Let's Review, Shall We?

In December, I wrote my list of wishes for the next year. I hesitate to call them resolutions because I find resolutions too depressing. So how am I doing? Let's review:


That I find the will to finish the text.
Ummm, no. I did, however, find the will to admit that the situation was untenable.


That the publisher is nicer.
Right.


That my daughters are healthy.
Let's see. If we exclude ear infections, the girls are doing well. If we include ear infections, then this isn't going particularly well. E, who had tubes placed last summer, had a very bad ear infection in February. Other than that, she has just had a few colds. Poor little M, on the other hand, has hopped on the ear infection band wagon. She has been on four rounds of antibiotics since February 21 and her hearing tests came back abnormal because of the fluid. She will get tubes on May 2. I haven't talked about this yet (probably because I am in denial), but she has not hit some verbal milestones (our pediatrician calls it a mild delay at this point) so I am hoping that once the fluid is clear, she will be able to hear and to catch up.

That daycare is more traumatic for me than for Baby M.
This one has turned out pretty well. I'm a control freak and it has been hard to come to terms that my instructions may or may not be followed (I must say this part was easier when we had a nanny). I am all for schedules, so I'm also not pleased that some days she naps and some days she does not. On the bright side, she seems happy when I pick her up and I am glad that she doesn't seem bored.

That E figures out the potty training thing.
Oh. God. No. Not yet.

That J and I have time to reconnect.
Ha ha. Part of the problem here may be that by "reconnect" we mean different things. When I think of reconnecting, I think of having meaningful conversations about non-child subjects and maybe a little cuddling (preferably in the form of a massage). When J thinks of reconnecting, he thinks of sex. I don't know if it is the breast feeding, the fatigue that comes with raising a toddler and a baby, or if I am just deflicted, but the last thing I want--and I mean the last thing-- is sex. I don't want to be touched. In fact, I get annoyed and even angry when he attempts to initiate.

That I can breastfeed M until she is one or until I feel good about stopping.
Except for the recent biting, this is working. Pumping for daycare is hard work for me, but each week I somehow have enough. I plan to start introducing whole milk (cut in with breast milk) in a sippy around 11 months so that she can be day weaned by her first birthday.

That I lose the baby weight.
Um. No. I lost several pounds when I had pneumonia, but I think I have gained them back. I am getting back on the exercise wagon because swimsuit season is upon us.

Peace on Earth.
Sigh.

That I become better organized.
Yes! I have been slowly, but surely improving. I'm still pretty pathetic, but my paperwork is under better control, the finances are under control, and I'm starting to declutter the nooks and crannies of the house. Being more organized has given me a huge boost. I have a long way to go, but it feels nice to feel more in control.

That I keep writing in this space for therapy.
Yes!

That fewer hairs show up on my chin.
Sadly, no. While it probably isn't noticeable to anyone but me, I seem to be sprouting more chin hairs. I don't want to be one of those older women (my grandmother was one and my mother-in-law is on her way) who are oblivious to the inch long gray hairs making little curly cues off their chins. I may be a sucker, but I just ordered this.

That I give more to worthwhile causes and charities.
Except to make a few trips to Goodwill and to donate a dollar now and again to March of Dimes I've not done much. Wait! I did give to Walk for Autism because my neighbor is walking in it (her son is autistic) and I did make a donation to the local rape crisis agency. Still, I should do more.


So that's my first quarter report. How is your year going?

Maimed

She bit me. My teething girl bit me on the boob. She has taken a few minor chomps before, but this was different. There was blood. And shrieking. I'm maimed.

God help me, but I do not want to resort to my father-in-law's unsolicited suggestion, but something must be done. I startled her and made her cry, which was only fair considering she MADE ME BLEED, so maybe that will be enough of a message. I'm going to be very wary the next few times she nurses.

I need to go look into first aid options. Owieeeeeeeeee!

Picking up the pieces

It has been nearly three weeks since the termination of my text contract. Overall, I feel relieved. But I would be lying if I didn't admit to feeling let down, too. Finishing major projects is analogous in some ways to giving birth.* Take my dissertation: the process was full of anxiety, and hurt like hell, but in the end I had the cutest little doctorate in the whole world. With the text fiasco there was no epidural, the baby got stuck, and there was a bitch of a nurse telling me what a shitty job I was doing-- for two and a half years.** It would have been wonderful to have walked away with a little bundle of (text and royalty) joy, but that wasn't to be. And it is a bitter pill. The aftertaste will be with me a long time.

It is probably just as well that my girls have taken turns getting sick over the last few weeks--ear infections and mystery fevers-- because I needed a little space and time to think.

It has taken me a few weeks to decompress, but I've turned my attention to two projects. In one, I am examining social network data I collected two years ago as part of a team studying sexual victimization. I am comparing the social networks of college women who report having been sexually assaulted to the social networks of college women who do not report having been sexually assaulted. I want to know if there are significant differences in network structure, such as the intensity of their ties to others and memberships in primary and secondary groups, that may heighten or mitigate risk of assault. In the other project, I am examining patterns of cosponsorship and co-voting in a legislative body to test the effects of race, gender, and other attributes on legislative effectiveness.

For the most part, I am excited to be working on both of these. Thus far, I have been reviewing the literature to bring myself up to speed on recent developments. This has been good for my ego because I'm finding that my previous work has been cited, particularly with the legislative work. I've also found that there have been some methodological advances and I look forward to being able to run my models with some newly validated measures.***

I'm going to work as fast as I can on both projects with the goal of having at least one paper out for review by the fall and others in the pipeline. I'm looking forward to new beginnings and easy deliveries.

*I apologize for using birth analogies, but it's all I've got right now.

**In fits and starts, of course. I had two babies in this time, went up for tenure, renovated a house, had surgery, and held a full time teaching job.

***Measures are always an issue with reviewers. Having published, validated measures to use and cite will make the review process a bit smoother for me.

I love this photo

I'm Free!

They opted to terminate the relationship. I am so happy. So relieved.

There will be professional ramifications to be sure, but I'm not thinking about those today. Right now, I just want to enjoy the moment.

Waiting

No word yet from the publisher. I guess it is taking her a while to formulate a response. The anticipation is not fun, but it isn't horrible either. I have plenty to do.

I feel recovered enough from the pneumonia to try and give this house a decent cleaning. Also, our dryer broke so I need to decide whether to repair it or replace it. If I replace it, I will upgrade both the 25 year old washer and seven year old dryer to high efficiency units. Repairing would absolutely be less expensive, but this is the fourth repair for the dryer. At this point, I feel like I might be throwing good money after bad. For a relatively young appliance it has been terrible. Then again, repairing it is more environmentally friendly so I don't know what I'll do. I also need to file our taxes. I did these before getting sick, but I want to review before filing. We are getting a nice refund this year (thanks to M) so I shouldn't sit on it much longer.

I also want to do something productive on the professional front so I am going to start planning my fall courses. Oddly enough, I'm looking forward to this. I will be teaching one entirely new prep, a research course, and two old staples. I've never put my courses together this far in advance (sometimes I will even wait until the week before the semester if it is a course I've taught a million times), and I am looking forward to having the time to work new readings and assignments into my existing preps and having time to thoughtfully plan the research course. Coming off sabbatical with stronger courses will be fabulous.

Thanks for the nice feedback on my decision to confront the text issue. I don't feel brave at all, but I do feel like a weight has been lifted.

I Sent the Letter

My hands are shaking and I'm feeling sick (well, more sick), but it is done. All morning I worried over this, but then I realized that as with most things, anticipation is usually the worst part. So I hit send.

I gave her three alternatives: find a coauthor to take over, cut our losses, or continue, but expect this drag on forever and ever. I tried to make the third option look horrible.

How long before she calls and demands a pound of flesh?

Escape

Have you ever had the impulse to run away from those things about your life that you find distasteful? In high school I would sometimes get in my car and drive the 45 minutes through the swamp that separated my smallish hometown from the city. I always turned around, but just knowing I could leave helped.

I have occasionally followed the impulse to get away. I moved from my parents' home the morning after I graduated from high school. It was a good decision. I made a painful break with my first dissertation advisor when he became too close and personal. Another right decision.

More often than not, though, I have not followed the impulse to leave. When I was unhappy after my first semester in college, I went back. When the dissertation was miserable, I kept at it. When I was most unhappy with my marriage, I stayed. These were the correct decisions.

Now I am experiencing that urge to bolt again. This time, it is the text that has me down.

I've had some time this week to contemplate the text, my excruciatingly slow progress on it, and my mental health. And I want out. This isn't worth my sanity. Only my children are worth my sanity, and they are already chipping away at it. I don't need an evil publisher to help them.

The whole project is troubled. First, the timelines were never realistic. There is subtle, but real pressure for me to plagiarize in order to speed things up. I won't do it. Second, the publisher won't allow me to communicate with my editor unless she is copied on every message or conferenced in on phone calls. This is bad on so many levels I don't know where to start. Third, the publisher is unpleasant (my former coauthor calls her “psychotic”) and is extremely aggressive. Utterances like, "We own you" don't help.

I read my contract this week. Yes, I signed it two years ago, but I only read it today. Brilliant, I know. The thing is riddled with the word "exploit" which makes me uneasy. Is this regular legalese or was it a warning that this would be a hellish endeavor? If I understand my contract, then the only penalty for withdrawing is that they can take my work. I can live with this. I faxed the contract to my brother, the hot shot attorney. After he tells me how stupid I was to sign it without running it by him first, he'll interpret it for me.

I've already written a letter to the publisher. In it, I explain that it isn’t feasible to have this complete this summer because I know she wants it to be well-researched and original. In it, I say that I’m increasingly anxious about the project and don’t wish to continue in this manner. I give her three scenarios. In the first, they identify a new coauthor. In the second, we reevaluate deadlines and come up with something a year out so that the content can be strong and original. In the third, we cut our losses and part ways.

I don’t know if I’ll send the letter. My former coauthor (who left the project with a letter to her that ended with a “You aren’t the kind of person I can work with”) said that I should expect her to react with fury and to expect a storm. Am I up for that?

Seven months today

I'm too sick and too tired for a long post, but today is M's seven month birthday so I want to take a moment.

I like this age. She will still fall asleep in my arms and will allow me to cuddle up as much as I like. I'm drinking it all in because I know it won't last. Soon her smooth baby skin will be roughened up from crawling and she will be too busy exploring to cuddle for long.

She has her first tooth, she is able to move around by scooting on her tummy in a bit of an army crawl, she rocks on her knees and goes backwards, she shrieks in delight when I enter a room, she shrieks in displeasure when I exit the room, she is finally sleeping through the night, she loves her big sister, she loves the dogs, and she doesn't mind the car (too much).

We were three and now we are four. I can't imagine it any other way.

Lesson Learned

I've had a cough for a few weeks. Between trying to write, taking care of two little girls, and sleep training (which went beautifully, by the way), I pretty much ignored the cough even when it got worse. I even looked up bronchitis on-line and read that most cases resolve on their own without antibiotics, and that prescribing antibiotics just contributes to the evolution of monster germs. This added to my resolve to wait it out.

Sometime over the weekend, I started feeling exhausted--not sleep deprivation exhausted, but an aching muscle and joint exhausted that I only experience when I am truly ill. Today, I finally gave in and called for a doctor's visit. One chest X-ray later and we had a diagnosis: pneumonia.

Lesson learned. Next time, I'll head to the doctor sooner and do my part to speed the evolution of superbugs.

Sleep Training

I am a zombie mom. Seven months* without a full night's sleep will do that. The results aren't pretty.

I'm forgetful. Did I feed the dogs? Did I give the baby her medicine? Did I make the mortgage payment?

I'm emotional. You left the toilet seat up again? Bastard!

I'm unfocused. Have I really been sitting at the computer for three hours and I only have four paragraphs to show for it?

Something has got to give.

Today, I took M to the doctor to confirm the second round of antibiotics cleared the dreadful ear infection. Her ears looked good, and the doctor gave me permission and encouragement to commence with sleep training while we have a window in which she is free of colds and ear infections.

So baby boot camp has begun, and I'm the reluctant drill sergeant.

My poor baby girl has been crying on and off for an hour. It is 1 a.m. and I am trying not to cave in to her pathetic squawking. I have no philosophical objection to sleep training: I do not believe I am scarring her emotionally nor do I believe she is in terrible distress.

I'm doing this because she needs to learn to self soothe. Because the booby bar closes at 8 from here on out. Because I believe a rested family is a happy family.

Still, it is hard. Has it really been an hour?

********Going to check on her now********


Crap. Now she is more upset. And she just woke her sister.

This is going to be a looooong night.


*Longer, if we count bathroom calls during the third trimester.

A thump on the head

I barely breastfed our first daughter, E. My milk came in late, I had to supplement, supply never caught up with demand, and eventually she refused the breast. I pumped until she was six months old, but it was a relief to stop.

Fast forward to baby M. We had a rough start, but we managed and are going strong at 6.5 months. I'm taking it month by month, but I'm hoping to make it to about a year.

My father-in-law is interested in the breastfeeding. Too interested, if you ask me. I think it goes back to 2.5 years ago when I was nursing M under the cover of a blanket, and he walked over and ripped the blanket off of me before I realized what he was doing. Since M's birth, he asks frequent questions about breastfeeding and makes comments that sometimes make me uncomfortable. It is hard to put my finger on what makes me uncomfortable, but it does.

Last week while they were visiting, I mentioned that M is in the throes of teething and that I expect teeth to break through anytime now. He said, "So you'll stop breastfeeding." I said, "No, I hope to keep going."

So he reached over to where I was playing with M on the floor, and he thumped my head. Hard.
"That's how the Lakota teach their babies not to bite," he told me.

So what about that made me uncomfortable? Maybe it was his assumption that teeth=weaning. Maybe it was his thinking about my breast comfort. Or maybe it was getting thumped hard on the head.

So that is the problem

M has never been a great sleeper, but with a double ear infection that did not respond to first-line antibiotics, M's sleep habits have regressed to that of her five to six week self. I won't try sleep training again until I know that she is not in discomfort. At the same time, E is waking at least once a night for various reasons. One night she wet the bed. Then there was a nightmare. Last night she was lonely and wanted to sleep with us.*

Last night I made a note of each time I woke to attend to one or both of the children. My longest stretch of sleep was just over 90 minutes. That isn't good is it?

I'm pathetically tired. So tired that I stare at the computer screen and my thoughts flit by too rapidly for me to get them down. So tired that I walk into a room with a sense of purpose, but cannot remember what that purpose may be. So tired that I put hair gel on my toothbrush this morning.

I've made little headway on the text in the past two weeks. This makes me feel stupid. Lazy. Slow. And irritable.

So today when a friend send me this Reuter's article, I felt a wee bit better realizing that I really am slower and dumber than I used to be back when I had normal sleep habits.

Child's sleep disorder affects parents too
By Amy Norton

When children have sleep problems, their parents -- especially mothers -- often have sleep-deprived nights too, research shows.

In a study of families with children seen at a sleep clinic, researchers found that when children had multiple sleep problems, their parents were more likely to have daytime drowsiness.

Mothers were generally more affected than fathers, possibly because they were the ones who typically responded to their children's problems in the middle of the night, the researchers speculate.

"A child's sleep problem affects the whole family," said lead study author Dr. Julie Boergers, of Bradley Hasbro Children's Research Center and Brown Medical School in Providence, Rhode Island.

This is important, she told Reuters Health, because research shows that sleep disruptions and daytime sleepiness have negative effects on people's mood, behavior and health. For parents, sleep deprivation may cause them to have less patience with their child or spouse, and be less productive at work and at home, Boergers explained.

The study, published in the Journal of Family Psychology, is based on 107 families of children ages 2 to 12 who were evaluated at a sleep disorders clinic. The children's sleep problems ranged from the breathing disorder sleep apnea to night terrors and sleepwalking to behavioral issues like refusing to go to bed.

When parents were surveyed about their own sleep habits and daytime alertness, it turned out that those whose children had more than one sleep problem tended to suffer more daytime sleepiness than other parents.

This was particularly true of mothers, even though they reported sleeping roughly the same number of hours that fathers did.

It's possible that mothers did have more sleep interruptions than fathers, even though they logged roughly the same number of hours in bed, according to Boergers and her colleagues. While fathers in general may be taking on more child-rearing responsibilities, they note, moms are probably still the ones who more often get out of bed to check on their child.

According to Boergers, some signs of a childhood sleep disorder include excessive daytime sleepiness, difficulty falling asleep, frequent nighttime waking or snoring."It's also important to recognize that some children who demonstrate daytime behavior problems or mood disturbances may suffer from an underlying sleep disorder," she said.

Parents who suspect their child may have a sleep disorder "shouldn't hesitate" to seek help for it, Boergers said, as there are effective behavioral therapies and medications available.

SOURCE: Journal of Family Psychology, March 2007.


*I normally discourage this, but I am so very tired that I relented.

High School Reunion

My 20 year high school reunion is coming up this year. I am somewhat ambivalent about attending. I never even considered going to my 10 year reunion, probably because I could still remember why I hated most of those people. But now, I am oddly tempted to attend. Why? I think I'm just feeling curious about how my classmates have turned out. Is Trevor really obese now? Is Christie still an alcoholic? Were these people as horrible as I remember?

The event isn't until October, so I have time. I know this: If I do decide to go, I must look better than I look right now. Sure it is vain, but I don't want to be the one who is really showing her age.

I also must lose this weight by then. Why, why is it so stubborn? Why, why am I always so hungry? I honestly think breastfeeding is the culprit. Not only is it not sparing poor M from a series of ear infections and colds, but it is making me fat.

Also, I'll have to grow my hair a bit. I cut it off a few months ago and I'm wearing a short crop. On one hand, it is easy. On the other hand, it only looks good for a week after a cut and then it looks dreadful. I think my stylist isn't good with short hair, but I hate to leave her because we are from the same hometown and because she is very pregnant and freaking about money. Maybe I'll leave her while she is on maternity leave. That would be very awful wouldn't it? Anyway, I am thinking that if I start growing it now, maybe I can get it to a just below the earlobe bob by October.

My face needs some TLC, too. I'm not normally one for cosmetic treatments, but I think I would consider teeth whitening and some restylane.

Clearly, I am seriously considering attending. Have you ever attended a reunion? Was it fun or just sad?

Six months already

Dear M:

All those months as you grew inside me, I thought you would never get here. I was impatient. I wanted to fast forward through the pregnancy and hold you in my arms. And then you were here. Now six months have passed and my impulse is the opposite: I want to slow things down a bit. I want to savor this because it is going quickly, and one day I am going to look up at a rosy cheeked toddler, and I'll have a hard time remembering what that toddler was like as a baby. I'll love that toddler to bits, of course. But I'll miss the baby.

Last week you celebrated your six month birthday with a double ear infection. I'm experiencing some mom guilt over this one because, looking back at your sleep patterns, I'm fairly certain that you had at least a mild infection for several days before I carted you to the pediatrician. I was trying not to be a neurotic mom, but all the signs were there. By the time we saw the doctor, one of your ears looked awful and the other was well on its way to awful. This is your second major infection in less than two months. I see tubes in your future.

Yesterday we took you to your six month appointment. You are a long thin baby barely breaking the 10th percentile for weight, but nearing the 90th percentile for height. For a teeny thing, you are strong and you struggled with the doctor who wanted to check your (still infected) ears. You turned beet red and let out a mighty wail with each of your four immunizations, but you quickly settled down and were smiling again by the time we made it to the car.

You are so happy. A smile machine. You flirt with everyone, even the nurse who has just jabbed you with four needles. On my desk I have a favorite picture of you grinning pure sunshine. When I am feeling down, or when I miss you, I study that photo and it helps.

I haven't had eight hours of sleep since I was seven months pregnant and you, my dear, are the reason. You don't sleep as well as your big sister did at this age. I've initiated sleep training several times, but you've been a bit stubborn, and you've also been sick with seemingly constant colds and ear infections. I have a hard time letting you cry when I'm not certain that you are free of discomfort.

You are still a breastfed baby, but you are eating solids now. So far, you have not refused anything I've offered. The nice thing about your eating solids is that it slightly reduces the amount of milk you need at daycare. This is marvelous because I am able to keep up with you and we've not needed to supplement with formula yet. There may come a time that I decide to stop pumping, but we aren't there yet.

You've been sitting well for a while and you are now getting up on your hands and knees. You haven't worked out how to go forward, but it won't be long. When you do work this out, we are in trouble. In anticipation of your impending mobility, I am trying to get big sister to keep toys with small pieces off the floor and I'm looking at what needs to be baby proofed for a second time.

You have no teeth, but given your new game of "bite mommy while nursing" I suspect teeth won't be long. I've been reading up on this biting and I'm either supposed to yelp and say "no bite" sternly, or I'm supposed to observe you and remove you when you seem to slow down while nursing. Most gurus suggest the former technique, but there is some debate over this. At least one web site suggests that yelping may scare you off the breast starting a string of negative feeding associations that will lead to later food issues and eventual obesity or anorexia. Nothing is ever straightforward, is it?

Your big sister adores you. She wants to feed you. She wants to hold you. She wants to bathe you. She wants to dress you. You return the affection. You watch her and try to catch her eye when she is not focused on you. You squeal when she talks to you. You laugh from the joy of her company. When I first learned I was pregnant with you, I had a vivid image flit through my brain. It was of two little girls holding hands as they ran along the beach. It fills my heart to see that my girls are well on their way to being friends, and I know I am going to cry when I see my girls hand in hand on the shore.

Love and devotion,

Mama

That's a Man for You. . .

I recently decided it is time to get fit, lose some weight and become reacquainted with my prepregnancy wardrobe. About the same time, J decided he needed to lose some weight as well. He has been diligently weighing in each morning and has upped the exercise and cut back on what E calls "goodies."I've been walking more, visiting the gym, and trying to make healthier choices.

So how has the weight loss gone?

I've lost half a pound. J has lost ten pounds. How is this fair?

Two Really Is Terrible

I have a confession to make: I find my 28.5-month-old daughter, E, trying. VERY trying. As in, I better understand why my stay-at-home grandmother became an alcoholic during her children's toddler years.

Today was a particularly bad day. E and M were both home from daycare with colds and fevers.* M was a little cranky, but she was fairly content to be attached to me either in the sling or the Bjorn. E, however, made it her mission to share her misery.

Today, she simultaneously wanted my company and did not want my company. For instance, if I were holding M, nursing M, talking to M, or otherwise paying attention to M, E would say, "my turn," and attempt to push her baby sister out of the way and sit on my lap. She also pulled M's hair and pinched her. I realize that jealousy is normal when there is a new baby present, but why did she wait five and a half months to start this? Just to mix things up, when I would approach M, to wipe the snot off her face or check her temperature, she would scream, "No, Mommy, no," and burst into frantic tears. Diaper changes were much the same. Even attempts to hug her were met this way.

When she wasn't yelling at me to stay away or begging to sit in my lap, she was busy removing every article of clothing. Seriously, I think we may have a stripper on our hands. Today, when she was clothed, she wore a hideous ensemble of her choosing: hot pink leggings, a pastel pink shirt with a whale on the front, and purple crocs. As much as the outfit disturbed me, I was more disturbed that in the time it took to rinse and replace a dropped pacifier, E was able to completely disrobe. If she were potty trained, it would be one thing, but so far she hasn't demonstrated any bladder control. To me, the sight of my naked toddler declaring, "I not wear pants and diapers," while standing on my good rug is anxiety provoking.

Then there was the whining. If there is an evolutionary advantage to whining, then our genes are safe. "I don't want Dora. I want Dora. I want WonderPets. The dolphin. I need the dolphin. I'm stuck. I don't want books. I want books. You do it, Mommy. You do it. I want crackers. I want to go bye-bye. My turn. My turn. I don't want a nap. I want water. I don't want water."

There must be an equation that quantifies the difficulty of raising a toddler. Something like four infants= one toddler. Or maybe it is three infants + inlaw=one toddler. Something. I do find the baby much, much easier than E.

Still, she has her moments. For instance, we are sort of potty training and what she lacks in bladder control, she makes up for in enthusiasm. This may explain why, when I use the toilet ** she says, "Good job, Mommy!"

If only I could have that positive immediate feedback for all my endeavors.


*I was shamed on Friday because E's cold was so bad that they copied the "sick child policy" page from the parent handbook and made me sign it. In my defense, she barely had the sniffles when I dropped her off that morning. How was I to know she would spike a fever of 101 and that her nose would start running like a snot river.
**I've given up on ever again going to bathroom in private.

Deadlines

I "chatted" with the publisher. It was enlightening.

It was a pleasant enough conversation at first, but when she said, "and now for something unpleasant," I knew it was time to find my backbone.

My heart was racing, but I managed to blurt out, "I won't be done by April! I won't be done by May, and I doubt I'll be done by June. July seems more realistic."

There was a silence at the other end.

And then she let me know why she had been "rough" on me during the last few communications.

Back while she was visiting* in the Fall, I told her about my research (not the hellish text, but my real academic work). I mentioned that I would be doing some data collection during this sabbatical semester. Apparently that was enough to set her off. How dare I work on anything else while she "owns" me and I owe her a text! I had mentioned April as a possible month to send a survey. That is why she decided that my new deadline was April 1 and commenced to make my life hell with snide emails and veiled threats.

As it turns out, I am not personally collecting data this semester. I have a graduate student who is starting the data collection** while I do the literature review.*** He and I meet every two weeks to check in, but until the data collection is complete in June, this isn't a big time sink for me. As soon as I told her that I will not be collecting data, she relaxed and was pleasant again. She is a control freak, isn't she? It isn't just me is it?

My real deadline appears to be this summer which is what I originally thought and is what I can live with. It is going to be tough, but I can make it if I continue at my current pace. I didn't ask for a new contract (to be honest, I blanked on it), but in looking at my contract again, I think I am safe. Plus, as J has pointed out many times, they have invested too much time into developing this text to drop me now.

I feel like I can breathe again. I don't mind working to deadlines when they are realistic. However, when they are unrealistic, I'm anxious and less productive.

I don't really feel like I found my backbone, but I'm glad I looked for it. I feel like I got closer to it than I've been in a while.


*Torturing
**Tedious work that he enjoys. Something is wrong with that boy.
***Tedious work that I enjoy. Something is wrong with me, too.

Assertiveness Training

Tomorrow morning, I have a phone "chat" scheduled with the publisher. I dread it. I would rather visit the dentist (and I hate the dentist). You see, there is no way, I am going to make the deadline. I think I can finish by the end of the summer going at my current rate, but there is no way I can finish by April. It is not possible. For someone else, maybe, but not for me.

Last week, I sent two sections. She emailed upon receipt of the second section. It was a rare rah-rah note. "At this pace, you'll be done in no time!" she said. And I felt good. I wanted to write more! Go faster! Get done in no time!

My happiness at having finally pleased her lasted all of a half hour. Then she sent a second message. A grim message. A tersely worded message. She had done the math. In order to meet my deadline, I would need to do seven sections a week. They are depending on me to get it done. The end. No more cheering.

I turned off the computer. What was the point?

I stewed for a few days. Then I finally realized just how angry I feel about the project. This was a huge step for me, because I have trouble recognizing when I'm angry and even more difficulty expressing my anger. I'm not a hothead. I don't raise my voice, I don't confront people, and I don't throw things. I wish I did. It would probably be healthier than my approach which is to internalize and to stew.

How did I get this way? My father bragged that he "broke me" of my temper when I was a child. He told me that I was mercurial and had a hellish temper.* He didn't tell me what he did to rid me of my temper, but he was clearly quite proud of changing me from a hellion to a sweet southern girl.

I wish he hadn't done such a good job of it. I am far too passive for my own good. I try to get along by giving in or by finessing situations. Neither feels good. Unfortunately, the publisher is dominant and aggressive. I don't know how our conversation will go tomorrow, but I need to communicate some things.

First, there is the small matter of deadlines. Each time I have told her that April is a huge stretch, she has just come back with a "that's the deadline." I need to tell her in no uncertain terms that April is not happening and to find out whether she is dropping me.

Second, I am not allowed to talk to my editor unless the publisher is copied on all emails or is on a third line on the phone. It would be OK (not really) if she were unobtrusive, but she frequently gets involved with what I consider to be editorial issues. It seems very controlling to me.

Third, there is the issue of her acting as if she owns me. OK, she has actually said as much: "We own you." I need some boundaries, babe.

Finally, my contract has already expired. I just looked at it tonight and it isn't clear to me that I am going to get paid since I have already missed the original deadline. I want a new contract with an August 2007 deadline.

I'll let you know how it goes.


*Sounds a lot like E. Shoot me if I ever attempt to "break her" of her temper.

What? Another month gone?

Dear Madame:

I am writing to request a do-over. That is correct: I want the month of January back. I'll do better this time, I promise.

Specifically, I'll learn to write faster. I'll pump more milk in less time. I'll stop eating m&ms. I'll watch less TV. I'll cook dinner more often. I'll exercise more regularly. I'll stop and smell the roses.

Eagerly awaiting your decision,

Em

Exercise Gives Me Hives

Really. It sounds like a bad excuse to get out of eighth grade gym, doesn't it?

I have exercise induced asthma and exercise induced urticaria. The former is treated with albuterol and the latter is treated with antihistamines (right now Claritin because of breastfeeding, but Zyrtec works best). Unfortunately, I took neither before leaving the house this morning. I'm not sure what I was thinking other than, "I need to get out now before someone needs me."

My lungs didn't get too bad, but about four minutes into my walk, I felt the familiar creepy crawly sensation on my torso and before long the itch had spread down my legs all the way to the soles of my feet. Misery, I tell you.

I pressed on, but I took a shorter walk than originally planned. Still, I logged 5000 steps on my pedometer, which beats the zero I would have logged otherwise. Tomorrow I will take Claritin and albuterol in advance of my departure.

Despite the minor setback, I'm excited to get moving again.

Mama's Got Back

Oy vey.

Today I tried on some pre-pregnancy pants just for kicks. It has been five months after all.

Oh

My

God

I am turning matronly. There were ripples-- fat bulges-- where my thighs meet my hips. My "touch of stretch" pants are no longer my best friends. They are the enemy.

What did I see today? My butt. Very large. My stomach. Soft. Poochy. My arms. Flabby. Swinging in the breeze. My thighs. Jiggly. My body image. Bad. My spirits. Low.

All this is to say that I have decided that it is time to do something about this. I made a feeble attempt to start a walking program a few weeks ago, but I quit when the temperature dipped and it rained. What a wimp.

But now I've decided that this is war. And I'm going to win.

Truthfully, it should be doable. I'm only about eight to ten pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight, but the distribution of fat around my thighs and tummy have given me a whole new shape that I do not much appreciate. This isn't just about fat distribution and weight, by the way. It is also about feeling better and having some confidence. I used to run marathons. I was strong and toned, and I felt healthy. I want to feel that way again. I don't have to be marathon ready, but I want to feel fit.

I've not been giving myself time to exercise. Everyday feels like a race of sorts: wake at 5:30 with the baby, nurse her, try to get her to sleep with me for a little while, wake with E at 6:30 if J is still out running, fix bottles for daycare, dress children, dress self, nurse baby again, take girls to daycare, drive home, fire up computer, clean breakfast mess, try to write, pump, try to write, throw in a load of laundry, try to write, pump, vacuum, try to write, pump, go get girls, play, nurse baby, fix dinner for E, bath time, reading time, nurse baby, bedtime, try to write*, pump, 11:30 p.m. collapse into bed.

J thinks I should use daycare time for going to the gym, but I feel like daycare time should be work time. I think I'm going to have to get over it once in a while. Mostly I'm going to make myself take a midday walk or run starting immediately. I'm also going to watch what I eat, but not start any defined diet plan as I'm certain I won't stick to it for long, and that will just depress me.

I'm writing this here to keep myself motivated. I hope that by sharing my desire to get fit I will be too shamed to let a little cold and rain dissuade me. I'll post my stats every few days just for the sake of public humiliation.


*Or watch Top Chef, 24, Lost (soon!) or other programs I should really be ignoring.

Five months already

Someone recently told me that the hours go by slowly, but the days pass quickly; that sounds right to me. I find myself longing for a button so I might freeze time and drink her smell, feel that soft skin, and listen to her baby sighs. Of course, there are times I want to fast forward through the bad nights!

What is M doing at five months?

Her gross motor skills are more developed that E's were at this age.* She is sitting pretty well. She flops after a while, but she can support herself well enough to sit by herself (I'm in hover mode, of course). She picks up items and passes them from hand to hand. Last night, she became enraged because I was pumping rather than nursing her (hey! she was the one off schedule!). While I was fumbling with my very sexy and very fancy hands-free-pumping-bra, she managed to get on her hands and knees and actually scooted backward.

She has just started eating a little cereal and fruit. I'm hoping that the addition of solids will keep her milk consumption stable so I don't have to pump more frequently.** So far we have completely rejected rice cereal, accepted oatmeal and happily (just this morning) accepted a wee bit of pears in the oatmeal.

She is still a good humored child. She smiles and giggles throughout much of the day. She babbles to herself. She shrieks in a way that makes me think she is copying her doting big sister.*** She flirts with strangers at the supermarket and grins at cashiers. She laughs at our dogs. She laughs at the birds that come to the feeder outside the kitchen window.

She is not sleeping through the night, and I haven't had the heart to let her cry it out for longer than 20 minutes. It is time, I think. She wakes because she has flipped to her tummy and is mad (yes, she can flip both ways, but she seems unwilling to do this at 3 a.m.), and she wakes and cries for her paci. I'm looking forward to the day she figures out how to get the paci back in her mouth. I will leave them scattered throughout her crib.

I hear her waking from her nap. Must run. The day is going quickly.

*I am guilty of comparing my children to each other and to other children.
**I kept up with her this week. No dipping into my frozen stash!
***Is shrieking in a high pitch hardwired for girls? Did I do this? Did it make my mother a little crazy?

Random Thoughts from the Dairy

I miss the days of being able to drink a glass (or more) of wine whenever I wanted without wondering if I might get the baby drunk.

Nursing bras are pretty comfortable, but not attractive, and certainly not sexy.

I'm worried that the girls are going to look like sad, deflated windsocks when we wean.

I want an apology from all the writers of pregnancy books who cheerily assured this mother-to-be that "breastfeeding melts the pounds away."

I have a fear: what if she uses me as a teether?

I hate pumping.

I'm jealous of the bottle.

I think it is adorable when big sister, E, lifts her shirt and "fweeds" her baby doll.

When M stops nursing long enough to look up and grin at me, I melt.

Sometimes I feel tied down. But I can't imagine stopping.

Happy Birthday, Mushroom Man

I have a talent that is often helpful, but is occasionally just weird. I remember birthdays. For years and years. My best friend in fifth grade who I haven't seen since 1980? December 5. The mother of a friend from second grade? December 24. My first college roommate who I hated with a passion? August 30.

This isn't a bad talent to have--I remember to send birthday cards to friends and family and can be depended upon to send reminders to send birthday cards to my brothers and husband who do not share this talent. However, I have been know to freak people out. Like the clerk at the bank who casually mentioned it was her birthday July 3 one year and who I wished a happy birthday the next year-- I'm pretty sure she thought I was stalking her.

Which brings me to today. Today is the 40th birthday of an ex boyfriend, S, who was the last person I dated before I met J. S was an asshole from the beginning, but it took me a while to figure it out. I thought he was mysterious and worldly. This was probably because I was a senior in college and he was a graduate student, and I found graduate students rather exotic and exciting. It was a short affair: we met at a Halloween party and the relationship was over by the following August.

He criticized everything I did, even the way I put on deodorant. When I had a migraine and said I was nauseous, instead of offering up an icepack he informed me that nauseated was the correct word to use. He noticed when I gained five pounds. He slept with another person and "forgot" to tell me about it until I confronted him. Yes, he was that kind of guy. And here he is intruding on my nice day.

He had one hangup. He didn't want me to look at him while he was disrobed. Actually, he didn't want me to look at it. Maybe he failed to realize that it did not require the sense of sight to realize that he had a wee willy-- just like a little shiitake.

About the working mom thing. . .

Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tightrope. On one side, there is family and home. On the other, work and career. There is no safety net; one misstep, and I'll come crashing down. Very rarely do I feel balanced and secure. Most of the time I feel like I do this week, dizzy, bobbling and teetering, about to go over the edge.

On Friday, I decided to keep M with me. Another day pumping and my nipples would never forgive me. I enjoyed that day immensely and even got a small amount done on the next section of the text. That was my last productive day. Here is what has transpired since:

• The cough E has had for a week started sounding worse over the weekend and she began running a low fever. I decided not to take her to weekend sick child hours because she wasn't acting terribly ill and I don't want to gain a reputation as a neurotic mom. Of course, this meant that by Monday morning she was running a high fever and was on the verge of developing pneumonia. M has started coughing so I'm worried we'll be dealing with this one a bit longer.
  
• My mother, while on a church retreat, took ill and required emergency gallbladder surgery. I spent two days talking with my brothers to see which of us would make the trip to be with her during the surgery and take her home. Middle brother had depositions to take and my niece's dance recital to attend, youngest brother was starting a new position that does not involve a uniform, and I was home with a sick toddler. Which meant that my mom had to have surgery with no family present. So which of the three siblings was guilt-ridden over this? I'll give you a hint: if you look up, you'll see her wobbling rather spectacularly.
• The publisher of the text sent a nastygram disguised as a positive message. At the end of the message, there was a sinister, "Don't forget the April 1 deadline." This is 29 days earlier than I planned for (yes, I knew it was April, but I was thinking the end of April) . This means I am even further behind than thought.
• I forgot to review a manuscript for a journal. The editor sent me a reminder tonight. I feel guilty because I hate, hate, hate it when I am waiting to hear if something has been accepted.

Tomorrow, I think I should be able to send E and M to daycare so I'll try to regroup, get back on the wire and do my thing.

Focus: Making Every Moment Count

The reason E and M are in daycare is because I have to work.

I have several projects underway, but the main feature is completing an introductory text. I've been under contract for this project for quite some time. In theory, I am already in breech of contract, but they are giving me until this summer to complete it. As I've said in this space before, agreeing to the project was the biggest mistake of my professional life. And yet, I must slog on.

Last week I did very little on it and now I am kicking myself. M was in daycare without me for 18 hours and I barely touched the project. I'll give myself a little slack for Tuesday--I was heartsick and teary--but I spent so much time freaking about the pumping situation on Wednesday and Thursday, that I didn't do much writing. This won't do.

My belated New Year's resolution is to make every moment count. So I can get back to my children and my life.

Specifically, I need to:

• Work on organization. I spend too much time trying to remember where I am on projects. I forget file names, save everything to the same folder, and do other things that are ultimately time wasters. I need to write myself a note at the end of each work session so I can jump back into things more easily the next. I need to file notes daily so they don't accumulate in a big pile next to my desk.
  
• Stop multitasking. M is in daycare because I'm unable to write and care for a baby simultaneously, yet I often find myself trying to write while responding to emails, taking phone calls, and tending to the house.
  
• Exercise. I'm a calmer, more focused person when I get some exercise. However, I haven't been getting much exercise because I feel guilty for taking the time. When weather cooperates, I will take a walk or (better yet!) a short run to the river and back. I'll make myself get to the gym once a week for weights or a pilates class.
• Compartmentalize. Except to stop to pump, I have to stop worrying so much about the children so I can be clear-headed.
  
• Remind myself everyday that this project will end.

OK-help keep me honest. I need to get this out of the way so the guilt and vague sense of doom disappear.

A good day

Since there has been much wailing and gnashing of teeth around here all week, I thought I should post to say that today was better.

First, I kept M home. I decided that three days the first week in daycare was plenty. My anxiety level is much reduced. While it is true that I wasn't terrible productive, I did get to read the editor's edits of two sections and make comments.

Second, I had a lengthy grudge match with customer service at Greenpoint Mortgage. The company failed to record the satisfaction of our old loan with our county. This was my fourth call to attempt to resolve the issue and this time I was armed with language from the closing attorney (for a HELOC). When I explained to the customer service rep that they were in violation of state law and could be fined $100 for everyday they failed to record the payoff, I was finally connected to someone with a bit of discretionary power.

Finally, although I just nursed today, I threw in a few pumping sessions and was happier with the yield. Maybe, just maybe we can keep going.

Not a resolution

No, I didn't resolve to blog everyday of the new year. It just turns out that this is cheaper than therapy and better than pills.

Today, I lost six months of emails related to my text. The email administrator at my university was able to recover these early this afternoon. He told me that the way they disappeared shouldn't have happened because I don't have rights to wipe them the way they were wiped (I really couldn't follow what he was saying, but I did gather that this probably was not my fault). This just reaffirmed my basic sense that this text is cursed.

I had a slightly better day pumping. Bribing them with promises of new lingerie may be helping things a bit. Then again, the slight increase in output could be the result of the combination of domperidone (I've been on this since I was re-hospitalized after M's birth but I just went up a bit), fenugreek, blessed thistle, oatmeal (which I detest) for breakfast, rescue remedy and breast massage. Anything else I should add to the mix? I've been told that beer is good for lactation, but I truly detest beer. Too bad no one is suggesting tequila. I would jump at that.

To: Lazy Lefty and Righteous Righty

Dear Girls,

I have to be honest with you. I'm stressed, OK? You aren't keeping up with M's daycare feedings and this frozen stash is going to evaporate in about two weeks at this rate. I spent a lot of time reading about increasing pumping output and I think I'm doing all I can. It is your turn.

I hate pointing fingers, but I must. Lefty, get on the ball, damn it. Righty is exhausted and chafed from all the pumping. She has produced enough for over half of M's daycare feedings. But you? You are not performing up to expectations and every time I open the freezer door, I feel agitated. Shape up, lady.

Righty, bless your heart. You seemed a bit tired today. I know you dislike the pump. Who doesn't? But please, please produce more tomorrow. OK?

Love,

Em

Mother's Milk

The first day of daycare went as well as it could have. I'll let you guess which one of us did the crying today.

I'm a bit concerned because I did not pump as much as she took from the bottle today. Fortunately, I do have a small stash of frozen milk. It tastes terrible--like soap--but she'll take it.* The stash won't last forever, though.

I've been worried about this. Despite buying a $300 pump, I never get much output. Three ounces is a great pumping session for me. My yield decreases as the day goes on and by evening, I can't pump much.

What is strange is that when I nurse M, she usually seems satisfied. Occasionally, there are nights when I have to supplement her with what I have pumped earlier in the day, but this is not an everyday occurrence.

Perhaps I'm sensitive to this because I've had supply issues related to postpartum preeclampsia with both girls. My milk came in so late (10 days) with E that I was never able to exclusively breastfeed. Mother's milk was the supplement and formula was the main course. By three months she was balking at taking the breast, and by four months, I was reduced to pumping for her. I quit altogether at six months. One day, when she falls in love with a Republican creationist, I'll know it was my fault for not getting more breastmilk into her.

My milk started to come in earlier with M. I still had supply issues, but the preeclampsia was so severe that I was readmitted to the hospital where I had access to an awesome lactation consultant. Using a supplemental feeder, I was able to continue breastfeeding and was able to end supplementation within a few weeks. Being able to exclusively breastfeed her has been hard work, but a joy all the same. Look at this chubby baby! I did that!

My fear at the moment is that I'm not going to be able to produce enough for her. I am not one of those breastfeeding Nazis who condemns women who formula feed, but breastmilk factors heavily in my rationalization of daycare. I feel like if M can't be with me all day that she should at least have a part of me.

I've spent a little bit of time browsing sites about boosting milk production and looking for pumping tips. I'm going to set the alarm to wake up extra early and try a pumping session. If that works, I may just be able to meet her needs. I'm also starting Fenugreek and Blessed Thistle. I'll let you know how it goes.

*If ten years ago, you had told me I would be doing taste tests of my milk, I'm afraid I would have run from the room screaming.

I Miss Her Already

I worried through my entire pregnancy that I wouldn't love this baby as much as I loved my first. That intensity, that awe, that feeling of wonder, of connectedness, the purity of mother love--how could there be more of it? My heart had so expanded with the birth of E that I couldn't quite believe there was room for it to happen again.

Of course, I was wrong.

Even as I labored, it nagged at me. Then, as I entered transition, that pure mother love hit me again like a tsunami. And I went where it carried me. I laughed with pure joy and expectation. My child was almost here! I pushed, watched her emerge, and then held her to me. I didn't want to let go even long enough for them to weigh her.

And in the four months since, I have loved M as intensely, as purely, as completely as I have loved E. There are differences to be sure. My attention is divided between my girls, but that diminishes nothing. If anything, my love has been magnified*. And I still don't want to let go.

Yet, I must.

M starts daycare. Tomorrow.

For four months, I've had her to myself.** I know this baby better than anyone. I know her cries; I know her smiles; I know the secret of her laugh; I know her heft; I know the feel of her on my breast. I've only left her twice--once for business and once for pleasure-- and I've never missed more than one feeding.

And yet, starting tomorrow, I am handing her over. The time has come for me to return to work and finish the text. Or else.

I wish, oh how I wish, that I were one of those women who could multitask her way through life. I would be dressed nicely everyday, have dinner planned ahead of time and be training for a triathlon, all while working from home with two little ones running underfoot.

But I am not that woman. I'm a terrible multitasker. I wish I could focus while caring for M, but I can't and I know it. When she is near she sucks me in with her smiles, laughs, coos, and cries and I just can't think about social theory and constructs.

Tomorrow is going to be a hard day. I hope it is more traumatic for me than for M who I miss already.

*I used to think women who said they were in love with their babies were horrible saps. I suppose I still do, but I have joined their ranks.
**I did have a sitter in two to three afternoons a week for six weeks, but I was upstairs writing (or not) and would come downstairs to nurse or just to get my baby fix.

A Wonderful End to the Old Year

It is supposed to start raining any minute. Which is wonderful news because it means my pyromaniac neighbors will have to stop shooting fireworks soon. Right?

Happy New Year. Wishing you all the best.

The Year in Review

I'm imitating Suz at WithintheWoods and recapping the year by reposting the first line of the first post of each month. Never mind that I took a break in June. . .

Peace, prosperity and happiness to you.

I know you read this.

Life goes on.

Today we had the big ultrasound.

I haven’t been writing too much lately, and we have my students to thank for it.

A quick recap of the last several weeks:

Ouch. I know you probably feel cramped in there, but I think you may have cracked one of my ribs tonight.

My less-than-one-percent-chance-of-conception baby has arrived.

I promised a birth story, so here goes.

Ah. The publisher will be here Friday.

Every once in a while, a news story will grip me and I will become preoccupied with it.


That was rather enjoyable! I suppose it is time to make some resolutions.

38

That's my age in a few hours. Yesterday, my twenty something beer-truck-driving brother told me he can't believe I am almost over-the-hill. I told him that I can't believe he is still draftable and that given the way this Iraq thing is going . . . Then he gave me a countdown calendar for the days Bush remains in office and all was forgiven.

I usually recap the year in anticipation of my birthday. I like to take stock, you know? I checked out my post from last year and was pleasantly surprised to see that most of my wishes for this year came true. It has been a most excellent year.

Let's review shall we?

That this pregnancy is healthy. YES!
That Baby E thrives despite the problems we have had with childcare. YES!
That Baby E gets a spot at a good center by May. IT HAPPENED IN JUNE!
That I summon the strength and discipline to finish the text. NO. SEE MY LIST FOR THIS YEAR.
That I succeed in getting family leave and sabbatical next year. YES! THE PROVOST JUST REALIZED WHAT I GOT AWAY WITH!
That I be a good mother to my daughter and a good wife to my husband. I HOPE SO
That there are fewer natural disasters to fret over. YES
That I remember others have it much worse. I TRIED
That I keep writing in this space for therapy. YES
That fewer hairs show up on my chin. SIGH
That Karl Rove is indicted and Cheney is forced to resign. NOT QUITE, BUT CHENEY'S SHOOTING A HUNTER WAS PRETTY GREAT!
That Dems take over in midterm elections. YES! OMG! YES!
That there is peace. SIGH

I'm typing with one-hand and holding/nursing the baby with the other so I'll keep this year's wishes modest.

That I find the will to finish the text.
That the publisher is nicer.
That my daughters are healthy.
That daycare is more traumatic for me than for Baby M.
That E figures out the potty training thing.
That J and I have time to reconnect.
That I can breastfeed M until she is one or until I feel good about stopping.
That I lose the baby weight.
Peace on Earth.
That I become better organized.
That I keep writing in this space for therapy.
That fewer hairs show up on my chin.
That I give more to worthwhile causes and charities.


Merry Christmas. Wishing you a joyous holiday.

Not Feeling the Christmas Magic

I have a head cold, my baby has an ear infection, and the two-year-old doesn't give a damn that Santa is gravely concerned that she is resisting bedtime. This will have to be short.

Still, in anticipation of spending the 23rd with my family, I feel the need to share a short Christmas story. One that pretty well captures the Christmases of my youth and may explain why I dread our holiday visit. My family, you see, is BSC.*

The year was 1988. I was returning home for the holidays after my exams. After a long drive north from Tallahassee, I stumbled into the front door of the family home at dusk. I smelled cookies baking. The tree in the big bay window looked and smelled lovely, and there was a fire in the fireplace. It seemed so normal. Could it be? Had aliens replaced my family with normal people? It was so . . . Norman Rockwell.

It wasn't to be. The calm lasted less than 30 seconds. My dog, a poodle**, heard me enter and ran in my direction. Did you know that poodles are prone to cataracts that make objects-- even large ones like nine-foot brightly lit Christmas trees--invisible? The poodle missed me by a wide margin but found the tree. She went into the tree, up the tree, through the tree. The poodle, all eight pounds of her, toppled the tree. It made an enormous crash. Then the house went silent.

Now, remember, I had been gone for four months. I was expecting my parents to make a fuss over me. Welcome me home. Ask me what special dish I would like for dinner. Instead I got this:

"What the f&*^! Get back here, dog! Get back here! My tree! My motherf@$# tree! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

My mother appeared in the door, butcher knife in hand, screaming. She was drenched in sweat, either from cooking or the side effects of menopause or possibly a combination of these. She did not acknowledge me, the child she had last seen in August. Instead, she lunged at the dog who, sensing danger, shot between us and ran to the back of the house, skittering along the wood floors all the way. My mother gave chase and around they went. Through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the family room and back again. She pursued the dog even as my eight-year-old brother begged her to spare the dog's life.

"But she can't see," he sobbed, "Please don't kill her. Please don't kill her. I love her. Waaah." That my brother even thought it was plausible that our mother might kill the dog should convince you that I am not exaggerating when I say that my family is BSC.

Nothing stands out from the rest of that visit. The dog's life was spared. The tree was mended. I was a debutante.***

Going home is hard for me. While I enjoy seeing my brothers, I never know what I'll walk into when I go through that door. I do know this. I hide the butcher knife when I go home. Just in case.





*bat shit crazy
**my parents are small, yappy dog people
***a story for another day

Then and Now

Then . . .




and Now. . .

One year ago today

I can't believe a year has passed since that second, faint pink shadow of a line showed up on the pregnancy stick.

Heavy Heart

Every once in a while, a news story will grip me and I will become preoccupied with it. It will play over and over in my mind, and I will surf the Internet looking for updates or clues. It will keep me up and night and it will be one of the first things I think of when I wake.

That happened this week.

The Kim family of San Francisco went missing after a Thanksgiving holiday visit to friends in Portland. James and Kati and their two daughters, ages 4 and 7 months, became lost and then trapped in the unforgiving Oregon back country. The lost persons story aired late last week and I followed anxiously as authorities tried to locate them.

On Monday, nine days after becoming stranded, Kati and the daughters were discovered in good condition. I was elated that they were alive and more elated still when I learned that Kati had nourished both children by nursing them (hey! I could do that!). What a hero!

My joy over their rescue was tempered by the fact that James was still missing. He had left two days earlier on foot to seek help. Search teams immediately started tracking him, but today, two days later, his body was discovered. I don't know the cause of death, but it seems clear that exposure played a role.

I've already seen criticisms of James' actions posted around the web, (Why drive back roads? Why leave a roadway when lost? Why go out without provisions?) but I am here to praise him.

For sticking it out as long as he did. For keeping the children safe. For being resourceful. For having the courage to try to increase the odds of being found. For sacrificing all for his family.

I'm an optimist deep down and I was hopeful for a miracle right up until the press conference when his death was confirmed. I am terribly sad for the Kim family tonight and hope that they find peace and strength and courage to go on.

Worst Parents in the World

Last night, E wouldn't settle down for bed time. We had been to a birthday party and thought she was just revved from all that sugar. So we practiced tough love. First we made sure her diaper was dry and that the room temperature was comfortable. Then we ignored her while she screamed and pounded on the door. This went on for some time. We congratulated ourselves for setting boundaries and for not caving to a two-year-old's whims. She woke several hours later and was hard to soothe. Tough love again. More screaming. Once again, we traded self-congratulatory comments across the pillow.

This morning, J noticed that E's hair was matted and that her ear was oozing a bit. She has tubes, and some drainage is normal with a cold, so we weren't alarmed.

Then, during her afternoon nap, both ears exploded. Pus. Blood. Ooze. She has a double ear infection. This is quite a feat considering the tubes. It must have been hurting badly last night, but we were so focused on the sugar she consumed that other possibilities didn't occur to us. So she suffered longer than necessary.

Tonight, she is more comfortable. The antibiotic drops are doing their thing, and the ibuprofen is helping with the pain. She went to bed without complaint.

This parenting thing is tricky business. I think we get a lot right, but when we goof, we really goof. This time, we erred by assuming that she would be able to alert us to something serious. Last night when we asked her what was wrong, she asked for her books, she requested water, and she cried to be let out of her room. She never said a word about her ear. We should have known that her communication skills aren't yet sufficient to express what is wrong. She can sing the "happy birthday cake" song, but she can't say that her ear hurts like a bitch. She screams and we try to interpret. Last night, we got it wrong. Very wrong.

I wonder what therapy she is going to need later in life. Because of us.

Control

I have stress dreams that are good barometers for how my life is going.

In the first, I am behind the wheel of a car in the parking lot of Target. It isn't my car. It is big, old and non-responsive . The brakes barely work and the steering is off. If you have ever been the driver of a bumper car at your county fair, you may be familiar with the sensation of driving this beast. In my dream, I am desperate to avoid shopping carts, cars, and pedestrians. Somehow, I do manage, but barely.

In the second stress dream, I look out across the horizon and see tornadoes coming my way. Whichever way I run, they follow. I thank the jackasses who made the movie, Twister, for this dream. I think tornadoes might be cool if they were predictable and filed a flight path first. As a side note., my fear of tornadoes is not without merit. I have seen two, up close and personal, in the last four years. The first time I saw one, we were out shopping for a car. I pointed out the tornado to my husband and the sales staff. As I started formulating a survival plan--the freezer room in a nearby minimart seemed to be the best bet--the men, my husband included, ran outside gawking at it. I don't know if they were brave, or (more likely) if the Y chromosome kicked in and overrode their sensible, cautious side, but they weren't thinking about seeking cover. Luckily it went the other way. The second tornado appeared on a jut of land just across the harbor. I stopped the car and called 911 to report it. I thought the man in front of me was doing the same, but it turns out he was taking pictures with his cell phone.

In the final stress dream, I am a passenger in a plane that is going down. Matthew Fox is not on board. My fear of flying can probably be traced to the death of a childhood friend's father* Then in 1994, I had a horrible flight out of Colorado Springs which involved turbulence and a short dive in which people screamed and luggage flew out of the overhead bins.

My stress dreams have returned. It doesn't take a psychologist to realize that the common theme in each of these dreams is control or lack of it, to be more precise. Lately, I've been in reaction mode at home and at work.

At home, Baby M has had a cold and has regressed on the whole sleep through the night thing. She wants to be held most of the day and she hasn't been eating well. This has left me stupid from sleep deprivation and in pain from a nasty case of plugged milk ducts.

E is doing better, but she is two, which means she is opinionated and of limitless energy. She has taken to walking around with her pants and diapers around her ankles declaring that she needs to go potty. This is now a ritual activity complete with reading materials (thanks, J), toilet flushing and hand washing. It was cute at first. Unfortunately, she doesn't quite have the awareness in advance that she needs to go and only tells me after the fact. This does not curb her enthusiasm so we are spending a good bit of time in the bathroom which is, of course, making me a bit insane. I'm considering installing a wine bar in there to help me relax.

On the work front, I have the text hanging over my head. And a publisher who is truly not nice. I also have the department's assessment report to write, but to do that I'll need to analyze the data in all my free time**and to work with a colleague who, while well-intentioned, is a bit much. Do I really need to know that she and her husband made love*** last night? Do I need to hear about the patriarchy that stand in the way of her making full professor?

Finally, I'm fat. Well, not so much that my ass is going to be featured on the news tonight as an example of American gluttony, but fat for me. The baby weight is being stubborn. My father-in-law said something to me about it today over Thanksgiving dinner as I was eating seconds.****

All this is to say that my stress dreams have returned and I am feeling a bit out of control. This must end: I need more control or at least the illusion of more control. Now. I've started a small experiment. Starting two days ago, I am doing my best impression of someone who has things under control. If at the end of a week, I don't feel slightly better, I'll try something different.

I'm keeping the house neater. Specifically, I'm not going to bed with anything out in the kitchen, I'm insisting that messes should be cleaned as they are made (pretty amusing with a two-year-old in the house), I'm planning meals head of time*****. I'm selecting outfits the night before they are to be worn. I'm checking bank balances. I'm thinking about the text.

What am I missing? How do you hold things together?

*I recently realized that the crash was the same one that claimed the life of Steven Colbert's father and brothers).
**I have loads of it, if we count the hours I senselessly devote to rest.
***Her words, not mine. This sounds so cheesy to me. So 1970s. So herpes era.
****Was this comment necessary? I think not.
*****This week is easy. Leftovers. I plan for the family to eat the leftovers right down to the turkey bone marrow.

Three Months: A Short Thanksgiving Story

Last Thanksgiving, I was seriously depressed. Mood and FSH levels are inversely related after all. Despite the dire fertility diagnosis, I was not willing to accept the RE's word that my ovaries were cooked. I was mid cycle and armed with an ovulation prediction kit, Preseed, and the conviction that I would have another baby even if it meant second mortgaging the house and cycling across the country at a high FSH friendly clinic. I was a woman on a mission.

Thanksgiving morning I took food to bleary-eyed friends who had a three-day-old baby. Later, my in-laws spent the day with us which meant I had to sneak off to the bathroom to pee on a stick and then obsess. The lines almost matched which meant I was close to ovulating. Hope! Now if the in-laws would leave already.* After hours of discussing whatever my in-laws discuss** they finally left, we did that which needed to be done, and somewhere over the course of that long weekend we did what seemed impossible: we conceived naturally.

M is three months old today. And I am so grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving.


*Family holidays stress me out, and I was feeling raw and intruded upon. With a possible LH surge, my normal impatience for their departure was somewhat intensified.

**Good God, these people can talk. For hours. About nothing.

Awake

When my first daughter was a month old or so I remember reading a post on my new mommies board from a woman who was clearly delusional. She explained how she treasured the nighttime wakings and feedings and would miss them when they were gone. The words treasure, gaze, and bond appeared. It was a Hallmark post, dripping of saccharine.

I remembered that just now as I got up with Baby M. It is 4:30 a.m. and she is nursing. I adore my little one. I do. But for the record, when these night wakings are over, I will not miss them. What I treasure right now are eight unbroken hours of sleep.

Reunion

J's 20th college reunion is this weekend. Here. He didn't care to attend any events, and I am extremely thankful for this. You see, I work at the college he attended, and I'm not at all enthusiastic about turning over $80 per person to my employer to drink cheap wine and eat crappy cheese and crackers when my most recent cost-of-living adjustment was so small I needed to borrow a microscope from the biology department just to see it. Plus, this is pure conjecture, but I'm fairly certain that the only people who attend reunions are people who are there for bragging rights. You know, people with big houses, nice cars, kids who don't get dirty or snotty, and law or medical degrees. Republicans.

Let's just say we fit in none of the above categories. Our house is small and cluttered. We have about 1500 square feet downstairs and a finished room above the garage that would be a good bet for Mission Organization makeover. We have a 1996 hatchback with body damage and are considering splurging on a Honda Fit if two car seats will fit in back and if we can swing a payment on top of childcare. My kids get dirty. Very dirty. Snotty too. We are humble public servants making crappy wages. I'm a democratic sociologist, but people in this part of the country don't get it so I usually just say that I'm a democrat and cope as they look on me with fascination and pity.

So I was feeling good about getting out of reunion duty and not having to mix with people I don't know and can't relate to. But my relief was short-lived because college friends of J's called. They are in town for the reunion! Why didn't we go?! It would be so great to see us! It's been too long! They have to see the BA-BEE!

How to describe them? She is a stay-at-home mom* whose Christmas letters always start with "we are blessed" and then go on for five pages to document their Tahoe vacation, big new house, perfect children, and perfect lives. She got a masters degree in education, spent half a year teaching and hasn't worked outside the home since that time, not even before they had kids.

He is a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, but the one on the back of the phone book in his city.** My brother happens to represent insurance companies and has been on opposite sides of the aisle from this guy more than once. My brother says this guy is a shyster. Now please understand that my brother is himself a bit of a shyster who once sent a certified letter to a new neighbor because their dog kennel was three inches over the property line. So when he calls another attorney a shyster, I have to take his word for it.

I'm pretty sure this couple is Republican. They just have that vibe. I guess I'll know soon enough because J invited them over here tomorrow morning. He told me this at 8 p.m. tonight and we had a fight at 8:05. I threw the F bomb, he called me names. I finally gave up because it won't change the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Blessed (turn your injured neck into a check!) will be here in the morning.

Let me set the scene for you. The house is cluttered and none too clean. There is stuff everywhere. Baby equipment that replicates when we aren't watching. Puzzles. Crayons. Books, magazines, newspapers.***I haven't vacuumed this weekend because E is terrified of the vacuum and she hasn't been anywhere without me. Though I just mopped on Wednesday, the kitchen floor needs to be mopped again because J made pumpkin seed brittle**** and there are sticky spots everywhere. We don't have baseboards. We renovated this house two years ago, E was born and most work stopped. It really bothers me that we don't have baseboards. It almost bothers me as much as the clutter. There is nothing I can do about that by tomorrow morning.

Now that I have calmed down, I have a plan for getting the house looking as nice as it can considering all. I told J he must take the kids out of the house for at least an hour in the morning as I don't have time to coddle a toddler who thinks the vacuum cleaner is a monster. My plan is simple. First, I am going to pick up everything that doesn't have a home and throw it in a Rubbermaid bin that will then be deposited in a dark corner of a closet and probably forgotten until we move again.***** J will be totally pissed when he realized I done this, but he'll deal. Once surfaces are cleared, I'll dust and vacuum. Then I'll mop. Then I'll wipe down the front bathroom. Then I'll make the beds. Easy, right?

*Nothing wrong with this. She just has a bit of that Stepford Wife thing going, you know?
**This is true. A mutual friend confirmed it.
***No, I'm not a hoarder, but I do have the last two days worth of papers out because I might get to read them and because I need to find the TV and Real Estate sections.
****You don't want to know.
*****You think I'm joking, don't you?


An Update: I sent J and the girls into the cold morning air so I could clean the house. Then this couple was two hours late. She talked nonstop the entire visit about her children. J went to lunch with them and reports that the monologue went on for the entire meal. On the plus side, they send their kids to public school so they can't be all bad.

Fear and loathing

Ah. The publisher will be here Friday. For four days. Four long days. She isn't pleased that I'll have M with me, but unless J grows boobs and starts lactating, M is coming along. I could pump, but there are a few problems with this. First, it takes me two pumping sessions to make enough for one bottle. I don't understand this, but that is just how it is working out. Second, the baby doesn't take bottles well. She arches her back and wails as if we have abandoned her. She is getting better about this, but it is hit and miss. Finally, I can't leave J with two girls for that long. Well, I could, but it wouldn't be pretty. He looks strung out when I get back from yoga and that is only 90 minutes; I can't imagine how strung out he would be after a few days. It isn't that he is incompetent. Not at all. It has more to do with M's reluctance to take a bottle and E's tantrums. I told the publisher that I would need to bring the baby and she was OK with it six weeks ago. I'm holding her to it. She was forewarned.

The text is not going well. If I had it all to do again, I would never have signed up for this. It will go down as my biggest professional mistake. Still, I'm not a quitter. Really, I am not. It's just that it seems bigger than me. So much bigger. My social science is a broad field. While I am more than competent at teaching the introductory courses, it has occurred to me that my area of expertise is fairly narrow. This means that to write with authority on certain topics, that I have to dive back in the literature and really educate myself. This takes time and energy. Both are in short supply.

Then there is the feedback from the editor and publisher. The publisher thinks I am too spare in writing. She may be correct. I have a journalism background and I'm stingy with words. I was trained to get as much information into as little space as possible. Old habits are hard to break. It is depressing for me to get her feedback. The editor is less critical, but he doesn't have a background in my field so we don't always speak the same language.

When I think about it, my biggest problem may be psychological resistance to this project. The publisher has been very cruel at times and domineering at others. I fear her. I loathe her. She has told me that "we own your time" "you belong to us" "we could have gotten a bigger name for this" and the list goes on. I am not the most assertive person, but I am unusually passive around her. It feels bad and lends a bad vibe to the project.

Between now and Friday I need to finish a chapter. I don't think it will happen, but I'll give it a try. I think that if M will give me more than three hours of sleep at a time, that I may get more done. Send little M some sleep vibes. A clear head would do me good.

My sitter is back

Ah bliss. One of our three sitters from last year has returned. Her fiance, a professional athlete, was not picked up by the major league so he is back here playing for a farm team. I know they are disappointed, but I am so happy to have her back. She came over three afternoons this week and watched M while I worked upstairs. When it was time for me to feed M, she knocked on the door and I took a nursing break. It was so easy! If I could afford to do this long-term I wouldn't put M in daycare in January.

Advice

You'll thank me for this: When you decide it is time to get your hair chopped off, make sure the stylist has a lot of experience cutting short hair.

One year of blogging

Was it really a year ago today that I learned my FSH was 24.7? That Nurse Joy didn't want to give me the news? That I stood behind the little coffee shop sobbing and hoping passersby wouldn't notice? That I had to cancel my evening class because my eyes were red and puffy and I wasn't sure I could keep my composure?

A lot has changed and a lot has stayed the same. The RE was wrong. My eggs were good. The book is not nearly done. I'm a mom again.

Mama's lost her groove

Baby M (wasn't that the name of a custody battle baby?) is eight weeks old and is a model citizen. While she isn't sleeping quite through the night, she goes down around 10:30 p.m. and doesn't wake again until 4:30-5:00 a.m. After a slow start to breastfeeding, we have the hang of it. She mostly eats every three hours or so until the evening when she eats a bit more frequently. She doesn't fuss much and she smiles a lot. Baby M has found her groove.

So what is wrong with Mama?

• She is 10 pounds heaver than she was this time last year and that last ten pounds aren't budging. This is probably due to her very healthy appetite and lack of exercise. The ten pounds make Mama feel fat and very unattractive. Her favorite jeans don't fit. Hell, none of her jeans fit and she was reduced to a trip to K-Mart for three pairs of fat pants less she freeze her ass off. Actually, freezing her ass off sounds like a plan.
• She is trying to work around the baby on a project she hates. While M is basically on her own little schedule, she needs lots of attention as newborns tend to do. Mama is supposedly back at work full time with the baby. That means schlepping the baby to campus at least one day per week and trying to work from home the other days. The problem with this is that the blocks of working time (when not needing to tend to the baby) are small and by the time Mama is finally immersed in the detestable text, it is time to save all files and feed, burp, bathe, walk, or cuddle with the little one. Mama much prefers this to writing anyway.
• She does not like the publisher of the text who is pure evil. It had to be said. Seriously, this is not a nice woman and the entire thing-- nine more chapters--must be completed by April 30. Or else. She is making a trip this way in three weeks. Is praying for a November hurricane a bad thing?
• She is devoting considerable energy to Big Sister E who is "highly spirited" which is a nice way of saying she has taken the "terrible" in terrible two to heart. She is a lovely girl when she is happy, but she can turn on a dime.
  
• She trips over toys and baby gear daily. Despite attempts to keep the living space in order, it feels chaotic and cluttered. Between puzzle pieces, baby swings, and books and magazines (oh yes! a household of readers), things have a tendency to pile up.
• She feels anxious. All the time. And unsettled. Is this the first hint of postpartum depression? Perhaps this is just to be expected.

Clearly, something needs to happen to make Mama feel more in control. A few ideas:

• While it means stranding J with the girls for 90 minutes, I insist on going to yoga or Pilates twice a week. I've done this three times and felt better for a little while after. No matter that I am the worst student in the class.
• I need to start running again. I have a bad neck so this is a little scary, but the times I've felt most in control were the times I was running regularly. M is still a little small for running (in the running stroller) so I'll have to work out something with J.
• I have to come to terms with the text. I completed a dissertation somehow. This shouldn't be as difficult because it isn't original research.
• I need some changes. I'm starting with my hair; I'm getting it lopped off. Seriously, it just adds to the frump. It is time for something short and perky.

Baby M is waking. If you see my groove please send it my way. I need it.

A Belated Birth Story

I promised a birth story so here goes. It was a ridiculously easy birth compared to E's delivery two years ago. Here is what made the delivery different: My epidural worked, no magnesium sulfate was involved, no vacuum was needed, there were no third degree tears from hell, and I was not in labor for 36 hours. It was the birth experience I had hoped for.

After being told I could go anytime starting at 37 weeks, I was still very pregnant (and totally pissed about it) at 39 weeks. Because my blood pressure started to rise, I was scheduled for an induction on M's due date. We were at the hospital by 6:30a.m. By 8:30, my OB broke my water and by 9:00 I was having contractions with the help of Pitocin. The contractions weren't that bad, but I asked for an epidural around 10:00. I was only 3 cm by 11:00 so J and I thought we were in for a very long labor (I was in labor with E from 5 a.m. when my contractions started until she was born at 5:30 the next day).

We settled in for a long wait and decided to watch a DVD on my computer. Unfortunately, I wasn't terribly discerning in my program selection. I selected Season One of Weeds*, not realizing that there would be fairly graphic sex scene on the episode we selected (think Sex in the City). My computer is relatively new, so I was frantically trying to stop the DVD before the doctor or nurse walked in and discovered us watching porn. Oh well. Live and learn. We turned the computer off.

Around 1:00 I had breakthrough pain so my epidural (lovely epidural!) was amped up. I felt pressure around 1:45 and when the doctor checked me at 2 p.m. I was complete, complete and +3. It was time to push. I really only had to push through about four contractions and I delivered my lovely, curly haired baby at 2:30. I had a second degree tear, but it healed well and didn't cause me much aggravation.

It was a wonderful experience and I would do it again. In fact, I would love to do it again. What is wrong with me?

*Which I really like despite the shocking scene.

Dear Dr. Negative and Nurse Joy

My less-than-one-percent-chance-of-conception baby has arrived. She is perfect. Lovely. Brilliant. Adored.Here. At last. *

May I suggest that in the future, rather than scare the shit out of patients who present with less than stellar hormonal profiles, that you instead show a little compassion and a little willingness to work with them? At the very least, refer them to a center that is less concerned about the center's statistics. Don't push donor eggs until you are certain that all avenues have been exhausted. [Trust me, you didn't exhaust any avenues.] Finally, believe it is possible for the sake of your patients. I think I managed to get pregnant largely because Dr. F believed I could do it. I have six and a half pounds of proof sitting next to me.


*I promise a real update and short birth story when I have a little more time and a lot more energy. As it happens, I developed a case of late onset preeclampsia four days after M was born and had to be rehospitalized. I'm feeling better, but still battling high blood pressure and the extra fatigue that brings. Then there is the small matter of M thinking party time is from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m.