sueeeus

We had the 3-month follow up today and the x-ray shows improvement, but it’s not all healed.  The doctor is very happy with the progress and advised us to continue with what we’re doing, not allowing the boy wonder to sit.  We’ll check again in 4 months, and it sounds like we’ll keep on with this until at some point, if there’s not enough improvement, the MRI and surgery (to fuse the vertebrae) will be something to consider.  For now, we’re staying with the non-invasive course.

Anyhow, we’re happy that there’s improvement.  I was hoping for a fully developed bone, but at least things are going in the right direction.

I’d love to post new pictures, but I’m so full up with work that I can barely spare a minute.  Maybe in September.

I have the weaning blues.

LB isn’t calling the shots here. It’s all on me, since I pump exclusively. Something about dropping supply just gets to me. Maybe it’s because of how hard I work to maintain supply, it seems so contrary to intentionally reduce it. Part of me wants to be done, and to have that part of my life back, but part of me doesn’t want to let go. It’s all wrapped up in ‘this is my last baby, this is the last time I will ever get to do this’. I suppose that’s the source of the blues — I won’t be down this path again and it’s so hard and sad to close this door. I’m currently at 3x/day now, and working on dropping to 2x.  I have only managed to stretch to 9.5 hours, but yesterday hit a new low of 21 ounces, down from over 40, and with that, the blues hit me hard.

In a way, I’m sort of addicted to pumping now and keep calculating in my head how I can keep things going if I just stick to 2x, once I get there, or even 1x. But then, if the supply is so low by then, part of me says why even bother trying to keep at it and why not just get my freedom back.

I EP’ed for a full year with BB, and never had these blues.   Maybe because I was hoping to have more kids, and/or maybe because I never did make enough to give him 100%. I pumped 75% and supplemented with formula 25%, and when I decided to wean at the one year mark, it was easy as cake to dry up and be done. No emotional issues whatsoever (other than the obsession of milk production consuming my life for an entire year; I suppose if I went through my archives, they may tell a different story). This time is so different for me. I’m 44 now, have two beautiful boys, and the baby window is closed. If I’d been able to have kids earlier in life, I might have tried for 3 or 4, but as it turns out, it was a miracle for me to get what I got. I am eternally grateful and blessed for the opportunity to be a mother.

Anyhow, it’s probably normal to get the weaning blues. Hormones are undoubtedly shifting, and there’s the whole letting go thing.

I have a smokin’ hot new hairdo, though, and that makes me feel happy.  It’s the short choppy number again.  I really like short, these last several years.

The Mac photo booth is a lot of fun, too.

I prefer PC to Mac, for the most part.  If I were only going to play with Photo Booth, surf the web, and sync my iTouch, then I’d use the Mac — it handles those things nicely.  But I like my PC better for photo editing and general file keeping.  So I hop back and forth between both worlds, which for me is kind of annoying.  I’m the girl who likes to stay put, after all.

blahblahblah

And if I quit pumping, I won’t be playing with Photo Booth at midnight any more.  Or Facebook, for that matter.  Or Scrabble.  Or WordTwist.  Or Scramble.  Or Pathwords.  (I’m easily addicted to word games.)  The plus side is that I may actually be getting some more SLEEP!  I might even get my libido back.

Did I say that out loud?

I sure hope LB likes the milk I have stored in the freezer.

Hayfever bites the big one.  When the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and daffodils are bursting with color, one might think such glory would be cause for jubilation.  And it would, if it weren’t for this wretched lack of tolerance for so many varieties of pollen.  Bah.

It’s going to be a very busy work week.  It was going to be busy anyway, with Athos out on vacation, but now Porthos is out for the week as well, with a family matter.  Which leaves me (Aramis*) to hold down the fort.  All of it. And I tend to have a full workload of my own anyway, and even more so this week due to an impending major deadline.  That’s the flip side to specialization.  With very few backups, occasionally one is left holding the bag.  I am glad to have a bag to hold, though.

Part of me is wrestling over the weaning decision.  How I look forward to life beyond the pump, yet, at the same time, I almost don’t want to stop.  Maybe because it marks the end of a path I’ll never walk down again.  I won’t be having another child.  I won’t be making milk again.  I will be wistful, when it’s time to close that door.  I’m wistful now, just thinking of it.

There is also a part of me that is trying not to be afraid.  I thought LB’s lower back looked a bit more hunched than I remember BB’s looking at that age, and inquired about it at his 6 month well-child checkup.  His doctor didn’t think it seemed too unusual, but ordered an x-ray as a precautionary measure.  The report came back with some frightening words and we were referred to a specialist.   When we got there, the diagnostic imaging service had put the wrong x-rays on the CD (it’s all digital these days), so the specialist couldn’t look at them.  He said that we could take more, or reschedule for a later date, since he wanted to order an ultrasound anyway, to look at the kidneys and thereabouts.  I chose to reschedule.  I don’t want to bombard my baby with any more radiation than absolutely necessary.  He also mentioned that an MRI might be needed, but I don’t want to make that decision until we have more information from the ultrasound results, and the evaluation of the x-rays.  With an infant, an MRI requires general anesthesia, and I don’t want to put him through that unless it’s necessary.  Anyhow, there are many hanging questions, and there may be nothing at all wrong, which is my deepest hope.  I’m doing my best not to allow myself to worry over the what ifs until or unless there is cause.  But it’s very hard for me.   I’m not so good at letting things roll.

I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve been feeling a bit melancholy of late.  Consequently, I’ve been overly indulgent with the food scene.

I’ve also been feeling more aware of my age, for some reason.  I don’t feel old, per se, but I clearly remember thinking how old my own mother was when she was 42, and here I am, 44.  When she was 42, I was in college, and had made the decision to give up the big V, being that I thought I was an adult and all.  She wasn’t very happy about that news, when I shared it with her.  That was the end of our mother-daughter-friend-friend relationship, which in retrospect was mostly a sham anyway, initiated by me under some self-imposed sense of what a mother-daughter relationship should be like.

Poof.

Anyway.  She was 42 and I was ‘grown up.’  I’m 44, and I have a baby.  Different worlds.  Different generations.  In my world, now, I’m going to try to be a real friend to my boys.  To listen.   To hear.

This means, of course, that I need to get over myself, so I can be there for them.  Not so easy.  At least, not for me.  Else I’d have managed it by now.  Getting over myself, being 44, and all.

~~*~~*~~*~~

*Okay, so I watched Slumdog Millionaire this weekend, and it’s fresh in my mind.  Excellent movie.

A coworker of mine died in his sleep the other day.  He was only 41.  He had two engineering masters degrees, was working on a law degree, and was an accomplished cellist and violinist.   So young.  I found myself pondering, as I walked up and down the halls of my office, whether I am where I want to be.

These halls, these walls.  I’ve spent the better part of 23 years behind these walls, earning my keep.  I was restless in the early years, thinking this was but a stepping stone on my life path, and I was anxious to find the other path.  The one I really wanted to follow.  But somewhere down this very road I realized that it’s a very good road to travel.  I am happy here.  There is a comfortable rapport, standing shoulder to shoulder among these people with whom I share my life.

I’ve written a bit on mortality recently, the main point being that I dearly hope to live long enough (at the very least!) to see my children to adulthood.  But if today were my last day, could I say that I have lived well, that I am living well?

I could say that.

Yes.

The answer is yes.

I am surrounded by fine people.  I have stimulating and important work.  I have a husband.  I have children.  I have a comfortable home and reliable transportation.  A closet filled with clothes.  A pantry stocked with food.  I have a blessed and beautiful life.  Certainly there were rocky passages, but here, now, the way is smooth.

And with cheeks like these to nibble on?  Could life be any better?

My boys.  They fill me up.  LB will be 6 months old on Friday!  He had his first solid food yesterday, and he LOVED it!  He was so excited to put the spoon in his mouth and swirl his tongue around the rice cereal.  He hasn’t figured out the swallowing bit yet.  So far he’s a bit tongue tangled and the food comes right back out, but he’s very much IN to it!  He’ll have it down in no time, and may turn into a chubby baby yet.  BB is all boy and then some.  A bull in  a china shop is the best metaphor for him these days.

When I leave them at daycare, LB now breaks my heart by going into a woeful, the most woeful, of cries.  It rips me to shreds and what can I do?  I hug him and snuggle him and try to distract him, and feel awful as I make my way back to my car.  It affects me so much because it’s a special cry reserved just for moments like those.  It’s the hurt feelings cry.  He only uses it when I walk out of a room and he thinks I’m leaving him.  It’s different from every other cry he has.  I don’t like to hurt his feelings.

BB, on the other hand, has a full production he goes through when we say goodbye.  He gives me one or two kisses on the cheek, and then he blows a raspberry on my face somewhere.  He tries for the nose, but I usually can avert and just give him the cheek.  We hug and say ‘have a happy day’.  I leave through the sliding glass door, then he opens it for his parting words.  G’bye…  ‘Ak sure to whook and get some whest (so you won’t be a cwabby apple) and ‘ak sure to pummmmmmmp.  I wuvvvv you…..

Every. Single. Time.  It’s endearing.  I’ve worked with him and showed him how to make the ‘l’ sound, and he can do it, but he always switches back to the ‘w’ when speaking.  Habit.  I’ll have to work with him more.  He’s also become quite good at drawing.  All on his own.  I’m so pleased. So much so that I decided it was time to give him the special drawing books I’d gotten for him earlier, and set aside until I thought he was ready.  I opened one, the tracing book, and flipped through the pages, and every single activity had been completed already.  And then I vaguely remembered the stepkids going in and out of my office, before I asked them not to.  So…  One or both of them (TEENAGERS, for crying out loud) took the preschool activity books and did all the activities.  Grrrrrrrrr.  At least BB is a bright and cheerful 4 year old, and he was happy and excited to get a new book to draw in, even if someone else had already drawn in it.  Those stepkids though…

BB made it through his 2 weeks of movie restrictions with almost no whining or begging, so I’m quite pleased with that as well.  I let him watch a kid movie on the portable dvd player in the same room where the rest of us were watching TV.  My new rule – no watching movies alone.  Mean mama.  He’s a very independent and head strong child with the misfortune of having couch potato parents.  How I wish Gadget had some interest in being active.  He doesn’t like to go for walks.  Nearly the only outdoor play he likes is when there are motors involved, or gear and expenses like skiing and golfing.  He does like to ride bikes, so I’m going to start pressuring him to work with BB to learn to ride so that we can all go bike riding.  I don’t want my boys growing up thinking the only fun things to do are things that cost money and require gadgets, gear, or gizmos.  Thank God BB likes sticks and stones…   …now THAT’s my boy!  I’m going to enroll him in T-ball and soccer, when the seasons begin.  Soccer is in the fall, and T-ball is in the spring or summer.

As for me?  I’ve lost some of my oomph for blogging and facebook.  I spend hours at the computer each day, and I could be posting, but I just haven’t felt like it.  Instead, I play mind drifting games like spider solitaire, and listen to the whoosh whoosh whoosh of my pump.  I’m trying to come to terms with the life that I lead.  So often I find myself feeling like things need to change, and wonder why I can never seem to reach that place called content.  My home, my body, my marriage, my mothering.   All fall short of my expectations.  The only aspect of my life in which I feel content is my work.  I wonder why that is.

Finding the bright side

I really like being at the office, in the flesh.  I like seeing the people, walking down the hallways exchanging hellos, sitting at my desk and hearing the buzz around me.  It’s a boost.

I like that LB is such a laid back little boy.  He’s happy to see me when we get home, and he doesn’t appear to hold anything against being left with a caregiver all day.  I hold him and he stands on his strong little legs and gives me that, -I’m the coolest thing ever- look.  He is just so pleased with himself and his new discovery that he can use his legs for more than kicking, and it’s literally written all over his face.  I love that.  LOVE IT.

I like that, since LB is an every other day pooper, and generally a daytime pooper, I have very few poopy diapers to contend with.  Nice!

Daycare is frighteningly expensive, and I’m still getting used to the thought of it, but I can afford it, so I’m grateful.  The part about having to pay for it whether or not we actually go still bothers me, but I have to remember that our caregiver’s living depends on contracted service, and it’s not her fault if the roads are flooded or frozen or otherwise impassable.  Also, if we didn’t contract, then we wouldn’t be guaranteed placement, and that could be far worse.

Even if all this adjustment makes me dry up (the supply has plummeted this week, which in itself freaks me out which then causes it to dwindle further; it’s a horrible, vicious cycle -I was three ounces short in just one pumping session, this morning, which is SUBSTANTIAL), it won’t be the end of the world to have to switch to formula, and I can still be grateful that my baby has gotten over 4 months of breast milk and all its benefits.  I still hope I can recover (which is why I’m spending all this time trying to think of the bright side of things and get my head into a better place).

The yin

(Why is it that the negative and dark yin is the feminine attribute, whereas the positive and light yang is the masculine?)

The other morning while I was getting everything ready (even though I’d gotten as much ready the previous night as possible, there is still a lot to do in a morning before getting out the door), BB kept asking, -Mommy, why are you running so fast everywhere?-

I tried a new tactic of feeding LB as much as possible just before I went to bed, to try and hold him through the night.  He would only take 5 ounces, and by morning there was a smell to the remaining 2-3 ounces, so I had to dump it.  I can’t say how wrenching it is to have to dump that substance for which I work so hard and sacrifice so much!  Maybe it was still okay, but normally I can barely detect only the slightest sweet scent, and I’d rather not take any chances.

Part of me wouldn’t be too heartbroken to wean at this point, but the better part of me is concerned about the hormonal effects and the appetite effects.  I’m a bit leery of sending myself into a psychological tailspin by rocking the hormonal boat, since I can feel myself teetering as is.  And as far as appetite goes, I’d hate to find myself sustaining a large appetite without having my body work some of it off in the milk factory.  I’ve put on some belly fat since having LB, and am somewhat afraid of exacerbating the condition.  Okay, terrified.

There is also a part of me that wonders if this stubborn and neurotic obsession with lactation is hurting my developing relationship with my child.  If I weren’t obsessing so much, would I be snuggling with him more?

In need of a paradigm shift

Paradigm in itself is a good word, but it’s been so abused in corporate circles that it is forever tarnished. Tarnished or not, I am in need of a paradigm shift.

It’s hardly the norm any more for women to be (just the) homemakers and men to be (just the) breadwinners, yet somehow it’s been etched in my mind that this is the ideal, the way it’s supposed to be (even with those commercials in the 70s where the woman, hear her roar, sings -I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan…Because I’m a woman, W-O-M-A-N…-)   And because of this, I have a tendency to resent the fact that I am the main breadwinner, when I should celebrate that there has been no glass ceiling for me.  I envy those women who get to be SAHMs in this day and age, or, gasp, SAHWs, yet at the same time I feel guilty that I am out in the paid work force eking out a living, as though I should give it up and buck it up and just find a way to live with the one (lesser) income, because I’m a mother and should be home with my children.  I tend to fall into the thought pattern that if I weren’t the main breadwinner, maybe I’d have more of a choice to be a SAHM.  Hence the resentment.  Poor Gadget.  He’s good at what he does, and he’d be a terrible SAHD.  Truly, the essence of this narcissistic spiral is that deep down I just want to be a princess, dammit, and spend my time leisurely kissing the children (while the nanny does the work), playing the spinet, and sipping tea from the finest translucent porcelain while my dear husband dotes on me and lavishes me with lovely gowns and jewels.

Then, because I happen to like my work, I feel even guiltier, because when it comes down to it, I get cabin fever when trapped home all day, and crave exposure with more people.  So I can’t win for losing, what with the tangled mess that is my mind.

I need to make peace with the fact of being a career woman.  I need to find a way to convince myself that it doesn’t make me less of a mother.

It may be PPD trying to get its grip on me.  I suppose, if I’d read through the convoluted diatribe I’ve just written, I’d concede that it HAS taken root, and just bust out my Zoloft, for God’s sake.

Two Thousand and Eight has been oh, so great!
A little bit of lovin’ put a bun in the oven
I took a trip to Oz, just me, just because
I got a promotion without much commotion
Later that year the baby appeared
My beautiful boy has brought infinite joy
Then there’s his brother, a boy like no other
He’s nearly four so I shouldn’t expect more
Our family is complete; this sweet life can’t be beat
As for Two Thousand and Nine, it’s looking just fine!

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!

I wonder if it has something to do with the Christmas window, when sentiments are stirred, but I’ve noticed a flurry of activity on FaceBook.  I’ve ignored FB for the most part since it came out, being the suspicious type and also a little freaked out at the notion of so much personal information floating about out there, but a few days ago I decided to join.   Once in, I learned that many of my family members are in.  We already have our own personal family message board that my BIL launched on Christmas Eve, 1999, on which we’ve chalked up 11,961 message so far.  Amazing!  And now there is FB.  I noticed that most of our join dates are within the last week or so, which is interesting, since we joined independently of one another, for whatever our own reasons were, and nobody mentioned they were doing it.  Once in, though, we found each other.  It reminds me of that song, Escape, I think it’s called, “If you like pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain…”

In retrospect, I could have been a bit smarter about the sign-up process, like the part where you give them your name.  Your real name.  Now, the guilt-ridden catholic schoolgirl in me considered using an alias, then won over and used the real deal.  Next, all these pictures of people I might know popped up, with the instruction to click on anyone I might know.  So I did.  THANK THE HEAVENS ABOVE I didn’t click on all the ones I recognized.  Little did I know that FB would send these folks a friendship invitation.  My social anxiety just kicked up a notch.  I mean, I clicked the picture of my first love, from a quarter century ago.  I only realized after the fact that he’d been invited to be my FB friend, and I didn’t know how to take back the invitation.  No harm done, he’s a fine person and seems to be living a fine life.  Awkward moment for me, though!

And then there’s the matter of anonymity.  In a way, I’m glad I used my real name on FB, because I don’t know that I’d want any and all of my life acquaintances to read my blog (no worries, really, there’s very little traffic here!), and I don’t mind my blog friends who are on FB knowing my real name.  It’s not too hard for the two worlds to collide, though, if one but follows the yellow brick road.

• the number of years my firstborn has been gracing the earth
• the number of months my last born has been gracing the earth
• the number of hours spent expressing breast milk on any given day
• the number of hours of sleep I manage to accumulate on most nights
• the time of morning when a) my firstborn wakes me up to tell me he’s wet or b) my last born makes it known that it’s time to be fed or c) both a) and b)
• the number of days before Gadget returns from visiting Gizmo
• the number of days remaining of my single mom ‘vacation’
• the number of weeks before my last born begins daycare
• the number of working days left before Christmas
• the number of times each day (on average) that I lose my temper with my firstborn (I so need to figure out this mothering a nearly four year old thing)

I wish it were easier to get started when it comes to exercise.  The combination of all things down makes even the prospect of exercise almost insurmountable.  If by some miraculous force of will I can push myself over that edge, and make my grudging self sweat a little, oh, the results!

I managed to spend a little time playing DDR again today.  I try to stick to the fast songs, and I try to do the difficult level.  The antics can be quite comical, and the result is a sweating, heart-pumping, chuckling me.  All good things.  The boost lasts quite some time, too.  Instead of a nap after work, I tidied BB’s room.  It wouldn’t be honest to say that I cleaned it, but where the floor was not visible prior to entry, it is now bravely exposed.  I gave up sorting the toys into their various bins.  It seems pointless, when they all end up on the floor together.  I think I’m the only one who appreciates the order of like things sorted with like things.  He’s nearly four.  He likes chaos.

I feel generally happier, and with that, hopeful.  Hope is a powerful thing.  Depression, on the other hand, is a life sapping force, and I wish it weren’t so easy for it to catch me in its suffocating grasp.

As for hope.  It prompts us to try things we might not otherwise try.  Breastfeeding, for example.  After a shower (bliss!) I noticed that milk was dripping from me.  Unprecedented!  So what do I do?  I take my beautifully content little boy and put him to the breast.  It’s the football hold, the milk is freely flowing, there is NO WORK INVOLVED.  What does he do?  Screws up his face and screams like there’s no tomorrow.  Gadget just laughs and shakes his head.  She’ll never learn, he says to LB.  The Gadget boys don’t like boobs.  It’s just the way it is.

My exercise endorphines are still hanging in there, so I don’t let this lapse of sanity crush my otherwise fragile feelings.  Pumping is more efficient, anyway.  I get both sides drained at the same time, and I get to use the time to read, surf, blog, or otherwise entertain myself on the computer.  It’s me-time!