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.