This is just temporary, right???

Cold?
Or just happy to see me?
Actually, neither. These crazy nipples are the unfortunate side effect of breastfeeding. Luckily, it is the one and only thing I count as a drawback to nursing. Do you know that if a shift at work gets aggravating enough I can take a "pump" break? *wink wink* And nursing my child means not having to serve jury duty. Or clear the table at family gatherings. Or work out.

Nursing can NOT, however, make you feel overly self confident when you decide to go bra less in a sun dress. Or even glance down in the shower. My NatGeoNips- aka National Geographic Nipples, for those of you not in the know- are at times hilarious, often horrifying, and always humbling. Did you know that there is a direct relationship between the amount of time spent nursing a child and how good you look in a string bikini? For instance, if you breastfeed for two months, you are two times more likely to have to buy your next bathing suit with reinforced padding to hide your new pointy friends. If you breastfeed for two years, you are twenty-four times more likely to need a specially built wet suit with a Kevlar chest plate the next time you hit the beach. This scientific research is brought to you by my own observations of the ever changing nipples of yours truly. It literally seems like every additional day I nurse I add a millimeter to my nipple length. Now that Sweet P is more and more engaged with the world around her, she investigates every noise around her but turning her head at warp speed while nursing, thus adding to the demise of my once petite, flat nipples. Mark and I love to talk about the "mommy makeover" I will get when I have our final child: a tummy tuck, liposuction and breast lift. But now I am wondering if I ought to add on a nipple reduction as well?

During pregnancy a fair amount of time is spent researching breastfeeding, pumping, mastitis, engorgement, nipple confusion...the only thing I'm confused about it why nobody ever warned me about the terrible fate of my nipples! And one would think that given their recent "makeunder" I would do my best to hide them, but it is hard to hide something you don't even realize is there half the time. I am so accustomed to having my breasts exposed that during my early morning photo shoot on my wedding day I posed for several photos before my sweet photographer asked if I would kindly tuck my nipple back inside my white silk robe. Are the these bad boys so raw that I can't even feel cool, early morning ocean air on them? And if my newly desensitized nips weren't enough, there is one more thing that has recently become desensitized as well: ME. I just really can't be bothered by my unfortunate looking nipples or that others might be offended by catching a glimpse of them. Yes- my nipples are always erect. Yes- they often appear chapped and swollen. Yes- their new awkward appearance is just another proud badge of motherhood. No- they are not as unsightly as my perineal scars.

Dear Peyton

(You all know that I am back to work. Did you also know that I am hating ever single second of it? My therapy is to write little letters to Sweet P that she may or may not read one day. When I arrive to work and wait for the official shift change I have a few minutes to jot down my thoughts for the day. I have decided to share them here so that the Internet can store them for me and I don't need to find a safe place to keep a journal. This letter was written over three days- my first three back at work- and I just added bits and pieces whenever I was overcome by how much I missed her.)

Dear Peyton,

You are growing so fast! Every day I catch myself saying, "Slow down, sweet girl. You don't need to be in such a hurry to grow up!" On the one hand, I want to keep you small forever. You are so curious and excited about the world right now. You wake up with a smile on your face and a twinkle in your eye. You see the wonder in the world and you really seem to appreciate the "little things" in life. Probably because to you they are the really BIG things! Hearing a duck quack for the first time made you squeal with delight. And the first time you tried an overripe banana (one that would normally be passed up by someone with more life experience and less curiosity) you let out a loud and satisfied "mmmm"! What a delight it is to watch you grow! Everyday brings something new and exciting to you and as I write this, we are another moment closer to your next "big" discovery. 

But because moms the world over have not successfully figured out how to slow down childhood and keep their wee ones little, I instead anxiously await what fun times lie ahead. 

I can't wait to cheer you on from the sidelines of your first softball game, soccer match, cheerleading competition, spelling bee...whatever you decide to be a part of  is where I will be supporting you. I can't wait until the first time I hear you say "momma, I love you." I am eager for the day you tell me all about what happened at school and who your best friend of the minute is. I am curious to know what trends you will follow- or perhaps set!  I look forward to the moments when you awkwardly dress yourself  in mismatched pieces from the wardrobe that I used to control. I will (reluctantly) allow you to make your own choices and hope that they are all good ones. But of course, for the times you do slip up, I will be the one you can count on for advice and forgiveness. 

Being a mother is all at once invigorating and debilitating. I have more life in me at 3am when I hear your whimper down the hall than I could ever hope to have after four cups of coffee and a full night sleep. I owe this energy all to you and my endless desire to squeeze more time out of the day to spend with you. And yet somehow with all the vigor you've given me I am crippled by the extreme, all encompassing, fully involved, and completely, overwhelmingly deep amount of love I have for you. My focus has forever changed and my heart is forever open. And this, my sweet angel, is one reason I can't wait for you to grow up. I want you to be an adult solely because I want for you to know this feeling of T.R.U.E. L.O.V.E.  The type of love that takes you by storm, stops you in your tracks, leaves you breathless. The type of love that you can only feel once you have become a parent. You will, of course, have many loves while growing up and they will feel so incredibly important to you at the time. And as you experience these loves I promise to remind myself that I too had obsessions that I just knew were the real deal. (For me, they were Solemite, Friday nights at Brendan Theater, my navy blue suede Fila tennis shoes, Cold Stone Creamery...) So when you cry because your favorite pair of shoes gets a scuff mark on the toe or your heart breaks because your weren't invited to a sleepover I will empathize with you because I know to you those things will feel crushing and devastating because they are your great loves of the moment. (I may even cry with you- another "side effect" of being a mom!) Then I will help you to pick up the pieces and move onward to your next love affair- whatever or whoever it may be. 

Baby girl, one of the most difficult things to do is explain to someone what it feels like to be a momma. It is so true when they say that you have to experience it to know what it is like and I thank you with all my heart- my big, open, vulnerable heart- for letting me experience it with you. 

Love you more than you can know, Momma

Hi ho--hi ho--it's off to fu*%ing work we go

Today, 48 is a gruesome number in our house. For starters, in 48 short hours my maternity leave is O.V.E.R. and I'm devastated at the thought of it.  Secondly, "48 Hours: Real Life Mystery" is about to have a new feature story-- East Bay Woman Vanishes on Eve of Return to Work! I've started working out all the details of how to skip town with my Sweet P but I keep getting hung up on the "little" details that actually end up being major clues to the FBI. 

*Six Flags season pass linked to missing woman used twice over weekend* 

*Employees report sighting of missing woman at new Nordstrom Rack* 

*Woman and child matching description of missing Martinez residents spotted getting frozen yogurt and snuggling at the park*

You see, I just couldn't keep myself from doing all my regular fun activities because this sweet girl makes me want to get out and enjoy the day.  Every day little things are SO MUCH BETTER when I've got my special sidekick with me and it will be an adjustment knowing someone else is being my stand in while I'm away. Because the reality is, I must work. I join a special league of women who are working mothers: a powerful and talented group that keep shit working well at home and then head to work and make shit happen there, too. And I know I will survive because I have the support of these strong women by my side. And soon enough, when I've gotten the hang of things, I will be a supporter to another new working mama. And that makes me proud! 

Truthfully, it isn't the actual work that I am dreading. In fact, a VERY small part of me is eager to get myself on a schedule and, in the process, get Sweet P on a schedule. Another, even smaller part of me, misses getting blood on my new shoes, fishing highlighter caps out of vaginas, and getting asked out on fancy dates by intoxicated homeless men. Am I looking forward to the slow traffic through the tunnel and driving six laps through a seven story parking garage while searching for a too-small parking spot? Nope. Do I get excited at the thought of being berated by some ghetto hood rat about how she could do everything I do but "ten hund'ed thousand times better"despite the fact that she "ain't even gone to Heald, bitch"? Not in the slightest. Am I thrilled at the thought of being intellectually stimulated and challenged on a very regular basis? A little. Am I stoked to "bring home the bacon" and have an opportunity to provide my daughter with a happy, fulfilling, enriched childhood? You bet I am. 

Wish me luck! 

Cut the Cheese

I love my kid. So much so that I really don't want her to get food poisoning from old breast milk that I keep in the fridge for far too long because rinsing it down the drain would just break my heart. Anyone who has pumped for a child knows that it ain't no joke when they call breast milk "liquid gold". And once the pumped milk is poured into individual baggies and frozen into perfect little brick forms, that liquid gold has just become shiny, valuable bullion. Mine looks so pretty there in the freezer, all organized by date with the ounces boldly written for all to admire. Yes, my milk is a source of pride for me. My kid is getting every ounce of nourishment her growing body needs from ME. But sometimes my baby is stubborn and does not enjoy this frozen breastmilk. In fact, she is so unimpressed by if that she refuses to drink it in its thawed form. To date, she has turned her nose up at defrosted breastmilk offered in SIX different bottles. This girl knows what she wants and the pitch of her protesting screams suggests she knows how it get it. But she's met her match in me and I, too, know what I want: to not waste my precious milk! It is suggested that once milk has been thawed it needs to be used in 4 hours which means I needed to either find a way to get my kid to drink or I needed to get creative. So I hit the Internet to research ways to not let my milk go to waste. 

Breastmilk Soap: interesting but I only have 1 of 8 the ingredients on hand. Milk. 

Breastmilk Milkshake: even I don't have that big of a sweet tooth.

Breastmilk Alfredo Sauce: Mark would never forgive me.

Breastmilk Bath Time: well, this could work...

Because of the super high fat content of breastmilk, it is said that adding it to bath water can leave skin feeling supple and soft. I thought to myself, "it couldn't hurt to try..." And truth it is didn't hurt. But it did smell. Terrible. I humbly admit that people are always commenting on how great Sweet P smells. And now I find her splashing around in a tub filled with perfectly warmed water, lavender baby wash, and breastmilk. Stinky breastmilk. Could this be the first time in history that a child got out of the bath smelling WORSE than before she went in? And truth be told, at five months old P's skin is so silky smooth that I couldn't tell the difference. My theory is this: the breastmilk is not the ingredient to cause such beautifully soft skin. It is the loads of scented lotion you must apply after bath time to keep yourself from carrying around a child who smells like bleu cheese crumbles. So back to the drawing board I go for inspired ways to use some milk. And consider yourself warned-- you may not want to accept the sour dough bread starter kit I have coming your way. 

High FIVE

Five months old!

Sweet P is getting older right before my eyes. She is changing daily by the minute. I swear some days she wakes up barely able to get through the ABC's, and by lunch time she is reciting her favorite Walt Whitman poem: Give Me the Splendid, Silent Sun. (Duh.)

But in all honesty she is developing so quickly and it is a true joy to watch. Making a quick notation here of her development thus far will help me to remember it 18 years from now when she is leaving for college. Which will somehow end up feeling like tomorrow. 

*favorite toy: "go-go monkey"

*favorite way to pass the day: nursing

*least favorite way to pass the day: sleeping

*favorite book: Won't you be my Kissaroo?

*refuses to: leave home without a pacifier, a backup pacifier, and a backup to the    

    backup 

*first taste of food: watermelon

*loves to: pull pacifier from own mouth

*hates to: not be able to put pacifier back in own mouth

*happiest when: snuggling right between mom and dad

*unhappiest when: riding in the car

*neat places you've visited: the world outside the womb, Oakland Zoo, Oakland Emergency Department- aka Oakland Zoo 2.0, Briones Stables, Carmel, Half Moon Bay, Monterey Bay Aquarium, Chinatown- SF, Giants Stadium, Old Town Sac via Amtrak

Sweet P, keep on doing what you're doing because it brings more happiness to your daddy and I than we ever thought possible. Except screaming on the top of your lungs during all car rides. You can quit doing that any time. 

Free to a good home!

I've recently become quite obsessed with perusing the "free" postings on Craigslist. It is surprising to see some of the gems that people are parting with. Granite countertops. Antique furniture. Appliances. PUPPIES! It is absolutely true that one man's trash is another man's treasure. But I am not currently in the market for anything in particular so just when I decide to close out the site and resume a game of Candy Crush, I stumble upon this: Free Gallon of Whole Milk. Yes, someone in Fremont/ Union City/ Newark went to the trouble to get in her car, drive to the store, and wait in line to purchase one gallon of milk only to bring it home and realize "it won't fit in my fridge". Really? Either she has never ever even seen a gallon of milk, or...? I can't explain her misfortune but someone out there will surely benefit from her mistake. But only if he responds ASAP, as "immediate pick-up" is necessary since she has no way to keep the milk cold. And my favorite part of the whole listing? She went to the trouble to attach a photo of a gallon of milk! Hilarious. And dreadfully sad. Because in the time it took her to post to Craigslist, she could have cleared some space in her fridge. 

Say what?

You know those great experiences when you call an 800 number of a major corporation, get an answer after two rings and speak with someone who likely went to Harvard on a full ride scholarship as an English major? Yeah, me neither. 

But even after a fifteen minute hold for a "fraud protection agent" with Bank of America, I still hung up smiling. First, they caught unauthorized charges that could have really been a huge bummer for someone 50ish days away from a wedding. And second, because the agent I spoke with provided me with some unexpected laughs. 

My day started with a text-- the bank had put a temporary hold on my card while investigating several large transactions. No surprise there. Between purchasing wedding invitations, two nights in an upscale Carmel hotel, and my daughters enormous hair accessory collection, there were some out-of-the-ordinary transactions in recent days. But 15 minutes later I had a phone call. At noon. Who could be calling so early? Don't they realize I have a baby? And an episode of Real Housewives to catch up on? Anyhow, unlike 97% of the phone calls I get, I actually answered this one. And I'm glad I did. It was a recording that let me know "my call is very important to Bank of America and a representative would be available to speak with me in 13 minutes". 

Wait. 

You called ME. 

But I held. And held. And held a wee bit more. Hey, BofA, if I had a handful of spare minutes in my day don't you think I would shave my legs? 

The terrible music and annoyingly upbeat service announcements were finally interrupted by a soft spoken southern belle. She spoke with such a drawl that I pictured her sipping sweet tea on a large wrap around porch while her children catch fireflies in mason jars left over from canning peach preserves from the fruits picked on her family orchard that dates back to 1841. But the more we chatted it became apparent that she was probably homeschooled by a six year old and finally got her GED shortly before her 30th birthday. She was clearly reading from a sheet provided by the bank, and took frequent breaks to sound out words. Lit er uh lee. Sownd owwt wurds. Unless I was her very first phone call ever, you would think that even the "hard" words were made a bit easier by the fact that she has read them and recited them numerous times before. 

But then I had to get tricky on her and interrupt. I made her veer from her script and answer a question that not even the bank had prepared her for. 

"Does it say where the transaction occurred?"

"It does, but it happened someplace I can't even pronounce. So I will spell it for you. 

B. A. N. G. L. A. D. E. S. H."

"Yeah. That is absolutely not me. I haven't left my house today."

"Not even early this morning? The withdrawal was very early."

"Uh, no. I was not in Bangladesh this morning."

Our conversation continued and she even asked if one week ago I had authorized a $5 purchase at "Kay Zert"? Translation: Kaiser. I know because she also spelled this tough one out when I sounded stumped. 

Of course I am elated to have them working to help me quickly identify fraudulent purchases, pleased that the money was promptly put back in my account, and very happy that I had just the experience I needed to reenter the world of blogging. Sorry for the hiatus. I've been busy. But not in Bangladesh. 

Nosy neighbors

For the most part, Mark and I feel pretty fortunate to have "normal" neighbors. On one side. The other neighbors- the ones with the Christmas lights up year round- are another story. They are nice enough, if not a bit socially awkward. They wave when we see them out, they haven't had any crazy all night parties in the past three years, and a google search of their names doesn't produce anything suspicious. (Assuming I am spelling them correctly...) But they could stand to mind their own business a bit more. I have heard on more than one occasion "your baby sure cries a lot" and "we can hear Peyton crying pretty often". So I guess it should come as no surprise when they admit to hearing everything else that goes on behind our closed doors. (No, not that.) Mark and I like to make up our own songs for Sweet P. One day she will know all the right words and correct us when we sing them wrong, but for now, we just pick a tune and add our own lyrics. 

"Change your diaper. Clean your butt. You gave mommy saggy boobs and a squishy gut." 

"Reading. Reading. Reading makes you smart. Eating. Eating. Eating make you fart."
"Hush little baby, don't make a peep. Mommy seriously needs one damn minute of sleep."

I never said they were Grammy worthy- just fun freestyles! 

Anyhow, the other day our neighbor started with the usual "Peyton still seems to cry a lot" followed by "that song you were singing to her last night was so funny!" Ummm...what? I can say with 110% certainty that if I heard one of them tell the other that they thought I should be on the cover of Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition 2014, I still wouldn't submit my photos. Because then I would have to admit to being nosy. And I would get too famous to shop at Walmart in my sweatpants. 

But now that I know they are listening, I will at least try to sing on key. And omit anything pertaining to them. Oh, and close the windows. 

Sprung a leak

After watching an episode of The Doctors I have changed up my workout routine. (On a side note, I do not make a habit of watching that show. It is a widely know fact that Emergency Room nurses are always hotter than the docs they roll with. Dr. Travis Stork is taking that fact and turning it upside down and stomping all over it. Not okay.) Anyhow, an equally attractive female costar of his mentioned that the best way to keep a healthy vagina is to skip out on underwear while exercising. She mentioned that it would be ok to wear a cotton brief, but then I would have a panty line and even Lulu Lemon can't make that look good. So I left the undies at home and headed out to Airobics. Bad idea. It seems the only thing keeping a small dribble of urine from reaching your pants while doing acrobatics on a trampoline is your underwear. It wasn't until we were fifteen minutes into class that I realized that small strip of fabric plays a more vital role than I once thought. Each jump, and worse yet, each landing, and I could tell I had made a mistake. In fact, I could FEEL I had made a mistake. Even using the bathroom right before and once during class can't fix the fact that I am three months out from a grueling birth.  Apparently I left my once iron clad bladder in the delivery room, and it took my favorite childish pastime to remind me that.  Thank goodness I was wearing black pants. 
*thinks to self* "I just hope we don't have to get into the splits anytime today."
*instructor* "ok, go ahead and get into a split position."
*fuck*
And did I mention this is the one and only time there has ever been someone else in the class? Yes. Today we were privileged to have a FULL class of 15.

TMI? Some of you reading this may be questioning my propensity to over share. But I have always been an open book and if anything, having a baby made me MORE willing to lay it all out there. I have NO problem letting the blogging world know that  sometimes I forget a breast pad and find myself in an impromptu wet t-shirt contest. (You always win when you run unopposed.) I can't remember the last time I haven't had a spit up stain on my otherwise trendy outfit. And occasionally during a jumping jack on a trampoline I leak urine. I used to be able to drink two liters of water during a 10 hour shift without stopping for a bathroom break. Not anymore. I willingly traded out my Fort Knox of a bladder for my new, improved, super sized heart. 

Zzzzz

By now I've been given plenty of advice (solicited and otherwise) on how to get my Sweet P to sleep. I've complied all that advice into my own list that I lovingly referred to as the Triple B List:
Bath
Book
Breast
But after several weeks (13 weeks and 5 days, in fact) of trying the Triple B List, I found something to be missing. So I added one more "B" to bring our grand total to four. Behold, the Quadruple B List:
Bath
Book
Breast
BULLSHIT

I love my kid. She is getting to be so animated and fun. Her toothless grins and drooly mouth melt my heart. That is, when she is happy enough to show off a smile. The girl will not sleep anywhere but in my arms amd when she is overly tired I swear my precious little bundle gets swapped out with a wildebeest who had his prey snatched up by a neighboring herd of water buffalo. That shit ain't no joke when it could be weeks before he happens upon another wounded zebra to take down for dinner. Wait. Where were we? Oh yes- sleep. My girl likes her sleep one way and one way only. In her mamas arms. And I would be lying if I didn't say that at night I love her cozy body snuggled up against my chest. But as sweet as it is, during afternoon naps a sleeping baby in moms arms does not get a house vacuumed and dinner on the table. And it certainly does not get 100 mason jars embellished for a September wedding. So I bust out the B's to see where it leads me...

Bath: the best part of the day as far as she is concerned! She splashes and laughs and usually will do 4-6 laps (backstroke or butterfly, depending on her mood) before she is ready to get out. And when she is out, she is ready to party. Not even a lavender massage will dampen her post-shower spirits. Clearly, who gets all clean and pretty only to go to bed?

Book: she may be too young to sit through storytime just yet (or could it be she is too intellectual to be reading such childish stories?), but one sentence into even the shortest of all books and she is throwing a fit to move on to the next activity. 

Breast: this girl loves to nurse. She also loves to poop almost immediately after nursing. She HATES to have her diaper changed. The point being that nursing does not lead to sweet slumber in this house. 

BULLSHIT: babies will sleep when they are damn well ready. And I suggest you have a pillow handy for when in happens because you may just be able to get in a wink of shuteye before little one is rearing to go again. That is if you haven't already fallen asleep while reading this post. 

This is going to hurt

There are a few things I know about Tuesday. 

1- it comes right after Monday

2- immediately before Wednesday

3- aerobics classes are NEVER with Drill Sargeant (D.S)

So you can imagine my surprise when I arrived to class on my "easy" day to find D.S. waiting for me. And only me. This was going to be one hour of direct attention from my teenage torturer. No skipping a push-up or a lap today. He would catch me and punish me if I even THOUGHT about fibbing.

 "I swear I was on #88. Are you sure I have only done 12?!"

"Get down and give me 20. Now!"

Besides having my ass handed to me, I also got an opportunity to see a softer, more human side to D.S. He told me after high school he had plans to become an RN! He told me he hoped to go to Saint Mary's! Seriously, we are like two peas in a pod! (You know when one pea clearly zaps all the size and strength from the second pea- leaving one robust and delicious and the other shriveled and ridiculous looking. We are kinda like that type of pod.) He informed me that the only thing keeping him from being a Gael is the cost. He opened up to share with me and I realized we have some big things in common. And then...then it was my turn to talk and I came up with this: "well you can get scholarships and you're a male minority so that helps." *crickets* Opps. I think the rigorous workout had my brain oxygen deprived.

 "Umm, I hope I didn't offend you. I just meant that there are more scholarships available to" (he interrupts)

 "to my people?" 

Damn. There is no way out of this one. He chuckled and told me "nah, I get it. You're just looking out for me. Now let's get back to work. Nobody likes flabby thighs." 

Burn. 

"Well, now we are even because you just called me flabby." 

"Nope. You called me a minority. I have a few more jabs until we are even." Let the ridicule continue...

5 minutes later:

"I think I am getting a blister on my foot so I may not be able to do some of the exercises as well."

"Hard to believe it could get any worse."

5 minutes later:

"Time for crunches. Do twenty. Actually, how old are you?"

"28."

"Whoa, seriously? I didn't think you were that old."

Ok, surely NOW we are even!

5 minutes later:

"This next exercise will work on your 'spare tire'."

Just as I expected when I saw Drill Sargent on this dreadful Tuesday, class was long. But I had no plans on it being long AND humiliating. I can only hope that I pissed him off enough to not show up on Thursday. 

Feeling a little bit jumpy...

As a kid, jumping on a trampoline offers an escape from reality. While on that shiny, magical, bouncy black surface you are given a glimpse into a world where you can fly, flip and laugh until your sides hurt.

As an adult, it will make your sides hurt all right. Along with your thighs, arms, ass, fingernails, hair, pride...The same equipment that brought such joy to my childhood has a way of making this 12 week post partum mama face the very harsh reality that this body ain't what it used to be. (That is saying a lot, as it didn't start off overly strong or athletic.) 28 is the new...60? Sure feels that way.

In an attempt to get into shape for wedding season- my own and a handful of others- I decided to adopt a new workout routine. So I sat down at the computer, carb loaded snack in hand, and spent several weeks researching my various options. Pilates? too expensive. Yoga? too trendy. Running? hahahahah...have we met?! Of course I could utilize the gym that I pay yearly membership fees towards. But its close proximity to the mall is too tempting. Plus I have a 0.00241% chance of running into "Logan*", so why risk it? So I signed my ass up for trampoline aerobics! And to tell the truth, it is kinda fun. Really tough. But kinda fun.

My first class I showed up early. Really early. In fact. the website suggested arriving 15 minutes early "as spots fill up fast" so I came 20 minutes early. You don't get to be teachers pet by showing up late and sitting in the back of class. I prepared for class by wearing my two tightest fitting sports bras- together- to offer a shred of support to my newly ample chest. I also wanted adequate time to familiarize myself with the trampoline park- a huge warehouse with a giant arcade, wall-to-wall trampolines, and a foam pit. When I arrived to class to check in they informed me that in three years of hosting classes, they have never had a full class. In fact, a typical class size is two-three people. The instructor being one of them. Score! I just landed myself an hour with a personal trainer for $7! 

The first class went well. The instructor, Giggly Girl, was a lively, petite mother of a young child and she completely understood if I took frequent breaks or needed to modify the exercises to fit my tolerance level. I was sweating like an addict going through withdrawals after just several minutes there. And after 15 minutes in my breathing mirrored that of a chronic smoker taking the stairs because the escalator is being serviced. But I pushed through the aches and pains and made it through 30 minutes of rigorous exercise. Problem is, the class is an hour. 

 Good thing I have a newborn to blame shit on. "Oh damn, I would stay but my baby needs me. Right. This. Second. If I stay a minute longer I risk her having abandonment issues for the rest of her life." If you ask me, 30 minutes of exercise for my first attempt post-baby ain't half bad. But if you ask Drill-Sergeant, the instructor on day 2 of class, 30 minutes is pitiful, embarrassing, and makes me a sorry excuse for a human being. Shit just got real. Unlike my first instructor, Drill-Sergeant lives and breathes fitness. He is involved in track, football and soccer. He is a 16 year old high school boy who owns me for an hour every Thursday. He scares me. I told him I would try my best to make it the entire hour. He told me I would make it. 

"Thank you- that is my hope." 

"No, you WILL make it. Nobody does a half a class with me." 

"Yeah, but I just had a baby." 

"I  have two fractured vertebrae and just pulled my hamstring." 

Shit. You win, Drill-Sergeant. Where is Giggly Girl? I miss her. 

The truth is class was infinitely harder on day two but I felt more rewarded and invigorated when I left my beat down by The Sarge. Could it be that I actually like to workout? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I think it comes down to one thing: if I am going to leave my Sweet P for anything, even just one minute, I want it to be worth my while. And I know that Drill-Sergeant is committed to making me feel that every Thursday I have done something worthwhile. AKA painful and exhausting. 

It is a damn good thing tomorrow is a Tuesday. 

*real name? Wolverine. Don't ask.

Naptime be damned

It is very likely that I will soon regret saying this, but today I boldly declare that I am not a fan of naptime. Last week I would have given anything, ANYTHING, for P to so much as close her eyes briefly enough to blink. And it is possible that tomorrow I will find myself praying for at least 20 minutes of naptime for her and respite for me. But on this particular day we had so much fun by 11 am that I was sad to see her eyes get heavy and her pulling a blanket towards her face- her precious tell that a nap is in order. Today she woke up smiling, played for the first time on her kick mat piano and let out a joyful squeal when the music came on, found herself in the mirror and gave herself a huge grin, and had a blast splashing around in her bathtub. All of our fun playtime made for a sleepy girl. Rest up, Sweet P. When you wake up it will be time to make new memories.

Please forgive me, Sweet P

By now I've heard every reason why breast is best: 

Bonding for mama and babe, postpartum weight loss, little one will be less likely to have allergies, asthma or drive a two-door hatchback and more likely to host her own HGTV show. There are literally endless reasons. And so far it has been the most fulfilling experience of my life. The one thing, however, it can NOT do, is give your child fingertips made of steel. Sweet P had her rapid growing talons trimmed by yours truly and she suffered an atrocity that no 11 week old should ever know. She sustained the most itty bitty teeny tiny knick to the tip of her finger. That bled as if her entire hand had been severed. But she did not make a peep. Girly wails the minute her bare bum hits the the air but not when mommy nearly cuts off the tip of a digit?! Go figure. In fact, it wasn't until I thought she was hemorrhaging from the face (from her little flailing arms) that I realized a nail trimming injury occurred. And because I could not get the bleeding to stop I had to apply a bandaid- proof of what happened. Proof that, despite prior assumptions, I am not a perfect momma. (Gasp!)

So the next time you see us, you may notice P has the nails of a Jersey Shore cast member and I have the battle wounds from her sharp claws. Wounds to match my wounded, injury-inflicting spirit. 

Humor me for a minute

Today we ventured into the city- with a screaming baby in the back of the car, on a day they were repainting the lines on the freeway. Go figure. The only thing keeping me from pulling out every hair on my head were my noise canceling headphones........kidding. Sadly.
I was able to maintain my good mood because the point of our city trip was shopping! For jewelry! Mmmm.
We went to visit the fabulous Ellie at SFE Jewelry to look at wedding bands. (Two for me. One for Mark. And a wishlist of about 15 other items for me.) Last time we went to visit Ellie I was so newly pregnant that we didn't mention anything to her, though she may have had a suspicion after I emptied the candy bowl on the jewelry counter. (I damn near did the same thing today but only because I was comfort snacking when Mark told me I couldn't have the $20,000 necklace calling my name. Rude.) When we arrived today to see her it took her a minute to realize it was us, because she certainly was not expecting we would roll in with a new crew member. She was stunned and excited and a tad bit mad it took us a whole 11 weeks to bring P out to meet her! I knew right away exactly what bands I wanted to best compliment my engagement ring, but that didn't keep me from trying on every other ring in the store- just to be sure I was making the right decision. But true to form, P requested the spotlight be returned to her and demanded to try on loads of bling. She was such a trooper as we took 297 photos of her posed with $80,000 worth of jewels on. What can I say, this girl is a diva. (See prior post for additional details on this.) What a fun time we had with Ellie and her adorable girl, Nikki.
"Please explain the title of this blog post, Katie"
"Right away, sister."
Shortly before we made it to Ellie's shop we were lured by sparkle and shine into another jewelry store. While there about three different women came up to give compliments on "how adorable" and "what a cutie" Sweet P is. And then...then there was Ragdoll Weirdo. One of the sales people came up and put both her fingers out for P to hold on to. And while she is looking at P and using her best fingers-on-a-chalkboard baby voice, she says "I don't care much for children. I know a lot of people love babies but I was never one of them. I'm a cat lady. Have you ever heard of a Ragdoll?" She proceeded to tell us all about her Ragdoll cat at home- the "dog of the cat world"- who "goes limp when you hold him and lays on the keyboard when I'm trying to type, that silly kitty." (I wonder: if I go limp will you stop talking and go away, Ragdoll Weirdo?) True I have never worked retail (Quizno's cashier does NOT count) but I would be willing to guess that to make a sale you shouldn't lead with how much you dislike children. In fact, for the next five minutes you should humor me and assume the identity of a talent agent who thinks my kid has what it takes to be the next Olsen Twins. One baby the equivalent of TWO?! How impressive! Humor me! Much like our pediatrician told me "better start saving for Harvard" when I proudly noted my 8 week old had a completely average head circumference AND could hold her head up for a split second. Humor me! While Ragdoll Weirdo was never going to get our sale (that is saved for Ellie!) she also was never going to have a blog post dedicated to her until our fortuitous encounter. Something tells me she would still be pleased with the outcome of the day- seeing as how she can't type her own blog with Ragdoll hogging the keyboard.

(Ellie, if you are reading this, I completely understand if this ring shows up in my jewelry box in the near future. You know, for plugging your store on my blog that gets 8 views a day.)

Doesn't it just blow your mind?

Are you forever amazed...

...by your ability to love someone you've only just met?
...by how sweet a baby's breath smells? Nearly three months on this earth and she still hasn't gotten around to using a toothbrush. Yet, her breath still takes mine away. In a good way.
...at how much you can do on so little sleep? So long as it doesn't require cooking, cleaning or changing out of my pajamas. Or using half my brain. More precisely, the left half. You know, the part that is responsible for logic. And thinking.
...by the amount of laundry an 11 pound member of a family can produce?
...by how invested you are in someone's bowel habits? And how excited you can become when a long awaited poop finally makes an appearance?
...by the fact that you were chosen to be the one to raise this little person? And somewhere along the line you've proven yourself worthy enough to turn out a productive, compassionate member of society?
...at the volume of bodily fluids a newborn creates?
...by how one quick grin from your child can make you forget about the two dozen frowns you've encountered throughout your day?
...by the huge amount of lint that accumulates in between a newborns fingers? I'm pretty sure she has been asleep next to me for the past four hours, but I guess it is possible that while I had my eyes closed she went to the garage and cleaned out the dryers lint collection tray. And evenly distributed it between each of her ten fingers. Then curled her hands tight. And became sweaty. So that when I finally am able to uncurl her tightly curled fingers the lint is damp and just stinky enough to make my toes curl. And speaking of toes, there is an overwhelming amount of lint there as well. 

Diva

Not knowing the gender of our baby was so much fun. Just when the allure of pregnancy was getting on my last nerve, I was reminded of the great big surprise awaiting us. I still get giddy thinking about the hours leading up to her birth and feeling high on the excitement and anticipation of learning all about who this little person would be. The caveat to that is I hate gender neutral clothing. Not knowing if we would have a girl or boy meant not being able to explore the vast world of online childrens boutiques. I have made up for nine months of lost time by shopping on a regular (make that daily) basis. And of course many of these purchases can be justified- it is considered highly inappropriate to parade around a naked baby unless A) they are three minutes old or B) you are shopping at Walmart. So clothing purchases are necessary. And if I'm buying clothes anyway, they may as well have lace, ruffles, or animal print and matching bloomers, matching hats, matching headbands, matching shoes...you see my problem? But it doesn't end there. Matching sunglasses? Yup. We've got those, too. And some other not necessary but totally darling purchases made for this gal include earrings, an anklet and most recently an itty bitty bracelet. Why am I telling you this? As a precursor to my point of this blog entry. (Mark tells me 1,824 times per day that I take too long to tell a story. He may be right.)
During one of my nursing sessions I was cruising the information super highway (that means Internet, right?) because I was interested in learning about Sweet P's astrological sign and Chinese zodiac. I am not normally a huge believer in horoscopes but I do think that the Chinese zodiac is interesting in that it only repeats every 60 years. (12 animals and each animal has one of 5 elements attached to it. This is the year of the snake. More specifically 2013 is the water snake. 1953 was the last year of the water snake. Cool, right?) Well there are many qualities that I will be thrilled for P to have- "motivated, insightful and highly intellectual". Score! But then--- then there is this: very materialistic even if it means they have to scheme or plot to get what they want. Yikes! And then it donned on me that I was turning my girl into the snake the Internet warned me about! She is a high maintenance diva and it is partially my fault. (Only partially because some blame must fall on her father for buying her the anklet, her Gigi for all the headbands, and the Chinese zodiac for putting ideas in my head.)
Certainly our intentions are to raise P with an awareness for how fortunate she is with an appreciation for all she has. But at 11 weeks old does she need really 12 pairs of shoes? Of course not. But then again, I have been told you can't spoil a baby. And won't she be my baby forever?

Six weeks later

For my push present, I got a full kit from The Art of Shaving. Let me back up one step...for being such a champion during my labor and delivery, I got Mark a push present. As if Peyton, newly slimmed ankles and largely swollen breasts weren't enough. Oh what's that you say? Most women don't get push presents, let alone men. Right. Well, I am a rockstar of a partner. Plus, he asked for a gift in exchange for getting me one, so I was obligated.
Anyhow, Mark has had a shave or two with a straight blade at the barber and has been interested in learning the technique himself. Perfect gift idea! I headed to The Art of Shaving, spent an arm and a leg on a boxed gift set, and eagerly headed home to give it to him. Before leaving the store I made sure that I could return or exchange if he was not happy with it. "Sure, just don't forget your receipt." He loved it. Well, he loved the idea of it but wanted to make some minor adjustments by getting a new blade handle and a new stand to hold his goodies. (I got the most basic model- the compact commuter model. He needed the mid-size sedan model. The luxury coupe is still at the store awaiting its new home.) The very next day we went to make our exchange and the store was CLOSED and COMPLETELY cleared out. It looked like a ghost town! And the sales clerk did not make any mention of it! The next nearest store is in San Francisco- looks like that would be another trip, another day. Grrr! Well two weeks later we were in Walnut Creek for an entirely different reason and saw that The Art of Shaving had undergone a massive remodel and was resurrected in the vacant space we visited several weeks earlier. Score! Only, this time we hadn't brought the shaving kit with us. Are you kidding me?! We stopped in anyway to look at the products and we were encouraged to come back to exchange the items he wasn't happy with. "Just don't forget your receipt." Fast forward another four weeks and we finally headed down to Walnut Creek today to do some shopping. Between seven birthdays, a wedding and two baby showers this month, all I seem to do these days is shop for gifts. No complaints here! Well, after our hunt for a parking space (3rd floor) was a success, we loaded Peyton into her stroller and grabbed our bag for the exchange. And you will absolutely not believe what I am about tell you...the moment Mark pulled the bag from the car a huge gust of wind came AND TOOK THE RECEIPT WITH IT! Yes- we watched in horror as the receipt blew over the edge of the parking garage and off into the distance. Six weeks of tending to that receipt and in an instant it was gone. Still, this story is not a tragedy. Rather, it is one of kindness and triumph. Luckily for us the same woman who helped us both times before was there and gladly made the exchange for us, but can you believe it? Seriously, I barely escaped the day with my life- I was seconds away from throwing myself over the ledge of that parking garage. But then I remembered, Mark was taking me to gelato later so the timing would have been awful to do something as heroic as rescuing a silly receipt.

My hopes for this new adventure of blogging

Hello and welcome to my blog, sister. Am I forgetting anyone? Perhaps mom and dad? 

I'm feeling excited about this new adventure of blogging. Lately I've felt that with raising a newborn, planning a wedding, and dreaming up a get-rich idea so I never have to return to work, I have entirely too much time on my hands. (As evidenced by the fact it has taken me three days of interruptions to finish one post.) There are about four hours in any given day that are unaccounted for- though not consecutively. Surely they can be better spent jotting down run-on sentences and intermixing past and present tenses. Oh, and my sister won't stop harping me until I have a blog to call my own.

As is usually the case, my sisters encouragement to begin a blog already seems to be sound advice.  For starters, I could stand to have a means of killing time while feeding a child who inherited her fathers ferocious appetite. Second, it could prove to be helpful to have a way of keeping track of our everyday musings. As it is, I can't recall what I wore yesterday. (Kidding, I never got out of my pajamas!) It is amazing how time has a way of clouding recent memories. Perhaps it is the sleep deprivation, or maybe it is a protective mechanism to ensure the existence of future generations. After all, this family would stop at three if everyday I was reminded of the horrors of all 9 minutes of my delivery.

As I sit down to recount the events of March 12, 2013, I am realizing that my recollection of that morning is morphing as the date becomes more distant. Today, as I picture the early morning I welcomed my slippery Sweet Pea into the world, I remember with fondness arriving to check in to labor and delivery after a leisurely car ride and an enjoyable elevator ride up to Kaiser's 2nd floor. In fact, I think I brought a freshly baked pie to the staff. If only I could remember- cherry or apple? Of course this was followed by my first exam by the physician who informed me that I was only one centimeter dilated. Oh rats. Good thing this pain is still quite manageable. Now would be a good time to walk through the maternity ward and admire the well appointed hospital furniture and the artwork that is surely from the 21st century. So glad my legs are shaved and not one hair on my perfectly coiffed 'do is out of place. This hospital really has a way of making me feel relaxed and excited about the prospect of meeting my child very soon. When is this supposed to be painful? ... 

Wait, as Mark reads over my shoulder I am told this isn't exactly accurate. In fact, I may be full of shit! Apparently my behavior that morning  was slightly less appealing. I fell somewhere on the spectrum of Ozzy Osborn, on stage, biting the head off a live bird and Linda Blair in The Exorcist- head spinning and all. I admittedly was not prepared for what a savage act delivering a baby could be. But now that I am well aware, I think when we are ready for baby #2, Mark will begin sedating me two weeks before my due date. 

So now that I've shared my hope for this blog, I'm ready to get started with sharing our day to day  experiences with you, my adoring audience. Until next time. (Next time being sometime next week or the week after, I'm sure.)