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.