Finally Easter photos, a week late

The best thing about family gatherings that involve my dad is that there is no shortage of photos. When we're all together, there are posed photos, candids, photos of the table at meal times, photos of people at the table at meal time, photos upon photos upon photos. I used to laugh and wonder why we needed so many. Now I'm a parent, and I get the compulsion. What really geeks me, though, is now that we all have digital cameras, we take about six times the number of photos we did in the past, often not waiting until everyone is in place and the pose is struck. These are my favorites. Take, for example, the world's best family portrait below. Even if we were all trying, we could not look more ill-prepared (and some of us just downright bad) than in this, my new favorite shot:



I want that in a huge frame on my desk because it captures so much more than any polished shot would.

My other favorite photos came from two photo shoots when we were trying to get all the kids in a shot with their matching dresses. My mom's friend Judy sews these cute little outfits that I will treasure forever, and we always like to get a great picture or two as a thank you. We started with the little cherry dresses (called "Tidal Basin Dresses" in honor of the blossoms in DC which we missed by a few weeks) and a difficult shoot at the FDR memorial. First we got situated:



Then we started to work on the pose




There were some adjustments to be made



And finally, much to Abby's relief, we were done



We were such a circus when trying to get these shots that people stopped to take pictures of us taking the pictures. Click on any of them above and go to my Flickr account to see the whole series (keep in mind that these are just the ones from my camera--there were at least three other digitals pointed at us at all times).

But then there were the bunny dresses when we got home:



Abby didn't join us until the end of that shoot, and when she did she was pretty much over the whole smiling thing, as was Clementine.

Next there were Easter eggs to find:



We had some down time:




And then, photographed so much we thought we needed to duck the papparazzi on the way to the airport, we headed home sated with chocolate:



So, there you have it. Two of my other favorite photos that didn't make it into the narrative and then I'm off to bed:

Abby looks soooo guilty.

It's true...

George Bush hates you:

Even if you're white. Unless you're rich. Or Dick Cheney. Or Don Rumsfeld. Or Karl Rove. Or rich. He especially hates you if you're a poor child...unless you're a fetus.

Hear that? That's the sound of my mother combusting with anger upon reading this and realizing I am a hopeless liberal and thus cannot possibly love and respect her. I have a few more of these onesies (I made them) for small ones, and I think the screen may still work if I try. Any takers?

Someone get that girl some meds!

Last week I got an email from a dear friend of ours who had been reading my blog and wanted to give me a pep talk because I seemed stressed and down. I thought it was sweet (he is kind of a parenting hero of mine 'cuz his boys turned out very creative and independent and just plain cool), but I couldn't understand why he thought I needed to chill out.

And then this weekend I was hanging with Clementine's future husband and his mom, and she wondered if all this angst I'm feeling isn't a touch of the baby blues. Baby blues? But my baby is 7 months old, I thought. This ain't no time for baby blues.

And then I just read through all my recent posts, and I get it. I complain ALL THE TIME. Seriously, even I want to express my sympathies to myself when I read this. Or I want to shoot myself, but not in a get-me-out-of-my-own-misery kind of way; rather a shoot-that-annoying-woman-so-she-shuts-up kind of way. Actually, shoot seems much too strong a word there. I am just annoyed by my own whining, so I can't imagine why you keep coming back here to read it. Are you waiting for me to combust?

So never you fear, Internet: Punk Rock Mama is back on her meds (metaphorically, that is). How could I be otherwise when I have the sweetest little girl in my life? Sure, I have a few things to work out, and life can be pretty overwhelming with all these huge bits to balance, but I'm turning it around. At some point I may even be the last 31-year-old in the world to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up.

How have I managed to make adulthood so hard?

Slacker

I haven’t just been a blogging slacker the last few days—I’ve been slacking at everything. There are piles of laundry in the basement, dishes in the sink, thank you notes that may never get written and tons of email and phone calls I haven’t yet returned. I am struggling to be interested in work, and I feel like I’m not playing an active enough role as a parent. In other words, I’m doing nothing well and am starting to wonder if “slacker” is just another term for “working mom.” I know it sounds antithetical, but how can you do anything well or feel you’re doing anything well when you’re trying to do too much? I feel like a slacker on all accounts.

That’s been the source of a lot of last week’s (and who am I kidding—this week’s) turmoil. I thought I had found a quick-fire way out, a way to keep working but also spend more time with darling C., but money is and will always be a limiting factor for us, and I’m not sure now is the best time to venture off on our own.

One of the most surprising things I’ve come to realize the last few weeks is how profoundly motherhood has changed me. I know everyone is full of the “Having a baby changes everything” wisdom, and I instantly saw the effects it had on my life, my schedule, my marriage, my friendships, etc. I saw that it opened me in many ways I could never have imagined, how vulnerable and yet fierce holding a little baby that was my own instantly made me. But now that we’ve really settled into things and the crisis-management mode in which I survived the first months of motherhood is over, I’m seeing these much more profound shifts in the way I see and relate to the world. I am a mother, and I’m starting to wonder if anything else matters quite that much to me. I’m not saying that it is or should be the only thing in my life, but I am coming around to the idea that something will have to change here in order for me to feel like I’m doing at least one thing to the best of my abilities. Maybe it’s just my perception that needs to change, but it’s gotta be something.

So here I am wrestling with all this, and that’s taking up yet another portion of my energy and day. But you don’t need to worry about that. Let’s all just think of Clementine for a second. She is more and more beautiful every day, and she’s got some new tricks under her belt, too. For one thing, her first tooth, quickly followed by her second, has emerged on the bottom, which has provided her with a little relief. She has been testing the darn things out by biting me a few times, and it really hurt—those are some sharp bastards. Also, she is doing the baby sign for milk, despite how bad we’ve been about reinforcing it. We really must get on the sign language bandwagon, for I worry a lot about how much she doesn’t enjoy books (except to eat them). I want her to love language! Finally, she has taken a few daring stabs at standing on her own. She usually falls down right after the attempt, but I think there is hardly any doubt she is aiming to walk within the next few months. She sure is driven!

MIA

Indeed, I did not get eaten by my digital camera trying to remove Easter pictures and the very coveted shots of Clementine in her "George Bush Hates You" onesie. I haven't even started that. So why haven't I logged on all week? The truth....I'm in turmoil and spending far too much time in my head instead of doing anything else. I have a huge decision to make that affects my job, my family, my happiness, etc., and I don't yet know what to do. On the one hand, I'm ready to take a chance; on the other, am I stupid to walk away from stability and security for a dream I didn't even have a year ago?

Don't mean to be so cryptic. I'll post photos when I've had some down time this weekend, and maybe even more details.

Baby Jekyll & Li'l Miss Hyde

Now I'm not claiming darling Clementine has split personalities or anything, but after two terrible nights before last weekend's trip to D.C., I was worried that the plane ride and subsequent circus of family Easter might just put her over the edge. I warned everyone that between the sniffles, ear ache and lack of sleep Clementine might just be a terror. Know what? She went out of her way to prove me wrong. Dead wrong.

To start with, we almost missed our flight because I was letting her take a much needed nap (needed because she had been up until 3 a.m. the night before and then up every hour until 7). But once we trekked from the parking lot to the gate, she turned on the best baby routine ever, smiling, charming the crowd, watching strangers with her big blue eyes. I know moms tend to be biased, but seriously: Clementine was the cutest baby in the entire world from the second we hit the airport to the moment we came home (with a brief detour to stinkiest baby in the world when she decided to crap in the last ten minutes of each of our flights). Everyone wanted a piece of her and she wanted to share. She flirted, played peek-a-boo, waved, danced, jumped up and down and did these cute little head cuddles where she bends her head to rub it on someone else's in what I can only assume is blissful, blissful adoration. In short, she was amazing.

We hit D.C. and had a great time. The weather was perfect, so we spent most of Saturday walking around the tidal basin, posing for endless pictures and visiting with family. Clementine had three gorgeous dresses to wear, so there were wardrobe changes to accommodate every photo shoot, but I still didn't get one of her wearing her "George Bush Hates You" onesie in front of the White House. Maybe next trip. I did, however, get thousands of photos of C. and her cousins in every monument and outfit combination we could come up with. Of course it will take hours to get them off the camera and up on flickr, so until then here's just one:


Yes, I know she will one day kill me for stuffing her in dresses and posing her like a doll, but I'll have other people to point fingers at (ahem, Grampy and Auntie Belle), so it won't all be my fault.

After all the happiness, we headed home and Clementine took a few steps backward. She didn't sleep as well (did I mention she woke up only ONCE both nights we were in D.C.?!?!), she's a little cranky (I think it's probably just teething) and she seems to hate the car again. A harrowing trip to daycare this morning, followed by her screaming as crying as I walked away, left me with a sinking feeling all day long.

But I'm not gonna think about that for now. Today I'm 31. Scattered and unsure of what lies ahead for me but 31 nevertheless. I'm going to get out of work early today, have some chow with my two best pals Nate and Clementine and go to a killer yoga class. Then I'll upload some of these cute D.C. pics and answer some emails before I sit down and figure out what I want this next year of my life to be like.

Oh yeah, I'm it!

OK. I have tons of side-splitting stories from the vacation front after our glorious weekend in DC, but this whole job thing is getting in the way of that for now. I will take the time, however, to answer this lovely little Meme challenge that my pal Mama C-ta threw my way, perhaps as revenge for not being able to visit her on my wanderings through the nation's capital. Can I tell you what a loser I am? I had a hard time thinking of six bloggers to tag.

Rules and Regulations:

1. Reveal six weird facts/things/habits about yourself and then tag six people.

2. Leave a “You’re Tagged!” comment to let the people you have tagged know they have to reveal six things (or the entire blogosphere will explode and it will be their fault).

3. Leave me a comment letting me know that you have completed your mission (if you have chosen to accept it!)

So, without further griping, here are the six facts about me. They aren't that exciting, they won't give you any insight into me, but I am nothing if not diligent in my responsibilities--except when it comes to email forwards. People who send me those and expect me to pass them on should die, especially when they're about hugs. OK, here goes:

1. I am symmetrical. If you hit me on one side of my body, I often have to hit the other side to even things out. Nate will make me look like a mad woman, tapping and hitting myself in order to even out stuff he does to me. Sometimes I can ignore the sensation, but when I can't it can get ugly.

2. I HATE HATE HATE when anyone bends his or her ears. When I'm feeding Clementine and her ear bends on my arm I get physically ill and have to move her around (even if she's dead asleep). Yet another way Nate makes me crazy: bends his ears at me or rubs up against me so I make his ears bend.

3. I hate white, creamy/globular foods like mayo, cream cheese, sour cream, plain yogurt, etc. There are exceptions like ice cream and frosting, but the others make me gag.

4. I practice lectures, letters, lectures, email and conversations out loud in my car all the time, even when Clementine is in the back seat. I always pre-write or pre-talk any big communication days before I send it. When someone driving along beside me catches me, I pretend I am on the speaker phone so I don't look like such a loser.

5. I don't do math. Ever. I don't balance my checkbook and like to be happily surprised at my balance (except when it's in the negative, which hardly ever happens).

6. I have an extreme, raging (one might say) case of road rage. I have been known to honk horns from the passenger's seat, curse, swear and tailgate somewhat irrationally. I'd be lying if I said that I'd gotten much better since little C came along, but I'm trying. [Confession: I didn't write that one, but it's still true. Karen wrote it on my behalf, and I think everyone would agree.]

Soooo, here are the people I'm tagging:

1. Sharpie, who is Not Winning Mother of the Year. In turn, she can tag her lovely sister.

2. Allison, who needs a little more chaos for her life of Chaotic Bliss.

3. Dr. S, whose Cabinet of Distractions has some of the most beautiful, eloquent writing in it. If she hadn't been so busy getting her PhD we would have drafted her into the MFA program.

4. Heidi, who can take some time out of her busy running schedule to complete her task.

5. Comic Mummy, with whom I haven't been great about keeping up, but I think she's quirky enough to come up with something.

6. lola's momma, whose blog I've only looked at once since she introduced herself this weekend. Now she'll probably never comment again.

And now it's time to get back to work. DC tales after a little pre-birthday dinner this evening.

Where in the world is the Punk Rock Mama?

Propping her eyelids open with toothpicks after a sleepless night with my little love who is either

a. teething and miserable
b. suffering from an ear infection
c. testing us
d. trying to be the only cry-it-out co-sleeper in the world, the trendsetter
e. demon spawn

And with that we're off for our first plane ride to Washington, D.C. where Clementine will be spoiled by the Easter Bunny (a.k.a. my dad and stepmother), and Nate and I will be made fun of for being heathens. Why aren't we at the airport already? Yeah, 'cuz Clementine decided she could go ahead and sleep NOW. Now apparently works for her, not 3 a.m. Figures.

Hope the Easter Bunny is good to all you darlings. I'll have tons of photos (including the lost ones from our weekend up north) when I return.

Quickies

I am SWAMPED at work, feeling a little overwhelmed and trying to think of a reason not to walk out the door right now. Oh, yeah, maybe the fact that my checking account is dangerously close to empty is way more important than all this find your passion bullshit I've been daydreaming about. But two quick things:

1. If there is anyone out there who is a parent working full time outside the home (either married to another full-timer or going it alone) who has time to go to work every day showered and well-dressed, spend time with your kid, stay ahead of the laundry and house cleaning, maintain your finances AND still have time for things like exercise and socialization, will you PLEASE let me in on your secret? I want to emulate you. Or maybe I just want to kill you. I'm not sure which.

2. Why do I feel like I need to do more than half the work in raising little C.? Last night I went to the gym and felt guilty for leaving Nate home alone with the girl. This morning I had an early meeting and had the hardest time asking him to drop C. off at daycare. Sure, part of it is that it's out of the way for him and part of it is that I'm a control freak, but I also think I talk a good game about how we're all egalitarian and have a hard time separating that from feeling like I should be able to do it all. Maybe it's because I had a single mom and don't have any model for a fair division of labor. Nate is wonderful and always willing to step up to the plate when I ask him to, but I think I hate the asking part. Actually, I know I hate the asking part--on all fronts. I hate having to ask him for help, and I never manage to ask him if he can watch C. so I can go somewhere without offering it as an exchange for a night out for him. And that's not because of him at all--it's because of me (though, truth be told, I could stand a little more encouragement from him to get out in the world and maintain a normal life). Grrr. I also hate when he asks me what Clementine should wear, whether it's time for her to go to bed and stuff like that, but that's a topic for another post.

Off to meetings and meetings and more meetings. I should have brought some toothpicks to prop open my eyes. Clementine was partying at midnight last night until the wee hours AGAIN.

When is cute not cute?

I'll tell you: midnight. While Clementine is the cutest little girl EVER, all smiles and giggles and sweet cuddles, it is just too much to take at midnight. Nate found her sitting up in bed (SITIING UP), just hanging out and waiting for us to enjoy the subsequent two hours with her. She wanted to play, to laugh, to pull hair and have a grand old time. We wanted to sleep. All you cry-it-outers just hold your smugness--we DID put her in her crib and leave her to cry (after long bouts of rocking and walking and shushing and feeding and pacifying, etc.), but she mostly just played, crawled around, fell over, bonked her head and eventually realized Hey, my two favorite people aren't here to enjoy this with me and started bitching. It wasn't even crying so much as bitching, and once I picked her up and cuddled her just a little, it was fine. She fell right to sleep.

But for the first time since she was born, this lack of sleep is really getting to us. I sense she is testing us. At night, she is screaming tired but still fights like the devil once her eyes begin to droop. I know I need to take some action, but I'm divided as to what exactly. Time for some research!

One other thing: you're all chickens! I've gotten so many emails and phone calls about the post on my mom's visit--EVERYONE has a story about how awful their moms can be, but no one wants to leave a paper (or in this case internet) trail. In addition to tea and sympathy, I got totally called on the carpet by my sister, who noticed right away that I had edited my thoughts and feelings about 80%, making my mom sound almost tolerable. It's true, I do edit and hate to, but I don't want to go to hell for telling the world that my mom is the craziest woman I have ever known. I mean, the woman gave birth to me and has made many sacrifices on my behalf, and I am so grateful for all of that. But she has gone stark, raving mad, and I can keep tight lipped about it no more. From what I'm hearing, you all know what I'm talking about. I may just start a secret blog and write about her antics because they're nothing if not entertaining.

7 months, 5 days

Dear Clementine:

I've been working on this letter for a few days when I'm supposed to be working, and I couldn't finish it in time. Part of it is workload, but the other part is my lack of attention span these days. When I think of you, I have to go look at a photo of you or wander across the hall to tell Laura or Aunt K the latest cute or funny thing you did, and then I blow the time to write this. Also, I must confess I'm not feeling all that circumspect, all that poetic. I feel like I'm winging it these days, not finding much time to reflect on what you're doing and how you're growing because I'm so busy just trying to enjoy it all. It's kind of a curse--do I write about life or live it?

Anyway, I will always remember this month as the one you made my heart skip a dozen beats a day as you teetered on the side of your crib or in front of the couch trying to stand up. All of the sudden, you’re a girl on the move. It happened in a blink of an eye; one day you were rocking back and forth on all fours, the next you were crawling and now you’re pulling yourself up to standing on anything that will be still long enough to support your weight, even the cat. Gone are the days of being able to leave you flailing your limbs on a blanket while I run into the other room because you’re getting into everything! This curiosity comes with no caution whatsoever (what do I expect, you are a baby after all?), and what’s killing me is the way you hurl yourself down when you’re done standing, often slamming your head on the hard wood floor. Stop it, kid!

No good can come of this standing stuff. My favorite part of the crawling, though, is that once you’ve exhausted your love of all the paper you can reach, the remote controls and your dad’s shoes, you want to crawl to wherever I am in the house and into my lap. It’s petty of me to bask so much in those moments you reach for me, the times you prefer my arms to anyone else’s, but I live for them and am going to enjoy them for as long as I can. Of course I can forsee a time in the very near future when I won't think this separation anxiety is cute at all. It's nice to feel wanted, but if that means I can't leave you with a babysitter so your dad and I can continue to work on our street cred by getting to a show now and then, there will be trouble. But for now, they are the sweetest moments, to know you see me as your touchstone, a calm and safe place.

Now that you are up and around, I find myself thinking about the future and where it may take all of us. For a while I was just imagining a time you when you can feed and dress yourself: what will you look like? What kind of kid will you be? What will your first word be? But then I started thinking of you at school, driving, dating, drinking (in secret, in high school, in the parking lot when you're supposed to be in class if you're anything like your parents and I hope to hell you aren't). When I think of how many lifetimes we've lived in just seven months, I can't even imagine all we'll go through before you hit puberty.

I don't have much to say this month but thank you. You are a joy, a quirky, funny little baby who knows what she wants. You want to walk. You want to be on the move. You don't want me to put any clothes on you that must go over your head. You do not want to eat from a spoon unless you are holding it (since you can't hold it, that's quite a problem), and you don't want to eat anything but avocados, tomatoes, Cheerios, pickles and cheese. And one last little thing. This month, my sweetest memories are of the mornings. You usually wake up first and then crawl over to your dad or me and pat our faces (sometimes a little too vigorously, thank you very much) and pull our hair to wake us up. You like to roll around between us, touching us, burying your face on us, doing this cute little head-butt cuddle that makes me quiver it's so cute, my little baby Conehead. Your face is extra-chubby and perfect, extra-pliable and wonderful, and your eyes are bludebird blue, perfect and happy as you make all sorts of sounds. When one of us gets up, you follow us with those eyes, strain to keep us in eyesight and then fuss until we come back. Our return to bed makes you erupt in the biggest smile and sometimes even a breathless burst of laughter, like we are all you need to be ecstatic. It makes it damn near impossible to get showered and dressed, and we're later and later for work all the time. Who the hell cares? These are the moments I could never have imagined before you arrived--the sublime, easy happiness you bring to us just by breathing.

I love you,

Mama

Restraint

There are so many things I could write about this weekend with my mom, but because I love her and am mature and caring, I will not. I will exercise restraint because I know karma is a bitch. I will not babble on and on for paragraphs about why she and I can't spend more than 36 hours together without a major blow-up. I won't write about how she's kind of off her rocker, not dealing well with age, not taking her meds, whatever. I won't write about how our visit all went to shit at 3:06 p.m. Saturday when my asshole husband had to try to talk politics with my raging conservative mother, and I DIDN'T STOP IT. Sure, I knew it could be bad, but I could not have predicted my inability to love George Bush would be taken as an indication of my inability to love my mother, a token of my lack of respect for her, the symbol of all that is wrong with our relationship. I could not have predicted the ensuing pain and drama, and I will not write about it!

This restraint is the same restraint I used time and time again this weekend, though I won't write about that either. About her constant barbs ("Maybe Clementine hates the car because of the way you drive stick shift," "Your hair used to be your best feature," "Wouldn't you like to dress cute like that mom?") and my refusal to acknowledge them or react in any way. I did not scream. I did not shout. I briefly tried to reason with her but then realized that if she had a motto it would be "Reason be damned!"

So there you go. We survived, and I had a long talk with darling C. about how you can love someone but still be driven crazy by her. My mom sent me a lovely email this morning, and I remember how well we got along, how good we felt about each other, when I lived in Thailand. It just really worked for us, which is awful to say but is so very true. I don't wish her away, don't hate her or anything like that. We are just oil and water together, and I'm exhausted from the weekend. I'm also keenly aware that my mom felt very similarly about her mom, and I need to ensure the cycle gets broken before Clementine is older and complaining about how high maintenance HER mother is.

Damned if you do, damned if you....well I guess we're all just damned

One of the traits I will be hoping not to pass on to my daughter is how many swear words I can fit into one sentence (or one blog title, for that matter). We've backed of the "fffff" noise for now, but I'm still crossing my fingers that "Fuck off" won't be among her first words.

But I digress and climb up on my soapbox for just a little minute. It would have been unimaginable to me before motherhood to understand the complex sensitivities moms have on topics such as sleep and food. I understand the palette of emotions--there are some things you have to feel strongly about in order to stick with them, and I understand why people feel their way is the way. You have to believe in what you're doing as a mother because most of this stuff is hard, way harder than anyone tells you it is going to be. But I also understand how insecure you can feel about your decisions at times. Is there ever really any way to know for sure that one approach is better or worse than another? We all have such different goals, situations and philosophies, I'm not sure how anyone can think one size fits all.

Case in point #1: sleep. It seems to me a real quick way to piss off the universe is to talk honestly about how you get your kid to sleep and how much sleeps she gets. Heather Armstrong broached that topic on Dooce, recalling her days sleep training her kid, and got 475 comments on the topic. They start supportive of her approach or at least of her honesty but start to unravel toward the end as people accuse her of being an unloving, terrible parent whose child will grow up to be a demon. First of all, I would seriously pull my eyelashes out of my head if 475 people had anything to say about any of my parenting choices, good or bad. Second of all, seriously? Are these people advocating something? Are there studies being done that prove one person's parenting style will impact another's? Why the hell does anyone care what some chick in Utah did to get her daughter to sleep? I'm not sure these "debates" ever change anyone's mind as much as allow people who seek to feel superior to others to do a little public dance.

Case in point #2: breast milk. Wanna conduct an experiment? Walk up to three different new moms in Target or some other mommy watering hole and make a strong statement against either breast feeding or bottle feeding. Chances are, you'll either get a whooping or make someone cry. Being able to feed your child and meet her needs when she can't speak for herself makes everyone fraught and everyone an expert, and we all deal with the parenthood machine differently. During my milk woes of late, I have gotten lots of support from friends who are reminding me I'm not a failure if I can't breastfeed. My friend Lisa is working up her manifesto on how "lactivists" make moms a quivering mess of insecurities if they can't conform to certain breastfeeding standards, and she has helped me see that there are actual problems in the world, and formula-fed babies just aren't one of them. On the other side (and I hate to say "other side" because they aren't really disagreeing or all that different--just different experiences), my friend Dawn just wrote me this morning to tell me that she bears the brunt of tons of unwanted opinions, conjectures, comments and diatribes for being a committed breastfeeder:

"You should see the dirty looks I would get when I dared put my baby to my breast (under a blanket in a corner--well okay, not always, but come on--it's totally natural, right? And it's not like I stripped to the waist and sat on a street corner, and I almost always used a blanket unless I could be sure NO skin other than the back of the baby's head was showing), the blatant misunderstandings, the comments: "Your baby is fat because she's nursing", "Are you SURE you don't wouldn't be more comfortable breastfeeding in a bathroom stall or this nice janitor's closet?", "He is STILL nursing?" (at 6 months). . . . So, again, I say, piss on the world. You do your best and go on your way. I've told you about my own compromises, in spite of my "success" with breastfeeding. The people who give you a break about your bottles don't give me a break for my breasts and vice versa."

I'm not posting these differing opinions to start shit between two people on whom I rely for lots of support and advice (which they may hereby withhold since I've been posting their emails here for the world to see, but PEOPLE there are comments here for a reason--share this wealth of knowledge so I don't have to!). I just want to point out that there is no choice you can make that will make everyone happy. Sometimes the choices you make don't even make you happy. Parenting can be hard work with long hours and sucky duties (notice I said CAN be; it can also be many wonderful things, of course), but what can you do? It's totally worth it.

I'm climbing down off the soapbox here because what the hell do I know? We're all trying to raise our kids the best we can (except for those trying to raise serial killers--they have a much easier task since apparently everything can cause a child to become one: not breastfeeding, breastfeeding too much, crying it out, co-sleeping, discipline, no discipline). What I need way more than all the bad feelings on all sides of the equation is a beer. It's Friday, and who couldn't use a little happy hour?

How to use your kid to get free stuff

I sent this picture in to my absolute favorite baby store in Chicago, PsychoBaby, for their monthly contest to find the psycho-est child. Well, I'll be damned if we didn't win. The power of inappropriate photos should never be underestimated.

So now we get some $$ to spend at their online store, and I can't decide where to begin. This will be one of those free things that ends up costing a fortune 'cuz I need this and these and this and...well, just everything.

Check out their other cutie Psycho Babies here and sign up for their letter! You too could have a Psycho Baby.

Ooooooooommmmmm (this is me relaxing)

Thanks to all of you who have emailed with suggestions to help my waning milk supply. I am now officially drinking stinky tea, popping herbal pills and trying to visualize milk flow while pumping, and it seems to be working a little. I have returned to those crazed first days right after Clementine and I came home and I was alternately trying to get my milk in by pumping, pumping, pumping and getting her to latch by putting her to my breast every 10 minutes. I was hardly ever clothed. Yesterday was a nightmare of similar proportions, though I was clothed and at my desk as I tried to pump every two hours and still didn't get enough to keep her fed. Luckily, I have freezersful of reserves, but that's cold comfort after a month because I'm pretty sure that's about how long it would all last (which provides for some interesting perspective. I could have filled an Olympic swimming pool by now with all the milk I've produced. Wow.).

After reading a lot online, I felt like there was no earthly reason this should be happening. I decided it had to be my pump and made an appointment to return to the Breastfeeding Assistance Program at the hospital so they could test the suction and make sure everything was working OK, which of course it was. I was apparently grasping at straws. While the tech was working with my machine, though, the lactation consultant on whose shoulder I cried when Clementine was 4 days old and hadn't yet eaten a thing asked me questions about my stress level, which I assume is generally low because my job isn't hard, no one I know is dying/dead, my marriage is great and I'm not having any angst about anything (except my mom visiting tomorrow, but that is another story...or is it?).

LC: Are you under any stress lately?
ME: Nope. Things are going great.
LC: Has there been any change to your routine lately?
ME: Nope. Everything is as it usually is, and I pump at the same times every day.
LC: Are you sure you're not stressed?
ME: Yup.
LC: Work isn't stressful?
ME: Nope. I don't have much to do right now.
LC: Was this week any different from last week at work?
ME: Well, last week I was off, so it was a little different. (DING!)
LC: How long were you off?
ME: Two weeks. (DING!)
LC: And are you happy to be back at work, or do you wish you were still off?
ME: What do you think? (Ummm...DING! Why didn't I think of that?)
LC: Do you like your job? Is it important for you to get there and have adult interaction? Do you feel happy when you're on your way?
ME: Ummmm....
LC: Can I take your blood pressure?

SO, apparently, I'm a stressball. My BP was elevated, and she's convinced that I'm stressed and my milk supply is suffering. She told me it's very common in working moms, even if they have been back to work for some time. She also said that as long as I'm demanding, there should still be supply unless a factor such as illness, poor nutrition or STRESS interferes. "Should I quit my job?" I asked, desperate for her to say "YES--go follow your passion and find something new to do!" but of course she advised yoga, meditation and visualization. 'Cuz I have loads of extra time in the day to do that shit, especially now that I'm once again tethered to my breast pump every two hours. But I'm trying to relax, chill out, not freak out, etc. I'm trying so hard I might even be stressed about not being stressed. it's a vicious cycle.

Ah, breastfeeding. It's just the most natural thing in the world, isn't it? How easy! How perfect! How lovely! Why doesn't anyone tell you how ridiculously hard it can be? And while I know that no one will DIE if I can't keep giving C. breastmilk, I still feel compelled to keep trying. I know healthy, wonderful babies have been raised on formula, and I know that I'm a little off my rocker to be such a slave to the pump since C. never got her latch. I get it, but I keep going. I'm all down with people making whatever decision works best for them (one of my mom friends recently weaned because she had given enough of her body and sanity, and I applaud her for knowing and setting her limits), and I know I'll be fine if C. doesn't get a year's worth of milk from me. And yet I still feel a little pang every time I see a mom nurshing, actually nursing, her baby the right way. I feel sad, a little like a failure. WHY?! Where is this coming from?

One of my favorite emails from yesterday was from my funniest mom friend who should have her own blog but doesn't. Whenever she emails me, I end up guffawing at my desk out loud like an idiot. At the risk of pissing her off, I have to share a part of her note. We were talking about the shame cycle that comes along with any struggle to breastfeed and how it can be self-defeating (she also had a problem with her supply and had to wean earlier than she wanted):

"I have some other thoughts about this issue (many of them related to how books like The Nazi Art of Breastfeeding and schlock hippie rags like Mothering contribute to establishing a superficial definition of "successful" motherhood and then guilt women when they can't conform); but this is sort of off topic and my point is that this is NOT WORTH stressing about, because life is too short and your body has a will of its own (the heart wants what the heart wants, to paraphrase Woody Allen, my guide in all things both moral and maternal--or in this case, the boobs don't want what the boobs don't want)."

It's so helpful when you have friends who can put it all in perspective for you. I also have a lovely husband who may be the butt of the jokes in his company's IT department as he surfs the web looking for answers to my lactation woes. We were out running errands yesterday and he was full of little tidbits about "healthy lactation." I wonder if he Googled it. He also keeps sending me links to cures, tips, etc. What a guy--buying tampons is really just the warm-up, isn't it? The things that man has had to do for me since I birthed our little cherub....

So, too late for a short version, things are looking up. I'm getting a little more milk and being careful to go surf the web or think about shopping when my job gets to be too much.

Where's the milk (and will I be sued for sexual harassment if I keep talking about breastfeeding at work)?

As if breastfeeding weren't already a pain in my ass, what with Clementine being a bottle-only baby and all, now my milk supply has taken a dramatic dip in the last few days. I mean really, really dramatic. I'm just barely producing enough to feed her with NONE to spare (usually I have about 8-12 extra ounces a day). All I can say to this is...SHIT! Why would the universe do this to me?

I went to lunch today with Bernie, the fabulous young guy who works for me. Poor Bernie. When he came on board last summer right out of college (literally), I was in my final weeks as a big ole' pregger, and he had to hear endless stories about my aches and pains. To make matters worse, people would interrupt our training to ask me about my birth plan and tell me all about their labors, episiotomies and all. I swear, Bernie will never ever have unprotected sex after hearing all that detail. I think it was too much for him. But he's come a long way. Today after lunch he had to help me find the lactation promoting tea in the health food store next door to the restaurant. At what point have I crossed a line with him? I couldn't find it on the shelf, but he found it like a hawk. I worry for him truly.

But seriously. Anyone have any suggestions about this whole milk thing? I see Clementine's pediatrician on Thursday and hope I don't totally dry up before then. Sure, I want to keep breastfeeding and all, but what I'm really worried about is the post-lactating weight gain that must be headed my way. I had planned to keep pumping until Clementine was in her teens so I can keep eating ice cream with abandon.

Damn, those kids are cute

I finally uploaded some photos to my Flickr account and have such trouble choosing which ones to post and which to ditch. I think they're all damn cute, you see. Here are a few of the best. Click to see more.

Clementine has her first book about hoarding--I feel such pride knowing she's starting so early.

When I was young we called this a pig pile. Poor Eleanor. She thought we were getting together for portraits. Instead, Clementine used her as a mountain to climb, and Abby...well, Abby just wanted to say HI.

Clementine didn't have the best week in water. Here's Abby helping her take a bath

Because I'm lazy...

I haven't uploaded any pictures of my sister's wonderful visit to Detroit. Stay tuned for some delicious ones of her newest little meatloaf, including one where Clementine has tackled her and Abby, light of my life, goes in for the kill. Until then, here is one of the many sing-alongs we have in our house. Click to see the rest of my sis' pics.

And, oh, yeah--I don't actually play the accordion. Yet. I'm pretty convinced the next big garage band will only be improved with an accordion, however, and so I've chosen it as my instrument by which I will become a rock star. Yeah, in this pic I look more story-hour wacko that hot rockin' mama, but with better hair and a sexier top....

Hahahahaha we love those o's

Here's officially what Clementine will eat: tomatoes, avocados and Cheerios.

OK, so she doesn't eat the Cheerios as much as play with them, and sometimes she will humor us with a teething biscuit or lasagna, and she's totally addicted to breastmilk (and I'm worried I'm not making enough and may have to tap into the freezerful I have in the basement but was going to donate to the milk bank), but for the most part she's a girl who wants her food of choice to rhyme with O or to sound like an Outkast song. At least that's as much as I can figure. I loved arriving at daycare this afternoon after Julie rushed me through my careful explanation of C's eating quirks this morning with a "Well, I'm sure I can find something for her to eat," to find her also unable to get my stubborn little angel to eat from a spoon. Or to eat anything, it seems. [Aside: also paper. It doesn't rhyme with O, but she'll eat that by the mouthful and doesn't take kindly to having it removed, thank you very much.]

Here's what has changed in our two weeks away from daycare: my Mick-Jagger-wannabe, plastic-surgery-having sitter has finally removed her sunglasses. And I want to say the eye lift made a difference, but it has been so long since I actually saw her whole face that I can't remember what she looked like. Nevertheless, I TOLD her she looked fabulous because I want to stay on her good side now that Clementine isn't such a little baby. When she was a helpless little one, I think she got the lion's share of the attention and adoration. Now that she's a crawling, food-throwing toddler wannabe, I want to make sure we're some of Julie's favorite clients (customers? what are we to her?) to guarantee a close, watchful eye. Moreso than just what we're paying her for, that is. Do I sound loopy? It's really late here, and I'm trying to be spontaneous by staying up past bedtime since these days I'm all about the schedule and think that makes me no fun. Yes, I definitely sound loopy.

So with that, I'll go to bed. Here are some things I'm thinking about and will try to write about if I have time. Maybe I'll just post photos.

• We are now officially members of the zoo, which makes us the best parents in the universe along with about a zillion other Metro Detroit parents, all of whom dress much more conservatively than we do. I had fun at the zoo, but I'm not sure I can handle places like that where essentially EVERYONE has children. Seriously. In the two trips I've made there so far, I saw three non-child-having groups. And like 100 examples of poor parenting, including the assholes who let (encouraged?) their child chase down a goose.
• My sister's children are lovely, but I don't know how she has two. A colleague of mine says having one lulls you into a false sense of "I can do anything!" and that having two is like herding cats. How is my sister sane? Oh, wait....
• Clementine's car terrors have returned. Someone shoot me. Seriously.
• My friend Crystal likes to look at real estate when she visits (just a quirk of hers, don't know why), and it always gets me all fired up about moving somewhere else, even if it IS in Detroit. I have now occupied several different neighborhoods in my mind, and they all make me much cooler and a much better, more loving parent.
  
• My mother is coming to visit this weekend, and I'm going to remain calm, happy and in a zen-like state until she absolutely, positively pushes me over the edge. We'll see if we can make it 5 minutes without a blow up.

C. is crawling all over the bed in her sleep, and Nate is trying to calm her down. Guilt or duty or just a need to get in there with them and cuddle up calls.

Back in the saddle

There's lots to report, but it's my first day back after spring break, and they actually expect me to work around here. Needless to say, we're back in daycare, back at work, back in the hellish saddle, so to speak. It's not like it's going smoothly, but what can we do? The time change is messing us all up, there's no longer grab-and-go breakfast food at home anymore and Nate put Clementine's dress on BACKWARDS this morning. So I'm hungry, missing my girl and wondering what kind of job I can do to make a killing and still be at home. More soon.