Want That

So I've been working on losing weight. By working on it, I mean doing slightly less than absolutely nothing, in that I do everything exactly the same as before, I just don't eat as much, and when I do, it's something much less likely to cause me to gain weight. The only way I know (for now) to guarantee that what I eat is not going to make me gain weight is to eat one of those little frozen dinners/breakfasts (they're making great strides in frozen omelets. no, really.) and then a re-freaking-diculous pile of baby carrots. So basically I cook less (amazing amounts of time saved, guys), eat less, and weigh less. Revolutionary. It's going really slowly and I'm trying not to focus on it too much at all, but it's SUPER exciting to start fitting into old clothes again.

So as much as I pull on my tiny pants and make Kyle tell me my butt looks nice, I have been trying hard not to let Iris hear me go on too much about it. Losing weight hasn't changed my character in any way, or made me suddenly smarter or more successful, it just made my butt smaller, yaknow? And the size of my butt really has no bearing on anything other than the size of my pants.

Iris likes to read the same stories over, and over, and over again till she's memorized them. She likes to have the same conversations that many times over again as well, so we have a LOT of repeat conversations around here. In reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar (Iris: "Can we read the vewwy hungry pattykiller?" Totally.) we always get to the end of the book, when the caterpillar isn't hungry anymore, he's really fat, and he's ready to cocoon down and become a butterfly, and have the same conversation. Every time, like EVERY time, Iris goes, "the caterpillar is fat. (Adult who Iris knows but who I'm not about to out today) is fat too." The first time she said that I was all "WHO said that to you? WHY would you say that about her? She is NOT FAT." Her response: "She told me she was fat."

I was floored. I'm sorry people, but telling a toddler you are fat goes way beyond your own self-image or issues with yourself. I can state completely emphatically and correctly that we do not know anybody who is overweight enough that they should be described as fat. And that word is SUCH a loaded gun; it carries so many horrible self-image issues and societal burdens and just, so many -isms I can't even begin to analyze.

Now my kid has the information that a regular sized adult is fat. Now, if she ever gets close to that size (this person is PERFECTLY NORMALLY SIZED, IF NOT ON THE SMALL SIDE), she's going to think she herself is fat. What is a child to do with this information? She's already of the opinion that being fat is bad, so will my perfectly normally sized child then someday start taking measures to make herself smaller? Is she going to start to believe that by calling herself fat, she's somehow being humble? I don't know. I hope I can model good behavior and self-image/esteem/worth and combat this terrible mind/body relationship that she's been shown.

Mostly I just want her to forget about it. No child should ever look at themselves and think about whether or not they see a fat person looking back, and I'm pissed that anyone introduced the concept to her. I mean, she was two years old when that conversation took place. That is ridiculous. I want her to look at herself and focus not on her size, but on making sure she doesn't have schmutz stuck to her face, or that her clothes are on straight or something. I want a few more years before I have to worry about my little girl obsessing about her body. I want her to equate getting bigger with growing stronger and older, not fatter.

Uhg, I feel like I'm just ranting in circles now. Know what? I'm gonna take my size-whatever butt, and my pink dress-obsessed daughter, and we're going to dress up all fancy and go on a date. And when she says to me "Mommy, you look beauuuuuuutiful," I will not respond by putting myself down. I will thank her, and compliment her outfit as well. She will learn that it's okay to love the way you look, and she will learn how to be gracious, and complimentary, and she will feel good about herself, and no part of our conversation will have anything to do with fatness. I want that to be true forever.

Conditioning

I had a social studies teacher who once told our 7th grade class that air conditioning was originally invented to literally condition the air. It had little to do with cooling; more of a filtration effect was desired. I don't think that's correct, or cooling wouldn't have just been a handy side-effect. It's difficult to cool air, especially when one has only ice and ammonia at the ready to accomplish the task. It seems that the history books tell us that, from the outset, air conditioning was contrived of to cool the air, and also to control its humidity. Thus, the term "conditioning" came into being, since it sought to achieve both simultaneously.

We didn't need to turn on the air. Not really. Not when you're only looking at outside temperatures and how they affect internal ones. Windows open, fans on, the house was surprisingly pleasant to inhabit (talk to our tenants in the old place, they'll tell you a different story). So, ugly brown ranch for the win, it would seem.

The problem is that the littlest Kelley suffers from the kind of allergies that respond to fractional changes in allergen pollution. The first whiff of warm air causes all the little flora to burst with randy glee, which in turn causes Cormac's face to start pumping the mucus hydrants like his face is on fire. The poor kid is miserable.

We made it maaaaaybe two nights without the AC on before it became evident that we needed to shut ourselves off from the outside air. He could just barely get air through his nostrils, and didn't seem to be very agreeable to mouth breathing (while I understand the concept is disgusting, I was willing to give it a pass if it meant proper blood-ox levels). It got so bad that I took him to the doctor, terrifying thoughts of his tiny body trapped under piles of apparatus, being whisked away to the ER to establish an airway. I am nothing if not thorough in my hypochondriac projections.

The doctor (new doctor! competent office! amazing thoroughness and insight!) did a good job of assuring me that yes, it's miserable, but no, there is nothing we can give a baby so small. Hoover the crap out of his nose with that bulb boogie sucker thing. Use saline drops if necessary. If his fever spikes, call. If he's still exactly this miserable or worse in two weeks, call. If he starts vomiting profusely, call (she seemed perplexed when I started laughing though).

We had a brief aside to discuss the reflux, and she enlightened me a bit. It seems that any medicine given to infants with reflux is only there to diminish the presence of acid in the reflux, but not to diminish the output in any way. We shouldn't be expecting the medicine to do anything but make him more comfortable. Well, more internally comfortable. More "hey, my esophageal lining is still in-tact," comfortable, less "my damp-ass shirt is giving me a rash, still" comfortable.

She also pointed out that this time in his life should be the worst of it, as far as reflux goes. He's learning to roll over more efficiently (and more frequently, god help us), and he's learning to sit up, and all those muscles moving and working really hard just irritate an already irritated pylorus (spot where stomach meets small intestine). Apparently, once he masters these tasks, he'll be tirelessly upright so much that the reflux should abate drastically. I shall withhold judgement till proof becomes available.

Hindsight is happening now, and I'm left wondering: why didn't old practice tell me all of this? Why was the whole thing left to be this terrifying mystery? We have watched for months as he continued to vomit, fretting that the medicine wasn't working, that something much more grave and sinister was happening. Why weren't we made aware of what our expectations should be?

I have spent so much time worrying that reflux wasn't the issue at all, and that the next obvious cause, pyloric stenosis, was a genuine concern. Don't think this is just me being a hysterical worrier; the issue had been discussed multiple times with the old doctors, but they couldn't readily see any evidence, so they kept up with their usual rhetoric of "well, it doesn't seem like pyloric stenosis, but we've never actually encountered the situation, so...(insert shoulder shrug here)." They were always full of this noncommittal speech. People, the solution to pyloric stenosis is SURGERY. I spent months worrying if my baby needed surgery.

Then one conversation calmed all my fears. Just like that. Poof. I can't believe how long I put off changing doctors.

In other news: A tooth has emerged. Five months, nine days. Clock it.

Something Actually Happened

In 1969.

It mattered then, and it matters now: kindness. Thanks, Fred.

Duermen, Ninos

I swear, I should retitle this blog "The Sleep Chronicles," since it's all I seem to be able to talk about. The new kid stopped sleeping, btw...

Iris likes this Sesame Street DVD called "Favorite Kids Songs: TWO," or something, and there is a song on it called "Duermete, Mi Nina." It roughly means, "sleep, my little girl." She likes the song a whole lot for someone who hates sleep. I think Cormac has been studying her, because he went from being the kid who sleeps in these big beautiful four-hour chunks with no problem, to being a fussy, tired, sleepless baby.

It's not all bad. I mean, he does EVENTUALLY sleep, but the fact that we have to work so hard for it now is very reminiscent of the whiz, and not very awesome in the least. I know this is kind of rambly and uninformative, but I just realized tonight that only NOW (now that Cormac shuns sleep with the pros), do I have that stressed out/senses-heightened/mama-bear-will-KIIILLL YOUUUU-if-you-mess-with-my-babies...thing happening. This feeling must be a direct result of sleep deprivation in new parents. I was beginning to wonder if something wasn't wrong with me, simply because I'd been so relaxed about Cormac up till now.

I actually have emergency congingency plans all laid out to deal with various (completely unrealistic and barely probable) scenarios. I remember doing this when Iris was brand new. I had this plan that if someone came to the house to plunder/rape/pillage (because vikings are so prominent in columbia and everything), then I would sacrifice myself and destroy the baby monitor, all while silently dialing 911, in the hopes that even if I died, eventually some emergency responders would find Iris, safe and sound in her crib. Or something.

The point is that I was so proud of myself for not going to that crazy place this time around, and now look at me, all wondering if crazed hobos are living in the woods behind my house. I mean, at least I usually have the dog with me back there, and I'd totally throw her under the methodone addled freaknut the bus to buy us a few minutes....

I think it's important to note here that I don't actually believe that any of this could or would happen, but it's important to plan ahead.

Right?

I should maybe sleep some.

FRICK.

Hey, remember that awful woman I work with? She's the one with the problem of accidentally asking her co-workers to physically harm her with her non-verbal cues? Let's be real subtle and give her the pseudonym Histrionic Personality Disorder, just for confidentiality's sake. Well, old HPD recently revived her attentions towards me, and I fear I have only myself to blame.

{Anna Nicole and HPD share similar value systems and fashion-senses}

Two days a week, I work at 6:30 in the morning, as does HPD. Yesterday I managed to forget my office keys, so I had to actually summons HPD from her desk to let me into the office. This of course, opened the gates for conversation (con-ver-sa-tion, n: 1. oral exchange of HPD's sentiments, observations, opinions or ideas 2. instance of such exchange wherein only HPD may speak). I had actually experienced a lovely HPD-free streak of good fortune for going on about six months there, but yesterday's dumbass keyless situation just threw that era right out the window. An obnoxious, but surprisingly short by HPD standards conversation ensued, and then we went to our separate corners to work.

So OF COURSE, this morning when I attempted to get to my seat and begin my work day unmolested, I was unsuccessful. HPD was at my desk in under five minutes. I hadn't even logged on to my computer yet. She had some fake reason for needing to stop by, like asking my opinion of something without actually attempting to solve the problem on her own before contacting me. I answered her question quickly - which of course annoyed her - and that's when she began making up reasons to stick around.

She told me about her car and her horses and her boyfriend's dad's pituitary gland tumor, and some other stuff I probably don't care about, but I wasn't really paying attention. This is the part that amazes me about HPD; I can literally turn my body away from her and start working on my computer, and she just... keeps talking.

Anyway, it is at this point that my dumbassery really comes to bite me in the ass. HPD spies the calendar that hangs behind my head, the calendar upon which I write personal appointments (i.e. non-work-related appointments, not like personal, personal appointments), and she sees the "20 week ultrasound" note scheduled for May 23rd. Please let me note at this point that I am one day away from being 19 weeks pregnant. I OBVIOUSLY look pregnant, and I have for a few weeks now. I'm not trying to hide anything here, and though I never made a grand announcement of pregnancy to the office, it's clear to everyone that I am pregnant and the knowledge is widely accepted.

Well, ol' HPD takes one look at that note and starts squealing. Like, peel the paint from the walls, jumpy-clappy dance, squealing. She begins this weird loop of questions in an attempt to get me to engage with her: "Are you EXCITED?!?! How far along are you? I bet you want a boy! I bet KYLE wants a boy! ARE YOU EXCITED????" Ahem: Yes. 'Bout halfway. Don't care. He doesn't care either. Yes.

Let's just say that HPD is... interested in pregnancy. She wants to be pregnant. I'm not sure if she actually wants a baby so much as she wants the attention that you get when you have a baby, you know? She is obsessed with all things pregnancy and to a certain extent, baby-related.

A co-worker of ours (lovely woman, too nice for her own good, very sweet lady) had a baby about a year ago. HPD got this woman's phone number from the internet (wtf?? can you do that???) and texted/called her while she was in labor 20+ times before lovely co-worker woman shattered her phone on the hospital wall as a result of all of the HPD attempts at contact. After a day or so of labor, lovely co-worker was rushed to emergency c-section. Two hours post-op, HPD shows up in her hospital room. Lovely co-worker and HPD are not friends. Lovely co-worker did not tell anyone in the office a) the name of the hospital at which she planned to deliver, and she certainly did not share b) her actual room number (or PHONE NUMBER, OMG). She did not invite visitors, and HPD was clearly unwelcome.

As hospital staff were escorting HPD out of the hospital room, she attempted to goad Lovely co-worker in to allowing her to visit them at home, once discharged, so that they could visit uninterrupted. Um, she said no.

I'm afraid this does not bode well for my future. Actually, I'm just afraid. Human Resources is aware of the situation, and I am to notify them immediately if anything even remotely close to the level of stalking that Lovely co-worker endured happens to me. I consider that level of attention to be normal for someone who does not know the difference between right and wrong. This is someone who might not necessarily understand what is wrong with trying to walk out of the hospital with someone else's baby.

Looks like the game is afoot. You want to mess with my hormones right now? You want to mess with MY CHILDREN? REALLY?? Bring it, nut-job.