Don't Worry...I'm Not Psychotic.

Just wanted to let everyone know that things are much, much better at my house. My devil baby is no longer a devil baby, and life is...well...easier.

I realized that from my last post, it could possibly seem as if I'm suffering from some sort of post-partum psychosis/depression. I'm not. Just sleep deprivation.

Some day I'll write a "real" blog, again. It's just that I can't think of anything to say that doesn't have to do with my baby, and I promised myself I wouldn't turn into one of those people that only talks about their damn baby. Those people are annoying.

I honestly have nothing to say right now. So sad. I don't even really know what's going on in the world except for the fact that my NCAA Basketball bracket is totally effed, and the health care thing passed.

See??? "Old Cari" would not have called it the "health care thing"!!! She would've known exactly the right name, place, time it was passed, who voted for what, what it all meant, etc. Now I just write "health care thing" and expect everyone to remember that I'm not an idiot.

It's as if my brain doesn't function in the manner that it once did, pre-baby. Now everything is breastfeeding, reading "Goodnight Moon," tickling a tummy and kisses.

A squeaky giraffe stands where a canvas used to be.

"Pony Boy" and "Old MacDonald" have replaced long nights of plunking away at the piano or guitar. I can barely remember the girl that sat in recording studios. The girl that sang in smoky bars. Where did she go?

She made a human boy. I love him to death, but he is also completely and totally draining. I sometimes wonder when Beau and I will get to eat at the same time again.

The other day, Beau turned to me and said, "Hey, Cari? Do you want to be 'one and done'? I don't know if I can do this again."

Seeing as Beau described a satin blanket to Grey as "the material that a whore's underwear is made of," and the fact that I say curse words in "baby talk" to him all the time, AND the fact that my made-up lullabies have references to marriage equality...I think Beau is onto something with the "one and done" thing.

We're wonderful parents. Grey is doomed to be a total freak. BUT...he'll be an intuitive, courageous, creative, unique human being. I still write songs. They're just not for me, anymore. Here is one of my most recent creations for bouncing a boy to sleep:

I can be whatever I want,

when I grow up like an elephant.

A football player, a ballet dancer,

an architect or a garbage man,

cuz my Mommy loves me no matter what I am.

Maybe I'll like boys,

maybe I'll like girls,

maybe I'll have straight hair,

maybe curls.

But, it doesn't matter,

I like pancake batter...

almost as much as my dad.

When I walk down the street,

I like to meet,

everyone I can cuz I'm a friendly man,

so if you're mean, please don't come out,

I really don't like to fuss or shout.

My name is Grey, and I'm here to say,

that I like milk in every single way.

I drink it all down and I spit it all up,

and somehow I still get full.

Guess what I like?

The fan! The fan!

I'm the biggest fan,

of the fan! The fan!

I look like The Thinker,

but I'm kind of a stinker,

when I'm staring at the fan.

Five wooden blades,

dark against light,

a pentagon shape,

what a beautiful sight.

There is nothing better,

I think I'll write a letter,

to the maker of the fan.

It'll say, "Dear Mrs. So-and-So,

How does your fan blow and blow?

I think I'd like to go and be with the fan.

I love the brand Hampton Bay,

I think I'd like to go and stay,

but that may be perceived as kind of strange."

Am I making myself clear?

I love the fan! THE FAN!

I'm the biggest fan!

Of the fan! The fan!

I look like The Thinker,

but I'm kind of a stinker,

when I'm staring at the fan.

My mom would really like me to go to sleep,

but when she puts me down,

I still make a peep,

I'm really tired, but I'm kind of wired,

cuz my mom can't give up her coooofffeeeee.

That's all I have right now. I add a new verse every time I bounce him to sleep. By the time he no longer needs to be bounced, I shall have written a masterpiece.

And now I have written yet another blog about my child. Wonderful.

A Three Hour Nap...

The title of this blog should be read while singing the melody from "Gilligan's Island," as in..."A Three Hour Tour..." because that's what I'm hoping for at this very moment for my son.

I have a blogging friend (I keep calling her a blogging friend), but really she's just a friend. Before I had Grey, she asked me to please be honest with her about being a mother/raising a child/having a baby, etc. I told her I would be extremely honest. So, here we go...and, because I am so fond of lists, everything shall be in list form:

1. This is the hardest thing I have ever done, tried to do, wanted to do, experienced, had to do, etc. The hardest thing I have ever done. Ever.

2. Every day I have the thought, "I am the worst mother of all time. I can't do this." Then, in about 15 minutes, I have the thought, "Okay, I get this. I can do this."

3. My baby has a total freakout that starts at about 4:00p.m. every day. It can last for 10 minutes or a couple hours depending on gassiness or overall misunderstanding of the world. I think he's extremely sensitive, and sometimes the world is just too much for him. His little system is trying to adjust ever so slowly, and it's heartbreaking to watch at times.

4. I have had to tell myself, "Sometimes babies just cry, and there's nothing I can do but sit here and hold him and tell him that he's going to be okay," about EIGHT MILLION TIMES.

5. There is nothing like a crying, screaming baby. I think my entire nervous system goes into overdrive. The helpless feeling of not being able to make it stop is what I imagine hell might be like. Except in hell, there's a reason to be upset. My baby cries when everything is seemingly perfectly fine. I have been told that other babies do this, as well. I remind myself of this every, single day.

6. I have no idea why I thought I would have one of those perfectly content and happy babies. I mean, look at his mother and father? A bit...uh...intense, one might say? Grey Matthew is a good, good baby. He just has to freak out every once in awhile. So does his mother and father, which leads me to...

7. I have no idea why any couple would have a baby to try to save their marriage. In fact, if Beau and I didn't have a really supportive, amazing relationship...well...I don't know if we'd make it through this first month of baby-ness. This baby had such a rough entry into this world, both physically and emotionally. His parents are TIRED. And, every day we get into some sort of argument (helpful ones...ones that help us heal) that eventually brings us closer together. I'm sure Grey would like his parents to get their shit together sometime soon.

8. I have been peed on (and projectile pooped on) more times than I can count.

9. I am tired of bouncing. You know how babies like to be rocked? Not mine. Bounced. He will only bounce. I have to sit on an exercise ball and bounce with him for at LEAST an hour each day while he stares contentedly at the ceiling fan. If I stop bouncing for two seconds, he cries. I have bounced more than a middle aged kangaroo at this point. My quads are going to be so toned by the end of this bouncing stage. Please tell me it's a stage...please. Sometimes I think that the constant bouncing is what leads to the arguments between Beau and I. One can only bounce so much...

10. At times I have had this fantasy, and please remember that I wish to do no harm to my own child: When Grey has been crying for 2 hours straight, with little reprieve, I sometimes imagine that I can take him like a football and punt him across the neighborhood, where he lands safely on a huge bed of pillows down the street. He is safe...but, he's far, far away from me. :) I don't feel bad for admitting this. It helps me not go insane.

11. I have a baby that hates being kissed. He also hates having his head touched. All I want to do is kiss him and touch his head. It makes complete sense. I have days where if someone touches me, I want to hit them. Beau is the exact opposite, so it's been a real learning experience for him...having two people that don't want to be touched a lot. Poor Beau. He's doing so well with us.

12. No one tells you how fucking hard breast feeding is. BREAST FEEDING IS FUCKING HARD. There. Now, no one can ever say I didn't tell you so. My boobs hurt. My nipples hurt. It takes constant "management" of them to get through a feeding. Creams, potions, my own milk, heat packs, cold packs, lotions, salves, drying them out, massaging, breast pads, gel packs...you name it. Besides chopping them off and buying some formula...I've tried everything. Everyone in the entire world says that the pain will just magically disappear at some point. I'm waiting for the blessed day to arrive, patiently. Okay, not patiently at all. I take 8 ibuprofen a day for this. It HURTS. I'm going to reiterate this one more time: My nipples FUCKING HURT. If any lactation consultant tells you that your nipples should stop hurting within a week, or that your nipples shouldn't hurt for more than a week...well, they're fucking lying to you. Every woman I've talked to said it took them WEEKS...some said up to two months...for the pain to go away. Your nipples will split and be raw, cracked, red, aching...I cannot speak about this enough. There are not enough...elipses...to describe how hard it is. And, yet...I keep going because it's the most important thing that I'm doing. My home birth was taken away from me, but I can still do THIS, damn it.

13. There are times when I don't like being a mom very much at all. There are times when I want to run away. There are times when I think, "Someone else would be much better at this than me." But, then...he'll stare at me with his dark, dark, dark navy blue eyes while I'm feeding him, and he has a look of total innocence and trust, and I think...he loves me. He wants me to be his mom.

He chose me. The least I can do is say "thank you."

So, I thank him. And, then the day goes on, and my thoughts become a tiny bit more rational, and I remember that in the quiet moments (and some loud, scary ones), I am a really good mom to this little boy.

He's teaching me to be more patient than I ever wanted to be. It's hard. This is so, SO hard.

And, it's worth it.

Was that honest enough for you? ;)