Mommy, it hurts

Jack will be two months old tomorrow, so in celebration we got to go to the pediatrician (Happy Birthday Kiddo!)
For those out there who are not crazy mom type people, when a baby is two months old it gets it's first round of immunizations. The lucky birthday boy got four shots today, two in each leg. DtaP, Polio, Comvax, and Prevnar. One of those means tetanus. Now, you all should have had a tetanus shot that you can remember. That shit hurts like a motherfucker. So imagine a little baby who hasn't known much pain and does not know how to deal with it being stabbed repeatedly and then all of a sudden his legs are on fire. I've never seen him scream so hard or his face get so very red.
I was holding his hand and trying to comfort him, but I know it didn't do any good. I was almost in tears, because I may a horrid bitch but I can't watch my offspring hurt like that.

He's asleep now, after a long long struggle to find a position he was comfortable in so as not to lay directly on the injection sites. I told him in the car if he was old enough to have ice cream I so would have given it to him.

The good parts:
Birth weight 8lb 7oz
2 mo. weight 11lb 14oz (50th percentile)

Birth height 21 inches
2 mo. height 23 1/4 inches (75th percentile)

He'd gotten almost too tall to even fit in his 0-3 month outfits, but I didn't think he'd be that big. I'm very proud of my little (big) guy.

I'm tired

I'm having a really difficult night. Jack's been crying most of the day, Joe and I didn't get much sleep last week and so we were short with one another and I feel badly. He's due home from work soon so I made desert. (It was from a box. I don't feel that badly.)
I tried cleaning up the living room and kitchen a bit, but I am terrified if I move around too loudly I'll wake the screaming monster, I mean, Jack.
Mostly I am just overwhelmed. We don't sleep much, I can't keep up with the cleaning and dishes, I don't have family nearby to help out and Joe works very hard. He takes charge of Jack on the weekends, but weekdays are hard for him when he gets home from a 9 hour shift and I go to bed so he's left with the next feeding or two.
We are hopefully heading back to St. Louis and thereabouts for the 4th, and I may be awful but I cannot wait to plant the baby in my mom's arms and sleep.

One/Make Poverty History

I am going to be preachy for one moment.
No matter how you have come to my site, and most of you are Blog Catalog surfers, please take two seconds to open a second window to one of these campaigns. Make Poverty History and One
are campaigns being run out of the UK and US respectively to encourage the leaders at the G8 (Group of Eight) summit to end poverty.
This is not a pipe dream. This is more possible now than it has ever been, and more so than it is likely to be for a long time. The name of the "One" organization comes from the fact that it would only take one percent of our budget to do our part.
I understand skeptics. The websites have extensive research backing up the fact that fair trade, aid, and debt relief will help. You are also more than welcome to do your own research on the matter, but do something.
You can find the code for the Make Poverty History band and One banner on their respective sites. There are also many places available to purchase the white band to both support these groups and show your support for this cause.

In the time it has taken me to write this over 200 children have died from extreme poverty.
One every three seconds. There is no excuse. We can fix this, and we owe it to ourselves and our children to say that we tried. I want to be able to look Jack in the eye and tell him that his Mommy did what she could to save other children. That I did what I could to make the world I brought him into a better place.

A Different Kind of Blunt

You know what really, really sucks? When you are on your period, but can't quite remember if you put in a tampon or not. You are pretty sure you did, but the string seems to be MIA.
So you have to check.

I hate that.

Swoon

I am in heterosexual internet love with Fluid Pudding. She had her daughter Harper two days before Jack was born, and so I got to read along as she went through pregnancy stages at the same time as me. Plus, she's so much funnier than I am. She emailed me to congratulate me on Jack, and then the other day after I'd been in tears bemoaning how I was too large for all my normal clothing she posted how she only fit into her maternity things, reminding me I'm not the only still bloated new mommy out there.
Not only that though, she has kindly returned my emails, and let me -a complete stranger- rant about how awful Tom Cruise is. She commiserated with me!
She's my favorite internet person right now (though to be fair Sarcastic Journalist also kicks a great deal of ass and is kind to crazy internet ladies).
Everyone should be reading her site, and tell her periodically how much she rocks.

The End

Keep feeling irritation

Joe's sister called today while we were cooking our Sunday breakfast. (I should note here that Sunday breakfast occurred at Noon, and is usually the only meal of the week we completely cook and eat together, so don't go thinking I am becoming all Norman Rockwell on you)
She wanted to know if he would come over and mow her yard for her. She was going to a baby shower, but I guarantee that the real reason is the 95 degree heat. That's cool though, whenever Joe does yard work or babysits she usually pays him decently and he doesn't mind. I generally don't either.

BUT

Joe went on over at 3, and at four called here. Silly me, I was thinking he was going to tell me he'd be on his way home, but no. He's calling to tell me that Suzie decided to have him babysit as well as the yard work, something she neglected to mention when she first called.
He told me he'd be home by 8, which I thought was reasonable since she was supposedly going to a baby shower and left sometime around 3 or 4.

It's now a quarter to ten and Joe is still not home. Not only is he not home, but he never bothered to call and tell me he would be late. When I called over to Suzie's house an hour ago Joe's niece informed me that he was still there but was outside. She rudely (for a ten year old) told me she'd have him call when he came in. Sure, it's summer and it's been staying bright longer, but it's dark out now, and 7 hours after he left I doubt he's still working on the grass.

So I am pissed. I am the kind of pissed that makes you jump down a person's throat the minute they walk through the door, which is not good. I am writing this with the hopes it will help me vent and I won't blow up at Joe when he does finally get his dumb ass home.

Oh, and for some reason my stupid wireless connection keeps going down. The whole world is out to get us Silent Bob, I swear to God.

Do You Ever...

Comment on someone else's blog and then realize "This person does not know me. They don't know that me calling them a lucky bastard is meant to be funny. Furthermore, I do not know this person despite reading their blog, and I don't know that me calling them a lucky bastard won't be taken as being offensive."

Yes, I called someone a lucky bastard in a comment, and even though it was my comment there is no way for me to go back and delete it, and if I comment again to apologize I just look like an insane person. Yes, I worry about looking like an insane person despite obviously being an insane person.

This is all my way of saying if you came here through the comment section of another blogger and want to yell at me for being rude, or see what kind of horrid rude bitch would say that, well here I am. I apologize. Please don't flame me. If you do feel the need to flame me, please keep in mind that I am the type of person who calls a stranger a bastard to be funny.

Powered by lack of sleep

So I've been writing my posts while tired, generally late at night when Jack is asleep or in the middle of the night when I am up with a feeding. Later, I publish them when I think of it, the result being my complete incoherence. So sure, I could delete or edit posts to be more clever and "awake", but isn't it half the fun to see what my dementia produces?

If you've received a comment from me that was made late at night I apologize now for any weirdness that ensued from such. I'm going to have to stop using my computer when it's dark out.

Also, and God knows I may soon regret this, but feel free to comment off topic.

I should Explain

I do plan on marrying Joe, and somewhat soon. However, Joe is the first time I have not felt the need to rush and make things official. I know Joe loves me, I know he's not leaving. So instead of rushing to the JoP I am waiting until I can buy a dress, we can pay for a reception, and I can pretend for once in my life that I am a girl.
I want a dress that should be better defined as a gown.
It should have a bell skirt, and make me look thin and tall.
I want to have bubbles instead of bird seed, since I loved bubbles long before I heard bird seed was bad.
If glitter can be incorporated in my makeup or on my skin, then let's go for it.

In other words, I want my princess day too.
Everyone deserves a princess day.

Our House

Please, do not get me wrong. My neighborhood does not actually frighten me. Though when my mom visited a month before Jackson's birth and I questioned her she admitted it did. Due to the "gang writing". (A couple of teens had tagged two things near our apartment over spring break. My mom is a hoot.)

We have an 850 square foot apartment with all hardwood floors in a building built in 1919 that is eligible for historic landmark status. It's really very nice. It's also on the third floor. Now I know anyone in New York reading this right now is laughing at my frustration with a third floor walk-up, but please consider that not one month after we moved in I got myself knocked up, with the help of Joe.

Now that you know what I love, here's the rest. The neighbor to the right of us we have named "Warren" after "Empire Records". The day he moved in I knew it, due to his use of Whitney Houston on repeat. I heard "The Greatest Love of All" three times that afternoon. A couple days later I decided he honestly didn't know how well his music was traveling through the walls as well as it was. We can't hear the person across the hall, and at that time had never heard the person above us and the person below us only twice. (Once I pointed out to her the volume she was incredibly sweet and turned down the bass.)

So I go to meet my new neighbor. On this day I identified the music as Ani DiFranco, a musician I love, and had previously heard Tori Amos, who I adore above all others. (Sorry God) Needless to say, I am expecting a woman. Joe had jokingly said if it were a man we must call him Warren. I had to bite my tongue when "Warren" opened the door. In my nicest way, but I was four months pregnant at the time and a bit short tempered. "Welcome" I said. "We live on the other side of the wall, and I thought I would just mention to you that your music is quite audible at this level. Should we ever make noise enough to bother you please feel free to knock on the wall and let us know". I did everything but salaam to this man/boy. His response? Paraphrased: "I am going to play my music this loud an you can deal with it." Biting my tongue and still feeling embarrassed I headed back to our unit. I may get angry but I suck at confrontation. Which should honestly be a sign how bad it was were I willing to approach him in the first place.

When the new semester began in January I noticed the girl upstairs started singing out of nowhere. At fist I thought it was a class she was taking. She needs lessons. She's a really bad singer. Then the acoustic guitar began to join her. May I add that her favorite time to do so was at 3AM in the goddamn morning. After two months of this I went up at 4 one day to ask her to cease, when I discovered that she too was a new neighbor. We call her Luka. She lives upstairs from us, and we hear something late at night. To be fair though, her singing pales in comparison to when she and her boyfriend are screwing so loudly that the lady two floors down thought it was Joe and I.

Aside from my inconsiderate neighbors what gets me the most is this basement apartment across the alley where parties are held about every other weekend. Parties that are accompanied by bass loud enough to shake my apartment. Parties that let out at 3AM and whose attendees throw glass bottles all over our parking lot. I gave in one night that I had to be up at 6AM and called the police on a noise complaint. I hate being a narc. And though I may be good at it, I'm not so fond of being a bitch, so this all makes me feel really badly.

Jack joined us, and with his crying I fear mentioning anything to anyone in our building ever again, though when I apologized for noise I was told repeatedly no one has ever heard anything. How the fuck loud were these people that I've heard them as much as I have then?

Tonight I was sitting out on our "deck" reading when I noticed a group of people in our lot passing something around. Here, my weak spot and sense of "That was once me" kicked in, and I went down in person to warn them that "people" in our building have been known to call the police. They cleared out in a heartbeat, thanking me, and I felt less like a narc.

Nonetheless, I am currently hating myself wondering when it was exactly that I go so very old.
It makes me sad.

Con-ster-pated

I wasn't going to actually make the poop-post, but since this has been continuing for several days I suppose I will.

Now, I am not the type of person to talk about poop, and it would never have occurred to me to share such things with the interweb were it not for Dooce. And I am not going to talk about any poop I may or may not have. But Jack is a baby and can't realize how much therapy he'll need, so here we go.

Jack is drinking soy formula along with his fresh squeezed boob juice, and soy formula has a couple of interesting side effects. He farts. A lot. And in conjunction with the farting, he tends to get constipated, which for some reason I must pronounce "consterpated". I don't know why. The baby talk is taking over in a scary way. But to return to the poop.

After an incredibly frustrating -for both of us- afternoon a few days ago I called my mom in desperation. There are so many advantages to having a mother who is an RN I actually considered nursing as a career so I could share the advantages with my kids. But I hate things that come out of the body; blood, pus, poop, vomit, pee... all of it is just nasty. So I call my mom the RN on the verge of tears and ask what I can do. And she knew.

Apparently she had a similar experience years ago that caused her to go to the hospital. (It was my sister, not me. I told you I would not talk about my poop.) A kind nurse laughed at my mom's new mother worry and told her to go home and mixed a couple tablespoons of Karo syrup in formula. 30 years later my mother passes it on to me, though I am sure the technique has fallen out of vogue. But it worked, and I would much prefer to do that then give my child a baby laxative.
We are now spared the three hour crying jags while Jack tries to ease his system. Now if only it helped the smell.

Dammit

One knows the economy is bad when one's baby-daddy cannot get a job with a Mechanical Engineering degree from one of the top 20 engineering schools in the country.


Coming soon:
Dooce is a bad influence, or, my adventures in baby poop.

Wow

Joe had a job interview in KC, which is three hours away, at 7AM this morning. Since he did work last night, that meant he went to bed at 1Am and got up at 3. Then he had to sit for hours to be tested and interviewed at the hotel Marriott. Once he got home we waited for the call to tell him he'd received the job, but unfortunately it didn't come. We've decided that this is a good thing, since we've already been talking ourselves into the whole moving back to Missouri near the families idea.

Since we'd been living on next to nothing for the last week, we had to go to the store after Joe had a chance to nap. And by next to nothing, let me just say that our staples consisted of some ramen, a couple of cans of soup, some eggs, some cheese, and a frozen pot roast. We also haven't eaten out since the night before Jack was born, so off to Mongolian buffet we went. I am pleased to announce that my appetite and liking of Chinese food has returned.

Then there was Wal-Mart. Did I mention I am agorophobic and not on most of my meds due to first pregnancy and then breast feeding? I don't like Wal-Mart. We spent two hours there, and our continuing quest to purchase another First Years binky keeps on going, as for the third trip in a row they were sold out. Also, Wal-Mart is supposed to have everything. I mean, that is the whole point, and the appeal of the single trip is the only reason I'll get my ass there in the first place. So why, oh why, don't they carry any kind of infant exema or acne cream? These things exist. They carry other products by brands who make such products, but not the products themselves. Meanwhile my poor son is broken out like a pre-pubescent computer nerd.

We finally got home, and managed to feed our overstimulated son and get him to finally fall asleep after what must surely be signs of the end of his constipation.
One of the advantages to supplementing the breast milk with formula is that I can have my vodka at the end of today and Jack won't have to get drunk too.

Mama Bear

I've discovered that it's frightening how much I love my son. He has this amazing power to make me happy, just by existing. When he starts to smile and his face splits into it's huge grin I am lost and often collapse in giggles.
I had a lot of fears throughout my pregnancy. I am so very impatient, and my temper is so very short, that I dreaded not being able to just be that happy, loving mom. I expected to constantly have to bite my tongue, or that my stomach would start to act all ulcerous again with the stress. Not only were my fears I wouldn't be able to handle it unfounded, it's almost as if Jack has an exemption or get out of irritation free card.
I do wish that the patience could spill over into other areas. It would be so much better for Joe if it did, but I do alright I suppose. I try anyway, and it's usually only in the middle of the night when my eyes are hurting to be open that my fuse is too short. Luckily Joe's always been patient, and more than willing to put up with my crap. Sure, this probably means he's completely insane, but he's mine and I love him.
I look at my boys and I think to myself how much I love my family. And how amazing it is that I have a family, and that I am happy.

Three Hours

My life now exists in three hour increments. Jack is sleeping, I have three hours. Jack just ate, I have three hours.
If you asked me two months ago I would have told you how long three hours was. I can take care of whatever I would need to with that much time. Three hours was forever.
The reality is that three hours are hardly ever enough. I feel like I am always running, to keep the bottles washed, to keep the dishes done, to keep the living room and kitchen from turning into larger areas of destruction. I'll be changing Jack's diaper and realize I need to open a new pack to put in the organizer. "Oh" I think to myself "I have plenty of time before I'll need to change him again. I'll just do it later when he's laying down". Yes, I am terribly naiive and innocent. At least when it comes to the reality of babies.
Jack turned 6 weeks this past weekend, and for most new mothers this is when they return to work. I look around at all I have to do, and how much I doubt I'll ever get done, and I cannot imagine if I had to work on top of it. All praise Joe and his desire and ability to support us and let me be Jack's mommy.

Random Notes

Jack's having a bad day. He's been fussy most of the day, and seeming like he was in pain. He has no fever, and is fed, dry, etc. so I suppose this is what people write off as being colic.

I'm having a bad day, but mostly due to lack of sleep (I had to get up early to go to a doctor's appt). I've actually been having a bad several days, so I am hoping that will straighten out soon too.

I don't like reality t.v. That said, I watched "Hell's Kitchen" tonight and was creepily entertained. I think I like the fact that Gordon Ramsay is just as likely to curse at his customers as he is the staff.

I've discovered that Clint Eastwood is a good director lately. I mean, I know others were aware of this, I've just discovered it for myself. Also, I thoroughly enjoyed Goodfellas which I'd never watched because it wasn't the kind of movie I usually enjoy. There's something here to be said for expanding one's horizons.

Finally, I read a book recently that absolutely knocked my socks off. I chose it for it's name, Enter Sandman. Truly, I haven't been that impressed and overwhelmed by a book in a long time.

It's my birthday too

If I hadn't recently gotten rid of old journals, it's possible I could fine entries that said where I thought I'd be at 27. (Though unlikely, 25 is a much more "when I am..." kind of age.)

I can say that at 17 I didn't exactly picture this. I'm sure I saw a career in theatre, after having completed a degree in just that. I think I'd have seen myself as some kind of New York free spirit, tied down to nothing, and going wherever the wind took me.

At 21 I saw myself married, devoted to my husband and likely still pursuing theatre, and probably a mom.

By 25 I wanted to be a wife and mother. Peaceful, settled and still thinking in terms of education, though no longer focused solely on theatre. I thought I knew who that man would be, and I had many, many dreams/thoughts of what that life would be like. They weren't all pleasant.

Today I am 27. I have a man I love, who loves me, and brings me endless amounts of peace and joy. I have a baby who I love more than my own dreams. I am settled, and happy, and a "hausfrau". None of which I thought would fulfill me when I was younger. Perhaps it's maturity, perhaps it's merely life, but I love where I am in my life. I love my family, and I am grateful every day for them.

Sure, it still twinges in me that I am old (27? That's so OLD! Ahh, the thoughts of 18)
But you know what? I wouldn't trade my life now. Not for any past dream or hope. And maybe that is maturity after all.