A Woman's Obsession

My entire career, before becoming a zombie mom, was spent in nursing homes, assisted living facilities and retirement communities (yes, there are distinct differences distinguishing the three).  One odd and funny commonality I noticed at each place I worked was the obsession older women have with poop.  Poop, bowel movements, BMs, kaka, feces, defecation, whatever you wish to call it.  I never understood why.  Why are older women obsessed with bowel movements?  There is the resident of my first facility who literally sat on the toilet all day until she was successful in moving her bowels for fear she might die otherwise.  She would sit there patiently planning her funeral until that moment.  She told my co-worker one day, through the bathroom door of course, that she wanted her and me to attend the memorial following her impending demise.  She chose to decline activities that day as she sat patiently awaiting the inevitable, a successful BM or death.  In the same facility, there was also the prim and proper Southern woman who could not bring herself to say the words "bowel movement" and was furious with me when she referred to it simply as a BM and I did not know what she meant.  Seriously, I didn't.  This was my first real job out of college, and my first experience with seniors and my first exposure to this odd obsession.

Fast forward 21 years and I totally get where this obsession originates.  I'm not proud of this fact.  But I get it.  The one thing all of these poop-obsessed women had in common was motherhood.  Until you are a mother, you really could not possibly care less about poo, especially someone else's.  But then you have that first baby.  And you find yourself at your first social gathering after his birth discussing the frequency, smell and God help us, the effort put forth into his BMs.  After your dinner guests leave, you are happy to have had a conversation with an adult other than your spouse but mortified that you spent the whole evening talking about baby poop to a childless couple who, guess what, could not care less about your child's shit.  And it continued to get worse for me.  M was easy.  Regular.  Pooped at 4:00 pm daily.  You could set your clock by that little guy.  But then along came C.

C started out with problems, only increasing my obsession with baby poop.  He didn't for the first several days after he was born.  Odd since M pooped within his first 8 hours of life and he was my only basis of comparison.  Then C developed an intolerance to his milk based formula.  He spent a weekend sharting bloody stool.  I called the doctor on Sunday and she said to give it a few more days.  Um, no.  By Monday when the bloody sharts seemed worse, I wrapped a freshly sharted diaper in a ziploc bag and bundled up my little pooper and carted him off to the pediatrician at 1 and 1/2 weeks old.  He was put on a special formula that made his pooping issues only get worse.  When he wasn't eating, he was crying, mainly for 2 reasons.  The special formula never filled him up so he was always hungry, and he couldn't poop or pass gas.  It was horrible.  Imagine eating every 2 hours and not having a BM for 52 hours.  He would sleep only in my arms the first 3 to 4 weeks of life.  I was constantly on the phone with his doctor trying to solve his pooping difficulties.  She said, "Give him 2 ounces of straight prune juice."  That worked.  No, really, it did.  Pure liquid oozed out of the diaper and all over the place.   The hubs and I decided to instead add prune juice to his formula so that he would get a constant more diluted dose.  By this time, the doctor had recommended infant suppositories.  First off, do you have any idea how hard these things are to find?  I finally located them at the 3rd pharmacy I checked.  Once, visiting my in-laws, it took 7 stops before finding the holy grail of laxatives.  C was only happy having pooped daily.  If he went beyond 36 hours, he screamed as if he was being murdered until he was able to express his bowels.  My instructions were clear, a daily suppository.  Now, while I have an older child, M was super easy in every way.  I never had to shove anything up his butt to make him produce.  So I arrive home that first day with my prize, ready to give it a go, imagining instant relief for my ailing infant.  Upon opening the jar, I was shocked at the size of these things.  I was supposed to put this where!?!  My poor baby!  So thinking I know what's best for C, I cut it in 1/2.  First mistake.  They are specially shaped for ease of entry apparently and cutting them changes that shape.  Now, for the faint of heart or childless reader,  you may want to stop reading.  While funny if you can get the visual, this story is about to get even more graphic.  Our babysitter was at the house, having watched the boys while I was on my hunt for the coveted glycerin plug.  After several attempts at inserting that maimed suppository, I gave up and used a whole one.  My sitter, noticing my troubles offered to help.  Being childless, she is even more novice than I am.   So she held C's feet out of the way with one hand, and after I inserted, she would try to hold his butt cheeks closed before he could squeeze things shut and pop the plug back out.  We went through this drill several times.  I was practically dripping in sweat and close to tears, saying out loud I'm afraid, "I'm a terrible mother.  I can't do this!"  One last attempt at insertion resulted in C offering a violent fart that blew the suppository across the changing table and a gust of wind across my hand as I screamed and jumped back about 3 feet, sure I was about to be covered in baby poop.  Nope.  Just a good strong fart.  Retrieve the plug and try again.  Poor kid.  This time there was some grunting.  I looked at the sitter and said, "It's working!!"  It was like striking gold!!  C had been crying the entire 45 minutes this comedy of errors lasted.  The sitter was a calm and quiet helper, and M, being very new to the big brother role was standing by in stunned silence, probably hoping he wouldn't be next.  And I was vacillating between despair and determination to help my child relieve himself.  The days went by and we continued this ritual, although I have to say, it got much easier.  I could usually have success the first try and C didn't cry.  We had some projectiles that were shot over the changing table, over the diaper pail, landing dangerously close to my fleece slippers.  I am very thankful for hardwood floors.  And that M, who always hovered nearby during these days, was never directly in the line of fire.  C started pooping on his own as his digestive system matured.  The first day, M and I actually cheered, "Yay!! C's pooping!!"

I was unaware of the damage my obsession with C's BMs was doing to M until one evening at supper when M randomly cheered, "Yay!! C poop!!" and clapped enthusiastically.  The next morning, when C pooped, I asked M, "What do we say when C poops?"  M replied matter-of-factly, "Peeuuw!"

I am happy to say that our bad pooper, C is having daily BMs and is happier than ever.  Our good pooper?  He goes several times a day.  Today was 7, the final one dropped on the bathroom floor right before getting in the tub.  Nice.  Well, at least it wasn't in the tub.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

Before kids, I showered daily.  Not just daily but sometimes twice a day.  I shaved my legs daily and my hair was always shampooed and blown dry.  I've never thought of myself as pretty so I figured I needed as much help as I could get.  If 24 hours had passed and I was not showered, you can bet death was knocking on my door.  After M was born, my routine hardly changed.  M has always been a great napper so I could languish in the shower during maternity leave.  Once I returned to work, I had to abbreviate my showers somewhat but I never gave up the daily shave.  I have been shaving my legs daily since high school because I can't stand stubble.  Hate it!!  On me anyway.  On the hubs, a little stubble is a good thing sometimes.  But mornings settled into a routine with M, although I was usually just getting dressed as the sitter arrived.  Thank you, Employer, for the flexible work schedule allowing me to get there a little after 9 each day.

But then C came along and everything changed.  Everything.  When the proverbial "they" say no two kids are alike, they aren't kidding.  C doesn't nap.  Oh, he cat naps here and there throughout the day but for the first 3 months of his life 20 minutes was considered a good nap for him.  Showering became a challenge.  I thought I had it down the day I successfully showered while both were awake.  C was 6 weeks old, M was just over 15 months.  I let M play and had C insecurely seated in his car seat which is how I toted him around those first 2 months.  While drying my hair, I heard a most blood curdling scream from the bathroom floor and turned to see C face down on the ceramic tile while M stood nearby saying, "Uh oh."  Um, yeah.  that is definitely an uh oh.  M was apparently "rocking" C in the car seat and got a little too enthusiastic.  Well, this isn't going to work.

So I readjusted my thinking and started taking quick showers during C's cat naps.  I usually have to forgo the blow dry which has created complications of its own.  As in the showers sometimes just don't take.  Kind of like George Costanza from Seinfeld the day he showered at the gym and went directly to a work meeting.  The hubs will come home and ask if I have had a rough day or if I didn't get a chance to shower.  Yep, I am the George Costanza of motherhood.

Or I get lucky and the rare but coveted double synchronized nap happens.  Ah what a piece of heaven that is.  My quiet time.  My me time.  My shower and blow dry time.  

Sometimes I have to go 36 hours between showers now, but the legs continue to get shaved daily.

Cats and Dogs

I am frequently reminded by friends of how my life has changed over the past two years.  My most common response is that it has been harder to adjust to marriage than it has to being a mother.  After all, I have never lived with a man other than my father and that was years ago, and I have lived alone, if you don't count cats, for the better part of 15 years.  The kids have been easy-relatively speaking.  Having had pets all my life, I was surprisingly well prepared for motherhood, well, except for that whole diaper thing.   Allow me to stray from the topic at hand to tell you about M's first poo the day he was born.  My sister-in-law was holding him and I was still way doped up in bed and not allowed out without assistance.  She looked at me in horror and said, "What do we do?"  Like I knew!  I hadn't changed but one diaper in my entire life.  And she never had (still hasn't).  So we rang for the nurse who was clearly annoyed by our ineptness.

Having been a pet owner and raising multiple cats form kittendom, there really isn't much difference between cats and babies.  I know some people are cringing here but bear with me.  Babies cry when they need something but they can't say, "Hey Mom!  Gettin' a little hungry over here."  Cats do the same thing.  They cry when they want something; whether it is bathroom facilities, food, sleep or a snuggle.  You just need to learn to read the accompanying cues.  For example, when M cried and rubbed his nose, he was hungry.  With C, he cries and pulls at his hair (yeah, I don't know why).  The cats cry and go to their food bowls.  Wet diapers? M used to and now C does it, cries like its the end of the world to be wet.  Granted most cats cry when they're wet too but not the same kind of wet.  But when the cats were tiny, they would cry and head to the corner of the room.  I simply put them in the litter box at these times and they took care of business.  When M is in need of a cuddle, he reaches for me and says "Peas", C cries and stops when picked up.  The cats? Cry until they receive a verbal invitation to hop up next to me.  You just have to learn how to read the nonverbal cues and respond appropriately.  See?  Not that different after all.  Now if someone could help me out with the other adult in the house....

The Purpose of my Ramblings

I decided to start a blog because I always feel like I have something to say and sometimes I think its funny or useful to other people.  That's what I like to think anyway.  This blog is intended to offer tips and tricks I have gleaned as a new older mother, provide me with a creative outlet, and relay some of the lighter sides of motherhood that only other parents understand.  There are times when something happens and I think to myself, if I were a bystander here, I would be laughing my ass off.  And there are other times when I do just laugh my ass off because its too comical, and its now my reality.  I have gone in 2 years from being a career woman, running an assisted living facility, to being a stay at home mom for 2 boys under 18 months old.  I hardly recognize myself let alone my life.  The moments are priceless and even if no one else cares to read what I have to say, one day my boys will enjoy hearing the stories and I may not be able to remember them all unless they are documented (see definition of zombie mom, previous post).  I hope you enjoy.

Why I am a Zombie Mom?

Although my husband has a small obsession with zombies, I am not actually a brain eating walking dead zombie mom.  There are several reasons however why I feel like a zombie mom.  The first, which all moms probably are, is that I am sleep deprived.  But my sleep deprivation is different than that of most moms of young babies.  Mine is self imposed.  After both the boys are in bed sleeping and the hubs has retired for the night, I usually get my first few alone moments of the day.  It is the rare day that both boys take synchronized naps of any duration so my me time is in the we hours.  I take advantage too, to paint toenails, do my own facials, or surf Facebook. It is an exciting life I lead.

The second reason I consider myself a zombie mom is because I am wandering through this new, unchartered territory for me in somewhat of a trance.  In the past 25 months, my life has been turned on its axis.  I waited until I was 40 to meet the man of my dreams.  We married when I was 41.  Two days before our wedding, we learned I was pregnant with our oldest son, M, now 17.5 months old.  No sooner did I feel great about not being pregnant than I found myself with child once again.  C was born 3.5 months ago.  As easy a baby M was, C has been that difficult.  Prior to my 40th birthday, I was a single woman living it up.  I had my mid-life crisis at 38 and was happier than I ever thought I could be at 40.  I was comfortable in my skin and carefree.  Now, I am trying on new skin, and while its definitely different, I am happier than I was then.

And lastly, as any mother knows, by virtue of carrying a child, your brain just isn't what it used to be.  I used to laugh at the woman at work who was pregnant and couldn't remember how to do her job.  Until I turned into that woman and I had to constantly remind those around me that I was suffering from gestational dementia.  Three and a half months after C's birth, I do find that I am recovering from this affliction although it does flare up at the most inopportune moments.  Like today when we went to the park so M could play.  I packed diapers, a "dab-dab", rattles for C, hats for both boys, sunscreen, water, snacks for M, formula and water for C, and something to mix his formula in.  What didn't I pack?  A bottle.  Something for the baby to drink from.  Sadly, this is the second time that has happened.

Residual  gestational dementia = Zombie Mom