we're all mad here...I'm mad....ummm that's about it...

I've been meaning to blog now for um, a few years, but life keeps getting in the way. 

I live in Mommyland.  It's a rather busy place.  I would consider myself 'queen' but that would mean I'm in charge.  No, the 'queen' title goes to my almost-3-year-old, Morgan.  When you're a parent, whether you realize it or not, your life revolves around your little one(s).  Especially when you're a stay-at-home-mama like me.  I wake up when Morgan wakes up.  I go to bed after Morgan goes to bed (which is sometimes very late and I'm exhausted...).  I get pulled away from the computer to play Little People or to color Ponies.  Almost-3-year-olds don't understand the importance of research you have to do for an online grad class or the high priority of Facebook.  Or blogs apparently...I was just pulled away from typing this because she is demanding to watch the new show 'Octonauts' for the 321453th time today (thank God for DVR). 

I am by no means a perfect mother.  I love my kid enough to choke you with my bare hands if you hurt her.  She still alive so I've feed and watered her enough.  I have a lot of 'mommy friends' that ask me for advice, and I love to give it...but then I scratch my head in wonder...should I even be giving this advice?  My almost-3-year-old is not potty trained, she has a speech delay but uses certain curse words in perfect context, and I make her shake her booty for chocolate milk. 

Before you judge me on my amazing child-rearing skills, let me explain something to you; Morgan has been a very difficult child from the day she was born...actually since before she was born, since she would hardly ever cooperate to have her heartbeat listened to (doctor had to trap her in the corner...) and would kick away from the ultrasound tech (we have a wonderful collection of unborn feet snapshots) and best of all, she was breech.  This required a scheduled c-section (not that I'm complaining about never knowing the joy of labor) and the first thing our doctor said was 'oh I see a baby butt!'  What a way to come into the world. 

Then the fun began.  The first game was 'breastfeeding boycott.'  I read all of the books, all of the studies online, knew that I HAD to breastfeed or a Nipple Nazi might steal my newborn baby from me during my 10 minutes of sleep at night.  Morgan did not get the memo about the modern push for breastfeeding.  She hated every single second.  She scrunched her face up in pain like I was forcing her to do something horrific and she refused to eat.  She turned her face away from me as if to proclaim 'motha you repulse me' (in a British accent of course).  We played this game for a day and then the nurses got really frustrated with me and started beating me over the head with bottles of Similac and demanding that I SUPPLEMENT!!!  SUPPLEMENT!!!  AUGGHHH NOOO!!!  Not formula!!  Not bottles!!  I refused.  Morgan didn't get enough to eat and ended up with jaundice.  I failed at motherhood on day 1.  I cried so hard I couldn't breathe (scaring my poor father to death...my parents were babysitting me in my hospital room while my husband went on a cheeseburger search).  The nurses were even talking about me...a new nurse on duty told me 'oh, they told me about you.'

SERIOUSLY?!

So I gave in to the bottle.  I didn't want to be the 'mother that starved her newborn baby on day 1.'  Morgan just LOOOOVED the bottle.  Evil little pixie.  She snuggled down and took right to it.  I wanted to hiss at her and tell her she was making me look bad.  But I refrained, since she had to spend a night in the 'fish tank' for her jaundice, which was all my fault apparently.  (The 'fish tank' is thus named because it looked like a fish tank with tanning bed lights.  Morgan even got to wear little tanning bed goggle-type things and stretched out and enjoyed the fake-n-bake.  Totally my kid.)  I started using the breast pump (weirdest thing I've ever had to do to myself).  You know you've taken your marriage to a whole new level when you're husband has a little banner that says 'one more ounce!' and is your biggest boobie cheerleader not because he is admiring them, but because he wants them to produce like a cow. 

Thus the pumping game began....day and night.  The first week wasn't too horrible.  My husband (oh by the way, I need to introduce you to him, his name is Michael) was off work for a week.  He was super daddy.  He changed diapers, he washed bottles and dishes.  He went to the grocery store and came home with Red Bull and cheese puffs.  He got up with me every 2 hours at night and feed Morgan while I pumped.  I had a prescription for Percocet.  I was surprised at how easy it was!  What was everybody always griping about?  Newborns aren't THAT hard.

Then he had to go back to work.  And the Percocets ran out.

My mom (who is a Kindergarten teacher and is my best friend) drove up to spend a few days with me while Michael went back to work (we live 3.5 hours from my family and friends).  Mom was scared to death to hold Morgan.  Morgan was 6 pounds 13 ounces and 19 inches long at birth.  My 2 brothers and I ranged from over 9 pounds to almost 11 pounds and were all about 21 inches at birth.  So I was stuck with all the diapers, all the feedings, all the pumping.  Mom cleaned, she cooked, she went shopping and brought home new clothes for me and Morgan.   But suddenly I was the one that had to get up with Morgan all night long, every 2 hours.  I had to feed her, get her back to sleep, pump for the next round, then got about 1/2 hour sleep before she woke up again.  And the first night my mom was there, Morgan started throwing up.  It terrified me.  She drank her 2 ounces then threw it all back up Exorcist-style out every hole in her head, arms flailing and that horrible choking noise.  I screamed for my mom to help, so she came stumbling out of bed without her glasses (she's legally blind) and I think we both sort of stood there screaming for a bit before we realized Morgan was NOT dying and just needed to be cleaned up.

Hence, the 'vomit games' began.

Morgan was a puker for about 10 months.  We lived in a townhouse until she was about 15 months old, and the only area not affected by baby vomit was the garage.  She threw up in bed, in her swing, on the couch, in the floor, in the bouncy chair, all over me, all over Michael.  I think once she even managed to hit the cat.  The best was when she would barf all over me, then when Michael would come to help, she would barf all over him.  So we would all pause for a second...barf on me, on Michael, on Morgan, on the furniture, on the carpet, perhaps even on the ceiling.  I would stand up and it would slide down between my boobs and drip out from under my shirt/nightgown.  We invested in a lot of carpet cleaner during those months.  And took a lot of showers.  At first it was just boobie milk / soy formula barf.  Then it became all colors of the rainbow once she started eating baby food.  My mom still has a green bean stain on her carpet. 

Why all the vomit?  Around 5 weeks old she was diagnosed with acid reflux.  She was crying nonstop (other than the nightly colic crying from 8pm-1am) and arching her back in discomfort.  She began a Zantac treatment twice a day which worked wonders for the poor baby.  (by the way, whoever decided peppermint was the best flavor for liquid Zantac needs to speak with me immediately...)  She stopped arching her back and stopped some of the crying, and it cut back a bit of the vomit.  But she also has the strongest gag reflux I've ever seen (other than my own...).  She has major texture issues (that comes from her father...) and spent most of her feedings dry heaving if the rice was too thick or the food tasted bad.  Even now at almost 3, she's a very very picky eater.

So there ya go.  That's perhaps why some friends come to me for advice.  My anti-boob-barfing-acid-relux-colic baby was not an easy infant.  I even had to sleep in the spare room with her for 6 months to make sure she didn't throw up in her sleep and die. 

I am very thankful and very blessed to be able to be a stay-at-home-mama.  I couldn't imagine dealing all of this plus going to work to teach 200 teenagers a subject they really don't care about.  When I got married during the summer of 2008 and moved 3.5 hours north, I was not able to get hired to teach, but it turned out to be a blessing once we found out we were going to be parents. 

Being at home all day with a high maintenance baby has been challenging.  I've cried, I've screamed, I've thrown my own tantrums.  I've felt like a failure and wondered 'why did I DO this to myself?!' but there's one thing I've realized....to survive in mommyland, you've got to be a little crazy.  If you over-analyze everything, you'll call child services on yourself for being a terrible parent.  If you read what the 'experts' tell you to do, you will end up creating a nervous wimpy child afraid to take any risks (this is all just my personal opinion, which is perfectly amazing).  Just last night, a dear friend sent me an urgent text telling me her toddler was so upset about having her bedtime milk taken away, she threw up in her bed.  I felt so sorry for the toddler, and for my friend.  My friend did it because she was told it was time for her 2 year old to give up bedtime milk.  As I was typing my response to her, my own almost-3-year-old was lying on the couch next to me drinking bedtime milk from a sippy cup.  I told my friend not to stress over it, do what she feels is best for herself and her child.  She said she's worried about her teeth rotting out, having milk before bedtime.  My response 'well, all those teeth fall out in a few years aways right?'

...so see, my advice isn't the best.  But I hate when my mommy friends stress out so much about the little things.  They are only babies for a little while.  Soon enough they will be teenagers that hate our guts.  Enjoy this baby stage while it lasts.