The Little Weenie Weaned Himself

After nine months, two weeks, and three days of breastfeeding, it was just done.  

It wasn't until I was five months pregnant and working on a baby registry at Target that I even thought about the fact that I would have to feed this child.  I knew that the doctor would cut the cord after my baby (lovingly called Hummingbird) was born and then (s)he would look to me for food.  And I had a choice to make.  I was flush, embarrassed, and honestly weirded out by the thought of the actual act of breastfeeding.  I was thinking about all of this while my mom was asking me, "Do you want to register for a breastpump?"  What?  A pump?  For breasts?  What the what?  I gave a quick, "Uh, yeah?  I guess so."  I held the scanner at safe distance and heard the beep.  I knew that I had successfully registered for something in the breastpump section, so I moved on and began scanning tiny bath accessories.  Trying not think about the whole feeding thing for a while.

When I was a kid, my grandparents had a dairy farm.  I spent many summer evenings talking to my grandma as hundreds of cattle moved through shiny mechanical gates, into neat lines.  My grandma would diligently spray each utter with iodine and wipe them a towel then throw on the four pronged automatic milker.  I would stand there and watch as pint after pint of fresh, white milk moved through the lines.  I was going to be a dairy cow.  Just without my grandma to spray me down.

So I thought some more and worked up enough lady balls to start asking questions.  I asked my mom and what my siblings and I ate.  I learned that she nursed us all for 2 months and then like clockwork, her milk dried up and we did formula from there on out.  I asked some other family members and friends and heard so many different feeding strategies.  But, I still felt weird.  

As the months drew past and I got larger and closer to meeting my kiddo, I started to feel a change a-brewin'.  I think it had largely to do with my getting larger.  The more my body started to look like it wasn't  mine anymore, the more it seemed to belong to the baby.  Like the thought of nursing this child would be okay, because those weren't really my cans down there anyway.  They were, ah, changing, and it was all for the baby.  Whatever was in there, wasn't mine and I was okay with sharing it.  

I, like other moms, faced some challenges when actually beginning the whole nursing buidness, but within a few short weeks, we hit our stride.  Then I went back to work and started pumping 3 or 4 times a day.  My little guy had to have formula to supplement his growing appetite.  And as the months wore on, he was needing more formula and I was producing less milk.  Summer came and we quickly found ourselves just nursing in the morning and at night.  The amount of calories he was getting was dismal I am sure, but I felt like I had to this.  I had set goals for myself.  I was going to nurse this baby until he was 11 months old and I went back to work.  11 months, dangit.  

Well, how naive am I to make plans without consulting the baby?  He woke up one morning and REFUSED to nurse.  What does that look like?   It looks like full-on scream-crying, flailing, pushing away with real tears, protest.  Again at nightime.  Again the next night.  

And then it was done.

He voiced his opinion and I heard it loud and clear.  I just didn't want to hear it.  I wanted to meet my goal.  I wanted to still be his mama that could make food for him that was healthy and good for the heart.  I wanted to give him immunity powers.  I realized that this thing, this dairy cow, saggy boobed thing, was something that I wanted.  I was so scared of it just a year before and now I was crying that it was all over.  

Mi bebe tienes RINGWORM!

My kid got ringworm.  How, you may ask?  I have no idea, is the answer.

A few weeks ago I noticed this circle of red skin forming on the back of his head.  My first thought was, "Oh no!  Lyme's disease!" But the lack of a tick bite convinced me that he did not have Lyme's disease.   Also, the fact that he was not exhausted and sick should have tipped me off that he did not have Lyme's disease.  Since the red ring appeared about a week before my son's 9 month appointment, I decided to keep an eye on it and if it didn't change, I would just ask the doctor then.

About two days before the appointment, I thought, "Could that be ringworm?"  But I was fairly certain that it was not, as he had not been wrestling around on damp mats with high school boys.  (This is all I knew of ringworm.)  So, I googled it.

Ringworm, for those who don't know, is an infection of the skin caused by a fungus.  It is not caused by or related to worms.  It is similar to athletes foot and spreads through contact with someone who has it.  And was probably what was on the back of my kid's head. (The more you know-----shooting star!)

Two days later, I took him to the doctor, and to his surprise he said, "Wow!  That is ringworm.  I haven't seen that on a kid this young for a long time."  Cool!  My kid is lucky!

The doctor said that because the ringworm was on the back of his head, that he would prescribe an oral anti-fungal, as the scalp is hard to treat.  He also said that he would need to take it for at least 3 weeks until the ring was gone.  As a good patient, I went and picked up the prescription and forced the sickly, sweet orange liquid into my kids mouth.

(Aside)  My child is super easy.  He is so stinkin' good.  He only looses it when I lay him flat on his back or try to give him medicine.  (End Aside)

I filled the syringe and tried to hold little man on my lap, arms pinned down, and squirted the medicine into his mostly toothless mouth.  He flung his head, cried, screamed, gagged, and spit out most of .5 mL  that I had squeezed out.  There were still 3 mL in the syringe.   I squirted those into a bottle.  He said, "No, thanks."  Then I put some juice in there with the meds and tried to give him that.  Still nothing.

I gave up.  I would try again the next day.

The next day I tried to give him smaller doses throughout the day mixed into various bottles, but I could  not get him the take the stuff.  Knowing I had to get rid of the ringworm, I decided to try something different.  I have recently gotten into essential oils and home remedies, so I started researching how to naturally get rid of ringworm.  I found that tea tree oil has great anti-fungal properties, so I gave it a shot.  Each day, I put one drop of oil onto the ring in the morning and before bed.  In six days the ring was dried out (dead) and healing.

Things my kid ate yesterday:

1. Hormone- and antibiotic-free, free range chicken pureed with organic carrots and organic green beans.
2. A mouthful of sand, which he choked on
3. A piece of the American Express junk mail flier, which I tried to pull out of his mouth, but it was too far back, so we just got some water and swallowed that mess.

Things my child has put in his mouth...in the last week

I realize that this makes me look like a negligent parent, especially to those of you who do not have kids, but those of you who do, know that a child can get his hand to his mouth at about the speed of two atoms flying toward each other in a particle accelerator.  And that their tiny fingers make for the most accurate set of tweezers.  So, though all of these things have found their way into little man's mouth, none have been swallowed or choked on.  I swear.

1. the open end of a sunscreen tube (sans lid)

2.  a nickel

3. the cord for the record player (covered in hair)

4. the dog's squeeky bone

5. the dog's actual bone (cow femur)

6.  the dog's foot

7. the dog's tongue

8. a furniture pad

9. my husband's shoe

10. two dvd cases with Brad Pitt on the cover

11. my toe

12. the legs of the coffee table

13. scooby doo

14. a brown paper bag

15. the edges of the rug


Can you tell he is army crawling everywhere?

God Bless the Single Parent

(disclaimer-this entry is very graphic)

I am not a single parent.  I have a good and kind husband.  My son's delight in him shows me the incredible level of devotion between father and son.  And because of that devotion, my husband works very hard to take care of us.  As of late, he has begun a project at work and has been working 12-14 hour days trying to complete it.  On day five of his being at work during all hours of our son's awake time, I was starting to feel the weight of "doing it all": working, cooking, cleaning, child-rearing, generic gender stereotypes, etc.  Add to that my son is teething.

After said day five of my temporary single parenting, I was hoping to get some things accomplished at home after work.  After a ten hour day, I picked my son up at daycare and finally made it home.  Home to my terrible, awful, poop-smelling home.  Let me clarify, my home does not usually smell of poo, but as I walked in the door, the scent of feces was heavy in the air and my eyes fell to the dog kennel.  But even before I saw it, I knew by the smell that this was not going to be an easy clean up.  I found that my poor creature had been VERY sick in and outside his kennel (if that gives you any idea).  There was a general splatter within a three foot radius.  

I put down the car seat carrier and attempted to think through the situation, but was not having great success.  That said, I opened the kennel to take my dog, Phil, outside, and he did the ol' doggie shake, flinging doo all over me and my work clothes.  I managed to get him outside and tied to a tree, then headed back in for the kennel.  Before entering the house, I turned to look back, hoping my make shift tie out was going to hold him.  Looking back at him, he gave me a look-a look I had seen once before; three years ago, when a student I really loved was vomiting on the desks and floors of my classroom, and in between heaves, he was frantically apologizing.  Of course I was not angry at the child.  Nor was I angry at the dog, he clearly could not have prevented this from happening, and seeing his ears drooped against his lowered head, outside in the rain, covered in shit, I felt bad for the guy.  However, the pity was not going to get my work done, so I stripped off my work clothes, put on some scrub clothes, and went outside to face the mess.  

Meanwhile, every time I left my son's line of vision he started screaming.  I grabbed the hose and started to wash the dog.  When he was clean, I went after the kennel.  Since it was 50 degrees and raining, I couldn't take my son outside with me, which meant that he was screaming outside of my line of vision, but not out of earshot. And I don't mean fussing or crying.  I mean screaming, as in, sweating, flush face, sometimes holding the scream too long and doing the silent scream.

But the poop.  So much poop.  Must.  Keep.  De-pooping.

I tried to soothe him by talking to him, but was not having it.  Since I knew he was recently fed and had a dry diaper, I dredged on.  I scrubbed the beshatted floor hands-and-knees style to get the grout all scrubbed out.  And the with the distance between the stink and my nose reaching more than friendly distances, my stomach started to turn, and my son's screaming was starting to weigh down my brain.  In that moment I felt a twinge of something similar to desperation, but instantly, even in all that mess and noise, I knew that I had it good.  I have a baby.  I have a dog.  I have house for both those things to poo in.  Tomorrow, my husband will be home. The two of us can face tomorrow's disasters together.  But some people have to clean up the dog poop and the baby poop on their own, and those people are deserving of gold medals and a good night's sleep.  So to all the parents who are doing it alone, God bless ya.


I thought of doing that public shaming of dogs with written signs to explain their bad behaviors thing, but it didn't seem fair, he clearly wasn't trying to be a menace.   However, here are some very ashamed dogs that other people have posted to the interwebs and last one isn't too far off.

Also, I had wine and oreos for dinner.

The Amazing Adventures of the Super-Uncoordinated Mom!

"Please catch it.  Please catch it."

I am not a coordinated person.  I drop 75% of the things I pick up.  My baby being the exception (some how my subconscious knows to try harder when holding that cargo).   I trip over things more often than I would like to admit, but, don't worry, I always play it cool.  "No, it's okay, I wanted to get a closer look at that tile!" 

So needless to say, the other day I had a quite an amazing adventure.  

My husband loves to play baseball, so sometimes on Sundays, he fills in on a friend's softball team when they are short on players.  I am not much of a sports fan myself, but I can enjoy a live game of anything.  So when our friend called asking for a fill-in, we packed up the car and headed to field, delighted to be spending the afternoon lounging outside.  When we arrived, one minute before game time,  my husband ran out onto the field (wearing a grey shirt and playing for the red team).  I laid out an old hospital blanket on the ground and kicked off my shoes.

The first hour of the game was great.  My son rolled around and grabbed at the grass.  He watched several leashed dogs go by and communicated with them in their native tongue.  It was super.  Then at one hour and one minute, he started to totally lose his cool. 

He notoriously starts this fake crying thing when he is tired.  He pretty much just yells.  It is so pathetic because he doesn't cry tears, he just makes this loud, drone of irritation.  And the only cure is sleep.  So, naturally, I let him carry on like this for 10 minutes while he laid on the blanket and I didn't try to soothe him.  I got a few turned heads with looks like, "Geez lady, have you no heart?"  I looked back with a look like,  "Stop sending me messages with your head turn."

Within 15 minutes, he was zonked out(as I knew he would be), as peaceful and as calm as a baby on a blanket, in the park, in the spring, with a light a breeze, at a softball game.  With him a-snoozing, I leaned back on my elbows to see which corner of the outfield they had stuffed my husband in (he is a really good baseball player, but apparently a fill-in cannot play a base position).  I finally spotted his beard blowing in the wind far out in right field.  I turned my attention to the batter, when a ball flew by on my left.  As I turned to look at where the rogue ball had come from, I "shit you not" time slowed down.  I saw the tacky highlighter-yellow-green-oversized ball heading our way.  I reached my left arm out, over my sleeping son's belly, and the ball smacked into my wrist.  Leaving purple stitch marks on the bone.  I looked down at my kiddo, still lost in a dream, totally unaware that he almost got hit with a ball.  

Most of the time, I can't catch a ball when I am trying.  Especially when my husband doesn't throw it directly into my outstretched glove.  So, to turn, see, and stop a ball in no seconds, and the experience the emergency-situation-super-human-mom-strength was a truly amazing adventure.

How being a mom has made me a better person.

Nobody wants to say it out loud.  We all might think it, but it is so not-classy/egotistical to say it.  However, I said I would be honest here.  So, ahem..."I, anonymous writer of this blog, think I am a good person".

I live pretty responsibly.  I car-pool.  I have manners.  I give my money to United Way.  I give my blood to the Red Cross.  I am a law abiding citizen(speeding home from work aside).  I work hard at a job with no possibility of bonuses, promotions, or accolades because I believe that it helps others.  I generally try to good things.  I feel like I am not a Scrooge.

But then I became a mom.

I never truly understood how much I was living for myself until I was face-to-face with a human that depended on me in order to live.  Suddenly, the generous person I thought was, was being taxed and torn by a tiny, crying, drooling little creature. 

I used to pride myself on my efficiency.   Don't get me wrong, I can be as lazy as anyone else, but I can also throw it into overdrive and accomplish a months worth of tasks and chores before lunch.  (If you knew my mother, this would make sense.)  I have been known to wake up Saturday and cleaned the house and left to run errands before my husband has woken up for the day.  But recently, that has all changed.  Except for the part about all that stuff needing to still be done.  Oy.

In the last six months, my level of efficiency at home and personal grooming has become something like that of Homer Simpson's.  I watch TV, burned out from the day of work and love on my baby from five to nine pm.   The dishes pile up-beyond the sink and onto the counter.  The recycling can becomes a mountain of paper and catalogs that I never signed up for.  Every day I think about taking care of it and every few days I actually do something about it, though it really does bother me everyday to have a mess in the kitchen, I have learned that there are other more important things in need of my attention.  And those important things are not daily showers or hair fixin'.

I am also reminded of this every morning, after hearing the alarm go off before 5:30.  Even the temptation of sleep.  Even the temptation of sleep when it is still dark outside.  Even the temptation of sleep when it is still dark outside and it is winter, and I know that the floor will be cold when I step on it, is now trumped by the thought that my baby needs me. I am reminded that he needs me more than I need sleep, sunlight, and warm feet and so I groggily walk to his bedside.   As soon as I see him laying the wrong direction in his crib, rolled onto his belly, forehead shoved up against the slats, I know I made the right decision. 

 I am not complaining.  Please don't read it that way.  I am just realizing that before I had a kid, I was living a life dedicated to my own whimsies.  Now, I spend a large part of my day wiping poop off a little white hiney.  But I have a joy like I have never known.