How to Destroy a Living Room in 1 Day

When your husband walks in the door from a hard day's work and says "Un-be-lieve-able" you know your housekeeping skills have completely gone to crap. When your response is "Oh, well YOU try and take care of a baby and work from home and keep the house clean" you know your relationship skills are on their way to craptown too. Lucky for us, it was only a momentary meltdown on my part and now that the babes are in dreamland (yep, hubby too), I have some minutes to relax, surf the web, and blog. All better!
So let me paint of picture of my living room floor area for you. I'll spare you the gory details of the current state of the kitchen.

• One highchair, covered with spilled and hardening goo from bowl of rice cereal mixed with peas that my dog managed to overturn after I'd left it unattended.
• One bowl flung onto carpet, spoon 5 feet away, once filled with rice cereal mixed with peas.
• Partially emptied, opened diaper bag, now stained with overflow of spilled goo from said highchair incident.
• 3 baby blankets (that double as changing pads and play mats), each in various states of "wadded up" and sprinkled with a delicious combination of teething biscuit crumbs, rice cereal flakes, Cheerios, and pet hair.
• 13 primary colored plastic ("PCP" as Jeanette says) baby toys in random order as if shot across the room from a baby toy cannon. Cannon is nowhere to be found.
• One baby bouncy seat positioned strategically in front of the TV and atop one of wadded up baby blankets.
• One tube of diaper creme being squished under the leg of above bouncy seat.
• One unopened fax machine in box from last night's Wal-Mart trip, complete with large roll of architectural drawings and landscaping book balanced on top.
• Three untouched plastic Wal-Mart bags still filled with purchased items from last night's Wal-Mart trip.
• Three dirty, crusty bibs, each in different locations. (**Note: I've had to revised this number 3 times as each time I scan the room I have found another bib!)
• One pair of flannel plaid baby pants purchased at last night's Wal-Mart trip.
• One baby wash cloth, printed with the word "Sunday".
• Two dirty diapers sporting half-assed attempt at being neatly and tightly wrapped up to contain pee and poo.
• One unused diaper utilized as momentary distraction technique during previous diaper changing.
• Torn apart package of baby tights.
• Seven wipes - unable to tell from current seat on sofa as to whether they are used or not.
• Black leather laptop bag purchased during last night's Wal-Mart trip (yah, high quality I'm sure) , laying on it's side and temporarily being used as alternate diaper bag.
• Black canvas laptop bag, laying on it's side, stuffed with work things.
• Two chenille hand puppets, which look as if they jumped to their death from their partially emptied, goo-encrusted diaper bag home.
• One pair of brown, pointy toe, stiletto heels removed in an hurry while carrying crying, snotty babe in arms from the car.
• One pair of black, pointy toe, stiletto heels removed in a leisurely fashion upon return from Wal-Mart trip with sleeping babe in carseat.
• One white, baby tee shirt peeled from just awaken babe in preparation for donning of cute party outfit for an office shin-dig.
• Two dirty towels used to dry wet babe fresh from a bath this morning.
• One flyer/magazine read while waiting for waitress to take our order at Denny's last night.
• Official, wipeable diaper changing pad.
• Bottle of "Little Noses" saline solution used to clear up snotty noses; used as another toy used to keep baby busy while changing a diaper or while waiting for waitress to take order at Denny's.
• Shreds of cardboard and plastic from box of Goldfish that dog stole from kitchen counter and subsequently devoured during last night's Denny's/Wal-Mart outing.
• Lone flip-flop thrown on with pajamas for quick dash to mailbox yesterday morning.
• One piece of dog food.
• Hanging from leather chair in living room: dirty pair of lavender baby pajamas (inside out), recycled paper stuffing from newly purchased laptop bag.
• Sitting on top of glass coffee table... basket filled with: diapers, lotion, pair of baby nail clippers, never-used container of anti-bacterial hand sanitizer, comb, and bathwash.

Well, my scan of the ghastly living room is complete...and with spot-on timing, both of my babes have awaken! Time to keep livin'....

Pump It Up!

Spill milk from a carton: repour. Voila!

Spill pumped milk from it's supernatural tear in the breast milk storage bag that was cushioned and protected like a corpse in a casket: cry. shlump over in agony. hope like hell there's an at least an ounce that's salvageable. mourn when hope is dashed. clamp hair in hands and quietly repeat "no, no, no" while scrunching eyes and shaking head. hope milk decides to miraculously let down again minutes after pumping session yielded only 5 ounces, but hey, it was gold. Instinctively smell the contents of pump bag to determine imminent sour milk odor damage. look around cubicle to make sure no one saw you smell the bag. dreadfully recall that you only have 3.5 frozen bags of pumped milk at home. swear off Gerber's cheap breast milk storage bags in favor of the peace of mind that comes with Lansinoh's double zipper kind. belabor the fact that you took 15 perfectly good minutes out of your hectic work day to travel 4 floors and traverse across the building to hook yourself to a milking machine. Vividly recall how, 10 minutes prior, you proudly said (literally outloud to yourself in the mirror as you washed the bottles in the public restroom) "Nursing and pumping is the coolest thing I've ever done next to birthing my baby". feel stupid for a few moments. lackadaisically wipe some noticeable milk drips from your desk before non-breastfeeding-friendly cubie-mate returns. resist strange urge to lick some of it up in some wild effort to at least feel like it wasn't completely and "udderly" wasted. chastise self for weird urge. breathe deeply. unpack bag contents so that milk can be sopped up with the extra handful of scratchy cafeteria napkins you fatefully stashed in bag before pumping session. toss half-assed cleaned parts back into bag while squatting in stilettos and pitifully resting head in palms. regain composure. tell returned non-breastfeeding-friendly cubie-mate about incident when she asks what's up. give quick advocacy shpeil when she apathetically questions "when are you gonna stop doing that anyways?". stare at her with tired, tired eyes when she quickly changes subject. return to work. replay above drama in head on the way to pick up child. think about the phrase "crying over spilled milk". try to remember if there's a song about it. decide there should be and start thinking of lyrics and beat and style and who the hell could make a hit out of it. decide throaty, folky Jewel could probably make it work. or angry Alanis. remember that Jewel has bigger boobs which would most likely make the song sell better for obvious and non-obvious reasons. pick up hungry child and immediately nurse her at sitter's house in vain attempt to forgot "the incident". revisit "the incident" the entire time you are nursing. feign a smile. bestow silent blessings on all breastfeeding and pumping mothers of the world. put tired child to bed upon returning home. go about normal evening routine. tell husband working on laptop spilled milk sob story. appreciate his look of concern and understanding when he says "that sucks". realize he really is concerned, but probably not for obvious reasons. discover it's probably because he thinks you should be more careful. nod at admission and decide to forget about it for obvious reasons. open freezer to stare blankly at measly 3.5 bags of pumped milk left. imagine 5 ounces sitting pretty in cheap Gerber bag next to them. close freezer door. terrorize yourself by repeating cycle two more times in true OCD manner. pull homemade cookie dough crammed with dark chocolate chips, whole wheat flour, and raw cane sugar (i.e. attempt at 'healthier cookies') from fridge. find a comfy leather seat in front of TIVO'd American Idol episode. critique contestants, fashion, and judges' choices. eat healthier cookie dough by fingertipfulls. breathe. resume pumping tomorrow...carefully.

**Added after initial post** adorable, concerned pro-breastfeeding hubby decided I got the "Finally Funny" award after reading this post. Gave a combo wink/kiss from across the room at hubby after proclamation. Reference previous blog for more insight.

"V is very very, extraordinary"

Happy Valentine's Day to all the fabulous, extraordinary valentine's in our lives! Yep, that's YOU!

My Tooth Fairy

So, I'm not a Mom that checks often to see if teeth have managed to break their way through Kaia's soft gums. People often ask if she has any teeth yet and I have to admit, quite embarrased, that I really don't know.
Today was the day I decided to check and wouldn't ya know it - a little tooth is poking through just enough to see it and feel it! After I smiled and hugged her tight and told her Congrats, I realized that this tooth and I could have many a fight during nursing sessions. Let's just hope it behaves...When I told her Daddy, he was so darn excited he could barely contain it. "What a PERSON!" he squealed and smothered her jiggly cheeks with smooches. He kissed the top of her freshly washed head of hair and said "See, I told you that you'd have to grow a tooth for Daddy since I just had one taken out!". Ever the compliant girl...Yes, so after an emergency tooth extraction and 5 days later, Jason and sat in awe of our lil' tooth fairy. Quit growing so fast, my love!

POEM: Her Birth Begins with “S”

While rolling around in bed one night thinking about Kaia’s C-birth, I suddenly realized that most of the words I associated with it began with the letter “S”. I didn’t even have to dig to think of these words, they just flew around in my brain at warp speed. These words alone function as a short, harsh story of her C-birth.


Her Birth Begins with “S”

Stopped
Scared
Shuffled
Stripped
Sedated
Spinal
Supine
Shaved
Strapped
Scrubbed
Sterile
Smalltalk
Strangers
Supervised
Scalpel
Sliced
Slashed
Sectioned
Savage
Sacrilege
Subhuman
Stolen
Swiped
Severed
Suctioned
Separated
Screamed
Sutured
Superglued
Scarred
Sore
Stinging
Seepage
Solitude
Sobbed
Sorrow
Shushed
Shamed
Silenced
Surrendered

Seven Mystical Months!

To my utterly delicious daughter,

Today is a special day. It is the day in which you have been on this Earth for seven months. As this day inched closer, the need for me to celebrate it became more clear. Six months was indeed a milestone and yet seven somehow seemed different. The word that kept coming to my mind was mystical.

As I stood in the shower this morning I kept thinking about the number seven. I lowered myself on the floor of the shower and leaned gently back to rest. I shifted my gaze towards the hot water streaming from the shiny showerhead. It dropped and sprayed and splashed quickly and deliberately on my body. It reminded me of tears...all the tears I'd cried in these seven months - many happy, many sad. I thought about how, at times, both the pain and joy were so deep that it seemed tears might bubble from every pore of my body. But in the shower, watching the water, I wasn't sad. I thought about seven. I thought about the shape of the written numeral and it brought to mind two images; one of you laying on your side in your crib, legs stretched in an almost 90 degree angle. Like a sweet little 7. The other image was of you, awaiting to descend into my birth canal, with your legs dangling down. I don't think you were to be born feet first, however, thinking of 7 this morning reminded me of you, in my belly, preparing to enter this world quite differently.

So I did a quick search on the internet about the number seven. My search resulted in very interesting, and validating, information about the mystical number seven:
"Number seven has profound and mystical undertones. It is the number of the mystics, a number that denotes wisdom, perfection, and completeness. It relates to spiritual development and is a number of self-expression. Number 7 has been regarded as the number of mystery and in sacred books, always signifies the mysterious and the spiritual force. Number seven specifies the blessings, the gifts of the spirit."

Yes! You are my little mystic, my blessed gift from the spirit of this Earth. You are the wisdom, perfection, and completeness I have long yearned for. And mysterious you are indeed, from your surprising conception (you have always resided in my heart of hearts) to your mysterious birth, to the ways in which you gently nudge me along the spiritual path. It all makes sense to me, why the number 7 seemed so special.

I took a peek back into my pregnancy journal to compare your life at 7 months in utero. On May 4, 2005 I was reflecting on a recent appointment with Marinah: "My prenatal appointment on Sunday went great. I've gained about 22 lbs so far and I'm starting to feel every pound of it! Funny enough, my belly was measuring smaller than at last appointment, but neither Marinah and I are worried. Who knows!". Alas, you, my little mystic, presented surprises to us at every prenatal appointment. Sometimes I miss the indelible closeness of pregnancy, of having you all to myself, of knowing you were right where you were meant to be. It was safe. You were with me everywhere and that small, but miraculous, fact changed my very outlook on life.

Of course, having you here now to physically touch and smell and kiss and hold is intensly satisfying. But I would be lying if I didn't admit I sometimes wish we could instantly and secretly steal back into the womb, together, one being, sharing blood and nourishment and love...sharing that mystical and primal experience that is bestowed solely upon women/mothers. It is said that pregnancy creates such power within a woman that in some cultures it is the very reason pregnant women are not allowed to partake in certain rituals and celebrations...for fear that divine power will overtake and usurp the social authority of men.

Pregnancy and birth taught me that I was unlimited. And now that you are here, with us, babbling and banging toys together and smiling with every muscle in your eyes, my love for you remains limitless too. "Unlimited. Together we're unlimited. Together we'll be the greatest team there's every been" - From "Wicked".

At seven months, you are not interested in trying to crawl. It seems much more fun to just roll and roll and roll to get where you want to be. You gobble up homemade baby food, particularly sweet potatos, and truly enjoy the view in your new high chair. You gladly "Ride a little pony into town" on my knee and laugh every single time I get to the part that goes "...there's a hole and you fall down!". Sitting up on your soft giraffe mat, you will play cheerfully for 45 minutes at a time, always sure to keep me within your view. Did I mention that a few months ago you finally got over your extreme fear of and aversion to your carseat? Thank heavans! Our cars rides have resumed their leisurely feel and mostly you stare out the window or (GASP!) fall asleep. I used to be pretty jealous of those "fall asleep" carseat babies. Now, you too have joined the club and Mama's quite content with your membership.

On the mornings in which I'm dreadfully drowsy, I plop you in your bouncy seat, binky and all, to watch Sesame Street, Oobi, or Dragon Tales. Like a compliant little girl, you allow me at least half and hour more sleep. Every now and then I hear you chit-chat with the cartoons about how you've managed to careen your binky halfway across the room in one fell spit!

One morning about a week ago, I scooped your pajama clad body, smiling half moon eyes and all, from the crib. We gazed at each other silently while I layed you down to change your diaper. And then gently, with such clarity and deliberateness, you said "Buh". A new sound, deep from your belly. It hung divinely in the air. What did it mean? Nothing, I suppose, and yet it was glorious! You found that if you pursed your lips together first and blew, it was an even more unique introduction for your "Buh" sound. Your Grams thought it was hilarious that I recounted this story with such enthusiasm to her..."Mom, today she said 'Buh'!". She says it means that I am in tune with you. I think it means I am in love with the little bitty 7 month old creature you are and the way you make me completely giddy, renewed, and exausted all at once.

Kaia Marin, here's to your seven magical, mystical, memorable, messy, and mah-velous months!

***"Buh!!!"***

Love,
Mama

C'Mon, I Just Wanna Be Funny!

I want to be funny. Geniunely funny. I'm not even asking for "pee in your pants" funny, or "soda spraying from the nose" funny, or "raw, Jenny McCarthy" funny. I would happily and humbly settle for "chin resting on the palm while reading blogs and chuckling" funny. Of even simple "eyes smiling so you know it's for real" funny. Honestly, my 7 month old daughter's poo is funnier than me. And the thing is, I have some dang funny pals. You'd think their humor would rub off on me... Jeanette is honest "why didn't I think of that" funny. Theresa is "holy cow, I can't believe that happened to you" funny (just ask her about her mascara under the boobs story). Haley is "small town girl meets raunchy chic" funny. Kimmy is "animated use of old school phrases" funny. Aaron is "unique analogy/story telling" funny.

Me, well, I'm just too serious. I feel the world so intensly and haven't found the ability to translate that into funny just yet. You see, everyone loves funny people. Everyone finds a way to somehow relate to them. I am certain, too, that the release of endorphins during a laughing fit helps as well.

Us serious folks just don't get the luxury of watching people have the same endorphin high reaction to our stories, our writing, and our musings. See, I used the word musings. Funny people wouldn't use that word. Instead they would probably use a more fitting, funny word like "crap" or "psycho babble". Not that funny people are crappy or psycho, although many are blessed with the gift of babble.

I read Jeanette's blog about finding a fitting, flattering, practical, perhaps sexy nursing bra and I laugh out loud because I know exactly how she feels. Funny people like her must have a great memory because they write about those everyday things that slip right past the brain of us more austere humans. I mean, I experience hilarious things in life every day. But after the endorphins fade, I go about my day and the next thing I know I'm scrubbing homemade baby food off the carpet, polishing off a box of day old E.L. fudge cookies, and repositioning my nursing pads in preparation for bed. In a nutshell, my brain is exausted and I've long forgotten how the seriously large, middle aged woman with incredibly teased bleach blond hair and RuPaul-esque makeup sporting a "Big Dog" sweatshirt working the local bagel shop was really a funny sight.

No one giggles about the emotional pain and suffering of a C-section. People rarely laugh out loud about my passion for homebirth and midwifery and a woman's right to birth safely in the place of her choice. Granted, homebirth can be funny! Yes, hearing my midwife recount the tale of how she thought she was sticking her finger in Kaia's mouth during my breech-discovering exam was sincerly funny. Listening as she went on to describe her daughter's wide-eyed expressions as she told the story to them was even better. Surely funny things happen under seemingly serious conditions, but alas, my skills at capturing them in a quirky, funny way is nil.
Bloggers of the world, I beckon you to bestow even a moment of your funniness on me. Give me a few hints, inside tips. Help me sprinkle some laughter into my weighty blogs. I promise to try and use them. Universe, this is my invocation of funniness.

Well, the good news is I think that my burning desire to be funny is reflective of my journey of healing from Kaia's birth. I am on the path and I've already taken those serious, painful turns in the road. Now, as the emotional scars fade just a teeny bit, it's time for some laughter on the next leg of my adventure.
Even the closing couldn't end on a funny note. See, I told you...I'm just not funny.