Motherhood Uncensored

9 Months - Sisters

God I wanted a sister.

And for nine months, I had one.

Then she was gone.

She was here with me for the same amount of time that she spent in my own mother's womb. She was the same age as Margot is today.

My girls. Two sisters.

Something that no one can ever take away.

The right light

I want to write a sweet post about my daughter on her 5th birthday.

But lately, the sweetness is hard to find.

She pushes the limit of my patience with her opinions on everything, her sensitive spirit almost becoming a thorn in my side as she weeps at the littlest disappointment. She's determined to make decisions for herself, rarely swayed by our more experienced advice, no matter how hard we try to convince her otherwise. She's easily frustrated at anything she's unable to instantly accomplish and often refuses to try it if she's even remotely failed once.

I feel disconnected from her - like pawn in her daily game of chess, anxiously awaiting for her next move and wondering if I'll be knocked out or kept in play.

Her sweetness, which was once like her little sister, in constant smiles and frequent laughter, is less obvious, at least for me. Her bright beautiful pinks and reds are often awkward shades of orange, still magnificent in the right light, but otherwise harder to appreciate.

But when I step back and see her laying in the sun, I see the sweetness - the way she buys her brother a present with her birthday gift card, talks out of the side of her mouth when she's trying to be funny, and how she sings about how she never gets anything or does anything fun because I told her that she may not speak about them.

"Noooooobody likes me. I neeeeeevvverrrrrrrr get any pressennnnnnnnnnnnnnts. Life is terrribllll-la la la laaaaaa."

Even after five years as a mom, I feel like I'm brand new at his, mapping a course that has yet to be sailed.

On some days, I hold on for dear life, just trying to make it to another day without getting washed out to sea, the waves of emotion the sheer challenge of staying afloat often enough to make me toss myself overboard.

On others, I feel like I'm tied to the mast in a life jacket while she steers.

"I'm sailing! I'm SAILING!" I scream, like Bill Murray in What About Bob.

There are days, however, and there will be many more, where the water is smooth, and the wind in my face, though it tangles my hair and dries out my eyes, feels pretty damn amazing.

Regardless of what color you're "wearing" Quinlan, I'll do my best to see you in the right light. Happy 5th Birthday.

[photo credit Mom-101]

Empathy by fire

After way too many months of getting 2.5 hours of sleep in a row at most, I decided, at the reassurance and recommendation of Isabel at Bedtiming, to night wean Margot.

I realize that technically babies who are six months old and up can get through the night without eating.

But I feel that unless they're eating a decent amount of solids and still chowing down on the boob for a good four to five feedings, night weaning should be delayed a little.

And since none of my children like to nurse during the day unless they're in a dark, secluded room with blinders on, I've never officially ever night weaned them until I actually weaned them.

That means for almost five years, I've really never had a complete night's sleep or at least one without a kid attached to my boob for part of it.

And it sucks.

But Margot is starting to eat more and I'm starting to really loathe the inability to speak and write in coherent sentences, so sleep training it is.

Plus, I admit I sort of like the idea of my husband actually having to be a part of the nightly madness I endure.

A little empathy by fire.

As many of you breastfeeding moms know, the hubbies often get a "get out of bedtime" free card because the babies just want the boobs.

I admire you moms who pump or make a formula bottle so you get a break for at least one feeding a night. But I'm not that organized nor have I yet been able to get any of my children to do anything but spit formula at my face, so I'm stuck with night time duty.

Of course, this whole night weaning adventure is contingent on another person without working boobs, like the husband, going in there and soothing the baby. Which for the last two nights has meant him holding her while she screams.

Soothing? Not so much.

The first night wasn't too bad actually. Even though she did cry, there was no real screaming involved and I felt rested; that means she couldn't have been crying that hard.

I think the worst part was listening to my husband whine about how tired he was the next day and if "he was going to have to go in with her then he needed to get some extra sleep during the day."

Don't let the ceiling fall in on you while you get a little shut eye in the afternoon, buddy.

Last night was a little more challenging, and after an hour of her whining and crying and listening to him rock her to sleep and then leave only for her to pop back awake in a matter of seconds, he asked me for a bottle of water for her.

Granted, I was laying there wide awake trying not to let down, but I had to give him a hard time about running downstairs for a bottle because it's not like he did anything for me while I did this for the last five years.

Did I yell to him to help me come unhook my bra? Please, give me a break.

You freaking go downstairs with the baby and get the bottle and then feed her. And if she keeps waking up then you hold her until she falls into a deeper sleep in the boring ass pitch dark thinking about blog posts and Sarah Palin and Steve McNair (wtf?) for minutes sometimes even hours because that's just how it is and then you put her down.

And if she wakes up, you repeat the whole damn thing again.

Or if you're him, your wife comes in, offers a few choice words that she'll later blow off as "sleep talking" and does all that for you while you go back to sleep.

Funny how that works.

Mean People Suck, but Blog Readers Rock

What an amazing Friday surprise, Cecilia! You remind us of all that's good in this world. I'm speechless.

On call

Trying to explain my husband's work schedule is pretty complicated. Neighbors see him taking the kids to the pool and heading off to play golf and think we live the cushy life.

And yes, being on call all month long does have its benefits. When they don't call you.

Aside from around seven days where the company absolutely cannot call him, he's at their whim, which makes for one hell of a time trying to schedule anything, RSVP to any parties, or plan any major outings.

He can try to bid off for certain days, like BlogHer weekend, which by some miracle, he actually got off. He's low on the totem pole, like many of the flight attendants on his trips like to point out (hazing much?), and so getting what you ask for is like an act of God.

So we spend many of our days living by the seat of our pants. You'd think that by now we'd be used to it, and in many ways I've adjusted. I end up missing out a lot of things and I'm always the "maybe" RSVPer - if that's even an option.

But every time they call him from a "short call" - basically when he gets two hours to get his ass to the airport - it's like a tornado hits the house.

He's at least learned to put his passport back in his flight bag, and he stores his work ID in a special place so he doesn't forget that. It only took driving away a good four times over the last year without either of them for him to figure that out.

But he almost never leaves a bag packed. He often doesn't have either a pressed shirt or pants. And the trail of clothes, towels, and other crap he leaves so he can rush out the door drives me a little insane. It's like a tornado passes through our house, with the kids secured in the basement, and me left to deal with the aftermath.

Which this time meant I could not find my keys. Because he was the last one to use them to let us all in the house (so I know they're in here) and lord knows where he put them.

I looked in all the obvious man places, like his pants, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

I even looked in all the smart contraptions like the leather box by the phone or the fancy hook by the door that he always uses and then chides me for not. I looked in toy boxes and the kids' rooms, but I'm pretty sure they never even got a chance to get their grubby hands on them.

Maybe they're whooping it up with the rolling pin.

But alas, he's in Brazil. And I'm stuck with no keys and three rammy kids with nowhere to go.

Care to wager a guess as to where they are?