Hello. Again.

Last weekend somebody told me that my new haircut was going to give off the illusion that I had more going on in my world than being a mom. My old haircut was good. It was newish and "current" and sorta whispered interesting. But this one. This one just screams Yeah, I'm a mom, but I do other cool shit, too. So. This is when I pick up where I left off on my last post. Momming it up still, but sharing the "other cool shit" going on in my world. Starting with this post. Hello, again.

rat race

Sam got a job.  he leaves every afternoon before I call NAP time and goes to work.  before picking up his shape-sorting bucket and heading out he kisses me good bye.  and all the pets.  the dogs both get a hug and kisses on the nose and the cat gets a quick pat and peck on the butt.  (such short salutations are due to his unpredictable nature. the children have learned to make as little contact as possible and to direct the contact as far away from his teeth and claws as it is possible). then sam shuffles, pantsless, to pick up his bucket of colored shapes and makes the long commute to the empty corner cubby in the tv cabinet.  he cheers, “luv you” before carefully tucking his toes and nose in and closing the door.

within minutes, his work is done.  I assume he is a licensed shape-sorter.  and he emerges from his cubicle- quite literally- saying “I’m home” and passing around more wet kisses than you can shake a stick at.  I don’t get that saying. does there need to be a large amount of items gathered before it’s appropriate to shake a stick at them?  or could you just shake a stick at one or two things? anyway.

if you ask him if he’s all done working and ready for his nap, he’ll shriek NOOOOO and pick up his shapes and head back to his office.  he can sometimes be coaxed out of disgruntled employee mode by offering a severance snuggle in the brown chair.  it’s his favorite place to read “one more book”.   one more meaning as many as he can carry from the shelf to the chair in two trips.

once all the books are read and then just a few more are read, it’s possibly safe to hoist the workaholic onto your hip and carry his tired boy body to his bed and away from the stresses of a longish-short minute at work and around the house.

Will work for m&ms… will sleep for nothing.

toy story

on one of our last weekly visits to see jed's mom and dad,  a little basket was quietly pulled down from a closet and proudly presented to sam on the carpet of the living room floor.

daddy's cars.
and tractors, and trucks, and diggers, sporty cars, dragsters (is that correct?) and one very popular fire truck.

for twenty minutes we all sat around the basket full of old classic toy cars and things (Go-bots and Micro Machines, even...) and oohed and aahed while jed and sam dug around discovering forgotten gems/new trophies.

jed remembered his favorites and which were originally his brother's.  he plunged his hand into the depths of truck-heaven looking for one in particular that another sparked a memory of.  and told stories about the ones with the wheels that "ride smooth".

sam's little hands couldn't rest on just one or two.  his favorite are the ones with the little doors that open and close.  and the ones with the beds that really dump.  and when i caught him playing quietly (for once) in the sunlight this morning on his little red table- i picked up my camera and watched his little boy hands as they made the wheels go.

"daddy's cars" are once again getting their turn.  makes me happy for everyone involved.

the last, the boobie baby.

They ask you in the hospital.  And at your obstetrician’s office while you’re peering over the giant mound that’s been your abdomen for the last few months.  You direct each answer to the top of your doctor’s head.  Strangers ask you in line at the grocery store.  Not men.  That would be weirder than weird.  And your mom-friends and neighbors all ask while they rub your bulbous belly and make predictions about the sex and weight of the karate kicking baby inside. 

Are you going to breastfeed?

Well, yes.  And then you’re sometimes asked the follow-up question, “for how long?”.  And that’s where this post, after so much nothing posted, begins.

Cadence was a ferocious eater in the beginning.  Her daddy referred to her as the baby pterodactyl during feeding time because of the dinosaur noises she’d make while she nursed.  I’ve never heard a real-live dinosaur make noise because they’re extinct now, but I imagine she hit the nail on the head.  It was awkward and I felt embarrassed quite a bit when nursing in public.  I felt fumbly and stayed home a lot until she began taking a bottle.  Like all my babies, she took in quite a bit of air.  The burps were manly and hilarious.  Often they induced hiccup fits.  The day she became aware of her hands they were all over my breasts leaving little pinches and scratches.  But that was the end of her nursing.  A hospitalizing case of food poisoning and a short bout of depression made me lose interest and she was done before her fourth month or so.  I mourned a  while, never really appreciating the health benefits or the connections we shared during those feedings.  I blame hormones and an ill-cooked turkey.

Sam and I had a rough start together.  His tongue was short and I felt like I couldn’t get him to do it “right” no matter the advice I took or the patience I mustered.  My nipples hurt for two weeks straight and I cried a lot.  Pain and hormones.  But he got it.  And I nursed him in public with more confidence than I had with Cadence.  Jed was eager to be a part of the feedings and Sam happily accepted bottles of pumped breast milk from him starting around the end of his first month.  More hungry dinosaur noises.  Lots of gas.  And reflux.  But we forged on and he only became bored with the breast around month seven.  And by that time I was enjoying only one feeding in the evenings before bed.  I was so much more appreciative of the natural food source and built-in pacifier I carried with me at all times  I wore my nursing bras under things well past his month eight, although he had become completely disinterested in nursing by then.  I had wanted to nurse for a year.

And now I have Annie.  My first boobie-baby.  I love the smile she flashes up at me when I look down at her, milk spilling from the corners of her pink bow-shaped mouth.  And this is how I know I am done having children.  When I completely ignore all the advice the books and websites give about pacifying a baby with the breast and pull out “leftie” at the dinner table just to have a sorta quiet (albeit one handed) meal.  And how I pull her close to me in the middle of the night when I hear her lips smacking for just a little suck even though I know she’s not hungry.  I cry a little to myself each time I pick her up and lift her growing body in my arms and up to my chest.  She is too long for me to nurse her in the armed chair and still too small for that huge and empty crib in the other room.  I know she is the last child because I don’t feel as sad or frustrated when she refuses bottle after bottle and holds out for me.  The reason I’ve been gone so long from the blog is that I find it  takes so much longer to type with only one hand.  But she’s the last, so I will not take for granted any second she will have me hold her and feed her with my body.

 

Just please link me to that video of the ten year old girl with the British accent still being nursed by her mum whenever she pleases if I haven’t weaned Annie by kindergarten.  Thanks and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

because if I don’t look on the bright side, I might just cry a little…

Today’s accomplishments:

“successful” trip to Target in which my previous posts about not going to Target were quickly forgotten.

nursed Annie (both sides) while she was strapped in the front-pack. completely avoiding red-faced, baby-goat noises all together.

ate a whole breakfast including coffee from a travel-mug JG ingeniously suggested. And a bagel my toaster oven (miraculously) didn’t burn.

dressed Sam in under thirty minutes.

remembered EVERYTHING on my grocery list without fishing it from my purse to double-check.

ate lunch. (okay. this hasn’t technically happened yet, but I’m dreaming of a turkey sandwich right now and I vow not to disappoint my stomach)

won my first game of Words With Friends against a random opponent on my new-to-me incredi-phone

changed an itty bitty diaper on my lap in the front seat of my van without having to change my clothes when I got home.

lost and then found a new hot-wheels helicopter.

purchased a hearty supply of tiny underpants.  potty school updates to come.

sad attempt at a nap involving television and little dog barking at camels, dogs, chickens. (still sort of annoyed that every channel I flipped to featured fauna)

BLOG POST…(is it dorky that I’m raising the roof right now?)

 

 

is that all I have done today? wow. it really is.

oh, wait. I showered.

now MARVEL AT ME while I pretend my house isn’t a disaster and my socks match one-another. mwah-hahahahahahahahah!  thursday hasn’t seen the last of me yet.

Early

Turns out eighteen more days was not necessary.

This is Annie Elise.  Today she is nine days old.  She was born last Friday at about the same time JG was to board a plane home from a business trip in Las Vegas.  Luckily, he heard his phone ringing at dinner on Thursday around ten pm (my time) and excused himself from the rest of the trip's closing festivities to come home.  And quick.  A red-eyed man in a rumpled suit never looked so good rushing into a hospital labor and delivery room.  

Roughly five hours after his arrival...she arrived.  

Annie Elise

All eight pounds and nine ounces.  And after a tiny scare about "too much blood for too long" was fixed up, I was shivering and fine and he was next to me holding her and things started to sink in.

Now we are five. 

eighteen days

eighteen more days of...
 "how many are in there?"
peeing in my pants when i cough (sneeze, laugh, cry)
walking like a duck
farting like a man
eating entire tubs of watermelon and/or cantaloupe
sam pinching my belly and saying "come outttt"
wearing shoes with my laces untied
that weird wrinkle that's formed under my boobs and across the top of my "fundus"
gagging while brushing my teeth (possibly)
hugs around the tummy from an excited Ladybug
belly-button "microphone" messages before nighty-night
raging heartburn, morning-noon-night
bananas to prevent 3 am charlie-horse cramps
and
eighteen more days of wondering if it has a ding-a-ling or not.
eighteen more days...or less.  i hope.