Governor Squawker

As I type this Annika is still screaming upstairs in her bed. It is hard to tell if she is getting any less frantic. My head hurts from the noise. The sound of the typing keys is almost too much. This will have to be short. At times like these the only thing that eases the pain and angst is a hot shower. And since I didn't take one this morning I could really use the cleansing waters.
This baby girl amazes everyone when we are out in public. She charms the pants off everyone. I am not exaggerating. Complete strangers have told us that she is the most beautiful baby they have ever seen. She is the most calm baby ever. She has the most beautiful eyes. Oh those eyes! Oh that hair! Is she always this calm they ask. Ha! As if.
She still does not sleep through the night. and she tends to do all of her crying between the hours of 6 pm and 6 am.  The night before last she was awake around 11 pm or something so I nursed her.  She went back to sleep with only a few noises. But she woke up less than 2 hours later fit to be tied. So we let her cry. We let her scream. We let her keep us awake. We groaned and cursed and pounded the pillows until 1.5 hours had passed. Steve stormed into get her intending to feed her a bottle of formula. I followed him and nursed her even though it had not been 4 hours since her last feeding.  She woke up then around 6 am.  And I can count the number of times that this child has woken up happy on one hand! She just instantly screams.  When I am standing too close to her while she screams it makes my ears hurt. I do believe that her screams are making me deaf to that decible.  She could wake the dead! So Steve started calling Annika Governor Squawker. More like Governess Screamer. It is just unreal.
Annika is just this tiny little petite baby who weighs only about 15 pounds. That's 14th percentile or something. No big shakes in size. But if we could measure her vocal output she would be off the charts! I think we have to come to terms with the fact that she is just not over the colicky business. She is just a fussy baby. Or maybe we should just be putting her to sleep in public places. I should cart the pack and play around and just set up baby bedtime wherever we happen to be. Target shoe aisle? Woodman's produce section?  I know that would fail.  For Easter weekend we were in Santa Barbara with Steve's family. She showed her true colors at night there- Uncle Mark can tell you "Yeah, she really gets all worked up doesn't she?"  And I think one day she started to let loose when she was hungry and tired and she had to wait. But I know that all those pregnant sisters are hoping for a calm baby like Annika, except one that will sleep through the night. We intimated a couple of times that there were a couple months of hell and they were surprised. Guess if you don't ask the right questions you won't get the full story! We were "off radar" for a reason people! Seriously.
I don't wish Squawker tendencies on anyone. I do wish though for some perspective. For someone in the family to be able to nod their heads and truly understand how we feel. With 3 more nephews/nieces on the way there is bound to be a fussy one in there, isn't there? Governor Squawker can't be the only one can she? Really?

Missing Sweater

When I took the pictures of this sweater I did not think that I was setting us for actually really needing the pictures. But that's how life works it seems.
This sweater has special significance for me.  My best friend, Emily, loaned it to me a few years ago. I had left Emma home with Steve and headed to Chicago to spend some time with my friend. I don't remember what we did, but I clearly remember wanting a warmer shirt or sweater. Emily had a lot of clothes, but she is smaller than I am so the choices were somewhat limited.  As soon as she showed me the striped sweater I chose it. I loved it instantly and I know that it was also one of Emily's favorites.
Back in our high school days people used to think that Emily and I were sisters. We both had long, dark hair. We both wore red plaid shirts as coats. We spent a lot of time together.  One thing we loved to do was shop at resale shops and garage sales. We often found things that we both wanted- shirts or sweaters were often equally desired by both of us. We took turns keeping the contested items. We may have even shared a sweater or two.
So here we were many years later and reliving the good old days through fashion. I think Emily let me wear the sweater home to wash it.  What I didn't know was that Emily had emailed Steve and told him to wrap the sweater up for my birthday. So he hid it and on my birthday he gave it to me from Emily. It was the best present! When I talked to Emily she told me it was mine until I decided to return it to her.

I wore the sweater a lot, always thinking of my friend. I loved that sweater and got excited every winter when I would "find" it among my other winter clothes. It was my favorite sweater ever.
Emily came up for Annika's baptism and I wore the sweater on that Saturday. I knew when I put it on that day that it would be one of the last times I wore it. I felt like it needed to go back to Emily. Of course she commented on it and said something like maybe if a certain guy saw me in it, it would make him fall in love with me. Out of context that sounds odd but there you have it. So I didn't say what I was thinking but I knew that I would be giving it back to her soon- before winter was over.
Then before Christmas after washing the sweater one last time I wrapped it and put it in an envelope along with a nice long note to Emily. I told her how much I loved the sweater and how great it was of her to share it with me. I told her that I weaved some magic into it for her. She would know if the spells worked if after wearing the sweater a few times, a certain guy falls in love with her, she finishes and publishes a book that makes her famous and if she comes into some money. I put it in the mail using the drop box and automated teller on December 24th. That was the last I ever felt it. Emily never received it.
While talking with Emily after new years she said something about her guy saying he loved her. But she didn't mention the sweater or my note. So I asked her if she got a package from me even though I knew the answer. We're convinced that someone stole the package (it has happened at her place before apparently) and hope that the person feels really bad. I am deeply distressed that I lost the sweater that we both loved so much. And of all the packages and boxes we sent for the holidays, that was the one that I should have insured. That was the one that if I had thought about it before hand I would have said would be the worst one to lose.
So this is my tribute to a thing. Something that meant a lot to my best friend and I, but that is just a thing. At least I still have my friend! She asked me a couple of times to share what I had written in the note and was amazed that her guy said he loved her and that I wrote about that in my note. I guess the sweater magic was stronger that we knew!

Discarding felines

Discardia is a book we all should read, especially if we want to organize and simplify our lives. This book has inspired me to be more rigorous in my pursuit of reducing clutter in my house! One idea presented in the book is to consider an item you no longer use or want but hesitate getting rid of it because of sentimental or nostalgic reasons.  So photograph it, write about it and then get rid of it. (My personal caveat: get rid of it responsibly- trash it only if there is no way to recycle, reuse or thrift it.) This is my first post for my new discardian self. 

My husband's grandmother gifted us the kitty in the flowers wall hanging back when we had cats or still admitted that we liked cats. (The whole story of how we came to not have cats anymore is a long humorous and heart wrenching tale for another day.) Now that I think about it, this may have been a birthday present to me.  When I see it I think of how sweet Bugga was to think of me. I feel like it represents that I may have a more important place in the family than I thought.  Still...this wall hanging has not seen the light of day or hung flush to a wall in over 10 years. It's time to say goodbye.

My mom made me the large cat wall hanging back when I was still in college (I think.) It did hang on our basement wall when we first moved into this house, but it no longer fits my style or who I am.  Once upon a time I had dreamed of being a wildlife vet specializing in large cats. I loved large cats. I still find them impressive and awe inspiring, but the dream has long since passed. And I really don't want to decorate my house with them. That reminds me that I have some posters that need to go as well. Goodbye big cats!

ultrametabolism

 I think I am addicted to olive oil.  That's what I said the other night at dinner to which my husband laughed and said that was the weirdest thing he had ever heard.  Is it weird to like olive oil so much? I started really consuming it after reading Ultrametabolism.  Now I am not looking to be on a diet, although I do want to shed all of the remaining baby pounds. I just wanted to read the book since it was talked of rather highly by my sister in law. So I read it while nursing my baby in the middle of the night. And I liked what Dr. Hyman had to say about food and eating.  I agree that we should eat "real" food and not waste calories or money on food with low to no nutritional value.  The only thing that would really make his plan better would be to focus more on locally grown foods. For instance, coconut and coconut milk is a staple in his recipes, but you are hard pressed to find those produced in Wisconsin.

Another reason I have made 4 or more recipes out of Ultrametabolism is that I liked what he had to say about metabolism and the human body- I finally understand how the body works and why when I eat a lot of sugar I want to eat more sugar and then I feel badly. Does understanding lead to something here?

Anyway, I have given up dairy due to my baby's eczema issues and GI troubles. Without dairy in my diet I actually feel better- more full while eating less for example.  I have accidentally and completely intentionally consumed dairy over the last month and swear I saw spots pop up on Annika's adorable face. I can't say that dairy definitely caused the first round of horrible eczema but it cleared up as soon as I stopped eating lots of cheese, yogurt, milk, ice cream, and butter. I love dairy so this is really a sacrifice of sorts! Without butter I needed some sort of bread smear, and Dr. Hyman encourages the use of olive oil for its healthy benefits. So while my daughter was spreading butter on her daddy's homemade Italian loaf, I was dipping my slices in a bowl of olive oil- and licking my fingers clean. It's really the best when my hubby makes garlic bread now. He pours the olive oil on and shakes copious amounts of garlic salt and powder. So good.

Now I am wondering what Dr. Hyman would say if he knew we grasped onto the olive oil gravy train while also eating white bread. To me homemade Italian loaf isn't white bread, but it is made from processed wheat. There is no whole grain in those chunky loaves. We should be eating whole grains and breads that you can't squeeze with your fingers at least according to the doctor. I just don't know if I could really give it up. But then I think of this really fantastic dense rye that my hubby made and I think it could work. Olive oil would taste just as yummy drizzled on a slice of that bread is it does on the Italian loaf.

I made The Best Brownie recipe from Ultrametabolism just this afternoon. They are good. Not too sweet (no sugar in these bad boys!) and have a nice dark chocolate taste to them. The only troubling aspect is the texture; the ground pecans make for a rough feel. Still, they are a very reasonable and much healthier replacement for "real" brownies. When I think about gorging myself on sweets these days I actually have more of a steely resistance. I had some birthday cake for my daughter's birthday and on the following days until it was finally gone from our fridge and I felt just awful. I think my body was happier without the high sugar doses and dairy content. Hmm.

But really, how much can one nursing mama give up?  Dairy (butter, yogurt, cheese, ice cream)-check, check, check, check. Lots of sugar-check. Chocolate with less than 70% cacao- check.  If I ever have to give up olive oil I will be in big trouble. I can't get enough!

Addiction

          A funny thing happened to me the other night while I was sleeping.  I woke up in the dark of the night and as my senses were hurriedly soaking up where, when, and why for my confused brain to process, my sense of touch found my clammy but warm thumb.  “Oh my God! Was I sucking my thumb?” When I answered myself, “No, I couldn’t have been; I am 31 years old,” I realized I had been sleeping with my left thumb clenched between my pointer and middle fingers and my entire hand had been shoved under my backside for safe keeping. The bed was warm enough to cause sweating especially in skin-on-skin situations such as my hand and thumb provided. It’s laughable now and even a bit embarrassing, but it is also interesting how powerful an old habit can be.  It has been over 15 years since I have worried about what my thumbs were up to in the middle of the night, but like they say- once an addict, always an addict.

          One of the most vivid memories relating to my thumbs was when I was about 9 years old and my family was visiting relatives in California. We were doing the whole California vacation complete with daily trips to the pool, a Yosemite trip, camping, and of course, trips to Disneyland and Magic Mountain. My uncle’s brother had a condo down in Los Angeles so we were staying there while visiting the famous Anaheim amusement parks. It was a crowded house with my parents, brother, Aunt Jan and Uncle Al and their two boys, Grandma H., and our gracious host, Uncle Paul, camping out in the two-bedroom unit.  Sleeping arrangements were carefully considered and everyone was happy except, apparently, for Grandma.

          I was minding my own business, quietly climbing up the stairs to get ready for bed, and Grandma and Auntie were in the second bedroom making the bed on the hide-away sleeper couch where Grandma and I were to be bunking up. As I neared the top of the stairs I heard my name from behind the partially closed door. Suffering like many people from the fear of being talked about behind my back and really wanting to know exactly what they were saying I quickly stole to the adjacent bathroom to eaves drop.

          “I don’t want to sleep with her. That girl is nine years old and she still sucks her thumb. It will keep me awake,” Grandma complained. That’s me, I thought.  Since I was the only girl in the house I couldn’t pretend that they were talking about anyone else. Plus, I knew I was destined to be Grandma’s sleeping buddy.

          “It’s not that bad. Most kids suck their thumbs. Be glad she doesn’t wet the bed,” hushed Auntie.

          My ears were ringing so loudly and my heart beating so rapidly I could not focus on what else they said, and I stood in the bathroom doorway for what felt like ages. My grandmother’s words were spinning round and round in my head; I was reeling.  My secret was out and my grandmother despised me for it! I felt sick to my stomach. Grandmothers are supposed to spoil you and love you no matter what. I was so upset by this notion that I wasn’t even happy that Auntie had come to my rescue; bed wetting is far worse. My world was tumbling down around me.  It was all I could do to close the bathroom door and brush my teeth. All the while I was imagining the horrors of what was going to happen when I fell asleep.

          When I went into the bedroom I showed no signs of having heard their conversation. I said goodnight and crawled into bed. As I lay curled on my side with my back to my grandmother I made sure that my thumbs were securely locked into my fists, my left fist crammed between my knees and my right fist hidden under my pillow. I alternately prayed that my thumbs would not betray me and cursed them for having started the habit in the first place.

          Sometime in the night I awoke to loud snoring and felt my childish rage swell inside me. How dare she complain about a little thumb sucking when she could wake the entire house with her snores?  I almost unleashed my thumbs and let the sucking commence, but in the end I covered my ears, too.  In the light of the morning I congratulated myself for having survived the night with no signs of any thumb sucking to be found. I was saved the added embarrassment of having proven Grandma right, but I still had the disturbing knowledge that other people knew about my little thumb trouble. I could not even make myself feel better by telling anyone that I hated the habit and despised myself, too. There was too much of a risk of enlightening people who actually did not know; that would be the epitome of needless embarrassing scenarios. I would just have to deal with my dirty little semi-secret on my own.

          I do not know what started my thumb sucking to begin with.  I pondered the question from time to time since it was possible that the answer to quitting lay in the past.  Did my addiction start in utero? Did it start later as a baby when I needed to soothe myself to sleep?  Did my parents find it endearing and encourage me?  Did my thumbs taste like chocolate as I remember my grandfather jokingly asking me?   The origin became less important over the years, enlightenment never occurring, as I focused on how to reach the end.     Somewhere between the beginning and that fateful night in L.A. I realized that I was a thumb sucker and that I wanted to quit. Cold turkey. No last night indulgences or one-more-before-the-end sucks. That’s when I started tucking my thumbs into my fists and hiding my hands under my pillow or palms-down beneath my butt while chanting, “I will not suck my thumb. I will not suck my thumb,” in my head while my lips mouthed the words. It probably looked like some sort of strange sleep ritual or meditation.  The result was that I stopped sucking on my right thumb. Well, I stopped sucking on only my right thumb. Now it could be either thumb at any time.  The problem was worse.

          I would wake in the night and, finding my hands and thumbs free from their stowed away positions, check for stray saliva or the telltale teeth marks in the tops of either thumb. I was like a crime scene investigator working in the dim light of my room. Inevitably the proof would be found (nights of abstinence were frustratingly few and far between), and I would be consumed with shame and intense aggravation. What else could I do besides enclose my thumbs yet again in their finger prisons and hide them away beneath the bedclothes?  Eventually I would temporarily experience Nirvana when I thought that covering my hands with socks would solve all my problems. Of course, I was wrong and the enlightenment hastily turned to disappointment.  I would wake up the next morning and find the socks twisted in with the sheets, partial evidence that I had indulged myself in the night. Most likely there would be the stale thumb taste lingering in my mouth or the still-warm and moist offending digit resting nearby. Like so many wasted cigarette butts or empty bottles and dirty glasses. Evidence of the shame spiral.

During the waking hours I imagined the puppet shows that would ensue while I dreamt the night away oblivious to the performance.  It may have gone something like this, in slow motion and black and white of course: my mouth opening and shutting like a trap door, daring my thumbs to get too close. My left thumb trying to reach my lips but the sock getting in the way. As the left hand wrestles with the sock, my right hand creeps in from the side, the thumb frantically trying to find its way out of the tube. The left sees the right and shoves it aside, which exposes the right thumb. Now time moves in slow motion as the left hand is shocked into temporary inaction (fingers splayed up and out inside the cloth), and the right thumb finds its place in my mouth, which closes down and begins to suck. Realizing defeat, the left hand and thumb fold over and fall to the bed with a light thump. A small smile crosses my face and the scene ends.  I could have charged admission!

          Except that the thought of someone seeing me would give me the cold sweats and have me dreading things like sleepovers.  Spending the night with a bunch of girls was always fun, but it was like a nightmare trying to figure out how to sleep incognito, just in case I had to have a middle of the night thumb suck. What if my friends saw me?  It was a terrifying thought so I hardly slept because of the worry. It was the worst during my early teen years not because of frequency but because I was in Junior High. (Yes, my curse stayed with me even this far; my grandmother would have been just as mortified as I was. The incidents were, however, becoming more spaced out for various potential reasons.)  In the world of low self-esteem, peer pressure, fitting in with the popular crowd, silly sleepover games (like putting water on someone’s sleeping bag and telling her she wet the bed or putting a girl’s bra in the freezer), and crushes on the cutest boy, thumb sucking would have turned into a character bashing free-for-all the likes of which Olson Junior High never saw before.  Goodbye induction into the popular crowd and possible romance with the cutest boy and hello peer isolation, humiliation and sitting at the nerd table at lunch.  Never!

          As I struggled with my curse into Junior High it had me seriously concerned that I would never break the habit.  During this time of hormonal changes and independence I vowed that my habit would not follow me to young adulthood so I renewed me efforts to finish it for good, much like getting rid of babyish books or toys and embracing a new body and more freedom. The nightly chanting and frequent appendage checks certainly disrupted my sleep, but I slept more soundly in between those awakenings if I knew my thumbs were obeying me. Slowly but surely the habit was being kicked.  Relapses would occur, as the dried saliva around my thumb and mouth would prove, but I was willing it away.  To be completely honest my habit followed me into high school, but by then it was more of a worry that the once-in-a-great-while episodes would turn into a full-blown outbreak of thumb sucking frenzies.

          It would have been interesting to have followed my stress levels and nightly thumb capers. There was probably a pattern. High stress during the day followed by some serious sucking at night, which would lead to more stress the next day. I would worry myself sick with questions like: would I graduate high school with my thumb in my mouth?  Or major in thumb sucking in college? Or how could I hide it from my husband when I got married?  Or, even worse, are there support groups for people like me?              

Thumb sucking, like most addictions, can have ramifications far-reaching from the comforts of a private bedroom or house. Mental health instabilities aside, there were the physical consequences to contend with.  From a very early age I was the girl with the overly large front teeth that stuck out because I sucked my thumbs and was a chronic tongue-thruster, i.e., pushed at the backs of my teeth with my tongue. They weren’t quite buckteeth, but they were close. My other teeth were in no great shape either; they had all come in crooked. You can imagine why I suffered from low self-esteem and a fear of being picked on.  Thankfully my parents agreed that I needed to have my mouth all fixed-up, and they found an orthodontist. **Are there such things as suckingdontists?**  The retainers he fitted me with may have helped discourage sucking my thumbs; one of the types had dull spikes hanging down from the center to keep my tongue in the back of my mouth. It did not feel good to bring those down on an unsuspecting thumb.  By the middle of seventh grade my teeth were entirely cured even if my habit was not.  Incidentally, my new, big, bright smile did nothing to help me until I was much older.

          I find it highly amusing that my mind could have brought up such a series of events that I had been trying for many years to forget.  Perhaps it is because my husband and I are watching our 5-month old daughter soothe herself to sleep with the pacifier or sometimes her thumbs or fingers. Perhaps it was that my dreams had pushed me there; maybe I was dreaming about my grandma, junior high or even chocolate.  Regardless I laugh when I think of the face my husband would make if I ever asked him, “Honey, was I sucking my thumb last night?”

6 days late...

...and everyone is healthy and happy!
     Annika Marie is a beautiful bundle that I thank God for every day. And then every night I wonder what the hell I got myself into.
     Every time I nurse her she falls asleep! The advice from the nurse at the hospital and then her doctor via the PA is the same as the advice in the books I have at home: tickle her toes, put her skin-to-skin with your belly, use a cool wash cloth on her back, burp her, change her.  I can do all of those things but the only sure fire way to get her to wake up and want to keep eating is to lay her down to sleep. Swaddle her, lay her down, say good night and walk away. Boom- she's up and hungry. Well, sometimes I have to also lay down and start to drift to sleep.  So I have to wonder, is it just me?  What are the secret tricks that no one wants to share?  Why does this have to happen every single time?
     At least I am worrying less about her getting enough to eat. She gained 4 ounces in 2 days bringing her closer to her birth weight.  But according to the literature, she should be eating 15-20 minutes per side at every feeding. It's almost laughable. And I am laughing- my Buddhism for Mothers book recommends this strategy for dealing with life's suffering. It is only the end of week 1 but so far I am handling the middle of the night frustrations better than with Emma.
      I have set myself up better this time around, though. I am armed every night in the guest room with the following: small lamp burning relatively bright, hand-held Tetris game, Buddhism for Mothers, record sheets from the hospital for recording times and duration of feedings (plus wet and dirty diaper tallies), pen, burp cloths, pillows, changing table close by, and the list of topics for the nature center preschool program lessons I am writing.  The benefits for this set up are numerous. The most important being that I am able to be more awake and not having to stare at my cozy bed for the entire 40-50 event wishing that I was asleep and thinking dreadful, selfish thoughts about how long the process is taking. The other distractions are a nice way to keep my mind in a pleasant state. I should be practicing mindful awareness but I have some months to get to that point. The list of topics has actually been very worthwhile. I had no idea I could be so creative at 3 in the morning!  I have a lot of ideas and have almost made it half-way through the fall lessons in just a few days.
  Now that I have it all written out, it doesn't sound so bad does it? Maybe the night times really aren't hellish after all...

Cranky Mama

Oh boy. So today is the due date for baby. Aside from some random contractions that started yesterday evening and lasted until around 1 am, there is nothing happening today that I can tell. NO one likes a complainer but I have to say that I have had enough!  My belly has gotten so big that even going to the bathroom is hard and uncomfortable to do. Sleeping is a drag. Leg cramps, my right hip muscles ache constantly and turning over is like actual work that results in painful stomach twangs. So I cried in the shower this morning and am as despondent as the cloudy skies outside my window.

Emma was 11 days early the morning after my water broke. That was such a nice, easy and straightforward beginning and ending to labor and delivery. I fear that once things actually get going with this baby, it will be anything but easy or straightforward. I shouldn't be fretting or anxious because I doubt that helps with the progression of things but I can't help it. Blame it on the pregnancy hormones.

The real funny thing is that a few weeks ago people were already saying, oh it looks like you are ready to go! You won't make it to August. Are you having twins? When I would tell someone my due date that would look at me like I was crazy and say, wow you have a ways to go. Why would I lie about the due date? I would happily have said July something if only that would have made it true.

The waiting isn't just hard on me. Emma is really struggling. Her behavior has been completely out of control at times and the level of sass would have some teenagers taking notes. The other day I told her calmly (for once I kept my cool) that I didn't like her attitude to which she responded, I don't like your attitude. I swear she tilted her head to one side, stuck out the opposite hip and seriously looked 13. I almost laughed.

We have tried recreating what we did the night Emma was born with no luck. I had a doctor's appointment on Wednesday the 8th. There was nothing happening so we had the talk about how long the doc would make we wait for the baby to come. I believe I said, how long will you allow me to stay like this? The doctor said she won't let me go past 42 weeks but that she starts to get nervous around week 41. When she measured my belly (I think it was 43!) she said, yep, baby is done and can come out. Great- make that happen please!  Going all-natural in terms of the beginning of labor tends to be better overall than being induced. So waiting is the better option in general. However, if by next Wednesday there is still no baby, we will pick the date to be induced and also set up some baby monitoring sessions (baby might not be coming out but that doesn't mean baby is happy in my belly). If the monitoring is fine, we wait until the chosen induction date. If baby shows signs of distress, we induce earlier. Now I am all for letting nature do it's thing- in a timely manner!  Come on already.   So I didn't really cry after that appointment but I did talk to a best friend (half of the Emma requirements were satisified by late morning). For dinner we had lemon chicken and veggie fried rice from the Chinese place down the road. That night while laying in bed I willed my water to break to no avail.

The week before on Saturday I think we went to the Olive Garden for dinner. Olive Garden salad dressing has supposedly worked for my sister-in-law and countless women according to her online research. I ate all the drenched lettuce leaves at the bottom of the bowl and that night was hopeful that something magical would happen before I fell asleep. Nothing.

I haven' been very good at walking as a remedy. My feet and ankles are always at least slightly swollen and the only shoes I can fit my fat feet into are flip flops. They do not provide very good support. So I suppose I should stop complaining and start doing something. I just need to get out of this funk! I feel so blue even though I am wearing my favorite green sweater with green earrings and brightly colored glass pendant. Work your magic, green!