The End of Possibilities

We miscarried twice before our first was conceived and born. Both were brutally painful to endure, as I chose not to have a D&C. Both times, the fetal tissue took over a week to expel and was incredibly gruesome. 
We had our second with no issues, no miscarriages. Lucky us, he was conceived with no anxiety or worry. 
Our third miscarriage happened about two months ago. I was at school. I decided to stay and work for the week because I could not get a reliable sub. This time, the process was excruciating. I smiled through teaching for three days while I bled until I felt faint. It was one of the stupidest things I've ever done, but I didn't feel I had the right to be upset or inconvenienced by this loss. After all, I was beyond the appropriate age for conceiving. What were we thinking?
When we told people about our pregnancy, we told very few. Our families still do not know, and for good reason. Reactions to it varied from laughter (which was awful) to concern (equally as awful.). No one was happy for us. (Or, I should say, very, very few were happy for us.) Usually the first reaction was, "What are you going to do?" We decided to keep quiet after our doctor showed us the heartbeat on the sonogram, because she looked solemn when she advised us to "not tell anyone just yet." Ouch. 
The reactions also ranged when I told people about the miscarriage. I only told very close friends, people I felt wouldn't judge. They were all very kind, very understanding, reliably sad. 
I also told a few friends who had recently expressed how upset they were with me for not (in their opinion) properly maintaining our friendships. Life had gotten in the way, and we had drifted for whatever reasons. None of it was personal or purposeful, but to them, it was my fault and they wanted me to atone. I told them about the issues my husband and I had had recently, and included sharing the miscarriage in a weak attempt to ward off their catharsis. They didn't flinch at the news, and now we aren't speaking. Their disappointment overshadowed my own, in their opinion. Miscarriage wasn't an excuse. 
Fertility is a painful process for some, and although we were fortunate to have our children naturally, it came at a price. Three pregnancies, three possibilities, gone. Sometimes I still imagine them as children in my life, people I never had the chance to know. In a strange way, I love them as mine, even though they never came to be. 
Miscarriage is a brutal process. I'm inspired by my friend, who just recently wrote of hers in a lovely post that made me so thoughtful about the topic. How can we comfort our friends who suffer through it when we have created an ignorance about it? After all, people fear what they do not understand, so let's try to understand it.

Heartbeat...Again.

Three years later, and I'm waiting.  Waiting to see the sonogram that says I didn't make a huge mistake.  Waiting for the genetic testing that will almost guarantee everything will be ok.  Waiting for the miscarriage that the doctor seems to think is very likely.  I'm 46, which means it is nearly impossible for me to get pregnant naturally.  Yet, here I am, six weeks and one day pregnant.

There is no joy at this moment.  There is no celebration.  When I peed on that stick and it crossed lines, my heart nearly exploded out of my chest and I immediately burst into tears.  There was panic, dread, fear...but no happiness.  This is the way a 46 year old woman reacts when she finds out she's pregnant with a third baby.

Actually, fifth pregnancy, if you count the two miscarriages I had prior to my first son.  The feeling of being pregnant, for me, is a non-feeling.  I have no memory of every having any discomfort, even when I bled for days.  And carrying my two boys to full term was no issue for me.  I was one of those mothers who didn't have anything to complain about.  Aside from some very slight nausea, I was the annoying pregnant woman who actually enjoyed being pregnant.

But today, I feel nothing.  I am forcing myself to feel nothing, so I don't die of fright.  I'm fighting off the feeling of complete terror.  When I have a moment to think about it, I am afraid for myself.  I know the risks all too well, because I googled Geriatric Pregnancy when I was 41.  Now, at 46, the odds of problems, genetic abnormalities, and health issues are so much more real to me.

I don't want to be attached to this baby until I know this baby will be ok.  And when it is ok, I will hopefully, possibly allow myself to feel joy.  But as of now, I don't want to set myself up for a horrible, terrible fall.

Three's Company, Three's a Crowd

Oh, the age old question.  To have a third baby or to not have a third baby?  My heart says, "Babies smell like sugarplums" and my uterus is saying, "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMN MIND NO."  It's a discussion that comes up frequently enough that I now instantaneously break into a cold sweat every time I hear the word, threesome.  I can't imagine how tired my brain would be caring for another baby, or how sore my nipples would become after breastfeeding a third time.  They drag on the floor as it is, and I'm not pleased with the dimpling.  Oh, Lord, the DIMPLING.

The only thing that keeps the conversation alive for me is the idea of my two sons with a baby.  It would be so unbelievable to see my eldest with a new sibling.  My younger one, however, has categorically said, "NO."  That's NO to the baby, NO to being a middle child, and NO to everything else that he can possibly say NO to. He's two and a half, so that's par for the course.

My oldest wants a baby sister.  He wants a little girl to play with, no doubt, but mostly he's in it for the clothing and accessories.  He has become THAT kid, who loves pink, plays with girls, and wants to wear dresses and rainbow shoes.  He also wants hair down to his butt, which will never happen in my lifetime.  The amount of time it takes to coif a girl's hair may seem entertaining for a day or so, but then the braids start coming, and it starts cutting into your Downton Abby time and forget that garbage.

So, a third might also bring us a much sought after girl.  It's a fifty-fifty shot, which is better than my odds of winning Powerball, so I've got that going for me.  But in all honesty, I doubt that I would be able to hold back my fainting hysteria if I got on that sonogram table and saw another penis on the screen.  My fear would be that the fetus would hear my groans of disappointment and immediately begin plotting how he was going to underachieve his entire life, just for spite.

Another reason not to have a third would be that my age puts me in a category that gets me booked into the high risk pregnancy doctor's office as soon as my test turns positive.  Having to double and triple check everything I do and eat and not eat every minute of ten months is not my idea of a good time.

Would my body love having another baby inside it?  Yes.  I was one of those annoying pregnant women who had a great seven or eight months before things started getting ridiculously big.  But would my body love having another baby outside of it?  No.  No, it would not.  I have flaps, dimples, and sagging in places I won't mention, mostly because when I do I tend to burst into tears.

Also, I like sleep.  I like it a lot.  I want to marry sleep.

But in reality, our finances are so thin I doubt the third baby would get anything to eat or wear other than hand me down, ripped, stained boys clothing.  We'd have to hide the baby in a Jansport backpack in lieu of a Bjorn because we have sold or given away most of our baby things as the boys have outgrown them.  There would be no money for gas, so our main mode of transport would be a Red Rider Wagon or a Skuut bike, jerry-rigged with four seats and a infant carrier.  Not a pretty image.

But OH HOW ADORABLE that baby would be.  The fattest cheeks, the soft tufts of hair.  Ugh, I'm battling the major cutes.  And this fight is so unfair.

Oh, The Places You'll Go...

June is flying by.  There has been a six month lapse between posts because I've been in the throes of a semi-manageable nervous breakdown.  Between two kids under the age of four and trying to find a job, my life has been insanity multiplied by a multitude of poopy diapers.  I can't believe I have survived to tell the tale, frankly.  It was pretty hairy for a while there.  Consider yourself lucky you didn't have to bear witness to the crazy.

So for your convenience, I'll recap the last six months in short, but overly descriptive sentences and/or paragraphs.  Ready, set, GO.

1) The two-year old has decided not to poop.  His record thus far is five days.  No pooping, but lots of screaming in pain.  His last movement was not unlike giving birth to a large goose egg.  Needless to say, he has been a complete joy to be around.  And by "joy" I mean "horrible I can't believe I have to deal with this isn't giving birth enough why can't I have a latte in peace."

2) The nearly four-year old is desperate to turn really four, which is months away and I can't seem to wrap my brain around the party details yet.  I believe I may be in denial, since they're no longer babies and I'm missing that new baby smell.  I have yet to see a new baby smell car freshener.  Someone do something about that.

Anyway, he routinely asks if he's four yet, and when the answer is "No, not yet," he asks WHEN is his birthday and WHEN can he have his birthday and WHEN are the presents coming and WHEN.  It's not at all annoying except when it is.  And he's snoopy.  He likes to snoop.  I have a closet full of pinatas and stuff and I can't afford this behavior.  Eventually, something will have to be done and I'll have to install an alarm system.  Maybe I'll enlist his brother, who is more than happy to oblige, I'm sure.

3) The brothers are starting to act suspiciously like brothers.  They play, they hug, they kiss, they say "I love you" and alternately they try to kill each other.  No really, they try to kill each other...with looks, with hands, with feet, with their butts.  It's not unlike having two cats thrown into a magical fountain that obliterates any memory of being affectionate toward one another.  But really, they are pretty sweet to each other...except when they're not...or when there's a toy involved.  If there's a toy involved, all bets are off.  I dread the day they bring home a girl.

4) The nearly four-year old boy can read.  Well, somewhat read.  But STILL COME ON BRAGGING RIGHTS.  He was always obsessed with numbers and letters to the degree that I was worried about raising Rain Man.  He started at 18 months and knew his numbers to 100 by two.  The teachers are impressed, the parents in his school ask if he's always been that way, and we are very nonchalant about the whole thing, I suppose because we've always been very used to it.  It's nothing new to us, and we never had a second thought about it.  But when I sit and have a moment to think about it, I can see how smart he is and boy, that tiger mom in me wants to roar.

That's not to say that both boys are the same.  The younger brother has interest in what his older brother does, naturally, but can't grasp the concept of being absolutely and completely obsessed with something.  He finds something interesting for a day, and then leaves it for a week, only to return to it the next day.  However, he's cunning in a scary way.  He gets what he wants before we even realize he's gotten it.  That's smart, too...but we fear that kind of smart.  He's manipulative because he is pretty damn adorable and he knows how to use his cute for evil.  This one will cause us trouble, I'm afraid.

5) Food.  We're running out of it.  I'm starving.  We need a telethon to raise money for groceries.  These boys eat nonstop and they are not timid about the mountain of food they need to function.  Sometimes, I find myself cringing while they eat.  It is not unlike watching feeding time at the zoo.  Boys are gross.

6) Although my older boy has conquered potty training, albeit late at 3 1/2 years old, my youngest won't even consider sitting on the thing.  We ask him regularly if he will grace the seat with his butt, but no, he won't.  He can't even be bothered to be asked, and runs screaming from the room.  In turn, he hides under the dining room table and does his business in his diaper there, all the while staring me down from across the room.  Eerie.  And smelly.

7) Babies.  The husband and I have been discussing a third baby, and it's kind of a To Be or Not To Be kind of thing.  Obviously, I'm tired.  I want to get back to sleeping more than five hours at a time eventually, and having a newborn in the house would obviously take that off the table.  I'm not interested in stretching my body to the four winds again either, considering my body has not bounced back from anything in over four years.  I'm older, and being called a geriatric pregnant woman is something I don't cherish.  So, everything points to no way, no how, are you joking, shut up.  But then I visited my friend's baby the other day, who is four days old, and OMG HOW ADORABLE I NEED TO BE PREGNANT RIGHT NOW.  Oh don't worry, because it wears off in a while and then I'm back to, AH MY PILLOW FEELS SO GOOD ON MY SLEEPY FACE.

8) Television.  I used to think it was evil and parents were horrible for plopping their kids in front of one.  But now, I can use the bathroom without someone sitting on my lap, so...yeah, television.  PBS is my friend.

A Quiet Moment

I have found the very rare, very unexpected quiet moment and have decided to write a blog post about how completely terrified I am of turning around to see my toddler hanging from the chandeliers.  And we don't even have chandeliers, but in my mind, that's what's happening right now.

Moment over.

Three is the Longest Year

December has come and gone in a rush of cold air, some torrential downpours, and freakishly unpredictable tantrums.  They are like tornadoes.  They come out of no where, lift up your life, and tumble it into the air, never giving a hint as to where it will land again.  For all we know, it won't.

Three is the suckiest of all the years we have encountered so far.  As far as cuteness levels go, they plummet at this stage, not because the kid ain't cute...he's adorable LOOKING.  It's the horrible temperament.  The terrible, awful, painfully unlikeable personality that goes along with three is like someone pulled another kid out of yours and left you with two.  One has the ability to make your heart explode with love.  The other?  Netflix The Omen.

Along with three comes his one and a half year old counterpart, who still has his new baby smell.  He iss also still adorable, still cute as a button, and still devoid of the stench of being awful three.  Not that I expect this to last, mind you, as the three-year-old is trying his best to convert the one and a half year old into his minion.  It's slowly starting to work, too.  No matter how much I try, there's always something he can get by us.  Three is very sneaky, you see.  Three knows he will eventually need someone to drive the getaway car when he robs the local bank.  It's been planned since the day we brought his brother home from the hospital.

Potty training has gone...no where.  Basically, we've decided that he's just messing with us at this point.  He knows when he has to go.  He CHOOSES not to go where we want him to.  He says he likes diapers.  I like them to, until I get the bill at the end of every friggin' month for nearly $100.  My husband is ready to throw him in underwear, tell him there are no more diapers anywhere, and to play a kind of poopy "chicken" with him until he gives up and goes in the toilet.  I, on the other hand, am not thrilled with the prospect of throwing feces stained clothing into the wash every three hours or whatever ridiculous amount this stupid standoff will take.

The Battle of Three will go down in the annals of history as the grossest, smelliest, most exhausting year of our lives.

Gross is Relative

Sorry, how long as it been since I've written?  Over a month?  That's because I'm covered in excrement and urine.  You read that correctly.  Poop, pee, and pre-chewed food.  It's really an amazing thing, being this coated in disgusting.  I used to think it was all too much to bear.  But since I'm dead inside now, very little of this phases me.  Boys will be boys, after all.

The Poop of Potty Training

Watching the Presidential debates on television reminds me of how much I hate changing poopy diapers.

Yes, that means we are still trying to potty train our three year old, and it's getting rough.  He's pretty much disagreeing with everything we ask him to do regarding the potty.  It's not a matter of who is calling the shots anymore.  We know he's in charge, and at this point we just try not to show fear in his presence.

We also know his teachers at school, who also change his diapers, are cursing our names under their breath.  That is, when they CAN breathe in all that stench.  It's pretty rank.  We sheepishly apologize whenever we see them, and then shamelessly bribe them with chocolate and baked goods.

At this point I'm really hard pressed to find a potty training method we haven't tried.  I've literally tried every piece of advice I've been given by moms and teachers alike.

1)  Incentives?  We tried candies, books, toys.  Nothing.

2)  Coercing worked for a minute, and then he reverted back to his old ways.

3)  Not mentioning the word potty at all?  Did not work and still isn't working.  Naked time?  He peed, and worse, all over the bathroom floor without a blink.

4)  Begging?  Quite possibly the most humiliating of all the methods we've attempted.  He smirked while I did it, too.

We can't figure out what we are doing wrong, nor can we figure out which steps to take next.  What we DO know is that it's really, really frustrating to have your kid look you straight in the eye and says defiantly, "No, I didn't poop."  ...and then the smell punches you in the face like a sack of wet, rotten fish heads.

Yoga Pose of Death

My post-baby body is reminiscent of a Jell-O commercial, minus Bill Cosby rolling his eyes around and spouting gibberish.  Also, Jell-O is tasty stuff.  Post-baby body?  Not so yummy.

My stomach has been looking one of two ways...elephant skin-ish or taut like an over-blown balloon about to pop.  One taco too many and my belly becomes seven months pregnant all over again, without the fun baby to blame for the extra gut.

On the other hand, if I eat less, my stomach deflates and looks downright ghoulish, like a serial killer came to me with a skin suit he made with his victims and said, "Here, you could totally work this!"  Basically, it's a belly button nestled inside a glob of unbaked bread dough.  Unlike the Pillsbury dough boy, when you poke me there, I burst into sobs.

The thought of exercising my flab away has been not unlike watching a before and after Jenny Craig commercial.  I'm Jennifer Hudson, once chubby and unable to wear the latest runway fashions and then POOF!!  Here I am, skinny Jennifer Hudson!  Size 0!  Look how fabulous I look with so much less of me to look at!  Yes, I dream the dream of becoming a size 0...only because once I get that skinny, I can revel in people shoving sandwiches in my face, begging me to eat something because I look ghastly.

So I began a very unregulated routine of walking with a skinny, young friend who makes me go up and down the steepest hills and goads me into going one more block which ultimately turns into seven and then WHAT THE HELL I AM DYING.  I planned on walking every night until I saw a marked improvement.  I ended up walking one night, after which I was so sore I could barely move the next day.  This was a problem, since I have this big baby at home I have to occasionally lift onto the diaper table.  My back wasn't having none of it, y'all.

So after a few days of sobbing into the couch cushions and waiting for the pain to subside, I felt well enough to sit up and do some stretches.  It seemed harmless enough.  I even tried a few of the yoga poses I had tried ten years ago at a class.

There's this pose called The Cobra that is supposed to be the easiest pose.  If you look in any yoga book on the shelf at a bookstore, this pose will be listed as EASY, BEGINNER, POSE #1.  That's the pose that took out my back in one crack of the vertebrae.

The minute I tried to stand up from The Cobra, I felt something creak out of place.  As it happened, it was my pride dying inside me.  I was in so much pain, I could only move when assisted by my husband, who looked genuinely concerned.  Who was going to take care of his big, heavy baby while he was at work, after all?  Ugh.  Even my ego was too tired and old to feel wounded.

I got a text from my young, skinny friend that night asking if I was ready for a walk.  The conversation on my phone went a little something like this:

SHE: Want to walk?

ME: I threw out my back.

SHE: How did you throw out your back?!

ME: I did a yoga pose.

SHE: HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

It was the worst of times...THE END.

Oh, what the FLARG.  Three-year-old tantruming has become a sniper attack-type of war between the adults and the children in my home.  Every day goes a little something like this:  He's fine.  No, wait, he's not.  Yes, he's ok now.  No, no...he's absoluely oh my GOD HE'S EATING HIS BABY BROTHER.

Do children get PMS?  Toddler PMS?  Is that a thing that I haven't Googled yet?  *Googling as I type...*

On a less hysterical, valium-craving note, I do know a little something about child development, having had many, many horrible years of college attaining a degree in early childhood education and whatnot.  So after witnessing first hand the crap-tastic freak outs, screaming matches, swatting, biting moments of this not-quite-three kid, I have come to this conclusion...kids his age are smarter than all of us combined, minus the communication skills.

I'm not bragging about JUST my kid, mind you, although I do think he's spot on academically for his age.  But have you ever been on an internt forum and seen someone post something so incredibly STUPID, something absolutely INNANE, a comment so friggin' ASININE, you just had to comment with an eloquent, well-thought, cleverly structured comment that made that person stop what he was doing and think to himself, "Wow, I'm such a moron, and I should stop everything I'm doing in my life and be someone better!"

But instead, this is what you type:  "ROTFLMAO! LAME! WTF!"

That's kind of what I imagine my kid is experiencing.  I'm the doofus on the online forum and he's the smartest person on the internet, but he can't pronounce the word BLUE yet.

In closing, here is what I propose:  European spa vacation, all-you-can-eat everything, Ryan Gosling.

Time Flies When You're Covered in Vomit

Has it really been a month since the last post?!  Apologies, but I have been busy buying food to feed this brood of boys and it has been a full time job.

The boys love their food.  Oh, how they gobble it away like it's going out of style.  After nearly passing out from the last Visa bill, I've taken careful note of how much we have spent on food in the last few months and OHMYGODANDTHEBABYJESUS.  It's well over what is the acceptable amount for someone with my income.  See ya later, eating out.  I'll miss you!

I've also noticed how much has been going to groceries and the like.  When the two boys were smaller, food wasn't a huge issue because of delicious breast milk that also happens to be free of charge.  Can I get a "Thank you, wonderful mother, for getting mastitis, thrush, and boobs that look like tennis balls in gym socks!"  No?  Motherhood is its own reward?  BAH.

Now that the boys are larger and both enjoying solid food like feral cats, this grocery shopping deal has gotten out of hand.  I find that I'm going every week to pick up bags upon bags of food.  Six hundred dollars in a month, and I've begun scavenging for coupons like those slightly off-center women on Bravo's Extreme Couponing.  FYI: If you have a coupon for paper towels, I may shank you for it in the parking lot of Walgreens.

In addition to picking up a few coupons here and there, trying to save money has been nearly impossible, aside from the in store deals which have subject me to purchases such as GENERIC DAIRY CREAMER SUBSTITUTE.  Your guess is as good as mine, but my guess is that it's not dairy, nor is it creamer.  It is, however, pretty disgusting and not unlike the liquidy paste leftover from a nearly empty Maalox bottle.  Obviously, couponing and sale items are not my strong points.

Scouring magazines for cost efficient recipes has been my new tactic, and I have found some good ideas for meals that will feed this crew of hungry boys without breaking the bank.  For instance, the other night I slaved over the microwave for an hour.  It was the most patriotic Fourth of July dinner ever...TACO NIGHT.

Oh, how I used to love taco night as a child.  And now, my children will also bask in the glory that is ground turkey mixed with some serious Schilling taco/msg mix powder.  Top that on a hard crunchy taco shell, sprinkle some shredded "Mexican" cheese from the dairy section, maybe a dribble of LaVictoria taco sauce...deliciousness.

And yes, it was well received by the kids.  The older boy snarfed down two immediately, one hard shell, one soft.  But the little one, holy cats!  As soon as we handed him a rolled soft taco, cleverly adhered by refried beans and thick guacamole, he inhaled it.  The husband handed him another one.  SNARF.  He ate that one too.

Then the husband began constructing a third one.  "DON'T."  I warned.  "He can't eat three!  His stomach is only the size of a lime."

"But look how cute he is eating tacos!  And it's TACO NIGHT!  I love it!" He proclaimed, and promptly handed the baby a THIRD taco.

The third taco was not gobbled as enthusiastically as the other two.  In fact, the baby seemed to just suck on the outside of the soft taco, like it was an enormous straw.  He left behind a lifeless shell of soggy tortilla.  At this point, he also looked a bit overstuffed and lethargic.  Ah, the warning signs.  Why do we never learn?

Bedtime rolled around.  I gave the little dude some breast milk and put him to bed, slightly awake and moving like a drunk slug.  I looked at the clock, which read 7:00 p.m.

By 8:00, he was babbling up a storm, talking about sports, local news stories, how Obamacare would effectually insure millions.  And then...silence.  

My husband noticed the lull and was immediately concerned.  He walked down to the baby's room.  When I heard him quickly shuffling up the stairs again, I knew something was amiss.  He poked his head around the corner and said, "Um.  Hon?  There's vomit."

"Vomit?" I asked, "Where?"

"EVERYWHERE."  He replied with a grimace.  

We spent the next hour bathing, cleaning, disinfecting, swearing...and then, the fireworks began.  

He stayed up just long enough to watch the show and then passed out as soon as the last colorful explosion disappeared into the night sky.  Ah, our sneaky, patriotic baby.  

The Terrible Threes

You can forget the "Terrible Twos."  These people warning you about the second year are just messing with you.  It's really three you have to run screaming from.

It could be that people are being very specific and literal about the age at which the cute, adorable little children become CHILDREN OF THE CORN.  Because, really, it all begins around the late twos.  Maybe 30 months or so.  Yes, I just described my child in months even though he is in preschool.  I'm THAT mom now.

And here's why.  You really need to be on the dot about the months, and I understand why now.  It's because every month in a toddler's life is like a dog year.  They mature at an exponential rate in all areas of growth...brain development, behavior, awareness, speech...it's all crazy fast forwarding at an impossibly quick rate.  So before I had kids, I was quick to make fun of the parents who said, "Oh, she's 27 months old."  I would think, "WOW.  What a douche.  HA HA."

But now, AFTER kids?  It's a badge of honor to say how many months you've had to tolerate the crazy of toddlerhood.  When they were infants, the months were necessary until they hit one year.  And then after that they weren't two, but they were so close to two, but calling them two years old seemed unimaginable since they were still your little baby.  Totally understandable.

But after two?  People start looking at you funny when you say, "Oh, he's 26 months old."  They give you the stink face as if to say, "Yeah, you mean TWO, you pretentious douche."  NO.  I MEAN HE'S 26 MONTHS OLD.

But what I'm really saying is, hey, I've been dealing with this nutjob toddler for 26 months.  Sure, 12 to 18 was a breeze and he was cute enough.  But now?!  He's an angelic doll one day, offering me hugs and kisses, giving me unconditional smiles, eating everything on his plate and then BLAM...it's all freak outs in public and ninety minutes of negotiating at night just to get this kid to close his freakin' eyes.  Oh it was so great having a nice, pleasant 24 month old, but now it's One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest up in here.  I'm barely keeping it together, people!  Don't even talk to me about potty training!!  EVERY DAY IS A FIGHT TO SURVIVE.  Therefore, I count every month as a month of surviving this sh#t.

Imagine Alcoholics Anonymous, with the fabulous chips that indicate how many days you've been sober.  Not to compare the two or underscore how impossibly difficult it is to overcome alcoholism...but have you ever had poop on your face after a diaper change or caught vomit IN YOUR HAND?!  Talk to me after you've dragged a screaming toddler down six blocks because you dared to touch him on the arm or try to wipe his face.  People stare at me like I'm Joan Crawford when I'm trying desperately to contain the crazy in public.  So, yeah,  I should get a friggin' chip too.  Now add a gift card for a mani/pedi because I really don't think these things called "nails" need to look like Fritos corn chips.


But I always try to remind myself during those moments of fight or flight...this, too, shall pass.  I hear year four is lovely.  Yes, year four sounds nice.  Until then, you can find me in my happy place...I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, unicorns pooping rainbows and all that good stuff...

Adult vs. Toddler

Just to let the Internet world know, my baby will be one year old very soon.  ONE.  That's no longer negative one.  That's a whole year gone by in a flash like Wally West just ran around the Earth in seconds flat in his superhero costume.  Color me blown away.

Meanwhile, the baby, (as we like to still think of him,) is trying desperately to walk.  He will pretty much do anything to grab onto a surface and pull himself up into the walking position.  Then, he precariously balances with one hand, wobbling like a feather in air, for a good five seconds, until he lets go and inevitably falls on his butt in a WHOOMP.  It's as if he forgets he has yet to master the art of putting one step in front of the other and just GOES FOR IT, MAN.

Cut to me, mom, freaked out and in the fetal position in the corner of the floor.  This stuff is terrifying for me, considering this is my last baby.  He is preparing to leave babyhood behind for toddler life, and I am decidedly against this proposition.  As it stands right now, for the most part, I intensely fear and loathe toddler life.

The reason I fear and loathe it so is because I already have one.  He's currently residing in his crib because he decided that a toddler bed was way too much fun to sleep in.  Instead, he would feign sleep, then quietly slip out of his comfortable bed at some ungodly hour to silently creep over to me while I was dead asleep and put an unbelievably freezing cold tiny hand on my face while yelling, MOMMY!!  It's funny to recall it now, after being peeled off the ceiling.  After two weeks of that, we decided the crib would make a defeated return.  The toddler bed can wait...until he's voting age.

The toddler life has destroyed our sanity on many a day and night, but only intermittently and in between the most amazing of moments.  This kid is fast learning about life and all that is wonderful in it.  When taking him anywhere new or fabulous, he runs face first into the wind screaming, "WHEEEEE!!!"  It's truly a joy to behold.

However, there are those moments...those "face and full body on the pavement screaming in defiance" moments.  And they are a bear to deal with.  For instance, last night while getting over a decidedly nasty cold, he decided that he didn't like, oh, I don't know...being two.  He just started crying at an ear-splitting tone for every reason under the sun.  No pancakes for dinner?  SCREEEEE!!!  You CUT my burrito?!  WAAAILLL!!!  WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE IS NO CHOCOLATE PIE ON MY PLATE AT THIS VERY SECOND I WANT TO POKE MY FORK INTO IT!!!  AHHHHH!!!

And so on, and so on.  The battle rages on.  It's adult vs. toddler, and it's hardly a fair fight.

The Poop on Potty Training Boys

Even before we began to think about potty training our first born, people would volunteer their thoughts on the subject.  The only thing people said over and over again was, "Boys are harder to train than girls."

We are now going on a year trying to train this kid to poop in his potty.  There is no rhyme or reason to his refusal to go.  Like fecal-obsessed maniacs, we ask him repeatedly throughout the day, "Poop?  POOP?!  DO YOU NEED TO POOP!?"  The only answer we get is, "No poop."

LIES.  He DOES poop.  He actually hides while he poops in his diaper.  He stealthily crawls to the corner of the room, peers around the leg of the dining room table to see if I'm taking notice.  How can I not, little man?  The smell.  Oh GOD, the smell.  It eats the paint off the walls.

But the potty remains spotless.  Once in a while, we'll get some pee, and then he'll get an M&M.  Yes, we bribe our child with chocolate candy.  It's called desperation, people.

Actually, desperation will be when we let the kid loose in the house without a stitch of clothes on.  That's the method some of the books are suggesting.  Apparently, when the child is naked, he will realize he has to go to the bathroom and run to the potty.  Then, there is a happy dance performed and everyone eats chocolate candy and ice cream.  Yay!

Yeah, no.  Knowing this kid?  We'll be bleaching the %$#@ out of our carpeted living room while eating buckets of Tums.  Wait, do they offer chocolate-flavored Tums?

Post-Partum Prolonged

Depression after giving birth to the most wonderful thing to ever enter your life is a cruel twist of fate that seems unnatural and poorly timed.  How can one be so unhappy after seeing those ten tiny toes, ten impossibly small fingers, button nose to die for?  It makes no sense.

After my second was born, I felt the urge to brag about the fact I had just given birth to another adorable addition to our perfectly appointed family.  Big brother was a fabulously chubby tot with a deep, infectious laugh and a personality that drew people in like the sun.  Little brother was roundly shaped in every way, chubby and handsome, c-section perfect.  He cooed on command, smiled when he had gas, ate like a lumberjack.  Aside from the no-sleep-ever-for-the-rest-of-eternity thing, we were pleased with our accomplishments as parents so far...just having these two around were our bragging rights, and we hadn't even done any real parenting yet.

A few weeks after the birth, I began to feel the familiar stirrings of what life used to be like when my first was a tiny baby.  Those stirring were sharp reminders of how I should have been concerned about my predisposition to depression, and that post-partum depression was guaranteed in my case.  My doctors both said, be warned.  If you have had post-partum with the first, you will definitely have it with the second, and more than likely it will be worse and more intense because of your history of depression.  Apparently, doctors get those medical license thingies for a reason, because they were annoyingly right.

A month after giving birth, I found myself staring off into nothing.  A wall, a bookshelf, reading the letters on the side of a building, the dashboard of the car while my husband was driving us to fun activities in the city.  I was distracted, but thought it must be the exhaustion.  Yes, the exhaustion must be it.  I am SO TIRED.  Being a mommy is so much work. Whew.

Being distracted is harmless, benign behavior that happens to the best mommies.  My distraction wasn't just mindless nothing, however.  It was coupled with thoughts that were so awful, it seems wrong to write them down.  Writing them down gives them reality, power, life.  It makes my stomach churn to think about it for too long.

I will say the thoughts were more daydreams.  Images, not ideas.  And they mostly involved me being evicted from life, giving my family the freedom to be happy without being burdened with me and my debilitating sadness.  My guilt over not being "normal" was destroying any chance for happiness.  I couldn't breathe or move or think without having these horrible thoughts of death, dying, terrible things happening to my loved ones that I couldn't prevent.  Basically, things that were out of my control were my biggest fear.  The "what-ifs?"  They're terrifying.

The guilt.  The tremendous GUILT.  It weighed heaviest during the day when I was alone with the baby, trying to smile for him, keep him happy, oblivious to the fact that I was falling to pieces right before him.  I performed motherly duties.  I fed him from my body, gave him sustenance, peace of mind that I would always be there to comfort him when he cried.  In the back of my mind, all I could think of was the possibility that his life might be improved by my absence.  I felt worthless as a person, a mother, a wife, a daughter (as I was reminded on a regular basis by my own mother.)

Months have passed.  Nine.

The depression has not left me.  It remains, firmly rooted in my gut.  If anything, it has gotten worse...splintered and spread.  When I try to exorcise it from my body, it pulls on me like tentacles grasping and tightening their grip.  I can't take a breath without thinking of how to make it all stop and go away.  I can't hold my child without stifling sobs of defeat.  He looks at me and smiles as a reflex, because I'm there, his mother.  I'm always there.  But I feel as if I am a million miles away.

Motherhood, although amazing and beautiful in so many ways, is also the most life-changing event I will ever experience.  It erases you as the person you once were without kids and creates an entirely new person, one that struggles to be something other than a mother.  If you surrender to it, you will lose the person you were entirely and be swallowed whole by motherhood, as if that is all you are and that is all you will ever be.  Some embrace it willingly, without a second thought.  I hear, "I was born to do this." and I am full of jealousy.  Why can't I be that perfect mother?

Calls to my doctor go unanswered.  I get no relief from pills due to the breastfeeding.  I won't take anti-depressants until I'm done.  I feel like my fingertips are whitened on the edge of a cliff as I hang precariously off the end of the world.

As it stands, I await a call from my doctor.  Monday, I keep thinking.  Monday, I will get a break from this suffocation.  I pray this is true.  I pray for some light in this dark place I have landed.  There must be a window I can open.  I crave that fresh air so much.

Nine Month Old Baby with the Gigantic Head

We just had our well-baby visit with our pediatrician, and I can safely say our second is well on his way to being a big, fat baby.  21 pounds, 28 inches long, and off-the-charts head size.  And I do mean off-the-charts.  No, really.  When I looked at the chart, his head was not on it.

Compared to our elder boy, who was 21 pounds, 29 inches at FIVE months, this one is a skinny Minnie.  I can't imagine why, since it seems like I'm feeding him around the clock breastmilk.  I'd better bulk this baby up soon or people will start talking.  After all, I am well known around the neighborhood for having humongous children.

Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease...the Meanest Sickness

Oh, what a month.  Mastitis, followed by the ambiguous thrush, and now Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease.  If you have no clue what that last one is, think of the flu and throw strep throat on top of the heap.  It's the nastiest of all the kiddie ailments out there, imho.

It begins with what seems like a low-grade fever, then turns into a rash on the...what else? Hands, feet, and mouth.  In my son's case, he got the rash on his bottom first, then we saw it on his wrists and feet.  When we checked his mouth, we saw why had had been rubbing his throat and cheeks.  The rash had very quickly turned into sores.

Having herpe-like sores on the inside of your mouth, all over your tongue and down your throat is pure Hell for adults.  Imagine how difficult it is for a toddler, just beginning to be verbal but not quite there yet.  He can't complain adequately enough with words, so he just screams and screams in pain, day and night.  It was horrifyingly bad.

Also, the things that comfort him...eating, drinking...are unavailable to him.  Not only that, those things now cause him a great deal of pain.  It's awful for him, and awful for a parent to witness.

I tried to keep calm while thinking of the baby, but just the thought of him catching this evil thing from his brother made me break out in a cold sweat.  We did as all the sites on HFMD recommended...washed everything down, cleaned like a psycho, washed hands until they cracked.  The boys were separated, not allowed to touch for at least two weeks.  Since HFMD is transmitted through saliva, and the kid was drooling like mad since he was in so much discomfort, we had to wash everything every night for two weeks.  That's every toy, blanket, plushy...anything he touched with his hands or mouth.  I must have done eight loads of laundry that first day we discovered the rash.  After that, one to two loads a day.  After dealing with thrush, which was basically the same cleaning regimine, I was beyond stressed, getting depressed, and feeling exhausted.

The poor little man was so miserable.  It wasn't the same boy.  He was cranky, unconsolably upset, and crying at the drop of a crayon.  I could not imagine living this way indefinitely.  Luckily for us, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

He did get better, but it took about five days until the rash turned into sores which then popped and dried up.  Eventually, they disappeared, leaving no trace of the nastiest, meanest sickness I have ever seen.  Apparently, once you get the disease, you are immune to that particular strain.  Other strains?  Not so much.

This pre-school "catch everything every kid in the building has" thing will be giving us the gift of a powerfully strong immune system in the end, but until then, %#$!@ YOU, COMMUNICABLE DISEASES!

F@#$%# Thrush

After a course of antibiotics to kill off the hideous mastitis, I found myself wondering if I had a yeast infection in my nipples, better known as thrush or "candida."  Yay me.

Here's the skinny on thrush.  It's evil.  It's the dumbest ailment known to nipples.  I can't get over how much information is out there on the Internet, and how useless it all is.  Symptoms of thrush are so vague and all over the map there's no way of determining if you or your baby have it, unless you have the classic "white spots," which is also an ambiguous descriptor because there are NO pictures of nipples with thrush on the internet that are helpful.

Every site I visited (foolishly, I know) had the same descriptions, with the disclaimer, "May or may not" before each one.

Your nipples may or may not show signs of redness.
Your baby may or may not have white patches on the inside of his mouth.
Your breasts may or may not have shooting pain.
Your baby's saliva may or may not be shiny.
Your nipples could be red, pink, purple or white.

What good is that?!  "May or may not" does not help me figure out what to do with this insipid yeast.  I can't believe what a pain in the ass it has been trying to get rid of it...that is, IF I ACTUALLY HAVE IT.

The baby has no symptoms, but one of the symptoms of thrush is that the baby could have no symptoms.  Did you get that?  Confusing, ain't it?

The only symptom I had was shooting pain in my nipple.  And when I say "shooting" I really mean it felt like someone was stabbing me with a knife over and over again.  It was as if the milk had ground glass in it.  This happened maybe 15 minutes after feeding the baby.

When I looked up "shooting pain," a hundred sites came up, all citing the dreaded THRUSH.  I could not get over how hysterical people were about this thing.  It was worse than mastitis, worse than plugged ducts...it was the invisible enemy, and one that multiplied at an exponential rate.  After reading several dozen pages, I realized one thing...I was screwed.

I started cleaning everything with bleach (not vinegar.)  I did six loads of laundry, with bleach.  I used several remedies, including grapefruit seed extract (liquid) and extra virgin coconut oil (solid like butter) on my nipples (and the gse in his mouth.)  I called the advice nurse several times, the lactation specialists, my obgyn's office, and my friends who had experienced this hell before.  The doctors wouldn't see me, nor would the specialists.  They all said the same thing.  There is no definitive diagnosis for thrush.  They could only go by my description, because all nipples look somewhat different.  None are "obviously" thrush nipples.  What?!

Everyone was saying something different, yet one thing remained:  Do NOT reinfect yourself.  Treat yourself and the baby at the same time.  Strangely, the only person who did not agree with this assessment was the baby's pediatrician, who took one look in the baby's mouth, shrugged and said, "He doesn't have thrush."  I had to strong arm a prescription for Nystatin out of him."

Eventually, I got in to see a nurse practitioner.  She took one look at my nipples and said, "They're puffy and meaty."  Translation: You have thrush.  She sent in a prescription for Diflucan and sent me on my way.

The problem with thrush is that if you have vague symptoms that kinda sorta match the usual symptoms, there is no answer to the question, "Do I have it?"  It's a horrible guessing game that always ends the same way.  You treat it anyway, because your fear of the thing makes you paranoid.

This game of "thrush" or "not thrush" messed with my head in a terrible way.  It stressed me out, gave me bouts of hysteria at any given moment, and really exhausted my patience.  If you ever get it, I wish you luck and recommend you go to your happy place immediately.  Otherwise, every tinge, tickle, or funny feeling you get in your breast will make you break into a cold sweat.

The sites I found helpful were few and far between, but for what it's worth, here they are:

Jay Gordon - Information on Thrush and how to treat it with Grapefruit Seed Extract

How long does Candida live on surfaces?

Babycare Advice - Very detailed and informative

Pinstripes and Polkadots - How to disinfect laundry, and other interesting information on bleach vs. vinegar

Mastitis...

AGAIN.  This is my third round with mastitis, and I can safely say that I am an expert in all things breast infected.  Not exactly the silver lining I was looking for during my stint with breast feeding.

This time it was a little different, however.  I felt the pain and knew right away...mastitis.  It had to be.  There was no mistaking it.  It was an aching hot throb that made one side of my breast hurt so badly I winced when I fed the baby.  Then, the pain got worse, but very quickly.  Before the fever hit, I had already told my husband to call the advice nurse to get a prescription for antibiotics straight away.  By the next hour I had a fever steadily rising.  See?  Expert.

As soon as I started feeling the pains and the lumps of clogged milk in my breast, I started hand expressing and warm compresses to get the infection out.  I knew it was important to get all the milk out of the breast, so the infection wouldn't linger.  For over an hour I groped myself.  It was pretty (not) awesome reaching second base with myself.

The next day was my older son's birthday party, which I attended, feeling a little deathly.  Two Tylenol and a playground full of kids pumped me up for the next three hours, which seemed ok compared to the hideous time I had with this beastly ailment before.  But that night I collapsed in a heap with a 102 fever.  It had come back with a vengeance and I was sick as a dog.

The antibiotics finally kicked in, everything stopped looking like a big disgusting purple bruise, and I felt much better the next day.  I kicked mastitis' ass and lived to talk about it...again.

The next day I had shooting pains so powerfully painful I thought to myself, "Holy God, I'd rather go through LABOR again than feel this."  When I looked it up on the internet, the only thing that kept popping up repeatedly?  THRUSH.  Not possible.  NOT OK.

After calling the advice nurse, she confirmed it was thrush.  "Thrush happens when you take antibiotics for mastitis.  Antibiotics kill the good bacteria that keeps your yeast in check.  Now, there's an overgrowth of yeast."  Ok, now what?  "Apply Vagasil to your nipples."  What?  Gross.  I'll do it, but gross.

Somehow, applying a vaginal yeast infection cream to my nipples didn't seem right, so I called the lovely ladies at the lactation center who promptly said, "Thrush?  No.  Damaged nerve ending?  Yup!"  They suggested a cocktail of B-6 (for the damaged nerve) and probiotics (to take while taking antibiotics.)

To triple check the possibility I had thrush and had given it to the baby, we also saw the pediatrician, who checked the baby's mouth for the tell-tale white spots, looked at me like I was a loon, and said in his thick accent, "No thrush.  Usually, baby gives thrush to mama.  Not mama give thrush to baby.  No thrush." And then I was sent on my way with a prescription for Nystatin (just in case thrush popped up in the next day or two) and a pat on the head.

So what have we learned?  Don't look on the internet.  The internet is not a doctor.  The internet will drive you mad with unnecessary worry.  Also, NO GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCHING.  It's for your own good.

Also, when websites tell you that thrush can be stealthy and that the symptoms can be hidden?  Not true, sayeth the wise and sage lactation specialists I talked to.  And the pediatrician confirmed it.  There are always white spots in the baby's mouth, and always raw hamburger-looking nipples. Not comforting, but there it is.

Two

How is it possible?  Two years have flown by already?  My little man is two.  I am at once amazed and disturbed.  I thought we had a deal that he would stay cute and chubby forever.  This kind of blows.

But seriously, the party was all kinds of awesome.  I rocked the goodie bags, and believe me, it wasn't an easy feat.  Whoever created the concept of this stress-inducing addition to children's birthday parties should be smacked.  It was the most difficult part of the planning process for me, and I am not one to enjoy complications when planning anything.

The party was low-key and at our favorite playground, which made for an ideal situation for the adults: Let the kids go wild and play with one another while we mack on sandwiches and chocolate milk.  We bought mini cupcakes to downplay the sugar.  Presents were welcome but not required.  Everything was simple.  Easy.  No-frills.  Loved it.

I made 16 goodie bags, and they were a big hit with the parents and kiddies.  I bought cutesy animal boxes off Amazon for cheap and filled them up with a CD of the kid's favorite music, a beanie baby, a chocolate horse/cow/pig, a party blower, a mini playdoh and a small bottle of robot bubbles.  Tell me you wouldn't be stoked if you was two.  Robot bubbles?!  Fuggedaboudit.

And by the way?  I made extra goodie bags, and thankfully so.  Kids and their parents showed up without an RSVP, which was fine.  More the merrier, I say.  But if I hadn't had those extras, whoa.  There might have been two-year old rioting.

Anyway, the kiddo loved it, until the end of the party when he was on the playground without his friends.  It was a little heartbreaking, watching him play with the straw from his milk box, wandering aimlessly and poking things.  It made me wish we had made an early exit to avoid that wistful scene.  Seeing him that way made my heart ache.  Ah, motherhood.