It’s OK if sometimes I just write for the journaling, right, and not so much for the creative writing thing? Because sometimes I don’t post, because I know the quality of my stuff will suck.
But here’s an update, lest I forget.
The baby is huge and cute and smiles in his sleep. Today was another day, another 70 dollars down the drain on nursing supplementer which doesn’t seem to work for us. If only there were a lactation consultant who was very good, and had loads of experience with mothers using supplementers, that would make house calls. A girl can dream.
So it looks like what we’ll do is I’ll pump as much as I can and the baby will get a bottle. And not breastfeed. I’m all about the breastmilk is best idea no matter how he gets it, but I must admit that what I really care about is nursing the baby myself, and I’m bitterly disappointed that we’re not able to do that. For those interested, the supplementer sort of works, except the baby pops off the breast over and over again and the tube must be re-positioned over and over again, which makes the feed last longer than the prescribed 20-30 minutes. Any longer than that, and he’s burning too many calories, according to the physical therapist and pediatrician. I’m getting very familiar with the breast pump. It looks like we’ll be friends for a long long time.
TeenHer has a new haircut; she is very punk rock. Last weekend she went to a Tool concert, and tonight she’s having a BOY over. Personally I’m impressed with the cajones on the boy, since last week he got grounded from calling us because the little fudgeer kept calling and not leaving messages, then calling right back (rinse, repeat) until TeenHer answered the phone. Hey, we’re not so harsh we would lay this down without warning; the kid was given several chances and reminders (“hey, Kid. You have to leave a message if you’re going to call. We have small babies here waking up when you call over and over again) before we turned into Those Parents.
No matter how cool we try to be, something always happens to morph us into Those Parents. I like to think we’re doing our part to nurture her future creative endeavors. Without angst, the quality of her work will suffer.
ToddlerA- what can I say about her, except that I’m ready to give her back now? It’s All Daddy, All the Time. The other day he went to check the mail, and the child lay in front of the door, wailing and beating her limbs against the floor. She sleeps in our bed again now, and that means I don’t get to sleep until she finally exhausts her voice and (not so tiny anymore) body flailing about and screaming for her father to come lay with her. Last night I rescued her from the crib where her exasperated father had tossed her (did I mention we go through at least an hour of chasing the child back into the bedroom every night, unless her fudgeING father is laying in bed with her?), and that warranted an hour of hair stroking, song singing, and tickling. Sweet, really. Would have been sweeter at 9 p.m. than it was at 1 a.m.
She has her moments. Yesterday she stood in her high chair and sang a song about fishing, getting in trouble for climbing out of bed, Jacob, and the cat- complete with high notes and a long extended finale. If I were a better mother I’d have all this on videotape.
And us. Nothing new to report. I’m asking for a gym membership for my birthday, but I want to celebrate my birthday tomorrow, because if I wait until Late July to start going, M will be almost back to work and my plan is to get a routine down while he’s home for the summer.
I started modifying my food (read: no bread) and that lasted about 12 hours, until I remembered that I had decided not to do that while breastfeeding (or should I say, breast pumping) so as not to lose my head and stop eating altogether, which is a risk when I eliminate my favorite food group.
So it’s either the gym, or keep making people feel like assholes when they ask me my due date. On second thought, it’s pretty fun to make people feel like assholes. Hmm.