Late for work

I'm late for work. What is my excuse? Flat tire? Dog got hit by a car? Stuck in traffic? Nope. I have an excuse way better than any. Every morning I am paralyzed by the snugly bundle next to me. By the warm softness of his skin and smell of his sweet breath. By the cherub face, chin tilted skyward and the satisfied smacks of his perfect Cupid's bow mouth. By the sound of his rhythmic breathing and the occasional small snore or tiny sigh. Even when he awakens, I'm captivated. His big, bright blue eyes examine my face and a tiny soft hand reaches out to grab my nose or hair. His small voice chirping 'ohs' and 'ahs'. Yes, I'm stricken, immobile and completely at his mercy.

My dog ate my flanges!

Time for a little humor.

If you follow my blog, know me personally or are friends with me via Facebook, then you are probably already familiar with our dog Lily the Destroyer. She is a very sweet looking, demon dog who eats everything. Underpants, Christmas ornaments, pacifiers, you name it- she has partially digested it. You may not be familiar with our other dog, Bruiser. Bruiser is a loving Min-Pin that we got back in 2005. He has a sweet disposition, loves everyone and really just needs a warm lap to snuggle in. Although he was notoriously hard to house break, he never chewed anything.

One very busy day about a month ago, I had set my pump up because I needed at least one more session to have enough milk to send with Charlie to the sitter the next day. Of course, life being what it is, I kept getting interrupted. Dinner time rolled around and I still hadn't sat down yet! We where eating out that particular evening so I left my stuff set up, we put Lily the Destroyer in her kennel (since she cannot be trusted) and headed out for some 1/2 priced burgers and beers. We returned fed and full and I walked up the stairs to get Charlie to bed and maybe finally, get a chance to pump. At the top of the stairs, to my horror, I saw my flanges mutilated on the the living room floor and my sweet Bruiser, curled up innocently on the back of the couch. "Bad dog!" I shouted. Ok, don't freak out, this is really not that bad because just the other day I bought new flanges and they were still in the bag. Upon entering my bedroom, I discovered the flanges where not the only pieces he'd chewed. Bruiser mangled the valves as well. I didn't have spare valves. I started to panic. Who sells pump parts and accessories and is open at 8 o'clock at night? Nowhere in my little hamlet, that is for sure. So I loaded the baby back up in the car and drove to Target. Thank heavens for Target.

Here's the lesson folks: Always keep spare pump parts on hand and remember that even the most well behaved pet cannot resist the sweet smell of 'Liquid Gold'!

Hold the line

I hate feeling like this. So anxious, I'm close to jumping out of my skin. These are feelings left over from a previous existence when I didn't know how to deal with life. The jittery notions of walking out, slamming the door and running anywhere. Too scared to leave, too tired to run and too broken to be strong. I need one day, one day, where my Dad isn't gone, Charlie sleeps through the night, Mumbles' isn't being bull headed, my boss isn't a jerk and I feel connected...
Normal...
          Routine...
                    Quiet...

What to do? Say hell with it, quit my job, and start getting drunk at two in the afternoon? No, I don't have that luxury. Who would pick up the baby?
                                                     Take Mumbles to softball practice?
                                                                                                      Wash diapers?
                                                                                                                          Ask Micha about his day?

Instead, I will bite back tears, keep my butt firmly planted in this chair until four o'clock and busy my hands to steady my nerves until night falls. Then, when it's just Micha and I, I'll let it go. Tomorrow will be better. Hold the line 'til then.

The F Word

Before the whirlwind of the previous week, Charlie had been sick for about 2 weeks and I'd been battling seasonal allergies. Charlie went with Dad to see our family doctor for a regular check up and my little guy, who'd been gaining weight so well, had lost nearly a pound. We were supposed to take him back in 1 week to have his weight checked but the day I planned to take him in, we were driving across South Dakota. I took him in when we returned and while he'd gained weight, it was not enough to make up for the significant loss. Our doctor told me it was time to supplement with formula. There is was, that word. Just days shy of my short-term goal for Charlie to be exclusively breastfed for at least 6 months.

My first thought was 'It isn't so bad'. He'd only be getting about 3 oz a day/ 5 days a week. I'd still breastfeed when we were together. Then I started to get mad. There had to be another way. I'd resolved not to give Charlie formula. I'd make another way. I'll break my 'No Facebook for Lent' pledge to get donor milk, if I have to. For now, I'm working on increasing my supply and stretching with rice cereal mixed with my milk. I know a lot of Mom's don't like to give rice cereal but in my case it's the lesser of two evils. At least with the cereal it's organic and I can pronounce all of the ingredients, of which there are only three. Besides, Charlie is starting to show signs of being ready to start solid foods. It's funny feeding him because everything distracts him. The dog, sister, a noise he hears outside but once he spots the bowl, his eyes stay locked. Then when the spoon comes into view he reaches out to grab my hand and 'help'. Hopefully, the additional calories will add up to additional ounces and not more problems than they are worth.

Saying Good Bye

This has been the craziest week of my life. Seven days ago, I was feeding Charlie and got the phone call I have been dreading for years now. My father was in the hospital again but he would not be returning home this time. I called Micha who came home right away. We started packing and loading up the car. For several minutes, I walked around in circles asking aloud "Is this crazy? Should we wait?" We were about to embark on a 24 hour journey with a 6 month old at 9 o'clock at night. "This is insane." As we pulled out of the drive, I felt a strange mix of excitement and foreboding. Maybe it wasn't as bad as they said after all, Dad has been in the hospital before. Maybe we would get there and he'd be alright and it would turn out to be a nice Spring Break family vacation. Dad could finally meet Charlie and Micha and I could show them the state where Mumbles' and I were born and where half my heart has always been. Micha drove most of the next 24 hours and just before we reached Billings, I started getting phone calls. Today had not been a good day and we should go straight to the hospital before checking into our hotel. As we reached the Little Belt mountains and the wind farms, I began to cry. This was not a family vacation. We were going to be with my Dad as he lay dying. I tried to prepare myself for what we would see. Guilt crept in. I hadn't spent enough time with him. I'd been selfish when we spoke on the phone and his mood was foul. I'd held onto resentment too long. Fear crept in. Was he in pain? Was he afraid? Did he know that no matter what, I loved him? Had I told him enough?

What I remember about my Dad from my childhood is that he was awesome at playing. He loved sports and played baseball, basketball and was even known to have a pretty good golf swing. He was big and strong because he usually did physically demanding work but he was a softie. I can remember him crying several times. He loved the outdoors and was an avid fisherman. He didn't often hunt but he taught my brother and I to shoot on an old bolt action .22. Our summers were filled with baseball games, bicycle rides and camping trips in the most beautiful state in the union. He also loved history and the old west. Every cowboy, every gun slinger and every hideout, he could recount them all, despite never having been a very good student. As an adult, I know my Dad followed politics closely and was well versed in American History. Most people would've considered him extremely introverted but he loved to tell stories, anecdotes from his childhood and above all he loved to make people laugh. Dad kept his sense of humor to end, making a goofy face at Charlie upon meeting him for the first time. He was a combination of bad decisions and terrible luck but his intentions were always good. Often the people that he called friends, lived in the fringe of society and he too was not what anyone would consider main stream. In a world of technilogical advances and keeping up with the Jones, to say he lived modestly would be an understatement.When asked if there was anything of his I wanted to keep, it was hard to recount any 'thing' that stuck out in my mind, only places and things we did. I took my family to a few of the places I remembered from my summers there. I showed them the house my grandfather built, the place where my father had grown up. I sorted through what little he had, selecting to keep those things that reminded me of him most; a guide to fly tying, old photographs, a rock tumbler. I watched my aunt and grandfather as they scattered his ashes into the Missouri at one of his favorite fishing holes. Everything happened so fast, several times I wanted everything to simply stop. I wanted time to hold still. I wanted my Dad to open his eyes and talk with me for a few moments before he ran out of air or strength or time. Dad was 53 when he passed. It's cliche to say the good die young but in his case, it is the truth.

We're home now and I've had a few moments to reflect on the whirlwind of the last week. I don't think it is a coincidence that the same river that Dad's ashes are in, the river he was so connected to, also runs through the place where I now live. I feel as though I can go there and be with him, something that was hard to do when he was alive. Thinking about his life has made me more resolute about living mine more simply and with more purpose.