Victories and Defeats

Once you become a mom, your life gets chopped into tiny, tiny pieces. I don't mean to say that everything you once were is now shredded and in no way resembles its former self (although that happens to also largely be true). I am referring more to the way time passes. Babies, it seems, may need you, or need you to do something for them, at any moment, regardless of what you may be doing. They have no interest in your agenda. The creature that is the new mom must evolve quickly to get used to the fact that any time she may be able to snatch from the grasp of her infant's perpetually clenched fist is fleeting. As a result, anything you manage to accomplish in those stolen moments becomes magnified in its significance. You might greet your husband at the door when he gets home from work with the news that you successfully peeled a carrot (an act that decidedly takes two hands...I know because I have tried repeatedly to do it with one), and be a little disappointed when he doesn't give this monumental accomplishment the props it deserves. You might collapse into bed at night, exhausted with all you have done, and then try to recall all you have done, coming up pretty much empty-handed. And then you remember that you failed to brush your teeth that day. Anyhow, it all boils down to a series of tiny victories and tiny defeats. Surely, "big stuff" will occur in my life again some day (right?) but for now, this is the kind of shit that is making or breaking me.

Victories
Let's discuss the most insane thing I've ever done. No, I'm not talking about driving through the night to see Punxsutawney Phil, world famous groundhog, while in the throes of a very nauseous first trimester, even after receiving the news (around Toledo) that my husband had just broken his kneecap in half. Nor am I talking about spending an entire drunken evening driving around Sheboygan, Wisconsin stealing holiday lawn ornaments out of people's yards one festive holiday season during my early college days. (Geez, that wasn't insane. That yielded a sweet little elf that my sister adorned with a sign reading, "I'll suck dick for crack," and lovinging placed on my parents' hearth when they were expecting 30 people for Christmas dinner. Grandma J has a great sense of humor, so she let it sit there for all to enjoy.) What I am talking about is the decision to work with phyllo dough when you have an infant to care for with no reinforcements. This is a highly volatile substance in the cooking world. Once exposed to the air, there is like a 45-second window before the planet drops out of its orbit, ending all humanity. Anyhow, I was deciding what to make for my work Christmas party, and I got this fucking crackpot idea to make these cranberry-filled phyllo triangles. I have like 76 mixes for dips where all you do is add sour cream and buy a box of crackers to accompany the shit, and no one would have been the wiser. But I decided to make these things. Phookie was (finally) happily nesting in her swing, and I uncorked the phyllo package. I proceeded to turn into a whirling dervish with a pastry brush, maniacally uncovering my phyllo from its subterranean nesting place beneath a piece of plastic wrap and a damp towel, brushing butter between layers, cutting it into strips, plopping a little nugget of cranberry filling in the corner, and fold, fold, folding those little triangles, all the while not fricken' breathing out of fear Phook would wake up. I swear that I did irreparable damage to my heart via my increased blood pressure, but those suckers got made. The whole time I was doing it, I was also chanting in my head, "I am insane. I am insane. No one would do this. No one would do this." Well, they got made. And some people seemed to like them. Big K, especially, and baking shit for his most giant of giant sweettooths is pretty much my highest calling.

Another victory occurred today with regards to Phook-toting. My physical therapist for my back recommended that I acquire a baby sling rather than a Bjorn or other contraption of that nature. When I first brought Phook home from the hospital and she was essentially a human gummy bear that could be crammed anywhere and was too tired to protest, I jammed her in the sling and we walked her around the block that way. Once she got a bit bigger and militant and I tried to put her in there, she just seemed really uncomfortable and got angry. So we switched to the stroller for our walks. The thing is, she does like to be toted. Curious and all that noise. So a lot of my daily tasks have been accomplished one-handed, with me carrying the Chub Bub with the other. (Hence the major accomplishment that is carrot-peeling.) At the aforementioned work Christmas party, my co-worker/bud Amy had her wee nugget in a sling, and he clearly dug it. So today I was inspired to re-sling Phook. I put her in on her back in the standard sling position, but she wasn't having it. I was sad. But then, lightening struck in my little goat brain, and I decided to just face her towards me in a seated position, and arrange the sling to make a little baby butt chair underneath her. Since she has the head control of a kindergartener, this worked like a charm. She just sat there, happily surveying the scene, all affixed to me and stuff, while I made Spanish rice, which I love with all my heart. This may have opened the door to a whole new world of productivity for Big W. And we all know Big W likes to be be productive.

Defeats
Since Phookie was born, I have taken 1 nap. I know that the postpartum period is supposed to be a great time for mother/baby co-napping, but I just cannot do it, what with phyllo dough to fuck with instead. Today, I was feeling really sleepy after wrapping up my first week of this back to work noise, and I decided that my list of invented to-do's could just wait. I snuggled into bed with my Phooker, offered her boobage via our newly acquired and ultimately restful side-lying nursing position, and we both drifted off into the wonders of a long winter's nap. Only it wasn't very long. I had just entered that happy place of real sleep when, of course, the phone rang. It was the Queen of Impeccable Timing, my mother-in-law. She wanted to know if I wanted a free subscription to Parenting magazine. I acquiesced and cursed the day she was born. Nap over.

Another defeat involved (nearly) crying over spilled milk. You guessed it, we're talking about liquid gold. The one downside of our new nursing skill is that it messes with my liquid gold collection methodology. I had always collected my surplus at night since the feedings were more spaced out and the bounty was more bounteous. In short, Phook got leftie and the pump got rightie, resulting in a nice full bottle of excess produced every night. Well, my lazy can abandoned that as soon as we got this prone feeding thing down. Hence, the liquid gold reserves have been dwindling. Knowing I was going to be shopping a day this weekend, I decided to try to sneak a little off the top at each daytime feeding in the hopes of accomplishing a similar result. Well, I had just successfully stolen about 2.5 oz. from Phookie and the bottle was on the floor next to my chair as she finished her snack, when along comes Uncle Growler. Before I had time to react, my carpet had drunk about 2 oz. of milk. Imagine my rage. Of course I love Uncle Growler too much to rage at him, so I raged at myself, filling Phookie's remaining meal with red hate. I will be more careful in the future.

My US Weekly arrived. I had not yet finished the previous installment of said beautiful tome. Now, pre-Phook, you could count on me to finish my US Weekly (and at least half a bag of chips) within 1.5 hours of its arrival. When that thing came, I had a date with my couch. So the fact that I actually got a new one before finishing the previous week's issue is kind of devastating. And let's not even discuss how far behind I am on Newsweek.

I am out of lunchmeat. I'll let that statement stand on its own.

So this is it, the minutiae that makes or breaks me. It is so weird how the smallest events take on such grand significance. Imagine what I'd do if something actually happened.