Bennie and the Jets

These sunglasses were bought by Iain's sister for Millie. Iain thinks she looks like Verne Troyer in the Geico ads. I would like to think it's more like Bono. I'll resign myself to Elton John circa Bennie and the Jets.

Millie went 6 hours without waking up to eat in the night last night, which means I slept for 5 consecutive hours for the first time in over 5 months. So, why am I still so tired?

Back in the Saddle

Well, Millie and I both managed to survive my first day back to school. There were some tears when I left (all me) and quite a few after I left (both of us). She was a challenge for the babysitter and then a bigger challenge for my husband. Iain said she was hysterical-the hyperventilating, sobbing, gagging kind of hysterical-for a solid hour for him. I called when I got out of teaching my last class a few minutes before 8:00 and she had just gone to sleep. She normally goes down by 7:00 at the latest. I walked through the door to what seemed like a war zone. And, if you know my husband, this is not a good sign. I am the total slob in the pair-he likes everything orderly. How he hasn't divorced my sorry butt over clutter, I don't know. But that's another blog. There were toys all over the place, an empty (finally) bottle on the table, clothes strung around. And he was sitting in a semi-coma on the couch. He couldn't even get her pajamas on-in 18 degree weather she was asleep in a short-sleeved onesie and pants. I don't know who I felt worse for-her or him. I really expected to come home to a clean house, cleaned kitchen, organized play area and a well-fed and well-slept kid because that's how good he is. I guess she gave him a run for his money. I couldn't wait to get home-to hug my husband and baby, to get something to eat and to pump, pump, pump if Millie wasn't awake to eat. The anthropology department at UConn doesn't have a designated cubby hole to pump in. I went to a bunch of handicapped bathrooms, all without a plug. I am not much of one to make a stink, but that is unacceptable. I plan on doing something about that-I had to pump in our dirty arch lab hoping that no one would decide to come in unannounced. That doesn't make for an easy let down.

Anywho, we all lived. And have to do it all again next week and for the next 13 weeks. Millie has her 4 month well visit today. We'll see how my little chunka chunka fairs on the height-weight charts. She's blissfully asleep at the moment. But, I'm sure it won't last long so I should get some schoolwork done.

Back to School

Okay, I am dreading Wednesday. I go back to school. And leave Millile with a babysitter. A babysitter for whom she cried hysterically all afternoon on Friday. Although, she's sick and cried for most of the morning for me, too. But Wednesday is my long day so she'll be with the babysitter for five hours and then Iain, my husband, for another four. Both are perfectly capable of taking care of her and it will ultimately be good for her. Is this convincing? I'm trying to make it convincing. I'm not convinced. She cried so much on Friday that I could hear it in my head when we went to bed and she was asleep. Does that make me nuts? I think it might.

Three of Iain's friends came up tonight and made us dinner and hung out. Two are women he went to highschool with and the third is one of their boyfriends. It was great to see them, it was so kind of them to come up with dinner and all the fixin's, and it was amusing to watch them. They are both thinking about having children. The married one is on the fence and very nervous about the possibility and the other one, who brought her boyfriend, would like children, oh, yesterday. They would both make unbelievable mothers and the boyfriend proved to be a sheer natural, at least with our baby. He fed her rice cereal and she took it like a champ. She did so well up until about 15 minutes before they left, at which point she screamed like a bee was stinging her in the eye.

What if she cries and cries and cries on Wednesday? That's NINE hours of crying. She gets all red and sweaty and hoarse and sad. It breaks my heart to even think about. Sorry...I thought I was done with that thought in the first paragraph. I think I have to go vomit.

What a Spaz

After four very fast months at home with Millie, I will be rejoining the academic world next week. I took the fall semester off to have and stay home with Millie. It's been the best four months of my life, but now I have to face the archaeology music and get back to work. I am so lucky that I have been able to stay home so long, so I need to stop whining about returning. I am writing not really to whine but as a distraction.

I am only in school two days a week, so instead of the dreaded daycare, I hired one of my former students, who I adore, to watch Millie at our apartment. My poor Millie has her first cold and is not terribly comfortable. Not that I would be if someone was shoving a bulb syringe up my nose every few minutes and sucking what feels like my brains out. She has been wicked fussy all day. Now, my poor day care provider came this afternoon to get used to her with me here if I'm needed. I am hiding in my bedroom out of sight, but can still hear her crying. My babysitter is perfectly capable of taking care of her, but so is my husband and I snatch her away from him when she's fussy all the time. It is taking everything in my lactating power not to go out there and get her settled. Not that she hasn't been crying all morning for me, too. I sit her concocting all sorts of excuses to wander out. I don't think I'll last much longer.

Wish You Were Here

One year ago yesterday was the day we found out I was pregnant. What a surprise. I took the test without really thinking I was pregnant. December 19th I woke up around midnight with horrendous pain in my abdomen. After insisting it would go away on its own for two days, my husband dragged me to the hospital. They asked if I was pregnant and I said we were trying, but I didn't think so. They did a dipstick test and it was negative. The stabbing pain was a kidney stone (Merry Christmas to me) and asked again if I was pregnant. They did another test, also negative. I got a healthy dose of radiation from a CT scan and a few days' worth of morphine. It's a miracle Millie doesn't have fins. I had to go back to the urologist two weeks later and get another CT scan. I was a few days late and knew they'd ask if I was pregnant, so I figured I'd take the test just to be able to tell them with certainty that I wasn't. Besides, I had just been to the GYN for my yearly two days before and they SURELY would have picked up on that, right? Ironically, I had to go to the GYN on my 35th birthday-the gift every childless woman wants on their 35th birthday. Anywho, I rolled out of bed on a Sunday morning, peed on the stick, put it on the counter and went about brushing my teeth, trying to figure out how much more toxic sludge had dumped on our toilet seat from the deadbeat landlord's toilet above us-you know, the normal Sunday morning activities. I glanced at the stick and, by God, it was a double line. Convinced I had done it wrong (although how many 15 year olds a year do it right?), I brought it into my sleeping husband to confirm that I wasn't seeing things. Me: Does this have two lines or am I crazy? Iain: What? Me: Does this have two lines? This can't possibly have two lines. Iain: It has two lines.

So, in the vein of being convinced I had done it wrong, we suit up and go to Stop and Shop at 7:30 on a Sunday morning for another test. It was surreal-a light coating of snow was falling and everything was so silent, that silent you get when no one has disturbed the fresh snow. Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here played on the radio for the 2 minute car ride. Neither of us said a word. We went through the check out line with the test, a bag of potatoes and bleach. The cashier wished us luck. On the ride back, Queen's We Are the Champions, ironically enough, was playing. We watched 4 hours of non-stop episodes of Lost, which was our new found obsession at that point, waiting for a good stock of pee to build up. Sure enough, it was two lines again. As was the THIRD test I took three days later. Just to be sure. Because I'm a freak.

I tell the story like it was a bad surprise, but it wasn't at all. Couldn't be farther from the truth. We got married in October of that year and I went off birth control pills, which I had been on for the last 15 years. We figured it would take a while, especially at almost 35. Guess we were wrong. I have never been so happy to be wrong. And a year later, here we are. Millie is in the crib ACTUALLY SLEEPING, which should last all of a half hour, despite her snores through a nose full of mucus. I should be spending the time doing something productive, but here I sit blogging. The new babysitter is coming this afternoon to get acquainted with Millie and her quirks. I go back to school next week. I'm terrified. But that's another blog.

Oh, Sweet Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Millie survived her first Lammi Christmas. We went to Iain's folks' house on the 23rd where it was just his parents, us, his sister, her 4 year old son and her boyfriend and his 6 year old daughter. Relatively quiet. Then on to Pennsylvania to brave the masses. Fourteen people, 5 of them under the age of 8. She and I spent a lot of time in the basement playroom and in our bedroom, her sucking her thumb and wondering when the insanity would come to an end. And me doing the same. Kidding. It was wonderful to see everyone and it is that exact chaos I grew up in that made me who I am. Millie just has only (or first) child syndrome. Poor fragile nerves. She screamed for about 3 of the 5.5 hours it took me to come back to Connecticut. The other 2.5 hours was spent nursing, sleeping (a mere 1.5 hours) and with a quick visit with Iain at work. There's only so long a person can "shhhhh shhhhhh" without losing every last ounce of saliva produced. My favorite is the gagging/vomiting sound she was making while I was driving between Jersey barriers with no place to pull over. That was fun.

So, we got home and she had the raging shits a few times and threw up anything I fed her. She refused to nurse (a first for her), cried and cried and cried, and wouldn't sleep (not a first for her). In the midst of her gigantic scream, Iain and I saw a white thing on her gum line. First tooth? At 3.5 months? She's advanced, but THAT advanced? She responded to the Orajel and Tylenol. I took her to the doctor's yesterday in case she had some sort of mouth fungus rather than a tooth and the doctor found NOTHING. That's right. Nothing. Unless my daughter has a fever of 112 or I have accidentally cut her head clear off, I am not calling the pediatrician again. This is the second false alarm in two weeks. Can you spell h-y-s-t-e-r-i-c-a-l m-o-t-h-e-r? Not that I thought she'd die from teething, but I really just wanted to make sure that's what it was and ask how much was too much Orajel. The doctor thinks the whole thing is traced back to overstimulation. PTSD, as it were. That's not what she called it, but that's what it amounts to. Bad mom.

A word about the above pictures. The first is Millie with her cousin Eli, who is 5 weeks younger than her. He was born 3.5 weeks premature and is working his little heart out to grow and grow. He has the cutest little old man half smile that will just make you melt. Millie looks like the Jolly Green Giant next to him. The one next to it is my folks with their 5 grandchildren. Andrea is on my dad's lap (my oldest brother's 1.5 year old), Eli is next to her, Jorge (my oldest brother's 8 year old son) is holding Raquel (my middle brother's 2 year old daughter and sister to said Eli), and mom is holding Millie who had JUST woken up. The other picture is of Eli, Raquel and Millie wearing matching sleepers my mom bought. She's cute like that. They look like a three-headed monster. Now, add to that 8 adults and you have the perfect recipe for overstimulation. And a memorable holiday.

New Year, New Mouth?

Okay, does this photo make me an abusive mother? How about if you are privy to the added tidbit that I think she's teething and I am torturing her while she's miserable? If she had more digit control, I am fairly certain she'd be flipping me off.

My New Year's resolution: lay off the truck-driver, foul language around Millie. No, let me amend that because that statement is an insult to truck drivers. Having grown up around all boys and never wanting to be left behind simply because of my girly parts, I adopted a dirty, dirty mouth at a shamefully tender age and I have never let it go. It's fun at parties and gets a unique reaction from people who mistakenly think I'm a churchmouse good girl, but I really need to reign it in. Did I spell reign right? Millie doesn't need to know her mother is filthy and I don't want a call three years from now from her pre-school teacher explaining that she's been removed from her class for repeatedly asking to use "the fucking bathroom." It's entirely possible. So, I will give it my best. Although, it's 5:59 on New Year's Day and I have already fucked it up, er, I mean blown it several times. Twenty-five year habits are hard to break. Wish me luck.