The Sassy Uterus

How I do it? Somehow, someway, and with caffeine.

People, upon finding out that I have five children often ask how I do it.  I just stare at them blankly.  I have no response.  I simply don't know, nor am I sure that I even do "it."  I remember running through my days, frazzled, trying so hard not to forget something that will have dire consequences.  I am fatigued.  I show up, I do what I've got to do, I go to bed.  If I'm lucky, I find time to eat.  I try to be everything to everybody while caring for a 2-month-old fussy baby when I'm not at work.

I hate putting something up on this blog that could be a rant.  But in the interest of being real and truthful, I am going to do it.  It is now 12:47 a.m. my time and I just finished this journal entry:

"It's a crappy way to start the day...since it is 12:12 a.m. but I feel so bewildered, fatigued, resentful and mentally worn out.  I am positively overloaded.  I am trying so hard to be Supermom.  My lack of attention to any of them seems to affect them so profoundly.  But I am running myself thin.  Literally.

Take the day before what is now yesterday (6/10).  I started the morning early by attending the appt. for one of my children's psychologist.   That took for nearly ever.  The I came home in enough time to grab my bags and head to work.  While I had been at the appt. my parents began to give the baby one of the two 8 oz. bags of frozen milk I had for him.  I asked that before they go into the second 8 oz. bag that they consider giving him a small amount of formula as the last 8 oz. bag is all we had left.  Then I rushed off to get fast food and head to work.

While at work, my left breast became engorged.  I pumped both breasts for a grand total of 7 oz.  Usually I get four ounces from each side but the left side, despite it's engorgement only gave out 2 oz.  So, when the workday was over I pumped before I left work, on the left side, and I got another 3.5 oz. and the engorgment subsided.  This all gave me a grand total of 10.5 oz. 

During the workday I received a call from the husband who was testing the waters about possibly going out that night to his friend's house to help him build his new bed.  Erg.  The resentment was building.

My own night agenda, on the other hand, was to come home, take care of kids and baby, churn out a paper for school and somehow pump whatever milk I could. 

Upon coming home I found out that both of the 8 oz. bags of milk had been used and I felt a dread that is fast becoming familiar--that my baby's demand is exceeding my supply.

My husband didn't end up going out due to his profoundly bitchy wife.  Later in the evening I was able to pump another four oz or whatever.

Yesterday, which I still want to refer to as "today" I went to work and my parents gave my baby the 7 oz. I had pumped the day before.  Big sigh of relief, as he didn't polish off the whole milk supply storage.  While at work, I pumped another 5 oz. which gives us a grand total of 12.5 oz for him when I go to work later today. 

In the evening time, the husband was irritable.  I can't say that I blame him.  I also can't seem to comfort him either.

And..now...going into today, B3 has his kindergarten graduation at 10 a.m. that I need to get to before I head to work.  B1's sixth-grade graduation is at 6 p.m. and I am going to try to get there in time coming home from work. 

Meanwhile the pet dog's neuter voucher came in the mail today and I need to find time to call and make his appt. as the voucher expires 8/15/08. 

Luckily I got my school paper written and turned in earlier in the night. 

As for eating, the only true meal I got was dinner.  Earlier I subsisted on coffee, more coffee and a few bites of yogurt and a couple hunks of banana chocolate chip bread that a co-worker gave me that she didn't want to eat.

The house, of course, looks like shit and smells like piss.  The husband is stressed because the baby doesn't give him a break in the hours between the time he comes home and the time I come home.  And family members are getting their feelings hurt because the baby cries relentlessly while in their care. 

No pressure little guy.  He is only 2-months-old and dealing with the fact that his main source of comfort leaves him for 7 to 8 hours a day.

All of this...all of it, is on my shoulders.  My husband helps with the manual stuff, like making dinner and doing laundry.  He also shares in the baby-holding duties.  On top of working full-time.

But the mental, "Remember this, call this person, make this appointment, don't fail school, nurse baby, pump food for baby, keep on everyone's asses to do their job"--yeah, that's all mine.

And because I don't want the baby to feel everyone's pissy vibes, I feel like I have to protect him when I am with him.  I choose to hold him so Daddy can get a break and he (the baby) can get some time in with me.

Meanwhile, no one is doing what I would otherwise be doing, namely, cleaning nor are they, in the case of my children, doing their part, that is, clearing the table, cleaning their rooms, getting rid of linens they may have wet on the night before.

I am alternately forgetting things and obsessively remembering to other things---Pay this bill, check the checking accoutn, buy this.  But I forget what and when at the time when I am finally where I need to do it.

It's all too much and I can't keep up.  Me, who loves to be busy, is overloaded and ready to break.  I find myself impatient, frustrated, irritable and finally, depressed. 

So...people ask how I do it.  Do what?  Run around, frazzled, ready to have a nervous breakdown?  Well I guess that just takes talent and a lot of stress.  The other stuff is managed with a lot of caffeine.  Honestly...I don't know how I do it.  That's why I have no answer.   

What part of "Gaaa!" don't you understand?

Well I'm wide awake and baby manchild is snoozing in his swing.  Yesterday was horrendous with him crying nearly relentlessly.  He would wake after five minutes of sleep, leaving the Daddy-man and me ready to rip our ears off.  There is a certain insanity that occurs when an adult has been harrassed by a small child for 10 consecutive hours.  You begin the process of personification of the child, that is, endow him with characteristics that aren't his own by nature.  Of course, maybe that is only true with animals...that definition of personification...but I digress, as usual.

So we began asking this 7-week-child, feeling that he'd be able to answer in full and complete sentences, "What is wrong?  Tell me what's wrong."  And he'd say, "Gaa!" to which we'd say, "Is it your tummy?"  And he'd respond, "Gaaaaa!" and we'd say, "Are you sleepy?"  And he'd scream, "GAAAHHH!"  So clearly, we need to find out what "Gaah" means.  He did finally give up on us and our ignorance around midnight.  Poor tike probably thought he was getting a sweet deal with already broken-in parents.  Now he probably thinks he was given the stupid ones by accident.

After yesterday's high stress, I've been running on high.  Not wanting to rest, for fear it will be ripped away from me without any notice.  Not dare trying to do anything even remotely elaborate, knowing how I get so involved, I will be devastated when pried from my task at hand.  We used to have to give B1 a five-minute warning when it was time to leave a place (Grandma's house, the store's toy aisle, etc.) or he'd have a fit worthy of an anorexic supermodel whose been told to lay off the cocaine.  I now realize that he probably got that from me...and that I, if given a choice, would like a warning to prep my brain for the transition. 

Today, having been shell-shocked by yesterday, I've barely touched down in reality.  I float through the day, waiting to be rang harshly by my mini-master.  I try not to think too much.  I've nearly forgotten what it's like to be able to decide what I would like to do on a weekend.  That's a welcome relief, as the memory only tormented me.

Yup, this is definitely baby bootcamp all over again.  But this time I prep myself with mass doses of caffeine.  I have an equation that goes something like: For each child one raises, one should get a corresponding espresso shot.  For larger families, I'd suggest spacing the espresso dosages out rather than doing them in one latte.  'Cause I'd have to believe, from personal experience, that doing so would only land you on the toilet for the lion's share of the day.  And although that would give one moderate peace and quiet (see post about G4 serenading moi with Feliz Navidad while I was heeding nature's call), I still don't think it would be the restful weekend a body needs.

It's been suggested that my coffee-drinking might, perhaps, maybe, could be the result of baby manchild's restlessness and irritability.  I think not.  See, this is a case of which came first-the chicken or the egg?  And I'll tell you I have the answer to this question, at last.  The irritable, colicky egg came first and the chicken, at her wit's end and fatigued beyond desperation followed a week or two after with her trusty cup of caffeine.  But he's a cute, adorable, colicky irritable egg and I love him so.  Clearly I'm demonstrating signs of Stockholm syndrome.

Now that I've blogged some, that gives me some measure of personal satisfaction and I can go to sleep with a smirk on my face that for one moment this weekend, I got away with a purely selfish treat.   

Stretching

I was talking to my Supervisor at work today about the mental and emotional stretching that goes into having a baby and postpartum, as much so, if not more, than the physical stretching.  Women...we are used to being stretchy.  And mainly I was talking about how I'm worried that Phil, who has taken on so much in the way of care for our new baby--more so with this baby than he ever has with the other babies--might not be able to stretch much more. 

Yes, I know, we women do it all the time.  But we can do it.  Men...well I just don't see them as stretchy people.  I'm afraid I might come home from work one day to find Phil rocking and shaking in the corner, completely exhausted and broken.  As for me, I'm used to rocking and shaking in the corner and I know that I'll stand up and resume normal life as soon as the moment passes.

I had a Ken doll once.  He was the groom to my Barbie bride Tracy.  I was young, about 5-years-old when I had these dolls.  This particular Ken had brown hair, an olive complexion and a new fandangled rubber band in his torso that made him able to bend over and turn from side to side.  I distinctly remember that the band (which of course I had to inspect) was a thick, black band.  Nearly qualified to be used as an industrial band.  A tough, blue-collar band, if you will.  And yet, after an afternoon of playing, some bending over, some twisting, some pulling, Ken broke in half.  Simply broke.

My mother thought it was awfully quick for Ken to call it quits.  She complained to Mattel and the Better Business Bureau.  Famous for her letter-writing, a replacement Ken soon came in the mail.  He broke fairly quickly too.

My mother and I were perplexed.  What the hell was wrong with this man-doll?  Why couldn't he hang with life?  Was he afraid to marry his bride, Tracy? 

See, that's my fear with Phil...he will keep giving until he breaks.  Men break right?  Women stretch.  The only man, until now, I know that stretches is my father.  He's a verifiable retired Gumby.  Sometimes a grouchy Gumby.  But Gumby all the same.  But most men, I fear, are like Groom Ken.  They eventually break under pressure. 

But I don't know...he (Phil, not Ken) amazes me.  He is so very good with the baby manchild of our's.   And so far, he just keeps stretching, and I'm impressed.  I'm also better rested than usual and able to take care of the baby better. 

What I see happening is that I stretch and stretch, and about the time I'd retreat to the corner to rock and shake back and forth, Phil stretches and takes over so I can retract and relax.  And about the time Phil is about to break, I stretch.

So maybe we'll just stretch this out, this whole postpartum thing.  We'll just stretch it out together and I won't end up in the corner and Phil won't end up broken in half, with a failed black band hanging from his torso.  Which is good...because that would be gross.

Postpartum Sucks

I think it's time someone was clear on the first six weeks after labor and delivery-it sucks.  Hard.  The physical contractions may have abated, but the life contractions are just starting.  The contractions are adjustments to living a new life with a new child.

The baby, a blessing, is sweet but still adjusting to life outside the womb.  If it is *my* baby, he/she is also really pissed that they have been evicted from the womb and now must accommodate the human body they have been given.  Pooping especially pisses them off.  Farting is pretty bad too.  They don't mind nursing to feed their hunger or to receive comfort and will spend most days attached if allowed to.  They are often frustrated that they can't do more--grab what catches their eye, understand what you are saying, communicate their needs, fart better, etc.  Mommy (me) wishes she could do more as well.  This is especially trying if Mommy happens to be a go-getter, project-oriented and always popping up with new ideas that she wants to implement right away.  The combination of thwarted wants for both Mommy and Baby will lead to occasions where both can be found crying on the couch.

In addition, Mommy goes through metamorphic physical and emotional changes.  As Mommy, you don't catch nearly enough breaks or naps.  Because trying to is like trying to water desert plants.  It all gets sucked up to fill the deficit which is vast.

If one didn't know better, one *might* become excruciatingly depressed thinking that this will last forever.  That the current conditions are the forecast for the rest of her life. 

Sleep deprivation + physical and emotional exhaustion = faulty thinking. 

But one thing I know for sure (in fact, the only thing I know for sure) after giving birth to five babies and being a veteran to the fifth power of postpartum is that I can not trust my own thoughts to be true to reality--in life, and most definitely in postpartum.

So during those difficult times, you have to take it one moment at a time, knowing that each moment brings you closer to an easier time.  Sure, it sometimes doesn't come fast enough.  Which means you have to visualize it.  Sitting on the couch, nursing a baby who screams if you take your breast away (even though he's been nursing for 45 minutes on one side already), you have to close your eyes and visualize him at 3 months--smiling and grabbing at toys, at 6 months--maybe he has teeth now and he can certainly smile bigger, at 9 months--he's trying to crawl, at 12 months--could he already be trying to walk?  And in the background, you see yourself happy, smiling, feeling more freedom than you do now, enjoying motherhood more than you could expect and loving this child more than you thought your heart could hold.

One moment at a time, one vision at a time.  Those are the lifelines to sanity, and possibly thriving, in postpartum.  Coffee helps too. 

I need a break...

B5 (Boy/Baby #5) is not so good in the sleep category.  Or nap category either.  If it requires him to be detached from me, he's not interested.  I'm fatigued, not because I don't sleep at night, because *we* do, but because this baby is in my arms all day unless I get a breather in the form of Grandma or Daddy.

I've noticed that I'm not thinking right either.  Like I am inexplicably slow at putting two and two together.  Thoughts such as, "We need milk" take a few hours to join up with their sister thought of, "We need to go to the grocery store." 

But eventhough this thinking is disjointed, it doesn't keep me from coming up with new ideas.  Ones that come from outer space and have no linkage, rhyme, nor reason.  Earlier this week I decided that if it was an object and it had to be stored on a counter, desk, etc. it belonged in a basket.  And this has taken off quite well and definitely looks better but I keep running through three places to get such baskets in my head: Freecycle, Michael's, Thrift Stores.  But if you ask me what I plan to get at the thrift store, I'll draw a blank.  It's crazy. 

You'd be more prone to think I've had a brain injury instead of a baby.