14 months late. Story of my life.

When I first started blogging I had the intentions of posting AT LEAST once per month. (Such high standards, right?!) And I actually did commit to frequently writing my thoughts, but somewhere between putting pen to paper and actually posting online, I got distracted. Go figure! I'm going to play catch-up now and post some thoughts I had way back when.

August 28, 2013
I haven't worked in over six months and I am REALLY enjoying my time off. That being said, there are about 12 things I miss about my job and they happen to be some of the best friends a gal could have. The work we do is hard. It is physically exhausting, mentally draining, emotionally challenging and requires that we sometimes neglect our own families to care for a complete stranger. So while I am home caring for my Sweet P I am constantly thinking about my friends who are meeting the demands of caring for our community. Occasionally I even make it there for a visit and bring them a sweet treat to remind them that I love them, miss them and appreciate them. Also, I'm hoping that when I do return to work they remember my kind gestures and take good care of me when I'm weeping in the corner because I miss my kid.
On my last visit I brought Mark and Sweet P with me. She was a huge hit with all of my coworkers but there was one person who seemed the most enamored with her. And he came in the form of a very drunk, very boisterous yet very pleasant older man. If I had a dollar for every time he asked if he could hold her I would have had enough money to buy him a fifth of his liquor of choice. And when I pretended not to hear him ask if he could hold her, he switched his approach and just said "my turn" whenever she got passed from one coworker to another. Still, we did not entertain the idea of him holding her. (Shocker, right?) So when he finally felt he had been ignored long enough he attempted the boldest move yet-- he came right up and reached out for her. And as if in slow motion, she reached toward his outstretched arms and grabbed ahold of his finger. The one with weeks, if not months, worth of dirt under his inch long fingernail. But just as soon as she had gripped his finger, she let go and left him with a huge, beaming smile on his face. And he softly said "Thank you. She is beautiful. I will look for her in the commercials on tv that have the beautiful kids." This man had filthy hands, yes. He smelled strongly of urine and alcohol, true. But my precious girl didn't notice, and if she did, she didn't care. She just saw another human being in need of a smile and soft touch and she gave it to him. Already making me proud.

Sitting (un)pretty

Being a mommy means that on any given day there will, without a doubt, be one, two, ten reasons to feel embarrassed, humiliated, and mortified. Like the time I forgot breast pads- and skipped a bra! (amateur mistake!)- and didn't realize it until we were in the photography studio for family pictures. If you were standing within two feet of me you enjoyed a spritz of Eau De Colostrum from my Spring 2013 line. Not cute. Funny, silly, refreshing for bystanders (it was a hot day), but not cute.
Or that time I left the house feeling super fly in my "skinny" jeans, only to realize 6 hours into an 8 hour shift at work that I still had the tags attached. No big deal if this had happened at any point between 1985 and 2011, when my pant size was enviously tiny. But instead it occurred 7 months postpartum. And the plethora of different tags all proudly advertised what I preferred to be "my little secret"...
SUPER HIGH RISE
HIDDEN TUMMY CONTROL PANEL
BUTT LIFT TECHNOLOGY
LOOK TEN POUNDS LIGHTER INSTANTLY
There may as well have been one single tag that said it all...
MOM JEANS
Sigh.
Is it such a crime that I prefer for people to know I am a mom because I have my cute kid sitting on my hip and not because I have some extra meat around my hips?
And if the obvious outwardly changes aren't humbling enough, how about the ones that don't meet the eye? Like the annoying layer of hair that now covers every inch of skin from the knees up and nipples down, courtesy of hyped-up mommy hormones. Or the lingering hemorrhoid that has become a permanent fixture in my life. My own personal sidekick that serves as a constant reminder of a gruesome vaginal AND butthole delivery. And how unfair that, besides surgery, the only way to treat this motherf@#%er  is to "avoid prolonged sitting on the toilet". Seriously?! That seems to be the only place I can sit without interruption from a husband or kid. (And even then there is no guarantee that I won't hear my name yelled incessantly.) In fact, this blog post is written, edited, revised, and published all from the privacy of my bathroom. Over the course of three weeks. At the expense of my comfort and my overall health, but privately, nonetheless. Maybe breaking the rules of "hemorrhoid home care" will turn so catastrophic that I end up either
1) placed on bed rest with strict dietary guidelines to eat a high Oreo, low vegetable diet (that exists!)
OR
2) admitted to a long term care facility that plays Bravo! all day on TV and lets me sleep till noon. Of course this facility welcomes family visits and encourages my involvement in Sweet P's life, but there is a much larger emphasis on massage, aromatherapy, and hair and nail care.


Now please excuse me while I pretend to use the restroom again.

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.