Mama Bean doesn't quite know what to do with her weekends

I have a different perspective, now that I'm a parent, about weekend plans, particularly when it comes to alone/me/without-Bean time. I try to be careful about how much I plan on these activities, because weekends are important rest and leisure time for both PB and I, and I don't want him to feel abandoned too often. Being that our work schedules and stuff are so busy during the week (and the lingering effects of our time in Cowtown when the weekend was just an extension of the work week and we never spent any time together) we've really come to cherish our unencumbered time together on those two precious precious days. (Well, I'm speaking for him, but I think he cherishes this time... I'm assuming he does.)

Everything is just so much easier when we can do it together. Saturday mornings are pretty awesome, because I don't have to do the whole morning fetch/feed/change/dress routine alone - PB can make the bottle while I fetch Bean from his room, or one of us brings baby and bottle to the other of us still dozing in bed, and we have a little family lie-in. It's all a little more relaxed. I don't have this desperate feeling that I must pee/brush teeth/wash face/put in contacts/fix hair/warm milk before Bean's noises get really insistent, because there is another adult on the premises who can do at least some of those things for me, while I do the things that are really my responsibility alone. (I'd like to see a game show for married people, or on Minute to Win It, where one person has to put in another person's contacts...)

Even when all of a Saturday is just running errands from store to store, at least I'm not clipping into car seat, getting cart, clipping out of car seat, wrangling beast in cart, keeping beast amused without chewing or tossing everything I put in the cart, unloading goods, returning cart, clipping back into car seat ad nauseum by myself. My big, strong husband is there to share the duties. I hope he forgives me when I save up errands through the week just to blitz them all on a weekend.

However, weekends are also the biggest block of time either of us has for scheduling activities best performed solo. For PB, at this time of year, that becomes the only days all week when he can maybe go out hunting or shooting or whatever. For me, it's mostly about shopping or crafting or similarly girly activity. I recently started a weekly prenatal yoga class on Sunday afternoons, which is gonna be awesome(!!)

So, here's the thing that really prompted this post. I lately find myself dithering about inviting friends to join me on these outings, because most of our friends are also parents, and I imagine their weekends are similarly dedicated to doing things with their spouses, and I don't want to tear them away from that with my oh-so-tempting offer to shop or whatever. And I also don't want them to feel awkward about accepting an invitation if it means leaving their spouse abandoned with the baby, if that's an issue in their relationship.

And basically this is simply not something I would have bothered to think about before Bean.

I mean, often during dating or marriage-without-kids, there are very specific efforts to do things sans spouse, to Have Your Own Life, whatever that means. There are repeated articles in all the right magazines assuring us that, as independent modern feministic women of power, we have a right and obligation to pursue individual interests outside of our primary relationship (and we must be comfortable with our partners doing the same, but not too much, in case that means he doesn't love us enough or is having an affair or some such rot.) And, to be honest, having My Own Life really fell by the wayside long before Bean came along, and I've been stumbling in my efforts to get a hobby (any hobby!) because, again, all the right magazines tell me that's what healthy mommies do. Before becoming a mother, I wouldn't have considered, "Ooh, should I ask Suzie to the mall, since this is weekend time to spend with Bobby?" but now I find myself wondering, "Hmm, should I ask Suzie to the mall, since this is weekend time to enjoy Bobby Jr. with Bobby's help?"

Maybe I'm just projecting my values onto my friends? We did have that arid time in our early marriage when weekends were meaningless, and moving to the PVC was just a gift of this absolute luxury of time with each other. And during that arid time the whole reason we were working so much was to make enough money for ends-meeting, not anything extra, so hobbies really didn't mean anything. And again, moving to the PVC has been a gift of the luxury to actually buy the stuff you need to have a hobby. So maybe I'm just assuming thought processes for my friends that don't really exist.

But I also think it's pretty universal that caring for children is easier in teams, and given the reality of at least one, if not both, parents working outside the home, that teamliness doesn't generally get to happen in a concentrated fashion during the week. So I don't think my projecting is entirely baseless. Anyway, this is just another thought process that didn't run through my little mind before babies, and it's been interesting to notice the pattern. I don't think it's becoming a problem yet, but I realize it could lead to being a bit isolated if I let it get out of balance. Also, everything is about to change after Sprout arrives. PB's schedule will totally change from the crazy-super-packed-extravaganza-of-crazy-super-packedness it is now, as he becomes a SAHD again. And we'll have two babies to chase around, while wondering what this mythical "free time" is and whether we'll ever experience it again.

Mama Bean is fantastically horrible at sharing

Papa Bean says I should have failed kindergarten. I blame being the youngest, and being spoiled, and being a princess. He's the oldest, he learned to share from 20 months of age, and never stopped. He is the perfect person for selfish little me to be married to, not because he's taught me to share better, only because he's already good at putting up with it. haha.

Actually I think he has made me a better sharer.

Is that a word?

Here's a Halloween story about how good at sharing I am. We didn't give out candy this year, because we've had so few kids the past few years, it just didn't seem worth it. But we did buy candy - the next day, half price :) That's just how we roll. I bought 125 pieces of Hershey's candy (Reese's PB cups, O'Henry, and Reese's Pieces) 125 pieces of Cadbury candy (Wunderbar, Caramilk, Crunchie, and Crispy Crunch) and a dozen minipacks of Swedish berries. I'd been craving them. (Oooh, and we got an extra two packs!) Then I came home and dumped the candy into a bucket, and divided it equally into two boxes. As in, one caramilk for you, one caramilk for me, one o'henry for you, one o'henry for me, etc. So that each of us got exactly the same number of each chocolate bar. Because I am the best sharer in. the. world.

That's sharing, right? LOL.
But it's really just the best solution for us, because otherwise everything gets messed up. I eat candy slow - by the time I finish one peanut butter cup, PB's had six. I eat Reese's Pieces one at a time, PB a package at a time. I mean, we've got to add in to the general complexity of this issue my particular food neuroticals. I eat chips from biggest to smallest, saving extra flavour-covered ones for last. If we've got one bowl of chips, PB's utterly indiscriminate eating pattern totally interrupts my totally reasonable and not-at-all-crazy method! I eat m&m's in colour order, yes, I know, they aren't flavoured, they all taste the same. And yet. Brown first, then green, then yellow, then orange, then red and blue. That's just The Way It Is.

We have to get two bags of popcorn at the movies (when we splurge for popcorn, i.e. when we don't buy two tubes of Pringles at Wal-mart on our way to the theatre.)

I'm bad at sharing. PB is a saint.

He has a joke that sharing was part of my vows. It was part of saying "I do." Apparently, what I really said was, "I do will share." Which doesn't make any grammatical sense to anyone that isn't married to one of us. Of course, this has expanded into all sorts of nonsensical phrases, like "I do will clean the bathroom for my pregnant and/or generally lazy wife" or "I do will wash the dishes with a cheerful heart" or "I do will never tickle me again upon threat of castration." These supposedly implied vows don't always come true (though we're doing well on the bathroom one heehee) but they are fun to say. I say "I do will share" all the time... but that doesn't mean I actually share.

I'm just a little pre-occupied with fairness. I want my fair share. Maybe a consequence of growing up with two ravenous teen-aged older brothers? Maybe a consequence of just expecting to always get what I want? This is the problem with my Not Sharing, after all; what I really want is special treatment. I want maybe a little more than my fair share. And I'm only gonna get that if everyone else for sure only gets exactly theirs. Did that make sense? It does in my head...

I think PB will agree I have changed (for the better!) since becoming a mom. I will share with at least one person, without hesitation, and that lucky little bastard is Bean, of course! If PB and I are both sitting with identical bowls of food, Bean will crawl to me with wide eyes and open mouth first, because he knows the odds are good. The odds are very, very good. Though all this sharing hasn't seemed to make a difference to my waistline yet... (I kid, I kid. I'm pregnant, my waistline doesn't exist anymore. It may never exist again, frankly. /sigh.)

So, let's just hope with the arrival of one more child, all my neuroticness will break down and I'll turn into an angle of selflessness :) Or, maybe we'll just be this weird family that buys four bags of popcorn at the movies... and handles the Halloween candy very, very carefully.

(Let's not even discuss how we deal with bed blankets...)

Mama Bean rocked her baby to sleep last night

...and is maybe having some trouble letting go...

hence, poetry.

**********

the weight of my sleeping baby in my arms
is the heaviest load i carry
love with the most density
responsibility (for life!)
but it is also unbearably light
time makes growth
too fast
he will never be this light again
i carry with new strength each day
for that day's new challenge
i think my grip could not be more gentle
but time will ensure my touch grows even lighter
with every passing night
then empty arms will feel heavier
than this baby ever could

Mama Bean wants to sing at your wedding

I try not to regret things. (I mean, I think my default reaction is to cry over spilled milk when it spills, and then while I clean it up, and then while I tell my husband the (exaggerated, sordid) tale (why does exaggerate have 2 g's?) and then again any time a milk-related topic comes up in conversation, and I relive the episode in my head or out loud. If I let myself, I will roll around in sack cloth and ashes while I cry over spilled milk, but I do try not to let myself.)

But here is something I regret. At the age when most of my friends were getting married, I didn't have the same confidence (or same ability) in my singing that I do now, so I didn't really put myself out there as available to sing for them on their special day. I've been a musician for a long time, I've played piano in at least a dozen weddings, but I've only sung at one, my own. I was probably reasonably confident then that I could do a good job, but I really didn't have the experience singing alone (vs. my experience soloing on piano, or singing in a choir) with a microphone in front of crowds who expect a very magical and memorable moment (holy, alliteration!) enough that people identified me as that Singer in their life who could Do The Wedding.

I didn't get that experience and comfort with microphones and really being heard as my own voice until I sang with the worship band at Crosspoint church in Iowa, under the wonderful talent and encouragement of our worship pastor, Chad Doran. And I didn't get the confidence as a soloist until I sang with the team at Journey church in Cowtown, with the wonderful talent and encouragement of our worship pastor, Malcolm MacMillan. When I think about the more important mentors and coaches in my life, these two guys definitely stand out.

So now I want to sing at every wedding I see, but I don't really see that many, because almost all my friends are already married. I feel like I missed the boat, and that makes me sad. It's some spilled milk that I can't do anything about, but I still kinda cry over it :(

I also wish I could have sung at the funeral for my neighbour, who died at work waaaaay before his time. Partially because the music that was performed wasn't really my style, nor really the style of the family in the question. And mostly because I love that family so much, and I feel like music is one gift that would mean something beyond platitudes and cliches when you're mourning your husband and father.

I guess that's what it comes down to. Not to sound all super-Ego, but I feel like music is a gift I can give that's very personal and unique and Filled With Meaning, and a wedding (or a funeral) is a wonderful time to share that kind of gift, and I missed my chance. Which makes whatever gift I did give them (dishcloths, pillowcases?) seem pretty empty by comparison. So, let it be known, if any of y'all are getting married (maybe for the second time, if I missed the first time) you let me know, and I will be there with bells on haha.

Mama Bean may need to change her name

I was so much more tired with this pregnancy. That was the first sign. I hadn’t regained my period from nursing yet, so there wasn’t a period to miss, and the morning sickness waited to show up, but the exhaustion just sucker punched me. Every day, between 11 am and 4 pm (give or take three hours) I could just collapse at the drop of a hat, and remain blissfully unconscious through crying Beans and husbands for hours. I mean, I’d been generally tired since Bean was born, that’s just the way of mama-things, right? But this was weird. And so I peed on a stick to answer my questions.

My instincts had an inkling, you see, because after months of little (read: zero) interest in together time, suddenly it appeared, and that should have tipped me off (the way falling down the stairs should have tipped me off last time) that something might be up with the ovularious activities, and perhaps trigger some protective strategies against such eventualities. Are you catching my drift? But it didn’t. So here we are. Only two or three months earlier than we planned to be in this way. Which, to me, is an improvement on the six to eight months earlier than we planned for Bean to be. So.

So I was super tired. And when the nausea did appear, it wasn’t so bad, or I was better at dealing with it. I limited vomiting to less than ten incidents altogether (vs. ten incidents per week), almost all in the evening. Basic strategy involved eating a handful of food and calling that a meal, and doing that every three hours or so. Although it has passed, I still can’t eat more than a handful or two at a time. And it’s better to avoid food or beverages after dinner. And I’m still pretty tired, but not for so much of the day, and only slightly more than normal motherhood levels.

I am pretty sure Sprout will be another boy, but Papa Bean is holding out for a girl. There are two shreds of “evidence” he can cling to that something different inhabits my belly. First, my belly itself is different. My abs seem to have bunched up at the top, and it feels hard, while the lower abdomen is like fluffy mashed potatoes and my uterus is still well within the pelvis. Maybe this is just the disorganization that comes with having already pushed one out. Second, my cravings are totally altered. Last time, it was ice cream, all day, every day, yes please now. This time, all I want is steak. And dumplings. Meat and salt and yes please now. Weird, eh? So maybe it’s a girl. But I doubt it. The Y is very strong in PB’s family.

The internal monologue of the pregnancy after a first child is an endless variation on the [x pregnancy-related phenomenon]-is-earlier/later/different-than-last-time theme. I am amazed by the difference in our life circumstances alone. Last time, I was more or less unemployed, home alone with ample time for self-pity during the worst weeks of vomiting, then suddenly the owner of (new debt! and) a Chiropractic business, having spent the previous eight months unsure I even wanted to be a Chiropractor. Having just started attending a new church at that time, I was reflecting that many of my patients and church friends have only ever known me pregnant. In fact, when I get an appointment with one of those once-a-year patients, so many of them only remember me at all because I had a big ol’ belly on me!

This time, Papa Bean is in a new job and taking classes at the same time, on top of church activities, bass playing, hunting, and all his other hobbies. I am happily chiropractoring in my happy clinic with happiness. I picked up a hobby of my own, and will soon be taking guitar lessons. And I have a busy little Bean who keeps me constantly occupied with bottles, meals, naps, diapers, protecting the CD shelf, etc. Plus, I’m awakening to a new, inner urge to Make Home. To be a HomeMaker. Friend K and I were discussing just the other night this new aspect of parenting, and thinking back on the memories of home we carried forward from childhood, and how foundationally important that sense of place becomes; my heart and soul as a mother tell me this is my job, that I am building a nest here for my nestlings, and, as with Everything Else, it’s beyond not-just-about-me anymore, it is deeply and necessarily about them. And soon there will be two! But oh how my (lazy) head (and tired hands) argue with this, and sap my energy to fulfill the urge. However, it’s not going away, so strategies will have to be devised. I fear this little chopped up mid-century house is conspiring against me, but I will push valiantly onward.

Because of the busyness and new circumstances and Bean and all the rest, I don’t have the navel-gazing luxury for this pregnancy to rest anywhere near the forefront of my mind. It mightn’t cross my mind for a whole day. It’s taken weeks just to find enough minutes to write a dang post about it! I certainly don’t have the running commentary of worries and concerns and things-that-aren’t-safe-to-eat-when-you’re-with-child buzzing in my ear, because there’s enough other buzzing going on. It gets saved up for bedtime, when I realize, crap! I ate unheated sandwich meat for lunch. And then I go to sleep, because even if it really is that Big Of A Deal, I can’t keep my eyes conscious any longer. It makes me feel like I’m less excited, somehow, because I’m less obsessive (?) even though I know that’s not true. The excitement is just much calmer and less edged with anxiety and really just much more internal. I didn’t count down the days until the first trimester was over and I could broadcast the news on facebook. I haven’t sent out any sort of email of facebook announcement at all, in fact (talk about failure to update my status! lol) I haven’t been telling every patient in the first thirty seconds of their visit with me. There is no megaphone attached to this pregnancy.

This time, I feel like it’s a bright, fuzzy secret I’m holding behind my hands, deep under the fluffy mashed potatoes of my belly. I feel like I want to keep Sprout all to myself for as long as he (or she) really is all to myself. This is probably partially a byproduct of knowing this will likely be my last pregnancy, as we’re only planning to have two children. he tenor of this pregnancy is quieter and softer and a little bit secret. I’ve got one Bean, outside of me and growing like weeds, and time rushes faster faster; I didn’t know, last time, what it meant for pregnancy to be precious. What it meant that these are the only nine months they are physically joined to you, and then they rip out your heart to carry around with them as time hurtles them further and further away from you. I hope the world won’t begrudge my selfishness. I’m holding this one inside me, a little more quietly, but with no less excitement, and no less love.

Sprout is predicted to arrive mid-March. We’re at 16 weeks. I don’t think I’ll be changing my name to Mama BeanSprout, or anything like that, but the thought crossed my mind. This time, for sure, I am enjoying every minute of pregnancy hair.

Mama Bean is feeling a little isolated

Let's just blame it on hormones.

Although, isn't "hormones" just another form of "hysteria"? Which is to say, isn't it just another H-word created by the Patriarchy to explain away the fact that women have emotions by blaming it on the fact that we have a uterus. Only now we know it isn't the Collective Uterus' fault directly, but rather the impact of these nefarious chemical messengers of emotional doom that rise and fall and trip us up with their never-ending cycle of volatility and instability and feeeeeeeeeliiiiiiinnnnggg.

As if men don't have hormones. As if men don't have a higher concentration, and are more innately influenced by the more volatile of the hormones in question. As if someone out there hasn't already dedicated their Womyns' Studies PhD. doctoral thesis to the ways all the Universe's problems can be directly attributed to testosterone. And not my testosterone. Not the Collective Uterus' testosterone. You. know. whose. I. mean.

But this post is not meant to be a feminist screed against patriarchal words that are meaningless. This post is meant to be about how I feel a little alone, and a little down, and that's making my days a little long. Or maybe the long days come first.

Maybe I'm just a little depressed.

Isolation is the hallmark of depressive onset for me. I don't have to feel sad, I would probably rate my overall satisfaction with life fairly high for awhile yet, but I do start to feel cut off from people, and then I convince myself it's because people are purposefully cutting me off, and then I feel like I deserve to be cut off, and then I decide I will embark on self-imposed exile because that will just make everyone happiest. Including me, obviously.

So, let's truck out the old getting-over-myself toolbox and identify triggers and stressors, etc. Papa Bean is back at work full time. I've increased my hours one day a week, so that I'm there over lunch, for a full day, which feels impossibly long and tiring and FULL. We leave Bean in wonderful, loving, fun care four days a week that is nonetheless not us, but someone else (who is wonderful, loving, and fun, but you get my point.) When I'm not at work, Bean is not in care, but PB is at work, and I am alone with the baby. Which is the root of my isolation. And tada! I've solved the mystery, I'm. So. Smart.

And somehow I imagine this is going to be better, let alone manageable with another one? Because that is the plan, to grow by Sprouts and bounds, of course. And I tell myself this will be SO GREAT because they will play with each other! Leaving me free to... do what?

Commit myself to the housework I so diligently complete now?

Pursue my numerous hobbies and talents?

Advance in my super fulfilling, ambition-driven professional life?

Play with pre-adults for even more hours of the day?

Be alone with my thoughts?

Well this isn't a very productive line of inquiry. I just figured if I'm going to wander around in an isolation fog, I might as well bring the gloomy haze to the blog. Because, after all, this is where I fill in the words between, behind and around the status updates. So that's what's going on right now, and as with so many of these episodes before, no doubt it will pass in two weeks.

Hormones. Hysteria. Feelings. Depression. This too shall pass.

Mama Bean has a tip for new mamas

Instead of using the vitamin D drops for infants, I suggest using the vitamin D(3) drops made for grown-ups. It's the same stuff, but more concentrated (so you give baby less at a time) and it's unflavoured, so no added sugar, colourings or flavours.

We started out giving Bean the infant/toddler vitamin D. We bought the generic brand, because name brand was $3 more per bottle. The recommended dose is 1 mL/day, which contains 400 IU of the vitamin. When Bean was brand new, 1 mL seemed a HUGE amount of liquid, as we were struggling just to get 30 mL of actual nutrition down his gullet. He didn't seem adverse to the taste, but he knew it wasn't breastmilk, and he didn't just slurp it down. I'm not sure why they choose to make it sweeter (like a thousand times sweeter) than breastmilk (or formula, I imagine). I don't think that actually makes it more palatable to them (nor would the strange fake banana flavouring, which I happen to love, but babies don't know what real bananas are, let alone fake ones...) and we worry so much about putting extra sugar and additives in their food otherwise...

Then, it always made Bean gassy or burpy or generally spit-up-y, so he would promptly lose those 30 mL we'd so painstakingly installed in his digestive system. Even when we waited, in between feedings, he'd still find a couple tablespoons of delicious baby-puke to spread liberally upon my lap. And the effect might even last until the next feeding. It was frustrating, to say the least. We were not terribly consistent with his vitamin dosing in those Delirious Early Days, because it just seemed to add to the Delirium.

We visited a healthfood store in Cowtown over Christmas, and noticed a bottle of D3 drops without the baby-friendly packaging. These drops have 1000 IU per 1 mL drop, so to get the 400 IU for a baby, you only have to give 0.2 mL. The stopper is conveniently marked at 0.2, 0.5 and 1.0 mL. It was more expensive for the bottle, but we're getting five doses for every one dose of the infant-type. And then I found out D3 drops in a regular supermarket drug department are even cheaper than the baby brands, AND more concentrated so you get more doses per bottle, and it's just the bargain of the century!

So, the dose is so small, and tasteless, little two-month old Bean didn't even notice us put it in his mouth, he just swallowed it down like so much drool. Even now he doesn't really notice the drop of liquid, so much as he wants to chew on the dropper. And I get to feel frugal and clever every day I give it to him. And I am much more consistent now about actually doing that every day haha.

However, I did notice the drops are supposed to be refrigerated, which I haven't done for these eight months, so I'm worried the vitamins have been degraded by heat and/or light and I'm just giving him worthless vitamin D metabolites. So if you do get these drops instead of the infant drops, check if chilling is necessary. (Is chilling recommended on the infant ones, too? I don't have a bottle anymore to check...) Anyway, just a little tip I wanted to share, because it was a daily annoyance that we found a way around, and maybe other people who are daily annoyed by the same issue would like to make the switch.