Differences 2

I went to lunch with some friends the other day who asked me to tell them the truth about labor. Did it hurt?

Well, I had an epidural.  So it didn't hurt at all.  Some people say they can feel pressure when it comes time to push.  Not me.  I had the infamous Walt, an anesthesiologist who really knows how to numb you.  When the nurses found out Walt gave me the epidural they looked at each other knowingly and said, "You won't be walking until tomorrow."  Even my doctor turned off the IV an hour before Porter was born once he heard the name Walt.

But that's beside the point.  Labor.  Okay.  Recovery?  Well, maybe I should have told them about that instead.

After going to lunch I mentioned the conversation to my mom.  She directed me towards this lovely blog post that sums up 10 things you were never told about what happens after you give birth.

I read the article and laughed until it hurt.  Why?  Because it was all true.  (If you haven't gotten pregnant yet, you may want to skip the article.  Otherwise you may NEVER have a baby.  If you are already pregnant, TOO LATE.  If you've been pregnant, you too will laugh.)

When Nate came home from work I told him about the article.

Me:  I read this blog post today about ten things you're not told about having a baby.  It was pretty funny and true.  It made me feel better about some of the things I did after Porter was born.

Nate: Like what?

Me:  Well, one of them mentioned how you might be very angry with your husband.

This is number seven on the list: You might hate your husband.  To set the record straight, I never hated Nate.  But there were times I was absolutely livid at him, usually in the middle of the night.  As the author of the post said, "you might stare at his peaceful sleeping face at 2 am and wonder what the hell the point of him is and how can [he]...just lie there sleeping like that while you try to get your baby to sleep for the umpteenth time."

Yep.  

There may or may not have been a time or two when I very angrily threw the covers off of myself and hard onto him when I got up to tend to Porter.  Or a time or two when I slammed the door as I took Porter out into the family room to nurse him.  In the morning I'd feel guilty about my little temper tantrum and I'd wonder what was wrong with me.

So in the aforementioned conversation I told Nate how one of the commenters said she once was so angry at her husband in the middle of the night that she started throwing things at him.  When he finally woke up he couldn't figure out why there were random things like shoes and books in the bed with him.  It made me feel better to know that maybe my irrational slamming of doors was a hormonal thing, not just a bratty thing.  And even if it was just bratty, at least other women had the same issue too.  

Nate:  (laughing) I'd forgotten about that.  But I do remember now that you would do things like that in the middle of the night.  I'd wake up confused and think, 'Did Katie just slam the door?  She usually only does that when she's mad.  And I didn't do anything!"  It took me a few days to realize that might be the problem.

Exactly.

The Buzz

Porter needed a haircut.  I decided today was the day.  I plugged in Nate's clippers and Googled "how to cut hair using clippers."  You see, I've never cut hair before.

The website I found said, "The longest [guard] is a size 7 or 8, depending on the clipper, which leaves about an inch of hair on your head."


Nate's clipper set had a guard that had the number 8 on it.   This guard allows you to adjust it to different lengths.  Well, I wanted Porter's hair shorter than an inch so I adjusted the clipper.  I am embarrassed to say I adjusted it to the shortest length possible, thinking it would still somehow get me close to 1 inch.  (Sometimes I wonder how on earth I earned a master's degree.)


To make a short story shorter, after the first swipe with the clippers I realized the error of my ways.  Too late.


Porter cried and cried.  I kid you not.  He was fine when I first trimmed the back, but when I switched to the size 8 guard and took the first swipe off the front, he knew what happened.


He is now drowning his sorrows in milk.

Poor unsuspecting baby

Distraught after a haircut gone bad.

Life is always better after a nap.  And realizing hair grows back.

Déjà vu

So yesterday I had a case of déjà vu.  Porter and I were involved in a car accident less than a block away from last August's accident.


I think maybe I'll stop driving on that particular road.


Luckily this was just a fender-bender that didn't do a whole lot of damage.  I do have the other car's license plate embedded in my rear fender, so if it had been a hit-and-run I would have been able to track the driver down.  However, it didn't come to that.  The girl seemed very nice.  I think she was just a teenager; she was definitely younger than me and didn't know what to expect from the police.  Since I'm starting to feel seasoned in the accident process, I gave her a run-down of what would happen.


When the officer arrived, he gave us the driver exchange forms to fill out and write our statements.  For those of you blessed to have never filled out one of these forms, there is a section where you can draw a diagram of the accident.


After the officer completed the accident report process, he gave me the form the other driver filled out so I would have her insurance information.  Her diagram actually made me chuckle.

The stick figure with the thought bubble is the other driver.

Lady with the stroller

So you know how you nickname people?  You might have the hotdog guy, the hippie, the bird lady, etc.

When I rode the bus to work a few years ago while doing an internship there was the "Purple Lady."  Everything she had was purple.  Her bag, her shoes, her shirt, her fingernails, even the tips of her spiky hair.  She was the Purple Lady.

I am apparently the stroller lady.

Porter is a happy boy most of the time.  Then we have days like today where he is only happy if I am holding him.  While standing.  While outside.  He'll usually compromise on the holding part if he gets to ride in the stroller.

I have a little neighbor who is 4 years old (but he'll turn 5 on his next birthday, he informed me today).  He is outside a lot of the time when I come out the door with the stroller.  He always says hi to me and his mom and I are friends.

Today when P and I returned from our walk, my little neighbor was delighted to see us.  He told me about his new soccer team (there are 8 games and 8 practices and the coach is a grandpa!!), the fact that his cousin is moving (far away to Idaho), his brother's napping habits (he takes one nap a day because he is one year old), and about the ants he killed at his grandma's house (there were a lot of them).  It was pretty cute.

He followed me back to our patio to show me his sidewalk chalk.  After a few minutes he decided he needed a new color.  He reassured me that he'd be right back.  I was pretty sure I'd heard his mom calling him so I didn't think he'd actually come back.

After about 5 minutes he didn't return and Porter started to fuss so I took him in to feed him and put him down for a nap.

While I was getting Porter ready for his nap I could hear the neighbor boy calling from his front yard where he was now drawing on the driveway.  At first I didn't really know what he was saying.  But then I heard it, and I guess he has a nickname for me:

"Hey!!  Lady with the stroller!"

Shots

Typically, I have no problem with shots.  Give me a shot over a pill any day.  A second of discomfort is well worth not having to remember to take a prescription over the course of several days.  However, I seem to have a hard time when it comes to shots and babies.  Particularly my babies.

As the oldest child, I considered each of my siblings my baby at one time or another and I tried to protect them from harm.  One of my parents' favorite stories is about when my brother Justin was just two months old.  It was time for his shots and my mom took me with her to have them administered.

Being the older and wiser sister, I knew Justin was in immediate danger.  Since my mom was allowing him to be at the mercy of the nurse, I took it upon myself to rescue him.  I tried to pull him off the examination table as the nurse went after him with the needle.

I was 19 months old.

Justin and me, 1986

Being a good "big" sister, 1986. 

So I should have known shots would be tough when I took Porter in for his two-month and four-month immunizations.  Originally I decided I wasn't going to be one of those moms who has a hard time when their babies receive their shots.

I did great for the vaccine that he got to drink.  He guzzled it down both times.

Then my poor unsuspecting baby received his shots.  One in each leg.

His whole face crumpled and turned red as he built up for a piercing scream.  I felt SO GUILTY.  My poor baby had no idea what was going on, other than that he'd just been pricked and him mom stood by and watched.  Both times it was pitiful and I felt like I was a traitor.  Sure, I knew it is for the best but to watch my poor baby be in pain that I allowed....that was hard to take.

So from now on, perhaps I'll be careful about the vows I make where my feelings and my baby are concerned.  The maternal protection instinct is stronger than I realized.

Multi-tasking

Here is what happens when you decide to switch the laundry over while toasting hamburger buns under the broiler:

Here is what happens when you decide to give it another go and toast new buns...and then decide to empty and refill the ice cube trays in the freezer:

And here is what happens when the fire alarm goes off directly over where your baby is napping:

Porky Porter

Last week I went back to work part-time until the end of busy season.  Porter stays with my mom while I'm at work (thanks Mom!) and they seem to be enjoying each other's company.

Since Porter usually nurses, we had little idea of how much my mom should feed him in a bottle while I'm at work.  According to one website, "the rule of thumb is to offer him 2.5 ounces of formula per pound of body weight each day."

Porter weighs about 16 pounds.  16 x 2.5 = 40 ounces.  He's still on a 3 hour feeding schedule, or 8 times a day.  This equates to roughly 5 ounces a feeding.

Well, apparently I gave birth to the next Augustus Gloop.  Porter is averaging 8 ounces per feeding.  Today he even drank 10 ounces just 2 1/2 hours after I nursed him.

At first I blamed his Rohbock genes.  Then I realized I myself was eating everything in sight.  I ate breakfast at home before I dropped Porter off at my mom's.  When I got to work I was starving.  I ate two of my three snacks before 9 AM.

By the time lunch rolled around I was starving and I downed my meal in minutes.

Two hours later I was famished again.  I tried to ration my last snack but it only lasted about 30 minutes.

Lucky for me, my parents had dinner ready when I got to their house and they let me eat with them.

So apparently Porter inherited his insatiable appetite from me.  At least I can blame his hunger on a possible growth spurt.  Can we blame mine on his growth spurt, too?



Disclaimer: Nate is worried Porter will be deeply offended by this post in future years.  So Porter, if you are reading this, he had nothing to do with it.

And I love you, my little Augustus!