In the process, I learned that you can do it all.

But only for about six weeks.

And then you start to fall apart.

Which is just about when Ms. Super Planner showed up and saved my ass. But now she’s gone.

I started crying in bed last night. I don’t want to go back to where I was the beginning of this month: exhausted, barely functioning and not enjoying my new daughter. I begged Cowboy to please come home earlier and manage his day at work so he’s not so exhausted at night (like eating lunch or working out). If I can leave the house for an hour to work out or run I am sure I would have enough endorphins to get through the late night soothing routine. Just for a few weeks until Missy is old enough to go to the gym day care.

He promised and I hope we turn over a new leaf.

Why is it then that I can’t stop crying today?

Missy is 2 months old

Missy at 2 Months

Smiles. Finally.

Weighs almost 9 lbs (4 kg). Yeah, she’s a peanut.

Is cloth diapered. We cheat and use a fabulous diaper service along with Thirsties diaper wraps. It is as easy as using disposables, esp. since I don’t launder the diapers in our home.

Still loves her Baby Art Cards. These things are like baby pot for Missy. She just stares at them forever with an intent, faraway stoner look. Maybe she’ll be an artist?

Has her first eating disorder. She likes to throw up after eating. My friend says you either get a poop baby or a spit up baby. I must have the latter because Missy just recently went one full week without pooping.

Favorite accessory: a bib

Ms. Planner at 2 Months

Has nursed in the backseat of the car several times. Good thing public nudity is legal in Oregon.

Once went to a client meeting and realized she forgot to put nursing shields in her bra. A big no-no because I leak like a freaking sieve. So I stuffed each side of my bra with plastic bags from Gus’ poopy bag stash I keep in the car. Not one of my prouder moments but my shirt stayed dry.

Unknowingly went to another client meeting with a large spit up stain on her jacket.

Has 8 lbs to go before reaching her pre-Missy weight.

Is not eating dairy because it jams up her daughter (literally). Hello, my old friend, coconut milk ice cream.

Favorite accessory: a burp cloth.

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I apologize for not being up-to-date on blogging, reading and commenting. I am working for a client part-time plus hanging with an 8 week old. It is crazy. I have so much admiration for those moms who work full time with babies. Seriously. I don't know how you do it.

More lessons learned

Just you.

The day is hot and beautiful. The kind of day you dream about in the throes of winter. Warm east winds create a rushing sound through the firs. At mid-day the back porch is shaded by a massive black walnut tree. Sunlight sparkles through the tree canopy on to the white Adirondack chair where you sit for hours.

With the baby. She’s nestled in her favorite spot. Asleep. Her cheek on your clavicle. Her hand clutching the ringed collar of your scooped neck tee in the center of your chest. The collar, you reckon, is splattered with spit up.

You believe that as you close your eyes in the moments before your eventual death, your memory will flash a series of scenes from your life. You will your brain and body to reproduce this very one.

There are chores abiding. But they can wait. Trading this moment for a basket of matched socks and a clean floor seems wholly unjust.

There was a time in your life that you would have put the baby in her crib and rolled through the list of chores. You worried about the future too much. And dwelled over the past. You slaked through the hard times by pushing your body to its limits. You never lived in the now.

Then life made it hard. It set you on a path that forced you to sit with the now and accept how hard it was to just be with unfulfilled desires. It demanded that you not escape into tough physical pursuits to exhaust yourself just so you didn’t think so much.

You don’t want to say life made you lose things you loved in order to teach you a lesson. But maybe you needed to learn something. Maybe you needed to learn to be present during the hard times so you wouldn’t miss being present during the so-very-good ones.

So you learned. Now you recognize the gift of these moments as they happen. You have learned to just be.

Just Say No

I have this thing about little girl clothes.

I can’t stand most of them.

This past weekend I went to mecca – Babies R Us – for the first time ever to buy a monitor. I did my tour around the store and saw some cute shirts for little boys with "Surfer" on them. But on the little girl side of the store, the pepto-pink -- God everything there was so pink -- shirts read simply, "Surf Club." The message was subtle but clearly there: as a girl, you are not a surfer. You are just part of the club. On the sidelines.

We’ve all seen Blue Crush, right? We know that girls surf. I have no doubt that my daughter will surf one day.

Apparently the product line managers, graphics designers, merchandisers and buyers who source the little girl stuff are from the backwaters, where girls still sit on the beach and don’t surf. I am ashamed that most of these people in charge now are of my generation (X) and were lucky enough to grow up with Title 9 and everything else that girls can do now.

Same thing goes with the appliqued onesies that read, "Daddy’s Princess," or "American Sweetheart," or "Beauty Queen" (I swear I just saw a shirt like this today in size 0-3 months at Target – sick I tell you!).

You don’t find little boys’ t-shirts that say, "I give out hugs and kisses." In my view, by putting these slogans on a little girl, we are enforcing the stereotype that a female is only valued if she is affectionate. Only if she uses her little body does she gain favor with others.

Using cheesy onesie logic to explain it: if Missy is a princess, that makes me the queen. And the queen says no apparel that subjugates females will be worn in her household.

As such, I have two (!) bags full of onesies, dresses, etc., thoughtfully given to us by well-meaning neighbors and relatives that I simply won’t ever put on my child. They are headed for Goodwill. Tags still on them.

Shame on Babies R Us and Targets of the world for sourcing these stereotypes of little girls. In the meantime, I’ll stick to the consignment stores and boutiques to look for more appropriate clothing for my daughter.

I know I probably shouldn't even be bitching about this. That I should consider myself lucky to have the privilege to buy such clothes. But is this seriously the kind of world we want for our daughters?