Birth stories

I can tell by the gentle whoosh of air that the title of this post just sent about half of you dashing out the door. Which is fine. Birth stories aren't for everyone.

For those who are left, here is a great birth story I just read. I cannot remotely relate to it, but then again I can. As can anyone who has given birth. (Just read it...it's funny. Great blog.)

My birth stories are kind of dull. I had moments of timing contractions, sure, but they didn't come to anything. There was no gush of water, no frantic dash to the hospital. No dramatic entrance, no raised voices. Each time I gave birth, it was more like a doctor's appointment. I sat in a waiting room, then was calmly led to another room to be prepped, then wait some more. I even had time (and the pain relievers) to be bored.

Nobody talks about boredom in association with childbirth. Certainly not one of the parents, and definitely not the mother. But I'm here to tell you I was bored during labor.

I've known people who know every detail of their entrance into the world. (I am one of them.) I've also known people who barely know what town they were born in.

Most of what fiction tells us of childbirth is the same tale, over and over. The water breaking. Mayhem. Slapstick comedy, or violins and drama. Screaming, too...always screaming.

I didn't scream. Not once. I cried, both times. But that's as close to the stereotypical "lady in childbirth" as I came.

I think it's important that we mothers tell our stories, rather than letting writers retell the same tired yarn over and over. Because not all birth is the same. Because there is too much secrecy about it. (I had to find out from a comedian that there was a good chance I'd poop during labor.* Seriously...this is need-to-know information, people.)

My kids will know everything. I went through a lot to bring them here, and I want them to know that. I am hoping they will have children of their own someday, and I want them to know what to expect.

Besides, every superhero needs an origin story.


*I didn't, by the way. One of the bennies of the hack-and-slash approach to childbirth. There aren't many, so you take them where you can.

Because everyone deserves a second chance

Anya and I were reading her "big sister" book.

Me: You are such a good big sister.

Anya: Yeah.

Me: I always wanted to be a big sister, you know, but I never got to be.

Anya: Oh yeah?

Me: Yep. I used to ask for a little brother or sister every year for Christmas. But I never got one. That's why I am so happy that we have baby Kai.

Anya: Yeah. But you will be a big sister someday!

Me: Um...I think that ship has sailed. Mimi is too old to have babies now.

Anya: But when I am a big girl, I will have a baby in my tummy, and it will be a girl, and it will be you! And then you will be a little girl, and I will have a baby Kai in my tummy, and then you will have a cute-cute baby brother! And then you will get to be a big sister.

Me: Really?

Anya: Yep!

Me: Well, okay then! I can't wait.

Why I wish I'd had the internet as a kid

When I was a child, I loved going to the library. The bookstore was my favorite -- all those brand-new books, organized by genre, just waiting to come home and carry me away on new adventures -- but the library was far more vast. It wasn't just fiction; there were books on all topics. My favorites were the how-to books. Projects and patterns. Origami. Science experiments. Recipes. I ate it up. My local bookstore likely had some of these sorts of books, too, but nothing like the selection the library had.

But I lived in a very small town -- neither the library nor my local bookstore held a candle to what is now available on the internet. Which is why it frustrates me so that my daughter spends most of her internetting watching adults open and play with kids' toys.

Still, I don't restrict screen time, and other than the parental controls (oh, okay, and the occasional nerve-grating video) don't ban her from watching anything because I don't want her to get secretive about her viewing. I feel that the way to protect her from the darker side of the internet later on is to create a level of trust now. Also, I believe that kids learn best when you step back and let them. So I do.

And day by day, I am seeing evidence that she is at least occasionally using her tablet to learn. Like this.

She calls this Strawberry Swirl.

She watched a video on repurposing eos balm containers, and then took it upon herself to create new balms by mixing up chunks of her (quite impressive, really) lip balm collection. We are addicted to eos balms around here, so she had quite a few containers to fill. And fill them she has. Considering the fact that a) she is four, and b) she's never done anything like this before, I think she did a really good job. (I am studiously avoiding the mess in her "lab," and trying not to think about the dress she ruined making her new balms. Focus on the pride, Mommy.)

A while back, I pinned a recipe for making lip balm that uses these eos containers. I haven't tried it yet, but I've been meaning to. Now I know who to go to for pointers.

Growth spurts

Over the weekend, the fact that my children are growing was particularly evident. Anya, while she still had her Terrible Fours moments, was unusually mature and helpful. She listened. She did as I asked. She helped. She cleaned her room, ate healthy snacks instead of begging for junk food, and -- what impressed me -- she anticipated my needs and met them before I even asked.

She's four.

Kai also impressed me with the things he is capable of. Like when he stood in his high chair to reach for the bird feeders drying on the counter. (Mini Mommy heart attack at that one...Anya never even did that!) When he signed "milk" while nursing: milk milk milk milk milk. When he snatched the food I was breaking into small, gummable bits and ate it like a toothed person, by taking bites out of it. When he let me know he was awake by sitting up and saying, very plainly, "Mom."

One day, I had a baby and a headstrong preschooler. The next, a toddler and a little girl.

I miss my baby girl, my tiny baby boy. My heart aches for her little pudgy fingers, his contented newborn sighs. But I am also really excited about this next phase. I will get to know my daughter as a person. I will get to watch my son take his first steps and learn how to...everything. I will get to watch them play together and become even closer friends.

I, too, am growing. I look at how much I accomplish even on an off day, and I see how far I have come. I am becoming who I was always meant to be, and it is amazing.

Today's vocabulary lesson: Ornery

My daughter is ornery. In fact, one of her nicknames is Ornery Anya -- and, as it turns out, a large part of the reason for that nickname is where I come from.

Let me back up a minute.

It bugs me when words vary wildly in spelling and pronunciation. Makes me worry I am spelling or saying the word incorrectly. I get that some letters are silent, and that shifts in language do things like make us write colonel yet say kernel. Fine. But how in the heck do we get ahnree from ornery? I asked myself.

To Google! Where I discovered that the dictionary and I have vastly different definitions and pronunciations for this word. I have always used it, and have always heard it used, to mean an impish, mischievous person. A prankster. Someone who does things like, say, light a string of firecrackers in the bathroom while his brother is in the shower. Or someone who, in retaliation, lights a string of firecrackers under the open window his brother is sitting in front of -- days later, when the original firecracker incident has been forgotten.

My uncles. Both gone now, RIP. And both ornery. In my sense, not Merriam-Webster's.

The* dictionary says an ornery person is crabby. I am not unfamiliar with this definition; I've seen it used in books, and have even heard people use it to describe old people and mean dogs. In that sense, I've always heard it pronounced orn-er-ree.

The dictionary also pronounces it orn-er-ree. Like it's spelled. So my faith in spelling has been restored.

I am not at all surprised that I pronounce it differently; where I come from, you warsh things and write with an ink pin. I then moved to a place where vowels are afraid to travel alone; here, you write with an eenk pee-in. I've long since accepted that the way I say things and the way I am used to hearing them does not necessarily mesh with the rest of the country. But how did I end up with two definitions and two pronunciations?

Then I came across an entry in a blog I used to follow before I had kids and lost any semblance of free time: Language Log. TL;DR version: While the dictionary has one definition and pronunciation, there is a second definition and pronunciation that is also widespread, that coincides with the usage I'm familiar with. This usage is most prevalent in the Midwest.

I'm from the Midwest, so...there you go.

Wiktionary also acknowledges a second use, though they attribute it to the South rather than the Midwest. (I'm finding more and more that there are many linguistic overlaps between the South and the Midwest.) Which explains why my non-Midwestern friends use this same definition and pronunciation.

I did notice that Urban Dictionary acknowledges the secondary definition/pronunciation, but they spell it awnry or anry. You'd think I would prefer that spelling to ornery, as it is more closely aligned with the pronunciation I use and also acknowledges the distinction in definition by treating it like an entirely separate word. But I guess I've grown accustomed to the original spelling, because awnry just looks wrong to me. Maybe because it's one letter from awry, which has a totally different pronunciation. I don't like anry any better, though, as it's one letter short of angry. No, though in my mouth the word starts with an a sound, I still feel like the original spelling is better in writing.

The misspellings would look better with Anya, though. Spoken aloud, ahnree Anya rolls off the tongue, but seeing it in print -- ornery Anya -- is jarring. Awnry Anya at least looks like the two words sound alike.

A rose by any other name, I guess, would still be a little stinker.

I wish my uncles had lived to meet her. They'd have gotten a kick out of her.

*I know there is not one authoritative dictionary, so I give you definitions from eight -- take your pick.

Do what I say, not what I do

I've been working with Anya on good hand washing practices. We sing Daniel Tiger. ("If you have to go potty, stop and go right away / Flush and wash and be on your way!") I remind her each time she uses the toilet. I make her wash her hands even when she has me wipe her. (Her latest ploy in getting out of washing her hands: "But Mommy, I didn't wipe me! The germs are on you!") Ultimately, though, what it comes down to is that she's had inconsistent modeling.

Her grandparents always wash their hands after they use the bathroom, or help her use the bathroom. I always wash mine after helping her, and usually wash after using the toilet myself. (At home, I'm sometimes lax about it after peeing. I used to subscribe to Dr. Gott's position* that it's not medically necessary unless you get urine on your hands, and old habits die hard.) R used to never wash his hands at home, but he's also trying to reform so we can provide a united front.

Thing is, kids never mimic the behavior you want them to.

I hit upon a stroke of genius, or so I thought. I let her pick her own hand soap. (I had been making our own, which naturally is unscented and uncolored and thus unfun.) Pink, of course. And cherry blossom scented. Her middle name is Sakura, which means cherry blossom. Plus, the stuff smells pretty good. Win, right?

Well, yes. She started washing her hands without being asked. Sometimes without even doing anything beforehand that required a hand washing. And she used plenty of soap -- five or six pumps. She unfortunately isn't as good at rinsing soap off as she is at putting soap on, so when she used half a bottle in three days, she ended up with red, chapped hands.

I banned her from soap for a day or so, and her hands are healing. But I cannot talk her into using less soap.

"Just one pump is plenty," I insisted. "Look at all the bubbles one pump makes!"

Later, I was washing my own hands, and realized the problem: I am in the habit of using three to four pumps of soap. I'm using watered-down foaming soap,** but she of course doesn't see the distinction. And even when I'm using the liquid soap she uses, I never stop before two pumps. In public restrooms, I use even more.

It's ingrained, though. Even though I realize what I'm doing and want to stop, I can't. My palm has a mind of its own, and it is not satisfied with a solitary pump of soap. So why would my daughter think it's enough?

This sort of thing was the main reason I quit smoking. I didn't want to wait until she was older and then have to recondition her to think cigarettes were bad. So I quit, and R switched to vaping. And now she walks around puffing on a Capri Sun straw that she calls her "mod."

I can't win.

*Can't put my hands on the original article, but there's a couple of links of the fallout for your amusement.
**The perfume in the soap I bought is far too strong for me at full strength.

Life after fenugreek

It's hard to say how my supply is doing. Kai isn't nursing so much during the day now that he's older, so he does most of his breastfeeding overnight. These past few days, he's been waking up and completely draining each breast* without falling asleep, which means I am not getting a full, uninterrupted nights sleep. I have thus begun to describe myself using a mash-up word I saw on FB the other day: irritired. I am extremely irritired lately.

Still, I don't know that the milkathons are because he's not getting enough milk. He's also not had a decent bowel movement in a few days. Some small, dryish poos, but nothing substantial. So he could just be constipated. (He's recently upped his solid food intake considerably, so a little constipation is to be expected.) We've loaded him with prune juice, so we'll see if that helps. If not, I'll go get some coconut water or something to see if I can't kickstart the boob juice without fenugreek. Or maybe power pumping would help. I hope it doesn't come to that, though...I hate pumping.

Anyway. On the topic of breastfeeding, I saw this great article about extended BFing. (Short answer: No. But read the article...it's fascinating.) Now I am more determined to keep nursing Kai, until he's ready to quit. The comfort and security it brings is worth all the pain and inconvenience in the world.

Just forgive me if I'm a bit irritired from time to time. I'm growing a boy here.

*By "drained," I mean he's nursed until the flow slows down, at which point he starts "milking" the nipple with his gums to try stimulating the flow. It bloody hurts, and is impossible to sleep through. It's usually my cue to switch him to the other breast. He used to fall asleep after draining both breasts, but not this week. This week he has just kept milking both breasts until I take them away, at which point he decides it's play time and smacks his sister in the head.

Impromptu cleaning day

R overslept Saturday and missed work. Which means I had a helper, and got way more cleaning done than I had hoped.

Which was good, because it turns out there was mold growing on our windowsills. Not just mildew. Mold. Green, slimy, yucky....yeuggh.

The hives, the congestion, the repeated sinus issues, my red eyes -- it's all making sense. Especially since the worst rooms were the bedroom and my office.

So we scrubbed and washed and sprayed everything with mold control spray. I was still stuffy the next morning, but am hoping this helps.

I also cleared out some of the knick-knacks from the bedroom, to make it easier to dust in there. I had almost all of them put away anyway, but I have since put up the rest. And I washed up the curtains, pillows, and other infrequently cleaned things, just for grins. I still have Anya's room and the kitchen to go, but the house is in pretty good shape otherwise.

Dealing with my allergies is a top priority this year. Not just for me, but for my kids, as it seems they have each inherited at least some of my sensitivities. I don't want them to go through what I have. I want to get a handle on things early, so they don't spend half their lives sick.

Again with the hives

A new day, a new rash. This one starts at my hips and spreads downward, mostly ending at my knees but with a few intrepid explorers reaching the tops of my feet.

What the hell am I reacting to?

Last night we had green bean casserole and mac & cheese for dinner. (Yes, I know...terribly nutritious. It was fast and easy, okay?) I paired mine with unsweetened applesauce and Ovaltine. So tomatoes are apparently exonerated, but wheat, dairy, and chocolate are still on the chopping block. And I am left with the decision to either take Benadryl and drag all day or skip it and suffer.

Actually, that's not entirely true. There's a third option. I just took some Allegra. Allegra tends to give me migraines, but you know what? Today that doesn't sound so bad.

I am so very tired of itching. But I am also tired of being tired. I have things to do. Also, it's supposed to be warmer today -- I'd planned on taking the kids to the park.

More than anything, I'm tired of my allergies.

Earlier, Anya pointed to a picture in her coloring book. "Can I have a pet?" she asked, enunciating carefully.

"Oh, honey, you know Mommy is allergic to dogs and cats," I told her. "Their fur makes Mommy sick."

"I know," she said. "But what about a lizard? Do lizards make your nose itch?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't think so. We'll talk about it when you're older." (I'm not really a fan of lizards.)

I can always tell when she really wants something when she takes extra pains in her pronunciation. The only word she didn't say perfectly was "lizard"; it came out more like "lih-ard." Pretty darn close, especially for her. I'm not really a pet person, but when she tries that hard, I wish I could be.

With the way my allergies are going, though, I'm really not willing to take the chance.

Welcome to the doldrums

Anya is bored. Never mind that Santa lavished her with gifts not quite a month ago, and that Mimi the Good keeps giving her additional "prizes" for things like breathing and smiling. No material thing is going to do; she wants to play with someone.

In a year or so, Kai will do nicely, but right now he's a baby. He's cute, but not the best playmate. Her friends are older, and thus in school. I have to work. Mimi and Poppy are at the doctor's office. And Daddy is cleaning up the carnage in the kitchen.

Usually I am good at coming up with things to alleviate her boredom, but I still have the Benadryl Stupids. My rash is better, but better is not gone, and I'm starting to break the skin where I scratch. So, Benadryl. I'm only taking a dose or two a day, but that's enough to knock my IQ back 50 points.

I am also highly lacking in motivation. Christmas is easy; there's always something fun to do or look forward to. January is more about hunkering down under a blanket and watching Netflix. Anya is tired of Netflix. (I know!) And my brain is sputtering. I'm trying to come up with a fun activity for a 4-year-old that doesn't involve leaving the house, but what sounds most fun to me is a warm bed and a long nap.

I've been trying to talk her into taking a dance class, both to help her make friends and to give her something to look forward to, but she is resisting thus far. She wants to take swimming lessons. Which don't start until April, and are thus no help in these doldrums.

I'm covered in bees!

Post title stolen from this Eddie Izzard bit, which has been stuck in my head for four days now.

Ahem. Anyway. Because I write these posts ahead of time (usually not much, but a little), what you don't know about Friday is that I woke covered in hives. Or, you know, I thought I was covered. I had huge hives on my hips, back, and stomach, and a few small ones on my thighs and forearms.

At first I thought it was related to the respiratory allergies -- just an additional symptom. My dehumidifier came in Wednesday night, and we have been running it continuously ever since. The bad news is that now all my windowsills are covered in mildew, so I have quite the cleaning task ahead of me. The good news is that the windowsills are at least dry, and my respiratory junk is pretty much gone (though I did, obviously, get a bit stuffy while we were taking down the Christmas tree and cleaning the living room). My nose is not running, my eyes are much less red, and I'm no longer congested. I am not coughing and clearing my throat constantly. It's a small miracle. That noisy box is worth every penny I spent on it.

But the hives. The hives spread, and spread some more. Across my torso to my chest, neck, face, and and arms, and down my legs to my knees. (You could see the ones on my knees through my yoga pants. Puffy!) I'd been resisting taking Benadryl, because I feared the possible drop in my milk supply, but when the hives spread to my face and ears even after taking 2 teaspoons of Benadryl (one at a time, 2 hours apart -- I am extremely cautious about what I take these days), I started to freak out a little. Finally, I felt compelled to seek medical advice.

From my friendly Walgreen's pharmacist, because by this point it was 8 pm.

The pharmacist was also concerned, but not alarmed. A food allergy, he said. Take more Benadryl, he said. The adult dose this time.

I have not suffered an allergic reaction like this to a food since childhood. The occasional hive or rash, yes. An interesting evening in which my then boyfriend ate shrimp, kissed me, and my lips swelled up and itched. But this. This was like my body was having a panic attack. My skin felt both sunburned and on fire with itching. Actually, I am not sure I have ever had an allergic reaction quite like this.

After having him repeat three times what sensations should trigger a call to 911, I picked up a bottle of dye-free Benadryl and left. (What I had at home was red, because they didn't have the dye-free stuff at the store where R bought it. I am allergic to red food dye. Yep -- I probably did make things worse instead of better with those first two teaspoons.) Took my first dose in the car, then went home.

My throat never did require a call to 911, but I woke the next morning covered in even more hives. The existing ones were so big that they melded together in giant swollen continents. New hives speckled my hands and feet, swelling them to the point where I could not wear rings or constricting shoes. To the minor med I went. Got a cortisone shot and a prescription for an antihistamine, which I filled but am afraid to take because of the warnings about breastfeeding.

Sunday started with a diminished rash, but it later flared back up to an echo of its former glory. I took more Benadryl, and painted myself in hydrocortisone cream so I could sleep.

This morning dawned to a less red, but still speckly and itchy me. So I will be seeing my allergist today. I had been planning on resuming shots anyway, but now it would appear I have a second round of tests ahead of me. Which is fine; I just want to feel better.

And never go through this hive thing again.

Maybe I AM my breasts

Before I got pregnant with Anya, I wasn't even sure I was going to breastfeed. My nipples have always been problematic; if I wear the wrong bra, they bleed. Was I really going to try to feed a baby with them? What if she made them bleed? My baby would be drinking blood. While I have always enjoyed vampire stories, I didn't relish the thought of raising one.

Then hormones happened. One evening in my third trimester, I suddenly began daydreaming about breastfeeding my baby. The thought came out of nowhere, and would not let up. The mere thought of nursing my newborn filled me with warmth and happiness. Instinct really is amazing. (Let it be known that I was also pretty jazzed about changing poopy diapers. That one passed quickly.)

My poor body, though, just didn't have enough mojo to make milk after Anya was born. She took to nursing beautifully, and I cherished that time with her, but within a week it was clear that my milk was not coming in. (Well, it wasn't clear at the time. Having successfully breastfed, I can now tell you that I never produced more than trace amounts of milk for Anya.)

I was devastated. Not because I thought formula was so bad (though it is certainly not the "easy" route), but because I wanted so desperately to nurse my daughter. It made her so happy. It was easy. It was natural. And it just wasn't happening. Fenugreek, blessed thistle, Reglan (twice), power pumping...nothing helped. 

I fought. I mourned. I moved on.

When I got pregnant again, I was determined to do everything I could to ensure I could breastfeed my son. Before I got pregnant, I put on weight to bump my BMI up to 18 (mostly to help prevent miscarriages, but it also helped me breastfeed). Throughout my pregnancy, I read up on breastfeeding -- anything I could get my hands on, which was frustratingly little. The whole time I was in the hospital, I pestered the nurses to check to make sure that I had milk and that he was getting enough of it. 

Three days after Kai joined us in the world, the Milk Fairy came. I did not have nursing bras or pajamas that would contain those things. (Thankfully, they deflated a bit after a few days.)

"Ah," I thought. "This is how it's supposed to go." 

While I have fought with a precarious supply (Kai came close to being labeled Failure to Thrive during his early checkups, and even now is a bit on the slim side for his age and height), and am currently dealing with teething and distraction during our nursing sessions, for the most part nursing has been a breeze. We all get plenty of sleep. Don't have to mess with bottles, bottle warmers, formula containers, or pacifiers. And I feel he and I have such a connection because of our nursing relationship -- even more than I have with his sister.  

But my experience with breastfeeding is about more than just feeding my baby. I have learned so much about sexism and body shaming and the strange myths that persist about sex and parenthood and sin. I have learned how shamefully little many medical professionals and the public at large know about this most basic bodily function. I have been on the receiving end of snide comments and leers, while showing less skin than I do in a bathing suit. 

But I have also been supported by total strangers, both in person and online. Through Facebook and Instagram, I have discovered a whole community of women bound together by our determination to normalize breastfeeding. And I have become infinitely more comfortable in my own skin. I, who just a few short years ago was ashamed if my bra strap was showing, am now an avid public breastfeeder -- and no, I don't use a cover or a baby carrier, or wear a bunch of shirts. You'll see more cleavage on the front of any Victoria's Secret store. At least my boobs are out for a good reason.

I can't really give a comprehensive list of places I have breastfed, because I do it without a second thought now. But here's a short list:

• Doctor's waiting rooms
• Restaurants (Chili's, Newks, Subway, Longhorn, Red Robin, Milano's, Sonic, Cracker Barrel)
• Stores (Kohl's, Target, Walmart, Kroger, Whole Foods, Walgreen's, Lenscrafters)
• Several parks and playgrounds
• Front yards (mine, my parents', my in-law's)
• Fairs (Delta Fair, Munford Celebrate, July 4th fireworks)
• Social gatherings (a birthday party, a company Christmas party, a funeral)
• Assorted parking lots, including a particularly seedy gas station and a church I do not attend (during services)
• Various tweet-worthy feeds (an earthquake, a lunar eclipse)

Pretty much anywhere I've gone with my baby, I've fed him. At first, I was shy and awkward about it. Even now I get a pang sometimes, like when I nursed him while sitting in a chair in front of the mall-facing windows of Lenscrafters on one of the busiest days of the year. But ultimately, I'm more concerned with feeding my child than drawing the attention of strangers. 

Which is how it should be.

I had some breastfeeding photos taken recently, to commemorate this time in my life. I have no intention of stopping until he is ready, but I also have no idea when that will be, so I feel the need to capture the moments while I can. Of the final shots, this one is my favorite, even though he's not actually breastfeeding in it. I feel like it really captures our personalities and our bond.

Photo by the lovely Cassie Fox, www.whitedoewoman.com.

I knew that breastfeeding my son would alter the childcare experience, but I didn't expect it to change me as a person. It has, though. It's changed how I see other women, other mothers. Changed how I think about my own body. I never realized how much my perceptions were filtered through the sexualization of the female body until I stopped thinking of my breasts as sexual objects. One simple change has sent ripples through my entire world view, like waves of dominoes. I could not possibly cover all of the implications in a single blog post.

Having my daughter has taught me about being a mother, but nursing my son has taught me about being a woman. 

Edit: I just saw this video on FB, and absolutely love it. And Alyssa Milano. "I'd whip 'em out right here." THIS.

One size does not fit all

Contrary to the heading above, this is not about clothing. See, I told you I suck at titles.

No, this is about advice. I have tried to steer clear of railing at the advice heaped upon me (and every other parent alive) through various outlets because it's been done to death. I'm in the throes of it, and I bore myself mid-rant.

However, I would like to make a small exception for brewer's yeast.

I've mentioned my supply issues. (Yes, Lactation Hotline Lady, I have supply issues. Really. Relaxing and drinking more water and pumping on a schedule are not magic bullets.) I was trucking along pretty good on my OMG Oatmeal diet, though, until the Great Stomach Plague hit. I've recovered physically, and don't appear as...deflated, but I'm still not up to where I was. I'm pretty much doing all I can, food and supplement wise, to increase my supply; the only thing I do not consume on a regular basis is brewer's yeast. So this weekend, I made lactation cookies.

Normally, I shun lactation cookies. Because they're cookies, and who needs that much sugar? But I just can't do brewer's yeast in juice or oatmeal; mixing it with massive amounts of sweetener is the only way I can stomach it. Cookies it is. Two dozen cookies.

I'm not sure I can eat them.

They taste okay. If you like beer in your oatmeal cookies, which I do not. But I am a big girl -- I can deal. They don't make me gag like brewer's yeast in juice, at any rate.

But the side effects. Oh, my. Migraines and diarrhea and gas and nausea. It's a hangover. I feel like I drank the beer itself. With very little excess milk to show for my pain.

That's just not fair. I should at least be milked up.

Much as I hate to waste food, I am seriously considering chucking those cookies. I just don't think I can face feeling hungover for the next 2 to 4 weeks.

And I'm going to start taking these "universal truths" with a grain of salt. What works for other people does not necessarily work for me.

Update: Cleaning products

This post is an update of my Clean all the things post.

First off, I must admit that I have gone to the bleach side. As I've mentioned before, the fumes from most commercial cleaning products set off my allergies. (I do keep Lysol wipes on hand for poop and pee accidents, because we are going to have those for a while.) After this bout of misery, however, I am willing to spare a little shelf space for some Chlorox spray. Even if it means R has to clean the bathrooms, I think it best that we not leave such things to chance. At least until the kids are past the stomach bug years.

Still, that does not mean that I have given up on my homemade cleaners. I have simply added to my arsenal. I have, however, tweaked a few things in the intervening months, hence the update.

Personal Care
Hand soap
My recipe is the same, but I'm experimenting with making smaller batches; the amount my bottles make starts to smell rancid before we use it up. So I gave the store-bought stuff another try -- no go. I have to water it down so much (the perfumes are so strong!) that I wonder how effective it is, and even then it dries my hands out. Especially after a hand-washing fest like the Great Stomach Plague inspired. Once I perfect my ratios, I will post an updated recipe.

Body wash
I have altered this recipe a bit.

In a small bowl (I use a 4-cup liquid measuring cup, to make it easier to pour into my pump bottle), combine:
3/4 cup filtered water
1 tablespoon glycerin
1 teaspoon xanthan gum
3/4 cup castile soap

Stir. Then stir some more. Stir until your arm gets tingly. This stuff takes a bit to come together. If the last lumps of xanthan gum just refuse to incorporate, you can pour the mixture into your pump bottle, put the lid on, and shake vigorously. But don't worry if you have a few small lumps left over; they will dissolve on their own, with no help from you.

The xanthan gum thickens the mixture nicely, and the extra castile soap helps it be more effective at removing some sunscreens (just not the high SPF ones -- anything over, say SPF 40). Just a little xanthan gum is all you need; do not, as I did the first time out, toss in a rounded tablespoon and think you're going to get that stuff mixed in. Not happening.

The soap is still quite drying, though, so it doesn't work so well for me in the winter months. I'm researching more moisturizing recipes, and in the meantime rejoicing that I finally found a store-bought soap that doesn't kill my sinuses or break me out. (Dove Winter Care, if you're interested. Which says it will be available for a limited time only. Just my luck.)

Household Cleaners
Toilet cleaner
I am sad to concede defeat on the toilet cleaner. If I had time to clean my toilets once a week or more, this stuff would rock. As it stands, though, I am lucky to get to it every other week, and that's just too infrequently for a cleaner this mild. I did find, however, that Lysol makes a nonbleach-based cleaner (using hydrogen peroxide) that doesn't make me wheeze. I can also use Chlorox Green Works. (Though as I mentioned before, for the time being it's gonna be all bleach, all the time. At least until everyone stays well for a month.)

Dishwasher soap
Still using this stuff. I have discovered in the interim that my dishwasher sucks. So the lack of sparkliness is not necessarily the fault of my dishwasher soap. However, I have started doubling up on it, and using 4 T instead of 2 T per load. Still cheaper than store-bought.

Laundry soap
The laundry soap is still working well for us. In fact, I recently broke down and bought some "free and clear" laundry detergent, figuring that my previous reaction to it was probably pregnancy-related and I should give it another shot. Turns out Kai is allergic to it, too. (We find this out after I washed most of his clothes in it, naturally.) So it's back to the homemade stuff.

With winter here, our lack of fabric softener is once again becoming an issue. After doing some research, I tried the simplest solution ever: I line dry the items especially prone to static. (I installed a tension rod above the doorway in my laundry room for this purpose, since I can't very well dry stuff outside. It's extremely handy, and is also tucked away out of sight when not in use.) Some of my most staticky sweaters are still a little shock-inducing after line drying, but nowhere near as much as they'd be if I dried them in the dryer. Plus, line-drying is a sure-fire method to keep soft fleece items as silky as the day you bought them. (See, there are nuggets of wisdom on Pinterest!)

My quest for the perfect homemade household cleaners continues; as I improve my recipes, I will post updates here.

Be the water

So this past week has had me thinking a lot about the coming year. I'm finding that I need to make some changes in order to "be the water," so to speak. Some of it sounds very Serenity Prayer, but there's a lot of wisdom in those lines.

I need to accept that certain people are going to treat me a certain way. Always have, always will. It may not be fair, but there is no changing it. Nor I cannot cut them out of my life, so I need to adapt how I react to the treatment instead of stewing over it and then getting all bent out of shape over little things. Some days it feels like everyone is against me. This is not so. (At the very least, Baby Kai always has my back.)

I need to accept that my family's priorities are not necessarily my priorities, and do what I can to compromise rather than becoming Crazy Germaphobe Harpy Mommy. This may mean I do more work than they do. But it really is a priority to me to keep the kitchen clean, for instance, so I will just need to make time for it.

(They do need to pick up after themselves a little better, though. I found a string cheese wrapper under the bed, for Pete's sake. And an empty soda bottle behind the recliner. Like I said...compromise.)

I need to accept that my personality is a large part of what makes me so stressed out, and work with that energy rather than against it. I spent so many years wallowing in apathy that it's nice to have so many interests now. But if I let my frustration at my lack of free time rule me, I will go bonkers before the kids start school. I must resist the feeling that I am running out of time. My time is finite, yes, but odds are I have many good years left in me.

I need to take more responsibility for my own calm. Because I'm on the merry-go-round now, and it won't stop for a couple of decades at least. What's going to happen when the kids start school? Driving? Dating? College? How will I handle moving? Getting a new job? I cannot control the stresses that enter my life, but I can control how I handle them. I need to make yoga and meditation a higher priority in the coming year.

I was doing really well spinning my plates, but then I came apart emotionally when they fell due to circumstances beyond my control. I tend to assume that if I want something bad enough, I can just make it so. Sheer grit and determination, while useful, do not guarantee a win. Sometimes my bullheadedness works for me, sometimes not. I need to work on dealing with disappointment when my best efforts fail, and give myself credit for doing all I can regardless of the outcome.

So that's all nice and vague, huh? Thus far, my 2016 credo consists of "All life is precious" and "Be the water." I basically want to be Morgan from TWD, sans all those zombies and personal tragedies. It's a nice goal, but I have no idea how to translate that into a resolution list of any sort. I still have a little time for that, I guess.

Why Santa is bringing my son a doll for Christmas

Having kids has made me super sensitive to the things people say and do. The word "retarded," for example, grates my nerves worse than ever now. I know Anya's apraxia isn't exactly a huge developmental delay, and her speech is getting better all the time, but the fact is I've spent the past few years getting funny looks from strangers because my daughter is big for her age yet has the speech capabilities of a younger child. I want to slap people who use "retarded" to describe a long line or an irritating coworker or a new sitcom. Words can hurt.

I'm not innocent of the casual slurs, either. I tend to cast aspersions on the size of a man's genitalia based on the speed with which he departs from an intersection, and I have said "because he's a man" in response to questions about why my partner/my father/some random male acts against a woman's wishes. I'm trying hard to clean up my language.*

And yes, there are differences between men and women. Duh. But there is a difference between noting these differences and male bashing. Just as I am even more of a feminist since I gave birth to a daughter, I am ever sensitive to negative male stereotypes since I gave birth to a son.

I am not one for strict gender stereotypes, obviously. I am the breadwinner and the major decision maker in my household. My partner has long hair, and his favorite article of clothing is a skirt -- a manly skirt, but a skirt. So, you know, we're not all he-man/girly girl around here.

But I'm not sure how he (or the rest of the males in our family) will like the fact that I bought his son a doll for Christmas.

Look, the boy loves dolls. And his sister is not sharing hers. Most of her dolls are for ages 2+, anyway. So when he found a doll for babies while we were shopping for his sister, I bought it. It's cute -- a soft-bodied doll with a rattle in it. It's even kind of unisex -- instead of being dressed in pink, it's "wearing" an orange sleeper. And when he saw it, his little face lit up. So Santa got it for him, and anyone who can't deal with that can just take it up with Mama Bear here.

I am not planning on wearing a different parenting hat for my son than I do for my daughter. My goal is to raise children who are kind, honest, responsible people who are proud of who they are and who never feel ashamed to come to me about anything. That's a pretty universal message, I think -- no need for color coding. I do not believe that "boys will be boys" is a viable excuse for obnoxious, immoral, or dangerous behavior. The only thing I think not having a penis truly prevents my daughter from doing is writing her name in the snow without messing up her shoes. Sexual consent is not a lesson that only my daughter needs to learn; I don't want either of my children to rape or be raped.

And there's more. Always more. A million little assumptions and stereotypes and prejudices that make up our everyday experience. Each day I uncover another one.

I expect my son to do more around the house than earn a paycheck and do yard work. And if he provides me with grandchildren, I fully expect him to do his fair share of child care. Dolls allow children to pretend to care for a baby. So why shouldn't my son play with one?

If I don't teach my children to buy in to the sexist rhetoric I grew up with, perhaps they will have the chance to overcome it.

At the very least, if I can deal gracefully with the blowback from making unpopular decisions, I will be providing them an example of how to be true to themselves in the face of adversity.

*I am, in fact, far more concerned about slips like this than I am the occasional (or not so occasional) f-bomb. If the worst thing to come out of my child's mouth is the word "fuck," well, I'll take that as a sign that I win as a mother.

Ups and downs

The weekend started well. A great breastfeeding photo session, with a photographer I really clicked with. Anya had a great time at her friend's birthday party. We had dinner with Mimi and shopped a little.

Early Sunday morning, Anya started vomiting. Poor girl was sick all day, and puked hard enough to develop petechiae. Today I took her to the doctor just to make sure her lingering cough wasn't somehow to blame. Just a bug, it turns out.

Kai has been crabby and clingy; teething is my guess. Anya is alternately crabby and lovey. And select other family members have been grating on my nerves. I am in no mood to deal with outbursts and criticisms. The longer it goes on, the more irritable I become.

I'm past pissy, and nigh on to bitchy.

But this evening, I did finally complete my Christmas shopping. My girl can keep some food down. My baby is asleep on my breast. So there is some light in my evening.

A baby's tears

I am not the cry-it-out type. I won't say I never let Kai cry; there are instances in which that happens. When we're driving somewhere and either close to our destination or on a schedule. When I'm almost finished with a task and he starts fussing. When I just need a minute to collect myself. But mostly, I respond to his cries.

Before they can talk, babies cry. It's how they get our attention, let us know that something is wrong. The more urgent the issue, the more urgent the cry. Humans are hard-wired to respond to that cry, too -- even Anya can tell if Kai is hungry or tired or scared or just crabby, all from the sound of his cry. To ignore that cry is to ignore the baby's distress signal. Which creates more distress, escalating the problem instead of resolving it. So I try to make sure that when I do have to let him cry, it's for a damn good reason.

We went to get Santa pictures the other day. I knew from our dry run a few weeks back that Kai would probably not be down for it, but I brought a Christmasy sweater for him and gave it a shot. His little face crumpled the moment his tush hit Santa's knee. I gave him a moment to adjust, then immediately took him back when he continued to cry.

The crew at Santa's chair were stunned. They fully expected me to insist that we take the photo anyway. (They were trying to make Kai smile first, of course. But they didn't seem to see tears as a deal breaker.) But I don't see the point in that.

Mind you, I pushed the issue with Anya; her first Santa picture includes me, and she still looks miserable. But Anya was two. She had some concept of who Ho Ho was.

Kai hasn't even experienced a Christmas yet. Why the hell would I force him to sit on a stranger's lap and take a photo? What message does that send to him?

My social media lately is filled with photos of crying babies on Santa's lap. We laugh, we awww. And we continue to insist upon such photos, despite the blatant distress of our children. I am not innocent here; I've done it, too.

But no more. I am Kai's mother. It is my job to love and protect him. He trusts me to do that. And I try not to damage that trust any more than absolutely necessary. Vaccinations? Necessary. A Santa photo op for the holiday card? Not so much.

So I have a Santa photo with just Anya. It's gorgeous, of course. And next year, we will try again with Kai.

Why is dinner so hard?

I have a goal to eat dinner as a family. But getting my family to wait until dinnertime is only part of the problem. The other part is what the hell to fix.

My children and I are vegetarians. (Not that this is a huge issue with Kai at the moment.) So our boxed-crap options are pretty slim. And I'm sick of them all. I love pasta, but am burned out on store-bought sauce. And that's pretty much the food industry's answer to prepackaged vegetarian food, at least at my grocery store. (Oh, Schnucks, I miss you.)

My daughter thinks macaroni and cheese is a food group.

My partner thinks ramen and freezer burritos are acceptable meal options.

I have a collection of recipes that I am working to expand, but right now it's pretty small. And when I ask "What do you want for dinner?" the answers never come from my recipe box.

I tried making a menu planning board. I put the names of recipes we all like on cards and put the board in the kitchen. All we have to do is select and post a handful of recipe names each week. We did that once. The same dishes have been up there since around June.

I created a similar list on my phone. The names and recipes for all our standby meals are all there -- I just have to pick a few, then go to the store and buy what we need. But apparently even that is too much work.

When I lived alone, I made a pile of new recipes and planned menus around them. I shopped every two weeks, and tried out 4 or so recipes between shopping trips. I planned the menus to reduce food waste but still afford myself a little variety. I ate healthy food, dropped a few extra pounds, and felt great.

Suggesting we try a new recipe to this crowd is about as popular as suggesting we play a fun new game called Russian roulette. Even when I promise we can go to Sonic if it sucks.

I am not completely innocent here. I hate going to the grocery store so very much that usually I buy whatever we used the week before, toss in some healthyish junk food for Anya to nosh on, and call it done. So my pantry remains full of pasta and tomato sauce that I don't want to eat.

I need to get a handle on this before Kai is old enough to grab snacks on his own, or it'll be anarchy around here.

Flattery

The other night, after our shower, Anya was watching me brush her hair.

"No, like you," she said, indicating I should part her hair on the side, like mine. So I did.

"I should trim your bangs," I said. "Get them out of your eyes."

"No!" she cried. "No cut hair." And started flapping at me to drive me and my implements of hair wrangling back.

"Okay, okay," I conceded. "I'll leave you be."

As I put away my brush, I watched her carefully pick up a chunk of her bangs and position it so that it fell in her eyes. Just like mine is always doing, because I tend to put off trimming my bangs for at least a month longer than I should.

This child is such a little fashionista. I buy her outfits, and she mixes and matches the pieces to come up with even better outfits. I buy her shoes, and she pairs them with her outfits in surprisingly sophisticated ways. I don't often allow her to play in my makeup, but at 4 she is every bit as good with lipstick as I am. (Which, admittedly, is not saying much. But it almost always stays on her lips these days.) She shops for jewelry and handbags like other kids shop for toys. The fact that she wants her hair to look like my overgrown mop speaks more to her opinion of me than any words or gestures ever could.

Makes me think perhaps I should give her a slightly more attractive role model.