The Long and Winding Road

...has led to blog neglect. I will, I will, I will write soon. I have to.

I'm Only Sleeping

Exhaustion has a way of taking your goals, lofty or otherwise, and squashing them much like I would a mosquito that just sticks its evil little proboscis into my forearm.

What I'm getting at here is that I am tired. I'm not talking about your run-of-mill-I-worked-a-long-day tired, but more like who-just-spiked-my-macchiato-with-roofies? kind of deal. By the time my husband gets home from work, which is on average around 5:30 (yes, I consider myself lucky on that front), my irises have been replaced by animated spirals and my tongue is lolling out of my mouth. Being pregnant can be relentlessly exhausting, especially in the first and last trimesters (I'm presently in the latter), and so can entertaining and chasing a highly inquisitive and active 12 month-old boy; a combination of the two creates a cocktail of fatigue that I've never before encountered. (Not to mention that I'm also dealing with an increasingly moody 'tween.) Perhaps in the near future I'll come up with a new word that can describe my present state of being.

Okay, so I'm complaining here, but I think I've managed to get my point across. I. Am. Tired.

But what I really want to say is how my level of exhaustion has managed to turn me into a lifeless blob on the couch, evening after evening. Against my better judgment, I sit on the couch each night in order to squeeze in some quality time (or speechless next-to time) with my husband. I guess that my desire to be near my husband for just a few hours each night overrides my passion for a longer get-together with our Tempurpedic (shameless plug here...).

Before I became pregnant this time 'round, I had plans to chase after my above-mentioned little guy, agonize over homework with my 'tween, and work on a children's book that I began writing last year for a grad school class. Knowing how tired I am, my girlfriend suggested starting a blog--something less daunting than a novel with which to wet my feet.

Problem is, I can't even seem to muster the energy to blog. Well, maybe I could get it up to type, but to actually think? We're talking about using several parts of the brain at once in order for that to happen. Typing is so much more simple. Kind of like breathing.

So, what prompted and produced some writing this evening? That's easy. I threw my back out on Mother's Day (not exactly the kind of stay-in-bed-and-get-waited-on-all-day celebration of motherhood I had in mind) and have since been making a concerted effort to rest. Also, at the moment, my husband is running a call for work, my little one is sleeping, and my oldest is reading in bed. As far as the actual production of the written word, I can only surmise that I've been overcome by a sudden and inexplicable surge in synapse activity.

If my karma has finally managed to right itself (dear god, I hope it has), my post-pregnancy hormones will harmonize, I'll endure a month or two of newborn-related fatigue (which also deserves its very own term), and I'll be back to feeling human at some point not terribly far in the future, all of which are far more conducive to both thinking (or at least thinking clearly) and being productive.

That all being said, I'm winding down into my oft-state of drooling incoherence, in five-four-three-two...

How Mr. Butch Unwittingly Arranged My Marriage

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the legendary Mr. Butch, he was a tall, wiry black man with a guitar strapped to his back; the self-pronounced Mayor of Kenmore Square, a bustling and once-hip Boston neighborhood (and home to the now-defunct Rathskeller “The Rat” nightclub, may you rest in peace); a punk rock street prophet who often asked whether or not you recently paid your taxes to him, but wouldn't bat an eyelash to offer up whatever he had, be it pot, beer, or cash; a unique, charismatic, and salty man who often crashed on people's floors and in their basements, as he had no home of his own. Tragically, Mr. Butch died during the summer of 2007 in a motor scooter accident in Allston, another Boston neighborhood that he commanded after being tossed out of Kenmore Square by the police (via Boston University officials who were “cleaning up” the area).

My husband, Vin, runs a MySpace page in honor of Mr. Butch, which he created in October of 2005. I spotted Mr. Butch's profile on a friend's page in January, 2007, and promptly sent a friend request and a brief message thanking “fake” Mr. Butch for honoring the real one. Fake Mr. Butch and I back-and-forthed briefly before I asked his identity (I made a judgment about the sex of Fake Mr. Butch), wondering if he is someone I know.

Fake Butch sent me to his actual profile and we started sending occasional messages to one another, bs'ing about music, t.v., and our lives. It was all pretty detached and fun for several months, as Fake Butch had a long-time girlfriend and I didn't think twice about involving myself--a single mother--with a tethered man 9 years my junior.

Then we decided to meet.

In making that decision, I was thinking along the lines of a new friendship with an interesting guy. Granted, there was a definite level of curiosity (my usual state of being), but I was often alone and bored every other weekend when my son has visits with his father. So, why not meet someone new and be entertained?

Vin drove to my house and came in for a few minutes so we could acquaint ourselves. (But why was I nervous and sweating???) We rode in his truck to a nearby Starbucks where I grew increasingly uncomfortable with and embarrassed by my apparent giddiness, which Vin inquired about. “Are you always this bubbly?” Me? Bubbly? “No, not really,” I truthfully replied. After coffee, we went back to my house and watched Little Miss Sunshine (love it!) while I self-consciously curled-up on my couch (Is he looking at me? How do I look? What's his angle? What is he thinking?) and he sat on a nearby chair. We hung out and talked for a while after the movie ended, intermittently watching a music infomercial (featuring Air Supply and the crappy like).

He must have left at about 1:30 AM, though I felt like hanging out and talking more. (Was I afraid of imminent boredom on a Saturday or was something else going on?) I was pleased (huh?) to see a message from him about 40 minutes later and we proceeded to send messages to each other until 4:30 AM.

From there, we went on a platonic "date" to SpiderMan 3, I received a dozen red roses (hmmm, some friend), and we talked about this seemingly messy situation that was clearly moving in an un-platonic direction. Then, more hanging out, more conversations, more red roses, and a break with the on-again/off-again girlfriend.

Never would I have predicted this for myself. We first met in person on April 21, 2007, and if you had asked me the day before where I'd be in 3 years, I would have reluctantly answered “Single mother. Teacher. Definitely headed for spinsterhood (though by definition a spinster is childless).” Yet here we are, married on June 20, 2008 and parents to my oldest “baby” Trevor, our own beautiful creation, Kai, and another baby (girl, we're almost sure?) on the way in July.

Oddly enough, I think we were the least likely candidates in each other's minds. But something happened, something which I cannot explain with words, other than to say that I fell madly and deeply in love with this man in such a way that I had not before experienced.

Before we started dating, Vin sent a message asking me to close my eyes, think of what I would say if someone said “Vin Dancer” to me, and give him an honest response. Instantly, I knew the answer, though I was forced to lie:

“My future husband,” I thought crazily to myself. Talk about a psychological double-take. I know I'm a bit off-center, but this?

Who knew that Mr. Butch would lend such a pivotal hand in uniting me with the love of my life? I couldn't imagine a better love story. At least for us.

Mr. Butch, I owe you one...

Annoyance with Craigslist

Just a super quick vent here. Well, maybe not super quick, but quick enough. I have been scouring Craigslist (CL) for both cloth diapers and double strollers and we actually hit on a great deal with a double stroller last week--a Safety 1st double tandem that safely houses our Chicco car seat (the one that we used for Kai and will use for our impending arrival. It was $45 and retails for $170. Awesome! Plus, it's in excellent condition.

My criticism is that we have NOT found any deals at all on cloth diapers. People act like they're selling a painting by an Italian master, for chrissakes. Come on, your child(ren) repeatedly defiled them and the diapers are NOT worthy of 3/4 of the original price. One woman had the audacity to ask 4/5 of the retail price! Ugh!

Honestly, people are damn nervy when it comes to selling stuff on CL. I have never sold anything at all for more than half the retail price. And that goes for stuff that's brand new, too. Not to mention that we are pretty frugal.

So, people-who-sell-crap-for-way-too-much-money-on-Craigslist, stick a diaper pin in it!

A Comedy of Errors, Minus the Laughs

This week I had the rare opportunity to go to my monthly OB appointment sans baby (thanks, Mom!). A typical visit involves a constant vigil to entertain my incredibly active almost-toddler. Instead, I sat back on the couch in the waiting room and grabbed Pregnancy magazine, getting hooked on a two page ad for bumGenius cloth diapers, and its 10% off coupon. Not being one to surreptitiously shove office magazines into my bag, I held up the magazine to Kate, my OB’s aging hippie receptionist, and before I got my question out, she said, “Yes, take it, they’re free.”

When I got home, and without actually meaning to do so, I found myself reading the article, Dealing with Breastfeeding Bullies, written by Nanny Stella of Nanny 911. I guess I have a bit of a breastfeeding fire lit under my ass lately, most recently due to a gaggle of radical nursing Nazis on Facebook who were admonishing moms who formula feed. Naturally, it got me thinking about my own nursing experience with my youngest child, Kai. (Due to several factors, some of which are admittedly selfish, I never even attempted to nurse my oldest child, Trevor. Regrettably. That being said, I developed a devotion to nursing the next child.)

The plan was to nurse Kai upwards of a year, something totally doable considering that I am a stay at home mom. My husband and I invested in a Medela InStyle double pump and a ton of nursing necessities that quickly added up to a few bucks. Money well spent, right? Not really.

I began acclimating Kai to nursing when he was just an hour or so old. That was on a Thursday. By Saturday, my nipples were in pretty rough shape, my milk was coming in with a vengeance, and Kai began to cluster feed, a term with which I was unfamiliar and that translates to “Welcome to Hell!” But, hey, Kai made up for the cluster feed by sleeping all morning on Sunday. In fact, he had slept for such a long stretch that I suspected the nurses of slipping him a bottle of formula. I was told that his last feeding was with me, early Sunday morning. Paranoia unfounded.

Before being discharged that day, I attended a nursing class, for good measure, to make sure that I was doing all that I could to ensure a successful experience for both of us. All was smooth until 11:30 PM Monday evening, when Kai began to cluster feed again. It lasted until about, oh, 4’something AM Tuesday morning! (Now you know what cluster feeding is…)

The cluster feed came to an abrupt halt as my husband—beside himself with exhaustion and frustration from listening to my escalating sobs and Kai’s hungry screams—did the unthinkable. He gave Kai a bottle of formula. On one hand, Kai was able to satisfy his hunger (after all, he was a full 10 pounds at birth!) and we were all able to fall asleep shortly thereafter. On the other hand, Kai immediately began to refuse my nipples, which I was hoping wouldn’t happen.

Over the next day or two, I arduously worked on both getting Kai to latch on to me again, while supplementing with both formula and pumped breast milk, and getting my nipples back into shape with some APNO (all purpose nipple ointment—a pricey cure-all made by an apothecary pharmacy) cream. Just when things were looking brighter, I developed mastitis in my right breast, leaving me feverish and hopeless in bed, ready to give up on nursing, something that I naively thought was going to be easy and fluid. I was started on antibiotics (I could continue nursing on them) and immediately began to increase the frequency with which I pumped to increase my milk production and unblock the duct, all the while trying to get Kai to re-latch. I also began reaching out to other nursing mothers and got in touch my local La Leche League, desperate to continue nursing.

In the course of reaching out, a couple of women enlightened me about nipple shields and I felt like we would be back on track in no time! The universe saw differently, though. Kai had stringy, bloody, mucous-y poop in several of his diapers, alarming both his father and me. We went to Kai’s pediatrician the following day, armed with a plastic bag full of soiled diapers. “Oh, he’s got a milk protein allergy,” his doctor assured us. “Sh*t,” I thought. “Approximately 50% of all babies with a cow’s milk protein allergy are also allergic to soy,” she added. Double sh*t. We were sent on our way with some samples of Nutramigen formula and some stool sample slides.

Without a second thought, I decided to give up on nursing. I was pissed and defeated. Being that I’m a vegetarian who gets protein from some soy sources (but not in the soy milk/cheese/yogurt variety, more like Boca stuff) and calcium from dairy (and almonds), I couldn't imagine how I’d get my protein and calcium without taking supplements and starving myself. My reluctance lasted only a day however, as I began to rethink my selfishness and refocus on what was best for Kai. “I can do this,” I told myself.

So, a diet modification and some nipple shields were on the menu (no pun, in either case). But, no sooner was I on track again, pumping and dumping for a few days to clear my body of that which Kai is allergic to, that I noticed a tiny part of my c-section scar was open and oozing pus. The infection was confirmed and I was tested for MRSA because it had been making rounds in the maternity ward at my hospital for more than 6 months at that point. I was put on Bactrim, a very potent antiobiotic, and told that I could only pump and dump for the next two weeks. Several days later, my doctor said that my incision site tested positive for MRSA.

Ummm, WTF? Seriously. I was beside myself and feeling utterly hopeless about breastfeeding. How could something that is so natural and beautiful and efficient be such a nightmare? To boot, when we brought Kai’s stool samples back to his doctor, she confirmed that he wasn’t responding well to the formula and switched him to Neocate, a 50 dollar per can hypo-allergenic, amino acid based formula. The prescription was written for 10 cans a month and if our insurance company didn’t cover the cost, we would have been forced into a life of crime. Well, not really, but you know…

I gave up. With a big, grand “Eff It,” too. I felt crushed. I felt like less of a woman. And I felt tired. Yes, I could have pumped and dumped for those two weeks and continued with dietary changes, but I chose not to because I needed a break, coming off two solid weeks of infections, healing, sleep deprivation, crying, doctor visits, and hopelessness.

Lactivists, as nursing Nazis are affectionately called, would say that I should have and could have hung in there, but I made a conscious decision to stop. I intuitively felt that it was more important to decompress and relax with my new baby, and enjoy him in ways that I just wasn’t during our nursing experience.

This next time around, the plan is to dust my ass off and get back on the horse. Giddyup.

Stand and Deliver

Let’s face it, pregnancy sucks. Don’t misunderstand me—I am awed by the complicated process of getting pregnant and being able to, dare I say, miraculously sustain a life in my womb. Obviously, the end result is the single most intense and amazing reward one gets in life. It’s the journey that is a monumental pain in the ass, rife with anxiety, fatigue, a mile-long list of things that can go wrong, and an even longer list of things that do go wrong. Or at least awry, and usually temporarily.

First up, the mood swings—wanting to hurl blunt objects at strangers in the supermarket just because. They are frequent and, well, uncomfortable, often leading to tears. My husband can attest to that. (But, please, there is no real need for you to comment should you happen to read this…) Then, there are the middle-of-the-night muscle spasms in my calves that so rudely jolt me from an already restless sleep. Hmmm, how ‘bout those, ahem, hemorrhoids!? Next, are the wild bouts of intense nausea, followed by periods of eating a week’s worth the food in one sitting with a Tums chaser (one of the few “medications” a pregnant woman can actually ingest). These are but a few of my personal pregnancy peeves, though I could write at least another two paragraphs.

In case it was assumed I was going to write an unrelated paragraph, here is a long list of annoying pregnancy symptoms, some of which I have personally experienced in one, or all, of my pregnancies: pigmentation changes, varicose veins, bloating, vomiting, ligament stretching, vaginal pain (yeah, like weird shooting pains around the vulva area), cramping, frequent urination, physical and emotional exhaustion (the likes of which can only be described as how you would feel if someone beat you, then kindly gave you a half dozen Xanax), leukorrhea (coined “Cheeseburger Crotch” on WebMD), throbbing breasts, itchiness (breasts and stomach, especially), excessive hair growth (think Sasquatch), food cravings and aversions (including a strange phenomenon called “Pica,” an inexplicable occurrence during which people crave inedible things like dirt and motor oil), insomnia, heartburn, constipation (best friend of both bloating and hemorrhoids), and a perpetually stuffy and/or bloody nose. Please feel free to add any that I missed in the comment section below.

In my experience, managing pregnancy symptoms requires keeping your eye on the prize, a bottle of Tylenol, a heating pad, cold compresses, a humidifier, and an extremely loving and patient husband. Oh, yeah, and good friends who don’t cringe when you mention “Cheeseburger Crotch.”

The X Contribution

This might sound strange, but what am I going to do with a girl? Even now, at 18.5 weeks pregnant, I have her tiny preschool body wrapped around my legs, whining and pleading for a tiara and princess gown in a crowded Target aisle. She’s throwing fits about coral (ewwww) fingernail polish and methodically matching her underwear with her outer clothes. Worse, she’s a pubescent teenager, fighting off randy boys; worrying about whether or not her physique “stacks up” in comparison to all of her underweight peers; and wanting us to drop $300 a month at Sephora and the trendy, overpriced clothing store du jour.

Some of my irrational fear-of-a-girl stems from the fact that I listen to too many people. I keep hearing the voices of strangers, family members, and friends on a loop, “Girls are so much harder than boys.” Harder? Are you kidding me? As if mothering boys is a cinch, something one can do with an arm tied behind their back while blindfolded in a drunken stupor.

The fact is that I’m used to boys, plain and simple. I’m used to my oldest’s vile socks and armpits (he’s a 10 year-old-in-training for proper hygiene practices) and his many years of not giving a damn about what he wore until recently (he had a penchant for choosing heinous outfits, like tie-dye and camouflage). I’ve grown accustomed to my little one’s “wild boy” disposition and a home full of trucks, Legos, and action figures. My house is a whirlwind of testosterone, flatulence, and potty humor. And, honestly, I don’t really mind most of the time.

A revelation unfolded yesterday during a telephone conversation with my mother that having a girl will, among other things, provide me with the opportunity to exorcise some of my demons. I’m going to have to squarely face my self-image pitfalls and cut myself some slack. After all, I’ve clocked in 38 years, 11 months, and 2 ½ weeks on my body, and I’ve birthed two boys. I have stretch marks, cellulite, and what is known as a “mother’s apron.” In turn, dealing with my issues will help me to more effectively navigate my daughter through her own difficulties.

That said, inevitably, we pass our not-so-desirous personality traits onto our children. I think it’s unavoidable. But c’mon, I don’t want to pass off some of this crap. (I also didn’t want to pass on the drama gene, but I’ve managed to do that…) In many ways, which I won’t address here for brevity’s sake, males have it easier than do females—perhaps that is really why people say what they do about raising girls. If I’m still blogging in 13 years, I’ll let you know. Regardless of sex, gender challenges, or character development, I’m in for a ride.

Never Say Never

Come this mid-summer, I will be the mother of a ‘tween, a toddler, and a newborn. The age difference between my youngest two will be a little more than 15 months. What a lesson in “never say never”—when asked if we’d have more kids, I always offered my standard response, “I’m not the type to have two in diapers.” Well, didn’t I chew (or did I choke?) on every last word when the digital ClearBlue Easy hourglass turned “pregnant” in a sub par Target bathroom on a rainy Friday evening, on Black Friday of all days?! Yeah, I did.

Since then, I’ve come up with a list of reasons why it’s better this way. First, my husband and I were up in the air about whether or not we’d add to our small brood—a hot topic, considering my present age of 38. I mean, I knew that I wasn’t into chasing a toddler around in my late-40s like my mother did (she had my brother when she was 45.5 years old). So, we will officially be done after this one. As in, kitchen closed. Second, I still had (please note both the verb tense and disappointment) 30 pounds of pregnancy weight to lose from the last one—wouldn’t it suck to lose all that weight and get back into those size 8s, only to have to do it all over again? Definitely. Then, there is the career consideration. I recently wrapped up graduate school, with one make-up class to go, and was planning to look for a teaching position this fall. Well, wouldn’t it also suck to be several months into my career only to slink into my principal’s office to discuss my impending maternity leave (not to mention that I’d feel like an ass after lying on interviews about being done having children)? Uh-huh. Finally, I did the diaper thing all over again once. I don’t want to do it again. That all said, two in diapers it will be.

I don’t really have any expectations as to how life will be when I’m a mother of three. I’ve lived long enough to (sometimes) know better than to have expectations for how situations in the vast unknown will turn out. Do things ever really turn out according to our expectations? Rarely. Anyway, I have bigger fish to fry, like how to make boys clothing gender-friendly, should my husband have made an X chromosome contribution.

Next up: Did my husband make an X chromosome contribution?