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

A six-month-old's lament

Dear Internet,

Why is my mom all about the disappearing acts lately? This hiatus was even lamer than the last one. I didn't even get a chance to post! What's up with that?

Grrr,
Kara

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Dear Kara,

When you type negative comments about your mother using her very own blog, remember she can read them. Also, that she has the power to take that pacifier away faster than you can crawl after her.

Love,
Momma

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Well, if my non-literate baby daughter took the time to ask such deep and meaningful questions, the least I can do is answer them. Maybe you're interested, too!

But really, it's quite boring. I never intended this place to collect dust for as long as it did. Every few days I'd intend to post, but first-trimester yuck caught up to me, to the point that once Kara was down for the night, I was down for the night. I could pull myself together long enough to post on Parents, but not for anything that didn't absolutely require some level of attention. Plus, I'm still feeling hella overwhelmed about this baby (as evidenced by my recent Parents freak-out), and I wasn't sure what to say about it here. I go back and forth between feeling completely off my game about having two kids so close together and completely guilty that I'm not one-hundred-percent over-the-moon about our new addition, which I know is a gift from God, a gift I will love just as much as Kara. But right now the big picture is hazy, as the every day is spent battling UTIs, trying to find an appetite (yet simultaneously wondering why I've only lost a pound), sleeping whenever I get the chance, and bemoaning my overall lack of energy. I don't want to complain all the time. I don't want people to think I'm asking for sympathy. But I can't pretend I'm over this hump yet, physically or emotionally.

It helps that Luke and I have put off house-hunting for a bit. Our whirlwind touring process ended with us making offers on three houses in two weeks, none of which worked out. In all three cases the counter was too high, and the sellers weren't willing to come down any more, and we couldn't afford to go up more than a couple of thousand. The first house we bid on was actually a pipe dream -- it had only been on the market one day, so we knew they wouldn't be desperate enough to go down as much as we wanted, but it never hurts to try -- but the last two offers were acknowledged to be quite reasonable by the seller's agents. It sounds like in each case, the sellers owed more than the houses were worth and couldn't accept much less than their original purchase price. Which, OK, but then why is your house on the market? Why not wait until the economy improves and get more bang for your buck? Whatever. Luke and I are taking the next couple of months to save up a larger down payment (thank you, July bonus) and clear our heads so we don't settle on something that won't work in the long run. I really hope all three of those houses are still on the market when we get back on track. Maybe they'll like our offers then, bastards.

(Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

Things around here are OK. Kara officially turned six months old a couple of weeks ago and weighs in at a whopping 21 pounds and 11 ounces and measures 28 3/4 inches long. She's crawling, pulling up on furniture, kind of submitting to a somewhat regular nap schedule, and laughing. The laughing is the best -- full-on, belly laughs that I didn't think were possible for babies, but they are. And on Saturday night, we caught it on video.

I look terrible, and my voice is super annoying, but surely you can get past all that to appreciate my beautiful baby girl. We couldn't be more delighted with her.

FYI, we haven't been able to get a reaction like that from her since, even with the magic word "Oopsie," so let's just thank our lucky stars we captured it when we did.

(It's totally inappropriate for me to watch this clip and wish I'd pointed at my belly during one of the "Oopsies," right? Probably yes?)

Also, in case you were wondering, the newest Frema-Useless Clutter embryo (who from here on out shall be known as Number Two) isn't doing so bad, either.

There's not much to see right now, but the first picture includes a tiny yet helpful arrow to indicate Number Two's current residence. This ultrasound was taken when I was exactly six weeks along and suggests a due date of February 11, 2009. If I have another c-section (which my doctor suggests), I'd go a week earlier, putting my children just shy of 14 months apart. Tomorrow I will be eight weeks. This early part of pregnancy is going exactly like I remembered -- loooong, and also BLECH -- and I'm already waiting in earnest for that second-trimester burst of energy that didn't come until around week 18 with Kara. Hopefully, Number Two will be more considerate, but probably not. I bet Kara posted crib notes on the wall of my uterus, instructing future siblings on proper prenatal behavior, just to spite me.

For those of you who haven't stopped checking this blog for signs of life, I will do my best not to flake out again, but see above regarding BLECH. Thanks for hanging in there.

For what it's worth...

I told myself it didn't matter, not having a positive pregnancy test. A blood prick from the doctor's office is way more telling than a first morning's urine, and the last thing I need to do is waste three-fifty on something that offers redundant information. But tonight I asked Luke to pick up a Target-brand HPT, anyway, frugality be damned, because I am a girl and biologically programmed to pee on sticks. I need proof. I need the two pink lines. Or in this case, a big blue plus sign.

Mission accomplished.

It's about damn time.

Congratulations, pregnant self! Call me crazy, but it's much more real now.

Things have been crazy-busy around here. Last Wednesday, Luke and I lost two hours of married life talking numbers with our mortgage lender and visited seven homes in four hours on Sunday. Today we saw three more plus the most promising one from the weekend, and tomorrow we will make an offer.

House hunting has proven to be one of the most interesting experiences of my life, and the most exhausting, especially when you're schlepping around a six-month-old who will only tolerate so much car seat before her screams permeate a twenty-foot radius. One house had a whole room shocasing African safari decor complete with elephant wallpaper border and an unfortunately persistent smell of cat. We also attempted to see two bank-owned homes listed at to-die-for prices, until we actually entered the homes and realized that's probably what happened. Somebody must have died. What else could explain the torn carpet, scribbled-on walls, damaged fences, and bugs seeping through the woodwork? If Luke and I could afford a more mature down payment and about ten thousand dollars worth of up-front maintenance costs, these bad boys would be a steal. But we have babies (babies! MY GOD), who would prefer to eat more than once a day, and I am not a fan of having to purge questionable living creatures from my happy place.

The house we are going with, our first choice, is adorable. Three bedrooms, two baths, roomy, fenced-in backyard, two-car insulated garage, brand-new carpet, appliances included, and closet space galore, all in a neighorhood with one of the best school systems in the Indianapolis area. Originally we were hoping to score four bedrooms, or at least three beds and an office space, but alas, we are first-time home-buyers living on one salary, so some of those wants will have to wait until next time. First Choice will definitely meet our needs as a soon-to-be four-person family for years to come, and today on our second walk-through, I got lost thinking about raising our children there--rocking them to sleep, setting up a Christmas tree, playing tag in the yard while Luke throws hot dogs on the grill--and now I am quietly freaking out because I am too emotionally invested in this transaction. We have a price cap that we will not (cannot) negotiate, and there are two other houses to act on should this deal fall through, so I'm not worried about losing my head, but if for some reason things didn't work out, I just might pull a Sally Field circa Steel Magnolias ("I wanna know whyyyyyyyy") and consume an entire pint of Chunky Monkey in one sitting. Which may or may not be appreciated by my embryo.   

Kara is fabulous. She's been sitting on her own for months now, but yesterday was the first time she actually pulled herself into a sitting position. That made me cry, too, as did thinking about how huge I'm going to be in a few months and I won't be able to hold her on my chest like I do now and wah wah wah more ice cream please.

It's getting harder and harder to keep my lips zipped about baby number two at work. I've already told my VP, my direct supervisor, two of my work buddies, and our sales and marketing analyst. If I can make it to my June 18th ob/gyn appointment and ultrasound without tipping off the CEO, it will be a bloody miracle. And seeing as life lately is already one big miracle, I doubt I'm due for another.

It all started with jelly beans.

Luke and I were at Super Target yesterday, stocking up on important items like diapers, frozen dinners, and hand soap, when we happened to drive through the candy section, specifically the Jelly Belly section, where dozens of miniscule beans bedazzled me with their array of brilliant colors, almost like a rainbow, and suddenly I was overcome with desire for Red Apple Jelly Bellys. "I'll just have a handful every now and then," I promised as I tossed the sack into my cart. "After all, they're fat free!"

Now, at my Super Target, the candy aisle is adjacent to the potato chip aisle, and a variety of Baked Lays beckoned from their place on the end cap. "I'll just have some with lunch," I pledged as I debated between barbeque and cheddar and sour cream. "After all, they're baked!"

Famous last words.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I had consumed approximately twenty points worth of Jelly Bellys, three servings of chips, one Weight Watchers ice cream sandwich, a bowl of Cocoa Krispies, three Fig Newtons, and my weight in defiance, tired of counting points, measuring portions, and turning down a cup of milk with dinner because I'd rather spend the points on cookies (the Weight Watchers ones, of course). It didn't help that today I was home from work, which meant instant access to all things guilt-inducing and an afternoon of Beverly Hills, 90210, the first season, because it was on sale for twenty bucks. (Remind me sometime to talk about how this show has seriously warped my impression of raising teenagers; also, how Jim Walsh is pretty much, "Way to go, son, just use a rubber" with Brandon after he lays his first girlfriend but will fuhREAK out later when Brenda does the nasty with Dylan. Sexism, it is a bitch!). So for now I'm enjoying the goodies and promising to get back on the saddle tomorrow.

Binge eating aside, it's been a wonderful weekend, the highlight of which was a trip to the Indianapolis Zoo. It was Kara's first time, and our first real outside activity as a family (walks around the complex don't count), and as the three of us made our way from the parking lot to the front entrance, all I could say was, "This is what I've always wanted."

The outing was inspired in part because Indy has a few koalas on loan for the summer, so that was the first place we went. Did you know that because koalas live on eucalyptus, a food that's shockingly low in nutrition, they spend anywhere from eighteen to twenty-two hours A DAY asleep? Thus, to capture one awake and on camera was quite a feat. Way to go, Luke.

Next were the seals, where we hung for about an hour because our stop there coincided with Kara's next bottle and she was taking her sweet little time. But eventually she finished, and Luke scooped her up to give her an up-close-and-personal view, and watching them, my heart melted.

As if THAT weren't precious enough, the oceans exhibit was even better, as Kara's eyes were drawn to the brightly colored fish just inches from her nose. It was amazing to see her smile as various forms of sealife crossed her path and Luke beam with pride as he pointed out their features. He's always had a soft spot for nature and animals, so I know this trip was especially meaningful for him.

Of course, I had my turn, too, and took great delight in identifying giraffes, elephants, and monkeys, all of which we see in our favorite bedtime book.

Apparently Kara's hands were far more appealing than posing for a happy shot with Momma.

But not for Daddy!

I could eat them up, I love them both so much.

Afterwards, Luke and I spent some time watching Juno, and when it comes to that movie, I don't know what to say. The dialogue was a cross between Dawson's Creek and every Kevin Smith film I've ever seen, only less believable, but really, it was the act of watching the main characters navigate through the adoption process that brought me to tears, because I couldn't imagine my life without Kara. I felt a new kind of hurt for the moms who choose this process, for whatever reason.

The soundtrack, on the other hand? Totally awesome.

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Check out my latest post on Parents, wherein I contemplate family size.

More options than an Old Country Buffet

While I was busy debating how to address my high school reunion, surprisingly, life carried on. Here's just a sampling of what's been occupying my time:

Great Aunt Flo Watch of 2008
Geez, you might be thinking, is she really still talking about this? Hell, yes, I'm still talking about this, today is day 55 of my cycle and still not a word from that bitch Aunt Flo. I took another test when I came home from work this afternoon because my stomach felt jittery before lunch, but alas, still negative, my fourth one since Mother's Day weekend. It's not so much that I'm freaked out about maybe having children THIRTEEN MONTHS APART, HOLY CRAP, but more like dying of curiosity; however, even that attitude isn't doing me any good, so I've decided to just sit tight until I'm presented with either two pink lines or a bloodbath in my underwear. I've been cramping on and off for days, and my gut feeling is that I'm not pregnant, but my gut also told me I would deliver Kara before her due date, possibly without drugs, and we all know how that went down.

While waiting for the latest test to register, Luke jokingly asked if there was a way to jumpstart my period. "If you can speed up labor, why not this?" he said.

Indeed.

Weight Watchers
Today marks week three of Weight Watchers 2.0, and things are going...okay. I've not been as dedicated as I was the first time around, so there were several incidents involving pancakes, bacon, and chicken strips, but I've lost 4.2 pounds to date--almost two pounds since last week--and that's not a bad thing. I've really enjoyed the ability to track my eating habits and calculate Points values online; it was through the Web site that I learned one point plus one point doesn't necessarily equal two. As in, three of the Weight Watchers one-point chocolate chip cookies are five points, not three, and I'm not sure why that is, exactly, but being off by a couple of points each day definitely makes a difference on the scale. I just discovered this gem a few days ago, and my newfound knowledge is bound to make a positive impact on next week's weigh-in.

I will say that I participated in a free health risk assessment at work the other day, and baby weight aside, I'm much healthier than I originally thought. In 2005 I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, and my efforts to bring it down were half-hearted at best. I was pregnant for most of 2007, and pregnancy raises cholesterol, so it wasn't until now that I was in a position to retest. I'm happy to report that all of my levels are in the optimal or near-optimal range, and I can breathe a little easier knowing I've reduced my risk for heart disease. It was in taking that test that I realized I'm doing Weight Watchers for more than just the weight loss. I've had an effed-up mentality regarding food for years, and I want to put my best foot forward and engage in a healthier lifestyle. I want Kara to look at me and see a strong role model for making good choices about food and exercise, and I want her to think that it's easy. I don't want her to use food to get attention, like I did when I made myself throw up for three weeks in junior high. I don't want her to obsess over supposed imperfections or compare herself to peers with drastically different body types or run to food whenever she needs comfort. But if I want that for her, I have to want it for me, too. And I do.

But hot damn, do I miss my spinach dip.

It's not all bad, though. I've been doing a little more in the kitchen, and on Tuesday night I used my Take Five! cookbook, a collection of Weight Watchers recipes with only five main ingredients, to make Pita Pizzas for five points a piece. And they were delicious. Isabel, you bonafide pizza lover you, they will not disappoint. I promise.

House
After months of hemming and hawing and pouring over Excel spreadsheets to make sure we are really in a financial position to do this, Luke and I took our first major step in becoming homeowners and mailed off an application to the Indianapolis Neighborhood Housing Partnership, a non-profit that helps first-time owners secure their first house. Now, Luke and I both have excellent credit (quick shout-out to myfico.com, where we purchased our credit reports and Fico scores from all three bureaus for forty-five bucks a piece), so we don't need to go through an agency to make this happen, but the INHP has relationships with banks throughout the city that will offer loans without requiring a down payment OR private mortgage insurance to qualified buyers. Plus, I took a (free!) intro-to-home-buying class last spring that they sponsored at a local university, and it was very infomative. It certainly couldn't hurt to see what they can offer us.

Our lease on this apartment is up at the end of July, but we'll definitely need more time then that to get our act together, so the plan is to switch to a month-to-month lease and close on a property sometime in September. We won't start looking until we've been pre-approved by a lender, which should allow us to move forward relatively quickly once we've found the house of our dreams. Luke and I are beyond excited about being able to do this and STILL have someone home with Kara. I know how lucky we are and I thank God every night for it.

My Gorgeous Baby
Kara turned five months old on Saturday, and she is taking the world by storm: scooting backwards, becoming more vocal, and as of Sunday, experimenting with rice cereal. She won't entertain more than a few spoonfuls before she's pushing away the spoon, but she's extremely interested in everything on our plates, so this is a good place to start.

Plus, she looks absolutely adorable in her high chair.

She continues to hold herself up really well and can sit unsupported for about ten minutes before toppling over like a house of cards.

She's also still snacking on her fingers and toes with passionate abandon.

So, to sum up, things are going really well right now, even if I feel a little like I'm burning the candle at both ends. Work is extremely busy, and I'm helping with a baby shower for my sister Samantha in June, which means invites needed to go out like, yesterday, and writing for Parents always keeps me on my toes. (Not sure why me wanting to clean my daughter's toes from a strange dog's germs is basis for telling me to relax, as if I couldn't wait to dip her foot in bleach or something, or why not wanting my five-month-old baby to be approached by a dog I don't know means I'm afraid of all dogs all the time, but whatever.) Sure, there are times I'm afraid of passing out behind the wheel, but really, what's a good night's sleep, anyway?

I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

Eavesdropping

You guys! You'll never guess what I heard the other day...

Scene: How should I know, I'm only three months old; Momma and Daddy staring at a big black box while Momma crazily waves a hand in front of my face:

Momma: Hey, look! Twelve Angry Men is in town! You know I did that play in high school? I was the guard.

Daddy: We can go, if you want.

Momma: That would be fun. Oh, yay! I haven't seen a play in forever.

Daddy: We'll have to get a sitter, you know.

Momma: Huh?

Daddy: You know, for Kara. You can't bring a baby to a play.

Momma: Oh. Right. Nevermind.

Daddy: Did you forget we have a child?

Momma: No?

Daddy: ....

Mommy! I am the love of your life! How could you blank on my smashing good looks?

Admitting defeat

All week I've been thinking about the return of Tragic Love Friday, mainly because I've been trying to find time to write it.

On Monday, I went back to work after bawling my eyes out on Sunday night, sobbing, "I hate this, I hate this," "this" being having to go to the office all day just as Kara's starting to do more than lay on a blanket and mesmerize her father and I with her adorable, fleshy gums. Samantha was still in town, so we all had dinner together, only I could barely sit still, wanting to finish up as fast as I could so I could have the baby in my arms again but also wishing I could have another cry and wondering why my heart still hurts so much when I've been doing this for a week and a half already. I put on a happy face for Luke and my sister and spent my free time wiping down countertops and picking up toys so there wouldn't be as much mess for Luke to worry about the next day. I was already leaving him with a sinkful of dirty dishes, and as we all know, the cook should never have to clean, but by the time I finished my Parents entry, it was past ten, and I had to get into bed soon or my eyeballs would explode the next day from the lack of sleep. Thus, no TLF writing on Monday.

Tuesday wasn't any better. I had to go to the dentist because last week I bit on a raisin and felt a shooting pain in my mouth that stayed with me for a good five minutes. Only after forty-five minutes of sitting in the waiting room, flipping through the latest issue of People and staring at my cell phone, wanting to call home but not wanting the waiting room patrons to think I was one of Those Moms who couldn't even go to the damn doctor without checking in on her kid, the dentist couldn't find the source of the problem and actually asked me why I didn't bring in any raisins to demonstrate what was wrong. Another half-hour in traffic, and by then I was really charged up and barely said ten words to Luke the entire evening, in my lame-brained attempt to shield him from my bad attitude, but when I told him I wanted to pick up some more work clothes because I'm tired of trying to squeeze into tops that don't fit my belly, he asked where, and I told him, "The store," I'm pretty sure he was able to see I wasn't sunshine and roses. Was major bitch. I'm surprised I wasn't directed to the couch. No TLF.

Last night I thought about it. I'd apologized for my behavior and come home at a decent hour. I scored plenty of play time with Kara and posted a quick entry on Parents, leaving me with plenty of time to draft a chapter or two. But then Kara decided to take a nine o'clock nap before her last feeding, and she took that last nap in my arms, and all I could do was snuggle her close and sniff her head, which smelled wonderfully of Johnson's shampoo. By the time we started her bedtime routine, it was almost ten, and Luke told me I'd better get ready myself, since it appeared I'd actually have a chance to slip under the covers before eleven. I did, and I did. STILL no TLF.

This morning, before I got into the office, I set aside twenty minutes to get some writing done, with the assumption that I could continue my train of thought at lunchtime. Only it was then I remembered that I needed to find updated headshots of the actors and actresses playing each character, and it had to be done NOW because how could I post the beginning of part three without a character introduction, so I got caught up in doing that, and instead of stopping at 6:20 like I planned I stopped at 6:26, leaving me only nine minutes to pack a lunch, brush my teeth, throw on some make-up, and get out the door. I walked out the door at 6:40, just as Kara started to stir, so I hurried out as quick as I could because it's so much harder to leave when I have to say good-bye. Only when I got to my car, the windows were covered with frost. FUCK. So I let the car run and hurried back inside, where Luke was getting ready for Kara's first feed, so I changed Kara's diaper, smothering her face with kisses the whole time. Then I cursed myself out for even picking her up in the first place because of course there were tears in my eyes as I left, and then I felt bad even for that because who would pass up a chance to spend a few minutes with their baby before a long work day?

As delusional as it sounds, I contemplated doing some TLF stuff on my lunch hour, but fooling around on the computer this morning and having to let my car warm up meant I was twenty minutes late for work, and that's when I started thinking, Maybe trying to post TLF tomorrow isn't such a great idea.

Yes, it really took that long, partly because I was so excited to sink my teeth into a project that had nothing to do with work or parenting, but mostly because I've been going on about it for weeks, and I didn't want to let anyone down. I didn't want anyone to miss their TLF fix because I was "too busy" to write it, like I was this big important person with far more sophisticated ways to spend my time then work on the sequel to a story I started when I was fourteen.

But really? I am too busy to write it. To be honest, I'm barely holding it together.

I'm fully aware I put this pressure on myself. On the surface, I feel like nobody expects me to dust and vacuum every week or send baby gifts out on time, but underneath, I constantly think people are judging me, wondering why I can't shape up or get into the rhythm of things. I can't stand it when people appear to be pitying me because I have to go to work and my husband stays home. Samantha called me "noble" and I cringed, because there are so many people in harder situations, so many people with more difficult problems then going back to a job where my work is valued and well compensated. The last thing I want to do is martyr myself. On the other hand, I can't deny that my plate is too full. I'm feeling pulled in all directions. I can't keep up with the pace I've set for myself.

Something's got to give. And right now, that "thing" is this blog.

I won't be gone forever, or probably even as long as I think. I love posting and talking with all of you. This Web site has (sadly?) become a huge part of who I am. But I don't have room for it right now. My plate is too full. I want to spend time with family without scrambling to the computer every ten minutes. I want to write TLF part three without feeling like there's a gun to my head. I want to learn how to be a working mother without trying to spin every single moment into some literary masterpiece. I'm already doing that for Parents. I can't do it here.

I want to read books again. I want to comment on your blogs again. I want to join the gym and talk on the phone and refocus on my job again.

In a nutshell, I want to figure out how to enjoy my life and my new role as a working mom. I've got a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter who both amaze me every single day, and yet, somehow I've allowed the Internet to cast a shadow over both of them because I'm afraid of losing readers. I look back at Amalah's archives during her period back at work and honestly can't believe she posted as often as she did. Even during her maternity leave when she was breastfeeding all the time. I gave in to formula before we even left the hospital and I could barely manage once a week. I've re-read her entries countless times, banged my head against the proverbial wall, thinking, What the hell is my problem?!

Now I get it. My problem is not knowing when to say When. So, just for a little while, I'm finally going to say it.

See you back here soon.

Weight Loss Wednesday: At least I said "No" to KFC last night; that's like losing three pounds right there

It's my first official weigh-in since announcing my goal weight last week, but not even the pressure of sharing my numbers online was enough to change my ways.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 145
CURRENT WEIGHT: 146
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 16

The first half of the day continues to go well: Cheerios, sandwich, fresh fruit, raisins, yogurt, some 100-calorie Honey Maid crisps, and a mug of hot chocolate for a pick-me-up around ten. It's the after-work hours that slay me.

I know what the problem is. The problem is I go to bed at eleven-thirty, and by the time I come home I've been running around for almost twelve hours on less than six hours of sleep. I'm tired. I'm out of sorts after being gone from Kara all day. Luke's worn out from being WITH Kara all day. My only source of comfort is food. The burger and fries I had on Sunday night made me feel good. The spinach dip on Monday was like chicken soup for my soul.

But both times, after the first few bites, I felt guilty. Guilty for completely disregarding my weight-loss goals and not taking my high cholesterol more seriously. I want to be successful at this. I need to be successful. I just need better motivation.

I also need exercise, and with spring on the way, that will finally be possible. Luke and I are going stir-crazy in this apartment, biding our time until the snow melts permanently and the temperature's high enough to take Kara for a stroll. Indianapolis has some wonderful parks and walking trails; those paired with my early schedule and Daylight Savings Time should mean we'll have no problems becoming one with The Great Outdoors. I'd love to take advantage of the complimentary gym membership now offered by my company as well, but honestly, I don't think I could stand another two hours a week away from home, not when our "situation" is still so new.

I mean, could you hit the treadmill knowing this face was waiting for you?

I didn't think so.

For more health-related goodness, check out the conversation over at Parents regarding the controversial HPV vaccine. It's wicked fun.

Because MY Jerry Maguire moment includes buying my own damn goldfish

Since Kara was born, it's harder not to think about taking better care of our finances. Luke and I are doing OK so far; I've been depositing money into my company's 401(k) for the last three years (hooray for full vestment on company matches), so at least we've gotten started on retirement, and we finally have adequate life insurance, thus enabling us to buy a home, pay for Kara's education, and snag a hottie gold-digger in the event of the other's death instead of shacking up in a cardboard box on an Interstate exit ramp. We also paid off the Cobalt so that the only debt we owe is to dear old Sallie Mae and padded our savings account to cover my twelve-week maternity leave. An unexpected holiday bonus left us better off than we expected, and the majority of it still sits in the bank, earning a meager amount in interest, taunting us, practically begging us to hand it over to the nearest car dealer and finally put Luke's 1991 Chevy Lumina to rest.

And if we didn't have Kara, that's probably what we would do.

But now we are parents. Now we have more incentive to consider the long-term consequences of our decisions, and truth be told, we have a lot of financial ground to cover before we can invest in something as frivolous as a car.

Problem is, it's hard to know where to start.

The choices are numerous. We could save the money and put it towards a down payment on a house, except we're not sure if we want to lay down roots in Indianapolis just yet. We could funnel it into a Roth IRA for Luke, who still has no retirement account to speak of despite his ability to withdraw funds a good six years before me. We could begin a college savings plan for Kara, even though she'll have scholarships, loans, and work study at her disposal and the quality of our golden years will depend on what we had the good sense to sock away. We could add short-term disability to my life insurance policy so I can enjoy a lengthy PAID maternity leave with baby number two, but I still harbor wild dreams of becoming a stay-at-home mom before then and wonder if the added expense would be worth it. Then there's still the matter of creating our will, which doesn't affect our cash flow now but could if Luke and I both died tomorrow (the last thing I want is to see Kara's inheritance eaten up by court fees for years and years), and emergency cash fund? Ha! Where do you think the money for all this crap is coming from?

Each path is a worthy option. We just don't have the means to cover them all.

Right now, our gut's telling us to go for the Roth and take advantage of compounding interest while we're still young. Liken it to being in a plane crash and putting on your oxygen mask before tending to somebody else's--you're no good to anyone if you haven't taken care of yourself. Once we're on track with our retirement goals, we'll be in a better position to help our kids with school, weddings, down payments, and any other big-ticket items on their plates, though we have no plans to pay for any of those things in full. A couple of loans never hurt anyone, and while I don't want to see my children drown in six-figure debt, I also don't want to instill in them a lofty sense of entitlement held by the majority of our millenials these days. Most importantly, I want them to sleep easy as adults with the knowledge that their father and I worked hard to make sure they're not stuck with our Shady Pines membership.

It took some convincing, but Kara eventually came around.

I appreciate your reasoning, but all this money talk hurts my tiny fontanelle.

No Mustang for my sixteenth birthday? You bastards!

Who are you guys kidding? These chubby cheeks will have you eating crow all the way to the bank. I'll snag that car by kindergarten.

Dusting off the saddle

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm almost, ALMOST, ready to go back to work.

Luke's last day was Friday, and since then the Frema-Useless Clutter household has seen a flurry of activity, what with traveling and spring cleaning and catching up on laundry and discovering that Kara's already outgrowing some of her three-to-six-month sleepers. It's been great having the three of us together again, but sometimes it seems like we're stepping all over each other. I'll be glad for the time when we can establish a more permanent rhythm, one in which we're allowed to master our new roles instead of randomly trying to accomplish tasks in between bottles, diaper changes, and faulty W-2s.

That's right. After cursing out Turbo Tax for more than two hours over the bright red "Federal Taxes Owed" box taunting us from the top left corner of the computer screen, I found a discrepancy in my tax form big enough to bring on the more financially-friendly green box, which means now we can't file our return until my employer's payroll company produces a new W-2. Because taxes aren't fun enough!

Anyway, to banish that lovely experience from my memory, today I'm embarking on my "I'm a savvy working mom who despite her coolness is still too flabby for ninety percent of her pre-pregnancy wardrobe" shopping spree. Before I go, I'll try on some more of the stuff I packed away last summer, but seeing as I could barely lock the zipper on my once gut-friendly corduroys, I doubt I'll have much luck with the tailored dress slacks. I'm not looking to buy out the mall, but it's about time I passed along the rest of my maternity clothes to my sister Samantha, who, unlike me, is actually with child, and it's illegal to go to work naked. I also hope to step outside the confines of my traditional beauty regime (read: away from the Clinique counter) in search of new products for my lingering skincare issues. I have a filled-to-the-brim make-up bag with items that haven't been touched since 2006 and half-used bottles of cheap facial cleansers that aren't doing anything for my acne, and now that I'm a mother, it's time to step up to the plate and reclaim the womanhood I left behind back in my first trimester. After spending the last hour and a half combing through Amalah's Advice Smackdown archives, I think I have just enough information to be dangerous at Sephora. Hopefully the consultants won't notice I've been wearing the same gray lounge pants every day for the last five seven days. Also, that I'm still sporting a nursing bra because it's the only one I have that can support my now-ginormous boobs.

Don't worry, I'll be sure to share the fruits of my labor just as soon as I can; until then, behold my gorgeous baby, who I promise to take to the dermatologist at the first sign of trouble.

Samantha and Kara, who's wearing the too-tight sleeper mentioned in my latest Parents entry. Dear dryer, why must you be so cruel?

Pregnant lady number two donning the same blissed-out expression as my sister. Clearly babies and gestating women go together like a horse and carriage.

OMG MY BABY IS ALREADY SAYING HER PRAYERS HOW PRECIOUS IS THAT.

Perfection at its most curious. Also, its most beautiful.

Moods, swinging of, even moreso than Jenna's

At the time of the start of this entry it's 2:08 in the morning. I should be catching some zzzz's, but instead I've chosen to burden the Internet with my tormented, sort-of-depressing thoughts. Lucky you.

The time has come for Luke and I to put our one-income-family plan into action. His last day of work has already been acknowledged by his department with a farewell lunch at Rock Bottom. I've been in contact with my supervisor and made plans for us to share a meal of our own before heading back to the office, to get up to speed on what I've missed and mentally prepare for what things will be like upon my return. It's no longer numbers typed into an Excel spreadsheet; it's our reality. Luke is a stay-at-home dad. I'm a working mom.

And even though there are still almost three weeks until I have to swipe my security badge at the lab's employee entrance, I feel like my maternity leave is already ending, because come five o'clock tomorrow, Kara and I will say good-bye to this special time we've had getting to know each other. I'm happy for my husband, but so bummed for me.

After Friday, things will be different. No longer will I be the primary parent with whom Kara spends most of her time. Gone will be the days of Luke walking through the door after a long day at the office and me greeting him from the living room couch, spewing happy words about the funny sounds the baby made that morning, cradling her sleeping body in my arms. No more singing "Peppermint Twist" while dancing around the apartment at eleven a.m.

It's not mommy guilt I'm suffering from; it's sadness.

I'm trying to be strong. I'm trying to get excited about shopping for work clothes and grabbing a shower before noon every day and talking to other adults again. I don't want people to feel sorry for me. I don't want Luke to feel bad (happy birthday, honey!). I know that somebody's got to work and my bond with Kara will continue to grow and eventually it'll all get easier.

But IT EFFING SUCKS, just the same.

To keep myself from drowning in a pint of Ben and Jerry's, I'm hereby announcing the official return of Tragic Love Friday, if only to have something awesomely trivial to focus on in my spare (ha!) time. It won't run every week, or even every other week right now, probably just once a month until a solid plot's been established, but no worries, because you'll have Brain Fest Friday to hold you over between installments. We'll have our first official BFF session tomorrow, so be sure to tune in. In the meantime, I'm going out on a limb and setting a TLF season premiere for...(flips through Norman Rockwell calendar) March 28. Those of you interested in being part of the writing team, please e-mail me so I can add you to my newly created Gmail group, which should allow us to swap ideas in an orderly fashion. If you don't have a Gmail account, let me know and I'll send you an invite. Also, don't stress about your literary skills or lacking soap opera background; I'll be controlling the main direction of the story and do eighty percent of the writing, anyway, but from time to time I'm sure I'll need pinch-hitters, and who better than a TLF fan?

Whew. Just thinking about the tragic possibilities makes me smile.

Edited to add: Of COURSE Kara choose this particular morning to wake up at five o'clock making the cutest sounds imaginable. But how can I be mad at this sweet little face? Does she not kill with the adorableness?

Edited to add AGAIN: Luke's V-Day present to me? A TWO-DISC collection of love songs by Phil Collins. It doesn't get any better than this, folks. (Seriously. I'm beyond giddy.)

I guess we're all two nuggets short of a six piece.

At least in the common sense department.

Can I tell you how much I loved reading about everyone's verbal shortcomings? Your stories were so awesome that I only felt the tiniest bit guilty for not updating the rest of the week. I'm thinking this pick-your-brain fest needs to become a regular feature. Ever since the season-two finale of Tragic Love Friday, I've missed giving people something to consistently look forward to, so it's fun to imagine "What're you lookin' at?" as a landing spot for shits and giggles once again.

Unless...

Speaking of TLF, I've been thinking a lot about our batshit-crazy fivesome (well, foursome really, continue to RIP, David) and how much I miss their morally questionable antics. Back when I was still pregnant and clueless about how often my chest would double as a bassinet, I had high hopes for continuing the insanity in the form of a reader-inspired, online soap opera, setting up the initial plot outline myself and soliciting excerpts from all of you. Then Kara was born, and I kind of lost touch with reality for a couple of weeks, and now I'm mentally preparing myself to go back to work, and it's already hard enough to keep things fresh around here without wondering how many of you are groaning each time I post yet another baby picture. The pressure associated with reviving TLF just might do me in. But damn, how fun would it be to give part three a go? We could even assign a role to my latest celebrity crush:

(Stacy, I know you'd approve.)

Since it wouldn't just be a matter of typing out pre-written pages, I'm not sure how much time I'll have to devote to TLF, but I really think it's a worth a try, as long as you guys are still on board and enough of you are willing to share your literary talents with me--and of course, by "literary talent" I mean "smutty love scenes (with Matthew Fox! and Jenna! yes?) and V.C. Andrews-style storylines." We could rotate Brain Fest Friday (BFF!) and Tragic Love Friday so that we all have more time to dedicate to this very important and not-at-all-fluffy writing project.

So, what say you? Are you with me? Or should we just resign to being BFFs?

On a random note (except not so random because Matthew Fox is on Lost and what I have to say is kind of related to Lost), a couple of weeks ago I was mortified to realize that my hair, which hasn't been professionally tended to since October, had grown into such a state of disarray that I am now a dead ringer for Hugo "Hurley" Reyes:

Don't believe me? See for yourself:

Is time for haircut, yes?

Luckily, there's one gal in the Frema-Useless Clutter household who looks perfect just the way she is.

Hat courtesy of the lovely Isabel.

My beautiful baby is eight weeks old today, which means Luke and I take her in at one o'clock this afternoon for her first batch of shots. I may not be the patient, but already I feel nauseous.

I would've blogged earlier, but I couldn't find it under all that dust

So, it's been more than a week since I posted here. There's no pressing reason for that, really, except that Kara doesn't go down for very long in the afternoons unless she's nestled under my neck, and her sleeping preferences aren't very conducive to quality blog writing, or even any blog writing at all. When Luke comes home, I have no problems pulling the "Oh, darn, I have to blog. For work!" excuse for Parental Discretion Advised, but alas, that's not the case here, and there's so much going on in the evenings, what with cooing at the baby, decluttering our apartment, and catching up on Lost, that this place gets the short end of the stick. I can only imagine how jealous it must be of Parents.com, for which I'm required to post three times a week. It's only a matter of time before TypePad "accidentally" throws a football at her face. "Oh, my blog!"

(You got that that was a play off The Brady Bunch, right?)

I wish I had something light and airy to blabber about, but these days most of my thoughts are preoccupied with going back to work, which I will do in exactly four and a half weeks. Luke has already given notice to his place of employment and come five o'clock on Friday, February 15--the day after his 34th birthday (yes, he's a Valentine's Day baby)--will officially don the title of Stay-At-Home Dad. Talk about the present to end all presents!

As happy as I am that we're able to swing having a parent at home with Kara full time, I'm just as sad that right now, it can't be me. I keep thinking about everything I'm going to miss while I'm at the office, things like mid-morning playtime and afternoon snuggles, and I'm constantly rearranging my work schedule to spend as much time with her as possible, like, maybe I should propose a seven-to-four work day instead of eight-to-five so I won't waste time in rush-hour traffic. Or maybe I should ask to work four ten-hour days so I can spend Friday at home, even though that would mean for most of the week I'd be seeing even less of her. There are also some work-at-home options, but part of me thinks I should put in the majority of my time on site so as not to get distracted by all the cuteness.

My sister Samantha sent me an e-mail this weekend about a father/daughter dance taking place at my old high school in Chicago on March 8th, and in my pre-baby days I'd have said yes without a second thought, but now I'm a mother, and the weekend of the dance comes after my first few days back at work, and the idea of spending six hours in the car and then a whole Saturday night away from my family after reacquainting myself with corporate muck makes me want to cry.

I'm so thankful that we've been able to alter our financial lives so as to manage on one income and that Luke will have the kind of relationship with Kara that a lot of dads can't. But right now, all I can think about is that I'll have to be away from my baby. And I'm afraid I won't know how.

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.

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 kee