(No Longer New) Midlife Mommy

You're In The Army Now

I swear, we live with a little drill sergeant. It wasn’t always like this, but it started as soon as DD began to put two words together. Such as:

Up, mommy! Up, daddy!

Translation: Get off your lazy butts, get out of bed, and get me dressed and changed. It’s time to play.

Sit down!

Translation: You sit here. No, not there. Here.

Up, mommy! Up, daddy!

Alternate translation: I don’t care if I told you to sit there. Now, I want you to get out of that chair and come and sit in this one.

DD up!

Translation: Now, I want you to get out of the chair, and stand there until I tell you otherwise. I want to sit on your (former) chair.

Change! Poopy!

Translation: None necessary.

Daddy do!

Translation: I don’t care that you’ve started doing something for me, mommy. I want daddy to drop everything and come over here and finish up. Now!

Cheese!

Translation: Get off your lazy butt and go and get me some cheese. Now!

Mommy twirly!

Translation: Mommy, throw this (maple leaf seed) up in the air so that I can watch it come down – immediately. And again. And again.

Is this just a stage? I hope so, because we’re not even getting hazard duty pay.

Memorial Day 2006

Well, that was a nice break from the workaday world. I wish that we had more holiday weekends. I hope that yours was nice too.

We didn’t do very much this weekend. Just the normal stuff. Errands on Saturday, laundry on Sunday. Lounging around. We bought some pretty flowers to hang from the front porch. DD got to play outside a lot, thought it was really, really hot.

There was a parade in our small town. Usually, the people participating in the parade gather at the far end of our street, march to the main street, and then continue on from there. It makes it kind of nice, because we can watch from our porch. This time, the band did march from the far end of the street, but the service men and women gathered just past our house. So, we had to walk a couple of houses to see the entire parade. We sat on our neighbor’s big rocks (DD’s favorite place to sit). I think she liked it, but it was hard to tell.

The parade consisted of just the service men and women and the one band, so it went by quickly. There weren’t many people gathered to watch, unlike the 4^th of July and Labor Day parades. Those are pretty awesome, especially for the kids. The 4^th of July parade is probably the best. Since these parades start at the far end of our street, they start passing out candy and other things near our house. My niece and nephews love it, and I think that DD will too, as she gets older. We just give them plastic bags to gather all their goodies. Last year, someone was giving away hammers to the children, which I thought was rather odd, and pretty expensive (though our neighbor told us her son’s hammer broke as soon as they tried to use it, so maybe they weren’t so expensive after all).

That’s about it for the weekend. To top off my excitement, I sprayed a bunch of hornet nests that were being started under our deck railing last night. The area under the railing acts as kind of a magnet for these suckers, whom I hate with a passion. When I was a kid, I was bitten by a couple of these guys, so eradicating them is rather pleasurable for me. We normally have someone spray for them, but we are waiting for someone to powerwash and seal our deck this week (since we don’t have the time to do anything like that). I figured if we didn’t wait, all the insecticide would be washed away. And, we are also waiting on the deck washing before we open the pool. It would have been nice to have already had it open, but who can predict the weather? It has been pretty cold, and we have a solar heater. So, it would have just gotten dirty from all the twirlies (maple tree seeds) and no one would have been able to swim in the water, since it would be too cold.

Anyway, it was a whole lot of nothing this weekend. And it was nice, for a change.

Strange Searches

I realize the blogosphere is dead this weekend, with everyone enjoying the holiday and all.  But I thought I would take a brief break from all the fun we are having -- yeah -- and comment on the strange freaking searches that are bringing people to my site:

For your reviewing pleasure, please note that the following searches will bring you right here:

"head lice mommy"

"mommy boobs"

"mommy boobs milk"

"my husband's fantasies"

"pregnancy and vacuuming"

and sadly, "I hate being the mommy"

I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

New Battle Cry

What is our daughter’s favorite expression before kicking her little soccer ball?

"Big c*ck, big c*ck!"

Honey, I think you mean "big kick."

Still Pumping

I’ve mentioned before that I am still breast feeding my daughter, or "toddler nursing." Part of the reason that I’ve continued is that we both like it (I should note that she really likes it); another reason is that it provides health benefits to both of us. For her, she continues to get supplemental nutrition and my antibodies. For me, it’s supposed to reduce the risk of certain cancers, though I don’t know if the risk gets lower the longer time goes on. Mostly, it’s a comfort to her, and it gives me a chance to feel close to my daughter and reconnect after a long day at work.

I read somewhere that nursing, and extended nursing, can help kids avoid problems with allergies. Because of that, DD still drinks breast milk during the day at daycare. The daycare provider makes sure that she has the milk in a little sippy during lunch and snack times. But, in order to give her milk during the day when she’s not with me, it means that I have to pump when I’m at work.

And I’ve been pumping ever since I returned from maternity leave fifteen months ago. Granted, the frequency of pumping has diminished. I used to pump at 6:30 a.m., 10:30 a.m., 12:30 p.m., and 2:30 p.m. to be able to provide DD with all the bottles that she needed as an infant. Now, I just pump at 10:30 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. while I’m at work.  As time has gone on, the amount that I'm able to express has decreased.  DD needs nine ounces a day; sometimes, I can only get six or seven.

I work in a weird place. It’s an old building. Most of us have six or seven foot cubicle walls, along with an office door that locks. The ceilings are about twenty feet high, so there is quite a gap. And sound bounces off the plaster outer room walls. What this means is that while there may be visual privacy, there is absolutely no audio privacy. So all my colleagues get to hear my pump make its whisper-like noises as it pulls my nipples to an uncomfortable twice their normal length. (And I get to hear them when they belch – disgusting.)

I’m kind of getting sick of pumping. It’s uncomfortable. And it is a little embarrassing, given my working environment, though no one has said anything and I’ve kind of gotten used to it (I just pretend no one else is there). I’m thinking that it would probably be OK for DD to have water with her lunch and snacks at school, and we could still nurse on weekends, in the evenings, and during the night. I do have a nagging fear that if I don’t pump, it could result in a weaning that I know DD isn’t ready for. I wish I knew other toddler nursers who are in the same boat who could let me know what happened when they stopped pumping.

It would sure be nice not to drag the pump around with me every day. It’s a Medela Pump In Style, which I would highly recommend, but the pump plus my purse makes things a bit uncomfortable for my right shoulder. I can’t say strongly enough that I would really not miss leaving this part of motherhood behind at all. I guess I wasn’t born to be a milking cow.

I know that someday we will be giving all of this up for good. I just want it to be in DD’s time, not mine.

Um, ew?

At my daughter’s daycare, which is really an awesome place, they have a sort of latchkey program where they pick up kids from a local school and bring them to the daycare center. I’m not sure what the ages of these kids are, but I’m certain that this practice is very helpful to the parents of these kids, and it brings more money into the daycare center, which keeps costs down for us, which is good. (My, what a long sentence that was.)

Anyway, they put up a posting at our daycare center yesterday, which states: "We just wanted to let you know that there have been multiple cases of head lice at [the local school]. So far, NO children here at [our daycare] have had lice, but we do transport children from [the local school] every day. Please review the lice information sheet for more information."

I don’t remember this being a problem when I was in elementary school. Maybe it just blew by me without my noticing, but I think it would have been the talk of the town. I wonder what has changed from then to now? I just don’t want to deal with it, and since we are co-sleepers, well, fill in the blanks.

Yucky, yucky, yucky. Don’t worry, I won’t keep you posted on this one (smile).

Fun With Farm Animals

Recently overheard at our house:

Me:    What does the kitty say?

DD:    Meee-ow.

Me:    What does the cow say?

DD:    MOOOOO!

Me:    What does the horsie say?

DD:    Neeeeeiiiiiighh.

Me:    And the sheep?

DD:    BAAAAAAAA!

Me:    And the owl?

DD:    Who!

Me:    The birdie?

DD:    Tweet, tweet.

Me:    How about the froggie?

DD:    Yappa, yappa.

WTF?

One Child, Or Two?

The question that I have been agonizing over for awhile is this — one child, or two?  This question has created my own private little hell. And, because of my age, it must be resolved quickly.

When I was growing up, and through my 20's and 30's, I wanted children very much. "Children" is the operative word.  Whenever I fantasized about this, there were always two of them. I came from a two child family.  Almost everyone I know has two children. In having more than one, you create a relationship outside of yourselves, for better or for worse — siblings. Someone to be there when the two of you pass on.  Someone to share childhood with. Like my parents did for me.

But time marches on.  And infertility made a visit into my life.  And it took up a whole helluva lot of time before we decided to move on to donor eggs.  Four years in fact.  And I didn't start trying until I was 39, because that was when I got married.  DD came along when I was 44, but I was almost 45.

At this point, at 46, I would be naturally infertile, I suppose.  But our donor provided us with a lot of eggs.  Twelve of them fertilized.  Only three were transferred.  That leaves nine of them, waiting. What to do, what to do.

One thing I have noticed, if I'm honest, is that things have gotten easier with DD. We usually get some decent sleep, even though she does still wake up a few times a night.  She's more fun.  She's less work. And honestly, at 46, sometimes it seems like it is easier to stay on the floor than to get back up, with all the creakiness in my bones going on.  Going back and starting over, especially to those first few months, is not appealing.  And I imagine it would be tougher with an older child.  But those times do pass.  And the little ones grow into interesting little people.  And my heart fills to the breaking point when I imagine feeling for another child what I feel for DD.

DH, on the other hand, is not conflicted at all. If the decision were solely his, the answer would be a flat no, no second child. He's 57, and he just thinks he's too old.  However, if it is something that I really, really want, he is willing to go along.  And he would be just as good of a father to that child as he is to DD.  Not begrudgingly at all, that I can guarantee. H e's just not that type of a person.

But how can I push to do something that he doesn't want?  It's not like it is something small, where it really doesn't matter who makes the decision.  I can't think of a bigger decision than this.

On the on hand, I should be happy with what I have.  I have a healthy, happy, smart little girl who really does fill my life.  On the other hand, what about a son?  Or another daughter?  I wish that I had some role models to show me that it's possible to not regret having only one.

One thing I do know.  If we don't go ahead with another one, we will donate the embryos to a family who otherwise could not have children.  And, even though DH disagrees with me, I think that it should be an "open" adoption. That way, if I can't give DD brothers and sisters, at least she will know where her biological relatives are.  And they can choose how much of each other's lives they want to share.

DH doesn't like that idea for a couple of reasons.  First, he's afraid that someone from the adoptive family will come back to us seeking something, like money.  Or secondly, that there might be some legal reason that would find him responsible for child support (the law in the area is fairly new, and pretty murky).

I just don't know what to do.  What if our lives were stretched to the breaking point by two?  What if they weren't?  I think about this, every effing day. Anyone know where I can get a crystal ball to help us decide?

I'm A Traditional Dad

Growing up, my dad worked outside the home and my mother didn't.  My dad didn't attend any activity that occurred during the day, like our elementary school spring festivals.  I remember being very p.o.'d to learn that my dad retired with a year's worth of sick days -- I think he could have used some of them to see my brother and I do our class thing in those festivals, but I digress.  I do give him credit for going to evening PTA conferences, and evening music programs.  They were probably boring, and he was probably tired after a long day at work.

But that's how it was back then.  Mom stayed home and made sure that we got off to school and that our lunch was ready when we walked home during elementary school (junior and senior high were too far away to walk home for lunch).  She was up in the night with us when we were sick, and she volunteered at the school.  She was the one we went to with our boo boos.  She was the one who gave the comfort.

I am starting to feel that our current set up kind of puts me in the role of what I see as the traditional dad.  My husband works an abbreviated schedule, generally coming in to work whenever he wants (he's sort of an independent contractor).  So, that means that he is the one who gets our daughter up in the morning, feeds her breakfast, gets her ready, and drops her off at daycare.  I'm the one who calls him and asks for a recap of the morning so that I can vicariously live it through him, because I have to leave earlier to get to work.  In contrast to my husband, I work a full schedule and have an hour to an hour and a half commute each way, depending on the effing construction.

My husband is the one who picks DD up and unwinds with her at the end of the day, because he can generally leave work at around 4:00.  He feeds her dinner and gets to play with her.  And I am the one who walks in usually after dinner is over.  Sometimes, DD is still in her high chair, and she yells "mommy!" as I walk in; I count those times as something precious.  When traffic robs me of a lot of time, I don't get to see her until 6:00, long after dinner is over for her, even though I try to always leave work at 4:30.  And, since I need to get the milk ready for the next day, and clean the breast pump, sometimes, I don't get to start spending time with her until 6:15.  She goes to sleep between 8:30 and 9:00.  In between 6:15 and 8:30, I squeeze in a half an hour or so to read e-mail, and get DD's and my clothes ready for the next day.  DH squeezes in a shower and gets his clothes ready for the next day during that short time frame as well.

So, when DD is upset, who does she call for?  Daddy.  When she's hurt, who does she run to?  Daddy.  I feel like a third wheel.  I'm certain that this is due to the fact that they are together more than we are, and he is the one who gets to comfort her more often.  Why not?  I suppose if I were her, I would go to him too.  If we weren't still nursing, she wouldn't have any reason to seek me out.

I know that I've written about this before, and there really isn't anything I can do to change things unless I can find a job closer to home -- tough in this market.  If I were to take over getting her ready to go to daycare, I would probably be late to work very often, and she would be crabby because I would have to get her up earlier than she's used to.  It wouldn't be fair to her.  If I pick her up from daycare (something my husband has said he would rather I not do), then DD's dinner schedule is thrown off.  Some people at work have suggested that I move her to the daycare where I work, but she is in an excellent daycare where she is now, and doing that would require that she spend two to three hours in the car in transit between work and home.  I haven't even brought this idea up to my husband, because it is totally unfair to DD.

So I guess I have become my father.  That's not something I'm very proud of, though he was a good provider, and that was the measure of success when I was growing up.  Don't get me wrong -- my father is a good person, and I enjoy his company now.  I just saw him as emotionally distant and unapproachable when I was growing up, and I don't want my daughter to see me that way.  Thank you, feminism, for making things "equal."

I can't see any solution to this, because I have to work at a job that will provide health insurance for all of us.  I'm just whining.  And yes, I would like some cheese to go with it.

Hey Mom, My Eye Is Red!

For the third time in three months, DD has pink eye.  Which means a quarantine for 24 hours and eye drops for a week.  I swear, if anyone within a mile has pink eye, DD is going to catch it.  Since DH has something that he really, really wanted to do today, I volunteered to stay home.  I don't mind; I just wish the weather was nicer so that we could spend time outdoors.  But that's not going to stop us from walking to the chocolate store in town once DD wakes up from her nap.

Anyway, off to the doctor this morning.  We went to the local walk-in clinic, rather than drive for miles and miles to the regular doctor.  There is one doctor in this clinic who is supposedly famous in the area for his former pediatric practice.  At this clinic, he also sees adults.  I've been seen by him a few times.  He has always been as fast as lightning when I'm the only one in the room.  I'm not kidding -- he is in the room for two minutes tops, including time spent writing notes and any prescription, regardless of the problem.  It sort of makes you feel like he really isn't paying attention, though I'm sure he's just seen it all and doesn't need to spend much time figuring things out anymore.  And he kind of looks like Santa, without the red suit.

But today, I guess DD charmed him.  He must have spent a whole seven minutes with us.  She danced and laughed and brought the house down.  He was impressed with her various recitations, and he seemed to think that she would be this way even if we didn't spend so much time with her.  I beg to differ, but who knows.

Then I got a mini lecture on child proofing.  I must have seemed like the type who would leave my Clorox out on the floor for easy access.  But, the truth is, we haven't been so good at child proofing, and it must be readily apparent to an outside observer just by looking at me or something.  We haven't been completely oblivious.  We do have some edge strips and corner covers in areas where we think there could be an injury, we have plug covers in and our stove knobs are covered, but we also have two major cabinets full of cleaners, etc. that aren't secured.  They are kind of odd -- one is a closet kind of thing (pull open), and the other has two knobs that are too close together for the standard childproof latch.  In our defense, we rarely let her out of our sight, so she doesn't have time to sample the forbidden fare.

Hmmm.  Now that it is obvious to strangers outside our home that we haven't been too thorough in the childproofing area, maybe it's time to figure something out.  Of course, it doesn't help that we are both morons when it comes to rigging things up.  I guess our handyman might be able to suggest something, but he's been ignoring us lately in favor of larger things.

Something else to worry about.