A Matter of Life or Death

Allow me to put myself out there. I'm afraid of death. It's a fear that I've had since I was a kid. I'm not sure where it originated because nothing ever happened to me during my childhood that sparked the fear, it has just always been inside of me, organically. As a kid, I remember waking up in the middle of the night crying that I didn't want to die. I also remember my mom pulling me into her lap, hugging me, and telling me that I was going to live a long time, probably well into my 80's. I'm 31 now.

If I'm really being honest with myself, being afraid of death is not so much a fear of mine but rather a severe phobia. I can force myself into the throws of a panic attack anywhere, anytime at the mere thought of it. Typically, what happens is that someone mentions something about death or I hear a song on the radio that alludes in some way to it and my mind begins torturing me, "When you die, you're dead forever...and ever...and ever...and ever," you get the idea. I explained my fear to a guidance counselor in school once. She told me that whenever I start to think about death, I should try to squeeze it out of my mind with a thought of something that made me happy. Back then, it was roller skating. To this day, whenever those bad thoughts creep in--which is pretty rare now that I'm old enough to control it--I still picture myself roller skating as a child. It's all those "forever's" that have always freaked me out because if you think about it, you could say "forever" forever and it still wouldn't be even close to the amount of time that will pass once we're gone.

My life is full, chaotic most days. With three kids, I'm on the go from sun up until sun down cleaning, chauffeuring, babysitting, cooking, doing laundry, playing tutor, and doing a million other odd jobs around the house. By the end of the day--which usually doesn't begin until almost 9pm most nights--while I would really love to take a long soak in the tub with a good book--I'm instead happy to spend the last few minutes of the evening with the hubs of whom I haven't seen all day before I finally collapse into bed. Don't get me wrong, I love my crazy life despite the exhaustion it brings me. I was telling the hubs the other day that at the end of my life this exhaustion will have me welcoming death, ready for that good, long nap.

Perhaps a crazy life is just the remedy I need for my phobia of death. I started thinking more about this on Christmas Eve. We spent the evening with the hubs' family, attending a children's service at their church before heading back to the house to open presents and have dessert. His great-grandmother was there. She is in her 90's. I can only hope that one day I will be able to say that I have had the privilege of enjoying 90+ Christmases. As we were leaving the production and walking to the car she began crying. Although I didn't catch everything that she said, I was able to make out, "I'm so blessed." I realized that she was crying bittersweet tears. Happy in that she has been given the blessing of so many years with her family. Sad in not knowing whether or not she will get another Christmas with us. I also realized from now on whenever my fear of death starts creeping into my mind that instead of roller skating I want to think of that moment. Of how I want to focus on making my life so rich with the people I love and making memories with them that when the time comes--and let's face it, the time will come--that instead of being afraid of death I will embrace it, satisfied with how I have lived my life and the abundance of blessings that have been bestowed upon me. So for that, thanks Grannie.

Our Christmas Newsletter

Dear Loved Ones,

Well everyone, we finally managed to get all under the same roof this year! We’re currently residing in a quaint little townhouse in the middle of no where. From the chaos of shuffling to get the kids ready for school in the mornings all while balancing the baby on our hips and having the dogs under our feet, the change in our lives has been drastic, but amazing:

Lewis is still working as a police officer. This year, he was honored with an Officer of the Year award for the entire state and also received an Officer Intervention award. We are all incredibly proud of him! When he isn’t working hard, he is helping around the house and spending time with the family.

Christy is “working” as a stay-at-home mom and loving every minute of it! When time permits, she is still creating jewelry and selling it in her Etsy shop. In addition, this month she finished the last of the course requirements for her Masters degree and has only the student teaching internship left which is scheduled to begin January of 2013.

Caleb turned 12 years old this year! He is enrolled in public school for the very first time and is doing fantastic! He has made a good friend named Ben in his class who conveniently lives in our new neighborhood! Caleb has also joined two clubs in school: the Cooking Club and also Battle of the Books, where they read a list of selected books and then have meets to discuss and debate them. A few of his favorite things are Star Wars, reading, playing video games, and any subject other than Math.

Ryleigh turned 6 years old this month! She is loving kindergarten where they are in the beginning stages of reading, identifying sight words. She gets so excited when she can spot these and read them; her favorites are “the” and “see.” Ryleigh also became a Girl Scout this year, a Daisy to be exact, and loves making crafts and hanging out with her new friends during meetings. A few of her favorite things are Sebastian (her classmate boyfriend of whom she was recently caught holding hands with during lunch one day), being read to, her Daddy, and Transformers.

Wyatt turned 9 months this month! He received his two front teeth for Christmas this year! He is currently standing up, even walking along the couch, and he also invented the concept of speed-crawling, keeping us on our toes as we try to keep up with him. A few of his favorite things are opening cabinets, musical instruments, pulling clean clothes out of the dryer and onto the floor, and standing at the back door while the dogs are outside (sometimes licking the glass along with them).

We hope you enjoyed reading about our chaotic but fabulous year! We hope yours was just as wonderful! Making up an annual Clements family newsletter was a last-minute idea that we came up with. In future letters, we also plan to include a current family photo. As for this year, well, we’re all just as cute as you remember us! :)

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Love,
Lewis, Christy, Caleb, Ryleigh, and Wyatt

A Week in the Life...

Elf in the What??

Panty drawer. That's right folks, this is where I found our little Arthur this morning...sitting in a sea of women's underwear. Something tells me the hubs is having a little too much fun with this job of hiding the elf for me...lol

Arthur's Christmas

I took it hard. Personally. A new Christmas tradition, one that extended the excitement of Christmas Eve over the span of the whole month. Elf on the shelf. I was so excited when that shiny white box arrived in the mail, the contents a new hardcover story to read to the kids and an adorable little elf perched on a cardboard shelf. The kids were also excited when he arrived. Our entire dinner revolved around choosing a name for the little guy. Each of us was to choose two names that at least three family members liked--majority still rules, right?--and then the top two of each of ours were placed in a hat that the littlest munchkin, Wyatt would draw from. Wyatt stuck his pudgy little hand in the hat and pulled out a name, carefully written on a piece of Christmas tree stationary. His name was to be Arthur.

We jumped into bed that night and read his story. He was Santa's helper. He would leave every night after the kids were in bed to travel to the North Pole with a report on whether or not they had been good that day. On Christmas Eve when Santa made his rounds, dropping off presents and enlarging his bowl full of jelly belly with mounds of chocolate chip cookies and whole milk, Arthur would make his final trip the North Pole until next year. I passed out hugs and tucked the kids in for thier long winter's nap--ok, for the night.

In the morning, I crept into their rooms and woke them up whispering, "Where's Arthur?" Ryleigh leapt from the bed and met Caleb in the hallway where they went on a scavenger hunt for our little elf. They asked for a few hints to which the hubs provided them clever riddles. Then,they spotted him...


This routine went on for three or four other mornings but this morning when I asked them as usual, "Where's Arthur?" the excitement was gone. The novelty had already worn off. Ryleigh, instead, wanted to get in a show or two of Spongebob Squarepants before having breakfast and getting ready for school. She didn't have time to look for an elf, and she didn't want to. Caleb found out this year that Santa isn't real and because of this and the simple fact that he is older, his excitement was linked to hers. Without her excitement, his wouldn't even spark. I was crushed.

I truly wanted this to be a tradition that would bring a little bit of the thrill of Christmas Day to every day in December rather than just being limited to one day. My hope was to increase the magic of Christmas for them. I guess as a mother you try to do things that will excite your children, make them happy, and in turn, keep them kids longer. It doesn't always work out that way. The fact that they are children means that they can be easily distrated by something or that they can quickly lose interest in something else. Even though it's hard, we should try not to beat ourselves up about it, because as parents, everything we do is to see a smile on their sweet faces. It's really all we can ever do. Try. And even as I say this, inside I'm still bummed.

Having said that, I'm not ready to give up on Arthur just yet. Sure, this year was a crapshoot but next year the kids could be busting at the seams to read his story again and see him sitting patiently on our mantle the next morning, waiting to be found. Then again, they may never mention him after tonight. I guess the magic of Christmas is a lot like childhood, you have to really enjoy it while you have it because it can vanish with the blink of an eye.

It's morningtime again and I left my blog last night to sleep on it before posting, the ending just didn't seem poignant enough. I followed my typical morning routine of putting the baby in his play area and making my way to the kitchen to select a coffee mug. I opened the cabinet...


The hubs. He's good. He overheard me yesterday desperately trying to coax the kids into finding Arthur, attempts that went in vain. He must have found Arthur in the closet where I put him after I realized that tomorrow morning when he wasn't hiding, the kids wouldn't even notice. The hubs. I love that guy. He makes me smile. Perhaps the magic of Christmas isn't entirely gone this year after all.

The Mom Bob

So, I just stumbled across this hilarious Glamour article while traveling to my email account via Yahoo: http://shopping.yahoo.com/articles/yshoppingarticles/758/what-your-hairstyle-says-about-you-according-to-guys . "What your hairstyle says about you according to guys." Did I really read things like this before getting married? Does anyone? Ok, I admit I did read things like this but it was usually for one of two reasons, the first being a good laugh--I mean c'mon, what woman in their right mind living in this day and age actually cuts their hair according to what a man thinks--and the second reason being sheer boredom.

Don't get me wrong, my theory here isn't to say that once you become a wife and/or a mother that you should entirely let yourself go. No, in fact, I took pride in the fact that while there were some days during my pregnancy where I could be found in public donning comfortable lounge pants and a stretchy tee, for the most part I wore the same clothes as I did before I was pregnant, sans a large bell at the bottom of my jeans because let's face it, most people my age aren't still rocking bell-bottoms, a trend that maternity clothing manufacturers clearly albeit sadly adhere to. I'm simply saying that you should be yourself and fulfill the desires of your own personal style, whatever that may be, without allowing the opinion of men, or a man, or anyone for that matter, hinder you.

I can certainly sympathize with the need for change, especially following the birth of a child. After carrying around additional pounds for almost an entire year, not to mention an additional human being, it's reasonable, even necessary to expect a woman to need a change of some sort. Changing our hairstyle is the easiest, most temporary, and if need be, the most drastic change that we can offer ourselves. We can go from platinum blonde to fiery redhead in the matter of 30 minutes. We can make a hefty donation to locks of love in a matter of just 5 minutes. There are so many options for hairstyles that the possibilities truly are endless, and perhaps that's the point.

Once Wyatt got a little bit older, a few months after he was born, he got into the adorable stage of pulling hair. Ok, yanking and jerking hair. At the time my hair was long, several inches past my shoulders and I had already retired my beloved Farrah Fawcett style during my pregnancy, in the name of low-maintenence. At that time I was leaving it straight, flipped out at the edges, the front tendrils tucked behind my ears. I needed a change. To nix the temptation for Wyatt to pull on my hair anymore, which I have to admit was really starting to hurt everytime I picked him up, and just wanting more of a fresh "mommy" haircut, I was in need of a change.

Here's the before, the photo of inspiration that I took to the beautician, and the after shots:




After I got the cut, I was excited! The beautician styled my hair and although I didn't look quite as much like Ashley Williams as I had hoped--only a complete face alteration would have accomplished that--my hair still looked pretty cute. All of my split ends had vanished and my hair had a volume and bounce that would make Wierd Al Yankovic a little jealous. But much like that episode of Friends where Monica invests a thousand plus dollars on a pair of boots that she just absolutey had to have only to find out that they made her feet feel like she was walking on spikes, the novelty wore off. I discovered that shorter hair is almost more maintenance than keeping my hair long and just curling the ends out. Sure, the results look great, but with 3 kids running around, who really has time to flip out layer beyond layer with a curling iron. So, right now, I'm back to the "before" photo and feeling great. The baby no longer pulls my hair. I'm in serious need of some more red hair dye, but other than that I don't have the desire to change it up again just yet.

In closing, no matter who you are, even if you're not a mother--my primary audience here--do with your hair what you will. If you saw that recent awards show on television and just have to have the hairstyle of that fabulous celebrity on the red carpet--get it. If you just want to add some layers to the bottom or chop off all of your hair completely--go for it. If your man says something to the effect that he doesn't like it, reply with the fact that you do, and also add in there that unless he wants you to announce at the next family get-together the appearance of that flesh-colored yarmulke that's beginning at the back of his head, he should support your need for change and your fabulous new look.

A Week in the Life...

Looky what I found sitting on our doorstep yesterday afternoon. Elf on the Shelf. He was supposed to arrive shortly after Thanksgiving but told me that he passed a Starbucks on the way and just couldn't resist getting a Gingerbread Latte. He enjoyed it so much that he got another, and another. In a nutshell, that's where he's been all this time. I can't blame the little ......dude. Not one bit. Personally, I think he inspired me to write a new children's book based on the "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" series; "If You Give an Elf a Latte," but that's beside the point.

Tonight, at dinner, we will hold a family conference to determine the name of our wee little elf. I've devised a plan--each of us is to come up with two names that we and also the rest of the family like and then we will throw all of the names into a stocking and draw for it. I'm already thinking up ways to manipulate the family into saying "to hoo-ha" with the drawing and choosing the name I like best, Patch. He was my favorite elf of Santa's when I was growing up. I remember one year even leaving an orange out for Patch along with Santa's cookies. I wrote on it in a permanent marker just how much I loved him.

I'm hoping this elf will bring the kids lots of fond memories, just like this.

Dog Days of Winter

I found myself in tears this morning. I took an extra long bath so that I could cry it out. At one point, I wasn't sure which part of my warm bath water had run out of the faucet and which had run out from my eyes.

I take Dinky--my four-legged son--to the vet tomorrow. Over the past month or so he has graduated from dropping random clumps of hair onto the floor to scratching sores all over his body. To accompany these symptoms his nose has been drying up, he has lost quite a bit of weight, and although he seems better today, yesterday he was pretty lethargic and still. When I was speaking to the technician and booking the appointment, I explained these symptoms to her. I told her that he is about 12 years old and while it could be that his health is simply deteriorating I also think that he may be depressed. Over the past few months, not only has each of our lives changed dramatically, but so has Dinky's. He went from being the only dog on the block to having another dog in the house, not to mention a new baby and a very rambunctious 5-year-old. He went from getting pet and played with significantly each and every day to not getting played with at all, it seems. The technician agreed that Dinky being depressed is a great possibility but I still can't help but wonder in the back of my mind if this is it.

This morning, Ryleigh came up to me with a book that Caleb has about different kinds of dogs. It was literally dog-eared in several places and opened to a page describing pugs. Very matter-of-factly, Ryleigh asked, "Christy, when Dinky dies, can we get this dog?" It was like a punch in the stomach. I didn't take this comment very well and curtly snapped at her for talking about Dinky like that. She informed me that it was Caleb's idea to which I responded by taking the book from her hands and tossing it to Caleb telling him that what is going on with Dinky is not funny and that it is serious. I told him, probably louder than I had intended, that we would not be getting another dog if something happens to Dinky. He is irreplaceable.

Sitting in a tub of my own tears, partially because there is a real chance that tomorrow I may have to make a very grown-up decision about Dinky that I don't want to even think about and partially because I snapped at the kids, who innocently just have no comprehesion about this situation at all, especially Ryleigh, made me realize just how tough it is to be a parent sometimes. Being a parent means always remaining strong, even if your heart is breaking on the inside. That certain kinds of pain and adult issues in any household, whether they be financial or marital in thinking about Ryleigh's situation with her mom and dad, are to be shielded from kids as best as possible until they're old enough to fully understand.

The technician told me that because it has happened so suddenly there is a good chance that his problems are a result of all of the changes around Dinky and that his body might just be responding negatively to the stress and that he will be fine. Of course there is always the other possibility. Either way, I could have handled this situation better with the kids.

This reminds me of another time something like this happened and I was left having to tell Caleb, who at the time was knee-high to a grasshopper at the ripe young age of 5, that my grandfather had just passed away. I bent down to his level and prepared myself to tell him. I had to leave the room before being able to do so because I broke down in tears. After composing myself, I returned to tell him. I told him in the only way I knew how to tell a child about something like this, that Grandpa went to Heaven. He innocently responded, with more understanding than I ever expected from him, "I know someone else who died, Mr. Goodwin." Mr. Goodwin was my mom and dad's neighbor when I was growing up who had passed away a few months earlier.

I don't know what the magic formula is for handling such sensitive and sometimes tragic situations with your children. I'm not sure one exists. If you know of one, please let me know. All I keep thinking about it how I should have had my game face on this morning, despite all of my inner heartbreak, and how I failed miserably.

No Apologies

Kurt Cobain had it all wrong.

There's a current status chain on Facebook that says something to the effect of "When you come to my house you will see dirty dishes, this proves that I feed my kids. You might also see piles of laundry which proves that my children have clean clothes...etc." It finishes with a bold, "If you are coming to our home to visit us, please come any time. If you are coming to see our house, please make an appointment." Surely, if you're a mom, you can find the humorous truth in this.

I planned to make my way back to this blog, having abandoned it for months, to offer a sincere apology for how I have not made any new posts in over half a year. After thinking more about it and seeing this Facebook status being published over and over by almost every fellow mom on my friend list, I decided to do just the opposite and instead, create a post about how I refuse to make apologies for not having been here. Aside from my three grad classes, my time has been consumed with breastfeeding, helping with homework, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and playing chauffer before and after school, not to mention tending to illnesses including my own nasty bout with bronchitis a mere week ago. To apologize for my absence would be to apologize for not having extra time because all of my time has been devoted to being a mom.

So, I changed my mind about apologizing. I think, at the moment, that my blog only has one follower anyways--not that I am in any way minimalizing the feat of his or her interest in or dedication to my blog--but aside from a few Facebook friends, I don't think many people really ever see my posts. Having said that, I still think it is appropriate to continue the chain here, although somewhat edited, and say that if you are visiting my blog to get some down-to-earth, honest stories about life and how it is enhanced by albeit revolving around children, the please, stop by any time; but please hold no expectations about my posting consistencies or rather inconsistencies because my life belongs to my children and they come first, no apologies.

Dandelion Days

Today, after undressing Wyatt down to his diaper, our doctor's appointment ritual, I met the nurse at scale and as I placed him in it I announced that there was no way Wyatt was less than 10lbs. She smiled at my guess and said "Okay! Let's see!" and sure enough he tipped that scale right to the 10th notch, on the dot. He has also grown from his 20" at birth to 23"! My big boy! He took his second round of Hepatitis B immunizations like a champ, only crying out for about a quarter of a minute and then all was well. Next time might not go over so well as they informed me that he gets a collection of 5 shots at that time. What genius came up with the idea to give a baby 5 shots at once?? Can't they spread them out over a period of time; I'll gladly take Wyatt back to them every week for 5 weeks if necessary to spare him the trauma of getting 5 shots at once. Or better yet, can't they stick, no pun inteded, all the immunizations into one syringe? One of my friends said that she was given the option to have her baby's immunizations spread out or given in chunks, several shots at a time. I received no such offering. Surely there has to be a better way.

On a lighter albeit more digusting note, the fam was house hunting the other day, following our real estate agents dusty red sports car from one house to another and I, who was sitting in the back seat between Ryleigh and Wyatt, look over at Ryleigh. I saw her staring at her thumb and her forefinger as they were playing with something, rolling it around, and clamping down on it, testing its stickiness, no doubt. It took me a minute to figure out what it was and then it hit me...she had apparently dug around into her nose and extracted a huge, yellow booger and was playing with it like it was remnants from an old can of play-doh! As my face scrunched up and my gag reflex kicked in, I grabbed a tissue and wiped her fingers clean, telling her how disgusting that was and not to do it again. She responded with "Can I hold Wyatt's hand" to which I replied, "Absolutely not until you have washed your hands, Boogerfingers!" She thought that was funny and proceeded to touch my arm over and over with them, laughing like crazy. Kids.



I'll close this blog with a revelation I had the other day. When was the last time you picked a dandelion and twirled in a circle with it or simply blew on it like a birthday candle to watch all of its fuzzy white seeds whirl around you? When you were a kid, right? Today, as I walked past a tribe of dandelions lining the walkway in front of my house, after arriving home from having broken down on the side of the road bringing Wyatt back home from his doctor's appointment, I wondered just that. How the innocence and simplicity of childhood are forgotten as we get older and become more absorbed in the daily aspects of life; work, errands, breaking down on the side of the road and wiping boogers off our children's hands. In the midst of our mundane and busy schedules we should strive to regularly take a moment (or two) to rekindle the carefree aura of our childhood. So, stop whatever you're doing, go outside, pick a dandelion, take a deep breath, and release.

The Leaky Boob

According to "What To Expect the First Year," there are, humorously enough, 5 types of breastfeeders. Even funnier are their descriptions...

The Barracuda: Your baby's nursing style is barracuda-like if he latches onto the breast tenaciously and suckles for 10-20 minutes. A barracuda doesn't dawdle--feeding time is no-nonsense for him. Occasionally, a barracuda's suck is so vigorous that it actually hurts at first. If your nipples fall victim to your baraccuda's strong suck, don't worry--they'll toughen up quickly [you hope] as they acclimate to nursing with the sharks.

The Excited Ineffective: If your baby becomes so wound up with excitement when presented with a breast [does this also apply to husbands??] that he often loses grasp of it--and then screams and cries in frustration--it's likely you have an Excited Ineffective on your hands. Mothers of this type of nurser have to practice extra patience; you'll need to get your baby nice and calm before putting him back on the job. Usually excited ineffectives become less excited and more effective as they get the hang of nursing, at which point they'll be able to hold on to the prize without incident.

The Procrastinator: Procrastinators do just that--procrastinate. These slowpoke babies show no particular interest or ability in sucking until the milk comes in. Forcing a procrastinator to feed before he is ready will do no good (as you'll find out later in life when you try to force homework). Instead, waiting it out seems to be the best bet; procrastinators tend to get down to the business of nursing when they're good and ready.

The Gourmet: If your baby likes to play with your nipple, mouth it, taste a little milk, savor each mouthful of milk as though composing a review for Zagat's, he is likely a gourmet. As far as the gourmet is concerned, breast milk is not fast food. Try to rush gourmets through their meals and they'll become thoroughly furious--so let them take their time enjoying the feeding experience.

The Rester: Resters like to nurse for a few minutes and then rest a few minutes. Some even refer the nip-and-nap approach: nurse for 15 minutes, fall asleep for 15 minutes, then wake to continue feeding. Nursing this type of baby will obviously take time and it will take patience, but hurrying a rester through his courses, like hurrying a gourmet, will do no good as they stubbornly feed on their own terms.

Wyatt, who has fallen into all of these categories at some point, is most consistently an Excited Ineffective. It's pretty funny to watch him as he closely resembles Dinky with a rag toy in his mouth. Instead he's an overly excited baby shaking his head back and forth with his mouth open over a nip that is literally right in front of his face but his extreme excitement prevents his ability to latch on until eventually he yells out once or twice and then finally settles his mouth over it.


I'm curious as to if other nursing mothers have experienced what I would politely call a surge of milk production in their breasts. Factoring engorgement out of the equation, what I'm referring to is having so much milk that the baby chokes and coughs during the feeding from what I can only assume is milk forcefully spraying down his throat or simply filling his mouth faster than he can swallow. My absolute favorite is when I'm trying to guide the nip into my little Excited Ineffective's mouth and it shoots a stream of milk over my head. You can bet your leaky boob that I'm really looking forward to that happening during a public feeding.

Most recently, Wyatt has been using me as a pacifier. Sometimes, even when he isn't hungry--sometimes right after he's eaten--he will start rooting around and when I put him on the boob he eats for about a minute and then promptly falls asleep. He has even gone so far as to root around on the hubs just to get him to hand him over to me, which I have to admit is pretty cute and secretly--okay, not so secretly--I love it. But I must find a strategy to differentiate because in order to qualify as his sole provider of meals as well as his binky, that means I have to live life topless, and let's face it, I don't live on Paradise Beach, nor do I want to.

Tree of Life

As I listened to the sweet melody of Wyatt breathing as he took his nap this afternoon I paged through a catalog that arrived in today's mail. On the very last page there was a "Living Tree" framed wall art piece. It featured an unfortunately unattractive sepia photo of the tree of life, but it was the inspirational passage below it that really struck me:

"Life is not a race--but indeed a journey. Be honest. Work hard. Be choosy. Say 'thank you,' 'I love you,' and 'great job' to someone each day. Go to church, take time for prayer. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Let your handshake mean more than pen and paper. Love your life and what you've been given, it is not accidental--search for your purpose and do it as best you can. Dreaming does matter. It allows you to become that which you aspire to be. Laugh often. Appreciate the little things in life and enjoy them. Some of the best things really are free. Do not worry, less wrinkles are more becoming. Forgive, it frees the soul. Take time for yourself--plan for longevity. Recognize the special people you've been blessed to know. Live for today, enjoy the moment."

It is now later that same afternoon and I have officially been a stay-at-home mom for approximately four hours. I went to inform my boss today that I wouldn't be returning to work in three weeks as originally planned. I don't find it coincidental that a mere few hours after I made this very tough decision that I would come across such an uplifting and hopeful passage. While I feel good about my decision, it was an incredibly hard one to come to, one that I had agonized over for quite some time. My main struggle with the decision was allowing myself to be fully reliant on someone else. All my life, since I have been away from home, my motto has been "I am woman, hear me roar!" Independent, to say the least. Unyielding, in never allowing myself to rely on another person because when you're self-sufficient, if something comes up and lands you in a bind, you only have yourself to blame. It was a giant leap of faith and a tall glass--okay, let's just call it a pilsner--of pride to swallow, but here I am, now a stay-at-home mom. If you want my rationale, read the quote above. It's what it's all about and I really couldn't have worded it better myself.

Romper Room

In my high from smoking the new baby joint, a bad analogy I realize given the fact that the hubs is a police officer, I have yet to blog about my other two children. My firstborn, Caleb, turned twelve years old on Thursday (yes, in birthdays, he and Wyatt are almost exactly 15 days apart making March yet another Christmas for me in terms of buying presents). He looks like his Mommy and even talks like his Mommy down to having adopted my natural talent for sarcasm, which has a tendency to get him into trouble. Twelve years old. That just has a nasty after taste in my mouth. A tween. Just yesterday I was changing his diapers and taking embarrassing photo's of him in his baby bath with a waxed miniature Dixie cup over his little you-know-what. And now, twelve.


My other munchkin is my step-daughter, Ryleigh, my gorgeous five year old blondie. This baby is a miracle child, for sure, having weighed an entire 7lbs less than Wyatt when she was born--yes, that means she was under 12oz--less than that fizzy green can of Sierra Mist sitting next to you. After months in the NIC unit, she emerged unscathed, although to this day she is still super-tiny. At five years old she weighs a whopping 21lbs and wears 24-month clothing. Don't let the pretty face fool you, she makes up for her size with her endearing fire-cracker personality.


As you can see from the picture above, Ryleigh just oozes pride for her baby brother. I, however, was completely unprepared for having a 5-year old and a newborn baby simultaneously and immediately realized why most couples opt to have their children about two years apart. When we got home from the hospital I quickly discovered that Wyatt strongly disliked having his diaper changed. I can't knock him for that, it's cold out here, especially without clothes and a diaper, made even warmer by a fresh tinkle. The little booger was cooped up all cozy and warm in Mommy's tummy before my doctor and I rudely disturbed him by forcing him into the world a week before he was expected. Needless to say, when diaper-changing time rolled around, Wyatt was a Mr. Fussy Fussy. Allow me to set the scene for you: Preparations are made, I open a new diaper completely so all I had to do was put it on his shiny hiney, I open the tub of wipes and pull one out and then proceed to unsnap Wyatt's jumper. Wait for it. The scream. As soon as that happened, Dinky--my other four-legged, furry child of whom I have yet to introduce you to--immediately begins to bark at the crying baby. Ryleigh, who obviously was under the impression that Wyatt was like a baby doll who merely sat around in silence, runs up to the pack and play and yells "WYATT, IT'S OK, CALM DOWN!!" To which I respond with, "Ryleigh, please don't yell at him, it just upsets him more." She promptly puts her hands over her ears and loudly informs me "BUT HE'S HURTING MY EARS!!!" And as my widened eyes peer back down at her standing next to the barking dog and back at Wyatt who is still crying because I have yet to snap the last snap on his jumper, my only thought is, "Well you're ALL hurting my ears!" Oh yeah, good times.

Hunger Games

I placed Wyatt in the icy cold, steel scale cushioned by only a thin, one-ply paper towel expecting for him to have gained back the 4oz. of original birth weight he lost plus maybe one or two extra ounces. He weighed 7lbs 8oz at his last visit to the doctor the day after we were discharged from the hospital. On this visit, much to my surprise, the nurse announced that he weighed 8lbs and 7oz! So much for my doubts as to whether or not he is getting enough nourishment from breastfeeding. After all my breasts, unfortunately, do not feature units of measurement inscribed in red on their sides, the proverbial measuring cup that a paranoid first-time breastfeeding mother demands in order to peacefully sleep at night. Wyatt's weight achievement was a rich and embarrassing source of Vitamin Glee for me as I clapped and said "Yay!" upon hearing the news like an overzealous soccer mom having just finished watching her child make the winning goal. The nurse offered a big smile of congratulations as she was probably thinking I was skipping along the spectrum of insanity.


While we're on the topic of weight, I have just finished making yet another meal that it turns out I do not want. Since having the baby my appetite has dwindled to almost nothing. I never ate huge portions before I was pregnant, but now I just never seem to be hungry. The strange thing is that everything I craved or ate regularly while pregnant I have lost all desire for. I still make meals for myself and then just pick at them or eat a few bites. Tonight's cuisine was spaghetti and not just any spaghetti but my coveted Guiseppe's, an entirely homemade gourmet spaghetti, noodles and all, that I buy twice a year at a huge local arts and crafts event, the Bizarre Bazaar. After a few forced bites, I ended up nestling my parmasan cheese-topped pile of spaghetti into some plastic tupperware and then into the fridge for safe keeping before settling on eating the spinach herb noodles with butter, a lighter choice that my stomach welcomed. Sure, having already lost nearly 25lbs of my pregnancy weight is good, great even, especially for Mommy's buns which had grown to the approximate size of Montana, although not good for Mommy or baby if the method of losing weight is a diminished appetite. My concerns for Wyatt receiving enough nourishment from my breast milk mainly stemmed from my diet, or lack thereof. I was assured by my lactation consultant that as long as I am at least continuing to snack throughout the day, drink plenty of water, and taking my prenatal vitamins that he should be getting everything he needs and now with the knowledge of his weight increase I'm not so worried anymore. He seems to be doing great.

Precious Time

"Baby makes days shorter, nights longer, home happier, love stronger..." True. The author, anonymous and brilliant.


People complain about the mundane. That daily routine where all sense of oneself gets lost, wrapped in a cozy warm blanket of the incessant. With Wyatt, I have been lucky to be able to replace my own mundane routine with one revolving around him that's still incessant albeit incredibly rewarding and englightening. Most mornings begin between the hours of 7am and 9am. We wake with a diaper change and a feeding. Wyatt then gets some time in his vibrating bouncy chair as his nature sounds giraffe serenades him with songs of the babbling brook while Mommy enjoys a steaming bowl-with-a-handle cup of coffee. Usually Wyatt dozes off for a morning nap that lasts about an hour or two during which I will have breakfast and then engage in a bit of cleaning or laundry, grace the book of Face; I might flip through the latest issue of Good Housekeeping, or read a few pages out of my book club's pick of the month all the while staring at Wyatt and how blessed I am to have him.

If we don't have any appointments or errands to go to the afternoon usually brings with it some time for the munchkin under his activity gym although his interest in it is short-lived with him still being so little. He prefers to be held while he looks around or to lay on the couch next to me while I talk to him and play with his little hands and feet. A few diaper changes. Feedings. Naps.



Having Wyatt forces me to move a bit slower and to make each moment count. No longer can I get ready for a scheduled appointment on my time, a mere hour before leaving the house. I must start getting ready 2 and even 3 hours in advance to make sure we're both able to eat and get changed, that I don't forget to pack all the necessities into his diaper bag, and still have time for a change of clothes following a bout of spit up, an unexpected feeding and/or diaper change, all the while not being rushed.

I keep the house quiet for the most part for the exception of the nature sounds and the daily scripted dog barks midday when the mailman stops by. I think this is why the munchkin is not much of a cryer because the house remains peaceful, tranquil, for the benefit of us both. It's amazing the clarity you find when you are silent, still, when you just sit and be. I keep trying to school the hubs on this as there never seems a moment when either his cell phone or the computer--sometimes both--aren't attached to his hand, even when he is holding the baby. Wyatt fusses quite a bit when he has him and he attributes it to his being hungry (even if I've recently fed him). I pick Wyatt up and almost immediately he is soothed. I try to explain to Lewis that the baby just wants some attention, to close the laptop, put down the phone, enjoy his son. I haven't gotten through to him yet. I'm hoping that I can convince him soon because tomorrow is Wyatt's 2-week birthday; he won't be a baby for very long. This time with him is precious and every second must be savored.

Afterbird

Afterbird. A term created by Abraham Verghese, author of "Cutting For Stone" that described a woman's afterbirth as identified by the main character who was about 5 years old at the time. Afterbird pains. Something no one, not even your doctor foreworns you about. Definition: Excruciatingly sharp contractions you experience as your uterus attempts to return to its normal size. Initially I thought something was wrong. Did I not deliver the entire afterbird? Did something else happen when the cord wrapped around little Wyatt's neck? I mentioned these pains, which nearly had me in tears, to my overly upbeat nurse who responded nonchalantly that these were to be expected and only get worse during breastfeeding and also increase in pain with every child I have (yes, we were thinking one more). Think labor. But without your sweet and compassionate friend, the epidural. There were times I came so close to lightly pushing Wyatt's head away during a feeding and transitioning him to the bottle right then and there, it was just that unbearable, even with the hospital-grade Ibuprofen and Percocet cocktail they were feverishly serving me. Imagine this addition to the existing frustration and discouragement that a new breastfeeding mother is already feeling as she tries to establish this almost always initially flawed feeding relationship with her baby. Some kind of warning would have been nice, welcome even, despite the bad news this warning bears. So here it is, ladies, afterbird pains, your fair warning, what your doctor won't tell you. Let's unpack this frightening suitcase a little further...

I honestly agonized over whether or not to breastfeed. With my first, I had actually not planned to however if I had I wouldn't have been given the opportunity. Caleb was premature and his sucking reflex had not yet developed so they were feeding him through a tube that ran through his nose and down into his stomach. I was certain that given my previous experience that Wyatt would also come early. Despite a hospitalized close call at the end of January, he made it to full term, leaving the decision to breastfeed entirely up to me. Originally, I thought that breastfeeding wasn't for me. Let's face it, up until this point, my breasts had only been employed by the hubs and now I was looking to get them another full-time job. My main concern was that I wouldn't be able to mentally separate the two and that it would be wierd. I started informally interviewing people from my family to my friends, even my boss. Most of the reports I collected had genuinely negative undertones: "I felt like I was living without a shirt on." "It hurt really bad." "I resented my husband because I was always up feeding and he couldn't help." I carefully considered these real-life "horror" stories and allowed them to rule out breastfeeding for me.

What should you expect while expecting? This book became my bible as the 12 years between my pregnancies had caused quite the understandable lapse in memory. I consulted this manual for everything and while I was flipping through it one day I came across a hefty chunk dedicated to breastfeeding. The pro's heavily outnumbered the con's and I became captivated. I soaked up all of the information that I could down to positions and techniques and let it simmer for a while.

My doctor had been probing me--no pun intended--about my intentions for breastfeeding so that she could safely prescribe a method of birth control following my delivery. Following my enlightening reading session, I informed her that I was thinking about trying to breastfeed. I had convinced myself that I would attempt it, even if only once, to see how things went and if I didn't enjoy it then I could stick to bottle feeding and at the very least say that I tried.

So I did. I was surprised that it didn't feel wierd at all but more organic than anything. The skin-to-skin contact with my baby as I was able to feed him in a way that no one ever could as he looked up at me was priceless. Those afterbird pains, while excruciating, were worth enduring for the 3 or 4 days and I'm so happy and even proud of myself for not giving up on breastfeeding because of them. The hospital lactation consultant answered all of my questions--quite a few, in fact--from whether or not my baby was getting enough nourishment even though my milk had yet to come in to how long I should expect him to feed at each breast or why it was more important to allow him to "drain" one entire breast as opposed to feeding a few minutes on each one. Whatever you do, take advantage of the free lactation consultant that your hospital will provide. Not only do they typically charge when you make appointments outside of your hospital stay but they provide a wealth of invaluable information, including hands-on demonstrations, regarding breastfeeding that truly cannot be replaced by simply reading a book.


I understand that not everyone has the same breastfeeding experience but I suppose I say all of this in case there are those of you out there who, like me, were skeptical and really agonized over the decision. Check out the photo of Wyatt at the top; that's right after a feeding and he couldn't possibly be happier! Despite all of the stories you may hear and the pains that may accompany breastfeeding, its really a decision you should make after trying it once for yourself. You might be pleasantly surprised :)

Welcome

After 9 long months, Wyatt Alexander finally made his way into the world on March 15th, 2011 at 9:56pm weighing in at 7lbs. 12oz. and 20 inches long.

The journey for him was a slow one. I entered the hospital around 5:30am at 3 centimeters dialated and the doctor broke my water at 7am. Twelve hours later, I was only a centimeter further dialated than I had been that morning. Plans were in the making that a C-section may be in order as the doctor started thinking that perhaps my pelvis was too small to pass the baby's head. She did another exam and manipulated his head a little bit and within an hour I was dialated the remaining 6 centimeters and ready to push. Twenty minutes later, Wyatt's tiny head emerged with the umbilical cord doubly wrapped around it. The doctor was able to quickly cut it away and attribute it to the reason he had been so slow to descend. Thankfully, aside from causing him to rock the labor casbah a little slower than expected, no permanent damage occurred.


He is absolute perfection.