how we weekend

we just returned home from a long weekend birthday bender of [lego]blocks, bobbers (aka robbers), babies, and balloons. it was was a BLAST and i hope yours was too. {how's that for alliteration!}

happy birthday little man

forty weeks

august is forty weeks old. TEN MONTHS. that means he's been living on the outside for as long as he was cooking on the inside. {yeah, that's right. whoever said it was nine months apparently didn't count the first month before they realized they were pregnant. or maybe they chose to forget about the last month that seems to draaaggg} lately, it's this ten-months-in/ten-months-out parallel that's got me all nostalgic and maybe a little sentimental. also, full disclosure: i've been reading rainer maria rilke. so. you've been given fair warning.

but twenty months! how does something just go from not being to being in such a short amount of time?

i ask you.

because i'm still reeling at the wild the fact that something so complex as human life can essentially be created from nothing and that that something becomes someone. 

i remember many nights during my pregnancy; sitting on the couch, my feet propped up on andy while we dreamed about what our little family would be like. we'd talk about what kinds of parents we'd be (firm but trusting) or we tried to imagine how our baby would look (andy's big eyes, my ski slope nose). all of it was just talk and we knew it. how could we really know when, for so long, he was just this vision. time moved slowly then.

of course, august was more real to me than he was to andy {what with the exhaustion and aversion to coffee, awhaaat?} but even then, he was just a heartbeat for such a long while. after a few months though, we got to put a blurry black and white picture to the pulse. and weeks later, the image became a bump. and soon after that, the bump gave an assertive little kick! and that's when things sped up. an intense heat, a warm rush, and we were suddenly holding those little kicking feet.

watching august grow these past ten months has been like watching a polaroid develop. his face has filled out, his corn-silk hair is long enough now that it curls slightly at the ends, his big eyes (just like we envisioned, only not hazel like his dada's) have changed from the iceberg blue of his infancy to a true blue, like denim. all his features coming together now to form a little BOY.

now our conversations are about what kind of man he will be or the things he will accomplish or the woman he will marry... one night, after august had gone to sleep and it was just the two of us again alone on the couch andy told me this:

becoming a father has brought me at peace with my own mortality. i'm not worried about dying anymore because now i know that there is something bigger than me. you know what calms me at night? the thought of august being an old man one day. i see him as a grandfather with little ones, like he is now, crawling all around. that gives me peace.

i've been thinking about that a lot and you know what? andy may be onto something. i look at august now and i see every age he's been, from fetus to infant to baby to boy. but then i really look at him and see that he is already every age he will ever be. even that old man with the wisdom of time in his true blue denim eyes.

how we weekend

here's my take on the weekend: it goes by fast, so you have to fit enough in of the very best to carry you through the week. i hope yours was full of all your favorite things too.

wait. can we get a close up on that last photo?  

ok. NOW i'm ready for you, monday. bring it.

how we weekend

 

they say you "catch a cold", but who really wants to do that? i say, a cold caught US early in the weekend (and by "us", i mean our littlest one was the sick one but since mama and dada have to make it all better, it was really a family thing). it was nothing some epic naps and pi(e) couldn't remedy though. here's to a healthier week ahead!

this is how we weekend

well, that was fun! hope you all enjoyed yours and are ready to get after this week. happy monday and helloooooo spring!

happy

pharrell williams made the academy awards. well, ellen degeneres and pharrell did, but his performance of "happy"? it's totally worth a google if you missed it. the song has been on repeat at our house and has inspired more than a few living room dance parties. in fact, when we woke up to snow and another (!) day off, we declared "happy" our theme song. here's what it looked like.

  

if it weren't totally self indulgent, i would dedicate entire post to that bed head.

staying home - just me and the little guy - was like a flash back to our days together when i was on maternity leave. i loved those early months when he was a tiny, grunting piece of creation. i've sat at work missing that infant stage. yes, he was so fragile and so vulnerable and so utterly dependent on me then, but time moved slow and allowed us grow together. now, he's strong. and this new stage where he sits up on his own, plays independently, crawls around calling mamamamamamama? it's my new favorite.  

mustaches are still trendy, right?

believe it or not, but posting that series of self portraits the other day was one of the scariest things i've done here - scarier than sharing the very intimate story of my son's birth. sincerely. the story is just a bunch of words, but the pictures... they're so, well, visual. sure, the birth story tells pretty personal details about how my son was born, but we all came into the world in some way, shape, or form so. it's objective. pictures are not. they're very SUBjective. you don't need to bother with the effort of reading paragraph after paragraph because the photos speak for themselves ("a thousand words", or so they say).

so minutes after the pictures went up, i immediately sweat it. even now, days later, i'm still trying to convince myself not to take them down. {could totally do it too and only a few people would be confused about their mysterious disappearance.} instead though, i decided not only to keep them up, but draw all this unnecessary attention to them. why? because i've clearly got some insecurities and at 32, it's about time i get over them. this is the decade i'm supposed to finally feel comfortable in my own skin, for cripes sake!

it shouldn't be such a big deal really; they're just a bunch of goofy head shots. but they're raw - there was no editing done, no filters applied, no strategic cropping to cut out the unflattering. and THAT'S what makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. because that's what my hair actually looks like most days, that's what my skin actually looks like without makeup, and that first shot? the one where i look somewhat curious, somewhat angry? that's probably very close to my actual "resting face" (hopefully not "bitchy" but possibly just as unapproachable).

see, i was thinking about my own "selfie esteem" and realized that i'm totally one of those people who hides behind the camera. i've gotten pretty comfortable capturing life around me and don't have too hard a time pulling the camera out in public places, but turn that thing around and i get suuuuper self conscious. if this site has done anything though, it has forced me outside my comfort zone. and that's where the real personal growth happens.

so i challenged myself to be the subject of my pictures and, with a deep breath, i stepped around to the other side: front and center. i stared straight down the barrel of that lens and right into the camera's eye. {ok, maybe i winced a bit} eventually though, what started as awkward and tense became candid and even a little fun. i took dozens of photos and felt more confident with each snap. then - triumphant - i ran back inside, uploaded the photos, quickly choose four of the silliest, and hit 'publish' before i had time to second guess it.when i pulled up the finished product and peered back at the faces on the screen though i was like, wait, i look like what? 

there we were: mirror images scrutinizing each other. and then i didn't feel so triumphant anymore. {cue sad trombone: wah-wah.} the hair, the expressions, the discoloration above my lip... i have a HUGE complex about that mark. it appeared months ago when i was pregnant - malasma, it's called. or mustache, as my seven year old niece pointed out. {"...the darnedest things", right?} she was just being honest, the little dear. so was the esthetician who asked if i wanted my upper lip done after she finished with my eyebrows. suuuucks. anyway, i let myself indulge in the self loathing for a bit because, like a good cry, it's cathartic.

then i did what any photographer would do: adjusted the settings and refocused the lens.

i could either look at myself seeing flaws and imperfections or i could see uniquities and originatlities. it's all about perspective, folks. take the stache mark i now wear; it's a sign of pregnancy. of motherhood. of my son. like the linea negra that runs down from my belly button, it has faded in the eight+ months since his birth and who knows, with more time it may fade to nothing. but right now they are sweet and proud reminders of a child that i would take a thousand times over before an unblemished complexion.

ain't nothing gonna hold us down

we've been hiding behind steamy walls and foggy windows over here. some heartless winter bug took a big ol' bite out of our sweet, innocent little boy last week and the humidifier has been blasting since. it started with a runny nose, which was chased by a cough, followed by a fever, and ended with a miserable baby smushed on my chest for two consecutive days. incedentally, the nick name, 'sack of potatoes', has taken a traumatic new meaning. you'd think i got a lot of reading done. or at least some good netflix marathons. but alas. i was too worried for either, so i just stared at my son as he breathed through his mouth and soaked both our shirts with his sweat. it'll go down in the book like this: baby's first illness; mama's first meltdown. <<no picture>> anyway, light finally filtered through the haze and now we're on the other side of things - shiny happy people. or like in that sesame street episode: furry happy monsters. yea, i've got a kid.

so our boy rallied like a champ. yeah. showed that bug real good. he was sitting on the floor staurday morning when a thought bubble popped up: you can't hold me down, winter bug and he pushed himself up into standing. all on his own! {that one really did go in the book} then, because standing up big and tall wasn't enough, he started crawling. and i'm not talking army crawl - that was SO three weeks ago - it was a proper baby crawl. {also in the book} last, to cap the week of milestones and to prove that he's not all brawn, he spoke his first word. he sure did. we were all lying in bed when the boy turned his head, noticed his father beside him, and with a delighted tone of discovery said "dada". at six a.m on a sunday morning i didn't even care that "mama" didn't come out first. that utterance bought me a good three additional hours of sleep. there wasn't the slightest bit of resistance from dada, who gladly got out of bed to watch premier league soccer with his son. i could use about six more days of that kind of luxury. between you, me, and the baby, we've been working on "dad", "daddy", "padre", "papa", "pop", and "poop" (because sometimes, he really is).

lights out, words gone

we lost power the other night for about two hours. i caught the flash of the generator out of the corner my eye before everything went black. the dog immediately started panting and the floor all but shook with her trembling. (her tracking and pointing instincts never had hope in developing. she's decently birdy but terribly gun-shy, which i use very liberally to include all things that POP, CRACK, or BOOM.)

for the first time in years i remembered what is was like to be afraid of the dark. not because i was scared but because the baby immediately began whimpering. i picked him up and he wrapped his little arms so tightly around me that i laughed, kissed his cheek and whispered "koala baby" in his ear.

my husband gathered the few candles we have and searched for matches while i continued to calm our two pups. once the flames were lit i handed the boy off to free my hands for finishing dinner. luckily all the cooking was done and all that was really left was to plate the food.

my son kept getting distracted, while i was feeding him spoonfuls of pumpkin puree. his attention was drawn to the dog who was still crouched under the table, hyperventilating. he would look between me and her with an expression that asked what's gotten into her? after a few back-and-forths he paused and slowly raised his hand, holding it out in front of him as if gesturing us all to stop. {my husband would vocalize the same notion an hour later, but at that moment, the gesticulation was a mystery.}

i continued to feed him but he kept that hand up and was looking off into the distance. what's gotten into him? i wondered. "are you seeing this?" i asked my husband. "he's so curious". then it occurred to me: i followed his vision and saw the shadow on the wall behind me. for the first time, he saw his own shadow. he's like that boy, peter - he's trying to catch his shadow.

he signaled fullness with a heavy sign and i wiped his faced before lifting him out of from his seat. the falling snow outside had accumulated to two inches and was absorbing any residual sounds that the power hadn't already taken out. a full belly, darkness, and the profound quiet was all he needed to doze off, leaving my husband and i to our candlelit dinner.

when we were done eating, my husband and i sat in silence on the couch. the house was cooling off quickly so we draped his grandmother's knit blanket across the both of us. i feigned conversation. nothing. i challenged him to a rematch in scrabble; "you're going down", but the board never came out. he kept his arm firmly around me, my head rising and falling with his breath as it rested in the crook of his neck. "there isn't a better excuse to slow down than being forced to do so by a power outage" he said out loud. "mmm" i responded.

but my mind was racing with everything i *should* be doing. i couldn't just sit there. i felt idle. he remarked on the candle holder and how we only had an hour or two under the wax would melt away in to total darkness. my thoughts went five steps further: what will we do for light? how will we all keep warm overnight? we should bring the baby into bed with us. the food in the fridge will spoil. will the roads be cleared by morning?

"come down from the clouds" my husband said. he knows me well. "i'm not like you" i deplored. "i can't just calm my mind like that". we sat in silence another few minutes, both of us hypnotized by the flickering light. i finally stood up, exacerbated and announced i was going to bed. "ok." i could hear the disappointment in his voice.

the lights came blaring back on thirty minutes later and woke me from the sleep that had only just washed over my active mind minutes earlier. my husband hurried around the house, lowering the volume on the tv and turning off the excessive lights. it was too late though. the power was back on and so were my thoughts.

he stayed on the couch reading by candlelight another half hour and i jumped on the computer, frantically jumping from page to page and catching up on my reading/writing. he shuffled into the bedroom, fell into bed, and asked how much longer i'd be. i joined him three hours later when sleep finally came back around.

the next morning i thought about my son's little hand; palm opened wide and fingers reaching in every direction for  its shadow. his instructions were clearer now: stop. slow down. find the light, study the dark. take a deep breath and let go.

six months

woops! i skipped last month's baby update and am encroaching that neglectful territory again (he's technically six months and one week today). but i cannot miss this one because it's a big one: halfway to a year!

i was just talking to another mom-friend about how much fun this time is (our babies are only one day apart in age) but then, i remembered saying the same thing last month. each time i think this boy can't get any cooler, he goes and learns something new and i'm like, never mind, this is the best. the thing is, each stage is great in it's own way, so i should probably just leave it at that and stop picking favorites. anyway, here are the latest developements:

- we've got an ambi-turner now. he rolls over both ways; from back to belly and belly to back. he's like a human hotdog. one night he was on a mission and did a record-setting five rolls to get from one end of the rug to the other. this boy's got determination.
- the boy is a budding yogi. he mastered ananda balasana (aka "happy baby") months ago and apparently got all cocky about his skills because now he's trying to create his own new pose. it's a hybrid of downward dog and a headstand, which i am coining adho mukhasana (literally translates to "down facestand"). i think he's actually trying to crawl but until he figures out to get his hands under him, i'm calling him a yoga prodigy.
- he sits like a dog with legs wide and hands in between to support himself upright. i'm noticing a lot of dog references... they say babies learn from observing older siblings; he must think our dog is his big sister. let's hope the influences stop there - i don't want him sniffing butts or jumping up on people.
- two new items have been added to his menu: oatmeal and bananas. he loves both. though i'm pretty sure he'd eat anything the way he's been oogling our food and smacking his lips for weeks. maybe that's the trick for picky eaters: deprive them of options and they'll eat whatever you give them.
- also he wants to feed himself and gets about 90% of it in his mouth. then, when he's done with a spoonful, he continues sucking on it, refusing to let go of the utensil. again, i think this is because we held out so long on introducing other food so he's desperate not to waste a bit of it. i swear, this was not our intention but if it successfully works out that he's a good eater, i'm writing a book on it. DIBSONTHECOPYRIGHT 

day breaks blue

my son cut his first teeth saturday night (i know, i expected them to come singly too). it was a tremendous relief. and before any naysayers have a chance to argue, let me assert that the teeth did just appear over night - i swear to you, they WERE NOT there before bed.

last week was awful for my husband and i, who took turns bearing the grunt of waking up to the escalating siren of our son's cry in the next room.  (i deliberately chose to botch that idiom, by the way.)  i have to say though, it was quite artful the way one of us would relieve the other in complete silence; like we had rehearsed the choreography a thousand times. by the end of the week, our dance was impeccable - though we were not as compassionate, handing baby off with an indignant flash to the reliever. really? you couldn't have come thrity minutes ago when i guarantee you were NOT sleeping through all this? (consciousness is harsh to a tired mind - it does dreadful things.)

it's all good though, we both survived the week going through an apathetic routine fueled by more coffee than is healthy. anything we emotionally had to give went to the boy while everything else got the dregs. c'est la vie.

anyway, when my mother pointed put the two protruding, white, jagged edges of his bottom front teeth yesterday, it was a glorious affirmation - validation for our son's "fussiness" and not a negligence of our parenting. a pair of little ivory trophies for our efforts.

everything is very dramatic to a new mom - maybe for new dads too, but I'm not going to make any assumptions - all i know as a woman is that when you become a mother, you constantly question your actions and instinct because you're terrified of ruining your child. despite five boastful months of having a "good sleeper", last week's regression had me eating my words and ringing my hands. what am I doing wrong? why won't he sleep? should i just let him learn to put himself back to sleep? is he hungry and waking up because the milk isn't lasting him enough to make it through the night? should i bring him in bed or would that form new (bad) habits?

of course, this all way more urgent at 4:30am when your reason is still cozily slumbering under the blankets of your brain. the possibility of getting calls from school in ten years to pick up your bully-kid hinges on the choice you make at that very moment: to sooth or "toughen"? then it all goes out the window just so he'll stop crying and go back to sleep. you want to sprawl, starfish-like accross the bed while i hold on for dear life to the edge of the mattress? deal. but no more crying.

depending on where you stand on whole the nature vs nurture debate, babies are blank canvases. as parents it our challenge to help create masterpieces, which all are, but the works range from having a figurative aesthetic to being forms of abstract expressionism. that is to say, some are more easily understood than others. in either case - and even in my most exhausted state - i look at this boy and think, god, he is beautiful.

It's a zoo

The Chicago Marathon was last Sunday and man, did it take me back. It was only a year ago that I ran that same race while eight weeks pregnant. Wait. What the what? How has it been only been a year? Time acts like all kinds of crazy when you stop and really think about it.

There I was, with a baby on my lap, watching the last bit of the race as it streamed live on the computer while only twelve months earlier he was barely a piece of creation inside me and I was running the dang thing. I know it's a big cliché and all, but I had my first wow-it-really-does-go-by-in-a-flash moment. 

 
I can't help but keep breaking the whole thing down in my head. It's such a mind-bending contrast: first he was two pink lines on a stick; then he is this blond velvety-head on which I rest my chin as we watch the lead woman drop a 5:10 for her third-to-last mile. I don't think I could run one 5:10 mile right now - even if I had spikes and a rabbit to pace me through it. I roll my eyes and laugh at how my mind instinctively goes to running. and splits. and marathons. I'm sitting in my pajamas, with no hope of stringing together 26 consecutive miles and I'm thinking about marathon pace with A BABY ON MY LAP. And he's not even a baby so much any more. He's SITTING on my lap. The bobble head is gone, replaced by a strong neck and supported by a straight back. It's all just moving too fast.

Ugh, I know. New parent. Time flies. Yadda, yadda. Before I know it he'll be 5 years old and boarding the school bus. Then I'll blink again and he'll be off to college. And all this when he's just 4.5 months old. Right. So I picked my big baby up, raising him over my head -  which made him squeal with laughter, revealing that gummy smile of his - and it was a relief: he doesn't even have teeth yet. Then we played with his zoo toys the rest of the morning. Because whales that sing “twinkle twinkle” and lions that rattle are exactly what these real moments call for. 

On Nursing

Hi. So this post is a bit, um, revealing.  I want to be open about the topic of nursing because well, it's totally natural. But it can be a taboo issue. I know, in this day and age? Yup, a woman's bosom still makes some people squeamish. Unfortunately, I think the association will always be sexual; "breasts" are "boobs" and boobs are lusty. Despite that, I'm willing to write about my experience breastfeeding (with a certain amount of modesty, of course). I mean, I hardly know you. bat, bat, bat. *blush*  So please go easy on me as I bear my, er, soul and please avoid the temptation to direct conversation to my breasts next time we have a casual run-in. 

When I was pregnant, breastfeeding was not something I really thought about. More weighty on my mind were the day-to-day changes going on with my body and, of course, the actual childbirth. I knew that I wanted to nurse and for as long as possible, but that was about it. For me, it was an afterthought that didn't require attention until my baby had already arrived. One step at a time. Get through delivery, then worry about how you're going to care for him. "Mother's instinct" should get you pretty far on your own, I reasoned.  Kinda backwards, I know. We did cover newborn care in our birth classes, so I had a bit of that knowledge. And I did have resources in the way of my older sisters, who had all nursed their children. So with the combination of those two, I figured I had the elemental information needed to make my way through the rest.

I knew that there were loads of advantages to breastfeeding, that went beyond basic nutrition. I also learned that in addition to providing baby with the essential vitamins and nutrients required for early development, a mother's milk also can also protect her baby from a long list of illnesses. Breastfed babies are also less likely to develop allergies or become obese. Nursing also lowers the baby's risk of SIDS and reduces the chances of a woman developing postpartum depression, as well as some types of cancer. As if those benefits weren't enough, it is also cheaper than buying formula and way easier than preparing bottles(as long as you're with baby). Plus, I'm an organic kind of gal and it's all natural so, you know. What I hadn't considered were the logistics. I had the what and why but was missing the how, when, and where (listed in order of complication).

HOW: Things were tenuous at first. It was a case of the blind leading the blind with 'little a' and I. You know that party game where one player has their hands tied behind their back while the other player is blindfolded and has to spoon feed the restrained one? That was us in the beginning: him, voraciously rooting and me clumsily attempting at a latch. We made a meager connection though and, much to my peace of mind, it was validated by soiled diapers. But then, at his first pediatric check-up, 'little a' had lost nearly 12% of his initial birth weight. Clunk. My heart fell to the bottom of my stomach. Clearly, I wasn't doing something quite right. It wasn't for lack of milk that he lost the weight though - I was engorged from an oversupply (which, by the way, ranks right up under the actual birth in terms of pain). Our challenge was in the delivery and consumption of the goods. I was like one of those Hula Girl Dashboard Dolls with a coconut bra, only I couldn't enjoy the connotation of that analogy because my little, weak-jawed baby didn't have the strength to crack the hard shell containing the sweet, sweet life-sustaining milk. I'm not going to put it all on him though. It was, after all, my cups that runneth over. I just had NO idea how to handle the spillage. We needed some help. Enter my multi-talented pediatrician/lactation consultant. (A twofer!) She was attentive and encouraging - all essential traits in the kind of people you want to surround yourself with if you plan on nursing. I was ready to abandon my convictions about exclusively breastfeeding because let's face it, when it comes down to your child's safety or health, all goes out the window. But thanks to her and the rest of my support-group, I didn't have to make that compromise. Turns out the solution was simple: the boy needed a straw. Let's just say that the puzzle pieces weren't fitting quite right, anatomically speaking. So we left her office armed with a breast pump and a nipple shield and, long story short, 'little a' was not only back to his birth weight in five quick days, but well beyond it by his follow-up visit. 

The next challenge was ensuring 'little a' was getting the nourishment he needed. Since breasts don't come with ounce measurements tattooed on the side, I had no idea how much he was consuming. As long as he was healthy and gaining weight at his checkups, I knew he was getting enough. But what about between doctor's visits? It's hard to quantify how much he's getting when it goes straight from the source into his mouth. I had to rely on other indicators. I already mentioned how output is a good, tangible measurement. If your trashcan is overflowing with little stinky packages, then baby is probably getting the food he needs. Mood is another reliable indicator - a happy baby is usually a satiated baby. A baby's animations are another thing to pay attention to. If he's still hungry, 'little a' will cover my chest with drool while his open mouth desperately searches for more food. If he's had enough, I'm covered in milk that has dribbled out the side of his mouth or he's spit up. Either way it's a sticky mess. When energy levels begin to run low, 'little a' will also give warning signs like dinosaur noises. Ignore them and he resorts to crying out his demands. That's what's amazing about babies; they're actually GREAT communicators. We adults just need to learn to speak their language and pick up on their cues, which can be subtle at times. Fathers should be at an advantage because women expect men to read our minds all the time - you guys should be used to it. 
 
WHEN: Again I have to give credit to my pediatrician here. She suggested an aggressive feeding schedule during the day and one that was more strung out at night. That way, 'little a' would learn to differentiate between night and day. When it's light, we're up and eating; when it's dark we're tired and sleeping. But that mean nursing every two hours during the waking hours, which gave me all of forty-five minutes detached from the little sucker (a term I now endearingly use, but which may have been said with the slightest hint of sarcasm at the time). On the flip side, I'm pretty sure 'little a' was more than annoyed by my constant disruption of his napping. But it was a very logical schedule and an effective one too because he was sleeping 4.5 hour stretches at night as a two-week old. Baby thinks; Good God, Woman. Can't a baby get some sleep around here? I'm DONE with your milk. Get off my grill.  And so, at the end of the day, baby is happy to finally be left alone to sleep. Now that 'little a' is more sturdy, we're at 3.5 hours between daytime feedings and a full seven hours at night. What's more amazing is that his and my bodies have synced up too. In other words, supply meets demand. I can tell the time of day merely by groping myself. Squeeze, squeeze. Yup, it's 7 o'clock. The boy must be getting hungry. As he continues to grow, he's become more efficient too, so what used to take us 45-60 minutes, is now accomplished in twenty. 
 
WHERE: I defer to Hollie McNish who says it more poetically and poignantly that I ever could. Her delivery was so well done, it gave me goosebumps. Watch it. 

The stages of milk induced coma

There is SO much more I could write about with regards to breastfeeding, which would probably make for an obscenely robust post so instead, I highly recommend Start Here: Breastfeeding and Infant Care with Humor and Common Sense, which was written by my pediatrician. (I know, I thought the same thing: Geeze, she's published too?) I read it cover-to-cover during a couple of nighttime nursing sessions and now I unabashedly endorse it. There are so many commonsensical pearls of wisdom in there, that it's sure to address any situation.

3 months

 
So we've been having this ongoing debate at home about when to celebrate Auggie's monthly milestones. I thought it should be counted by number of weeks, so twelve weeks = three months. But Andy has firmly held to using calendar months, e.i. May 27th, June 27th, July 27th, etc. My argument is based on the unspoken rule that you're supposed to continue using weeks to count a baby's age until they're one and then it goes to months until age two, and then you can simplify to just years. I have to admit though that even though my pregnancy was tracked in those increments, I still have a hard time thinking in weeks. Funny side story: a women stopped me at the grocery store to ask how old my baby was and I fumbled over my words before saying "Two and a half..." And she looked quizzically at me before I clarified, "Months!" Then she furrowed her brow and corrected, "Ohhh, ten weeks". Yeah, I'm a new mom. Cut me some slack, Lady. Anyway, I have finally conceded to Andy - not so much because he's right but because I've been in over my head lately and last week, I had nothing. His logic bought me more a few more days. Be that as it may, here's what's new with Auggie-baby:

• He's starting to seem less like a baby and more of a little boy - I can hear it in his voice. That quivering wail of a new born is gone from his cry. He's got stronger pipes and he's trying SO hard to use them to speak. We get your classic "goo" but even more than that, he's rolling his tongue around in his mouth like he's trying to form actual phrases. And he focuses so hard on our mouths when we speak that sometimes I think he's almost got it.
• On that same note, he's said his first word! Yes, our three-month old is a genius. He said his name: Ah-gheeee
• He's got great neck strength and can pretty much hold his head up, but just like any rigorous workout would do, it wears him out and then, his head starts to bobble and droop. He's also started stomping his feet when you hold him on your lap so, pair the two and you've got a spot-on imitation of the "Weekend at Bernie's" dance.
• There are moments throughout the day when he's just totally content and quiet. No talking, no arms or legs flailing, no snoozing. Instead, he's intently staring at his hands, inches away from his face, with fingers tip-to-tip. He's scheming, I know it. What sort of devious plan he's devising, I do not know, but I don't trust it one bit.
• He is TOTALLY crushing on his fist. The boy just luuuvs to stick it in his mouth and slime it up with drool. I'm not hurrying to see him with a girl or anything, and I certainly don't want him getting all lovey-dovey with one any time soon, but he better get that slobbering under control lest he scare all the good ones away for being a bad kisser. Just saying.

The Bradley Bunch

We went on a trip down (short-term) Memory Lane this week when Andy and I were invited back to our birth instructor's house to share August's story with her new class of soon-to-be's. If you're thinking, Psht! Brownnose. To that I say, "Why yes, yes I am." I will very proudly own that title if it gives me the opportunity to impart some wisdom on future parents and "share the wealth" (if you can call my knowledge that). Mostly though, I'm so freakin' jazzed about my whole experience that I can't shut up about it. You guys, it was the most empowering, challenging, intense, emotional, and awe-inspiring thing I've ever done. And what's the point of doing something if you can't share it with others? Personal fulfillment? Maybe. But my thinking is that this stuff is so good, you've GOT to try it.

It wasn't so long ago that I was scared out of mind about the physical act of bringing a child into the world and now that my baby and I have triumphantly come out on the other side (him, literally and me, more figuratively), I am happy to provide any information that might make a couple more comfortable about the whole shabangabang.

So quick back story: In the years between marriage and conception, I was so uninterested in babyhood. Call it youngest child syndrome - which is just a euphemism for immaturity - but, I considered myself too selfish yet for the job and needed more time to ripen. It wasn't an anti-children thing; I had six nieces and nephews at the time. Loved 'em all. But I could always hand them back to mom and dad when I was done. Can't do that with your own. 

When my twin sister had her first child it hit me, Well, it's not like I don't want children and I AM almost thirty... Besides, Claudin is doing all right. One perk of being the youngest (and less confident) twin is that she's been my "Guinea pig". Seriously though, I've always admired Claudin's courage and am often inspired by her. It should be of no surprise then that when I witnessed the birth of her second that my fascination with pregnancy was also born. By the time I was expecting, I was all in. I was fanatical about researching my condition and with each bit of knowledge I became more fascinated with the whole process. I admired what my body was doing and steadily grew curious of what else it was capable of. 

Right on point, Claudin recommended taking a course in the Bradley Method of childbirth, which suited the nerd in me because it is twelve weeks long - aka an ENTIRE trimester. (Andy about lost his shit when he found that out.) I kid. But only about the former statement because, at first, Andy really did raise a stink about three months of baby classes. The real reasons I chose the Bradley way were because 1) it's based on the thought that childbirth is a normal process and with the proper preparations, most women are able to avoid medical inventions during labor and delivery and 2) it emphasizes teaching partners on how to be effective coaches. Ding, ding, ding! Preparation and Coaching. What could be more appropriate for a former student-athlete? What we learned during those birthing sessions not only contributed to my physical and mental confidence, but put me in the running for "Most Likely to Succeed" (along with "Teacher's Pet"). Coach Andy, by the way, was a shoo-in for "Class Clown."

When my teacher contacted me about the guest appearance, I was all about it. Part of the deal was: "You get to tell your tale and then we get to lambaste you with questions." Deal! I'm down with making everyone privy to our experiences as new parents. Full disclosure. After a quick introduction, I took off with my lengthy narrative, which was then followed by Q&A. The first couple of questions were about laboring techniques and pain management. I gave a list of positions I used to manage the labor pains, along with my take on what was effective and what wasn't. Basically, you want gravity working in your favor to get baby traveling in the right direction, so walking, squatting, slow-dancing are all good examples. Also, as a woman progresses through the stages of labor, some positions may feel better than others. That's why it's good to keep trying different ones and switching things up. For example, I loved being on all fours and swaying in the early part of labor, but once the contractions were strong and I was ready to push, it was the last thing I wanted (and I emphatically let the entire birth team know when they tried getting me back into it.) Communication is key.

Another question I got was on the physical recovery from birth and postpartum activity. My stance in that regard is that you should work backwards out of pregnancy for nine months, they way you worked into it. In other words, the things you were doing in the third trimester, you should continue doing in the three months following birth (the fourth trimester); what you do in the fifth trimester should mirror what you were doing in the second; and the sixth will be like the first. That includes diet, physical activity, rest, etc. It just makes so much sense to me that way and it's what I've been doing. I hardly ran the last two weeks before Auggie was born and after he came, I didn't do a thing for two weeks. Then I started walking and after a month, I worked runs in a couple of times during the week. Now that we're nearly four months removed, I'm comfortable and strong enough to get five short runs in weekly. Nutritionally, I'm still taking my prenatal vitamins and limiting the consumption of certain things like caffeine, alcohol, dairy, and nuts. And I'm doing the best I can with sleep, taking naps, and getting to bed early. Luckily, I've got a cooperative baby who lets me have six hours uninterrupted at night. By addressing the FAQs I felt like we weren't leaving those couples to re-invent the wheel. If I had developed the clunky solid wheel, then they could improve it by adding spokes.

We addressed so many of the pregnancy questions that we barely got to touch on postpartum issues though and since that's where I'm at right now, it's more fresh in my mind than the birth stuff. There's some valuable material that I really wanted to share, particularly regarding breastfeeding. Then I thought that if I couldn't do it in class, then I could, at least share it here. With that said and at the risk of losing a bunch of you dear readers in the next couple of posts, I plan to finally get some things off my chest so peep back soon! (Unbelievable, double pun!)

"Where do babies come from? Well. I think a stork, he umm, he drops it down and then, and then, a hole goes in your body and there's blood everywhere, coming out of your head and then you push your belly button and then your butt falls off and then you hold your butt and you have to dig and you find the little baby." -Knocked Up

This post is not endorsed and I'm not trying to push the Bradley product on anyone. I don't mean to idealize natural childbirth and don't claim it to be THE way for all women. I know and totally appreciate how each woman is different and every situation (even when pertaining to the same woman) is unique, but by being open and honest maybe there could be something for everyone to take away for their benefit. These are just my humble thoughts and should be taken with a grain of salt. Most of all it's been provided for your entertainment and probably a bit to my husband's embarrassment.

Back to school, I mean, work

Alas! After twelve glorious weeks, my maternity leave has come to an end. Once I got all my worries and complaints out and off the proverbial chest, I felt much better about returning to work. So I brushed the dust off, smoothed my shirt down, and with a deep breath, took my first assertive steps out the door: Baby care instructions for grandma, check! HR paperwork, check! Clean and press clothes, check and check! As I prepared for my first day back, marking boxes off the good ol' "To Do" list, I started to feel more and more ready. Heck, I was almost even excited. Kind of like when I was a kid and summer sizzled to an end; although it was sad to see those lazy, hazy days go, I was sort of, well, over it. At a certain point, you become numb to the monotony, you know? And this is exactly how I was (not) feeling about staying at home with my son. Remember, I'm trying to pump myself up and that sometime requires delusional coercion. 

But in all seriousness, I got some great advice and encouragement from family and friends, which helped me to realize everything will be fine. I felt mentally and emotionally prepared. And I was totally fine... until this morning. Everything was set to go and as I bent over his crib to kiss his sweet little forehead goodbye, I almost lost it. That's when I felt the vice grip around my throat tighten. Holy crap. I. am going to. cry! For the love of all things, keep it together, woman! Back away from the baby. I slowly retreated, fighting back the tears. It was touch-and-go there for a minute, but I stayed cool - until I went psychotic. I went through the list with grandma for the dozenth time, her nodding all the while, as if to say "Yes, yes. I know. You've already gone over this. I've got it. We'll be fine." Then, I proceeded to say good by to anything and everything in the house... twice. I think even I turned to wave goodbye to the house. It was a sorry sight.

Once I was finally on the road to the office, though, my brain switched into cruise control. I took the regular route, walked the familiar sidewalks, and rode the elevator up; just like I had hundreds of times before. And you know what? After the initial shock wore off, I fell right back into things, like time had never passed. There were even a few moments throughout the day that I forgot about the baby boy at home. Almost as if the last thirteen months never happened. It was weird. But it was oddly habitual and, in that way, comforting. It wasn't so bad after all. And since I'm only working part-time for now, the day FLEW. Before I knew it, I was giddily skipping to my car and heading back home.

When I got home, Auggie was napping,  which I was kind of relieved to find because when he's sleeping, my absence sort of doesn't count. (At least, that's what I've told myself to feel better about the six hours I was gone). Anyway, he woke up soon after I walked through the door and we had our time while I nursed him. Here's where the whole quality vs quantity idea kicks in because now I realize how valuable that time is. And not that it wasn't special before, it's just that we had SO much of it, I thought it was alright to squander it a bit. I recently came across this article though and it was a great reminder of being present in our children's lives. A reminder to unplug.  And not just from the hyper-connected, digital web we're so easily ensnared in but from all the distractions we let get in the way of real life. So those days of me sitting at the computer while nursing? They are gone. Or, at least, severely limited. I'm not going to promise there still won't be some multitasking going on  - it's inherently part of the mom thing.

So, the best part of today? Having that full-bellied, happy baby on my lap, chatting my ear off with the most zealous "goos", telling me all about his day with grandma. Instant flash-forward to an enthusiastic little boy on his first day back from school. All that was missing was a backpack strewn at the door and an empty lunchbox on the counter. Aaaaand fade out into a nostalgic Harry Chapin soundtrack: And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon... Oh boy, here come the water works again.

My boy, already in the arms of another woman.

Letting go

A little more than one week until I return to work. Dum-da-dum-dum. Like a dark cloud, it has been ominously looming in the distance for weeks and now it's rolling in across the landscape, headed directly for a spot over my head. There, I imagine, it will find a comfy home where it'll hang out and pour, pour, pour. A bit melodramatic? Ok fine, you're right. It won't be that bad. Thank God I have supportive employers who are letting me return to a part-time schedule through the end of the year. Still though, that's thirty hours that I don't get to spend with August and someone else does.  I've already mentioned my greediness here and here so it's no surprise that I'm a bit possessive about my son, right? But what mother isn't?

So why re-enter the workforce if I'm dreading it so bad? Well, for one, we need the money. Working from home isn't an option -  I haven't built a big enough inventory of handmade baby clothes to open an etsy shop and, despite my best efforts to promote this blog via FB, I haven't got any freelance writings gigs lined up yet. Secondly, I work for a great company and have developed a sense of loyalty to them (damn that Jiminy Cricket, sitting all smug on my shoulder in his little top hat and spats). Seriously though, my employers have been super supportive and I kind of feel like I owe it to them - not to mention the fact that I've still got another two years until I'm fully vested in my retirement plan (turns out those schedules are a good retention incentive after all). Lastly, if pregnancy taught me anything it's that you can't expect anything in life because it won't necessarily turn out the way you imagine. Incidentally, I also learned that I'm a "You Go Girl". You know, one of those third-wave feminists that believe women are AWESOME.  Most of the time you'll see them at local road races - the biggest cheerleaders for our sex - and they would be totally obnoxious if they weren't so sincere in their enthusiasm. Keeping that awesomeness in mind, I recognize that I could totally surprise myself so, I need to give this working-mom thing a fair shot.

Pregnancy surprised me in so many ways and now I'm finding that motherhood is full of its own surprises. In what ways? Well, for one, I thought I'd be bored. Or that I'd feel trapped. I thought that by the end of my twelve-week maternity leave I'd have my lunch packed, clothes laid out, and shoes at the door; all ready for my first morning back to work. It'd be a relief to get out of the house and have a bit of my old identity back. To have more "going for me" than just raising a child. That's what I thought. I love being wrong. It puts me in my place; humbles me. Reminds me of my own vulnerabilities; like the fact that I've become dependent on an infant. That's right, I need this boy. And not in the I-am-painfully-engorged-and-only-your-little-mouth-has-the-efficacy-to-draw-out-this-poison kind of way. There are hospital-grade breastbumps that insurance will cover to solve that problem. I need him in the sense that he was literally my center for nine months and my balance is still a little off since his birth. I'm no longer the woman I was before he was born but I'm not not her, either.

August, on the other hand, I'm pretty sure could survive without me. We've had a couple major breakthroughs lately. He's learned to put himself asleep and just yesterday I saw him grab the pacifier and put it in his mouth. He has also finally accepted the bottle and since I've stored so much milk in the freezer that there isn't room for so much as one frozen pea, I've basically become obsolete. I knew this day would come but I thought there'd be a good eighteen years to get used to the idea. Then I read this book that just had to so perfectly remind me that,

"There comes that moment when we give our children custody of their own selves or blight their lives forever, when we understand that a being a parent is not transactional, that we do net get what we give. it is the ultimate pay-it-forward endeavor: we are good parents not so they will be loving enough to stay with us but so they will be strong enough to leaves us."

I know he's strong enough - you could draw a straight line from the top of his head to the tip of his tail bone in a perfect 90 degrees when he stands on our laps - but what about me? My self-reliance muscle has atrophied. When it comes down to it though, I want him to come into his own. There's so much potential in this kid that it'd just be cruel, to suppress it. His talents are limited to eating, sleeping, smiling and cooing right now, but he does them all so brilliantly that it bodes well for his future endeavors. And what is parenting if not the ultimate project; you produce the perfect raw material and have the opportunity to shape it into the most magnificent finished good. There's no way I'm denying myself of those bragging rights.

Slow down, August! My legs don't know how to be as long as yours.

August had his two-month check up yesterday. These visits are a big deal to most new parents; they're affirmation that your baby is healthy and that you're doing a good job as a parent. OK, that's obviously a gross exaggeration. There's A LOT more involved in determining those things. When it's your first time around and you have no other basis for comparison though, you're tempted to look just about everywhere for validation. It doesn't help, either, that organizations like the CDC, establish milestone charts that have you stacking your baby against the rest of the nation's children. Falling within a certain percentile can have you either chest-bumping your partner or developing a serious case of hives. 

Back when I was pregnant, I swore that I wouldn't allow myself to get stressed out about meeting those standards. They're guidelines, I reminded myself; Not laws. But I was kidding myself because even then, I anxiously tracked my baby's growth according to BabyCenter's fetal development updates. Those weekly emails had me over analyzing the progress of my pregnancy with their fetus vs fruit reports. At week 34 it said my baby was the size of a cantaloupe and by week 35 he was supposed to be as big as a honeydew. Are you kidding me? I thought all melons were created equal! Luckily I was surrounded by people of sounder minds to remind me I wasn't actually growing produce.

At his first doctor's visit, just days after he was born, August had lost 13% of his birth weight. I had prepared myself to see a lower number on the scale compared to his baseline because it's practically expected for newborns to lose a few ounces in the first week of life. This was greater than the accepted range though and since I had decided to exclusively breastfeed, the responsibility for his growth was entirely up to me. Clearly, I was slacking. I tried to keep my cool, but the grey tee-shirt I was wearing betrayed me and tragically revealed my underarm sweat. Major fail on all accounts. Thank goodness, again, for the supportive people in my life. With a bit of coaching from a lactation consultant and the encouragement of my family, I was able to stick to my commitment to breastfeed and a few weeks later, at his one-month visit, August was back on track and within the pediatric mean.

Yesterday's appointment was on the other end on the anxiety spectrum compared to that first visit. Our boy sprouted three full inches and tacked on three pounds to match. Either he hit the genetic jackpot or I'm a rock star mama with liquid-gold milk. Oh, how my ego wants to believe the later! The truth probably is that he had an amazing growth spurt that will taper off and eventually even out. That doesn't stop his dad from calling everyone he knows to announce that our son will be the next great American ball player. All reason goes out the window with proud parents.

What I have to constantly remind myself is to stop using statistics as a source of comparison. Not only is the "nature" of each child unique, but the situation of his "nurture" is also individual. It's why despite being twins, raised by the same parents, and exposed to practically the same experiences; Claudin and I are so different. Both of August's great-grandfathers were tall men; it could be that he inherited that height. OR his growth could hit a dramatic halt in which case we'll push a musical instrument (you should see this boy's hands - he's bound to have impressive dexterity). There I go again, getting ahead of myself.

2 months

Ok, if that first month flew by fast, then month two went into hyper-drive because I cannot believe that I'm sitting here four weeks later, looking at the same boy. While people debate whether he looks more like me or Andy, I'm certain that he looks like no one other than August. He's come into his own and let me tell you, he's beautiful. Sometimes it's so overwhelming I think I might just about lose it. Neither Andy or I were the most cherubic of babies and we both had ackward stages growing up, so where Auggie got his good looks is beyond me.

Here's the latest:

• He smiles with his whole body; thrusting his head forward and then moving it in one big arc, left to right, as if he needs the momentum to open his mouth into a huge gummy smile.
• He's taken to shadow boxing. Preparing, I suspect, for his next bare knuckle match with the other (invisible) handlebar mustachioed dude.

• At his latest doctor's visit he had gained 2lbs, most of which is concentrated in his face; his cheeks and double chin to be exact. He also grew nearly 3 inches, which his daddy was pumped about because his chances of doing any other sport besides running are now looking good. 
• We call him starfish, on account of his new favorite sleeping position.
• He's grown what we call duck fluff on his head. It's coming in nice and full, but it makes for goofy bed-head.
• The peace and quiet of our little house is quite regularly disrupted with his man-like belches.  Each times he lets one roar, I'm practically dumbfounded but manage to ask Andy incredulously, "Did you hear that?" Of course he did, it all but shook the house.

This is not a lullaby

I didn't think August could be any more beautiful until he cried. There's a loveliness to those tears and a sweet melody to his weeping that shatters my heart into a thousand tiny pieces. The corner of his eyes glistening and his little mouth quivering... I could die. But I don't panic or frantically shush him.  Instead I work silently and swiftly to right whatever wrong and make it all better. Then I sweep him up in my arms and those little shards in my chest melt and coalesce as each sob lessens. My heart is once again whole and surprisingly a lot bigger than it was before.