How did I get so lucky?

Not only am I crazy about my son, but I am totally enamored with my partner Devin. Yes, enamored. We have of course waded through our share of relationship muck over the past 12 years, but it just keeps getting better. At least once a day I wonder what awesome thing I must have done in a past life to deserve him . . . . . seriously. I must have been pretty amazing, actually. I must have saved a whole school of children from a fire, or thrown myself in front of a bullet.

How else could you explain why Devin will help me with Curran in the middle of the night? That he will stay up until 2am helping me clean the night before company arrives? That he will work from home once a week, scoop the litter boxes, take out the trash, say nice things to me regularly, change poopy diapers, pick up his dirty socks, encourage me to go out weekly with the girls, rub my back or feet every night, do the grocery shopping, load the dishwasher, take the kiddo so I can sleep in every single weekend AND randomly send me flowers? Oh, and did I mention that he busts his ass for a gigantic corporation every day so that I get to stay home with our son? I am in awe of my luck.

The twiddling is slowly driving me insane . . . .

I have something to confess.  Curran is a twiddler.  If you don't know what twiddling is, I'm not going to tell you, but I will say it isn't what you think.  If you have ever nursed a baby or have been partners or family to someone who has, you will undoubtedly know what I mean, and can sympathize.  Now if you ARE on of the latter and you are planning on telling me some anecdote about how you simply told your babe that he wasn't allowed and that was the end of the issue, BITE ME.  My kid is incredibly stubborn, and no argument against the practice will sway him.  I've tried suggesting that big boys don't twiddle.  That twiddling isn't worth his time and effort.  That there are far nicer things to do than twiddle, but he will hear none of it.  

So Curran twiddles, and it's my fault.  I thought that a little twiddling wouldn't be a big deal.  In the beginning he used to periodically do it while nursing, and it really didn't bother me.  Plus I'd heard that it's good for your supply so I thought, how bad can it be?  He had this sleepy sort of distracted way of doing it, and it was kind of cute.  Sometimes I didn't even notice, really.  

Now he throws an ever-lovin fit if I intercept him.  He MUST twiddle.  And did I mention he has eternally long fingernails???  He is nursing for longer periods, and therefore twiddling more and more.  I swear I am going to go insane.  I try deep breathing.  I form pictures out of the cracks in the ceiling.  I count backwards from one hundred.  Nothing works.  I have fantasies of making a little baby straight jacket for him, but fear that then CPS would be breaking down my door for SURE.  

mmmmm, cat food

Yesterday we had a breakthrough on the feeding front. While eating my breakfast (Amy's tofu scramble = yummy) Curran appeared at my side, looking interested. What the hell, I thought, maybe he likes tofu. Well, he spit out the tofu, but actually chewed and swallowed a bite of hash browns. He tottered away, but reappeared a couple of minutes later, his mouth open like a baby bird. I fed him another bite of potatoes. This continued for about 10 minutes, and all told he ingested maybe a tablespoon of food. I was elated.

Fast forward to today. Curran asks to nurse, to which I cheerfully reply, "Why don't we EAT instead?" I of course mean solid food, and Curran happily performs to sign for "eat." I have this brilliant idea to mix breastmilk (hereafter and forevermore BM) with some organic baby rice cereal. So, I put teaspoon of cereal in a cup and proceed to hand express BM into it, which takes about 5 minutes to get a couple of tablespoons. During this process, of course, you cannot help but feel quite bovine, but I had high hopes. I plop down on the floor next to Curran, tell him how yummy it is, and offer a bit on a spoon. And you know what I'm going to say next, don't you?? Of course after all that effort and ingenuity the little fart clamps his jaws shut and turns his head away. After multiple attempts I surrender.

What you aren't anticipating is this: Not 15 minutes later Curran goes tottering into the kitchen. He emerges, holding one cat food bowl in each hand. He sits down and proceeds to suck on his thumb, run his wet thumb all over the inside of the dirty bowl, and then stick it back in his mouth. He then turns to the second bowl and repeats the process.

Now, what you are REALLY not expecting is that I let him. Hey, it's "human grade."

Coffee, how do I love you . . . . let me count the ways!

By far, connecting with my friends is what keeps me from the bottle or the dryer (placing Curran in it, that is).  I always feel more sane, more normal, after talking to one of the girls.  If I go more than a day without at least chatting with someone on the phone I start to feel like the savior has returned and (being an atheist/agnostic, depending on the day) I gambled wrong and was left alone on the planet.  My own thoughts start to make me feel crazy, and they all start to take on a slight negative hue.  The more time that passes, the more negative I get.  Pretty soon I am convinced that I will never, ever again get more than 3 hours of consecutive sleep, my child will nurse until he is 10, I will never get back into midwifery because all of my children are certainly going to be high-needs, and that secretly everyone in my life can't stand my personality.  In fact, even my own kid doesn't like me very much . . . . he's just forced to be nice to me because without me he would starve.  

But, then I talk to someone, commiserate over sore nipples and snotty little noses, and I feel so much better.  In lieu of this connection, I have resorted to cups and cups of coffee.  When it is quiet and my friends are otherwise engaged with their little ones, I brew a pot of that heavenly stuff and soon I start to feel like maybe I'll be productive today.  Like maybe I'll read up on some midwifery stuff, maybe even work out.   I would certainly shrivel up and die without my friends and my coffee.  I'd like to think (and I try to act) all self-sufficient and stuff, but really I'm not.  I cold be if I HAD to be, but really, I don't WANT to be.  My friends and my caffeine are sanity.

All of the signing is paying off!

Devin and I have been signing to Curran since he was only a couple of months old. We have a book of baby signs, and periodically I photocopy a page or two and tape them to the freezer door so we can learn new ones. We borrowed a video from a friend and watched it a bazillion times with Curran (seriously it was like baby crack). Despite all this effort, Curran really didn't sign anything other than "nurse" (shocker) up until now. Then, over just the last few days, really, he has experienced a communication explosion. He will now sign "more," "cat," "dog," "bird," "Daddy," "drink," and "eat." It is so incredibly exciting. We can tell that Curran is thrilled, too. It must be so maddening to try to explain what you want or need, only to have your parents stare at you blankly all the time. He seems to feel so empowered now -- it is the coolest thing to be a part of. I can't wait to teach him more signs!

Mark it on your calendar . . . .

Last night, for the first time in his entire life, Curran nursed only once between midnight and 8am. Only once. I awoke with a start at 8 with uncomfortable full breasts and thought that either the apocolypse had occurred or he had mysteriously vanished into thin air. He normally averages 3-4 times, which has been getting, well . . . . old. I am not normally an angry person. In fact, you have to do a whole lot of crap to me before I get mad. However, recently I have been a little more than irritated when Devin brings Curran to me to feed at 4am, for the second or third time that night. I sigh and scowl. Sometimes I even swear under my breath. It is beginning to bring to mind a line in one of my favorite books recently. In Operating Instructions by Annie Lamott, she describes a baby that cried constantly. The father would hold the infant, and the mother would retire to her rocking chair (which was strategically placed out in the middle of a corn field behind the house) and would rock and rock, repeating the mantra, "This is NOT a good baby."

I think I might go play the lottery today, 'cause my luck has finally turned. Although, on second thought, it was probably a complete and utter fluke, not to be repeated until he is 27 years old when he finally weans. Probably just the universe fucking with me. It's got to give me a good day every couple of months, so that I consider procreating again. But, just as I'm daydreaming of that newborn baby smell, or the first smile, I think of night or two ago when I contemplated putting him in the dryer, or getting into my car and just going far far away. And then I have a tantrum to deal with, or a poopy diaper to tend to, and the thought completely disappears.

Solid foods . . . . the bane of my existence.

So . . . everyone who knows my son knows that he is the cautious type. He doesn't do ANYTHING until he is sure that he can accomplish it perfectly. For example, he didn't walk, not at all, until Christmas day, at 15.5 months old, when he walked 25 steps from one room to the next. This, of course, occurred in front of all of my family members -- that ham :). He is taking eating solids to an extreme as well. For months he wouldn't put anything in his mouth that wasn't connected to my body. Now he will bite off pieces of food, chew, and then fish them out with his fingers. HE WILL NOT ACTUALLY EAT. He pretends. Who knows why. I secretly think it is to drive me crazy. According to my pediatrician, it takes about 900 calories to breastfeed a toddler who eats no solids. Nine hundred calories!! Nine. Hundred. Calories. So now you know why I'm eternally cranky. It isn't just the lack of sleep . . . . Curran does of course still nurse every two hours, around the clock, to get ample nutrition. It is also because I am perpetually hungry. So if you get sick of my whining or the fact that I can't remember if I've already told you a certain story, or if stand you up for a playdate, just cut me a little slack, okay? Bring me a latte, a snack, and a pillow and I'll be your best friend.