The Art of Doing Too Much

Saying there is an "art" to something implies a certain sense of grace and beauty. There's certainly none of that in this tale. Maybe I should say I've got this thing down to a science.

I am quite envious of moms of infants who appear to have reclaimed some approximation of their previous life-before-baby. Moms who have gone back to work, moms who cook for their families, moms who manage shopping trips or other outings with their babies peaceful and alert in their carriers, moms who find the time to shower and put on clean clothes before leaving the house... I can't even leave the house to run errands because it always seems to be a recipe for disaster. Still, I tell myself this is something I have to learn to do. This is something the girl is going to have to learn to accept. Life goes on, and it doesn't all happen at home.

I thought I had learned my lesson: no multi-destination errand runs with the baby in tow. No exceptions. Ha!

Last Monday we went to our PEPS group and had a lovely time with all the other mommies and babies. The girl fell asleep in her carrier as I was pulling out of the parking lot, which was perfect because I was hoping to run exaclty ONE errand. But, of course, I decided to Press My Luck: I had lunch at McDonald's, scarfing down everything in the parking lot as quickly and quietly as possible. No Whammies - the girl stayed asleep, and so off we went to the baby consignment store. I parked, I got her out of the car and in her stroller, and we were crossing the parking lot when my luck began to ran out: dodging traffic, the girl woke up and my cell phone rang. Oddly, the girl did not immediately cry and scream as my husband made his case. Oddly enough, I didn't scream either. Husband was telling me that my car tabs were expired, and if I could go get my emissions test today, he would go pick up the new tabs on his way home from work. The emissions place is in Seattle. I was in Lynnwood. With a baby on a 2-hour feeding schedule that had last eaten about 1.5 hours ago.

And you know what I did? I walked into the consignment store. I really needed a high chair, dammit. Of course, they had ZERO high chairs. Seriously? How can a baby store NOT have a single high chair in stock? Later. There will be time to ponder this later. Let's head to the Emissions Testing place, shall we? It's just a straight shot down I-5 and then Aurora. It's not a crazy traffic time of day. Why not?

And you know what happened? Traffic cooperated. The baby cooperated. The Testing place cooperated. There was no line. Husband calls while I am waiting for the car in front of me to roll out of the testing station, to tell me not to bother, that the place has terrible hours and will close before I can get there. I tell him smugly not to worry, I'm already there. I hang up. I pull up for my turn, get out and talk to the fantastically serene baby as she sits in the back seat. Life is good. I am an ingenious mommy with an angel baby.

And you know what I did? I Pressed My Luck. Again. It's just a straight shot down Aurora to 85th, a quick jaunt to cross over I-5 and then I'm at Husband's office, handing him the Emissions Test Report. 5 minutes, tops, and Husband doesn't have to drive all the way home before getting the new tabs.

And you know what happened? There is traffic during a normal low-traffic time. Because the turn at 85th is closed for construction. So there is a detour to 80th. Where every other person in Seattle who needs to get from Aurora to I-5 is now travelling. Where 85th has 4 lanes and stoplights, this road has 2 lanes and stop signs. And a break-down in my lane. Queue the baby to start screaming. Queue the mommy to start crying. I am the worst mommy ever.

I somehow make it to Husband's office. Have I mentioned it is a 2nd story walk-up of an old house? I load baby and all her gear into the stroller, wheel her to the stairs, unload all the gear onto myself until I look like a pack mule, and mount the stairs. I walk inside, put everything down, catch my breath as one of Husband's co-workers walks in to gush over the baby. Something inside my brain goes click and I stop breathing.

"My husband's car isn't outside," I say as calmly as humanly possible. "He isn't here, is he?"

Nope. Husband is at lunch. In fact, he just called to say he will be extra late getting back.

Don't panic! Don't freak out! Call Husband. There's no way he has done what you think he's done. Calling Husband confirms: he is at home, waiting for me to arrive with the Emissions Test Report. I inform him I will not be arriving anytime soon because I have to change and feed the baby. Co-worker takes his queue from my tone of voice and leaves us alone. I change and feed the baby bawling my eyes out.

And you know what happened? Husband arrived as the girl is finishing her bottle and he apologizes. OK, not for anything he has done. Because it's not his fault. It's our fault, together, for sucking at communicating. But he apologizes that the day has gone to hell, and he hugs me. And slowly, not instantly but slowly, things get better.

After that, the rest of the week was a piece of cake. On Saturday Husband remarks that I've had such a good week, after many weeks of bad days. And he's right.

And you know what happened? On Sunday we pressed our luck together. After a full afternoon of a Fall photoshoot followed by a walk in the park followed by a visit to Auntie's, we took a trip out to Granite Falls. We saw the Falls and then stayed in town for dinner. Where the girl had her first diaper blow out at a restaurant.

And you know what I did? I calmly walked the baby to the car (because of course all the diapering stuff got left there), changed her in the trunk beside people pulling in and out of the liquor store I was parked in front of, and then changed my shirt right there in the middle of main street Granite Falls. I was wearing a hot pink bra. There were teenagers across the street.

And you know what happened? I remained calm. I didn't cry. I walked the baby back to the restaurant, handed her to her daddy, and finished my dinner. I am not the worst mommy ever. Not even by a longshot.

Laughing in Disbelief

I've been waiting for just the right event to make my first post under the category of "Laughing in Disbelief". Maybe it should have been about the day of my C-section? But that was just too serious to be snarky. Today is so about the snark.

Yesterday I got a diagnosis for my newest Parenting Battle Scar: De Quervain syndrome, a type of tendonitis. I just woke up with it about 2 weeks ago, and it's gotten worse and worse. So now I have a diagnosis, a proper wrist-brace (my carpal tunnel ones don't do squat to eliminate side-to-side movements), and a course of action.

So why am I laughing? Well, the true title should be "Laughing in Hysterical Disbelief". Imagine my voice getting higher and higher, my grin becoming more and more Joker-esque as I relate this information to you. That's hysterical baby. And any time I am diagnosed with yet another ailment, I get a bit hysterical. Especially when pain is involved. Especially when this could be something I'm going to be dealing with long-term. Because I don't already have enough ailments for the Fates to just leave me alone? Because I don't already have enough places on my body with chronic pain? Because all of my other ailments being long-term or permanent isn't enough?

Yep, I'm hysterical. I realized I'd gone over the edge after reading this at Wikipedia:

One retrospective series documented resolution in 90% of patients within 1 year

The especially fun part about this? The built-in irony of the thing: caused by picking up baby, who will need constant picking up for at least a year, and the best/only way to fix this is by resting the tendon by not doing the things that caused the initial injury. So *if* I stop picking up my baby, I have a 90% chance of being better within a year.

Now I know why the Joker had that plan to infect everyone in Gotham so they would get his smile - he wanted them all to share his pain.

Oh, did I mention that the keiki is now demanding to be held 24/7? As if I wasn't getting nothing done already. It's hard enough to try to make a bottle one-handed, and now that hand erupts in fiery pain with most movements.

For 4-6 weeks. For months. For up to a year. (It depends on what site you read.) Unless I'm in the 10% who don't resolute within a year. What are the chances of that? About the same as being diagnosed with nerve pain in 5 separate, unrelated spots on my body maybe?

Hysterical? Who me? No, never!