DH is making no bones about his future reproductive intentions. Every time I mention the possibility that I might want a third child -- maybe, someday a long time from now -- he literally gets green in the face. He takes me firmly by the shoulders, looks deep into my eyes and says, "No more."
He is done having children.
While I was pregnant with Baby C, I was in complete agreement. And since we were in agreement, we starting throwing around the "V"-word... as in, vasectomy.
DH discussed the operation with a mutual friend of ours who had his guys snip-snipped after the birth of their one and only child. I talked openly about our intention to get DH "fixed" after Baby C's arrival. We were sure, positive, informed and ready.
But when C joined our family, I quickly realized I'd be able to love not only the two God gave me... but three children... or four... or, like the Duggars, 19. I realized that what so many mothers had told me was true: that a mother's love knows no bounds. Not only that, but what would we do if -- God forbid -- one of our children died? What if I died? I'd want DH to be able to have more children in a second marriage.
So for me, the door to more children isn't entirely closed, while the door to a vasectomy definitely is. Our plan is to continue with our current method of birth control -- an IUD -- until it expires (which isn't for another ten years). Then, and only then, will we resume the discussion of permanent sterilization.
My best friend and I both nursed our daughters for 14 months; we're now in the midst of nursing our sons (her boy is exactly two months ahead of Baby C). And we are both suffering from "ping-pong-balls-in-an-old-nylon-stocking" boob syndrome.
If you've nursed your children for any extended period of time (or, you frequently go sans bra), you know what I'm talking about. First, the skin of your breasts lose all elasticity. Then, the longer you nurse, the less dense your breast tissue becomes. The final result are boobs that look like something straight out of the pages of National Geographic magazine.
Back in the early days of this blog, I wrote a post about my desire to get a boob job. My admission came as a shock to me, as I've never been an advocate of plastic surgery of any kind. I'm not even an advocate of changing something as basic as your hair color; I've always thought that if God made you one way, you should stay that way. But -- and maybe this is proof of my utter vanity and self-centeredness -- the moment I realized what prolonged nursing of one child had done to my body, I was positive I'd get a breast lift just as soon as I was done having (and nursing) children.
Turns out, I wasn't alone. A ton of people commented on my December 2009 post about boob jobs. Recently, I've started having this conversation again -- not only with my best friend, but with several other close friends who, like me, have had a child or two (or in some cases, three or four) over the last few years. And apparently, now we ALL want boob jobs.
That's where Groupon comes in. Over the past year, I've used this website -- along with others like Living Social and Eversave -- to score deals and discounts on everything from organic groceries to salon services to carpet cleaning.
I know I don't have the spare change (I've been told a good breast job would cost between $6,000-$8,000) to pay full price for a boob job. But what if Groupon offered 50% off? A sort of "buy one, get one" deal on a breast lift? It's a concept my friends and I have debated; some of us have actually talked in depth about recruiting a plastic surgeon to give us a steep discount on a boob job if we guaranteed him he'd have not only one person's business, but half a dozen women coming to him.
I don't need bigger boobs. I just want my boobs back -- the ones I had before I got pregnant the first time. The boobs that sat up nice and high on my chest (instead of down by my belly button); the boobs that had smooth, taut skin; the boobs that looked like pure porcelain (instead of marred by stretch marks). Is that so much to ask?
So Groupon... what'd'ya say?
There have been moments -- though few and far between -- when I can feel the darkness encroaching. The emptiness returning. The doubt resurfacing. And at those moments, I know:
The postpartum depression is returning.
I've been having these stirrings for a few weeks now. At first, I kept it to myself. Even now, I'm not sure I want to openly discuss it. But because I think it's important -- not only for my mental health, but to acknowledge that this is a real, critical problem that far too many women suffer in silence -- I am being frank about it.
This is my second bout with postpartum depression (PPD). The first time, it surfaced when G was about eight months old. I had started the gradual process of introducing solid foods while simultaneously cutting down my daily nursing sessions from six to three. That weaning sent my hormones out of whack and, I believe, directly contributed to the onset of my PPD.
For me, PPD doesn't impact how I parent. I'm not the mother with PPD who leaves her screaming baby crying in his crib for hours at a time because she can't handle it. I have no problem handling my children when I'm in the throes of PPD. Rather, it's the rest of my life that I can't handle. With my first bout of PPD, I managed to convince myself that my husband was a lazy, gluttonous slob who was an unfit father (entirely untrue); I convinced myself that my friends were plotting against me to oust me from their lives (again, untrue); I convinced myself that I was terrible at my job and would probably be fired at any moment (once again, untrue).
Now, I can see myself slowly losing touch with reality. I'm becoming hyper-critical of DH again. I'm convinced I'm doing my job -- both my freelance positions and my greater job of parenting -- poorly. I'm convinced my friends are noticing this gruesome change and are pulling away in horror.
On a basic level, I know these things to be false. On a basic level, I know my life is every bit as wonderful as it was a few months ago. And on that basic level, I can still pull myself out of the doldrums and force myself to realize that it is all in my head. But I'm losing my ability to do that.
Last time, I was able to avoid medication for my PPD. Instead, I -- with the help of DH -- sought counseling. I learned new techniques to manage my stress and anxiety. I spent a lot of time doing meditation and yoga. After about six months, these new coping mechanisms -- along with continually stabilizing hormones as I continued to wean -- helped me overcome my PPD.
I hope to once again avoid medication. I was hopeful that I'd be able to avoid seeing a counselor, and instead use the tactics she taught me the first time around. But I am increasingly aware that this bout of PPD is going to pull me deeper than it did after G's birth; I think I will probably see a therapist for support at some point.
I'd love to be able to end this post with something bright, sunny, optimistic; something that would make you -- and me -- feel better. But the truth is, I can't do that -- because PPD isn't bright, or sunny, or optimistic. It's dark. It's dirty. It's lonely.
One of my top rules as a mother is to "Say what you mean and mean what you say." But so often as parents, we do exactly the opposite. So, here's my list of the top five parenting euphemisms -- I hope you'll share your own in the comments section!
We were up all night with the baby.
What this really means: I was up all night. DH spent the entire night dead to the world, sleeping as though the baby monitor -- which is strategically placed on his side of the bed -- weren't blaring in his ear while the baby cried for three non-stop hours.
Our toddler is a picky eater.
What this really means: Even though she won't touch anything that's green, she happily eats everything that has sugar in it. In fact, she's been known to come up to me in the middle of the day and ask for a spoon full of sugar. (Note to self: stop letting her watch "Mary Poppins.")
She is so full of energy.
What this really means: How on earth does my child wake up at the crack of dawn, refuse to go to sleep until the sun sets, and do it all without napping in between? How? HOW??? Obviously, somebody slipped her speed at preschool.
He's such a good pooper.
What this really means: After staining all the pricey cloth diapers we bought for him with one massive blowout, he then managed to poop through half a pack of disposable diapers. At least I won't have to find the cash for a colonic.
She has a strong independent streak.
What this really means: Don't take this child's toys away from her at play group! Failure to heed this warning may result in said child screaming, throwing the toy and subsequently spending the rest of the play date crying in the corner.
I've been both dreading and looking forward to writing this post for more than a month now.
As I write this, it's actually 10:53pm on Tuesday, September 13th. My daughter will be three years old in 67... wait, make that 66... minutes.
Usually a plethora of words, I've been having a hard time expressing how I feel about G's birthday. It's a milestone, no doubt about that, and one that is truly bittersweet for her mama, who still feels the same achingly powerful, all-consuming, overwhelming love for the baby who was born -- it seems to me -- only yesterday.
When she turned one, she was still my baby. She was walking, yes, but only with a rudimentary skill level. She couldn't speak -- well, she could, but only a few words here and there. She was still nursing, still dependent on me -- at least to some degree -- for her nutritional needs. 
When she turned two, she was considered a toddler. Her motor skills refined, she could not only walk but run, jump and climb as well. Her language skills were just beginning to blossom, and she could articulate herself rather clearly. But she was still my baby; she still had the cherubic face, round with baby fat, and chubby little legs to support her stocky frame.
But now, at three... well, almost three... all the baby-ness about her is gone. Over the past year, she's sprouted -- not only long, lean legs that have erased her toddler-like appearance, giving her the decided look of the preschooler that she is -- but wings. My girl is beginning to fly. I sent her off for her first official day of preschool this week, and watched her gleefully walk into the classroom without looking back. I found myself look at her back as she started talking to her teacher and playing with her classmates; she was ready to start her new, independent life. I wasn't. As excited as I was for this new beginning, a part of me was yearning to run after her, pick her up and recapture the baby she was just a few years ago.
Being a parent is bittersweet. The whole goal of raising a successful child is to give that child a solid foundation so that -- ultimately -- they grow up to leave us. I've been able to hold on to my baby for three years; now, I can't hold on any longer. I know it's just another birthday, just the first day of preschool... but to me, somehow, it symbolizes so much more than that. It symbolizes her first step into the "real" world, a world that -- increasingly -- doesn't always include me.
Happy birthday, G. Being your mommy for the past three years has been the most amazing, most enlightening, most challenging time of my life. You've taught me more about life -- and about myself -- in three short years than I learned in the previous 26. Thank you, my baby -- for you'll always be my baby, even if you insist that you're now a "big girl" -- for letting me be your mommy.
I spent 12 hours this weekend watching football... give or take 30 minutes.
No, it wasn't because of my husband. I wish. It would be easier to say, "Turn off the TV now!" to him.
Nope, it was this guy keeping the TV squarely turned to college (on Saturday) and NFL (on Sunday) football:
Yes, Baby C -- just four months old -- was the culprit. We found out on vacation (we were at the beach all last week, but you didn't know because I had some posts set to auto-publish!) that he really likes football. How did we know? Because he would happily watch the games on TV, yet cry whenever they went to commercial or -- God forbid -- we changed the channel.
I guess it's only natural that C loves the pigskin. His daddy played college football at a Big East school back in the day. In fact, there is a picture of DH -- wearing his old college jersey -- holding Baby C, who is wearing his matching jersey (yes, same number and all!); I've placed the photo in a frame my in-laws got for C, which reads "I'm told I like football."
And it's true, I hope C will not just like football but love it over the years. It was my favorite sport to watch growing up, and obviously DH had a talent for it. DH always joked that he'd train any son of his to be a kicker; he claims kickers have an easier time obtaining a college scholarship and place on an NFL roster, while doing a minimal amount of physical work. When C quickly bulked up to 20 pounds in just four months of life, we realized he was probably going to be too big to be a kicker... now, DH is planning on training him to be an offensive lineman, just like he was. I hope he doesn't show early promise for the violin or a non-contact sport like tennis.
Are you ready for some football? We are!
My neighbor is pregnant.
I've seen the UPS man deliver a crib-sized mattress to her house. I've seen her and her husband painting the room I know will be their nursery. I've seen her growing belly as she walks the dogs.
The key here is that I've seen these things; I haven't been told them. My neighbor and I aren't exactly close. Actually, we haven't even spoken since the day she and her husband moved in more than two years ago. I know his name is Scott. I know her name starts with a "C" and is something exotic-sounding, but for the life of me I can't remember what it is.
I saw her the other day, carrying groceries into her front door, and yearned to say something. To wish her well on the birth of her first child. To share a quippy anecdote only a pregnant woman and a was-pregnant-fairly-recently woman could understand.
But I didn't.
The thing is, I've done this before.
Several years ago, there was another woman who lived across the street -- in that house -- who was pregnant. She reads my blog, and I hope she won't be offended that I'm sharing this story. In fact, we were pregnant at the same time. I watched as her belly grew while she walked her dog; I saw her and her husband lovingly prepare that same bedroom for their firstborn, painting it the exact same shade of green I would ultimately choose for G's nursery.
Because we already had a friendship, I did call out to her when I saw her carrying bags into the front door. We shared decaf drinks at Starbucks; we shared long walks through the neighborhood, trying to avoid as much pregnancy weight gain as possible; we shared our hopes -- and fears -- for the future.
And, as life is apt to do, things started to change. Motherhood took us in different directions, both figuratively and literally. She and her husband decided to move to a different neighborhood. We sought out different friendships. We had different parenting styles. Nothing bad, just different -- but different enough that the bond we'd shared throughout our pregnancies wasn't enough to keep us together.
I wonder what would happen if I called out to my new neighbor, the one who is pregnant now. I wonder if -- just as it happened years ago -- we would become friends. I wonder if our children would grow up together. I wonder if we'd run over to each others front door, not to ask for a cup of sugar or an egg, but to tell a story that just couldn't be shared over the phone.
I don't know if I'll reach out to my new neighbor. But I do know, no matter what happens, it will never be the same as it was when my old neighbor lived in that house.
...so are the Days of Our Lives.
This soap opera has been my guilty pleasure since I was in college. For some reason, the Brady gang from Salem (Salem where? Salem, Massachusetts? Salem, Oregon? I love how soaps leave out so many vital details) have completely engrossed in their always dramatic, never mundane stories.
Since I'd spent five years working for an NBC affiliate, I was able to watch "Days" every day at my desk, without ever needing to explain why to my superiors. Convenient, huh? When I left my job last October to stay at home with G, I took my guilty pleasure with me. And then G started to pick up on it...
Last week, I found myself trying to explain to her -- in G-rated terms -- what was going on in the show. My explanations are in regular font; what was actually happening on the show are in italics:
G: Mommy, why does that lady have a boo boo?
Me: Because she fell down. (In actuality, Ms. Chloe Lane -- a former opera singer turned hooker, had just been attacked in a deserted alley as she awaited the arrival of a 'John.')
G: But mommy, why did that lady fall?
Me: (trying to turn this into a life lesson) Because she was climbing on the furniture again. Her mommy told her not to, but she didn't listen, so she fell down and got hurt.
G: Mommy, why are those two people in bed?
Me: Because they are a mommy and daddy. You know that mommies and daddies share beds, right sweetheart? (In fact, the two individuals in bed -- Ms. Nicole Walker and Mr. Brady Black -- are not married; in true soap opera fashion, they have had an on-again, off-again relationship for roughly the last decade)
G: But Mommy, that mommy and daddy are sleeping without any clothes on. Why don't they have on any clothes, Mommy?
Me: Because they just took a shower, and now they're going to bed. (I don't think I need to explain what was actually going on in this scene...)
G: Oh, like that time Daddy took a shower before bedtime? (Eeeek, I was hoping she'd forgotten about that!!!)
Me: Ah, err, um... yeah, something like that.
Now that G is old enough to understand -- albeit in a very rudimentary way -- what is going on on TV, I guess I'm going to have to put my Days addiction on hold until she (and probably Baby C) are in school. Fortunately, that'll only be three weeks from now in soap opera time!
