Appliance suicide

Last weekend, our washing machine tried to throw itself under a bus. No, no, C said, and took it apart, put it together, and wah-la. He claims he did nothing but it worked again, so I did not care.

We just got home from various errands and the dryer was still going. Uh-oh. Open the door and while the clothes are moving, the dryer is cold.

It seems like we're being pushed in the direction of a new washer and dryer. Sigh.

Niles hearts L

So L looks like C. A fair amount, actually, although so far he does have blue eyes. (For now--A seems to suddenly have green eyes now. Who knew?)

Niles loves C. C is his person. At the end of the day, Niles wants to be in C's lap. When C wakes up and his feet hit the floor, Niles runs to him and starts meowing at him. When C leaves a T-shirt on the floor, Niles rolls around in it in a frenzy of joy, looking as high as he does on catnip.

Niles loves L. Loves him. Licks his tiny mostly-bald baby head, curls up next to him on my lap, sleeps in his crib and changing table pad, and rolls around in L's car seat in a frenzy of joy.

I'm sure I could believe that Niles is now used to babies so this is how he shows his acceptance of L into our tribe, but I'm pretty sure it's because L looks like C, or gives off some pheromone like C, or somehow reminds Niles of C. Seriously.

Productivity

It's hard in the trenches. I hit a wall--or I keep hitting the same wall, where I realize how much time and energy new nurslings take up. L's been having a growth spurt (maybe? the Wii tells us he's only gained a pound or so), so he's been spending a lot more time in arms. And when the baby's nursing, I'm not doing anything else (except for reading, watching DVDs, or playing Settlers of Catan on the TV).

And there's a lot going on that I want to be doing. In February, I thought, okay, I'll resume my grown-up attachment responsibilities. So back to being secretary of this organization and that one, back to organizing the cutting sale, back to committees and meetings and minutes. And I often bring L along with me, since I need to pump to be away from him, and let me tell you, when he's on a nursing streak, the absolute last thing I'm interested in doing is pumping.

But. Today's been good. Everyone's well. All the shopping is done; I've done some clothing repairs that have not been done since they require both the iron and the sewing machine, which is not something that can often co-exist with one parent, a baby and a preschooler. I'm hoping to finish, as a bonus, a bag to store my super-deluxe-find-cheap kite that I bought last fall, which will probably serve no purpose other than to make me absurdly happy.

I've purged some clothes and pulled others out of storage. I've realized that I've not been wearing any of my maternity clothing for some time since it's too big and that I can pitch it--if we go for number three, and that's a mighty big and far-off if at this time, I'm going to want some different clothes. I don't know if it's nursing, or the life without dairy, or the Wii Fit Plus, but I'm getting fitter.

L is smiling big now, huge radiant smiles. He talks and sings along with me, little goo-goo-goo noises that make me want to eat him up. He is such a mellow creature, so easy-going and cheerful, just a snuggler.

A is still taken with his big brother role; today he had a moment of huff when L managed to pick up one of A's toys. So I laid down the rule: take away a toy, give the baby another toy. And that seemed to work, at least today.

I'm hoping to call a half a dozen people this week. I just need to get the time and the phone all in the same place. And don't you love when someone tells you they're expecting twins, and you think, "Wow, you are exactly the right people to have twins. You will rock twins." I do. (I'm not expecting twins. No! I would not do well with them.)

He is a reader, by gum.

"Mommy, there was a boy and he put this in his roast beef." [A waves comb around]
"A comb?"
"Yes."
"He put a comb in his roast beef. Hold on, sweetie." [call up Amazon, type in "comb in roast beef" and get a hit on If Roast Beef Could Fly by Jay Leno]
"Is this the book?"
"Yes. Can you get it out of the library for me?"
"Yes, sweetie."
"On the computer. You get it on the computer."

Daddy curses too

At some point last week, I asked A what he thought Daddy would say about an unfortunate situation. "Damnit, damnit, damnit!" he said, in a pretty good imitation of C.

But of course, the unfortunate moment came when A was playing with the new Wii Fit Plus we have here and missed a step. "Damnit, I missed the ball," he said.

"Don't say damnit," I said. "It's a grownup word." Oy. Let the potty mouth begin.

Why is VBAC a vital option?

This is a birth post, while we climb out of the mire of sickness. ICAN, which is an organization dedicated to giving moms the support and knowledge they need to avoid unnecessary repeat C-sections, is having a blog carnival on VBAC and why they're important.

I didn't have a VBAC--but I wanted one. Desperately. My first C-section was on the heels of 45 hours of labor, including three hours of pushing, and it took months until I felt like myself again.

This place in this post is where typically, now, I would list the reasons for the C-section. But I'm not going to, because I've learned something in the three-and-a-half years since my first son was born: most of my pro-natural-birth sisters believe a necessary C-section is rarer than a polar bear in the Sahara.

And I knew I wanted a VBAC for my second. I wanted the otherworldly thrill of pushing another being out of my body; I wanted to have a sore bottom for a couple weeks instead of intense pain while walking or lifting for a couple months. When I got pregnant, I researched doctors to find the one most committed to VBACs; we hired a monitrice/doula to help me labor at home for as long as possible before we went to the hospital. I perched on a birth ball for the last trimester for optimal fetal positioning and took my vitamins and thought positive thoughts.

Then, birth number two happened. I had a husband, a monitrice, an OB/GYN all pulling for the VBAC and it didn't happen. I'm a statistical freak: two births that each have a different almost-never-happens legitimate reason for C-section.

So why would I, a woman who's never had one, consider a VBAC a vital option? Making VBACs a true option would help me connect with other mothers. I've already had the unfortunate experience of having someone ask me my birth story, and once I said, "Repeat C-section," it was as if I've admitted to flaying my children or formula-feeding them, at least. The first C-section is a mistake; the second one is apparently a choice.

For the most part, the ICAN crowd wants to know what interventions I had. They want me to tell stories about the mean, pushy doctors; the awful hospital policies; how foolish and uneducated I was. They want my medical chart. They want to point out my first misstep, whether it was walking into the hospital to deliver or having an OB/GYN instead of a midwife in the first place. If I think the C-sections were necessary, I haven't done enough homework yet.

Lots of C-sections are done for the wrong reasons. I get that. Mine weren't.

If every woman in this country had loving support for VBACs, then when a statistical anomaly like me tells her birth stories, I could get the same respect as every other mother for birthing my children. If VBACs were the norm, then my C-sections would be assumed to be necessary until proven otherwise. Right now, my friends, that's not what's assumed at all.

And of course it's this day

Where I discover the automated litter box was not plugged in, so the poop's been building up until someone finally protested by pooping on the towel we keep the litter box on, which is fine, but then whichever cat it was tracked a certain amount of poop all over the upstairs.

Of course it's today.

And we're back...

A has the imprint of someone's jaws on his thigh, upper and lower, but thankfully the skin wasn't broken. He is beside himself, crying at the drop of a hat, so he stayed home today.

They got a nap at the same time, which is good, but my plans for Target, pumping milk, and making it to a reading tonight are all shot to hell. Even if I had a wet nurse, the only thing I'd be good for tonight is scowling and twitching.

This is when it's not fun to be the mommy. Oh, to have my kids farmed out to some day care/babysitting situation where I can say, "Gosh, can't you take them? Thanks." But then someone else would be raising them, right?

Back to school

The fever's abated so A's back in school. Whew. Although he got bit this morning, so sayeth his teacher, who was tipped off that A was getting bit by A saying, "Miss Rita, he's eating me."

Conversations with the three-year-old

"Mommy?"
"Yes, A?"
"Are you taking care of me?"
"Yes, A; I'm trying, anyway."
"Thank you for taking care of me, Mommy."

Pneumonia!

A's got pneumonia. This explains the incessant coughing and no naps, which in turn explains the lack of blog updates. The goal this week is to not go to the hospital.

L's 12 weeks and 13 pounds, 13 oz. Yeesh.