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.

The sex in our words

I've been thinking a lot about the casual sexism in my life, as I've mentioned. One pet peeve that has arisen: When a group of women is communicating, and they feel the need to use the word ladies constantly.

Okay, ladies, what do you think about...
Do you ladies agree?"
Ladies, let's do this.

I'm not even talking about the stereotypical Okay, ladies, where shall we have lunch? No, it's worse than that.

Okay, ladies, how are we going to address this global warming issue?
What do you ladies think about those whack jobs up in Oregon? Shall we bomb them, or do they have a point?
Let's go feed some starving children, ladies!

Maybe it's just because I work with only women now, both in my day job and in my freelancing gigs, but I grit my teeth every time I see the word ladies. First of all, I don't think of myself as a lady.* But that's not the only reason. If we were men, would we feel the need to mention our gender all the time?

Okay, gentlemen, where shall we have lunch? 
What do you gentlemen think about... 
Do you gentlemen agree? 

Not bloody likely. Maybe in the distant past, but guys these days don't tend to talk like that. Though substituting dudes for gentlemen does bring to mind a voice somewhere between Keanu Reeves and Ashton Kutcher, so perhaps there is a precedent for gender-flogging amongst a certain subset of males.

I have not forgotten that I am female. Or that you are female. That we are all, in fact, female. I do not need a reminder.

And yes, I get that it's kind of special that we are all female. We've come a long way, baby, but we're not there yet. We won't be there until we can stop having stupid conversations about parental leave and periods and whether or not it might inappropriately arouse someone if I feed my kid in front of them. So yeah...best get comfy, because this is going to be a long and bumpy ride.

But I don't think we help matters when we fly the ladies flag in situations in which our gender does not, in fact, matter. For example, if I am editing a piece on breastfeeding, and I am a woman who has breastfed, my gender is relevant.** I bring a special knowledge to the piece, through my gender and experience. If, however, I am editing a journal article on the comparison of Drug A and Drug B, my gender does not matter a bit, and I see no need to call attention to it. (Actually, I see no need to call attention to it in the first piece, either, unless my expertise is called into question.) Nor does it matter when we are deciding what color font to use in a project, in which order we should all review proofs, or -- indeed! -- where we should consume the mid-day meal.

I am a woman, yes. But first and foremost, I am a person. If you would not say men, gentlemen, dudes, or some variation thereof if the gender composition of the group were flipped, and if you would not feel compelled to throw in people if the group comprised both genders, do not say ladies.

I read somewhere recently that people feel this same way about the use of you guys and guys. Which I found interesting, given that I wrote a paper in grad school on the use of you guys versus y'all. Back then, usage seemed fairly split, and appeared to depend largely on where a person was born. (Above the Mason-Dixon line, you guys; below it, y'all.) Usage seems to have shifted in recent years, with more universal use of y'all (though I have not done any sort of formal survey to test that theory); the article I read postulated that this shift is because people are put off by the inherent sexism of you guys. Which shocked me -- probably because I was born on the other side of the Mason-Dixon line. I have always preferred you guys. Partly because y'all sounds very Duke Boys to my ear;*** partly because another pet peeve of mine is when people misplace the apostrophe.**** But I have been trying to compromise by replacing you guys with you all -- or writing around the construction entirely.

As I type this, I can feel a certain subset of people bristling at having to think so hard about mere words. I sympathize. I used to feel the same way. But words matter. Not because I work with them for a living (of course I think they matter!), but because what we say reflects what we believe. Sometimes it's a subtle reflection, but it's always there. Change your words, change your mind.


*To me, lady evokes connotations of floral dresses and tea and repressed sexual morals. I'm not the most open person sexually, and I certainly try not to be crass, but I have been living in sin with my baby daddy and our two illegitimate kids for several years now, which appears to have been enough to get me cut out of Grandma's will. Prim and proper, I ain't.

**I am not really up to speed on all of the cis/trans stuff, so I'm merely addressing what I know, which is the dichotomy of physically male and female. Forgive my ignorance of the rest. I'm not judging or dismissing...I just don't know enough to speak to it.

***Does that date me? Okay, Britney Spears. Though that probably dates me, too.

****The contraction is of the words you all, not ya all -- the apostrophe replaces the letters ou a and thus comes after the y. Please, take pity on the punctuation nerd. ::twitch::

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.

At least my house is clean now

Once again, this year is proving that I should not make plans. Even my scaled-back schedule has been demolished. This time by a stomach bug.

Last Sunday (not the one that just passed), Anya vomited much of the day. We thought it was an isolated thing; her doctor even chalked it up to an upper respiratory infection. Nobody else got sick, so we thought the matter was finished.

Thursday night, Kai threw up several times. Friday morning, it was R's turn. I spent Friday cleaning up vomit and diarrhea, and Saturday cleaning the house. Sunday was going to be my second shot at my to-do list, but I woke with stomach cramps at 4 a.m. and spent the day learning what used veggie egg rolls taste like. (Not the worst thing I've ever puked up, but yergh.)

No Zoo Lights. No Build-A-Bear. No mall activities (train, carousel, play area, cookie the size of Anya's head). No shopping. No photo books for presents, because I didn't have time to order them; calendars will have to do for this year. And the Memphis Union Mission gifts are still sitting on my counter, and my recycling bin overflows. I desperately need to dig through the gift pile and find Anya's remaining Advent gifts.

Some of that stuff may happen still. If everyone can get well, I might be able to pull off a few activities between now and Christmas. But some of it just won't come to pass. And I am sad, because I have really been looking forward to the activities this holiday season.

But my house is clean. (Except the bathrooms; they need cleaning again. :/) Really clean -- not just tidy. So there is that.

Twisted

So I just read this article, and finally have a label for the problem at hand. I cannot unwind. Ever.

The list of things that has me wound so tight is never ending. The house is disgusting, and because we are always here, I cannot even make a dent in the gross. There are ants all over the kitchen sink and hairs all over the living room floor and piles of clean and dirty laundry everyfreakingwhere. I could spend a three-day weekend just putting things where they belong -- and then the house would still be dirty. I ate a peanut butter sandwich for dinner last night because the minions ate dinner without me while I worked. This happens more often than not. Even though work should be winding down because of the holidays, it is not, and I finish each work day with knotted shoulders and a stiff neck. The baby is teething and also learning to eat solids, and as such is alternately adorable and irritating and my breasts are covered in scratches. I'm currently not speaking to my father and things are tense with my mother, and I don't really ever get to see anyone else.

That doesn't even get in to my frustration with my leaky, moldy car, or my leaky, moldy house, or my leaky, moldy bank account.

To top it all off, I don't even have a vice to indulge myself in. I gave up all of my vices but sugar already, and gorging myself on candy only tends to make me feel worse. I don't smoke and I can't stand the taste of alcohol and I no longer have the energy to stay up til 2 a.m. binge-watching television; I fall asleep somewhere between 9 and 10 most nights listening to Alton Brown describing in detail how to cook foods I don't eat. My vices are going for walks by myself and showering by myself. I don't get to do either often enough.

Driving used to be a way for me to unwind, but driving is different when you have kids. The other day, I left early for the doctor -- 45 minutes early. I was having the kind of day in which I had cried my eyeliner off by 10 a.m. and needed with every fiber of my being for the kids to nap for 20 minutes. So I put on the sleepy Spotify playlist and took the longest way there, and of course the little buggers didn't nod off until 5 minutes before we arrived. Which means my drive consisted of my daughter questioning every single thing in existence, three times over, while I tried to lower my blood pressure with belly breathing and at the same time worked to keep the baby from eating the various tiny toys his sister's filled the back seat with. I've had worse drives, but that one did nothing to soothe my nerves.

R occasionally tries to give me shoulder rubs. I appreciate the gesture, but I have at least one kid attached to me almost 24/7; if I have the opportunity to not be in physical contact with another human being, you can be damn sure I am taking it.

I no longer know how to unwind. And even if I did, I don't have time to unwind. There is always, always something I have to do. Something that is more important than me.

So...yeah. I'm wound kind of tight, too.

You call this wonderful?

Don't get me wrong; I love Christmas. Everything about it -- food, presents, lights, music, silly shirts, jingly jewelry, overdecorated everything. I love the cold weather and snow that we never get here. (Still not crazy about the cold, foggy drizzle that usually takes its place.) Peace on Earth, goodwill...bring it. I am down.

But I am noticing that I get really frickin' grumpy right before Christmas.

I'm not sure why. Am I stretching myself too thin? Perhaps. Is it because we all seem to spend the holidays sick? Could be. But it also seems that everyone around me gets really damn critical of me around the holidays, as well. And I don't deal well with that when I feel like crap, my kids are sick, and I am stretched too thin.

I had hopes for this year, but it looks like things won't be any different. Damn it.

Know what I want for Christmas? For everyone to get off my back already. I am doing the best I can here.

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.

On transparency

This is stupid, but travel discount websites annoy me. Deep down, I think there should be one price for things. I don't have issues with standard discounts, like AARP, but otherwise I think things like room rates and airfare should be the same no matter where you pay for them.

See, I told you it was stupid. "No, I don't want to save money! Please charge me more!" But I don't understand why you pay one rate for a hotel room on their own site and another on a different site. It's the same room. What does it cost for me to stay in it for a night? If I can't afford that, I will stay somewhere else.

I feel the same way, incidentally, about haggling. I can't even be in the room with someone when they are haggling. It makes me queasy.

Store sales and coupons make me feel manipulated, but at least I don't have to go to a third party to take advantage of them. That part makes zero sense to me.

Secret menus also bug me, though not as much. I just kind of feel like all available options should be on the menu.

Yes, I realize I have issues.

Boredom

Looking back, I think much of the angst I experienced when I was younger was a product of boredom. Not that busywork cures boredom -- more like the more you try to accomplish, the more you want to accomplish, and before you know it, you're too focused on what you want to achieve next to be bored.

Or maybe that's just me.

And of course nothing fills your days like being a parent. I set out immediately after work the other day to do a little early Christmas shopping for Thing One, because I can't very well shop when she's with me (and she is always with me). So I snarfed down a bowl of cereal at 3 to tide me over, dashed into Cordova, shopped Michael's and Target, then zipped home ahead of the storm. Hugged my babies, fed Kai, showed off the non-gift purchases I made, ate a little dinner, showered, and went to bed.

Today will likely be more of the same, only with added guilt because Mimi and Kai will be going with me.

So between the must-do list and the want-to-do list, I am rarely bored. And I am still not doing everything on the want-to-do list. Currently falling through the cracks are my daily yoga and meditation sessions. I've been too tired to get up and do yoga, and haven't had time to sit still long enough to meditate.

The funny part is that after I returned home last night, my daughter complained "Where'd you go, Mommy? I missed you. I was so bored."

I'm actually kind of jealous of her boredom.

Childhood is weird

I've been thinking a lot about the things we do to kids lately. Like Santa. I almost didn't do Santa (for reasons I have discussed before), but I'm glad I changed my mind. Santa is a lot of fun. For me, anyway. Well, the Christmas morning part. The rest...hm.

We took the kids to see Santa (aka HoHo) at the mall this past weekend. Didn't get pics taken, because I want the kids in their Christmas outfits for that. But Anya wanted to say hi. They're friends, you see.

Anya walked right up, sat on his lap, and they had a little chat. HoHo was in a walking cast, so of course she had to check on him.

Kai has watched all of this from the safety of my arms. At one point, HoHo looked up at him, and Kai reached for him. So I placed Kai on HoHo's knee.

Kai reached up and gently brushed HoHo's beard. HoHo looked down at him and smiled.

"Well, hello there," HoHo said.

Kai's face crumpled, and he began to cry. I immediately rescued him. Too soon. I figured as much. I didn't take Anya to see HoHo until she was 2, and even then she cried the whole time.

Then HoHo asked Anya what she would like for Christmas. She shrugged.

"A loaf of bread?"

 She nodded, a small, unsure smile on her face.

"No," HoHo said. "You don't want bread! You want a toy, right? Maybe a doll?"

A more enthusiastic smile this time, and vigorous nodding. But no elaboration -- which is unusual for my gregarious girl. She was starstruck.

They chatted for a few more minutes, then he gave her a candy cane and they said goodbye.

All the while, I pondered how odd the whole scenario is. Each year, we take our kids to stand in line so they can, for a few brief moments, sit on the lap of a costumed stranger and tell him what goodies they would like to receive. The kids are supposed to be totally cool with this, even though in any other context the costumed stranger would be accused of pedophilia. We then have the opportunity to pay a ridiculous (really, it's highway robbery) sum of money for a photograph of the occasion. How does this make sense again?

Life is weird, I guess. At least HoHo is good weird.

Old and improved

I don't know if I have mentioned this before, but my daughter has varying yet specific uses for the terms "old" and "new."

a) The usual: "Mommy, this car is old. You need to buy a new one." (Because it has a leak we can't fix. And to her, it is an old car; when I bought it, she was in utero. But she says this about everything. Why fix something when you can buy new? How very American of her.)

b) New equals young: "Mommy, you old. Anya is new." (Anyone older than, say, 10 is old.)

c) Old equals sick. "Mimi is new! I can stay at her house!" (She loves sleepovers with my mother.)

I get a kick out of her telling me I am new, but of course that is only in the context of illness. In all other contexts, I am so very old.

I would like to say I shrug this off, but when actresses younger than I am are hawking old lady cream, it gets to me. Especially since I am starting to see some signs of aging. Probably not so many as I think, but this face is not my face, and I can't blame it all on the breastfeeding baggage. That merely erased my cheekbones. No, this face has more underchin than my face. It is developing undereye bags at an alarming rate. (And I already had dark circles to deal with.) My eyes themselves are red most of the time -- not sure if that's age or allergies, but it doesn't help. And then there's the lingering melasma and fine lines, which I had almost made peace with, dammit. Add my crazy hair, and half the time I'm not sure who the heck is looking back at me in the mirror.

I have total mom bod. I will have mom bod until I finish breastfeeding, which as far as I am concerned is nowhere in the near future. (No periods vs an extra 15 lbs...gee, I wonder which one I should choose?) I have postpartum hair, which looks extra weird to me because I colored it. (I like the color...it's just still a shock to have hair this dark. Even with no gray, my hair wasn't quite this dark. Or maybe it was just shinier?) In short, I look in the mirror and am mildly disgusted by what I see.

I guess it's not necessarily bad, any of it. I just don't look like me.

I don't feel as old as I look in the mirror, though. Which makes it that much worse.

I know I just need to adapt. Find some decent concealer, maybe pick a new hairdo, get some clothes that are a little more flattering to my new figure. Stop wishing I looked like I used to and start working with what I now have.

But man, I miss me.

Nobody said anything about four

I'd been warned about the Terrible Twos. And how they become the Trying Threes. Nobody prepared me for when the Twos started around 18 months, though. And no one bothered to mention that the Threes would last til 5, but that looks like the card I drew. Welcome to the Feisty Fours.

Initially, I blamed this behavior on the new world order. This year has been eventful -- new baby, Mimi's illnesses, Daddy going back to work -- and it's understandable that she'd act up. But she seems to have adapted to (and even embraced) her baby brother. Mimi's rheumatoid arthritis, and her weakened immune system due to the treatment, take a bit more getting used to...but she's doing okay with that. Her nightmares have slowed, at any rate. And she's even adjusted to Daddy "popping out of bed" (believe me, the man does not pop) at 4 a.m.

But she is still ornery as hell. Independent and bull-headed and bossy and aggravating. Some days, she is my sweet, loving, helpful daughter. Others, I truly worry that her teens will be the death of me. They warn you about the teens. Nobody says anything about 4.

I really hope 5 is better. I could use a little breather before Kai turns 2.

So...yesterday was Monday

And there was no blog post. Oops. This weekend was...ugh. Anya has been in Purple Minion mode, which means I was tearing my hair out by Sunday night. I totally forgot about the blog until just now.

Don't feel bad. I also forgot my flu shot. For which I'd even made an appointment. Things fall through the cracks when the Purple Minion comes to visit.

But my garage is cleaner now. I can park my car in it. We even bought a garage door remote that doesn't require reassembly to use. (The old one got dropped a couple times. It did not take kindly to being dropped.) So while the car is still leaking and moldy, at least it won't get more moldy while we figure out where the leak is. That's a load off.

Now I just need to figure out why Kai is nursing half the night, so I can get some sleep and get back to my 5:30 wake-ups.

And hope that the Purple Minion's stay is a short one. I miss my sweet girl.

Well-behaved kids

At first glance, this post on FB made me smile.

Even though there should be a hyphen after "Well."

Then I reconsidered. My kids occasionally have bad days -- in outsider-speak, they "misbehave." I have bad days, too. And good ones. Do I get a discount when I am having a good day? No. So why do I get one when my kids are?

If you said "Because you are being blamed for their undesirable behavior," you get a gold star.

My kids are normally very gracious. The big one says "please" and "thank you," and keeps tantrums/messes to a minimum. She says "hi" to everyone she meets, and has since she could talk. She'll charm the pants off you if you talk to her for five minutes. The little one is so chill, he once fell asleep in Pump It Up. And he, too, is a little charmer. He loves to make people laugh, as well.

But they have days. Days when the big one throws a hissy fit because it's Wednesday. Days when the little one will not be appeased no matter what we do -- walk, sit, rock, nurse, play with toys, nothing helps.

I can take credit for neither of these things. I do what I can to elicit publicly acceptable behavior, but the big one is just now grown up enough to comprehend that there is such a thing. The little one answers to himself and himself alone. As most 7-month-olds do.

And my kids are neurotypical. I cannot imagine how posts like this sting for parents whose kids are not.

At the risk of flagellating a deceased equine, children are people. Not pets. I have not trained mine to do anything. If you want to award gold stars for parenting, reward me. For not losing my temper when my daughter empties 5 packets of Splenda into the salsa bowl...again. For gracefully dealing with a jackkniving son whose antics are flashing my nipples to everyone in a three-table radius. For cheerfully accepting that I might have to eat standing up while nursing a baby and entertaining a preschooler, which means I don't really get to eat at all. Reward me for dealing with all this with a smile instead of vague threats and sharp words.

After all, unlike them, I am old enough to know how to behave in public.

Kids need a better publicist

Now that I have kids, I see kids differently. Before, my only experience with kids was being one and babysitting for other people's. Neither of those experiences really gives you insight like giving birth to kids does.

Since having my own kids, I'm growing ever sensitive to how we talk about them. And it's kind of horrifying. Basically, we act like children are little shits, deliberately setting out to make our lives difficult.

Before having kids, I bought into this view of kids, even though I knew better. (I certainly never set out to give my parents a hard time.) Worse, I supported it, without thinking. Found humor in it, even.

I'm not saying I am innocent even now. I poke fun at my kids' idiosyncrasies. I act like they are trying to make me crazy. I post photos they will kill me for later. I talk about them like they are not there. I bought my kid this shirt.

Granted, it's true. But it's not her fault.

I feel bad about it all now. I get that sometimes you have to laugh so you don't cry, but at what cost? So I'm working on improving my mindset, and trying to take into consideration how it makes my kids feel when I say things like "You are making me crazy."

But the rest of the world says stuff like this, too, and worse. Unapologetically. And it's starting to piss me off.

Like the carpet commercial from Home Depot. Look, kids are messy. You don't have to tell me that. I wish I could shampoo my carpet, because after 4 years of my daughter and 7 months of my son, it is beyond nasty. (I can't shampoo it because it's all bunchy, which is another rant entirely.) My living room alone bears several red blotches (not blood...red Kool-Aid and juice), some gray grime, and too many spit-up spots to count. It, quite frankly, smells. And it's mostly the kids' fault. But the commercial calling the kid a professional carpet stainer, the one that implies this kid lives to stain the carpet, really irritates me. If we say, even in jest, that kids do this stuff on purpose, don't we -- and others -- end up treating them that way? Don't they start to think of themselves that way? What the hell kind of start in life is that?

You want to know why kids act the way they do? Imagine talking to your friends, your coworkers, your boss, your parents the way you talk to and about your kids. Imagine if everyone spoke to you that way. There's part of your answer right there.

Kids are not small adults. They are people in progress -- emphasis on in progress. Sometimes they say and do things that create more work for us, irritate us, even destroy property. It's not intentional most of the time. (And if it is intentional, you have bigger issues to deal with than a muddy carpet, my friend.) But they do have feelings, understand more than you give them credit for, and are listening to your every word.

Use those words carefully.

Once again, I overestimated myself

Or perhaps I simply underestimated how tiring having kids is. I'd meant to write a blog entry when we got back from Illinois last night. Instead, I showered, settled into bed to nurse Kai and watch Reading Rainbow with Anya, and passed out cold. Nor did I manage to get up early this morning; I got up just in time to make a cuppa and start work.

Mea culpa. I'll do better next week.

The only thing that stays the same

As I type this, my grandmother is dying. My last living grandparent. I don't know how to feel about that, about her. We are not close. Probably never could have been. I am sad for so many reasons that don't really involve her. Which feels, let's be honest, really shitty. I try not to be shitty, but I also try not to lie.

I do feel bad for my dad, though. That's his mom. He lost his stepdad not quite a year ago, right before his birthday. Before that, the last person he lost was his father, back when he was about Anya's age. That's a long, long time to go between losses. I can't imagine what he must be feeling right now.

I haven't gone so long. I've gotten better about dealing with pain, but pain comes in all sorts of varieties, and they all must be dealt with. Mine doesn't feel as important as his, so I will set mine aside for now and do what I need to do for him. I can deal with me later.

In recent months, my grandparents' home was demolished. I can't even imagine how that must feel for Dad. I know it guts me, and I never lived there. But it's been a part of my life since I've had a life to be a part of. It was a touchstone, a constant, in a life that hasn't offered much in the way of either. And it's gone now. I was dreading seeing it already, but now I know that I will most likely see it in the context of my grandmother's funeral, and it's almost more than I can bear to think about. In the space of a year, they and all that they worked for in this life are just...gone.

Loss is a part of life. I know the drill by now. But I am sad. And I wanted to take a moment to just feel that sadness before I go on with my day. I know from past experience that I won't get much opportunity for quiet reflection later on, and if I don't feel these things in the moment, they will blindside me later, when I am least expecting it.

Edit: I just learned that she passed this morning. I still don't know how to feel. But I don't have much time to worry about that right now, because I need to prepare for a road trip. 

It's doctor week, apparently

I'm still sick. I never did hear back from the hospital LC, so I called my gyno again. The nurse said no to everything but the Flonase. The decongestant will kill my supply, she said. The antibiotic is just bad news.

Sigh.

Before I could deal with that, Anya came in dripping green goo from her nose. So I made an appointment for her with the pediatrician. I don't think she feels too bad -- certainly not as bad as I feel -- but she's the kind of kid who will tell me she feels fine when she's on death's doorstep, and I am not taking chances.

She runs laps for fun. While sick.

The pediatrician says she's not sure Anya has an infection; she doesn't see any green mucus in her nose. But she gives me a prescription in case Anya doesn't kick the goo in a few days. (Love our doctor.)

But. (There is always a damn but.) Anya has a nasal polyp. Apparently new, since she didn't have it at her 4-year checkup in August. It's not blocking her airway, but we're still taking her to the ENT to get it checked out. I'm waiting to hear back from their office now.

While we were in the pediatrician's office, I asked her about my prescriptions. She, too, shot down the antibiotic, and advised against the decongestant. The nasal spray, she said, was fine. I asked her what antibiotic I can take. She recommended a Z-pack. Which is what I told the walk-in clinic nurse I normally take anyway.

Fine. Okay. I can't call the clinic and ask for a new prescription; I can only contact the clinic tech support online, and they can have the nurse call me. Which will likely take 24 hours. (Yes, I know from experience.) Or I can try to get an appointment with a "real" doctor. Which I don't have, because I always get sick when doctors are too busy to take on new patients.

I decided to take my chances with an MD. And got an appointment! For today, even! Should be an easy visit for him; I already have a diagnosis, and a recommended antibiotic. All he has to do is figure out how to ease my sinus congestion without killing my milk supply. (I am a little worried the words "neti pot" will be uttered. But at this point, I might even try the stupid thing.)

The darkness before dawn

Last night, I went to bed early -- early for me early. So it was no real surprise when my eyes popped open long before dawn.

As is my nature, as I woke fully, I began to fret. When I went to the doctor for my sinus infection, I explained that I am breastfeeding and have some supply issues. She took extra care in prescribing medications as a result. And I felt good about those medications until I got home and Googled them. The antibiotic, while basically considered safe, is of the group which the nurse at my OB/GYN's office told me not to take. The decongestant can kill my supply -- and it's the 24-hour variety, so it's not like I can take one pill and stop if things look iffy. Nobody can quite agree on the nasal spray.

I still hadn't heard from the hospital lactation consultant I called, so I decided to wait and ask her. But she didn't call until the end of her work day, and I missed her call. She is going to call again today. In the meantime, I tossed my questions out to the lovely people in my local breastfeeding group on FB. Answers were still mixed, but one woman suggested I call the Tennessee Breastfeeding hotline. It's 24/7; why wait?

The woman I spoke to was very nice, but she scared the crap out of me. The antibiotic, she says, can stain Kai's teeth. She was less concerned about my milk supply drying up (Compression! Water! Relax!), but the medication was worrisome. She suggested some alternates I can ask the pharmacist about, but really I should just drink my own breast milk and get a neti pot.

I have a neti pot story, but I won't get into that now.

I did, however, pump and drink 3 ounces of breast milk. I still feel like crap. But just to be on the safe side, I pumped 3 more ounces this morning and gave it to Anya. And took some brewer's yeast with the lactation oatmeal concoction I eat for breakfast, so I can pump again later and drink some myself.

I never did pick up my meds. I don't know if I should take them, or the substitutes the LC suggested, or just suffer and hope the infection clears up on its own. My choice can literally affect the rest of Kai's life, and I am paralyzed by indecision.

This is the mindset I am in when Anya awakens from a nightmare.

Lately, Anya and I have been having bad dreams. Mine are...my god, I don't even know where to begin. Odd. Mine are odd. I understand the basis behind most of them, but I still wake up going "What the...?" Anya's are simpler. Hers are about loss and abandonment. She dreams often of her grandmother dying. ("Mimi went to sleep and wouldn't wake up," she says.) She also dreams that I go to work and never return. (Who needs to lift weights when you have guilt like this?) Last night was a Mimi dream.

"You have a bad dream too, Mama?" a little voice asked in the darkness. This is how I learn I am not the only one awake.

"No, baby. Did you?"

"Yeah."

I pulled her close and kissed her hair. I told her I am sorry she had a bad dream. That Mimi is just fine, and we will see her at lunch. I told her how lucky I am to have such a sweet little girl, who loves so fiercely and worries about the health and happiness of the people in her life. She snuggled against me and smiled that sweet little smile I first saw the day she was born, as I cuddled her close to my breast.

"I love you so much, baby," I told her.

She sighed. "Me, too, Mommy. I love you, too."

Eventually, her breathing slowed. She was asleep once more.

I never did get back to sleep. Instead, I spent the pre-dawn hours nestled between my children, their little heads nuzzling me as they slept.

Not at all sorry I missed sleep for that.

Avoiding derailment

Earlier this week, Kai woke up with a runny nose. Unlike the rest of the household, he's a bit young for respiratory allergies, so this pretty much meant one thing: He caught a cold. Probably from that restaurant table he licked last weekend.

Sigh.

One sick kid isn't too big a deal. My kids don't let a little thing like a head cold get them down. It's knowing that we'll all be sick before the week is out that gets me.

Anya was next on the list. Before the end of Kai's first day, her nose was running. By the third day, so was mine. Now R is sick, as well.

Kai and Anya are on the mend, but I can't take anything and R starts his new job tomorrow. So this weekend is going to suck. I've laid in a stock of easy foods (and comfort foods), but nothing changes the fact that I will probably feel like crap all weekend while watching two (well) kids by myself.

I had such momentum going, too. We were going to go on a nature walk this weekend, collect some pretty leaves, and make something with them.

I hate the way these things derail my plans. I want to figure out a way to avoid them, or minimize the impact. Something. I hate losing whole weeks to family illness. Who has time for that?

I understand that getting sick is good for them. It builds their immune systems. And really, the only way I could prevent them getting sick any more than I do now is if I quarantined them to the house...and what kind of a life is that?

So...here's hoping R and I kick this cold as quickly as they did. We have things to do.