Month two

Dear Noah,

I can hardly believe another month has gone by, and at the same time I can’t believe it’s only been one month since last time I wrote you a letter. You’re two whole months old today (but you’ll be nine weeks tomorrow… which is confusing for me but since you can’t tell time yet I don’t think you’re very fussed).

You’re such a big boy now, Bubba. Literally… you weighed 14 lbs at your last doctor’s visit… but also in attitude. You already know what you like and what you don’t like, and you know exactly how to show us the difference: by SCREAMING. I have had so many flash-forwards to your “terrible twos” over the last month. You’re just getting me ready, I guess, which is very considerate of you. For instance, this morning you were happy and smiley, and ALL OF THE SUDDEN, you decided you were mad (don’t ask me why). I went through the gambit: I picked you up, I put you back down, I checked your diaper, I held you up to my breast, I let you sit up on my leg… and that’s when I saw it. Your mini-tantrum. You arched your back and threw your head back in utter disgust. Let me clarify: no real tears were coming out of your eyes. You weren’t even really crying. You were just yelling at me. It was quite the display, young man. Now you understand why I’m terrified to go out in public with you. The point is, this month has been largely devoted us figuring out the things you don’t like.

Among these things is being offered the breast when you’re not hungry, and wearing clothes. Now your Daddy seems to understand this clothing aversion, but it’s like I keep telling you. It’s not socially acceptable to go around naked. Good grief, man! The way you scream when I get you dressed in the morning, I’m sure the neighbors think I’m abusing you. Yes, I said the neighbors. I KNOW THEY CAN HEAR YOU. Other things you loathe include going in your car seat and being strapped into your Baby Bjorn. I don’t know if your memory works yet or not, but I wish you could understand that once you’re IN your seat or carrier, and we start to move, you’re happy as a clam. Maybe you just hate being constricted by anything.

Which is probably why you love the bath so much. Your bath is your favorite time of day. No matter how annoyed, how gassy, how over/under-stimulated you might be BEFORE I take your clothes off and place you in your whale tub, you are instantly happy the moment your feet splash into the water. When we take you out, we’ve started delaying the getting dressed process for as long as possible, just because we know you’ll be unhappy again when you get clothes back on. Also because we love looking at your little dimply tushie.

The other thing you completely love is your reflection. You did not get this from your Daddy or me, that’s for sure. Something about seeing yourself is enough to send you into waves of smiles and almost-giggles. You spend minutes (which is hours to someone has to go back to sleep every hour and a half) staring at yourself, smiling at yourself, and talking to yourself in the mirror above your play mat. It’s like you found a best baby friend who FINALLY understands what you’re trying to say.

Which brings me finally to the smiles, oh my lord the smiles. This month they have EXPLODED. I’ve never known such happiness the way I do when you smile. It started out as just you sort of mimicking us, but now your face breaks into a big gummy grin all the time, especially when your Daddy or I come to get you out of your crib and you see us for the first time in half an hour. It will be no time at all before you’re laughing and I’m getting ready by collecting weights to tie myself down to earth when that day comes.

You also love to talk to me, especially in the mornings, which is surprising since I know I’m breathing “HHHEY!!!” in your face with my ferocious morning breath. You don’t even seem to notice though, so busy are you reciting Shakespeare and Donne sonnets. Your Daddy and I have tried recording you talking, since you have so much to say, but you go camera shy every time. You really are quite wordy for someone with such a limited vocabulary. We’re certain you’re explaining to us your thoughts on health care reform, but I guess you’re not ready to be so outspoken, since you probably sense that I’m plotting to put your speeches on my blog. It’s ok. As long as you keep talking to us, I don’t mind.

Your mental and physical growth are almost too much for me to keep up with now, Noah. You’ve outgrown all your newborn outfits and you’ve almost outgrown all your three-month outfits too. You are just so big, larger than life, in every way. You have so many facial expressions (everyone that sees you says so), and you’re bursting with personality already. I can’t wait to see you grow this month, and at the same time I wish you would STOP for just one second so I could catch my breath. I’m going to read back over these letters and be completely amazed, I can already tell. I love you so much, Bubbs.

Love,
Mommy

 

A brave post, from my guts to your screen.

Well, I’m disappointed to say that I have yet again been passed up for this year’s Bloggies. I don’t know who is in charge these things, but I have a few choice words for them if I ever find out. Don’t they enjoy reading all the various information I provide here on my humble little blog? I mean, what does Ree Drummond have that I don’t have? Or Heather Armstrong? Or these guys? Nuthin’, that’s what. Puh-lease. Eat my face, Bloggies.

(Heh.)

(On to the real stuff.)

I’m learning so much about myself these days. Like that I’m a germ freak. I’ve never been a germ freak before, but suddenly I have Purel stashed within two feet of me at all times and I squirt it out for other people without them even thinking they need it. How annoying is that? Or we’re in a restaurant and Noah’s blanket falls on the floor and I’m like “Lance! His blanket is on the FLOOR!” And Lance is like “Oh, ok,” thinking I want him to put it back on the baby, and I’m like screeching, IN PUBLIC, “DON’T PUT IT BACK ON HIM! IT’S CONTAMINATED!” (You know that scene in movies where someone yells something in a restaurant and BOOM all the clinking of silverware and glasses and the gentle piano music just comes to a sudden halt, and everyone turns and looks at the crazy person? …Yeah, picture that.) Also, I’m a nag. I always thought of myself as pretty laid back, but how can I be laid back when NO ONE DOES ANYTHING RIGHT EXCEPT ME!? No one else burps Noah right. Or holds him the way he likes when he’s sleepy. Or buttons his diaper right. These are just three examples, Reader. It takes every. ounce. of. strength. I. possess. not to tell whoever is holding/burping/changing/EXISTING wrong that they are doing that thing wrong and how to do it correctly. And most times I fail at not telling them, or worse, showing them how to do it correctly. Even… and I really hate admitting this… when that someone is Lance. I’m so sorry babe. Ugh.

Motherhood is a fantastic mirror that most days I wish I could break. I don’t want to learn these things about myself. I don’t want to see how annoying, how petty, how uptight, how inflexible I can be. (Not to mention how acne-ridden, how hairy-legged, how unkempt. But that’s another post for another day. I’m being all metaphorical right now. Try to keep up.) On the other hand, there’s a new part of me that I’m starting to enjoy. The part that feels and knows a whole new set of overwhelming emotions, that has this enormous new capacity for protection, admiration, affection, patience, hope, joy, and love, the part that day by day is learning how to live for another human being.

Which brings me to something else I’m learning about myself: how far removed I feel from my own mother. It’s no secret that we aren’t best friends. We never have been. But instead of bringing us closer, like I thought and hoped it would, having Noah and moving within 20 miles of one another has driven us further apart, and I am realizing more and more how little I understand her. Like last night, as I nursed Noah, she stood in the same room with me and ignored me while I talked to her. It was like my voice was resounding in a cave, my words bouncing around and around with no ears to fall on. So I leaned over and whispered to Noah instead. And I was thinking, I feel more alone, more forgotten, when I’m around her, than when I’m actually alone. It makes me bitter. I had a fantasy in my mind, that my mother could be the one person I’d turn to for help, guidance, encouragement, support. Then I try and remind myself: it’s not like I don’t have plenty of people in my life that I can share with and talk to. I don’t feel any void or mom-shaped hole when I think about it. So what does that bitterness, that sadness that I let her cause me say about me as a grown, independent woman? What does it say about the power of motherhood?

I’m intimidated, even afraid, by the idea that I will have this much influence in my son’s life. That I might inflict wounds this deeply on him, regardless of how fulfilling his other relationships will hopefully be! But I can’t imagine it. The love I have in my heart for him makes me want every good thing, and nothing less, for him. I want him to be happy as a child, and happy as an adult. I want to do everything in my significant mothering power to bless and bless and bless him. To love his teeny-tiny, soon to be stinky teenage, soon to be big man socks off.

Can I do this, Reader? Can I be the kind of mother I want to be, regardless of my tumultuous relationship with my own mother?

God, I’m going to try. It’s what I’m learning how to do every new morning that I wake up and see my son’s face.

 

AAAHHHH!!

Don’t mess with them, y’all. They will EAT YOUR SOUL!

 

I think I’m not the only one who’s biased.

Me: “Ok I know how this sounds, but I swear, Noah is the cutest baby I’ve ever seen. I mean I know I’m a little biased, but I still recognize other cute kids, so I’m not completely biased.”

Lance: “Sure, uh-huh.”

Me: “Seriously! Take this kid in the Babys-R-Us catalogue… he’s cute!”

Lance: “Well that’s because that kid looks like a little man. Look at him reading that book! He’s all like Hm…. interesting! F is for FROG. I did not know that.“

Me: “Ok, well what about that kid… he’s cute too.”

Lance: “That kid? That kid looks like a Lego.”

(Later that evening)

Lance: “You know what they call Lego men in the biz?”

Me: “No, what?”

Lance: “Minifigs.”

Me: “Minifigs?”

Lance: “Yep. Miniature figures.”

Me: “Wow. …I thought it was going to be a lot more exciting when you started that story.”

Lance: “How would you think that story could be exciting?”

 

It’s not easy being green

Ok just kidding… it is easy. I was just trying to come up with a catchy title and the theme of this post reminded me of Kermit the Frog. Being green actually is (mostly) easy. Last week I mentioned that I had gone to a moms’ group, and that moms’ group is actually a “green moms’ group” where we all got together with our babies in slings and hugged trees for two hours. While we were there, I was kinda nervous that these REAL green moms would sniff me out and realize I was only KINDA green and maybe they would think I wasn’t green enough to be in their green group. Like maybe I was only yellow.

But then I came home and changed my baby’s cloth diaper and breastfed him and I realized, I am TOTALLY green, y’all. Here are all the ways I’m proud of us for practicing Greenism.

1. We recycle. Easy because we just throw our cans, plastic bottles, cardboard containers, and paper products into a bag and put it out for the recycle people to pick up. Difficult because they don’t come when they’re supposed to, which is only once a month anyway, so we end up having to take the overflowing recycling to a recycle drop box downtown. Also they don’t accept glass and neither does the drop box, which means we have bags and bags of glass stuff that we’ve been storing ever since we moved into our house in September.

2. We just traded our 4runner in for a Prius. Easy because we have to have a car, why not get an energy efficient one? We’re saving major gas money. And now I can hit people with my car if I drive up behind them going under 5mph! Difficult because on snowy days, we no longer have four-wheel drive. And I miss my big-ass, gas-guzzling car. OK I ADMITTED IT! My heart is still a little bit yellow. It doesn’t count if it’s just in my heart. The environment doesn’t care about my feelings.

3. I’m breastfeeding. I believe I’ve mentioned this once, twice, or a hundred times. I never thought of this as being “green” but according to the green moms’ group, it is… I guess because formula is not all-natural. When we weren’t hugging nearby trees we were breastfeeding our babies together. Easy because whenever Noah is hungry, I can feed him. I don’t have to lug bottles or mix up formula or warm anything up… everything is ready to go. Difficult because I’m still really uncomfortable nursing in public, so most of the time we have to leave wherever we are if he starts fussing. But I had a victory yesterday in Border’s! I nursed him underneath my new Utter Cover and it went really well. He didn’t even rip his face off my nipple and start screaming midway through the way he likes to do at home. (In retrospect, maybe the first place I practiced public nursing shouldn’t have been at a bookstore, where it is expected that one remain quiet. Lucky me, it wasn’t a problem, but in my next life I think I’ll choose like Wal-Mart or something, where classiness is checked at the door anyway.)

4. I’m cloth-diapering. BOOM! THE BIG ONE! Yes, reusable diapers. AND reusable wipes. That have poop on them. That I don’t throw away. That I have to wash. Easy because right now he’s just consuming breast milk, which means his poop isn’t solid anyway. All I do is take off the diaper, toss it in a pail, then throw it in the washer when the pail is full. Also easy because in the long run, we’re saving like $2,500 on diapers and wipes in the first year of Noah’s life ALONE. Difficult because the upfront cost is major expensive, and we don’t have enough of the cloth dipes, and until we can afford more I have to wash a diaper load every day (which ISN’T green. Don’t tell the moms’ group.).

5. When possible, we buy used stuff, locally made/grown stuff, or make our own stuff. Easy because it costs less and we like it when our stuff is more unique. Difficult because it’s hard to find decent used stuff and as for making our own… let’s just say I’m the opposite of crafty. But this is good too, since it makes us buy less stuff. This sentence is stuffed with “stuff.” Stuff. Stuff.

6. We buy all-natural food, house-cleaning products, and skin-care products. (Ok, like 95% of the time.) Easy because now you don’t have to go to Whole Foods to do it… even Kroger has a (limited) selection of natural products. Also easy because we feel so much better knowing we’re not breathing a bunch of toxins, smearing toxins all over our faces, or eating things with ingredients we can’t pronounce. Freaky. Difficult because it’s more expensive and even though more Supermarkets carry natural goods now, the really good stuff can still be hard to find.

7. We are going to grow our own garden this spring. Easy because all you do is buy seeds and dig in the dirt. Difficult because you also have to take care of it, and we’ve never had a garden. But DOOOOD have you ever compared home grown veggies and fruits to store-bought? It’s SO worth it. Especially tomatoes. YUM. I can’t wait.

Other things we are planning on doing: buying a rain barrel and making our own baby food, which kind of goes along with the garden idea. But today it’s snowing and being outside in the garden seems a long way away.

So as you can see, Kermit, it’s actually so easy being green. You were obviously on crack. Don’t be so crazy dude. As for you yellow people out there, have no fear. Follow my easy 7-step program to turn into a more lovely shade of leaf. And don’t worry if your heart is still yellow. Remember, the moms’ groups won’t know, and neither will Al Gore. It’s what’s on the OUTSIDE that counts. One more reminder: don’t get too intense. No one likes those people who brag about their reusable toilet paper. Just calm down. Breathe. Hug your favorite tree.

 

I’m off today

This is what it looks like outside today:

And in the south, when it looks like this, LIFE SHUTS DOWN. You can’t go anywhere because no one plows the snow off the roads, so don’t even try. And even if you get where you wanted to go, there’s a 75% chance wherever it is will be closed. So even though all my “work” takes place inside my house, and even though there is currently a sink full of dirty dishes, a load of laundry to fold, a load of diapers to wash, and snowy, muddy paw prints to be mopped off the floor, I am taking a hint from this wintry day and sitting in a big comfy chair, with a blanket and a cup of coffee, reading blogs.

I hope wherever you are today, Reader, you are enjoying your day as much as I am enjoying mine.

 

The marriage side of things

Before I start, let me just say that I swam over to my computer THROUGH LAUNDRY. Since I started cloth diapering (more on that later), the laundry has threatened to take over our lives, and I didn’t wash any loads yesterday which means the laundry is up to my neck and if you don’t hear from me soon you’ll know that I DROWNED IN DIAPERS AND ONESIES. Now I feel better just having acknowledged the dirty clothes situation, and I can commence blogging.

Yesterday, Lance and I went to see a movie. AT THE THEATER. Never mind that I sat through the entire movie with my phone and Lance’s phone in my hands, on vibrate so I could feel them the instant they rang, and never mind that every two or three minutes I pushed a button on them to make sure they hadn’t accidentally died, and never mind that when my phone rang during the movie I had such a severe panic attack that I actually died, went to heaven, said hey to Jesus, and asked Him if it counted as charity to buy a pair of Tom’s shoes before I realized it was not my parents calling to say something was wrong with Noah and they were not, in fact, taking him to the hospital. It was just my friend Kelly. Noah, as it so happens, was just fine the whole time. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! Never mind ALL of that. The point is, I got dressed, put on makeup (WAIT. Go back, read that again. PUT. ON. MAKEUP. THANK YOU.), pumped two bottles of breast milk, and left Noah with my family for long enough to sit through Sherlock Holmes, the previews for Sherlock Holmes, and even some of that unbearably annoying “First Look” that they show you before the previews start. Not to mention the time it took to drive to the theater and back again.

It was our second date since we had Noah. Our first date was spent pounding down like four tons of sushi when Noah was two weeks old. The sushi place we went to was literally five minutes from our house and we went between feedings, all so I could be back within an hour and a half. Despite Lance’s urging, I was extremely reluctant to go at all until I found a reminder in his phone calendar on December 27 that said “Have I taken Megan on a date yet?” which made me realize that while I was spending every waking second thinking about our newborn, Lance was being intentional about fostering our relationship. Which made me love him all the more. Which made me go on the date. You probably worked that out for yourself already. The thing is, we always thought it was so unfair and strange that the art of bringing a baby into the world, the act of the greatest love for each other, could be the very thing that destroys that love. So we always said that we would never let kids get in the way of our relationship with each other. We always said we’d stay in love no matter what. That kids would enrich our marriage, not destroy it like so many other couples we’d seen. And we hold to that.

The hard part, and I hate even admitting that this is hard because I certainly never thought it should be, is making practical our pre-baby ideology. Why IS it hard? Is it just because we’re both averaging like four hours of sleep every night? Is it because it’s hard to feel sexy or romantic when you feel and LOOK like a zombie? It could be because it’s been two days since I showered, and I don’t even feel like a real person. It could be that money is insanely tight, especially with those damn hospital bills that keep pouring in. Most likely, though, it’s because Noah takes up so much of our time. He literally needs us for everything. Having the mental capacity, not to mention the emotional or physical capacity, for anything else seems nearly impossible.

So going on dates, which used to be an every Friday thing, has become a once-a-month, make-it-cheap, go-between-feedings, try-and-enjoy-it-and-stop-freaking-out-the-whole-time thing. Talking, which used to be a several-times-a-day, easy, enjoyable thing, is now an in-between-crying, make-it-fast, get-interrupted-10-times, isn’t-it-your-turn-to-change-his-diaper? thing. And sex… should I even go there? (Ha ha what a stupid question for me.) Sex is like this great idea. It’s like something you have to pencil in for a weekend day. (And by “sex” I mean “what we wish was sex but is actually like we’re horny high-school Christians who do everything but THE thing,” because I haven’t been cleared for take-off yet, if you get my drift.) Regardless, we could be practicing intimacy without disobeying my OB/GYN, but there’s A) the four hours of sleep thing, B) my tits are constantly leaking milk, C) I’ve never felt less sexy in my whole life, and D) every time we even start to warm up, Noah wakes up and makes some little noise from his crib which TOTALLY turns me off AND we have to stop what we’re doing to take care of him.

But here’s the truth, Reader. I’ve never been more in love with my husband than when I see him with our son. The miracle of us creating this little person is just so overwhelming, and watching Lance be a Daddy to him is almost more than my heart can bear. I don’t have a solution yet to all the stuff I just mentioned. It’s hard not being just husband and wife anymore; it’s a serious identity crisis I’m having over here. All I can hope for is that it will get easier as Noah grows and we learn how to balance parenting with marriage, and especially when he starts sleeping through the night and Lance and I can get it on uninterrupted (bow-chica-bow-wow). But in the meantime, we have to do what we can to remind each other why we’re in this in the first place. For instance, Lance takes Noah into his office in the morning so I can get an extra hour of sleep, and he cooks pancakes on Saturdays, and he kisses me and looks at me like he finds my flabby body and acne-ridden face just as beautiful as he used to, and he warms up my side of the bed at night, and he always takes out the trash and pays the bills and empties the cat box, and he holds me when I feel like I can’t take it anymore, and he makes a pot of coffee every morning, and he’s the only person in the world who loves Noah just as much as I do. And sharing that with him is the most amazing thing in the world.

(B/W photo credit: Shane Hunter)

 

In which I find an excuse to post a picture of his tushie.

I’ve come to the disappointing realization that Noah hates my blog. He didn’t tell me in so many words, since he doesn’t actually use words, but every time I sit down to write something he starts hollering from the other room, which leads me to believe that he A) doesn’t think writing is a suitable profession, or even hobby, for his mom or B) doesn’t like it when my computer is in my lap instead of himself, the little Prince. Or C) somehow can sense that I’m writing about him, his penis, or showing pictures like this which make him scream in embarrassed rebellion:

I guess I can’t blame him. But COME. ON. Did you see that tucas!? (And yes, that is my humungous Barbara Streisand nose peeking into the corner of the picture; please ignore it and go back to looking at the baby’s bum. Thank you.)

I do actually have pictures of him in the tub with his cute-as-hell little ballsack floating around in the water, but I’m going to spare him the therapy bills later in life by not putting it on here. Either that or I’ll save it for when he’s 16 and I need some kind of blackmail leverage.

In any case, I’m currently typing this while he’s lying on my chest, which makes me SuperMom FYI. (Except for the fact that if I was really SuperMom I’d probably change his diaper instead of letting him sit in old piss while I blog this.) But I just finished feeding him and he fell asleep, which is not great because he is supposed to be awake after he eats, but so cute and peaceful that I had to let him nap for a minute. Now I know there are at least half of you wondering what I mean by “he’s supposed to be awake after he eats” (I know because I’ve said this to a group of people on several occasions and they’ve all wondered what I mean), so it’s time for my dirty little secret: I feed Noah on a schedule. He eats every two and a half hours. After he eats he’s awake, then he goes down for a nap. Then he wakes up and it’s mealtime again. Ok, now which of you demand-feeding Moms is going to hate-mail me first? I’M READY.

Anyway, we went to visit my in-laws last weekend, and while we were there I started processing some thoughts and feelings I’ve been having lately. Mostly because of the breastfeeding thing, actually. See I still suck at public nursing – I’m like trying to maneuver a blanket over my shoulder with his 13 pound squirmy self trying desperately to find my nipple, which is still under my shirt and I didn’t realize it when I precariously unlatched my bra and tried to quickly stuff his face into my tit to prevent anyone seeing my blaring nipple when he knocks the blanket off… you get the idea. It’s only been a month and a half so I have hope that some day we will be old pros, him and me. I’ll be eating lunch with you some day, Reader, and I’ll modestly latch him on in the blink of your awe-filled eye, I KNOW IT. But until then, I typically leave the room to nurse him every two and a half hours, which brings me to the point of this blog post. I know, right? FINALLY.

Motherhood is lonely.

If you know me at all, you know I sort of struggle with this anyway. I have this sort of melancholy, if I can please use that as a noun, and it starts and ends with a feeling of loneliness. It’s a little bit just me… I mean I know I have good friends, family, mentors, Lance, Jesus… the list is long. But even though my head tells me that all the time, my heart has a hard time figuring it out. So here it is, and I bet a bunch of you mommies out there know what I mean. Why else are there so many moms’ groups? There’s something about motherhood that intrinsically sets us apart from everyone else, even our kids’ dads. I think in addition to spending 90% of my day with someone who can’t talk or understand me, nursing in private every two and a half hours, and being up to my elbows in poop most of the time which is definitely not socially acceptable, there’s this level of intense worry that never leaves. It’s the craziest kind of worry too – one that makes me BURST INTO TEARS when, say, we’re visiting Lance’s grandmother in a nursing home and I have to breastfeed Noah, so genius that I am I decide to leave the lobby where we all are and go back into a spare room, which requires passing by a dozen or so decrepit souls who are coughing and shaking and the thought crosses my mind that I’ve just brought my baby into a disease-infested building. COME ON GERMS! MY BABY’S IMMUNE SYSTEM IS A FREE-FOR-ALL! Just you know, for instance. It makes me constantly think about my son, what’s best for him, when he needs to eat, whether he is hot or cold, hungry or tired, happy or sad… and I have this feeling that it will be like that for the rest of my life, even when it’s not my job to take care of him anymore. And for some reason, that knowledge makes me feel like I am the only person in the world.

So I went to a moms’ group Tuesday to try and combat this. There are other moms out there, and I know I can meet people who GET me, you know what I mean? Even if we all feel alone, it’s good to know I’m in good, lonely company.

 

Month one

Dear Noah,

Today you’re one whole month old. I can’t believe we made it, to tell you the truth. It seems like only a couple of days ago my water broke and we were packing a suitcase to go to the hospital, but it seems like I’ve known you my whole life at the same time. Nothing I’ve ever done has been this huge, and this significant. I was unprepared for how much I would fall in love with you in such a short time, but you’re my whole world now, Bubba.

Bubba is what your Daddy and I call you. It sort of happened accidentally, and we played with a whole plethora of nicknames: Buddy, Snookeroo, Squirt, Shorty, Sugar Bear, Pal, etc. But “Bubba” sort of stuck, maybe because we’re in the south now and it’s time to redneck it up, but Dear God I hope that’s not true I take it back I take it back. ANYway, so you’re Bubba now, and for some reason it suits you. Except when you’re screaming, when I call you “Noah,” because it sounds so soothing. (To me. I need to be soothed when you’re screaming. You can stop that any time.) Your name is so perfect for you. We chose it because it is beautiful, but also because it means “rest.” And I believe it’s about time you start doing what your name says, young man.

All joking aside, you’re such a good baby. You only scream when you have gas or when you don’t think you should have to go to sleep, and I’m totally with you on the first one. And you already only wake me up once or twice at night to nurse, and not by crying. You just sort of snort and move around like a little piglet until I reach over and grab you out of your bassinet. Nursing you at night is so much easier than any other time of day, and I think it’s because you’re too busy during the day. There’s too much to see and too much holding up of your head to do to be bothered with silly things like eating, which is why you rip your mouth off my nipple a dozen times per feeding. Which hurts, by the way, and totally exposes me if we’re in public. But at night, it’s just you and me, and you’re so drowsy that you actually swallow some before you spit all that breast milk back up. I love watching you while you nurse. You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, with your fist balled up on my chest, brow furrowed in concentration, making tiny gulping noises. The best thing is when you suddenly stop eating and smile like you just thought of something really funny. And then five minutes later you let out an epic, juicy fart, which makes your Daddy and me laugh (me harder because I know he’ll be the one to change your diaper).

Which brings me to my next subject: your gas. GOOD. LORD. Kid, if I ever thought your Daddy was bad, I just had to meet you. You totally take the cake. Unfortunately it’s not always funny, because now all that trapped gas bothers you so much you cry almost every time you nurse, and we have to stop nursing to pat your back 10 times per feeding. And by “pat” I mean “pound.” The only thing that seems to feel good to you is to be hit again and again on your back. If we try to pat gently or rub your back you arch your whole body and make this awful face like I HATE YOU PEOPLE! until we start pounding again. I hope if we’re ever in public and someone sees a lady calmly beating the crap out of her wide-eyed infant, they don’t call child protective services, because it’s just me trying to encourage a burp or fart to bubble out of your infuriated little body. You should also know how much I love you, because I’ve decided to try cutting dairy out of my diet to see if it helps you. You don’t know me very well, so you don’t understand what a sacrifice this is. Let’s just say you are the absolute ONLY reason I would ever take away my OWN WILL TO LIVE. But don’t worry, when you’re 16 and you’ve just wrecked the car I’ll try not to remind you of your 15 and 3/4 inch head, my episiotomy, and my willingness to stop eating cheese for you.

And speaking of being 16 please remember the other day when you pinky-swore you wouldn’t decide to do anything dangerous when you grow up. Remember I said it’s not ok if you’re a soldier, but it is ok if you’re a musician, or an accountant.

Last night, I went to the grocery store while your Daddy stayed home with you, and the roads were icy because it just snowed and here in Nashville it snows so infrequently that the government doesn’t think it’s worth investing in snow plows. Ahem. Anyway, on the way back I hit some bad ice in the darkness, and I couldn’t brake. It was so scary because I was coming up on an intersection and cars were going very fast on the main road and I couldn’t stop at the stop sign. I was just sliding out into oncoming traffic. And the thought went through my head, If I die tonight, I won’t get to see my son ever again, or watch him grow up. And I prayed right then that the Lord would keep me safe so I could get home to you. Noah, I’ve never had so much of a reason to want to be here, in this life, on this earth. I’ve never been so content just to be alive so I can be in your life, and you can be in mine.

I love you, Bubba. Happy one month birthday!

Love,
Mommy

 

Lactation Smacktation

Dude. Breastfeeding is like, freakin hard.

It was truly a magical moment the first time I nursed Noah. It was maybe half an hour after I’d delivered him, and my kick-ass nurse Toni showed me how to feed him by helping me hold him like a football. (This position is called, oddly enough, a “football hold.” Bet you didn’t know there were different names for breastfeeding positions. Bet you FURTHER didn’t know that if you hold your baby like a madonna while in the hospital, the way you naturally think to hold a breastfeeding baby, and the lactation consultant comes in and spies you doing this, even though he’s eating just fine without her help, she’ll beat your ass down and be like “This is a very advanced hold. Let’s try the football hold instead.” Didn’t know that, didya. Didn’t think so.) So Nurse Toni propped him up with some pillows, put my hand behind his tiny little head, and unapologetically squeezed the holy living shit out of my nipples until some gooey yellow liquid came out. She’s all “Oooo, you’ve got some good colostrum there!” and I’m all “Um, OUCH?” The crazy part: once his mouth was on my nipple and he started sucking, and I’m just like watching him in complete fascination, she starts STUFFING MY BOOB FURTHER INTO HIS MOUTH. She’s like “You want him to take as much of the areola as possible,” and she’s like pushing more of my boob further into his lips. It was so weird. Once she was satisfied with how much tit was actually in his mouth I guess, and he’s like eating away, she’s like “Oh, yeah, he’s a natural!”

That was almost a month ago.

Today, he refused to eat. He’s like up against my nipple with his mouth wide open, shaking his head and SCREAMING in rage, and my boobs are just sitting there sadly dripping milk all over his shirt, the couch, my belly… milk he could be drinking if he weren’t so pissed off. And I’m like “Has the milk gone bad? Where’s the expiration date on this thing? Did I have one too many sips of coffee this morning? Was it the garlic bread I ate last night? My new deodorant? Is it squirting out too fast and he feels like he’s drowning in milk? WHAT IS GOING ON TONI?! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY NATURAL NURSING BABY!?” So I’m frustrated, and he’s frustrated, and I exhaustedly pull him up and just look at his little screaming face, wondering what the deuce to do with him, and suddenly he goes BUUUURRRUUP!! and looks at me all surprised like, “Whoa, what the hell was that?” And I’m like “WOW! Um… feel better?”

So then naturally, since he made so much more room in his stomach, he immediately starts crying all angrily again and rooting all around, opening his mouth in midair like WHO TOOK THAT BOOB AWAY?