Raised in the Woods

I Don't Know How She Does It

2012-02-12T10:29:00.000-08:00

The other night, as I was picking up my boys from school, I ran into the mother of one of Carter's classmates. It was about 5:57pm, and I was tottering into the preschool in my pencil skirt and button-down, having just picked up Griffin at the infant center next door. I had Griffin in his carseat under one arm and was rounding up all of Carter's belongings with the other while trying to convince him that it was Driving Home Time instead of Lego Time, when this mom looked over at me and said "TWO little ones...I don't know how you do it."

Oh, other mom. Bless your heart, because you have no idea how happy that little off-hand comment made me. I smiled in response and said something like "Thanks - it's pretty crazy" but what I was really thinking was I don't know either, lady.

Now, I know there are plenty of women out there who do what I do every day and make it look easy. I know that there are also plenty of working moms out there who have more than two kids, who run out of the office at 5:45pm every night and race the clock to pick-'em-up, drive home, make dinner, get everyone in the bath and to bed on time, clean up all the detritus of the day and then wake up tomorrow to do it all over again. Women do this every day, in every city everywhere, and many of them do it with a lot less help than me.

But for just a moment, when this other mom looked at me admiringly and tossed out that small compliment, I felt like a little bit of a rock star. And in the tumult of my first week as a working mom of two, it was just what I needed to hear. And I thought I'm not sure either, other mom - but by damn, I'm doing it. I'm doing it!

And I am.

Wobbling on the brink of madness

2012-01-24T16:17:00.000-08:00

Griffin seems to have decided to make it much easier for me to return to work next week by becoming VERY difficult recently. Doesn't want to nap in his swing, won't fall asleep in my arms, screams when laid down in his crib, waking up at night umpteen million times, etc. Last night he woke up at 8:45, 10:45, 1:30, 3:30, and 4:30. YEEHAH!

He seems to have embarked on a lovely little adventure in reverse cycling - lucky me! I know this can be common when moms go back to work, and it appears he's quite the overachiever because he seems to be getting an early start. Most frustratingly, I can't rock him back to sleep when he awakes - no, he just gets increasingly fussy until he's picked up, at which point he usually flings himself in the general direction of my boobs. Sometimes he goes back to sleep after nursing, and sometimes I need to hold him and bounce him until he sleeps.

I suppose this is karma biting me in the ass for yammering on about what a GREAT sleeper I had a month or so ago, when he'd conk out from 8pm til 3am, wake to nurse, and sleep til 6. Oh, those beautiful days of long ago...I don't remember Carter doing this, though frankly, memory doesn't serve me well these days in my current state of stupefying exhaustion. At some point around 4.5 months I started doing dreamfeeds with Carter, and around 6 months I slowly cut down on the times of the feeds until I eliminated them altogether, which was an effective and painless sleep training. I would love to do the same with Little G, but he'd have to sleep longer than, oh, TWO HOURS IN A ROW in order to do it.

So there you go. I'm cranky, frustrated and (occasionally) MAD at my baby, and that's the worst feeling. He can't help it. He's four months old (15lbs, 11oz at our last appointment on Saturday). And yet, when he's exhausted but refusing to sleep or nurse and just wants to scream at me, my delirious mind starts racing with thoughts like You have been sent here to drive me mad! The gods must hate me!

I know this will get better. I've read enough baby development crap to know that we've been contending with the three-month growth spurt and the four-month sleep regression and all that good stuff. Plus, I recently stopped swaddling him AND last night moved him into a mini crib in our room instead of the tiny bassinet. Lots o' changes for one small person.

Today I asked my mother how she did it, how she coped with THREE of us under 5 (and according to my aunt's stories, we were kind of little assholes), and my dad who scarcely diapered a day in his life. That must have been a special kind of hell indeed. She said she had no idea. BUT she lived to tell the tale. So that's something.

Grateful

2012-01-23T14:14:00.000-08:00

You know what I love? I love that I am blessed with honest mom friends, the kind that love their children but don't sugarcoat just how freaking HARD it is to parent, instead of being all "oh, what? Every single second of this sh*t is MAGICAL! Rainbows and sunshine and bunnies!! I want six more! WHEEE!!!"

I love that I just texted my darling Katherine, saying that Griffin just had the most epic crying session of his young life and ISWEARTOGOD I almost left him in a basket on someone's doorstep. And she just responds with "Don't you wish there was an off switch?"

And yes, yes I do. And I'm no less of a mother for admitting that. Because this crap is HARD, ladies. So more power to you - every single one of you.

Oh SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, the crying is about to begin anew. Is 2:14pm too early for a stiff drink??

2012-01-21T15:49:00.000-08:00

My return to work looms ominously close on the horizon, and for the past few weeks I have been a bit melancholy. It really started when I discovered that of all the six couples in my birth class, I am the ONLY mommy still working (well, truthfully, we lost touch with one of them, but I am pretty sure she's SAHMing now). Earlier this month, the last two workin' moms from birth class quit their jobs (I'm looking at you, Erica!) to do the stay-at-home-mom thing, and for some reason this really hit me hard.

I remember exactly how difficult it was to go back to work and leave Carter. I remember standing over his little sleeping body, weeping, desperately wishing I could quit my job and stay home. I remember feeling so tremendously guilty for depriving him of a full-time mom. And then, when I did go back to work, feeling more guilty for (somewhat) enjoying it.

Leaving your baby in the care of someone else, no matter how loving, how capable, is gut-wrenching. You are handing over your heart to an $8 per hour daycare employee and trusting that - that what? That they will love them like you do? That they will coo at them, talk to them, give them kisses, play games with them, read books to them, make them know how special they are? That they will love them more than the other ten kids in the room? Or just that they will somehow, in some way, try to minimize the trauma your little one faces?

I read today that at 4-5 months, babies experience little separation anxiety because they're too busy being amazed at all the great stuff there is to look at around them. I really want to believe that's true. All I know is that when Carter started daycare at four months, he screamed for two days straight, refused bottles, wouldn't sleep, and generally freaked the F out. SIGH. But Griffin is a very different baby with a very different temperament. Where Carter was high-strung, the Finnster is mellow, which I hope will serve him well on February 1st when I slap some makeup on (for the first time in a loooooong while), throw on something presentable, and totter off to the office.

It's such a strange thing to return to work after having your child. Everyone treats you basically the same, but you're not the same. The you before children is an entirely different person than the you with children. I have little fantasies of leaping on top of a cubicle, yelling "I'm not just PAIGE - I'm someone's MOTHER, you a-holes! Which is more important than ANY FUCKING SPREADSHEET and all your DAMN BUDGETS PUT TOGETHER." Because by damn, I will tell you this - there will be no more 3:30 meetings that are pushed til 4, that are then pushed til 5:30, that I am then guilted for being unable to attend because I need to leave at 5:45 to pick up my children. Well, there WILL be those meetings - quite frequently no doubt - but I WILL NOT let them break me down about it. And if I get yet another "I know you're a mother now, so you have new priorities, BUT you have to understand that many of us here work until 8 or 9 at night, and maybe we're just more ambitious than you are..." (YES, I DID GET THAT SPEECH. NO LIE.) talk, I will damn well stand up for myself and let them know that I am quite capable of doing my job, and doing it exceptionally well, between the hours of 9am and 5:45pm, thank you very much, and I don't need to sit in my office until 9pm to prove my worth like the others who are so DAMN SCARED of you. And if that gets me fired, so be it.

Ahem. That felt good. Thanks.
I was really down for a week or so, but the clouds are parting lately. I'm feeling brighter, and I'm not going to waste one moment of the remaining days with my baby feeling cranky.

In other news, Griffin has FINALLY taken the bottle. And after spending approximately $40 trying various bottle/nipple combos (including all the "best for breastfed babies" fancypants ones), what did he like? The same $5 for 3 classic glass Evenflo bottles that his brother used, the same bottle that Betty Draper probably gave her kids in the early 60's (okay, I guess Betty never got off her bitter, depressed ass to give those kids bottles, but the housekeeper sure did), with a Dr. Brown's nipple - same as Carter. Go figure.

Also, I have been a cooking FIEND since last I wrote:
~~Turkey Meatloaf~~
~~BBQ Chicken~~
Turkey Tacos
~~Chicken Mole Tacos~~
Curry Tofu (recipe TBD)
~~Chicken Stir-Fry~~
Veggie Lasagna
~~Pesto Pasta~~
~~Sesame Noodles~~
~~Turkey Chili~~

Plus other stuff that I am too lazy to write down. Perhaps most shocking is that I am really ENJOYING making dinner. Who knew making something that didn't involve chocolate could still be so satisfying?

Mission...Impossible?

2012-01-08T14:24:00.000-08:00

I am one of those people who makes 87 zillion New Year's Resolutions, and promptly forgets 95% of them by January 15th. So this year I've streamlined a bit, and made precisely one: I WILL LEARN TO COOK. Come hell or highwater, I shall feed this family of mine, and feed it well!

As I've mentioned before, my mom knows her way around a kitchen and I was raised on pure deliciousness, so the time has come to step it up and get cookin' myself. Mind you, if you were to find yourself at Chez Me in the morning hours, I could whip you up some ass-kicking pancakes or muffins. If you wandered into my home after dinner, I could bust out the big guns with the world's best brownies and the like. But actual meals, involving proteins? Save for some quick veggie stir-fries, I'm pretty much hopeless.

NO MORE, friends. In a few weeks' time I will be a working mother of two, so it's time to get down and dirty with the meal planning, cooking-stuff-ahead-and-freezing, and becoming good friends with my Crock Pot.

So far I've done of lot of web surfing in search of easy, tasty recipes to try (keyword EASY), and this month I will be doing run-throughs and letting y'all know how they turn out (you're welcome, friends). Here's the list so far (with links!):

Turkey Meatloaf (I've already made this one - it's my mom's favorite - and it is fab, although I think I overcooked it slightly)
BBQ Chicken (already made - although I cheated and used bottled sauce - but it was delish)
Turkey Tacos (no recipe yet...must find)
Chicken Mole
Curry Tofu (recipe TBD)
Chicken Stir-Fry (ditto)
Veggie Lasagna
Pesto Pasta (I'll add some chicken or tofu to this, and probably ditch the cream)
Sesame Noodles (ditto, with some broccoli too)
Turkey Chili (if you can't tell, I really like mole)

Note: I am in the midst of a love affair with all things Pioneer Woman, clearly. Second note: as a former vegetarian, I just can't bring myself to cook red meat. And I know nothing about ham, except that it tastes really good in split pea soup (oooh, gotta make that too).

Wish me luck!

I am a better mother with caffeine, and other such confessionals

2012-01-05T12:59:00.000-08:00

It's true. I've been trying to shake this cold for the past ten days or so, and as such have been largely avoiding my daily cup o' joe. This has resulted in my wandering about in a hazy, dream-like state for much of the day (though now that I think about it, it could also be the eye infection and subsequent lack of my contact lens for the past several days contributing to the haziness). I play with and love on my boys, but I haven't felt like I'm momming at the top of my game. Fortunately, both of my maladies have improved today, so the Finnster and I Ergo-ed over to my neighborhood Starbucks for a tall coffee with gingerbread syrup (get it while you can! It's a seasonal item, y'all!).

Mind you, I've always been a strict one cup per day coffee person. And although I worked in a coffee shop throughout college, I never touched the stuff until my mid-twenties, when I was performing in a play in a little podunk town in the middle of nowhere for a couple of months, and caffeine seemed like the appropriate thing to do (although in retrospect, I also got arrested while performing in said play - another story for another time - so perhaps my judgement was somewhat off that month, no?).

During my teaching days, I would prefill my little pal Mr. Coffee so that one flick of a switch in my bleary-eyed early morning stumbling would produce the life-affirming liquid tar that jaunted me into consciousness and enabled me to get in the car and fearlessly roar off to who-knows-where and commune with the youth of America.

I've never been a caffeine addict. I've never even had a soft drink, or at least not since an ill-fated grape soda experience as a child left me puking at the community pool, at which point I determined that bubbly beverages and I must henceforth part ways. Much more than one cup of coffee per day coupled with my natural Tigger-like nature equals a frightening amount of perkiness that really is best left to the imagination.

That said, it's not until illness causes me to forgo my daily cup that I realize just how much I adore it. I sit here with my gingerbread-infused caffeine burbling happily in my guts, and I feel like anything is possible. Griffin and I had a jolly play-session this morning, and he is now down for his long nap. I will clean the kitchen! I will scrub the floors! I will disinfect surfaces! I will make Carter granola bars! I will achieve total world domination!

To you caffeine-free moms - I salute you, you crazy, crazy broads. But when my three-month-old has decided to go from waking once per night to three times, please pass my mug and flip the switch on Mr. Krups (I have since upgraded from my old Mr. Coffee, but we feel that our Krups machine still deserves a distinguished title).

More on the night wakings - for the past several days I have attempted to move Little G from sleeping swaddled in a bassinet by my bed to sleeping unswaddled in a pack n play. Something is NOT working, and I'm not sure if it's the lack of swaddle, the new sleeping space, or the fact that it's been four billion degrees in Los Angeles recently, and even nights are fairly toasty in his lil' sleepsack. He's outgrown the bassinet, so it's not really an option to wedge him in there anymore. He is a big hand sucker, so I thought he'd like to gnaw on those little guys for some self-soothing in the wee hours, but it seems that he's more into flailing about aimlessly. Yet he seems to be resisting the swaddle recently. Hrmph. Oh, transitional periods, what FUN you are!

In other news, it seems I've screwed up yet another baby by letting Griffin nap only in his swing or car seat. WHOOPS! My goal for January is to teach him to love his pack n' play for naptime. We don't have a crib for him yet, and won't until he and C are sharing a room - this won't be for several months until I feel confident that Carter will not chuck a dump truck on his baby brother's head at the first opportunity. So far Griffin will happily hang out in the p n' p for a few minutes before realizing that he's tired, at which point the squawking ensues.

So OOPS, I guess I did it again. It all starts so innocently - la dee dah, let the baby sleep in his swing, isn't that cute? There's PLENTY of time to wean him off of it before I go back to work! And then it's January, and I go back in (less than) four weeks, and OH SHIT, I've ruined another baby.

But hey, two years in, my once-a-crappy-napper Carter is doing fine, thankyouverymuch. Oh yeah, except for the pesky fact that about six months ago he decided that he would only nap in the car while being driven around the highways and byways of the greater Los Angeles area. We have tons of friends who do this for their kids, and I was always like "SUCKERS! That's crrrraaaazy! I'll never do that!" Well, KARMA IS A BITCH, people.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel - the swing does not actually have to be swinging for him to sleep; he just seems to like its soft, cuddly seat. I can't say I blame him - I could totally go for an adult-sized My Little Lamb (take heed, Fisher Price). And at his daycare, most of the tiny babies sleep in swings anyway. So my crap parenting in this arena is somewhat forgivable, no? Yes, I'm going to go with that.

The Working Mother's Lament

2012-01-03T12:50:00.000-08:00

Back to work in four weeks. SIGH.

I go back and forth on this. On one hand, I am looking forward to regular adult interaction, and to seeing my friends in the office. I am even somewhat looking forward to the challenges of working motherhood (HUH? What? Why?!? I am sure I will be regretting that statement all too soon). On the other hand, I will be LEAVING MY BABY.

Said baby, incidentally, LOATHES the bottle. Hates it with every ounce of his little body. Despite my repeated attempts to convince him that it is the SAME stuff that comes out of Mommy, he isn't having it. And oh yes, I've tried, for over two months. Different bottles, different nipples, different times of day. Jiggling him, talking to him, walking with him, all while offering the bottle. Other people have tried - Max, my mom, Max's mom, Max's sister, my aunt, etc. etc., all to no avail. No one can convince that little sucker to drink more than an ounce from the damn thing, and that's on a good day. I did everything you're supposed to do - introduced it right at three weeks, with a wide-nipple, had Max feed him, the whole works. He had no problems with it and would happily chug-a-lug until early November, when Carter got croup and Griffin got his first cold. And there it went - no bottle, no way, no how. Carter never met a bottle he didn't like, and when he went to daycare, he still rejected his bottles for days in protest. This AIN'T GONNA BE PRETTY, FOLKS.

I also feel guilty, because I've told HR that I will return on February 1st, but technically I could stay out until later in the month - the 25th, I think. A wise friend of mine said "it's okay if you're ready to go back." But am I really feeling almost ready, or am I just feeling guilty for taking such a long leave, even though I am fully entitled to EVERY LAST DAMN DAY, especially considering how I worked like a dog all year?

One of my good friends at work keeps telling me that no one thinks that I am coming back. Apparently two kids translates to certain stay-at-home-mommyhood in their minds, to which I say um, COST OF LIVING, people! We're in LA, as in Los Angeles, not Louisiana. Sigh. We could live on one salary, but we wouldn't be able to save for a house, fund the boys' 529 accounts, have awesome, cheap health insurance - all that good stuff. Plus, my pragmatic side knows that I am happier working - I always remind myself that when the boys are in grade school I'll be glad I held onto my career so I don't flounder about with empty nest syndrome when Griffin (or potential Baby #3) trots off to Kindergarten. I do wish I could go part-time, but that's not an option at my company, even though I work for a MASSIVE corporate conglomerate and you'd really think it would be. So off to work I go.

Also influencing my decision about when to return to the office is the fact that I have a new boss. On one hand, this is good, as theoretically I won't be doing the work of two people like, oh, ALL of 2011. But I haven't even met her yet. By the time February rolls around, she'll have been there three months. If I delay further, will it reflect poorly on me and influence the opinion of someone I haven't even met yet? They all think I'm going to quit anyway - was all of my ass-kicking from last year lost on them? Do they really think that my career is so disposable to me? Should it be?

....so yeah, I have some stuff on my mind these days. For the past month, the four of us have been trading various colds amongst ourselves, including a humdinger that Max has now passed on to me that leaves me coughing all night. Oh, and I have eye infections in both eyes. I am pretty sure I sleepwalk straight into dumpsters.

It's hard to believe that one year ago today I still didn't even know I was pregnant. Oh 2011, you were one hell of a ride. I worked harder than I ever have in my life, both at work and at home, delivered a perfect little person, and made us a family of four. Holy bejesus.

What will 2012 have in store?

Are you there, blog? It's me, Paige.

2011-12-02T14:09:00.000-08:00

As I sat down to write this, I realized that I haven't showered in two days. Whoops. At least I combed my hair today. That's something.

So goes my life recently. Somehow it seems that every moment of the day is crammed full of activity, from waking up in the morning to getting Carter out the door and off to school to Griffin-Griffin-Griffining all day to picking up Carter at night, putting both kids to bed, washes bottles, making food for us, and passing out on the couch (I wonder how many times I've used the phrase "passing out on the couch" on this blog. It's in the double-digits, no doubt). My mother calls to harass me regularly, reminding me to sleep when he sleeps, put my feet up and relax, all that good stuff. But there are dishes to be done, counters to scrub, and closets to organize (you trying packing clothes for TWO children into one small bedroom. It's like an episode of "Hoarders" up in here).

And despite the nonstop semi-chaos, I actually feel pretty damn great. The boys and I are getting over little colds (with the help of the Nosefrida, my latest and greatest investment. Oh God, how I love it. I could write a sonnet about sucking snot out of my kids' noses) but otherwise I am soaking in the holiday spirit. Thanksgiving was lovely, our tree (and accompanying tree-circling toy train) is up, and I'm looking forward to spending a week with my family up north for Christmas. And I still have two more months of maternity leave. Life is good, folks.

Griffin is a blissfully easy baby. He rarely cries, with the occasional exception of during the five o'clock witching hour when he's inevitably overtired and trapped in his carseat en route to pick up his brother. For the other 23 hours of the day, he's mellow yellow - since he was about six weeks old, he's been sleeping from about 8pm until 3am, waking to nurse, and then immediately going back to sleep until about 6am. I know - WHAT?!? Carter was not this child. Carter was the wake-up-multiple-times-and-stare-at-Mommy-for-an-hour-until-he-is-bounced-back-to-sleep-on-the-damn-exercise-ball baby. Not so with his little brother. When G is done for the day, he is DONE, and does not seem to particularly want to see my face until the morning hours. I am fine with this.

He's a pretty big boy, weighing in at 12.2 lbs at his two-month check-up, smack in the 75th percentile, and has outgrown all his 0-3 month clothing already (HUH?? Tiny Carter worn that crap well into months 4 and 5). He naps well during the day, he is generous with his smiles and he has started giving me the occasional chuckle during Mommy's tickles.

Basically, he's that dangerous kind of baby that makes you want to have ten more just like him. YIKES. I'm a realist however, and fully acknowledge that having both a mellow toddler and mellow baby is like winning some kind of cosmic lottery, and to add another child to the mix will certainly ensure that #3 is pure devil spawn. One can't get lucky three times, after all. We shall see - at the moment, I am quite content with my boys.

Voila - Thanksgiving:

I have no pictures of my husband from Thanksgiving because he's generally on the other side of the camera. But I guarantee that if you shrunk him and put him in a diaper, he would look exactly like THIS:

2011-11-06T11:26:00.000-08:00

I don't have any cute shots of my kids in Halloween costumes, as Carter refused to wear one and pitched a massive fit when we attempted to finagle him into both Cookie Monster and Dinosaur ensembles, so instead I stuck him in some plaid and overalls, let him carry his dump truck around, and called him a farmer. Behold:

He had a stuffed chicken and carrot too, but apparently he deemed them unworthy of schlepping about. I felt like a pretty crappy parent when we arrived at preschool to find EVERY other kid completely decked out in full-on Halloween costume regalia, but this just proves my theory that 1) my kid is an individual, and 2) my kid is the most stubborn creature alive.

Griffin was decked out in a Halloween sleeper and pumpkin hat, because, well, I'm just not that creative (oops...didn't even get a shot of the aforementioned pumpkin hat - alas):

Our attempt to go trick-or-treating was a massive failure - Carter wasn't remotely interested and by that point was beginning to get lethargic and croupy, plus, we evidently have the WORST neighborhood on earth for trick-or-treating anyway. We wandered around for awhile in search of pumpkins, other kids, or some small semblance of festivities, but there was NADA. Boo hiss, West Hollywood. Next year we'll drive to Beverly Hills and get Godiva and Rolexes in our plastic pumpkins.

What was NOT a massive failure? The dozens and dozens of sugar cookies that I made for Carter's preschool - pumpkins, ghosts and bats (two different sizes). At 11pm on October 30th as I stood in the kitchen frosting all those motherf-ers, I was wondering why I had been so ambitious. However, they turned out well and the kids ate 'em up. Sometimes I think maternity leave is really just one big excuse to bake. 'Tis the season!

Croup, and How Much It Sucks

2011-11-04T18:16:00.000-07:00

What's more fun than a trip to the ER with a vomiting toddler with a 105-degree fever who can hardly breathe??

A trip to urgent care two days later with a feverish newborn.

YEEEEEHAH!!

So went our week, beginning Tuesday, when, after a sick day at home, Carter awoke in the early evening with extremely labored breathing, a hacking cough, buckets of vomit, and a scorching fever. Max rushed him to the ER, where they stayed for the next five hours as he received oxygen, steroids, and other good stuff like that. Croup, they said.

CROUP IS A BITCH.

He's recovering well, I am happy to report. Fever is almost gone, cough (which sounded soooo classically croupy and seal-like) is much improved. Doctor says he can return to school on Monday. Little G is fine too - urgent care checked him out and said that as long as the mild fever stays under 100.4, we're okay. 100.4 and up merits another trip to the ER. Today he was in the 99's (fingers crossed and wood knocking, th-th-th over my shoulder).

Fortunately, I have not been alone in this madness, as my husband has been working short days and my awesome mother-in-law has been coming to help. I cannot imagine doing it alone, as keeping sick, coughing Carter occupied and separated from his (mostly healthy th-th-th) little brother as much as possible for entire days is no easy task. It's been a crash course in HOLY CRAP we have two kids now!!?!? Like Sara said, it's NO JOKE, people. Sheesh.

So it's been a rough couple of weeks, with mastitis giving way to croupiness and general mayhem. But as if to make up for it, my sweet little Finnster slept for 6.5 hours IN A ROW last night. Huzzah!

How I Met Your Father

2011-10-28T11:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Boys,

As I write this, you are both still small. You won't care about this story just yet, as your days are spent plotting how to steal Mommy's phone in order to watch tractor videos, or snorting hungrily in the general direction of Mommy's boobs every two minutes (you know who you are).

But one day, you'll want to know how Mommy and Daddy met, and how you subsequently came to be. And this is what I'll tell you.

First, you should know that we live in Los Angeles. Now, Los Angeles is a nice place to live and has many wonderful qualities, but "ideal for locating quality individual with which to fall in love and subsequently marry" is not amongst them. It is the home of the struggling actor, the fledgling musician, the wayward drifter, and Mommy was growing tired of sifting through these bums and lowlifes. She knew your daddy was out there - she just didn't know how to find him.

This is where your Grandma comes in. See, your Grandma is a very smart lady, and as much as I hate to admit it, she's usually right (USUALLY, Mom). One day, Grandma made the keen observation that Mommy would never be able to marry someone who cannot spell and use proper grammar, so perhaps she should try online dating. That way, she pointed out, Mommy could see right away who could use the English language properly and who should have paid better attention in elementary school.

Mommy had to agree that Grandma had a point, so she set aside her long-held suspicions that internet dating was reserved only for trolls, losers and the socially maladjusted, and created a profile on a dating site.

Dudes started emailing Mommy. Most were perverts and/or could not distinguish between "your" and "you're." Mommy ignored them. One day, when she happened to be out of town visiting Grandma, they were sitting in their favorite coffee shop when an email popped up from a new prospective internet suitor. Only this one was different. The note, although fairly inane ("What are you doing for the fourth of July? I am going to a rock climbing gym"), was properly spelled and punctuated. The profile listed a love of wine, tortilla chips and jazz (um, have you MET Mommy??). And attached to the profile was a photo of a very, very handsome man - your future daddy.

"Look at this one," Mommy told Grandma. Grandma took one look and said "write him back." Mommy protested that it cost $19.99 to write him, since she had only signed up for the free trial and therefore could only receive emails, not reply to them (did I mention that Mommy is a cheapass?). "Write him back," Grandma said, and handed Mommy a twenty.

So write him Mommy did. But she didn't hear back. Nothing. For days. Weeks, even. One day she went on his profile. On the page there was a section that said "Number of messages you have sent this user: 1" and then "Number of messages this user has sent you: 3."

Huh? Three messages? Mommy had only received ONE, boys. Was he sending messages that she wasn't receiving? Was the internet conspiring against Mommy and Daddy?

She promptly emailed him again, in a last ditch effort to meet this cute chip-loving, wine-swilling jazz fan. She told him that she hoped she didn't sound like a stalker, but it seemed that perhaps he was sending her messages she wasn't receiving, and if that was the case, well, let's fix it because maybe we will meet and fall in love and have beautiful babies together one day (okay, she didn't actually say that last part. Mommy is pretty forward, but that's just ridiculous).

And you know what? This time, he wrote Mommy back and she GOT it. And she wrote back, a really witty, silly, snarky email in true Mommy fashion. And then he wrote again. And on and on it went, back and forth, for several weeks, until one day we had our very first date.

We went to Mexican food. We ate chips. We drank margaritas. We laughed a lot and talked too loud, and people at the tables next to us stared. Your daddy said to them "This is our first date - how do you think it's going??"

Afterwards, we wandered tipsily into the parking lot. Daddy started to say that he'd had such a great time, yadda yadda. And Mommy said "Is it over already?" because she is forward like that, as we have already established. So off we went, down the street to the famous Dresden Room to hear Marty and Elayne butcher some jazz classics. Mommy spilled wine on her shirt, and Daddy tried to kiss her and she wouldn't let him.

And then she did.

Later we sat in Mommy's car on the street and talked for a long time, our faces bathed in the glow of a dim streetlamp on that warm August night. Mommy doesn't remember exactly what we discussed, but by then she thought that maybe she was going to marry that man one day.

Daddy called her the very next day. He said "This might be weird, but what are you doing tonight?" So we went out again, on another marathon date, with dim candlelit and french food. We decided to be honest, to put all our flaws out there, on the table, so we wrote them down on the paper tablecloth - one column for Mommy and one for Daddy. Mommy still has it. Among other things, it says "Paige: can't make decisions" and "Max: procrastinator." Some things never change, boys.

And as we sat in the moonlight in Mommy's car that night, she was quite certain that she had finally found your father.

Just over a year later, Mommy and Daddy got all dressed up and stood in front of their families and friends and told them all about their hopes and dreams.

That was four years ago today, on a perfect autumn evening.

We didn't know what the world had in store for us. We were just kids.

We didn't know that we would be lucky enough to have two perfect little boys to share our lives.

We didn't know that we would be so happy, or so tired.

But here we are. All of us - our little family - together.

So my boys, I promise that I will do my best to teach you, love you, protect you, and help you become strong, kind and smart.

But if there's one thing I know is true, it is this: if you grow up to be one shred of the man your father is, you are very lucky little boys indeed.

Happy Anniversary, LOML. Thank you for our beautiful life.
Oh, and you still owe Grandma twenty bucks.

Mastitis, and How Much It Sucks

2011-10-26T13:11:00.000-07:00

To say I'm a hypochondriac would be a slight understatement.

Just after Griffin was born, I noticed a spot on my face. It had always been there, or at least it had been there as long as I was really conscious of examining my face for flaws, which is to say AWHILE, and had never really bothered me. Yet suddenly, standing in the bathroom, unwashed, smelly, leaky, hormonal, I was absolutely certain that it was cancer. I rushed to the dermatologist (okay, I waited three weeks for an appointment, but by damn I entered that office quickly yesterday) demanding to have it checked. It was, of course, nothing (or a "subcute-something-blahblah-whatsit" according to the doctor). Ah.

A couple of days ago I was nursing Griffin when I glanced down and noticed a dark brown birthmark on his head, partially hidden in his impressive spread o' baby hair. The five seconds that followed went something like this in my brain: "What the-? A MOLE? Oh sweet jesus, it's melanoma. MY BABY HAS MELANOMA. Did he get too much sun at the pumpkin patch? Did he get ANY sun at the pumpkin patch?!?? Did the sun penetrate through his blanket, his stroller AND his hat and give him cancer at the pumpkin patch??"

Then I poked at it. It smeared. Chocolate. Oops.

So yeah, I get a wee bit neurotic about health issues (especially skin-related stuff - who hates the sun? I do! I do!). Fortunately, 99.99% of the time, my concerns prove to be unfounded.

HOWEVER.

When that .01% of my worries prove ACCURATE, it basically sends my mental universe into a freefall of "See?? SEE??? I KNEW IT!!" death, destruction, apocalypse, total shittiness

So you can imagine my reaction on Saturday after our trip to the pumpkin patch, when I started feeling a little under the weather - aches, chills, fever, crankiness, and um, WHAT THE HELL is wrong with my right boob??

Mastitis, bitches. That's what.

I kept it together long enough to call a doctor friend and have her call in an antibiotics prescription for me at the pharmacy. No, I will NOT mess around with natural remedies when it comes to my boobs and my precious milk supply. Plus, everything I read said that by the time it had progressed to fever (of 101.5, mind you) it was indeed a full blown infection and therefore required DRUGS! GIVE 'EM!

I'm only a few days into the ten-day prescription, and already feeling fairly normal, save for some residual breast soreness and swelling. But that swelling? See, I've convinced myself that it's an abscess. I am certain that I am in the .5% of women whose mastitis has gone unchecked long enough to develop into an abscess, so of course I will require surgery, etc etc etc crazypants etc. Never you mind that I realized what was happening and started treating it within hours of feeling crappy. Abscess! IT COULD HAPPEN!

Deep breath. Breathe in calm, breathe out stress. Thank you, hypnobirthing.

The ironic part of this is that mastitis is largely caused by milk stasis, which is when there is just TOO MUCH DAMN MILK in the boob and it's not adequately removed by the baby. So even though my kid is ginormous and nurses constantly, even he cannot quell the overproduction in my craaaaazy efficient right boob. I had deliberately not been pumping, or at least not pumping like a crazy fiend like I did with Carter, because I wanted to give myself a break and NOT necessarily ensure such a massive milk supply that I could feed a village of kids. I just wanted enough for one! That's it! So if I didn't pump as much, eventually it would stop producing so much, right?

Wrong, apparently. Or right, but only after said right boob TOTALLY SCREWS YOU in the mastitis department.

Sigh.

Well, this has just been all rainbows and unicorns, now hasn't it? Sorry, folks. It's not me, it's the boob talking.

Miss Mary Sunshine, signing off.

2011-10-19T14:23:00.000-07:00

Hot damn. Just a quick note to boast about my massive baby. We just had Griffin's four-week appointment at the pediatrician, and the boy is 10 lbs, 8 oz. That means he has gained TWO pounds (okay, 1 lb 14 oz, but close enough) since his last appointment two weeks ago. Two pounds in two weeks! He's in the 75th percentile for both weight AND height. Carter has been 10-25th percentile for his entire young life, so this is new to me. Let's hear it for the boobies, people.

...and now, because I want to zone out and watch some television before the baby wakes up, I leave you with two cute pictures of my awesome older son:

Baby Fashion Showdown!

2011-10-14T15:26:00.000-07:00

Let's get all Us Weekly up in here, people! Who wore it better?!

Carter in Silly Goose (9 weeks):

Griffin in Silly Goose (almost 3 weeks):

Carter in Duck Jammies (8 weeks):

Griffin in Duck Jammies (2 weeks):

Carter in I Heart Daddy (5 weeks):

Griffin in I Heart Daddy (3 weeks):

Yes, I am going to have a LOT of fun with this...

...and then there were four

2011-10-09T08:26:00.000-07:00

Griffin is 19 days old today, and I must say that our transition to a family of four has been shockingly seamless (knocking wood, pt-pt-pt over the shoulder a la my little Russian mother-in-law). I spend a lot of time feeling incredulous and waiting for the other shoe to drop, for all hell to break loose, for Carter to become a little demon.

As is, Carter is handling Big Brotherhood like a complete champ. When we brought the baby home, Griffin immediately presented his big brother with a present - a BIG, YELLOW BULLDOZER (all caps necessary, as any and all machines are VERY EXCITING in this house). Carter was overjoyed, and thanked the baby profusely. Perhaps Griffin's initial gesture of generosity helped to secure a special place in Carter's heart, because the Roo is remarkably chill about the new arrival. So far his interactions with the baby are limited to watching me nurse ("Mommy's boobie is leaking - like a cow!!) and to trying to calm the baby if he fusses in the car ("It's okay, baby - we'll be home soon."). Otherwise, Carter goes about his business as usual and pays little attention to his little brother, other than to immediately notify me if the baby is waking up or needs to be fed ("Mommy, the baby is crying!"). Happily, he has shown absolutely no aggression toward the baby, or toward Mommy (halle-freaking-lujah). I suspect this is because Carter's a very verbal kid and is therefore able to tell me exactly what he wants and needs - "Mommy, put the baby in the swing and come sit with Carter!" - so he doesn't need to get frustrated and lash out...? Or maybe I just have a really chill toddler. Either way, I'll take it.

Griffin is a dream baby (more frantic wood-knocking, pt-pt-pt). Throughout my pregnancy, I joked that he would no doubt be a demon because Carter had been such a mellow baby, and you can't get lucky twice, right? However, in the past couple of weeks I've come to realize something - Carter WASN'T easy. As my mother and mother-in-law reminded me, we had to swaddle-shoosh-swing-etc-etc and generally Harvey Karp the crap out of him to get him to sleep, he loathed the car and screamed incessantly when strapped into his car seat, and he reduced my boobs to bloodied shells of their former selves for the entire first month post-partum. Both grandmas vividly recall babysitting experiences in which they frantically bounced a swaddled, screaming Carter on our birth ball, desperately hoping for sleep baby, sleeeeeeep...

It seems I'd forgotten all of that. I'd forgotten that he was swaddled for each and every nap and night until at least five months old, when I was beginning to suspect that I would send him off to college with an adult-sized Miracle Blanket. I'd forgotten popping him into the Moby Wrap and suffering for the initial five solid minutes of screaming until he finally conked out. I'd (almost) forgotten the excruciating pain with every latch-on for four solid weeks.

...and then there was little Fin (Finn? Can I include an extra 'n' at the end of his nickname that isn't in the name itself? I have yet to decide). And in good, easy, second-child tradition, he doesn't require ANY of that madness. I swaddle him at night in order to get him to sleep longer, but he doesn't need it. We cruise to and from Burbank (30+ minutes each way) twice a day to take Carter to school, with nary a peep of protest from the car seat. I can count on one hand the number of sizable cries he has had. And nursing - nursing has been SO EASY that I am quite certain it's a gift from the gods to compensate for the initial post-partum hormonal hell that was month one with Carteroo.

I have no doubt that chronicling my good fortune in this manner is sure to tempt fate and send worlds of chaos showering down upon my weary (oh god, so, so weary - another thing I'd forgotten. How is it possible to be this tired and remain upright?) head, but I'm willing to risk it.

I have basically spent the past 19 days wandering around in a dreamy, joyous state, mumbling "I feel like I'm living in a dream" and other such hokey things, because I am just really, really happy, and so in love with my little family.

Griffin's Birth Story

2011-09-29T17:39:00.001-07:00

I currently have a sleeping baby with a full tummy, so I am taking advantage of that fact to write his birth story before all the little details slip from my exhaustion-addled mind into the oblivion of new motherhood.

First of all, Griffin's birth was very different than Carter's two years ago. My labor with Carter was fairly textbook (that is, until the cord-wrapping, oxygen-needing, fetal-monitoring part), with a clear beginning and gradual build. With Griffin, it seemed as though I was in labor for weeks before he actually chose to grace us with his presence.

I had been having Braxton-Hicks for months prior to his birth, and they had gradually become stronger and stronger in the two or three weeks beforehand. The weekend before Griffin's birth (he's another Tuesday's child!) the contractions had begun to intensify, but there was no regular pattern, and they still weren't particularly uncomfortable.

On Friday night, I had a couple of trickles of fluid that I thought might have signaled a water leakage, so on Sunday we went to labor and delivery to check and have the baby monitored (yes, we are idiots and waited 36 hours to call - the midwife was not pleased with us). Fortunately, my water was intact and baby was fine. The attending physician offered to strip my membranes, but I decided to hold out until my Tuesday appointment and let my midwife do it then if they baby hadn't already come.

On Monday I went back to the hospital for more fetal monitoring - evidently this is standard when you've reached FORTY-ONE weeks of pregnancy. Again, all was well.

Finally, on Monday night I lost part of my mucus plug - hallelujah (if you're squeamish about such things as mucus plugs, you should not be reading this blog)! Mind you, this happened SIX DAYS prior to Carter's birth, so I had been on the lookout for this impending-labor sign for days, but to no avail. Fortunately, within an hour I began feeling contractions, and they were finally beginning to feel somewhat productive. This was around 5:30 or 6pm that evening, when I was on my way home from preschool with Carter.

Contractions continued all evening in a fairly regular pattern - 10-12 minutes apart, but only 30-45 seconds each. They intensified that night, and I labored all night long as contractions hit anywhere from 5-10 minutes apart. Much like Carter's labor, no sleep for me. They were much stronger while I was lying down, but still weren't particularly painful and each one lasted only 30-45 seconds, so I didn't think too much of it. Again, at this point I was pretty sure I was going to be pregnant forever.

In the morning, my sister-in-law came to take Carter to school and Max and I optimistically prepared ourselves for what would hopefully be baby's birthday. We went to Starbucks and took a walk around the neighborhood (total deja vu from another Tuesday almost exactly two years ago), during which contractions increased to four minutes apart and about a minute long, and I began to feel the first glimmer that this might actually be the real thing.

Unfortunately, when we arrived back home, things slowed down again - back to 8-10 minutes apart and of varying intensity. My mother had just flown in from Sonoma County that morning, and arrived at our place to find a cranky, exhausted pregnant lady who was feeling quite certain that it was all a cruel joke and Little Brother would never arrive. The three of us set off to the hospital for my weekly midwife visit. Just before we left I had more mucus plug-losing action (I will definitely spare you the details here, as it wasn't pretty, people). Fortunately, hope bolstered by the arrival of this additional bloody show (icky term, no?), we had the good sense to bring our hospital bag with us.

At my appointment (still having contractions, but only 8 minutes apart and not particularly painful), the midwife checked me (DRUMROLL) - 4-5 centimeters and 90% effaced! Get your ass to labor and delivery, stat! Well, what she actually said was not to go home, and that she would strip my membranes to see if that would help things along. The procedure was quick and painless, and she sent us on our merry way with instructions to take a walk around Westwood and then check in to L&D.

Almost immediately after the membrane-stripping, things began to pick up. Contractions began coming about five minutes apart and getting longer and more intense. After a brief jaunt around Westwood during which I freaked out droves of UCLA students by getting my contraction on at every available street corner, we checked into labor and delivery at about 4pm or so. When I was examined again upon admittance, I was 5-6 cm and 90% effaced. Progress!

Max and I wandered around the wing for an hour or so and he rubbed my back with each contraction. Exactly like my labor with Carter, I felt almost all the pain in my back, so I forced my husband to rub it as hard as humanly possible (and I still have the welts to prove it). At one point his hand gave out and he started using the wooden massage roller instead, jamming it into my lower back with each contraction like his life depended on it. Good man. My mother was once again in charge of the hot rice sock, although I was more ambulatory with this labor than I was with Carter's (when I basically just lay there on my side for a couple of hours, attached to oxygen and fetal monitors) so I didn't need the hot sock as badly. Still, good mom.

Eventually, the midwives (I got two for the price o' one - they were training a newbie, Katie, so she did most of it while Shadman oversaw everything) suggested that they break my water to speed things along. Normally I would be wary of such interventions, but at this point I'd been at it for almost 24 hours and by damn, I was tired. BREAK IT, BITCHES.

Instead of the massive gush that occurred when my water broke with Carter, there was only a tiny trickle - it was really the most anti-climatic water-breaking ever. However, almost immediately afterwards I was in transition. While I had labored on my side in the sleep position with Carter's birth, I found that position to be much more painful this time around, and I knew it wasn't the best position to speed things along and help the baby to descend. Instead, I felt like I needed to be on all fours on the bed, so that's what I did. Around this time I started feeling like I wanted to push, but was told that I was only 8cm so I couldn't. This was BY FAR the most difficult part of the birth, as it had been with Carter's as well. Basically, I think the best way to describe "breathing down" (is that what it's called?) is that it's like having a freight train running through your body, and you're just trying to contain it. I did a lot of groaning at this point, and yelled "I can't!!" a few times.

...and then it was over - midwife Katie checked me yet again (upon my insistence that I NEEDED TO PUSH, LADIES) and I was fully dilated and ready. I flipped onto my butt, pulled my knees up as high as I could get 'em, leaned forward, and within five or six good contractions (pushing two or three times with each) his head was out, followed quickly by the rest of him. Griffin was born at 7:14pm, about three hours after we checked into L&D, and just in time for dinner. They placed him immediately on my tummy, where he stayed for the next hour, latching on and nursing like he'd done it all his life.

Compared to Carter's birth, with the cord wrapped three times around his neck, his heartbeat decelerating with each contraction, me attached to an oxygen mask and a continuous fetal monitor, baby coming out blue and whisked off to be examined before I could even touch him, high white blood cell count leading to two days of antibiotics, etc etc etc - compared to that, Griffin's birth was a walk in the PARK. We went home the very next day and weren't even in the hospital for a full 24 hours. After all, we had a big brother at home to get back to.

...more to come.

Griffin

2011-09-25T14:00:00.001-07:00

Introducing Griffin Thompson Draitser, born 9-20-11 at 7:14pm. 7lbs 9oz, 20 inches. 25 hours of labor and 9 days late but worth the wait. We are very proud!

Distraction

2011-09-14T11:44:00.001-07:00

To distract myself from the monotony of doing my baby rain dance around the living room for yet another day, I have decided to let you, dear readers, embark with me on my latest quest - that for the perfect diaper bag.

Since Carter was born, I have carried this:

My sweet husband bought it for me shortly after the Roo arrived because I had been obsessing over its pattern for months. Damn if I don't love me some stripes, people.

Now, that bag and I have had a good run, I must say. However, I'm beginning to suspect that it's not ideal for two (GAH!!) kids, and all the accompanying schlepping that goes with that territory. I can hardly jam it full of Carter's stuff these days, so how on earth can I possibly pack accoutrements for a whole other person in there? Plus, there's no zipper top, which I think most moms can agree is a major bummer - I'm constantly paranoid that I am leaving a trail of crackers, diapers, car keys, sanity, etc. in my wake whenever I go out. Not cool.

Thus, inspired by the recent diaper bag quest of Rebecca over at GGC (who lives right down the street and just had her twins YESTERDAY **OH, JEALOUSY**), I am going to document my hunt for the ideal diaper bag. Huzzah! This should occupy some space in my weary, bloated brain that would otherwise be obsessing about the distinct lack of newborn in my arms!

Like many women, when I first began to outgrow my striped friend above, I sought refuge with a variety of non-"diaper bag" alternatives and began just throwing everything into bigass purses, like this one from Gap (bought on super-sale for about $12 two years ago):

I'm not usually into flowery prints, but what you can't see in this photo is that the entire interior of the bag is BRIGHT ORANGE, which is flat-out awesome. Issues: serious lack of pockets = haphazard tossing of crap into bag = can't find shit. Again, not ideal.

Another husband-purchased alternative (thank you, LOML!) is this Etsy find:

I love this one for its simplicity, its redness, its ginormity, and the fact that it has a ZIPPER closure (I mean, really, diaper bag people, get with the program). The fact that it is somehow super-inexpensive while being handmade in Turkey is also fairly badass. However, although there ARE several inner pockets, I still find myself fishing for kid stuff often due to the bag's depth and lack of structure, which allows for a strange quicksand effect of everything I seem to need sinking to the bottom, just out of reach. Hrmph.

So there you have it. Three good bags, with downfalls to each. If I weren't 40 weeks, 3 days pregnant, I would probably just suck it up, jam everything into one of these suckers and call it a day - but by damn, I am an American consumer! Let's throw this economy a bone and buy some stuff we don't especially need! Yeeeeeehah, folks.

Some parameters - I'm not really into the whole "diaper bag that looks like a briefcase/office bag/fancypants expensive leather dealie." Like this one:

Yes, apparently that is a diaper bag. Sleek, no? But here's the deal - while I don't necessarily want a bag that screams "KID SHIT WITHIN!" I also am not in the market for something that looks like I really should either be shopping at Bloomies or about to enter a boardroom. I'd like SOME sense of whimsy to it. I mean, have you met me?

For instance, I find this (craaaazy expensive) one kind of awesome, but I think it just might take itself a little too seriously:

So here goes nothing. Some contenders:

OiOi Bags:

In case you don't know, I am a big fan of anything red. Thus, I love these. And look at all that cool stuff that comes with it. Plus, I found them for only $112 online (normally $160). Oh, AND they are made from organic cotton with a water-resistant finish and phthalate-free everything. Be still my heart. I think I like the hobo shape more than the satchel-y one, because I'm not a big fan of hardware on bags and the contrast of the black on red is too distracting to me. It also comes in a very nice blue shade, but I just don't know that I could commit to something outside of my signature color.

Although it's not as unique, I also like this one, in all its preppy, Nantucket-y glory. I found it for only $99 online (normally $150). However, I fear it's ultimately a little too boring. I mean, I'm looking for whimsy, after all:

I am very fond of this one, which seems to possess an endless array of pockets which I could stuff with all manner of kid crap:

It comes in a truckload of colors, but I'm strangely partial to this navy, even more so than the red. It's less fun than the red OiOi bag, but more interesting than the office-y type bags, and it looks sufficiently massive to suit my purposes. Price is pretty great, too.

I've heard good things about the Le Sport Sac bags being very lightweight and stuffable, but MY GOD isn't this just the most incredibly boring thing you've ever seen?

In other options, people seem to really dig these Timi and Leslie bags (same as office-y black one pictured at beginning of post), but I just don't know if they're ME.

I like this one, but it's pricey ($200!!), doesn't have a top zipper, and I can't find a better price online. I did, however, find it in another pattern for only $99, but it's nowhere near as awesome.

I weirdly like the quilted effect of this one, but don't think I can commit to all-black (booooring):

This is a total daddy bag, but I weirdly like it. So many pockets! So much stuff to cram inside! And it's red! And cheap ($79!)!

I like these bags (in all patterns except the lame peace symbol), but they don't have a zipper top and come with no cool accoutrements (hello, changing pad?!). Plus, I suspect that it may not be massive enough for my purposes.

All right - I could and would go on, but I've already been looking at diaper bags for several hours and I'm beginning to have some crampy contraction-ish stuff going on, so I'm going to go take a walk outside and see if I can have a baby today.

Before I go, tell me folks (all four readers of my blog) - what diaper bag do you carry? Thoughts? Recommendations? Help a lady out!

Ciao!

Yes, Still Pregnant

2011-09-13T10:34:00.000-07:00

**Be forewarned - cranky pregnant lady venting below**

I have officially reached the point where I am quite certain that I am in fact going to be pregnant forever. Little Brother is now two days late and doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry, as evidenced by the fact that 1) I still have not lost my mucus plug (gross, but deal with it) - with Carter, I lost it on my due date and he wasn't born for another six days (yes, I am aware that some women never lose theirs and just go ahead and HAVE BABIES anyway, and I am hoping that's the case here), and 2) I've been having contractions every day for the past, oh, FOREVER, but nothing feels even remotely painful or productive. Every night I think tonight's the NIGHT! and then I wake up the next morning, STILL pregnant.

So there you have it. Last week we had a heat wave, with temperatures reaching into the 100s. I just thought the baby was wisely choosing to wait it out until cooler weather, with plans of being born last Saturday, 9/10/11, which would be a fairly badass birthday and match well with his brother's, 9/1/09. Nope. Then I thought perhaps he was planning to hang out until the full moon yesterday, 9/12/11. No dice. Now I'm thinking that maybe he's just a very considerate child and is going to give his Grandpa an awesome 77th birthday present by being born on my dad's birthday tomorrow, 9/14/11. Fingers crossed.

So there you go. That's me. That's all I've got. I am now going to bounce on my birth ball and watch bad television and/or movies on Netflix. SIGH. I love being pregnant, but JUST ONCE can't it be for the normal amount of time? Yes babies, I get that my uterus is really comfortable, but COME ON! Give a lady a break. Little squatters.

Hrmph.

The Waiting Game

2011-09-01T14:07:00.001-07:00

Things I Have Done On My Maternity Leave (all four days of it thus far):

- packed birth bag
- swept and mopped the kitchen, dining room, and living room floors
- scrubbed the bathtub
- disinfected the toilet
- cleaned the counters and sinks
- washed the bassinet cover and bedding
- washed the Boppy and My Brest Friend covers
- washed the padding for the My Little Lamb swing
- sterilized breastpump parts
- washed nursing bras
- washed Carter's carseat cover
- attempted (in vain) to vacuum 87,000 crackers out of said carseat
- ordered pictures online
- ran 87 million errands
- gone to two movies
- awoken before 6am daily with a damp toddler calling my name (note to self: please invest in nighttime diapers, stat)
- baked and frosted (in four different colors) four dozen mini cupcakes for said toddler and his preschool pals to enjoy on his birthday
- bounced on birth ball
- reorganized Carter's closet
- washed/folded baby clothes
- gone to midwife appointment
- read birthing books

Things I Have Not Done On My Maternity Leave:

- HAD A BABY.

Ahem. I'm still ten days away from my due date, and I don't particularly anticipate this kiddo gracing us with his presence anytime soon, despite the strange pressure that I have periodically been feeling in my nether regions, like someone jamming themselves onto my cervix (yeeeehaw, run-on sentence!). For about five seconds the other day I fully suspected that I was about to go into labor in the middle of IKEA, but then it passed. I suppose there are worse places to have a baby - the bedroom showrooms are really rather cozy, after all.

I'm not particularly good with "down time," I suppose. I've been reading and responding to work emails constantly - yesterday a coworker wrote "Quit replying to emails and go have a baby." Hey, I'm TRYING, dude. The truth is that work has been so all-consuming this year that it's tough to unplug. Evidently I'm not even supposed to be checking work emails while I'm on disability - HR would not be pleased.

For the past nine months, between the office and mothering a toddler, I have hardly had a chance to focus on the fact that OH YEAH, I'm pregnant. On one hand, I feel fairly guilty about this (or as guilty as you can feel when you're existing in a state of exhausted delirium and functioning on pure adrenaline). When I was pregnant with Carter, I sang to my uterus for an hour a day (AM/PM commute), read books to my belly, played Mozart and Beethoven to my abdomen through headphones, ate like a saint, practiced my contraction simulations and relaxation exercises, yadda yadda yadda. In short, all the stuff I have NOT been able to do this time around.

This kid gets either Lady Gaga on the radio, or Carter's favorite, the "Construction Site" theme song played a trillion times during our daily commute. I haven't read to the belly even once (but we do read to Carter, so that's something - right? Right?!?) I attempt to plug the uterus up to some classical tunes, but generally pass out drooling on the couch immediately thereafter and then stumble to bed. Strictly organic eating fell prey to leftovers scrounged from whatever meeting somebody had at work on any given day (hellooooo, greasy noodles from random hole-in-the-wall! Fancy meeting you here!). Every time we attempt to practice our contraction simulations/relaxation stuff, my husband and I pass out cold. In short, I've been decidedly less Type A and more, well, human this time around.

On the bright side, less obsession equals fewer neurotic fixations - only a small fraction of my brain is spent vexing over all the unpasteurized cheese that waiters have potentially served me, for instance. Bonus!

We are ready - all of us. Carter keeps telling us everything that he wants to show the baby - "I want to show the baby the big red bulldozer." Or the yellow dump truck, or the green crane, or the brown cement mixer (yes, we are into machines these days).
He likes to attempt to lick my belly, which he finds endlessly entertaining: "I want to LICK the baby!!" followed by a pink-tongued lunge in the direction of my stomach.

Yawn. I could pass out over these keys right now.

Today is the Roo's birthday, which means two things: 1) WE MADE IT ANOTHER YEAR! and 2) unless he joins us in the next 8 hours, my kids will not have the same birthday. Hopefully Little (still nameless!) Brother will also refrain from disrupting Carter's birthday party this Saturday (just a family dinner this year, because I have come to the conclusion that I am NOT Superwoman and therefore did not wish to attempt a 40+ person party in the scorching heat of summer while 39 weeks pregnant) with his arrival too. My husband politely requested that I wait until next week to have this baby, because he's very busy in the office this week, thankyouverymuch. I told him that was between him and the uterus, so he gave my belly a stern talking-to.

Oh, Braxton Hicks. Welcome, my friend. How have you been?

Two years ago today, I was in the hospital, gazing raptly at my beautiful, perfect newborn. And every day since, I've been able to stare at that same sweet face, and wonder how it is that I became so lucky as to be his mother.

Where I'm From

2011-08-21T12:52:00.000-07:00

I haven't made a peep on here lately, mostly because I'm TDP (Too Damn Pregnant) and subsequently exhausted, but I loved Erica's post so much that I had to steal the idea for myself.

Where I'm From

I am from rolling valleys, from grapevines as far as the eye can see, from springtime fields flushed yellow and thick with mustard.

I am from the big drafty house on the hill, from cobwebs and scorpions and stacks of old magazines piled in corners.

I am from lazy weekends at the river, inner tubes, tadpoles and sandy car floors.

I am from Glen Miller and Ella Fitzgerald, from Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert and movies with Dad.

I am from roadside bushes thick with berries, stained fingers and cobblers and one for me, one for the bowl.

From three little towheads fighting like demons, hairless baby dolls and comic books, from home movies and It Came From the Laundry.

I am from strong Southern women, from the golden rule and Thumper's mother, from a Peter Pan record on the Fisher-Price player and the sandman's comin', don't you cry.

I am from sausage pie and pork chops, from salami sandwiches and orange juice and how many popovers can I eat before it's time to go to school?

I am from crisp fall air scented with wine, from woodsmoke and apples hung in windows and cut-your-own Christmas trees.

From the animal shelter, Breyer horses and best friends since kindergarten.

I am from hippies, health food stores, and farmer's markets, from tourists and tastings, from a small town just figuring out who it wants to be.

2011-07-21T20:47:00.000-07:00

It's now late July, which means that I'm due in 7 weeks (50-something days - GAAAH!), the little person in my belly weighs about four pounds, and the countdown has begun. I feel strangely calm about the fact that I'll be FULL-TERM in a mere four weeks. There's no logical reason for this, so I am assuming that the recent insanity both at work and at home has simply pushed me into pure survival mode, where I am (fortunately) capable of functioning fairly well as employee, mommy and (occasionally) wife (not in that order), but the typical, anxious, Type A, living-five-weeks/months/years-in-the-future part of my brain is rendered broken. Clearly that's the only reason that I feel any calm whatsoever about the fact that in a matter of weeks I will have TWO CHILDREN, correct?! Or is it that I am just too stupid to know any better?

Whatever the case may be, I'm feeling much more positive about life these days, largely due to the fact that I have only five weeks left in the office, and the chaos that has haunted my every workday for the past, oh, 8 months, is beginning to die down (KNOCKING WOOD FURIOUSLY). Carter has been SLIGHTLY less crazy recently, so my plans to sell him to gypsies are now off the table. No more crying when I drop him off at daycare (that was a brutal way to start the day for two or three weeks there), and the sleep has been going a little better (I will not elaborate, for I do not wish to jinx it...again with the KNOCKING).

My main concern these days is his upcoming transition to the 2+ preschool next door. He's been in the infant/toddler center since he was four months old, and has thrived there. He knows the teachers, the kids, the toys. He naps well, sleeps well, plays well. So all of this begs the question - what kind of fresh new hell will preschool bring??

My saving grace (if there is one) is that he will be transitioning to the preschool with two of his little girlfriends (and oh yes, my child can FLIRT like you've never seen, little ladies' man that he is), as they were all born within days of each other. My daycare begins the transition weeks prior to his birthday, so he'll begin venturing over to the preschool in the next couple of weeks and spending more time there each day leading up to September 1st (when my boy turns TWO - TWO!?!?!). Also, one of his favorite activities for the past few weeks has been going to visit his friend Adam next door. Adam is a June baby, so he moved next door last month, and Carter misses him. Every day when I pick him up, he says "Go find Adam!!" and we toddle/waddle next door together. Carter stands at the gate and calls "Adam, Adam!" and then Adam sees him, joyfully cries out "CARTEROOO!!" (yes, it seems that everyone has adopted his nickname), races over and they play through the fence until Adam's mom arrives to liberate him. Then they run around the yard together and race up and down the sidewalk. Carter looks through the gate and points out all the big-kid toys to me, and I tell him that soon he'll be joining Adam next door.

I am certain that the transition will be difficult for him, as my boy is a creature of habit and doesn't adapt particularly well to new people or situations (though I have yet to meet a toddler who does). For instance, last weekend my husband and I went to dinner (in a RESTAURANT! at a NORMAL TIME! and didn't FALL ASLEEP AT THE TABLE!) and let my mother-in-law and sister-in-law do Carter's nighttime routine for the first time - dinner, bath, bed. To understand the significance of this, you'd have to know that NO ONE has ever put Carter to bed except us. In fact, no one has ever done any of the nightly routine except us...and I could go into labor in four weeks, and seriously need Baba/Auntie to step in and save the day.

Shockingly, it went very well. He ate like a trucker (yes, MY kid ate - WHAAAAT??), went to sleep easily, and slept through the night in his big-boy bed. The only hitch was when they went to start his bath and he realized that mommy and daddy weren't there - evidently, loads of tears and crying ensued, but by bedtime all was well.
Oh, the freedom we felt, eating our dim sum at 7pm at the awesome new restaurant in our 'hood instead of yawning over our dishes at 10pm. We'll be trying to do this several more times before D-day.

I would write more, but my husband just brought dinner home and it's 9:24pm on a Thursday night, so I can no longer focus without stuffing my face with noodles.

That's how I roll these days, people.

Hanging In

2011-07-12T13:27:00.000-07:00

Somehow a month has gone by without my realizing it. You see, these past several months - and particularly the past month - have been, without doubt, the most exhausting, stressful, and challenging of my life. Hrmph. You know, I was about to write "I'm not complaining" but yeah, I guess I am - SO THERE.

When you are working SO FREAKING HARD at the office that you blearily emerge into the bright early evening summer sun at 5:45pm, racing to pick up your toddler before daycare closes, and realize that OH CRAP, you forgot to leave your desk and go eat lunch all day and OH YEAH, you're 8 months pregnant so that's not good, it's okay to complain a little.

When your toddler decides that sleeping through the night is for SUCKERS and he'd rather wake up 3+ times per night for the past two months, screaming "MOMMY AND DADDY'S BED! BACK IN MOMMY AND DADDY'S BED!" (yes, we let him sleep in our bed ONE night when he had a cold - NEVER, EVER AGAIN!), leading your husband to start sleeping on the floor of the nursery just to get him to sleep, DEAR GOD, get him to sleep, you get to complain a little.

When, while attempting to re-sleep-train and let him cry it out, said 22-month-old toddler CLIMBS OUT of his crib and wanders down the hall to the living room where you are FINALLY relaxing for five seconds on the couch and you suddenly realize SWEET JESUS it's a whole new ballgame now, you're going to complain a little.

When it's 95 degrees in Los Angeles and you're SO HUGELY PREGNANT that parts you didn't even know you had are simultaneously aching and bloating and sweating while you waddle around the neighborhood at noon in a desperate attempt to get your toddler to nap in his stroller, OH WHY OH WHY won't you NAP?!?, then by damn, it's your god-given right to COMPLAIN A LITTLE.

Yawn. Blargh.

At work, we are launching three shows this fall, in addition to the half-dozen or so other shows we already handle, which means PURE CHAOS for yours truly. You see, I handle the money, and EVERYONE WANTS THE MONEY these days. I really like my job - I really do. But when I (stupidly?) attempted to take a mini-vacation to visit family in Seattle a few weeks ago, accidentally scheduled said "vacation" during THE WEEK OF MY BIGASS DEADLINE (no, I'm not an idiot nor a masochist - without telling me, my boss moved the deadline after I'd booked my flight), and spent the entire trip tethered to my iPhone, replying to emails, with a sick kid who would not sleep, I realized that vacations and parenthood are not particularly compatible.

For some people, this is no doubt a depressing thought, but I have grown accustomed to the idea, and actually find comfort in my new vacationless resolve. For me, there's no point in attempting lofty travel goals - at least, not with the silly notion of "relaxing" in mind. BAH! Relaxing vacations are for childless people and people who leave their kids with Grandma. Thus, save for visiting my parents up north, I have decided that I am not taking any more vacations until 2018. I figure by then all of my children (assuming I have three, per the current plan) will be done napping and we will have more freedom and less insanity. Oh, and we'll bring Grandma.

Well, this post was simply DEEEELIGHTFUL, wasn't it, kids??

I'm going to finish with something positive - I am having a BAAAAAABYYYYYYY in less than two months, and he's already head-down and ready to rock. A few days ago I gave Carter a baby doll to introduce him to the concept of Big Brotherhood. He took one look at it, started chanting "NO BABY! NO BABY! NO BAAAAABY!" and threw it on the floor, which I didn't even realize until my husband pointed out that Carter's little brother was now lying face-first on the rug. Hmm...this does not bode well for their relationship. Gotta work on that.

Let's Talk $$$

2011-06-08T13:03:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about personal finance lately and trying to get my financial house in order. Four years ago, this was a little hobby of mine - I spent all my free time obsessively reading "Secrets of Six Figure Women," "Investing for Dummies" and the like, avidly studied finance blogs, and had subscriptions to Money magazine, Smart Money, etc. At the time, I meticulously distributed my 401(k) and Roth IRA amongst mutual funds that I felt were the best blend of small/mid/large cap, growth/value, etc etc.

This was before I got engaged and decided to plan a wedding in five months. All the money stuff went out the window, and since then I've been hoping that my fund allocations of '07 weren't too horribly crappy in the wake of the financial meltdown.

I've always been a frugal person, although I prefer just using the word CHEAP. Don't get me wrong - I don't cheap out on OTHER people. I like to think that I give nice gifts and whatnot - I just live a fairly streamlined existence, buying only what I need (sidenote: this explains the sorry state of my wardrobe. I am not a shopper - spending money on myself makes me very anxious. My husband - a shopper - is always encouraging me to spend more, and has instead resorted to just shopping FOR me, bringing home stacks of clothes from Banana Republic for a personal fashion show. From me, an almost-seven-months pregnant person. LOML, I adore you, but you're a little insane).

My mother calls me a miser and likens me to Scrooge McDuck, and she has a point. Can I help it if she let me read one too many Disney comics as a kid? The image of Uncle Scrooge swimming in his vast piles of money has stuck with me all these years...ahhhh.

I learned the value of money at a very early age. My parents never talked about money, and our lives were comfortable but not excessive. I'm not sure when my frugality began, but I do clearly remember my father ominously saying "It's going to be a tight Christmas this year, kids" and then becoming utterly terrified that we were all headed for the poorhouse. Considering that my father is a physician and my mother only worked part-time, I realize now that my fears were probably unfounded, but at least it instilled an appreciation of cold hard cash in my little self. I never got an allowance per se, but somehow managed to save money (gifts from grandma? birthday checks? I have no idea) to buy the things I wanted.

I remember the two biggest purchases of my young life. The first was a light-up teddy bear wearing a Santa hat. You squeezed his paws and he glowed and played Christmas carols. I saw him sitting on a shelf in the local Radio Shack and instantly adored him, so I saved up my dollars and FINALLY he was mine. I think he cost $17, although that seems pricey for a stuffed animal in 1987. I carried that little sucker around until his hat fell off and his tunes were warbly and jumbled, and he's still sitting in my closet at home.

My second big splurge as a kid was my Mickey Mouse varsity jacket from the Disney store. I was 14, and it cost $80 - a FORTUNE at the time. But by damn, I loved it, and eventually I scraped together my meagre earnings (again, not quite sure what I did to earn anything - dishes? sweeping floors? hoarding little checks from various birthdays and holidays?) and it was MINE. And I wore that sucker for the majority of Freshman year, and got many a compliment. It also still hangs in my old closet at home.

It wasn't until I quit substitute teaching and was hired by my current company that my finance fixation kicked into overdrive. Suddenly I had some magical thing called a 401(k) - what the hell was that all about? And lo and behold, there was a small Roth IRA that my parents opened long ago and never told me about. For the first time in my life, I had money to spare, and by DAMN, I would invest it well!

And so I did, until the engagement/wedding/newlywed thing came along, swept me off my feet, and put personal finance on the backburner.

THUS, here I am now. Mom to a 21-month-old, with Baby #2 on the way soon, saving for a house (a whole other post unto itself). I MUST get our financial house in order!

This brings me to my current fixation: almost a year ago, my father-in-law opened a 529 college savings plan for Carter, and has committed to investing $85 a month in it for him. Recently, I've spent a lot of time obsessing about 529s, comparing the best plans and trying to determine if we should switch. Carter's plan is currently open in the Michigan Education Savings Program - it's ranked among the better plans, though it's considered fairly conservative, while I am a fairly agressive investor. Still, the index ratio is pretty low and there is no annual fee, both of which are good things. Unlike many other states, there is no income tax break for CA residents who invest in their own state's plan, so I am free to consider options from any state. In my research, I've discovered that some of the best plans include those from Alaska, Nevada, Utah, Nebraska, Virginia, Ohio and Illinois. Our Michigan plan was ranked as one of the best plans as of two years ago, so I'm not sure why it's fallen off the list (more research to do...). Happily, you can switch plans once a year with NO penalty, so I have plenty of time to decide if we'd like to make a change.

Now down to the nitty-gritty: I've been doing 529 calculators online to determine how much we'll need to pay for Carter's education in 16 years. According to Vanguard's awesome calculator (click on "college savings planner - how much do you need to save?"), UCLA tuition will be approximately $284K in 2029, and we have to invest about $450 a month into our 529 (assuming a standard 6% return) to get there. I've started a $250 automatic monthly deduction from my savings straight into his 529. My father-in-law puts in $85, and I have entreated my mother and mother-in-law to each contribute $50, for a monthly total of $435.

BAM! HUZZAH! I'm finally feeling a little set in the college savings department, and I have time to compare other plans to determine what works best for us. Now I simply have to conquer the matter of the TOTALLY CRAPPY mutual fund in which half my Roth is invested. But I'm back in the game, people! I'm back in the game!!!

Little Farmer

2011-06-05T13:36:00.001-07:00

This weekend, we went to Underwood Family Farms out in good old Moorpark, CA. If you're local, have little ones and haven't been, GO. GO NOW! It was a cool, overcast day, which was perfect given my loathing of the sun. We went towards the end of the day, so we practically had the place to ourselves. There were animals, a petting zoo, a tractor combine slide, tunnels crafted from tractor tires, mechanical singing chickens, and best of all, rows and rows of pick-your-own veggies and berries. Underwood Farms sells its produce at many local farmers markets in LA, but we had a great time going straight to the source. Here are my favorites, but the rest of 'em are here.

Behold the Belly

2011-06-05T13:20:00.000-07:00

Just for posterity, here is a photo from a month ago, at 22 weeks (I particularly enjoy that it's posed next to the bar full o' booze):

And now, 26 weeks:

...it's going to be a long, hot summer.

2011-06-02T10:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I got my first "Soon, right??" comment, coupled with a nod to my big belly. HAA! No, well-meaning coworker. Not "any day now." Over three more months, in fact.

"Oops!" she giggled. "I don't know what I'm talking about!" True, my single, childless friend, you do not.

This exchange didn't actually bother me - I found it fairly amusing. I'm quite enjoying my roundness (nay - relishing! Relishing the roundness! Alliteration rocks!) though it's getting tougher to tote Carter around on my hip 87 hours a day (he's most definitely in a Mommy phase, and since he loathed me just a couple of months ago, I'll take it), and getting dressed in the morning is a pain in my bloated arse (more on that later). Several other people have commented on how I'm carrying SO much bigger than my last pregnancy, and it's true. I'd always read/heard how much bigger you get the second (and third, and fourth...) time around so I was expecting as much, and I carried so small for the majority of my last pregnancy that anything in comparison feels big.

Me at 6.5 months with Carter, at my BFF's wedding:

I haven't taken any photos lately for comparison, but I'll try to post one later.

I've gained a little more weight this time around (20 lbs so far, clocking in at 140 - woohoo!), and I haven't been eating as obsessively well as I did the first time either (I'm sorry, Little Fetus). Then again, I started this pregnancy a few pounds lighter than I was when I got pregnant with Carter (most likely the result of breastfeeding and pumping for a bajillion months) and according to my midwives and articles like this, my pre-pregnancy BMI puts me in the "underweight" category, so I'm supposed to gain 28-40 lbs instead of the usual 25-35.

Although I'm certainly up for the challenge (BRING ON THE BAKED GOODS, STAT!), this strikes me as a little odd - I'm a pretty thin girl and I've had my body issues in the past, but I certainly never thought of myself as particularly underweight. After all, this is LA - that title is reserved solely for the coked-up models and actresses puffing cigarettes and nursing skinny lattes at the Coffee Bean on Sunset, no? Those are not my people.

Bring me the cupcake-eaters, the pasta-gnawers, the wine-swillers! Show me the calamari-chompers, the cheese-chewers, the candy-chowers! Those are MY people.

Off the pregnant-body topic: in my first pregnancy, I was a vegetarian who craved turkey burgers and vanilla malts. This time around, I'm a meat-eater who craves beans. BEANS! I can't get enough. Garbanzos and black beans - roasted (my new favorite thing in life - and the Roo likes them, too), pureed into hummus (DELICIOUS new recipe I just discovered), or wedged into a burrito (thank you, brand-spanking-new Chipotle that just opened down the street from my office).

With that, I'm off to snack.

2011-05-23T16:45:00.000-07:00

I have a kooky co-worker. Well, not so much kooky as "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!??!"

She is very fond of invading personal space, coming up to my desk and STANDING THERE STARING and talking at me while I'm attempting to work. And she’ll just KEEP STANDING! No matter how little eye contact I make, or how busy I clearly am, or how perfunctorily I answer her questions, she will just KEEP STANDING, making bizarre attempts at humor and blinking repeatedly in an odd idiosyncratic way. Fortunately she works in a different department, so I don't work with her directly, which minimizes our interaction. But nonetheless, every couple of days, THERE SHE IS, popping up over my computer screen, hovering vulture-like with her crazy blinking eyes and Joker-esque grin.

Today was a humdinger. As usual, she was STANDING THERE, hovering over my screen, while I was making as little conversation/eye contact as possible, focusing on my computer in hopes that she would scurry away and leave me be. At one point, I said “I’m tired” because I AM.

She said “Yeah – you look tired. You look really pale today, too. Are you not wearing make-up?” I said that no, it wasn’t that, it’s the eco-friendly sunblock that I wear during pregnancy, which gives a slight white cast because of the zinc oxide.

She nodded, staring hard at my face, and then said “Oh, and you’re getting a little spot there, too” and POINTED AT THE (teeny-tiny) ZIT ON MY FACE.

Awesome.

I said “Yep, that’s a pimple. Thanks!”

She said “Oh, don’t you love that!” and FINALLY scurried off, cackling.

WHAT THE HELL.

The kicker is that, when she’s not pointing out my flaws, she’s all “You’re soooooo beautiful and thin!” (pre-pregnant, anyway). Huh?!?

What I Should Have Said: Listen, you schizophrenic old bag, why don't you walk a mile in my shoes for a day or two (or I should say waddle a mile, while six months pregnant and carrying an extra 18 lbs - ?!?! - on your midsection)?

Wake up at 5:30 with your teething toddler, make breakfast, feed/change/dress, prep food/bottles/snacks, take said toddler to school, rush to work (late as usual), rot your eyes in front of TINY LITTLE NUMBERS on 87 billion Excel spreadsheets for 8 hours, pick up/drive home/feed/bathe toddler, do dishes, wash bottles, make your own dinner and do those dishes, pass out on couch, then finally stagger to bed at 11 or later, and THEN talk to me about looking crappy.

DO NOT PROVOKE THE PREGNANT LADY. SOMEONE COULD LOSE AN ARM.

Tidbits

2011-05-16T17:24:00.001-07:00

- This weekend involved a trip to the LA zoo (Carter loved the meerkats - "Meerkats, Mommy! Meerkats!" His thoughts on the giraffes: "Back to meerkats! More meerkats!"). I'm thinking next weekend we'll hit up the aquarium again.

- We were nonstop on-the-go this weekend, going to dinner at our friends' house (at which there were no less than six children - although that counts the one in my belly), multiple shopping excursions (including a walk over to the Grove, where the Roo was fascinated by the Trolley, the water fountain, and the constant stream of bubbles emanating from at least a dozen bubble guns toted by various children), and a MASSIVE birthday party for our good friends' two-year-old (during which Carter made it quite clear that he shares his mother's distaste for crowds, as he chanted "Back in Mommy Daddy's car! Back in Mommy Daddy's car!" throughout almost the entire affair.

- There is a party in my uterus lately, which is reassuring, because since I have anterior placenta I hadn't felt much movement at all until a couple of weeks ago. Now Little Draitser is jabbing, kicking, and generally having a rollicking good time.

- "Baby Bump" is an understatement. More like Baby "holy shit did you swallow a razorback hog?"

- Note to self: please step it up in the primping department. You should not look like you just wandered out of a zombie movie in search of brains by 5pm. Unattractive.

2011-05-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had my first pregnancy anxiety dream. It involved breastfeeding, and lack of supply - somehow I hadn't nursed the baby enough in the initial days or weeks, and therefore my milk supply was crap. I woke up all disgruntled and cranky.

I'm not surprised that breastfeeding #2 is a source of anxiety, considering that I spent the first month of Carter's life in excruciating pain until his latch (Pirahna Jaws) worked itself out and he stopped gnawing my nipples off with each feeding. My problem was never low supply, but rather an overabundance of milk - I had overactive letdown, and the poor little Roo was just trying to contain the flow - but I have many Mommy friends who had trouble with supply, and I can imagine how stressful that would be.

I remember those first four weeks of Carter's life so clearly - the euphoria and adoration coupled with the pain and exhaustion. I remember frantically emailing mommy friends looking for breastfeeding advice. I remember visiting a very expensive lactation consultant, who said that our latch was fine but he was just sucking too hard, and there was nothing they could really do. I remember crying when cold air hit my sore nipples, ravaged by marathon feeding fests by my growing newborn. I remember considering quitting nursing.

What a month. I was a bundle of postpartum hormones who had changed exactly one diaper in her life before her child was born (and that was only a few months prior to his birth, when we babysat for a friend's toddler and I decided that I should get some practice). Aside from tidbits extracted from birth class or the prenatal books I had voraciously consumed for the past 40 weeks, I knew exactly nothing about babies.

And yet, breastfeeding madness notwithstanding, I don't remember being afraid. Looking back, I wonder how that's possible, and suspect that my mind is playing tricks on me. We recently saw a couple of our friends who have a boy Carter's age and a four-month-old, and I asked them for some words of wisdom about having two. They said not to worry, that it's not nearly as terrifying as it was the first time - so I got to thinking about those initial weeks and months and trying to remember what exactly transpired. And all I can remember is love, exhaustion, and pain. Perhaps the pain of breastfeeding has simply usurped any other negativity surrounding those first months. I'm sure I was scared. How could I not be? How could anyone not be? Is there anything more daunting - or more wonderful - than parenthood?

It's incredible to me that in less than four months, we'll be back in the throes of newborn craziness again, but this time with a toddler to take care of as well. A family of four. My tiny son kicks me as I write this, as if to say "That's right, Mama - here I come, get ready!" and I am overwhelmed with love, joy, and thanks.

I Miss Coffee

2011-05-04T14:07:00.000-07:00

The title basically sums it up on this one. Carter's two bottom canines are coming in, so for the past week or so he's been waking either in the middle of the night (fun!) or well before 6am (ditto!). Mama's tired, my friends. I am dreaming about a big, dark, steaming cup o' joe, preferably from the BEST coffee shop in Los Angeles (tourists, take note) King's Road Cafe. Oh god, it's heavenly. Toss some cream and agave in that bad boy and we're ready to rock.

I've read that pregnant women can have up to three cups of coffee a day, but I have never abided by that rule. During pregnancy #1 I totally abstained, and wouldn't even drink tea - herbal OR caffeinated (there was too much conflicting info on safe herbs, and it all messed with my neuroses). During this pregnancy, I am more lax - I drink mint tea (organic, with only mint leaves - no funny business), and have an occasional soy latte. I try to minimize soy during pregnancy, given the supposedly increased risk of hypospadias linked to soy consumption, but by damn, I love me a soy latte. Plus, a quick jump around the Starbucks website revealed that a decaf soy latte actually has less caffeine (5-10mg) than a hot chocolate (15mg).

During my first pregnancy, I wouldn't even consider drinking a latte, even a decaf one. But back then, I also kept a running tally of every bite of food I ate to ensure I was eating an optimal amount of produce, protein, calcium, calories, fiber, yadda yadda, and was convinced that all the waiters in Los Angeles were conspiring to feed me unpasteurized cheese and thereby kill my baby.

Times have changed.

Now I have a toddler who basically occupies every moment of my time that is not devoted either to work, sleep or the 4.5 seconds of attention that my husband gets between Carter going to bed and me passing out on the couch. I simply don't have time to satisfy my obsessive-compulsive tendencies like I did as a first-time preggo in '09. Sometimes I feel a little guilty that I don't dote on this in-utero kiddo exactly like I did with The Roo, but it's just not realistic.

And with that, there is relief. I am trusting myself to nurture #2 without going crazy about it. Crazy obsession is my comfort zone, so to step outside it, to give myself that freedom, is an adventure for me.

Yeehah!

Stuff My Kid Says

2011-05-03T10:12:00.001-07:00

One evening last week while waiting for Daddy to come home, Carter and I took a stroll around the neighborhood. The Roo loves to explore our street, playing with rocks, climbing onto people's porches and getting dirty. On this occasion we happened to run into a little girl and her father who live one street over. She is three weeks younger than Carter, and her mother and I have known one another casually since meeting in The Pumpstation's Breastfeeding Support Group when they were both newborns.

Carter was climbing up a porch when he started counting the steps - "one, two, three, five..." (he has no interest in the number four). The father said "WOW - he's talking? She only has a few words - mommy, daddy, no..."

I must admit, my natural proud-mommy instinct was to bust out with a litany of the bajillion things that Carter says, but I stopped myself and just mumbled "yeah, he talks a lot..." I mean, I know Carter has a pretty kick-ass vocabulary for 20 months, but I probably shouldn't rub it in to a parent whose kid barely speaks.

But here, I can and will BRAG IT UP (although, bragging aside, I always said I would write this stuff down, but I have neglected my baby journal for oh, at least six months, so I have to get it down somewhere). Here's a list of just some of the awesome things that my little Roo says:

- One of his new favorite sentences: "Daddy pressed the button on the animals." This translates to "Daddy pressed the button on the computer and showed me animals on Google images," which is one of his favorite activities.

- Another fave: "Sun is bright - eyes. Mommy, fix it!" Whenever we are in the car and the sun gets in his eyes, this is his plea.

- He is getting really good with verbs - "Daddy do it!" "Carter do it SELF" (whenever he does NOT want our help with something) "Grandma going?" (if Grandma leaves the room) "Daddy doing?" (if Daddy's not around and he wants to know what he's up to) "Mommy closed eyes - Mommy sleeping" (when Daddy takes him into the living room in the AM and lets Mommy sleep in). "Daddy in the shower" (self-explanatory)

- He knows the names of just about any animal I can think of and the sound it makes and will gladly point them all out. In fact, he knows just about every single word in every single "first word" book that we have, and in any random first word books that we look at at friend's houses, bookstores, etc.

- Opposites: Under/Over, Empty/Full, Awake/Asleep, Up/Down (that's an easy one!), etc.

- Counting: He counts to eleven, but has no need for four and ten: "one, two, three, five, six, seven, eight, nine, eleven." He'll say four and ten individually, but evidently does not feel that they serve any purpose otherwise.

- Shapes: I just about fell over in shock at my parents' home when he looked over at my mother's picture frame, pointed and said "Oval shape." He also knows heart, star, "moon" (crescent), triangle, square, circle, and occasionally rectangle (though this can be confused with square).

- Colors: We are still working on these, but he's pretty good with distinguishing between red (Elmo) and blue (Grover), etc. The other day I offered him his orange sippy and he rejected it, saying "No - blue cup, mommy."

- We were driving the other day and he pointed at a double-decker bus and said "decker bus." I said "yes, double-decker bus" and ever since he's quick to point out any and all "double-decker bus" that we come across.

- Some of my personal favorites: "Mommy, stop!" whenever I am displeasing him (adorable). After dinner, when he runs around the apartment yelling "TUBBY TIME! TUBBY TIME!" and manically pelting his bath toys into the tub. Also: "TV time?" as he hopefully hands us the remote control (or "mokano" if you're Carter). It never works, but he keeps trying.

These are just some of his more recent verbal developments, but there are really too many to count. I was keeping a running list for awhile, but gave up several months ago when it reached 150+ (and that was BEFORE the sentences started). Yes, bragity brag brag, but hey - if I can't do it here, where can I?

I know all kids develop at different paces - for instance, Carter has little to no interest in using utensils, and generally spurns any fork or spoon we give him. He is capable of using them, but seems to be operating under the philosophy of "well, if these schmoes are going to do it for me while I sit here and read my book, why should I be bothered?" So there you go - many of my friends' kids are using their utensils with each meal like old pros, yet barely uttering a word. It's fascinating how differently they grow. Carter also doesn't talk a whole lot around strangers or in unfamiliar environments - but with us, he's a constant chatterbox. Guess he does take after Mommy after all.

Back in Action

2011-04-29T15:39:00.001-07:00

Back from vacation - see pics here because I am too lazy to upload them right now.

Visiting my hometown is like entering a completely different world where life moves much more slowly and everyone is perpetually cheerful. It's like Mayberry, but with tipsy wine-tasting tourists and shops selling $250 jeans.

Wandering around our property never fails to recharge my batteries and erase the LA burnout that perpetually plagues me, the consequence of a small-town girl living in a big city. Note: I say "our" property because when my parents kick the bucket - sorry, Mom - it will be MINE, all MINE!!! Seriously, if my brothers inherited the place, they'd probably accidentally burn it down within a month.

Carter was obsessed with Grandma and Grandpa and spent the majority of the trip calling to them if they walked out of sight for even a few moments. If my mom left the room it was "Grandma going? Grandma doing?" This was quite a jump from out last visit at Christmas, when he had yet to say their names and spent most of his time talking about Santa and snowmen and oogling the enormous Christmas tree. He was alternately enamored with and terrified by "Tilly Doggy," the very friendly yellow Lab that is my parents' current baby, and we visited a nearby winery/biodynamic farm where he got to see chickens, cows and pigs, pilfer strawberries from the gardens and (best of all, if you're Carter) dig around in an vast amount of dirt.

Easter was a huge hit, and Carter is still enjoying watching footage of his first egg hunt, which he calls his "eggie" videos. He sought out those little colorful eggs like a pig rooting for truffles (except cuter) and was amazed at the Easter Bunny's final offering, a massive basket of toys and treats and a huge, beautiful German paper egg, the same one that I used to hunt for as a kid, filled with (you guessed it) more toys. I finally got to dress him up in some fancy duds (Babushka's bunny cardigan - gaaaah! adorable!) which was very satisfying for Mommy. All told, a good time was had by all. That afternoon we took a walk past my old elementary school and wandered up into the redwood forest nearby, where we stopped to introduce Carter to his first creekbed, the same one I used to catch salamanders and tadpoles in as a kid. He was fascinated by throwing rocks and leaves into the water and following the leaves as they drifted downstream. It made me very, very happy to see my city boy out in the wide open spaces.

And now - back to the grind. Our trip culminated in Carter's eye infection (I blame the pigs), keeping me home yet another day last Tuesday. I have never been so glad to return to the office - administering eyedrops to a kicking and screaming toddler is a special kind of hell.

Now I'm already looking forward to our next vacation, a trip to Seattle in June. After all, I'll have two kids soon, and who knows when the hell I'll be able to go anywhere. So in the meantime, bring it!

Vacation

2011-04-21T11:55:00.001-07:00

Hot diggety damn! We are flying out of town tonight, off to see my family for my birthday and Easter. That's right - it's time to blow this popstand, folks. Like a fine cheese, I am improving with age and this year I intend to do it up RIGHT. I'm not quite sure what that means, given that I am 20 weeks pregnant and can no longer stay awake past 10pm, but I'm fairly certain it involves mass quantities of carbohydrates. Bring it on.

Carter is very excited about the Easter Bunny, "eggies" and, most importantly "Tilly Dog," my parents' yellow lab. I am excited about wandering around through five acres of forest searching for my Easter basket, which I have done almost every year since birth. Yes, my people take Easter very seriously.

A disclaimer for potential robbers/thieves/ne'er-do-wells: before you commence with the burgling, please note the following:

1. all of my jewelry is from Target
2. all of our furniture has been salvaged from street corners or dumpsters
3. instead of a television, we entertain ourselves with shadow puppets on the walls.

Do your worst.

Sibling Rivalry

2011-04-15T12:28:00.001-07:00

So far, Carter seems to be vaguely aware that he is going to be a big brother. As the months roll by, I plan to reinforce the concept with books, videos, a babydoll, what-have-you, but right now I am content with just casually mentioning the baby in mommy's tummy occasionally. I don't really want to bonk him over the head with "MOMMY'S HAVING A BABYYYYYYY!" just yet.

An acquaintance of ours has two boys about two-and-a-half years apart, and her pediatrician suggested that she not even mention the new addition until a few months prior to her due date. At that point, she asked "Hey - do you think you want a little brother?" Her son nodded. Every so often after that she'd ask the same thing, and he would once again reply with an affirmative, until voila! Baby came home. Basically, her ped didn't think she should make a big deal of it too soon - something about build-up and anxiety and yadda yadda. Maybe I stopped listening after that point - oops (this conversation was had months ago, pre-pregnancy, or I would have paid better attention...probably).

Throughout my first trimester, the Roo was ultra-clingy - all Mommy, all the time. However, as I cruised into trimester two the tides changed. First he attended my 12-week ultrasound, and was alarmed at Mommy lying on her back while the small figure gyrated on the little screen. Then, only days later, I finally weaned him at 18 months - a process that I thought would be much harder than it ultimately was. One night I just explained that Mommy's boobies didn't have milk anymore, and the next day he stopped asking to nurse, just like that. But with nursing went our nightly cuddle time - suddenly he just wanted to go to sleep on his own like a big boy, with no need for Mommy's snuggles and singing. Then my husband started getting up with him bright & early at 6 a.m to give me another half-hour of much-needed rest.

All of these changes combined to create some serious crankiness in the Little Roo, directly squarely at Mommy. He had determined exactly who was responsible and oh yes, she shall be PUNISHED. Thus, the hitting and time-outs began. The heartbreaking "No Mommy! DADDY!" at bedtime.

For weeks, I was chopped liver. And then suddenly, just as quickly as before, things shifted again. For the past several weeks, Mommy is a good guy again. Mommy makes Carter laugh, Mommy kisses the boo-boos, Mommy plays the best games. Basically, Mommy is somehow a rockstar again. I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm going with it.

Is this what I have to look forward to for the next 20 weeks (yeehah - halfway there!)? Oy.

Sunshine, Butterflies and Other Happy Things

2011-04-14T16:59:00.000-07:00

It's official - Baby #2 is most definitely a BOY. I always suspected that I would have a gaggle of little boys wandering about, and so far it's proving accurate.

This also means that I got to give a big IN YOUR FACE to my husband, who persisted in believing it was a girl long after I told him weeks ago that I was 99.99% certain it was not. At one point he admitted that I was probably right, but that someone had to think it was a girl (subtext: someone has to disagree with you). Well, gentlemen - here's more proof that you should trust your ladies. It's my uterus and if anyone knows anything about the little squatter in there, it's me.

We are both ecstatic to be having another little boy. Some people (only those I don't know well) have looked slightly disappointed and expressed their condolences that it's not a girl, which amuses me. Why does everyone automatically assume that women only want girls? I've never been the girliest of girls, and certainly wasn't as a child. I was that weird, skinny kid, happiest either up in a tree, with my head in a book, or having conversations with my stuffed animals. I wouldn't even know where to begin with Barbies and dress-up. Sure, perhaps I'd like a girl at some point, but that's what #3 is for, no?

So far I am following my mother's pattern exactly - she had my two older brothers at 30 and 32, so if I have a (ahem - really awesome) baby girl at 34, I'll basically be living the same insanity that was her life in the late 70s, with three kids under age 5. Toss in the fact that I'll also be a working mom and behold the subsequent nervous breakdown. So far I am feeling fairly confident about having two kids. Of course, I'm only 18 weeks along, so there's plenty of time for the terror to set in - but right now I'm riding a happy, hormonal wave of pure excitement.

In general, the cranky-making issues of late are looking up: my ultrasound revealed a very healthy baby (knocking wood furiously), and the marginal previa is totally resolved (insert sigh of relief). My wonky eyes have been behaving recently (ditto wood-knocking), ever since I did some self-diagnosis and determined that my ultra-sensitive peepers couldn't tolerate preservatives of any kind. I switched to a preservative-free lens solution (the ONE very expensive type on the market) and TA-DA! Significant improvement. (Sidenote: anyone out there reading this with perfect vision: first of all, I hate you. Okay, not so much hate as "am bitterly jealous of." Secondly, thank your lucky stars every day of your life, because bad vision utterly SUCKS. Why my parents, who have two of the strongest contact lens prescriptions in the history of mankind, decide it would be a good idea to breed and perpetuate their maladies is beyond me.)

To summarize: healthy baby + healthy mommy = rainbows, bunny rabbits, chocolate sundaes and pogo sticks (so what if I've never actually been on one - they seem happy).

First School Picture

2011-04-14T11:42:00.000-07:00

Looking every bit the little Russian boy that he is...

Unlike some of his little compatriots, Carter managed to keep it together for his picture, with no tears or whining (note the ball in his hands - this clearly played a large part in that). I love his sleepy little smirk.

2011-04-01T20:58:00.000-07:00

Ah. I am not feeling nearly as cranky and despondent as I did when last I wrote, so I will not be using my blog as a platform to air too many (key words) personal grievances today - although, really, what good are blogs if not to bitch and moan freely when one feels like it?

I am about 17 weeks pregnant, and just this week began to feel the first flutters of movement from the resident of my uterus. Looking back, I cannot for the life of me recall when I first felt Carter move, and somehow didn't seem to document it for posterity. Hrmph. I am going to try to keep track of such little milestones this time around. After all, I was the third child in my family, and I suspected I was adopted for years due to the incriminating lack of photographic evidence of my babyhood. Thank you, MOM. Draitser Baby #2 will not grow up thinking his/her parents stole them from gypsies.

I'm trucking along like a little round (HOLY CRAP I THINK I JUST FELT THE BABY MOVE AGAIN. OR IT COULD HAVE BEEN GAS.) piglet these days, packing in two breakfasts and two lunches daily because hot damn, I'm hungry and I can. Strangely, my increasing girth seems to have magically slowed itself - I weighed myself last week and was three pounds lighter than at my appointment two weeks prior - so it's possible I will not gain 70 lbs, a la Kate Hudson (that bitch got FAT, let me tell you).

...and with that, I am off to eat.

Growing and growing and growing and...

2011-03-30T22:47:00.000-07:00

16 weeks, 3 days:

And another, just because I like the faceless head effect:

As a point of reference, below I am 23 weeks pregnant with Carter and actually looking SMALLER than I am now at 16 weeks. Yikes. (and strange, since my weight gain so far is the same as it was at this point the first time around.)

Vexing

2011-03-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

Ahem. I am going to complain, and that's how it's going to be. There. Consider yourself forewarned.

Yesterday morning I was applying mascara when I suddenly felt the sensation of something falling into my eye - the same perpetually sensitive, irritated eye which was infected not two weeks ago. I blinked a couple of times, and everything seemed fine - no discomfort. I went about my day.

Late yesterday afternoon, I glanced in the mirror to discover a glaring red eyeball - AGAIN. However, this time the redness was mostly localized to the upper right portion of my eye, near my iris. Hmm...perhaps I got something in it after all. Maybe there is something trapped underneath my contact lens. I will get home, take it out and be all better.

Not so. Once I arrived home and removed my lens, the redness actually increased. Then I took a shower, and it dissipated somewhat. Then it seemed to increase again. Sigh. I went to bed, hoping it would be better this morning.

Bright and early, I rushed to the bathroom mirror for inspection. A little better, but still red and certainly not normal. After dropping the Roo at daycare, I went straight to the eye doctor, for the THIRD TIME in two weeks. At this point, I was thisclose to having some kind of complete nervous breakdown. Yes, perhaps a red eye doesn't merit a nervous breakdown for most people, but how about multiple red eyeballs, multiple times, over many months. Throw in some pregnancy hormones and there you have it. Thisclose to Crazyville, USA.

Apparently, the verdict is that my eye is inflamed due to my contact lens - I cannot for the life of me repeat the word the doctor used - sclerosis? no, that sounds like a skin condition, that can't be it. Oh, well - basically, my eye is hating my contact lens now that I'm pregnant. Apparently, this is quite common, although my eyes were hunky-dory (oh god, that's an oldie but goodie - it's official, I am becoming my mother) throughout pregnancy #1. The good news: it's not an infection, so I'm not contagious and don't have to worry about spreading anything to the Roo.

So? Just wear your glasses, you'd say. Alas, no. Not an option here. You see, ten years ago I had LASIK surgery, but they could only do my right eye. The left eye has a higher prescription (blinder than blind) and a thinner cornea, so LASIK was not an option. I decided to have the right eye done anyway, because one eye that can see is certainly better than none.

In the midst of the operation, I heard THIS lovely tidbit from the eye surgeon:
"Uh-oh....Nurse, hand me that cornea."

I lay there, my 21-year-old self strapped to the operating chair, my eye wedged open Clockwork Orange-style, terrified. I wasn't certain what was supposed to happen, but I was fairly sure that "uh-oh, hand me the cornea" wasn't part of it.

Sure enough, the doctor had botched the operation, as clearly evidenced by the look of utter terror in the eyes of the nurses when they let me out of my constraints. Fortunately, he put a fake contact lens on my eye overnight and the cornea fused right back on. Now my vision in the eye is almost perfect. I can see the alarm clock in the morning. I can see faces. I can function. But glasses? Glasses aren't an option, since one lens would be coke-bottle thick and the other would be normal. Not only would it be aesthetically atrocious (think one tiny eye and one normal eye, Igor-style), I've been told that it's not actually possible to make. But 'til now, I haven't needed 'em. For ten years, I've been truckin' along with no issues, popping my one contact in and out every morning and night without a care in the world.

Until now. This pregnancy hates my eyes, much like my last pregnancy hated my teeth. Other mommies tell me that I'm so lucky because I've never had morning sickness, but ladies, I think I'd rather barf day and night for the next six months than be half-blind with a red eyeball. Just sayin'.

So I have some drops for my eye, which will hopefully clear up the current inflammation, and then I apparently have to be super-militant about reducing my contact lens wear and letting my eyes rest. If that doesn't help, the doctor suggested potentially switching to a hard lens (gasp! only my VERY blind parents wear these!!), as they apparently do not cause the same inflammation. But he said, and I second him: "I hope it doesn't come to that."

I am not ashamed to say that I broke down crying in the eye doctor's office this morning. Silly, I know - but months of eye issues plus pregnancy hormones have simply broken me down. I know it's trivial in the grand scheme of things, and I'm lucky to have a wonderful, healthy pregnancy...save for the subchorionic hematoma during the first trimester, and subsequent marginal previa evident at my last ultrasound.

Oh, did I fail to mention those? Well, if we're complaining, let's just get it all out now, shall we? Yeah, it hasn't been all rainbows and butterflies this time around, folks.

At about nine weeks, I had a little spotting. Nothing crazy, just some light pink stuff, but of course I freaked out, as I am wont to do. I went back in for a second ultrasound, and they found a very, very small (fortunately) subchoronic hematoma, which is basically a blood clot between the outer layer of the uterus and the placenta. Apparently this slightly increases the risk of miscarriage, so I was told no sex, no exercise, no lifting ("no lifting" to the mother of a toddler - haaaaa!), etc. etc. until my next ultrasound three weeks later.

Flast-forward three weeks: Happily, blood clot is GONE - absorbed back into my body, which is common. Hurrah! But wait - there's potentially another reason you were spotting - your placenta is really close to your cervix. Hrmph. Don't worry - this is common at this stage, and the placenta will rise as you get further along. It won't be placenta previa - we think. But for now, no sex for six weeks, until your next ultrasound.

So there you have it. Certainly nothing horrible, but this pregnancy hasn't been without its little bumps along the way. Toss in the janky eyeball and it's a just a PARTY.

Okay. Complaining done. I am purged. Over and out.

Retail Therapy

2011-03-20T20:01:00.000-07:00

Today, Los Angeles marked the first day of spring by unceremoniously dumping torrential rains upon our sunbleached heads, as if to say "Take that, SUCKAS!!!!" We commemorated the occasion by seeking refuge at our local mall, along with 98% of the general population within a 50-mile radius, to indulge in a little retail therapy.

I have been on a bit of an (extremely out-of-character) shopping kick recently, hellbent on spending a good chunk of my (measly) bonus check on home improvement. Anyone who knows me well would tell you that this is decidedly not befitting my well-earned status as Cheapest Bitch Alive, and truth be told, my newfound spend-thrifty ways even perplex me somewhat. My sister-in-law suggested it could be nesting, and although it seems several months early, I suppose I could just go with that. But the truth is that, as someone who can rarely justify spending money on herself (aside from food, because by damn, I love to eat - although really, at the end of the meal, what do you have to show for it besides a bloated stomach?), I have discovered that a few upgrades here and there can do wonders for one's sense of well-being.

It started with my sudden need to rid our bedroom of its ancient, wobbly bedside tables. We searched high and low for suitable alternatives that would work with our fancypants (read: long-ago gift from someone generous) bed and chest of drawers and provide some extra storage space for our bursting closet. To my surprise, we ended up at our tried-and-true standby: IKEA.

Voila:

Inexpensive, yet works perfectly with the pricier stuff we already had. Love, love, love.

While we were at it, I decided that our duvet cover - a fantastic, long-loved red paisley Pottery Barn purchase from my single days - definitely needed replacing. Roaming in the bedroom textiles, I found it, the antithesis of the busy red paisley: white and crisp, with delicate vines in various greens creeping up the comforter cover. It is serene loveliness, perfect to herald the beginning of spring, and with matching pillow shams to boot. AND on sale half-price at $14.99. I would show you a picture, but it's gone from the IKEA website. Thus the $14.99.

I've had an antique mirror, rescued from my deceased grandmother's home, hulking in the corner of our bedroom for the past two years. Yesterday, my husband finally hung it on the wall over our chest of drawers, marking the first item we have hung on our bedroom walls in over two years of dwelling in our current abode. I know, pathetic, huh? But with these small upgrades, our bedroom suddenly went from a ramshackle disarray of laundry piles and discarded toys to "WOW! Grown-ups live here!" I feel fancy.

You might think that would be enough, but well, you'd be wrong. While visiting last month, my saavy mother discovered something that the two of us airheads hadn't yet noticed - one leg of our dining room table had basically detached and was about one small push away from totally collapsing. Ah yes - another shining example of excellent parenting. I'm fairly sure "do not allow table to fall onto child's head" is somewhere in the book of baby-proofing that I haven't read.

We set out posthaste in search of a replacement table, but again, a good one proved hard to find. We looked high and low (and we live right by Los Angeles's La Brea furniture row, so that's saying something, kids) and couldn't find anything right. Everything was either cheap and junky-looking or ridiculously pricey. What to do?

That's right - IKEA it is, yet again:

It must be said that this photo simply does not do justice to the glory of our new table. It truly looks like it wandered out of a high-end gallery and into our two-bedroom apartment. It seats at least eight at its current size, and then pulls out to reveal two additional wings for added space, allowing it to sit at least a dozen people (and really, when the hell am I going to have more than a dozen people over, I ask you? Answer: no time soon). Yes, I'm a little in love with my new table.

Think that's enough? OH NO! Lately I've also been on an anti-Teflon kick, and decided that it was high time to replace the two decaying nonstick pans that are probably pumping carcinogens into our bodies with each egg we scramble. In the rapidly escalating anti-Teflon fury that consumed me, I became paranoid that EVERY piece of cookware that we have must be coated with the evil junk. Aside from the two PTFE and PFOA-packed nonstick offenders, the rest of our cookware was an expensive gift from our wedding registry, which I chose long before I had even a remote inking of toxins, health, the environment, yadda yadda. It probably went something like this:

"WHEEE!!!! Lookit that set! It's awful shiny! I'm gettin' MARRIED and I wants it! YEEEEEHAH!" (and beep beep beep goes the registry gun)

I don't know why I'm a hillbilly in this scenario, but you get the point. So I did some frantic googling and was overjoyed to discovered that there is not one DROP of Teflon in our very nice Calphalon set. Huzzah!

Still, my mother insists that stainless steel is the way to go, and she both works in a cookware shop and kicks serious ass in the kitchen, so I'll take her word for it. In our consumer roamings today, we found ourselves in the Macy's Home department, in the midst of a massive sale. And that's how I came home with this fine addition to my cabinets, my Calphalon Stainless Steel 10" Skillet:

Hello, my shiny new friend. Welcome to our home. Won't you cook me dinner?
It was originally $79.99, but marked down 50% to $39.99, with an additional 15% off for using my Macy's card, for a whopping total of $33 or so. I believe a WOOHOO! is in order.

Just when I thought I was done, I ended up in the bedding section, and discovered the most glorious set of sheets on a super sale - 620 thread count, soft as my baby's bottom, butter yellow (love) - originally priced at $175, on sale for (drumroll...) $59.99. Holy bedding sale, Batman!

I walked out of there exhausted but happy, with sheets under one arm, frying pan under the other, and a toddler wedged firmly on my pregnant hip.

To summarize, we now have proper bedside tables that won't topple down and crush our noggins in the middle of the night, a pretty new duvet and sheets to warm our tired selves, a table to eat like royalty, and a pan to cook culinary masterpieces. All this, and I still have plenty of bonus check left over - but that's going straight into savings. Mama's got a house to buy.

2011-03-18T15:28:00.001-07:00

So we're having another baby. YEEHAH!

Now, my reaction to discovering this news in early January can best be summarized as: WHAAAA? Eeek! Errr...WHOA! Yikes. gulp

We were going to start trying for said baby sometime early this year, thinking a two year, three month or two-and-a-half year age separation would be nice. But after one festive December evening involving a lot of chocolate and a flagrant disregard for birth control, apparently the universe thought differently. Carter and his brother or sister will be almost exactly two years apart. What can I say? I - ahem - REALLY enjoy the holiday season.

So here I am - just shy of 15 weeks along, though looking more like six months in. I'd always read that your stomach pops early with subsequent babies, and let me tell you - they are NOT kidding, folks. I waited until the second trimester to spread the news, and it was not easy, given the impressive baby gut I've been accumulating over the past few months. At work I took to wearing lots of open blazers and long scarves, yet still saw suspicious coworkers eyeing me carefully. It was such a relief to finally announce the pregnancy and assure them all that I hadn't just suddenly developed some kind of thyroid problem.

I'm feeling fine, with no morning sickness or queasiness to report, much like the first time around with the Little Roo. Thus, I can only assume Little Fetus Draitser is another boy, though we'll know for sure next month. That's right - we're finding out the sex this time. I don't need any more surprises, people.

Carter has been particularly clingy and Mommy-oriented since I got pregnant, which our pediatrician assures me is par for the course. We had told him about the baby, and then he came to Mommy's 12-week ultrasound, where he was fascinated by all the blinking lights and beeping machines at the hospital.

"There's the baby," we told him, pointing to the fuzzy little figure squirming and kicking up a storm on the small screen. "That's your brother or sister!"

"Doooooowwn!!" he replied, desperately hoping to be let loose to find an 87 bajillion dollar machine to bang on.

He was, however, momentarily very distressed each time they had Mommy lie down on her back on the exam table, and began to cry and wail protectively. From that day on, the clinginess increased tenfold, and lately it's all-Mommy, all the time (oh god, the exhaustion...). The daycare tells me he talks about Mommy all day - "Mommy. Mommy?? Mommy..."

Oh boy. This is going to be one wild ride.

(to be continued when I am not slammed with paperwork at my desk on a Friday afternoon)

The Plague Strikes Back

2011-03-10T13:13:00.001-08:00

Well, there's only one thing that would cause me to take five days to write after posting about my pregnancy (yeehah!), and that's SICKNESS, and lots of it.

On Monday, I woke up with one flaming red, oozy eyeball. What's that, you say? What the hell is wrong with your janky eyes now? Yes, you'd really think I spend my spare time rooting face-first through dumpsters for all the problems I have with my eyes, but the fact is that I seem to be cursed with the most sensitive set o' peepers on the planet. And blind as a bat to boot. Jealous much?

Carter's eyes were fine, so I dropped him off at school and rushed to my trusty eye doctor. I trust this man - after all, he's the one who finally alleviated my chronic blepharitis and dry eye last fall with a little bottle of magic drops, which I used only after much reassurance from said doctor that they were safe for a breastfeeding mom. Knowing my neurotic, hypochrondriac tendencies (hey, I'm a doctor's daughter) he looked at the offending eyeball and we then spent about ten minutes discussing which medication would be safest for treating a pregnant lady. I left the office with two prescriptions - a drop and an ointment - filled them at the pharmacy next door, and popped a drop into my eye when I got into the car. By damn, I would kick this eye infection's ASS! Pinkeye would be sorry it ever messed with me!

...and then I glanced down at the insert that came in the little eyedrop box. PREGNANCY CATEGORY C. Bad things happened to rabbits in clinical testing. In other words, potentially harmful - not for pregnant broads.

A situation like this can best be summarized by: WHAT THE F___________K????

I raced back into the office and demanded to speak to the doctor. "Category C?" he said. "I'm sorry - that really surprises me. But don't worry - you'll be fine. It's just one drop."

As I walked back into the pharmacy where the doctor had told me they would refund my money, I heard him on the phone with the pharmacist. "Oh, no - not during pregnancy" the pharmacist said, shaking his head. By the time he got off the phone, I was approaching tears. He was pleasant and reassuring, insisting that one drop was nothing, that I would be fine, that all the tests were done with massive doses on bunnies anyway, and "bunnies get everything." Uh huh. Thanks.

So I left the good (BAHHHH!) doctor's office with the little vial of eye ointment (Pregnancy Category B, thank you very much) that would hopefully cure all my eyeball evils, and went back to my office to begin obsessing about the potential damage I could possibly have inflicted on Baby D (AKA "ALOOL" - more on that later). Fortunately, with a few swift clicks of the mouse and some handy math skills, I discovered that in order to even meet the "no observed effects level" (the level at which NO reproductive toxicity was displayed for animal studies - about one-sixth of the amount that the poor messed-up bunnies received), I would have essentially had to pour two full bottles of the eye drops into my eye in one sitting. So yeah - I'm pretty sure we're okay.

In short - not a fun way to start your week on a sunny Monday morning, eh? Well, it got even more fun when I picked up a very feverish, limp and sleepy baby at daycare that afternoon. We had just been to the pediatrician for his 18-month check-up on Saturday, two days prior, at which he was healthy as an ox (a 23.4 lb ox), and now this? Oh, glory.

So there you have it - for the past couple of days, we've been at home recuperating - me from my janky eyeball, and Carter from his wonky fever. Things got even more fun yesterday morning, when he woke up with yellow crusties in his eyes, and one corner looking a little pink. The plague spreads! Fortunately, our ped called in a prescription for him and he was able to return to school today, non-infectious. But let me tell you - nothing says fun like prying your kicking, screaming, wailing toddler's eyes open to administer drops FOUR TIMES A DAY. Nothing.

Things are looking up today. My eye has cleared up considerably, and I can now wear my contact lens instead of stumbling around half-blind. Carter's fever is gone (and the ped thinks it was a reaction to his shots from Saturday. Hrmph.).

Fingers crossed that we're all well by the weekend and can focus on fun things...like brewin' a baby.

A little announcement

2011-03-05T20:34:00.000-08:00

Possibly the Best Muffins Ever

2011-03-02T10:02:00.000-08:00

I have to thank my mom for this one - she sent me the recipe years ago, clipped out of Health magazine. I stuck it in my recipe book and forgot about it until after the Roo was born, on a day when I was feeling bake-ish and happened to be overrun with brown bananas. The result? Light, fluffy, sweet treats that are actually good for you (4 grams of protein in a muffin?! Nice!). Plus, it has to be one of the easiest muffins recipes ever - and muffins are pretty easy to begin with. I made two batches this past weekend, and our little family (even Carter!) has been gobbling them up ever since. Enjoy!

Banana-Oat Muffins

2 mashed ripe bananas (about 3/4 cup)
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 egg
1/2 cup fat-free milk
3/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
2/3 cup white whole-wheat flour (I use the Trader Joe's brand) or whole-wheat flour
1/2 cup quick-cooking oats
1/4 cup sugar (you could probably use agave instead, but I would use slightly less than 1/4 c. since it's sweeter than sugar)
1 3/4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
Cooking spray

1. Preheat oven to 375º.

2. Combine bananas and next 4 ingredients (through vanilla) in a medium bowl; mix well, and set aside.

3. Lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup and level with a knife. Whisk together flour and next 5 ingredients (through salt) in a small bowl.

4. Stir the flour mixture into the banana mixture until they are just combined.

5. Spray 9 muffin cups with cooking spray (or use paper liners), and spoon 1/3 cup batter into each cup (cups will be full).

6. Bake 16 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean.

Nutritional Info
CALORIES 152
FAT 5g (sat 1g, mono 2g, poly 1g)
PROTEIN 4g
CARBOHYDRATE 25g
FIBER 3g
CHOLESTEROL 27mg
IRON 1mg
SODIUM 178mg
CALCIUM 85mg

My Two Favorite Noggins

2011-03-01T16:28:00.001-08:00

The Roo's special treat: watching Sesame Street videos on You Tube. His obsession with the Sesame critters began last fall, when we bought him these beloved books - he learned all the character names and insisted on us reading them to him during every meal (let me tell you, nothing says fun like the 15th reading of "Grover's Opposites" at 7:15pm on a Tuesday night. NOTHING. But hey, it helped him start learning his shapes, his colors, his numbers - the whole bonanza o'toddler smarts).

We never have the TV on at home, but we've Tivo'ed countless episodes of Sesame Street, thinking he would appreciate it someday. So far he loses interest in the show after about five minutes (five minutes of shouting "Elmo! Elmo! Abby! ABBY!!" at the screen), so now he only gets the occasional video. Frankly, I never thought I would let my kid watch TV (even a two-minute video) so young, but he loves it. And who am I to deny him his Abby Cadabby broccoli song?

5:30am is not Good Morning

2011-03-01T10:02:00.000-08:00

Curse you, 18-month sleep regression.

For the past several mornings, Carter has been up to his old waking-up-at-5:30am shenanigans. At the beginning of January, he magically started sleeping in til (insert harps and chorus of angels) 6:20am! Sweet fancy Moses, it was glorious.

This development happily coincided with two magical events: 1) I dropped the morning feed in our very, VERY (oh child, will you never stop?!) slow weaning process, and 2) (drumroll!) the Roo had SIX teeth come in in five weeks. Ages ago, I wrote about about Carter's general lack of interest in food, which I have since connected to teething - endless, awful teething - and the subsequent disdain for chewing anything except the remote control, our cell phones and the occasional cracker. But lo and behold - suddenly, my ever-teething, never-eating child had a mouth full of chompers, and better yet - an appetite! He actually wanted food for the first time in seemingly ages.

And food he had - as much as I could stuff into his little body. For several weeks, that boy ate, and I knew the glory that other parents with eating children (as I call them) must know every day. It was marvelous.

...and then two more teeth reared their little heads, and so it began, all over again. Now I'm waiting desperately for his top and bottom incisors to make their appearance and complete his set - at least until we have the two-year molars to contend with.

Back to the sleep - at first I was blaming the recent early morning wake-ups on the same scapegoat I use for every other issue with all things Carter - THOSE EVIL LITTLE DEVIL TEETH. But then I happened to pop over to Polka Dot Hippo the other day and was amazed to learn about the 18-month sleep regression.

Ah. So THIS is the kind of toddler trivia that eludes me in my pursuit of watching Parenthood (what? at least there's kids in it) on Tivo and falling asleep on the couch in a puddle of my own drool instead of, oh, reading parenting books. Hrmph.

So here we are again. 5:30am and - SHEBANG! "Mama....MaMa...MAAma...MAMA! MAAAAMAAAAA!!!!"

We are going on day four of this lovely development, so this morning I took a different approach - ignoring, in a desperate attempt at extinction (I think that's some kind of sleep-book terminology that I dredged from the innermost recesses of my musty brain).

After a few minutes of this, the Roo tried a new tactic: "Up. Up? UP! UPUPUPUPUPUUUUUUUUP!"

Stay strong. Resist the urge to make it stop - DEAR GOD MAKE IT STOP!

And then, the kicker: "Please. Pleeeeeeease? Please! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!" ...you get the idea.

I almost broke at this. My little charmer, with his fancy manners. But no - by damn, the Roo must understand that Mommy simply does not function prior to 6am.

And suddenly? SILENCE. Not sleep, for either of us - but for fifteen glorious minutes, I listened to my son babble quietly to himself in his crib: "Carter. Booger. TWO. Two boogers." (Yes, about a month ago my son discovered that there are two little holes on his face shaped perfectly for cramming small fingers into. Then he SOMEHOW learned the word "booger" - thank you, HUSBAND - and it's been a nose-pickin' party ever since...sigh).

Around 6:05 it started again - "MAMA!" I waited until this round stopped so that he (hopefully) knew he did not WIN, and in I went, to rescue the Roo from his crib prison and share a banana muffin (recipe to come!) with him while watching Abby Cadabby's broccoli song (his recent obsession) for the 87 zillionth time on You Tube.

Now the question is - did my (admittedly half-assed) Cry It Out do anything? What new wonders shall tomorrow morning bring?

Recalibration

2011-02-28T13:32:00.000-08:00

As I sit here in my office there are a hundred other things I should be doing instead of updating my sorry excuse for a blog. But by damn, I cannot and will not go another day without some small semblance of a creative outlet in my life.

Recently, I am Mama, and all that goes with it - wiper of noses, reader of stories, maker of lunches, warmer of bottles, and soother of owies, not to mention cleaner of toilets, scrubber of counters, baker of muffins, mopper of floors, payer of bills, doer of laundry. It's been a long time since I was just Paige, Creative Person. Writer of stories. Singer of songs. Painter of pictures. Organizer of closets (and oh yes, I perhaps miss the organizing the very most).

Carter will be 18 months old tomorrow, and I am finally getting around to attempting a balance between Mommy and, well, Me. For a year and a half, it's been all Carter, all the time, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Our boy is beautiful and brilliant and a hundred thousand other superlatives and I love every exhilarating, exhausting, exasperating moment with him. I love that he's suddenly speaking in sentences, and we can actually have conversations. I love that he says please and thank you. I love hearing him learn to count - "TWO! Two footballs!" I love that he finds me endlessly hilarious. I even love that when he wakes up in the middle of the night during the current teething/18-month sleep regression/insanity that seems to have overtaken us for the past several nights, he only wants Mama (no hard feelings, honey).

...but occasionally, Mama needs a break. And that's okay. Because it's okay to have lunch with a girlfriend instead of going to visit him at daycare. And it's okay to get a haircut during his Saturday nap instead of frantically scrubbing the bathtub and scouring the sink. It's okay to attempt - dare I say it? - balance.

Work has been brutal for the past several months. One of my co-workers left the company in early December, reducing our two-person department down to yours truly. I've been running things by myself ever since, and doing a damn fine job of it, if I do say so myself - but it's no walk in the park. At the end of the day, I have just enough energy to pick Carter up at daycare and do dinner-bath-bedtime before I pass out in a delirious fog on the (sweet, beautiful, luscious) couch.

I've been working hard, and I'm proud of myself. For months, I've been busting my arse to be the A+ employee and the A+ Mama, but I've definitely been flunking the Nurturing Paige's Sanity course, and probably getting a B- on Being Affectionate to Your Husband (again - sorry, LOML).

So here I go, starting slow. I've been having lunch with friends. I cut my mop of hair, and even styled it (okay, once). I fully plan to do my nails one of these days. And maybe, just maybe, I will dust off my old journal, put pen to paper (gasp!), and just be Paige again.

Carter 2010

2011-02-25T14:47:00.000-08:00

I've been a very naughty and neglectful blogger recently, but I am hoping to get back to it soon. In that spirit, here is my little Roo retrospective from 2010. Enjoy!

Merry Christmas To All

2010-12-25T12:30:00.000-08:00

Bag Lady

2010-11-18T12:16:00.000-08:00

I love handbags. Not as much as I love shoes, and definitely not NEARLY as much as I love hats, but I do love them. Pre-baby, I'd amassed a decent collection of fabulous bags. My favorite was a sleek red leather number (possibly faux, although I may have actually shelled out for the Real Thing on this one - this was during my pre-veggie days...although who am I kidding? I still buy leather, although it's definitely frowned upon by the veghead community - sorry, friends). It was small but not too small, chic enough for day or night, and just, well, fabulous. I came across it last weekend while cleaning out the hall closet during the Roo's nap - there it was, lying around in a pile of equally fabulous bags, all neglected and unloved.

Since I became a mother, I have become a new kind of bag lady - and not the fabulous kind. Every day I schlep around one of two Gap bags - black or tan - which have become increasingly filled with random crap as the months pass. A brief perusal of my bag today found three boxes of eye drops, three bottles of contact solution, deodorant, a full-size hairbrush, two tubs of sunblock, 87 zillion receipts and a bottle of acidophilus pills, in addition to the usual suspects - make-up bag, mints, comb, keys, phone, yaddayadda.

The reality that this is my purse is vaguely terrifying, because it makes it official - I am becoming my mother. For as long as I can remember, my mother's purse has contained a vast, seemingly endless amount of useless crap, and I would tease her mercilessly about it. "What is so hard about cleaning out your purse??" I would taunt.

Flash-forward a decade or so and now THAT IS MY BAG.

Perhaps one of these days I will take a few moments to shovel all the junk out and replace it with an amazing new bag like Erica found on Etsy. But until then, I will just suck it up and say sorry for the harrassment, mom.

Typhoid Mary, at your service

2010-11-09T17:11:00.000-08:00

I always thought I was a decent sick person - the non-complaining, suck-it-up, take-it-like-a-woman no-really-I'm-fine type of sick person. But I've recently come to the conclusion that throughout our relationship, my husband's sweet-natured attentiveness during any of my little coughs and colds has spoiled me. These days, after I come home from work and tuck the Roo into bed, I curl onto the couch while he brings me soup and tea to assist in my battle against The Cold That Will Not Die (TCTWND, if you're into abbreviations). And I must say, it's lovely to be babyied when you're feeing crappy. So I sit there, sniffing and snarfing and asking for more, or just one more glass of water, or perhaps a footrub please, until I eventually pry myself off to perhaps scrub some bottles (thought lately he's been handling most of that too) and stumble to bed.

Evil cold aside, I feel like I've been drifting in a fog lately, as double eye infections have left me unable to wear my contact lens for the past five days (I stopped being contagious as soon as I started treating it last week, so fortunately I didn't pass it to the Roo). So I've been half-blind, and it feels disconcertingly like I'm existing in a dream state from which I cannot wake. Perhaps some glasses are in order, you say? I thought so too, but at my last optometrist visit they told me that I couldn't wear glasses - something about the perfect LASIK-induced vision in one eye and the totally shite vision in the other eye being incompatible for glasses, yadda yadda. So here I am - and I never realized how much I take my vision for granted until I couldn't see every minute detail on Carter's little face. Thankfully, tomorrow morning I have the green light to pop my lens back in and rejoin the human race.

Whiny McWhinerstein

2010-11-02T16:07:00.000-07:00

Gaaah! Aaack! Waaah!

...ahem...

I just thought I would preface what I knew would be a whiny, cranky post with appropriate sound effects. Consider yourself duly forewarned.

For the past nine days, the Roo has been sick with a cold. It's finally dissapating, leaving only a slight snot-trail in its wake, but in the span of the past week my husband and I have also managed to glean our own various afflictions. First he had a stuffy nose, sore throat, etc. but it vanished fairly rapidly, as he's of good solid Russian stock and his people have no time for such nonsense out on the tundra and whatnot.

Then I said heck, why should he have all the fun? and one-upped him with my very own snarf, clogged nose, fever, upset stomach, yadda yadda. THEN I awoke this morning - after passing out cold on the couch at 8:45 last night - with a STYE in my EYE. "Hot damn!" you're saying. "I sure would love to come play a round of checkers at Chez Draitser!" Well you can't, friends. This delicious brew of crap is mine, all mine!

I'm a little loopy today, if you couldn't tell. But I seem to finally be feeling a little better, save for the wonky eye (which, incidentally, means that I really shouldn't be wearing my contact in it, but you see, I can't DRIVE without my contact - or at least, cannot drive well enough to ensure that I do not hurt myself or others - and I do not own glasses, because I had LASIK in my left eye ten years ago and they couldn't do the right one, so I wear ONE contact lens. Thus, no contact = strange one-eye badness = no drivey for me). Fortunately it sounds grosser than it looks - mercifully, you can't actually see it - and Dr. Wikipedia says these little bastards go away on their own in a few days, so here's hoping.

In the meantime, GAAAH! Grumble. Blargh.

Grrr...

2010-11-02T10:45:00.001-07:00

Three Years Ago Today...

2010-10-28T17:29:00.001-07:00

He just came wandering into my life and simply seemed to take his place. And just like that, he changed everything.

Three years ago, on this very day at this very time, I married the love of my life. And I would do it again a million times over.

Happy Anniversary, LOML.

2010-10-28T10:52:00.000-07:00

Lately it seems that all my favorite mommy bloggers, like her and her, have the same age-old question on their minds - how do you balance it all? How can you give 100% to work, kids, husbands, and (concept!) YOURSELF without having a complete and utter nervous breakdown?

This question consumes my thoughts regularly, and since I wrote my stressed-out mommy plea about a month ago, I have managed to streamline our daily routine. First of all, we stopped using cloth diapers, so the poop-scraping nights are behind us. This was a tough decision for me, as I fancy myself a pseudo-eco-mommy and had been obsessed with cloth diapering since long before I even got pregnant (y'know, back when I had time on my hands to sit around researching BumGenius vs. Happy Heinies). But I had set a goal of a year of cloth diapers, and I made it. I'm proud of that, and prouder of the fact that I am no longer fist-deep in my son's crap on a nightly basis. I discovered Amazon Mom's amazing diaper discounts (7th Generation for .15 each, yo!) so I'm also pretty proud of the crazy deal I'm getting. Now if only I could banish the pesky bit of diaper rash that has plagued us since we started on disposables, we'd be golden.

I also started giving the Roo school food, and stopped obsessing about potential pesticides lurking in the daycare cuisine. I bring him some yogurt from home, and a little container of fruit every day - if the day's menu has some Dirty Dozen produce on it, I ask that they give him my fruit instead. And he's EATING. My kid is EATING! MY kid! ...at school, that is. Eating at home is a whole other cranky blog post in the works. SIGH.

I stopped pumping at night before I go to bed, so I'm down to three pumps a day - in the morning before I leave for work, and twice while I'm there. Dropping the nightly pump made an INCREDIBLE difference to both the quality of my evenings and my energy level. On Monday, November 1st (Arbitrary date? Yes! Crazy OCD mommy? Yes!!), I am dropping another pump, so I'll be down to TWO per day. I couldn't be more excited if it were Christmas morning and Santa had just pulled a pony out of his sack.

These small changes have made a world of difference in my quality of life, yet I still feel that I am running around like a headless chicken most days. People like to tell you how much having a child will change your life, and I thought I understood them. But the truth is, I had no idea how much motherhood would rock my world. I miss puttering in my apartment, rearranging closets, cleaning the kitchen, baking, seeing girlfriends, long, careless, non-exhaustion-filled dates with my husband (I have been known to yawn and slump over in the middle of date nights these days...). I miss primping in the mirror, curling my hair, applying make-up, doing face masks, taking baths, and all the other things that now I am simply too tired to do at night after the Roo has gone to sleep. I miss sleeping past 5:30 am (oh sweet little early bird, WHY must you rise before the sun??). I miss lazy Sunday mornings, lingering for hours over coffee and the newspaper. I miss having more than one glass of wine. I miss being selfish.

At work, I can no longer stay late, like I once did regularly. Hell, it's all I can do to make it in to the office by 9 - and usually I don't roll in til 9:30 (thankfully no one else does, either - god bless the entertainment industry!). Some days I go visit Carter at lunch instead of staying at my desk and working through like I once did. Then I leave early at 5:45 to make it to daycare before closing. While I'm in the office, I try to give 110% to make up for all the time away, but it's just not possible - there are bills to pay, appointments to schedule, blogs to read (ahem), celebrity gossip to catch up on (AHEM)...but I can cram it all in, right? Being a stellar employee AND dealing with the minutia that slips through the cracks each night at home? Frankly, work is the only moment I get a bit of a break - at home, it's a nonstop litany of tasks until I fall into bed at night and pass out cold.

My sweet husband is always encouraging me to take time for ME - go get your nails done, honey. Buy yourself a new dress, honey. Go to lunch with a friend, honey. And I should - I know I should. But it's just so difficult for me to justify any time spent away from the Roo on the weekend - I see so little of him during the week that I just want to completely smother him with affection and attention each weekend. But that's not good, and I know that. Too much work and not enough time for herself makes mommy a dull (and crazy) girl. So I hereby challenge myself to take time each week to recalibrate, for my own sanity and the sanity of my little family.

I'll end this with a long-beloved and newly poignant quote from our dear Dr. Seuss -

So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
And remember that life’s a great balancing act.

Preach on, Theodor Geisel!

Tidbits

2010-10-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

At 13.5 months:

- The newest word in Carter's ever-expanding vocabulary is (drumroll...) BOOB. He has begun pointing at my chest and saying "boob boob" when he wants to nurse (although it's really more like "boo, boo" - apparently the second 'b' is tough). So it's official - I have now been nursing so long that my kid can ask for the boob. Does this make me a crazy hippie?
Sidenote: I wasn't even aware that I used the word "boob" around him often enough for him to pick up on it, but apparently so. Whoops.

- The Roo is now in-between sizes, so his 6-12 month pants still fit in the waist but are now high-waters, leaving almost an inch of bare ankle hanging out, but my skinny boy still swims in most 12-18 month ensembles. Small but mighty!

- Stranger anxiety has set in. Yesterday a woman from the preschool next door was filling in at the infant/toddler center, and Carter gave her a stinkeye the likes of which I have never seen grace his face. I finally had to switch him to a different table so that he'd relax and eat his breakfast.

Say it with me, people: Oy Vey!
(Every once in awhile, this little WASP has to get her Yiddish on.)

It's the Great Pumpkin, Carteroo

2010-10-19T12:49:00.000-07:00

This weekend we had our visit to Mr. Bones Pumpkin Patch. The Roo fell on his face shortly before we left home and bit his lip, but aside from that we had a grand old time.

Getting him all decked out in his lumberjack chic, courtesy of Grandma & Grandpa:

At one point I became overwhelmed by his general awesomeness and attempted to squish him to bits:

He became very fixated on this squash and alternately ran around waving it like a sword and clutched it tightly to his chest like his baby:

Toddler + slow shutter speed = blurry, but fabulous:

Peeking out of the huge pumpkin at Daddy:

I love this one. The little hand in the air just breaks me:

So many pumpkins, so little time:

This is his "Enough with the pumpkins, I'm ready for my nap" face:

There are more pictures, including some family shots, that must be retrieved from Babushka's and Auntie's cameras, as ours died halfway through the extravaganza. In summary, a good time was had by all. I even think I almost managed to convince Carter that they weren't all giant orange apples (or "APPPPL!!!" if you're Carter).

I'll leave you with this - what a difference a year makes:
October 2009

October 2010

To see 'em all, clickity clack right here.

Mama's Really Cookin' Now

2010-10-14T17:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, not really. But I am enjoying making breakfasts for the Roo each weekend. Last Saturday I made Cottage Cheese Pancakes (Weelicious again) in order to use up the long-neglected tub of cottage cheese languishing in our fridge. The recipe is easy, healthy and packed with protein, which is great for Carter, since he'll rarely eat chicken and lately has been rejecting his once-beloved tofu, too. You'd think they would have a bizarre texture because of the cottage cheese, but you'd be wrong - the cheese melts and leave behind nothing but mild, light pancake-y goodness. I topped it with a little honey and pureed fruit, and the Roo actually ate one entire pancake (that's a LOT for him, folks). I didn't take photos (d'oh!) but here they are in all their glory (thanks, Weelicious):

I was tinkering around with my FANTASTIC All Recipes app on my iPhone (iPhoners out there - you must get this. I could easily give up cookbooks altogether now) and did a search for Banana Bread to lay two rapidly decaying 'naners to rest. A bajillion recipes came up, along with accompanying reviews (and I read ALL the reviews, as they never fail to give helpful tips, substitutions, etc.). I chose the Banana Oat Muffins and then tinkered with the recipe to make it a little healthier, substituting applesauce for oil, whole wheat flour for white, and using slightly less sugar (1/2 brown, 1/2 white). The verdict? DELISH. The husband gobbled a few, and Carter ate almost an entire muffin. Bravo!
Not my photo, but they looked like this:

1 1/2 cups white whole wheat flour (from TJ's)
1 cup rolled oats
1/3 cup sugar (half brown, half white - although agave would be great, too)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 egg (can use egg white instead, or Ener-G egg replacer to make vegan)
3/4 cup milk (can use soy to make it vegan)
1/3 cup applesauce
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup mashed bananas

Directions
1.Combine flour, oats, sugar, baking powder, soda, and salt.
2.In a large bowl, beat the egg lightly. Stir in the milk, applesauce, and vanilla. Add the mashed banana, and combine thoroughly. Stir the flour mixture into the banana mixture until just combined. Line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper bake cups, and divide the batter among them.
3.Bake at 400 degrees F (205 degrees C) for 18 to 20 minutes.

Bon appetit!

Sippy Obsession

2010-10-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

The first step is admitting that you have a problem. So here it is: I am addicted to sippy cups. I estimate that I have bought about fifty bucks worth of sippies, and when you consider that they only cost a few dollars each, that's A LOT of cups crowding my cupboards. I know I need to stop, but I just can't help myself! They are so cute and colorful - who can resist? I keep thinking I'm going to find the magical cup that Carter ADORES, which he'll drink his milk out of eagerly and effortlessly instead of sucking on it for a minute and then tossing it to the ground. It must be out there - right? RIGHT?? After all, the American Academy of Pediatrics touts the importance of getting them off the bottle by age ONE. One! Baaaah! Gaaaak! Booo!

...Ahem...

So here's a quick (okay, not-so-quick) inventory of our current sippy stock (most ordered from Amazon - addiction #2 - damn you, free two-day shipping!):

We started out simple, with The First Years Take & Toss Cups (like these, but not girly):

They are great for mealtime, when I need something quick and easy to clean, but not good for travel or daycare, as they leak when turned over and the tops can sometimes pop off when they fall (or are THROWN...) to the ground. Still, not bad for everyday, and you can't beat the price.

Then I discovered the Munchkin version, which is almost exactly the same, yet slightly larger and with the helpful addition of a screw-on top. Slightly better than the Take & Toss because the lids won't pop off if (when) thrown, but still not ideal for travel/daycare.

Next up are these, the Playtex First Sipster:

These are actually the first sippies that I bought for Carter (whoops - out of order) - they don't leak and he still takes them well, but primarly for water, not breastmilk or cow's milk, so I kept ordering more...

...and decided to get fancy and try this, the Thinkbaby Sippy Cup:

I thought the Roo would love it because it doesn't have a filter - instead, it's just a soft silicone top, like a big nipple. The problem is that the opening in the spout is SO tiny in order to make it spill-proof (which it is) that he wants NOTHING to do with it. I can't say I can argue with his reasoning - I use level 3 fast flow nipples for his bottles, so why should he suddenly have to start sucking harder than necessary?

Next up were these, the Nuk Gerber Learner Cup, which had the same problem - no filter=tiny spout=too much work for baby:

I also tried Nuby Sport Sipper, thinking that they were just like a HUGE bottle - what's not to love? According to Carter, everything.

Finally I wised up and decided to try a straw cup (DING DING DING!). These are generally for older babies, but hey, my boy's advanced.

First I got this, the Nurtria straw cup, which was TOTAL CRAP. Leaks horribly. Bad news bears, people!

After obsessively reading Amazon reviews, I ended up with the Munchkin Mighty Grip Straw Cup:

He is a big fan of this one and uses it to drink his water every day at daycare. It will leak occasionally if he has fluid left in the straw when he turns it upside down, but it doesn't bother me. I haven't tried breastmilk in it because the straw is slightly too short at the bottom, which would leave a bit of milk in the cup, and I'll be damned if I'm wasting my liquid gold. He's taken cow's milk in it occasionally but not reliably, and it's not the best cup to transport milk in when we're out and about because it's not insulated. Still, it remains my cup of choice for water.

So there you go - I found a cup he really likes. You'd think I would be done, right? Well, YOU WOULD BE WRONG, because any trip to Target ends up with my husband finding me standing wild-eyed in the sippy cup aisle, vulnerable and salivating over all the cuteness. Which is how I ended up with these:
Playtex Insulator (HOW CUTE ARE THE CARS??):

...and this, the Playtex Insulator Straw Cup:

He loathes the regular Insulator Sippy - loathes it. Miraculously, he actually LIKES the straw Insulator! He's even taken cow's milk in it (okay, ONCE...but it counts). When we run around town on the weekends, I take some cow's milk with us in this (I am trying to encourage the cow's milk drinking to slowly get him used to it, but I also bring along a bottle of breastmilk - just in case).

After weeks of crazed sippy-buying, I had to stop the madness and put a moratorium on it, so I didn't buy ANY for months.

...but just last weekend I was at Target, and couldn't help myself. So I ended up with these:
the Gerber Sip n' Smile:

and the Nuby Straw Cup:

Cute as hell, am I right?? Well, my son is clearly not into aesthetics yet, because he doesn't seem to care for either one. Hrmph.

So there it is - our sippy inventory in all its horrible, ridiculous, rejected glory. There might even be more that I'm forgetting. Why do you have next to no desire to buy clothes for your son and yet can't stop buying plastic sippy cups, you may ask? I know not. But I do know that he likes (or at least doesn't HATE) a couple of those straw cups listed above, so we'll be sticking with those for the time being, in conjunction with his bottles for his breastmilk (yes, I am still pumping, and he still gets three bottles of breastmilk per day and one bottle of cow's...but that's another post for another day).

I also know that the AAP can take their "no bottles after a year" notion and SHOVE IT, pals! To quote my fabulous pediatrician, he's not going to college with a bottle - so if my boy wants it, my boy gets it.

For the time being, anyway.

One Woman Army

2010-10-07T16:51:00.000-07:00

Last week, in the interest of saving my sanity and streaming my nightly routine, I decided to let the Roo eat some "school food" at daycare. The daycare's food schedule consists of five mini-meals throughout the day, and he is now eating three of the five. Thus, instead of sending him off with my old standard (three mini-meals plus crackers), I only include a container of his yogurt (plain organic whole milk yogurt to which I add blended fruit - this week blueberries, raspberries, mango and banana - and ground flaxseed, with occasionally a drizzle of agave), crackers and some chopped fruit (for him to eat when the school is serving something pesticide-y, like peaches).

It is INCREDIBLE how much time this saves me in the evening. I make a large container of his yogurt in advance, so each night all I have to do is put some in a container and add the flax, then toss some crackers in another container. My husband is in charge of chopping up some fruit for him, and - TA DA! - our evening food-prep is complete.

The decision to start Carter on school food was a tough one for us, since keeping his diet organic has always been such an obsession. Until recently, I suspected that the daycare director wrote it off as yet another of my strange hippie obsessions, like cloth diapers and wooden toys - another reason to peg me as that crazy crunchy mom. That is, UNTIL LAST WEEK, when I mentioned the Dirty Dozen list while talking about Carter's food, and she actually expressed interest in learning more. I went back to the office and printed out both the Dirty Dozen and Clean Fifteen lists, the full ranking of all produce, and about a half-dozen articles linking pesticides to ADHD in children, and proving that organic produce reduces pesticide exposure by 80 percent. I even highlighted the key passages.

Suddenly, the school's menu has begun to include new items, like organic oatmeal and kiwi (a Clean Fifteen fruit!). She proudly announced to me that she has begun to buy hormone-free chicken instead of regular. And the other day I brought her a container of organic yogurt to serve in hopes that she might switch over (only $2.79 at Trader Joe's! What a deal!).

If you can't beat 'em, teach 'em.

2010-10-03T11:19:00.001-07:00

At long last, some photos from the Roo's big birthday bash last month. We didn't take a single photo that day, and instead (stupidly) relied on friends and relatives to send 'em our way - thus the month-late post. Here are some highlights, but to see the entire album, click here.
I went with a train theme - the invitation had a train on it, so I used it in all design elements (and oh, do I love me some paper products).

The hot dog bar:

My awesome birthday banner:

With his beloved car from Grandma & Grandpa:

This is called I Missed My Nap So To Hell With Your Homemade Organic Cake, Mama!

No, YOU eat it, Mom.

Shortly after this picture was taken, I detached my jaw and swallowed him whole.

I told you, I will not eat it and you can't make me! (Whose kid IS this??)

I will get you, bubbles!

Our Family

One Day

2010-10-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

As is my nature, I've been getting a little ahead of myself and looking forward to the Roo's big kid days, when I get to pack him a REAL lunch - one he can open on the playground and eat with his little friends before racing off to climb the jungle gym or swing on the monkey bars. The days when I can pack him a sandwich and he might actually EAT IT instead of looking at me like I'm insane, tossing it to the floor, and laughing maniacally.
Maybe I will get him this:

and pack it with these:

filled with awesome stuff like this (courtesy of Weelicious):

...or perhaps I'll have a couple more kids by then, and be lucky just to make it out the door fully clothed with sanity intact.

One day, he will be a big boy and carry a backpack and eat sandwiches. One day he will swing on monkey bars and climb jungle gyms. One day all too soon he will race out the door and off with his friends, leaving good old mom behind.

But until then, he will be my little boy. And I will savor every moment.

Accident

2010-09-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

Well, it's happened. Carter has had his first injury.

Every night when I come home from work, if my husband has already arrived I will pull into the driveway and he will come downstairs to get the Roo out of his carseat so that I can park the car in back and tote my 87 million bags (food bag, milk bag, daycare bag, pump bag, purse...and perhaps another I'm forgetting) without having to carry Carter, too (run-on sentence? Yes, and I don't care). Last night my husband picked up Carter, then I parked the car and heard him in the alley talking to our neighbor. I came around the corner, carrying my massive load of bags like a good sherpa, and saw Carter wandering around underfoot, examining the nooks and crannies in the driveway.

Suddenly he raced past us and headed toward the garden. Neither of us reacted very quickly, as it seemed (STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!) that the most dangerous thing in the vicinity was perhaps a delectable-looking rock in the garden, or a plant to destroy. So we just (STUPIDLY) watched him rush past, my husband finishing his conversation and me toting my billion bags, before following.

Not two seconds later we heard a loud wail and saw him next to the front tire of my just-parked car. We rushed over (mind you, he was only ten or fifteen feet away) to discover that he had reached in and GRABBED the wheel well (or whatever the hell it's called) and had burns/blisters across the top of three fingers on his left hand.

He wailed for a minute or so, yelling "MAAAAMAAAA! MAAAMAAAA!" like he always does when something's wrong (the rest of the time it's all Daddy, all the time), then squirmed out of our arms and once again raced off down the driveway, normal as can be. We got him in the house, rinsed it with cold water and called the pediatrician, who told us to give him a dose of Motrin and then apply Desitin (who knew??) to the blistered area until it heals. For the rest of the evening, his behavior was basically normal - he wasn't favoring the hurt hand, and wasn't particularly fussier than usual, except for one toddler-like fit when I wouldn't let him eat a chunk of tofu that had fallen in the bathtub. Today he seems normal and the hand looks better, though the blisters are still visible.

I can't overstate how horrible we felt after all this. I spent the evening feeling like a negligent asshole, continually replaying it in my mind and wondering WHY OH WHY didn't I just toss all the bags to the ground and race after him? How did we let this happen? Ultimately, I know that we just made a simple mistake - when he ran by, each of us did the typical parent-scan of any hazards in the area, and neither of us considered that CAR TIRES GET HOT, especially on 98-degree days.

Sigh. So there it is - the first injury of toddlerhood. I know that there will be many more now that he's mobile (and my boy is FAST). Lesson learned - you can NEVER be too careful, especially when dealing with a rambunctious little Roo.

More Zucchini Madness

2010-09-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I should rename this blog "What My Kid Eats," because that's really all I want to write about these days. So why stop now? (drumroll...)

After Sunday's Zucchini Muffins bakeathon, I still had at least two cups of leftover shredded zucchini burning a hole in my fridge. My mother-in-law (AKA Babushka) is famous for her delicious zucchini pancakes, and while we were visiting on Sunday the Roo actually ate two bites of one of 'em, so I was inspired to make my own version. Babushka's recipe uses pancake mix, and while I don't have anything against pancake mixes, I've never used one before so I thought I would give a from-scratch pancakes a shot.

I wanted a savory pancake, and found this recipe, but I decided to tweak it a little to kick up the healthy factor a notch, subbing white whole wheat flour for regular and using half as much cheese (half mozzerella, half parmesan), no mayo, salt-free seasoning instead of salt/pepper and olive oil instead of butter. I also cooked them with just a spray of olive oil instead of butter. So my final recipe was this:

1/2 cup white whole wheat flour
1/8 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/8 cup grated mozzerella cheese
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 tsp Vegit Spike salt-free seasoning (supposedly good for keeping sodium intake in check for babies...)
1 1/2 cups shredded zucchini
1 egg, beaten
2 tablespoons chopped onion
1 tablespoon milk
2 tablespoons organic extra virgin olive oil

Directions:
1. In a bowl, combine the flour, cheese, oregano, and Vegit. Combine the zucchini, egg, onion, milk and oil; stir into dry ingredients until well blended.
2. Spray pan. Drop zucchini mixture by cupfuls into skillet; press lightly to flatten. Fry until golden brown, about 2 minutes on each side.

I was very pleased with this recipe - not only did it take only a few minutes to whip up (thank god, since I was sweltering in a hot kitchen in our zillion-degree apartment), the end result was so good that I had to bodily block my husband from hovering behind me and scarfing them all down.

Of course, all of that is good and fine, but we'll see what the Roo thinks tonight.

Progress...?

2010-09-27T19:52:00.000-07:00

My great Zucchini Muffin experiment was rather anti-climactic this morning when the Roo ate exactly ONE, forsaking the hearty baked goodness in favor of gnawing on hunks of strawberry. Lesson? Hide the fruit until the END of breakfast in hopes of actually getting something with more than, oh, ten calories in his belly. SIGH. On an upnote, mommy enjoyed three of her little muffiny friends for breakfast, and relished every bite. SO THERE, ROOROO.

Today marked the first time I have allowed the daycare to feed Carter some of their food. The lunch today (well, I say lunch, but technically the most substantial of the five mini-meals they serve throughout the day comes at 10:30am...go figure) was rice pilaf with roasted chicken and broccoli. I had spoken to the director last week, and she proudly informed me that she'd begun buying hormone-free chicken from Costco, so I felt okay about giving him that. Rice pilaf is fairly innocuous, and broccoli is one of the "Clean Fifteen" veggies, so I decided to go ahead and go for it.

I arrived mid-afternoon to visit, and the daycare ladies excitedly told me that he'd eaten very well, as if he couldn't believe he was eating the same food as the other kids. Hrmph. Then I looked in the fridge to discover his 1:30 yogurt snack, lovingly prepared and brought from home by yours truly, untouched - but his paperwork said "1:30 yogurt - finished." !?!? I immediately assumed the school had misunderstood my notes and served him their 1:30 yogurt (by coincidence, the other kids were having yogurt then, too) instead, and left irritated. But NO - when I picked Carter up tonight, the director told me that he had refused ALL OF MY FOOD, and only seemed to want theirs. In other words, my child appears to be STAGING A PROTEST and refusing my organic homemade treats in favor of processed daycare crackers and the like. Evidently, he just wants to be like his little friends - does peer pressure really begin this young?

I arrived home disheartened and sweltering in the 105-degree heat (and, might I add, loathing every sweat-covered moment of Southern California life). Unsurprisingly, he refused to eat more than two bites at dinner, no matter how we coaxed and cajoled.

Then I saw it, as I was changing his diaper before bedtime. How could I have missed it? His mouth was thrown wide open in a deep belly laugh as I blew raspberries on his tummy, and there it was - tooth number seven rearing its little head! AH-HA! THAT could explain his utter lack of appetite for the past several days!

....Or could it? Am I just desperately clinging to that hope so that I don't have to face the unpleasant reality that my child just doesn't want to eat ANYTHING I make? After all, he ate the school food just fine.

It seems that I'm just going to have to chalk another one up to the great mystery of toddlerhood. But maybe, just maybe, daycare food isn't so scary after all.

Sunday Breakfast for the Roo

2010-09-26T20:41:00.000-07:00

This morning I made Weelicious' Whole Wheat Oat Pancakes for our family. I decided to add blueberries for a little antioxidant boost, but forgot that when using frozen blueberries you are supposed to drop them over the batter as it cooks, NOT mix them in beforehand as you would with fresh blueberries. Thus, I ended up with delicious bright blue pancakes. Roo's verdict? Positive, although he was more interested in eating as many strawberries as he could shovel into his little mouth (alas, I did not think to document this in pictures - which I really should have, given how rare it is that he actually eats). All in all, a successful Sunday breakfast, and the recipe made so many that I have plenty to freeze and thaw for busy future mornings.

Tonight I tucked him into bed, sent my husband to the store for groceries, opened a bottle of white wine and baked a batch of Zucchini Muffins, the perfect use for the two summer squash languishing in the bottom of our fridge. This marked my first baking-with-zucchini experiment, as well as my first time baking with agave as a sweetener instead of the standard sugar or honey. I didn't have any vegetable oil, so I substituted melted butter and baked them in my mini muffin tin, a long-neglected wedding present which I can already tell will be a cherished item in my mommy baking. The result? DELICIOUS, tiny, perfect little muffins, chock-full of zucchini goodness, and the recipe made 29 mini-muffins, so I have plenty to freeze for the future. I only hope the little Roo likes them as much as I do - we shall see in the morning.

Autumn & The Oven

2010-09-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

Fall is my favorite time of year. I could gladly exist in a state of perpetual autumn - leaves turning color, crisp, chill mornings, a hint of woodsmoke in the air. Growing up in wine country, fall meant harvest time, when the whole valley smells of rich, musky grapes, and days are whiled away with long, meandering walks along endless country roads through the vineyards, bundled cozily in long scarves and warm hats.

Living in Los Angeles - the land of endless summer - fall doesn't exactly have the same resonance, which explains why my husband and I spent our first anniversary on a leaf-peeping getaway to New England, in search of seasons. A week or two ago we began having chilly mornings here and there and I got excited, envisioning relaxing weekends spent puttering in the kitchen, Carter happily banging away with his wooden spoon and tupperware. Then the past several days gave way to 90-degree temps and a blasting air conditioner. Sigh.

Anyone one knows me well knows two things about me - 1) I have possibly the greatest sweet tooth in the history of womankind, and 2) I love to bake. Pre-baby, my weekend mornings were spent puttering in the kitchen, testing out new muffin or scone recipes. Each December my husband and I have our closest friends over for our annual holiday party, which is really just an elaborate excuse for me to bake a smorgasbord of goodies. Whenever I sense the first change in the season, the hazy days when tank tops gradually melt away into boots and sweaters, all I want to do is put some Coltrane on the iTunes and sequester myself in the kitchen.

For the past year, baking has obviously taken a backseat to motherhood. What I miss most about my childless days is not full nights of sleep or wine-fueled gossip-fests with girlfriends, but lazy mornings spent measuring, mixing and munching.
Recently, I've finally been able to recalibrate - to feel a little like myself again - to get back in the kitchen. And of course, like any good mommy, my time there has been spent baking treats for my boy.

I am envious of moms who have babies with great appetites, kids with mouths like little Hoover vacuums. Carter is a snacker, rarely consuming more than a few bites in a sitting, which makes feeding him a giant challenge. Thus, all of my baking efforts have been channeled into making baby-friendly breakfasts to try to get him interested in food.

Yesterday's efforts were French Toast Sticks from my favorite resource, Weelicious.

The verdict?
While we found them delicious, he was so-so on them, although this can be attributed more to the fact that he (shockingly) consumed half a container of raspberries while waiting for me to finish making them.

Not sure:

Hmm...not bad:

Sharing:

Music Time

2010-09-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

Dancing with Daddy

2010-09-25T20:53:00.000-07:00

Crossroads

2010-09-24T11:34:00.000-07:00

For the past couple of weeks, I have gradually come to the decision that something in our daily routine has to change. The grind is simply wearing me down.

Every night, it's the same routine - pick up baby, bring baby home, play with baby, feed baby, bathe baby (every other night), nurse baby, put baby to bed.
Then the real fun begins: handwash three sets of pump parts, four bottles, sippy cup, pump bottles, and four bowls and lids from baby's school snacks; empty dirty cloth diapers from wet bag into dirty diaper bag in nursery (washing the whole load every third day), which involves (sorry to be graphic) scraping the poop off the diapers and dumping it into our toilet for flushing. THEN make dinner for ourselves and prepare baby's three meals for school for the next day. When all is said and done, it's at least 9:00pm before we sit (collapse) on the couch (classy!) to eat dinner and watch a little TV.

My husband and I have become experts at this routine and devised an excellent nightly division of labor in which we trade off washing/poo-scraping/dinner-making duties - however, the fact remains that this is A LOT for two busy working parents. Add on the fact that I am still pumping four times a day, and I am (literally) all tapped out at the end of the day. After my nightly shower I usually stagger into bed at 11pm, but often later, sometimes not hitting the sheets until midnight.

We have continued this post-bedtime routine for over six months now - since he started solids - the wash-scrape-prep occupying a good chunk of our weekday evenings. Sometimes it seems manageable, and I feel like a gold star mommy for balancing it all, working full-time, and raising a (truly awesome) happy little boy. But lately, I have begun to feel like I may deserve a little change. Perhaps MOMMY NEEDS A BREAK.

Maybe it's just because work has been INSANITY recently. I work in television and fall is launch time, which equals hundreds of greedy, needy TV stations and subsequently no downtime for yours truly. Or because one of my co-workers has been out, so I get to cover a chunk of her responsibilities too. Or just because I look around and see (fairly) well-rested mommies who aren't scraping poo and prepping lunches into the wee hours. You know, the smart mommies who use disposable diapers like normal people, enabling their kids to wear regular pants instead of stretchy pairs that allow sufficient room for their baby's ginormous cloth ass. These mommies let their daycares feed their kids instead of obsessing about potential pesticides lurking in the produce. These mommies might even use their dishwashers instead of handwashing because they missed those pesky articles about the evils of putting plastic in the dishwasher, or simply think said articles are a crock of sh*t.

The other day, my mother emailed me, insisting that the insanity must stop, that I must change my routine, whether it be using the school food, stopping pumping, etc. She suggested that perhaps the obsessive-compulsive tendencies that haunted my early 20s had caught up with me again, and dug their evil little claws into my nightly routine. Perhaps she's right.

So here I am, at another crossroads.

I had planned to cloth diaper for at least a year, and I have. I was lucky enough to go on the Ellen DeGeneres Mother's Day show during my pregnancy and be given a six-month supply of Huggies, which are stacked in my closet and used only at night or on vacation. I still have at least five packs left, and in the past year I have never purchased diapers, which I think is pretty awesome. However, I think it's equally awesome NOT TO SCRAPE POOP. So there you go. Am I nearing the end of the cloth diapering fixation?

Organic food is important to me, and has been since I saw Ken Cook's 10 Americans presentation back in 2008 and it ROCKED MY WORLD. Yes, you can pigeonhole me as one of those pretentious, paranoid yuppie moms who fixate on organics and push their babies in a $700 stroller (um, also free - thank you, Ellen), but the simple truth is that, well, this is how I roll, and how I've rolled for quite awhile, even before my days as freelancer for the now-defunct eco website (RIP, Ideal Bite!). That said, it's a tough decision for me to let Carter eat daycare food - while the director prepares healthy meals, she doesn't use organic stuff. So can I compromise my passion for organics for the incredible convenience of NOT preparing food for him every night? Perhaps I can. I don't sit around judging the rest of the parents at daycare for feeding their kids daycare food. I don't assume all the other kids are seeping with toxins. So is my mother right? Is this fixation just a by-product of my OCD?

So here I am. Lots of questions and no answers.

2010-09-21T22:03:00.000-07:00

The pumpaholic malaise that had settled over me when last I wrote has lifted somewhat, due mostly to advice from our awesome pediatrician. At Carter's one year appointment on Friday, I peppered the good doctor with questions about his diet, his sleep schedule, bottles vs. sippies, etc.

Her response on cow's milk vs. breastmilk: "Your milk will always be more nutritious for him than cow's milk. If you want to keep pumping, by all means, do it."
Then she suggested that if I wanted to pump less, I could put less milk in each bottle rather than eliminate one, and if I did want to eliminate one I should replace it with more food, not cow's milk. She also pointed out that the WHO advocates breastfeeding for a minimum of two years. Mind you, our pediatrician is also a lactation consultant, so clearly she has a platform here - but it was so nice to have confirmation that I'm not a crazy hippie for wanting to continue nursing/pumping for awhile and choosing breastmilk over cow's.

Her response to my concern regarding Carter's perpetual 5:30am wake-up time and Dr. Weissbluth's (AKA The Sleep Nazi - sorry Sara, I know you love him!) theory that babies who wake too early are going to bed too late, and that you should just ignore them and let them cry until they naturally begin waking later: "PFFFTTTT. His bedtime is PERFECT (7:30). He sleeps a nice long stretch, and he's probably THIRSTY by then."
I needed to hear this, because sometimes it seems that my kid wakes up earlier than every other baby I know. But even though Carter is an early riser, he goes right back to sleep for another hour after he nurses, so it doesn't seem that painful. But what to do after I eventually wean? Yikes - though hopefully he'll be sleeping later by then...?

Lastly, her response to my bottle vs. sippy dilemma: "He is not going to go to college with a bottle, and I do not advocate restricting comfort items."
Take that, AAP! My kid drinks his water out of his straw cup, and his cow's milk (when he has it) in a sippy, and that's good enough for me! Let the boy have his bottle!

Her parting words: "You have excellent instincts, and you're doing a wonderful job. Don't listen to what 'they' say."

Dr. Kramer, I love you.

Pumpaholic

2010-09-16T13:03:00.000-07:00

(please forgive the stream of consciousness rambling)
Ahem...

My name is Paige, and I am a pumpaholic.

My child is over a year old, and yet I cannot seem to cut down on the pumping. I pump four times a day - once in the morning after I nurse and before I leave for work, twice at work, and once at night before I go to bed, a few hours after I nurse. I am aware that at this point I DO NOT need to pump this much, and that I DO need to cut down on the amount of milk that Carter drinks at school on a daily basis (20 oz.) and prioritize solid foods now that he's getting older. Basically, the priorities need to flip-flop. So if I want to keep him on breastmilk (emphasis on the IF), I don't need to produce as much anyway, if I'm cutting out a bottle or two. Plus, I still have 130 ounces of frozen milk in the freezer, which I've been cycling through recently - using some of the older stuff and refreezing new stuff - so even if I didn't pump enough for two or three bottles, I have a back-up stash to pull from.

Every night, I decide that THAT is the night I will drop the nightly pump, and yet every night it's the same angst running through my head - If I drop a pump, I won't produce as much! If I don't produce as much, what will I feed the Roo?? Then my rational mind says "Uh, perhaps some of the massive stash of frozen breastmilk in the kitchen? Or perhaps some FOOD." but somehow I can't manage to stop.

I always planned to breastfeed for over a year, so I am not trying to wean him completely. The tentative plan is to just keep nursing him morning and night until I get pregnant again, potentially sometime next year. However, I do know that he needs to begin taking more of an interest in actual food instead of sucking down four bottles of breastmilk a day, nursing AM and PM, and therefore being almost totally disinterested in solids. I give him cow's milk here and there but he doesn't seem too fond of it, certainly not compared to the fanatical verve with which he attacks his bottles and my boob (both of which he can actually say - brilliant!). I know that I have to rearrange his eating schedule at school to include more food and less milk, and begin to incorporate daily cow's milk in a sippy cup in lieu of a bottle or two of breastmilk. I KNOW THIS, but somehow I can't bring myself to shake up my routine and stop the pumping madness!

It would be so nice not to wash 87 zillion pump parts and bottles every night! On the same note, it would be so nice not to wash little plastic Gerber containers that I use to transport his food to school everyday because I don't want him to eat the questionable snacks his daycare provides. It would be so nice not to have to root through poopy diapers, dump his business in the toilet, and the wash it all every few days. It would be so nice to have him come home with TWO DIRTY SIPPY CUPS and that's IT. And yet I choose all of this. What is wrong with me??

WHERE IS MY INTERVENTION?

Speaking of sippy cups, that's a whole other ball of wax. I've tried probably a dozen cups by now - several were flat-out rejected, a few he'll suck on here and there, but the only cup he will reliably drink from is a Muchkin straw cup. Generally I just give him water in it, but I tried putting cow's milk in last week and it was neither a whopping success now a massive failure, so perhaps I will proceed with that. The American Academy of Pediatrics says no bottles after 1, but if I want to keep him on breastmilk, it doesn't seem likely that he's going to kick the bottle anytime soon.

Oh, sigh. Double sigh. Yawn. Blargh. Am I nearing the end of pumping, cloth diapering and food-preparing? Or am I just feeling cranky? Time will tell.

So there you have it. I am Paige, and I am a pumpaholic, looking for treatment.

One Year

2010-09-01T23:19:00.001-07:00

This will be woefully short because the hour is late and my bed beckons, but I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't mark the occasion of the Roo's first birthday with some words on his long-neglected blog.

One year - one blurry, beautiful year - ripe with adventure, challenge, and exhaustion. I firmly believe that the first birthday, as well as the massive birthday blowout to follow this weekend, is just as much a celebration of the parents than of the child. So to my sweet husband - we did it, LOML! We survived the first year! A little battered and bruised perhaps, but no worse for wear. I could not dream of a better comrade in the trenches.

In brief, motherhood has taught me patience beyond measure, calm under fire, and strength I could never have imagined. But most of all, it has shown me, more than ever, what it is to love somebody.

My Little Roo, you may never understand how much your mother loves you until you have a child of your own one day. But should you ever read these words, know that there is nothing greater in all the world. You have changed me, shaped me, and taught me. I love you more than all the stars in the sky.

Happy Birthday, my darling boy. It is an honor to watch you grow.

xxx
Mama

No Bun in This Oven, thankyouverymuch

2010-08-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

While I was dropping Carter off at daycare this morning, one of the women who works there sidled up to me in the kitchen while I was putting his bottles in the fridge and said with a knowing look (insert heavy Armenian accent) "You are looking pregnant lately."

Awesome. Apparently I either have to cut back on the cupcakes or stop wearing old maternity shirts to work (which, in my defense, are NOT actually maternity shirts because I bought 'em at Forever 21, but they are admittedly flowy - but it's 95+ degrees in the valley, people! Give a hot mommy a break!).

A few short years ago a comment like this might have sent me into a tailspin of self-loathing and eating disordered behavior, in keeping with your typical 20-something Los Angeleno female. But no more. This body made a person. This body pushed him out drug-free! This body is the only one I've got, and by damn, I will eat my cupcakes and wear my $7 shirts and work it.

2010-08-12T10:42:00.001-07:00

Some days I feel like I really have my shit together and that I’m balancing this whole working mother thing just fine. Then other days I hear "Cat's in the Cradle" on the radio on the way in to daycare/work and I think "VERY SUBTLE, UNIVERSE. THANKS A LOT" and the media planner in me thinks that the jackasses at KRTH should NEVER play that song during morning drive time, lest the commuting mothers of Los Angeles rise up and storm the station in protest. Some other days I want to burst into tears just sitting here at my godforsaken desk staring at this accursed screen all day.

Like today, when my baby woke up with a slight fever at 3am and then was fussy and in and out of sleep until 5:20, when he was up for the day. And he was better - normal, even - so I took him to daycare, and then when we got there he just wanted to crawl up on me and snuggle on my chest and didn’t want his bottle, didn't want me to leave. And I just wanted to whisk him away and play peekaboo and read books and bounce balls and go for walks and point at dogs and birds together all day.

But I can’t. Because it’s a busy time of year, and I have work to do. So I’m here. And he’s there. Right down the street, and yet so far away.

Walking!!

2010-07-31T20:06:00.000-07:00

Our little boy took his first steps today. We had just changed him (which is most definitely a two-person job these days), and I set him down in the middle of the nursery, in front of the mirror. He just stood there for a few moments, and then BAM! Took a step forward, toward his image in the mirror, with a big smile on his face. My sister-in-law was visiting, and she and I saw it happen, but unfortunately my husband was in the bathroom washing his hands. That was it - just a single step, and then he slowly bent to his knees, like "Okay, show's over. The 6pm is just like the 3:15."

A few hours later, after a fun-filled trip to the park with Auntie (during which I stayed home to do a blitzkrieg cleaning spree on our apartment) and a nice long nap (for the baby, not me - ah, how I wish...), I was puttering in the kitchen when my husband called my name from the living room. By his hushed, urgent tone I knew just what was happening - sure enough, I walked in to find the Roo standing in the living room, facing the window, and I watched him take another little step. Evidently that was the second step he'd taken, according to my husband, who was watching from the couch. A few minutes later, another small step in the kitchen.

As of tomorrow the Little Roo will be eleven months old. For the past several weeks, he has been standing unsupported for slowly increasing amounts of time, but today was the first time that he actually propelled himself forward. Each time he had this glorious look of concentration and accomplishment on his little face, and even if he had been receiving his Harvard diploma we couldn't have been prouder.

Who knows - he could not take another step for months. But for now - he did it! We are on the road to toddlerhood!

Family Portraits!

2010-07-26T10:47:00.000-07:00

This photo session was my Father's Day gift to my amazing husband. We were thrilled with how well they turned out. I will post more when I receive our disc from the photographer, but for now, here's his blog post about us:

Draitser Family Portraits

Summer Adventures

2010-07-21T14:43:00.000-07:00

On Monday night, we returned from a six-day excursion to the East Coast. Our good friends have a summer home in Cape Cod, and they graciously invited us to join them. So join we did, and had a wonderful time exploring the Atlantic seaside, clapboard houses and pastoral valleys of New England.

Carter was a pro on his first long flight (almost six hours!), taking two naps on the way there and (drumroll...) sleeping 4.5 hours on the way back! Hallelujah!
We dragged that poor kid around city after city in 90+ degree weather, through humidity so stifling that a bottle of breastmilk (packed on ICE, mind you) curdled within 45 minutes of stepping outside our Boston hotel room, and through it all he was simply a joy.

Nevermind the fact that he was teething (two more top teeth comin' on down) and therefore refusing food (his major teething MO), which of course drives me fairly mad, as each time I am irrationally certain he's going to starve. Or the fact that he's only reliably breastfeeding at bedtime and morning, when he's too groggy with sleep to be distracted by the BRIGHT SHINY WORLD all around him, so that I had to schlep my Medela around the highways and biways of New England, pumping every four hours and bottle-feeding, then packing it on ice and crossing my fingers that it would stay fresh in our travels. Nevermind the fact that traveling with an infant involves a small army of crap shoved into every spare pocket of an overstuffed suitcase, hoping for the best but being prepared for the worst, and that "relaxing" and "carefree" are no longer words that can really apply to vacations.

Regardless, we had a blast. A hot, exhausted, delirious, wonderful blast.
And in two days we're off again, up to see Grandma and Grandpa and to celebrate Auntie Erica and his new friend, due in September.

At the ocean with Daddy (he was not a fan):

...and the pond with Mommy (he's a BIG fan):

Hmm...what is that delicious-looking stuff in the water?

Happy boy:

Exploring Boston's Newbury Street with Daddy:

Fun in Boston's Public Garden, birthplace of "Make Way for Ducklings":

Great white pigeon hunter:

On the move:

Making mischief in the hotel room:

Meeting Auntie Anna - and, more excitingly, MR. BIV (upon seeing said feline, he pointed and calmly pronounced "CAT." Then he did it again. And again. HUH?? He has never met a cat in his life - who taught my child this??:

First equestrian encounter:

...and the response:

Hiking to Walden Pond - Lincoln, MA:

Gimme my puffs!

Yeah, yeah - so I can stand, so what??

Ready to go home:

Tough Times

2010-06-28T20:54:00.000-07:00

It's been a hell of a week.

Starting last Tuesday I had a conference downtown - one of the two conferences that my group attends each year. I hadn't gone to the other back in January because it's in Vegas and being a five-hour drive away just doesn't jibe with the small person who sucks on my parts for food and stuff. I had spent last year's January conference roaming around Sin City eight weeks pregnant and trying to hide it from my colleagues by ordering "vodka cranberry" (AKA cranberry juice) while at dinner and fruitlessly trying to suck in my expanding waistline. I spent this year's at home nursing. Time flies.

This year was my first chance to attend the June conference - usually it's in New York, and only a select group flies to Manhattan to attend. I'm not swanky enough to be among those select few (phew), so I stay behind and hold down the fort. However, this year it was moved to good ol' sunshiney Los Angeles, just a stone's throw, a metro ride, and a traffic jam from home. Hot diggety! Conference, here I come!

And go I did, on Tuesday evening and Wednesday, while my sweet husband put the baby to bed and took him to school the next morning. I was planning to go Thursday too, and to ride the subway downtown like a fancy workin' girl (not the hooker kind either - the LEGIT kind). But alas, it was not to be.

For starters, on Tuesday my knee went out. I have a bad knee from playing tennis and running track in high school (I was a jumper, so I blame those damn hurdles), which makes me sound impressively athletic, which I am most certainly not. The fact is that my half-hearted high school sports experiences left me with little more than a crap knee that mysteriously gives out about once every few years. On this particular occasion, I think I'd twisted it while heaving Carter's 7,000 pound carseat into the car. Regardless, I hobbled into the office on Tuesday, determined not to let my gimpiness stand in the way of my fancy conference cocktail party that night. Then, Wednesday morning I awoke with a tickle in my throat. CURSES. The day was spent limping and sniffling my way around the convention center. But I would power through! I am a dedicated employee!

Then the real trouble began. On Thursday morning, Carter felt warm. The rectal thermometer read 102.1. Eeek. Bye bye, conference.

We gave him infant Advil, struggling to get the syringe in his mouth but finally managing. Then he vomited. He ate breakfast, and we tried Advil again. More vomit. My husband went to work, and I tried yet again with the Advil several hours later. It went down easily, and I felt like a baby-healing savant. Ten minutes later I was carrying him down the hallway and silently congratulating myself on my level-headed display of general awesomeness when BLORP! Projectile vomit. All over me. All over the hallway. I just stood there, aghast. And then BLOOOOOOOOORRRRP! More. And BLLLLLLOOOOOOORPPPP!!!! Yet again. After the blorping concluded, we were both silent and still - me, jaw agape, dripping in stink and standing in soggy carpet, and Carter, staring blankly. Poor sick baby. I called my husband ("Now. Come home NOW."), then stripped us both down and gave the little Roo a quick bath.

The afternoon did not improve - after three vomited doses of Advil, we weren't certain how much he'd retained and were thus nervous to give him any more before the requisite 6 hour waiting period. So there I was, helpless, as his temperature crept slowly up to 104.1 and he slept all day, waking only to sob weakly, flop around limply, and scream bloody murder whenever I attempted to lay him in his crib. My husband had to return to the office, but fortunately my wonderful mother-in-law spent the afternoon with us and we took turns holding the hot little slumbering patient until a final dose knocked the fever out for the evening.

By the next day, his temp was lower but the occasional blorp remained. His appetite for solids was nil and his interest in nursing was low. Then, by Saturday both the fever and vomiting were gone but were replaced by sniffles and coughing. It seems that my poor little Roo progressed straight from stomach flu to Mommy's cold.

Now, six days after the onset of the chaos, we are finally somewhat healthy. My cold is gone and Carter's has been reduced to a residual sniffle (although he blorped after his last bottle at school today - OY!). My knee no longer hurts, and instead just makes a disconcerting popping sound with each step. I'm back in the office, the RooRoo is back in daycare, and life is returning to normal.

In short, it was a hell of a week.

Happy (belated!) Father's Day

2010-06-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

...to the greatest daddy in the whole wide world.

We love you so much.

Score One For the Veggies

2010-06-11T21:42:00.001-07:00

I am a wayward vegetarian. It's a cause and lifestyle that I strongly believe in, though not in the annoying, preachy, self-righteous way of some of my meat-eschewing counterparts. You know, the kind who would throw rocks at me for refusing to give up my Thanksgiving turkey, despite eating vegetarian for the 364 other days of the year (okay, except for the periodical sushi-eating cheating). Case in point - I met a vegan at a party a few years ago, and exclaimed "Hooray! Yeah, vegans!!" She looked at me like I'd suddenly become interesting and asked "Oh, are you vegan?" My response was something along the lines of "No, but I eat vegan Monday-Friday." (Hey, every little bit counts, people!) Her eyes narrowed, she gave a brief, derisive chuckle and looked away. End of conversation. Charmer, huh?

Although I pore over vegan blogs and research vegan recipes (that I most likely will never cook) with a fanatical zeal, I seem to have trouble committing completely these days. Before I became pregnant, I had been a devoted vegetarian for a solid year, and a 90% vegetarian for several years prior. My reasons are primarily environmental - once I started reading about the eco benefits of vegetarianism, there was no turning back. However, I also happen to believe that you do NOT need to give up meat entirely to benefit the planet - according to environmental organizations, if every American skipped one meal of chicken per week and substituted vegetarian foods instead, the carbon dioxide savings would be the same as taking more than a half-million cars off U.S. roads. In other words, a big benefit for a small sacrifice. Okay, I'm off my soapbox.

I had a meat-free pregnancy until the third trimester, when I developed a wicked, undeniable craving for turkey burgers and vanilla malts, and who was I to deny my fetus its burgers? Since Carter's birth, it's been tough to kick the habit in favor of my old meatless ways, mainly because it takes some meal-planning savvy to be sure I get enough protein as a vegetarian, and I was in no position to meal plan in my chaos of postpartum hormones. However, for the past few months I've finally been getting back in the tofu-tempeh-lentil habit.

So it was with great dismay that at our past two pediatrician appointments, the doctor repeatedly insisted that we start feeding Carter meat. "He needs the iron" he said. Now, this isn't our regular pediatrician - she's out on maternity leave - so automatically I am skeptical. However, I wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, so I did a little research (stats are from Wholesome Baby Food, AKA my bible):

Turkey (200 grams - a bit over 1 cup roasted leg meat)
VITAMINS:
Vitamin A - 0 mg
Vitamin C - 0
Vitamin B1 (thiamine) - .12 mg
Vitamin B2 (riboflavin) - .48 mg
Niacin - 7.1 mg
Folate - 18 mcg

MINERALS:
Potassium - 560 mg
Phosphorus - 398 mg
Magnesium - 46 mg
Calcium - 64 mg
Sodium - 154 mg
Iron - 4.6 mg

VS.

LENTILS (one cup - cooked)

VITAMINS:
Vitamin A - 16 IU
Vitamin C - 3 mg
Niacin - 2 mg
Folate - 358 mcg
Thiamin - .3 mg
Riboflavin - .14 mg

MINERALS
Potassium - 731 mg
Sodium - 12 mg
Calcium - 38 mg
Phosphorus - 356 mg
Magnesium - 71 mg
Iron - 6.5 mg

WOWZA! Look at all that iron in a serving of LENTILS. Far more than in the same approximate serving size of turkey. Perhaps I will print this out for reference at our ten-month visit with the good doctor, because evidently he needs a Nutrition 101 refresher.

Despite my veggie iron triumph, I still decided to give Carter meat last weekend. I don't actually intend to raise a vegetarian child, but prefer instead to serve meat as an occasional supplement to his diet - a treat, per se - not the main course. So I went to good ol' Whole Foods and bought organic dark meat ground turkey (apparently dark meat is higher in fat and iron than white meat, making it good for babies) and sauteed it in organic extra virgin olive oil (in case you hadn't noticed, "organic" is a big keyword for me). Then I pureed it, added it to an organic red lentil/garlic kale puree, mixed it all with melted organic monterey jack cheese and served it to the Roo for dinner that night.

The verdict? It was a hit. And even though I am a wayward, noncommittal vegetarian, I found it surprisingly bittersweet to give my baby meat. But until there comes a day that he decides to abstain from meat on his own, I'll let the boy have his turkey occasionally.

But the lentils reign supreme.

On Girlhood and Grandmas

2010-06-04T16:57:00.001-07:00

I grew up in Northern California, in a lush land of wine-tasting, vineyard-hopping, Chanel-shopping yuppies and pot-smoking, granola-eating, Birk-wearing hippies juxtaposed together in an odd culture-clash mish-mash. I was raised in a big, messy house perched on a hill on five acres in the forest - thus, the name of this blog. My parents left San Francisco in the late '70s in search of a quieter world in which to raise their brood, and they settled in my hometown with the intention of growing grapes. The grapes never materialized, but they did manage to take a drafty six-room hunting cabin, add another wing, a second floor and a carport, and proceed to cram it with an overwhelming amount of books, furniture and knick-knacks.

My parents are master packrats, so more house simply meant more space in which to store the random objects that they couldn't seem to part with. Thus, I grew up in a world of STUFF - vast stacks of ancient, decaying magazines perched precariously in corners, long-expired coupons gathering dust in kitchen drawers, and tattered, discarded clothing perpetually threatening to burst out of jammed closets. My brothers also inherited this Mad Professor-like quality, as evidenced by their bedroom, with its colossal heaps of old toys, comics, and school papers circa 1992.

I, however, reside firmly at the other end of the tidiness spectrum, and seem to possess the sole neatnik gene in the family. Case in point: if I was ever upset as a child, I would lock myself in my bedroom and rearrange my furniture. Ahhhh, sweet relief... Coupled with the suspicious absence of baby photos, this distinction between my brothers and me provides irrefutable evidence to support my long-held belief that 1) I was found on my parents' doorstep in a basket, having been abandoned by well-organized gypsies, or 2) I am the (Type A) postman's child. Just kidding, mom.

General messiness notwithstanding, my childhood was spent amidst piles of home-improvement rubble, as our remodeled house was a perpetual construction zone - the sounds of the table saw echoing from the carport as my father chopped, cut, and nailed his way into his dream home, which my mother raced around attempting to keep the three of us out of harm's way. Her efforts weren't always successful - there was the time when Jason stepped on a board and a rusty nail plunged straight through his shoe into his foot. Or when Brandon cracked his head open when he slipped on the pre-carpet cement floors. But overall we emerged relatively unscathed, due either to incredible good fortune or to my mother's watchful eye, or to some combination therein.

Having spent the better part of her life wrangling three children into (fairly) well-functioning adults, one would think that taking care of an infant would be old hat for my mother. After all, when I was born she had three children under the age of five, my father never changed a diaper, and she lived to tell the tale. Certainly these child-rearing skills would magically come flowing right back when charged with caring for her grandson, right?

Not so.

I have learned that there is something about becoming a grandma that addles the brains of even the most top-notch mommies. It's like all the years of baby knowledge drip out their ears and are replaced with a surplus of googly-eyed smiles and incessant cooing. For whenever my mother has visited and I've left Carter at home with her for a few days, I've called to discover bottles undrunk, naps untaken, and meticulous schedules unfollowed. Any complaint from me illicits only a bemused chuckle and singsong "Uh-oh...Mommy's mad at us!!" on the other end of the line.

There are the domestic crimes committed, like the time when she washed my husband's dry-clean-only suit pants (the excuse - "I thought they were yours!" Um, HUH??), or, the most recent infraction committed during her visit last week: a super-helpful attempt to wash my cloth diapers (despite my repeated pleadings to refrain until I got home), which resulted in good ol' Grandma placing the entire filthy poo-stained bundle IN THE DRYER INSTEAD OF THE WASHER. Justification? "Well, at home my washer is on the left, so I was on autopilot."

Cue ranting, profanity-laced telephone tirade from yours truly, stuck at work with a dryer full of crap, and subsequent bleach scrubdown upon return home.

Despite these fury-inducing moments, my mother's recent visit was still lovely and all too brief. Carter loves his grandma and had a smashing good time showing off for her - gnawing on his blocks with his FOUR (!!) teeth, ripping apart magazines and pulling all the books off the shelves, one by one. And even though she's disorganized, occasionally drives me to drink and is no longer allowed anywhere near my appliances, my mother is simply wonderful.

Chatty McChatterson

2010-05-26T16:46:00.001-07:00

Carter suddenly has a lot to say these days. He's always been pretty quiet, but for the past several weeks it's a constant stream of "da-da-da-na-ga-da-da-da" and the like. In fact, I think his burgeoning vocabulary now contains three distinct words - "dada," which he may or may not actually connect to my husband, "mama," which I have still only heard twice, both while he was upset, and "duck." The latter still has the "ck" sound missing, so it's really "duh," but I think it counts.

Case in point: he was in the bath two nights ago, gnawing on his beloved rubber duck and softly saying "duh-duh-duh-duh" over and over. I pointed to the duck and said "DUCK." He looked up at me with a huge grin that had to mean "SHE UNDERSTANDS ME!" Then he looked back down at the duck and said "DUH."

Brilliant.
Look out, Harvard class of 2031 - here comes The RooRoo!

Snackity Snack

2010-05-26T16:36:00.000-07:00

Carter finally got the hang of finger foods last weekend. I had started chopping up an assortment of steamed or soft-cooked foods (broccoli, cauliflower, carrot, pasta, tofu, etc.) and laying 'em in front of him at each meal in hopes that he would start trying to feed himself instead of just picking it up, squishing it in his palm and dropping it on the floor.

On Saturday, I had a little stash of snacks laid out for him on the tray of his highchair, but I didn't harbor high hopes that any of them would actually make it to his mouth. So when he nonchalantly picked up a cube of - god, I have no idea what it was now - Cheese? Pasta? - and popped it into his mouth, I nearly screamed in excitement. The next day, more of the same - I met a girlfriend for coffee and brought along a variety of finger food snacks for The RooRoo, in hopes that squishing them would keep him somewhat entertained so that Mommy could have five minutes to talk to her friend without interjecting every other sentence with baby talk. I dumped some out on my palm and sat him in my lap, and off he went - picking them up and shoveling them in his mouth like he'd been doing it all his life. Mind you, a good portion still ends up on his bib, in his lap, or all over the ground, but he's FEEDING HIMSELF! Yeehah!

Adaptation

2010-05-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

Recently (and by that I mean for the past two days, but hey, it still counts) life has begun to seem more manageable. Although my days and nights are still filled-to-bursting with activity, I haven't had those overwhelming moments where I throw up my hands and curse the gods for not allowing more hours in a day. Instead, things seem...easier.

Part of this newfound sense of freedom can probably be attributed to the fact that my evenings this week have not been consumed by making baby food (okay, save for a much-needed batch of pureed beets the other night), with the seemingly endless cycle of steam-puree-store occupying me until I pass out at midnight, delirious from exhaustion. Last week I was a pureeing fool and packed the freezer with Carter food, so I am fairly well-stocked for the time being. In fact, two nights ago my husband said "LOML, you need to stop making his food. Between purees and breastmilk, there is NO room in the freezer." Then last night a woman came by to pick up 100 oz. of frozen liquid gold and happily freed up some space for more. More, more, MORE!! Wahahahaha!

I am relishing these evenings of downtime, as they are rare. Of course, this is my fault. During the midst of one of my gripe sessions, a mommy friend once pointed out that I make motherhood harder than it needs to be. I've been thinking about this lately, and wondering - am I simply a masochist? Perhaps.

Masochist Mommy Example #1: I make 95% of the food that Carter eats, with the exception of some boxed cereals (although he mainly eats homemade oatmeal, barley and quinoa cereals) and carrots (which I began buying jarred when he first started solids because of the nitrate issue, and just kept buying 'em). Otherwise, the bulk of his diet - peas, green beans, squash, sweet potatoes, apples, mangoes, peaches, pears, beets, broccoli, cauliflower, blueberries, lentils, black beans etc. - are cooked/pureed/frozen by yours truly. The rest of his diet includes bananas, avocados, tofu, cheese, yogurt, wheat toast, and organic "o" cereal from Trader Joe's (a new addition). I have also started setting aside bits of whatever veggies I make for us each evening to puree them for him the next day, so now he's had spinach, onion, mushroom, kale, etc. We are slowly branching out into new proteins and trying to introduce finger foods, although currently he prefers to simply pick up the food and squish it in his palm rather than put it in his mouth. If I pick it up (pieces of toast, cheese, tofu) and bring it to his lips, he'll open wide and eat it, but he doesn't seem interested in feeding himself quite yet. Soon enough, soon enough. Simply put, making all his food, time-sucker that it is, makes me happy. However, lately I will occasionally give him one of the back-up jars of Earth's Best Organic that I keep on hand - this morning it was Pear Apple Oatmeal, which was a big hit - to save myself some time. It's all about achieving balance, right? No need to be Crazy Type A Pureeing Mommy 24/7. Ahhhh...that's me breathing a sigh of relief.

Masochist Mommy Example #2: I use cloth diapers. Now, I am not a Diaper Nazi, and I don't have some kind of militant platform against disposables, mind you - we used them for four weeks when he was first born and we use them at night. But for as long as I've been thinking about children, I've been hoping to cloth diaper. In fact, I spent months obsessively researching the different cloth diaper brands before buying - reading reviews, comparing prices, determining the best bang for my buck. And I've been happy with my choice so far - I don't find them particularly time-consuming because we've been using them since he was four weeks old - I just toss them in the wash every three days and TADA! Clean, fresh, and ready for baby. But every so often, I'll be up late on a Tuesday night, scrubbing poo out of dirty diaper liners in order to ensure that he has enough for the next day (I only have six of the gDiaper pant/inner liner combo) and at times like that I realize how convenient disposables are. Ideally I'd like to make it at least a year using cloth, possibly longer - but I'm not going to beat myself up if I switch over.

Basically, I am finally learning that being a working mom is hard enough without self-flagellation to deal with. I'll always feel guilty about not spending more time with him - the curse of the working mother - but I needn't waste a moment of the precious time that I do have steaming peas and scrubbing diapers. I'm that much closer to achieving balance, and as a result, things seem more manageable.

Better yet - things seem pretty damn fantastic.

Teething Torture

2010-05-18T11:34:00.000-07:00

Carter was a little under the weather for the past couple of days with a fever and runny nose, so yesterday I stayed home from work with him. It came on suddenly and punctuated our blissful, relaxing weekend with worry. I took him to the pediatrician, suspecting that he could have an ear infection because he was so fussy and seemed to be in such pain. Fortunately, I was wrong - just a regular cold. Today he's much better (no fever and the nose is better), but the fussiness hasn't dissapated.

I suspected he was teething, and the doctor confirmed as much yesterday. I'm armed with both Hyland's Teething Tablets and Baby Orajel, ready to do battle with the evil little teeth that are causing him so much pain. Frustratingly, he won't let me anywhere near his mouth in order to mount my attack. Not only is it an epic struggle to get anything onto his gums or into his mouth to make him feel better, I can't even get a finger in there to determine which part of his mouth is bothering him. He was up FOUR times last night, which is sheer torture after having him sleep through the night for so long. It's like he's three weeks old, and I'm an anxious new mother riding the wave of postpartum hormones all over again. The really aggravating part is that when he wakes up, I nurse him and he conks right out again, so I don't know if he's waking up because he's really in pain, or if he's just waking up because he knows now that if he cries, Mommy will come. For the past week or ten days, he was waking up once, around 3-4am, which was hard enough after getting used to weeks and weeks with ten hours of uninterrupted sleep from him - but now it's three and four times in one night?!? STOP THE MADNESS!

Last night while he was in a tranquil post-bath mood, I managed to get a finger in his mouth. I couldn't feel anything sharp on top, but I might have felt something on the side, further back on the gums - could he have a MOLAR coming in?? How is that possible? I thought molars didn't appear til the first birthday or later! Though it would certainly explain the fact that my precious, mellow-yellow baby has been possessed by a DEMON.

In short - AAAARRRRRRRGHHGHHGHGHGHGHGHGHH!!!!

I'm feeling a wee bit stressed.

Perhaps the wisest bit of advice I ever received about parenthood is that whenever you think you know something, whenever you pat yourself on the back, whenever you get comfortable - IT ALL CHANGES. Sure, you work hard to establish your routines and set your schedules and figure it all out, but ultimately, parenthood is flying by the seat of your pants and rolling with the punches. Anyone who says differently either has a lot of help that I don't or is on some kind of mood-enhancing substance (and if that's the case, please share).

Life is hectic, crazy, and busy-beyond-recognition with one baby - and yet we want two more! This begs the question - ARE WE INSANE? Yes, yes we are. Because no matter how much I bitch, moan, and long to sleep in, have properly painted toenails and ten spare minutes to guiltlessly primp in the mirror, I wouldn't change a thing.

Milestones and Whatnot

2010-05-13T15:34:00.000-07:00

Carter started crawling a week or so ago - real crawling, not the commando army-style business he'd been doing for ages - which was exciting unto itself. Then, not two days later he pushed himself to his feet and STOOD for the first time!

Alas, I was not there to see this. He'd stayed home with my husband last Friday so that Daddy could take him to an afternoon doctor's appointment, and my husband called me at work to excitedly inform me that Carter had just crawled over to his beloved little Russian table in the nursery (a gift from Babushka), grabbed it, pushed himself to his feet, and stared proudly at himself in the mirror (the boy loves a mirror - clearly he inherited mommy's vanity).

Since that day, all he wants to do is be on his feet. He'll crawl over to me and "climb Mount Mommy" as I call it, grappling his way up to my shoulders, pushing up on his little feet, wobbling excitedly about his accomplishment. He'll balance precariously against anything you set him in front of - sofa, chair, mirror - and is now trying to pull himself up on anything and everything. He will rarely allow us to set him down on his bottom, and will instead arch his back and kick his legs to try to stay upright.

Other recent developments include more teething. All the signs are there - every night for the past week he's begun waking at 3:30 again, wailing. I've been too delirious with exhaustion to let him cry it out, so I'll just take him into bed with us, feed him, and then put him back down. Last weekend was another nursing strike (just in time for Mother's Day - how festive!), with Carter breastfeeding only first thing in the morning and at bedtime. I found myself giving bottles all weekend, and even then he wasn't taking in nearly as many ounces as he normally does on a typical daycare day. On both Saturday and Sunday, I found myself away from the house (and therefore, from my pump), with a hungry baby who refused to nurse. What to do? Well, necessity is the mother of invention (literally - ha!), so each time I made like a dairy cow and (sorry for the TMI) hand-expressed until I had enough for a bottle. Let me just tell you, nothing says Mommy like milking yourself in the backseat of your car. After several days of night wakings and boob refusing, I finally reached into his mouth to discover a sharp edge of tooth on top. AH-HA! He hasn't let me reach in there since, but the advent of top teeth would certainly explain his recent shenanigans. Bring on the teething tabs, stat!

Last but most definitely not least - Carter finally said "mama" for the first time. A couple of days ago, he had a traumatic bath experience during a particularly trying evening. He hadn't slept well at school so he was already exhausted, but nonetheless eager to test out his newfound leg strength by attempting to stand up and climb out of his bathtub. As I held him upright and attempted to get him back on his bottom, he stepped up on the center ledge of the tub and his foot slipped. This scared him, and coupled with his exhaustion and crankiness at being made to sit on his bottom, it sent him into (very out of character for our mellow boy) a fullblown wail. I lifted him out of the tub and into his waiting towel, and he looked at me, flung his arms open and yelled "MMMMAAAAAMMMMAAAAAAAAAAA!" Then he clung tightly to my chest and started nursing. My husband and I looked at each other, and had a moment of "Did you just hear that??"

Despite the chaos, I was euphoric. He said my name! And he knew it meant ME! After weeks of endless "da-da-da-das" (to which my husband invariably replies "Yes, my son?" although - sorry, honey - I somewhat doubt the Roo Roo actually connects "da-da" with Daddy...though perhaps that's the green-eyed monster talking), Mama finally got some credit! My friend over at Little One Big World once said that her little one only said "mama" when she was upset, and in retrospect, the only time Carter would make the "m" sound was when he was fussing. I would wonder - Is he trying to say my name? Is Mama going to get a little shout-out one of these days? And I WAS RIGHT!

Thanks, kiddo. I mean, I DID carry you around inside me for 41 weeks and all. Sheesh.

To My Mother

2010-05-09T22:16:00.000-07:00

Until I became a mother, I never realized how hard you worked, how patient you were, and how much you did for us.

Until I became a mother, I had no idea how strong you really are, how capable, how selfless.

Until I became a mother, I could not truly understand how much you love us, how much you wanted to give us, and how much you protected us from the world.

I look at my own baby, and now it's all so clear.
I am so lucky to have learned from the best.
I love you so much.

Happy Mother's Day...to my mother, and to all the mommies out there.

A Mother's Day Ode (Hacked, of course)

2010-05-09T07:25:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, this is not Paige but rather her husband, who's managed to hack her password.

I'd like to take this opportunity (as I'm sure she'll change her password once she reads this) to publicly thank Paige for everything she does as Carter's mommy. If you've read any of this blog you know how much time, thought, energy and love she puts into caring for him. He is a wonderfully happy little boy for whom Paige has created a warm and loving home.

I also want to thank all you other moms out there. Not just for all the work you put into raising your own children, which has perhaps the worst "importance to thanks" ratio of all the jobs (just barely nosing out the job of the guy who makes sure that our 5700 nuclear missiles don't accidentally go off), but for the advice, support, encouragement and love that you all give one another. Thank you for reaching out to one another and helping each other with this most important job: mommy.

Love,

Paige's Husband and on behalf of all dads.

The Wet Nurse of West Hollywood

2010-05-07T10:25:00.000-07:00

I recently realized that of the ten children in his daycare, Carter is the only one who is breastfed. Granted, half of the kids are over 1, so perhaps some of them were breastfed as infants, but the others are exactly one year, ten months, eight months (a little girl one day younger than Carter), and two months, and all of them drink formula.

I'm proud that my little boy is still breastfed. Nursing did not come easily to us, and it was a battle in the beginning. Eight months in, I'm now a breastmilk donor, pumping more than my baby can drink and giving away 100 oz. at a time to milkless SoCal moms on Milkshare. Since February I've made four donations to various women, for a total of about 425 oz. or so, and my freezer is overflowing yet again. I look back on the excruciatingly painful first month of nursing, when the pain and my postpartum hormones left me in tears after almost every feed, and I realize that I fought for this milk. I fought to be able to feed my baby, to be able to provide him with the best nutrition. And now not only can I feed him, I can feed other women's babies, too. I feel triumphant.

Although I hope to breastfeed until Carter is at least a year, lately I've started thinking about how much easier our daily routine will be once he weans. No more schlepping the pump to and from work, no more five pumps a day (once in the morning, three times at work, and once before bed), no more cleaning endless attachments, storage bottles, regular bottles, and nipples - endless nipples. Although I love breastfeeding, it's nice to imagine a world free of pumping. On the same note, although I love making his purees, it's liberating to think of a time in the future when he can eat what WE eat, when I am not using every spare moment to steam-puree-store his fruits and veggies.

Until then, I will remind myself to relish every challenging, exhausting day of watching my baby grow.

And growing he is - and CRAWLING!

A Walk to Remember

2010-05-06T16:41:00.000-07:00

Every day, I spend my lunch hour visiting Carter at his daycare. It's right down the street, a mere five-minute drive from my office, which is a huge part of the reason I chose it in the first place. When I walk in the door, he turns around from his perch at the circle table, or lifts his head from whatever corner of the room he has rolled/crawled into, and when he sees me his whole face lights up.

At that moment, there is nothing but us - me, grinning like an idiot and rushing like a crazy person toward my little boy, and him smiling and waving his arms up and down, as if to say "Pick me up, Mama! UP UP UP!" In these first few moments of eye contact, I am so concentrated on him that I simply will not look away, will not break our gaze - so much so that I once almost bulldozed a little girl from the preschool next door who happened to be standing in the path between me and my son. This was during the evening pick-up, and let me tell you that her mother did not seem pleased. She was there picking up Carter's classmate, the preschooler's sister, and probably didn't enjoy witnessing a wild-eyed blonde run headlong into her daughter. However, this is the same mother whom I overheard saying "No more breastfeeding! I want my body back!" about her 6-month-old, so we clearly weren't destined to be buddies regardless.

At these visits, some days we read, some days we roll around on the floor, and some days we just cuddle and bounce around. Today, however, the weather was so glorious that I decided we had to go for a walk. Never mind the fact that a quick search of my car revealed neither appropriate footwear (I usually keep flip-flops on hand for the impromptu lunchtime walk) nor a hat to protect me from the evil sun. The lack of a hat may seem trivial to some, but to them I say HAVE YOU MET ME? Because if you have, you know that I am pretty much the palest person you have ever seen, your albino friends notwithstanding. Sure, I may slather the world's greatest sunblock on every morning of my life, but I am certainly not foolish enough to scoff in the face of sun damage/skin cancer/premature aging/certain death with deliberate, wayward hatless roaming.

I was fine with traipsing about in my heels (a very old, very comfortable, very broken-in pair, fortunately), but I wouldn't dare to wander far without adequate sun protection. The ancient, decrepit, hugely tacky visor I usually keep in my car for such occasions was nowhere to be found - what was a super-pale mommy to do, I ask you?

Just when I was seriously considering tossing a reusable Whole Foods shopping bag over my head to fashion a makeshift fedora of sorts, I saw it. A long-forgotten umbrella, rolling around in the backseat! Woop!

So there we went - Carter in his Snap n' Go and me in my 3+-inch wedges, tottering along the streets of Burbank beneath a black umbrella with "Suddenly Susan" splashed across it in bold while letters. It was quite the picture.

Incidentally, my husband and I are both mystified as to how we ended up with said umbrella, given that neither of us has ever worked on that show or know anyone who has, but I wasn't about to argue. Carter fell fast asleep and I enjoyed the warm afternoon, smiling at passers-by from beneath my unattractive-yet-functional sunshade.

Perhaps I can bring back the parasol. Hot damn! Maybe that will be the million-dollar business idea that will subsequently land my little family on easy street! Then again, with only redheads, our aforementioned albino friends and little Asian ladies in the market for parasols, perhaps I shouldn't quit my day job.

2010-05-03T11:03:00.000-07:00

This weekend was excellent, and can be best summarized by the food: Friday night - sushi and cupcakes (a surprisingly delicious combo - but then again, what doesn't go with cupcakes, I ask you?); Saturday - blueberry muffins and margaritas (not at the same meal, although I could probably get behind that combo, too); Sunday - yogurt-covered pretzels, falafel and quinoa (ditto the aforementioned statement).

On Friday afternoon, we had a little office party in honor of someone's last day. What was going to be a mellow mini-cupcake celebration (we have a thing with cupcakes in our department - the direct result of working down the street from one of the most glorious cupcake shops ever. Trust me. I've done the research) turned into a work-be-damned margarita extravaganza when someone discovered an old-yet-functional blender hidden in a kitchen cupboard. A quick trip to the drugstore and BAM - chips, guacamole, tequila and cupcakes = instant fiesta!

Sitting there and nursing my frosty beverage amidst my mildly tipsy coworkers (let me remind you that I work in the entertainment industry and yes, we are all a bunch of debaucherous hooligans), I had a small pang of nostalgia. The first sip of that slushy alcoholic goodness transported me right back to my pre-baby life, which was a blur of social activity largely revolving around rallying groups of girlfriends for frequent pilgrimages to the local Mexican joint to pay homage to the tortilla chip gods. It's the same feeling I had a few weeks ago while driving home through Hollywood on a Friday night and seeing gaggles of 20-something hipsters lounging on patios outside overpriced bistros, preening themselves and sipping their various Happy Hour libations. For just a brief moment, I longed to join them, to while away an evening with cocktails and conversation without a care in the world.

Then my baby squealed in the backseat and met my gaze in the mirror with a drooly grin, rubber giraffe in one hand, beloved red donut block in the other, and just like that, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

At home I relayed Friday's office margarita shenanigans to my husband, and told him about my momentary longing for those carefree days and boozy nights of yore. Later that day, after a virtuous trip to Whole Foods to stock up on organic produce and nontoxic baby wipes, he told me that he had to run to the drugstore for a moment. A few minutes later he was back, smiling and toting tequila and margarita mix.

That night, our precious boy was fed, bathed, cuddled, cooed over, smothered with kisses, nursed, and tucked soundly into bed. And with my baby sleeping peacefully, this mommy went to the kitchen and enjoyed a richly-deserved margarita, extra strong, no salt please. And that night, I discovered that even the most raucous girls' night can't beat puttering in the kitchen, slightly tipsy, pureeing baby food while the LOML relaxed on the couch and the LOOL slumbered in the nursery. Life is infinitely different now, yet so vastly improved.

Well, THAT explains it

2010-04-30T11:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning, after stumbling blearily into the bathroom to put in my contact lens, I washed my hands and returned to my husband and baby playing in our bed. In between smothering my son with kisses and singing our Good Morning song, I stuck my finger in his mouth (which I haven't done in weeks) to check for teeth. And there they were! TWO teeth! Both bottom teeth are IN, one further up than the other.

Suddenly the previous week was so clear - Carter wasn't waking up and fussing at night because his sleep-training was suddenly and inexplicably kaput. He was TEETHING! He's been sleeping through the night again for the past week, so the teeth probably came in just over a week ago. D'oh! How did I miss this?

My little boy's growing up!

Striiiiiike!

2010-04-28T21:39:00.000-07:00

For the past couple of weeks Carter has been going through a bit of a nursing strike. It started when he was sick with the Hands-Foot-Mouth thing back at the beginning of April, when his little throat was so sore it hurt to suck. After a few days the throat was better, but the nursing wasn't. He would take his bottles at school, but didn't have much interest in nursing, except first thing in the morning when he was ravenous after 10 hours of sleep, and to fall asleep at night - and sometimes not even then.

The worst day was a couple of weeks ago when I found myself trying to nurse him in the parked car on a street in Beverly Hills after his Music Together class. He hadn't eaten in over three hours, and was hungry and fussing. Yet each time I offered the boob he pushed away. After all, there was so much to look at! Ooh! Look at that branch swaying in the breeze! The way that shadow falls on the ground! A bird flying by! At seven months, distraction reaches its peak, and everything is more fascinating than mommy's breast.

A virtual battle ensued - me trying to shove him on the boob, him arching his back, jerking away like a tiny pony rearing its head. I know the La Leche League would frown upon me sitting there, grappling with my infant and trying to force interest in nursing, yet whenever I successfully got him to the breast his hunger seemed to suddenly register, and he would lunge on and chow down. That is, for about two minutes until he, say, saw a REALLY INTERESTING car drive by.

Our nursing relationship has always been rocky. I spent the first four weeks post-partum in excruciating pain and considered giving up and formula-feeding. My left nipple was so brutally gnawed apart that I repeatedly had to pump on that side and nurse exclusively with my right just to let it heal. The lactation consultants said there was nothing wrong - no problem with latch, no tongue-tie. Simply put, our boy was just one powerful sucker - as evidenced by the pound-per-week weight gain.

Eventually it clicked, and all was well for a few months. He quickly became a speed-nurser, guzzling all he could within five minutes or so and then refusing to take any more. However, my overactive letdown resulted in most nursing sessions ending with him choking and pulling off while my milk sprayed hose-like into his face, onto his shirt, and in a three-foot radius around us. Not attractive, and certainly no fun for the Little Roo.

Upon starting daycare, he adapted to his bottles very quickly and soon seemed to prefer them to the breast. After all, with bottles he could control the flow and didn't have to worry about a faceful of milk if he pulled off. On weekends, I would generally have my husband give him a bottle each day in order to give myself a little break, and for a few months he was still able to seamlessly transition from bottle to boob and back again.

However, a couple of weeks ago he simply would not nurse. If, after much struggle, I managed to get him on the breast, he would bite me and pull away. I ended up pumping and giving him bottles all day. As I relayed this to a mommy friend (who also happens to be a doctor), she smiled knowingly and said "Ooooh, he's weaning."

Weaning?? At SEVEN months? The thought distressed me. At this point, I am pumping five times a day during the week - once in the morning after his first feeding, three times at work, and right before I go to sleep - so if he were to wean, I suppose I could simply pump and bottle-feed. I have friends who have done this with great success - the only problem is that I am not quite ready to stop nursing my little boy. After all, I had always thought I would nurse him til he was two - would he really call it quits after only seven months?

When I nurse him to sleep at night, it is the most peaceful time of my day. All the chaos of the week fades away as I rock back and forth, singing to the RooRoo as he eats and drifts slowly off to sleep. Once he's out, I look down at his tiny face, his warm little body, trying to memorize every little detail, to preserve these fleeting moments of babyhood in my mind.

Fortunately, over the past week things seem to have improved. I've been using effleurage, a technique I learned from our birth class teacher, and it seems to calm him down enough to focus on nursing. As a child, my mother would sit at my bedside and run her fingertips up and down my arms when I couldn't sleep. 25 years later, she did the same thing at my hospital bedside as I labored during Carter's birth. Now I use it to calm my little boy.

Only time will tell if we've successfully weathered the strike, but I am hopeful.

The Happiest of Birthdays

2010-04-22T16:26:00.001-07:00

2010-04-20T21:27:00.000-07:00

I am alone tonight, as my husband is enjoying a richly-deserved poker game with friends. He came home early and was the dutiful daddy, helping me to get Carter fed and put to bed, to unload today and get ready for tomorrow, to make sure I was content before taking off into the night.

So I putter about in my little kitchen, snacking on hummus and broccoli, making mango puree for my son while Cat Stevens warbles plaintively from iTunes, and I feel at peace. And in the sweet calm of this solitary evening, my thoughts wander back to a night many years ago, to a soft summer evening following my high school graduation, when a couple of dear friends and I lay in the grass of the plaza in my small town. There was nothing to do and nowhere to go, and as we stared up at the immense night sky blanketed with thick white stars it suddenly seemed that everything was possible, and the magnitude of it sent a current through the three of us. We could go anywhere and be anything. We could have reached up and plucked a star from the sky.

That was almost thirteen years ago, and back then my dreams were occupied by fantasies of fame and glory. A family was the furthest thing from my mind. Tonight I putter in my kitchen, preparing baby food and nibbling on vegetables, listening to the smooth thumping of the white noise machine's heartbeat that means that my baby is fast asleep, and I shake my head in awe at how different my life has turned out from those teenage visions of grandeur. And I smile to myself and think that John Lennon was right, that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

And if you're very lucky, sometimes the life that happens is more grand and wondrous than anything you could have imagined.

Six Weeks In Pictures

2010-04-19T11:32:00.001-07:00

Hooray Easter! Hooray, borrowed-from-a-friend Exersaucer! Hooray, red donut block (seriously - he loves that thing)! Hooray, puppy towels! And lastly, hooray mirrors!

Sleep - The Long and Winding Road

2010-04-19T09:13:00.000-07:00

Success! My child slept (more or less) through the night last night!

Mind you, Carter had been sleeping through the night since late January or so, although I wasn't. That's because I did two dreamfeeds (nursing without waking) every night. For six weeks or so, every night I would snatch my sleeping baby out of his crib and pop him on the boob at 11pm and (ugh) 2am. He would nurse greedily, never once opening his little eyes, and then I would plunk him back down in his crib. Hearing my alarm go off at 2am was misery, but it was worth it for a night of otherwise uninterrupted sleep, and to have a small sense of control during the wee hours (Type A, anyone?).

After six weeks of dreamfeeds, I slowly began cutting down on the time of each feed. Since Carter has always been a speed-nurser, his longest feed was never more than six minutes. So one night I did five, then four...you get the idea. It's pretty heartbreaking to pry your hungry, slumbering infant off your breast, but within a few days I had cut out the 2am feeding, he was sleeping til morning, and I was singing the praises of this sleep training method (no idea what it's called - a friend told me about it - no time to read anything). A week or so later, I slowly cut out the 11pm, and then (drumroll) my boy was sleeping blissfully from 7:30pm until 6am (or sometimes 5:30, but that's good enough for me).

For a few wonderful weeks, we slept. Until last week, when it all went to hell. Carter got a cold and started waking up again, and I just didn't have the strength to let my sick baby cry it out. So there I was, once again stumbling out of bed in the wee hours to comfort my crying infant. After weeks of sleeping soundly, this was torturous.

Last night, however, was different. He woke up at 3:20am and fussed for a bit, but I stayed strong and did not go to him. Then he went back to sleep until 5:30, when I nursed him and put him back to bed. He slept in til 6:45 (you know you're a mother when you consider waking up at 6:45am "sleeping in"). Ahhhh. AHHHHHHHHHH.

Now I'm sitting here wondering if I did anything differently last night that helped him sleep better. Was it his dinner? Did the lentil/quinoa combo possess some magical sleep-inducing wallop of protein? Or was it the sweet potato-pea-avocado side dishes (eat the rainbow, people. Eat the rainbow)?

I'll never know. In fact, I've learned enough by now to know that the only sure thing about parenthood is that whenever you think you've got it all figured out, it'll change. There you have it. Welcome to the rest of my life.