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.