Weaning: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Just last week I took the final step in weaning Little Dog. Sure, for some people I nursed too long, he's over 2. He gets plenty of nutrition from other sources and he really didn't need to nurse anymore. That's all well and good, but for us it was working. Until it wasn't. And then I decided it would be a good time to wean.
Frankly, I'd planned to wean at 2, he was just a bit more stubborn about hanging on than I'd expected. As much as he didn't need the nutrition, he seemed to really need the comfort and closeness of our nightly ritual. And to be completely honest, I did too. There is something that can't even be described about the connection between a mother and a child who have a solid compatible nursing relationship. No, it doesn't work for every mom, and I respect that, but for those of us who are fortunate (or stubborn) enough to work through the kinks, it can be strangely addictive and reassuring.
Well, it has been about a week since he last nursed. He has asked, and bristled at my refusal. I just plainly say that "mama's milk is all gone" and offer a drink of some other source. He's mostly been ok with that, but he still asks. And every time he does my heart breaks a little bit.
Little Dog is likely my last baby. As much as my heart cries for another one, Mr. Dog seems to have decided that our baby-making partnership has been fruitful enough. I may disagree, but this is a partnership, so I may just have to resign myself to carrying this little heartache. sniffle
It has been slightly freeing to no longer have nursing as one of my set duties. It has given some flexibility to our nighttime routine. Mr. Dog is now slightly more acceptable as the good night go-to guy. I will no longer be forced to grill the doctor and the pharmacist about the safety of every prescribed medication and compatibility with breastfeeding. That will be nice.
Eventually my breasts will hopefully return to a more practical size and I will no longer be forced to size up in shirts to keep the girls from straining at the buttons! That will be nice too.
Now if only they'd return to their formerly firm and pert selves, you know back when they high up on my chest even without a bra. Unfortunately, I think that would require some professional assistance. Anyone wanna sponsor a boob lift? No, then I guess I'll have to get some really good bras.

Two's a Charm.

Our friends Her Bad Mother, Mrs. Chicky, and Mrs. Chicken are expanding their families from child to children and we're here to honour that transition from pseudo-sanity to total and utter madness with a virtual baby shower.

I made the jump from one to two shortly after we moved to Seattle. I got lots of advice. Some of it good some of it really really terrible. Only a few things really seemed to apply.

1. When someone offers help, take it. Don't be shy, don't second guess it and think they are just trying to be nice, if help is offered, take it. Even if they were just saying it to be nice, you'll be teaching them a valuable lesson about only saying what you really mean.

2. Let your standards for personal hygiene and household cleanliness slide. Yeah, it is great to be up and dressed when you have guests, but hell, you've just pushed a little person our of a part of your body that will continue to remind you of that for quite some time. I liked to dress in PJs that didn't look like PJs. Yoga pants are your friend. As are oversized knit tops. I also had to become much more OK with a messy kitchen and, unfolded laundry. Sure some people may say I've taken it too far by continuing to allow my laundry to pile up clean but heaped in a messy pile for the past two years. I say bah, I'm a mother of two. We're still just happy to have clean clothes!

3. Make time for your 1st child. Even if it is a short few minutes of one on one mommy time, they need it. You need it too. I also went a little more lax on discipline for the first few weeks. Ok, maybe that was because I was too damn tired to stay really on top of things, but I think it was a good, if not completely planned, method to help Big Dog adjust. A little more leniency isn't going to turn a normal child into the anti-Christ in a few weeks, but it may save you all a lot of drama.

4. No matter how hard it is, you are going to be ok. Big dog had a hard adjustment. I frequently thought I was going to die of sleep deprivation. I never thought I'd want to have sex again. And the diapers....oh man those hourly diapers. Well, I look back now and it has more than paid off. My kids rock. watching them play together is both funny and heart warming. Sure they fight, but they also give each other long hugs after they finish beating one another to a pulp. And I get to be the mother of the two most adorable children on the planet.

5. A serious bit of advice. If you suspect PPD is an issue, RUN to your doctor and get help. I wallowed for 3 months before I took action then I put off taking medication for another month because I felt like I was a bad person and a weak failure as a mother if I had to get help. Now I realize all I did was cheat myself out of the first 3 months with my second son because I was too busy beating myself up for every little mistake or frustration.

6. Coffee, chocolate and red wine. Yes. All of them. Every day. Coffee in the morning. If you aren't sleeping, this is the next best thing. Chocolate. Do I need to explain? Red wine. You've been booze free for 9 months. Even our first pediatrician told me to have 1 or 2 glasses of wine every night with dinner to help me with my milk supply when I was struggling with Big Dog. If I needed it then, boy did I ever need it once I had two little people I had to care for. Man did I love that doctor, such a wise man.

7. Laugh. Laugh a lot. Things are going to take some adjustment. It isn't always going to be smooth and easy. There are times you are going to wonder what the hell happened to make you think having a second child was a good idea, but those times pass. And they pass more quickly if you focus on the good, the goofy and the downright funny side of parenting. And with two, you'll have twice as many jesters in your life.

8. Don't get too busy to live in the moment. Life with two moves fast. Much faster than it did with one, or at least it did for me. It felt like mere weeks after Little Dog was born, he was walking. Now he's talking, running and generally hamming it up. Sometimes I feel as though he's aged a month by the time I get home from work. I'm sure next time I go away for a weekend, I'll come back and he'll be driving! They grow so fast, they're only small once and those other cliches really apply here. So...take time and smell the roses, or the soft baby heads, hell, even the diapers from time to time.

9. Finally, feel free to ignore any or all advice. Heck, you've gone from 0 to 1 kid and survived it. Adding the second isn't all that hard by comparison. Once you have the hang of that, it is like adding more weight to your normal workout routine, it is hard, even painful at first but your muscles adjust and soon you're stronger and it feels like anything less was child's play.

Congratulations, and best of luck!

My Super Powers

Becoming a mother has changed a lot of things for me. New goals, new interests, even a new set of tools. In addition to the new padding on my ass and middle section, my blossoming appreciation of singing rodents and clue seeking dogs and a newfound compulsion to be the "coolest" mom in the preschool (yes, burgeoning Alpha-mom tendencies I struggle to keep in check), my hearing has become a finely honed tool. I can be sound asleep yet if I hear the kind of gagging and coughing that usually precedes vomit, I will wake up and move at lightening speed right to the side of the ailing child, ready, willing and able to take on the contents of the little stomach vying to make an appearance while simultaneously comforting the nauseated child. There was a time in my life that these same sounds were considered warning signs, a signal to jump back and avoid splatter on your "going out" shoes. Granted, that type of regurgitation was usually the result of over-indulgence of one kind or another. That kind of retch usually came at the end of a long night out with the girls, frequently involving tequila. What an interesting transformation. Not only do I hear and respond like some kind of puke seeking SWAT team, my previously hair-trigger gag response has been modified to tolerate the stench of my own children's output. Handy, especially when one of my responses to vomit is to reach out and catch this spew in my own two hands. I'm still trying to figure out why that is part of this new "gift", what is to be gained if I do manage to catch it? Nothing, just a big handful of puke. And precisely what am I supposed to do with that?

At any rate, it is good that I have been selected for these new powers since Big Dog has a ridiculously sensitive gag response. In our house a coughing fit at bedtime is almost always followed by dinner revisited, a change of pjs, a change of bedsheets and a mom with puke in her hair. Little Dog is less susceptible, but not completely immune. Since he is currently battling the same cold/flu that kept me housebound for two days, I decided to saline spray his nose last night. Much gagging ensued, followed by a lot of screaming, crying and yes, finally a gooey splash of vomit. Mr. Dog finally managed to calm him down and get him to bed. When the adult faction of the family finally settled under the blankets and snuggled down to sleep, my thoughts drifting to dreams my radar got a little blip. A cough. Two coughs, a gag and I was bolt upright. Shooting out of bed in perfect coordination with my trusty sidekick "Puke Dad", this "Vomit Mama" was back in action. Puke Dad hoisted Big Dog out of his bed and carried him into the bathroom, Vomit Mama retrieved towels, clean jammies and gathered up sheets and remade the bed. In less than 30 minutes from first gag to post-spew tuck in, we were back in bed. The term "well oiled machine" springs to mind.

Sure I'd have much preferred the power to use mind control to will my children into an early bedtime, or the ability to seek out the source of those odd and lingering smells in my car, but I'll take what I'm given. Even if it involves hands that inexplicably rush to function as emesis basins. With every blessing comes a curse, right?

Top Ten Reaons to be a Mother of Two!

10. Nothing sweeter than seeing your kids play together
9. Younger child develops language skills quickly to communicate with the older child, although they also pick up on potty words quickly too
8. Can we say "hand me downs"?
7. Easy to blame the messy house of "two boys" instead of a slacker mom
6. Get to keep on diapering for that many more years! Woo Hoo!
5. If one of them won't eat something, there is a good chance you can feed it to the other.
4. Peer pressure "Well, I guess your brother is going to have the fun in the bath ALL TO HIMSELF!"
3. Twice the snuggles, twice the fun!
2. My body wasn't quite ruined enough after the first one.

And the number one reason for having two kids...

1. It brings down the odds that the one who gets spattered when the baby blows juicy raspberries from 1 in 3 to 1 in 4!

the life of a rock star

I used to think it might be kind of cool to be famous. To have the eyes and ears of everyone in the public. To be too well known to go out without causing a stir. As strange as it may seem, motherhood has changed that for me. I now feel for the stars as they hide behind over-sized shades and baseball caps trying to get a simple errand run, or enjoy a cup of coffee without incident. I have pangs of sympathy as they are busted by the paparazzi without make up, out walking the dog. I cringe when they are photographed in unflattering clothing doing things that every person does, but when done by a star, knocks them down closer to "our level".
Why has motherhood changed my sympathies? Why do I no longer think they should just have to deal with the downside of their own chosen career? I think it boils down to having the slightest taste of their total lack of privacy. Since having children I think I could count on one hand the number of times I have been able to finish a simple task without at least one interruption. It is difficult to find any time to manage basic housekeeping, cooking, internet surfing. Books? No, I don't read much now, unless that reading involves rhyming cats or typing cows. My public won't allow me that distraction.
I can't leave a room without a chorus of tears or desperate "bye bye"s despite my reassurances that I'll be right back. They'll just miss me too much for those few moments I'm away.
In the morning as I get ready for work, my audience tracks my every action. I am followed from room to room as I prepare my coffee, get dressed and put on make up. When I shower I fully expect at least one visit from a "fan" to make sure the bathtub has not turned into some kind of portal to another world. Yes, I'm still here. Wet, naked and soapy, but here. Thanks for checking.
When I use the restroom, the masses crowd the hall, crying and banging on the door until I surrender my privacy in favor of quiet. Well, not real quiet, but a relative quiet that I have learned to appreciate as a mother of two young boys.
It is only at work that I can resume my anonymous life as an average Joe. I can sip my coffee and read my email without sticky little hands working to grab the laptop. I can leave my office and return at my own pace, no one minds when I get lunch or even go to the bathroom. The vibe is different, more adult, unfrenzied by chaotic demands of children.
In the evening, when I return to my adoring masses, I am ready for the adoration. I feel like John Lennon stepping onto the tarmac with his fellow Beatles as soon as I walk in the door at daycare. It is intoxicating, and in a way it is as close to fame as I ever hope to come. Fame on a larger scale has lost its appeal. I'll take my own little fan club over international acclaim any day.

The secret life of toddler food

How is it even possible that this morning, I was in clean freshly washed clothes, even after I got the boys dressed and ready for daycare but by the I got to my car I was covered in smashed banana (at least I *hope* it was smashed banana)? And we didn't even have bananas at breakfast? Is there banana lurking in my house just waiting to foil my attempts to make it out of the house in clean clothes? There must be, I can think of no other explanation.

I guess this is just part of being a mommy, you have to decide what is an acceptable ammount of crap on your clothes. I decided it was hardly noticeable if I wiped it off with a baby wipe. In my pre-kid days I would have changed clothes. Well, I also wouldn't have been covered in smashed bananas. How life changes.

Hello, My Name is Laura, and I am a Potty Mouth

Let’s get right to the heart of the issue. I swear. I swear a lot. And I enjoy swearing. It has been years since I embraced my inner sailor and in that time I have become quite skilled at the art of cursing. I mix words in new and unique ways that grab attention, elicit chuckles and sometimes gasps. I know when to switch up my words of choice to maximize their impact and when to drop a classic F-bomb. In the years I have cultivated an extensive vocabulary of profanity and use it like a true scholar of potty talk. While this was well and good when I was childless, my salty language has now become problem. I first recognized this as an issue when Big Dog, at the tender age of 2 began imitating his bad mommy. And I laughed. I know that was the wrong thing to do, really. But when a rather angelic looking child, with his sparkling blue eyes looks up and says “fuck”, the absolute contradiction of word and speaker is hilarious. I try to hide my face so he doesn’t see my amusement, but it is difficult to be the voice of parental authority when giggles invade your stern admonishments.
Earlier this year, one of his daycare teachers took a moment to let me know Big Dog had been using “not for daycare words” on occasion. This particular teacher has a knack for making me feel less like an accomplished career woman and more like a naughty unwed teenage mother. Quite a feat considering I am married and far from teenage (no comment on the "naughty"). I had a momentary panic, oh God, which word? Lists of explicatives rolled through my mind. Turns out his choice was “Damn it.” In my book this is so mild it is almost not swearing. But my world is not a daycare, so I listened. It appears that my little man has picked up mommy’s bad habit of exclaiming “Damn it” when dropping something. I promised the teacher we’d work on it, but at the same time I felt vaguely proud that he was using it in a correct context! Nice one kid, you may have a future in this after all. I have been trying to tone down my propensity for obscenities. I have replaced a few words of my more choice words with their more benign and accepted kin. And even as I do this, I realize profanities are sprinkled liberally thorough out many aspect of my daily life. While many of these word in context slip right past Big Dog’s ears without notice, others are immediately pounced upon. For example, in the car a few months ago we were listening to my current favorite CD. (Lily Allen’s Alright Now) Well, I was listening to it, and it turns out my underage passenger was attentively listening as well. One of the song contains the line “well it’s very funny cos I got your fuckin’ money”. Big Dog immediately repeated back part of that line, and it sure wasn’t the “it’s very funny” part. Being that this happened within days of the daycare incident, I swung into full mommy mode. I told him that wasn’t a nice phrase, and that he shouldn’t repeat it. In fact it was bad that mommy was listening to this while he was in the car. To which he replied “fuckin’ money”, with an impish smile. As futile as my attempts to figuratively wash out my mouth with kid friendly soap may be, I will forge on. If not because it is the “right” thing to do, then out of the fear of being forced to explain my child’s unique and varied vocabulary in many future parent-teacher conferences.

From bar hopping to breastfeeding

How the hell did I end up singing along to Ralph Covert, driving a messy Passat station wagon with two, count em, two carseats? I used to be cool. I used to listen to the best emerging music, watch the latest in independent film, wear the hip new styles, be up on the who’s who and what’s what. Now I count myself lucky if I make it out of the house without spit up in my hair. Ok, it isn’t really that extreme. I do drive a wagon and spend a lot of time, probably too much, shopping for organic kid-friendly foods and mind-expanding play things. I change diapers, call the toilet the “potty”, and shop for pull-ups with Cars on them, not Spiderman. I can whip up a mean Macaroni and Cheese (never called mac and cheese in our house without correction by our little dictator). I plan exciting outings for an informal playgroup of my preschooler’s buddies. I know all of the good kid music, and can sing along without missing a lyric. I can name all of the Teletubbies and most of the Thomas the Tank Engine trains. I know that Curious George band aids are inherently better than Sesame Street band aids, but that a good Nemo band aid trumps them both. I guess that makes me cool in the realm of 3 year-old boys, but it is a world apart from who I used to think I was. To be honest, for most of my adult life I wasn’t all that sure I even wanted kids. I was a rough kid to raise and I wasn’t sure I would be up for that challenge. I still find myself surprised by the total life change I’ve made after picking up these two tiny hitch hikers, trading my Karman Ghia for the trusty Passat. Don’t get me wrong, I like my life very much, it is just a far cry from the girl who knew the bartenders and used to close down the bars. And then again, at the ripe old age of 34, that sort of behavior would be a little depressing and bar fly-ish. I guess part of it is that I have a hard time with the concept of me, Laura, as an adult. A real tax-paying, property-owning, 401K-having, childbearing, responsible-for-the-lives-of-others adult. I don’t know if that will ever really catch up with my sense of self. I still feel like I’m pulling something over on someone when I do the parent-y stuff with the kids. Almost like I’m pretending to be a grown up, hoping the other parents won’t see through my disguise and oust me from the club. And yet there isn’t much about my life I’d change. Sure I’d like to be a bit thinner, a bit more stylishly put together, and it would be nice if my house had central heat, better yet a housekeeper. But I have a family that loves me, two amazing boys, a husband who is my best friend and I think is sexy as all get out. Life is sweet, a bit sticky and covered in fingerprints, but sweet.