Barely promoted

First Christmas lasagna

Let me say: we will have a real Christmas. On the 29th or so, when all Beaker's brothers can manage to assemble in one place. There will be a tree, a ham, and too many gifts. But today there were none of those things. Gray rain and a none-too-full larder.

Yesterday we visited friends with a very new baby. Oh so tiny! We stayed too long. So long, that the supermarkets were all closed by the time we left. No nice little pork roast for us!

So the fridge managed to spit out a couple three cups of homemade ragu, frozen spinach, half a can of artichoke hearts. Cottage cheese and feta and parsley. Most of a big can of crushed totmatoes. It was okay, in the end. Red and green!

No place was open today to get whipping cream, so we made creme anglaise with the last of the milk and eggs, and a wee bit of rum, to serve over the gingerbread.

I did all the dishes, which have been accumulating for days, since the new location for the temporary sink has no place for a drainer, and it's easier to leave the dishes there than to have to dry them right away. Beaker worked on the dishwasher and installed our first cabinet latch.

Tabby had a sort of tense and poopy and cry-y day. She utterly refused the bottle we offered, and her best efforts with a cup—which she wants to work, oh yes she does, yes she does—led, well, to far more milk spilled than consumed.

But she's so big! Her eyes are so bright! Today we caught her looking at toys before shoving them into her mouth. Kicking the arches of her baby gym, on purpose. And her cries of joy are no longer little gleeful squeaks, but deep-throated roars.

Two ounces!

From an Avent, number three nipple, on the warm side, from me, upright in the rocking chair. Grabbed it and shoved it right in her mouth. Woulda kept going if there had been more.

And Beaker's coming home tonight! Could life get better?

(Well, the elves could get their butts in gear and take in the trash cans. And wash the dishes. Tabby could decide she likes and trusts, rather than fears, the teachers at the center. And, well, the weather. But still...)

Day 3 got complicated

"We won't break the baby. You have to break the baby."

I'm starting to wonder if some sort of cold turkey—cry-it-out, but for food, rather than for sleep—might be less cruel to all of us in the long run. But they won't do it, I suspect; see quote above, from one of the teachers.

[Who, in the same conversation, told me I was nursing too slowly (Tabby had been at the boob for about 40 minutes, bobbing back and forth between eating and watching the other babies; she was dozing off by the time the criticism came), that I'd have to stop letting her sleep on me at home or else she wouldn't be able to nap at the center.]

To be fair, they'd be the ones dealing with the crying hungry baby if we went cold turkey.

But it's also not clear to me whether she'd take a bottle from them, even if she does take one from Beaker. So far I'm the only one to have gotten her to drink; about half an ounce from a bottle that was about to get tossed, just before we left the center on day 2. And babies aren't supposed to take that from mama, ever!

So: the wheels were spinning on all this stuff. She's only spent about an hour without a parent at the center, the last two days. We're all sort of flipping out. And then Beaker got summoned on a business trip. Leaving for California tomorrow, coming back Tuesday.

I AM GOING TO FUCKING DIE. It's forecast to snow every day between now and then. EVERY DAY. And how are we supposed to keep working on this bottle shit if he's not here?

So we check plane tickets and, amazingly, they're not so bad. Should I go too, and hang out with all our fantabulous California friends? Hysterical IMs trade back and forth. It's promised that I'll be met at the airport, and provided with a car seat and a Pump-n-style for the duration.

Are I running away from my problems, or seizing the opportunity for a little vacation in the sun while I still have a chance? Will it break the process of adjusting to day care, or will it not matter, since we'll be taking a long Christmas break anyway? What about the candidates interviewing at my department? The ones very close to my area? FUCK 'EM.

We eat dinner. We go back to actually buy the ticket and it's gone to, well, what you'd expect a nonstop plane ticket to California bought on 14 hours' notice to be. And again I'm facing 5 days of cold lonesome gray grimness, punctuated with baby tears that are ALL MY FAULT, and I cry.

[I don't think I told you how, when I picked Tabby up on day 1, she'd cried so hard that, for the first time, her tears had stuffed up her nose. As she nursed, she had to stop and pull back for great gasping sniffles, just like the aftermath of a toddler tantrum.]

P.S. Thank you, thank you, thank all of you for your kind words. Hearing from those who have been there/done that/have undamaged children is so, so, so helpful. Below the fold: answers to some questions that sort of got asked in comments... or maybe it's mostly just a rant about my personal pumping experiences.

Day 1 did not go well

Yes, a colleague went so far as to unlock the door of my office in order to walk in on me while I was pumping. Female, natch; she wanted to use my microwave, and somehow it hadn't occurred to her that my door might be aggressively closed, instead of open like it's been during my months of absence, for a reason... to be fair, she felt awful.

I'd only just gotten the Isis to suck, but it didn't matter whether I managed to relax enough to let down again, 'cause the center called right then. Tabby was screaming and miserable, wouldn't take the bottle, was the angriest baby in the world, could I come over? So I did.

She nursed for an hour in a corner of the center, and we talked about what to try next. I tried not to cry. Tomorrow, I'll go in and stay with her at the beginning of the day: try to get her used to the space and the noise when she feels safe in my arms. Also try to get her less afraid of the staff. And we'll shorten the numbers of hours we expect her to stay there without me.

[Did I mention that I am trying to start getting some work done? That we have a candidate interviewing tomorrow? That Dr. Wow is getting very restless?]

[Thank god we are doing this in a way that does allow for some weeks of adjustment. If I were teaching, what would we do?]

[I do wish the staff were more upbeat, though. They don't radiate "this baby will love me" confidence; instead they tell horror stories of babies who have had a bad time adjusting.]

Beaker managed a couple of less awful sessions with the bottle at home: no food consumed, but it was a nice toy, one she was perfecty willing to stick in her mouth. It's progress.

Then our washing machine broke. For real. [And yes, we're doing cloth diapers. Tick, tick, tick...]

Babies R Us is undermining breastfeeding!

First of all, yes, I do need to be posting here more. So much happiness, and so much stress, and it's all streaming by supersonically. I reread my own entries from a little over a year ago—my mother's death, the IVF cycle, yada yada yada—and there was so much I'd forgotten. And I want to remember how Tabby is growing and thriving. And to understand why visiting Nanna at Thanksgiving left so little of an emotional impression. And to let myself freak out someplace, 'cause I can't freak out in real life right now, about the day care thing—THE DAY CARE THING OH MY GOD SHE IS STARTING TOMORROW AND I AM BOILING BOTTLES SHE'LL REFUSE TO DRINK FROM AND AND AND—or about Beaker's work and health, or about the ongoing fiasco of the kitchen and whether we'll be able to afford the time or the money to finish it and... Beaker and I have been sniping all day, most recently about, yes, money. Where the hell did that come from?

But. I went up to Babies R Us today, to buy the bottles which are boiling right now, and an Isis pump, 'cause I couldn't bring myself to buy a second Medela and I will need to pump at work and at home and to carry all my crap reasonably long distances on foot.

They have a "mother's room" tucked in the back of the store, right next to the restrooms. There's a glider rocker and a changing table; no sink, though. Or windows. The first time I was in the store, when Tabby was about three weeks old, I didn't even know that room was back there, and I nursed her in one of the comfy chairs in the portrait studio waiting area, right by the front windows. No one said anything. (On the other hand, there is a state law, and it'd be really really bad if they did say something and I told La Leche about it, now wouldn't it?)

Babies R Us. Ever notice how no one else there has a baby with them? How almost all the other shoppers are grandparent age? I wonder what fraction of their business is registry. And I'm surprised by how, well, unfriendly their staff are when babies melt down in the checkout line. But I digress.

My serious point is that the room, while an amenity, is also a marginalization. This first really hit me at the local lower upper middle class mall, which has a "family lounge" tucked in behind the hair salons. It's got lots of luxe sinks and changing stands—free warm wipes!— and a row of three curtained booths, each with an easy chair and a side table. So: even inside the "family lounge," nursers are supposed to hide behind a curtain?

When I go to the damn mall with the tiny baby, I want to peoplewatch; it's a chance to escape from the house. Now, I admit that I've ended up pretty damn blase about nursing in public. If we go out to dinner, Tabby will generally nurse quietly through the entire meal (just like at home). I wear a nursing top and a nursing bra, but don't cover up further. No negative comments so far. (The only time we've been invited to nurse in a public place was at the fancy yarn store in Weatherwood: they know a good sales prospect when they see that little baby!) I'm sure there are plenty of women who'd rather sit in a private booth than out at the Starbucks in the central aisle of the mall. I'm not one of them. I wish everyone could feel comfortable and welcome out in the agora. I feel like setting aside horrible little spaces inside the store, or the mall, is distinctly unwelcoming of nursing elsewhere. And I've never seen anyone else using one of these rooms.

My less serious point: so today we did head to the "mother's room" at BRU. There's the glider,after all. We sit down, and I whip out the boob for Tabby. Who sucks hard for a few seconds, then pulls her head back, looks up, and smiles broadly. But not at me. Then she laughs. I turn to follow her gaze.

Remember that portrait studio at the front of the store? They've been allocated the wall space in the "mother's room." Free advertising to a captive and susceptible audience. Miss T was entranced by the huge blowups of happy happy babies all over the walls. So entranced that I couldn't get her to keep feeding. Damn you, BRU, for all the developmentally appropriate distractions you've filled that room with.