Cole had a hell of a time going to sleep last night. I don’t know if he was wound up from a late nap, teething, if the medicine I gave him for a cold was messing with him or if he just wanted to screw with me.  But 90 minutes after I laid him down for the first time, on bedtime attempt #3, I burst through his door, into his room and in a voice just shy of yelling, said, ‘Oh my God, Cole! What the hell?!”

And as I was almostbutnotquite yelling at my baby I realized how terrible it was that I was yelling and I calmed down enough to say ‘What the hell,’ not ‘What the fuck,’ like I was thinking coming up the stairs.

Yesterday was a bad day. I had the mother of all yeast infections, (sorry to any guys or other people who do not want to read about the state of my girly bits, but this is a baby blog, it’s what you get) I spent more than half the day with a migraine and Chessa pooped in the bathtub.

I wanted to be done. I wanted to be watching my sleeping children on the video monitor and sighing about how wonderful and perfect and magical this moment was. I did not actually want to be parenting them, I just wanted to love them from afar. 

I walked him around the room, shushing in his ear, whispering that mommy was here and I loved him and it was time to sleep. He calmed down and so did I. 

And this is where I should write that I realized in that moment that he was only going to be young once and only going to need me this much once and some other crap about it being amazing.

Only it wasn’t. It sucked. I finally sunk in the rocking chair and held him close while he allowed his eyes to close and drift off to sleep.  Then I played on my phone, checking Facebook and Twitter, waiting for him to be sound asleep.  And finally, when I thought I could lay him down without waking him up, I did. 

On the other side of the closed door, I thought “THANK GOD.”  

I know parenting is wonderful. And I know that I’m lucky to have two happy, healthy children (see I can’t even write a ranty post without slapping a disclaimer on it.) But parenting is hard, too. And we should be able to talk about the hard times, even when they are silly, without feeling like we need to weave in some silver lining or a glistening moment of puppies and sunshine revelation.  Sometimes your kid giggles and splashes in the bathtub. Sometimes she poops. 

And when she poops, it sucks. And that’s real.  And that’s life.  And we’re just damn lucky that we get a chance to do it all over the next day. 

Here, read this article that my friend Kristie shared today. It says it so much better than I could say! 

“They talked me out of it,” I said, all rejected-like replaying the conversation for a friend. 

At my 37-week OB appointment, my doctor asked if I was still considering having my tubes tied.  I said I was and Craig joked, “How can you say that when you look at Chessa?” 

Sensing a difference of opinion, Dr. S. asked, “are you sure you don’t want more children?” 

“I’m sure,” I responded.

“Because there are other options.” 

“No, I’m sure I don’t ever want to be pregnant again.”

“How sure?” she challenged.

“90-95%” I said confidently.

“Then I won’t do it.”

Uh… what? Come again. 

The doctor then went on to say that she doesn’t like to see women decide to have their tubes tied while their pregnant.  While the hormones are running wild, while they’re carrying around an extra 30 pounds of boobs and belly, when their back hurts all the livelong day, when they’re exhausted and grumpy.  And she asked if my decision was influenced by the “somewhat complicated”  pregnancy that I had. 

And, it was. When I was told I was going to need to have a c-section, I decided I was done.  Done with doctors.  Done with heartburn.  Done with not being able to see my feet.  Done with sleepless nights.  And not even a little excited about football seasons with multiple children.  Selfishly, I thought while she was already hands deep in my uterus pulling out the baby, she could just tie the tubes as well.

She reminded us again that there were other options – less permanent options until I could say we were 100% sure. 

So, we didn’t sign the consent paperwork and when the nurses asked the day of the c-section if I was getting my tubes tied, I shot a look at my husband and begrudgingly said “no.” 

And then a few hours later, I held my baby, nuzzled his cheeks and breathed in the new baby smell and just like that I was glad I still had the option. 

I honestly can’t see us having more children.  Cole and Chessa are wonderful, but financially, emotionally, physically I think we are done.  I can’t see any rational way that we would bring another life.  But that decision isn’t always rational is it?  There are times when I think about how fleeting these newborn days are and a part of me wants to do it all again. 

Then Chessa has a meltdown and Cole screams because it’s been 45 minutes since I fed him and I decide again that two is enough. 

And now? My six-week OB check up is on Friday and I have to make a decision about birth control.  When I went on the pill after Chessa it did all sorts of crazy things to my body.  Besides, I can barely remember to brush my teeth every day, putting a baby on the line with me remembering to take a pill every single day sounds like a surefire way to be washing newborn onsies again in a year.  I’ve thought about an IUD, but I’ve heard as many bad things as good things.  And while never having sex again doesn’t sound like such a bad thing, I’m pretty sure eventually I’ll change my mind about that.  Maybe. 

So I need options.  Something inexpensive – Our insurance doesn’t cover birth control (don’t get me started).  Something maintenence free.  And something effective with few side effects.  And if it can make my hair full and thick, make my period go away and make me always pleasant and fun to be around that would be super.

Drying her hair, she takes a hard look in the mirror.  Her eyes start with her face.  The eyes looking back at her are tired and weary, and when she smiles there are creases underneath that didn’t used to be there.  “I should really think about putting on makeup even when I’m not leaving the house,” she admonishes herself. 

Her gaze lowers to her chest, covered in a sports bra and she scoffs thinking that the best part about pregnancy, the only physical change she’ll miss, is the rock star boobs it gave her.  She sighs, knowing that those days – and those boobs – are gone. 

The air from the blow dryer burns her scalp as she looks at the belly that still spills a little over the gray waistband of her sweatpants.  The pregnancy line is still there, crooked and dark, winding over the softness of her abdomen.  She thinks about her upcoming post-baby doctor’s appointment and finds herself hoping for the exercise green light.  Wondering where she’ll fit in walks around the neighborhood, jogs on the treadmill, squats or sit ups, she faces the realization that getting her flat tummy back is going to take some time.. and some work. 

As her hair flies around her face and she tries to tame it with the brush, she thinks about going back to work and what she’ll wear.  The thought of putting on pants that don’t have an elastic waistband is a little bothersome and she plots to purchase a few new dresses that might be forgiving. She wonders if the shapewear by Jockey is as effective as Spanx, and if she can have it delivered by morning. 

As she brushes her teeth, her body brushes against the counter and she flinches feeling the incision that was made when her son was born.  She looks at him, a little more than four weeks old, sitting quietly in the bouncy seat just outside the bathroom door and runs her hand over the scar.  She feels the bump just above the incision and the roughness of the scar itself.  She knows that the phyiscal changes are a small part of the changes that came to her life with him. 

She also knows that he doesn’t care if her body is softer than it used to be.  When he curls up against it after midnight feedings it provides him comfort and warmth.  And she knows that the girl sleeping down the hallway doesn’t care about the lines around her eyes, all the toddler notices are that when her mother smiles at her, the eyes sparkle too.  And her husband still kisses her the same way he used to, he still calls her ‘beautiful’ and still doesn’t mind when she falls asleep on the couch at 9:30 , okay 8:30. 

And then she realizes that the post-baby body may never be the same as the pre-baby body, and neither will the post-baby life.  She may push a stroller around the neighborhood instead of running on the treadmill, the tiredness in her eyes may never go away and she’s certainly not giving up Oreos and milk with the toddler.  And somewhere, deep down – below the anxiety of finding a dress for her sister’s wedding, below the dread of summer and swimsuit weather, she makes a little bit of peace with that.

This weekend I decided that people were trying to help me too much. 

I suppose that means I’m either an ungrateful snot or I’m starting to feel better, right? 

I do feel more like myself and human again, for the most part.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to go running any marathons.  Hell, I’m not even sure I’m about to cook dinner.  But I can stand up by myself without wanting to cry, I can shower without needing to sit down because of a burning pain in my stomach and I can chase Chessa around and lift her down from the high chair without cursing the fact that I had a c-section. 

I keep getting the “which is better?” question in regards to vaginal versus c-section delivery.  Apparently having one of each in less than eighteen months makes me an expert.  Answer is:  I don’t know.   There’s no right or wrong way to give birth.  So many people have blogged about this that I won’t attempt it because they’ve all said it better than me (here and here), but let me say this:  You don’t get your mom badge by the way you give birth.  You earn your mom badge and every gray hair, wrinkle and beer that’s cracked after the kids go to bed through the act of being a mother.  Through midnight feedings (breast or bottle), through laps around your house to soothe a colicky or just plain fussy baby, through worry over a 103 fever and through laughter over a toddler negotiating with her Pap Pap for another ride around the yard on the lawn mower, your mom badge has everything to do with being a parent and nothing to do with how your child was brought into the world. 

For me, the disappointment over needing the c-section was never about losing the “birth experience”.  It was about the fear.  The fear of being in surgery, the fear of recovery and the fear that I wouldn’t bond with the baby as quickly as I did with Chessa because I would be in too much pain.  Two of those fears were washed away within a day of Cole’s birth.  Surgery was … OK.  It wasn’t wonderful.  It was bright and sterile and scary, but it didn’t hurt.  I was able to press my lips to Cole’s just born head, but I hated that they took him away before I could hold him or touch him and I hated that they had him for more than two hours before I could see him again. 

The bonding came on day two instead of day one.  The day he was born, it was hard for me to hold him. I was in so much pain from the Pitocin they gave me to cause my uterus to contract and the soreness from the surgery that it hurt to hold him for long periods of time.  By early evening, I just wanted to cry over the emotion and exhaustion of the day, the clenching, cramping feeling in my stomach and the stabbing pain I felt if I tried to shift my weight around in bed.  I sent Cole to the nursery early and was sound asleep by 7:15.  But the next morning, I had caught up with the pain medicine and I was aching to see my boy.  I spent hours cuddling, kissing and breathing in the scent of this wonderful little person.  Bonding. 

The rest of the recovery took longer than I wanted it to.  The OB gave me enough pain pills for a three or four days and I tried to ration them out to make them last longer. I felt fine as long as I was sitting still, but if I tried to shift positions or stand for longer than a few minutes, I got a terrible, burning feeling where my incision was. I had chills and started shaking for a couple of hours one evening.  No other signs pointed to infection, so I toughed it out, took more pain medicine and it got better.  To sit up, I had to have someone pull me or grab onto something and pull against it to make sure I wasn’t using my still-not-healed stomach muscles.  My incision is now starting to itch, I have little to no feeling around my stitches, I’m scared to cough or laugh and I still have a sort of tender feeling above the incision, which I assume is where the cut into my ute was made. 

On the other hand, I know that recovery after a vaginal birth isn’t a piece of cake either.  Not many new moms are singing praises to their lady bits two weeks after delivery either.  With Chessa, I remember it being three or four weeks later and still feeling like someone took a baseball bat to my crotch. 

Moral of the story:  having a baby is damn hard work.  Whether it involves hours of med-free labor or an epidural followed by 20 minutes of pushing and a third degree tear or a scheduled time with your favorite OB and 16 other medical professionals in an operating room, it’s still damn hard.  And it’s followed by the even harder time of sleepless nights, babies that spit up, toddlers that throw tantrum and teenagers who test every limit you set.

Personally, I still wish I hadn’t had a c-section.  But what matters – really the only thing that matters - is that there is a healthy baby boy laying on my lap as I write this.  The rest is irrelevant.

My toddler won’t sleep and my newborn won’t poop. 

Yep, I’m going there.  I’m talking about poop.  Or lack thereof.  My poor little guy went from dirtying a diaper with nearly every bottle to not going at all for more than an entire day.  He grunts and groans like a mad man, pulling his little legs up to his chest, face getting red… and has nothing to show for it, although the gas he passes would make some of Craig’s bachelor friends proud. 

I consulted Google, Twitter, my mom and my mother-in-law looking for any tips or advice to help the little guy go.  I thought about switching formulas, people have suggested moving his legs in a bicycle motion, Karo syrup in his bottle and taking a rectal temperature. I texted my husband about poop – the same guy I try not to pee in front of is now receiving text messages from me about dirty diapers and baby farts.  Sexy right?  (And some people think a baby doesn’t change a marriage – HA. HAHA.  HAHAHAHAHA) 

Sigh.  I never realized how much time a mother spends thinking about the bodily functions of another person. 

All the while, my toddler has decided that bedtime is just a suggestion.  She lets us go through the whole bedtime routine and put her in her crib without barely a protest.  And then?  She plays with her stuffed animals and her soother.  Or she does laps around her crib. Or she talks to herself.  She (usually) doesn’t cry or get upset.  But she plays and hangs out for. An. HOUR.  I’m all for her taking a little time to relax before she settles down to sleep, but an hour?  Really? 

It kills Craig to watch her on the monitor playing by herself in her crib, thinking that we could be using that time to play WITH her instead of letting her in her crib herself.  And I’m sure I’ll feel the same way once I go back to work and my time with her becomes limited again.  We tried pushing bedtime back from 7:30 until 8:00 and instead of her falling asleep at 8:30, she fell asleep at 9:00.  She’s already down to one afternoon nap.  She usually sleeps from about 12:30 until 2:30 or 3:00.  So, what gives? 

There you have it.  My biggest challenges these days, next to what infomercial to watch during 2AM feedings, newborn poop and toddler sleep.  If I can figure this out, maybe I’ll tackle world peace.

So, you think you have a system.  You think you’re so smart and have it all figured out.  You think you’re so lucky to have the quickest morning drop off routine, just waltzing across the yard to your mother-in-law’s house and dropping off the baby who is so happy to see PapPap that she doesn’t care that you’re leaving.  Then you make your easy quick commute to work, not worrying for a second about the baby until 5:00 comes and it’s time to pick her up. 

And then?  Your mother-in-law gets sick and can’t be around the baby for a week.  And it’s football season which means both your husband and your father-in-law are at three-a-day practices. 

So.  You panic. 

And lots of thoughts enter your mind.  You could burn up the rest of your vacation time…  But the meetings and the deadlines are right there on your calendar staring at you.  You think about the daycare that a family member runs…  But, you worry about taking the wee one to an unfamiliar place.  You call your best friend, your mom and your husband.  In that order.  (What? He was at practice.) And play out various scenarios and get advice. 

And then, you breathe. 

Because when you went to talk to your boss, he was super understanding and gave you the ability to work from home so you didn’t have to use up all of your vacation time or drop your kid off at a strange daycare.  And, because your mom talked to your dad and between the two of them and your brother, they can help cover a few days, even though they live an hour away and that means leaving their house damn early.  And, because two wonderful women, with seven kids between them, who are married to friends’ of your husband hear about the pickle you were in and offered to come help.  

And you realize how very lucky you are.  And that, it does indeed, take a village. 

PS.  Let’s all send collective Internet vibes to my mother-in-law that she feels better soon.  I know she misses C and frankly, I NEED HER.

Um…  guys.  This parenting thing gets HARDER as they get older?  Did none of you think to tell me that? 

Oh, no.  You were all “you can do this” when she was itty bitty and had hours every evening where she fussed and cried and I walked miles up and down the halls of my house.  And then, when she wouldn’t nap, you were all supportive saying that she’d get better and I was doing the right thing even if that meant she had to cry or if I had to stand on my head to get her to sleep.   

Stupid supportive internet.  None of you told me to just zip it because in a few months putting her down for a nap would be the easy part of my day. 

That somewhere around nine months old, she’d start moving faster than I could keep up with her and that she’d put her fingers in places (like the door jamb) where I could pinch them.  Or that if I turned my back to her for a second to put my bra away, she would find the foil cap cover thing from the diaper rash cream and put it in her mouth, prompting an early evening call to the pediatrician. 

And you didn’t tell me that the next day, I would dive across the bed, with one pant leg on and one off, and grasp her by the ankle, in just the nick of time, to keep her from nose diving off the other side. 

I was prepared for the meltdowns that would occur when I took away a toy or told her no, but I didn’t know taking the remote could turn my happy, easy-going child into a sobbing heap on the floor.  Or, when she didn’t want to move but I picked her up anyway, she’d learn how to raise her arms and make her body go limp so that she’d all but fall right back to the floor. 

 I think we have officially entered the stage of temper tantrums.  

Send wine. 

And, go ahead, tell me that it will be worse when she’s two, or seven, or thirteen.  I need to be prepared.

I count my blessings every day that I have a child who sleeps through the night.  The sea parted and it first started happening when she was about 10 weeks old.  I would wake up throughout the night and look at the video monitor to make sure she had moved or sneak into her room, lay my hand on her chest and breathe a sigh of relief when it moved up and down. 

Now that her sleeping through the night is almost a given, I check the monitor in the morning and think, “oh, thank you baby girl.” 

But once in a while, my champion sleeper decides that 3:00 or 4:00 is a good time to wake up.  Last night was one of those nights.  And as I rocked her, I thought about how different our middle of the night meetings in her nursery are at nine months compared to nine weeks. 

At nine weeks: 

I would hear the cry, and jump up immediately.  I took a bottle with me to bed every night and stashed formula in the bathroom.  I’d make the bottle in a matter of seconds, rush to her crib and lift her out. After a few quick kisses and a diaper change, I’d feed her.  Often she’d fall back asleep before finishing her bottle. If she didn’t, I’d sing to her until she drifted off again.  Then, I’d lay her back down and head back to bed. The whole process took 15-20 minutes max. 

At (almost) nine months: 

I hear the cry and quickly jump to turn the sound on the monitor down so that it doesn’t wake Craig.  I watch her (seriously, people. Video monitors are the best.thing.ever. EVER.) and many times she goes right back to sleep.  If she seems to be getting more worked up or if her first cry was so loud and so shrill that it caused me to jump out of bed, I go to her room to look for the pacifier.  I think that if I can just pop this back into her mouth, she’ll go right back to sleep. 

That plan almost never works. 

She sees me and cries even louder until I pick her up.  I rock her and rock her.  Whispering that it’s night time and time for sleep.  I think about the sleep that I’m not getting and wonder if the clock said 2:54 or 4:52.  I think about singing her a lullaby, but I can’t remember any of the words.  So I sing the ABC’s and pray that I turned the sound off on the monitor and Craig’s not laying in bed wondering why his wife is singing the ABC’s to his kid. 

After 20 minutes, I think for sure that I can lay her back down.  She may not be asleep, but she’s been very still, her breath very steady.  When I stand up, I feel her little fingers grip my shirt. 

“Shit,” I think.  “This isn’t going to work.”

But I try it anyway.  I lay her down and step away.  She flips over, gets up onto her knees, puts her hands on the rails and screams. 

I am tough.  I walk out. 

And I wait. 

The crying continues and it’s late and dark and I”m not really that tough, so I go back in and get her. 

At this point, I’m desperate and confused.  I wonder if she’s hungry.  I wonder if her teeth hurt.  I wonder if she’s going through a growth spurt. 

I take her downstairs and make her a bottle.  The clock say 3:23.  I do the math and figure out that I can get almost two hours of sleep if I get her back to bed jack-skippy-quick.  Then, since we’re up and wide awake, apparently, I decide to change her diaper. 

Rookie mistake.  She can see the bottle so when I lay her to down to change her, she is PISSED.  I fight her until I get the diaper changed and her pjs zipped.  We head back upstairs and I feed her. 

When the bottle is gone, she starts to squirm in my arms.  I kiss her, tell her goodnight again and tiptoe out of her room.  I close the door and wait for the cries. If she’s stirring, I wait outside her room until she’s still. 

Only when she appears to be asleep, do I crawl back into bed.  The clock says 3:45.  My alarm is set for 5:20.  And I’m wide awake.  Craig is breathing deeply and I sort of want to pinch him. 

I turn the TV on with the hopes that Anderson Cooper will lull me back to sleep.  For the next hour and thirty five minutes I listen to the TV, wondering if BP needs someone new to handle their PR (or, you know, some common sense)  and I drift in and out of sleep wondering if I should just get up and try to get some work done. 

Finally, when the alarm goes off and I drag my ass to the bathroom, I think. “Wow, this was easier seven months ago.”

 - I am trying to crawl my way up the Top Baby Blogs list.  If you can spare a moment, to click here, it would help me immensely and you may find other blogs to add to your list of good reads.  XOXO!

The first Mother’s Day with a baby really gets a girl thinking.  Thinking about all the times I blew off with a quick card for my mother because I didn’t think it was a big deal.  Thinking about the lessons I’ve learned from my mom.  Thinking about the memories and recipes that both of my grandmothers have shared with me. Just thinking. 

Yesterday I found myself in the same position that many mothers do.  Wanting to enjoy the day and just be with my child, but also wanting to celebrate with my family.  So, because really, having someone entertain my child while I cook IS fun and relaxing for me, I hosted brunch for Craig’s parents and dinner for mine. 

There was a plan to eat brunch at 11:30.  The plan included my child napping around 9 so I could shower and get the hashbrown quiche started by 10:30.  Are you laughing yet?  For an hour, as I battled with my daughter to nap, begged, pleaded and swore under my breath, I thought about the contradiction of motherhood. 

Motherhood is rewarding and it is thankless.
Motherhood is instinctive and it is learning.
Motherhood is lonely and it is never being alone. 
Motherhood is raw and it is breathtaking.
Mohterhood is being vulnerable and it is being strong.
Motherhood is heartbreaking and it is uplifting.
Motherhood is having too many pictures and never having enough.

Motherhood is ordinary.  And it is amazing.

These moments, these challenges, these everyday contradictions of being a parent are what make me a mother.  Without the frustration, I wouldn’t feel the love so deeply.  Without the guilt I wouldn’t appreciate the sacrifice.  Without the joy, the tears might just be too much. 

It is the contradictions that keep me grounded.  There is nothing special about these moments, except that they are mine.  They are ours.  They are what make us mother and daughter.  And she is what makes us a family. 

So, on Mother’s Day we still celebrated.  We just celebrated an hour late. 

I should be half ashamed to admit this, but tonight was the first time I’ve worked out since C was born.  Yes, I’ve gone for walks with my daughter, but to be fair, they were more like casual strolls.  I was lucky to lose the baby weight thanks to adjusting to life with a baby and being too busy to eat. 

Now wait.  In case you were starting to think, “shut up, asshole” and close your internet down; don’t.  Just because the number on the scale was the same as before getting knocked up, doesn’t mean my clothes fit right.  I’m not really one to talk much about body image, but let’s just say that one too many times of having to unbutton my pants when I sat down finally motivated me to find time to work out. 

Which I started tonight.  I spent 30 minutes on the treadmill after C went to bed.  A combination of walking, inclines and running.  First of all, it felt AWESOME to turn up the iPod and turn out the voices in my head.  The running to do list that goes something like write the case study, submit the ad, order a water heater, send that baby gift to Kim, throw something in the crock pot for dinner tomorrow night, ask Craig if he’s going to that reception on Thursday, and on… and on.. and on.  With the iPod turned up all I heard was the music and the pounding of my feet on the treadmill.  There was sound, there was rythym, there was music.  But the noise?  It was gone. 

And I remembered why I used to actually look forward to working out.  Crazy talk, I know.  Because while my legs felt heavy and my chest tight and finding the motivation to do this again probably won’t come easy, it felt great. 

Now.  What all of you exercise people who write about these happy endorphins and fitting into you prepregnacy clothes don’t write about?  I also spent 30 minutes trying not to pee my pants.   I can only assume this is another side effect of pregnancy and labor. Or at least, I hope. 

Seriously, it’s not just me, right?  And, it goes away?  Please?