We took Emory to the farmer’s market at McCarren Park earlier today. We had a good time. I was a little neurotic about the cool air, the sun, and whether or not the stroller along the bumpy, city terrain was jiggling his head too much. And then I worried about the dirt and the trash and a little girl coughing. And then I worried about the wind. But overall we had a good time.

Several months ago, when I was about 8 and half months pregnant, my brother sent me an email letting me know what medications I might need when I bring the baby home from the hospital. He said something I’ll never forget. “You work so hard during your pregnancy thinking about your pregnancy, and then the delivery of the baby, you overlook the part about bringing the baby home.”

Wait, we bring him home when we’re done? They give us the baby? Just like that? We don’t need to show ID or pass a test first?

HOLY SHIT.

I never wanted to have kids before I met Toby. But a few weeks after I met him I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. (The hard part was convincing him to spend the rest of his life with me.) It wasn’t long after that I started to imagine making babies with him. (What would they look like? How would they act? What would they eventually design or come up with in order to solve all the world’s problems?) I pictured babies. I pictured having babies. I pictured being pregnant and not drinking booze or coffee. I pictured avoiding seafood, European cheese, and raw meat. I even pictured pooping myself during the delivery. But there was one important thing I overlooked.

I never took my personality – all my quirks, insecurities, anxieties, knack for worry – and applied it to motherhood. And now that I finally got the job, I’ve discovered that my personality and motherhood don’t go together all that well. Because when you take my personality and mix it together with motherhood, you’re left with something that may have good intentions but ends up being potentially dangerous. It’s kind of like wrapping something up in bubble wrap only to have it suffocate to death.

Jenny McCarthy has been popping up everywhere lately. I have seen her on several talk shows and then this week she was on Larry King Live promoting her new book Louder Than Words. The book is about her son’s autism and how she basically put it into remission.

I know what some people are going to think after reading this post. Some folks are going to think, “Oh great, Michele has gone off the deep end. She’s become a full blown freak, willing to put her son’s health at risk over a bunch of speculation.” I say, why stop now? I love getting hate mail! No, seriously, I’m not making irrational decisions or doing anything over-the-top at all. I’m merely thinking about my options at this point because the whole vaccination situation has me concerned. For example, right now, I’m very wary of injecting my son with any vaccination containing thermisol or any other potentially damaging preservative commonly found in vaccinations. Hell, I’m even frightened to inject him with a virus as minute as it may be. I worked my ass off during my entire pregnancy to make sure he didn’t come in contact with anything that could potentially harm him. And I don’t intend to throw that all away now. Perhaps, had I given birth to a daughter, I wouldn’t be as concerned. (Males are three times more likely to be diagnosed with autism. Folks who believe vaccinations are the culprit think that’s because estrogen protects a child better than testosterone.)

(From CDC Web site).

“Currently, CDC recommends vaccination against 12 vaccine-preventable diseases. Because some of these vaccines have to be administered more than once, a child may receive up to 23 shots by the time he or she is 2 years of age. Depending on the timing, a child might receive up to six shots during one visit to the doctor.”

That’s a lot of vaccinations/boosters to administer to our most vulnerable.

I am left with a hundred questions. Is a 2-year-old’s immune system able to handle that many vaccinations? And when they combine them, can that bring out unforeseen side effects? Who’s to say what happens to a child’s immune system when confronted with a combined vaccination or a single one for that matter? Can we safely say that each vaccination is going to affect every child the same way? Because until they can absolutely guarantee that, I will question the governments requests.

Statistics show that most vaccinations are perfectly safe for most children. And I realize that vaccinations are there to protect our children from life-threatening illnesses. I’m not saying that we won’t vaccinate Emory. But I want to ask my pediatrician the right questions when and if that time comes for us. I don’t want to walk blindly into this, agree to everything just because our government says I should. (A week ago, that’s exactly what I would have done.) Also, just because it’s statistically safe for most children doesn’t mean that it’s going to be safe for mine.

Tobyjoe and I aren’t stupid. We won’t deprive Emory from what he needs. But the United States vaccination process has me concerned. We just want what’s best for our child. We want to make the correct decisions for him. And, if for some reason they do eventually link autism (or any other neurological deficit) to vaccinations, I will never, ever be able to forgive myself.

And so it begins. Tobyjoe and I have exactly one year to research the living hell out of the vaccination situation. And I can only hope that before our time comes things will feel safer. And people like Jenny McCarthy are helping this along. Perhaps by the time we have to face the inevitable, they’ll have figured out why autism is so prevalent in our culture today. (Currently, 1 in every 150 children have autism in the United States. That sounds like an epidemic to me.)

And who knows, maybe by then they’ll have a vaccination for autism.

The call came in. The spot I wrote about last week is indeed cancerous.

This is what I know. I know that basal cell carcinoma is the most common form of skin cancer. I know that 97% of the time it’s totally treatable. I know that it has a tendency to spread, which means I might be looking at more of them and years of having to get them cut out. I know that basal cell carcinoma isn’t life-threatening. The worst that will happen is it will spread and eat away at my face. I know that I’m going to absolutely NEED health insurance for the rest of my life. I’m still SO pissed off at myself. I knew that my excessive sun exposure would come back to haunt me. I just didn’t think it’d happen this soon. I’m only 33-years old.

On November 6th, I am to have a procedure done called Mohs (named after the doctor who came up with it). It’s new. It’s a high precision, outpatient, surgical procedure designed to get everything in one sitting and to keep scarring at a minimum. Because it’s so detailed, procedures can take anywhere from 3 to 8 hours. The tests and labs are run while I’m there. I was told to bring a book. (Read about the procedure here.) Doctors who specialize in Mohs are specifically trained to do so. And since the spot is on my face, right above my upper lip where a mole might be, my regular doctor suggested we get a specialist. Thank goodness for decent insurance! Because Mohs is really expensive. If I didn’t have health insurance, I’d be left with no other choice but this guy:

It’s times like these (yes, they do happen!) I am grateful to be living in New York City because I found a really skilled doctor to take this on. It is my face, after all. I feel I am in excellent hands. If there’s one thing New York is known for its competitiveness and when each competition comes to an end, you’re left with only the best. (You’re also left with some hacks, but let’s not talk about that.)

So, kids, wear sunscreen. Emory will be dipped in it every day of his life until I am dead and gone.

Some folks have asked me how the cats (specifically, Murray) have dealt with our new addition. In typical feline fashion, they’ve all dealt with Emory in very different ways. Let me explain.

Pookum is very aware of Emory. She looks at him as if she’s trying to figure him out. She rarely goes near him and whenever she does, she uses his head as a chin-scratching post or she’ll headbutt him for a hug. I think Pookum is grateful that Emory doesn’t bother her because every other member of the household does. Pookum is an old lady. If she were human she’d be living in Florida, playing Bingo every day, remarried to a millionaire.

Tucker is surprisingly gentle around Emory. He won’t touch him. And whenever he’s near, he slows his pace to that of a sloth. It’s kind of like when you’re nearing a sharp turn while driving and you slow down for safety. Emory is Tucker’s turn. He is very cautious. And I’m grateful for Tucker’s delicate demeanor if for no other reason than it helps counter Murray’s behavior.

Whenever Murray acknowledges the fact that Emory is around, he totally disregards Emory’s personal space. He doesn’t want to hurt Emory, not at all. He’s more interested in playing with him or taking over his crib, stealing his food, or standing on his head and chest. Murray isn’t jealous of Emory at all. He’s merely trying to understand why he does what he does. For example, why does Emory do nothing but lie around the house all day? Why hasn’t he started running wildly through the house? Why doesn’t Emory know how to use the litterbox yet? What does the fat bald thing eat anyway? Does he like cupcakes? And why can’t he lick his own ass?

Emory perplexes Murray but not enough for Murray to air on the side of caution like Tucker does. Instead, Murray really believes that he alone can jump-start Emory by running up and over his squirming body, or slapping one of his moving feet, joining him in his crib, or running off with his dirty diaper.

We warn Emory about Murray almost every day. “Stay away from that guy, Emory. He’s crazy.” Or “You see the fuzzy grayish striped one? He’s insane and will eat your food if you’re not looking.”

Unbeknownst to Murray, however, is that in just 2 years, Emory could possible become Murray’s worst nightmare. Tails will be grabbed in spite of my instructing otherwise. Heads will be tapped, butts will be chased, favorite nap spots will be pooped, peed, puked upon. Murray is going to be Emory’s childhood pet. But we haven’t yet told Murray. We’ve decided to keep this a secret for as long as possible.

Yesterday Tobyjoe and I had a talk with Emory intermittently over the course of an hour. We were at a local tapas restaurant in Williamsburg. We sat outside and sipped a glass of wine while they pumped music into the garden.

Grace Slick came on and Toby said, “Emory, people think this woman is cool. She was weird and was on drugs when she sang ‘White Rabbit.’”

A little while later “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys came on and I sang the first bit of it to him. And then I took this picture:

And then I said, “Emory, mama grew up listening to this band. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that The Beach Boys are no good. That person doesn’t know squat.”

And then R.E.M came on and I looked at Emory and I said, “This is one of your mother’s faaaaavorite bands. Mr. Stipe got her through a lot of rough times. In fact, if Michael weren’t named “Michael”, you could have been named after him. Also, If anyone ever tells you ‘they liked this band or that band before they became popular’, you shouldn’t have anything more to do with that person; they are afraid to think for themselves.”

As we were leaving, Tobyjoe headed to the bathroom and then Michael Jackson came on. And I said, “Emory, Mr. Jackson wrote some great music and then he got weird and then whiter and then weirder and whiter…. it’s best little boys to stay away from Michael Jackson.”

I’ve done this before but not since 2004. I’m yearning to envy.

Where are you now? Where would you rather be? What is your view?

I’m in Brooklyn. I’d post a picture of my view but it’s basically just a wall and a dark TV screen. But the picture below pretty much sums it up as of late. (Sleep whenever you can. Everything needs to be cleaned. Baby in bed with you.)

If I could be anywhere else right now, I’d like to live in a small town in the Northeast but with the comforts of home, ease and familiarity I have with State College. Vermont seems appealing. Although, I’ve never been there.

I keep threatening TJ that he might come home one day to find an empty apartment and a full car. Now that I have a child, I’ve been flirting with an easier life.

On Wednesday I had my six-week checkup to find out if everything healed OK. It had. I also had a lot of questions for my doctor. Some of the questions were about my boobs. I’m gonna be honest. I’m exhausted. I’ve been seeking medical advice from the Internet and comparing my own experiences to other’s for far too long. I have a tendency to do this especially when I’m alone. And I’ve been by myself a lot lately. (Well, I’m with Emory, who is amazing, but he’s not the best conversationalist.) So I finally sat down with an actual doctor, a real live doctor!

I have been feeding Emory pumped breast milk since a day or two after he got home. At first I didn’t have a lot to offer. I’d give him a few ounces here and there because I wasn’t producing much milk. I supplemented with Enfamil because that’s what he was given while in the NICU. (I have written about this before. I had every intention of breast-feeding Emory and I tried my damnedest at the hands of two lactation consultants and several nurses, but it just didn’t work out. I got him to latch a few times only to have him vomit on me, the bed, his crib. I knew right away something was wrong. And when he finally threw up green, he was immediately taken to the NICU and I stopped trying to cram my breast down his throat. Tests were run and then some more tests. And there was a whole bunch of crying. Thankfully, things worked out.)

Determined to do the “right” thing, I pumped and pumped and pumped in hopes of keeping my milk supply up assuming we’d work things out. That didn’t happen and so I continued to give him the breast milk I was so diligently pumping. About three weeks after he came home, still having trouble getting him to the breast, I began to wonder about exclusively pumping milk for Emory. At around the same time, a friend of mine sent me a link to a forum where countless other women were doing the very same thing. Some had premature babies, others had trouble getting their baby to latch. The point is, I realized I wasn’t alone. So, I became and “EPer”, or an “Exclusive Pumper”. Now, I am producing a lot more of milk. I still supplement with formula because I’m not producing enough milk to sustain his needs. But pumping is working for me. And 80% of what he eats is breast milk.

But!

I began receiving email about it. And that’s partly my fault because I have a blog where I repeatedly ask for advice. And I’m grateful for everything I read, even the stuff I disagree with. But this time? This time the information was a lot more difficult to stomach and my paranoia level was high. When I combined the doubts I had regarding my new job as a mother, my hormones, and the email I received about my breast-feeding issues, I had myself a recipe for self-loathing. I’ve been asked how I can stand to wash bottles, carry them around whenever we go out, etc. I really don’t mind washing bottles and I certainly don’t mind carrying them with me whenever we go out. Another person asked me if I care that others may assume I’m giving my baby formula instead of breast milk since it’s in a bottle. Like formula is poison or something. I’m not even sure what to say in response to that. I guess if someone were to judge me for such a thing, they’re not someone whose opinion I’d care for anyway. Others have suggested that I didn’t try hard enough and that might very well be true. I will never know because I am so tired of comparing myself to others with regard to this. Perhaps I did give up too early. (Although, I do still try from time to time and still haven’t had a 100% success.) More recently, someone wrote me who I know in real life, someone I hadn’t heard from in a while. The first sentence of their email read: CONGRATULATIONS! The second one: “Are you breast-feeding?”

Exclusively pumping is not for everyone. Sure, it’s a little weird at first but so is childbirth, breast-feeding, becoming a parent, and talking about poop like it’s fine art. I really don’t mind pumping. I don’t mind getting up at night to do it. I don’t mind waking up in the morning to do it. Plus, I get to wear really strange, homemade garments like this:

And the blessing in all of this is that since I’m feeding a given amount of breast milk from a bottle, I don’t have to wake up as often as a breast-feeding mama. He sleeps longer! For some, having that boob to mouth bond is extremely important. And I respect that entirely. I do think I share a bond with my son even if I’m not giving him food straight from my nipple but I won’t argue with a breast-feeding mama. At some point, it became really important to me that I get some sleep. That was the number one ingredient in keeping me happy. And when I’m happy, I’m a better person and a better mother.

On Wednesday, I finally spoke with my doctor. She reiterated everything I already knew. Emory is getting all the benefits of breast milk and that supplementing with a bottle of formula every now and again – even if it’s two a day – is absolutely fine. It’s also normal for some women to produce less milk than others no matter how often they pump, breast-feed, or how much oatmeal or fenugreek they consume. Contrary to popular belief, some women create more than others. It’s that simple. And had Emory relied entirely on what I was producing from the beginning, he’d be a whole lot skinnier right now and I most certainly would have been reprimanded by my pediatrician. Instead he’s a healthy, thriving, leg flailing baby boy. (Video)

I am writing today for very much the same reason I have written about potentially controversially subjects in the past; I hope that someday someone stumbles on this site, reads this post, and leaves feeling a little better, a little less alone. Because I really beat myself about this. And I regret it entirely. I regret not enjoying the last 6 weeks more. I regret comparing myself to others. I regret taking the email and comments I received so to heart instead of feeling secure with my choice(s). Even if I was being slightly paranoid, misreading tones, etc, I still felt badly and that was unnecessary. I don’t want to see another woman go through what I put myself through. I wasted a lot of precious time doubting myself.

Lastly, there is nothing wrong with a person who chooses to feed their baby formula. That person is no lesser than any other, they are not ignorant or stupid. They are not failures. There is nothing wrong with a person who wishes to feed pumped breast milk to her baby either. If she wants to pump, wash bottles, etc. then so be it. It is of no concern to anyone else. There is nothing wrong with a woman who exclusively breast-feeds her baby and if she pulls that tit out in public? Then deal with it, it’s just a tit. No one is better or worse than the other. And that sounds so obvious now! But it’s not always obvious. There are too many women out there eager to make others feel doubtful about their decisions just because they differ from their own. (And one has to wonder why that is.)

Mothers of the world need to be more kind to other mothers. It’s that simple. And if a mother can’t do that, then she needs to mind her own damn business.

Well, I’ve actually been trying to get some work done today, which means I haven’t had a chance to write my weekly Tuesdays with Murray post. So, I’m gonna copout this week and post a video of him as a kitten chatting it up with me.

Murray says hello. (Video)

And here’s a picture I took of him yesterday while he was asleep on Emory’s soft blanket, aka Murray’s Mama.

Viva! La! Murray!

I’m curious to hear real life stories about the “cry it out” scenario. When did you let your baby cry it out? Did you let your baby cry it out? Did you find it cruel, difficult? Would you not dream of doing such a thing? If you’re afraid to use your real name for whatever reason, feel free to write anonymously. I don’t mind. (I know how it is with the Internet, believe me.) Also, if you’re not one for leaving comments, feel free to email me at the address on the right.

How do you feel about the whole “cry it out” scenario?

I used to hate it, seriously hate it, when family or friends said, “You’ll understand when you have kids of your own someday.” It seemed they used this in response to everything. I saw it as a way shutting the childless up. “We can’t have this conversation because you haven’t had kids.” It seemed so unfair to me. I saw it as a copout. People who said such a thing were wimps. And even if I didn’t understand, what made them think I wanted to understand what they apparently had such a firm grasp on?

Yesterday Tobyjoe looked at me and said, “I have decided that we can only have one baby.”

“Why? That’s OK with me, but why?” I asked.

“Because I can’t imagine loving anything more than I love this one.”

Parents of the world, I think I’m finally starting to understand.

There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t feel badly for something I do to Emory or something he does to himself. Take right now, for example. I put him in a car seat so I could do the dishes, write this, and tidy up. Why does this make me feel as though I’m taking advantage of the little guy? He’s perfectly happy, sleeping soundly, but I still feel badly.

And we have a rule in this house that whenever he gets the hiccups we pick him up. Because the hiccups really bother him. He gets a look like, “What is this spasm? Please stop the spasm.” So we pick him up and rub his tummy. If I don’t catch the hiccups in time, I feel sad. And I apologize to him. And then I think of the number of times he had them in the womb (every night at least once) and I feel badly that I didn’t console him then, too.

Sometimes he punches himself or scratches his face with his razor sharp nails. I have a talk with him, try and reason with him.

He doesn’t get to sit up much and is instead forced to lie around and try and expel gas while the veins in his forehead plump up and his face turns blood red. It looks as if he’s giving birth, dealing with labor pains. I try and help him by pushing up on his feet and sometimes a flying fart will shoot out and go straight up my nose. And after that happens I cheer for him because I know that means he’ll feel relief until the next one.

And pooping while on one’s back should be used as a form of torture.

There was that one time he pooped in the car on the way home and it went all over him. That was terrible especially since we spent at least a half an hour trying desperately to get through Holland Tunnel traffic. I wanted to yell to the other drivers, “I HAVE A NEWBORN IN THE CAR! AND HE IS COVERED IN HIS OWN POOP! PLEASE LET US GO AHEAD OF YOU. PLEASE!” If there’s one thing New York is known for it’s forcing people to tolerate a lot of stinky crap.

And taking him to the doctor and having to strip him down so they can weigh him? That’s almost impossible for me to watch. Thank God Tobyjoe isn’t a wimp.

I’ve already warned Toby that come vaccination time, I’m waiting in the other room. With earplugs. Hopped up on Xanax. Drunk.

And the first time he suffers from a broken heart? Bitch (or dude!) is going down.

I barely captured Emory riding his imaginary bicycle. Click here to see him move! Move! (Or on the image below.)

I love it when babies do that leg thing.

Before I begin, I need to make it clear that I’m not concerned about this. And I certainly do not pity myself. I think I made some really bad decisions when I was younger and I’m paying for them now.

I’m pale. I’m covered in freckles some of which are questionable. I make an excellent candidate for skin cancer especially considering what I put my body through during my impressionable teenage years. I wanted a tan so badly back then. I lived in North Carolina at the time. And that’s what girls did, they worked on their tans each and every summer. I am not a tanner. I’ve never been a tanner. I will never be a tanner. But I tried. I tried tanning oil, excessive amounts. I burned to a crisp like a fried potato. I tried baby oil. Burned. When that proved ineffective, I smothered myself in Crisco. Yes, it’s true. Caryn and I covered ourselves in vegetable shortening. All four of my best girlfriends had tans and they barely had to try. I was the only one who burned. And did I ever burn! There were times my skin actually bubbled. And then it’d peel. It was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done to my body. (Well, that was before I started smoking [I’ve since quit], so, it was the second dumbest thing I’ve ever done to my body.)

My search for a tan never amounted to anything. I just burned and peeled and then burned some more. One time I fell asleep in the sun and woke up to two swollen ankles dotted in blisters. I was so stupid.

During my pregnancy, certain weird skin things took shape. I read that this might happen, that pregnancy can bring with it skin tags, new moles, dark spots. Hormones can pretty much do anything they want to when you’re pregnant. I was warned and so yesterday I had an appointment with a dermatologist. It’s been an appointment I have been putting off for over a decade.

There was one spot that showed up during my pregnancy that was particularly alarming. It looked like a puffy scar. It took root right on my upper lip. It changed shape, got bigger, and then went down again after I gave birth. But from month five until month 10, the thing had a mind and growth pattern all its own.

I had it looked at. The dermatologist said it looks a lot like basal cell carcinoma, which is the most treatable form of skin cancer, (They dig in and remove, voila!) It’s also the skin cancer known to come from excessive sun damage.

I am not at all surprised by this. The doctor took a biopsy and I’m to get the results back within the week. The only reason I’m annoyed is because the spot is on my face, directly above my lip. And right now, it looks like I have a scabby red mole where she took the sample. If I have to have it removed entirely, the scar will be much bigger. And, well, that sucks. And the Catholic girl keeps letting me know that I kind of asked for this. Why hadn’t I taken better care of my body? What had I done to myself in order to fit in? What I wouldn’t give to have my natural, white skin back, the skin I was born with. (While you’re at it, throw in two clean lungs as well. Damn cigarettes.)

When I left the doctor’s office yesterday I couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that I had had a son. I know that boys experience their fair share of peer pressure (I’d love to hear what that might include since I was raised a girl), but it doesn’t seem as prevalent when it comes to their physical appearance. The cultural climate here in the states forces a lot of girls to make terrible decisions in order to fit in. My brothers didn’t smear themselves in Crisco and lay out on the back deck. They didn’t suffer from 2nd degree burns because of their desire to tan. I did. My brothers never had to fit into a size three or smaller. I did. My brothers didn’t get made fun of for their horribly frizzy hair, or their hairy legs, their boy like hips, or their freckles. I did. They were never made fun of because of the size of their chest. I was. And you know something? A lot of this stuff still affects me to this day.

I know my son will have it hard someday. I’m ready for that. But I take great comfort knowing that when it comes to how he looks he might not be up against as much pressure as America’s daughters.

I was given a baby blanket as a gift. It’s the softest item I have ever laid my hands on. I was so excited to wrap Emory in it. I thought it might even become his blankie. I had one when I was a baby. I damn near ripped that thing to shreds I loved it so much. I called it “Icing” for some inexplicable reason and I constantly played with its soft edges. Here’s a picture of “Icing” 33 years later.

Up until Sunday, we had no idea that a lot of babies enjoy playing with tags, edges, and corners. So when Chandler’s mom gave us a blanket and added two white tags to the edges of it, we were confused.

“What the hell are those for?” Toby asked.

“I dunno. Maybe for hanging it up?”

“Maybe it’s for swaddling?”

“Not sure.”

We asked around and found out that the tags were added so Emory could play with them. Now that’s thinking like a baby! That’s something special right there.

It’s a good thing Chandler’s mother made us another blanket for Emory. Because Murray has claimed the other one as his own. I refer to it as his Mama. Because prior having met this particular blanket, Murray hadn’t ever made biscuits before. He nurses in his sleep, but he doesn’t make biscuits. That is until he met this blanket, his Mama.

Here is a video of Murray making biscuits on the blanket. This is the first thing Emory Francis has done to honor his namesake. He gave his blanket to a fuzzy man named Murray.

Speaking of Emory, here’s a photo of him. He’s so damned cute. I love him to pieces. And he’s long! He is 23 inches long and weighs 10 pounds 6 ounces. He’s gonna be a tall one, we think.

Every now and again I find it amusing to go back and look through what I searched for in Google. I find it especially amusing because of the searches that lead people to this site. For example, in the last 10 minutes, people found mihow.com by searching for the following terms: “man with vagina”, “is empathy better than sympathy”, “pooped my pants”, “boobs suck”, and “ass”.

Here are just a few of the things I searched for recently.

1). When will my baby hold his head up?

2). my baby makes weird noises

3). my baby has swollen breasts

4). Nipples are purple pumping

5). oh Don Piano

6). Depression after Pregnancy

7). Why does my baby fart so much?

8). Raynaud’s Syndrome

9). asparagus make breastmilk taste funny?

10). dave Letterman’s wife

11). Dick in a box lyrics

12). gentian violet safe for babies

13). How long can expressed milk be left out?

14). Baby Soft Spot accidentally pressed

15). Can you sit down while wearing the Baby Bjorn

P.S. I wrote out this entire post while pumping breastmilk. Tobyjoe made me a hands free pump holder using an old sports bra. Picture the 1990s version of Madonna only remove the hotness, replace the booby contraption with plastic Medela breast horns, and picture a lot more cow.

Every night I wake up at least three times and tend to Emory. During that time, I feed him, pump breastmilk, change diapers, or amuse the little man until he’s tired again. (He’s been really quite good about sleeping at night. There are hours where he’d rather be held and played with but overall, I can’t complain. He’s a good baby.)

During the wee hours of the night, I am usually online refreshing the same old sites over and over again looking for new articles to read. So, I’m looking for new ways to pass (and waste) time. I would turn on the TV but why wake TJ every time I’m awake? So the Internet seems like a much better option.

That said, anyone have any Web site suggestions? Preferably Web sites I can waste time on? (Blogs, gossip, messageboards, news, etc.) If you do, leave them in the comments section. If you fear commenting, email me! (sites @ mihow.com)

P.S. If your comment doesn’t show up right away, don’t worry! Akismet will ask me to approve it. Since some of the comments include links it may be marked as spam at first.

I haven’t wanted to say anything about this partly because I’m worried I might jinx myself, partly because I don’t trust my emotions, and partly because Toby returned to work this week and I know things are going to be different now. I’m optimistic today but a little wary of every step I take on solid ground.

The truth is I have felt pretty damn good for several days now. I haven’t cried. I haven’t felt that grand old feeling of dread or emptiness. I haven’t felt frightened. I’ve felt OK. I’ve even had moments of pure joy. I went from mourning all the things that have changed, to thinking about all the awesome things I want to do with my family.

I have to be honest. The weeks directly following Emory’s birth held some of the saddest and scariest moments I’ve ever experienced. I realize those weeks were supposed to hold some of the best moments as well, and they did. I am completely joyous about becoming a mother. And Emory is an absolute miracle. But I still worried about my well being. There were times I wondered where I might be headed mentally. (Would things get worse? How could I possibly live this way and at the same time be responsible for a new life?) My anxiety reached dangerous levels. I worried myself sick. And I have never felt more alone in a room full of people. I never wished away the sunlight before. Dusk dragged on for too long and dawn came far too soon. And I preferred the cloudy days to all those with sunshine. I watched daylight slip by me from inside wanting nothing to do with any of it. And at some point during all of this, something occurred to me; I was experiencing actual depression. This was a different kind of depression from what I had experienced before. This was intolerable. This was scary.

I am not sure what to say as I look back on the last couple of weeks. I do know that I now have a lot more admiration for those dealing with depression every day. (I have a new found dislike toward the Tom Cruise Foundation as well.) I can’t imagine feeling the way I felt for any extended period of time especially without reason. Because a saving grace for me was knowing that the depression I experienced was chemical and temporary, I knew there was an end in sight. I went from being pregnant and pumped full of hormones to having that hormonal lifeline severed in minutes. Some women do pretty well with that cutoff. I am not one of those women.

Now that I feel a bit better, I really want to thank all of those who wrote to me both via email and on here. Your stories had me in tears. Sometimes you made me laugh. Sometimes you made me feel so sad. Especially reading through stories of those who faced “The Baby Blues” alone. The number of women out there who are too afraid to speak up – specifically to their spouses – is far too great. If I could turn back time and make things better for everyone, I most certainly would even if it meant having to live through the last three weeks all over again. No one should have to face that sort of sorrow alone. No one.

I’m hoping that today is the first day of an upward arc. I want to feel this way indefinitely. I think I deserve to feel this way. I want to focus on the amazing career that is motherhood. I want to focus on my son.

Here’s to today, tomorrow and next week. Here’s to more light, better weather, and letting go. Here’s to the women.

On Saturday, I got up at 5 AM. Tired and bleary eyed, I wandered into the kitchen for some water and a snack. My aunt dropped by last week and left me 6 pink cupcakes. I love cupcakes and that love has blossomed now that I’m breastfeeding Emory. I had been dreaming about these cupcakes for hours.

Breastfeeding hunger far exceeds any sort of hunger I experienced when I was pregnant. Now I eat around the clock. I don’t stuff myself with one dish like I did when I was pregnant. Instead, I crave mere tablespoon sizes of a plethora of stuff. I’ll scoop out a big dollop of peanut butter followed by a spoon full of jam followed by some ice cream followed by one ravioli followed by one plum followed by a cupcake followed by a spoon full of cottage cheese. The hunger is awesome. I have had dreams about catered parties, rooms filled with round tables, finger foods as far as the eye can see. (An hors d’oeuvre catered party is how I currently picture heaven to look.)

When I got to the kitchen, I noticed that there were only two cupcakes left. There were four when I went to bed the night before. And they were in Suran wrap in pink pairs. One of the pairs was gone. There were no crumbs, no plastic pieces. Just a clean table surface where my pink cupcakes once sat. “Wow!” I thought to myself. “My husband must really be delirious. He consumed not one, but two pink cupcakes!” I was proud.

Tobyjoe doesn’t like sweets. He rarely eats them and he never craves them. (It kind of sucks because I always want to split desserts with him when we’re out to eat. And he’ll either say no or agree and then not touch them forcing me to consume the entire thing thereby adding to the size of my already expanding ass.)

But who cares about a large ass when you’re breastfeeding? I grabbed the remaining pair of cupcakes, unwrapped them, and gingerly stuffed one of them into my mouth.

Hours went by. Tobyjoe was wide awake and filled with energy. I watched as he frantically cleaned, picked up around the house, washed things. He expelled energy I would have paid top dollar for. He finished the kitchen and then cleaned the dining room where we had a temporary second bedroom. Here’s what that looked like:

Tobyjoe decided that it was time for us both to return to our original bed. He decided that Emory was sleeping enough at night and we could start sleeping together again. So he decided to put the futon back up to couch position.

“OH MY GOD.” He yelled. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“What? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Well, there is some sort of pink massacre underneath the futon. Someone brought a cupcake under the futon.”

“I thought you ate the cupcakes! There were two missing this morning and I figured you temporarily lost your mind and ate them both!”

“Wait, there are two missing?”

“Yes.”

He moved the futon further away from the wall. “AH, yes, there are two missing.”

Beneath the futon were two, half-eaten pink cupcakes, some plastic wrap, a play mouse, a napkin, and an unopened bag of Dentek floss sticks. Murray had struck again.

^{P.S. I did take pictures of the massacre, but I accidentally deleted the entire SIM card.}

I hate this city. If someone told me I could wake up in Jersey tomorrow, or any other place for that matter, I’d stand up and cheer.

I got a check from Google Adsense yesterday. I was ecstatic. I don’t make money of my own anymore. I figured I could buy Tobyjoe a little something because he’s been so awesome dealing with all of my crap lately. And so you can imagine my disappointment as I drove by our 31-year-old car on the way to get something to eat and noticed a big fat orange parking ticket slapped to its windshield. I was parked legally so why did I get the ticket?

Sitting on our desk at home was my new registration sticker. The one that was supposed to be placed in the windshield on the 7th of this month. Little did New York City parking attendants know (or care) was that at that very moment in time I was lying in a bed with tubes sticking into my cervix, my bladder, 2 in my arm, and one going directly into my spine. So, forgive me for not getting around to putting on the damned sticker.

Either way, there goes half of my Google Adsense check.

Yeah, so that sucked. Getting a ticket on a car that we’re trying to sell really sucked. But whatever.

Today it got worse. Today I looked out the window and saw another ticket on my windshield. I knew it wasn’t for my registration, I fixed that problem on Friday. So Tobyjoe went downstairs to check things out.

Well, it turns out a vehicle owner can’t sell a car in New York City. Only a dealer can sell a car in New York City. I got a ticket for having “For Sale” signs on my car, the same “For Sale” signs I have had on my car for about 3 months now. The same “For Sale” signs I had on my car on Friday when that other traffic cop gave me a ticket. What the hell? Where would I have found this information? There are cars ALL OVER BROOKLYN with signs on them. Do they all get tickets too? Because I find that hard to believe. And I got the ticket on a Sunday. This is up there with the time someone towed my car from one spot and moved it to another street entirely. Apparently, there was a movie shoot that day. But no one put up any signs. Had there been signs, I wouldn’t have parked there. It took me hours to find it, hours of sitting on the phone asking random tow truck companies if they knew where my car was. This has happened to numerous other people as well. Lastly, if anyone sees a blue, 1975 Volvo in Brooklyn, it’s for sale. You probably can’t tell because we can’t put signs in its window, but it’s for sale. OK?

Seriously, I am so out of here. I’ve had it with this sort of crap. I’m already stressed out. I’m already tired. This is just one more thing that makes me want to leave this city. Stick a fork in my ass, I’m done. Oh, and I need a drink.

^{P.S. For those of you who feel compelled to write about how much you love this city, kindly refrain from doing so today. I will delete your comments. I am that pissed off right now.}

Kids and Confidence.

“This realization was the foundation of my own brand of nihilistic confidence: ‘This person is a lazy wiper. I am not. Therefore, I should silently elevate myself in comparison. Yay confidence.’”

(He’s back. I hope this time he stays).