sueeeus

I always envisioned myself as a super mom.  Motherhood has been the focus of my aspirations, from very early in my life.  I would have all the patience in the world with my children.  I would explain matters, and they would cooperate.  I would never have to raise my voice, let alone yell.  I wouldn’t spoil them with treats and an overabundance of unearned rewards.  And I would never, ever spank.  Ever.

What fantasy land was I living in?  I am so not the mother I envisioned myself to be.  I try to have the patience of Job, but when I’ve given sound explanations and get unblinking, unfaltering whining in return, I begin to wear down.  I assumed that all children would want to please their mothers.  I remember being a child and wanting desperately to please my mother.  I remember having a keen interest in avoiding wrath of any kind.  So I assumed my children would be like me.  However.  My precious 4yo has no discernible interest in avoiding wrath.  He wants what he wants.  It’s as simple as that.  And it confounds me.

In an effort to dissipate the tension during one such moment recently, I stopped arguing for a bit, caught his attention, and said in a loving and teasing voice, “You are a stubborn child, my love.  Where do you think you get that from?”  He looked at me with his big bright grey eyes, and I could tell he was thinking about it.  Meanwhile, with all of us holding eye contact, his dad covertly pointed his finger at me, while I covertly pointed my finger at him.  We caught each other pointing through the corner of our eyes, then we all laughed.

And two minutes later (less, actually) the whining and arguing resumed.

I find myself feeling bad about not being the kind of mother I’d hoped I’d be.  I haven’t taught BB his numbers or letters.  There was a time when he was much younger that we worked on these things, but it’s been ages.  We don’t listen to music, or sing and dance along to silly songs.  I barely ever read to him.  We don’t play games together.  When we do work on things together, it lasts only a minute, as his attention span is very very short.  I haven’t taught him to ride his bike or play ball.  Part of me is racked with guilt over this.  He’ll be going to kindergarten in September 2010, and what will he know?

My sister helped me put things in perspective though.  She reminded me that nobody worked with us to teach us our numbers or letters.  Nobody sang silly songs with us, or played games (until we were older).  Nobody read us bedtime stories, or anytime stories.  We got very little parental or adult interaction, yet we did just fine when we went to school, and we didn’t even bother with kindergarten.  We caught on, caught up, and sped right on.  We were fine.  So BB will probably be fine.  I know he’s smart.  I can tell that he does learn things.  I hope that he discovers a love of reading.  I will encourage him.  At this point, though, it’s all I can do to teach him to respect books and not tear the pages, write on them, or poke holes in them (because it’s great fun to do all that).

This motherhood job is so much more difficult than I even imagined it would be.  And I am so not living up to my expectations, naive as they may be.

Hayfever bites the big one.  When the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and daffodils are bursting with color, one might think such glory would be cause for jubilation.  And it would, if it weren’t for this wretched lack of tolerance for so many varieties of pollen.  Bah.

It’s going to be a very busy work week.  It was going to be busy anyway, with Athos out on vacation, but now Porthos is out for the week as well, with a family matter.  Which leaves me (Aramis*) to hold down the fort.  All of it. And I tend to have a full workload of my own anyway, and even more so this week due to an impending major deadline.  That’s the flip side to specialization.  With very few backups, occasionally one is left holding the bag.  I am glad to have a bag to hold, though.

Part of me is wrestling over the weaning decision.  How I look forward to life beyond the pump, yet, at the same time, I almost don’t want to stop.  Maybe because it marks the end of a path I’ll never walk down again.  I won’t be having another child.  I won’t be making milk again.  I will be wistful, when it’s time to close that door.  I’m wistful now, just thinking of it.

There is also a part of me that is trying not to be afraid.  I thought LB’s lower back looked a bit more hunched than I remember BB’s looking at that age, and inquired about it at his 6 month well-child checkup.  His doctor didn’t think it seemed too unusual, but ordered an x-ray as a precautionary measure.  The report came back with some frightening words and we were referred to a specialist.   When we got there, the diagnostic imaging service had put the wrong x-rays on the CD (it’s all digital these days), so the specialist couldn’t look at them.  He said that we could take more, or reschedule for a later date, since he wanted to order an ultrasound anyway, to look at the kidneys and thereabouts.  I chose to reschedule.  I don’t want to bombard my baby with any more radiation than absolutely necessary.  He also mentioned that an MRI might be needed, but I don’t want to make that decision until we have more information from the ultrasound results, and the evaluation of the x-rays.  With an infant, an MRI requires general anesthesia, and I don’t want to put him through that unless it’s necessary.  Anyhow, there are many hanging questions, and there may be nothing at all wrong, which is my deepest hope.  I’m doing my best not to allow myself to worry over the what ifs until or unless there is cause.  But it’s very hard for me.   I’m not so good at letting things roll.

I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve been feeling a bit melancholy of late.  Consequently, I’ve been overly indulgent with the food scene.

I’ve also been feeling more aware of my age, for some reason.  I don’t feel old, per se, but I clearly remember thinking how old my own mother was when she was 42, and here I am, 44.  When she was 42, I was in college, and had made the decision to give up the big V, being that I thought I was an adult and all.  She wasn’t very happy about that news, when I shared it with her.  That was the end of our mother-daughter-friend-friend relationship, which in retrospect was mostly a sham anyway, initiated by me under some self-imposed sense of what a mother-daughter relationship should be like.

Poof.

Anyway.  She was 42 and I was ‘grown up.’  I’m 44, and I have a baby.  Different worlds.  Different generations.  In my world, now, I’m going to try to be a real friend to my boys.  To listen.   To hear.

This means, of course, that I need to get over myself, so I can be there for them.  Not so easy.  At least, not for me.  Else I’d have managed it by now.  Getting over myself, being 44, and all.

~~*~~*~~*~~

*Okay, so I watched Slumdog Millionaire this weekend, and it’s fresh in my mind.  Excellent movie.

The gorgeous boy is seven months old today.  Seven months!  He sits unassisted.  Such a superstar.

Oh, he’s the best baby.  Such a mellow temperament.  His brother, on the other hand, is Mister Wild Child.  There’s nothing mellow about that one!

I don’t know if seven months marks any particular milestone in the realm of post partum experience, but I am feeling like my hormones are completely and absolutely whacked.  I’ve broken out with pimples all over my head, for crying out loud.  My head.  Blech!  I can hardly remember how many years it’s been since I’ve had any acne to speak of, and now I have a festering scalp.

The skin around my fingernails is cracked with deep dry grooves that split and bleed and become tender, as in they hurt.  The skin itself is hard and callous.  Not a bit soft.  Ouch.  It’s a bit annoying.

I, myself, am somewhat exhausted.  I suppose that’s understandable, with the sleep deficit increasing with no end in sight.  The seasonal allergies don’t help.  This season feels more extreme than others previous.  My eyes are burning, red and scratchy, my nose is runny and I keep sneezing.

And then there’s the matter of the milk.  I wonder if breastfeeding is painful for women who actually make it past the initial break in phase.  Because pumping?  Is not pleasant.  There’s no warm fuzzy endorphin rush for or from my sleek blue milking machine.  That ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click isn’t particularly soothing.  My nipples being yanked through the unforgiving plastic cones is certainly no picnic either.  And when it’s all done, those nipples look like aliens have landed and set up base camp.  Should anybody brush against me, or God forbid, embrace me, I shrink away in pain.  DON’T TOUCH ME!

I’m tempted to survey my freezer stash this weekend and think about weaning sooner than later.

There is a very selfish part of me that doesn’t want to stop, though.  The pump time is MY time in which I get an hour to myself, reading, blogging, perusing Facebook, playing brain and word games, or otherwise amusing myself.  It’s a reprieve that I might not have under different circumstances.

I find myself feeling a bit melancholy as well.  I think it may be, in large part, empathy for friends and family over things they are feeling and experiencing lately.  That, compounded with exhaustion, stress at work, and whacked hormones adds up to one big unsettled woman.

This little love is breaking my heart.  He knows when I’m leaving him at daycare.  Now his lower lip protrudes and the tears well up when we walk through the door of our care giver’s home.  At first I distracted him with peek-a-boo, and ran out when he was under the blanket.  That worked one time.  I keep trying to find ways to distract him.  Yesterday I sat him down with his back to the door, put some toys in front of him and sat down with him to play for a moment.  That worked great.  I tried it again this morning, and out came the lip the moment I brought the toys over.  The tears, the sobs.   I’m fresh out of distractions.   Oh, how it wrenches my heart!

Such is the plight of the working mom.

Six months of slobbery perfection!

What can I say?  Every day his personality shines a bit more.  He’s been the best baby.  He’s very good at rolling over and back, and is starting to commando-crawl, and he’ll get up on his knees and face, but that extra push up on his arms isn’t quite mastered.  He’s so close, though.  It’s comical to see him using his head, literally.

He’s examining toys more, and playing more interactively.  And he loves to eat!  He loves spoon feeding, and he’s getting very good at it.  He gets so excited when he’s in his high chair and I have a bright bowl of food for him.  We’re sticking with the rice cereal mixed with milk for now, and I will very gradually start introducing other things.

So far, so many of his mannerisms are exactly the same as his brother’s.  He laughs and laughs when his brother teases him.  It’s delightful to see.

I’ve made it the first six months on the breast pump, and am in a reasonable routine now, so I’m patting myself on the back for a job well done.  The next goal is to make it to eight months on this schedule.  By then I should have nearly enough frozen stash to get him to the one year mark.  So at eight months I’m going to begin a very very slow weaning process, cutting down to three pumps a day for a little while, and then down to two.  It needs to be slow because I don’t want any problems with clogs or infections.  I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get there, because as it stands, I’ve not been very successful at stretching the time between pumps past eight hours, so to go to twelve is a bit lofty at this point.  I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.  For now, I’ve got a gorgeous, delicious, snuggly, slobbery little boy to dote on.

Parenting a four year old continues to offer challenging opportunities.  Why, just last night, a certain young man was relieved of not one, but several of his most beloved soft friends.  Yes, Dragon, Cody the coyote, and Squawker were all sent on holiday.  It was a tearful departure, but before the tears had even stopped, yet another grievance was discovered.  This one, of far greater proportion than those that prompted the swift away of beloved furry friends.  No, this transgression warranted much more.  No movie privileges for a month two weeks.  We simply do not write on the television screen with ball point pens.  The thing is, where were the parents when this took place?  Clearly we are not as vigilant as we ought to be.  A month is an eternity to a four year old, so we reduced the sentence to two weeks.  Still, an eternity.  We will probably reduce it further, to one week.  And pay more attention.

Amidst the tears, when the first sentence was being delivered, he responded with a terrific scream, the likes of which could prompt passersby to consider calling the authorities.  No, we didn’t touch him.  We just told him that he couldn’t have his stuffies to sleep with (and implied that they’d be gone longer than one night, horrible, bad mother).  During the tears and the sobs and the wails and the pleas, the second transgression was discovered, and I had to tell him he’s in big BIG trouble now.

“Am I going to jail?”

I don’t even know where he came up with that.  We do watch cop and crime shows (Life, Life on Mars, CSI…) and I guess he knows that when people are bad, they sometimes go to jail.  Even so…

He’s a heartbreaker, that one. I gave his friends back as soon as he woke up.  He hugged them so tight, and welcomed them all like long lost friends.  Which is what they were, in his four year old mind.

My beautiful, strong-willed boy.  What am I going to do with him?  How will I be able to stay a step ahead and give him the boundaries and the lessons and the love and the guidance that he needs, in order to become a fine and decent adult?  In reality, I am so much less of a mother than I ever dreamed or imagined I’d be.

Without the rosy glasses, it’s a completely different ballgame.

• Perhaps I’ll start weaning at 6 months.  EPing is a one-day-at-a-time thing.  Perhaps by six months I’ll be in some kind of a groove where I’ll be happy to continue.  Perhaps not.  The wake up at midnight sessions are brutal, especially when I have to get up for real at 5:30.  Every day I run through mental calculations of how much I need, how much I can store, how long it will last, how much it will take to just sustain, and so on and so forth.  Luckily I’ve found a forum/community of other EPers; women who are just as, if not more, neurotic than I am over this whole lactation gig.  If I do continue the current rate of production, and the current rate of consumption remains the same as well, I can go until 8 months and have enough stash to coast through the remaining 4 months.  That’s my lofty goal, and it’s 4 months less pumping than I went through with BB, so surely I can do this.  Surely?  Except I may not have enough freezer space.  In which case I go back to recalculating.  As I do.  Every. Single. Day.
• I’m thinking more and more of that Zoloft, waiting patiently in my pantry, calling to me ever so softly.
• Part of my problem, I’m nearly certain, is the lack of sunshine in my neck of the woods.  According to climateZONE , we have 308 cloudy and partly cloudy days a year, and 155 days with precipitation.  Oi.  Recently, way too much precipitation.  The flooding has been crazy.  So many people have lost their homes and possessions.  So many roads are damaged.  It’s awful.  Why do I live here?  Oh.  My job.  And those 57 sunny days, that are simply stunning.
• Last week was very hard on me.
• I’m doing much better this week.  I’m handling the daycare-wrenching-my-children-from-my-loving-embrace thing, and thankful for a little autonomy, even.
• I’ve lost a blanket.  I don’t know HOW I could have managed such a feat, but I have.  I’ve looked everywhere (except of course where it is, wherever that may be).  Of course it’s my favorite.
• Tonight I plan to make pork chops, and cook enough to last for the next three days, as I will be too tired from the office and commute to cook.  By Thursday, or even Wednesday, Gadget will probably be making excuses not to partake.
• If it weren’t up to me, we’d live on pizza, pasta, and enchiladas.  I really should not give in so much, and just make what I like and tell them to “like it or lump it.”  That’s what my mother told us when we made complaints about the menu.
• I love love LOVE those donation trucks that come by and take away all the crappe I don’t want anymore stuff I leave on my front porch.  (It’s not all junk.  A lot is almost new, maybe worn only once, such as my ‘nursing’ clothes — the mama pajamas with matching baby jammies, and all the nursing-friendly tops.  I had high hopes.  At least I didn’t spend a fortune on nursing bras.)  BB is very lucky that the toys I confiscated yesterday didn’t end up in that truck.  They’re in purgatory, for the time being.  If he doesn’t notice they’ve gone, then they will shortly disappear for good, but if he does notice, then he will have to earn them back.  I was SO tempted to put them out on the porch with the other things, though.
• LB’s hair has grown long enough to overcome its natural tendency to spike, so he looks completely different.  He’s not my fuzzy monkey any more.  But he’s still my snugglebear.  My snugglebear with what looks like the beginning of a molar protruding from the side of his upper left gum.  My slobber-faced snugglebear.
• I am still plagued by the phantom and nearly constant smell of second-hand smoke.  I’m the only one affected, and it’s driving me batty.
• In an effort to assuage the above, I’ve just pumped two reservoirs full of saline solution through my sinuses, using my Grossan tip thingy.  Now I feel dizzy, as one does, when one is not accustomed to having clear sinuses.
• Why is dinner time such a struggle with a 4-yr old?  Oh.  Because he’s four.  Where is that Zoloft?

Finding the bright side

I really like being at the office, in the flesh.  I like seeing the people, walking down the hallways exchanging hellos, sitting at my desk and hearing the buzz around me.  It’s a boost.

I like that LB is such a laid back little boy.  He’s happy to see me when we get home, and he doesn’t appear to hold anything against being left with a caregiver all day.  I hold him and he stands on his strong little legs and gives me that, -I’m the coolest thing ever- look.  He is just so pleased with himself and his new discovery that he can use his legs for more than kicking, and it’s literally written all over his face.  I love that.  LOVE IT.

I like that, since LB is an every other day pooper, and generally a daytime pooper, I have very few poopy diapers to contend with.  Nice!

Daycare is frighteningly expensive, and I’m still getting used to the thought of it, but I can afford it, so I’m grateful.  The part about having to pay for it whether or not we actually go still bothers me, but I have to remember that our caregiver’s living depends on contracted service, and it’s not her fault if the roads are flooded or frozen or otherwise impassable.  Also, if we didn’t contract, then we wouldn’t be guaranteed placement, and that could be far worse.

Even if all this adjustment makes me dry up (the supply has plummeted this week, which in itself freaks me out which then causes it to dwindle further; it’s a horrible, vicious cycle -I was three ounces short in just one pumping session, this morning, which is SUBSTANTIAL), it won’t be the end of the world to have to switch to formula, and I can still be grateful that my baby has gotten over 4 months of breast milk and all its benefits.  I still hope I can recover (which is why I’m spending all this time trying to think of the bright side of things and get my head into a better place).

The yin

(Why is it that the negative and dark yin is the feminine attribute, whereas the positive and light yang is the masculine?)

The other morning while I was getting everything ready (even though I’d gotten as much ready the previous night as possible, there is still a lot to do in a morning before getting out the door), BB kept asking, -Mommy, why are you running so fast everywhere?-

I tried a new tactic of feeding LB as much as possible just before I went to bed, to try and hold him through the night.  He would only take 5 ounces, and by morning there was a smell to the remaining 2-3 ounces, so I had to dump it.  I can’t say how wrenching it is to have to dump that substance for which I work so hard and sacrifice so much!  Maybe it was still okay, but normally I can barely detect only the slightest sweet scent, and I’d rather not take any chances.

Part of me wouldn’t be too heartbroken to wean at this point, but the better part of me is concerned about the hormonal effects and the appetite effects.  I’m a bit leery of sending myself into a psychological tailspin by rocking the hormonal boat, since I can feel myself teetering as is.  And as far as appetite goes, I’d hate to find myself sustaining a large appetite without having my body work some of it off in the milk factory.  I’ve put on some belly fat since having LB, and am somewhat afraid of exacerbating the condition.  Okay, terrified.

There is also a part of me that wonders if this stubborn and neurotic obsession with lactation is hurting my developing relationship with my child.  If I weren’t obsessing so much, would I be snuggling with him more?

In need of a paradigm shift

Paradigm in itself is a good word, but it’s been so abused in corporate circles that it is forever tarnished. Tarnished or not, I am in need of a paradigm shift.

It’s hardly the norm any more for women to be (just the) homemakers and men to be (just the) breadwinners, yet somehow it’s been etched in my mind that this is the ideal, the way it’s supposed to be (even with those commercials in the 70s where the woman, hear her roar, sings -I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan…Because I’m a woman, W-O-M-A-N…-)   And because of this, I have a tendency to resent the fact that I am the main breadwinner, when I should celebrate that there has been no glass ceiling for me.  I envy those women who get to be SAHMs in this day and age, or, gasp, SAHWs, yet at the same time I feel guilty that I am out in the paid work force eking out a living, as though I should give it up and buck it up and just find a way to live with the one (lesser) income, because I’m a mother and should be home with my children.  I tend to fall into the thought pattern that if I weren’t the main breadwinner, maybe I’d have more of a choice to be a SAHM.  Hence the resentment.  Poor Gadget.  He’s good at what he does, and he’d be a terrible SAHD.  Truly, the essence of this narcissistic spiral is that deep down I just want to be a princess, dammit, and spend my time leisurely kissing the children (while the nanny does the work), playing the spinet, and sipping tea from the finest translucent porcelain while my dear husband dotes on me and lavishes me with lovely gowns and jewels.

Then, because I happen to like my work, I feel even guiltier, because when it comes down to it, I get cabin fever when trapped home all day, and crave exposure with more people.  So I can’t win for losing, what with the tangled mess that is my mind.

I need to make peace with the fact of being a career woman.  I need to find a way to convince myself that it doesn’t make me less of a mother.

It may be PPD trying to get its grip on me.  I suppose, if I’d read through the convoluted diatribe I’ve just written, I’d concede that it HAS taken root, and just bust out my Zoloft, for God’s sake.

Of course I’m biased, but I think he IS the best baby in the universe!  His hair is finally growing long enough to fall over, rather than stand straight up in all directions like a fuzzy little monkey.  Except he’s bald in back from rubbing his head back and forth, which makes for a very funny profile.  He’s learning to use his legs more now.  He puts his weight on them and practices standing.  When he’s on his tummy, he scoots his butt up and sort of kicks his legs.  He may crawl soon, at this rate!

I’m feeling a bit anxious about next week.  LB begins daycare on Monday.  While I’m very thankful for the help, there is a large part of me that is sad to leave my baby in the care of someone else for the better part of each day.  He will have excellent care and attention, and I will have a little more unencumbered time in which I can do things like make mad dashes to grocery stores without wrangling car seats and unruly nearly four year olds.

I figure it will take me three hours from the time I wake until I make it to the office, on the office days, and that is also somewhat stressful.  Three. Hours. For. Goodness’. Sake.  I need time to pump, wash the parts, pack them up along with the pump to tote to the office, pack the laptop, get myself dressed and ready, get the kids dressed and ready, load up the car, drop the boys off at daycare, then head in to the office.  Work.  Arrive home in time to pump again.  Wash up, make dinner, get as much ready as I can for the next day.

Office days will be very long for me, and I’m sure I will value my telecommuting days all that much more.  It’s important for me to go back to the office though.  I need the adult interaction.  I need to sumberge myself in the variety of personalities.

Until it all becomes part of my day to day, I think I’ll find myself anxious more often than not.  Change tends to be stressful, but I know I’ll settle in to a routine eventually.

Meanwhile, LB is expressing himself more and more!  His hungry cry is NNN-GHEEEEE, NNN-GHEEEEE, NNN-GHEEEEE.  See?  It even sounds like ‘hungry’!  My kid is a genius.  Genius!  He’s showing more emotions and slobbering like a fiend, chewing on his fingers until he practically gags himself (not such a genius in that regard).

I think he may be going through a growth spurt, because he’s taking quite a lot more milk it seems.  Yesterday he had 31 ounces (waking every 2-3 hours, which is NO picnic for me), when I think he’s been averaging closer to 22-26 before that.  That’s another thing I need to figure out – how many bottles to send with him to daycare, and how much fresh I’ll have ready for him, and how much refrigerated, and with all that, the instructions for which milk is which and the order in which to use it.  So complicated!  Maybe I’ll number the bottles.  I haven’t paid all that much attention to how much he has each day.  I feed him on demand, and I’m making enough to meet his needs, with some extra to freeze.  So this weekend I’m carefully noting how much he has each day, to help me figure out how much to send with him on Monday.

So many things to think about and prepare, when one sends one’s kid off to daycare!  I think I should try not to worry about next week, and just take each day as it comes, and do my best to keep up and stay afloat.  And somewhere in the midst of all that I will need to get some sleep.

There are times of agitation where I liken the sensation to the inner workings of a grenade during the moments after the pin has been pulled, before the explosion.  Lying in bed at night, trying to grab an hour of rest before I must rise and express.  On the right, my husband’s snores mount a steady gurgling, spluttering, thundering assault.  On the left, softer sounds of contentment that could at any moment turn into a wail, demanding milk.  Above me, the whoosh of the breathing machine.  From the other room, whimpering, whining, and a steady stream of chatter from a very strong willed nearly four year old who is bound and determined not to go to sleep.  Outside my bedroom window a steady stream of traffic speeds by.

Another snore explodes in my ear.  My nearly four year old calls into the room, “Daddy, why are you making those sounds?  I don’t like those sounds.  Stop making those sounds.”  But the maker of those sounds is blissfully unaware, lost to the land of nod within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.  He won’t hear the baby cry.  He doesn’t hear the pleas from the other room.  Will he feel it if I smash my fist in his face?  The thought actually crossed my mind.  The agitation is consuming me quickly, and the minutes are ticking by.  The hour that I once had has dwindled, and with each passing minute in which sweet relief is nowhere to be found, the agitation rises.  I surprise myself with the hostility of my thoughts.  I don’t like the version of me that surfaces in moments as this.

Get through the night.  Tomorrow is a new day.  It becomes a mantra.  And somehow, miraculously, hope and relief sail in with the dawn.