Things Currently Annoying Me

I think I'm extra cranky these days. Little things are ticking me off entirely more than is warranted. If only I could shut off my brain and ears and eyes and not register them, I'd be so much happier. Missing a bunch, too, but still, maybe happier.

So aside from Pumpkinpie's current round of testing the limits (oh hell, when does this stop? Ever?), what else? Oh, there are plenty of small burrs under my saddle. Here's a couple:

Music lyrics:

"My name Wale"
Really? We are now too cool for verbs?

"unstoppable together, we're like Bonnie and Clyde"
Unstoppable? Just what does this fool think happened to them when they went down in a hail of bullets, hmm? for my money, they stopped. Of course the next two lines suggest that perhaps rhymes and clever turns of phrase are not in fact his strong point:
"Damn I miss my aunt, I wish she was still alive
Nothin to do with the song, but her name was Bonnie"

(Also begging the question of why he's taken on a career writing songs, but never mind.) Seriously. WHY did I hear this on the radio the other day? Should we not just pretend it's not there and not play it, radio people? Please?

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And thanks to Slice TV (who?) for this subway poster:

I could have gone my whole life without seeing that graphic.
Blech.

Today

... Misterpie slept in, but I had enough sleep the night before that I was happy to let him, because I fell asleep with my Pumpkinpie last night. This morning, I had breakfast with my kids, making them what they wanted, not having to rush. Luxury.

... Pumpkinpie offered us most of the large cookie she baked. "Sharing feels good," she said.

... I hugged Misterpie, chiming, "Hug Daddy!" Then I hugged The Bun, "Hug The Bun!" I pulled away and said, hopefully, "Hug Mama?" He hugged me. And hugged me again. And hugged me some more, over and over.

... I made some progress in the shifting of things in our bedroom, getting closer to done and organized in there. Threw things out, hung things up, put shoes in boxes, moved laundry through the cycles, sorted, and finally, moved furniture. Enough that it feels like a big step forward. I love that.

... I went out for a little exploring walk in the snow with The Bun. Though it didn't last long, I have felt like we have been too cooped up on the weekends lately, and it was nice to get some fresh air with him, while Misterpie and Pumpkinpie went skating.

... I got the last piece for a gift for a friend, something I am excited to be part of giving.

... I am getting close to finishing my book for book club this week, a good book, and one I am enjoying, even through a nagging unease about what's coming, or could be next right now.

... The Bun tried and enjoyed slices of apple for the first time. It's nice that he's getting more teeth, so not everything has to be so diced up for him any more.

... The Bun used more words in a day than I think I have heard before, lots of them spontaneous and not repeating. It included the new addition, "no." It had to come some time.

... I swept the floors and stairs, emptied garbage and recycling bins, bought a handful of decent hangers and some off-season clothes storage boxes for the new closet, and sold a baby toy we no longer needed.

... I sheared The Bun's hair shorter, over his wild protests. It's not perfect, but I'll neaten the edges up over this week. (Perfect is hard when aiming through someone's hands at a moving target.)

... Pumpkinpie more than once played nicely with The Bun, initiating funny games that he could enjoy, playing along with something he was doing, and looking out for him. She was in top big sister form today, and it was really heart-liftingly wonderful to see.

...The Bun missed much of his nap, but had a nice rest rocking in my arms.

And tonight,

... I tucked in Pumpkinpie with her usual hugs, pats, kisses, and drawings on her tummy.

... My Bun fell asleep in my arms, and I lifted him limp, lolling, a warm, soft weight, in my arms and kissed his sweet, silky head before I transferred him gently to his bed.

... I will go to bed on time for once, that I might be just as rested and happy tomorrow.

It's been a good day.

BF is Short for Best Friend, Right?

There's been a lot of talk about breastfeeding lately, and while I'm not generally one to hop on the bandwagon, it's spurring me on to actually sit down and write the post I've been meaning to write for quite a long time now. About a year, in fact. (Oh, hello, why yes, I DO still call myself a blogger, why do you ask?)

It's not a post about the things that are being talked about, though. It's not about covering up or not, not about breast vs formula or about the marketing of formula, though that irks me plenty. It's not about a woman's right to feed anywhere or her need for support. It's simply about my journey through the narrows of trying to feed, how I found myself where I ended up, and how something that has been called heroic on occasion really wasn't, not to my mind, it was just my own haphazard solution to a feeding method I felt was workable for me.

I always intended to breastfeed. It was an intellectual decision for me, because I knew the many reasons why breast was best, but I will say this here: it was not something I felt comfortable with. It was something I hoped I would become comfortable with, would just get used to be virtue of sheer need and repetition, but it was not something I was into.

I am not a touchy person. I am not huggy. I do not kiss my family. hugs and kisses and spontaneous "I love you's" were not part of my family, not a feature of my upbringing. I don't mean to suggest that my family was cold, not by a long way. It's just that affection was shown in other ways. By dancing, singing and playing music together, by sharing a story, eating meals together, and always, always saying goodnight. I never came home to a sleeping house, not once. Love was woven into the fabric of the clothes my mother made for me by hand, baked into the crusts of the quiches she made for dinner, knowing they were my favourite, sketched into the lies of pictures drawn both of and for me, and pressed into homemade peanut-butter cookies with the fork she helped me hold while I pushed crosshatches into their flour-dusted surfaces. But hugs and cuddles, no.

I am used to seeing my body as my own. I have shared it with precious few people in my life, and had only, until I hit the week before birth, been examined by one doctor in my life. All this to say, I was not comfortable with the sharing of my body over and over on demand, but yes, I planned to try and get there.

With Pumpkinpie, weeks and weeks of trying and crying, feeding by various alternates while avoiding the bottle, visiting consultants and clinics failed to result in a child who could latch. Finally, after pumping her meals for some 5 or 6 weeks anyhow, I pleaded with my doctor. If I continue to pump, is it just as good if I feed her breastmilk from a bottle? I coudn't see how I could keep going much longer how I was. She gave me the okay, as long as I was holding Pumpkinpie, so we still go the bonding time as she fed. I would have done that anyhow. It seemed like a wonderful deal to me, to be able to stop putting myself through the wringer. A bargain, in fact.

And so that is what I did - I pumped. It was easy for me, really. I got a rhythm going with Pumpkinpie's naps and my pumping, bought a good pump, and set us up with bottles. It was a pain sometimes, to be sure, but it also allowed some freedoms - I could let Misterpie take a feeding in the evening while I caught up on a little sleep, or go out for a little while now and then, not being physically tethered to my wee babe. I eventually started to suffer from a little fatigue, around about month 10, but by then, it seemed like it was worth it to stick to my commitment to pump for just shy of a year. I had come so far already, and I am stubborn when I make a promise, so I was going to stick it out. At that point, why not?

With The Bun, I was mostly overwhelmed with the pain. I decided on a half-and-half solution, which worked well for a few weeks, and I was a happy mama. I had it all, the perfect combination of portability with breastfeeding and the freedom of bottles. It was strange for me, the breastfeeding, but I wanted it to work, and was determined to keep it up until it felt normal. Until the nipping starting. Once I could not stop the wee Bun from letting go slightly and chomping down hard on the end of my poor battered nipple, I was done. This was not the kind of pain that I could mitigate with lanolin or an extra session of pumping, and it didn't seem to be stopping, so I did. Once again, a good 6 weeks or so in, I turned to my trusty pump for feeding, and didn't look back.

It was even easier the second time, knowing that I had and could again manage this for a year. The year went faster. By the end, I was happy to hang up the pump, but hadn't even felt the same kind of drudge-y feeling that I had had before, maybe because I was better at moderating my pumping to The Bun's appetites, wasn't as rigourously scheduled as I had been with Pumpkinpie, when I didn't know better and was terrified of not having enough. (Which now seems absurd, since I now know I had way more than I even needed, and didn't have to worry.)

I have had people tell me this is medal-worthy. Truly? I don't think so. It wasn't about being a martyr, it wasn't even really hard. I know people who toughed it out through incredible pain for weeks on end, and to be totally honest, it feels to me liked I wimped out by comparison, because I just wasn't prepared to deal prolonged torture. (You think torture is an exaggeration? how well do you think it would go over if they started using alligator clamps on the nipples of Guantanamo detainees? Really, it fucking hurts.)

It was instead, quite simply, my answer to the question that dogs every mom with a new baby - how to best feed it. It worked for me in striking the balance between discomfort, lack of success, and painful starts versus the desire to give my babes the best I could. I don't think less of other people if formula is their answer, but I knew that I could give breast milk without too onerous an effort, so it didn't sit well with me to ignore that natural bounty in favour of something created.

We are also fortunate in Canada to have a full year off. In both cases, I stopped before returning to work, weaning my babes onto milk in time to return to work without issues of leaking, swollen breasts, without a pump or a nursing bra. had I lived in the States? There is no way I would have lasted a year. But for me, this worked. Between what I wanted to give and what I felt I could handle for myself, it was the right point on the continuum.

So for me? My pump was best - my best friend, my partner in feeding my babies the best I could. If anyone needs a medal around here, she lives in a discreet little black faux-leather carrying case.

Wee Mannie

The Bun is showing sure signs of boyhood. A greater tendency to lead with his forehead in falls means he often bears yellowing bruises there, rather than Pumpkinpie's bruised and scraped knees. His enthusiasm for food, particularly for proteins, is astonishing. His growth is ridiculous - he is now in 2T PJs, at a mere 16 months, and while Pumpkinpie filled those same PJs in a long and lean fashion, The Bun is solid, sturdy, and thick-chested.

And then there's this:

Some nights, The Bun starts his sleeping in that classic toddler pose, butt pushed up in the air, knees drawn up to round belly. But where Pumpkinpie would sleep that way with hands splayed out by her shoulders, The Bun will fill them full of clumps of flannel and shove them firmly down between his legs.

Now the kid is wearing a diaper, I really don't think it's about sensation. I really think it's just some strange, instinctual, male brain-stem-level compulsion to put their hands in their crotches.

Dress Me Up - A Shallow Shopping Post

My winter wardrobe has been decimated by the past few years, whittled down to a handful of items, not nearly robust enough to take me through a winter of working.


First, there were the khakis, which Misterpie shrunk years ago, but now that my body has changed shape with the bearing of The Bun, I am a little thicker in the middle, they ride even a little higher, and they truly can't be worn in the winter anymore. (In the summer, shorter pants can be passed off as slightly cropped, paired with little ballet flats, and still be fine, but now? Let's just say I wore them in a pinch one day, felt self-conscious all day, and was proven right when some snotty teenager made a remark about floods coming as she passed me. I knew it!)

And some jeans that are great, but long enough that they require at least moderate heels. Well, it's winter, I live in Canada, and I am not about to break my leg trying to navigate in heels on icy walks, so those are in the drawer for the next few months.


Then a few other pieces have fallen prey to changing shapes, changing trends, and changing perceptions of how I really want to dress for work. when I first started, I wanted to look a bit older, make myself look like what I thought a full-grown professional might look like. Now? Older? No, thanks.


Then, the Great Moth Attack trashed much of what nice winter wear I had. Sweaters? Toast. Wool pants, smallish anyhow, but also bearing bitemarks that did not speak of a good time the night before. A dress, its fuzzy surface pockmarked with threadbare sections. Bastards.


And so it went. We are still sorting through our clothing as we pull them from storage and load up our closet (photos soon, Lisa, promise), but I don't think I will find much more from winter that will help round out the few pairs of pants, long-sleeve Ts, and dresses. The pants won't last forever, either, especially if I have to wear them at least once a week, and finding new pants that fit well is tough. The dresses I love, but it is chilly, and some days, I'm just not willing to bare my knees to the elements, even in the slight protection afforded by tights.


So even though we are in tight times this year, even though Misterpie reiterates his point about spending any money we don't have to spend, I went out and hit a few of the January sales in a few places that usually net me some good pieces at good prices. I had a few criteria - I needed some pants, some sweaters, some good, basic, neutral pieces I could get lots of use out of and would go with what I have, that would take me through winter and be okay for work, and they needed to be well-priced - flat cheap, ideally.


Final criteria, I was not buying anything wool. Last Christmas, I bought a nice cherry-red cashmere cardigan for Christmas, and before I could wear it again for Valentine's Day, it was shot through with moth holes. I am adamant about this much - I am not buying the little fuckers any more meals, so until I am certain that they have left, I buy nothing wool. Luckily, more and more dress clothing is made with blends.

So - Jacob Connexion (their cheaper, more casual line) stepped up with fantastic jeans for $20. They had a bunch of different styles on sale at that price, and I found a pair that fit really nicely and had a dark enough wash to pass for work. I bought two. They also had nice cotton cardigans with ribbon plackets and trim for $30 (black and charcoal), and a nice, flat-knit cotton hoodie that is trim enough to wear to work at $20 (black, heather grey, and red). That's a good start.

And then I was inspired - Lindsay of Suburban Turmoil fame has started a new blog about trying to dress as a mom. Trying to be fashionable, cute even, yet appropriate to your age and stage. She featured a dress by INC, a line I love and that tends to fit and flatter my shape well. I dashed off to see if I could find it. Well, it wasn't in (do we get things later up here?), but I did find a few other things on the many sales racks lining the aisles right now.

A nice basic pair of work trousers. (There was another pair I loved, but they were 50% wool, and I'm not sure if the little buggers will eat that or not, so NO, I am not spending money on those, dammit!)

A nice chunky cable-knit sweater, shown beside me here, for 60% off - a synthetic blend, which I usually avoid, but between the wool ban and the open-ish weave, I thought it would be okay. Nice, even.
<--
I liked that plummy colour a lot, but am wedded to being practical right now, so I bought it in chocolate, knowing I have some browns it would go well with. (And no, that's not me, obviously.)

And finally, an INC dress. Not the one in Lindsay's post, but another one I saw on the sale rack for half price. I love these big prints, and they usually look horrible on me, but this one was so cute and flattering on, there was no resisting. That would be this one over here.
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(Also not me, btw.)

So I'm feeling I might be able to make it through the winter, now. I just hope Misterpie thinks that dress is cute, too!

Strangely Attached To You

My pumpkinpie is an attacher. She is attached to about a few thousand small stuffies, and one or two larger ones. She is attached to favourite pieces of clothing, shoes that have long since been scuffed beyond helping, adn the parka she wore all winter, who cares if it's nice out now?

She is attached to every scrap of paper she has ever even looked at, never mind drawn on, a serious collection of necklaces, and various melt-bead shapes she has made.

She is attached to us, to our car, and to our house, assuring us that she never wants us to move or to leave this house herself. (All in good time, my pretty, I say.)

In fact, she seems to love not just the house, but every single thing in it, no matter how shabby much of it really is. Like the grotty, nasty, old venetian blinds that we inherited and never got around to doing anything about. When I finally got my act together and enlisted Misterpie's help in putting up the curtain rod brackets, unearthed the curtains, and wrestled them onto the rods, Pumpkinpie was devastated to see me removing the blind to make way for the new addition to our meager decor. Devastated. She sobbed. She refused to understand or admit that the curtains cold be an improvement.

Later, when she saw them going out with the garbage for pickup, she wailed all the way to daycare, chest heaving, voice keening. Misterpie and I tried to understand. Misterpie is notoriously resistant to change - maybe it was that? We asked, as it the blind she loved, or did she just not want it to change? The blind, she told us. I tried to understand - I didn't. I couldn't tell her she was being silly - she was definitely feeling this, and keenly, at that. But I didn't understand.

Now, I am attached, maybe overly strongly in some cases, to all kinds of things. I am a terrible collector of things, and it shows in our overstuffed house. But to be so deeply attached to a blind that she had never shown much interest in one way or another, that merely existed, neutral-toned and grubby, in the background these past few years? I don't know.

I guess no one can say she doesn't know how to bond, anyhow.

Funny Girl

My Pumpkinpie has decided that her career aspiration has changed.

She wanted to be a vet - she loves animals.

Now she wants to be a clown. (I'm ever so proud, as you might imagine.) But she might be onto something, there. I mean, she already is a clown.


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PP: Mmm hmm mmm hmm mmm-mmm-mmm. Mmm hmm mmm hmm mmm-mmm-mmm. Do you know what I was saying?


KP: Um, no, Pumpkinpie, I have no idea.


PP: I was saying, "My lips are stuck together!"


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She has also started making up her own jokes.

What do cows do for entertainment? Go to the moo-vies.

What do ducks like to eat for a snakc? Quackers.

and so on.

Can a career as a clown (class or professional) be far behind?