Mind-Trip

This is how my brain works.  Keep up if you dare.

I am so done with snap up pajamas.   There are always too many snaps or too few.  I am going ‘zipper only’ from now on.   If not, those snaps will be the end of me.  THE END OF ME, I tell you.

I’m still losing my hair.  It’s everywhere in the house.   This despite my efforts to rake out my hair in the shower and paste it to the back wall where it clings like some evil Matrix Octopus-Machine creature.  And now the hair that I lost at the end of my pregnancy is growing-in baby-fine, curly and spiked all around my head so that I look like Pinhead from those 90′s horror flicks when I pull my hair back…which I always do (pull my hair back that is) since I’m losing my hair.

Abby got mad enough to roll over from her belly to back for the first time this week.  It’s all about the remote control with this girl.   If only the remote control could continue to motivate her throughout her life…

• Poopy on the potty?  Here’s the remote for you, Sweetie.
• Made your bed all by yourself?  See, it’s shiny with buttons.
• Passed your driver’s exam?  Here you are.
• Got accepted to Harvard?  Press as many random buttons as you wish, Abby.  Dad and I are so proud of you.

I’m UBER ticked that Jimmy Johnson got voted off Survivor last night.

UBER.

Abby is an ADHD nurser.  She cries like she’s been starved for days to nurse, takes a few gulps and then starts looking around for more interesting things:  the dog, the TV, the remote control.  Meanwhile I end up with a shirt full of milk run-off.  I’m also starting to lose my milk supply because of my part-time job, the fact that she doesn’t nurse at night any longer, and that she refuses to be covered when nursing – thus ruling out nursing on outings.

I want to continue to nurse.  I want to stop.  I want to continue.  I want to stop.  Get my drift here?

Sam has stopped watching Sesame street in favor of more ‘big kid’ morning shows.  This makes me sad, as Sesame Street seems to have a witty-undercurrent of adult humor peppered throughout.   I even have favorite episodes of Sesame Street.

The Pirate one with Tina Fey and the Firefly one.

Shut up.

I can’t wear my contact lens anymore because, according to my ophthalmologist, I have “chronic dry eye”.  I had never even heard of this diagnosis until a few years ago when those stupid Restasis commercials came out.  I even recall making FUN of those commercials because I determined that “chronic dry eye” sounded like some Hallmark Holiday diagnosis meant to generate mass hysteria among hypochondriacs and make lots of moolah for the manufacturer.

Instead I wind up looking like I’ve been toked out all night and feeling like I have sandpaper for eyelids.  AND I can’t even take the chronic dry medication because I’m nursing.

Thanks for nothing, Restasis.

Furthermore, I have to fumble around for my glasses at night so I can see those dang-on sleeper snaps when Abby wakes up with a nearly-leaking diaper.  And, because my eyes feel like they’ve been blow-dried, I can’t fall asleep, which leads me on a desperate search for the remote control which I had to hide from Abby so she would keep nursing.

And don’t think I haven’t tried to let her hold the remote whilst nursing.  Being walloped in the head by a five-month old is not my favorite evening treat.

But it’s all good in the long run I guess…so long as I’m done with snaps. 

*  *  *  *

Got a random thing of your own?  Admit it…what’s your favorite kid show?

Not So Smart

Smart

My dad gave me one dollar bill
‘Cause I’m his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
‘Cause two is more than one!

And then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes-I guess he don’t know
that three is more than two!

Just them, along came old blind Bates
And just ’cause he can’t see
He gave me four nickels for my three dimes,
And four is more than three!

And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
and the fool gave me five pennies for them,
And five is more than four!

And then I went and showed my dad,
and he go red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shook his head-
Too proud of me to speak!

Shel Silverstein

*  *  *  *  *  *

Evidence I’m getting dumber…

1. I forgot the term ‘burp rag’ for about three days and instead called them “you-know-what-I-mean-things-for-baby-spit-up-mabobs”.
2. At the garage sale this weekend, I found it quite impossible to add in 25 cent increments.
3. Our local paper “The Intelligencer” (yes, I’m serious) called to inform me that I forgot to put in the address of the advertised garage sale, proving that they are, in fact, intelligencer than I am.
4. I accidentally dropped the flange-thingy from the pump in Abby’s bottle today and remembered it precisely at the same time I spotted it floating in her bottle…as she was drinking it…in front of the pediatrician.
5. We forgot Sam’s back-pack for school this morning.  I say ‘we’ because I blamed Sam.  He blamed me.  Still trying to figure out how we might pin this one on the dog.
6. I have lost three pairs of my own sunglasses and two pair of Sam’s this summer.
7. On Sunday, I peeked in our bedroom only to be graciously surprised that Mark had made the bed and even put the decorative pillows on according to my OCD expectations.   I called to Mark and thanked him immediately.  Mark replied, “Uh, you made the bed.”  Oh yeah.  Not sure why he didn’t go ahead and take credit for that one.

Evidence that Mark is getting dumber…

1. See number 7 on my list.

*  *  *  *

Got a list of your own ‘dumbness’ these days?

Grief for Sale

So sorry that I’ve been absent from here this week.   I was in some sort of wormhole-time-sucking-state since my mom was visiting as I simultaneously prepared for an epic garage sale with a friend.  I feel awfully guilty that my mom was thrown into an enormous stack of plastic bins stuffed with four years’ worth of Sam’s clothes – figuratively of course.

Dang, this kid has a lot of clothes.

I found myself completely overwhelmed with the task of sorting through the bins.  Oh yeah, there was the obvious “Sunrise, Sunset” experience of remembering all the sweet little items Sam wore, and there was the fact that these clothes were supposed to go to Will.  But mostly, it was this vexing mind-fog that kept me from being productive.

I found myself incapable of any sort of organization, either mentally or physically.  I would examine a pair of jeans or t-shirt and have absolutely no ability to conjure up a price.  And this despite having an assortment of pre-printed tags of which to choose.  I just found myself folding and refolding things in some sort of idiotic trance.

Luckily, my mom took over the pricing task, or I would still be sitting in my basement today, stacks of toddler jeans and baby sleepers and mismatched socks surrounding me in a suffocating pile.

I guess it’s grief-fog?  That or I’m just getting dumber.

I have a lot of good I should write about the sale, about having fun, about earning some much-needed extra cash, about getting rid of stuff that was just taking up space in my basement.  But instead, I just want to say one thing that is running through my brain like those tickers that stream across cable news channels:

I miss Will.

I miss that he never wore those clothes.  That he never slept on that blanket or was fitted snugly into this carseat.

I just miss him.

Don’t let anyone fool you.  Garage sales are not just about suburban spend-thrifts.  Nope.  Garage sales are bootcamps for grief.  Enter into them at your own risk.

And be sure to fill your cashbox with extra quarters and ones.

A Good Compliment

Oh happy day…

Sam pointed to my doughy stomach and surprised me when he said, “Mom, you’re skinny.”

“Sam,” I told him, “You are my favorite child.”

Of course, I’m not quite sure what his frame of reference is (since my stomach could easily pass for a late first trimester pregnancy right now). AND, Sam also believed my mom (who is visiting us) who told him the dog told her it was okay to eat ice cream.

I choose to believe that Sam appreciates a Rubenesque woman.

Got a favorite kiddo compliment yourself?

It Sucks

A Poem

My advice

(if you haven’t felt enough like a jerk lately)

is to suck out your child’s brain

with the nasal bulb syringe.

A torturous, albeit necessary,  task

for both parent

and baby.

*  *  *

Any advice or commiseration on my Crabby Abby’s teething troubles (sore gums, fussy!, stuffy nose) would be much appreciated!!!!

For the Love of Cupcakes

I love Tuesdays.

Sam goes to pre-school on Tuesdays.  Though Tuesdays are not the weekend, they are also not Mondays…and this makes them better by default.  Tuesdays are early enough in the week that I feel as if I have time to accomplish tasks.   I still feel recharged from the weekend-before on Tuesdays.  I also don’t work on Tuesdays, which means I get extra Sam and Abby time in the afternoon.   And, today Abby was less fussy with her teeth, so it was like having my cake and eating it, too. 

Speaking of cake, I love it as well.  In fact, I love cake so much that I just made some cupcakes to take to my church small group tonight…you know, so I can eat cupcakes.  Yellow yummy cupcakes with buttercream frosting and sprinkles.

Am I making you hungry for cupcakes?   Am I?  Yeah, that’s exactly how I feel every time I watch “Cupcake Wars” on Food Network.   In fact, I had to stop DVRing the show because it was forcing me to lie awake at night thinking of cupcakes. 

Vanilla ones.

Chocolate ones.

Red Velvet ones with cream cheese frosting.

Cupcakes filled with chocolate ganache.

Cupcakes sprinkled with cocoa dust.

White cupcakes filled with raspberry puree.

Sigh.

OK, so I’ve assessed the situation here.  I know I started this post saying how much I love Tuesdays.  Tuesdays are just a day of the week.  But cupcakes, cupcakes are like little compact parties that you can celebrate all by yourself.   I love them.

Tuesdays are nice.  But cupcakes complete me.

*  *  *  *  *

I told Mark about my blog, and he summed it up nicely:  So you’d rather have “Cupcakes With Morrie” instead of Tuesdays?

Absopositively.

What kind of cupcake will you be dreaming of today?

Teething Makes For Short Posts…

Abby is teething.

She wants to be held.  No.  She wants to nurse.  No.  She wants to sleep.  No.  She wants to chew on her fists.  No.   She wants to nurse.  No.  She wants to be held.  No.  She wants to sit in her exersaucer.  NO.

She doesn’t know what she wants, but she’s quite sure that she’s unhappy with what she’s got.

Hmmm.  She must get that from her dad….(she writes sarcastically).

The Endangered Thingamijig

Every day there is an emergency at our house – a situation so dire that it requires cooperation among all persons over the age of 3.  I call it, “The Great Binky Search”. 

Paci.  Binky.  Bobber.  Plug.  Make-the-noise-stop Thingamijig.

We interchange the names of the blessed bink here at our house.  Abby has three.  Yes, just three.  Well that’s not true.  She has two green Soothies that she refuses to take.  She also has two Parent’s Choice binks that she won’t take because…well because I guess she’s already a snob.  Abby is a orthodontic Nuk girl.

Back to the three:  a pink one, a green one, and a clear one.  The clear one is part of the original paci set we had at the beginning.  Three clear binks to start with.  Clear bobbers are the dumbest invention ever.  Picture this:  It’s three AM and newborn Abby is screaming her head off (and I am not kidding that this child sounds exactly like a RingWraith from Lord of the Rings when she’s upset).  Mark is fake-sleeping.  I am bleary-eyed and trying to do the whole “keep the lights off to help teach when it’s nighttime” act and furiously groping around Abby’s bassinet for an invisible binky.  Turn on the lights and pick up Abby, only to discover that the binky is not even IN the bassinet.  Find myself on my hands and knees searching the carpet like I’m looking for a lost contact lens.

Yeah, binkies should not be clear.  Or if they are clear, they should glow in the dark.  And come with a homing device.  Or a clapper or something.  Or come with a warning.  Or in a twenty-pack.

The reason we don’t have additional binkies is that we are stubborn…well that and I truly believe that pacifiers are like loose change:  the minute you break a $20 bill it diffuses into an iota of small and meaningless purchases.  For us, excess binkies diffuse into the mouth of my dog.  When Sam was a baby, our dog, Charlie, developed quite a taste for them.  Even though he is not smart enough (Charlie, not Sam) to open a half-way cracked door, he lurked around the crib like a shark, attacking the dropped binky before we could tug it out of his teeth.

And so we have the daily Binky Crisis.  Sam has gotten very good at finding the errant bink.  He looks in random places:  his toy box, under the tv, Abby’s bib drawer and does surprisingly well with his searches.  And this is because there are Binky Gnomes in my house that live to move Abby’s pacis from their logical home (the crib, the bottle rack, the exersaucer) to obscure little hideaways.

The Binky Gnomes also stole my dishwashing wand.  And the green sheet that fits the mattress on the pack-n-play.  And one of my favorite amber-bead earrings.  And my sanity, because seriously, who loses a dishwashing wand?

My brother-in-law suggested that they make a binky with an ‘easy button’ (per Office Max) on it.  Ah, if life were only as simple as popping in a pacifier.  Car not working?  Try a bink.  Bills not paid?  Bobber it.  Teenage tantrums got you down?  Plug in the ol’ thingamijig.  You could put it in your teens mouth…or even yours if you were really desparate.  Eating out of control?  Bink it up, Baby.

As for now, I am unsure where Abby’s three precious binks are hiding.  Inconsequential for the time-being…but it is only a matter of time before Sam and I must race around the house in the midst of our little RingWraith’s wails.  You think I should go ahead and find them now.

Naaaaaah, I’m a glutton for punishment.

*  *  *

Coming back to tell you that Mark takes offense to my fake-sleeping accusations.  He submits that he is ACTUALLY asleep 95% of the time.  I’m not sure that ACTUALLY sleeping through RingWraith screaming is any better.

Eureka!  Maybe Mark is using the missing binks as ear plugs…you know, the clear - ones since they’re invisible and all.

What Infertility Taught Me

1. I could stick myself in the stomach with shiny, sharp objects.  Repeatedly.
2. Unfortunately, life does not care about self pre-determined time-lines.
3. How to self-sacrifice as a mom before even getting pregnant.
4. Timing is NOT everything.
5. Contrary to popular belief, vacations do not magically cure infertility.
6. The day that you get a negative pregnancy test will be the exact day where you learn that no less than 3 of your friends are pregnant.
7. A listening ear always feels better than a know-it-all tongue.
8. My doctor does not care nearly as much I do about my fertility/health, and thus…
9. I can and should speak up about the progress of my medical care.
10. To stand up for myself in the face of ‘thoughtless feel betterisms’.
11. How to manage a tight budget before having children.
12. Not to take my body for granted.
13. To lean on my husband.
14. That God may not make things better the way I expect, but he can give me peace in even the roughest seas.
15. Clomid makes me crazy.
16. There is much more to me than my role as a mother.
17. Sometimes one can do everything right and STILL lose.
18. That failing at something teaches wiser lessons than winning.
19. That I am stronger than I expected.
20. To tolerate pain, both physically and emotionally.

             ….and lastly, infertility taught me how to lose Will.

And though, I hope that there is no child lost in your life, we are all on a finite time-line on this earth.   Loss is a part of life that each of us are going to walk in many, many ways.  Infertility was my professor in grief.  It taught me to face Will’s loss head-on.  It taught me to reach out for Mark’s hand instead of walking the path alone.  It taught me to be brave.

I am not glad for infertility - mostly.  It has been a very painful part of my adulthood, nearly spanning a decade.  It made me feel misunderstood, left-out, jealous, angry, and so empty.  But it has also shaped who I am.  Sam and Abby came to me at a different time than I had wished, but they came.  I am so grateful for them.

I am not sure who I would be without infertility.  It is sewn into my fabric even now that I am no longer actively trying to conceive.   I’m at peace with it in a way I could not be before, but still - I am not glad for it.

And I do not wish it upon anyone else.   I’m inspired to offer an enormous helping of understanding and commiseratng outrage at those who are grasped by it now.  And hope that they may take lessons from it as well.

* * * *

What are the lessons you have learned from infertility?

Reflections on a Year

So it’s been building up in me, this approaching time of year.  It presses upon me like a swelling river, bulging out upon its banks and pushing rocks and wood and debris along with it.  It was this time last year that we learned I was pregnant from my August IVF.  In fact, my first ultrasound appointment was on September the 1st.

I remember feeling great happiness, though it was muffled with an overcoat of fear.  Fear of an early loss, fear of a difficult pregnancy, fear of the unknown, fear of losing something that we worked so hard to achieve.  I told myself, “You’re being silly.  Why do you assume the worst?  What are the odds?  Just be happy and enjoy the ride.”  And then, of course, the ride sucked, and Will died.

There is no satisfaction in the fulfillment of a fear.

Instead it makes you question everything.  It makes you see the people you love strung delicately on a strand of web, vulnerable to be broken off with a casual sweep of a hand.  It makes you feel unsafe, exposed, and out of control.

It has gotten so much better for me since we learned of Will’s death in January and we rejoiced in Abby’s birth in April.  I feel less like I’m about to rocket off into space with no reason or warning.  I feel more as if I trust gravity again.  I feel slightly more convinced that statistics are on my side, though I don’t think I will ever cling to them as fact.

Statistics are only guesses.

Mark told me, once, that he had the 50/50 life’s philosophy despite well researched statistics and it is this:  it will either happen, or it won’t.  I thought that was a pretty black and white way to see the world.  I also thought it smacked of a disinterested life, as if one should feel about life the way one feels about the rain.

Although time is grinding off the sharpest edges of Will’s loss, it remains a lumpy tumor in my chest – evidence that things can and do go wrong, very wrong.  And though I remind myself of so many things that have gone RIGHT in my life (Sam and Abby, for example), it doesn’t provide complete reassurance.

When I hear that someone is pregnant, I stop myself from telling them that I hope beyond all hope that their baby doesn’t die.  I may not be a genius, but I’m smart enough to know that this particular wish is one I should keep to myself.   And, to be perfectly honest, I’m jealous of those who seem to effortlessly skate through pregnancy.

Now I feel like I’m living in two times at once:  my pregnancy and the present.  I’m constantly shifting back and forth between the times, remembering how I felt, questioning every twinge, regretting little decisions.  But more than anything, I’m reaching back to last year when Will lived in me, first just a tiny dot, then a gummy bear encasing a translucent flickering heart, a jerky wiggling shrimp, and finally a fully formed little boy who was real and was wanted and was loved…

so, so much.