I have written that sentence approximately thirty million times, and everything that I write afterward turns out to be complete crap, because honestly, I can’t get over that first sentence.
I turned thirty-six earlier this month.
That’s like, a for REAL GROWN-UP age. Thirty-five didn’t have the same feeling, the same ring to it. I LOVED thirty-five. There’s no reason I won’t love thirty-six; in fact there are loads of reasons why this year will be even better than last… it’s just… I’m *actually* getting OLD.
For instance; I have very fine lines on my face. I believe they’re called WRINKLES. Not a bunch, but if you look close, there they are.
I have a gray eyelash and a gray eyebrow hair. WTF?
When I get all hammered (!), I am hungover and all fucked up for DAYS. Not hours. This makes getting all hammered and fucked up an occurance that I PLAN for; one that I actually weigh the pro’s and con’s of. You might as well just SHOOT ME NOW, what is left for me?
I also recently decided that my family will be reducing our consumption of processed foods and increasing the amount of organic/whole foods to an eighty-five/fifteen-percent ratio. I’ve started making my own bread every day.
Another thing; I don’t really like sweets anymore. I am not even joking. Andy brought home chocolate Oreo’s the other day… soak that in for a minute; CHOCOLATE. OREO’S. A year ago, NOM, NOM. Last week? GAG. BARF. I’ll still eat a good piece of chocolate with gusto, but OMG gross, Oreos. I nearly want to cry.
Excuse me? WHO AM I??
And what about this; I scar at the drop of a hat anymore. That’s just fucked up. I am a clumsy person, my feet are HUGE, so I’m constantly banging and scratching myself up. Only now, instead of magically disappearing, I am left with these lovely, purple scars. THANK YOU. Because scars on thirty-six year old chicks are HAWT. Especially when you got said scar from running into a wall or something equally awe-inspiring.
It’s just weird, this changing. I don’t feel different on the inside, which is one of those stupid cliches that OLD people are constantly saying. I made fun of an old friend the other day on Facebook for complaining about his bunions, and then fifteen minutes later my sciatica flared up and I spent the next three days limping around the house, moaning and clutching my hip.
I know that if I exercised and continue to eat better, if I was less FAT, I would feel better. I’ve heard that before, BELIEVE ME. I GET IT. The problem is that I think I might be old enough to start taking it seriously. And THAT, my friends, is TERRIFYING.
I am a co-sleeper. I love co-sleeping. I love the idea and the belief behind it; I love the closeness it can foster, I love the ease of night-parenting and the fact that I can stay in bed. I love my bed.
My eldest son, E was born six weeks early, a preemie, and spent his first three weeks under sedation and medication to keep him paralyzed in the NICU at the amazing hospital at Chapel Hill University in North Carolina. My mom, Masue, and I stayed at the Ronald McDonald House in Chapel Hill, and honest to god, they helped save his life by saving my sanity. They were amazing.
how could you resist?
So he was on ‘hospital time’ when he came home, which means that every two hours, almost exactly, he would wake up, nurse, look around for a while, poop, nurse again and go back to sleep for two hours. AROUND THE CLOCK. See, ‘hospital time’ is twenty four hour-time, and my baby had no idea there was such a thing as ‘night’ and ‘day’. OMG, EXHAUSTED.
I finally taught him that day time was Fun! Time! and night time was quiet, and boring, and he ‘got it’ and slept much better.
Anyway, before he learned about day and night, being so exhausted I obviously napped when he napped during the day. I remember the first time we napped together everything changed. My motherhood level went from this instinctual, gut reaction to protect him at all costs into a completely visceral, his-blood-is-my-blood, his flesh-is-my-flesh, kind of recognition. We recognized each other and the love affair began. I remembered his smell and he remembered mine and we reconnected so strongly there was never any other doubt in my mind about Who and What Was Most Important.
That’s what co-sleeping did for me and my eldest son. We never slept together during the night, but once he figured out that night time was boring, he pretty much slept all night and we napped together during the day.
Fast forward ten years, and change the personnel up a bit, and I have another infant. I am no longer a child, I have a very different partner, and I have a very different infant.
This infant, my darling Sally, was and is as different as her elder brother as anyone could have possibly imagined. As in, if you said, OK, here’s this person, and let’s make that person’s total opposite, you would have my two eldest children.
He was patient, she is NOT. He loved co-sleeping, she couldn’t ever slow down enough with me in the room to actually ‘sleep’. We started out with her in our bed, but not only was my husband (bless his heart) CONVINCED that he was going to crush her to death, she could never simmer down. She wanted to nurse the whole time… which is difficult enough, I guess… however, she also wanted to be held, like up in the air, not like a little cuddle while laying down. Once she figured out she needed and DAMN WELL DESERVED, (thankyouverymuch) to be held, she discovered rocking. After that, she wanted to be both held AND rocked while she nursed. All night. I moved her from our bed to the bassinet next to me, and that worked for a while until she realized that I was in the bed next to her. And then she wanted to be held. And rocked. And nursed. Constantly. All Night Long. (all night, all night, all night, all night lonng)(Lionel Richie, don’t be dumb).
So she went into her own bed, a crib in the next room. And I finally got about ninety minutes of sleep a stretch each night. She would also nap for about forty-five minutes during the day. It was awesome.
Fast forward again to March of ’08 and I have another infant. Magically, Sally had decided to begin sleeping in longer stretches, mostly due to the fact that she had weaned herself the previous December. She did require me to rock her and cuddle her a couple of times a night, a chore I adored since it was so much less intense and non-stop as before… also because she smells good and I love to hold her.
This new infant, again as different from his brother and sister as a person can be, has slept peacefully nestled in the crook of my arm since the day he was born. I cannot tell you how easy this makes my life. I know that some moms can’t, but I don’t really even wake up when he nurses at night. Sure, I wake up feeling like I’m a hundred-and-nine years old because I don’t move all night, but oh…. THE SLEEP. If you are going to be a new mom, listen to me, please. People will tell you all kinds of weird things; stock up on your sleep now while you ‘have the chance!’, that kind of crap. Just nod and smile and say something like ‘I sure will!’ but understand this; you will stop sleeping through the night when you’re about eight months pregnant. This is when you have to pee every twenty minutes, so you will be waddling to and from the bathroom all night. Plus, you will be uncomfortable, and rolling over will become A Chore. Think of it like you’re preparing for your infant. Your body is getting you used to sleeping in short bursts.
Sleep will become the commodity you most desire, the unattainable goal that will allude you for YEARS. The only thing to do is accept it. It’s the price you pay for creating your very own person. I’m sorry.
However! If you can co-sleep, you just might have a better chance. Unless you go the total OTHER route, the ‘sleep training’, Ferberizing, ‘Cry It Out’ methods which… well, obviously I don’t ascribe to that line of thought, however I do believe most parents are doing the best they can and shouldn’t be judged. My only issue is with people who don’t do the research to make an informed decision that is actually right for their family and not simply what seems easiest at the time.
There is one detail I haven’t mentioned, and this leads to the Co-sleeping Con I started to talk about. I sleep in a bed with Bobby in Sally’s room (it will become Sally and Bobby’s room when I move out). Andy, my husband, sleeps either on the couch in front of the t.v., which is his preferable spot, or in our California King, comfy as hell, bed. By himself.
This isn’t to say we have ceased… uh… relations, if you will. They, like the sleep pattern of a new parent, happen in hurried, stolen bursts (*ahem*) of time. But we don’t ‘sleep’ together. I can’t remember (this is totally going to gross you out) the last time my husband and I have been naked together for longer than two minutes in a hurried, frenzied, grope-fest that reminds me of stolen kisses and caresses in high school.
So it was with enormous embarrassment that I found myself standing in front of him, naked, with my arms over my head, drying my hair.
Not embarrassed because I’m fat. Not because having three kids has caused all of my already-ample parts to now also SAG…no not any of those reasons.
As I stood there, mid sentence, and watched his eyes widen in horror, and the gasp of disgust escape from his lips, I panicked. What? WHAT? WHAT IS ON ME?? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? WHAT?? OMG THE PLAGUE, DEATH DESTRUCTION, WHAAT??
I focused on him and noticed that he was staring at my armpits in total and complete shock and absolute revulsion. As I was about to admonish him,… I mean, honey… I have at LEAST a thousand OTHER things to think about and do, people. Armpit hair removal is not high on my list.
As I took a breath to scold him for his harsh reaction to my armpits I caught a glimpse out of my left eye.
And saw Armpit Hair.
Do you understand what I’m saying here? I could SEE the outgrowth of black, greasy, nasty armpit hair OUT OF THE CORNER OF MY EYE. That is how long and LUXURIOUS my armpit hair has become. I am not a hairy person by any means, and so it never OCCURED to me that my ARMPITS might just be the single hairiest place on my BODY.
I am so ashamed of myself and embarrassed… I may never have sex in the light of day again, and I totally wouldn’t blame him.
Co-sleeping can be a source of contention, with two (or three or four) different sides who all feel VERY righteous in their personal beliefs, and I support them all – as long as they play nice. However. Shaving or Not-Shaving your pits is only a question for the hippiest of hippies out there and I stand here, ashamed but resolved To Never Again Forget About The Armpit Hair. And to publicly apologize to my husband. I’m not going to shave my legs, but by god I SWEAR I will start with my pits.
I have a nursing, co-sleeping, nearly two-year-old with a history of ‘easy puking’. Not quite acid reflux, or whatever that’s called, but as an infant he was pretty prone to spitting up VOLUMES of breast milk. Since he started eating real food, and has gotten older, he’s stopped.
I mention this because for the past week – since Monday – he’s been nursing as though he’s teething (read: CONSTANTLY), and he’s thrown up every day. The first time, Monday, he threw up two or three times, and cried and was generally unhappy… for a few minutes, then he was fine (except for the teething/nursing thing). Tuesday, Wednesday and already this morning he’s thrown up/spit up. And that’s the thing, it is looking and smelling more and more like spit up! Of course, if he’s eaten, there’s food in the spit up, but like this morning, it was only breast milk.
Plus, he doesn’t have a fever, our diet hasn’t changed, and other than the spitting up, he’s fine. And since he’s been doing it all week, he just kind of let’s it come out, and continues on his way. (until I catch him and clean him up, of course!)
Have any of you ever heard of such a thing? A child who started spitting up again? My husband is wondering if his body is trying to wean him… like he’s allergic to my breast milk, and honestly the idea doesn’t sound too far off… it’s so strange! We’ve stayed in all week, because obviously I don’t want anyone else to get this, if this is something that can be gotten, if you get me. However, it doesn’t seem like it’s a visit-to-the-doctor worthy, either!
Anyone? I’m going to post this in a couple of different places, so I apologize for the redundancy, but I am STUMPED!
1. Get a Renaissance Faire costume, one that wholly highlights my BOOBS. GO TO the nearest (and biggest) Renaissance Faire and get devastatingly drunk. Purchase all that crap I have always wanted. Yes, I’m talking those crown-things with the ribbons flowing down, the ocarinas, the LEATHER stuff, the hand made pottery… I want it all.
2. Go whale watching. I live on the motherfucking PUGET SOUND and I STILL haven’t gone. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
3. Come to terms with my undeniable fear and unfettered adoration and idolization of whales.
4. Go to Venice, Italy, before it’s allowed to sink into the sea. I am in awe of the idea of buildings in/on the water, and I must see it. This is important to me.
5. Get a really good camera and take really good pictures.
6. Be a better mother.
7. Be a better wife.
8. Be a better friend.
9. Write. I consider this one ‘checked’ because I fully feel as though blogging, as inane as it may seem, is my true artistic medium. I simply mean to continue. Stop laughing.
10. Breed my very own kind of ‘Designer Dog’. I have been imagining the perfect combination of dog since I read Call of The Wild when I was like, five. I’ve done a bunch of research and I’m totally over the idea of purebred dogs being the absolute only right breeding to do, although, please understand I intend to rescue as many as I breed. If not more.
That’s ten, that’s good for now. I intend on extending this list, mainly because the highlight really is the fact that I want to go get wasted at the Renaisance Faire and buy a bunch of shit. But hey, at LEAST I HAVE GOALS.
