Bedtime

dark, quiet, peaceful
i watched them
my four year old
putting my baby to sleep
they held hands
he smiled

a neon sign was above their heads
green and pink
blinking the message
"Duh, this is life's most important thing. Right here. Duh."
with a neon arrow pointing down
to my kids

she reached up to his nose
hooked a finger in his nostril
and yanked
he said ouch
she smiled
giggled a sleepy laugh
they're fighting already

Grumpy Monsters Bubbling Snot

If I were single, I'd be at my sister's house right now, a five hour drive away. But the reality is I have two sick kids and chose not to endure the long car ride with grump monsters bubbling snot in the backseat.

Kids are kids. They inspire love, panic, boredom, anger, amusement, resentment. The panic comes in two forms. When I've been away from them for too long - as I was on my business trip this week - I need to hold them, feel their physical presence, their breath, their heartbeats, touch a flesh-and-bone reminder that they are healthy and alive and I haven't through some long absence neglected my offspring.

The second sort of panic comes from constant care for them from sunrise to sunset and then again from midnight to three in the morning. And then again, from sunrise, with forty eight hours more stretched in front of me. My husband works long hours on the weekends, so Saturdays and Sundays my hands are full and my brain cannot disengage. Every waking moment I am responsible for two human lives. Taking a shower and exercising and plucking my eyebrows and spending more than four minutes on the toilet and reading a magazine and cooking a hot healthy meal and having the freedom to drive to the fucking liquor store and back are far off dreams of a time long before and a time that surely will not come again for at least five years.

I've experienced both kinds of panic this week. I've rushed home to crawl into the cage and hold my children and I've mentally bruised and bloodied my fingertips clawing at the iron bars.

Working Parents

What image pops into your brain when you think "working mother?" Is it a bedraggled, tired woman focused on a laptop, ignoring her screaming baby on the floor? Is it a woman with a cell phone in one hand and a crying baby in the other?

The image is a blatant stereotype of yesteryear, the invention of Stone Age guilt-mongers.

Here's the reality today: working moms and dads ARE struggling to keep their heads above water. But as they are wading through, they are holding their children up, passing them back and forth, doing everything they can to make sure their kids are happy, warm, safe, dry, rocked, cuddled and played with. Working parents - often to the detriment of their own health and schedules - go far to make sure their children are content and cared for.

Here's a new image: a muscled woman bouncing her happy smiling baby in one arm and turning off her cell phone, because she leaves work at work, where it belongs.

Noggin. Nodding. Punkin Head. Lash Whip.

At four o'clock in the morning on Tuesday, I fell asleep on the floor with my legs folded under me. The next thing I remember The Old Man is beside me telling me I had crashed to the floor and hit my head.

I was beside the Baby's crib, waiting for her to fall back asleep. I must have fallen asleep in a weird position, gotten up too fast to take a shower, and then passed out.

The nurse on the phone told me to go the emergency room because they didn't know why I fell. When I tried to tell her that I knew why I fell, she didn't listen.

So I didn't go.

But I went to the doctor yesterday. Headaches and dizziness and trouble concentrating.

He said I have concussion and whiplash. And to take Tylenol every 6 hours.

So there is no moral to this story. Other than don't kneel on the floor and then fall asleep and then sleepwalk to the shower.

Now I have my guilt trip for my daughter. I was only in labor with her 3 hours so I can't use that one.

"You made me so tired that one night I got concussion and whiplash." That'll be a good one in twenty years or so.

I'll have difficulty concentrating, headaches, dizziness and slower reflexes for a while. So mess me with don't.

Back to Work: 10 Tips for New Moms

You're a new mom, with a baby in daycare and a full-time job. Here are 10 tips for a smooth transition back to work:

1. Wherever you are, be there mentally. If you're at work, don't freak out if you haven't thought of your baby for 3 hours. If you're at home, don't dwell on work.
2. If you're still breastfeeding, take time to pump to keep up your milk supply. The law says you can. Don't let bosses or coworkers make you feel guilty for doing so. A hands-free pumping bra makes the time pass quickly.
3. There are no studies that show wheat beer increases milk supply. Oatmeal increases milk supply. But that's no reason you can't have a beer every once in a while to relax.
4. Take time to be with your baby when you get home. You need each other.
5. When your baby gets sick for the first time, your vacation and sick time will be depleted from maternity leave. Take a deep breath when your husband, rolling in accrued sick leave, doesn't understand that it is now his responsibility to take the baby to the doctor.
6. Don't be surprised if your boss or coworkers expect less of you now that you're a mom. Prove them wrong.
7. When your husband pouts and feels sorry for himself because he has to wake up at 5 A.M. to hold the baby while you get ready for work, try to suppress your urge to kick him in the shins. Don't worry, you probably won't be able to beat him up too bad because you're exhausted from the midnight and 3:30 AM marathon nighttime feedings.
8. Try to reach back into the recesses of your sleep-deprived brain and give your husband a break. This new baby stuff is a huge strain on relationships. He's a good guy and has a full-time job too. Wait until the baby is asleep and you are both calm to talk over any problems. Give each other the benefit of the doubt.
9. Take heart. This exhausted zombie kind of life doesn't last forever. Only for about a year. Until your next kid.
10. For Christ's sake, stop feeling guilty. If you must leave your baby in daycare, if you stop breastfeeding, if you can't make spectacular dinners anymore, if you're at your desk and all of a sudden your mind goes blank - feeling guilty about it doesn't do any good.

I think all moms are different, all families are different, all babies are different. If someone tells you there's a handbook, she's lying. I'd be interested to hear other tips from moms and dads...things that have worked for you.

Moments

There's a scary seldom-mentioned feeling in our family that my father will have another heart attack, one that he won't survive.

My father, dressed in his plaid button-down shirt on a Friday night, held my daughter. Past her bedtime, and past his. In the soft light of the living room lamp, they smiled at each other. The same calloused hands that held me as I grew up were wrapped around her cotton pink blanket. Her small body swam in the comfort of his arms.

"I've got to be around to see her grow up," he said.

My Poem on A Handful of Stones Blog

Check out "Janis Joplin Lulluaby" on A Handful of Stones blog. I wrote this about six weeks ago when Baby Girl was at her muy fussy stage and we'd spend an hour and a half trying to put her to bed. I'm not the singing type but I do know one song.

http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/2010/07/janis-joplin-lullaby.html

Melancholy, Where Are You?

I suspect that I am deliriously happy, which, as any writer knows, is a death sentence for creativity. I'm lucky I dreamed up a severed toe a while ago, but for now I'm just contented.

As any woman who has endured unspeakable pain giving birth to two children knows, it is excruciatingly difficult to be sympathetic to her husband who has just gotten a vasectomy. I am so contented that I did not remind The Old Man that if he thinks getting snipped is bad, he could never handle what I've been through.

I've managed to keep the kids happy and the house running smoothly while he's laid up watching Sports Center. Baby Girl is 10 weeks old and on a sleep schedule. Things are going so well that I can't even summon angst when she pukes on me.

So, I apologize for my lack of posts. Maybe I'll try something crazy and write about happy stuff.

How To Wrestle a Baby

I was told that with a baby and a toddler and a full-time job I would be in "survival-mode" for the first year, at least. I shouldn't expect to get much accomplished at work, or at home for that matter.

The Happiest Baby on the Block author Dr. Karp says that babies are increasingly fussy from age two weeks to six weeks, and then the crying spells go away by three months. Today is Baby Girl's 6 week birthday. Ever heard sharp nails on a chalkboard, a cat mating, an emergency alert system over the T.V? A wailing baby is like all those in one sound. It's like someone has a screwdriver and is tightening my nerves with each cry, tighter, tighter, until every muscle is clenched.

I'm generally a positive person. I must admit I want to slip into survival mode around 7:00 pm, when I'm trying to calm my three year old to get him to bed at the peak of the baby wailing hours.

The thing about survival mode is that it's all about defense, about cutting everything else out - all joy, laughter, hobbies, thoughts - and lowering my head and plowing through. It's about doing the bare minimum just to make it to the end. That's not my style. I'm an overachiever. Plus, I have The Old Man. It's two against two now, but we're bigger than they are. We go on the offense. For everything.

For a crying baby, we do the five "S's" from Dr. Karp: Swaddling, Shushing, Stomach, Sucking, Swinging. Roll that baby up tight, swing her up and down on her stomach, pop a pacifier in there. She's out like a light. Bring it.

Warfare with a three year old is trickier. He could be a great lawyer. He's great with the questions and stories, also known as procrastination, right around bedtime. Even more powerful now that The Old Man and I can't tag-team him. It's verbal sparring.

Brush your teeth. My favorite color is blue. Brush your teeth. Oh really, you saw a red-kneed tarantula at school yesterday? Fascinating. Brush your teeth. Thank you for saying my shirt is pretty. That's nice of you. Brush your teeth.

We haven't lost a battle yet, though right before bed it often feels hopeless. The Old Man and I even played poker and made out a little - with tongue - the other night. We managed to stay awake until eleven o'clock.

In the words of the Captain of the Axiom from Wall-E, "I don't want to survive. I want to live."

It's My Pleasure

Hey Neighbor Lady,

Thanks for taking your pint-sized pup for a walk. I walked behind you with my two-week old curled against my chest in a baby carrier and Paris the pit bull heeling on my left. Your perky tits and plump ass - your perfect posture - reminded me to pull my shoulders back and tuck in my patootskies. You walk like you're on a runway. Your ponytail snaps to the right every time your left foot hits the pavement. You are pure postpartum slimtastic exercise inspiration.

Baby Girl

Here's my birth story. Feel free to skip it if it's not your thing. But remember, you've all got moms who have one of these stories.

Will this baby ever come? That's what I was thinking, five days before my due date. I tried nipple stimulation like they say in the books, but The Old Man just looked at me funny when I rubbed his little nubs through his shirt.

Annie and B came over on the 17th, and we had some girl laughs and Annie rubbed my swollen feet. I'd like to think this feminine energy laid the groundwork for the next couple of days.

I woke up on the 19th and four hours later had a baby. My husband and I thought we would have more time. With The Kid, I was in painful labor for over 24 hours.

"I feel funny," I told The Old Man, while I was on hands and knees in the bathroom. "I don't think I'm going to work today."

He started timing contractions and then gave up, because they were too close together.

In between primal screams, The Kid was making me giggle. He was following me around with the camera, his favorite hobby. What we tell our children is always reflected back to us. "Does your tummy hurt, Mommy?" he asked. "Drink some water. Go poop, you'll feel better."

"I need a Tylenol," I told The Old Man, as I was mimicking the ooh, aah death scene of Paul Reubens as Amilyn, the evil guy sidekick, in the orginal 1992 Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie. "I think we need to call your parents, and we need to call R." The contractions were powerful, painful. R is my coworker, who had agreed to take care of The Kid while I was in the hospital and before The Old Man's parents could make the five hour drive to take care of him.

"Let's wait a little," said The Old Man.

Nope, no way, nuh uh. I called R, The Old Man called his parents.

The nurse on the phone said to go to the hospital right away, and if I felt like I needed to push, to stop and call an ambulance. The Old Man started packing at 8:00 am. Got The Kid ready to go. I took a shower, alternating on hands and knees and then back up when a contraction had passed. We got The Kid to the car, the hospital bag loaded. The Old Man couldn't find his keys and went back inside. I was on the sidewalk on hands and knees moaning, dreading sitting in the passenger's seat.

Finally, we were in the car.

"Let's go to a restaurant," The Kid said.

I screamed. I held The Old Man's hand. He was making eye contact with me and held my hand through the pain. He was crying a little, just like the last time when I was in labor with The Kid. Every time I looked in his eyes I grabbed a little strength.

R was already at the hospital. We all walked up to the third floor. No one offered me a wheelchair, which was good, because I would have refused. Some sort of pride thing, which seems fuzzy to me now.

I checked in, and The Old Man and I walked to the labor and delivery room which took a while because I had to grab the wall and moan every five steps. R and The Kid were in the waiting room.

It was 9:10 AM. The nurse checked and said I was 9 cm dilated. I told The Old Man to go get The Kid and R on their way, put the car seat in her car, etc. I thought we'd have time.

Not two minutes later the nurse told me it was time to push and asked if I wanted to wait for my husband.

Nope, no way, nuh uh.

A frickin' angel of a nurse held my hand and coached me. Twenty minutes passed. "Where is her husband?" I heard.

Turns out he got The Kid loaded in the car, and right afterwards The Kid needed to go potty, so they ran back in with him so he could go. The Old Man finally got back up to the third floor. "Hurry," the nurses said.

"Really?" he asked.

"Run!" they said.

The Old Man showed up out of breath. The nurses told me they could see the head and it would be only two minutes of pushing. Yeah, right, I thought. The Old Man told me that he could see the head too.

The pain can only be described as a ripping-open sensation that you cause yourself, to get your baby out. Angel Nurse pointed out I was the only one who could make this baby come, and pushing hard was the only way to do it. Good point.

"Do you want an epidural?" A nurse asked.

"Will it help?" I asked.

"No, you're probably too far along and it would slow things down."

"Then, um, no thanks," I said.

Eye roll.

Two minutes later, Baby Girl was born. And yep, the pain is gone instantly once the baby is in the world. No drugs, just two Motrin afterwards.

The Old Man and I felt like we had woken up, done some work, and then there we were with a family of four and a light lunch offering from the hospital staff. Turkey wrap, anyone?

The next 24 hours were full of nurses and breastfeeding and blood work and checking my vitals and the baby's vitals. What I remember the most is how happy The Old Man was. The guy doesn't grin very often. I think he was grinning in his sleep on the squeaky plastic chair during the night. Kissing him when he's smiling is one of the best feelings in my whole world.

When we were getting ready to leave the hospital, I had a moment alone with Baby Girl. She looks like The Old Man's side of the family. Black hair, not red, thank the good lord and all the Angel Nurses in the universe.

There she was, in my arms. Easy is relative, of course. Three hours of bone-splitting pain is nothing to sneeze at. Still, it felt easy. There she was, despite the fact that she was accidentally conceived, despite my depression throughout the pregnancy, despite us. Completely relaxed in my arms. A new soul on the planet, her first day. Sarcasm and self-pity and wit and humor and clever words had no place in that moment when she opened her eyes and looked at me. What we tell our kids is reflected back to us. It seemed like in that moment she was telling me that she forgave all my drama, and was simply saying hello.

A young nurse walked in, and saw me crying. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"These are good tears," I said. "Don't worry."

Had a Baby and Stuff

My daughter was born on Monday. I'm happy. I'll tell you all about it soon. We can't call her Coppertop Junior because she doesn't have red hair. It's black, like her dad's.

In the meantime, check out my winning contribution on The One-Minute Writer Blog:

http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/2010/04/i-choose-one-of-daily-winning-response.html