Bring on October

I love spring. The air feels full of hopeful anticipation. The light is softer, the air warmer. Everything is buzzing with life. I am not an outdoors kinda girl, but spring makes me want to be outside. It's my second favorite season.

Autumn is my favorite. It feels funny to say that, because it's a season of...well, dying. Mold. Rot. But it's a pretty rot.

I love the colors. The smells: crunchy fallen leaves, dusty heating vents, cinnamon spice, squash. The crispness in the air. The blindingly blue skies. Heck, even the dreary rain is prettier in autumn, against a backdrop of amber and russet trees. I love that the endless, blazing days of summer gradually grow cooler, shorter. Nudging us to head inside, bundle up, eat good food, drink something warm. I love sweaters and flannel and blankets and boots. Just...everything.

Two signs of fall that I eagerly anticipate each year: My neighbor's tree changing color, and the reappearance of Orion. I haven't seen Orion yet, but my neighbor's tree is looking a little gold around the edges. Puts me in an autumn frame of mind.

Fall is a time of celebration around here. My parents' birthdays, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. Since I procreated with a goth, Halloween is a month-long celebration. (He would say it's a way of life.) I stretch Thanksgiving into a month, as well, because I like thanks, and food (though not, of course, turkey). Which leads up to December, the Month of Christmas. From October 1 until January 1, it's one long party at my house. (Okay, not really. But we have lots of decorations.)

I've come to recognize that I've fallen into certain annual patterns. August is my month of self-reflection and mental housekeeping, and has been since my 20s. (I just have to take a break in the middle to celebrate the birth of my first child. As is befitting of her nature, that takes at least a week.) September is a month of doing -- all that navel gazing in August gets me itching to take action. So I make lists and schedules and set goals and push myself. Or at least I plan to. Then October rolls around, and life fills up with creature comforts. What didn't stick in September typically rolls over to January, and becomes my resolutions.

This year, I'm entering October with more momentum than I've had in a while. I'm starting to feel like I have a handle on things. Which is probably a sign that the bottom is about to fall out, but I'm happy to ride the wave of optimism til it crashes.

Bring on fall!

Multitasking and memory

I have always had a frighteningly good memory. I can remember things that happened on my first birthday, for instance, and way more about my toddler years than anyone I know. I remember my childhood phone number. My address when I was 8. The birthdays of my high school friends and boyfriends. And loads more inconsequential stuff.

My memory used to be better; as a child, I had a nearly comprehensive memory of everything that had happened to me back to that first birthday, down to the outfit I was wearing on a given day. But my brain got full, and some of those memories fell out. Still, I remember a lot.

There are some things that, interestingly, I can never remember. Like the order of brackets and parentheses in a sentence; I always have to look that up. But I am able to hold a lot of information in my mind at one time. It's part of what makes me a good editor.

What I can't remember are little, immediate things. Whether or not I put the clothes in the dryer. What I intended to buy at the store. Where I was going with the story I am currently telling. Those sorts of things. The reason for this lapse is not age; it's multitasking.

I am never not multitasking. I multitask in my sleep. (Really, I do. I sort through emotional and mental baggage, work out problems, and feed a baby. All while sleeping. Sometimes I snore, too.) I am doing at least three things at once 24 hours a day. So occasionally I go all absent-minded professor. I think that's understandable.

I've read articles in recent years that claim multitasking is bad. That it ruins productivity, accuracy, morale. Probably serves as a risk factor for disease and early death, too...everything does. But when you are a parent, multitasking is a part of life. (And life, as Facebook tells me, is the leading cause of death. For once, Facebook has a point.)

I am a little worried about age-related memory loss. If I have to write everything down now, what will I have to do then? Hire a personal assistant? Probably. Maybe I can pay one of my kids to remember things for me. After all, it's their fault I can't remember anything.

The fun of failure

Anya is addicted to Reading Rainbow. It's up there with candy in terms of bribe power -- it is that good. But I am unsettled by her reaction to one of the themes: Learning. She seems genuinely puzzled by the episodes that focus on someone learning to do new things. I know she's curious; "But why?" is her favorite question. But she actively resists learning new things unless she pursues it and can stop whenever she wants.

I think I understand what her issue is: She is afraid to fail. But why? Other than the speech therapy (which we stopped just as soon as she started reacting adversely to it), she has never been pressured to grasp a new concept. It's more like an innate response. One I want to nip in the bud as soon as possible. Learning is one of life's greatest joys for me, and I just hate to see her so averse to it so young.

I was afraid to fail for many years, but that came later -- after people had made a big deal out of my intelligence. I was afraid a failure would prove them wrong, and make me not special anymore. It was only when I was much older, trying things in the privacy of my own home, that I realized failing and then succeeding is way more fun than only doing things you know you can do well. I don't want her to wait that long.

And I certainly don't want her to set out at the age of 4 with the attitude that learning sucks.

So I guess I have my newest project cut out for me.

I've been trying to let her see me fail. I know part of my issue as a kid was that it seemed like my parents knew everything, and did everything right all the time. So I thought she might feel better seeing that even Mommy screws up sometimes. (Daddy isn't as willing to admit to mistakes. ;) But aside from mistakes of an emotional nature (I always apologize to her when I lose my temper, for example, and admit when I have reacted badly to something -- something she seems to deeply appreciate), seeing me mess up or even admit to being unsure of myself tends to freak her out. No matter how inconsequential the matter is, or if it even affects her.

For instance, the other day I mumbled under my breath about a concealer I bought based on some reviews I'd read. It wasn't quite what I was hoping for, and I said something to that effect. (I think my words were "Well, I don't think this is the makeup for me.") She asked me what I meant, and I told her -- and she looked like she was going to cry. Because I bought the wrong makeup!

When she was a baby, she got herself all worked up over every little skill she tried to master. At four months, she would throw temper tantrums while trying to roll over. Her face would turn beet red and she would shriek. I thought at first that she was in pain, but she was just frustrated. So this is definitely a personality trait at work here. And truth be told, it probably comes from me; I am the perfectionist in the family. (Poor kid. Of all the things I could have passed on!)

What helps me push through my perfectionist angst is focusing on the fun I have doing the activity. For instance, I'm finally returning to drawing, after deciding at the age of 12 that I sucked at it. Having kids means I have a "legitimate" reason to have art supplies, and I am enjoying the heck out of making things. Are they as good as some of my artist friends' work? No. And likely never will be. But it's fun for me, so I don't care.

That's the attitude I want her to have. I just don't know how to get her there before the age of 40. :)

I think I need to start a new family tradition: The Fun of Failure. I want to sneak in learning in a way that makes it too fun to resist, and that rewards trying and failing as much as success. I'm not sure how I will pull it off yet, but I'll figure something out.

Enough

I am not the type of person who believes everything happens for a reason, or that things always work out for the best. Suffering is real, and I refuse to believe that there is a purpose for the extreme suffering some people endure.

But I do believe that things work out neatly sometimes. Maybe not as good as you'd hoped, but well enough. And I believe in recognizing and acknowledging those moments when they come to pass.

• The house next door to my parents that became available for rent for the first time in several years the month after my first child was born.
• The job that allows telecommuting, which I had been trying to obtain for years, that became available the month after I returned to work from maternity leave.
• The freelancing gigs I pieced together to keep us afloat until my job became full time and R found work.
• The job R found with hours that complement mine, so we can still be their main caretakers.
• The caterpillar that comes back to life just when you and your daughter most need an emotional win.
• The kind words and gifts from family and friends, too numerous to list, that came in just when I needed them most.

It is not all sunshine and roses. Bad days happen. Not everyone is supportive. At times, I feel it is all falling apart in my hands. Other times, I feel like I am on a treadmill -- no matter how long I walk, I get nowhere.

But we have enough. Thanks in no small part to these little happy coincidences.

Enough is fine with me.

A matter of life and death

The morning started with tears. In some YouTube video, Sonic the Hedgehog died. (You thought Sonic was just a video game? Au contraire.) Anya, a Sonic fan, was crushed. 

We'd been up all of about 20 minutes. I hadn't even touched my tea. Way too early for this sort of thing.

"It's just a video, sweetie," I crooned, rocking her like a baby. "On Netflix, you can see that Sonic is still alive." She wasn't quite satisfied with my answer, but her sniffles slowed. And in an hour, the incident was completely forgotten.

After I got off work, we ventured out for groceries. Which is when she noticed that her fuzzy caterpillar friend, who appeared to have claimed a corner of our porch as his home, was in two pieces. R and I found it like that a couple of days before; we assumed a spider had gotten to it, because we have huge wolf spiders around our house and it's spider season. I'd hoped R would have disposed of the body by now. But he had not, and the secret was out.

She was devastated. And not quiet about it. With the way she carried on, I began to worry about the day when she loses a grandparent. I'm certainly not up for her getting a pet, unless we can find a tortoise or something equally durable.  

The tears started anew when we returned from the grocery store. And once again when we ventured out for ice cream after dinner. I was seriously contemplating a caterpillar funeral, just so we could come and go in peace.

Then a minor miracle occurred. When we returned from getting ice cream, the caterpillar was alive! Just crawling along the top step like nothing had happened. The second chunk of fuzziness is still in the corner of the porch. R thinks the caterpillar was perhaps molting, or hibernating, though hibernation doesn't explain the spare fuzz. (I know nothing of bugs, nor do I care, so I am taking him at his word on this one.) At any rate, the dead had risen, and Anya was overjoyed, in that way you are after you've suffered terribly and are starting to feel good again. For the rest of the evening, she was her spunky, sassy, spastic self. 

I, too, was relieved. We'd gotten a pass. I know how rarely those are doled out. But there will be a next time. I need to prepare for it.

I'm just hoping they come one at a time, not two in one day.

Me time

I suck at me time.

It's not that I don't get any; I steal moments here and there throughout the day. But they are inconsequential minutes. A stolen cookie. A little Facebook while the kids are otherwise occupied. A 2-minute yoga session while making a cup of tea.

I need more. I need a 3-mile walk, 30 minutes of yoga. I need 10 minutes of meditation. A long drive. I need time to read books, time to daydream, time to game. Time to recharge. Or just time to fix my hair and put on makeup.

Some moms are good about taking that time, so that they return to their offspring refreshed. I am not that kind of mom. I feel too guilty.

But I am working on it. Because I have seen the difference my me time has on my children. They may protest in the moment, but they are happier when I've had time to myself. Because I am happier. It's true what they say: When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

So I am shooting for a balance. Spending quality time with the kids -- not staring at Netflix for hours on end, but watching an episode or two of Reading Rainbow while cuddling and talking about what we see. Getting down on the floor with Kai for half an hour and looking at the world from his angle. Instead of insisting on a 3-mile power walk* every day, mixing it up with yoga or Wii Fit games that she (and even baby Kai!) can participate in. Taking the time for a mani-pedi session with Anya.

Such intense togetherness satisfies their need for me far better than hours of less hands-on attention. And with the time I have left over, I can do something for me. (In theory. I haven't actually managed that yet. Usually I just clean, or go to bed early.)

*Walking is the only true alone time I ever get. I pop the earbuds in, crank the music, and walk until my calves start shaking. It is my drug, my forbidden fruit. I feel strange just thinking that, but it's true. 

Mommy Voice

I don't have a very authoritative voice. I'm soft-spoken; when I try to speak loudly, or yell, my voice cracks and shakes. Even when I try to project my voice, as I was taught to do in chorus years ago, my voice falls flat. For added fun, my allergies are so bad that when I do achieve any volume, I usually taper into a coughing fit. Noisy venues are not for me. And it has made motherhood more challenging than I'd anticipated.

My daughter is headstrong -- which is putting it nicely. Daddy can bark a word or two at her and she snaps to attention. I try the same, and it falls on deaf ears. (Unless I threaten the loss of a treasured possession or activity, which is not how I want to parent.)

So imagine my surprise at this turn of events:

While we were at Celebrate (our town's annual street fair), we stopped by our favorite booth: the rock shop. Where I talked Anya into buying her first grab bag. Daddy was still looking, but she was eager to dig in her new bag. So we headed for the park, where we could sit down.

The park is atop a small rise, and I was pushing the double stroller with Kai and all his gear.* Anya, of course, was not in the stroller; she was trying to dash ahead of me, to get into her bag. As I struggled to the top of the rise, where the walking track is, two teenage girls walked past. Anya zipped around them and took off.

Still fighting with the stroller, I called out to Anya. "Anya, slow down!"

"Yes, m'am," one of the teens said, and slowed her pace.

Her friend looked at her quizzically. The girl looked at me, looked at Anya, and laughed. "I thought you were talking to me! My name is Tanya," she said.

"Oh," I laughed. "No, I was talking to her." I pointed at Anya, who had for once done what I asked. "Her name is Anya. She keeps trying to run away from me."

The conversation had two benefits. One, it showed me that my Mommy Voice works on someone. Two, the sight of me talking to a stranger made Anya come back to me.

*The smaller they are, the more crap they require with them at all times. I am really looking forward to the day when I can venture out with just my debit card, phone, and keys. Which I figure will happen, oh, about 20 years from now.

What being an only child really means

My daughter comes into my office and slumps at my feet, head hanging. "Nobody plays with me," she says.

All the neighbor kids go to day care, Daddy is busy with the baby, and I work. Her grandparents play with her, but she can't stay over there every day.

Usually she deals with the lack of playmates pretty well. But she's getting older, and wants to socialize. She is lonely.

And my heart cracks a little. Because I have been that kid.

A few days ago, I walked into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Anya came in, rummaged in the pantry for a minute, then pulled out her Snoopy Snow Cone Maker. "Make snow cones with me, Mama?"

"Mama can't right now; I'm working. Daddy will help you in a bit." I took my tea to the office and went back to work.

A while later, I went back to the kitchen for another cup of tea. The snow cone maker was all set up, and Anya was watching her tablet. Daddy was taking care of brother, who is teething and crabby.

An hour after that, the snow cone maker was still unused. Anya had moved on. Daddy and baby were asleep.

This is what it's like to be an only child. This is why I wanted a brother or sister so badly, even into my teens. It's why I wanted Anya to have a sibling.

Tell me your stories of sibling torture if you must. I grew up lonely. At least you had someone to fight with.

Kai is just a baby yet. I have hopes that, in a year or two, they will be great playmates. Most of the time, anyway. For now, though, she's on her own.

Which is why, when I finish with work, I set aside time to play with her, when I have a million other things to do.

(She did get her snow cone; by the way; Daddy made her a huge-huge one after Kai woke up.)

Something to work toward

I remember summer vacations as a child. They were boring as hell. I used to set myself a schedule just to give myself something to do.

8:00 Get up (yes, I set an alarm on summer vacation)
8:30 Eat
9:00 Shower

I would schedule which game shows to watch, riding my bike to the post office to get the mail, lunch with a similarly bored friend, things like that. Nothing pressing, enriching, lasting. Just killing time.

I loved being free of the rigid schedule of the school year, but I needed something to look forward to. Three months of nothingness wore on me.

It took me a ridiculously long time to realize that what I need is not structure, but goals. Something to work toward. Which is nice, because there is no end to the things I would like to do in this life. I will never run out of goals. How cool is that?

I used to avoid trying things I thought were beyond me, until I realized that I gain far more satisfaction from improving at something I formerly sucked at than maintaining a stellar track record at something that comes easily to me.

In that vein, here are some things I would like to accomplish. No time limits; I'll do them when I do them. The fun is in the trying.

- Learn to draw
- Jog a mile
- Do a proper cobra pose (I could before the c-sections, but no longer)
- Learn to play drums
- Visit more national landmarks (Mt Rushmore, Yellowstone, the Liberty Bell, etc.)
- Shop local farmer's markets
- Own my own home
- Get a bike; use it

See? I do think about things other than my kids sometimes.

The people of Quora want to know about my c-sections

I posted about my first c-section on Quora. But this post has been percolating since I had Kai. I figured I would spare them the rant and go straight to my own page with it. Because as it turns out, I have more to say about c-sections.

The first Cesarean was terrifyingly fast. In the space of an hour, I went from being numb and artificially contracting, surrounded by a room full of people making uncomfortable small talk while they waited for me to pop out a kid, to peering over my outstretched, IVed arm at my baby, who was howling indignantly across a bright, frigid room while the medical staff tossed my guts back in and stitched me up. If I'd had time to think about it, I'd have had a panic attack. But there was no time to think. Until later, that is, when I would laugh at the question, "When are you having another baby?" When they perfect that technique from Eternal Sunshine, sweetheart, I would think. I never want to go through that again.

Three years later, I'd forgotten enough to decide to try again.

I kept my cool until I was actually on the operating table, shivering in a hospital gown that, despite my hugely pregnant size, I was swimming in. They had me straddle the operating table to give me the anesthetic, and I just lost it. Shaking and crying uncontrollably. Because I knew, this time, what to expect. Having a needle jabbed in my spine. Being cut open, insides shoved aside, a baby removed, everything tossed back in like packing to return home after a 2-week vacation in paradise.

I knew what lay ahead: Weeks of pain, weakness, bleeding. Healing at the speed of frozen molasses. And I wanted more than anything to have an unmedicated vaginal birth. Sure, I'd heard horror stories about those, but I'd never had one. Sometimes the devil you know is scarier than the devil you don't.

The nursing staff was great. They took a moment to calm me down, and kept their patience even though I'd turned into a huge, whiny baby. Finally, I was numbed and stretched out, R was brought in, and the hacking...ahem, surgical procedure commenced.

I don't really remember much about the procedure. I remember fighting the anesthesiologist about the oxygen mask, because I felt like it was suffocating me.* I remember telling R that I loved him, but we were never doing this again.

And then I heard my son's first tears.

Just like that, it was bearable. All of it. I'd do it all again, just to hear those tears.

I hate that it takes so long to touch the baby when having a c-section. I hear some hospitals bring the baby close, so the mom can see him or her while she is being stitched up. Mine didn't. It'd have been easier for me if they had.

I tend to have a hard time recovering from c-sections. The first time, I was in agonizing pain for weeks.** The second time, I did much better; I shunned the compression wrap, so maybe that helped. But now I'm having pains that I can only assume are due to adhesions (because I am not letting them cut me back open to confirm, thankyouverymuch). It's the only reason I can think of that doing cobra pose would cause a bolt of pain to shoot up just one side of my abdomen. I'm also having considerable sacroiliac joint pain. Which is probably from the pregnancy, not the Cesarean, but either way puts a damper on my yoga practice.

Despite all that, deep down I know I'd jump at the chance to do it all again if I were just a little younger. I like the age gap between Anya and Kai, but by the time Kai is 3 I will be nearly 44. Which is pushing it in terms of having children. So, reluctantly, I am done having babies.

Would I recommend an elective c-section? Oh my god, no. Hell no. Never in life. If the baby will come out the hole the baby was meant to come out of, let it. But if you need the procedure to protect your health, the baby's health, or simply to get the baby out, by all means have it. It's not as bad as you think. (Neither is formula, but that is a post for another time.) It will be awful, but you will forget in time just how awful. And when it's all over, you get a cute baby.

And that is my c-section story.

*I am terrified of suffocating when I am pregnant. An oddly specific fear, I know.
**Yes, I took my all my medicine. Women who don't boggle my mind. I was not in the least too doped up to enjoy my baby, and they just filleted you like a fish, for heaven's sake. Take the drugs!

Lies I tell my son

My son and I meditate together.

I downloaded the Calm app from Google Play, hoping to incorporate some meditation into my daily routine. I need some calm in my life. And the app does help. Meditation is not a daily habit yet, but I am working on it.

Kai loves the app. Loves the background noises (both music and water, though he likes the rain best), loves the app wallpapers, loves the soothing narration. We meditate sometimes while nursing. He often falls asleep. As do I. It's lovely.

Even when we are not listening to the app, I try to incorporate some of that peace into our nursing sessions. I cradle him close, gently rock him, and tell him that we have all the time in the world. I tell him that we have nothing else to do. Nowhere else to be. Nothing to worry about.

He believes me, because he is 5 months old. In his eyes, there is nothing I don't know.

I want to believe me. I run and run and do and do, every waking minute. I want to believe I can take this time to enjoy him, my last baby. My precious boy.

The nice thing about these lies is that the more I tell them, the more true they become.

And then, you remembered

The voice in my head sounds an awful lot like Dr. Moon* since I became a mother.

Me: [shampooing hair] Oh, crap -- I forgot to get the leftover cash and ride tickets out of the pocket of my shorts.

Dr. Moon: And then, you remembered.

Me: I will get them out just as soon as I get out of the shower.

Of course, by the time I have finished showering, I have completely forgotten.

Several days later, I enter the kitchen and see a wadded-up dollar bill on the kitchen table.

Me: That's from my pocket, isn't it? That's the money I was going to get out before we did laundry.

Dr. Moon: And then, you forgot.

Me: So where's the rest of it? [go to the basket of clean clothes, discover the extra bills mixed in with the laundry -- but not the ride tickets] I don't see yellow paper shreds on everything. Where are the tickets?

Dr. Moon: And then, you remembered.

Me: [locate tickets in watch pocket of said shorts -- curled, and crisp, but still intact]

Snuck the cash into her treasure box,
but these are mine.

This kind of thing happens all the time. I've taken to creating multiple to-do lists on my phone, with reminders that pop up throughout the day. Not just stuff to buy or appointments, but things like "clean out the fridge" and "trim the kids' nails." Because if I don't do that, I end up with a fridge full of rotting food and a face full of scratches. (No, that is not a zit on my chin. The baby is in a grabby phase.)

So if you see me bent over my phone, don't automatically assume that I am playing Candy Crush.** Most likely I am looking at my list, trying to remember what it is I am forgetting.

*Obligatory Doctor Who reference.
**Like I have time for that stuff. If I manage to game, it's gonna involve a Sim or a REALLY big sword.

One small scoot changes everything

The other night, I set Kai in the middle of the living room floor so I could check on the homemade breast milk/banana custard* I was baking for him. When I returned to the living room, he'd scooted four feet and was under the end table. In less than a minute.

The next night, I let him have an extended tummy-time session while his sister and I played Wii Fit. And he finally managed to get up on all fours and crawl a bit. It's still a challenge, but if past milestones are any indication, it's a challenge he will master in a matter of days.

Time to babyproof everything. Again. It'll be even more challenging this time around, as we have Anya's teensy tiny toys to contend with.

And my teensy tiny baby is no longer so teensy. Which means I will no longer have teensies in the house until my kids start bringing them home.

I'm both excited and sad about this new stage. I can't wait to go through the discovery stages with Kai; to me, that's one of the most fun parts of motherhood, watching him experience everything for the first time. But he has been such a joy that I'm sad to see his tiny baby days leave. Especially since he is the last; I'm too old, and too squeamish about having another c-section, to contemplate more children.

I've always been resistant to change, though. So I will try to accept this new stage, and all of the ones to come, a bit more gracefully than I have in the past.

As I was typing this up, my daughter came in, kissed Kai on the head, and grinned. "Hi, Blue Eyes!" she chirped. He beamed back at her. Despite the snags and bumps, they really do love each other. A timely reminder that as these treasured days pass, even better ones are around the corner.

*Yes, I feel all crunchy granola mom just typing that. Even though the only reason I baked it is because I made more milk than he wanted the other day and he refuses to drink from a bottle. The custard was, by the way, a complete failure. More milk soup with banana mashed in it than custard. I have never made custard before, so I don't know what went wrong. Perhaps my milk is not fatty enough? Or the recipe was wrong? More experimentation is needed.

Cry me a river

One side effect of motherhood that I did not expect is how emotional it's made me. I have always been a bit on the stoic side. I hate the vulnerability I feel when others see my emotions, so I learned over the years to stuff them down. Eventually, I stopped feeling them quite so much -- with a few exceptions, of course. (Obviously, loss hurts me...I'm not Spock, for pete's sake.) But since I had kids, I am overwhelmed by emotion.

Towards my children, it makes sense. Regarding issues that affect children in general, I understand. That I bawled my eyes out at Sarah's Key is not shocking; it's a beautifully written piece about a horrific period in history, specifically centering on tragedy involving small children, which I read while the severely sleep-deprived mother of a newborn. (It's a wonder I was able to finish the book, to be honest. I've put books down for less since then.)

But it's more than that. I cry at NCIS episodes. Stupid memes on Facebook. The thought of bad things happening to anyone, ever. Stuff that made me cry before I had kids -- Six Feet Under, say, or Hearts in Atlantis*? I can't even.

A friend of mine described having a child as having her heart outside of her body, walking and talking and vulnerable. And she is not wrong. But that's not the whole of it. I feel like a pulsing wound sometimes, and every bit of grit or puff of air is more than I can bear.

Some of it, I'm sure, is hormonal. It doesn't take a PhD to see the effect having two children has had on me hormonally. (For good or ill...and some of it is extremely good. The lack of endometriosis symptoms is enough to keep me breastfeeding until Kai decides to stop.) But I don't think it's all hormonal.

I can't say I am 100% comfortable with this new aspect of myself, but perhaps it will serve me in the long run. I imagine an emotional mother is a better parent than a stoic one.

Not all emotions are bad.

*The book, of course.

Co-parenting

I always thought co-parenting was something that separated parents did. But now I see that it is very much a part of every parenting experience. Some parents just do it better than others.

We are all individuals. We come from different parenting environments. And we bring all that -- all our hopes and dreams for our kids, our own values and hangups and flaws, and all of our parents' strengths and quirks -- to the parenting table. Where they mesh or butt heads with those qualities in the other parent. And if other adults spend a great deal of time with the child, it gets even more muddled.

It's no wonder our kids are confused. They are being raised by a cacophony.

Co-parenting, I see now, is an attempt to boil the cacophony down and provide a unified voice for the children. It is the opposite of "Go ask your mother." It is saying, "This is what we do, and this is who we are, and this is what we value." And it is unbelievably frickin' hard sometimes.

For instance, R thinks I am ridiculous for banning the word "retarded." He thinks it is a harmless synonym for "stupid." I find it ugly and hurtful. I chastise him (gently) when he uses it. He rolls his eyes -- but has at least stopped using it so often.

And that is a small issue. There are hundreds -- thousands -- of little things like this that come up in the course of a day. What do we enforce? What do we let slide? What behavior do we model? What behavior do we model that we really wish they wouldn't pick up? Do we follow the pediatrician's advice or our own instincts? What is the end result we are hoping for from our children, and how do we think we can attain that outcome?

R and I approach parenting differently. He relies on instinct; when in doubt, he does what his parents did. I am learning to trust my instincts, which is why we co-sleep, and why we started solids a month early. But if I am unsure, I kneel before the altar of Google and read for an hour before deciding. (I also have my pediatrician and Poison Control on speed dial.) So we can, and do, project mixed messages. But now, five months into Kid 2, we are starting to work as a single unit. We recognize our strengths and weaknesses, and each other's. And often without saying a word, we pick up each other's slack. The end goal: A unified front, a reliable safety net, and a consistent parental presence.

That's co-parenting.

Part of our co-parenting approach is to do what we can to keep the kids home with us, instead of foisting them on my parents or sending them to daycare. Which means R has had to work jobs with hours that complement mine, as I am the breadwinner. Those jobs are often low paying, and all too frequently nonexistent. He currently has a job that serves all our needs: It pays well, and offers him full-time hours in a condensed schedule -- 12-hour days Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. But it's taken him four years to find such a gig. And, being a temp job, it could disappear at a moment's notice.

I won't say it's been easy, but we've made it work. Because it is important to us that we be the ones who raise our children.

What amazes (and infuriates) me is the way some people act when they learn of our arrangement. Like he is mooching off of me, or slacking off. Even people who have stayed at home with their own children. (Have you spent your every waking moment with a rambunctious 3-year-old? Trust me, it's more than a full-time job. I am jealous of SAHMs, but also beyond relieved that I am not one.) If he had a high-paying job, our roles would be reversed; but because I am a woman, no one would bat an eye -- though some might judge me for giving up my job to raise our kids.

Being a SAHD is a man's job. A man takes care of his children. In whatever way is most needed by his family.

Hair

My housecleaning efforts are largely an effort to control the tide of hair.

I have long hair again. During the Great Postpartum Shorning of 2011/2012, I donated a total of 20 inches to Locks of Love. (Two donations; my hair was long, but not that long.) My hair now reaches the middle of my back again. And as I have mentioned, I'm in the postpartum shed phase; I leave great hairballs in the shower, and R has to unclog the bathroom sink every other month. 

Mild tangent: My hairstylist (shout out to Susan Harris, a goddess among stylists, who truly gets my hair) really outdid herself this time. I haven't had a trim since early March, and am only now starting to look shaggy. And I'm not even sure if it's because my ends are getting raggy or if it's because I'm starting to replace some of the hair that's fallen out; no matter where I part my hair, I have these spiky little duck fuzz sprouts along the part. Either way, not bad for 6 months. Time for a touch-up, though.

R's hair is also to the middle of his back. And he's balding. (Sorry, babe.) He used to leave 3-4 hairs in the drain catcher, which I could see if I tilted my head and squinted. (He has baby fine blonde hair.) Now he's leaving a visible pile. Not so bad in the shower, but I'm vacuuming up wads of it from the floor. And picking hairs off the baby constantly.

Anya has the longest hair of all -- it's down to her waist, and crazy thick. She doesn't lose hair like we do, but she still contributes to the mess. I almost had her talked into getting it trimmed, but she got cold feet at the last minute. 

So yeah...we're hairy.

Haircuts are, as you've probably guessed, infrequent around here. I trim my bangs and Anya's bangs once a month. (R has no bangs. I trim his hair maybe once a year.) I go to the salon once or twice a year to get my ends evened up, but I'm the only one.

And now I have a son. I do not intend for him to be a long-haired toddler. (Can you imagine the hair we'd have then? No, thank you.) But I know the limits of my hair-cutting ability; I have made more than one boyfriend look silly. I can trim bangs, and I can cut long, all-one-length hair, That's pretty much it. So I am going to have to find a pediatric hair stylist at some point.

At least Kai's hair grows more slowly than his sister's. I'd already trimmed her bangs by the time she was his age.

Information overload

When I first saw TL;DR, I thought it was incredibly rude. If you didn't read it, keep that to yourself; don't criticize someone's work when the issue is your laziness.

But I've become that guy. I don't say TL;DR. But I DR. I skimmed it.

In any click-worthy article, I skip the lead-in and go straight to the meat -- the recipe, the list, the slideshow. I don't read intro text. I don't read articles longer than 2 pages -- 3 if I am deeply interested in the topic. I don't watch videos; I read faster than you talk (though I will read a transcript if you have one). I have limited internet time and a hungry mind: Get to the point. (Though the thought of having a port grosses me out, I really wish I could download information like in The Matrix. How much time that would save!)

All of this is interesting, if not downright disturbing, to me as an editor. But I know I'm not alone. Which is another reason why I'm easing up on the long-winded blog articles; if I wouldn't read them, why bother writing them?

I am not my nipples

Well, actually, right now I kinda am. My life revolves around them: How accessible they are, if there is anything coming out of them, if there is presently a baby attached to one of them. I eat oats not just for breakfast, but several times a day. I drink gallons of lactation tea, take fenugreek and prenatal vitamins. I don't take any other medications, either because they would interfere with my tenuous lactation or because they could be transmitted through the milk to my child. (I do not consume so much as an Altoid for fear of rocking the milk production boat.) I wear only v necks, tank tops/camis, and shirts that button or zip; crew necks are for another year. My bras all have escape hatches; I spent close to $100 on each of them, because I am a weird size even among the lactating. I rarely leave home without my child, and only go on short outings even when he is with me, making sure I plan for breastfeeding stops and drink refills. I don't go anywhere I can't breastfeed.

To my son, the universe is not heliocentric, but areolacentric. And thus my life has become focused on my nipples.

I'm wanting to move this blog over to WordPress, but the current name is taken there. I'm kind of tired of it anyway, so I don't mind the renaming; I just don't know what to rename it. I want something that reflects me. Not just my status as a mom, but who I am overall. Problem is, I don't quite know how to sum that up. Especially now, when I feel like I am hardly more than a walking nipple.

Insert crack about body shaming here

After my daughter was born, my figure bounced back pretty quickly. I had a little saggy skin on my abdomen, but otherwise I returned to normal almost immediately. I was back in my old clothes at 6 weeks; only the tenderness of my scar kept me in yoga pants until I returned to work.

Not so this time. Well, I'm pretty much back where I was when I got pregnant, plus a couple extra pounds that are most likely attributable to breastfeeding. But I was hoping I'd be back where I was before I started trying to get pregnant. They tell you breastfeeding burns 500+ calories a day, and that the pounds just melt off.

They lie.

Oh, I suppose they're not lying. But that is not true of all of us. Some of us just stop losing weight, and it takes Herculean efforts to shed 2 lbs. 

I know why: The fat deposits keeping me out of my old jeans help fuel (and indeed perhaps even trigger) breast milk production. The fat that I adore on my son's thighs is a direct result of the fat on mine. So it's really a good thing that I put on those extra pounds before I tried to get pregnant; I probably would not be able to breastfeed otherwise.

Doesn't mean I like the way I look, though. I feel like I'm in someone else's body. Thick through the middle, tree trunk thighs, flat butt (okay, that part I'm cool with, after going all Kardashian before I got pregnant), huge (for me) boobs. (Why did I ever think I wanted big boobs? They are miserable.)

Blurry gif stolen from FB. Yes, I am a C-section Queen. I can deal with that. It's everything else.

It's not that I'm wishing for a more socially acceptable figure. I'm not trying to meet anyone else's standards, or gain any outside approval. It's not a bad body -- lots of people would be happy to have it, I know. It's that it is not my body. I don't know how to dress it. I squish where I never used to squish. And jiggle. Everything jiggles. I feel...foreign.

I love what this body does. I adore being able to feed my son. I am proud of every roll of fat on his round little body. I love how close we are because of the time we've spent breastfeeding. There's that.

I know it is totally uncool of me to admit this stuff. I'm supposed to be all "I love my babymaking body." And I don't want my daughter to hear me dis my bod. So I try to keep a lid on my angst. But I sure would like to feel like myself again. Just some scrap of who I used to be.

I also really don't want to have to go buy all new clothes.

Waste not, judge not

I'm currently putting out feelers to try to find someplace to donate Kai's old diapers and the powdered formula that formula companies always manage to foist upon you when you are pregnant. I hate to just throw these things out, because I know in my heart that there are moms out there that desperately need them. But I don't know how to get them into their hands. Hopefully I will make contact with a group or organization that can help.

And if that organization can manage to do so without passing judgement on the moms, more the better. The web sites and resource lists I've come across so far make me sick. Making moms prove they need help...making them take classes to earn diapers and baby needs.

What. the. everloving. F.

I am seriously considering starting my own damn charity. One where you don't have to do anything to get help but ask. One with no minimum age requirements for the mothers. (Again, whisky tango foxtrot!) Because the person you're really punishing by withholding charity is the baby. And no matter what you think of the mother's situation and choices, the baby had nothing to do with it.

Asshats.

My big girl

Anya keeps telling me she's a big girl. Usually the context is something she wants to do without help that I don't want her to do without help, like making me a cup of tea -- real, almost-boiling tea, not tea-party tea -- or changing her brother's poopy diaper. (Seriously...where did I get this kid? She is sweet beyond words. But also, ay yi yi. If she's this independent now, her teen years will be the death of me.)

She has little-baby moments. Where she wants to be picked up and cuddled and coddled and taken care of. No problem. I can do that. It's hard to believe that as recently as this past February, she looked and acted like -- and was -- a toddler. My baby girl. Round cheeks and pudgy belly and cuddles. And now...now she is a child. A preschooler. All long legs and maturity and helpfulness.

She holds conversations. She introduces herself and her entire family to parents in stores. She never fails to ask how you're doing, and will inquire about illnesses and injuries if she knows you've had them. She compliments your clothes and asks where you got them. She wants to know everyone's name. (If no name is provided, she dubs he/she/it Chocolate Candy Cane. No, I don't know why.) Her enunciation is getting better; strangers can understand much of what she says now, with little translation from me.

My baby girl is still in there. She still tantrums. Still pouts when she doesn't get her way. She wants my lap and her Mimi's lap  all to herself. Still needs to rub my earlobe as she falls asleep. There are growing pains, and new-sibling pains; she liked being the doted-upon baby, and sometimes resents the interloper (though he is "cute-cute") and the expectation that she be more mature now. She lashes out, acts up, goes "purple Minion." But she also rubs my back when I am tired. Talks soothingly to me when I start to lose it. Sings to her brother when he's teething, and makes him laugh when he's cranky. Helps me clean house on Saturday morning.

My big girl.

Running on empty

I've worked at least 8 hours a day for the past seven days, and will likely work 10ish per day for the next five.

My air conditioner broke down Saturday, and it took two days to get it looked at. It's still not fixed, either. Hopefully tomorrow.

I went under again this month. And my taller half worked another short weekend.

My daughter has been...well, a spoiled brat since spending the weekend with her grandparents. As an only child, I do not use those words lightly. I thought the "terrible" was supposed to end at 3.

My back hurts, my head hurts, my hands and wrists ache. Bad enough to wear this thing.

In this heat.

My sinuses are clogged from having the fans going 24/7, and of course I can't take anything for that.

I have had zero time to myself in days; I tried to sneak in a self-pity cry while showering last night, and even that was interrupted.

It's been one long effing week, and this one isn't looking any better from the front end.

I'm outta mojo, steam, happy thoughts...whatever you use to carry you through times like this. And none of the usual tricks are bringing it back. (Well, I haven't tried going for a walk. If I can't have a quick shower ugly cry, I certainly can't go for a walk.)

Times like this are the ones that make me miss having friends I actually see from time to time. Typing at people is great and all, but I could probably do with the occasional cuppa with some one sympathetic.

Preferably somewhere air conditioned.