In case you've ever wondered about this:
yes, it is possible (thanks to completely-stopped traffic, a well-placed dark tunnel, and a hands-free pumping bra) to hook yourself up to a battery-powered breast pump and let that sucker go to town while negotiating a 50-mile morning drive to a conference.
For someone who likes multi-tasking, it was freaking heaven.
I think a few semi-drivers might have gotten an eyeful. But I got something done during my 90-minute crawl down the freeway, and that makes up for it.
"What's the problem, officer? It's hands-free."*
*no actual police officers were encountered during this event. Thankfully.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
day after day
I've been trying to think of something exciting to say about my life that would necessitate a blog post, but I'm not quite sure what that might be. It's pretty much life-as-new-normal these days around here, which alternates between "total thrill of being a mom" and "mundane daily grind plus more laundry." Honestly, babies can be kind of tedious. Not that I'm complaining, because really; parenting is mostly great. But it certainly never lets up. And that's okay.
Baby Girl has decided that she hates pears and avocados (the look on her face while trying the latter for the first time was priceless) but other than that, she's a champion eater. Naps have improved dramatically over the past month, although she's still not into much more than thirty minutes at a time. Maybe that will change. Or not.
My husband is mostly a totally fantastic dad, but there are times when he comes home after I've had the baby all day and he's all excited to see her (and she's ridiculously excited to see him) and then he hangs out with her for, like, ten minutes, and then says he's tired, which pretty much makes me want to kick his ass. Now, I get that working all day is tiring because, you know, I do that too (with a schedule that involves working weekends so I'm with her on a few weekdays). But, as much as I hate making wide, sweeping statements about men and women, I think being the mom is harder. At least if you're the primary food source. About 90% of me loves nursing - the bonding, the fact that my body is finally able to do something related to reproduction - and the other 10% of me will happily give it up when the day comes, and go back to normal bras and a pump-less lifestyle and shirts that fit again (she says, hopefully).
Also, we have added two teeth into the equation, which makes my nipples quake with fear.
So, that's about it for now. It's a good life. A very ordinary, suburban, family life. The one I dreamt of for all those years. Some days I can still hardly believe it actually happened.
Baby Girl has decided that she hates pears and avocados (the look on her face while trying the latter for the first time was priceless) but other than that, she's a champion eater. Naps have improved dramatically over the past month, although she's still not into much more than thirty minutes at a time. Maybe that will change. Or not.
My husband is mostly a totally fantastic dad, but there are times when he comes home after I've had the baby all day and he's all excited to see her (and she's ridiculously excited to see him) and then he hangs out with her for, like, ten minutes, and then says he's tired, which pretty much makes me want to kick his ass. Now, I get that working all day is tiring because, you know, I do that too (with a schedule that involves working weekends so I'm with her on a few weekdays). But, as much as I hate making wide, sweeping statements about men and women, I think being the mom is harder. At least if you're the primary food source. About 90% of me loves nursing - the bonding, the fact that my body is finally able to do something related to reproduction - and the other 10% of me will happily give it up when the day comes, and go back to normal bras and a pump-less lifestyle and shirts that fit again (she says, hopefully).
Also, we have added two teeth into the equation, which makes my nipples quake with fear.
So, that's about it for now. It's a good life. A very ordinary, suburban, family life. The one I dreamt of for all those years. Some days I can still hardly believe it actually happened.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
the girl on the bus
The other night, my husband and I were on the bus coming home from a concert. It was about 11:15pm. Bus clientele at that time of night is always interesting, a slice of life I don't get all that often, and sometimes I marvel at how gentle the most unexpected people can be. (The fact that I find this unexpected probably says more about me than it does about them. But I digress.)
After a few stops, two young women got on the bus. They were chatting away, trying to untangle the earbuds for one girl's i.pod. They sat down and giggled and plugged in the earbuds, sharing the two between them so each got one ear's worth of listening, and chatted away.
They were pretty clearly happy to be away from adult supervision, which I am guessing they may not have much of in their lives. It's the clothing choices that led me to this conclusion (although, yes, I am aware that teenaged girls can wear one outfit out of the house while sneaking a completely different one with them, but these girls had no purse or bag whatsoever, so unless they hid their long-sleeved prairie girl dresses underneath a tree, I think that's unlikely). One girl was particularly, you know, well-endowed. And, might I add, braless. (Another hint that she might not have an adult around to help her with that.) Every once in awhile you see a young woman like this who is clearly unaware of the impact her physical appearance has on others, but this one seemed pretty aware of it. Tossing her hair, smiling at any male within spitting distance, laughing and chatting and on the downtown bus at 11:00pm without any adults nearby...
...and I panicked.
Not for her, because she actually seemed fine. I hope she is okay in this life, not just that night, but each day. No, I panicked because I realized that my child, at that moment happily sleeping away at her grandparents' house, is one day going to be a teenager. With boobs. And the option of low-cut t-shirts. Without a bra. And going on the bus. Downtown. At 11:00pm. Even though I would not be okay with most of those things, but some of them I don't get to choose (hello, boobs) and some of them I might not get to control (hello, downtown bus at 11:00pm) and OHMYGOD she is going to grow up and then she will go away and then she will be on the bus and old creepy guys might look at her and I will not always be there to beat the everliving shit out of them if they do and possibly some horrifyingly-named Congressman might tweet her an inappropriate picture or she could get drunk one night and do something dumb that can't be undone and and there are a million other things that could happen and OHHOLYMERCIFULLORD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT THAT?
Kind of took the fun out of the evening for a moment.
There were some other kids on the bus too, and when I say, "kids," I mean, "college-student-aged-people" who would, no doubt, hate being called, "kids," but I am old now so that's what happens. Anyway. They looked responsible. Mostly scanning their varied hand-held devices and not paying attention to anybody else, but they also looked like they were not likely to be on any "Girls Gone Wild" episodes anytime soon, so that made me feel better. I took a deep breath.
There are days when I cannot wait for Baby Girl to grow up, at least enough so that she will be able to a.) nap; b.) no longer require diapers; and c.) tell me what she needs (although I realize this comes with a whole bunch of other talking-back so that's kind of a toss-up).
But that night, on the bus, I wished she could stay like she was, right then, forever. Sleeping in the pack-and-play at the grandparents, or safe in her crib at home, where I can walk up the stairs and check on her at anytime.
I realize this isn't going to happen.
But a mom can dream.
After a few stops, two young women got on the bus. They were chatting away, trying to untangle the earbuds for one girl's i.pod. They sat down and giggled and plugged in the earbuds, sharing the two between them so each got one ear's worth of listening, and chatted away.
They were pretty clearly happy to be away from adult supervision, which I am guessing they may not have much of in their lives. It's the clothing choices that led me to this conclusion (although, yes, I am aware that teenaged girls can wear one outfit out of the house while sneaking a completely different one with them, but these girls had no purse or bag whatsoever, so unless they hid their long-sleeved prairie girl dresses underneath a tree, I think that's unlikely). One girl was particularly, you know, well-endowed. And, might I add, braless. (Another hint that she might not have an adult around to help her with that.) Every once in awhile you see a young woman like this who is clearly unaware of the impact her physical appearance has on others, but this one seemed pretty aware of it. Tossing her hair, smiling at any male within spitting distance, laughing and chatting and on the downtown bus at 11:00pm without any adults nearby...
...and I panicked.
Not for her, because she actually seemed fine. I hope she is okay in this life, not just that night, but each day. No, I panicked because I realized that my child, at that moment happily sleeping away at her grandparents' house, is one day going to be a teenager. With boobs. And the option of low-cut t-shirts. Without a bra. And going on the bus. Downtown. At 11:00pm. Even though I would not be okay with most of those things, but some of them I don't get to choose (hello, boobs) and some of them I might not get to control (hello, downtown bus at 11:00pm) and OHMYGOD she is going to grow up and then she will go away and then she will be on the bus and old creepy guys might look at her and I will not always be there to beat the everliving shit out of them if they do and possibly some horrifyingly-named Congressman might tweet her an inappropriate picture or she could get drunk one night and do something dumb that can't be undone and and there are a million other things that could happen and OHHOLYMERCIFULLORD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT THAT?
Kind of took the fun out of the evening for a moment.
There were some other kids on the bus too, and when I say, "kids," I mean, "college-student-aged-people" who would, no doubt, hate being called, "kids," but I am old now so that's what happens. Anyway. They looked responsible. Mostly scanning their varied hand-held devices and not paying attention to anybody else, but they also looked like they were not likely to be on any "Girls Gone Wild" episodes anytime soon, so that made me feel better. I took a deep breath.
There are days when I cannot wait for Baby Girl to grow up, at least enough so that she will be able to a.) nap; b.) no longer require diapers; and c.) tell me what she needs (although I realize this comes with a whole bunch of other talking-back so that's kind of a toss-up).
But that night, on the bus, I wished she could stay like she was, right then, forever. Sleeping in the pack-and-play at the grandparents, or safe in her crib at home, where I can walk up the stairs and check on her at anytime.
I realize this isn't going to happen.
But a mom can dream.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
I'm a b...
Remember that Meredith Brooks song, B.itch? (Whatever happened to her, anyway? There's probably some VH1 Behind the Scenes thing on her. Although, maybe they don't make those anymore. Wait...is there still a VH1? This is getting depressing.)
Anyway. I used to love putting that song on the radio, on certain days, and blasting it while I drove as fast as legally permissible (or, slightly over, but not in a dangerous way) down the freeway with the windows open. I sang along because it felt cathartic to get all the crummy energy out of me that way. I might need to do that today. Because, seriously:
I'm a bi.tch...
Anyway. I used to love putting that song on the radio, on certain days, and blasting it while I drove as fast as legally permissible (or, slightly over, but not in a dangerous way) down the freeway with the windows open. I sang along because it felt cathartic to get all the crummy energy out of me that way. I might need to do that today. Because, seriously:
I'm a bi.tch...
- my sister-in-law is seriously pissing me off by floating passive-aggressive F.ace.book status updates referring to the fact that my husband and I happened to get the stomach flu, at the same time, from our beloved child, thus causing me to call my mom to come and spend the night so we could throw up in peace, which then made my mom unable to visit our nephew the next day. I felt bad enough about that already. Passive-aggressive taunts just make me feel worse. SHUT IT, LADY.
- and even writing that down makes me feel yet worse, again. Sigh.
- in good news, husband and I are - "being creative" - in the s.e.x. arena. Baby steps.
- seriously, the first (and only) thing I could think of to do when we all got sick was call my mom. Lately I've been thinking a lot about the fact that my parents won't be around forever, which I obviously already knew, but facing that when you have a child of your own feels different to me. Now I'm thinking more about how they felt when their parents died. I bet they miss them much, much more than I ever realized.
- also, I flipped someone off on the road today. Because, you know, she started it.
- a mother of a child who now eats sweet potatoes, squash, and peas like there is no tomorrow; really enjoys rice cereal; hates oatmeal with unparalleled passion; sits up without any assistance whatsoever (apart from the occasional sudden lurch to the side or tip backward) and smiles all. the. time. And it. is. awesome.
- and, she sleeps in her own bed. Upstairs. While we sleep in ours. Downstairs. With the video monitor on. I'm still getting used to this. Like the other night when I woke up at 3:30am and the monitor wasn't working and I went into a complete and total OHMYLORDWHATHAPPENEDSHECOULDBEDEAD panic until I realized that I had forgotten to plug it in, and also, she was fine. And then I laid awake for 20 minutes trying to get my heart started again.
- see evidence above.
- also, I ate a whole bag of Cad.bury's mini eggs which I had hidden from my husband in my sock drawer because otherwise he eats the candy in, like, three days, whereas I can make it last for several weeks.
- probably that is not a sin. But my exultation in successfully hiding said mini-eggs and consuming all of them, might be.
- well, if a "saint" is someone who doesn't screw up, then I got nothing here.
- but if a "saint" is someone loved by God, then I am doing okay.
- also, in news slightly related to that last bit, I am reading Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott, which is the story of her son's first year, and it is, hands down, the best parenting book of all time in the history of ever.
- hmmm...mostly true.
- except about the bird-flipping from this morning.
- and the anger at my sister-in-law (which is pretty much deserved, on her part, but still essentially fruitless).
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
the m-word day, a little late
These thoughts are a few days late, I realize. Sundays are not the best day for me to do anything except a.) church, and b.) long nap.
I am still not quite sure how to celebrate a day I used to hate. Well, not hate, exactly. "Feel deeply conflicted about," would be more accurate (and awkwardly-phrased). I love my own mother, so that part was good. But all the other stuff - all the flowers at the grocery store and the extra people at church* and the jewelry/Hallm.ark/flowers/make-her-breakfast-in-bed commercials running for weeks beforehand just used to take it out of me.
In many ways, I had a lovely Mother's Day. I did not take it for granted. But mostly, what I thought about was this:
to all of you,
who want to be moms more than you want anything else
even to breathe
or laugh
and whose arms,
as full as they might be with life,
still feel empty sometimes at night;
all who hope
and grieve
and long
and wait
and wish upon a star
or pray with every breath you have,
you matter too, on this day.
may the child for whom you long
the one you have not yet met
be waiting just around the corner,
please God.
Amen.
*you know those extra people at church on Mother's Day. The ones who show up unexpectedly shiny and with a tight grin on their faces that says, "my mom/wife/mother-in-law/sister/other female figure totally made me come today and get dressed up so I'm here but don't expect me to be happy about it." Yeah. They're there every year. They make me giggle.
I am still not quite sure how to celebrate a day I used to hate. Well, not hate, exactly. "Feel deeply conflicted about," would be more accurate (and awkwardly-phrased). I love my own mother, so that part was good. But all the other stuff - all the flowers at the grocery store and the extra people at church* and the jewelry/Hallm.ark/flowers/make-her-breakfast-in-bed commercials running for weeks beforehand just used to take it out of me.
In many ways, I had a lovely Mother's Day. I did not take it for granted. But mostly, what I thought about was this:
to all of you,
who want to be moms more than you want anything else
even to breathe
or laugh
and whose arms,
as full as they might be with life,
still feel empty sometimes at night;
all who hope
and grieve
and long
and wait
and wish upon a star
or pray with every breath you have,
you matter too, on this day.
may the child for whom you long
the one you have not yet met
be waiting just around the corner,
please God.
Amen.
*you know those extra people at church on Mother's Day. The ones who show up unexpectedly shiny and with a tight grin on their faces that says, "my mom/wife/mother-in-law/sister/other female figure totally made me come today and get dressed up so I'm here but don't expect me to be happy about it." Yeah. They're there every year. They make me giggle.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
let's talk about [not having any] s.e.x, baby
So, yesterday someone suggested that I might be in early menopause.
Yes.
Let me tell you about it.
Yesterday was my last "Parent-Baby Group" at the hospital where Baby Girl was born. (They call this "Parent-Baby Group" in an effort to be all PC and everything, but the truth is, it's just moms. And babies.) I didn't go to the 0-3 month group, because those were the months where I didn't feel much like doing things that started at a certain time. I liked getting out of the house [read: I was often desperate to get out of the house] but I wanted to do that in my own sweet feet-dragging way, and not feel perpetually late to everything, which is what would have happened. Also, my job involves a lot of people-time, and it was nice to be a little bit more solitary for awhile.
So I joined the 3-6 month group because a bunch of moms told me in effusive tones that I absooooluuuutely had to do this, it was the best thing ever, they met these women who are still their best friends even though their babies are all in high school now, etc. I went. It was okay, in the way that walking into the high school cafeteria and recognizing immediately that everyone else is already sitting with a group and you are the odd kid out is also, "okay." Like in every group, there were some moms I connected with and others I didn't. This was fine.
Yesterday, our topic was, "guilt and parenting." We were supposed to write down all our guilt-triggers on a piece of paper, talk about them with the group, and then put them into a bucket which symbolized casting away this guilt. I have never found this to work overly well, but it's a nice symbol. We all re-hashed the things about which moms have felt guilty for a thousand years: sleeping methods, breast-vs-bottle feeding, to-work-or-not-to-work-outside-the-home, etc.
My first guilt topic was this: I feel guilty that I don't feel guilty about liking my job and enjoying work. (Did you follow that? I know.) This is a post for another time.
My second one was this: I feel guilty that I have absolutely, totally, 100%, no doubt, zip, zero, nada, NO sex drive whatsoever and (this is the guilt-inducing part) not much interest in doing anything about it.
From what little I've read and heard on this topic, I feel like it's pretty normal for new moms to feel this way. Breastfeeding depresses your estrogen supply, which means you aren't as interested or, um, capable. Because of, you know, the fluid levels and the lubricating factors and the...yeah. You get it.
But infertility ups the ante on this, because it's not just that I've had no real desire since the baby was born: I was nauseous for, well, about the entire pregnancy, and on fertility drugs off-and-on for several years before that, and when you look back at it, it's about five years since I really had much sustained interest in this area. Which is not to say that we haven't had sex in five years. (I think my husband feels this way sometimes, but he would also admit that this is not quite the case.)
So I talked about how this made me feel guilty, and all the other moms were nodding their heads in recognition, and then the group facilitator gave me some suggestions (which, oddly enough, just made me feel more guilty) and then she casually mentioned that "at your age, you might be peri-menopausal" which she said as if this was no big deal but was pretty much like hitting me in the face with a Mack truck, because my "age" is, in fact, THIRTY-EIGHT and if that's entering early menopause, then thanks a whole freaking lot lady, you've been very helpful.
Let me assure you (as I wish I had done to her, had I not been too shocked to say anything coherent) that I have had every fertility test in the book, so if I were entering early menopause, I would already know about it. And my mom didn't start menopause until her early 60's, the same as her mother, so I'm not too worried. Mostly, I wanted to slap this woman in the face. I mean, I'm not opposed to menopause. It happens to us all. But maybe this is not the best thing to say to a woman with a 6-month old child who has just confided in you that she isn't much into Barry White music at the moment. Maybe you could jump to something a little less drastic than, say, the end of her fertility and gradual slide into silver hair and polyester pants and a weekly game of bridge. For which she will apparently need to get a babysitter for her kindergartner.
At what point do you think I should do something about this whole sex drive thing? I mean, Group Facilitator Lady said sweetly that we could "be creative, it doesn't have to involve intercourse," to which I said, "yes, my husband is full of suggestions on that, it's not a lack of information I'm worried about here," but I really am wondering if there might be something wrong. Like, can I take a pill for this? Because that would be great. Because I do love my husband, and I miss that part of my life, and I'm not quite sure what to do about it.
Other than buy up some polyester pants and call it a day.
Thoughts? Help!
Yes.
Let me tell you about it.
Yesterday was my last "Parent-Baby Group" at the hospital where Baby Girl was born. (They call this "Parent-Baby Group" in an effort to be all PC and everything, but the truth is, it's just moms. And babies.) I didn't go to the 0-3 month group, because those were the months where I didn't feel much like doing things that started at a certain time. I liked getting out of the house [read: I was often desperate to get out of the house] but I wanted to do that in my own sweet feet-dragging way, and not feel perpetually late to everything, which is what would have happened. Also, my job involves a lot of people-time, and it was nice to be a little bit more solitary for awhile.
So I joined the 3-6 month group because a bunch of moms told me in effusive tones that I absooooluuuutely had to do this, it was the best thing ever, they met these women who are still their best friends even though their babies are all in high school now, etc. I went. It was okay, in the way that walking into the high school cafeteria and recognizing immediately that everyone else is already sitting with a group and you are the odd kid out is also, "okay." Like in every group, there were some moms I connected with and others I didn't. This was fine.
Yesterday, our topic was, "guilt and parenting." We were supposed to write down all our guilt-triggers on a piece of paper, talk about them with the group, and then put them into a bucket which symbolized casting away this guilt. I have never found this to work overly well, but it's a nice symbol. We all re-hashed the things about which moms have felt guilty for a thousand years: sleeping methods, breast-vs-bottle feeding, to-work-or-not-to-work-outside-the-home, etc.
My first guilt topic was this: I feel guilty that I don't feel guilty about liking my job and enjoying work. (Did you follow that? I know.) This is a post for another time.
My second one was this: I feel guilty that I have absolutely, totally, 100%, no doubt, zip, zero, nada, NO sex drive whatsoever and (this is the guilt-inducing part) not much interest in doing anything about it.
From what little I've read and heard on this topic, I feel like it's pretty normal for new moms to feel this way. Breastfeeding depresses your estrogen supply, which means you aren't as interested or, um, capable. Because of, you know, the fluid levels and the lubricating factors and the...yeah. You get it.
But infertility ups the ante on this, because it's not just that I've had no real desire since the baby was born: I was nauseous for, well, about the entire pregnancy, and on fertility drugs off-and-on for several years before that, and when you look back at it, it's about five years since I really had much sustained interest in this area. Which is not to say that we haven't had sex in five years. (I think my husband feels this way sometimes, but he would also admit that this is not quite the case.)
So I talked about how this made me feel guilty, and all the other moms were nodding their heads in recognition, and then the group facilitator gave me some suggestions (which, oddly enough, just made me feel more guilty) and then she casually mentioned that "at your age, you might be peri-menopausal" which she said as if this was no big deal but was pretty much like hitting me in the face with a Mack truck, because my "age" is, in fact, THIRTY-EIGHT and if that's entering early menopause, then thanks a whole freaking lot lady, you've been very helpful.
Let me assure you (as I wish I had done to her, had I not been too shocked to say anything coherent) that I have had every fertility test in the book, so if I were entering early menopause, I would already know about it. And my mom didn't start menopause until her early 60's, the same as her mother, so I'm not too worried. Mostly, I wanted to slap this woman in the face. I mean, I'm not opposed to menopause. It happens to us all. But maybe this is not the best thing to say to a woman with a 6-month old child who has just confided in you that she isn't much into Barry White music at the moment. Maybe you could jump to something a little less drastic than, say, the end of her fertility and gradual slide into silver hair and polyester pants and a weekly game of bridge. For which she will apparently need to get a babysitter for her kindergartner.
At what point do you think I should do something about this whole sex drive thing? I mean, Group Facilitator Lady said sweetly that we could "be creative, it doesn't have to involve intercourse," to which I said, "yes, my husband is full of suggestions on that, it's not a lack of information I'm worried about here," but I really am wondering if there might be something wrong. Like, can I take a pill for this? Because that would be great. Because I do love my husband, and I miss that part of my life, and I'm not quite sure what to do about it.
Other than buy up some polyester pants and call it a day.
Thoughts? Help!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
well, hello there, blog
Okay. I should probably have some better-sounding excuse for dropping off the face of the earth these past few weeks, but all I've got is this: it was Easter, which, if you are a pastor, is a time of the year when absolutely nothing else gets done. At. All. If you have the urgent need to clean something, please let me know, because I have got the house for you.
Baby Girl is doing well, apart from a few spectacular Nap Fail experiences like yesterday, wherein it took 90 minutes to get her down for what turned out to be a 20 minute morning nap. Also, she is now rolling from back-to-front but has only done so for 1.) her grandparents and 2.) Harrison Ford, who happened to be on TV playing Indiana Jones at the time. Normally, I don't let her watch TV, in case you are thinking of reporting me to the Child Development Authorities, but Harrison Ford is a slight exception. I was upstairs throwing a load of towels into the laundry at the time.
Last night I went to bed at 8:30pm. Because, apparently, I am in the third grade. It was awesome.
I went to Pa.nera for lunch yesterday and a creepy dude stared at me while I breastfed Baby Girl (under a cover, but still). Then he said, "I bet she's a angel," (which, given that she had screamed for 90 minutes that morning was not exactly the analysis I was in the mood for) and as soon as he went to the counter to get his food, we hightailed it the heck out of there.
After three months of cobbling together childcare between friends and grandparents, Baby Giril will be starting at an official childcare center next week. Mostly, I am relieved about this because it's been a little stressful to put things together (long story short, our initial childcare setup didn't work out, so we've been punting for awhile). I am also nervous. Probably no way around that.
I am so, so, so not a morning person. At all. But the big smile on your child's face when you lean over to pick them up - well, that puts a spark into the morning. As does a big cup of coffee.
Our next adventure: Baby Girl starts sleeping in her own room, soon. I am in denial about this. Will keep you posted.
Baby Girl is doing well, apart from a few spectacular Nap Fail experiences like yesterday, wherein it took 90 minutes to get her down for what turned out to be a 20 minute morning nap. Also, she is now rolling from back-to-front but has only done so for 1.) her grandparents and 2.) Harrison Ford, who happened to be on TV playing Indiana Jones at the time. Normally, I don't let her watch TV, in case you are thinking of reporting me to the Child Development Authorities, but Harrison Ford is a slight exception. I was upstairs throwing a load of towels into the laundry at the time.
Last night I went to bed at 8:30pm. Because, apparently, I am in the third grade. It was awesome.
I went to Pa.nera for lunch yesterday and a creepy dude stared at me while I breastfed Baby Girl (under a cover, but still). Then he said, "I bet she's a angel," (which, given that she had screamed for 90 minutes that morning was not exactly the analysis I was in the mood for) and as soon as he went to the counter to get his food, we hightailed it the heck out of there.
After three months of cobbling together childcare between friends and grandparents, Baby Giril will be starting at an official childcare center next week. Mostly, I am relieved about this because it's been a little stressful to put things together (long story short, our initial childcare setup didn't work out, so we've been punting for awhile). I am also nervous. Probably no way around that.
I am so, so, so not a morning person. At all. But the big smile on your child's face when you lean over to pick them up - well, that puts a spark into the morning. As does a big cup of coffee.
Our next adventure: Baby Girl starts sleeping in her own room, soon. I am in denial about this. Will keep you posted.
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