Your Birth - Dexter

I wrote a blog about Julian's birth, for when he wants to know, and figured I should write something for Dexter. Here goes:

Dexter.  You were due on 7/17/17, which was terribly exciting for me, even though that wasn't the day you ended up coming. You came into the world during a time a great anxiety for us. But I get ahead of myself.

Your brother was 6 months old, and amazingly adorable. I needed another one. And so you came to pass.

My pregnancy with you was a breeze. Perhaps it was because I was so busy chasing Julian around that I didn't have the amounts of time I had with my pregnancy with Julian to sit around and feel sorry for myself. I was up and running! And you were perfect. There was never anything concerning during the pregnancy. Everything was always "just right." You were healthy. You were perfect. And I really appreciated that! I was working full time while your brother went to daycare, up until the month before you were born.

I took that last month off because we were moving. (And I wanted to be home to help Julian out with all of the transitions that would happen in his life - new brother, new home, Mom being home all the time, etc.) When we'd found out we were pregnant with you, your father and I decided it was time to buy a home - a place with three bedrooms, instead of continuing to rent the two bedroom townhome we were living in. We bought a place that was being built, and scheduled to be completed just before you were born. They pushed the deadline back a lot, but then, holy heck, our mortgage company...

We were supposed to sign towards the end of June. We were supposed to be able to move into our new home on June 29th. But the date ended up getting pushed back, and pushed back, due to our incompetent mortgage company. (That is such a long and frustrating story, I won't even go there. It's still too fresh for me.) But because we didn't close before the end of the month, we had to leave our townhome, and enter... homelessness... until we could officially move in. Our stuff went into storage, and on the night of June 30th, after a full day of moving, we packed ourselves into Grandma Read's second and third bedrooms.

Your father was exhausted. I was emotionally spent, despite having spent a large portion of the day at Grandma's house doing nothing but watch your brother. (I was upset about the mortgage company and being homeless until who knew when, living with my mom.) I was too pregnant to move anything, and we were supposed to be keeping me "calm," so I wouldn't go into labor, which is why I had minimal work to do for the move. I'd spent the night watching the first episode of Call the Midwife, while Julian slept and the rest of the family finished cleaning up our townhome, till well after dark.

Grandma and your dad rolled in around ten o'clock. We sat around talking for awhile, and your dad and I retired to bed pretty late. Your dad grumbled about being tired, while trying to assure me that everything was fine, and I didn't have to worry about a thing. I worried about a few things, like a restless, confused Julian, and my homeless, pathetic pregnant state. I remember finally pulling up the covers, rolling onto my side in the dark and thinking, "This bed is sort of uncomfortable with this pregnancy pillow... And I'm going to have to sleep like this for the next five nights?"

As if you took that thought as a sign from above, my water broke, just then. I remember feeling it and thinking, "Oh, that can't be what I think it was..." Your father later told me that at that time he was rolling over in bed thinking, "This would just be the WORST time for her to go into labor."

"My water just broke." I told him, as I jumped up and sprinted for the bathroom. (Didn't get the bed wet at all. Score!) We rushed around as quietly as we could, and I went and woke my mother, briefly, to tell her we were going to the hospital, and that she was now in charge of Julian. Surprise!

When we got there, your dad went to park the car, and I stood around feeling completely disgusting. Like I was peeing my pants and just kept peeing. It was marvelous. They ushered us back to a room - the same room I'd given birth to your brother in, to be exact, and the waiting began. The nurses were friendly, and all was going well.

Your father was exhausted. He'd spent the entire day moving an entire house in the sun, and had also taken a Trazodone to help him sleep. And so sleep he did! Nurses came and went, hooking me up to devices, giving me an IV, etc, and your father slept. Lights turning off and on, and he slept.

I made him wake up when they sent for the epidural man. I didn't want to do that part alone. Getting the epidural with your brother was exceptionally easy. I bragged that it was easier than the IV was. (It was.) Your epidural... not so much. It hurt quite a bit. It took a long time. It was hard to get through. I went from lying on my side in the fetal position, to sitting at the edge of the bed, grimacing and just downright hurting. This time, the epidural was the hardest part. As I sat at the edge of the bed, I noticed your dad starting to turn whiter and whiter, so I mentioned calmly, "Dad's going to pass out." for the nurses.

The nurse made your dad sit down, and gave him snacks to eat. (Royally unfair for the woman who could eat nothing.) She continued to hold my hand, and saw me through the last two minutes until my epidural was in place, and working. (Later, Dad said it was the blood that got to him. Glad I didn't see that. It was bad enough.)

And then Dad slept again, and I actually got about 4 hours of sleep myself. (God bless epidurals.) In the early morning I texted your Aunt Hannah, and told her I was in labor. She expressed an interest in being there, and, with your dad still asleep and struggling to stay conscious as he was, and with his difficulty with blood, at the time, I thought it would be nice to have another support person. And I thoroughly enjoy your Aunt Hannah. I knew she would be a great partner to have along. She'd keep the mood light, and keep me laughing. When Dad woke up and gave me permission to do so, I invited her to be there.

She showed up about twenty minutes to show time! It was perfect! My doctor was working that day, a Saturday, and was there for my delivery. Another bonus was that my doctor was Aunt Hannah's aunt-in-law. So the room felt royally unrighteous, fun-loving, and light-hearted. The mirror was brought out, and I was told to push.

I actually forgot what I was supposed to do and how to do it. Was I supposed to hold my breath, or breathe through my nose? I wasted a contraction, and we laughed and shrugged it off, while the doctor reminded me what I was supposed to be doing. Dad held my hand while Hannah stood in my line of sight next to the mirror. Yes, I had a mirror there. I remember how much easier it was to push with a mirror there, when I had Julian, and requested it again. For your birth, however, no one stood in the way of the mirror, and I saw the whole thing!

It took two contractions and a half to get you out. As Grandma Read would put it, "After you have one, the rest are like shelling peas." You came easily. But with the most impressive cone-head the world has ever seen. Unlike your brother, who was rushed away by the NICU ladies, they plopped your little wriggling body into my arms, and you were perfect. (This is disgusting, but I intentionally kept some of your goop on my forearm for the rest of the day, until I realized I was being disgusting and overly emotional, and that I had YOU, for goodness sakes. I didn't need your goop.)

We all smiled and laughed. I had a first degree tear, which was nothing like the third degree tear I had with your brother. You had some trouble breathing, to be honest. You didn't really cry, and your breathing was fast, enough so that they called a NICU nurse to come down just to look at you. I remember looking at Aunt Hannah, the nurse, hoping she would tell me if your breathing was something to worry about. She just kept smiling and saying that everything was fine - that you were good. I didn't believe her, and continued to worry, until they packed us up and sent us upstairs. (Once again, I was put in the same room I'd been in with your brother. What were the chances!)

In addition to a fantastic cone-head, you also came out with a fantastically bruised face - to the point that they put a little sticky note on your bin, saying "Bruised Face," so the nurses wouldn't see you and assume you were low on oxygen. That had mostly cleared up by the next day, though.

I kept you close. The first night I slept on my own, but the second night, when I was fully rested, I kept you by my side the whole night - even though we were doing formula, not breastfeeding. (I'd learned my limits well enough from my experience with your brother. I wanted to bond with you, not wrestle with your disappointment and frustrations.) I remember sleeping with you in the bed next to me, waking up when the nurse did her rounds, and kindly pushing off any offers to help. I was so glad to be with you, and you gave me incredible feelings of hope and energy. I napped with you at every opportunity.

And then we took you home! Oh, wait, no. We were homeless. We took you to Grandma's. (Several nurses had heard our sad tale. I thought it was hilarious that you had come just in time to live at Grandma's. Really? You didn't want to wait just one more week?) 

Julian was obsessed with you, and still is. (You're five weeks old, now.) He's just waiting for you to grow up and play with him. One of his favorite things to do is kiss you. 

Overall, you've been an extremely pleasant baby. Very lazy, I might add. You didn't open your eyes until the third day, and I took a video of it, just to prove to your dad that you did actually have eyes. When you were FOUR WEEKS OLD, your Grandma asked if we'd had your eyes checked out, because she thought there was the possibility that you were BLIND, because you never had your eyes open for her! (She has since seen your eyes, and knows that your vision is fine. But it's not like Grandma hasn't been around a lot. You're just lazy!)

You still wake up like clockwork to eat every three hours, and have finally reached the point where we don't have to torture you awake to finish a bottle anymore. You are now motivated enough to eat. At your 2 week appointment you were in the 14th percentile for weight, but we're anticipating you'll catch up to average or above average in no time. 

You're a good buddy to keep me company while your brother naps, screams, throws tantrums, etc. You're pretty chill. (Actual picture of right now.) 

On Sunday, aka yesterday, you were blessed at church. Your father blessed you, with Uncle Patrick and Uncle Oliver and Grandpa DeMill there. He said that you were born at a time that the Kingdom of God was in great excitement. He mentioned that you would be a steward and a teacher in the Kingdom. He mentioned that you would have trials, but that you would be able to teach others how to overcome their trials, because of your experiences. 

Sorry, you moved, and now it's cuter.

I'm proud to be your momma. You make it difficult to get out and have fun, when you demand food every two hours, but keeping that eternal perspective makes me forgive you for your starvation-induced drama. You were named Dexter Martin Lisch. As with our family traditions, we name your first name after whatever the heck we want, and your middle name after a historical hero of ours. You were named Dexter after Dexter's Lab. (Don't judge us.) But you were named Martin after Martin Luther. Not the black Martin Luther King, but Martin Luther, the hero of the reformation. 

Martin Luther was a devout man, who wanted to serve God to the best of his ability. But he saw problems with the current practices of his church - the concept that you could buy forgiveness, etc. He risked everything he had to teach that God was love. You couldn't buy His love and forgiveness, but that rather, He would give it. You would never be perfect, but God would accept you, and through his grace, claim you His. Obviously, you should still be a good person, but remember that God has claimed you His, if you will accept His taking you. He is love, first and foremost. A good thing to remember in a crazy, confused world. 

Stay at Home Mom - Friends Wanted

I've always had a job. Since I was sixteen years old, I have been working. At one point I had four jobs at the same time. I've been a party-host, an interpreter, a librarian, a dispatcher. I've worked on psych wards and in care centers. I've made tables worth of bread sticks, I've wiped bottoms and sold books. I've even worked security, and encouraged drunk concert attendees to stop urinating in the bushes.

As life circumstances would have it, however, I have become... a stay-at-home mom. I won't lie to you. It's work. There are times when I stare at my screaming son who will not be reasoned with, and will not nap, and seriously consider returning to work. Emotionally, it would be easier. Psychologically, it would be healthier. HOWEVER, I do love him. And the fact that I have the opportunity and chance to be more involved in his upbringing, his childhood, the little moments and learning experiences he has each hour, is too good to pass up. I'm a firm believer that there's nothing more important - no job comes close to compare - than raising your children. For some, this means working full time. For others, part-time - the group I intend to end up in, eventually, for my own sanity! And others, it's being a stay-at-home mom. There are no wrong answers, when you look at individuals' lives.

But staying at home is a transition. It's a terrible one! I've gone from the ultimate of 9-5 schedules, with dropping the baby off, then picking him up, making dinner, bath time, then bed, every night, to waking up when the baby does, eating breakfast, and...

I'm looking for stuff to do. Parks are awesome, but I'm also almost 8 months pregnant and it's over ninety degrees out there. (Shade is cool. Can they make more covered parks?) We have aquarium passes, but you can only go so much before you get sick of it. We could go shopping every single day, but our wallets are not bottomless. We have toys, but this kid is used to playing with a room full of infants every single day.

And that's the hard part. Julian needs friends. I'm an introvert. I can't tell you how happy I'd be to sit on my butt day after day writing, reading, or watching documentaries on the Bible or archaeological digs and discoveries. (These are my hobbies.) But Julian is a baby. He is 100%, certifiably, an extrovert. I didn't think you could tell this early, but with this kid, you can tell. He lives and breathes other people and interacting with them. And he needs friends. And I don't know how else to find them. So here goes:

FRIENDS WANTED:

Looking for candidates for potential friends for a stay-at-home mom and her 14-month old son.

Son is wonderfully cute, charming, and funny. He is precocious in language development, and is just starting to walk. He enjoys cars, other children, and is only mildly afraid of dogs. He can be convinced that they are safe, given time. He takes roughly three naps a day, making his schedule a living nightmare, though naps can be condensed down to two easily, as, when with others, he remains pleasantly exhausted. He is big, and unaware of his girth. He has been known to accidentally step on smaller, more breakable children. It is not intentional.

Mother is an introvert. She is additionally an INFJ, yellow/red personality, resulting in a pleasantly opinionated, friendly demeanor. (Due to being an introvert, the opinionated/bossy will only come out if she's annoyed about something.) She is a religious "bigot," and expresses culturally unpopular, conservative opinions on a regular basis - though she is anti guns and wars, and pro socialized medicine and Muslims. She is not a Republican. Or a Democrat. And she likes it. Her hobbies including reading, writing, and documentaries focused on archaeology, as well as mutually respecting debates on current events, mental health, politics, culture, religion, and Russians. She pretends to enjoy cooking, and once she starts, she really does. But frankly, her creativity and general motivation are lacking. She also does not work out. At all. She calls life her workout.

Looking for friends who have a child, preferably close to the son's age. Friends can have more than one child, though frankly, the mother is terrified of being outnumbered. But just because this is her fear, does not mean that she can't get over it. Looking for friends who understand introverts, and won't be offended if the mother doesn't want to hang out all day long. A couple hours is awesome. Looking for friends who won't try and sell them anything. You can sell stuff. Just not to them. The mother will ask if she's interested. She is anti multi-level-marketing. Looking for friends who have a dark sense of humor, or at least won't be afraid of one. Looking for friends who have religious convictions, but don't shirk at the sight of Mountain Dew, or R-rated movies like Gladiator or Schindler's List. Looking for friends who DO shirk at the sight of anything starring Hugh Grant or Jack Nicholson, or basically most modern comedy/romantic comedy films. They are disgusting.

If you are interested, please contact me. I would love to set up a time we could have a picnic, or an awkward splash pad encounter, or something inside and creative that you've thought up, because I'm plain out of ideas on the air conditioned spectrum. We could always just chill for a bit. My place or yours. We'll figure something out.

Of Death and Living

I have had the privilege of being at the side of several people as they have passed away. One thing I have learned is that people die much the same way that they lived.

The selfish die afraid.

The fearful die alone.

The righteous die praising God.

The loving die happy.

A woman who selfishly lived her final days speaking only of what her children should/could/badly did for her clung to her life like a drowning man. A woman too frail to survive CPR insisted on it. Death called for her several times, and she fought it, clinging to the life that only made her sorry to live it, like it was all that she had.

The man who lived alone, had no friends, no close family due to fears of life change, died silently one day with no one at his side. There was no one to send a sympathy card to, for he had no one. He had lived his life afraid of change, afraid of owning or belonging to someone or anything.

A preacher tearfully asked me to play a hymn for him, and tears streamed down his face as he sang along in his weakened voice, able to raise his hands only inches over his face, he clasped them together, grateful. He praised the Lord, and reported feeling ready to meet his maker - excited for the journey that would soon be his.

A woman with many children died with them, and her grandchildren, at her side. She had told me of her life. She had been abused, nearly killed, by her former husband. She had had to save her children while holding a door back, to stop the man from entering and killing them. She had barely been saved herself. She had no money - she could barely make rent. There was no money for a funeral, or even for an obituary. And she knew that death was coming.

But she never ceased smiling. Her family never stopped talking about her, for the love that they had for this woman. Why she had no money was not important. The trauma or ghosts of her past held no sway. She was loved for the love that she gave, and I, a lowly social worker accustomed to the passing of patients, went to my office and wept when I heard she was gone. I wept for her again today, even a year later, because she taught me more about life and death than any patient I had worked with before, or since.

We die how we live. Not the lives that we’ve had, for living is much different than the situations of our existence. No, how we live is how we treat others, how we talk, how we hope, how we dream. How we live is how we hurt, how we think, how we laugh.

For you it may be car payments and broken bones. It may be the cold silence of family members, or dead end jobs, or lack of skill in cooking. (Okay, the cooking is me.) But these are not the things that define you.

You are defined by your ability to love. You are defined by your ability to pull through.

Today I’m thinking of her, and have determined, once again, that situations do not define me. It is my response to them that will lead the eventual course of my life.

To Cut or Not to Cut

Definitely one of those posts I'm not linking to Facebook. Definitely. Because if I haven't had backlash from some of my posts in the past, I definitely would with this one. Because I'm passionate about it.

So hello world that found me through Google, or some random fan of mine out there that regularly reads my posts - (I love you too).

Circumcision. Is it "sicion" or "cision"? Truthfully, I can't ever seem to get it right.

Just like the whole danged country of America. And no, I'm not talking about Trump vs Hillary. I'm not talking about big oil companies and the decision to make global warming a political issue, not a scientific one. I'm not talking about the Trail of Tears, or Area 51 faking the moon landing, or even Nicholas Cage. I'm talking about Circumcision. (The trick is, write it enough times, and you'll remember the spelling.)

In America we don't talk about it. We just do it.

Wife turns to husband, who is a boy, therefore the penis expert in the family, when the doctor pops the question. Husband scrunches up his face, thinks of what he looks like, and adamantly declares, "Cut it off! We don't want him looking like a damned ant-eater!"

And it is done.

Circumcision is perpetuated by tradition alone.

Over 80% of the world's men are "intact," meaning uncircumcised. Some cultures circumcise their sons due to their religious faiths. Jews and Muslims believe in circumcision. (Remember Abraham in the Bible?) I have a personal belief that if God tells you to do something, you should do it. So my circumcision argument is completely invalid for those belonging to religious faiths that would encourage them to do so. Power to you! Go with God, and keep believing! Disregard everything else I have said or will say! I, too, believe in obeying God.

As for the rest of you, though. I'm assuming you're Christian, atheist, agnostic, etc. (I don't believe I have an Eastern following, unfortunately.) Atheists and agnostics. We'll talk about science. Christians? 1 Corinthians, the Acts, Galatians, etc, etc. These books and scriptures are full of accounts of Gentiles choosing to follow Christ. (They make up the early Christian church.) They were directed that it didn't matter if they were circumcised or not! There was no reason to continue with circumcision, after that point.

(Just like they discontinued animal sacrifices, etc. The Old Testament is full of beautiful, symbolic covenants with God. You get Abraham cutting animals in half and walking between them, people rending their clothes in half, people cutting off the foreskins of their sons, etc. It was all very symbolic, and I would write about the religious concept of "cutting a covenant" which trends throughout the Law of Moses, but don't get me started, because I love it. The point is, we don't cut covenants anymore! Now we have Jesus!) (Screw it. Read THIS!)

Circumcision! Why are we still doing this?! WHO is doing it! Aside from religious persons, we have:

Americans.

And people in Africa, some who also do female genital mutilation, which we give them an extremely hard time about, without seeing the hypocrisy in our own actions... ("Boys and girls are DIFFERENT!") Yes. Their genitalia are different. Well spotted. You're still cutting 50% of the skin of it off. The tissue that forms your clitorus in utero is the same tissue that forms his foreskin. End of discussion.

Why am I talking about this? What the heck is my problem?

My problem is that I love children. I worked in Child Protection, and you'll have to forgive me, because there's a huge part of my heart that screams "Kill them now!" whenever I see adults hurting innocent children. Even the not so innocent children, too, I guess... Basically all children. I like them.

I have a son, and he is intact. My husband is intact. Did that have anything to do with our decision? Maybe his decision, but not mine.

Circumcision is a cosmetic procedure. It is optional. Frankly, my view on circumcision is the reason I chose the pediatrician I did, for my child. We were all lined up for another one, when this doctor came in to check him out as a newborn, and asked, "Are you planning on having him circumcised?" Was I too fast at replying "No!" (Did I clutch my newborn, perfect child to my bosom in feral rage, hissing, and kicking blankets at the doctor with venomous, protective fury?)

"That's great!" he replied, then doctor-ly added, "It's not a recommended procedure. Your son will be just fine without it. Science shows that there are no greater risks of infection or complications for uncircumcised boys." I fell for him right there. We changed doctors, and saw our new, pro-foreskin doctor again a few days later. (Another European pediatrician checked our son out the following day and asked the same question. She smiled when we told her we weren't planning on it. "Circumcision is really only an American thing. They don't do it anywhere in Europe.") We felt so posh.

So why do Americans do it?

Tradition. It's what Dad looks like.  -Some dads look like Michael Jackson... Do you see my point?

Women who've never even seen a foreskin spreading lies that they're disgusting. Smegma. - Bull. Girls got gunk too. The purpose of the foreskin is to keep the penile glands moist. You've got some "moist-keeping" parts too. You clean 'em. Grow up.

They look "gross." - Women, seriously, the first time you saw a penis, did you honestly think it didn't look creepy? They're not supposed to be pretty. You pee with it. You get used to them, in all their varieties.

Lowers the risk of HIV! - Tell your son to get circumcised when he's an adult, if he's going to be sexually promiscuous. I, for one, plan on my child not being at risk of HIV, because I'm planning on him having a healthy sex life. I could also opt to have him circumcised because he might be a porn star, and he'll be more appealing that way... I'm just going to leave him intact, and let him make life choices like that on his own.

ETC. Seriously - there are a ton of reasons people are using, for why they circumcise their sons. So I thought I would share some reasons why NOT to do it.

1) Removing a Foreskin is Cosmetic.

There's no medical reason to do it. It would be like plucking your baby girl's eyebrows, because you wanted her to look more "girly," or giving her implants. There's no reason to do it. Do not perform surgery on someone else who has no say on the matter, when it's not needed. "Do no harm."

2) It's Inhumane.

"Babies don't feel any of it!" Again, I say, Bull. In 1997 a group of Canadian doctors were experimenting with anesthesia, to see which would be more effective in relieving the pain of circumcision. As with studies, they needed a control group, who didn't get any pain relief. They had to call off the study, because babies were in so much pain it was unethical to continue.
The foreskin is connected to the head of the penis with the same type of tissue that connects fingernails to the nail bed. A blunt probe is shoved between the head of the penis and foreskin, while the foreskin is then clamped to begin the clotting process - 10 minutes later they can cut it off. Remember that's how Sayid tortured Sawyer in LOST - shoving bamboo shoots under Sawyer's fingernails. Now your finger is a penis, and you might start to imagine.
Is it ever right to inflict pain on someone - even if they can't remember it later? (PS - studies how that it does still negatively effect them - with rates of Depression, PTSD, anger, and more sensitivity to pain later in life. 60% of circumcised men have difficulty identifying and expressing their feelings. They're 4.5 times more likely to be diagnosed with erectile dysfunction, etc, etc.)

3) Complications

Buried penis, infection, adhesions, meatal stenosis, etc. Ask moms.
I know I've had the privilege of looking at uncircumcised babies and circumcised babies, and I can tell you that the intact penises look, frankly, happier and healthier.

4) Circumcised Penises are Harder to Clean

Foreskins are beautiful things that keep the head of the penis lusciously and comfortably moist, secure, and safe. (No scratching of the head, no having to clean poop off, etc.) The foreskin is designed to let you clean a little baby penis like you would clean a finger - water. BAM. Done. (Foreskin doesn't retract until later in life. So if those fear-mongering, never seen a foreskin in their lives, mothers tell you foreskins are hard to clean, I say, stop cleaning your ten-year-old.)

5) Nerve Endings and Pleasure

A huge driver for circumcision in America in the first place was the fear of masturbation. I'm against masturbation, frankly, but I'd hate to cut a body part off to prevent something that MIGHT happen, and that you could easily just have some conversations about instead. Talk to your kids. Don't cut off their genitalia.
Like I briefly mentioned earlier, the foreskin is made from the same tissue that the clitorus is made from, in utero. We all know that the clitorus makes women very happy. So, too, the foreskin for men, and for the same reasons.
Turns out, though, the foreskin also makes women very happy. Without going into too much detail, it keeps things better lubed, and the foreskin male technique is more satisfying for women. 85% of women who have had sex with both intact and circumcised men prefer sex with an intact man. (My bias - the other 15% probably thought the foreskin was "gross" and that he had "cooties.")
It might make you slightly uncomfortable to think about your newborn son having sex, someday, but hey. I thought reasons number one and two would have been enough to stop you.

Stop cutting your babies. Stop cutting your sons. There is no good reason. The science is out. 80% of the world has been doing it for long enough that you should see it.

Yeah, definitely not posting this one to Facebook.

#mykidistheonlyonewithaforeskininthefamily
#noneofmyfriendsareonthesamepageandidontwanttobringitupbecauseimightkillthem

"Support" Groups

This is me, complaining about Support Groups.

Like I mentioned in my previous post, I'm a part of a couple different support groups. One is for cloth diapering, another is for being a "new mom" in general. Primarily, these support groups are used for, well, what it sounds like!

"How do you wash cloth diapers with hard water?"
"Look at my baby's rash. Is this eczema?"
"What are your favorite formula brands?"
"What are your views on the 'Cry it Out' method?"
"When should my baby start walking?"
"I'm not sure how I feel about co-sleeping."
"This weird thing happened, with my post-birth body, and I need to know if I should be putting my affairs in order, or if I'm going to live."

These are questions that women have, that they really need support with, sometimes.

At times, however, people will have family issues that they bring up.

"I don't know how to tell my father-in-law that I don't like him showing up unannounced all the time."
"My ex and I are having such-and-such custody issues," etc.

These are things that women would also like to have support on.

Unfortunately, all too often, I see terrible advice given, that is not accurate and/or good support at all.

It's women telling a new mom that she should pull her son's foreskin back to clean it - WRONG.
Telling mothers to buy bamboo cloth diapers - SO WRONG. (Ugh. Forever drying time, and sticky, clinging poop. Duh.) ;)
Women telling women to put an essential oil on it. - WRONG.
"He'll be scarred for LIFE!!!" - Also WRONG.

In the middle of the night, last night, I saw more terrible advice given, and realized, real, GOOD "Support" is sometimes telling people the honest truth.

A woman posted that she wasn't sure how to "make it up" to her husband. She was on the phone, on their anniversary, and, implied, wasn't giving him attention. He felt neglected and unappreciated, got upset, and ended up throwing away the flowers he had bought her.

Advice from women in the support group?
"What a baby, throwing a temper tantrum like that."
"Tell him to stop treating you like an object, that he can just have when he wants it."
My favorite, in least helpful - "Just give him a blowjob."

It was Four AM, I'd just fed the baby, and I couldn't sleep, knowing this woman had no reasonable support at all. Because good "Support" is HONEST. I replied, mostly for the women I knew would be reading my post, after posting their own unhelpful comments.

For starters, I've been there. MANY women have, and if the gender roles were reversed, women would say that your husband was maybe being a little bit selfish and neglectful. It HURTS to feel like you're second place, and not as important, even on days that AREN'T your anniversary, when all you want is some time to be close to your spouse. He bought flowers. He was going out of his way to woo you, and wanted to be recognized for his efforts. I would say apologize sincerely. Show some empathy and understanding for his perspective. TALK to your husband. No blowjobs. Don't just "sex" him off, like an annoyance. Talk about his feelings. Don't cheapen them. Try and understand him. See if he's feeling unappreciated in general. Talk to him to see if he feels there are ways that he can better communicate his wishes, concerns, and feelings, so both of you benefit - he can feel understood, and you can too. Temper tantrums are what toddlers throw in the grocery store over unimportant things, like cereal. Throwing the flowers that you bought for your wife away is a sign of emotional distress. He's hurting. Talking is the best thing for relationships.

That was it. I combated a few of the previous comments that had driven me nuts with their insensitivity, and gave my honest opinion. TALK. (Heaven help us. Communication.)

Why is it that support groups only think about offering "support" to the person who posted the problem, rather than looking at the whole picture, and offering the best solution for all parties? Since when did the woman's husband become the villain? Why aren't we giving HIM the benefit of the doubt? Why is she supposed to be the only one who needs help? If we really want to help the situation, shouldn't we do so by actually giving advice that will help the entire situation, and not just her own emotions about herself and her own "rightness"? Is her husband not a human being also, who has his own feelings that she ought to try and relate to?

Ugh. I hate support groups. I'm tied in top number of "Likes" for that comment. Tied with the gal who suggested a blowjob. Seriously?

Sometimes I hate people.

Mom Guilt

If there's one thing I've learned, in these long nine weeks of having a baby, it's that having a baby is insanely tough. Let's just say I'm running on four hours of sleep, right now, because my baby had gas. That's right. He had the farts, and so now I have four hours of sleep. No, they weren't that loud of farts. The baby was loud. He screamed and screamed. I tried feeding him, cuddling him, changing him, singing to him, etc. The only thing that seemed to work was taking him upstairs, holding him in the fetal position in my lap and rocking him back and forth, crying. My tears, not his. We did this at one and at three o'clock. And this was just a couple nights after I bragged about him sleeping nine hours straight.

I cried because I was heart-broken for that little sweaty, red-faced boy, who was, for all the world, in agony, screaming hysterically. I loved on him, telling him over and over again that "I know." and "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." We're trying a new formula. We're trying better bottles. We're going back to using gripe water, again, despite the fact that he is no longer colicky in the evenings. I'm haunted by the sneaky, haunting suspicion that being a parent never gets easier.

So GUILT. I've been thinking about it. A lot. There are lots of things to feel guilty about:

I don't breastfeed my baby. (He was too stupid and impatient, and I was depressed, with flat nipples. TMI! Sorry! Snuck that one up on you! Ha!)
I call my son stupid. (I plan on stopping this, as soon as he shows signs of speaking English.)
I buy my son cheap Wal-Mart bottles, instead of the fancy pants bottles. (Until last night...)
I put my son in his swing while I wash the dishes and clean the house, even though he's still awake. (Instead of holding him until he sleeps.)
I put my son to sleep with blankets, and he has non-mesh, suffocating-style bumpers in his crib. (They market them that way.)
I also put him in his own room when he was two months old, instead of the recommended six. (Because I want him to die of SIDS.)
I sing my son ballads, hymns, and anti-war songs, and can count the number of times I've sung him a lullaby on my ELBOW, which has no fingers, thank you very much. He sleeps to Coldplay.
I use all-in-one, one size cloth diapers for my son instead of flats. And none of them have cute hot air balloons on them. They're solid colors, and four of them are even pink, and I don't even care. And I'm not buying him any more of them, just because they're "cute."

Yeah, you can literally find ANYTHING to judge a mom about.

The big one that's killing me is that I'm going back to work, full time, in July. I feel guilty that I'm looking forward to it. I feel guilty that I'm excited to talk to other adults every day. I feel guilty that my baby will be cared for by someone else. I fear that he'll call HER "mommy."

So, naturally, I wanted to find some support, as a working mother. I wanted to find some reassurance. I wanted to find some comfort. I'm a part of a couple "New Mom" support groups, on Facebook, but quickly found no comfort there, for the full-time working mommies of the world.

See, there's shaming, and guilt. Being a mom, I've discovered a whole new set of abbreviations, used to describe mothers who are better than me. EBF - Exclusively Breast Fed. SAHM - Stay at Home Mom. And to make it better, those dirty-rotten moms stole my "Full-Time" employee abbreviation. Because FTM doesn't mean Full Time Mom. It means Full Time MOM - another SAHM abbreviation.

I'm surrounded by SAHMs. They brag to you about their good fortune and cooking skills, how they're working out, and losing weight, and painting their ceilings, and crafting up a storm, and how they have the time to teach their twelve children the periodic table of elements by heart.

So I've made my own abbreviation, based on the pressure I feel I receive from those around me. I guess I am a NHB - Neglectful Human Being. Because I'm not even his mother, at this rate, with all my crappy "parenting." Sorry. Yes. I am going back to work full-time. Because I want to.

I'm currently looking for more NHBs. I'm looking for a bit of support, in that department, and it's hard to come by.

Because I guess I am a NHB. I read to my son, and I sing him to sleep. I rock him to sleep when he has trouble on his own. I stay up all hours of the night when he's feeling sick, and respond to the "I dropped my binkie!" cry within sixty seconds. Every time. Honestly, he's spoiled rotten.

I make sure he gets enough sunlight, and lay down next to him when he does tummy time, encouraging him on. I talk to him about all kinds of things, the future, God, and even explain historical events to him, as he listens in wide-eyed wonder. I've made him toys and clothes, spent hours researching health concerns. I take him on adventures he will never remember, and honestly, can't even see, right now, unless it's 18 inches in front of his face. I've done my best to make sure I'm not helicoptering him, but can't stand listening to his unaided cries for long. I run to him.

Is there anyone else like me out there, who works full time? Where are you?

Because being a mother, being a parent NEVER ends.

The first night home from the hospital, I had my first real wave of guilt. It was having to supplement breastfeeding with formula. My gracious, understanding mother was there, and sent me to my room to sleep. I was freaking out. I wasn't good enough. Despite all my trying, I was failing my son. I was scared that I was going to kill him. I didn't want to be a mother anymore. I had glorious Postpartum Depression. My mother came and lay beside me on the bed, after an hour or so, and talked me down, stroked my hair, and told me everything was going to be alright. My child would live. This would get easier.

After the first few days of daily crying, feeling that my life ran in three hour repeating, Groundhog Day-like, hellish intervals, my mom was still there, still talking me down and reassuring me that he was fine. That I was fine. That parenting was worth it. She showed me how to make him comfortable, how to wrap him up Aussie style. She even showed me how to play with him, a concept which was hard for me to grasp, in my heightened anxiety and sadness. My mother's calm, optimistic presence saved me.

And I was formula fed. In fact, I'm pretty sure she even put me down to sleep on my stomach. And trusted us around knives, when we were very small. And she worked. She still does. Constantly. She makes everyone else look bad, with how much she works.

This guilt thing ain't worth it. He'll survive.

Your Birth

Journal Entry written for Julian, for when he wants to know. But several people have wanted to know details as well, so I'll make it friendly and personable and post it here. :)

Julian,

You decided to come in the middle of the night. For weeks, your dad and I talked about when and where you would decide to come. We laid out bed pads in strategic places all over the house, on the off chance that my water would break while I was sitting/laying there, so we would be ready. (Sorry, we've always been paranoid types.) We also had an ongoing joke that you would be born at Cafe Rio. Thank goodness you weren't.

Honestly, my anxiety level was pretty high. Giving birth is a scary thought! When you were about early-30 week level, I was having pretty regular Braxton Hicks, and my doctor told me to go to Labor and Delivery. We ended up going twice, until the doctor told us that we could stop worrying about pre-term labor. And your vitals were always healthy as a horse, so really, we weren't too worried. (But did I mention the subchorionic hemorrhage I had in the first few weeks with you? Your dad and I pretty much mourned your loss/death twice, during that time. You didn't make this road exactly easy!)

A couple weeks before your birth, I was having those regular Braxton Hicks again. Some nights, I would have actual contractions, which would leave me bent over the couch holding my breath, or in tears. The Thursday before you were born I was at work, and actually let out an almighty cuss word while in my office, I was so caught off guard! Ouch! Your grandma came over for my lunch break and we went out for Wendy's. We were timing contractions every 6 minutes like clockwork, and they hurt, let me tell you! I told everyone at work, that day, that I thought I was having you, and they wouldn't see me tomorrow. I left early. The contractions stopped. Obviously, Friday I took a half day, and felt very sorry for myself. I was sick as a dog and just wanted you to come.

Your dad had given me a blessing several days before, as I was in a bout of anxiety about giving birth, and if I would know when it was happening. He'd said something along the lines that I would "know" when I was in labor. So early Saturday morning, I was sleeping. (Of course.) I was having a dream that I was at work, working with one of the Muslim women currently at our facility. I was trying to talk her down, as she was upset, (nothing unusual there), when a man approached me from behind. At first, I assumed it was one of her family members, but upon second glance, I realized it wasn't. (I want to say he was Maori, but honestly, I just referred to him as "some ethnic man.") My dream changed direction, as I turned to this man, as I wasn't really at work anymore. He looked at me calmly, and reassured/told me simply, "You're going into labor."

And I woke up. 3:00 AM. And I was in labor. I ran to the bathroom, still having contractions, then went back to bed. I had a couple more before trying to wake up your dad. I gently took his hand, then rubbed his arm until he blinked lazily at me. "I'm having contractions." I told him, gripping his hand through yet another one. "Oh." he said, nodding. "Okay." And promptly he fell asleep again. I had to wake him up again as I had another. "Nathan, I'm having contractions. I think I'm in labor." "Oh!" he replied a little more exuberantly. "Okay!" And he was up!

I actually wanted to take a shower, before going to the hospital, even though my contractions were regularly 2 minutes and about 30 seconds apart. Nathan continued to time them for me while I showered, and told him when they started and stopped. My previous experiences, I'd always been sitting or lying down. Walking usually helped them go away. So the fact that they were regular when I was moving around, putting on makeup, etc, only affirmed to me that this was, in fact, IT. Both showered and ready, your dad made me a peanut butter sandwich while I chugged a Gatorade.

The contractions hadn't been too bad, up to that point. In fact, I remember thinking that I might try natural labor, without an epidural. It wasn't so bad. I could do that! It was probably a product of adrenaline, however. I was on fire, throwing things together, making sure we had everything. I told Nathan that we might just sit at home, for awhile, to see if things progressed/got worse. But we didn't stay home. We got in the car as another violent contraction hit me. As we pulled out of the apartment complex, I told Nathan that maybe we should drive around for a little bit before going in, just to make sure that this was, in fact, real. We didn't drive around for a little bit, either, as we'd been on the road for about thirty seconds before I was hit with a really painful doozy, which left me telling Nathan HECK no, were we gonna drive around. We needed to get to the hospital, and I wanted an epidural!

My adrenaline really was working quite well for me, as we pulled into the hospital parking lot about a quarter after four. There was another woman there, walking slowly into Labor and Delivery with her midwife, and pacing husband. We shot past them, my contractions not slowing me down! (Well, any slower than I already was at 9 months pregnant.) We signed in at the desk, and they showed us to Triage. The nurse assigned me had been my nurse for one of my previous Labor and Delivery scares, so it was nice to see a familiar face - especially now that it was real! I threw on my gown, hugging your father through a couple more contractions, then had a seat as the nurse measured me.

4.5 centimeters dilated! (I'd only been 1.75 dilated 4 days previously.) I was having this baby FOR SURE! Gently, they escorted us to room 5. They struggled to get my IV in - took them three tries - and called for the epidural man - who became my new hero. Getting the epidural was not as bad as it sounds. It actually hurt less than my IV fiasco! Just scary in thought, and the shaking that accompanies an epidural was exciting! Nurse shift change, and then it was just a waiting game!

Jen, our new nurse, said that she thought I'd have you before 3 PM, which was exciting to me, as I had been anticipating something like an 18-hour labor. She gave me some Pitocin after the doctor came to look at me, broke my water, and reported I was only 5 centimeters dilated. They wanted to speed things up a little bit more. Unfortunately, that didn't go so great for you! My uterus was apparently already contracting pretty hard, and with the Pitocin, it was contracting VERY hard! The nurse suspected that you had your umbilical cord either in your hands, or around your neck, because every time I had a contraction, your heart rate became unstable. Their solution to this was to pump me full of drugs! CRAZY drugs! My heart rate went through the roof, but as my heart pumped faster and faster, your heart rate stabilized, and eventually, your umbilical cord situation must have sorted itself out. Needless to say, they laid off the Pitocin from then-on-out.

Feeling pretty stressed out and worried for you, (and, with my heart still pumping steadily at 114 BPM, due to the drug) I wanted to see my mommy! So we called her, and asked her to bring your dad lunch, which she did. (He'd been threatening to run off and get food, and I just wasn't feeling that! I was still scared, and didn't want to be alone!) She stayed and ate with him, until I was feeling much better. Then headed out.

And it was like we blinked, and it was time, after that! Jen came back, measured, and said it was probably time to start pushing, around 1:30 in the afternoon. It was about that time she also informed us that you had "pooped in the womb!" Basically, your meconium was leaking out of me, which put us in a little bit of a crunch to get you out. Jen calmly explained that because of this, ICU would be present at your birth to check you out and make sure you were okay, before they handed you over to me. So... PUSH!

I was not thrilled about it, and honestly, wanted to put it off for another little while, as my epidural wasn't working as strongly as it had been, in the beginning. (It was probably working just fine. I could feel contractions come and go, now, but they weren't incredibly painful at all. I was just scared!) But Jen and your dad were posed, ready, and... PUSH!

Within twenty hours after giving birth, I would have preferred giving birth again, rather than deal with the after effects of giving birth. It was kind of exhilarating! I could feel those contractions, and I could feel progress being made. Finally the doctor came in, after about 30 minutes of pushing, to help with the rest of it. Her name was Doctor Pieper - pronouced "peep-er." Yes, we thought that was inappropriately hilarious as well. But she was amazing. When I was getting tired, shaking my head "no" mid-contraction, she'd encourage me on. She was paying attention to the details, like how I was feeling. At some point they grabbed a mirror for me to watch. (Yes, I'm into that sort of thing.) It was amazing how much stronger I could push, seeing your hairy little head there. Jen eventually stepped in the way of the mirror, so I didn't actually see you born. I was a little too busy to tell her to move it.

The doctor was worried about your meconium, and gently gave me a time limit. She explained it gently. She would give me two more contractions to get you out, before she had to cut me open, with an episiotomy. They had to get you out of there, quickly. So I had two more contractions before she pulled out the knives... WHAT a motivator! You were out the very next contraction, but not without consequences. I tore pretty heavily - UP, not down - which resulted in me keeping a catheter in for an additional 24-hours to make sure I could still PEE. (I will explain no further. Not my favorite thing about giving birth, needless to say.) But you were out!

And off! They ran you over to the side of the room and started suctioning your throat, to make sure you hadn't swallowed anything. I'd told your dad, previously, that he had to follow you, to make sure you were okay. I could fend for myself. So your dad ran off to follow you, as well. Which made him miss quite a few details about his bleeding wife, who, ultimately, got thirty minutes worth of stitching, and a new syringe for the epidural to keep me through it - doctor's orders.

But you were perfect. I could hardly see you, but I could hear you crying, and could see your dad's face all lit up, glancing back at me with an expression that I could only describe as saying "He's real!" He was so excited! They wrapped you up and put you in his arms, and he brought you over so I could look at you. As soon as I was able, I stole you from him.

I could go on and write about how you were - perfect - but then this entry would never end. You really were perfect, though. You were calm. You barely fussed when you were hungry. You were content to just sit and look around, with your beautiful dark blue eyes. Honestly, it took a long time for it to sink in to me that you were a reality for me. But you are!

I'm writing this as I sit on the couch, you sleeping in your bassinet at my side, a week and a half later. You're going to wake up soon, and you're going to be wanting lunch. As usual, you will barely fuss, and I have to pay close attention to you, or I miss that essential cue that you're hungry. Because then you'll throw a fit. Which is fine. I don't mind. That and poopy diapers are the only things that make you cry. And the second it's resolved, you're doing great again. You've been a little fussy today, but I think it's the new formula we're trying. And I think you might be getting diaper rash. It was World War III when I put cream on your butt a couple hours ago. Sorry about that.

Because I worry. Constantly. My life revolves around you, now, and I worry about you. I want to make sure you're happy. I want to make sure you're healthy. I want to make sure I'm giving you every opportunity you need to succeed. I struggle making sure you get outside enough. I struggle getting frustrated when you soak through your fifth onesie for the day. But I'm trying my hardest to make sure you don't see it, because all I want for you is to see your mother as a loving face, cooing at you, telling you stories, singing "Baby Balooga" one more time, and rubbing your back as I hold you against my chest, until you fall asleep. I want you to feel happy and secure, always. Obviously, I'm not perfect, but I'm going to keep trying. Because those inquisitive eyes of yours make it all worth it.