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.