cindy's world

It’s amazing, the changes and overnight growth in our baby girl. Three nights out of the past five, she wasn’t nursed to sleep and then transferred, sleeping, into her crib. Instead, she suddenly became wide awake and squirmed and cooed, so I had to place her in her crib awake and undrowsy. It was freaky, albeit ultimately pretty uneventful. She’d give a couple of wails when she saw I was leaving after putting her in the crib, but by the time I got downstairs, she’d already be playing in her crib on her own, pulling herself up, rolling around, bear-wrestling, pulling on her crib bumpers, etc. She was usually asleep within half an hour or so, altho it’s a nervous half-hour for me watching her on the babycam. I take it as a sign of growth. She was MUCH more sleepy nursing as a young baby, and less and less so now. I guess she can’t nurse to sleep forever. The good thing is that she can now eventually go to sleep on her own in her crib without parental intervention (as opposed to just going BACK to sleep on her own, which she’d been doing since 6 weeks). She also doesn’t fuss while she’s working on it, so that’s pretty great. I looked up when the last time was that she had a middle-of-the-night awakening/nursing. It was in early April.

She’s also understanding words. I noticed in the past week or two that if I were to say “clap,” she’d clap. Sometimes I’d be talking to Jayne or Mr. W and simply use “clap” in a sentence, and suddenly she’d start clapping. This is also the case with “bye.” When we leave in the mornings and when we show anyone out, we say “Bye-bye!” and open and close our hands in a wave, trying to get Allie to do the same. She usually does by following our example, but now she will open-close in a wave when she hears the word “bye.” Once, she was playing in her newly-fenced off carpeted play area, and the talking toy she was no longer interested in timed out and said, “Bye-bye!” Allie stopped what she was doing, stuck out a hand, and open-closed it a few times in a wave. Then she went back to playing.

Today, Jayne reported that she was going over colors with Allie, pointing out “red,” “yellow” and “blue.” Jayne said that each time she said “blue,” Allie would turn and point up. Finally, walking into the living room and looking up, Jayne realized what Allie had been pointing at: four mylar balloons floating against the ceiling, gifts from Muoi and Bob last weekend. For the past few days, Mr. W had been allowing Allie to bat the balloons around as I said over and over, “Balloons! Balloons!” Apparently, she’d been listening.

She’s still good at respecting “No.” She’ll stop what she’s doing if we say “no” firmly. Once Mr. W said it TOO firmly and loudly when she was struggling and fighting a diaper change, and scared Allie. Instantly she froze, a look of agony on her face. My poor baby.

Oh, we’ve also started brushing her five teeth with a baby toothbrush and water as a part of her morning and bedtime routines. She’s very cooperative. She sees the toothbrush coming and opens her mouth in a big smile. I brush her front teeth, her lower gums, her upper gums. She seems to enjoy it with her mouth open, the toothbrush squeaking against the bare gums. Then I brush her tongue, and she smiles at that, too, as if it’s tickling her. She probably won’t be that cooperative for long since this is still a novelty, but we’ll take it while we can.

(If you wanna see short video clips of her waving and clapping, see this post.)

On Saturday, Allie met two of my mom’s closest friends, a couple named Muoi and Bob. Bob used to be a driving instructor and had given me some formal driving lessons when I was preparing to take the exam for my driver’s license at age 15. Muoi works with my mom. The two don’t have children of their own, so they are kind of vicarious grandparents of Allie’s. My mom says Muoi goes around work armed with photos of Allie on her iPad and shows them off like a proud grandma, although she does give actual grandma credit to my mom.

The four “grownups” got to our house after Allie’s afternoon nap. Much exclamations, excitement and cooing ensued. After we hung out at our house for awhile, we headed off to our favorite local sushi joint on the lake for some omakase. Since we arrived a bit before the restaurant opened, we wandered around the area and checked out a portion of the lake. Allie does more pointing and the rest of us unquestioningly follow her lead like her puppets.

“Now look over there!” *point*

Allie enjoys the fountain outside of the restaurant with Daddy.

We were the first into the restaurant, entering right as it opened and snagging seats at the sushi bar.

My mom said that Muoi and Bob had a great time. Although they loved sushi, this was their first time at a sushi bar. Definitely first with omakase. The sushi chef, Johnny, was a newbie at the restaurant and had only been there a month. He did GREAT…probably because he used to own two sushi restaurants, one in Florida and one in NorCal, before he relocated to SoCal. According to my mom, Allie was a big hit, too, and they talked nonstop about her on the whole drive back with my parents. Mom emailed me today and said that Muoi brought her iPad to work with her to show off photos she’d taken of/with Allie over the weekend. Haha.

Allie: Look up there!
Muoi: Okay!

The husband is very insensitive with his words (both in giving and receiving) and I’m very sensitive with and to words. A lot of the stuff that he says that I bristle at, in the past he has told me he doesn’t mean and that I’m “supposed” to ignore them. But words have meaning to me and I take them seriously; in reverse, I try to use my words meaningfully with as much integrity behind them as I can muster. In receiving words, Mr. W is less affected, doesn’t find them particularly memorable (even when I want them to be), so he delivers his words with the same little intent behind them.

If I were to say to him something like, “You ALWAYS do this,” which he often says to me and would upset me in its exaggeration and cause me to fly into explicit examples to prove its untruthfulness, he would just shrug it off.

Sometimes he makes an observation or comment using words that I find inflammatory, so I’m inflamed. Sometimes I tell him something that I really mean and he blows it off, scoffs and pretty much calls me a liar.

He wishes I were less sensitive; I wish he were more sensitive.

I don’t know what to do about this discrepancy. Mr. W’s solution is that we just shouldn’t talk to each other.

I’m at the pinnacle of happiness right now.

Allie started to look a little spacey while playing around 9:10am earlier, so I took her upstairs with her special furry blanket, laid that in her crib, she pulled to her crib, and I placed her in it. She gave two small mews of protest without even turning around, as I walked out and pulled the door closed behind me. In the silence, I checked the cameras on the computer. She was playing and rolling in her crib, standing up here and there, and had laid down hugging the blanket, sucking her thumb within a few more minutes. At 9:17a, she was asleep. It is now 10:23 a.m. and she is still asleep.

So I’m on the computer, reading a book of real-life comedic bloopers in the utterances of politicians, kids, courtroom people, Mr. W’s been running small home errands refilling his hummingbird feeders and clearing out the freezer, we’re going to buy Allie a baby toothbrush for her 5 teeth when she wakes from this nap and has brunch, and meanwhile Rockabye Baby is softly playing lullaby renditions of Black Sabbath (one guess as to whose selection that is) thru our Apple TV.

BTW, Allie’s been napping that way for the past 2 weeks. Sometimes if she’s less tired, she’ll entertain herself in her crib for up to half an hour before she yawns, rubs her eyes and goes down for her nap, but this whole thing is definitely a back-saver. I was starting to get concerned how our nanny Jayne, who’s about my height but in her 50s and is much, much slimmer than I am, was going to rock Allie to sleep when she gets taller and hits 20 lbs. Jayne says she misses the rocking, tho. When she left to go home yesterday, she gave Allie a kiss on her head and told Allie she loves her. 🙂

Hubby is planning for retirement. I’ve been planning, too, but in an unspecific, nebulous, not-thinking-about-it sort of way. My retirement accounts and investments are in order and have been growing since I was 23, the Roth-IRA was begun when I turned 21, the real estate is in place with good renters in it, and the 15-year mortgage on it will be paid off in less than 6 years. But in hubby’s planning, he knows stuff like where he wants to live when he retires (Ashland, Oregon or the Big Island, Hawaii), what he wants to do when he retires (travel whenever possible for weeks or months at a time, internationally, depending on Allie’s school year calendar), and most importantly, WHEN he retires (in 5 years). This is troubling for me because this means he also knows what I’D be doing when he retires — at least, what he wants me to do. As I would be too young to retire and would be ineligible to draw from my retirement benefits, he wants me to simply quit.

This is many women’s Cinderella dream: to meet a handsome man, fall in love, have a family, and have him say, “I will take care of you financially. Just quit and travel with me and our child.”

I’m petrified. I have been financially independent since college and part of my sense of self, freedom and security are based on having my own money. I like not having to answer to anyone else how I spend, save, or invest my money and generally, I haven’t had any problems. I’m not irresponsible with money, and I like that I reap my own rewards that way. I don’t have to be affected by how others, even my husband, spend their money, and that’s a huge stress-saver in a marriage. To lose my job means to become dependent on my husband’s retirement income. He keeps saying that it’s “our” money and not “his” money, but in my head, I see myself as a helpless burden with her hand out for an allowance, sheepishly taking money she didn’t earn and would be afraid to spend without express permission for each item to be purchased. I feel small and powerless. Unentitled to an opinion on purchases or to have preferences. I feel like I should be calling him “sir” and hoping to please him so he doesn’t fire me or find a younger hotter model of companion and put me out on the streets. *cry*

Mr. W: Where should we go on vacation this year?
Me: Well, maybe —
Mr. W: The airfare to Afghanistan is at a nice low rate right now. Let’s stay there for a month during Allie’s summer vacation.
Me: Yes, sir.
*cry*

I know, I know, it’s not that bad. We’ll get to take Allie on educational trips, she gets to experience different environments which will open her eyes and increase her tolerances to worldly cuisines, cultures, and people. We’ll make sure she’s fit and ready to do the nice physical excursions, too, like hiking to the nice vistas, rafting through the rivers, and, just for me, running with mom at Disney races and maybe even a Boot Camp Challenge or two. We’ll both get to be around for all of Allie’s school events and activities, or extracurricular stuff. We can move to places with excellent education systems and not be tied down by things like commutes to jobs. I’m trying to get my head wrapped around this to be okay with the major upheaval coming.

A lot can happen or change in 5 years, I know. But I know my parents aren’t going to be happy that their only child is moving their only grandchild out-of-state. They’re already unhappy that we live almost 40 miles away from them. Ugh.

Rebecca said something the other day about making and reaching for your dreams. “Think about what you would do if money were no object. Make a list. And then make those things your intention. The universe will pick up on it.” I guess my nebulous “retirement” will have to now take form.

P.S. Did I say that Mr. W can’t wait and talks about retirement daily, and contrasted with his retirement dreams, current daily life drives him crazy? He’s eager to not have to go to work anymore, whereas for me, I feel like I’d be abandoning my judge. =/ I’m also nervous that losing my salary would kill our safety net and if Mr. W has an unforeseen expense come up, I wouldn’t be able to spot him like I currently am able to during property tax or insurance due dates. I guess that’s why we’re consulting with a financial advisor right now. I need a realistic picture of when we can afford for me to quit. *biting fingernails*

I pumped for an hour on the manual hand pump this morning. The letdown came at 50 minutes, after I’d gone from the left to the right back to the left and had already managed to extract 5 ounces sans letdown by treating myself like a cow with my free hand. My poor breast tissues. Good thing I started at 4:34 a.m. and had the time. Maybe I just have to get up earlier yet. I’m happy for the final ounce-count, best early-morning pump sesh in a long time at 7.5 ounces.

I have never thought I’d ever give my boobs so much thought, attention, or publicity.

From research online and from talking to my pumping expert pal, college roommie Diana, I think my problem with milk supply isn’t a lack of milk; it’s a lack of let-downs. Diana taught me how to fiddle with the dials and buttons on my Medela double electric breast pumps to induce subsequent let-downs beyond the first one, and I took tips from other moms’ experiences on online discussion boards such as watching videos of their baby, relaxing, rearranging the pump flange to get suction on a different part of the milk ducts. I have also been drinking homemade pork hock stew (thanks to my mom) for the past 3 lunches hoping the old Chinese folk wisdom for increasing milk production has some merit to it.

The first time I tried all these things in conjunction, the yield was nearly double what it had been (the first time, almost 5oz instead of the 3oz I’m now aiming for, and hitting 4 a couple of times after). I’m also pumping longer (about 20 minutes instead of giving up after 10). I even got a let-down on the hand-pump yesterday morning, the first in 3 mornings. I was optimistic and excited. Yesterday afternoon and today, however, other factors seeped in making my work pump situation no longer ideal. We were assigned an attempted murder trial, which before maternity leave would’ve made me happy. However, with my pumping, a trial means I miss out on portions of the proceedings while I’m pumping, and that I no longer have our jury room to pump in. Thanks to the generous offer by my coworker Erin, I get to stay on the floor and use her semi-private restroom, but that still means I have to run down the hall and pump in a room colder than I’m used to (which I’ve read does affect let-down reflex) with time constraints on my mind, which adds more pressure and stress which of course all help block the Baby La-La-Land mentality that is apparently required for my brain to produce oxytocin on demand. I also feel bad interrupting that courtroom’s personnel to burst in there a few times a day, and for taking up a chunk of their small fridge to store my milk and other pump stuff. I had hoped to establish better, more productive pumping sessions by doing all this new stuff until my body got used to it, so the timing of this trial sucks.

For those people who are blissfully unfamiliar with the processes of breastfeeding, the danger is that if I can’t drain the milk out of my breasts on a very regular basis, my body will think that there is not a great demand for milk. It will then make LESS milk. And if I still can’t empty the breasts then, it will think it’s still making more than is needed, and it will in turn make even less. This is the miraculous responsiveness of a mother’s body to the needs of her child. It’s perfect in theory, unless you’re a modern-society mom who works outside of the home. (Not that I’m not immensely grateful for the abundance of clean running hot water to clean pump parts, federal laws protecting my right to pump at the workplace without risking my job, and reliable electricity to operate my breast pumps, all free of charge, thanks to my living in a non-third-world country. Altho…if I lived in a third-world country, I probably would be nursing my child all the time instead of going to a job elsewhere.)

In any case, I suppose even if I dry up prior to a year and have to introduce Allie to dairy earlier than recommended by pediatricians, or have to supplement with some formula against pediatric advice, I’m still in a better position than the tatted-up guy sitting about 20 feet from me on trial for beating his girlfriend into pulp with a flashlight.