Motherhood Uncensored

Snapshot of 3

The irony of my post partum existence is that any type of alcoholic drink gives me a headache or puts me to sleep, neither of which I need a "tasty beverage" to assist me with at this juncture. But it seems like the only appropriate way to celebrate making it to "bedtime" (in quotes because with a 9-day old bedtime is terribly relative) after just barely surviving our days completely outnumbered by little needy people.

Taking two advil with a glass of water just doesn't seem as exciting.

We're all adjusting as would be expected. If you listen very carefully, you can actually hear our washer and dryer screaming for mercy, which is just slightly louder than my crotch's impression of a Godfather-esque Marlon Brando with a bad cough muffled by maxi pads.

Yep. It's just as bad as it sounds. 

The kids are doing well, at least when it comes to annoying the piss out of us so much so that I actually told my husband to go play golf before he lost it yesterday. My solution includes implementing a preschool version of "teens-gone-wild" boot camp and applying all of Cesar Milan's dog whispering techniques to my toddler, who clearly needs to be walked a good solid hour every morning just so he doesn't bounce off the walls by 4pm.

Based on how terribly we're scrambling, chasing our diaperless son around his bedroom while our daughter mumbles "bad mommy bad mommy" from her bedroom after my piss poor excuse for a lullaby was cut short due to a crying baby, you'd think we were brand new parents.

Someone asked me if by three you've completely got the whole parenting gig down. And sure, the tiny baby butt and rooting mouth is not as scary as it was the first time around. But managing three butts and mouths creates a bit more of a challenge.

So while we attempt to master the fine art of juggling, I try to remember that there will come a time when our house will be quiet, and I'll be sitting by the phone and checking my email, hoping to hear a mere peep from my kids, and wishing for the days when they whined about my too-short lullabies and begged me for the dreaded "big books."

And just the thought of that silence makes the cacophony music to my ears.   

Man Cave - Or in My House. Family Room.

Even though we now own a new couch, we still have my husband's circa 1997 super single sex couch sitting in our family room.

Don't you find the pattern, um, mesmerizing?

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I'm challenging my male readers to out themselves and their mancaves or "man-I should have thrown that sweatshirt out years ago and I told my wife I did but I LIED" as part of the PBN Blog Blast this weekend. Female readers? Out your spousal units! The rules of engagement can be found at Parent Bloggers Network and prizes are courtesy of Bill Me Later (have you tried them, btw? I just did and I love it).

Ain't No Sunshine When He's Gone

The huz just got back from a three-day trip to Zurich - his inaugural "mission" on the international flight line. I weathered his just sub 72-hour absence with only one emotional breakdown and a couple series of crazy obsessive thoughts thanks to my mom's super helpful presence. Next week my BFF (and our combined four children -- haha) will help me hold down the fort while he does a three-day to Prague.

And then, well, I'll be on my own, hoping that he'll be stuck on reserve (basically on call) and not sent off to some bizarre African destination for half of November.

I've surprised even myself with how much I miss him when he's gone, and not just because I like a fluffy carpet and a half-finished deck, or because he has the ability to occupy at least two out of our now three children without the use of the dreaded boob tube so that I can fold laundry in utter peace and quiet (yes, that's a luxury these days).

Such is quite a turn from last winter when leaving him seemed like a viable solution to our mess of a marriage. We've been through the ringer these last five years, much of which was our own doing (hello KIDS!) and some of which was totally out of our control.

But I think the worst of it, after shedding the crazy in-laws, stupid ex-girlfriends, and all the other bullshit that's clouded our relationship, was that I just never felt like he got me. 

I'm not sure what shifted over the last few months, but something certainly has. Perhaps it's a realization that whatever gripes I had - some legitimate, some just plain ridiculous - weren't enough for me to pack it all up and more importantly, break up our family.

The responsibility of three small and fragile lives, in a new city, in a new house, often alone tends to put things into perspective pretty quickly. 

But to his end, I think he finally gets me. That amidst the hormonal highs and lows, emotional roller coaster rides, and everything else being married to me (and hell, any woman) means, he sees and better, values and respects the mom, the wife, the business owner, and the writer that I am.

Does his foot still find its way to his mouth? Abso-fucking-lutely. But the stupid comments are a bit easier to laugh at when they come from a place of goofy ignorance and not malicious intent.    

And so the three words we haven't said to each other in over a year slipped off my tongue as he walked out the door. Not because I miss his willingness to take on extra daddy duty, or because I get scared sleeping alone at night.

But just because it really sucks when he's not here.

It's Hard Out There for a Nipple

My boobs have seen the mouth of a wee babe (and chatty toddler) for the likes of a combined three years, and yet, when I place another baby upon my nipple it acts as though I'm pitching her a new fashion line by Lauren Conrad.

"Ack no! What the fuck are you thinking, you crazy bitch?"

I suppose the slight tongue tie situation might have something to do with the c-clamp latch that literally gives me the nether shivers (ever had those before?), but truly, why do nipples have no memory?

I realize that nipples are not muscles and cannot be held to the high standards of the inner thigh or brain, but considering they can tell weather pretty darn well, and indicate low and high levels of nervousness and fear, there should be no reason that they cannot remember the whole breastfeeding thing.

In a way, a nipple is destined to feed a baby. Don't get me wrong. I was perfectly happy with my ho-bag nipples (whose sole life purpose was to get me off -- remember that?), but now that they have tasted the "honest working life" for a few years now, I'm just not getting why they do not desire to fulfill their destiny in a calm and painless manner.

What can I say? I guess my nipples are just a couple of common whores doing a few months of community service.

Here Comes the Sun[ny]

As most of you know, my due date came and passed, much like those with my other two children. And even with contractions on and off on Monday and Tuesday evening, I still found myself in a place, like many "past due" preggos often do, where you know the baby must come out, but you're not quite sure if you're totally ready to swallow what that means.

On Wednesday night, after a midwife visit and a long night struggling with the prospect of everything that had happened over these last nine months colliding, I had a "standing with fists in the air in the pouring rain" moment -- which for a large pregnant woman on a dry Atlanta evening meant a solid 30-minutes of crying to Coldplay on repeat sprawled out on the sofa.

It was the release of all the worry, anxiety, and stress about what truly adding another life (perhaps a more complicated life than I was prepared to handle) to our family. It was saying to the universe that no matter what happened and no matter how many signs I saw that were pointing me in a direction I did not want to go, I was ready.

And thus, a couple of hours later, I popped up, jumped off the couch (I am married to Mr. Clean, remember?), and my water broke.

That's about as poetic as this whole labor thing ever got for me.

I found myself in an odd predicament, mind you, as I wasn't really having contractions at that point. And so, I called my doula, called my midwife, and called the huz, who, in good form, spent the next 30 minutes cleaning up my trail of amniotic fluid (most of which I contained to the kitchen floor instead of GASP! THE CARPET!).

And waited - on one hand hoping things would soon kick into gear - and on the other hoping that they would decide to kick in AFTER the dreaded Atlanta rush hour.

The contractions did in fact arrive, but shifted from every 6 minutes to every 12 minutes to some weird numeric pattern (Fibonacci maybe?) that basically meant that I was not going to have this baby as quickly as I had hoped. The kids woke up, the babysitter arrived, and I finally decided (at around 9am), that I needed to walk and really get things moving.

As things started to pick up, my midwife called wondering where the hell I was since "hello, it's your third baby, dear," and we all hopped into our cars for the long ride to the hospital. Managing the contractions and a severe back cramp that would be a thorn in my side (almost literally) for the rest of my labor during the car ride was made a bit easier by the spark of sun shining through the clouds on what had been a series of rainy and overcast days.

Okay, so I lied. That is about as poetic as my labor ever got.

Upon my arrival at around 11:30am, I was plugged into the 4000 machines, poked and prodded with all sorts of needles and gloved hands, and was left to labor at 4cm dilated.

The hours passed slowly, with irregular, but strong contractions, and an incredibly odd back pain that finally resolved itself after much movement and heat. The labor began to remind me of my daughter's, which due to her posterior positioning, was almost inhumanly painful thanks to severe rectal pressure that could not be resolved by pushing because of a posterior and not yet fully dilated cervix.

At one point, near 2pm, my contractions slowed to a point where I fell asleep at least twice that I remember, and upon waking, my midwife suggested I get in the shower. The hot water on my back and the deep weeping sobs (yes, I'm a crier) did little to comfort me and when I hit a point where I just could not physically endure it anymore, the huz looked at the midwife and said "she's there."

And so I was.

The midwife had to hold my cervix forward since it had not yet moved anterior, and with one long push that included me screaming the following in this exact order "Get her out now, now out now out out get her out now out please out now get her out now" she was in my arms.

It is an odd moment when you've had this being in you for so long, to see her sliding down your stomach, staring up at you like it's just another day in your lives.

And it's even better seeing the culmination of the last five years of your life together in one very happy place and breathing one collective sigh of relief...

It's alright...