I Have Nothing Else to Do....(??)

Before Brix made his debut, I thought about how I was going to cope with a (possibly) screaming newborn all day long for at least the next three months (my SAHM time).

So I made a little mantra that I could repeat to remind myself that it's all about Brixton and his needs and not about mine.  Here it is:

I have nothing else to do.

 But, as it turns out, this mantra isn't working.  At all.  Why?  Because I have a million things to do!!  Yes, of course it's important to hold my baby, feed him, change him, bathe him, restock his diapers, give him some tummy time, burp him, change his diaper again, stare at him, etc.  I think in my last weeks of pregnancy haze, I didn't think so much about the repercussions of living in a messy house, a dirty house, a house with an unstocked fridge and also one with laundry hampers overflowing.  

It's a really bad feeling.

And when you are a new mommy and all these things build up and you have a really bad feeling and the baby too, it becomes too, too much.  

So now I'm shopping for a new mantra.  A realistic mantra that will allow me to spend ample time with my baby while also attending to the needs of my home and hubby.  

Here are some of the contenders:

You can sleep when you're dead.

It's for now, but not forever.

One thing at a time, one day at a time.

Why clean? We don't have any friends here anyway.

Mantras are for wimps.

Suggestions?

**Additionally, it being Memorial Day and all, I would like to thank all those who have served our nation and especially those who have given the Ultimate Sacrifice.  I don't know why, but I have a special spot in my heart for WWII vets especially.  I don't know what makes a young man so brave to run toward the sound of gunfire or for a young woman to actually be able to leave her baby to be deployed to a war zone, but I don't have it.  When I watch war movies, I spend half the time crying, a quarter of the time with my eyes closed and the rest plotting how I'd play dead on the battlefield in the first five seconds.  God Bless you all.**  

 

Brix Fix & Happy 4th Anniversary!!

There are moments you don't forget about your wedding day.

Like remembering scarfing down a Denny's Grand Slam out of the styrofoam box while getting your pedicure did.

Like ordering your mom (who was sick with food poisoning and even missed the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner) a $10 smoothie from room service, but she was too sick to drink it. 

Like realizing instead of crying at the altar, like you always thought you would, you have a captive audience and start acting a little too animated.

Like crawling like a cat on the dance floor in your wedding dress during the dance off.  

And of course, marrying your sweetie, best buddy, partner in moves and other adventures and the now father of our child.  

Love you Brendan!

And here's some more of our best project to date (and some other stuff too):

My poor darling has a horrible case of baby acne..but also a really cute milky pout.

 My new dinner stance..

 My MIL came for a week to help out

 she's a really great cook..

I love random kitchen pictures like this, but I can't ever photograph them right..oh well, you get the idea.

 Finally, thanks to Grandpa Keith, Brixton's already had his first experience being photoshopped into odd situations:

 Grandpa Keith is an avid Harley rider.  I guess there's nothing cuter than a baby with a skull cap and a black leather fringe bag riding a motorcycle.  

With that visual in mind, how 'bout a vote?

Have a great weekend! 

The Crying Game

One thing I never knew about having a baby was the crying.

Me, not him.

Don't worry, I swear I don't have post-partum or anything.  I take that really seriously, but I promise I'm feeling good, getting enough rest and not feeling down.

The first week was a sob fest.  I'd just sit and hold him and cry.  I'd cry for the experience I had just gone through, for seeing him finally in my arms where I'd dreamed he would be for so long.  I'd cry for his tiny mouth, his duckling hair and his perfectly formed ears.  I'd cry for the amount of love I felt for him and for the future we'd share together.  

This was a good week.  This kind of crying I find lovely, cathartic and cleansing.  

Week two got a little morbid.

Brixton and I were outside on the grass, getting some sun time.  He was cuddled into me and like usual, I was just staring at him and brimming with love (seriously, if you need to gag or retch at all during this post, I totally won't be offended).  Then I started thinking about losing him.  How awful that would be, how I don't know how I'd recover.  Then I started thinking of all the women throughout the history of time who had lost a baby or a child and how they coped with it, the intense feelings of helplessness, permanence, and emptiness of death.

Then I started thinking about the Holocaust.

How women held their babies close but could do nothing for them.  Women seeing horrible things happening to their own children.  I started recalling stories of things the Nazis did to children and babies.  I won't write here some of those things, since wow, they were awful and not deserving of more airtime, but let's just say I went there in my mind.  It was me on the train, it was me in the line to the gas chamber, it was Kelley's Choice, not Sophie's.  

And how I cried that day in the sun.  I cried and I cried and I cried.  I cried for all of them in a way I had never before.  I cried for the brand new mothers and the veterans.  I cried for the babies.  I cried for the toddlers.  And I held Brixton so close to me.

That day kind of worried me.  Because I then went through a few days of fear.  "What if?"  I read about senseless deaths of young men and instantly thought of their mothers. I worried about tree branches falling on us during a walk down the street.  Agoraphobia entered my mind.

A few days later I realized I had to leave those thoughts behind in order to move forward.  I had to trust God.  I had to say goodbye to those women on the boxcars and hiding in attics.  I couldn't stay with them in their grief.

Now we are in week three.  I haven't cried much, but I did last night.  4 am.  Holding a very wide awake little boy, I realized I was holding a man.  A man who has so much to learn.  A man who will one day have to make hard choices. A man who will always call me mother.  I cried.  I cried for all of it.  Most of all I cried because I never wanted children before and look what I almost missed.  

Do you cry?  Will this ever stop? Should it?

Behind the Curtain

Can I be honest here?

You sure?

No really, because you might not like this...

Sometimes my baby annoys me.

(gasp. sigh. Did she just...?)

yep.

Does this happen to anyone else?

I feel so guilty when it happens.  I can't help it bubbling up after rocking him for 45 minutes or he's screaming in my face for no apparent reason or it's 11 pm and we are dog-tired and he's been awesome all day and then all of a sudden: not so awesome.  

I feel instantly guilty because he's a baby and babies obviously cry and do all that baby stuff.  Also, he's MY baby and I knew what I was signing up for.  Additionally, your honor, I can't imagine that all of these sweet mama bloggers or friends of mine with kids would ever, ever possibly find the time to be annoyed with their own children, what with all those adorable pictures they post so tenderly of toes and feet and cute vintage outfits. 

Because maybe only a jerk mother would find the time to be annoyed.

But..

I know I'm not a jerk mother.  I might be a jerk, but not a jerk mother.  

So this leads me to believe that it's not just me, that it's just one of those ugly sides of motherhood that no one wants to admit to or talk about because, well, it IS ugly.  Maybe this is what's lurking beyond when women say "Being a mom is hard" with a pointed look and not much further input.  So maybe this is me, now being a mother for the first time, venturing into that room behind the curtain only to realize that this is where mommies store their ugly business, their negative feelings, their insecurities and shortcomings.

I like this room.  I like the idea of having a private place to put my bad stuff down and put on  my happy face.  But I also like the idea of talking about it and putting it out there.  It is hard being a mom, along with being a wife, a friend, a daughter.  It's kind of like 2 days after my c-section, I was in a lot of pain and discomfort, but I got dressed, put makeup on and did my hair.  I put my feelings behind my curtain that day and tried my best to appear normal.  

Sometimes you have to fake it just to make it.  

Here's to us fakers.

(raising a mug of coffee)

 

Mind the Gap

We've been home now with Brixton for about two weeks. It hasn't been too rough, but we've definitely had our tense, snappy moments, brought on by being tired, the fussy cries of a newborn at 10pm and the inability to eat a leisurely meal.  

Laying in bed the other night, Brendan's back to me, I realized: 

I miss you.

Yes, we've been together practically non-stop for two weeks, but between cooking, cleaning, pumping, doctor appointments and feedings, I don't feel like I've really seen him.  Sure, we've laughed and cried and been frustrated together these past weeks, but something's...missing...something's...different.  

I reached my weary hand over to his back and gave it a gentle tap.  His hand found mine for what felt like the first time in ages.

My eyes filled with tears, but I didn't tell him.  

Babies aren't the only ones who cry late into the night. 

Hostage

No one panic.

Please don't call in the authorities.

But Brendan and I were held hostage last night.  In our own room!

It started off like any other night.  Lights out.  Covers up.  Heads snuggled warmly on pillows.  

Then...

a noise.

And another.

Fear gripped us.  The cold sweats started.  We froze.  And then we did something we never do.

we whispered.

Would we hear the noise again?  Who would go check?  

There it is again!

It's moving!!

shhhhhh....

shut up you're talking too loud.

We negotiated with each other about who would go look.  Who would sacrifice a possible hour or two to make the noise stop. I buckled down and prayed to the Lord that the noises would go away, that we could resume covers up and heads down and normal heart rates.

God said no.

He said it clearly, because then our captor really got angry.  He didn't like our whispers or snail-slow movements.  He didn't like that we weren't taking him seriously.  Hello?! He said.  I'm here! You can't ignore me, I'm NOT GOING AWAY.

What do you want? We were still whispering, because maybe, just maybe he'd still go away.

I want a new diaper, a bottle, a jet plane, a pacifier and for you to hold me for 45 minutes in the rocking chair!!! WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

We weren't whispering anymore as much as hissing.  Where's the bottle?  Is this one okay?  Do you think he has a tummy bubble? Is it cold in here?  

We got ready and then paratrooper-style tumbled out of bed to face our adversary: GO GO GO!  One of us tackled the adversary from his hiding space in the bassinet.  The other went under heavy fire to the kitchen, to retrieve the life-saving liquid gold.  Together we ended the siege.  

And it was the weirdest thing--in the morning, it was just Brixton laying there, all happy and wide-eyed.  Hope he wasn't disturbed.           

Nothing Like The Hospital Bill to End The Babymoon...

$16,903

yeah.

Of course, this is before any insurance deductions we can get (we have the worst plan ever so we aren't holding our breath).

Some highlights include:

-you know that drape thing they use so you can't see your guts laying about during the c-section?  $237.

-The epidural instruments (but not the medicine itself and certainly not the services of Dr. M)were $1020.

 

-The use of the c-section room was $1930 (in there about an hour), but the after-care "room" (a corner space with a curtain) was $600.

Oh, but folks, that's not including Brixton's bill, which we also received today!!

$5300 We are so putting this on his tab.

Brixton was charged $1180 per night to sleep in the hospital and that's ON TOP OF the $1390 we were charged per night to stay there.  Most expensive hotel room ever.  Hey, but the food was included right?  (Yep, all you can eat chicken burgers, vanilla pudding, fries, etc.  Excellent foods for people recovering from surgery or something!)

We are still waiting on bills from the pediatrician, anesthesiologist, the NICU doctor that was requested at the c-section (because...?), and possibly the NICU nurse who came upstairs to observe Brixton's breathing, told them to let him sleep on his tummy and left.  

This is a horrible way to start off a family.  The mood in the house today is _____________ (any negative word can go here).  If you have good insurance, please, please, please be sure to count your blessings.  And if you are from a different country--well, this is an example of how it is here.  

And now everyone hold hands and sing!

"And I'm proud to be an American, 'cuz at least I know I'm free..."

Yeah. At least. *eyeroll*      

Doomsday

I dont' really talk about it much on my blog or really in general, but I am a Christian.  I believe in the whole 9 yards. Yes, even Noah's Ark and the creation story and everything in between.  I grew up in a Christian family and went to church just about every Sunday.  I went to youth group.  I went to Awanas.  I went to church camp twice (which was a mixed bag--I was tortured by the girls in my cabin and ended up biting one of them, but wow, I could drink all the chocolate milk that I wanted!).  

I'm not a sheep.  I drifted away from my beliefs, I did things I regret, I learned about God and his rules and the reasons for them, and I came back.  I came back a little jaded, a little broken, and with some bad habits, but I feel like I went through the fire.  

I try to use the Bible as my measuring stick.  But guess what?  It's MY measuring stick.  I can't make anyone else use my measuring stick if they don't want to.  I can't save anyone.  It's a personal choice.  And I'm not perfect, nor will I ever be, nor do I expect everyone to be like me.  And you'll never find me holding a sign in your face with an aborted fetus or telling you you'll burn in hell if you don't repent or anything like that.  Why?  First of all, Jesus wouldn't do that and second, that's a total and complete turn-off.  Would you want to talk to me if I did stuff like that?  I wouldn't.

Which brings me to the whole point of this post: Doomsday.  The people saying that the world is ending on May 21st, apparently at 6pm, may have your best interests in mind when they hand out flyers and wave signs and speak into bullhorns, but the Bible says that NO ONE will know the day or the hour of the Rapture or any of that.  I'm discouraged that these Christians aren't looking at what the Bible says, instead relying on the word of a preacher who already predicted the end of the world in 1994 and obviously was wrong.  I feel like they should know better.

 So, in these "final days" of our existence, I just want you to know that God loves us so much that he wouldn't give us a countdown clock to panic us.  I want you to know that not all Christians (I would venture to say the vast majority) don't think this will be Doomsday.  Mostly, I want you to know of God's hope and love for us all..no matter what.

The Lucky One

I wish I could report that these last few days I've just been sitting prettily, with my tiny man cuddled in my arms, Brendan standing over us with a hand on my shoulder while we gaze in admiration at our creation.
 
I wish I could tell you I've been able to brush my teeth twice a day, along with a floss and a rinse.  Or that my legs didn't look like those of a tarantula.  Or that my outfits don't include a wet spot in the region of my boob.  Or even that I don't cry about 7 times a day, mostly over nothing, but sometimes over even less than nothing.

*snort*  

Ahh..it's not so bad though.  Brixton does sleep a lot still, during the day, during the night.  Yet, how is it that I still can't get anything done? Either I'm too tired and get sucked in to the third consecutive episode of House Hunters or I just walk around listlessly, forgetting why I went into the bedroom or kitchen or wherever.  

We are navigating Brixton's needs.  His gassy period at the end of the day that involves him turning much like a werewolf from a content, happy little guy into an 80 year old constipated and jaded old man is our newest challenge.  He's so strong when he gets mad and can make himself so rigidly straight that he may well be a strong contender for playing the starring role when playing "Light as a board, stiff as a feather" at any future slumber parties (although I'm not sure boys play games like that at slumber parties..).  

Let me say this about baby gas: it packs a punch.  I think he could actually give our dog a run for her money.  Not only does it come out with hurricane force, practically blowing a hole through his newborn size diaper, but it smells akin to walking into a frat house on a Saturday morning during Greek Week.  (Does that even make sense??)

Still, there is nothing, NOTHING, like it.  His eyes searching a room.  His gummy mouth.  His freshly washed hair as soft as duckling fuzz.  His "smiles" that give me great hope for the future.  His turtle mouth.  His poop face.  

I am the lucky one.






 

Brix Fix! (Photo Heavy)

Brixton is 10 days old now. 

He's already got two great new nicknames: Pickle and Little Worm.

He lost his umbilical cord today.

He had a bath too and was a "little" upset about that.

His eyes are still deciding to go blue or brown (blue! blue! blue!)

He wakes (or is awoken) to eat around 2:30 am and then again at 6ish.  

We are so in love.

And without further adieu...some pics from the hospital and our earliest days at home.

More Brixton fun to come!

And sorry to ask again (and again, and again..)but please give us a vote! Thanks :-)

One Week Old

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Dear Brixton,

You are one week old.  Maybe the best week of my life.  I'm in a lot of pain from the c-section still, my back has spasms several times a day and getting up from sitting or standing is quite a spectacle, but wow, you are worth it.  


When you are awake, your tiny eyes take in the world.  I love watching them rove over objects in rooms, the mirrors in the living room, mama's smiling face.  

When you sleep, we gaze at your peaceful face. The slightly pursed lips, the curled fingers, the soft rise and fall of your chest.  We hold you close and take in your warm baby smell, stroking your hair, marveling at you.  Mama has cried a lot this week.  Holding you, looking at you, wondering how she could have thought she didn't want a baby at all.  She sings to you all the time, making up songs about applesauce or your nose or your delivery story.  Lately she's been making up lullabies in German, since she doesn't really know any.  

Ich will dir alles geben

Ich will dich so hochheben 

Ich wird dich fuer immer lieben

Du bist meins*

Daddy cries too.  Don't tell him I told you.  He gazes at you and gets real quiet.  When I ask him if everything's ok, he turns to me with fogged glasses and red-eyes and says, "Yes.  Yes, everything's fine."  Daddy wakes in the night to feed and care for you.  He loves those quiet times alone with you, even if you make him a little nervous that you're going to pee on him or try to poop on him (again). 

Sometimes at night you cry a lot and Daddy can't comfort you. But you know me.  Daddy puts you in my arms and it must feel like a familiar place. You relax and quiet down.  You fold your arms and snuggle in.  Welcome home.  

I realized yesterday as I laid in bed with you cradled in my arms that I have some new hobbies: holding you, staring at you, singing to you, smoothing your hair, holding your hand, kissing you, dreaming of you.  

How can a love be this all-encompassing?   

Love,

Mommy

*I want to give you everything

I want to lift you high

I will forever love you

You are mine

(probably poorly translated..Elina?? :-) 

Pumping

First off, I want to say that I know what an incredibly controversial and personal subject breast-feeding/bottle-feeding is.  The opinions and feelings in this post are my own, I am not saying they are for everyone or really anyone but me.  

But it's my blog and I'll write what I want to so niener niener.

:-)

I'm not breast-feeding, but I am pumping.  Why?  Frankly, I just didn't feel like breast feeding was for me.  I felt uncomfortable with the idea of it (specifically with a baby drinking from my boob-even if it was my baby), the time, the pressure of being the food source and also the fact I couldn't measure how much baby was getting (I like to know things like that).  

So those are my reasons.  Maybe selfish, but I chose pumping as a way to still provide Brixton with breastmilk, since I think we can all agree that breastmilk is best.  He drinks formula as well, but I have been able to provide him with breastmilk at 90% of his meals as well as colostrum in the first days of his life.

If I had forced myself to breastfeed, that's how it would have felt to me-forced.  And I don't think that's the kind of positive experience people go for when they chose to do it.  I also may have been much more likely to say "forget it" and stop altogether.

All this being said, I love pumping.  I know people may say "but then you have to wash all the stuff, the baby's not bonding with you, it's also a time commitment, etc."  And you're right (except for the bonding part, which is just silly).  But it's working for me.  I love seeing how much I can get, which boob is going to be the star producer of the day and having those 10-15 minutes just for me to sit down and space out. Plus, it's wildly satisfying to see Brixton drink it!  It's his favorite!  And it never makes him spit up or gassy.  

I just want to encourage those of you who, like me, are hesitant about going full breast, but also would like to provide their baby with breastmilk.  

I think the lactation consultant at the hospital said it best:

  "If people ask you why you are pumping and not breastfeeding, just tell them it's none of their business."  

And she's right, it's not.  But whether we are breastfeeding, pumping, or formula feeding, the important thing is that we are all feeding in a way that feels comfortable and sustainable for us (as mothers and fathers) and allows our babies to thrive.  

 

Recovery

Day two:

I woke up thinking I felt great, but the heavy duty painkiller just hadn't worn off yet.  It was Mother's Day though, and I was a mother!  I just couldn't connect to that yet, although I was very proud and happy and falling in love more and more with Brixton.

I was really starting to see him then.  His long fingers.  His patchy hair.  His tiny tongue and gums.  His eyes are slate blue, very dark still so we'll see if they change to brown or blue.  He looks so much like his Daddy that I hope they turn blue so I can at least claim something! :-)

I don't know really what we did all day.  Held baby. Tried to walk the halls. Tried to rest.  I think it's hilarious how they send you to these rooms to rest and recover, but I swear, in the first 4 hours of the morning, from 7 am on, 11 different people came into our room.  11!  How is that restful?  And I was pumping my colostrum, which went beautifully.  It made me happy to see I could provide that for Brixton and I could do it in a way that I felt comfortable.  

I took a shower and got dressed and I think that's where the trouble started.  The waistband of my PJs went right over the incision site (and I've determined they call it an "incision" rather than a "cut" so they can charge you more). And when more pressure than needed is applied to that incision site, over time, the pain goes on and on.  And it did.

By 8pm I was in so much pain.  It hurt to stand and walk.  It hurt to sit.  It hurt to lay down.  The nurse came in at 9:30 and asked how I was.  As I was explaining to her how I felt I started bawling.  Sobbing.  Uncontrollable.  I never really cry because of pain, but then again, I'd never had this much.  

Now, I don't know about you, but sometimes crying that starts as a reaction to physical pain opens the floodgates to the emotional stuff as well.  Brendan had put Brixton into my arms at this point, thinking it would soothe me.  It totally did.  But it made the emotional stuff come out too, the stuff that I'd been through in the 24 hours and hadn't dealt with, the fact I was a mother, the realization this little guy was ours. Also in there was the fact that as I nuzzled his furry head and breathed in his baby scent, I had an overwhelming desire to lick his head, much like a mother cat licks her kittens. 

I really did have that desire.  But I held back.  Even I can see that's over a line. 

My pain was really hurting on the right side of my stomach and I kept putting my hand there.  That movement was so familiar because Brixton often kicked me in that same spot.  Feeling it now under my hand, I knew it was empty, that those flutters turned kicks turned jabs would no longer happen, that my dream and vision was already in my arms and that time was flowing by nonchalantly as though it flowed from a never-ending spring.

I sobbed.

Brendan came over to comfort me.  I couldn't talk I was crying so hard. He was asking about the pain, but I was shaking my head no.  In a whispered voice I said, "I'm thinking how I used to feel all of his kicks and jabs right here in my tummy and now I won't feel that anymore." Tears.  His face looked really serious and concerned.  His reply, "Do you think we need to see someone about that?"

Oh my gosh, I couldn't stop laughing.  Big big laughs!  And laughing with stitches in your stomach hurts so bad, but I couldn't help it.  I guess laughter is the best medicine. 

Day three went much better.  I woke up feeling refreshed.  I took another shower and put on a long, purple dress.  And makeup!  Brendan had gone home early to tie some loose ends together.  When he came back, he found me looking normal again, snuggled on the bed with Brixton.  We had a great day.  I can't remember what we did, but I'm sure it involved walking the halls, eating, looking at Brixton, holding Brixton, marveling at Brixton.

And a circumcision.  Ouch.  Poor guy.  But he handled it like a champ.  

Day four was going home day and that went fine, until about 30  minutes before we were going to leave and I got so sick feeling I had to lay down for an hour and a half.  

On the way home we stopped at Portillo's for burgers and a chocolate shake and I also made the discovery that the state of Illinois does a really bad job filling in cracks and potholes on its roads.  My incision is witness to that.  

So now we are home.  We have the first night behind us (only woke up once and at 4 am I pumped and then had to wake him up to eat!) and when Daddy got up at 8 am, he took care of Brixton and let me sleep till 9:30!  Awesome! 

One night down, the rest of our lives to go....