Long Time Coming

I've needed a change. For a while, now. I mean, in most every area of my life. So, let me fill you in on what's been going on with me.

I'm fat. That's been established. I tried to start a "lifestyle change" in January, lost about 8 lbs, then gained 15. Three weeks ago, I was at my heaviest weight ever (not including pregnancy): 248lbs. So I joined myfitnesspal.com and hooked up with some amazingly motivating ladies from a message board I am on, and have lost 9 pounds in 3 weeks. My food diary is public, so the real motivating factor has been me knowing that other people can see what I'm eating. I do not like being judged on weight, especially not when I know it's utterly my fault for looking like this.

What I am even MORE proud of than the weight loss, though, is the fact that I have had fast food only once in the last three weeks, and had a Coke only twice. It's getting a craving, and still making the choice to eat something different when my mind is saying "Godiva chocolate cheesecake" that impresses me. I hate those diet articles in magazines that say crap like "when you want salty chips, eat veggies and hummus instead" or "choose a piece of fruit instead of a chocolate chip cookie". WTF? I don't want a freaking apple, and my body is smarter than that. If I give it nuts and an apple, it's going to cross it's arms and roll it's collective eyes and be all "this bitch HATES me". And then it will rebel.

But it hasn't. I feel more confident than ever that I can make the right choice 85% of the time, and forgive myself and let it go the other 15.

Also, in other news, I'm raising a toddler. And coming off the heels of the 18 months that I was most terrified of, I thought, this parenting thing is going to be so much easier than I expected. Pre-schoolers have always loved me, listened to me, and done whatever I asked them to. Um, yeah right. Schooled me. The last 6 months have been incredibly difficult as I have dealt with feelings of intense mommy guilt, not feeling like a good parent, not being patient enough, not giving my son enough credit for the great things he does, dwelling on the negative, and basically thinking that he would be better off with anyone besides me for a mom.

It's almost been like I caught post-partum depression, 18 months late.

So I started seeing a counselor. And while I won't go into detail, it has so far been so wonderfully freeing to listen to someone tell me that I'm normal, that I don't need to be embarrassed that I have more internet friends than real life friends, and that I should work on not worrying as much about what other people have going on and how it compares to me.

The only thing that has helped me get through this rough patch more than these appointments (other than a supportive husband who has definitely pulled more parenting duty lately to release some of my burden) are 22 of the most amazing women I have ever known. Every day they confirm for me that my child is not a hellion (or at least not the only 22-month old hellion out there) and that we will all get through this. So far it's been 3 years, give or take, that we've "known" each other, and I hope that it lasts a lifetime, whether we ever get to meet in person or not. And even though I tell them this on our page on occasion, I wanted some PUBLIC way to let them know how much they mean to me. You all know who you are, and I thank God every day for that fateful day when a handful of assorted women climbed into a "tub" together and let their guards down.

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?

Frugal, Fickle, or Felon?

You know those chicks in movies, magazines, and Hollywood who have a "signature smell"? Like, "I've been wearing Chanel No. 5 since 1986"? Not me. I like change, I like new, I like to be different and unique. So I wear different perfumes frequently.

And I have high standards for perfume. Nothing floral, it just smells like old lady on my skin. I go for the citrusy and clean scents in the summer and something a little more heady and sensual in cooler weather. I like the idea of smelling exotic or sexy. But, perfume changes over time and 4 hours later (or even 10 minutes later) smells completely different than when you first spritzed it on. Because of this, I always have to sample before I buy.

This used to entail going into Sephora and spritzing myself, then doing the rest of my mall shopping before deciding what I wanted to buy. (I buy perfume like once a year, don't get all excited thinking this is my Carrie Bradshaw shoe equivalent and I have a vanity covered in fancy perfumes bottles. I don't even have a vanity. I have a bookshelf leftover from college that just happens to fit in the space between my bathroom counter and the wall; that's where my girl crap gets stored.) But this didn't work well, because I usually couldn't commit after just one day. Perfume is, after all, a long term commitment, and that would be like moving with a guy you just met at a concert the night before.

So one time I asked if they had a sample, and lo and behold, the Sephora lady pulls out the drawer underneath the display and ::hallelujah:: there are thousands of tiny spritz bottles in there just waiting for her to fill with any of the hundreds of perfumes they carry. The first time, I didn't feel guilty.

But yesterday, after quietly asking "do you guys have samples?" for oh, I don't know, about the sixth time in three years, and then getting two to go, I did feel a little twinge of guilt, like I was ripping them off. (You can, too, all you have to do is ask nicely.) So, I'm considering buying Lavanila Vanilla Coconut if I get any money gifts at Christmas. It's quite lovely, actually, warm and sensual and I feel special when I wear it. That's what a good perfume should do. I highly recommend their line...it smells a little sweet out of the bottle, but give it a little while to settle in and it's not quite so cotton candy. It blooms very nicely. They also have a baby line...I'm thinking of trying it.

So, it's not stealing if they offer it, right? And to my credit, I always buy my perfume from there when I do decide to take the plunge. Hope this is a useful tip for any of you who have perfume-commitment issues like myself!

I'm Not Much For Country Music

You wouldn't believe it by hearing me speak, knowing my family, or seeing the farmland that lies within a mile of my neighborhood, but I didn't even listen to country music at all (well, other than the Charlie Pride 8-track that I used to catch in my Mema's car when I was little) until well into high school. And only then because a boy I liked was a fan.

Even now, my "love" for country music ebbs and flows like the tide. Some days I like it and it gets me jazzed, some days I think it sounds like a bunch of redneck trash and I just want to hear David Gray or Pearl Jam. But yesterday, country music saved me. Not from anything big, just from a little despondentness. (If that's not a word, it should be.)

I don't know if it's my monthly friend, my breastfeeding hormones continuing to wane, or just being worn down from the daily grind, but I was feeling really down Sunday night. Like, bordering on depression down. It was a long weekend; I got to see family, sleep in, hang out with my baby, spend some quality time with my hubby, and I should have been feeling good and rested and loose Sunday evening, knowing I had a whole other day off work. But instead, I felt like I was still working. I was tired, worn down, emotionally drained, and just feeling like I hadn't really gotten a rest yet.

The worst part of feeling this way for me is the guilt that accompanies those feelings. I have friends with children with major health and developmental issues, who have suffered debilitating PPD, who live 1000 miles from any family or friends that could help out and give them a much-needed break now and then, whose marriages are suffering, who have been searching fruitlessly for a job for over a year and who may have to sell their home, and the list goes on and on (this is not one friend but several, just in case you were confused by my misuse of possesive and tenses). I have a home, a little piece of land, a stable (if sometimes a little too volatile, I mean, passionate) marriage, a supportive family, two incomes, and an amazingly healthy child. I am lucky. I have NO RIGHT to complain.

But sometimes, y'all, the loss of control I feel over my life gets to be a little more than I can handle. And I try to rely on good friends and my husband to bring me through that, but occasionally it takes a little more to escape that drowning feeling. And yesterday, driving along with Jacob babbling in the backseat, I happened to flip to the country station and Trace Adkins "You're Gonna Miss This" started playing. And I lost it. It was just what I needed to break out of the slump I've been in this past week and get. over. myself. Life is hard, right? Some days I need to suck it up and just be thankful for what I've got. Even if that means I have too much laundry to sort, too much paperwork in the office that needs to be filed, and a lack of focus on the details of my life (like where Jacob's shoes may be).

So here's to shrugging off the shadows and focusing on the bright lights in my life. Because if it were not for those dark moments, I wouldn't be able to realize how much joy I get when that little boy grins at me. Or how amazingly successful and together I felt when the first shopping trip with my new Ergo was pure fun, even if people were looking at me like a crazyhippie mama while I talked to my son the whole time I was picking out veggies. I can DO this, y'all!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Breastfeeding is HARD, Ya'll!

Time for me to confess. I was one of those moms who had it very, very easy at first. I had heard it was hard so many times that I figured I had a 50-50 shot of making it to 3 months. But lo and behold, the Wonder Boy popped out an instant boob-man that seemed to latch within 3 seconds of me holding him sideways near my naked chest. And for the next 3 1/2 months we coasted along on his exclusive diet of mama's milk.

In secret, I was very, very proud of our accomplishment, like it was something I was doing that allowed my body to make milk. Really, all I did was be available any time he wanted to give it a go, and stayed calm and relaxed enough that the milk had no problem flowing. I demurely bowed out of conversations where people talked about how hard breastfeeding was, because honestly, it felt pretty easy for me. I felt sorry for the women I know that tried to breastfeed and were not able to. Overall, I felt pretty proud of myself and my little guy for our "accomplishment".

And then I went back to work. No worries: I had a healthy 60 ounces or so in my chest freezer and I was pumping pretty much what he was eating during my 3 breaks a day. For the first 2 1/2 weeks. Then, all of a sudden he was eating 18 oz, I was pumping 12 oz, and the freezer outlet tripped. Murphy's freaking law, people. Since then, I've been up and down. I've come to terms with supplementing with formula. At first it was only 6 oz, maybe once a week, but as time has passed and work has become more stressful, I am now supplementing at least 3 times a week. Sometimes as much as 2 bottles. I think we're at the point where it's going to be one formula bottle and two breastmilk bottles. Which is ok, but it's still disappointing.

I remember a conversation with my little (childless, opinionated, but well-meaning) sister just before Jacob was born. I said that my first goal for breastfeeding was 3 months, but that I really hoped to go 6. "Why would you only do it for 6 months," she sneered, "when you know a year is better?" Well, the closer I've gotten to six months (SIX months! Just around the corner...) the more I've wanted to continue for a year, or at least until the baby decides he's done.

But it's HARD, ya'll! Sometimes when I pump I only get an ounce. An OUNCE, for nearly 20 minutes of my precious workday. I probably spend nearly two hours of my day pumping and/or cleaning the pump accoutrements. And those times, all I can think of is how much I can't wait to eat chocolate-covered espresso beans and spicy hot food again. Now that he's been exposed to formula and I know it's not radioactive or rotting his brain, I really sometimes think about how nice it would be to stop pumping and only breastfeed when I'm around him. But I'm scared to try that in case it just causes the rest of my supply to quit. And I'm not ready to give up at all when I look down at Jacob and he smiles, like he would never want to drink anything except mommy's milk!

I just need a vote of confidence, I guess. I really want to make it to a year, but it's getting harder and harder to appreciate the benefits in spite of the troubles it gives me!