Bits o' Brains
A few random bits and pieces that might have turned into real posts if only I had time, brains, and free fingers...
The Arms and the (Wo)man
I've always thought that, along with all the other alarming changes that occur in a woman's body during pregnancy, she should also grow at least one extra st of arms. I mean, that? Would be really useful. Never mind the thicker hair and better fingernails. Arms, baby.
I mean, breastfeeding alone takes about 4 or 5, right? One for the baby, one for the breast, one to keep his little hands out of the way, one to pull down his chin to improve the latch, one to tickle his feet to keep him awake...
And then there's the notion that I might want to do something like eat or drink or read or go to the bathroom or wash my hands before feeding him, or blog, and only some of those things can be well achieved with one hand.
So mother nature, or perhaps whichever of the many-armed Hindu goddesses feels that she could spare a couple of arms, won't you please send a few my way? Promise I'll return them within the year...
Rumble in the Bronchi
So a mere two weeks in, Misterpie has brought home the first cold of the school year. yeah. So the Bun, at a mere two weeks, has his first virus. I'm so proud. So what did I do? I told Misterpie to drink out of my glass and lick my fork, so I could get it too, then turn around and feed some antibodies to The Bun. What the hell was I thinking? This cold sucks, especially on less sleep. It started out as one of those solid masses in the head, which has also made it tough for the little guy to feed efficiently, and is just too solid to suck out his nose, so I can't do much to help him except sleep him on a slight slant and try to get as much into him as I can when he is a bit clearer. And now the damn thing has moved into my chest, which - coughing, three weeks after abdominal surgery? Ouch. Just as bad as the sneezing from the start of this. AND, even worse, the coughing has jostled awake the babe sleeping on me more than once. Now that is just. not. right. So not thrilled with germs right now, and my gunked-up lungs can go to hell with them.
I can see it already. The playground muffya is forming. The blond, bright-eyed moms have found each other and are starting to volunteer for things and form little knots of discussion as the children play before school starts. Our school is well known to be one of those schools with a active parent body, full of fund-raisers, volunteers, organizers, and donators. But I didn't expect the keeners to be out in kindergarten. I am so not one of these. With parent council elections (yes, elections) coming up, I will be the one not handing out buttons and muffins. I am no Tracy Flick, people.
And His Name Shall Be Called Chocolate Chip?
So you've met The Bun. The congrats have been said, the picture posted, the complaining about feeding and lack of sleep and such has commenced. But now onto serious business... what shall he be called here?
I could keep calling him The Bun. It's fine, it works, whatever.
Or you could help me pick something else. Something bakery-themed. Something similar to Bun, perhaps? Bundt Cake?
Or some other sweet, round little thing? Jelly Roll? Strudel?
Help a girl out, here, won't you, and drop a suggestion or two?
Click. Click. BOOM!
That was almost my head this morning, exploding. I had both a cranky baby and a demanding preschooler on my hands, and I was not. up. to. it. The thing that gets me the most, though, is the crying of a baby. Not a baby, actually. MY baby. I am largely unmoved by the crying of bigger kids. The crying of other people's babies makes me feel bad for the parents, but doesn't bother me. But the crying of my own throws me into a panic.
You know how in movies, there is always some sort of device that jams signals between cell phones or radios, such that messages are going out, but can't be heard or responded to, leaving everyone in a state of near hysteria? That's pretty much what happens in my brain between neurons when The Bun cries. Can't listen, can't think, just want to make it stop!
I swear it's responsible for a good 60% or more of my stress with a baby. Anyone have any good methods for learning to not be so freaked out by this? I could stay half sane if I could take that.
And here's one for you!
I have been coasting on my bloglines for ages, occasionally, when I had time, remembering to go visit people who had left comments but weren't on my old feed list, but it was all very haphazard and neglectful, and I've been meaning for quite a while now to get on with the adding of some new people to my reading, but have never found the moment. So while I don't have tons of time now either (or I'd be posting more, ahem), I have been reading more while busy feeding or pumping, so it would be a good time to do this expanding, finally.
So - if I'm not a regular visitor, such that it's pretty clear you ARE in my bloglines (which probably also means you're on my sidebar, in most cases), leave me a comment and tell me to come over and visit. Then I'll drop by and demand tea and cookies on a more regular basis. Won't that be neighbourly?