Life has been hectic here at Manson Homestead the Second. Between Sid's crazy work schedule and taking care of Spagett, the only real down-time I've had in a while is using the toilet. Which, let's face it, is not really my idea of leisure time.
Spagett is four months old, and growing like a weed. He's been showing interest in solid food for almost a month now, and even though I hadn't planned on starting him on solids until about six months, he seemed ready so those plans went right out the window, like all plans any mother makes! Once a day, usually in the afternoon or early evening, he gets a solid: usually banana, applesauce or rice cereal. He's had avocados, and this week we'll be introducing butternut squash. As an aside, I'm making his food myself, not buying the jarred kind, and it's working out great.
While Spagett's been doing well, I've been struggling with anxiety. It has gotten progressively worse since his birth, and I kept thinking it would ease, but it doesn't. I worry about some pretty wackadoo shit, too. It's not like I'm your typical worrywart mother. No, I'm freaking out about things like the floor caving in when we're up on the second floor. Things like the house falling over and Spagett falling out a window or having a dresser fall onto him. Things that I know will never, ever happen. And yet I can't get the fear out of my head. Along with that are legitimate, but exaggerated fears as well. When we're out with Sid and we stop for gas, when Sid goes into the station to pay, I worry that someone is going to jack the car and drive off with me and Spagett. When I leave the house, even though there is no sign of a break-in, I become convinced someone has gotten into the house and is lurking in one of the closets. The other week there was a thunderstorm, and while I normally love a good thunderstorm, I was scared. The wind, the thunder, the sound of the rain... none of it comforted me as it used to. Instead, it dredged up terror. Since it's not going away like I thought it would, I am going to speak to my doctor. We'll see what she says.
In other news, the community pool opened up over the weekend, and I would be down there right now swimming if it weren't for Spagett. I want him to enjoy it, too! When he goes in for his four month checkup, I mean to ask his pediatrician about taking him in the pool. I have a swimsuit and a sunhat all ready for him, and all I need to buy is a swim diaper. But I have questions about the pool water, and sunscreen, and that kind of thing. Before I just dive headlong into things, I want to discuss it with someone who knows more than I do.
Oh, I almost forgot! Spagett has said his first words! He has been parroting us for weeks, very garbled and not-quite-words, but this was an unmistakable "I love you!" Unfortunately, I didn't catch it on video. He said it again, and I managed to capture that, but it isn't as clear as when he said it the first time. Everyone who's heard it agrees that he said "I love you" but you be the judge.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
5 am
Spagett's sleeping habits have drastically improved, and now he wakes up every morning at around 5 am. He sleeps for three or four hour stretches (in his bassinet!), but it's inevitable that he'll wake between 4:30 and 6 am. This has become my favorite time of the morning.
On the days that Sid leaves for work early, I have the bed to myself then. Spagett will wake, and I'll change his diaper, feed him, and put him in the bed with me. I will lie there in the semi-darkness and stare at his sleeping face in wonderment: it is so hard to believe, still, that I am looking at my child. I close my eyes, just listen to him breathe, and in those moments there is no one else in all the world but us.
The days that Sid doesn't leave for work until the afternoon, I follow the routine and then put Spagett in the bed between us, and then I can't fall back asleep no matter how tired I am. I feel obligated to drink in those quiet, sleepy moments when father and son are sleeping side by side unawares, mirror images of partly open mouths and outflung limbs.
I have never in my life been a morning person, but I am glad to say that has changed.
On the days that Sid leaves for work early, I have the bed to myself then. Spagett will wake, and I'll change his diaper, feed him, and put him in the bed with me. I will lie there in the semi-darkness and stare at his sleeping face in wonderment: it is so hard to believe, still, that I am looking at my child. I close my eyes, just listen to him breathe, and in those moments there is no one else in all the world but us.
The days that Sid doesn't leave for work until the afternoon, I follow the routine and then put Spagett in the bed between us, and then I can't fall back asleep no matter how tired I am. I feel obligated to drink in those quiet, sleepy moments when father and son are sleeping side by side unawares, mirror images of partly open mouths and outflung limbs.
I have never in my life been a morning person, but I am glad to say that has changed.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
a lesson in awesome
Spagett's two month checkup was a few days ago, and besides the vaccinations, it went GREAT. We saw his usual pediatrician, who took one look at him and said, "there was a note in his chart about overfeeding, but I don't believe in fat babies. There's underweight and well fed. He's clearly growing well, so keep doing what you're doing."
Yes, as a matter of fact, my son's pediatrician is fabulous!
Yes, as a matter of fact, my son's pediatrician is fabulous!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
I'm going to miss this, believe it or not
Sid took a month off from work after Spagett was born, and looking back, I don't even know why he did it. He spent most of his time playing video games or doing stuff on the computer. He wasn't taking care of the baby. I DID THAT. He wasn't the one sitting up all night with a vomiting infant. I DID THAT. He wasn't the one changing diapers. I DID THAT, unless I specifically told him "YOU change this diaper."
And it's frustrating, because since he didn't spend much time with Spagett during those first weeks, now he wonders why the poor kid will not be comforted by him or take a bottle from him, when I desperately need time away from the baby. He says "oh, Spagett hates me!" and I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that it's HIS fault for not spending more time with Spagett when he was first born. And anyway, babies usually like mom better anyway: they spent nine months inside her, after all, and she is the whole world to them. IT'S UNDERSTANDABLE THEY'D PREFER MOM, is all I'm saying. It doesn't mean they hate dad.
I ran myself ragged that first month, when Spagett was puking all the time, before I figured out he's got a soy sensitivity and cannot tolerate it when I eat large amounts of tomatoes (Yay boobfeeding! You are so convenient, and yet you make my life a misery!). There were a few times when I would get overwhelmed, going whole nights without sleep and having to wipe up vomit AGAIN, that I would break down crying. I admit there were also a few times when I actually yelled at Spagett to JUST STOP CRYING, STOP PUKING, GIVE ME A BREAK FOR FIVE FREAKING MINUTES, and Sid would finally step up and give me a much needed respite when those things happened.
Sid helped, don't get me wrong. He ran errands and did laundry and took care of the house while I spent that first awful month trying to keep our kid fed and clean. He helped with the cooking. He washed dishes. He came to doctor's appointments. He just didn't help all that much with Spagett.
I spend all my time with Spagett. 24-7 with the kid. And I don't mind, but sometimes I just need a freaking break. Sometimes I want to take a long, hot bath. Or take a shit without listening to the baby squalling in the other room. Sometimes I just want to sleep for a few hours without interruption (Spagett is a noisy sleeper, and I wake at every.fucking.sound he makes, but I don't want to move him into his own room because sometimes he pukes in his sleep and I'm afraid that he'll choke to death on it - there have been at least three times where he's choked on his puke and turned colors until I could clear his airway, scary shit). I get so jealous of Sid sometimes, because even though he's going to work and that's a whole other set of bullshit, he's getting a break from the baby.
Nights are the worst. Spagett sleeps for two or three hour stretches until 3 am, and then he wakes every hour after that. Sid sleeps through all of it. There are times where I'm struggling to stay awake for a feeding and Sid is just lying in the bed next to me, snoring away. And I'm always surprised at the ferocious anger that sweeps over me at those moments. Sometimes it is so bad, so unshakable, that after the feeding, I fall asleep and dream that I am yelling at him. Screaming at him until my throat is raw and I'm hoarse.
I know this will pass. And that someday, when Spagett is much older, I will look back on these days when he was so little and cuddly and downright adorable, and actually miss them. So even though all of this is so incredibly frustrating sometimes, I am doing everything I can to try and treasure these days, because they will never come again.
And it's frustrating, because since he didn't spend much time with Spagett during those first weeks, now he wonders why the poor kid will not be comforted by him or take a bottle from him, when I desperately need time away from the baby. He says "oh, Spagett hates me!" and I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that it's HIS fault for not spending more time with Spagett when he was first born. And anyway, babies usually like mom better anyway: they spent nine months inside her, after all, and she is the whole world to them. IT'S UNDERSTANDABLE THEY'D PREFER MOM, is all I'm saying. It doesn't mean they hate dad.
I ran myself ragged that first month, when Spagett was puking all the time, before I figured out he's got a soy sensitivity and cannot tolerate it when I eat large amounts of tomatoes (Yay boobfeeding! You are so convenient, and yet you make my life a misery!). There were a few times when I would get overwhelmed, going whole nights without sleep and having to wipe up vomit AGAIN, that I would break down crying. I admit there were also a few times when I actually yelled at Spagett to JUST STOP CRYING, STOP PUKING, GIVE ME A BREAK FOR FIVE FREAKING MINUTES, and Sid would finally step up and give me a much needed respite when those things happened.
Sid helped, don't get me wrong. He ran errands and did laundry and took care of the house while I spent that first awful month trying to keep our kid fed and clean. He helped with the cooking. He washed dishes. He came to doctor's appointments. He just didn't help all that much with Spagett.
I spend all my time with Spagett. 24-7 with the kid. And I don't mind, but sometimes I just need a freaking break. Sometimes I want to take a long, hot bath. Or take a shit without listening to the baby squalling in the other room. Sometimes I just want to sleep for a few hours without interruption (Spagett is a noisy sleeper, and I wake at every.fucking.sound he makes, but I don't want to move him into his own room because sometimes he pukes in his sleep and I'm afraid that he'll choke to death on it - there have been at least three times where he's choked on his puke and turned colors until I could clear his airway, scary shit). I get so jealous of Sid sometimes, because even though he's going to work and that's a whole other set of bullshit, he's getting a break from the baby.
Nights are the worst. Spagett sleeps for two or three hour stretches until 3 am, and then he wakes every hour after that. Sid sleeps through all of it. There are times where I'm struggling to stay awake for a feeding and Sid is just lying in the bed next to me, snoring away. And I'm always surprised at the ferocious anger that sweeps over me at those moments. Sometimes it is so bad, so unshakable, that after the feeding, I fall asleep and dream that I am yelling at him. Screaming at him until my throat is raw and I'm hoarse.
I know this will pass. And that someday, when Spagett is much older, I will look back on these days when he was so little and cuddly and downright adorable, and actually miss them. So even though all of this is so incredibly frustrating sometimes, I am doing everything I can to try and treasure these days, because they will never come again.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
a lesson in douchebaggery
Spagett's vomiting never improved, even though I'd been told by a few nurses at the pediatrician's office that it was normal. And I reached my wit's end the night before last and took him in to see his pediatrician the next day. Well, he didn't see his regular doctor, who is a really nice, likable guy. We ended up with a woman who had a bad case of the Douchebags.
She starts off by informing me that Spagett is gaining too much weight. That obviously I feed him too much. Now, I am breastfeeding, and I thought the conventional wisdom said that you feed your baby on demand. The doctor never came out and said I should start starving my baby, but it was implied.
Next, she states that his vomiting is from overfeeding. Contrary to what she said, I recall reading and hearing from numerous sources that breastfed babies are the ultimate intuitive eaters: they do not typically stuff themselves to bursting. Again, the implied message that I need to start denying my son meals.
When she asked how often I feed him, I told her that I typically wait for him to get fussy and start showing signs of hunger, such as sucking his fists and rooting. Just then, Spagett started making a bit of noise, just typical baby grunts, and the pediatrician says (and I cannot adequately convey her contempt through type alone), "is this what you call fussing?" It took every bit of self restraint I had to keep from shouting, "NO, BITCH!"
She treated me like some dumb little girl. Like I was asking stupid questions and totally inconveniencing her. Never mind that I'd come to her for help, and was asking totally legitimate questions such as, "could this be a food allergy?" and "is this caused by any medication I'm on?" She blew off everything I said.
Unfortunately, I have to go back to see her tomorrow. If I end up having to make another appointment and come back again, I'm absolutely not seeing her. I'm not going to starve my child simply because someone thinks he's eating too much, and for her to expect me to do that is unacceptable to me. Not to mention, she's got a shitty bedside manner.
She starts off by informing me that Spagett is gaining too much weight. That obviously I feed him too much. Now, I am breastfeeding, and I thought the conventional wisdom said that you feed your baby on demand. The doctor never came out and said I should start starving my baby, but it was implied.
Next, she states that his vomiting is from overfeeding. Contrary to what she said, I recall reading and hearing from numerous sources that breastfed babies are the ultimate intuitive eaters: they do not typically stuff themselves to bursting. Again, the implied message that I need to start denying my son meals.
When she asked how often I feed him, I told her that I typically wait for him to get fussy and start showing signs of hunger, such as sucking his fists and rooting. Just then, Spagett started making a bit of noise, just typical baby grunts, and the pediatrician says (and I cannot adequately convey her contempt through type alone), "is this what you call fussing?" It took every bit of self restraint I had to keep from shouting, "NO, BITCH!"
She treated me like some dumb little girl. Like I was asking stupid questions and totally inconveniencing her. Never mind that I'd come to her for help, and was asking totally legitimate questions such as, "could this be a food allergy?" and "is this caused by any medication I'm on?" She blew off everything I said.
Unfortunately, I have to go back to see her tomorrow. If I end up having to make another appointment and come back again, I'm absolutely not seeing her. I'm not going to starve my child simply because someone thinks he's eating too much, and for her to expect me to do that is unacceptable to me. Not to mention, she's got a shitty bedside manner.
Monday, December 28, 2009
perhaps I spoke too soon
It's like a law of the internet that once you commit something to type on said internets, whatever you just said about whatever is going on in your life will be proven false.
Spagett has hit a growth spurt, or found a mighty appetite, because my breasts have not had a break in almost a week. This kid is just eating and eating and eating. Up every hour during the night, nursing for an hour at a time, and my wagon is draggin'. He pukes like Old Faithful after almost every feeding, too, which has me worried he's got reflux or something. I don't understand how you can eat until you puke, and then lie there and insist you want to eat more. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
He refuses to sleep in his bassinet, to make matters worse. He could be dead asleep, having not even awakened during his burping, and the moment I lay him down in his co-sleeper bassinet, he's wide awake. He sleeps on the couch, in my bed, in his swing, in his carseat, on my chest, in my arms... everywhere but where I want him to. I don't understand that, either. But for now, I've given up that particular battle: he wants to sleep on my chest, and I just want to SLEEP, so that was a quick resolution to that.
It has to get better soon, or I'm going to lose my mind.
Spagett has hit a growth spurt, or found a mighty appetite, because my breasts have not had a break in almost a week. This kid is just eating and eating and eating. Up every hour during the night, nursing for an hour at a time, and my wagon is draggin'. He pukes like Old Faithful after almost every feeding, too, which has me worried he's got reflux or something. I don't understand how you can eat until you puke, and then lie there and insist you want to eat more. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
He refuses to sleep in his bassinet, to make matters worse. He could be dead asleep, having not even awakened during his burping, and the moment I lay him down in his co-sleeper bassinet, he's wide awake. He sleeps on the couch, in my bed, in his swing, in his carseat, on my chest, in my arms... everywhere but where I want him to. I don't understand that, either. But for now, I've given up that particular battle: he wants to sleep on my chest, and I just want to SLEEP, so that was a quick resolution to that.
It has to get better soon, or I'm going to lose my mind.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Spagett!
So it's been quite an eventful month. Partly. The half where I was on bedrest sucked, but it afforded me lots of time to watch tv and sleep, two activities that I no longer seem to have time for.
Talking to my mother a few weeks ago, she swore that I'd have the baby on the 2nd of December, which was also the date I'd pegged simply because I'd gone into preterm labor on the full moon, and so I just picked the date of the next full moon... December 2nd. Just as a joke, mind you.
HAR HAR, my water broke without warning on the night of the 2nd. And I mean totally without warning: I'd felt fine all day, went to bed as usual and after half an hour of lying there attempting to sleep, there was this feeling like a water balloon popping deep inside and OMGFLOOD. It was gross. Sid was more freaked out than I was, I think: I kept having to tell him to just calm down, we had plenty of time to get to the hospital.
So my water broke at 9:30 pm, and that was the official start of my labor. Eight and a half hours later, at 6:11 am, I had Spagett (just a nickname, trust me). A beautiful little boy, 7 pounds 8 ounces and 19 inches long. And would you know it, I didn't have any drugs at all? His delivery was all natural, every last bit of it, and YES RIOT, I screamed. Holy shit, you try pushing a melon out of your asshole, I bet you'll scream, too. I tore and needed stitches, I think I earned the right to holler a little bit.
As far as babies go, Spagett is a joy. He rarely cries, and when he does, it's just because he wants to eat. And this kid is an eater! I feel like he's on my tits all day long. He sleeps well at night, sometimes for as long as three or four hours at a stretch. And he's a perfect meld of me and Sid: my eyes, Sid's skin, my nose, Sid's hair... Sid's family insists he looks like Sid, and my family swears he looks like me. He looks like Spagett.
And of course, I think he is perfect.
Talking to my mother a few weeks ago, she swore that I'd have the baby on the 2nd of December, which was also the date I'd pegged simply because I'd gone into preterm labor on the full moon, and so I just picked the date of the next full moon... December 2nd. Just as a joke, mind you.
HAR HAR, my water broke without warning on the night of the 2nd. And I mean totally without warning: I'd felt fine all day, went to bed as usual and after half an hour of lying there attempting to sleep, there was this feeling like a water balloon popping deep inside and OMGFLOOD. It was gross. Sid was more freaked out than I was, I think: I kept having to tell him to just calm down, we had plenty of time to get to the hospital.
So my water broke at 9:30 pm, and that was the official start of my labor. Eight and a half hours later, at 6:11 am, I had Spagett (just a nickname, trust me). A beautiful little boy, 7 pounds 8 ounces and 19 inches long. And would you know it, I didn't have any drugs at all? His delivery was all natural, every last bit of it, and YES RIOT, I screamed. Holy shit, you try pushing a melon out of your asshole, I bet you'll scream, too. I tore and needed stitches, I think I earned the right to holler a little bit.
As far as babies go, Spagett is a joy. He rarely cries, and when he does, it's just because he wants to eat. And this kid is an eater! I feel like he's on my tits all day long. He sleeps well at night, sometimes for as long as three or four hours at a stretch. And he's a perfect meld of me and Sid: my eyes, Sid's skin, my nose, Sid's hair... Sid's family insists he looks like Sid, and my family swears he looks like me. He looks like Spagett.
And of course, I think he is perfect.
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