And we buy her the good kibble, too

Scene: Nursery, 5 AM.  I sit in the rocking chair sleepily nursing Buddha Baby by the glow of the closet light.  Suddenly a large, icky-looking spider sprints out from under the rocker and into the middle of the room, where it stops dead.

Me: Oh, yuck.  Hey, cat!  Cat!

The cat saunters into the doorway from the hall, where she waits every time I feed the baby in the middle of the night.  Just in case this is the time I am inspired to feed her before going back to bed.

Me: Hey, cat.  Get that spider.
Cat: *blink*
Me: The spider.  It’s right there in front of you.  Look!
Cat: *blink, blink*

The spider scurries a few feet closer to the cat.

Me: Didn’t you see that?  It’s right there!  Come on, it’s a spider in the baby’s room.  Get it!
Cat: *blink, yawn*
Me: Oh, come on.  Get the freaking spider.

Cat wanders into the room, stepping OVER the spider in the process.

Me: No, I didn’t say ‘come here.’  I said, ‘Come on!’ As in, ‘Come on, you stupid cat, get the spider.’
Cat: *blink, blink, yawn, look away*
Me: You know, you are the most useless cat ever.  I don’t ask for much from you.  I buy you kibble, I let you sleep on my pillow, I keep your bathroom cleaner than I do my own.  And all I ask is that you kill a few lousy bugs every now and then.
Cat: *begins washing foot*
Me: You’re a cat!  You are supposed to want to chase bugs.  Look, it’s still sitting there.  Go get the spider!

Cat glances vaguely in the direction of the spider, which takes off behind the door and then skitters out into the hall.  Cat looks back at me, then continues washing her foot.

Me: Fine.  I give up.  You are totally useless.

Cat finishes her bath and saunters back into the hallway.

A few minutes later, when I am putting the baby in the crib, I hear a major cat ruckus in the hall.  Full of hope, I peek out into the hallway.  Where I see the cat wrestling angrily with a stray Q-tip.

Me: I need new pets.

End scene.

I think the moral is: eat rutabagas, health insurance scum. But I might be wrong.

I try not to swear too much on this blog. This isn’t because I don’t swear in real life. I do, and I’m quite good at it, thank you very much. But I don’t like writing swear words, especially in such an open forum. When I’m speaking, I know my audience and can judge when swearing might offend them. I can’t do that here, so I’d rather just avoid swearing than risk making my, like, three readers uncomfortable. It just seems polite.

Given this, I’ve tried to think of a way to approach this next subject without swearing, which is hard because a phrase involving a certain bad word is really the only way to properly express what I need to express. So here’s what we will do. The word I need to use is a four-letter word that begins with ‘S,’ ends with “T,’ and refers to human excrement. But instead of using that word, I’m going to use ‘rutabagas,’ which shouldn’t offend anyone except people who have an issue with root vegetables. You with me? Okay, here we go.

Last night, after I put up that short post about what a bad day I was having, I lost my rutabagas. I totally and completely lost my rutabagas in a way that I haven’t in a very long time. I used to lose my rutabagas regularly, especially after I got married.  It often seemed like Alias Father was pushing my buttons just so he could watch my rutabagas get lost.

But over the last few years I have made a concerted effort to act like a grown-up instead of a reactionary 13-year old. Thus, I lose my rutabagas much less often than I used to. In fact, I haven’t lost my rutabagas once since the Buddha Baby was born. I was really proud of myself for this because I am the daughter of a man who lost his rutabagas on a regular basis, and there is nothing scarier to a little kid than watching a parent go absolutely around the rutabaga bend. I foolishly thought that having a baby had somehow neutralized my rutabaga-losing tendencies.

But it turns out that I was wrong. Last night my rutabagas got totally, 100% lost. I’d had that crappy, rutabagatastic day and was ridiculously stressed over the day care situation when I discovered that in the pile of mail was another bill from the hospital. And that, once again, our health insurance was covering around 3% of the bill.* And that’s when my rutabagas got lost. Because we are so broke. We are so broke and we work so hard and buy so little that it doesn’t seem possible that we are always as broke as we are. And just when we think we are starting to get ahead (we’re almost done paying off one of the student loans!), we have another set-back (why would health insurance cover the birth of a child? That’s just silly!). You know those news stories we keep hearing nowadays about the struggling middle class? Hi! That’s us! We ain’t got squat, despite working ridiculous hours for what should be decent salaries. Apparently this fact has been building up my rutabaga reserves and eating away at my nerves, just waiting for the right moment to blow my rutabagas right out of the ballpark.

Whichhappened last night when the money thing on top of everything else just made me lose all control over my rutabagas. I screamed and I yelled. I somehow turned a worry about finances into a fight about how he never cleans the kitchen and why do we have much goddamned tupperware anyway? This made total sense in my rutabaga-losing mind. So much sense that I started throwing the offending tupperware out. Then I kicked the kitchen cabinet. Then I yelled some more about our stupid unfinished kitchen cabinets. Then I tripped over the dog, screamed at her for being in the way, and stormed upstairs to stew.

But I didn’t stew. Instead, I started crying because, oh man. There I was, losing my rutabagas again. And I have a kid now. I don’t want to be like my rutabaga-losing dad. I don’t want to see that scared look in her eyes as I fling tupperware and scream about health insurance. For the first time, losing my rutabagas felt less like a bit of immaturity and more like a really serious problem. A serious problem that I inherited from my father, who inherited it from his father, who probably got it from one of his parents.

My dad had a lot of good qualities too. He was wickedly funny with an extremely dry wit and had a deep love for the outdoors. He taught me how to fish and explained the rules of football as we sat and watched games on Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. Can I channel the good parts of his personality while keeping the rutabaga-losing issue at bay? I used to think so, but now I just don’t know.

I’ve gotten so much better about the rutabaga-losing, but I’m not there yet. And I need to get there. And fast. So I figured I could at least do the part my father never did. I could try and undo the damage. I went back downstairs and scritched the dog behind the ears and apologized. Then I found AF in the kitchen, desperately scrubbing away at the counter, and I apologized. I gave him a kiss and a big hug and stood there in our tupperware-filled kitchen with my arms around his waist, my face buried in his chest, thinking about rutabagas and trying to come up with ways to keep them.

*Are there any health insurance people out there? If so, can you please explain why my company and I pay you hundreds of dollars every month for coverage but when I actually want you to, you know, pay for something, you act like it is a personal insult? Am I misunderstanding how the system is supposed to work?

Who you calling weird?

As promised before yesterday’s little meltdown:

Seven things that I like to think don’t make me weird so much as interesting:

1) I have a deep and unholy love for hot chocolate.  It is so deep and unholy that there have been winters when I gained five pounds or more solely because of my hot chocolate obsession.  I’d like to tell you that I only like high quality homemade hot chocolate made from lovingly handpicked cocoa beans and whole milk from local cows, but that would be a lie.  I love the Swiss Miss crap, too.  I love it so much that I put extra in my cup so I can enjoy the sludge at the bottom.  I’ve even been known to eat the mix straight from the container.  If that grosses you out, please call my husband and tell him because for some reason he thinks that is the nastiest habit ever and he’d like some back-up.

2) No matter how tired I am, no matter how hard I have to fight to keep my eyes open, I absolutely, positively, must read at least several pages of a book before going to sleep.  I have read with one eye because it’s too much work to keep them both open.  I have read drunk and then reread it all the next day because I couldn’t remember what happened.  I have read after sex, when my husband is all, “Oh, come on.  Can’t we just CUDDLE?”  Must read before sleep.  Must.

3) I like to pick at peeling skin, ear wax, and pimples.  From this perspective, having a kid is the best fun ever.  I see endless years of picking fun ahead.  At the moment, she has a cradle-cap-like peeling scalp thing.  It is like a gift from heaven.

4) I like a good whopper of a snowstorm.  I love having to wade through thigh deep snow to get to my house, where I then sit inside and watch cancellations on the news while I drink (what else!) hot chocolate.  I like knowing that there is nowhere to go because everything is closed and everyone is home and leaving the house isn’t even an option.  I don’t understand southerners who ask things like, “But how can you stand the snow?”  Because snow rocks, Southern people.  Get with the program.

5) Another food-themed one: I eat fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt without stirring it up.  I like eating through the sour yogurt, then getting to that middle layer where it merges with the fruit, and finishing with the overly sweet gunk.  I find the ritual soothing.

6) I like getting my hair cut but have an absolute terror of salons.  I think I’m afraid that they will mock me.  I usually go about a year between haircuts, which is why my hair always looks like hell.

7) I am a vegaquarian (fish, but no meat or poultry) and have been for, um, 12 years now.  Despite not having had meat in so long, I still get periodic cravings for steak, hamburgers, or bacon.  I used to wonder when I would stop craving dead flesh, but now I just figure I will always crave it and I just move on.  (Full disclosure: I have a policy of trying something meat-related if it is truly a unique experience that I will never have again.  Hence the moose meat I tried a couple of years ago.  It was good, but gamey.) (And, no, it didn’t make me throw up.  People always ask that.)

I don’t tag people for memes because…I don’t know why I don’t, actually.  Probably because I am lazy.  But feel free to list your own weirdnesses in the comments.

Not now, honey, I’m having an anxiety attack

Emilie tagged me to write seven weird things about myself, and I’m happy to do so though I clearly am the most normal person in the world so finding seven weird things will be a challenge. But I think it’s going to have to wait.  Because this afternoon I:

Cut the tip of Buddha Baby’s finger off while trying to trim her nails.

Realized that I wasn’t done with the article I thought I was done with.

Stumbled over a bunch of work stuff that cannot wait until I officially return from maternity leave.

AND THEN:

Called the day care that we were counting on using only to find out that they filled the spot.  Which was their right, but holy crap it’s a little stressful to have day care plans fall apart with 2 1/2 weeks left until I must be back in the office.

I’ve ranted away all afternoon to anyone who can listen about The System and The Man and why they suck.   So I’ll spare you and instead will go rock back and forth in a corner and whimper.

I’ll try to bring the funny tomorrow.

You should see us when we chew Wintergreen Lifesavers

It’s been a cold winter.  Today was a cold day in a cold winter.  So I dressed the baby in a fleece sleeper.

Then we needed to go out.  So I bundled her in her fleece outerwear.

And we needed to take the car, so I put her in the carseat with the fleece cover.

Then I put my jacket on.  It has a fleece lining.

I reached down to pick up the baby and a static charge launched in an arc from my hand to the baby’s head, making her and I both cry.

Winter + dry air + fleece + fleece + fleece + fleece = reconsidering how much I like living in the cold.

Wow.  That really hurt.

Month Two

Month two has come and gone.  This is so incredibly hard to believe.  Each day just flies by in a way that I didn’t think was possible when all I do all day long is breastfeed, dangle toys, and wipe a butt.

Here’s how the month went:

Nicknames we have used: Cheeky Monkey, Muffin Head, McChunky

Most persistant habit: Fist chewing. The hand, it is delicious apparently.

Buddha Baby likes: eating, sleeping at night but not during the day, laying on the floor and kicking, watching all of the action in a room, and laying propped up on our legs “chatting” with us—especially with Alias Father.  Oh, and The Cure.

Buddha Baby hates: the cold, which makes her suck in her breath with a tiny little “meeep”; being left alone too long; having a wet diaper; being in the car when it is sitting still.

My favorite single moment: Christmas, when she lay in the middle of the living room floor with two wild cousins swirling around like a whirlwind.  She just kept watching them, like she couldn’t wait to join in.

My favorite repeated moment: The smiles.  Oh my goodness, the smiles.  She started the month barely smiling when coaxed, but now she smiles when I walk in the room.  That totally rocks.

Favorite conversation of the month:
AF: Hi, baby.
BB: Ahhhh.
AF: How are you today?
BB: Oohhh ahhh.
AF: You are quite the conversationalist.

BB: Ahhh oooh aah.

And so on and so forth.

Hold, please

Sometime mid-October: “Hello, friendly editor of a distinguished regional publication.  What’s that?  You’d like me to do a freelance piece?  Sure thing.  I’d love to.  I’m having a baby soon, though, so I probably won’t get to it until January.  Is that okay?  Super.  No, no problem at all.  Piece of cake.”

Sometime early January: “Hello again, friendly editor.  No, I haven’t done it yet, but I’ve done the background work.  I’ll get the reporting done ASAP.  Can I get you a draft on the 21st?  Super.  Nope, no problem at all.  The baby’s great, thanks for asking.  Okie-dokie.  Talk to you soon.”

Sometime mid-January: “Crap!  I need to take a 14 hour trip.  I wonder if my boobs will explode.  Dammit, dammit.  It’s okay.  This should be a piece of cake to write as soon as the reporting is done.  I’ll write it over the weekend, no problem.”

January 19th: “Crap.  This story sucks.”

January 20th: “Crappity crap.  It still sucks.  If I keep typing it will eventually get better, right?”

January 21st, morning: “Holy crappity crap on a stick.  It’s sucking even more now than it did yesterday.  I am in so much trouble.  No, keep sleeping, baby.  Don’t wake up. Momma needs to write…oh damn.  Here, go sit in the swing.”

January 21st, 10PM: “It still sucks AND it’s now 1000 words too short.  How is this even possible?  Are you sure the baby needs to eat?  I don’t think I can take the time.  Okay, fine, I can type one-handed.”

January 22nd, morning: “He knew that when I said the 21st I really meant the 22nd, right?  Right?  Why does this still suck?  Oh.  Crap.  I think my approach is wrong.  I need to rewrite the whole freaking thing.  Here, baby, go sit in the swing again.  Momma needs to go lose her mind.”

I’d better hide my black eyeliner

I think the music that a baby likes says a lot about that kid’s personality. There’s something so ingrained about it that it seems pure and above influence. Before we understand the politics of music, before we understand what our family culture says is cool, before peer pressure is even dreamed of, we all gravitate towards some sound that resonates with a part of our personality. One girl I know took an intense liking to the Statler Brothers as a baby. It was the only thing that would calm her down. She turned out to be one of those kids that likes predictability and ritual in her day. But her sister was deeply attached to a Natalie Merchant album. That girl is a very laid-back and mellow free spirit.

What did I like to as a baby? I have no idea, but as a young kid I had a particular fondness for Johnny Cash murder ballads. So there you go.

Anyway, for the last two months we’ve been trying to figure out what the Buddha’s Baby musical leanings are. She’s got some clear favorites in certain situations, that much we knew. Alexi Murdoch is good for putting her to sleep. She’s a big fan of dancing around to Motown, but who isn’t?  Nothing seemed to really grab her full attention.  Until this weekend, when we put the iPod on shuffle and it happened to bring up The Cure.

People, it was like two ten-foot boobs had suddenly appeared in our living room.  Her eyes lit up, she whipped her face around toward the stereo speaker and stared, mouth agape, for the entire length of the song.  I couldn’t distract her for anything, not even her beloved duck rattle.  She was obsessed.  I tried it again this morning and, yep.  Same reaction.  I like The Cure, and I find Goth kids kind of cute, so I’m not overly worried but still…hmmmm.

I’m open to suggestions about how this attraction might manifest in a personality later in life.  Thoughts?

Inappropriate

Alias Father subscribes to Playboy.  I know that some women would find that offensive, and I can appreciate their point, but mostly I find it charming that my husband–a man who spends the majority of his life in stained Carhartts–thinks that he fits the cocktail-swilling, silk pajama, Playboy mold.  Also, we have had some pretty funny moments discussing good vs. bad boob jobs and how scary all that, ahem, “overgrooming” is.  And honestly? The articles are pretty good.  (Last month’s Tina Fey interview was awesome; I highly recommend it.)

Anyway, I generally read while breastfeeding.  I know that the folks that consider breastfeeding to be some sort of Madonna-painting height of womanliness would like me to spend my feeding times gazing lovingly into the eyes of my child, but that ain’t gonna happen.  I’m a multitasker and easily bored.  I knit while I watch TV.  I balance the checkbook during breakfast.  Sittingly perfectly still and not doing anything for 20 minutes is just not okay for me.  And besides, the Buddha Baby would rather stare intently into space and frown while she’s eating, like some grumpy old man hunched over his salisbury steak and potatoes, than bond with me.  We get along great, she and I.

So, yes, I read.  I’ve experimented with different types of reading materials and discovered that there is good breastfeeding reading (thin magazines and paperbacks) and bad breastfeeding reading (newspapers, large books, and overstuffed hoity-toity magazines.  I nearly broke my wrist trying to hold up a particularly thick Vanity Fair one session).  The other night I was settling in to nurse when I realized that my library book, the new biography of Einstein, was really lousy breastfeeding reading.  So I set the  baby down and went in search of something.  She started fussing, so in a rush I grabbed the first magazine I found.

Ten minutes later Alias Father walked in.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Oh, this old Playboy,” I answered.  “This article about the people who participate in amateur porn sites is pretty interesting.”

He took in the full effect of me stretched out on the bed, Playboy in hand, his child attached to my boob and was quiet for a moment or two.

“You know,” he said, “there are some people who might find that inappropriate.”

One more number: 46

That’s how many pounds I have lost in the last eight weeks.  Uh-huh.  That’s right.

I had my six-week postpartum appointment today.  Yes, at eight weeks.  It’s a long story.  But I am happy to report that I am healthy, fully recovered, and only 15 pounds away from my normal weight.  Hallelujah, glory be.  And at least 5-7 of the lost pounds were actual fat, not just water and whatnot.

It just gives me hope.  Hope that someday, somehow, my pants just might fit again.