This is getting old. November 5, 2009

I’m visiting anotheelementary school today and I just found a suitable place to pump after rejecting:

1. The bathroom in the clinic (nurse’s office) that is used by sick kids to barf and gosh knows what else.

2. A bathroom with no power outlet.

3. A bathroom shared by an entire hallway of teachers,  most of whom will only have a few seconds to take care of business while teaching.

What is it with people and expecting us to pump in bathrooms? That’s so incredibly disgusting. I get that milking is a bodily function, but don’t they realize my baby is going to drink this milk and I’d prefer not to express it in a place where people relieve themselves of last night’s greasy Mexican food?

Happy Halloween. And Stuff. November 3, 2009

The plan was to take Andrew around to the neighbors we know and the ones we’ve always intended to meet. His schedule was completely wrong and a recipe for disaster. We pressed on, suited up our little lobster, and hit the road.

First attempt.

Fail.

Second attempt.

Fail.

At this point he began to get worried that no one would witness his adorableness.

We pressed on.

We met one really nice couple, but that was it. Due to an oversight on our part, we also didn’t have any trick or treaters. We made sure to turn on the porch light. We didn’t make sure to turn off the motion activation. Still, Halloween was a roaring success because…

We found the perfect solution to handling Daylight Savings Time with an infant. We sent him to his grandparents for the night. ‘Twas magnificent.

 

I’m near death, but it was worth it. October 30, 2009

I have the flu. I think. Whatever mysterious ailment befell by child and husband has overtaken me. Anyway, I saved up all my energy today so that I could venture out for this purpose.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to curl up and die.

The pedi was right. And oh so wrong. October 28, 2009

Andrew did get better after Monday’s visit. Yesterday he had no fever. He still woke up every two hours at night to eat, but I thought we were on the road to recovery.

My mom offered to watch him so I could go to work. He wasn’t eating much but she didn’t think he had a fever for most of the day. By the time I got home he had a temp of 104.

Whiskey.

Tango.

Foxtrot.

Why does my baby keep getting better then sicker every other day? Our regular pedi (who has been out of town) called to discuss the situation for about fifteen minutes. He’s befuddled, too.

We broke his fever pretty easily and now he’s happier and more playful than he’s been all day. He even “danced” for the first time. I’m staying home and mom’s staying, too, to keep an eye on him. If he has a fever at all we’re heading back to the doctor’s office.

Oh, and Mr. Aggie is near death but hasn’t succumbed. I threw a lean cuisine at him a few minutes ago.

I am more exhausted than when Andrew was a newborn. At least then when he slept like crap I could spend they day in a pajama-clad stupor. Going to work SUCKED SUCKED SUUUUUUUUUUCKED.

The End.

Oh, wait. Not the end. All the skin-to-skin contact (designed to bring down his fever) plus the hands-free nursing bra I finally acquired seem to have markedly improved my supply. Yippee!

My life sucks! But good news! October 27, 2009

First, the suckage. Andrew is still really, really sick. We don’t know exactly what it is. (I’d like my $60 back, Mr. Pediatrician. Please and thank you.) At this point we’re HOPING it’s the flu. Not really what I expected to be saying. He’s sleeping in 1.5-2 hour spurts around the clock. The pedi believes it will improve over the next day or so. He may also have only said that because he sees the crazy in my eyes.

Mr. Aggie and I are both home with him today. The plan was for us to trade off sick baby duty since I was up every two hours with Andrew the night before and also went to work yesterday. The plan was NOT for Mr. Aggie to wake up with chills and a slight fever in the middle of the night. I’m considering locking him in the guest room and installing a doggy door through which I can disperse equal parts fluids and lysol.

The little guy is napping now so I should be too, since that’s the only break I’ll be getting. But first! I had to share this awesome news! My only Conservative friends Two wonderful people have made themselves a baby! I’m so excited for them and baby “Nigel.” Despite their misguided political leanings, I have every confidence that Nigel is one lucky guy/gal to be created and raised by such loving and dedicated parents. I’m also glad that my oversharing hasn’t dissuaded them from the endeavor altogether.

And with that, I bid you goodnight. May your day be fantastico, and may my husband not be snoring lest I finally succumb to my overwhelming yet unwarranted urge to bash his head in with the baby monitor.

Have a nice day!

Newsflash: Sometimes being a parent means being an adult. October 25, 2009

And it’s about as much fun as you’d imagine it to be. 

Backstory: We attend exactly one party every year, barring unavoidable conflicts. It is hosted by several of my  coworkers and it’s a Halloween fiesta not to be missed. We plan our costumes well in  advance and this year lined up childcare. As you probably know, having a baby at a party can be quite a drag. They just can’t hang after 2 am, you know? The party was last night and the plan was for Andrew to toddle off to the grandparents for the night.  Having not spent a night away from him since July or August, I’ll admit I was looking forward to the break.I was a little sad about it, but mostly looking forward to getting my hair done, doing some shopping, sleeping, and hanging out with friends.

5 a.m. yesterday morning, Andrew woke up with a fever that quickly climbed to 103.9. Just like that, our plans were off.

Twenty minutes later he threw up all over me and it was hot. As in temperature. As in pouring coffee on yourself hot.

Then he just wanted to lay on me or Mr. Aggie. He never does that. By that time we’d talked to the on call nurse who freaked me the hell out when she started asking about purple bruises and HIV and had me hold the phone to his mouth so she could listen to him breathe.

Our pediatrician’s practice has weekend hours and they scheduled us for 11 am. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself (shocking, I know) until we drove past the Pediatric Urgent Care in the same complex. A quick glance over at the strollers lined up outside the door changed my tune pretty quick, fast, and in a hurry. Strollers, people. Sick little babies waiting outside.

The office was pretty empty when we arrived. We went back to a room and Andrew just wanted to nurse. He’d been nursing pretty much nonstop for about five hours at that point. That’s all that made him happy and I would do anything to make him more comfortable. The pediatrician came in eventually. I liked him in spite of having listened to him gossip with a nurse outside of our room for a good five minutes about who’s seeing who and what TV shows they watch. Take your time, oh wise one. I’ll just sit here patiently with my boiling child who may be dying of an AIDS bruise.

He was in the middle of his exam when Andrew did what babies never do: demonstrated his sickness for the doctor. He threw up all over me. Again. Of course I brought three outfits for him and none for me, ensuring that I’d be stuck in the puke-covered sweater for another two hours.

After the big show, the doctor decided to check for flu and strep. We waited ever so patiently while the tests were done. Both were negative, leading to the conclusion that it’s most likely a virus.

He said we should limit Andrew’s milk consumption to avoid situations like the one above. He said the fever and sickness make him thirsty so he’ll drink until his little tummy can’t hold any more. Then I’ll end up wearing it. As much fun as that sounded, we agreed to limit his feedings and space them according to the doctor’s recommendation. I cried a little at the thought of denying him the only comforting ritual he had, but he handled it surprisingly well. He felt so bad that he didn’t mind just sleeping on us or sitting with us.

By seven or so last night he was feeling much better. He actually STTN and woke at 5:00 just to snack and go back to sleep. He’s good as new this morning. I can’t say the same for Mr. Aggie, who is napping, too. He went to bed when I did and also got up for the 5:00 feeding. I got him up when Andrew got up for the day at 8:00. With the help of some fuzzy math he’s convinced himself that he got two hours less than I did last night. Whatever helps you sleep, dude.

The grandparents will be coming over in about an hour to make up for the time they lost. I’ll be running errands. Ah, the glamorous life I lead.

I was never here. October 23, 2009

You saw nothing. You especially didn’t see me hiding in my office with my milking sign still on the door.

Guys, the milking. It’s killing me. (Sidenote: The ‘k’ on my keyboard has decided not to work. Except for when it does, which is just often enough for me to forget that it often doesn’t. Until it doesn’t.)

So, are you ready to talk about pumping some more? And about how frustrated I am about it? Yeah, me neither.

But you guys, the miling milkking sweet jeebus is there a cheeto under the key or what? Oh now it works. Twice.

ANYWAY. Pumping is making me crazy. Back when I first returned to work, in April, I was a milk fountain. Paint me red and call me Bessie–we were throwing milk out because it was going bad before he got to it, but I didn’t care because the road went on forever and the party never ended.

Through the summer, I hardly ever used my pump. I didn’t notice too much of a drop-off; I only needed it for a bottle or two here and there so I wasn’t concerned.

Then I came back to work and noticed I was pumping in a day (2-3 sessions) what I used to pump in one session.

Just like that, my supply dropped by at least fifty percent. I was making about 12 oz in two sessions. See that past tense there? Yeah.

This week I’ve gotten about eight ounces.

Eight.

That’s 1 1/3 bottles. He takes three bottles at daycare. Thanks to a night session and a morning session, I can usually scrape together the rest of it, but sometimes I don’t.

That means when I accidently spill a tiny fraction of an ounce, I cry. When one of the girls underachieves, I cry. I worry about how I’m going to make enough, if I’m going to make enough. I research new ways to get more boob for my buck. I stress about how stress is affecting my supply.

Last night I watched a video about hand expression and added that to my routine. The video was very convincing, with graphs and examples illustrating how much more was produced when the mom added the hands-on element.

Today I spent twenty extra minutes pumping. I did the techniques correctly; I extracted a similar amount that the ‘model’ did in the video except for the part where she didn’t get it all over herself and nearby surfaces. She had a disembodied hand holding the breastpump thingie for her, which while immensely helpful just might have overstepped some personal boundaries in the workplace.

I got a grand total of an extra ounce for my trouble. I added at least twenty minutes to the undertaking, ended up with milk all over myself in various quantities, and my hands are still cramping up. I was on track for less than eight before that.

I have 8.5 oz (total) to show for my effort.

I do, however, have much more control over my squirting skills. I’m thinking of showing them off at the Halloween party we’re attending tomorrow night.

Sigh.

Signs I need to dial it down a notch October 19, 2009

I was baking a couple of odd looking winter squash (squashes? squashi?) we bought for Stinks at Whole Foods. The first was pretty normal. The second wasn’t.

Mr. Aggie: What smells like cucumber?

Mrs Aggie eyes the squash dubiously. I think it’s this squash.

Pause.

It was really hard to cut into. I’m not entirely sure it’s edible.

Pause.

If I paid THAT for an organic fall decoration, then baked and pureed it,  I’m going to be PISSED.

Has it really been almost a week? October 16, 2009

Come on in and have a seat. Let’s catch up.

• I’m so tired my eyeballs hurt. Thank goodness Andrew is STTN, because work is brutal.
• Tracy from the Biggest Loser irritates me to no end. I hate her freaky bug eyes, too.
• We’re going to a couples’ baby shower/barbeque tomorrow. We only know the dad-to-be so I’m nervous about how we’ll meet people/fit in. Maybe there will be one of those hyper-competitive moms there and I can accelerate all of A’s milestones just to see if she get’s bug-eyed a la Tracy.  
• I’m pretty excited about our Halloween costumes. I’m even more excited that they aren’t going to cost more than $10 for both of us.
• Andrew’s costume on the other hand…
• Did I tell you that he’s ‘army crawling’ very effectively now? It’s pretty cute. The cat is not amused. Maybe because it’s harder for her to escape this:

Dude! October 10, 2009

I was sitting on the edge of the tub holding Andrew, waiting for Mr. Aggie to add a little cool water to the tub since it seemed a little too warm.

All of the sudden, a stream shot across the room. I gasped, and did what it is you do when your kid starts to golden shower the bathroom. I put my hand over his area. And then I squealed as he continued to pee INTO MY HAND.

Have you ever had the sensation of warm pee running down your leg that isn’t yours? Nevermind, don’t answer that.  I’ll just tell you it’s a very disturbing sensation.