What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

I may not be a natural athlete, but I sure am great on defense

On Wednesday night, Luke and I prepared ourselves for our first "big" trip away from home with the baby--dual check-ups at the dentist, whose office is located a good half-hour from the apartment. Diapers, check. Wipes, check. Back-up outfit, check. Pacifiers, three different kinds. Pre-mixed bottles, double check. Also, a whole lot of finger-crossing. We'd been out with Kara several times, but just to run small errands among faceless strangers we'd never see again. We know our dentist. We LIKE our dentist. And we didn't want him thinking our girl was anything but a beautiful, delectable, five-week-old-who's-already-wearing-three-to-six-month-old-clothing angel.

The visit went well overall, with just a few snags. Like when the hygenist squeeled over Kara's adorable adorableness (can you blame her? I mean, really) and she asked how the baby was sleeping, and I said pretty well, considering her age, and I was able to bank four to six hours a night on average, and she was like, "Wow!" and I was like, "Yeah, we're pretty lucky, I'm sure it'd be different if we were still breastfeeding, though," and she was like, "Oh?" and then, because I am still Sensitive About My Feeding Choices, fell victim to Diarrhea of the Mouth and spent ten minutes relaying my woeful nursing tale. Then she was like, "What formula are you using?" and I was all, "Similac Advanced," and she was like, "Oh!" And I was left thinking, "Huh?"

After THAT awkward exchange, Kara decided it was time to release a questionable-smelling number two, which, thanks, sweetie, for pooping in a place where the restroom doesn't have one of those plastic koala-bear tables attached to the door. My first diaper change away from home was staged on the floor of my doctor's personal office just as Luke's exam was coming to a close. He peeked in on me and the baby and gave us a smile. "I'm almost done," I said as I tried to keep my collection of dirty diaper wipes in a manageable pile away from his fancy, shiny furniture. A couple of minutes later, he popped in again while I was fastening her waist straps. "She still fighting you?" he asked.

Fighting me? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I bristled at his choice of words but shrugged it off as I passed Kara over to Luke and took my place in the chair. "It's about time for her to eat," I said as she began to fuss, and he nodded as they made their way back to the waiting room. The hygenist took the standard annual x-rays, and when the doctor joined us a few minutes later, I could hear Kara wailing in the other room.

"She's very loud, huh?" he said, smiling. The corners of my mouth turned up weakly.

"Yep, she sure is," I replied.

"Is she colicky?" he asked, and I stiffened, even though Luke and I were wondering the same thing last night. Once again, I tried to laugh it off.

"No, she's just a baby, doing what babies do." Now, if we could please just keep the focus on my damn teeth....

Luke and I have been frequenting this particular dentist's office for almost two years, and we like him very much. It's not like the guy's a jerk or anything. But I'm still wearing this motherhood gig very delicately, like a brand-new suit I'm afraid to take outside, and I don't know how to deal with those random comments people say about my kid. Just like when I was pregnant, I want to set the masses straight, tell them their remarks are out of line and why, only this time I'm not the focus, my baby is, and the last thing I want is for anyone to have the opinion she's anything less than wonderful.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who occasionally refers to Jack as "Charlie"

Why didn't anybody give me a heads up that DeLurking Week was more than two freaking weeks ago?

At least, I think it was. Its creator, Sheryl of Paper Napkin, hasn't really done anything with it since 2006, but when it comes to comment-inducing events, the blogosphere isn't about to let one go without a fight, so I assume its spirit is alive and well. Right, Liz?

Anyway, for this period of delurkism, I'd like to talk about television. You know, that thing that used to be cool before last fall's writer's strike? Now it seems the best most networks can do is either put out new crap like Dance War: Bruno versus Carrie Ann or recycle older, tired crap like American Gladiator. Although dude, I'll be damned if I didn't watch twenty minutes of Dance War last night.

So, what I want to know is: how are you surviving the strike? Luke and I have embraced our Blockbuster Online membership and recently finished the first season of Lost. Why the hell we weren't watching this show before is a mystery to me, but we are loving it now. It took us about three weeks to get through season one, and we just started the first disc of the second season last night. I've also been pleased as punch that Deal or No Deal is on at least twice a week now.

Since it appears the strike's going to last for the rest of the current TV season, we're in the market for ideas of other shows we should get into. The second season of Big Love is already on our queue, and we're contemplating The Sopranos and Six Feet Under (LOVE hottie Peter Krause). And the fifteen-year-old in me is seriously considering going for Dawson's Creek, because I never caught that show, either. Dawson wasn't exactly my cup of tea, looks-wise.

OK, have at it, people! And of course, if you just want to compliment my baby, that's fine, too. She's quite delicious.

142.8

It's amazing how relative life can be. For example, before I got pregnant, the number listed in this entry's title would've been reason enough to hole up in the bathroom and have a good cry, because for my height and frame, it would've pushed me out of all the pants I owned and categorized me as overweight. Now, though, exactly one month after delivering my first baby, seeing 142.8 on the scale makes me breathe a sigh of relief, because it means I've lost all but five pounds of my pregnancy weight. It means I can fit into my tee-shirts again, and my pajama pants, and my bras. It means for the first time since March, I physically feel like myself again.

For several days after my c-section, I was a mess. Stomach ballooned to the size of a volleyball, face and upper body holding enough water to quench the thirst of a high school chess team. (What? Those guys need fluids, too.) Looking at pictures taken during that first week actually make me cringe, because I barely recognize myself, so the fact that I'm posting one here is proof of just how much I love you all. I'm nothing if not about the honesty.

I'm not sure how it happened--a combination of pumping, baby bouncing, and eating small meals faster than the speed of light, probably--but it wasn't long before my uterus began to deflate, my double chin disappeared, and my cheeks stopped fashioning themselves after Alvin and the Chipmunks. I feel very lucky to have lost the bulk of my baby luggage so quickly, and even though I have yet to pull out my pre-maternity clothing, even though there's no way my current ass will make its way into my New York and Company jeans, and even though my stomach looks more like a plate of corned beef hash than my favorite banana pancake, you won't hear me complaining. I'm well aware that some women have a much harder time.

But there are still miles to go before I can call myself healthy.

Those of you who've been following me since my pre-baby days will remember my on-again, off-again quest to lose weight and get back to somewhere within a hundred and twenty-something pounds. You'll remember my successful bout with Weight Watchers almost four years ago, and how I fell off the point-counting wagon, and how in 2006 I started (read: stole from another fellow blogger) Weight Loss Wednesday to monitor my progress. You'll remember how the scale always seemed to fluctuate between the same five-pound range because I was never motivated enough to keep away from that damn (yet delicious, I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean it) Ben and Jerry's. Truth be told, I was never THAT concerned, because I wasn't THAT overweight, and I could still shop at my favorite stores without wandering into the plus sizes, and there was plenty of time to get down to a respectable number. Really, if I wanted to, I could ditch that weight in a matter of weeks. If I really wanted to.

And then I had a baby, which has completely changed the way I view my body and the challenge of weight loss.

It's not that I'm disgusted with my appearance. For having a child surgically removed from my uterus, I think I look pretty damn good, thank you very much. I won't be wearing a bikini anytime soon, but I wasn't going to do that, anyway, no matter what the scale said. I'm proud my body was able to grow and deliver such a beautifully healthy baby and handle the recovery process so well. And I'm thankful I was able to get pregnant, so easily, without complications. Again, I know not everyone is so lucky.

But still, there are new obstacles for me to face. Like....

I was overweight before I had Kara. Now, there's another five pounds to deal with, which puts me that much farther from my overall weight-loss goal.

I was never a fan of my stomach. I had a gut roll that always poked through my tee-shirts, eliminating the possibility of wearing low-rise jeans, belly-bearing tops, and even belts because they always cut into my waistline, making it hard for me to sit comfortably. Now, though, it's been totally massacred. I have no idea if it's still transitioning back to its pre-pregnancy state or if what I've got is here to stay. I'd post a picture, but even I'm not that gutsy. (No pun intended.)

Before, I had a hard enough time making wellness a priority. I didn't put much effort into making healthy meals, and my YMCA membership didn't last more than a couple of months. Between work and my personal life, it seemed like I was always too busy to put energy into anything else. And now? I still have all of those things, plus a third person who depends on me to feed her when she's hungry and wipe her butt when she craps. If I was busy before, what the hell do I call myself now? How am I going to nip this in the bud once and for all, before I get pregnant with baby number two and gain even more?

Ironically, I think the whole reason I took on this new body shape will be the reason I get out of it: my daughter. I want her to have a fit mother. I want to be able to run through the park with her and go hiking with her and jump rope with her without gasping for breath. I want her to see me and know what it means to live a healthy life. I DON'T want her to look at me and think, "I hope that's not hereditary." I don't want her to see pictures of me in my younger days and wonder what the hell happened.

I want her to love me for who I am, but that means I have to be the best "me" possible. And there's still a long way to go.

Jesus loves me this I know, for my baby slept during the entire composition of this entry

Holy crap, has it really been seven days since I posted here? I'd like to apologize for the lack of updates, but I always hate it when bloggers do that, like, do you think I've got nothing better to do than refresh your site? But then again, before Kara, I really didn't have anything better to do than refresh your site, and what the hell was going on in your life that you couldn't take five seconds out of your precious day to let me know you're still alive? You can appreciate the dilemma, no?

Anyway, things are going much better. In my last entry, I talked about how Kara had suddenly altered her schedule to accommodate less sleeping and more crying, to the point that her mother was crying because oh my God, if you aren't hungry and aren't wet and don't like your bouncy seat or transportable swing or the rocking chair or just bouncing around with Momma throughout the apartment, that's it, kid. There's nothing more I can do.

Now, though? I can take her restlessness in stride without taking it personally, and I've even figured out a few more things we can do together, like looking at blocks dressed in primary colors and reading picture books and paying more attention to tummy time. Don't get me wrong, half the time she fusses through those things, too, but there are moments in which I can see her actually paying attention, reaching for one of her blocks or following the duckie rattle with her eyes. She turned four weeks old yesterday, and I already feel like she's a completely different person from the one Luke and I brought home from the hospital. She's so much more expressive now, experimenting with various smirks and (gassy) smiles and working her hands together while she takes everything in. She also sleeps more predictably through the night, albeit in patches, but it's still enough that between ten and six I can hoard about five hours of sleep, which is more than enough for me to get through the day. This may sound silly, but I almost feel like the newborn stage is over, that she's already taking the appropriate steps to become her own little person and shift into some sort of routine. Time really is flying by.

Things on the pumping front are...almost nonexistent. My quality time with the Ameda is down to just once or twice a day, and I'm only producing embarrassingly tiny amounts of milk each time. I have a feeling that by the end of the week, Thelma and Louise will be all dried up and we'll be solely dependent on the makers of Similac and other formulas for Kara's nutrition. Oh, well. I'm proud that she received the benefits of breastmilk for four whole weeks and that I gave the whole boob thing my very best shot. Maybe my best wasn't as good as some of yours, but we all do what we can.

This past weekend was crazy for us, as we celebrated Kara's baptism at the Episcopal church we've been attending intermittently for the last year and my family was finally able to make it to Indianapolis and love on the baby. There was much chaos as Luke and I frantically tried to clean our apartment and get our daughter ready for her longest trip away from home. Sundy morning, we left the complex armed with individually packaged amounts of formula, two bottles of water, six diapers, two back-up outfits, a pacifier, and prayers to God that Kara would make it through the ceremony and luncheon without waking up the dead. And she did! She was a perfect angel, sleeping through almost the whole service and all of the pizza party we had afterwards. Auntie Samantha and Uncle Dan, her godparents, bought her a beautiful christening dress, and as Luke and I changed her into it minutes before Mass, I couldn't help but tear up because she looked so lovely and grown up and I was so proud of her for not pooping in her pretty new clothes. Also, she's not even a full month yet and already I'm losing my baby and thank you, God for blessing us with such a wonderful gift waaaaaah hiccup sob.

But enough from me. It's picture time! Hopefully they'll hold you all over until I'm able to post here again. (At least you've got my Parents blog to tide you over, though, right? In case you haven't been keeping up, I posted my birth story there. All four parts of it. You're quite welcome.)

(Also, thank you for the birthday wishes. My January 9th introduction to the ripe old age of 28 was marked with presents from Luke, wailing from the baby, and an episode of Deal or No Deal. I swear, NBC must've aired it just for me.)

I know I'm her mother, but honestly, this child is the most photogenic baby on the planet. For real.

Kara with three of the four members of the Lost A Sock family. No, Molly, you may not take her home.

Grandma and Grandpa Ma'Ayteh checking out their first grandbaby.

Auntie Samantha, Uncle Dan with Kara in tow, Momma, and Daddy. Now would be a good time to tell you that my sister is pregnant with her own bundle of joy, who's due in August. How awesome is that?! Everyone's got the baby fevah!

Kara getting smooshed by her fabulous aunties.

"I don't care what the law says, love is not limited by gender!" (Or: Kara with Uncle Geo and Uncle Dan.)

Look! Kara and Grandma Dunscombe match! Also, if I were just two inches taller, I totally could've captured the smile she flashed at Daddy D.

The guest of honor with her grandmas and grandpas. How lucky she is that all four are around to spoil her.

Kara giving that creepy girl from The Grudge a run for her money. Atta girl, sweetheart.

I also caught my first episode of The View

In my last entry, Marriage-101 asked what a typical day is like for me and Kara, and ever since then, I've been planning to blog about just that. And I could've done it last Friday, when the baby slept between two and three hours both before and after lunch, but instead I spent the time washing dishes, disinfecting countertops, working on my birth story, and enjoying ABC's daytime line-up. Monday, I thought. Monday I'll tell the world what a great sleeper my girl is and how grateful I am for the much-needed housekeeping time.

But on Monday, everything changed. Kara was fussy all day and couldn't be put down for longer than three minutes without crying. She didn't nap for longer than an hour, and again, only in my arms, which meant I pumped just twice during the hours Luke was at work, and even then, one of those times I had to manage her with one hand and the pump with the other. During one of her feedings she spit up a fountain of formula, which somehow ended up in my armpit. Later that night she pooped so badly it seeped through her clothes. Tackling THAT bad boy was definitely a two-person job.

Tuesday, I thought. Tuesday will be better.

But it hasn't been better. Kara was just as unconsolable today. My total pumping count is a miserable three. And Luke's been sick with a 102-degree fever.

There probably isn't going to be a "typical" day for Kara and me. But I suppose it is typical for motherhood.

Pump up the volume (please)

Kara isn't even three weeks old and already I'm afraid my boob-juicing capabilities will meet a premature end.

When Luke was at home, meeting my daily pumping goal was tedious but doable: get on the machine eight to ten times a day for at least ten minutes on each side. The amount I produce isn't enough to forgo formula, but I still feel good knowing my daughter is benefitting from my antibodies, especially as we enter the coldest, germiest part of the season. Luke was around to tend to the baby while I pumped. He could wash bottles and change diapers while I suctioned cold plastic flanges to my jugulars.

Now, though, he's back at work, and I'm left to my own mothering and expressing devices. It's not been easy.

Now if Kara cries and I'm on the pump, I have choices to make. Do I put off pumping until her next nap, risking the maintenance of my already-shaky supply? Do I pump and let her cry until I've finished at least one boob? If she wakes up after I've already started, do I interrupt the session or finish that side intermittently? What usually ends up happening is a combination of all of these options, letting her fuss for a few minutes so I can clock in a few more minutes of quality time with the Ameda before breaking the suction and gathering her in my arms. I've changed dirty diapers with a leaky boob hanging out of my nursing tank; I've held her while capping off a half-drained breast; I've missed pumping sessions altogether because her feeding/changing/soothing needs couldn't wait a minute longer.

The idea of losing the precious little milk supply I have makes me sad. I want Kara to have this gift. I want to give her immune system the best start I can. But I can't do it at her expense.

I've talked about it with Luke, and we're both committed to doing what we can to keep me pumping for as long as I'm able. I've got no delusions regarding long-term goals; each day that Kara receives breastmilk from me is a day I'm not taking for granted. I spoke to her pediatrician on Monday, and he suggested that switching pumps might make a difference, but I'm not sure I want to make that investment knowing my boobs are at the mercy of Kara's schedule and it may just briefly delay the inevitable.

I'm not sure what the point of this post is. I'm not looking for advice; I've seen the Web sites, I've talked to lactation consultants. I just want to document my breastfeeding experience as honestly as I can.

In other news, this is how I managed to take a shower this morning:

What? No, that's not an ungodly pile of laundry mating underneath my bathroom sink. Might I direct you to the sweetest face you've ever seen instead?

She really is the sweetest.