Thanksgiving this year had the potential to become a very lonely day for us. My parents weren't able to come out at the last minute, leaving Brian, the little Bear and I to fend for ourselves. We were planning to do an 'orphan' Thanksgiving with other Las Vegas friends who were family-less for the big day, and then even those folks ended up going to see family or had family come out here. So Brian and I steeled ourselves for a rather quiet day on the couch when thankfully, the Smith family intercepted us.

And it turned out to be the most fun Thanksgiving, ever! Aside from amazing hospitality and food to die for, the day was remarkably laid-back and chill. They have a tradition that we might also implement in the future: everyone wears sweats. Um, is this not the best idea ever? I mean, why are we cramming ourselves into buttons and zippers, only to overeat hours later? Why did we not come up with a 'stretchy-waistband-only' rule? 

Big Dave, Jason, and Brian fried the turkey in the backyard while the women tended the children. Scotty also took yesterday to sleep almost 3 hours in the afternoon, giving Momma something to be thankful for. He then proceeded to have a lovely disposition for the rest of evening, making my life 100x easier. Baby Sam slept and Carson the Toddler Tornado spent some quality time with his best girl, Dora. Evidence below.

Probably most charming of all the Smith family traditions is the inclusion of "Turkey Notes."  These are little poems that are placed on everyone's dinner plate and read prior to the consumption of the meal. Courtney and her sister-in-law (who was unable to attend) wrote the poems this year. Everyone read their turkey note in order from oldest to youngest (with Brian being awfully close to going first...haha).  I LOVED our Turkey Notes and maybe we can include this in our family holiday in the years to come.

Brian's Turkey Note:

Turkey cheese,
Turkey crackers,
Turkey day is great...
After a win for my Packers!

Turkey throw up,
Turkey puke,
Turkey says Scotty's...
Gonna be on a scholarship at Duke!

Scotty's Turkey Note:

Turkey Town Square,
Turkey Fashion Show Mall,
Turkey says...
You are the cutest and most loved baby Thanksgiving Butterball!

Turkey Fisher Price,
Turkey Little Tyke.
Turkey says...
What's a day without a nap strike?

And finally, mine:

Turkey freezing cold,
Turkey hot.
Turkey says...
You are the best Momma ever to your little bear Scott!

Turkey friendship,
Turkey cheer.
Turkey says...
This dinner would only be made better if George was here!

(Yes, that would be George, my ob/gyn. Courtney and I see the same doctor and joke all the time that we are going to attend each other's appointments and really freak him out. hahaha.)

Anyways, thank you Smith Family for such a great day!!!

A few weeks ago, a person asked me what I thought about being a new Mom. I, of course, gave the company line: "It's great, I love it, love the kid, love the husband, yadda, yadda." Because I figured that just like when someone asks you how you are doing, they really don't want to know but are simply (most of the time) just being polite. No one wants to hear me blather on about PoopGate, SwaddleGate, breast milk, or bottle washing. Which, obviously, are the lows of Motherhood. The highs are aplenty, don't get me wrong, but again, do people really want to listen to me wax poetic about my child? Probably not.

With many friends having recently given birth, and more friends currently pregnant with their first child, it made me think: what's a good analogy for Motherhood?  How would I describe it - could I describe it?  Not about the quality of Motherhood, but more about the experience of it.  To describe it to another woman is one thing, but will men ever really get it? (um, no, not likely.) Obviously, I only know about the first three months of Motherhood, but it's such an odd, all-encompassing, life-changing phenomenon. Nothing in this world is a good comparison.

(and for the record, I'm all about analogies. Back when I actually had a job, I used analogies with clients all the time. Maybe one day I'll tell you about my anti-depressant/bus driver analogy. It's a good one.)

But then I thought harder and realized, it must be like being launched into space. I mean, think about it. Some people have wanted to go to the moon since they were young. Some had absolutely no desire to go at all, but found themselves along for the ride. Some pay thousands and thousands of dollars to be accepted into the Space Program, only to find their application continually denied. Growing, up, you never once consider that you might not go to space - I mean, practically everyone in the world goes to space at some point or another. But there are days when you think, "Maybe space isn't for me.  Maybe I wasn't meant to be an astronaut."  Hell, I mean, you spent most of your life trying to not get into the space program that when you do want to join, you realize there are no guarantees.

But then the big day comes and you get a call from the Space Program with the good news:  Congratulations!  You've been accepted - you are going to become an astronaut!  Suddenly, you have an official "launch date" and your whole life turns upside down. The only thing you can focus is on is when you'll be headed to the moon. You want to tell everyone but are nervous the launch date may be scrapped.  You being to make lots of changes:  your diet and your activity level are just a few.  You devour every book about space you can get your hands on. You talk to fellow astronauts to try to get a feel for what their experience is/was like, and wonder what yours will be like, too. You attend every pre-launch meeting with trepidation and nervous excitement: is everything going according to plan? Do we need to bring in additional engineers to help with the launch? Is there anything you can do to become a better astronaut?

You count down the days until the launch. And along the way, you realize your relationships with other people are changing. Before becoming an astronaut, what seemed so important before your acceptance into the Space Program now seems trivial and unnecessary.   You worry about finances, you worry about your health, and you worry about what kind of astronaut you will make, since going to space is a really, really big deal. You realize that 90% of your conversations with others revolve around your launch date.  You feel very "one-note;" this bothers you but you feel powerless to change it, since nothing else holds your attention like a conversation about space. I mean, some people have to leave their jobs in anticipation of the launch. Going to space - even though you haven't left yet - has already completely changed your life.

And then, the big day comes. You realize that all of those emotions that you've pushed down for so long come right back up to the surface; you've spent the majority of your adult life telling yourself that you are fearless only to be brought to your knees with abject and very real terror. This is it: there's no going back. You are strapped into that rocket ship and there's a chance you might die. You trust the control center in Houston, but also know things can go wrong, and go wrong quickly.  For the first time in a very long time, you realize you are very, very mortal and you have very little control over anything in this world.  You start to rethink your connection with spirituality, religion, and God. 

But then, you are there!  A successful launch means more than you ever imagined; all of those terrified feelings are replaced with total euphoria and pure exhilaration. You did it! You made it! You are in space!  You feel weightless and overjoyed, all at the same time. You've spent your entire life thinking about this singular moment, and now that it's here, it's bigger and more vivid than you ever could imagine. It's almost like it's more than your brain can handle. You are running on pure adrenaline at this point and you feel fairly certain this feeling will continue for the rest of your life.

But it doesn't. As day turns into night, and days turn into weeks, you realize that the adrenaline has worn off and you are exhausted from the volley of recent emotions. Some folks get a little nauseous; others are disoriented. Sleeping in space isn't anything like sleeping in your own warm bed. You have to be up almost constantly to keep the ship safe and in motion.  You are not sure how a lot things in space work; the atmosphere is different, the food is different. Everything that you once knew for sure has changed. Even elementary things like showering and using the rest room are different. You keep telling yourself that this is all part of the learning curve, but secretly you wish you could just go back to what you know. You crave normalcy and familiarity, but are only left with uncertainty and newness.  For someone who was so confident pre-Space, you hate the feeling of not knowing.

Everything seems like a really big deal during those first few weeks in space, too. When seemingly little things go wrong, it feels like a huge, scary emergency. You realize how very little you know; what does this lever do? You read about that in some book a few months ago, but now you can't remember. What about this knob? Or these valves? Why is everything so confusing? And with the lack of sleep and day-night disorientation, your mind isn't working quickly or accurately.  You begin to dislike your space experience since you constantly feel like you don't know what you are doing.  Houston is being as helpful as ever, but it's not like they are really living it with you. You start to wish you had experienced astronauts with you, right there in the shuttle. But you don't. It's just you. And it is very, very scary.

And while there is a good chance that everything is going to be okay, you can't help but think about other astronauts who have had, unfortunately, disastrous missions. Bad stuff does happen, and mistakes are made. You start to have a completely new and fresh appreciation for just how harrowing this space journey is; it seemed so easy and routine when you had two feet planted on the ground. Now...not so much. All bets are off.

Some people don't like being in space and want to go home. They look out the little round window of the space shuttle and long for their former existence.  These people tend to get really sad and feel trapped. Others love it and never want to go home; they'd like to stay in space forever. One thing is pretty clear, however. After the first few weeks of being in space, when every single thought of every single day revolves around that current day and how you are going to survive space, you will think about something NOT related to space or space travel, and then it will hit you like a ton of bricks:

HOLY CRAP, I'M IN SPACE. HOW, EXACTLY, DID I END UP HERE?

It's only when you think about your former life do you realize just how different your current life is. Any semblence of your former life has melted away and now you're experiencing "the new normal." Because eventually the ship will land, you'll walk off the gangway to cheers and clapping, and you'll realize: I'm totally not the same person. Going to space was nothing and everything like I thought it would be. It was better and worse than imagined. And I'm a different person for it. I am a better person for it. I am stronger than I realized.

You'll look at your parents with a sense of awe and humility. They went to space thirty years ago and managed to survive. You'll look at your friends who have been to space and think, "Wow, I should have been so much more supportive. I had no idea going to space was so physically and emotionally taxing. I was a pretty crappy friend." You'll look at your partner differently, because while he has been on the journey with you, he remained safely in the control room while you experienced the physical aspects of space travel. You'll love him and hate him for this all at the same time.

And most of all, you'll be happy to be back home and in your "new normal." You'll get back into a routine and have processed your space-traveling emotions. You feel a little more confidence with space-related emergencies, since none of them actually brought down the ship. You might even be able to laugh about a few mishaps that occurred during your flight. 

You'll feel a sense of accomplishment: you managed to survive the pre-Space program, you survived the launch, and you made it through the first three months of living in Space. You look back and think, "How did I do that? How did I not go completely batsh*t crazy while aboard that teeny-tiny space shuttle with only processed space food to eat and no sleep? How did I get through that?" You won't have any answers, but that's okay. Because the only thing to focus is on is that you survived. 

For the time being, you are okay with remembering both the good and bad aspects of space travel.  You are ready to take a few years off. At least, before the next flight.

Scotty and Samantha met this past weekend. They are exactly eleven weeks apart, so they will probably be in the same grade as they get older. Is this the start of something wonderful?

To be honest, I'm not quite sure sparks flew. Samantha slept through most of their meeting.  She was clearly not impressed with Scotty's green and brown blanket, nor did she appreciate his puppy onesie.

Scotty, however, tried to get her attention several times.  He grinned for the camera and acted like a ham.  She slept.  He coo'd at her fuzzy pink blanket. She paid him no attention. Then, in desperation, he resorted to typical playground behavior: he threw her an elbow or two while on the couch.

Needless to say, she did not appreciate the violence. Her dad broke up the meeting a few seconds later when she started to cry.

Sorry, Scotty. You need to work on your game. 

I feel last night's experience is best summed up through pictures...here goes:

Scotty: Hmmm...why does Mom look so crazy right now? Why is she yelling about free samples? What IS a free sample?

Scotty: Ooh! I get it now.  Wow, Mom looks so happy when she eats chocolate. I'm so glad she got a free sample.

Scotty: Oh no! Limit only ONE per customer? Mom's gonna lose it! Someone get that woman more chocolate!

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All I have to say...if you are going to tour a chocolate factory, there better be some good samples.

Anyways, it was a really fun night. The cactus garden was amazing -- the lights were over-the-top and there was even a choir singing Christmas carols. I'm not really sure Scotty appreciated all of the Christmas magic that was going on, but Brian and I had fun. And who knew cacti look so good in lights?  Below, more pictures.

No pictures today...the battery of my camera died! I guess I've been snapping too many pics these days and it decided to go caput on me. It is currently on the charger and should be ready for tonight. We are going to a botanical cacti garden, decked out in 1/2 million Christmas light. If that didn't sound fun enough, it's right next to a chocolate factory! I'm not joking. Cacti, chocolate, and Christmas lights...does life get any better?

It's so funny to think that a year ago I would have never been interested in this kind of outing, especially on a Friday night. I've never been a huge chocolate fan, Christmas before Thanksgiving was just wrong in my book, and there is no way in hell I could have dragged Brian with me to a cacti garden. But now, with the little Bear in tow, we are both insanely excited. I can't wait to see Scotty's face when he sees all of the Christmas lights - it should be magical. And a good photo op! (c'mon, battery charger...) Brian is equally excited and we are both hoping the little Bear behaves himself. We'll do anything to see him smile.

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In other news, it seems like it is raining babies these days. Several college friends recently had kids this week (big congrats to Sarah and Little K!), so I've been glued to Facebook for updates. I know most sororities get a bad rap, but I really loved my experience. I also love how we've all re-connected via Facebook. Despite the over 10 year gap between living in the house and now, it's like no time has passed.

I also love how everyone from the house comments on each other's posts. There is no need for formalities -- it's just as conversational as if we were standing in line for dinner or walking to class together. But instead of trying to figure out why Charlene put bacon on the salad or sneaking out of dinner to watch 'The Simpsons' in the rec room, we're talking about labor, delivery, and breastfeeding. I still think of people as "the Seniors" and "the Sophomores" (which I guess makes me a Junior). Brian, of course, thinks I'm absolutely crazy but he just doesn't get it. He thinks all I did in college was host Rush parties and paint banners. He's only 50% correct. (and for the record, I graduated in four years with a double major AND I managed to study overseas. So there.)

With the recent boom of baby Gams, I would LOVE to host a reunion of everyone (not just my pledge class) and catch up with everyone. Kind of a pipe dream (especially as these babies keep coming! Do we all have fantastic husbands that would watch the kids while their wives left for the weekend? Is that too much to expect?)  but it's fun to think about.  So ladies, let me know what you think .Maybe Vegas in 2010? 2011?  Don't make me start singing...('A and an L and a PHA...G and an A and an MMA...") Several of us tried to get together earlier this year in Chicago but bed rest had me grounded and I had to cancel the whole trip. Such a bummer.

                                                   ****************

Aside from missing my days at 1409 N. Main, everything else has been darn near copacetic. Scotty is over his fussiness (I had a three-day fear that maybe we started teething...eeeeeeek) from earlier this week and is back to napping like a champ. He is just so silly. He literally wakes up smiling. I peer into his crib in the morning and am greeted with this happy, sunny baby. How did we get so lucky? He is also coo-ing and goo-ing like a champ, which makes me think we're going to have a talker on our hands one day. As my mom once told me, "You can't wait for the day that they start talking...and then you realize that they never shut up." Hahaha. Sorry, Mom.

Contrary to popular belief, I will not be going to see the new 'Twilight' movie this weekend. I have a fairly substantial fear of tweens. Not to mention, it looks downright terrible. Let's be honest here folks; Stephanie Meyer isn't exactly Shakespear. But the books were a good read (I devoured all four in about three days) and I just can't believe what a part of pop culture they have become. I caught an interview with the cast members on some obscure DirectTV channel and had a hard time keeping a straight face. The interviewer was acting as if Rob P and Kristen S were master thespians and the material they were working from was groundbreaking. "Tell me Kristen, as you were in the scene when Edward leaves, what emotion did you draw from in order to make it so realistic?" Um.....yeah. She had a hard time keeping a straight face, too. The two look like they mope throughout the whole movie and critics have confirmed the whole move is pretty emo. But Edward Cullen (the idea of him, not Rob P) is one of the most memorable fictional characters of recent years, in my opinion, and yes, I will probably cough up $7.75 at some point to see the film. Matinee-worthy, however. Definitely not Friday-night-worthy.

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That's about it here. I'm off to clean out our sock drawer (I'm so not kidding...really, the fun never stops here.) I hope everyone has a great weekend!

I feel like I complain a lot about Motherhood (really, it's just about my diet, pumping, and the forever task of washing bottles). Today, however, was an amazing day. Really wonderful. It's days like this that make me feel so fortunate that I get to stay home and see my little boy grow.

Nothing exciting happened - in fact, quite the opposite. It was a day like any other. He slept until 6:30am (ahhh! Heaven!). I jumped in the shower at 7:30, determined to get a leg up on his schedule. He woke up again at 10am and by that time, I had already made all of the beds, washed the bottles, pumped, checked email/Facebook, and called my parents. We played and read a new book - "The Big Red Barn" - very cute illustrations - and he fell asleep again. I pumped, ate lunch, and finished my "correspondence" (I feel like a true stay-at-home-mom since I now I have time set aside for "correspondence." Who am I, Martha Stewart?) Anyways, after that, we did a little photo shoot (see below), went to Starbucks and then to the grocery store. Gorgeous day to live in Vegas. And then we both took a nap. I drooled on him, he drooled on me. It was a perfect little mom-baby snuggle (though a bit messy).

I just love our little bear to bits. Yesterday, I was ready to put him in a cardboard box on our porch with a sign that read, "Free to a good home." Today, I love him with every ounce of my being.

 Motherhood is funny like that. One day you are at your wits end; and then the next day, your heart is exploding with joy.

Such a roller coaster.

Yes, there was a wardrobe change for his 3-month pictures. Sorry. I was getting a little crazy with our photo shoot today.

Scotty had his GI appointment this afternoon. And once again, all fingers are pointed at me. Sigh. I give up.

The doctor was really wonderful - the best pediatric doctor we've met with thus far. He had a great bedside manner and the staff was very nice, too. I arrived ten minutes late - only to learn I was actually 40 minutes late, since I should have been there 30 minutes earlier to fill out paper work. Whoops. Scotty, of course, began wailing as soon as I had a pen and clipboard in hand. After trilling loudly, "Mommy only has two hands, Pumpkin!" the receptionist took pity on us both and came over the sacred glass partition to pick him up and rock him. She took him in the back as I frantically scribbled information, feeling like the worst mother in America. Aside from my screaming child, I was asked: social security number? I don't know.  Name of the cream we put in his neck in between his fat rolls, to avoid a yeast infection? Not sure. Reason for referral? I wrote, "It's complicated." Yup, go ahead and just call Child Protective Services now.

Anyways, while I signed forms, another couple came into the waiting room with a (sleeping) baby in a car seat. I, of course, had to peer in and comment. The proud dad told me that the baby was two months, three weeks old. As in, two weeks younger than Scotty. And Scotty looked behemouth next to this tyke. Scotty's little hand was the size of this child's head. The receptionist (aside from taking him in the back to others could coo at him) referred to him as "the Whooper" and the doctor called him a linebacker. Not a "little linebacker", but a regular ole linebacker. Everytime people comment on his size (now 17+ pounds and growing), I cough uncomfortably and mutter something about "you should see his dad...he's [ahem] a big guy." Poor Brian. He has no idea I throw him under the bus so frequently. He looks the size of a five or six month old, not a 13 weeker.

So the good news is that there is nothing wrong with Scotty. The doctor said that it's fairly common for even exclusively breast-fed babies to poop only once or twice a week, and it's usually a stage. Since we are using about 5-6 oz of formula per day (since my supply is still low), it's normal for him to not be pooping very often.

Then he asked about my diet. Yes, the breast milk question.

I tried really hard to not come across defensively. He said, not asked, "And I'm sure you are eating plenty of fruits and vegetables." I shifted uncomfortably.  Um...sure.  I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. Do fruit-flavored Skittles count? What about raisins...in oatmeal cookies? Yeah, my diet has some room for improvement. I confessed that yes, I'd been into our leftover Halloween candy a little more than I should and he just laughed. I can only imagine how many new moms he gets in his office ready to come to blows over the quality of their breast milk. It's just about as personal as commenting on someone's weight.

When I called Brian on my way home, he asked, "What did the doctor think?" and I had to confess it was the breast milk. He laughed hysterically. That's great. Just great. Because if pumping isn't enough fun, then let's take all of the baked goods out of my diet. Tonight, when he asked what I wanted for dinner, I told him bitterly, "Just grapes." Thankfully, he didn't listen.

Yesterday while at the park (among the whole crowd of people who had gathered to watch my child scream in his car seat -- ahh, motherhood), I wandered through the farmer's market that was set-up and made a bold decision: I signed us up for an at-home food delivery service. It's based out of Utah, and they specialize in organic fruits and veggies, fresh breads, as well as meats with no antibiotics or hormones. I have no idea if it will save us money despite the salesman's claims to the contrary, but they deliver right to our door every week. No more grocery store! Hooray! That is worth it's weight in gold. Our kitchen is going to be stocked to the gills with beautiful, organic produce and all kinds of healthy meal options, with little effort. I love it! 

I put our first order in tonight, and what was first on my list?

Pumpkin chocolate chip bread.

Yum. :-) Oh, well.

So tonight, I came home after  long day with the Bear. We had been to the park, the grocery store, and a friend's house. I was pretty tired and pleasantly surprised to see Brian home by the time I arrived, too.

I came inside and did what I always do - I gave him the baby. I love our little bear to pieces, but I need a break every once and awhile. Since Brian hasn't seen the bear all day, he is usually happy to feed or rock the baby while I finish up other chores. It's really a win-win situation. Not to mention, Brian is so good at putting the baby to bed that I call him 'The Closer.' Need a baby to fall asleep? Want to end "the game?" Call in the Closer. Brian jogs up the stairs, stretches out a little, and boom! Baby is down.  He has some kind of secret talent I have not figured out yet. My working theory:  he is about ten degrees warmer than the average human. This gives him a distinct edge over me and yet another reason for Scotty to love him. Mmm, warm snuggle. (yes, I'm Team Jacob.  Always have been, always will be. That whole 'warmer than normal' is a major selling point with me. If I were Team Edward, I would be constantly wrapped in blankets and pushing him away.)

Anyways, tonight I added a little more to the nightly to-do list by asking Brian to bathe the baby while I folded laundry, pumped, and washed bottles (oh, my 'me time' is so fun these days.) Brian has given one bath in his lifetime, but he's a quick learner and I figured it would all turn out fine. He usually takes what I do and then does it better. I'm not bitter, but instead, insanely grateful for my smart, hands-on husband.

I was elbow-deep in hot water when I heard Brian's voice through the monitor calling for me. He had been gently talking to the little guy for almost ten minutes, and I was smiling happily to my sink full of soapy water, imagining all of the father-son bonding that must be going on upstairs. But when Brian called out my name, he didn't sound very sure of himself. I wondered if they were mid-bath, post-bath, or what the heck was going on.

I walked into the bathroom to find not an ounce of water in the tub yet. Brian was standing by the toilet, still dressed in his suit, tie and all, with his dress shoes still on.  Next to him was a stark naked baby happily bouncing in his Boppy chair. Yes, that would be a naked baby in his Boppy chair. No diaper.  Both looked at me when I entered the room with the exact same expression: completely blank.

I about died laughing. I asked Brian why he had completely disrobed Scotty without getting anything set up, and he just shrugged. Apparently, Brian couldn't find any of the bath supplies (it was a Merry Maids day, and I had put it all away).  Scotty looked snug as a bug in his bouncy chair, without having the faintest idea that he was completely naked. I am just shocked that Brian (and his nice suit) managed to stay dry this long. And that Scotty didn't poop in the bouncer. (that would have been fun to clean).

Seriously, is it something on the Y chromosome? To undress a baby without getting anything set up -- what woman would do this? Even a non-Mom would never set a stark naked baby in his Boppy chair. Women are taught from birth that it's all about preparation.  Baby-related or not, you are always prepared. This is why we carry purses. Need a tissue? I have one. Need a mirror? Yup, I have that, too. Need to bath a baby? Sure, let me get the washcloths, soap, comb, towels, Q-tips, cotton balls, Mr. Fish (Scotty wears a fish-shaped washcloth over the length of his body to stay warm. We lovingly refer to him as "Mr. Fish"), pjs, diaper, diaper ointment, and socks.  And without prepartion?  You are just asking to get peed on. Babies are like little loaded weapons, I've learned.

Long story short, after I stopped laughing, I sent Brian to change his clothes while I draped a towel over Scotty's nether regions and hustled to get our bath stuff together. Brian looked so forelorn (I kept telling him, "I'm not laughing at you...I'm laughing with you." I don't think he believed me) that he took laundry duty while I, once again, bathed the baby.

Silly baby. Silly husband. I wish I had my camera.

As of 5:45pm, PST, PoopGate officially ended. Scotty turned over a stinking full diaper of all kinds of foulness. It was the best present he has ever given me. And now I can sleep at night again.

In celebration of yet another parental milestone met, I offer some cute naked baby pictures. These were taken post-bath tonight.

(PS - and Sarah O., you are a genius!!! Thank you for your awesome suggestion. It worked.)

Oh, sh*t. More sh*t.

Yes, this will be a post about poop. Again. Both the literal and metaphorical kind.

Clearly, poop is the new black. We've covered CatheterGate, SwaddleGate, and now I bring you...PoopGate. We have worked through various baby challenges -- sleep schedules, dairy intolerance, and breast-feeding difficulties. I guess we are simply making our way through all normal new-parent challenges, with the next one clearly centered on elimination. Or in our case, the lack of elimination.

Dr. Awesome did not return my phone call until Sunday morning (the fact that she works on Sunday still makes her awesome, in my opinion. I will forgive the fact that she took almost 24 hours to return my call.) The poor medical assistant I spoke with on Saturday afternoon told me to "continue the juices." I promptly replied with, "How much, how often, what dilution of water, and for how long?" only to be met with a meek, "I'm just the messenger. I don't know." Frustrating, to say the least. We gave Scotty some apple juice on Sunday morning, which he promptly vomited ALL of it on our couch. Dr. Awesome happened to call 30 minutes later and she asked us to come in. I was kind of freaking out at this point since I had never seen him throw up this much. I also was not in agreement with the idea of supplementing regular feeds with juice feeds (2oz of apple juice mixed with 2oz of water) since it lacked the same consistency of breast milk. But more on that later.

So, I packed up the Bear and headed out. We had given him the suppository about an hour before she called, so I had a nice, fat diaper to show her. See? Cat ownership once again translates into parenthood. It's the old axiom, "Always bring in a fecal sample." And what a sample we had -- I think it was still steaming by the time I got to the office.

She and I went through the usual exam (this time, it included a rectal exam - ouch). She continued to seem baffled since Scotty is primarily breastfed. She kept saying, "He should be pooping at least every other day." And then I would say, "But he's not." And then she would say, "But he should be." And then I would say, "But he's not." This circular conversation continued for about 20 minutes until she finally gave me a referral to a G.I specialist with strict instructions to call by Wednesday if he has not pooped on his own.

And then, before she left, she uttered the words I dread to hear.

"It must be the breastmilk."

Brian had echoed a similar sentiment earlier in the week. I'm guessing that perhaps you, too, my readers, might be thinking the same thing. So, to avoid any confusion, let me be very clear:

IT'S NOT THE BREASTMILK.

Is this how women slowly turn crazy? It is, I think. I've worked with enough depressed, post-menopausal women in practice to know that the majority of us women will probably lose our minds once we reach 50. (no offense, Mom. This stat does not include you. Yet. [haha]). Seriously - these down-trodden martyrs would slowly limp into my office, harping about their children who don't call enough, some no-good ex-husband, and their weight problems while we were still in the hallway.  They wouldn't even wait for the quiet of my office before starting their diatribe. They were all avid Oprah-watchers. They all had fibromylagia and thyroid problems. They were tough, tough clients to work with because there was not a lot of motivation to employ new behaviors and they relished in complaining about the state of their lives.  And interestingly enough, I went through a thorough clinical intake with them, complete with a co-written treatment plan, without ever thinking to ask, "At any point in your life, did anyone ever criticize your breast milk?"

Is this how it starts? Were those women once vivacious, thoughtful, insight people? Did the slow progression towards martyrdom start when they tried to breast feed their children, only to be told at every turn that when their child was allegedly sick, it must be their fault?  Were they beaten down and blamed?  Because it is really is crazy-making. My self-confidence is slowly ebbing away when people make this comment, even though my rational brain is screaming, "It's not the breast milk!" I may not know what is wrong, if anything, but I feel very certain it is not me.

I mean, am I going to be at fault for every single thing that Scotty ever does or fails to do? I don't think so. One day, he is going to be his own person and will be making his own choices. And with that, I'm doing the best I can. I haven't cheated on my breast milk diet. I have cut out every single thing that could possibly cause him harm or discomfort. (I realized last week, to my horror, that gone are the days of the Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks. Ushered in for the holiday season: Gingerbread Lattes. I missed it. I missed the whole PSL season. It really happened - an entire fall with only one or two PSLs. Shocking but true.) I am literally living on eggs, toast, turkey sandwiches, and roasted chicken. And the occasional dose of Halloween candy (and cookies). So no, people. IT'S NOT THE BREAST MILK.

Why are we so quick to blame the Mom?  I have control of 90% of his life right now, but I do not have control of his GI track.  And not to mention, I feel like I know my child quite well by now. I have worked my bum off to get him to sleep, to sleep in the crib, to sleep un-swaddled (for the most part.) I've worked to get him to track objects, to grasp objects, and to reach for objects. I know how to calm him, how to soothe him, and how to put him down for both nap-time and bed-time. I know which binkie he prefers (the orange one), his favorite toy (Mr. HappyCow), and how to rock him to sleep (upright sway with a slight bounce.)

I have been the sole caretaker of this child for the past 10 weeks, 20 hours a day, 5 days a week. That means since mid-September, I have put in darn near 1,000 of primary care-giving. According to Malcolm Gladwell, author of 'Outliers,' a person needs 10,000 hours of practice before they master an activity. Which means I'm 1/10 of the way there. I practically have a PhD in Scotty-Bear.

It also means...IT'S NOT THE BREAST MILK.  My mom-gut reaction is that everything is totally and completely fine. He's just not a big pooper. I plan to take him to the specialist later this week, and that is for reassurance only. 

I just hate it when others turn the finger to me and call out the breast milk. Trust me, I am working my butt off for this child. I am still pumping, for goodness sake! Three months of pumping is enough to drive anyone mad.  I wish I was stronger to just ignore the comments, but I admit, it gets to me.  It plants seeds in my head that make me think, "What if I'm wrong? What if they are right? What am I missing?" and it is crazy-making. My track record may not be stellar at this point (jaundice will forever be a dirty word to me), but I fear I will turn into that post-menopausal women when I hit my 50s if things continue at this rate. Unsure, timid, passive-aggressive, and wounded.

So let me just say, for the record: be kind to new moms. We are fragile creatures.  Think of us as soft, malleable objects - we haven't hardened into Parental Pros just yet. I still have 9,000 more hours until I am a master.  We are open to suggestion, but sometimes, comments are unwarranted and downright unhelpful. And please, never, ever comment on the breast milk.