Baby steps

We're at the playground on one of the first nice days we've had in what seems like forever, shaking off the fever, both cabin and viral, and slathering sunscreen. The bigger kids are playing make believe by the swings and climbing like monkeys on the aptly named bars. They're sliding down slides warmed by the sun and running through the slightly damp sandbox as fast as their coltish legs will carry them, golden locks trailing behind. CC looks on with longing, not quite satisfied with the mulch she's playing with, too small to run after her big sister. Too small to do pretty much anything within the confines of the fenced area. She doesn't like the feel of the sand on her bare legs today or the taste of it after she absentmindedly chews on a green plastic shovel, so she's crawled over to a shady spot under a tree where we sit and watch the glory unfold together. A small sigh escapes from her pink bow lips.

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The distance between the table leg and the drawer her sister is digging through is only about four feet but may as well be a mile. She holds on to the leg with one hand, the other willing the plastic containers and odd lid into her chubby fist, each colorful bowl like the Holy Grail. She lets go and takes one step, then two, then down on her diapered rump she falls. Instead of crawling to the drawer she crawls back to the table leg and tries again. This time she only makes one step before plopping down on the floor. Then again. And again. The most she manages is four steps before she gives up. Her sister, in a rare moment of kindness, brings her a purple rubber lid and a wooden spoon.

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She's getting the hang of this walking thing - Step, step, step, thump. Step, step, step, thump. She doesn't give up, she doesn't stay down - Step, step, step, thump. Step, step, step, thump.

I cheer quietly from behind her.

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From twenty feet away they spot me in the crowded airport and she tries in vain to wiggle free from her father's arms. He puts her down on the industrial carpet and through a sea of people busy rushing here and there she walks toward me, small arms waving wildly over her head like an orangutan, a big smile on her face because she knows she's accomplishing something amazing. It's hard not to notice the amused looks on the people's faces around us, the appreciative stares from older parents and the childless alike, but my eyes are on her while my heart threatens to burst with pride. I throw my arms wide to catch her as she propels toward me. I can barely keep the happy tears from pouring from my eyes. She is a wonder; a perfect, tiny human being with the zeal and moxie of someone ten times her size. She is ready to take on the world. She couldn't be more pleased with herself. I couldn't love her more if I tried.

Lopsided

I think I can say with almost 100% certainty that CC is now officially weaned.

*throws salt over shoulder*

*knocks wood*

*beats on a rabbit's foot with a horseshoe*

After ten months of exclusive breastfeeding and then slowly and painstakingly trying to get her to accept a bottle on a regular basis, it's time.

My goal with CC was one year, which is two weeks from now, and I will admit that date is purely selfish. I'm done. I'm ready to have my breasts back, though admittedly much more beaten and battered than they were a year ago, and I want to wear a bra with no snaps on the cup. I want to tuck in a shirt if the mood should strike. I want to not have a small, rabid badger hanging from my nipples by her teeth.

Yeah, CC is a biter. Moving on.

I have to admit though, it happened a lot more quickly than I imagined it would. I figured she'd fight me for months, so I started a couple of weeks ago in preparation for going to Blogher in July. It must have coincided with a growth spurt because my supply didn't seem to be enough for her and she finally realized that taking a bottle? Not such a bad thing after all. Did you know milk came out of these things? Lots of it? Who knew?? You'd think we were holding out on her.

So consequently, I'm in a bit of pain. Not to mention she favored one breast over the other... and I'll leave the rest to your imagination. And for the record, you're disgusting. Stop thinking about my boobs.

With Chicky I didn't have an end date in mind, I figured we'd go as long as we could and that would be that. However, she was very different from her little sister in that she took a bottle at five months. The weaning happened naturally, organically (if you can call it that, using non-BPA free plastic bottles), and over much time and on her first birthday, when we were down to one nursing session a day, she simply pushed me away, gestured to her crib, and went to sleep. That was, in fact, that.

If I had known then it was the last time I would have tried to remember it all. I was much more sentimental about the whole process with Chicky. With CC, I'm more practical and I think it's because she has always been so practical in her approach to nursing. She never really nursed for comfort and toward the end she barely nursed for sustenance. She's just not interested in working for it or sitting still long enough because there are places to go, people to see and other, more dangerous things to put in her mouth.

But my baby girl is a creature of habit. I would bring her to bed and we would have to sit down and have a little nummy nummies session (for the record, I never called it nummy nummies, I'm just sick of writing "nursing"). She would lay there biting and chewing and hitting (she was always a hitter as well as a biter and next week I'm signing my almost one year old up for kickboxing classes. By three she should be ready for Ultimate Fighting.) and then she'd freak out because my let down was too slow for her liking. Almost every day it was the same. It's no wonder I was ready to be done with this breastfeeding thing.

However, I do feel like I should be as sentimental about the whole business of weaning CC as I was with Chicky. She's my last baby. No more feeding a little person from my bosom. No more sweaty head in the crook of my arm while little hands flutter around my chest. I don't think I even got any pictures of me nursing her...

Okay, now I'm weepy. Also, leaky. And I smell like cabbage.

What I said about not being nostalgic about weaning? Disregard please.

Cookie Puss - the only slightly less edible kind

The writer's block is lifting. I know, you're thrilled. Try to contain yourself.

So why am I not writing? Uh... I actually have quite a bit to blog about now but there are big things brewing (Big, people. BIG) and I just don't have the time to write anything of any substance.

So instead - BABY PICTURES!

(Otherwise known as, Jesus, this woman has enough time to take pictures of her kids but not enough time to write? And to you I say, Yeah.)

Have you met my baby? I call her Cookie Puss.

Heavy emphasis on the cookie...


... Not that the rest of her isn't delicious too, because I have never known a baby to be this yummy.

Tell me you don't have the urge to stick your face into that roll between her cheeks and her neck and live there for awhile and I'll call you a puppy kicking/grandma slapping/baby hating fascist. And then I'll demand that you smell her because she smells like cookies too.

Believe me, one whiff and you'll be turned into a powerless puddle of goo in her little hand. I'm relieved this blog isn't scratch and sniff because I don't want to be included in the downfall of the American economy. Bailouts, bad loans, greedy corporations and cookie scented baby cheeks. Come to think of it, never mind. She doesn't really smell that good. Nothing to see here. Move along...

(More baby cheeks for me. Nom nom nom.)

(Also, am shameless Mommyblogger type shamelessly using cute baby as a shameless ploy to get out of writing anything of substance. Shameless. And I could really give a damn.)

(Big things, people. BIG.)

Kicking the Bucket

It's the end of an era. Over the weekend we put away CC's SnugRide infant car seat - otherwise known as "The Bucket" - and swapped it for the car seat she will use for the next three years of her life. I'd be lying if the process didn't make me a little weepy.

Okay, quite a bit weepy.

Okay, fine. I may or may not have shed a tear over a car seat. Happy?

What did make the tears actually flow past my lids, as far as you know, was putting away tiny cotton baby pants in size Newborn and 0-3 months. Wee little pants, they'll bring down even the toughest cookie. And when that cookie is crumbly because her baby is growing and there will be no more babies after this one... Oh Christ, I'm choked up just thinking about it.

Also, Mmmm... Cookies.

Maybe it's her age, but now that CC is almost 8 months I've been asked a number of times recently if we're done having kids. Let me lay this idea to rest right now - Oh yes, we're done. Two and through, as the saying goes. The procedure has been scheduled. And by "Procedure", I mean Mr. C is going to have his man parts surgically altered. The ol' snip-snip. Snipper-ino. Ain't no fish swimming down that river no more because the beaver done dam it up. I guess that makes me the beaver? Or does it make the doctor the beaver? Probably me, that makes more sense. Either way, it's wrong that I'm taking some satisfaction in my husband finally taking some of the pain for once, isn't it?

Anyway. As I was saying.

I got reflective when I put away the baby clothes the first time when Chicky grew out of them but now that it's CC, my last baby, it's way worse. How much worse? I'm glad you asked. I actually said to Mr. C the other day, "We could always adopt another".

Yeah, he said No. Which is why I married him, he saves me from myself.

The way I see it, I should probably just leave the clothes where they are for the time being. If not, the poor man will come home from his "Procedure" to a new puppy. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Just the thought of the greeting between the two of them made me giggle.

Get it? Dogs like to sniff crotches? His nethers will be covered with a bag of frozen peas? Dogs also like food? There would be an exuberant greeting? Jeez, I birthed two babies and lived with stitches, sitz baths and hemmorhoids. Work with me here, people. I'm hormonal.

Sigh

Sometimes breastfeeding really sucks

I nursed Chicky for a full year. After delivering C.C., the nurses apparently took that information to mean that I was an old pro at this breastfeeding thing, which couldn't be farther from the truth, and only offered me minimal help and advice. To be fair, while in the hospital C.C. seemed to take to nursing like a fish to water but since being home she's gotten a little lazy. Her latch is good but her mouth seems too... Small? Not to downplay things but nursing is not going well.

Oh, the pain!

A couple of days ago it got so bad that I was literally screaming into pillows to muffle my cries. I bit into the pillows too. Anything to keep from punching my poor husband in the balls for putting me back into this position.

We're working through things but it's still very painful and if I read one more website that says if I'm nursing my baby properly it won't hurt I may very well start writing threatening emails to the La Leche League complete with pictures of my bleeding nipples (sorry, too much info? It had to be said. It's just not cool to find blood in your breast pads.).

And to add insult to injury we're going through a horrible heat wave in this part of the country and that always seems to bring about a raging case of mastitis when coupled with a less than perfect latch. I went through this a number of times with Chicky but it never gets easier to deal with, does it?

I just need to know one thing - If nursing is so natural then why is it so damn hard?

One of those times when Madison Avenue totally got it right

A baby does change everything.

Case in point - I have a blog? Who knew?

And people sleep? At night? Really?

And and... Boobs aren't normally ready to spontaneously fall off and crawl away in painful defeat? Mine were once free of the hungry badger that now hangs off them? Gah-aawwn.

And and and... There once was a time when I didn't have this beautiful, perfect little human being in my life? I really can't remember it.

Our new girl, C.C. as she will be referred to henceforth (or until I get sick of that nickname and decide to change it), is a champion daytime sleeper and a party animal at night. She is a blue ribbon nurser who has shred my poor nipples to bits with her improper latch but we're working on that. She is the new love of my life but has created her own spot in my heart instead of pushing her sister from her perch. I'm truly lucky.





And more than just a little stir crazy. I can work on that.

I don't rest well but this time, with this baby, I am forcing myself to stop and enjoy and take care of myself and her. That is very different for me.

But change is good, right? Okay, sometimes it's good and sometimes it freaks me right the heck out but in this case it's very good.

However, you should probably ask me again tomorrow.

Sweet Caroline

Better late than never...

We'd like to introduce you to our latest, if not more than fashionably late, addition to the family. 8lbs 4oz, 20 1/2 inches long, and one fantastic faux hawk in the making. Mom, Dad and baby are doing well while Chicky spends time with her grandparents, being allowed to eat chocolate covered donuts and being spoiled rotten.

And all was as it should be. For now...

Boy Crazy? I prefer Girl Power

Back when I was a much younger woman and I was dating the guy who would become my first husband, his father loved to talk about his future grandchildren.

"Three boys! You have to have at least three kids and they all have to be boys. My son needs to carry on the family name. He's the last one. Three boys. Do you hear me? Three BOYS!"

I always hated that with a red hot fiery passion of 10,000 suns. As much as I cared for my ex-father in law, if looks could kill he would have been worm food a long time ago. I'm fairly surprised I didn't put him in the hospital since he said it so much and I have a pretty awesome death stare.

As luck would have it, the second time I married it was also to a man who was the last male in his family to carry on the paternal name. One huge difference - though he would have loved to have a son, and his father would love to have a grandson, I've never once felt any serious pressure to produce a male heir. Yet another reason why I'm still married to a man who has a physical aversion to light switches and cabinet doors. That and the fact that he'll do a mean soft shoe, naked, when I can't sleep. Works every time.

When Chicky was born there was much celebrating. A girl! How wonderful! A perfect little angel (Ha!) to fawn all over. Then we took our time deciding whether or not to have another and family members started to realize there was a good chance we wouldn't. Again, no pressure. Thinly veiled disappointment, but no pressure.

When we got pregnant this time, besides the behind the scenes dance of joy I'm sure my mother in law did once she realized our daughter would finally have a sibling, both our families convinced themselves this child would be a boy. A man child to carry on Mr. C's family name. A man child for my father to play catch with and teach how to write his name in the snow. Imagine their surprise when I told them about our ultrasound results.

I swear to God, Mohammed, and Snuggle the Fabric Softener bear, their faces fell. Even my dear, sainted Nana who knits and bakes cookies and never has a bad word to say about anyone looked disappointed. And when your Nana is disappointed, well, that hurts man.

Since then I've been asked by everyone, including the man at the full service gas station, what the sex of this baby is and I've been met with the same response once they realize we already have one girl. For instance, when the before mentioned gas attendant heard it was a girl, he said "So, next one will be boy. You keep trying, yes? You must have boy."

He's Middle Eastern. His English is not perfect but his intent was clear. I have girls. Surely I wanted a boy? Surely my husband would want to keep knocking me up until a male heir was produced?

Uh, no. Not really. I'm pretty happy with two girls, thankyouverymuch. Mr. C, he still badly wants a boy but knows that no amount of liquor or jewelry would make me have a third child after the hell I went through gestating the last two and he seems okay with that. I can deal with all those people of the world who believe a family is not complete until a child is produced who has his own lovie to play with as long as my husband is as secure with it as I am. Besides, with one man in the family and one male dog, there is certainly enough penis love around here.

And then my father, who admittedly is not a person I would ever assign the distinction of "Being sensitive to other people's feelings", but a man who had the good sense to always remind me that he was very happy to have two girls of his own and never desired to have a son, said to me,

"You're going to try again to have a boy, right?"

I'm fairly certain my eyes popped out of my skull right before the steam rose from my ears. Et tu, Father?

This world we live in is boy crazy. We are all male obsessed and if you, as a parent, don't want to jump on the boy bandwagon then obviously there's something wrong with you. I mean, I have the feeling my husband's colleagues and friends will look upon him with some pity because he never produced the coveted man child and that's really unfair. When are we going to get over this idea that a boy is necessary to produce the perfect family? Or, on the flip side of the coin, if a man and woman have two sons, do we have to pity the mother for never getting the daughter she so obviously wants?

You caught the sarcasm there, right?

Am I sensitive about this? Okay, maybe a little. I am a bit hormonal and cranky these days. But it seems horribly unfair for others to assume that just because my children don't have penises they are somehow second class, that we really did want a boy but the fates conspired to have us only produce female children. We're not living in China here, people. Girls can do everything that boys can do. They can even write their name in the snow with a little practice. And I don't know about baby #2, but Chicky is turning out to be quite the tomboy. A tomboy in pink, but still a baseball loving, soccer crazed, run around and get dirty tomboy.

So hear this, World - I am about to have another daughter and I couldn't be happier. Two frilly, pink sparkly tutu wearing, drama queens in the making... Who just might be the next President of the United States or the first female first basewoman on the Boston Red Sox. And I will never once wish one of them was a boy.

Even when they start dating.

The Nap Nazi

I am a Nap Nazi.

To put a finer point on it, actually I'm a Sleep Nazi. I am insane about making sure my kid gets her sleep. It is as important to me as making sure Chicky has a balanced diet to eat and lots of milk and water to drink. It is as important to me as making sure she knows how much I love her. In my house Love = Sleep. If you're tired and cranky, you're more difficult to like. Simple as that.

After four and a half long months of fighting with a colicky infant who Just. Would. Not. Sleep. Already. For the love of all that is good and holy, please sleep. Just sleep. Mommy really needs you to SLEEP. PLEASE....

Ahem.

...we broke down, threw out the No Cry Sleep Solution book and others of its ilk, picked up the Weissbluth Bible (as I refer to it) and sleep trained Chicky.

My lawd, I need a nap. Can someone help me out with that? Where's that boob thing that makes me sleepy?

It wasn't that easy, of course. I cried. Mr. C paced. I would call him at work in the middle of the day while I was trying to get Chicky to nap just to have him talk me off the ledge, so to speak. And in about a week, Chicky was out of our bedroom, where she had slept, when she slept, mainly on my chest for most of those 120-plus days, having decided the co-sleeper was just not good enough for her, and in her own crib. In her own room. With her own door shut.

Praise Jesus and pass the wine.

She slept there, finally, for every nap and every night. It didn't matter to me how it happened. The important thing was that she slept. And I didn't care if she woke up once or twice during the night for a quick feeding and I had to leave the comfort of my bed to go to her. She went back to sleep on her own and I got more than a fifteen minute stretch of uninterrupted sleep as well.

Now, some consider CIO cruel and I will freely admit it's not for every child. But I, looking back on it with a clearer head (from all those Zz's I've been getting), think the way she was living in those early days to be far worse. Chicky just did not know how to sleep. She stimulated easily. The stars and moon and all the planets, not to mention the wind direction, position of the sun, light blocking shades, and just the right amount of white noise, all had to be aligned perfectly for her to fall into a peaceful sleep. To this day, whenever Mr. C and I see an infant spontaneously fall asleep we still can't believe his or her parents didn't slip a mickey into the baby bottle. Babies sleep? All on their own? No freaking way! Who knew?

It only took about a week for Chicky to learn that sleep was a good thing. A very good thing. And almost immediately, her whole demeanor changed. She was happy and rested and she didn't have bags under her eyes anymore. She ate better. She was finally an all around pleasant being to be around. Which was in sharp contrast to her first few months of life when, if you looked at her cross-eyed, she'd scream like you were poking her with needles.

See?? Bags! Under my baby's eyes! They're as big as mine! Almost.

Now she sleeps like a dream. We have our battles, but I can deal with those. I like to think it's because we've been so consistent about her sleep habits. She's only spent one night in our room, in our bed, since she turned five months, and that was a total disaster. If she is ill, Mr. C or I will gladly get up and go check on her. We have a video monitor in her room so we can gauge how much she really needs us to go to her before we mistakenly interrupt her slumber, confusing sleep sounds with distress. And I make sure her bedtimes are relatively consistent and naps are enforced. The girl needs her sleep, and as her mom I make sure she gets plenty of it.

It's worked out really well so far.

However...

I am well aware that this method, at that particular time in her life, worked well for Chicky. I am aware that I'm lucky that at three years of age she still naps fairly regularly. And though I am tied to my house for at least three hours every afternoon, I am not willing to postpone naps for more than a day at a time, for fear she might start thinking she doesn't need them as much as before. She does need them. She's a bear without a nap. Hell, I need them. I'm a bear without her nap.

Hence the Nap Nazi title I have no problem embracing.

With Baby #2 on the way, I'm terrified it won't work out this way again. Maybe next time I'll get a newborn that will easily nod off but will resist all sleep training entirely as an infant. Like my Sister in Law's oldest son who would scream for hours if left in his crib to try to CIO. Sleep training did not one bit of good for him. There was not much sleep to be had in that house for the first couple of years of his life.

That scares the bejeebus out of me.

It's moments like this, when Chicky is sleeping soundly in her new big girl bed, having made the easy transition from her crib, and I have a few quiet moments to myself that I wonder what I've gotten myself into. We've got it pretty good now and I decided to get pregnant again and throw a monkey wrench into the works. True, a cute monkey wrench that smells of newborn baby head (because if the first one is any indication, Mr. C and I make some damn cute babies. Good smelling ones, too.), but our whole life will go back to what it once was. Hopefully for just a short time, but still...

Trust me when I say it wasn't the hat that made her scream like that. We threw it on her after the screaming had begun for our own sleep deprived amusement.

It makes me twitch just thinking about it. The same reoccurring twitch I had whenever Chicky screamed as an infant.

Old fears die hard. With the next one I'll know better what to expect but I don't think that will make it any easier. Just less of a shock. Hopefully, when it's all said and done I'll have an extra set of stripes to add to my Nap Nazi uniform and a second child who sleeps like the first one does. I'll probably have a few more wrinkles. And a few more gray hairs. And a few extra centimeters added to the bags under my eyes...

Ugh. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

Back off - I'm pregnant, my ankles are swelling, and I have a credit card and I'm not afraid to use it.

The nesting instinct is hitting me pretty hard right now. As we speak, I have a painter attacking all the trim in my house as well as painting a few rooms from top to bottom and carpet installers finishing up what will soon be the new baby's room. If I was physically able to move furniture you can bet your bippy I'd have that room set up the way I wanted by this evening. The fact that I can't is only heightening my need to get everything finished. Finished like five minutes ago, not a couple of days from now. And the fact that everything isn't done and ready to receive a baby tomorrow is really freaking me out.

And, yes, I know the baby probably isn't coming tomorrow. Details, details. Does that really matter to a pregnant woman?

We were more prepared for Chicky's arrival. By this time in my last pregnancy I had had my baby shower and her room was painted and almost ready to go. It's of little consequence that she never actually slept in that room until four months after she was born. It was finished and that's what mattered to me. Pregnant and postpartum women don't make any sense and I see it as my duty to continue being as irrational as possible this time around. How often in my life will I get a free pass for being bat shit crazy?

This baby is coming in seven weeks, give or take a few days, like it or not. I don't have even one pack of newborn diapers so that puts me firmly in the not liking it column.

When preparing for Chicky, I relied heavily on the advice of family. However, I was not, unfortunately, completely happy with the choices they made for me when it came to baby gear. Baby stuff is so much cooler than it was 30 years ago. More expensive, but way neater. I won't go out and buy a whole new cache of stuff for this kid but I do want to supplement what I have with a few key pieces that will make my last experience with an infant (as a mother) better than my experience with Chicky. When I ran around like my head was on fire, trying to find just the right baby sling to carry my colicky, high needs infant.

I never did find that sling, just a host of crappy ones I forced myself to use. Because running back and forth to baby stores with a colicky newborn? Not my idea of a rollicking good time.

If you were buying a gift for a good friend's baby shower, what would you buy her? What type of sling would you recommend? Was there anything you just could not live without when raising your own babies? Dammit, I'm 8 months pregnant and I have a credit card and my husband knows I'll bite his head off if he even dares look at me sideways for using it. I'm never going to get this chance again, so help me out.

What favorite item of baby gear would you recommend to me?

Labor part 4 - The longest two hours of my life.

Relive it all again! Here's Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.

--------------------------------------------

Labor is hard. If it wasn't we'd have another name for it. Like "Picnic" or "Party" or something equally pleasurable in comparison, like "Clipping alligator clamps to your nipples and turning on the attached 12 volt battery until you scream like a little girl".

My labor was more difficult than some, less than others. It probably fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum of sucktitude. Toward the end Chicky, the still unborn fetus, was showing signs of distress and there was concern that the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. But my girl, the champ she is, pressed on through all of that. It was what came after that really made me question whether I ever wanted to do it all over again.

My baby came out blue and not crying. Not at all like they show it on the Lifetime channel. She was covered in this icky greenish brown goo. And one doctor said to the other, "Is it terminal?"

Chicky, the girl who took her sweet time making her way out of my female slip and slide, was covered in meconium when she was at last pulled forcibly from me. She was given the once over, and then the twice over. And then while the doctors (yes, plural) conferred and the nurses ran around like the proverbial chickens with their heads cut off, the word "terminal" was uttered again.

A blue baby, not crying. The word "terminal". Not a good way to begin.

I did not hear any of this, there was something else going on at the time. Something like delivering the placenta. Who knew that would take so much effort?

But Mr. C heard it. And while I begged to see my child, to hold her finally and check all her fingers and toes, he put on a brave face and decided not to mention that tidbit to me. Smart man.

Now, those of you who have heard that word used before in relation to meconium know where I'm headed with this. The word terminal when applied to meconium is not as bad as it sounds. Terminal meconium is actually a somewhat common phrase and fairly banal. I actually don't know the reason why it's used (that's what I get for never going to medical school) but we've been assured that it's not as frightening as it sounds. But we didn't know this and when you're a new dad and you hear the word terminal being used to describe your brand new baby girl... Well, you can cut my husband some slack for freaking out.

He later called her sister, the doctor, in Minnesota to bitch out the entire medical community for even using such a term without explaining it to new parents beforehand. She agreed it's pretty scary.

Uh... Yeah.

Long story slightly shorter, the goo was not found in the amniotic fluid and Chicky hadn't swallow any. She was handed over to a nurse and all but she rushed out of the room to attend to a woman and her unborn child who were possibly dying in the next room. And though I understand this had to be done, it still kind of sucked to be left with just one nurse to attend to everyone. The poor woman was so flustered things kind of fell between the cracks.

7 pounds, 7 ounces. 21 inches long. And long, skinny chicken legs. That's my girl.

From my bed I could see my baby in her plastic box lying, presumably, under the burger warming lights. I could see her squirm and her fists flail but I could not hold her. The nurse was so busy attending to me, and all the blood I had lost, that she decided it was a bigger priority to fix me up then to give me my child to finally hold.

And then we all found out she had forgotten to turn on the billirubin lights. Poor Chicky, she was supposed to be warming up like a nice Big Mac but she was shivering instead.

Okay, I don't know that last part for sure but you can see how my imagination might go there.

I'm really cold and I'm really hungry and I'm really not pleased with the service around here. Something tells me I'd be better off at Wendy's.

A rational person might say "Hey, maybe you should have been allowed to hold your baby and let the warmth of your body warm her up." But rationality was ditched, the burger lights were turned on, and I continued to ask for my child.

For TWO HOURS.

I did not touch my baby, not even a tiny fingernail, for over two hours. The two longest hours of my life.

We didn't know enough to demand her. To just take her out of the damned plastic box and hold her. We trusted in the nurse to do right by us and our daughter. If this ever happens again, we'll know better.

Hold the onions, m'kay? Thanks.

Let this be a lesson to you kids, have an advocate in the room with you. Hire a doula or a midwive. I decided to have Mr. C (naturally) and my sister assist me in my delivery, and I would never go back and change that, but the rules of the hospital where we delivered was two people per mom to be in the room. End of story. No room for a doula in there. If I had a do-over I'd do more homework since between the three of us we had never so much as been present at the birth of a gerbil. Talk about flying blind.

I do trust in the hospital where we had Chicky. I trust they are more than capable and we'll be delivering there again. Circumstances, unfortunately, got in the way. I think, although I'm not 100% certain, that the mother and child in the next room survived. That's got to count for something.

I certainly think so.

The next two days were filled with the highest highs and the lowest lows. I was thrilled with my baby, who obviously was the most beautiful baby to ever have sprung forth from a woman's hoo ha, but recover was tough for me. I passed out being transferred from the delivery bed to the wheelchair. Lost too much blood, blahdee blahdee blah. I didn't expect the pain of recovery to be as bad as it was. I wasn't prepared for doctors to agonize over the birthmark on Chicky's lower back, wondering if it was a sign of spinal damage.

(It wasn't. Though they did tell me we could have it removed. You know, in case she ever wanted to wear a bikini one day and we might be concerned she'd feel self conscious about it. She will and we won't be. They obviously didn't see the giant strawberry birthmark on my upper left thigh. No elective plastic surgery just yet, 'kay?)

And Chicky and I were not exactly a match made in breastfeeding heaven. She was lazy, I was incompetent. I will always wonder if those two hours made a difference in that. If she had just been handed over to me immediately upon being given a clean bill of health, would we have had an easier time?

I guess we'll never know.

But she was the most beautiful baby in the world. And here we are, doing it again. Mr. C and I will know better next time but most importantly we'll know to speak up for our child. Hopefully it will go smoother.

Next time I'll make sure my hair looks better.

(Don't look at my hair, look at the baby. Oh, the baby. The wee baby with the cute pink cheeks. Yes the baby.)

Someday people will start believing me when I speak

Before I had Chicky I was convinced I wanted a boy. I grew up a tomboy and still enjoyed things like sports and a good noogie from time to time, so naturally I would have a boy.

And even though I knew from conception that my baby would be a girl I was still surprised when we got the ultrasound results. A girl? Me? Really? Uh, what do I do with it?

I've gotten used to having a girl, I will admit. I love my girl. I love almost everything about her. I could do without the crazy mood swings and the teenage angst that is sure to come our way, but the girl clothes? C'mmmon. How can you not love a pair of boots with fuzzy pom poms? I only wish they came in my size.

Way back when I predicted another girl child for the Chicky family. Apparently everyone else in my family was convinced it was a boy. Which just goes to show you that you should always listen to the mother.

We had our ultrasound today. It's a GIRL.

We've already begun saving for things like the latest fashions, weddings, and the therapy that will have to happen because there will be three stubborn females living in one household.

It's never too early to start obsessing about seemingly insignificant things

Before Chicky was born, and I mean way before, like three years before she was conceived, I would regularly pepper Mr. C with random baby names that I liked. To which he would promptly reply, in true Chicky family fashion, with some smart ass answer and ridiculous name of his own.

"What do you think about Elizabeth?"

"It's okay. How about Gertrude?"

"Well, what about Thomas?"

"I don't hate it. But you know what name I really like? Zoltan."

No matter how clever he thought he was, I never gave up on baby names. So when I became pregnant with The Blob Who Ate My Soul (as she/he will be called henceforth on this blog, or T.B. Wams for short) and had no interest whatsoever with baby names, I knew we were going to be in for one of those last minute, Oh my GOD, they need a name for the birth certificate NOW or the baby will be named Baby Boy/Girl Chicky FOREVER! names.

(Or T.B. Wams. It's kind of growing on me.)

Funny enough, this time it's been Mr. C who has been initiating most of the baby naming discussions, and he's been coming up with some decent ones. Except for the time he asked me to consider giving our child, if T.B. Wams comes out as a boy, the same name as his deceased grandfather. In theory it's a really nice idea, unfortunately it's also my ex-husband's name.

Uh, no honey. That's not going to work. Not even as a middle name. Unless you want me to call him "Dick Head" as a nickname.

Naming Chicky was easy. I had her name picked out before she was even conceived and there was no swaying me from my decision. I named her after a song that reminded me of my mother. Her middle name is an ode to my sister. And though she is not technically named after anyone I like the idea that her name indirectly honors the two most important women in my life.

Not only that, but I like that she's named after a song. She gets the hugest kick out of hearing "her song" and I get a chance to get all weapy and sentimental on cue just by playing it on my iPod.

I'd really like our next child to have the same experience. I, myself, have always wanted to have a song of my own, but sadly nothing rhymes with my name. Except maybe "lasagna". That's kind of close. However, unless I have a tryst with an Italian songwriter with a love for me and cheesy casseroles I'm shit out of luck.

I went looking for songs with women's names* in the titles (what the hell did we ever do before Google?) and though there are loads of songs written for the ladies, the names left me feeling uninspired. I'm afraid this child might not have a song all her own... that she shares with thousands of other girls whose parents had the same idea.

I don't want to get all crazy, like my best friend from high school who named her daughter "Rhiannon". I love Stevie Nicks as much as the next gal and I've always wanted to be a bit like her, but Rhiannon? It's kind of silly. I'm fairly certain she didn't even know the history behind the name when she decided on it.

But don't think I haven't thought of "Caroline". Especially if my Red Sox win the Series. That would be wicked sweet.

(and, yes, I know it's been done. I never claimed to be inventive.)


*No, I don't know definitively that it's a girl. I just have a feeling. And if I'm right, you heard it here first. If I'm wrong, there's always "Sweet Baby James".