Mid-winter

Snapped while Missy learned to stand in her crib as we played peek-a-boo. Apparently - according to Missy - the only thing her crib is good for is learning to stand.

When we painted the walls this color, I had no idea it would match her eyes.

On why I don't want a new blog

My MIL just left our house, heading back to the Lone Star State. Before she did, she mistakenly called my husband by his older brother's name about 50 times and asked me at least thrice when we are going to have a little boy.

As if I have a choice in either of those two matters.

When I have a few spare minutes, I sincerely enjoy popping over to some of my formerly-IF friends' new mommy blogs. I lurk and more often than not find myself chuckling or nodding in agreement at posts. I've thought about starting a new blog myself. The only thing stopping me is karma.

See, according to my fucked up karma logic, the minute I leave my infertility blog for another space is the minute I will start obsessing about having another baby. And then I won't be able to. And then the whole vicious cycle with begin anew.

I'm already plotting. Let's see. Hmmm. Missy will be 1 in May. I can wean her over the summer and be pregnant by fall...

Riiiiiight.

But the saddest part is that I actually think these things. Nothing like a victory to make you think you are impervious.

Anyway. So that's why I haven't started a new blog. That and because being a full time mom and working part-time running my own business, I feel a serious lack of time and creativity. Instead I will just admire all of the other creativity out there.

First Season

After an unseasonably warm and dry fall, which kept the mountain from opening earlier, storm after storm has rolled in off the Pacific. The most recent one has coupled with a trough of Arctic air fresh from Alaska. Feet of very un-Cascade-like fluffy snow are piling up.

I am crouched in the camper with my helmet and goggles on, listening to the avy bombs go off, furiously working a hand pump because the electric one draws too much power. The folks at Arc’teryx should know that their garments are just as good repelling breast milk as they are at repelling the elements. I am waiting for our 7-month-old to wake up from her morning nap so I can haul her, 2 blankies, 6 diapers and 8-ounces of freshly-pumped milk to the mountain day care and still be near the front of the lift line when it opens.

This is not a complaint in the least. Just a testimony to the extra dedication it takes to get the goods when you have a baby in tow. But skiing is what we do. Nearly every weekend in fact. Pick up the camper on Thursday night. Pack it on Friday. Drive to the hill Friday night. Ski Saturday and Sunday. Spend 48 hours with two grown-ups, a baby, a golden retriever and all our gear in less than 100 square feet. Drive home.

The first few times we do it, it takes immense effort to inventory, pack and keep track of all the baby essentials we might need while camped in the mountain parking lot. Add to that the general list of gear we normally take with us: Gloves, goggles, extra lenses. Check, check, and check. A case of PBR, cans of soup, oatmeal packets. Got ‘em. Sippy cup, thermometer, Good Night Moon. Sheesh.

You begin to understand why some people drop out for a few years when they have young babies. But our first date was to the mountain. So it makes sense that – for us – having a kid after years of grown-up playtime wouldn’t change what we do.

We find a rhythm as the season progresses. Powder days mean springing for a full day of care. Typical conditions equal a half-day of care. Not-so-sweet days mean we do the hand off in the camper, trying to time feedings and naps with which parent has her.

We used to enjoy apres drinks and a big plate of nachos at the lodge. But now that cash goes to the mountain day care center. On the way home on Sunday afternoon, I gaze at the down-swaddled bundle with the toothless smile nestled in her car seat between us in the cab of the truck. I eat my tuna sandwich and wouldn’t have it any other way.

The countdown

Less than 10 days to go before Christmas. And Missy is scanning the sky for Santa.

Actually, she's looking for snow. Until this week, we had only trace amounts throughout the West. Today it is snowing on the valley floor in Portland, which is a rare thing indeed.

Next week we leave for 12 (gulp!) days in our ski camper with a 7-month old in tow. I am both happy beyond belief and a bit nervous.

Every year we do a holiday post card. This is ours from this year.

Flashbacks

Now that we are in the thick of the holiday swing, I find myself having vivid flashbacks to this time last year – Missy’s first trimester – and the fall prior – my first miscarriage.

I rarely wrote about how sick and terrified I was in this blog because I feel like I went through my first trimester with Missy in full-blown bunker mentality.

You would think that my beautiful daughter, harried life and, well, time itself might have dulled the angst-ridden memories. Still, I find myself visiting a random place like Costco and remembering vividly how it felt to walk down the aisle on the verge of puking. Or standing at the check out line at New Seasons Market on a rainy Friday night in November with a pint of ice cream and a box of pads as I lost Junior #1. I went for a doctor’s appointment in the same building where I had my CVS almost a year ago to date and could almost feel my knees knocking in fear again.

The fall of 2006 was filled with so much sadness and searching after my first miscarriage. The fall of 2007, so much anxiety and sickness. While I selfishly long to add another child to our family, I am not ready for the potential re-visit to such dark spaces.

In the initial months after Missy’s birth, I was too busy – or just plain too tired – to remember the pain of IF and miscarriages. This living, breathing, fiery little bundle consumed every spare second. I thought the pain might have gone – poof! like magic – the moment she emerged.

Now I have a bit more precious time & energy to think as well as the context of the holiday ritual to remind me how I felt last year and the year before. I am simultaneously sad and so very grateful. I can’t even fathom how much inner resolve it took to get through it so stoically. Was I ever that strong? I didn’t feel so at the time but in retrospect I am in awe that I made it through.

Shortly after we got the thumbs-up from the CVS results – and knew Missy was a missy – we received our first baby present from Mr. & Mrs. Super Planner: a subtle pink-striped swaddle blanket from PBK.

I found the gift receipt for the swaddle blanket the other day. Ever the glass-is-half-empty, I had saved it throughout the pregnancy just in case we had to return the item (for obvious, unspeakable reasons).

So I took that receipt…and shredded the shit out of it.

So Long

It has been so long since I've posted.

I know, I know. I suck.

I feel like there is so much to say, to write about. But the reality is that I barely have time to get online. I am so immersed in, well, life. Just life. The everyday nuances and rhythms. The good. The bad. The spit up. The everything.

No offense, internet, but if I have a spare 30 minutes, I am more drawn to making a batch of baby food or cleaning my shower. Suzy fucking domestic that I am these days. (That's another post entirely.)

I've also been struggling with what this blog is now that Missy is here. Sure, I could post all of her achievements: sitting up (check), rolling (check), drinking water from a sippy cup (check), sleeping through the night (pipe dream).

I could post our daily life stuff: waterbabies on Tuesdays; library on Fridays; her first season pass.

Our favorite things: bumGenius 3.0 cloth diapers, the Ergo baby carrier, the California Baby line of natural babycare products, the REI down infant suit, our bunny blabla.

Or the things I've learned: how to get dinner ready & feed a baby simultaneously; how to deal with a reflux kid; how not to put a baby with a dirty diaper in the jumperoo.

The truth is that I have an adorable baby who I took Thanksgiving food shopping and Christmas tree hunting. I am happy. But I can still feel the pain of infertility and the first trimester sickness and fear of a repeat miscarrier like it was yesterday.

It is a dark place in the span of my life. So dark that it threatens to block out the sunshine-y days. So sometimes I just need to put it back there, in the back of my mind. Which is why I'd rather clean the shower than blog.

But then I feel like an ass who has left so many relationships behind. Relationships that developed right here. That I don't want to leave behind. Because I enjoy those relationships. And because I made a promise that I intend to keep: to see everyone through.

I never want to be that blog that just ends. A random post and then no more. A promise to keep writing and then nothing.

But I am struggling about what to write.

For those of you still reading, what are you interested in regarding this journey from miscarriages to infertility to a successful pregnancy and now motherhood? Anything is fair game.

Here are some pictures of Missy at 5 & 6 months old. She is more fun with every passing day.

We love our bunny blabla. He matches our eyes.

First meal. Rice cereal is the bomb!

Go to Sleep Little Baby

Or maybe I should title this, I’m-Glad-I-Didn’t-Spend-a-Fortune-on-a-Crib.

The old saying is "People who live in glass houses, shouldn’t throw stones."

Cowboy pointed this out to me when I requested a complete 180 on the subject of Kid Sleep 101.

Before I had a kid, I had all of these theories about how I would raise mine. As if.

Behind their backs, I used to criticize some of my good friends’ parenting choices. Oh, the karma of it. I believe this karma came back to bite my ass a few weeks ago when Missy went several days in a row where she woke every 2 hours at night demanding to nurse and catnapped no more than 45 minutes during the day. At one point I recall literally staggering down the hall as if I were drunk on my way for another episode of soothing.

Exhausted, I decided it was time to teach-this-kid-a-lesson.

I’ve been mostly reading "Healthy Sleep Habits" by Dr. Weissbluth when it comes to sleep parenting. It’s taught me valuable tidbits, such as when to recognize the sleepy signs so I could get Missy back into nap mode to prevent over-tiredness. Basic stuff, such as infants should be up no longer than 2 hours at a time.

But I was so frustrated because according to the book, if I were an observant parent, I would see the sleepy signs, jump into bedtime action and my baby would snuggle into sleep by herself after a short bit of soothing. And then unicorns and rainbows would fly out of my ass.

Anyway. I watched. Like a freaking hawk. I spent days focused on just Missy’s yawns.

To no avail. If I laid her in her crib awake, she’d cry. If I laid her in her crib half-asleep, she’d wake up and cry. The only way to get her out for an hour of naptime was to rock, nurse and shush her into oblivion.

This day, however, I was determined to get my child to sleep on her own. How contradictory and absurd that sentence seems now.

At naptime I sprung the old ‘graduated extinction’ method on Missy:

She cried for 5 minutes. I soothed.

She cried for 10 minutes. I soothed.

She cried – a persistent, panicked cry – for 15 minutes. I went in to soothe and saw that the little person I love and had wished for all those months had spit up all down her chin and swaddle blanket.

This time, I cried.

I just couldn’t do it.

See, almost 14 years ago, I brought home a shiny, yellow-gold puppy. I had read in some dog training book that you were supposed to crate a dog for safety and put his crate in the same place where you would keep the dog when he was older. So the crate went in the kitchen, since this is where Gus would spend his young days while I was at work.

Poor Gus. He cried and yelped all night. And for several nights after.

Finally, I was, like, fuck this. I need some sleep. Besides, poor little guy, it must suck to be used to sleeping all warm and cozy with your littermates and momma, and then all of a sudden you are alone in a crate in a dark kitchen.

So I hauled the crate up to my room. And put it next to my bed. I snuggled baby Gus in my bed until he fell asleep and then I slipped him into his crate.

After each potty run outside, I would snuggle him back to sleep in my bed. Sometimes he went back into the crate and sometimes he slept in my bed with me.

He ended up being the best damn dog ever.

So if I’m willing to sleep with my dog, why not my kid?

With this in mind, I bought Dr. Sears’ Baby Sleep Book. Even though I promised myself no more parenting books. Even though I knew what this particular book would recommend.

When I was pregnant with Missy, a friend loaned the Sears’ breast feeding book to me. After reading it, I felt so thoroughly educated and empowered – and breastfeeding has gone so well for us – I thought I might get a repeat performance with the sleep gig.

I read up. Called some trusted friends. It’s staggering, really, how many will admit to it when asked point blank. Ran the plan by Cowboy.

And then brought the baby into bed with us that night.

Everyone got the best sleep we’d had in months.

So we kept at it. The best part is that we are bonding more as a family. Cowboy is gone for most of Missy’s waking hours but now he gets the chance to have her close by all night. She no longer fusses when he holds her as if she doesn't recognize him. At night, we are no longer dividing and conquering – both of us feeling increasingly alienated as we did. By side-lie nursing, I get so much sleep I feel like a rock star. Most important, Missy is getting all the snuggles and closeness that she needs. Because, really, it’s about what she needs and not what I need her to do.

I never thought this would be me: freaking hippie bed-sharing momma. I never wanted to nor thought I would ascribe to nearly all the tenants of attachment parenting. But that’s the thing about this trip. It forces you to open your mind and humble yourself in ways you never thought possible.

Step inside my new glass house. May I get you something to drink?

Perfect Moment Mondays

I wrote this in my journal last Sunday after our neighborhood picnic. It was a quintessential moment. I had really become someone's mom:

Today while sitting on someone else’s lap, Missy began looking around – agitated – and then began to whimper. I moved into her view. She calmed and smiled.

Later, in her evening bath, she looked up at me and I could see - I mean, really see - love in her eyes.

Make New Friends...

...but keep the old.

Some are silver and the other gold.

Remember that cheesy song from summer camp?

I rarely do this, but it is high time for some shout outs to my bloggy friends. For the few of you still reading this blog, please go and spread the love.

The VERY first blog I read regularly was The Oneliner. Now known as Apron Strings, she brings home the improbable Cate from the hospital. I have tears of joy in my eyes for her.

The dearest Lori at Weebles Wobblog is a bit blue. This to shall pass, but for those of you who have light to spare, please go shine some her way.

My new friend Lxox from Sydney, AUS is waiting for her betas to fall as she experiences her second miscarriage. Those of you who know this special kind of hell - or those who have empathy to spare - please go lend her some support.

Namaste

Home

The bright morning sun bounced off the statue of Buddha.

The baby was at home, fed, diapered and asleep. Her daddy watching over her.

My guruji enveloped me a warm hug as I stepped in the door.

The yoga mat practically sighed as it unfurled against the hardwood floor.

"Ahh. So there you are."

Wading into the fray

Lordy. Where did the summer go?

Oh, that’s right. I spent the summer from a chair in the nursery. Trying to get little Miss High Maintenance to sleep without someone having to hold her during the entire nap. That's an entire other post that I'm too tired to write.

Instead, I’m going to join the politico fray because I have so many thoughts on this subject ruminating in my head. That’s what I do. See, I’ve taken to walking. Me, Missy and Gus. And since it’s generally a one-way conversation with a dog and a three-month-old as I ramble down some trail, I get to think and talk to myself. A lot.

Sarah Palin. Sigh.

Wonderwoman Hockey Mom? Hmmm....

To be clear, as someone who spent 15 years busting ass on the corporate ladder before jumping off, I am totally stoked that we have a woman on the ticket for vice president.

But I’m just not buying the Hockey Mom thing. I seriously don’t believe that Gov. Palin manages the state affairs of Alaska, has a new baby and finds time to chauffeur her 4 other kids to hockey practice and games. If she does, it is the exception not the rule.

I have a feeling that Gov. Palin doesn’t really have much in common with me as a mom. The fact that she went back to work when her special needs baby was 3 days old is case in point.

I’m advocate for more maternity leave. Paid maternity leave for that matter. As such I don’t think I could see eye-to-eye with a woman who takes a three-day maternity leave when I think that three months is too little. I certainly don't feel comfortable having a woman like this as the representative of what is the "all-American mom" simply because I think it is all spin and little substance.

My bet is she has abdicated a lot of the day-to-day rhythm of parenting to her husband or another caregiver. Which is cool. But doesn't make her Hockey Mom.

Even if you are on your fifth kid and the parenting gig is old hat, there are parts of it – like breastfeeding or pumping - that just take time and can’t be done by dad. Time where you have to focus on what is right in front of you. Time when you have to give your body over to the process of nuturing – whether it is holding, or bathing, or rocking, or simply talking to your children.

And there just aren’t enough hours in the day to do that and run a testosterone-crazed state like Alaska and run on a presidential ticket.

I used to think of myself as a feminist. But if Gov. Palin is the standard bearer of modern day feminism (e.g. I take a three day maternity leave) then I don’t want any part of it. That’s just not reality for 99.9% of women out there. Feminist or not.

I admire her pluck, of course, but I have to seriously question the judgment of someone who is back behind her desk before her milk comes in.

And – my God – I’ll just say all snarky and all because no one else in the mainstream media will – and you know everyone wants to – but how’s THAT for abstinence only sex ed?

Oh, and since when is having to deal with an unplanned teenage pregnancy considered a "everyday problem that normal people deal with," as one woman convention goer was quoted as saying. Sheesh. Are we a nation of PWT?

Poor Bristol. Thrust into the spotlight like that because of her mother’s ambition.

Poor Trig. Who will have to do without his mother around much during his critical first year of life.

Sometimes when mommy wins, the kids lose. That’s just not a victory worth anything in my book.

Now we are 3

...months, that is.

Missy at 3 months:

Giggles.

Screw tummy time! She'll last for about 5 minutes. (Above photo taken within the first minute of "tummies" hence the smile.) Also shows zero interest in rolling from back to tummy or vice versa. She'd rather STAND. I am not joking. She's stacks her little hips over her little feet and balances. We call it ski conditioning.

Weighs 10 lb 10 oz., 22 inches. She's in the 15th percentile. Poor kid got her mama's build.

Hair is turning auburn. Blue eyes and auburn hair? Even though I am totally anti-gun and refuse to allow them in my house, am considering buying Cowboy a 12-gauge as as "push present."

Pimp My Ride

Even though I am a West Coast girl at heart, I have this compulsion for New England-y paraphenalia: Nantucket decals, Black Dog t-shirts, Boat-n-Tote bags and Shaker furniture.

When I lived on the East Coast, I got a kit to make a Shaker ladder back rocking chair replete with taped webbing seat. I lovingly put the rocking chair together while imagining that I might one day rock my children in that chair.

So nostalgic was I for this image of rocking a baby to sleep in the rocker on a hardwood floor that I hauled the chair from the Atlantic to the Pacific when I moved West for business school.

Right after grad school, I went through a phase where I wasn't sure kids fit into my life. I tried to loan the chair to some friends who were starting families but got no takers. In retrospect, that should've been my first clue. So I hauled said chair again to another home. I swear, I moved that chair at least 10 times.

Once we settled, the poor chair sat lonely in The Room while we waited to start a family. It sat lonelier still as we failed to sustain a pregnancy.

When it finally became clear that Missy was coming, the chair figured prominently in the nursery design plan. Other friends had their gliders and cushy rockers. I considered getting a new ride briefly but when you get ready for a kid you feel like you are hemorrhaging money. So I worked the nursery around the beloved old rocker.

However.

It was only after that I spent several very uncomfortable nights nursing and rocking and rocking some more that I learned that the Shakers are FREAKIN' CELIBATE! Which is why there are like only four real Shaker people left in the U.S. And which is also why their rocking chairs suck. They were never designed to withstand long, lonely nights with an infant in arms.

So after one loooong night when Missy fought sleep after each feed, I announced to Cowboy that we needed to pimp my ride. And I went out and - money be damned - bought one of these cozy, comfy behemoths from PBK.

My ass has never been so thankful.

Missy's not convinced. She still takes much cajoling to drift off to sleep. But at least we're comfortable while we debate the issue.

For those of you who are planning The Room, my assvice to you: do not skimp on a chair. Buy the best, most comfortable one you can afford. You have no idea how many hours you will spend in the thing.

As for the dear Shaker rocker...I'll be posting it on Craigs List as soon as I rid it of any evidence of breast milk and spit up.

The Zen of Ms. Planner

Many, many thanks to everyone for the kind support offered after my last post.

Y’all must have known how desperate I was to put up a post whining about early motherhood on an IF blog fer chrissakes.

I know, I know. Had I read that post on someone else’s blog last summer, I would have rolled my eyes. The outpouring of support from this community was a clear demonstration that every single one of you are way better folks than I.

I have a new motherhood strategy (since clearly the old one was not sustainable):

No more parenting books. Save one. Read below.

And

Take it one hour at a time.

Seriously. This works. I only anticipate and approximate two activities for her: she seems to feed every 3 hours and gets tired about an hour after waking. Some days she naps like a champ. Other days like a high-strung cat. Other than this, I’ve let go of my desire to have any semblance of a schedule.

I go into each night expecting her to fuss and cry. Not hoping that she won’t. She’s beginning to surprise me. She’ll go a few glorious nights without fussing one bit and then – bam! – we’ll have another full of the fussies to put me back in my place. Consistent, she is not.

The good news is that once she is down for the night, she’ll go a full four hours without waking. My major problem now is that she is starting to fight sleep during the day. Since I have always soothed her to a deep sleep (mommy is a sucker) because her reflux meant I couldn’t just lay her down after nursing, now I have to commence with the soothing routine before every freakin’ nap: swaddle, rock, bounce, pace, hum, sing, shush. It is a major endeavor in itself.

Missy does not go quietly into the night. Or nap.

I’m about ready for a little cry-it-out (I know, I know. I’m horrible) but my pediatrician said she is too young for CIO.

I also read Momma Zen, which was recommended by Megan. Thanks, Megan! I echo Megan’s endorsement of the text. Even if you eschew all books on parenting, please read just this one. It's a fantastic book for any first time mom - or exhausted mom - in early motherhood.

It reinforced even more that I need to just be in the now. To not battle between the life I once had and the life I have now or the life I desire to have since the baby arrived. To let go of it all. And just be in each moment. Good, bad or just plain exhausted.

The other thing I stopped doing was attempting to have dinner ready for Cowboy. Letting go of my need to provide this for him has really helped the evening. Now I watch her closely for signs of sleepiness and swoop into the night routine at a moment’s notice. Plus, having it be all about her – and not about her, dinner and a tidy house – makes the evenings not as exhausting just in case they end up stretching into the wee hours of the night.

Lastly, I do have a sitter. While she is here, I am mostly working but steal a few minutes to write in my journal or go to the grocery store sans baby in tow. On Friday, however, I have our sitter scheduled in the evening so I can enjoy a girls night out. Just without my main girl for a spell.

Life gets better with each day.

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.

# # #

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?

BELIEVE

Birth Story (the final chapter)

Within minutes the room exploded with people and carts.

Cowboy said later that it didn’t really hit him that we were having a baby TODAY until he saw them wheel in the baby-warming table. Do you think the poor guy was in a bit of denial up until this point?



The standing OB was brought in to give me my last ultrasound. Missy was face up. (They have to be face down to easily pass around your pubic bone). I don’t know how I lay still for the ultrasound. The contractions were coming hard and fast. I was still pain-med-free although I began regretting my decision to wave off the epidural.



At this point, Nurse Nicole crouched down and addressed me inches from my face. "There is no shame in getting an epidural at 8 centimeters," she counseled.

Cowboy was still counting to 30 once a contraction began. I imagined that I was running up a long hill in Forest Park as each contraction peaked. The mental imagery helped but the news that it would take 30-40 minutes to turn Missy before I could even start the real pushing just broke me.

I’m a wimp. I want an epidural.

Still, Nurse Nicole – following my birth plan to a tee – made me ask for an epidural three times before bringing in the anesthesiologist. Who did a fast and fabulous job. I could still feel my pressure in my legs and pressure where Missy was, but the epi totally took the edge off.

Someone snapped a picture of me post-epidural and I’m all smiles. I kind of wish I had a before and after-the-epidural pictures because it would have been hi-lar-ious. Then again, I probably would have snatched the camera from their hands and smashed it.

As the epidural kicked in, I received two surprises that made the delivery so special:

First, our doula arrived from Seattle and got us into position for optimum pushing. She quickly became legend in the L&D ward when the nurses found out that she had driven three hours in the wee hours of the morning to make it to the birth.



Second, my OB, who was not on call that weekend, arrived in the room in her scrubs. We were prepared to have another OB in her group deliver Missy but my OB happened to stop into the hospital on her way to the farmer's market with her family. She saw my name on the board and ditched her family in order to deliver our baby. I can’t say enough good things about my OB. She is wonderful.



Then it was time for the big show. They had me start pushing mildly as a contraction started. I could still feel pressure when a contraction came. After three rounds of pushing, the OB would REACH UP THERE and TURN THE BABY ever so slightly as I relaxed. Yowsers. Did I mention how glad I was that I caved and got an epidural? I was thanking my lucky stars that Nurse Nicole checked my cervix when she did.



The doula was holding me on one side and Cowboy ponied up on the other. He was supposed to stay uptown and instead he was getting the full meal deal. While I am very proud of him, it will probably be a looong time until we do it with the lights on. Men being so visual and all.



I pushed for a little over an hour and then she was here. Full head of hair. Just crying up a storm. Skin as ruddy as a lobster. She had a little fluid in her lungs (part of preemie status) but they just had me keep her crying for about an hour before she had her first nursing session. Our hospital has such great new baby policies. Missy remained in either Cowboy’s or my arms for the first hours after her birth.

Nurse Nicole holds the lobster baby. Seriously, this was the color of her skin.

And like that, I was no longer pregnant. I was officially a mom. Only then did I start to tear up when I realized that she’s mine. All mine.

The very thing that had consumed me and our marriage for so long was wailing up at me in my arms. Feed me, damn it, was all she said.

IF and all its baggage went sailing on down the river. I had no more time to dwell on it. There was work to be done.


We had a little come-to-Jesus – mother to her daughter – before our first nursing session. Earlier in my pregnancy, I had adopted the same stance on nursing that I had on having a baby. I hope I’ll be able to nurse, was my train of thought.


A few weeks before I delivered, however, I was overcome with this re-borne confidence in my body that had ebbed with each pregnancy failure. With my confidence anew, I decided that the maybe-I-could-nurse protective stance just wasn’t an option. Of course my body would do what I needed it to do.


OK, we can do this. Rookie mom and rookie baby. But we can do it.


I took some deep yoga breaths and relaxed. With that, Missy latched on like a little barracuda.


I felt like I had arrived.