The Difference Between Mom and Dad

 Before Baby, Wednesday was known as Trav's Day Off.  Now, it's Daddy Daughter Day. I am thankful for this day, not only because it facilitates important bonding time between the two of them, but because it shows Travis that during the first 6 weeks of her life when I stayed home with her, I wasn't just sitting on my chunky dunk watching soap operas and eating Bon Bons the whole time. It's a lot of freakin' work tending to her needs all day. I was secretly thrilled the first Wednesday he had her alone when I came home from work to no dinner, and the house looked shitacular. He also appeared pretty haggard, like he went on a three-day bender, walking around half-asleep with his black T-shirt covered in baby vomit.

Luckily, he's an awesome dad and loves spending time with her. He does not refer to it as "babysitting." I want to cut dads who think they are babysitting when they are taking care of their own spawn. It blows my mind. You would never hear a mom say they can't go out because they have to babysit. If dads put as much effort into the baby raisin' as they did the baby makin', this world would be a better place.

I know when Trav is alone with her that all of her needs are being met. She's fed, changed and entertained. If she's under my watch or his, there's really no difference in the love she receives. But the way she is dressed is a different story. With me, she wears three to four different outfits a day. Usually some form of tutu is involved. And there's always a headpiece.

 A typical day with Mom:

Yes, she looks absolutely ridiculous. But we're having so much fun! I have to take advantage of her helplessness while I can. Pretty soon she'll start dressing herself, and I'll probably be traumatized by the outfits she puts together. Especially if she takes after her dad.

On Travis' day, they will lounge in their PJs for quite some time. When he gets around to dressing her, it is usually in a one-piece romper because he can never figure out which pants match with a certain onesie. And never is there a headband or hat. Apparently when he asks her if she'd like one, she says, "No Thanks Dad." At least she has manners. One day when I asked why her socks were mismatched, he informed me that when one sock falls off, he just picks up the next sock he sees and puts it on. 

A typical day with Dad:



Who wouldn't want to wear these soft pajamas all day?

I give Travis a hard time, but really I'm sure she's way more comfortable on the days he has her.  I know he's gonna kill me for this, but I just had to share. Last Wednesday when I came home, they were playing Frisbee with our dog Guido in the backyard. When I went out to join them, I instantly knew something was wrong with this picture:

 

No, it's not the fact that there's a kitty in a sailboat fishing for hearts, even though that is also extremely puzzling. The problem is that this bizarre scenery is happening on her back instead of her front. Apparently it was backwards day at our house, and Trinity was the only participant. It makes me giggle to think of the two of them just hanging out all day, both oblivious to the awful wardrobe malfunction going on right in front of them. I quickly pointed out the problem and reminded him: Awkward applique goes in front, buttons go in back. We all had a good laugh.

If this is the only thing I have to worry about on their days together, I'll consider myself lucky. :)

Ridin' Solo

Travis had to work last weekend, so it was just me and the babe. I decide it will be a good idea to take her to Washington where I grew up. A good friend is having a bridal shower, and I know my aunt and uncle would love to see Trinity. The problem is that we have never taken her away from home, and I'm not sure how to do it all alone. Single mothers, you are my heroes.

I have a million questions.
What all should I bring? I decide to play it safe and bring everything. A month's worth of clothes should do it. If an unexpected blizzard hits, I have the Eskimo suit, (I hope it still fits) and if a heat wave rolls in, I've got the swimsuit, sunglasses and sunscreen.

How am I supposed to know how many diapers and wipes I will need? I shove as many diapers in every nook and cranny I can find, and I fill up my little travel wipe case. I will only be gone for 2.5 days, but you never know. I don't bother trying to figure out how much formula she might need, I just bring the whole tub, along with all the pumped milk I have stored up.

I can't hold her the whole time, so what to bring to sit her in? I grab the bumbo, the pack n play, the bouncy chair, the stroller, and the play gym. Dammit the swing won't fit! I make a mental note to buy a bigger car.

It's about a 4-hour drive, but she eats every 3 hours. Crap. I figure I will leave during her first morning nap (usually about 3 hours) and just hope the noise of the car will keep her asleep for an extra hour. I dread driving down the freeway alone with an inconsolable infant screaming in the back.

Oh my god what if I have to pee? Do I take her car seat in the bathroom with me? Ew and set it on the floor? Gross! Do I take her out of the car seat and try to hold her while I pee? I don't want to wake her up. Do I get the stroller out, put her in that, and then wheel her into the handicap bathroom? I would pee my pants by the time all that could happen. The only logical thing to do is not pee. Operation Hold It is in full effect.

I make it 2.5 hours before Hold It becomes a huge failure. I had a terrible excuse for a bladder before giving birth, now I'm not 100% sure that what I have could even pass for a bladder. What to do? I pull off the freeway and stop at a McDonald's. I see her sleeping so peacefully in the back, and as I'm about to unhook her seat, the thought of sitting her on the McDonald's bathroom floor makes me gag. So I shut the door, press the lock button 20 times, run into McDonald's, take the fastest pee I've ever took, and run back out. I think I clocked in at around 1 minute. No, I did not wash my hands. She's still sleeping peacefully as I get back on the freeway and apologize several times while bathing in hand sanitizer. Judge me all you want, but these things do not come with a manual. I'd also like to add that our back windows are tinted so no one could see her in there. Still, consumed with guilt.

She sleeps the whole way there (best baby ever!) And I'm so excited for my aunt to see her in her "I Love My Auntie" outfit. My aunt is at work when we get there, so we let ourselves in and get set up. I notice she is grunting and turning red, so I applaud her for waiting to poop until we got there, and then I wait a couple minutes for her to finish. That's when I see this:

Notice the poop stains right above her pants. I am terrified about what awaits me in that diaper. This is when having another person around really comes in handy. Upon further inspection, I find this:

You can only imagine what it looked like inside the diaper. I used almost every wipe that I brought, and she still wasn't clean. That smell would not go away. Good thing I brought her bath tub! After an emergency bath and a costume change, she looks and smells so much better. Sadly, that outfit will never be worn again. The poop was just too strong.

Back-up auntie outfit

Once my aunt gets home, we go shopping. T has always been an angel out in public, but today was different. She's whining and crying and generally seeming unpleased with life. I explain to my aunt that "she's never like this, I swear." And pick her up out of her stroller. At that moment I become That Parent. The parent who carries their child and pushes the empty stroller. Usually I point and laugh at That Parent, but today I just hang my head in shame. We both find stuff to try on and make our way back to the changing rooms, where T is still fussing. I decide to change her diaper. That usually cheers her up. But instead of the usual wet diaper, I find what looks like a mashed avocado. No wonder she was unhappy. I reach for the wipes but come up empty-handed. Ohmygod I left them in the pack n play. Panic sets in. I have a poop-covered baby and nothing to wipe her off with. I relay my troubles to my aunt in the room beside mine, who miraculously has a couple Kleenex. I wet them with my water bottle to create a wipe and I am in business. Crisis averted. I stop sweating. Until we get up to the register and I don't see my wallet in the diaper bag. I freak out. I grab the diaper bag and turn it upside down on the floor, where I get on my hands and knees and sift through all the crap. No wallet. Sweating resumes. My aunt wonders what the hell I'm doing on the floor in front of the register, and when I tell her I've lost my wallet, she points to it sticking out the side pouch of the diaper bag. Oh thank god. I gather what's left of my dignity and get up off the floor to pay for my items.

Before this baby, I was always organized and put-together. At least in public. Now, every trip out of the house is a goat frolic. I'm basically insane. Nothing ever really goes according to plan, but I'm learning that it's OK. The best part of the weekend was when my best friend surprised us all by flying in from Phoenix! She got to meet the baby for the first time, and I stayed out way later than intended. We got off schedule and she slept part of the night in her bouncy seat. She did great. I think my craziness will make her a well-adjusted human being.

We are making the trek again this weekend for a wedding. This time, I'm bringing Travis.

Is She Yours?!

People say stupid things. I found that much out when I was pregnant. "Are you pregnant? At first I thought you were just fat!" "When's your due date? Yesterday?" Wow. Thanks, Kirby vacuum a-hole, and no you may not clean my carpets. I could laugh about these incidents because I knew my condition was temporary, and soon I would just be a normal person with a baby.

But the madness didn't stop once she was born. It hasn't just been once, but SEVERAL occasions since I've had her, that people stop me and ask if she's mine. I hear it everywhere, all the time. They'll ask personal facts about her, like her age, name, and temperament. And then it happens. "Is she yours?" Ummm no, she came with the shopping cart. The last shopper must have left her. Yes! Of course she's mine! I went through a lot of bodily trauma for her to not be recognized as my own. This is not a normal question. And no one ever tells me why they asked. Maybe I look too young. But I wear a wedding ring and I'm usually at Costco when this happens. (I'm always at Costco.) And even if I were too young, this question would only make me feel more like crap.  Maybe it's because I need to use two hands to carry the car seat, and I have to put it down in the cart instead of on top of the child seat thing because I'm not tall enough to see over it. I don't know. But there's really no excuse for this question. Does she not look enough like me?

Can you see the resemblance? Yeah, me neither.

It's not my fault she has her father's features. But either way, it doesn't matter. Don't ask if she's mine with a shocked look on your face.

Here are some more of my personal favorites:

1. Is she a good baby? ~ No, I wish I could return her for a sleepier, quieter model. Is there such a thing as a bad baby? Jesus.

2. Is she a girl? ~ What??!!

3. Did it hurt to give birth? ~ Seriously?

4. When are you going to have another one? ~ Maybe when the memory of having my vagina sewn up is a little less fresh. So probably never.

I've never had so many strangers talk to me in my life. They must think that since I have a baby I'm a nice person. Ha. But I have found that people are much nicer and more willing to help you out when there's a baby with you. Probably because I often look like I have no idea what I'm doing, which could be the real reason people ask me if she's mine.

The Dark Age

AKA the first 6-8 weeks. What a blur. Where to start? The fact that she was born four weeks early makes her lethargic. She really has no interest in eating. At first, I think, 'This is great! My baby is such a good sleeper!' But then I can't even wake her up to eat. I realize she isn't just taking a nap, she's taking a coma. Back to the hospital we go. She lost too much weight and her body can't retain her temperature, so she is hypothermic. Wow, way to make me feel like a horrible parent. Mom Fail #1.

Back to the Hospital. My Little Glow Worm



I start pumping so we can measure how much she eats. I remember something was wrong with the TV remote in our room, and the only channel I could watch was the weird hospital channel that played "soothing" music and zoomed in to a cow standing on a hillside. Exactly how I felt at that moment. It quickly became clear that I didn't produce enough milk and we needed to supplement with formula. Nooooo! Evil factory-made-with-ingredients-I-can't-pronounce formula! Mom Fail #2. This took me a while to get over. I like to have plans, and formula was not included in my plans. Somehow it made matters worse when I went to buy some, still hoping we wouldn't need it for long, and it says right on the front, "Experts agree breastfeeding is best." No shit. Screw you Enfamil. The sharp knife of failure wasn't cutting deep enough before, now it's really in there. Thank you. But I did get over it. I still pump, and we still supplement, but she's getting all the milk that I can make for her, and I am happy about that. 

Just give me the milk lady, and nobody gets hurt

You may be thinking, 'The Dark Age? Really? Perhaps you  had a few hiccups but isn't that title a little hyperbolic?' No. And you know why? My Husband. I will preface this by saying that I love him dearly, and he is a great husband and an amazing father. But I wanted to kill him. Or torture him until the point just before death. Two weeks after she was born, he went back to work. His life went back to normal. He worked all day, came home and held a happy baby and then went to bed and slept all night. Sometimes before bed, he would even play video games. My life was nowhere near normal. My body looked like a deflated balloon filled with pudding. I slept in 45-minute increments all night, broken up by hour-long feedings, after which she would still need a bottle, and then I had to pump for the next feeding. Ugh I'm tired just typing it. During the day, I would not sleep when she slept. It was the only time I had to get things done. Like showering, or laundry. Sometimes I even got to eat. It would take all day for me to get the both of us ready to go grocery shopping. My hair usually had spit-up in it. I got peed on, shot at by streams of poop, splattered by projectile vomit of my own breastmilk. All day, everyday. Then Travis would come home and ask what was for dinner, and make little comments like "wow the house is a disaster." Sometimes my only joy would come from fantasizing about the horrible things I would do to him while he slept. Soundly. All night. He wouldn't even stir when she cried, and he if he did wake up, he made no move to get up. Once he groaned and threw the covers over his head and turned over. I wanted to take thick resume paper and give his wiener several deep papercuts. And then squirt it with lime juice. It didn't help that my hormones were all screwed up and the thought of being touched made me recoil like a roly poly bug. I had lost that loving feeling.

I am happy to report that things are better now. Me going back to work put us on a more level playing field, and Baby Girl started sleeping through the night at 8 weeks. (Thank you Baby.) I became more sane, and he became more helpful. Life got better. To all the new moms or mommys-to-be out there, I want you to know: This Too Shall Pass

Welcoming Trinity Leanne

I meant to start one of these almost a year ago, upon the life-altering news that two would now be three. But then we decided not to tell anyone until after I was three months along. At that point I felt like I might be jinxing myself to write about a process with no guarantee of a happy ending, so I decided to save it until after her birth. Yeah right, like I was going to give birth and then magically have the time and energy to write coherently about it. Not happening. So now she's three months old.

Welcome to the world Sweetheart. By now you know that it's a cold, sometimes frustrating place, where you often end up sitting in a crap pile of your own creation. She doesn't seem to mind though. This baby is all smiles all the time. Today my mom told me that Trinity is the best baby she's ever met. Wow, thanks Mom. Looks like T has replaced me as her favorite. I don't mind. I had a good run.

To make a long story short, here is our last year in a nutshell:
It's August. I'm freaked out because I cant sleep. I just lay there awake all night for a week straight. My boobs hurt. I'm late but don't think much about it because I was on antibiotics, which I knew would screw things up. We have several weddings to go to, one of which I've already been to and had some wine (oops!). I call Travis on his way home from work and tell him to pick up a pregnancy test, mostly because I'm too scared and immature to buy one myself. He says, "But there's no way you're pregnant, right?" "Right." I tell him. So he buys two. And a bottle of wine to celebrate the fact that I'm not pregnant. Ha. Well, needless to say, that night ends with "HOLY F*#% $&*$^!."

10 Weeks: The thought of food makes me want to die. Weird things make me puke, like looking in the refrigerator or going in a grocery store.
11 Weeks: First midwife appointment. We confirm that I am indeed expecting, something that I was still sort of in denial about. They can't really establish a due date since I have no freaking clue when this happened. We decide May 1 sounds good.
19 Weeks: It's a girl!! Holy crap we thought it was a boy!
32 Weeks: Second ultrasound. Estimated baby weight is 6 lbs 11 oz. What?! They determine there's no way I'll make it until May 1. Something I had already figured out. My new due date is April 19. So it's actually 34 weeks.
35 Weeks: I am in pain every second of every day. I can't sit, stand, lay down, walk, drive. Oh god the driving. I am not a crier but driving brought me to tears.
36 Weeks: This picture was taken about 6 hours before my water broke. 36 weeks exactly.

A nurse at the hospital told me that I looked like a Magic Bullet. Let me just say that when your water breaks, it is nothing like what you see in the movies. There is no splash. It's more like a slow trickle, so you're not sure what's really happening. Am I peeing myself? Maybe. Is this some other weird pregnancy side effect? Probably. So I am preparing to go to work like normal. Travis decided to call the hospital and explain what was happening, mostly because I was again too scared and immature to do so myself. What would I say? Hi, I'm leaking?! Hell no, I was not going to do that. They tell us to come in. It's go time.

I refuse the pitocin, which is later forced on me after I'd been there for almost 12 hours and still felt fine. At 12:33 am on 3/23, Trinity (whose name means 3) is finally here. I am proud to say her birth was drug free, which had been my goal the whole time, but man I was afraid of caving at the last minute in the trenches. For those of you who've never done it, giving birth will blow your mind. It's intense. If I had to do it over again, I might get some pain killer. Not for the birth, but for the little sewing project my midwife decided to start almost immediately after a 6-pound human came out of me. I squirm still thinking about it. But we finally had her with us, and she was healthy and strong. She surprised us at every turn, but I can't imagine anything being any different now. I couldn't have hand-picked a more perfect baby.

A nurse took this right after she was born. I remember protesting, knowing I looked like I had been run over and drug for several yards by a large truck, but now I'm thankful it exists. Thank you, wise nurse. That's when real life began.