Category Archive

Whenever the seasons change, or there are dramatic weather changes, my sinuses get, um, angry. They kind of kick the crap out of me.

So that’s happening now. I’ve basically had a headache since Saturday, a day that featured sunshine, clouds, and thunderstorms. I haven’t been able to sleep, really, since I have no idea how to make my head stop hurting. It’s worse at night. Caffeine makes me stay up and affects AM. Whatever’s in Sudafed gives me jitters and prevents me from sleeping–I discovered this last go-round, when I treated myself to one for the first time since 2003. Plain jane Tylenol or Advil cannot touch this kind of headache.

But seriously, this happens to me probably 10 times a year. And every time I am surprised, probably because I am just helpless in the face of it. Who wants to anticipate that?

Please send a decaf latte.

Seriously.

It was so beautiful earlier in the week. Whole afternoons were consumed by the park and its rather icky sandbox, followed up by a good scrubbing, a hearty dinner, and 12 hours of sleep. (Not me, of course. Miss M.)

But now it’s Friday. Second Friday in a row that brings a cold, nasty rain and a grey pall over everything. And two hours less of school.

Did I mention that my freelance assignment came in? I now have 60 minutes to complete something appallingly boring that’s an exercise in frustration to boot. Because after 12:30, I’m going to have some kids to entertain for many, many hours. Indoors. Eep.

It’s been a long time since I experienced such physical rage, so thank you for that.

It is a comfort to know that I have it in me to come to the defense of my mothering skills with shaking anger, to raise my voice in a plane full of sleeping people and scream “How dare you!?” when you tell me that my son’s tears of overtiredness and cranky desire for a bed when sleepy (he is his mother’s child) are suffering on the scale of which you have never seen. Did you actually think I was doing nothing except waiting for your precious sleep to be disturbed? That I hadn’t offered him every kind of snack we had, that I hadn’t nursed and rocked and offered every toy, tried every sitting and lying position possible, but just waited for his cries to escalate to such a level that I wanted to knock back a White Russian and wait for death?

Of course, maybe you didn’t know that it’s difficult to keep a two-year-old amused and comfortable and confined on an 11-hour flight, especially when followed by a seven-hour delay.* Or that there’s something that you are lucky enough to be able to take advantage of in this situation–EARPLUGS. And I hope the seatbelt doesn’t get twisted around your neck when you lie down across three seats and sleep for two-thirds of the flight across the Atlantic.

The trip was really fun, although exhausting. More details once I recover (from the flight and the mounds of dirty laundry).

* Thankfully in the airport, not on the tarmac. And with meal vouchers good for four kosher restaurants to boot.

Or: It’s the weaning, stupid.

A couple of afternoons in the warm sunshine have been good for everyone. Not being home between 3 and 5pm has been excellent for morale. Mine, at least.

Apparently the mere notion of taking a break resulted in all sorts of bloggable material.  Because that very day I had a heart-to-heart with Miss M that made me realize that as much as I am desperate to wean her, she is equally desperate not to be weaned. To the tune of being willing to give up all rights and privileges of a big kid to be a tiny baby again because they nurse.

So we’ve got to figure out a way to make this less traumatic than it’s shaping up to be. And hopefully that will take care of some of the behavior stuff we’re wading through. I could also probably eliminate more tantrums if I let her wear a skirt to school every day, and though I have planned for that for next year, for now she’s stuck with what fits. (And the daily arguments about putting on clean underwear and clean socks? WHY? WHY WHY WHY???)

But the exceptionally bloggable part was when she asked me how babies get into their emas’ tummies. She’s not even four!!!!

Oh, and AM would like the general public to know he is more well-read than I implied in my last post.

AM’s new DST schedule is wreaking havoc with my life. (By the time he goes to sleep I am too useless to do anything but watch the second half of The Biggest Loser: Couples. And then go to bed too late and hungry because I am too tired to make anything decent.) Therefore, an edict has come down–from me, because I am the Queen–that the 20 minutes that he napped in the car on the way to speech therapy will be the only nap he takes today.

Good news: He should go to bed at the “normal” time.

Bad news: He will be an enormous crank starting at 3:00. And 3:00 to 7:00 is a long time.

Update! Everyone was sleeping by 7:10.

I had a brainstorm–to take the kids out for Chinese food, at a kosher place 20 minutes away. Would kill time, get us all fed. My brilliant idea was threatened by the fact that I had a FreshDirect delivery scheduled from 4 to 6. But my buzzer rang at 3:35, so off we went! Of course, we were the only people at the restaurant 4:20. Did not care. AM got rice everywhere. Did not care. Miss M had to be bribed to eat the chicken. Did not care–she ate plenty of brown rice without complaint. Overpaid for truly mediocre chicken with mixed vegetables. But an entire afternoon’s activity? Priceless.

Stolen from Dani. Doodle by Lee.

My life. Just about every other day.

Doodle by Lee. The code for this doodle and other doodles you can use on your blog can be found at Doodles.

• Weather: biblical rain with a side of flooding. Snow last night. Icy slush. Yum.
• Gear: Maybe one of these days I’ll invest in one of those pairs of rain boots. I love my Lands End All-Weather Mocs, but on a day like today they just mean wet socks. Actually, today hip waders would be more appropriate.
• Sinuses: uuuuuuhhhhhhh. Ouch. Yesterday morning the relative humidity was 54%.
• Fear of Fire Alarm: meant Miss M had to accompany AM to speech therapy. Her behavior was better than I expected and she wasn’t even that distracting to him.
• Disenchantment with Preschool: I got a call at 11:30 that Miss M was inconsolable. A plumber was doing work somewhere in the school building, making smoke, and causing the fire alarm to go off. Miss M has a well-documented fear of said noise. By 11:30 it had gone off twice and had the potential to go off again. I agreed to pick her up on my way to speech, because I don’t have a solution. What I did not need to hear were the addenda:
• a. That they are short staffed today and the teacher just could not handle this (!) in addition.
• b. That we’re going to have to figure out a way to “work on this” (!) because you can’t even say “fire drill” around her. I don’t know why my 3 year old isn’t allowed to have an irrational fear of loud noises. What if it were a more traditional phobia, like snakes or spiders? Then would it be ok? Her friend A is afraid of sharks. Do you think the teacher even knows? I’d bet no, because sharks don’t come to school and disrupt the classroom.
• I gave in to educational television programming (see how defensive I am?) at 3:00. See above points for explanation.
• Oy, it’s already past 3:30. If you need me, I’ll be hiding under the covers.

I was describing my bizarre viral symptoms to my mom: a fever that segued into a sore throat, rash on my hands and feet. What about in my mouth, she asked. “I have a mouth full of canker sores,” I told her.

“You know,” she said, “this sounds like Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease.”

“Well, all I can tell you is that it isn’t Fifth disease and it isn’t chicken pox.”

“You should look it up. Although you had Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease. I remember your pediatrician called his whole staff in to look at you, because he said most parents don’t bring their kids in for just a rash* and some of the younger doctors and nurses hadn’t seen it.”

“I will look it up.”

“But I thought that once you had it you can’t have it again. Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, feel better. I hope Miss M doesn’t get it too.”

So, yeah, I looked it up. And yeah, this is what AM had, caught from our 23-month-old neighbor (they are Teh Cutest–they play, they hug to say goodbye, and AM protests when we leave the elevator without her–but we live on 2 and she lives on 4). And gave to me, the devoted slave mother who wipes his nose and his drool and his tush. It usually occurs in kids under 10. One strain of coxsackievirus is responsible for most incidences. But let’s say I had that one in the ’70s…AM could have brought home some other viral goodie.

Of course between the two pediatricians** who saw the two kids, neither of them diagnosed it as “HFMD,” but rather just a virus. I guess there’s really no difference–it’s not like you can treat it with anything. Really, though, just ewwwww.

And I must drink some more water.

* Honestly, I think this dates the whole episode. I’m guessing it took place somewhere in the 1978-1979 range.

** Although I don’t know I would have taken him to the doctor for just a rash. But with the fever and crankiness and sleep problems I wanted to make sure to eliminate ear infection or strep throat. This is where speech would be really helpful–although he did tell me (in sign) that his head hurt when he was feverish and emphatically denied an earache.

• Thanks for all your get well wishes.
• I did kick the fever.
• It was replaced by some weird, weird stuff. A sore throat so bad I can’t really swallow. Not scratchy and raw, but swollen-feeling, like I have a golf ball stuck in there.
• Oddly enough, I can’t drink without a lot of pain, but I can eat fine. So apparently I will dehydrate but not starve.
• I also have the same rash that AM had last week. Mostly on my hands and the soles of my feet. It is TEH ICK. I feel like I am infecting everything I get near.
• The rash + running water makes me feel like my skin is sloughing off. So I feel like the Worst Mother in the Universe because I bathed AM when he had this rash. He really didn’t seem to mind. But oy, the-4-days-later-mommy-guilt, how it sucks.
• Also sucky: my GP is in a different state. A neighboring state, but still. I think I will have to try a new doc who is two blocks away–I hope she a) takes my insurance and b) has an appointment that does not conflict with speech therapy.
• I didn’t sleep last night. Literally.
• (Taxman is working from home today, probably because he feared for all of us by leaving us alone. And then he let me lie down with AM and took Miss M out for bagels.)
• But I did fold laundry at 2am while I was watching my latest Guilty (very, very GUILTY) Pleasure.
• Anyone who I had a potential playdate with during presidents’ week? Can I let you know on Thursday or Friday? I don’t want to bring a pox on your house.

One of the hardest parts of parenting in general, but stay-at-home parenting in particular, is that there are no sick days. My HR rep won’t take my calls on this point, so I am sort of stuck.

All I want to do is crawl into bed. Barring that, I’d like to watch the television programming of my choice. Neither is realistic, although my father-in-law did me the tremendous favor of fetching Miss M from preschool today so I could rest while AM napped–and I didn’t have to wake him up, as usual. (His naps have been completely screwed up by a 12-1 therapy slot and a new 11-12 music class on Thursdays.) He slept for 3 1/2 hours.

I realized that it’s been a while since I’ve run a fever. Headaches and colds are kind of par for the course, but there is a kind of distinct crappy feeling that comes with a fever. I’ve been in this body long enough to know when I’ve got one–when I lifted AM from the floor at the end of music class, I had a certain ache in my legs; by 9pm I had chills and was a general mess.

Unfortunately, the nursing juggernaut has no breaks for the feverish, despite Taxman’s best efforts to run nighttime interference. At least I can do it in a reclining position. Most unfair of all is that I am sure I picked up this virus from AM, who was slightly feverish and very rashy at the beginning of the week. But the breastmilk, I’m positive, took the edge off of his illness and within a day he was back to his regular personality. Of course, he insists on sharing my pillow. So he bought himself one cranky Ema.

The kids have reached an age where sometimes, just for a moment, they’ll play nicely together. Or even play separately in the same room peacefully for whole minutes at a time. Combine that with the fact that Taxman and I are jaded when it comes to noises emerging from the living room. Crying? Eh. Arguing? We try to resolve it from our bed.

But really, nothing makes us move so fast from under the covers at 6:45 am (on a holiday Monday!) as to hear the tinkle of shattering glass.*

Oh well. We had things to do anyway.

* Everyone’s fine.

I want to start over.

I do not have the time, money, patience, haircut, or correctly shaped face/head to start over.

That is all.

* Is it too late to be that person who wears berets to all occasions? I am 75% that person anyway.

Parenting in the age of Moxie is a whole new ballgame.

It’s 95% blessing, 5% curse. So you know what’s coming, but oh, crap, now it’s here and it’ll be over soon, but for right now it’s here.

Today AM is 18 months. And boy, is he ever. Everything’s gone to hell: Sleeping, which wasn’t great to begin with. Pooping–don’t ask, but ewww, gross. Eating, which has recently consisted of a lot of throwing things on the floor with great glee and very little actual food consumption. There are the temper tantrums, styled completely after Miss M’s. A lot of twisting during diaper changes, thrashing during teeth brushing, and oh, the demands!

But the demands are so cute it is hard to say no. Throwing books into your lap and nodding animatedly. Pointing at the stereo in hopes of hearing the siren song of his beloved, Laurie Berkner. Opening the fridge and attempting to vault to the shelf where we keep the grapes.

Actually, I could do without the fridge climbing.

The other night, after a long day of corralling and swing pushing and reading and nursing and squawk interpreting, I related my tribulations to Taxman.

“All he wants to eat are grapes,” I whined. “He won’t eat anything else. I thought maybe he just didn’t want to sit in the highchair, so I let him wander around with a cup of rotini. He ate two, dumped it on the floor, and started playing with it.”

“Won’t he eat when he’s hungry?”

“Yes, but only grapes.” I started to giggle at this point and he joined me. “Seriously, I think that’s pretty much the only thing he ate today. Oh…he also ate a cheese stick.”

We laughed even harder.

But the tipping point was when I, mentally scrolling through the day, recalled the other thing my baby consumed. “Wait! He also ate raisins!”

Three minutes later Taxman scraped himself off the couch to bring me a glass of water.

We’ll get through with our humor intact, at the very least.

Yesterday was the first full day of preschool. Better late than never!

At 7:00 in the morning, I had the following conversation with Miss M.

“Ema, can I watch something?” [I DVR Curious George and Reading Rainbow for her to watch when AM needs to go down for a nap, or on Thursday mornings when I am trying to straighten up for the cleaning lady.]

“No, Miss M. We’re going to get up and have breakfast and get dressed. You have school today!”

“Waaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“Miss M, I’m sorry, there will be no television this morning.”

“But I…don’t…wanna…go! to! school! WAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Oy vey. And there were two hours until school actually started.

So there was a lot of crying. And lots of circular arguments. She didn’t want to go to school because she was cranky. She was cranky because she was sad. She was sad because she was crying. Nothing in particular that she did not like at school, or was afraid of; she just did not want to go.

Nevertheless, we packed up at 8:50 and made our way down the block, with her blubbering the entire way. The teachers met us downstairs; after more hugs and reassurances, I peeled myself away from her and backed out. I heard her calling for me as she was led up the stairs, and another mom reported that she was crying so hard that she was making herself gag. Sigh.

I took AM to the park, clutching my cell phone and steeling myself for a call. When an hour had passed, I then wondered if I should call, just to make sure she was ok. But I knew that they weren’t going to tell me to come get her. This wasn’t camp, understaffed with 20-year-olds. These teachers have been doing this for a long time. I didn’t want to look foolish. I trust them, plus if she was really upset, would I want to know? I’d hear about it later anyway.

Oh, the guilt. The frustration. The rock. The hard place.

So I called my mom. [Just as an aside, how much do I love technology? My mom was not at home, where she often works, nor at her office, but rather had just arrived at the San Antonio airport, in Texas on business, and was waiting to meet a colleague's plane.] I told her that Miss M was a mess at drop-off and I was feeling stuck about it. And I wanted my mommy.

“Oh, honey, she comes from a long line of criers. You cried every day of preschool! And you were a year older! I cried every day of kindergarten, and so did your grandmother. This is much harder on you than it is on her. But obviously with what you’re paying you are not going to give her the option of not going. Plus it would set a terrible precedent. [Pause.] I feel for you, though. I’ve been there.”

We agreed that she’d be fine. It was just nice to hear it from a veteran.

And indeed she was fine. Met me at 2:30 with a big smile and a hug and a list of what she had done during the day. (Which, by the way, is so much better than what I got out of her last year. Usually at the end of her day, when I asked what she had done at school, the answer was “eat lunch,” because it was the last thing she did before pickup.) The teacher reported that she had cried for a while, but when she had snapped out of it, that was it for the day. She also suspected that the tears were, in part, for effect and would lessen rapidly. “We’re old and jaded around here,” she said. “This isn’t new for us.”

This morning was still tearful, but already better. (Perhaps it was my bribe of safety scissors for the first morning she goes off without a fuss?)

Only 15 or so years until the roles are reversed, right? And I am the one crying as she marches off to school?

After making about half the food, I don’t think I will have enough of the side dishes (read: the Jewish enough, meaning with leftovers, since that is what we are eating on the second day of Rosh Hashana).

I am not happy with the potato salad. The quinoa looks a little mushy.  I know we don’t have enough salad greens to get us through the three days.

Taxman has the van and carseats today. There’s something off about AM (teething? stomach virus?). Miss M will be watching videos for the rest of the day. So I am sort of stuck for the moment.

Worst of all? No real chocolate in the house. I am mainlining butterscotch chips.

Maybe I will make peanut butter brownies.

‘Cause, you know, I really have time for that.

Apparently, AM can climb into my bed.

Also into the stroller.

• About four blog posts, including another one about breastfeeding
• My plan to do a full-scale edit of my dresser drawers in anticipation of some retail excitement
• My plan to finally really and truly shift AM to a middle-of-the-day, three-hour nap
• My plan to drop Miss M’s nap and its associated nursing in favor of an earlier bedtime
• Thinking that my parenting hadn’t screwed up my children too much

After three days plus an hour, Miss M was basically uninvited from returning to camp. Her hysterical outbreaks, her “refusal to communicate her needs and desires,” and running from her “bunk” (a safety issue) were preventing her from “thriving in camp.”

I have no idea, really, what the hell to think about any of this. To be sure, they can’t do what I do when she gets hysterical and irrational, which is to give her a sippy cup of water, say “I’m sorry you’re so upset; why don’t you go sit with a book until you calm down and can tell me what’s wrong.”

Camp was supposed to be a nice little break for everyone, but clearly it’s “not to be.” But if this is foreshadowing for school, the very expensive preschool at which she is enrolled for the second year, I am beyond dismayed.

So the last thing standing between Miss M and her dream (play) kitchen is pooping on the potty.* She’s done it a couple of times–it’s a fraught and fearful experience. The days between poops (3 or 4 from a former 1-2 x a day pooper) are fraught for me.

I figured it would continue to be a struggle every few days for some finite period of time.** Basically hugging her while pinning*** her to her potty seat as she begs to get off, just like peeing was for the first couple of days.

So you can imagine that I never dreamed she’d poop in a relatively uncontrolled environment. (Kate, Kate, you say, surely you project! It’s YOU that deals with safe toilet syndrome. My only defense is that prior to the potty being such a huge part of our lives, I could count on one hand the times she pooped not at home or where we were sleeping on vacation–from the time she was about 6 months old, no less.)

So there we were, at the park. She was running herself ragged climbing up and sliding down a section meant for kids over 8. I made threatening noises about collecting her sand toys right! this! instant! if she wanted to get pizza for lunch. She came running over, clutching her crotch in the traditional potty dance manuever. “Aieee!” she cried.

“Do you have to pee?” I asked.

“Yes!”

“Come here, I have your little potty.” I brandished the Baby Bjorn potty that now lives in the trunk of the car and is our constant sidekick.

As she was sitting, I noticed her back hunch in a suspicious way. “Are you pooping?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral. Because I was completely unprepared for that. Pee is easy enough to dispose of and clean up after, plus won’t give anyone cholera.

“No. Aieeee!”

(At this point AM, who was in the sandbox, wanted out. Right then. The protest was sustained and loud. Why do I go to the park by myself with them? I have no idea. I need a buddy, clearly.)

So yes, there was poop. And pee. And a poopy potty. And only one plastic bag. Thankfully, there were other parents at the park as well, one of whom gifted me a plastic grocery bag so I could tote Teh Now-Gross potty home.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must lament the fact that we don’t have a utility sink.

* Miss M is not a huge fan of public toilets, although she did use one at the library today without a peep of protest. To my utter amazement.

** Complicating things is that she’s pretty much sworn off diapers. The last time she wore one during the day was last Friday, and that was because she had had two accidents while we were out and had run through the stash of underpants. We have offered her diapers to poop in, and she’s steadfastly refused them.

*** Does that sound awful? I’m afraid that she’s going to jump off in the middle of going and the results are going to get flung all over the bathroom. It’s kind of a health hazard, considering AM and his propensity to, uh, explore with his fingers and mouth. There hasn’t been any permanent damage to her psyche (I think), because now she’s totally cool with peeing. As she’ll be happy to tell you. Over and over. The less she knows you the better.

temporarily back in a diaper so i can breathe for six seconds….whew…..

peeing while on the potty is ok (a little whining, but not bad overall), but she won’t tell me when she has to go. makes things frantic when she’s off the potty and boring when she’s on it.

am is staging a coup d’etat because he realizes my attention is elsewhere.

i may never leave the house again. (how do people do this?)

i have been up since 5, but neglected to move my car from the wrong side of the street by 11:30. 

i still have no idea if i am doing this the right way!

did i mention my inlaws are going to be here in three hours for a birthday dinner (only 1/3 made) and cupcakes (made!)? the house is a mess, but there will be other adults here! one for each kid and one for the kitchen! hooray!

The tally so far (8:49  9:34 am):

1 birthday muffin with candle

2 3 seatings on the potty

about 5 seconds of protest

1 actual pee  2!!! in the potty

1 actual pee 2 actual pees in Elm0 underpants

5 readings of Curious George Goes Potty

Stay tuned….but it’s good we rolled up the rug, let’s say.

Apparently, the beginning and ends of my babyhood were trying times for my mom. I was colicky at the beginning. And at the end, I was famously resistant to the potty. It even spilled over into my elementary school years, when I was positively notorious for giving about four seconds notice that I had to go.

And now there is Miss M, who has blithely suggested that we wait until her third birthday and then she will magically say goodbye to her diapers and then we (Abba and Ema) will buy her a kitchen.

But this involves actually sitting on the potty, something she is loathe to do. So this morning was the introduction of a new routine: potty, then nurse. Or, in her case, scream, beg to come off the potty, and scream some more because you are peeing all over yourself, your parents, and the bathroom. Then nurse. All of this took place before 5:30 am.

I have a very bad feeling about all this. I have no idea why she is so freaked. Bribes seem to make absolutely no difference. For really the first time in parenting I feel utterly out of my depth. It’s going to be a long summer, any way you slice it.

I affectionately call Miss M’s preschool room “the Petri Dish.” (Twelve 2- and 3-year-olds who sneeze on each other? Germ central.)

AM gnaws on toys, furniture, books…just about anything. He’s been known to eat sand.

So.

How is it that I, a person who washes her hands probably a minimum of 25 times every day, seem to have contracted pink eye?

In which case I am probably several years away from celebrating…

Last year I was full of hope. This year I am full of grumpiness.

My pinnacle of mothering for the year was probably last night, when Miss M opened her hands, leaned against AM, who was standing and not holding on to anything, and pushed him to the floor. My instinct was pretty violent. I managed to ignore my dark side, but instead scooped her up, changed her diaper, brushed her teeth, and left her sobbing in the dark and pleading to nurse.* (She fell asleep in 10 minutes.)

I keep sweating the small stuff, expecting too much of her (like to have common sense–think I’m a little unreasonable? Just a smidge?), and wishing I could do better. Maybe one day I will actually be better instead of just bitching about it and feeling like an idiot for not changing. Stuck in a rut much?

In the meantime, I think the “Mother’s Day” and “Father’s Day” concepts are kind of a sham. I couldn’t do this by myself, so singling us out one at a time is stupid. Taxman is my partner and sounding board. He cleans up my messes. When Miss M woke up and cried at 8:45 (the front door is noisy) last night and she told him the story through breathy sobs, “Miss M push AM! Ema change you and brush teeth and go night-night! Miss M lost her chance to nurse,” he backed me 100%. When she woke up crying to nurse at 4:50 (unsurprising after last night’s debacle), he fielded that too. 

But I still love them. All of them. Fiercely. I hope that’s enough for now.

* I have threatened, on occasion, to put her to bed without nursing, but the hysterics are usually just too much and not worth it. But I definitely needed a time-out from her–so I carried it out.

I feel like I’m boring you all, but I’ve got to press on! Here’s April 13 and April 14 together.

April 13, 2006 was a watershed day in my parenting of Miss M. It was the first day ever (and one of only three total in her life) that I didn’t nurse her. I was having painful contractions every six minutes and couldn’t sit still enough to do it.

At 5:30 am, after another sleepless night, I was leafing through a magazine at my in-laws’ kitchen table, munching on matzah with cream cheese. Every six minutes, I dropped to the floor in a cat pose and mewled in pain for a minute or so. Then I went back to breakfast.

The day seemed interminable. I was so antsy, but my contractions never got closer together than six minutes. I puttered from the bathtub to the birth ball and back, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. In the mid-afternoon I decided to just go to the hospital because I couldn’t stand not knowing how far I was.

When I got checked in, I got examined by Dr. Conservative (so named for his medical approach). He proclaimed me one and a half centimeters dilated. I proceeded to lose my shit. I told Taxman I wanted a C-section “Right.This.Minute!” “I am not doing this again,” I raved. (My labor with Miss M had been similar; I had never progressed past four centimeters and it ended in a C-section after a 3 1/2 day labor.) Taxman managed to talk me out of my tree, citing the fact that we had doulas on call and to at least give them a chance to help.

My doula was with another client, so she sent her backup. With her help, and an epidural, I progressed to 5 cm. Taxman had a second seder consisting of matzah and grape juice.

Dr. Conservative refused to give me Pitocin to help progress things further, citing the risk of my prior C-section. My personal OB, Dr. Dashing, had always told me that he couldn’t give me Cervadil to induce me, but Pitocin in labor was ok. We seemed to be at an impasse with Dr. Conservative, who wouldn’t even page Dr. Dashing at 3 am. Thankfully, he agreed to call him at 5:30. Dr. Dashing came on service at 6. We explained the situation, and he said, “Sure, I’ll give you Pitocin. As much as you want.”

The nurses changed shifts. The doulas changed shifts. I still hadn’t slept. I never had an epidural with Miss M, so I didn’t know they monitor your blood pressure every 15 minutes. If you are a high-maintenance sleeper like me, it’s difficult to ignore your upper arm being tightly squeezed four times an hour. So no sleep. Still.

In the early afternoon on the 14th, I was, to the shock of everyone in the room who had been around the block with me before (husband, doula, OB) fully dilated.

So there was pushing. It sucked. It was lengthy and painful and unsuccessful. I was so exhausted and strung out I could not really speak. I got out one word at a time. I wanted to stand up to let gravity help, but the epidural was not fully gone, so I couldn’t support myself. I wasn’t pushing properly. I didn’t know how. Nothing was happening.

There was apparently a lot of yelling. When Dr. Dashing appeared to check my progress, he said, “Based on all the screaming I thought you were crowning.” Sadly, no.

My contraction pattern got wonky, Dr. Dashing frowned a lot and then told me that I could have another hour to try to straighten things out. He thought this labor was going nowhere fast, but he wanted to leave it to me to make the call. “I call it right now,” I whimpered. “Please make it stop.”

And then I had to wait for an empty operating room. Essentially I had a 90-minute, 30-peak contraction while the waiting took place. Taxman and Dr. Dashing were talking about hockey. (Somehow I managed to forgive them both.) Finally I got to the table. I couldn’t even sit up, so I draped myself over Dr. Dashing while one of the Dr. Lees (there were two) administered my spinal.

Twenty minutes later, there he was. Perfect and almost a clone of baby Miss M, down to the reddish hair fuzz. Oh, except for the big purple bruise on his head where he got caught on my pubic bone. Oops.

But now he’s perfect.

I’m exhausted. How about you?

More on AM’s slow coming-out party. 

What’s the best thing about Wednesday?

Being a pixie!

And having a record of my labor whine.

I was laboring all day, although I don’t remember much of it (it must have been boring, although not pain-free). I do recall Miss M pushing up against the wall and swaying her hips in a remarkable imitation of what I was doing.

I sat through the first half of the first seder on my birth ball, having nasty back pain. Taxman massaged me every eight minutes. The seder happened around us. After eating some chicken soup, we went for a walk and skipped the rest. Thankfully, the weather was really pleasant.

I tried to sleep because the contractions had slowed down to every 20 minutes. But every 20 minutes I felt like I had been hit by a truck. So the sleeping was going to have to wait for another night week month decade (?).

So I never wrote out AM’s birth story. It was long and difficult, just like Miss M’s, but the saving grace of both was that nobody was ever in danger. Some of the details have faded, as they should, but in honor of his upcoming birthday I thought I’d share some bits of those days.

One year ago today–Tuesday, April 11–was my due date. (Or so the ultrasound on August 31, 2005 had told us.)

Taxman, through some act of grace (or a kind manager?), did not go to work, instead handing me the car keys and pointing me towards New Jersey. I had a prenatal massage with accupressure to try to speed things along, just as I had with Miss M. It was amazing beyond blissful. I was my massage therapist’s last client before Passover, and she kept me for an extra half hour. One of her sons was named A (the same A in “AM”–which isn’t a terribly common name), which tickled me, although I didn’t say anything. Then I treated myself to a chai latte.

That afternoon, we moved to my in-laws, unsure if we would come home on the 20th as a family of three-plus-one or a family of four; AM’s absolute final eviction notice wasn’t until the 24th.

Miss M went to bed, Taxman was plugging away on his computer, and I starting feeling some contractions. Real ones. I was thrilled. I grabbed my CD player and a U2 disc and started walking stairs in my in-laws’ apartment building, two at a time and sideways. It was hard, but my doula would have been really proud.

After a while, I took myself to bed. Not that I slept, but the contractions continued. And the 11th became the 12th.

To be continued, of course! (He wasn’t born until the 14th.)

My mother-in-law has not being feeling well. We all thought it was maybe strep throat; it’s been going around. Or something viral, like I had, but I am over it. She got antibiotics, but they haven’t done anything.

She saw another doctor today who thinks that she might have mono. Which is of course not fun for her. But the ramifications of this go far beyond feeling yukky. Because we are supposed to go to her house for Passover. All of it. Lock up our apartment and throw away the key. Kick her and my father-in-law out of their bedroom, bring cute grandkids, and come on in with all our hurly-burly. (Bound to be less exciting than last year, when I was in labor at the first seder; then we saddled them with Miss M for four days and nights.)

So if she does have mono and is contagious, we are kind of uninvited. And have nowhere else to go. A chametz-laden house. Maybe 1 or 2 pots and 1 or 2 pans (and a chef’s knife? maybe?) that I could use. Really no time to plan, clean, shop, cook, or have a nervous breakdown. (And it’s not like I can cut into my long, luxurious nights filled with 10 straight hours of sleep.) Wait, that’s out of order. But I digress.

We have to wait for the bloodwork to come back. Honestly, though, oy.

After 24 hours of a feverish AM, it was time to see the doctor.

And here we are: Baby’s First Ear Infection. I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it’s been over two years since Miss M had hers; I had forgotten how miserable it is for everyone. The pediatrician, not “ours” but another in the practice, complimented me AM’s immunity thus far and gave props to the breastmilk, adding that while he was obviously hot, sick, and miserable, he was well-hydrated and would be just fine once the meds kicked in.

In the meantime, though, it’s now been 36 hours of him wanting me within inches. While awake. While sleeping. Pretty much whenever he’s not in the car or in his highchair.

So the apartment, which, as you all know, is only neat on Thursday at 1:30, is now sporting an extreme, “fresh from a tornado” look.  Two loads (unfolded) of clean kiddie laundry from several days ago are obscuring the love seat. There are toys and books all over the floor of the living room. I think I managed to get all the dirty dishes into the sink, but I can’t be sure, and there are items (yesterday’s mail, container of sugar, teabags, cereal box, and lots more) all over the kitchen countertop.

I have done very little sleeping in the past 36 hours, although AM’s refusal to stay asleep for more than three minutes without my presence forced me to go to bed last night before 10. Which turned out to be extraordinarily fortuitous because my night ended at 3:30. After nearly two hours of wailing, fussing, nursing, and restlessness, he finally passed out strapped to my front in a mei tai. I was not even going to try to take it off right then, so I watched two shows on DVR before trundling us off to bed as Taxman and Miss M got up.

Despite the impending condemnation of our living quarters and the absolute lack of freedom of movement,* I feel a little gushy inside. Miss M has been slowly figuring out that Abba is the nighttime softy, who willingly lies down next to her “just for a minute” then promptly falls asleep until morning. AM, however, only has eyes for me when he’s feeling sad, lonely, sick, or scared. I know that as soon as his fever is down he’ll be willing to dump out the Duplos without a second glance at me. He’ll stay asleep without me near. In the long run he won’t be sleeping in his prized place, squarely between Abba and Ema, close to the headboard. He won’t tug at my shirt in the middle of the night. He’ll be the one calling out to Taxman for a drink of water or a tissue in the hopes of getting a midnight snuggle.

For now, though, listening to his soft snoring and willing his fever to break put the exhaustion in its place. We’ll all get through this rite of passage, hopefully with a little grace.**

* The concept of wireless Internet deserves a meta-prize. Bigger than Nobel. Bigger than whatever the really big prize in engineering is. Just big, you know?

** I am only feeling magnanimous towards Miss M because she peacefully went to sleep hours ago, after not napping and then hitting AM in the bath. Thank goodness we already have plans to be out of the house for much of tomorrow.

Yeah, I think we’re in the slow slide toward twelve straight hours awake.

Wish me luck. Today we’re making split pea soup. Tomorrow…uhhhhh…I don’t know.

(On the other hand, I can start catering to AM’s schedule a little more, which will hopefully translate to fewer naps at 5:30 pm.)

It is 2:45 pm.

Nobody is sleeping. They should be. (To be really simplistic about it.) For everyone’s physical and mental health.

Total nap time today (for AM): 10 minutes at home & 15 minutes in the car.  But not for lack of trying to go down. Life outside of the bedroom is apparently far too interesting for the likes of him.

If this is supposed to be karmic payback for the fact that everyone got up at 7:40 this morning, I am not amused. (It’s not like there weren’t the wakeups at 11:30 and 4:15 and 5:30 and Miss M nursing at 6:15.)

Maybe I should try to find a job.* With work and hours and expectations that are predictable. I don’t really know how much longer I will be able to hold on here without losing my shit entirely.**

UPDATE: Even better! I decided to attempt to get on with my day by making the soup I started preparing yesterday (a friend upstairs invited me for dinner). I let AM bang a pot around in the kitchen so he wouldn’t eat all the board books in the living room. This attracted the attention of our downstairs neighbor, who came up to find out what the hell was wrong with me (but she was nice about it)–and while I was attempting to convince her that I really was just having a bad day instead of a bad year/life, I left onions sauteeing. They burned. I think I can save the pot. I just don’t really want to right now. (If I leave it in the sink with a pretty bow do you think Taxman will get the message?)

What’s the chance these clowns will let me have a good cry and a cup of tea?

Huh. That’s what I thought.

 * There are too many problems with this to list. But the worst is that Taxman will come home and say, “You should do whatever makes you happy. We’ll figure it out.” I need strong opinions right now. I am clearly not up to making any decisions by myself.

** Needless to say, the last week in February is not a great time for me to lose my shit. Because for the next 48 days I will be, in essence, a single parent from 8am to midnight six days a week.

It is vacation week. There is no school tomorrow.

My cleaning lady comes Thursdays. When I signed Miss M up for school a year ago, the only day that I requested was Thursday.

Miss M’s carefully planned playdate for tomorrow friend from school has a fever.

My mother-in-law has a dental appointment tomorrow and will be unavailable to play.

Despite a fun-filled morning with her great-aunt (and being endlessly entertained on the 30-minute drive home), Miss M did not nap today. I almost literally bit her head off. It was ugly.

Because of Miss M’s dried fruit obsession, I changed five poopy diapers today. (Just from her.) I am so not letting her eat it again until she uses the potty.

Infinte chaos reigns in my apartment. The laundry that has been clean and even folded for days has yet to make it to the bedroom. Entire pieces of furniture are lost under it. There is crap everywhere. Normally this doesn’t bother me, but today it is making me want to burn down the house just to get rid of the disorder.*

The weather has been really super nice for the past two days, but the playgrounds are still a wreck of snow and huge puddles. Yesterday Miss M spent some time at one in snowpants and a parka, but she got them filthy. Guess who didn’t do laundry last night?

So, yeah, tomorrow. I have an errand to run in New Jersey, so that can kill maybe 45 minutes there and back. There is absolutely no way our apartment can be cleaned in that period of time. 

What would a virtual playdate look like? 

* My stepmom was always like this before she got her period. Could I be getting my period? I haven’t had one in 3 1/2 years. Coincidentally, it was 3 1/2 years ago that I last slept from 11p-6a.