A Monster Has Kidnapped My Daughter

For the last week in the evening hours my once sweet happy-go-lucky daughter turns into a raging monster leaving me bewildered as to the next course of action. Fortunately, one weapon I have to sooth the savage beast is nursing. It is amazing quickly the crying ceases once she knows to latch.

One night while she was in the tub she began having the time of her life splashing in the water amusing herself. Like a 180, tore into tears fighting whether to come out or stay in the tub. Finally, realizing she was out of character I raised her out embracing her without drying her off and started singing. Once she was dry enough to place on pajamas we started to nurse and she was relieved.

Part of my daughter's irrational behavior was apart of sickness, however I think my precious baby is also entering into the tantrum phase, not to mention separation anxiety. Teething definitely seems to be a main factor of complaint. Sucking on ice through a washcloth is her new favorite treat. For other reasons, to quell her frustration she will scream in panic. It does not matter if her foot becomes stuck or she cannot untwist a cap or a toy will not sit perfectly arranged or Pandora Radio takes too long to play the next song. All of these examples have created a frantic child sometimes quickly consolable, sometimes not.

When Lucy first started to cry in frustration or startled it was pretty adorable. I could not help but smile as her little tears rolled down her cheek, her eyes hidden and her mouth wide and angry. Now, I have to muster every bit of self-control and patience to talk to her calmly. "No, Lucy. We don't need to scream. Let Momma help you." Taking the insufferable object away can cure the ailment. Sometimes I need to walk away and she soothes herself. Sometimes its best to remove her from the room and look at something else.

At 18 months old she is not walking and I have to think the lack of independence has got to offer her discouragement. But if I try to help her walk that can equally be as upsetting.

I do not want to make excuses for her and I certainly do not want her screams perceived as acceptable behavior. Finding a physical ailment, like teething or frustrated, seems like an easy justification. Still, what if I am the culprit? Maybe I have not been firm earlier in her development or she has seen me lash out and I am being imitated? If I am to blame can I reverse the conditioning? In psychology the big question asked is nature verses nurture, then I hear so many parents respond, "Its all nature." I want to respond, "You are in denial," because I am pretty sure it is 50/50. I say this because I feel very conditioned by my environment, so I may change my tune.

I love playing with my daughter and watching her learn or discover new information. Most of the day she watches or acts surprised or giggles or sings or asseses. When she smiles and waves at a stranger I think, "Oh good. Maybe I did not screw her up." Or after several moments of pointing with "THIS!" I finally convince her to say "Please" will actually accomplish the desired object.

There is a lot I have to learn. I feel bad my daughter is my guinea pig and hope I am not raising a little terror. I am sure I am being trained for the Terrible Twos and Threes. I just hope I do not snap, but continue to calmly reassure her all will be well.

Irony

While preparing for pregnancy I knew I wanted to breastfeed. In birthing class and a breastfeeding class I was reminded of all the benefits of breastmilk: stronger immunity, closer child/mother bond, better orthodontics, less likely to be obese &/or diabetes, decrease chance of cancer, likely to win the lottery, possible rides on unicorns, or so they say.

Well, I do not know about the stronger immunity because if there is a bug running around my daughter will probably catch it, as well as myself. However, I do feel I have a strong bond with her. My daughter knows mom is the comforter. Have a fever or teething? Then you better nurse with mom. Nature's best medicine.

My daughter started her first nine months as a chunker in 80-90 percentile range for weight. Then at 12 months she took a dive. At 18 months she is in the 3 percentile barely gaining .5 ounces with a three-quarters inch growth. I recognize my daughter is not a chub full of baby rolls on the thighs, but she is not skin and bones either. She has that cute little 'hang over the diaper' belly. I actually think she looks healthy. All the same, her doctor said at her last appointment "she is not going to starve herself," now says "this is a problem." Remedy? Pedicure, Ensure for babies.

Now here I have suffered chapped nipples and chewed skin only to be told she essentially needs high calorie excessive protein formula shake. Sigh.

Problem is as often as I have tired to introduce cow's milk to my daughter she has always turned her nose. Except chocolate milk. I have also tried diluted milkshakes, smoothies. Then her appetite is meager. A little taste here. A little taste there, but never high consumption of food. My daughter loves cheese. Can not have enough cheese of any kind, but I also do not want her constipated.

What do I do? I could beef up her calories with a lot of sugary fatty foods, but that is creating bad habits. I try different seasonings. We also move and eat, meaning I do not keep her restrained in a chair, but she is free to move as I follow her with a spoon of food. Otherwise, she she takes two bites and says, "All done." There is constant snacking, preferably high protein snacks like peanut butter.

The doctor's orders have been to only drink Pedicure diluted with milk. No water or juice. Then be rechecked in two months. I still let her have some of my water because I do not want her to loose the appeal of the flavor. We spend more time eating avoiding to rush. We need a full hour especially for breakfast. I mix foods. Since my daughter loves yogurt and cottage cheese I mix other foods with it. Such as oatmeal stirred with yogurt and ground beef combined with cottage cheese. She is also enjoying the berry flavor Pediasure. It is my hope I will have it diluted mostly with milk within a few weeks and her weight will progress.

If not, I have been warned my current measly twice a day breastfeedings will need to be discontinued forcing the poor child to drink cow's milk. I know the choice is ultimately mine and I have my daughter's best interest in mind, but I also feel like God has placed people in my life to offer guidance. I certainly do not want to place her in harms way to make a point. Lord willing this will transgress well. Updates are sure to come.

Shaker Village -Pleasant Hill

Being a Shaker for a day was pretty fun and educational.

The Shakers

The Prodigal Breasts Return

Within eight weeks of my pregnancy I had gone from barely a "B" bra cup to a "C." My husband who has always claimed to be a "Butt Man" now got to enjoy a decent "motor boating." The areola changed color, the nipple enlarged, and I felt like a tribal woman from the Shoka Zulu realm.

Then after my daughter's birth my breast took yet another transformation. It was painful enough having chapped cracked nipples from an unquenchable baby, but I dare not miss or delay a feeding. Like electric shock signaling a "Let Down" my breasts could become so engorged I inflated beyond a double "D." The breast could be so tight with milk I was sure to rupture. Then the best feeling of relief was thrusting the most engorged breast towards my daughter to allow her to suckle out the intense pressure. After an hour of nursing the once prominent breast could be drained to a wimpy size "B." My husband would get excited about my breast size, however after any hour or more of nipples covered in saliva tender from constant friction I gave him the stink eye suggesting that my once sexually aroused triggers were closed for business.

Has your mother ever told you, "My tits hang to my knees because of you." Imagine an un-inflated balloon. Blow it up then let the out the air. Repeat this action ten plus times and notice the balloon's elasticity has been altered. Well, I was told and read that the ligaments supporting the breast tissue suffer from relaxin during pregnancy, the hormone that also targets the ligaments of the uterus allowing them to stretch as the baby grows. The theory is wear a good supportive bra during pregnancy to prevent over stretching of the breast ligaments and you will not have the droopy chest syndrome after the child's birth.

HogWash!

Wishful thinking. Go back to the idea of a balloon. I may have contained my ligament strength wearing a bra at all times, but the elasticity of my skin and fatty breast tissue has been stretched beyond limits and unless I get the ole nip and tuck nothing is going to change.

Now after much weening I am no longer a "D." I have returned to my mere "B" cup able to, after two years, finally wear my old bras. Even though my old cup size has returned to me my firmness has not. I am squishy. If I want rock hard breasts I will need to have another baby and endure engorgement. But I am glad to have my small breasts back. Everything fits and feels lighter. I got my try as a busty woman and it just ain't for me.

I have a girl

One summer break from college I had a job as a counselor at a camp. Starting the season late for the first couple of weeks I was used as a substitute for a variety of ages for both boys and girls. For the remaining summer I was given 5 year old boys, whom I loved dearly. Though whiney they were loving, imaginative, adventurous, and trusting. I left that summer for the first time thinking I could be a mother, but only if I had a boy.

Fast forward thirteen years later my husband and I are in the imaging room as the technician moves her wand over my belly to determine our baby's gender. The technicians stops her hand and freezes the frame. On the screen before us are three bumps. I squeal to myself, "We're having a boy." Then when the technician announces, "Looks like a girl," I remember the testicles do not descend until after birth.

Originally, I did not want to know the sex of my baby even when everyone thought I should know, but my husband thought it would be wise to learn, so reluctantly I requested to know. It was good for me to learn her gender to work out my fears and doubts. What if she turns out like my sister, a prima donna demanding the attention of her audience. Or worse, like me, completely stubborn and bull-headed and entirely too accident prone. But I was able to use the next few months to mentally prepare myself for having a little girl.

Part of preparing also meant trying to be gender neutral, which in retrospect is a bit of a joke. Once people learn you are having a girl all bets are off and here comes the pink, no matter how much I communicate I hate the color pink. Trying to find pink-less without looking boyish is equally as hard. Then there are the handy downs. A friend of my husband's gave us straight up pink clothing, no other colors offered. As for the other baby paraphernalia gender neutral was accomplished. Car seats, crib, stroller, floor gym, etc.

Another part of my dilemma with a girl goes to back to the saying, "Have a boy, worry about his penis. Have a girl, worry about every boy's penis" I kept suggesting we buy a small island to start our on commune or purchasing a chastity belt. More than anything I want her to remain virtuous to protect her heart. I know all to well that compromising sex creates conflict of the heart. Yes, I want her to love unconditionally, but can I teach her that love and sex have deeper meanings than TV shows joke about or condone? Then came the anxiety of who do I trust. One in five girls will be molested seems mind numbing. Then get a group of ten women together and sure enough one, probably two, will admit to the violation. But I also learned of stories of little boys suffering detestable acts. Is anyone safe?

Then the arrival of my daughter came. The moment I first laid eyes are her is still vivid in my memory. There she was laying on my chest looking at me in bewilderment. She was gorgeous, absolutely beautiful. It seemed so surreal that blossoming tummy enclosed this precious gift now dependent upon my protection and nurture. All the uncertainty and apprehensions and unease seemed unfathomable. This little ray of sunshine was my blessing and only the best of care should I provide.

Now she is 18 months old and it is amazing how her personality has developed. I tried to avoid the pink, however Lucy's hair has been slow to grow. I can cover that girl head to toe in bright pink and inevitably I will have a stranger tell me what I cute boy I have. I buy gender neutral toys, mostly farm themed. She enjoys pushing cars around the floor and mimicking all the animal sounds and being behind the steering wheel making Roooom sounds. She also delights at placing an unused pair of cheetah pattern underwear around her neck. Playing with my makeup brushes. Cuddling her baby or her many stuffed animals. Turning anything with a strap into a necklace. Trying on all my shoes. Pointing her toes like a ballerina. Claiming all the pink items like a furry hat or her beloved "Pinky" the bear.

She is a girl, no denying that fact. My husband and I have different visions of what Lucy's pursuits will be as she grows up. The girl next door softball player. The equestrian. The mountain climber. The musician. The dancer. I am guessing she will be dainty, but a charmer to all friends or foes. She has a smile that makes you melt and a cry that makes me crumble. I will not be able to keep her protected from everything, this fact I am very aware. She brings out the best in me and provides a reason to be a better person. I know my best bet is to keep her in prayer. She is a blessing, but she is ultimately in God's hands, which offers me better relief than my protection. She is my girl and I love her very much.

Ouch!

Battling the mosquitos. We have to wear our war paint, calamine lotion. Too bad it's a losing battle, however Lucy has learned a new word- bugbite.

O' to Scout

It has now been two months since my CataWalker hound, Scout, was hit by a vehicle and found dead on the side of the road. I still cry when I find a photo of her. I will second guess myself when I hear a hound cry in the distance. Now and then I will find one of her hairs on the floor and question whether or not to throw it away. I went through the entire process of grieving her death: denial, anger, barter, depression, and acceptance. I still wish I could have her heavy head resting on my lap as I pet her soft velvet ears.

Another part of my grieving process was to find a replacement running companion and nanny for my daughter. We still have a terrier mix who is blind and over-weight. I try running with her but she can only last so long before I place her in the back of the stroller. With my dog's blindness I am nervous she may snap at my daughter's unexpected movement, like being grabbed. However, my husband has wisely asked that we not get another dog for the time being.

My remedy: volunteer at the local animal rescue. There I clean up poop and pee while getting pounced by over-excited under exercised dogs, feed and water, and if there is anytime left work on the leash practicing self-control. Volunteering has been the perfect antidote from adopting another dog. It also offers doggy and kitty exposure for my daughter. Secretly, I still look out for the perfect dog should we cross paths.

With the loss of Scout, I still feel the blame of her death. I could still have her by my side had I not succumbed to her begging to be released to hunt. I almost said no, then felt sorry for her. I once heard if you can raise a cool dog you will be a good parent. I once thought I would be a pretty good parent then as I acquired my third dog I thought less of my abilities.

Before my daughter was born I had a dachshund, terrier mutt, and the 60 pound hound. Not long after the hound entered the family the dachshund and terrier started fighting often leaving the dachshund severely wounded. Before my daughter's birth for my sanity and the protection of the dachshund I released her to my mother's care and has been well spoiled. The terrier who has always been afraid and snappy of other dogs seemed to settle down. Then about five months after Lucy's birth we discovered the terrier had lost vision in both eyes due to glaucoma, a disease that does progress before permanency had we not been distracted by a newly arrived baby. During a camping trip the large hound was segregated to a tie line while all the other family small dogs roamed free. Unexpectedly, a friendly unsuspecting dog approached Scout who tore into the dog sending him to the emergency veterinary. Scout had turned into uncontrollable monster on the line and the whole weekend was ruined. I had looked into dog training for aggressive behavior but would have to wait four months for the classes to start.

Reflecting on my dogs and their weaknesses and disabilities then considering I am a mother to a person I find myself increasingly inadequate for the task. I have not been able to teach my terrier to calm her anger toward other dogs. Consequently, the hound started imitating the behavior but at four times the size. I later learned that family did not want the hound visiting because of her excited puppy nature. I could never keep my dachshund protected from harm often receiving a deep gash or tear. Now the terrier, my last remaining dog is about eight pounds over weight, nearly helpless, and I often find her a nuisance. Why do I think I can be a good mom? Their quarks and now Scout's death makes me very leery for how my daughter will turn out.

I wish I could end on a sweeter note, but these are doubts that I hope with time I will be able to overcome. Surely, because I am consciously aware of my shortcomings I will be able to make alterations and be the best my daughter needs me to be. Also realize there is a difference between dogs and people, but.......

The lake

Balancing SUP boards

With a name like Spring and naming my daughter Lucille Rain you are probably thinking, "Oh, great! Another granola cruncher. I sure hope she can teach me some new yoga moves and secrets for cooking vegan so it tastes like real food." WRONG! I am no hippie, yuppy, tree hugging, pilates crane. To me, organic means oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen. If it is found on this planet it contains one or more of these elements, so that means you have the same chemical make-up as petroleum and Round-up. I like to grow and make most of my food, but cost is always more practical than purchasing "GMO-free" because it is a relative term and PR is always looking to sell. If I were not married I would probably survive off edamame, humus, cottage cheese, and blueberries, but I can always enjoy a good steak. I do not use weird substitutes like black beans, maple syrup, molecule altered sugar, or apple cider vinegar. Baking has calories no matter what the ingredients are so might as well indulge. I love having fresh farm eggs each morning for breakfast, but brown shell eggs does not mean organic. I have one chicken who stays in the barn all day eating feed laying a pale yoke like a store bought egg, where as the other chickens who actually scratch and graze have the deeper high-protein yoke.

All that to say, I am now going to enter into a stereotype. I enjoy whitewater paddling but since getting married and having a kid my paddling days have taken a sharp decline. Until my daughter is a little older I have been struggling to have activities that can involve her. I am able to trail run with the jogging stroller and hiking is endless. However, I grew up as a fish spending my summers at my grandfather's pool and I love the water. My daughter loves the water too, but at eight inches deep.

It has been recommended to try the new trend Stand-Up Paddle boards, SUP if you are knowledgeable of the sport, and it is catching like wildfire. Every major city has SUP rental at the nearest lake or river. Even when my family visited Alaska at the Turnagain Arm of the Kenai Peninsula SUP boarders could be seen all across the waters. So it should not be a surprise that the Cincinnati City Parks offer SUP board rental. This is where I took the opportunity to introduce myself to the sport while visiting my husband's family.

In case you are wondering, yes, I do yoga, stretches to counteract the pain in my hip/lower back, most likely due to toting a toddler. I have my own routine focusing on core strength and knees (an inherited genetic weakness). I do not know the official names of the poses. I aim at staying aligned and breathing. There are the warrior's and tree poses that help greatly with the my knees. The Triangle, Supported Bridge, and Pyramid poses help with my hip pain. While my husband and daughter are with his family at the park playground I have the opportunity to rent a board and have a full hour to myself paddling, stretching, and resting.

It is glorious. The water is completely flat without current. There are other people in canoes and pontoon boats, but I am the only one on a SUP. I use my paddling skills from rafting and kayaking and it feels effortless. I go in search of a remote area to practice my yoga balance. I am fairly successful though I did not want to rock the boat because I forgot to leave my glasses with my husband and I am not willing to risk flipping only to loose the set. A girl has got to see. I pass a father and daughter fishing and the daughter remarks how I look like a flamingo. I am flattered but find myself judging her exposure to flamingos. It is nice to feel every body part working as I plant my paddle into the water, turn the blade to a "J" and stroke again. In spite of the exercise I enjoy my favorite part is laying completely horizontal looking up at the sky feeling the breeze brush across my waist. My mind goes blank and I am weightless. I do not worry about what to cook for dinner or my barking dog or laundry. I am there and it is good.

Later when I return to the family feeling renewed I tell my husband having a SUP board would be a great asset to our pond. I hope I am convincing.

Most recently for the holiday weekend the family three went to the state's favorite lake for camping. On our way home an adjoining lake had SUP rental and my husband willingly agreed to spend more time on the lake, even if it was not jet skis. This time our daughter got to join the adventure. I am sure I will be perceived as wildly irresponsible taking a 17 month on a open lake surrounded by high speed boats and jet skis, but sometimes its worth the risk. The hull on these SUPs rocked more for easier turning, but far less stable which meant stand up paddling became sit down paddling to enclose my daughter with my legs. Once we started moving and I got the hang of paddling without hitting her on the head my daughter would hold out her hand into the water as waves washed over her legs. The one time I attempted to stand up she cried in panic so sit down boarding may be a new thing for us or reconsider a canoe. My husband did allow for a trade off of our daughter while I tested my skills standing up. Standing on one leg was less likely on a busy rocking lake, but it was fun to roll on waves and study how tipsy my knees would allow for me to be. Better yet, if we can find an activity for the whole family to enjoy I would be completely elated.

I highly recommend this sport and I hope to have more updates on my progress, even though I am not a granola mom. I am me.

Driving

I have been fortunate that my daughter travels well in the car. We have even driven an uneventful 16 hour trip to Florida. However, I still do not like to push my luck. Lately, we have been visiting friends and family and thanks to the interstate construction find ourselves stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. I take great measures to time my driving during naps so if I calculated a 2 1/2 hour drive, but turns into a 3 1/2 hours I am going to have a fussy baby.

My solution: the back roads. It can be a more direct route, but slower due to driving through towns or caught behind Sunday drivers or windy roads. However, it is the best way to see America.

The lands are covered in agriculture. Whether tobacco, corn, soy, or cattle it all keeps the country fed. Then there are the people. Teenage girls playing fat bat, men working on their trucks in the driveway, kids running through the yard holding streamers, an older couple rocking on the porch, a cook-out in the yard. Hundreds of towns all surviving and working together in community.

I have my map out (I do not have GPS because I am old-fashioned and maps make more sense to me). I pull out an old collection of CDs (again, I am an old soul) and sway to the rolling hills of Kentucky listening to Johnny Cash, Queen, Radiohead, Ben Folds. My daughter is sleeping, but I am alive soaking in all the sights of the different barns, old farm houses, run down towns, quant communities, church steeples, fenced goats, ballfields, fruit orchards, and drive-in movies. It is all there waiting to be seen. My gas mileage suffers. It adds 30 minutes to my drive, but if I can avoid feeling contained and herded I will gladly enjoy the scenic highways.

Camping is fun. Right?

Growing up camping was a major part of my childhood. Family vacations involved whitewater canoeing and camping. If we went to the Florida beach, we camped. If we explored the wild west, we camped. I was an expert tent builder by eight including set-up in the dark. By fifteen my parents had upscaled to a thirty year old pop-up camper. It's only perk was we remained dryer being off the ground and was allowed to haul more stuff. Staying in hotels were for rich people or winter travel. All of this was fine by me.

Now that I am a mom, of course, I my must expose my child to the love of camping, but our last two expeditions were not love. It was exhausting.

My daughter has camped before doing wonderfully. It was almost like she was a creature of the wild and her spirit was enchanted by her environment. She slept well. Was patient and enthralled by her surroundings. However, as my daughter is growing older her attention is easily distracted and consumed.

Our first debacle was a late arrival to the Cumberland Fall area, postponing her evening feed. After a stressful erection of camp listening to a panic baby scream in hunger my husband and I soon grew weary. Once coaxed with nursing the storm seemed to subside, but it was only temporary. The battle was lost leaving my husband and I delirious the entire day to follow. Lucy spent most of the night crawling over her parents, hog-tied to the breast, crying hysterically, giggling in amusement, passed out controlling all the blankets. (I dare not move her to obtain warmth.) We tried to recover with a scenic breakfast and hikes with waterfalls, but I was so grateful to return home with a sleepy baby increasing my chances of restful recuperation.

The second attempt was less coordinated. What was meant to be an early morning drive turned into an early afternoon trip to Cumberland Lake without any reservations. Being disorganized did pay off. We found a camp site at the end of a cul de sac. Then we went swimming, biking, and roasted a delicious meal. My husband was not willing to risk another sleepless night selecting his bed between two trees in a hammock. I determined to make memories retired to the tent with my yawning daughter and dog.

A night of sandman dreams could have been accomplished had two errors not occurred. First and most aggravating was our neighbors. They were composed of about three different hispanic families with three children each. The ethnicity is mentioned only because the kids are screaming in Spanish. The parents were very kind, but they set up their tents upon ours. Meaning with every sound and cry Lucy reacted. When nursing was completed she wanted to look out the window to wave at the other children. I slipped out hoping she would rest her eyes, but it took about another hour for the camp to grow silent. When I do re-enter the tent my daughter is wide-eyed ready to nurse some more. Eventually, all is quiet, but my dog reminds me of my second mistake. I have not allowed her to potty and at midnight she must relieve herself. I release my dog before I have found her leash and my shoes. This means she is following her nose into the neighbors' camp, which means I am whispering loudly and and grazing my flashlight to find her. Fortunately, she does respond to my call, but has she relieved herself near a neighbor's tent?

Two hours later, my dog is restless again. I reluctantly grab the flashlight and my shoes with the leash to let the dog go potty. While I am only wearing a t-shirt and flip-flops we tour the campsite hoping to find the perfect potty spot. She pees, but this time because I am fed up I tie my dog to my husband's hammock as I mutter my contempt. No sooner do I return to my pad then my daughter cries for another snack.

The next morning I am awaken by a particularly cheerful blue-eyed daughter full of smiles and giggles. How can anyone be mad? The dog, I found in the car. The husband is sleeping but later says he received little sleep for fear of a bear attack. The food is removed from the car, so the dog could not have an evening buffet, and placed on the car's roof. Though tired and annoyed, the wonderful coffee my husband makes erases my scorn. We pack up camp managing to have a memorable day.

My daughter seems to love the camping experience; to mimicking bird sounds to pointing to all the trees to playing in the dirt to eating fire roasted food. Lucy sleeps in her own room in a crib, so if I can just create that scenario for camping maybe there is hope. Whether I have a smaller tent within the bigger tent, let her sleep in the car seat of the car, or heavily sedate her we are going to have good camping memories like every healthy well-adjusted child is suppose to have.