Full of It

Watching Eli’s intellect develop has been a blast.  As he acquires language and begins to “reason,” I become increasingly fascinated.  Language acquisition has always been a source of marvel for me, and getting to witness it firsthand has been nothing less than thrilling.

Already he attempts to “explain” things.  So, for instance, when he throws his stuffed frog onto the kitchen counter it’s “fra cli?” (frog climb?).  Or, he throws frog onto the floor and it’s “fra fall?”  You get the idea.  I worry he’s already learned how to lie, but figure he’s really just trying to reason things out.

It reminds me of a favorite story from my childhood.  The short of it is: My brothers and I did not understand, hell, weren’t even aware of the concept of, um, elimination (and I’m talking #2’s, deuces, 10-2’s, whatever your preferred nomenclature).  Why I do not know since we partook in it on a daily basis, but that’s not the point.

We were convinced that one day, and there was no telling what day this would happen, but one day we simply wouldn’t be able to eat anymore.  We would finally and truly be full.

My most vivid memory of this belief was a rather lengthy conversation outside a store in a parking lot where we debated how “full” we were.  Imagine three small children standing around pointing at various body parts proclaiming, “I think I’m this full.”  I couldn’t have been older than five or six, and if memory serves, believe we reached a consensus that I was full up to just past my knees.

Did it occur to us that every adult (regardless of age) around us still ate every day, every meal?  No.  Did we think to ask an adult about this subject?  Not that I can remember.

But man, we had some rollicking discussion amongst ourselves and the fervor of our belief both amuses and boggles me today.

I like to think of it as “Little Kid Logic.”  I’m sure it’s the basis for our future analytic abilities, our knack (or lack thereof) of figuring things out.

The three of us dreaded the day when we’d be unable to eat another cookie, or ice cream, or spaghetti.  As I got older I dreaded the day anyone found out I believed something so ridiculous. 

As an adult I find it endearing and am thankful for such an entertaining connection back to my childhood self.  And now, I turn my attention to my kids, waiting eagerly to see what kinds of explanations they come up with.

And you?  What kind of Little Kid Logic did you come up with as a child (or have your children come up with?).  Please share, I’d love to hear your stories…

Back To Square One

I still have twenty pounds to lose. 

There it is.  I thought this process went slowly after Eli, was irritated that I had to wear maternity clothes for two months after he was born.  I would scold myself, “Woman, you need to put those maternity jeans away.”  But they were just so comfortable.  And, the only pants that fit.

Now, I can’t believe that I managed to pack away the last of my maternity clothes two months after Eli was born.  It took me four months after Sophie was born to pack away the last of my maternity clothes, and honestly, I could have kept wearing many of them except for the fact that it was beginning to give me a major complex.

When I look at it from a rational standpoint it’s simple:  I had ten pounds left of Eli baby weight to lose when I got pregnant with Sophie, and now I’m down to the last ten pounds of Sophie baby weight.  That doesn’t sound so bad.  The problem occurs when I add those two numbers and see: 20.

To me that is a lot of weight.  Two years before Eli was born I wanted to lose ten pounds.  I’ve never been one to lose weight based on my diet.  For the most part I eat healthy, and even when I make a push to eat healthy all the time I never lose more than a pound, two at most.  And it must be pointed out: I like to eat.  A lot.  Thankfully most of my indulgences don’t involve fast food, processed food, or grease.  But sometimes they do.

No, for me to lose any weight I literally have to beat it off my body.  I have to sweat buckets to lose one pound.  So after a year of trying to lose weight, of exercising on a regular basis, I managed to lose seven whole pounds.  On the one hand, this was devastating.  Really?  Seven pounds in a year?  What kind of progress is that?  From a numbers standpoint it sounds like a terrific failure.

On the other hand, from a how-do-I-feel standpoint, it was perfect.  Although I would have preferred my final weight to have been five pounds less, I had to accept the fact that when I ate reasonably and exercised this was my body’s comfortable resting weight.  I could maintain this weight without depriving myself of any food, and by exercising a reasonable amount. 

More importantly, I felt good, fit, and didn’t find myself cringing in front of the mirror, or hiding when someone got out the camera (well, yeah, I still did that, but on the inside I was protesting less).

But now?  TWENTY pounds.  I feel like I am getting ready to climb Everest.

Here’s the thing:  I like working out.  I really, really do.  I like to go jogging.  I love riding my bike.  I like to lift weights when I have access to them.  Working out feels good, and has always been a huge stress reliever for me. 

The challenge is: how do I do these things when I never sleep, when Vinny works 70-80 hours a week, and when we are displaced from our normal surroundings (and my jogging stroller)?

The easy answer is: since I’m not sleeping I can find time somewhere, when Vinny is off on weekends I can get to the gym, and I’ve found some trails to take walks on with the kids.

This is going to take longer than I would like it to.  Getting to the gym (the only perk of living in an apartment complex again) once a week isn’t going to do it. 

But it’s a start.  After I work out I feel like my old self again.  I can barely jog a mile without feeling like I am going to toss my cookies, the amount of weight I am lifting is laughable, and seeing myself in the wall-to-wall mirrors does little for my self-esteem.

I don’t care.  It feels like I am starting over in every way.  In many ways, I am.  Having a baby takes a toll.  I had two in seventeen months.  Now I wish I could go back in time and shake my two-months-postpartum-with-Eli self and say, “Hey!  You!  You’re putting your maternity clothes away after two months?  Congratulations!  That’s awesome!   No, it really is.” 

My hope is there will come a point (again) when I look back at this time and say:  “You went to the gym after being up all night, running errands, doing housework and then spending the rest of the day with your family?  You didn’t collapse into bed and say ‘I’m too tired?’  That’s awesome!  No, it really is.” 

Neither Here Nor There

I’ve realized that the older I get the more set in my ways I become.  I’d like to think there was a time when I rolled with whatever life threw at me, that I took life’s unexpected trials and tribulations with cool aplomb. 

Now?

Life changes tend to throw me into a twist.  This is not to be taken as: any change gets my blood pressure up.  No, I like change, I like variety.  I consider myself a life-long student of, well, everything.  My interests are many and if anything I struggle with being decisive. 

What I’m talking about are all the major life changes and transitions that have been occurring, and that continue to occur, with some regularity.

Just when I think things are settling down, falling into a rhythmic pattern … WHAM. 

I am a homebody at heart.  I love to get out, explore, socialize, experience, but I equally love being home, nurturing my space and psyche.

Having children throws any kind of “normalcy” out the window when it comes to a predictable life (this is a plus), so I suspect part of my craving for stability comes from the ups and downs of raising kids.

In addition, the toll that living in L.A. for nearly ten years took on me cannot be underestimated.  And now, I find myself pulled back to this place yet again.

L.A., for me, is like living in limbo.  In all my time here I never felt a connection to place, never felt a sense of home.  Were it not for our family of friends here, I may have very well gone off the deep end.  This place is sensory overload and it takes mere minutes “out there” for my blood pressure to tick steadily up.

Moving back to Grand Rapids was a shock on many levels.  I’d acclimated to L.A. life, and not in ways I want to model for my children.  People here rarely acknowledge one another; everyone is in a my-ass-is-on-fire hurry nearly all the time.  After awhile I found myself acquiescing, accepting this as normal.  

We lived in an apartment complex for seven years and knew the names of three of our neighbors.  Most wouldn’t make eye contact, let alone return a simple “hello.”  It took me two years to figure out that a classmate I took a photography course with back in Michigan lived in our complex.  When I approached her to (re)introduce myself, she was initially standoffish and rude.  Only after I quickly launched into my explanation (“you were in my Photo 1 course with Pete Taylor, remember?”) did she let her guard down a touch, and two minutes later was offering to make lunch plans with me (she moved out of the complex shortly after; we never did have lunch). 

It’s taken me awhile to shake off this mentality, to believe that people around me can be (and are) genuine on a daily basis. 

I mean no disrespect to the wonderful people who live in L.A., to the handful of people we came to know and love during our time here (in addition to all of our friends from film school that trickled out to “live the dream”).  For me, it’s more about the cumulative energy that exists in L.A.  I feel it, and it wears on me.  It seems everyone wears a protective barrier at all times, and finding a way through that is exhausting … not to mention frustrating.

So when Vinny got the call to work out here for several months, it was with a cautious heart that I agreed to come.  It’s what we need to do for our family right now, so really, there is no question, but it was extremely difficult to leave “home,” because for the first time in a long time, a place actually feels like home to me.

Most people don’t get this.  And it’s something I’ve tried to explain numerous times, usually to no avail.  Any of my writer friends know that the concept of home continually crops up in my work; it’s one of my obsessions (this originally stems from all the moving I did as a child).

Now that I have children, I want them to have a strong sense of home.  There were so many things we were looking forward to this fall/winter: celebrating Eli’s 2^nd birthday (today!) with friends and family, hosting Thanksgiving, experiencing our first Christmas together as a family in our new home, and experiencing Michigan’s Fall and Winter among them. 

We will surely make memories out here in L.A., and I am thankful that we have such a solid foundation of friends here; they truly are part of our extended family.  But I can’t deny that this particular transition has been difficult, and that on some days I am not being my best self.  Between the travel, Eli being sick, stubborn adjustments to the time change, and just a general sense of “where the hell are we,” the kids have also been struggling.

The other day, after taking Eli to the pediatrician and getting drops for his ears, I set upon the task of administering said drops.  I was wary, unsure of how he would respond.  In true Eli fashion he took it in stride, even seemed to enjoy getting “bubbles” in his ears.  He now asks for them, points to his ears several times a day wondering if it’s time for his bubbles.

He once again reminds me to slow down, take a breath, and take it all in stride.  He reminds me that just because we’re here it doesn’t mean our life is on hold until we get back home.  We already call the apartment here home because it’s where we all are.  Together.  Even though my mind tries to make it more complicated than that, it really is that simple.   

Bink Be Gone

It was time. 

Eli is nearly two, and from my perspective, has an unhealthy addiction to his bink (aka pacifier, or as Eli calls it, his “B”).  We’ve cut back his use to nap and nighttime.  Even so, I feel like he’s at the age to give it up.

How to go about it?  And when?

I struggled with these same questions when it came to potty training.  From a practical standpoint, it makes the most sense to undertake these challenges when there aren’t any other major changes going on in our lives. 

However, the last year has seen: Vinny getting a job in Detroit (meaning a temporary move from L.A. to Detroit), me getting pregnant, buying a house (one of the most stressful experiences I’ve ever endured), going back to L.A. after Vinny’s show was done, giving birth to Sophie, moving cross-country seven weeks later (finally, to our house in Grand Rapids), and now, Vinny is back in L.A. for work with us to follow him there shortly (another temporary move).  I can’t remember another time in my life when there has been so much upheaval/transition/change in such a short span of time.

Thankfully, kids are resilient.  Eli, for the most part, has been an absolute trooper through all of these adventures, and just this last week has officially moved out of pull-ups at night and is in training pants full-time.  I’m not one to brag about my kids, but this little guy is awesome.  He surprises me in wonderful ways at every turn, always catching on and adapting to any given situation much better than I would expect.

I’d been figuring I would wait until we follow and join Vinny out in L.A. before attempting Project Bink Removal.  Eli’s been a bit clingy and moody since Vinny left (understandable), and the bink seems to be a source of familiarity and comfort for him. 

But then yesterday we got back from my parent’s place right at naptime.  Eli had fallen asleep in the car, and was groggy as I took him up to bed.  It struck me as the perfect time to simply not give him his bink.  As I laid him down he looked up and said, “B?”  I shook my head no and told him to cuddle with his frog and his night-night (what he calls his burp cloth, what he’s always clutched and kneaded instead of a regular blanket).

He didn’t have the energy to protest.  It felt like a huge victory.

Then came bedtime.  I figured this would be more challenging and it was, barely.  He didn’t get upset, or fuss, or whine.  He kept asking, “B?”  And I kept saying no, telling him he didn’t need it anymore.  Today at naptime he asked for it once and that was it.

The whole thing could have gone much worse. 

But it didn’t.  So I wonder, again, if we are the ones that make these hurdles so difficult.  Here I was, so worried that Eli was going to be upset, inconsolable, that he’d cry, throw a fit, etc.  I worried that taking away a source of comfort was going to disrupt his sleep, and he’s been such an amazing sleeper that I am afraid of messing with the equation.  To top it all off, I always worry that he won't handle one more change on top of all the other changes that are occurring.  I assume at some point he will hit his limit.

Instead, he’s fine.  Like everything else, he just rolls along with it. 

Having children teaches me profound lessons all the time, something I am very grateful for.  I’m not sure at what point in life we make the shift, and often come to expect the worst outcome in any given scenario. 

I don’t consider myself particularly negative.  But instead of thinking that the bink extraction would go without a hitch, I had built myself up to expect that any/all of these horrible outcomes may occur.  Of course I’m relieved that things have gone much smoother than expected, and I think that expecting any given situation to go without a hitch is a bit unrealistic.  However, I do feel foolish in that I allow myself to waste time and energy building something up to be bigger than it needs to be. 

Instead, I could have told myself: pick a time and let’s just see how it goes.  Ultimately, that’s exactly what I did … I just need to get better at skipping over the rather unhelpful internal conversation that takes place before arriving at that point.

Lesson in this case?  Do, don’t think. 

Sad to Know Happy

I was talking to a good friend the other day and she mentioned she was thinking about having a baby.  She had questions, and I assumed they were going to be of the “what is it like to be pregnant, give birth, etc.” variety.  But no.

She wondered how my relationship with Vinny changed once we had a baby.  If we were ever able to carve out time just for us.  And I have to say, these are excellent questions, questions that perhaps people do not ponder enough before having children.

I don’t think anyone is naïve enough to think their relationship with their partner won’t change once they have a child.  But I do think, in all the excitement that comes with potential parenthood, that this topic is often forgotten about altogether.

This is something I thought about often before getting pregnant.  I treasured my pre-baby time with Vinny, the freedom we had to do what we wanted, when we wanted … or even better, to do nothing at all.  Lazy days were our favorite, as were spur-of-the-moment camping trips we took on occasion.  These things are not so easily accomplished (if at all) with a little babe (or two) in the house. 

I found out I was pregnant with Eli at my acupuncturist’s office.  I was late, she knew we weren’t being careful, and she was as giddy as I was, insisting I do a pee test in her office.  The line on the strip test I took was indiscernible to my eye, I wasn’t convinced it was positive at all, but she jumped up and down, “You’re pregnant!  Girl, you’re pregnant!” 

Then you go into shock.  On the drive home I was overwhelmed by 100 different emotions.  The one that took me by surprise was the sadness that flooded in.  Even on that first day, in all the shock and happiness and awe, I already felt sadness for my relationship with Vinny.  I knew at that moment that our lives would never be the same, and that I was going to have to let go of the way our relationship was to move into what it was about to become.

I’ve rarely shared this experience.  The few times I have I’ve been met with either a brush-off, “of course your lives are going to change, duh,” kind of response, or, even worse, a look of concern (not for me, mind you, but because I was experiencing an emotion that wasn’t pure happiness).

I’ve never regretted our decision to have children, but I also think it would be foolish to ignore the feelings I had, to not allow myself to grieve the relationship (as it was) ending to become something different. 

The relationship has become something different, something better.  Seeing my partner as a father has only reinforced all the reasons I love him in the first place.  And seeing him love our children so wholly and purely has made me fall in love with him more deeply, something I didn’t necessarily think was possible before we embarked on this adventure (and a true, unexpected bonus).

There are still moments when I feel sadness for what once was.  But we do find time together, however fleeting.  And we both look forward to taking the kids on new adventures with us, soon. 

When someone asks me a question like this, I don’t hold back.  I have no qualms about being honest.  Choosing to become a parent is one of the biggest decisions you can ever make.  Once it happens, there’s no going back. 

Did I chastise myself a little that day in the car, moments after learning I was pregnant and feeling sadness?  Yes, I did.  I had that “what is wrong with me,” moment, wondered why my brain had to go there in the midst of something so thrilling, but then let it wander there all the same.  I was pregnant, dammit.  My emotions and hormones were already making me a blubbering mess, and I have learned so many times over that when I feel something I need to let myself feel it.  Quashing my instinctual responses only serves to make me less pleasant down the road. 

When I became pregnant with Sophie, there was again shock, thrill, happiness … and sadness.  This time, it wasn’t for what I was losing with Vinny, but with Eli.  I knew the time to give him my undivided attention was drawing to an end, and he is an incredibly fun child to hang out with.  He still is, but the dynamic has certainly shifted since Sophie was born, as is to be expected.

I’ve come to learn that when my mind knows it can’t “go back” to how things were before, especially when I am happy with the way things are, there is always a bump in the road.  It’s generally a large bump, and it just takes me awhile to figure out how to get over it.  What’s on the other side is worth the journey, but I’ve realized it’s okay to take my time getting there.

You're On A What?

I really cannot put into words what it feels like when your baby rejects you.

Sophie has been going through stretches of symptoms that I have chalked up to teething.  And, finally, after nearly two months of these bouts, a tooth did begin poking through the skin about four days ago.

In addition, she is in the everything-is-more-interesting-to-me-than-eating phase.  Any sound, especially that of her brother, has her whipping her head around to investigate.  I try to feed her right after she wakes, in the relative quiet of her room, but even that has only been sporadically successful. 

So there was a trend.  But nothing prepared me for last Wednesday.  After her morning feeding she literally would not eat at the breast for the rest of the day.  Sure, she had quite a large breakfast of rice cereal, bananas, and sweet potatoes.  She does this sometimes: eats a lot of solids and then doesn’t breastfeed for anywhere from four to six hours.  It always puts me into a panic, mostly because Eli never went more than three hours between feedings. 

This was different.  Every time I thought she was hungry and attempted to feed her, she would turn her head away, arch her back, and scream bloody murder. 

It’s hard not to take this personally.

After eight hours with no feeding at the breast I had to pump.  An hour later, immediately after waking from her nap, I got her to eat for maybe three minutes.  It wasn’t much, but I felt immense relief.  Then the rest of the day: nothing.

At dinner I had Vinny give her a bottle of expressed breast milk.  She wolfed it down.  This was maybe the fifth or sixth bottle we’ve ever given her.  I was happy she still wanted my milk, but wounded that she didn’t seem to want me.

Were I not so ding-dang sleep deprived perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult.  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

That night I didn’t fare much better.  There was screaming, but I did get her to eventually eat both times she woke up.  Once morning arrived she was back on the no-eating-train.  My confidence was shot, I was so tired, and every attempt to feed her resulted in: her not eating, me in tears.

After getting everyone to bed that evening I decided it was time to put Google to use.  A simple search for “refusing the breast at 5 months” brought link upon link of people writing on this very topic.  Well.  I had a place to start. 

It only took a couple minutes of surfing before it became apparent that Sophie is on a “nursing strike.”  Excuse me?  They can do that? 

This discovery was met first with intense relief (okay, I’m not the only one this has ever happened to … why does it make me feel so good when I know someone else has shared my struggle?), and then a general sense of annoyance.

What is a nursing strike?  Exactly what it sounds like.  A babe refusing to nurse.  The reasons this may happen are numerous (teething, ear infection, cold, slow letdown, change in mom’s diet, hormones, etc.), but even more exasperating is the fact that quite often, there is no reason. 

Worst of all, though there are a couple “pointers” given (most of these are common sense type things you’re probably already trying), you’re simply supposed to ride it out in relative calm as to not upset your babe or your milk supply.  Huh.

I did take Sophie to the pediatrician to rule out an ear infection.  Eli’s never had one, and from my understanding sometimes babes don’t do anything that would indicate they even have one. 

She was quickly determined to not have an ear infection (although she had the beginnings of a small cold).  I pressed the doctor (not our regular):  How long of her not eating before I should be really concerned?  I then told him I was already really concerned. 

He dismissed my fears:  “She won’t intentionally dehydrate herself.  You know, she’s eating solids, she’s distracted, she’s just going to eat less.  Weigh her once in awhile and make sure she’s gaining.”

I stared at him, waiting.  Yes, I wanted to scream, but what can I DO in the meantime?  How can I tempt her back into eating?  How can I keep my sanity?  My confidence?  My cool?  What if I’m not pumping enough to maintain my milk supply (so easy to forget to pump with the thousand other things going on each day)?  What if…?

Sigh.  Why do our minds so quickly turn into a whirlwind of doubt, anxiety, panic?  It escalates, so quickly, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it (see: sleep deprivation).

We are now on day five of the nursing strike.  Some days are better than others.  Some days I can actually get her to nurse four or five times.  Other days it’s three times, tops.  In the meantime, I am loading up her rice cereal with as much moo as I can, and manage to squeeze an extra four to five ounces into her that way. 

And I have to say, for all the irritation and hurt feelings this is causing me, she’s her usual self (well, other than when I try to get her to eat and she doesn’t want to).  She doesn’t seem to be plotting against me, she certainly isn’t starving, she still smiles at me all the time. 

I guess she still likes me. 

Each time I attempt to feed her, I silently wish that the strike has passed, that we can both get back to the good work of giving and receiving, nourishing, bonding without speedbumps.  So far, no go.  I try to keep a positive attitude and hold the worries at bay.  As is so often true, this is easier said than done.

Your Bits & Pieces

I’ve long known that people have all sorts of names for their private parts.  But as more and more of my friends have children, and we then commiserate on the damage done to our respective bits, it has become increasingly humorous to learn the lingo women toss around. 

Here’s the thing:  Women have a lot of nicknames for their cha cha.  Sure, there are a plethora of names floating around out there for the penis, too, but given our culture’s obsession with men’s junk (albeit their obsession, not ours), well, I’ll admit to being pleasantly surprised that females have not been left out of this cultural conversation.

You’ll notice the nicknames women use are generally much less crude than anything men toss around (I’m sure you could think of two or three crude nicknames men use.  If not, someone with too much time on their hands compiled a list here – gross!).

Why bring this up? 

Well, for one, I need to laugh.  Five months in and Sophie is still a poor nighttime sleeper.  Hence, I am sleep deprived beyond anything I have ever known.  The result?  Everything is funny.  Or makes me cry.  I aim for the former.

Second, my mind has been swirling in dark waters, contemplating serious topics, and this is a welcome respite from all of that. 

Third, I know not all women are open about these things and I am here to let you know: it’s okay, talk about your snacko, use whatever name you like, we’re all friends here. 

There are so many things women are hesitant to share with one another, and when it comes to pregnancy, labor and delivery, and motherhood, well, I’d rather know the ugly side of things than be unenlightened.  Yes, tell me what could happen to my lady bits, tell me what will happen to other areas of my body, tell me how to get through those days where I want to crawl under my bed and never come out, tell me that you have had tough days, too. 

After all that, tell me about how much you love being a mother, how it’s the coolest thing that’s ever happened to you, how you wouldn’t trade any of it for a second, even if it meant having your box back to original form.

P.S. Thanks to all my friends for being so open and honest with me (and making me giggle with your lingo).  I couldn’t imagine getting through this adventure without all of you…