Alternately: Things I Wish I’d Known (Nursing Addition!)…

* That my nipples would become the size and consistency of ground beef.

* That I would be able to look someone squarely in the eye while inserting my nipple into someone else’s mouth.

* That my nipples would become as tough as shoe leather and could probably chip ice if necessary (necessary for what? I DON’T KNOW).

* That pumping milk into the Electric Baby would be even more boring than watching paint dry and grass grow.

* That I would exclaim to my father and brother simultaneously after they complained about seeing my boob that “Hey, at least I’m not masturbating.”

* That I would say “masturbating” in front of my father, brother or mother-in-law without having the common decency to turn red.

* That my daily menu would suddenly read like the Very Hungry Caterpillar.

* That the person who once broke her toe making a sandwich (that would be me) would be able to walk around Target while nursing.

* That other people who breast-feed would be so damn sanctimonious about it.

* That I would suddenly need to qualify why I didn’t nurse my first with an “oh, well, he’s autistic” when it’s really not that big of a deal.

* That let-down feels really, really weird.

* That breast-feeding does not make you a better mother.

* That nursing cover-ups are a complete waste of money because they draw more attention to the fact that you’re nursing AND because it makes trying to discretely get the nipple into said mouth almost impossible.

* That you will learn not to make eye contact with people while nursing in public so you feel less squigged out by the fact that your nipple is hanging in the breeze in front of people who haven’t even bought you a drink.

* That while it’s nice to bond with the baby, it also can chain you to the child, even if you supplement.

* That nursing is much like still being pregnant as your body is still not your own.

* That for every person who swears that they lost tons of weight nursing, you’ll find many that couldn’t no matter what they tried no matter what La Leche League says.

* That each breast will be twice the size of your new ickle one’s head when your milk comes in and it will make you wonder how they don’t object in sheer terror to latching right on.

* That the stupid adage “If you feel like you have the flu and you’re nursing, it’s mastitis” is so wrong. It should read “If you feel like you have the flu and you’re nursing, it’s because you have a new baby.”

* That after doing both bottle feeding exclusively and nursing exclusively, bottle feeding is much, much easier.

* That even with exclusive breast-feeding around the clock, you can still get your period 6 weeks post-partum (hello you old bitch!).

——————

What am I missing?

*While my daughter is proving herself to be an excellent sleeper–by which I mean she’s only up 2-3 times a night versus her brother at that age who was up 5-274 times–my darling middle son is making up for all that sleep I’d be getting by refusing to sleep in.

*The plus side to sleep deprivation is that it makes me almost calm. No longer am I annoyed by the constant watching of Wow, Wow Wubzy DVD’s or my 7 year olds smart mouth (please tell me this is an age/stage thing? PLEASE?). No. Now I am downright placid. Serene, even.

*Just spent my kid’s college fund on buying a swing set for the backyard. One of those that will probably take up most of my backyard. My neighbors will thank me, I’m sure. It’ll make the party on APRIL 19th even cooler, right? (the keg will help, I’m sure)

*For the past week and a half, Alex has woken up from his nap hysterical (Back story: kid takes one 45 minute nap a day. Period) where even the promise of his beloved chocolate doesn’t help him get through it (because bribery = awesome parenting!). He screams and he cries and nothing helps and I feel just horrible for the hour or so that it goes on. I don’t know what to do.

*Rather than find someone to come to my house and watch Alex in the mornings for me so that I can listen to him whine for me from the other room, we started him in some in-home daycare for three hours a day. While he wasn’t thrilled initially, he now loves it.

*Thanks in no small part to the in-home daycare, we are all now sick with the first of many, many colds.

*Although I see a multitude of doctors (no, I do not have Munchausen’s. Just crap-matic genes**) my favorite waiting room is at my endocrinologist. There is no better place to people watch than this waiting room, I’m convinced. It’s like watching animals in the zoo. I’m also pretty sure that this means that people are probably looking at me while I sit there and thinking the same thing. Sweet ass.

*I’ve stopped swearing as much as I did before. This is kind of making me feel not only old, but lame. On the upside, though, Ben has stopped yelling “DAMNIT!” when he drops things.

*I spent some time yesterday in my garden for the first time since I was very slightly pregnant with Amelia and I have a special piece of advice for you: after tying up your climbing roses to a trellis and receiving more than a few pokes in the process, it is not wise to then go inside and douse your hands with alcohol-based hand sanitizer.

*If possible, tie up your climbing roses the winter BEFORE. I was too big to do so last year and I’m seriously paying for it now. Also: my roses can kick your roses ass. They’re unreal.

*Why yes, I do garden.

*Why no, I am not an old woman. I will be 29 in July. SHUT UP, THAT IS NOT OLD.

*Chalked up to the I’m So Suburban It Hurts category, The Daver and I are seriously considering buying a mini-van. Because yeah. Trying to cram 3 kids in my CR-V is laughable at best and futile at worst. Anything I should know (besides the fact that I am suddenly even lamer than lame when I buy one.)?

*How flipping cool would it be to put flames on my mini-van? Don’t answer that one.

*Another word to the wise: STEP AWAY FROM THE SCALE. IT WILL ONLY DEPRESS YOU. Also: I SO need to go on a diet.

*My daughter, oh she of the cradle cap and acne, will only fall asleep while someone holds her. Normal people might be annoyed by this as it takes a good long while and often makes your arms fall asleep. But after dealing with Alex’s sleep issues, this seems like a cinch. Perspective, it is invaluable.

——————-

So, Internet, what’s on YOUR mind today? Spill your beans.

**I initially spelled this jeans.

Without further preamble, I present the back of my daughter’s head:

Fracking huuuge, isn’t it? But shit, it looks good and hopefully she won’t get female pattern baldness. Or if she does, she can wear some kicky wigs.

What’s that? You DIDN’T ask for an obligatory cute baby pic? Well, too bad.

This is the reason we can’t have nice things. I was being all good and stuff and ordering diapers online like an intelligent person would, right? Except I shouldn’t be allowed credit cards in my sleepless state because look at the size I bought FOR AMELIA. Who weighs MAYBE 9.5 pounds.

That’s right, I bought the size BETWEEN 1 and 2 rather than the size between Newborn and 1. They’re dwarfing her delicate butt.

All you can do is laugh, right? Because diapers, they don’t spoil.

NO MORE CANKLES, BITCHES!

That’s right! Since about a week postpartum, my feet have returned to their pre-pregnancy size and my cankles have been banish-ed! Hooray for no cankles!

Anything else you want me to answer?

(ring, ring)

RN: “Hello, Your OB’s Office, this is Chris, how can I help you?”

Becky: “Hi, I’m Becky Harks and I’m a patient of The Doctor. I’m calling because I’m 5 weeks postpartum and I think I need to adjust my dosage of my meds.”

RN (not unkindly): “What’s going on?”

Becky (begins to cry): “I’m on the lowest dosage of my Wellbutrin, well the generic one and I think I need some more. My baby just had to have brain surgery and I’m not handling it well.”

RN: “I see. Are you thinking of hurting yourself or anyone else?”

Becky (with conviction): “NO.”

(they go back and forth for awhile, as pleasantly as possible when one of the members of the conversation is weeping)

RN: “I’ll talk to the doctor about increasing your dosage. Can I call you back?”

Becky (relieved): “Sure.”

(both parties hang up)

————-

(ring, ring)

RN: “Hi Becky, I spoke with your doctor.”

Becky: “Uh-huh?”

RN: “He’s not comfortable with increasing your dosage because he’s not a psychiatrist. But here are the names of some people you can call.”

Becky (stunned): “Uh…”

RN: “They might not be able to get you in right away.”

Becky: “…”

RN: “If you feel like killing someone or yourself, go to the ER.”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky: “…”

Becky (small voice): “okay.”

(both parties hang up.)

*headdesk*

——————-

Have no fear, Internet. I called my GP who was able to bump up my dosage for me until such time as I can get in to see him.

But I’m left wondering, why the hell does getting proper help have to be so hard?

The pictures, they speak for themselves:

AW! Lookit! Alex is FEEDING THE BABY! What an awesome big brother!

Oh, and there he goes, trying to pick out her eyeball.

Kids. I tell you.

—————–

To answer your burning questions, I present to you an abbreviated post! Hooray for small bits!

So, why the hell didn’t the doctor tell you about the encephalocele?

Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not sure if the whole litigation-happy climate made him wary of telling us anything before he knew for sure or not. I’m feeling much better about it today after being nearly bowled over by the news yesterday. Dave, predictably, handled it much better.

We went into surgery thinking that this was fluid-filled, which in retrospect, makes no sense so the news that there were actual glial cells inside that pocket was completely shocking to me. And it made me feel oogly inside.

Kinda creepy when you think about it.

Well, what does this mean for her development?

No clue. She appears to have all of her mental facilities intact, but she’s only 5 weeks old. The age when they sleep, poo and eat exclusively. So measuring milestones is an impossibility at this moment. She does eat, poo, sleep and wiggle which is a good sign. And when she looks at you, the lights appear to be on and someone appears to be home.

We have been flagged by the county (her diagnosis, not my shabby parenting) and will be followed by a public health nurse. That in addition to my own nursing experience ought to be able to ascertain any issues as they arise (or don’t. Let’s hope) and get her into proper treatment as needed. We’ve had much experience with Early Intervention, so I’m not scared of that.

We’ll handle it either way.

How are Alex and Ben adjusting to their sister?

Shockingly well, truth be told. Alex is a consummate Momma’s Boy and I was most afraid of how he’d take to having to share my attentions, but so far so good. Providence smiled upon us and we were able to enroll him in some in-home care 3 hours a day after my neighbor recommended her sitter. Who is awesome.

This seems to help.

A couple of months before Amelia was born, we’d bought another doll for Ben, who is nurturing it and loving it just the way he did with his first doll (bought when I was pregnant with Alex). Yes, my son plays with dolls and no, I don’t think that’s stupid. He may be a father some day and I want him to know that men can nurture as well. He’s loving having another sibling.

—————–

Anything else I failed to answer? My brain is mushy and stupid right now (okay. My brain is always mushy and stupid. I admit it.) so ask away.

Pathology report is in and stitches are out.

Turns out that I was wrong all along.

It was an encephalocele. My daughter had part of her brain hanging out of her head. Thank God it’s over for now. We’ll know more as she does or does not reach her milestones.

Jesus.

I’ve never been so tired in my life.

I’m not a good joke teller. I have a steady repertoire of about 5 jokes–all of which are not kid-friendly in the least–and it’s like any time I try and add another one, I’m stuck with only remembering the punch line. It goes through my head in a circular loop, planted there like a song until something distracts it out of me.

Today, all I keep repeating is this “Drained wops keep falling on my head.” There was something about vampires and Italy, but I can’t recall it to save my life although I remember it being funny. Whether it was or not remains to be determined.

Last night was my first night since Amelia was born that I was genuinely on my own. The Daver has a job that while it leaves me to be a single parent most weeknights, was kind and flexible enough to allow him to work from home to support all of us. I can wax poetic about how irritating it is that he’s always on call or that work always seems to have A Big Problem whenever we’re doing something cool, but I’ll never forget how kind they’ve been to us.

I figured I could handle this, right? Sure Alex is sick and Amelia is catching it and so what if I was up the night before with my mind racing unpleasantly? I WAS A ROCKSTAR AND I COULD DO IT.

But last night my kids, who have inherited my sick sense of humor, had other plans that graciously allowing their precious mother 10-12 hours of uninterrupted sleep before awaking to serve me breakfast in bed and then clean my house for me. I know, right? The NERVE of them. And of course they seemed to sense that I had no backup for the following day.

Because my daughter was up until midnight, restless and cranky and just as I got her off to the Land Of Nod and firmly ensconced in her bouncy sleep my middle son began to shriek like he was being attacked. So off I trundled to get him another bottle of water and some cold medicine (did I mention we are all sick? Because we totally are.) and by the time I got in there I saw the cause for his screams.

Somehow, my darling most wonderful middle son took off his damn diaper and pissed all over the crib and his beloved ragged blankie. Awesome. But whatever, not the end of the world. Fixed that, popped him back into bed and once again shlepped my ass back to bed.

Second verse, same as the first, right? I fall asleep to be awaken after a brief moment to the melodious screams of my Alex. Finally at 2 in the morning I cried uncle after still not catching more than a couple minutes of sleep and begged Daver to help.

4:30 rolled around awfully early and found Amelia looking for a snacky-poo and by this time I couldn’t fall back asleep once we were done. And holy SHIT are babies loud sleepers or WHAT? I’d completely forgotten that.

So my day today has been…interesting. I’m so tired that I’m all jangly and I feel like somewhere, someone is laughing at me because I totally thought I could handle this.

Epic FAIL.

When I was growing up and people other than me bought my clothes, my paternal grandmother would mark every special occasion with a new fancy party dress. Luckily for me, despite my mother’s best efforts, I remained a girly-girl and not the tomboy she wanted me to be, so the dresses were a smash hit. I remember the yards of ribbons, lace and itchy, yet beautiful netting underneath. I remember fondly the stockings and the patent leather shoes and feeling just beautiful when I wore it all.

I couldn’t wait to carry that tradition on with my own daughter.

Because I am a freak of nature, I decided to wait until my daughter was born (and therefore it was a bigger pain in the asshole to get away) to settle on her first dress, an Easter dress. Easter is one of my favorite times of year, one of the only times that Chicago-land weather stands a chance at being remotely temperate and not Ass Cold or Ass Hot.

(Why YES, those are technical terms! Didn’t you know I have a degree in meteorology? Because I totally don’t.)

But Amelia was born and she had a spot on the back of her head that reminded me every time that I saw it of a bad spot on an apple. You know, the rotted bit? Not exactly the mental picture you want when you have a new baby, trust me, I know.

And because at any given time, none of us knew what the hell was REALLY going on with her–was she going to live? Die? Turn into a Jonas Brother? NO ONE WOULD TELL US–until after her surgery, we were in a constant state of limbo. I hate to harp on this, really I do, because I know so many people who have had real problems with their offspring and while I know now that her surgery really was fake brain surgery (sort of. Kind of. It was still brain surgery) and not nearly as frightening as we’d been led to possibly perhaps maybe sort of believe, I didn’t back then.

(still waiting on that pathology report. Want that pathology report)

So the things that comforted me while she still had her rotten spot were few and far between and I spent those four weeks alternating between Freaking The Fuck Out A Lot <---> Freaking The Fuck Out A Weensy Bit Less Than A Lot. Had this brain surgery been STAT, while it would have sucked for a couple of days, it was nothing compared to sitting around and wondering and waiting and not getting any answers. Because that, my internet lovers, sucks more.

I had, in no particular order, these things to comfort me: my friends in the computer, white cupcakes, Valium, and my word search books (shut up. I am not an old woman). The most important thing, though, was imagining a life post surgery, something I didn’t really want to do often lest I jinx it and kill her by thinking positively. Yes, it was magical thinking, and no, I couldn’t stop it no matter how berserk it sounds.

But I’d imagine two things: shopping for an Easter dress and bonnet for my daughter and planning her debut party.

And yesterday, the Gods smiled upon me.

Because there is this:

And something like this:

(Not, obviously, the same cake. This was Alex’s first birthday cake which neatly shows my cake fetish. And we are rapidly approaching Alex’s second birthday. Which is going to happily coincide with Amelia’s Debut Party. April 19, party people. Save the mother-humping date!)

It’s going to be one hell of a celebration.

———————

Oh, and I must add, while I thank you for all of your kind comments about the picture of me in that post, that is another old picture. Because I am still about 25-30 pounds up from that and am horrified by pictures of myself, I refuse to show you what I look like today. BECAUSE WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF THE INTERNET DIDN’T FIND ME SEXXY?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Love,
Waiting Tables and Making Stereotypes

Little Miss Prejudice,

You’ll learn quickly, oh sweetest of the peas, that there are all types of stereotypes for people when you’re serving. Some of them are very, very PC–as in “try and NOT wait on a table of middle aged women if you a) want to turn the table, well, ever, b) are female and c) want a tip”–and many of them are not. Since your beloved Auntie Becky writes on a pretty PC blog, she’s not about to start waving fingers.

Just believe me when I say that stereotypes often exist for a reason.

But, fair Googler, you searched here with a question. A question I can actually answer, unlike many of the horrifying search terms that bring people here to my doorstep.

And my answer to you across the board is that yes, smokers are much better tippers. They’re also kinder, more laid back, and overall the most pleasant sort of patron to wait on. I don’t know if it’s the nicotine or the fact that they have something to do with their hands to distract them from being a fucking dick, but servers will tend to vie to serve a table of smokers.

You, fair reader, will learn in time the other stereotypes.

All my best,
Auntie Becky

——————–

Deer Ant Becky,

Signed,
da DMV sux

Dear Kind Soul Who Blames The DMV For A Misspelled Name (when he, in fact, cannot spell misspell),

Perhaps, dear sir or madam, the problem is not with the DMV, it is with you.

Perhaps you, like so many of my friends in high school, were determined to get a fake ID at any cost. So perhaps you, in a fit of alcohol deprivation and against all good judgement, went down to the city to meet with a man who could get you an ID for a couple hundred dollars.

Maybe you, like them, didn’t bother to actually LOOK at the ID before forking over loads of cash to a dude standing in an abandoned warehouse in a really shitty neighborhood. So then, if you were as brilliant as my friends, you possibly want to go out and celebrate your newfound 21-ness with a dinner and a beer or perhaps a cocktail, if it suits you better.

But then, it’s conceivable that the waitress, upon closer inspection of your California Driver’s License (even though you are from Illinois), notices something. Something that, in your haste, it’s likely you overlooked.

Because your new license, the one you payed oodles of dollars for to some skeezy guy says this on it:

California Driver’s Liscence.

Did you catch that? The misspelling of the word license? Because she sure did. And that landed you a nice visit from the police, in the middle of the restaurant.

Smoove move, Ex-Lax.

Or maybe you just don’t know how to spell your own name. Could be.

With love and a dictionary,

Bequie

—————–

Aunt Becky,

Cleanliness Is Godliness

Dear Never Took Chemistry Class. Ever,

I’m sitting here thinking that it’s likely that you skipped school a lot, probably to smoke up with your stoner friends and then walk around Target laughing at stuff and things. Then, in my mind’s eye, I see you eating your weight in both Funyons and Twizzlers before nodding off into a nice, deep nap.

I’m also thinking that you should probably have gone to school instead.

Because then, you dumbass, you wouldn’t have searched for cleaning with vinegar and bleach.

Okay, so that probably went over your head.

See, here, there are these things called acids. Examples include: citric acid (lemon juice), tannic acid (wine), carbonic acid (gives your delicious Mountain Dew carbonation), uric acid (in pee). And here is the kicker: VINGER is also an acid (acetic acid).

Got it?

Then, brilliant internet searcher, there are these things called bases. Examples include: antacids (Tums), human blood, and baking soda. Also, and most relevant here: BLEACH.

Mixing acids and bases should only be done if you know what the byproduct is (also Add Acids to bases). And the byproduct here: TOXIC CHLORINE GAS.

Sure, it might make a better cleaner (the vinegar is said to lower the pH of the bleach), but it also might kill you dead. Which won’t make anything cleaner.

Smugly Yours,
Aunt Becky, Amateur Chemist

So, last night in a fit of mad organizational skillz, I had The Daver help me to import some of our old pictures onto my Mac, something I’ve been meaning to do well, forever now. And what kind of blogger would I be without sharing?

(Oh, LOOKIT THAT, I finally joined the 21st century and got a Flickr account that I somehow need to add to my sidebar because I am totally adding additional pictures almost daily! Bonus! They’re all almost the same!)

Here’s Ben at his 3rd birthday party and holy shit does he look young. Damn, do I feel old now.

Daver rarely makes a photographic appearance here because he’s extremely un-photogenic. Just ask him. Oh wait, I just did. And he said “I’m really un-photogenic.”

I also rarely put my pictures up here. Why? Because I’ve been pregnant and/or nursing and thereby whale-like (La Leche League lied when they said breastfeeding would remove the pounds effortlessly). So you normally see older pictures of me if any. But don’t worry. I’m going to bring sexy back and get this weight off. Promise.

Also: am I high here? I THINK SO.

Here’s a trick: Which one of my kids is this?

Wait, the yellow might give it away. Oh well.

But who is THIS?

Okay, you win. Those were both Alex. So you’ll know THIS face from the acne and pink and bruising.