We're back in business

Thank dear God we have a computer again that I can upload photos from!!!! Lots of videos too, but I need to figure out my new fancy editing software. In the meantime, maybe I'll try finding the disk for the old software just so I can get some videos up here. This photo was from a week or so ago at the park. The fall leaves are so pretty, but I got this one of both girls and it looks great in sepia...

In or out

Today we met Amanda and AJ at the playground at Addison and Lincoln. That might not mean much to you out-of-towners, but that is a train and bus ride away. Since Sean works downtown sometimes, we resorted to public trans, which is not something I have done with both kids until now. Obviously, Gillian should get good and use to the train and bus since that is the way of urban life...I have taken it to work nearly every day of the past 8 years. It is a bit of a challenge to haul a stroller, even a Metro Lite, up two flights of stairs with a baby strapped to your chest, so we headed to the station south of here because it has an elevator. Then the train took 15 minutes to arrive (non rush hour delays). An uneventful ride, and Gillian was good...no, she was great. She must subconsciously know about my prior entry whining about her behavior and want to prove me wrong. Anyway, we looked out the window and saw the buildings and I showed her my favorite tree, and she flirted with people on the train. The downside was the 20 minute wait for the bus outside the train station, but Gillian was wonderfully patient. Addie slept. It was a quick trip down Addison, and we went to the playground in Yuppiland (Roscoe Village) packed with Bob strollers and Starbucks-adorned Mamas and stylishly clothed toddler. Besides ours I saw four other Baby Bjorn carriers and started to wonder...."am I a yuppie too??!?" I mean, I have a ghetto Graco stroller and my kid wears Old Navy and consignment shop duds (and I had a Dunkin Donuts coffee), a couple notches down on all accounts, but there I was. There were plenty of baby bumps besides Amanda's too.

Are we yuppies? Roscoe Village is rife with jet setting 20-30 somethings who have young families and live in overpriced houses (think close to a million dollars). Amanda says her block party conversations revealed only one other woman who had a job outside the home, and most of the husbands were lawyers or finance guys. I like to think of myself as a pretty frugal person on most levels and I'm not impressed with name brands, but I like what I like, and I often like things like the Baby Bjorn or Ergo carriers. I buy organic meat, yogurt, eggs, and milk for Gillian, and really like farmers markets where I can get fresh organic produce (is it so wrong to not want my 8 year old wearing bras and having a period because of all the growth hormones??!). I do yoga and read the news. I don't like my kid to put non-wholegrain stuff in her precious mouth. I pureed organic veggies for Gillian when she first started eating solids because I thought Gerber Baby food was death in a jar (before I discovered that Earth's Best was also organic and less time consuming to feed her). Addie even has some organic cotton pajamas (from a consignment shop, but still). I get my hair cut and colored at a salon (usually, though it looks pretty rough at the moment). I even like to go to Sam's and get a few bottles of wine every now and then because they have a better selection and better prices than the grocery (Binny's is buying Sam's!! Oh, the lament-prices already went up!).

I mean, the grounding things are that we live in a condo, we only have a part time nanny, I have terrible fashion sense, and I clip coupons. Aside from my taste for the well-made in life, I don't like WASTING money. I mean, one year I tracked my coupon savings (saved every grocery receipt) and it was $1560. That's a lot of money that didn't take much to make (I have pretty recently discovered that Target groceries, while limited, are usually about 40% less than the grocery store, so I get as much there as I can). I don't care if my sweater is Last Season if it saves me 75% off the original price. I almost never buy things at full price, except shoes for Gillian. But even that has changed. I bought a lot of 6 pairs off Ebay that were gently used-$50 for 2 pairs of Stride Rites (1 pair was a cute set of boots), 2 pairs of Saucony tennis shoes, a pair of Primigi mary janes, and a pair of dress shoes. They are fine, and I am benefitting from the fact that the kid who wore them wore them hardly at all.

Somewhere along the way, I decided that kids don't NEED new things. Poor Addie. When Gillian was born I would have no sooner put her in a used carseat or high chair than moving to the North Pole, but things have changed. Kids are hard on things and they depreciate quickly. No reason to spend that money when I can benefit from someone else spending it. Like Addie's new playmat I got from Craigslist for $15 (originally $79.99), which works just fine and is nice and clean. I'd like to tell you I do these things because it is greener to buy used, and my environmental conscience is the driving factor. Really, it's mostly because I feel like paying full price is getting scammed, and I hate getting cheated.

So, what is the vernacular for a cheap yuppie? Chuppie? Yugle? Grown up?

A wrinkle in time?

Gillian is saying interesting things about "when [she] was a baby" or "when [she] was a little girl". Sometimes it's all mystical, like "when I was a little girl, I slept inside the purple sun and he wrapped his rays around me like a big hug". Sometimes she says things like "when I was a baby, I use to say "guh...guh...guh" because I couldn't say "garden", remember mama?".

Today she said "Mama, when you were my baby, you use to like wearing a yellow dress with a flower on it". She went on to tell me that as a baby I also liked to eat bananas and play in the bathtub. I really don't like to dismiss these things because I think she has demonstrated a really remarkable memory. I mean, she remembers things that actually happened when we were at the beach in June of 2008...selectively, but still (out of the blue she will say "remember that time we were at the beach and Nonni hurt her foot?" or something like that). So, when she says "when I was a baby...." I want to think she might actually remember not being able to say "garden", or whatever. But it kindof freaks me out to think she might remember a past life where I was her baby. I mean, the whole kindred spirits thing might not be complete foolishness; I try to keep an open mind about these things. Besides, everything she says might be true given how terrible my memory is about life's minutia (Gillian and Sean have tht market covered). That is why I blog.

In other news, I think I am going to decorate my house with her art because I LOVE IT. It's like modern art with an edge. I seriously am going to frame a few things because they blow my mind. Some are simple paintings that look Miro like (my favorite artist in the world; the pilgrimage to Barcelona to go to his museum was worth it!!) and some are more abstract and complex, all with names as beautiful and strange. I will upload some photos of her art when I am able. Have I mentioned how hard it is to not be able to get at the pics on my camera?

Postnatal physical damage assessment

Arms, legs, face: Back to normal (thank God since my nose was spread across my face those last few weeks), thankfully no vericose veins.
Hair: telogen effluivium, again. A sweater's worth every shower or hair brushing, though I must admit I get all fuzzy inside when I see the number of white hairs falling out. I really need a trip to the salon.
Round ligaments: have been giving me hell for a month. Time to get use to being back in their rightful place again. Please stop making me feel chronically menstrual.
Moles, skin tags: alive and well and more plentiful. SEXY.
Belly shape: soft, 3-4 month pregnancy pooch. Diastasis recti. Separation of the rectus abdominis muscle into right and left halves. My linea alba has torn asunder. If I lay flat and flex my belly, I get this little hill that rises up between where the muscles are (I can see lumps that are intenstines through the muscles when I lay awake on my back in the mornings plotting my escape from The Madness). You know, the parts that use to be joined. This is supposed to improve, but may never be the same. I should exercise the transverse muscles more to help things get back to where they go, but I have not gotten around to that yet. That and Kegels, which I really should try harder to get around to.
Belly skin: sad. stretchmarks and loose; I am told things will improve. The poor little belly button might never make it back to it's original position. I could use the extra belly skin for a small purse, or a day planner sleeve. Maybe after my post-final-baby-tummy-tuck....
Breasts: about the same as before, but more functional (no weird increase in size this time)
Eyes: chronically bloodshot from utter exhaustion
Weight: 57 pounds down, 3 pounds to go. Yes, I gained SIXTY pounds with Addie, 45 of which was gone within 3 weeks-must have been water (did you SEE that entry with the cankle/fat sausage feet I had? each ankle had three chins!!). At this point, I have no desire to lose much more because I have a milk supply to keep up (that is my mantra when I'm having a little extra treat). I want to get back into yoga, but no cardio just yet for that reason (which is great and not so great at the same time)...
Feet: shoes are pretty tight. I think the hormones might have relaxed the ligaments enough to up me a quarter or half size.

All in all: it could be worse.

By the way-the computer has been dead a couple weeks and our new one should arrive within the next week, at which time I will upload many pictures and videos for your viewing pleasure.

Survival mode

My GOD I am tired. I didn't appreciate the exhaustion of having Gillian and a new baby. Well, having them BOTH at the same time. It's kind of like when Andrea was here and Gillian was running around like a maniac and then planted herself on the couch, feet up the back and head hanging off the seat toward the ground. I just stared at her, nodding when she said "look at me, Mama! I'm upside down!!". Andrea, noticing my glaze, said "look at me Mama, I'm about to fall on my head". The truth is that my life is a lot like this (watch the whole thing-it's priceless):

Gillian has limitless energy. She is a ball of energy. All the time. When she wakes you up at 6 am, she's all shiny, bright, and happy asking you to do something inherently absurd...Tuesday morning, when I had to get up and go to work in an HOUR (I lost that precious hour), she comes in and says something like "come dance with me Mama, you want to? I want to wear my princess to dance in because it twirls around like I like, but I don't want to wear any pants with it, OK Mama? Cause it's not too cold in here, OK? C'mon let's go dance Mama. I dreamed about purple tights last night. Can I wear purple tights with my princess dress? Can I Mama? CAN I? I need help putting on my underpants and my tights and dress...C'mon Mama, WAKE UP!" So, the day starts like that, and it goes all day like that. And, as much as she wears me out TO DEATH, it wouldn't be so bad if she didn't get jealous in the least delightful way.

If I don't give Gillian undivided attention, she does things like deliberately trying to kick the cat or chases them around yelling...or maybe she will scream near Addie while she is trying to sleep. On the way to Michigan to pick apples, she yelled in Addie's face until Addie was crying inconsolably, and she had a timeout on the side of the interstate, semis rolling by at 70 miles per hour. Sometimes she hugs Addie too tight on purpose, is too rough in her playing with her (she looks at us to see what we'll do when she knows she is being too rough), or tries to pick the cat up by her neck. The other day, I walked away from her and Addie on the bed for 5 seconds, only to hear Sean exclaim "what are you doing, WHAT ARE YOU DOING??!!?"; Gillian had a plastic bag over Addie's face. I want to feel sorry for her plight, I really do, but I am a broken record. "Gillian, no yelling at the cat"; "Gillian, gentle with Addie"; "Gillian, Addie is trying to sleep, use your inside voice"; "Gillian, when you yell, it hurts our ears"; "Gillian, please do what I asked you to do"; "Gillian, please eat your dinner". I am completely, utterly wiped out. I am emotionally exhausted.

Dinner is a fight. If we pretend not to notice that she isn't eating, she says things like "Look, Papa, I'm not eating my supper". If we remind her that she doesn't get dessert unless she eats dinner she says things like "I don't want dessert tonight." She'll say "I need help. I need you to feed me". I would love to tow the hard line with sending her to bed with no dinner, except we are the ones who suffer all night with no sleep when she wakes up crying because she is hungry. Bedtime is a fight too. Every night we have the same routine (dinner, bath, playtime, books, tucking in). Every night she tells us she's not tired and that she doesn't want to go to bed. Every night we have to tell her we are leaving now, and every night she pretend cries and says some well articulated poignant thing like "but I don't want you to leave me" or "I don't want to be in here all alone...I'm scared PLEASE STAY WITH ME BECAUSE I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU....". Every night the end result is the same and she is in bed, and we sit here like slugs on the couch, cross eyed from all the hell a three year old can pack into the two hours between dinner and bedtime. Entertaining her is a chore too. Our imaginative play has evolved to skits where she is the director. She tells me what to say. "Ask me why, Mama". "Say "I like to eat toes". SAY IT, Mama". If we ask her to do something, she will often say "NO!" and when you ask why, she'll say, "because I don't want to". If you ask why she did something she knows you disapprove of, she'll say "because I want to" (this is infuriating when she hurts Addie and you ask her why she hurt Addie). Tonight she said "I hate you" (I have absolutely no idea where she learned that). Nice. She's 3 going on 15. Can't wait for 15.

We are sometimes uncomfortable with how weirdly attached she gets to older women she doesn't know. At Christmas, she was rolling around on the carpet at Suzi's sister's feet saying "Whoa Leecey (Alyce's grandmother nickname), look at me!" She did that for 15 or 20 minutes, desperate for Alyce's attention. There were no less than 15 other kids between the ages of 1 and 6 for her to play with, and she spent her time trying to get attention from a great aunt. The same thing happened in August when we went to Lake Wawassee in Indiana to visit with Suzi's sister Chee Chee's kids and grandchildren. Gillian was on Chee Chee's lap the entire time, even though there were several sweet little girls to play with. More recently, she monopolized Teddy's grandmother at his birthday party, yelling "Hi!" to her over and over again across the dinner table. Lucky for Gillian, Suzi (ironic that Teddy's grandmother is also Suzi) was a good sport, and was great with her and assured us she was not bothered by Gillian the few times we asked if we needed to take her home.

Sleep is a joke. I am desperate for some alone time when they are both finally asleep that I stay up too late...and since I've been at work twice a week this week and last, Addie has been waking up to nurse 2-3 times every night (we were down to once, at about 4am before that). Most nights for the past month or so, Gillian has also been waking up once or twice a night...because she peed in her bed, or she has a bad dream, or because she dropped burpy on the floor and wants someone else to get it, or because she wants you to cover her up, or because she's lonely, or because she wants a hot washcloth for her face (thanks for that indulgence, Papa). So, do the math. Addie wakes me up a couple times a night, and Gillian does too. I am a zombie.

I hate feeling like this because Gillian is such a wonderful child in so many ways, but this boundary establishment part might kill me. How long does this part last? I spend half my time feeling guilty that Gillian's behavior is clearly due, in large part (the other large part being that she is three), to acclimating to sharing our love and attention with another child, and the other half feeling guilty that Addie hasn't gotten 1/10th the amount of attention Gillian got as a baby. Addie is a sweet baby, and is generally mild mannered, and she deserves better than what I am giving her. And I don't want to give the impression that Gillian is a hellion, but I am honestly in survival mode. We talk all the time about whether our parenting choices are what is causing this behavior. We second guess our decisions on how we discipline her (timeouts, for example), we second guess what we say and how we say things. We feel like we're navigating in the dark here, and we hope to God things are OK on the other side. I say this as I make my second trip to a crying Gillian in her bed since 8:30 (it is 11:30). Another bust night for sleep, it appears.

Sometimes parenting seems monumentally difficult. Shouldn't loving them be enough?

Thrush

Addie and I have thrush. Thrush is *just about* one of the most miserable physician conditions you can share with your baby. It makes the inside of the baby's mouth raw and sore...adults describe it as feeling like their tongue and cheeks are "on fire".* So, I suppose the fussing when she's nursing sometimes is from thrush. On the mother's areola, it looks raw, red, and sometimes like blisters...it causes horrible shooting pains in the nipple if the yeast gets inside the milk ducts. It looks like little white patches on the baby's tongue, inner cheek, lips, and sometimes even their gums. If you try to rub the white off, as any self respecting mama might do in the bath when she assumes it's milk, it is tough to do, and if you succeed, it is red and raw underneath. It might even bleed. The worst part is you still have to nurse while you are treating yourself and the baby, both of you in considerable pain.

So, I knew this was coming. I mean, I did get a horse dose of Clindamycin in the three and a half hours before Addie was born because I tested positive for Group B Strep (three times in spite of my efforts to populate myself with a planet's worth of Lactobacillus GG with probiotics galore). Now, I am not convinced this was even necessary and I told my doctor (and I quote) "I am just very concerned about taking such a huge dose of intravenous antibiotics and the risk of thrush while I'm trying to establish a nursing relationship with a newborn". After all, you know the propensity the medical community has for using the proverbial pharmaceutical crane to crush a fly... See, there is no real fool proof evidence that the antibiotics work, and the risk of infection is next to zero (it is a normal skin bacteria, which one would assume many many many people have exposed their babies to for millenia in labor with no ill effects). However, considering the severity of illness with babies who have Group B Strep infections from exposure, I decided not to take any chances, even though I felt like a tool for buying into the hysteria justifying overmedicating people in labor. Plus, we saw first hand how serious it could be when Gillian contracted it in the NICU, and when sepsis started making her desaturate she required two blood transfusions. So, we weren't messing around. I mean, I don't begrudge being treated for something as long as we know it works.

Speaking of which, we started a Nystatin marathon yesterday when I emailed my doctor and said I KNEW IT. I, ever sensitized to the possibility of this happening given how much IV antibiotics I got in labor, had looked at pictures before Addie even made it into the world to educate myself on what to look for. I was required to take Addie to a "newborn clinic" when she was a week old. It annoys me that I had to do that, because I have a pretty good handle on how to be a mom now that I have been one for three whole years. Plus, the people who see you are medical residents, and I'm pretty sure I know more than most of them about newborns (I am also sure if you took a poll, 99% of them aren't parents at all, yet they are giving parenting advice). Anyway, the clinic cleverly makes this the visit where you register your baby as a patient to force the issue. So, I saw two residents and a behavior specialist/lactation person (clearly not an expert if she didn't know thrush when she saw it either). One resident, who was maybe 24 and a female, said "Poor Thing" to me when she saw my PUPPPS rash (can I tell you how much I love condescending sympathy from a person that much younger than me?? a simple "that really sucks" would do). She didn't even know what PUPPPS was. I explained it to her. The other resident, the more seasoned one, did Addie's exam. I told him I thought she had thrush and explained that it wasn't too crazy a possibility given the GBS treatment. He took a quick look and told me the white stuff in her mouth was milk. I told him Gillian never had that in 16 months of nursing and told him I thought it would probably wipe off if it was milk. He told me something else justifying his opinion, and I just let it go.

I feel like Mother of The Year, if you really want to know, for not trusting my gut on this. Because of that resident's incompetence and my stupidity, Addie and I have suffered for nearly three months. I have thought a million times, "I certainly don't remember nursing being this miserably painful with Gillian". Addie is often fussy when she eats and pulls off and arches her back and whines and cries. I thought it was just the witching hour, or that sometimes her stomach was upset. I never considered that maybe her entire mouth might feel like it was full of fire blisters. My breasts look like they have giant red ring worm circles around the nipple. I have been slathering myself with Lanolin, hoping to ease the pain, but ironically, that just makes it worse! Oh, the irony-yeast like nothing better than locking in moisture with the tar like goo that is Lanolin. I am almost through an entire tube of that, and I didn't even get through an eighth of a tube in 16 months of nursing Gillian.

The worst part of this whole deal, besides the unnecessary Pain and Suffering, if the fact that this infection (candida albicans, if you want to know) is VERY HARD TO KILL. Like, think lice with sterilizing your entire house. I know several women who have had to take weeks of antifungals, while concurrently dosing baby's mouth to eradicate the yeast (and you have never had fun until you try to give a baby several milliliters a day of any liquid that is not food-think 2 mL in, 1.75 mL out; choking and gagging...God love her, Addie keeps smiling at me in spite of the fact that she must be convinced I am trying to kill her...). The worst part is that I know as many women who have fought it for months, with no success. They and their baby just keep reinfecting each other. All I can do is pray it dies off for good. And that my nipples stop feeling like Addie is a piranha when she nurses. And that when Addie is better, she will magically love bottles (that struggle is a whole other post). Because I am going back to work in two weeks. Ack.

I am Glamorous

See what mothers go through?? There has been a good many blowouts this time around. Nothing says "VOGUE" (or, as it were, screams "I AM A MOTHER") like runny breastmilk poop on your pants (except poop-that-really-wasn't-that-much-so-you-didn't-feel-like/have-the-time-to-change and now there's a little dry yellow stain on your person somewhere).

I love Addie, but I am mystified by the thermodynamics that must occur to make the poop miss inches of diaper only to reappear on the lower back or thighs. Amazing.

Gilly's Baby Mama

So, for most of Gillian's short life, she could careless about baby dolls. For example, she prefers to put diapers on or give bottles to her stuffed animals, or pretend to put them on her Ra-Ras (her hands aka monsters), or her feet-basically, anything inanimate that doesn't even slightly resemble a human being. All this nonchalance towards babies has changed the past two days when she suddenly decided it was great fun to nurse her baby doll and give her medicine "for her tummy ache" (we give Addie Zantac for reflux)...she even takes rides on the baby doll stroller that we had to dust cobwebs off of due to neglect (well, you get the point). The medicine, by the way, comes out of a harmonica onto a spoon. Musical elixhir. I like that.

Anyway, this is all sweet and awesome and womanly-reservoir-of-experience of her until you hear who baby IS. Gillian says the baby is me when I was a baby. Huh? She says things like "Mama, you're hungry and want A BOOB" (if you're wondering, NO, we did NOT teach her the word BOOB), or "Mama, your tummy hurts and you need some medicine", or, "Mama, baby you wants to go for a walk. Come with us!". To this initial role playing at playgroup, her buddy AJ looked completely bemused and continued eating his rubber donut in Gillian's kitchen. It is confusing to follow, even for me.

So, I am wondering what the significance of HER taking care of ME is. She only nurses baby me...(there are two more dolls-one is also Baby Gillian, and the other is Addie "as an even littler baby", but they get bottles, not boobies; and even that is few and far between). Only I get to go in the stroller. Only I try to poop on a little pink potty. And what triggered this all of a sudden? Either way, she is finally getting some use out of her pretty baby dolls!

Exhibit A

You Should Be Grateful

This resonated so much with me. For all of you who never quite understood while Gillian's birth was so hard on me...this is posted by the author, Gretchen Humphries, at http://www.birthtruth.org/grateful.htm
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You should be grateful, after all, you have a healthy baby.

How many times have we heard those words? How many times have we said them? It seems so obvious, you wanted a child and now you have a healthy child. You are alive to enjoy that child. You should be grateful. Right?

That phrase (or the similar, "All that matters is a healthy baby") did more damage to me than anything else said to me after my cesarean section. Because on the face of it, it seems so true. My husband and I had struggled with infertility for several years. My pregnancy came after at least 2 miscarriages and drugs to make me ovulate and then to maintain the pregnancy. I had beautiful twin boys. Why was I so upset? Wasn't I grateful? They were apparently healthy and so was I, if you discount the physical devastation of major abdominal surgery on top of the exhaustion taking care of newborn twins brings with it. My recovery was, after all, uncomplicated by medical standards. Physically, I was healing well. Wasn't I grateful?

So many people said it to me, I started to wonder. People I trusted, people I respected, people I loved. Women that had cesarean sections for their children and trumped the advantages of it. Maybe I wasn't grateful for my babies? Maybe I didn't love my babies as much as I should or as much as other mothers did? Maybe I was being selfish and petty to be so upset about the birth and not blissfully happy with my babies---after all, other women seemed to "get over it" so quickly---so quickly in fact that I had to wonder if I was really crazy to think there was anything to "get over." What was the big deal?

Part of the problem was that I actually didn't feel overwhelmingly grateful, nor did I feel overwhelmed with love for my boys. I knew that if anyone threatened them in any way that I'd do anything to protect them. I'd already proven that in negotiating a less traumatic cesarean than they would have normally experienced. I could protect my children but I didn't feel a lot about them. I was depressed. So for several months I wasn't feeling much of anything. It wasn't hard to believe that I wasn't grateful enough, that I didn't love them like I should. But I still had to wonder, even as the depression lifted, why hadn't I 'gotten over it?' What was wrong with me?
Then I began to realize how evil it is to tell a woman who's experienced a physically or emotionally traumatic birth that she should be grateful because when you say that, she hears that she isn't grateful enough for the precious baby she's been given. And that cuts to the quick. She may already be wondering what was wrong with her that she couldn't have a normal birth and now you've told her that she doesn't love her child enough. It is evil to say, "All that matters is a healthy baby," because you are saying that her pain, her damage, doesn't matter. You are telling her that not only is her body broken, but so is her mind. That if she is physically healthy, that's all that matters, and to be concerned with anything else is somehow wrong. That the means to the end doesn't matter, she is expendable.

The truth is a woman can be absolutely grateful and full of passionate mother love for her child and be enraged by how that child came into the world. Hating the birth, hating what happened in that cold impersonal operating room or delivery room has nothing to do with the child. It is possible to be both full of rage and full of love. When that rage is turned inward, a woman is depressed, and likely to believe you when she hears you tell her she's ungrateful and unloving toward her child. And if that rage turns back outward, it will spill over to you, because you told her a lie and she believed it because she trusted you. If that rage stays hidden, it will fester, and eventually there will be a place in that woman's heart where she no longer goes, because it just hurts too much and makes no sense. Good mothers just don't have those feelings, and she's already afraid she isn't a good enough mother. And so she loses something precious, and so do we all.

I discovered that there are a lot of women out there who hated the birth of their child; women who had bad surgeries, women who had good surgeries, rarely women who had necessary surgeries, women who didn't have surgery at all but did have horrible things done to them in the name of birth. I'm not the only one. There is a vast hidden ocean of pain in women who've had horrible births but do love their babies and continue to wonder, "What is wrong with me? If I just loved my baby enough, I wouldn't feel this way."

I was freed by the knowledge that there is nothing wrong with me! I underwent the surgical removal of my children from my body---a procedure that has nothing to do with birth, that completely circumvents what my woman's body is made to do. If it felt like an assault, then it was an assault, a very sexual assault. And if I'm not upset about being assaulted, then there really is something wrong with me. And that nothing that was done to me has the power to keep me from loving my children with passionate mother love.

I am grateful, grateful beyond words for the blessing of my children. They are miracles. The day they were taken out of me was one of the worst days of my life. Yet I am grateful for them, though not for what was done to me. My physical body might have recovered well enough to be called 'healthy' but my spirit was deeply wounded and then neglected. I was not healthy. I know my children suffered because of that. I have a lot to be grateful for but not for their birth, never for their birth. Understanding and accepting that makes me truly healthy. Admitting the horror of their birth frames the love I have for them in a way that astonishes me----amazed at what I went through because of my love for them, I now know I really would die for them if needed.

Now, when you tell me that I should be grateful, I realize that you are showing me how frightened you are. That you are afraid to look at my pain. That you are afraid to admit that maybe I have good reason to be angry, that maybe women are truly assaulted in the name of birth. You are telling me that it's okay for women to have birth ripped from them, that it isn't acceptable to look for a better way or to mourn what was lost. I know you now. You may not know yourself, but I do. And I pity you.

Le Petite Fleur

Irony. Addie has a hand-me-down floral onesie that, in tiny letters, on a tiny piece of material in the middle of the chest, says "Le Petite Fleur", the little flower. Oh, how I laugh to hear my little flower being so not a little flower, particularly when she's wearing that precious outfit. You see, Addie could quite possibly be the Gassiest Baby Who Ever Lived. She spends hours each day writhing in agony, legs pulled up, face red with effort, blood vessels bulging from her bald head, grunting these gutteral, gravelly, horrible grunts. The grunting sounds like I must have sounded in labor with her, or maybe the way a 250 lb man might sound making a monster poop. Sometimes she makes toots, sometimes toots with accompanying loud, blowout-style poops. Sometimes these relieve the discomfort, sometimes not. Mylecon and Gripe Water don't seem to do much, and my diet doesn't seem to make a difference thus far. I did note in a video of Gillian at the same age, that Gillian "made sounds like this [grunts] or cries" for 6 hours a night starting at 5pm, which makes me feel a little better. But Addie can grunt herself hoarse. Pobrecita!

Gillian calls her "the little tooter". Papa calls her "motorboat". Whatever the nickname, her efforts don't make her the posterchild for the Emily Post Institute, but I digress. MY little flower knows what she has to do to take care of business, and I am proud of that. I wish her little tummy didn't so obviously hurt with such frequency, but I think that is the lot of the newborn.

So, if you happen to be holding her when she contorts her precious face in pain, and graces you with a toot or a full scale blowout, don't say I didn't warn you. Addie is hard core. I remember several instances where Gillian had blowouts at inopportune moments which covered her or both of us in mustard poo, and I am not the only one. The poo gets everywhere, so runny-but-elastic and adherent it is. On my sleeve? How did THAT get there? On my elbow? How did that get there? On the back of her head? SHE REALLY NEEDS A BATH and How did THAT get there? Every day, a new wonder.

And I just noticed some Addie-induced tell-tale mustard stains on my shirt. Awesome. How does it escape these diapers?

*sigh* I forgot this delightful part of parenting a young baby.