Oldy Oldenstein.

I am 30.

That is NOT old in the grand scheme of life, but I definitely have my moments where I feel ancient.


Examples, you say?

On it!

1. Trying to do my hair and thinking, will I be "that lady" if I rock low mini-pigtails?


2. Thinking that a 10:45pm showing on a SATURDAY night is way too fucking late.


3. Admiring the hotness of a 19-year-old and grossing myself out because he is a FETUS.


4. Telling a group of teens that they need to watch their language!!! (Hypocrite much?)


5. Not seeing the fun of going out to the bar. AT ALL.


6. Realizing that my only vice is baked goods.


7. Scheduling sex.


8. Making weekly trips to Target for groceries and wet wipes.


9. Dressing up just means no stains.


10. Wanting to be hit on by a random stranger just so you don't feel so invisible, rather than avoiding them like the plague.

Sigh.

I used to be hot(ish).
I used to stay out til 3am.
Men used to hit on me fairly frequently.

Now?


Men hit me with food and laundry and blocks.


Heyyyyyy.....

I'm not old!

I'm just a Parent.

Ha!
Take that, TIME.

I'm still a spring chicken, bitches!




(Who's really ready for bed. Ahem.)

First and Lasting Fools

Went to bed last night thinking of my father.

This happens occasionally...
and I get wrapped up in memories I don't actually have.

I do not know my father.
I have never seen his face.
I have never heard his voice.
He exists in the world, but not to me.

My mother married my first stepfather when I was a year old or so...
Before I was four, he was gone.

I remember flashes of him.
I have seen his face
I remember feeling loved.
But I cannot hear his voice anymore.

I thought he was my biological father until I was 18....

My mother met my second stepfather almost immediately after.
They got pregnant with my sister when I was five.
He was to be my new Daddy.

He didn't want to be my Daddy, I could tell.
But as a kid hungry for love, for normalcy?
I dove in.

Hi Daddy!

 A tenuous bond....
A daughter who was not really a daughter and a father who was not really a father...
yet.

When my sister was born (and shortly following, my brother), it was clear that I wasn't needed anymore.
 Not a judgment or a whine, simply a fact...

I found myself fatherless again.
It felt familiar, but watching it play out so differently for other children, ones of my flesh and blood, was hard.

I did not feel jealous or angry...
just less.

I would often wish that my father would come rescue me...

He was MY father, after all.

Except he wasn't.

When I was 18, I needed my Birth Certificate.
My mother claimed that she didn't have mine-- "lost..."
So I went to County Records-- got my own damn copy.

As I looked it over, I noticed that my father's name was not on it.
Someone else's name was listed there...
Ummm, what the fuck?

My mother's version of the story is as follows:

She let me believe that her first husband was my father because it was "easier."
I would never have to know the truth....

Ummm, really? Poor planning on her part, then.

Anyway-
He was much older

They fell in love...or she did at least...

She got pregnant

When confronted with the news, he denied her, and told her he was engaged.
She was nothing to him and he wanted nothing to do with her or her baby...

She called him when I was born...
I was not supposed to live.
She wanted to give him the chance to see me...

He never came.

When I was about 9 months old, my mother ran into his fiancee....

This woman knew who my mother was, and strangely, she knew me...

Apparently, I looked JUST like my father.

The only detail that my mother would ever give me was his name.
First and Last.
I never even carried his name.
I carried hers.

I wanted to find him.
See him.
Hear him.
I did not want to love him, or for him to love me.
There would be no diving in.

No "Hi Daddys"

I just wanted the other half of the picture that was me.

But I couldn't find him.
First and Last was not enough.

Five years ago?
My mother was at a bar with friends.
He was there.
He did not recognize her.
She said nothing.

I know he lives in my state, probably even my county.
I know his name.
First and Last.
 

I gave up searching for him a long time ago.
He is a man on his path, and I am a woman on mine.

There is guilt because my son does not have the whole picture.

I am used to messy.
I am used to not being whole.

But that is not what I want for my son.

So I find myself thinking of my father.
Of the face that is mine, but I wouldn't recognize on the street.

I think of the siblings I will never know or love.

I think of the histories and dynamics that I will never be a part of.

Longing for that half that I will never be able to share with the child that is half of me...

I find myself angry for even thinking of it at all.

It seems foolish.

He is not my father, he is just a man.
Who happens to look like me.

I am not his daughter, I am just me.
Who happens to look like him.

It's foolish, right?

Until I think of my son.
Of the two halves that came together to make him.
To create his name.
First and Last.
I see a face that has pieces of mine, therefore pieces of his.
How beautiful that face is.

And I forgive my foolishness.
But not His.






[This post was written for the Red Dress Club, as part of their RemembeRED prompt...Unfortunately, I won't be linking it because I couldn't come in under the word limit. Always running my mouth for too long! HA!]

Tantrumatized...

O is just about 16 months, but the Terrible Twos are in full swing over at my(ish) house....

Tantrum City!

I'd always sorta secretly hoped that through my sure-to-be-genius parenting, I would escape the screamy stalemates of tantrums.

Pssssh.
So foolish, I was....

O is a sweet boy.  But he is curious and stubborn and determined and smart.
He has got THINGS to DO.
Do not get in his way...
Do not thwart is path....

It will end badly.

Tears and arching and screams. Bloodcurdling screams.  ::Shiver::

I try to always be calm.  To explain the whys.
To acknowledge that he is upset and frustrated.
And that THAT  sucks...

BUT, Mommy and Daddy make the rules.
And sometimes the things he wants are off-limits (mostly because of safety/nutrition)...

It should totally be a peaceful exchange. Duh.

Except you cannot reason with a toddler.
He does not give two shits about safety or nutrition.
He has a world to explore and put in his mouth.
I am stagnating his journey of self-discovery.
And that, friends?


Is totally harshing his mellow.

Yesterday I was really stressed about this tantruming situation.

What if this becomes a habit?
What if he develops a behavioral issue?
Am I not doing enough as his Mama?
Am I too soft?
Am I too hard?
Is he going to end up on America's Most Wanted?

[They'll interview me about his victims as they flash all the pictures of his sweet little baby face....I can see it now.......Ahem.]

Perhaps, I spiraled a bit?

Anyway, later that evening after O went to bed my husband and I were talking about something and he brought up an issue that was absolutely going to fucking leadboot my plans....

I.was.LIVID.

I'm just trying to accomplish this simple g-ddamned thing and I'm being stopped at every turn!

WHYTHEFUCKCAN'TIJUSTDOTHISONETHING??? 

Frustrated, I commenced in raging to (not at) the husband about the injustice of it all and slamming shit around my desk...

After he fled, under the guise of cooking dinner, I raged on in my head and slammed some more shit....

Then the lightbulb went off:


Fuck.

The apple doesn't scream too loud from the tree....

O is totally his mother.
Including her temper.

He gets frustrated because he is constantly getting stopped from doing what he sees as necessary, AND he can't express himself on the issue-- other than to scream and cry.....

[Something I was pretty much doing last night]

My frustration at not being able to do what I see as necessary and my inability to express myself on the matter?


Totally harshes my mellow.


Sigh.

Sorry little man.  I feel your pain.  I really do.









But the toilet is still off-limits at the moment.  Mommy loves you.

Quarantine has been Breached...

There are times that I feel emotionally compromised.

[More like most of the time, but I like to carry on as as though I'm all stable and Maslow-y.]


Now is definitely one of those times.  There's a shitload of factors contributing to my current state, both immediate and historical, but I find myself incapable of forming those factors into coherency right now.

[an attempt from an earlier post]

I hate this shit.  It makes me feel lost and and weak and out-of-control, and as a HUGE control-freak, this is more that a teensy issue.

It makes me feel whiny and trivial.

I carry a lot of of sadness and grief within me.  A lot of pain.  I've been through a lot of horrific shit.
I've been decried as liar, and  and pretty much all of my history has been denied, but it's the truth.  A whole lotta ugly, ugly, complicated truth.

As true as it may be, I feel like a cliche.  A ridiculous, Lifetime-Movie-variety whelpish, sad-girl.

Gross.


But I am a sad girl.  A deeply fucking sad girl/woman/human.  And frankly, I lose the capacity to handle it properly on certain days.

It PAINS me to admit that.  And if we're honest with ourselves?  It pains most people to hear it.  They don't want sorrow and pain and scars that won't close.

They want healing and positivity and triumph and smiles.

You and me both, world. As such?

I acknowledge it occasionally, and sometimes put my self-awareness hat on, and of COURSE I went to therapy (I mean, obviously) for it, but for the most part?

I just try to keep that shit in quarantine, away from the rest of my metal processes and emotions....

Because it scares the fuck out of me.  It's never-ending.  It has a profundity that even I can't fathom, and intensity that I cannot control.

Yep, I know what you are thinking: "Gosh, it sounds like you may have depression!"  I do!  The clinical kind, even!  Fun!


In order to compensate for the sads, I tend to turn to anger.  Mostly at myself for not being able to cope, sometimes-more often than I ever wanted- at my husband for being terrified/powerless at the depth of it all, and at the "world" I live in for not often giving the struggle any real validity.

Anger is less daunting for me.  I'm familiar with anger- it's strangely comforting because at least I've had practice at it...mostly with in being hurled and spit in my direction, but you get the gist...anger and I are on a first name basis.

I can control it. [Right?]
It doesn't run away with my sanity as sadness is so prone to do.  I am not to well-versed in sadness.  Not in any healthy way.  Sadness was not allowed in the environment that I grew up in.

It was mocked and the cause for wrath.  No one had the right or reason to be sad except for my Mother.  Her sadness was the only genuine and respected sadness.  She was the only one whose sadness was warranted and needed to be cared for.

[That was pretty much the Gold Standard for all of her emotions, btw.]

The rest of the world was selfish, putting on, grasping for attention, or being overly dramatic.

Sadness cost too damned much, so I learned "not" to be.  Anger was safer. It was easier.  I could internalize that shit and externalize a scowl with the best of 'em....it took me a long time to learn it, but once I did, Oh, boy!  Did I have the world fooled!

Pssshhh.

Look at me! I'm together! I am a rock. No one is going to break me again! Fuck being sad!  Sadness is for quitters! I am beyond my childhood, my abuses, my scars, my traumas, my brain chemistry [Hello?]. I am so completely above that now! I am now well-rounded because I know that!

Oh, Depression, you have such the sardonic sense of humor.....

Therapy, Medication, Religion, Education, True Love, Motherhood--Nothing has cured it.  All, at one time or another have eased it, some continually, some superficially, some earnestly, but nothing has wholly absorbed it.

I know that it will never be.  That it will ebb and flow through my life forever.

In the stillness of 2am, on more nights than I care to count, I fear that someday I will  be flooded and completely taken over by it.

Not in a suicidal way (though I'd be a liar if I said it didn't bring me dangerously close to the dizzying edge more than once in my youth), because suicide is selfish bullshit that leaves your friends/family holding your bag of pain and confusion while trying to deal with their OWN, [so put the phone down] but in that way that depression works best-

APATHY.

When it's done drowning you in sorrow, it just takes everything else.  You don't care-no, it's not that you don't care, or won't care, it's that you can't care.  It takes away your ability to feel anything but the hollowness of nothing.  I have been there for brief (and some not so brief) periods of my life, and it is not pretty.

Being a mother has made depression all the more terrifying for me.  I don't want it to affect my son, and I fight like hell to shield him from it, but it would be naive of me to think that I can keep it from touching him at all.  It frustrates me as a wife because I am a caretaker, and all I want to do is be the pillar of strength and comfort in my husband's life, and that role is robbed from me during bouts...

That makes me feel like a failure.  Which is all part of the tapes running in my head, and the powerful hold of depression in the first fucking place, which I know from a logical pov, but it feels true emotionally.

Failure.

Such an insidious word.  It carries so much power.  It is personified as the Boogey Man in my closet, under my bed.

And tonight?

Well tonight,  it is all I can see.



Depression is a cunning bastard.
Nighttime is when he sidles up the closest.  Strokes my fears and breathes the past into my present.

Some nights we dance more than others, but he's always on my card*...

Haunting the Dancehall

In a symphony of things you cannot change
but will not forgive
Rage builds slowly, toward a crescendo in Hate.

(The Chorus Begins)


Anger croons about the smallest of injustices
waltzing with the skeletons in your closet
They sway, taunting, down a macabre lane of memories
fleshing out your demons, giving substance to their grip-
so begins their deceitful dance

Watch, as the dead whirl around the floor…

1 and,
2 and,
3 and,
4.

Mistrust is rhythmic, lulling you into a fury
and as you accept a spectral invitation to the ball,
you forget that the dead can dance Forever…


1 and,
2 and,
3 and,
4.

Listen, as the band keeps playing the same
old
familiar
song.



















*For those of you who have never been ravaged by a depressive disorder, here's a tidbit to note:


Depressed people are always depressed. Always. It's just a question of to what degree.


I've spent many of my years with it turned up to ELEVEN.


Because as I intro'd with:


I am emotionally compromised the fuck up.

Excuse me while I get up on my soapbox...

[I might need help getting down, just FYI.]

Anyone who is a mother knows that being a mother is hard.

It's the most amazing thing I have ever done, but also, hands-down the hardest.

Most mamas would agree....


And YET

We're always segregating ourselves into camps and judging each other. Like a scene out of Mean Girls.

co-sleeping vs. crib

breast-feeding vs. formula
baby-wearing vs. stroller

sign language vs. not 
homeschool vs. public school

ETC...

But one of the biggest (besides the boob vs. baba debate) is  

natural birth vs. cesarean birth.

In case you were wondering, I delivered O via C-Section. I did not want to, but there was a big possibility of risk/harm to him and myself if I would have attempted a vaginal birth. As much as I wanted to do it MY way, I couldn't abide by even remotely endangering my son to accomplish what I wanted.


I've received both overwhelming support and staunch derision for my decision.

This led to a lot of conflicting emotions surrounding my 'Birth Story" as it were.


I've never written about my birthing experience, because for a long time, I felt like I didn't HAVE one, which is just ridiculous. Of course I did.  It was just a different one from the one I had expected. That didn't make it any less.


That's like Battle Royale material in the Mamahood.
 

Holy shit, ladies. This is where we lose our minds. People get angry and vicious and all-KINDS of militant about this issue.

If you're wondering what brought this on, I stumbled upon this, which was in reference to this, which got me thinking about how frikken judgy a lot of mothers are (myself included, from time-to-time).

Why is that? Can't we just support one another, and each family's birthing experience?

How dare we (In the collective sense) marginalize a woman's love and/or commitment to her child because she had a Cesarean. How dare we sigh and cast a sideways glance of pity because that woman missed out on "giving birth" and bonding with her baby, again marginalizing the experience.

I WILL say this:

I am not a fan of elected, non-medically necessary C-sections. Stone me if you must, but I'm not.

However, I would never DREAM of saying that because a woman chose that route, it means she does not love her child.


Let's get it together people. Parenting is not black and white.

Each pregnancy is different.
Each Child is different
Each FAMILY is different.

What do we teach our children when we run around acting like holier-than-thou fools?

As long as we do our best to love and nurture and nourish and educate our children, while keeping them safe, do we have to sling arrows at the details? Or can we respect each other enough to try and hold one another up rather than always finding a way to tear down?

[Cue Melody of Kumbaya/We Are the World.]

Bottom Line?

The day a child is born in ANY manner is special and sacred day.


Let's not hang ourselves on technicalities.

Oh, right. The baaaaaabbbbbby.

I'm gonna quit my bitchin' for a sec, and update you, my darling readers on what started this whole enterprise:

My son.



(Who as you can obviously tell, is AWESOME)

My little monkey is 10 months old, which kinda hurts my heart.

Yes, I want him to grow up and have a great life, but that means he's going to become a man...a hairy, stinky, sex-on-the-brain, MAN.

I have a hard time reconciling that. I mean, look at him! He's too cute for puberty!

Moving on...

He's crawling faster than I can walk (yes, I know that's not that HARD, harhar.), and he DESPERATELY wants to become bipedal.

[He's so close, I can taste the ER visits.]

Annnd? He's already climbing.
Homeboy can't walk yet, but he can climb? Lucky Me!


He's fiercely independent and stubborn. I have no idea where he gets it...ahem.

My Mommy-feelings often get hurt b/c he is perfectly happy playing by himself. Sure, he wants to know I'm near him, but when i try to horn in on his games, he looks at me as if to say: "Mommy, I'm having some ME time, right now."

[Uhhh, Sigh. I'll be over here, you know, if you want some company later, or somethin'....]

He's funny. He knows when he's doing something hysterical, and will give you a look like: "Eh? Eh? Funny, right?!"

He has the most expressive little face. He'll never be able to play poker...much like his mother. We can be read like books! BOOKS, I SAY!

He LOOOOOOOVES Sesame Street. He does a little jig as it's coming on. Mr. Noodle is his comic genius.

He's not quite talking yet (He says Mama, much to Dada's chagrin), but he babbles a ton, and gesticulates with his hands as he does it. It's all very Italian, really...

He studies everything. Turning it over and examining it from all angles.

He knows that remote makes the TV work, and that the Xbox controller makes figures move on the screen. He adores anything electronic.

Also? He loves him some ladies. He's a hardcore flirt.

[In short, he's a total dude.]

He's a music baby FO SHO. We listen to classical every morning, and classic punk in the afternoon.

He will wake up in the morning, stand up in his playard and hit all the buttons on the sound machine til music starts playing, and then sit back down and play.

Little man has these little drums that play music when you hit the tops, so he'll sit there w/them next to him while he's playing with another toy-using them as background music. When the music stops, He'll put down his toy, hit the drums, the music will start and he'll go back to what he was doing. Hilarious.

He's got 6 teethies and more on the way. He also has his Daddy's gapped front teeth....Orthodontia is in our future! WOO.

He hates eating solids, because he wants to feed himself. He hates sippy cups because he knows that they are not the same kind of cups Mommy and Daddy drink out of, so he's not having any of it. He'll only drink from MY cup. Period.

He hates bananas, applesauce, and juice of all kinds. What? Weird, right?

When he cries (which isn't a lot), his tone sounds like someone is killing his puppy (if he knew what a puppy was). Hubs and I joke that it's the hurting of his soul...seriously, though. It'll break your heart.

When he's mad (which is more frequent now that he's teething and trying to walk), he has an ADORABLE angry face.

[I don't think he appreciates it being called adorable, but whatever. He can bring that up in therapy a couple decades from now.]

In summation, he's kinda the coolest baby ever. I love him so much it sorta hurts.

Now, I have to start planning his 1st birthday party...


Now, that does hurt.

Yeah, I know. Lots to still be grateful for. Blah, Blah, BLAH.

So this month has been awesome.

In that "what ELSE can go wrong?" kinda way...

It started off on what could be mistaken for a positive trend, because after posting about the crash and burn of relocation, it seemed like we might actually see the sunshiney face of opportunity after all.

Ummm, yeah, we were wrong.

First there were the interviews for Hubs.

3 of them.

They required flying across the states and taking 2 days of of work (unpaid of course).

We'd just spent $800 dollars on much-needed glasses for ourselves (damn our poorly sighted eyeballs), so we couldn't really afford to go, but at the same time we couldn't really afford NOT to go.

Such is the game of Opportunity...


All seemed to be going well, until they moved the interview for the main job that he really wanted, so it became 3 days instead of 2.

But we persevered. Our savings, not so much....

First interview went swimmingly, but they told him upfront that he probably wouldn't be hired for that position because they felt he was a much better fit for the second position...

Peachy! That's the one he really wanted anyhow.

The second interview also went really well (although Husband initially thought he bombed it), and we were getting excited.

Picking-out-paint-colors-discussing-future-renos-on-a-house excited...

(Meanwhile, the third interview never happened, but it was meant to be more of a part-time gig, so we didn't feel too badly.)

A state job WITH Benes?? It was nothing but blues skiiiiiies for us, baby!


(Ohhh, how naive we were then...)

He flies home.

We hear nothing for 3 days. While we'd heard from a little birdie on the inside that they loved him, and were ready to hire him, we were panicking a little.

And with good reason. Despite the glowing reports and rumors of him being hired right away, they didn't hire him.

An eleventh hour interview by a former state employee with 6 years experience in that exact position had to darken our happy little doorstep.

They said all the things that employers say when you're not hired, and our little insider birdie assured us that it was all legit, and they really would keep him in mind for future openings, but told us frankly:

This is state work. Once someone gets in, they don't leave unless forced. We don't have a lot of turnover, so I can't say when/if we'll be hiring again.

Faaaaanfuckingtastic.


I don't want to begrudge anyone a job, especially in this economy, but coooooome ON.

I can't help but be a little bitter.

I can't even begin to explain how much we needed this. For a multitude of reasons.


On top of all of that, we also got denied for health insurance.

AGAIN.

Which is awesome, as I've been really sick, and been told repeatedly that I need to go see a specialist. But adding yet another pre-existing condition to the list of things they can deny me for? Yeah, that sounds terrific.

Don't even get me stared on paying out-of-pocket to just SEE the specialist...

The high-risk pools?

Holy Black Market Pricing, Batman!

You can't even get on the waiting list 'til October.

ANNND, they don't cover preventative care, just major medical. Like a gnarly car accident. Resulting in death.


If that didn't put a spring in our step, then getting our stroller jacked from Cheesecake Factory, did it for SURE.

Now, in all fairness, it was my fault. Sorta.

I'll explain:

O, MIL, her friend, and I all went to the mall. She had errands, I like air conditioning.

After work, Hubs met us for dinner.

Halfway through, O decides he's done for the day.

My spouse, being the gem that he is, offers to take him home and let me eat my dinner in peace.

Now, the CF won't let you bring your stroller into the dining area, so you have to park it in the lobby.

I LOATHE doing that, because I'm always paranoid that someone will jack my shit.

[What? I grew up in some shady neighborhoods...]

But, I soothed myself with the fact that this was South OC. Who'd want my piddly little Graco when Peg Peregos and McClarens abound?

[There's that pesky naivete, again...]

Anyhoo.

Hubs is going to take the baby, but he can't take the stroller because he's already got our little snap 'n go in his trunk, so our big stroller won't fit.
(Damn "compact" Jetta.)


He asks his mom to grab it as we leave and put in her trunk.
(Her Benz has a massive trunk. It's swank.)

Smart? Why, yes! Thanks for noticing!

He also leaves the behemoth piece of luggage I call the "baby bag" with me, because I need to clean up the swath of cheerios, discarded spoons and abandoned binkies that O has left in his wake.

A perfect plan!

That is, until yesterday.

Spouseface and I decide to go strolling around Disneyland with the monkey, but we wanted to swap with my MIL for the big stroller, because it's safer for crowded areas, and lots of walking.

We're already out running errands at Babies R Us, and the ILs are at Costco, so they decide to meet us there for the swap.

I leave to pee....

I come out, and Husband looks like he's gonna vomit.


"The stoller is gone," he says. "It got left."

As soon as the last word starts to come out of his mouth, the previous plan comes flooding back.

So after quite inappropriately yelling FUCK in a baby store, the restaurant is called.

They don't have it.

Still trying to hope, Mall Security is called (this particular CF location is in a large mall).

They don't have it.

Lost and Found?

NOPE.

After double and triple checking in person, our stroller is gone.

I feel like I'm going to cry and throw up. At.the.same.time.

How could I have walked away WITHOUT my child's stroller?! MOM FAIL.

Not to excuse my idiocy, but I'm fairly certain it's because I didn't have O. I never have one without the other.

Yes, I had his bag, but I think my thoughts focused on the fact that Hubben had the actual baby, which meant stroller/carseat combo to my addled brain.

So you may be saying to yourself:

That means you LOST the stroller, not had it STOLEN.

But wait!

Cheesecake said they didn't have the stroller when they closed that night. They closed at 10pm, we left at 8pm. Suspicious...

Also?

I remember thinking to myself (as Hubs was leaving):

It'll be impossible to forget the stroller because we'll have to walk RIGHT BY it to exit the premises. I didn't see a stroller in sight.


[I'm starting to smell a rat...]

If it were just forgotten then it should've still been waiting for me to claim it at CF, or at least in the Mall's Lost and Found.

But you and I both know that someone walked away with it.

It would be super easy to do.
It's not like I thought to install stroller lowjack...Next time, Next TIME.


Yes, I'm the moron (the exhausted, frazzled, Mommy moron) who forgot my stroller. Does that mean that I deserve to have it stolen?

I say NAY, it doth not.

Who the HELL shiests someone's stroller, anyhow?

I'm sorry, but the "Finders-Keepers" brand of property acquisition does not apply here.

I've said it before, and I will say it again-

To Whomever stole my stroller: You are a WHORE.




That sums up the month's top highlights!

Is everyone else as excited for the shenanigans of September as I am?









You'll be missed, little Graco.

Mommy Means Well Mondays! Ed. 2

(How is it Monday already?!)


Mommy Means Well Mondays: Ed. 2

Where I give you advice, tips, or just rant about life/motherhood. Whether you ask for it or not. Yay!


This week, someone DID ask a question (it's legit-PROMISE):


"Queen" Vic writes...
"I dont have kids (yet), but I teach 2nd graders and I've always wanted to know how parents deal with giving their kids the best with out spoiling them (I've only seen this done successfully a handful of times, I think!)"


MMWM Answers...
I haven't been a mom for very long, so to claim any sort of expertise in that matter would be ridiculous, but here's what I think is the key thing to remember when trying to not spoil your mini-me:

You're like so totally NOT their BFF. [Say WHAAT?]


We all want our children to think that we're cool, and we all want our kids to be our BFFs. Why? Because Damn it!

We're not going to be ridiculously unfair [Read: Assholes] like our parents were. We "get it" like they never did, right?

Maybe, maybe not.

Either way, it is not our job to be cool (we're sooo not anymore, BTW.), and it's sure as shit not our job to be our child's BFF.

That's what the playground is for. Well, that and abject humiliation, but ya gotta take the good with the bad...


Our job is (DEEP breath here, guys.) to: LAY DOWN THE LAW*.

To guide them, to establish boundaries and teach them that their actions have consequence.

I'm not saying to get all Mommie Dearest, about it, I'm just saying that trying to be the "cool mom" is like a fastpass to Lohan-Land.

And nobody wants that.


Well, that wraps up MMWM for this week!


(It's okay to breathe as you wait on pins and needles for next week's heaping helping of helpfulness.)




~Need advice? Got a question? Think I'm nuts? Write in (via email) or leave a comment to be featured on next week's MMWM! gonzajayne@gmail.com~




*Foot Note:

I think it's important to recognize that every child is different, so you really have to tune into your child's learning style and disposition to best communicate (every child deserves to be talked TO, not AT)-and therefore establish boundaries with him/her, creating a healthy parent/child relationship.

'Cos I like to be helpful and crap...

I've decided to start a new feature called Mommy Means Well Monday!

From here on out, every Monday will be dedicated to giving you fine people a sage piece of wisdom. [Read: A blurb about something I think is cool, or shit that I make up through out the week.] Are you excited? I know I'm stoked!

Mommy Means Well Monday: 1st Ed.

When your little one is bored (okay, really, when Mommy is bored-let's be serious), jazz up old faves!

Here's my version of "This Little Piggy":

This Little Piggy went to Target
and this Little Piggy was broke!
This Little Piggy had Starbucks
and this little Piggy sipped a Diet Coke.
And this Little Piggy went BBM, BBM, BBM, BBM from his Blackberry Phone!

Gotta keep up with the times, you know?


***Need advice? Got a question? Think I'm nuts? Write in (via email) or leave a comment to be featured on next week's MMWM! gonzajayne@gmail.com

Things are only slightly different.

In honor of Mother's Day, I got to thinking about how much my son has changed my life...

It's beyond amazing. I love him so much, it sometimes hurts. Does anyone else experience that? It's a capacity that astounds me everyday.

He's made me a gentler, happier person. He's just awesome that way.

Other things have changed too.

I used to have at-home spa nights for myself.

Now?

I keep cleansing wipes by the toilet so I can run one over my face when I get a chance to pee.

[Speaking of which, I now know how to do with someone on my lap, and I usually pee with the door open--no shame.}

I used to enjoy long, hot showers and deep conditioning treatments.

Now?

I sometimes can't remember when was the last time I showered and I find myself wondering if my husband would really mind if I started using his Old Spice all-in-one hair/body wash for expediency.

I used to enjoy my meals, remembering to eat slowly, engaging in conversation.

Now?

I shovel it in like it's trying to run away from me. You never know when that window of opportunity might close. Eat fast, or don't eat.

I used to keep up on politics and current events.

Now?

Burt and Ernie's arguments over whether it's fun to sing or not is about as political as I get, and I'm lucky if I know what day it is.

I used to wear perfume and lipstick.

Now?

I smell like spit up and am covered in slobber. It's a good look.


I used to think: Sex? Why not? I'm on it! (No pun intended)

Now?

Sex? Why? I'm tired!
(Sorry, Honey.)


I used to roll out of bed at noon whenever given the chance and luxuriate in our big bed.

Now?

I wake up to the cutest toothless grin you've ever seen, and am continually surprised at the ability his tiny body has to take up a king-sized bed.

I wouldn't go back to my old life for a second (Okaaay, so maybe for 30 minutes. I miss having groomed eyebrows and exfoliating!)! All the sleepless nights, slobbery messes and stretch marks are worth it in such a profound way, I don't think it can be explained.

Being a Mommy has been a dream and life-goal of mine forever and having it come true has not disappointed.

I'm pretty sure my other dream of international pop-stardom would have.

[No joke, Career Day as a kid, I wanted to be Tiffany. Did anyone see her ungodly turn as an "actress" on SyFy? No? Just me? It's just as well.}

Oh, I forgot. I'm not allowed to...

Have a life.
Set boundaries.
Say no.
Stand up for myself.
Get respect.
Expect common courtesy.
Receive love unless I've earned it.


What brought on this tirade you ask?


Mother's Day.

I was very excited about this coming M-Day, it being my first official one and all...a day I have waited pretty much my whole freaking life for.

BUT, it was also the first M-day for my mom and my MIL as grandmothers. Exciting right?

I thought so.
So over a month ago, I set to planning.

I thought it would be awesome for us all to celebrate together.

My mother wanted to celebrate separately.
She gave me grief about the fact that she (or my siblings) never sees us and never sees the baby.

(forget the fact that we have tried and tried to go see her, but she's always "busy", and oh, what was that other thing? Oh yeah. I DON'T DRIVE.)

But despite logic, I felt the gnawing of guilt beginning.

So I tell her that we'll come up and spend the day with her, just tell me what day.

She hems and haws for weeks--she's busy, you know.

Finally, she decides on the Saturday of M-Day weekend. Great! Okay! All systems go!

Until I realize that my best friend/college roommate is graduating with her MA, and her celebration is on Saturday. The SAME Saturday. My brain had not previously put that together.

My bad.

So I call my Mom, apologize, explain and say that we can still come up but we won't be able to make it until the (she lives an hour away) evening. She says that's just fine!

Whew! Crisis averted!

Until I get a profanity-laden call from my sister in which she questions my humanity because I waited until the last minute to plan M-Day (apparently that's my sole responsibility even though my mother has 2 other children), AND I'm not spending the DAY of M-day with mom, but the completely unloving day before (never mind that it's also M-day for my MIL too, but that's crazy talk) which is just UNACCEPTABLE.

I explain to her that I had been trying to plan M-Day for over a month, and that our mother CHOSE Saturday.

This shut her up for a couple seconds, but amazingly, I was still the uber-bitch, because I didn't call and tell her that. When I tried to explain the phenomenon known as a two-way telephone, I was immediately shut down. Didn't I know that she was busy? Didn't I know that I had to make time for her?

What an abhorrent person I am, being busy with my husband and son.

But as we all know,as she so helpfully informed me--it’s not that hard to take care of a baby, anyway.

So after she hangs up on me, I call my mom.

I ask her why she didn't tell me she was upset. She denies it until I tell her that my sister called.

Then guess what happened? You'll NEVER guess...

Hey! That's right! It was all my fault again.

I've abandoned my family. It's my attitude that has degraded our relationship.

I do nothing but judge them and think I'm better than them.

My husband is mean to them.

I don't put forth enough effort to compromise with them.

I don't make enough of an effort to call or visit.

I shouldn't speak up when I feel like I'm being disrespected, because I just take things too personally.

I shouldn't say that I disapprove of the drug and/or alcohol use around me, or mention my worry over the legal issues that have resulted as a consequence of it, because who wants to be around someone who is always judging?

I shouldn't expect people to respect my choices or acknowledge my successes, because that's just me throwing things in people's faces.

And the key to it all:

I just need to accept people for who they are and let them say what they want to say, and do what they want to do because that is my duty as their family member and the only way I will ever have a relationship with them.

Suck it up, and put aside my own feelings, because they are all I will ever have. Even my husband won't always be there, because as I should fucking know, it won't last.

Silly me, what WAS I thinking?

I went off and forgot my place again.

I'm going to keep on forgetting, so brace yourselves.

I'm tired of being the bad guy, the asshole, the one who doesn't care about anybody, the one who is selfish and judgmental, simply because:

I no longer make them the center of my universe, dropping everything to do whatever they want me to, whenever they want me to.

I will not tolerate being insulted and disrespected any time I say no or disagree or choose to go a different path.

I won't stand for my husband being treated poorly because he sticks up for me or is protective of me. Guess what? It IS his business. As his wife and father of our son, what goes on with, or is said to us, is in fact, his business.

[And yes, there was a time we broke up. He didn't cheat on me or abuse me, he just got commitment cold feet for a short time. It happens. Get over it. We did. Stop using that as an excuse to treat him like dirt. It's a lame one.]

I will not bring my son around people who are under the influence of drugs and alcohol. That is my RIGHT as his mother. If that makes me judgy and superior, then so it shall be. I don't like being around it, so why the hell would I want my baby to be?

I will not apologize for making my own life and building a family with my husband. I have worked my ass off to get where I am today, and my husband and son are my priority. That is how it should be.

I have spent YEARS making an effort to be closer, to live up to expectations, to make everyone happy, to win over love and approval, to be what I was "supposed" to be, and I'm done. D-O-N-E.

There's no reciprocity, no respect, no compassion. Nothing EVER comes honestly-without motive or agenda.

Don't worry though, I'll probably still continue to second-guess myself

{Am I mean, uncaring, selfish, and judgmental? Do I expect too much? Am I not giving enough? What more could I have done to make it better?}

as life-long habits are hard to break, but I will slowly fade it out because I REFUSE to be manipulated any longer.

I have people in my life who love and support me unconditionally. That is enough.

I agree, that at the end of the day all you really have is your family but--

Blood is not the end-all of what makes a family.


Maybe someday, things can be different, but for now, I need to be different.



This will probably never be read by those it's directed at, and even if it WAS, it would fall of deaf-ly livid  ears.

But I had to get it out, you know?

A lot of hours, therapy and soul-searching have been spent on what to do with my relationships with certain members of my family--how to have one, frankly.

The conclusion that I have come to is that I can have one, but it won't be a healthy one. It won't be reciprocal or unconditional.

It'll have its good times, but ultimately it will just be another round in generational vicious cycle.

Years ago, I would have dove right in. I wanted to be loved and recognized so badly by my family, that I would gut myself on command. Occasionally, I would rebel against that, in an attempt to stand my ground, but after being hyper-villianized, I would feel so guilty and ashamed that I would do ANYTHING to make it better.

Through therapy and education, I started to see the abuse in those relationships, but was still willing to take it because, after all, they're family, right?

Then I met my husband. It dawned of me that if I ever wanted to have a family of my own, I had to get the HELL out of my family's whirling fuck-upedness.

When I got pregnant with our son that idea really crystallized, but yet there was this renewed sense of "maybe we can work it out," because a child brings out the hope in people-mostly though, it was me, as per the usual, second-guessing myself: "What kind of person wouldn't want her family around her son?"

So I tried. And tried. Made phone calls, visited, let them in to my life, my new family, my new self.

Ever hear the phrase, "same shit, different day?"
That's basically how it is.

It's how it's always been, now featuring an extra helping of passive-aggressiveness.

Yay!

And I am OVEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRR it.

I deserve better.

Even if I DIDN'T, my husband and son do.

They deserve better from me.


I know I can't cut them out completely (at least not until we flee the state), but we desperately need the emotional distance. After this, all my efforts cease.


We'll see how it goes.

It's important to clarify that I love my family very much, more than I think most people understand, but just because you love someone, doesn't always mean that you should surround yourself with them. Heredity is not a get-out-of-jail-free card for bad behavior. I don't care what anybody says.


Happy Mother's Day to all my fellow Mamas out there. Have a love-filled day.

He's going to be shaving tomorrow morning, I'm convinced.

O is soooooo big already. He sat up on his own last night, and I burst into tears!

I can't handle this growing up business. OBVIOUSLY, I want him to have a long and healthy life, but can't he just be my baby forever?

No....? Crap.

It's outta control.

I can't believe that he's going to be 6 months next week....

In related news, I turned 29 recently. I was not a fan of turning 29.

Wasn't I supposed to accomplish a lot more? Aren't I supposed to be thinner and more successful?

30 is looming, and things are not the way I'd hoped for them to be.

Last year, we were here and oh yeah, here.

And while some things have changed, it's still a very familiar story except now we're throwing in a baby for extra character development.

It's scary and it's frustrating b/c I want my son to have a good life. I want my husband and I to have a good marriage. Which we do, but the last 2 years has been very hard for us. I don't think we've really had a moment yet to breathe-- to really relax and enjoy being a couple, and now, a family.

We're always trying to figure out how to get to the next step-holding our breath, b/c it feels like at any moment, the other shoe could drop.

I know that's a horrible way to live. I know we need to be grateful (we are) for what we do have.

There's just so much pressure to be "successful." To want more.

This got me thinking: What IS that, exactly?

According to the ever-pervasive "they," success is:
a well-paying salaried job, a nice home, a nice car, a Roth IRA and a 401K.

My husband works hard, gets paid by the hour.
We live in his parent's nice home.
He drives a Jetta that has over a 102 thousand miles on it and a constant check engine light blinking.
I think I may have a great-great grandfather named Ira.
I have friends who've run 5-10ks.

You can see why we feel a little second-class these days....

Butt on the flip side, I constantly try to remind myself of the progress we've made since moving in with the ILs, that perhaps won't recieve any kudos from "the them," but has been huge for us.

After both losing our jobs, my hubs has been at his for 3 years.
We were able to climb out of the red and move into black.
We're able to pay our bills in full every month.
We've drastically improved our credit that took a hit after being unemployed.
We're finally paying down our debt (slowly, but) successfully.
We actually have some money in savings. (!!!)
Most importantly, we've continued to grow in our marriage and we've welcomed a healthy, gorgeous son who we keep fed and cared for.

Why isn't that successful? Where's the respect for those triumphs?



We would LOVE to move out on our own. We dream of owning a home, of being debt-free of having a 401K, but for now, but we can only do so much.

I know that my 29th year is probably not going to be what I had envisioned, and the same will probably be said for my 30th year, but every day I will try to keep moving forward and be successful in my perseverance.

Even so, I know there will be days where I curse everything, cry, and rage against the wreckage that I feel my life has become, but who doesn't have those days?

Things WILL turn around.
(RIGHT?)

We will finally make enough money to get our own place.
We will be able to buy a new car.
We will be debt free.
We will get to the next step.

It might just not be as soon as we hoped. And that has to be okay.

Because:

We are better off than we were.
We are moving forward.
We are in this together.
We are good parents.
We are a FAMILY.


Being an adult is hard. Being okay with not being a "perfect adult" is even harder.

I'm thankful for all that I have. I think it's okay to want to achieve more.

BUT

I have a tendency to criticize my accomplishments that aren't all-encompassing, that don't fit squarely in to society's check list for a happy life.

I have to stop that, for the sake of myself and my family.


It's the little victories that usually add up to mean the most. I need to stop and celebrate them.

I hope your celebrate your own.

Can I JUST sleep please?

Can we cut it out with all the dreams? I mean, CMON.

I have nightmares a LOT. I always have, and I'm assuming that I always will.

The monstery, horror-movie type ones I can handle (unless they involve Owen), it's the emotional, flash-backs-to-childhood ones that I can't deal with.

They are exhausting and frankly, they fuck my whole day up.

Where is all of this coming from? My mother.  As USUAL.

I posted about it while I was pregnant, and now that Owen is actually here, and I'm ACTUALLY parenting him, it's opening up old wounds in new and painful ways.


Hooray for processing.

I took the post off of my blog a few months back, because I was afraid to eventually share it with Owen, and, I didn't want to deal with the backlash that would occur if my mother ever got wind of it.

Lately though, I've been thinking about that post, and the things that I still need to say.

I wrote that post as a reminder to myself, (as a warning, even) and as a love note to my son.

I have spent so many years denying and hiding because it was the easier thing to do. It was easier thing for the people in my life.

There are still plenty of people in my life who wish that I would just "let it go" or "put it behind me."

I understand why they want that. My history is painful and scary. People don't want to believe that things like that really do go on.

We hear about it on the news, or see it on Oprah, but no one wants to really "know" that it happened to someone they love.

People want to believe that you can move past it, forget it. Shake it off like a bad dream.

You can't. It lives with you, and in you, for the rest of your life. You just learn to cope and grow and survive with it.

{I do not want to wallow in it or become embittered, but I refuse to act like it never happened, or like I am completely healed, and good-as-new.}

I want my son to know who I am, and I want him to understand what it means for me to be a good mother to him.

So I'm putting it back up.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

I just woke up from a nightmare about my mother. I have one about her every few months, but it's amped up to several in the last month or so...

I guess I didn't realize how heavily she'd been weighing on my mind lately.

I'm terrified of becoming my mother. Yes, I've had plenty of therapy-I even have a BA is Clinical Psyc for good measure, but that doesn't always abate my fears.

This phrase, in particular, haunts me:
"Everyone eventually becomes their parents, even though they always swore it would never happen."

If that's true, then I'm fucked.

My mom was an unwed, uneducated, teen mother.
(not that those things mean you will automatically suck at motherhood, but in her case, I don't think it helped.)
She was (and still is, in a lot of ways)very immature and selfish.
She made really poor choices, particularly in husbands.
But more than all of that (and maybe b/c of that), she was incredibly violent and cruel.

She beat the ever-lovin'-snot out of me on a daily basis (give or take a day here and there).

My first real memory of my mother is that of fear.

I do not remember a time in my childhood or adolescence, that she didn't scare  (or beat) the living shit out of me.

It took me a long time to realize that abuse wasn't normal. That other children were not legitimately afraid of their parents beating them to death.


[If you spill juice on the carpet, you're gonna get kicked in the stomach, right?]


I was midway into my 20's before I could really even talk about some of it.



At the same time, everybody loved my mom. She was funny and charming. A great cook, a wonderful hostess, a dear friend. A devoted mother. I loved my mom. I saw glimpses of the person that she projected to the outside world, and clung to that.

To this day, my mother will not admit to, or apologize for the things that she has done.

Because to her, they didn't happen. She was not that person.

She was the mother that got a teacher fired for discriminating against me.
She was the mother that held my hand before surgeries.
She was the mother that cried tears of pride when I graduated from college.

And she was that mother.

Unfortunately for us both, she was also and more often) the mother that blackened my eye and stabbed me with scissors.

This is why I live in terror of seeing her face in the mirror.

I doubt she started out her pregnancy thinking:

"I'm going to make my daughter's life a living hell."

No, I don't imagine she thought that at all, but yet, it happened.

I absolutely do not fear that I will hit my child. What I am afraid of though, is being too harsh. Of being cruel in moments of anger or stress....

because it's not really the physical assaults that scarred me, as much as it was the emotional ones.

My mom was vicious. She said things to me that you probably shouldn't say to another human being, let alone a child, YOUR child.

She was critical, threatening and mocking. Everything that I said or did was wrong AND stupid. She went out of her way to remind me that I was wholly unwanted, and should be grateful that I was allowed to live.

Yet, ten years after the last round, she sees it as: Being "hard' on me for my own good.
And so it is, and always has been, with my mother. She is who she is, and sees the past the way she wants to.

So where does that leave me?

I am not unwed, uneducated, or a teenager.
I do not have a junkie for a spouse.
Nor do I have a criminal record. Or a drug problem.
I have never, EVER laid a hand on any child I have ever cared for.

BUT,

I have a temper. I have a tendency to have a sharp tongue. I'm a type A personality, and am a self-admitted control-freak. I yell when I'm angry....

All traits that I share with, hell, that probably came from, my mother.

And as luck would have it, I have been through about every type of abuse you can think of. From her, from her 2nd husband, and from people I trusted...

So, as I sit here pregnant with my first child, I can't help but wonder:

IS history doomed to repeat itself?

No, it's not. Not if I can help it.

There is a lifetime of things that I wish I didn't remember, but if it aides me in never taking my child for granted, or becoming disconnected from the gift and responsibility that motherhood is, than I'll take the nightmares every day of the week.

No child should be reared on fear.

If it is the last thing I do, my child will feel and know what it is to be loved and safe in the arms of his/her parents.


Posted by JayneSees at 1:58 AM

That post is an important part of my journey as a parent.

It was not meant to dehumanize my mother.

I know that she loves me, but she is very unhealthy and wounded herself. I don't think she can even connect with how out of control it all became.

That is not always enough, but I have to make peace with it somehow.

This post (and future ones) was about being truthful with myself, and the things I need to deal with in order to be the person and mother I need to be for my family.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

--George Santayana--

Mommy needs to move to Boca.

Sometimes, I feel like and old lady. Who has old lady bones. That needs to take her pills.

This is not a good thing when you have a 4-month-old who feels that CONSTANT movement is the only true way of living.

I tried explaining to him that Mommy has CP, and isn't so much the constant-movement-or-down-on-the-knees-or-crouched-on-the-floor type, but he seems to feel that I can overcome that....

35 laps around the downstairs, a trip outside, and some dancing to Elmo later, Owen still thinks:

YES we CAN.

Listen my love-

Glucosimine and Chondroitin can only take us so far...

Mommy needs to sit down. Her stories are on.

I miss blogging. And regular showers...

I can't ever seem to find the time to get on here anymore, and when I do, I want to read up on the comings/goings of my fellow bloggers...by then Owen is awake.

Owen will be 4-months-old on the 28th.

Whhhhhaaaaaaaat?

Didn't I just come home from the hospital?

It really feels like that half the time, and the other half feels like I've been doing this for nigh half a century.

He's such a sweet and beautiful boy.

Sometimes, I'm fairly certain that I will LOSE my mind b/c I love him so much, but I hear that this hanging-off-the-edge-of-sanity thing is totally normal for parents, so breathe a sigh of relief, Honey!

No single-parenting for you!

Ahem.

O is getting bigger by the minute, he smiles and laughs a lot, he desperately wants to stand, sit up, roll over, drive a car, shave, etc., but doesn't seem to get that he's a little young still...

This results in a very pissed off little boy from time to time!

(is it wrong that I find it funny?)

He also babbles ALL THE TIME. He's a little chatty Kathy. It's pretty much the cutest of cute, except for when he wants to do it at 2 in the morning....

He sleeps about 6-7 hour blocks a night, and has been doing so for the last month and a half, which is like HEAVEN!

We finally had to take him out of our bed and put him into a play-yard on Tuesday night, because he's so active that we were afraid co-sleeping was becoming unsafe.

We thought we were in for a long night of tears...

And we were, except the tears were mine.

He was just peachy. He loves his new bed!

Speaking of which, I can hear Talky McBlab-Blab has awoken from his nap....

The conclusion of Boob-Gate 09

I have thrown in the towel...erm, pump.

Owen doesn't want my nipples, he wants the silicone ones (that's what I get for having a baby in South County), and nothing I do is going to change that.

Pumping is a done deal as well. He's 3 weeks old today, and the lactation lagoon has dried up.

And nothing makes you feel more womanly than realizing your chest has turned into the Dust Bowl (how will I ever save a starving stranger now?)...

Sadness.

I have to keep reminding myself though, that this isn't about me. It's about the baby; he is perfectly healthy and content with his bottle of formula, and I am not an asshole or unfit mother because I couldn't breastfeed.

I'm working really hard to believe that, and not be negative about it.

(Sometimes however, I do find myself giving the formula can dirty looks...USURPER!)

As much as I hate to admit it, waving the white flag on this whole feeding fiasco has made things a lot easier.

I am less frustrated, the sobbing has all but quit (pregnancy hormones ain't got NOTHING on postpartum ones), and I get to spend more time cuddling Owen.

He's so good. He's waking up about every 2-2.5 hrs at night, but will usually go right back to sleep after a bottle and a dry diaper.

The pediatrician says he looks great, and I swear, he gets bigger each day!

I don't want him to grow up!

And yes, believe it or not, I get super-bummed sometimes that he's no longer in my belly....

But then I remember the constant pain, and I snap out of it pretty quickly.


Oh! Oh! Oh!

I am sleeping in my own bed again!

I'm thinking of burning the Poang chair in effigy.

Too Much Good(?) Stuff....

Owen is getting closer to being here EVERYDAY. That is an amazing thing, but also a terrifying thing! I feel so unprepared!

I know.

"You can never really be prepared to be a parent."
I heard it eleventy million times, and I'm sure it's true....

I just want to go into the eye of the storm more organized!

There's so much stuff that we need to do! And my goal is to have it all done BEFORE the first baby shower which is in 3 weeks.

Originally, when we thought that we would have the guest room as Owen's nursery, it was like, okay: all we really have to do is clean out the closet and the dresser, reposition some things, and pretty much wait until the first shower. After that, things can be put together and assembled.

In the meantime, anything we get for Owen, we'll just store in the room...GAME SET GO!

Well, it didn't end up working out that way, so when we realized that the baby would be bunking with us, we had to rethink things. Quickly, we realized that nursery furniture was going to be a no-go (ie. a changing table/crib set up, as there was no room, so we looked for smaller, more portable options.

Eventually, after research and much debate, we decided that Owen would just sleep in bed with us. Space saving AND good for nursing, right?!


Okay, maybe not soooo space saving...we ended up needing to buy a bigger bed. Haha.

So on to the changing table/Clothing storage dilemma:

We decided to just buy a large adult dresser with a top surface wide enough to put a changing pad, and enough drawers to hopefully hold Owen's hordes of clothing (Not EVEN born yet, and he has more than I do!). Another amazing plan of practicality!

Now, we just needed to find the right dresser and a place to put it....


Alllllright!

So my in-laws have this landing space that separates the master suite from the other bedrooms upstairs. The previous owners used it (I think) for like a game area, with a pool table, but the ILs kinda have it staged as like a sitting area, with My FIL's drum set in the corner.

Well, nobody really sits up there and my poor FIL is just too freakin' busy to do much jamming these days, so the Mister and I thought that we should figure out a way to use that prime real estate. Thankfully, we got the go ahead.

The plan is to to take down the drums (Sorry, Pops), move the couch that's in the sitting area into our little living room space (our Klippan is on its deathbed), move out our desk and computer/file drawers/etc. to the landing, and put the new dresser for the baby on the wall where the computer stuff was in our room.

This will hopefully allow us to get a bit more organized.

The only problem, is that since it is not our house or our stuff, we can't get to shifting until the ILs clear out the furniture that needs to be relocated. Once they finally have some time to move the stuff off the landing, we can set up the dresser, and get all of Owen's gifted clothes put away, clearing them out of the guest room-- which I know will make my MIL happy.

And it will make me extremely happy. I need to feel like progress is being made before I lose my mind.

I just know that the space issue is going to get MUCH worse after the showers because of all the the stuff that people a going to (thankfully!) rain down upon us...because of that, I want our living space to be as situated and organized as possible beforehand.

With everything organized and all the major pieces of furniture in place, it will help us to see exactly what kind of space (or lack thereof) that we're working with, and where to put things in the most functional manner.

While little components may change with Owen's needs and routines, but for the most part, there's not a whole lot of wiggle room in terms of how our living area can be set up because of the structure of the rooms, so much will stay the same no matter what.

So WHY NOT get it done now?

In addition to our Feng Shui-esque madness, the month of September is going to be kinda insane for us, and I'm getting more barge-like as the hours pass.

We have the maternity open house at the hospital
We have shower # 1
We start lamaze classes every Wednesday
We have a infant cpr class
We have maternity photos scheduled
and, a parenting class

Woah. All good and necessary things, but it makes me tired just listing it! Haha.

We also still need to lock down an insurance policy and draft the will. Ay!

I need a measure of sanity in all of this!

Note: In my world, Sanity=Cleanliness and Organization

3 weeks and counting 'til Baby Shower Part One, folks!

Ohhhhh, how I hope!

PS. My hubby just called. From a coworker's cell. Why? He's lost his phone.

SWEEEEEEET. More money flying out of our ass!

In that vein, I don't think it's fair that EVEN though you have phone insurances that you pay for every month, they still make you fork over $50 plus tax for a new one. Ladrones!


It all works out, it all works out, it all works out, it all works out, it all wo....

Nursery Room Blues, Facing your own Mortality and Presents!

On the list of things I should be concerned with, I realize that this one is pretty low on the totem pole, but I am REALLY bummed out about the fact that we don’t have a nursery for Owen.

We had always envisioned that when I got pregnant, we would spend time leading up to the birth picking out cribs, hanging cute curtains and testing paint colors….

And I couldn’t wait!

When we were looking for our last apartment, one of the reasons we chose the one we did is because it was a 2 bed/2 bath with a washer and dryer. Perfect, in the event that we had a baby.

The idea of having a child even helped dictate what kind of dog we picked. We chose our dog because he was sweet and even-tempered, and had grown up around and loved little kids. Again, perfect for a child.

We were set! Now all we had to do was wait until it was the right time to have a baby!

Funny how things work out, eh?

We really miss our apartment. We miss our dog even more. I think the thing we miss the most though is the freedom of having our own space and the possibilities of what you can create in that space.

We used to sit in our guest room/office and talk about all the things we would do if it became a baby’s room. We even came up with Owen’s name in that room.

(We like to plan ahead)

Sigh. It is what it is. For now, our little family will all share the same room.

The paint strips and themed window dressings will have to wait.

At least we have a roof over our heads!

On to other baby news—

The dates for the baby showers have been set, and invites are being made!

The lists keep growing, and I’m afraid these shindigs are going to be HUGE, which is good in that I want everyone I love to be included, but makes me feel weird in that I don’t want people to think I’m just out for presents….Speaking of which, our registry is finally up and running on Amazon.com! Haha!

What else?

I am overwhelmed by all the decisions we need to make before Owen is even here!

Here’s a short list so far:

What’s our birth plan?

There’s a preliminary draft of our birth plan—which is basically how you want to give birth, use of drugs, who will be involved, how you want the baby handled after birth, etc…


It is defined by parenting.com as:

A written description of what the expectant parents would like to include and what they'd like to avoid for labor and the birth of their child. A birth plan might mention preferences about walking during labor, locale of the delivery, use of camera/video, pain medication, etc., and may be written with the help of a woman's health care provider.

Per the American Pregnancy Association, it will include answers to questions such as:

* Who do you want to be there?
* Do you want a doula?
* Will there be children/siblings present?
* Do you want mobility or do you wish to be confined to a bed?
* What activities or positions do you plan to use? (walking, standing, squatting, hands and knees)
* Would you prefer a certain position to give birth?
* What will you do for pain relief? (massage, hot and cold packs, positions, labor imagery, relaxation, breathing exercises, tub or Jacuzzi, medication)
* How do you feel about fetal monitoring?
* How do you plan to keep hydrated? (sips of drinks, ice chips, IV)
* Do you want pain medications, or do you want to avoid them? Do you have preferences for which pain medications you want?
* Would you like an episiotomy? Or, are there certain measures you want to use to avoid one?
* What are your preferences for your baby's care? (when to feed, where to sleep)
* Do you want a routine IV, a heparin/saline block, or nothing at all?
* Do you want to wear your own clothing?
* Do you want to listen to music and have focal points?
* Do you want to use the tub or shower?
* For home and birth center births, what are your plans in case of hospital transport?
* If you need a cesarean, do you have any special requests?

{As of this moment, I want the birth to be as drug-free as possible. I know that some of you may think that makes me sound like a crazy lady, but I do NOT do well under anesthesia or narcotics. I don’t want to have a freak-out in the midst of labor…I handle extreme pain waaaay better than I handle feeling out of control of my own body.}

Should we hire a Doula?

We have decided to hire a doula. I have run into so many women who SWEAR by a doula-assisted birth, and say that every woman should be able to give birth that way.

After doing some research, I discovered that doulas can be very helpful to women in labor who have been victims of physical and/or sexual abuse, by helping them to feel safe and in control during the high stress of the laboring process.

Since I unfortunately run the gamut of the abuse spectrum, my husband was immediately in favor of the Doula option.

A doula, according to the American Pregnancy Association is:

A doula is a professional trained in childbirth who provides emotional, physical and informational support to the woman who is expecting, in labor or has recently given birth. The doula's role is to help women have a safe, memorable and empowering birthing experience. They are knowledgeable in the medical aspect of labor and delivery so they can help their clients get a better understanding of procedures and complications that may arise in late pregnancy or during delivery.
During delivery, doulas are in constant, close proximity to the mother at all times. They can provide comfort with pain relief techniques, such as breathing, relaxing, massage and laboring positions. Doulas also encourage participation from the partner and offer reassurance. A doula acts as an advocate for the mother, encouraging her in her desires for her birth. The goal of a doula is to help the mother have a positive and safe birth experience, whether the mother wants an un-medicated birth or is having a planned cesarean birth.

We have an appointment with a potential doula on Sunday. We’re really hoping it goes well. If it’s anything like the hour we’ve already spent on the phone, we should be good-to-go.


Will we store Owen’s cord blood?

This is something that we had hoped to do, but it is quite costly, and we just don’t have it, but we plan to donate Owen’s so it can potentially help someone else.

There’s also the issue of life-saving measures in the circumstance that something goes wrong.

Obviously, my first priority is my son. It’s him over me if it came down to it, no question.

In addition, I do not want to live on machines, nor do I want that for our son. If the worst were to happen, and we were in a vegetative state, then it’s our time to go.

Because of these issues we both need to draft a will.

Thankfully, my ILs have a friend who is going to help us draft up the appropriate paperwork.

We also need to decide on Owen’s guardians in the event that we were to die.
Obviously, it will be my husband's parents first, but if they are unable, then it will be his brother and his wife (granted they agree to that, of course).

Hubby also wants to take out a life insurance policy so that Owen and I are taken care of if something were to happen to him….

Scary shit. Necessary, but scary. I have never felt more adult than I do now.

I have also never worried so much in my life, and that’s saying a LOT because I am a worrier by nature.

We’ve spent a lot of time reading, researching, and discussing, and we’ve made some good headway, it’s just kind of nerve-wracking…these are not decisions you want to screw up!

Stress aside, I am so grateful every day for the opportunity to have him! We can’t wait to kiss his little face!

Who cares that by the time he gets here, I’ll have gone completely white-haired, and my husband will have lost what small amount of hair he has left?

(I've been told it only gets worse from here, and given how much of my life I've spent worrying over my siblings as if they were my own, I know we're IN for it.)

All a part of parenting!