dooce® main feed

Dudes, seriously

dooce — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 12:46:06 -0600

I know I am going to get a slew of hand-slapping email over this because here I am condoning something so incredibly bad for the environment, but trust me when I say that this could very well CHANGE YOUR LIFE. My mother gave this to me as gift for the nursery, a Munchkin Warm Glow Wipe Warmer that heats up baby wipes and makes it so that the baby doesn't go yelping off the changing table because suddenly you're shoving an ice cold cloth between her butt cheeks. I want one of these for both of our bathrooms so that when I go to wipe my butt I have the luxury of a warm wipe. But since you have to plug it in there's always the possibility that it could fall over into the toilet and then BOOM! everyone dies from electric shock. So for the time being it's just Marlo's butt who gets the royal treatment.

by dooce in Daily Style

Jon and Heather plus two and getting our asses kicked

dooce — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 12:30:06 -0600

How does something so small and helpless bring the entire world around her to a screeching halt? I know I was guilty of once thinking that a newborn couldn't be that much work, right? You just go about your business when they're taking a nap, duh. EXCEPT WHEN THEY NAP ONLY WHEN PHYSICALLY ATTACHED TO YOUR BODY. And that's when you have to retrain your body to do basic tasks with either one arm or one hand, and then balance this or that on one hip, and then it's OH MY HELL WOULD YOU HOLD THIS KID SO I CAN BRUSH MY HAIR FOR GOD'S SAKE. If this were some sort of athletic event the score would be Marlo 75 to Jon and Heather are passed out on the field.

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Jon and Heather plus two and getting our asses kicked. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Familiar territory

dooce — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 09:49:24 -0600

Yesterday morning after a bit of a blurry night, one that resembled the many blurry nights before it where the newest member of the family periodically yelled orders and shot butterscotch poo four feet up and out the back of her diaper — wait, have I mentioned yet that Marlo doesn't cry? I'm serious. She doesn't string together a chorus of wailing like many other babies her age, but, and this is a HUGE but, a Kardashian-sized but that makes everyone in the room stop and stare and wonder HOW IN THE WORLD that thing fits through a door, the kid can yell. And I mean, YELL. Like, the referee has just called the runner out at home base and the coach runs out, throws his ball cap on the dirt and starts rattling off a string of obscenities that I wouldn't even repeat on this website, I KNOW CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT, that kind of yelling. Pot-bellied, weathered by years of tragedy and illness and unemployment kind of yelling. Drunk on scotch and just got home from the coal mine yelling.

Where was I? Right, yesterday morning. Somehow all the pieces came together and everything that normally has to get done on a Monday morning got done. Leta got dressed, the dogs got fed, Marlo burped and ate and yelled about the wet diaper that had leaked all over her onesie. And then, here's the kicker, I took a shower, washed my hair and applied mascara. If you've never lived with a newborn you're probably going, huh? What? There's a point to this? YES. IN FACT THERE IS A POINT. AN EXCLAMATION POINT. A THUNDERING HERD OF THEM. Because then we got into the car and made it to Marlo's two-week check-up on time. Without any crying or screaming or chucking heavy appliances across the room. I guess the only way to explain the significance of this to someone who hasn't ever lived with a newborn is to imagine waking up in a bed of liquid chocolate next to a naked supermodel. And then suddenly you realize that while you've been sleeping someone came in and wallpapered your room with Twizzlers and one hundred dollar bills.

I felt so powerful, so victorious, like I could crush solid granite with my hands. I wanted to turn cartwheels across my front yard, except for that whole STITCHES IN THE LADY PARTS thing. Yes, I did just go there, my apologies to the 19-year-old boy who is reading this in his mom's basement. Listen, you just go right ahead and think that all women wax themselves bald down there like the pictures you see in that stack of porn underneath your bed and pretend I didn't just suggest that on occasion, when the MIRACLE OF LIFE is involved, that beautiful flower of a body part has to come face to face with a needle and thread.

Now, on to something I feel like I need to tell you right away. When I sat down to write this I realized that this is a bit out of order, that I should tell you about labor first, but then I felt like I shouldn't wait because so many of you are wondering and have written to ask, how are you? How are you coping? Do you think the dark cloud is going to eat you alive again? Because what I experienced after Leta was born was so monumentally awful, bad enough that I eventually ended up in a hospital. What if it happens again? You know the odds are that it will happen again, right? Aren't you scared out of your mind?

And so this is what's going on...

The adrenaline rush I experienced after going through a natural birth was unlike anything I've ever lived through before. It was so powerful that I didn't sleep for over 48 hours, and I was giddy, so happy and high and certain that I could move mountains. From the moment they laid Marlo on my chest I was in love, and she and I bonded instantly. For two days she was attached to my chest and I did nothing but marvel at her every feature. That fascination with her has not changed, and neither Jon nor I are experiencing any of the shock that we did when we brought Leta home. In fact, it feels like we are just continuing where we left off when Leta suddenly shifted from newborn to giggling baby. Breastfeeding is so much easier this time. In fact, it's an absolute joy, and both Jon and I can change a diaper with one hand while multi-tasking with the other. There is none of the crazy stress that was there when our lives shifted from childless couple to Family of Three.

However, on day three something happened. At first I thought it was the sleep deprivation catching up with me, so I ignored it. But by day five and six I couldn't pretend I was okay anymore. I started having panic attacks and such severe anxiety that my hands started to contort and clutch into twisted positions that I could not relieve. I couldn't fall asleep or stay asleep, and my mind started spiraling into dangerous places. I was so angry, so frustrated because there was no reason to feel this way. Intellectually I knew everything was okay, and my god! I knew what I was doing! I loved the baby and knew how to meet her needs! WHY WAS I PANICKING?! There just wasn't a good explanation for my crippling anxiety, but there it was. And it was robbing me of the experience I was determined to have.

So early last week we called the doctor who treated me in the hospital back in 2004. He does not normally see patients who are not in the hospital, but by some lucky twist of the universe he thought I was someone else, someone whom he owed a favor, and agreed to see me as an outpatient. And two days later I'm sitting there on a couch in his office facing him as he contorts his face in an effort to figure out just who the hell I am. And I'm sweating, and the anxiety is crawling up my body and paralyzing my neck, and he's all, hmm... you're not who I thought you were. But here you are, and dear God, woman. You look just awful.

So he pulled up my record from five years ago, glanced back at me, looked back at his computer, and that's when I involuntarily blurted out, "I wrote a book about my experience in the hospital." Maybe to let him know that I was serious? That here I was dumb enough to try and do this whole thing again? And he immediately whipped his head around and said, "You're THAT woman?"

Yes. Indeed. THAT woman. The woman who writes about poop and hemorrhoids and stitches in her vagina YES DEAR GOD THAT'S ME. Listen, my Republican, Mormon, gun-owning father read my book and he still loves me! That counts for something, right? I guess his wife had heard about my book, and when she was describing it to him he knew immediately that I had to have been someone he treated because of the speed with which I healed. He treats postpartum depression very differently than most doctors, and his patients usually see results instantly. And that is exactly what happened with me in the hospital five years ago, I took a cocktail of meds and within two hours I felt like a different person.

So we did a lot of talking, and since he's been treating women for this very condition for over 30 years I did a lot of listening and learning. The odds were completely stacked against me, and he said that if I had been gearing up and treating the possibility of this in my third trimester I might have been able to avoid it. But since I didn't it was time to attack it now. So he made a minor tweak to my meds and asked me to come back and see him in two weeks, and I am not even kidding, I felt better that night. In fact, better does not do what I was feeling justice. I felt free.

So what about breastfeeding? That's what you're all wondering, I know, and this is what I'm going to say: he thinks that what I'm taking is perfectly safe to take while breastfeeding. He's prescribed it before to women who are breastfeeding and everything has been perfectly fine. No, I'm not going to talk about what I'm taking because one, it's no one's business, and two, I don't care that you think I'm poisoning my baby. I also think that anyone going through this needs to consult their own doctor and make an informed, personal decision about their individual situation. And then go on and live a better, happier life.

I've been on the new meds for over five days, and I haven't had a panic attack once. I feel like a regular person who has an infant and can handle it, and during my pregnancy that was exactly what I was aiming for. Turns out I needed a little help, a tiny adjustment, but here I am and I am loving it. I love what it has done to my relationship with Leta, what it has helped me see and appreciate in Jon, and I love that I can barely stand to be away from that baby for a minute. Jon has been watching Marlo so that I could write this, and a little bit ago he came rushing downstairs with this kicking, yelling, hungry bundle in his arms, and it was like I hadn't seen her in years. And that yelling... that raucous, staccato, one-too-many-beers yelling... it didn't make me cringe, it made me laugh.

by dooce in Daily, Depression, Parenthood

You had to know this was coming

dooce — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 17:08:39 -0600

Because he sure did.

by dooce in Daily Chuck

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as You had to know this was coming. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Behold...

dooce — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 15:40:32 -0600

... The Dimple.

I have already conducted several experiments to see what sorts of things she can store in there, like grains of rice and maybe beans. Later in life it should come in handy when she needs a place to hold a quarter and suddenly she needs money for a parking meter.

by dooce in Daily Photo

4/4 time

dooce — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 13:35:21 -0600

I think the best way to describe what it's been like to bring a second child into the family is to imagine having a jazz band blasting an improvisational set in your left ear while listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Christmas carols in your right ear, and there you are, a drummer in a rock band, and you're on stage in front of 30,000 people trying to keep the beat to an acoustic version of "God Save the Queen" by the Sex Pistols.

I'm trying to find the rhythm. I'm getting there, but it's slow going. This is all to say, thank you for being patient with me, I know posting has been light and it will continue to be for the next little while as I navigate a path through all this chaos. I'm still physically healing, and even though I gave birth without any drugs, the recovery has been just as painful and frustrating and ongoing as it was after giving birth with an epidural. I've got a post coming about labor, about how transforming the experience was for me, but it's a long one and I'm still hammering away at all the tiny details. All while attached to my adorable, chubby caterpillar who from day one made it quite clear that she'd rather be no where else on earth than nestled right into my chest. I will tell you this, it has been so much better this time, still a little bumpy and rough here and there with one or two absolute freak outs, but I've been so much more diligent about taking every moment I can to stare at her and adore her every feature. And the weirdest thing has happened, this whole experience has increased my love for Leta by a measure I didn't know was possible. I can say that right now, here this morning as my second child dozes on my breast, that I have never been happier in my entire life.

by dooce in Nubbin, Parenthood

Lair

dooce — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 11:13:57 -0600

Surprisingly the dogs have not been fazed by the introduction of Marlo into our pack. Chuck sort of gave us a look like, hmm... this again? I think he was just relieved it wasn't another miniature Australian Shepherd. Coco has no idea what Marlo is, and so her reaction is to lick her every time she comes near her, much like she licks everything else in the entire world. Lick, lick, lick... one more lick... just one more... LICK LICK LICK LIIIIIIIICK.

Here we all are gearing up for a foggy-headed day, all of us a little tired from the loud and demanding nighttime noises of the newest member of the pack.

by dooce in Daily Chuck

After a midnight snack

dooce — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 14:05:11 -0600

We've got a major burper in this kid which means she fits right in with my side of the family. We've got it worked out where I do all the feeding, and Jon does all the burping and diaper changing. I like this arrangement, especially in the middle of the night because it means I don't have to get out of the bed. I like to call Jon my Night Nurse.

by dooce in Daily Photo

Family of four

dooce — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 12:48:13 -0600

Saturday afternoon Leta returned home from a week spent with grandparents and cousins, a much anticipated "vacation" that had been planned for months. In the weeks leading up to Marlo's birth we'd ask Leta if she was excited about becoming a big sister, and she'd say, "I'm excited that I get to go stay with Grandmommy when it happens!" Like, while you're pushing that baby out of your body, Mom, I'll be having chocolate ice cream for breakfast. You should get pregnant more often!

I had missed her terribly, achingly, and was shocked at just how big her hands and feet were when she walked in the door. She was implausibly big! HUGE! ENORMOUS! I was afraid that the gravitational pull around her gigantic head was going to suck all the furniture in the room into a spiraling black hole. I tried not to appear shocked as I can't imagine a more unwelcoming face than one that says OH MY GOD YOU'RE A MONSTER.

But there she was, my vibrant, skipping, gorgeous five-year-old girl. I hugged her a little too tightly and buried my head into her hair so that I could smell the back of her ears, a scent very different than the one emanating from a newborn's head, a bit rough, sweaty and full of life. I told her I had missed the smell of her hair, and she just rolled her eyes, like, this is why I needed to spend a week away from you people. WEIRDOS.

She's handling the addition of her baby sister much like I had anticipated she would. She's fascinated, and yet she doesn't ever want to get too close. Why is the baby making that noise, she'll ask, taking it personally. More than once in the last two days she has said, "I don't want her to cry at me," which is just about the most heartbreaking thing I've ever heard. I'm quick to comfort her and explain that Marlo is not crying at anyone in particular, it's just that sometimes it's sad to find oneself sitting in a pile of their own shit.

Saturday night I sat on Leta's bed with Marlo in my lap while Leta spun imaginary tales of princesses in various corners of her room. It had been raining all day, and the giant, west-facing window in her room resembled an abstract painting, a mottled palette of raindrops and setting sun. And I guess it's the hormones, the RAGING, TERRORIZING HORMONES, or maybe it's the sleeplessness, but I started bawling uncontrollably. I felt so guilty, like I had betrayed my first born by bringing someone else into our lives. Here I was forcing Leta into one of the most painful transitions of her life, and even though I knew I was being completely irrational, I just wanted to clutch her to my chest and apologize.

I had no idea I was going to feel that way. I was totally unprepared for it.

And then last night in an effort to tie all of the pieces together for her, we broke out a book of photos I had made of Leta's first two months of life. There are shots of me and Jon in the moments before we left for the hospital in early February of 2004, of the first few moments of her life where she is clutching at the scale as they weigh her seconds-old body, of her adorable round face as she contorts it into a smile. When suddenly she jumped into Jon's lap, buried her face into his neck and cried, "I want you to love me."

Oh my god, the crying. Mine, not hers.

So when I put her to bed last night I spooned her tiny body for an extra few minutes and told her that of course we love her, we adore her, she will always be our first born, our special, brilliant child who first changed our hearts, and nothing could ever take that away. And maybe tomorrow when we woke up all four of us could have chocolate ice cream for breakfast.

by dooce in Daily, Leta, Parenthood

Taking her nickname very seriously

dooce — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 11:55:38 -0600

Our little glowworm. Turns out her bilirubin count is high (meaning she's a tad bit jaundiced), and now she has to spend countless hours on the tanning bed. That's not the medical term for it (it's technically a Biliblanket), but that's what it looks like. Light therapy is supposed to cure this, and today will be the third day in a row that we take her up to the doctor to have her blood drawn for tests. All of this makes snuggling with her very difficult which in turn makes me weepy. Although that could be the sleep deprivation.

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Taking her nickname very seriously. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.