Closings and openings

To say I hated 2009 would be unfair and untrue, because in August the best little human being in my entire life arrived.

2009 will always be the year my baby was born. And 2009 will always be the year my dad stepped off this good earth forever.I am so damn glad to close the door on an exhausting, heartbreaking year.

This closing I envision as the pulling, the physical pulling, of a heavy old storage door. You reach up as high as you can, and you pull with all your strength. And secure it with a big metal padlock.

Slam. Click. Locked.

Thank God.

Most of you know it's the year that my dad quietly, deliberately, shuffled off this mortal coil.

I envision this closing as the firm shutting of one of those grand old dark wood palace doors, like the kind you find on maharajah's fortresses in India. Solid wood and metal. Beautifully ornamented with large brass studs so that elephants can't batter them down.

You imagine beauty behind them, but you can't see, for there are now windows. No getting around them. No getting through them. Not this time.

Solid. Shut. Locked.

At the time, it was so hard being pregnant and dealing with all of it. I wanted to drink myself into a stupor. To dip into the Valium bowl to get some distance, some rest.

But Jordan's arrival so soon after saved us. I won't be so dramatic as to say he saved our lives...but something like that.

Chronologically, though, let me tip toe through my year, before shutting it firmly.

We found out I was pregnant last December, and January, February, and March were full of excitement, nausea, hysteria, fretting about not-dead-dwarf babies, fatness, selling Nick's place, and probably a number of other things.

In retrospect, in comparison, they seems so small and silly, you know?

Then in April, my dad had heart problems, and wound up in the hospital. And got out several days later, took all that new heart medication that they'd given him, and wound up back in the hospital almost dead.

I could say he was lucky that he didn't die - but he didn't feel that way.

I look back now and know that he was just waiting to have enough strength to leave. Why didn't I see it then? Why wasn't I more vigilant?

You know that expression "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?" I hate that fucking expression.

Because it doesn't, not always. What almost kills you can make you shockingly feeble. Feeble enough that you know you cannot go forward this frail.

And so he waited until he got his strength back. And then he walked out one final time. That was May 15.

The end of May we moved out of Nick's place. I think that's also when we learned that Nick's mom might have lung cancer.

In June Nick and I moved into our ancient new house, opening the 100-year old front door that, even when closed, lets wind whistle through.

July. July Nick's mother had a lung operation.

In August, I got bigger and bigger and a week overdue, and then, via C-secion, our Jordan arrived. Nick says that the moment his head appeared through the cut in my abdomen, he was yelling.

I now imagine it to be a, "Hello, world! I'm here!"

Right about that time, Nick's mom had her hip replaced. And his father had a long-scheduled heart operation. I kid you not.

The end of August and early September were, for me, mostly lost to PPD. October and November were hard but increasingly better.

I giggle when I type that, only because I refuse to try to imagine how they might've been worse.

December, December was probably our best month since April.

And I look toward 2010 with hope for goodness and happiness and joy. For us, for everyone.

Happy New Year, happy new beginnings, everyone!

Another low action flick

I've been told by my husband that I make the boringest movies ever. Ev. Ver.

And as he pointed out, he's the father of this child.

I must admit, I whip out my camera at every opportunity. I have many little clips of not very much going on.

But this one? While low on action, there's hope, fortitude, victory, rejoicing, and a wee bit of hysteria.

So if you've got 42 seconds and want to see a tiny little triumph, I'm sharing one with you.

Penis tattoos

A friend of mine mentioned yesterday that she'd dated a guy who had a tattoo on his penis.

I don't remember how this came up. It was somehow germane to something.

So.

A tattoo. The kind you make with a sharp pointy little needle thing. On. His. Penis.

Eeeeeee!

So after I got over the initial shock and accompanying twitchy little squeamy dance, I had so many questions.

First, how? How do they do this? Do you have to have an erection for them to tattoo your penis? And if so, how the hell would you maintain it?

Also, would there be a different picture flaccid and erect? That would be kind of interesting.

Like, maybe it would look like a sink when flaccid and then you realize it's actually a picture of a the Washington Monument.

Not that you would necessarily want a sink or a monument on your private bits for all eternity.

And what would you want on your wing-wang for all eternity? I forgot to ask her about the actual tattoo.

Also, was he into pain? Was that why?

No, she said. It was more that he worked somewhere that everyone had tattoos. It was more a macho thing.

But honestly. If you want to look like you can tolerate a lot of pain, get your elbow tattooed. Everyone knows that hurts like all hell.

But your penis? Who would know you were manly enough to withstand the pain?

Unless, of course, you wore chaps, and nothing else. And then I'm pretty sure your pain tolerance is not where people's minds would jump first.

Nice save, Betty

Now, as background, I need to mention that Betty is one of the nicest people you will ever meet.

She doesn't say mean things about people, she doesn't get her digs in. She's just genuinely kind, pretty much all the time. No snark, no catty remarks, nothing.

It probably goes without saying that I take much more after my father.

So we were all sitting at the table having breakfast this weekend. Well, Nick, Betty and I were. And Big J was watching us intently.

We were talking about how Jordan does new things every day, and my mom was telling us how he now puts his feet straight up in the air to examine them.

She said, "He's got good strong stomach muscles like his mama. Don't you, Jordan? A nice strong stomach, just like your mama!"

And then she paused. And looked at Nick.

And added, "And...probably...like your dad? Do you have strong stomach muscles, Nick?"

Though I must admit that the plot is rather thin

Taken furtively with my camera in the waiting room of the doctor's office.

Someone has learned to make raspberries.

While not deep, and lacking in character development, and also slightly cattywompus (cattywhompers?), I hope it delights you as much as it delights me.

Tomorrow is an unlikely posting day, so I wish you happy, healthy holidays, warmth, love, and all kinds of schmoopy good things.

Big hug,

Lisa

Preparation for the Iditarod. Plus, the kindness of strangers.

Yesterday, snowy, slushy, icy yesterday, Big J had his four-month checkup.

Which went really well. And confirmed that he is ginormous.

My office was closed due to snow. Which was lucky, because Betty was snowed in at her house. And Jordan can't yet fix himself lunch.

It took us forevvvvver to get to the appointment.

Quite frankly, I generally hate snow, in the same way that I hate all inclement weather. I try to keep it to myself, because everyone is always, oh, so beautiful! Lalalala! Snowmen! Unicorns! Happiness!

And I am all grrr, fuck, cold, wet, grr.

The only way I like snow is when I can look at it through the windows. And can poke my nose outside, enjoy it for a few moments, and then come back in and get all toasty.

So yesterday. My car was firmly stuck in a snow bank. So I hauled my big boy in his stroller a mile and a half over way too many unshoveled sidewalks.

I don't know if you have any idea how hard it is to get a stroller down iced-over sidewalks and through half-frozen half-slushy piles of snow.

I certainly didn't.

The answer is: Very.

I wound up pulling the stroller much of the way, rather than pushing. Also, when the sidewalk was pure ice, it slid and I slid and it was all very terrible.

It was incredibly bumpy, and initially Jordan had this alarmed look on his face, and at a couple points he was trying unsuccessfully to hold on for dear life. If only he had more arm and hand control! If only!

But then remarkably enough, he just went ahead and went to sleep, despite my string of profanity, despite the occasional perilous angling of the stroller.

So, on the bright side, this experience was such a good reminder that people are kind.

At least 10 different people helped me when I was stuck trying to get over a particularly huge pile at a curb. I was incredibly grateful.

They were all men, except one.

This surprised me, if only because I would assume women would be more sympathetic.

At one point, I was struggling to get over a big snow hump and cross a street, and just at the crest of the snow pile, a woman stopped me to ask me for directions to the metro.

I was thinking, seriously, me? The woman gasping for breath, hair in face, tugging a load of baby on pointless wheels through a mound of snow? Are you fucking kidding me?

So, huffing and puffing and pulling and sweating, I pointed her and her male companion in the right direction, while breathlessly giving them instructions.

She thanked me and turned to go. At which point the guy she was with asked if I needed help, took the other end of the stroller, and helped me carry it across the street.

I could've kissed him. I kind of wanted to, just to be spiteful. But then I remembered I'm married and that kind of thing is Not OK.

So instead I beamed at him, thanked him profusely, and trundled off to the next Curb of Death, stroller firmly in hand.

Canadians, boots, bear suits. And snow!

Here is what I learned from my boot solicitations: I like your taste.

I liked all the suggestions. I know one might think, oh, how hard is it to pick basic black boots?

But it's like finding the perfect little black dress. Very difficult.

And holy cow are there a lot of cute black boot options, and really, I do best when faced with, oh, three choices. Not five hundred gajillion.

And so, thanks to you, I spent my online time this weekend on various sites - all your ideas - but mainly Zappos because seriously, they have 80 katrillion boots! Who knew?

I am torn between two pairs. These boots are going to be my Christmas present. And also, the only boots I buy this year. So they are worth some agonizing.

I will let you know.

And thanks to an Anonymous (it's always the Anonymousers, isn't it?) I am a little in love with this La Canadienne brand, which of course is much spendier than any shoes I ever buy. But I have never met a Canadian I didn't like. Which means probably I would love the shoes, no?

Also? Waterproof! Warm!

Those two words are pretty seductive when you are a person with nothing practical in which to ensconce your feet and then it SNOWS! And SNOWS AND SNOWS!

And you really want to take your kid out in it, because is there anything cuter than a baby in a bear suit pretending to sled?

In my unbiased opinion, no.
Also, do I want a bear suit for myself?

Hell, yeah.

Boots?

I know, utter frivolity. It's Friday.

OK, so here's the thing. I have very deliberately not been buying stuff for myself.

After the boy was born, I bought a bunch of nursing tops and bras, and recently I've gotten a couple cute and nursing-friendly sweaters and tops.

But other than that, I've abstained from purchasing clothing or shoes. And random stuff, like lip gloss. Do you know how much lip gloss I own? Because it's such a small expense, and an easy way to perk up your day.

Small expense until you average one a week. Ridiculous.

So I have not been buying anything. Except for cutiecute irresistible outfits for Jordan. But those don't count.

But I find myself with an actual NEED. I need some flat black boots that I can wear with skirts.

They have to be comfortable and easy to walk in - and you know me, I mean walk quickquick - but also cute and nice enough for the office.

I have muscular calves, and as such, a lot of boots just won't fit. So they have to zip, and they have to have decent calf room. I don't know who all these skinny-winny calved people are that most boot makers cater to, but my friends and I do not seem to be among them.

However, they don't have to fit over jeans, because I will not be wearing them that way. As my old boss said, if you were around for the trend the first time, best not to repeat it.

So if any of you have seen or gotten any cute boots lately, I'd love suggestions.

And happy Friday!

FTR

Not only is my husband significantly bigger and stronger than I am, but he's also much harder working, and more serious of purpose.

For starters, he can do things like carry an entire couch up the stairs all by himself. While I struggle with half a bureau.

So there's that.

Plus, he's better at seeing things through. I'll start a project all kinds of enthusiastic. And then I'll get bored, and move on to something newer and more interesting. Until that gets tedious.

He starts, sweats through, and finishes.

So I want to make it clear: I'm very impressed with my husband for his strength, his abilities, his character, and about a zillion other things. Very.

But he's one hell of a slow walker.

The problem, as far as I can tell, is that he's an ambler. He's one of those amblish people I wind up stuck behind and want to stab on my walk to work.

Because when I walk, I walk fast. I mean fastfast. I want the exercise. I hate the stroll. And I am short, and so my legs have to move extra to walk that fast.

Strangers on the street have expressed surprise at my speed.

But now, now Nick and I are walking to work together. I agreed to when he agreed to speed up.

And he has, but still in my head I am all, Christ, man, your legs are twice as long as mine! How am I faster than you?

At first I thought maybe it was his sheer bulk that slowed him down. But then I thought, you know, hippos are huge, and yet really fast and can turn on a dime.

Not, I assure you, that I have ever compared you to a hippo, sweetheart.

But what I've realized is it's more of a personality thing than a size thing.

Nick notices all these architectural details on buildings we walk by. He pays attention to what's around him. He likes to enjoy the sunshine.

I haven't actually seen him stop and smell the roses, but he's a stop and smell the roser.

Whereas I am all, yes, yes, nice building, pretty sunshine. Hurry it up! Fuck the roses!

Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair.

I feel like I repeatedly thank you for the kindness, lovely thoughts, advice. But I don't think that you can over-appreciate people. So thank you again.

Also.

I don't know if you've ever worn a cute warm magenta sweater dress to work? One that you wore once out to a party and it was super cute, but once you washed it you weren't sure if maybe it was just a wee bit too short? Or stuck to your tights too much?

And you thought both of these were maybe true? But your husband said it was fine, and you really wanted to wear it?

Still with me?

And so to mitigate the possible shortness or possible stick-to-your-assness you decided to wear these nude spandex suck in your everything shorts kinds of things. You know, so that the dress would just hang smoother, the spandex between your dress and tights would encourage gliding rather than clinging.

It seems like a good solution. No?

Until you walk into the bathroom and catch a glimpse of yourself in the full-length mirror.

Only to discover that there has been more clinging that gliding, and in fact you have two rings of nude-colored spandex peeping below your dress. A little like a parfait, from top to bottom: pink dress, layer of nude spandex, black tights, and knee-high black boots.

Cute. I assure you.

Inadequacy revisited

So in the beginning, when I wasn't producing enough milk, I felt totally inadequate.

I couldn't feed my baby. He'd dropped a pound in the hospital. As soon as we got out, the pediatrician made us return three times in a week for weigh-ins.

And every time he nursed, I'd get all clenchy. Sometimes I'd cry. Or just think hateful thoughts.

As you may imagine, this helped a great deal. And was super fun.

But a couple things were going on. One, with the PPD, I felt so trapped. And then I'd be physically stuck in the chair or bed. I felt like I was suffocating every time.

And then, then he'd nurse and still be hungry. Which made me feel like a huge loser. And made me so resentful. I'm doing my best. You're sucking the life out of me. And it's still not enough.

I dreaded feeding him. I dreaded everything, really.

I just wanted to walk out the door, lock it behind me, get in my car and just keep driving. After I had a huge nap. And a stiff drink or five.

Yes, I realize I'd have gotten pulled over for drunk driving. I didn't really think it through - particularly since I'd have been drinking and driving on top of Vicodin.

But I didn't flee, drink, or drive.

And then Mr. Zoloft made things better, fast.

So things got better, and then they even got good. More than good. Wonderful.

But at the point where they were wonderful, and he was entirely on breast milk, and I was really liking having him nurse, I went back to work.

And no matter how much I visualize while pumping, I just can't make enough. I sit there all, "I make huge glasses of milk!" I imagine a tall, cool glass of milk overflowing.

This helps. But not enough.

I also read blogs during the pumping. And sometimes a totally random post will make my milk just gush. Weird, I know. I can't explain it.

So he is back on formula. Which is fine.

Except.

Except that whenever I read anything about breastfeeding, I feel like crap. My kid should be exclusively breastfed. Exclusively. For the first six months. You're practically poisoning your kid, plus being a bad mom, if you supplement.

The more I read, the worse I feel.

I know this is stupid. He's well fed, he's healthy, and he's happy. But I still feel inadequate.

I'm doing my best, and it's not enough. I can't feed my kid.

Your kid, my kid

So when Big J is all smiley and happy and wonderful, or doing fun new stuff - sitting (propped up)! using hands! babbling! - which is a good percentage of the time, he's my kid.

As in, "Who's my baby? You are! Oh, I love my boy!"

And when he does things like wake up a lot. like, say. . . Every. Two. Hours. All. Night. Long - for no apparent reason - he's Nick's baby.

As in, "WHY is your kid waking up so much? Doesn't your son know it's 4 am and tomorrow is Monday and more importantly, Mama needs sleep?"

It's kind of like when I was 10 and my brother was 7 and we really wanted a dog.

We promised and promised and promised our parents we'd take care of it. They finally relented. And of course, Betty wound up doing most of the work.

At those ages, I was still bigger than my brother. And he still believed everything I said.

And so when I told him that the front half of the dog was mine, and he got the back half, it made him pretty upset.

As you may imagine.

My trail of heart crumbs

A little piece of my heart breaks off every time I leave in the morning.

There could be a trail of heart crumbs between my home and my office.

The last couple mornings, instead of falling right back to sleep after eating, he's been all chit-chatty. Nick doesn't usually see much of him at night, so he gets his baby fix before work.

And he is hilarious. He talks and beams, shoves his fist in his mouth, pulls it out, and chats some more. My face regularly gets sore from smiling so much.

Somehow, I never expected going back to work to be this hard. Not just in terms of the pumping, or the getting milk organized, or the readjusting to an outside schedule, although all of those things have me spinning.

But not being with my baby, after such intense time together? Oh, this tramples me.

Days with a baby are long and exhausting. There are a lot of tedious moments. But boy, is there so much fun and sweetness. I don't think I've ever had such a sense of purpose.

And Wednesday evening I got home after my first day at work, and Jordan was sitting on my mom's lap. He looked at me very coolly, then turned his head away. I got his attention, and he gave me the same, oh, you, kind of look. And turned his head the other way.

My mom was all, "That's your pretty mama! Your mama's home!"

He ignored me. He looked up at Betty and beamed.

You wouldn't think a four-month old could hurt your feelings, would you?

It took him a while to warm up to me. And then he got hungry and we were all tight again.

If it weren't Betty, I think it would just kill me. Although it aches me not to be there, I love that they have such a good time together. She loves him like crazy, and wow, does he love her right back.

Big pumpin', spendin' cheese...

So now I am doing the whole pumping at work business.

Like there aren't enough worky things to do. On top of that, I skulk off to a private room to hook up to a milking machine every few hours.

I sit in a cube. So it's not like I can just close my office door. I have to assemble all my stuff and haul it off to a locked room. I emerge with milk to go in the fridge, milky pump to wash, and the work I've hauled in there so I am using my time productively.

I've considered just staying in my cube, so I can be at my computer.

I sit against a window, so you have to come around a wall and past another cube to get to mine. I briefly considered just putting up a big sign, so people just wouldn't walk back here.

The Quad has disbanded, what with people quitting and moving around. Jenny, thankfully, is still here. And in the Quangle, we have Kay and Maricel, and Fabulous Cake Lady. None of whom would be the least bit bothered.

However. There are people who would.

And I'm pretty sure it falls under Things You Shouldn't Do In Your Cube. Like farting loudly and deliberately or masturbating or playing show tunes at top volume. To name a few off the top of my head.

You're lucky to be drinkin' here for free cause I'm a sucker for your lucky pretty eyes

You know how I was having all those production problems with the milk before?

We're all good now. (And tomorrow I go back to work and figure out how to maintain.)

It increased - with the help of daily oatmeal and an herbal tea we like to call Boob Tea. So Big J has been an only boob man for quite some time now.

It is a weird thing, though, the milk-making. One of the more bizarre things I've ever experienced is milk squirting straight out into the air from my body. It's not like peeing, where you can clench and stop it. I tried.

Because sometimes Jordan will squawk, and all of a sudden my boobs will be like, "Hi! Here! Have some milk! Nownownow!"

Kind of like if you sat down at a restaurant to order and the server immediately flung an appetizer in your direction.

But now I really like the nursing. It is such an amazing connection. And it just makes my heart so warm to have my sweet boy all snuggled around me. He settles in and he pats me with his chubby little hand. He's just so incredibly comfortable.

Sometimes I am sitting there all beaming, thinking about how much I love him, and how comfy and happy he seems. He'll close his eyes and make these "Mmmmm! Delicious!" noises.

I'm all, oh, he knows I'm his mother, and he's feeling so nurtured. He's so delighted to be all cozied up next to Mama. We're sharing a moment.

And then suddenly he'll finish eating and open his eyes. He'll pull his head back, his brow will furrow, and his eyes will get very wide in surprise.

And then, then he'll get this huge smile on his face all, "Hey! You're here too! This is great!"

What makes a good feminist?

I just got this comment on a post I wrote a couple years ago on splitting the check.

"I need an opinion from someone who knows what they're talking about because I'm new to this whole feminist thing. I have always offered to split the check but I have never had a guy accept it until now. I have been seeing a guy I really like for a few weeks now and he lets me split the check. I'm almost tempted to say that he expects me to split it. I'm not sure why but this has really been bothering me. I guess because it seems like he doesn't think I'm worth him impressing me. Does that make me a bad feminist?"

I'm flattered that the commenter thinks I'm someone who knows what they're talking about, but alas, I don't actually feel like I am.

I mean, I consider myself a feminist, and I believe in equality of pay, of rights, of, well, everything. By the same token, if a guy asks me out, I want him to treat me for the first date. (Not anymore, I mean, with the whole married thing and all.) It's fine to split subsequent ones, although I think much more charming to alternate. But that is me.

In the scenario above, I'd be bothered as well, although I wouldn't wonder if he wasn't trying to impress me. I'd look at other things, like how he behaved toward me (calling regularly, being on time, keeping commitments, listening to me, etc) for that.

As for whether it makes you a bad feminist, I would say no.

But in questions of feminism, I'm not the best person to ask. I grew up in such patriarchal societies, in a household where my father was always in charge and always right. I deferred to men, until, well, I am embarrassed to say how old. And men always paid for everything.

In other words, I would have to say that I was rather late to feminism as well.

So I turn to my extremely bright, articulate, analytical readers.

Does wanting to be treated by a man make someone a bad feminist? What makes a good feminist?

Hand and toe lint

I don't know if you've ever been with a man who gets belly button lint?

I blame it on the size of his belly, but Nick contends every man gets it. I don't know.

What I do know is that it's completely astounding. It's like he walks around with his own personal Charybdis.

I bring this up because of the following. Prior to examining my son's little hands and feet, the man belly button lint was the only experience I'd ever had with weird accumulation of body lint.

You see Big J's clenched little fists? He clenches his toes as well.

And it turns out that when you keep your hands and toes all tightly clenched, you accumulate crud in them. And now that he sticks his hands in his mouth, his hand crud is wet crud. He keeps his hands clenched in the bath as well.

Prying them open is very difficult, particularly when you are only using one hand. I only get some of it. Clearly I have not yet learned to laser beam them out. Plus I realized the instructions also indicate you should be teaching your kid the "pull my finger" trick.

It's all too much to manage at once.

So mainly I clean his hand crud while he nurses. He doesn't appreciate it, but he's torn, so torn. Boob? Defend the hand? Boob? Hand?

It makes us a very simian little scenario, I know.

His toe lint, though, is kind of fascinating. It correlates perfectly with the color of his socks that day.

Yesterday's? ORANGE!

Happy weekend, all!

Dressing for women, dressing for men?

Yesterday I met up with Tejal to treat her to belated birthday drinks.

We went to the bar/restaurant in our building. It's nice but totally easy comfortable. We treat it as our living room - most likely because we used to spend way too much time there.

We arrived at the same time, and complimented each other with "You look great!"s.

To which I responded, "I wore my new top and put on makeup and perfume for you!"

And she replied, "I freshened my makeup and put on heels for you!"

Not because either of us would judge the other, but because it was a little occasion. And not because we might impress other patrons. I mean, it was 3:30 in the afternoon, the place was nearly empty, and anyway, I had Big J and a diaper bag with me.

I started thinking about this later, though. If I were single, would I have dressed differently? Would I have given thought to men I might meet while we were out?

And on the whole, do I dress for women or men?

I know this is not an original question.

Women often contend they dress for other women. Men tend to be sceptical of this. I don't know that most men would even consider the question for themselves. If any men are reading, I'd be interested to hear.

I think if I'd given this any thought prior to marriage and baby, I probably would've said that I dress for other women.

I mean, women will notice color and texture and fabulous accessories. Men, on the whole, notice if your ass looks good in those pants. Women compliment you on your shoes. They notice flats just as much as heels.

Have you ever been shoe shopping with a man? And every shoe he suggests has a highhigh heel? No matter what kind of shoe you're looking for? Men are never all, "What cute ballet flats!"

But I don't tend to wear flats. I love the platforms. I love the heels. I contend that this is because I'm short, and I love the height. But do I also like that men like them?

Sure.

So thinking about it, though, I most likely used to dress for men when I went out. I probably still do, as I tend to wear clothing Nick likes when we're going out.

But I have my own mind and my own taste, and I like wearing funky things - things that women tend to like more than men, and when I'm out and about, I'm not trying to attract men.

In other words, I'm not sure.

I hate rain, people are stupid, and my jeans are tight

Really, except for a mid-afternoon glass of wine with friends - which helped immensely, and shouldn't we do that all the time? - that sums up the bulk of my day.

How we spend our time

I have a week left of maternity leave.

I get all teary when I think about it. I snuggle him and think, oh, our time is running out!

Yes, I realize it's melodramatic. It's not like I'm never going to see him again.

But these nigh on 16 weeks have flown.

In the beginning, time couldn't pass fast enough. I felt stuckstuckstuck. With the breastfeeding, which was so hard. With the diaper changing. With the responding to mystery cries. With the endless getting up at night.

It felt like torture. I just couldn't see a way out except leaving. And I couldn't imagine it getting better.

And then I got my PPD treated, and things got so much brighter. And I learned that we could actually leave our bedroom, and even the house, and nothing more calamitous than an enormous poo would happen.

I even got to the point with breastfeeding where I could do it pretty much anywhere. That Target couch? Don't think I haven't been back, and don't think Big J wasn't hungry.

And I'm thankful I stuck it out. I love the closeness, the amazing connection.

Which is not to say that I won't enjoy having my little boobs back when this is done.

And now, now we have such a good time. We go on walks on nice days. We chat. We play. We cuddle. We laugh.

Let me be frank: it's not that it's never dull. There's only so much tummy time encouragement and playing with Miss Ellie the blue elephant who makes pretty tinkling sounds when you shake her that an adult can do. But it is pretty gratifying to see how excited the boy gets.

And when the weather sucks, and we are aching for entertainment (read: mama needs some fun) we take pictures of ourselves.