Thursdays with Trixie

I think I have the plague. I’m a hacking, coughing, sniffling, sneezing, miserable, plague-infested mommy. I feel awful.

It happened in the usual way. My darling Monkey came home from preschool one day, and woke up the next with a fever. On a Tuesday. Why is it always early in the week that he gets sick? Never on a Friday, or the weekend, so that he can recover while we are already at home. Nope, each time, it’s early on in the week so that my husband, Egg, and I can do the “who needs to be at work more” dance as many days as possible.

Me: So.... Monkey’s got a pretty good fever. Should probably stay home today.
Egg: Huh. I think I have a meeting this morning.
Me: Oh, yeah? I think I have two meetings. And I have no leave left over after my maternity leave ended.
Egg: I have a meeting, and a court appearance. Justice dies if I’m not at work today.
Me: I gave you two children....
Egg: One of whom is sick right now, so not so good on that. Besides, he likes you better.
Me: Oh, fine. Fine. I’ll take the morning. You be home by lunch time. And he does like me better.

And so we stayed home. If your toddler is anything like my toddler then you know there are two truths about toddler sickness: (1) they get a fever with everything, all the time, for no good reason; and (2) fevers and wild horses could not slow them down. It takes a full-on 104.5 fever to get the Monkey to sit still for a while. Anything less, and it’s just something to keep him warm while he’s outside playing soccer.

Now that I have two kids, I like to try to prevent the cold from passing from one to the other. Similarly, I like to keep rain from falling, and to keep dogs from licking themselves. Can’t be done. In the beginning, I was a hand-washing crazy person. If a cold was suspected, I enforced an anti-virus martial law involving strict border controls, hand-washing, and baths of hand sanitizer. I made everyone wash everything several times over, until we were all very, very, very clean. And now rashy, from the dry skin. Do you know what difference it made? None. The cold would still pass from one kid to the next in a matter of days Every. Single. Time. Seriously. Now both kids were clean, rashy, AND sick. Great.

So, now I don’t try as hard. The cold is going to pass through sooner or later; I might as well not stress about it. And in fact, this time, a few days after we had patched up the Monkey, LambChop got a fever of her own, along with the cutest hacking cough. Poor thing. She also added in the baby special: double ear infections. She’s a trooper, though, just like her brother. And, just like her brother, it is now clear to me that her mission in life is to make sure that Mommy gets the cold, too (which, as an aside, is not exactly in her best self-interest, as she must be realizing now that every night, just as she is falling asleep gently, gently, gently as she nurses, I start uncontrollably coughing and hacking in a manner fit to wake the dead. Not good.). But if it’s a lost cause to stop the cold from going from one kid to the other, it is SERIOUSLY a lost cause to prevent me from getting it. And here’s what I don’t get. I get that Monkey and LambChop have clean slates in terms of the amount of immunity that they have built up to colds. I get that they will catch lots of germies at the day care. But what I can’t fathom is why I have ABSOLUTELY no immunity to any dang virus out there. I’m not a toddler. I’ve had colds before. I’ve been around the cold block a time or two. How is it that there is apparently not a single cold out there to which I have already become immune? Is there a lot of brand new viruses out there? Are the colds I caught from adults a few short years ago the flimsy half-breed cousins of these colds? Why must I catch everything they bring home? With gusto?

And, more importantly, how is it that Egg lives in his own little bubble of healthiness? How did he get so immune? Every time they bring something home, as night follows day, I catch the cold, and he does not. I find this remarkably unfair. It’s not like he eats healthily, or that he exercises, or takes care of himself in ANY recognizable way (“but honey, I NEEDED that egg mcmuffin....”). And he was very resistant to my hand sanitizer martial law, I must say. I don’t even think he really put it on. So why doesn’t he get sick? I have no idea. Frankly, even when he does get sick, it’s still not very satisfying because he just takes medicine and feels all better. Which is crap, because as a nursing mommy (for at least a little while longer), there is very little that I can take that really makes me feel better. I’m stuck with the humidifier, some tylenol, and a couple throat lozenges. Grr...

Egg: Man, that cold was awful.
Me: I know, I feel terrible. I can’t breathe. I didn’t sleep at all last night. You?
Egg: oh, I slept fine. I took some nyquil, and man, out like a light. Breathing good, too. Taking some daytime stuff now that’s dried me all up. Did the baby even wake up last night for a feeding?
Me: (mumbling to self: murder is wrong. Murder is wrong. Murder is wrong. )

Now, a few days later, Monkey is all better. LambChop is on the mend. Egg has narrowly escaped death once again, and is, as always, cold-free. And I am sitting here, sucking on a damn lozenge, blowing my nose, and wishing for the plague to end. My best bet: it will, approximately 3 days before Monkey brings home the next virus.

Thursdays with Trixie

Trixie and I were chatting via messenger, as we do many nights a week, and she tells me that she is almost done with the post and is going to send it to me.  I ask her what it is about and when she tells me, I start shaking my head.  I don't know if it is funnier that she has done what she has done or that I could totally see myself doing the same thing.  It will be interesting to hear your take on this story...

We have two baby monitors. You might assume, based on that fact, that our house is large, or that our two children each have their own bedrooms. Oh, silly, silly reader. You would be so very wrong. Our house is a tiny bungalow, not more than 1250 square feet. The bedroom that my two kids share is mere inches from our own. If anything were to happen in their bedroom, I believe that we could hear it from every part of our house. And yet, two monitors. It is hard, I was just saying to Mommy C, to explain how these things happen.

But it’s not, really. This is how it happens. First, you have your first baby, and of COURSE you need a baby monitor. Doesn’t matter if you live in a one room shack, you get a baby monitor because the baby people have convinced you that there is a certain set of things you MUST HAVE BEFORE YOU HAVE A BABY IN YOUR HOUSE. When you are pregnant with your first born, you are so worried about being a parent that you listen to everyone, especially when it comes to what to register for for the baby shower. Oh, the baby people are smart. Registering for a baby shower is much worse than registering for your wedding shower. I remember. I remember thinking, oh, this will be easy. I’ve registered for things before. I’ve walked the aisles of a store with one of those cool-o shopping guns. Fun, fun, fun.

But no, not fun. Stress. With wedding shower stuff, it really, at the end of the day, doesn’t matter which martini shaker you get. But with baby shower stuff, the baby people pound it in to you that what you get your baby matters very much indeed. Sure, you could get X version, which is inexpensive and simple. But, boy, if you REALLY loved your future baby, you would get this expensive, complicated doo-hicky. Or this one. Or that one. They’re not all that specific about which one is really right, just to drive you that little bit of extra crazy. So you pace the aisles with your lists of items, trying to make sure that you have everything that you need to make you a better parent. [Editor's note: As I read this I picture some baby product exec, looking something like Mr. Burns, heckling parents-to-be.]

And one of those items is a baby monitor. A fairly simple concept - a device with a receiving end that you place in the nursery, and a broadcasting end that you have with you. But just as sure as the fact that babies can sense when you’ve decided to relax with a glass of wine, the baby people have come up with a zillion different kinds of baby monitors for you to try to wade through. There are monitors that listen, monitors that check breathing, video monitors, two-way monitors, monitors that hook up to your tv, monitors with one channel, monitors with 100 channels. Trying to figure this out, I felt like someone from a third world country might feel standing in front of the toothpaste aisle at the Safeway. Overwhelmed? Um, yes.

So I did what everyone else does: I asked around. I spoke with my neighbor, a wonderful mommy with children slightly older than mine. She got a particular audio monitor and liked it, so I got that too. And it works just fine. Except (1) it gives off a lot of white noise all of the time; and (2) it has two channels, and one of them very clearly picks up my neighbor’s kids’ room. We took the other channel, and agreed on the honor system to not listen in on the other channel unless asked. Still, I try not to have any really big fights with my husband in the kids’ room just in case. I move us to the other bedroom three inches away, where I’m sure NO one can hear us. Totally.

But then, my Monkey got a little older, and sometimes, he would make noises that were hard to discern. You know how that goes. You are sitting happily in the living room, having that aforementioned glass of wine. Suddenly a noise. You pause the TV. What was that? Is he ok? Is that a “I’m stuck between the slats of my crib” cry? Or a “I’m testing my parents for fun” cry? Do we go in? Do we let him work it out? Follow that with endless debate, a few sharp words, a rushed decision to go in and “peek,” and finish it up with extended crying because he spied you peeking and is now pissed that you haven’t picked him up. Great.

Around the 7,000,000,001th time that happened, I began to crave a video monitor. This lousy audio monitor is so limited! I complained. We soon will have two kids! I rationalized. Finally, my husband caved, and we decided to get one. Which one to get? By baby No. 2, you are somewhat immune to the baby people. We asked neighbor mommy which one they had, and got that one. Yay! A video monitor. I can see what the noises are. I can tell when blankie has fallen and a rescue is required. I can watch in endless fascination as he puts himself to sleep. I can, naturally, also switch over to the other channel and watch the neighbor kids. Yikes. Again, a meeting of the minds, and again, a commitment not to walk naked through the kids’ rooms. Which, ok, I probably shouldn’t be doing anyway, but a good reminder is always welcome.

However, video monitor has some drawbacks, largest among them is the very loud feedback noise it makes about every 5 minutes. Very annoying. Now the white noise of audio monitor seems downright soothing. For a while, we had one monitor watching over Monkey in his room, and one watching over LambChop in the bassinet in our room. Yes, you read that right. We had a monitor In. Our. Own. Room. So we could hear her in the living room, duh. Don’t judge, you know it’s not enough just to hear the big cries. You have to hear ALL of the noises, so you can analyze them endlessly. Really, now that I think about it, the video monitor destroys the one night time game my husband and I really like to play (ok, the OTHER night time game....) : “what’s that sound?”

Anyway, now they are in the same room, and rather than get rid of one monitor, which would likely have been the sane thing to do, we now have BOTH monitors in their room. The audio monitor, so that we can listen to the white noise and any sounds they make, and the video monitor (with the sound turned off to avoid the annoying feedback), so we can check the video as a supplement to the “what’s that sound” game. You see how that makes perfect sense, right? Right?

*sigh* I would feel like a complete lunatic at this point, but I just found out that my neighbor mommy has gotten a THIRD monitor for her (similarly sized) house. It is an audio monitor with many channels, some of which make no sounds at all. Hmmmm....maybe I should check that monitor out too....

-Trixie

Thursdays with Trixie

She is back!!! I am so excited to have Trixie back writing for me. If you missed her previous posts, you can check them out here or here. You can also learn more about her here. For those of you looking for the second part of Lactation Goodness...it will be here Saturday. 

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The other morning I went in to wake up the Monkey (he’s 2 1/2). I said, “Good Morning, Monkey,” and he said, “Mommy, I’m wondering, when I grow up, can I be Spiderman?” I said yes, naturally.

This actually has nothing to do with anything, it’s just incredibly cute. And, it makes me think of some friends of mine that are my advance team on all things that little boys love, who had told me that the Spiderman phase was coming. And, thinking about them brings me to my point: I think that the whole Working Mommy versus Stay at Home Mommy thing is just a media invention. Like rain hysteria in L.A., where a few dark clouds here can send the entire “Weather Watch 2010" team out to interview people about their thoughts on rain -

                Interviewer (wearing casual clothes, because that’s what one wears in the rain, a gigantic rain coat,
                  and a baseball cap): Sir, what do you think of this rain?

                 Manonthestreet: well, it’s wet.

I have a career that I am incredibly happy with, and a mortgage that I am less happy with, and always knew that I would be taking maternity leave for my children, and then returning to that career. I didn’t really know any SAHMs. When I was pregnant with Monkey, I read articles that talked about the Mommy Wars and wondered if it was true. To be honest, I sort of assumed that it was true. I assumed that SAHMs would judge my decision to be a working mom. I assumed that I would not understand the decision to stay at home full time. I assumed that the divide between us would be great and strong.

Well, like many of my pre-Mommy beliefs, I was seriously wrong. The truth, to me, couldn’t be farther from that. When Monkey was about two months old, I discovered my local MOMs club group. There are many different varieties of these groups across the country, but I’m sure you get the gist - they all generally are set up to have playdates with a group of similarly aged kids once a week. My next door neighbor, an awesome woman and mommy, was a member, and invited me into her group. I knew that the group was made up of mostly SAHMs, and I worried if they would accept me on a temporary basis.

I had nothing to worry about. This group of ladies was, and continues to be, the most awesome, loving, kind, considerate group of mommies of which I have ever had the privilege to call myself a part. They never once blinked at my maternity leave status. They were interested in my job, asked questions about it, but mostly cared about me. They patiently answered every one of my zillions of questions about everything from drooling to sleep to baby food. They commiserated about “bad mommy” moments, laughed about silly babies, and cared about Monkey as if he were their own. No comments about the evils of daycare, no comparisons regarding parenting decisions, nothing. And when the time came for me to go back to work, they listened to my angst about it without judgment, and supported my decision without derision.

For my part, I learned what an enormous amount of work SAHMs take on on a daily basis, and how tough their job is. I think I help by giving them the arguments they need should anyone question who works the hardest - Ladies, tell your husbands and anyone who asks, that it’s you. I have worked, I have stayed at home, I have worked in an office while a mom. Hands down, the hardest, most exhausting job was full-time mommy. No contest. My hardest day at the office is a cakewalk compared to the average day home alone with 2 kids (actually, it was harder with one kid, but that’s another story). At work, I can stare into space occasionally if I want. I can eat lunch when I want to. And I. Can. Pee. In. Private. Oh, the glory. I go many times, just for the sheer joy of it. If anyone ever needs someone to back them up in the “who is more tired” war, I will help for free.

So, media, you can go to hell with your made-up “mommy versus mommy” crap. The truth is, a mommy never “tosses the first stone,” even if she doesn’t live in a glass house, because she is too busy hurling it at herself. We are vastly more supportive of each other, and our choices, than anyone gives us credit for. And thank goodness for that.

Oh, and last night, my son said to me as I put him to bed, “Mommy, I love the way you love me.” That’s enough for me.

-Trixie

Thursdays with Trixie

Trixie is back again and if I have anything to say about it, she will be here every Thursday...hence the name of today's post.  If you missed her first post last Thursday, I highly recommend checking it out.  

I preface this post with a request:  If you have gone through a similar situation, please leave a comment and tell us about it.  I think it would help to know that other moms out there know what she is going through.  

Thank you. 
Mommy C

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I hate pumping. I hate it with my entire being. I hate the way that it makes me look like a cow in full production. Never has breastfeeding been so ugly as pumping makes it look. I hate the utilitarian coldness of the cups, and the cupholder holes in my pumping bra. I hate how pumping reminds me that I am a working mommy who has “callously dumped her children in daycare.” The pump judges me for that decision. I’m pretty sure that if you listen closely to the pump’s machinery, you too can hear it sneer with each suck: “fuck a-you, fuck a-you, fuck a-you.” The taunting is a nice companion to a mommy’s never-ending self-criticism. We never do enough, do we? We don’t nurse enough, we don’t entertain enough, we don’t comfort enough, we don’t help enough. Or, maybe we do too much. I’m amazed at how much I second guess myself about decisions for the kids. One thing I like about working is that at work, I know what I’m doing. I don’t second guess. I don’t torture myself after making a decision about whether it was the right one. People actually come to me for advice.

But back to pumping. I also hate the amount of work it entails. Breastfeeding is so elegant, so easy (I laugh, of course. Breastfeeding is not easy for many, and takes a while for most to master. But reality messes with my point). Pumping involves containers, and space in the fridge, and getting it back and forth from the office to home to the daycare. I have to concentrate to get the milk to come down. I have to clean the parts several times daily. Bottom line: I have to think about it. When I nurse LambChop, I just throw her on the boob, and all is right with the world. It is beautiful, it is calming, it is just us. It is her holding my hand, and smiling up at me like a little imp. It is happiness. Compare that with pumping: a note (and a lock, lucky me) on my door telling the world my business, the contraptions, the setting up, the uncomfortable pulling, and the “fuck a-you, fuck a-you.” So, I hate pumping.

That is, until yesterday. Yesterday I had an appointment with my doctor. I have a medical something that has been gracious enough to go away and not bother me while I was making and having Monkey, and nursing him for a year, and while I was making and having LambChop. But it’s back, at least mildly, and that means that I have to take medicine that LambChop can’t take. Forever. I always knew that I would have to take this medicine eventually, I just hoped that it would wait until Lamby was a year old and in the process of weaning anyway. I’d be happy to take it then, I told myself, and if He happened to be listening, God. But that’s not my path, apparently. LambChop is about 7 months old now; my guess is that she’ll have to be fully weaned so that I can start the meds by the time she is 8 months old. That’s a full 4 months before I wanted to stop.

Now, I can hear you, and everyone, and my husband, and me, frankly, tell me: But, you nursed for the first 7 months, that’s the important part. That’s the crucial time. But she’s eating solids now, she’s older. She’ll be fine. Well, of course she’ll be fine. She’s my daughter, and we, my friends, are tough cookies. But that really doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’ve just let her down completely. My body has betrayed me, but that’s nothing compared to how it has betrayed her. She likes the nursing, she likes my milk. I comfort her with it, I nurture her with it, and it is all that she knows. When she goes to daycare, my milk follows her, and reminds her of me when I’m not there. This realization has changed the way I think about pumping - the pumping is not me being less of a mother, but me being more - me making sure that my baby girl has my love inside of her wherever she roams. Now, when I pump, I hear something different in the machine’s sucking. I hear: “it’s the love, it’s the love, it’s the love.” It’s love pouring into those containers; but now, I can’t give her that love. I have to give her formula (and this is so not meant to be a judgment on those who choose to give formula. I have been a mommy too long to question these sorts of decisions by other mommies; besides, we’re tough enough on ourselves without others piling on). But, compared to formula, the pump feels downright cozy.

I’m left with lots of self-doubt and questions to make myself crazy. Will she ever forgive me for weaning her early? Forget pumping - how will I handle it when she wants to nurse right before bedtime, and I have to tell her no? When she opens her mouth and leans toward my breast, needing her Mommy in the way she needs only Mommy? How can I explain needing to put my body first when the mommy code is that we go last? How do I send my love with her to daycare so that she knows I think about her every minute that I am gone? I have no idea. But I do know this: I miss pumping already.

-Trixie

My Sister is Guest Posting Tomorrow!

Tomorrow you are going to meet "Trixie", a 30 something prosecutor, mom of two, wife (of one, but do I really need to say that?) and my big sister.  Growing up the little sister of Trixie was tough, she was way smarter and far wittier than I ever could possibly be and as much as I might have wanted to hate her, she was the best big sister a girl could have.  She was my protector, mentor, and all-around-go-to-gal in life.  Being a bit of a free spirit that I was (am?), she always knew when I was heading in the wrong direction long before I did and although I never wanted to listen to her advice, I would always tell her what was going on, secretly hoping she would tell me that "yes, you have finally made the right decision".

Some time in the last 10 years she went from just being my big sister to being my friend.  Prior to then she was always in a different stage of life than I was.  She was out of high school 2 years before I even got there, out of the house for good shortly after that, and it wasn't till my first year of college (her last year of law school) that we were kind of in the same place, but even then she was still my big sister showing me the ropes of this great big world of ours (and teaching me that even though I didn't drink alcohol, it was necessary to always have something in my hand at a party, yes even if it was an empty cup). I guess it wasn't till she was getting married that we really connected as friends....I believe the moment included lots of wine and singing camp songs. 

Around that time I had met my husband (although we were not yet married), I had a great job, and had basically come down to earth to live a normal life.  In fact, I don't think I asked for a ton of advice during that time (unless you want to count the several month period prior to my husband's proposal to me when I thought I might just lose my mind if he didn't ask me to marry him soon).  It wasn't until I got pregnant and then had my son 12 weeks ago that I started going back to her for advice, lots and lots of advice.  Sometimes she had advice to give and sometimes she just commiserated with me, letting me know that I was not in fact the only person in the world to think I was going to completely lose it before my child turned 3 months old.  There were even a few times that she would share with me the struggles she was going through with her second child, specifically the struggles of assisting her second born to learn to sleep without the swaddle (I know a bunch of you just took a big sigh and thought, "oh, yeah.  That period sucks).

So tomorrow she will share with you one of her latest adventures of being a mom and a wife.  I have already read it and I think it is hilarious.  If you end up thinking it is hilarious too, please leave a comment and tell her as much.  I am trying to convince her to become a regular guest blogger for me and all your nice comments will help.

Good night all!

Mommy C

(I hope you enjoyed all the fun pictures of Trixie and I as kids!)