Les Miserables

Porkchop is miserable.

My mom gut tells me his little face hurts from the adjustment on his appliance yesterday and because his little vacation from taping is over. Not even six months old and he's already wishing for vacations. Poor kid. We've already started planning a Disney Cruise for when his surgeries are over.

Porkchop being miserable makes mom miserable. I can't do much but pretend his little (and big) whimpers don't make me want to throw myself off a bridge so we just sit in the recliner and rock and rock and rock.

Mom's nerves I'm sure make Papa miserable. Don't touch the air conditioning. It is my blanket warning to everyone. I can see the thermostat from the recliner so don't try getting all sneaky.

The dog must be some sort of miserable because he's only puked five times on the carpet today. Luckily it's in the other room so I won't have to look at the spots all day- buying me some time of separation from the Bissell, one of the best things I've ever spent money on. I added to his misery by kicking him outside with Ani for the day.

Scrunch though is happy as a clam. She's be running around in her undies all day and her messy curls give her an uncanny resemblance to Mogli. It's funny to watch from my spot on in the corner of the family room. She slept in until 10 and has finagled watching Sesame Street, Dragon Tales and now Barney. She's already started talking about watching Caillou. I'm sorry it's last on the PBS Kids lineup because I can stand Caillou. Throw Barney off that bridge to soften my landing.

I don't know where the cat is. Wherever he is I not-so-secretly hope he's miserable because his attempts to climb the walls at 3:30am are going to also land him at the bottom of that bridge.

That pretty much sums the day up. If you need me you know where to find me. Hint- recliner or nearest bridge.

Spicy Saturday, Sunday and Everyday

In another life, after the one where I'm a groupie for an 80's rock band and before the one where I'm a Japanese Geisha, I'd like to be a food critic. I'll eat anything. And I like to tell people what I think. So long as those are the only two qualifications then I'm in the money. I'll get to use phrases like 'swoonworthy spoonfuls' and such.

I'm a tad pre-occupied doing the nurse, mommy,  wife thing but next time...

This time around I can still eat and tell you what I think- just no one's going to pay me for it. It's okay though. We'll call this one a freebie.

Spicy Mango Salad

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It's that good.

Uh, hello.

Some random thoughts that I hope if I just put out there, I'll be able to sleep. I read a study that blogging releases tryptophan. Um, no but that has to be one of the most often quoted phrases to give yourself credibility even when you're full of crap. "I read this study..."

Being tired but not able to sleep is a really weird place to be. Not nearly as weird as the fear of being fertile after infertility. It's a very strange thing to not want to be pregnant under any circumstances at the moment.

Whiner. Wiener. It's my middle name. Whiner-wiener. It's hyphenated and I haven't blogged because I is one lately.

The problem with people reading your blog is that then people are reading your blog.

There is an insurance customer service rep in Iowa (or India) that is very glad Holly called when she did and he doesn't even know it. She made me laugh so I didn't lose it on the fella. Cosmetic? and medical justification? Got a data plan? I'll text you a pic. A total doll but HE'S GOT A HOLE IN HIS FACE! Ya picked the wrong broad to bully. I'm willing to do battle. Stupid insurance.

You've seen that movie The Incredibles? And elasta (elasti?) Whatever. Elasta-girl? Well, I'm not her. She stretches in every direction possible and just bounces right back. I always thought I'd be one of those women that just bounced right back after baby. I also thought I was going to have eight kids-all boys. I was bounced on my head is what I was bounced.

If you've ever watched Jerry Springer and thought, "No way can this be real! Are people really that screwed up?" I'd like to testify that um, yeah. They are. And for the record, it's a bloody miracle I'm as sane as I am- all things considered.

Porkchop is totally my boyfriend.

They say the first five miles are the hardest and then you get a runner's high. I'm ready to be high. Just sayin. I do not love running. I woke up with 'There Are Owies in My Groin Today' sung to the tune of 'There is Sunshine in My Soul Today'.

I went to the yarn shop for the first time since Porkchop was born today. With both kids! We also went out to a bona-fide restaurant. Neither were as scary as I thought it would be. I've got to give Scrunch more credit.

I cut my toe with the toenail next to it making me feel like a total hillbilly. I might be able to open a can. I have yet to schedule a pedicure since the arrival of Porkchop. Maybe this weekend.

Welcome home Miq!

Just keep swimming! Just. keep. swimming!

This post is brought to you by the color dirt.

The kidses first time camping.

It's dirt. It's everywhere.

Bleary-eyed

I blog when my house is quiet (i.e. middle of the night) or during Sesame Street. This does not make for necessarily good blogging. Spelling is off, grammatical errors have always been so, but this time the entire last paragraph was missing. It was in my head though all along. I've gone back and fixed it-just so ya know.

Such a nice little person.

It's hard to tell if Porkchop's smiling when he's got his appliance in and is all taped up. He's the smiliest kid too, which makes it sad. He's got the whole Tyra Banks "smize" down- smile with your eyes, but it's so subtle it looks like he's doing business in his didee to everyone but Mom.

A plus to his reaction to the tape last week was that he went without it for several days. I just went a little crazy with the denture adhesive and the appliance stayed in place. I only almost brushed my teeth with the denture adhesive twice. It happened to be the same week that he woke up one day a full on little person with lots of things to say. It was awesome or as Scrunch puts everything these days, "That's so very nice!"

DBSM

Not to be Miss Doom and Gloom, but you're damned if you, damned if you don't.

I wish I could say that I don't care what people think. To say that I don't is a lie. Especially when it comes to my kiddos. I want to be viewed as 'Da Bomb Super Mommy. Who doesn't? It's an official title that I aspire to. And I like saying it as I type it.

Scrunch was irritated with me a while back and in her frustration told me to, "Go pump your nipples!" I tried not to laugh, but it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. It helped that there was a little part of me that stung wondering how many times I'd told her I couldn't do something or brushed her off because, "Mommy needs to pump." I hate that I need to pump. What makes you one kid's "Da Bomb Super Mommy" diminishes your title in the other kid's book. And such is life.

For me, breastfeeding falls under the category of Things To Do To Achieve "Da Bomb Super Mommy" status. It is a subject that is near and dear to my heart (tee hee). Just so we're clear, I'm not some breast feeding Nazi. I have nothing personal against formula or it's manufacturers. I've got a kid who was raised on it. I can't tell you yet how she turned out, but I guarantee she'll have a lot more to blame on me besides the fact that I was never engorged while she was an infant. Promise. And breastfeeding might freak you out. It's okay. But it doesn't freak me out.

I don't know what my hang ups are on the whole thing. Maybe because in another life I would have been a free loving, bare-breasted flower child living off the grid. Or is it the deeply ingrained "Breast is Best" mantra I feel an obligation to abide by as a public health nurse. I don't know. I just think it is important. It just is. And what can I say but the World Health Organization seems to feel the same way.

Ironically, (like a spoon when all you need is a knife) traditional breastfeeding has not been in my cards. One child was adopted and the second has a cleft lip/palate. It's almost funny. It'd be more funny if it was someone else though and I wasn't still awake. Awake because I need to pump.

I've given it my best effort. Twice. And while I have to give myself an E for effort, both my babies have been fed with a bottle. It may sound lame to you, it is one of my greatest insecurities. When I sit at the lake, the park, or the Costco parking lot and whip out the bottle, people watch as I feed my baby. Or at least I feel like they're watching. I wonder what they're thinking. I feel all nervy and judged like if I really wanted what was best for my baby he'd be attached to my boob. I seem to be completely bass-ackwards from the rest of society and the current trends. No surprise there. You can see the article in Time here. The short version is women choosing to exclusively pump. Why? For the life of me I can't figure it out but at any rate they are.

For almost nine weeks I've been pumping around the clock. It's getting old. I'm grateful there's enough milk there to meet Porkchop's lusty demands, but even the satisfaction of my freezer's growing stockpile and my increased adeptness at hooking up on-the-go is getting old. Older still is the attitude I've gotten from some people like it's no big deal. Just give your kid a bottle and get over it. I've even been given a pass on having to be the one to feed him. It's okay if I leave him with a sitter because "he takes a bottle anyway". But if I was nursing...lets all bow down. Nursing is not so blasted easy! Like I've got a get out of jail free card or something. Or maybe the two to three hours a day I spend would be better spent elsewhere. Even a segment on the benefits of breastfeeding left me feeling completely out of the loop.

The primary benefits they kept pushing were that 1) it saves so much time because you don't have to wash bottles or prepare formula. Hundreds of hours they estimated. And 2) It saves money.  Don't people get it?? I'm going for a title here and it looks like my efforts count for nothing.

1) I exclusively pump. Into a bottle. No benefit there. There are lots of bottles to be washed.

2) Breast feeding might be free but renting a hospital grade pump is not. It's more expensive than formula.

I can't call myself an expert, but I'm pretty sure one of the primary benefits of breast feeding is the breast milk. Geniuses. I don't spend three hours a day attached to tubing to save a few bucks. Look it up. It's got lots of uses/attributes. But even if it only had two, it'd still be worth it to me. Breast milk is one of the only fluids you can aspirate and it not cause pneumonia. For a kid who has an opening directing into his sinuses, that might be important. And it's great for treating ear infections. Another plus that's worth it. For as long as I'm able, Porkchop will get breast milk. It's the best that I can do for him. Scrunch has even gotten used to the idea and puts on Lanolin every morning after her bath.

After reading the article, I slammed some of these women. And hard. They don't even know what they're missing! Why would you pump on PURPOSE? You know people would pay good money for that stuff!! And on and on. And then I realized that just like at my house Da Bomb Super Mommy looks different to them and each of their kids.

Clubbin'

What thirteen year old girl wouldn't want to see her picture on every other page in the yearbook?

I didn't hit every other page, but enough for my kids to say, "Holy Crap Mom! You still have the same haircut!" over and over again.

And it's true.

It started with wanting Lauren Allen's shiny smooth bob and it's sort of stuck. I've had just about every version of the cut except not nearly as shiny or smooth, and she had pretty highlights in the front. If my kids knew that they're going to look at all those year book photos and say, "Not even close Mom!" She was cool. I was not. And there are all those yearbook photos to prove it. Every single last club photo...

FHA Secretary
Orchestra (Is orchestra nerdier than band? I say no.)
Spanish Club
French Club
Science Club
Chess Club (It started as a joke. Okay people?)

Every nerdy club on campus. Not Student Body. Not the volleyball team. When I look at it now, I can see how all of this would lend so easily to that horrible nickname of "Ya-nerd."

Even now as an adult there is no gym membership or Girl's Night Out. No Zumba on Monday and Wednesdays and no BJ's every Friday night.

But Tuesday. Oh Tuesday!

Tuesday nights is Knitting Night.

We're don't call our ourselves a club, but saying I'm going to Group has a certain twelve-step connotation or support group feeling. So it's just Knitting Night. Many of the women have been knitting together for years. A little more than a year ago I showed up and have tried to go as often as possible since. It's been therapeutic, and fun.

I realized how much it has come to mean to me when I had to leave early a few weeks ago when Porkchop had a rough night. The thought of having to miss out for a the next few months made me sad. Thankfully, he saw how much saner his Mama is when she can knit and I got to go last Tuesday. He was a gem and slept the whole time. I got to bask in all their knittyness. I said knittyness not nuttyness, but if the shoe fits...

It's my adult nerdy club. And I love it. There are some things you just never outgrow. Like a classic haircut.

They made this FANTASTIC blanket to celebrate Porkchop's arrival. They dyed the yarn themselves and added a row of purple just for me! Thank you everybody. I love it almost as much as I love Tuesdays.

Keep on Keepin' On

Hurry.

I've only got a few minutes.

I'm writing from Missoula, MT where we've been forced to enter the witness protection program.

Naw. Just kidding. I don't even know if Missoula is in Montana.

How cool would that have been? Either that or from a beach in Thailand where my Husband spirited me off for a week (complete with nanny in tow). We're still here- still in central California adjusting to the afterlife heat I'm likely to experience. I mean how much hotter is hell really?

I just haven't been blogging because...

Well, how many posts can I write about pumping and my new found Lady Lumps? (8) Or the post-partum pouch? (13 or as many years as it takes me to lose it.)

I think I have West Nile Virus. Or I'm dehydrated. I'm probably just PMSing, but I've felt like crap for two days and been a Royal Princess Pei-pei. (Princess Pei-pei is what I call our female dog when she's being a female dog. Do I need to spell it out for you? Didn't think so. See how smart you are? So proud.) So yah. I forfeited the Wife of the Year award when I rainchecked his birthday. Nice. I will make it up, I swear.

Husband has his own Facebook, so you could wish him Happy Birthday there. Unless you'd like to leave a comment, in which case it was yesterday. He's another year older. Unless you ask Scrunch- she'll tell you "he's two years old." To which he replies, "That's how old all boys act." It's very cute this "Avoid Boys At ALL Costs" indoctrination that has already started. He has a new found appreciation for my dad and would like to apologize for stealing his daughter.

When we look back on these years I hope we remember how Porkchop had a reaction to the adhesive the night before pictures making baby acne seem funny. How Mom forgot Scrunch's bow and had to buy one on the way. How both kids had paint in their nails from finger painting the night before and how Scrunch still had it in her hair. I hope we remember that stuff and not that we were so tired we rescheduled someone's birthday.

Seven Years Good Luck

And we don't look a day older.

Bwahahaha.

Happy Anniversary!

How I Became a Runner

Remember that I'm not a runner? Not. At. All. How many times have I mocked runners on this here blog? What are you all running from? Where are you going? I'll give you a ride, etc.

Wanna motivate me? Tell me I can't. Tell me "No". Like my two year old, it just makes me want to do it more. My body. The midwives. No, no, no. And suddenly I'm  Jackie Joyner Kersee all ready to hit the track.

I had started training to run a half marathon a few months before I found out I was pregnant. After hurling in the bushes two mornings in a row, I decided I wasn't that dedicated to the cause and took a break- citing pregnancy as my excuse not to get up at the butt crack of dawn. As I grew, as he grew, I got to the point where I don't think I could have had I wanted to. Suddenly, I was two weeks post-partum and still looked five months pregnant. Things (my gut) didn't just spring back to where they were before like I'd hoped. Twenty pounds heavier and I got all itchy to run.

Then the midwives said no. They kept me in check with threats of incontinence and my uterus falling out. That would not be good. What if by some chance we decide we might try to use it again?

Six weeks ago, this cute creature was inside me. I try to keep that in mind and cut myself some slack for why my tummy is jiggling in ways in never has before, but... I'm not okay with jiggling. Up top- yes. Down low- no.

Monday I celebrated six weeks post partum by buttoning some "Before baby" jeans. This lasted all of two minutes before the seams screamed a great big "Hell no!"

That's it.

That was the last "no" I needed and suddenly I'm all Gung-ho about training at ten thirty at night- trading sleep for a moonlit run.  What the...?

My I-pod was definitely not prepared for running. The first song that came on being Queen's 'Fat Bottom Girls'.

My body? Even less. As I hit the pavement with Jed in tow and everything inside cried, "Noooo!" I said, "Haaaeeeell YESsss!" And I'm off to download some Black Eyed Peas.

That's how I became a Runner.

I'll see you in October at the Long Beach Marathon.