Preparing for Parenthood: Cleaning

My pre-baby vision of parenthood including fondly looking into my baby's eyes while he nursed and we shared an intimate mother-son bond. It included long walks in strollers with just the breeze and the sound of his coos. It included preparing organic, free-range meals that he would enjoy, and me relaxing after I put him to bed, meditating on all I had to be thankful for.

Is she baptizing this baby or what? 

And then I had a baby.

And I cried when I spilt the milk that I'd pumped. And long walks in strollers led to getting rained on and bringing a soggy, sad baby into the house with no thought of the mud I was tracking in. And he spit out the organic, free range baby food and splattered it on the wall, where he attempted to paint in it. And he left a trail of toys and dishes and food and junk all over the house, and there was no time for relaxing. Note: the meditating on all I have to be thankful for at the end of each day was the only accurate part of this vision.


If you're preparing to have a baby, you're going to need a bag of flour with a cantaloupe balanced on top.  Have someone come into your house and cook, throw clothes on the floor, stack bottles in the kitchen and eat half a sandwich without cleaning anything up.  Give the flour baby to your friend, and have them set a 3 minute timer. You may begin to clean when the timer begins, but every three minutes you must hold the baby for 20 minutes. If you try to carefully balance the flour in one hand so that you can use your other hand, the cantaloupe will fall off and you'll have to start again. You may heat the flour baby to a temperature of 100 and wear it in a wrap around your body, but if you choose to do this you must check to ensure it is breathing every 60 seconds, and also now you must clean with a baby between you and anything you try to touch.

If you think you'll clean when the baby naps, he'll only nap on you, and you'll be too exhausted to care. Every other time you hold the bag of flour you should alternate being topless and having someone spill something on you. This is how you will live for the next three months, and you will love it.

Cleaning with an infant is hard because you have little time to do it. Cleaning with a toddler is hard because they work diligently at undoing anything you've just done. If you're preparing for cleaning up with a toddler, have a friend on hand. As you take a dish out of the dishwasher and place it on the counter, have your friend take one out and place it on the floor. If it's tupperware, have them place it on the dog. If it's a spoon, have them play the drums on a fondu pot. If it's a knife, have them lick it. You'll need to rewash all of those. When your friend gets bored with this game, clean feverishly when they walk away. Discover that they  were keeping themself entertained by using their toothbrush to brush the dog's teeth. 



 Having a toddler is like cleaning up after a Harlem Shake video all the time. 

There is inevitably something on someone's head, random half-costumes are everywhere, there are crazy dance moves, the music makes little sense, and you're not sure why it seems so glamorous. Some examples: 

While you continue with the dishwasher, have your friend remove all their clothes and throw them. Try to elicit their help in cleaning, and have them take the broom and run the handle along every wall. If you are at your in-laws, the broom can also be used for a rousing game of croquet, as demonstrated here:

                   

Learn to look for clean clothes only on the couch, and clean dishes only in the dishwasher. Learn not to mind that your house looks like it's inhabited by squatters because you will be overwhelmingly impressed with your little flour baby/Harlem Shake video. AND when the mess is driving you to drink you'll remember this poem that you heard long ago:

Cooking and cleaning can wait til tomorrow

For babies grow up, I've learned to my sorrow

So, settle down cobwebs. Dust go to sleep 

I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep

And if you're like me you will write your own third stanza that will be something like 

"I could have cleaned during nap while baby rested his head

 but it's more fun to blog about my messy house instead."

How To Be A Toddler: Going to the Doctor

The Boy is now 21 months old. That's almost two, for those of you who don't measure time in months. Twenty one months is the perfect age for playing, and jumping off things and exploring, and is not the perfect age for sitting quietly or waiting patiently. Today I had an appointment to go back to the orthopedist about my shoulder (see this post for more on that), and The Boy can't get rid of his hacking cough, so The Husband and I decided this morning he didn't need to go to school as I'd planned. That meant he'd be going with me. Challenging. And he was much like a toddler should be at an adult doctor's appointment.

If you are interested in becoming a toddler in the near future, read these tips on the proper methods of going to the doctor with a parent. 

1. Sit in every chair in the waiting room. You must sit in every single chair, and when other patients smile at you, look at them like you are both angry with and terrified of them. Smile broadly in a way that conveys you are cute at waiting patients who ignore you.

Sit with your parent to read a farm book. Loudly and excitedly announce all the farm animal sounds to no one in particular. Shriek animatedly for at least one minute. Make sure it is a happy noise so there's nothing anyone can do to quieten you. If someone comes out of their appointment and points at you and says "there's that baby we heard screaming" beam proudly at them. 

2. When you get into the exam room, touch every surface. Once you've touched every surface, put your hand completely in your mouth and leave it there. Attempt to take things out of the trash can. When you are redirected, put a magazine into the trash can.  Ask for a cookie from your bag, and while your parent fetches it, try to sit on the doctor's wheelie chair. Fall out. Take your cookie and place it on every surface that you previously touched. Take a bite of your cookie, put it down on the dirtiest surface in the room and use that as a drum. Smile and announce "I dwummin!" 

3. Before the doctor arrives, dance excitedly around the room. Exclaim "I a el-phant" and make large elephant gestures and stomps. Try to get under the exam table. Ask 45 times where "mommy docta is?" and throw your hands in the air. Knock on the door and yell out "Hey Docta!" when you hear someone in the hall. 

4. When the doctor comes in, do not make eye contact with him or her. Put your cookie on your mouth, but do not eat it. Let it turn to mush and let said mush ooze out of your mouth. Be weird.  When the doctor speaks kindly to you, be afraid. Act like you cannot talk at all, then only speak when grown ups are speaking, at which point whine for more cookie. You'll get it. 

5. When it is time to check out, run in circles while you're waiting. Other grown ups will take pity on your parent and let you go to the front of the line. Announce to the kind lady doing her job "I READY!" if it takes more than 30 seconds to check out, pay, and make another appointment. If she doesn't comply with your readiness, run away. When you have been drug back to complete your parent's business, take all the osteoporosis pamphlets off the desk. Talk obsessively about the bicycle that it features. When it's finally time to go, hop down a flight of stairs, one stair at a time. 

6. If you are with your parent because you are sick, do not cough at all. All day. 

The Night I Got Thrown Up On

My kid is sick. Not like hospital sick, thank God, but feeling really crummy nonetheless. He's got a barking cough and a green 11 streaming out of his nose. He's been up for nights with a fever and my typically active boy just wants to be held. He's also incredibly, uncouragably irritable.

We went to the ped's office on Wednesday. I called first thing and they asked if we could be there in 15 minutes. I told them we'd love to if they didn't mind us showing up in superman pjs. So we did, cape and all.

Our doc said it was a croupey virus and gave us a prescription for a steroid. We filled it and set in for the 'roid rage, just hoping it would make him feel better. We waited. And waited. And still he felt gross. And even more irritable. Saturday night The Boy was feeling particularly bad. He cried. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be held with his head on my shoulder. He said his shirt hurt, so we took it off. He said his pants hurt, so we took them off. He was burning up so we dosed him up with Tylenol.  I stayed home with him while The Husband went to go watch basketball with some friends. "Are you sure it's okay if I go?" He asked. "Of course," I said. "We'll just lay around and watch some tv before bed. He'll be easy."

The Boy with Puppy, his lovie

Husband: buddy, do you want some dinner before I go?
Boy: No!
Husband: how about some grapes?
Boy: No!
Husband: pasta?
Boy: No!
Husband: crackers?
Boy: NO!
Husband: banana?
Boy: NOOO!
Me: ice cream?
Boy: NOOO!
Husband: cookies?
Boy: NOOO!
Husband: biscuit?
Boy: uh huh.
Husband: yeah? I'll fix you a biscuit. ( starts to fix a biscuit)
Boy: biscuit! (Crying) BISCUIIIIIIT......

So his daddy put some biscuits in the oven on his way out but when the timer went off the poor guy didn't want me to put him down to eat it. It was just the two of us and I let him curl up in my lap on the couch to eat. I put his favorite show on and we settled in for the night. He laid on me and ate his little biscuit while he watched tv.

When we'd been couching for awhile he sat up, looked at me and began to cry. Poor guy felt really  bad. I stroked his hair and asked him what was wrong. And he threw up all over me. I saw it happening and there was nothing I could do. All down my shirt and all in my lap. I was covered in vomit and he was crying demanding "wipe!" He wanted me to clean him, and now. What to do first?

I picked him up of my vomit lap and stood him on the ground. He cried. I peeled off my vomit shirt and my vomit jeans and left them in a pile on the floor. He cried. I grabbed some wipes and wiped him down. "Mama, hug" he cried. I scooped him up and held him close, still in my skivvies. He curled up to watch tv again, and even wanted more biscuit. I was hopeful he felt a little better.

After a few minutes he said "biscuit stuck!" and opened his mouth. There was a wad of biscuit stuck on the roof of his mouth and he didn't know how to get it out. I stuck my finger in his vomit mouth and scraped out the biscuit, which made him throw up again. All over me. This time I didn't have clothes to peel off. Warm biscuit vomit on my skin. I wiped him off. I wiped me off. He cried "mama wipe!" and pointed to my sports bra. He didn't want to touch me when there was vomit on my bra. Let that sink in for a minute. He didn't want to touch me because his vomit was grossing up what little of my clothes there were left. I felt too bad for him to care.

The next day we took him to urgent care where we were told he had a "boatload of green, puss-ie, mucus drainage" that was causing him to throw up. Um, thanks? Poor kid is still sick with a temperature but I'm hoping for no more vomiting. Ever. At least til he's in college.

Why It's Okay That You Couldn't Breastfeed

I have friends right now who are either very pregnant, just-finished-being-pregnant-and-have-a-new-babe-at-home, or just barely pregnant and excited by the news. It's made me reflect a lot on our early days after The Boy was born. That, in combination with a lot of recent social media posts, and urging by one of my mysteriously and suddenly shy friends, has lead me to write another breastfeeding post. Feel free to stop reading now if this ain't your thing. Folks, we're going there.

I wasn't able to breastfeed. It's not that I chose not to. I wasn't able to. For me that means that physically my body refused. Ten years ago I had a breast reduction (I told you we were going there) and was told that there'd be a 95% chance I could breastfeed. At the time the benefits outweighed the risks, but apparently many of my milk ducts were damaged in the process.

Maybe you have a similar story. Maybe you had a medical condition, or a physical ailment, or you didn't have any support and you were doing it all on your own, maybe you had supply problems or your baby refused to go back to the breast when you needed to supplement. Maybe you had a jackass boss who wouldn't let you pump at work and you weren't willing to lose your house for your milk. Maybe you had a breast reduction or implants or breast cancer or some thing that got in the way of you breastfeeding your baby. Sometimes it's not a choice.

You tried to make breastfeeding work. You read, and listened, and tried everything you could imagine.  You were exhausted, and overwhelmed, and felt like a terrible mother. And sadly some of that guilt and terrible- mother-feeling was a result of other moms. When we need a community of supportive moms the most we hear other women say things like "well, so-and-so *said* she tried to breastfeed, but who knows?" Here are some well-intentioned things I heard along my journey that didn't help at all.

1.Breast milk is best for brain development. I knew that breast milk was best for my baby. I knew it would contribute to a healthier immune system and potentially higher IQ. What I didn't realize was that formula has come a long way, and while it might not be "best", it's still really good. Did you know that the IQ discrepancy between breastfed and non-breastfed babies is only 7 points? Before I struggled with breastfeeding I'd have thought my kid would ride the short bus if I couldn't get it right. Turns out it's a pretty small percentage. And, how do you take into account in the research how much of that is the actual breast milk, and how much of that is having the kind of parent who's willing to breastfeed, and thus more likely willing to do homework and read books and other brain stimulating activity?

2. You've just got to keep trying. Let me tell you how I tried. I tried by breastfeeding every hour and a half around the clock. Feedings would take an hour, and I had 30 minutes before I'd begin again. I tried by forcing my screaming baby to nurse again and again as we both sobbed. I tried by pumping six times a day to come up with one 3 oz bottle a day. I tried by taking herbal Fenugreek supplements, changing my diet, increasing my oatmeal intake, drinking Mother's Milk tea, and laying in a dark room to increase production. I tried by taking my new baby weekly to weigh naked on a cold scale so that we could ensure he was getting enough to eat. I tried by inquiring about a non-FDA approved drug from New Zealand that allegedly increases production. I tried by going to lactation specialists and hospital lactation groups. I tried by using a supplemental nursing system, a canteen I held above my breasts with tiny tubes that I taped to my nipples to provide formula along with breast milk to encourage him to continue. I tried until I promise you I teetered unstable on the narrow bridge between sanity and psychosis.

That might sound familiar to you. All the trying in the world can't make it happen if it's not set up to happen.  I could try all day to fly but it wouldn't ever happen no matter how hard I tried. That doesn't mean I'm a bad mama, it just means I'm not a bird.

3. You've got to be willing to ride out the discomfort. Maybe you had Raynaud's disorder, which is a painful circulation disorder. You took prescription medication and used warm compresses to ease the pain when your nipples would drain of color from the lack of circulation after nursing. Maybe you had mastitis and blisters on your nipples. Maybe you had blocked milk ducts that created stabbing pains deep in your breast tissue when the milk backed up from having nowhere to go. Sometimes it's more than "discomfort", sometimes it's intolerable, ongoing pain that interferes not just with nursing but with your entire life, including your ability to be a good mama.

4. If you love your baby, you'd breastfeed. Girl, please. If anybody wants to go there with me and compare her heart to mine I will be happy to reach down her throat and pull her heart out so that we can fully examine how it is capable of loving more than mine. Of course you love your baby. Think about this. You've got a free moment right now, and you're spending that time researching more about this stressful breastfeeding dilemma when you could be sleeping or washing your hair. That's love, ladies.

5. In countries where formula isn't available, almost all moms are able to breastfeed.  In countries where formula isn't available, infants and children also die every day of starvation. I shutter to think that the hard reality is my child would've been among them. I send prayers of thanksgiving to the gods of powdered, processed milk that my child had such life-saving luxuries as formula from a can. In countries where formula isn't available there are also fewer breast surgeries, fewer women working outside the home, and often large support systems to help care for new moms as well as their babes, factors that likely contribute to the success of breastfeeding.

6. Formula is poison. See #5. Also, how is this helpful at all? When women say this, I wonder who their intended audience is. I sure hope it isn't mamas who have already chosen relented to formula. That would be judgmental and incredibly hurtful for us. Let's assume that they're just well-intentioned but less-than-sensitive educators for moms who haven't gotten here yet. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt that they think it's a choice for all women, and let's not hold it against them. Plus, I'm too tired to waste that energy.....

7. Breastfeeding is a beautiful bond between baby and mom. I'm sure that it can be. My child refused to do it, and screamed because he was getting next to nothing. It's also incredibly hard, and frustrating, and really, really exhausting. Let's talk about that. When I only hear about the good parts I feel like I'm doing it wrong if I don't have the same experience as you. Like there's something inherently wrong with me that I can't enjoy this screaming 6-8 times a day. I'm lucky I had my sister-in-law who reached out to me, let me know her struggle, and told me I was crazy. That's why I promise you all my friends know about my experience, whether they want to or not. If you're going to have to go through hell you might as well know you aren't alone.

8. People who don't breastfeed don't care about their babies as much as people who do. I wanted this for my baby more than anything. I wouldn't have tried all that foolishness you just read about if I hadn't. When you read posts online or hear conversations at baby showers about the beautiful utopian bond that someone has as they provide everything they need for their child, and how we really should breastfeed, maybe there is part of you that is genuinely happy that they are able to do that. And maybe there's another part of you that is still grieving that you weren't. And maybe there's more of you that is sad or guilty when you feel judged because of it. Hold your head up high. You're doing everything you can to take care of your baby.

8. You'll be sorry if you quit. When we stopped all breastfeeding at 3 months my life changed for the better. I was able to spend time with my child instead of my pump or a canteen. I got to hold him for no reason, for more than a few minutes at a time,  and I didn't have to try to talk him into something that wasn't working for us. I gained two hours that I'd been pumping each day, and was able to sleep better and engage in more fun ways. The clouds opened up and I began to see the sun. Without the stress of breastfeeding, I was a better mother and a better wife. I was less irritable and had more time to see my family, and I didn't even have to be topless and pumping when my girlfriends came by to visit.

Whatever you do will be the right thing for your child. I know that breastfeeding comes easily to a lot of women. And I know that a lot of women struggle like I did for whatever reason. Some choose not to nurse, because it isn't for them. For others of us, it's not a choice. But either way, we are providing for our children. I'd like to think we could get behind each other and support any parenting decisions that we make in the best interest of our kids, even if they're different. I would like to think that in an age where women can vote and blacks and whites share lobbies and water fountains and families can come in all shapes and sizes (we're even letting gays get married!) that we could also respect differences in how we take care of those families. In the end no matter what happens you will give your child something he needs more than your breast milk: you.

The Nose Knows

I don't think I've told you, dear readers, that my arm has been in a sling for almost two weeks. I have a shoulder injury that isn't healing because I keep using it, so I'm in a sling to force it to rest and heal. Now certainly this in no way compares to people with lifelong disabilities. I'm grateful it's temporary as it has made my regular routines a little trickier. I have one regular arm, which The Boy is often in, and one arm pinned to my chest so I can only use the hand but not the arm. I can't complain, but I feel a little like a T-Rex on that side.

I hold The Boy on my hip and use my T-Rex arm to hold his diaper bag. That's fine as long as I don't need to do anything else, like laundry or cooking or cleaning or errands. Getting in and out of the car seat is particularly challenging, and God forbid I need to carry a purchase out of a store. It's made me quite thankful for my two arms that work normally the rest of the time.

On Friday we were getting ready for a busy wedding weekend. The Boy and I had to run some errands before I went to work, and I had to get all our stuff ready for the rehearsal dinner because his Pammie was going to bring him there to meet us. I needed about 5 minutes to make sure we had everything and load the car. I put The Boy, now 20 months, in his high chair with his color wonder paper and markers so that I could get all our stuff together. He was in my sight but I wasn't watching him closely.


I was packing snacks in his bag when I heard him crying. I went to him after I finished what I was doing immediately.
"Uh oh!" he cried, in a panic. "Draw!"
Me: Yep, you're drawing! Can you color the car? (Why was he crying about this?)
The Boy: Uh oh! Draw!
Me: What happened?
The Boy: (panic escalating) UH OH! DRAW! He was pointing to his nose. Did he draw on his nose?
I noticed he had bitten off the end of one of his markers. Awesome. I made a note not to leave him unsupervised with these anymore.
The Boy: UH OH! DRAW!! NOSE!! He cried.

That's when it hit me. Not only did he bite off the end of his marker, he shoved it up his nose. He was screaming. "UH OH! NOSE!!" I could see the marker up in his nose. I grabbed a wipe and tried to get him to blow his nose but nothing happened. He was in full on panic mode, screaming. I grabbed his nose and squished it like I was milking a cow (I have never milked a cow) but nothing happened.

I called the pediatrician's office.
Office: Hello, Martin and Martin?
Me: Hey. It's Leigh Ellen. The Boy has stuck something up his nose, what do you suggest for that?
Office: Hold on, let me get the nurse.
Nurse Brandy: Hey, it's Brandy (Can you tell they know us there?) Is it hurting him?
The Boy: NOOOOOOSSSSSSE! UH OH!
Me: I'd say so. He's screaming.
Brandy: And what is it that's up there?
Me: The end of a marker that he bit off.
Brandy: You're going to need to go to the ER.
Me: No.
Brandy: Yes.
Me: Are you kidding me?  UH OH NOSE DRAW UH OH!
Brandy: Nope. If you try to get it out you're going to shove it further up there. It can damage his little nose, and they have a special tool to dig in there and get it out without damaging him. You can try urgent care, but I'm not sure they have it. I'd call ahead first. NOOOSSSSE!
Me: (Getting louder over the screaming) SIGH. OKAY. THANKS, BRANDY!
Brandy: Call us anytime.
Me: You know I do.

I hung up from Brandy and knelt back down to look up The Boy's snotty nose. He was pacing and crying. "NOSE!" I tried to comfort him. "It's okay, buddy. We're going to get it out of your nose." I talked him into putting his jacket on, and used my one good arm to help him. I picked up his diaper bag with my T-Rex arm and grabbed the keys. Though I dreaded the prospect of someone having to hold him down and fish up his nose, I was strangely calm. I gave him a hug and we headed out the door. As we got just onto the porch he stopped. I looked down at him just as he sneezed the best sneeze I've ever heard. The marker tip shot out like a Romanian from a circus cannon. Hooray!!

The Boy cried. NOSE! I'm sure it hurt, but I was rejoicing. "Oh Buddy!", I said "You just saved us half a day and $100 at the ER! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!" After that I gave him a lecture (yes, they're great and effective for one year olds) about not putting anything up his nose. "No no, nose" he said, as though his nose had done it.

I called The Husband and told him the saga, right up until the part Brandy said we needed to go to the ER. Then I waited for his response. When he asked me which ER we were headed to so he could meet us, I threw in the sneeze at the last minute. After all, if I had to experience all the trauma and drama, he could have just an ounce of it.

I didn't take a picture of the trauma, so instead I'm giving you one from when he ate crayon tonight. You think we'd start supervising his art projects, huh?