Schedule? What schedule?

I used to be a busy person. I utilized my Gmail calendar functions to the fullest extent. I had reminder emails and text messages sent to me on a daily basis, alerting me to the things I was supposed to do and places I was supposed to go, lest I forget about something in the hustle and bustle of my active life. I had work schedules and social schedules all color coded and labeled. I would look at the 2-week view of my calendar and sometimes feel breathless at the ongoing litany of activities. My friends would call to schedule a lunch date and I would have to search for free time, patiently scanning through days and juggling other obligations to make room for the people I love.

Then I had the Monkey.

Now my calendar is a vast expanse of empty space. It's sort of like what I imagine the cosmos to look like when you're on the moon and not facing earth. There are a few stars punctuating the bleak blackness, but that's about it. Now when my friends want to make lunch plans and ask if I can fit them into my schedule, I am forced to respond with "Schedule? What schedule?" and giggle lightly as though I am not at all bothered by the fact that my life has gone from 60 to 0 in 4.8 months. I will admit that part of the dramatic shift has been the loss of both of my jobs, which is not at all my little mini-me's fault. No, I blame that on other people and other factors entirely. But still...even if I were working, my g-cal would look like a shadow of its former self.

I love my son, and I love that even though we have no money and are broker than broke, I get to stay home with him and spend lots of quality time learning how to be a good mom. I enjoy watching him do the most delightful things, like discovering how to put his big toe in his mouth, and figuring out that a Johnny Jump-Up is for jumping, not spinning. But I miss my life. I miss running around, seeing adults every day, feeling productive and busy and interesting. I miss listening to my iPod really loud in the car. I miss having the time an energy to blow dry my hair before leaving the house. I miss savoring an afternoon spent wandering through the Shops on the Parkway looking for a new pair of jeans.

I knew that life would be different when I had a baby. I knew that things would change and I wouldn't have much free time. I just didn't know it would be quite this intense!

That just don't make no damn sense...

Evolution is apparently sleeping in and skipping class. Because there is a lot of stuff about my body and Owen's body that has baffled me, and I can't understand how we benefit from these things, when you look at them from a purely evolutionary standpoint. I think Evolution needs to get up off her ass, go back to class, and figure some stuff out.

For example, and I know I have brought this up before, but vomiting during pregnancy. What the hell? I mean, during the first trimester, when you are doing some of the most delicate work of making a baby, and your insides need to be as healthy and vibrant as possible, you are puking up everything nutritious that you eat. Some women, like myself, actually lose weight the first trimester, from all the heaving. You're clearly not getting the calories you need, and I fail to see how this benefits little blossoming baby cells? A more logical approach to early pregnancy would be the unrelenting appetite for vegetables or something, not the ability to eat nothing but saltines and lemon sorbet.

Then baby comes out, all helpless and slimy, can't even stand on its own two legs (I am thinking now of fawns, who can usually walk in the first 24 hours...a great skill to have!) and frequently can't even figure out how to latch on and eat. Now how is this helpful?? The tiny little pooper needs sustenance, needs nourishment, needs that colostrum something fierce! And he struggles mightily to get it. You would think Evolution would have made sure that part went smoothly, so the itty bitty person had a better chance of, you know, survival.

My most recent complaint is, shockingly, related to my boobs. Now I love them, we have established that. I think their bouncy flouncy perk is delightful. But I am confused. Now that mini-me sleeps through the night, shouldn't my boobs do the same? You would think that my milk-makers would realize that the baby needs a hefty dose of food at night right before bed, so he will sleep like a...well, a baby. But they take a coffee break about 3pm and don't wake up again until 3am.  And let me tell you, 3am is NOT when I want giant leaky boobs, because the Monkey is fast asleep and dreaming sweet dreams - probably about my boobs, when you think about it! - and I am not about to wake him up to eat. So I have to wake up, which I find horribly unfair all by itself, to pump (and let's not even go there right now, ugh). It is an evolutionary enigma.

Helpless

I feel helpless when I think about AIDS orphans on Africa. I feel helpless when I think about the fact that every year 15 million children die of hunger related complications. I feel helpless when I think about the US unemployment rate, and when I see homeless people living underneath an overpass in Chicago, and when someone I love is seriously ill with an incurable disease. I feel helpless about a lot of things, knowing that they are problems so large that I probably won't see most of them solved in my lifetime. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to how helpless I feel about my son's teething.

I have rubbed his gums with baby Orajel and a lovely vanilla flavored brandy. I have chilled teething rings, washcloths, and my finger. I have given him Tylenol, I have rocked him for hours, and I have comfort-nursed so many times I think my arms are permanently stuck in cross-cradle hold.

And still, he cries.

He drools, and chokes, and gags. He throws up. His gums bleed and his little mouth smells like iron. He flails in my arms, and he squirms like he's on fire when I lay him down. He weeps, and screams, and looks at me with those wide blue eyes, wondering why I can't fix it.

It breaks my heart. It is the worst thing that has ever happened in my whole life. It is agony for me, and I cannot imagine what it is for him. I feel like a failure, like a horrible mother. I cannot ease my son's pain, not really. I cannot make him feel better. I can only hold him, giving him the meager comforts I have to offer, and wait through it with him.

I hate this.

Irony is the Spice of Life

Things I have found to be ironic, now that I am a mother.

-I can now whip out my boobs in public anytime I want to without fear of indecent exposure charges and jail time, as long as my son is hungry at the time.

-I used to tease my best friend about driving like a grandmother. Now when I drive I make her look like Jimmy Johnson on mescaline.

-In my pseudo-hippie days, I thought taking a shower more than three times a week was wasteful. Now I am lucky if there are weeks I get to shower that often.

-I have spent most of my life singing as little as possible at things like birthday parties, church services, and karaoke nights. Now I am frequently creating and belting out all manner of baby-friendly tunes in the middle of the grocery store.

-My mother, who was heavy most of her life, lost weight while she was pregnant with me, and was her thinnest self when I was born. I never had a weight problem, but when I was pregnant I gained 60 pounds. And I still have it.

-I used to think I never had enough time to get everything done. Now I know I don't.

Other Uses

Being ever conscious of money and resources, I have begun to find new uses for things that we no longer use for their original purpose, or extra uses for things we still use, but could use more! And remarkably, all this baby stuff is coming in pretty handy.

Who would have known that a Boppy, while excellent as a pillow for your munchkin to rest on while sucking your body dry, is also a great little 'table' to put your laptop on so you can write in your blog while balancing your Mac on your lap, leaving your feet free to gently wiggle your bundle of poop to sleep in his bouncy seat.

Or Johnson's Baby Shampoo, which gets puke-stinky babies nice and squeaky clean (all without a single tear!), is also quite good at getting the stench of garbage and rotten chicken bits out of your tangled mess of a cocker spaniel's fur after she's destroyed the kitchen trash for the third time this week because she's jealous and depressed...and leaves a mild but pleasant scent!

Speaking of dogs, that bouncy seat you wiggled earlier makes a great dog bed for the more inquisitive and adventurous dog. (I know this because after weeks of wondering how it got covered in black fuzz all the time, I caught her snoozing in it!)

Got some onesies your mini-you has grown out of? Cut off the crotch snaps and they make wonderful, soft dust cloths, when you can manage to find a spare 6 minutes to rush around the house waving a can of Pledge in all directions and swiping down furniture at the speed of sound.

Those creepy little blue bulb things you use to torture your child by trying to suck the snot out of their tiny nostrils are actually nice last-minute replacements for a turkey baster in a pinch. You have to squeeze about 100 times, but it works! (Just remember to REALLY clean it, or your kid's nose will smell like poultry for a few days the next time you use it for its intended purpose.)

Have any clever new uses of your own? Please share them. I need all the help I can get!

:)

Are you freaking kidding me?!?

I am constantly amazed at people, and how thoughtless, insensitive, and feeble minded they can be. I generally maintain a pretty high level of faith in humanity as a whole, but people themselves can be really stupid, and really annoying. Today, I ran into a person who was exactly that. Following is a reenactment of the conversation, in the Reader's Digest condensed version.



Person who I want to smack: "Hey, wow, nice to see you! How are you?"

Me: "Good, really good. How are you? How's [your job] going?"

Person who needs a reality check: "Oh it's great!! Blah blah blah blah blah......blah..... I sent some information to [my job] about it. I never heard from them."

Me: "Oh well I was laid off from [my job], but I am going there this weekend [for a reason related to my son], and I can check on it for you."

Person who is an idiot: "Wait, you already had the baby?"

Me, beginning to cringe: "Yeah, he's four months old now!"

Person who deserves to be flogged REACHES TOWARD MY STOMACH and says: "Oh, so are you expecting another one, then?"

Me, holding back both tears and violent tendencies: "No."

Person with no tact or sensitivity: "Oh...(begins to back away as if to leave)...Well it was great to see you....(is down the hall and cannot be seen, and suddenly shouts backwards) You look great..."



Now I realize that when this person first met me, I was a svelte 24 year old. And when this person last saw me, I was a giant pregnant beast. And I also realize that I had my son four months ago and still weigh 200 pounds and don't fit into the jeans that were my 'fat jeans' when I was 27. I realize that the world assumes that if you had a baby and still look fat a few months later, you must have gotten knocked up again, or you are just lazy. I realize that if I was anything less than a slothful, unhealthy cow, I would have lost that 60 pounds I gained over the course of nine months in a few weeks and, like Heidi Klum and Angelina Jolie, I would be trim and perky from my neck to my knees. I realize all of these things. And still, what I have to say to Mr. Never Had a Kid and Doesn't Know Anything About Women or How to Talk to Them is this:

FUCK YOU.

Multi-tasking

I always considered myself a pretty good multi-tasker. I even put it on my resumes. "I am efficient and capable of multi-tasking various projects in order to meet deadlines and accomplish work related goals." I could multi-task in my personal life too, and frequently IMed while watching TV, or studied for class while taking a bath. You know, really critical stuff. But it is so much more intense now.

I have discovered that I am able to multi-task on a whole new level. I can brush my teeth while changing a diaper (well, not one with poop in it...) I can make dinner while pumping breast milk. I can take a shower while singing silly songs to the Monkey in his bouncy seat. I can wash bottles and talk on the phone. I can pay bills and make faces at the Monkey while he's in his swing. I can burp him while putting dishes away.

Now maybe that's not that impressive. But considering the fact that I am always doing at least two things at a time, all day, every day...well that's kind of intense. And it's a necessity. If I don't manage several tasks at a time, I don't get anything done. Really. Nothing. If I am not doing laundry while comforting a teething baby, or giving him a bath at the same time I take one (which will only be acceptable for so long...haha), I would spend my whole day focusing on him and never do anything else. I have learned to do this stuff because I have to, or my house will turn into a pit of dirty laundry and slimy dishes. I mean, my husband, bless him, does a lot of housework and is very helpful, but he has a full time job, and even he couldn't keep up with all of this himself.

No, I have discovered that one of the most important tools of mommy-hood is being able to split your brain and your body in half; one half focuses on the baby, the other half focuses on your life.

And now, having eaten breakfast while writing this blog, I need to go get dressed while packing a diaper bag.