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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.