Dirty Little Secret

I always thought I’d be one of those really creative moms, the kind that do amazing art projects with their kids on rainy afternoons and let them dress however they wanted. I thought I’d just quietly walk out of the room when angry, or quietly lecture them until they apologized and never did it again. I thought I’d always be happy to read a story. I thought I’d be good at this.

Which just goes to show that life must really begin at 40, because before I had kids, I certainly didn’t know myself very well. While it’s true that sometimes I liked to draw or color to relax, the only time I ever did amazing art projects was when I had to do them to make examples for my students, and even then I only did them while I was watching movies and talking on the phone. As for dressing, well, I tend to conform. And the only time I’ve ever been quiet while angry is right before I’ve exploded. With regards reading stories, sure I LOVE to read and I do enjoy quality children’s literature, but that’s not what my children want to hear. They want to hear Thomas stories and rehashings of Disney movies.

And as I struggle to convince my fiercely independent children that nose-picking is gross, that vegetables will not kill them, that they can let me direct the imaginary play just once and that matching socks are fun, I kind of want to laugh. Not at them.

At me.

How on earth did I think two stubborn, loud parents would produce quiet, malleable children? And turn flexible and quiet upon parenthood? What the hell was I smoking?

What’s really funny is that my belief in an easy child and my subsequent ideal motherhood were going to happen with ChunkyMonkey. Like any third child in our family wouldn’t realize that he’d have to yell just to be heard each day. And like adding a third child to the mix wouldn’t increase my older children’s independence and my own willingness to encourage them to entertain themselves.

And that’s how I know I’m done having kids (aside from the realities that we don’t have enough money or room to have another, of course). I may be a little sad to realize that I won’t be buying baby stuff anymore and that I’ll never nurse again, but the bloom has worn off. I know if we had a fourth s/he would be even more passionate and loud than the other three and that I would become even less of an ideal mother, possibly by barricading myself in my room during play time and letting them all fend for themselves.

Darling ChunkyMonkey,

Today you are 1. The nurses christened you ChunkyMonkey when you were born, with your 9 pounds of cuteness and great skill in nursing. You are not really chunky, but solid and definitely a good eater. The monkey part, however, is apt. You remind me of Curious George.

You love to know what’s inside of everything and you want to touch it all yourself. You are the only child of mine to take an interest in the water in the toilet and to try to eat dirt. If there’s an open door, you want to go through it. If there’s something new to see, you want to see it up close.

And how your face lights up when something makes you happy. It’s worth it to let you crawl in the dirt to see you smile. You have the most amazing smile, kiddo. You are learning about language; right now you can give 5, wave and gesture up and down on command. Your favorite speech sound is “Da”, but it’s many inflections can indicate your father (Dada), what’s this (Da Da?) or anything else you are trying to tell us. When you’re unhappy, you moan (Daaaa,Daaaa,Daaaa) and then progress to full on screaming.

You are very sure of your wants and preferences, even if I don’t always understand them. You love fruit and fruit juice, pretzels and french fries. You love to try new foods, but you’ll yell if you want something that isn’t offered. You are wonderful at playing by yourself, but more than anything you want to do what Lovebug is doing. You have just recently begun to enjoy books, and you favorites are the “Touch and Feel” series.

You are my surprise baby in so many ways, little one. And I look forward to all the rest of the surprises you have in store for me as you grow. I love you more and more each day,

Mommy

PS If you could stop biting and pulling hair, I’d appreciate it. And maybe get over the tantrums. Just a thought. XOXO

Sometimes people compliment me for breastfeeding, impressed with my commitment and devotion. I smile modestly. Because if I say anything I’m afraid I’ll laugh.

I embraced breastfeeding not because it’s supposedly better for children (turns out some of the research has been dubious at best, or so one article I read recently claimed) and not because it is SO MUCH cheaper than formula.

I started breastfeeding for those reasons, sure. But I’ve also started doing yoga because it was good for me. . .  . . . . several times. Follow through is not my strong suit, especially when you’re talking about something as time-consuming, alcohol-denying and occasionally painful as breastfeeding.

I lasted ten months with Ironflower. She weaned herself. Lovebug was fifteen months. And ChunkyMonkey is coming up on eleven months. That would be good for someone who’s only made it a month or so with yoga, except for one thing:

I’m a dedicated breastfeeder because I am LAZY. Newborn cried in the middle of the night? I didn’t have to get my ass out of bed, let alone go down to the kitchen. I never had to spend hours washing bottles – in fact, with the last two, I didn’t spend any time washing bottles. And when the kid was fussy and no one knew what to do with him? (I say “him” because, honestly, Ironflower was a super easy baby) All I had to do was whip out a boob.

And then, Friday night, it didn’t work. ChunkyMonkey DID NOT WANT TO NURSE. He fussed and screamed and yelled and I was lost. I tried each boob multiple times. I walked and bounced. I swayed. I paced. He kept screaming.

Eventually I realized that his stuffy nose meant he couldn’t breathe with the boob or the pacifier in and that I was screwed. ChunkyMonkey nurses, then goes to sleep with his pacifier. This is our routine. It works. Except for Friday. And all I could think was, oh my God, what do people who don’t nurse DO?

Let me say something to those who look down on bottle feeders: Shut up. You have no idea what those people go through to calm their children (such as pushing the stroller all night long, like I did on Friday) down.

And let me say something to all the women who have told me that they didn’t breastfeed because it seemed “too hard”: Pushing a stroller all night is a lot harder than breastfeeding, even after they have teeth.

What do you guys think?

You know how when you’re home alone with your first baby, you find yourself talking to him/her about everything? It’s like you finally have a legitimate excuse to talk to yourself out loud. I also used to talk to my cats, but talking to a baby Ironflower somehow felt more appropriate. I mean, all the baby books said to do it. So I did. But I didn’t just say things about her cute little toes or how yummy the cereal was. Oh no, I talked to her about everything. Same thing with Lovebug, although there was more child appropriate talk that included toddler Ironflower.

This might be why my children are extraordinarily verbal. Of course, their verbosity could also come from whatever gene drove me to discuss my emotional well-being with my eight month olds. Anyway. . .

ChunkyMonkey has mostly been spared my rambling. His siblings talk too much to allow me my monologues and when I am alone with the poor kid I generally just want silence. However, since the big kids started camp last week I’ve actually had hours alone with the baby.

Mostly, we’ve been walking. It seems to distract him from teething pain and I find it preferable to cleaning my house. Anyway, on our walks through deserted neighborhoods I’ve taken to talking to him. About stuff that has nothing to do with his chubby cheeks and kissable toes. Usually he just falls asleep.

Naturally he was asleep this morning as I ranted about some things that were annoying me. Which would have been fine, if a horrified woman had not popped up from her flower beds as I was passing by. Even though I’d been talking in a low voice, she’d heard every bitchy word I’d said. To my innocent baby. The look she gave me would have been more appropriate if she’d seen me sticking needles into him. Then she . . . . BACKED AWAY from me, clutching her gardening implements. Like I was a crazy person.

So then I started wondering, AM I a crazy person? Or does everyone talk to their babies about their problems?

They tell you that motherhood profoundly changes you. They tell you that you’ve never imagined love that deep. They tell you that you will become more selfless than you’d ever imagined. They tell you that your life will never be the same.

And you realize it quickly, as you stare into that little face. As you function on two hours of sleep. As you read the same story for the 1,000th time. As you try to give your friend advice on what to wear to a formal event and realize you haven’t been to one yourself since 2002. As you physically miss your children when they spend the night at grandma’s.

What they don’t tell you is how your capacity for grossness will change. Sure, they mention dirty diapers. But I was a nanny. I baby-sat. Dirty diapers hadn’t fazed me in the first place. But it wasn’t until I was a parent until I realized that dirty diapers are merely the tip of the iceberg.

Ironflower had gastric reflux for the first 8 months of her life. She threw up everywhere, all the time. We told each friend she threw up on that could call themselves aunt or uncle. And I, I whose stomach had retched so easily at just the thought of vomit, was totally calm. In fact, I became rather scientific as I cleaned up each round of vomit – what color would it be this time? Hot Guy was even more impressive, though. Once, as he held her over his head, she threw up. Into his open mouth. The fact that he didn’t run screaming out the front door then has always made me a bit complacent about our family.

Next came Lovebug. He seemed so clean, comparatively speaking. Rarely threw up. Had lots of little poops instead of big explosive ones. Wouldn’t eat baby food, so he didn’t really eat solid food until he was old enough to keep it in his mouth. I should have known that he’d get back at me eventually. He STILL won’t poop on the potty, you know. He waits until bedtime when he’s wearing his training pants and then goes for it (Although the other day he went up to his room in the afternoon, changed into training pants, pooped, then changed back into his underwear. Quite a kid, my Lovebug.). Then takes off the training pants and drops them on the floor. The carpeted floor of his room. So now I’ve been an expert at scrubbing shit.

Now the bodily functions of my children don’t bother me at all. I don’t even have a moment of nausea, or repulsion. Which is why – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, except that I’m kinda hoping that someone else will admit to doing the same thing – I watched as ChunkyMonkey pooped this morning. He’s just started having solid ones. Thinking he was done, I started to change him. But he had more and I watched it come out. I was kinda fascinated. I have never seen that much poop come out of a baby. Seriously, it was impressive.

If anyone had told me five years ago that I would just sit there and watch my baby’s poop come out, I would have thrown a drink at them.

So yeah, there’s deep love and fierce protectiveness that comes along with motherhood. And, apparently, also an ability to appreciate a big poop.

Happy Mother’s Day!

You know that feeling after you’ve just ended a bad relationship, that mix of elation and dread? One minute you’re happily belting out the Soupdragon’s “I’m Free” and the next you’re furtively throwing popcorn at the couple making out in front of you at the movie theater? (Um, that wasn’t me. I’m just imagining here. You know, creative license.)

Last night I ended a bad relationship. Or rather, a bad part of a relationship. As this is really one of those relationships that never ends, just evolves. . .

ChunkyMonkey slept in another room last night.

A couple of months ago, ChunkyMonkey slept through the night, or only woke up once. But as he’s gotten older, he’s actually become a worse sleeper. I think he was bothered when Hot Guy and I came to bed, often at separate times. And I think I was so bothered by any noises he made in the night that I may have been a little too attentive. Suffice to say, this past week he’s been waking every hour and a half.

So I have ended the first stage of our relationship. We’re now sleeping in separate rooms.

When I went to bed last night, I felt a moment of freedom and joy as I flipped on the overhead light and the TV. And I think ChunkyMonkey felt it was right as well, since he slept from 8pm until 4:45am, and then went back to sleep until 7am. I haven’t been so well-rested since. . .since that brief period when he was sleeping through the night.

But waking up this morning, well, I felt a little bit of the dread. A little bit of the “my last baby sleeps better without me and doesn’t need me quite so much anymore” feeling. And thus I am tempted to throw popcorn at passing moms with newborns.

I won’t, of course.

At least, not until ChunkyMonkey stops nursing and I’m really, really free. And sad.

I love cheese. I will go into a deli and get a sandwich with just cheese (and mayo). I will order a grilled cheese at a diner. I will eat Brie and crackers for dinner. I will make nachos with just cheese and salsa. I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten a hamburger plain.

This may also explain why I haven’t worn a bikini since 1989.

Which is fine, because in my heart I know that cheese is better than being super skinny.

And sadly, now I know I won’t be having any for the next eight months or so.

EIGHT MONTHS, people.

You see, ChunkyMonkey has always been kind of rash-y. The rashes were mild, they would come and go with no discernible pattern and no one seemed to worry about them much. He’s also always been kind of stuffy, but we blamed that on his siblings and the germfest preschool they attend. And sure, we had noticed that he seemed to have extremely bad gas but it was only recently that it had made him cry and wake out of a sound sleep.

But I started to wonder. The pediatrician asked about my eating anything strange to explain the rashes, but as I listed my cheese/bagel heavy diet, she moved on to “must have super-sensitive skin”. Except I kept thinking about the yogurt I had recently added to my breakfast routine – calcium being so important and all. I decided to consult with my best friend, the internet.

And together we began to suspect that ChunkyMonkey has a sensitivity to cow’s milk protein. Which meant that I needed to remove dairy from my diet for two to three weeks to see if he improves. It’s been three days (and let me tell you how much I want some fucking cheese, dammit).

My son is rash-free. You can’t hear him fart from across the house. He is happier. His nose is not stuffed up.

And I am. . . not sure I can live without cheese. Especially not when I can’t console myself with ice cream. I mean, THIS SUCKS. And we’re only on day four.

I guess an option would be to quit breast-feeding. And when people ask me why I stopped I can just admit that I couldn’t live without cheese. Plus, you know, I believe in breastfeeding if at all possible. And by possible I’ve always meant that the breastfeeding is not painful for either party. Which this isn’t. I’m not in pain from not eating dairy products.

Not physical pain, anyway.

Oh ChunkyMonkey, I love you more than cheese. Wow.