Hairless Wonder

It's that time again. That moment in postpartum when my scalp has an identity crisis and looks around going, "Why on earth do we have so much HAIR? We don't need hair! Get rid of it! Get rid of it!! Shed Shed SHED the HAIR!" Yup. Having a baby makes my body decide that it should look like Patrick Stewart (not a bad look, if you are a mature classically trained British male actor).

One minute I have long thick pregnancy hair, the next I am standing in the shower staring at a fistful of recently shed locks wondering if I should just shave my head now to save on clogged drains in the future.

I am normally "blessed" with an abundance of volume in the hair department, so honestly it isn't that noticeable to an outsider, but when my hair line starts receding it does something to me psychologically. I freak out. I feel like Samson (which I guess makes Thing 2 my tiny Delilah...), without all my hair I am just not as kick-ass.

With Thing 1, I chopped it all off in a vain attempt to be in control of my body again. Pregnancy had made me feel a little like I had been invaded by aliens. I had NO CONTROL.  My brain loved coffee. My body said, "Nope! You HATE coffee! You are going to throw up now!"  After all those changes (most of which I have already started blocking out) I was so excited to have the baby OUT of me.  Time for this body to be MINE. 

Or not.

Why had no one told me making milk could be painful?? Like, stick a knife in your nipple painful? Or about boob stretch marks that looked like a rabid raccoon had attacked them? Nope, no one mentioned those (although they do fade, so there is some hope).  And the weird moles/skin tags/hairs/etc that sprout when your body says, "TOO MANY HORMONES I am going to explode of I don't grow something RIGHT NOW!!!!" BAM! skin tag.  Awesome. 

 I was ok with the fact that I had more curves, but then I realized my RIBS had grown. WHAT?? Yup. Your ribcage can expand with prenancy and NEVER GO BACK.  Why isn't that highlighted in the Mayo Clinic's Guide to Pregnancy? 

And then....my hair fell out.

It was like the final insult.  I had even heard about this one, but that didn't prepare me for suddenly being able to see so much skin when I pulled my hair back. Hormone fueled panic plus scissors equaled pixie cut. Not my best look, but atleast the showers were shorter and the shedding less noticeable.

This time around I am trying to resist the urge to chop it all off, just to show my body that I am now above such trivial (whimper) things. 

Hair. Who needs it?

A Ball Named Serenity

It has been one of those days. One of those "shake my fist at the sky, throw furniture out the window, bang my head against the wall, baby is asleep only when being held and in motion and has somehow managed to throw up more milk than she has drank" days. So, instead of grumbling about the trials of motherhood, I am going to tell the tale of a BALL.

A ball we have named, "Serenity."

Serenity grew up at a department store. There was nothing magical about her youth. She always assumed she would be bought by a health conscious vegan person between the ages of 18 and 50 who would use her at the most once a day, and then give her all her holidays and evenings off.

But the god of yoga balls had other plans for her.

When the store opened that fateful day in August, she had a sense of impending doom. She had been pushed to the front of her shelf, so there was no hiding when a very VERY rotund woman (seriously, did she eat balls for breakfast??) came around the corner with a look of frazzled desperation in her eyes.  She barely seemed to notice Serenity before tossing her between a box of #5 diapers, a nursing bra, and a jar of Nutella.

For months she sat un-inflated, still wrapped in her plastic shopping bag. Then one day she was fished out from under the couch where she had been accidentally shoved, ripped out of her box, and hauled to the basement where she was filled with air.  She was sure that now she would be taken to the magical healthy food person, with her tidy Ikea decorated apartment.  Right?

Oh, poor Serenity.  Instead she was greeted by a truly terrifying, ear splitting sound.  A sound somewhere between a fire engine and a donkey killing a cat. Two people sat on her (one was tiny, but VERY LOUD) and BOUNCED. Oh the indignity. They didn't even pretend to be doing crunches.  And then the tiny loud one VOMITED. ALL. OVER. HER.

Soon she realized the screaming noises were getting quieter...and quiter.....and stopping...and the woman was expressing in the warmest way how very VERY much she loved the yoga ball, and Serenity decided it wasn't such a bad life.

Which is how I came to be sitting on a yoga ball named Serenity, bouncing Thing 2 to sleep and typing this with one hand.

I would say that 90% of my day is spent here.  She works hard traveling from room to room as needed, is refilled with air weekly, is currently streaked with remnants of urped up milk, and is making it possible for me to bounce Thing 2 and eat/read/check my email.  Who needs a desk chair?

(Of course, we haven't told her the tragic tale of her predecessor yet.  The Yoga Ball who was stabbed with a pencil through the heart by Thing 1, the very child she had bounced to sleep so many times. Very "Giving Tree".)

Hopefully, Serenity will live a long happy life bouncing Thing 2, ending with a peaceful retirement in the back of my closet.  She will certainly of earned it.

Sweaty Mouth Prevention

The reason why Thing 1's face smells so fresh and clean this evening (in a manly, musky sort of way) is because while I was attempting to get Thing 2 down for a nap this afternoon, she found her way into the bathroom.  She had climbed onto the toilet, found a stick of men's deodorant, and had just removed the cap when I found her,

"Smells like Daddy!" she informed me with delight,  nodding emphatically, "YES, smells like Daddy!"

She then proceeded to RUB the deodorant onto her cheeks, nose and mouth while I stood frozen in horror.

"NO! We do not put that on our faces! That is not lotion!" I shrieked while attempting to remove the deodorant from her hand without smearing more on her person, fish the cap from behind the toilet where it was making friends with the dust bunnies and replace it, and lift Thing 1 down from the toilet with one hand while holding a fascinated Thing 2 with the other. "We DO NOT put that on our FACES!"

As I was desperately looking for a clean washcloth, Thing 1 stood staring at me in the doorway of the bathroom with giant innocent eyes.

Then she LICKED her deodorant smeared lips and said, "Mmmmmmmm....I like it! I LIKE IT!" nodding emphatically again.  "Smells like Daddy. Nummy. I LIKE it! More?"

"No. Wash your face." I said as I tried not to gag and handed her a soapy washcloth.

She looked at it for a moment, shoved it's soapy goodness in her mouth, and began sucking noisily.

"NOOOO!" I wailed, "Don't suck on it! WASH WITH IT!"

 Then she dodged out of my frantic reach and ran from the room, declaring to the house at large; "Mmmmmmm!!!! I LIKE IT!!!! NUMMY!!!! I LIKE IT!"

Which is why, if you were to kiss  my daughter good night, you may have caught a whiff of Irish Spring mixed with Old Spice.
At least she won't have a sweaty mouth.

Keep the Diaper Bag Packed

When I was 8 months pregnant with Thing 2, I was exchanging horror stories with a coworker who was pregnant with her first. She is one of those women who runs marathons and grows all her own food and serves on committees and probably is really a body snatcher from another planet. Realizing I was a straight shooter, she asked "What is the hardest thing about being a new mom?"

           
 I said, “Sacrificing all personal agendas. Like going out when you want. Or going anywhere when you want. Or just going. Anywhere. To do anything.”

            
She looked politely puzzled, “I have heard that is hard. Why is that? I mean, you keep a diaper bag packed and ready to go, so why can’t you just walk out the door?”

           

            
I blinked at her out of my sleep deprived eyes. “Ummmm….hmmmm….good question…why hadn’t I thought of that, just keep the diaper bag packed….good idea…”

            
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that THIS is what happens when you try to go somewhere with an infant:

You wait for the infant to wake up.

You dress the infant in clean clothes. The infant thinks you are trying to kill it by exposing its skin to the air.

 You feed the infant. As stated in previous post, you are paralyzed while nursing and can do nothing else.

You lay it down so you can get dressed. This is when you realize that all your clean socks are in the dryer. In the basement.

With infant on hip you dig out infant jacket from behind couch, and attempt to put on your shoes.

You get one shoe on and grab your purse. Infant vomits the excess milk you just fed it all over its outfit, must change their clothes.

Put on second shoe and infants jacket/snowsuit/hat etc. while infant cries and you mutter over and over “It’s ok, you’re ok, Mommys here, your ok, it’s ok…”

You place the unconvinced infant into their car seat and look for the purse you were just holding.

You find the purse under infant's dresser and look for pacifier.

Infant is strangely quiet when you enter the room, and you think you might just make it out the door.

You get one arm in your coat when you hear the grunting. Yup, here comes the poop face. You want to ignore it. You do. But you know that if you do the chances of fecal matter leaking through everything are greatly increased.

SO you take infant out of car seat, strip off snowsuit/coat/hat etc. Remove your coat. Remove recently clean infant clothes. Remove blow out diaper. Clean butt, feet, legs, and back of child.  Put on clean diaper. Throw out soiled diaper and 200 dirty wipes. Wash hands. Find clean outfit. Put outfit/coat/snowsuit on infant. Find shoes. Grab purse. You are going NOW, damn it. You are an adult and you will not be defeated by this very very tiny pseudo person.

Pick up infant. Infant smiles at you and throws up down your cleavage. This is when you look at the clock and realize that in 15 minutes it will be time to start putting infant down for second nap. Which is exactly when you would be arriving at the grocery store if you left RIGHT THAT SECOND. Which isn’t going to happen unless you go with warm squishy vomit in your bra. You and infant stare defiantly at each other.  You take off your shoes, change your shirt, sit down with your now sweetly cooing infant and decide that you really don’t need bread.

So yes, it is a brilliant idea to have that diaper bag packed and ready. If you get to the stage where you are actually walking out the door.  And you didn’t run out of diapers late last night and use up the two you keep in the diaper bag. Or have a toddler to dress too.  And you don't care if you are wearing socks.

Lactation Paralysis

Today I would like to raise awareness for a little known condition in new mothers. Particularly those that decide to breastfeed. No one ever warns you about it. Not the midwives. Not the nurses. Not the doctors. Not your own mother who really should have said something, except I am pretty sure she has blocked out the first 16 years of all her children’s lives.

            
 It is called “Lactation Paralysis”.

             
At first I didn’t notice it because I didn’t have the energy to do anything but sit on the couch/bed and wonder how I was still alive after pushing a human out of me and then sleeping 4 non-consecutive hours a day for two weeks. But as my energy began to return, I became aware of thing around me. 

Things like the dirty diapers under the couch keeping company with a petrified apple core. And the soda bottle on the bookshelf. And the books on the floor next to the laundry basket full of clothes that may or may not be clean. And the family of empty toilet paper rolls that had moved in under the bathroom sink. None of these things would be hard to fix. 15 minutes of cleaning tops. Easy. Right?

            
This is when I notice that I CAN’T MOVE. Why? Because there is a tiny human being attached to my breast for a half an hour, every two hours, all day long.  So I stare at the apple core, the fine layer of cereal crumbs on the floor, the coat that has fallen off it’s hook, the toys and cds that are having a mixer under my dining room table, and panic begins to bubble. I have to move. I have to clean. I want to clean. I'm a clean person. I can’t live like this. I start to making to-do lists in my head, because I am holding Thing 2 with my right hand, and I can’t write a list with my left hand.

            
 I take deep breaths and force myself to stare out the window and think about green meadows and unicorns and Jedi Masters. I wait for her to go to sleep. Then I attempt to lay her down. Her eyes fly open as if to say, “Psych! Just kidding mom, I was never really sleeping because I have GAS!” 

By the time she has burped my mental list has been transformed into a blazing mental scream of “MUST MOVE! MUST CLEAN! PLEASE GOD LET ME CLEEEAAANNN!” And then another adult enters the room, and casually tosses something where it DOESN’T belong, and I turn into a psychotic weeping bundle of paralyzed nerves.

            
The good news is that lactation paralysis doesn’t last forever. My mind can’t maintain that level of stress for long, so I slowly stop caring about anything while nursing except that I am actually keeping her alive and that is probably more important than dusted bookshelves.  As she gets older, the paralysis begins to recede, and I discover I am able to do things with one hand. 

Like anyone recovering from a serious illness, progress is slow. Most of this post, for example, was written after Thing 1 decided it was a good idea to break out the xylophone while Thing 2 was trying to sleep. Which means my right side has been lactation paralyzed while I laboriously typed one handed with my left. For someone who can type 70 words a minute with two hands, it has been a special kind of torture. BUT I DID IT, GOD DAMN IT! Because I refuse to be a victim. I conquered lactation paralysis once before, and by golly, I can do it again.

Zombie Children

   I once believed I would never let my children watch television until they were, say, 12 or so. Then I was stuck at home with a new baby for three months in the dead of a Minnesota winter and figured she didn’t even know what was going on yet, so it didn’t count. I stumbled onto a cartoon network,  and I noticed  my colicky-baby-from-hell-Thing 1 was alarmingly NOT screaming, but staring zombie-like at the screen. At that moment I decided I would rather have zombie children than, say, werewolf-banshee children. And here we are.

            
The day now begins with  “JUICE TIME!”, followed by “Watch’a Show! Watch’a Show! Mommy, Watch’a Show!”, at which point I sleepily ask, “What do you say?” in a vain attempt to redeem my parenting.  

Thing 1 then turns long suffering eyes on me as if perhaps my hearing is already going and yells, “WATCH’A SHOW!!!” 

This is when I break out my best mom voice, “How can you ask nicely?”  

Comprehension: oh, right, that trick; “Please,” with an angelic face and a sign language gesture to sweeten the deal.  Sigh. 

This morning was Back Pack Jack from the library (I do not recommend.) all about trucks, recycling, garbage removal, etc.  Unfortunately, the only 10 minutes she likes is when they crush cars. Naturally. As I stumble around (with Thing Two wailing on my shoulder because the lactose gas in her stomach is obviously trying to murder her), attempting to use the bathroom and check my email, every 10 minutes there is a heart wrenching cry from the living room, “Smoosha da cars? Smoosha da cars. Skip to Smoosha the cars?! PLEASE! SMOOSHA DA CARS?!” By now she has found me and is staring at me with intense desperate eyes. Must. Smoosh. A. Da. Cars. Here is where I really fail as a parent. Instead of teaching my child that she needs to watch the show until the end or find something else to do, I push the damn skip button right back to that smooshing car machine and buy myself another 10 minutes. 

            
As I finally get a clean shirt over my head and am looking for some pants, Thing One finishes her juice, and begins hyperventilating and running in circles yelling, “More Juice! More Juice. More Juice? MORE JUICE! GIVE ME JUICE OR GIVE ME DEATH!!!!!" I am heading for the fridge when Thing Two expertly turns her head and vomits down my clean cleavage, and I contemplate faking a nervous break down so I can go somewhere quiet. 

The Things That Start My Day...

This is a typical morning at our house. Thing 2 starts having incredibly loud, grunt inducing gas about an hour before any living thing should be awake (5:00 am).  Thing 1 leaps onto the middle of the bed and start spinning in circles like a hyper house cat. At her arrival Thing 2’s eyes pop open and her face crumples into the beginnings of “I don’t know what the hell just happened but I am damn sure not happy about it” screaming mode, so I scoop her up in a vain attempt to get her back to sleep.

Upon seeing Thing 2 nursing, Thing 1 begins to dance and chant gleefully at the top of her lungs, “Nurse on Booby! Nurse on Booby! Baby Mia! Nurse on Booby! Touch’a Baby? Touch’a Babies EYES? Touch’a Booby? Please? PLEASE TOUCH’A DA BOOBY!” At which point I inform her that she cannot, in fact, touch my booby, all the while shielding Thing 2 from her sister’s well intentioned but possibly fatal advances. At my denial, Thing 1’s lower lip begins a truly impressive quiver and huge tears well up in a precursor to full out hysterics. This is when I stumble to the kitchen for the life-saving-first-sippy-cup-of-apple-juice-in-the-morning and drops it in front of Thing 1. She shrieks “JUICE TIME!!”, pounces on it like a giddy pyro who has been handed a fire cracker, and catapults off the bed.

Obviously feeling left out of the action, Thing 2 has an explosive case of diarrhea. I fantasizing about staying in bed - while searching for the new diapers under the clean laundry piled next to the bed and trying to untangle my feet from the three baby blankets that have somehow come to life and attacked - but deep down I  know, once Thing 1 has awoken Thing 2, there is no more sleep for mommy. Not until that magical day when Thing 2 no longer wants to “nurse on booby”  and Thing 1 can get her own damn juice. Oh magical day. You are my own personal unicorn.