camping + baby = disfreakingaster.

Okay.

I have learned, in this life, that you can divide people into categories. Not based on skin color or religion or economic status or that stuff, because a lot of the time that is a bad plan and also racist, but based more on things they like (and don't like) to do.  For example, there are "TV people" and "non-TV people."  TV people like to talk about the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy and that funny commercial with the e.trade baby.  Non-TV people like to talk about how they save all this money by not paying for cable and the latest article they read in National Geographic and then you feel like you are turning into an American Idiot for watching four hours of Des.perate Housewives last weekend, but you had to because your brain was incapable of processing anything more complex than that and DH was a more dignified choice than, say, a marathon of Bride.zillas.

Can you tell which of those categories I fall into?

Anyway.  There are also "outdoorsy people" and "non-outdoorsy people."  "Indoorsy people," maybe.  And I am unashamedly, unabashedly, totally in the latter group.  I am an indoorsy-kind of gal.  I like the outdoors - it's pretty - but I like to observe it from the comfort of my own home, or car, or possibly a reasonably-priced hotel.  I am not terribly high maintenance.  I mean, the hotel doesn't have to have mints on the pillow or anything, but it does have to have a bed.  And a shower.  (And possibly a TV.  But I digress.)

My brother-and-sister-in-law are outdoorsy people.  Also, they are cheap.  In their case, I find these to be related phenomena.  It isn't always, because I've been to R.EI and that is not a cheap place, but there's no denying that camping out is a frugal way to vacation.  They drove up to our neck of the woods from theirs, and they wanted us to go camping for a night with them.

Let me say, first, that I had my doubts about this.  Because I know a bunch of people that say they like "camping," but what they mean by "camping," is "hanging out in my air-conditioned/heated trailer/camper with a fridge and lights and a toilet and a bed," whereas what my brother-and-sister-in-law mean by "camping," is "tent on the dirt. And possibly a campfire."  I would be okay with version #1, even though a cheap hotel would still be my preferred choice.  But option #2 does not really light my fire.  I mean, nature is beautiful and all, but I don't really want to sleep in it.  If you say to me, "but our ancestors did that all the time, it's natural," I will say, "that's because they hadn't invented the Holi.day Inn yet, and if you gave Cro-Magnon Man a chance to sleep at Mot.el 6 instead of his animal-skin tent, I can guarantee you he'd take it in a neanderthal heartbeat."

Let me also say that I realize I may sound insane to you, especially if you are a Camping Person.  I happen to live in a very camping-friendly, outdoorsy, hiking-adjacent, mountain-biking, all-cool-people-like-to-hang-out-in-nature area of the country, so I am the odd person out a lot of the time.  I don't hike, or ski, or waterski, or sleep in tents, or pee in the woods, or know how to tie those kinds of knots that keep your tent from flying away in a windstorm, or anything particularly useful in the outdoors.  I am a kick-ass knitter and I can read at a ridiculous pace, but this doesn't really do you any good on a camping trip.  (I guess I could read the tent instructions real fast and then knit you a cover for it, but again - not super useful.)

But I'm willing to try it for a night.  It would take too long to tell you all the details and, as you might guess, I am a little short on sleep after this experience, so let me sum it up:

• boy, does it take a lot of stuff to attempt camping with an 8-month old.  A. LOT.
• and the drive will take significantly longer than you thought.
• when you get there during bedtime, in the summer, it will take the baby (previously asleep in the car) a LONG DAMN TIME to fall back to sleep, because it stays light pretty late in the summer and the campers in the site next to you are kind of loud.  
• also, the baby is distracted by the super fun zipper pulls on the snowsuit you made her wear for fear of her getting cold at night...
• ...which she does several times so finally, about 1:00am, you think it will be a good idea to put her in your sleeping bag...
• ...which is good for her, except that it leaves no room for you.
• and that is a bummer of a time to realize that the self-inflating sleeping pad you bought on the way to this camping extravaganza must have self-confidence issues because it did not inflate.
• Sleeping on the ground is not all that comfortable.
• In the same way that "stabbing your eyes out with a fork" would also be "not that comfortable."
• And it is cold.
• 45 degrees doesn't sound that bad, but it is when you're sleeping in it.
• Counting the number of miles to the nearest hotel (68) does not help you fall asleep.
• But boy, do you appreciate your bed afterward.

Yeah.  It pretty much sucked. 

When we got home, my husband and I were discussing the trip and what we would have done differently, and he said, "well, I guess we learned that next time, we should bring a third sleeping bag."  And I said, "what I learned is that there is NOT GOING TO BE A NEXT TIME."

If you are thinking about going camping with a baby, here's what I've got for you:

• If you are a Camping Person, go for it.  Let me know how it goes.
• If you are a Non-Camping Person, get a hotel.  Go hiking in nature the next day.  Take photos.  Then go back to your hotel and sleep in a bed.  And take a shower.  And enjoy the temperature-controlled air. 

To all my Non-Camping peeps: stay strong.  Make hotel reservations.  Learn from me.  There is no need for the suffering to continue.   The Camping People will keep our nation's parks system running.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go run all the electrical appliances in my house whilst doing laundry and taking a nap in a bed.

Ahhhhhhhhh.

bite me

Well, it happened.  She bit me.

Not that hard, and I'm about 99.9% sure it wasn't on purpose - she was almost done nursing and smiled at me and then absent-mindedly latched back on with her teeth (oops) - but WOWZA, that hurts.  I can hardly imagine what it's like if the kid takes a big ol' purposeful chomp down on the girls, which have been doing yeoman's work for the past eight months.

I took her off, said firmly, "OUCH.  NO."  And then we were done nursing for that session.  It happened again the next time, and we did the same thing again - OUCH. NO. DONE. - and, since then, she hasn't bit again.  On the other hand, I have totally stopped my half-dozing during nursing sessions and am, instead, keeping watch like a prison guard who's heard rumors about a jailbreak.

What do you think about taking an eight-month old on a camping trip?  My idea of 'camping' is 'Motel 6,' but my brother-and-sister-in-law are coming to visit, and they love camping, and there are a lot of cool places to camp around here.  Plus they have all the stuff for it which means we can try it for a night without investing a bunch of money in items for which we have no storage room anyway.  But wouldn't she get cold?  And she moves around so much during the night that I can't imagine a blanket would stay on her for more than ten minutes.  I'm not sure one sleep sack will do it.  (The last time we took her on anything like this, we stayed in a "cottage" which we later termed, with no affection whatsoever, "the shit shack," and she woke up every 45 minutes screaming because it was so freaking cold in there.  I have Post-Shit-Shack-Stress-Disorder from this.)

Last night, I was with a family as their 64-year-old husband and dad died from a lung disorder.  He had been diagnosed some three years ago, and he was ready.  It was time.  They took him off all the machines, and we waited with him as he began to breathe for himself, long, labored breaths, getting slower and slower, until finally he stopped.  There were a few startling moments along the way, and doctors and nurses hovering in case anything went wrong, and all the while it occurred to me that his work of dying was not so different than the work of giving birth.  A lot of frantic hurrying, interspersed with moments of silence and breathing and people waiting, holding your hand and telling you, "it's okay, you can do this," and I watched his three kids as they held his hands, and I went home and put my daughter to bed, and I thought:

someone told me once that, when you meet your child, you are meeting the person who will hold your hand when you die.

There are a lot of reasons that doesn't always happen, of course.  But many times, it does.  And it struck me that the holiness of both moments - birth and death - are deeply connected, and terrifying, and peaceful, and we are very rarely, truly, prepared for either one.

I realize this seems to have taken a turn completely different from where I started this post, but if she bites again, maybe (just maybe, no guarantees) I'll be able to keep it in some perspective.

the freeway of love

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.

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.

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.

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...

• 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.

I'm a lover...

• in good news, husband and I are - "being creative" - in the s.e.x. arena.  Baby steps.

I'm a child...

• 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.

I'm a mother...

• 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.

I'm a sinner...

• 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.

I'm a saint...

• 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.

I do not feel ashamed...

• 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).

And now, back to my regularly scheduled programming. 

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.