I now know why some species eat their young. More power to them.

Starting at the beginning, B's jeep is refusing to start. It buzzes at us and then tells us to go to hell. So I've been getting up at the crack of dawn driving my husband to work every morning. B kept me up until 3 this morning bitching about how frustrated he is. He said it was because he's impatient that he has to wait until the school year's done when he's looking forward to moving on with his life, but I know it's because he had a horrible day yesterday with some crazy parent shooting him as the messenger so to speak (nutso story, details if one desires them). So because of that, when he has to go to work this morning, I am too stinking tired to wake up and take him, so I let him take my Jeep so N and I can sleep a little longer. I have playgroup this afternoon, and I'll go get the car later. This is important.

In the morning, I wake up when N starts stirring, and we usually go into the living room together. Normally, he runs ahead of me. This is not usually a problem. Today, he darts ahead while I'm getting out of bed. I hear a crash, and then little whimpers, and as I'm going to get him, my kid comes back in to the bedroom with a huge smile on his face, a plastic dolphin, and bloody fingers. I get into the living room, and the glass of grape juice I'd forgotten about the night before is smashed, shards are everywhere, and there's grape juice all over my floor and couch. So I clean his hands up (one tiiiiiiiiiiny little cut), get him out of his grape juice-soaked jammies and diaper, and put him in his high chair for breakfast. I call my mom to come pick us up and take us to the school so we can get the Jeep for this afternoon.

All of the straw-sippy cups are dirty, so I give him one that doesn't have a no spill valve (valves kill his latch) about half full of milk. Normally, this is not a problem. I also give him a spoon and a bowl of applesauce. He was perfection with these items the other night at dinner. As I'm cleaning up the glass and grape juice, I hear "plop.....giggle......plop.....splat....haaaaaaaaaaaaa!....plop." Okay, all of the glass is off of the floor now, and I go back through the dining room (N's in the doorway between the dining room and living rooms), and I see my toddler covered literally from head to toe in applesauce and milk mixture. His spoon is stuck in his mouth, his high chair tray is completely flooded with this stuff, his bowl still has some of his strange soup in it, and there's a three-foot circle in every direction around the highchair of little dollops of millky applesauce. He'd been reaching into the bowl with his hands and dropping handfuls on the floor. It was a small, styrofoam to-go bowl. I didn't realize it held that much. I get N out of the high chair, and got the major clumps off of him and ran to throw a shirt on. No sooner to I enter my bedroom than I hear the pitter patter of little feet and I swear, an evil giggle. The little snot turned off the computer. It's not just pushing the button. You have to push and hold the button for the exactly prescribed amount of seconds, or the damn thing just laughs at you. I am no longer working on anything on the computer.

So my mom's going to be here in 5 minutes, and there is a G-d in heaven because somehow, all of the grape juice and glass is picked up, the sludge wipes off of N in no time flat, and my mom, who sounded in a huge hurry, came in took one look at me, saw the towel on the floor (for the applesauce), took my kid, and started cleaning up the floor, saying she had a few minutes if I wanted to change my shirt. I love my mother.

I go outside to install the spare carseat (a crappy little Evenflo--I hate this thing), and I haven't taken 3 steps before I start smelling natural gas. I get the carseat in, call the gas company, and my mom helps me get N dressed (something akin to dressing an octopus) and put on his shoes while I change my shirt and call the gas company.

After we get the car and come home, the gas company guy is there, and while I'm trying to corral the dogs and keep the kid out of mischief (HA!), N pours a snack bag of barbecue potato chips on the floor and starts eating them. Oh well, at least he's quiet, right? I get the dogs back outside (and now need to change my shirt yet again), the gas company guy says we don't have a gas leak, but the people next door probably do. He leaves, I try to clean up the barbecue chips, and N decides right then, he wants to nurse and go to sleep. He does, and my house is blissfully silent now.

I am not looking at the living room. It will make me cry. He will probably wake up within the next half hour or so, and when he does, we're going to playgroup. He must run some of this energy off, or I'm going to see how fast DHL's service is and send him straight to Drama Queen.

Happy

A friend I've gotten close to over the last few months had a baby tonight. :) She has changed so much from the way she used to be, and has really grown and discovered some things about herself. Anyway, the road to this birth has been very difficult for her (gallbladder surgery, preterm labor, weeks of prodromal labor, etc), but she wanted a VBAC, and she did what she thought she had to do. She'd ask me for information, but mostly she just wanted encouragement. I've really enjoyed going through this pregnancy with her and encouraging her. She went in Tuesday night, sure she was in labor for real this time. 2cm, and the nurse said 80% effaced. She was admitted for contractions, got some sleep, and when she woke up the next morning, was told that the nurse who examined her before was wrong, and she was actually barely 2, and only about 6% (where they got that exact number, I have no idea) effaced. The plan had been to go ahead and start pitocin, but since her cervix was still in the state it was, the midwife felt it unwise to induce at that point. She then gave my friend the choice of waiting a few days (which she said she'd recommend even if she didn't want to VBAC after all), or going ahead with the section. She had the option to end her weeks of little sleep, and almost constant contractions before everyone in her family (except for her son and DH) left town for a vacation on Sunday. She amazed me. She got up, told the midwife that she'd come this far, and she wanted to be done being pregnant, but still didn't want the section, so she'd go home, thanks. And go home she did. She spend yesterday sleeping at home. I didn't call her because I knew she was disappointed that she hadn't had the baby yet, and I didn't want to intrude.

I was so thrilled to pick up the phone tonight and hear, "I did it!" She has a beautiful, healthy baby boy, 8lb, 7oz, and curly red hair. Of her VBAC, she said only this, "I needed this so much."

What a powerful experience this has been, and she's halfway across the country from me. Listening to her joy after her birth has helped me. I'm looking forward to labor again.

And I might, just might, be able to become a doula after all.


In other happy news, I attended a book signing today, by Tomie dePaola. I love his art work. For those who don't know, he wrote and illustrated "Strega Nona," adapted and illustrated, "Stone Soup," and wrote and illustrated many other books. He was very gracious, and even though the signing was only supposed to last for an hour, it was well after that when I left, and he was still sitting there, smiling and signing away. N was that child while we were there (overstimulated, poor kid), and kept screaming and screeching at inopportune moments, in spite of a few minutes in the rocker with "Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii" (milk). However, not one disparaging comment was made, and Mr. dePaola took the time out to try and get a smile out of the kid. We got a picture (which I'm trying to upload, but my (*&#@$# cd drawer won't open, so I can't put it in. Grrr. All in all, a fun day. :)

The Name Dilemma

Is finally over. ::::::cautiously knocking on wood:::::::: Many people I know say they had to find out the sex of the expected child because they are planners, and they had to know. We're planners, too. But since we don't find out the sex, we pour our planning neuroses into picking the perfect name for our baby. We did it with N, and with this kid, too. I'm sure we'll do it with the others. Anyway, B called me from the theater (he's an assistant manager for a few dollars and hour and free movies--not bad for a weekend thing) this afternoon to tell me that he had picked The boy's name, and that I'd better like it. Fortunately, I do. A girl will be named Elinor Lindsay and a boy will be named Henry McKay. If people don't like these, that's too dang bad.:)
I should probably be a good wife and a nice person and consider DH's feelings of pride and accomplishment in picking this wonderful boy's name. However, pregnancy makes me snarky, and I'll lie in wait for the perfect moment to remind him that he nixed Henry when I was pregnant with N. I'll bet large sums of money (or chocolate, whichever's handy) he'll deny it hotly, and then get mad and sulk, and then in a few months, I'll have a list of boy names in my hands a mile long.

Craving of the Week

Chai. Must. Have. Chai. Now.

My little sister rocks!

M, my sister, got back from Europe tonight. She brought back an adorable little pair of French shoes for N, and for me, she brought a bag she bought at a market in Bologna, butterscotch, and some maternity pants from Scotland. I've missed her terribly, and I'm thrilled she's home. :) And I like my new pants. :)

So maybe I'm a little evil

I was listening to a mom talk about why she couldn't breastfeed tonight, and it set my little hamster wheels turning. I'm working with a mom right now who is having issues with basic baby care, and one of those issues is mixing formula properly. So--that said, here's my response to the next time I encounter, "I was just too worried to breastfeed. I mean, not knowing how many ounces were in there? Would I even be able to make enough milk?"

I wasn't able to formula feed. There was just too much worry involved for me. I mean, having to measure amounts exactly, and worrying about electrolyte balances, and water intoxication, and possible contaminants in the water--oh, and there was that time a friend opened up a can of powder to find something small and dead with legs in it. No, I was just too high strung to bottlefeed."

Disclaimer: I am well aware that there are some darn good reasons for not breastfeeding. This post doesn't address those. This addresses a response I've heard before that makes little sense to me. If this offends, too bad. It's TIC, and that's that.

There. Off my evil little soapbox now.