Monday, May 25, 2009

3 Months: Every Little Thing She Does is Magic

Three months.
Three of them.
Holy hell, my baybee is getting huge. YOOOUGE!

(OK, so she weighs 9.5 pounds and is 23 inches long. That is YOOOUGE to me.)

We decided to do pictures at 3, 6, 9, and 12 months. And while I would love to hire a fancy photographer, I can't justify paying that much money. So we went to Portrait Innovations.

Olivia was in a spectacular mood the day of her 3 month pictures. She spent the entire morning examining her "fancy" socks and smiling at everything I said to her.

I LOVE MY SOCKS!!!!!!! MY MOM IS HILARIOUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As you can imagine, I was very excited about the bevvy of smiles that morning, because pictures! Proof of baby glee!

Even though you can guess what happened, I will continue.

First of all, we got to our appointment ten minutes early. Then had to wait 45 minutes past our scheduled time. I spent the entire time making fun of one of the photographers because you could see a solid two inches of her buttcrack due to one serious sag. And then guess which photographer we got?

Yes. We got Cracky McButtcrackerson.

I was willing to forgive her for her butt crack transgressions. I mean, who hasn't sported the plumber crack at one time or another? So what if she leaves the house knowing that she will need to be bending and moving all day and still chooses to wear pants that show her butt crack? I am forgiving.

The shoot started off promising. Not quite a smile, but close. Maybe she just needs to get warmed up?

Cracky McButtcrackerson was wearing on my nerves. She was a total one trick pony. She kept making some weird noise in Olivia's face in an attempt to make her smile. This was totally not working. And instead of, you know, trying different things? As you would expect a child photographer to do? She just KEPT MAKING THE SAME NOISE.

That in itself was not the problem. The problem is that, since she couldn't make Olivia smile, she decided that Olivia was grumpy.

"Oh, grumpy baby! Just give me one smile! Come on, grumpy! *weird mouth noise* Wow, you are such a grumpy baby! Don't you know how to smile yet? *weird mouth noise* You are just like my niece, she is a little terror, too. *weird mouth noise*"

Nobody calls mah babybee grumpy. Especially after she was a perfect angel while we waited 45 minutes for this awesome shoot. And how she wasn't crying despite the ass crack she just witnessed, which is more than I can say for her parents.

At this point, I decided to try to make her smile.
It looks like I was vaguely amusing...

By the end of the shoot, Olivia was all: Done. Me and my jean skirt are out like the fat kid in dodgeball.

As soon as I picked her up from the pillow, she did about 10 huge smiles and then fell asleep.
Ah, well. I hated that lady, too, so I can't blame her.

At three months, Olivia is adorable (natch) and fun. Every single thing she does is a big huge colossal giant deal. Like no kid ever in the history of kids has ever done any of these things with such skill...

She grabs her toes? OMFG!
She swats at a toy? She is SO SMART!
She plays with her hands? Gimme the camera!
She coos and imitates our voices? She is going to talk in, like, a week!
She rolls over? Genius!

She is still a smile snob. You must adequately entertain her, and then sometimes after she smiles, she gets Very Serious and looks like she is judging you (she probably is).
Yesterday we were watching a Mr. T documentary (as sad as it sounds) and I repeated the T to Olivia: "Don't gimme no jibba jabba!" She found this to be hilarious.

Then, as if she realized that her mother is a flaming moron, she cocked one eyebrow and stared at me.

Get used to it, kid.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

My child is a genius.

This morning, I was busy drinking coffee and tricking Olivia into tummy time by playing the Baby Einstein Baby Beethoven video.

It was a typical morning of trying on 50 things that don't fit and finally settling on a loose dress while shaking my fist at the heavens and cursing the deliciousness of mini Nilla wafers.
(Seriously. I must shove them in my face like a squirrel storing nuts.)

Olivia, apparently tired of the same routine, decided to go ahead and ROLL OVER!

Normal tummy time demeanor: I hate you with the fire of a thousand burning suns!!!

(But oh my god, look at those jeans. Look at them!)

Not even Baby Beethoven could keep her on her tummy today. I watched her get all worked up and hoist herself over onto her back, then smile like she conquered the world.

Post roll: I am smarter than you, and also? Wholeheartedly reject the idea of smiling for the camera.

Clearly destined for big things, mah baybee.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Dear 21 Year Old Metabolism,

I never appreciated you.

You were so kind. You always kept right on moving. Even when I drank alcohol 6 days a week sophomore year in college. And when I went to Taco Bell or Perkins for the Fourthmeal after the bar closed.

No, I never appreciated you. Not even when I was zipping up my teeny tiny Abercrombie jeans and cursing you for making me "fat."

It is really true that you never appreciate what you've got until it's gone.

A couple weeks ago, I was joking with a coworker about how I spend half of my day walking back and forth from the copier. And he said, "that's good - it will help you lose those couple extra pounds."

And I was all: seriously? And he was all: seriously.

Last week, I was wearing shorts and sitting cross legged on the floor while nibbling on Olivia's feet. And I got totally confused, because who put egg cartons on my legs? And why?

Then I realized. Cellulite. Like, scary cellulite. Like, will not be able to wear shorts in public places for fear of scaring small children.

Yesterday, I accidentally made a phone call with my thighs. They are evolving into a totally independent life form, capable of making phone calls and imitating thunder. God forbid I wear corduroys for fear of starting some unstoppable forest fire.

There is nothing like 29 year old post pregnancy metabolism to make a girl wax nostalgic over you, dear, sweet 21 year old metabolism. I find it hard to believe that I would still have such a problem with my Pizza Hut midsection if you were still around.

I sincerely miss you. Because hearing, "You look great," and "You look great...for just having a baby" are not on the same level of flattering, if you know what I mean.

Please, please come back. And bring your friends: 21 year old energy and 21 year old natural muscle tone. We could have so much fun together, eating whatever we want and just generally being smug.

I love you. I miss you. You have the nicest hair.

All My Heart,

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Play Doh and Birth.

Read Part One here. Read Part Two Here.

The last time I woke up from my delicious drug-induced slumber, the room was very full of The Serious.


I was completely unable to care because my body was very full of The Tired.

When I got past the paranoia that this pregnancy wouldn't result in an actual baby (around 25 weeks), I decided that I would be one of those women who goes past her due date. I like to think that these women are running a Ritz Carlton type uterus, and I fancied myself to be running just that sort of operation.

I figured I would go two weeks past my due date, then be induced. I'm not positive where such delusions came from. Probably because I was a bit hot and bothered thinking about two extra weeks of full-pay short term disability before my due date.

As it turns out, though, I was actually running the Motel 6 type of uterus. Just the type of place where prostitutes work and drug deals happen, or where sleazy men take their mistresses on their lunch breaks. And the longer my pregnancy went, the more I believed that medical professionals were calling Child Protective Services to remove my baby as soon as possible because I was clearly unfit to gestate any longer.

Laying in my hospital bed (higher than Snoop Dog), I fully expected to wake up to find that I had been cut open. The mood in the room was downright depressing.

Much to my surprise, I woke up at 6:45 a.m. to find that I was not cut open. I was actually 10 centimeters dilated and ready to push. No C-Section. No Drama. Just game time.

Since I was ready to push close to 7, it was shift change time. Buh-bye weird nurse! Hello Jill!

Jill was my new nurse, and she Meant Business. Being that I am generally incapable of bullshit, I always appreciate someone who doesn't dick around. Especially around my Lady Business. I do not tolerate dicking around near my Lady Business.

By 7:30, Jill had me all ready to go, and said, "It is 7:30. We will have this baby by 8."

I had no choice but to comply. She Meant Business.

At around the same time, my epidural pump thingamajiggy ran out. I asked for more, naturally. Before it came, I started to feel my contractions and that was just totally not fun at all. You people who choose to have no drugs? YOU BE CRAZY.

Luckily, I still couldn't feel anything below the belly button, so my legs and Lady Business were blissfully numb. And eventually I pulled my tongue out of the anaesthesiologist's ear long enough for him to refill my pump, making my contractions barely noticeable.

Now right here is where I reveal how clueless I am: I didn't know that you waited for your contractions to push. I guess I just thought you pushed all willy nilly whenever you felt like it? And so while Jill was inspecting my Lady Business, I mentioned to Mark that I could feel a contraction a little bit. And Jill was all YOU HAVE TO PUSH ASSHOLE!

(She didn't call me an asshole. She could have, though. I get it. I am one usually.)

Pushing was easy for me. And I know that someone out there had a 10 pound baby and is having a very deep belly laugh over my ignorance. But I didn't think it was that big of a deal. Jill watched my contractions on the monitor, told me when to push, told me when to ease up or push harder. Mark stayed near my face and tried to avoid the sight of blood and guts.

And poop.

Half way through pushing, Jill asked if I wanted to bring out the mirror. Something I had no interest in using. And for some reason I was possessed to say yes.


If you don't like to hear about poop, then you'll be happy to scroll on down a few paragraphs past the following picture and never think about my poop again. But if you read this blog, then I bet you enjoy poop stories. And I would never want to deprive you of any oversharing about my private parts or bodily fluids.

My Poop Story: Let Me Tell You It.

It took Jill a few minutes to wrangle the mirror out of the storage room and wheel it over.

The first few seconds? Kind of cool. I could see the head, and it had hair, and I was totally not phased by the sheer size of my ever lovin' vag. I was OK with that. My Lady Business - she is a resilient thing.

But then. THEN. I made the mistake of shifting my gaze about an inch lower.

I figured there would be poop involved. As long as I didn't have to clean it up, I didn't care. If Mark happened to see it? That was his problem. Whatever. I had bigger things to worry about - what to have for dinner, brushing my teeth, holding my child, checking my email. A little poop was close to the last thing I cared about.

I didn't consider the possibility of seeing the poop when I agreed to the mirror. And I've had three months to think about how to properly describe the horror of the reflection I saw in The Mirror of Doom.

You know how you had Play-Doh when you were little? And after you ate enough to be full of its salty goodness, you wanted to actually make stuff with it? And for Christmas or your birthday, you got one of those machines that made it into shapes? Like this:

Let's say you were to move the blue thing over a notch, so it was on the round part. Then, you squished out some brown Play-Doh. THEN, you took a knife, and cut the string of Play-Doh off? And then all that would be left was a wall of brown Play-Doh ready to be squished out?

It was like that. Except, instead of Play-Doh and a fun colorful accesory, it was my butt and poop. All nice and neatly wiped off by my good nursefriend Jill and ready to continue squishing out on the next push.

So about twenty seconds after I looked in the mirror, I said, "Yeaaahhh...I've seen enough."

By that time, the doctors were there, those lazy bastards. The nurses do all the work, and the doctors come in and steal all the delivery glory. I was informed that I needed one more good push to finish the job...

At 7:57 a.m., Olivia Audrey became real, and not just some alien in my abdomen. Jill was right - we had that baby by 8.

As soon as she came out, she SCREAMED. Wholly dissatisfied with her eviction from her cozy Motel 6 room I suspect. Both doctors said at the same time, "OH! She's tiny!" Then to Mark, "Do you want to cut the..." interrupted by a loud and clear "NO." That is a big negatory on the cutting the cord thing.

My memory is a little fuzzy at this point because things happened really fast...

I sat up and looked between my knees and could see little feet flying around.

I remember thinking that it felt really weird to be able to bend at the waist without having a baby in my throat.

Someone asked Mark if he was OK, but I didn't look at him to see what was happening because I just kept waiting to see the baby's face.

And I was really nervous to see the baby, afraid that I would hold her wrong, or I would say the wrong thing, or have the wrong reaction.

I cracked some jokes about something that I can't recall.

And then she was on my chest, staring straight into my eyes, and screaming. And I was all, "Oh hai..." and "You have your daddy's chin!" I checked out her fingers, and her feet, and I kissed her forehead on a place that looked clean.

It felt like a really big moment - like I knew that every single thing would be different forever - but I couldn't get my mind all around it. Even writing about it now, I can see it in my mind like a photograph. I think it is one of those images I will never ever forget. No other moment at the hosptial sticks out to me like that very first time I met her.

To say that I felt like a mom right then would be a lie. I didn't really feel like she was mine. Holding her felt totally foreign.

I thought she was the most beautiful, perfect baby I had ever seen. I was amazed by every move she made - she was so tiny and so adorable. I was happy to finally have her here.

But mostly I felt awkward - there were doctors and nurses constantly hovering and checking and doing their jobs but being a total pain in my ass. And then she had to go under the lights for jaundice, and we barely got to see her. And breastfeeding was NOT going well, and I had to pump with something that they must have borrowed from a local dairy farmer.

I don't think it really felt "right" until after those first few days at home. And once we started to get to know each other, then I started to feel like I couldn't remember my life at all before Olivia. And I didn't want to. And all the fertility treatments and pregnancy problems seemed really trivial.

To finish up the birth info: I did end up with a second degree Lady Business tear. I believe the doctors exact words were, "You have a second degree tear that goes up into your vagina. It's going to hurt." And it was weird because Dr. Captain Obvious had forgotten his cape. Mark said he happened to catch a glimpse of things when he walked over to see Olivia, and it looked like there was red paint everywhere.

It took a couple hours for my epi to completely go away. I was deathly afraid to poop, but it wasn't bad at all (Colace = my best friend, forevah). I bled like someone tried to kill me via the vagina, and having ice packs between my legs was completely satisfying. Pain pills were consumed like candy when offered. Overall, my recovery was pretty easy.

That's it. I'm sure I forgot some things, but that is Olivia's birth story for the most part. Now she is three months old and is ripping through her 0-3 month clothes like The Incredible Hulk.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Mother's Day and Other Such Nonsense

Oh my god, let's just say it: I haven't written the rest of the birth story.

I have, however, found a photo that compares Play-Doh to poop in a wonderful, colorful illustration of just how very disgusting things can get while you are in labor.

While you are brimming with anticipation for that post, I will distract you with this one.

*Jazz Hands*

Because you know how sometimes? You sign a contract and say you will do something? For example - and this is purely hypothetical, of course - let's say you are contractually obligated to update your blog a certain amount of times per week, except your life is SO DREADFULLY BORING yet still RIDICULOUSLY BUSY? And then you don't update your blog? Then you get a reminder to update your goddamned blog already asshole?

Yeah. So here I am. Updating my goddamned blog.

*Jazz Hands*

(Because there will never, ever, be enough jazz hands. It's like Cow Bell.)

(Coincidentally, this is exactly what I am going to look like if I don't wax soon. It is very urgent, friends.)

So anyway. It's about to be Mother's Day. And one might expect me to find that Mother's Day is, like, totally awesome now that I have a squishy baybee.

Exhibit A: Squishy Baybee

Here is my Mothers Day post from last year. And lucky for you I was still blogging at Redbook then so you will be able to enjoy twice the amount of complaining!


It is important to note that Asian Bird Flu was number one last year. May must be a boring month for the media? That they blow a new flu out of proportion every year? Come on - at least pick a new epidemic! The flu is so last year.

(May I suggest a topic: the staggering amount of morons who have babies every day and shouldn't, and how nobody cares because OHMYGOD OCTOMOM and JON AND KATE ARE BREAKING UP, STUPID INFERTILES!)

(I just read through this and I swear, I need to stay on topic. This is ridiculous with parenthesis and randomness. My most sincere apologies.)

OK. Mother's Day. Not really a fan. Just like I don't like Valentine's Day and Sweetest Day: They are just holidays that seem to be created for the purpose of selling cards, flowers and candy.

Call me crazy, but I'd rather get a nice gift or a surprise on a random day. Just to, oh...I don't know...celebrate my general fabulousness?

We will buy gifts for our moms. I will (gladly) take anything free from any restaurant because I have a dirty love affair with food. I will blow raspberries on Olivia's belly to make her smile so that we can get a good picture.

I won't be bitter like I was last year, and the year before. And the year before.

I will remember all my friends who don't get to mock mother's day, and who will probably stay at home and cry (or try not to). And I will keep my fingers crossed that you get some good news soon.

I won't ask every woman I see if they are a mother. Because you never know what someone is going through. And nothing is worse than having just gotten your period/having a failed fertility procedure/having a miscarriage and venturing out for some comfort food, just to be slapped in the face by a seemingly innocent question.

I will appreciate how lucky I am.

But I better get a good gift.
(I'm looking at you, Mark.)