sueeeus

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.

It occurred to me, while driving to work this morning, that I am happy.  I’ve been one to chase rainbows and look for greener grass, rather than stop for a moment to catch my breath and take in what’s all around me, so I tend to charge through life thinking it would or should somehow be better.  There’s a slow change taking place within me, though, that is letting go of burdens and looking for the joy of simply being.  It’s a good feeling.

Six years ago I stood at an altar in a little chapel in Vegas, and made a vow.  All the while thinking, good LORD, what am I doing?  I don’t do Vegas.  I don’t do vows.  I don’t do permanency.  I don’t do commitment.  At least not formal commitment.  I’ll be a friend for life, but make it an edict and I may flee.

In less than ten minutes, my life changed forever.  In the years since then, I’ve maintained a little reservation, thinking that we could scrap it all and walk away if things came to that.  I was more ready for things not to work, than for them to work.  Horrible, awful, me.   But there it is.

And here I am.  Six years later.  Certainly I have (many) moments of frustration and exasperation over my chosen’s lack of vested partnership when it comes to matters of the home front such as housework and child care, but to give him credit, he does shoulder the burden for the manly things (mostly involving motors, dirt and/or power tools) that I don’t like to bother with.  We have two beautiful children.  He sometimes comments that now that I have what I wanted (my kids), I don’t need him around any more.   Not sure if he’s looking for an out, or just thinking that I’m going to kick him to the curb. I think I’ll keep him around.

After six years and two children, I’m feeling settled and content.  It may be the magic number.  Six years was the longest relationship I’d had previously, and it ended badly.  There was no marriage, but I had sunken too much of myself into that abyss, only to learn in the end that it was riddled with lies and deceit all along, the depths of which I never unraveled (nor want to, as the mere recollection feels like swarms of maggots writhing in my guts).  Those six years consumed the better part of my thirties, and I ultimately felt robbed of the prime of my life.  Six years of marriage is therefore an important milestone for me.  Six years, plus another two or so years in relationship prior to the big I DO, join together to negate the folly of the previous six years.  I’m in the clear now.  Ahead of the game.  Not stuck in impossible quagmire or a nest of lies.

Six years of steady as she goes, comfortable companionship.  Certainly we have our differences.  We come from different worlds.  Different backgrounds.  Different cultures.  Different people.  We think differently, we speak differently, we like different foods, we enjoy different activities.  So many differences.  But somehow, we work.  I don’t know what it is.  Maybe it’s simply that.  Comfort.  Being comfortable with each other.  I can imagine growing old together.  And that’s something.

I like my life.  My marriage.  My children. My family.  It’s a very very very fine life.

The gorgeous boy is seven months old today.  Seven months!  He sits unassisted.  Such a superstar.

Oh, he’s the best baby.  Such a mellow temperament.  His brother, on the other hand, is Mister Wild Child.  There’s nothing mellow about that one!

I don’t know if seven months marks any particular milestone in the realm of post partum experience, but I am feeling like my hormones are completely and absolutely whacked.  I’ve broken out with pimples all over my head, for crying out loud.  My head.  Blech!  I can hardly remember how many years it’s been since I’ve had any acne to speak of, and now I have a festering scalp.

The skin around my fingernails is cracked with deep dry grooves that split and bleed and become tender, as in they hurt.  The skin itself is hard and callous.  Not a bit soft.  Ouch.  It’s a bit annoying.

I, myself, am somewhat exhausted.  I suppose that’s understandable, with the sleep deficit increasing with no end in sight.  The seasonal allergies don’t help.  This season feels more extreme than others previous.  My eyes are burning, red and scratchy, my nose is runny and I keep sneezing.

And then there’s the matter of the milk.  I wonder if breastfeeding is painful for women who actually make it past the initial break in phase.  Because pumping?  Is not pleasant.  There’s no warm fuzzy endorphin rush for or from my sleek blue milking machine.  That ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click ah-whoosh-click isn’t particularly soothing.  My nipples being yanked through the unforgiving plastic cones is certainly no picnic either.  And when it’s all done, those nipples look like aliens have landed and set up base camp.  Should anybody brush against me, or God forbid, embrace me, I shrink away in pain.  DON’T TOUCH ME!

I’m tempted to survey my freezer stash this weekend and think about weaning sooner than later.

There is a very selfish part of me that doesn’t want to stop, though.  The pump time is MY time in which I get an hour to myself, reading, blogging, perusing Facebook, playing brain and word games, or otherwise amusing myself.  It’s a reprieve that I might not have under different circumstances.

I find myself feeling a bit melancholy as well.  I think it may be, in large part, empathy for friends and family over things they are feeling and experiencing lately.  That, compounded with exhaustion, stress at work, and whacked hormones adds up to one big unsettled woman.

This little love is breaking my heart.  He knows when I’m leaving him at daycare.  Now his lower lip protrudes and the tears well up when we walk through the door of our care giver’s home.  At first I distracted him with peek-a-boo, and ran out when he was under the blanket.  That worked one time.  I keep trying to find ways to distract him.  Yesterday I sat him down with his back to the door, put some toys in front of him and sat down with him to play for a moment.  That worked great.  I tried it again this morning, and out came the lip the moment I brought the toys over.  The tears, the sobs.   I’m fresh out of distractions.   Oh, how it wrenches my heart!

Such is the plight of the working mom.

Lifted from Sooz’ FB…

Copy this note, ask your child the questions and write them down exactly how they respond.

BB- 4 years

1. What is something mum always says to you?

Clean my room

2. What makes mum happy?

Be nice

3. What makes mum sad?

Whining

4. How does your mum make you laugh?

Being silly

5. What was your mum like as a child?

I don’t know

6. How old is your mum?

16

7. How tall is your mum?

This tall (shows L-shape with finger and thumb) and says, “you can’t run with your big boobies.”

8. What is your mum’s favourite thing to do?

Clean up

9. What does your mum do when you’re not around?

Go to work

10. If your mum becomes famous, what will it be for?

Work

11. What is your mum really good at?

Cleaning up

12. What is your mum not very good at?

Not pumping

13. What does your mum do for her job?

Computer

14. What is your mum’s favourite food?

Salad

15. What makes you proud of your mum?

Not whining be happy

16. If your mum was a cartoon character, who would she be?

Sponge Bob

17. What do you and your mum do together?

Teach me

18. How are you and your mum the same?

We’re both cute and nice and wook at dis, we match (holding up his leg against my arm) — we’re dark

19. How are you and your mum different?

She likes blue and I like purple

20. How do you know when your mum loves you?

She gives me kisses and hugs

21. Where is your mum’s favourite place to go?

Work

I can’t think of anything selfless that I did today.   As for blessings?  I think the highlights would be baby laughter and both kids finishing their dinner without a  three hour struggle.

Kind of frustrated with Gadget, though, and if I even dwell on it, it completely blows my glass half full exercise out the window.   I could stop here.  I could.  I should.  But  I won’t. (It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to, whine if I want to, whine if I want to…  …you would whine to if it happened to you…  hahahaaahahhahahhaha)

It would be nice if I weren’t the only one who noticed that the baby needed a new diaper, that  BB’s bed needed to be made, that the soiled bedding needed to be washed, that the already washed clothes needed to be folded, that the now-folded clothes needed to be taken upstairs and put away, that the baby needed another new diaper, that the dinner leftovers needed to be put away, that the dishes needed to be loaded in the dishwasher, that the dishwasher first needed to be unloaded, and the clean dishes put away, that the baby needed another diaper, that the baby needed a bottle, and then another, that the kids needed to be put to bed…

I might as well be a single mom.

…and he has the nerve to get irritated with ME for asking for help, because when I want help, I want it NOW, not in a minute, not later, not any other time besides now.  NOW.

Because I shouldn’t even have to ask.

First up, the obligatory beautiful baby picture.  Oh, those delicious cheeks.  This reminds me of Where’s Waldo?…

So.

I think it would behoove me to take some time each day to recollect something positive about the day.  Count my blessings, as it were.  I think it helps to establish and maintain a glass half full outlook, which has to be good for one’s overall well-being.  Surely.  And moreso, I want to take it further and do something intentional each and every day that is at least a little bit selfless or somehow a blessing to another, even if it’s only a very small thing.

That said, here we go.

Today I attended an executive meeting in which the execs were surprisingly down-to-earth and friendly, and they didn’t shoot down our project.  In fact, they even brought up a “wouldn’t it be nice if only we could do such and such” for which my team already has a solution in the works (and it’s actually my idea to begin with, so I might even get some credit for it).  We will get another audience with those in the echelons in the near future to present the concept.

I got home before everyone else today, so I had a little bit of quiet, empty house, me-time.  Bliss!

I’m going to try to get nearly a full night’s sleep tonight, which means no pumping at 2 a.m.   More bliss!

As for doing something intentional for the benefit of another?  I stopped in traffic to allow a big rig semi truck to make a turn, because they need several lanes to do so.  I don’t think the impatient drivers behind me were thrilled, but the truck driver was appreciative.  I know, it’s small, but it’s something.

I sent my fetal heart monitor to my niece who is newly pregnant, and she was able to hear her baby’s heartbeat!  This blesses us both, because we’ve both had traumatic miscarriages, and the assurance that the sound of a healthy heartbeat gives an expectant mother is priceless.  Plus, her daughter was able to hear the heartbeat, and that helps make it real for her as well.  She’s very excited to become a big sister.  (And I’m very excited to be a new Auntie again!)

I can’t resist.  He’s just too gorgeous.  And yummy.  And no, I’m not going to cut his hair until he turns 1, no matter how crazy it gets.

I feel sad.

I didn’t actually know the coworker who died, but I remember passing him in the halls and every time I’d muse that he so strikingly resembles my dad, when he was a young man.  He was a slight Asian man, eyes averted, encased in his reclusive bubble of personal space.  An eternal student, like my dad.  Only my dad is a linguist, with 14 languages under his belt and a doctorate.  My coworker collected engineering degrees, and studied music.

I feel sad for the lonely life I imagine he lived.  I don’t think he had a partner.  He had no children.  The picture on the leaflet from his memorial service was taken at work.  A shy face, a rumpled shirt, a badge lanyard around his neck.  I find this sad as well, that there would be no pictures of a social or loving nature, from family or friends.

I’m not sure why this shakes me so, other than it stirs thoughts that stir more thoughts.  My dad just turned 83, and he’s amicable to me now.  I try not to be wistful, and try to let go the wish that my parents had been more nurturing.  Even so, some wistfulness bubbles to the top once in a while.  It helps remind me to be more deliberate in nurturing my own dear ones.

And then there’s Mary.  Her world is shaken now, and I have a little notion of what she may be going through, and I tremble.  I squeeze my eyes shut and wish for her with all my might — strength and courage and peace and grace.  I send these thoughts to her.

Maybe also it’s the remnants of the recent bushfire horrors, that stir these fraught emotions within me.

So I feel sad.

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?

Six months of slobbery perfection!

What can I say?  Every day his personality shines a bit more.  He’s been the best baby.  He’s very good at rolling over and back, and is starting to commando-crawl, and he’ll get up on his knees and face, but that extra push up on his arms isn’t quite mastered.  He’s so close, though.  It’s comical to see him using his head, literally.

He’s examining toys more, and playing more interactively.  And he loves to eat!  He loves spoon feeding, and he’s getting very good at it.  He gets so excited when he’s in his high chair and I have a bright bowl of food for him.  We’re sticking with the rice cereal mixed with milk for now, and I will very gradually start introducing other things.

So far, so many of his mannerisms are exactly the same as his brother’s.  He laughs and laughs when his brother teases him.  It’s delightful to see.

I’ve made it the first six months on the breast pump, and am in a reasonable routine now, so I’m patting myself on the back for a job well done.  The next goal is to make it to eight months on this schedule.  By then I should have nearly enough frozen stash to get him to the one year mark.  So at eight months I’m going to begin a very very slow weaning process, cutting down to three pumps a day for a little while, and then down to two.  It needs to be slow because I don’t want any problems with clogs or infections.  I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get there, because as it stands, I’ve not been very successful at stretching the time between pumps past eight hours, so to go to twelve is a bit lofty at this point.  I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.  For now, I’ve got a gorgeous, delicious, snuggly, slobbery little boy to dote on.