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It’s been that kind of a morning…

Where the head is pounding so hard that it wakes you up at 3 am and you lie as still as you can hoping you can relax enough to go back to sleep and pray that the headache will be gone when you wake up, but you finally give up and stumble downstairs to take 4 ibuprofen, yes, 800 milligrams, then lie as still as possible waiting for them to take effect, knowing it will be at least 20 minutes, all the while wondering if you should perhaps go try and throw up because possibly if might make you feel better, and you actually nearly talk yourself into trying it when you hear the baby crying and need to get him a bottle and hopefully get him to go back to sleep so that you yourself can go back to sleep and hopefully, oh hopefully, wake up without the headache.

Where, two hours later, you get up because the baby is up again, and you are blissfully happy that the headache has receded, even though you can feel it lingering and you keep on hoping that it won’t return as you try to calculate through the fog that is in your brain how many hours you will have to wait before you can subject your body to any more ibuprofen.

Where you call in sick to the office, but you have to keep the baby home all day too, because, after all, he started all of this, with the pink eye and germs he brought home from daycare, and he can’t go back for 24 hours.

Where he feels fine and wants to play and you’re miserable with aches and pains and congestion and phlegm, all on the way to a full blown sinus infection, so you barricade him into the living room with the sofa making most of the barricade and you lie down so that your body spans the rest so that he is fully enclosed and can play with a pile of toys while you try to sleep a little bit more, just a little bit more.

Where he plays with the lid to his drum and decides to bang it on your head. Oops, says his expression, but not really.

Where he thinks it is not much fun at all to be confined to a play space with his mama when there is a whole house to explore beyond her.

Where you finally think you are ready to handle some coffee and toast, because your tummy is grumbling and your head is starting to pound again, but you’re not sure whether it will help or hurt, but you don’t dare anyway, because you don’t want to make any noise since the baby finally fell asleep for his morning nap, so instead you go whine about it all on your blog…

It’s been that kind of a morning.

February Theme: All of Me.

Up close and personal. A forty year old complexion. One might be able to see the wrinkles if it weren’t for the water retention.

Up close, it looks kind of scary to me. All these bumps and lumps and things. And fuzz in places. I don’t like to look up close.

I don’t wear foundation. The thought of colored goo all over my face kind of grosses me out. I don’t use fancy schmancy cleansers and products. I just never got into all that personal care stuff. Probably because at the core, I’m lazy. I wash my face every morning with soap and water. Once in a while I might use lotion, if it’s winter time, the skin is dry and scaly, and if I remember. Usually, I don’t remember.

I don’t use makeup remover. Well, I do. It’s called a pillowcase. What little makeup remains by the end of the day accompanies me to bed. I don’t wear very much makeup. Eyeliner, brow pencil, a little shadow, mascara, and lip color. I use that all day lip stuff, so it goes on once, and if it lasts, it lasts. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I’m not the glamour girl of my youth, and I can’t be bothered with using much of my precious time on appearance. I give it the bare minimum effort.
I think I’m aging rather gracefully, even so. I’m not complaining. But then again, I don’t look too closely.

• I have post nasal drip. Again. I hate post nasal drip.
• Sometimes my dreams are so realistic that they freak me out. Sometimes I wake up my husband and tell him about my dreams and make him assure me that they’re not real.
• Sometimes these dreams are so realistic that I don’t believe him when he reassures me that it wasn’t Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the pipe wrench.
• Sometimes I think I have a recurring dream, but I realize it might be that I’m dreaming that I’m dreaming. And this freaks me out as well.
• Sometimes I get deja-vu. Like right now. And this sort of freaks me out too.
• When I have a night like last night, I wake up wondering if I’m losing my mind. Or if I should call the police. Or at least say a few Hail Marys.
• How does one pluralize Hail Mary, non-possessive Hail Maries
• I believe there’s more to seeking pardon than chanting.
• Is a person responsible for what they dream
• Maybe I’m a reluctant psychic. (More freaking out.)
• Perhaps I watch too much TV, especially CSI.
• The latter is the most plausible explanation.
• Perhaps I am becoming mentally ill.
• Also plausible.
• Could be more freaking out if I don’t stop thinking.
• The baby woke up crying at 3 a.m. Heart wrenching crying. Was he dreaming bad dreams Is he mentally connected to me Did I dream the bad dreams before or after he woke up I don’t remember.
• He’s got five teeth pushing through at once. It must not be very comfortable. Poor little guy.
• If I really did have a recurring dream, should I look into it further Dream analysis
• I wonder if dream analysis is a bunch of hooey.
• Or not.
• Again, too much TV. Maybe I should write for CSI. I have material.
• I need to load up on some romantic comedies or slapstick or anything light-hearted.
• Inspector Clousseau, I need you.
• I don’t always have bad dreams. Sometimes they’re quite nice. Most times they’re decidedly odd, but not without explanation.
• I think I need to change shampoo for a while. My hair is all limp and doesn’t feel fresh, even though I just showered.
• I am so tired.
• When the mascara brush barely grazes the surface of the eye and the eye tissue instantly gets all gooey, it probably means it’s time to get new mascara.

I wonder if that ref was BLIND. No way was that a touchdown. How lame!
Things were going so well, but I have to say, there were quite a few questionable calls. In Pittsburgh’s favor. What’s up with that
But what the heck. Who cares. It’s just a game. We had fun.

It’s Superbowl Sunday and the boys are ready. Go Hawks!
Check back in a few hours to see if they’re still smiling.

Nine Thousand Two Hundred Eighty point Two ounces. One Thousand One Hundred Ten point Five hours. Seventy Two point Five gallons. Forty Six point Three days. These are the numbers of my commitment to nourish my baby with mother’s milk. Mother’s milk drawn drip by feeble drip from a disappointingly under-productive set of double-dees. Oh, sweet nectar of life. How hard you made me work for you. Two rounds of galactagogues. Four pumps – the first pump didn’t cut the mustard, and we had to bring in the big guns. The second was a hospital rental while I scrambled to find my own on eBay, the third. Then one night, a few months later, during the midnight shift, the belt slipped from the shaft and the workhorse would work no more. Enter the fourth, another rental to see me through while my workhorse companion traveled to the land of Medela for service, because it is nigh unto impossible to acquire a simple little part to fix it oneself. No, one must have factory authorized service, shipping and insurance, for over a hundred dollars. (To their credit, the pump returned fully refurbished, with all new parts, shining as though it were brand new.)

It’s been a long journey. I was heartbroken that my beautiful boy wouldn’t nurse. Heartbroken. It’s not that big of a deal, people would say to me. An entire generation was raised on formula, when breastfeeding was no longer de la mode, my doctor told me. But it was a big deal to me. It mattered to me. I wanted that full natural mother experience. I wanted the labor. I wanted the natural delivery. I wanted to breastfeed. Those first post-partum days were difficult for me. I struggled with such a load of self-inflicted disappointment. Disappointment that I didn’t labor. The baby didn’t even drop, let alone get ready for any journey out. He was quite happy where he was, or perhaps he was too big to drop. He was 10 lbs 7 oz, after all, at 39 weeks. No contractions. No labor. No natural delivery. Scheduled C-section at 39 weeks. And then, where was the milk The lactation consultants assured me that the baby was getting what he needed from the measly drops of colostrom that my defective mammaries produced. They were wrong. How disappointed I was with the supply issues I faced, on top of everything else. I didn’t even produce enough for a normal sized baby, yet here I was trying to feed my supersized child. I couldn’t do it. Even with the help of galactagogues, and pumping for hours upon hours, I still had to supplement with formula. It was exhausting, to have to pump so frequently and for such a long time. Sleep when baby sleeps, everyone told me. But I had to pump. Because I wanted to hold him, and try to breastfeed him, when he was awake. I was so stubborn! I wanted him to have the benefits of breast milk, and by golly, he was going to get it. Again, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have been so neurotic. I should have gotten some more sleep.

He did nurse a few times. I have a wonderful and warm memory of those few precious moments where we bonded, skin to skin, baby to mother, the way it was supposed to be. For that experience, I am forever grateful.

In the early days when life was little more than a blur, I told myself I could do it, I could make it to two months. Poor little big guy was a colicky boy, to top things off. Because I needed to experience a screaming child wailing for hours upon hours, who would only settle down if continually bounced. And I had plenty of time and energy for that, between feeding attempts and pumping. Obviously. Of course.

We got through the colic, and I set my sights on six months. It seemed like forever, but they say that six months is the magic line where health benefits are evident. Six months. I could make it, I told myself. And I did. I found a routine, finally, where I could get some sleep, not nearly as much as I’d like, but enough to keep my sanity. I managed to supply 75-80% of his milk needs, in the first six months.

Having a routine helped, so I made a new goal. One year. Twelve months. You can do it, I told myself. There were many times that I nearly gave up. But I persevered, and I made it. After he started solids, at six months, and after the second round of galacatogues, I was eventually able to supply nearly 100% of his milk needs.

Looking back, I’m not sure why I was so resolute. Perhaps it was because I had been barren for so many years. Perhaps it was because I knew that this might be the only child I could ever have, and this was a one time opportunity. I do have a strapping healthy boy, and I am grateful.

If there is a next time, I don’t know that I’d make this kind of a milk commitment again. If there is a next time, I will maintain the hope that my baby will nurse, I’ll pump to avoid engorgement, and I’ll start the fenugreek early. If there is a next time, I may not keep as copious notes.

What an exciting topic for me! I love leather! I love bags! Excuse me while I hyperventilate. Okay, I’ve caught my breath. Bags! Leather! Oh, dear, here we go again.

I must preface the dissertation with the information that, although I LOVE bags and leather, especially good leather, I’m very frugal and deny myself the truly exquisite. I admire the truly fine and exhorbitantly expensive from a distance.

I used this bag all summer. It’s a fun style and a fun color, and has a surprising amount of usable space. But I am fickle, and I am through with it. I am thinking of sending it to a certain somebody who has a raspberry hat that it might match quite well. It doesn’t seem quite her style… Yet, one word, and it’s in the mail!

I have returned to this bag, which I grew weary of and stashed away for a time, knowing I would one day return. This is a souvenir I bought in Paris. How cool is it to say, in an uppity nasal voice, when someone admires it and exclaims, ooh, Paris, when they see the word embossed in a chic and understated type on the front, Oh this I got it the last time I was in Paris. Implying that I often go to Paris. Of course, I work with men, and when I go out in public, wait, I almost never go out in public… Suffice it to say, nobody’s ever noticed. But I love it.

It’s probably on a par with the brands one might find at Target here, for all I know, but all the same, it’s leather, it has a nice finish, and I like it. It’s not perfect, but it’s got some good features. It can be worn over the shoulder, or backpack style if absolutely necessary (although the latter method is not very elegant, especially on someone of my size).

Look! It has a matching wallet with a well thought interior configuration. Yes, it was extra, but I was on vacation, and when will I ever go to Paris again I was just daydreaming this morning that my sisters and I could take a trip to Paris and see the sights, admire the paintings in the Louvre, nibble on delights at the corner cafes and stroll along the Seine. That would be a fine thing to do, indeed.


I’ve had these for quite a while. I’m thinking of putting them on eBay, because I never use them and there’s little point to holding on to them. I couldn’t quite muster the resolve to give them to Goodwill with the others I let go recently, so they are hanging in the office, waiting to learn their fate. The satchel/briefcase is big. The leather is extra thick and strong. It’s not a name brand bag, but it was still very expensive (to me), when I got it. The other is a Coach bag. It was my ultimate dream bag for years, and then I found it at a thrift store (still very expensive, by thrift store standards). I had a copy that I had been using, then switched to the real thing. I actually liked the copy better.

Go see Blackbird for more Show and Tell!

Things of late…

1. Biff boom crash. Crash boom smash. Thud. These are sounds that are heard on an increasing basis at Chez Piggy. I’m thanking my lucky stars that these new sounds are not accompanied by six seconds of deafening silence (now isn’t that a fancy oxymoron ) followed by WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH at many many decibels. Because they could. But they aren’t. Again, Praise the LORD. ALMIGHTY.
2. There is one less Tiffany dragonfly torchiere lamp gracing my living room, as of last night.
3. Although there have been times when I have wished for nicer furnishings, I am quite thankful that the material goods in our home are nothing to write home about. It makes it much more tolerable when we have to part ways.
4. The Tiffany was one of the nicest things I have d.
5. It wasn’t a REAL Tiffany. But it was still nice.
6. I have an identical one in another, more BooProof part of the room.
7. Torchiere style lamps and one year olds do not mix.
8. Even when you put safety latches, plugs, or covers on all the doors, drawers, outlets, and knobs, and keep a keen and watchful eye on your little one 99.999% of the time, he will do amazing things in that 0.001% snapshot of unbridled freedom.
9. If you’re anything like me, your first thought after thanking God that the baby is unharmed, is to offload as much responsibility in the event as possible, as soon as possible; i.e., blame the husband.
10. If you’re anything like me, you will notice yourself doing this, laugh, and ask your husband if he thinks it’s funny that your first instinct after ascertaining all is well with the baby is to offload as much responsibility in the event as possible, as soon as possible on someone else.
11. If you’re married to someone like Mr. Gadget, he will laugh right back and say it’s a good thing it happened on your watch, not on his, because he was busy relaxing on the couch and watching tv, while you were busy cleaning up the kitchen (and supposedly watching the baby).
12. If you’re anything like me, you’ll still make the comment that the lamp might not have fallen over had the big new box of diapers not been left on the cedar chest, because everyone knows that boxes are a baby’s best friend, especially if they’re conveniently set at just the right height for a busy little boy who is also very strong and who loves to push things off of surfaces because it’s so fun to see what happens when they fall.
13. If you’re anything like us, you’ll still laugh, clean up the mess, put the broken lamp away, thinking that it might possibly be salvaged (and knowing that it will stay in the garage for a few years and then possibly end up in a yard sale for 50 cents), squeeze the baby and give him lots of hugs and kisses, blow raspberries on his belly until he giggles and squirms and laughs and giggles, and put him down in a safe place far from Tiffany lamps, and go on with life as usual. Which means staying up too late, watching too much tv, waking up at midnight and again at 4 a.m. to feed the nibbler who won’t eat enough at one time to hold him more than 4 hours, sleeping through the alarm clock, waking up feeling briefly happy that you might have actually had some decent rest until you realize that you slept through the alarm and you should have left for work an hour ago.
14. If you’re anything like me, you’re undyingly thankful that you have the kind of job where they are very forgiving if you happen to wander in an hour later than you intended.

Last night I was lurking among the handful of blogs where I tend to lurk, and I happened upon a link to an intelligence quiz on Angie’s blog (Angie who has an amazing home, accomplishes incredible projects, both in quality and quantity, and is about to have a baby, hooray!). I decided to try it, just for fun. The score key says 1-5 is average, and 19+ is genius. I put alot of pressure on myself, because I like to think that I’m kind of smart, and I’d hate to find out otherwise. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got past 5! I was also relieved to find that I didn’t have to go in order, so I could go through the list and finish what I could figure out and go back to the stumpers. I finally gave up, with a score of 31, and googled the remaining two that I couldn’t figure out. I’d have never gotten them, no matter how long I tried.

I had to make an enthusiastic comment on Angie’s blog, and in so reading, discovered that she is in the company of greatness, as it is now even more evident that there are geniuses in the blogosphere. I think everyone who commented had scores in the high 20s and up. Far beyond the 19 genius level. I am not surprised! I always marvelled at how intelligent everyone out there in blogland seems to be, with all the witty and clever things they write about. I think the set of population who are bloggers (at least in the sphere of blogs where I lurk) are smarties, yes indeed.
I envision Barney Fife’s expression when he’s all puffed up and pleased with himself — the one where he takes in a great big snort of air through his nose and mutters something like ‘yeh’.

Geniuses! The lot of us!

Blackbird has requested a peek at our computer(s).

I’ve worked with computers for quite some time. I remember when a 286 was considered sweeeet, and fast! One of my first jobs was in a computer lab, pulling batch printouts and distributing them to their rightful owners. Operations. Woo hoo. It was so very high tech, at the time. I even remember programming on a mainframe using cards. We’d painstakingly type out our code on a little monitor/terminal and our program would spit out a deck of cards with one line of code per card (if I recall correctly). Then we’d stand in line to submit our job, our program, to the mainframe. In would go the stack of cards and we’d wait for our printout to see if our code worked. What a process. Some of us have no idea how good we have it today! Punch cards. Now that speaks to history. Technology has come a long way, baby.
I have a work computer that is configured appropriately with all the approved corporate stuff. It’s a laptop, relatively new (upper left picture). I use a docking station and a 19 inch flat panel monitor, both at the office and in my home office (Santa suprised me BIG TIME with this monitor, this year, middle right). I need the big screen for the things I do. Those purple post-it flags They’re very important for my data analysis work. Low tech, but very useful. The yellow post-it has my phone numbers and office backup numbers. We just changed phone systems at work and got new numbers. Very inconvenient (remembering new numbers, but the new phones are quite nice).

My home computer is a home-built desktop variety. It had all the latest for its time, but is pretty much obsolete by now. I just installed a dvd-burner, and it has a 40GB hard drive, which is partitioned into two 20s, one of which is full. I’d like to remove the partition but don’t want to lose any data, so am struggling with mustering up the courage. The 20 that is full is the main drive, and I don’t even have enough room to defrag. Very frustrating. Things are getting slow, so I will soon be forced to do something about it.

I have a switch that allows me to toggle between my work computer and my home computer yet use the same keyboard, mouse, and monitor. Very cool. I just hit the Scroll Lock button twice and voila! Switcheroo.

Mr. Gadget gave me an optical wireless mouse and keyboard. They’re nifty, actually, but I can’t use the keyboard for security reasons. My work doesn’t allow wireless keyboards, so I bought a wired keyboard for $5 at a local drugstore, to use while I am working from the home office. It’s only a year old and the ‘e’ is nearly rubbed off, and the s, d, c, n, and o are close behind.

I run Windows XPpro on both machines, and I use the MS Office suite for many of the things that I do. I’ve also used ColdFusion quite a lot, but it’s been recently updated to something called Studio 8, which has a bazillion capabilities that I have yet to learn.

All in all, there’s nothing sexy about my computing setup. Maybe one of these days we’ll do a wireless LAN in our home, and then I can blog from the comfort of my couch while trying to keep the baby from chewing on the screen. Then again, maybe not.

p.s. Mr. Gadget has a collection of computers. Very few of which are usable. We have a computer graveyard upstairs. And in the garage. I’m afraid to even attempt to count or photograph what we’ve got. He collects them from people who give them away, and once in a while he gets them to work again. We’ve given some to his family members. Who have promptly hosed them by not following instructions and installing things that shouldn’t be installed. But I digress. Bottom line. Too much electronic junk is hanging around this house.