Windex This!

Dog hair runs rampant in our house. If you come to visit us, please, don't wear black or people might mistake you for a wild animal. Dust bunnies have become like low maintenance pets to us. Also, I haven't seen the bottom of our sink in over a year. I'm not sure if it even exists.

Oh, my husband's socks? They're all over the house. It's like I'm on a stinky Easter egg hunt year round minus the chocolate and pastels. My clean laundry stays in a pile on the guest bed. I figure we might as well get some use out of it.

At times, I feel guilty. I'm at home all day. I could have the most super-spotless-amazing-shiny-antibacterial-house-on-the-block. But, I'm not interested in that house. It took me awhile to realize this, but I think I'm finally getting my priorities right.

No Mama ever said on her deathbed, "I wish I'd spent more time windexing."

My job does include some housework, but these days I've been keeping it to a minimum. The problem is that you can clean all you want, but the house is just gonna get messy again. It's a vicious cycle. Sometimes I think the worst thing we can do is clean our houses before others come over. I'm not saying we should all be slobs, but a clean house doesn't really prove anything. It's just not that important.

Instead of washing dishes, Oliver and I had a dance party in the kitchen today. Toddlers are awesome dancers! That bobbing squat move they do is out. of. control. I sat and listened as he played his baby keyboard. Then I built towers out of blocks so he could knock them down.

Now that's a vicious cycle I want to be a part of.

Ollieblur

Yesterday I freaked out. I realized I hadn't taken any pictures of Oliver in awhile. Mama-guilt began to set in. When he was a newborn I took pictures everyday. Okay, okay, several pictures a day.

Aw, he's asleep. Click! Flash!
Aw, he pooped. Click! Flash!
Aw, he smiled when he passed gas. Click! Flash!

No phone was safe from the picture mail.

Now that he's mobile I forget to capture the moments. Plus, my camera just can't handle a moving target. He'll stand there with the sweetest smile as he's putting yet another handful of dog food to his mouth. I'll press the button, and before the shutter closes he's quit what he was doing and moved onto something else (electrical cords anyone?). I have several pictures of Oliver in motion, but he looks more like a ghost than a human.

In the midst of my picture panic I got one picture that I love. It's just as blurry as the others, but it's a face I see several times a day. It's Oliver. It's his personality. It's a look that Oliver gives me whenever he's done something he's proud of. I love that look.

As I stared down on the blurry picture it dawned on me that the last couple months have been blur. That life itself is a blur. I keep thinking he's only six months old, but he's actually ten. Soon he'll be one. Someday he'll be eighteen, and I'll wonder what happened? Right now that seems so far away, but if these last few months have taught me anything it's that the present quickly turns to the past.

So I'm left with a fuzzy pile of baby pictures, and one blurry smile. And I couldn't be more thankful.

Boot Scoot Boogie

There are milestones in every baby's life. The first bath, the first smile, the first poop. Parents swell with pride as their little one masters one  bodily function after the next. Each phase is celebrated for a short period of time, and then everyone begins to wonder when the next step will follow. The first roll, the first bite of food, the first time sitting up.

All of a sudden, you look up and wonder when did this happen?

I'd bet that Oliver would skip crawling, and just start walking. He just had to prove me wrong. He's stubborn, but he gets it honestly.

He started crawling this week. For the last few weeks he's been getting onto all fours and bouncing back and forth. We'd watch him get up some momentum. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then he'd roll onto his back and start chewing on his feet. If he wanted a toy, he'd streeeetch and get it. He'd lay on his belly and wave his arms like he was swimming. It's amazing how much he could get into without actually being "mobile."

As I was telling my Mom how he still wasn't crawling--he started moving. He just crawled like he'd always known how. I think he'd been practicing in his room without me knowing it. I started narrating the event to my Mom.

"He's moving! His left arm is out. Now his right. His legs are trying to keep up. He's going right to the....DOG FOOD! NOOO Oliver! NOOO! Don't put that in your mouth! Mom, I'm gonna have to call you back."

I put him in the living room. I thought, Okay, there's no dog food in here. We should be good. Wrong. Right to the electrical cords. As his fat legs scooted across the carpet all he was thinking was nom nom nom. All I was thinking was electricution.

Suddenly, dog food didn't seem like such a big deal.

Let's wrap this up.

Two months into motherhood my house began to look like an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive. I wish I could blame this on some medical issue or even sheer laziness, but I can't. I have to blame it on--  Oliver. He loved being held. In fact, he only loved being held. He'd fall asleep and get floppy little limbs. As soon as his diaper hit a flat surface his whole body jerked. The alarm had been sounded. He was, awake.

Don't get me wrong. I loved holding him. I couldn't get enough of him. I could've held him for a year and not minded, but when I saw a tumble weed made of dog hair rambling through my kitchen I knew something had to give.

When he was in utero he was held all the time, and I guess he thought the outside world should work the same way. My in-laws gave us a baby carrier. They're missionaries to Japan, and they bought it for us a a gift. The carrier could function four different ways, but it came with directions in Japanese. Um, by the time I learned to read  them Oliver would be in kindergarten, and I do hope he's past this phase in life by then. (My husband did figure it out, and it's adjusted to fit him. It makes him feel special.)

I decided to try a Moby wrap. This better work, I thought. It costs $40, and it's just a piece of fabric! Boy, is it a piece of fabric. I opened the package and thought I had found Mary Poppins floral duffle bag. It kept coming and coming. I stood in a pile of green fabric and began to slowly pull it all together. I wrapped and pulled and tied it.

I decided to take it for a test drive. Getting the baby into the wrap is just as tricky as putting the thing on. I put Oliver in, and he loved it! He rode around in it and not one of his limbs went numb, so that's a success as far as I'm concerned.

He fell asleep in the wrap for two hours. I didn't know he could sleep that long. I cleaned everything I could get my hands on. I windexed things that should not be windexed. I was unstoppable. My house was spotless, my child was happy, and for the first time in awhile, I didn't have anything to blame on Oliver.

Shoot, I wear the wrap in stores too. I put it on before I leave the house. Sure, people probably think I'm part of some strange cult, or worse, that I'm crunchy. They can think whatever they want. I don't have to lug around a stroller, and I can use both hands at all times. Oliver takes in the world around him, and I think he likes the view. Looking down on his fuzzy little head and fat limbs, I have to say, I think I like it too.

Latching and Screaming

Everyday I look at my closet and think how will I get my boobs out of this outfit? Do I enjoy flashing random strangers? No. Do I occasionally? Yes. As a breastfeeding mama you run into all sorts of crazy dilemmas. It can be all consuming, but only in the best possible way.

I'm the proud owner of an eight month old boob man. One latch, and he was hooked. At first it was fine, and then it got painful. Make that very painful. Day three I thought about giving up. He nursed constantly. He'd latch on, and I'd scream like a wildebeest. Everyone made it sound so natural and effortless. I felt like I'd been tricked, like I was some wide eyed animal lured into a big metal trap for a little tiny carrot. How is this easy?!

And suddenly, it started getting better (thank you lanolin)! He got better at nursing, and would fill his belly faster. I began to admire myself. Oliver relied solely on me for food, and I loved that. Despite several attempts, he never took a pacifier. Anytime and every time he wanted to nurse, he did.

Hungry? Boob.

Tired? Boob.

Hurt? Boob.

Boobs make parenting easy. No bottles to wash, or lug around in a baby bag. It's basically free which is always good. You're boobs are always with you so, unlike diapers, you can't forget them. Sometimes I wonder how moms who don't breastfeed do it. Breastfeeding is perfect for the perfect moms, and for the lazy, forgetful ones (that would include myself).

The bond you create from the constant contact is insane. The first time my husband and I went on a date sans baby I sobbed as if my cat had died. The thought of someone else feeding him made me feel so distant. It was the first time as a parent I felt the feeling of letting him go. It was painful, and traumatic. It was the first time I realized that Oliver wasn't the only one hooked. We both survived, obviously, and I savored our next feeding like it was my last supper.

So for the mamas out there who want to throw in the proverbial breastfeeding towel, I say, “Wait just a minute missy!” Wear that sopping wet shirt with pride. Whip out that nursing cover-up like a pistol in a duel, and remember you're giving your baby the “breast” possible start in life.