The Case of the FLS

I mean it, as tired as I am, I'm gonna force myself to try to do some of the things I normally do (specifically, write in this blog) just to regain a smidgen of the pattern my life once had. You know, I used to be predictable. I was organized, predictable, and one to-do list short of boring. I used to wave the flag of sameness, chanting the old adage, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Different = Bad, that's all there was to it.

But, now there's Rain. Rain is all about making each day different and (*cringe*) new. So, as expected, I'm having trouble adjusting.

...

OK, so I'm having a huff n' puff because I'm sleep-deprived. I know this feeling will pass. I just get bitter about my old printed schedules with lists that I used to check off as I completed tasks (seriously)--where, oh where, have they gone? Check the diaper pail, right?

BUT, I'm gonna make my little blog entry today, even if my eyes twitch and go pink. Now, who's ready for fun, darn it?

(silence)

I know, I'm frightening you all away. Sorry, I had a pity party and had everyone come. *Deep breath* Re-focus. Remember, Self: I am not the enemy. My baby is not the enemy. My husband is not the enemy. The enemy is ...

Nature.

The Case of the Four-Legged Stranger

Our apartment has been mosquito-free for one week. I had a couple of ants try to start a hotel in my bathroom, but I quickly showed them the dangers of a porcelain swimming pool. Flush! Anyway, so the other day I was folding laundry on the couch. I accidentally dropped some items behind the couch, but I decided I'd pick them up later when I was finished folding. Of course, I fell asleep shortly after and had to be led to bed by Tim (lately, this has become routine).

The next day, I brought the laundry I had left folded on the couch into our bedroom. I laid them on the bed to sort where they should all go. I put away the stacks while I chatted with Rain about the virtues of a well-folded T-shirt. Rain was lying on our bed, and as has been the case for a week, shoving her toys--and everything else--into her mouth. Just then, I remembered the items I had dropped behind the couch. So, I went to the living room, scooped up the last of the laundry I had left behind, and tossed the missing items onto the pile.

I dumped it on our bed. The second I dropped the pile, Rain grabbed the items from the floor to shove into her mouth. Out shot a lizard.

For the love of all that's good!" I grabbed Rain, shrieked, and jumped (not in that order). I ran to the living room, sat Rain in her baby chair, and grabbed the largest vase I had. I raced back to the bed. I slammed the upside down vase onto the stack of socks I had seen the lizard run under. Ha!

With great care, I slid each sock from under the vase, hoping to have a better look at my prey. Three socks later, I still had no visual. I removed all the socks until I only had one left. How big would the lizard be? How was I going to get it out of the house once I had it locked in the vase alone? I pulled out the last sock.

Nothing. He must've high-tailed it (no pun intended) to a different hiding spot when I had left the room (didn't I tell you different = bad??). He was probably already under the bed by now. I picked up the pile of clothes to be sure he wasn't in there.

He sprang out, of course. He scurried to the edge of the bed and fell off. I--with unusual precision--jumped to the side and trapped him under the vase. Woo-hoo! "We don't allow mosquitoes in this apartment, and we don't take lizards, either (even if you do resemble the GEICO guy)!"

I proudly told Rain of Mommy's conquest. I even told her, for good sportsmanship, I'd release the little guy back into the wild (well, my front porch, anyway).

I was true to my word. I took my little MVP (Most Vased Possession) outside and gently warned him that another infraction, namely breaking and entering, would cost him his life. A good deal, all in all.

That night, I told Tim about my newest run-in with Nature. Tim likes to photograph anything that we find in our apartment, so I'm sure he was sorrowful I hadn't kept him for a few extra hours (though more than a few bugs have died while Tim took his time snapping photos).

A few minutes later, guess who I spotted crawling on the wall by the front door?

"I can't believe it!" I said. "I warned him already!" I told Tim to hurry and get him before he got away. If I had the time, I'd go into the fiasco that happened afterwards, but let me just sum it up this way: at one point, I let out a deep sigh as Tim, holding an empty vase, said, "Well, maybe he'll eat the mosquitoes."

As we speak, I'm sure the lizard is sitting on the couch with Tim, watching CSI. Maybe I can train him to find the remote ...

M.I.A.

Ever feel like you've been M.I.A. from your own life? My sleep cycle has been totally hijacked by Rain's nightly teething wake-ups (no, I'm not blaming her--it's not her fault she's growing teeth, right?), and I'm behind on everything. Everything. Last night I fell asleep (didn't know this was possible) pumping milk. Today, however, I'm taking back what bits of me are left. More on that in a minute.

Surviving

We are nearing the end of week 2 of Rain's teething bout. Notice Rain isn't done teething, this is just the 2nd week of her night wailing about it. She's been waking up at 2, 3, and 5 in the morning crying over her sore gums, and last night, well, last night was hard.

Rain started crying at 12:30. She cried until 1:30. She got up at again at 2:30. I carried her, sat with her in the rocking chair, and finally had to put her in her swing so she would fall asleep. She slept until 4:30 and started crying again. She went to sleep and was up at 5:30 looking for a meal. Same thing at 7:30.

Worse? Rain reached a milestone last night. She can flip on to her tummy. Problem: she hates being on her tummy. So once she figured out how to do something last night, she kept doing it, then crying once it was done. I could hear her muffled screams all night. With dry eyes, I'd stumble out of bed mumbling, "No SIDS ... no SIDS ..."

It was the kind of night that makes me think one kid is all two people should be legally able to have.

It'll Pass

On and off for a month, Rain has been teething. This week, she's cried about it every day. When she cries over her teeth, it's different from her other cries. She shoves her fingers in her mouth, muffling her screams. Tears fall and she grabs her foot to squeeze for comfort.

You might think because Rain cries all the time that I would be able to dismiss her teething cries like I do her other cries (ex: "I know you're mad and crying right now, Missy, but believe me, you don't want me to leave this stuff in your diaper.") But there's something about her pain cry ... She moans like, "It hurts, it hurts ..." She has pain, but she doesn't know why. Tim's mother told him the other day that all of his teeth came in about the same time, and from Rain's swollen gums, I think that may be the case with her.

So there she is, drooling and whimpering, and I'm spreading Baby Orajel over her gums, ignoring the "consult your doctor if infant is less than 4 months old" label. Don't shudder; when you're a parent, you'll learn to ignore most things & do what you think is best.

When the Orajel fades, if she's still crying, I do what I suppose all moms do when their kids gets teased at school, when they break bones on the playground despite the mile-high pile of woodchips, and when their hearts get broken: I hold her, rock side-to-side, and tell her, "It'll pass."

Pictured: Rain after a teething bout, comforted by Mr. Froggy, her pacifier, and her favorite blanket.

Could It Be?

I've been on the outs lately because of the whole working out thing. After I hurt my toe, I was, admittedly, a bit discouraged. I tried to run on it last week, but the minute my foot started swelling up in my shoe (as happens when I run), my toes squashed together. It wasn't long before I was hobbling, so I had to stop. I've started cycling to get my cardio in, but, well ... well ... fine, here it is! Only the lil' old ladies at the gym are on the cycles! It's not like riding a real bike or something cool like dirt biking. The stationary cycle is kind of lame, and labeling my hum-drum cycling "Alpine Pass" and "Random Hills" isn't helping. Don't get me wrong, with the right settings, the stationary bike is tough. BUT. The bikes are right in front of the indoor track (in the middle, in fact). When runners go by, I feel like whimpering, "Wait for me! If I could only catch up. Darn these hamster wheels!"

Anyway, like I said, I've been on the outs. Instead of cardio, I've been focusing on weights. It's the first time I've ever had a real weightlifting program to follow, so that's cool. Anyway, every so often I tell Tim stuff like, "Someday I'm going to have an ab; wait and see!" or "Look! If you stare real hard right here--no, not there, here--and if I turn at this angle, you can almost see a muscle growing when I flex!" When I feel bold I say, "Do you think I should buy a safe? You know, for when I get my GUNS!" But, alas, my words have been mere words.

Until today. I was about to tease myself about my arms again after this morning's workout, when I spotted it. Without flexing, I have an indent in my arm! A muscle, a real muscle, is starting to grow in the middle of my arm. Sure she's scrawny and in the wrong lighting you can't see her, but she's mine! Come to me, My Precious!

The Trash

I'm not the kind of gal to peruse someone else's medicine cabinet or trash bin. I'm not hating on those of you who do (come on, 'fess up), I'm just saying I don't. When I'm using someone else's bathroom, I'm thinking things like, "Hope the toilet seat's clean" and "I wonder if the hand soap smells like apples ..." It never occurs to me to scan the medicine cabinet to assure myself I haven't befriended a psychopath.

Well, yesterday I decided to kill two birds with one stone. I planned to take Rain for a walk (she was teething and grumpy) and get rid of the foul kitchen trash bag Tim had forgotten to take out that morning (no Good Husband Award for you, Honey!). I put Rain in her carrier and heaved the bag to the door. The stench trailed through the apartment, and I was reminded on my way out to take the bathroom trash as well. So, with one large trash bag and one small trash bag in one hand, my keys in the other, and Rain hanging from my chest, we set off.

A minute later, we arrived at the apartment garbage collector. I flung my stuff inside. That's weird, I thought. The small trash bag felt so light when I tossed it. I checked the ground, but I hadn't spilled anything. Well, whatever, so I headed on to the apartment office to get our mail.

Rain and I enjoyed are walk, and she didn't cry once. I headed home with a happy baby and the mail in my hand. When I reached the pathway leading to our apartment, I saw it. A heap of trash sat in the middle of the sidewalk. Was I mad I had made a mess? Nope. I was embarrassed. I stared at the trash for a moment and thought, "What have I become?!?"

There was absolutely nothing strange, fashionable, or even questionable in my trash. There was floss, breast pads, Q-tips, and a wet diaper, for crying out loud! Where were my People magazines I used to casually read? Where were the containers of used lipstick that had to be discarded to make room for my new shade? Where were the empty bottles of high-end hair conditioners? Shouldn't there be a skin-care catalog in here somewhere?

There was something distressing about what was missing from my trash and what had been added. I promptly knelt down and grabbed as much of it as I could. As I was doing my best to gather it with one hand (had my keys in the other), a college-aged kid came bounding down the stairs in front of me. Her hair was dyed three different colors, she had a ring in her nose, army pants--the whole bit. She passed me without a word but an expression like "Ew, trash." I just gave a sheepish smile and scooped up the last breast pad.

Oh well. I told Rain, "Mommy's just realizing again she's a mommy. No big deal; just being silly. Now let's go throw away this trash ... in the trash ... again."

Part 3: The Rainbow

I read a truism the other day about parenting: there's no learning curve. Just when you've mastered one skill and are eager to do a happy dance, your baby's moved on to another stage. And the next kid will probably be so different from the first, many of the techniques you've mastered now won't amount to, as they say, a "hill of beans."

So, there I was on our road trip, practically juggling bananas to keep Rain from having a meltdown. I'm singing to her from the driver's seat, promising her a 100 times, "We're almost there." The first night I was in town, I had a friend stay over my hotel room. Another night, I shared a large room with my brother's family in a different hotel (we stayed in a room by ourselves the last 2 nights). Each time I did whatever it took for Rain to stay quiet. I pulled out all my tricks--singing, making funny faces/weird noises, short walks, constant feedings (a bad habit to start, by the way)--to keep her happy.

Eventually, none of them worked. The truth was, Rain probably wanted to go back to routine at night: bath time with daddy, cuddles with daddy or mommy, down a bottle, and into the crib. She's all about consistency, but Life can be unpredictable, and that's where the trouble is. I guess what I'm saying is, there were points on the trip, at the height of frustration, where I felt like telling Rain, "Why can't you be like other babies? Try taking long naps, being somewhat amused in your crib, and ignoring a dirty diaper every once in a while!" She's just so not ... flexible. Uncomfortably like me, I suppose.

And then, as is often the case in my short tenure as a parent, when all seemed dark and hopeless, there a rainbow appeared. We decided to visit an aquarium on a whim. As we passed tank after tank of sea life that were--as Grandma put it--painted with God's brush, Rain was captivated. She stared with her trademark furrowed brow, and if she'd had a notebook, might've taken notes as well. She was happy. Her buzzing brain finally had something new to hum about. I made sure to stay longest at the tanks she seemed most interested in, and together we toured the whole place. We were doing something together. It wasn't me doing something to entertain her or busying her with one hand while I got errands done with the other; we were doing something together. I talked to her about the eels, seahorses, and turtles see was seeing for the first time (and the sting ray--debarbed, of course--I touched for the first time), and she just looked on with eyes wide.

My baby may not be easy, but she's mine.

Rain respected my epiphany and kindly withheld dirty diapers until the end of the tour.