Odontophobia...

So, this is a nice two-part, manic depressive post. In the first part I tell you all about the gripping fear I have of visiting that most common of human fears, the dentist's chair. But don't you worry, because I'm hoping the second part will be a fun roller coaster ride of hilarity.

They say (they, meaning wikipedia, the source of all internet research of mine) that odontophobia in severe cases is typically brought about by traumatic dental experiences that lead someone to develop a fear that makes them avoid the dentist at all costs. I guess I have that in my history. I wish I could seriously post a pic of how screwed up my teeth were circa 1988. I had a constant stream of dental, orthodontic, and surgical appointments to give myself a big old pretty smile. It started out ok and I loved my orthodontist, but somewhere between getting my braces off at 17 and becoming an adult who had to figure out how to PAY for my dentist check-ups I just...stopped going.

And then I got really scared, remembering the shame and admonishment I felt when the dentist told me I didn't floss enough or brush enough or visit often enough. So then it became a fear of just-what-the-hell-will-they-say-when-I-tell-them-it's-been-seven-years kind of anxiety.

But finally, things clicked into place. I was going to get married, I had insurance, and I wanted to look good for my husband. I found an ad for a brand new one-man dental practice that not only specialized in high-fear, sedation dentistry, but also had a coupon for a free teeth whitening treatment. When I called to make the appointment, my palms were sweaty and I was already breathing heavy. I nearly passed out when the receptionist said "oh, well, most people don't need sedation just for a cleaning and exam".

I couldn't have felt like a bigger freak of nature. I was literally crying on the phone. When she told me there were options and that they could certainly help me out, I at least made the appointment.

I was 10 minutes early and sat hyperventilating and crying in the office, with the poor receptionist watching me with pity eyes. (I wish I were exaggerating, but my heart literally speeds up and I have a physiological reaction to seeing the dentist) I was almost ready to bolt when the next words out of her mouth were a balm to my beating heart.

Nitrous. Oxide.

My life has never been the same. I now see the dentist at least once yearly, and if I remembered to make the appointments and he weren't nearly 40 minutes away, I'd go every 6 months. I'm no longer scared of the dentist. At least not mine.

And now, I'd love to share my stream of consciousness (what I can remember of it) from being happily sedated during my dental appointment today.Please, try to keep up...

"Is this lady ever going to stop talking? I don't care where her daughter works. Say Yes to the Dress is on...I hope it's Katiekate's episode. I've been trying to catch it. Damn, this mask is blocking the TV. What's he saying about North Carolina brides? I feel kind of like I'm on a tilt-a-whirl at the fair. Falling backwards. I'm going to crash...just kidding...there's my head again. Whooooooooooo. Wow, I'm gripping this chair pretty tight. Strange, because I'm super relaxed. Katiekate...hmmm...maybe that's her sister there. Oh well, I can't really see it. Hey, these chair arms feel weird...I must be making a face, because she keeps telling me sorry and 'you're doing great'. It feels like she's using a super duper high powered water pic to clean my teeth. But I'm pretty sure they just scrape them, unless they have some really high-tech stuff at this office. I'm never trying another dentist again. Wait, did she just say uh-oh? What if that's blood spurting out of my mouth instead of just water. OK, calm down. That's not blood. Or if it is, I don't care, because I'm falling again. Breathe deeper. Am I grimacing? She thinks this hurts me. I wonder if they're rougher on people with nitrous because they know we don't really care? Hmmm...I could never do this without laughing gas. I MUST remember Katiekate. I should write this down as soon as I get in the car. I don't have a pen. Maybe I'll ask if I can take one. Is that weird? Who cares. I wonder if this is what ether feels like. Cider House Rules was really not the best of John Irving's books, not by a long shot. "Not...at...all" as Jacob says. They really do call this laughing gas. I wish this lasted longer. I think she's almost done. I bet I'm the only high fear dental patient to ever wish my cleaning didn't end. Oh, did he say Outer Banks beach wedding? It's pretty indisputable that North Carolina is the best state ever. Damn. She's almost done. One more deep breath, one more ride on the tilt-a-whirl and....

And she switched me back to oxygen.

I'm counting down to March for my next appointment, with glee.

WMW: I Could Use Some Consistency.

Time for my favorite blog hop, through which I've met some wonderful moms who know all the ins and outs of being a working mother and can commiserate and celebrate with me. Working Mom Wednesday over at WorkWifeMomLife has really kept me blogging when I just feel like I can't come up with anything creative at all.

Which brings me to my point today: my strengths and weaknesses. And I'm not going to focus on the "mom" part, because the prompt is pretty open-ended. Today I will just focus on the "life" part.

Here's the truth: I lack consistency.

I came to this realization while contemplating my strengths and weaknesses. I am in the process of doing my first ever giveaway that someone else is sponsoring, and I get to share it with you guys by my own agressive stab of presentation to the author of my favorite Sunday column. So I was thinking, I can present myself pretty well, right? Yesterday at work I got a quick visit from one of the more executive supervisors in my company, and I think it went really well. I presented myself well. But then I remembered last week when a different executive was visiting, and I worked from home in the morning while waiting for a plumber to come over, didn't bother to do much "presentation" before heading to work, and looked like a hot mess with zero makeup, wash-and-go hair, and a maternity top over my black pants. Not a day where I was so great at presenting myself.

Then I was thinking maybe time management is my strength. My job requires the ability to prioritize (I prefer that term to multi-tasking: I honestly cannot do three things at once very well, but I can do one thing really well while thinking about the next 6 things on my list). I think I manage my time pretty well. But then we have a week where I fall behind slightly, and then decide that I'm too overwhelmed to do anything and end up surfing Amazon for random mom items instead of blogging or actually working on a task for my career.

So my point is: I need to be more consistent. That's my real shortcoming, is that I can never sustain my patience, task management, or presentation skills for very long before I just shut down and become an Internet Zombie who does crazy things like google image search pictures of Marky Mark to drool over. Also, Firehouse Subs sound tasty right now. (See, wandering mind...)

Now that you've read all about my lack of consistency, help me out by voting for me on Picket Fence, following me on Twitter (Ali_LastSplash), retweeting or blogging about my giveaway, and rack yourself up a chance to win a really, really cool book by a sarcastic funny lady. And join us at Working Mommy Wednesday to share your own strengths and weaknesses!

I'm an Old Lady Now?

So, I can excuse the few instances of "excuse me, ma'am" that I've gotten since I hit my mid-twenties a few (several) years ago. I can excuse not being carded anymore at the ABC store or when buying beer. And I can even forgive my cousin's 8 year old daughter who answered "um, 40?" when she was asked how old I looked. She doesn't know any better, bless her heart.

I work in an industry where I can see people and their birthdates all the time to compare, and while sometimes I think "wow, she does not look a day over 26" when I see a particularly well-kept middle ager, a lot of times I am surprised to look down and see someone younger than myself who looks pretty ragged. For reference, I am 31 (and a half). And I think I look pretty spot-on early thirties.

But recently two occurances have happened that make me think that the stress of life as a mom must really be dragging me down. First, there was that phone call a few weeks ago from a friend at church who needed advice. Now, I'm very flattered that anyone looks up to me when it comes to spiritual/marital advice, truly I am. And I'm very happy to lend an ear and the best advice I can muster when someone trusts me enough to share a tough life situation with me. Especially for this particular person, who I have grown close to.

But the dagger really felt deep when she said, "I mean, I'm so young, I'm only 29, and I really am glad I have an older woman who has experienced so much to confide these things in." My husband can attest that for one of the few times in my life, I was rendered speechless for a moment, almost like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me and it jumbled my poor, senile brain. How old does she think I am? was the question on my mind, then and now. I'm scared to ask her.

I had just recovered from this incident when my dear loving husband told me as we were lying in bed last night, "I was looking through so many old photographs from when we first started dating and our honeymoon, and man we look so much older now," he paused briefly before continuing, "I mean, you've aged a lot more than me in that time, but..." ICE WATER IN THE FACE AGAIN. As soon as I could speak without spitting fire at him I said, "yeah, you can file that statement right under 'things you should never, ever say to your wife under any circumstance." He needed more explanation. So I said, "babe, it's right there with 'yes, sweetheart, those pants make your ass look 10X bigger'."

After he tried arguing with me for a while, I finally just had to say "Well, fine then...the only reason you haven't aged as much as me is because all of our friends have told you for 10 years that you look like a 40 year old."

That "don't go to bed angry" rule? Yeah, not so much last night.

Honest Confessions of Motherhood

After my "time off" from my blog, I am so excited to rejoin my friend Julia at Work Wife Mom Life. (I can call her my friend now because we email and she knows where I work, isn't that enough?) Her Working Mommy Wednesday blog hop provides the exact kind of support and camraderie that I strive for in this blog. Before I continue with my post, I would humbly like to request that if you enjoy my blog, please click that little pretty Picket Fence button on the right and vote for me today. The moderators just did a reset and this is my chance to move up in the world and achieve Picket Fence Mom-Blog Domination!

As for my confessions about Motherhood, I only have one today, but it's a doozy. I get really stressed out by being the parent of a toddler. I snap at my husband, get frustrated at my son for, well, acting like a typical 14-month old who likes to bring me a new diaper when he knows he has pooped but then squirms away when I actually lie him down to change him. Dinnertime is never easy, and while some days, like Monday evening, I can remind myself to just take life as it is and enjoy every moment (instead of trying to rush into dinner when we got home, I spent a good 10 minutes on the kitchen floor with a nearly naked child who was laughing with nothing other than glee because he was putting a bowl on my head), most of the time I spend my whole weekday evening just tapping my foot impatiently at my husband while thinking of the next ten things I must do in an hour.

Halloween night was a fine example of how I get: dinner took longer than expected to cook, even though I was lucky enough to have my mom over to occupy Jacob while we got everything ready. The baby didn't eat well, I couldn't get everyone to sit down and start eating so we could get going, I barely ate my own food because I was anxious that there were already Trick or Treaters coming to our door and for some reason I had it in my head that we would be one of the first, I kept thinking about how we needed to hurry up and get Jacob re-dressed so we could go. The whole time, I swear my husband moved as swiftly as a moped on a superhighway, and before we even got out of the driveway I was yelling at him and rolling my eyes at my mom and saying ridiculous things like "How many times can I give him the same instructions?" or "How slow can HE MOVE?" I eventually calmed down, held my husband's hand, apologized for my frantic behavior, and enjoyed the event the way a family should.

I think the most pathetic part of this mom-freak-out mode is knowing that my grandmothers, mother-in-law, and mom had many, many more responsibilities and shouldered even more of the child-care burden than I ever will because the times have changed and my husband is expected to step in and parent right along with me. The guilt that hits me after one of my anxiety "episodes" is almost worse than the stress itself. I know this is a recurring theme in my blog, but I keep coming back to "how can I think this is so hard and let it get to me when I have it ten times easier than any of them did?"

That is my confession. I need a reminder that this is normal, that this phase passes just like clusterfeeding passed and just like 2AM wakings passed (well, for now, I know the molars are coming eventually), and that something that seems so stressful right now will seem small and insignificant in a few months. And I need a swift kick in the behind and someone telling me now and then "get it together girlfriend".

My mom did that last week. We were cleaning up after dinner at their house and I yelled at my dog to get out of the kitchen for the 14th time and muttered "I'm gonna blow a gasket."

Mom's reply? "I think you already did." Moms know just what to say at the right time, don't they?

The Most Expensive Vacation I Didn't Take

Or alternatively titled, It Is God's Plan, After All.

We made it to Mt. Airy Friday night and a couple of times on the way, my hubs complained about the clutch getting "stuck" halfway to the floor after he shifted. We thought, "hmmm" but didn't do much about it until we left the festival to go to the hotel Friday night. It stuck at least 3 times in the 2 miles to the hotel and each time he had to stick his foot under it to lift it back up. We decided we would get it to a shop first thing the next morning, and went to bed happy.

Easier said than done: although there were three car shops within view of our hotel, none belonged to Mazda, only two were open, and only one (the sketchiest looking of the bunch) had a mechanic who could do more than the basic oil change. At this point, it was freaking me out to drive the thing b/c it was stalling all over the place. The mechanic at the Snappy Lube or whatever said it would be TWO HOURS before he could even look at it to tell us if he could fix it or not. So instead we spent nearly an hour on the phone with our insurance carrier trying to weigh options for a tow, a dealership, and a car rental. The news was not good. All would cost an arm and a leg, and with it being noon on Saturday none were getting the car looked at before Monday. With a rear-facing infant seat and being 35 miles from civilization, our options were considerably decreased.

So I did what any girl would do in this situation: I called my mommy. And she is all kinds of awesome, so she drove 2 1/2 hours to pick us up and take us back home to get a rental car while our car was also being towed to a dealership near home (yeah, that cost more than we were planning to spend on our little weekend vacation).

This may sound like a really crummy weekend. But it gets worse. Last night before J's bedtime, he was burning up and cranky (he had been running a low grade fever earlier) and I checked his temp and got 103.5. YIKES! We luckily were able to keep our cool heads and gave him a tepid bath and some fake Tylenol and his temp dropped 2 degrees in an hour. The nurseline said to call if it dropped less than 1 degree in an hour, so we were safe, put him to bed, and his fever continued to drop overnight.

When we were getting ready to turn in, we noticed that a leak was coming through our living room ceiling. It's right under the master bedroom, but we hadn't used the shower since yesterday morning. In any case, we put a bucket under it and went on to bed. Luckily, it seems to have stopped despite the crazy rain we've been getting, so it's likely a pipe in the bathroom that we will have to call (and pay) someone to repair. I can't even process that right now, so we're just going to use the guest bathroom and schedule someone to come Friday morning. At this point, it's almost comical.

But here's the next bit of news: a little while ago, baby boy tripped and busted his lip on a toy truck, and you know how those injuries bleed. So, I gave him the cool compress as long as he would stand for it, put him down for an early nap, and called the pedi. Between the fever, the mysterious bug bites on his legs, cheek, and arm, and the busted lip, I'm just going to feel better if he sees a doctor.

Now I'm online researching the Hyundai recall and trying to argue with the car rental place about whether our rental car is part of this recall, and why I was told if we needed to extend it we would receive the same ultra-affordable rate, but when I called to extend it the rate is 3 times what we're paying now.

Sometimes, you just have to lean on God and know that there's something he's trying to teach us out of all of this, like maybe we should be thankful that we have amazing family willing to loan their hotel room to us on a hot afternoon or drive 300 miles to pick us up, great bosses who don't bat an eye when we say "I know I am already taking two days off this week, but I also might have to leave early another day to take care of some stuff" or a hubby who is there by my side through all of it. If the worst thing we get is a busted lip and some repair debt, we're doing ok.

For those of you HOPEFULLY having a better weekend/week than me, why not extend your good fortune by entering my great giveaway? It's the last day to enter, although I doubt I will have the time or energy tomorrow to select a winner, but I will announce by Wednesday who the lucky person is!

Year Number Two...Aaannnd Go!

So. I have a toddler. A friend asked me today what it feels like to have a 1 year old, and at the time I wasn't quite sure what to answer, but now that I've had all afternoon to reflect, it feels...strangely anti-climactic.

I was pretty emotional last Wednesday, but not any more than usual. Since having a child, it's as though the pregnancy hormones have never quite left my body, and I can get weepy just at the image of my son stopping halfway across the living room to laugh at himself, for who knows what reason. Everything makes me cry. Especially being in church.

It's hard to explain, but, while I feel like I have far exceeded my own expectations of myself as a mother, I have been a big fat FAIL at being a better wife, homemaker, and caretaker of my family. I do not vacuum enough. I have not mopped the kitchen floor in way too long. I have dropped my 1st 6-months of mommyhood habit of doing a load of laundry each night (including folding and putting away) and now have two or three piles of unfolded laundry in the bonus room upstairs. I still have not unpacked the big suitcase from our beach trip a MONTH ago and just last night put the beach bags back in the closet upstairs.

I have paid bills late because I forgot about them, kept a constant pile of random stuff on the side table downstairs, and completely neglected my herbs this summer. My dog is not current on her heartworm medicine or flea and tick, and hasn't had a bath in over a month. (She did jump in the pool yesterday...that counts, right?) I can't find anything in my house or office because I don't have any kind of organizational system anymore...I am barely treading water when it comes to housework.

The worst is that I constantly nag my husband about every little thing. And I tend to do it quite passive agressively, like this exchange: "I'm going upstairs, can you let Sidney out?" "Well, no, I was going to go up first and take my contacts out." I paused and answered, "oh, that's right, I'm the mom so it's my responsibility." I'm mean to him. And that's just not right. I know he forgets to take his stuff upstairs sometimes and opens the packaging to any new electronic "toy" like a 12 year old at Christmas, leaving the box and instructions just lying on the table or floor. But he also cuts the grass every week and cooks just as much as I do. And I need to give him more credit.

So, given these realizations, instead of making New Year's Resolutions, I'm treating my son's birthday like a new year: things I want to be better at as a mom. Part of being a mom is taking on the extra task of caring for another family member without letting the rest of my life go to pot, and I need to be reminded of the women of the sixties and seventies and eighties, the original working moms who did it all. That doesn't mean I'm not going to stand up for myself when I need my husband's help, but lets face it: he does a lot more than men did back then, and a lot more than the weight I see some men pull. I need to learn to live my life without complaining.

And I'm going to try to start tonight, right after my Fantasy Football draft.

...A Year Ago Today...

Was probably the most emotionally demanding day of my life.

My doctor's appointment (41w1d) was a rollercoaster of emotions. First of all, I was thrilled because it was with my favorite doc out of the 5 rotating OB's at my practice. He was supportive of my hopes for low-intervention and was very laid back. When he checked, baby was head down, everything seemed good, but I had nothing going on "down there". Since we were at 41 weeks and he knew induction was a last resort for me, we did the "NST" which is where they monitor the baby's heart and movement and their response to any contractions (not that I had any). Sometimes they give you a low dose of Pitocin before they do this just to try to manufacture some uterine movement, but my doc didn't. No biggie, JTD passed with flying colors and the only hurdle left was the ultrasound. We were fully prepared to go back home and wait another week if needed.

Plus, the prospect of an ultrasound was really exciting...as someone with a normal pregnancy, I had not seen my little boy in pictures since my 18 week appointment! My excitement, however, faded as the ultrasound tech took measurement after measurement and commented more than once about my fluid level, saying it was harder to get a clear picture with so much less amniotic fluid in there. Also, my little guys' parts were measuring much smaller than they should have been. For a 41 week baby, the doc was probably expecting to see an 8 pounder, but what we saw was more like a 6 pounder with thighs measuring at 36 weeks. Had my baby stopped growing?

That, and the low amniotic fluid, made the decision for Doc. He called us into his office and said, "it looks like a great day to have a baby". My husband beamed like a proud new dad while I tried to hold back my tears. I knew what was coming. I was only dilated 1cm, having no contractions whatsoever, and the baby hadn't even really dropped. At this point, we had our bag packed and ready, but we still asked if we could go home and come back. Mainly because I was kind of in shock, and my husband really needed to mow the lawn. No, really...it had been more than a week and we knew it would be another week before he could get to it.

We left with plans to come back to the hospital that evening, and I cried almost the whole way home. Hubby decided it was a good plan to stop by work and let them know that he was taking his 2 week "paternity leave" starting then, and one of his co-workers felt the need to come out and congratulate me. So there I was, sobbing in the car, feeling even more guilty because I should be elated at the fact that I would be a mom the next day, and all I could think about was how it wasn't supposed to happen this way. While hubby mowed the grass I furiously signed online and read every birth story I could find while researching Bishop's Score. My Bishop's Score gave me a 45% chance of a c-section. Somehow, I knew as soon as I saw that, that I would be having one. So I did more research on c-sections and calmed myself down a little with the birth stories I saw posted that ended that way. I didn't want it to end that way, but at least I felt more prepared. (Thank GAWD that episode of Gray's Anatomy where that baby's arm gets severed during a c-s hadn't aired yet.)

I think I was finally feeling more myself when we got to the hospital. I was reading my gossip mags, hanging in bed, excited that I would finally get to feel labor pains. No, I'm not kidding, I really couldn't wait to feel a contraction. At this point, I was READY. For anything. I knew I could handle it.

Oh, how God takes our plans and throws them out the window sometimes.

A Year Ago Today...

I was 41 weeks pregnant, and finally starting to wonder if things were ever going to go as planned.

(*I made you look, right...you thought this would be a birthday letter? Oh, no, ladies...this is Part 1 of a 3 day birth story. Pull up a chair and a cup of coffee and enjoy.*)

My nature is typically like that of a non-planner. My family's vacation agenda is actually classified as "No Agenda". In fact, that's the name of my dad's boat because when my sister and I were around 12 and 16, he got tired of us saying "what's on the agenda today?" So I didn't write a birth PLAN, I wrote some birth "preferences" (no, really, the sheet I took to the hospital said "birth preferences for Baby ____"). I had hoped to have a natural and minimally medicated labor and delivery. I was more comfortable with the idea of narcotic pain relief than the dreaded epidural, but since I had only prepared with the simple "here are all of your options" birth class and not invested time in Bradley, water birth, or Hypno-Babies, I knew that the chances of me not giving in to the pressure were about 50-50.

Mainly, I just wanted to go with the flow. (Word of advice: in retrospect, this was not a good plan, more on that tomorrow.)

So, on Sunday, at 41 weeks pregnant (and still wearing a non-maternity top, so what if it was stretched to the limit) I took a leisurely trip to the Farmer's Market with my BFF. We bought peaches for me to blanch and freeze, and then she gave me reflexology to try to help induce labor***. Walking and this one session of a wonderful foot massage were the only natural labor-induction techniques I tried. Maybe I would change that, too, if I could go back in time. But maybe not...I had a very relaxing week off before baby came, thinking about a lot of things. Mostly how much my life was going to change, and I better soak up my last chance to be lazy.

I had my OB appointment set for the next afternoon, and I was hoping that all the walking was doing something to stretch out my cervix. As a member of an online pregnancy community, I tried not to be discouraged by the fact that I had remained closed up tight the entire 3rd trimester, because every other day were birth story posts about how they went in for their 39,40 week appointment, talked over induction because they still hadn't dilated or effaced, only to go home and begin labor spontaneously.

Oh, how I waited that week to begin labor spontaneously. I had such an easy pregnancy, without so much as a vaginal cramp, but at this point I was actually starting to find myself jealous of the women complaining at 28 weeks of all the Braxton-Hicks they were having. Call me crazy, but I wanted to KNOW what a contraction was, what I was in for, even just a preview so that I could better gauge if I would be able to handle labor or not.

To wrap up Sunday, I relaxed for my reflexology session and went to bed early. No broken water, no labor pains, not so much as a hint of contraction in my girly region. What on earth would we find out at the doctor's appointment?

***Although I am in no way certified, for any of my readers out there full term pregnant and ready to give birth, try rubbing the indentation of skin between your heel and your ankle bone. Use firm, long strokes.***

And Still So Much to Learn

I'm feeling inspired today by some drama on my favorite drama-seeking message board. Last week I checked in for the first time in weeks and saw that everyone was all in an outrage over a post made by the woman who writes this blog: http://1000reasonsimabadmom.com/ . I think her blog is cheeky, self-deprecating, and full of life's lessons to those of us travelling down the new motherhood path virtually unprepared for the stones that will be thrown at us. I doubt she is a bad mom, or even considers herself a bad mom. But, writing this blog has given her an outlet to vent those frustrations that we all come across from time to time when we turn our back and life surprises us.

Unfortunately, many members of "The Bump" did not feel this way, and therein ensued a riotous thread of threats to call CPS and wishes that she would give her beautiful son away for adoption because she obviously didn't deserve to be a mom. Really? Loosen up a little, ladies! We all have our moments, and we all need a way to get out the emotions that we can't wear on our sleeve daily for fear of actually having Child Protective Services called. She is not abusing or neglecting or even failing to celebrate her child. She is just pointing at the things in life that make it worth getting up, dusting ourselves off, and trying again.

Now, the one thing that has surprised me most about parenting thus far is how easy it has been for me. Easy is a relative term. My life is still much more hectic and stressful than before, but the rewards I've received for my hard work in the last 356 days has far outweighed the emotional and physical stress I've been through. I'm also lucky: my kid has had relatively consistent sleep patterns most of his life, is amazingly loving, smart, and independent, has remained very healthy with only an occasional bout of croup, and I escaped without a hint of the dreaded PPD (other than crying at the Pampers commercials and when he peed on the living room wall once, I have held it together somewhat).

But this morning, we had a mishap. A mishap of Bad-Mom proportions.

Jacob can climb stairs. He's pretty much been able to do this for about 3 1/2 months now, yet my husband and I have been extremely lazy about installing the gates and while there is one at the top of our staircase, the gate for the bottom is still sitting in a box in the garage. I'm not pointing fingers, but the "bad mom" in me (or is it bad wife) has a habit of sighing and rolling my eyes at my husband any time something is not done on time, like he's the only one responsible for baby-proofing, mowing the lawn, and car maintenance. I use the "but I do so much already" excuse a lot in our household.

So imagine the ice-cold grip in fear on my heart this morning as I was standing at the kitchen counter mixing formula bottles, half-listening to what my husband was talking about and too half-asleep to notice that the living room no longer contained the babbling and banging sounds of Jacob playing. Then the questioning "uunnnhhhh?" that is usually how baby boy tries to get our attention when he's unsure about something, coming from way too distant a place to be anywhere close by. My husband bolted, while I was frozen to the spot. The next thing I hear is heavy clomping up the stairs and "hey, buddy," before breathing a big sigh of relief.

My son, my not quite year old, 28" tall peanut, was standing at the top of 14 steps, trying to figure out why he couldn't open the gate and go into his room.

Sometimes, you just have to take your lumps and count your lucky stars that someone is stronger than you give them credit for. Thank God for this kid's balance and agility, because my Monday could have turned out far, far worse because of my own laziness.

I thank God for a lot of things every day, but today especially, I am humbled. And greatful.

"Got My Mojo Working"

Um, or not...

Two of the things I've been surprised that I am enjoying as a woman no longer in her twenties are pop music and talk radio. These pleasantries are combined in my morning commute with the wonderful local morning show here in NC "Bob and the Showgram". The female DJ happens to be just shy of a month older than myself, 31, and this morning they were discussing how she feels that she "lost her mojo at the age of 31".

Now, the loose definition of "mojo" we are using here is that intangible thing that all women have at some point, that feeling of being attractive to the opposite sex. You know what I'm talking about: it's how a happily married woman gets flushed and giddy over the possible flirtatious banter of a male coworker, UPS guy, fast food employee taking your order, or in my case, the Hispanic landscaper that yells out "Si, Mami" as you are walking across the parking lot. (At my weight and breast-waist-booty ratio, the white boys barely look but I seem to be a total hottie to our more ethnic population.)

They were discussing how Kristen thought she was going to be hit on during a recent trip to New Orleans and the French Quarter, but came back feeling pretty unattractive despite the fact that she has a live-in boyfriend who adores her. They were asking callers to describe when we knew we lost our mojo.

I can actually pinpoint mine. I was 25 years old, on my way to work at 8AM, swinging by a coffee shop that I happen to love, that also happens to be adjacent to the very large University downtown. I was fixing my drink at the little counter with all the assorted spoons, napkins, straws, etc. when a fairly toned, tan, attractive male arm reached across my front side to grab a napkin. I glanced up and thought "hmmm, he's pretty good-looking" and then glanced down and realized he was wearing jeans, a tee, tennis shoes, a typical college sophomore outfit. Before my mind could even process the thought "you are way too old for him" he said, "excuse me, ma'am," and smiled. Not a sly, daring smile at all, or even a "you're hot for an older lady" smile, but the kind of smile that says, "oh, I really did just get in this old lady's space; that was rude," before carrying on with his day and forgetting that I existed.

Now, 6 years later, with a husband, a mortgage, a real job, and a beautiful child, the mojo is gone completely. As in, I don't even care anymore. I think I may have been hit on at work by a client today, but I barely noticed because all I could think was "geez, dude, hurry up so I can keep researching ride-behind bike trailers". And sitting here tonight, looking fairly bedraggled after coming home to find a sick dog (you know what that means I spent my first half hour doing, on my hands and knees with the Spot Shot), a clingy child, and getting stung by a hornet in the arch of my foot, mojo is a word that doesn't even exist in my lexicon.

I've got what I want. Right down to the toothpaste on my foot.*

*Google and the hubs both said this was the best home remedy for the sting, and they were right.

P.S. Don't walk around in your yard barefoot.

And in the End, I Have No Control.

When we last "spoke", I was trying to make the decision as to whether to keep pumping or give up the fight. After pumping so much that last week and having a wonderful week breastfeeding my son (my walking, talking, almost no longer a baby, son), I lugged the monstrous Medela and associated accoutrements, ice packs, and cold bag back to work today.

After an extremely hectic morning that included a new hire that I had no idea was starting today at the door at 9AM, I finally sat down about an hour ago and prepared myself, only to find after sitting half exposed in my freezing office that my pump is broken. This moment could not be any more anticlimactic if I tried. I fumbled around for a few minutes, trying to figure out if the plug or something was just messed up. It may be the A/C adapter, and it may work in my car at lunch. But as of right now, the word is no more full time pumping.

I should be overjoyed. Lord knows I have done nothing but complain about it for the last 6 or so months. Here, in my online mom group, to my husband, family, co-workers. All they have heard is what a drag it is and how I can't wait to be done with it. But now that the choice has been taken away from me, I'm left only with the thought of the impending weekend and my probable inability to nurse my son more than twice a day.

I tried to cherish every moment of nursing over the last nine days, knowing that we would likely be cutting back. But I am a very sentimental, nostalgic person inside, and all I can focus on now is how my baby is not a baby any more. He is now walking 75% of the time, and the crawling is really only to find something to pull up on so that he can walk. No more watching a crawling, naked baby following me down the hall to fold laundry. No more soothing at the breast. No more naps with mommy...he has trained himself well to sleep in a crib in a room on his own. He is growing more independent by the day, and with the countdown to his 1 year birthday at 23 days now, Mama is growing weepier and weepier at the loss of her wee babe.

I thought I got it before, when everyone told me it flies by. But I am only now beginning to understand...

This post was going to be titled "Say Goodbye to my Little Friend"

Because when I made this decision on Monday, today was supposed to be my last day pumping. I was going to go home, throw out all my flanges, and put this monstrous leather bound box with a strap on a very, very high shelf and forget about it. We are 2 days away from the one-month-countdown to birthday, and for the next 9 days I will be by my little guy's side 24-7 (well, except maybe a date with hubby one night) so I decided that I would pump this week just to keep my supply regulated so I can feed him those 9 days.

My supply has steadily decreased over the last 7 months. Working full-time and nursing just don't mesh easily. Am I proud of myself for sticking this out so long? Of course! Am I hoping that my boobs and Jacob's wishes will allow us to still nurse twice a day for the next 6 months or so? Absolutely! But it's so disenheartening to pump only 4 oz a day, and earlier this week I reached the point where it was taking 20 minutes to let down. Not good for the nips in any way, shape, or form. It even hurt to nurse him because I was so sore from pumping.

This combined with the fact that he has taken straight formula bottles a couple of times recently and happily consumed them, when before he would reject a bottle if there were not at least 2 oz of breastmilk mixed in, made the decision a little easier. That and the fact that a guardian angel whose son turns one this weekend sent me two boxes of Similac and only asked me to pay shipping. I even knew it was the right decision at the right time, because instead of feeling guilty as I did a couple of months ago when I considered stopping, I felt nothing but sweet relief. Imagine not having to lug a pump, a cold bag full of ice packs and pump accessories and milk, and my purse to work every day. And home every night. And if we weren't going straight home, I had to carry that dumb bag around everywhere to keep my milk cold.

Well, as usual, my breasts have had a resurgence, causing me to reconsider my grand plans. Every day this week, I have taken home between 6-10 oz, an amount unheard of a month or even two months ago. I just pumped and got 7oz in one sitting. I swear I haven't done that in nearly 5 months. In fact, I only brought two storage containers, and this will fill both, so I have to scrounge around to figure out what to do for storage when I pump this afternoon. I mean, I guess this is great news, because now I should be able to ride out just 3 more weeks when I return to work.

And I can say that my son was primarily breastfed his first year. But you guys know I gave up labels long, long ago. So, I guess we shall see...

CABOODLES!

That is a seriously funny word...one I had forgotten about for quite some time (like, since waaaay back in the '90's). Until someone I know wrote it in a facebook status. Man, it brought back one searing memory faster than I could blink, and here I am, sharing it with you.

I am a meticulous gift giver. I feel like I spend hours thinking about what I'm going to give people at Christmas, making lists, converting those lists to Excel files complete with a budget calculator, and then online shopping until I find the perfect deal. On the flip side, I worry about gifts given to me. I want people to know that I am truly thankful for anything they give me, and I've always stressed when people have asked for me to make a list of what I want. It feels so incredibly vain and selfish, yet I sit down and plot out all the restaurants I'd love to eat at, spas I'd love to visit, and beauty products that I won't splurge on with my own money (well, most of the time...)

One year when I was around 11 or 12, those horridly awkward tween years (although we didn't call them that back then, we were just still children) my grandmother wanted my Christmas list. And the one thing I really wanted was a Caboodles make-up case.

Come on ladies, you know that either brought you right back to somewhere between 7th and 9th grade, or you are now slack-jawed in all of the early '90's awesomeness going on right therr.

Now, knowing my Granny the way I do, I was all excited for Christmas that year. I had been asking my mom for a Caboodles for months and she just would not give in. Every time we went to Wal-Mart I eyed them, wondering which color Granny would pick out for me, how big it would be (b/c ya, bigger was totally better, we used a lot of eyeshadow AND hairspray in middle school in North Cack). I couldn't get over myself and this Caboodles deal.

And then we got to her house for Christmas, and as I eyed all of the gifts under the tree (Granny went WAY overboard with Christmas presents) I spotted one of those plastic Christmas bags with my name on it. And the shape of made my stomach churn. Because under that bag, I could tell, was a makeup case. A Sassaby makeup case. And I just got more and more nervous and anxious as my turn to open gifts came. Not because I was a bratty spoiled kid, but because I could tell Granny was so proud of getting me exactly what I had asked for and I was nervous that she would be able to tell from my reaction that it was not the right thing. I tried to fake it, I really did. I smiled and hugged her and said thank you and nodded my head when she beamingly asked me if it was the right one. But she could tell.

She kept asking me if I was sure it was right, if I was sure it was ok. I assured her I loved it, but when we got home it just sat in my room untouched. None of the cool girls at Carnage G.T. Magnet Middle School (yes, I went to a school named Carnage, and yes hubby teases me every time I saw it) carried a Sassaby. I would be mocked if I brought that Burgundy monstrosity to the dress rehearsal for our dance recital. Finally my mom just made me exchange it for the one I wanted, and it was like a sigh of relief.

I don't know why I am so worried people won't like my gifts, but I know I am much more worried that people will think I don't appreciate theirs. I would love to hear your gift giving/receiving stories!

How I Picked a Fight With My Husband Because the Baby Spit Up.

So, I met a friend for lunch today. A new friend, as in, a blogger friend from online that I was meeting for the first time in "real life". I was very excited for said meeting, as we have "known" each other online for some time and well, to be honest, from the moment I "met" her I just knew we'd have a lot in common.

And we did: we both had to pull our hair into ponytails to eat, we both like cheese on our burgers, and she let the first "f"-bomb fly about 4 1/2 minutes into our conversation, which put me totally at ease. In any case, the point of my story is first impressions are important and I actually cared how I presented myself, so I decided against the still-in-use maternity top even though I am now 7 pounds lighter than when I got pregnant and put on what I consider a nicer top and shrug.

And then my husband woke up late. So, at 7:12, with exactly 3 minutes left before we had to pack into the car, I was holding Jacob and preparing his bottles (after I had already nursed him, changed him, dressed him, and kept him from sticking anything sharp or poisonous in his mouth all morning) while my husband was STILL GETTING HIMSELF READY OVER 40 MINUTES LATER, and the kid puked. All down the front of my shirt, all over his own outfit. What the what? Seriously, he hasn't spit up in months, and this is the moment he picks to let it all out? So unfair, right? So what did I do?

I yelled at my husband. Poor guy happened to make it to the kitchen within seconds of the incident and said, "do you need any help?" I looked him with sharp, sharp daggers instead of eyes and said, "yeah, like RIGHT NOW, and five minutes ago too, by the way." He had to take Jacob upstairs to change him while I frantically "washed" my shirt in the sink. And I'll admit it now, it was totally mean and uncalled for, and not at all the kind of wife I want to be, but we all have those moments. In the car he said (this is him apologizing for not helping) "I don't know how I wasn't ready on time today. I got up at the same time yesterday and had 15 extra minutes to fix the bottles."

What can I say? I've always been a beast in the morning anyway. I am not a gal that wakes up smiling and waiting for the birds to come and visit. I need a pee, a shower, and a good iced coffee before I'm really up and at it, and he is well aware of that. I have a friend that always says to her husband, "you knew what you were getting when you married me, so you shouldn't be surprised by it." I guess that's how I feel. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better commute.

All Part of Growing Up...

I have to make an admission. I have been a cyber bully. .::sigh::.

Not in the same way as the teenagers who torment their classmates so much to drive them into depression and worse, but in that kind of silly way that a grown-ass woman should not be taking part in.

Part of my quest in life is to grow: to grow in my rediscovered Christianity, as a mother, and as an adult. I can admit when I've made a mistake. In this particular case, I do not think my actions have hurt anyone, but the point is that they could have. And it's kind of a shame that I have acted this way.

I'm a small, small part of a well known online community of message boards. At any given moment there could be anywhere from fifty to five hundred of us online: mothers of all ages, shapes, experiences from all around the world. And sometimes we talk about what we're there for: our beautiful children. But a lot of times we turn there out of boredom, and that's when things can turn sour. Usually it involves someone making fun of someone else, or decrying another mom's parenting choices. I have taken part occasionally in this behaviour, and I'm not proud.

I think what the internet and it's various forms of free expression (facebook, twitter, blogs, message boards) invite is that feeling that we can say anything we want. And sometimes we feel the need to be more brutally honest than tact and common sense allow us to be in real life, so we forget that somewhere at another computer sits another new mom just as happy and stressed and overwhelmed and emotional as we are.

So I'm trying to turn a new leaf. Sure, I'll probably roll my eyes in my head when I read something that I find asinine. I'll just try keeping the non-constructive comments to myself the same way I would if I were standing there face to face. Sometimes we all need a good reminder.

I'm *that* Mom, Whatever.

Today is Picture Day at daycare. I mean, I remember a time when daycares didn't have picture days, because that was a special right and priveledge held for our school age children (plus, what parent doesn't take a bagillion pics of their little one from birth until 5 years anyway, right?) Apparently, the school photo people were not raking in the dough and decided to start doing the preschools about ten years ago.

Currently, we are more preoccupied with Jacob's diet and why he seems to have no interest in breastmilk, formula, purees, or table food beyond a little at the time (that's another post entirely) so I forgot about that sticker on our progress sheet a week ago that shouted in flourescent highliter yellow "WEDNESDAY THE @*TH IS PICTURE DAY!"

Half asleep still and in a funk over J's refusal to eat breakfast this morning, I arrive at daycare wondering why all these kids are suddenly dressed to the nines. Then I go to put his carseat in the storage closet and see, hanging on one of the little girl's cubbie, no less than a pristine white communion-looking gown. I look back down at Jacob in his cute little cotton striped Osh Kosh onesie and brown flannel pants that we think are clean and think, "yes, I'm that mom".

You know, the one that doesn't remember to dress her son up on picture day so that his yearbook picture shows him sulking with unkempt hair while all the other kids are shiny-clean in their polos and khakis. Okay, maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic about it, but seriously, there were 3 year olds in khakis and polos.

Maybe I'm a picture day hater in general? I mean, I hate to think that the teachers spend all day terrified to take their kids outside in fear that one will get dirty and the parent will be pissed about it. Or god forbid they serve grape juice that day, right? But still, don't you think it's a little overkill to dress your kid up in their Sunday best for school pictures? I honestly got better shots with my digital camera when we were all dressed up for Easter. Hell, Picture People takes much better pictures than the school photographer in my opinion, and I still don't even consider those "professional" pictures. Am I a picture snob? Or a mom who sucks?

(I know I don't suck. I just mean, do I have a kind of sucky attitude about this whole deal?)

Major Mom Fail

I'ma pretty laid back mom about most things, and choose to try not to beat myself up over things that I don't get perfect every time. In fact, one of the first times I held my son and rocked him to sleep in the nursery, I whispered in his ear all about how I knew I could never be perfect, but that God had decided that I was good enough for him so I would always try my best.

Fast forward to yesterday morning, 7:40AM. Mommy has a job interview across town at 8:45, couldn't find Sophie for little guy to chew on, on the 8 minute ride to daycare, so she spots the Nuby sippy cup on the drying rack, puts a couple of ounces of water in it, and hands it over. He never really drinks from it anyway (my super advanced almost-8-month-old would rather use a straw or drink from a straight cup) and I figured he would just chew on the soft spout.

Well, I get to the stoplight a few miles down the road with success, stop, and then all of a sudden hear a gagging, coughing, spewing, sputtering, very wet sound. And immediately smell sour milk. In my car, I turn to look and kind of peek over the edge of the seat (my guy is a peanut so we're still in the infant seat) and see watery milk EVERYWHERE in the backseat. And he's still coughing and sputtering. I make sure he's not choking before driving the rest of the way to daycare. I walk around the side of the car and see Jacob literally wearing a milk-eating-grin, holding the sippy, water dripping down his chin. I laugh aloud in the parking lot before carrying him inside. Where of course I go to change his clothes and realize that all I've left in his cubby is a pair of size 3 month fleece pants. Double fail! At home, I'd feel free to let him go naked, he's happier like that anyway, but I didn't want those little girls crawling all over my naked boy! So I have to borrow the daycare's extra clothes after I give my kid a "whore's bath" in the sink next to the changing table.

What a morning. And it's my own fault. Honestly, I thought I could give an 8-month old a sippy cup unsupervised?! .::head, meet palm::.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men...

...often go awry. This phrase describes my birth story, which I will share with you now. Now, I was not one of those people with a "plan" and a checklist filled out. Nor was I determined to have a natural birth at all costs. I had a preference, but I also did research on all the possibilities so that no matter what happened I would be cool, calm, and collected.

And I was. Maybe a little too much.

My preference was a natural and unmedicated hospital birth, hopefully not an induction, with the ability to be in control and move freely as much as possible. What happened was as far from that as you could get.

I was dues on August 16. My last day of work was August 14. I had secretly hoped all along that he would be just a little late because I needed to rest and clean my kitchen. I spent the entire next week home alone during the day, hanging out online, watching Intervention and A Baby Story, lazily cleaning the kitchen at the pace of one cabinet wipe-down a day. I did freeze a lot of Farmer's Market peaches and veggies. I think I went to the market twice that week. I was so relaxed about it that it was actually annoying for people to give me a million and a half suggestions as to how to get that baby to "hurry up and come out". I posted this as my FaceBook status: http://www.haveyouhadthatbabyyet.com/

I did not do much in the way of inducing myself naturally. I think I bought a pineapple but then was too lazy to cut it up. I walked most evenings, but it was a snail's pace stroll around the barely half-mile loop of my neighborhood. Hubby made me ice cold foot baths while we watched TV at night and put peppermint in them. The closest I got to inducing myself was when my good friend came over the next weekend (40W and 6D) and did labor-inducing reflexology. (I did actually walk a little over a mile that day.) I fell asleep and had no cramping later as expected.

I never had any contractions, even Braxton-Hicks, no back labor, nothing, and the doctor's over my last 3 weekly appointments had pretty much put me back and forth between a fingertip and a half centimeter dilated each time. At my 41 week appointment, I was disappointed to hear that I was still only barely dilated, but my doctor knew my birth preference and was prepared to send me home for another few days. Until the ultrasound. You always know something is not right when the tech doesn't say much. I kept looking at her measurements and thinking that something was definitely not as it should be. Most of his "parts" were measuring at the size of a 36 to 38 week old baby. Having a healthy and complication-free pregnancy meant that this was the first ultrasound we had had since 18 weeks, so we had no indication of any problems.

When the doc called us into his office he said, "well, it looks like a good day to have a baby." And I think I burst into tears. All along I had been trying to prepare myself for the possibility of induction, but I had researched it thoroughly and my Bishop's Score was giving me a 45% chance of a c-section. We made the decision to go home, mow the lawn (yes, I really asked my doctor if we could have a few hours because my husband needed to mow the lawn...if it hadn't been done then we would have arrived home from the hospital to a forest), and gather ourselves. I cried the whole way. There and back. I tried to tell myself that there was still a greater chance I could deliver vaginally, but I think that deep down, I knew.

Knowing this, I should have pushed myself and the hospital staff harder during my induction, but I was just way too "go with the flow". There is such a thing as being too relaxed. And I was.

They started the evening of August 24th with a dose of Cervadil sometime around 8PM. It was slightly uncomfortable, but mostly it was just cumbersome to get up and go to the bathroom with what felt like 15 different tubes (IV, fetal monitor, uterus monitor, etc.) hanging from me. Luckily, I'm a woman with little shame and even less modesty, so asking for help is not a problem. If it hadn't been for the draft, I would have just gone naked because it would have been much easier to move around.

When the Pitocin started around 8AM on the 25th, I was relieved to not be living out all of the Pit horror stories I had been told. My contractions started slowly and became more intense gradually. I think this lulled me into believing that lying in bed wasn't so bad, and that there really wasn't any need to get up and move because I was doing so well. Around 11, they came in and I was dilated just at about 1 1/2 cm, enough that my doc could break my water. This was honestly the most painful part of my entire labor. At 2PM, my contractions had gotten still stronger and I was hoping that I would be around 4cm, but my uncooperative cervix had not budged. They decided to attach an internal monitor to see if the contractions were as strong as we all thought. Also, she suggested at this point that I take some Stadol (a narcotic pain med) because it looked as though we were going to be laboring for quite a while. I accepted, only because I had done my research and knew that I needed a nap more than anything because I was fully expecting this labor to go on for a day or more if needed.

My contractions got very strong during and after the Stadol...the internal monitor confirmed that they were strong enough that they should be moving mountains, and I was definitely feeling it...having to close my eyes and breathe through contractions. They were about 30 seconds apart and lasting 60-90 seconds, sometimes not fully coming down before peaking a second time. Just after 5, the doctor came again. My husband and I had already discussed it and had a "plan" mapped out: if I was dilated past 4 or 5cm, no more drugs, because I knew I could handle it; between 2-4 and I would have asked for an epidural because the worst was yet to come, and less than 2cm and we would probably be heading for the operating room.

The doctor gave me the option to continue in active labor since little boy was in no trouble whatsoever, and if I regret anything, it's not saying very clearly at this point, "I want to continue, and I want to be off the monitors at least 15 minutes of every hour so that I can labor in different positions." As much as I had prepared for standing up for my rights during labor and delivery, being there in the moment and believing that I was not able to dilate and that I should opt for the c-section just swept all of my plans under the rug. I wasn't in extreme pain, I wasn't "done" and ready for him to be out, I just allowed myself to be led to believe that nothing would change if I continued laboring.

What happened next was unlike anything I've ever seen: as soon as I said c-section, it was like 15 people showed up to prep me at once, and within 12 minutes I was being wheeled away. The operating room was even crazier! I will spare the details of the surgery, just know that I felt nothing but a little pressure, and that when Jacob was born and I heard him cry it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.

Whew. If you've read this far, wow...I really appreciate it! I will continue tomorrow with some mushy after-the-birth stories. But for now, this perfect 7 1/2 month old is crying for his mommy and I'll only have another hour with him before bed, so I must bid adieu!

Take Foot, Insert into Mouth...

I mentioned yesterday that I am attending a workshop for work (I'm on my lunch break people, no need to report me) and I am really enjoying it despite being sick as a dog.

It started on Tuesday. It's in the big city environment of Raleigh, and to get to the building, you have to go down a very busy four lane road with a median. It has small cut-throughs for the roads that branch off with office buildings, and people tend to drive very fast on the main road that goes through the center. The cut throughs only hold at most 1 1/2 cars, which tends to block up the lane behind if some is having trouble *cough*, "pulling the gun" and turning left across the two lanes of oncoming traffic. (I would draw a map, but it would probably just be even more confusing.)

On Tuesday I was behind one such car, with a sweet young lady driver who waited. And waited. And WAITED at the cut through for what seemed like hours to turn left. It was probably in reality about 96 seconds, but it felt like an eternity as I could see the cars piling up behind me. I pulled forward, kind of parallel to her to try to get my rear end out of the lane and let people pass, and as I did that I got a clearer view of the oncoming traffic. Or lack thereof. Seriously, I could have ridden a CAMEL through that turn with all the time she was waiting with no traffic in sight. Or led a gaggle of geese across.

So what did I do? I pulled this nifty move that I learned in Boston about 6 years ago when someone did it to me at a MUCH busier intersection. I pulled out and around her and went about my merry way. I think she got the picture then that she had enough time to get across the oncoming lanes, so she turned to. The closer I got to my building, the more the sinking feeling in the pit of stomach mounted.

There are like thousands of people who work in this complex of offices, so what are the chances that she is one of the 10 other people attending this workshop? You got it. I had to pull into the parking lot, park a mile away from the building, and wait until I saw her walk in before I would get out of my car. I did not want an awkward "you're that bitch that cut me off" encounter my first day of the workshop.

Crisis averted, but let's just say that I have been a much more conservative driver the rest of the week.

Because every Thanksgiving ends with a bottle of wine, right?

Luckily, only half of our Thanksgiving was a massive fail. Actually, even less than half. But unfortunately it was the half that involved my family, with my sister who drove 7 hours from Philly and my dear wonderful cousins that I grew up with and my dad who is almost never in town anymore. Here's how it went down:

We wanted to go to the church service this morning and since we live 25 minutes from church and my mother in law lives 5 minutes (and the service started at 7AM) we spent the night at mother in law's. J slept great all night in the pack and play in his own little room, which means that mid-December when Mama and Daddy have an adult party to go to, J will be doing his first overnight with a grandparent! Big win there. Church was pretty good...he was fussy at first but it's a casual service so I didn't feel the least bit out of place standing at the back rocking him to naptime. He took a nearly 3 hour nap before we went to my husband's grandparents, so I figured that exhaustion would not be an issue. He did really well at the big family celebration. He got passed around and smiled and talked and lied on the floor and entertained everyone, and of course we were all so enamored with him. He was the epitome of what "bundle of joy" means.

He napped again from 2-3, and then in the car between houses, so I thought he was pretty well rested when we arrived at my cousin's house just before 6 for my family's Thanksgiving. I was really excited because it's the first time some of my extended family have met him. My sister made a beeline for him as soon as he stirred, and I knew he was getting hungry so I told her to bring him to me when he started to fuss.

I had eaten 3 pieces of cheese, 3 olives, and popped open the top to a Diet Mug Root Beer when the crying started. I settled on the couch with the pillow, burp cloth, and hooter hider and discreetly un-snapped my bra while my 4 year old cousin asked a million questions about what I was doing and why the baby ate from under my shirt. Sis set J down and He. Did. Not. Latch. O.K. That has never happened, in three months of having a perfect baby who goes easily between the breast and bottles of pumped milk (of which I had none). He screamed on my nipple like it was the worst thing I could have put in his mouth. I thought maybe he was hot, so I took his pants and socks off. No help. So I went upstairs to a room no one was using, took off his onesie, didn't put him under the cover. Nothing. Just screaming. I started crying while I was walking around the room with him. For nearly an hour I would get him calm, try the boob, back to more screaming. My sister took him into the nursery, put on soft music, soft lights, humidifier, rocked him, while I sat in the other room crying on my mom's shoulder. H finally got him calmed down enough that I went into the nursery. He was lying on the floor sucking on her finger. We tried nursing and voila! All was well. For about 7 minutes.

Then he went right back to screaming. My husband came in and we did everything we could to calm him but nothing worked for more than 3 minutes at a time. So finally, defeated and deflated and upset, we trudged back downstairs, packed him in his carseat, and left. Well, I left, barely able to even say goodbye to my family without erupting into a wailing mess. My hubby had to say goodbyes and answer everyone's questions. They mean well. They asked if I was ok, offered to take J so we could eat. He declined and explained that we really just think he's overwhelmed and needed to get home.

So, not he's asleep in his own crib. The little bugger started smiling as soon as I put him on the changing table. He nursed like a dream and went right to sleep.

Now mama is going downstairs to crack open a bottle of wine, clean my kitchen, and wait for my little sister to show up with dinner plates.

Let's hope we can handle the Christmas schedule with a little more grace.