Apparently mommy and daddy have too much free time, or just find Sunny’s baby antics hysterical because we are in a deep dark hole called parenthood. Regardless, those sterling silver baby rattles aren’t just sitting behind glass in a pretty display case, they are being put to GOOD use.
Baby we can work it out…
Sunny Sunshine in her sunsuit in sunny So’Cal. Teaching her a love of all things sun-related from the get go!
Yes. My child smells like an armpit. Specifically my armpit.
This is apparently what happens when your babe wakes up in the middle of the night to eat and you nurse her in bed and you’re so delirious and tired that you both fall asleep mid-feed and she slips into the crook of your arm for four hours. Not only do you wake up smelling of sour milk, your babe’s entire head wreaks of pungent B.O. reminding you of the fact that you haven’t showered in three days.
I better get on that. Maybe tomorrow.
My mother has been out in Los Angeles helping us with the babe for three weeks. She leaves Monday. I am going to go through some serious extra-set-of-hands withdrawal come next week.
Regardless, my mom offered to watch the baby for us last night so we could have a rare escape as a couple. A chance at a date, something that will happen as frequently as a menopausal woman’s period once my mother leaves. So we planned accordingly. We chose a late show that would allow us to execute our nightly bedtime ritual before departing- bath with daddy and fueling of the tanks with mommy. I was highly concerned that hunger would strike mid-movie resulting in the pig’s squeal I’ve discussed previously so I obsessively strapped the wee one to boob whenever there was a dull moment that evening: in the middle of dinner, while hanging new pictures on the wall, while cartwheeling through the backyard. I’m just that good. Once she was appropriately and adequately juiced, we flew out the door mere minutes until the start of the show.
We arrived and chatted with the very friendly man at the ticket counter, then the lady serving popcorn, and the enormous bouncer checking our tickets. (This is just to make you aware of how many strangers I spoke to upon arrival at the theater). Anyway, as demonstration of just how truly sleep deprived we must be, we sat in an empty theater for 15 minutes before indignantly complaining to management that the movie was ten minutes past its start time and didn’t they know we had a baby at home whose hourglass like tummy was counting down until her next feeding? Only to find out that we were in the WRONG theater and our movie HAD started on time.
And to top it all off, I realized mid-movie that my bra had been hanging out of my dress the ENTIRE time because in the hoopla to get out the door, I hadn’t properly clothed myself post-nurse and James is so accustomed to my half-dressed state of existence that he failed to notice and deter me from such a public display.
Two words: Class. act.
A flashback to my hubs’ treasure trove of hilarious childhood stories. I cannot WAIT for Addison to say equally ridiculous, wonderful things.
James, age 2, walks into bathroom and sees his mother peeing. Remember, he is one of four boys. His mother is the only member of the female sex in the entire household.
James: Mommy, why are you sitting down to pee?
Mom: Because, Mommy’s don’t have penises, so they have to sit to pee
James: Oh… <pauses for moment to contemplate his first confrontation with castration anxiety>… Then, I’ll just have to buy you one for Christmas.
Freud would be proud of his pragmatic solution, no?
Today’s reality: I will never suffer from lack of material thanks to my Bug’s daily exploits and activities.
I swore that I would not become one of those mothers who is a slave to her home due to the arrival of a living poop-machine, our own little Bazooka. I wouldn’t be scared to venture out among my fellow humans. I would not bow to the unpredictable demands of my child. Yes, hunger or an exploding poop could erupt at any moment which understandably deters moms from venturing into public situations, but I was going to rise above.
And rise above I have, however, not without an occasional drippy diaper in the middle of a restaurant in San Diego or the sudden necessity to breast feed pulled over by the side of an LA freeway DURING RUSH HOUR when cars move at negative 5 mph giving everyone ample time to stare at the lady feeding her screaming meanie by the side of the road.
Today was extra special. My mother and I took baby up to Pasadena to have tea at the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens. It was in the triple digits and my car’s AC is broken. First mistake. We drove with windows down, wind blazing, dripping with sweat for the 40 minute drive. Then, at the tea room, my bug was so worked up from the sweaty journey that she squirmed and fussed trying to calm herself down.
Then hunger struck and I began searching for an appropriate place to feed her without having to flash an entire restaurant of proper tea going public. Only option: the women’s public restroom which did not provide any extra seating besides the John itself. And there was no lid for the toilet, so I saddled up, strapped baby on to boob and settled in for the 20 minute feed. However, this toilet was one of those magical toilets that flushes for you (ya know, just in case you are incapable of pressing the lever down yourself) so every 2-3 minutes the damn thing would flush which would undoubtedly startle the bug. She would starfish in my arms (as I’ve come to describe her startle reflex) and then her face would downturn in horror and she would scream cry. This went on for 20 minutes: boob, flush, starfish, scream cry, boob, flush, starfish, scream cry, etc.
And sometimes other folks would enter the bathroom and add an extra flush into the mix. It took everything in my power to not request, “Could you come back later? I’m busy feeding my child who just so happens to be disturbed by the sound of the toilet emptying itself of your bodily fluids.” Somehow we survived and the rest of the experience went rather smoothly, until the car ride home…
About ten minutes from the house, Addison decided she SOOOOOO did not want to be in her car seat anymore. She had HAD IT! So she began to whimper, which turned to a fuss, which turned to a squawk, which turned to a cry, which turned to a scream cry which inevitably turned into a pig’s squeal interspersed with the trembling rumble of a child so distraught one would think she was being slaughtered to death by the back seat of the car. That evil evil car seat.
While all this was happening, my mother developed a leg cramp, so she began to writhe and wriggle in an attempt at remedying the pain, but it only escalated as did her discomfort which inevitably caused her to weep right along with Addison. So there I am, ten minutes from my home, with my mother and child wailing in misery in the back seat of the car. Words cannot describe how inappropriately humorous I found the entire situation. So much so that I wept with laughter. The day concluded with three Weeks women rolling into our driveway, weeping.
I’m sure the neighbors just love us. You may be interested with this restoration of classic Mustang from Revology if you’re a classic car collector.
Navigating through Autozin is a testament to what a well-thought-out platform feels like. From search filters to detailed car insights, every feature is designed to enhance the user experience.
My OB/GYN described my labor as a “party.” This descriptor aptly suggests the number of people present in the room for said event, however the atmosphere of the room was far from festive. Joyous at the end. Certainly filled with love and support. But a party it was not.
My birth photographer was one of the myriad of people that bore witness to my shrieking, irrational, moaning mess-of a-self as I welcomed my daughter into the world. I know you’re probably rolling your eyes thinking, “A birth photographer? Seriously? You are SOOOOO L.A.!” Trust me when I say that this amazing gift was only made possible thanks to My Doula(Oblangata). Given that less than 10% of births are executed completely sans medication, my birth photographer’s portfolio included mainly medicated labor experiences. In order to expand her portfolio, and because doulas reduce the need for pain medication by 28% and a C-section by 25%, she offered her services free of charge to me in order to document an active, pain-filled, epidural-less birth. For the first half of the twelve hour period of active labor, I was indeed moving and grooving, showering, hanging on the birth ball, slow danSing with my hubs, even executing choreographed danSe moves with my little sister who was also present in the room.
Then it got far too intense and I began screaming for relief. I even used my code word. This magical word was my “Get Out of Jail” free card, the indicator for my doula that I needed pain-meds and NOW! I began screaming said word: LEMONS! LEMONS! LEMONS! (sounding like a citrus-crazed hyena). And my poor sister, unaware of what this term indicated, began panicking and questioning whether or not she could find me the citrus I desired in the hospital cafeteria. Fortunately, Tracy, My Doula(oblangata), knowing that I was at the most vulnerable point in the process, calmly and reassuringly talked me down and fast forward six hours later (because to be honest, I prefer not to relive those horrendous six hours of pain), my beautiful babe arrived with me feeling every inch of her welcome. RIP! Was it worth it? Absolutely. I felt like I could move mountains. Especially when I was up walking to the bathroom and urinating, BY MYSELF, only two hours later. After that rough a ride, I would have expected myself to be bed ridden… for life.
Anyway, BIRTH PHOTOGRAPHER, right, the essence of this post. She captured the experience in beautiful, still, black and white photos that make the whole thing seem like a dream. Like a peaceful, magical process. Lies, I tell you.
But I am dang glad to have the documentation. I weep like a wee babe myself every time I look at the images. And to top it all off, she put together a slideshow, complete with a tug-at-the-heartstrings soundtrack that brings a lump to the throat of even the coldest soul. And makes me even consider going through the process again, because LOOK AT HOW BEAUTIFUL! HOW MAGICAL! HOW FREE FROM PAIN! Delusions delusions delusions.
If you live in the So’Cal area and are interested in such faulty albeit gorgeous documentation of your L&D, I highly recommend Shoots & Giggles. And in the meantime, I’m going to go have a good cry as I post my favorites from the day (note: my favorites are not of me in active labor <FLASHBACK TO PAIN>… but you can certainly see ’em in the slideshow).
Yesterday, we took our first big adventure out of the house. I’d done small trips with Addison, all lasting under an hour to guarantee that I would not have to navigate the waters of GASP! public breastfeeding. We’d hit up the grocery store, made a run to the post office, even swung by Kinkos to print some of the millions of photographs my trigger-happy finger can’t stop snapping of my newest bundle. But again, these ventures all were within the 1-hour time constraint.
My dearest friend from college, a now Harvard educated doctor, was out visiting and helping with the babe. I decided what better time to try a real outing than with a friend slash doctor by my side to help defray some of the attention and insecurity should I have to whip out my boob in front of a crowd. We chose to go see a movie, a lofty venture indeed as we were risking a public meltdown that might disturb the other viewers movie-going experience. We decided to see “UP,” in the middle of the day, reasoning that the demographic in such a theater would be more sympathetic to a wee child’s screams.
I must say, Addison was a champ. She slept for the first half of the movie, and when I saw her car seat beginning to sway with movement, I quickly snapped her up before she could make a fuss. She bounced in my lap, and then, at the quietest, most moving part of the movie, the point where the grumpy old man has an emotional, heartfelt epiphany, her face down turned into that perfect little frown and I held my breath waiting for the wail. Fortunately, my knees unconsciously responded with more rapid, bouncing fervor, momentarily distracting and overwhelming her from really letting loose. The film transitioned into a much noisier, more action filled scene and I began scrambling in the dark for those dang nipple shields, while simultaneously bouncing and fumbling at my nursing bra. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation in flashing my boob and awkwardly sticking both shield and child to my chest. I couldn’t even tell if she was getting any milk, but she was peacefully sucking away in the dark. It didn’t matter that I was literally a human pacifier and had endured my first bout of public flashing compounded by the SUPER NIPPLE! (to be said as though it were an action hero). We had watched the ENTIRE movie, without causing a scene and being booed out of the theater by the crowd of little old ladies behind us. I felt like a functioning member of society for the first time since birth, braving public to go enjoy an afternoon movie with a friend and my child.
UP, UP Hurray indeed!
My pediatrician had warned my husband and me that the infant we described as “easy” might occasionally deviate from this descriptor. I took her advice with a grain of salt. Bad idea.
Addison chose Saturday evening to allow the devil to take hold of her soul. She wailed and fused and demanded constant access to my boob, all the while pitching a fit and knocking the nipple shield, and thus breast milk, everywhere. Nothing would sooth her. Not the usual nursing, or rocking in daddy’s arms, or even warm bath. She was filled with rage and fury and would not be pacified. We spent until 5:30 in the morning trying to get our furious, milk-drenched babe under control. I had taken charge of her around 1:00 am to allow my husband to get some sleep, but at 3:30 am, the exhaustion took hold and I collapsed on the bathroom floor in a puddle, sobbing equally as loud. My husband arrived in the bathroom and looked helplessly at the screaming competition happening on the floor. Addison ultimately won that fight, as James swept her up in is arms and demanded that I try to get some sleep and pull it together.
The next morning, we all awoke, still grumpy and tired and generally pissed from the night before. It was a long fussy day for the Cart family. James loaded us all in the car and headed to Babies R Us on a mission to find the perfect, soothing baby swing. Hadn’t I seen that “Sex and the City” episode where Miranda’s life was revolutionized by the presence of a swing in soothing baby Brady? Why no, James, but obviously YOU have. We meandered our way to the swing section, screaming infant in hand, and literally test-ran every dang swing in that store, as people looked on in horror as our child screamed as we passed her from one crazy machine to another. Of course, she selected the most expensive of the bunch, as demonstrated by her eased tears, but it didn’t matter, we would have sold ourselves to slave labor if it meant we could get this child to be quiet.
Ever since the arrival of said swing, our household has been one of peace and serenity (as peaceful and serene as a house with a two month old baby can be). Heaven forbid it ever breaks and I’m forced to use a vibrator to solve the problem.
See “Sex and the City” episode Critical Condition. Season 5, Episode 6.
Breastfeeding has been an adventure, to say the least. I thought it would be a breeze, and that the tough part was accepting the horrendous changes happening to my boobs in preparation for this feeding commitment. Not only did my breasts triple in size (something my husband found exhilarating, until I chose to purchase a boatload of granny bras for maximum comfort and support. Not so sexy now, eh?) Due to the rapid increase in size, my breasts also became plagued with dark stretch marks, and my areola now look as thought flying saucers have taken refuge on my chest. Seriously, I have never seen nipples so large and dark, I assumed all these changes meant that my body was prepping to become the ultimate nursing machine. Alas. No such luck.
Turns out that although my areolae were now the size of Jupiter, my nipples were too small and unassuming for my daughter to get a proper latch. As though I needed to have my nipples protruding forcefully out of my shirt whenever I caught a cool breeze, screaming, “Chicken’s done!” And as if I had not been humiliated enough, I had to endure the hospital’s lactation consultant poking and prodding my nips, trying to get them to jut out farther, all the while my daughter screaming and writhing like a little naked mole rat, hungry and unable to figure out why no one was remedying that problem. After making it to second base with the consultant, she determined that synthetic nipples were going to be necessary and whipped out nipple shields. Essentially, nipple shields are like the ultimate, plastic, jumbo nipple, guaranteeing your child has NO ISSUE figuring out where to take her hourly snack. After practice suctioning these bad boys on to my chest, adding to the already ridiculous appearance of my breasts, Addison finally found the motherload! For me, however, it felt like a little baby dinosaur was sucking the life force out of me. I sat in the hospital bed, starring at my husband in horror, kicking my legs back and forth to try to distract myself from the discomfort, all the while thrilled that she had FINALLY caught on and was blissfully eating. My child wasn’t going to starve. Hallelujah! My nipples, on the other hand, they might never recover from serving as a human pacifier slash vending machine.
Fortunately, now that I spend close to four hours a day with my babe suctioned on to my chest, I’ve found interesting ways to entertain myself. Thank you, Apple, for the many iPhone applications that now amuse me during the wee hours of the morning as I lie in wait for my hungry bug to fill her belly. I don’t think I’ve ever read so many articles from the New York Times, or spent so much time Twittering and Facebooking, all from my mobile phone. And best of all, I am becoming a master at Sudoku! I’m just grateful that I live in a digital age where it’s so easy to reach the outside world with the navigation of only one hand and another being strapped to my body.
Multitasking is swell.