Happy Birthday, Chicklette!

One year ago today, give or take an hour, I was grunting and pushing you into the world through a happy epidural haze. While the details are blurry, I will never forget the feeling of seeing you -- my little miracle -- and holding you against the OUTSIDE of my stomach for the first time.

These past few days, I've watched through misty eyes as you've eaten (well, smashed) your first birthday cake, ripped your first piece of wrapping paper, worn your first birthday hat, and taken your first step (even though I'm pretty sure it was an accident, and was really ONLY one step, followed by a wipeout).

I'm sure that your second year will be full of even greater adventures, but it's hard right now to imagine how it's going to top your first. Even with the challenges, it's been the best year of MY life. I love you with all the love that it's possible to love.

Happy Birthday!

What distraction looks like

Is this enough for you, Santa?

Today I went on a bit of a cookie-making binge. Nothing too fancy, but I was excited to try two new (to me) recipes -- this one for snickerdoodles, and this one for pfeffernusse.

Pfeffernusse is German for "good luck cleaning up that powdered sugar"

And now I'm getting ready to make lasagna for tomorrow's first-birthday extravaganza.

Operation Distraction is going quite well -- except for the fact that I can no longer fit into my pants. But that sounds like a 2011 kind of problem, no? I think so.

Off to do some quality control on those cookies!

Distracted

I just realized that the last time I posted was right before our marathon Thanksgiving trip, which seems like it happened about a hundred years ago. Not because it was bad -- actually, it went pretty well, if exhaustingly -- but because I have been in full holiday swing since we got back. Putting up the tree, putting up the lights outside the house, shopping, party planning, menu planning, wrapping, etc. etc. Just the normal holiday stuff, plus a little first birthday stuff thrown in. It's crazy.

And you know what? Thank GOD for that. Because there is a whole lot of stressful stuff to think about after January 1, and one of those things is Trying for Another Baby. First, there's the whole "We're in counseling, should we really be having another kid?" question, coupled with the "Eek! I'm turning 35 -- do we really have the luxury of talking about this for more than 5 minutes?" question. Oh, and the "Our house is small, can we fit another kid in without destroying everyone's sanity?" question. All questions any "normal" couple would have to consider in our circumstances.

But, of course, we're not reproductively "normal," so there's more! Will my insurance cover IF treatments after next year? Does an FET with only one frozen embie have any hope? What happens if the FET cycle doesn't work and we do a fresh cycle and get too many eggs for one cycle? Do we try for a third baby if we're lucky enough to have a second? Do we donate embryos? When do we stop if we're unsuccessful after multiple cycles?

And THEN, there's the fact that I feel so guilty because I'm lucky enough to have this amazing baby, and yet still manage to spend so much time dwelling on negative stuff.

With all this in mind, getting distracted by the holiday season seems like a FANTASTIC idea. So, here I am, drowning myself in shopping, baking, cooking, eating, decorating and dressing my child in all manner of ridiculous holiday outfits.

Who's with me?

Girding my loins

I love that scene in The Devil Wears Prada when Miranda Priestly arrives at the office unexpectedly early, and everyone panics, and Stanley Tucci's all like "Gird your loins!"

That's exactly what I'm doing right now. I am roughly 15 hours and 4 minutes (but who's counting?) away from boarding a cross-country flight with a rambunctious 11-month-old, three large bags, 2 smaller bags, a stroller, a car seat, and a husband who has recently given up drinking. Which is a good thing, because I HAVE NOT.

When we land, we will be taking those 5 bags, 2 large pieces of baby equipment, and 1 baby on some sort of shuttle/train/whatever to a rental car place, renting a car that better have 4 doors, and driving an hour plus in NY rush hour traffic to our first set of grandparents. I don't even have the energy to detail what comes after that, but suffice it to say the next few days involve traversing several states (yes, they're small states, but still), baby and gear in tow, to visit 2 sets of grandparents, 3-4 sets of friends, 1 sister, and God knows how many other random visitors while at each of these destinations.

To top it off, the majority of this time will be spent in the company of one particular family member (rhymes with Flicked Pepsmother) who has loved, from the time I was about 13 years old, to tell me how fat/unattractive/unkempt I look. Which means that any residual feelings of hotness mentioned in my previous post will be gone by about 8:30 p.m. (Eastern Standard Time) tomorrow.

BUT. I am so excited to be starting the holiday season with my sassy little Chicklette. Despite all of the hurdles mentioned above, I'm really looking forward to a week of "vacation" with my immediate (i.e., nuclear) family. I'm sure there will be some fun parts to this trip, even if they are few and far between.

So, off we go. And if I don't have a chance to post during this next week, Happy Thanksgiving!!

A small personal milestone

Or, more accurately milestoneS.

I can finally, FINALLY fit the girls back into my pre-pregnancy bras. Which are, to be fair, still size 34 effing DD, but at least they are not the 38Gs I was dealing with during the Dark Days of Breastfeeding. I could wear those things on my head.

On a somewhat-related note, I am also currently wearing a pair of size 8 jeans, a feat which I haven't accomplished since well into the last presidential administration.

I'm actually feeling a little bit -- juuuuuust a little bit -- hot. Like I could flirt with the cute guy in the coffee place downstairs and he wouldn't gag.

I'm sure it won't last, but for today, I'll take it.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Traveling transcontinentally

That's what we're doing in about a week and a half. Eeek! I was scared before, and now that we have a Baby On The Move, I am terrified.

First, there's the packing. We're going from the SF Bay Area to the NY Tri-State Area, so there will be some weather adjustments. How cold will it be? Do we need to buy winter gear? Can the baby wear jeans to the country club (don't laugh!)? Will they have her favorite baby food flavors at the supermarket?

Then, there are the actual logistics of the trip. We're flying to NY, then driving to Maryland for a couple of days, and then driving back up, stopping to see some friends along the way. Are we crazy? YES!

And finally, there's the whole time change thing. Will we be going through all of this logistical hell with a sleep-deprived baby? Not to mention sleep-deprived parents? Oh, and the 137 unfamiliary friends and relatives? How will they fit in?

Stay tuned! It should be a festive start to the holiday season.

So totally worth it

As much as I hate to admit it, and as much as I thought it would never be possible, there are times when I forget about the struggle to get (and stay) pregnant. I sometimes find myself, what with the Marital Discord and sleep deprivation such, a bit mournful for my "old life." Which, of course, was SO FANTASTIC (as you can tell from my archives).

This forgetfulness really bothers me. I mean, sure, I have a twinge when I get my period after a month of rampant unprotected sex (and by "rampant," I mean, "twice a week," which I think is sort of impressive although the Mr. would not agree), or when a friend or family member announces a pregnancy (will I ever be pregnant again?), or basically any time I see an episode of Private Practice. But I'm not going to pretend that living with infertility once you have a child is the same as living with it without one. It's just not. For me, anyway.

BUT. The point of this post was not to wax philosophic about what an unappreciative asshat I can be. It was to relate a moment of pure joy that happened yesterday.

We decided that it would be fun to take a few early pictures of the Chicklette in her Halloween costume (not just any butterfly, but a monarch butterfly). And while I am too paranoid to post any pictures here (despite the fact that probably 20,000 kids across America have the same costume), I will tell you that she was so adorable that my heart just about exploded in my chest. I turned to the Mr. and said, "I don't care what we went through to get here, or how long it takes us to work through all of our issues, but seeing her in that costume makes it all totally worth it."

He agreed.

And then the girl's wet diaper exploded all over the inside of the costume.

Hey, it was good while it lasted!

The comfort of routine

I am a creature of habit. Or I guess, more accurately, routine. One of the hardest things for me during the first few months of the Chicklette's outside-of-my-body existence was the fact that everything was so unpredictable. It was impossible to create a routine. And it drove me NUTS.

Now we've got a routine in the Chicklette's life (with a few curveballs like, oh, CRAWLING thrown in here and there), but the rest of life is a bit of a mess. I'm on the road a LOT for work, and my marriage....well, you know. There are good days and bad days. And certainly very few ROUTINE days.

So today, rain tapping on the skylights, I decided it was good day to insert a bit of our old (as in pre-baby) routine into life. With the Chicklette in her Bumbo on the kitchen floor chewing on a plastic spoon, I pulled out the Crock Pot -- dusty from about a year of disuse -- and put together a pot roast. I'd hastily pulled the ingredients off the shelves during yesterday's grocery run, and I think I did OK. We'll see in about 8 hours.

Tonight at 5, we'll sit down at the dining room table (one of us in a high chair), pour a glass of red, light a fire in the fireplace, and have dinner. It won't solve everything, but it feels like it might be a good start.

I can't wait.

Um, ICLW

So, I just realized today that ICLW has been going on for two days, and hurriedly made the rounds tonight. Ugh, I'm terrible. And it's been a while since I've done ICLW. Forgive me?

For anyone who's new here, I'm the frequently-traveling parent of a 10-month-old Chicklette, conceived after 2+ years of trying. We were successful after a few rounds of Clomid and an IVF cycle.

If you look back a couple of posts, you'll see that I am currently experiencing some Marital Discord. I'm told this is normal for parents of newborns, but I will say (without revealing too much, because I am crazy paranoid about anyone in my family reading this) that we have some issues that are a bit beyond what I think is the scope of "typical" new parent stress. BUT, we are in counseling and working at it.

The immediate ramification of all of this is that I think our original plan to get back on the horse (or, I guess more accurately, back in the stirrups) in January has been delayed indefinitely. Not TOO indefinitely, because I'll be 35 in a couple of months, but I can't really imagine bringing another baby into the current situation.

So, here I am. Incredibly blessed by my beautiful, perfect baby girl. Struggling to keep my marriage together. Working like crazy to stay in my employer's good graces in this crazy economy. Taking it, as they say, one day at a time.

Welcome!

Thud!

It seems like the most often-shared parental anecdote -- right behind "I never realized how much I'd miss sleep!" -- is the "just wait until the first time your baby falls off the bed/changing table/chair" line. "You'll never forget that sound! You'll never get over the guilt!"

Well, 9 months had passed without mishap (other than the almost-losing-a-finger nail clipping incident). Until yesterday morning.

Ironically, we had just been at a friend's house the night before, and she shared with us the horrifying tale of her baby falling off the changing table that morning. And of course, I smugly thought how I would never let that happen, my child has never fallen, etc. etc.

Well, I was getting dressed yesterday and had Scooter Baby on the bed. She had scooted her way towards the edge to check out what I was doing, but not so close that I was worried. I turned my back to grab something from the dresser drawer, and THUD!

I whipped around to see the Chicklette lying and squirming on her side on the floor. She immediately started screaming, and I scooped her up. Nothing seemed broken, and all of her limbs and whatnot were moving as they should (including the right hand slapping me in the side of the head as if to say, "bad Mommy!"). Within 5 minutes (and after many kisses), she was smiling and playing again. But sheesh. Scary.

So, yeah, I got taken down a peg. I am no longer smug. Thankfully, the Chicklette is fine.

But I never will forget that sound.

Or get over the guilt!

7 years

Seven years ago this weekend, I married the best man I have ever met.

This week, that same man and I sat down for our first marriage counseling session.

It's almost a cliche....the seven year itch and all of that. But some combination of infertility, job dissatisfaction, anxiety, clinical depression, suspicions of infidelity and new parenthood have landed us on the couch.

I just read that last sentence back and thought "Wow, your marriage is really effed up!" But honestly, I don't have any doubt that we'll work through our issues. I'm strangely optimistic, and relieved that we're facing our problems head-on in the same way that I felt relieved when we finally figured out why we weren't able to get pregnant and how we might be able to deal with it.

So in a couple of days, we'll celebrate our anniversary. A little bruised and battered (not literally -- thank God THAT'S not one of our issues), but we'll celebrate nevertheless. And kiss our little girl a hundred times (if she'll let us).

Scooter

Late last week, life as we know it changed forever. The Chicklette finally put it all together and achieved what seemed to be the impossible -- forward motion.

She's not crawling in the traditional sense of the word. It's more of an asymmetrical scoot, and it's not particularly pretty. But it IS effective. This girl can cruise.

And surprise! She's not interested in her toys anymore. She's like, "Sorry peeps, I've moved on to this dirty flip flop/week-old crumb/electrical wire over here." It's a heart attack a minute. The one saving grace is that she hasn't yet figured out how to get from a sitting position to a scooting position, so we can put her in a time out when we need to.

I suspect we won't be seeing the cats again for about 5 years. They each got curious enough about Squirmy McSquirmer to lose a large handful of fur. They now do not appear until after bedtime.

Such is the life with a mobile baby. Let the games begin.

Botching the dismount

A couple of months ago, I had a couple of mama friends over. We were all contemplating stopping the whole breastfeeding/pumping thing, and one of them commented: "I'm so used to eating whatever I want and chalking it up to breastfeeding. I hope I don't botch the dismount and gain a bunch of weight."

Well, folks, I have officially Botched The Dismount. I haven't exactly gained a bunch of weight , but I haven't lost any more either. I am stalled. Stuck. Stuck in a delicious jungle of carbs and red wine. I'm about 10 pounds lighter than when I got pregnant, but still about 10-15 pounds heavier than I was pre-IF. (And about 25 pounds up from my wedding, but hey, I'm not in my twenties anymore and that's OK.)

So, I am recommitting. Reattempting the dismount. Trying to break through the plateau. Insert metaphor here.

My goal: the elusive Size 8 pants. I've got my former favorite pair of charcoal grey flannel slacks (did I just use the word slacks? I really am a mom) hanging from the bedroom door. I want to get into them by Thanksgiving. I do not want my thighs to look like a pair of bratwursts.

This is my goal. I have thrown it out there to the world. Please hold me accountable.

Or just hold me. I miss carbs.

In which I rant about work

WARNING: Big, slightly self-pitying, enormously self-indulgent work rant ahead.

I just got back from a 3-night work trip. Which came on the heels of a two-night work trip. Which came on the heels of another 2-night work trip. To put it in perspective, three of the Avis car rental reps and 2 of the desk clerks at the Embassy Suites in a major metropolitan area now know me by name. And the manager at the Embassy Suites knows what kind of wine I like to drink (after an embarrassing late night incident involving a glass of cabernet knocked off a dresser onto the carpet and a subsequent room change and complimentary replacement glass blah blah blah).

Meanwhile, I feel lucky that my daughter recognized me (and actually smiled) when I walked through the door last night. I mean, she's going through a serious stranger danger phase right now and let's face it, I'm kind of a stranger lately.

I'm not complaining in the larger sense. I know what I got into when I got back to work, took a promotion, and basically returned to business as usual as if I never had a child. (And my husband can be available to be with the Chicklette when I'm not, so I know she's in good hands.) I PURPOSELY did this -- I didn't want the men in my male-dominated environment (law firm) to think that I had gone "soft." I've killed myself to seem like I'm on top of it all of the time. I never complain. I never mention the baby unless I'm asked about her. I've totally set myself up. This is all my fault.

BUT. Just once, it would be nice if someone -- ANYONE -- like, remembered that I had a baby 9 months ago. And maybe said "thanks" for kicking my own ass to get things done. And spending nights away from my family. And never complaining. Except here.

And yes, my fault.

My doing.

But still.

I miss my baby.

That is all.

The great Halloween debate

Yes, I know. It's only September 19th. But I already feel like I'm behind schedule in making the very important major decision of the Chicklette's Halloween costume.

I figure I've got this one year, and maybe next, to assert my costume authority before we're bending to the whims of whatever princess/Dora/Hanna Montana ridiculosity has captured the Chicklette's imagination. It's a big decision. No ladybugs or bumblebees -- they're cute as hell, but everyone's a ladybug or a bee. And apparently it is child abuse (according to my husband and mother) to dress my kid up as a skunk, even though it's the cutest costume I've seen out there and highly appropriate given the stink cloud regularly surrounding my child's nether regions.

So, I think we're left with this. A monarch butterfly. Am I crazy for spending $50 on a costume that will get worn for 10 minutes? Probably. But the opportunity to bend the Chicklette to my will for perhaps the last Halloween, and take about 200 pictures while doing it?

Priceless.

Missing in action

I just realized today that it's been nearly a MONTH since I last posted. Yikes! It seems like a few days.

I've been slammed at work, and traveling a lot -- which sucks but the Chicklette is getting lots of Daddy time, so it's not all bad.

The big news -- other than the fact that the Chicklette gets cuter by the minute, in my completely biased opinion -- is that we have our first tooth! The first thing I thought when she sunk that little chomper into my finger was THANK GOD I'M NOT GIVING HER THE BOOB ANYMORE.

Anyway, more to come soon, including my newfound complete ambivalance about attempting to have child number two. And the mild havoc it is wreaking on my marriage.

I hope anyone who's still reading this sad excuse for a blog is doing well.

All turkey, all the time

What is it with the Chicklette and homemade baby food? Last week we had the Great Zucchini Drama. This week -- Turkey Gagfest 2010.

I thought I was being efficient -- I bought a pound of organic ground turkey at Whole Foods, and would use 1/3 of it for baby food and the rest for Mommy/Daddy food (Turkey Bolognese -- yum). I gently cooked/poached it in a nonstick pan with water, and then lovingly pureed it in the Cuisinart until it was smooth and, if I may say so myself, quite tasty (for pureed meat).

At dinnertime, I assembled a veritable buffet of turkey, avocado, sweet potatoes and green beans. I thought it looked awesome. First we tried avocado. Then the veggies. And then....

Turkey went in. Bottom lip went out. A wail emanated, and then I swear to God my baby gave me the universal sign for choking. She wasn't really choking, but OH, THE DRAMA. I mean, really? It's TURKEY. Poached in WATER. Organic and pure and all that crap.

The good news is, the Turkey Bolognese was delish, so after we put the Chicklette's cranky, turkey-hating ass to bed, we enjoyed that with a nice Super Tuscan.

Tonight we'll try again. Because there are a dozen itty bitty containers of turkey in the freezer, and they will be eaten!!

Fabulous Food Friday (um, well, Sunday): Baby Food Edition

I have been ridiculously changeable when it comes to the whole baby-food-making thing. First I was all gung ho about doing it. Then I had the baby and realized that I would be lucky if I had time to bathe (myself) daily. And then I started to feel guilty, so thought I might do it. Then I went back to work.

We started solids about six weeks ago, and were on grains for the first 3-4 (our ped is VERY conservative about what to offer and how long to wait before offering different things). Then we started veggies, and inevitably the little Gerber plastic packs entered our lives. I've been tasting along the way -- most are OK, but after trying one pretty putrid pack of green beans (honestly, it tasted like someone opened a can of beans and threw them in a blender), I decided that I was going to give food making a try. How hard could it be? And I wouldn't make everything -- we'd just try one item and see how it went.

As of today, she'd had sweet potatoes, carrots, squash, peas and the aforementioned green beans. Zucchini seemed like a logical next step. Mild, easy to find this time of year, nice and watery. So I steamed some up, and threw them in the food processor. The result tasted pretty good, I thought. Certainly as good or better as any of the Gerber stuff. I mean, I would have liked to add salt and maybe some garlic and a spoonful of parmesan, but it will probably be 2 years before our pediatrician lets us feed any of those things to our baby. So plain zucchini it was.

My daughter? So not into it. And this is the girl who's eaten pretty much everything so far with aplomb. There was spitting, and crying, and just general misery. Baby torture, apparently. So, now I've got a vat of zucchini sludge in the fridge. I'll try again tomorrow, but somehow I think that Project Turkey Puree is going to be put on indefinite hold. And I was so looking forward to blended meat.

Well played, Gerber. Well played. I don't know what kind of crack you put into your nasty little plastic packages, but I suppose I will have to continue buying it.

For now.

Sleep Training.....

...also known as, how many glasses of wine does it take before the sound of my child crying doesn't make me clench up and huddle in a fetal position on the couch?

The answer? About 2.5.

So, we went up to Portland to visit some friends last weekend, and after witnessing how (relatively) docilely their 18-month-old son went to bed at 7:30 each night, we decided the Chicklette's whole "hey, maybe I'll go to bed at 8, or maybe I'll go to bed at 11:30" thing wasn't really doing it for us anymore. It's not that she's not a good sleeper -- she almost always sleeps through until 7:00, no matter what time she does down -- it's just that the fact that my husband and I haven't gone to bed at the same time in 8 months is starting to take a toll on our marriage. And the unpredictability is sort of terrifying to me.

I read Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child and Solve Your Child's Sleep Problems at the end of my pregnancy, but I'll be damned if I remembered ANYTHING except some vague concepts of "crying" and "extinction." Sounds fun, no? I mean, philosophically we've always been on board with the concept of "crying it out," (please don't hate on me -- I know it's not for everyone) but the mechanics have always sort of eluded me. And frankly, who the hell wants to hear their kid cry? It's like, hey, can I please have an extra pelvic exam?

So. We did a little research, talked to some other friends, and decided last night was the night to put her down and let 'er rip. We'd do our little routine (dinner, bath, some quiet play time, then into the nursery for a bottle and in the crib soon after that), and go cry it out ourselves in the family room for a while. I put her in her crib at 8:58 (a little later than ideal, but hey, baby steps), sort of asleep. She started crying at 9:04. And kept crying. At about 9:21, I started to lose my will. My husband restrained me, and we turned on an episode of Top Chef. At 9:27, we noticed that she was no longer crying. Sleepy baby. Aaahhh.

She was happy this morning, so not scarred for life (at least not yet). So, all in all, not bad. We'll try again tonight, a little earlier. But the feeling of triumph at 9:27 was pretty awesome. We put our baby to bed!

(Oh, and by the way, the sleep section in Baby 411 suggests parents who are waiting for their kids to cry it out to try "making love with earplugs" to pass the time. Apparently I am 12 because I begin snickering uncontrollably every time I think about it. Making love! With earplugs!)

Worst. Blogger. Ever.

God, I am so boring. I'm sorry. Every time I think about posting, I wrack my brains (what's left of them) for something interesting and pithy to write about. I come up with nothing.

The Chicklette continues to get cuter (I think, anyway). My work schedule continues to get crazier. The Mr. and I continue to fail to find ways to spend any meaningful time together. Lather, rinse, repeat. I can't complain. If I get a couple of glasses of pinot in me, I will, but generally life is good.

A few observations:

• A barley cereal beard on a baby is a really awesome look.
• It's really hard to lose that last pooch of pregnancy belly. I think I sort of understand Mom Jeans now.
• Losing all of your status on United because you didn't fly for 8 months and having to fly in Economy Minus in a plane to the east coast that's packed like a sardine can is Not Fun. Sleeping for 8 straight hours in a hotel bed after downing a Tylenol PM, however, is.
• Getting fishhooked by a baby is about as much fun as it sounds.
• It is possible to get promoted after coming back from maternity leave.
• It's also possible to completely forget what it feels like to be pregnant.
• Paying 10 extra dollars to see Twilight: Eclipse in IMAX was totally worth it.
• There can never be too much pink.
• Or too much laundry detergent.

Happy weekend, everyone!

Oops, I did it again

I left my pump horns

Right next to the sink

Oh, baby baby

Oops, you'd think I'd have learned

That's not a good plan

I'm not that smarty-smart

At this rate -- one set of new horns per business trip -- I'll have about 37 sets by the time all is said and done.

Good thing I'm quitting this pumping thing very soon!

Taking the "moo" out of motherhood

For anyone out there who might still be interested in the state of my breastfeeding efforts -- and let's face it, I'm barely interested these days -- here's a quick update.

At 6 months, 1 week, things are winding down. Since I returned to work until about three weeks ago, I had been breastfeeding once in the morning, and then pumping 5-6 times per day (including one middle-of-the-night pump). About two weeks ago, I started consistently dropping one daytime pump, bringing the total down to 5 pumps. I was only getting about 10-12 ounces from all of those, but continuing to chug along.

Last week, I got my period and decided that the 2 a.m. pump was going to go. Almost immediately my supply dropped to 7-8 ounces per day. Now I'm down to about 5 ounces over 4 pumps, and I think I'm done. I'm spending close to 90 minutes a day at work pumping very little milk, and that's time I could be spending getting work done so that I can go home and play with the Chicklette. All for one bottle a day. Also, I've got two multi-day business trips coming up, and the thought of a) dragging my pumping stuff with me, and b) figuring out whether to pump and dump or ship milk back on dry ice is just too much for my frazzled brain.

So. I'm going to cut a pump every few days until I'm done. I'll keep feeding her in the morning for as long as there's something to feed her, but the dairy bar is otherwise closing.

I'm trying not to feel too gleeful at the prospect of getting my boobs back, but I can't help it. I'm already planning my nursing bra-burning party.

Dang it!

Well, it was bound to happen sometime.

I got my period.

For the first time since March 2009.

And you know how I know that I haven't completely left the infertility journey behind? Because I was DISAPPOINTED. Not just because now I have to go back to buying feminine products and eschewing white pants, but because a leetle teeny tiny part of me was wondering if maybe just maybe I was miraculously pregnant again already! Even with the breastfeeding! And the sperm count!

Sigh.

The good news: I can finally drop that middle-of-the-night pump. Because now that my supply has been officially deemed A Joke, and now that Aunt Flo is back, there is no conceivable frickin' reason for me to get up in the middle of the night.

Does my body even know how to sleep more than 5 hours in a stretch?

I shall report back.

Satan has been renounced

Or, alternately phrased, we have christened the Chicklette.

She was a champ. It was 95 degrees out, with about 95 (OK, I exaggerate) friends and relatives wanting a piece of the baby, but she didn't cry at all. In fact, she looked so serious when the priest was baptising her that I half-expected her to engage him in a theological discussion.

But, there were cupcakes.

And a sleepy baby.

Life is good.

Traveling mama

This week I embarked on my first business trip since having the chicklette. Just one night away, but with all of the anxiety I'd been having, you'd think it was a month-long trip around the world. It's not so much being away from the baby that made me nervous -- I was actually looking forward to a quiet night, to be honest -- but more the fact that I hadn't been on a plane in 8 months. Or had to pack a bag. Or had to bring a breast pump with me. I'm out of practice.

So, here's the story. I had to give a presentation in San Francisco on Tuesday morning, and then hop on a plane around noon to LA. My plan was to get to the office at 8, pump, present at 9, and then hightail it to the airport.

Here's how it actually went down:

Got to pumping room at 8:30. Realized that even though I bring a pump to work EVERY SINGLE DAY, I somehow managed, on THIS day, to forget my pump horns. Swore profusely. Ran back to my office to see if the Walgreens downstairs had pump supplies. They didn't. Located a Target between my office and SFO that had what I needed. Found one. Checked my flight. See that it'd been delayed for 2 hours, making me late for my meeting in LA. Called travel agent. Rebooked on flight out of Oakland. Gave presentation, boobs afire (I fed the babe at 6:15, so by 10 I was really feeling it). Ran down to car, drove feverishly to Babies R' Us near Oakland airport. Ran in, bought flanges. Ran to car, got pumping bra on. Ripped open box to discover that I only bought the flanges, not the valves. Ran back into Babies R' Us, grabbed a box with valves. Ran back to car, ripped open box to discover that the box only has ONE piece. (I have two boobs.) Ran back to BRU, bought ANOTHER set, tried to convince register lady that I do not have some serial shopping disorder. Ran back to car, hooked up the girls, pumped in BRU parking lot. Flashed my nips to some random woman who had the ill fortune to park next to me. Drove to airport.

Going through the security line with breast milk was much less harrowing than I expected, although I did have some woman (a passenger) call me out for being in the "medical liquids" line. I guess I don't look like I need medical liquids? Guess who almost got a bottle of room temperature breast milk poured on her?

Anyway, the rest of the day went fine and I ended up getting upgraded to a PENTHOUSE SUITE at the Beverly Hilton, which was a pretty sweet (haha, get it?) way to spend my first night alone. And that night -- it was just a little bit blissful.

But I did miss my morning chicklette smiles. And I am happy to be home.

And I will NOT forget those damn pump horns next time!

Single parenting = hard

DISCLAIMER: I am by no means looking to minimize the job that full-time single parents do by complaining here about my experience this week. Three nights is not a lifetime.

BUT.

It is three long nights (and days).

The Mr. went on his first business trip this week. He left at 6:45 on Sunday morning and OMG THANK YOU he just landed about 5 minutes ago.

It's not that the Chicklette is a difficult baby -- in fact, she's pretty dang easy -- but her bedtime is, shall we say, variable. Which means that she falls asleep anytime between 6:15 and 11:30. This unpredictability is usually not a big deal to me, since I do the morning shift and the Mr. does the evening. My bedtime is usually 9:30, no matter what.

And actually, she was great this week. Down by 9:30 or 9:45 every night, for the night. But oh, the anxiety. I'm not good at putting her down, and there has been at least one false start each night, rendering me a quivering piece of WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING? for at least one chunk of the evening. And then there's the fact that I'm so worried about sleeping through whatever she might need during the night (since there's no backup parent) that my body has woken itself up every. single. hour. for the last 3 nights. And has not really let itself fall back to sleep again.

My milk supply is suffering. I am a snappish, walking zombie at work, which has also chosen this week to completely kick my ass. I had all but forgotten those early days when the sleep deprivation made me crazy....it is an amazing thing, sleep.

I am so looking forward to resuming my regular bedtime tonight, I could cry. And I probably will before the day is out.

And I am so, so thankful that I have a partner to do this child-raising thing with.

Zzzzzzznfkjdfkjbg......

p.s. On a more positive note, the Mr. being gone means that I have gotten every single smile, coo, raspberry, and chubby kissy baby cheek all to myself for the last 4 days. I will miss that.

The gassiest house on the block

Friends and family would be well advised to keep their distance from the Barefoot house this week. Why, you might ask? Well, because the Mr. is headed out of town on a business trip (the prospect of which fills me with utter terror, but that's a topic for another post).

One of the things this means is that I'll be indulging in all of the foods he doesn't like to eat. You might think this would mean that I'll be eating lots of chocolate, or something, you know, indulgent. But no. The Mr.'s only food aversions are to vegetables. So here's what's on the docket for the next few days:

Cream of Broccoli Soup (already simmering on the stove)

Pasta with Cauliflower

The roasted vegetable whole grain lasagna from Trader Joe's

One might question the wisdom of partaking in so many toot-inducing foods while still breastfeeding. I know, I might pay for it later. But anyone who wants to come visit will pay for it IMMEDIATELY.

And should probably avoid lighting a match.

How exciting and sexy is my life?

Now we're talking

I will spare everyone my schmoopy thoughts about Mothers' Day.....not because I'm not feeling schmoopy, but because I'm actually at a loss for words (me? oh yes) when it comes to articulating what this day means to me. The Mr. handed me the homemade card that the Chicklette made for me at daycare (unaided, I'm sure, because she is a baby genius) on Friday and I've been speechless ever since.

But, I can talk about the totally shallow reasons why this weekend has rocked. Let me count the ways:

1. 90 minute massage.

2. Saturday girls night out, with adult beverages.

3. Upcoming dinner at my favorite restaurant.

4. Chicklette sleeping 'til 9 and letting mom sleep off her mild hangover (and -- bonus -- snuggle in bed with Dad for the first time in months).

Wishing everyone reading a day of peace and contentment, wherever you are in the journey.

No longer ding-free

You know that blissful-yet-nervewracking period after you get a new car, when you haven't accidentally plowed a shopping cart into it yet, or had a neighbor bonk you with their door, or had to parallel park yet? That no-ding period?

Well, it's over in the Barefood household. Except not with the car. With the BABY. And instead of a shopping cart, the Chicklette was dinged by two completely incompetent parents.

You could see it coming a mile away. Fingernails needed to be clipped. I was in a rush to hop in the shower, so handed of the clippers to the fingernail-clipping-virgin husband. As I was toweling off, I hear baby screams, followed by "I'm SO sorry, I'm SO sorry" and "Honey, we need a band-aid in here!"

Of course, I didn't have a baby-sized bandaid, so had to McGyver an adult-sized one to fit her little bleeding, quivering finger. And oh, the sadness. And the blood. There was a lot of blood. But still ten fingers. Phew.

So. We bandaged her up, and headed out for the day. Because I am a fate-tempting idiot, I proceeded to pepper the Mr. with jeers throughout the course of the afternoon. Because he didn't feel bad enough, and I can't ever let go of an opportunity to lord my parenting prowess over him. I'm lucky the foreshadowing didn't knock me out with a blow to the head.

Because later, I was all like, "Hey, let's finish cutting those nails!" And the baby was all like, "Hey, I need a matching wound for my other hand!"

That's right, folks. ANOTHER fingernail boo-boo. More screams. More blood. (Still 10 fingers.)

So, yeah. Not exactly an A+ weekend for parenting around these parts. And I think I've learned my lesson about the lording of parenting prowess.

At least for today.

Boring

I haven't written much lately because I have become boring. I get up. I feed the baby. I drop her off at daycare. I go to work. I come home. I play with the baby. I cook dinner. I pump a lot. I go to sleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Which is not to say that life is boring. Life is now all about the exquisite little moments -- the smile when she wakes up and sees me in the morning, the grip of her little hand, the way my husband looks at her, the sight of her fast asleep on her back with one little hand behind her head. And other moments, too -- the delicious solitude of a train ride to the city with a good book, the mental exercise of solving a thorny problem at work, the decadence of eating an entire meal with nothing to interrupt me except the internet. Oh, and -- surprisingly -- my newly rediscovered sex life. Sex on a weeknight? Really?

So, yeah. I'm boring. But I'm not bored.

And I'm OK if it stays that way for a little while.

Sick baby!

Is there anything sadder than the sound of a 4-month-old hacking like a two pack a day smoker? Or, instead of her usual high-pitched cry, a low "meeeeeh, meeeeh" sort of bleating sound as she looks up at me from her crib?

Well, yes. Even sadder than that is the sound of a hacking, bleating baby getting 3 vaccinations in her little fat baby thighs. And screaming her little stuffy head off.

And I suspect this is just the beginning. The handy dandy Baby 411 book I was reading at 2 this morning while waiting for the little bleater to fall back asleep tells me that there are over 100 variations of the cold virus, and that babies and toddlers basically keep getting sick until they've built up their immunity to all of them. So we have DOZENS more nights like last night ahead of us.

The silver lining (other than that I've been able to start catching up on TiVoed episodes of Grey's Anatomy and the absolutely awful Private Practice) is that I've been sick with the same bug and have lost my voice a bit, which the Mr. seems to think is tres sexy.

So, um, yay?

Bring on the smelly pee!

Thanks for all of the kind comments on yesterday's post.....I'm feeling much better today. Except sometime between last night and this morning, I lost my voice. When I went in to get the Chicklette this morning and croaked "Good morning!," she looked at me, like, who is this prepubescent boy and what did you do to the lady with the boobs?!?

Anyway, so today's post, if the title didn't clue you in, is about asparagus. Asparagus soup, to be exact. It's one of the tasty concoctions I've been living on lately as part of my fabulous foray into Weight Watchers land.

I can't say enough good things about WW. It's the perfect plan for me -- she who likes wine and carbs and appreciates being able to eat whatever I want (although not necessarily in the quantities that I want, of course). I've lost something like 45 pounds since I had the baby -- about 20 of these on Weight Watchers. I'm now down to my pre-IVF weight, and have another 25 or so to go to get me back to where I was when I started my two year infertility self-pity binge.

Anyhoo, the soup. I make a lot of soup, and experimented with this one last weekend. I thought I'd post the recipe since it's asparagus season and it's ridonkulously easy to make. And of course there's the added smelly pee bonus.

Happy weekend!

Springtime Asparagus Soup

2 big bunches asparagus (or two bags of frozen from Trader Joe's)
6 cups chicken or veg broth
1 TBSP butter
1 large onion
1/4 cup fat free half-and-half (or fat free sour cream, if that's more your thing)
salt and pepper to taste

Chop onion and asparagus into manageable chunks (you'll be pureeing later, so no need to be too fussy). Melt butter in a large pot over medium-high heat, and add onion. Saute for 2-3 minutes, then add asparagus and broth. Bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer for 20-25 minutes or until asparagus is very tender. Puree soup with a hand blender* (or in a blender in batches), add half-and-half, and salt and pepper to taste.

This soup is awesome with a sprinkling of croutons and parmesan cheese on top, and keeps in the fridge for a few days. I didn't try to freeze it, but I'm sure it would be just fine. I'm planning to try this recipe with a bunch of other veggies in the coming weeks.

* One annoying thing about this soup is that the strands from the asparagus can get wound around your blender blade. Be prepared for a few extra minutes of asparagus extraction during the otherwise very low-maintenance cleanup.

Crying over spilled milk

I just returned to my office from the "Wellness Room," where I discovered that one of my pumping bottles had tipped over in the fridge and divulged itself of a couple of ounces of my morning's work. Earlier this week, I was transferring milk from one bottle to another to bring to daycare, and accidentally knocked one of the bottles over, making a sad, giant puddle on the kitchen counter.

I don't know what it is, but I had to fight back tears both times. My supply still sucks, so every ounce counts.

I'm feeding the Chicklette once in the morning when she wakes up, and then pumping 5 or 6 times a day to get an additional 15 or so ounces. She's also taking 2 or 3 bottles of formula a day. I don't know how much longer I can continue, but also don't know if I have the strength to just walk away. It's a permanent decision, so as much as I fantasize about giving up the mid-night pump and using my pump time at work for a trip to the gym....I hesitate.

Sorry for the pity party. I am dead tired this week, fighting a cold, and just generally feeling sorry for myself.

Bleh.

Weird

I'm working from home today, sans Chicklette. Yep, I passed up the opportunity to spend the day with her and took her to daycare. And let me just say, I have not achieved this level of productivity since, oh, December 22.

Things today that are kind of awesome:

• I can grind coffee beans with impunity! No need to worry about a baby napping.
• I can get through a conference call without apologizing for a baby fart!
• I can go to the gym!
• I can lavish attention on my cats, who I sometimes go days without thinking about!

Don't get me wrong, I will be running stop signs to get to her this afternoon. But before that, I will enjoy the luxury of the next 6 hours. Even though I'm working.

Because working for The Man is waaaaaay easier than working for The Baby.

The post in which I sdilsdfajilsdfzzzzzzz........

One of the things that new parents seem to like talking to pregnant women about is sleep. If I had a buck for everytime someone told me to "enjoy your sleep while you can!"....well, I'd be spending even more money on useless frilly baby clothes than I already am.

The sleep comments always annoyed me. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Stockpile sleep? Freeze it like breast milk and thaw it out for a rainy day? And wasn't my sleep already crappy enough, what with the 7-pound bowling ball sitting on my bladder? Surely the sleep situation with a baby couldn't be that much worse, right?

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I have to say, as a person who has always enjoyed a solid 7-8 hours a night, topped off with a lazy morning or two on the weekends, that having a baby has COMPLETELY changed my relationship with sleep. And not in a good way. And not just because the Edward Cullen dreams have all but disappeared.

It wasn't just the newborn phase -- sure, it was tough with the frequent baby waking and the bleeding and the soreness/pain and the hormones and the general recovery from bodily trauma. Oh, and the fact that you hear every single dingle noise the baby makes and OH MY GOD IS SHE STILL BREATHING? Let me check.

Even though the Chicklette has been sleeping, more or less, through the night for the last few weeks, it's STILL hard. It's the sheer unpredictability -- sometimes she'll have a night or two where she'll wake up or just be so grunty that it's hard to not lay in bed counting the minutes until I'm going to have to go in and feed/change/soothe her.

Most of all, and especially since I've gone back to work, it's the fact that the days start so early and are soooooo looooong. It's up at 5:30, sometimes 6 if it's a day my work schedule permits and she actually sleeps until 6. I'm lucky to be in bed by 9:3o or 10, which would actually work if I wasn't still getting up in the middle of the night to pump. Which only technically takes 20 minutes, but sometimes turns into more if I can't get back to sleep, or the baby wakes up, or (as was the case last night) I fall asleep, boobs in horns, and wake up an hour later with a crick in my neck and 3-inch long nipples.

So, yeah, life has changed. And most of the time I can deal with it. Except when I can't, and I'm struggling to make it through the day without falling asleep in my office or doing something stupid. Thank God for the pumping breaks so that I can catnap....but after last night I'm a little scared I'm going to nod off and not wake up until the night janitor comes to empty the trash can.

I guess I'm doing better with the sleep deprivation than I thought I would, but it's still not fun. And the fact that it may be YEARS before I can sleep in at the same time as my husband on a weekend morning makes me want to weep.

What all this means is that every time I talk to a friend who is expecting, or see a pregnant woman on the train, or talk to my former self (which, yes, I sometimes do), I can't help it. I don't say anything out loud, but in the back of my mind, a little voice is saying:

"Enjoy your sleep while you can, beyotch!"

A very happy Easter

Easter week has been a very happy time in the Barefoot family as of late. Last Holy Thursday, we got the amazing call letting us know that our IVF cycle had been successful. And last Easter, this generally non-churchgoing couple of semi-lapsed Catholics got dressed in our Sunday best and went to Mass. I remember standing there, hand on my belly, so very thankful for the little life growing inside of me.

Today, we'll be taking the grandparents to church, with that little life squirming (and hopefully not crying -- ohpleaseohpleaseohplease) next to me.

I am so very thankful. And I don't take for granted for a minute what a miracle it is that we'll have a bonneted beautiful baby with us today.

Even if she hasn't pooped for two days and will probably let loose all over her fancy dress.

Happy Easter, peeps.

1 week down, many more to go

We made it through the first week with both parents back to work. I am exhausted. I am glad it's over, even though it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

I have just enough energy to share the following exchange, which was the first conversation I had on Monday morning:

IT guy, walking by my office: "Hey, welcome back!"

Me: "Thanks, it's good to be back."

IT guy: "So, did you have a natural childbirth?"

Me, dumbfounded: "Do you mean...."

IT guy: "I mean, did you have a C-section, or the other way?"

(Please keep in mind that I barely know the IT guy.)

What I wanted to say: "Are you asking me if the baby came out of my VAGINA?"

Thankfully, no one else asked about my birthing experience this week.

But there's always next week, I guess.

Oh, the guilt

This has been a tough week.

I return to work on Monday, and we've been doing trial runs at our day care center all week. I love our day care center. I thought that dropping the Chicklette off there would be easy. It turns out that the way you feel about day care when you're 8 weeks away from going back to work is a little different than the way you feel when you're 7 days away from going back to work.

Here's how it went down:

Monday -- Bring the Chicklette to the center, and sit with her for an hour. Surreptitiously inspect the the other infants, and try to hold back tears the whole time. Finally break down on my way out. Call husband. Cry more. Call mom. Cry to mom. Mom says, "welcome to motherhood." Spend rest of day questioning my worthiness as a mother. What kind of mother leaves her kid with other people ALL DAY LONG?!?

Tuesday -- Bring Chicklette to center, stay 15 minutes. Leave her for 45 minutes. She is smiling when I leave. She is still smiling when I return. Hey, this isn't so bad!

Wednesday -- Husband brings Chicklette to center. Leaves her there for an hour. Sits in Safeway parking lot close to tears the whole time.

Today was better, and I'm guessing tomorrow will be fine as well. Monday? I'm sure I'll be a mess again.

I thought that the fact that my going back to work was not a decision for us -- financially, there's no other option right now -- would make things easier. I wouldn't have to agonize over the choice, right? I treated my maternity leave as a break in the normal routine.

Turns out that there are plenty of other things to agonize over. I'm starting to realize that I can now ALWAYS find something to worry about. I think that worry is the new normal.

As my mom would say, welcome to motherhood.

Lactation Frustration, Part 3: So Over It

I am so over it. The breastfeeding.

I am one week out from going back to work, and my supply has ALREADY tanked. I think it has something to do with the 12-week postpartum hormone realignment -- the same phenomenon that is causing my hair to fall out in clumps in the shower. That, and the fact that the Chicklette is sleeping through the night every night (I know, boo hoo) and I've decided that getting up once in the middle of the night to pump is enough, thankyouverymuch.

Every feeding involves an unhappy baby pulling painfully at my nipples. Every pumping is an exercise in frustration -- I'm lucky now if I get 2 ounces per pump, which means it takes me 3 pumpings to get one bottle feeding (she's now eating 5-6 ounces per feed -- probably because by the time she gets the bottle in the afternoon/evening she's hungry after a day on my loser boobs).

Nothing I've done has helped bump my supply. I've taken the herbs, eaten the oatmeal, and drank (drunken?) the gallons of water. I've increased the number of feedings/pumping sessions. And it's not working. I'm tired. And my boobs are hurting almost as much as they did in the beginning.

And I'm going back to work next week. Which everyone assures me will not help matters. I feel like my attempts to increase my supply are futile, since the work I'm doing will probably get undone once I return to my crazy job which will almost certainly involve me missing pumpings.

We've started giving the Chicklette a bottle of formula at night, just to get her used to it. She cried and fussed the first couple of times. It broke my heart. Now she's fine. But it feels like we're on a spiral towards the inevitable.

On the one hand, I feel great. I'm so looking forward to being done with breastfeeding.

On the other hand, I feel AWFUL. Guilty. If I were a good mother, I'd stick with it and do whatever it takes! (This coming from a formula-fed baby, married to another formula-fed baby, surrounded by friends who at least partly formula-fed their perfectly happy/healthy kids.)

And on the third hand (let's pretend I have one), I feel like a total asshat complaining about the feeding issues, since the Chicklette has been, as of late, the most low-key, agreeable, happy baby I can imagine. She sleeps through the night. She doesn't cry unless she's hungry or tired. She travels well. She smiles and laughs and is generally just fun to be around.

But I don't think I can feed her by myself anymore. Which is sad.

And happy.

Argh!

Adventures in the city

Yesterday, I made a trip into the big city (San Francisco) to show off the Chicklette at my office (and my husband's). All in all, it was pretty fun. The highlight was changing a poopy diaper in my office -- I can't imagine most law firm desks have seen the back of a baby's butt. And I got to check out the lactation room, which seemed nice but honestly I'm having a hard time seeing how this is all going to work out. I guess I'll find out in 2 weeks.

Anyhoo, we made it back home unscathed, and were enjoying an episode of the Gilmore Girls (which I have now watched in its entirety and am now reliving via repeats on ABC Family -- it's sickness, I know) when I got a call from my dentist's office. Apparently a "nice young man" (according to the 90-year-old woman who runs the front desk) had called their office, having found my wallet on the sidewalk in the city. He tracked me down via an appointment card stuck in some back corner of my wallet.

I called the nice young man, and my nice not-so-young husband is going to meet him today --thank you note and bottle of wine in hand -- to retrieve the lost wallet. Which apparently still has all of my credit cards and -- thank God -- my driver's license, because I think a trip to the DMV might put me over the edge.

I guess I'm a bit of a cynic, because I'm always surprised when someone does something nice like this. So, Mr. Nice Young Man, thank you for not taking your entire office out for drinks on my Amex.

Today, I'm going to try and not leave the baby on the sidewalk.

A night in the life

When the alarm went off this morning for my 1:00 pumping session, the Mr. was not in bed with me. I sighed, knowing that this meant he had fallen asleep on the couch with the Chicklette in her swing. And that I'd have to spend about 10 minutes waking him up, which would result in me becoming fully awake (if I'm lucky, I can get up and pump in a state of half-sleep and then be able to get back to sleep easily). I was pretty pissy. I tend to get that way in the middle of the night -- not my best quality.

Sure enough, I trudged out to the family room with my pump horns and there he was. I shook him and flicked him and said "hey, it's 1:00 -- put the baby to bed!" He eventually got up and took the baby. I leaned back, turned on the pump, and watched E! through half-open eyes for 15 minutes or so.

After I finished, I started to make my way back to the bedroom. I heard the sound of running water -- WTF? I walked into the bathroom, and the shower was running. "Hon? Are you in there?" No answer. I pulled the curtain aside and found him sitting on the floor of the tub, water running over him. "I'm just so TIRED. I don't know how I'm going to make it to work," he moaned.

"Um, it's only 1:15," I replied. Silence.

"Your husband is a f-ing IDIOT!"

And then we started laughing. And crawled into bed.

Apparently I'm not the only one having sleep deprivation issues.

Lactation Frustration, Part 2: Supply and Demand

The good news: the Barefoot house is still a breast milk-only zone. The not-so-good news: we've been fighting the battle of low supply.

Over the last couple of weeks, three things have happened.

1) I've been feeling under the weather, flirting with a cold.

2) I started Weight Watchers, and have lost somewhere between 5-10 pounds.

3) The Chicklette has been sleeping through the night with increasing regularity.

Some combination of these factors has been wreaking havoc with my supply. The Chicklette was fussy and unsatisfied at the boob, and my pumping output (which I know is not a totally reliable measure of overall supply, but still) went from 3.5-4 oz per session to 2-2.5.

When I first noticed it happening, I tried to make a few tweaks -- drink more water, try to eat more nutritiously (i.e., fruit and protein instead of 1-point Weight Watchers chocolate cake), and try to go to sleep a bit earlier. None of these really seemed to work (although I did feel better overall).

Next I tried Fenugreek. 3 capsules 3 times a day. My pee started to smell like maple syrup, but my supply, while slightly improved, was still less than it had been. We were starting to dip into the freezer stash, which was stressing me out.

Finally, on a recommendation from a lactation consultant and a couple of moms in my group, I tried More Milk Plus. This stuff tastes like the worst aspects of maple syrup and black licorice multiplied by 100 (you can get it in pill form, but it costs twice as much), but I'll be darned....it works! I've also started eating oatmeal in the morning, which is supposed to help as well. Between the two of these things, I'm back to pumping 3.5-4 oz a session, sometimes more depending on the time of day. And the Chicklette is back to looking drunk when she comes off the boob, which not only means she's getting enough milk, but also amuses me greatly.

So, we're chugging along. I can't believe how much time I spend thinking about milk and boobs (and how much money I'm spending on foul herbs), and dread whatever shake-up going back to work is going to bring to the whole supply issue. But for now, things are OK. A full baby is a happy baby. A happy baby is a happy mom. Etc. etc.

And speaking of happy, I need to figure out what I'm wearing on my DINNER DATE tonight because some other crazy friend of ours is so excited to spend time with the baby that they've offered to babysit. I don't know what's wrong with these people, but I'll take it.

Happy two month birthday, pork chop!

To my dearest Chicklette:

Happy two-month birthday! I'm a day late, but I'm betting you can't tell the difference.

I can't believe it's only been two months since I pushed you through a happy epidural haze into the world. You have done so much growing and changing since then, and I honestly can barely remember what my life was like before you were in it. Kind of like in Twilight, when Bella can only hazily remember her human life. (Is it too early for me to start reading you those books? Let's discuss later.)

I'm not going to lie -- your first few weeks were not so much fun for mama. But now, I get greeted in the morning with smiles and giggles. Your big blue eyes follow me around while I make coffee and putter around the house. You gurgle in agreement with me when I comment on the morning news. You giggle in delight at all the pretty colors when we go shopping. You are, at this moment, a super-fun companion.

I look at you, and even though for the life of me I can't see either daddy or me in your face, I'm in awe that we (with the help of a very nice reproductive endocrinologist) made something so perfect. I could just explode from the cute. And the love.

I'm looking forward to every minute (well, almost every minute) of the next month we get to spend together before I go back to work.

But now, it's back to the Price is Right.

It's very educational.

Shot through the heart

Yesterday, we made our way to the pediatrician's office for the appointment I'd been dreading since I scheduled it -- the Chicklette's 2-month vaccinations.

Now, after all of the blood draws and injections of IVF, it's not like I'm squeamish about shots. In fact, I almost enjoy them now because it makes me feel like a bad-ass that they don't bother me. (I take my bad-ass where I can get it these days.) But watching your child get poked is a whole other ball game. Heck, I don't even like watching the pediatrician put a cold stethoscope on her chest. Overprotective, anyone?

So, anyway, we got to the office and had our regular appointment -- height and weight measurements (she's 9 pounds, 8 ounces!), ear and eye check, etc. -- and then we started the Shot Talk. The ped gave us a sheet with all of the things that could go wrong that we should watch for (thereby guaranteeing that I would see EVERY ONE OF THOSE THINGS), and instructions for Baby Tylenol. Then he left for what seemed like an hour to get the fun stuff.

Do any of you have pets? Do you sometimes feel really bad when you know they're about to go to the groomer or the vet, or take a long car ride (if they hate long car rides like our cats do)? Because you know what's coming and they don't? Well, this was like 100 times worse than that.

The shots themselves went quickly, but not so quickly that the Chicklette didn't start shrieking immediately. Poor little pumpkin. We calmed her down (the Mr. took a day off yesterday to come with me to the doctor -- how awesome is he?), and she was asleep in her carseat by the time we left the parking lot. She slept for 4 hours (!), and then woke up and proceeded to howl for 90 minutes. Then she went back to sleep, and woke up and starting howling again. Then she went down for the night -- 12 hours with one short break for food at 4 a.m. -- and woke up my normal happy baby again.

(Oh, and how I know she's my kid and the clinic didn't grab the wrong petri dish? During her relatively brief but traumatic moments of alertness last night, she put down about 15 ounces of milk. Like her mother, only an act of God could kill that appetite.)

So, all's well that ends well, but I think I aged about 5 years last night. Such a wimp. How I'm going to survive the next 18 years is beyond me.

IComLeaveWe: All apologies, and where do I go from here?

(For the short version of my history, please visit the sidebar. And be forewarned: lots of baby talk in these here parts.)

I had a quiet moment the other day while the Chicklette was napping, and I didn't have anything urgent to do (translation: I had nowhere to be that day so didn't have to race to the shower/fold a load of laundry/pump frantically), so I hopped onto Stirrup Queens to check in. And realized that I hadn't done so in, oh, the amount of time between that moment and when I checked into the hospital three days before Christmas. And then I realized how behind I am on news from around the ALI blogosphere, outside of the folks whose blogs I hurriedly check via my Google reader.

And I felt horrible. And selfish. How much support did I get from this community during my infertility struggles? A TON. How much did it mean to me to feel connected with other people who understood our screwed up little world? More than I can express. And now I sit here and basically complain about how hard it is to have a baby. Nice, hunh?

And so, I offer an apology. Without excuses. I'm just sorry.

And then I got to thinking -- where does this blog go from here? I imagine at some point it will detail the fun world of secondary infertility, but until then I have a feeling that anything I write will be pretty singularly focused on those things which consume my days -- diapers, boobs, crying jags, and the occasional glimpse of cute, happy baby. In a couple of months, I'll write about going back to work. I know that there are many, many people for whom this is either too painful or uninteresting to read. But I'll likely still plug away. I'll keep signing up for IComLeaveWe, with fair warning about the content of my blog. But I know that on some level I'll continue to suck, and occasionally (or more than occasionally) rub someone the wrong way when the annoying mom lady comments on their blog.

So. I've tweaked the name of my blog, and made a few changes here and there, but I'll still be around in some form or another. And will try harder to do more than just talk about myself.

And with that wonderful introduction....welcome! And happy ICLW! I look forward to getting to know more of you and your blogs this week.

Valentine's Day + 8-week-old = not a whole lot of romance, but I'll take it

Ah, the three-day weekend. Is there anything it can't do?

Fellow new moms (or soon-to-be moms who are up every hour peeing), don't hate me, but I am feeling SUPREMELY well-rested today. The Chicklette slept for a total of 13 (!!) hours last night, with one feeding at 4:00 which my awesome valentine of a husband took. Which means I slept for about 10 broken hours, with breaks every 3 hours or so for pumping (I'm having supply issues post-cold, so am trying to be diligent about having something regularly sucking on my boobs). And she's finally sleeping in her crib, which means that.....drum roll please....the Mr. and I slept in the same bed this weekend for the first time in 8 weeks. A regular miracle.

(Now, I don't want to misrepresent the miracle -- we were just sleeping, not SLEEPING. We've yet to, um, resume marital relations. I have to admit I'm kind of terrified, as everyone loves to tell me how painful it is the first few times. Why do they do this? In any event, I'm sure I'll have a TMI post at some point about that whole experience. But anyway.)

In other news, we had our first post-baby date on Saturday night, during which we managed to limit baby-related conversation to about 20 minutes. And I had 2 glasses of wine! And raw fish! And a big headache the next morning! But it was so, so worth it.

So, a good weekend. I'm in such a good mood, I let the Mr. go and play 9 holes of golf. I don't really expect any of this goodness to last (particularly the sleeping part), so I'm just trying to soak it all in and appreciate it. And write it down so that I remember the next time Ms. Fussypants is on a tear.

Happy Valentine's weekend!

(Oh, and for those of you in the two week wait -- I'm thinking of you and silently sending good vibes your way. Stick stick stick!!)

The time has come

Well, I finally succumbed to the waves of junk mail hitting my various mailboxes and went to a Weight Watchers meeting today.

My weight has definitely plateaued over the last couple of weeks, and I think I've reached the limit of where childbirth and breastfeeding can take me. Also, I'm already starting to fall into some bad habits -- drive-thru lunches and quick but carby dinners -- that I'm starting to blame on "the baby." If I don't stop now, I'll probably find some way to extend my visit to Fatland until I get pregnant again (assuming, of course, that I can).

My main motivation at this point? It's so shallow I'm almost embarrassed to admit it. I confirmed yesterday that I'll be heading back to work in six weeks, and I really want to go back and have people think "Wow, she looks great!" I know it's probably ambitious, but I'd like to have lost another 15 pounds by then. I think I can do it.

So, I'll update here periodically on my progress. Not because I expect it will be all that thrilling to read, but because it will help keep me honest and motivated.

Oh, and the best part of today's meeting? The Chicklette blew a serious load in her diaper about midway through, complete with pre-show grunts and post-show farts. Heads were turned.

I've never been so proud!

Lactation frustration (or, how I learned to stop feeling guilty and make my own damn decisions)

So. Breastfeeding. I've been wanting to write about it for a while, but my feelings about it change pretty much with every feeding. But I wanted to throw some thoughts out there, because I felt SO ALONE trying to figure things out for the first 2-3 weeks, which coincidentally was also the period of time when I was strapped on the crazy postpartum hormone train. And a disclaimer: these are just my thoughts. I am a pretty judgmental person, but I honestly have NO JUDGEMENT about the choices people make on the feeding front. Not after living through the process myself.

I came to the decision to breastfeed pretty haphazardly. It's encouraged by, well, pretty much everyone, and seemed to me, in the limited amount of time I spent thinking about it, to make sense. The natural order of things and all that. I took the prenatal breastfeeding class, which seemed at the time to be long on evangelizing about the wonders of breastfeeding and short on actual breastfeeding instruction. I read a little bit about it in my library of pregnancy tomes, but basically just thought I would figure it out when I got there. I mean, it's what nature intended, so how complicated could it be, right?

WRONG. Well, at least for me. I think breastfeeding can be pretty easy for some women, but I've only met a handful of these women. Every other new mom I've talked to falls into the "wow, this is way harder than I expected" camp.

Here's how things went for us during the first couple of weeks:

1. My first couple of breastfeeding sessions were completely unsupervised. A nurse basically dropped her off with me about an hour after I gave birth and said "you want to try breastfeeding?" and left. So, I hazily put her to the breast, and figured that even though it didn't feel very good, that probably was because I'd never had someone sucking on my boob that vigorously before.

2. When I finally got some guidance from a couple of different nurses, the message from both was basically "smash her face into your nipple, and she'll latch on eventually." By the end of day one, I had 3 blood blisters on my areolae, due to the Chicklette frantically latching wherever she could, with no meaningful guidance from me.

3. On the second day, a lactation consultant came by. She was appalled that the Chicklette hadn't "eaten" anything, diagnosed her with a "disorganized suck" (you think?) and immediately put us on a schedule of 5 minutes per side, pumping, and finger-feeding formula as a supplement. Which meant that each feeding session took about an hour and fifteen minutes, maybe a little less if the Mr. did the formula feeding.

4. On the third day, we went home, and then ended up back in the pediatric wing 3 hours later (due to a breathing issue completely unrelated to his whole feeding mess). The Chicklette didn't eat for most of that day, since we were in the ER getting ignored for a good chunk of it. We ended up back in the hospital under observation for three days, during which time I slept at home while the Mr. stayed with her at night. We only had time to try and get on the breast a few times during the day. Another lactation consultant visited us there, and pointed out (finally!) that she was only really taking the nipple and not any other part of the breast, and thus wasn't getting milk and was also damaging my nipples. I continued to pump after every "feeding," and my milk finally came in. We were able to finger-feed mostly breastmilk to her after a few days, which was nice.

5. We kept trying once we got back home again. When it got to the point where I had two significant, pus-y cracks on both nipples and my baby had swallowed enough of my blood that she was pooping it out in her diapers, I made an appointment with another lactation consultant, who showed me some techniques for achieving proper latch. She also told us to ditch the finger feeding and just use a bottle. After a few more days, a tube of Polysporin, and one more consult, we seemed to be on the right track. I might only feed her at the breast a couple of times per day, but they were good feeds and weren't damaging my nips any further.

Every day since then has gotten a little easier. I breastfeed her about 4 times per day, and we bottle feed pumped breastmilk the rest of the time. I pump about every 3 hours throughout the day and night, although sometimes I go a bit longer if she's had a good feed at the boob, or it's nighttime and I don't wake up. I'm not planning to try and get her breastfeeding exclusively, as it seems silly to do that, only to have to go back to what we're doing now once I go back to work. I don't really mind the pumping, and my supply seems fine (and seems to be increasing with her growth spurts, which I try to encourage through more frequent pumping during these periods).

Physically, there's no more pain, which has made a big difference. But the bigger difference? My mental and emotional outlook towards the whole thing. Once I was out of the post-partum blues (at about 3.5 weeks), I was able to utilize my own common sense and get over the guilt of not loving breastfeeding and trying to feed her at the breast exclusively. It wasn't enjoyable for me, it didn't seem to be all that for her either, and most importantly, the frustration of struggling with her 8-10x per day was almost completely eliminating any joyful time for us to spend together. And killing my sleep. Now, my husband can feed her once or twice during the night, and I can get a solid block of 5 hours or so, plus other naps between feedings.

(Oh, and my husband actually likes to be able to participate with feeding. Which is great for him, but also, in my opinion, fair. One of the other little things they don't tell you about the exclusively breastfeeding route is that it means that mom essentially has a baby tethered to her boob for half of the day and night. Which some women love, but it's not for everyone.)

Some of the women (including the lactation consultant) who facilitates one of my mom's groups discreetly roll their eyes at my feeding arrangement. Why am I not willing to go that extra mile to breastfeed her at every feeding? It's what's best for my baby!

To which I respectfully disagree. The Chicklette is gaining weight, occasionally sleeping through the night, and eating exclusively breastmilk. And even if she had to have a couple of formula supplements, that would be fine with me as well. She is thriving. And so am I. We enjoy our days together, and I'm able to focus on the parts of raising her that aren't just about feeding. And now that I'm sleeping more and feeling more rational and sane, I know that this balance is just as important as all of the other stuff. My daughter needs a mom who is not constantly at the end of her rope.

So, anyway. There it is. My breastfeeding manifesto. My advice for anyone getting ready to embark on this journey: do the best you can, use your common sense, digest the information that's out there (no pun intended), and make the decision that is right for you and your baby.

Oh, and invest in some Soothies.

The things we do....

One of the funny things about pregnancy and parenthood is that you get to cross a lot of things off of the "oh, I would/could NEVER do that" list. You know, things like giving birth, kissing your kid after she spits up, etc. etc.

Last night, we crossed an item off the list which has scared me ever since I started reading about baby care. Something I never thought I could do. Something that makes me cringe every time it happens to our cats at the vet. That's right, folks: the rectal temperature.

The Chicklette was super-fussy and miserable yesterday, and felt a little warm to me. I knew if we called the doctor they'd ask if we'd taken a rectal temp, so we had to suck it up. And you know what? It was easy! Easier than breastfeeding! Or changing a diaper! And the baby didn't care! (She did have a temp, by the way, but it seems to be gone this morning. And how do I know that? Because we took her butt temperature again! It was just that easy!)

Why do I post about this, you ask? C'mon, there have got to be other people out there just as terrified about sticking a foreign object in their baby's butt. And I'm here to tell you: YOU CAN DO IT.

(Sorry about all of the exclamation points. I think I might have put a little too much caf in my half-caf coffee this morning.....)

6 weeks

Despite pushing a small bowling ball out of my hoo-hah six weeks ago, I was still VERY WOUND UP about my 6-week postpartum OB/GYN appointment yesterday. You'd think that after all my lady bits had been through, the prospect of a speculum and maybe a finger or two would be no big deal. But, nevertheless, I was scared. What if I was scarred for life down there?

The good news is that I'm not. Things are healed up just fine, and the exam didn't hurt a bit. (Which of course then made me worry that I've been stretched to infinity and will never feel anything -- good or bad -- down there again, but I'm not prepared to really think about that yet.)

And then we commenced the birth control conversation, which I found highly amusing. I mean, seriously? But, because my infertility urban legend friend is expecting in June, I listened. My choices are basically the mini-pill (which concerns me because of the milk supply issue -- the doctor says it shouldn't affect things, but I know a handful of people who had trouble), condoms (which honestly would be fine with me, but not with my husband), and a whole host of other options that don't really appeal to me for various reasons (sticking things up the chute right before trying to get romantic doesn't really do it for me).

So, I don't know. Maybe we'll strike a compromise and use condoms for a couple of months until I go back to work, and then try the pill since I'll probably have to supplement with formula at that point anyway.

Part of me is just tempted to throw caution to the wind -- I mean, really? We're going to get pregnant? And if we did, would that be so bad? We want to have another, and it's not like we're going to let non-ideal timing get in our way after waiting so long for #1.

What holds me back is the embie in the freezer. We need to give that little guy a chance, and then suddenly we're looking at the possibility of three kids. Would that be OK? Yeah, probably, but it's just not something we've ever seriously considered.

Yes, yes, I'm getting way ahead of myself. The chances of our one embie surviving a thaw and a transfer are not great, and the chances of us getting knocked up the old-fashioned way are even less great. Chances are, we'll decide to start trying, go through the whole rigamarole again, and probably not be lucky enough to be successful on the first try of IVF. But these are the things I think about, waiting for the Chicklette to fall asleep at 4 in the morning with "19 Kids and Counting" on in the background.

Maybe I should just stick to SportsCenter.

Miss Fussy McFusserson

According to this popular child-rearing tome, the Chicklette is scheduled to reach her peak of fussiness this coming Wednesday, i.e. when she turns six weeks old. And let me tell you, Little Miss Fussy McFusserson has certainly been ramping up with a vengeance.

She does well in the morning, and for most of the day (she's started smiling and interacting with the other babies at mom's group, which is So Effing Cute), but starting at around 3:00 we start the long descent into the City of Fussbudgetton. The top of her little head turns red, and then you know you have about 3.7 seconds until you are in for it.

And the eating -- oh, the eating. Apparently there's some growth spurtage going on in Fussbudgetton, because my boobs cannot churn out the goods quickly enough. Well, they actually can, which is lucky I guess, but holy cow. Literally.

So, anyway. You can imagine that we have been in major "let's try and soothe the baby" mode. Here are some things I've learned do NOT soothe the baby:

--Walking around in the Baby Bjorn. The baby starts to scream the second she SEES the Baby Bjorn, much less get strapped into it.

--A pacifier. Unless it's five minutes later, when the pacifier becomes the best thing EVER.

--Dancing around with the baby, and making her shake her hands in the ay-a like she's a big play-a. Although this greatly amuses me, which cannot be underestimated at 3 in the morning.

--The Food Network. Which I don't get, because doesn't the Food Network soothe everyone?!?

I know this phase will end -- at least everyone tells me this phase will end -- but right now it feels like it will never end. Please please tell me it ends.

Are they trying to tell me something?

On a somewhat random note, I find it amusing that the spam in my Yahoo account has morphed from "Last Chance -- 50% off Maternity styles at Old Navy!" to "Join Weight Watchers with no activation fee!"

Are they trying to tell me something? Like maybe it's time to start thinking about switching back from my maternity jeans to something with a waistband?

For the record, the weight is coming off -- almost 25 pounds so far (only 20 or so to go to get back to my pre-IVF weight -- yikes). But the thought of fitting in a Weight Watchers meeting or summoning up the mental energy to count points is pretty hilarious.

I guess my "pull something random out of the freezer and wash it down with a Chips Ahoy cookie" diet will have to do for now....

Progress?

I'm always hesitant to post when something goes well, or when it seems like we've made some sort of breakthrough/discovery with one of our baby issues, because it seems inevitable that the universe will construe it as bragging and immediately send some other aspect of baby life to shit. But, since I'm sitting here at 5 in the morning killing time until I'm sure the baby's asleep, I guess I'll take my chances.

In addition to the breastfeeding issues, we've also been struggling with sleep. Not so much that the Chicklette doesn't sleep, it's more that she was sleeping at all the wrong times (like, from say 10 in the morning until 6 in the evening) and in all the wrong places (car seat, swingy chair). And not sleeping at the right times (anytime it was dark) or in the right places (her bassinet).

At first we thought it was a day/night reversal thing, which apparently is pretty normal for a person who's spent the first 10 months of their existence in the dark. But then we started thinking (thanks to a smart mommy in one of my 4 mommies groups -- more on that some other time) that maybe she has a touch of reflux, given that she was sleeping comfortably in any sort of contraption that kept her elevated. Maybe the day/night thing was just a coincidence?

So, a couple of nights ago we tried putting her down in her bouncy chair for the first part of the night, and then in the swing after her early morning feeding. And it seems to be working, although the second part of the plan involves me sleeping on the couch in the family room for at least a couple of hours. But, I'll take it. It beats being awake, or trying to put down a fussy baby multiple times into a bassinet.

The best part of all of this (other than that the Chicklette is sleeping more at night and less during the day, and seems generally happier overall) is that I'm able to piece together 7 or so hours of sleep a night (3-4 from 9 or 10 until she wakes up, thanks to the Mr. doing a bottle feeding or two, 2-3 on the couch, and then maybe another 1 or 2 after she eats at 7 or so). It's not perfect, but it sure beats the walking dead routine I was doing last week on 3-4 hours plus little naps during the day.

We talked to our pediatrician on Friday, and he's fine with this plan. Basically, anything you can do in the first couple of months to get the baby to sleep is OK -- it's a little later you have to start worrying about setting bad habits. (Or so he says -- I'll let you know if I'm still falling asleep to the dulcet tones of the Fisher Price My Little Lamb Cradle Swing when she's in high school.)

So, it's still a work in progress. But, as they say, baby steps.

4 weeks

I just realized, as I sit here in the dark in the family room at 4 in the morning waiting for the Chicklette to fall back asleep after a feeding, that today is 4 weeks and Saturday will be a month. It has been a LONG month.

If you read this blog, you know that, obviously, I really really wanted to have a baby. I'm grateful every day that I was able to. And I love my little pork chop more than anything in the world. BUT.

This newborn thing is hard. Harder than anything I've ever done. And I don't even think I have a difficult baby! But the combination of constant and unpredictable demands, lack of sleep, physical recovery and hormonal fluctuations is pretty brutal.

And the breastfeeding.....oh, the breastfeeding. I've been hesitant to post about it, since I'm still working out how I feel about things and what the plan is going forward, but let's just say it hasn't been smooth sailing. I'm happy to report that she's getting all breastmilk (sometimes from the breast, sometimes from a bottle), and that my nipples are no longer sporting open, bloody/pus-y cracks, but it has been a long and painful process. And while I've had lots of "support," let's just say that "support" doesn't always come in the most helpful forms. And it's a horrible feeling to be so frustrated with your itty bitty baby that the supposedly transcendent experience of providing sustenance for your little one devolves into wincing and cursing.

But anyway. Enough bitching. Things are getting better, slowly but surely, and I'm focusing really hard on enjoying her and the process of her growing up. I realize that there will be good days, usually followed by bad days. I've learned that things ALWAYS look brighter after a good cry (and maybe a glass of red wine and a bath). And that my husband is a rock star, even though sometimes he's so cheerful that it makes me hate him a little bit.

And thus is my state of mind very early in the morning on just a couple hours of sleep. Aren't you glad you stopped by? ;)

Maybe I should go live in Alaska

I have so many things I want to blog about, but just either don't have a long enough stretch of time to do it, or when I do have a chance to sit down I'm too tired to collect my thoughts.

But I did have a breakthrough moment last night that has me kind of excited. I've discovered that if I stop paying attention to whether it's dark or light out, staying up with a hyper-alert Chicklette in the middle of the night doesn't bother me nearly as much. And sleeping during the day doesn't seem nearly as "wasteful." It's made the last 24 hours much more pleasant!

Of course, 6 hours of fragmented sleep still does not equal the 8-ish hours of semi-uninterrupted sleep (in the dark) I was getting before the baby. But hey, I'll take what I can get at this point.

And now, time to put my boobs back in my shirt before Grandma and Grandpa get here.

Sexxxy

I've come to the conclusion that the only thing less sexy than a pregnant me is a post-partum me. I could tell lots of stories about bleeding, trying to poop, and the lovely sweatsuit ensembles that are my daily uniform, but I think I can make my point much more effectively by listing the items currently on my shelf in the bathroom:

--4 different sizes of maxi pads

--Disposable underwear pilfered from the hospital

--Polysporin ointment (for cracked nipples)

--Giant bottle of ibuprofen (also for said nipples)

--Senokot (natural laxative)

--Tucks

And just think, in 4 weeks my doctor will clear me for sex!

Bwwwwaaaahahaha!!