JR is a big boy. Even though he’s moving back towards the 70/60th percentile, he’s still just a big ol’ chunk of baby. So, I’ve gotten fairly used to people making comments when we go out. We usually get things like…
“Those cheeks are killing me!”
“Look at those thighs!”
“How old did you say he was?”
Today was different.
I took JR into Great Clips (shut up, it’s cheap and he’s 1) to get a haircut.
When we walked back to the stylist’s chair she looked at JR, looked at me, looked back at JR, and looked back at me, obviously focusing on my hip-area.
As if that weren’t awkward enough, she then said, “So, did you have a C-section or an episiotomy?”
“Um, a C-section.”
“I wish I had done that when I had my son. When I had him, they gave me an episiotomy that was about four inches long.”
I just blinked a lot and then asked her to not cut his bangs too short.
One of the prizes is $529 invested in a 529 college savings plan. Who is going to willingly turn down the chance to get a contribution to her child’s education fund?
Now, I bet you all feel horrible for judging me, don’t you? Judgey McJudgersons. Shame on you.
So, if it comes to mind, head over to Richmondmom.com and vote for my sweet little guy. Or, if you don’t want to vote for him, vote for Ava because I know her and she is a cutie-pants.
(FYI, the page can be a little confusing. The link to vote is at the top of the page (you click it and then enter the name of the baby you’re voting for in the form) but the pictures are at the bottom of the page.)
So Jackson is almost 7 weeks old. This means I have spent almost two months sustaining him WITH MY OWN BODY. I know that I also sustained him with my body for nine months (plus 5 days, freeloader!), but that involved me shoveling peanut butter toast and cereal in my face and that was about it. Now I actually have to *do* stuff to keep his not-at-all-little body going.
Let me start by saying that we have had a pretty easy run so far with the whole breastfeeding thing. Once we worked out a few kinks in the beginning, it was smooth sailing – and, on the whole, still is smooth sailing. He doesn’t seem to have a very sensitive stomach (knock on wood) and he’s become extremely proficient at getting down to business and finishing up in 20-30 minutes (as opposed to the 45 minutes he was clocking to start out).
But Holy Lord, none of the information passed along to you in those baby classes or books on breastfeeding can prepare you for how hard and stressful the whole process can be. Because when it comes down to it, it’s you, your boobs, and your baby – that’s it. You’ve got to figure it out. Jackson’s eating has been the only thing that has stressed me out so far. Adding to it, his recent decision to drop his middle-of-the-night feeding while good news for our sleep has me completely paranoid that he’s not going to get enough to eat. And wishing that breasts had some kind of liquid volume gauge on them.
But then I remember that, believe it or not, babies are smart. Crazy smart. And not restricted by wanting to be politely quiet when they are still hungry. In the rational part of my brain I know he’s not going to let himself starve. It’s just that sometimes the crazy lady mom part of my brain is a bit louder.
I can’t say how long I’ll keep up with nursing. Honestly, the whole idea of continuing this once teeth come in makes me cringe a little bit. And really, while I love what nursing *does* for Jackson (and for me), I can’t say that I always love the act of nursing. But we’ll stick with it for now. These fat rolls seem to indicate that we’re doing just fine…
The new house was bought as of 4:30 this afternoon.
I am so tired I can’t believe it. I’m sure my levels of uselessness will be astounding for the next few days.
I currently have two new loves of my life: PODs and our mortgage guy (If you want his name, email me and I’ll give it to you. Talk about hustling. He made what normally happens in two months happen in two weeks.)
This will mark poor Ross’s third night of sleeping on floors. He spent Tuesday and Wednesday sleeping in the old empty house with the dogs. Tonight he will sleep in the new empty house, also with the dogs (who are thoroughly confused and probably completely scarred, what with all the back and forth over the last few days). Meanwhile, I’ve been residing in a lovely guest room (let’s be honest, it’s more like a suite) at my in-laws’ house with my own bathroom, TV, and lots and lots of pillows.
I drove back and forth between my in-laws’ house and other various locations for a total of about six times today. I think I’ve used as much gas in one day that I did all of last month.
I have no clue what day it is.
Our new front door automatically locks when it shuts. I predict several incidents of me locking myself out of the house while the new baby is left inside.
I’m watching an episode of True Life and a girl is talking her boyfriend about how she didn’t sleep the night before because she was worrying about her very real financial and familial problems. He is less than sympathetic:
“I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Well, who’s fault is that?”
“It’s no one’s fault. I just don’t sleep.”
“You just need to relax is all.”
This girl is a kinder, more patient person than me, because she just responds with a sigh. I would have responded with a punch in the face. While I have virtually no physical symptoms of anxiety since switching jobs, I have strong memories of how it felt. It’s frustrating. It’s crippling. And no one wants to feel that way.
A person with anxiety knows that he or she needs to relax. Pointing this out only makes them feel inadequate, not comforted.
Consider some of these alternatives:
“Why do you think you’re having such a hard time relaxing?”
“Is there anything I can do to help you out?”
or, best of all…
“I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. I love you.”
As my impending doom is the subject of much commentary on this here Internets, I thought I’d clarify something.
I am not afraid of pain. At all. In fact, I have a pretty high threshold for pain. Any yelps or tears come from not knowing what’s going or being startled. The thing I’m afraid of is not knowing exactly what’s going to happen in a situation.
This might stem from my slight tendency to demand complete control over everything. Maybe.
When I got my tattoo, the only thing that made me nervous was not knowing how *much* it was going to hurt. I knew it was going to hurt because, hello, it’s a tattoo, but I was constantly asking for a comparison. Like tetanus shot or cat scratch? Incidentally, he said “A cat scratch over and over again for an hour.” And he was correct.
A couple years ago, I had a mole removed from my belly. I asked the doctor to just make sure he explained everything was doing and give me an estimate of the pain. He told me the numbing agent would feel like a bee sting and that during the actual removal, I would just feel pressure and then pulling. Again, correct.
On the other side, when I had my ovarian nightmare this summer, that pain was neither expected nor understood. I did not expect to blackout while sitting across from Mary at Starlite and I didn’t understand why an invisible hot poker was stabbing me in my abdomen as I sat crying in Patient First. Once I knew what was going on, everything was manageable.
I just can picture myself during childbirth…
“So, will it be like a watermelon covered in fire? Or acid? Or fire and acid?”
I started to feel it at around 4:30 this afternoon: the feeling of dread that suffocated me for almost two years.
I managed to shake it off until I got home. Then Ross asked me to do something in a non-friendly tone (not because he was being mean, but because he was in the middle of cooking dinner while a puddle was forming on our kitchen floor) and I found myself in tears. But just for a minute. And that’s the difference between then and now.
Now, rather than sinking into it like I used to (and taking to my bed like I used to), I’m pissed.
Now, I refuse to buy into it.
Now, I’m choosing to push through it, every minute and every day until it’s gone again. The more I do it, the fewer and farther between these spells are.
insanity — Valerie on November 29, 2007 at 7:55 pm
Today I had a bona fide rant about people failing to use the serial comma. To multiple people. And then I realized I was insane.*
I am a rabid supporter of this neglected punctuation mark. Guys, it’s important. Look at these two sentences modeled after book dedication (a variation of which appears in the wikipedia entry, but also happens to be the example I frequently use when arguing the issue):
“To my parents, George Washington and God.”
“To my parents, George Washington, and God.”
That, my friends, is a HUGE difference.
I’m not asking you to change your habits, but I do want you to realize that if I see you failing to use it, part of my soul dies. If you’re ok with that being on your head, then go along your merry-and-unspecific way.
*I am aware of at least one person who would feel equally passionate about this, whether she agrees with me on it or not.