Last night, Lauren came over with a bottle of white wine. I partook. Then I sent Dave to the store for ice cream (for him, obviously, I mean, he is the ice cream l0ver of the family, not me! No way!) and happened to mention that I might like some chocolate chip cookie dough. I partook. Twice. It’s like I keep forgetting that I’m in a wedding in a month and a half or something! Or…maybe it’s that I’m home for most of the day, every day, and I lose track of calorie input and output and just eat and drink whatever I want.

The good news is, I don’t really gain excessive weight, but there’s a downside to that–the opposite of a silver lining is called what? A silver loophole? A silver catch?–which is: I don’t limit myself until the flab has replaced the muscle, so I have to work twenty times harder to get back in shape. I’m a long-term binger, maybe.

What am I blathering on about? So the wine and ice cream were delicious, and we got the news yesterday that our nephew Michael was born healthy and gorgeous and pretty nice and big for his gestational age (37.5 weeks, if I remember correctly), and it was a happy celebration of Lauren’s return from Florida.

Tonight I forced myself to wait until after dinner for a bowl of ice cream, and I thought, “Maybe some wine?” and then nixed it. The only reason I was diving for both tonight involved Will, sleep schedules, a musical seahorse, gastric distress, and teething fussiness OR oatmeal allergy fussiness OR gas fussiness. Who knows? When you do the math, my stress is entirely rooted in feeling conflicted about Will’s sleep habits.

To paint a picture, the boy will be five and a half months old in a couple of days. He sleeps angelically from 10-5 every night. At 5 or 6 he wakes up and eats for a while (30 or 45 minutes), half-asleep, and then gets cozy again until anywhere from 8 to 9:30 a.m. Those are the facts, no matter how early or late he’s put to bed leading up to the 10 o’clock hour.

Because most doctors think the ideal bedtime for your small child is between 6:30 and 8:30 p.m., we moved his bedtime to 8:30/9 a couple of months ago. It worked out pretty well. Will would go down at 8:30, up at 9 for some comforting, maybe up at 10 for a little more, and then he’d sleep until TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Fantastic, right? Well, not if you and your husband need to go to sleep relatively early in order to be sane people the next day, which means getting ready for bed just after your son goes down and in between putting him BACK down, and then sleeping without so much as a conversation about the day.

(I’m sure Dave is absolutely fine with skipping that conversation, but I feel like we’re mere roommates if we don’t do at least a quick recap.)

Last night, before Lauren arrived, Dave put Will down when he was tired, at 6:45. He’d had a full dinner, he’d been up for three and a half hours…it looked like the right thing to do. Will woke up four times between 7:30 and 8:30, when he conked out for good. (We had to wake HIM up at 11:20 to change his diaper, in the middle of which he peed up in the air and down all over Dave’s foot.

Dave: What was that?

Me: [hysterically laughing, trying to be quiet about it]

Dave: Was that pee? Me: [nodding, hysterically laughing in silence]

Dave: Great, it’s all over my foot.

Me: [running from the room in hysterics]

)

OK, this has gone on far longer than I wanted to intended it to. Suffice it to say, we tried again tonight and it (we, he) fell apart, because of WHO KNOWS WHAT. Maybe oatmeal, maybe teething, maybe it’s not his natural bedtime, maybe random I-hate-the-world moodiness, although that’s unlikely given Will’s uber-consistent personality. But like I said, WHO KNOWS? I’m not ready to let him cry it out (at least not when he’s screaming like a banshee–maybe soft weeping would be tolerable, but alas, Will is not a heartsick tween girl, so I doubt I’ll ever get anything less than the furious screams). Do I just slip on the Hippie Hat and “go with the flow,” meaning I forget about trying to put him on a different schedule and let him do the 10-10 thing? Do I stick it out to show him who’s the parent here?

Yeah, I know. Exciting stuff. And you thought this post was going to be about dessert and alcoholic beverages. That was a mean trick.

bits & bobs

This is my follow-up post to the breastfeeding story, so using a quote from the movie The Waterboy as a title may seem weird. That’s because it is weird. My only explanation is that the first thought in my mind when re-opening this recent chapter in my life was, “Pumping is the devil.”

So here’s what happened: I went home from the pediatrician (who for the sake of a recap had given me the ninth or tenth conflicting opinion on nursing since Will was born mere days before) both resolved to keep pumping and resigned that the odds were stacked against successful baby-to-boob breastfeeding. I do want to note that I still to this day have no idea how accurate those perceived odds were, but I remember that feeling of being pulled in nine different directions and simply not knowing where to go next.

The logical next step was to keep pumping, and I did. I pumped in the middle of the night, stashed granola bars by the bedside for an energy boost and to rev up my supply. I was able to pump enough for a normal baby, even without waking up every two hours as suggested by a couple of (heartless?) lactation consultants. Let me repeat that: enough for a NORMAL baby. A baby who was going to drink the standard daily ounce-age of a newborn. Not a baby who was going to chow down on 30 or more ounces of breastmilk a day.

When I realized that my supply was level at about 28 ounces (on a good day), while Will’s supply was actually going up, I felt defeated. What was the point of all this pumping, of waking up when Will was still sleeping peacefully, of turning on Chelsea Lately and watching the same show twice (what else is on at 3 in the morning?) just to give my baby only some? Why couldn’t I give him all?

I half-heartedly tried him back on the breast a few times, but it had been so traumatic in the hospital, and I’d gotten very little in the way of effective advice since then. The ordeal of pulling Will to me only to have him back off (the milk was coming too fast, then sometimes too slow, or he was biting and I was unable to relax at the pain of it), whining noisily…then shuffling to the fridge to warm up some freshly pumped milk, feeding him, and having to go pour formula to truly satiate his appetite before pumping again…it was demoralizing, upsetting, and a waste of SO MUCH TIME together.

Of course, the point was that I wanted to give Will breastmilk as long as I could in the beginning. I knew full well that formula was fine, but I had to draw a line that I was comfortable with. I had planned to breastfeed; I could only give up that plan when I felt that it was truly dysfunctional to force it to continue.

So I pumped. And I pumped. And then Will “woke up,” the way everyone says your newborn wakes up at five or six weeks. Dave was long gone, back at work, and suddenly I had a baby who wanted to be held, entertained, and put to sleep every hour or so. Theoretically, a super-napping baby is fabulous, but my pumping schedule was now disrupted; plus, I couldn’t pump while I held Will (and don’t believe any hands-free pumping mechanism that tells you it will solve this problem), so I started missing pumping sessions during the day. A lot of them.

Now my hormones were totally confused. My body didn’t know it it was supposed to be weaning a baby (a really fun hormonal roller coaster unto itself), feeding a baby (in which case it wanted to get rid of that milk NOW), or, I don’t know, entering a 4H contest at the county fair. When I did get to pump, mostly in the evenings when Dave got home, I had lost a little milk supply and some of my pain tolerance, so these less frequent sessions were more painful, both physically and mentally.

Also, I had a newly alert baby on my hands, so now was not the time to be waking up throughout the night to pump. And then weaning throughout the day. Oh, just thinking about it makes me feel itchy.

The looooooong and the not-so-short of it is, I was strongly disliking the whole process, especially when I realized that there had only been one day that I had fed Will with breastmilk exclusively, and not for lack of trying. Then I woke up one morning with a red mark on my boob, a fever of 102 degrees, and a baby who was arching his back and uncharacteristically getting fussy.

I went to the same pediatrician who had told me she supported-but-only-to-a-certain-extent-here’s-some-formula my attempt to breastfeed. She diagnosed Will with a milk protein sensitivity and told me if I was going to continue to breastfeed, I should cut out all dairy. OK, I said. And do you know what this red spot is on my breast? She told me to make an appointment with my OB for the next day.

That night, Dave and I bought a bunch of dodgy-looking dairy-free items at the grocery store to help me face this new nursing challenge. The next morning, I woke up feeling even worse. The OB confirmed what I’d guessed: mastitis. Four antibiotics a day, around the clock, for ten days. “The antibiotic is safe for the baby, though,” my NP reassured me.

By this time, the mastitis (a rather common affliction among nursing moms, I’ve gathered since–it’s a breast infection that causes flu-y symptoms) had flared up in both breasts and made simple acts such as, uh, walking–sitting–uncomfortable. I attached the pump, determined to keep on keepin’ on. The phone rang. It was my sister.

“Yeah, it’s mastitis,” I updated her. “But the good news is I can still pump.” I started to cry. “And the antibiotics won’t hurt Will.” Crying a little harder now. “And I’m going on a dairy-free diet.” Almost full-fledged sobs.

“J,” my sister said. “I nursed my kids for a year and a half, almost two years. It worked. But sometimes? It doesn’t work. And I think in your case, it’s just not working.”

Just like that, I poured out eveything to her. “I feel like I’m going through menopause symptoms every single day because I can’t pump,” I wept, “and I can barely move, and I’m so scared that pumping’s going to hurt more than ever, and Will and I just can’t figure out how to nurse effectively, and I have to hold him all the time…” I went on and on.

Then I let go. It was sad to see my plan sail away, hard to recognize that I couldn’t MAKE THIS WORK. It was also an intense relief, and to be quite honest, it improved my relationship with Will on the spot. I didn’t dread feeding him anymore. I felt competent. Things got easier.

I “plan” to breastfeed again, although I don’t think this experience has taught me anything when it comes to that particular activity. After all, Will wasn’t good at it, and I wasn’t good at it, but I don’t know if that’s what resulted in the non-starter situation, or if that was the scapegoat. What will be different? My instincts. I had none this time around, so trusting them was a moot goal. But this time? They’re honed and ready to be flexed. I’m prepared to shut out the people around me and tune in to my baby, so that whatever happens, I’ll know it was the path I chose, every step of the way.

In other words: I can do it!*

*Also a paraphrase from The Waterboy. Hunh, I don’t know if there is a movie less appropriate for a post about breastfeeding.

bits & bobs

The ubiquitous couples’ meme:

What are your middle names?
J-Alisia

D-William

How long have you been together?
We met at the end of October 2005 and I think our first date was in November. Hold on, I’ll ask him. Dave says: “It was, um…might have been. I think so. Or close to it. When was…? Yeah.” Believe it or not, that quote was verbatim. Anyway, that makes 3.5 years, about.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
Not at all. That’s what happens when you crash into someone at a bar. You either hit it off or you never see them again, I imagine.

Who asked whom out?
Well, I did ask where Dave and his friends were going after the bar that night. And he said, “I’m just gonna drive my friend Sung home.” What a pickup line, right? But no, he called the next day to ask me out.

How old are each of you?
me-28

D-the big three-oh

Whose siblings do you see the most?
My sister, because she lives the next town over. However, for Dave’s 3 sibs living a decent distance from us, we’d already seen one sister and one brother on separate occasions HERE IN BOSTON by mid-February! We try to get to New Jersey every two months, although that’s hard now with a baby…aaaaand now I’m rambling.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Having a baby, but not the baby part–the figuring out how to give each other some much-needed support and relaxation time when we are both hurting for it, me as a newly minted stay-at-home mom, him as the token bring-home-the-Bacos breadwinner.

Did you go to the same school?
I went to Michigan two years after Dave went to Northeastern, so no.

Are you from the same home town?
No, but we overlapped in Boston for two years when I was finishing high school and he was starting college. We like to think maybe we passed each other a couple of times, although, let’s be honest, he lived in Mission Hill amid the gunfire and I lived in Brookline amid the, um, synagogues? Therefore, we probably didn’t.

Who is smarter?
SO EASY! I am, at anything humanities- or language-related, and I have a sharper memory. He is, at anything having to do with math or science or technology or navigation.

Who is the most sensitive?
I am certainly more outwardly sensitive, but Dave is just a bunch of goo on the inside. OK, there’s just a little goo, but it’s there.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
When we USED TO eat out, D’s favorite was Pizzeria Regina and I liked Cheesecake Factory, and we both have a soft spot for the S&S Deli (Cambridge) and In a Pickle (Waltham). Those days are but a memory now. Sigh.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Italy. Also, this question should read “farthest,” since it means literally how far have you traveled, whereas “furthest” puts it in metaphorical terms, like “That is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

Who has the craziest exes?
We could argue this one for hours, but let’s call it a tie.

Who has the worst temper?
I do.

Who does the cooking?
I cook dinnner; Dave bakes treats. Our respective recipes of note are stuffed shells and chocolate chip cookies.

Who is the neat-freak?
Dave more than me, although I actually like cleaning–it just falls to the bottom of the priority list, so mostly I make lists of cleaning tasks and when to do them, and then I don’t.

Who is more stubborn?
You know that saying, “Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy?” And how it’s supposed to make you realize that you’d rather be happy than win an argument? My feeling about this suggestion is, why not be happy because you won the argument? I mean, it’s a win-win!

(I am.)

Who hogs the bed?
Dave, but it isn’t his fault, being such a tall fellow. He takes up space, I steal the covers.

Who wakes up earlier?
He does. 

Where was your first date?
It was supposed to be F1 racing in Braintree, but I had to stay late at work that night so we went to Antonia’s in Davis Square instead. 

Who is more jealous?
Let’s see. Am I more jealous that Dave gets to drive a total of 1.5 hours in a car BY HIMSELF, sweet lord, the freedom! Or that he gets to interact with people all day long? Or that once in a while he even sees his friends–our friends–during the workday to EAT LUNCH?

Or…is Dave more jealous of me, that I get to witness every tiny moment of Will’s life, get to see every smile and smooch every tear away? Is he more jealous of me because Will falls asleep more readily in my arms, because I know all his noises by heart?

(The answer is, I am more jealous. I am more jealous because at the end of a very long Friday, when I changed Will’s diaper only to watch him release a spray of rather chunky poop all over his new diaper, my hand, the changing table and…wait for it…the NURSERY CURTAINS, Dave was cheerfully pulling into our driveway, probably thinking about sugarplums and puppies, and he definitely had no poop on him at all, anywhere.)

How long did it take to get serious?
We were spending all our time together by December ‘05. Moved in August ‘06. Engaged January ‘07. Married October ‘07. Had baby September ‘08. I like to think we progressed in nicely timed units, which is weird robotspeak for “not too fast, not too slow.”

Who eats more?
Dave, but we’re probably neck & neck if you take out the male/female variable.

Who does the laundry?
I do.

Who’s better with the computer?
It’s a toughie, but I’ll give this one to Dave, who has the word WITHIN HIS JOB TITLE whereas my computer knowhow extends as far as accidentally shutting down my laptop and announcing angrily that “something’s wrong with this stupid thing.” I must add, though, that I am a much faster typist.

Who drives when you are together?
Dave, because Will’s carseat causes the front passenger to be hunched up against the windshield with absolutely no leg space, and Dave’s legs are about four feet long and simply don’t fold up that easily. And recently I’ve been struck with a smidge of unexplained highwayphobia*, so I’m happy to hand over the keys.

*The lanes are too big, the cars are too fast, and I am too small. That’s all I’ve got so far.

bits & bobs

Today I took Will to Target so we could pick up some 12-month sleep and plays, some 18-month onesies, and some 2-3T socks. You know, for my five-month-old. 

(Naturally they have a very limited supply–read: nonexistent–of newborny items in toddler sizes. I couldn’t find ONE sleep and play bigger than 9 months, so I had to go to the big kid pajama display, and of course those were mostly short-sleeved even though WE GOT A FOOT OF SNOW ON MONDAY. Seriously, Greater Boston Target, where do you think you are? Repeat after me: I will not put away the long sleeves until May. I will not put away the long sleeves until May. I will not….)

I also scouted the sales and grabbed a cheap melamine plate-and-glass set for my peas-loving baby, and I threw them in with the rest of my items in the cart. Which also contained my son’s carseat, which (barely) contained my son. 

The stars were aligned so that Will woke up a mere minute before check-out: perfect. I pushed him through the lane, paid for the Malaysian Sweatshop Wardrobe for Gigantic Babies, and got out to my car. I have to add that while navigating the slushy, cramped parking lot, I was trying to nonverbally communicate that my shopping cart was more than a shopping cart but was also doubling as a baby stroller (hey, did I mention I forgot the stroller?), so, like, please don’t mindlessly back into me thinking that I ONLY have Malaysian Sweatshop Clothing, OK? Because I also have a Gigantic Baby in there.

I managed to get to my car incident-free…unless you count a baby who’s decided he hates waking up at Target and he’s going to tell you so by screaming as an incident. Or unless you count swindling five dollars from the Target till by inadvertently hiding three items items under a carseat an incident. 

At that point, mind you, I had an ang- and hun-gry child in the backseat, so I could either leave the unpaid-for stuff in a cart in the parking lot, where another customer might steal them on purpose–or I could take them home with me, tally up the stolen cash equivalent, and pay it the next time I’m at Target. Folks, that means in a week at latest, and possibly by tomorrow morning if this growth spurt keeps up.

My imagination did go into overdrive, as it usually does, and I pictured calling Target to tell them I’d accidentally stolen some melamine dishes, at which point in my head they’d demand that I come back, baby or no, slushpiles be damned, and pay for those items. What would I do? Under no circumstances would I have been able to drag Will (who at this point had gotten his teething fever back to 100 degrees) out again. See, I was indignant even in this imaginary exchange with Target customer service. 

Maybe I need a more active social life?

Unquestionably.

bits & bobs

My annual winter disease: wanderlust. I spend January and February each year fantasizing about not living in New England. California? Sure. Farther down the Atlantic coast? Absolutely, especially because most of those states’ teams belong to the ACC, so I can tell my parents that it’s kind of like living in New England. Right?

I don’t mind the nippy early winter weather, because it means clear skies and cute jackets and most of all CHRISTMAS IS COMING. But January and February are such a bummer, with their icy dry air and their general grayness and the whole Baby Plus Freezing Equals Shut-In equation.

Thankfully we’re getting a much missed visitor tonight, my best friend from babyhood, and we’re going to party like it’s summertime. Just minus the sunshine and the high temperatures and the Who am I kidding, we’ll be sitting inside, wearing sweaters and sipping tea, but at least we’ll be together!

Also, my dear friend Lisa is having a baby tomorrow or tonight, depending on your time zone of residence.

And in three days, it will be March.

bits & bobs

Of course Jason’s going to pick the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Right? It seems so obvious.

(I know Bachelor comments are best expressed via Twitter, but I’ve got nothing else. Happy Monday!)

bits & bobs

Today I did something I haven’t done in nine years. I let someone cut my hair. Like, cut it. For real. At least six inches, shorn, sliced, hewn from my head.

I didn’t plan this. As my highlights soaked in, I stared at the tufts of dry hair hanging from my foiled roots. The bottom three inches were frayed and blonder than the rest. The layers I had so optimistically requested two months ago stared back at me demanding answers: Why didn’t you blowdry us more than twice? What, you’re too cool to brush us out after you shower? How dare you tangle us in a wet ponytail and doom us to a snarly rat’s nest at the nape of your neck? WE’RE BETTER THAN THIS.

So I pointed to a picture of Leighton Meester and said “I want that.” And I got it. And it took only five minutes to completely dry.

And it feels lovely.

(And yeah, it’s not even short. But to me, it’s as bold as a pixie cut.)

bits & bobs

Wedding Wednesdays is on hiatus while I sink my teeth into a new project.

I KNOW! I already have enough projects in progress, such as:

1. Finding a great dry cleaning coupon; taking my dry cleaning in.
2. Finishing that 2008 scrapbook. After ordering all remaining photos from 2008.
3. Revising our household budget so that…you know what? I’m absolutely going to fall asleep if I keep this up. Plus Tom Brady’s on TV coaching a gaggle of cute kids, and he just did some push-ups, and then he almost hit a three-point shot with a football…soooooo I’m gonna wrap this up.

My latest aspiration? To make this for Will:

Mini Boden romper from bodenusa.com

And to make this for whichever upcoming delivery surprise turns out to be a girl:

Mini Boden applique dress from bodenusa.com

Now all I need is a pattern, some fabric, a sewing machine, instructions, and the will not to give in and just order it all for 15% off. Riiiight.

babytalk, bits & bobs, happy pursuits

I was ten years old when I wrote this gripping cliffhanger. Clearly there was a little Agatha Christie happening on my bookshelf in 1990; equally clearly, my follow-through was not the greatest. But in the making-up-names department? Observe the mad skillz:   

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO THE
MURDER OF MARTY D. HALL

It was a foggy day in March when the letter came to the wife of Marshall David Hall.

 

Dear Mrs. Linda Hall,

We have upsetting news from the Relaxation Cabins of Mont Pelier, Vermont. Your husband, Marshall David Hall, was found dead three days ago by Inspector Bradstein after his two-day disappearance. If you would like to investigate, please come down to the Relaxation Cabins as our guest.

Sincerely with most condolences,

John Kenzie AND Leonard Raywin

Linda didn’t cry. But her heart nearly stopped. Marty? Dead?

Linda ran out of the house in her slippers and bathrobe. She ran to the train station. People looked at her as if she was crazy. With her pocket money, she paid for a ticket to Mont Pelier, Vermont, and another for the trip back.

Then, she sat down on a bench underneath the ledge. Drips of rain fell in front of her. A little girl tried to capture them on her tongue as her mother pulled her back. 

The train came and she handed the conductor her ticket. Then she hopped on. After she sat down, she pulled the robe down lower on her legs. She arranged the slippers on her feet. After the train ride, she ran out and got into a taxi.

“Lady, are you some kind of bum? A homeless? You got money?” The driver said these questions as he began driving.

“I ran out of the house. Right after I found out my husband died.”

“What a pity, ma’am. I’m sorry if I insulted you. So many people come in and run out with no pay.”

They arrived soon at the Relaxation Cabins.

After the condolences of the two cabin owners, John Kenzie and Leonard Raywin, they left her alone and she went to her room. She wrote down a list of suspects.

JOHN KENZIE- HE SEEMED TO KNOW A LOT ABOUT THE MURDER.

LEONARD RAYWIN- HE AND JOHN KENZIE ARE “QUITE A PAIR”.

INSPECTOR BRADSTEIN- HE FOUND THE CORPSE. HAD HE SEEN IT BEFORE?

“It isn’t much,” she muttered. Then there was a knock on the door.

bits & bobs, happy pursuits

In an effort to look at my closet in a new light (aka, to pretend it’s a pretty store with brand-new clothing and accessories, since I’ve climbed aboard the just-say-no-to-shopping bandwagon): I’ve rediscovered my Frye boots.

Before I had an infant, I thought these babies were a great pair of “once in a blue moon” shoes. I wore them once on an airplane, and after the hassle of prying them off my feet for the metal detectors and then wriggling back into them while keeping track of my newly X-rayed luggage…the inconvenience overwhelmed me, and I basically put them aside.

Now that I spend so many wintry days in mommy mode–dressing in exercise clothes at daybreak so I’m forced to use at least one naptime for a workout–my opportunities to wear those forgotten Fryes are few and far between, and yet they’ve become my go-to boots. They’re stylish enough to lift me above frump level, but sturdy enough to carry the load of an oversized four-month-old in an outgrown carseat (in the ubiquitous snow of a Boston winter).

I’ve always had a yearning for ballet flats, but I just can’t do it. My feet are way too long and obvious to go sans heel, and let’s face it–in New England, we’ve got a paltry matter of weeks in which to don anything so dainty before full body coverage is required again. That’s why I’m thrilled to have found a renewed and deep admiration for my Fryes–at least until flip-flop season comes around again. (Note to summer: Hurry! Thanks.)

Anyone else have a newfound respect or recession-inspired appreciation for something you’ve had all along? Please, do share!

bits & bobs