Unexpectedly Expecting

Turns out I'm still working out the kinks

The past week has not been fantastic. I've been thinking long and hard about a lot of things. The list of heavy topics includes my job. I was supposed to meet with my boss this week to hammer out the details of my return to work, which is quickly approaching. The meeting was, unfortunately, delayed a week. It's frustrating because I am antsy to find out what exactly I will be doing and how exactly this is going to work schedule-wise. Going back to work is not going to be easy, I know, and I feel like if we can get some of those things that are up in the air sorted out, the sooner I will be able to begin to mentally deal with the transition. In the meantime, I am falling into old habits, plotting and planning and working things out in my mind over and over and over until I have driven myself crazy. But the result of all that mind churning is  that I have a solid idea of what I would like to do moving forward. My boss made it sound like my new role is at least partially up to me, so I am hoping this is something he will approve. In my mind, this new role would stretch me, force me to learn new things, teach me new skills and make me more marketable and more up-to-date with what is going on. That excites me, and I know if I feel passionate and excited going back will be much easier.

So I've been a little anxious and a little bummed and a little worried. All of that emotional crap of course has me feeling run down, too. So it hasn't been a fabulous few days, and I tend to go quiet here  during periods like that. (See last December as Exhibit A -- after finding out I was pregnant, I didn't post for more than a month.) But writing is my catharsis, the way I organize and analyze and acknowledge the thoughts bouncing through my brain. I need to keep going here, and that means finding ways to talk about what I'm thinking and feeling without baring too much of my soul. This used to be easier for me because no one I knew "in real life" actually read my blog. I know that has changed a bit as word has leaked out that I write here, and I'll be honest, the result is that I censor myself. I don't think that is going to change much... but I also want to work harder to find a way to be always  honest about what my life is like at the moment.

So this is my feeble attempt at that.

Things are a little grey right now.

And my brain hurts.

How long do you want to be loved? Is forever enough, is forever enough?

Three months? Has it truly been three months?

Are you really this big?

Apparently. It's not that it has gone by quickly. It really hasn't. It's that it still seems somewhat impossible to accept that I am a mother, and that I have been for three whole months, and that you are a real flesh-and-blood three-month old little person for whom I am totally responsible. There are moments, almost every day, where I stop and think, "Really? How did this happen?"

No, you were not in the plans. No, you weren't expected.

But holy cow, are you loved.

Big, big, big-time loved.

It's a big love that gets bigger every day. Of course, we have always loved you, our son. But this past month, as you began interacting and smiling and cooing like craaaaaaaaazy, you seriously made our hearts do somersaults. You kill me, every day, with your big I-still-don't-know-what-color they-are eyes and your hilarious expressions. Often, I'd say you look concerned. Concerned and perplexed, like you are trying to order the universe but your brain is failing you. Give it time, pumpkin pie. You'll get there.

Right now, I just want you to know that you are wholly and completely adored. Can you feel that? I believe you can. When I nurse you, you sigh so softly and so contently that I believe you must know. I try to imagine what it must feel like to be so tiny and to be held so tightly and to feel enfolded up against someone who is protecting you and nourishing you. I'd guess it feels wonderful, and I know unequivocally that being on the opposite end is my new definition of happiness. I hold you and nurse you and I could not care less that the economy is in the tank, that there is a historic presidential race happening, that there are all sorts of issues to be worried about, that Project Runway's on the tube. There's nothing in those moments but your tiny hand clenching my finger and your big eyes peering up at me and your little mouth churning away.

This past month was marked with all sorts of growth. One day, while you were watching your cherished Buckeye mobile spin, you discovered your hands. I came in to find you clasping them together in front of you as you quizzically stared them down. That same day, you seemed to notice your feet as you sat on my lap and bounced them on my stomach. You no longer need me to help you hold your head up. Your repertoire of sounds has tripled from a few grunts to all sorts of oohs and ahhs and babbles. You love when I talk baby talk to you, so I pretty much spend my entire days going, "Bee bee bee bee boop!" and "Aaaah-oooh, aaaah-oooh." When I say, "I love you," to you -- as I do about one hundred times each day -- I swear you try to say it back.

You love standing and are quite good at it -- with me holding you under your arms, of course. You also love when I lift you up above me and make airplane noises like, "Wheeeee! Wheeeee!" You go nuts when your Daddy rolls his tongue to make a Chewy noise. You don't know who Chewy is yet, I know, but with your Daddy, I promise you, you will. When we take you out and about, you love to look around and take in your new environments. You focus so intently that I can rarely get you to smile at your normal cues, like when I "bink" you on your nose. In those moments, you're like, "Excuse me, mother, but I have better things to do than perform at the moment. I am watching the world. Please excuse me."

And I like seeing you like that almost as much as I love your big, dimply, goofy grin.

It's funny. The thing I worried about the most when I found out you were on your way was that I'd lose a part of myself. That I'd be forced to give up things I love or things I thought made me who I was. How would I mesh the me I'd been crafting for 27 years with a role I didn't think I was ready for? All of that goes to show that the things we worry about are rarely the problems we wind up facing. Because if anything, since you've entered my life, I feel more like myself.  I feel fully realized and confident and purposeful and complete. I feel like this is who I was meant to be all along. You have certainly changed me but when I try to pinpoint how, exactly, I can't really do it.

I'm still me. But somehow, I am MORE me. I'm your mommy. And I think, in some way, I always have been.

Hello, you

So, I got my shoes. Thanks for all of the advice. I ended up going with two pairs, both purchased through Zappos, which I love love love. Love because they offer free shipping both ways, should you decide to return. Love because I heart reading reviews from people before I decide what to buy. Love because they have about seventy billions options that I can whittle down to 15 shoes that meet all the criteria I am looking for. And love because they upgraded my shipping for free and got me my new shoes in less than two days.

The first pair I picked where these white and blue J-41s. I found them after stumbling upon an ad in a magazine. Yes, I am that person who actually sees an ad in a magazine and then buys a product because of it. The thing that caught my eye was reading that this company makes its products out of 100 percent recycled materials. The company is a licensed product of Chrysler, which makes Jeep, which I believe is where the "J" originated. So I am not only saving the planet by buying these, I'm helping prop up the fledgling auto industry here in Detroit. It would almost be wrong NOT to buy them.

Still, I wasn't sure I would love these. My fear was they would be too clunky. And even now that they're here, I'm not positive they aren't a little clunky. But I love them anyway. First of all, you put your foot inside, and it feels like it is wrapped in a pillow. So cushiony. So comfy. And I love the color scheme, which will go with just about everything I own. And the Mary Jane look dresses them up just a tiny bit so that they're not just an ordinary sneaker.

I likey.

The next pair I bought were Rocketdogs, recommended to me in the comments by Beth! At first when I looked at their stuff, I thought it was all a little to skate-boardery for me. But then I saw these...

Aren't they sweet? They're kind of simple black skimmers. Sort of standard with some white stitching details and a bit of a fuzzy finish. But that is OK. They're just interesting enough that I like them, and again, they should meet my main criteria, which is to go with pretty much everything.

And I think they make my size nines look small. That's always a bonus.

The way I really know I love both of these shoes is that I wore them all day yesterday. In my house. While I folded laundry and unloaded the dishwasher and watched my babe. That is a true test of whether I really spent my money well, because when I truly like something, I wear it immediately.

So yeah. I will from hence forth be a stylin' "mom around town" instead of a frump-bucket. Thanks again for the advice!

The two a.m. mystery. And a cry for footwear advice.

So the routine is working wonders. The last four nights, Luke has grown sort of crabby around 7:30. And as soon as I start the routine, he gets calm, relaxed, almost excited. He is so into the routine, even the part when I massage his soft skin with girly-smelling lotion. Especially that part. And he seems to understand that the routine means bedtime. Each of those four nights, he has fallen asleep after nursing and has STAYED asleep for three hours. After needing to go in and nurse him or rock him multiple times the first few nights, the last four, he's been out without needing any more nuturing. This has led to something really wonderful -- time alone with my husband. We eat a late dinner (he doesn't get home until about 9 anyway) and we watch 30 Rock on DVD or whatever and we talk and we cuddle and we are ALONE. We talk about Luke, too, and I check on him repeatedly because I am overly neurotic about SIDS, but for the most part, we reconnect, and that is a much needed thing.

The only downside to the routine is that, suddenly, Luke is refusing to take a bottle during Jimmy's feeding. My husband used to do the "second" feeding of the night around 2 a.m. But with the earlier bedtime, that is now the third feeding. I do the second one before I go to bed. So I'm not sure if it is that switch in things or what, but the last few nights, Luke has woken up at 2 and then acted completely annoyed when Jimmy has tried to give him a bottle. It has gotten so bad that my husband told me last night -- over homemade chicken jambalaya, thank you -- that he has been squirting the milk into Luke's mouth. That cracked me up. But beyond finding the humor in that, we are both stumped. What's the problem here?

Last night, I was too tired to stay awake for the 11 o'clock feeding, so I went to bed and had Jimmy bring me the baby when he woke up. After he was done eating, I put him in his pack and play instead of his crib. That meant that it was me who responded to his cries at 2. And so I finally got to see what was going on first hand. He started fussing, and so I picked him up. But he wasn't acting hungry -- no fist in the mouth, no frantic OH MY GOD WILL I EVER EAT AGAIN?!?! crying. So I simply laid him next to me and put my hand on him, and what do you know, he went back to sleep! He didn't wake up to actually eat until 4:30 or so. So my question is, what the hell is happening? Is he getting close to sleeping through from 11 to 4:30 or so, but just needs a little help? A little middle-of-the-night calming down? Is this the first step before he simply sleeps right through? Please, please, oh pretty please, say it could be so?

I hope so. But really, it beats me. 

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Your advice please: I need a "running around" shoe. Something flat and comfortable but stylish. Something that can be worn with almost anything, but especially with sweat-type pants or jeans. It could be more of a sneaker -- I'm thinking something colorful and fun -- or a classic flat. I don't want anything strappy or open-toed. Any suggestions? For some reason, I have a really hard time finding a shoe that fits this description. I have some red loafers that are a little too businessy and a little too red to go with everything. I have flip flops that are just too summery. I have slip-on tennis shoes that are off-white and look a little too dirty and clunky for me to feel put together. And I have various shoes with wedge or short heels that just feel too dressy for a quick trip into the market. I want a  fallback shoe, a pair I can throw on when I'm running to the grocery store or the bank or wherever, something uncomplicated that still makes me feel put together and un-frumpy, even though it's not a dressy shoe. Does this make any sense? Bueller? What do you wear when you're out running errands? Any suggestions? This? This? Maybe this?

The goodness of fans

I'm sure most mothers out there have already heard, but a report came out this week touting a new way to keep your baby some succumbing to SIDS -- leave a fan on. Who knows why, but apparently if the air is circulating in the room, babies are less likely to randomly stop breathing and die of SIDS. I don't really get it, but I don't really need to either. All week, I made sure our fans were going, even though the temperatures have dropped enough that we have to run the heat at night.

So let me see. My baby is 72 percent less likely to die of SIDS with the fan on, but he's 14 percent more likely to die because he's a male. He's 20 percent more likely to die when he's in bed with me, which is about 30 percent of the time. Since my SAT score was in the 89th percentile, he's at an 11 percent risk. And I read somewhere that on the nights I say my prayers properly, the risk is a mere two percent -- unless I start smoking, and then it skyrockets to 45. Don't even get me started about Saturdays and Sundays, which come with a tripled threat of SIDS deaths.

Yeah, I'm being sarcastic. All these numbers make me a little bonkers. And my running fan makes me chilly, especially since I can't pull the blankets all the way up over my head since, you know, that would cover Luke up and surely suffocate him. But I'm pretty sure I'll keep running that fan anyways -- as much as I know I'll keep looking for more who-knows-what-they-really-mean statistics to calm my mind.

Hello, randomness. Or, things I love right now

That The Office is back. I love me some Jim and Pam, some Angela and Dwight. And Kelly. Oh Kelly. So funny, that Kelly.

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Good Earth Sweet and Spicy Tea from Trader Joe's.  Best tea ever. I say that admittedly as someone who knows and appreciates very little about tea. Tea, to me, is just the less yummy, less potent cousin of coffee, the hot beverage of champions. Tea? I can take it or leave it, whereas coffee and I have had a sordid fling going now for 10 years. But then my friend Kim brought me this tea. I had her over to gab last week, and because her love language is gift giving, she naturally brought me flowers, a delicious brie appetizer and this tea. That is just how she is. And I thank her oh so much because without her inate generousity and good taste, I might have never sampled this sweet, delicious, wonderful tea. It tastes like a thick, hearty cinnamon stick, like you're drinking a broth made out of melted Hot Tamales. It is so magically sweet and spicy, I don't even have to put sugar in it! Note that I put three little spoonfuls of sugar in my beloved coffee because I am a big wuss. So this tea makes me feel like a man... and doesn't cost me precious Weight Watchers points.

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These early fall days, when it is still sometimes sunny, and it's warm enough to sit on the porch bench wearing a thin sweater.  When the leaves are starting to turn but haven't started to fall. When the first pumpkins appear on stoops. And when the time is right, for the first time ever, to seriously peruse baby Halloween costume options. I think we are going to go with the hot dog look.

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The adorable noise Luke makes sometimes when he first starts to eat. He latches on, his eyes roll back in his head a little and he goes, "Mmm, mmm," with the inflection an adult would have when saying, "Oh yeah, oh yeah, that's the ticket." Like he's enjoying a really satisfying back rub. So sweet.

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Re-reading Lauren Winner's Girl Meets God. I forgot what a fantastic storyteller she is. Her vocabulary alone makes me keep turning the pages. Her insightfulness -- the way she laces all sorts of complex themes together before I've even noticed -- is what really keeps me hooked, though. She's sneaky good.

--

Having 33 days left of maternity leave. Now all I need to do is spend them sitting on my porch, drinking a cup of tea while I nurse Luke and read my book. That doesn't sound so bad, even if those beautiful leaves do begin to fall soon.

Nighty night, sleepy tight. And I mean NOW!

After weeks of letting Luke go down for the night whenever he felt like it, I decided it was time to start The Routine. As in, the sleep routine. As in, little baby, you are no longer going to stay up to watch Letterman with me. So Sunday night, at nine o'clock sharp, he took a bath. That was followed with a post-bath lavender lotion rub (hey, it might sound kind of girlie, but I read somewhere that this lavender lotion just knocks them right out). Then pajamas. Then rocking and nursing. And then? Then? Then it's crib time.

Night one worked pretty well. After the initial lay down, I had to go in once more to nurse him, but after that he stayed lights out. Night two, he started getting crabby at about 8, but getting him to sleep was actually a little tougher. I started the bath at 8:45 and thought I was some sort of parenting genius because obviously my baby is recognizing after one day of The Routine that it was bedtime. But then I had to nurse him twice more after the first lay down. And then I twice followed that with extra rocking sessions before he finally conked out for the count. Both nights, he was asleep by about 10:15.

Still, this is progress.

I worry a little that the only real way he falls asleep is while eating. I'd say that's how he gets himself to sleep about 95 percent of the time. It's probably becoming some sort of crutch. I read things that say that even now, at two and a half months, you can't let babies become used to falling asleep with any sort of crutch. Then I read things that say shame on those people telling you your baby can't have a sleep crutch, don't they know these are a little tiny babies and that it is totally natural they would need a little nurturing? Who can possibly expect a little tiny baby to conform to some pattern picked for its convenience to an adult's life? Then my head starts hurting from all the conflicting information and I run around in circles chasing my tail.

It always comes down to the same thing though. I'm going to do what seems right for my own little guy. And right now, my little guy likes to nurse himself to sleep, and I'm fine with letting him do that. I don't expect that this routine will really sink in and work right away either. He's probably still too little. But I'm going to stick with it and work through it, even if it means rocking or nursing him back to sleep seven times each night. I have about a month before I go back to work, and it seems like getting his routine a little more, um, routine would be a good idea before then. It will help me, too, since I'll be getting up earlier. It's been lovely sleeping in until 9:30 every day, but I know that can't last forever. When I go back, I might be getting up as early as 6 a.m. Better start getting used to it.

I'd love to hear what kind of things other mothers do to encourage their kids to go to sleep at a reasonable hour. And how early they started using a bedtime routine.

More from the I'm-a-bad-mommy file

So it has already been established that I lay my son down into a death-trap of a crib. Now it is even worse -- I've started laying him on his tummy.

It's true. After watching him fidget and fuss and grunt and groan through his sleep for 10 weeks, I decided to see what would happen if I put him down on his stomach. And what happened? He SLEPT. I mean, never before had the boy slept like this. Lights out, peaceful, wonderful sleep. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. Before this discovery, I don't know if he'd ever napped mid-day for more than an hour. Now, since I began tempting fate three days ago, he has enjoyed a two-hour plus midday nap, you know, just like a baby should.

Now, this is not to say that I am not overflowing with guilt about this. I am. I have Googled SIDS daily, reading everything I can find on the subject. I still am pretty lost as to just how badly I am endangering Luke;s life. From what I gather, the biggest risk factors for SIDS include things like having a teenage mother or a mother who smokes, being formula fed, having a low-birth weight or being from a low-income home. But one Web site I found said the rate of SIDS is three to nine times more likely if you lay a baby on his belly. That's bad enough, but it's nothing compared to having him sleep in your bed with you, where the rate of SIDS multiplies by 20. Guess where Luke sleeps for about half of each night?

I hate feeling scared about something I really shouldn't be scared about, and I hate not being able to discern whether this is one of those situations. I also hate worrying when worrying really gets me nowhere. So why not just lay the lad on his back, right? Because I love seeing him get the rest he needs.

It's really an awful toss-up -- do I let my baby sleep in the way he likes even though it endangers his life to some extent which I can't really qualify or do I make him sleep much more uncomfortably and deal with the consequences -- a tired, fussy baby, but one who is, you know, alive?

I don't know the right answer... except I can tell you, he's in the next room right now, sleeping soundly on his tummy. I can live with the worry, I suppose. Although I know if anything were to happen to him, I couldn't live with myself.

I would love to hear from other mothers who have battled the same problem and find out what compromise you came to!

The Cathy inside me rears her ugly head

Throughout the last few days -- make that a week now -- I have tried to figure out how to approach a certain topic without sounding like a Cathy. Do you know who I mean? The whiny comic book character who was constantly fretting about being fat and being single and being generally unhappy? She was the stand-in buzz-kill of the comic pages for years, and although I often read her strip, I also despised her. She was like that friend so many of us have, the girl who is always pointing out how 'fat" she is, forcing everyone to chime in with denials. Dieting is one of those subjects that is just hard to discuss honestly; we are all a little delusional about how much we do or don't need to lose, we're all a little maladjusted to accept our bodies as they are, and we're all a little too conscious of what one person's dieting might say about the rest of us. It's the old, if YOU need to lose weight, what must you think about me?

It's also obviously about vanity, something that should probably be kept totally private. Admitting you're thinking about dieting or that you've got body issues on your mind can make you seem totally vapid and vain. I don't like admitting to that.

But here it is: I am officially on a diet. I want to write about it because I could use encouragement, but also because, whether it makes me vain or boring or whatever, it IS on my mind a lot these days. There seems to be no way around that -- if you are counting points, calories, fat grams or whatever, you must always be a little more aware of what you're eating. If you weigh yourself every morning, that number is going to stick in your mind more than it would if you weighed yourself once a month. And if you weren't dieting, you'd probably just mindlessly snack when you felt hungry instead of dwelling in that feeling of hunger, a sensation that makes it hard to think of anything else.

So. Here it is. I'm dieting. Whatever. It ain't that big a deal, right? I'm probably totally over-analyzing the situation. Clearly, like most women, I have all sorts of mixed up views and attitudes and feelings about trying to lose weight. A big chunk of my own issues comes, no doubt, from my mother. My mother was about 120 pounds when she got married at 21, and she stayed thin until she had three kids in four years, starting when she was 32 years old. She gained 50 pounds each time she was pregnant, and she lost that weight after the first two -- my older brother and me. But she kept it on after my younger brother and then she added a significant amount more to that frame. She's only about five-foot-four, and I'd say that since I was in elementary school, she has been technically obese. And she was always on a "diet." In my view, my mother's "dieting" was a lot like her take on religion -- yeah, she went to church every weekend, but she also allowed us to sneak out after communion and she never read a Bible or prayed or spoke about Jesus. Dieting was the same -- yeah, she went to those Weight Watchers meetings, but she rarely cooked healthy dinners or avoided junk food or snacks. It's one thing to say you're following a certain protocal; it's another to live it.

I have always been aware of her failings in this department, and for a lot of my life, I've been unfairly harsh on her. I can remember one day, a long time ago, calling her fat. To her face. It's not a moment I am proud of. I know I was simply trying to hurt her because, you know, she had the audacity to make me do something I didn't want to do, like practice the piano. But there's no excuse--I was acting cruelly and I knew it. These days, I am not so cruel, but I'm still judgmental. Whenever she snacks in front of me, whenever she orders dessert, whenever she breaks any cardinal healthy-eating rule, I give her a look. I know I shouldn't do that, that it's wrong and does nothing to really help her. But it's like I can't help it. I think my intentions are good -- I believe she'd be a happier person if she was thinner, that she'd have less trouble getting around, that she'd have more energy and that she'd show herself more respect. What daughter doesn't want that for her mother? Still. That look probably does little more than make her feel bad about herself.

See how complicated all of this is? Yeah, it's just food. But it's so freaking complicated sometimes.

Anyway, I'm doing Weight Watchers, counting my points. I just want to lose 15 pounds -- the last 10 from my pregnancy, plus the five that, you know, you always want to get rid of. So far, I've lost about two pounds. I get a lot of extra points because I'm nursing, but still, it's not easy. I can't imagine how people do this who AREN'T nursing. Those points disappear fast. I also think now of everything in terms of Krispy Kreme doughtnuts. A glazed Krispy Kreme is five points, so I now compare every snack and meal to that standard -- how bad is this compared to a Krispy Kreme? It's entertaining, if not really very helpful. Really, it just makes me have to constantly supress the urge to throw whatever it is I'm eating in the garbage and just go out for the doughtnut already.

I guess this is what it feels like to slowly turn into your mother.

Cat in the cradle

Before Luke was born, I wondered how Robert would react to having a new little creature around.  I thought through all the typical scenarios -- she would ignore him completely, she'd be jealous, she'd smother him in his sleep, she'd protect him, she'd be enamored with his milky breath. The reality turned out to be closest to that first option; for the most part, she hasn't given Luke the time of day. When she has lowered herself to acknowledge his presence, it's usually in a sort of fearful stare, especially when he starts wailing. Her ears will lower, she'll cock her head and look at him and then slink out of the room, headed for the quiet comforts of the basement.

But she is slowly warming up to him. She's appearing in his room a bit more after avoiding it for weeks. She even climbed into the recliner with the two of us the other day and curled up to take a nap in my lap -- where Luke was already laying as he nursed. But yesterday came the real breakthrough. I always thought we'd have a big problem trying to keep her out of the crib; like most cats, she loves confined spaces, especially cushy ones where she can take a nap. But for some reason, even before he was here, she never ventured into it. And once he claimed the territory as his own, she really stayed away.

Apparently, she's over it.

P.S. See all that stuff in the crib (besides the kitty)? I am probably endangering the little guy's life, right? All I ever hear is that you're not supposed to have anything in the crib but a fitted sheet and your babe. Bumpers? Evil. Stuffed animals. Eviler. Blankets? What kind of murderous mother are you?! I don't really buy into that philosophy... at least not now, when he's not capable of moving from where I put him. Am I a terrible mother? I just don't see the problem with a cute bumper or stuffed animals way over on the other side of his bed.