A Nursing Student's Schedule

You might have noticed that I haven't posted anything in, oh, say, ages.

You might also have noticed that my last post date coincides with the time I started up my nursing classes. It's been busy. But don't worry. In case you were thinking about going to nursing school with a small child, husband and two furry dogs, let me show you what your potential daily calander might look like!

4:30am - 5:00 am: Wake up. Sometimes because your kid is calling out for you, sometimes because your husband is snoring, and sometimes because your body knows you're going to have to wake up soon anyhow and figures the extra minutes of sleep aren't that important.

They are that important. I hate you, body.

5:30 am: Stop delaying the inevitable and get out of bed after trying to convince yourself that your small toddler will have a change of heart and stop jumping on you and go back to his room and sleep for another hour. It will never happen. Even on the days that he jumps under the covers and says, "I want to cuddle with you mommy!" You will say "aw" and then he will try to stick a spit-covered finger in your ear.

It's not always like that though. Sometimes he tries to put that finger in your nose.

5:30am - 7:30am: Wonder where the morning goes. It's been two hours. How have I barely managed to get myself and a toddler dressed? Where did I put breakfast? Why didn't I make my lunch last night like I swore I was going to in an effort to avoid this? And seriously, the play room was practically clean last night. How can one toddler play with so many toys in such a short period of time?

7:30am: Kiss your husband bye and tell your son you'll pick him up at daycare later. Feel guilty that you won't be there with him all day as you tear through the house grabbing everything you think you'll need for the day. (Pro tip: You'll always forget at least one item, and you'll always swear you're going to start packing your backpack the night before to break this cycle.)

8:00am: Classes start. Pay attention and try desperately to decipher what, exactly, is therapeutic about asking someone if they've "considered suicide."

10:00am: Open lab time! Feel ridiculous as you explain what you're about to do to a silent yet judging mannequin.

11:00am: Time for lunch and flashcards. Boy, do I hope you like flashcards. They're the best. You can do flashcards in between classes, flashcards in the car (when someone else is driving) and sometimes, flashcards while you're waiting for your online set of flashcards to load.

12:00pm - 4:00pm: More classes. Interesting lectures and information, but sometimes your classmates will ask really, really odd questions. Best to just leave it be.

4:00pm - 5:00pm: Time to study! And also to do dishes, clean up the living room and wonder if you've vacuumed in the past three weeks, make sure there's at least one clean pair of underwear for everyone for tomorrow, and don't forget about letting the dogs out and playing with them for a bit and maybe thinking about starting dinner. I think breathing is in there somewhere, but I always forget where.

5:00pm: Ok. Time to get Silas. I feel guilty as heck that I let him stay at daycare while I was technically at home the past hour and technically able to watch him. Then I feel even more guilty because I know he's better off at daycare for that hour because at least there, someone is interacting with him instead of telling him to go play while I study.

5:30pm-7:30pm: Seriously, how does two hours go by so fast? Somehow, dinner was made and eaten, toys were played with (and even cleaned up to some degree!), dogs were chased by a screeching toddler and a screeching toddler was chased by his own shadow. Did he have a bath yesterday? Yeah, I think so. He can have a bath tomorrow night before bed then. Good night, Silas.

7:30pm-9:30pm: How am I supposed to fit seven classes worth of studying into two hours of time? It's not really possible. Slight panic ensues for ten minutes, followed by five minutes of berating myself for wasting time by panicking. Study like a mad woman, make a lot of flash cards, consider packing a lunch and getting your stuff together but decide that you're too tired to do that, seriously, your eyes feel like they're packed with sand, and go to sleep instead.

9:30pm-10:00pm: Optional bonus! Actually spend time with your husband and both enjoy knowing you're there for each other and regret your decision because Silas is so not sleeping in tomorrow morning.

So there you have it! Your mileage may vary. And I hear it helps if you can consume caffeine (it gives me some serious heart issues in moderate amounts, so I have to opt out most of the time). And I guess I could technically cut into my sleeping time, but I am pretty sure if I were any less rested, I just wouldn't retain any information.

Plus, I'm having a lot of fun. I think.

I'll get back to you in a year about that.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Orientation Blues

You guys - I am going to be attending my fourth college orientation this coming May. How exciting is that?

Oh, wait, you can hear the sarcasm in that previous statement, right?

Thankfully, as a transfer student, I only need to attend a single day of orientation - from 8am to 5pm. I'm, uh - I'm sure I'll learn a lot of new things about going to college that I totally didn't know before. After three other colleges, I feel like I could sign some sort of a waiver: "I promise to read the student handbook and to show up to classes. Please just let me sign up for the one class I would like to take this summer without having to find a full day of child care." (And don't confuse this session of orientation with my two day orientation for nursing school coming up at the end of the summer. I suspect that orientation will actually be very helpful.)


But I'll be fair. A single day of orientation is hardly the stuff of angsty ballads. If this was a new job, I'd expect orientation and be annoyed if I didn't have a chance to learn the layout of the office and their policies and procedures. Of course, a job doesn't require a $35 payment plus a $7 convenience fee for the mandatory orientation.

I'll just be over here, making annoyed noises every so often until it's all over.

Why Checking the Weather Makes Me Sad

Listen, just like your grandpa, I enjoy checking the weather multiple times a day to see what's going on with the clouds and sun. Once upon a time, I might have relied on The Weather Channel for this information. That was a simpler time, I'll admit. I only had to turn on the TV and wait for the forecast to roll through, along with some gentle commercials about stool softeners and diabetes.

As with all things, the internet changed this for the better several years ago. Now instant weather information was available at a moment's notice. Forecasts could be reviewed for the day ahead or even the week ahead, without having to wait for the top of the hour. This was a glorious period of time, a stint of years that I remember fondly, like an old dog.

Then IT happened.

I should have known that even www.weather.com would not be safe from the all-encompassing claws of SEO and link bait headlines. Now when I go to check the forecast, I have to avert my eyes from news headlines like "20 year old found dead" and "Rescuers rush to save baby on sailboat!"

Look. When I just want to see if it's going to be cloudy and will I need a jacket, I don't want to catch up on the news, especially not sensationalist news items that make me really sad. Checking the weather might make me unhappy if the forecast is extra cold or extra stormy, but up until now, it has never made me sad. The weather was a safe spot on the internet and on TV, where information was simply presented without preamble and for a few minutes, the sad tragedies of the world could be forgotten in a swirl of maps and dew points and chances of rain.

But no longer. And for that, I say - shame on you, internet. Shame.

A Laundry Surprise

I don't know how you do it, but Smiley and I have our dog's cage set up in our closet. We don't have a walk in closet, but we do have small dogs.

The other day, our dog Sherlock coughed up a hairball or something; he threw up in the cage overnight. It smelled icky, so I had Smiley clean it up. Later during the day, when I was hanging up a shirt, I noticed that the whole closet still seemed to smell.

"Didn't you clean the dog's cage?" I asked, and Smiley nodded. He gestured towards the roll of paper towels and the cleaning supplies that he had brought into the room. I could see the used paper towels in our trash can.

So, I started snooping around in our closet, wondering if Smiley's fear of Sherlock peeing out of the cage came true at some point. What I found was, perhaps, worse.

A box of belts that I had in the closet revealed that some of the belts were starting to grow mildew. And then I realized that was what the smell was. A quick sniff of some of the clothes folded on the shelves agreed with my realization.  Friggen everything was slowly starting to get mildew in our closet, except for the shirts that we used most often.

As I type this, I have my tenth load of laundry running. I never realized how many clothes I have stored in the closet that I never wear, but even if I wanted to donate them, I'd still need to wash them first. (Let's not discuss my problem with donating clothes; I have a hard time getting rid of clothes that I spent money on or that other people spent money on for me, even if I never, ever wear them. What happens if one day I completely change my mind and want to wear them and then I have to buy them again because I got rid of them? Nope, can't do it.) They all smell horrible. They all need to be cleaned.

I am learning that "hand wash only" is really just code for "put it in the washer anyhow on the gentle cycle because I don't have time to hand wash all of this stuff." I also need a second drying rack, because there is one rule I don't mess around with and that's "line dry only." I've seen too many shrunken or disfigured clothes in my day. My current little drying rack is doing its best, covered in old dresses, belts, handmade t-shirts and more.

Plus, I need to search the internet to figure out how to remove mildew from shoes, if that's even possible.

I guess this all started when I decided I would save money by keeping our air conditioning usage down during the summer. Florida's humidity and high temperatures have shown me that was a stupid way to save money. So yes, on the one hand, I'm glad that I have only had to run my heat a few days this year so far. On the other hand, my clothes are all mildewy and that's disgusting. All I'm saying, Florida, is can't you try to keep the humidity and heat down just a tad during the summer? Thanks.

Entrenched in Writing

Since November started, I have gotten off to a good start on my NaNo Novel. I'm currently ahead on schoolwork, so I'm able to write during Silas's naps. However, this coming week, I am back to studying new topics, so I don't know how I will continue. We'll see.

I have another area of my writing that I know I need to work on, and I've decided to work on that in this novel as well. And that issue is the flow of time. I really, really like to show EVERYTHING. I don't know how to step back and leave part of a day unwritten. This is somewhat related to my annoyance with books that skip large periods of time; I'm pretty sure it's a personal problem and not due to bad writing. But, I just can't stand it. I hate that books and movies can just show a climatic scene and then cut to something else. I hate it because in real life, when something happens, people have to deal with it and then continue dealing with it.

Maybe this just means I have a problem with letting go of things. But here's an example. A character will make a BIG REVEAL about something, and then we cut to three days later. I can't stand it. What happened directly after the BIG REVEAL might not be as dramatically exciting, but it really kills my suspension of disbelief to think that no one else would have a problem with waiting three days to actually discuss what happened.

Again, I dunno. I will look for some more concrete examples later, but I have to go back to noveling now. And despite my rant above, I will be working hard to pick and choose the moments of time that I show, rather than just describe every minute of the day. (For example, in my first NaNo Novel, the 50,000+ words I wrote describe what happens in the course of one and a half days. Oh boy.)

Things I Hate - The Shopping Edition

I hate grocery shopping. I like the part where I get home and can make food for my family. I don't like the part where I have to sift through countless amounts of BS buzzwords and comparative math. Here are a few of my least favorite things that come up in the grocery store:

1. Anything that is " 'something' - style."

The moment, nay - the millisecond your brain perceives this two-word phrase, drop whatever you are holding. For what you have in your hand is not what you think! Certainly, it will be similar to the product you are hoping to buy, but in a sinister way.

Let me draw my example from Greek yogurt. I have slowly been branching out to try different brands (also known as different brands from the one I normally buy have been on sale) and what I came across was a "Mueller" brand yogurt that had the little corner compartment with fruit. They were on sale for a dollar each, so I grabbed a few that looked tasty.

When I got home, I noticed my grievous, horrible mistake. I hadn't paid a full dollar for actual Greek yogurt. I had paid extra for "Greek-style" yogurt. You might be asking what's the difference. The difference is, instead of straining the yogurt to achieve the thick and creamy texture, this brand has simply realized it is much cheaper to add some gelatin and corn starch. There is also a dash of whey protein to up the protein content of the yogurt, but at 9 grams per container, it does not come close to other brands.

I should have looked closer; I shouldn't have been pulled in by the price and by the blaring "Greek Corner" label that very much wanted me to assume I was obtaining Greek yogurt with my money. But my point is, I shouldn't have to take a minute to verify that the product I'm trying to buy is actually what it says it is. And, I understand that legally, the product is exactly what it says it is. But it is also BS, so I will not be buying the Mueller Greek Corner yogurts again.

Also, they don't taste that good.

2. Chocolatey Whatever.

Admittedly, this isn't too much of a problem for me anymore, since I've moved away from certain brands of granola bars and cereals. But it still scratches me the wrong way, so let's look into it.

Actually, there's not much to look into. Companies use "chocolatey" to get you thinking about chocolate while they conveniently don't include any sort of actual chocolate in the product. Quaker oats bars are guilty of this. You might wonder how they can afford to dip their granola bars in chocolate and keep the prices somewhat low! Well, wonder no more. They simply dip their granola bars in "chocolatey whatever" and it's kind of like chocolate except it's not. Again, saving money while staying in the legal confines of convincing people that they're getting something they're not.

Come to think about it, Quaker also appears to own the fake Greek yogurt brand mentioned above. I used to trust them. Now I just assume that whatever they claim to be selling is not what I can expect to buy.

3. Ice Cream

Well, I was going to go on a rant about the annoying trends in ice cream, namely, shrinking the container sizes while charging the same or higher prices.

But then I decided I'd rather talk about Publix brand ice cream.

Look, I moved over a thousand miles away from my family to live with my husband down here in Florida. It is some small compensation that Publix brand ice cream is actually the best ice cream I have ever had in my life.

You know how you buy the store brand when you want ice cream and the name brand isn't on sale? That's how I ended up with my first container of Publix brand ice cream. (Which, might I add, is still a half gallon and not endlessly expensive!) Imagine my surprise when a month or so later, a name brand went on sale, I bought it, and subsequently realized that Publix brand was better. Bam. That's it. I'm a believer.

Publix does all sorts of flavors and styles. I stick to the regular style - no splenda or low fat or whatever they do - and I love it. Also, they make great seasonal stuff. When we had roommates, our fridge always had several containers of Publix ice cream.

So no, it doesn't completely dull the achy homesickness I occasionally (often) feel when I think about how my parents are literally at least seventeen hours away from me even in the direst of emergencies. (And my siblings who are off at school are even further north from me!) But it is like an extra tasty consolation prize.

A Tale of a Year of Sleep Deprivation

Shortly after I gave birth to Silas, I realized I was never going to sleep again.

That might be a little melodramatic. We're still working on getting more sleep though. After a year of being somewhat sleep deprived, I'm going to try to reflect on what it has done to me.

I feel much less creative in my own pursuits. It is insanely hard right now to sit down and write. Nothing flows when I type and I feel like that shows with what I've written this year. I remember trying to think of an idea for a novel for NaNoWriMo in November and just couldn't. It's possible that after just two horrific attempts at plots, I'm out of novel ideas. It's more likely that sleeping in two hour chunks is not conducive to creativity.

On the flip side, I've been channeling my creativity into games to play with Silas and so while I don't write much, I'm still satisfied with my ability to create: in this case, it's mostly games that work for Silas's growing mental capacities.

One thing I never expected would happen is that after eleven months of waking up every two hours at night, I've tried crying it out with Silas. I have had a hard time following through. It is one thing for me to deal with Silas crying because he wants to play with something dangerous and I had to tell him no. It is another for me to listen to him wail, alone in his room, crying desperately because he just wants to be close to us as he falls asleep.

However, there would be nights where I would wake up every hour with him and I would be incredibly tired and depressed and just scared of the thoughts that raced through my mind in those moments of sleep deprivation.  It reminded me of the episode of Scrubs where Carla, having given birth a few months ago, tearfully exclaims that she wishes she could just throw her baby out the window or off the roof of the apartment. The moment was played partially for the laughs as we watch her husband's eyes widen in shock as he races to make sure the windows are firmly locked, but it was also a serious moment as Carla dealt with post-partum depression.

I understood that sentiment. I felt like I was giving everything I could to Silas and it wasn't enough and it was frustrating. How could he be so happy and calm during the day on so little sleep I would wonder? Everyone told me I had the happiest baby they'd ever seen, so who all was lying to me? People told me I was a good mother, but they didn't know that at 3 in the morning, I was crying and desperate, staying perfectly still as I held Silas, knowing that if I shifted my arms, he would wake back up and the crying would start again.

And I was caught between feeling like I'd abandon my principles by letting Silas cry when I lay him down in his crib to sleep and feeling like no matter what choice I made, everyone would judge me. If Silas was up all night, it was because I insisted on nursing him throughout the night and holding him and patting his back when he should learn to fall asleep on his own. I had no one to blame but myself.

If I let him cry, it was because I didn't give him enough of a chance to fall asleep on his own when he was younger and I had no one to blame but myself. If I let him cry, I was putting my needs above his and what right did I have to do that? And most of all, no matter what I did, and no matter how tired I felt, I had better not complain about it, because what right do I have as a mother to complain about the child I chose to bring into this world? After all, how many people would give everything for a chance to have their own child to hold and rock each night? And how many people would say the obvious solution is to not have a baby if you don't want to deal with the full baby package?

Ultimately, I don't have a good answer. Shades of all of these worries and doubts bother me each evening as we start getting ready for bed. Sometimes we have great nights - defined as Silas falling asleep nursing, transferring to the crib, and sleeping there until three or four in the morning. We've had three great nights this past year.

Most nights, it's not like that. Smiley joked that we're going to have to wait until Silas can understand basic logic and then explain that he can't sleep in our bed with us any more. Well, half-joked. Quarter-joked.

And the thing is, there's not really a black and white "solution" to sleep. Each family does what works for their family, and it's my goal not to judge other people for how they parent. I don't know their situations; I don't live their lives. I just know how paralyzing it is to feel like everything I do as a parent is judged, harshly, by others.


Whew. I didn't expect to get quite so intense about this all. I do suspect that it will get better. Sometimes, it can be hard to see the future when the best I can do right now is slog through another half-awake, zombie day.

And don't worry, guys.

I still REALLY, REALLY wish Smiley was on board with having another baby, like, right now. Because, seriously, I can't possibly be any more tired than I already am.

The Morning

Anyone who has breastfed and pumped knows the ending to the phrase "there's no crying over spilled milk."

This morning I woke up to make Silas's bottles for while I was at school, and opened the fridge door to see a cascade of milk dripping from the top shelf of the fridge. Turns out the bag of frozen milk I had thawing had somehow gotten a hole. Not sure how.

Thankfully, it was only four ounces. Even more thankfully, despite the initial impression, it barely made a mess in the fridge, choosing to pool under some of our leftovers containers rather than actually dripping onto food on the lower shelves.

And I didn't cry, exactly. I just threw up my hands in frustration. Of course the milk would spill on the morning that I was running late(r than usual)! I try to remind myself of positives every day, and the morning's positive thought was that Silas snuck in a sleep session from about 11pm to 3am last night, which I'm hoping will trend to better sleeping habits. (The two nights before then, he woke up every. hour.)

So I'm tired and exasperated, but I know that I can do anything as long as it's not forever, and Silas will have to start sleeping somewhat better some day.

Here's to half a year with my favorite baby!

Which is more "redneck?"

My husband and I purchased a house some two and a half years ago (time flies) and from the start, there's been a small, rusty old shed in the back of our yard that we kind of want to get rid of. There's a problem though, and you better believe this problem is related to our "Stuff" issue.

Let me, briefly, start at the beginning. When we bought this house, we knew we'd have to redo the bathrooms. The master bath had a huge leak somewhere, somewhere being to the point that we had to strip the whole room to the studs and redo a lot of the plumbing. This was fine; we planned for it.

We also attempted to save money by seeing if we could scrounge up a tub and toilet for free, as Smiley has a lot of friends who are also maintenance type guys and property manager type guys and those type guys sometimes have extra tubs and toilets floating around.

So we spent one Saturday crawling to the top of a steep backyard hill to reach a rusty old shed at a friend's house to take and remove two bathtubs. It is not exactly easy to bring a tub down a steep hill that is overgrown with vines and what were once small trees. But free is free, we figured. Right until we realized that the tubs were oriented in the wrong direction for our bathroom. Our friend benefited from having two tubs gone from his collection of Stuff and we, well, we had two tubs that we couldn't use but didn't necessarily want to get rid of because they were tubs and could eventually someday be useful.

We spent another Saturday in similar fashion, though a different place and people, obtaining three toilets. Free toilets. Three free toilets that we did not end up using either when we decided the toilet already in the bathroom was actually not leaking. Well, now we had three free toilets that we could maybe someday use when we probably needed to replace the current toilets. Someday.

These items languished in our garage for a bit until our garage needed to be a place for different Stuff and then the tubs and toilets migrated to our shed. Then the shed got hit by a tree and now in addition to being old and rusty, it is also partially, mostly caved in. We really need to rip it down. There's actually a little foundation underneath it that I want to use as a small patio. Maybe put a firepit on it or something. Except then we get back to the problem of the tubs and toilets. They could still be useful.

Actually, I think Smiley said we could put the tubs out but he wanted to keep the toilets. Or something. But despite the partially caved-in, rusted shed being an eyesore on our property, he postulates that taking the toilets and temporarily storing them on our gazebo is too redneck. Moreso than having an old, falling apart shed. I'm sure you can tell I don't 100% agree with this.

Until we figure out what to do, I'm just going to go back to wishing that the tree branch that partially collapsed the shed was big enough to put it out of its misery. Maybe crushing a few toilets on the way. But I figure I'm not that lucky.

Oh This Will Sound Conceited

There's no way around it. I have to just say it. I happen to think I'm pretty good at learning things. As in, I take notes and study and generally (besides a bad bout with an algebra teacher in high school) I test well. When students complain that a teacher is "hard," I feel qualified to suggest that perhaps the teacher wouldn't seem so hard if you paid attention in class, read the material, and did the homework.

So yes, there's one area of my life where I think very highly of myself. It's a little pathetic, I know. But I needed to say that because I can't otherwise begin to explain how frustrated I am with a teacher this semester. I've managed so far to maintain an A in the class, but for the first time in my life, I found myself hitting up the rate my professor website to make sure I'm not the only person who feels like I'm unsure of what is expected by this teacher.

For example, she is unsure how to teach. I am not saying that I could do better, but that a teacher should do better. Her idea of teaching is to tell us to read ahead (and though we have unit guidelines, the nebulous "read ahead" can mean that next class we'll cover three pages of material to covering fifteen) and then, next class, complain that none of us have taught ourselves the material. When you hear your teacher saying, "I'm going to teach you guys these concepts" but then two minutes later she's complaining that no one is answering her questions about the concept we're supposedly being taught, there is a problem. And this problem is not with your students, but with how you are teaching and how you are communicating.

Oh, and constantly saying "you guys look like you're confused. Does anyone have a question?" is also not teaching. The people who are confused are so unsure of how to begin to word a question that they'd rather just nod and let the lecture continue than to try and ask anything.

And another thing - when you go through your powerpoint slides and continually say "oh, I'm not sure why I put that slide in there," I'm just going to go ahead and say that you are not inspiring confidence in your ability to teach.

I had a math class like this once, although it was not as bad, and I do feel for students who are trying to learn and coming to class and getting tripped up because maybe figuring out crazy teachers isn't their strong suit and they feel lost and confused when they shouldn't. I find myself asking questions in class as a means to clarify information to my fellow students. (And, being the occasionally conceited person that I am, feeling really happy when they tell me that the way I stated it made a lot of sense.)

We had an exam. The material it covered was certainly in the book, but the concepts that she had stressed over and over were less present than the concepts that she mentioned once, in passing. As a teacher, it is your prerogative to test however you like, but that seems a little harsh.

Overall, I still think I'll manage to make an A in this class, but I do regret to say that I wish I chose a different teacher and I think it's unfair to the people less versed in dealing with crazy (I have a bachelor's degree worth of experience on that!). Everything came to a point when we had a substitute teacher last class, and he taught the material so well and coherently that it was a real joy to have a substitute.


So that's that. Those are my frustrations with my teacher and I feel they are validated. Obviously.

Still Loving Life!

I'm not sure how well blogging next to a sleeping baby will work out. Silas seems to start and fidget a lot when I first start typing. Once I get going, he's ok. But if I pause to think about what I might want to write next, he jumps again. That is not conducive to a happy baby!

But as my second week of classes starts, I'm still in quite a good mood overall. I think it's important to include overall, because last night I had one of those "I want to punch everything" moments. I'm still working on Silas sleeping in the crib at nights. Last night, I felt pretty good about the crib transition. I had done our small bedtime routine and put Silas in the crib. He had started fussing hardcore, thrashing his arms and legs, breaking the first two swaddles I tried. But on the third time I got his arms wrapped up nice and comfy to his body, and instantly, he was out.

So he went down in the crib and slept there for, I'll be honest, I don't remember. I think it was about two hours. All I know is that later that night, at about three, he woke up again next to me in bed, and when his fussing turned into crying, I fed him.

As I lay there, I began to feel incredibly overheated. I kicked off the light blanket I had over my legs, but I still felt warm and annoyed. I felt bad, because I wanted to pull Silas away from me to cool down, but I waited a few minutes until he seemed to have stopped eating. I pulled him away and decided tonight was as good as any to try to return him to the crib.

You might be able to guess what happened next - he didn't want to go back to sleep in his crib. Or, I guess, back to sleep in general. So I held him on my shoulder, trying to soothe him back to sleep. I bounced him lightly in my arms as I walked up and down the room. Twenty minutes of this provided no sleeping baby, so I checked to see if he was still hungry. He ate for awhile, and fell asleep in my arms.

Again, I tried to put him down in the crib and again he cried. I still felt oppressively warm, although the thermometer in our room stated it was only 71 degrees. I also felt aggressively aware of all of the light in our room. Since we moved our computers into our room, there are all sorts of little LED lights that I barely notice as I'm falling asleep. But when I'm woken up by a crying baby in the middle of what seems to be a heat flash? Oh, I was ready to sledgehammer everything in our room.

Smiley woke up during all of this, and asked why I wasn't just letting Silas sleep with us so he'd go back to sleep and I tried to explain that I felt like my skin was crawling from heat. I should mention he was wrapped up in our comforter, and Silas's skin was cool to the touch except for where he was pressed up against me. But Smiley did have to go to work tomorrow, so in the interest of a happy family, I hopped back up onto the bed with Silas.

Silas promptly went back to sleep and I lay there in the dark. I wanted to use my phone, but I knew the glare of the screen would wake Silas back up, so I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Of course, I could only think of how warm I felt. After an hour and a half of this, Silas woke up yet again.

I keep thinking during the days when Silas wants to eat every two hours, that he's trying to regulate my milk supply to produce more milk during the daytime hours so that he can sleep longer at night. (Babies are surprisingly great at knowing how much food they eat in a twenty four hour period and will wake up during the night accordingly if they miss out on ounces during the day) But then I think that Silas says "eff sleep. I could just grow instead" and continues to want to eat every two hours at night too.

I mean, I'm not even that upset about it. I'm kind of thrilled that I've been able to be his sole source of nutrition. It's like everything fell into place and my body is doing what it should to provide for my baby, and that gives me a sense of accomplishment.

So yes, last night was rough but well within a manageable level. Taking care of a baby full time is a lot like labor. There are moments that are just overwhelmingly stressful and tough, like a contraction, and then in between everything is fine. And the end result is I get to be around a loving and adorable baby!

One of those days

You know how you know you're having one of those days? It starts by taking an hour to wrap a package to ship, because turns out your baby is somewhat terrified of the sound of packaging tape, and by the time you calm him down and finish taping, it's time for him to eat again. It continues by you nearly getting ran off the road because someone tries to lane change into your car on the way to the UPS store. When you make it to the parking lot, you will have to juggle a baby in a stroller and a large, cumbersome package that you are clearly JUUUST barely holding on to. Don't worry - no one will offer to give you a hand or even open the door to the UPS store. The guys behind the counter will laugh - outright laugh - when they see you using your stroller to kind of prop open the door so that you can get through with the package.

But it won't bother you too much; people have their things to do just the same as you. But then after you send the package and get the baby back into the car, get buckled in yourself and start driving to your next errand, you'll notice that despite it being January, there is somehow a wasp in your car. This is followed by frantically wishing it to go to the window and lowering the window while at the same time desparately hoping that today is not the day you learn if your baby is allergic to wasp bites.

Thankfully the wasp will leave your car without harming either of you and it's off to the pet store and then home. Your baby, who typically loves going to sleep in his car seat, will still be wide awake, way past his nap time. He will proceed to cry loudly for the next hour as you attempt to calm him with rocking, walking and combinations of the two. Finally he will close his eyes and you will see sleep settling on his eyelids - and then the doorbell will ring, followed by a sharp knock and the puppies barking. Your baby's eyes will snap open and the crying and general fussiness will come back with a vengence. While you contemplate installing a sound proof bubble in your living room, you will walk the baby once again until he calms down.

He will calm down - it will just take a little more time - and he will even close his eyes. He will nap. It won't be long because he wound himself up so much, but it will be long enough for you to recount your day in a blog post. He will even wake up while you are writing and, instead of crying, he will look around and see a toy nearby. He will grab the toy and start playing with it, and smiling, and making happy "ah-goo" noises, and suddenly, if you hadn't written everything else down, you would have forgot about it being one of those days as you go on to enjoy a happy evening.

New Comp!

Yesterday evening Smiley put together my new computer. It is fast and quiet and hasn't burst into flames - it is a success.

So, as you might know, Silas shares a bed with me and Smiley. Our bed, if you can call it that, is a mattress on the floor. I follow most of the guidelines for safe baby bed-sharing and it's been a great experience for me; I feel much more rested since I can take care of Silas without having to get up.

But I think it is time for us to put our bed back on a frame. The underbed storage that we gave up when we moved into our house just over two years ago is starting to catch up with me. There is a lot of stuff I'd like to just jam under there and forget about. Once we put our bed back up, I think that we'll have to start putting Silas in his crib.

I feel like sleeping with Silas next to me is one of the only ways that I get to spend time with him. I really hate working all day. I'd rather be taking care of Silas. But at the moment, I am doing what I need to do. But if we put up our bed and put Silas in his crib - well, the thought actually makes me feel an intense longing and that makes me curious as to why I feel that way.

I know part of it is that I don't think he'll sleep well in a crib; I spent the first few weeks of his life trying to nurse him to sleep and put him down in his bassinet, and it felt like he slept horribly in the bassinet. Bringing him to bed with us was such a change - he still woke up every 2-3 hours, but at least I barely had to move to accomadate that. Now he has been (occasionally) giving us four hour stretches once a night, and it will only get better with time. But I still worry that he'll go back to waking up more often, and that it will be tougher on me to get up to tend to him, even though he'll still be in the same room.

Starting in Janurary, I'm going back to school and will have more time to spend with Silas during the day. I think that this will help make the transition to crib easier for me. But our bed frame in in the house, in the living room, taking up space right now. I don't know if I want it to be in the living room for four weeks.

I feel like this should be a pointless debate; we should get our bed back and move Silas to his crib. But I feel like I shouldn't think about this while I'm extra tired; it seems much more intimating than it is.

And this is what my brain is like at nearly eleven pm. Good night y'all.

Two weeks = over two hundred diapers

Newborn diapers are tiny. They are adorably tiny, just like newborn shoes and socks and those tiny little mittens you put on a newborn's hand so they won't scratch the heck out of their own face.

I have changed at least a hundred of these tiny, little diapers - without calling any of them adorable after they've been used - and I suspect Smiley has changed likewise, probably plus three since when he's around at home, I let him have the wonderful privileged of wiping his son's bum.

These diapers get filled because the baby is eating food and the food is doing its digestive dance. Which brings me to my complaint of the day: breast feeding pads.

TMI? Perhaps. If so, back away and come back to read tomorrow when I'll probably discuss something less potentially personal! If not, well, I'm not really going into any kind of crazy detail here anyhow. The word "nipple" will come up. Also, it's entirely possible that blogging while sleep deprived is not my best option.

I am not an expert with these pads. I grabbed the first box that seemed to have the most per dollar. (My husband might insist there was a bit more to it than that. He might be right. I might have checked each box to compare the cute baby pictures provided on each).

Anyhow, they're just little cotton pads used to keep everything clean between breast and bra. But I managed to have a complaint nonetheless.

Why do these pads have nipple impressions!? I'm pretty sure that nipple modesty is a thing here, what with most bras in all sizes being at least lightly lined to prevent the dreaded silhouette. But thanks to the wonderful world of these breast feeding pads, I can circumvent this in all situations!

Again, I've only tried one brand, so perhaps I just have bad luck. I guess that's what I get for picking the most for my money. Next time, I'll try again. And the whole world will get to see if it works out better.

My mornings apparently start at 10 now

Or 2 am, or 4 am, or possibly 6 am, depending on how you define "the start of the day." I'm usually up at those times feeding the baby currently. I count 10 as the start of my day because that's usually when I'm up for good. Except for maybe a nap when Silas goes back to sleep, but usually not because I've found that my body appears to be producing some sort of adrenaline rush telling me to clean my house while Silas sleeps.

It's kinda, sorta working out.

So, for the first week of life, Silas was considerably jaundiced. They let him out of the hospital so obviously it wasn't too bad, but we did have to hook him up to a biliblanket for a few days. Smiley is off returning that now, because his bloodwork from yesterday came back fine. Woo!

I'm hoping this is all coherent, because the sleep deprivation is pretty killer. I think I started crying last night when the baby woke up to eat, but I can't quite remember, because I might have been more asleep than awake as I tried to convince Silas that my arm was incapable of providing him with sustenance.

But, as I've seen from experience, I know this part gets better, so I'm not worried. Just tired.

11 work days until maternity leave!

It's not that I'm counting down the days to my maternity leave because I hate my job or anything - heck, despite what my paperwork says, I'll be doing my best to show up at work until I'm giving birth so that I don't miss a day with my (guaranteed to be adorable) baby.

But that aside, I am counting down the days I have left until my maternity leave because, well, sitting in an office all day really hurts. I feel for all pregnant women who have to work until their due date or as late as possible or however they do it. Whether you're standing all day or sitting all day, there is just a lot of pain involved.

(By the by, if you're a pregnant woman who worked on your feet or sat all day and didn't have pain, please share all your secrets.)

I've found that the best way to deal with the random back pain, sciatic pain and general achiness is a good combination of movement, sitting, and standing. I've also found that coworkers look at me weirdly when I randomly half jump out of my chair when the baby kicks (or punches?) me in the sciatic nerve. And I've further found that if you shamble your way to the bathroom enough times in a day, people will start asking you if you only have a week left and make apologetic sounds when you assure them that you have until the end of the month, and that's IF he decides to come on time.

Which, coincidentally, he won't, because he's going to be stubborn like his dad.

And his mom.

Still, I can't help but hope that his little baby lungs are getting all matured up in there, because I am really tired of complaining about my pain to anyone kind enough to ask how I'm feeling. I'm trying hard at this point to be a model pregnant woman, capable of doing anything and feeling great, but it's not working.

And I know for a fact that being complain-y in a non-humorous way (see above) will not get me internet famous, so I'm going to go lie down.

In which I ask my husband "are my arms still attached to my body?"

The other night, I had another migraine aura. I didn't realize it at the time though.

My evening started out very pleasantly. I had been super uncomfortable at work, so when I got home, I took a relaxing bath and listened to music. (I should note that I typically hate baths, but that's a story for a different day). The puppies were so cute and confused because they had never seen the tub full of water before. They kept coming up to the side and trying to drink from the tub, but were too small to succeed.

Afterwards, I got a tall cup of ice water and sat at my computer to browse the internet and sing along to my Pandora station. Eventually, Smiley came home from work and hopped on his computer to check his Facebook. I turned to him to discuss our plans for making dinner.

This is when things started to be a little "off."

I noticed I felt thirsty, so I went to grab my water cup and take a drink. As I watched my left hand pick up the cup and bring it to my mouth, I realized that something didn't feel right. I stared at my arm. In my mind, I knew it was still part of my body, but as I watched it, it seemed to be interacting with my field of vision in a way that indicated it was not part of my body.

"Whoa." I said. "I think I need to eat something soon."

Smiley wasn't looking at me at the moment. "What do you want to eat?" he asked, expecting our familiar back and forth of me not knowing what I want and him suggesting things until I agreed.

Instead, I was using my right hand to feel my left hand and arm and confirm that they were, in fact, attached to my body. I felt a small amount of panic trying to figure out what the heck was going on with me. Did I relax too much? Was my blood pressure too low? Perhaps I was about to faint.

"Uh, I don't know." I closed my eyes, willing them to look at things correctly when I opened them. "I don't know but I feel weird." I opened my eyes and tried to pick up my cup of water again. It still looked like my arm was coming out of nowhere.

"Are you ok?" Smiley asked, turning towards me.

I stood up and tried to explain how I felt. "Hon, are my arms still attached to my body?"

He looked at me, really looked at me, as if trying to figure out how serious I was being.

"Yes. Of course they are."

"Ok. I mean, I know they are. I'm not on drugs or anything. I just feel like my arm isn't attached to my body. It's like, I look at it and it isn't right."

He shrugged. "Your arms look like they normally do."

I kept feeling my arm as I got up, but I wasn't sure if I was light headed or not, so I went over to the couch and sat down. "I guess, uh, can you look and see if I'm having a stroke?" I tried to remember the tests they say to do to test for a stroke and raised my arms above my head. "I'm talking in complete sentences right?"

"Yeah," he said, as he typed. "Ok. Look at me and smile. Ok. Raise your arms. In front of you. Hold them there." He paused. "Yeah, you look fine. Let's go make dinner."

I nodded, and kept talking as we walked down the short hallway to the kitchen. "Yeah. No, I don't think it's a stroke. I just feel really weird. It's like things aren't - they don't look right."

Once we got to the kitchen, I sat down on the floor, and covered my face with my hands. Wait, wasn't there something about being pregnant and having blurry vision? Something to do with high blood pressure.

"We don't by any chance have a blood pressure cuff, do we?" I asked. Of course we don't.

"What about doing grilled cheese sandwiches?" Smiley said as he looked through our fridge and pantry. "Didn't you want to do those one night?"

"Yeah." I still sat on the floor, and uncovered my face, looking again at the world. Slowly, I noticed that my left field of vision was diminishing further. Suddenly, it clicked. "Wait. I could be getting a migraine. Let me call my mom."

As I called my mom and explained the events of the past few minutes, I could practically hear her nodding on the phone. By the time I hung up, the next part had started - a "c" shaped jagged tear in my vision. It was bright white in the middle, with flecks of color towards the edges and an outline of the darkest black. I closed my eyes. It was still there.

I opened them and looked at Smiley. It was so weird. My brain knew that he should have a face with two eyes, a nose and a mouth. My eyes were reporting that the left half of his face was missing. I had to look away as I found myself becoming nauseated over the sight. It was much easier to focus on the dogs, or to close my eyes.

"Well why don't you go sit down while I make dinner?" Smiley suggested and I nodded, heading to the couch.

"This is why I could never do drugs," I muttered as I looked at the room. I sat down but then remembered that Smiley buttered both sides of the bread when he made grilled cheese, so I got back up.

Vision half gone or not, I only wanted one side of the bread buttered! I leaned against the counter in the kitchen and offered to butter the bread while he got the soup going.

I was pretty certain that I got butter on the left and right side of the bread, but I made no promises. Once the bread was safely buttered on one side only, I went and sat back down with my eyes closed until the food was ready.

I'm lucky to say that the aura went away fairly shortly thereafter and that I did not get the headache - I think that I am very agreeable to only having part of a migraine.

Smiley brought out the sandwiches, soup and some water. I marveled as I watched my hand pick up the glass of water. Finally, it once again looked normal. Everything seemed so much clearer. It was a great relief to know that I wasn't having a stroke, or pre-eclampsia or anything crazy.

Oh, and the grilled cheese had the perfect amount of butter and was cooked to the perfect doneness. My husband and I make a pretty good team, whether it's self diagnosing a lack of a stroke or making dinner.

Well apparently I hit the walking limit

You know, I've heard a lot of stories about moms-to-be in their third trimester who run whole marathons and such, but I've never actually seen it. After today, I know I won't be anywhere near that group of women.

Ever since the end of the first trimester, when I was finally able to pick myself off of the couch and not fall asleep the moment I got home from work, I've been incorporating walking as my basic form of exercise. Certainly, I've done some small amount of yoga here and there, but (and don't laugh, because I know how pathetic this is), I've kept my goal of walking for at least 10 minutes a day.

Some days, I've even walked for 15 minutes!

So you can imagine my surprise when today, after walking for about 12 minutes, I headed back inside to my work building and quite suddenly couldn't walk any more. It was as though my hips and legs had revolted against movement and decided that they preferred to stay put. I sort of limp-walked my way to a small table in the seating area between the two cafes in the building and pretended like I had to check a cell phone message. I tried to stretch my legs a little, covertly. Which is kind of hard to do sitting down with a dress on, so that didn't accomplish much.

I shifted my hips back and forth a few times, but the pain wasn't letting up. I was coming to the end of my lunch break and had to get back to my desk, so I stood up, using the table as leverage and plastering a strained smile on my face.

If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is showing weakness to people I don't know. This burst of contrariness got me down the hallway into the sectioned off area for my department. Inside this area, there was no one, and my legs automatically knew it. They froze up stiff again, and I leaned against the wall as I shuffled forward in a motion some may refer to as... shambling.

Once I turned the corner, there were people in view again and so I switched to taking the smallest steps I could, as slowly as I could. I tried to assume an air of nonchalance, as if I always shambled to my desk like this. No one seemed to look, or care. I got to my desk and gripped the armrests as I lowered myself into the chair.

Then I needed to use the bathroom.

I took a deep breath and waited as long as I could before I absolutely had to get up. Sadly, sitting down for a half hour didn't provide me with much relief, and I began to shamble my way towards the bathroom. One of my coworkers looked up at me and asked if I was alright.

"You never move that slow!" she said. "Are you feeling ok?"

I laughed and sort of shrugged as I told her that my legs were just a little stiff today. She seemed to agree that this was reasonable and went back to her work. I got to the bathroom and then, outside of the view of coworkers, my legs froze up again.

Luckily, it wasn't that hard to basically throw myself in the direction of a bathroom stall, take care of business and lurch across the way to the sink. It was just the thought of walking back to my desk seemed overwhelming beyond belief.

I tried to stretch my legs gently, using the sink to balance against. Nothing seemed to help much though, and I started to entertain how I was going to explain to my supervisor that I needed to go home because I couldn't move. How would I leave the bathroom to tell her? Why had I parked across the parking lot like I do every day? Would I have to ask a coworker to bring my car around for me?

Another coworker came into the bathroom and the knowledge that someone might know I was in pain spurred me forward to the door and I seized that burst of energy to make it through the door and back towards my desk. Once back in my chair, I didn't get up again until it was time to go home. Sadly, my legs had not magically healed and my hips still felt like pain.

Still, I managed to make my way down the stairs and out into the parking lot, where I then shuffled oh-so-slowly across the whole damn lot to get to my car. How could I have not predicted that today I would hurt myself walking and that I should have parked right outside the staircase? How could I have been so foolish as to think that I would be able to walk across the parking lot today, like I have every other day this week? I cursed my stupidity and trust me, I had a lot of time to do so, because I had to stop every twenty feet or so to regroup.

Once I got to my car, getting in and driving wasn't too bad. In fact, the overheated leather seats actually felt a little bit nice. Since I've been home, I've been trying to gently stretch out with my yoga ball but it wasn't doing that much to help, so I gave up and shambled over to my desk to write a really long, whiny post about how much my stupid legs hurt.

What bugs me the most is that I didn't do anything any more strenuous than I've done as recently as yesterday! And I have been walking daily so it's not like I suddenly decided to add exercise and then overdid it. I'm currently imagining how I'm going to deal with work tomorrow if my legs don't get their act together and I'm really, once again, amazingly impressed with not only the marathon-running pregnant ladies, but the ones who have jobs where they are on their feet all day long.

I remember back when I worked at Jewel that one of the cashiers was expecting, and she worked until the week she went into labor. She made it look practically effortless and I just can't imagine how at this point.

Well, that's enough complaining for one day. For a week, really. But we'll see.

One of those days

It's been one of those days.

I went to start making my Halloween costume and had everything set up in the dining room and kitchen when I opened the pattern and saw that I had bought the wrong size.

So I went to JoAnns and exchanged the pattern easily enough. I decided to go to McDonalds for breakfast since I was out of the house anyhow.

The McDonalds near our house usually has a quick drive through. You'll notice my careful placement of the word "usually." From the time I got into the drive through line, which was only 3 cars deep to the ordering part, to the time I got my food, 20 minutes drifted by.

Once at home again, time passed as I set to cutting out the new, right sized pattern pieces, and then I went to pin them to the fabric. Despite pinning exactly as directed by the pattern, the pieces did not all fit. I checked the back of the pattern and saw that despite buying the fabric while looking at the pattern that was too big for me, I still managed to get a half yard of fabric less than I actually needed.

The upside, I guess, is that I found a way to make it work. It's just a costume, so it doesn't REALLY matter if I don't pay attention to the little lines on the pattern that show which way to orient the piece to the salvage of the fabric. Right?

More time passed as I alternated between watching Cheaters and the huge line of "Crashers" shows that HGTV shows. Bath Crashers, House Crashers, Yard Crashers and Room Crashers. The word "crashers" doesn't even look right anymore.

Crashers. It's one of those words that just doesn't look like its meaning. It's a combination of a Carafe and cashews. Or cashiers I guess. And don't even get me started on the word "blue." I mean, look at it. The "u" and the "e" just make this awful "oooouee" sound and the beginning is a "blaugh". Blue. No, that doesn't look right either.

Right then, apparently I am going insane.

The husband got home from work and was in a buildy-type mood, so it was decided we'd go to the Harbor Freight store to buy stuff for his work bench and maybe stop at Olive Garden. I let myself start to crave their breadsticks, which was a mistake because the Olive Garden was literally crawling with people. They spilled out onto the front area, chatting and waiting patiently for the up to an hour wait that the location currently had.

We decided to skip Olive Garden. I wanted to stop by the Beauty Supply shop to grab some squirt bottles for my grenadine and sweet sour mix, but we stopped by Harbor Freight first, which was another mistake. By the time we were done there, it was three minutes after seven and the Beauty Supply shop had closed (I had mistakenly assumed it was open until eight).

Disappointed and hungry, I was unable to make a dinner choice, but I knew cooking something was not the answer. Chipotle was suggested and then I made the mistake of noting that we should go to the one that we were near instead of the one near our house because that one tended to get really crowded.

It was my mistake because even though I got the same thing I always get at Chipotle, which I get specifically because they are the mildest options - even though I had these safeguards in place, when I bit into my burrito, it felt as though my lips had suddenly been flash burned. My esophagus was burning and my stomach was deciding whether to keep it down because it was food or to reject it, because it was less food and more internal flame.

Those who know me might know that I have a slight aversion to spice, and this is why. What tasted like a normal level of spice to my husband had me in tears in the middle of a Chipotle. Chipotle. That's another word that just doesn't look right. What is the matter with "ch" words? I might have to institute a ban on them for awhile.

Uh. Anyhow.

Husband took pity on me and brought me to get a sushi roll while I complained the entire time that my lips felt sunburned and I couldn't believe how much pain a pepper could impart and he should be more sympathetic to how painful it was, because it was really painful and was he even listening?

Thankfully, I can say that it was the best sushi roll I have had in quite some time.

(Let's ignore the fact that it's the first sushi roll I have had in quite some time).

So maybe it was one of those days, but now it's not. I'm just going to go to bed while I'm ahead here.