Learning Curve

I like to think I have a brain cell or two floating around in my head. But Avery has proven that this may not be the case as she puts me through my first semester of Parenting School. My test this week in my Bodily Fluids 101 class is entitled "Be Prepared, Fool." And I failed miserably.

So for the first month of Avery's life, there was little to no spit up. She'd give a good burp after eating, but she'd happily keep all of her food down. But then to keep us on our toes, she decided to start spitting up. Of course, it's taken me awhile to adjust to this new phenomenon, so remembering to have a burp cloth on hand has proven difficult for my pea-sized brain. Alan has grown used to my urgent calls to "Get me something!" to clean up the mess. The other night when she spit up while I was holding her, he preemptively jumped up to come to my rescue.

I told him not to bother because she'd spit up straight down my shirt.

So we headed upstairs to clean up. She needed a bath anyway and I now needed a shower. So I take her diaper off and gamble on getting to the bathroom with her butt bare.

Remind me not to go to Las Vegas.

We get to the bathroom and it must have been the running water, because the little girl could hold it no longer. She had to go...and peed right on my hip and down my leg. What's another pair of jeans in the wash at this point?

So to make her trifecta complete, we wake up after a snuggle the next morning to her having blown through her pajamas and her blanket to get poop on our sheets. Add sheets and our mattress cover to the wash.

Little did I know that she was preparing me for the coup de grace, what I shall call Poop-o-Mania 2010.

We're in the glider, she's chowing down. I don't know if I heard it first, felt it or just had a weird sense, but all of a sudden I knew there was poop everywhere. I knocked Marti off my lap, stood up and well, Poop-o-Mania 2010 had commenced. There was poop on my shirt. Poop on my jeans. Poop through to my underwear. Poop on the glider cushions. Poop on the carpet.

The most impressive part? It's like she had direct aim. How it made it through her clothes (she was fully clothed at the time, long pants and everything) through the cushions and out the back of the glider and still had this sort of distance...well, that's talent.


I've also yet to learn that during diaper changes the girl will pee almost every time she feels the open air. I'm keeping Pampers in business wasting diapers. Also Dreft, washing clothes and changing table covers.

Don't let her innocent, sleeping face fool you. She's about to poop on me.*


*As I edit this I just got my first real smile. I will deal with mountains of poop for that.

Note: The moment I hit "Publish" she spit up on my sleeve. She's already cultivating a comedic sense of timing.

The Wee Hours

Sleep deprivation has taken on a whole new meaning. Avery woke me up last night after a couple of hours of sleep and we partied until dawn. Later than dawn, actually. She ate, peed, cried a little, and ate a little more from about 3:30 to 7 this morning.

In my sleep-deprived state I considered ordering a Magic Bullet. That infomercial just makes it look so appealing. But I finally had to turn off the television when the infomercial for a "man problem" pump came on at 6. Too much information for tiny ears.

But we prevailed. Avery finally conked out. And we got a few hours of sleep. I'm still exhausted, but this little grunter makes it all worth it. If you can stomach the baby talk until the end, Marti makes a grand appearance.

Happy Birthday, Martikins!

Little Marti is 5 years old today.* I think this means that I can no longer blame bad behavior on her youth.

As bad as she can be sometimes, she makes up for it by having the biggest heart and the most love for her humans as pugly possible. As I write this, she sits on my lap, resting her head on my arm. Yes, it makes typing take twice as long, but I can't bear to make her move.


We may have a new member of the family, but Marti says the more the merrier. And Marti will squirrel her way into any situation. No really—any situation. This is my view when I'm feeding Avery.

We took advantage of the beautiful weather today and went for a walk. I've got my hands full. Especially when I have to pick up poo.


Here she is, hitting the books. I hope one of these covers pug obedience.


Self Portrait: The Pug and Baby Wrangler.


*I had joked that if Avery went past her due date, she and Marti could share a birthday. As it is, they don't even share a birth month.

One Month Later

It's been a month since Avery arrived and we're adjusting to life with the little girl. Kitchen floors have been completed, appliances are now installed, and we're able to live a little more like humans. As human as one can be without sleep, anyway.

I won't say that I can't remember what life was like before Avery. Because I do. Lots more sleep. A lot more relaxation (although I didn't know it then). Quicker trips outside of the house. But life since her arrival? Lots more bodily fluids. Lots more laundry. Lots more laughs. And a lot more love. How can your heart not just explode when you look at this face?

The bodily fluids? Boy, you better watch out. Projectile poo can shoot crazy distances. And the girl has a penchant for what I call "free peeing," her preference for peeing as soon as the diaper comes off. This necessitates many an outfit change and many loads washing her changing table pad covers. I never knew that such a little person could create so much dirty laundry.

Avery also has a thing for making funny faces. We are going to have the ammo for a lengthy blooper reel someday. Take this cross-eyed glare, for example.

For the first two weeks of her life, Avery hardly made a peep. I don't think she officially cried until well past the 2.5-week mark. But she finally found her voice. And sometimes I think she's trying to reach Child Protective Services without picking up the phone.

Luckily, she's easily comforted. While she sometimes lets out a random, quick blood-curdling scream before passing back out a split second later, usually her cries are easily figured out. A diaper change, a meal or a warm snuggle is all it takes to make her happy. Or some daddy/daughter time.


Avery also makes friends easily. Like her bosom buddy, Minnie Mouse.


And Marti.


The Marti adjustment has been fun to watch. I knew Marti would be great with the new addition, and I was right. She seems to know that Avery is very important, and while Marti would like a little bit more attention, she takes being a big sister very seriously. The pug has always greeted visitors with a stuffed animal in her mouth. When Alan comes home, she frantically looks around for a stuffed toy to show off. Now, when Avery makes any sort of peep, Marti looks around for a stuffed animal and takes it to her. It's pretty adorable. Just wait until Marti discovers that Avery drops Cheerios and other yummy foodstuffs.

Marti Finds a Binky

I can pretty much bet that Marti is up to no good when she disappears from my side for any length of time. Earlier today I went into the bedroom to find her soothing herself with a pacifier.

This isn't the first one she's gotten hold of, but it's the first one she's destroyed. The funny thing is that it was in the bassinet, meaning that she was brave enough to reach in and get it. Or jump in and get it. Luckily this pacifier is one that Avery hates—she makes a scritchy face and ejects it every time we even attempt to give it to her—so she wasn't too upset about its demise.

Avery's Arrival

Throughout my entire pregnancy, I had a feeling our little one would arrive early. Never mind the fact that most first-timers go past their due dates, I just had a gut feeling that our baby would show up before September 11. Never mind that people told me to add a week to my due date so that I wouldn't be disappointed when she didn't show. I just knew. Mother's intuition.

I, however, did not expect her to arrive five weeks early. And while I'd joked about starting kitchen renovations late in the pregnancy, I didn't honestly think the little squirt would show up while our kitchen was totally destroyed. Just goes to show—I'm not in charge.

With our kitchen taken apart—appliances in the dining room, no floors—Alan took off work Thursday and Friday to start the process of laying down the floors. We headed to the Depot to buy the backerboard and tiles.

The plan was to get the backerboard down and be ready to tile by the weekend. We were right on schedule when we took a detour to go appliance shopping on birthday Saturday. Our oven had the minor problem of burning your freaking hand off because the door didn't close properly and then we decided we needed a fridge as well. So we purchased appliances, making small talk about pregnancy and babies with a delivery driver at the store.

Because we hadn't arrived at the appliance store intending to buy a fridge, we bought a much-too-deep one and had to go back to the store to re-order. As we were walking in the store for the second time, the delivery driver asked when I was due. I said "September, I still have a few weeks" and he goes, "Nah...a few hours." When you know how the story ends, you know just how weird this comment was.

So Alan and I get home from appliance shopping. I'm in the kitchen, standing in this exact spot, and Alan is downstairs. I'm looking for squeaks in the floor; Alan is drilling to get rid of squeaks in the floor. Then...my water breaks. Only, I'm not totally sure it's my water breaking. Did I pee myself, perhaps? It's 4:30. Let's just see what happens.

What happens is that contractions start. And I'm slightly confused. Because the contractions are anywhere from 4 minutes to less than 3 minutes apart. And aren't they supposed to start really far apart? And wasn't I supposed to get Braxton Hicks contractions first? And isn't the baby supposed to wait until September? Or at least until the kitchen is done?

So while the contractions are frequent, they're also fairly mild. I'm bossing Alan around, making him clean up our disaster area a bit (in case parents come to town), making him organize the baby's room (because I'd moved furniture to hang stuff on the walls). I pack a bag for the hospital. All the while I'm thinking of what I learned in our (apparently worthless) childbirth classes: "Don't rush to the hospital. You have HOURS of labor to go through. Labor at home for as long as possible. It's not like the movies."*

So we're getting all of our stuff together when all of a sudden the contractions are like, "HEY! WE'RE NOT MESSING AROUND!" And I'm like "Shit, these contractions aren't messing around. Call the doctor." So Alan does and we head to the hospital.

Alan gets in the car. And I just stand next to the car with the door open. Gripping the roof of the car. Unable to get in because sitting in the car basically sounded like the worst thing in the world for my uterus to do at that point. Also, I was feeling like I had to push, which I smartly kept to myself. Alan coaxes me into the car for what is the most miserable 15-minute car ride ever. I wait until we're two stoplights from the hospital before I tell Alan that I feel like I need to push. He tells me "Don't push! Pull!"

We pull up to the hospital entrance, jump out of the car and head straight to labor and delivery. I feared that if we parked, I'd be delivering in the parking garage. We walk into L&D, Alan supporting me as I try to walk, and I say "I feel like I need to puuuush." The nurses look up from the nurses' station with surprised looks on their faces, ask for our last name and direct us to room 7.

As I enter lucky room 7, I'm stripping off my clothing because the need to push is undeniable at this point. No "Hi, nurse, nice to meet you." I'm like "This baby wants OUT!"

As I get on the bed, I'm thinking two things: 1) Please let me be ready to push because if not, I just made an embarrassing scene and 2) Please let me be ready to push because I cannot take hours more of this. Thankfully, I was indeed fully dilated**, so with half an hour of pushing with all of my might, Avery Anne arrived at 7:09 p.m. at 5 pounds, 15 ounces, and 18.25 inches long.

After the craziness of labor, my only concern was that the baby was healthy. So it took a minute for Alan and I to realize that we didn't even know the baby's gender. I was genuinely surprised when Alan announced "It's a girl!" I think I would have been surprised either way. And really, I was surprised to have a baby outside of my belly at that point in time.


Because she was so early, she earned herself a stay in the NICU, so she was there until she was discharged on Friday. She had an IV for a day, was hooked up to monitors and got to go under the lights for jaundice.


Luckily, we were able to stay in a room on the pediatric unit just down the hall from her, so that made the extended stay a little easier. I have never been so happy to head home.

Now that we're home, we're settling in, trying to get into a bit of a routine. Mostly we're just trying to get a bit of sleep and soak in every minute with our little girl. She's changed so much already. She's got my dimples, Alan's chin, crazy blonde hair, the superhero ability to sleep through anything like her dad and the habit of sleeping with her mouth wide open like her mom. She's perfect.


Also perfect? My wonderful husband. I couldn't have made it through that week without him. And not only is he proving to be an amazing support and wonderful father, but he also finished those damn floors. And they look awesome.


*We want our money back. IT IS EXACTLY LIKE THE MOVIES.

**My discharge form says that I arrived fully dilated and gave birth within 30 minutes of my arrival to the hospital.

The Opposite of Nesting

Alan and I have been improving our house since the day we moved in. Alan is the driving force behind the renovations and updates, the Home Depot trips and the power tool purchases. I participated fully at first, when my energy was high, my belly didn't get in the way, and the projects involved paint brushes.

But then power tools and pot bellies entered the picture. My belly grew as projects grew increasingly more complex. I'm as helpful as I can be, but much to Alan's chagrin, I'm not quite as agile as I once was.

The lack of help from me hasn't stopped Alan from charging ahead on projects though. And I'm fully supportive because I know that once the baby is here, it's going to be a lot more difficult to carve out the time and energy for big home improvements.

Besides dealing with hidden surprises like The Plurb, and this stenciled mural, which greets us every day as we enter the house from our side entrance...

...or head to the basement...


...we're also dealing with real eyesores, like dirty, nasty linoleum that is coming up at the edges around the kitchen. So we've been looking at floor tiles, talking to the tiling guys, buying tiling books.

And we decided that now was the time to tile our kitchen. Nay, destroy our kitchen. Now, when we're less than six weeks away from our due date. Now, when I can't bend to help Alan with flooring whatsoever. Now.

But we don't turn away from a challenge or a deadline. We turn up our doing-dials and GO GO GO.


After pulling up some linoleum, we discovered that we have hardwood floors in the kitchen. Um, yay! A home improver's dream come true! We had momentary fantasies of throwing out the tiling books and refinishing the hardwoods. Until we dug down a little further and discovered that only the edges of the hardwoods could actually be called "hardwood floors." Because the rest? Completely BLACK. Black...like tar? And something had been nailed over them. And that something had been pulled up. Leaving nails with remnants of whatever material it was under the nails. Everywhere. All over the black hardwoods.

So tiling it is! And so the destruction begins.


I really was reading What to Expect When You're Expecting when Alan snapped this picture. He told me to look concerned as I surveyed his handiwork. I didn't have to try too hard. Marti is also concerned.

You'd think this would be giving me panic attacks, but the funny thing is that I was most apprehensive before the project started. I guess I now see all of the chaos as progress.

The stove, refrigerator and dishwasher are all now in the dining room. The floors are completely ripped up. The tile has been decided. Now all that's left is to rebuild. And eat out every day for a week or so. (Please let it be a week or so.)