No.

I'm really, really, really tired. Bone tired. I keep thinking of yoga classes where you were supposed to root yourself into the earth. I feel damn good at that right now.
The part that is really getting me is play.
I'm a lot tired to play. I'm a lot tired to clean the house. Even shopping or errends feel so monumental I can't manage it without a buddy system.
The play part is the worst. My baby needs me to play, and I need I can't. Or I think I can't. Babies are really good at crying. It's how they let you know they need you in that impossible to ignore or put off away. And Wendy has perfected an aching, growling, "Ahh-agg-Ahh." That she uses to make me move. And lately I say, "No." "Don't." "Stop." A lot. I say it so much I can hear myself in my head.
"No, my hair."
"No, gentle with the cats."
"Stop! that's sharp."
or sometimes just, "NO!" like a bark.

And I'm ashamed, because she has started to say "No, no, no, no."

In her highchair with a banana happily munching, it's "noooo, noooo, nooo."
In the carseat it's all, "nay... nay... nooo... nay.. nooooo, now."
And a hot shame burbles inside me.
She deserves me. And I push inside, and try to make it until I make it. I try to make energy where there just isn't any. And it all ends in, "no."
And I want to say, "YES." real, real, bad.

I'm buying some new toys. If we're laying on the floor it should be a little more fun. And a baby gate. I don't know what I'll do what all the hours I currently spend saying "No cat litter." "No cat food. I just fed you! Why always the cat food!?" "No toilet! ew!"

And the idiotic part, is that no wears me out. That cry of frustration and boredom makes me want to cry too. And some very wise part of me just knows in a really deep and profound way that play would be so much easier than No, no, no. and it's constant lazy redirections. She gets so bored and angry and powerless than she lashes out and headbutts me. I'm not mad at her, but I'm disgusted at the situation.

I know we need help. I'm reaching out in that really vulnerable way, and I feel like I'm coming up short. I'm asking for coffee dates, which is like morse code for "please! I need to see an adult today! someone tell me I'm okay. that I'm still okay. That my daughter will be okay. that she'll learn more than mama, dada, hello, and NO."

But at some stages you have to be your own hero. It will make you stronger.

I'm growing another person. I'm raising up my daughter. I'm falling behind on my laundry. I'm not compromising. I'm looking for real friends. That doesn't happen overnight.

and it's a devastatingly lonely business. after awhile I wonder if it's just Chico. Just me. Just my standards. But as I liked to say, if the whole world seems crazy-maybe it's you? I keep thinking of moving. Somewhere where people know me. Where they might like it. I'm just at a loss to exactly where that is.

I've lived in a lot of places. Some take longer to settle in than others. This is by far the longest.

Easiest Pillowcase Dress EVER.

Today I made Wendy a dress while she napped, and when I mentioned that to a friend she said she could never figure the arms out. There are 1 million or so pillowcase dress tutorials, but I'd like to throw one more on the pile. This is so easy, perfect for spring, and unlikely to fall apart. And I don't mean "easy if you're hella good at sewing" I mean if you can do real simple sewing on a machine you can probably bang this baby out in an hour and have a pretty sweet dress for someone teeny in your life. Pillowcase dresses are the bomb, because they're so light, comfy, and adjustable for "holy crap did you grow, TODAY?"
So, on with the show.

Oh, and when I say easy I totally mean it. I did the first one during a nap and whipped up this tutorial while I was holding, snuggling, wearing, and generally attending to my little model.
Step one: troll your linen closet, mother's linen closet (with permission!!) and local thrift stores. I cry not to spend more than a buck on a pillowcase.

So, lay out your truly epic RAINBOW CAT pillowcase, Revel in your score. Try to avoid sideways prints if you have a need for order. (I don't.)

cut off the bottom third.. ish.

I have a long and skinny child (20+ lbs and 30+ inches) so I take in the width about an inch. I do a straight stitch and then a zig-zig to reinforce it,

trim the excess.

now you turn the dress "right-side out" and made sure the only seam falls down the middle of the back.


now you want to fold your dress in half, ensuring the seam is still up the middle of the back.

Cut out your arm holes. You'll want them much "longer" than wide, because you'll be making a wide hem across the top soon...

It's starting to look like something, eh?

very, very slowly fold in and hem the arm holes. pins seem to make this harder. just go slowly. I like to stitch this, and then stitch again so it's nice and sturdy. This never looks too awesome, but it's quick and not noticeable.

fancy! we're getting somewhere!

now you want to fold the top down about an inch an add a seam there. your straps will slide through here so DO NOT SEAL THIS UP. repeat on the back.

tada!

Now pull out your scrap... deary me NOT the dress you've been sewing. and cut a two inch bit off the bottom.)

snip the seam so it is no longer a "loop" but a nice long 2" strip of fabric.

turn your strip inside out. add a straight stitch and reinforce with a zig-zag.

now you add a safety pin and slowly wriggle this strap "right-side-out" using the safety pin as your guide.

When your strap is "right-side-out" you should fold then length in half and chop it. Tuck your ends in and hem your two straps.

looking good.

now use your safety pin to start feeding your first strap through. Then do the back.

Okay. good.

Do a tidy double knot or a little bow. Your call.

in action!

these are super easy to make and for less than a dollar each I made Wendy a drawer full for Spring. Because these dresses are so adjustable measurements can be sort of fast and loose. Once you've made a few you'll know just how long and wide you like your dress. If you're in a hurry you can skip the straps and use ribbon. Or thread one long strap through the front and back tying over one shoulder. Fancy it up with ribbon. Use "real" fabric instead of pillowcases. The variations are seemingly endless.

WILD THINGS.

Dear blog,

today I have a wild thing. and every min0r redirection results in her gnashing of claws, rolling of eyes, and screaming terrible screams. She's also walking a lot lately, so she pinches my terrible thighs. They're right at that pinching height I guess. So, if you see me in a pair of shorts I'm not that kinky or anemic. Just yanoo, I'm in the way of a tiny angry person.
so when say something like, "Hey, that cat already scratched you for slapping her today. How 'bout we read a book?" She hits me with a book and gets right back to cat molesting.
What can I say? I appreciate her tanacity. She's got spunk. And I feel like a real asshole. I can explain it in two parts.
1) I was trying to clean something. Which was stupid. So she stuck her hand in the cat box, and I used my cross voice. She made this really quivery lip, and oh my.. I've never felt worse. Mean, nasty mama prefers you do not fondle cat poo.
2) also I'm starting to get amused by all her whiny, angry fussing. Because she doesn't seem to be sick or hurt. She just gets REALLY pissed whenever she tries some big new developmental thing. I get that. Sometimes I want to throw the wiimote when I just can't beat a mario level. I don't, but that took years of social grooming. So, I just smile privately and say, "Yeah! those stacky cups! they ARE THEY SO HARD!?" and then when she has moved on to something else I hide them for another week or two. She'll get there.

So, if she's going to be really angry anyway I've decided to put energy into rearranging the house, washing the curtains, spakling things. You know, sanity savers. For me anyway.
and #3? I think we're on 3? whatever.
trying to write an adult email. And telling someone my child sleeps like a LAMP. Indeed she does. a lamp that twiddles my nipple all night, and nothing will make her stop. I could write a hugely long whiny blog just about that, but she only twiddled for like 4 hours last night and I don't want the Gods to think me ungrateful. And also, I am actually very grateful, because for awhile NOTHING would make her sleep before 3 a.m. and we were seriously worried about everyone's safety. Like, what if I pass out from exhaustion and she starts cooking some eggs and burns the house down? Happily with a flexible-ish routine, a way too indulgently expensive baby wrap, a yoga ball, a bunch of bedtime stories, and the repeated SHUSHSHUSHSHUSH sound, TWO white noise machines, darkness, no TV ever, and stuff she will consistently go to sleep by midnight. Sometimes earlier. What can I say? I'm rockin' it.
So, when I cannot send a coherent email... I blog. Lucky you. All ten readers. Bless you.

One Year.

My Wee Beastie,
Wendy Bendy,
Friendly Wendy,
Munchie,
My Darling Little,
My itsy,
My Groundhog,
My Darling,
Wendy-cat-harasser,
Wendy-floor-snack-finder,

Wendy-is-already climbing things.
I'm so glad I've been able to share the first year of your life with you. Nearly all parenting cliches are true now. I feel so obscenely lucky to be graced with your teething, cat-smothering, throwing on the floor self. You have a few nubs of promise, but no real teeth. Despite that you seem intent to eat through a hefty budget monthly-blueberries are your favorite. I can only hope you'll still love them so much when they come into season.
You walk. A little. And carry things. And to me, you look like you're about to take flight the way you move in that fantastic improbable way. You get yourself stuck between the couch and wall. You pull out all the books and hit me with them if I don't read them quick enough. You insist on the Babies book AGAIN AND AGAIN. You play the harmonica, the drum, the tambourine, an egg shaker, and the xylophone. You love baths. You can do a summersault. You always sneak on the bed when I make it, and I let you, because your laugh is hilarious. I'm learning how to play with you. How to stretch myself. How to nurse you ALL NIGHT and wake up ready t0 play. Which cries mean "HELP!" and which mean "DAMNIT THE CAT JUMPED ON THE TABLE!"
I'm hopelessly in love with you.
Last night you WALKED away from me. It was innocent enough, but I cried.
Because I need to let you. Again and again. Because you're growing up.
Happy Birthday little one.*
I love you.

Your Mom.

*This post has been a month in the writing. Life has been "like that" lately.

I'm healing. The darker side of my birth story.

You may want to skip this entry if you do not wish to read about birth trauma.

My daughter got stuck.

It doesn't sound beautiful, or tragic, or unbelievably dramatic, but it was. Stuck, sounds like a thing that might happen if you're crawling between a table and wall. And you're uncoordinated. Stuck sounds like weird colloquial-isms like, "I'm stuck on you, babe!" Or maybe a piece of paper could get stuck to your coffee table when you spill coffee, and let it dry.
So, maybe stuck isn't the right word.
So, when I'm honest about it I say to myself, "My daughter had a full and true shoulder dystocia."
I call it a full and true shoulder dystocia, because those were the words my midwife used when she described it. For three whole minutes she was trapped between worlds. Born, yet unborn.
So much joy, and fear, and expectation lead up to the birth of my baby. I wanted to have a natural, unmedicated delivery out of the hospital. I labored for days, and I generally hate to toot my own horn, but I was strong and kind.
I can remember it so perfectly, almost like a dissociated-out of body experience. I can almost look down on the scene. I'm in the birth tub pushing my baby out, and we can see a little smidgen of her head, but we didn't yet know she would be a girl. And then that fleshy glimpse would recede from view. Again and again. I felt so joyful. I'd fought the urge to push for hours, and finally I felt relief. I was here, in the birth center, having a normal birth. I was so much at peace.
And then, I pushed her head out, and waited. In all the birth stories I'd read her body was supposed to come fluidly. Easily. A pause, a gentle push, and she would be born. The hard part would be over. But she didn't come. She was stuck. Her shoulder had lodged under my pelvis, and she stayed stuck as my midwife tried different maneuvers to free my daughter.
And my midwife said, "This is serious. You need to get on to your hands and knees and PUSH."
At the time I didn't feel scared. I had built a relationship or trust and respect with my midwife. I knew I just need to do what she said.
And I turned onto my hands and knees and PUSHED, and my midwife hooked her hands under my baby's shoulders and she slid into her hands. Through my hard work and and my midwives' incredible skill my baby was born.
She went to my belly, and I was so surprised by how heavy and purplish she was. But before I could register my surprise she was turning very pink, and my midwife was urging me to talk to my baby.
I had intended to tell my baby she had worked hard being born, and now I did with a conviction unmatched. "You did so good... I'm so proud of you... you worked so hard.."
And someone said, "Rosie, you're a rockstar." and my midwife said matter of factly, "Strong baby, strong mother."

Birth is not without risk, but by randomness and chance we brushed with a great a horrible specter. But it is through exceptional care, hard work, and the forgiving randomness that is the universe that my daughter and I are alive and unharmed.
After we'd had a chance to be close and bond as a new family we were curious to weigh our baby. It was then that we learned that while she was not exceptionally large her shoulders were as wide as her head, and this had likely contributed to her dystocia.
Despite the challenges of our birth I experienced no physical trauma whatsoever. I had no tearing or even significant bleeding. Our daughter had no discernible trauma from her birth. For the first few weeks it seemed as though her shoulders were sore, so we handled her gently as we would with any newborn.
I've been especially cautious about discussing the difficult parts of my birth story. As a pregnant mother to be I hated being trapped somewhere with a mother who was retelling the trauma of her birth, seemingly without any provocation.
I think the unprompted sharing of birth stories is a side effect of a culture that does not respect or understand birth. Birth is an amazingly transformative experience not to be minimized. In my experience there are so few outlets or avenues to discuss the beauty, pain, fear, joy, sexuality, and power therein. I had told myself that I wasn't talking about that part of my daughter's birth or her birth in general, because I didn't want to traumatize mother's to be, but I have to admit that in some ways I just wasn't ready to deal with it.
That we could have died. That I could have lost my daughter. That she could have been permanently traumatized by the experience.
But then we were fine. I'm still coming to terms with it. I was minimizing and pretending it wasn't a big deal anymore, because nothing bad happened. And now I'm in a stronger place. I can admit that something did happen. Something terrifying happened, and we are becoming okay with that.
Sometimes terrible things happen. Even to good people. And this time it didn't happen to me.
And I am humbled. It is a miracle.
When we tried to have a baby we reached out into the unknown, and because we were in love we made a person with our bodies. And I nurtured her inside of my body while my husband nurtured me. And I birthed her while my husband, midwife, doula, and family supported me. And now we love her, guide her, and I continue to breastfeed and nourish her with my body.
And it's just amazing. I am so thankful. Because every day I get up and I am healthy and alive, and so is my husband, and so is our daughter.
Writing this has been just one step to healing this experience. I know this, because as I wrote it I cried, my pelvis ached, and I now feel a little lighter. The trauma becomes another baby of sorts, and it must be acknowledged, supported, given room to just be whatever it needs to be, and I need to give myself LOVE to work through this experience. Part of that love is honesty. Admitting there was trauma that needs work and doing the work.

Words cannot describe the feelings of gratitude I have for my midwife, whose care allowed me to have a normal birth and good outcome despite difficult circumstances. To my husband and doula who supported me seemingly tirelessly.

placenta in my freezer.

Around this time last year I was just beginning early labor. I was ignoring it, because I was feeling emotionally exhausted by all the false alarms. I was so ready to meet my baby. I'd had a midwife appointment. I went out to dinner with my husband. We had a long drive home, where we talked, talked, talked. The cloth diapers were prepped. The birth plan was typed. Anxiety was at an absolute maximum, and I have to admit that some things got forgotten.
We had a beautiful birth. We came home with an amazing baby. And a placenta. After we left the birth center we spent a night in a hotel, because we were too tired to drive home, and no joke the people who had planned to drive us home were too tired. And we ordered a pizza, slept a daze, and worried we'd forget the placenta in the mini bar freezer. It's wrapped in a plastic bio hazard bag-which looks a lot like a red grocery bag, and we stuck it in the freezer. I'd wanted my placenta encapsulated. I'd read about all the health benefits, but we had no budget, and admittedly no nerve to prep and dehydrate it ourselves. So, the placenta sat in the freezer, and I told myself if things got really bad I'd defrost it. But thankfully to date I have not developed postpartum depression. Sure, I had baby blues, but not the defrost the placenta and make a smoothie variety. Because I have dealt with depression before pregnancy, and even during pregnancy I almost expected I would have some amount of postpartum depression. I talked with my husband extensively about this, and we even made a plan that involved thawing the placenta among other things. As time went on, and we both felt okay and sometimes even confident about how we were coping emotionally as parents. We started to joke about that freezer-placenta-issue.
And then we moved and I couldn't stomach throwing it out. So, the placenta moved to our new freezer. And it's spent the last almost year hanging out with the ice cream and frozen chicken and such.
I have been able donate most baby clothes, and paraphernalia without too many sentimental hangups. Our house is almost spartan in design, and I do a monthly purging of excess stuff as I make my way to our local thrift store. I am generally not a keeper of things, but this is no ordinary thing!
It supported my baby. It might help with menopause. I made it myself!
I've heard of people planting their placenta under a tree, but we're renters and I'm sure if I planted my placenta under a city tree I'd be arrested and it would probably be eaten by dogs.
So, as it stands I have a nearly year old placenta in my freezer, and I plan to keep it. I am hopeful we will be blessed with another baby soon, and this time I will certainly budget for placenta encapsulation, and with any luck I can find someone who is willing to do a "two for one" special.

I was going to add a photo, but it's buried under trader joes frozen entrees. so, eff it. you'll have to take my word on this one.

an apology.

Dear Santa,
I'm so fucking sorry. No seriously. I can see that I hurt your feelings the way I smugly opted out of your little fete. That much is obvious.
Because December 26th rolled around, and that night we decided to head to the Bay Area for some post holiday socializing. And on the ride down my stupid, awful period was making me feel awful. And then I started puking. In a cup. Because we were on the freeway. And I didn't want to pull over, and puke in a starbucks bathroom like some self respecting person, because I just wanted to get to my destination. I knew everything would be great if I could just get there.
But I actually puked so much that the smell made the baby puke. And we finally arrived at my brother in law and his girlfriend's house where I could be terribly sick. I would have gone to the ER, but seriously you just don't go to the ER the day after Christmas. People ignore bleeding head wounds and such so they can just enjoy the holiday, and then flood the ER. I had no intention of joining them.
So, I stayed in the bathroom laying on the floor in that self indulgent sick person way thinking stuff. "I'm never getting pregnant again!" (Oh. wait. I'm not pregnant.) And, "I'm never going to drink again!" (Oh. actually I'm sober.) And finally, "Please, it's awful. Just let me feel better, and I'll put some Christmas lights on a ficus and make everyone a gift like scrooge seeking atonement for his sloppy ways... oh please.."
And for the past handful of days I've a hot mess. No longer sick per-say, but I'm a sad impression of my former self. I feel weak, tired, and I need a lot of naps. My stomach is no longer tolerating legitimate amounts of food. I now eat half a sandwich and feel all full and embarrassed.
Some people might say I had Noro virus or food poisoning, but I think Santa is just pissed.
I'm especially sure of this, because I woke up today starting my second period of THIS MONTH.
I've obviously offended some deity. That much is clear.