Down Stream

I was sitting here thinking how my sweet little baby is one month old today! One month old - I swear it was yesterday that I was muttering obscenities at how long the anesthesiologist was taking to stick that needle in my back.  I use the term muttering a little loosely - I am pretty sure he and the entire floor heard me, but hey, what can you do?

Anywho, one month has passed and was I getting a little sad about this - I mean, everyone says they grow up so fast but you have got to be kidding me! I haven't come to terms with the fact that he is here, and that I am a mother, and he is already a month old.  I haven't had enough time to document this very important first month.  I had big plans of quiet afternoons writing in his baby book, sending baby announcements, and taking sweet pictures of every gas induced smile and itty bitty stretch.  But instead, we have done four thousand loads of laundry, changed ten thousand diapers, fixed and fed one thousand bottles (and that's just in the last week), and well, taken more than a few cuddle naps on the couch but who's counting those?

But as I started to freak out about the lack of documentation of my child's life, I glanced down at my still present baby bump (not sure you can still call it that but it sounds better than my very jiggly and large gut) and realized there was baby crap all over me.  How do you not notice that you have yellow baby poop all over the front of your shirt?

I'll tell you how - its because this seven some odd pound little tyke has more bodily movements than an entire daycare with the stomach bug. And more often than not, they seem to end up all over me. Take last Friday for example:

I woke up and began the morning as usual - with a warm bottle for Wyatt and a hot coffee for me.  This was soon interrupted by Wyatt's usual freight train noises which signaled yet another diaper change was imminent.  I then felt a warm sensation spreading through my stomach - not like that warm and fuzzy feeling you get when you see a puppy.  It was a more of a warm, wet, sick feeling that I soon confirmed was baby poop.  It was seeping up Wyatt's back and down into my lap.  As I tried not to gag I took the bottle out of his mouth thinking, "crap - literally - now I have to change him and his outfit and myself. And before I even have a sip of coffee." Well let me tell you what - my fat, fatty Mcfatterson would rather wallow in his own excrement than stop eating.  The screams that ensued were absolutely enough to break your heart. So what is a mother to do?  Let him cry it out, clean him up, and then resume breakfast?  Probably.  But, not me, oh no.  It was just easier to let hm finish the bottle so I put it back in his mouth and sat there, both of us covered in crap and thought, "really is this what my life has come to?" The answer is clearly yes. 

You are probably thinking that this is disgusting - but it gets even better.  That afternoon, with the car loaded up, ready to go, I went to change his diaper yet again.  I had him butt naked, scrounging around for a diaper, when I notice he had quit screaming.  I stood up to check that he was still breathing, he looked at me with this evil baby smile and then BAM - the kid starts peeing EVERYWHERE.  The wall, the changing table, the carpet, the side table that is basically across the room: EVERYTHING is soaked in pee.  I mean it was waiving around like he was aiming at the various piece of furniture in the room.  Kind of reminded me of that game at the fair with the water guns where you aim at all the different objects.  Except his water gun is filled with urine, and its aimed at my face.  And all I can do with my killer motherly instincts is stand there screaming.

Thank God the kid wasn't touching a hot stove because my reaction time was terrible.  Absolutely awful. But I eventually thought to put the diaper I was holding in my hand over his little wee wee.  And after a moment, just like in that commercial, I went to move the diaper to change him and BAM BAM - he starts up again.    I swear he looked at me and winked.  And laughed under his breath.  By this time I had yelled enough that Robby had come to help because I am obviously incompetent in the diaper changing category.  Now we are both standing in the middle of the nursery, soaked in baby pee, and all we can do is laugh.  Because at this point, what else can you do?

And then, as I put diaper number three on Wyatt, I notice he is now peeing out the back of the diaper.  Not really sure how this is possible but, seriously folks, there is pee in his hair, pee in my hair, pee all over the changing table, and we are using diaper number FOUR.  In less than ten minutes. 

And suddenly, a month doesn't seem like such a short period of time after all.  I mean a short month ago, if you had asked me had I ever just hung out covered in someone else's pee or poop, or vomit for that matter, I would have gagged a little and said absolutely not.  And now, I have done all of the above - multiple times.. And while I would prefer to not make a habit of it, I wouldn't trade it for the world.  Of course, if it does become a daily occurrence, I may start changing diapers in a poncho.

Breast is Best?

I am writing to you from the depths of new parenthood.  I have been trying to update the ol' blog because there are so many great things to tell you.  I could write to you about how my sweet, very laid back husband was up, dressed, and practically shoving me into the car within three minutes of me saying, "uh Robby..."

Or I could explain to you how awesome my little baby boy is and how for the first few days I cried every evening because he was about to be a day older.  Or I could even narrate the excitement and milestones we have achieved in baby boy's first three weeks of life.  But instead, I am going to tell you about my biggest accomplishment in life to date: Breastfeeding, or more specifically my utter failure at it.

*Per my usual caution with offending others, I want to make the following disclaimer: I completely agree that Breast is Best, that for some it is this awesome bonding experience, and that it just works for some really great people.  But, this is my blog, my story, and my opinion so if I offend you or you think I may offend you, please quit reading.

Okay, now, back to my first beautiful failure as a mother.  Lets start at the beginning - how as soon as you push this little person out of you, all parts of your body are up for open discussion with the outside world.  Suddenly the state of my nipples, my milk, my boobs, even my hoohah were the topic of dinner time conversation.  And if you weren't lucky enough to get one of my sweet husbands daily updates on the state of my nips, well let me break it down for you - they were miserable. As were my boobs.  As was my child. 

We just weren't clicking - I had infections in both breasts which hurt like someone was literally shoving hot irons into my soul.  Better yet, my child alternated between screaming what I was pretty sure was the "someone save me from this idiot shoving her boob in my face over and over" scream and sucking the ever loving life out of me - which felt like he was attempting to extract those hot irons out of my soul.

So fast forward through a lactation consultant, a doctor who is a breastfeeding specialist, hours and hours on end attached to a breast pump that also was attempting to suck out my soul, and one really, really bad morning in my kitchen. 

Robby walks in the door from going to the gym, and I am sitting in our kitchen crying, (more like sobbing) "I-I-I can't do this anymore! Waaaahh"  By this point I think he is starting to get used to my sudden, unprovoked emotional breakdowns which are on a daily basis it seems, so I can tell he is proceeding with caution.  I see his moment of hesitation and pounce, "I-I-I  want to switch to formula but I-I-I don't want to be a bad mother. Waaaaah."

It hurts everytime I feed, I dread everytime my child wakes up because I know what comes next, I feel like I am trapped in this house stuck on an endless two hour cycle, my boobs are so big they are literally toppling me over, and by God, I am just tired of being a dairy cow, needing to be milked.

But, the thoughts of my child in a therapists chair years from now complaining of how I didn't love him enough to pump through the pain flash through my head.  Then, because I am glutton for punishment, I had to google formula feeding and read all the comments from the breast is best Nazis who basically solidified my thoughts that my child would be scarred emotionally, physically, and mentally if I switched to formula.  

And then it hit me, I am an idiot.  Millions of babies grow up on formula and if all of them were detrimentally stunted from their lack of breast milk the Earth would be full of bumbling Neanderthals - which is not a huge stretch of the imagination - but I mean hell, I was a formula baby, and so was my husband, and so far we have managed to spend minimal time in the therapist chair. 

So, with a glimmer of hope, I shut down the endless google searches, hopped in the car with a new found purpose, and drove as fast as I could to buy the biggest head of cabbage I could find. And here I sit, three days later, with a bra full of cabbage leaves that is actually cooking on me, and smelling the house up of stewed cabbage, cautiously optimistic that the fun bags may not actually explode, and saying:

I am a formula feeding momma who is not sorry.  I raise my white flag proudly and say: I gave up.  I failed at breastfeeding and me, my husband, and my baby, are much happier for it.  So, boil the water, pour up the bottle, and, for me, I think I will have a nice, cold glass of pinot grigio to celebrate.