My Semi-Annual Typing Exercise. Also, News.

You guys have probably been checking my site daily, or more likely, twice daily to see if I've updated a damn thing since October 2014. And, until today, I hadn't. I got all excited about my Tim Gunn-make-it-work career moment which didn't really happen and then nobody wants to follow up with a "just kidding" post. There has been progress on that front but not in the fireworks whiz bang way I had hoped. It's kind of hard to go all pyrotechnics with your life when you're largely financially responsible for the lives of two real people and two real dogs. Dog food ain't free. More on that in a bit.

The big, BIG news is that I'm pregnant! Again! Parenting is the best thing ever, Henry is the best, cutest kid ever, and we are greedy and want more. Here's what did not happen: conception as a result of intercourse. Here's what did happen: we went back to Dr. M, I took copious amounts of drugs, had a disappointingly lackluster cycle that somehow rebounded enough to produce two meh-looking embryos, we put both in with dampened hope, and then one of them hung on and grew. J and I feel like we totally tricked the system because we got knocked up as a result of only one cycle of IVF. Like it was soooooo easy. And then we remember that most people get pregnant by having sex and we shrug and still feel like we won the lottery for the second time. Does that even happen? By reading the interwebs, I see that people do indeed have multiple children, but still I'm amazed.

I'm 12+ weeks if anyone is counting. Feel free to file this in the annals of obvious things, but second pregnancies go much faster than first pregnancies. They also make you marginally less psychotic. For example, I've only diagnosed myself with listeria ONCE in 12 weeks. My diagnosis occurred yesterday as a result of some fresh-squeezed juice but I'm over it now. My fetal doppler is used twice a week instead of twice daily. I'm chalking it up to a mixture of being busy smothering Henry with love and some vague faith in the process. My uterus worked once, it might work again. Last time around I was very dedicated to my post-work schedule of lying on the couch, lamenting my fatigue and thinking about fetal demise. This time I can't really do that until 7:30 or so and then I usually fall asleep before I really get going. Plus I have to eat. There's simply no time. My due date of March 2nd seems horrifically far away when I think about slogging through a Chicago winter but I know that somehow the time will zip by. The first trimester did, now there's only 2 left to go if I've done my math correctly.

Now, the Tim Gunn part of things. My bestie, S, and I decided to start an interior design company called Gild & Wit. Up until the present, G&W has existed between Boston and Chicago with 99.9% of the work taking place in Boston as I am still working full time. Now S is moving back to Chicago with her adorable family in tow and, hopefully, I'll be more in the mix of things. We have a blog (obviously) though at present S is writing most/all of our posts. More from me in the future, I promise. I've just been kinda sleep-pukey lately. I don't know where this ends up. Hopefully with absurd wealth and our own line at Target. Or just happily dedicating all of my work time to being creative instead of some of my work time. Who knows. In the meantime, please check our site out www.gildandwit.com.

Tim Gunn Moment

When i started writing this post 87 years ago, I titled it "Is This My Tim Gunn Moment?" I have since decided that, yes, this is my Tim Gunn moment. Make. It. Work.

I've been dragging my feet, hanging my head, complaining about my well-paying-benefit-loaded corporate gig because of a generally difficult work environment. (Git out yer tiny violins.) I have felt less than supported in my new gig as mom. I won't go into details here because, hey, that's unprofessional and I am trying soooo hard to be the consummate professional. Fail. In addition to the "just because your life changed doesn't mean ours has to" - which, granted, has some merit - I've gone from delightfully independent to utterly micromanaged over the past year. Another not so glorious part of my job, I am on call 24/7 which has landed me in some unfortunate situations on major holidays and whatnot. Enough complaining. Just trust me, I do not relish the opportunity to go to the office every day and it's mostly not about who I'm leaving at daycare (though that has put things in perspective).

What I have figured out is this: I am happy working when I am being creative. My favorite part of my current job is interior design. My best friend, S, is insanely creative and recently took the leap from her corporate gig into a retail interiors job. S and I are very in love and have been since sixth grade. So we're doing what any two gals with a penchant for financial instability and a longing for a creative bohemian lifestyle living in two separate cities would do - we're starting an interior design blog and business. All the details are still in the works. We're working on forming the LLC, getting our website up and running and talking to potential clients because, here's the stunner, people actually want to work with us and that is bananas. I mean, not truly bananas because we know what we're doing and have flawless taste but bananas because we're children pretending to be grownups.

You're probably rolling your eyes and thinking, "Well, la-dee-da, it sure must be nice to have the cash to finance this sort of gig." Yes, that would be nice. It's not the case for me. I'm going to work another job to keep this going. I foresee a lot of night and weekend work. And perhaps in 6-12 months, S and
I will shrug and say, "Well, that was stupid." But maybe not. And the maybe not is keeping us going.

All will be revealed soon, hopefully in my next post. 

4 Month Sleep Regressskerflafla

Hello, smug mom. I've got some terrible news for you.  I too used to have a baby that slept like an angel. One quick snack at 3 or 4 and not another peep til morning! And then there was that little daycare cold that lingered. That caused a few rough nights. And then I experimented with putting him down unswaddled. And then there was his last round of vaccines... And holy excuses I have not slept like a normal human being for a month! I now rub coffee grounds into my eyeballs in hopes of transferring some of caffeine's magical properties directly into my soul. It hit me this morning that I have now spent weeks staggering around the office like an extra from World War Z looking for Brad Pitt. He is nowhere and I am tired and my 21 week old baby has regressed to 3 wake ups per night. The 4 month sleep regression is real, my friends. Started at about 4-4.5 months and now we're a day shy of 5 months old. Consider this your episode of Scared Straight: Baby Fails.

Will I take this lying down? (Pun just realized and enjoyed.) Hell no! So here is what I'm doing to proactively change nights for the better.

• Falling asleep while reading that baby sleep book I purchased to preempt a 4 month sleep regression. Oops. Like so many other "this is how to soothe/feed/raise your baby" book purchases, it sat on my virtual Kindle shelf until I was absolutely desperate for its sage advice as well as beyond the point of being helped. 

I'd like to lodge a complaint against every baby "method" theory book ever written. Dear infant experts, try a different format. Perhaps a pamphlet? Something with bullet points totaling less than 20 pages? I am too tired to read the thrilling testimony - always in a gray box and in italics - of the parents who took your advice and got their kid to sleep in less than 30 seconds thus saving their marriage. Just give it to me straight. Do this, not that. Then do this, no, not that. Good. Stick to it. Stop that... ok, much better. That's how your book should read. Then I could stay awake and glean actual information from its pages. In summary, PAMPHLET WITH BULLET POINTS. If you have written a second chapter, you have gone too far.

• Practicing consistency. Also, inconsistency. 
• I always put Henry down "drowsy but awake" unless of course he's been particularly difficult or I am particularly exhausted in which case I put him down either mostly asleep or totally asleep. 
• In response to increased night wakings, disassociate nursing. When Henry wakes up at times where I am positive that he is not hungry, I pick him up and rock him back to sleep. Unless of course I am catatonic in which case I whisper, "Shush baby, don't cry. Here is the gift of my boob." 
• Obsessing about the swaddle. Henry is a swaddle addict. While freebasing Halo Swaddle Sleepsacks, he is practicing rolling over and mocking me in his Rock n' Play. So yeah, at 5 months he's still swaddled and still in the RNP. Oops, my bad. Unswaddled he sleeps in such short bursts. Long enough for naps but not for night sleep. I find thinking about it far more manageable than doing anything about it.
• Thinking about moving Henry into his own room. That would probably help with the whole nursing disassociation. Yep, bet it would. I should totally try that sometime. Except my husband basically bursts into tears when I suggest we should do that and, when attempted once, insisted we sleep with the monitor on full blast (the static was deafening) and brought him back to the room the first time he cried. I'd be annoyed if it wasn't so incredibly sweet. I am also quite tired and lack the energy to argue/reason with him. Co(dependent)-sleeping/parenting is endearing.

So how did you handle all of this? You probably weaned your kid from the swaddle at an appropriate age and had him sleeping in his own room. That would make sense. But let's say, hypothetically, that you hadn't done those things. What would you do then? 

Argh, it might be baby sleep boot camp time. Next week.

How Does She Do It?! (Muscular Atrophy Post)

"How does she do it?!" is what no one at all has said about me lately. Seriously, friends. I don't understand this whole life-work balance people speak of so frequently. There have been times in the past where I've really aced it - working out regularly either early morning (kill me now) or after work, riding my bike to yoga on the weekends, cooking dinner, etc. I've never been much of a housekeeper so I won't pretend my house used to be clean. (Hilarious side note: I often tell Henry that prior to his arrival, the apartment was spotless and that we held frequent, lavish dinner parties. He's going to feel soooooo bad when he actually comprehends.) My spurts of activity were typically followed by periods of a switch to a more sedentary lifestyle brought on by the disruption of a cold, vacation, or general sloth. I have been a lump basically since my first trimester. I kept thinking I'd get back into yoga on maternity leave. Fail. My free time at work is not free at all as I'm hooked into a hospital grade breastmilk pump. No lunch-time walks or quick trips to the grocery store.

Since H was born, I've kept up on reading. It feels like a necessary escape. 15-20 minutes each night before bed does the trick. This week I picked up knitting again. I'm working on a Christmas stocking for my niece. After H goes to sleep and after dinner, I knit for about an hour while I watch tv. Dishes and bottles can wait. It feels great to do something crafty and creative again. Cleaning the house happens in small bursts between J and me. I'm not terribly stressed about it and can accept the inevitable clutter for the time being. Instacart is serving my grocery needs. But after 13 months or so (that was painful to type), I am jumping out of my skin to get back to yoga. Really anything physical but ideally yoga. I miss my teachers, the way it makes my head and body feel and, yes, the way it makes me look. I'm so vain, I probably think this song is about me. 

Please, friends, help me fit it in. Here's what my weekdays look like:

• Between 5:30 and 6 Henry wakes up and I try to force him back to sleep by sticking a boob in it. Justified as breakfast. 37 certified sleep trainers just jumped out a window.

• 6:30 - Drag sorry ass out of bed, drink coffee while getting ready. J or I talk to Henry as he plays in his bouncy chair and we scramble around the apt. Dogs are walked, bottles and frozen milk ready for daycare.

• 7:30 - Either leave for work or bring H to daycare, then work.

• 10 - Pump. Contemplate formula.

• 1 - Pump. Contemplate formula.

• 4 - Pump. Contemplate formula.

• Between 5 and 5:30 - Home or daycare pickup.

• 6 - 7 - Play with Henry.

• 7 - 8 - Bath and bedtime.

• 8 - Eat pasta/takeout/leftovers/cereal.

Knit/clean/laundry/life/bed.

Repeat. 
I know this is a normal schedule for a working mom but I'm not used to it yet. It makes me feel all panicky and exhausted. There is not enough time. Not enough time. Not enough time. To think that I used to complain about my busy days while sipping a glass of wine, petting the dogs, painting my toes, etc.

So. Physical fitness. I don't want to give up my 2 evening hours with Henry. I do have the weekends. I could work with that. But what's the weekday solution? Maybe there isn't one right now. Maybe I just enjoy my little guy and embrace the fact that sweater season will soon be here. Another point to consider: Oprah has arm flaps so why can't I? J is encouraging me to go to my old favorite yoga class on Wednesday evenings. I would get home at 7:30 just in time to feed him before bed. (Yup, nursing right before bed. 16 more certified sleep trainers just leaped to their deaths.) I could give it a whirl and see how it feels. Blah. Someone give me money and let me work part time. Thank you.

P.S. I am whining about problems that I would  have killed for a year ago. Slap me.

17 Weeks - Working Topless.

Oh, hi there, friends! Ever so sorry that I haven't been blogging much lately. Well, what with my baking, sewing, macrame, dog obedience competitions, baby-raising and working full time, I've barely had time to squeeze in my daily workout let alone a blog post! Let me just shake the crumbs from my floral skirt and sit at my keyboard (tap at my iphone in bed). There, that's better.

I have been back at work now for over a MONTH. When I'm at the office, it often feels like business as usual. Not much has changed in the daily minutiae of work. Sure, I stop what I'm doing three times a day to sit in a file room, topless and hooked to a double electric breast pump, while I will greater quantities of milk to drip into little plastic bottles strapped to my chest. Nudity in the workplace will never feel normal but it will always feel extra chilly. Pumping aside (and it never is, wait for the rant), work feels like work. And that's good. The first day was complete torture. I just felt eviscerated. Gummy pieces of heart littered across the 7 miles from my apartment to the office. I spent the day feeling very put-upon, like the first woman ever to go back to work after having a baby. Un peu dramatic. Fortunately, that was just the first day. Every day since has felt more and more normal. I don't enjoy the chaos of the mornings or the fact that I only have a few waking hours with my little guy in the evenings, but I savor what I do have. Maybe I'll win the lottery soon and won't have to work or will be able to work less. Until then, J and I are trading off daycare pickup and drop off responsibilities, going broke by calling in take out orders because the grocery store is an entire 4 blocks away (yes, I've heard of Peapod. the effort...), and loving the poop out of our baby boy. Our weekends are more appreciated than ever. But still no grocery shopping.

I feel I absolutely must write about pumping. Henry was kind of a breastfeeding genius from the get go. While we had a few latch issues here and there and a clogged duct or two (I ooze glamour), feeding my kid during maternity leave was pretty easy peasy. He was hungry, I had boobs, my boobs had milk. A lot of women have it way tougher than that with under-supply, mastitis, cracked nipples, all sorts of boob-hell. Starting at about 6 weeks post partum I started pumping once a day to build up my stash for returning to work. While pumping was kind of a chore, it felt like a necessary not-so-evil. I wasn't winning any awards for my pumping output but I didn't really think much of it. Then I went back to work and my daily leisure pumps (always done while watching Bravo - you know, to boost my supply) became thrice daily grinds in a cold file room. I was all of a sudden struggling to pump enough and my boobs started aching. I could feel clogs forming. I went from 15 minutes on the pump to 20 plus 5 minutes of hand expressing, ie. milking myself like a goat. Big thanks to The Farm in Door County, Wisconsin for teaching me proper milking technique. Milking oneself is shockingly similar to milking a goat. 5 more minutes of cleanup and milk storage and I'd spent 30 minutes away from my desk. An hour and a half a day where I really struggled to work - invoice review, phone calls - and pump. Feeling as though I was begging for a nasty bout of mastitis, I called a lactation consultant. During our phone consult, she determined that I was a "poor responder" to pumping. My baby sucks that milk out like a champ; the pump, not so much. Leftover milk was sitting there all day, sticking in my ducts and causing horribly painful spasms. Oh, the glamour. 

Semi-solution: a hospital grade pump. I got a prescription for this bowling ball bag sized contraption and I keep it in the file room for all my coworkers to admire. "Jealous much?" I ask. Yes, yes they are. The upside of the turbo milk machine is that I pump more effectively during my morning pump when the old storage facilities on my chest are rather full. It's easier to get closer to some semblance of "empty." I still need to hand express at times. Plus, I don't want my 4-H skills to get rusty. I will win that blue ribbon for livestock management, by God! Another plus to Big Bertha is that it feels a lot less like its ripping off my nipples. So that's a win. Pump time hasn't really gone down but I'm more comfortable and better at keeping up with Henry's intake at daycare. Another huge help from the lactation consultant - I feel certain that you have either stopped reading already and/or have spontaneously become lactose intolerant - take Lethicin supplements to prevent clogged ducts. It really, really worked. I started taking them a week before Big Bertha hit the scene and pain be gone. Why are you still reading.

If I ever really figure this whole corporate pumping thing out, I'm going to write a book or perhaps a pamphlet (let's be realistic) entitled "Pumping at Work: Why It Doesn't Have to be a Let Down." Ha! Anyone else with me on the breastmilk jokes? 

Baby on a Plane!

This has been a week of big firsts, soon to be followed by more firsts. Last Saturday we did what some would consider criminally insane: J and I boarded not one but two airplanes with a ten-week old baby. The looks one gets when one flies with an infant are priceless. You either get "bless-your-heart-look-at-that-sweet-baby-it's-hard-to-be-a-parent-good-luck!" or "I'd-rather-deal-with-snakes-on-a-plane-with-Samuel L. Jackson-than-your-screaming-child." There is no middle path. Fortunately, Henry was a model citizen and did very little vocalizing in the air. Breastfeeding mamas, when in doubt, stick a boob in it. Works like a charm.

Our two flights brought us to Asheville, North Carolina. J's mom and stepdad picked us up from the airport and drove us to their vacation rental an hour and 45 minutes southwest in Highlands, NC. So, 2 plane rides, 2 airports, and 1 winding drive through the mountains later, we arrived with very little drama. We only had to pull over once so that I could stick a boob in it. 

You may "put a bird on it," Portlandia, but Chicago sticks a boob in it.

Our trip here has been lovely. First, it's ridiculously gorgeous. Lush green mountains, waterfalls, placid mountain lakes and a charming main street. We've taken H on his first two real hikes. The trails have been lined with rhododendrons and flame azaleas. We have gotten great photo ops of me breastfeeding Henry on the top of mountains (out of necessity, not to mark my mountain mama territory) and changing his diaper on the trail (baby carriers make excellent changing pads). This week, Henry has come out of his little cocoon and is discovering the world right in front of his face. Literally. On Sunday evening, he found his hands. Mind blown. He stared cross-eyed at his fists and tried repeatedly to bring them to his mouth, instead slowly bumping them into his nose and cheeks. He can suck on his hands no problem when operating by Braille but hand-eye coordination is a son of a bitch. I know; I seriously can't throw or catch a ball with any degree of accuracy. Just beyond his hands, he found the trees and sky so fascinating on our hikes. His little face looked up from the carrier in total awe as we climbed. He's also becoming more vocal. His coos and squeals are getting louder and he is clearly delighted when he hears himself. He is the smiliest baby. Yesterday night at dinner, my favorite thing happened: he discovered my face. He's looked at my face, or some blurry version of it, since the moment he was put on my chest when he was born. But last night he reached out and touched it repeatedly. He flapped his hands on my lips and chin over and over. Maybe my heart-meltiest moment yet. God, I love this boy. My love for him overwhelms me to the point of aching sadness sometimes. I can't describe the manic range of emotions.

Tomorrow we fly back to Chicago with this newly adventurous, curious boy. New toys for the plane ride include hands, improved vocal chords and Mama's face. J goes back to guilt/volunteer work/obligation at the cluster$#%* of a family business I'm impatiently waiting for him to extricate himself from. I will try to savor my last few days of maternity leave. I either want to go to brunch, lunch and coffee with my mom friends every single day or stay at home, never shower, and stare at Henry's face. I go back to the office on Friday, June 27th. I know it will be fine. I am telling myself that daily. I'm not worried about Henry. He's going to do so well at hippie daycare. Just worried about me, my angst over work, pumping in a file room, missing my boy, resenting my superiors, yada yada yada. The usual bullshit plus lactation and the haunting feeling that I should be rocking someone.

10 Week Update

A week ago, my friend urged me to update my blog and keep writing for the good of all humanity and my family of infertile turtles. I was all, "Oh, you don't understand. See, it's very difficult finding time to write and do all the things when you have a baby." She then narrowed her eyes, stared into my soul and, without words, reminded me that in the three years between the birth of her daughter and this very moment she has written, published and promoted a book, maintained a blog, and worked a regular job. #shamed into writing. Note to self, find less ambitious friends.

Henry is now 10 weeks old and I can completely objectively say that he is the cutest baby that has ever lived. Now, that's a hard thing to write because most of you either want babies, are pregnant, or have babies and you now have to come to grips with the fact that your future and/or current child pales in comparison to mine in the looks department. This is undoubtedly a difficult time for you. H has crazy, spiky reddish-blond hair, giant blue eyes and the sweetest grin. He looks like a baby orangutan in the best way possible. Also, my parents feel strongly that he could be an ear model which I am told is quite lucrative. Behavior-wise he is very much like a standard issue human baby which is to say irrational. He can be utterly charming and happy happy happy one moment and then will collapse into sad wails and tears. Nothing will have happened. No change. Just done with whatever activity he was doing. After 10 weeks, I can sort things out for him quickly. Alert but fussy? Carry him slung over my shoulder and chat with him. Tired and fussy? Swaddle, pacifier, bounce on the yoga ball. Generally broken baby? Again, yoga ball. Lots of yoga ball. Evenings are a lot harder. He's out of his normal eat-play-sleep cycle because he's more tired and more hungry more often. These are the dreaded witching hours and they are no joke. I am told he will grow out of it by the time he's 18. I don't want time to fly by too fast - it already is - but I dream of an evening where I eat at a leisurely pace without an infant attached to my nipple or  without J staring at me while he jiggles said infant and silently wills me to eat faster.

Speaking of time speeding by, I go back to work in 2 weeks. That prospect fills me with agitated dread. In part because I don't exactly adore my job. If I'm going to give up staring at my bean day in and out, I'd like to go back to something I like a little more. I don't know exactly what I want to be when I grow up so I don't yet hope for a job I love. Looking for contentment. I can see the upside to, say, wanting a cup if coffee and then drinking it while it's still warm. I'm trying to focus on the emotional and intellectual balance that working and being a mom could give me. The other part of why I'm not aching to get back to the office is the obvious: I'm obsessed with Henry. He's growing like a weed, picking up new skills constantly, and is more of a person and less a fetus every day. I want to keep watching that happen. Leaving him makes my heart ache. BUT, I found a great daycare for him. They are hilariously obsessed with organic everything. I too enjoy the granola lifestyle but when budget and ease get in the way, I tend to take the synthetic way out. The daycare director made sure to tell me that all carpeting in the facility was made from organic natural fibers. That's...wonderful. Possibly unnecessary but appreciated. She also informed me that as toddlers, outdoor field trips go beyond the park to libraries and fire stations so that the kids can be "integrated into the community." H is going to be far better integrated than I am and don't we all dream of better than we has for our children?

Last post I promised to address two things: breastfeeding and the emotional wake following my FIL's death. I don't have much on either topic. Breastfeeding is good, a boring update. There is sufficient milk, not excessive. I mostly love feeding Henry and greatly appreciate that it came pretty easy for us. Pumping is a son of a bitch but such is life. No one likes pumping. Oh, you do? You're lying. I hope to be able to pump enough so as not to supplement with formula when he's at daycare but if it doesn't happen everyone will live, nay thrive. 

The tumolt surrounding my FIL's death and the fallout of a family business has been devastating. It has rocked my marriage to its core in a way that we never thought possible. We have not gotten to relish our early months as a family as I dreamed we would. But, all that said, we love each other and our son so very much. We're stumbling and figuring it out. I don't want to go in to too much detail because I still can't sort the situation into words. It's exceedingly hard but I have faith we'll make through with flying colors. It is, as they say, the bestest ever of times (I'm looking at you, Hank Dog) and the worst of times. 

Let's end on a high note.

Taken within minutes of each other. 

Sir, you are being irrational.