Cynical Woman – Page 138 – The Cynical Woman Website

Cartoonist, Artist, Geek, Evil Crafter, Girl Scout Troop Leader and Writer. Also, a zombie. I haven't slept in I don't know how long.

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My nervous breakdown

By Cynical Woman August 4, 2006 October 27, 2009 Stay-at-Home Mom, Work-at-Home Mom

I’m going crazy. I mean it, really. I’m going out of my damned mind.

You see, for the past three days, I’ve been working on a blog entry about this whole mid-life crisis thing, trying to put into words what’s been going through my head. And I can’t get the damned thing written. Cassie keeps jumping around the bedroom, pestering me as I write. Michael is getting ready for work and keeps asking me questions like, what are my plans for lunch? All the while, Sam keeps popping on and off the breast. She’s nursing. She’s done. Nope, she’s nursing again. On second thought, she’s done. But wait, maybe just a few more minutes. Nope, we’re off again. On second thought, let’s beat on mommy’s breast and scream because we want more milk. By the way honey, what are your plans for lunch today? Mommy, I want my Barbie doll. Fix my Barbie now. Helen, did you remember to call the eye doctor? By the way, I’m going to karate class tonight, so you’ll be home alone again with the kids all evening. Mommy, fix my doll! Mommy, I want ponytails. Do my ponytails! We’re eating again, no we’re done. Wait, let’s spit up all over Mommy and blow out our diaper while we’re at it. Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy–

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Ah ah ah aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Pasoidhdfhfojnadpo fifgiupqos8seety lwi454y b-9sdfdhg lksjxhisd sfboai sddfhoa pd8f7 hkl hasdf h@#$@ $*@#@%&@*^%!!!

I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m just feeling a little stir crazy today. Don’t know why.

Oh hell with that. I know exactly why. I’m trapped in the damned house scheduling play dates, fixing Barbies and nursing babies all frikkin’ day. It’s no wonder my head feels like it’s going to split in half while my eyeballs pop out of the sockets and I do my best Linda Blair impersonation out on the front lawn. And when the men with the funny white jackets come to take me away, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll know why too.

The whole mommy thing is just driving me up the damned wall right now. I’ve been trying for three days to write about how I want to be an artist and how I crave having a little time each day to sit and draw. But it’s gotten worse than that. As I’ve looked at the problem, I realize it’s a lot bigger than me just wanting to sit and draw. Way bigger than that.

I want to be famous, damn it.

I want to have acheived some massive success with my art, but since I haven’t been doing any serious work on it since I was thirteen, I’m kind of screwed on this point. So what I’d really like to do is turn back the clock, go back to when I was thirteen, give myself a good hard slap and say, “Pick up the stupid pencil and start drawing now! Otherwise, you’re going to wake up one morning when you’re thirty-seven and realize you’ve got two kids, a house to clean and a husband who wants to know what your plans are for lunch, but you don’t have a portfolio or a cool artist job or even a fine arts degree. Hell, you’ll be lucky if you can even find a 2B pencil anywhere in the house!”

Of course, my thirteen-year-old self will more than likely just slap me back and tell me to kiss off. What do thirteen-year-olds know anyway, huh?

I need to do what I did after Cassie was born. Back then, the midlife crisis was writing. I was desperate to write. I had dabbled in it a bit for a few years, but had never really applied myself. Sure, I had a 20,000 word novella sitting on the hard drive, but I couldn’t publish the dang thing (too long for magazines, too short for publishers, at least back then before the advent of e-publishing). I also had two erotic short stories that I’d managed to sell. But that was about it. So at the age of 34, I sat in the glider nursing Cassie and ranted about wanting to write. Fortunately for me, I actually got off my ass and did something about it. I spent the first year of her life writing a truly horrible trashy gay novel (yes, you read that right) in a three-ring binder. I still have it too, all five hundred hand-written pages. I had planned to transcribe the whole thing into the computer, but never could get around to that. Taking care of an infant just kept me a little too busy. But at least I was writing. When Cassie was almost a year old and I had a little more time, I decided to take things a step further. Writing porn in a notebook wasn’t enough. I needed to write complete stories on the computer and get them out where people could see them. That meant finding a writers’ group.

This part was tricky. I needed a group that I could participate in at my own pace. I couldn’t read and critique ten or more stories a week. I could handle one or two. I also couldn’t manage to make any weekly meetings. I was either in karate class in the evenings and on Saturdays and so wouldn’t be available, or else I was home taking care of the baby while Michael went to class and I didn’t even want to think of taking a baby to an hours-long meeting of a writers group. So that meant the writers group had to be online. Finally, I wanted a writers group that would consider reading erotica, because that was one of the things I enjoyed writing (remember, I’d handwritten 500 pages of trashy gay porn at that point).

Well, after a lot of searching on the internet, I found one group that fit the bill – the Erotica Readers And Writers Association. Erotica was the only genre they handled, but I decided that I could handle that starting out. I could branch into science fiction, fantasy and horror later on, once I’d established good work habits and a regular writing schedule.

Two years later, I’m still on the ERWA. In fact, I work for them as a feature editor for the website. I’ve written yet another gay trashy novel, this time on the computer, and I’m actually sending the manuscript out to publishers because guess what? There’s a viable market for that sort of thing these days. As a writer, I’m happy. The work is slow, but steady. I’ve garnered a few publications and a little money over the last two years. And I’m looking at doing bigger and better things in the years to come. I’m set. I know where I’m going with my writing.

Now I just need to do the same thing with my art.

I’ll talk about that tomorrow, maybe. Sam’s finally popped off the breast and is snoozing and Cassie has yet another play date to attend in fifteen minutes. It’s time for the lunatic to go back to being a mommy until the next time she can slip out to play.

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What The Hell Happened To My Life?

By Cynical Woman August 1, 2006 October 27, 2009 Bitching & Moaning, Life and stuff

I’m having a midlife crisis. This is my second midlife crisis, actually. The first one happened right after Cassie was born. Now it’s happening again with Sam.

What’s my problem? Before my first child came along, I had no idea who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. I was 33, had two degrees in communications, and had never once gone after any of the things I dreamed of doing when I was in high school. Pathetic, isn’t it?

When I was a teen, I knew I wanted to be an artist. Hell, back then, I was an artist. I drew all the time, I had no lack of ideas. Everybody who knew me knew I could draw. I was even voted most artistic in my senior class. Problem was, at some point I sort of lost my way. It started even before I graduated from high school, to be honest. Even as my peers were proclaiming me most artistic, I was slowly letting my artistic interests fade away. I wanted to draw and paint, but I didn’t pursue it the way I should have. I should have taken art classes in high school. Instead, I took band. I should have drawn every spare minute of the day. Instead, I pissed away the days by doing other things, like watching TV, goofing off and hanging out at the mall. That wasn’t to say I still wasn’t creative. By the time I was sixteen, I had gotten heavily into fantasy and science fiction costuming. But my real passion, art, just got left in the dust to wither and die.

It didn’t help that my dad insisted I could never make a living as an artist. I wanted to go to art school. Dad insisted that I major in something “useful” instead. Since I hadn’t spent the last four years of school preparing for art school by taking art classes and building up a portfolio, guess who won that argument? And the end result? A bachelor’s and a master’s degree in communications, two pieces of paper that I’ve had almost no use for in the last 15 years. Yep, six years of my life and several thousands of Dad’s money devoted to a subject I really couldn’t care less about.

To be fair, it’s not Dad’s fault. He also swore my sister Carolyn could never make a living as an actress, but she fought for what she wanted, and she prepared for it by taking acting classes every year in high school and by being heavily involved in school musicals, dance productions, and the chorus. She showed Dad up front what she could do and what she wanted and then she went to college and pursued her dream. It is entirely besides the point that now at 33 she is getting a new degree in something else – physical therapy – because making it as an actor in New York is almost damned impossible. What matters is she pursued what she wanted. I didn’t. Carolyn at least has several years of theater performances and a production company to show for it, even if she is now changing course.

So here I am, mother of two and still wishing I could be an artist. I haven’t been completely without my artistic successes. I have a tiny portfolio of very nice 3D and 2D graphics. Too bad I only complete two or three pieces a year though. I do have a couple of animated cartoons done, the only instances where I had any use for my degree in broadcast communications. I’ve even got a couple of nice colored pencil drawings floating around the house. But none of this is enough to make me feel like I can stand up and shout “I’m an artist!”

To be an artist, I would have to draw every day. I don’t do that. To be an artist, I would have to turn out a prolific amount of work. Do I even have time for that? To be an artist, I would need to do any number of things – take classes, enter shows, submit work for publication in a magazine or online gallery – that I simply don’t do. Why the hell not?

Because I don’t know how. I haven’t been practicing this shit and at the age of 37 I know no more about being an artist than I did at the age of 12, which was probably the last time I took my drawing seriously.

I’ve got to change something. I’ve got to go from being the stay at home mom to being the artist again, because honestly folks, I feel like I’m dying here. I am not suited to just being a mom and I know it. I’ve got to have something more. I recently bought myself a subscription to ImagineFX magazine. Paid $150 to have it shipped to me from the UK every month. It’s a gorgeous mag, full of 2D and 3D digital fantasy and sci fi artwork. I’m reading every issue from cover to cover, devouring every detail inside. And it’s killing me, because every artist published in that magazine is between the age of 16 and 24.

What the hell happened to me? I’m 37. Is it too late to change things now?

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A Word Of Advice

By Cynical Woman July 31, 2006 October 27, 2009 Sex

Never store tubes of KY and Balmex in the same drawer. Balmex does not make a good sexual lubricant.

Don’t ask how I know this.

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20 Things I Can Do While Breastfeeding

By Cynical Woman July 29, 2006 October 27, 2009 Breast Feeding

This is my second go around on the whole breastfeeding thing. I nursed Cassie for 18 months. As of yesterday, I’ve nursed Sam for two months. Twenty months is a long time to breastfeed. The beauty of breastfeeding is that it usually leaves at least one hand free, and sometimes two depending on how you do it. Thus I’ve discovered there are a lot of things I can with a baby latched onto me, a good thing to know considering how much of my time gets devoured by feeding the little monster I call my baby. Please keep in mind that I am a professional mom (i.e. I actually have kids), so don’t try any of the below tasks at home unless you’re willing to deal with a potential mess.

1. I can sleep while breastfeeding a baby (well hell, anyone can do that).

2. I can brush a three-year-old child’s hair and dress it up in pretty flowered barrettes while breastfeeding a baby (that’s a little more difficult, especially if said three-year-old won’t hold still).

3. I can brush a three-year-old child’s teeth while breastfeeding a baby (even more difficult because three-year-olds don’t like to have their teeth brushed).

4. I can instruct a three-year-old child on how to bathe herself and end up with a relatively clean kid while breastfeeding a baby (a minor miracle, because three-year-olds also don’t like taking baths).

5. I can answer e-mail, search the net and write erotic stories and/or blog entries on my laptop while breastfeeding a baby (hey, I can’t not work).

6. I can perform a puppet show while breastfeeding a baby (it was a slow day).

7. I can push a three-year-old child on the swing set at our local playground while breastfeeding a baby (and I did it without flashing the entire neighborhood).

8. I can make French toast from scratch for Father’s Day while breastfeeding a baby (a feat that to this day my husband still doesn’t fully appreciate).

9. I can teach a three-year-old to make French toast from scratch and not have it come out burned, while breastfeeding a baby.

10. I can take an eye exam while breastfeeding a baby.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there are lots of things a desperate mom can do when she has to. Too bad I can never put any of them on a job application.

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Lessons From The Polar Bear – How To Keep Your Marriage And Your Spouse Alive

By Cynical Woman July 27, 2006 October 27, 2009 Marriage

Scientists state that shortly after giving birth, female polar bears will go out of their way to avoid male polar bears. The reason, they say, is that the females fear the males will attack their offspring and kill them. Well I know better. The real reason why female polar bears avoid male polar bears after giving birth is because the female will kill the male for royally screwing up her life.

Human females go through the same thing, I think, and here’s why I say that.

On Monday, I had a long frustrating morning. Sam had been up all night the past three nights in a row, and I was dead tired. Her recent growth spurt combined with her lactose overload problems meant I was nursing her non-stop and neither of us was getting any sleep. The problem wasn’t that she wanted to nurse so frequently, but that she wasn’t sleeping at all between feedings. The gas caused by the lactose overload simply made her too uncomfortable and the overload was getting worse because she was feeding so much and taking in that much extra lactose, making her even more gassy and miserable. After her third watery green poop Sunday night, I decided it was time to call the pediatrician and ask if I could give Sam some Lactaid. When I called the next morning, a nurse told me the pediatrician was out of the office at the moment. Could she call me back with the answer?

Sure, I said. If I’m not in, just leave a message on the answering machine.

Then I remembered our answering machine was dead.

You see, my husband the genius had set up a program on one of our computers to allow it to answer the phone. For some reason, the program had quit working last week and he couldn’t fix it. So for the last ten days or so, I’d been relying on caller ID to let me know who called and who I should call back. Michael, meanwhile, had started doing some serious comparison shopping to get the best possible deal on a new combination wireless phone and answering machine that also scrubs toilets in its spare time. I kid you not.

Well, if you’ve ever had to call the doctor’s office with a question, you know you don’t want to have to call back for the answer because that devolves into a never-ending game of phone tag. You call with your question. The doctor’s office calls back with the answer while you’re sitting on the toilet. If you don’t have an answering machine, they have no way to leave a message, so you have to call them back, only to discover that the person who has the answer to your question has just stepped out to go to the toilet himself and can he call you back? This leads to you waiting by the phone for two hours with a cranky preschooler yanking on your arm and asking, “Can we go to the playground NOW?” In an effort to keep your arm attached to your shoulder, you give in and head to the playground. Five minutes after you leave, the doctor’s office calls back. Again, no answering machine equals no message so you’ll just have to call them back when you get in. And so on, and so on, and so on.

So I’m standing there, looking at spending an entire day by the phone waiting for a simple answer to my question while Cassie goes into hysterics because we can’t go out to play. And no, I can’t just call back and leave my cell phone number because one of the places we were supposed to go is the YMCA and I’m not supposed to leave the cell phone on during yoga class. It kind of disrupts the mood, you know? Nor can I rely on my cell phone voice mail because we’re really cheap, see, so the voice mail only records that someone called, just like our caller ID at home.

Fortunately, we did have another answering machine, one that didn’t require a computer to work. All I needed to set it up was the right AC adapter and all my problems would be solved.

Naturally, I had no idea where the AC adapter was.

I called Michael to ask. He said it was in the top right drawer of his desk. I went to look. It wasn’t there. Having been properly trained by my mother to find things without having to ask 50 million questions, I went through all the drawers of Michael’s desk. Then I went through my desk, both office closets, a box of spare computer parts, and the desk downstairs in our foyer. No AC adapter to be found.
I had just wasted half an hour trying to find the adapter and I was starting to get a little aggravated. I needed to get out the door if I was going to make it to yoga class. I needed to go to that class, because it yoga reduces stress and at that moment I had enough stress coursing through me to give a bull elephant a fatal heart attack. I called Michael back to ask where the adapter might be, since it wasn’t in his desk. On the other end of the line, I heard a lot of head scratching.

Michael: “Um, did you check the left-hand drawer of my desk?”

Me: “Yes, I went through your entire desk and the rest of the office too. I didn’t see an adapter.”

Michael: “Hmmmm. I don’t know where it might be then.”

Cassie begins tugging on my arm: “Mommy, can we go to the Y now? I want to go to the Y.”

Me: “Michael, I need that adapter. Where is it?”

Michael: “It could be in the box of spare computer parts…”

Me: “I already checked. It’s not there.”

Cassie, still tugging on my arm: “Mommy, I want to go to the Y now!”

Me: “Michael, I really need that adapter.”

Michael: “Honey, I honestly don’t know where it is.”

Cassie begins yanking harder. I feel my arm slip out of the socket of my shoulder: “I want to go to the Y! I want to go to the Y!”

Me, looking at the clock and realizing there’s no way in hell I’ll make it to the Y in time for yoga class: “Look, I can’t spend all day sitting around the house waiting for a phone call. I’m going to head out to Super K-Mart and buy a new answering machine.”

Michael: “No, don’t do that. I’m still looking into getting a new answering machine with wireless phones. I just haven’t figured out which one we’re getting yet. I’ll probably order it next week.”

Cassie, who has now completely pulled my arm out of its socket and is beating me over the head with it: “I want to go the Y! I want to go the Y! I want to go the Y!”

Me: “Michael, getting an answering machine next week doesn’t help me now. I have to get out of the house!”

At this point, the baby wakes up and starts to wail. Cassie continues to pitch a fit because we still haven’t headed out the door. I’m at the end of my rope.

Michael: “Fine. I’ll come home and look for the adapter myself.”

I hear the note of exasperation in Michael’s voice and suddenly I see myself standing by the front door with a chainsaw in one hand and a lawn and garden bag in the other, just waiting for him to come home. I envision the slaughter that follows the moment he enters the house. Then I hear the phone call I make to my best friend Mary who has promised that on the day I finally snap she will help me stuff the body into the lawn and garden bag and then hide the whole mess in our backyard. Once we finish with Michael, we go back to her place and take care of her husband John. Then we pack up the kids and move out to Seattle where we use the insurance money to buy a nice big house and live happily ever after, sans husbands, for the rest of our lives. Maybe we even marry each other because we both know we’ll never put up with another man again as long as we live.

Yes folks, I was all ready to go through with this little fantasy when my inner polar bear raised its head and I thought better of it.

Me: “No honey, don’t come home. I’ll figure something out.”

What I figured out was that there was no way in hell I was going to let Michael come home so I could kill him. I mean, aside from the fact that I would have to mop the floors again to clean up the mess, I just couldn’t imagine how I would explain his death to the kids. “I’m sorry girls, but Mommy had to kill Daddy. He lost the adapter to the answering machine.” Just doesn’t cut it, does it?

So I said screw the answering machine and I went to the Y to work off some stress. I dropped Cassie and Sam off at the gym nursery and hit the cardio machines where I hammered away at the stair climber until I finally felt that I could go home and not commit a homicide. Michael was there when we got back. He had come home to make lunch and found the adapter for me too. The answering machine was working and the doctor didn’t call until two hours later when I was there to pick up the phone myself. Everything worked out just fine and I didn’t have to kill anybody. All thanks to the polar bear.

Grrrrrrrr.

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Dreams Of Divorce?

By Cynical Woman July 24, 2006 October 27, 2009 Hubster, Marriage

Babies cease to be cute after three days of sleep deprivation. Same goes for husbands.

I’m not gonna lie. There are times late at night when I’m struggling to get Sam to sleep that I look over at my comatose husband and I want to throw something at him. I actually did throw something at him once when Cassie was a baby. I was up nursing for the ninth time that night and Michael was snoring in bed. He was snoring very loudly, so loudly that I couldn’t even doze while sitting in the glider, which to me seemed way too unfair. So I picked up the book sitting on the table next to me and I threw it at him. Hit him too, with a nice big satisfying thunk. He gave a big snort and a grunt, sat up looking very surprised, and then groaned when I ordered him to roll over and quit snoring. Fortunately for both of us, he had the sense of mind not to complain about having his sleep interrupted, because I had plenty more books within arms reach.

I was able to refrain from repeating the book throwing episode last night, although it was hard to do. I don’t know if Sam’s going through a growth spurt or if we’re just dealing with more problems related to her lactose overload, but she’s done nothing but feed and fuss for the past three nights. Last night I tried to wear her out before putting her down. I strapped on the front carrier and walked around the house with her for over an hour, grabbing a piece of laundry and folding it each time I passed by the dryer. I got two loads put away by the time Sam finally dozed off, and I thought I was home free. Then I put her in her bouncy chair to sleep and she immediately woke up.

Why am I putting this kid in a bouncy chair to sleep, you might ask? Because Sam won’t sleep lying flat on her back. I can get her to sleep on her side, and every time I put her on the floor for tummy time, she falls asleep on her belly with no problem (a fact which bothers the crap out of me, thanks to the SIDS On-Your-Back campaign). But try putting Sam down flat on her back and she howls. So for night times and naps, I’ve resorted to putting her in the bouncy chair, where she can sleep sitting propped up. Not as comfortable for her as tummy time apparently, but she can usually deal with it.

Last night though, I couldn’t get her in buckled into the stupid bouncy chair. The little straps went and hid under her butt, and by the time I managed to fish them out, Sam was awake again and fussing. I was out of ideas and at the end of my rope so Michael picked her up and rocked her for a while. Fed up with the bouncy chair, I went downstairs and grabbed the car seat to put Sam in once she fell back asleep. It would be easier to put her in the car seat I decided, since she could rest in it without needing to be strapped in. Then I crawled into bed and listened to Michael rock Sam. He got her to sleep after half an hour or so. And then my husband the genius put our fussy child in her bassinet flat on her back.

Now I told Michael I had brought up the car seat. I put it where we normally put the bouncy chair. He walked past it twice, had to step over it even, so I know he knew it was there. And yet he decided to ignore it and put Sam down in a position he knows she hates. I couldn’t believe it. Sam stayed asleep for a minute after being laid on her back. Then she started to grunt and hyperventilate. Pretty soon, she was thrashing around and screaming.

“Why did you put her flat on her back?” I demanded as I got up to calm my squalling infant.

“She has to sleep on her back sometime,” he mumbled, already half asleep.

“Michael, we’ve had two sleepless nights in a row. Tonight was not the night to experiment!”

He just shrugged and rolled over. I looked for something to throw at him.

It took me another half hour to get Sam settled and down to sleep. From midnight until 4 AM, she snoozed peacefully in her car seat. During those same hours, I dreamt over and over of divorcing Michael. The dreams were pretty vivid too. I imagined packing up everything I owned, taking the kids and driving off to some imaginary land where no husbands existed. It was a peaceful place where people communicated and actually tried to understand each other. Nobody did anything dumb like shop at Sam’s Club and bring home one hundred rolls of toilet paper when all you needed and had room for was four (“But honey, we saved two cents a roll!”). Nobody turned off the lights while you were still in a room trying to clean up the mess they left behind. And nobody plopped down on top of the pile of clean, freshly folded laundry sitting in the middle of the bed to take a nap. People actually thought first before doing things, and thus a lot of mistakes and homicides were avoided.

Then I dreamt that my computer broke down and I woke up in a cold sweat. I thought about my laptop and my desktop, my scanner and my Wacom digital tablets, my wireless network and my cable modem. I realized that no matter how many dumb things he might do, I needed Michael. Because truth be told, you can’t buy good tech support these days. You have to sleep with it.

Assuming the baby lets you sleep, of course.

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Feeding Frenzy

By Cynical Woman July 23, 2006 October 27, 2009 Baby, Breast Feeding

Ugh. Feeding Sam in bed all night last night did not work out like I’d planned. Instead of getting any sleep, I ended up becoming a 24-hour milk bar for a very fussy customer.

We started at 8:30 PM in the glider, where I nursed Sam for an hour. This wasn’t an easy, gentle nursing either, the kind where the baby falls asleep in your lap and just makes the occasional suck for comfort’s sake. This was active, vigorous nursing that started to chafe after the first thirty minutes or so. I tried to let Sam keep going, hoping she’d get her fill and doze off. But when the hour mark hiy and she was still hard at it, I decided it was time to put her down for bed. Not an easy thing to do. I had to wedge a couple fingers into the viselike grip of her tiny jaws and pry them apart. That pissed her off of course, and she instantly went from a hungry but drowsy infant to a flailing, fussy, farting fireball.

It was 9:30 PM at this point, still early enough for me to get a good night’s sleep. Since Sam was only fussing but not actually screaming, I put her in the bouncy chair and left the room. I had this delusion that if I went downstairs for a little while and watched TV, when I came back up she’d be sound asleep. Big mistake. She was quiet up until she heard me enter the upstairs hallway. Then she started to howl. Being too tired to strap her into the front carrier and wear her out downstairs, I just gave in and pulled her into bed with me to nurse.

That was at 10:30 PM. A half hour later at 11, Sam was still nursing. The right side of my body was numb from lying still for so long. Sam, of course, was going full blast, just like earlier and once again I had to pry her off. She immediately started crying and grunting and hyperventilating, so I rolled over and let her have the other breast. Another half hour went by. By midnight, Sam was quiet but still sucking pretty strong. I pried her off anyway. My nipples were raw. She flailed for a bit, then finally calmed down and went to sleep. At 12:30 AM, I very carefully picked her up and strapped her into the bouncy chair, then went to sleep myself.

I woke up to a lot of grunting and hyperventilating. It was Sam again, of course. Her eyes were closed, but she was going nuts in the bouncy chair. I checked my clock. It was only 1:30 AM. I’d expected her to sleep until at least 2:30. How could she be hungry again that soon? Her eyes weren’t open though, so I thought maybe she was just fussing in her sleep and it would pass. I laid there for an hour listening to her thrash around in the chair. Finally, I gave up and pulled her back in bed again. My nipples still hurt, so I tried pulling her close to me and patting her on the back to lull her back into sleep. She dozed off after a while and I put her back in the bouncy chair.

Thirty minutes later, she was back in bed with me, this time nursing again. I swear, I thought she was going to suck my toenails out through my nipples. We went 40 minutes on one side and then another 20 on the other. My neck and back ached from lying curled around her. I wanted to lie flat on my back, but couldn’t do that and nurse Sam too. After another hour, I pulled her off and put her back in the bouncy chair. She raised a fuss. Then her hiccoughs kicked in. Sam has the loudest, most violent hiccoughs I have ever heard. They sound like large balloons exploding right in your ear. I tried to wait it out, but the noise was too much. I grabbed my pillow and went into the guest room. Even in there, I could still hear her hyperventilating and hiccupping. If an adult hyperventilated like that, they’d have passed out long before. Why couldn’t Sam do the same, I wondered as I pressed my pillow over my head.

At some point, I dozed off. Then I woke up again to the sound of crying. I stumbled into the bedroom and found Michael changing Sam’s diaper. It was 4 AM. He held her and rocked her for a while as I tried to get a little more sleep. Sam wouldn’t calm down. By 4:30, she ended up back in bed with me. Only this time, she was so agitated she wouldn’t latch on. She kept taking the nipple and spitting it back out. Then she’d wail each time I put it back into my bra. It took her a good fifteen minutes to finally hook up to the milk bar.

My usual wake up time of 5:30 AM came and went. Sam kept nursing. At around 6, she finally detached herself and went to sleep. I thought briefly about trying to put her back in the bouncy chair but by this time my back, neck and shoulders had seized up so that I resembled a giant question mark. Being unable to unlock my stiffened spine, I laid there and suffered before finally drifting off myself.

We woke up just before 8 AM, when Cassie came in looking for us. What a sweet child. What a loveable darling. No matter how bad her temper tantrums are at times, she does sleep through the night. How can you not love a child who does that?
Meanwhile, the human piranha dozed peacefully with her face tucked into my armpit. Michael took Cassie downstairs. I spent half an hour straightening my spine until I could finally get out of bed. Sam snoozed peacefully as I transferred her back to the bouncy chair. I took a shower and brushed my teeth. She never so much as sighed.

So Sam binged on milk all night long. Now I am dead tired, which means I will be facing my own feeding frenzy today, stuffing my face to sate my fatigue-induced craving for sugar and carbs. The only good thing about this is that I now weigh three pounds less today than I did yesterday. How much do you want to bet that Sam weighs three pounds more?

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Recovering From An Off Week

By Cynical Woman July 22, 2006 October 27, 2009 Work-at-Home Mom

Nothing funny today. I’m just rambling to clear my head and figure some things out.

All last week was just off in terms of getting things done. I’m the kind of idiot that prefers to get up very early and get a jump on the day, but last week was pretty hard. It may be because I tried to run right back into my usual exercise routine after getting the go ahead from my doctor. I didn’t think I had done anything all that hard though. I did a day at the Y and a day at the dojo and then I crashed for the rest of the week. I could barely make myself go for a walk. And as for getting up at the butt-crack of dawn? Forget it.

Worse still, I’ve been dead tired all week, and when I’m tired, my will power is at an all time low. I eat things I know I shouldn’t. It doesn’t help that Michael’s been stocking up on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. As a matter of fact, we went shopping on Thursday and he tried to convince me to get more ice cream. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I said no. It’s bad enough I’ve been eating a small bowl of the stuff every evening. I need to quit before it gets to be a real problem.

I made myself get out of bed this morning at 5:30 AM, even though I was wiped out from nursing Sam all night. I got up, showered, dressed, and started on my morning chores. I was hoping to sneak in 15 minutes on the stationary bike in there, but Sam woke Michael so now I’m back in the glider nursing her again. Must be a growth spurt.

Time to get my ass back on track. I’ve had one bad week and I need to pull myself together. I have better, more productive days as a mom and as a writer/artist when I just get up early, do the chores, and stay awake all day to get the work done. Evenings are what’s been killing me, I think, because I can’t get to sleep soon enough. I’m starting to think that maybe what I need to do is just accept the fact that Sam is going to be in bed with me all night and just start nursing her there at 8:30 PM. Then we’d both be in bed and we could both go to sleep. I may try that tonight. We’ll see how it goes.

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Problems With Preschool

By Cynical Woman July 21, 2006 October 27, 2009 School

Okay, we haven’t even started preschool yet, and already we’re having problems.

I told Cassie we would be visiting one of the local preschools today to see what it was like. I have to send her to preschool. I just can’t keep her occupied and active enough on my own. Cassie is starting to feel the loss of my full attention now that Sam is here, and it’s making her cranky and jealous. I feel bad about that, but infants take a lot of time to care for. As best as I can, I try to set aside some time to play with Cassie each day, but until Sam’s tummy trouble and late night screaming stop, it’s going to be hard. A lot of times, I’ve been lying on the floor playing dollies with Cassie, only to wake up half an hour later and find Cassie waiting patiently for me to resume our games.

So I’m going to send Cassie off to preschool where she can be with other kids and get in plenty of playtime and activity. She’s very excited about this. In fact, she’s a little over excited. Even though I told her this would just be a short visit and that preschool won’t actually begin until September, she assumes that this is the real deal and she will be starting full blown preschool today. In preparation for the big event, she dressed herself this morning in her favorite pink outfit (“Don’t I look lovely, Mommy?”) and packed two bags of essentials to take with her. Her essentials include a handful of Little People, her Magna Doodle, and some costume jewelry. Michael and I have tried to explain that she won’t be allowed to take all that stuff into the preschool with her. “But I need it!” she claims.

We’ve already had one temper tantrum over this preschool visit this morning. She wants to go right now. However, we’re not leaving for our visit for at least another hour. Needless to say, that was not what she wanted to here. I can already foresee a lot of kicking and screaming when our visit is over and she wants to stay but I need to take her home.

I should have known this was coming. Back in March when I first talked to Michael about signing up Cassie for preschool, I asked him if he thought she was ready for it. Cassie immediately piped up. “I go to preschool. I get on bus and say ‘Bye bye, Mommy.’” Boy if that wasn’t a kick in the head.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to get through this visit without any fuss from Cassie. Hopefully, after half an hour of touring the facilities, she won’t be so in love with the place that she’ll demand to stay. Hopefully, she won’t have a complete meltdown when I tell her it’s time to leave. And hopefully, she won’t spend the next six weeks demanding to go back right now.

Of course, you and I both know what ‘hopefully’ is going to get us.

Pray for me.

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Interpreting Your Baby’s Cries (yeah, right.)

By Cynical Woman July 20, 2006 October 27, 2009 Baby

In just about every magazine and book on parenting, you’ll find articles on how to interpret your baby’s cries. One cry will tell you she’s hungry, one will tell you her diaper is wet, one will tell you she’s bored, etc., etc., etc. This is all part of baby’s first attempts to communicate with you, the parents. Well according to experts I know (my mom and dad), children never willingly communicate anything useful to their parents. In fact, all attempts at communication are usually stringently avoided unless your kids want you to buy them something.

However, I do believe that Sam is trying to tell me something when she starts wailing, and she has a wide range of expressive cries. As a public service to other frazzled, burnt-out moms, I have decided to share with you what those different types of cries mean.

Soft grunting noise – I am not happy. Do something about it.

Hard grunting noise, accompanied by farting or spitting up – I am not happy. Do something about it or I will make a big mess and you will have to clean it up.

Persistent crying, accompanied by arms flailing and legs kicking – I’m ticked off. Pick me up so I may smash my pointed little head into your face.

High pitched screaming, face turns bright red and eyes are screwed shut – I’m getting pissed off here. Make me happy or else.

Mouth is opened wide in a scream, but no noise comes out; baby’s face is livid; her entire body is shaking in rage – I’m really, really pissed off. Make me happy now or you’re going to regret it.

Baby emits the same ear-piercing, glass shattering scream over and over and over again; her face is twisted into an expression that looks like something out of a horror movie; her arms and legs are locked straight out and her entire body is rigid – I hate you. You are incompetent. Who the hell told you that you could be a parent? I want my money back. This sucks. I’ll spend the rest of my life in therapy because you can not figure out how to make me happy. By the way, I’ve got a big messy poop in my diaper again and as soon as you pick me up I will spit up all over your best shirt, which is dry clean only of course.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what your infant is really trying to tell you. Good luck.