one plus one plus one

All aboard, choo choo

Ready or not, the weaning train has left the station.

After I got back from Boston we nursed as a part of our bedtime routing for two nights and it was clear to me that it was no longer a positive part of the evening. Trying to return to pre-tonsilectomy limits was resulting in tantrums and the whole thing was turning into a major power struggle. So we stopped. Without warning actually, and all things considered, he's gotten over it pretty quickly. He's asked a couple of times during the day and I've agreed, but Sunday afternoon was the last time that's happened and he didn't actually nurse. He wiggled and laughed and patted my chest gently and when I said, "ok, you're not nursing, all done!" he jumped off my lap and went to play. "Bye-bye nurse," I said, "Bye-bye nurse!" he replied.

He didn't ask that night, or Monday. Instead he asked to snuggle or for his water. Last night he asked, pissed and moaned for about a minute when I said no, and asked for his water.

This is turning into a case of the anticipation being much worse than the reality. If he truly wanted to nurse during the day I'd be willing  but he doesn't. And while I am very glad we held out until surgery - I'm pretty sure nursing was the only thing that saved us from dehydration and a return trip to the hospital - he's obviously more ready than I thought. I've been done for a couple of months now, to the point where I've been dreading it at night and it makes me want to jump out of my skin when he's doing it.

I am...proud, yes, for what we accomplished. And I'm sad. It's like when I went back to work after Jamie was born and I felt so lonely with no baby kicking inside of me. I miss my lactating breasts, their shape, their fullness. I miss relishing in my body's functioning as it was designed, in the ability to not only conceive and grow life, but to sustain it. I'm lucky things worked out this way, and I am sad that this chapter of my life may be closed for good.

But mostly, I'm relieved that I am able to simply hold and cuddle my child without him yanking on my shirt or trying to dive down it. It is a new kind of closeness and I am relishing it.

Meanwhile, back in Ohio...

Mad Dog called me this morning at around 7:30. He was at the end of his rope. Jamie had been up off and on since 2 screaming, climbing up the fish tank, and refusing to wear any clothes. (And I'm looking forward to going back home?)

This was after a fairly peaceful few days and nights but even so, I can tell the stress of single-parenting has just about done MD in. I hope he enjoyed some of the time he and Jamie had together, although I think even the peaceful moments were so full of worry - how would he get them both out the door every morning on time, what if Jamie decided to not sleep again that night - that I am afraid the whole experience will be seared into his mind as five of the hellish days of his life.

But...that's the way this parenting gig goes some times. I mean, I wish his leg didn't hurt so badly and I don't enjoy knowing how stressed out he is, but the thing is, I do know how stressed out he is. Even though we've historically managed our lives with as most equity as possible and neither one of us buy into classic gender roles, and even keeping in mind what a hands-on dad MD is and how much he enjoys his family, as Jamie has gotten older I've taken on more and more of the heavy lifting of parenting. The nightime freak-outs, the morning diaper changes, night after night of racing home from work, trying to get a somewhat nutritious meal into a finicky two year old, and yes, dreading bedtime. Maybe, just maybe, this experience has made it more clear to MD just how draining the parenting gig has been on me and how disproportionate our roles have become.

As for me, I've enjoyed being away. Although with this cold my theoretically uninterrupted nights have still been interrupted by coughing and sneezing, but the mental break has been just as important as the physical. But I'm happy to be going home this afternoon and can't wait to give both my guys a big hug and smooch. It's been fun, Beantown, but I am a true Midwestern girl at heart. Ohio, here I come!

Panicking a little over here

I'm starting to panic a little about leaving tomorrow. We are in day 3 of Tantrumgate and the house looks and feels as though we are under siege. We have good and bad days of daycare, and the good have outnumbered the bad this week, 3-1. (Sadly, a score that is flipped at home.) Don't get me wrong, I am 100% ready for a break and am looking forward to my first night sleeping totally alone in many, many moons (even though my room the first night is a smoking room. Good grief.) It's just that Jamie started something last night, while tantruming, he howls for me - even when I'm right there, sometimes trying to keep him from banging his brains out - as though the hounds of hell were after him and only I can pull him to safety. The thought of him crying for me like that and me not being here is putting my dangerously close to a panic attack.

I did manage to get him to bed almost an hour earlier than the current average and I'm hoping that helps. We are all very short on sleep right now and maybe with a good night's rest under his belt we won't have another morning like this one, when tantrum #1 (of the day, I stopped counting them because it's too damn depressing) came on suddenly while Jamie was happily eating his breakfast. One minute he's standing on his beloved stool munching away on his peanut butter toast (buttered and peanut buttered by himself even), the next, he's trying to rip the kitchen gate completely out of the wall (or so I'm told, this one happened while I was in the shower.)

I got some good advice from Moxie on preparing him for me not being here, but with the way the past couple of months have been, haven't gotten any farther than, "Jamie, mommy's going to be flying on an airplane like this one soon!" I don't know what to do tomorrow morning. My gut is telling me to explain to him that daddy will be picking him up at the end of the day because mommy has to work. He understands that because of MD's schedule. Almost every night on the way home he asks, "See daddy?" and most nights I explain that no, daddy's working and we won't see him until the morning. So if I tell him I'll be working tomorrow night and won't be there for bed and I have to be away for a few days for work it won't get the whole idea across but will give md something to build on Saturday morning when he wakes up for the first time ever without me here. (Gah, have to stop writing, very close to tears.)

Deep breath.

Ok. Md's looking forward to it I think, even though he knows it's going to be grueling. I'm off tomorrow and my flight doesn't leave until 5, which is a good thing because I haven't packed yet. This damn, gorgeous weather. I had my clothes all planned but it is going to be in the 60s this weekend and I have to rethink things.

We'll all live through this and I think I'm going to really enjoy the trip. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. (mommmeee!)

5 in 38

In the past 38 hours I've endured five temper tantrums. Kicking, biting, head-banging temper tantrums. Part of it is over nursing - and oh boy, am I close to weaning cold turkey - part of it, I have no flipping idea. Oh wait, because he's TWO! Finally at bedtime tonight I let him bang his head against the door and actually, after a few minutes he stopped. He was asleep about 15 minutes later. Is it CIO if the kid is 25 months and the mom is crying along?

Anyway, that's why earlier tonight one minute I'm making dinner and the next I'm sitting on the floor in my jeans and bra ( because he was yanking the crap out of my sweater) holding a writhing toddler (face out - no biting!) and contemplating my spare tire in my reflection in the oven door. I love the terrible twos. Any reservations I have about leaving town are dead. Too bad the little squirt seems to have given me his cold. Well, at least I can drug myself up with nyquil. And booze.

Back to basics

Tonight I relived Jamie's baby days as I sat on the couch in the dark, long past his bedtime, and nursed him into a deep, deep slumber by the light of the almost mute tv. It was either that or spend another night frustrated and pissed off and guilty for being pissed at my poor, sweet, hurting baby. I've been frustrated enough that MD has expressed some concern the following day, and rightly so.

Whenever I lose sight of my original parenting philosophy - do what works now, and sort it out later - it comes back and bites me in the ass. And, when I lose faith in my own methods, it never ends well. When Jamie's tantruming, MD's method is to gently talk him through it. He just talks. And talks, and talks, about everything and nothing, until Jamie finally settles down. It's really awesome and from time to time I feel guilty for my own response, which is to silently sit until the storm passes. The problem is, if I start talking, I get frustrated when Jamie doesn't respond the way I want him to, which is calm the hell down. No matter that he's freaking two. The gentle talking gives way to pleading, which gives way to impatience, which finally yields to anger. So the past couple of nights I've sat silently, offering comfort from time to time, until he's ready to accept it. I've nursed when neccessary, putting aside my impatience with nursing for the time being, and finally, tonight when it was obvious that he wasn't going to fall deeply asleep until the next dose of tylenol 3 kicked in and I couldn't stop thinking about last night's episode of the Amazing Race that was paused on the dvr, I took him downstairs and walked him around in the darkened family room where the light and sound of the fish tank (Dur? Dite dere!) finally calmed him to the point that it only took about 10 minutes of nursing for him to finally fall into a fitful sleep in my arms. An episode of the Amazing Race and the last half of What Not to Wear later, I was able to put him back into his own bed, at least as long as it's taken me to finish my dinner and get ready for bed so that if he does wake again soon, I can just climb into bed with him for the night.

I have two sides to my personality that are battling with each other during situations like these. The part of me that craves order and routine versus the part that hates rules and flies by the seat of her pants. Flipping back and forth while trying to maintain a consistent set of boundaries and "rules" (our rules are so general it's ridiculous - mostly about not hurting anyone or anything living and manners) wears on me. But really, how many more times will I have to snuggle him by the glow of the tv? How many more opportunities will I have to study his face as he sleeps, still angelic, with the tiniest bit of babyhood still present? Living in the moment is just as important as working toward the future person he'll be and the two don't have to be at odds with one another.

It's so late but this popped in my head and I wanted to get it down, since I've really been sucking at this blogging thing lately

Bathtime has been little dramatic lately because in typical two year old fashion,instead of being merely displeased at having his hair washed Jamie either thinks it's funny or howls bloody murder and never recovers in order to actually enjoy his bath. This was the second type of night. He was fighting it before I even got him in the tub so I called md up for moral support. Usually I'd skip the tub all together but he was pretty smelly and we're going to my dad's tomorrow for dinner so there won't be time. Even I wouldn't want to send him to daycare on Monday quite that stinky.

Anyway, when Jamie howls and screams and does his irrational act I tend to have a little giggle and let him work it out. Or get really frustrated and walk away. Either way I don't take it very seriously. But lately I have realized that sometimes he needs me to pick him up, give him a cuddle and a kiss, and tell him it's going to be ok. In my defense, if I had tried that a couple of months ago it would have earned me an outraged smack in the face and an even longer tantrum.

ANYWAY, I was doing the giggling thing and md was outraged. "He's really upset!" But then, md usually takes these things more seriously than me. Turns out tonight he was right and after we negotiated a willing exit from the bath - picking him up against his will would have been ugly(er) - I wrapped him in his towel but he flung it off. I was trying to calmly explain to him that he needed to get nice and dry so we could put his diaper and pjs and and then watch BLUE!, when he threw himself at me, wrapped his arms around his neck and sobbed into my shoulder.

No big, right? Except, it has just been recently that Jamie has sought this type of comfort from me instead of asking to nurse. And I love it. I don't know if it's because he's getting older or the longest weaning ever is starting to take hold, but being able to comfort him without having to give over my body is extremely fullfilling. As much as I've loved nursing and as rewarding as our breastfeeding relationship has been, it's always a case of me having to give over something that in recent months I'm often not in the mood to give. But cradling my sobbing child, patting and soothing and wiping the tears, it feels, well, good. Not that my child is in pain, but that the mere fact of my arms around him eases that pain or even takes it away. It's a quintessential act of mothering, much like breastfeeding, but one that will last our lifetime together. It's the proof that growing up and growing apart is natural and good.

Blessings

Our 7th wedding anniversary was this week. We joked a bit about the 7 year itch, but actually, it's the reverse. Something happened when grandma died. We pulled together and all the shit was dropped for a couple of weeks. I realized that truly, without the baggage and bull and attitudes, we have an amazing marriage. So as we started to snip and snipe at each other again, I said, "enough." I told Mad Dog that I wanted our marriage o be the way it could be, the way it had been in a time of crisis, and that I was going to work hard to make that happen. It mostly means keeping a sense of humor and not sweating the small stuff. And with md meeting me half way, things have been much, much easier and nicer around here.

At work we've been talking a lot about a convergence that may be happening. How a variety of disparate stakeholders are suddenly focusing on the same thing, the very thing that happens to be our mission. Considering we're the city of plan and talk but no do, it's an exciting opportunity and everyone's been talking about how to make certain it doesn't slip by without actual action happening.

It really feels like the same thing is happening for me personally. My job, wow. An amazing opportunity and hopefully I'm not going to screw it up. So far things are going well, I just have to keep my head above water for the next couple of months. I've been looking for a new job for a few years now, but the reasons for that have passed (um, away, in one case, sad to say) and our company is itself going through a rare change.

I have the child I've wanted for so long, and I couldn't be happier to finally be a mom. This is the first time in my life that I've felt confident in myself. In my abilities, hell, in my instincts. I know how to be a mother and I love it. It's the most fullfilling thing I could ever hope to do and I'm blessed with an amazing, healthy, smart, loving, child.

The night before our anniversary, I asked MD if we were doing gifts. We had already decided we were doing takeout for dinner because neither one of us felt like cooking and getting a sitter during the week just doesn't seem worth it. Besides, spending a week night together as a family is still a treat and neither one of us thought being away from Jamie was the way to celebrate. So I asked him about gifts and he was like, nah, just cards. Maybe a token gift or something, but nothing big.

So, we went to bed. And Jamie's been sleeping really well probably 5 nights a week since he finally got over the serial viruses last month, so when he woke around 5 or 6 I was in a deep sleep, the kind I never thought I'd get to experience again. The kind where you close your eyes and suddenly, it's morning. After getting him settled I went to the bathroom where the big ass vase of flowers sitting on the counter scared the bejeezus out of me. No gifts my patootie!

Compare this to our first anniversary when I also received a dozen roses but they were left in my car as a surprise rather than the bathroom because MD just couldn't get the night off work. Life is different these days. We've been married 7 years. In that time, 6 years ago I started at my current company. 5 years ago we bought our house. A year later, I finally completed my  masters degree. The first 4 years of our marriage were difficult at best, painful and soul-killing at worst. We've logged in hundreds of hours of counseling, together, and on our own. I'll be 36 next month. If you had asked me 3 years ago if I was happy with my life and if I was where I thought I would be at 33 I would have emphatically said, "NO." My job, which began as a great opportunity, had started to seriously suck. The incredibly specialized degree that I was in thousands of dollars in debt over wasn't paying off professionally. I lived in a house that I hated. We were broke with no relief in sight. MD and I had narrowly avoided divorce but I wasn't convinced that we were actually in the clear. And it actually took me finally getting pregnant after 3 years of on-again, off-again trying, to get his head out of his ass for good. My pregnancy was a honeymoon period for us, the first time in years we were in sync. 2 years ago Jamie was born and I started this blog and you only have to read the archives to now how I've struggled in many areas in the past 2 years, but now, I can say, I am happy. Really, truly, happy. No buts or if onlys or kinda sortas, I'm there. I am so, so lucky to have all I have. My life is full of blessings.

Happy Anniversary sweetie. I wouldn't have made it here without you. I love you.

MD says he's not evil, just spirited

I read Moxie's post this morning and breathed a sigh of relief. Not because her kids are running her ragged, but I'm amazed these days at how frustrated I get with Jamie sometimes and it's always reassuring to hear that other peoples' kids do the same. I should be getting ready for work, so I'll just leave you with two quick examples.

First, yesterday, on the way to dinner at my dad's, we dropped our basinette off at my cousin's house for their second little girl, one her way any day now, to use. The frame had to go in my passenger seat, so I squeezed in the back with Jamie. I had to sit behind the driver's side which didn't give me much room. He got pissed at me for touching his car seat. I squeezed even closer to the door. Then he got pissed because I was NEAR his car seat, and next thing I know, I'm saying, "Jamie, I'm not touching you! Put your hands inside your seat and you won't be touching me! No! I am allowed to have my feet there- keep yours in your zone!"

Then, the other night, Jamie was fighting sleep. As we're in the midst of the long, slow, weaning process (but not before surgery!), I'm letting him nurse for 10 minutes (15 now, 10 was too short) and then making him fall asleep on his own. This has been going over like a 2-ton load of bricks. He was especially pissed the other night and was yelling at me to get off his pillow. (NO! Mommy! My Pillow!)  But I can't leave the room or get off the bed because he'll really lose it. So I was laying below the pillow. He finally quieted down and pulled at me to get me back onto the pillow. He grabbed my arm and wrapped it around him, and just as I was basking in the sweetness that is a two-year-old, he cocked his arm back and whapped me across the face and head. OOOH!

MD says we don't need another child the way Jamie and I carry on sometimes. I am the mom, I am the mom, I am the mom.

The worst thing

Grandma died last night.

Unfortunately, that's not the worst thing that happened this weekend. Whatever tenuous bonds existed between my mother and I, beyond our love for grandma, they are now broken. Irreparably, as far as I am concerned.

I started it, but for a good reason. And she continued it. Before we were done and she had driven me out of grandma's hospital room for good, she admitted she had never been a mother to me, but refused to take any responsibility for it, told me repeatedly that she had turned her life around and deserved my respect, yet refused to hear me when I told her she still treated me the same way as she always had, told me I had let grandma down, that I was a selfish, stuck-up person who didn't care enough to see grandma more than twice a month, that I was a brat, had always been and would always be, and that she didn't give a damn about losing a grandson because she was done apologizing to me. I must have missed all those apologies, because the closest she's ever come to an apology was admitting she missed something important when she failed to be a mother to me when I was young. She went on and on about how grandma forgave her because "that's what mothers do," failing of course to see the irony in that. And when I told her how they had shut me out, she accused me of creating drama and told me that I always blew things out of proportion. (!!!) And when I told her that all these things, I had told them to grandma the first time she was in the hospital this summer, and that grandma's response was to look at me with love and to tell me she never meant me to feel that way and that she was sorry, and I told the woman who gave birth to me but has never once been a mother to me, that that is what a mother does, that is how a mother reacts to her child's anger, it barely got through to her. That is when she admitted that she had never learned to be a mother, and yet, somehow, it was still all my fault.

So honestly, knowing that my grandma is no longer in pain, and, if you believe in that sort of thing, which I'm choosing to do at the moment, is with my grandpa, it's really not the worst thing to happen to me.

After I left the hospital yesterday morning, sobbing, broken, the pain squeezing my chest to the point that I could barely breathe, I came home to my family. To my house, my husband, and my child. To a life that she will never have, that she can never understand. She couldn't understand why I couldn't get to the nursing home to see grandma last weekend, didn't care when I told her Jamie was sick, that yes, MD could have taken care of him but he WANTED HIS MOTHER. She can't understand the energy that goes into taking care of a sick two-year-old, that two out of the three days we had off last weekend, I only showered once and that MD and I only left the house twice, once together.  She'll never know what it is like to come home to that child, sick yet again, as I did yesterday, and what it is like to snuggle with that child all afternoon on the couch, playing, soothing, holding. She'll never know. And whether she knows it or not or ever admits it, that is the worst thing that could happen. To have all that within your grasp, and to throw it all away.

Tick, tick, tick

I posted this the other day over at dish and spoon, but I want to dissect it a little more here. This was in response to a post about trying to conceive - yes, no, maybe?

Given the day of the week and the time of the month, the stage of the moon, and other random factors, I'm usually waffling between the following emotions:

-Perfect happiness with our family exactly the way it is- Jamie is a fabulous kid and we're having a ton of fun, why mess with it?

-Knowing I never want to pregnant again, but I'd like another baby, so what about domestic adoption?

-Not only do I never want to be pregnant again, but the memory of the newborn days makes me want to cry, so what about adopting a toddler through international adoption?

-OMG! Babies! Want. One. Now.

So, I'm ok with the back-and-forthing (today, at least) because in the past month with the impending refi and my promotion part of the uncertainty about child #2 has changed from, "no way, can't afford it, we would have to sell the house, the car, the dogs, the first child, ayiyiyi," to, "if we wait another year or two (most likely two), we'll have the proper second vehicle, and will be able to swing daycare/preschool for two until Jamie starts school." That shift means I feel like a responsible adult rather than an approaching-middle-age (not really, but adds drama) washed up, loser/failure.

I'm firmly of the mind that you should have kids because you really, really want them, not because you think you should or whatever, and I feel the same way about second (or more) children. Yes, I'd love for Jamie to have a sibling but I'm not feeling pressed to provide him with one. If he has a sibling, it will be because WE, the parents, really want another child. At one time I did feel some of this pressure, actually, since I longed for a sib growing up (half brother and sister that I love dearly but never lived with and are almost a generation removed from me are treasures in my life but it's not the same), but MD put that to rest one day when he told me his life wouldn't have been diminished if he didn't have his brother and sister. Not that having them in his life hasn't made it richer (except for maybe his sister), but he'd still be the him he is today without them. And he pointed out that with my history and all, I probably have a more romanticized view of growing up in a multi-child family than is actually the reality. That all struck me as very true and I've let go of the guilt over subjecting Jamie to only-child-dom and have been able to focus on the issue without that added pressure at least.

Anyway, that leaves me with my own personal reasons for waffling. I mean, the opportunity to carry and birth and nurse a newborn again- it all leaves me hot and cold. I loved lots about being pregnant, but I had severe sciatica that made walking extremely painful. It was difficult for me to do the social parts of my job- receptions, events, etc. - and now that I'm the boss, it's even more important that I'm out and about. Giving birth, it was awesome, but in some ways disappointing, and I'm not sure the options here where I live would mean a much different experience next time. And the breastfeeding, sure I have visions of a newborn that latches perfectly while I tote him or her around in my Ellaroo wrap and who doesn't scream for hours and hours but who the hell am I kidding? It would be hard, and exhausting, and for me, impossible with MD's current schedule. Which will get better, but he works in food service. It's never going to 9-5.

Right now however, what's really getting me is the professional implications. I skated for a good year after I came back from maternity leave. I know it, my former boss knows it, I'm sure other people noticed as well. But, again, I'm the boss now and this is the professional opportunity of a lifetime. I'm not screwing it up.  It's funny, while I always knew I'd be a working mom (although I thought it would be willingly, go figure) I also always knew that my family would come first. And it does and always will. But I'm also the breadwinner, we need my job, and I need to do well at it for myself too. It may be that in order to come out ahead professionally and maternally  I need to limit myself to one child and that's a new idea for me. I'm not uncomfortable with it, not that much anyway, but it's a new wrinkle to consider.

Oh, and let's not forget that I turn 36 this year. Tick, tick, tick.