It's been real...

.... and it's been fun.

And now, I'm taking this insanity over to wordpress. Please come join me at Housewife(ish) -- I promise to provide the same irregularly scheduled programming. 

Camping and Insanity...

I'm in the middle of a million projects. I started writing an "ode to mothers" post… On. Mothers'. Day. and I haven't finished it (which might actually be fitting). I have bathrooms that need to be cleaned. Piles of preschool projects that needed to be sorted and -- gasp! -- purged. Newborn clothes that need to be boxed up to make room for our little slugger's 3 month wardrobe.

Mostly, though? The laundry. We went camping over the weekend and virtually every piece of fabric we own smells like campfire. Does it matter that it was chilly, which means that we all wore the same 3 articles of clothing the whole weekend? No. Does it matter if the clothes were touched by campfire-scented hands? No. Does it matter if it even went to the lake with us? Absolutely not. I have clothes in the back of my drawer that I haven't worn in 3 1/2 years (which just so happens to be around the time I had to move into maternity clothes with J. Damn you, birthing hips.) that I might wash… just to be safe.

But, as I recuperate from the beautiful chaos that was the 3 days of prep and 3 days of camping, and find myself knee-deep in what is sure to be 3 days of clean-up, I thought maybe some camping story background would be appropriate therapy.

When we were first married, we lived in Western Washington (state, guys, not D.C.), and I pretended to be adventurous. One October (roughly 6 months into wedded bliss), K got the hair brained idea that we should go camping. Not the KOA "Kamping," mind you, which had been the vast majority of my camping experience until that point (what can I say? My mom has a penchant for running water and heated showers… a trait that she passed right on down to me.). Oh, no. He wanted to go the pack-in-pack-out camping where the "facilities" are a glorified outhouse and there aren't "camping spots" as much as "find a kind of flat place to set up your tent and hope it's not in a flood zone." The lovely part of living in Western Washington is there's tons of beautiful rainforest. The crappy part about rain forests, though, is it rains kind of a lot. Especially in October (this is what we call foreshadowing). Against my better judgment, I agreed, which was just as surprising to me as it was to K.

(P.S. - I've never seen this movie, so don't judge me if it sucks.)

K found some lake that was a 3 mile "hike" in, and a few days later, we packed up our gear and set out on a grand adventure. Except, it was raining… it rained the whole 1 1/2 hour drive to the trail, but we were being adventurous. Plus, how long could the rain last, really?? (Spoiler alert: a really damn long time. That's why the call it a bloody rain forest.) So we busted out the ponchos and set off into the pouring rain.

Regarding the rain: this wasn't the Seattle Drizzle, where you don't really need an umbrella, just a lack of concern for your uncontrollably frizzy hair. I was wearing a ball cap under my poncho, and it rained so hard that it turned into an excellent textbook example of the wicking effect: the water soaked the cap, gradually made its way back so that the entire hat was dripping wet, then soaked my hair, which in turn started dripping down the back of my fleece. 

After about 2 1/2 miles of this deluge, I started asking if we were getting close. K kept telling me that it was just around the next corner, which was a lie. Only 6 months into our marriage and he was already lying to me. This wasn't a good start. About 2 3/4 miles in, I started to cry, I think. I know that my face did that "sonofabitch I'm experiencing unpleasant emotions" thing, but there was just so much water that it all intermingled and I couldn't tell. 

We finally reached the campsite, and K set up the tent, engineered a little shelter with a poncho and some string, and dug out the camp stove and tuna helper, while I went to the "bathroom." Like I said earlier, it was a glorified outhouse. The stench was incredible, and I found myself sobbing and trying to decide which was worse, being in the monsoon or enduring the fetor that comes with years of use. I finally braved the conditions once again to return to our "camp site," and start preparing our gourmet dinner. Except, the only spoon we had was plastic. I kept trying to stir in the tuna, only to have it immediately become bent to the point of ineffective. And then, I sloshed half of it on the ground. Did I mention that this was bear country??

K returned from his surprisingly unsuccessful attempt at starting a fire, and noticed that the poncho-turned-canopy was sagging from the accumulated water. Without considering the shape or construction of typical ponchos, he stood directly under the center and pushed, which dumped about 17 gallons of water directly on his head. At that point, we decided to take the crappiest tuna helper ever made (which, let's face it, is saying something) and head into the tent, where at least we'd be dry. 

Following best camping-in-the-rain practice, we had set up the gear that needed to be dry by morning in our tent, which meant that there really wasn't room for us. But, we busted out the wine and Dove chocolates and tried to be less than completely miserable.

(In case anyone was wondering, this was not a scene from our trip. Mostly because I didn't have pearls on. Kidding… it was because we were miserable and not in a Nicholas Sparks book/movie.)

A little while later, I felt some water on my face. I wasn't sure if it was a drip or just my nerves recreating the trauma of the previous 4 hours until I felt several more in quick succession. Then, I thought maybe there was a leak in the tent. But, after being assured by my outdoorsman/husband that it was actually a high quality tent that had no potential for leaking, I realized that we had successfully, though unintentionally, performed science experiment #2: creating rain. Apparently, as we had warmed up the air in the tent, the condensation had accumulated at the ceiling of the tent, until it started dripping. And voila! Rain. 

And that was the moment. I turned to K in the tent-rain, at 2 am, in the pitch black, 3 miles away from our car, and said, "You need to get me out of here. Now."

We hiked/slid back down to the car, all while making conversation in loud voices so as to avoid being mauled (I did mention that this was bear country, right??). It was still pouring. I dug out a bunch of clothes that never made it to the Goodwill drop-off, and we drove the couple hours back to the warmth of our condo. 

Among the things that were ruined that day: a $200 point-and-shoot camera and my desire to ever go camping ever again. 

That is, until a few weeks ago when K convinced me that we should rent a pop-up tent trailer and take our 2 kids out into the wilderness. That story to follow. 

Continually Increasing Chaos...

Now that we're officially a family of four humans (those few years with two "fur babies" [holy mother of pearl, how I hate that phrase!] don't count), I sometimes reflect on past stages of then-overwhelming moments, and how those activities are still overwhelming, but on a much different plane.

Parenthetically, there are things that are overwhelming even in retrospect, like the time that The Herpes Cat died in my bathroom (true story). But, that's one for another post (unless I already wrote about it...? What can I say, I'm currently a little overwhelmed by this stage in life).

Some examples of how the overwhelming evolves:

Going outside: When we lived in Italy, I had it in my head that it would be edifying for our cats to explore The Great Outdoors (aka, our patio). However, there were feral farm cats, so to keep them safe, I bought -- and used! -- little harnesses intended for use by the littlest of dogs. Oh, along with dog leashes. (Feel free to roll your eyes. Lord knows I am.) So, on one of the first warm days of spring sunshine, I harnessed up one of the cats (there was hissing involved. The cat wasn't happy either.), made myself a chai tea latte, grabbed a textbook, and opened the doors to go outside. I don't remember the exact details of the next few minutes, but it involved a cat pissed about going outside, me stepping in a puddle from a backed-up drain that I didn't notice, a leash tangled up around my legs, a broken mug, a soggy textbook, and cat prints throughout the house of whatever sort of drain water. Oh, and tears.

Then, we had a baby, who grew into a toddler, who eventually decided he liked playing in the snow. This "playing outside" was a 75 minute evolution, with only 15 of those minutes actually spent outside. There was the finding misplaced snow gear, the "If you don't help Momma put on your [snow pants/boots/coat/hat/mittens/whatever], we can't go outside!!" threats, the putting on the snow gear, and the 7 minutes of re-convincing the toddler that he wanted to go outside. Then, if we were lucky, he'd be entertained for 10-15 minutes before wanting to go back inside for hot chocolate. This started out as a fun treat, towards the beginning of the winter when I was all gung-ho about "making memories." Dumb. What it turned into was 30-40 minutes of mixing hot chocolate mix into a sippy cup ("No! Jack stir!"), explaining 17 times that we were all out of cool whip, adding sprinkles ("No! Jack pour sprinkles!"), spilled hot chocolate, and cleaning up the hot chocolate ("No! Jack wipe-wipe-wipe!"). It was exhausting, and every time someone said anything about going outside, I started hyperventilating -- did Jack hear that word? Was he going to demand (and then un-demand, and then re-demand, etc...) to go outside? Would it be any easier today than it had been for the past month? Spoiler alert, the answers are yes, yes, and no, respectively.

Now, I look back fondly at those snow days (which, living in New England, were really only a couple weeks ago). Much of that routine is still the same, although now that it's a balmy 40* out, there isn't quite the level of gear necessary. Lately, though, there has been the addition of a newly-postpartum momma and a newborn. For example, a couple weeks ago we decided to go for a family walk. We found Jack's monkey "backpack" (read: leash) and put on jackets, only to realize that the baby needed to eat (what can I say? cluster feeding is a bitch). 30 minutes later, we started the process all over, then tried to put the baby in the carrier. It's not really that hard, and she likes it, but it takes a few times to get used to putting it on and plopping her in, and then it takes her a few minutes of bouncing and shushing to calm her back down. Finally, we got outside. It was waaaay colder than I was dressed for. And, of course, being newly post-partum, it was an emotional crisis. We weren't even a block down the road when I asked K for the keys and walked back home. Of course, Jack was crying that I wasn't going to continue on the walk, and I was near-sobbing over ruining a family moment, and internally yelling at myself for not being able to cope with crap (which obviously made sense, since it had been a whole 12 days since pushing a human out of my body). Not gonna lie, that moment is still a little overwhelming to me.

Blog Posts: I started this blog when Jack was only a few months old. It would take me a whole hour to sit, write, proofread, and click "post." But, (as evident by the few posts from that time period) I was hard-pressed to find even that much down time. The thought of putting the baby down for a nap was traumatizing enough -- putting him down for my own selfish project seemed like an action worthy of a call to CPS. Then, I had a toddler. He napped (in his crib!) for a couple hours a day, but I used that time to do things like play games on my phone or mindlessly watch NCIS. When I did sit down to write, he would inevitably wake up and demand my full attention. It took me several sittings to write even one short post. Now: well, let's just say I wrote out a few notes in between feedings and filling sippy cups, and those notes have been sitting in my overpriced, under-utilized planner for about a week. Oh, and I'm also on my 3rd sitting.

Traveling: Jack was around 7 months old the first time I flew with him. And I was terrified. There were lists for each carry on. I bought "necessities" on Amazon and had them sent straight to each set of grandparents' houses. I assembled several "blowout kits," which consisted of wipes, a diaper, a clean sleeper for Jack, and a clean shirt for me -- all in a handy-dandy gallon Ziploc bag. (OK, not gonna lie - that trick was actually brilliant, even if slightly Doomsday-Prepper-ish) I spent hours worrying that he wouldn't sleep, or that people would be mean, or that I would forget how to collapse the stroller and be "that parent" who holds up the line at security for 14 minutes (which actually ended up happening). But, each successive time flying on my own with him, I've longed for those early flights, when he slept the whole way in my arms, didn't demand to share my $12 fruit and cheese plate, and was un-intimidating enough for strangers to offer to hold him while I peed. Now?? There's no way in hell I'll be flying with both kids by myself. In fact, we're planning on flying home within the next few months, and I've wondered if Ken would be willing to fly with the kids by himself and I'd go on a different flight. Ahhh.... that sounds dreamy.

Lastly, Date Night: Before we had kids, dates were kind of the norm. I mean, what do you call it when you can just leave and go out to dinner on a random Tuesday? Isn't that a date? Is it only a date if you go to a nice enough restaurant? Spend over a certain amount of money? Have to make a reservation? Still, we would plan "date nights," which were legitimate events for us. Sometimes, even those date nights required prep. "Ugh," I would think, "I only have an hour to shower, apply makeup, and blow dry my hair.... and what am I going to wear??" After kid number one, things got a little more complicated: I needed a few days' notice to book the sitter. I'd only have 35 minutes to get ready (hello, wet hair thrown into a ponytail!). I'd have to pull an easy meal out of the cupboard/fridge for the babysitter to make. There were details to take care of. Now, it's a whole other level of crazy, mostly because 1) baby girl cluster feeds in the evening, and turns out I'm the sucker that feeds her constantly (no pun intended); 2) I'm so exhausted that I can barely keep my eyes open for an episode of Castle at the end of the day; and 3) I'm not really ready to leave her with anyone yet. (Do candle-lit restaurants have room for a stroller in the dining room?? What about changing tables?? Are people going to judge me for throwing back gin & tonics while nursing the baby??)

So, maybe it's natural for life to just keep getting crazier and crazier, with or without kid(s). Maybe we just take on more stuff until we're overwhelmed with whatever our life looks like? (P.S., I didn't even touch housework, meals/eating, shopping, or just leaving the house.... 'cause baby girl needs to eat, and ain't nobody got time for that.)

But, whatever the "normal" reason for people's increasing chaos, here's ours:

Miss Clara Anne

(photo by Chelsea Ahl)

Also, I'm thinking I should start working from home, ASAP. That seems completely reasonable, right??

The Quest for Control

Maybe it's the pregnancy; maybe it's some sort of epiphany about what functional adults do; maybe it's the look that K gives me when he tells me he's out of black uniform socks, so could I please do a load of darks, and I say, "don't you wear tall boots?? Can't you just wear argyle ones? or ankle ones?" Whatever the reason, I've been on a kick recently to try to keep up with crap around here -- you know, stupid, normal things like cleaning the bathrooms before they look like our family is trapped in a game of Jumanji or occasionally being able to see the bottom of a laundry basket (this shouldn't be unreasonable -- we have approximately 7 of them). So, I made schedules: outlined routines that I should be able to accomplish each(ish) morning and evening, larger tasks to do during nap time, and -- gasp -- started meal planning.

In conjunction with this, I've also put J on more defined schedule. We also recently moved him into a big-boy bed. It's been, um, a process. He was doing fine for the first few nights, and then he started doing things like squeezing all the A&D out of a full tube and rubbing it into his sheets in the middle of the night. A few nights last week were especially bad. He went from sleeping 12-14 hours at night with a 2+ hour afternoon nap (please, other parents, don't hate me…) to only sleeping 5-6 hours at night, with a significant amount of those curled up with a blankie and pillow next to the door, and maybe 45 minutes of a nap. In fact, I came up with a couple new mantras. Wednesday's was, "he's not purposely conspiring to break my spirit." Thursday's was, "well… maybe he is." In my desperation for sleep, I thought back to all those times that I had judged parents whose kids don't sleep, and realized that 1) I was a jerk; and 2) if it's going to take him 2 hours to fall asleep, we're gonna start that process a lot earlier.

Armed with a newfound zealousness and a healthy dose of pregnancy hormones, I set out to control some shit. I bought an overpriced planner, complete with overpriced custom inserts from etsy (that are actually fantastic -- they're printed on 30# paper, and sometimes I find myself stroking them for comfort. I acknowledge that that's disturbing and something that normal adults don't do). I created a checklist for each day's routines and actually checked them off.  I started breaking my cardinal rule of "never wake a sleeping baby child," in favor of actually sleeping at night. And, surprise of all surprises, it actually started making a difference. There were a couple of days that I didn't do my daily load of laundry because (phone the press!) there wasn't enough of any pile for a full load. The bed has been made every morning (yes - the one that we sleep in every night). We weren't ordering pizza at the last minute because I forgot to get groceries/take chicken out of the freezer/cried every time I saw the pile of dishes in the kitchen.

Which leads me to last night. Night before last, it snowed several inches, which basically means that I don't leave the house barring a large fire or a craving for a peppermint mocha. Like my schedule said, I got up before J, unloaded the dishwasher, started some laundry, had breakfast, ordered groceries online (that my amazing husband volunteered to pick up on his way home), and made some phone calls. Then, I got J up, and we spent the morning playing on the floor (let's not talk about the time or 7 I got stuck and he had to help "puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuull" me up. Thanks, toddler.), snuggling on the couch watching Curious George, dropping golf balls in the demijohns, and watching the snow fall. Then, during his nap time, I prepped dinner, cleaned the bathroom, did some work on the computer, and checked off boxes in my planner. I was caught up. It was amazing.

Then, I got J up from his nap. Keep in mind -- up to this point, all of the boxes were checked. I was doing it. Accomplishing things. Regaining control. Being a functional adult. Hell, I'd even changed my son out of his footie pajamas. Things were happening around here.

Then a few things happened over the course of about 30 minutes: as I was pulling things out of the fridge to start dinner, I got a phone call from K saying that my perfectly timed dinner was going to have to be pushed back a few minutes; he was running late. I had J help me measure/pour the rice into the pot (since it'll just be a little mess, and it's good for him to help, right??), and we scooped a massive bloody stink bug out of the damn bag of rice, which proceeded to fly straight into the light fixture and make loud cracking noises every time that winged spawn of Satan (name that movie) smacked into one of the bulbs. I immediately picked up J, went into the next room, and called K on the verge of hysteria: "there was a bug, and you're gonna have to buy rice, and also do you think they sell flame throwers at the grocery store, because I will not be entering the kitchen until it is completely gutted and remodeled." While I was hyperventilating, J returned to the kitchen because he apparently wasn't finished helping. He grabbed the disease-riddled bag of rice and attempted to dump it into the pan, but ended up with 90% of it on the floor. I frantically hung up on K, whisked J away from rice that would most certainly give him Ebola, endured panicked toddler pleas of "moooooooo riiiice?!!" and started the roomba. Apparently, though, no matter how desperate the situation, roombas don't do well with mountains of rice. She mostly flung it across the kitchen, and kept escaping to the dining room despite being on spot clean mode ("Quit going in there!! I told you to stay by the table until it was clean, you overpriced piece of junk!!"). It was at this point that K walked in and I saw with fresh eyes the utter shit show that was our life: a toddler throwing a fit over not being able to push the roomba buttons, grains of rice blanketing the floor, a roomba freaking out about being stuck under the wine rack, a massive insect whacking repeatedly into light bulbs, and a frazzled wife muttering something about "but I checked all the boxes! with color-coded pens!"

Like a knight in shining armor, K immediately swooped in, put J in his room for a few minutes of quiet time, killed the bug, freed the roomba, gushed over how good pre-packaged ravioli sounded for dinner, told me how great the bathroom/straightened up bedroom looked, and poured me a half-glass of wine. He did all this while still wearing his boots, meaning he tracked water all over the house. It's fine, though, because my daily task for today is mopping.

Moral of the story: I've determined over the course of the last 17 hours that there's no such thing as getting a handle on life with kids. Have I mentioned we're having another one?? I might set up a paypal account for people to make donations to my therapy/house cleaner/nanny/pizza-ordering fund.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering… J is back to his normal sleeping self, although we're sticking to the more regimented schedule. K noticed him pulling at his ear a couple days ago, so we've been giving him tylenol before bed and he's out within 15 minutes. Last night we didn't at first, and he didn't fall asleep until about 20 minutes after finally getting "meh-hinnnn" (medicine). Either he's got a lingering earache/infection that is causing no other symptoms or we're raising a kid to be dependent on artificially flavored red syrup. Which reminds me… I need to call his pediatrician and make an appointment, and then write it in color-coded ink in my fancy planner.

Penises and Potty-training...

Fair warning: This is not a "Potty-Train your Toddler in 3 Days! With Pictures!" post. There are enough of those and, personally, I would like to punch those people square in the throat. (Also, I call bullshit that your child was fully, big-kid potty-trained at 17 months, no matter what your oft-pinned blog post says. If your kid can't say, "Excuse me, Momma - would you put down your gin and tonic and help me locate a restroom, please?" and then have the sphincter control to actually hold it until you arrive at the restroom, wait in line, and finally set him/her on the strips of toilet paper you carefully arranged to cover up as much Ebola-covered toilet seat as possible, then, no. Sorry. Not potty-trained.) Instead, this is a from-the-trenches account of lessons learned.

It started off innocently enough. I was blissfully wandering through Target by myself when K called and asked me to buy something normal like razor blades or windshield washer fluid or bananas,  and then threw in, "and maybe a potty seat." Looking back, that moment seems like the first time someone suggested to Oedipus that maybe he should just go see the Oracle: "I mean, what's the worst that could happen? It's not like you're going to end up killing a guy you don't know is your father, marrying your mother, fathering your half-siblings, and then gouging out your own eyeballs in angst… LOL, AMIRITE?!?!"

But, after a little eye-rolling, I decided I could make room for a $6 hunk of plastic among the cartful of my own impulse purchases and tossed the least-ugly seat in.

It was fine for awhile. We decided that we wouldn't do the "potty-training bootcamp" (and by that, I mean that I told K in no uncertain terms that I am pregnant and exhausted and will not be pouring energy I don't have into something that I'm not sure the boy is really ready for anyway. Hello! He still thinks my drink of choice is "teeeeeeea"). So we came up with a little compromise involving lots of talking about the potty, and "trying" to "go" on the potty at certain times (e.g., after diaper changes, before and after nap, etc.), and, naturally, lots of M&Ms.

I quickly learned, however, that potty-training a boy is just code for watching your child play with his penis. On the plus side, it has helped my vocabulary: I used to think that I would only use the proper anatomical terms for my kid(s)'s bits, but somehow "quit playing with your testicles!" sounds really weird. These vocabulary decisions need to be made ahead of time, though, because "quit playing with your balls!" should only be said to a child in a gymnasium regarding basketballs. So far, I've settled on "bottom," with the exception of the phrase, "Stop! Point your penis into the toilet!"

… And this is where we're stalled. He's only interested in the potty for three reasons: 1) stalling before bed/nap; 2) "treeeeeeeeeeat??"; 3) flushing an empty toilet 17 times in a row while Momma cries softly in the corner.

Which brings us to last night, when I came to the conclusion that only the same-sex parent should have to potty-train the child. J had gone back and forth between the potty ("treeeeeeeeeeeat??") and bathtub probably 7 times, each time involving much "I must dry off every single drop off water before I sit on the potty -- No! With the hand towel!" drama, along with many admonitions of, "if you have to go potty, hurry and sit on the potty." I finally thought to ask him if he was "all out" of potty, at which point he knocked on his penis with his knuckles, and leaned over as far as possible as if to listen for urine -- what? Sloshing?? I yelled downstairs to K that our child would be going off to college in diapers and that I, for one, was totally fine with that arrangement. He asked what was going on that was so discouraging for me, and I ended up crying on the stairs with my head in my hands telling him that J was knocking on his penis. To which K replied, "oh -- it must've been because we watched the episode of Curious George about 'tapping' maple trees to get syrup, because George gets confused and thinks that means that you have to knock on them and then it just comes out. Haha - he was trying to 'tap' his bladder." How could I have possibly missed that? Oh, right - probably because nothing involved in my potty training resembled a cedar tree.

So where does that leave us? J's preschool teachers told me last week that he is the only one in the class interested in the bathroom, which can only translate to, "Congratulations! You get to clean up tons of messes!" For now, I'll continue on this Sisyphean task, randomly crying on the stairs, and trying to decode subliminal potty-training messages in every episode of Peg + Cat and Curious George (I'll probably even eye J's nativity scene with suspicion - you never know. Baby Jesus could be in on it.). Or, maybe I'll just start researching slim-fit Depends.

(Also, in case anyone was wondering: Yes, I use allusions to Greek tragedies to make me feel learned, like my entire life doesn't revolve around a 2-year old and his adventures with excrement.)

A Little Update.

Quick update: We moved! We left Hawaii on July 5th, spent a few weeks back and forth between the grandparents', and landed in New York (the state, not the city… damn.) mid-August. New York was kind of a surprise… we found out 2 1/2 weeks before the movers came that our things wouldn't be going to the house we had already rented in Alexandria, VA. I'm thinking of writing another post about that whole mess entitled, "That's Why They're Called 'Orders.'"

(Aloha and Mahalo, #3601 -- It's been real.)

Anyway, surprise number 2… a few days later we found out that I'm "in the family way," as no one says anymore. I'm a bit into the second trimester now and already have noticed quite a few differences between pregnancy #1 and pregnancy #2. And so, without further ado:

1) The Doctor. With J, I went to see the doctor to confirm I was pregnant about 4 minutes after the clinic opened the morning after I saw those two lines on the EPT, and was panicked when they told me that they didn't need to see me until 9-12 weeks. (What?!?! Don't you people know how important consistent pre-natal care is for the health of the baby?!?! How am I supposed to know what I can and can't drink/eat/breathe/watch/wear?!?! You can't tell me that polyester blends don't harm the baby!!) With this little one, the nausea hit, the fatigue hit, the bloating hit (oh, Lord, did the bloating hit), and having a medical professional assess my hCG levels seemed superfluous. I called our insurance company to see where I should go, and found out that since I wasn't in our service area, they wouldn't really cover an appointment, so I thought, "Meh -- I'm sure things are fine. $300 for a doc to tell me what I already know isn't super necessary. I don't need to be seen until the end of the first trimester anyway…"

("Yep! You're knocked up!")

2) The Belly Part I. With J, I was about 20 weeks before my baby-belly could be distinguished from "ugh - I should not have had that third burrito at Taco Bell. Pass the gas-x." This time…. a plumber asked me at the ripe ol' gestational age of 14 weeks how far along I was. Seriously?! Fix the leaky pipe and leave, crazy person. It's comparable to blowing up a balloon for the second time. Basically, it went from conception to, "where are my maternity pants?" Not to mention the belly button. Think of that little plastic guy in the turkey that pops up when it's cooked. And, yes - it is visible through my clothes. Cheers.

3) The Belly II. Along the same lines… the belly thing last time was exhilarating (after the distended bowel look passed, obviously). I was so proud the first time I realized that I couldn't see my toes without bending over, and when I got big enough that strangers knew I was pregnant, it was like Christmas. This time, I feel like a house. I sent a pic to my mom of my belly from my perspective, noting that toes were definitely not visible, and she sent back a very enthusiastic "YAY!!!" and I was like, "ugh. Do you know how difficult it is to be this big?? And I already know I'm going to get bigger!"

(See?? No toes. At 16 weeks.)

4) The Deets. Funny story: I met a gal recently who is pregnant with her first. I asked her how far along she is, and she replied, without the slightest hesitation, "22 weeks on Thursday." A few minutes later, she asked me the same thing, and I couldn't remember. "Uh… 16? Maybe 17? Definitely second trimester... Let me check my app…." People that know me well might say, "yeah - but she can't keep track of anything anyway." But, with J, I absolutely did. I knew exactly how many days/weeks I was - for the whole 39 weeks. I knew which things were developing which week, was giddy when I found out he was growing that fuzzy stuff (which I definitely knew the name of -- lunago? Spell check seems to think that's incorrect), and almost cried when he started blinking his eyes. This time, I'm lost. I know I'm pregnant. I know when I'm due. I know that the nausea and fatigue are making way for the hippo-like appetite and fatigue. Beyond that…. did you know that The Bump has an app that tracks it??

5) The Fatigue. This time, I have a toddler to chase. Last time, I curled up on the couch in K's sweats and watched NCIS for 9 months. I basically "cooked" from the freezer and pre-made sections at Costco. This time, I have to make sure my toddler isn't doing things like grabbing a dirty mixing spoon off the counter and using it to stir the tupperware full of flour (true story).  I have to actually cook decent meals. I can't watch crime shows all day, due to the paralyzing fear that my child would grow up to be a psychopath. He needs things during the day: new diapers, food, milk, attention, etc. Tack on the mommy guilt from a fatigue-fueled lack of patience and the number of times I just fork over the popsicles (they're fruit based!!), and I basically spend all day thinking about how soon is too soon to change out of my maternity yoga pants, and back into those heavenly Navy PT sweats.

(Yes. Those are brand new bottles of acrylic paint… And, yes, we did have to replace the carpet.)

The biggest difference, though, is the huge difference in the intensity of emotion. With J, sure, I was excited to meet the little and nervous that I'd never sleep again. With this one… I almost know what I'm getting into -- which is at the same time even more terrifying (ugh - nursing pads. 3 am feedings. baby brain. blowouts. eau d'spit up.), and makes me even giddier (first giggles! baby smell! watching a personality develop!).

(We get to do this all over?? Yay!)

(tl;dr: Mostly, I'm a huge slacker and, if the pregnancy so far is indicative of the way that we parent this little, [s]he's basically screwed. Oh, and required mushy "thankfulness" crap.)

(edit to clarify: I'm partway into the second trimester, not semester. At least I didn't go all Legally Blonde, winter "ovester," amirite??)

Is That a Black Eye?

I woke up this morning, rubbed my eyes, and immediately noticed that my left eye must have experienced a blow strong enough to create a massive contusion. I fell out of bed, found a mirror, and started going down the "is that a black eye" checklist.

I know what you're thinking: if I have to ask if it's a black eye, I suck -- or at least my "black eye" is wimpy and not even worth mentioning. Anyway... back to the checklist:

1) Is my eye red/bruised? Unfortunately, this one is a no-go. Since I had not piled on the under-eye concealer that normally hides the day-to-day exhaustion of chasing a toddler, both eyes could have been legit shiners and no one would know.

2) Is my eye puffy? Again, a no-starter... for the same reasons, except that concealer does nothing to hide the puffiness. Damn.

At this point, I would like to officially apologize to the string of guests we have coming over the holidays (who I am *thrilled* to see and spend time with!). If on a normal morning, I look like I may or may not have been beaten about the face, I would imagine that you might be a little alarmed. For those who might say, "what about your husband? Why are you apologizing to guests and not the most important person in your life who 'gets' to see you every morning pre-makeup?" My answer: Shut your face. He saw me pre-makeup before we got married, which means he knew what he was getting himself into. Also, he's smart enough to know that this could only be amplified by chasing around the fruit of his loins 24/7. In conclusion, shut your face. Anyway... back to the checklist:

3) Does it remind me of times previous that I got a black eye? Well. I think the last time I even got a black eye was when I was little (4-ish?) and didn't understand that when you pitch a ball to another kid who happens to be holding a bat, you need to stand back because that bat swings toward you at a decent speed and it hurts really bleeping bad to get hit in the eye socket with the business end of a bat. Basically, I don't remember what it feels like to have a black eye... other than the pity. I kind of remember the pity. (Although, now all I get for my pain and suffering on that day is mockery. Many thanks to my father, who says he loves me.)

4) Did I get punched/assaulted? The sad answer is, probably. Unfortunately, my child really likes to be held, really likes to hold toys, and really likes to shake those toys as hard as possible. Those three things are the perfect storm of "Damn! My (eye/jaw/ear/nose/etc.)!" Also, my husband occasionally elbows me in my (and his, just to be clear) sleep, but I sleep hard enough that I don't always remember. So, this one is a toss-up.

5) Would a waitress at a crappy diner come up to me and say, "Oh, God - what happened to your face??" I don't know. I haven't dined at a crappy diner (see what I did there?) for awhile - probably the last time I was reeeeeally hung over. However, the pain is localized enough for me to say, "not here, or here so much, but right about here," a la Tommy Boy.

In conclusion: Apparently my life is a little rough and I'm going to have to suspend the verdict until it becomes a little more obvious. My new action plan: find some overpriced beauty product to make me look less like a mugging victim; quit letting my child hold hard plastic toys while I hold him; go get some greasy food at a diner; and, my favorite of all, watch Tommy Boy, while texting my brother all the funny quotes (which means the whole bloody movie). Join me, blogosphere in making our lives a little happier and less cringe-inducing.

Oh, This Navy Life.

It seems like a girl cannot turn around without seeing another Navy wife blog entry. They're often wonderful - I have such love for my ladies in the "trenches" - and so many of them are well-written, poignant, hilarious, and, often times, way too accurate. They're encouraging, relatable, and written by people I know and love, even if I've never actually met them.

Some of them are just funny: can I whip up a meal for 15 hungry single sailors with 12 minutes notice? Uh, no, but I can find a take-out menu with lightening speed. Do I know the correct order of my husbands medals/ribbons? Uh, no - I can't even iron his uniforms without marring them with the dreaded "railroad tracks." Can I name every admiral in the history of the Silent Service? Not so much. I can never decide if they're meant to be tongue in cheek, or if I am woefully inadequate compared to the (hopefully mythical) Navy Superwives.

Oh, geez....

Sometimes, though, they're just whiney. Maybe I'm getting all "salty" after a whole 6 1/2 years of Navy life. Maybe it's the job that the husband currently has. Maybe I'm cold, jaded, and heartless. But, nevertheless, I get tired of the entries that scream "woe is me." It's a hard life, sure, with sacrifices that stretch your marriage, your resolve, your independence, your faith in yourself/humanity. But, you know what? It's a good life.

I could make a huge list of things that I love about my/our life in the Navy - job security, health benefits, camaraderie, spouse support groups, etc., etc., etc. - but it's so much bigger than the little things.

The other day, we went to a presentation by a group of detailers [Navy-speak for the people who tell us where we're going next]. There was some good information - some of it I already knew, but it was a mixed crowd rank-wise, and it's always good to think back on the chaos that we've gone through so far and gloat encourage some of the junior families. My favorite part, though, is coming home, opening my calendar, flipping past our "Prospective Rotation Date," and looking at all the blank days. I don't know where we'll be living next summer. I have no clue who we'll celebrate the Fourth of July with - or if we even know those people now. I don't know what our house will look like, who our neighbors will be, if we'll have a dog, or which coast (or even continent) we'll be on. I don't know if our stuff will fit, or if the husband will have to disassemble our box spring to get it up the stairs and into the master bedroom... again (true story).

These are things I love. I love the thrill, the unknown, the adventure, the chaos, "The Itch," the picking-up-and-packing-out. It's a crazy life, and it's shaped so much of who I am and how our marriage is, that I get a little panicky whenever I think about "getting out." It's hard - there are days I struggle with longing after a life that seems simpler from the outside - but we've made each new house a home, met people that we love, found the grocery stores, and figured out how to thrive. The sacrifices seem rather inconsequential at the end of the day, in the face of the love, new beginnings, laughter, and each little triumph... and aren't those things the important things? the things we should be focusing on?

Home(s)

Yoga, Groupons, and a Lack of Expertise.

A couple of months ago, the husband returned from a 7 1/2 month deployment. Finally. Someday, maybe I'll blog about the emotional roller coaster that is pre-, during-, and post-deployment. I love him, it's amazing to have him home, and - holy mother of pearl - I sometimes want to punchisize his face.

After he got home and we took some leave to visit family,  there were still a couple of weeks before he had to go back to work full time. Supposedly, "stand down" consists of days off, with one of every few days stuck on the boat. I envisioned stay-cations during those in-between days, and sipping mimosas while working on our sunburns at the pool. Alas, not so much. Before I was smacked in the ass** by the reality of 6-8 hour workdays everyday he was "off," I purchased a Groupon for 5 yoga classes at a studio a few blocks away from our house. "Husband will hang out with the baby," I thought. "I'll get Starbucks on the way home," I thought. "I'll fall in love with yoga and be all super-fit," I thought.

One class. I was able to attend one class in 2 weeks.

(3 months later, and I still have only gone to one class. I'm sure that this is half of Groupon's pitch to businesses: "People don't even use their vouchers! They end up paying more per service than a normal customer!")

It was my first time doing yoga. I went to the early morning beginners' course -- really, they should have normal beginners, and then pre-beginners. Let's just say that I won't get any phone calls asking me to be an instructor. Ever. I frequently wish that I would've counted the number of times the instructor said things like, "Left foot. Left foot. Left foot. Your other left foot. Theeeere you go." Thankfully, though, she was pretty patient and provided helpful guidance during the times that I was pretty sure that they were going to kick me out for destroying a millennia-old practice.

After I left, I felt enlightened. I probably had one of those "Touched by an Angel" halos of light around my head as I walked home. It was a little surprising that no one at Starbucks commented on my amazing aura - it must have taken so much self-control on their part. I know that they must've been dying to know my secret to spiritual peace. Also, aside from my newfound wisdom, my birthing hips felt better than they had since before I was pregnant. None of that weird joint popping when I stood up, and my ligaments felt like they were actually doing whatever it is that ligaments are supposed to do. I even had these great thoughts of fitting into pre-pregnancy jeans. (When I tried them on, it was like watching one of those horror movies, except instead of the audience fervently whispering, "don't turn on the light; don't turn on the light!" my imaginary audience said, "don't try on the pants; don't try on the pants!")

For a few days afterward, this whole yoga thing became part of my persona. I wanted to drop obscene amounts of money at Lululemon, even though I had never set foot in the store. I saw people in yoga pants at Target, and would think, "those idiots - they probably don't even do yoga." (Keep in mind that I have several pairs of yoga pants and had only done yoga once. Since there were no costume changes mid-pose, only one of those pairs had been worn as something other than "classy" sweats.) I "set intentions" for my day prior to getting out of bed. It was great. For those few short days, I was no longer I-eat-oreos-instead-of-working-out Jessica, I was one of those people that do yoga. In retrospect, I was much more like Jim Carrey's character in Ace Venture: When Nature Calls - he thinks that spending all that time with the Tibetan monks has enabled him to transcend and leave his earthly concerns behind, but really he's just an asshat with delusions of grandeur.

After I eventually realized the hard truth that it was naive to think that the husband would be around to hang out with the boy while I skipped down the street to yoga class again, I decided that I should get some yoga DVDs so that I could continue down my journey of enlightenment. Before I got locked into one, though, I rented a couple from Amazon to find one that I enjoyed. Let me just say: there are a lot of hippies that do yoga. (Forgive me if you're one of them.) I don't really want to close my eyes and imagine myself floating serenely throughout the galaxy - I want to stretch out my birthing hips and feel pleasantly Gumby-esque. Finally I found one that had both a morning and evening session (routine? sequence? I dunno.)

I waited until naptime, pushed all the furniture out of the living room, and flipped on the TV. I got through the morning section without any notable difficulties and decided that it would be a great idea to tack on the evening section as well. Except, it was a horrible idea. First, there were these poses that reminded me of being in P.E. in elementary school and doing "the bridge." The woman on the video kept saying, "feel the strength in your body. Thank your body for its strength." Meanwhile, my shoulders and knees are shuddering, and I'm cursing at the screen: "WTF?! There isn't any strength in my body! That's why I'm dragging myself through this bloody exercise video! Quit mocking my pain!" But that peppy bitch just kept smiling.

Then, about 4 minutes later, I did something wrong. I still have no clue what it was, but there was none of the "with each breath, feel your body lengthen" crap that this sadistic woman was saying. Instead, it was, "this shouldn't cause compressed vertebrae, should it?!" It was like this scene from The Other Guys.... without the explosion, of course.

I spent the remainder of the video mocking this unnaturally happy woman, crying for the neighbors to bring me an ice pack, and experiencing deep shame over my failure at a beginners' yoga video.

The next few days were less than happy: I lived off of ibuprofen and contemplated purchasing a neck brace. I also rolled up my yoga mat and shoved it to the back of the closet. Oh, and those yoga pants? They're back to being classy sweats.

Morals of the story: 1) "Stand down" is a myth that encourages optimism in spouses who cling naively to the hope that there is some justice in Big Navy. 2) Classes/videos listed as "beginners'" courses are lying. 3) Attending one yoga class does not qualify you to tackle a yoga video unsupervised.

**Just a forewarning: there's some "language" in this post that might not be, um, entertaining for all audiences. I'm married to a sailor, and it's very easy/convenient to blame these rather "colorful" words on him. 

The Most Accurate Picture Ever.

My little man is a handful.

I was recently at the playground with a friend and her 5 week old, and almost started to complain about being tired all the time. You know, 5 minutes after she told me that her sweet girl had slept for a record 5 hours straight. I stopped myself just in time, laughed, and told her that I had no business complaining about being tired to a new mom. Her reply?

"I don't doubt that you're exhausted - He's so busy!"

It's true. We go to the playground and he spends half of the time racing toward the dog park/parking lot/door. There are 3 slides, two tunnels, 2 sets of stairs, sketchy lilly pad stair things (thanks, Big Kids, for the demonstration!), several steering wheels, etc, and I spend most of our time there trying to get him to play with that plethora of objects built just for him.

A few weeks ago, my husband came home from work and the house was a full-blown disaster: laundry in various states of completion spread around the living room (Please, Lord, grant me a legit laundry room in our next home!); groceries only half put away; dishes galore; the crumbs from what appeared to be an entire box of Ritz on the kitchen floor; annnnd the toys. Always the damn toys. Oh, let's not forget that I was completely frazzled and probably in sweats with a glass of wine in my hand. Parenthetically - usually, he calls before coming home, and I use those 20 minutes to make the house as pandemonium-free as I can; I know that walking through the door to a visual to-do list is draining, so I try to reel it in for him. That night, though, he didn't call first. There was no putting the zillions of ziplock baggies back in the drawer or changing into actual pants for the first time all day. Later on that evening, I apologized that he came home to the peak of chaos. His reply? Telling me that I shouldn't ever worry about it and:

"You do way more just chasing around our little guy - He's so busy!"

The verdict is in: he's busy.

(Not quite The Most Accurate picture, but close)

A few days ago, he woke up suddenly in the middle of his nap. Usually, there's some light fussing about an hour in - I'm not positive that he's even awake when this happens - and then he sleeps for another hour or so. This time, though, he was hysterical. I gave him a second to see if it was just a momentary thing, but he only got louder. I went in and picked him up, which usually calms him down immediately, but he was so distraught that it took me several minutes. He clutched onto me long after he stopped crying, occasionally making the post-sob whimper. The whole thing was heartbreaking.... especially because I was a little irked when I opened the door - he was cutting into my quiet time, after all; I hadn't even gotten around to showering yet.

I realized that day that I spend a lot of my days just surviving: trying to keep this busy boy occupied so that I can do luxury things, like wolf down toast without having to share, or pee without seeing little fingers stretching under the door (what does he think is going to happen? That he's going to melt into goo like one of the villains on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, ooze under the door, and then immediately regain his original shape on the other side??). Even trying to do the dishes without a small child shimmying up my leg - naturally, he does this most often when I'm hand-washing the knives - takes a minor miracle. I find myself impatient when he won't entertain himself, or when he continually pushes the buttons on the stereo even though he knows that it's a no-no.

Surviving is a good thing - I did a lot of surviving during the husband's deployment. I survive during colds and teething. There are times for surviving, but I'm not sure it's the way I want to parent. I want to be a place of comfort, a get-on-the-floor-and-wrestle momma, who celebrates little moments and milestones alike, notices silly things, and laughs easily. I'm not saying that I'll never hide on the other side of the kitchen island while I devour some Dove chocolates, or never get a babysitter, or never delay rushing in to scoop the boy up from a nap when he starts fussing after an insufficient 17 minutes; I need those things to be the momma I want to be. But what I am working on is embracing these days: these messy, chaotic, overwhelming, busy, busy days.

With 6 full paragraphs as an intro, here, as promised, is The Most Accurate Picture Ever:

This picture absolutely reflects how our lives are: he moves so quickly that he's blurry in 80% of the pictures we take, the house is littered with toys (thankfully the pile of unfolded laundry on the couch didn't make it into the background), but in the center of it all is a precious moment with a happy boy.

.... And that's all the emotional energy I have for the week. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to eat chocolate and watch some TV before naptime ends. Ci vediamo!

Infants, Deployments, & Blogging.

A couple of months ago, I was back in my hometown and out to lunch with a bunch of family friends when the subject of my blog came up. I got some wonderful compliments from a few of them (the rest suddenly became interested with their cinnamon breadsticks and avoided eye contact, I'm not going to think about what that might mean... I didn't use the f-word, did I?!?), and then asked me why I had quit. Then, a few days ago, I was able to chat with my husband on the phone and he mentioned his (nonjudgmental) surprise that I hadn't posted anything else. Finally, I just logged in and Blogger told me that my last entry was 8 months and 4 days ago. Seriously??

So, I'm using these incidents as motivation - impetuses, if you will, to provide the world with my specific brand of snark/humor/narcissism.

Pre-deployment, my thoughts about blogging when something like this:

I've always had lots of free time when my husband is out to sea - I'll be able to post stuff regularly and it will be so nice to use my brain for things other than keeping track of when I last fed/diapered/bathed my infant!

Obviously, this was foolish. I should have known.


My other thought was that I assumed that deployments/patrols** would be infinitely more difficult with a baby. Taking care of a baby involves, you know, functioning. A mom can't just sit on the couch and watch Hope Floats on repeat, while surrounded by bags of popcorn and empty wine bottles. Pre-baby, I was amazed by the wives with kids, and frequently expressed my awe, saying, "I don't know how you do it! I struggle enough trying to make an emotionally healthy atmosphere for the cat when my husband is gone." Now, I'm not sure how I did it then. Not once in 7+ months have I sobbed in the car while listening to the latest Dierks Bentley cd. I actually make food with a pan fairly frequently. All of that time that I used to spend pouring jealously over my married friends' Facebook pictures of them smiling with their husbands as if mocking my misery is now spent reading and rereading Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See and changing diapers (on a related note - can anyone tell me how many thousands of times I will have to say, "Don't touch - there's poop down there!" before my child stops trying to participate in the changing of the diaper ritual?).

Is there anything that hasn't changed about deployments/patrols?

Yes. Yes, there is.

Parenthetically, yes - there are obviously things that are more difficult about deployments with babies, not the least of which is trying to find a good babysitter. It's hard, too, to think about how much my husband has missed just this last year, and how much he could potentially miss in the future. Plus, being The Person for an infant is a gargantuan and endless task - enjoyable, of course, but exhausting.

All of that leads me back to blogging. The baby is an amazing sleeper. I can put him in his crib and not worry about him for 10-12 hours, which is absolutely lovely. But, these 10-12 hours go by quickly, and are mostly spent trying to emotionally recover from the day's chaos. Here's the bedtime routine: Bath, bottle, book/snuggles, crib, couch, zone out at the tv, realize that 5 hours of NCIS and solitaire have whizzed by, eat a few handfuls of trail mix, bed. (Oh, somewhere in there I should have listed, "spend large sums of money on Amazon.") It used to be that the time I would normally spend making dinner and hanging out with my husband while he was in port became "me" time and I could do productive things with it. This is the time I assumed I would spend blogging or taking classes. Instead, I zone. Aaaaand, that's why it's been 8 months and 4 days.

My current plan that I may/may not have the motivation to implement includes taking my child to the Childhood Development Center for a few hours, while taking myself and my laptop to a cute little beach bar I know that makes killer fries and has several beers on tap. Oh, and I'm going to volunteer, too, maybe. I'm more excited about the beer and blogging.

On a related note, we're almost done with this hellish deployment (assuming the Navy takes pity on us and doesn't extend it again.) It's good, 'cuz Lord knows I miss this man.

(many thanks, again, to our photographer)

**Disclaimer: My husband is Navy. In submarines (literally *in* submarines). His deployments on this boat are typically 6-8 months, whereas our last boat did 3-4 month patrols. All that to say, the sacrifices that I make are different than the spouses of soldiers who are deployed to Iraq/Afghanistan for 12-18+ months, and I hope that none of those spouses will take offense at the use of the word "deployment." Also, since there are only a handful of women in subs, and I haven't met any of those women (or even know if they have spouses), I use the word "wives." My not-so-inner feminist requires me to make this clear.

The ER Visit that Wasn't.

This situation isn't the "spending multiple hours in the ER waiting room" kind of traumatic; it's more the "maybe my child is having a weird allergic reaction to vaccines** and his eye is going to melt out of his skull" kind of traumatic. There's a fair bit of (hopefully funny) background to this story, so hold on.

This happened the day of the boy's 4 month (!!) appointment. Shockingly enough, the husband was able to take an hour and a half off from work to attend this appointment. He never tells me in advance that he'll be able to make it, mostly because that always ends with a "Sorry - things came up and I can't be there. Oh, and it will probably be a late night" phone call. I'm not exactly bitter about this, as he's had this job for about a year and I've mostly gotten used to the insane hours, but I am sad that he can't be as involved as he wants to be.

Here's something that could probably take up an entire blog of its own: the husband and I are both pretty "assertive," opinionated, and like to be in charge. For the husband, this makes him really good at things that are important in his job, like delegating and yelling at people. For me, I think that just makes me overbearing and kind of annoying. But, let's pretend that it's endearing. So, as much as I appreciate when he's around for stuff and as happy as I am for him that he gets to be involved, sometimes it's kind of annoying. (Ugh. I sound so petty and ridiculous.) For instance, the husband has a tendency to take over and answer all the questions about the boy's development and current abilities. The problem with this is 1) as I've mentioned, I like to be in control; but mainly 2) that the husband doesn't spend as much time with the boy and - let's face it - isn't always aware that what he thinks are new skills are actually things he's been doing for 2 weeks. (Okay. This is the part where I'm a little bitter.) So then the appointment takes twice as long because the husband is providing inaccurate answers, which I have to correct clarify. To his credit, this has happened several times in the past year or so, but now I can squeeze his hand or glare at him, depending on the level of inaccuracy, and he smiles sheepishly and from then on defers to me.

So, this particular doctor appointment went the same way - he took over, I glared, he pretended to let me take charge. Don't worry - I'm not planning on bragging about how great the boy is doing, but here:

(Please ignore the spit-up and the messiness)

Then, the doctor talked to us all about starting him on "solids" (i.e. - icky pureed mess that will probably permanently damage the light-beige carpet in our, um, rented apartment) and prescribed the boy some children's tylenol because it was (dramatic pause) vaccine day.

The following is a description of the horror that is infant vaccination. First, after the 2nd month appointment and its correlating vaccines, the parent knows exactly how horrible this is going to be. The wait is agonizing: hearing other small children scream as they receive their shots, knowing that your child is going to be the one enduring pain-of-death (heh.), and trying to bestow the last bit of comfort you can while you await your child's gruesome fate. Then, they call the child's name. It's like some macabre version of "Come on down! You're the next contestant on The Price is Right!" except instead of winning a car or thousands of dollars, you're winning pain for your child. Congrats!! Finally, you're in the room. It's freezing cold, and you have to take the babe's pants off, which starts the discomfort and all you can think of is how this is nothing compared to what suffering he'll endure in just a couple of minutes. 

The husband had never seen the boy very upset until this point. He had seen the "Seriously, guys - I'm getting pretty hungry over here," but not the "Holy S***, woman!! You just dropped an entire soda on me while I was just innocently sitting in my stroller! You are a horrible person!" (True story.) 

Parenthetically, the husband still gets a little nervous from the hunger cry, and says things like "uh, baby-momma? The boy is starting to freak out." And then I say things like, "eh - He's fine. Just bounce him for a minute; I need to go to the bathroom/finish unloading the dishwasher/pour myself a glass of wine."

Since the husband knew that the 2 month vaccinations were so traumatic for me, he said that he would hold the boy when he got the shots. So, I stood myself in a corner like a 3rd grader who had just pulled a classmate's pigtail braids and tried to suppress the dread. 

Parenthetically (again), I try really hard not to "rescue" the boy from his dad when he's crying (the boy, not the dad - heh). Sometimes this takes all of the restraint I can muster (which, let's face it, isn't much), but I think it's really important that the boy turns to the husband for comfort and the husband develops his own skills to comfort the boy. 

However, the second the nurse/tech/corp(wo)man indicated that she was done, I swooped in and confiscated the boy. I didn't even ask the husband if I could have him - I probably would have fought him to the death if he had resisted. Thankfully, he did not resist and the only one who suffered physical pain was the small, helpless infant that had been entrusted to me by God him/herself. 

Next came the pharmacy and associated administering-of-the-tylenol. I will not go into the hot mess that was me trying to shove the massive syringe filled with viscous grape-flavored nastiness down my uncooperative child's throat. (To totally geek out, I felt like I was Harry Potter, forcing Dumbledore to drink all the potion in the stone basin, saying, "Just this last bit - this will help, Professor!") All I will say is that I had to wash both of our outfits more than once before the syrupy grape smell was completely removed and I kept finding spots of gooeyness on the boy for a couple of days - even though I bathe him every night before bed. Gross. 

All afternoon, he was a puddle of grape-scented mess. About 3 hours of fussiness later, I noticed that he had this spot on his eye that looked like someone had recently punched him. It was red and a little puffy. He hadn't been hurt by anything (on his face, at least), and it didn't really seem like an allergic reaction because it wasn't located in a "classic" reaction place and wasn't irritating him. 

It was 6 pm. I talked to my mom/family nurse, and drew a circle around the affected area with eyeliner (yes, eyeliner) to make sure it wasn't spreading. Then, I remembered the agony of the last two ER visits and the overreaction that led to the ER visit before those, and decided to maybe go through some other channels before I committed myself to an evening of tediousness. 

Here are some thoughts on the eyeliner situation. I thought that it would stay for the evening/night (which it did), but I absolutely forgot that it's waterproof. This unfortunately meant that in order to remove it, I had to scrub at it a little with some soap. Surprisingly enough, the boy was not a fan of the scrubbing, so he spent more than one day looking like Petey from Little Rascals:

Moving on. Here's a tip for anyone associated with the Navy who lives in the area, there are after-hours provider hotlines. I called the hotline, explained the entire situation to the gal that answered, and after 3 minutes of explanation she said, "Okay - I'll contact the doctor and tell him that your son is having some concerning symptoms." You know, because that totally summed all of that up. But, almost immediately, I got a call back from a doctor. I cautiously explained the situation in short 10-second bursts, hoping that he would stop me sooner rather than later if he wasn't the person I needed. (Why is it that I always do this backwards? Oh, right - my motto is "when in doubt, be verbose.")

Thankfully, though, he was the right person. He was great: informative without being condescending, assumed that I might just be a responsible parent who is proactive in the health of my child (shocking!), and basically just chatted it over with me. We decided (seriously, though - it was mutual) that it was probably that the boy came in contact with something that would not normally have irritated him, except his immune system was on high-alert from the vaccines. (My bet is his play "gym" that I washed in delicate soap, which - sin of all sins - isn't fragrance-free. There goes Mom-of-the-Year.)

In retrospect, the background was much more interesting than the non-ER portion. But, isn't having an uninteresting night the point of not going to the ER?

**Also, I know that vaccinations and the parenting choices around scheduling them and/or giving them at all is kind of a hot-button topic right now. I respect parents who are proactive and involved in their child's health, and understand that the choices the husband and I make for our family aren't always the same as others'. All that said - if you have a staunch opinion regarding this personal choice that we have made, please find a place to judge us that does not include the comment section of this blog. Gossiping behind our backs is completely encouraged.

The Saturday of a Holiday Weekend.

First off, I really thought that I wouldn't be a nervous parent. My mom's a nurse so, instead of going to the doctor when we were sick, she would say things like, "eh - you're fine. Here's some tylenol." I just assumed that this "eh - I'm sure things are fine" attitude would translate to my own parenting as well. The problem is that 1) that was before I was the primary caretaker for a completely helpless being, 2) I never thought about the fact that I can't judge the seriousness of the situation by having him pinpoint his level of pain on a 1-10 scale, and 3) I have no medical training. Oh, and also, it was kind of a lot of work to get him here, and I don't really want to do that again for awhile.

Apparently, however, I was incorrect. For the first few weeks of his life I was absolutely paranoid that we were doing things horribly wrong, he would be emotionally scarred for life, and we would go broke from all the psychotherapy he needed starting at the ripe old age of 8.

Observe the panic in our faces when the boy fussed.

(also - all credit goes to our lovely photographer)

So, for the first few weeks, his eyes were a little weepy, but I had learned that apparently the weepiness in newborns isn't uncommon (probably the only piece of encouraging news I've ever gotten from webmd). His eyes would get just a little, er, crusty (sorry about that image) after sleeping, but it really wasn't anything substantial.

On the Saturday of a holiday weekend, the boy woke up and the eye thing was nasty. I'm not sure I'll go into any more detail than that because I don't want to alienate the audience (oh, and there are no words). I called every number I could think of - nurse hotlines, urgent care centers, on-call provider hotline, Navy-Marine Relief Society visiting nurse program, etc... I tried and tried to find somewhere other than the ER to take the boy. Did I mention it was the Saturday morning of a holiday weekend?

I've been trying to figure out what holiday weekend this was - searching for the picture I sent to my mom via text, and even looking for the status I'm positive I posted on Facebook - but I can't find it. I think it must have been Memorial Day weekend, so when the boy was all of 9 days old.

Also, at 9 days old, it was molto difficile to get the whole famn-damily out of the door.

(heh... funny story: The first time the 4 of us went out to dinner when my mom came to help with the boy when the husband went back to work, my mom and I spent about 2 hours trying to get out the door - there was the feeding, the packing up, the getting dressed, the feeding again, the re-dressing due to baby puke, more packing up, and then the spectacle of actually loading all of us and the gear into the car. 2 hours. When we finally got in the car, my mom and I started talking about how difficult it is to get out of the house with an infant, to which the husband replied, "what do you mean? It only took us 20 minutes..." Needless to say, he was swiftly corrected by a still-hormonal wife.)

So, when I finally called every number that I could get my hands on, I determined that the only clinic open was the ER on base. Next time, I will remember that the military medical facilities are not the only ones in existence and will save myself heartache and frustration by going to a quick-care, rather than an ER.

When we finally got to the ER, it was packed. I did everything I could think of to find a seat for my un-vaccinated child that was not immediately next to someone who probably had polio or whooping cough or the plague, but the only place that was away from "the infected" was directly under the TV which was tuned to Hawaiian cartoons, and I'm pretty sure the husband would rather contract whooping cough himself than spend hours listening to that mess (based on the previous ER visit).

I think that this particular ER was deceitful, and the administrators had taken psychology classes to learn about the "foot in the door" concept. (This psychobabble is different from the foot in the door situation that would be the impetus of a visit to the ER.) They suck you in by attending to you quickly at first. After 2 hours of waiting after that, one might be tempted to say, "yeah - this isn't worth it," but you can't leave, because you've already checked in. You've already invested. You're on the hook.

As soon as you check in, you are ushered through the magical doors, out of the waiting room, and into the actual unit. I don't know if I just forgot about the whole "triage" thing or if I thought that a nine-day old patient would get head of the line privileges, but I totally expected the doctor to come waltzing in any second to send us on our way less than 20 minutes after checking in. Yeah. That did not so much happen. After a quick triage, we were sent right back out to the waiting room with all of the people who were dying from horrible air-borne diseases.

And that is where we spent the next 4 hours (literally. 4.). The husband was just as infinitely patient during this waiting period as he had been the time before, which means not at all. This time was even more miserable because I didn't have any change in the diaper bag, so I couldn't even send him to go get snacks. Also, it was freezing there. The only ways for me to keep warm were to 1) steal the boy's blankets and 2) "nurse" him, which was less about feeding, and more about snuggling for warmth and keeping the nursing cover draped over us.

A couple of times, though, I was pretty glad that we were forced to wait. One guy came in wearing flip-flops, swim shorts, and had apparently taken his shirt off to wrap it around his hand, which was bleeding through numerous layers of t-shirt. (I'm assuming numerous layers because this guy was not exactly fit - definitely not someone I was hoping to see sans-shirt.) He went back to triage, returned wearing a bandage and a hospital gown over his shorts, and was promptly called back to the "real" ER. So, it was kind of reassuring that the guy who very well might have been bleeding out after holding a firework as it exploded, was a much bigger priority than my infant with the crusty eye.

Across the aisle from us, there was another gal that had an infant who was apparently born on the same day as the boy. In my hyper-hormonal state, I panicked for about 1/3 of a second thinking, "holy crap! maybe our babies were switched at birth like that horrible disney show that I keep hearing about when I'm watching disney movies on TV!" And then it dawned on me that she was hispanic, and it probably would have been noticeable if there had been some mistake.

Anyway. 4 hours later (literally - I know this because the husband kept updating me every 3 minutes about how long it had been), we were taken back past the triage area - yay!! - and into a partitioned room where the boy was examined and the doctor said he had a minor eye infection due to a blocked tear duct, prescribed an antibiotic cream, and finally sent us home after 8 minutes. 4 hours of waiting for 8 minutes of exam. That seems like an efficient ratio.

All-in-all, it was not my favorite way to spend a Saturday morning/afternoon. I have since realized, though, that this was probably not the last time that the boy will need to go to the ER at an incredibly inconvenient time, when the ER is the busiest it gets over the course of an entire year.

Hopefully, though, it will always be on the eye-gunk level, and not on the loosing-appendages level.

The Rash I Thought was Stretch Marks.

Sometime last October-ish, I was on the phone with my mom and noticed that I was scratching the same place on my back quite often. So, I got up off of my usual place on the couch (yes, the fabric does show signs of increased wear) to check it out in the mirror and saw very distinct line-y red spots. And there I stood: a woman in the early stages of pregnancy staring down the first bit of visible damage. I think I might have said a few cuss words to my mother. ("Holy S***!!! Are those stretch marks?? WTF??")

Except... I was only 2-3 months pregnant with the boy, and I had probably lost weight, if anything, since finding out he was on board... not because I was exercising (heh), but because I was no longer consuming what had apparently been a fair bit of calories in liquid form, ifyouknowwhatimean. The point I'm trying to get across here is that it would be extremely unlikely for my skin to show signs of stretching, because there wasn't anything extra for them to stretch over. (ew.) But, pregnancy-related paranoia does not yield to reason.

On a somewhat related note, I have what I consider to be a meaningful and not-regretable tattoo on my back. It's not in the lower back area (I hate the term "tramp stamp," so I will refrain from using it here), but off to the side... more kidney/hip area. Anyway, it's the outline of a praying guy and he sits/kneels right above my pant waistband. Some people have erroneously said that he looks like a frog.... If I were more flexible and/or motivated, I would take a picture and post it, because I obviously cannot describe it.

Anyway, the redness was right above the praying guy. Here's what it reminded me of:

Yes. This is absolutely sacrilegious, but it looked exactly like Pentecostal "tongues of flame" on top of my praying tattoo's head. 

So. Over the next few days, the reddish area just seemed to get bigger. It was also became more and more uncomfortable, pretty much every hour. I had a suspicion that it was an allergic reaction to a prescription that I take, but wasn't quite sure, so I hopped on webmd, since apparently I didn't learn from last time. Well, as if the webmd gods were just waiting for some soul like me in need of fuel for the fire of health-related terror, there is a slideshow with pictures and descriptions of the most common skin issues. I studied each of them, rejoiced that I didn't suffer from "morning" sickness, and eventually came to the conclusion that I had some crazy skin disorder which encompassed the most miserable symptoms of all skin disorders known to humankind. 

I don't really remember the timing of all of this, but we ended up at the ER on the Sunday of a holiday weekend. I have told the husband many times since this several-hour trip that I think that I would rather wait with a toddler in the ER than with him. I mean, yeah - it was pretty horrible that we were in a small room waiting room with about 20 other people (plus their ill children) and were forced to listen to Hawaiian cartoons blaring from the blown-out TV speakers. But, seriously, the last thing that "helps" the time go by is looking at your watch every three seconds and updating your itchy pregnant wife on the number of hours and minutes what you've been waiting there. Also, the 3rd or 4th time he "needed to take a walk" and wanted to know if I had any more change for him to get a snack from the vending machine, I heard my mother's exasperated voice come out of me: "No - I don't have any more change. I already gave you all the change I had." (Thankfully I/she stopped before the normal "go ask your dad" portion.)

Fast forward 3 hours: we were taken back to an area with curtained-off exam areas. The beauty of this setup versus actual rooms is that you can eavesdrop. The down side is that you have no choice but to eavesdrop. For instance, neither the husband nor myself wanted to hear a doctor explain to a grown woman and her father (!!) that she has a particularly feminine-related infection. I have nothing else to say about that situation. I tried to think of something snarky, but even a year later, I have no words. 

Anyway. Finally, the doctor came in, examined my mutant skin disease of death and told me that I actually had shingles. The husband's first response: "hahaha - You mean that disease that old people get??" Needless to say, that was not exactly helpful... especially when my first thought was, "Hey! I wonder if this virus that is currently attacking my body will do any damage to this tiny helpless zygote that I just found out that I'm carrying."

At this point, there was a rather emotionally traumatic scene (unlike the rest of the experience...?) wherein a furious and pregnant me told the husband to go call my mom (a nurse) and he said that he didn't know what I wanted him to tell her and I cried some.

The good part: they have an antiviral that is safe to use during pregnancy and it both stopped the rash from spreading and significantly cut down on recovery time.

The bad part: Seriously? All of it. Aside from postpartum recovery, it was the most miserable I have been for a sustained period. The virus attacks the nerves, not just an area of skin, so it often felt like someone was plucking guitar strings that ran from my hip all the way up my back. Oh, and ice packs and calamine lotion. Oh, and I couldn't hang out with my friends who had pre-chicken-pox-vaccine babies. All in all, a fairly unhappy experience.

Oh. And, two more things to make matters worse: Apparently, if you get shingles once, there's a higher chance that you'll get it again. Second, now Big Pharma is making a shingles vaccine - I've seen the commercials. It's all old people. Damn. The husband was right all along.