Join The Club

Becoming a mom is like joining a club. Overnight (or, in my case, after 12+ hours of labor) you become part of a group of hormone-addled, sleep-deprived, memory-impaired women whose sole purpose on Earth, at least in the short term, is to feed and care for a floppy, wailing, Chihuahua-sized human.

The New Mom Club has no formal meetings; we’re far too busy for that. Nor are all members like-minded; is there a more hot-button issue than breastfeeding, except maybe circumcision or cosleeping? Still, we have plenty of things in common – the desperate desire for a hot shower, for one.

New moms have their own particular brand of humor. Poop discussions cause gales of giggles; swapping new-dad shortcomings can consume hours and render still-weak stomach muscles sore from laughter. (Hmmm, new mom workout tip?) We cast knowing glances at strangers in checkout lines with milk stains on their shirts. We tell anyone who will listen that there’s a sale at BabyGap, as if sharing the news of our own engagement.

Suddenly, the sister-in-law you had little in common with becomes a comrade in arms. You begin to look at your mother and mother-in-law as real candidates for sainthood. She raised children? WITHOUT a dishwasher?

Sometimes new members have difficulty with the transition. “Why didn’t you girls tell me this was so hard?” a friend recently demanded of us fellow moms, a few weeks into new-motherhood. Oh, but we did. Doesn’t she remember the girls’ nights we spent cursing our breast pumps and sighing over the good old days when any bodily fluids we encountered were our own? No, she was too busy thinking about Friday night happy hour and her new strappy sandals. Let’s face it, until it’s happening to you, you just don’t pay attention. (If you did, you’d be too afraid to reproduce!)

One new mom I know is currently in the throes of the club’s hazing rituals – otherwise known as colic, gastric reflux, sore nipples, diaper blowouts, and being housebound for days on end. She has not been out on her own since the baby arrived, except for a trip to the dentist – as good as a Caribbean vacation, as far as she’s concerned. Her meals are consumed standing up, with one hand, or skipped entirely. The washer, dryer, dishwasher, and bottle warmer run around the clock.

I wish I could make it easier on her. But as the rest of the initiated know, induction to the New Mom Club is something every gal has to go through herself.

There is life on the other side, I promise. Why, just the other day I left the house by myself for two whole hours. So what if it was to Once Upon A Child to find a play gym, and the grocery store? We members of the New Mom Club celebrate the small victories where we can find them.

Call a new mom you know. Instead of barraging her with advice, listen, sympathize, and tell her about one of your funniest and most embarrassing new-mom screw-ups. She’ll appreciate it even more than a casserole, trust me.

In The Groove

You know how people are always saying that kids grow up so fast, so enjoy them while they’re little, because before you know it they’ll be teenagers, and boy are you in for it then, and you just want them to shut up because all you’re focused on right now is getting your baby to please, dear God, please sleep through the night for once? Well, it’s true, people. They do grow up fast.

OK, so my son is only 3 months old. Maybe that doesn’t make me an expert, per se. All I know is I saw a couple of newborns this past week and, oh my goodness, were they tiny.

I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this parenting thing. Oh, sure, I’m in tears weekly over something or other, and I still cling to “What to Expect the First Year” like it’s the Bible. But I actually feel much more relaxed and confident these days. I know how to make Michael laugh, and how to get him to stop crying (usually). I can tell his bored cry from his tired cry, and I can tell when he’s just about to lose it (the maniacal karate moves are a sure sign). He’s much more predictable now.

Not that I’m getting complacent. I’m just trying to enjoy every moment while he’s still small.

Spring Fever

A compilation of things I’d like to do this summer:

1.  Dance Classes (Cinema Ball Room)
2.  Summit Brewery Tour
3.  Vine Park Brewery, Make your own wine
4.  Mississippi River Rides (margarita tour, jazz night)
5.  Spend a day thrift seeking/antiquing
6.  Chanhassen Dinner Theater, Footloose
7.  Northfield:  explore, take pictures, beers, bike ride
8.  Taylors Falls
9.  Horseback riding, volunteering, Camp St Croix
10.  Open Skating (summer)
11.  Ice Skating, mini hockey tourney complete with bonfire and beer
12.  Movie matinee date
13.  Cave Tours (gangster, ghost, etc)
14.  Take canoe out for a day, go fishing, box o’ wine?
15.  Axels Sunday special
16.  Saints Game, tailgate
17.  ABV Winery Tour
18.  Go on a picnic
19.  Host a summer BBQ and bonfire
20.  Take Michael to the zoo
21.  Go camping (real camping in a tent)
22.  Go on a hike (maybe in Grand Marais)
23.  ACME comedy club (for someones birthday)
24.  See Wood Brothers or Dr Dog play
25.  Play bar scrabble on a sunny patio
26.  Go on lots of bike rides
27.  Sell Bodhi at a couple festivals, womens retreats, craft fairs
28.  White water rafting in northern MN
29.  Visit Matt & Allison in Duluth
30.  Go to Macy’s flea market/day of music July 13-14
31.  Play bingo
32.  Master mixed media jewelry making
33.  Stroller, dog walks, lots
34.  Go to random fairs again (especially the camel one and rice county fair)
35.  Make California rolls/sushi
36.  Grow our own veggie garden
37.  Go to the farmers market more often
38.  Play Frisbee golf (garlough has a new course)
39.  Visit Minnehaha Falls
40.  Dinner at Heartland
41.  Find a “Peter vs Food” challenge
42.  Go out to lunch/dinner at a sushi buffet
43.  Arrange a pedalpub (www.pedalpub.com)
44.  Play on a summer softball team
45.  Go to the museum of questionable medical devices
46.  Learn how to play a few songs on guitar  (1.  King Harvest  2.  TBD)
47.  Have a garage sale
48.  Make a music/recording room
49.  Circus Juventas spring or summer show
50.  Irish Fair/Blues Festival at Harriet Island
51.  Have a Star Wars Day/weekend
52.  Shout House Dueling Pianos
53. Go miniature golfing once
54. Develop a couple b/w  poster prints
55.  Get to the Y a couple times a week

All I Really Want to do, is Baby be Friends With You…

All of my friends have scattered to the winds.

I can’t help but feel winter has everything to do with it. The demonic force that is lack of light, intense cold and shitty shoppers shoving you into shelves when all you need is a damn roll of TP has taken over. It sucks people’s energy and drains them of their positivity. It becomes really easy to ignore the other person’s feelings or let your own sadness envelope you when even getting out requires fighting with people you don’t even know.

On top of that, the holidays suck. They’re stressful, they’re lonely and they’re crowded. You have so much stuff to get done. Just you. You’re alone and yet you’re surrounded by a bunch of jerks that you’d rather explode than ever be around again (read: shoppers, drivers, in-laws). It has to be the most lonely, stiffling season of the entire year. Add to it that you’re spending more money than you’ve spent on your whole year’s mortgage, and you understand why December has the highest number of suicides for the entire year. Everyone’s sad and I’m sad for them.

I miss my friends. I miss my happy, snarky group of girlfriends that all loved making eachother crazy. I hope that after this winter passes, we can all re-absorb a little sun and sanity, make our amends and get on with normalcy.

The Saga of the Skinny Jean

It’s all Oprah’s fault. And Rita Wilson’s. The other day I got sucked into one of those makeover shows. Who doesn’t love a good makeover? Mrs. Tom Hanks, looking ridiculously young and attractive for a 50 year old, was coercing women to shed their shapeless, outdated excuses for fashion and step into 2010. According to Rita, there are 4 must-have items for women of every age: black leggings or skinny jeans, black boots, a sweater, and a scarf.

Personally, leggings give me flashbacks to the 3rd grade. Technically, I believe those were stirrup pants I wore, but the look was the same–tight pants under a long top. Mine happened to be an oversize pink sweatshirt, which may or may not have been off-the-shoulder. Hey, it was the “Flashdance” era!

Anyway, I would be thrilled to never encounter leggings again. But what do you know? They’re ba-aack. Along with their sinister cousin, the skinny jean. Or even WORSE, an evil hybrid: the denim legging!! Can we all just admit that this style does not flatter 99% of the population? Unless you’re an Olsen twin or a German supermodel, you can’t rock skintight pants.

At least, that’s what I thought. Until Rita and Oprah trotted out women of all ages, shapes, and sizes looking great in skinny jeans and boots. Well, damn. If they can do it…

I had the perfect excuse. My husband and I made reservations at a swanky restraunt downtown. Since we go out about as often as a solar eclipse, however, I don’t exactly have a lot of stylish outfits. In fact, my current wardrobe includes a pair of black soccer warmups that I wore during pregnancy. And wool clogs. My God, I look worse than some of those “befores” on Oprah!

So with this little nudge, I headed out to find some—yes—SKINNY JEANS. First stop: Old Navy. I might only wear these things once, so why pay more than I had to? I struck out there, and the next place I went. I was ready to call off the whole charade but I decided I’d try TJMaxx.

If you’re familiar with TJMaxx you know that the dressing room is one, big, open, mirrored, fluorescent-lit nightmare. What was I DOING here?! Especially when I couldn’t even pull the first pair higher than my knees. Damn European sizes! But lo and behold, I found a pair that actually weren’t hideous. And they were $180 designer jeans!! (Originally. On sale for $24. Please, don’t you know me at all?!)

I took them home and got ready to go out. And by that I mean I attempted to apply eyeliner while keeping the baby from eating toilet paper, made up his bottle while my hair dried, while my husband got ready, I swaer he akes longer than a cheerleading squad primping for homecoming.

So I put on my new jeans with some boots I already owned and a cool cardigan I’ve had forever. Oprah and Rita would be so proud!

Not exactly the look I was going for. But hubs said I looked good. So off we went

Had a Bad Day

You know how magazines are always featuring these successful working moms who effortlessly balance their careers and families? Of course their lives aren’t as perfect as the articles make them out to be, but I wonder if those moms ever have days like the one I had today.

I decided I was ready to start working again…

In the car, I immediately noticed a foul smell. Was that … ? Could it be … ? Noooo … Did I accidentally drop a dirty diaper into my purse?

As the car filled with a horrible odor, I looked down at my shoe and saw that I had stepped in a disgusting deposit left in our yard by one of the dogs. Not just a little bit, either. A huge, gooey gob stuck to my shoe and, by now, ground into the floor mat. I pulled over and, while cursing like a sailor, attempted to scrape the crap off my shoe with an old napkin I found in the glove compartment. Wouldn’t you know it, the baby wipes and Purell I’ve been carting around for months were conveniently packed in my diaper bag – at home. The more I tried to clean up the mess, the worse it got, and the worse it smelled. I cried. I cursed some more.

Then I called Work, to mention I’d be late.  Then I cried some more and felt very sorry for myself. How had I ever thought I could do this working mom thing? Who was I kidding?

While Dog Poop Day ranks right up there, it may not actually be the worst day I’ve had since I became a mother.

But you know what? Moms aren’t the only ones who have bad days. Babies have them, too. I don’t know why that surprises me. Maybe because I figure that without checking accounts or stretch marks, they have nothing to stress about.

But some days, for no apparent reason, Michael is in a bad mood. Even if he’s had his nap, just been fed, and not wearing a shirt with a scratchy tag.

Could I learn something from my little munchkin about accepting that there will be bad days and that every tomorrow is a new chance for a better one? One thing’s for sure: being covered in poop never seems to ruin his day!

Real Resolutions

Well, this year I’ve decided to make REAL resolutions. You know, ones I actually WANT to achieve and maybe have a real shot at? Here goes:

Stop sweating it. You know how sometimes someone can be inexplicably rude or mean to you? And you let it ruin your day and go over and over in your head why that person said or did that and what you did to provoke it and how you should’ve responded? Yeah, I’m going to stop doing that. It’s almost always about THEM, not YOU. Like that woman in pilates class who gave me the evil eye for putting my mat in “her” spot? Namaste, lady. You can have it.

Be nicer to my husband. This list just continues to shock and confuse, doesn’t it? I KNOW, me too!! But now that I’m (sometimes) getting a full night’s sleep and 2 meals a day, I have a new perspective. It’s easy to let civility slide when you’re in postpartum survival mode. It’s easy to snarl, “Get back to me when you’ve grown a PERSON inside your body!” when your hubby complains of a headache or a man cold.

Give myself a break. OK, this is where I get clichéd. But it’s true; I am SO much harder on myself than anyone else. Most moms I know are. So instead of focusing on the times I’ve lost my temper or fallen short of perfection, what I’m NOT doing, what I SHOULD be doing, and how I could be doing everything better, I’m going to try to give myself credit for what I AM doing. Like keeping Michael clothed, fed, and alive day after day, for starters.

What do you think? Can I keep these up? Or will I be lunching on lattés and cursing the slow old lady in front of me at the grocery store by February?

New Years, Post Baby

You’d think I’d know better by now. New Year’s Eve is overrated at best, and an expensive, drunken disaster at worst. I’ve spent many a December 31st carousing with strangers and shivering on street corners waiting for cabs, and many a January 1st hung-over and hating life. And yet, the next year I’d buy a new outfit and do it all again. Until I had a baby, that is. Just try finding a sitter on New Year’s. Go on, I dare you. Not to mention that hangovers and 3 a.m. feedings don’t go hand in hand.

Welcome Baby Michael

Welcome Baby Michael! Our son was born on Novermber 25th, 2009, at 9:17 p.m.  9.1 lbs, 21.5 inches long…I soon learned that despite months of preparation, classes, books, and advice from friends and family, childbirth rarely goes as planned.

I will spare my readers most of the gory details. I’d hate to be one of those women who regales others with her labor horror stories. Anyway, it wasn’t exactly horrible. Just long. Really, really long. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version.

Wednesday morning we got up early, as usual, still having the contractions that started two weeks previous, and I called the hospital to make sure they had a place for me, as instructed. They did. I honestly wasn’t sure whether I was excited or not. Throughout my entire shower I kept repeating to myself that this would be the last shower I took as a pregnant woman. Again, not sure how I felt about that. I debated making some breakfast, which I was probably incapable of eating because my stomach had suddenly decided it was a 12 year old anorexic Russian gymnast in the Olympics and it was flipping for the gold.

We got to the hospital and spent what felt like hours with the really talkative, half asleep admissions lady. Off to the room we were swept. It was a beautiful room but it didn’t make me feel the least bit better about what was going to happen. I changed, I answered a million nurse questions, I got IV’d (and it didn’t really hurt, even though she had to do it 3 different times because my veins collapse when frightened), I got Pitocined, I got hooked up to the monitors, I got checked – 4cm. Still…I was in for a long day.

The first 3 or so hours weren’t so bad. They upped the Pitocin every 30 minutes and my contractions got harder but not unbearable. Visitors popped in and out of the room to wish me luck, well, I wish they hadn’t. It was very sweet, don’t get me wrong, but I felt like I was entertaining. They kept remarking how easy I made it look. Lovely. It was not easy.

As of hour 3, I was 10cm. 6 CM IN ONE HOUR!  The contractions were getting much rougher to deal with but, the kind of contractions that make you shake and cry…and I did both. I was no longer able to hold myself together and asked for the epidural the minute my nurse left the room to get water. To hell with natural, I felt like my insides were being ripped in two.

She came back into the room and before she even got a word out, I grunted something along the lines of, “I’m getting the epidural…ugh…aaaoooow!”

“I leave for 5 minutes and you want the epidural?”

I wanted to take her head off. She started naming off things I could do to help the pain. “Get out of the bed and onto the birth ball,” she said.

WTF, lady, are you insane?!? I can hardly move and you want me to GET UP?!? No way in hell. Give me the drugs. I think I said something along the lines of, “That won’t work and I can’t get up.” I was snippy.

I was getting the epi. Period.

About 30 minutes later, the anesthesiologist arrived. A hip young man who asked a bunch of questions when he should have been shoving a needle in my back. The contractions were the worst I’d felt and I couldn’t stop shaking or crying. This was the time he decided to put the needle in. He had to try two different times. My husband had to hold me in a hunched over position because I couldn’t get over far enough. Do you have any idea how painful it is to be held hunched completely over during the worst contractions you’ve had thus far while someone fiddles around with your spinal column, with a 9 lb baby somewhere in between?!? It sucks. It hurt like hell. This was the exact reason I was afraid of the epidural to begin with. Once they got it in, I looked at Peter, who was the color of his shirt. I’ve never seen him more pale. The poor man nearly passed out.

After 4 hours of pushing I just wanted this baby out safe.

The whole experience was surreal, but the actual birth? It was like a David Lynch film.

He never cried, just squeeked a little. Suddenly, Peter was holding a baby and everyone said it was mine. It was really a bit of a shock. No transition phase there. Just, “You’re pregnant, and now there’s a child.” I still can’t believe he’s actually mine.

And there it was. I don’t know if I’d change anything. I don’t know if I’d have gotten the epi earlier or not. I’m pretty proud that I got as far as I did without it.

Either way, I’ve got my darling baby boy. He’s safe and sound and he’ll never, ever have to go through anything like that again. Thank goodness.

I want to add that throughout this whole thing, Peter, my husband was amazing. He was right on top of everything, trying to make sure I was as comfortable as I could be. He did what the doctors told him, he never once asked questions and always made sure to keep me laughing through the whole thing. You know you have a good man when he can make you laugh in the middle of a gut wrenching contraction.

Low points:

- What felt like the longest labor in history.

- An epidural that never quite worked on my left side.

- A Nurse who barked at me to stop whining and frowning – 3 hours after I’d started pushing. No, I’m not kidding.

- The doctors having to use a forceps to get the baby’s head out.

- The pediatricians whisking away Michael to the NICU

High points:

- The hospital ice chips were the best thing I ever tasted!

- Peter staying by my side the whole time, and his reaction when he first saw the baby coming out.

- My mothers constant calm, soothing presence.

- Most of the nurses and the doctor who delivered the baby were super-friendly and supportive.

- Seeing our gorgeous baby boy for the first time! He had these huge, beautiful eyes that just stared and stared at us.

It’s been weeks now since Michael was born. Of course we think he’s the best and most adorable baby ever. In some ways, our pre-baby life feels like forever ago. In other ways, we’re still adjusting. The other night I came home after running a few errands by myself and was startled to hear a baby crying when I walked in the door. Then I remembered, “Oh, yeah, I’m a mom now!”

Any Day Now

One day countdown until I’m sure nothing will happen. My mother went late. My grandmother went late. I, too, will probably go late.

I’ve had no contractions in 3 days. Not one. Not even a “hey, still thinking about maybe letting this child out soon…maybe” little twitch. He has firmly planted himself in head down, engaged and ready to do nothing position just to drive me insane. There is no doubt that he is my child, he’s going to stick it out until he’s scaled and scabbed, just like I did.

I love him dearly and while I do think I’ll be a bit sad no longer having him all to myself, the pain that’s accompanying these final weeks is ridiculous. In any other situation, being unable to lift your legs because your hips pop out of place would be a bad thing that would require testing and medication to make you normal. Pregnant? “It’s normal, just try not to move so much.” If you told your doctor, “My foot’s so swollen, it feels like my skin is being ripped in two. The last two toes are the size of hot dogs. Yes, hot dogs.” He’d probably bring you in and take your blood and squish your foot around to see what the hell’s going on. Pregnant? They touch your giant ankle that is bulging out of your Crocs (the only shoes that even remotely come near to fitting you) and say, “Eh, it’s not that bad.”

Here is where you get down on your knees and scream like a whiney little girl, “It IS that bad, though! I look like the Michelin man! I’m in pain! I’m tired! I can’t roll over in bed and my brain has stopped working! HELP ME!” They look at you with that gentle know-it-all smile, and say, “Any day now,” as you waddle off trying your best not to plan their untimely death, or at least not to say it outloud.