Banish the Baby Belly: Week Seven

You know, by the time I'd been doing this for six weeks, I thought for sure I'd have something momentous to report. Like, maybe a total loss of ten pounds or something?

Yeah. Apparently, in order to make that happen, you have to, I don't know, actually try? Hard? Instead of engaging in the half-assedness I have been guilty of lately?

You've probably guessed this already, but I have nothing to report. No loss, no gain. So it could be worse. Could be better, though. I've lost a whopping four pounds in six weeks. Whoooooo. That's not exactly fantastic.

I might be just be a tiny bit disappointed in myself, can you tell? At this rate, I will, in fact, end up seeing all my relatives at Christmas looking like I'm baking a baby. Which was cute last year. Not so much anymore (because I'm not preggers, you see. And, if I have anything to say about it, I will still not be preggers at Christmas).

In other news, a ladybug just fell into my coffee. That is so not cool.

Anywho, there's nothing I can do but keep on keepin' on.  So, exercise. I should do some of that this week. Definitely, for sure, I should do some of that. And brownies. I should stop eating those this week. That would probably be a good idea. Also, candy. I should actually give away all the Reese's Peanut Butter cups tonight instead of hoarding them, as I usually do.

FYI: that last thing I said? Probably not going to happen. I luuuuuurve peanut butter cups. Love them. Those trick or treaters couldn't possibly appreciate them the way I do. What? Yes, I know keeping the PBCs falls under the category of half-assed dieting. Sigh. Okay, fine, have it your way, maybe I'll just keep a couple...

Happy Halloween, everyone! How did you do this week?

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Doctor?

I hardly slept last night. Why? Well, one, because Tori's teething (still). But even if she had slept like an angel, I would have tossed and turned. That's what a looming visit to the pediatrician does to me.

I'm not sure why, but in my mind, the petite, mild-mannered fiftyish woman who actually cares for my daughter becomes a giant-sized, fire-breathing, ultra-judgmental Doctor from Hell in the days leading up to her appointment.

Too many comments of, "boy, your baby's a chunk," had me worried she'd tell me my baby was obese and that she'd have to advise my health insurance to cancel her policy.

The freshly scabbed over scratch on Tori's nose? Would become a sure sign of child abuse in my doctor's mind, and not merely a hint that I'm still afraid to trim her nails.

The mild diaper rash would also seem to be a symbol of neglect—and not just the result of vegetable-fueled bowel movements.

Heck, I even had myself half convinced that somehow, she would know I'd fallen with Tori in my arms, and would accuse me of trying to kill my baby.

Okay, maybe that last one's a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the point. My brain took a trip to Crazy Town last night, and didn't want to leave at closing time.

Needless to say, I was a wreck when morning finally arrived. Which meant that things didn't go too smoothly around here. There was no spoon throwing, but only because Tori wouldn't eat. At all. And no sooner did I get her dressed in her cute, man am I a good mommy doctor appropriate outfit  she, ahem, ejected the carrots from the night before...aaaaall the way up her back.

Emergency bath, anyone?

By the time all was said and done, I had about, oh, three minutes to get myself ready? Yeah. Not the best way to make a good impression when already you're nervous. (SIDE NOTE: I am so glad I don't have short hair. Short hair requires actual fixing in the morning—beyond a pony tail holder. How do you guys do it?).

We were late before we walked out the door (standard operating procedure around here). That, of course, made me worried that for the first time, the doctor would be running early, and we'd be turned away with some disdainful comment.

Which was ridiculous. We waited a good thirty minutes...sitting across from a Stepford Wife. The woman, although seeming to be a SAHM, was perfectly turned out (at 9 a.m.). Her shirt was ironed, her shoes were stilettos (okay, not really, but they were heels. And way more fashionable than my holey gym shoes)...she even had lipstick on. Her children, of course, also behaved angelically.

I spent the agonizingly slow minutes staring at her, wondering how one gets to that hyper-organized place, and did I have a chance in hell of ever getting there (the answer, I'll just tell you right now, is no).

So, by the time our names were finally called, I was wallowing in a puddle of inferiority in downtown Crazy Town.

And that's where my story loses steam.

Because, you see, once we got called back, everything went perfectly. The slavering demon in my mind transformed back into the cheerful doctor we know and love. She called Tori perfect. Cheered because she'd grown four inches (she's tall for her age now, folks). And while Tori's weight is still in the 90th percentile, the doc didn't even bat an eye.

Oh, and the whole feeding thing? Not a big deal. Apparently, as long as we keep trying, all is well. She echoed what many of you told me—that  Tori eventually will get hungry. And then she'll eat. Makes sense, right? Of course it does.

So I escaped without "Bad Mom" getting stamped on my head. Even better? I managed to escape from Crazy Town. I'd like to say it'll never happen again, but that would be a lie. I'm sure that when her next appointment approaches, the slavering demon will knock on my door.

That would be one of the many downsides of having a vivid imagination.

Feeding The Grumposaur: The Never Ending Battle.

Tori is normally a very good baby. Make that a fantastic baby. She's almost never without a smile. She sleeps like a champ (most of the time). And she's already quite capable of entertaining herself. In short, she's a much better baby than I deserve.

In fact, if she didn't need to eat, she'd be the best baby ever.

But she does, and I do feed her (plenty, I assure you. Go away, CPS). But it's been a battle from day one. For starters, as many of you have heard me lament, she did not want to eat from the boob. At all. I'm quite certain she would have starved, had I insisted.

Then, when we finally did switch over to bottles, she would turn into a raging demon every time we paused to burp her. To stop her screams, we'd often just plug the bottle back into her mouth (sans burp). And you know what that led to?

Spit up. Massive amounts of  projectile spit-up. Floods of it, in fact. Which, in turn, tended to lead to a still hungry Tori. So, the cycle would repeat. Ad nauseum.

Eventually, that situation resolved. We enjoyed the peace. Until...the time came to start solid food. Which, granted, was just a few short weeks ago. But guess what? She is not a fan. Nope, definitely not a fan.

I started her out on orange vegetables, as those all-knowing authors tell you you should. The first day, she spit it back out at me. That was to be expected. On days two, three and four, she did a little better. I was encouraged. Sweet potatoes, in fact, seemed to be a success.

So we moved on to squash. Then carrots. Then peaches.

Guess what? I got the same spitting routine—every time. Occasionally, she would oblige me by opening wide and accepting more than five bites, but most of the time, we topped out at four. Four bites.

Still, I didn't get upset. It was all new, after all. The point, I assumed, was to get her used to eating, not to get actual nutrition in her.

So, I continued introducing new foods, one every few days. Turns out, she likes green beans. One day, she actually ate two whole tablespoons of those. Apples...are acceptable. Not preferred, but acceptable.  Good to know, right?

But here's the thing. She's only been getting one meal a day. One very small meal. And honestly? Some nights, I'm so dang tired, I just don't want to fight with her. So we don't bother (I'm cringing even as I write that).

Now, however, she's almost seven months old. So I've been trying to step things up and feed her at least twice a day. But she? Is not having it. This morning, she was so mad, she actually grabbed the spoon from me and threw it. I kid you not (that temper? is a sure sign she's my daughter).

I've tried feeding her before her bottles, after her bottles...it doesn't matter. She, I think, would prefer to continue her all-liquid diet until she's eighteen.

And tomorrow, I have to take her to the doctor. I can only imagine the lecture I'm going to get. Wish me luck.

Let's Talk About Advertising.

As most of you know, I get paid to write...advertising. Which, some would say, is not the same thing as being a "real" writer. You know what I say to those MoFos? Try it. Just try it. For a month, a week, heck, even a day. Spend a few hours in the trenches and you'll understand. We work harder than any other kind of writer out there. And we earn every penny we make.

Here's an educational video for you to watch:




Now, some of us, indeed, most of us, would kill to have a running shoe company as a client. Because, from the outside? That looks like fun, y'all. Getting a budget that big to play with would be like winning the lottery.

It takes big bucks to put together something like this:




But no matter how big (or small) of a fish you are in the advertising pond, it ain't all that glamorous. Us creatives? Really aren't all that rock n' roll as a general rule. Some are, and many more pretend to be. But most of us are not cool. Not cool at all. Nope, we're all just crossing our fingers, hoping no one sees through the mask—and that those paychecks keep coming.

Because artsy liberal art degrees? Don't really prepare you to do much of anything.

So we go to work. We put our creative juices to work for corporate America (and honestly? Most of the time it's kind of fun). And we dream of the day we write that best selling novel that gets turned into an Oscar winning screenplay and a Tony award winning Broadway play.

After all, if we can't sell ourselves on our own dreams, how can we hope to sell you anything at all?

Seven Things They Forget to Tell New Moms

Listen. I get it. I get that the mommies of the world have to hold back some of their secrets. If they went around telling all the non-procreating ladies how hard caring for a baby actually is, well, there'd be a lot less babies in the world.

But once we get ourselves knocked up, I think entrance into the sisterhood should be automatic. At the very least, a more experienced mama should take the newbies aside in those early weeks and give them a good talking to.

Although, really, would we listen? Probably not. Every new mom likes to think she knows it all...until, that is, she's deep in the trenches (and by then, she's too embarrassed to admit she doesn't know what she's doing). So, in hopes of educating at least a few of you, here's my list of the things they forget to tell moms-to-be.

Babies poop. A lot. Every time they eat? They poop. And those poops are surprisingly large. Large enough to propel themselves out of the baby's diaper and on to their backs, their clothes, their hair (there might be a good reason most babies are bald). One bloggy friend of mine got the ingenious idea to just cut her baby's onesie off when it was really bad. I thought it was the best idea I'd ever heard.

Spit happens. For a loooooong time. Okay. I knew newborns spit up. I'd heard the stories. Seen the evidence on my friends' shirts. But I didn't know how long that particular phenomenon lasted. Mine is almost seven months old. And guess what? She still spits up. But now there's more of it. My clothing may never be the same.

Even once they start sleeping through the night, they don't. I was lucky. Miss Tori was capable of sleeping through the night when she was just ten weeks old. But as soon as I got used to getting my Zs, she stopped. Growth spurts, unscheduled poopy diapers, teething...all mess with your sleep schedule. Some friends just informed me that I might not sleep again until she's five. Five. That's a whole lot of years, people. I'm not sure I'll make it.

Teething never seems to end. Tori's been working on her first tooth for oh, about, three months now? She'll be miserable. A fussy, drooling, sleepless mess for days at a time. Just long enough, in fact, for me to start thinking that this will be IT. The day when that tooth finally pops through. But then, all the action stops...until I've settled into complacency. Then the cycle starts all over again.

Solid food? Is not something babies are real excited about. I looked forward to the day I could start her on real food for months. I read all the books. Researched baby food manufacturers (no, I don't make my own. This is not Super Mom's blog). But when the big day arrived? She made a face and spit it back out at me. This is a pattern that has repeated itself for the last month. Humorous? Yes. Easy? No.

Dressing babies? Is not fun either. Sure, they look cute in their adorable little outfits. But getting them on? Should be an Olympic event. When they're first born, clothing babies is a nerve-wracking event. They're so...breakable. Then, just when you get the hang of it, they get a mind of their own. And my baby? Hates clothes. Hates them. Especially sleeves. By the time I get her in her pajamas, I'm ready for a bottle of my own (you don't really need me to tell you what kind, do you).

Everything your baby sees will go into her mouth. No, you don't understand. I mean everything.  Toys, clothing, dog food, dead bugs...everything. If, like me, you're not the world's best housekeeper, you will spend more time than you ever thought possible diving for whatever unsuitable object is heading toward your baby's drooling orifice.

Vacuum your floors, people. Vacuum your floors.

There are more, of course. More things you need to know. But, hey, I'm a mommy now. I can't go giving away all our secrets. That would ruin the fun (and get me kicked out of the sisterhood). All I can say is...good luck. You're in for a helluva ride. Through a blizzard. At night. In a rear-wheel drive car. On twisty mountain roads.

But don't worry. It's totally worth it.

A Rare Occurrence

I don't like getting my picture taken. At all. Especially when I still have twenty plus pounds of pregnancy weight to lose. But, last weekend, my in-laws came to visit. And my husband's family? Is camera happy.

This is not a bad thing. Because of their tendency to take a camera wherever they go, we have tons and tons of family  pictures - a fact I'm sure we'll be glad of someday. It's just that in my family? We don't take pictures. Everyone groans when someone says, "say cheeeeeeeese!"

As a result, I tend to hide from the camera whenever possible. But, now there's Tori. So while the in-laws were here, I begged them to get some pictures of us as a family. After all, when she's all grown up, she won't care how fat I was when she was six months old. She'll just want proof that I was there. And happy to have her around.

So here they are, in livng color. The Southern Indiana branch of the Page family (including me).

Not the best picture of us, but hey, we're smiling.

 

Brian finds lost animals no matter where we are - and this was taken at a winery

(I, of course, am inside, sampling wine).

 

And look! There's even a picture of me! A rare sighting indeed...

And that's it for our Sunday evening photo fun. Now you may return to your regularly scheduled activities...

The Man I Married.

The man I married is, even as we speak, sitting on the floor with our baby, teaching her how to bang a spoon on a metal bowl.

The man I married isn't afraid to change a poopy diaper, feed the baby a bottle or walk the floor with her at 2 a.m.

The man I married brings me flowers for no reason. Cooks me chicken noodle soup when I'm sick. And scratches my head when I'm tired and stressed out.

The man I married knows when I need to sleep in. Knows when I need to tune out. And doesn't begrudge me my book buying habit.

The man I married cooks like a gourmet chef, draws like a professional illustrator and sings...well actually, he doesn't sing all that well, but when he does, it's heartfelt.

The man I married serenaded me in front of our high school senior class, proposed to me in a mall, and announced our engagement to my parents while they were eating dinner (my dad choked).

The man I married thinks I'm beautiful even when I don't (and that's most of the time).

The man I married believes in my wildest dreams, lifts me up when my spirits sink and never gives up on me—even when he should.

The man I married is my soul mate, my partner and my best friend.

Long story short? I'm awfully glad to have spent the last eleven years of my life with the man I married.

Happy Anniversary, Pookie Bear.

For a slightly more eloquent ode to my husband, go read my Valentine's Day post. Today, the baby's teething, we're both low on sleep, and I'm not exactly at my best.