SummmmmerTIIME and the Infant is screaming...

We, being first time parents, are relatively ignorant of what we should and shouldn't do. As a result, we tend to try things many other parents would not. Not because we are brave or bold, but because we are stone cold ignorant of the possible repercussions. One of these boldly go things we heedlessly traipsed into was taking the Infant swimming. The Infant, mind you, can't even roll over, so it wasn't so much that she was going swimming, more that we intended to dip her in the water and see what happened. I suppose one shouldn't treat ones child as a science experiment but how else would one learn, I ask you? Now I did do due diligence, i.e. I did a google search on 'infant swimming'. And by all accounts, this would not kill her, so onward!
My BabyDaddy is the king of blissful ignorance when it comes to the Infant. It is a blessing and a curse. I, having consumed more preggers lit than any human should while on bedrest (cause really, after the 6th day of Real World marathons, what else was left to do?), am marginally more informed about what one 'should' do with a baby. He on the other hand knows no fear. Again with the blessing/curse deal. This blind bravery is what led to the pool adventure.
The BabyDaddy wanted, more than anything else for fathers day, to take the Infant to the pool. I, being a sucker for the 'but it's FAAAAATHER'S day' argument, agreed. With some trepidation. We waited til the last hour of pool time, to minimize both exposure to the blinding sun and trauma for other innocent pool goers. I battened down the hatches with 2 hoody towels, 3 diapers, a bottle, a binkie, a bottle, 2 towels for US, 2 changes of clothes for the Infant, a book for me (ha), etc. etc. etc (hey, I'm a first time mom, I have no CLUE what is going to be needed at any given time so I just take it ALL). As I gathered enough crap to fill the actual pool, I handed the Infant over to BabyDaddy to clothe, with a choice of bathing suits. Yes! Exactly - see you experienced womenfolk have successfully IDed this as 'error in judgment #1'. I gave him a CHOICE. After mounding enough crap to last us for a summer in residence at the pool, I turned back to the man and his child, who was, at this point, now wearing pieces of 3 swimsuits. the outfit read like this : regular diaper, one-piece swim suit, bikini swimsuit top, swim diaper on TOP of all that, and knit hat. I tried. I really really TRIED not to say anything but I had to ask at least the most baffling of the choices.... "so why the swim diaper on the OUTside of the swimsuit?" Apparently, he wanted to assure all the pool patrons that our child was indeed wearing a swim diaper designed to reduce spills, by making said diaper as obvious as possible. The fact that the diaper was rendered completely useless by it's location mattered not at all to him, it simply needed to APPEAR useful. Ah. Ok then. Sigh.
We managed to sherp everything to the local pool, which was mercifully emptying. In the gathering frenzy, I had not been allotted time to put on my swimsuit, but at the nanosecond of arrival, BabyDaddy had to leap into the pool immediately. Waiting for me to change would have been an unbearable delay. So I gingerly hand the Infant to mah man in the pool, and brace myself for the storm.... and..... nothing. A short pleased coo, and a mostly curious expression were all we got. BabyDaddy was delighted, I videoed, then trotted off to change, pleased and thrilled at what an easy charming adventurous little baby we had created.
By the time I got into the pool she was babbling happy, splishing about and her extremities were slowing turning a delicate shade of blue. So approximately 39 seconds after getting IN the pool, I get OUT of the pool, with the Infant. U-turn back to the changing room, to change her out of her swimsuit(s) in order to raise her core temperature to at least medium rare.
This part did not go as well as the swimming part. In fact, the second I touched layer one of her swim apparel, she let out a shriek that would shatter glass. And that was just the warm up. During the entire unclothing and reclothing experience, she made noises you would have expected if I had been, say, peeling her actual skin off, instead of just a soggy diaper. And I remind you of the 6 layer dip that was her outfit. There were a LOT of clothes there. Add the lovely echo chamber acoustics of the changing area, and I guarantee this child's displeasure was heard 4 counties away. Of course, the second the displeasure inducing changing was complete, she ceases hollering and turns back into 'pleasant baby'. I, on the other had am still shaking from the side effects of the shock and awe shrieking.
I emerge from the changing room damp, cranky and with significant hearing damage. EVERY eye in the pool area turns to look at me, and really no one wants that much attention while wearing a swimsuit a mere 3 months after giving birth. NO ONE. In truth, though, they weren't looking at me as much as they were inspecting my child for damage and/or blood.
Exhausted, I tuck her into her little carrycot, and flomp down on a pool chair, ready to finally, FINALLY get a little summer pool relaxing in for me. My hubby calls from the pool (where he has been frolicking this entire time), 'do you need me to come out and watch her so you can hop in?'. Just as the words, 'for the love of all that is holy YES!' are about to leave my lips, the lifeguard whistle blows... "POOOLS CLOOOOOSED!"
Ah... summer...

Debunking Parental Myths or Why people are full of poop

When you are pregnant people who are currently parents become very HELPFUL with their information sharing. They do have the nasty habit of restricting the information they share to the 'scary as all crap' category. You know the type: "I was in labor for 7 days straight and they had to finally pull my child out of my right nostril" or the "Oh just wait 'til he/she/it is born, THEN the nightmare REALLY starts" or the ever popular "My child just graduated high school and it STILL hurts when I poop".
And these stories of horror are not limited to women. My babydaddy got them too, only he got the ones designed to strike terror in the hearts of the y-chromo owners. For example, "You will never play a video game again in your life" or the nightmarish "that sports car you own? Say goodbye now, 'cause you'll have to swing by the car dealership on the way home from the hospital to trade it in for a 1987 AstroVan".
Initially, I thought people were genuinely trying to be helpful - sharing their learnings, so to speak. But as time went on, I noticed that NONE of the stories were positive, pleasant or even remotely helpful. They were all just scary. And they were all relayed with a certain cruel smugness. One of my best friends, a mother of 2 even got in on the act. And, because I was hormonal and because we are those kinda friends, I started shrieking at her, 'ARE YOU TRYING TO FREAK ME THE F OUT?!?!'. This actually startled both of us. Me, because I was unaware I could hit such high notes and her because she honestly hadn't really realized what she was doing.
After I stopped frothing at the mouth and she took that time to consider the valid, albeit high pitched question, we discussed. At length. Eventually we came to the conclusion that humans are spiteful crappy little creatures and the joy of "I know something you don't know" goes back to elementary school days. Parents 'in the know' just loooooooooove to wave their knowingness over the heads of the newly knocked up Bambis wandering in the woods of What The Hell is Happening to My Body and My Life.
But the largest part of it is simply carrying on a tradition. It's just want you DO. People did it to me before I joined the club of parenthood, so now I'm doing it to others. You are a pledge asking for membership in the Frat o' Parent, and you gotta EARN it - *I* sure had to, is the mindset. In short, it's Hazing.
Well, the tradition dies here. Even though I've earned the right to scare the bejeebers out of anyone with a fetus, I'm going to pass. I REALLY did not enjoy being on the receiving end of this hazing process, so now that I've crossed over, I am going to officially turn in my pledge paddle and tell the truth about what happens on the Other Side. Or at least whats happening to me. YMMV. I may get drummed out of mommy's club, but what the hell. I have the stretch marks to prove membership so Nyah. So on the the debunking!

TALE OF TERROR #1 - "You will never sleep again!" - This is sooooo totally untrue! I sleep all the TIME! I sleep in my bed at night, I sleep sitting on the sofa with the TV on, I sleep sitting bolt upright in a nursing chair with a child on my boob, I even sleep in the front row of a meeting while the president of my company presents not 3 feet from me! I am a sleeping MACHINE! Now if what they meant was, you'll not get a good nights sleep for anywhere from 3 - 30 months, then that is, in fact in my experience, extremely accurate.

TALE OF TERROR #2 - "Putting your child in daycare will the the single most emotionally traumatizing experience of your life" - OK this one I'm just calling Bullsh*t on. I'm sure that, societally speaking, it's SUPPOSED to be, but seriously, F that. I love my child. I even love her with that creepy not-quite-sane, throw-yourself-in-front-of-a-truck-to-save-her, hormonal, atavistic brain-stem-level kinda love. But after having cared for this child 24/7 for 3 months straight, handing her over to licensed, regulated, highly competent, professional childcare experts for a few hours was a tiny little slice of heaven. You know that classic labor joke? "nothing's fun for 15 hours straight!". If that's true, sure as hell nothing is fun for 2.160 hours straight. I don't think breathing a sigh of relief when someone comes in to help you out makes you a cold hearted Mommy Dearest. It just makes you human. Now granted, I was really happy to see her again at the end of those few hours, but I will not need years of therapy to get over having handed her over to caring and competent carefully screened professionals in the first place. Pfft on that.

TALE OF TERROR #3 - "You won't go out in public until your child is in kindergarten, if then - and forget about eating out again EVER" - This is doo. We've eaten out at least once a week ever since the Infant was cleared for public exposure (2 month shots). Now before I go any further, let me just cut the flaming off at the pass, I *know* that this is highly Infant disposition dependent. At least I know that *now* - back when I was sitting at the feet of the parental sages, as far as I knew, we would NEVER EAT OUT AGAIN. The BS here is that no one tells you that, actually, some babies don't give a flying monkey where you take them, and they are perfectly content to snooze away in a car seat in a back seat as they are in a car seat in ringside and the Loud and Boisterous Circus of Light and Sound. But since we're told it's IMPOSSIBLE everyone is afraid to even try.
We, being parental daredevils with a high tolerance for risk, tried. And since we happen to have a child who's not a recreational screamer (she's more of a needs based screamer. If she needs something, she screams, otherwise she's cool.),we go out to eat. Sometimes she's awake, mostly she's asleep, and once we had to get our food to go, but we knew we were rolling the dice by going out near bedtime for her. I'm here to tell you it's possible people. Her willingness varies wildly from day to day, hour to hour, and I expect, age by age, but you gotta give it a shot. There's no reason to write off sitting down at a table not covered in unpaid bills, and allowing others to bring you food they cooked for you.
The sleep though? That you can just kiss goodbye.

"But I don't WANNA!" as guest blogged by my inner 2-year old...

I am in a MOOD today. Partially sleep deprivation fueled, I'll admit. The more tired I am, the more years I shave off of my age, behavior-wise. For example, when I'm a little tired, I'm very likely to find jokes a 12 year old would make funny. When I'm very tired I start to act like a 2 year old, stomping around and saying I don't wanna and being generally self-centered, contrarian and illogical. If I'm completely exhausted beyond reason, I revert to being a 3 month old and just cry til someone feeds me and/or puts me to bed. Since I got 2 chunks of 3 hours of sleep last night, I'm merely 2 today. This means pretty much nearly anything you can name, I don't wanna.
For example, I've joined a weight loss challenge. Another of my Don't Wannas is that I don't wanna have to wear only my pregnancy clothes for the next 4 years of my life. While they fit, in so far as I can squeeze my a$$ into them, they are designed to show off your lovely life-filled belly. Except that my belly is filled exclusively with ice cream sandwiches and ding dongs, so really, not something I want to call attention to. Don't REALLY have a choice however, since I can't fit into and/or find any of my other clothes. Clearly losing weight is the best thing to do, and to do that, one must exercise and cut calories - except... I don't wanna! So I stomp about and sulk every morning when I have to squeeze into my preggers pants, or my non-knocked-up shirt is tight enough to accent my backfat, bitter that I'm not losing weight while eating fried cheese sticks. Logic is not the stronghold of the toddler, clearly.
And as if this self-induced drama doesn't start my morning with a song, my next step is a visit to Chez Bebe aka the baby kennel. Frankly, handing my child over to daycare everyday in order to walk across the street to spend 8 hours doing totally uninteresting stuff, sucks. I'm sort of between projects since I'm transitioning back on, and between projects translates into 'doing wicked boring stuff '. In short, work isn't challenging or interesting or inspiring or really anything other than an annoying timesuck at the moment. And since I am running on roughly a 14 hour time deficit per day, anything that sucks my time bugs the everliving crap out of me. (Although, to be fair, in my current mood, anything, regardless of its time suckness is likely to bug the everliving crap out of me. Remember, I'm 2 and cranky.) If things were marginally more entertaining here in the office there is the outside chance of an attitude shift. But likely the only real source of a better mood lies in sleep, and lots of it.
Even writing about it makes me want to just walk out of here go across the street, snatch my child up and go home, except ... really, I don't wanna do that either!
If I go home, I need to wade through the drift of dirty socks and newspapers that has accumulated around the corners of my house, and try to avoid knocking over the giant pile of unsorted unopened mail, chockablock with unpaid bills in pink envelopes. This could all be taken care of if I just spent a little time cleaning/sorting/billpaying except, well, nobody wants to do that, regardless of how well rested they are or how much time they have on their hands. Anyone who tells you they like cleaning is off their meds. Period.
Plus, when it comes to snatching up the child, honestly? I'm a little tired of being a mommy. At least for this week. I mean, I love my child and all, and with that blind hormonal nearly deranged kinda mommylove, but I've had to be a mommy a LOT recently. Like 24 hours a day. For 3 months straight. That's a lot of non-stop mommying. While leaving the Infant at daycare is a minor heartbreak every single time, it also is a brief break from hands-on child rearing, which is kinda nice occasionally. Using that break to schedule meeting rooms for analytic tool training, however, is not improving my mood. Using it to sit beside the pool, drink something girl-y, preferably with an umbrella, and read an entertaining yet non-taxing book, however, THAT I wanna! But no such luck.
So until such time as I am able to lose weight without dieting or working out, and am able to be a mommy whenever I want and take a break whenever I need, and am able to be inspired by work every day but able to walk away to play with my infant at will, and elves come in the night to clean my house, I will likely remain in a state of toddler tantruminess. Or until I get some sleep - whichever comes first. My money is on the elves.

Exactly how much 'suck' can you cram into one day, anyway?

Today is the Infants first day of 'school' aka the baby kennel. As the days passed with the family caring for the little one, I became less and less concerned about Official Corporate Daycare. Pros and Cons - Cons, no real family snugglely time & your child is guaranteed to be disease-ridden for the first 9 months of her little life. Pros - Official Corporate Daycare doesn't show up late to your house, or, occasionally forget they are caring for you child altogether forcing you to scramble around to find some one to watch the Infant at 9am on a weekday. So Yay daycare!
Also, this daycare center is insane. If it wasn't corporately subsidized there is no WAY our child would be attending this joint - They pipe classical music into the rooms. They have a separate baby gym. The 2 year olds have computers. They have a WATERPARK for God sake. Clearly, if one is going daycare, this is the kinda daycare to go.
But still, taking a little critter that can't even roll over yet and releasing her into the wild, sort of, is a little distressing. It would be one thing if she'd had a little jujitsu training or something, but no. She isn't totally helpless though - she can pop someones' eardrum if it comes to that, and her little fingernails are SHARP. Overall, my mommyheart is handling the concept fairly well, but still feeling a little twingy at the whole deal.
So I spent last night assembling everything she needs for her first day of school, and it's quite a list - extra diapers, formula galore, diaper cream, extra outfits for blowouts, blankies, forms and paperwork up the yinyang. I was fussing, as one does, before things one is nervous about, but I had the bulk of it all ready to go. All I needed to do was grab the checklist out of the car in the morning & give everything a last once over to make sure I had everything. I went to bed content.
I also woke up content, mainly cause I was waking up, which meant I got sleep. That is a good night. With most of the pre-daycare prep completed the night before, I felt comfortable spending a little extra snuggle time with the Infant. It was a big day, for me, more so than her, but it still - it called for cuddles. Happy warm family time with birds singing and chipmunks outside doing my lawn work. Quite lovely... I finally rousted myself, got the Infant ready for her big day with minimal hearing damage, and headed toward the door with a big smile on my face to get my checklist from the car....the...car.....WHERE THE F IS THE CAR??!?!
The smile went byebye. Our car had been towed. From our reserved parking spot. TOWED! Today of ALLLLL days, my car gets towed. Um, SUCK! No checklist for me... so now instead of wisking the Infant off to her first day of daycare with a song in my heart, we're running around like maniacs trying to locate my automobile.
The series of phone calls that finally led us to the cars location read like a transcript of Who's On First. I kid not, the woman at the association actually said "well, why don't you go check and see if your car has been stolen, and if it HASN'T then you can call us back." Seriously? Did you just say that? What, I'm supposed to call my local car theft ring? Not really sure where to find them in the yellow pages - under 'J' for 'Jackin''? 'Excuse me, did you steal my car? Yes? Ok cool - no need for me to call the tow-happy association then!' I mean really people.
Finally they 'fessed up to having us towed, cause my registration was expired. Which is wasn't. I had renewed it. However, my stickers hadn't come from the DMV yet so my tags showed a May 08 date. I thought that this would be counterbalanced by the large white paper saying "TEMPORARY REGISTRATION" stuck in the windshield, but, gee, it sure is dark at night and SOMEHOW the tow company 'missed' it. Uh huh. Don't GET me started.
Finally auto located, so now all three of us have to shoe horn ourselves and all the Infants extensive daycare accessories into the husband's convertible studmobile to go reenact an episode of Parking Wars. Props to the dude at the car impound lot - he didn't suck. At least he appeared not to suck. Mainly by blaming the other division of the company and saying that yes they DID suck a great deal, very sorry about that here's their number and the receipt for the $175 bones you just had to had over to get back your car that probably shouldn't have been towed in the first place. Car reclaimed we transfer ALLLLL the baby crap, and the baby into the car, then promptly transfer the baby back OUT of the car since it was approximately 7000 degrees in there. After 10 minutes of AC on full blast, the car was no longer a baby slow cooker. She got retransfered, and we were finally on our way to start our day. At 12:30 pm.
The sole upside to this entire debacle is that I was so discombobulated about the whole towing disaster that I didn't have the emotional wherewithal to get too bent about dropping her off. Happy Monday!

My boobs can tell time! Bet yours can't....

Since I have become a food source, (which, frankly, is just totally wack) there have been several ripple effect changes in my life, none of which was even remotely expected. The expected change e.g gigantic knockers did NOT occur, mainly because life is cruel. What DID happen is, well, weird. Since the Infant has developed something of a 'feed me' routine, I as food source, have had to fall in line with said routine. The negative reenforcement should I not is really pretty dreadful and is measured in decibels. So I got with the program. After 2 1/2 months of training, we developed this was a lovely symbiotic cover-of-a-mommy-book loving kind of relationship. She'd cry, I'd whip 'em out, everyone was happy.
Then, just when my boobs for fully trained to perform on command, we ran into a little scheduling hiccup, called "working full time". Regardless, every 3 1/2 hours or so the kitchen opens at the brestaurant as scheduled. Not so useful since the Infant is all of 20 miles away. There IS a way around this, but man is it inelegant.
Generally, whipping 'em out in a workplace is frowned upon, unless, of course, your boss is called 'Guido'. My boss is called 'Scott' so, really, not so much. However, when one is a food source, in enlightened aren't-we-so-understanding companies it is considered acceptable to slink off to the 'mother's room' aka the milking barn to have a little rastlin' session with the archaic torture device known as a 'breast pump'.
I have a long and difficult history with said mechanical boob sucker. We had a really rocky start since I was using it to convince my body that I needed to make milk. I wasn't actually MAKING milk when the pumping started so I'd have the thing on full mega suction and, after 30 minutes of high powered mechanical titty-twisters, would extract all of .025 of an oz. of milk. Epic Fail! And emotionally draining, especially considering all this was happening in the first 2 weeks after the major surgery that produced the Infant. I'd come to view the Sucking In Style boobulator with a great deal of trepidation, for obvious reasons.
However, there came a healing in our relationship. See, when one is all boobjuiced up, you begin to develop a somewhat...er... FULL feeling. And not a good full feeling, more of a 'ok don't TOUCH those, OW' full feeling. And if the fullness continues unrelieved, the tatas develop an every rack for themselves mentality and open the pressure release valve, at which point you end up with large damp circles right over your knockers, bulls eye style. I remind you again, that I am back at work. Large damp knocker circles are not technically considered 'business casual'. This is when the Sucking In Style became my new brestest friend.
So now right on schedule at 11:30am everyday the milk train comes, and I have to grab my newly adored breastpump and head out. For those of you who have mercifully not ever had to deal with one of these things, it is roughly the size shape and weight of a cellular phone from 1983 so tromping around the halls with this chiropractor's dream of a bag is hardly subtle. It is however more subtle than a soaked shirt, so yay for that?
This routine continues at roughly 3 1/2 hour intervals, schedule providing. Let me clarify - the NEED arises every 3 1/2 hours regardless - my ability to do anything about it is what gets messed with. And past 4 1/2 hours the pressure valves start to kick in. So there IS a window but it's a small one, and one that is fairly non-negotiable. If I could negotiate with my rack, believe me, it would be a different world.
This compressed time frame has resulted in several of the more unexpected ripple effects, among them, me leaving meetings early, cause the boobs were done WELL before the agenda was. Higher on the things I thought I'd never do list, during all day off site team training events, I've slunk out to my car, plugged the MilkMaster into the cigarette lighter and took my top off in the backseat. And really, you know your life has changed radically when its a boob appliance that's getting to second base in the backseat of your car.

Goooooood MORNING! Or it was anyway....

See, I got Sleep, with a capitol 'S'. Any night that includes a chunk of sleep greater than 3 and 1/2 hours is considered a good night. If a good night includes *2* chunks of sleep greater than 3 and 1/2 hours, it will be followed by a good morning. Which was what I was having. Note use of past tense...
Many things were contributing to the good morning-ness, beyond even the sleep. I'd had the presence of mind/time/energy to switch my wallet and phone from my weekend diaper bag to my weekday working drone purse (how terribly symbolic), so I wasn't going to get 1/2 way to work and realize I would be foraging for leftover conference room food for lunch and/or getting arrested for driving without a license.
I'd also prewashed a bottle so I'd have SOMEthing to leave with the sitter to feed the Infant from - so she'd get to eat too. I'd managed to get showered, find underwear AND a bra I can wear, as well as an outfit I don't feel totally schumpy in. Mommy tummy is restricting my fashion options rather severely at the moment. That and being 4 years behind in laundry.
Speaking of laundry, I managed to get a load in without dripping detergent on myself or having to rewash a load from 4 days ago that had gone all stank. And, while in the basement, cleaned the kitty boxes *before* the inevitable editorial poop appeared on a landing or hall corner. All this and I was only running 30 minutes late. Truly a great morning.
And then......
The Sitter-In-Law had the Infant in arms feeding her a bottle - I was in full sherpa mode: boob pump, purse and computer bag all dangling off of me. I was just reaching for my lunch, the last step on the 'exit stage right' routine when..... YOOOOOOORK! The Infant represented apparently the entire 3 oz of formula she had just schlorped down. And, drama queen that she was, it went everywhere, including out of her nose. She was righteously offended. The expression while pitiful, was somewhat amusing - a mixture of 'oh, seriously, ew!' and 'what the f did I do to deserve THAT?!'. I would be lying if I didn't admit to freezing, with my hand on my lean cuisine lunch, and seriously debate just bolting. But one look at that confused and indignant little babyface and mommy guilt won. Plus I *like* my Sitter-In-Law. So I backed away from the the frozen pizza, de-sherp-ed and dove into decontamination. Since it was morning and the happy Infant side was in place vs. the later hours Sybil who shows up, she took it all with relatively good humor. Meaning her screams didn't actually shatter glass, and it only took 7 minutes to peal her off the ceiling after her onesie was removed.
Once the Infant was stripped and the worst of her hurl was hosed off of her, the Sitter-In-Law was kind enough to take over for the last of the dry down and redressing and I made a bolt for the door, now at least 45 minutes late. As I piled all my electronically laden saddlebags back on, I heard the MOST adorable coos and giggles from upstairs. Those sweet little sounds kept me smiling nearly 1/2 way to work. Which is when I realized I'd left my lunch at home. Le sigh.
Happy Monday to one and all!

Things no one warns you about: Infants spawn paperwork

I am still wading through an insane backlog of mail and various other bits of paper built up from The Dark Days (so named because, for the first 2 months of the infants live, day became night and visa versa). But wait! There is still more! The pile of paper I need to fill out to get the infant into daycare makes my extended tax returns look like cake. PLUS, I need to get the pediatricians office to fill out part of it. So there is the added level of difficulty of dealing with medical personnel. PLLUUUSS, I need to fill out even MORE paperwork for the flexspending account that will help me pay for the arm, leg and kidney that daycare costs. They tell you about late night feedings and they tell you about stinky diapers, but they never warn you about THIS stuff...
Pray for me to emerge sans papercuts and still sane-ish...