The Pink Elephant in the Corner of my Blog

Alrighty, let's see what we've got brewing around here:

• Although the week's not quite over with yet, I think we can declare our transition to daycare a success.
  
• I am having a garage sale. Today and tomorrow, come one, come all. The stroller and DVD player are gone, but we still have a mountain bike and some baby clothes and a suh-weet traditional Mexican Folk Dance costume (don't ask) up for grabs.
  
• We're having unseasonably cool weather these days--lower-mid 90s. Downright refreshing.
• Umm, let's see, what else? Oh, yeah, still no Flo.
  

Yeah, that pretty much sums it all up. Yeppers, yessiree Bob. Nothing else going on here.

• Well, except for that One Thing. That Extravaganza of Cool Kids? What's it called again? BLOGHER? Yeah, I'm not there. It's OK. Really. I mean, I hear that it's scorching in California. And Amalah says the showers are tricky, and who needs a tricky shower, right?
  

Oh, yeah, baby. A garage sale is WAY better than any ol' opportunity to meet my blog heroines face-to-face.

On a positive note, though, there are live blogs from some of the BlogHer sessions for those of us who can't be there in person.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Drivel

I think I have PMS. I also think I might be a compulsive pumper. Maybe I pump because I subconsciously hope that maintaining my milk flow will keep that other "Flo" at bay. Or maybe I just like having my nipples sucked into plastic cones and stretched to inconceivable lengths to the rhythm of "Larry and Moe, Larry and Moe" for periods of 15-20 minutes five times a day.

I realize that this backache and insatiable craving for sweets (have you ever popped microwave popcorn and poured melted vanilla almond bark over it and eaten the whole damned batch before it could even cool and harden? No? Oh.) could be attributed to the simple fact that I'm an EFFing heifer, but it could also mean that my hormones are getting their asses back in gear. It's been since March 2005, but I think I vaguely recognize these symptoms.

The good: Hormones back to some semblance of normal.
The bad scary as all get-out: Oh holy hell, I've started ovulating again.

Whereas I'd been cautious before, now I'm downright paranoid that the mini-pill, in all its Breastfeed-and-Take-The-Pill/Have-Your-Cake-and-Eat-It-Too glory just might be too good to be true. Have you ever read how it works? Yeah, I'm not totally sold. But I'm taking it. And other measures too, by golly.

In case you haven't already deduced, I am absolutely not ready or contemplating or even ever considering having another baby. And well, that's another post for another day.

In the meantime, plug in the Medela and pass the M&Ms.

Mama Loves Meds. And Alcohol, too.

Yesterday was Al's first day at daycare. He did great. I did pretty well. The Mr. did--eh--so-so. It wasn't until later that afternoon that guilt set in and I shed a few tears. I imagine each day will get a little better. At least I sure hope to holy hell that it does.

Al's teacher is sweet and nurturing and she promised me that she'd rock Al to sleep and that he'd get plenty of cuddle time. I think she picked up on my inclination to freak the EFF out, and that is a good thing. Because I am NOT afraid to freak.

So, one down, and many more to go.

Thanks so much for your encouragement and kind words. It will all be A-OK as soon as we all (OK, the Mr. and I) get adjusted. In the meantime, thank all that is holy for meds. And beer.

Dude, this school stuff is CAKE. Tell my mom to chill.

Trying Very, Very Hard to Be a Big Girl

Here it is.

Here's where I talk about mixed emotions about Al going to daycare: Yes, it will be nice to have some time and free hands to get some things done (i. e. finish the painting and gardening projects that I started before realizing that there is NO WAY you can do these things while also tending to a baby) . Yes, I know he will enjoy being around other kids. Yes, it will be good for him to be able to play and scoot and crawl without having to be rerouted every 10 seconds with "No, no, Alex. You can't chew on the cords," or "careful, the oven can burn you," or "yucky, don't lick Mommy's shoes," and a quick forced U-turn. That's what practical, rational Mama says.

But last night, after I took him to bed and nursed him one more time, I began to cry and I couldn't stop. What if they don't hold him enough? What if they just put him in the crib to nap without rocking him? What if he cries, and they just let him? I couldn't stand the thought of it. Granted, my fears are unfounded and probably as far from base as possible. But he's little and he's sweet and he's my baby, dammit, and all this time I thought I was looking forward to his "starting school" and now I'm falling apart.

I'm not afraid that he's going to love his caregivers more than he loves me. I'm afraid that he won't love them or worse, that they won't love him.

I just want him to be safe and healthy and happy. Most of all, happy.

If you have any positive experiences or anecdotes to share, please, please do. Just needing a little encouragement here.

Please no barbs--staying home is not an option. Also, starting daycare early will give us an adjustment period and will allow me to get a head start on the school year, which will hopefully make the first few weeks when I return to work a little easier on us all.

Stuff. Of the Bulleted Variety.

• I haven't been sleeping well. It's barely 8:20 and I can hardly keep my eyes open. And I have a muscle in my back that smarts every time I turn a certain way, with a certain way being pretty much any way. God, I'm falling apart.
• Which leads me to report that I'm back to doing three miles every morning again. But I'm only jogging some of it. And I keep having dreams about running to school or to a car repair shop (wtf?) or just around my old hometown. Even when I'm asleep, I can't seem to get any rest.
  
• The Mr. shaved his head last night. As in bald. He's been threatening to do it forever, and I kept telling him I didn't care. And I don't care--I think it looks just fine. Guess I showed him, huh? What didn't look so hot, though? The "horseshoe" design that he created before shaving the whole noggin.
  
• Am I the only one who has to enter the damned word verification bullshit two or three times before before finally getting it right when trying to post a comment?
  

Show Us Your Shoes!

A few years ago, back when I was single and childless, a friend of mine made a comment that, at the time, made perfect sense.

"You know why women love shoes?" she began.

"I dunno, I thought it was just a genetic thing. Girls like shoes." I reckoned (we reckon down here in the South, you know).

"Well, yeah, that, but also? Even if you gain a little weight, your shoe size stays the same. And if you wear a size 7 in one brand, most likely, a 7 in any other brand will fit. You can depend on shoes," she explained.

We've both had babies since then. I imagine if we were to have that conversation again today, it would sound a little different.

I'm sure you're not surprised to hear that my feet grew while I was pregnant. They got fat, and they got longer, too, thanks to the good ol' hormone relaxin. I ended up buying a larger sized pair of shoes and boots just to make it to the end of pregnancy.

Fortunately, my permanent foot growth was minimal, and I can now fit back into my pre-pregnancy shoes. In this instance, shoes totally win the "Most Dependable" award in my closet because the pants are not being nearly as cooperative.

Last Friday, MotherBumper was urged by Lil'Debby (who was inspired by Andrea, who referenced Dawn's post) to show us some shoes. And, oh, the shoes she showed!

And she reminded me that in the back of my closet, stashed in boxes, are the Shoes That Pregnancy Forgot. Shoes that I haven't worn in over a year, either because they were too high-heeled, or too slick-soled, or too narrow. And of course, I had to drag them out, and in celebration of their coming-out, I took pictures.

Before I show you the pictures, though, there is one more thing that you should know. I'm almost ashamed to show you some of these images because I have a thing about shoes. No, not that thing. My thing is that I think shoes really are a reflection of their wearer. You can tell a lot about a person both by the actual shoes that they wear and by HOW they wear the shoes.

I am an occasional member of my school's interviewing committee (stay with me, it's connected, I swear!). Every spring and summer, the principal rounds up 3 or 4 of us to help her interview candidates for new teacher positions. I always look at their shoes first.

I distinctly remember one candidate for whom I had stuck my neck out. She was from my hometown, and her parents had both contacted me seeking "a good word" for their little girl. I helped her get the interview, but as soon as I saw her shoes, I knew that she wouldn't work out. She walked into the interview room wearing an ill-fitting suit jacket and skirt that was too short. That probably could have been forgiven, but on her bare feet, she wore thong slides (with a pseudo-suit!) that showed off her garish hot-pink toenail polish. That was chipped. OK, folks, I don't know how people do it wear you live, but down here, even if the interview is conducted in the middle of 100-degree July heat, you wear stockings and closed-toe shoes with your interview outfit. Period. She got the job, but left after a year of complete ineffectiveness in the classroom. See? I totally knew that she would be lousy, but how do you base a rejection on bad shoe choice?

Badly scuffed shoes are also a Big Red Flag. If someone shows up to an interview, a meeting, or even a regular day at work with scuffed shoes, I tend to like them less. Shoe polish is cheap and buffing out scuffs only takes a few seconds. To me, badly scuffed shoes say that a person either doesn't pay attention to details or just doesn't care.

All of that is to say that some of my shoes need a little TLC, and unfortunately, this shows in the photos. Also, by showing you my shoes, I'm showing you a part of me that I am often pretty critical of in other people.

But because I love you, Internet, and trust you with my feelings, here goes nothing:

I've had these wedges for years, but I couldn't wear them while I was pregnant because the soles are hard and I was afraid I'd fall down.

Surprisingly comfortable.

I bought these right before I got pregnant, so they've not accrued much mileage.

Dusty, and in dire need of some TLC. Also very, very comfy and cute with jeans.

While doodling in a meeting one afternoon, I drew these shoes. I then went on a hunt to find them.

As cute as these are, they are horribly uncomfortable. Maybe that's because I only paid $12 at Payless for them. If Star Jones really thinks that I'm going to believe that her gastric-bypassed ass can walk around in these babies all day and still be...hey, wait a minute. Maybe that's what's wrong with her!

Ah, the flip-flops. If you look closely, you'll see that they are all very bad and very cheap. But I love them with all my heart.

Here are the shoes that I wore to take Al to his check-up today. They are boring and practical, but comfy and cute-enough.

What you did not see here were:

1. Boots. Because my boots were the one item that did not survive the Great Pregnancy of 2005. I will be embarking on the Great Boot Hunt of 2006 very, very soon. I need casual boots and dressy boots. Suggestions are welcome.
2. Clogs. MotherBumper, perhaps you are the Jon to my Heather?
3. A brown pair exactly like the last black pair and a few more boring loafers. Come on--you've seen one loafer, you've seen 'em all, right?
4. The running shoes. 'Cause you've seen those already.
   

OK kids, I bared my soles (hardee-har-har!), now it's your turn to Show Us Your Shoes!

(Oh, and leave me a comment so I can come over and ogle!)

Of Boobs and Bottles

By the end of last week, I was this close to posting an Oh-Dear-God-Moxie's-on-Vacation-and-I-Need-Help-NOW entry to solicit some assvice because, folks, we were in Schedule HELL. Who knew that transitioning from a simple 3-hour eat-play-sleep cycle to something a little more Big Boy--complete with three solid meals and one less nap--would cause such turmoil in the house? You did? Well, why didn't you warn a sister? And for the record, I did not initiate the change. The boss baby did. Otherwise, we'd still be in 3-hour cycle Heaven.

However, we finally got it all worked out, and Al now has a new schedule that accomodates bottles and solids and life-giving naps and good old-fashioned nursing. Thank you Sweet Jesus.

I've fed Al from the boob and from bottles since he was two weeks old. I had read all the warnings not to introduce artificial nipples so soon to avoid risk of nipple confusion, but I had my own philosophy: I was going back to work after ten weeks, and if the boy preferred a bottle over the boob, then so be it. I would pump and feed him bottles. On the other hand, though, if I waited to introduce a bottle, and he refused? He'd starve when I returned to work. So I started him on bottles pretty early. Plus, that gave the Mr. a chance to feed him while I caroused about the town (In Real-World-Speak, that's called going to Target).

Even though I've been off work for the last several weeks, I've continued to pump and feed Al bottles during the day, and then breastfeed him at night. It's not as inconvenient as it may seem. I like the consistency that this routine gives us both, and it just might make starting a new school year a teensy bit easier on us. The fewer changes, the better, I say.

Also, there's one more little payoff that I hadn't thought of:

I'm not sure if I want to dance a jig over my new-found minutes of freedom or cry with grief that he continues to grow up too damned fast.

It ain't easy being Jezey.

Taking care of babies does not get easier as they get older. You just trade your old problems for some new ones. The swaddle struggle? SO last month. Spit up? That's for rookies, baby. Because now? We're smack in the middle of teething AND a growth spurt. While my mom stayed with us this past spring, she joked that we never let Al cry. And it was true for the most part. Back in the day--oh, say, four weeks ago--he hardly ever really cried. I know now that he was just saving up. These days, if he's not crying because he's hungry, he's crying because his gums hurt or because he just pooped his diaper again (damned drool!) and it's burning his already chapped ass.

So I'm sure you'll forgive me for the lack of cohesiveness of this post and for the bullets and the general blah nature of it. Won't you?

• First off--the wig. Yeah, it's mine, and one of these days if you get me really, really drunk I might tell you the story behind it. See? I could have just lied and said that I bought it to go with a Halloween costume. Heh.

• Al had a piss-poor day Tuesday. After crying and eating and crying and pooping and crying all day, his brilliant mother decided to do a little more bath-time hair styling. Then, he fell off the bed. Not a stellar evening for the lad.

It's almost a mohawk.
I didn't even mess it up when I fell off the bed.
'Cause I'm smooth, yo.

• I've mentioned before that the Mr. leans a bit more to the right than I do. But tonight, he told me that I could "take that (I forget what "that" was) to the bank and smoke it." OK, so it wasn't quite a tide turning in the desert, but still.

• I'm a faux-finish painting maniac, y'all. Except a job that should have taken me a few hours instead took, oh, ALL DAY LONG what with having to stop and, you know, take care of my child. By the way, a post about my mixed feelings about starting Al in daycare in a couple of weeks is coming soon. Except, right now? My feelings are not mixed. They are all about Get That Boy In School, where trained professionals can entertain him and keep him from chewing the computer cords and banging his head against the brick hearth so I can get just a FEW things done. Clearly, I am not SAHM material (Bring it on, trolls. And also? Kiss it). Oh, yeah, the painting:

This used to be pink, er, I mean dusty rose, wallpaper. I love the 80s, but not that much.

• And finally, Research has shown that women who do not shed their pregnancy weight within six months are likely to still be carrying it around 10 or 15 years later. Well, shit.
  

When Dorks Have Babies

The Mr. brought Al to me after tonight's bath looking like this:Ah, the middle-parted wings. In the 80s, guys who had perfected this hairstyle were fine. Wonder if we have a chance of ever training Al's hair to do that naturally?

Clearly, he's all for it.


And if we had left it at that, why, we would have had a fine chuckle for the evening. Wings! Feathered hair! On our six-month old! Har-dee-har!


Well.


We couldn't just leave well enough alone. Oh, hell no.

Man, is that Freedom Rock? Yeah, man! Well turn it up, man!

Dah, dah, dah, dah...snap* snap*
Dah, dah, dah, dah...snap* snap*
They're creepy and they're kooky,
Mysterious and spooky,
They're all together ooky,
The Addams Family.

Hey, man. God made Hyland's, man. Peace.

It takes some skill to spoil a breakfast....

Quick Edit: Down in the comments section, Love and Fear Mama makes an EXCELLENT point about coconut and breastfeeding. Three months ago, there is no way I could have eaten this without causing some heinous gastrointestinal discomfort for Al, what with the nuts and the chocolate and the milk (I had not yet tried coconut, but I imagine it would have only enhanced the misery). But now that he is older and his little gut has matured a bit, we can be more adventurous. So like L&FM said, new nursers beware.

*******************************************

You may remember that when I did my Day in the Life post, I was smack in the middle of the Quest for the Ultimate Granola Bar Recipe. I wanted something that I could make at home without a lot of fuss or expense. In other words, no crazy hard-to-find ingredients. It also needed to be substantial enough to stave off the hunger of a relatively active adult for a few hours. And, perhaps most importantly, it needed to be pretty high in fiber content. Because, well, just because. Oh, and it had to taste pretty good, too.

After some searching and fiddling and tweaking, I think I found it.

As soon as you read this recipe, you're going to be thinking exactly what I already know: This is nothing more than a glorified cookie. It's true. There's not much difference in this bar and a good ol' Magic Cookie Bar. But I can (pretty much) justify all of the ingredients.

So here goes nothing:

3 cups oats--old fashioned, not quick oats (mmm, fiber)
1.5 cups chopped nuts--walnuts, peanuts, pecans, whatever you fancy (omega fatty acids + stick to the ribs staying power + more fiber)
1.5 cups shredded coconut (umm, not much justification here, except that we like coconut)
1 c raisins, dried fruit, or chocolate chips--the Mr. won't touch a raisin, so I went with chocolate chips. (For energy, of course!) Peanut butter chips would also be good.
1 can sweetened condensed milk. Fat free (HA!) works well.
1/2 cup melted butter (because butter is good.) Actually, I might try a fat alternative like applesauce or pureed prunes next time.

Spray either a 9 x 13 cake pan or 10 x 15 jelly roll pan with nonstick spray or line the pan with parchment paper. Combine the dry ingredients, and then add the sweetened condensed milk and butter. Mix it all together and pour into your pan. Pat the mixture down evenly, either with your hands or a lightly greased (or sprayed with nonstick spray) spatula. Bake in a preheated 325-degree oven for about 30 minutes or until golden brown. Allow to cool completely, then cut into bars. Store in an airtight container.

Now, as you can see, this is absolutely not low-fat nor low-carb. But here's the good part: After the oats, those next three ingredients can be almost ANYTHING you choose: any dry cereal, crisp rice, dried fruit, boxed granola, bran flakes, more oats, just about anything under the sun, as long as the total amount equals 4 cups. You could probably even sneak a little wheat germ or soy nuts or another healthy substance in there, too.

The Mr. thinks these are pretty good, and I'm pretty sure they are just a mite healthier than his usual breakfast fare. At least I know what's in them. Even if they really are just cookies.

Six Months

You know those Dear Baby letters I said I'd never write? Yeah, whatever.

Dear Al,
Happy Birthday! You are six months old today. Six months. It is fitting that your 1/2 birthday is July 4th, Independence Day, for you are a boy on his way to independence. You would rather scoot all over the house than sit in one spot, and while you love to snuggle, it has to be on your terms. I think you get that from your Mama.

In every other way, though, you are your Papa's son. If I hadn't seen you emerge from my own body with my own eyes, I would wonder if you were really my son. Well, except for the chin. You totally got my chin. Sorry. And that mole on your arm. I have that same mole.

You and your Papa are pals. "Real good pals," he says. In true Papa form, he calls you by many names: Allis, Boppo, Bumpo, and my favorite: Sweetest Boy in Town. (When you were born with a touch of jaundice, he called you Billy. Billy Reubens.)

And you are, in my most unbiased opinion, the Sweetest Boy in Town. You are so good-natured that again, I wonder what planet you came from. In restaurants, supermarkets, other people's homes, and funerals, even, people comment on your smile and your sweet, easy-going disposition. The ladies scramble to hold you, but you are drawn to the men--a man's man, you are.

You still love to be swaddled, arms free, to nap in your crib. I wonder if I'll need to have a larger Miracle Blanket custom-made for you. Your first two teeth are being annoyingly stubborn about coming in, and that pisses you off. From about 2pm until bedtime, you put on your Crankypants. Nothing will satisfy you but copious amounts of attention and entertainment. And your Papa and I happily oblige. You use consonants every now and again in your babbling, but your oral language repertoire is mostly limited to vowel sounds, growls, and squeals. You've chosen to channel your energy instead to enhancing your physical prowess--namely, mobility. While you are already a champion scooter and a budding crawler, you're slowly learning to sit on your own, and since I've made reading part of your bedtime routine, you will tolerate a couple of short books before you're ready to move on to something more exciting--boobs, for example. Yes, you are "all boy."

You still love "the juice," and I love nursing you. For dinner, though, you are a vegetable connoisseur--carrots are your current favorite, followed closely by sweet potatoes and squash. Peas and green beans are OK by you, but you hate, and I mean Haaaaaaate, all fruits except bananas. And the bananas cannot be jarred, they must be fresh or frozen from fresh.

You recently showed an affinity for Papa's and my computer keyboards. You are mad for keyboards. So, Papa--your pal--screwed an old keyboard onto the cup- and snack-holder section of your exersaucer. Now, while we sit at our computers and peck away, you do the same.

You have slept with your Papa and me since you were about a week old. What started as a desperate solution to horrid sleep deprivation has turned into precious family time. Neither your Papa nor I are in any hurry to kick you out of our bed. In fact, it's not even our bed anymore, unless by our, you mean belonging to the three of us. At night, if you wake, you will squirm to one side, arms outstretched and fingers wiggling, until you touch one of us. Then you go back to sleep. If you're hungry, you'll grunt and tug at my nightshirt until I bare a breast and let you latch on. In the mornings you wake us up right before the alarm buzzes with sweet calls of "Hey....hey!" We've agreed that when you sleep all night without waking to be fed that we will transition you to your own bed. So when people ask if you're sleeping all night, I respond with a very satisfied, "No, he's not!" Mama gets some strange looks.

Al, I love you more than I ever thought I could love another human being. To me, you are perfect. While I can't wait to know the boy and the man that you will become, I can't help but miss the baby that has already begun to grow up too quickly. Everyday, as you settle down for your naps, I sing to you, "You are my sunshine." And you are. My sunshine.

I love you Baby Boy. My Little Man. The Sweetest Boy in Town.

Mama loves.

I dun tol' y'all we wuz cuntry.

First of all, I have to defend the Mr. In this video, he says "that stuff's bad," with a highly exaggerated country accent. He doesn't speak that way in normal conversation--it's for comedic effect, mostly for Al's benefit. Not that Al gives a shit about dialectic humor, but anyway. Just so you know.

I, on the other hand, sound just as back-woods in everyday speech as I do on the audio in this clip. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but alas, I cannot.

Here's Al eating squash in the first half of the video, and then we pull the ol' switcheroo on him and give him plums. As you'll hear in my most eloquent commentary, "Baybee duh'unht like froot," y'all.



Baby Duh-uhnt Like Froot on Vimeo