Successes, tempered by horrific frozen breast milk

A couple weeks after we got home from the hospital with little E, one or both of us went grocery shopping. (Those first few weeks are hazy in my mind.) When we (or B) returned, we brought in groceries and had nowhere to put them because on the counter were two dishtowels, covered in drying bottle and pump parts. We had to put the grocery bags on the floor and unload them from there.
I remember thinking, "Is this how my life is going to be from now on?"

The answer is, yes! Life is, in general, more difficult with a mini human. But we are learning to adapt.

For instance, with regard to the counter, we've figured out that we can fit said bottle and pump parts on one towel. And now that I pump less frequently, we don't have to run the dishwasher two or three times per day, so there are occasionally stretches of time in which there are no drying parts. That having available counter space in our kitchen is a success is testament to how carefully one will look for anything resembling success during trying times.

Another success is E's sleep, not that we can take credit for a sleepy baby. He started sleeping through the night at a young age. We can take credit for breaking two habits (which, in the interest of full disclosure, we imposed upon him)--sleeping in his swing, and sleeping in a swaddle. I worried on a daily basis about how we were going to get him into his crib and out of his swaddle. Last week, feeling inspired (ok, guilted, whatever) by daycare, I declared to B that E was sleeping in his crib that night. And he did.

Did he sleep through the night? No! He woke up frequently. However, we turned the baby monitor off, and I put in ear plugs, so my night was not too horribly interrupted.

Perhaps you think I am a neglectful mom for being honest about our sleep training. However, I read Weissbluth's book about childhood sleep twice, and he convinced me that his "extinction" method is the best way to break babies of bad sleep habits. Teaching E how to fall back to sleep on his own is a skill that he will need for the rest of his life, and the sooner he learns it, the better off he will be.

He's been in his crib, sans swaddle, for about a week now, and it's going well. Last night he was awake between 4:30 and 5, singing to himself. I'm considering turning the hated baby monitor off for good, but I'm worried I won't wake up if he starts crying and something is genuinely wrong.

(In case you're interested in sleep training, I highly recommend reading a book about it. Some people are under the mistaken impression that sleep training means that you can put your baby down if he's crying and you don't want to deal with him, or that you never go to your baby when he cries, or that you don't have to do your part to get your baby ready for sleep. I recommend learning the rules before you play the sleep-training game.)

One final success is pumping, though even that success is tempered with the horror of spoiled breastmilk. B has already covered this story well in his blog, so I won't go into much detail, but we spent over an hour last night defrosting, sniffing, and dumping an entire month's worth of frozen milk. Tonight we work our way through August's milk and hope that not all of it has turned soapy/metallic/horrific.

This post is as scattered as my mind is lately.

Achy breaky mom

I gave birth over four months ago, but I'm not finished with my pregnancy rants yet.

I expected to be a little creaky during pregnancy, when everything spreads out a little. But I expected the creakiness to be over after little E greeted the world.

The creakiness did not end. In fact, it only got worse.

I feel as if I have aged 30 years in just a short period of time. My knees ache when I walk up the stairs. My first steps of the day after getting out of bed are tentative, delicate, and painful. My joints crack when I walk. This is my reward for giving new life?

A quick internet search revealed that I am not alone with my achies, and they might be related to breastfeeding, a painful irony to accept. Isn't the breastpump punishment enough? Must I feel arthritic, too?

Motherhood: Not for wimps.