Stealing My Thunder

It's been a few days since I've posted, but things on the home front have been a bit hectic. Hubby had hernia repair surgery last Thursday. I don't know why the hell I agreed to the timing of this. I guess it was because when he visited the surgeon back in the late fall the doc informed us there wasn't a rush; we wanted to get through the holidays and the birth of our second son and were even considering having the surgeon do a little snip-snip while he was down there.

We ultimately decided against the vasectomy, but at the time, January 24th seemed eons and eons away. We both (mistakenly) thought that the hernia surgery would be drive-by and didn't think about the logistics of having one of us laid up while the other (me!) contended with this new challenge of caring for a newborn and toddler simultaneously and singlehandedly.

A few days into this ordeal -- me bringing him meals in bed; he watching ESPN on a percocet high -- I started thinking something wasn't right with this picture.

On Saturday night I was offered a second glass of wine and declined saying, No thanks, I'm the one responsible for driving tonight. Then it really hit me, He's stealing my thunder! How is it that I've been the sober, pregnant, designated driver for the last 9 months and here we are just 4 weeks post partum (and more importantly, our 2nd night out) and I'm the one not drinking!?

Since then I've tried to have a good attitude about this whole deal: it is what it is, so better to just find the humor in the situation and get through it. As such, I've been keeping track of all the times he's whined and/or complained about something and proved the point that men are babies and could never get through pregnancy or childbirth:

• Just feels sooo tired: I heard this one a lot this weekend. I realized what a broken record I must have sounded like when my last trimester of utter discomfort equaled mind-numbing insomnia. Of course, the difference between his situation and mine was 4 days versus months and months, and he simply took off work and spent the weekend napping and passing out at 7:30 pm every night leaving me with the dishes to do and two kids to wrangle to sleep. I couldn't help feeling a bit of resentment that I had to weather my fatigue through normal work weeks and weekends where napping just wasn't an option -- and I did my fair share of cooking, cleaning and kid duty to boot.
• Disruption of normal bowel movements: Let me be blunt, certain circumstances of the percocet possibly causing constipation and the likely pain of engaging stomach muscles made hubby very, very afraid to shit. I won't go into this one in much detail, but c'mon mommas, don't we know the joy of the first poop post episiotomy!
  
• Problem of toddler kicking stomach: This is my favorite. After bathing the Jackal, he calls me into the bedroom because he really needs my help putting pjs on the kid. Why, I asked. Just now he almost kicked my stomach - I can't let that happen, he said. Interesting. I had to kick myself (no pun intended) for not using that excuse to get out of more chores while I was pregnant.
  
• Humiliation: If you've read his blog, you'll know how violated he felt by the utter horror of waking up to find that someone had groomed his private parts in prepping for the surgeon's knife. Obviously, all you ladies out there who've ever been through a Brazilian wax or have given birth will collectively roll your eyes at this one. I mean, puh-leeze. Getting through a vaginal delivery with your dignity intact is completely impossible. As I was sitting on the toilet at the hospital a few hours after getting sown up and the nurse was crouched down eye-level with my 'baby wound' shooting it with warm water I thought, Wow, it really doesn't get any more personal than this - I'm actually getting used to being on display.

Anyway, joking aside. I am happy to report that hubby is feeling well and getting back to normal. Love you, w...and can't wait until you can start lifting heavy things again.

It's All About the Boobs

As a new-again mom who is in the throws of around-the-clock breastfeeding, I find myself obsessing about my boobs. In fact, as I was in the shower this morning attempting to keep most of the shampoo suds from running onto my boobs and possibly tainting the baby's next taste, I had to chuckle:

It wasn't too long ago that on any given Thursday morning I'd be stressing about something completely different: whether a website for a major snack bar brand would launch on time; whether the client in California was going to fire us; whether my department would have to write-off a couple thousand dollars because of poor project management.

And now, three weeks into my maternity leave, I'm worried about soap on my boobs. Earlier in the morning -- you know during that 2 am feeding when hazy thoughts rule -- I found myself actually wondering, 'is enough of my areola is his mouth?' And, 'is it the right or left boob that we start on this time?'

My husband is anxiously awaiting the 6-week post partum date when we can start having sex again. I have to say, it's going to be a challenge trying to feel sexy -- especially when my boobs are more like a fucking kitchen appliance than anything sexual. It'll be such a turn-on when we're in the middle of getting it on and the boobs start squirting breast milk across the bed. And while my mind should be on sex and my husband, I'm sure I'll be thinking, 'damn it, that's valuable milk I'm losing.'