'Cause I'm doing this for all the right reasons, you know.

When I got pregnant, I had already decided that I wanted to breastfeed for three main reasons:

1. It’s cheap. As in, free. I’m always down with a bargain, you know.
2. It helps to melt away those icky post-partum pounds. Since I’m weight-obsessed, this was a huge selling point for me.
3. Oh, yeah, and it’s good for the baby.

Well, #1 is definitely true. And our pediatrician stands firmy by #3. #2? I’m not so sure.

There are two camps on the breastfeeding-weight loss debate. One says that breastfeeding virtually melts the pounds away. Like, immediately. The other says that a woman won’t see her potential weight loss until after breastfeeding because her body will instinctively retain a good 5-10 pounds of fat to ensure that it has enough stores to make milk. The bitch.

I’m beginning to side with the second theory. Weight loss during the last two weeks has been very, very slow despite my religious watching and logging of calories on FitDay. I’m beginning to think that I’ll need to buy some new clothes before I go back to work because maternity pants are a) way too big, and b) ick; and my “normal” clothes still won’t even think about stretching over my hips and ass.

Yes, I know I need to be patient, but in case you missed the news flash, patience is not one of my strongest traits, K?

Holy Random Crizzap

I have nothing earth-shattering going on here, unless you count spit-up and poop as earth-shattering. Frankly, I don't.


So, I'll just bore you with a bunch of random crap that I've noticed/thought about during the last couple of days.

1. I can't access my work email from the web, suddenly. Yesterday, I attempted to log on for the first time since I started maternity leave, and lo and behold, my login attempts repeatedly failed. I'm thinking that's probably a good thing.
   
2. How is it that I could lose 22 pounds in the first postpartum week, and for the last two weeks? Nada. How? I'm being careful, really I am. Plus, without my dietary staples of cheese and ice cream, you'd think I'd be emaciated by now. No such luck.
3. When my mom came and helped me during the first week after Alex was born, she said that it would be just like "playing dolls." Shit. When I used to play with a doll, I would carry the thing around by her leg for about 11 minutes, then toss her under the bed and go play outside. Or, if I was feeling especially nurturing, I'd take her outside with me, and then proceed to leave her out in the 100 degree heat for three days before realizing that "hmm, wander where lil' Betsy Buttrash went? Oh, wait, was that her that the dog was shaking violently by the hairdo?" This is SO not "playing dolls."
4. Why is it that every damned bitch that witnesses my baby crying (Because Hello?! It's time for him to eat and he's breastfed, and I really don't want to whip out a boob or thaw out any of my precious pumped white gold so that I can sit here and shoot the shit with you so will you please go ahead and leave now?) automatically bestows upon the poor fellow the kiss of death diagnosis of COLIC? Come on, folks, I've SEEN kids with colic, and mine doesn't have that. And why are people so damned eager for my child and me to be cursed with such a horrible ailment? It's mean, if you ask me.
5. Yesterday, the kiddo finally napped peacefully for more than 10 minutes at a pop. He didn't cry much all day long. Yesterday, I had a heinous caffeine withdrawal headache. Coincidence? If only.
   

Cheap Thrills

Sometimes, when Alex enters REM sleep mode, he snoozes with his eyes open. It's looks like he's practicing rolling his eyes for those "Gah, Mom you're such a DORK!" moments that will be upon us all too soon. It's pretty hilarious for now.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...

I missed my first anniversary of blogging here. Why? Because I was having a baby. How coincidental that I would give birth to my son on my first anniversary of blogging.

I just reread those first few entries, and Good God, how things have changed. That little trip to Scottsville Cemetery was on a whim one Sunday afternoon. We just got in the car and went. Yesterday, it took us half an hour just to get everything rounded up and in the car to go grocery shopping.

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I have discovered that my ingestion of dairy products upsets my baby's tummy. I love dairy products--yogurt, cottage cheese, yellow cheese, white cheese, mild cheese, stinky cheese, and big tall glasses of milk. But I've quit them. For now, at least. Instead, I'm putting rice milk on my cereal (thank GOD Fruity Pebbles don't give him gas!) and eating sandwiches with no cheese.

Let me repeat that: I'm eating my sandwiches without cheese.

So this is love.

Aunts and Uncles and Tootsies, Oh My!

Hey, remember when I used to post entries, like, every day? Yeah, me either.

Anyway.

Alex got to meet his Uncle Ty and Aunt Naho this weekend. For those of you out of the loop, Ty is my brother and Naho is his wife. They are way cooler than the Mr. and me in that they have uber sweet jobs as writers in New York City. Seriously. They are writers in New York City. As in, they work in Manhattan and their work appears in magazines and stuff and they live in a little bitty, yet amazing apartment in a cool little neighborhood in Brooklyn.

They brought Al some great presents, including an airplane that attaches to his spoon,

some non-matching matching socks (Do they make these in adult sizes, because I want some, too!),

aaaaaannnnnd, oodles of great books. Golden Books rock, you know.

So does The Little Prince.


And books about farting. I know he's going to love this book the most, because the boy is a gas champ.

It was great to see them, and I think they were a little bit awestruck over a human being as small as our Lil' Al. They both held him, but only after we made them the very same promise that I made my mom when she first bought a computer years ago: You won't break the thing. Really, you won't.

Oh, and one more thing. Well, actually, two things:

MORE TOOTSIES!!!

This gig is hard, dudes.

Motherhood is a mother, y'all.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love, love, LOVE Alex. He rocks. But I have to admit that being a mom and its 24/7-ness kind of smacked me right in the ass. Last week was one of the very most difficult weeks of my life.

First, there was that little complication that warranted my injesting stupid amounts of one of the most potent antibiotics known to man (Augmentin? Blows ass. Literally.). Not only did it turn my stomach into a churning cauldron of bile, but it did quite a number on Alex, too. By the time we got the timing of the gas drops down, I was done with the antibiotics and all was well.

Except now, I think we have a dairy sensitivity, and I KNOW we have issues with chocolate. Ahh, trial and error. You bitch.

Then, there was the realization that this is forever. And that I am going to hurt like hell every time the little man hurts. And I worry about everything bad thing that could ever happen to him or his Papa or me. And I sometimes just want to cry, cry, and cry some more. For no reason whatsoever. Chalk it up to Baby Blues, or hormonal upheaval or sleep deprivation, or whatever. But it isn't pretty. And given my propensity to slip into depression at almost any huge life-changing event, I'm relieved to find that each day gets a little better. Hopefully, the worst of that has passed.

And people keep coming to my house. And I'm not exactly what you would call a Social Butterfly, know what I mean?

Oh, and two-week-old babies? They're a bit needy. Just because I'm home all day, do not think for one second that I've had time to do any laundry or vacuum or even play Text Twist because I am a human milk machine and my baby loves to hit the boob.

But really? All is well, even if I do sound like a psycho waiting to happen. Alex is growing "like a champ," according to his pediatrician, my milk supply is good and breastfeeding is going better than I expected. The Papa and I seem to have grown even closer during the last couple of weeks, and God am I fortunate, given the train wreck that he witnessed during my labor and delivery.

Anyway, I really do hope that I manage to pull myself together soon so that I can update more often here. And I really hope that I can come up with some stuff to talk about that doesn't pertain to the baby or motherhood or breastfeeding. And maybe I'll change out of these sweats and Tshirt that I have been wearing for three days straight. Nah, I'm just setting myself up for failure, there.

I'm Still Alive. Really, I Am.

I know, I know, I've been slacking when it comes to updating. But you know, I've kind of been a little busy, what with my new role as The Milk Machine. Oh, and I had a teeny, tiny, yet fairly painful little complication which led to my having to take antibiotics and did you know that antibiotics in breastmilk will give your baby heinous gas? Thank God I had the foresight to buy gas drops a month ago, because nothing says relief like the banana-flavored goodness that are Gerber Gas Relief Drops. Just 3 more days to go with that.

And, perhaps to your disappointment, I have decided that there will be no Birth Story. Honestly, I am not exactly chomping at the bit to relive that. And really? In the grand scheme of things? Those 19.33 hours of labor and delivery (See? It'd take four whole posts just to cover labor) are Not What Is Important.

This is:

He's a hunk of burnin' love, y'all.

Alex

I guess we've got a little catching up to do, no?

I'm not quite up to writing all the details right now, because there is a little newborn head that I must go sniff right now. But I'll give you a few pics and a quick synopsis. Deal?

Tuesday afternoon, my water broke, but I didn't realize that until later (amniotic fluids can leak slowly, did you know?). Contractions came on fast and hard around 5pm. We headed to the hospital around 7pm. After almost 20 hours of labor--some of it easy, some of it excruciatingly hard--our son was born. We call him Alex. He is amazing.

Minutes Old.

Hours Old.

Home.