Addie at Four Months

It seems absolutely impossible that four months ago today, Ben, Addie and I were spending our first night together as a family. It seems impossible that four months have gone by so quickly, and impossible that there was ever a time that she wasn't already here.

But before I devolve into a teary rendition of "Sunrise, Sunset," let me post her official birthday picture. Her cuteness will distract me from the fact that someone has apparently pressed the fast forward button on my life:

See? That face can cure cancer. For reals. Or if not cure it, at least kick the shit out of it:

Oh, snap! Pinned by the sheep! I'll get you next time, foul beast!

My life as a cow

I decided long before Addie was born that I was going to breastfeed, and I don't regret the experience one bit-- it's a fantastic way to bond with my baby, it gives her the nutrients and antibodies that she needs to grow strong and healthy, and it is an excellent excuse to sit on the couch and watch reruns of Glee without having to feel guilty that I'm not accomplishing anything. However, when you both breastfeed and work-- because apparently you can't buy diapers with baby smiles-- you are also required to pump, which is an almost debilitatingly unpleasant experience.

I suppose it could be worse-- I at least have an office I can pump in. Without it, I would be forced to go to the Women's Room at work, which is really just a small room with a shower and a bench in it (why is there a shower at the insurance company where I work? Has there ever been a woman sitting at her desk thinking, "Man! Binding these policies has really caused me to work up a sweat!"). The room is governed by its own set of laws, making it a lactation Thunderdome-- Four boobs enter, two boobs leave.

Even my office, though, is not free from peril-- I have a small window that looks out into the common area, leaving me exposed to gawkers. I ordered blinds, but due to a snafu, they never arrived; too freaked out from fending off an extremely aggressive fellow pumper who attempted to bust in on me during my last visit to the Women's Room, I took matters into my own hands and just taped a bunch of paper over the window:

But as you can see, for reasons beyond even my own understanding, I chose to use paper that was already pre-three-hole-punched, essentially turning my office into a peep booth for any brave soul who dared to put his eye up to it. Sort of like that Madonna video for "Open Your Heart," only instead of getting a glimpse of Madge, you get to see me hooked up to a milking machine. Sexy.

Also, you will find that should you put up a giant wall of holey paper over your common room window, you are basically announcing to the world HELLO! I AM MILKING MYSELF IN HERE! PLEASE ASK ME ABOUT IT! And people will ask you about it-- coworkers, the maintenance guy, and, in fact, the guy I called today to ask why my blinds never showed up ("Oh!" he said. "That's your crazy office!").

I'm not sure it will be much better when the blinds arrive-- yes, it will be classier. But it will also serve as the proverbial Sock on the Door-- Blinds up = stop on by! Blinds down = National Geographic Boobs On Display.

All I know is, three times a day, five days a week, I have to live with the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, topless at my desk at work, and everyone knows it. Among the people in my department, I refer to the act of pumping as "The Unspeakable," as in "I wish I could help you with this project, but I have to go commit The Unspeakable right now."

After all that work-based nudity, I guess I could use a good shower...

...you know, unless it IS

So hey, remember how I wrote that whole thing about post-partum thyroiditis, and how I probably had that, and it was SO CRAZY because I had all the symptoms and I was so proud of myself for actually realizing that there was something wrong with me, etc? Well, scratch all that, because apparently I DON'T have post-partum thyroiditis; in fact, I called the doctor's office and all of my blood tests came back totally normal. Which is awesome and all, because it means I'm not in the process of blowing out my thyroid, but not awesome, because it means I now have no explanation for my hair loss OR my rash, other than that I am That Gross Woman now.

You know, the one you see in the cafeteria at work, or at the bus stop while you're driving by in your nice, non-rashy car. With the conspicuous bald spot and the bright red welts all over her arms. And you think, oh, wow, look at That Gross Woman.

That is me! I am her! I'm That Gross Woman! Are they going to come and take away my car? Am I going to have to start eating Marie Callander pot pies for lunch every day? Is there some sort of handbook for this? I haven't been this set adrift since my time as That Stupidly Ugly Teenager!

Sometimes, hypochondria, isn't

I don't get sick often, but when I do, I usually assume that it's cancer. This seems like an excellent strategy-- a night or two of freaking out, followed by a resigned evening searching the Internet for acceptable wigs to cover up my inevitable chemo-induced hair loss (sometimes I consider snoods, but I usually reject them as being too Thirtysomething), and then, when I finally find out that I only have a sinus infection, things don't seem so bad.

So this time, when I developed a set of bizarre symptoms-- startling easily, inability to concentrate, vague neck pain, blotchy rash-- I decided to call a doctor. It was probably just stress, or a bad reaction to my new birth control pills (or ringworm! Because of course I spent a frenzied night studying pictures of ringworm on Google) (which I don't recommend, because ringworm is totally gross).

After a brief once-over by the male nurse (which, by the way, I will never stop thinking male nurses are funny), the doctor came in, and I began describing my symptoms to her. Rather than doing the old flashlight-up-the-nose routine, she began subjecting me to some very strange tests involving my reflexes (at which point my brain said CANCER! YOU HAVE REFLEXES CANCER!), and then announced something totally odd: for once, my bizarre symptoms actually meant something.

It turns out that, pending the results of a blood test, I have something called post-partum thyroiditis, which evidently afflicts around 5% of post-partum women (because I'm doomed to excel in every area of life). Even weirder is that this disease has even more symptoms that I have and didn't even know were symptoms, such as rapid weight loss (which I totally just thought was from breast-feeding, so now when people ask why I'm so skinny, I have to tell them it's because I'm a diseased freak, rather than a super-dedicated nursing mom) and unexplained hair loss.

Apparently, while sort of scary-sounding, this problem can be fixed relatively easily with some pills. But it does have one more giant downfall: following this period of hyperthyroidism, which is the source of the weight loss, there is a much longer period of hypothyroidism, which causes rapid weight gain. Farewell, brand-new size eight pants!

But you know what? At least it's not reflexes cancer.

On Hair*

One of the many things I learned during my time as a receptionist at the day spa where I used to work (along with how to pretend to be my boss and attempt to have the title to her father's house changed to her name) (that really happened) is that when you get pregnant, your hair stops falling out. For some reason I stored this information deep in the recesses of my brain, and when I finally became pregnant several years later, I found myself checking the drain obsessively to see if the aesthetician who told me this was right (I actually doubted her, because she also told me that if I plucked my eyebrows for long enough, they would stop growing back, when in fact my body appears to have responded to my years of plucking with a pissy vengeance, sprouting stray hairs faster and more scraggly than ever before). Sure enough, she was-- about five months into my pregnancy, my drain was hair-free, a fact I took a weird and perverse pleasure in.

What she failed to tell me, though I should have guessed, is that once you stop being pregnant, all the hairs that had been desperately clinging on for dear life during the past few months fall out at once, leaving gross, damp, hamster-sized wads on the shower floor, much to my shame and, quite frankly, alarm. Because okay, that was all fine and good in the first few weeks post-partum, but seriously, it's been three months now. Since I have definitely already lost enough hair to create several different sassy styles for William Shatner (I like to think that he would use my hair as his "goin' out" 'do), I'm a little concerned that it will only be a matter of time before I am that scary woman with the gaping bald spot that everyone is trying desperately to avoid looking at.

Also concerning is Addie's newfound interest in using my hair as a handle-- specifically, the hair at the nape of my neck, which somehow always seems to escape even the tightest ponytail. So lately I've been toying the idea of returning to my old-school short hairdo, which I rocked with varying degrees of success throughout the course of my life. This is news that seems to be met with an overwhelming degree of disgust when mentioned to most parties, as though I were suggesting simply braiding my armpit hair and artfully draping it across my scalp. And I admit, there is a degree of risk associated with this move. It could turn out great, like this:

 Or it could go horribly wrong. Like fifth-grade bathrobe Victorian blouse giant denim purse wrong:

Any thoughts or advice, or tips on how to keep Addie from using my neck hair as a bridle, would be greatly appreciated.

*Let me just tell you that I spent about 20 minutes trying to come up with a clever title for this post, even going so far as to take the lazy man's titling scheme and Googling "hair quotes"; this pulled up about seventeen different links to Jessica Simpson's hair extensions line, at which point I just gave up. Evidently, though, there are many quotable things being said about this product. Good for you, Jessica Simpson!

Add-Z

I noticed right away that Addie was not a fan of lullabies-- I tried my entire repertoire, stocked with standards (including the actually-quite-ominous-if-you-really-listen-to-the-lyrics "Rock-a-bye Baby"), Muppets classics, and every song ever to reference the concept of sleep, and she responded with either complete apathy or actual displeasure, as if my rendition of "I'm So Tired" by the Beatles were stabbing her aurally in the eardrums. Singing, it seemed, was not her thing, which was quite the downer, since it is one of maybe four things I am actually good at.

It wasn't until we accidentally switched from her Addie-approved playlist to a general shuffle of my music library that we stumbled upon the answer-- Addie, it seems, loves rap music. Specifically, she loves Jay-Z, and even more specifically, she loves "99 Problems," a scathing critique of the music industry and racial stereotyping, which is evidently hilarious to babies. Luckily, I am also in possession of some awesome rap skills, so I was able to accommodate her new-found passion for rhyme-spitting.

Jay-Z is no Raffi, I guess, but if it keeps her happy, I'm totally down. That is, until she starts, you know, speaking English. Then, Jay-Z will likely be off the table.

She's got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one

Fifteen Pounds of Awesome

The name "Eight Pounds of Awesome" is a misnomer-- at no point in her life did Addie weigh exactly eight pounds. She was born eight pounds, two ounces; lost a huge amount of weight in the first three days, leading to Epic Panic ("We'll have a skeleton baby!" I cried. "The kids at day care will call her Skeletor, and constantly attempt to vanquish her with the power of Greyskull!"), and has, ever since, been making up for her waifish first week with an unchecked eating spree that has, in the first three months, vaulted her to fifteen pounds. This means that despite the fact that she just today turned three months old, she is already rapidly outgrowing her six-month clothes and moving into nine-month ones.

This is, of course, a good thing; it means that she is healthy and growing, and probably not going to be one of those creepy kids that will just stop growing and remain the size of a two-year-old well into their teens (although that seems to be a ticket to a human interest story in both People magazine and a one-hour special on TLC). But it also means that my little baby is Growing Up, and will likely be able to steal my car and take it joyriding by the time she's one.

But for right now, she's still just a wee little baby. Although as you can see from this progression of monthly birthday pictures, she's a wee little baby that looks like she could eat her one-month-old self for breakfast.