My Kryptonite

Ugh........

Mornings are not my strong suit. Never have been.

I wish I could be one of those bright-eyed morning people who accomplish everything by noon and quietly breeze through the rest of the day with an easy confidence.  But I'm not.

Despite ongoing sinus congestion and now a cough, Katie Beth slept alright between feedings last night.  It was Mama who tossed and turned from 3am until 7am until Daddy took the baby and sent her back to bed.

All superheroes have a weakness; mornings are mine.

I guess I got into the habit in college theater, and it suited my night owl persona.  Tech rehearsal till midnight? Sure! Strike a set and load out at 2am? No problem! Biology lab at 8am on a Wednesday? I'm the walking dead.  The problem with this habit is that toddlers and babies are largely morning people.  Very happy, hyper morning people who need sippy cups, diaper changes, and activity and need it all RIGHT NOW.

The only things keeping me conscious right now are coffee and writing, and the only person keeping me sane is my wonderful husband who lets me sleep whenever possible.  He officially starts back to work this weekend, and I'm seriously considering tying him up in the laundry room so he can't leave.  Not all wives are so lucky to have a man who does so much without their asking, and this guy has been invaluable the past couple of months.

So while Lissa the wonderful cleaning lady organizes the master bedroom and digs through my closet, I am sitting here trying to stay awake until the baby wakes up for her next feeding.  A good part of last night was spent thinking about that and being embarrassed at the thought of her tidying my messes.  But maybe it's enough for now that I work on the mess inside my head first, so that I can be there for Jon and the kids.  Maybe I'm not a lazy slob, but a sleep-deprived and depressed mother struggling to survive these early days. 

I so wish society would relax its expectations of new moms and more of us would seek help.  Most of the time, our own insecurities cripple us like kryptonite does Superman, and we become victims of our own criticism.  This blog was founded to fight that mentality of trying to be perfect all the time, so it doesn't do me any good to lament my lack of energy and productivity lately. 

Instead, I think I'll try and count the things I can do; change diapers, feed the baby, rock her to sleep, read stories with Evie, drink coffee, write, throw laundry in. 

I think that's more than enough to earn my Superman cape, right?

A New Beginning

Some time ago, I posted photos of three old recipe boxes jam-packed with recipes that my dad had given me at our last visit a year and a half ago.  They were recipes written and used by him, my Nana, and my Grampie over many years, and now all this time later, I'm finally getting around to testing them out. 

Since I had a rocky relationship with them most of my life, the ongoing project of cataloging and testing these recipes are a way for me to both heal and forge a new beginning.  And for the first experiment, I chose a recipe that promised to be both easy and comforting; Hawaiian Cake.

The card is written out in what is likely Grampie's neat handwriting, since my dad and I both have a hand that looks like a kindergartener's scratchings.  It's not nearly as aged or spattered as some of the others, which leads me to think it was only used once or twice.  Maybe one of these days I'll ask if they remember it. 

Anyway, I normally prefer to make cakes from scratch.  Something about building it up in layers of
creamed butter and sugar, flour, and other goodies makes me feel like an artist layering paint on canvas.  For me, making cake from a box mix is the equivalent of a paint-by-numbers kit.  But since sleep deprivation has me in a death-grip lately, I settled for the compromise. 

And in my haste to get the thing in the oven, I spattered pineapple juice everywhere when I went to open the can of crushed pineapple.  Compared to the mess I have to clean when the baby fills her diaper, though, it was small potatoes.  And I managed to get the juice drained out like the instructions said.

From then on, it was a simple dump and mix operation.  I could have fired up the electric beaters or used my stand mixer, but I needed to take my frustrations out on the batter.  So my pastry fork and I went to town, and in the greased and floured pan it went.

 I had to bake it a bit longer than 20 minutes.  In fact, I almost had to double the baking time trying to get the middle to set up.  But it did, and I set the cake out to cool for the next day. 

This next part I missed, because my husband graciously did it while I slept like a hibernating bear in the next room.  We were at my mother-in-law's getting ready for her birthday dinner while our cleaning lady was organizing the kitchen at our place. 

So Jon graciously let me sleep, and used electric beaters to blend the milk, pineapple bits, pudding mix, and cream cheese.  After spreading it over the cake, we both realized there wasn't going to be enough room to spread the Cool Whip on top.  So we opted to dollop each individual piece instead, then sprinkle with nuts. 

The final verdict was a big two thumbs up.  Icebox cakes are more of a summer thing, so this recipe will probably get an encore around Memorial Day or the Fourth of July.  Preferably with some barbecue, corn on the cob, and a frosty pitcher of margaritas.  Until then, if you need a mini vacation or a cake off the beaten path, here it is:

Hawaiian Cake

Ingredients

1 pkg. yellow cake mix
1 8 oz can crushed pineapple
2 eggs
1 8oz pkg. cream cheese
1 small pkg. instant vanilla pudding mix
1 cup milk
1 carton Cool Whip
flaked coconut 
chopped walnuts

Directions
1)  Drain the pineapple.  Add water to the juice to make 1 1/2 cups of liquid.
2)  Add the liquid to the cake mix with the eggs.  Beat well.
3)  Pour the batter into a greased and floured 9x13 cake pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until the middle of the cake sets (use the toothpick test).  Allow to cool.
4)  Combine cream cheese, milk, pudding mix, and pineapple and mix well.  Spread the mixture over the top of the cooled cake.  
5)  Top with Cool Whip, then sprinkle with coconut and chopped nuts.  Refrigerate.

Bread, Part One

One of these days, I'm going to get Evie to smile without looking like a deranged squirrel.  Until then, she's all too happy to pose for pictures while we're making a mess in the kitchen.  And since Jon's coming to the end of almost two months of FMLA leave and vacation, money is tight.  Tighter than Nicky Minaj's jeans tight.  So we're back to making our own bread.

I know it sounds like a crunchy, earth-mama task, and in a way it is.  What's more basic and comforting than bread, fresh and warm and crusty?  Not a lot.  It also makes me feel very sentimental, like listening to Jon sing "Diary" (by the band Bread, coincidentally) to Evie at bedtime.

Not long after we first got married, Jon found a book about making your own bread without having to knead, rise, and repeat.  He bought a pizza stone for the oven, and the next few months were carb-a-licious.  Since then, we've refrained from baking bread much, and instead use the recipe mainly for pizza dough.  The advantage here is that you make one batch of dough, and it's enough for 3-4 loaves of bread or pizzas.  Simply mix the dough, let it rise 2 hours on the counter, and throw it in the fridge.  No, really!

While the dough has no preservatives, it will keep in the fridge for up to 2 weeks, and by then it takes
on a sourdough flavor.  I promise, even those of you out there with no baking prowess whatsoever will be able to do this.  And it will taste good.  And it will make you want to make a big batch of soup or stew just so you have something to dip all that crusty goodness in. 

Especially in winter, having the oven on and the house smelling good smooths out the rough edges of sleep deprivation and toddler mayhem.  Any day I put on pants is a good day.  A day where I have time to drink coffee is better.  And the best is when I somehow manage to scrape together enough energy to get a pot of something good on the stove and a loaf of bread in the oven.

Since the baby's been congested and it's doubtful she'll stay asleep long, I'll save the baking phase for another post.  But rest assured, there will be photos and instructions, as well as a link to the Artisan Bread in 5 Minutes a Day website.  For now, here's enough to hopefully get you started with your own dough.  You don't need a baking stone right off the bat, and can use a loaf pan if you want.

Artisan Bread Dough 

by Zoe Francois and Jeff Hertzberg

http://www.artisanbreadinfive.com/

Ingredients

6 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose white flour
3 cups lukewarm water (not hot, or you'll kill the yeast)
1 1/2 TB kosher salt
1 1/2 TB yeast (any kind, I use active dry)
                                                       
Directions

1) In a 5-6 quart bowl or lidded dough bucket, dump the water in with the yeast and salt.

2) Dump in all the flour at once, and stir with a long-handled wooden spoon or dough whisk.

3) Once it comes together, it will be wet and rough.  Put a lid on the container, NOT airtight, and let it sit at room temperature for 2 hours.

4) When the two hours is up, either store it in the fridge, or go ahead and bake.

Just to clarify, I know there's a bag of wheat flour in the above picture.  Lately we've been experimenting with different ratios of white to wheat flour when baking bread.  Straight wheat tastes good, but it's more dense than Donald Trump.

And on that note, I'm off to finish this glass of wine before the baby wakes up snorting like a Pug from all the snot clogging her sinuses.  Am I looking forward to sucking the boogers out while she screams bloody murder?  Nah.  Not really. 
                                                               

Priorities

I almost didn't put this picture here.  I hate how I look in it; bags under my eyes, mess hair, and these faint neck-folds that can oh so easily become a double chin.  I was still pregnant in this picture, and Evie and I were tearing up the kitchen making bread dough.

But screw it, this is the reality of motherhood.

In retrospect, it was so much easier to make time for Evie before this baby, and now that Katie Beth is here, my time is stretched way too thin.  Lately I've been guilty of snatching what little time I have after breastfeeding, diapers, loads of laundry, and trying to catch up on sleep before Jon goes back to work.  Trouble is, that little scrap of time is usually wasted on Facebook or video games. 

There was one shocking realization tonight as I was putting clothes away that the only time I really talk to my older daughter lately is to yell at or scold her.  I seem hell bent on retreating into my own comfortable little fantasy world instead of staying in the moment with my family.

Don't get me wrong, it hasn't all been bad.  This morning, after two miraculous 3-hour stretches of baby sleeping, I felt close to human.  I was out of bed at 8, had breakfast and coffee with Evie and Jon while the baby slept on.  I didn't pick up my phone, and I resisted the urge to check and make sure Katie Beth wasn't in a coma.  We were just together, talking and starting the day in a way I have so missed.  Even before the baby, wild horses couldn't drag my pregnant butt out of bed until absolutely necessary!

In all honesty, last night was probably a fluke.  Katie Beth is only a month old, and I know darn well breastfed babies at this age wake more often to feed at night.  And thanks to my ridiculous breasts and their fast letdown, the poor kid practically drowns in milk at every feeding.  So there's the volcanic spit up to deal with as well. 

I know I had a resolution to write every day, but I have to confess that I've played hookey the last two days.  Couldn't even write down a recipe or a simple question or sentence.  Nothing, zero, zilch.  And while I've been busy with the noble-sounding work of being a wife and mother, I can't help but reflect on how much time I spent doing those unimportant things that really don't build me up at all.

Mothers struggle to find balance in their lives, and all of us need a passion, hobby, or focus that is just for ourselves.  We all need something to help us stay anchored in the beautiful chaos that is motherhood.  Some knit, some volunteer, some do yoga or Zumba, and some of us write.  One of the things I love best about writing is that you don't have to be a novelist or journalist to do it- you just have to write. 

So I'm done beating myself up over the last two days, and I'm still looking for my balance.  While I can't promise I'll never play Skyrim again, I can promise to try to live more in the moment with the people I love the best.  Sharing those moments, good and bad, on this page is a pretty nice incentive to do so. 

After all, you really don't want to hear about my dungeon raid, do you?

Don't Be a Hero

Boy howdy, this week has been a lesson in humility.  Whether we moms want to admit it or not, the first couple of months with a new baby is a parade of sweats, yoga pants, no makeup, and messy buns. 

It also goes without saying that dreams of a clean house go right out the window.  Aside from the occasional load of dishes or laundry, it's all a Mama can do to remain upright and conscious enough to keep the kids alive.  Ironically, in today's Superwoman-charged society, we also feel guilty for said mess and for not jumping right back into the swing of things with energy and confidence.

I've been no exception, and after some chronic sleep deprivation and anxiety, have accepted an increased dosage of antidepressant from my doctor.  I've also been semi-forced to come to grips with the fact that the pile of randomness stacked in my closets and cabinets is a clear representation of my state of mind- cluttered and dusty, and not something I can deal with alone. 

God Bless my husband for seeing what I've been too stubborn to admit, that I need help getting this house back in order.  I'm no superhero, not impervious to bullets or exhaustion.  So today we met with our new cleaning lady, and I think I'm in love.  Not only did she not make me feel the least bit lazy or incompetent, but when I casually mentioned I was being treated for PPD (Post-Partum Depression), she gave me a huge, sympathetic hug and said she'd do all she could to help me.

Now, not only am I okay with not being Superwoman, I kind of like it.  My support team has a new member, and I am tremendously grateful. 

All that's left is to cuddle the baby and pray she doesn't spit up on my last clean shirt.

New Year's Resolutions, Anyone?

Pull up a chair and a glass of wine, kids, this is gonna be a spill session. 

In the time since my last post, I have delivered a healthy baby girl whose adorable mug will no doubt be dominating the new Instagram feed to the left this year.  But I will get to that whole story in a bit, first I want to talk about that somewhat outdated, hated tradition of New Year's resolutions.

Having just had a baby, I'm in a prime position to take that ever-popular weight loss resolution, but I'm breastfeeding and hungry as a yeti these days, so I've decided no diets or weight-loss crap until at least May or June.  Or until the kid turns 3. 

Instead, lucky for YOU, my resolution is to make a blog post, journal entry, or make some small writing effort at least once a day for the entirety of 2016.  The idea being, of course, to put myself on a path to becoming a best-selling author so my husband can quit the railroad and I can be a sugar mama. 

So with luck, and hopefully more sleep, you'll be seeing a lot of us this year. 

Now, on to the juicy details of the Birth Story.

I won't go into the usual gory stuff except when necessary, mostly because women reading this likely already know what it's about.  Those who don't, well, let's just say there's a reason they say childbirth is a woman's battlefield.  It's a hell of a bloody mess.

Like I'd hoped, latent labor started the morning of Saturday, Dec. 5th, and wasn't that bad a deal.  I was even able to take a mid-morning nap through it.  Fast-forward to around 5 in the evening, and I could sense things picking up.  Contractions were still around 20 minutes apart, but getting slowly stronger.  Much as I love my toddler, she was too much of a distraction and went ahead to Grandma's while we called in my wonderful doula, Christina Winton. 

A doula is a birth helper, and while Christina is also an apprentice midwife, she stays with the mother through labor and delivery and helps both her and husband make things smooth as possible for the mommy.  Definitely worth the money, and a valued member of the team.  Christina was also able to monitor my vitals and progress, as well as the baby's, which was invaluable when it came to transporting to the hospital.

At around 10:30 that night, the contractions were strong enough that all I could do was hug over my birth ball, grab Jon's hands, and try to slowly breathe through it.  No talking or eye contact, just good hard labor.  I felt like if I waited much longer, even the 5-minute car ride would be too much.  I think at one point I looked up at Jon and panted, "You do it for me! I'm done!"

Up until this point, I'd refrained from cursing despite my philosophy that a woman in labor is entitled to say whatever she wants.  But after a white-knuckled drive to the women's center doors only to find them locked, I let loose with some especially choice profanity.  This continued when we pulled up to the main entrance and the night clerk made me check in, panting and moaning through contractions while holding my crotch.  He asked if I'd like a wheelchair for the ride back to the women's center.  I snapped "No!" and started off that way, to meet the nurse they were sending to escort me. 

In classic hospital fashion, as I was stripping and climbing onto the bed, they were pushing papers at me to sign.  "Have you done drugs in the past 24 hours?" Um, NO, I was hoping you guys had some!!!

They got an IV in,  but sadly, there was no time for those yummy pain meds or the antibiotics (I was positive for Group B Strep).  The contractions were hardcore by now, enough to make me yell and forget to breathe as much.  The pressure on my low back and pelvis was intense, and I wanted to push like a maniac. 

I should add that as an extra bonus, my OBGYN forgot to tell me he'd be out of town for the weekend, and we were waiting for the other OB, Dr. Rocha, to rush in and deliver.  Bless Christina for pushing on my low back to help the pressure and Jon for holding my hand, because shit was getting REAL.

First of all, because I'd gone from being dialated 6cm when we left the house, to now at am 8 or 9.  In less than an hour.  Second, because with each contraction now, blood was trickling out.  My placenta was partially abrupting, having a little bit still barely over my cervix.  This is normally an emergency C-section scenario, but with the weekend it would've taken 20 minutes to get the OR crew in, and we didn't have that kind of time.

Thankfully, once Dr. Rocha did run in (my first time meeting him, by the way, with feet up in stirrups and blood trickling out my vagina.), he stuck what felt like both hands up my cervix to push baby's head back in, broke my water, and said the magic word "PUSH!".

For the second time, I put on my warrior face, made a warrior battle cry, and pushed a baby out in 2-3 hard pushes with no contractions and no drugs.  Honestly, the pushing is my favorite freaking part, because it gives me the power to END the pain.  I don't know why women want to cry give up at the finish line, are you kidding me?? Push that baby OUT, you wussies!!!!

So, after 18 hours total, out came Katie Beth, and a little more blood, but the danger was past.  I didn't tear or hemorrhage, and she was a healthy 7 pounds, 7 ounces, 20 inches of squalling baby.  Apparently, she hadn't enjoyed the fuss either, because she made a rather sizable black tarry poo on the exam table. 

Since the first hour, she's been strong, alert, and a world champion breastfeeder.  We even had our first uncovered nursing in public at Walmart last week, woohoo!  Despite waking me every two hours to see if the milk bar is still open, we've all gotten to like the new addition. Especially Evie, who runs over to check on her little sis every time she makes the smallest noise. 

And there you have the story, ladies and gents.  We have our girls, I have my man, and today is the 6th anniversary of our wedding.  They say the 6th anniversary is Iron, and I think it's appropriate given how our bonds have strengthened.

Stay tuned for 2016, because life's about to get very, very interesting!

Happy New Year!!!