Binkytown

But I might keep the banana bread

I received an email from a neighbor and acquaintance this morning. She had her baby last week. As she was almost two weeks late, each night I'd walk by her house while out with the dog and look for signs of life to see if they were at the hospital or not. I was genuinely excited for her. I made an extra loaf of banana bread and stuck it in the freezer. I picked up a neutral onsie while out shopping (I bought two for myself). I froze some chicken soup and picked up a loaf of french bread to deliver to them, thinking they might be in need of food reinforcements by now.

I know her previous birth story- how she labored at home for almost all of it with a Douala, showed up at the hospital practically crowning and pushed for awhile before- voila! A baby. So I expected the same this time around. The mass email I received today read as expected; birth date, size, weight, general excitement and good old fashioned button-busting pride. Then, a statement about how proud they also were of their second natural childbirth with no pain meds that was faster and easier than the first.

I swear reading that felt like a slap in the face.

She has every right to be proud. I'll bet that feels amazing. Unfortunately, I will never know what that's like and therein lies the issue. It's MY issue, not her issue. I KNOW this. Still, my first, initial gut reaction was: F*ck this - I'm keeping that onsie. My second was: Get over yourself. That's childish and wrong. My third was: Fine, but I'm still going to be pissy about this.

I question "What if.." over and over in my head every single day. What if I had waited a few days instead of being induced the last time. What if I had a Douala or a really kick ass midwife at my side helping things along instead of three different labor nurses. What if I could have delivered him and become one of those women, so many women, who go into labor, show up at the hospital and have a baby. Who don't ever have to spend a minute trying to weigh the pros and cons of a delivery versus a surgery. Then I tell myself to stop it. When you are not in the baby making-baby having stage of your life, no one cares about your birth story. Except maybe your kids and you. It doesn't matter how they got here, it just matters that they get here. Full stop.

I'm revisiting some harsh lessons learned in these weeks leading up to having this baby. Some very resentful feelings are surfacing that have left me alone since we graduated from infancy to toddlerhood, but that plagued me harshly in the first few months of my son's life. The fact that I couldn't deliver him in the way that I thought I should have been able to. The fact that I couldn't breastfeed him. I tried everything, I mean everything, every trick any nurse ever knew. His weight was dropping and still not a single lactation consultant would say to me- It's OK. Give him the formula. This is one tiny step of motherhood. Move on. Enjoy your baby. Instead I felt like a failure, every day, crying big tears holding that tiny baby trying to force feed breast milk with a syringe. It literally makes my stomach turn to think about those days and unfortunately these days, after putting much of that away, I can think of little else.

I don't fit the mold. The mold. The mommy mold. I had pitocin- boatloads of it, which apparently, is now frowned upon. I had an epidural AND a C Section, I didn't breastfeed (although I pumped for nine months which looking back is just CRAZY) and I don't stay home with my kid(s). As someone who doesn't fit the mommy ideal I think I can say from the reactions I get, with some authority, that the myth of mommy perfection still exists.

I just want to say to women who labor (relatively) easily and who breastfeed for months on end seamlessly as they go about their days- You just don't know. You just don't KNOW what it's like to want that and not get it and I want to make them understand.

When actually, it's me who needs convincing. That the result of a quick labor with no drugs are not any more breathtaking than one who comes out of the operating room. Or that the reality is the only person who will be disappointed if I have another C Section is me. I could use reminding that pre-school teachers don't ask you if your four year old had formula or breast milk.

So I'll hand over the gift tonight with a smile and I will congratulate her and I will sincerely mean it.

Then I will walk home and try not to think about it any more.

Pinch Me! No, Really! Pinch Me Now!

Today is a really good day. I have an iced green tea latte that is beyond tasty. The baby is elbowing me in the ribs as I type this, there is a krispy kreme donut fund raiser at work today (and therefore a box will be parked outside my office door. I will barely even have to get up to get one). The sun is shining. I'm wearing a comfortable smock that is a little bit stylish (no small feat at this point girls) AND YET.. It gets better. Better than two krispy kremes in rapid succession? Yes.

Feast your eyes on Rita's book.

Something I wrote here on this blog has been included in this "mommy blogger" anthology (a.k.a. A BOOK!) edited by Rita Arens: Sleep Is For the Weak. Rita tells the story of how this came to life a million times better than I could, so please go here to read about it. Her story reads like a book itself. A book about overcoming obstacles, about working hard and not giving up, about thinking big and dreams that come true. I wrote about this before when Rita first announced this was becoming a reality:

Dreams are mysterious creatures. Often when I'm driving or drifting off to sleep I sometimes wonder, How about that? I carried that forgotten dream all these years and suddenly it just happened. It wasn't because of any poetry workshop, it was having a baby and losing my mind and finding an outlet and writing down what I was thinking that a dream was realized. A dream I had put aside to make room for other things.

Because Rita dared to dream, one of my dreams has come true as well, and for that I am extremely grateful and so very proud. I can not believe I am being published along side these talented and wonderful bloggers. For some of these authors this is another line on a distinguished list of publications, but for me, it's a big deal. A really big, first time this has ever happened to me, and I never thought it would, deal.

Sleep Is For The Weak features a foreward by Stacy Morrison, Editor-in-Chief of Redbook magazine and includes the following contributing writers:

Amalah
CityMama
Birdie's New Mexico Time Machine
Finslippy
Friday Playdate
Fussy
IzzyMom
Laid-Off Dad
Mom-101
Mommy Needs Coffee
Mommytrack'd
Motherhood Uncensored
Not Calm (dot com)
Paper Napkin
Rancid Raves
State of Grace
Surfette
Surrender, Dorothy
Sweetney
The Modernity Ward
The Naked Ovary
Three Kid Circus
Woulda Coulda Shoulda

(AND ME!)

You can pre-order a copy today from any one of the following retailers: Amazon, Barnes & Noble or BookSense. There will be book parties and book signings and the like (how exciting is THAT?) so if this is the first you will be hearing of this, it will definitely not be the last.

Read this book, you will not be disappointed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PS: You know you want it. Cool Mom Picks is giving away three books.  See all of the details here.

He's really on to something.

Of course, I think my son is brilliant and talented and funny. He kicks a soccer ball while running like a semi-pro. He catches his football effortlessly. He cracks me up. Example: While trying desperately to convince me to buy some fruit snacks at the grocery store he said to me but mom they are so delicious and then slowly moved his tongue across his top lip in a licking-your-lips type fashion. Really, how am I to say no to that? ( I did, but it wasn't easy to do while laughing.)

He's now showing an affinity for music as well. Tomorrow is the Salamander Spring Sing at school. Three and four year olds putting on a music show. I am seriously dying from the cuteness factor already and there are 30 more hours to go. Because they practice every day he's springing up with new little tunes all the time that I've never heard before. In addition, he's starting to repeat many of the melodies he hears in passing. I was watching the Justin Timberlake HBO special while folding laundry and the chorus of "What goes around" got stuck in my head. I was singing it to no one but myself while pulling him out of the tub the other day and now he sings it all the time. If I try to sing with him, or before him, or after him, for that fact, he corrects me and says no, it's like this: and then sings the exact same thing I just did. I pulled up this video on YouTube and let him listen with headphones on and his smile went from ear to ear. It's the goes around song- he exclaimed, his eyes lit up. Oh yes it is.      

We are heading into the six month, one step backwards, two steps forward transition period. Like clockwork he's starting to plainly disobey, fall apart, yell and scream for every reason or no reason at all. I'm happy to report that I still remember the last time we went through this and I recall clearly coming out the other side and all the things I had to do to get there. I'm much more prepared and level headed about this round, and so far, hormones be damned, I've managed to persevere without completely freaking out like I did the last time. I know this is a phase and I know now is the time to metaphorically batten down the hatches. He needs clear boundaries and no exceptions and for us to tow the hard line. It can be done, but it's difficult for everybody. 

Yesterday was an amazing day. It was warm and sunny. We had the day off. We played and went out to lunch and set up race tracks. He was happy and warm and silly and I enjoyed every breath taking minute of him.

This morning he kicked and punched and refused to get dressed. Calling me on my bluff to carry him out to the car in his pajamas he looked at me defiantly and said "fine". So I did. Where he asked for real pants. (But left his shark jammy tee shirt on. I didn't even explain it apologetically to the day care teacher. I admitted it: He's still in part of his pajamas. That's how this morning went.)      

Tomorrow is another day. No, scratch that, in five hours it will be a different day for us with different moods and challenges and hopefully hugs. When he looks me straight in the eye and overturns a basket of toys I will do my best to take a deep breath and remember the wise,worldly, words of the all-of- twenty-something Justin Timberlake, because what goes around does come back around.

Waterworks

1. My husband is starting a new job (probably) May 19th. At the same company where I have worked for 13 years. Completely different area, but still, it's strange.

2. We have an old home. It needs new windows. We are trying to move little man from baby's room to the spare room we don't use and haven't touched since we bought the place. Somehow we've gone from a simple "let's repaint in here" to the entire upstairs needs new windows and must be repainted. By people other than us. For which we will shell out many dollars. Because of possible lead paint, etc. I may have to sleep in my living room for awhile. I am not sure how this happened. 

3. There is a baby coming in nine weeks

4. I have a new OB that I'm not entirely comfortable with

5. I have to decide VBAC or C Section and the choice feels monumental. No matter what good (or bad) advice anyone gives me, it's up to me and I am equally as torn

6. I have gained 40 pounds

7. I want to kick that hairdresser who cut my hair last time. I went (somewhere new) for a touch up and realized it's going to take me nine months to grow these god damned layers out

8. I have a cold

I started crying on Sunday and haven't stopped since.

The end.

   

Fast forward

Here at big city corporation it is Bring Your Child to Work Day. I'm pretty sure the Bring Your Child to Work Day people came up with this, but here at big city corporation we like rules and the rules are your child has to be nine or older to come to work with you. No screaming and pooping babes. Which I can appreciate, even though I think it would be a hoot to ogle some little teeny babies or wait patiently in the ladies room for some toddlers to finish waving their hands in front of the automatic paper towel dispensers. It would be a lovely distraction.

Some women in my department brought their daughters and while I thought they were indeed cute in their fancy dresses and shiny shoes it was the boys who made me stop in my tracks. Super adorable nine and ten year old little men, dressed in khakis and polo shirts. Long and lanky, some with glasses, walking closely down the hallways with their moms.

My boy at ten years old flashed before my eyes. 

These boys were still close enough to be comfortable walking side by side with their moms, not yet with the attitude of a teenager who wants their own space, but older than a young child who might still cling to a parent. These boys straddled that space effortlessly, walking with confidence, but not too much.

I saw my boy, a young man. Tall and skinny, a spring in his step.   

As I watched these pairs circulate around the building I thought those moms must be so proud. I was proud for them. I've said before, every milestone, every six month increment, every first day in a new classroom brings me so much joy. It means I'm doing something right, to see him growing, changing and learning as much as he does. But it also makes me sad, because sometimes I feel like I'm wishing the sometimes really challenging days away and don't appreciate this time as much as I should.   

I'm starting to really struggle at 30 weeks. Feeling a deep seeded sense of panic; This feeling of I can't do this. I haven't even worked my way up actually bringing this child home, I'm still so consumed with the physical reality of trying to maneuver in this big body and work and clean and cook and not sleep and how am I going to do this for ten more weeks? How will my body continue to grow in this space that I already feel is reaching maximum capacity?  How will my lungs collect any air at all?

Of course they will and I will, I have no choice and I know this. Every time that little voice springs up in my brain that says "I can't do this" I beat it down and ask of it, don't you know how fast the time goes? One day this will be a distant memory, just as the days before my first little man arrived are now. I wish someone, some brilliant physicist could explain to me how time seems to go so slowly yet really races past you at the speed of light and you don't notice until you look behind you.

Today I saw the future, walking in a pair of neatly ironed Dockers with me, open and bright eyed and growing up.   

    

Stick people are nice, but..

Wanna make me a new banner? If you have time and want a client let me know and let me know your rates.

I already have one in mind, but alas, artistic- I am not.

Drop me a comment or if you prefer you can email me at amywojo at yahoo dot com.

Vroom vroom

The Parent Bloggers Network is asking what you can do just as well as any man out there.

Hmmm.

I have no sense of direction. I can't read a map. I can't shoot a basket and have no idea what to do if my car won't start (although I'm going to register my vehicle on MyCarPage at Ask Patty, it's a start.)

I have a younger brother, five years younger who I never paid attention to. I played with Barbies, dress up clothes and make up. I never touched a toy with wheels. I knew nothing about vehicles.

Until I had a son.

I would challenge any man on the street. I know the difference between an excavator and a front loader. I can spot a gantry crane five miles away. Could they?

I can pick out a Chevy from a Ford. I know about cylinders. Good lord, I even know who Jeff Gordon is and about NASCAR. I never saw that coming. 

My house is littered with cars. Literally. They are in my shower. On my bed. In my briefcase and jacket pockets. While I'm writing this? My son is racing them across the couch and occasionally over my foot.

That's my cue. Time to go play race cars.

Check out this weekend's Blog Blast .This week, they have teamed up with Ask Patty, the premier automotive web site for women, to promote their new feature - MyCarPage.  You can read more posts and maybe win a nifty gadget for both men and women!

I will enjoy his full disclosure while it lasts

Even when I'm so tired. When the little one pulls me close, closer in the middle of the night, his little mind spinning and says for the one hundreth time this week- Can I tell you about picture frames? Sure.

Week of the Young Child is approaching and clearly he has made us a picture frame for parent appreciation day. How do I know this?

Picture frames are fragile. You have to be very careful or they will break. I painted it silver and purple. Picture frames are for moms and dads and you have to be very careful.

But I can't tell you about it. It's a secret.

 

The old switcheroo

I wrote once about the heartbreak that I felt upon hearing the news that my OB, the person who holds the most knowledge, skill, information about creating and birthing new life suffered a terrible loss.

I saw her yesterday for my 28 week check up and we chatted about potty training, preschools, my BV (ewww). I have already decided to go for the VBAC. What the hell. It can't be any worse than my last C section (God awful) and if she was comfortable with my choice then I felt 100% fine with it. She has a way of practicing, of investigating and navigating the body. She often does it with her eyes closed, seeing into her minds eye.

She took Thursdays as her day off with no scheduled appointments. I know this because we discussed it when scheduling my induction. I was booked for a Wednesday, a full moon Wednesday when every bed on the floor was full and instead of going in at 6AM we were finally given the all clear to show up at 6PM. My doc was hopeful I'd deliver sometime in the early hours of Thursday. It turned out to be a last minute emergency C section at 2PM. She was with me for the whole thing. Every hour that dragged on, every contraction, every heartbeat fluctuation (the babies and mine).

I'm hyper conscious of what happened whenever I see her, thinking clearly about my choice of words. I haven't told her how happy I am that my son will have a brother. I'm afraid it might sting. I can't imagine complaining to her about my run of the mill preggo aches and pains. She sees women, pregnant women every single day and even if she had great support and was able to leave the past behind her each day when she woke up, oh my god that must suck.

I inquired yesterday about if I wound up having another unplanned C-section, could she just tie my tubes when she was in there? The answer: Because I'm delivering at a catholic hospital, no. (PS: Thanks catholics, for getting all up in my soon to be 38 year old and done it's job already reproductive system.) She suggested, more than once, that if I wanted to think about it and to choose a planned C-section, she could refer me to one of her colleagues that practiced at other local hospitals where it could  be done. Kind of strongly. I asked if I should reconsider my choice for a VBAC. No no, she insisted. She just wanted to give me more options.

Sneaky.

She's pregnant. HOORAY!

She's going on complete bed rest next week and won't be able to see me through this pregnancy. FUCK!

I'm rattled by this. Yes, I know it will be fine. Yes, there are millions of competent OB's in the world, many in the same practice I see today. And yes, I realize the nurses do about 95% of the actual baby delivering and if all goes smoothly (please go smoothly) I will see the doctor for a few minutes at the very end.   

But starting over at 29 weeks? Not in the plan. If she told me that the best way to get this baby out would be to stand on my head and wiggle my hips I would do it.

New items to add to my list of things to freak out about and remember to do: If anyone else tries that they will need to be warned that I might throw a bedpan at them. 

   

Who knew baby powder was so freaking complicated

Sorry this is not about the J&J baby camp and hair braiding. Just happens to coincide. I'm having some issues. In multiple places. That are brought on, if not exacerbated by the wonder that is pregnancy.

My feet? Swollen to twice their normal size and as a cute little Canadian boy working in an Aldo shoe store in Montreal once said to me when trying to get me to buy some over priced insoles to go with my overpriced shoes: "Moisty". That's what you would have called it a couple of months ago. Now that the weather is warmer we are more like Moisty-Mach 10.

Other areas? Chafing. I will spare you the details. I don't know if it is a pH problem or the fact that my thighs are closer together no, OK Ill be honest, they are rubbing together all the time. It's not pretty. Or comfortable. Or cool in any way.

I ran out for supplies over my lunch hour and thought AHA baby powder! Yes! That's the answer! Good for multiple problems. I searched everywhere, but of course, because every baby book I ever read said you would destroy your baby by using baby powder, I found it in the baby isle.

So there is lavender baby powder, cornstarch baby powder, generic and name brand baby powder, all priced ridiculously high because of it's location. I chose the generic, cornstarch, non lavender-soothing-calming-ready-for-bed version. I thought I'd save that one for the new moms because that will TOTALLY help your baby fall asleep. Yeah. In an alternate universe. If you can find a baby book who will let you use it without scaring the crap out of you.

Driving back to work I twisted the cap and gave it a little puff. A lightly scented happy cloud poofed into the air. I thought I'd carry it in to work and freshen up a little. Better yet, I'd do it in the car before I went in so as not to have to be seen in crowded halls with a big bottle of $1.99 baby powder. Except that would be impossible.

How does one put baby powder on without it getting all over EVERYTHING? Seriously I need to know.

Realizing the car wouldn't work and that I'd either have to carry it naked or dump out everything that sat in the store bag I decided to tuck the bottle under my arm inside my coat. Of course I forgot my work ID and had to stop at security to sign in, the whole time trying not to the let this slippery bottle slide out. I'm sure I looked like I was carrying contraband, imagining getting stopped: Excuse me miss, what's that your smuggling into the building? Explosives? Alcohol? No, sorry, I've just got sweaty feet.

I stopped at the restroom and realized I would have to strip naked if I had any chance of getting some of this stuff on me without covering my clothes in the process. Out of the question. How about my shoes? The same. I tried to dump a little in my hand and then into my shoe. A total mess.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Also it is important to note that I sat down at my desk, defeated (ha) and opened my desk drawer to grab my post it notes. Snuggled in the back of my drawer was a mini sized bottle of baby powder I apparently brought in the last time I went through this in 05, never used, and pushed to the back.

I have TWO bottles of baby powder and ZERO clues as to how to get it on my body. Really, do you have to stand naked in your bathroom and cover everything within a five mile radius and then get dressed really slowly and carefully like a villan trying not to set off some high powered lazor detection system so you don't walk around looking like a moron with white hand prints on your ass?

Help!