"un-gwounded"

Remember being grounded? You'd miss your curfew or disrespect your parents, and suddenly it was no TV, no phone, no going out with friends, for a week. Very boring. Grounded, you might as well be dead. And the day you were ungrounded -- that was the day life began again.
My brother N. , however, had a different take on it. As the fifth of six children, nearly everything happened to someone else before it happened to him. And with two rambunctious older brothers, being grounded was cool. And so, at four years old, whenever N. would get in trouble, he would walk around saying, "Shoot. I'm gwounded." The kid actually wanted to be grounded. (No, my parents never actually grounded their four-year-old. They might take away The Lion King video for the afternoon, though, and that was good enough for N.)
I'm taking a page from N.'s book. I wanna be grounded. Jake being gone four nights a week, living with my in-laws partly because he is gone four nights a week, Ghoulie's separation anxiety and consequent sobbing every time I set her down, working odd hours and wondering exactly where all the money is going -- all of it is making me feel very, very ungrounded. As if I might float away at any given moment. I need someone to take away all my "privileges" -- someone please, please take my cell phone away! -- and force me to be totally bored for a few days. Lock me in my room with a book and tell me to think things over.
I am, fortunately, making the time for a regular yoga practice lately, and that seems to get me halfway there. Maybe I'll go mouth off to my mother and see if that gets me the rest of the way. That always worked when I was a teenager.

in praise of boredom

I used to suffer from the phenomenon of post-Christmas letdown. The last of the presents would be opened, dinner would be through, and I would feel depressed. All of December there was this intense energy, these frantic preparations, this whole month of effort, culminating in only a few hours of fun. And then it was over.
But as the Johnson & Johnson commercial says, a baby changes everything. This year, Christmas is over, and I AM SO GLAD. I am relieved. I am honestly looking forward to the dull winter months of nothing. Nothing is not such a bad thing anymore.
However, that also means I don't have anything interesting to blog about . . .

Christmastime revelation #2: I am so uncool

Pregnancy stole my fashion sense.
I am a firm believer in the concept that the price you pay for a piece of clothing should be relative to the number of times, or the length of time, you will wear it. And I refuse to drop more than $30 on anything I would/will be wearing for less than five months. Consequently, I spent the second and third trimesters of pregnancy in jeans, T-shirts, and tank tops from Motherhood Maternity and Old Navy. I should also mention that my birthday is on Christmas Day, so I have essentially one shot at getting any clothing or accessories that I cannot justify buying for myself. Since last year I received only maternity clothes -- per my wish list -- I haven't had many new non-pregnancy clothes in the last two years.
Last night at the mall it finally occurred me: I am just not cool anymore. Once upon a time -- and I am talking way back, like middle school days -- the mall was the center of the fashion universe. You wore, like, your coolest, raddest clothes for a day at the mall with your friends. And then there were those annoying adults in their jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers taking up space with their baby strollers, giving you dirty looks for acting stupid and obnoxious.
I was not wearing sneakers, per se, but I was wearing comfortable, sensible shoes. I also did not actually give any teenagers dirty looks -- but I thought mean looks at them. Because they're stupid and obnoxious.
Feeling down, I went into Express to look for jewelry for my brother's hip girlfriend. Nothing but long, dangly earrings that Ghoulie would love to yank out of my ears. Perfect for B., of course, but no longer practical for me. *Sigh.*
On to Victoria's Secret, strictly for body wash and lotion. Guess what? Victoria's Secret is not set up to accomodate new mothers! Not only do they depress you by displaying half a zillion cute outfits that just would not look quite as good on you as they used to, but they set up their displays about 18 inches apart from one another, covered in long, sweeping satin cloths that get caught and tangled in stroller wheels. No I am not kidding about this. We almost took out the entire Very Sexy collection.
Now I have two New Year's resolutions. The first, decided a good month ago now, is to quit the red meat habit. Again. (Pregnancy not only took my coolness, it also turned me into a meat-eater.) My second resolution, made at the Express jewelry rack at 8 pm last night, is to get rid of this uncoolness. Or, at least, return to some minor semblance of fashion. So family, if you have any shopping left to do, make me hip again.

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BLOG???

. . . I know you're all asking. Answer: Life happened. Good life. Which always, it seems, equals busy life.
Up until last week, I was just the yoga teacher at work. 6 1/2 hours each week, or 8 on the weekends I offer the Introductory class. No big deal. Starting last week, though, I also became the office administrator, for an extra couple hundred a week. I'm enjoying it, and my mom and company (AKA my siblings who are now, incidentally, one terrific aunt and three doting uncles -- plus a couple of girlfriends and one foster brother and anyone else who might happen along) are taking care of Ghoulie.
Now I am officially juggling.
Oh, and one more "official" bit of news: As of last Saturday, when he signed his Academy paperwork, I'm officially a cop's wife. And, if I may brag for just a sentence or two, I have to mention that of 550 applicants, 5 were hired. Total. Yes, that's right, 1%. And my husband was at the top of the list. Go Jake! I love you.
Ghoulie is asleep, finally. Today was well-baby and immunization day (except for the flu shot, which we've decided against). She's a trooper when it comes to shots. Cried for about 10 seconds, then pouted for another 15 or so. After that, you wouldn't know she'd had anything. We've also decided we love our new pediatrics practice.
Augh, now I'm annoying myself with my rambling. Goodnight, and I will try not to let real life get in the way of my computer anymore.
Hardy har har.

bedtime: the saga continues

Last night, bedtime lasted two and a half hours. It started with soft Christmas music, Goodnight Moon, and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." It ended, as usual, with nursing in our bed at 1 am. I have rehashed everything that happened in between far too many times today. But bear in mind, by bedtime I mean, when I want Ghoulie to fall asleep. I am not even counting the hour and a half beforehand that she was bathed, cuddled, nursed, and cuddled some more.
A huge, huge part of this bedtime problem is our fault; we have trouble creating the idea that it is nighttime before 11:00. To us it's nighttime -- but to Ghoulie, it's all the same. People to catnap on, then wake up and play with. Lights and TV and conversation. Who could sleep?
So I am taking responsibility and creating a very loose sleep schedule that will work for Ghoulie. I woke her up this morning at 9:00. She was pretty pissed about it. After short naps during the day -- no, I don't advocate short naps, but apparently Ghoulie does. One thing at a time here, okay? -- she was rubbing her head on my shoulder at 6:30. I cruelly kept her awake by playing with her until 7:45, at which time she fell asleep in the car on the drive home from my parents'.
Now, at 8:30, she is asleep in our bed, where she will stay for the night. She already woke up once to nurse, but she drifted off once she was finished.
For now, I'm thinking of it as an experiment. Keep your fingers crossed for happy results. I'll report on my findings tomorrow.

dream meanings for dummies

My sister, my mother, and I had something of a morning ritual when I was younger. We still return to it when we are all together over the holidays or during random weekend visits. Over coffee, in our pajamas, we tell each other any interesting dreams we had the night before. Once the dreamer has described any bizarre nightly imaginings, the listeners wrinkle their noses and wonder, "What do you think it means?" Usually, we find the answer. Sometimes we need to wait until my psychologist aunt comes for a visit of her own, if the dream is too strange for us to handle. But most of the time, we come up with some brilliant explanation.
My sister and her husband are scheduled to arrive here from Cleveland tomorrow morning, and apparently my subconscious is gearing up for the visit:
Today Ghoulie and I did one of our favorite things: we took a nap together. And it was a nice nap, a good nap, the kind that includes real, deep sleep. Which has been in short supply around here for the last, oh, six, seven, maybe eight months.
Such deep sleep, and such a long nap, that I actually had a dream. I can't remember the last time I had a dream. That is not even an exaggeration, sadly -- I really can't think of one time since my little all-night nurser was born that I have had a dream I could remember once I woke up. Being a little rusty on the interpretation end of things, my subconscious decided to be nice and obvious for my mom, my sister, and myself. I don't think we'll even need a cup of coffee first to interpret this one.
First of all, in real life, Ghoulie is busily mastering the art of sitting up. (She's quite good.) Also, we were discussing Target this morning. I'm not sure why -- yes I am. We were contemplating where to buy a highchair, and I was railing against the national chain store in which we registered for baby needs, which shall remain nameless but does not associate itself with a cartoon giraffe. Actually it associates itself with coats. And it stopped selling the highchair we wanted for Ghoulie, weeks before my baby shower. But nevermind all that. Let's move on to my dream world.

I'm outside a department store, looking for a carriage. Since Ghoulie can sit up, I decide to leave her sling in the car, and put her in the front of the carriage -- like a big girl! But, I have a hell of a time finding a carriage that works for us. First I find one that has a great seat for a baby in the front -- but it turns out to be a jogging stroller, and won't hold all the things I need to buy. Next, I find a clean, new, big carriage -- but it doesn't have any place to put a baby. Finally I find a corral full of carriages perfect for shopping with a baby -- but they are all broken in some way, or wheel-less or otherwise falling apart. I cannot find one carriage, despite searching the entire store and the vast parking lot, THAT WILL MEET THE NEEDS OF BOTH GHOULIE AND MYSELF.
And of course, the entire, very long carriage searching experience is continuously interuppted by well-meaning strangers wanting to help, other customers at the store getting in my way, and random old ladies wanting to hold my baby for their own gratification. It is all very stressful. Here I am supposed to be shopping for all our household needs, and I've been at the store for like two hours and have not managed to find even one of the many items I am here to buy, because I am so occupied with trying to find the perfect arrangement for Ghoulie and me. And it JUST ISN'T WORKING.

Back to the real world, where Ghoulie is a little annoyed that I've been benignfully neglecting her for the last 20 minutes. Can't wait to discuss the dream with my mom and sis -- over a pot of decaf.

"motherhood -- it's hot!"

Have you ever seen the Livestrong bands they sell at Motherhood Maternity, to benefit the March of Dimes? They're red and they have the afore-quoted sweet saying emblazoned on one side. Jake wore one when I was pregnant. It was cute.
The reality of it, however, I must call into question.
Ghoulie appears to be approaching her six-month growth spurt. She's nursing every two hours or so, all night long. On top of that, we're all recovering from a nasty cold that seems to have overtaken the entire state of New Hampshire.
This morning, I awoke 30 minutes later than I wanted to -- having once again set the alarm for 8 pm -- and rushed into the shower. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: droopy eyes, serious case of bedhead . . . and a cute little baby booger stuck to my cleavage.

reflecting

Most of my life, I have been something of a walking contradiction. A social home-schooled kid. A (only slightly) rebellious PK. A Christian who practices and teaches eastern medicine and philosophy.
Not that any of these aspects of my life are contradictory to me. But I have spent many a time, upon meeting new people, responding to a quizzical look and a, "Oh! What's that like?"
You may have noticed that my description of this blog, in the sidebar, has changed. And the reason for that is, I have changed -- again.
Just when I thought I had it all figured out. Just when I had managed, somehow, to fit my identity and my place in the world into this neat, albeit unconventional, little box. Just when I had learned how to color inside the lines, once and for all. Then along comes this little baby who blows the lid off all that.
Being a home-schooled Christian preacher's kid, naturally I grew up in a big family. As the oldest of six children, in fact. I was a much sought-after babysitter as a teenager. Then -- upon discovering that most employers have no use for a degree in something called "Liberal Studies in the Great Books" -- I worked as a nanny for several years after college. Yes, I knew pretty much all there was to know about caring for babies and small children.
Except how it felt to be a mother.
And who would have guessed? Suddenly, there are questions to which I just do not have answers.
Thank God for babies. They have such a way of saving us from ourselves.

listening to the mustn'ts

Yesterday, I made a bold declaration: "Ghoulie needs a bedtime." This came on the heels of a very Tuesday late night, when Jake and I both needed to wake up very early Wednesday morning. No more, I decided. I would not be victim to my 5-month-old's sleep patterns, or lack thereof.
One consistent part of Ghoulie's routine of late is being cuddled to sleep by her Grammie. Post-bath, she's lotioned up, zipped into her blanket sleeper, then snuggled into Grammie K.'s shoulder for a good evening nap. Usually this is followed by waking up immediately after prime-time television for a little snack, then sleeping in her crib for several hours. Except that "usually" isn't really a fair word to use; it's more like "sometimes." Very hit-or-miss. Often, sleeping in the crib lasts about 20 minutes -- roughly the time it takes for mommy to put on her own pajamas, remember about five things that need to be done before tomorrow morning, check email one last time, and be halfway through the teeth-brushing, eyebrow-grooming, face-washing evening ritual -- followed by a bit of distressed, absolutely heart-breaking crying from the crib, because Ghoulie isn't much for self-soothing at this point. Dr. Ferber, hang your head in shame of me.
(Jake, for the record, has had several early mornings in a row, due to starting a fantastic new job this week and [sshhh] having a high-stress interview for the even more fantastic job he really wants. So I've been trying to give him a break from the bedtime drama. Plus, he did, like, eight loads of laundry by himself yesterday.)
So last night, the Third Reich of sleep scheduling began. Not so bad, at first. Ghoulie bathed, lotioned, snuggled. Slept all the way through Lost. (The one downside to that being, as anyone who has ever cuddled a baby to sleep knows, that holding a sleeping, blanket-sleepered baby can be pretty soporific in itself, therefore Grammie K. missed several key plot points in Locke's backstory. Which kind of sucked, because I knew Eddie was a cop, and I didn't have anyone to gloat to . . .)
Anyway. Ghoulie slept right through the transfer from Grammie's arms to mine, and from my arms to her crib. She slept until I was about to wash my face. Then it was snack time, which was fine, because I wanted to play some Web Sudoku anyway. (Although I have to say, I wish there was a separate time category for breastfeeding women, because I am way below average. As I've mentioned, I'm not so into below-averageness . . .)
Still, everything was going according to plan. Ghoulie promptly fell back to sleep after nursing, and was laid in her crib without incident. I played another round of Sudoku to learn that my poor time has absolutely nothing to do with breastfeeding. Feeling a little below average, I soundlessly made my way to bed. And as I soundlessly pulled up the covers, Ghoulie began to fuss.
Well, I decided, time for her to practice self-soothing. So far so good, the fussing and kicking the crib mattress were interspersed with some very loud thumb-sucking. But then the fussing graduated to louder, distressed crying, and I caved. In my defense, though, I didn't want her to wake up Jake. So I scooped her up and held her while she continued to cry. No nursing, I decided, because there was no possible way she could be hungry. No nursing. No nursing. No nursing.
Well, we all know what happened to the Third Reich.
Why, if the "right" parenting thing to do was to make Ghoulie go to sleep on her own, did I ache to hold her, to feed her? Why did it hurt me to let her cry, when I knew exactly how to comfort her? What, exactly, was I supposed to be teaching her by doing this?
Yes, I know, I'm teaching her to fall asleep on her own. I am teaching her not to need me in the middle of the night. I'm teaching her how to let mommy and daddy get an uninterrupted night's sleep.
As the Allied Forces swept in and I sat down on the edge of the bed to nurse, a revelation. We all sleep better when Ghoulie is in our bed. Not only does she sleep more soundly, but when we wake up for whatever middle-of-the-night reason, all it takes is a hand on her belly to see that she is breathing. No squinting at her crib in the dim light to watch for the rise and fall of her chest. No compulsively stumbling over to the crib because we know we really can't see anything in the dark, and we just won't fall asleep again until we've ascertained that she's alive. (She's past the high risk age for SIDS. When are we going to stop doing this? Does my mother wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if, miles away, I'm still breathing? How does she go back to sleep without knowing the answer?)
The only reason Ghoulie splits her sleeping time between her crib and our bed is because she isn't supposed to sleep in our bed. Yes, Dr. Sears says it's fine, but I grew up in a Dr. Dobson family. I myself was thoroughly Ferberized, and none the worse for the wear. Aside from the aforementioned compulsiveness and distress at below-averageness, anyway. But I'm the oldest child; that all probably would have happened anyway. (An aside: Six children later, my mother is the biggest proponent of co-sleeping I know.)
Ghoulie doesn't sleep in our bed all the time because I have guilt when she does. But she doesn't cry alone in her crib, because then I have even more guilt. But here is the difference between the two: Guilt over her crying it out comes from within. It just feels wrong to me. (Note: For me. I'm not about to say it's wrong for every mother and every baby.) The guilt over Ghoulie sleeping in our bed comes from outside forces, from the books and the doctors and probably the lady who wanted her to wear a hat last week. As long as pillows and heavy blankets and the edge of the bed are out of her range, as long as neither one of us is inebriated and we're both on board with the idea, I haven't been able to find any real reason to not let her sleep in our bed. Sure, there are vague references to independence and routine and something in What the Expect the First Year (my new arch-nemesis) called "baby-bottle mouth." But mostly, the guilt over co-sleeping comes from my pregnancy declaration that "we will not do co-sleeping." I have joked in the past that I haven't held to that very well. But it's still there, this feeling that I backed down on my convictions, that I caved. Why can't I just think, Oh, I didn't know what I was talking about then, I've since changed my mind? Am I so compulsively stubborn that I need to hold to an ideal I once had, even if I disagree with it now?
After Ghoulie nursed last night, I put her back in her crib, awake. She cried. I picked her up, cuddled her until she stopped crying, and put her down again. She cried. And so, with a heavy, guilty heart, I got into our bed with her. As I lay her down between Jake and myself, she turned to me and, in the dim light, gave me the biggest, brightest, happiest smile I've ever seen.
It was like D-Day. But without the tragedy. Uh -- nevermind. The analogy has fallen apart.
The smile was not, as some might suggest, a victory smile. It did not have that "Ha ha, I won" quality to it. If anything it said, "Hey Mom, I love you, and now I'm going to sleep." Which she did. And so did I, with my heart just a little lighter. A few more smiles like that, and I predict the guilt will retreat to a concrete bunker with Eva Braun, and never show its face again.