We had to get rid of our dog, The Dog. My heart is broken. We got her two years ago, and she came with some baggage. She was a rescue, brought up from Georgia as far as anybody knew. Despite her baggage, I worked with her a lot. We took a couple obedience classes, and we had fun with it. She made a lot of progress, and given that I worked from home, she was a really good dog.
When we brought The Baby home, it was OK. The disruption to any semblance of a schedule was tough on her and there were some accidents. We got through the worst of it, but she was never the same dog after The Wife went back to work. She was always a nervous dog, with a little bit of separation anxiety, but it got worse. She'd overreact to movements and sound. This was all before The Baby got mobile.
So The Baby is crawling now, and she got underfoot while I was making dinner the other night. I scooped her up and set her down in the living room. She and The Dog tried to go through the door into the kitchen at the same time, and it was too close for comfort. It was like The Dog looked over and thought, "OH SHIT WHAT'S THAT THING DOING RIGHT THERE?!!!" She barked and nipped The Baby. Game over, no more dog for us. I called the rescue society from which we'd got her the next day.
I know we did the right thing. Hell, it's not even really a choice, is it? I love that dog so much. We were inseparable for the first year we had her. But I can't risk the health of my baby girl, and I can't keep the two of them separated and hope for any quality of life for The Dog, and it will be years before our kid (kids if all goes according to plan) are old enough to understand how to act around a dog. So it's not a choice. The Dog needs a calm, quiet house and a routine. We don't have that now, and we won't for a long time, if ever.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Thursday, August 18, 2016
So David French, How Strong Do I Need To Be To Be A Man?
You fucking idiot.
But I digress. I'm writing today, of course, in response to this whole diatribe of douchebaggery: http://www.nationalreview.com/article/439040/male-physical-decline-masculinity-threatened
Go ahead, read it. I'll wait.
Preface: I'm a liberal. I used to be an apologetic liberal, because the rest of my family leans more conservative, but I'm done apologizing. I'm a proud liberal, but I don't want to plant myself in an echo chamber, constantly listening to the soothing murmurs from NPR that tell me exactly what I want to hear about the world. I did that for a while, appropriately enough when I was in grad school, and then I started disagreeing more and more with my dad, who is conservative and leaning farther and farther right the older he gets, and then I realized that his primary news source is FOX News, and I thought, "Well that's bullshit. All he's gonna hear from them is the conservative view." And it hit me that me listening to and reading NPR and not much else is no different. So I started reading The Atlantic and National Review and The Wall Street Journal in an effort to better understand where the other side is coming from.
Most of the time, NR and David French are conservative viewpoints I can understand, if not occasionally respect. But he lost me big time on this one. There are many reasons that physical strength as a prerequisite for masculinity is such bullshit (how strong do I have to be to be a man?), but I want to get right to the point. I think it's this kind of toxic masculinity that breeds "men" like Dylan Roof, Eric Harris, Dylan Klebold, etc. There is no answer to the question of how strong a man needs to be. There will always be a stronger man out there, so if you measure manliness by strength, you will always be found lacking. To an insecure young man, that really fucking sucks. Maybe you've got understanding parents who support you through this, but maybe you've got a big strong macho dad like David French who tells you if you're not strong you're not a man. Maybe your dad is so macho he verbally or physically abuses you because he knows that's the best way to toughen you up so you can be a big strong man. Maybe you get shoved in lockers or pissed on in the showers because you're not strong enough to physically defend yourself. Maybe the girls laugh at you as you're walking through the halls at school because they found out the big strong macho men peed on you in the shower. Or maybe none of this shit happens, but you still feel horrible and weak because you just can't figure out how to fit in.
What do you do?
Thankfully, most guys just get through it, somehow. Positive friends, a hobby, burying their noses in books, listening to death metal while they scream into a pillow, whatever. But maybe none of that works.
What do you do?
What's the most powerful tool easily accessed in America? The tool that instantly equalizes all physical limitations, assuming you have use of at least one of your hands? If you're an insecure you man, feeling like you don't have a place in the world because you're "weak," what do you do?
You get a gun. Because nobody is weak if they've got a fucking gun. What's the most powerful thing you can do with a gun? You can take the life of another human being. Call me weak now bitches! BANG BANG!
Weakening grip strength is not what's killing masculinity in the US of A. It's this toxic idea that you can't be a man if you're not strong.
But I digress. I'm writing today, of course, in response to this whole diatribe of douchebaggery: http://www.nationalreview.com/article/439040/male-physical-decline-masculinity-threatened
Go ahead, read it. I'll wait.
Preface: I'm a liberal. I used to be an apologetic liberal, because the rest of my family leans more conservative, but I'm done apologizing. I'm a proud liberal, but I don't want to plant myself in an echo chamber, constantly listening to the soothing murmurs from NPR that tell me exactly what I want to hear about the world. I did that for a while, appropriately enough when I was in grad school, and then I started disagreeing more and more with my dad, who is conservative and leaning farther and farther right the older he gets, and then I realized that his primary news source is FOX News, and I thought, "Well that's bullshit. All he's gonna hear from them is the conservative view." And it hit me that me listening to and reading NPR and not much else is no different. So I started reading The Atlantic and National Review and The Wall Street Journal in an effort to better understand where the other side is coming from.
Most of the time, NR and David French are conservative viewpoints I can understand, if not occasionally respect. But he lost me big time on this one. There are many reasons that physical strength as a prerequisite for masculinity is such bullshit (how strong do I have to be to be a man?), but I want to get right to the point. I think it's this kind of toxic masculinity that breeds "men" like Dylan Roof, Eric Harris, Dylan Klebold, etc. There is no answer to the question of how strong a man needs to be. There will always be a stronger man out there, so if you measure manliness by strength, you will always be found lacking. To an insecure young man, that really fucking sucks. Maybe you've got understanding parents who support you through this, but maybe you've got a big strong macho dad like David French who tells you if you're not strong you're not a man. Maybe your dad is so macho he verbally or physically abuses you because he knows that's the best way to toughen you up so you can be a big strong man. Maybe you get shoved in lockers or pissed on in the showers because you're not strong enough to physically defend yourself. Maybe the girls laugh at you as you're walking through the halls at school because they found out the big strong macho men peed on you in the shower. Or maybe none of this shit happens, but you still feel horrible and weak because you just can't figure out how to fit in.
What do you do?
Thankfully, most guys just get through it, somehow. Positive friends, a hobby, burying their noses in books, listening to death metal while they scream into a pillow, whatever. But maybe none of that works.
What do you do?
What's the most powerful tool easily accessed in America? The tool that instantly equalizes all physical limitations, assuming you have use of at least one of your hands? If you're an insecure you man, feeling like you don't have a place in the world because you're "weak," what do you do?
You get a gun. Because nobody is weak if they've got a fucking gun. What's the most powerful thing you can do with a gun? You can take the life of another human being. Call me weak now bitches! BANG BANG!
Weakening grip strength is not what's killing masculinity in the US of A. It's this toxic idea that you can't be a man if you're not strong.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Sigh...
So much for my seemed-reasonable-at-the-time goal of posting something, anything, at least once a week. Sigh... Life and stuff.
But I was corresponding with an old friend of mine, a new mother herself, and she asked if I had any tips, since with my 10 months of experience, I must've figured something out by now, right?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!
The dearth of posts is due to one big thing and a billion small things. First, things are really, really, really good right now. The Baby sleeps great. She wakes at 6:00 or 6:30 and stays happy until 7:00 or so when we get up. Goes back down for an hour around 9:00 and takes a good long nap around 2:00. The house is clean, meals are still mostly cooked by me in our kitchen, the yard and garden are in OK shape. We're doing good. No, Superman does good. We're doing well. Thank you Tracy Jordan.
Anyway, when things are good, I don't write. I think I mentioned how there's no way to write about the joys of parenthood without sounding trite. BUT LOOK HOW SMALL THEIR HANDS ARE!!! MY HEART FEELS SO FULL I'M AFRAID IT'S GOING TO BURST!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's all true, but geez, let's try harder to express how wonderful it is, eh? To that end, I'm not feeling particularly poignant or original this morning, so I got nothing. Except when I look at The Baby and make her laugh, it really does feel like my heart is gonna explode. Goddamn I hate being trite.
I really did try to think about what I might've figured out though, and I could only come up with two things. The first is to do your best to live in the moment, because they all, good and bad, pass so quickly. The bad ones don't last forever, so don't let them get you down too much, and the good ones don't either, so enjoy them when you can. I've really been trying to appreciate how good we have it right now, because it's only gonna get harder, even if that too will pass.
The other is the idea of holistic familial health, which I've talked about elsewhere. I can't blame my postnatal depression on being so focused on The Baby's health that I neglected my own, but there was a correlation there and I knew I couldn't be a good father or husband if I was angry and sad all the time. I needed to focus on myself for a little while to figure my shit out so I could get to a better place mentally, at which point I was able to focus on being the father and husband I needed to be. I can happily say I think I'm there, but it's like a marriage - every day I need to decide to be that husband and to be that father, and it doesn't happen automatically. Wake up to find The Dog has peed on the bathroom rug again? I need to decide to pause, check my emotions, think about what I'm feeling, think about how I want to react, and then think about how I should react. And being pissy with The Wife is not how I should react. Well that got a little rambly and tangential. My point is, don't forget to take care of yourself if it's going to increase the wellbeing of the family as well.
That's it, in 10 months, that's all I've figured out. Oh wait - also, check the diaper for poop before you undo the tabs, and if there's poop, lay out your wipes. Because when you're trying to keep your little shit factory's hands out of their poopy privates, you don't want to be struggling to get a wipe out of the container.
But I was corresponding with an old friend of mine, a new mother herself, and she asked if I had any tips, since with my 10 months of experience, I must've figured something out by now, right?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!
The dearth of posts is due to one big thing and a billion small things. First, things are really, really, really good right now. The Baby sleeps great. She wakes at 6:00 or 6:30 and stays happy until 7:00 or so when we get up. Goes back down for an hour around 9:00 and takes a good long nap around 2:00. The house is clean, meals are still mostly cooked by me in our kitchen, the yard and garden are in OK shape. We're doing good. No, Superman does good. We're doing well. Thank you Tracy Jordan.
Anyway, when things are good, I don't write. I think I mentioned how there's no way to write about the joys of parenthood without sounding trite. BUT LOOK HOW SMALL THEIR HANDS ARE!!! MY HEART FEELS SO FULL I'M AFRAID IT'S GOING TO BURST!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's all true, but geez, let's try harder to express how wonderful it is, eh? To that end, I'm not feeling particularly poignant or original this morning, so I got nothing. Except when I look at The Baby and make her laugh, it really does feel like my heart is gonna explode. Goddamn I hate being trite.
I really did try to think about what I might've figured out though, and I could only come up with two things. The first is to do your best to live in the moment, because they all, good and bad, pass so quickly. The bad ones don't last forever, so don't let them get you down too much, and the good ones don't either, so enjoy them when you can. I've really been trying to appreciate how good we have it right now, because it's only gonna get harder, even if that too will pass.
The other is the idea of holistic familial health, which I've talked about elsewhere. I can't blame my postnatal depression on being so focused on The Baby's health that I neglected my own, but there was a correlation there and I knew I couldn't be a good father or husband if I was angry and sad all the time. I needed to focus on myself for a little while to figure my shit out so I could get to a better place mentally, at which point I was able to focus on being the father and husband I needed to be. I can happily say I think I'm there, but it's like a marriage - every day I need to decide to be that husband and to be that father, and it doesn't happen automatically. Wake up to find The Dog has peed on the bathroom rug again? I need to decide to pause, check my emotions, think about what I'm feeling, think about how I want to react, and then think about how I should react. And being pissy with The Wife is not how I should react. Well that got a little rambly and tangential. My point is, don't forget to take care of yourself if it's going to increase the wellbeing of the family as well.
That's it, in 10 months, that's all I've figured out. Oh wait - also, check the diaper for poop before you undo the tabs, and if there's poop, lay out your wipes. Because when you're trying to keep your little shit factory's hands out of their poopy privates, you don't want to be struggling to get a wipe out of the container.
Friday, May 20, 2016
Travels with Baby 4: Poopmageddon
Sorry for the radio silence. We've settled into a nice rhythm, and since things are good and mostly smooth right now, I've been enjoying myself rather than writing. So, without further ado...
Poopmageddon.
Last time we talked, I was telling you about the stress of traveling and the fear of being judged a "bad" parent. The important question by which to judge all travel stress is, "What's the worst that could happen?" Some may argue that a screaming baby is the worst that could happen, but unless you've got a colicky baby, it's more likely your little one will tucker him/herself out at some point. And if you're flying with a colicky baby... God help you.
I maintain the worst that could happen is having your baby puke or shit on a total stranger. This...didn't happen to us. So the second worse thing happened to us. Poopmageddon.
Our stay in California was wonderful. Nice weather, relaxing, and The Baby was pretty darn cooperative. We didn't really start to worry until the two days before our flight, when we realized it had been a couple days since The Baby had pooped. No biggie. She'd gone three or four days in between poops in the past, and we were confident we'd see some action before the flight. Day before the flight - still no poop, but still not too worried. Day of the flight - no poop, getting a little worried...
For some reason, I was still confident though that our beautiful little daughter would never do something so cruel as save up four days' worth of shit just to let it fly during a full flight. I am a stupid, stupid man.
The Wife is nursing The Baby when she feels a sudden and unexpected warmth in her lap. Her hand comes away smelly.
FUCK.
Our sweet little shit factory had given us a Level 3 Code Brown. (Level 1 Code Brown is a minor breach of the diaper; confined to the waistband and/or leg holes. Level 2 is above the waistband but below the armpits. Level 3 is armpits. Level 4 is neck. Level 5 is hair)
Thank god our neighbor was a flight attendant who was deadheading back home. She figured out what had happened and investigated the bathroom, and lo and behold, it had a changing table! This was the first plane upon which I'd flown to have a changing table in the bathroom. We took our little shit nugget back and worked on a plan. Onesie was a total write off - we stripped it from the neck down. I started grabbing handfuls of Kleenex and wiping the bulk of it off. At this point, I looked around and realized what a horrible, awful mess it would make to try to use the plane's garbage, which features a spring-loaded door that swings closed strongly enough to trap you like a weasel. I poked my head out and asked a flight attendant for a garbage bag. Onesie and soiled Kleenex went in the bag. Then I went to work with wet wipes. Wipe after wipe after wipe until they started coming away clean. All into the bag, which I then tied up. A smart man would've just thrown the whole thing away, but as I mentioned, I'm not a smart man. I'm a stupid, stupid man who cannot bear the thought of throwing away a five dollar onesie just because it'd dirty. Plus it has little popsicles on it! The bag came off the plane with us and I later donned rubber gloves and separated that onesie from the disgusting jumble of wipes and Kleenex and washed it. Did I mention I got the flu the day before we left? So I was feeling great.
So that was Poopmageddon, and is realistically the worst thing I can imagine happening on a flight. And you know what? It wasn't that bad. We got far more sympathetic nods than dirty looks (we didn't get any dirty looks as far as I could tell). The onesie came out clean, The Baby still wears it to this day, and I've got the perfect story for her wedding day.
Poopmageddon.
Last time we talked, I was telling you about the stress of traveling and the fear of being judged a "bad" parent. The important question by which to judge all travel stress is, "What's the worst that could happen?" Some may argue that a screaming baby is the worst that could happen, but unless you've got a colicky baby, it's more likely your little one will tucker him/herself out at some point. And if you're flying with a colicky baby... God help you.
I maintain the worst that could happen is having your baby puke or shit on a total stranger. This...didn't happen to us. So the second worse thing happened to us. Poopmageddon.
Our stay in California was wonderful. Nice weather, relaxing, and The Baby was pretty darn cooperative. We didn't really start to worry until the two days before our flight, when we realized it had been a couple days since The Baby had pooped. No biggie. She'd gone three or four days in between poops in the past, and we were confident we'd see some action before the flight. Day before the flight - still no poop, but still not too worried. Day of the flight - no poop, getting a little worried...
For some reason, I was still confident though that our beautiful little daughter would never do something so cruel as save up four days' worth of shit just to let it fly during a full flight. I am a stupid, stupid man.
The Wife is nursing The Baby when she feels a sudden and unexpected warmth in her lap. Her hand comes away smelly.
FUCK.
Our sweet little shit factory had given us a Level 3 Code Brown. (Level 1 Code Brown is a minor breach of the diaper; confined to the waistband and/or leg holes. Level 2 is above the waistband but below the armpits. Level 3 is armpits. Level 4 is neck. Level 5 is hair)
Thank god our neighbor was a flight attendant who was deadheading back home. She figured out what had happened and investigated the bathroom, and lo and behold, it had a changing table! This was the first plane upon which I'd flown to have a changing table in the bathroom. We took our little shit nugget back and worked on a plan. Onesie was a total write off - we stripped it from the neck down. I started grabbing handfuls of Kleenex and wiping the bulk of it off. At this point, I looked around and realized what a horrible, awful mess it would make to try to use the plane's garbage, which features a spring-loaded door that swings closed strongly enough to trap you like a weasel. I poked my head out and asked a flight attendant for a garbage bag. Onesie and soiled Kleenex went in the bag. Then I went to work with wet wipes. Wipe after wipe after wipe until they started coming away clean. All into the bag, which I then tied up. A smart man would've just thrown the whole thing away, but as I mentioned, I'm not a smart man. I'm a stupid, stupid man who cannot bear the thought of throwing away a five dollar onesie just because it'd dirty. Plus it has little popsicles on it! The bag came off the plane with us and I later donned rubber gloves and separated that onesie from the disgusting jumble of wipes and Kleenex and washed it. Did I mention I got the flu the day before we left? So I was feeling great.
So that was Poopmageddon, and is realistically the worst thing I can imagine happening on a flight. And you know what? It wasn't that bad. We got far more sympathetic nods than dirty looks (we didn't get any dirty looks as far as I could tell). The onesie came out clean, The Baby still wears it to this day, and I've got the perfect story for her wedding day.
Monday, April 4, 2016
Travels with Baby 3: What's the Worst that Could Happen?
This post isn't actually about our flight home, during which we endured Poopmageddon, which probably is the worst thing that could happen, but about the stress of traveling with a baby - what causes it and what I did about it.
I thought a lot about the stress of traveling. A lot. I didn't quite obsess about it, but close. I was afraid. I was afraid that The Baby would be loud and obnoxious. This is what we all fear when we think about traveling with a baby, right? Or any kids for that matter. I don't think these feelings will magically go away when The Baby turns five or something. So I thought about what would be happening if The Worst happened and our baby was the obnoxious one ruining the flights of dozens of people around us. What would be happening?
It's not that I'm worried about the actual health and wellbeing of my child. At worst, she may be obnoxious because her ears hurt, and that's pain and it's real and as a parent, I will never want my child to experience pain of any kind. But it would pass, and she would be ok. So I'm not stressing about doing harm to my baby.
Without question, we would be making those around us uncomfortable, and for that, I would feel bad. We might get dirty looks from people. A monumental asshat may even make some comment, maybe ask us to move elsewhere in the plane? I mean, let's be real - unless your kid actually shits or vomits on a stranger, that's about as bad as it would get, right? So I thought, "well that's not that bad." And if it's not that bad, why am I so worried about it?
And it finally hit me: the stress is because I worry people will think I'm a bad parent. I worry that too many people, those without kids or who were magically blessed with easy babies, don't understand that you cannot, CANNOT, make a baby sleep if s/he doesn't want to. You can trot out every soothing technique ever devised, and none are guaranteed to work. A screaming baby is one of those things over which you only have so much control. So I worried that if my baby was upset, people would think it was my fault and that I was a bad parent.
Once I realized this, it got easier. I know I'm a good parent. Some days I'm only good enough, but a lot of days I'm a really good dad. So I'd tell myself that and it made me feel a little better. And you know what? When Poopmageddon happened, we got far more understanding nods than dirty looks. Stay tuned.
I thought a lot about the stress of traveling. A lot. I didn't quite obsess about it, but close. I was afraid. I was afraid that The Baby would be loud and obnoxious. This is what we all fear when we think about traveling with a baby, right? Or any kids for that matter. I don't think these feelings will magically go away when The Baby turns five or something. So I thought about what would be happening if The Worst happened and our baby was the obnoxious one ruining the flights of dozens of people around us. What would be happening?
It's not that I'm worried about the actual health and wellbeing of my child. At worst, she may be obnoxious because her ears hurt, and that's pain and it's real and as a parent, I will never want my child to experience pain of any kind. But it would pass, and she would be ok. So I'm not stressing about doing harm to my baby.
Without question, we would be making those around us uncomfortable, and for that, I would feel bad. We might get dirty looks from people. A monumental asshat may even make some comment, maybe ask us to move elsewhere in the plane? I mean, let's be real - unless your kid actually shits or vomits on a stranger, that's about as bad as it would get, right? So I thought, "well that's not that bad." And if it's not that bad, why am I so worried about it?
And it finally hit me: the stress is because I worry people will think I'm a bad parent. I worry that too many people, those without kids or who were magically blessed with easy babies, don't understand that you cannot, CANNOT, make a baby sleep if s/he doesn't want to. You can trot out every soothing technique ever devised, and none are guaranteed to work. A screaming baby is one of those things over which you only have so much control. So I worried that if my baby was upset, people would think it was my fault and that I was a bad parent.
Once I realized this, it got easier. I know I'm a good parent. Some days I'm only good enough, but a lot of days I'm a really good dad. So I'd tell myself that and it made me feel a little better. And you know what? When Poopmageddon happened, we got far more understanding nods than dirty looks. Stay tuned.
Friday, April 1, 2016
"A Good Father Would..."
Or, "a good husband would..." or, "a good dog owner would..."
Pausing my sure-to-be-award-winning series on traveling with baby because yesterday was Not A Good Day, which is not as bad as a Bad Day, but on that end of the spectrum. The Baby has been...off...this week, which is to say she went from being a really easy, predictable baby to being a little less easy. Nap times are off, nap quality is off, and she's been eating a TON. We assume she's gearing herself up to do something amazing.
Coincidental with that is The Wife is working one of her most demanding rotations. Without a fair amount of effort on our part, it would be very easy for her to see The Baby for 10 minutes in the morning. And that would be it. 10 minutes a day. I know for some that's just reality (and if that's you, I feel for you; there is nothing easy about it), but with some effort, we can make lunch visits work, and with a lot of effort, she can sometimes make it home for bedtime. This week, we tried getting The Baby up a little earlier so she could breastfeed. Normally we are absolute, no-holds-barred, over-my-dead-body strict about never waking a sleeping baby, but with the scheduling demands this week and since The Baby usually sleeps fitfully at best starting at about 5:30am, we decided it was worth a try.
So yesterday we got The Baby up at 6:00. She's usually good for an hour to an hour and a half before her first nap. Yesterday, I pushed it to 7:45. A good nap is an hour and a half to two hours. A bad nap is 30 minutes. First nap was a bad nap. No biggie. I'm proud to say I no longer live and die by the quality of any single nap on a given day. We got up, ate, and as expected, she faded faster than normal and was looking for nap two way early. On a normal day, nap two starts any time between 11:00 and noon. Yesterday I put her down at 10:00 or so, confident that as tired as she was, this would be a good, long nap.
It wasn't.
Nap two was also a bad nap. So now we're way ahead of schedule and while I'm not worried, I'm thinking about it. We run some errands, walk the dog, and I'm hoping that she gets back on track with nap three. Nap three is actually pretty good, but not good enough. She wakes from nap three at 3:00pm, which puts me right in the proverbial pickle. There's no way she'll make it to our desired bedtime of 6:00-6:30 without some kind of a cat nap, but she won't be tired until 4:30 or 5:00, which is a pretty late nap. No matter. Yesterday's motto was, "we do what we gotta do." So I put her down for a fourth nap at 4:30 and got her back up from that at 5:15 or so, hoping that it would keep her happy until 6:30 which would increase the odds that The Wife could make it home in time to say goodnight.
Not happening.
By 5:45 it was clear bedtime was going to be 6:00 or I would be in danger of putting my head through a wall. So mom doesn't get to say goodnight, which sucks and which makes me feel bad, The Baby is losing her shit, and when the baby loses her shit, it makes The Dog lose her shit, and when The Baby and The Dog lose their shit, it means I'm hanging on by a tiny little shred of sanity.
I lost it a little and yelled at the dog. She's a sweet, spunky little rescue dog and she's sensitive, so her tail goes between her legs and she starts trying to crawl under the furniture. I instantly hate myself for this. There are dozens of potential ways of handling a stressful situation like this one, but losing your cool and yelling is probably among the worst.
I start slipping into my shame spiral. A good father would've had his daughter in bed before she lost her shit. A good husband wouldn't have watched TV while The Baby napped; he would've finally gotten around to cleaning the floors. A good pet owner would not have yelled at the dog. And so on.
I've talked with my therapist about these feelings, because they're there a lot. Being a good husband, a good father, a good dog owner, and a good caretaker... These responsibilities are not only my job right now; they are, according to my opinion, the most important responsibilities I've ever had. Failure is not an option. We may dig into this more deeply in a future post, but when I envisioned being the SAHD, I pictured being the perfect SAHD. I would keep a spotless house. The dog would get at least two walks a day. The Baby would be happy, healthy, stimulated, and hitting every milestone. There would be a hot meal ready when The Wife got home every night, or at least tasty leftovers. When I write it out or say it, I hear how ridiculous it is. It's just not realistic. But I'm having a really hard time letting that ideal go. I need to get comfortable with the idea that I don't need to be a perfect SAHD. I need to be a good-enough SAHD, and for now, I am.
Pausing my sure-to-be-award-winning series on traveling with baby because yesterday was Not A Good Day, which is not as bad as a Bad Day, but on that end of the spectrum. The Baby has been...off...this week, which is to say she went from being a really easy, predictable baby to being a little less easy. Nap times are off, nap quality is off, and she's been eating a TON. We assume she's gearing herself up to do something amazing.
Coincidental with that is The Wife is working one of her most demanding rotations. Without a fair amount of effort on our part, it would be very easy for her to see The Baby for 10 minutes in the morning. And that would be it. 10 minutes a day. I know for some that's just reality (and if that's you, I feel for you; there is nothing easy about it), but with some effort, we can make lunch visits work, and with a lot of effort, she can sometimes make it home for bedtime. This week, we tried getting The Baby up a little earlier so she could breastfeed. Normally we are absolute, no-holds-barred, over-my-dead-body strict about never waking a sleeping baby, but with the scheduling demands this week and since The Baby usually sleeps fitfully at best starting at about 5:30am, we decided it was worth a try.
So yesterday we got The Baby up at 6:00. She's usually good for an hour to an hour and a half before her first nap. Yesterday, I pushed it to 7:45. A good nap is an hour and a half to two hours. A bad nap is 30 minutes. First nap was a bad nap. No biggie. I'm proud to say I no longer live and die by the quality of any single nap on a given day. We got up, ate, and as expected, she faded faster than normal and was looking for nap two way early. On a normal day, nap two starts any time between 11:00 and noon. Yesterday I put her down at 10:00 or so, confident that as tired as she was, this would be a good, long nap.
It wasn't.
Nap two was also a bad nap. So now we're way ahead of schedule and while I'm not worried, I'm thinking about it. We run some errands, walk the dog, and I'm hoping that she gets back on track with nap three. Nap three is actually pretty good, but not good enough. She wakes from nap three at 3:00pm, which puts me right in the proverbial pickle. There's no way she'll make it to our desired bedtime of 6:00-6:30 without some kind of a cat nap, but she won't be tired until 4:30 or 5:00, which is a pretty late nap. No matter. Yesterday's motto was, "we do what we gotta do." So I put her down for a fourth nap at 4:30 and got her back up from that at 5:15 or so, hoping that it would keep her happy until 6:30 which would increase the odds that The Wife could make it home in time to say goodnight.
Not happening.
By 5:45 it was clear bedtime was going to be 6:00 or I would be in danger of putting my head through a wall. So mom doesn't get to say goodnight, which sucks and which makes me feel bad, The Baby is losing her shit, and when the baby loses her shit, it makes The Dog lose her shit, and when The Baby and The Dog lose their shit, it means I'm hanging on by a tiny little shred of sanity.
I lost it a little and yelled at the dog. She's a sweet, spunky little rescue dog and she's sensitive, so her tail goes between her legs and she starts trying to crawl under the furniture. I instantly hate myself for this. There are dozens of potential ways of handling a stressful situation like this one, but losing your cool and yelling is probably among the worst.
I start slipping into my shame spiral. A good father would've had his daughter in bed before she lost her shit. A good husband wouldn't have watched TV while The Baby napped; he would've finally gotten around to cleaning the floors. A good pet owner would not have yelled at the dog. And so on.
I've talked with my therapist about these feelings, because they're there a lot. Being a good husband, a good father, a good dog owner, and a good caretaker... These responsibilities are not only my job right now; they are, according to my opinion, the most important responsibilities I've ever had. Failure is not an option. We may dig into this more deeply in a future post, but when I envisioned being the SAHD, I pictured being the perfect SAHD. I would keep a spotless house. The dog would get at least two walks a day. The Baby would be happy, healthy, stimulated, and hitting every milestone. There would be a hot meal ready when The Wife got home every night, or at least tasty leftovers. When I write it out or say it, I hear how ridiculous it is. It's just not realistic. But I'm having a really hard time letting that ideal go. I need to get comfortable with the idea that I don't need to be a perfect SAHD. I need to be a good-enough SAHD, and for now, I am.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Travels with Baby 2: Baby in a Hotel
Baby's first flight was OK. Thanks to the easy availability of food and comfort in the form of breastfeeding and some work on my part shushing and bouncing her, she stayed mostly quiet and even slept a little bit. If you want to be realistic, I think that's about as good as you can hope for. That's certainly as good as you can expect. If it goes more smoothly than that, good for you. And of course, this experience will be vastly different given even a month's difference in age (The Baby was 5 1/2 months old for this trip).
We arrived in San Diego, put The Baby into the carrier, collected our bags, made it to the rental car place, got the car seat installed and made our way to the hotel, all without incident other than at this point The Baby is about four hours behind on sleep. She was more or less delirious, but she was hanging on and being a pretty good sport about it. She would've fallen asleep in the car, but the hotel was really close, so she didn't have much of a chance.
As soon as we got to the hotel, we called down to have them send up a pack and play.
Tip #5: Call the hotel and tell them you'll be staying with an infant. Most will have pack and plays and other infant products that guests can use for free. We'd planned to rent a pack and play until a friend told us to talk to the hotel. Easy peasy.
Here's a tough question then, assuming you're not staying in a suite: where do you put the pack and play? If you put it in the bedroom, you're consigning yourself to many hours of sitting in the dark reading quietly. Or you can do like we did and put it in the bathroom. Problem there is... What do you do when you need to get ready for bed or take a poo yourself? On the balance, I think the bathroom is the smarter move, but you literally need to be more prepared. Before putting baby down for a nap, make sure you've done your business. At night, before you put baby down, plan it out so you have access to your bedtime products in the bedroom so you can pop into and out of the bathroom as quickly and quietly as possible so as to disturb baby as much as possible.
There is a third possibility depending on your hotel room: if the closet is big enough, you can put baby in there. This would be the best option, providing a quiet, dark place for baby while still giving you access to the bathroom. The closet in our room wasn't big enough for us to be comfortable with this, and it may sound strange, but remember what makes for a good place to sleep - quiet and dark. Closets are good for that.
The next few days, while not as relaxing as a pre-baby vacation would've been, were really pretty smooth. We did our best to respect The Baby's sleep schedule.
Tip #6: Respect your baby's sleep schedule. I know, I know. There are all these fun distractions right next to your hotel, and it's so easy to pop over for an appetizer or a drink or whatever. You know what you're like when you're tired, and you know what your baby is like when he/she's tired. If you want to push it, that's your business, but prepare yourself to deal with a tired, cranky baby. For us, it has as much to do with "doing what's best for baby" as "just not wanting to deal with a crabby little shit while in public." We pushed it one night. There was a good Mexican restaurant across the street. We thought we could put in an order to go and enjoy a quick beer while we waited for the food. We ended up tag-teaming The Baby; while one of us sat nervously at the bar, drinking alone, the other walked around outside the restaurant doing our best to keep her quiet. Just the kind of night you look forward to on vacation! You can respect the schedule without being a slave to it.
I thought I'd get to thoughts on Being Thought a Bad Parent, but this ran on longer than expected. Next time. Also, stay tuned for Poopmageddon!
We arrived in San Diego, put The Baby into the carrier, collected our bags, made it to the rental car place, got the car seat installed and made our way to the hotel, all without incident other than at this point The Baby is about four hours behind on sleep. She was more or less delirious, but she was hanging on and being a pretty good sport about it. She would've fallen asleep in the car, but the hotel was really close, so she didn't have much of a chance.
As soon as we got to the hotel, we called down to have them send up a pack and play.
Tip #5: Call the hotel and tell them you'll be staying with an infant. Most will have pack and plays and other infant products that guests can use for free. We'd planned to rent a pack and play until a friend told us to talk to the hotel. Easy peasy.
Here's a tough question then, assuming you're not staying in a suite: where do you put the pack and play? If you put it in the bedroom, you're consigning yourself to many hours of sitting in the dark reading quietly. Or you can do like we did and put it in the bathroom. Problem there is... What do you do when you need to get ready for bed or take a poo yourself? On the balance, I think the bathroom is the smarter move, but you literally need to be more prepared. Before putting baby down for a nap, make sure you've done your business. At night, before you put baby down, plan it out so you have access to your bedtime products in the bedroom so you can pop into and out of the bathroom as quickly and quietly as possible so as to disturb baby as much as possible.
There is a third possibility depending on your hotel room: if the closet is big enough, you can put baby in there. This would be the best option, providing a quiet, dark place for baby while still giving you access to the bathroom. The closet in our room wasn't big enough for us to be comfortable with this, and it may sound strange, but remember what makes for a good place to sleep - quiet and dark. Closets are good for that.
The next few days, while not as relaxing as a pre-baby vacation would've been, were really pretty smooth. We did our best to respect The Baby's sleep schedule.
Tip #6: Respect your baby's sleep schedule. I know, I know. There are all these fun distractions right next to your hotel, and it's so easy to pop over for an appetizer or a drink or whatever. You know what you're like when you're tired, and you know what your baby is like when he/she's tired. If you want to push it, that's your business, but prepare yourself to deal with a tired, cranky baby. For us, it has as much to do with "doing what's best for baby" as "just not wanting to deal with a crabby little shit while in public." We pushed it one night. There was a good Mexican restaurant across the street. We thought we could put in an order to go and enjoy a quick beer while we waited for the food. We ended up tag-teaming The Baby; while one of us sat nervously at the bar, drinking alone, the other walked around outside the restaurant doing our best to keep her quiet. Just the kind of night you look forward to on vacation! You can respect the schedule without being a slave to it.
I thought I'd get to thoughts on Being Thought a Bad Parent, but this ran on longer than expected. Next time. Also, stay tuned for Poopmageddon!
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