The Accidental Housewife: The Plunge

Well, I finally did it.

I took the plunge, called my firm today and told them I'm not coming back from maternity leave.  I'm now officially a stay-at-home mom (SAHM).

I've been wanting to write about this decision (or my vacillating indecision) for a long time now but I didn't want any rumors to leak out to the firm.  I wanted my partner to be the first one to know.  And now that giant sucking sound you hear is the virtual removal of my self-imposed gag order.  SSSSSSSSSSSLURP!

Ironically, now that the gag order is removed, I don't know what to say.

Where do I begin?  How does one go about describing the multitude of contradictory and perhaps politically incorrect and controversial feelings that have been roiling around oneself for several months, maybe even years?  This could be one long-ass blog post.

So maybe I'll just break it up into a series of posts.

For now, I'll say this.  No one is more surprised than I am to be a SAHM.  My own mom worked a full-time job every day until she retired in her 60's and I just assumed that was normal and that I would do the same.  After having my first kid, I went back to work after maternity leave and loved it.  In fact I believe it was my saving grace.  Work gave me a much needed break from childcare and the intellectual stimulation and adult socialization that I so badly craved.

Lots of studies show that working moms are much happier than SAHMs and experience a lot less anger and sadness.

So why am I staying home now?  Gulp.  What have I done?

Honestly, I don't know.  But as I contemplate this question for the next blog post, here's one compelling reason for staying at home--squeezing these chubby rolls all day long.

Operation Wean Judah: Postscript

So it's been a while since Judah's last breast-feeding session (FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE!)

I think he had his last sip-o-the-boob 4 or 5 weeks ago and it was so anti-climactically uneventful (and I was so swamped with work) that I completely neglected to blog about it.

I had built up all this anticipation and anxiety and in the end, he let it go without a fuss, or even a whimper.  All the things I had worried and fretted about for months, were completely unfounded in the end. 

My first fear was--how the heck is he going to go to sleep without the boob?!  Literally since the day he was born, his bedtime was preceded by breast-feeding until he fell soundly asleep.  It's worked so well for us (well, frankly, I kinda hated always having to be the one to put him down, but that aside, it's worked well), I was always loathe to change things up.

But that night I told him boo-boo was still owie and he immediately opted for the boob-replacement, a bottle of cow's milk.  And that was that.  He didn't fall asleep while drinking the bottle, but I held him for a while in the rocking chair and he fell asleep soon thereafter.

My second fear was--I'll never have that close cuddling time with my squirmy wormy baby ever again.  Seriously our times of breastfeeding were the only times he would sit still for more than 5 seconds.

But that fear was unfounded as well.  He lets me hold and cuddle him while I give him his bottle of cow's milk.  In fact, he requests that I cradle him by saying "Rock-a-baby!"  And there is that long snuggle/holding time as he falls asleep in my arms every night.

And so we've moved on.  Sort of.

Everyday, at some point, Judah will stick his hand down my shirt and say "Boo-boo okay?"  (Translation:  Hey mom, is your boob okay now?  Can I finally get a sip or what?)

But I remind him it's still owie and he accepts the bottle uncomplainingly.

And most surprising to me, I don't miss it at all--not even a little bit.

Operation Wean Judah: Stalled

We've hit a bump on the road to weaning.

Although we're down to just one feeding (the night-time one), Judah's gotten really tired of hearing that boo-boo is owie.  Each day his frustration grows at the fact that boo-boo is STILL owie.

Now he'll insist "Boo-boo okay!  Boo-boo okay!"  (meaning, it's not owie, it's okay).

And then he'll say "Take!  Take!" (meaning, take those darn bandages off!)

This morning he actually burst out in tears and hurled his bottle onto the floor in anger.

Maybe he'd forget about nursing if I would just let that one last feeding go, but I'm finding out that I just can't.  It's just too wonderfully cuddly and sweet. 

It's the best way to end a LOOOOONG day of fighting, cajoling, frustrating wrestling with my obstinate toddler and the best way to say "Mommy loves you and I'm sorry for losing my patience and yelling at you when you threw pureed food on the floor for the third time, AGAIN."

Maybe we'll just keep this last one...

Operation Wean Judah: Day Whatever

Just a quick note to say that Operation Wean Judah has been going swimmingly.  I imagine that's the kind of sentence CIA operatives write to Obama once in a while (except it's a different operation name, duh).

Anywho, Judah's natural empathy has made him completely accept my 'boo-boo owie' without any fuss.  He happily accepts a substitute bottle of cow's milk and we are now down to just 1 feeding a day.

And perhaps the biggest surprise so far is that I love it.  I love it!  I love the freedom!  I love not having to wear nursing shirts all the time.  I can't WAIT to wean him completely!!!

FREEDOM!!!!  (Insert image of William Wallace in full war-paint).

Operation Wean Juday: Day One

Day One was...totally unexpected.

After sucking in a huge breath and muttering fervent prayers for mercy, I bandaged myself up and showed them to Judah and told him there's no boo boo because they are owie.

He looked a little sad and repeated "boo boo owie...bandage...boo boo owie."

Judah gave me a consoling hug and the spouse and I exchanged a raised-eyebrow look.

That was almost too easy!

For the rest of the day Judah kept repeating "boo boo owie."  And then I unbandaged myself for his nightime nursing, which delighted and confused Judah.

Hopefully he'll be just as accepting today (and not totally confused and disoriented) when the bandage goes back on after I get home from work!

The Beginning of the End

This is the face I expect to greet me today when I get home from work:

Why, you may ask?


Because today for the first time IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, I will not nurse him on demand (which he always demands right away when I get home).  In fact, I will not nurse him at all until it's bedtime.

Yes, today is Operation Wean Judah: Day One. Or perhaps more to the point, as the spouse likes to point out, it’s Operation Wean Mommy. Because I’m the one who is going to be traumatized and guilt-ridden about it all. The plan is to drop a feeding every 4 days until we are all done.

There are good reasons to wean Judah (which I won’t get into now), but a large part of me, the largest part actually, just really really really doesn’t want to do it.  I know we had a good run.  Heck, he's 20 months.  (But then I keep telling myself that in the majority of cultures and for the majority of history, children weren't weaned until 3 or 4.  20 months seems so YOUNG to wean.  My baby's only 1.  1!)

And I love our special little bond. I love cuddling him (and that’s the only time this wiggly worm will sit still in my lap for more than 2 seconds). I love being able to provide the ultimate source of comfort and security for him. I love the idea that he’s getting micro-nutrients, probiotic enzymes, and all kinds of immunological benefits from this ‘secret sauce’ that science is just now discovering, and may never fully uncover because it’s just that awesome.

But mostly, it’s the bond. The closeness. The attachment.

Judah has been a champion nurser from day 1, latching perfectly, never biting (except for a few playful times, but it wasn’t too bad and he stopped right away), and doing his business pretty efficiently.

I can’t believe, in my new-mom daze and exhaustion, I was going to wean him at just 2 months old! At that point, I had barely slept and the idea of feeding him (and thus being awake) every 3 hours for months and months sounded like hell. Throw in the beginnings of very bad reflux fussiness and I was *this close* to throwing in the towel. Thankfully his reflux problems subsided around 4 months and since then it’s been one, smooth, long, wonderful ride on the nursing train.  (Okay, there have been bumps along the way, but really they were nothing compared to how wonderful it's been.  Or maybe I just have Stokholm Syndrome, nursing edition.)

But now that ride is coming to an end.  Sigh.

I’ve done my research and I’m hoping that Judah’s strong sense of empathy will make the “band-aid” method work like a charm. The method is to simply stick some band-aids on the boobs and tell your kid that they are sick, or broken, or “owie.” Judah actually knows the word “bandage” from the time he split his head on an iron grate and had to wear one for 3 days straight.

And if that doesn’t work, I will bribe him with gummy bears and lollipops.

And if that doesn’t work, I’m giving him the previously, un-introduced delights of chocolate and rocky-road icecream.

And if that doesn’t work, I will use the “lemon method” wherein you squeeze a lemon on your boob and thereby demonstrate that the milk has gone “bad”.

And if that doesn’t work, I will make the spouse handle him for the rest of the day while I go and get a pedicure (and/or sob with guilt and sadness by myself in the car).

So if I post some pics of a nice pedicure tomorrow…you’ll know it was bad.

Really really bad.

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

And I got a boob job, tummy tuck, and brain lobotomy.

Not really, but it might appear that way to my work colleagues whom I haven't seen since I was 9 months pregnant and ready to burst.

So I started work for 2 days this week and here are the highlights (and lowlights):

--Man am I tired. I'm so not used to it all. After just 1 hour at work, I seriously wanted a nap.

--It feels oddly like I never left. Just woke up from a long dream in which I had a baby and tended to him all day long.

--My brain is total mush. Many times during the day I wanted to ask my boss to please talk slower and could you repeat that? But luckily had the presence of mind not to!

--I feel guilty about not being there to nurse Judah. Somehow I feel like nursing is his birthright, ha.

--The first day I came home, Judah was so happy to see me he kept laughing and smiling while he nursed. This caused his mouth to back up with milk, which he sputtered in my face while laughing.

--The second day I came home, he acted like it was no big deal. Maybe I'm hypersensitive, but I wondered if he was mad at me.

--Had a major wardrobe malfunction. I won't go into detail, but lets just say it involved my boss pointing out to me that my bra was totally showing and me looking down and realizing my shirt was also totally stained with milk leaks. Learn from my mistake--never ever wear a new bra for your first day of work.

--My boss is the best boss I could possibly hope to have as a working mom. She's committed to helping me work a truly 60% schedule and she has 2 kids of her own so she's really sympathetic to the whole work/life balance thing.

--And the most bizarre thing of all: I realized I actually missed work.

First comes love, then comes 30.

I can no longer deny I’ve moved into middle-aged adultdom. There, I said it.

Last year, I didn’t know a single person that was pregnant.

This year, everyone and their cousin is pregnant. Literally, off the top of my head, I can list 9 people I know who are popping or have popped in the last 6 months. And that’s not counting all the Facebook pregnancies of more distant “friends.”

It must be because I’m turning 30. There, I said that too.

Ever since I was a teen, the age 30 had a magical quality to it. Like a harbinger of death, or at least fuddy-duddiness. 30 is the end of fun. The beginning of solid responsibility, sensible shoes and corporate hair. The time you really start to look like your mom or dad did.

And, what I’ve only recently discovered, 30 is the age for having babies.

Sigh, kids. Is it really time for all that? Sigh.

I have no problem with kids, but I guess I was hoping to avoid all that…drama. I feel like there is a manic penumbra surrounding the topic of kids that I don’t want to go anywhere near. It’s like, normal, reasonable, self-deprecating people suddenly morph into obsessed, wild-eyed crazies when it comes to their children. I know this is a generalization, but you know what I’m talking about!

Even when polite parents try to conceal it, you can see the gleam in their eyes. It’s a gleam of pride, exaltation, TRIUMPH! The gleam says: Isn’t my kid a piece of work?! I once read an interview of Katie Holmes talking about 1 year old Suri and how Katie is in awe of Suri. Simply in AWE. Suri teaches Katie about how to be a better human being and she’s so incredibly courageous.

Courageous?

Is Suri fighting off rabid bears out behind the Hollywood hills? Is she grappling with the existential angst of living in a fallen and broken world? Is she even struggling with an awful childhood illness that requires multiple surgeries or radiation?

Then…how…? Help me out here Katie.

And as much as I want to tell myself that I don’t want to turn into THAT mother, what hope do I have? Doesn’t (almost) every parent turn into a puddle of child-goop because that is the power of kids? Sigh.

I don’t mind the sagging, the wrinkles, the weight-gain and the loss of vigor so much (okay, that’s a lie, I’m going to fight those tooth and nail)--but when it comes to aging, save me from parenthood!

p.s. And no, I'm not baking something in the oven, so to speak!

Civil ceremonies...

at SF City Hall aren't just for the gays!

The bride and groom before the ceremony:



Just two married siblings (but not to each other! Just realized that caption is ambiguous, ugh.):


I wonder what my grandpa is thinking. Probaby, "Gee I'm old."

Congratulations Brother and Connie!

Clearing the Bar

Crisis averted! I'm alive and well. PTL and thank you Jesus!

Blankity Blank

Well, I'm out.

The test was three blurry days, blurred into one blurry haze. Punctuated with bad homemade sandwiches, a fried egg slapped on wheat bread. A handful of almonds.

And a lot of sweaty biking to and fro from the test site.

And some short excerpts from Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, to help me sleep at night. (Love that book! Good writing!)

And horribly bad breath from dehydration. Can't waste precious test time on trips to the bathroom!

I definitely didn't do the level of work I wanted to. I definitely missed at least one big chunk of points in my last performance test. I definitely guessed on more than half of my multiple-choice questions.

So, it's kind of a crapshoot.

And now the prophecy is true: the worst part of the bar is the time between now and November 21 when the results get posted.

Passively waiting is the hardest thing to do. I imagine this must be what the cancer patient feels like, waiting for his biopsy results. Or the defendant waiting for the jury verdict. Except of course there's less on the line.

But now I have to face "real life" again. And I found myself completely unable to orient myself to life without the bar.

It's like a mild exam-version of the Stockholm Syndrome. Afterall, the bar has held me captive for over 2 months now. We had a symbiotic relationship. The bar told me what to do everyday for hours at a time. The bar flooded my mind, my dreams, my every waking moment.

How do I live without it? Who am I without the bar? What do I do now? It's too overwhelming. I have no more excuses to not live responsibly.

Is this how newly released prisoners feel like? No wonder they deliberately commit a crime to get thrown back in. Life on the outside is too strange.

So far I'm coping the only way I know how: endless reruns of Project Runway on my tivo.

Aufwiederzehn.