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.