Eliza Cockatoo

Yep, that's how we roll in 700 square feet;

bird, baby, what's the dif?

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

This is hard. Really hard.

I have never been one to romanticize 

anything and I certainly didn't romanticize

motherhood while I was pregnant: I knew it 

would be tough and that it would have its ups

and downs.  I just never realized that the downs

would be so down and that the ups would be

few and far between at this stage.

I wish I could say that I feel this way because

I'm sleep deprived but that's not it.  I'm not

sleeping like I did before I had the babe, 

that's for sure, but I'm getting enough sleep 

to function at a fairly normal level.  I 

don't feel physically tired but I must admit 

that I am emotionally drained.

I adore my little tootsie and love her with

all of my heart however every time she

fusses or cries for a not obvious reason, 

a little part of my heart breaks and along 

with it, part of my psyche crumbles.

Babies are so unpredictable and try as

we might to anticipate her needs and keep

her well fed, dry, and secure, our patterns

are not secure and she can throw us for

a loop at will.  Logically, I recognize this

is the way it is and I accept it

but in actuality, I find it unbearable.

Only a few of my friends have ever expressed

my reality of parenting a newborn and so

it's to those friends whom I look for advice and 

comfort, because we seem to be the extreme

minority compared to other mothers who 

proclaim this stage as a magical one in which

the babes do nothing but eat and sleep as

their mommas gaze at them from behind

loving, tender shaded lenses.

My reality is that each night, I cry and

feel pretty worthless.  I worry that I'm going

to turn my husband against me and in turn,

against the baby that rules my life. I live in fear 

that the dreaded C word will rear its unforgiving,

relentless self and take possession of my child.

I agonize over each change in body process,

over each red mark that appears on her 

unblemished, delicate skin.  Is she 

tolerating her formula? Does she have gas?

Is that a rash? Why did she spit up a fraction

of her dinner?  Wait, did she spit up or was that 

just drool? Why is she crying a half an hour 

after her bottle when for the past two weeks,

she's taken it and then fallen into a deep slumber?

Is that a rash or just pimples from resting the

side of her face on the mattress?  

But dammit, it's an organic mattress! 

Many friends have reached out to me in

support and I've used each and every one of 

them as a crutch to get me through this stage; 

without them, I would probably be curled in a corner.

I text messaged my high school bff 22 times

yesterday and at least that many times the day 

before, and the day before that, asking one question 

after another.  I spend hours on the phone each

day with my partner in crime down in Philly

(who has a son a few months older than E);

I grill her on everything baby and ask the

same questions day after day as she patiently

assures me that this too, shall pass.

I confess all of my most horrible thoughts

and feelings to my soulmate Strachan, 

knowing that she won't judge me but will

set me straight when my words turn to melodrama.

I write endless emails to people, pouring out

 my soul and exposing all of my weaknesses

to the point that some of them have

taken to ignoring every third one... 

Last night after I was up consoling E for

an hour or so, I crawled back into bed wide awake

and reached for my iPhone instead of the video monitor

(which yes, I broke down and walked to Target at 8:30 

the other evening in the snow storm to purchase) and

scrolled through some tweets.  As always, there was a 

link to a blog that I religiously read so I opened it, 

only to have my heart sink at its subject matter.

For the next 30 minutes or so, I laid there 

paralyzed: is it possible?  Is there even a remote 

chance that I could end up regretting 

having a child? Because at 3:30 am when

little E won't stop fussing and I'm feeling 

helpless and weepy, and am sick with worry that I'm 

 causing her harm, I wonder if parenting will 

ever improve or if my attempts will always be

ineffective. Because if my best, most selfless

efforts fail to keep this child safe, happy, and healthy,

then I will feel much regret for giving her a life 

that does not live up to the one that I want for her.

But as I mentioned earlier, my logical self

knows that this time will pass.  My hormones

will, eventually, even out and each day, the

sun will shine a few moments longer. I know

that in the future, our love for little E will 

serve her during her darker moments, 

the ones when the hard rain is a-falling.

And for now, I must allow it to serve me as well,

 because I am so in love with my little girl.

The Before, During and After

It began in a snowstorm.

Yes, of all days that I was scheduled to be induced, the blizzard of 2010 had to commence in the wee hours of that morn...

Hoboken was a disaster and when I say disaster, I mean it was its own State of Emergency; not a single road was plowed until the storm had ended Monday night.  Then all hell broke loose and we began our trip to the hospital...

One would think that with the 46% tax increase a few years back, the city would have some money (and the sense not to piss of its residents) to get the plows on the road at the first dusting.  Hmm, is Dawn Zimmer in cahoots with Bloomberg?

I used to think that Hoboken was a civilized oasis in the midst of urban chaos but that was then, this is now; animals, this town.  Animals.

Fortunately, once our hour long exit out of this mile square dropped us into neighboring Weehawken, we were pleased to find that it's a town ruled by logic: "Hmm, Supervisor, I hear there's a big snow storm on its way". "That's right, workers, get out there and start keeping 'em streets clear when you see the first flake!".

Yep, this is probably 1.5 miles from our front door...

Our trip to Ridgewood was speedy and uneventful, save spying a few poor souls who had attempted to use on/off ramps that led to nowhere but giant plow banks of snow.  Upon arrival at Valley Hospital, we were ushered into a birthing room where Matt was plied with sandwiches and treats and I was treated to a string of Cervidil.  Matty got comfy in his pull out chair bed and I took charge of the remote.  Game on.

The next morning, I was awoken bright and early and hooked up to a few more lines: the Pitocin had commenced and for the next 14 hours or so, my darling husband was held captive by my television choices; by fortuitous grace, I caught the beginning of a Bethenny Getting Married marathon and we watched the entire thing.  By the middle of it, Matty was willing to admit that she's damn funny and down to earth.  Hallelujah ! (she is, after all, my idol). 

Unfortunately, my path seemed to mirror hers, because after 25 hours, 14 of those hooked to pitocin, I refused to dilate and just like Bryn Hoppy, Little Eliza Skye LaPointe was delivered via C-section (or as MacDuff tells Macbeth in the final act of the play, she was "from [her] mother's womb [timely] ripp'd") at 8:10 pm.  I will not use the language Matty used to describe the procedure itself but I'll say that from my spinal tapped point of reference, it was the closest to starring in a science fiction film that I'll ever come... but it was all worth it because her head is perfectly shaped... lol.

My recovery, however, was a bit of a disaster, as I left the hospital 8 pounds heavier than when I entered and by my second day home, my swelling had increased to a disastrous proportion (thanks to 4 days hooked to an IV and the surgery itself). I could barely move or get in and out of bed without Matt's help; when I did walk, I had to drag a leg behind me - very attractive and practical for a new mother with a tiny infant to care for.

This is mild compared to how it got...

Yep, those early days were a nightmare: there's nothing worse than not being able to physically take care of your baby.  Matty did almost all of the feedings and changings for days; thank goodness he was off work for a week and a half or I would have gone out of my mind.  There were moments, like when the right side of my body swelled to twice the size of the left, that I honestly thought I wouldn't make it.  I was convinced I had a blood clot -the hospital had warned that I should notify my doctor immediately if the swelling grew "uneven"... hmm, 2:1 is pretty uneven... but luckily, despite the unbalanced bloat, I was fine. 

Monday was my two week check up and I'm happy to report that I was finally able to wear socks! And my Uggs slipped on instead of having to be forced over my former Stay Puff Marshmallow Man feet! Dr. Rooney surveyed the incision and reported that I am the only gal who's managed to remove the glue that covered the opening on my own, which is apparently a good thing (and considering there was a box labeled "scalpel" pulled out when I entered the examining room, I'm glad I am good at glue removal, too, even though I haven't ever done as much as look at the incision area).  

Matt is a superstar dad who enjoys feeding her immensely and tolerates changing her when I'm not around... he wouldn't mind that part at all except that is the only time that The Cheeks (as we've affectionately taken to calling her until she's old enough to hate us for it) is taken to screaming bloody murder on the changing table.  Who thought it was a good idea to design baby clothing that requires one to shove a small, soft head through a smaller, more rigid opening?  

Her fussing doesn't bother me, though, because I know that she may look like her father but like her mother, she is drawn to the dramatic and is just practicing for her first time on stage when she'll hopefully  play the role of the doomed ingenue!

And so, that's that.  I'll leave you with a pic of the Cheeks, taken by Celine Marie Photography whom many of you will recognize as my former partner in crime over at Life as We Blog It and who also shot my amazing wedding photos in Scotland.

Gotta go check on The Cheeks; hopefully, the crack swing has done its job and I can pop her back in her crib and catch some shut eye!

My Severed Self

Parenthood is such a mixed bag;

I adore Miss Chubby Cheeks because

 not only is she gorgeous and sweet,

she's ours.  The best part of this whole 

gig is the relationship between Matt 

and this little human who depends on us.

Little girls love their dads and I'm so 

glad I have given her the perfect pop;

the rewards are great and endless.

But to achieve greatness, one must sacrifice

and that's the part of parenting that is tough.

During the day, I'm full of joy and confidence

and parent happily; sacrifice comes easy 

during those light filled times.  But at night,

I feel like a severed self: detached from the

me of just weeks ago, from the life I used to 

live here at Headquarters, the one that 

consisted of just Matty, me and Pinks.

I'm willing to sacrifice anything in my 

present and future for my daughter happily

and without regret however it's 

yesterday's sacrifice that comes

back under the cover of darkness

and haunts me each evening.  

I can't pretend that I don't miss the old me

and acknowledging that fills me with guilt but

I'm not going to lie.  If there's one thing I 

can't tolerate, it's the lies perpetuated by moms

who are too afraid to tell the truth or whom

refuse to admit it to themselves and one another. 

I wish people had been more open with me

about their genuine experiences instead of

saying, "oh, don't worry - the minute the babe

is placed in your arms, you'll be so overwhelmed 

with love that you'll forget all of the bad stuff".

Well, I haven't forgotten and I won't forget 

and yes, I may be overwhelmed but love for

my daughter is only part of the whirlwind.

 I plan to be open and honest about my

experiences so that other women like me 

can, perhaps, allow my words to serve as a 

guide to help them through their experience.

Luckily, a dawn follows every dusk and 

new days bring new joys. I may be

severed from my old self but my new self

is firmly tethered to my best work yet:

Presenting Miss Chubby Cheeks, 2011

Hold On To These Moments As They Pass...

"The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl..."

This year WILL be better than the 

last because we found the pearl.

Baby in a One Bedroom

Life since Eliza has been amazing but I gotta admit that living in a one bedroom flat with a newborn is tough.  Currently, the only space to house her crib is the bedroom because that's the only space in our place that has a spot that the kitty can't access (every where else in the house has a surface Pinks can jump onto and then into, that is, if she wanted to.  Personally, I don't think she has much interest, however it is a consideration and a strong one at this point.

I never wanted the crib in the bedroom (the only co-sleeping arrangement I'm interested in is the one between myself and my husband) but with that as easiest option at this point, we've gone with it.  

Matty needs his sleep whereas sleep has never been one of my priorities: I don't require too much sleep and only crash when I push its boundaries to extremes.  But Matt's the one who is working right now and, well, needless to say, having the crib in the bedroom is not working out.

We've tried several approaches to this situation and have formulated many game plans in the week she's been home to try and ensure we all get some sleep.  We try to put her down in our room around 8; we've established a little ritual to soothe her and let her know it's bedtime.  We turn on her ocean sound machine and flick on the dimmest little nightlight, (which took FOREVER to find because apparently, they are no longer in vogue - screw you, Target, for making us run to Home Depot!) 

Once she's in her crib, we then stay up and try to find some semblance of our former selves by watching DVR, Facebooking, bill paying, Booyaaing Jim Cramer, making out on the couch (ha! you believed that one for a minute, didn't you...) until we go to bed around 11.  We change into our nightclothes in the living room (well, Matt pulls on sweats and I go to sleep in whatever pajamas or yoga pants I've been wearing all day, along with my umphteen layers of sports bras, Belly Bandits, compression tanks, etc. and we sneak in to bed. The room is already prepared for our arrival: the bed is turned down, Pinks' treats are within easy reach, my series of leg elevating pillows are in place, our phones are charged and on nightstands (or under pillows), and my meds are sorted.

At that point, E is usually asleep making her little baby noises; they comfort me by reminding me that I've kept her alive another day but they make Matt a little crazy because, you see, he can't stand noise of any kind unless it's a television or sporting event.  On Saturday mornings when I used to write at the opposite end of the flat, if I forgot to shut the bedroom door tightly, the sound of the keyboard would drive through him like someone was tapping out Morse Code on his skull.

Today (um, it's sometime in the early morning hours right now) is Matty's first day back to work and so of course, everything got all banged up last night: we've been lucky that her schedule has matched the one we want for her, but that changed today and we had to improvise.... which means that I had to ignore Matt's protestations and insist he go to bed and shut the door while I stayed with her in the "outer realm" until I was sure she was asleep.  He did so reluctantly and no doubt felt terribly selfish, which is certainly one character trait he does not possess.

This can't continue every night; we need to crack this one-bedroom-living-with-an-infant code because I don't want to be locked out.  He needs to sleep but I need to be with my husband because, well, I just do.  I love him.

But while I'm confined to the outer realm, I'm trying to make use of the time here. One positive is that I have begun my own version of professional development via YouTube.  In the past hour, I have a). learned how to use a baby aspirator and in turn, found some sick satisfaction in sucking out all of her boogies and b). despite my usual inability to follow directions, after several viewings and a bit of trial and error, I figured out how to use a Moby Wrap (which is where she is soundly snoozing right now). Not only that, I cleaned the kitchen, too, and am now enjoying the sound of the dishwasher (I have an obsession with making sure that every dirty dish is clean when I awake each morning) while I catch up on email and my internet life.

Later today, I'll find a solution to this problem because I am goal oriented and to be honest, need a sense of accomplishment to get me through this first day alone with the baby.

Because remember how I said that I don't require much sleep and that it only catches up on me when I push it to extremes?  

Well, 17 hours of sleep spread out over 6 days just may be the start of my breaking point.

Puppies, Anyone?

My bff just bred the most adorable puppies and is offering them to excellent homes for a fantastic price; I say this because I know how much she paid for their momma and it was over twice the amount she's asking (why? Let's just say she didn't expect Jesse to have a litter of eight and would love to see them homed soon)!

You can check them out here