Sam’s colic has me pretty confused. I’ve been reviewing everything I remember about Cassie’s colic and things aren’t the same the second time around.
For starters, Cassie’s colic operated like clockwork, starting every afternoon at 4 PM and lasting until 9 PM. She was still impossible to get to sleep at night, but the unholy, ear-splitting screams only lasted for those five hours in the evening.
With Sam, we don’t have the same kind of screaming. She gets fussy instead and starts to hyperventilate, which then leads to hiccups which makes her even fussier. She stays fussy, but so long as someone is holding her and actively trying to calm her, things don’t usually go much farther. Also, her fussy period may start anywhere between 3:30 PM and 9:30 PM. Not exactly the clockwork pattern I’ve come to associate with colic.
Another thing that’s been bothering me is the strange green poop that Sam seems to have only at night. We usually get the first one between 9 and 10 PM, and then maybe get a second one later at night. It’s green, watery, and sometimes even looks a bit like mucous. The nurse practitioner we saw last Friday says it’s not related to Sam’s crying all night, but I have to wonder. Why would she only have green poop at night, the same time as when she cries all night? She’s also having gas all night, and the nurse practitioner did say that was related, so why one and not the other?
It’s a mystery I’ll have to ponder on for a while.
Archive for the ‘Baby’ Category
Green Poop And Other Midnight Mysteries
Tuesday, July 4th, 2006Breast Feeding In Public – What’s Your Comfort Level?
Monday, July 3rd, 2006
We went to a party on Saturday at a friend’s house. I’ve been noticing lately that the parties Michael and I go to aren’t the same as the ones we went to five or six years ago. I can remember when we went to parties where the guests argued over how much whipped cream they needed to fill a small swimming pool for a wrestling match. Now they discuss the benefits of cloth versus disposable diapers. Boy how times have changed.
Among the guests at Saturday’s were three infants, two of whom (Sam and one other) are breastfed. The other nursing mom and I took turns feeding in the glider parked in the host’s living room. The place was packed with other guests of course, and as I nursed Sam, I got to thinking about breastfeeding in public. I could never breastfeed Cassie in public. For starters, I wasn’t very comfortable with breastfeeding back then. It was a painful, frustrating task most of the time. Cassie also never sat still while nursing, thus making it difficult to feed her without flashing my naked breast at any bystanders.
Sam, however, is far more placid when it comes to nursing. I can sit in a public place, drop a blanket over my shoulder and latch her on with little problem. She doesn’t flail about. She just hunkers down and gets to work. Any time I tried dropping a blanket over Cassie, we got a mummenshanz puppet show, with random arms and legs and the occasional breast popping out from under the blanket.
Different moms do different things, depending on their level of comfort with breastfeeding. As I figure it, there are eight different comfort levels to nursing in public.
Level one - the Hypocrite. Mention breastfeeding in public and the mom says, “Ick! That’s gross. Nobody wants to see a mom go around half-naked in public, flashing her breasts to the whole world!” You’ll never catch this mommy breastfeeding, but you will probably see her waltzing around the local pool in a bikini about the size of a Band Aid with her boobs falling out of the non-existent cups, and trust me, nobody wants to watch that either.
Level two - the Neophyte. At parties and other public events, mom and baby mysteriously disappear every two hours. If you go looking for them, you’re likely to find them in a bathroom, toilet stall, small closet or the back of a car with dark tinted windows. You won’t see this mom breastfeeding either, but she’s doing it. She’s just not giving out any free shows, thank you very much, and if she didn’t fear the “Breast Is Best” Nazis so much, she’d probably bring a bottle of formula with her and use that instead (which quite frankly, she ought to be allowed to do).
Level three - the Cover-up. This mom is perfectly happy with a quiet corner and a blanket securely pinned to her shoulder. She can nurse without being seen. May sometimes wear one of those really ugly breastfeeding cover-ups that makes her look like she’s eating lobster while having a haircut at the same time.
Level four - Almost Normal. Mom prefers to nurse sitting down, with a blanket draped over one shoulder. She has no problems chatting with other party guests while nursing, although she it can be a bit distracting when the baby starts making loud yummy noises under the blanket.
Level five - the Smooth Operator. Similar to level four, but goes without the blanket and just pulls up the shirt instead. Hopelessly horny guys shouldn’t bother hoping for a peek at her breast. This mom’s so quick even the baby doesn’t see the nipple before it starts to nurse.
Level six - A Little Too Comfortable. Mom doesn’t need a chair or a blanket. She just picks up the kid and stuffs him under her shirt to nurse while she stands at the punch bowl and serves herself another drink.
Level seven - the Show Off. Mom stands on one side of the room. The baby is propped up either in its carrier or a Boppy pillow on the other. After calling out “Here’s mud in your eye!” the mom whips out her breast and manually expresses milk so that it shoots all the way across the room into the baby’s open mouth. She’ll do this for about twenty minutes and then switch to the other breast.
Level eight - the Breast Nazi. Just like level seven, only the baby is actually twelve years old and the mom chants “Breast is best!” while shooting milk all over the place. You’re highly unlikely to see this woman at any parties because too many of the guests get soaked when she goes on a rampage.
So moms, what’s your comfort level with breastfeeding in public? Think about it before you head out to your next social event.
Among the guests at Saturday’s were three infants, two of whom (Sam and one other) are breastfed. The other nursing mom and I took turns feeding in the glider parked in the host’s living room. The place was packed with other guests of course, and as I nursed Sam, I got to thinking about breastfeeding in public. I could never breastfeed Cassie in public. For starters, I wasn’t very comfortable with breastfeeding back then. It was a painful, frustrating task most of the time. Cassie also never sat still while nursing, thus making it difficult to feed her without flashing my naked breast at any bystanders.
Sam, however, is far more placid when it comes to nursing. I can sit in a public place, drop a blanket over my shoulder and latch her on with little problem. She doesn’t flail about. She just hunkers down and gets to work. Any time I tried dropping a blanket over Cassie, we got a mummenshanz puppet show, with random arms and legs and the occasional breast popping out from under the blanket.
Different moms do different things, depending on their level of comfort with breastfeeding. As I figure it, there are eight different comfort levels to nursing in public.
Level one - the Hypocrite. Mention breastfeeding in public and the mom says, “Ick! That’s gross. Nobody wants to see a mom go around half-naked in public, flashing her breasts to the whole world!” You’ll never catch this mommy breastfeeding, but you will probably see her waltzing around the local pool in a bikini about the size of a Band Aid with her boobs falling out of the non-existent cups, and trust me, nobody wants to watch that either.
Level two - the Neophyte. At parties and other public events, mom and baby mysteriously disappear every two hours. If you go looking for them, you’re likely to find them in a bathroom, toilet stall, small closet or the back of a car with dark tinted windows. You won’t see this mom breastfeeding either, but she’s doing it. She’s just not giving out any free shows, thank you very much, and if she didn’t fear the “Breast Is Best” Nazis so much, she’d probably bring a bottle of formula with her and use that instead (which quite frankly, she ought to be allowed to do).
Level three - the Cover-up. This mom is perfectly happy with a quiet corner and a blanket securely pinned to her shoulder. She can nurse without being seen. May sometimes wear one of those really ugly breastfeeding cover-ups that makes her look like she’s eating lobster while having a haircut at the same time.
Level four - Almost Normal. Mom prefers to nurse sitting down, with a blanket draped over one shoulder. She has no problems chatting with other party guests while nursing, although she it can be a bit distracting when the baby starts making loud yummy noises under the blanket.
Level five - the Smooth Operator. Similar to level four, but goes without the blanket and just pulls up the shirt instead. Hopelessly horny guys shouldn’t bother hoping for a peek at her breast. This mom’s so quick even the baby doesn’t see the nipple before it starts to nurse.
Level six - A Little Too Comfortable. Mom doesn’t need a chair or a blanket. She just picks up the kid and stuffs him under her shirt to nurse while she stands at the punch bowl and serves herself another drink.
Level seven - the Show Off. Mom stands on one side of the room. The baby is propped up either in its carrier or a Boppy pillow on the other. After calling out “Here’s mud in your eye!” the mom whips out her breast and manually expresses milk so that it shoots all the way across the room into the baby’s open mouth. She’ll do this for about twenty minutes and then switch to the other breast.
Level eight - the Breast Nazi. Just like level seven, only the baby is actually twelve years old and the mom chants “Breast is best!” while shooting milk all over the place. You’re highly unlikely to see this woman at any parties because too many of the guests get soaked when she goes on a rampage.
So moms, what’s your comfort level with breastfeeding in public? Think about it before you head out to your next social event.
How Sleep Deprived Am I?
Saturday, July 1st, 2006
We’re going on about three weeks of colic with Sam, and I have to ask myself, how sleep deprived am I really? Am I too far gone to function, or could I be allowed to operate heavy equipment?
Well, let’s see. I’m getting a lot of work done. Since Sam’s birth, I’ve managed to finish up an e-book cover for a client and get the first draft of a website graphic done. I started working on a short story about a week after we came home from the hospital and so far I’ve written four thousand words. I expect the story will be finished in time for ERWA’s Blasphemy Theme Weekend which starts next Thursday. I’ve been able to work on my current colored pencil drawing, and it’s been slow going but I may actually finish it by the end of this month. I’ve also been brushing up on my cartooning and sketching, doing little practice sketches and doodles a couple of times a week. The house is fairly clean, I’ve been getting Cassie out to play every day even if it’s only in our own backyard and I’ve managed to get a shower every evening before bed. So on the surface I seem okay.
However, I just realized that I wrote up my end of the quarter work report back at the beginning of this month. The end of the quarter was yesterday, the last day of June, not three weeks ago. Why I thought the second quarter ended on the 31st of May I’ll never know. I’ve also done dumb things like put on a second set of disposable nursing pads over top of the perfectly clean set I was already wearing. I put my glasses in the refrigerator and then couldn’t find them for half an hour so I had to walk around blind. Twice I’ve headed out and turned right at the entrance to our subdivision when I meant to turn left and didn’t realize it until I arrived at the library on the opposite side of town from where I meant to go. While making lunch I’ve asked Cassie to hand me a frying pan when I wanted a fork. And during several conversations I’ve had to stop talking mid-sentence because I’d forgotten what it was I was trying to say. Oh, and let’s not forget the ugly mood swings and temper tantrums (mine, not the kids). For those alone I should not be allowed to operate any heavy equipment. I might actually be tempted to deliberately kill someone.
I’m a little frazzled I guess, but I am doing better that I expected after the arrival of child number two. Of course when you look back on all the recent blog entries, that sounds kind of scary, doesn’t it?
Well, let’s see. I’m getting a lot of work done. Since Sam’s birth, I’ve managed to finish up an e-book cover for a client and get the first draft of a website graphic done. I started working on a short story about a week after we came home from the hospital and so far I’ve written four thousand words. I expect the story will be finished in time for ERWA’s Blasphemy Theme Weekend which starts next Thursday. I’ve been able to work on my current colored pencil drawing, and it’s been slow going but I may actually finish it by the end of this month. I’ve also been brushing up on my cartooning and sketching, doing little practice sketches and doodles a couple of times a week. The house is fairly clean, I’ve been getting Cassie out to play every day even if it’s only in our own backyard and I’ve managed to get a shower every evening before bed. So on the surface I seem okay.
However, I just realized that I wrote up my end of the quarter work report back at the beginning of this month. The end of the quarter was yesterday, the last day of June, not three weeks ago. Why I thought the second quarter ended on the 31st of May I’ll never know. I’ve also done dumb things like put on a second set of disposable nursing pads over top of the perfectly clean set I was already wearing. I put my glasses in the refrigerator and then couldn’t find them for half an hour so I had to walk around blind. Twice I’ve headed out and turned right at the entrance to our subdivision when I meant to turn left and didn’t realize it until I arrived at the library on the opposite side of town from where I meant to go. While making lunch I’ve asked Cassie to hand me a frying pan when I wanted a fork. And during several conversations I’ve had to stop talking mid-sentence because I’d forgotten what it was I was trying to say. Oh, and let’s not forget the ugly mood swings and temper tantrums (mine, not the kids). For those alone I should not be allowed to operate any heavy equipment. I might actually be tempted to deliberately kill someone.
I’m a little frazzled I guess, but I am doing better that I expected after the arrival of child number two. Of course when you look back on all the recent blog entries, that sounds kind of scary, doesn’t it?
Why I’m Not Suited To Being A Mom
Friday, June 30th, 2006
I don’t know where Michael gets his patience from, but I’m at the end of my rope with this colic thing. That’s not good either, because colic tends to last a couple of months and we’re only in the first few weeks.
Last night I was prepared. I nursed Sam to sleep and set her gently in her basinet with the back positioner all set up to keep her on her side. She’d taken a couple of comfortable naps in it during the day, so I was confident she’d be fine there at night. That turned out not to be the case. As soon as I set her down, she started fussing again. I tried stroking her arms and legs to soothe her. That worked a little, but then when I headed off to get my shower, she started howling. I decided to let her fuss it out for a while. After all, I really needed a shower. As soon as I was out and dry though, I fought back my natural instincts to let Sam continue screaming and I went and picked her up.
That’s right. My natural instinct is to let the kid scream. See how evil I really am? Any normal woman would have rushed right in to pick up her child and soothe the poor thing. I’m like, “Go ahead, scream your tiny lungs out.” At least until I’m ready to sleep that is.
I picked Sam up and she immediately tried to latch on through my t-shirt. Sooooooo, I climbed into bed with her and let her nurse for a while. Now she’d already nursed for half an hour at 9 PM. This was 10 PM and she was screaming for it again. I’m supposed to let Sam go three hours between feedings. Yesterday she only went an hour or two between feedings. It might be that four week growth spurt, but I really don’t know. What I do know is that Sam had already stripped all the skin off my nipples the night before and I was in no shape to let her nurse all night again. Plus I was back to being bitchy and frustrated, so after fifteen minutes, I pulled Sam off and tried to get her to sleep.
She started fussing instead, and then started screaming. She passed some gas, hit me with her tiny fists and started kicking me in the stomach. I propped her up on my thighs and tried bouncing her. No good. I draped her over my stomach and tried patting her back. Even worse. I started swearing and tried putting her back in the basinet to cry it out. After fifteen minutes, Michael got up and tried calming Sam. He held her to his chest and rocked from side to side until she settled down a bit. Then he took her downstairs to give me some sleep time. While he was down there, he managed to soothe her into slumber land, something I couldn’t do.
That bastard.
The fact that he can get her to nod off and I can’t really pisses me off. I her MOM for god’s sake, I’m supposed to be the kind, nurturing, caring one. I’m supposed to be the one with all the patience, the one with the magic milk-producing boobies, the one who’s best at soothing little babies.
Quit laughing at me, damn it. This isn’t funny.
I fell asleep for a few hours. I woke up four hours later and panicked because I couldn’t find Sam. I forgot that Michael had taken her downstairs. I thought that she was still in bed with me and I’d somehow lost her under the covers. Then my brain turned back on and I remembered where she was. After reassembling the bed, I headed downstairs and found Michael and Sam side by side, sleeping peacefully on the floor. It was 2 AM. He’d had her for four hours.
I woke Michael and got them both back upstairs. We put Sam in bed with me and she woke just enough to latch on and feed. She nursed for maybe fifteen minutes before pulling herself off and going back to sleep. The rest of the night went pretty peacefully, with Sam only waking twice more to briefly nurse. I got up at 6 AM, feeling well rested but resentful because I can’t do what Michael can do.
Michael told me it took half an hour for him to calm Sam. I spent over an hour trying to soothe her but all she wanted from me was to nurse which I couldn’t let her do without risking her gorging herself and making matters worse. Why the hell Michael’s able to get suffer through 30 minutes of rocking and back-patting and finally succeeding to get a screaming monster calmed down is beyond me. All I can say is I’m just not cut out for this kind of work.
Last night I was prepared. I nursed Sam to sleep and set her gently in her basinet with the back positioner all set up to keep her on her side. She’d taken a couple of comfortable naps in it during the day, so I was confident she’d be fine there at night. That turned out not to be the case. As soon as I set her down, she started fussing again. I tried stroking her arms and legs to soothe her. That worked a little, but then when I headed off to get my shower, she started howling. I decided to let her fuss it out for a while. After all, I really needed a shower. As soon as I was out and dry though, I fought back my natural instincts to let Sam continue screaming and I went and picked her up.
That’s right. My natural instinct is to let the kid scream. See how evil I really am? Any normal woman would have rushed right in to pick up her child and soothe the poor thing. I’m like, “Go ahead, scream your tiny lungs out.” At least until I’m ready to sleep that is.
I picked Sam up and she immediately tried to latch on through my t-shirt. Sooooooo, I climbed into bed with her and let her nurse for a while. Now she’d already nursed for half an hour at 9 PM. This was 10 PM and she was screaming for it again. I’m supposed to let Sam go three hours between feedings. Yesterday she only went an hour or two between feedings. It might be that four week growth spurt, but I really don’t know. What I do know is that Sam had already stripped all the skin off my nipples the night before and I was in no shape to let her nurse all night again. Plus I was back to being bitchy and frustrated, so after fifteen minutes, I pulled Sam off and tried to get her to sleep.
She started fussing instead, and then started screaming. She passed some gas, hit me with her tiny fists and started kicking me in the stomach. I propped her up on my thighs and tried bouncing her. No good. I draped her over my stomach and tried patting her back. Even worse. I started swearing and tried putting her back in the basinet to cry it out. After fifteen minutes, Michael got up and tried calming Sam. He held her to his chest and rocked from side to side until she settled down a bit. Then he took her downstairs to give me some sleep time. While he was down there, he managed to soothe her into slumber land, something I couldn’t do.
That bastard.
The fact that he can get her to nod off and I can’t really pisses me off. I her MOM for god’s sake, I’m supposed to be the kind, nurturing, caring one. I’m supposed to be the one with all the patience, the one with the magic milk-producing boobies, the one who’s best at soothing little babies.
Quit laughing at me, damn it. This isn’t funny.
I fell asleep for a few hours. I woke up four hours later and panicked because I couldn’t find Sam. I forgot that Michael had taken her downstairs. I thought that she was still in bed with me and I’d somehow lost her under the covers. Then my brain turned back on and I remembered where she was. After reassembling the bed, I headed downstairs and found Michael and Sam side by side, sleeping peacefully on the floor. It was 2 AM. He’d had her for four hours.
I woke Michael and got them both back upstairs. We put Sam in bed with me and she woke just enough to latch on and feed. She nursed for maybe fifteen minutes before pulling herself off and going back to sleep. The rest of the night went pretty peacefully, with Sam only waking twice more to briefly nurse. I got up at 6 AM, feeling well rested but resentful because I can’t do what Michael can do.
Michael told me it took half an hour for him to calm Sam. I spent over an hour trying to soothe her but all she wanted from me was to nurse which I couldn’t let her do without risking her gorging herself and making matters worse. Why the hell Michael’s able to get suffer through 30 minutes of rocking and back-patting and finally succeeding to get a screaming monster calmed down is beyond me. All I can say is I’m just not cut out for this kind of work.
How I Got A Full Night’s Sleep With A Newborn
Thursday, June 29th, 2006
There is one way to get a good night’s sleep with an infant. Give that child whatever she wants.
After struggling for two weeks to get Sam to sleep on her own - either in her basinet, her co-sleeper or in her bouncy chair - I caved in early last night and just put her in bed with me. It's apparenlty what she wants. So what if she nurses till my nipples bleed? That’s what lanolin is for. So what if I walk around like Quasimodo because I spent all night curled up around a fussing, farting little bundle of joy? I don’t need to walk upright like a normal human being. I’m already one of the living dead, remember?
So Sam-I-Am slept right next to me all night. She fussed, she farted, she grunted, she kicked me in the stomach and she fed all night long. At least I got a few hours of sleep, and I was able to get up at 6:30 this morning, which means I am finally back on a normal schedule, for today anyway.
Michael made a brilliant observation at breakfast. If Sam is in bed with me nursing, then she’s got to be sleeping on her side, as opposed to her back (which she hates) or on her front (which is a big no-no). Nor is she sitting propped up either, like she would be in the bouncy chair (something else she apparently has grown to hate and seems to lead to her spitting up). This gave me an idea. I went digging through the closet in the nursery and found Cassie’s old back positioner. It was a gift from my sister, but Cassie never seemed to care for it. Basically, it consists of two sturdy, fabric-covered tubes connected to each other by wide strips of fabric. The strips velcro together to adjust the fit. Well, I adjusted that thing as tight as I could and slipped Sam into it on her side this morning. She flailed about for a couple of minutes, trapped between the tubes, then settled down and went to sleep. No fussing, very little farting, and only the occasional grunting noise I’ve come to associate with colic and reflux.
We got an appointment tomorrow with the pediatrician. In the meantime, I’m going to try keeping Sam propped on her side tonight and see if that doesn’t help her sleep. Then maybe, maybe I can rejoin the world of the living. Maybe.
After struggling for two weeks to get Sam to sleep on her own - either in her basinet, her co-sleeper or in her bouncy chair - I caved in early last night and just put her in bed with me. It's apparenlty what she wants. So what if she nurses till my nipples bleed? That’s what lanolin is for. So what if I walk around like Quasimodo because I spent all night curled up around a fussing, farting little bundle of joy? I don’t need to walk upright like a normal human being. I’m already one of the living dead, remember?
So Sam-I-Am slept right next to me all night. She fussed, she farted, she grunted, she kicked me in the stomach and she fed all night long. At least I got a few hours of sleep, and I was able to get up at 6:30 this morning, which means I am finally back on a normal schedule, for today anyway.
Michael made a brilliant observation at breakfast. If Sam is in bed with me nursing, then she’s got to be sleeping on her side, as opposed to her back (which she hates) or on her front (which is a big no-no). Nor is she sitting propped up either, like she would be in the bouncy chair (something else she apparently has grown to hate and seems to lead to her spitting up). This gave me an idea. I went digging through the closet in the nursery and found Cassie’s old back positioner. It was a gift from my sister, but Cassie never seemed to care for it. Basically, it consists of two sturdy, fabric-covered tubes connected to each other by wide strips of fabric. The strips velcro together to adjust the fit. Well, I adjusted that thing as tight as I could and slipped Sam into it on her side this morning. She flailed about for a couple of minutes, trapped between the tubes, then settled down and went to sleep. No fussing, very little farting, and only the occasional grunting noise I’ve come to associate with colic and reflux.
We got an appointment tomorrow with the pediatrician. In the meantime, I’m going to try keeping Sam propped on her side tonight and see if that doesn’t help her sleep. Then maybe, maybe I can rejoin the world of the living. Maybe.
Colic And The Struggle To Stay Sane
Wednesday, June 28th, 2006
I am an evil, evil woman.
For the last two weeks, I have been up all night with a screaming baby. Sam, who slept 24/7 the first two weeks of her life, has now started rousing at 7 PM. I can get her back to sleep for a short time between 8 and 10, but then she’s up all night, screaming, arching her back, pulling her legs up and when she can, passing gas. The symptoms are classic.
It’s colic.
I hate colic.
Cassie had colic from the day she was born, and it made my life a living hell. For anyone who has never had to deal with a colicky baby, let me assure you that there is nothing worse to have to deal with. A colicky baby can not be soothed and will not sleep. They will scream and howl and leave you, the parent, feeling about as useless as a flat tire on a bicycle owned by a fish. There’s no way to plug the hole from which all that ungodly howling issues, except perhaps to nurse, and let me tell you, colicky infants will nurse until they suck the life out of you and they’ll still keep screaming.
I had hoped to escape this fate with Sam. She started out so sedate (or maybe that was sedated - I did have Stadol during my delivery). She was so cuddly and adorable and she never made a peep. But after her two week checkup, all that went to hell in a hand basket. After two weeks of sleepless nights and lots of screaming, I’ve joined the ranks of the evil dead, those who walk by day fueled only by decaf coffee and chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
The real problem with colic is that its effects aren’t just limited to the baby. The whole family suffers, and the mom usually suffers the most. I’m suffering the most, anyway. Cassie sleeps down the hall from us, so she doesn’t have to listen to her sister wail all night. Michael could sleep through an atom bomb going off, so he’s only up when I start kicking him. But I’ve always been a light sleeper, and if Sam even sighs in the middle of the night, I’m instantly awake.
Naturally, I don’t deal well with being awake all night. I get ugly. No, not just ugly. I get FUGLY, with a capital ‘F-U-G-L-Y.’ My transformation from Dr. Jekyll to Mrs. Hyde starts out at 10 PM with some minor irritation as Sam begins to thrash and grunt. I know she’s in pain, and I know what’s coming isn’t her fault. Then by 11 PM the irritation turns to snarling and a little mild swearing as I get up for the third time in an hour to try and soothe her back to sleep. The swearing gets louder and uglier at midnight as Sam’s grunting turns to screaming. By then I’m also cursing at my husband, who is either asleep or pretending to be dead. He learned with Cassie that there’s nothing he can do to calm me down, so he really is better off playing dead until I specifically order him to get up. By 2 AM, I hate Michael just for being in the same room with me. Note, he’s done nothing wrong and he’ll do anything I ask to help me out, but at this point I’m locked into battle with Sam, determined to get her back to sleep on my own. I could ask for help. I could hand Sam off to Michael at any point, but nooooooo. My stubbornness has kicked in and I refuse to accept that I can’t get this kid to sleep by myself. I know she can sleep. She slept all day, damn it, and she did it without needing to be latched on to me. By the time 3 AM rolls around, though, I’m already beaten. Sam is in the bed with me, chawing away at my breast. All I can do is mutter obscenities at my husband and calculate how much money I’m going to take from him in our divorce. She’s asleep by 4 AM and I’m forced to curl up around her to make sure she doesn’t get lost in the covers or rolled over. Naturally, I wake up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
I’ve tried everything to make the situation more bearable. After the fifth night of Sam ending up in the bed with us, I asked Michael to buy a little co-sleeper bed. It’s a little padded box that fits between the two of us at the head of the bed. The theory is the baby will sleep better knowing she’s got her mommy and daddy close by, but won’t be in any danger of getting lost in the bed and suffocating. The reality is that the co-sleeper takes up so much space in the bed there isn’t any room for mommy and daddy, and Sam hates the damned thing anyway. She keeps thrashing around in it and eventually works her way back into the bed with me.
So the co-sleeper was a waste of money. I then tried putting Sam to sleep in the bouncy chair with the vibrator mode on. That worked for about fifteen minutes before the crying started again. After that, I tried massaging Sam, rubbing her little belly in circles and stroking her back. All I got for my troubles was a lot of grunting and screaming and some really loud farts, followed by more grunting and screaming and even louder farts. No matter how much gas I got Sam to expel, she still had more trapped inside her. I could massage that kid all night, and last night I did, but she’s still going to keep screaming.
A couple of times I have handed her off to Michael. The last time, I put Sam in her bouncy chair, hit Michael with a pillow and said, “She’s your f*&^%$ing child too! I quit. You deal with this &*$%.” Then I marched into the guest room where I could still hear Sam screaming.
The other night, I ended up with Sam latched on and nursing all night. By 3 AM, my nipples looked like raw hamburger meat. As I rolled over to switch Sam from one cracked and bleeding nipple to the other, I took a moment to flick Michael in the back of the head. “Ow!” he shouted. “What the heck was that for?” “For not being able to breast feed, you jerk.”
See, I told you I was evil.
Sam is usually sound asleep by 7 AM. Unfortunately, that’s when Cassie wakes up. If I’m lucky, she’ll bounce into the room happy as a lark. If I’m not, she’ll run in screaming about monsters and bad dreams and then throw a fit because she can’t climb into bed with me while I’m nursing Sam. And that really doesn’t do anything to improve my mood. I then crawl out of bed, muttering and swearing, and drag myself downstairs. My mood is so foul, you can see it coming from a mile away. I swear at my husband, I swear at the cats. I swear at anything that moves or dares to cross my path. I do my best not to snap at Cassie, but she’s a three year old and usually in a lousy mood too. She throws one temper tantrum after another as I try my best not to kill her or Michael. Then Michael leaves for work and I can’t decide if that makes the situation better or worse. When he’s around, he can at least distract Cassie, but he also pisses me off just by breathing, so I really don’t know.
Yesterday was probably the worst. I got so little sleep I couldn’t drag myself out of bed until almost eight, two hours past when I had planned to get up. Cassie came running in screaming and then screamed even louder when I told her she was not climbing into bed on top of her sister. Michael took Cassie downstairs and then let her watch an hour of TV. When I finally got up, she was so wired I thought I was going to tear my hair out. I snapped at her and argued with her all morning. By ten, I felt pretty bad about it. My lousy mood really isn’t her fault and I don’t want to be remembered as the miserable bitch she called “Mommy Dearest.” So I decided to take her to the playground. That ended up being a fiasco. We didn’t get out the door until an hour after I had planned. Then we got soaked by a sudden deluge of rain. We stayed though, and the rain let up. Cassie got to play for an hour and then howled as I told her it was time to go. I dragged her screaming back to the car and promised we’d make cookies after lunch if she would just shut up. We had to stop at the grocery store on the way home to get some ingredients for said cookies. By then Sam was awake and screaming to nurse, but I promised we’d make cookies so in we went. Then by the time we got to the checkout counter, I discovered my wallet wasn’t in my purse. Thankfully, the cashier took pity on me and took a check even though I didn’t have any ID.
We got home, made the cookies, and everybody did their fair share of screaming until Cassie went down for her nap. Then and only then did I finally start to calm down. I took a little time to figure out how I was going to handle the next night and the night after that and realized that no plans I made were going to solve the problem. I know from hard experience Sam’s colic is not going to go away any time soon. I am stuck with being FUGLY for the next couple of months or so.
There are some who would argue that I could turn my frown upside down and make it a smile. They would say that my anger and frustration are nothing but a state of mind and I could choose to be sunny and pleasant. In return I would say bite me, bitch. I ain’t called Cynical Woman for nothing.
For the last two weeks, I have been up all night with a screaming baby. Sam, who slept 24/7 the first two weeks of her life, has now started rousing at 7 PM. I can get her back to sleep for a short time between 8 and 10, but then she’s up all night, screaming, arching her back, pulling her legs up and when she can, passing gas. The symptoms are classic.
It’s colic.
I hate colic.
Cassie had colic from the day she was born, and it made my life a living hell. For anyone who has never had to deal with a colicky baby, let me assure you that there is nothing worse to have to deal with. A colicky baby can not be soothed and will not sleep. They will scream and howl and leave you, the parent, feeling about as useless as a flat tire on a bicycle owned by a fish. There’s no way to plug the hole from which all that ungodly howling issues, except perhaps to nurse, and let me tell you, colicky infants will nurse until they suck the life out of you and they’ll still keep screaming.
I had hoped to escape this fate with Sam. She started out so sedate (or maybe that was sedated - I did have Stadol during my delivery). She was so cuddly and adorable and she never made a peep. But after her two week checkup, all that went to hell in a hand basket. After two weeks of sleepless nights and lots of screaming, I’ve joined the ranks of the evil dead, those who walk by day fueled only by decaf coffee and chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
The real problem with colic is that its effects aren’t just limited to the baby. The whole family suffers, and the mom usually suffers the most. I’m suffering the most, anyway. Cassie sleeps down the hall from us, so she doesn’t have to listen to her sister wail all night. Michael could sleep through an atom bomb going off, so he’s only up when I start kicking him. But I’ve always been a light sleeper, and if Sam even sighs in the middle of the night, I’m instantly awake.
Naturally, I don’t deal well with being awake all night. I get ugly. No, not just ugly. I get FUGLY, with a capital ‘F-U-G-L-Y.’ My transformation from Dr. Jekyll to Mrs. Hyde starts out at 10 PM with some minor irritation as Sam begins to thrash and grunt. I know she’s in pain, and I know what’s coming isn’t her fault. Then by 11 PM the irritation turns to snarling and a little mild swearing as I get up for the third time in an hour to try and soothe her back to sleep. The swearing gets louder and uglier at midnight as Sam’s grunting turns to screaming. By then I’m also cursing at my husband, who is either asleep or pretending to be dead. He learned with Cassie that there’s nothing he can do to calm me down, so he really is better off playing dead until I specifically order him to get up. By 2 AM, I hate Michael just for being in the same room with me. Note, he’s done nothing wrong and he’ll do anything I ask to help me out, but at this point I’m locked into battle with Sam, determined to get her back to sleep on my own. I could ask for help. I could hand Sam off to Michael at any point, but nooooooo. My stubbornness has kicked in and I refuse to accept that I can’t get this kid to sleep by myself. I know she can sleep. She slept all day, damn it, and she did it without needing to be latched on to me. By the time 3 AM rolls around, though, I’m already beaten. Sam is in the bed with me, chawing away at my breast. All I can do is mutter obscenities at my husband and calculate how much money I’m going to take from him in our divorce. She’s asleep by 4 AM and I’m forced to curl up around her to make sure she doesn’t get lost in the covers or rolled over. Naturally, I wake up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
I’ve tried everything to make the situation more bearable. After the fifth night of Sam ending up in the bed with us, I asked Michael to buy a little co-sleeper bed. It’s a little padded box that fits between the two of us at the head of the bed. The theory is the baby will sleep better knowing she’s got her mommy and daddy close by, but won’t be in any danger of getting lost in the bed and suffocating. The reality is that the co-sleeper takes up so much space in the bed there isn’t any room for mommy and daddy, and Sam hates the damned thing anyway. She keeps thrashing around in it and eventually works her way back into the bed with me.
So the co-sleeper was a waste of money. I then tried putting Sam to sleep in the bouncy chair with the vibrator mode on. That worked for about fifteen minutes before the crying started again. After that, I tried massaging Sam, rubbing her little belly in circles and stroking her back. All I got for my troubles was a lot of grunting and screaming and some really loud farts, followed by more grunting and screaming and even louder farts. No matter how much gas I got Sam to expel, she still had more trapped inside her. I could massage that kid all night, and last night I did, but she’s still going to keep screaming.
A couple of times I have handed her off to Michael. The last time, I put Sam in her bouncy chair, hit Michael with a pillow and said, “She’s your f*&^%$ing child too! I quit. You deal with this &*$%.” Then I marched into the guest room where I could still hear Sam screaming.
The other night, I ended up with Sam latched on and nursing all night. By 3 AM, my nipples looked like raw hamburger meat. As I rolled over to switch Sam from one cracked and bleeding nipple to the other, I took a moment to flick Michael in the back of the head. “Ow!” he shouted. “What the heck was that for?” “For not being able to breast feed, you jerk.”
See, I told you I was evil.
Sam is usually sound asleep by 7 AM. Unfortunately, that’s when Cassie wakes up. If I’m lucky, she’ll bounce into the room happy as a lark. If I’m not, she’ll run in screaming about monsters and bad dreams and then throw a fit because she can’t climb into bed with me while I’m nursing Sam. And that really doesn’t do anything to improve my mood. I then crawl out of bed, muttering and swearing, and drag myself downstairs. My mood is so foul, you can see it coming from a mile away. I swear at my husband, I swear at the cats. I swear at anything that moves or dares to cross my path. I do my best not to snap at Cassie, but she’s a three year old and usually in a lousy mood too. She throws one temper tantrum after another as I try my best not to kill her or Michael. Then Michael leaves for work and I can’t decide if that makes the situation better or worse. When he’s around, he can at least distract Cassie, but he also pisses me off just by breathing, so I really don’t know.
Yesterday was probably the worst. I got so little sleep I couldn’t drag myself out of bed until almost eight, two hours past when I had planned to get up. Cassie came running in screaming and then screamed even louder when I told her she was not climbing into bed on top of her sister. Michael took Cassie downstairs and then let her watch an hour of TV. When I finally got up, she was so wired I thought I was going to tear my hair out. I snapped at her and argued with her all morning. By ten, I felt pretty bad about it. My lousy mood really isn’t her fault and I don’t want to be remembered as the miserable bitch she called “Mommy Dearest.” So I decided to take her to the playground. That ended up being a fiasco. We didn’t get out the door until an hour after I had planned. Then we got soaked by a sudden deluge of rain. We stayed though, and the rain let up. Cassie got to play for an hour and then howled as I told her it was time to go. I dragged her screaming back to the car and promised we’d make cookies after lunch if she would just shut up. We had to stop at the grocery store on the way home to get some ingredients for said cookies. By then Sam was awake and screaming to nurse, but I promised we’d make cookies so in we went. Then by the time we got to the checkout counter, I discovered my wallet wasn’t in my purse. Thankfully, the cashier took pity on me and took a check even though I didn’t have any ID.
We got home, made the cookies, and everybody did their fair share of screaming until Cassie went down for her nap. Then and only then did I finally start to calm down. I took a little time to figure out how I was going to handle the next night and the night after that and realized that no plans I made were going to solve the problem. I know from hard experience Sam’s colic is not going to go away any time soon. I am stuck with being FUGLY for the next couple of months or so.
There are some who would argue that I could turn my frown upside down and make it a smile. They would say that my anger and frustration are nothing but a state of mind and I could choose to be sunny and pleasant. In return I would say bite me, bitch. I ain’t called Cynical Woman for nothing.
Creativity And The Exhausted Mommy
Friday, June 23rd, 2006
Man, what a night. Sam is having some tummy trouble (i.e. a really bad case of needing to fart but she can’t). I’m not sure if something I ate is passing through to her via my breast milk or if the problem is that she’s still gorging herself because I overproduce. I only nurse her every three hours now, at the doctor’s suggestion, but she still pulls off half the time and starts to spit up.
Poor Sam grunted and wailed most of the night, but was especially bad from 2:30AM until 5:30AM. I had planned to get up at 6 or 6:30, but you know that went right out the window. Sam’s nighttime feedings are now at 8:30PM, 11:30PM, 2:30PM, and 4:30PM. Each feeding lasts at least half an hour (not including time for diaper changes) and most nights I don’t get to bed until 10:30PM, so you can guess how little sleep I’m getting even when Sam isn’t up screaming in the wee hours of the morning.
The big problem with being up all night is that I also need to be up all day. I don’t have time for a nap. I should probably make time, but as I’ve said before, I can sleep when I’m dead. My waking hours right now are divided between taking care of both children, cleaning the house, and doing my work. Oh, and exercise. Can’t forget that. I’ve been able to keep up with most everything that I need to do, but I do find myself suffering in certain areas. Namely in the creativity department. Not with regards to writing though. I’ve been working on a short story the past two weeks, and it’s been going pretty well. It won’t be the best piece of writing I’ve ever done, but the story is coming together and that makes me feel good.
No, my creativity problems are coming in my drawing and graphics work, which really irks me. I started drawing when I was old enough to hold a crayon. At age three or four, I won a prize in an art contest sponsored by the Wonderful World Of Disney. The prize was a View Master Give-A-Show Projector and I still have it tucked away in Cassie’s closet. It still works too.
I drew my way through elementary school, even though we had no formal art classes there. I drew the intermediate and high school, and was voted “Most Artistic” by my class mates my senior year. In college, I drew a comic strip for the Collegiate Times. It was one of the more popular strips in the paper and it ran for four years. And then after that, for some reason, I sort of stopped drawing.
I kept doing art in some form or other, but not the kind I wanted to do. The comic strip was the last thing I can remember doing that really felt creative before I hit the real world. I had wanted to go to art school when I graduated from high school, but my father said no, I was getting a degree in a real field that would pay me money. Well, I got a degree in broadcast journalism and never worked in a radio or TV station. I did work briefly for a local newspaper... selling advertising. That sucked rocks. But every other job I ever got involved art. I did computer graphics for Radford University’s communications department. I designed t-shirts for a silk-screening company that went belly-up. I worked as a clerk in an arts and crafts store (and hated every minute of it - I firmly believe that arts and crafts stores are designed to suck the life and creativity out of their employees). I spent four years drawing computer graphics and designing briefings for a two-star general at Langley Air Force Base. I did animation and web design for the Air Force as well. But my original love, drawing, sort of fell by the wayside.
I tried to keep my creativity alive with other projects. I costumed. I ran a website called Xena Warrior Milkmaid. I started doing 3D graphics, using Poser, Bryce, Carrara and other programs. I got extremely good at making photo-montage comic books. I even put together some cool animated cartoons. But no drawing. No paper on pencil.
Then about two years before Cassie was born, I signed up for a colored pencil class at a local art museum. I loved it. In two years, I only turned out two drawings, but they were the best, most gorgeous pieces of work I’ve ever produced. One is a crayon drawing of an apple that looks so real I think it’s going to fall off the page and hit someone in the head. The other is a drawing of Mary Queen Of The World, a cathedral in Montreal that Michael and I visited when he attended a conference there. I love both drawings, I loved taking that class, but when Cassie was born, I couldn’t figure out how to get back to drawing. Hell, I couldn’t figure out how to get out the door. Cassie was what Dr. Sears would have called a “high need child.” I just called her a screaming terror. No way could I take her into a classroom full of people to draw for two hours.
So I dropped the classes and that was the last time I really did any drawing. Then in February I picked up a book on fantasy cartooning and decided I needed to pick up the old pencil again and get my rear in gear. I have this secret desire to put together a small selection of my own artwork and put it up for auction at a local science fiction convention. I listed that secret desire on my work goals for this quarter. I’m in the midst of coloring a mermaid I drew after reading the book on fantasy cartooning. It looks beautiful, although it’s taking forever to finish.
But it will get finished, and then I’m faced with a real problem. What the hell do I draw next? This is the question that has been plaguing the last two weeks. It’s what’s been keeping me up at night when Sam isn’t screaming. It’s got me so spun up that I don’t know what to do. It’s a creative block and I hate it.
I never had problems figuring out what to draw when I was a kid. I never lacked for ideas. Now I can’t come up with any. I’ve got to jump start my brain, get my visualization skills back online. It’s crucial to my survival as an artist, and guess what, it’s also crucial to me as a mom. My sanity depends on my ability to work. It always has. If I don’t have anything to do beyond take care of the kids and clean the house, I will go nuts. I’m already half-way there, so why make it worse? I’ll be searching for my creative side until I find it. Until then, sleep can wait.
Poor Sam grunted and wailed most of the night, but was especially bad from 2:30AM until 5:30AM. I had planned to get up at 6 or 6:30, but you know that went right out the window. Sam’s nighttime feedings are now at 8:30PM, 11:30PM, 2:30PM, and 4:30PM. Each feeding lasts at least half an hour (not including time for diaper changes) and most nights I don’t get to bed until 10:30PM, so you can guess how little sleep I’m getting even when Sam isn’t up screaming in the wee hours of the morning.
The big problem with being up all night is that I also need to be up all day. I don’t have time for a nap. I should probably make time, but as I’ve said before, I can sleep when I’m dead. My waking hours right now are divided between taking care of both children, cleaning the house, and doing my work. Oh, and exercise. Can’t forget that. I’ve been able to keep up with most everything that I need to do, but I do find myself suffering in certain areas. Namely in the creativity department. Not with regards to writing though. I’ve been working on a short story the past two weeks, and it’s been going pretty well. It won’t be the best piece of writing I’ve ever done, but the story is coming together and that makes me feel good.
No, my creativity problems are coming in my drawing and graphics work, which really irks me. I started drawing when I was old enough to hold a crayon. At age three or four, I won a prize in an art contest sponsored by the Wonderful World Of Disney. The prize was a View Master Give-A-Show Projector and I still have it tucked away in Cassie’s closet. It still works too.
I drew my way through elementary school, even though we had no formal art classes there. I drew the intermediate and high school, and was voted “Most Artistic” by my class mates my senior year. In college, I drew a comic strip for the Collegiate Times. It was one of the more popular strips in the paper and it ran for four years. And then after that, for some reason, I sort of stopped drawing.
I kept doing art in some form or other, but not the kind I wanted to do. The comic strip was the last thing I can remember doing that really felt creative before I hit the real world. I had wanted to go to art school when I graduated from high school, but my father said no, I was getting a degree in a real field that would pay me money. Well, I got a degree in broadcast journalism and never worked in a radio or TV station. I did work briefly for a local newspaper... selling advertising. That sucked rocks. But every other job I ever got involved art. I did computer graphics for Radford University’s communications department. I designed t-shirts for a silk-screening company that went belly-up. I worked as a clerk in an arts and crafts store (and hated every minute of it - I firmly believe that arts and crafts stores are designed to suck the life and creativity out of their employees). I spent four years drawing computer graphics and designing briefings for a two-star general at Langley Air Force Base. I did animation and web design for the Air Force as well. But my original love, drawing, sort of fell by the wayside.
I tried to keep my creativity alive with other projects. I costumed. I ran a website called Xena Warrior Milkmaid. I started doing 3D graphics, using Poser, Bryce, Carrara and other programs. I got extremely good at making photo-montage comic books. I even put together some cool animated cartoons. But no drawing. No paper on pencil.
Then about two years before Cassie was born, I signed up for a colored pencil class at a local art museum. I loved it. In two years, I only turned out two drawings, but they were the best, most gorgeous pieces of work I’ve ever produced. One is a crayon drawing of an apple that looks so real I think it’s going to fall off the page and hit someone in the head. The other is a drawing of Mary Queen Of The World, a cathedral in Montreal that Michael and I visited when he attended a conference there. I love both drawings, I loved taking that class, but when Cassie was born, I couldn’t figure out how to get back to drawing. Hell, I couldn’t figure out how to get out the door. Cassie was what Dr. Sears would have called a “high need child.” I just called her a screaming terror. No way could I take her into a classroom full of people to draw for two hours.
So I dropped the classes and that was the last time I really did any drawing. Then in February I picked up a book on fantasy cartooning and decided I needed to pick up the old pencil again and get my rear in gear. I have this secret desire to put together a small selection of my own artwork and put it up for auction at a local science fiction convention. I listed that secret desire on my work goals for this quarter. I’m in the midst of coloring a mermaid I drew after reading the book on fantasy cartooning. It looks beautiful, although it’s taking forever to finish.
But it will get finished, and then I’m faced with a real problem. What the hell do I draw next? This is the question that has been plaguing the last two weeks. It’s what’s been keeping me up at night when Sam isn’t screaming. It’s got me so spun up that I don’t know what to do. It’s a creative block and I hate it.
I never had problems figuring out what to draw when I was a kid. I never lacked for ideas. Now I can’t come up with any. I’ve got to jump start my brain, get my visualization skills back online. It’s crucial to my survival as an artist, and guess what, it’s also crucial to me as a mom. My sanity depends on my ability to work. It always has. If I don’t have anything to do beyond take care of the kids and clean the house, I will go nuts. I’m already half-way there, so why make it worse? I’ll be searching for my creative side until I find it. Until then, sleep can wait.
And Then There Was One – Michael Heads Back To Work And I Reinstate Martial Law
Thursday, June 22nd, 2006
Michael went back to work yesterday. Actually, I’m not sure he ever really left. The man brought home a flash stick or some such doo-hickey that allowed him to work from his office here. Plus he went in to two meetings while he was on family leave and he spent one morning taking a physical for work. But now he’s really gone daddy gone, back at the office all day and I’m on my own with Cassie and Sam.
I was actually hoping that yesterday would be a complete disaster so that I’d have something funny to report back on this morning. I was certainly expecting it to be a disaster. No such luck. I am sorry to say that yesterday didn’t go badly at all. I didn’t get everything done that I wanted to but I came pretty close, and the house was still in one piece by the time Michael got home so that was good. It took me a little longer than I would have liked to get the chores done, and we didn’t spend nearly enough time outside playing, but I’m sure my schedule will smooth out in another couple of weeks.
The biggest problem I’m having right now is that Sam keeps gorging herself when she nurses, leading to some rather explosive spit-ups and a bad case of the late evening crankies and colicky behavior. Her belly gets tied up in knots with gas, and the only thing that soothes her is nursing some more, which in the end only makes the problem worse. I got her to take a binky for a little while last night, but that only delayed her screaming for fifteen minutes. Sam ended up spending most of the night in bed with me while I patted her back non-stop and tried to say soothing things like, “You know you don’t really want to nurse again. If you keep eating like this, you’ll ruin your girlish figure.” It made it hard to sleep through the night, but with a new baby, what did I expect?
Only one thing of real interest happened yesterday. I gave Cassie a spanking at the dojo. I normally try to avoid spanking her, but there are times when I think a good swat on the behind is the only way to straighten out bad behavior. Yesterday’s offense? Outright defiance and a temper tantrum. I took the kids to the dojo to visit while Michael took the afternoon class. Cassie was pretty good and Sam just sort of snoozed through it. After class was over, Cassie asked to play on the mat. We said she could play until we were ready to leave. Ten minutes later, Michael and I were all packed up and ready to go. I told Cassie to come off the mat and put her shoes on, and she immediately threw herself down on the floor and screamed “NO!”
If I have one rule that Cassie should know by now, it’s this - no temper tantrums allowed in the dojo. The dojo is a place where people come to learn, and the students pay good money to take classes there. They do not pay to hear my child scream. Cassie may sit and watch the class, she may play quietly on the side, she may enjoy a snack and watch a video with the other kids, and she may even talk with people as they come on and off the mat, but she is under no circumstances allowed to throw a tantrum. This is an adult class, taught during the day, and I consider myself extremely lucky to be able to attend. Not a lot of instructors would allow a small child to sit on the sidelines and play by themselves while Mommy takes class. The chance of said child being loud or ill-behaved and distracting the class is just too much for some teachers. So far, though, I’ve only had to haul Cassie out of there once. It was extremely disruptive and embarrassing, and after that one incident I made it clear that temper tantrums in the dojo were an automatic spanking offense.
Well, Cassie apparently forgot the rule about no tantrums. I blame three weeks of enjoying someone else’s style of discipline - not that my parents or Michael did a bad job of disciplining Cassie while I made the adjustment to having Sam. They took good care of my girl. They just don’t rule with an iron fist like I do. So Cassie threw her tantrum, right there in the middle of the mat where everyone could see her. I managed to order her to the sidelines, still screaming, so she could put on her shoes, but then she refused to turn and bow when she stepped off the mat. That’s a big no-no. Everyone, and I mean everyone, bows when coming on and off the mat. Cassie was trained from the get-go to bow, and she knows she’s supposed to do it. When I reminded her to bow, guess what she said? That’s right. “NO!”
I gave her three chances to bow and then the spanking started. Each time Cassie refused to bow, she got a swat on the behind. After the third swat, I put her over my knee, pulled down her underpants and gave her three hard spanks. She was howling by this time, but she still screamed “NO!” when I told her to bow, so she went over my knee again. And she said it again after that, but when I went to spank her again, boy did she move fast. She ran right over to the edge of the mat, bowed, and came back over crying. I got her shoes on and hustled her out the door as quickly as I could.
I sound like a tyrant, I suppose, spanking a child for refusing to bow to a mat, of all things. But there are rules in that dojo, and one of them I’ve already mentioned is that everyone who steps onto that mat has to bow. It’s about respect for the traditions of the martial art, and for the teacher and all the teachers who came before. If Cassie wants on that mat, she has to follow the dojo rules. If she wants to avoid a spanking, she has to follow my rules.
There’s a newspaper columnist, John Rosemond, who talks about raising kids. He’s a conservative, and I don’t always agree with what he has to say (especially not his views on single parenting and how all moms need to stay home rather than work), but I certainly agree with him on one thing. The most important thing you can teach your child is how to be well-behaved. Kids need to be able to say please, thank you, and excuse me. They need to know how to share and how to take turns. They need to understand how to play nice and how not to hit or bite other kids. And they need to understand that they’re choices and actions have consequences, memorable consequences that will leave a lasting impression. In other words, if a child breaks the rules, then they get punished.
I’m pretty strict along those lines. I demand that Cassie speak respectfully and always say please and thank you. I refuse to let my child act like a little monster, and it pays off. The one thing that amazes me when we go out is the number of people who tell me how extremely well behaved Cassie is. Of course she’s well-behaved, but if she’s really that much better behaved than other kids, we’ve got problems. Every child needs to learn respect and obedience, otherwise, how can they learn anything else? I’m not sending my child to school if she can’t behave. Teachers don’t get paid enough for that, thank you very much (and I know this because two of my best friends are teachers).
I try always to make Cassie’s punishments fit the crime. If she won’t help clean up after dinner, then she doesn’t get desert. If she won’t cooperate during her bath, then she doesn’t get stories before bed. If we’re in the toy store and she throws a fit because I won’t buy her everything she wants, she gets absolutely nothing, including whatever I promised to get her in the first place. Time outs work well as punishments for talking back and throwing things. And for temper tantrums? Well, if we’re at home, Cassie is only allowed to throw tempter tantrums up in her room. If we’re out, then we leave and go straight home so she can throw her tantrum in her room. Only a swat on the behind seems to get this kid’s attention. But for all out melt-downs like the one she had the other day, only a swat on the behind seems to get through to her, and yesterday even that took a little time to sink in.
Anyway, as I said at the beginning, Michael is back at work, the grandparents are long gone, and it’s just me and the kids now. It’s time to reinstate the rules and get back to business as usual. Cassie is bouncing back to her normal sunny, respectful self and I predict I’m not going to have to dispense many spankings in the future. We’re on an even keel here, and while that may not make for interesting blog entries, at least I’m not pulling my hair out.
I was actually hoping that yesterday would be a complete disaster so that I’d have something funny to report back on this morning. I was certainly expecting it to be a disaster. No such luck. I am sorry to say that yesterday didn’t go badly at all. I didn’t get everything done that I wanted to but I came pretty close, and the house was still in one piece by the time Michael got home so that was good. It took me a little longer than I would have liked to get the chores done, and we didn’t spend nearly enough time outside playing, but I’m sure my schedule will smooth out in another couple of weeks.
The biggest problem I’m having right now is that Sam keeps gorging herself when she nurses, leading to some rather explosive spit-ups and a bad case of the late evening crankies and colicky behavior. Her belly gets tied up in knots with gas, and the only thing that soothes her is nursing some more, which in the end only makes the problem worse. I got her to take a binky for a little while last night, but that only delayed her screaming for fifteen minutes. Sam ended up spending most of the night in bed with me while I patted her back non-stop and tried to say soothing things like, “You know you don’t really want to nurse again. If you keep eating like this, you’ll ruin your girlish figure.” It made it hard to sleep through the night, but with a new baby, what did I expect?
Only one thing of real interest happened yesterday. I gave Cassie a spanking at the dojo. I normally try to avoid spanking her, but there are times when I think a good swat on the behind is the only way to straighten out bad behavior. Yesterday’s offense? Outright defiance and a temper tantrum. I took the kids to the dojo to visit while Michael took the afternoon class. Cassie was pretty good and Sam just sort of snoozed through it. After class was over, Cassie asked to play on the mat. We said she could play until we were ready to leave. Ten minutes later, Michael and I were all packed up and ready to go. I told Cassie to come off the mat and put her shoes on, and she immediately threw herself down on the floor and screamed “NO!”
If I have one rule that Cassie should know by now, it’s this - no temper tantrums allowed in the dojo. The dojo is a place where people come to learn, and the students pay good money to take classes there. They do not pay to hear my child scream. Cassie may sit and watch the class, she may play quietly on the side, she may enjoy a snack and watch a video with the other kids, and she may even talk with people as they come on and off the mat, but she is under no circumstances allowed to throw a tantrum. This is an adult class, taught during the day, and I consider myself extremely lucky to be able to attend. Not a lot of instructors would allow a small child to sit on the sidelines and play by themselves while Mommy takes class. The chance of said child being loud or ill-behaved and distracting the class is just too much for some teachers. So far, though, I’ve only had to haul Cassie out of there once. It was extremely disruptive and embarrassing, and after that one incident I made it clear that temper tantrums in the dojo were an automatic spanking offense.
Well, Cassie apparently forgot the rule about no tantrums. I blame three weeks of enjoying someone else’s style of discipline - not that my parents or Michael did a bad job of disciplining Cassie while I made the adjustment to having Sam. They took good care of my girl. They just don’t rule with an iron fist like I do. So Cassie threw her tantrum, right there in the middle of the mat where everyone could see her. I managed to order her to the sidelines, still screaming, so she could put on her shoes, but then she refused to turn and bow when she stepped off the mat. That’s a big no-no. Everyone, and I mean everyone, bows when coming on and off the mat. Cassie was trained from the get-go to bow, and she knows she’s supposed to do it. When I reminded her to bow, guess what she said? That’s right. “NO!”
I gave her three chances to bow and then the spanking started. Each time Cassie refused to bow, she got a swat on the behind. After the third swat, I put her over my knee, pulled down her underpants and gave her three hard spanks. She was howling by this time, but she still screamed “NO!” when I told her to bow, so she went over my knee again. And she said it again after that, but when I went to spank her again, boy did she move fast. She ran right over to the edge of the mat, bowed, and came back over crying. I got her shoes on and hustled her out the door as quickly as I could.
I sound like a tyrant, I suppose, spanking a child for refusing to bow to a mat, of all things. But there are rules in that dojo, and one of them I’ve already mentioned is that everyone who steps onto that mat has to bow. It’s about respect for the traditions of the martial art, and for the teacher and all the teachers who came before. If Cassie wants on that mat, she has to follow the dojo rules. If she wants to avoid a spanking, she has to follow my rules.
There’s a newspaper columnist, John Rosemond, who talks about raising kids. He’s a conservative, and I don’t always agree with what he has to say (especially not his views on single parenting and how all moms need to stay home rather than work), but I certainly agree with him on one thing. The most important thing you can teach your child is how to be well-behaved. Kids need to be able to say please, thank you, and excuse me. They need to know how to share and how to take turns. They need to understand how to play nice and how not to hit or bite other kids. And they need to understand that they’re choices and actions have consequences, memorable consequences that will leave a lasting impression. In other words, if a child breaks the rules, then they get punished.
I’m pretty strict along those lines. I demand that Cassie speak respectfully and always say please and thank you. I refuse to let my child act like a little monster, and it pays off. The one thing that amazes me when we go out is the number of people who tell me how extremely well behaved Cassie is. Of course she’s well-behaved, but if she’s really that much better behaved than other kids, we’ve got problems. Every child needs to learn respect and obedience, otherwise, how can they learn anything else? I’m not sending my child to school if she can’t behave. Teachers don’t get paid enough for that, thank you very much (and I know this because two of my best friends are teachers).
I try always to make Cassie’s punishments fit the crime. If she won’t help clean up after dinner, then she doesn’t get desert. If she won’t cooperate during her bath, then she doesn’t get stories before bed. If we’re in the toy store and she throws a fit because I won’t buy her everything she wants, she gets absolutely nothing, including whatever I promised to get her in the first place. Time outs work well as punishments for talking back and throwing things. And for temper tantrums? Well, if we’re at home, Cassie is only allowed to throw tempter tantrums up in her room. If we’re out, then we leave and go straight home so she can throw her tantrum in her room. Only a swat on the behind seems to get this kid’s attention. But for all out melt-downs like the one she had the other day, only a swat on the behind seems to get through to her, and yesterday even that took a little time to sink in.
Anyway, as I said at the beginning, Michael is back at work, the grandparents are long gone, and it’s just me and the kids now. It’s time to reinstate the rules and get back to business as usual. Cassie is bouncing back to her normal sunny, respectful self and I predict I’m not going to have to dispense many spankings in the future. We’re on an even keel here, and while that may not make for interesting blog entries, at least I’m not pulling my hair out.
How To Get A Good Night’s Sleep – A Survival Guide For Moms With Infants, Young Children, And Other Bedtime Monsters
Saturday, June 17th, 2006
Now that I am a mother of two children, one infant and one preschooler, I feel suddenly qualified to dispense a bit of wisdom to those moms just starting out. If you’ve just had a baby, or are getting ready to have one, or are even thinking about having one, I have a few helpful pointers for you. Here is my personal, time-tested, step-by-step procedure for getting a good night’s sleep. Starting at...
8:00 PM - You’ve had a long day, chasing after one child and hauling around the other. If you’re in luck, Daddy is home. Hand him the oldest child for a bath, a sippy cup of milk, and a few stories before bed. Emphasize that the oldest child needs to be tucked in no later than 9 PM. Otherwise, she’ll be cranky as a bear the next day. Not that he cares, because he gets to blithely head off to work while you stay home to deal with the little monster.
8:10 PM - Take the baby upstairs. Put her in her basinet and listen to her fuss, cry, and then howl while you try to prepare for the next day. You know that if you don’t pull out your clothes, down to your underwear, for tomorrow morning, there’s no way in hell you’re going to get dressed before 5 PM tomorrow. You also know that this is your only chance to get a shower as well, so if you can stand it, let the baby scream until your ears bleed. The shower should muffle most of the noise.
8:25 PM - hop out of the shower with shampoo still in your hair. You can’t stand the screaming anymore and your husband can’t find “The Pigeon Eats A Hot Dog,” which is currently your eldest daughter’s favorite book. Locate the book, comb out the last of the shampoo and throw on some PJs. Realize you forgot to dry yourself off and toss the now soaking PJs in the hamper. Dry off and put on fresh PJs. Pick up your shrieking infant offspring and collapse in the glider for half an hour of breastfeeding. Try not to swear as your baby chomps down on your nipple in revenge for letting her cry for a few minutes.
8:30 PM - kiss your eldest child goodnight when she comes in to see you.
8:32 PM - kiss your eldest child goodnight again when she comes in searching for the sippy cup she’s lost.
8:37 PM - kiss your eldest child goodnight for the third time and tell your husband you’ve already got your hands full with the infant; could he please put the eldest child to bed before you get irritated?
8:53 PM - your baby has sucked the right breast dry and is too full to even consider the left breast, which is about to burst. At least she’s nodding off, so put her in her bouncy chair (because the only other place she’ll sleep is in bed next to you) and pray she stays asleep for the next two hours.
8:54 PM - take eldest child firmly by the hand and escort her out of your bedroom, explaining to her that the baby was asleep and she didn’t want to be woken up. Pick up the baby and let her chew on your already leaking left breast for ten minutes.
9:04 PM - put the now sleeping baby back in her bouncy chair. Head off eldest child at the door before she comes running into your room again. Take eldest child back to bed. Get down on your hands and knees and check for monsters under her bed. Assure her you’ve sent them all packing and they will not return tonight. Dig out extra night lights and turn the hall light on. Kiss eldest child goodnight again and head back to your own room, where your husband has already managed to fall asleep.
9:06 PM - lie awake for the next hour and a half, listening to your husband snore. Wonder where the hell he learned to make noise like that.
10:33 PM - the baby wakes up crying and hungry. Get up, change her diaper. Pick her up. Hear her make a horrible farting noise as she poops in her clean diaper. Put her back on the table and change her diaper again. Repeat twice more. Collapse in the glider with baby and nurse her until you fall asleep.
11:45 PM - wake up with a horrible crick in your neck because you fell asleep in the glider again. Put the baby back in her bouncy chair. Climb into bed and doze off.
11:52 PM - wake up as eldest child runs into your room screaming about monsters under her bed. Wonder why she always comes to you with these late night problems and not her father who, by the way, is still snoring loud enough to make the house shake. Take eldest daughter back to bed, check for monsters again and reassure her there are no such things as monsters, although secretly you think small children might qualify as such.
Midnight - lie awake in bed for another hour, listening to your darling husband snore some more. Wonder where you would hide his body if you really, really had to.
01:30 AM - the baby wakes up crying again. Nudge your husband and tell him to change the baby. Stumble around in the dark trying to find the bathroom because you really have to pee. Do your business and return to the bed, only to discover darling husband went back to sleep. Swear at husband, who is snoring too loudly to hear it, and change the baby yourself. Plop back in the glider again and plan to stay awake this time while you nurse. Promptly fall asleep.
02:28 AM - wake up in the glider with an even worse pain in your neck. Eldest child is tugging on your sleeve, crying about monsters again. Realize the cats are probably jumping into her bed and waking her up. Fantasize about crucifying all three cats in your front yard, not far from where you plan to bury your husband. Put baby, who is no longer sleeping peacefully, back into the bouncy chair. Take eldest child back to her bedroom. Chase out the cats with a few choice swear words that you hope afterwards eldest child will not remember and repeat. Explain to eldest child there are NO MONSTERS and she really, really needs to stay in her own bed for the rest of the night. Trudge off to bed only to remember the baby is now awake again and wants to nurse some more. Back in the glider you go.
03:47 AM - the baby refuses to fall asleep. Instead, she stares at you with one beady blue eye, daring you to put her down in the bouncy chair again. You do. She howls. You stick your fingers in your ears. No good. She’s still howling, loud enough to be heard over your husband’s snoring. Husband actually wakes up. Tell him it’s his turn to rock the baby and curl up and go to sleep. Give husband a kick if he doesn’t get out the bed.
04:12 AM - husband wakes you up and tells you the baby wants to nurse again. You get out of bed and take the baby. He climbs back into bed and starts snoring again. You realize death is too good for him.
04:28 AM - your neck is so sore and stiff you can no longer sleep in the glider. The baby seems to have permanently attached herself to your right nipple, while the left is leaking breast milk like crazy. In fact, you’re pretty much soaking in the stuff but are too tired to care. Climb out of the glider and crawl into bed with the baby still attached. Pray for some meager measure of quiet as you try to curl up around your sleeping lump of a child. Discover your husband lost his pillow in the middle of the night and stole yours because, hey, you weren’t using it.
04:58 AM - just as you are about to doze off, the bedroom door opens yet again. Eldest child runs in crying incoherently about cats and monsters. Get up with baby still attached to your right breast. Take eldest child back to her room and order her into bed. Tell her she can not get up again until morning. Go back to your own bed. Discover husband has now commandeered your half of the covers as well as your pillow. Swear at husband until you are blue in the face. He still can’t hear you over the snoring. Get back into bed and kick husband until he relinquishes his hold on the blanket.
05:16 AM - Eldest child sneaks into your room and creeps quietly to your side of the bed. In a loud voice, she announces “Mommy! It’s morning!” Open your eyes and discover that yes, the sun is actually rising. In China. Tell eldest child to go back to bed now. Feel incredibly guilty as she runs crying back to bed. Get up, put now sleeping baby back in her bouncy chair, and go to your eldest child. Give her a big hug and a kiss and apologize for snapping at her. Ask her nicely to stay in bed until you’re ready to get her up. Kiss her one more time and head back to bed. Baby is asleep, husband has quit snoring, eldest child has promised to stay in bed. Finally you can get some sleep.
05:30 AM - the alarm goes off because you, you idiot, had actually planned to get up early and get a jump on the day. Everybody except your darling husband wakes up. The baby is crying. Eldest child runs into the room asking if it’s time to get up yet. You sit on the edge of the bed and weep in despair. Hope you remembered to program the coffee maker, at least.
And that’s it, Helen’s step-by-step plan for getting a good night’s sleep when you have children. What’s that? You don’t see any sleeping actually written into the plan? Well what did you expect? You’re a mom. You can sleep when you’re dead.
8:00 PM - You’ve had a long day, chasing after one child and hauling around the other. If you’re in luck, Daddy is home. Hand him the oldest child for a bath, a sippy cup of milk, and a few stories before bed. Emphasize that the oldest child needs to be tucked in no later than 9 PM. Otherwise, she’ll be cranky as a bear the next day. Not that he cares, because he gets to blithely head off to work while you stay home to deal with the little monster.
8:10 PM - Take the baby upstairs. Put her in her basinet and listen to her fuss, cry, and then howl while you try to prepare for the next day. You know that if you don’t pull out your clothes, down to your underwear, for tomorrow morning, there’s no way in hell you’re going to get dressed before 5 PM tomorrow. You also know that this is your only chance to get a shower as well, so if you can stand it, let the baby scream until your ears bleed. The shower should muffle most of the noise.
8:25 PM - hop out of the shower with shampoo still in your hair. You can’t stand the screaming anymore and your husband can’t find “The Pigeon Eats A Hot Dog,” which is currently your eldest daughter’s favorite book. Locate the book, comb out the last of the shampoo and throw on some PJs. Realize you forgot to dry yourself off and toss the now soaking PJs in the hamper. Dry off and put on fresh PJs. Pick up your shrieking infant offspring and collapse in the glider for half an hour of breastfeeding. Try not to swear as your baby chomps down on your nipple in revenge for letting her cry for a few minutes.
8:30 PM - kiss your eldest child goodnight when she comes in to see you.
8:32 PM - kiss your eldest child goodnight again when she comes in searching for the sippy cup she’s lost.
8:37 PM - kiss your eldest child goodnight for the third time and tell your husband you’ve already got your hands full with the infant; could he please put the eldest child to bed before you get irritated?
8:53 PM - your baby has sucked the right breast dry and is too full to even consider the left breast, which is about to burst. At least she’s nodding off, so put her in her bouncy chair (because the only other place she’ll sleep is in bed next to you) and pray she stays asleep for the next two hours.
8:54 PM - take eldest child firmly by the hand and escort her out of your bedroom, explaining to her that the baby was asleep and she didn’t want to be woken up. Pick up the baby and let her chew on your already leaking left breast for ten minutes.
9:04 PM - put the now sleeping baby back in her bouncy chair. Head off eldest child at the door before she comes running into your room again. Take eldest child back to bed. Get down on your hands and knees and check for monsters under her bed. Assure her you’ve sent them all packing and they will not return tonight. Dig out extra night lights and turn the hall light on. Kiss eldest child goodnight again and head back to your own room, where your husband has already managed to fall asleep.
9:06 PM - lie awake for the next hour and a half, listening to your husband snore. Wonder where the hell he learned to make noise like that.
10:33 PM - the baby wakes up crying and hungry. Get up, change her diaper. Pick her up. Hear her make a horrible farting noise as she poops in her clean diaper. Put her back on the table and change her diaper again. Repeat twice more. Collapse in the glider with baby and nurse her until you fall asleep.
11:45 PM - wake up with a horrible crick in your neck because you fell asleep in the glider again. Put the baby back in her bouncy chair. Climb into bed and doze off.
11:52 PM - wake up as eldest child runs into your room screaming about monsters under her bed. Wonder why she always comes to you with these late night problems and not her father who, by the way, is still snoring loud enough to make the house shake. Take eldest daughter back to bed, check for monsters again and reassure her there are no such things as monsters, although secretly you think small children might qualify as such.
Midnight - lie awake in bed for another hour, listening to your darling husband snore some more. Wonder where you would hide his body if you really, really had to.
01:30 AM - the baby wakes up crying again. Nudge your husband and tell him to change the baby. Stumble around in the dark trying to find the bathroom because you really have to pee. Do your business and return to the bed, only to discover darling husband went back to sleep. Swear at husband, who is snoring too loudly to hear it, and change the baby yourself. Plop back in the glider again and plan to stay awake this time while you nurse. Promptly fall asleep.
02:28 AM - wake up in the glider with an even worse pain in your neck. Eldest child is tugging on your sleeve, crying about monsters again. Realize the cats are probably jumping into her bed and waking her up. Fantasize about crucifying all three cats in your front yard, not far from where you plan to bury your husband. Put baby, who is no longer sleeping peacefully, back into the bouncy chair. Take eldest child back to her bedroom. Chase out the cats with a few choice swear words that you hope afterwards eldest child will not remember and repeat. Explain to eldest child there are NO MONSTERS and she really, really needs to stay in her own bed for the rest of the night. Trudge off to bed only to remember the baby is now awake again and wants to nurse some more. Back in the glider you go.
03:47 AM - the baby refuses to fall asleep. Instead, she stares at you with one beady blue eye, daring you to put her down in the bouncy chair again. You do. She howls. You stick your fingers in your ears. No good. She’s still howling, loud enough to be heard over your husband’s snoring. Husband actually wakes up. Tell him it’s his turn to rock the baby and curl up and go to sleep. Give husband a kick if he doesn’t get out the bed.
04:12 AM - husband wakes you up and tells you the baby wants to nurse again. You get out of bed and take the baby. He climbs back into bed and starts snoring again. You realize death is too good for him.
04:28 AM - your neck is so sore and stiff you can no longer sleep in the glider. The baby seems to have permanently attached herself to your right nipple, while the left is leaking breast milk like crazy. In fact, you’re pretty much soaking in the stuff but are too tired to care. Climb out of the glider and crawl into bed with the baby still attached. Pray for some meager measure of quiet as you try to curl up around your sleeping lump of a child. Discover your husband lost his pillow in the middle of the night and stole yours because, hey, you weren’t using it.
04:58 AM - just as you are about to doze off, the bedroom door opens yet again. Eldest child runs in crying incoherently about cats and monsters. Get up with baby still attached to your right breast. Take eldest child back to her room and order her into bed. Tell her she can not get up again until morning. Go back to your own bed. Discover husband has now commandeered your half of the covers as well as your pillow. Swear at husband until you are blue in the face. He still can’t hear you over the snoring. Get back into bed and kick husband until he relinquishes his hold on the blanket.
05:16 AM - Eldest child sneaks into your room and creeps quietly to your side of the bed. In a loud voice, she announces “Mommy! It’s morning!” Open your eyes and discover that yes, the sun is actually rising. In China. Tell eldest child to go back to bed now. Feel incredibly guilty as she runs crying back to bed. Get up, put now sleeping baby back in her bouncy chair, and go to your eldest child. Give her a big hug and a kiss and apologize for snapping at her. Ask her nicely to stay in bed until you’re ready to get her up. Kiss her one more time and head back to bed. Baby is asleep, husband has quit snoring, eldest child has promised to stay in bed. Finally you can get some sleep.
05:30 AM - the alarm goes off because you, you idiot, had actually planned to get up early and get a jump on the day. Everybody except your darling husband wakes up. The baby is crying. Eldest child runs into the room asking if it’s time to get up yet. You sit on the edge of the bed and weep in despair. Hope you remembered to program the coffee maker, at least.
And that’s it, Helen’s step-by-step plan for getting a good night’s sleep when you have children. What’s that? You don’t see any sleeping actually written into the plan? Well what did you expect? You’re a mom. You can sleep when you’re dead.
The Three P’s of Parenthood – Pee, Poop, and Puke
Friday, June 16th, 2006
No adventure in parenthood would be complete without a few tales on the three P’s - pee, poop, and puke. It’s a fact that new mothers can spend hours discussing the contents of dirty diapers. They also like to compare the latest spit up stains on their clothes. When a child is sick, moms can spin epic yarns about how much vomit and diarrhea they had to clean up. All of this means one thing.
Motherhood is one hell of a messy job.
I’ve been dealing with the three P’s ever since Cassie was born three and a half years ago. Her first week of life, I obsessed over whether she produced enough poop and pee. The nurses in the maternity ward had given me a neat little form to fill out that listed times I nursed Cassie, times we changed her diaper, and the contents of those diapers. It was sort of an input/output tracking sheet, I guess you could say. The outputs were referred to as “S” (solid) and “W” (wet), and Cassie was expected to produce a certain number of solids and wets per day. I’ll let you figure out what solid and wet stood for.
So I dutifully recorded every little solid and wet my daughter made for the first week, and I sweated over whether she was meeting her quota. Then after the first week, I quit worrying about whether she was making enough so-called solids and wets and began worrying about how to get solid and wet stains out of her clothes. And my clothes. And the carpet. And the bed spread. And off the wall.
Cassie became champ at producing solids and wets, and she liked to show off her talents. I could never change a diaper without getting the “fountain of youth” - a flood of pee that squirted straight up from her little hoo-hoo and flooded the entire changing table. Didn’t matter if I dropped a wash cloth over her while I was changing her. Didn’t matter if I put a clean diaper under her immediately to soak up and messes on the table. She would wait for that fraction of a second when she was unprotected by anything absorbent and that’s when she’d cut loose. I reckon she soaked at least three changing pad covers a day, and usually forced me to change outfits at least once due to her excessive peeing.
The pee, however, was nothing compared to the poop. Early on, we nicknamed Cassie Slurpee Butt. If you have never seen the poop of a breastfed baby, let me tell you, it looks exactly like some fancy brand of mustard blended with a banana slurpee. It’s seedy, yellow, and just thick enough to go splat when it hits the walls. It can also spurt out the rear end like water from a fire hose. I remember one particular afternoon when Michael was changing her, Cassie just let rip and a river of poop came shooting out her tiny behind. I estimate she ejected half her body weight in poop, causing a big, messy, yellow pool to form around her on the changing table. Fortunately, there was a lip on the end of that table that acted as a levee; otherwise our carpet would have taken the brunt of Cassie’s natural disaster, and I don’t think even FEMA would have paid for that.
Sam has similar talents, of course, although she employs different methods. Rather than spray pee in a fountain, she prefers the old Nile River flood plain method, where she very sneakily leaks a stream of pee that you don’t notice until it’s deep enough to grow crops in. As for her pooping skills... well, I’ve taken to calling her “Bullet Butt.” Sam doesn’t give off rivers of poop, but instead shoots out concentrated pellets that fly all the way across the room to her intended target. Frequently, Sam will wait until I’ve lifted her little butt off the pad to slip a diaper under her and then she’ll shoot, using the higher trajectory to aim for more distant targets. So far, she’s managed to hit the bedspread on the far side of our bedroom and yesterday she nearly took out one of the cats.
You’d think between all the pee and the poop that moms would have enough to clean up in the house. Not so! Puke and spit-up, though not as frequent as poop and pee, do make up a considerable amount of mess in a mommy’s life and you never know when they’re going to happen. I remember earlier this winter, Cassie came down with her first case of stomach flu. We didn’t even know she was sick. We just put her to bed that night. Then three hours later, I woke up to hear my daughter crying in her bed. I walked in and was nearly knocked flat by the smell of sour milk and vomit. Cassie had woken up and puked all over herself and her bed. I went in to calm her down and that’s when she puked all over me. I had to carry Cassie up to the office to get Michael. I couldn’t put her down without risking puke dropping all over the floor. Of course, when we walked in, Michael just stared at us like a deer caught in the headlights. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Well,” I said, trying not to blow my top, “you could help me give Cassie a bath, and then maybe you could change the sheets on her bed, unless you expect her to sleep in a pile of puke tonight!”
It’s then that I came to realize my husband has no idea how to handle messes like that. Michael wasn’t bad with diapers. In fact, he’s really good about doing it when I ask him too. But when confronted with a bucket-load of puke, his brain just turns off. I had to direct my husband in every step of the clean up procedure. First step? Get the sick, screaming child into the tub and undress her. Second step, one parent (Daddy) changes the bed sheets while the second parent (Mommy) bathes the kid. Third step, find clean clothes for everyone who’s been puked on, namely the still-screaming child and the very frustrated mother. Fourth step, take everything that’s been puked on and run it through the washing machine, and no, don’t bother asking if Mommy wants to wash that stuff by hand. The answer is a definite “NO!”
I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad that night if Cassie had just puked on me once, but right after I got us both cleaned up, she did it again. I was sitting on the bed, holding her and trying to calm her down. She still didn’t feel well, but I couldn’t understand why she was screaming so loudly. Then she opened her mouth extra-wide and out came a gallon of half-digested milk (Cassie drinks a lot of milk, by the way). Michael said it looked like a fat snake of white cheese slowly pouring out of her mouth and onto me. I thought it looked like someone had dumped a bucket of ricotta cheese all over me. It was impressive, to say the least, and extremely messy. Once again, I stood there holding my screaming child, both of us covered in puke. Once again, my husband the aerospace engineer stood there and stared, as slack-jawed and dim-witted as a sitcom husband.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Well what?” he replied.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” I prompted.
“Like what?”
“LIKE GET A TOWEL, YOU MORON!”
With a bit of shouting, I was able to direct Michael through the proper clean-up procedure yet again. This time, I took a bath with Cassie, who was suddenly feeling much better. She danced around in the tub, singing and laughing until she finally wore herself out. I put her to bed and slept on the floor next to her, with a bucket ready just in case.
Sam’s spit-ups have been minor compared to that night, but still pretty stinky and messy. She doesn’t have the capacity to produce a gallon of half-digested food, but she spew a fountain of breast milk at my best friend’s house last week, one big enough to coat her face and ruin my favorite Hawaiian shirt. It reminded me of Linda Blair for some reason. Not to be outdone, Cassie puked the next night at the dinner table. Never fear, she wasn’t ill. She was just talking too fast while eating Chinese and drinking club soda. At least this time she didn’t scream when she was done.
Yep, pee, poop, and puke and the three main messes of a mother’s life. As I wade around in all this mess, I can only blame myself. After all, I’m the one who agreed to have kids. Gotta take the stinky mess that goes with them as well. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go. Someone needs her diaper changed.
Motherhood is one hell of a messy job.
I’ve been dealing with the three P’s ever since Cassie was born three and a half years ago. Her first week of life, I obsessed over whether she produced enough poop and pee. The nurses in the maternity ward had given me a neat little form to fill out that listed times I nursed Cassie, times we changed her diaper, and the contents of those diapers. It was sort of an input/output tracking sheet, I guess you could say. The outputs were referred to as “S” (solid) and “W” (wet), and Cassie was expected to produce a certain number of solids and wets per day. I’ll let you figure out what solid and wet stood for.
So I dutifully recorded every little solid and wet my daughter made for the first week, and I sweated over whether she was meeting her quota. Then after the first week, I quit worrying about whether she was making enough so-called solids and wets and began worrying about how to get solid and wet stains out of her clothes. And my clothes. And the carpet. And the bed spread. And off the wall.
Cassie became champ at producing solids and wets, and she liked to show off her talents. I could never change a diaper without getting the “fountain of youth” - a flood of pee that squirted straight up from her little hoo-hoo and flooded the entire changing table. Didn’t matter if I dropped a wash cloth over her while I was changing her. Didn’t matter if I put a clean diaper under her immediately to soak up and messes on the table. She would wait for that fraction of a second when she was unprotected by anything absorbent and that’s when she’d cut loose. I reckon she soaked at least three changing pad covers a day, and usually forced me to change outfits at least once due to her excessive peeing.
The pee, however, was nothing compared to the poop. Early on, we nicknamed Cassie Slurpee Butt. If you have never seen the poop of a breastfed baby, let me tell you, it looks exactly like some fancy brand of mustard blended with a banana slurpee. It’s seedy, yellow, and just thick enough to go splat when it hits the walls. It can also spurt out the rear end like water from a fire hose. I remember one particular afternoon when Michael was changing her, Cassie just let rip and a river of poop came shooting out her tiny behind. I estimate she ejected half her body weight in poop, causing a big, messy, yellow pool to form around her on the changing table. Fortunately, there was a lip on the end of that table that acted as a levee; otherwise our carpet would have taken the brunt of Cassie’s natural disaster, and I don’t think even FEMA would have paid for that.
Sam has similar talents, of course, although she employs different methods. Rather than spray pee in a fountain, she prefers the old Nile River flood plain method, where she very sneakily leaks a stream of pee that you don’t notice until it’s deep enough to grow crops in. As for her pooping skills... well, I’ve taken to calling her “Bullet Butt.” Sam doesn’t give off rivers of poop, but instead shoots out concentrated pellets that fly all the way across the room to her intended target. Frequently, Sam will wait until I’ve lifted her little butt off the pad to slip a diaper under her and then she’ll shoot, using the higher trajectory to aim for more distant targets. So far, she’s managed to hit the bedspread on the far side of our bedroom and yesterday she nearly took out one of the cats.
You’d think between all the pee and the poop that moms would have enough to clean up in the house. Not so! Puke and spit-up, though not as frequent as poop and pee, do make up a considerable amount of mess in a mommy’s life and you never know when they’re going to happen. I remember earlier this winter, Cassie came down with her first case of stomach flu. We didn’t even know she was sick. We just put her to bed that night. Then three hours later, I woke up to hear my daughter crying in her bed. I walked in and was nearly knocked flat by the smell of sour milk and vomit. Cassie had woken up and puked all over herself and her bed. I went in to calm her down and that’s when she puked all over me. I had to carry Cassie up to the office to get Michael. I couldn’t put her down without risking puke dropping all over the floor. Of course, when we walked in, Michael just stared at us like a deer caught in the headlights. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Well,” I said, trying not to blow my top, “you could help me give Cassie a bath, and then maybe you could change the sheets on her bed, unless you expect her to sleep in a pile of puke tonight!”
It’s then that I came to realize my husband has no idea how to handle messes like that. Michael wasn’t bad with diapers. In fact, he’s really good about doing it when I ask him too. But when confronted with a bucket-load of puke, his brain just turns off. I had to direct my husband in every step of the clean up procedure. First step? Get the sick, screaming child into the tub and undress her. Second step, one parent (Daddy) changes the bed sheets while the second parent (Mommy) bathes the kid. Third step, find clean clothes for everyone who’s been puked on, namely the still-screaming child and the very frustrated mother. Fourth step, take everything that’s been puked on and run it through the washing machine, and no, don’t bother asking if Mommy wants to wash that stuff by hand. The answer is a definite “NO!”
I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad that night if Cassie had just puked on me once, but right after I got us both cleaned up, she did it again. I was sitting on the bed, holding her and trying to calm her down. She still didn’t feel well, but I couldn’t understand why she was screaming so loudly. Then she opened her mouth extra-wide and out came a gallon of half-digested milk (Cassie drinks a lot of milk, by the way). Michael said it looked like a fat snake of white cheese slowly pouring out of her mouth and onto me. I thought it looked like someone had dumped a bucket of ricotta cheese all over me. It was impressive, to say the least, and extremely messy. Once again, I stood there holding my screaming child, both of us covered in puke. Once again, my husband the aerospace engineer stood there and stared, as slack-jawed and dim-witted as a sitcom husband.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Well what?” he replied.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” I prompted.
“Like what?”
“LIKE GET A TOWEL, YOU MORON!”
With a bit of shouting, I was able to direct Michael through the proper clean-up procedure yet again. This time, I took a bath with Cassie, who was suddenly feeling much better. She danced around in the tub, singing and laughing until she finally wore herself out. I put her to bed and slept on the floor next to her, with a bucket ready just in case.
Sam’s spit-ups have been minor compared to that night, but still pretty stinky and messy. She doesn’t have the capacity to produce a gallon of half-digested food, but she spew a fountain of breast milk at my best friend’s house last week, one big enough to coat her face and ruin my favorite Hawaiian shirt. It reminded me of Linda Blair for some reason. Not to be outdone, Cassie puked the next night at the dinner table. Never fear, she wasn’t ill. She was just talking too fast while eating Chinese and drinking club soda. At least this time she didn’t scream when she was done.
Yep, pee, poop, and puke and the three main messes of a mother’s life. As I wade around in all this mess, I can only blame myself. After all, I’m the one who agreed to have kids. Gotta take the stinky mess that goes with them as well. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go. Someone needs her diaper changed.
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