Fine line between support and smother...

I have a confession to make.

I don't really pay much attention to what medical science has determined is the appropriate age range for my kids to be writing thoughtful prose and reading Heidegger, and I honestly don't sweat it when they take months longer to do certain things they I am told they should do, that is, unless your kids have done these things well before mine have.

The thing is, I am pretty sure most parents are aware that each child is different, but are afraid their kid's difference may be a sign there is something wrong. Whenever a bunch of parents get together, we compare our children against each other. I have to wonder why.

For example, my daughter is an amazing and brilliant kid who can sing any song she hears, has a great knack for playing the piano, and will spend hours creating a single piece of art. Why is it when I hear about kids her age or younger reading really well I feel as though she is somehow performing below her expectations?

I am competitive by nature, that's why. I have a hard time letting go of my need to have my kids be better at everything than your kids.

I have to let go of it though, because trying to make my kids better means denying them who they are. There has to be room for our kids to develop a personality. We have to let them become their own little people, with their own little tastes, while at the same time insuring they are healthy and developmentally sound. It's a high wire act, with constant danger of falling off to one side or the other.

My daughter can read, she just prefers to paint, much like I can do math, but prefer to write. There is nothing healthy about me forcing her to sit and read for hours on end, when she would rather be painting, or drawing, or singing. So long as I know she isn't actually having trouble reading, I should be satisfied.

But still, I feel that little niggle of unease whenever your kids walks earlier, or speaks sooner, or eats more table food. I also feel that little HA of triumph when my kids perform before yours.

I try so hard to choke the life out of those feelings, and to embrace what I know is true; I don't want your kids! I am sure they are great, but I want my kids!! I want their quirks and preferences, their accomplishments and failings. I want all of them, just the way they are.

So I am walking the fine line between supporting their development, and smothering their individuality.

I bet I can walk it before you do.

The Highway to Mommy Hell...

I am driving the bus on the highway to mommy hell. It's the guilt bus! It's a dark cinnamon red, and covered in swirly black flames. The seats are upholstered in matching velvet. There is plenty of room on board, and I bet each mommy out there has taken a seat for a ride every now and then.

Me? I got so used to being on the bus, I volunteered to drive the damn thing.

There are any number of mommy failings that can get me a ticket for a ride on the bus, too much fast food, too much t.v., not enough interactive play with the kids ("No I can't play with you now, Mommy is blogging"). I am guilty of small shame-worthy infractions every day.

However, there is one thing I do, one aspect of my personality, that makes me hop on the bus for the long haul.

I am a yeller. I have a hard time not raising my voice when the buttons have been pushed one time too many.

I know what you're thinking. "C'Mon now Scylla, everyone can yell when their buttons are pushed. This is nothing."

You have never heard me yell.

In my first life I was a theater fiend. I spent from age 9 to age 19 projecting the smallest whisper to the point that it could be heard throughout an auditorium filled with people. My voice is a power that should only be used for good, like "Look out! Car!!" or "The Groom has something he wants to say everyone, please quiet down!" I can raise the roof with the sound of my voice. I am really, really loud.

When I am really angry I can yell loudly enough that I give myself a headache, instantly. I can also yell loudly enough that I terrify my kids, sending them into shocked tears, sending them running from the room.

I don't yell often, because it's horrible to see the looks on their faces, but sometimes the yell slips out. It fights free. It says "Look!! I have been sensible and reasonable and calm and quiet through a day full of argument and not listening and mis-behaving!! I am coming out damnit!" Then it roars forth, from my throat, over their scared faces, into the house, up the stairs, out onto the street. It leaves them forcibly subdued, their tear stained faces turned away from me.

It never feels good after. I don't get results, or better listening. I don't feel any release. I just feel really guilty, and sad that my kids were scared of me. I try really hard not to yell again. I can go weeks without doing so, but then there will be a day when I didn't sleep enough, or Monkey is particularly argumentative, and the loud angry beast will start chomping at the bit. I will inevitably lose the fight for control, and my yelling will land me squarely in the driver's seat of the Red Velvet Express Bus to Mommy Hell.

So, when you come on board the bus for any of your mommy infractions, please be sure to tip your driver.

Is it Ground Hog Day or am I a Stay at Home Parent?

There is nothing quite like stay at home parenting to make a person feel an overall sense of deja vu. My routine, for the most part, is pretty much the same, day in and day out. The list of my core duties goes on and on, but I won't bore you with the details of it (it's not necessary for this post).
I will say that of the number of mundane things I do each day I feel the strongest sense of deja vu while sweeping the floor. I have to sweep the floor every morning, because we have more pets than sense, and therefore a pet fur carpet if left unswept more than a day. (Go two days and we begin to get tumblefur.)

Lately I have been feeling an increased sense of having done this all before. This feeling is stronger than "Oh yeah, I did this yesterday!". It's a deeper sense of bone weary repetition. The mundane daily chores of life leave me feeling a distinct lack of ...well distinctness in my day. It's as if the days in my life are all merging into one, and I am living that one day over and over again. Like Bill Murray in Ground Hog Day.

I am sure this feeling is not mine alone, and is shared by other stay at home parents as well as people working outside the home. After all, there is nothing like a mundane 9-5 office job to make one's days pass in a blur. However, I think the isolation of stay at home parenting increases the sense of futility that comes with these repeating chores. I mean, except for tumblefur, why bother sweeping the floor when I will only have to do it again the following day? Why wash the clothes when they will only get dirty again? All the work I do all day has no lasting accomplishment. I can't point to it say "Look! I spent x hours building this amazing thing that will stand for all eternity!" I can say "Look! I scrubbed the floors last week with a new cleanser, and now they are... crud, now they are covered in pet hair and juice spots again."

It's a strange feeling, this sense of not doing anything lasting. Intellectually I recognize that raising my children and caring for them is lasting in a way nothing else really is, but that doesn't mean I am able to step back and admire my handiwork at the end of a long day. Usually, I am only able to collapse on the sofa and mumble "the kids kicked my ass today... would you please get me a beer?" to my husband at the end of a long day.

There is no milestone for stay at home parents, nothing that makes us recognize that all our hard work has paid off this month, or this week, or this year. We get to share in our kids accomplishments, and our those of our partner's, but let's face it, there aren't a lot of childhood dreams that center on being house bitch, so no one is out there creating any House Bitch of the Year recognition plaques.

Something a little stronger?

I don't think coffee is going to get me through the day. I need something a little stronger, like tequila, with a lime, and large grain kosher salt, or maybe Speed.

Otter was awake playing "crawl thru diner" most of the morning. (By morning I mean the hours after midnight.) Now, of course, he is wired for sound, taking things apart, running through the house, sucking on butcher knives and sticking his fingers into light sockets.

Me? I am barely conscious as I drink my first cup of coffee in what promises to be a very, very long day.

Why can't he be, oh I don't know, TIRED on the days when neither of us get any sleep? It's not as though I was out all night clubbing while he slept away in dream land. No, I was in bed, cursing the day I decided to pop a tit in his hungry hungry hippo mouth! I was desperately trying to sleep while he twisted my skin between his fingers, kicked me in the stomach, groin, and thighs, and nursed all night long.

Is he tired? No! Otter wants to pull all the magnets off my office filing cabinet, so he can suck the magnetized metal bits out of the large plastic covers and choke on them before he determinedly eats the papers they were pinning to the cabinet. He wants to dig through my drawers and spread printer paper all over the floor! He wants to open the front door and wander out into the street!

Otter wants to climb the stairs, up and down, up and down, holding tightly to my fingers with his chubby baby hands. On a quasi rested well adjusted day I would console myself with thoughts like "at least I am getting my exercise today" or "Who needs a stair stepper when you have a one year old?", but today the only thought in my mind seems to be "are you frackin' kidding me?! I want to lie down and watch ER reruns until I drool!"

But no, he is not tired today. His new motto is "sleep is for the weak". He is an unstoppable force of pint sized determination.

I, however, am the thick dull sludge left in the bottom of the coffee pot when the burner has been on all night.

Update
He fell asleep not too long ago, snuggled warm with me on the couch. I tried to sleep, lay there for an hour listening to the traffic, the birds, the neighbor's loud oompa loompa polka music. No sleep. None. Finally got up before going stark raving mad.

Vice and Vices...

My head is stuck in a vice again.

The throbbing pain coupled with photophobia (light induced pain) makes it hard to write anything interesting. I am trying to fight off despair. I am so tired of dealing with migraines. I know I don't have a life threatening illness, and I am ever thankful for the mostly healthy life I have had, but I am still longing for a headache free life.

I mean seriously, who has time to sit still in a quiet dark room for days on end? If I had time to do that, I would be a member of the landed gentry, stuck in a whale boned corset, and forced to gorge on meals before leaving for parties in order to maintain the image that women eat like birds. (An asinine comparison, since birds eat more than their weight each day, and therefore a woman eating like a bird would be consuming over a hundred pounds of food daily. I digress.)

I have suffered from these nasty, soul sucking, headaches since I was twelve. In fact, this year marks the 20th anniversary of my introduction to migraine hell! Bully for me! Two decades of intense headaches coming and going, sometimes a few a year, other times a few a month.
I have gone to work and class in sunglasses, lived with a permanent prescription for percoset and muscle relaxants, and worn earplugs when watching my kids play. I have tried yoga, massage, chiropractic treatments, diet and vitamin changes, heat therapy, cold therapy, herbal therapy, swimming, walking, sleeping, drinking, lying in a dark room, working through the pain, sex, and more. I have had dozens of C.T.'s and MRI's, not to mention the plethora of EMG's and nerve conduction survey's I have been treated to. I can't even explain the other myriads of medical brain and nerve scanning technologies I have been treated with over the years.

I have been told they were caused by stress, hormones, insufficient bra support, birth control medication, allergies, the manner in which I carry my children/backpack/purse, diet. You name it, I have been given a reason. I have even been told to get breast reduction surgery on the off chance it will improve my headaches. (Cause yeah, medical science is down to a science, there ain't no guess work in them there diagnoses.)

What I haven't been given, is a solution. Each time I try a remedy, I get hopeful. I think maybe this time I am done. Each time I have a month, or two, sometimes even several months, without headaches. Each time they return. The only time I have been successful in getting rid of them is when I am pregnant. As much as I enjoy the lack of migraine's while enciente, I am certainly not going to be pregnant forever. (That would be another nightmare entirely.)

I refuse to let these headache's ruin my life, so over the years I have adapted to living with a certain amount of discomfort. I buy ridiculously huge dark sunglasses to wear in and out of the house, I take medication to dull the ache, and I live my life.

I know my family can still tell when I am having one. Monkey will come to me and pat my head and say "I am sorry you hurt mama." Lee will make me tea and rub my shoulders. I wish I could live my life with as much zest as normal, but at least I am up and about.

And today, I am blogging. Which has become one of my vices. I am pretty sure I could be at death's door in the ER and still would ask for a laptop and wireless connection so I could connect with the blog-o-sphere. It's better for you than most vices, I won't get lung cancer or destroy my liver by blogging, though carpal tunnel is certainly a risk. At least I can socialize with someone, without having to explain that smiling makes my head hurt.
Thanks for being there to socialize with.

My Nine Jobs...

I am job hunting, looking for that fabled "what I am going to be when I grow up."
It is not an easy thing to do. I look at job descriptions and think, is that really me? Do I fit that? Can I do that? What if I can do most of it?

It is an odd time, full of doubts and insecurities. Especially since I don't really want to succeed at it. I want to stay home snuggled up with my baby, nursing and fully embracing his youngest years. Why doesn't Stay at Home Parent pay anything? It should, I certainly fill enough roles. At the very minimum, I should be able to list some of my responsibilities on my resume, it's not as if I have been sitting at home eating bon-bons for the last year.

I wonder what I would earn if I was doing all my jobs outside the home, instead of inside it?

Let's see.... In order to get an idea of what my time is worth, I went to Salary.com and looked up the various jobs I do within my zip code. According to the midrange salaries for the various positions, I should be a wealthy woman:

Housekeeper
$22,000.00 year

Chef (Fast Food Cook)
$33,000.00 year

In home Nurse
$50,000.00 year

Personal Assistant
$45,000.00 year

Secretary
$35,000.00 year

Chauffeur
$35,000.00 year

Nutritionist
$58,000.00 year

Teacher
$30,000.00 year

Day Care Provider
$30,000.00 year

Obviously I can't do all these full time, so let's assume I am only doing them 1/3 as much as the professionals are (remember, I can't leave my job to go home, and working nine part time jobs is actually possible, if you are working 24/7). At 1/3 annual salary for each job, added together, I should earn approximately $109,000.00 a year.

Wow. The work I do at home is as valuable as the work I would do as a lawyer! Sadly, it doesn't pay in cash, only in drooly, sticky love. (Okay, and lots of hand made artwork.)

What does this financial revelation really mean? Well, maybe it means that all you stay at home parents out there who feel as though you "aren't contributing" to the household should rethink your definition of contribution. If you were to pay others to do what you do, you would have some pretty ridiculous bills.

Well, the boss is demanding my attention, so I am off to work! Here, why don't you enjoy an oft requested (by Hatchet anyway) video of Otter toddling while I go sweep up scattered and stepped on Goldfish:

And here he is saying Balloon (okay, his version of Balloon, which is really more of a "Bavvoonmn" sound):

Prior incarnations...

It was late, nearing the witching hour, and there I was, walking the boards in flannel with a baby over my shoulder. As I hummed the burping song (my cheesy version of We Will Rock You) and patted Otter's jammie clad bottom, I was suddenly struck with a vivid sense memory from a time long ago.

You know, the fabled Time before children.

There was a crisp cold smell, and a clack clack swish sound, and a trembling sensation from the thousands of people stomping and clapping.
Stomp Stomp
Clap
Stomp Stomp
Clap
I was back in time over a decade ago; at the first Stanley Cup Finals game between the Colorado Av's and the Detroit Red Wings. Prince was playing in the background, an adaptation of "Let's go Crazy" re-written to be "Cup Crazy" and I was there, newly wed to First Husband, stomping and screaming and loving every minute. I was reveling in the combined energy of the crowd, and thrilled to be close to the ice for such a pivotal game.

I shook my head, and was back in my house, in my thirties, pacing the floor with a baby.
Yes, I thought, I used to be different.

It's so easy to forget the prior incarnations of my life. When I was a wild young girl, a swing dancer, a professional witch. When I used to braid jewelry into my hair, and wear rings on every finger, and then every second knuckle of every finger. When I would go to a new bar, just to meet new people, and dance with someone who really didn't mean anything to me at all. The days when I would hit the thrift store, create a crazy outfit that had no style but my own, and then wear it out. When I would hop a Greyhound bus to California with $200 in my pocket and the simple belief that I would be fine, on my own, no matter what.

The past seven years of my life have been so bloody serious. They have been an amazing journey, but they have demanded so much of my soul that I dropped everything else to get through them. Some might say I separated the wheat from the chaff, but I think I may have discarded a bit of wheat too.

I used to attend drum circles every week. I would cart my giant Djembe (The one I bought from an African drum designer in San Diego and then flew home in it's own seat, lovingly patting it's hand carved images) to circle, and then lose myself in a swirl of incense and rythym for hours. Hours. I had callouses on my hands and arms from striking the drumhead over and over.

Now my hands have gone soft, and the Djembe sits silent in a corner.

How did this happen?

Is there a way to resuscitate the parts of the old me that bring a pang to my stomach when I think of them or are they relegated to midnight flashbacks and fond reminisences? Am I doing my children a favor by not showing them this wild past me or am I just insuring that they will alienate themselves from me when it is time for their own wild child to emerge? Is there even time for me to pull these past incarnations out of the closet and dust them off? I don't even have time to shower most days, how will I find the time to Lindy Hop?

Eventually Otter fell asleep, and I was able to set him down, and go to sleep myself. Sadly, I didn't wake up any closer to the girl at the game, than I was when I remembered her.

Venting...

Okay, two posts in one day is annoying, I agree, but I finally have two minutes to myself today and frac I need to vent!

I know I am a big AP (as in Attachment Parenting or small fiendish children hanging on you all day and night forever) advocate, and I know I voluntarily signed up to nurse for two years, and to stay home with my son, and to co-sleep and baby wear.

BUT DAMMIT I WANT MY PRIVACY BACK!!!!

Not all the time, just every now and then. You know, ten or fifteen minutes a day?

I used to dream of saving the world, or traveling in space, or being discovered for some artsy foreign film, or at least winning a huge Toxic Torts case. Now I dream of peeing, alone.

That's right! Three years of educational hell and two hundred thousand dollars in student loans and my highest aspiration is eliminating in privacy!!

Otter is in such a needy place right now! (Read: He doesn't nap and is therefore psycho) I can't leave him in a room/crib/walker/exersaucer/whatever by himself for any time at all without him screaming! And he can scream! His little soft voice goes all sonic death ray on me as he strips his vocal cords in his attempts to be heard!

So what is a mom do? Well.... this mom finds herself either ignoring the gut wrenching screams coming from the bedroom whilst I pee.... or I bring him into the bathroom with me where I get to play the "No baby, you can't play with the chemicals/toilet/toilet paper/toothbrush/hair dryer/choking hazard/first aid kit/ Q-tips/ medicine bottles/ eyebrow scissors/ razor blades/ poisonous gas dispenser" game, whilst I pee.

Either way, I don't get to pee in peace. It seems like such a small thing, the chance to use the bathroom alone, and without any sense of urgency, but it turns out to be one of the trickiest things of all.

Is he like this because I am an AP parent? Are all children this way? Do other parents get to pee alone? It's really what I want, a little peace, a little privacy, a chance to pee in private, with no screaming children in the background.

Isn't that a goal worthy of my dearly bought talents?

I love pets... really! I swear!

I do. I love them so much I have five! Three cats and two dogs! (Yes I am insane)
I love their snuggles, and their loyalty, their warm purring bodies trapping me in at night. One cat on each part of me not covered by a baby.
(Yes I am becoming claustrophobic.)
I love feeding and caring for five additional creatures. (Nothing like cat and dog food to add to the grocery budget! Oohh, and emptying those catboxes is a dream! Of course, Hubby gets the joy of picking fresh poo up with little plastic baggies, and he will happily tell you how much fun that is!!)

I love cleaning up their vomit, poop, urine, and creative impulses (like the shredded toilet paper roll, or the chewed up baby toy or kiddo stuffy, or couch).

Oh and don't forget the joy of figuring out what that random smashing sound is, or having nap time interrupted by another round of Kitten Commando.

I simply adore finding random puddles of liquid on my floor, and playing bodily function roulette. Is it pee? Bile? Drool? Water from an illicit indoor afternoon tea? (Please be water... please!)

I think the best part is finding said liquid with my feet! Oh yes, nothing quite like stepping on slightly tepid liquid at five a.m.! Joy! (Especially if it is chunky and squishes between my toes! There is nothing better for waking a person up then stepping in fresh cat vomit!!)

Yes, I think being a pet owner is one of the greatest joys in my life.

No wicked for the rest...

All right, that's it!! If I am not going to get any rest any way, I wanna be wicked!

What's wicked about being too sleepy to don makeup and cute shoes? How is spending the day trapped in the house with a cooing baby in my jammies wicked?

There is nothing remotely wicked about my life. Nothing even the tiniest bit racy!! (Well, okay, the quiche I made the other day with heavy whipping cream might have been a bit wicked.)

But regardless of the relative innocence of my days, there is no rest for me. My commanding officer is up at all hours, all nights, trying to hit a new marathon nursing record or standing at our headboard kicking me in the face. Sometimes he kicks his dad too, which makes me feel better.

Sooooo sleepy.

Wasn't life a bit sexier when my sleep loss was due to being up until 3 a.m. dancing at a popular nightclub or hitting the party circuit? I was content with sleeplessness in my early twenties. Even in law school, when it was mostly due to hitting the books all night long, my sleepiness had an edge to it, a purpose. Now the only thing with an edge to it is my tone of voice when anyone asks me to do something for them.

Ugh... there is not enough coffee in the world.

No sleep and too little coffee...

make mommy go... something...something.

Otter has started to get up at 6 a.m.

I abhor six a.m.

Six a.m. is the time I have to get up for court, it was the time I had to get up to work my crappy entry level job an hour's drive away, it was the time I had to get to get to my insane morning torts class.

Six a.m. is an insufferable time to start my daily routine, it is an abberant time, a warped time of the morning, in between dark and light. A time out of time.

Especially when he really gets up about 5 a.m., but nurses with me in a quasi-doze for an hour before I finally resign myself to my fate and haul my enervated carcass out of bed.

Kick
"Come on Otter... go back to bed."
Kick,kick
"Ma ma mamamamamamamamamama ma... Da da dadadadada... Ma Da MamaDa"
Smack, punch, kick.
Foot in the face.
"Oh all right, I'll get up."

I detest everyone and everything at that time of the day, the cat snuggled next to me is stifling, my husband's blissful snoring is irksome, the baby's determination is maddening, the stairs are too long, the floor is too hard, the couch is intolerable.

The first glimpse of the sun is met with the sentiment "Curse you life giving star!"

Then the coffee beans get ground...
and the first wafts of the delectable brew permeate the fog around my consciousness.
With the first sip, the cranky lines around my eyes fade.
With the second sip, I feel as though I might let people live.
With the third, I am human again.

I thank the java gods for their bounty. It appears to be the key to my parenting skills.

Working with an infant...

Hahaha HA!!!

Soooo..... trying to work from home with a small and determined time sucking device attached to your hip is an exercise in frustration! However, as I need to meet statutory deadlines in my line of work, I have to do it. So here are the tools I employ to make it possible.

To begin with, I create more than one daytime play "area". Otter has two play centers, one is an exersaucer, one is a jumper. He also has a play area right by my desk, with toys and books, and one in the living room (which I can see from my desk or work in with my laptop.) I call them 'daytime' areas because they are easily and quickly packed up and put out of the way in the evening when everyone is home and we need more space. That way, his area's can interfere with walkways and other shared spaces, because he only uses them when no one but the two of us is home.

I begin my day with whichever play area he is happy in, then while he tools around in his space, I work.

When he begins to complain about his activity, I will scoop him up, cuddle a bit, nurse or play, and then set him in play area number two. Note: This is key! Do not simply pluck the baby up, and then plop them down in the next play zone without first responding to their plea for your attention. It will not work. They will not play. If you take the time to snuggle and play with them for a bit before moving on, you will be much more successful. Also, moving Oliver to another play area may at times take a rotation through all available play areas until we find one that makes him really happy. This might also take an offering of Goldfish or dried apples.

Once he is settled again, I sit down to work.

When he is no longer happy with my attention being focused on something other than him, I bring him over to my desk in his high chair and give him a snack while I work. I try and keep things that I can do while multi-tasking reserved for this time of day, so I can successfully work and play with him. When he begins to protest this set up, I will settle down with him for a solid block of snuggling, nursing, or playing, before trying it all again.

If this doesn't work, I will bring out the big guns.

What are the big guns? Things he cannot otherwise have.
For example:

• A container of baby wipes. He rejoices in pulling wipe after wipe out of the convenient container and tossing them on the floor. When desperate for work time, I will clean the floor under his highchair really well, grab a lunch baggie, and set him in his chair with a container of wipes. He will while away my work time while happily removing a wipe, studying a wipe, and then discarding the wipe. When he tires of this activity, I will pick up all the wipes, plop them into the baggie, stuff that in my diaper bag for use on the go, and send him to a different activity.

• A remote control. He loves to use the remote control, he finds it to be the most magical of all tools in the house, next to keyboards. I will hand him an old remote with the batteries taken out and set him in his play area with it. This will usually buy me a long time to work, as he never gets to play with it unless I am desperate for work time. The same goes for an old cell phone.

• Television. When I absolutely am desperate for work time, I will place him in one of his living room play areas, give him a snack, and allow him to watch Little Bill, Little Bear, or the Sunny Side Up Show. All three make him smile and laugh. This will usually buy me about 30 minutes, or if I am really lucky, an hour.

• The front door. Our front door has a window in it that Otter can see out of. If I set up a cozy space near the door and place him in it, he will usually watch the outside world for a while.

• Kitchen tools. Handing him a series of baking pans and some spoons with set him a banging for a bit. (This only works if you can either work with noise, or wear ear plugs.)
  

The biggest key to carving out time in the day to work, is being aware that the time will not be contiguous. You will not get three straight hours to immerse yourself in something unless your child takes a long, and consistent nap. Mine does not.
Therefore, prepare to be interrupted, take the interruptions as opportunities to play for a bit and have a break. Make sure to fulfill your baby's need for attention during those breaks, so that redirecting their attention to another center or toy is effective. If I don't take the time in between each center to cuddle and coddle, he doesn't play as long, or as cheerfully, and we both get cranky and frustrated!

So there you have it, my daytime work routine. I wanted to share it because it took me many months of tearful frustration to develop a method that would allow me to get in any real work during the day and I thought I might save someone else from some of that frustration by sharing my techniques.

Oh, there he goes, bidding for another cuddle break!! (Blogging counts as work too you know!)

Night terrors...

Please tell the voices in my head to shut up.

The problem with having a very active imagination and a dramatic flair is really horrible recurring nightmares.
I have always had oddly detailed freaky night terrors, dating back to my childhood, but with motherhood came new, more terrifying, ones.
Because of course now I have something really precious to lose... my children.

For a while I had nightmares of escaping a zombie invasion with my daughter, then two. I would watch zombies kill her over and over again because I simply couldn’t explain to her why she needed to be quiet while we hid from them.

However, ever since Nick drowned last year, my nightmares have taken a more horribly realistic turn.

Night after night I wake up with images of Oliver falling into a swimming pool, eyes open, little air bubbles coming out of his mouth, soft baby hair swaying with the lapping of the water.
I am underwater with him, looking up at his struggling little profile, unable to get him out.

I always wake up before he drowns, but after he has taken his first watery breath.

I wake up shaking and horrified, once again wondering if Nick was aware when he began to drown, if he felt that first breath of water, if he knew.

I can lock the images away, snuggle close to the baby and go back to a dreamless sleep, but it takes a toll.

There is another one, of Marlena, but in this one we are at the ocean.

I am there with the kids, sitting under a beach umbrella with Oliver, while I watch Marlena splash at the water’s edge. Suddenly she stumbles into the waves, and is pulled out to the sea.

I am frozen, terrified as I search for her head in the waves, holding the baby in one arm while I try to find her anywhere in the vast, deep, wholly unforgiving, sea.

I wake up before I find her, pregnant with unshed tears and terror.

I understand from a psych 101 perspective that my subconscious mind is dealing with my fear of being unable to protect my children. I get it. However, that information is very little comfort in the dark quiet parts of the night.

Snuggling my baby, checking on my little girl. Those two actions are the only things that help the sense of horror go away.

I wish I had a less creative imagination. I wish I dreamed of zombies again, or nuclear attack, or something other than the cold lonely terror of drowning.

The Argument...

The scene opens on a slightly cluttered but serene living room where a young girl watches television. She is about fifteen minutes into a half hour episode of the Wonder Pets. A contented mother is peeling apples in the kitchen, with a baby crawling around at her feet...

"Monkey, after The Wonderpets are over, you have to go clean your room." I say from the kitchen, where I am tackling an apple pie.

"Okay Mom!! I will." She happily responds, adding the finishing touches to her latest work of art.

Twenty or so minutes later, after hearing Monkey happily run upstairs to begin cleaning, I curiously poke my head back into the living room, having noticed the top of her head pop up from the depths of the couch.

"Monkey, why aren't you cleaning your room? Didn't I say you needed to go clean it after Wonder Pets?

"Look!" she says happily, pointing to the t.v."It's still on, there was another one." She settles back into the couch, confident in the security of her position.

Sigh. "Honey, turn off the television and go clean your room please."

"But Mom! You said after the Wonderpets!"

"I meant after the last Wonderpets, and you knew that, as you went upstairs to clean when it was over. Please stop delaying and go clean your room, you have been putting this off all weekend."

"Okay Mom." She grumbles, shooting me a look that clearly indicates I am currently playing the role of Evil Stepmother in her personal daytime soap opera.

About thirty minutes later, after following the faint jumping sounds into the living room...

"Monkey honey, what are you doing downstairs? Aren't you supposed to be cleaning your room?

"But Mom! I am not watching T.V.!!" She says as she hops lightly from foot to foot, clearly engaged in an invisible game of hop scotch.

Shaking off the tangent, I point out the obvious "True, but you are also not upstairs cleaning your room."

"But I am NOT watching T.V.!!" She sallies back, hands now resting on her hips, in an unconscious mimicry of me at my most irritated.

"I agree. However, you are NOT upstairs cleaning your room." I respond, fearing that maybe in my sleep I began speaking French or Russian and am therefore no longer communicating in a language she can understand.

"MOM! I AM NOT WATCHING T.V.!!" She yells, stamping her foot at the unfairness of the universe in general and me in particular.

"Monkey" I exclaim, much closer to a bellow than I like to get "You will go upstairs now and clean your room or there will be no play-date with Mariah tomorrow. Do you understand?"

"Oh!! Yes mom!" She says as she dashes up the steps into her Cinderella role once again, finally having enough motivation to tackle her most hated chore.

Working on no sleep...

Is really hard.

I got the Answer back from the DOJ (U.S. Department of Justice) in my case, and I have to review it and prepare for the next step of the case. The next step includes a settlement and/or discovery conference.

Normally this would invigorate me, but I am sitting on the tail end of a week of all night nursing sessions and 5 to 6 am rising.

The baby.... he is eeeeveeeel!!

Sadly, when I am sleep deprived, all legal-ese begins to sound like that teacher from Charlie Brown. None of it makes sense. Ugh.

Maybe there is more coffee on my horizon today than normally.

I am a little nervous about calling the DOJ to confer. My office mate is a little unruly, and he doesn't really nap at reliable times, so I am as likely to confer in between bouts of head-bonk induced tears as I am in civilized silence.

This would be an issue of working from home. I doubt most lawyers have partners banging wooden blocks onto the floor or plastic drums urging them to "cantamos and bailamos" in the background of their conference calls.

I recognize that working from home is becoming more acceptable, and therefore there is a small amount of baby interference to be expected, but I am not sure the DOJ is ready for a true Otter experience. He likes to talk into the phone, and to eat the phone, and most of my phone calls are spent trying to fight off his attempts to wrest the device away from me.

If he is awake, and I am on the phone, it will only take him a moment or two to notice that the fun speaking toy is out, and be interested in using it.

Sigh, he is back to pulling wipes out of the box and distributing them all over the floor. I should go retrieve them.

Please wish me luck, and a long nap for Otter, when it is time to make the call.

Sidelined...

This morning I dropped Monkey off at school like usual, but today one of her friends was going in the building at the same time. She shouted her name out and ran up to her. I watched my girl shake her hair out of her face, sling her backpack over one shoulder, and settle in to an animated conversation with her friend as they strolled into the building.

Suddenly, it struck me how grown up she has become. I flashed back to my own youth, and the sense of individual freedom that came with leaving my mother's car and settling in to walk into the building with a friend. I remember distinctly the feeling of independence and the feeling of starting my day.

My little girl, the one who grew in my tummy, who nursed at my breast, who followed me everywhere I went, has her own life. A life that starts when I leave her side. She has her own conversations, her own relationships, her own troubles, and I don't see or hear them. They exist outside of my life.

My baby is growing up.

As I watched her walk away from me and into her day I felt oddly bereft. I have always felt that motherhood is a touch cruel. It begins with the closest connection you can have between two people, the growing of a baby and the complete dependence of an infant then it becomes an exercise in teaching that baby to leave your side. Each day after birth is about teaching them to leave your side, to be independent, to stretch and in some ways break, that initial baby connection.

Ours is broken. My little baby girl has broken out of her dependence on me. She has her own little life, a complete world, without me in it.

It's no wonder we are finding it hard to connect these days. I have been trying to hold onto my baby, and I should have been trying to connect with my young woman. She doesn't need me to be there for everything anymore, in fact, she needs me to leave her on her own to figure things out, and to only come to her aid when she seeks me out.

It is time for me to let her break that initial bond, in exchange for a new, more peer-like bond. It is time for me to listen to her, and to consider her view point and her ideas, for they are no longer mirrors of my own. It is time for me to treat her more like her own complete person, and less like an extension of myself.

It is time for me stand back, watch her walk away, and try not to look too sad as I wait for her on the sidelines.

A sleeping solution...

Thank you all for your support, commiseration, and advice! I think I may have hit upon a solution to my nighttime nursing sleeplessness.

Ellen sent me an article about co-sleeping that turned out to be very helpful, though not because of the advice in offered in ending night nursing.

The doctor in the article reinforced my belief that co-sleeping and night nursing is good. He also used a phrase that inspired me; "I love the family bed, child-led weaning and cuddling all through the first, second, third year or more if it's working well and if the family is doing well."

It was the word cuddling. Every night, Otter has been trying to get closer and closer to me, and I have been pushing him back to the middle of the bed so I can get some sleep.

Last night, I tried cuddling. When I came into bed, Otter woke up and began to protest as usual. Instead of nursing him and pushing him over, I simply snuggled him up to me and closed my eyes. He talked a little, wiggled a bit, and then fell asleep.

All night long, whenever he woke to nurse, I would nurse him, and then cuddle up to him to sleep.

We slept a lot. In fact, we slept an hour later than normal. Instead of being patted and petted and smacked and yanked on all night, I was cuddled around a soft fuzzy baby head, and sleeping. He was warm and cozy, and apparently contented with the new arrangement.

I feel great! Not only did I get to sleep last night, but it was painless, and snuggly, and fun. The article helped me remember that I love co-sleeping because it's warm and cuddly, not because it's the best sleep of my life. I had forgotten to snuggle the baby. I hope my pro active approach to nighttime snuggles will continue to sooth the wakeful baby, and increase the amount of time I get to sleep.

Mommy Melt...

I am a melted mommy, an official puddle of mommy goo.

Today my son, at nine months, patted me.

We were getting out of the shower and standing around dripping while I looked for towels when I felt it. Pat, pat, pat on my shoulder.

"Oh!" I said, "Are you patting me?"

Pat, pat, pat.

"Oh you sweet baby! You are patting me!"

I patted him on the back.

He patted me on the back.

Those tiny little baby hands patted me, and I melted, because for the first time, my baby was comforting me.

5 days without my spouse... or Murphy's Law.

So on Sunday night my darling husband hopped a plane to Las Vegas to attend the Consumer Trade Show and sell his company's cool new stuff.

Aware that I was about to embark on five days alone with the children, I bid him farewell with some trepidation, but assumed I would have a decent week. A harder week maybe, a more tiring week perhaps, but a decent one. My concerns increased slightly with the hint of migraine that had been teasing me all week, but I am made of steel baby!!

I did not count on Murphy's Law. The following is a list of the things that occurred during his absence, in addition to simply having two children and the pets all to myself all week.

Monday:

I awoke at 7 a.m. to the two sleeping faces in bed with me. I had allowed Monkey to sleep over with me as Lee was not there to hog all the bed real estate. I gently woke her up, and learned she had wet the bed. I stripped the sheets and tossed the in the wash.

While Devon was walking the dogs for me, an aggressive Golden Retriever (WTF?? It's like the only aggressive Golden Retriever in the entire world) got out of it's house and attacked my dear Bella. Devon and the owner of the AGR pulled the dogs apart and Devon brought her to me. I examined her and discovered a cut just below her eye. I washed it out, and Devon went to work.

Otter began to get very clingy, so I carried him around all morning. Come lunchtime, I was still carrying him while I attempted to make soup, one handed. I drove myself to the ER, with Oliver in tow, and ended up (four hours later) with four stitches, a huge bandage, and instructions not to use my left hand for the next three days. (Right.) My friend Susan picked Marlena up from school and cooked us dinner that night, bless her very golden heart.

I got home from Susan's, cleaned up the soup and blood in the kitchen, tossed Marlena into bed, and then attempted to put my sheets on the bed with one hand.

Tuesday:

Having discovered that it is next to impossible to diaper and change a wiggly baby one handed, I put a load of jammies in the wash so I could avoid complicated snap arrangements and rely on footy jams and zippers.

I carry Otter downstairs and discover that Bella snuck down from the bedroom at some point during the night and peed and shat all over the floor by the back door. Yay.

I drove Monkey to school a little early so I could drop a Salvation Army donation off at a friend's house before the truck got there, only to learn that Monkey was supposed to bring her favorite stuffy to school with her (I gathered this info from the few words she was able to choke out between sobs). I dropped the bags off (the driver was kinds enough to wait a minute for me to get there) and then raced back home, grabbed the bear, and then drove it to school. (I later learned that the activity had been moved to the next day, because so many children forgot their stuffies.)

I came home, cleaned the dog poo up one handed, mopped the floor, and then went to handle Sir Clingirificus Maximus.

I discovered that night that Devon likely had to be at the office until almost 9 p.m., so the dogs were going to be walked very late all week. I went to PetSmart and bought tethers. The dogs can at least be outside for a while. (I will not walk the dogs at this point because the one time I walked them with the baby they saw a cat, lunged at it, pulled me over the stroller, knocking it over in the process, and drug me several feet over our rock driveway.)

Wednesday:

I woke up to piles of cat vomit all over the house. Upstairs, downstairs, they were admirably non-discriminatory in the placement of their hairball disposal. All rooms were equally polluted.

My phone began saying it can only make emergency calls. It turns out that my SIM card was a little loose, and all I needed to do was remove it and put it back, but in order to learn that I had to call my husband at the trade show on a phone he can't hear or feel to have him call t-mobile to see what was happening to my phone. Once again, I encouraged him to add me back on as a co-owner of the account.

The rest of the day was good, aside from Otter's continuous clinginess and his repeated attempts to stun me with a solid knock from his head. Oh yeah, and the part where he grabbed my eyelid and yanked as hard as I have ever felt him yank, oh, and the part where he bit the hell out of my arm in the morning, right, and the part where he kicked me in the nose. (I had one of those moments when I realized if he was a good 30 years older all my friends would be telling me to value myself more, handing me cycle of violence brochures, and urging me to create a safety plan.)

Thursday (Today):

I had to take Otter for his well baby visit in the morning. I got lost on the way, and it took forever to get there. However, the visit was pleasant. He weighs 28 pounds and 5 and a half ounces, is 32 inches long, and has a huge head. Then I learned he was missing some vaccinations (I am not sure why, but he has them now) so I was told to wait while they figured out the best course of action.

While we were waiting, I was holding him in the hallway and he looked at me and said "Ma ma". I melted, I twirled him, I kissed his pudgy cheeks, and then I held him down while the nurse gave him four shots. So much for positive reinforcement, let's just see if he'll say that again!

Then I took his little cranky and tired soul home, only to have him refuse a nap, slam me with his head a bunch, and then smear his first hard-boiled egg yolk all over himself and his tray. Just try cleaning egg yolk off a baby with only one hand.

Monkey arranged a playdate for the afternoon, so I took Otter to the doctor I had been referred to for my wound check. For some asinine reason, the doc they sent me to is over half an hour away, in good traffic. There are a million docs right in town, but no, they have to send me to the far reaches of Siberia to get my stitches examined. It took forever to get there, and forever to get back. Otter had developed a fever on the way there, and did not take kindly to being in yet another doctor's office. It was an exhausting trip.

The good news, I have a band-aid over my stitches, instead of a hugely bulky bandage, and the cut is healing well.

Well, that was it. Except that it's 9:30 and my roomie still hasn't come home to walk the dogs, but they were tethered outside for a while to the back room floor should be safe.

I personally don't think Lee should ever be allowed to leave town again.

Looking for my long red cape...

When I was a child, I wanted to see the world. As a young woman, I wanted to save the world. As an adult, I simply wanted to survive in the world. As I got older, I lost my red cape amidst the muzzy muck of daily life. Now, as a mother, I am looking through the attic to find that little bit of superhero I used to be.

I am a busy woman, with a family to care for, a house to clean, and a business to run. I do not have much time to devote to securing a better future for my kids, and myself. As an environmental attorney, I get to do some good, but let's face it, working from home with an infant means a severe reduction in the amount of cases I can handle. I simply don't have many solid hours to research and work in my day. So I have been looking for more ways to help, and ways that don't take too long, or cost too much.

Each morning I click on the Hunger Site, the Breast Cancer site, the Child Health site, the Literacy site, the Rainforest site, and the Animal rescue site. I also purchase as many of my gifts as I can from the Greater Good Stores, which are connected to these sites and donate additional resources when you purchase from them. However, the majority of their success comes from the few seconds of clicking people do every day, so you can make a big difference with no money spent and only a few seconds a day.
In 2007, the sites and stores provided:
53.6 million cups of food for the hungry
7,151 mammograms to women in need
Medical care to 657,619 children around the globe
328,072 books for children
Resources to save 10,155 acres of rainforest
and
42.7 million bowls of food to animal rescue.

I donate clothes my family is no longer using to the Salvation Army. The clothes are usually still in good condition, but no longer fit or are simply no longer being used. At least I know they are going somewhere good.

I test my language skills on FreeRice.com, and donate rice to the hungry. The site provides you with a word and four possible definitions. For each one you get correct, the site donates 20 grains of rice to the U.N. So far I have donated 6320 grains of rice. (My mother is in the tens of thousands. Go MOM!)

My roommate suggested I offset my carbon emissions from driving and flying with Carbonfund.org. Carbon offsets enable anyone to reduce their climate footprint by supporting projects that reduce carbon dioxide emissions to balance out one’s own carbon footprint. It is a new thing for me, but I think I can offset all my family's carbon output for about $250.00 a year. It will feel good to be carbon neutral.

I am looking for more simple, easy, and effective ways to help the world. Hopefully, I will be able to teach my children to give back as well. Maybe if I find enough of these little ways to help, I can feel as though I have recaptured my inner superhero.

Does anyone else have any good ways to help?