Summer Bliss

The first half of my weekend left much to be desired. The Hubs was working, after being out of town most of the week, and while he estimated that he would be home just after lunch time on Saturday, he ended up getting home around 4 p.m.

Despite being bone tired from a hectic and stressful week at work, mornings and evenings solo with the boys, and a Saturday that reflected much of the same, we forced ourselves out of the house for some quality family time. We ended up strolling around Prairie Farms where we watched the animals much on their dinner, watched The O slide down the tractor slide with delight, and encouraged The O to trudge up a big hill with his daddy, and then experience the childhood glee of running down while trying to avoid falling over with momentum.

After our Farm adventures we tried out a new local Vietnamese place, stuffing our bellies with chilled fresh summer rolls, Pho, and a banana smoothie . We drove home through the country as the sun was setting. The boys happily drifted off to sleep as quickly as we slipped them into their jammies and into bed. The Hubs and I were able to catch up over a nice glass of chilled wine. And we were all fast asleep by 9:30 p.m. . . . bliss I tell you.

Today the boys slept in until 7:30 a.m. (a total treat for us). We then made whole wheat blueberry pancakes with fresh local blueberries, and a fritata stuffed full of fresh local spinach, yellow squash and zucchini. We sang a quick Happy Birthday to Baby E upon The O's insistence because it is his 3-month birthday today. Then we set out into the back yard to construct The O's new play gym. My dad came by to help out, and later to instruct The O on how to slide down his new slide on his belly. Despite the rough start, the weekend turned out to be epitome of a perfect summer family weekend. A few pictures of the good times . . .

Random Thoughs On A Saturday Afternoon

* My son will stay in his bed all night, every night, and he does not dare get out. In fact, if he drops an essential item (i.e. the damn paci we are fighting to get rid of) out of his bed, he will call for us to retrieve it rather than getting out of bed and grabbing it himself. But naps, oh they are a different story. We typically spend most of Saturday afternoon trying to coax Mr. O away from his toys/books/animals/window perch, and back into his bed to sleep. Often after a few hours I'll peek in to find him sitting in bed surrounded by at least 50 books completely awake. This afternoon I had a stroke of genius and decided to break out the pack n' play for nap time. He was completely out in 5 minutes. We may be onto something here folks.



* This morning I nursed Baby E (something I'm still doing occasionally) because he was super fussy and nothing was calming him down. A few hours later he had a poopy that was distinctly recognizable as breast-milk poop. In the midst of changing his poopy diaper I realized that while I may not be able to pull off exclusively breastfeeding him, I love knowing and seeing that he is still getting some of my milk, and the benefits therefrom. Perhaps we can find a balance amidst all the extremes.



* I have decided to run a 1/2 marathon in January in Key West. My body has spent almost two of the last three years nurturing and growing two amazing little boys, but I need to use that same body to nurture myself. I figure the training will force me to spend some time on me, something I'm finding nearly impossible to do. Of course, the fact that I found a scenic run in Key West where I can also carve out a few vacation days, and enjoy a few fruity cocktails beach-side doesn't hurt the motivation.

Mayhem in Mayberry

I'm playing single mama this week as the Hubs is out of town (again). I just learned that he may have to work on Saturday too (yippee).

So far this week we've had viruses all around--Mr. O started running a fever on Tuesday which was quickly accompanied by yucky poops, Baby E followed suit beginning Wednesday evening, and I, while having not completely succumb to sickness, have felt generally yuck all day.

We have also had two lovely tantrums compliments of Mr. O on our way home from work/daycare in the last few days. Both occurred at two (different) local stores we had to swing by for necessities. Both wonderful displays of behavior were generated by Mr. O's demand for snacks, and my insistence that he would receive nothing unless his demands were accompanied by a "please" (classic power battle in our home). In both instances I stood there in my work clothes, sweaty and exhausted, Baby E strapped to my chest in the Bjorn, and tried everything in my power to redirect The O and talk him through his feelings. Such a rational approach was wholly unappreciated by The O, and instead resulted in my son attempting to hit both me and his 2-month-old little brother. While I know everyone in the respective stores was thinking, lady, just give him a damn snack, mama is a hard ass about demanding pleases, and I don't care who gets pissed off in the process.

Baby E has also initiated his own version of the tantrum as he is almost 3 months and has entered the lovely phase of hating life between 6:30 p.m. and 7:45 p.m. (like clockwork, every night). While I can't blame him as that is generally the time I wish the world would go away as well, unfortunately it is also the time I am struggling to throw together dinner for The O, do bath time with The O, read books to The O, etc. So basically, memo to infant son: pick a more convenient time to have your melt-downs.

In addition to the chaos that is young children, my two batshit crazy dogs have decided to reenact Animal Planet safari expeditions in our backyard this week, and kill not one, but two baby possums, which were then deposited on our porch for my viewing pleasure. They will stay on said porch until the Hubs brings his workin' butt home and redeposits them elsewhere.

So basically, I'm flying solo and I feel like we may be approaching engine failure. Please send help.

Guilt of the Pleasureless Variety

When I had my first son two years ago, I was hell-bent on doing everything *right*. Among the necessaries on my list for being the perfect mom was the importance of breastfeeding O for the first year of his life. However, O made his appearance 3 weeks early which placed him on the small side, and when the numbers on the scale kept inching downward despite around the clock feedings, even the lactation consultants were encouraging us to supplement with evil formula.

As I sat in the hospital holding a syringe of formula in my child's mouth, tears streamed down my face and I was consumed with the feeling that I had already failed as a mother. I was convinced that it was my fault that my milk took forever to come in, as if I had control over such innate bodily functions.

In order to counter my guilt in the face of formula-induced failure, I was resolute that once my milk came in, I would do everything in my power to compensate for my initial failure by exclusively breastfeeding.

After my milk finally arrived with O, he settled into a miserable schedule of hour-long around the clock feedings every two hours for five months, at which point we transitioned to around the clock feedings every three hours through his sixth month. During these feedings I constantly struggled to keep O awake and eating at the breast. After each and every feeding I spent 30 minutes pumping in an attempt to sustain my supply, which typically only garnered a few measly ounces.

Despite being so sleep deprived that I couldn't think or see straight, guilt drove me to continue exclusively breastfeeding, because that is what I was *supposed* to do if I really cared at all about what was best for my baby.

I became a slave to my son's feeding schedule. I couldn't go anywhere because by the time I finished our hour-long feeding sessions and packed us both up to head out, it was time to feed again. I truly felt imprisoned and I began to resent O, which of course brought on even more guilt.

I can't tell you how many days I fantasized about whipping open a can of Similac, handing the baby over to the Hubs, and leaving the house for a couple of hours. In my post-partum haze, however, I convinced myself that such an indulgence was selfish, which in turn made me a bad mom, which of course left me wracked with guilt rather than basking in much-needed relaxation.

Around and around I went with this destructive thought pattern fighting to get through each day of the first six months of my son's life. All the while I became more and more depressed, isolated and overwhelmed. The destruction finally came to an end when I started working six months after my son's birth. My inability to efficiently pump any meaningful amount of milk forced me to admit defeat and bust open the formula.

While you would think the end of my breastfeeding days would have brought a relief from the craziness that defined those days, instead I felt like a failure for not being able to continue breastfeeding through my son's first year of life. The insane part is that I didn't want to breastfeed for a year, I was convinced I was supposed to do so to be adequate as a mother.

Eventually I got over myself and focused my efforts on other ridiculous guilt-inducing activities, like attempting to make all of O's baby food from scratch . . . which HA, apparently fresh, local, organic homemade baby food isn't all that important if your baby is so intent on not eating it that he would rather let himself starve to death.

Anywho, when I became pregnant with #2 I promised myself that I would take a more relaxed approach to breastfeeding this go-around. While I have succeeded at being more relaxed at breastfeeding, I'm now left with guilt over my approach.

Things have been very different with Baby E. In addition to taking care of a newborn, I also have a two-year-old, a demanding job, and a husband that works 75-hour weeks with frequent nights out of town, which often leaves me playing pseudo-single-mom.

Breastfeeding with Baby E started out fine--he was a full two pounds bigger than O at birth, and as such we were all much less concerned about his weight. While a case of jaundice did force us to initially supplement, this time around I truly wasn't bothered by it. However, from the get-go I have had to contend with an energetic two-year-old's constant requests for drinks, snacks, puzzles, crayons and mainly mommy's attention, all immediately needed as soon as mommy starts feeding his little brother.

In response to the need for attention-splitting, and the guilt brought on by not being able to give my all to either child, I started occasionally supplementing bottles with Baby E after a month or so. After throwing in an occasional daytime bottle, I decided I could also accept the idea of feeding Baby E bottles at night, rather than offering him the breast. After all, I couldn't afford to be as sleep deprived as I was with the O because I have so much more on my plate. This nighttime bottle-feeding plan was firmly put in place after its trial run resulted in E regularly sleeping for NINE hours straight at six weeks old.

At eight weeks old I handed Baby E off to our amazing daycare provider, and trudged back to work. The first week back I fed Baby E from the breast first thing in the morning, pumped twice during the day, and fed Baby E from the breast immediately upon picking him up from daycare. It quickly became apparent that the morning feeding wasn't going to work. I am solo every morning and getting myself and two boys ready and out the door by 7:45 isn't feasible when you throw in a 30-40 minute feeding. Then there was the pumping, which occasionally had to be sacrificed or pushed back because of long court appearances or client consults.

As I have allowed obligations to trump milk-production, that production has dwindled to a trickle, and my son has reacted by becoming frustrated and impatient at the breast. I briefly decided to try and amp up my supply with Mothers Milk Tea, Fenugreek supplements, and more water than the Hudson River, but that lasted all of a day and a half.

So here I stand at almost 12 weeks post-partum, and I think we're officially done breastfeeding. While I want to say I'm o.k. with this early weaning, I'm fighting back the guilt once again. I feel guilty that Baby E isn't getting as much breast milk as his brother received. I feel guilty that I can't give him the same time and attention as I had with O. I know much of this is beyond my control, but I feel guilty that I allowed myself to have such a relaxed (healthy?) attitude about breastfeeding this time around.

I am trying to look at Baby E and admit that he's growing like a weed, he's healthy, and most of all he's happy. He smiles and coos more than most babies double his age, and he sleeps through the night EVERY NIGHT. I know I should count my blessings, and give myself credit for the almost 12-weeks of breastfeeding I was able to give Baby E, and so why am I left trying to push away the guilt?

Jumping Off

So I guess I'm jumping into the blogging world, even though I feel a little like a college freshman staggering around campus without any idea of where the hell I'm going or why the hell I'm here.

Truth be told this I'm starting this blog mostly because I need an outlet to express my thoughts and reconnect with the writer that for so long defined me, and also because I'm too busy and too cheap for therapy.

So, we'll give this a whirl and see how it goes.