The New And Improved Version

Did you know grizzlies have 4 inch claws? This is the kind of nonsense one learns from watching TV at all hours of day and night.

In other news, you know the Luke that came home with us from the hospital? The one that screamed for hours with no good reason? The one that was steadily breaking me of my will to live? Yeah, apparently, the stork realized his mistake and came and took that Luke away, and in his place, has left us a delightful baby who CAN BE COMFORTED. Imagine that! So now, when he gets ready to screech, I can pick him up and pat his back and he calms down, instead of clawing his eyes and screeching even louder, which is what he was doing for a couple of weeks there.

The Great Test came last night, when we decided to go to an actual restaurant with indoor seating, as opposed to the semi-fast food type places that we've been frequenting because they have outdoor seating, so if Luke started screaming, at least the screams wouldn't be quite so piercing. But last night, we got brave, plus we figured that between McMoose, his dad, dad's fiancee, and myself, we could probably handle one very small person, so after an hour and a half of preparation, off we went to a Japanese restaurant.

We were nowhere near brave enough to sit at the hibachi tables (big fire + small baby = stuff of nightmares and sitcoms), but we did sit at the weird, low tables with the cutout in the floor for your legs and the baby sat in his car seat next to us. Soon after we got there, he started his pre-screech squeaking, which immediately struck terror into my soul, but I held him for all of 5 minutes and he was knocked out and managed to stay asleep through appetizers, sushi, and dinner. Granted, the screeching did accompany us on our drive home, but if the trade-off is 2 hours of quiet for 5 minutes of screeching, I'LL TAKE IT!

A month ago, I was celebrating defending my thesis. Now, I'm celebrating the simple fact that I can comfort my own child. Somehow, it feels like this current milestone is going to have a much bigger impact on my life, practically speaking. (How sad is that?)

Three Weeks

Luke is three weeks old today, and I know that's kind of an odd age to commemorate, but the one week mark was depressing for me because his age would never again be counted in days and that, apparently, was a big deal. Judging by that particular (irrational) reaction, I'm guessing that the one month birthday will be more on the bitter side than the sweet. And then, by the time his two week birthday came along, I was entirely too sleepy to think of anything to say. Plus, that was smack dab in the middle of his "I like to scream all day and night" phase, so even if I could have thought of something to say, it certainly wouldn't have been anything nice.

So instead, we're celebrating today. Not literally, of course, because the kid is still a little too young for cake and ice cream, but in my head, there's a huge celebration, in part because the first six weeks with a newborn are supposed to be the most challenging, and as of today, we're halfway there. Oh, and here's hoping that Luke has also heard that the first six weeks are supposed to be the most challenging, because so far, he hasn't exactly been doing what he is "supposed" to be doing according to the self-appointed experts of all things infant related.

Of course, even this milestone is bittersweet because he will never again be this small, he will never again fit in my arms quite the way he does right now. Each day, he comes a little bit closer to outgrowing those tiny newborn outfits. But each day also brings us closer to the time when he'll be able to smile at us (on purpose), when he'll be able to laugh and coo and roll over and crawl--and hopefully, when we will all be able to sleep a solid six hours (See? I don't ask for much. I'm not asking for eight hours. Six suits me just fine for now. Is that really so unreasonable?)

And although he might only be twenty-one days old, he fits here with us. I feel like I've known him forever, like he's been in my life forever. During the first week, I was worried that he still didn't feel like a full member of our little family, but sometime in the past two weeks, between the diaper changes and the feedings and the hours we've spent in the rocking chair, he suddenly fits.

Here's the Good

Too many of my recent posts have been negative in tone, which has actually been helpful because it has allowed me to vent my frustrations, but there's so much good in my life right now that I want to be sure to record that too. So here's the good:

-McMoose, who wakes up with me at all hours of night and sits on the couch so that I don't feel quite so alone when I'm feeding Luke at night. And who sacrifices his own sleep when I'm done feeding Luke so that I can get some rest. And who's patient with the screaming when I no longer can be and who changes most of the diapers and who was able to be home with us for 3 weeks, without which I would have been completely lost.

-Luke, who's quite possibly the cutest kid ever born. And who recognizes me and looks for me, and who furrows his eyebrows and looks like a little, grumpy, old man, and who sounds like a grouchy pterodactyl when he cries out of boredom. Who curls his fingers around mine and who maybe has my nose and who has a bald spot on the back of his head which is just so kissable. Who already has a personality, and even though on bad days, that personality can only be described as "Grouchiest Human Being On The Planet," on good days, it can be described as "Knows What He Wants And Isn't Afraid To Announce It To The World," and as personalities go, that's a pretty good one.

-My family, who give me support and who listen as I complain about not getting any sleep. And who plan to visit us from faraway places, giving me a palpable sense of their interest in and excitement about Luke.

-My friends, both in real life and online, who have offered invaluable advice and insight into this early postpartum period.

-The animals, who have been adjusting to life with a screeching baby with enviable ease, and who try to "help" with the baby by pushing his swing or alerting us when he's crying (because, you know, we can't hear the screeching unless Yellow Cat screeches along or The Dog paws at us...)

-Our downstairs neighbors, who always take a peek at Luke whenever we go for walks and who always tell me how cute he is and how lucky we are to have him.

Yes, these early weeks are hard, but the good definitely outweighs the less-than-good.

Confession

I am convinced that the Universe gave me the exact child that I got for the express purpose of opening my mind. I will admit that before him, I had ideas about the "right" ways to do things--I would have a completely unmedicated childbirth, I would breastfeed the baby, he would sleep in a crib from day one. And while I did have the unmedicated childbirth (thanks in large part to McMoose and a very helpful nurse), there was still a point when I was literally BEGGING for that epidural. And that was in spite of the 12 weeks of natural childbirth classes, where we learned a million techniques for pain management; it was in spite of the dozens of books and articles I read to help prepare myself; it was in spite of all the mental preparation I had done in the weeks preceding the birth. With all of that, when I was actually in the moment, my only coherent thought was "THIS HURTS!" Ultimately, I didn't turn down the epidural because it was in my birth plan or because I thought it would be best for me or Luke or because I had any kind of inner strength--I did it only because my fear of the catheter outweighed any desire to end the pain.

And then, came the whole feeding thing. I never before understood people who said "I tried breastfeeding, but had to quit after 1 (or 2 or 3) weeks." Whenever I heard that, I always thought, "Well, that person just didn't try hard enough." Then, when Luke was 4 days old, I was sitting there in tears at 3 in the morning, wishing that I hadn't asked McMoose to hide all the formula samples that had come in the mail because there is something uniquely grotesque about feeding your newborn child and then finding your blood on his face. And in spite of the multiple visits with the multiple lactation consultants, in spite of the special shield that keeps him from chewing on me, in spite of all the literature that extols the virtues of breastmilk, the formula aisle at CVS is still tempting. I now understand that when people say they tried, but had to quit, it might mean that they dreaded the moment when their child would wake up because he would be hungry; it might mean that they couldn't hold their baby except when he was asleep because it hurt too much when he moved. It might mean that even though they put up with the pain and woke their baby up every 2 hours to feed him, he still wasn't gaining weight quickly enough, so they didn't even get the reinforcement that they were doing what was best for their child. I'm still sticking with it, but I can fully understand how the opposite choice is just as valid.

So at this point, all my ideas about the way I "should" be doing things have been blown out of the water and for the first time, I can fully understand choices other than my own. So for that, I guess I'm thankful. But Universe, next time you want to make a point, if you could do it in a slightly less painful way, it would be much appreciated.

Rubber Ducky, You're the One

I always suspected that I would make a terrible first-time parent, and I have to admit that the past two weeks have only confirmed that suspicion. But it surprised the hell out of me that McMoose makes a pretty rotten first time parent too. From the first diaper change, he was all cool and confident and acted like this whole baby thing was completely old hat to him, which was awesome because it meant that unlike one of my friends who just had her first baby with her husband, I don't have to listen to things like "I need help changing the baby!" or "I don't know how to hold the baby's head!" And in general, my reaction to most baby-related weirdness has been "Meh. He'll live." Which I'm told is a very bad attitude for a first time mom to have. Apparently, I'm supposed to call the pediatrician at 3 in the morning because he sneezed.

But while the "Meh, he'll live" attitude is serving us well in terms of being less stressed, it unfortunately goes hand in hand with the "Oops, we forgot to document our child's life" attitude. As a result of which we have no pictures of his first bath in the hospital or his trip home from the hospital or his first tub bath at home. In fact, I meant to re-stage his trip home from the hospital (aka: put him in the same outfit and strap him into the car seat) and I haven't even managed to do THAT. What we HAVE managed to do, however, is get some pictures of his SECOND bath:

Why yes, that IS his happy face. Apparently, the kid LOVES baths, probably because the water is warm and we've already learned that he takes after me in that being cold makes him want to stop existing in the world.

I'm still not sure how I managed to grow a person who looks nothing like me, but apparently, he's a cross between McMoose and an octopus (do you SEE those tentacles--I mean fingers?)

Reading: Good For The Soul

I discovered the whole "mommy blogging" genre a couple of years ago, when I stumbled onto Dooce's site and spent a couple of hours devouring her funny and honest writing about her life and family. Ever since then, I've been steadily adding to the list of blogs I enjoy reading and many of these fall into the mommy blog category, simply because I've always enjoyed hearing and reading about kids in general. Plus, many of the bloggers I love reading have a wonderful, sarcastic way about them and I do love the fine art of sarcasm.

But as much as I've always loved reading these blogs, lately, they've become almost a lifeline for me. I'm LOVING reading about other people's kids--the colicky babies, the sleepless nights, the tantrumming toddlers, the potty training two-year-olds and all their related accidents. And it's not that I like reading about other people's misery, exactly. It's just that...it's nice to know that other people have no idea what THEY'RE doing either.

Of course, if you really think about that, all it means is that we're all growing human beings and none of us have a clue what's going on. For every study that says babies should do Thing A, there are two more that say Thing A will horrifically damage them for life. So in the end, all you're left with is "follow your gut," and in all honesty, my gut doesn't really have any advice for me right now, other than "You haven't eaten in 13 hours, FEED ME." So really, it's just nice to know that I'm not the only one who didn't get the instruction booklet.

Not A Morning Person

Our birth class instructor used to say that during the first few weeks postpartum, we should consider it an accomplishment if we managed to take a shower every day. At the time, I scoffed because come on--a shower as an accomplishment? It's ridiculous, right?

Apparently not so much. Because the morning schedule goes something like this:

-Wake up. Realize you should have fed the baby an hour ago. Panic and look at the baby to make sure he's still alive. Realize that he is breathing. Debate letting him sleep for another 20 minutes. Remember that he still hasn't regained his birth weight, so he needs to be fed RIGHT NOW.

-Wake McMoose. Ask him to change the baby. He grumbles something about how he's trying to open his eyes. Sigh.

-5 minutes later, McMoose's eyes are open. The baby's eyes, on the other hand, are still tightly shut. McMoose changes the baby. Baby screams bloody murder.

-Get everything necessary to feed the baby. Scoff at all those books and articles that say breastfeeding is great because you don't need any extra stuff. Clearly, the authors of those books and articles did not require blankets and plastic shields and pumps in order to have a relatively successful and pain-free nursing session.

-Start feeding the baby, who promptly falls asleep 90 seconds into the process.

-After 30 minutes of intermittent sleeping and eating, decide that he probably has eaten enough. Put him down. He immediately wakes up. Rock him for 20 minutes until he's asleep again. Put him down. He immediately wakes up and this time, he screams. And screams. And SCREAMS. Rock him. Shush him. Sing to him. Give up and sit there holding him and staring at him, wondering what kind of crazy being you've brought into this world.

-An hour later, decide to feed him again. The screaming finally comes to a blessed end. 90 seconds into the process, he falls asleep.

Rinse. Repeat. And this is why showers? Yeah, totally don't happen until after noon on most days.

*I'd like to add a disclaimer to this post: When Luke is screaming like a crazed little hyena, I still think he's cute. Clearly, this kind of irrationality is exactly what has ensured the survival of the human species thus far.*

Animalistic Behavior

Before Luke was born, we were worried about how the animals would react to his arrival. We figured that Black Cat would probably be fine because she's fine with most things, and while she isn't thrilled about the existence of new people in her world, she was excessively nice to me while I was pregnant, so we just assumed they'd have some kind of natural bond. We also figured the Dog would probably be fine because he tends to spend most of his life sleeping anyway. Yellow Cat, we knew, would be the wild card because (1) he hates change, (2) he loves being the center of attention, and (3) he has no problem with clawing and biting people who annoy him.

As it turned out, we were largely correct in assuming Black Cat would be fine because most of the time, she completely ignores the baby. She does sometimes walk over and sniff his head, but then he moves or squeaks or breathes and she's off again. The Dog likes to stay close to Luke and seems to think he might be made of ice cream because every now and then, he sneaks in a quick lick of the baby's feet, but other than that, he pretty much still spends most of his life asleep.

And then, there's Yellow Cat. He's hugely jealous that someone else is getting attention. He is displeased with the noises that come from this someone else. And he hates the fact that he now routinely gets kicked off the changing table because we need to, you know, change the baby. And although his reactions are frequently very annoying, there are some things that are sweet too, like the way he looks at us and screams when Luke is crying--as if we couldn't hear the baby ourselves. And when Luke is in his swing and it stops, he pushes it. Granted, that usually tends to wake the baby and then we have to go through the whole scream fest again, but still, it's cute, right?

Thrown For A Giant Loop

I knew going in that this parenthood thing would come with its share of surprises, but I really didn't expect to be hit with so many in the first six days. I mean, the kid is less than a week old, and already, most of what I thought I knew about babies, based on YEARS of experience with babies of all sizes, shapes, and temperaments has pretty much gone out of the window.

-I had expected that Luke would wake up at least every couple of hours throughout the day and night. Instead, I have given birth to possibly the first child on the face of the planet who can sleep a six hour stretch with no complaints. The trade-off (you knew there was one coming, right?) is that before his six hours of sleeping like an angel, he spends a minimum of one hour screeching like a howler monkey who cannot be comforted, usually at about 1 AM. I'm waiting for the eviction notice any day now.

-I had expected that his two hour sleep sessions would happen in the crib or bassinet. Apparently, he had other plans because while he sleeps great in the bassinet during the day, he has decided that at night, monsters live in there, so the minute we put him in there, he wakes up and acts like a possessed little demon child. End result: more often than not, he ends up in bed with us, where he sleeps like a log until we wake him up to eat. *Sigh*

-I expected a baby who would hate being swaddled, like being rocked and held, and accept a pacifier. What I got is a baby who LOVES being swaddled, but who also possesses the ability to break out of every swaddle imaginable. I guess I could just use duct tape, but I think the law would frown on that. And he likes being rocked and held--by McMoose. The minute he sees me, he starts screeching like a pterodactyl and sits there with his mouth open, waiting for me to feed him. Again. And he takes a pacifier when it suits his needs. In other words, ALMOST NEVER. The rest of the time, if we dare put the paci in his mouth, he starts thrashing his head around like a demented catfish.

I don't know what to make of this kid. All I can say is that I hope he grows out of the screaming-at-the-top-of-his-very-powerful-lungs-for-HOURS-AT-A-TIME soon. Like TODAY.

My Early Mother's Day Present

As promised, here are some pictures. It looked like he was going to have reddish blond hair, ala McMoose during his first few hours, but by the next morning, it had darkened to brown. I'm hoping it grows into a mohawk soon.
I know that picture makes it look like he has a unibrow, but I swear he doesn't. He does have quite the frown and death glare, however, and he does not hesitate to use it when we dare to do things like, you know, try to get him to eat.

We wanted to get a picture of his "happy face." This was the end result. Clearly, this kid does not take direction.

I know the blanket covers it up, but his shirt says "I love my mommy." We figured that was appropriate for today. McMoose would like everyone to know that this was his first experience putting a shirt on a baby. It was, however, his 891st experience changing a diaper on that same baby, as I haven't changed a single one yet. I feel it's only fair because after all, no one's asking McMoose to let anyone derive nutrition from sensitive parts of HIS body.

Mini-McMoose is here!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey everyone, this is McMoose filling in for Anisha today. The day has finally come ...

Lucas Rohan McMoose was born at 5:59pm EST today at 20.5 inches and 7 pounds, 11 ounces. Anisha was able to give birth to him naturally without any pain medications and both mother and mini-McMoose are doing well.

Pictures to come soon ...........

Yellow Cat Through The Years

Today marks Yellow Cat's 4th birthday. I was hoping The Bug would come today as well, so that they could have shared a birthday, but apparently, he has other plans, most of which involve being OBSTINATE. On the plus side, this means that Yellow Cat gets to keep his birthday all to himself and be the sole center of attention...which he is on most other days as well because he doesn't have a very retiring personality.

I got him when he was a tiny, sweet, six-week-old ball of fluff who "talked" to me at the animal shelter. He weighed about a pound-and-a-half and quickly decided that The Dog was his mother. All in all, it was a very entertaining summer, filled with pictures like this:
Now, he weighs over 12 pounds, is constantly grumpy, and still likes to "talk." He no longer believes The Dog to be his mother, but he is still fun to photograph:
(He was not pleased about this picture. It interfered with his otherwise busy schedule of lounging regally on various blankets around the apartment.)

A Halfway Bullet Post

Now that I'm no longer going to work/school, my days are punctuated by what used to be fairly mundane events--trips to the grocery store, doing a load of laundry, walking the dog. These have now become the Most Exciting Things Ever and I plan them with all the precision of a space shuttle launch. For one thing, I try to plan it so that there's one car ride every day--grocery store, target, gas station--the important thing isn't the destination, but rather, the fact that I get dressed, leave the house, and associate with actual human beings. And while I used to try to cram all my errands into one master trip, now I break them up so that it seems like I have more Important Things To Do.

Unfortunately, even with all the planning, some days still get shortchanged because let's face it, there are only so many errands you can create for yourself. Today, for example, was a day when I had to face the bleak possibility that perhaps I would have to stay home ALL DAY LONG. But then, a wonderful, happy sounding woman from the eyeglass store called to tell me that my glasses were ready to be picked up. That, of course, made my day and motivated me to (a) put on real clothes and (b) eat an actual meal instead of trying to subsist on tea and cheese.

As it turned out, this trip was a lot more exciting than I had initially planned because:

-As I was walking across the wet parking lot, my flip flop fell off my foot and into a rain gutter in what was a very dysfunctional Cinderella moment, so I got to be the Weird Pregnant Woman fishing a shoe out of a gutter with a stick.

-A stranger at the eyeglass store told me that after I have the baby, I should be careful not to bathe him too much, lest he SHED HIS SKIN. Um....like a snake? Has there ever in the history of the world been a case where a baby has shed his skin because he was bathed too much?

-My hope that The Bug inherits McMoose's eyesight was reinforced in a big way when I was waiting for my glasses and got to watch a grown man beg, threaten, and bribe his 6-year-old in an attempt to get him to try on a pair of glasses.

Who SAYS That?

I went to the grocery store to get the ingredients to make stuffed mushrooms today, and apparently, 12:15 is a very slow time at Food Lion because there were three cashiers standing around and making small talk. As soon as I entered the picture, the topic of conversation turned to pregnancy and went something like this:

Cashier 1: How much longer do you have?
Me: About a week.
Cashier 1: Wow, you're close!
Cashier 2: You must be ready to pop! You look exhausted--you have circles under your eyes. Are you tired?
Me: Um...I...guess...
Cashier 2: And your face is starting to look a little puffy, too.
Me: *stare at her and wonder if I'm actually dreaming this conversation up*
Cashier 2: When I was pregnant with my first, I never got that big...but the baby was still 9 lbs! You're much bigger...that probably means your baby will be huge!
Me: *blink*
Cashier 2: Well, have a nice day!

And then, I walked out in a daze. Luckily, Cashier 1 caught up with me at the door, apologized for her colleague and wished me good luck, thus proving that SOME Food Lion employees do have some measure of sense after all.

Oh, and I went straight to the mirror after I got home, where I discovered that (a) I do NOT have circles under my eyes and (b) my face most certainly does NOT look "puffy", thank you very much. Dumbass cashier...I would like to step on her with my giant, swollen feet.

Drawing Up the Eviction Papers

Ten days before my mother's due date, I was born. It's now ten days before my due date and The Bug shows no signs of being similarly eager to join the world. In fact, it seems he'd be perfectly happy to stay right where he is for nine more months...apparently, he is under the impression that he is a baby elephant. The bright and shining light, of course, is that I know that if he stays in there for 22 more days, my midwife will smoke him out of there, but here's hoping that won't be necessary because--gah! 22 more days!

Right now, I'm vacillating rapidly between "I want this kid out NOW" to "Maybe he could stay for just another couple of weeks." That second thought surprises me because truth be told, I'm not one of those women who has deeply enjoyed pregnancy. There are some things, like feeling him move around, that have been pleasant, but for the most part, I've seen the past nine months not in terms of the journey, but in terms of the destination. Because really, the journey wasn't so much fun, what with the constant nausea and worry about miscarriage in the first trimester, the contractions and associated worry about pre-term labor in the second trimester, and the recent inability to, you know, exist without discomfort...oh, and the ridiculous and completely unjustified worry about stillbirth.

And yet, once he's out, there's no going back. He'll never kick another coaster off my belly, he'll never get startled when I drive over a bump and hook both knees and fists into my sides, I'll never again be the only person who knows him--and very selfishly, I'm not ready to share him yet.

That being said, if he's still in here in 10 days (or god forbid, 22), I'm sure I'll be feeling much more generous about this whole sharing-him thing.