sueeeus

Gadget is away for a week, visiting his brother Gizmo in California somewhere.  He’s not the best of planners, my Gadget, and announced one day not so long ago that he had a week of vacation time that he needed to use by the end of the year, or forfeit it.  And to him, vacation means going somewhere.  He didn’t like my suggestions of staying home and doing things around this city.  After all, people come to this city for vacation, so why not take advantage of what we have at our own back door (and not spend a fortune)?  He totally turned his nose up at that idea.

Being the sucker enabler that I am, I looked into last minute cruise deals.  There were some great deals, but as it turns out, babies must be at least six months old.  So no cruise for us.  So how about Disneyland?  He was all gung ho about that, but the more I thought of it, the more I realized that it would be absolutely wretched for me, since I’d be the one with the baby, walking around all day, having to find a place to pump, working out how to store the milk, and generally just watching them have fun.  Which made me consider sending BB and Gadget, alone, while I stay home with LB.   That would save a good grand at least, and I’d be a lot more comfortable.  And of course he makes the comment, “I don’t want to stay in a dive hotel.”  (Translation:  You’re a cheapskate.  Defense:  We’re not made of money, Dude, and why spend five star prices when all you need is a place to sleep since you’ll be gone all day every day.)  But then I thought I want us to vacation as a family, so if we can’t all go, then none of us will go, and we’ll just plan a trip for later, when I’m not bound to the insufferable breast pump.  We could manage a drive to see my sister, but no, he didn’t want to do that.  To him, that’s obligation, not vacation.  We settled on him going to visit his brother Gizmo, and me staying home with the kids, or possibly taking them to see my sister.  So much for spending time as a family.  He’s a master manipulator (he claims not!) and I’m an idiot for letting it happen.  All because I allow him to corner me into a guilty place where somehow I’m doing him wrong by not wanting to spend thousands of dollars venturing out somewhere, preferably tropical.  Clearly I have some serious underlying issues that I need to get to the bottom of.

He tends to see things through rosy glasses.  Probably my fault too, because he sees a plane trip as a fun thing to do, and I see it as a hell ride with a handbasket full of logistics to accompany it.  Two kids, one of whom is exceptionally defiant and prone to loud unpleasant and lengthy outbursts, a car seat, a booster seat, a stroller, at least two pieces of luggage, a breast pump, a cpap machine, pump paraphernalia and milk storage items, not to mention the need to work around the pump schedule itself.  These things he’s oblivious to.  These things make even the thought of travel sheer insanity.  The oblivion itself is maddening to me.  I find nearly everything about travel very stressful.

That said, I was actually happy at the prospect of having some ‘single’ time.  The freedom!  I was also happy at the prospect of visiting my sister.  But as luck would have it, this is the weekend that winter touched down with a fury, so the roads are dangerous, and I cancelled the trip.  My vacation, therefore, is being a single stay at home mom.  Nice.

It was nice.  Very nice, in fact.  Liberating, even.  One less kid (the biggest boy of the house) to care for.  It felt great to distance myself from all the thoughts described above, and to enjoy having the home to myself with no resentment at chores undone and general perceived lack of initiative.  (Why is it that a man who works all day thinks he’s entitled to relax all evening, as if life’s duties stop at five o’clock.)  I cleaned the fridge, and it made me so happy to gaze upon those sparkling shelves!  I enjoyed my peaceful home for the first couple of days, but tonight I found myself feeling melancholy and, dare I say it, missing him.  I even called him and told him so, much to his surprise.  He didn’t believe me, really.  He tends to assume he’s always on the verge of being kicked to the curb.  I do miss him.  Truly.  I like to be together as a family.  I like having him around (even if I have to remind him that I do, in fact, need help around the house and parenting the children).  But most of that warm fuzzy missing him was snuffed out when I discovered, close to midnight, that no outdoor winterizing has taken place, the snow has arrived, and I am left rifling through the garage looking for insulating materials, then wrestling with the outside faucets in the black of night with snow falling all around me, removing garden hoses from the spigots, rigging some sort of insulation to the faucets, hoping to stave off frozen and burst pipes.  I miss him, yes, but some resentment has resurfaced.

Some vacation.  I am using it to capture as much rest as I can.  Tomorrow, snowmen and sugar cookies.  BB will be very excited to see the snow.

• the number of years my firstborn has been gracing the earth
• the number of months my last born has been gracing the earth
• the number of hours spent expressing breast milk on any given day
• the number of hours of sleep I manage to accumulate on most nights
• the time of morning when a) my firstborn wakes me up to tell me he’s wet or b) my last born makes it known that it’s time to be fed or c) both a) and b)
• the number of days before Gadget returns from visiting Gizmo
• the number of days remaining of my single mom ‘vacation’
• the number of weeks before my last born begins daycare
• the number of working days left before Christmas
• the number of times each day (on average) that I lose my temper with my firstborn (I so need to figure out this mothering a nearly four year old thing)

before

small child, big mind, loud

dropped food, dropped dish, unhappy

tired, patience long worn

after

time out, minutes pass

words spoken, young mind meets old

until the next time

almost four

boundaries tested

it’s not easy being four

how I love that boy

I wish it were easier to get started when it comes to exercise.  The combination of all things down makes even the prospect of exercise almost insurmountable.  If by some miraculous force of will I can push myself over that edge, and make my grudging self sweat a little, oh, the results!

I managed to spend a little time playing DDR again today.  I try to stick to the fast songs, and I try to do the difficult level.  The antics can be quite comical, and the result is a sweating, heart-pumping, chuckling me.  All good things.  The boost lasts quite some time, too.  Instead of a nap after work, I tidied BB’s room.  It wouldn’t be honest to say that I cleaned it, but where the floor was not visible prior to entry, it is now bravely exposed.  I gave up sorting the toys into their various bins.  It seems pointless, when they all end up on the floor together.  I think I’m the only one who appreciates the order of like things sorted with like things.  He’s nearly four.  He likes chaos.

I feel generally happier, and with that, hopeful.  Hope is a powerful thing.  Depression, on the other hand, is a life sapping force, and I wish it weren’t so easy for it to catch me in its suffocating grasp.

As for hope.  It prompts us to try things we might not otherwise try.  Breastfeeding, for example.  After a shower (bliss!) I noticed that milk was dripping from me.  Unprecedented!  So what do I do?  I take my beautifully content little boy and put him to the breast.  It’s the football hold, the milk is freely flowing, there is NO WORK INVOLVED.  What does he do?  Screws up his face and screams like there’s no tomorrow.  Gadget just laughs and shakes his head.  She’ll never learn, he says to LB.  The Gadget boys don’t like boobs.  It’s just the way it is.

My exercise endorphines are still hanging in there, so I don’t let this lapse of sanity crush my otherwise fragile feelings.  Pumping is more efficient, anyway.  I get both sides drained at the same time, and I get to use the time to read, surf, blog, or otherwise entertain myself on the computer.  It’s me-time!

Most of the time Sometimes I feel as though my life resembles a circus performer’s spinning plates trick.  Up goes a plate, then another and another.  And another.  And so on.  The trick is to keep them spinning or they all come crashing down.

It’s all I can do to keep my life pulled together.  I don’t know if it’s my age (closer to 44 than 43, oh my), the challenges posed by my nearly 4 year old, the challenges posed by my new love (3 months!), the effect of post partum hormonal changes, the effect of domperidone on the pituitary (the reason it works for milk production is the boost to prolactin, a powerful hormone), the full time job, the lack of sleep, the commitment to provide breast milk to my baby, or all of the above.  I’m sure it’s all of the above, and then some.  I’m tapering from the domperidone now, so hopefully in a month or so the various side effects will have departed, leaving at least one less plate spinning.

I’ve barely gotten any fresh air since LB was born.  I’ve been on a walk only a couple of times.  The movement I get is from laundry and housework and schlepping through stores getting groceries.  I keep meaning to get outside and/or get some exercise, any exercise, but one thing gets in the way of another and the next thing I know it’s 2 a.m., I’m finally in bed, thinking back on the day and getting ready for the next (which starts at 6), telling myself that maybe I’ll do better tomorrow.

Today I did manage to turn on the Wii and play DDR, which is big, all things considered.  It’s a step, and it’s in the right direction.  I wore my heart monitor and confirmed that I really did get some aerobic action out of it.  Now it’s just a matter of placing one foot in front of the other.  It’s how I get through each day of pumping, each day of working, each day of living.  One step at a time.

I need to love the moment more, though.  This is the life that I wanted, and now that I have it, I need to find more ways to love each moment, rather than just get through each moment.  It’s pathetic, really.  I almost need to make it a mantra that I repeat constantly, all the day long, “Love the moment, love the moment.”