Christmas Came Early

Perhaps it is just me, but it felt as though Christmas snuck up on us this year. It could have been because many hours of my day are spent negotiating with, chasing after and, in general, raising an inquisitive, rambunctious, and all-around normal toddler boy. It could have been because we were in the early stages of being a new family of four. It could have been because just prior to the onset of the holiday season, this area was slammed by a freakish Nor’easter and by the time we had recuperated from the 7-days without power along with its aftermath of the “cancellation of Halloween”, insurance appraisals and tree removal, it was time to carve turkeys and decorate with pumpkins.

Like most people, I certainly became absorbed with the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. The television ads lured me in with their evil ways convincing me that I absolutely needed their fun and educational products for my eldest child in order to provide him a fulfilling childhood and pave his way into an ivy-league future. In addition, there was a self-applied pressure that was on to ensure that this was a memorable celebration for our family seeing that it was Ryan’s First Christmas.

The weeks flew by as our calendar filled up with holiday get-togethers and our home filled up with shopping bags, rolls of wrapping paper, and the seasonal scents of spruce and baking. We scheduled a photo-shoot to get a good picture of the boys for our Christmas cards and decorated the house with wreaths, lights, and other relatively kid-friendly trappings & trimmings. We purchased tons of batteries in all shapes and sizes to accommodate any toy that Santa might bring and both the digital and video cameras lived on their chargers so that they would be ready to capture any priceless memory at a moment’s notice. But BOY did this all take a LOT of work!

Before I knew it, the big weekend was here! We spent Christmas Eve with my side of the family. Over hors d'oeuvres, we shared many laughs watching the little ones unwrap their gifts and be charmed by the simplest of things. As Ryan slept the evening away in his crib, Caiden was enamored by a PEZ dispenser that looked like a Shop-Rite truck. And while my niece, Alison, played Santa Claus passing out all the presents to everyone and demonstrating her reading skills, her younger sister, Isabel, twirled around my living room like a ballerina modeling one of the three tutus that I gave to her. By 7PM, Dan was at work and I was at church attending the Christmas Eve service with my children enjoying the sounds of soulful gospel, hugging friends old & new, and relishing in the magic of the night as a whole.

On Christmas morning, I lay in bed nursing Ryan and basked in the quiet & calm around me (knowing that within a few short hours it would all be obliterated). As I traced the outline of his profile with my fingertips, over his button nose and around the curvature of his soft cheeks, I reveled in the beauty of my own creation and the joy that he brings to me. Soon after, I heard the familiar “thump, thump” of two toddler-sized tootsies hitting the floor above me and knew that it was “showtime” on Christmas Day. The priceless look on Caiden’s face as he came down the stairs and saw what Santa had brought was immortalized on home video and I know that many years from now it will be well-worth the jestly-hassling that I endured from my husband with regard to being “That Mom” with the camera in her hands at all times. Our morning was spent in a traditional manner of unwrapping our gifts to each other clad in pajamas and enjoying the ability to be as lazy as we wanted to be for a good portion of the day. Come 3PM, once all of the toys were out of their boxes and we had already memorized the incredibly annoying songs & jingles projected from each, we headed on over to Dan’s parents’ house to feast together and partake in the company and chaos that only a home full of 20+ guests can bring! While I enjoyed the comfort foods that were delicious and, moreover and better yet, not cooked by me, my boys loved being doted upon by their grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and all forms of extended family and the like!

Yes, it snuck up on me this year, but a revelation came to me on the night of Christmas. After reading “The Grinch” to Caiden for the millionth time and putting him to bed; after making a new path through the fortress of Hasbro that overtook my living room; after sneaking in one more nibble of sweet, over-indulgence in my kitchen, it was time to feed Ryan once more. The closing of Christmas Day was much like its beginning. Again, I lay in bed nursing Ryan and basked in the quiet & calm around me. Routinely, I began to trace the outline of his profile with my fingertips, over his button nose and around the curvature of his soft cheeks, reveling in the beauty of my own creation and the joy that he brings to me. And then I began to think about “The Reason for the Season”. It is so easy to get lost in the commercialism that the holidays bring, but the true meaning of Christmas lies within the anticipation of a baby boy who will enter this world to bring happiness, wisdom, joy, and a legacy of his own to those whose lives he touches. As Ryan’s sleepy blue eyes began close in contentment, a feeling of overwhelming love and warmth consumed me. And then it hit me.

Despite the fact that I received many great gifts this year (including the laptop that this blog entry is being typed on), for me, the greatest present of all arrived a few months prior. And in a similar fashion as the "Reason for the Season", for me, Christmas didn’t come quickly this year… it, actually, just came early.

You Might Be a Momma If…

Remember Jeff Foxworthy’s bit on “You might be a Redneck if…”? Well, the other day I was at the gym waiting for my step class to begin when I put my hands in my pockets. My fingertips grazed over a very familiar object and despite the fact that my child was rooms away in the childcare center and these clothes were just put on, I pulled out one of his pacifiers. I laughed to myself saying, “Ha! You know you’re a mom when you never leave home without a binky.” This got me thinking about ALL the ways one could qualify for being a Momma.

You Might Be a Momma If:

• You’ve watched enough children’s programming to start wondering “Where the hell are Max & Ruby’s parents?” and can perform the entire choreographed end-sequence from The Fresh Beat Band.
• You could care less about what you look like in public just as long as you can run an errand ALONE.
• A good, solid, uninterrupted night’s sleep is more valuable to you than the Crown Jewels.
• You referred to your time at the hospital post the births of subsequent children as “your stay at The Hotel Baystate” because you were able to lounge around all day, got room service, and had zero responsibilities.
• ...You requested to stay the maximum amount allowed at “The Hotel Baystate” in order to take advantage of the previous-stated “amenities”.
• You throw up a little bit in your mouth every time you see the feet of an adult, but marvel at your baby’s tootsies daily.

• A trip to “The Lady Doctor” now qualifies as “Me Time”.
• The sights and smells of poop & puke no longer faze you.
• Your recycling bin is now considered a whimsical treasure trove full of rainy day craft possibilities.
• You realize that there is nothing sexier than your husband folding mountains of laundry unsolicited.
• You’ve experienced more exhilaration witnessing your babies’ first smiles than any amusement attraction you’ve ever ridden on.

• Professional photography sessions are no longer like an afternoon at Glamour Shots. Now you simply pray that you can get at least one good picture that doesn’t feature your kids crying, spitting up, fighting, or looking at anything except the actual camera.
• Date night now consists of PJs, Chinese takeout, and an episode of “The Office” and is soooooo much better than any dressy, 5-star joint and movie.
• Nothing and no one in your home is safe from the wrath, curiosity, and energy of your toddler.
• You are now painfully aware of how narrow parking spaces are when you are trying to squeeze your infant car seat in and out of your vehicle.
• You’ve considered purchasing stock in Duracell and Pampers based off of the excessive consumption of their products in your house alone.
• You’ve waved the white flag of tidiness in the “Battle Against Clutter & Disarray of the Playroom”.
• You now appreciate the value of a good bib, burp cloth, and/or baby sock that actually stays on your infant’s foot.
• You would eagerly sign a petition requesting that all public venues provide up-close parking for “Parents of Small Children” next to the handicap spots.
• You drive your husband nuts with the phrase, “Wait! Let me go get the camera!” wanting to capture every moment of quality family time, knowing that in the grand scheme of things, THIS IS WHAT WE WILL TREASURE FOREVER.
• You have come to terms with the fact that “child-proofing” your home is somewhat pointless because nothing can thwart or outwit a determined 2-year-old.
• The interior of your car reeks of coffee, crushed Cheerios, stale French fries, and … what is that?
• Amazon.com and online shopping, in general, is your new best friend.
• Stroller—or even worse, double stroller—in tow, you can now empathize with the fact that most places are NOT as “handicap accessible” as they claim to be.
• The baby swing in your home is almost, if not the most, important device in you home (next to your Keurig, of course).
• You now purchase your children’s clothing based not on its cuteness, but for its ease of diapering. (Seriously, who ever thought that it was a good idea to put a row of buttons in the crotch of a romper?)
• Despite how much you shake your head and curse at the train wrecks of “16 and Pregnant”, you find yourself misty watching the delivery scenes and flat out bawl during the episodes in which they choose adoption.
• Thanks to late night feedings, you know what they try to sell you on TV. Due to sleep-deprivation, you now actually contemplate purchasing the product.
• Dinner is now considered “Mealtime at the Zoo”.
• If you are all fed, dressed, and out of the house by noontime, it is a good day.
• The holidays have truly taken on a deeper, more magical meaning, but you still abuse the concept of Santa for behavior modification.
• You have 8 “To Do” lists going on at one time. You lose the lists, and then find them only to cross-reference them and learn that they don’t even match up.
• “Multitasking" is your perfected art form and you can do almost anything one-handed. (Today I cut up Caiden’s lunch while nursing Ryan. Standing up. True story.)
• You’ve been in the car or out in public and had that moment of panic in which you ask yourself, “Wait! Did I put on deodorant today?”
• Modesty about the appearance of your body and any of its functions went out the door the second you gave birth to your firstborn.
• You’ve secretly worn maternity clothes—including pregger underwear—even when you weren’t gestating just because you know how freakin’ comfortable they are.
• You no longer care if your toddler only eats peanut butter & jelly sandwiches or slices of Land o’ Lakes cheese every day just as long as he is eating something.
• You celebrate the utterance of every new word added to your child’s vocabulary even if you are the only one who can understand it. (Example: “Cha cha doh-na” is the equivalent to “chocolate donut” in “Caidenese”.)
• You sound like your mother more than ever.

When Fashion Falters, Family Flourishes

A few weeks back I was getting ready for church. It was a good day. Both boys were fed, dressed, and quietly content—and, best of all, we were right on schedule. Feeling good about the morning, I decided that today was the day I would “feel human again”. With some time to spare, I carefully chose an outfit that didn’t scream “minivans and soccer games here I come”. I cast aside the comfort of my trusty yoga pants and slipped into fitted jeans—with a belt nonetheless. My shirt was clean, stylish, and bore no resemblance to the oversized, baby-stained hoodies that I normally adorn. I used a hair dryer to style my hair and threw on some makeup. And finally, I zipped up my piece de resistance: a pair of uber cute gray suede boots that – GASP! —had heels. Now this may not seem like a big deal to the average gal but one must understand that I had not worn heels since becoming pregnant with Ryan 11 months ago. One must also understand that I have a passion for shoes and it is one thing that I miss indulging in now that I am a full-time momma. (Let’s face it: It’s not very practical to be playing Ring Around the Rosie in leopard print pumps.)

So that Sunday was a good Sunday. Feeling good after the service—inside and out—I started strutting my sassy, sueded self across the parking lot, back to our car, baby in his carrier, and Caiden by my side. Then. All. Hell. Broke. Loose. As I went to unlock my car, Caiden decided that it would be a great idea to let go of my hand and start walking into a field abutting the lot. Not a big deal if he just listened to his mother and obey her when she said, “Ok Buddy, that’s far enough. Come back and get buckled in.” No. My kid slyly peeked over his shoulder, looked over at a nearby playground (at the other end of the field) and BOLTED. IN a moment of sheer panic, I looked down at the infant in his carrier on my arm, then at the back of my sprinting toddler who could rival Flo Jo, back at my baby in the carrier and thought, “Holy s#!t! What do I do?!?!” Luckily, my friends were at their car right next to us, so I plunked Ryan’s carrier down beside the car and said, “Please watch him while I go catch his brother.” (What I was thinking, however, was “Please watch him while I go kill his brother.” But we were on hallowed grounds.)

(This is not an uncommon pose for Caiden nowadays. It's sorta the "try to get me" tease. He is ALWAYS on the run...)

Have you ever tried to run across a muddy field in 4” heels? This mad dash that felt like an eternity was punctuated by thoughts laden with curse words. Some were directed at my son who’s “joy run” (which ended up past the field and playground and into the neighboring woods) could have put him in physical harm, while the other thoughts damned myself for trying to be a hot momma that day. How dare I try to look good? As I wrangled my child and carried him back to the car, I began to wonder: Will I have to live the rest of my life in sneakers?

You know what? Currently, the answer to that question is “Yes.” And although my initial reaction is to cringe (Oh, how I love my red patent leather stilettos!), forfeiting the glamour and trendiness of it all is a small price to pay in exchange for moments no fashion designer could replicate. Manolo Blahnik can not melt me dawn after dawn with a sleepy voice saying “Gooooooood morrrrrrrrnnnnnin’, Momma”. Steve Madden can not craft the overwhelming joy that floods my entire being each and every time I see my 2-month-old smile in reaction to the mere sight of me. Christian Louboutin has nothing on the snuggles and story times, the kisses and coos, the love and laughter shared by my family and I. So if that means that I must trade in my stylish sandals for a pair of practical Nikes, so be it. My focus has now shifted from the latest pair of Jimmy Choo’s to Thomas the "Choo Choo" and instead of sporting peep toes, I play peek-a-boo. But I would rather be a mess of mommy that a fashionista lacking family. My children are, in essence, the best accessories that I have ever had—always drawing attention and compliments from others, making me feel good about myself, completing my “look” or the life, rather, that I set out to lead. So forget the chunky wedges and the adorable boots. Sneakers, like family, provide stability and comfort. Besides, my youngest’s initials are RPM. I think that it’s safe to say that I have many more years of running ahead of me…

(“Gooooooood morrrrrrrrnnnnnin’, Momma!”)

(You can't outdo this, Steve Madden!)

“F” Is For…

(Author’s Note: This post was originally composed in October during the week of the nasty Nor’easter that hit our area. With a week lacking power and two small children underfoot—the youngest being only 3-weeks-old at the time—there was plenty of time to sit back, reflect, and come up with a blog entry. 6 weeks have since passed and not much has changed so I still feel that the post is worth sharing, if not for the therapeutic benefits of venting, but for the humor of it all.)

With the recent addition of Ryan to our family, our household is currently in a state of utter upheaval, adjustment, and lack of routine. As I am busy trying to manage daily household tasks, diapering two children, nursing, and racing to the telephone to interrupt calls before they wake up my husband (who needs to sleep during the day after working 3^rd shift), it sometimes feels as though the only predictable element of our lives is the television lineup. Since Ryan feeds every 2 hours, I often find myself allowing Caiden to watch TV in lieu of more creative outlets because I know that it will maintain his attention and keep him put in a safe spot. As a result, Thomas and Friends, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and Curious George have provided entertainment for Caid while Sesame Street gave me some inspiration for this blog post. You see, every episode of this classic series still focuses on a number and letter of the day. During an episode from last week, as Elmo, Grover, and Cookie Monster informed my eldest that “F” was for “forest”, “freckles”, and “frozen”, I started to think about what “F” stood for in my life.

“F” is for Friends. It is amazing who comes forward once a new baby arrives. Friends from near and far have blessed us with acts of generosity and kindness. From mailing us a congratulatory card to dropping off gifts for the baby and the family (one of the best things we received was the gift of time when my friends took Caiden for an afternoon and I could rest and devote some treasured, quiet moments with Ryan), we have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support and feel so very lucky to have these people as part of our family’s lives.

“F” is for Fortunate. This, for obvious reasons, goes hand-in-hand with “Friends”. An extension of this is geared, however, specifically for the generosity of new friends whom I have made through the MOMS (Moms Offering Moms Support) Club in town. These women, relative strangers to me, stepped forth immediately after Ryan was born and brought over wholesome home cooked meals, hand-me-down nursing garb, and even a present or two for Big Brother Caiden (so that he didn’t feel left out). How could I not feel fortunate to have them around?

“F” is for Fatigue. I haven’t slept since October 8^th, 2011.

“F” is for Feedings. Whereas Ryan eats constantly around the clock, many days I forget to eat meals myself. Breakfast for Caiden is often a scenario of him eating dry Cheerios straight from the box with a sippy cup of milk on the side. And then there is dinnertime. Caiden loves to cook. His mother, however, does not. See the following subcategory.

“F” is for Friendly’s, Fazios, and Fast Food. Without the assistance of the MOMS Club meals and these local institutions of cuisine, my family would starve.

“F” is for Frazzled. A typical “day in the life of Laurel” would include the phone ringing off the hook, the dog barking, the baby crying, the UPS man at the door, and Caiden running around half-naked. Enough said.

“F” is for Focus. Perhaps this is just an extension of “Frazzled” and “Fatigue”, but I seem to have completely lost focus on just about everything. I start something, get sidetracked, start something else, get sidetracked from that, and then look around and say to myself, “What the hell happened around here?”

“F” is for Fibbing. Whoever said that breastfeeding was easy, LIED.

“F” is for Feet. I can finally see and reach my own tootsies, so one of the first things that I did for myself postpartum was give myself an at-home pedicure. It was fabulous, so “F” can stand for that as well.

“F” is for FedEx. One of the things that I forgot about with regard to the early days of bringing Caiden home is the unquenchable desire to do online shopping and, even worse, make purchases from QVC. I blame it on the baby’s feeding schedule. There is not much on for entertainment during the wee small hours of the morning and, therefore, I often find myself tuning into home shopping stations that take advantage of my sleep-deprived state in order to convince me that I need these items. (Although I haven’t stooped low enough to buy a set of Forever Lazy, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were on the horizon. They do look quite comfortable and I am sure that the fabric it is made from is absorbent enough to even handle the rivers of spit up my kid produces…) Especially with the holiday season quickly approaching, the FedEx Man is hiking it up our hill almost daily in order to deliver something to us.

“F” is for Funky. This is probably how I smell since squeezing in a daily shower is a task unto itself. With the ability to shower at the gym, I have recently been contemplating bringing my gear to there just so I can clean up after my workouts without any interruptions involving a wailing infant or my toddler playing peek-a-boo with me using the shower curtain.

“F” is for Frumpy. In general, this is how I look and feel. Even when I successfully work my way into an outfit that doesn’t contain a strand of Spandex in it, I usually have to change it immediately because of hands covered in grape jelly or the wrath of Ryan’s reflux gets the best of me. And on a side note, there is no such thing as a sexy nursing garment.

“F” is for !@%$#%@. Yes, you read that correctly. Since Caiden repeats EVERYTHING, I don’t actually say this word aloud, but forms of this obscenity go through my mind daily. Examples include (but are certainly not limited to):

· Hearing Caiden in another room rummaging through something that he shouldn’t be rummaging through. “What the !@%$#%@ is he into now?”

· Changing Ryan’s diaper for the zillionth time, snapping, zipping, swaddling, only to finish and hear him squeeze out another rip-roaring deuce. Repeat the previous steps of changing, snapping, zipping, swaddling and then realize that he has spit up everywhere. “You have got to be !@%$#%@ kidding me!”

· Putting Caiden to bed. Then feeding Ryan. Then hearing Caiden get out of bed. Wrangle him back into bed. Get ready to turn in myself. Finally settle in. Look at the clock and realize that it is time to feed Ryan again. “!@%$#%@...”

· During a late night feeding I burp Ryan. He’ll spit up over my shoulder and onto my pillow. Do I change the bedding now? “Eh. !@%$#%@ it.” (Flip the pillow over. It can wait ‘til tomorrow.)

“F” is for Family of Four. And despite some of the inconveniences and hardships that sometimes arise as a result of that, I am, undoubtedly, Fulfilled.

Dirty Little Secrets

(Author’s Note: The following entry was written back in October during what I refer to as “Snowmaggedon”. Being without power for 7 days straight allowed for many hours of thought and writing, but actually being able to type, edit and post said writing took a little more time…)

A few weeks back I was hanging out with my good friend, Jenn. She, too, is a “new mom of two”. We first met back when our firstborns were, well, first born. Her eldest is 3 days younger than Caiden and her newest is 2 weeks older than Ryan. She is, in many ways, my mirror image when it comes to parenting and without her friendship I would truly be lost in the stormy seas of toddler tantrums, endless diapers, and late-night feedings. During this visit, we were sharing our “secrets” regarding the new “norms” in our homes. Usually, I would keep these facts quiet and to myself—feeling guilty and ashamed of what my current reality is—but with Jenn, there is no shame, nor hiding. Hell, it’s not even like I share it in confidence (although I know she wouldn’t be shouting my inadequacies from the rooftops if I had asked her to keep them hush, hush). With Jenn, I can just be myself and, in turn, learn that I am not alone on this ever-changing journey of motherhood. After talking with her for a few hours about how crazy and exhausting life now seems with the “simple” addition of another tiny human being, I now feel empowered by the raw honesty of it all and want to share all of my “dirty little secrets” with the world in the hopes of letting other moms feel normal. So here it goes…

DLS #1: I hate breastfeeding. So many outlets of society make this act look easy, loving, and even beautiful at times. Like it is a walk in the park and one of the best things about being a mom. YUCK. Not for me. Perhaps I lack some sort of maternal gene, but I find it to be hard, painful, time-consuming, and messy. The sensation of “letdown” feels like I am being punched in the chest by a set of brass knuckles encrusted with thumbtacks and no one ever warned me that my mammary glands could rival Ol’ Faithful once my bra was removed. (TMI? Sorry.) Everyone around me tells me that it will get easier and, although it has, I have yet to have that “Ahhhh, what precious time this is” moment. This less than desirable attitude towards breastfeeding makes me feel insensitive, nonmaternal, and downright terrible at times and I am sure that there will be some women out there who read this and think that there is something wrong with me. But regardless of anyone’s’ opinions (including my own), I will continue to stick with it because I do have a healthy, happy baby boy as a result of this feeding method. And it’s cheap.

(Ryan at 8 weeks old. His right eye gets all squished up when he's smiles just like mine does.)

DLS #2: I have a new babysitter. His name is Elmo. Since the arrival of my “itty bitty”, my big kid now lives in front of the television. It seems as though it is the only way that I can ensure that he is safe and in one spot while I get stuff done. I try to justify the endless hours in front of TV by saying that, “Hey, at least it’s educational programming”, but it never fails to make me feel like a parent who can’t balance her new responsibilities. I have every intention, day after day, to be the mom who wakes up, grabs her cup of coffee, feeds and changes her baby, then wakes, feeds, and changes her eldest, runs off to the gym, does the dishes, throws in a load of laundry, runs errands, and comes home to read books, bake cookies, and complete an afternoon craft with her eldest. But then 7am rolls around (aka: “REALITY”) and Ryan begins fussing because HE. NEEDS. FOOD. NOW!!!!!!! Then he proceeds to spit it all back up on me. Caiden runs downstairs and starts to take out every item in the Tupperware cabinet, the dog is barking at the FedEx guy, the phone is ringing off the hook, my breakfast is burning, milk is spilling, diapers need changing yet again, Caiden starts to chase after the dog with a broom, the sink is overflowing with crap, and God damnit I STILL haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet! So enters my good friend, Elmo, who can captivate my toddler’s attention for at good hour while teaching him his ABCs—in Spanish nonetheless—and I can at least pacify Ryan, rinse the baby residue out of my hair, and maybe vacuum the first floor. (On a side note, I sat nursing Ryan the other day with Caiden next to me in a “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Induced-Coma” thinking, “Hmmmm, this certainly gives a new meaning to the term ‘boob tube’…”)

(Evidence of a typical morning in the Manley household including PJs, Mom's bed, and an episode of "Curious George")

DLS #3: I let my baby sleep snuggly in the Boppy at night. I could defend this practice by saying that I do so in order to keep him at an incline after eating so that his acid reflux is kept to a minimum. This fact is, indeed, true, however my real intentions rest in the reality that it also aids in me scoring a few extra hours of uninterrupted sleep. I am sure that the American Association of Pediatrics and SIDS gurus would be cringing at the airing of this tidbit of information, but seeing that I am usually solo for the night shift in my house and still have to run the day shift here, I see no problem in having the babe-o sleeping away soundly in his U-shaped pillow/my saving grace (thinking that he is being held) in order to provide us BOTH with a good night’s rest.

DLS #4: My kids usually aren’t out of their pajamas until lunchtime. You just read about what mornings are like here. Do I need to paint a clearer picture nor explain this further?

DLS#5: I am not usually out of my pajamas until—well, ever. (Author's Note: Since the original composition of this post, I have now graduated to getting dressed--after lunchtime, of course-- but it's usually in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts.)

DLS#6: The interior of my home looks as though it could qualify for FEMA Relief despite all efforts to keep up with the laundry, dishes, and my eldest child. I seriously forgot about how much dirty laundry a 10-pound human being could produce. Granted, this is a child who suffers from GERD (gastro esophageal reflux disease), but hoooooolllllly moooollllly is there a lot of washing to do! And loads of his laundry are quite deceiving. New/Prospective Mothers Beware: One load of cute little baby clothes is actually the work of the Devil in disguise. When it reemerges from the dryer you will find yourself in a never-ending barrel of onesies to be folded and teeny tiny socks to be matched up. Keeping up with the dishes in the sink is an issue because we are in that phase of life with a new baby that involves everyone eating in shifts so there is always a plate to be rinsed and a pot to be scrubbed. (Thank God for our dog who is a gem when it comes to “pre-treating” all the dirty dishes. She is also like a furry little Hoover when it comes to flying Cheerios and exploding juice boxes. So for Mollie, I am thankful.)

(Woof.)

DLS #7: I sometimes resent the fact that my husband can go to work every night. I am completely blessed to be in a situation in which we can afford to have me be a stay-at-home mom and I am incredibly grateful to my hardworking hubby for all that he does outside of our home. In addition, there is not much that he can do here during the nights. Caiden is fast asleep and doesn’t need our attention and I am the only one able to feed Ryan. The resentment lies in the fact that he can go out, interact with other adults, use his education, provide for his family, and just simply get out of this house ALONE. Perhaps “resent” is a poor choice of word. “Envy” is probably more appropriate, but nonetheless, it is something that I have embattled now for 2 ½ years now and is a feeling that is a bit more exacerbated due to being run-ragged and reeking of spit up.

I know that some, if not all, of these dirty little secrets are shared within the hearts and minds of other moms out there. Perchance you are one of those parents who can say aloud, “Oh my God, ME TOO!” Either way, I hope that by venting these concerns and truths about my own life, those struggling with the difficult adjustment of a newborn coupled with their own sense of perfectionism can give themselves a little slack knowing now that they are certainly not unaccompanied on this journey. Good parents are not always going to be dressed to the nines by noontime and happy-go-lucky 24/7. Good parents are honest and use that honesty united with a bit a humor to learn, move on, and laugh at themselves. If you share one of these dirty little secrets with me, you are not a bad parent. And you, more importantly, are not alone.

We Plan. God Laughs (Part Two)

WARNING: The following blog post contains the details of a birth story. They are not gory details because a.) I wouldn’t want you to think about them, and b. ) I wouldn’t want to think about them either. Nonetheless, read at your own discretion.

Early in the morning on Saturday, October 8^th I woke up to take my usual 3am “pinkle”. I hopped back into bed and lay there wide-awake. The grocery shopping had been done for the week, the house was pretty much in order (as far as “order” goes around here), and the calendar was basically cleared of all activities. So what the heck could I think about to lull me back to sleep? Feeling uber pregnant and begrudgingly realizing that I was now 5 days overdue, I started to convince myself that this baby was never going to come on his own and I should just accept the fact that he would arrive via C-section on the 17^th. [Being the last day of my 42^nd week, this date was set in advance with my OB as a last resort. I referred to it as “Evacuation Day”. If I was potentially going to still be pregnant by mid-October, hell, they pull him out through my right nostril for all I cared…]. Coming to terms with this, I began to mentally pack my hospital bag with a few extra items for a longer hospital stay. I’ll need that black nursing cami and my postpartum pressure belt… Don’t forget the iPod… I’ll grab some magazines tomorrow… Ugh! Stupid cramping again. Eh, I felt this a week and a half ago with false labor. It’s nothing. Besides, I am going to have another section anyway.

We Plan. God Laughs.

Three hours later I awoke to a pretty strong contraction. Hmmm... No biggie. I figured that it was another Braxton Hicks pain and disregarded it until another one came about 10 minutes later. And then another one 10 minutes after that. Since Dan was due to be home from work within the hour, I decided to hold off on calling or texting him. No point in him racing home to wait around a few hours while the steady contractions got stronger and closer together, right?

We Plan. God Laughs.

7am: Dan walks in through the door and I am holding myself up with the kitchen counter. “Brace yourself, Babe. Pretty sure we’ve got a long day ahead of us.” We began timing the contractions in order to get the “go ahead” with the midwives. They were coming 5-7 minutes apart and at 8 am we were told to head on down to Baystate. My mom hurried to our house to watch Caiden and by 9am I was admitted to WETU (the evaluation unit). Upon my first check I was at 8 cm dilated. 8 centimeters?!?!? Yep. It’s baby time. [Except this is not the wording that I used. What I actually said was HOOOOLLLLLLLY SHIT!] I was whisked away to the Labor and Delivery Unit where I was immediately able to receive an epidural. When I had Caiden, this portion of the birthing process was a cake walk so I wasn’t really nervous when anestheosilogy walked in.

We Plan. God Laughs.

Two tries later (after getting the epidural in a vein the first time—yeah, that is pain that actually rivals active labor contractions), I was completely numb on my right side with some sensation still remaining in my left. [This would prove to be a blessing in disguise later on.] Despite some panic because I could still feel part of my lower half, I was able to rest and relax for the next few hours. Dan was able to catch some shut-eye on the pullout couch as I psyched myself up for the work ahead of me while simultaneously watching a “Law & Order: SVU” marathon. Around 3pm my midwife broke my water to get me to that last centimeter that I needed and by 4pm it was “go time”. [Insert another HOOOOLLLLLLLY SHIT! here.] It was at this point that I literally was regretting my whole “let’s go VBAC” decision. This is going to hurt! The process of pushing, however, wasn’t as traumatic as I anticipated. Because I still had some sensation remaining in the lower left quadrant of my abdomen, I was able to tell when a contraction was coming on and didn’t have to rely on a nurse reading a squiggly line on a monitor. This allowed me to really jump on each opportunity to get this little man out. And it worked. Screw you C-section. I am woman. Hear me roar!

From the first contraction to the last push, the entire process took only 11 hours. Ryan Patrick entered the world at 5:06pm weighing in at 7 pounds 6.4 ounces and was 21 inches long. The second he was placed my chest I began crying. Dan kissed my forehead and told me what a good job I did and how the little guy was really, actually, finally here. My tears weren’t for how sweet this little baby was though—that would be saved for later. In that moment, those tears were for ME. And the fact that I had set my mind on something 9 months ago that I so desperately wanted to achieve. And I did it.

God wasn’t laughing then. I think that He was smiling and nodding in contentment, too.

The Waiting Game

“… all the time we wondered and wondered who is this person coming/growing/turning/floating/swimming deep, deep inside.”

~ Crescent Dragonwagon

Pregnancy is a waiting game. It begins from the very first second you pee on an EPT stick and anxiously count down the seconds until your fate is determined by one or two blue lines. If you see a positive test result, you then anticipate the first OB visit where your doctor gets to tell you how much longer you have to wait until your baby is due. Then you get to wait for the doctor’s appointment in which you hear the baby’s heartbeat for the first time. That is usually followed by waiting to see the fuzzy images on a small screen at your first ultrasound that they say resemble a fetus, yet my own personal jury is still “out” on that one. Then you get to wait for your next doctor’s appointment to hear about how good you are at growing babies. Oh! And then there is that (what seems to be the most) excruciatingly long period of time that you have to wait until you get to go to your second ultrasound in which the baby’s gender can be disclosed. (Aside from the actual due date, waiting for that particular ultrasound is what eats away at mine and Dan’s patience the most.) It is almost as if as soon as you learn that you are pregnant, an invisible clock forms around your growing abdomen and sounds louder by the day.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Let me tell you, from experience—TWICE now—that that clock becomes nearly deafening when your baby decides not to arrive until after their due date. Our family continues to await the arrival of out new little “bundle of boy”. I had mentioned in my last blog entry that we were in anticipation of the results of an ultrasound, and since I received a resounding amount of support, maternal wisdom, and well wishes from so many, it only seems fair to share what happened at that appointment. Baby Manley is still measuring small—they are thinking he is about 6 lbs. 11 ozs.— but all his pieces and parts are right on point with regard to development. He is, indeed, a full-term baby, just a small guy. (No complaints here.) His heartbeat is strong and steady as are his movements. (I believe that he is a budding ninja.) He continues to float in plenty of amniotic fluid and there is no deterioration of the placenta at this time. The best news that we received was that he is currently lying in a sideways position. Although there is a chance that he could decide to flip and face posterior again during delivery, our obstetrician was still very encouraging and supportive of persuing the route of a VBAC. Seeing that “No-Name” Manley is predicted to be on the smaller size, delivery could be on the “easier” side (ha ha—“Easy Labor and Delivery” just seems like an oxymoron to me…). Our doctor said that if he does flip back into a not-so-desirable position, she would continue to work with us to achieve the birth that we desire, but allow us the option early on to elect a surgical route if needed. So, all in all, it was good news! We were also lucky enough to get a headshot of the little guy in utero. He has a tendency to always have one of his hands in front of his face, but he is really going to have to get over his camera-shyness if he is to survive a childhood with me as his mother…

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

So here were are, now two days post-due date, and the Manleys are becoming connoisseurs at playing “The Waiting Game”. My feelings about it change by the hour. One minute I am doing everything known to man trying to induce labor. Walking. Jogging. Squats. Exercise ball. Evening primrose oil. Spicy food. Praying. BEGGING. The next minute I take a look at what is around me and relish in the routine and predictability of it all. Then I think, “We got this down pretty pat. Why hurry to turn it all upside down?” In order to get through this latent period, we just focus on keeping busy. Dan, the “do-what-really-only needs-to-be-done-outside” kinda guy, has made sure that our mums and pumpkins have been purchased and has even dug up some flower beds and planted bulbs. The other day I actually found him chopping down a tree on the side of our house. No joke. I, the anti-cook, have prepared meals to throw in the freezer and even attempted to embark upon some new recipes. (There is a crustless apple pie that is in my oven as I write… I don’t think that will make it to the freezer though… Hell, it probably won’t even make it to suppertime.) Our home is constantly being tidied even though I know that my two-year-old tornado will immediately run his course through the area. I go to the gym daily and have carried on with scheduling appointments, playdates, and other activities to fill up our calendar. “The Waiting Game” becomes inevitably painful—physically, emotionally, and mentally—if you just sit there.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

In addition to keeping busy, I’ve been trying to focus on the positive side of stuff. At the forefront: Hey, at least I am not doubled over in pain, confined to a hospital bed, and dead below the waist. Hmmm, I’d say that could be categorized as “positive”, right? Then I look at bonuses of not being a mom of two right now. It means that I am changing half of the diapers, laundering ¼ less clothing, bottles and miniscule pump parts are not in need of washing, I know where my youngest is at all times and have him under control, I can feed myself and the baby at the same time by tackling a burrito (Spicy, of course), and can achieve consecutive hours of sleep without any interruption. The last component to my outstanding stamina with regard to playing “The Waiting Game” is a reliable good ol’ sense of humor. I have created a mental list of reasons why Baby “No-Name” has yet to make his debut.

ü He still has no agreed upon name and the idea of having to grow up being called “Captain Hand-Me-Down” is completely unappealing to him.

ü He hears me yelling at his big brother all the time and is wise enough not to enter this warzone.

ü In the event that he has blonde hair, he is working really hard to change it to brown so that at least one of my kids resembles me in the faintest of ways.

ü There are already too many birthdays on dad’s side of things being celebrated within a 2-week period.

ü He has survived on ice cream for the past 9 months. What’s the point of living if Friendly’s declares bankruptcy?

ü Let’s face it, he knows how happy maternity yoga pants make me.

And, so, despite all of the coping mechanisms “The Waiting Game” continues. If, eh hem, I mean, when our son arrives, he will be perfect in every way (even if he does have blonde hair) and it will have totally been worth the wait. And, in all reality, I can’t stay pregnant forever. RIGHT?

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

We Plan. God Laughs. (Part One)

This is the phrase featured on a magnet that graces a family friend’s refrigerator and I have always been drawn towards it. We plan outdoor parties. It rains. We plan the perfect outfit. We spill our morning coffee on it. We plan the ideal gift. The store is out of stock. The birth of a baby is no different.

Caiden’s pregnancy and delivery was the epitome of that saying. I learned that I was pregnant right after I had registered for the two hardest courses in my Masters’ program, was in the midst of planning our wedding, and I was in the process of seeking out a new teaching position. We Plan. God Laughs. Despite the tailspin I was in discovering the news that my firstborn was on his way, I prepared for his arrival by the book. I completed every checklist, followed all of my doctors’ recommendations, journaled my experience during the 9-month “adventure”, took my vitamins, attended childbirth classes, spent every Saturday morning driving to Holyoke to take prenatal yoga, read every best-selling parenting book, and practiced my breathing techniques religiously. If I was going to have a baby, I was going to do it “right”. We Plan. God Laughs.

Without going into gory details, Caiden’s actual birth story was less than ideal from a mother’s perspective. To start off, he came into this world during a blizzard. A legit, close-Western Mass down, crazy accumulation blizzard. I started early labor around 2:30am and decided to wait to call the midwives because I had a scheduled appointment at 11am. Dan and I braved the storm driving about 15 mph to the West Springfield office only to be met by a receptionist saying, “Oh. We probably should have called you. We have canceled all appointments for today.” Back into the car we went. When we got home, the snow was so deep that we couldn’t get our car up the driveway. As I attempted to walk up the slick incline, I ended up collapsed and on all fours having incredibly strong contractions. I thought I was going to have to give birth in my kitchen. Around 1:30pm that afternoon we received a phone call from the midwives’ office saying that since the snow had slowed down and roadways were clearing they would be able to see me. Needless to say, we took the appointment. I got checked and was told that I should head to the hospital in a few hours (I’d dilated, but not “enough”. Due to the frequency of the contractions though there was no doubt that he was on his way.) After laboring hardcore at home, we were finally admitted into Baystate by 9pm that night. At 7am the following morning, it was time to push. I pushed. And pushed. And pushed. And continued to push until 2:30pm. Let’s put it this way: I had been laboring in that hospital for so long that I went through the shift-changes of 3 different midwives. Caiden was in a posterior position (face-up when he should be face down towards my back) and physically could not get out. I was beyond exhausted and finally an obstetrician was called in and ordered an emergency C-section. The postpartum period was also less than ideal for me. I felt like the sorriest excuse for a mother. I believed that I was a failure in the “delivery department”, contended with something beyond the normal “baby blues”, couldn’t breastfeed, and healing from the surgery itself was a long and painful process. We Plan. God Laughs.

This time around, with regard to pregnancy and delivery, I know not to plan too much. However, some days, I feel like I have taken it to the opposite extreme. Preparations have been kept to a “what’s necessary” basis. I have maintained a pregnancy journal, but did a weekly check-in on baby’s progress rather than a day-by-day development lesson. Baby’s clothes have been put away, but not on color-coded hangers denoting size. The bassinet it out, but often serves as a place to hang my towel after a shower. My hospital bag is packed. Sorta.

It is certainly not the case of caring less about this baby. Part of it is the lack of time. Part of it is the lack of energy. Part of it is being a “seasoned mom”, knowing what I can live with and without. But there is also a part that I really don’t like to acknowledge: “Part Unknown and Anxious”.

Seeing that Caiden’s birth ended up in a C-section, I have the option of just going ahead and scheduling another section for this baby. I have thought long and hard about this. I have done hours of research on the alternatives, the pros and cons of repeat caesareans and VBACs (vaginal births after caesarean), talked to doctors, midwives, and other mothers, and I have lost many hours of sleep over the decision. After all of this, however, I decided to attempt a VBAC. I have asked the midwives at every prenatal visit if this baby is in a good position for delivery and not posterior. So far, so good. He’s measuring a bit smaller than his big brother, which is a “plus”. So although a scheduled C-section has a number of positive points such as I would know exactly when my baby would be here, I could solidify childcare for Caiden, I could anticipate the length of my hospital stay, and I wouldn’t have to labor at all, I think that I owe it to myself to at least try to deliver this baby naturally. With drugs, of course. Lots of drugs. But, yet again, We Plan. God Laughs.

I woke up at 3:09am on Tuesday with cramping and contractions. After timing them for a solid hour, the frequency and duration of them met all qualifications to make “The Call” to the midwives. I was told to go to the hospital and had checked-in by 6:30am. My mom rushed over to our house to watch Caiden, my bag was tossed into the trunk of our car, and Dan grabbed a giant coffee to prepare himself for a long day. Lying in the WETU ward of Baystate, however, everything slowed down and I was discharged 4 hours later. Upon examination, though, we received news that the baby had started to shift and was now starting to turn into a posterior position. Great. For the past 9 months he has been exactly where he should be. Head down. Face down. Nice and compact. A perfect contender for a VBAC! And now days before his due date: This. We Plan. God Laughs.

I have a regularly scheduled prenatal appointment tomorrow morning that is accompanying an ultrasound. After months of mentally and physically preparing myself for a VBAC, if we learn that this baby is, indeed, face up and is not likely to turn on his own, I believe that am going to ask to schedule another C-section ASAP. Honestly, I have no idea as to what to expect from all of this. So I am trying my best to not expect anything at all. There is an army of clichés that echo in my mind when I think about it. Prepare for the worse and hope for the best. It is what it is. Focus on the positive. I must remember that we plan and God laughs, but also—and more importantly-- keep in mind that He never gives us more than we can handle.

To be continued…