Sorry July

We're all done. We've just had it. Each one of us had a certain amount of energy, and we spent it all in the month of June.

July, I'm so sorry, I've got nothing for you.

Tonight, every single one of the females in this household blew up simultaneously. Thank goodness Hub-D wasn't affected by the group swoon, and he held and smooched each one of us back into reasonable functionality.

But I bailed on him for our weekly "Yoga Date" and I am sitting here feeling like I never want to leave the house again. Nope, I never want to snap another little girl torso into another carseat and dare to leave the driveway again.

And on a weird note: Ever since my C-section, I've had recurrent aches all over my body. It's uncomfortable, but not badly so. I'm mostly just curious what this is. It started immediately following my surgery, and has, extremely slowly, been diminishing ever since. A side-effect of anesthesia? Tonight I wondered if it's because my body just misses Baby C. It's physical pining.

What is the proper age to expose your children to "The Empire Strikes Back?"

Sixteen months, of course!

Gigi loved Darth Vader a LOT and would cheer and raise her arms when he was on the screen.

I think she'd make a good Yoda for Halloween, yes?

I don't want to close my eyes! I don't want to fall asleep!

This song perfectly encapsulates Baby C's view of life. She just doesn't want to miss any of the action... she and I could stare at each other all day and all night. But then no one would get any sleep, which would be fine by her.

It's particularly tough for her to go to sleep at bedtime. It's as though she knows that for the next 12 hours, other than pitch dark feedings, there will be no sisters, no interesting things to stare at, no crazy mama songs. And she just doesn't want to let the day go.

So Baby C, this request goes out to you, not going gently into that goodnight...

Dead Lazlo's Place

Does anyone else remember this episode of Laverne & Shirley? It was possibly the GREATEST moment of comedic television. (The low being a tie between the sitcom episodes where Benson's mother dies and where Edith Bunker dies. Come on people, what was with the death themes in sitcoms? Anyway...)


The premise: Squiggy's Uncle Lazlo dies, leaving him a restaurant, which Lenny and Squiggy rename "Dead Lazlo's Place" -- most famously serving the "Dead Lazlo Burger."

Laverne and Shirley try to run the restaurant, with predictably disastrous results. Laverne cooks and Shirley serves, and the patrons of Dead Lazlo's Place make it difficult for both of them.

And MY WHOLE POINT IS... lately I have been feeling exactly like Laverne in this episode. I'm standing in the kitchen, whipping up something for people to eat for breakfast, when I notice that Gigi is, once again, trying to shove a pacifer into Baby C's eye socket while Chebbles jiggles her infant sister's feet.

And I put on my best, deepest "Laverne" voice and holler, "PLEASE don't harrass BETTY, please."

Health.com Article -- Part One of Baby C's Birth!

Now that I'm writing for the Healthy Living part of the site, I think it's especially helpful to have direct links to the stories.

This is Part One of Baby C's birth!

Sort of

I love the residual effects of Chebbles' first year of "big girl" preschool. She has a fascination with outer space now. This is her drawing of something that is "sort of like a quasar." You know. Sort of.

In other news, Baby C is still stuffy as all get-out. And she's gassy too. It's just the nature of being an infant who emanates from our own gassy loins -- you spend the first few months of life just trying to fart. Sorry, girls.

Despite all this, Baby C is such a delicious human being, I can't get enough of her. Although she and I were up off-and-on all night dealing with her boogers and gas, I felt lucky when I woke up before any of my children this morning and spent the remaining few minutes just staring at Baby C. She is so beautiful.

And my mom is right, her hair does look like Napoleon. But it only makes her CUTER, and her head is so warm and fuzzy, it's eerily similar to the peaches that have just come ripe in our backyard.

As for Gigi, she's started talking -- sort of. She just blurts out these full sentences, "I want that balloon!" or "Mama, I can't get down!" except it sounds garbled and hurried, so I can't be sure that I've heard her correctly. It ends up sounding something like the famous Heathrow Airport prank.

OK, it's time to rescue Gigi from her crib tent. The power of the mighty zipper!

Thank goodness we were already at our deductible this year. I just got the bill for Baby C and my stay at the hospital: $9863.67 for her, and $38,303.68 for me.

I've got to hand it to HealthNet, they live up to their word, covering all these expenses after my wrists polished off the deductible in March.

And in other news, I'm going to continue writing for Health.com! I'm so excited. They're moving me to the Healthy Living section of the site. Now I feel like I need to actually live somewhat healthily. To that end, I will eat only ONE of my children's Z Bars today.

Chebbles' Dance Recital

It's our annual excuse to take a picture of our family together. Remember last year? (Bad hair! Sleepless nights!)

I just love this picture because it's so... us. And Baby C looks like me, if only because we're both squinting.

As for Gigi's face, she found an abandoned chocolate chip cookie outside the auditorium, and now that I'm a mother of three with no standards (sanitary, disciplinary, nutritional) whatsoever, I let her eat it.

Chebbles danced to "The Good Ship Lollipop."

The video is below, posted primarily for grandparental consumption. She's the second from the right...

Gigi, just like last year, went insane with excitement at every dance number performed at the recital. You can hear her start to comment at 2:14.

Baby C caught Gigi's cold

I asked Gigi WHY in the world she didn't adhere to the guidelines I'd specifically hung over Baby C's swing. And she alleged that she "can't read."

Typhoid Gigi.

But seriously, these signs? So first-time mom.

Connect Four

This is Chebbles, discussing how she resents the "Ages 7+" designation on the Connect Four packaging, while Gigi quietly "wins" the game.

Today it finally got hot, so I busted out the infant/toddler hot weather gear and spent the afternoon hosing off children in the backyard. Chebbles sang an awesome song to Baby C while she sat enraptured in the bouncy seat. It was about everything she was going to show Baby C as she grows bigger.

And I finally realized where that cloying "cheese" smell is coming from: Me. I am one big chunk of boobmilk cheese.

No, no, it goes like THIS

"Hi, you don't know me yet, but I'm Chebbles, and I'll be the boss of you."

The funny part is how other kids don't seem to mind Chebbles' ministrations, or her dictating the game rules (in which she is the victor 100% of the time).

All I ask of Chebbles is that she be kind in these interactions -- to take a pause and ask her friends what THEY would like to do, who THEY would like to be in their imagination games, and perhaps -- just maybe -- give them a small chance at winning every so often.

Both Chebbles and Gigi woke up at 5:45am this morning, making this the toughest day yet since Baby C's birth. I have been able to hack the sleeplessness by going to bed early and catching sleep between C's feedings and gas attacks in the night, but this is predicated on getting that sweet extra post-gas hour of sleep in the morning.

That plan was trashed this morning when Chebbles went wailing into the middle of the house, waking everyone up, and screaming, "I don't want to have any friends anymore!"

This was on top of an every-other-hour wake-up schedule that Chebbles and Gigi had maintained throughout the night -- screaming and hollering and having a totally inappropriate hootenanny.

So today? No one is the victor, except maybe Baby C, who scored an early boob and went straight back to sleep for almost three hours.

Swooning

Maybe there is something magical about a third baby -- the lack of tension, stress, or new clothing purchases. But we're over the moon in love with Baby C -- no holds barred, every last one of us.

Gigi just dug up an old Cabbage Patch Kid pacifier, which had wintered somewhere in our shrubs. She brought it in to Baby C with all due haste, and tried to shove it in her baby sister's mouth. Luckily, we were able to substitute the dirty old plastic "pacifier" with a real one at the last second, avoiding a sure case of post-gestational toxoplasmosis.

But this scene is repeated a dozen times a day in this house -- we present Baby C with offerings of so many varieties -- boobmilk, blankets, snuzzles, and any old toy we think she might get a kick out of.

Chebbles just brought home a pinwheel from the gardening store, and shoved it one millimeter from Baby C's face. "See this, C? See the pinwheel? It needs WIND to make it GO!" Then she gave Baby C a speech about what life will be like when she is a big sister: "You can teach your little sister about things. And you can go to The Jungle."

I have to say that the idea of having a fourth child is burning brightly in our home, perked by the billows of our massive love for Baby C. She is so welcome, so beautiful, and her hair looks just like Ethan Hawke's.

But don't count on #4 by any stretch. We have a deadline looming, as I turn 40 in a little over two years (and I don't want to have a baby after 39), and I plan on nursing Baby C as long as I humanly can. For me, nursing has been effective in terms of limiting my fertility. Plus, we need to do serious MATH if we want to have a fourth baby -- in terms of a bigger car, bigger house, and much larger education expenses. So anyway, no one get their panties in a bunch about our overpopulating the world yet.

This is all to say that we're just NUTS about Baby C. She is everyone's darling, a bright ray of sunshine that radiates throughout our household. (And I'm not even taking Vicodin right now.)

Today I was driving down the road and I caught a whiff of her poop -- somewhere on my arms, I'd missed it when I washed my hands. And one word came to mind, "Intoxicating!"

Dimple-icious

I realized, as I clutched Baby C to my side last night for the last few hours of sleep, that I was holding her close for ME, not for her. The scales have tipped in favor of the "indulging the mama" side, versus "baby actually needing human contact."

She sleeps long and well in her crib. Now I just have to adjust to that.

But cripes, people! Look at that dimple! Look at how this child is filling out and turning into a legitimate little human being. If you had the opportunity to squish that infant goodness and feel her breathing and her little heartbeat, wouldn't you keep her in a sling right next to you 24 hours a day? Come on.

What?

Doesn't everyone dress their toddlers in Ronald Reagan T-shirts for Gymboree? Well, they should.

The trick to getting enough sleep around here has been to go to bed at, say, 7pm. Sorry Hub-D, I'll see you in about, uh, four months. But Baby C needs to be ministered to 2-3 times every night -- either feeding, or changing a big stinky diaper, or bicycling her tiny little legs to get all her wee farts out. And then I start thinking in the middle of the night, and I lose several hours that way.

Baby C ends up smooshed in my arms by the early morning hours every day -- that's the best way to get her remaining gas out -- tight on her side in my arms, and she sleeps peacefully until EIGHT O'CLOCK. So, hey, I'm not going to question it.

Also, for her morning nap today, I put her in Gigi's old crib. We just raised up the mattress, so it was ready for her arrival. I didn't hold out much hope that she'd actually sleep, but after I replaced her pacifier three times, she completely conked out. In a strange crib!? In a room previously unknown to her. I can't get over how cooperative this child is.

She's alert, she's beautiful, she's cheerful, and... she's waking up. Whatta gal!

Baby C's Arrival

I just discovered a bunch of additional pictures from Baby C's birth, and I'm posting them below.

The photos begin with the afternoon before her delivery, then with Hub-D and me on the lawn, heading out to one last dinner before heading to the hospital early the next morning.

I did NOT post the bloody/graphic photos of Baby C's birth which *I* find fascinating, but I could be the only one. They might embarrass her later in life. I also took a picture of her worst meconium poop, which I plan to include in the Rehearsal Dinner slide show the night before her wedding.

Instead of the REAL birthing photos, I included a placeholder photo of the delivery room door. If anyone wants to see the totally interesting pictures of a baby being born by C-section, I'm happy to e-mail those. But let's keep things urbane here, shall we?

The photos end with Hub-D and my triumphant return back home with our darling Baby C, who is sleeping and cooing to herself in the next room as I type. Ah, success.

Oh HELLO, Hormones

Oh my goodness, the hormones have descended. The smallest thing makes me want to cry. It's not necessarily tears of sadness, but tears of EMOTION. I'm not depressed, I'm just one big hormone of intense feeling.

Hub-D rented "Life is Beautiful" from Netflix.

"I don't think it's even a good idea to have that movie in the HOUSE at this point," I told him.

My mom just took Chebbles and Gigi to dance class, and I stood in the driveway watching them pull out. Gigi blew me kisses and I thought, "What if that's the last time I ever see her!?"

But luckily, I know a hormone when I feel one now. This is old hat. So I can kind of stand off to the side of myself and see how sensitive I'm being, how self-involved and paranoid, but I can also appreciate the womanly glow of postpartum emotion and useful bonding/nursing hormones flooding my veins.

Also, I'm putting together my new list of topics for Health.com. Let me know if there is anything in particular you'd like me to cover. It looks like the chemical nature of postpartum FEELING will be on the list.

The whole reason to have kids

Making it through

Last night Baby C had the gas pains again -- I'm now convinced it's unrelated to diet. But in the middle of the night, I just let her latch onto my right boob and hang out there for hours on end, leading to worse indigestion, gas problems and pains. I just need to seriously tank her up, then let her sleep, I think. (Thanks for the hindmilk suggestion, Holly, that sounds like a winner!)

She remains a SPLENDID baby -- I just cautioned my sister not to get lulled by this baby, who is so sweet and mellow and easily soothed. She is a Trick Baby, this one for sure.

In other news, Gigi and Chebbles are both asleep in the same room for the first time in their lives. It took a huge fit of giggles, screams of laughter, some gigantic crocodile tears and a Mama Tantrum ("What is going ON in here? My GOD! The humanity!") and now there is a knocked-out silence from their room.

Gigi had crawled out of her crib this morning, terrifying me and my sister by her sudden, unexplained presence in the living room. So now she's penned up in her new crib, in the same room as Chebbles, zipped up into the crib tent and breathing with her sister, having sweet dreams together.

If this continues to be a success, Baby C will take over Gigi's room. And Gigi and Chebbles will occupy the Princess Suite until it's time for college.

Groggola

Baby C is definitely an "easy" baby -- no screaming, long sleeping, excellent eating. And the gas situation seems to have been something of a fluke. Now that I've gotten a little more aggressive about burping her, we've had fewer problems that way.

It's just the sleep, for me. And the whole "sleep when your baby sleeps" thing is a crock, let's all look that straight in the eye and admit it. Occasionally it's possible, but I can't summon enough tiredness at exactly the right moment, when the other kids are "covered" in order to catch up on sleep, so... yeah, groggola.

Baby C is a great sleeper... from 1am until 1pm. That's the nighttime she's chosen for herself. She's happy to josh around until 1am, despite my turning off the lights and making myself perfectly clear that there is no extra love or stimulation of any kind that happens in this house after 9pm for any person under the age of 30.

And it's 12:20pm, and I fed her at 9am, but she's just sleeping, sleeping, sleeping despite my constant pestering, unwrapping her swaddle, and treating her like she's the camp dweeb... maybe I should try dipping her hand in warm water to see if it makes her pee... or draw a moustache on her.

So the bottom line is that I'm cranked with postpartum hormones, and I have an achy belly from the incision and the continuing occasional cramps, and I'm caring (with my sister's and Hub-D's help) for Gigi and Chebbles from 7am-7pm every day. And Baby C is pretending like she's the BEST BABY EVER... for a family with no other kids. If we were rockstars, staying out until all hours and sleeping in all morning, she would be the best baby in the world!

Just jewelin' along

We're still alive over here, thanks to tons and tons of beautiful jewelry keeping us glamorous and awake.

Also keeping us awake is Baby C's gas. Poor gal had an attack of it last night from about 1am-6am, when a cascade of farts finally relieved the whole household from the pain and agony of her tiny guts.

I don't think it's my drinking milk, although I've stopped all dairy, just in case. Does anyone know how the infant digestive system works? I mean, can things that didn't bother her during her first week make it miserable the next week? Are some babies just gassy no matter what their mothers eat? Or did I add something new to my diet that I'm forgetting?

Anyway, she's still an angel, and she doesn't cry, just grunts and feels a little sad. Baby C, you darlin'.

There were mass layoffs in the Mama household this morning -- Baby C, Gigi and most of all Chebbles were all fired before 7am. Sorry, but I can't justify their salaries in this economy -- not when we're getting the whole everyone-wakes-up-around-the-clock behavior.

So yes, it was, "Ladies, step into my office."

Their severance package was a breakfast out with their visiting grandparents. And once the additional funding we're expecting arrives courtesy of the Obama administration, I will consider rehiring them, if I haven't already outsourced these three plum "daughter" positions to a foreign land.

What the hell?

Lady! You have GOT to be kidding me. Another one? You seriously just brought home another one of these things?

Has it occured to you to run these things past us, your loyal cats? Those things are loud, they pull our tails, and until instructed otherwise, they eat our food. So no, we don't approve.

(But of course both cats were snuggled near our cozy, milky nursling haze by daybreak.)