Breastfeeding, A Haiku.
Baby is screaming
Tits start leaking everywhere
Just call me Daisy
Oh, the magical bonding experience of having a squirmy, ten pound leech sucking the life out of you through your surprisingly stretchy nipples. Riiiiiight. Now don't go telling those La Leche League Nazis, but sometimes... breastfeeding kinda sucks.
Like when after the little man finally falls asleep after a 45 minute suck-a-thon and you finally get the chance to pee, throw his daily collection of spitup encrusted onesies into the washing machine, pull out a box of Stouffer's lasagna from the freezer-- aaaaaand he's crying again. What the hell?! Where two boobs-ful of milk can go in the hour and fifteen minutes since he last ate is one of the great mysteries of infancy. Either way, he's screaming like he hasn't eaten in a week and the two rapidly spreading wet spots on my t-shirt are telling me it's feeding time at the Anglim Zoo. Fabulous! Seriously, I don't even know why I bother with a shirt half the time. You know? I should just wander around topless, bambino swinging from one boob... very National Geographic.
Don't get me wrong, most of the time the whole experience is pretty sweet. He's awfully cuddly and I've been lucky enough to be spared some of the brutal horrors I've heard about from other new mamas. Cracked, bleeding nipples? Tiny gnawing gums? Yeesh. And on the bright side, I've gotten pretty damn good at one handed, well, everything. And by the time Ian's finally on solid foods and sippy cups I'm gonna be rocking Madonna guns! Sweet!
Just for once I'd like to feel more like a mommy and less like a freaking dairy cow. Ah, a heifer can dream...
With love and lactation,
a.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Blog, Interrupted...
It goes without saying that I am a completely shitty blogger. It's been over a month since the spawn arrived, and all I've managed is one measly little post consisting of one sentence, a photo, and an assortment of baby stats. Lame. But whatever, I'm a stay at home mum with an infant. And that's my newest favorite excuse for... well, everything. Couldn't manage to get my teeth brushed before three pm? I have an infant! Haven't cleaned out the refrigerator since my eighth month of pregnancy? Sorry-- newborn! Basically given up on ever finishing all these thank you cards? You get the picture.
Ugh. It's not that I don't want to write, it's just that when faced with the choice to either eat or write a 500 word essay on my labor experience, I'm going to go with the former every time. And anyway, I can sum up the whole childbirthin' experience like this: 1-7 centimeters dilated? Cake. 7-10? Murder. In fact, that gives me a really good idea. Since I'm working on borrowed time right now (never know when Mini Musselini is going to wake up), I'm just going to give single sentence opinions on a bunch of baby related topics and h
Labor: 19 hours of mild to moderate cramps, 2 hours of "kill me now" mind blowing agony.
Ian's first 30 seconds of life: "Eww-- He looks like an alien!"
Ian's next 30 seconds of life: "Oh, my God he's beautiful!"
My post baby body: Skinny again, but made of jello.
Breastfeeding: Huge boobs, happy baby, happier husband.
Diapers: From poop to powder, changes are now clocking in at under 60 seconds.
Sleep: Ha, just kidding.
And as for the baby himself, well... he's awesome. Like seriously. Great hair, good sleeper, high tolerance for unnecessarily loud voices. He can also already hold his head up, reach for toys and laugh. And he's figured out how to text message in his vote for Dancing with the Stars, but, you know, I don't want to brag. Personality-wise (yes, newborns have personality. In fact, wee man has more personality in one of his wet diapers than the entire cast of The Hills combined.), he's surprisingly mellow with the most expressive face I've ever seen. Who knew month old babies could emote "disgust" or "indecision" or "passion"? Okay, well "indecision" might actually be just gas... we're not exactly sure. Either way, he's endlessly entertaining (if you're into poop explosions and endless hiccups, like me) and even has a definite set of likes and dislikes. See below:
Ugh. It's not that I don't want to write, it's just that when faced with the choice to either eat or write a 500 word essay on my labor experience, I'm going to go with the former every time. And anyway, I can sum up the whole childbirthin' experience like this: 1-7 centimeters dilated? Cake. 7-10? Murder. In fact, that gives me a really good idea. Since I'm working on borrowed time right now (never know when Mini Musselini is going to wake up), I'm just going to give single sentence opinions on a bunch of baby related topics and h
Labor: 19 hours of mild to moderate cramps, 2 hours of "kill me now" mind blowing agony.
Ian's first 30 seconds of life: "Eww-- He looks like an alien!"
Ian's next 30 seconds of life: "Oh, my God he's beautiful!"
My post baby body: Skinny again, but made of jello.
Breastfeeding: Huge boobs, happy baby, happier husband.
Diapers: From poop to powder, changes are now clocking in at under 60 seconds.
Sleep: Ha, just kidding.
And as for the baby himself, well... he's awesome. Like seriously. Great hair, good sleeper, high tolerance for unnecessarily loud voices. He can also already hold his head up, reach for toys and laugh. And he's figured out how to text message in his vote for Dancing with the Stars, but, you know, I don't want to brag. Personality-wise (yes, newborns have personality. In fact, wee man has more personality in one of his wet diapers than the entire cast of The Hills combined.), he's surprisingly mellow with the most expressive face I've ever seen. Who knew month old babies could emote "disgust" or "indecision" or "passion"? Okay, well "indecision" might actually be just gas... we're not exactly sure. Either way, he's endlessly entertaining (if you're into poop explosions and endless hiccups, like me) and even has a definite set of likes and dislikes. See below:
Likes
boobs, Dalí posters, headbutts, bath time, off track betting, the sound of the blender, rocking out.
"Sweeeeeeeeeeet."
Dislikes
loaded diapers, socks, the proposed gas tax holiday, car seats, Law & Order C.I. episodes featuring Chris Noth
Dislikes
loaded diapers, socks, the proposed gas tax holiday, car seats, Law & Order C.I. episodes featuring Chris Noth
"Where the hell is D'Onofrio?"
Speak of the little devil, I hear him now. And singing the opening verse of "Largo al Factotum", no less! I think. Then again, he might just be crying. You know us new parents...
With love and gloating,
a.
With love and gloating,
a.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Be careful what you wish for...
...Because you just might get it. "It", in this case, being third trimester bed rest. Somewhere around my second or third month of pregnancy when I was misera-- excuse me, when I thought I knew what misery was, I may or may not have mentioned to the mister (and anyone else who'd listen) that I'd really kill to be put on doctor mandated bed rest. At the time, being required to keep my feet up for the majority of my day sounded like a much needed respite from daily chores and, you know, life. I daydreamed about afternoons spent curled up on the couch with a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a Platinum Weddings marathon on WE and not a soul to call me lazy. I imagined evenings with my feet up, reading classic literature while Mister A toiled away in the kitchen whipping up dinners. But being perfectly healthy, the midwife pretty much laughed me out of the examining room when I mentioned my dreams of sloth.
Cut to last week when I complained about sharp, shooting pains all up in my womanly parts at my prenatal appointment and was informed that between my mushy cervix and the fact that Baby Bat Boy was already hanging way low ("No wonder you're uncomfortable, you've got a baby in your butt!"), I should prolly be on modified bed rest, keeping my feet elevated for a good chunk of my day. Finally! BED REST!! I could hardly wait to get home and kick my heels up.
Stupid stupid me. Less than a week later, here I sit, grouchy, bored, lonesome, and achy. Oh, sure, I guess it's for the best seeing as how I haven't been able to throw myself into preterm labor after a particularly vigorous floor scrubbing episode (as my mother feared)... but God help me, does it suck. Turns out that contrary to popular belief (or at least the belief of the entire program scheduling department at VH1 and MTV), there really are only so many times that you can hear Tyra Banks whisper, "The girl whose name I do not call must immediately return to the house, pack her belongings, and go home." before being overcome with the overwhelming urge to fling yourself out a window. Equally frustrating is when Mr. A gets home and asks, "So, do anything fun today?" and the best thing I can offer is what boils down to a five hour program listing from Bravo. That or a detailed description of what I found at the bottom of the washing machine after failing to check his pants pockets before doing the laundry. Yeah, thrilling stuff.
Anyway, it's only for another week or so when I finally hit 37 weeks and can go into labor without fear, but I can guarantee that it's going to be one of the longest weeks of my life. So, for those of you who haven't got anything better to do (or actually do, but realize that you may well be saving my last shreds of sanity) feel free to swing by with Slurpees, assorted cheeses, seedless red grapes, Klondike bars, or cupcakes and make my little stint on house arrest that much more bearable. I promise I'll even shower for the occasion!
With love and bedsores,
a.
Cut to last week when I complained about sharp, shooting pains all up in my womanly parts at my prenatal appointment and was informed that between my mushy cervix and the fact that Baby Bat Boy was already hanging way low ("No wonder you're uncomfortable, you've got a baby in your butt!"), I should prolly be on modified bed rest, keeping my feet elevated for a good chunk of my day. Finally! BED REST!! I could hardly wait to get home and kick my heels up.
Stupid stupid me. Less than a week later, here I sit, grouchy, bored, lonesome, and achy. Oh, sure, I guess it's for the best seeing as how I haven't been able to throw myself into preterm labor after a particularly vigorous floor scrubbing episode (as my mother feared)... but God help me, does it suck. Turns out that contrary to popular belief (or at least the belief of the entire program scheduling department at VH1 and MTV), there really are only so many times that you can hear Tyra Banks whisper, "The girl whose name I do not call must immediately return to the house, pack her belongings, and go home." before being overcome with the overwhelming urge to fling yourself out a window. Equally frustrating is when Mr. A gets home and asks, "So, do anything fun today?" and the best thing I can offer is what boils down to a five hour program listing from Bravo. That or a detailed description of what I found at the bottom of the washing machine after failing to check his pants pockets before doing the laundry. Yeah, thrilling stuff.
Anyway, it's only for another week or so when I finally hit 37 weeks and can go into labor without fear, but I can guarantee that it's going to be one of the longest weeks of my life. So, for those of you who haven't got anything better to do (or actually do, but realize that you may well be saving my last shreds of sanity) feel free to swing by with Slurpees, assorted cheeses, seedless red grapes, Klondike bars, or cupcakes and make my little stint on house arrest that much more bearable. I promise I'll even shower for the occasion!
With love and bedsores,
a.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Three things you didn't need to know...
1. I'm drowning in my own mucus. Tasty! For some reason, I'll spare you the biology lesson, pregnancy equals nasal issues. In the first few months, that meant I was squirting Afrin like a fiend and snoring like a beast because I was so stuffed up I could hardly breathe. But now that I'm here at the end of the road, it means I'm dripping like a faucet and running through about a box of Kleenex a week. Lucky for me, who doesn't love the honking symphony of clearing one's nasal passages every ten minutes? Good times.
2. I need to up my daily Kegel count. To keep things hot in the bedroom? No. To help avoid tears during birth? No. Because it's a great way to pass the time when being bored to death during one of the mister's rambling stories? No. I need to up my daily Kegel count because I am now afraid to laugh, cough, or sneeze without being within three feet of a restroom. Yeah, that's right. I leak. Shut up, it's just a little! So far it's only happened twice, and (until I brilliantly decided to go public just now) no one was the wiser, but that's two times too many. Think I'm gross? Well, you're right. But then so is every other pregnant lady in town. In fact, there's even a chapter in one of my pregnancy books called, "Urine for a lot of fun!". Yup, nothing like having six pounds of fidgety baby bouncing on your bladder to bring on the incontinence. God, I miss having control over my bodily functions.
3. I'm mushy. Not in a Hallmark channel movie of the week sort of way (I'm having a baby, people, not a lobotomy), but in a "Hey, you're a centimeter dilated!" way. "Mushy" was my midwife's exact choice of words when describing what she felt while elbow deep into my lady bits and poking around like they do. And in case you were wondering, this is in fact a good thing. Ten centimeters is a whole lot of dilatin' to get through... any little bit helps. So let's just hope my cervix isn't on the fast track to baby birthing and I end up dropping foal like a horse in the middle of the mall. Ew.
Yeah yeah yeah, don't thank me for all this unnecessary and slightly disturbing information. Pregnancy isn't always pretty in case you haven't yet caught on. I'm just trying to keep it real. And if this is the stuff that I was actually okay discussing, imagine what kind of craziness I've chosen not to share with you? Actually, don't, you'll make yourself sick. But whatever. I'll be 36 weeks along tomorrow... which means that within one to five weeks, I will have a baby. A real, live, eating, shitting, screaming little person of my very own. And then the bitchefest will move out of body and you'll get to hear all about my fun with exploding diapers and what it's like to live on 3 hours of sleep a day! Excited yet? You know I am.
With love and fart (typo, but I'm keeping it) too much information,
a.
2. I need to up my daily Kegel count. To keep things hot in the bedroom? No. To help avoid tears during birth? No. Because it's a great way to pass the time when being bored to death during one of the mister's rambling stories? No. I need to up my daily Kegel count because I am now afraid to laugh, cough, or sneeze without being within three feet of a restroom. Yeah, that's right. I leak. Shut up, it's just a little! So far it's only happened twice, and (until I brilliantly decided to go public just now) no one was the wiser, but that's two times too many. Think I'm gross? Well, you're right. But then so is every other pregnant lady in town. In fact, there's even a chapter in one of my pregnancy books called, "Urine for a lot of fun!". Yup, nothing like having six pounds of fidgety baby bouncing on your bladder to bring on the incontinence. God, I miss having control over my bodily functions.
3. I'm mushy. Not in a Hallmark channel movie of the week sort of way (I'm having a baby, people, not a lobotomy), but in a "Hey, you're a centimeter dilated!" way. "Mushy" was my midwife's exact choice of words when describing what she felt while elbow deep into my lady bits and poking around like they do. And in case you were wondering, this is in fact a good thing. Ten centimeters is a whole lot of dilatin' to get through... any little bit helps. So let's just hope my cervix isn't on the fast track to baby birthing and I end up dropping foal like a horse in the middle of the mall. Ew.
Yeah yeah yeah, don't thank me for all this unnecessary and slightly disturbing information. Pregnancy isn't always pretty in case you haven't yet caught on. I'm just trying to keep it real. And if this is the stuff that I was actually okay discussing, imagine what kind of craziness I've chosen not to share with you? Actually, don't, you'll make yourself sick. But whatever. I'll be 36 weeks along tomorrow... which means that within one to five weeks, I will have a baby. A real, live, eating, shitting, screaming little person of my very own. And then the bitchefest will move out of body and you'll get to hear all about my fun with exploding diapers and what it's like to live on 3 hours of sleep a day! Excited yet? You know I am.
With love and fart (typo, but I'm keeping it) too much information,
a.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Ikea, easier said than done...
The couple that builds together, stays together. Usually because their names are then forever intertwined in a headline that also includes the words, "Murder/Suicide", but you get the point. Having been a veteran of Ikea's baffling wordless directions and fondness for allen wrenches, I was prepared upon toting out 25 pound Box O' Table home for a three hour ordeal peppered with a liberal dose of profanity. But it was great fun watching our marriage teeter on the edge of dissolution over whether illustrations of wood with dots on the edge was or was not meant to be a representation of it's unfinished nature. FYI, I'm kidding. Also, it is. I don't know what it is about do it yourself home furnishing projects that tends to bring out the worst in people, but I think it has something to do with men's Manly Mr. Fix-It fantasy slamming up against the bleak reality of bad instructions and a nagging wife. Not fun. But either way, we finally cooled off, split a six pack of Red Stripe, pulled it together, and got the TV stand set up without actually coming to blows. Oh, and don't mind that pile of screws... they must've included extra!
With love and a screwdriver,
a.
With love and a screwdriver,
a.
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