I Have A Problem

Hi, I'm Kristin, and I can't figure out how to use Blogger!

For probably, like, the fifth time since I started blogging here a little more than two years ago, I just unintentionally published a post way too soon.

Yah, I was able to delete it, so most readers might not even have realized my inanity. But for my nearest and dearest who actually receive emails of each and every one of my posts, it must be really annoying. So, I'm SORRY. I really do apologize for drawing your attention to something not (yet) worth reading.

The last couple of times, I think the issue has been with the labels function. If I press after entering the labels before selecting another one, rather than going back into editing mode, Blogger publishes whatever I've got. Urghh! You'd think since I've figured this out, I'd be able to avoid it. But it's just such a reflex to hit the enter key when I'm done with a line of type!!

Every now and again I run across another blogger cursing about not being able to fix spacing or whatever, which makes me feel a bit less alone in my bloggy-clumsiness. But mostly, I feel really technically challenged.

Does anyone have any ideas for how to help me use this technology more easily?

Good Job?

(Cue the melodrama...but this is a true story.)

Big tears slid down my cheeks and into his crib as I look in on my sleeping son and breathe in his sweet breath. I am shaken by the full realization that if we parent well, this little one will some day not need me.

Oh, other mothers, how do you bare it?

The Cat's Meow

The small, black-and-white cat paces beneath our bedroom window. Her plaintive meows keep me awake, thinking about mothers and children. Thinking about maternal instincts, broken hearts, and people who do what they think is best for the little ones.

She is a feral cat who had kittens beneath our house. After a couple of attempts foiled by Momma-cat's ferocity, we were able to capture the kittens. Three adorable little balls of fur. They are old enough that they will drink milk from a syringe we offer, and after a few hours, they are purring in our arms. We hope, we believe, there is a very good chance they will be adopted into a loving family after we take them to the SPCA.

I don't want to overly anthropomorphize or make assumptions about what this little cat is thinking and feeling. But I can tell that Momma-cat knows her babies are in here. She doesn't know or care of our good intentions. Even days after they were taken from her, she hangs close to our house. Though I truly believe we have done the right thing, not just for ourselves, or for our neighborhood. Her offspring will likely live longer, more luxurious lives than they would scrounging for food in the alley and dodging coyotes and having litter after litter themselves...if they survive the pound.

But all I can think of is how hard Momma's worked to birth her babes and care for them in the wild for weeks. Whatever she's trying to communicate to them now as she wails beneath our window, it conveys her deep, deep unbreakable connection to her children.

SICK (Part One)

(…and unfortunately, I don’t mean that in a positive way, as so many of the college students I associate with do these days.)

Well, we’ve passed another parenting milestone: the first trip to the ER with our ill baby. I will hasten to add that all is well now. But it was definitely no fun.

Between Christmas and mid-January Dylan held onto a little cold that manifested only as a persistent runny nose and a little cough, as far as we could tell. Then one Sunday we took him to the “h*ppiest place on earth” (a story for another time…) and we noticed as the day progressed that his cough was deepening. He wasn’t coughing often – maybe just once an hour or so – and it didn’t seem to bother him much, but it sounded awful.

We didn’t notice the cough or runny nose getting any worse, but he did seem to really be “snoring” on Monday night, and then again when we put him down to sleep on Tuesday evening. With hindsight, we now realize we should have been more concerned about that.

On Tuesday night, I was already in bed around 10 p.m. when Dylan woke up whimpering. M. went in to comfort him, and I could hear the little guy really panting. After trying to soothe him a bit, M. brought him into our bedroom. Dylan looked and sounded like he was working awfully hard to breath. We decided to call the advice nurse at Kaiser.

I held the little guy who slowly fell back to sleep while M. spoke with her. She asked all kinds of questions that I could hear too. Was he blue? No. Was he unconscious? No! Did he seem dizzy or was he having trouble controlling his limbs? No. Fever? No. Was he eating okay? Yes, he had been. Were his lungs “retracting”? Because Dylan spent the first few days of his life in the NICU learning how to breathe better, we knew what that meant. We unzipped his jammies and, yes, his diaphragm was visibly being sucked in whenever he inhaled.

At that point, he woke up a bit more and started coughing his barky cough. The nurse could hear him. She suggested that M. hang up and call 911!

We were shocked, scared, and horrified that we hadn’t realized the seriousness of the situation. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first time that night.

M. called and the dispatcher indicated paramedics were on their way. Dylan watched us with big eyes while we scrambled around to put on clothes, gather his diaper bag, and otherwise prepare for a possible trip to the hospital. I remember thinking how odd it was to hear sirens in the distance coming closer, and know they were coming for us. A few minutes later, the paramedics arrived along with a big fire engine, followed by an ambulance.

Dylan was so sweet and cute as the big guys in uniforms came into our little house. But we knew he must not be feeling really well because there were only a few of his characteristic “ooooohhhhs!” when he experiences something new and interesting.

The emergency personnel were really nice with him. They tried to give him some oxygen through a mask while they checked his vital signs, but he kept pushing it away. As we had 15 months ago in the NICU, M. and I tried to interpret the various numbers and “secret code” they were using to communicate and assess what was going on.

Eventually, they told us that they advised he be transported to a hospital. (Again, we were surprised.) They brought a stretcher in, and M. and I made a quick decision that I’d go with the little guy while M. followed behind in our car. Unfortunately, because it was apparently a busy night for emergencies, the hospital closest to us and with which we are most familiar was “slammed” and they let us know they’d be taking us to another area hospital.

I got on the gurney and held Dylan tight while they strapped us both in and loaded us in the ambulance. In a moment of brilliance, M. remembered Dylan’s Puppy and passed him into us. We gave Daddy a bunch of kisses before they turned the lights and siren on and off we went.

It was pretty surreal, and because Dylan clearly didn't seem in critical danger, it was all kind of interesting to me. Thankfully, I’d never been in ambulance before. I think that part was a lot harder on M. He didn’t know how his boy was doing or where the hospital was located. (In fact, when he arrived just a few minutes after we did, the ambulance driver let him know he’d followed a little too closely! Of course, I was grateful he was already there.)

I was curious about what would happen next. It was SO not like the TV show ER, thank goodness! We were shuffled around a bit by the EMTs and the hospital personnel, but fairly quickly moved to a small room designated for pediatric patients. There was just one other little girl there with her mom. Dylan soon was diagnosed with croup, which wasn’t a surprise to us.

We were told that croup is a very common childhood illness, typically caused by the same viruses that result in a cold or just a mild sore throat, if anything, in adults. It’s usually the swelling of the larynx, and because the bronchial tubes are so small in children, the airway is obstructed. In modern times in the U.S., it rarely gets as severe as it did with our boy…which makes me feel like an awful mother for not getting him treatment sooner.

They gave us a medicated nebulizer and instructed us to keep it close to Dylan’s face, which was a real challenge since the mist seemed to bother him and he’d push it away. (When it wasn’t in his face, he’d snuggle up on our shoulder and go back to sleep.) After listening closely to his breathing and giving him a chest x-ray, they decided to give him some steroids as well, at which point they finally shared that we’d be there “several more hours” and there was a possibility that he’d be admitted to the hospital. (Another shock.)

His breathing seemed to be improving, but at some point, they evaluated him again and decided he needed another treatment of the medicated nebulizer. It was about 2:30 a.m. when I encouraged M. (who was already exhausted from working hard on a work proposal) to go home. At least one of us should get some sleep. He did so reluctantly, and I assured him I’d give him a call if anything changed, I learned something new, or we needed him in any way.

Fortunately, at about that point, the other little patient was admitted to the hospital and moved, so we had the room to ourselves and could even turn out the light. I spent the next four hours lying on a gurney, repositioning a sleeping baby so that he’d get the steam in his face but it wouldn’t wake him up. Not an easy task, and I didn’t sleep a wink.

About 6:30 a.m., Dylan woke up and started to be his active self. A new shift of nurses was on, and a very nice one came and examined him and even ordered us some breakfast. Finally, the doctor returned and told me that typically, when two of the treatments are required, hospitalization is indicated, so they were recommending admission to the hospital. (Another shock, especially with a pretty happy baby I was having trouble keeping from squiggling out of my arms.) About 8:30 a.m., I was finally told they were making arrangements to transfer us – by ambulance – to the closest Kaiser hospital, since that’s where we are insured. I called M. – who was actually able to get about three hours of sleep – to fill him in, and he was already packing up to come back to the hospital. He arrived just as the guys for the ambulance service were preparing us for transport.

To be continued…

Heigh-Ho

It's back to work I go. Two weeks ago, I returned full-time to my job as a college administrator. I know that a very special era in my life is over.

When Dylan arrived, I took the first three months off from work totally, using a combination of accrued vacation and our state's paid family leave to make up for my missed income. That time, especially, was so unique. I spent hours just focused on my new son, getting to know him, cuddling him, feeding him. We took long walks and spent lots of time rocking in the glider on our wide front porch. Often, when he napped, I would nap too, which helped me stay coherent despite the regular night feedings.

Friends and family were excited to meet our little one, and I loved sharing him with them. I invited colleagues over for lunch and felt connected to the "real world" just enough. For the first time I can recall, I was able to keep our house (reasonably) clean and tidy. Dylan's first months coincided with the holiday season, and I really enjoyed having time to shop online, wrap presents nicely, and deck the halls. I baked. I nested. Mind you, I wasn't super productive and I often marveled at how little I actually was able to accomplish in a day. (Though we had grand plans, Dylan's room still isn't decorated!) But my primary ambition was caring for this new human, and I felt like I was succeeding.

Then in January I returned to work 60% time, spending three full days in the office. This summer, I went down to 50%, which has usually meant just going to the office one full day and three afternoons. With my part-time work, most of my domestic "niceties" went out the window; we've avoided entertaining, and there are monster-sized dust bunnies floating around.

But I was able to stay connected with my son. I knew his routines. I could spot tiny incremental developments in his awareness and skills. Heck, I could predict the color and consistency of his poop the next day, because I prepared his meals and fed him!

I know how privileged I was to have had all this time with him. The vast majority of parents around the world and even in our "developed" nation struggle to put food on the table while working at least one full time job. They don't have the stable position with good benefits that I do that enabled me to shift my schedule.

And let me also say that I respect those parents who want to work full-time jobs. They recognize that a critical ingredient to providing little ones with happy, fulfilling childhoods is having parents who are happy and fulfilled, and many people would not be happy and fulfilled without pursuing careers that demand full-time attention.

Before becoming a parent, I speculated that part-time work would be ideal for me. It would allow me to continue to contribute to endeavors that make a difference beyond my immediate family and keep my mind engaged in things that challenge me in interesting ways. I recognized that I couldn't really be content as a full-time, stay-at-home parent.

Fortunately, my partner in parenting was also interested in splitting his time between caring for his child and his paid work. We debated and investigated and determined that if we scrimped and cut back some and relied on the regular help of my mother, we could afford to both work less than full-time for a few years, so that we could care for Dylan in our own home, by ourselves, which was our preference.

Unfortunately, that wasn't to be. A few months ago, my boss let me know that she needed me to return to work full-time when the new school year began. Hoping to convince her otherwise, I proposed lots of other options, including job sharing. Never-the-less, she stuck to her conviction that my job, as it currently must be constructed, is truly a full-time (or more, I must say!) job. Though I suspect she made the right decision for the College, I was of course quite disappointed. I contemplated leaving, but that just isn't feasible at this point.

And so began the scramble to figure out childcare.

Even before Dylan, M. and I spent lots of time investigating and discussing the great debates about the impacts of different childcare arrangements on children. I reached a few conclusions. First, the research is inconclusive, and the "conversation" is sometimes divisive. Second, its impossible to extract the influence of the type of childcare from the other influences on a young child's life. Next, most families have limited options and therefore don't necessarily make a decision they feel is ideal for their children; as in most situations in life, compromises are made.

I became convinced that whatever we arranged, Dylan is the type of kid who will do well. The preference to have him looked after entirely by family members in his earliest years is more about us (me!) than him.

With that in mind, we checked into day care centers, home day care options, and nannies who would come to our home. Since my mom was still willing to spend one day a week looking after her grandson, and since M. was still able to work his clients into about 24 hours per week, we only needed to find part-time coverage.

There were some really stressful days when it looked like none of our options would pan out. But then I followed a lead from a colleague that got more and more promising. I'm delighted to report that we've hired K., a warm, wonderful young woman who will be Dylan's nanny four mornings a week. She has strong experience and good references, and clearly loves kids. In fact, she will be earning her elementary teaching credential at my school during the evenings.

In my first conversation with K., I told her we hoped to find a situation that becomes so comfortable, the nanny is like an extension of our family. Sure, it's too early to tell, and in fact, she won't start caring for Dylan until next week, when her classes also begin. But I am very optimistic.

We've patched together childcare in these intermittent days before K. arrives, exploiting the love of Dylan's aunts and grandmother.

Now I'm back in the office, typically from 8 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., with lots of opportunities for "weekend and evening work." It's still too early to really tell what it's going to be like to be a mom who works full-time.

Yes, I still snuggle with him when he first wakes in the morning, I've come home for lunch a lot to see him a bit, and we're together in the evenings. He crawls through my legs while I'm pulling together dinner, and he sits next to me in his booster seat shuffling Joe's O's while M. and I dine. We splash through his bath and then play a bit before I wrestle him into his jammies. There's still time to read a story together, and then we rock and rock while he drifts to sleep (if we're lucky). There are still many, many sweet moments.

But even now, the relaxed confidence I had that I was doing a "good job" as a mother is slipping away. I'm constantly checking in with myself: "Am I paying enough attention to my son? Is it the right kind of attention? Should I be playing with him more, instead of clearing the dishes? Should I keep him awake a bit longer, so we can read more together, or should I put him down, so I can relax a bit and maybe actually have a conversation with M?"

I'm nervous about how I'm going to handle the tough juggling acts on the horizon, and I am sad that the sweet, sweet months at home with my baby boy are already behind me. I know the tension I'm coping with is nothing new; I feel like I am living a cliché. It's something many (most?) parents struggle with at some point. However, the fact that I have excellent company at my own personal pity party is cold comfort. This is a big transition for me, dang it!

Contact

One of the premises of open adoption is that the birth and adoptive families will have contact after placement. A quick cruise around Adoptionland makes it obvious that this contact takes as many different forms as there are families. However, it is striking to me how much of the pain in open adoption is related to contact.

In most states, open adoption agreements – which typically stipulate the frequency and modes of connection - are not legally enforceable; once the adoption is finalized, the legal parents hold all the cards.

It didn’t take much internet research to find blog after blog by birth moms who feel deceived about the kind of access they would be given to their children. It is horrifying to me that some potential adoptive parents are so desperate for a child that they intentionally mislead expectant mothers, knowing all along that they don’t intend to maintain a relationship.

Perhaps almost as frequently, I’ve read about adoptive families who are eager to hear from their child’s birth mother (or father) and wish they had more contact. If they haven’t heard from her in awhile, they worry about her. That’s our situation with V. right now.

When we were getting to know her before Dylan was born, we spoke to V. on the phone a couple of times a week and emailed just as often. During our formal match meeting led by our agency’s social worker, we talked a lot about contact after birth. V. was asked how often she thought she’d want to see us and whether she’d like to receive phone calls, emails, photos, etc. She indicated she’d like to see him about every other month (which truthfully sounded good on an emotional level but potentially challenging logistically, since we live about 2.5 hours apart. But we committed to it, and intended to meet this commitment).

We very carefully and candidly told her that if we became the parents of her son, she would always be welcome in our lives...unless we felt it undermined our family in some way or if we felt if was dangerous for some reason. V. smiled and said she understood and supported this. She said she didn’t see it being an issue, but if it did for some crazy reason, she’d want us to protect Dylan and our family.

While we were sitting there in the coffee shop, discussing and documenting question after question, scenario after scenario, I remember the social worker cautioning us that things change, and though the agreement should serve as a helpful framework, we should strive to be flexible in the future. She reminded us that people move on – literally and figuratively – and needs and wants in life change. She pointed out that we couldn’t anticipate now how Dylan’s placement might affect us all emotionally, especially V. This scared me.

I want to be careful about what I write here about our contact with V. since Dylan’s placement. It’s too personal for this public space. But let me just say that it has always been positive (at least from our side), in the sense that she’s been open with us about all she’s been going through related to adoption loss, but also talked about good things happening in her life. She’s fun, funny, and easy to talk with.

But the communication from her has been infrequent and unpredictable. Though we send email updates with photos every month, we struggle to know what else to do. We don’t want to push her to do things she isn’t comfortable with and we want to support her if she needs some distance to “move on.” On the other hand, we never want her to doubt that we love her and want her in our lives. We never want her to wonder if she should contact us, or fear that she’s inserting herself where she doesn’t belong.

And I worry now about Dylan. At this point, he isn’t aware when she doesn’t respond to our suggestions we visit, or that she hasn’t called in several months. But someday he will know if a birthday is missed or an invitation ignored.

I know it is impossible to shield our children from pain, and that part of parenting is teaching them how to cope with disappointment and loss, adoption related or otherwise. But I fear we need to start practicing now how to talk with him about his birth mom, her love for him, and then why we don’t hear from her much.

So I get a lot from reading about others’ experiences with contact between families. In some ways, it’s reassuring to learn about how challenging it is in most open adoptions; we aren’t alone. In other ways, it’s discouraging. There are so many misunderstandings, miscommunications, unexpressed desires, and many, many fears.

When I read about “successful” open adoption – ones in which there is frequent, consistent, and (at least fairly) comfortable connection - I am often struck by how much hard work goes into them. My sense is that, like in most other relationships, there are ups and downs, times that a easy and time that are challenging, but that those who continue to strive to have open minds and open hearts, rewards are there for all involved.

Tell me, since most of us choose open adoption because we believe it is in the child’s best interest, how do we get beyond our adult insecurities and pain? How can we support others in our triad so that the effort is worthwhile to us all?

Dam Overflow

After more than six months of pressure building up like water behind a dam, on Saturday night I burst into a river of uncharacteristic tears. Out poured a tumult of joy, relief, and grief. I had been weakened by a not-very-good-in-my-opinion movie and triggered by the sweet fragrance of my snoozing son.

I explained to M., who woke up to my snuffling in bed, that bubbling up was an odd mix of emotion. Looking at Dylan asleep in his crib, his long lashes fluttering with each exhale, his pudgy hand wrapped around his binky, I felt such a sense of relief. Maybe...probably...almost definitely, I will have the privilege of being his mommy for the rest of my life. It feels foreign to accept that this long-held and hard-won dream really has come true. What a relief!

And I was overwhelmed with happiness. I felt (and feel) so, so fortunate. He is such a beautiful little person; happy, and healthy, and full of smiles. I feel lucky not just to at last be a mom, but that HE is my son.

Mixed with those emotions, however, was some self-pity. Now that I love Dylan so much, it makes me sad that I didn't know him from the very beginning. I am sad that his gestation was more a time of concern and worry than a time of joy. I wish I could have grown him and nurtured him for nine months myself. I know this is kind of weird. After all, if I'd been able to conceive and carry this child, he would not be the Dylan we adore so much now. But the other night, I just felt sad that it was someone else who got to experience those special, earliest connections.

What made me weep hardest, though, was thinking about V., his birth mother. How difficult it must have been to give up* this precious boy. Sure, she didn't know what a special kid he would be. But he was her kid, and I know now how special that alone must make him to her. And sure, she had good reasons for placing him. Never-the-less, as my connection with my son strengthens beyond anything I could have anticipated, I can better recognize what an incredibly difficult and selfless decision she made.

Now I know that in some way, V. took a bullet for me. I've said before that there was an empty spot in my heart that only a child could fill. This child has made my love flow over. V. knew, though, that while I would be healed when she placed Dylan with us, her heart now will always have a hole that can never fully scar over.

The dam has burst and the pressure has been released. I understand more fully, though, that my open adoption will always be a deep reservoir of mixed emotions.

* Stay tuned for a post someday about how my views on the term "given up for adoption" have changed...

Bloggers' Dilemma

Well, blogging isn't going exactly as I anticipated. Before I began this endeavor, I thought some about what being a "good" blogger would mean, and I based my judgements mostly on the blogs I enjoyed most. I remember telling M. how important it is to post frequently and regularly, and that I hoped to post about twice a week. Hah!

I know I am not the first writer to observe that there is - at least for me - an inverse relationship between how much there is to write about and the opportunity to do it. Life is busy these days! And I'd like to have time to pause and reflect a bit, let alone craving out a quiet space and actually articulating my thoughts and experiences so that they are publicly digestible.

This weekend I announced to my sweetie that a high priority among all the things to accomplish is posting something pronto. It's been way too long. So he's at home now with our (hopefully) napping boy while I'm catching a few minutes at the local coffee shop, struggling to spew it all out, lickity-split.

In addition to finding time and mental energy, part of my challenging with blogging is that I sense this one is veering toward becoming "just another mommy blog." Not that there's anything wrong with that. (There are a number of mommy blogs I love!) In fact, I think family like the pictures and the developmental notes all about Dylan most. But that's not what I intended. I wanted this to be a place where, in addition to providing updates to loved ones, I could focus on adoption - open adoption in particular. I also hoped it might serve as a catharsis, a place where I could journal about deeper things I don't often get to discuss in my "real" life.

I'll list the topics rattling around in my noggin to both catalog them for future reference and see if there are any reader preferences for where I might start. (Readers?? Are there still any out there??) Some of the things I hope to be able to blog about in the not-too-distant future are:

- Dylan's six month check-up and "monthly" update
- Our lil' traveler: D's first flight and meeting his cousins
- The Russian adoption scandal
- Our steady march toward finalization
- My own take on the work/parenting (im)balance
- Hearing from V. - Yippy!
- On to solid foods: vegetarian parenting in action
- Open Adoption Roundtable

See?! The topics are all over the place. Building a big audience isn't my goal. Never-the-less, a "good" blogger would be much more focused.

Anyway, I've got a post forming in my head now that's pushing to get out first. So I'll go attend to that and stop whining about why I don't post more, and all I could but haven't yet written about. I'll just do it.

A World of Hurt

When Dylan was just a few weeks old, M. and I took him for a little walk around our neighborhood on a sunny autumn afternoon. As we strolled up the sidewalk, a wizened old woman hobbled down her front steps to take a peek at our bundle of joy. She exclaimed, "What a blessing!" She asked how old his was, and we responded cheerfully, proud to show off our son. Then she said, "He is beautiful. He is so free of sin." We trundled off, uttering our thanks.

At the time, I didn't appreciate her words. They felt, I don't know, so...sanctimonious or something. It made me uncomfortable that this stranger was judging my son in such a way.

But since then, there have been many times when I've looked at our sweet little guy and reflected back on her comment. Especially like now, when he's asleep. His soft round head is turned to one side, and his long, dark lashes rim his closed, fluttering eyes. Occasionally, his pudgy cheek moves a bit, in concert with his full lips in their precious infant overbite. He's swaddled, so his body is one small bundle. He looks so vulnerable, and so innocent.

Once when I caught my husband looking over him while Dylan sucked sleepily on his pacifier, M. struggled a bit to find words. Then he said, with moist eyes, "He's so earnest."

Yes, that's a good word. Everything that our son does now, he does with pure intent.

I told M. then what I am trying to express now: that observing the baby like this makes me melancholy. "He's so naive," I said.

As much hope and optimism as I feel for this young human, I am also already desperately sad for all the hurt I know life can - and will - bring to him. There is so much I can't - and shouldn't - protect him from. I continued, "He has no idea that there is a whole wide world out there." And for now, that's the way I want it.

It's (Not) ALL Good!

About a week ago, I started drafting a post about how much I was enjoying our domestic tranquility. Feeling self-congratulatory, I was somewhat astonished by how much I was enjoying my temporary status as a stay at home mom. I was truly finding satisfaction in keeping the house (relatively) tidy, the laundry clean, the bills paid, and the groceries stocked, all while tending to the little human.

With the onset of the holidays, there was even more for me tackle successfully. I relished having time to identify special gifts for loved ones and shop for them (thank goodness of the internet!). And I couldn't wait to put on the holiday music, to start baking, and especially to decking the halls - things I do every year, but rarely feel I can enjoy fully because of the competing demands of my job.

Then fatigue set in. Dylan still needs to be fed a couple of times during the night. And even though my fabulous partner - who isn't on parental leave - shares this responsibility with me, it means I'm awakened to various degrees every few hours. Not much REM sleep in this house (at least for the adults).

And to make things worse, I really hurt my back. (Man, there is nothing like injuring your back to make you feel OLD!) Not quite sure how I did it, but it must have involved moving heavy boxes of decoration because the next morning, I had a sharp pain in my lower back, a horrible ache in my hip, and oddest of all, my right thigh was numb. Needless to say, the pain didn't help getting enough sleep or staying productive.

Poor M.! For a couple of days, he had to be on double-daddy duty, which he did with no complaint and much compassion.

I'm relieved to report that my back has slowly healed and as of today, it feels normal. But my thigh? It feels like it has a horrible sunburn. Odd, huh? Fortunately, its not slowing me down much anymore. I no longer have to hesitate before picking our little guy up.

Meanwhile, M.'s had a couple of rough days at work, AND he was attacked by a feral cat he was trying to capture so we could take her in to get fixed before she procreates AGAIN.

Christmas is almost here. There is more shopping to do, and much more wrapping to be accomplished between various "events." There are family relationships to negotiate, now including with Dylan's birth mother, V.

So, I'm not going to write that boastful post about how well I'm managing everything, about how much easier it is to be a mom at home than I anticipated, and about how I am brimming with holiday cheer. Instead, I'll admit it: this is hard.

My fuse is short, and I am a bigger nag to M. than he deserves. I am feeling guilty that I don't have more energy to give to interacting with Dylan. We're not sending holiday cards this year (and we finally have a cute kid to feature in it!).

Have no fear: this Bah Humbug mood is fleeting. I know that we're muddling through a huge change in our lives, and that I should be patient, and flexible, and gentle with myself and others. All I need to do is spend a few calm moment with my swaddled baby and adorable husband, snuggling quietly together on the couch in front of our beautiful, fragrant Christmas tree to know that we really are doing okay. In fact, we're doing great.

Thanks for "listening."