Primalizafied

Yes, I’m making up words now. Call it too much spare time (ha!), call it too little education. But I like it. And it’s my laymen's term for keeping things simple and following the Back to Basics mentality when it comes to parenting.  I like to think of how animals raise their babies. Ape's don't drop off their kids with grandma, or use the Ferber method... Yes, I understand there is a distinction. I walk upright, can drive a car, and have never, ever, thrown my poop. 

(i feel the need to point out that I'm not judging anyone, just making a funny)

I have to say Motherhood has surprised me in so many ways. I’m not saying I deserve an award or anything or have really even been challenged yet, but I’m rather delighted by how naturally taking care of Leah has come to me. Not always easy to do, but the inclination has come fairly effortlessly. It is however occasionally sidelined by the knowledge of urban myths, horror stories, and the basic yet all too real irrational fear of accidentally killing my child. I’m also very surprised by how “granola” my outlook and preference is in regards to taking care of and providing for her. I suppose you could file me under Attachment Parenting, but I hate to commit to or lump myself in to any one singular belief. Before having Leah, when I thought about what kind of parent I would be, I imagined mostly outlines of integrating her into our family, rather than changing our way of life to accommodate her. It’s not that I didn’t think having a baby wouldn't change things, and maybe it was just the naiveté of a first time expectant parent, but I really thought I would want to implement a much more rigorous schedule that would make her adapt to our lifestyle . But now that she’s here, call it the “you never know until you’re in those shoes” effect; but in my head, conforming our lives around her needs makes more sense than attempting to teach an infant to live like an adult. Now I will say, I think we’ve been blessed with a very easy baby. But so far working around her demands has gone pretty well. I don’t let her cry much. Most of her fussiness stems from being overtired and I make every attempt to soothe her while she’s upset. I carry her around a lot, that’s not to say she doesn’t get plenty of floor and tummy time while I watch her from the kitchen or fold laundry on the couch. And when in public I’m almost always wearing her. (LOVING the moby wrap, btw) Will this backfire on me someday? Maybe. But right now she’s a pretty happy baby, which makes for a very happy momma and daddy. I look at this method as a lifestyle choice. I didn’t choose to have a baby so I could keep living the same existence, I wanted something different. So it’s not a sacrifice for me; it’s a way of life.

As far as my plans for sleep training goes, I am remarkably grateful to say she started sleeping through the night on her own before I could get halfway through the No Cry Sleep Solution book I bought. I take no credit for this, and instead give it all to her thumb. Because during the week when she discovered it, she instantly learned how to self soothe. So because of her thumb I am sleeping through the night along with her. With the exception of getting up around 1am to change her. I am working to teach her to learn how to fall asleep by herself, but I don’t let her cry in the process. I rock her and shush her to the point where she is almost asleep, and then I set her down in her crib, eyes mostly open, and leave the room. About 65% of the time she will roll over and go to sleep. I know this because we have a video monitor. Other times she flips around and sometimes talks herself to sleep. But I leave her be unless she starts to cry. Then I go in and start the process over. Will this bite me in the ass someday? Maybe.

I sleep with her stuff. Her blankets, her clothes. This probably sounds nuts, let me explain. She has two main swaddling blankets. Yes, I still swaddle, but I leave one arm out. I sleep with whichever one she is not using, that way she can always smell me. And the night before the days that I work, I tuck whatever outfit she is going to wear between my nighttime nursing bra and my nightgown, so she can smell me all day, not just at nap time. Weird maybe, but harmless.

She's on the verge of six months and we all know what that means: Solid foods. While I am generally ecstatic to witness each milestone, this one makes me a bit sad. Because I won't be exclusively breastfeeding anymore. I'm thankful to say breastfeeding has gone very well for me, us. And I have loved every minute of it. It's our special quite time together. And it's a fabulous excuse to leave the room when I'm over the company that's in my house. For some reason she nurses just a bit longer then... I do plan to BF for a while longer. Probably into the range of what they consider Extended Breast Feeding. The AAP recommends supplemental BF'ing up to 24 months. I'm not saying I'll be the one whipping out my girls at the park for a snacky-snack. I honestly see it as more of a morning and bedtime routine when she's that old. But who knows, she may not want it that long, or my body may not cooperate to that extent. We'll just have to see. The moral of the story is, this is one more step towards her not breastfeeding anymore, and I'm sad to think of it ending.

I guess my reason for this post is to justify what floats around in my silly little brain and to silently address the people who think it's their right to critique my method of parenting. Who I won't even bother to respond to, who have much older or grown children who say; "Go out, you need a break!" Actually, I don't. I like this job. This is what I signed up for. This is my new life. And I don't want to miss a single second of it. 

Territorial Me

I'm the independent type. Unlikely to ask for help. Not out of pride, but just out of holding the solid belief that for the most part, I can do "it" myself. 


This is not always the case when it comes to the dynamics of my marriage.  I am more likely to ask Brian for help than anyone else in the world.  I'm sure he wonders what makes him so "lucky".


But Brian and I are very different. He will always ask for help when and if the occasion arises. Because that's how his family is; how he was raised.


We're probably both at the end of each spectrum, and neither is right, or better for that matter.


Let me get to the point.


Brian is back to work this week. He's a small business owner. He doesn't get FMLA or PTO.


His solution to my needing help this week, is to refer to his mother. 


Two things.


1. Taking two weeks off was very difficult for him. And technically, it was more like a week and a half. The second week he had to go in for a few hours each morning to get his two guys prepared for the day/week. So being back full time this week is more than overwhelming for him. He has a lot to catch up on. 


2. I love my Mother-In-Law.


BUT. 


I feel very strongly about relinquishing any duties related to us and our home. Not in a "My way or the Highway" kind of way. But more of a "THIS. IS. MINE." feeling. 


And that feeling multiplies in a way I can't even describe when it comes to my daughter. Again, not when it involves Brian, but anyone else. 


Earlier this week I broke down and called my Mother-In-Law to ask if she was free one afternoon. I needed to do some shopping and could use some help.  She replied with "Of course! Do you want me to watch Leah while you run some errands?" 


UM, NO.


I wanted her to come with me, while I ran some errands. I need to figure out how to do stuff outside of the house with Leah, and it would be nice to have a second set of hands while I do so. But the very suggestion of her taking my daughter, or my leaving her, if even for an hour, ran my hackles up right quick. 


So in a classic passive aggressive move to punish myself her, I cancelled our date the next day.


I realize that I am being ridiculous and totally unreasonable. And I don't know how to handle it. 


Am I alone?


P.S. She doesn't know I feel this way. Nor does Brian. 


P.P.S. I know I sound like a complete petty a-hole. 

Unplugged

Though my husband would emphatically disagree, I have to say how lovely it is to exist in a place without Cell phones or News reports. To spend your day without knowing what time it is, only identifying it in segments related to meals and shut eye. It must be how my dog feels every day.

I'm sorry to say I don't have any pictures for you. I fully intended to spend a significant amount of time capturing the wilderness I spent almost every summer in during my childhood. But I just never got around to it. Productivity had no part in this trip and I'm incredibly thankful for that. I needed that. To shut down. To unplug. To eat. To laugh. To spend time with people I love. It was so nourishing. It was also however, very, very cold. Sweatshirt weather during the daytime, and beanie and parka weather at night. It most certainly dipped well into the low 30's after sunset which is not exactly something I'm used to. I realize I probably sound like a panzy because some of you live in that type of weather, but how often to you sleep outside during it?

I truly enjoy camping. The smell. The quiet. The time we get to spend with my family, it's wonderful. And something about it makes me feel like a kid again. Unfortunately that something is when I have to trek it to the bathroom in the middle of the freezing cold night. There's just something so unsettling about not being able to see further than the beam of my flashlight that I simply cannot contain while I'm up there. Then once I make it safely back to my tent I spend the next twenty minutes or so trying not to think about how easy it would be for someone or something to murder me while I lay helpless, bundled up in my sleeping bag. Some of you will either know exactly what I mean or think I am a complete nut case. But that will never change the fact that when I'm camping, I am afraid of the dark.

Getting away from the hustle and bustle of every day life has reminded me of more than just how liberating it can be to really shut things off for a few days. It's made me realize how this break from ttc has given me a piece of my life back. And I say "a piece", because I still don't feel whole. But at least it's something. A glimmer of who I was, and what I may be again someday in the future. When the noises of infertility don't invade my thoughts and dreams. When I live my day in small segments of time, instead of two week periods that seem to drag on until I realize that actually months, and years have passed.

I admit that in gaining a part of myself back, I've lost the part of me that yearns to spend so much time here. While I miss so many of you that I've come to know so well over the years, it's also a little painful. To see you move on, to see you fail, to see you waiting, like me, for when you've healed enough, saved enough to move on to the next step - whatever that may be. Being slightly removed from all the ups and downs makes me realize how difficult that world is, how consuming and demanding treatments can be. And I'm awe of the strength you each possess. And I'm reminded of the support you've all given me, and how I hope that I've been there for you as much as you've been there for me. I don't mean that to sound like I'm going anywhere, I just feel the need to clarify my absesnce from your comments and lack of posting here. It's an unfortunate struggle between wanting to know every little update in the lives I feel so invested in, and needing a little space from such an all encompassing saga. I hope that makes sense.

Checking Out

No Cell Phones.

No T.V.

No Heat.

What?! Okay there will be heat, but it will be primitive.

Me bang rocks, make fire. Oh, who am I kidding - I ordered myself a 3,000 BTU Portable Propane heater fo' sho'.

We're heading up to God's Country this weekend. Big camping trip with my family. Sleeping in the woods should be great for my back. Okay maybe not, but at least no one will be able to hear me scream. Hooray for simplicity.

As if it were even necessary to mention, my posting and commenting will be even more non existent for a bit since we won't even have much FM radio reception.

And btw, the tab that gives me the options for font is mysteriously no where to be found. Seems like the universe is helping me prepare to get by without all the fancy modern conveniences I've come to love.

Peace Out.

The Root of All Evil?

No, I'm not talking about Paris Hilton. I'm talking about money, you know that thing that makes the world go 'round and heiress celebutante's videotape themselves having mindless, meaningless sex while they make an extraordinarily bad role model to underage girls who idolize them? Yes, that. I hate money. And Paris Hilton in case you didn't catch on. Dumb bitch has killer thighs though.

I digress.

I had a good session with my therapist last night. We talked a lot about money. What role it plays in our lives, and how it means something very different to everyone. What we determined is that to me; it means security. If there's money in the bank- I feel safe. I know that if something terrible were to happen, financially I would be somewhat prepared. I am a saver. Or as Brian would call it "A tightfisted Biyatch". Brian and I pool our money, there is one bank account for the two of us, and I'm really, really careful with it. We worked long and hard to get out of debt that we had accrued when we were young and stupid and didn't have a mortgage payment or even rent for that matter. But then we got married and pulled our shit together and before we bought our house we lived with my dad for 10 (very fucking long) months so that we could bank roll some dough and pay off some debt. And believe me that moving in with my dad was a HUGE sacrifice for us. I love the guy to pieces but moving back in with a parent after you're married is not exactly conducive to newlywed status.

Anyway, speaking of my dad... Money was pretty tight growing up. We lived in a nice neighborhood, but had the ugliest, and least kept house on the block. (Teresa, you can attest to that.) I think that's partially because my dad hated yard work, but mostly because what little free time and money he did have, wasn't going to be spent sweating over a flower bed just to keep up with the neighbors. And as much as I hated the weeds peering out from under the redrock in our front yard, I sort of respect that. Money didn't have much significance in our lives, and maybe that was because we didn't have any. But I never really felt like we went without either. I just knew that money was spent carefully and tucked away for important things. (Which might explain why I went a little Catholic-School-Girl on my first credit card) I earned every penny my dad ever gave me, no allowance, I had to do chores above and beyond my regular duties. Which was fine. I definitely learned the value of a dollar, and the sweet, sweet reward that came from biking my ass to the Baskin-Robins. (I have always been a whore for ice cream.)

But money came easier to me then, and not having any didn't matter like it does now. I don't mean to cry poor. We're not poor. But we do live frugally, and every penny counts. And each penny means more to me then just the numbers on a bank statement, or as of late a medical bill and credit card statement.

One of the biggest problems I have with IVF is what a huge financial risk it is. It's actually terrifying for me. Could I get the money together in a month from various family members? Yes. Would doing so go against every manor of my belief system and decimate my pride? Yes. But is a baby worth going outside of my comfort zone? HELL YES.

As evidence of my childhood, I pretty much live by the: "if you don't have the money for it, you go without". But what I discovered tonight is that that rule just shouldn't apply to having a family. I hate to think that finances has been holding us back through all of this. Not just because of a few missing zero's in our bank account, but because I haven't been able to get out of my comfort zone. To risk something I have substantial control over... I can give you reasons all fucking day long as to why we should do one treatment over the other, but I need to stop rationalizing everything. I need to find out what my heart wants.

Why is that so damn hard?

I'm sure all you number crunchers out there are wondering why I'm talking about getting the money from family as opposed saving it ourselves, when I claim to be such a penny pinching money hoarder. The problem is time. While I don't need to make a decision this month, I can't fathom waiting more than a year to move forward with another treatment. You might as well reserve my straight jacket and padded cell now, cause it wouldn't be long before what's left of my sanity jumped ship. And it's not as if we'd be getting a free ride, they would be loans that we'd most definitely pay back. God knows how long it's going to take, but we would. And while we would do it in an instant, we can't refi our house. Brian is a new small business owner and we wouldn't be able to prove his income yet.

I guess the moral to my story is that money sucks when you don't have it. And I hate that I given it so much power in our decision making process. I used to say that I couldn't handle shelling out all this money that ended up in another failed cycle. It would be so crappy to pay of debt that was all for nothing. But when I look back at three of the six dIUI's that ended up on my credit card. I don't regret them. Not one bit. Because I genuinely believed each one was going to work. The payments suck on paper, but I'm not resentful about them. Because I went against every part of my logic and followed my heart.

In my last post I talked about how my decision between dIUI and IVF with Brian changes on a daily basis, well today it's IVF.

A Legacy

I cannot believe it's September. Three months ago I assumed I would be welcoming this month with open arms and a decaf Pumpkin Spice Latte. Instead my heart aches for this summers swift passing. This is the third fall I have welcomed with nothing but failed cycles behind me and the end of another year ticking away like a metronome.

I love Fall. September 1st has always been important to me, something I looked forward to. But it is especially bittersweet now that we're involved in assisted cycles, and still have nothing to show for it. I feel like this year is slipping away and our chance for a 2010 baby is going with it...

Of course I'm still hopeful in the orthodox ways. I wouldn't be doing these IUI's and acupuncture if I didn't think they would work. I just feel like it's getting harder and harder to picture our life with a baby in it. Sometimes because it's just too painful to think about, and other times I'm sort of afraid to jinx it. How sad is that? Am I really at the point where I think day dreaming might actually destroy our chance at conceiving? My superstitions, much like my optimism, have become alarmingly erratic. Oh well.

On to good thoughts. And good things. Good things that spoil my diet.

This is my Grandmother. Every September we get together to bake apple pies. Everyone has a favorite dish cooked by a family member, and in mine, it's Grandma's apple pie. My affinity for her not-so-precise recipe runs so deeply that I won't even order apple pie at restaurants. They just never taste right.

Cooking is a huge part of the connection I share with my family. We usually plan out a menu before we even have an event to prepare it for. I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday. My Grandmother is one of the most amazing women I have ever known. She is the epitome of a matriarch. Gracious and kind, but stern when it's called for. Warm, welcoming, and always there when you're in a bind. She's 84 and will totally kick your ass at Croquette. She and my grandfather helped my dad raise my brother and I. We grew up three blocks away and spent every day after school with them until High School. We're with them every holiday, and every special occasion. They have made me into the woman I am today, and this month the family will help them celebrate their 64th wedding anniversary.

Behold, the finished product. How do you make an apple pie pretentious? Monogram it.