Thoughts and thoughts

The Timehop app is a cruel thing if you think about it.

It shows me pictures from January of this year, and my baby is so tiny wrapped up snug in a blanket. He's still colicky in the pictures and I am just beginning a journey of exhaustion that will never end. Oh how I reminisce.

Fast forward (very fast) to an approaching new year and he's so different. He's grown so much, and I'm thankful for that. I'm so thankful that he's growing and healthy, but where did the time go? In the midst of studying, working and crying, I lost those sweet tiny baby times. I didn't appreciate them enough.

I'm really trying to stop worrying so much about Connor sleeping with us and still nursing. I don't want to look back and these times be so far gone that I can only access them through a silly app.

I watch him sleeping, his mouth cracked open and this complete peace on his face, and my heart just keeps growing. It never stops.

He's becoming his own person now and developing his own mischievous personality. It makes me laugh, cry and want to pull my hair, all within a few seconds of each other.

I wonder about when he gets older, when he won't need me, let's be real, or want me all the time, and I'm just not sure how I can deal with that.

Freedom will be nice, won't it? I think it will.
But it's nice having this little person think so much of you that he just wants to touch you and be at your side all the time.

I think parenthood is this constant conflict of emotions. It's like your mind just goes back and forth constantly between wanting to have a minute to yourself and then loving those random break-ins while you're showering.

It's playing peek-a-boo for a split second of him hiding, but loving that adorable smile and belly laugh when he comes back up to see you.

Loving this much isn't something that can be written. It isn't something that can be told. It's just felt and that's it. You can't even compare it to someone, because your mind doesn't know how to put it into words.

It's funny how that works. There are beautiful and magnificent novels written, full of words and ideas, but something so common is inexplicable.

I've heard that it's not instinctual for mothers to love their young. I guess that's true when you think about it, because how can you really love someone you don't even know?

But then again, when this tiny, tiny human looks up at you with eyes full of curiosity and confusion, and you are the only person in the entire world who can make him feel like everything is OK, how can you not love him?

I think people probably get tired of me gushing about how much I love this kid, but every day it changes. Every hour, something new happens and my heart isn't the same as it was the previous hour, or even minute.

So Lauren, what's the point in this post?
I have no idea.

Just like I have no idea what I'm doing. I have no clue how to be a mother. But Connor doesn't care. All he wants is to know that when everything is changing and he's constantly learning new things, he can look for me and I'll be there, cheering him on.

What I've learned so far...again.

As I'm sitting here, listening to the monotony of a Continuing Education course on urinary tract infections, I can't help but want to blog.

Well that's great, Lauren. What do you want to blog about?
Great question.

So much has happened since I last posted, I don't even know where to begin.

Having a toddler is the hardest thing yet, I think. It's nice that we are somewhat better able to communicate with one another, but the kid has SO MUCH energy.

Like, who ARE you?

He goes and goes until he just can't anymore, and I'm over here all, "Can we nap yet?"

I'm shaking my head right now.

He is also learning a little bit more about his anatomy, which is...interesting. I have added a bullet point to my parenting pamphlet that basically says, "Do what you want, it's yours, but don't let anyone else."

I'm hoping he takes that idea through college.

I can't even think about college.
I can't think about preschool.

I am the worst Mrs. Clause EVER. I thought since Baby C was only a year old, I could just throw his gifts in his room and let them be. I mean he never goes in there anyway.

Except now.

He goes in there now.

He loves to play in his room.

He loves to play with his Christmas gifts that are in his room.

Josh finally wrapped them because I'm incapable of wrapping presents, and they are now under the tree. Connor went from trying to ride his gift to trying to unwrap it so he can ride it.

What is wrong with us?
We're so bad at this.
I really hope I don't burn the cookies again this year.

Weaning:

It's not going to happen, ever. I have tried giving him whole milk and he doesn't like it. He likes everything else in the world, but he doesn't like whole milk. He only wants to nurse when he's tired, which isn't often and isn't so bad except for when I want to turn over in the bed. I read this article about weaning a teenager (it was showing how ridiculous the notion is), and I had a mini panic attack. If there is a child who is going to breastfeed in college, it's Connor.

Oh no, there's that college thought again.
I just want to keep him out of jail and off of drugs.
I will not judge him if he chooses not to go to college.
....or if he chooses to major in Philosophy.

Walking:
Why walk when you can crawl really fast?
I don't know, Connor. I just don't know.
He likes to hang on to things and walk, but he doesn't want to walk on his own unless he has a reward in the form of food.

Maybe he does need to be in preschool. Is he spending too much time with Apollo? He is eating dog food...

I'm not too worried about the walking thing. I really think that he will just wake up one day and do it. That's what he did with sitting up, crawling and pulling up.

Talking:
I'm pretty sure he says "damn." I'm pretty sure I'm a horrible parent because of it. I keep hoping he's saying "down" or "dog" or anything with a "da-" sound. He can say "gone" when he drops things, which is adorable, and I think he says "stop" because he hears it so often. But of course my favorite
word is "Mamamamama."


So after all of these brilliant observations, I lie in bed with him at the end of the day and he snuggles up next to me, and I realize how much he's actually grown. Then I hold him a little tighter, kiss him a little longer and thank God for giving me a thriving, absolutely perfect baby boy.

Houston, we have a toddler

My son has been a toddler for...three days now. 72 hours. I am convinced that I will die when we hit the "terrible two's." I just know I am going to die then. The last three days have been so whiny, clingy and hair-pulling that I will never make it through the "terrible two's" alive.

C hangs to my pants which are usually only held up by loose elastic. My child pants-es me on a daily basis.

"Oh hey Mom, doing your makeup? Not anymore."

"Oh hey Mom, cooking food? Here, let me help by pulling your pants down."

I've known for a while now that I will never again go to the bathroom alone. That's a given. What no one felt the need to mention was what happens in that bathroom. Connor plays with my panties. How freaking awkward is that? Like, I grab his hands and tell him "No," but it doesn't work. I pull my pants a little higher so they're hidden, but he doesn't care. My child fishes for my panties.

"Hey Mom, thanks a lot for letting me come in here with you. I mean, I would have just stayed outside and cried anyway."

"Oh cool Mom, your diaper is stretchy. I can really pull your diaper. Mine doesn't do that."

"Mom, why don't you just pee your pants like I do?"

"Mom, how come you don't ever have to lay down to change your diaper?"

My eyes no longer belong to me. My eyes now belong to C. He likes for them to stay on him all the time. In fact, any time I look at, say, a laptop, phone, book or television, Connor has a come apart. He gets up in my face or pulls at whatever is stealing his much deserved attention.

"Mom, look at me. I'm standing here doing nothing."

"Hey mom, I am going to cry until you pick me up, OK?" "NOOOO, put me down!" "PICK ME UP!"

If it's not Connor, it's Apollo.

"Mom, um, that thing isn't up here...so I will be." Then he growls at C.

"Mom, I see that your lap is already occupied with that noise-maker, but can I come too?" Then he climbs on Connor and me....and growls at C.

Do we even want to talk about my breasts?

Ha, of course we do.

My boobs, ta-tas, knockers, jugs, fun bags--what ever you choose to call them, they are no longer mine. They are Connor's and only Connor's. He has full control over them. I've considered weaning him, and I may try harder since I've just been casual about it, but he has claimed them. If I take my shirt of in front of him, he starts his milk laugh (which sounds oddly like a younger version of a creepy old man laugh).
If we are in the shower, he tries to nurse. Then he gets mad at me when I tell him "No" so that I can WASH him, and he starts screaming.
If we are in bed, he has to have a nipple in his mouth.

"Mom, since you have those out, can I get some milk?"

"Mom, why won't you just let me have some milk?"

"Mom, I am sleepy. You should let me have some milk so I won't cry."

"Mom. Milk."

"Look, you can give me milk, or I can scream until you give me milk."

So this toddler thing is going really well so far. It's going great. I'm going to be OK.

12 things I've learned over the last year

What a year it has been. This time last year, I was at ECM getting prepped for Connor's big day. Over the last 12 months, I've gotten to know this little person. Here's what I've gathered so far:

1) He is stubborn. He's so determined, he knows what he wants and never stops until he gets it. I hope he carries this throughout his life and uses this drive to achieve all his dreams.

2) He loves commercials, especially the lawyer ones. I have to take credit for this because of all the hours he listened to lectures in my tummy. I don't know if he will become an advertising executive or a lawyer, but I'm behind him 100 percent.

3) Colic is not cool. The first three months of life were difficult for everyone. He was trying to figure out why he wasn't in his warm, snuggly home anymore and why his stomach hurt so bad. I was trying to figure out how to live on no sleep and just what I got myself into.

4) He does things only when he's good and ready. Connor has no problem being a little behind in the physical department. I was worried to death when he didn't sit up, crawl or pull up in accordance with what everything online said. Then he would just wake up one morning and decide he was going to do it, and he did. I hope he continues to take his time with things and only act when he's sure he's ready. This will help him a lot in life.

5) #TeamNoSleep. This has been and always will be us. Connor is not a sleeper, especially by himself. He slept beside my bed for three months before he started sleeping IN my bed. He is so cuddly and I love it, but as soon as I put him in his bed, it's over. He can stay awake for hours with no problem.

6) Breastfeeding is hard, but worth it. When I first started breastfeeding, I cried a lot. I was worried about milk supply and his latch. But I kept at it and I'm so happy I did. A year later and I know I can comfort him whenever needed. When he's sick, I know I can keep him hydrated. There was a time when I wanted my milk to dry up, but now I think I'll cry when it finally does. Breastfeeding has made us closer and that's something I needed.

7) I've never been more scared about anything in my life. I have this constant fear because I know how big and cruel the world is. I'm terrified for Connor to go out in it. He's so happy and innocent, I don't ever want to see that go away. But it will. Life will deal him rough hands at times, but I hope he keeps the light in his eyes and pushes forward. There's always an opening at the end of the tunnel.

8) Baby food stains. I was really surprised about this because normal people food usually doesn't stain clothes like baby food does. But then I remembered that babies aren't normal people. Babies are these little creatures who make noise and steal your sleep. They also steal your attention and your heart. I have made best friends with stain remover over the last few months.

9) Friends come and friends go. Connor has helped me figure out who my real friends are, and I'm so thankful for that. The ones who have stuck with me, answered my calls, listened to me cry and helped me through this last year are few, but they are so cherished. I hope Connor will learn that it's better to have a few great people in your life than a ton of mediocre. I hope he applies that to life in general.

10) Everyone has an opinion, but in the end you have to do what works for you. Throughout this last year, I've had a lot of helpful and not so helpful advice given to me about being a parent. In the end, we are all different and things work differently for each one of us. Do what works for you, don't worry about everyone else.

11) True love endures. Josh Tobin has been my rock. He has been my teammate, my punching bag, my resting place and the one person I can fully rely on. A child puts a strain on marriage and adjusting is hard. I'm so thankful to have someone who loves me and stands with me no matter how hard things get.

12) I would do every bit of this all over again. The sleepless nights, the many tears shed and the pounds that won't go away are all more than worth it. This child has challenged me to be my best. He has pushed me to my breaking point and then pulled me back in with a kiss. I know I can make it through even the worst things because he needs me. There's nothing I would change about the last year and as I hold my baby, I am so overwhelmed with love and joy.

Happy Birthday to Baby Connor Tobin. I love you more than life itself. Grow strong, my love.

My child the terrorist

Yesterday my child decided he didn't want to sleep at 3 a.m.

That's cool.

Everyone in the house got up, including Apollo. Josh is on vacation this week so he didn't have to worry about getting ready for work which was great for me. Anyway, we all get out of bed and come to the living room, turn the TV and lights on, and get ready to start the day (at least until we can get the babes back to sleep). 

When we all exited the bedroom, Connor was on the floor playing with the nightstand. Josh and I both told him to come with us. He didn't listen.

He never does.

So Josh goes outside and I was doing something but I don't remember what because it was 3 in the morning. I didn't see Connor.

I went to the bedroom, flipped the light on, no Connor.

I went into his room, flipped the light on, looked around the abundance of boxes that has taken permanent residence, but still no Connor.

I looked in the laundry room. 

I looked in the living room.

I looked in the kitchen. 

I looked under the dining room table. 

No Connor.

I called his name.

Nothing.

I opened the door to the patio and said, "Josh. I lost Connor."

"What?"

"I lost Connor. I can't find him."

"How did you lose him? He has to be in the house." Josh got up and came in the house with me and we started the search over. After us both calling for Connor and starting to get a little frantic, C crawls out of his room like nothing had happened. He gave us this look like we were idiots, which I guess we kind of are since we lost our child in a two-bedroom apartment.

My child is a terrorist. He should be placed on the no-fly list. 

Between eating dog food, breaking into the shower, climbing the glass door, chewing on wires and the occasional play date with the toilet, the kid is one of a kind.

 Come at me, Bro.

Change of heart

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. I've always loved getting dressed up and going out for a night of fun. When I was little, I loved trick or treating, then as I got older, I loved parties and haunted houses. So it was not surprise that I was super excited for Connor's first Halloween.

Except...

I think I'm more excited about Christmas.

It's weird, you know?

I just can't wait to decorate the house and see his reaction to all the lights. I really can't wait for him to see the Christmas tree because he loves things that shine. I can't wait to take him to see Christmas lights and bake cookies for Santa.

When you have kids, things in your life change that you never thought about before. My favorite holiday is one of them. Rather than watching horror movies every day in October (which I tried to do this year, but wasn't successful), I am ready to watch "The Santa Clause" and "Christmas with the Kranks."

I am more excited for my house to smell like sugar cookies and Christmas trees than I pumpkin spice. I am more excited to play with new toys than to eat candy (although I LOVE candy).

Don't even get me started on how excited I am to make Christmas cards.

Christmas is such a happy time for children. It's the season of joy and innocence. The reds, greens, and golden sounds of music are all things that make people happy, whether they want to be or not.
But more than anything, I just can't wait to see the wonderment on the face of my own miracle. The thought of his smile and that mind working to figure new things out makes me feel infinitely happier than I have ever been about Halloween.

Once again, my heart has changed and it's all due to a chunky, loud and smiling little boy.

10 Reasons to appreciate your husband (or significant other, I don't judge)

There's something that bugs me, and it has for a while now. I really don't like how people constantly put dads down in the family unit. Like I'm all the time seeing memes that talk about how useless dads are or how kids only want their moms.

I get it. Sometimes dads are a-holes. Sometimes they are totally useless. Sometimes kids do want their moms.

But sometimes dads are really cool. Sometimes they help moms out. Sometimes moms don't appreciate dads enough.

So this is about appreciating your husband, or significant other, whatever. I don't judge.

10 Reasons to appreciate your husband (or significant other, I don't judge)

1) He's seen you get an enema and/or poop on the delivery table and he doesn't think you're totally disgusting.
Do you think it was pleasant watching a nurse stick a hose up your behind? No. Do you think it was a great sight watching a human AND poop emerge from your body? No. It's all natural, I get it, but it's still gross. Yet when it was all said and done, he hugged you and told you how much he loved you.

2) He WANTS to kiss you in the morning, even though your breath is enough to kill Dracula, True Blood and Twilight characters at the same time.Real talk. Girl, your breath stinks. It doesn't matter how pretty you are, you still have horrible morning breath. Yet, this guy loves you so much that he is willing to risk the hair in his nostrils just to get a peck from you. 

3) He just knows when it's time to take the kids and give you a minute (or 10).Guys can be clueless sometimes for sure, but there are other times when your man just knows you need a minute to yourself. Even if he just gives you time to take a shower by yourself, that's a big deal. As a father, he has a responsibility to your child or children just as big as you do, so let him take it. Don't feel guilty, just let him take however long he will and go poop alone.

4) He never mentions anything about your way too long, chipped toenails.OK so this one is kind of silly, but give it some thought. You pay $25 on a basic pedicure so that your toes look fab. Guys don't care about your polish or the design and sparkles that come from it. Guys do care, however, when you lacerate them with your bear claws. Even though they may wake up in the middle of the night and need stitches, rarely are they going to be like, "Hey, go trim those down." 

5) He doesn't complain when you watch AT LEAST one of your shows.For whatever reason, guys just don't care to watch Grey's Anatomy or Days of Our Lives. I'm not really sure why, but I think it's a mutation. Either way, on Thursday nights or during the weekday afternoons, he doesn't change the channel when he sees that it's on and you're watching it. He might WANT to change the channel, and he might complain about it being on, but it stays on. Why does he do this? Because he loves you and you love your shows.

6) He never says anything about the lack of seasonings and/or salt and pepper in your cooking.This is for newlyweds or just bad cooks in general. Sometimes it's easy to forget to give your boiled chicken some flavoring or that salt and pepper are gifts from our great God and are meant to be used. That's OK! What's even more OK is that your smokin' hot guy eats what's on his plate and doesn't complain. He might add said seasonings himself, but he knows it would break you heart if he said anything about it, so he doesn't.

7) He's there when you cry, no matter how stupid the reason.Are you in hysterics because Cristina Yang left Grey-Sloan Memorial? Do the tears just not stop when you think about that terrible thing you said to that random lady 10 years ago? Do the Google commercials make you tear up? That's totally fine, because no matter how stupid it is, your love LOVES YOU. He's going to be there for you and hold you or kiss you until you're better. After that, he will make fun of you, maybe for years, but I mean did you really expect anything different?

8) He overlooks your dumb questions/comments. Sometimes you say things that are just dumb. A thought pops into your head and you don't think it all the way through before it comes out of your mouth, and then you realize how ridiculous you just sounded. The man you love might tell you that's a dumb question, but he's going to give you an answer either way. Most likely, he realizes that you are mentally beating yourself up, and he lets it go. Otherwise, refer to the last line of the above.

9) He has seen you pick your nose and/or fart and thinks nothing about it. Look we all do it so don't even try to lie. And worse than that, he's seen you do it...a few times now. He doesn't care. He's probably thrilled that he can do the same around you. When the time comes, take comfort in the fact that you have someone by your side to shine a light up your nose and tell you if it's a booger or a sore. 

10) He loves you. This should be pretty obvious. Despite all of your weird quirks and antics, the man still wants to be with you. He still wants to sleep beside you, wake up to you and spend his life with you. So stop being so mean to him. He can't help it...most of the time.

Makin' it through

Wow. We made it through the first fever of Connor's life.

I like to think that the reason he has gone almost an entire year without getting sick is because I have all powerful breast milk, full of antioxidants and anti-sick germs. Whatever the reason, it all came to an end Tuesday afternoon.

Tuesday began like every other morning. C woke up in a great mood, rambling and tapping me on the face. We got up, he played, I did laundry. Then when Josh got home that evening, I was hugging C up next to me and felt that he was warm. OK so I'm not the "natural mother" who can feel when her child has a fever. I'm more of the "wing it" type.

Anyway, the kid's head was hot.

He had a 100 fever, so I did what most mothers do: I Facebook-d it so I didn't have to make phone call after phone call to our thousand relatives.

As the night and Connor's Tylenol intake progressed, so did his fever. I called the answering service at the doctor's office and was told to try giving him Ibuprofen. So Mom watched Connor while Josh and I loaded up in the mini. We get back, I take Connor's temp and it's 104 under his arm.

I'm freaking out.

Mom said to put him in a cool bath. After arguing with my husband (who insists on taking C to the hospital), I get Connor stripped down and into the bath. The fever went down (yay Mom!)

We made it through that night with no sleep and moderate fever, went to the doctor the next day, found out it was a virus and continued to stay up all night with a screaming baby for the next three nights.

Last night was the first time since LAST WEEK that C slept without waking up screaming.

...here is where my husband and I have got to be the worst parents ever.

For a week or so, C has been waking up in the middle of the night screaming. This whole time we thought it was his teeth, but no. It was the multiple blisters that had accumulated on the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. Big. White. Blisters.

These last few days have been awful. They have been full of screaming and empty of sleep.

But we made it.

I didn't think I would. I didn't know how I would. How could I get through another day with no sleep? How could I get through another hour of not putting this child down unless I wanted to him to scream? How could I deal with my child being so sick and feverish and looking so pitiful?

I just did.

I got through it just like I got through the three months of colic.

So I to thinking. Is this life? Is this what we do on a daily basis and never really think about it? You know, like horrible stuff happens and we just deal with it. We just get through it.

Those awful days come and we have heartbreaks and mistakes and we have nothing to do except for make it through.

And then we're surprised when we do make it.

Am I late on this epiphany? Probably.

I'm late for everything.

Which reminds me that I think I may be late for my period.

Oh no.

No, no no.

99.9 percent better be spot on Paraguard. That's a threat.

Harper Tobin: my first baby.

Today is the day. October 15: a day for awareness and remembrance for the babies who were carried but never delivered, or delivered but never brought home.

I didn't even realize it until this evening and then I got overwhelmingly sad. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment, maybe I just like being sad.

Whatever.

I lost a baby.

I had that baby taken out of me on July 13, 2012, and to this day I'm still not sure if it's acceptable to call it a baby.

I was nine weeks along when I had my D&C, but I was six and a half weeks when I found out there was no heartbeat. There are no words to describe what kind of pain accompanies that news.

I had a choice when I got pregnant and I chose life. I chose my baby.

And then it was taken from me.

I chose to have my entire life changed, flipped upside down. I chose to change my dreams, goals, time frames for this person, only to have it taken from me.

I remember that day. July 13. I cried as soon as I woke up. I cried while I showered. I tried putting my clothes on, but I couldn't. I sat down, naked, on my bed and cried.

I cried all the way to the hospital.

I cried when I woke up from surgery.

I asked the nurse where my baby was. I wanted to see the little clump of cells that was taken out of me. But I couldn't because they were so small. What was supposed to turn in to a human being was thrown away in a bio-hazard bin, the same way used needles or band-aids are.

Every time I felt a gush of blood rush out of me, I cried. My body heaved with sobs, so much that my eyes didn't even have tears anymore. I hurt. That was it, I just HURT. Each and every time I felt myself bleed, my heart felt like it was in one of those vices that squeezes cans until they're all the way flat. IT HURT.

When I got up to leave the hospital, I looked behind me at the bed. It was covered in bright red blood. I wasn't surprised though. The doctor told me that I would bleed, maybe even before the surgery. That if I saw red blood, I needed to go to the emergency room.

I saw a lot of red blood that day and the following weeks.

I don't remember a lot about the months afterwards.

I got married.

Josh was there every minute. He was there through each and every tear and every scream. He listened to my heaving cries and the moans that came from deep within my stomach. He knew it hurt because it was his loss too.

As I type this, my healthy baby boy is behind me playing with what sounds like a plastic bottle. He will smile when I call his name and he will laugh when I ask if he wants some milk. I am so thankful for that child. I thank God every day for him, and every day I beg God to let him live. I beg God to please let my son grow and thrive and be safe.

I love both of my babies.

I love the one who I hold every day and every night. I love the one who drives me absolutely crazy and then makes me laugh hysterically. I love the one who begs for baths at every opportunity and gives me sloppy kisses when he's not quite ready to take a nap.

I love the one who I only see in my dreams. I love the one who, despite never knowing, I wholeheartedly believe would have been a girl. I love the one who was "just a clump of cells." I love the one who never had a heartbeat, or only had one for a short period of time. I love the one who "would have been sick if it were born." I love the one who "might have had something wrong with it." I love that baby. It was a baby to me. It was my baby.

On February 13, 2013, Harper Tobin was supposed to enter this world. Instead, I had a dream about the baby I was supposed to be delivering.

I was in my bed with my husband in our apartment. Everything was exactly the same as in real life, even the clothes I'd left on the floor from the previous night. But I kept hearing this sound like air squishing out of something, it sounded like my slippers. I cracked open my eyes and watched this little girl with long brown hair stomping along the foot of my bed. She had my neon pink push-up bra draped over her pajamas and my bunny Stompeez were on her feet. I didn't know it then, but she had the same eyes Connor has now, mine. She walked over to me and was eye level with me lying down. For whatever reason, I guess she was a toddler's age, even though she was only supposed to be born that day.
"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I asked her in a half-awake tone.
She nodded her head, those eyes staring into mine, her long hair by her shoulders.
"OK, just give me a minute," I said and closed my eyes.

Then I woke up.

Everything was exactly the same as in the dream, except there was no baby in my house. There was no baby in my womb. But I had peace.

I had peace because I knew that my little girl was not sick, but beautiful. She was sassy. Most importantly, she was OK. She is OK. I live with the faith that I will see her again. I live with the faith that I will go to Heaven and she will meet me at the gates, take my hand and I will get to love her for eternity.

I love my son. I love every day with him.

I love my daughter. There is not a day that goes by that she doesn't enter my mind.

A quote I saw tonight is so true:

"A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven't. Most don't mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn't happened, so people imagine a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.
But ask her sometime, 'how old would your child be now?'
and she'll know." -Barbara Kingsolver

Harper Tobin would be a year and a half old. She would be celebrating her second birthday on February 13, 2015. I will never know if she would have wanted a crown cake or a car one. I know that because of her, my husband and I have a bond that is amazingly strong. I know that because of her, I love Connor more than I ever thought possible and I am so THANKFUL for him.

Harper changed my life.

On November 15, 2014 I will be celebrating my son's first birthday with a Mickey Mouse cake and primary color plates, surrounded by family and friends. We will sing to him and he will open presents. If you ask me, Harper will be with us that day celebrating her brother's first year on the earth that she never got to see.

Please don't even tell a woman that her child wasn't a baby. Don't tell her when she's scared to death of pregnancy that it probably won't happen this time. Don't tell her to get over it.

That embryo was a baby to her. She's scared because she doesn't want to go through that unimaginable pain ever again, just comfort her. She will NEVER get over the loss of a pregnancy or child, period.

For those of you who have experienced this horror, you are not alone. It's OK to hurt and it's OK to mourn. There's no time limit to grief.

Your babies will always be with you.

4 Reasons Why My Head is POUNDING...and then some

As I sit here with a miserable headache, I am thinking about all of the things that caused it.

Shall I go through the list?

Yes, yes I shall.

1) Connor's constant, nonstop fussing.
Apparently this is totally normal for his age and it will be over soon, just like the colic. Which then leads me to feel guilty because I was so stressed out and sleep deprived when he had colic that I didn't appreciate how sweet and precious he was. In a few months when he's running around, or in a few years when I'm not his favorite anymore, I'm going to look back on this night and cry. Then I'll get another headache.

2) The lack of money in our bank account.
"It's tha first of tha month," as my homies Bone, Thugs and Harmony would say, which means bills are due. Bills that require money to pay, which we don't have. Yes, yes, I know it's my fault. I should have never quit work. But the thing is, even had I not quit, then by the time we paid for daycare, we would still have zero money.
Why not get another job, Lauren?
Well that's just the million dollar question, now isn't it.
The answer is pretty simple actually: Unless I'm making enough to pay for daycare and still make a profit, then I am paying for time away from my son, and despite my pounding head, I don't want that.

3) "Et tu Brute?"
For those of you who aren't familiar with "Othello," this is what Caesar asks his best friend Brutus when Brutus stabs him in the back (literally). I'm not saying this to my best friend though. I'm saying this to my body. Two weeks ago, it betrayed me by forcing it's biological cycle onto my uterus. And today again. Two freaking weeks apart. Two weeks. 14 days. I can't catch a break here.

4) Lack of chocolate.
I just want some damn chocolate! I get some, and then it's gone. By me, of course. But then I want more. OK, I have a problem. Like, I snuck out last night after everyone was in bed and got some miniature peppermint patties. Ugh, is that rock bottom?

I think that's about it. Those four things. Really just one and two.
He is in his bed, screaming right now actually. I'm terrible for letting him scream, but I'm even more terrible because he knows I'm going to come in there and get him. He knows I'm going to cave because I always do.

Like how am I supposed to do this?

Yesterday, he refused to eat his baby food so I told him that I was going to sit there in front of him all day until he ate.
He just looked at me, straight face, leaned forward in his seat like, "Your move, Mommy."
So I leaned forward in my seat and propped my head on my hands and stared right back.
Then he leans in and kisses me!

Why would he do that?!
Why would he lean forward and kiss me with those carrot-covered lips, and totally melt my heart?

Because as soon as he did it, I let him out of his seat.

I'm such a pushover.

What if I'm a pushover when he gets older and I let him smoke meth or rob banks?
"Oh it's OK baby. Mommy knows you didn't mean to."

OH MY GOODNESS!
MY SON IS GOING TO BE A FELON!

And now, as I take a deep breath, my head throbs a little more and gives me a whole new set of things that haven't happened yet to worry about.

If you need me, I will be curled up in a ball, in a corner. A soundproof corner. With leaky boobs.

Goodnight all.

If you want to feel like a failure...

I got on LinkedIn and that was a bad idea.

There was no better way to make me feel like a failure than that social media/networking site. I saw all these people I graduated with who had jobs (like real ones) in the field that we all worked so hard in.

And I just wanted to change my occupation to "Professional..." what even am I?

A stay at home mom? What kind of respectable job title is that?

LET ME TELL YOU.

I spent five wonderful, stressful, amazing years in college and I wouldn't take them back for the world. For three of those years I studied what I loved, which is writing and writing the news. I have always known that was what I wanted to do and I never thought that anything, or anyone, could overpower my desire to succeed.

Then Little C came along.

Suddenly all of it just went away. I still wanted to be a reporter, I still loved the news and I still loved to write.

But I loved him more.

I applied for jobs, went on interviews, but in the end...here I am. At home. Every day. With him.

I complain about it.

Sometimes I even think that I hate it.

I think that quitting my job was the worst thing I could have done, but then he goes from calling me "Nene" to "Mama," and I just can't stop the butterflies in my tummy.

Learning has always been fun to me and it's something I can never get enough of. I love to learn. I love to find out new things and new ways. I just love knowledge. Quitting the workforce or not pursuing my Master's degree seemed like intellectual suicide, but that's not true.

Connor has taught me that what I love more than learning is watching him learn. I love to see him grow and thrive. He just wakes up one day and DOES SOMETHING that he couldn't do the previous day.

Do you know how amazing that is? Until you've watched those eyes light up as he surprises himself by standing up for a second on his own, you have no idea.

There is no degree in the world, no job in the country, no salary in existence that can give you that pride, that satisfaction, or make your heart melt.

So no. I don't have a job title that someone should or could be envious of. I'm a mother and I am a wife. That's it.

All I do every day is watch my son grow and learn while I clean house and (occasionally) cook a meal.

That's not much to most people and it's nothing to those connections I have on LinkedIn.

But it's my world.

More importantly, it's Connor's world.

And in Connor's world,

my job title is

Mommy.

When my daddy called me ugly

When I was in my early teen years, I was eating a steak house with my daddy. Our server was a lady who wasn't completely with it.

I don't remember exactly what she had done wrong, but I will never forget what my daddy told me.

"She ain't never got through life on anything but her looks," my daddy said.

"Do you think I could get through life on my looks?" I asked him, half jokingly.

My daddy looked at me with complete seriousness, and in a low voice said, "You better study real hard."

I guess my feelings should have been hurt, and maybe they were. I don't remember. But that statement stuck with me from then on and I'm so glad it did.

From that second, I knew I had to devote myself to my work. I knew that if I wanted something, I wasn't going to be able to simply bat my eyelashes and get it--I just didn't have the face for that.

So I worked and I worked hard. Don't get me wrong, I screwed around in high school (literally and figuratively if we're being honest), but I managed to graduate with decent grades. When I got into college my Freshman year, I put effort into my work and it paid off. My sophomore year went even better and I landed a spot on the Dean's List. When I transferred to a university, that strong work ethic transferred with me. I pushed through an easy year, I managed through a difficult year, achieving again a spot on the Dean's List, and in one of the most challenging parts of my life, I persevered and graduated with a BS degree in Communications.

It was the statement above, probably meant as a joke, that stayed in the back of my mind. Whenever I heard someone say, "It doesn't matter how I do on my finals, it matters how my future husband is doing on his," I laughed but could never relate.

Who cares how he's doing on his finals? Because when it comes down to it, I have to be the one who can take care of me. 

And I did.

I don't think my daddy meant for me to take his statement so seriously, or maybe he did. Maybe he knew that's what I needed to hear in order to push myself to be the best that I could. Maybe that was his way of encouraging me, if only because it pissed me off enough to try harder.

Maybe he knew that's what it would take. 

Maybe he was a little bit drunk.

I don't know. I don't really care at this point either.

Those words are words that I want to send to my son, maybe just in a different way. I want Connor to know that if he wants something in life, it's up to him to get it. I want Connor to go into this harsh world with the knowledge and the strength to put down what's not important and pick up what is. 

Do I get a little jealous whenever I see a stunning girl out in public, while average me is at the side of my husband? 

Well yeah.

But as looks fade, hard work doesn't. As hair becomes thin and hips become thick, people forget how pretty someone once was. 

People don't forget about how smart she was. 

And people will never forget how smart she could have been. 

Acrobats, motor boaters, all on a typical Wednesday morning

It's 6:00 a.m. and my child is an acrobat.

A heat butting acrobat.

I'm in that state where I'm not quite asleep, but not even remotely awake. I don't feel my hair being pulled as usual, but I do feel a soft-skinned, sweet-smelling, entirely too happy 20 pound mass on my face. This tiny little person I've created is laying on my face, only after he tried to flip over my body.

Is that how base jumping occurred? One night or early morning a child had the wild idea to flip off a queen-sized bed for the thrill of living.

I don't even speak.

I just hang on to his body, on my face, so that he does not injure himself the next time he attempts to imitate Tom Petty by free falling.

Just before, or maybe after, I'm not quite sure since I wasn't quite awake, I felt his soft hair against mine. I felt his hair against mine with each BANG as he hits his head to mine at least three times in a row.

Like who does that? As if ravaging my bosom at all hours of the night isn't enough.

He takes a break from hitting his head against mine and his entire body on my face to raise up and fall back down, face first, on my boobs. This kid puts even the professional motor-boaters to shame.

I close my eyes. Maybe if he's sucking, he'll decide to go to sleep.

No suck luck.

There's the scratching on the wall. That's totally cool though, because it means he's at the head of the bed, beside me and hopefully out of harm's way.

I would be furious that this incredibly small THING is interrupting my sleep, except that I keep hearing little sounds come out of him.

"Ba ba ba."

"EE-hEE."

These sweet little laughs and mumbles wake me up the rest of the way.

I decide to get out of bed and head straight for the coffee maker. After a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of coffee, letting the dog out, saving pieces of a wipe from being devoured, finding the dog who is still outside and sitting down on the couch to binge on Scandal, my sweet little baby boy is asleep on my lap.

Until next time, my friends. Until next time.

Is it guilty in here or is it just me?

I read a blog post today on "mommy guilt" and it rang so true to me. As I type this, C is laying in his crib screaming because he's pissed off. We do this every night, and every night he sleeps about an hour before I cave and just stick him in the bed with us.

The thing is, I know there's nothing wrong with him even though he's screaming bloody murder, but I still have this gnawing feeling that I'm a horrible mother.

This isn't the first time I've felt that way...today.

For instance, our day started off like normal. I went outside to take Apollo out and raised the blinds on the door so I could see in. Connor was sitting by the door looking out at me and laughing, playing with his toys, etc.

Then he was gone.

But I still saw him.

Over by the dog bowl.

The kid knows not to eat dog food, but he still does. So I got in the house just in time to see a piece laying on the floor beside him while he chewed vigorously on a chicken-based pellet meant for my canine. I shoved my finger in his mouth and felt the about-to-be-soggy morsel, and I tried to dig it out. The thing is, he kept moving his tongue around and chewing on my finger.

So then I was like, "Well this is great. I don't want him to choke on it."

Thank goodness I was on the phone with my mother through this whole ordeal, otherwise I would have been freaking out. Because just as I thought, he started choking.

It was pretty standard. He first made a gagging sound, then he coughed, then gagged, coughed and stuck his thumb in his mouth until everything was right with the world again.

Here was my reaction. Gag (me pushing on the part between his rib cage, trying to remember anything about the baby Heimlich Remover). Cough (OK I know if he's coughing, he's breathing. Don't pat his back, that might lodge it further). Gag (Oh shit, the kid is choking. *Mother in the background- "Hold his arm up!"*). Cough (He's breathing. Still pushing on his stomach with one hand, holding an arm up with the other). Thumb in mouth (Put my ear as close to his face as possible until I hear a steady breath).

I feel like I handled it well.

Then at my mother's later on, he wanted to play. But I didn't. I wanted to take a nap.

Guilty moment #2.

Annnd here we are, it's bed time and he's stopped screaming temporarily. It's because I sent my husband in to rock him. I know that when he gets back in his bed, the screaming will continue. I know that I will end up putting him in bed with me.

What is this vicious cycle?

For now though, this minute, it's quiet time and I plan on enjoying it to the fullest.

Spread the word, stop the hurt

It was Spring of 2012.

I had just gotten out of school for the summer. I was 21, living at home, with little to no responsibilities other than going to work and paying for gas to get there. My boyfriend had decided that he wanted to move closer to me and I had caught him looking at rings.

My life was great.

I had my wisdom teeth out on a Friday. My boyfriend, Josh, had said that he would take care of me. He had just moved into a small apartment in my home town. He and I had decorated it together. He had just gotten a new job.

Everything was perfect.

Then it happened.

The day after my wisdom teeth came out, I was still numb and Josh called the doctor. The doc sent in some steroids and antibiotics. I was weak, but after 48 hours of being in bed, I was ready to get out of the house.

We went to the Renaissance Fair and had a great time.

A week or so later, one night, I took a pregnancy test.

It was positive.

What?! There was no way. I mean, of course there was a way, but no...no this couldn't be happening. We weren't ready to be parents. We were just having fun.

I went to the doctor and got a blood test and the doctor sent me to the hospital because I was cramping so bad. The physician's assistant at the ER told me that I was most likely going to miscarry. A flood of emotions came over me, along with the rising hormones in my body, and I couldn't think. I didn't know what I was going to do. Josh was beside me, he told me that no matter what happened, he was going to stand with me. He loved me.

The blood test came back, and I was indeed pregnant, but my hormones weren't rising like they were supposed to. They were too high for how far along I was, but they were also not high enough. They were just there, stuck, in the middle. Kind of like my mind was.

Then one day, my now-husband told me, "You're not going to do this by yourself. I'm going to be there. I want to marry you and I want to support you. I'm not going to leave you."

And in that exact moment, we decided that no matter how hard it was going to be, we were going to keep this baby and we were going to be the best parents we could be.

We were so excited the day we went for our first ultrasound. I had been at work all day and I had been counting the hours until I got to see my baby on that black and white screen. Josh met me at work and we went together with hopeful hearts to see our future.

I was seven weeks, so we knew we might not see much, but it was what we didn't see that hurt us. My gestational sac was on time, but the embryo wasn't and there was no heartbeat. The technicians prayed for us and asked God to send us comfort.

I went home and called my OB.

Two weeks later, I was laying on another table, praying that the tech would see something different.

She didn't.

She told me that the embryo had never developed past six and a half weeks, and that the heartbeat probably stopped within the last couple of days, if it had ever even started.

I didn't want to believe it. I had chose to have this baby. I had chose to turn my life in a whole new direction in order to suit this baby. For two months, I had been planning a new life. I had been planning a new future.

Two days later, I was in the hospital waiting for my D&C.

The morning of the surgery, I woke up, took a shower and cried. I cried while I got dressed. I cried the whole way to the hospital.

When I woke up from surgery, I cried. I wanted my baby. I wanted the baby that had been taken from and out of me. Every time I would feel blood gush from me, I cried.

I went back to Josh's apartment and cried. I just kept crying.

I never got to hold my baby. But it had a name. Josh and I decided that we were going to name that baby, boy or girl, Harper.

Harper Tobin.

I never got to hold my baby.

But I can use my experience to help someone else.

No mother should have her child taken away unnecessarily

In under-developed countries, mothers are watching their children die due to diseases such as Malaria or even something as simple as diarrhea. Mothers are giving birth to beautiful babies that they only get to hold for a short period of time before having to bury them, due to lack of resources for newborn care.

Mothers are miscarrying their babies because they don't have proper prenatal treatment.

I can tell you from experience, that July 13, 2012 was the worst day of my life. My heart has never hurt so bad. I have never ached from the inside out. I have never hurt so bad. When I miscarried Harper, I felt my heart break.

No woman ever deserves to feel that.

No woman ever deserves to lose her child, especially when it doesn't have to happen.

There was nothing I could do to stop my miscarriage. There was nothing I could do to save my Harper, but I can do something to help save someone else's Harper.

And so can you.

Visit http://www.savethechildren.net/mdg500/ and see what the "500 days to MDG" campaign is about.

"The campaign breakthrough is that no child under the age of five dies from preventable causes, and public attitudes will not tolerate high levels of child deaths."

If nothing else, spread the word. 

Help these mothers.

Help these children.

I've got cellulite in my cellulite

"When did I get so damn old?" I thought to myself just now when I looked in the mirror.

I think this a lot, actually. At least whenever I have the guts to look in the mirror. It's depressing, really. What used to be a small, flat stomach where the skin was mildly firm, now is a wider, rounder stomach where skin sort of "hangs" from when I was pregnant. Where I once had an adorable belly button ring is now just a small hole above some stretch marks that, as much lotion as I used during those 10 months, I couldn't prevent.

I look at my hair, hanging in no particular style on my shoulders and think about how I need SOMETHING done to it. I think about how it used to look good, or at least decent, and now it's just there, usually pulled up in a pony tail.

Then there's my face.

Ugh.

My pores have expanded to the size of potholes in Elgin Crossroads on that street between Subway and Big D's Burger House. I have acne on my forehead and chin that I can't resist the urge from picking at. I have splotches. I have red marks. I have those delightfully dark circles and bags under my eyes that would put Coach to shame. 

When and how and WHY did I let this happen to myself? Was it during those nights that Connor didn't want to sleep? Was it the days after when I was so tired that all I wanted to do was lay around? Was it during those last semesters of college when I was trying to work and be a mother and a student? Was it just last week when I looked at our bank account and automatically got a headache?

I look at my pictures on social media and try to figure out just when this devastation occurred. 

Listen to me whine. How terrible do I sound?

There is an Ebola epidemic in Africa, wars in the Middle East, the U.S. with it's own share of problems, and here I am complaining about the drab mess that has become my exterior. 

As terrible as that is, I can't help myself. 

Oh please. Don't give me that look of disappointment as you stare at your computer screen while the 10:00 news is on. 

Because, let's face it. When the news goes off and you go into your bathroom and look in the mirror, you will sigh too, whether it's voluntary or involuntary.

It's not like people don't tell me I'm pretty. My husband does (and he's really all that counts, right?). He tells me I'm beautiful and he loves me. But I wouldn't blame him at all if sometimes he wished I was still a size two, with semi-great boobs (as great as they can be naturally) and nice skin. 

Once upon a time, I had thought, "I won't want aging cream when I'm old. I will embrace my aging and be thankful that I have been able to live a long life. The wrinkles and laugh lines will just be part of my story, a part that people can see." 

I'm not even old yet. 

I am blessed that I carried a child for 10 months and that I have stretch marks to show where my son grew and developed inside me. I am blessed that my hair is messy because I don't have time to do anything to it since I'm running after this amazing little person who entered my life.

I know that.

No, there is no way that I would take back any of the wrinkles, breakouts, bad hair or big belly for him. He's totally worth it. 

But I'm selfish. 

...and maybe a little self absorbed.

Whatever.

One thing I promised myself and my husband before C was born, and I am trying to keep that promise, is that I would not criticize myself in front of my son. I don't want him to grow up with ideas that women aren't beautiful as themselves. I don't want him to grow up with the notion that a girl has to wear make-up to be pretty. I don't want him to grow up with the thought that a girl has to be a size two in order to be attractive. 

I want him to see women for who they are, for their personalities and sense of humor. I want him to see a girl and his breath be taken away by her kindness and morality. I want him to realize that what he's looking at is only a plus.

I could blame the media and society and a ton of other people for my poor self image. But what's the point in that? 

The only person I have to blame is myself. I am the one who looks in the mirror and can't see what my son sees when he looks at me. I can't see the Mommy, I can only see the "Mommy." I can't see what my husband sees when he looks at me, I can only see what he once saw. 

I can ask you to start trying to think of something positive about yourself when you look in the mirror, and tell you I'll do the same, but come on, neither of us is really going to do that. 

So what is the bright side to this post?

We can all be completely ugly and tired and stressed out and completely normal together. 

After all, that's how norms come about anyway, right?

What was I thinking?

Throughout my life I have made more than my share of questionable decisions.

And I really think becoming a parent was one of them.

Before you jump me, I'm not saying I regret my child. That's not it at all. If you read further, you'll understand.

Yesterday, C was playing with my full length mirror. I was in the bathroom putting makeup on and I heard the crash. I knew instantly what happened and all I could picture was my child in a "Carrie"-like scene with blood all over him and shattered glass everywhere. 

Thankfully there was no blood. But there was a lot of glass. A lot. 

And not for the first time, I thought, "Why did I do this?" 

I grabbed him out of his walker and checked him for blood. I didn't see him bleeding and I didn't see any glass protruding from his body, so I tried to calm him (and me) down. But the whole time, I thought, "Why did I do this? Why did I have a baby? I can't deal with this."

He didn't even get hurt!

When he fell off the couch a couple months ago and scared both my husband and I, I had the same thought. 

When I first began breastfeeding, I had the same thought.

Breastfeeding was demanding. I didn't get to sleep as much as I could have if we used formula (so I thought). If we used formula, he might stay full longer. If we used formula, he might sleep all night. What was I thinking trying to breastfeed?

To this day, those things above are all true. But as I've mentioned before, breastfeeding went beyond just how I chose to give my child nutrition. I needed it too. I needed the closeness.

I saw this quote on Pinterest (I think) that said something like, The first six weeks, you'll envy those who chose formula, but after six months, you'll be thankful you breastfeed.

That was totally paraphrased, but it basically just meant that if you keep on breastfeeding, if you keep trying, then it's worth it in the end.

Well that's true. 

So that makes me wonder if when I die, when I take my last breath, I'll think, "This was all worth it."

I say when I die, because I don't think I'll ever not worry about C. I don't think I'll ever not think, "Why did I do this to myself?" I'll never stop wondering what he's doing or why he's doing it. I just hope that no matter how old he gets, he'll still give me those sweet kisses and the warmest hug I've ever gotten in my life. I just hope that he'll still look at me with bright eyes full of love. I hope that he'll still smile whenever he sees me walk into a room. I hope that he will still love me just as much as he does in this very moment in time. 

And in that second, right before I close my eyes for good, I'll know why I did it.

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Just a typical Wednesday

The challenges I've faced since becoming a mother are endless, just in my eight and a half months experience.

For example, before I was a mother, I had never peed or pooped while holding another human being in my lap.

I've never had to lift 20 pounds with one arm.

And I've certainly never had to say, "Please get out from under the recliner."

But this morning was a doozy.

Last night we tried to get C to sleep in his crib so we could have some mommy/daddy time. After screaming for an hour and throwing up twice, C finally realized that we were still in the house and he was still going to sleep in his crib (so we thought). After about two hours of being in his crib, I finally just put him in the bed with us again. I mean he slept for two hours, waking up once each hour, so I gave him some credit and thought a little progress was better than no progress.

But this morning we woke up much earlier than we normally do, and it was because one of us was a little bit poopy. Thankfully, this time, it was not me. I got up to pee and while I was in the bathroom I hear this screaming. So of course I just thought he was mad that I left him in the bed by himself.

Oh no.

It was much worse than that.

I walk out of the bathroom and ask him what in the world was wrong with him, and I see two legs (and eight rolls) flailing in the air. What I didn't see what my son's torso or his face.

Fantastic.

I did what any caring mother would do. I stood there with my hand on my hip and asked my eight-month-old, "What are you doing?"

Apollo, the dog, was lying contently under the covers as well trying to ignore the noise that was interrupting his slumber. He still has not figured out why we won't take the thing back where we got it. He also has been exhibiting suicidal behavior so we have to watch him closely.

After getting my fill of entertainment for the morning, I pulled the covers off of my son's head and got the giant turd out of his diaper.

Needless to say he felt like a new man, ready to suck a tit and watch the Today show.

Our first trip to the library

Connor and I went to the library last week. It was during Handy Week, a week long music festival that most people in North Alabama look forward to because they get to stay wasted for a week straight, AND it's socially acceptable.

Anyway, so we walk into the library and I went straight to the computer to search for the book I wanted ("All Fall Down" by Jennifer Weiner). They didn't have the book, which is what began this journey.

I'm really picky when it comes to books, or choosing one. I like to look at ALL of my options before I make a decision. I mean one of the worst things in my opinion is picking out a book and the whole time I'm reading it, I'm wondering what other book I'm missing out on because I didn't take the time to look for it.

This weird obsession/compulsion leads me to look through each aisle, on every shelf, until I am absolutely positive I have what I want. Needless to say, that can take awhile.

I was holding C the whole time, and he was actually really good. He wasn't fussing, he was enjoying himself.

Really enjoying himself.

"BAH!"

"Bahbahbahbahbahbah"

"BAHBAH!"

"MAAAHHHHH"

These were just a few of the things he wanted to shout out while we were in the reading section of our local library.

Even if it wasn't Handy Week, the library is usually busy, especially in the summer.

So let's look at this situation:

1) Library (A/C, free, open to the public)
2) Summer (kids programs)
3) Handy Week (festivities, visitors, etc.)

And then there's Connor. Loving life. Yelling while the older man with dreads sits in a chair, in the reading section, and tries to take a nap.

I wanted to apologize but he would never look directly at us. I couldn't exactly blame him either.

Then there was the older man who was smiling and talking to C, a sweet gesture, and wasn't upset at all that C was jabbering louder than he ever has while the man was working on his computer.

I tried "shhh-ing" him, but that didn't work. Then I tried quietly saying, "Yes, ma-ma-ma-ma..." so at least people would think I was trying to teach him something rather than just let him scream like the terrible mother I'm sure I appeared to be.

None of it worked.

I went for a different approach.

"Connor, please stop screaming. We're going to get kicked out."

"BA-BA-BA-BA."

I wasn't sure if I should sit down and pop a tit in his mouth or just hurry up and find a book. Which is going to annoy the older people more?

Seeing tits? Screaming baby? Tits? Baby?

I went to the Youth section. I looked around, grabbed a book, and almost ran to check out.

We didn't get kicked out of the library. We actually went back.

And I enjoyed the book I hurriedly grabbed. It was a teen love story, which kind of sucked, but it had a happy ending, which I don't see enough of these days. So I didn't totally regret my decision...

...and even a teen love story is better than "50 Shades of Grey," am I right?

Why I chose to breastfeed

I've written a few times expressing the love for my son, and this is going to be another one.

Last night, I got into bed after my husband and C. Connor was laying there asleep, his little body halfway covered, his chest slowly moving up and down as his breathing evened out, and his face completely relaxed.

Seeing him so peaceful because he knows that he's safe completely takes my breath away. How did I do that? How did WE do that? I looked at him and thought of how perfect he is to me. I laid down beside him and thanked God for giving him to me. I begged Him to PLEASE keep my baby safe.

I've never loved like this until I saw Connor for the first time.

I have a dog. I love my dog. I've had him since I was 15, and his name is Apollo. I tell everyone that he's my first born, and most anyone who knows me knows that it's true. I treated him like a baby, he sleeps in the bed with us, he goes on trips with us, and when I was pregnant with Connor, I was terrified that I wouldn't love him as much as I did Apollo.

I was so wrong.

On November 15, 2013 at 4:38 p.m., I pushed as hard as I could and I saw everyone at the end of the table light up. The nurse laid my son down diagonally on my belly. I looked at him and my only thought was, this is him? He is mine?

He turned his head, wrinkled up his forehead and looked at me with eyes I've only ever seen in a mirror. I started to cry. I touched his arm, and looking back now I think I was scared to pick him up.

Then he started to cry. I have never laughed as hard as I could and cried as hard as I could at the exact same time until the moment I heard his sweet whine. That moment was completely majestic.

Sometimes when I'm breastfeeding, I feel that same burst of love. It feels like inside my body is the 4th of July, like my heart is exploding fireworks. There's no way to explain it. I look at him nursing and he looks up at me with those same mirroring eyes, and I almost can't take it.

I watch his free hand slide across the breast he isn't on. His hands are so soft, not yet callused from play.

I'll nurse him until he falls asleep, his eyes fighting so hard to stay open, but eventually closing. He relaxes and my nipple falls out of his mouth. Sometimes he will wake up immediately and ravage for it, like he'll never have it again. But sometimes he is in such a deep sleep that he just lays there beside it. He lays there beside my heart.

It was hard for me to encompass that I was a mother. It took awhile. I felt like I didn't know this little person who was thrown into my life, or I was thrown into him. I was terrified. What if I screwed up? What if I screwed HIM up? I didn't think I deserved to be the mother to this incredible little being. I thought he needed someone else to love him and raise him. I thought he needed anyone in the world except for me.

I would nurse him and think about how I couldn't do it. I couldn't be a parent. I cried when he cried. I felt like he would only cry when I had him and that he didn't want me.

That's why I kept breastfeeding. I didn't want to, but even more than that, I was terrified I had no other way to be close to him. I had never been around babies and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. So I nursed him. I held him and I let him eat, and I burped him, and we did it all over again.

Eventually, whenever someone else had him, he would watch me. His eyes would move wherever I moved. Relief flooded over me. Even though he only wanted me for milk, for nourishment, at least he wanted me.

Breastfeeding for me was about my son wanting me and loving me, and it turned into something completely wonderful. It turned into something I enjoy doing and I enjoy learning about.

I didn't breastfeed to be better than anyone else or to be more natural. I breastfed because I NEEDED the skin-to-skin. I NEEDED to have a way to bond with my child, because I don't think I would have been able to otherwise.

I workout!

Ya'll.

What I'm about to tell you is a sad story. It's a sad, sad story about a girl who might be a smidge bit out of shape and overconfident.

I started back to the gym this week since I'm no longer working during the day and we pay for it in our rent. I started the week off with a body pump class (these are all from the Les Mills program) and I loved it. The pace was just right, I lifted enough to feel something, but not to strain anything. Then I went to an RPM class which is like a spin class. I loved it. Josh went with me and although we worked hard and almost died, we completed the class and felt really good afterwards.

Then I took a day off.

So tonight I went to this class called "Body Attack." I was super excited about it because it was an aerobics class and aerobics looks fun on TV.

Well you know what?

Aerobics isn't fun.

Aerobics is deadly.

I got there about five minutes late but went in and watched until I thought I knew what to do.

I didn't.

Those women were movin'. They were moving their feet and arms and hands and legs in different directions all at the same time. They were moving right and I was moving up.

Let's not forget to mention that I am the most uncoordinated person I know.

Picture a room full of women moving in the same direction, doing the same moves, at the same pace. Then imagine me thrown into the mix just trying to keep up.

It was so bad that it wasn't even embarrassing. It was just funny. I laughed at myself most of the time I was in there because those women had to have thought that I was just there for sheer entertainment--that there was no way I was really trying to work-out.

But I was.

They started doing this "star" move where you throw a foot out and jump and make a star. I don't even really know how to explain it because I just stood there watching them. I knew if I tried to make myself into a star, I was going to burn out.

I thought I could do a jumping jack. I mean, I think I've done them before, so I should be able to do them again right?

Right...kind of.

I noticed every time I jumped, I would get a little bit warm...down there.

The more I jumped, the more it happened. And I thought, "Oh. My. Goodness. I am pissing."

And then came the planks. I wasn't too upset when I heard about the planks, because I can do those.

Except not.

You had to make a plank, then a quirky (?) which was like big steps, walking your way back up. Then you had to touch your hands on your hips, then touch the sky, all while your legs are still doing some other stuff way out in left field, then you come back down into a plank and do three push-ups. This is all done very fast, making 20 moves into one swift move.

"No says I."

I tried one time. It didn't work at all. I couldn't get up as fast as those other women (I'm pretty old for my age). While they were hopping around and reaching to the sky, I just stayed there on the floor. At first I tried to hold a plank position and just do the push-ups, but then I just tried to do the push-ups.

And then I just sat there on my knees and marveled at everyone else.

Finally instructor tells us to run. All right! I can do that! I can totally run!

So I'm a-runnin.' I'm running in place, I'm running forward, I'm running backwards, I'm trying to figure out which was is right and which way is left...but I'm running. Then I start popping my knees up and I have a good sweat going, my heart is pumping and I'm breathing heavy.

We started running in a circle, and I'm gettin' it. I'm running. But then all the women change positions OUT OF NOWHERE and I almost hit a girl in the face with my face.

I politely say, "Oh shit, I'm sorry." And turn the other way.

But through it all, I kept running.

I kept running until I ran my ass out of that door.

"to the moon & back" necklace

"to the moon & back" necklace Price: $49.00

Sex. What's that?

In the last eight months I have become unfamiliar with a three-letter-word.

Sex.

I don't even know what it is anymore, let alone how to actually do it.

C has been sleeping between the hubs and me for about three or four months now and he's really cramping our style. I mean who wants to have sex when the baby is in the bed?

For example, my husband and I tried to "do it" but I could feel Connor's feet on my leg and I had to call it quits. Like, that's just not a turn-on, you know?

We tried to get dirty on the floor beside the bed, but it's ceramic tile throughout our house so that was entirely too painful (and let's face it, I'm pretty lazy as it is).

Another obstacle we face in trying to "get down" is that we have to sneak out of our bed. Our own bed.

Are you with me here?

My husband and I have to sneak out of our own bed in order to have sex. What is wrong with this?!

The more I think about it, the more I realize that this is simply a (successful) plot by Connor to stop us from reproducing. He knows that if we have another baby, he will have to share...everything, so he nips it in the bud (excuse the cliche).

Geeze Louise, Connor, I don't WANT another baby right now. I just WANT MOMMY-DADDY TIME!

Is it really too much to ask to just want to lay there on my bed and do it?

Why yes, Mommy, it is.

We have tried to put him in his crib, but just the site of it sends him into a screaming fit, and then I get worried because what if I am screwing him up psychologically because I'm letting him scream. Life has a way of screwing you up anyway, not even considering the fact that I'm his mother which is a problem enough, but what if he sits there and screams and feels like no one loves him and it's all because I want to get down and dirty with his dad?

Gah, I have problems.

If you've read any previous posts, you'll notice that there was a time when he slept in his crib, but during my last semester of college (and especially after Josh's wreck) we put him in the bed with us. It was so much easier because I could turn over and pop the tit in his mouth and we could sleep. We do sleep. That's amazing in itself and I'm thankful that we're finally getting to that point. Plus, I just needed to know that both he and his dad were in the bed beside me, and we were all OK.

Of course I think about these times and then I think about the three months we dealt with colic. Those days seemed like they would never end, the sleepless nights, the tears and begging him to just sleep. But now, those days seem like forever ago, and I don't really know where they went.

I feel like this stage is exactly the same. So even though I miss snuggling next to my husband and having intimate time with him, I think about how sweet it is when C snuggles up to me and throws his other arm over to touch his dad too. He loves us and he loves being in the bed with us and one day, he won't. He won't want to snuggle with me. He won't want to hold on to me as he sleeps. He won't wake up looking for me. And when that time comes, I'm going to miss these sex deprived nights. And I'm going to cry. A lot.

So if you're in the same bed as me, don't worry too much about it. These days are going to pass way too fast. Cherish that goofy, needy, sweaty, adorable baby.

You smell that?

Sometimes we're all a little stinky. Sometimes, being stinky is normal. I'll even say that being stinky is a part of life.

But the stench that comes from my child is not a little stinky. The stench that comes from my child is not normal. The stench that comes from my child is bad enough to end someone's life.

Oh. My. Goodness. I smell the same way.

Am I the stench?

No. I take showers. I have a pretty regular showering routine. That can't be me, can it?

OK, I took a shower. I still smell it. WHY does my son smell like this?!

After much bathing and investigating, I found out the culprit to the gut-wrenching scent is my sheets. So now I'm freaking out because we've been sleeping on what could possibly be a dead body.

I am aware that it's a terrible habit to start your child sleeping with you. I know that. But I also know that we sleep SO much better since we've started co-sleeping. C gets an all-you-can-eat buffet, and I get ten times more sleep than I was when we were trying to get him to sleep in his crib, or when I had to get up in the middle of the night to feed him. I mean, the crib turns into a full bed, so it's not like he's never going to use it. It's not like he's going to sleep with us forever.

...right? No way. He's not going to sleep with us forever.

For now, he sleeps in the bed with us. So picture this: a queen size bed. A queen size bed with my husband in it. A queen size bed with my husband and my dog in it. A queen size bed with my husband, my dog and my son in it. A queen size bed with my husband, my dog, my son and me in it.

Now think of it this way: A queen size bed with three people and a dog, in the Alabama summer heat. For anyone who has ever even thought about Alabama, you know that just because you have air conditioning, it doesn't kill the sky high temps and the wet that just hangs out in the air.

All of this put together creates some sweaty (Apollo is a heater by himself) individuals. We're all under the cover, we're all sweating and we all stink in our own special way. The stink travels to the sheet and just stays there, getting worse with each passing night until it gets so bad that it marches into my nose and triggers my gag reflex.

No one else in my house can smell the stench, and if they can, it doesn't bother them. I think it does bother Apollo, but he's way too polite to say anything.

Well Lauren, what is the point of this post?

That's a great question and I plan to provide you with an even greater answer! If you want to co-sleep and you know you have a severe sweating/stinking disorder, then you need to change your sheets every night. If you choose not to change your sheets every night, eventually the stench will get so bad that it will take on a life of it's own and eat you.

Good luck explaining that one.

Ouch.

Let me just tell you what hurts. It hurts when your child bites your nipple. It also hurts when your child bites your face. It hurts when your child watches your arm.

That's where this is going.

But the thing is, it hasn't just happened all at once. As soon as he started feeling something new happening to his body, he went into this zombie-crazed, flesh gnawing THING. He would gum my nipples, and you wouldn't think that would hurt because there are no teeth, but it does.

When the teeth finally came in on the bottom, the biting hurt worse. I would tell him no and keep him away from the boob for a few minutes so that maybe he would understand he wasn't supposed to do that. I don't know if it worked or not. I guess it didn't though, since he would just bite me again.

Now he has top teeth and they have broke through, but they're not all the way down. He still bites me. It still hurts.

Maybe I wouldn't have such a problem with this whole thing, maybe I could just look over the shooting pains in what was once my small, petite nipples, if he wouldn't get so damn happy about it. The child things it's hilarious when I tell him no. I try to be stern. I try to let him know that we aren't playing, but he doesn't care.

Even worse than that, when he starts smiling or laughing about it, his face is just so stinking cute. So of course, I start laughing.

How is this kid ever going to take me seriously? I can just see all the problems this is going to create down the road. What if I tell him not to do drugs and he laughs at me and I laugh back?

I really hope I don't ruin my child's life.

Oh my goodness. This has spiraled down quickly. Welcome to my mind.

Napkins. My child. Lots of nudity.

I finally get to post again! My husband wanted to cuddle one night while I was using the laptop ANNDDD the laptop fell on the ground and the screen broke.

So much has happened since I last posted. The gym thing? Yeah, that's not working like I thought it would.
Don't get me wrong, I still want to go...I just haven't. Plus when I went to the gyno, I had gained three pounds. What a drag.

Speaking of the gyno, here's a story I hope you like.

Picture this.

I have Connor dressed and I am dressed and we are ready to get this visit over with. We walk into the building, Connor still strapped in his seat, and he's being great. He's quiet, looking around, everything is going smoothly.

I get back to my doctor's bay and the nurse asks me if I want to go ahead and give a urine sample. I said yes and lugged Connor into the restroom.

Here's where things get tricky.

I have my pants down and a cup at my vagina, trying to pee in it. Connor is starting to fuss. The whole time, I'm saying, "It's OK, Mommy is right here. I'm almost done. Just give me a second."

My six month old didn't understand.

I finish peeing and at this point, he's screaming. I know everyone can hear him, so I hurry and pull my pants up, dispose of the cleaning pads, wash my hands and try to get out of that confined space.

Then the nurse wants to weigh me. Connor was quiet for about half a second while I wallowed in self pity and wanted nothing more than a giant chocolate chip cookie.

We get in the room. I sit Connor's seat in front of me while I sit in the chair beside the nurse's desk. I'm trying to answer her questions and tell her my concerns all while Connor screams like we have no idea he's sitting right in front of me.

I get Connor out of his seat and sit him in my lap. The nurse tells me to undress and that the doctor will be in in a few minutes.

So here I am, holding Connor and taking my clothes off at the same time. Now the kid is pretty chunky, so this wasn't an easy feat. I sat him on the table and put one hand on him (because I could not deal with him falling off) while I take the rest of my clothes off.

Then, I pick him up, get on the table myself, wrap my body in two oversized napkins and wait.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!

He decides he wants to play with the giant napkin over my boobs. Go ahead Connor, have at it.

So now one side of the napkin is ripped and my left breast is exposed. It isn't exposed for long though, because Connor lunges at it with his face. Whatever. So I'm laying on this table, naked, with my legs in stirrups and Connor is latched onto me like a leech.

Then the doctor comes in. At this point, the napkins are merely just there. They aren't covering me up. They aren't doing anything.

"Oh, you're nursing. I'll come back," said the doctor.
"No, it's fine. Really." I say.
"No, I don't mind coming back if you want to finish," she said, clearly OK with waiting on me.
"He's not eating. He's not even hungry. He's just there." I say, ready for this ordeal to be over with.

So now, the doctor starts examining me while my son is still on top of me. As she examines my right breast, I move him over to the left side, and move him to the right when she examines my left. Then I hold him on the side of the bed while she presses on my stomach.

Now is the fun part.

I just have him. I have him on top of me, with a boob in his mouth, while she looks at all my lady parts. As uncomfortable as an annual exam is, it was so much better with 18 pounds laying on my stomach/chest area. I didn't even feel the duck beal.

When the whole thing is over and I ask about the issues I was concerned with, I lay Connor in his seat and let him scream while I hurriedly put my clothes on.

After I strap him in and we leave the room, heading to the check-out, he's great! Everyone commented on how cute he was and how good he was.

Yeah. OK.

I have never been so happy to leave the OBGYN and get into my minivan.

What a day.

What. A. Day.