The Bog of Eternal Stench

So....fucking...tired...snore.  What the hell?  In an attempt to placate my husband I once again ventured to get Anya to sleep in her crib.  After a month of puking and screaming at the idea that we expected her to slumber in her own bed and, therefore, sleeping with mommy (or daddy some nights), we had to get her back into her crib.  We took Anya upstairs together and with hugs and kisses Rich left Anya and I to our goondnight routine.  Anya and I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and I Love You and and one round of Wheels on the Bus.  Anya laid back to snuggle and finish her milk and I returned the cuddles.  When the yawning, rubbing of the eyes, and nesting into the crook of my arm started I knew it was time.

I scooped up all 24 point whatever pounds of toddler and not as gently as I would've liked placed her into her crib - yes I put the side back up earlier in the day.  "I love you sweetpea," and I swept toward the door.  "Mooooommy, mom mommy mommy mom no mommy mommy pleash pleash mommy...."  And here we go.  I stood by her crib and let her hug me while I rubbed her back.  "You are a big girl and need to sleep in your bed."  "NOOOOO mommy pleesh," she continued to wail.  Slowly over the next hour I step by step retreated...I refused to pick her up...she's not going to get me this time.  I went from hugs over the rail to aloof and not touching her slowly, but giving her kisses on her head every now and then for some comfort.  Eventually the tears stopped and she just clung to whatever part of me she could reach over the rail.  She sucked her thumb and I thought started drifting off on her feet.  She even laid down a few times and I thought, "WIN!"  But as soon as her head hit the pillow the mommy pleeshes started all over again. 

I was exhausted and heart broken that I was putting her though this, but knew I needed to be the mommy and make some of the rules.  I kissed her and hugged her and finally said, "Good night, Anya."  As I started for the door...I knew the pitch...that wail...the alarm...that tone...I picked her up quickly and said, "Anya don't you dare....."  HHhthwwwaaaaaa muuuuppptt  blooooosh all over me, her and the bedroom.  If I hadn't been witness to this vomit factor for over a month now only at into-your-own-bed time I would think maybe she's sick, her tummy hurts, or awww poor baby, but, no, that is not the case.  My mother snickers at my disgust saying, "You did that to me until I gave you a spoon and said eat it."  Whether or not my mother was truely that sinister I don't remember, but I'd try it if I thought it would work too.

Rich got the shampooer and spray and plastic bags and paper towels and helped me strip Anya and myself of milk flavored wretch.  I stiffled back my dry heaves, but only due to the ferocity of my anger.  I felt like a failure.  How could this be happening?  Why can't I a) get my daughter to sleep in her own bed, and b) be a mom and deal with the puke myself.  I felt defeated and deflated and incapable and beaten; all after an evening long feud with my husband to boot.  A wave of anxiety and sadness and betrayal and fear clung to my soul as Anya and I got into the tub to clean up.  She wouldn't let me put her down.  She screamed and shook and pleaded for me to hold her.  I tried reasoning with this scared little peanut, "I can't wash us if I hold you."  Rich yelled at me for scaring her, for being less than a caring mommy, for being mad and upset that I was tired, in pain, vomited on, and emotionally spent before bedtime even began.  There I was holding a sniffling toddler, wreaking of puke, and the water ran cooler and cooler until...FUCK!

For a change Rich had a hot relaxing shower before his own bedtime, and as irnony has it, we needed that hot water.  I had to turn the water off, still holding Anya, I stepped out of the tub, under the heat fan and wrapped a few towels around Anya to keep her warm.  She had stopped sobbing and shaking but clung to me as if it were the end of the world.  We stood there dripping, in the center of the bathroom and the smell of vomit baking under the heat fan.  I stared off into nothingness: broken and a shamed of my lack of motherness at the moment.  I remember rocking for a bit and that my feet started hurting and my back was breaking.  I tried to pry Anya off of me and lean her on the sink.  Success but not without rebellion from the stinking bog machine.  Eventually, 30 or 45 minutes later Rich boiled some water and directed my frozen wet stink into the tub with Anya.  I washed her first and handed her out of the tub while I bathed like they did the year my house was built (for those not in the know the 1800s).  At least I couldn't smell the stench any more.

Rich ran another round of cleaning product on Anya's room as I sat in a towel in the dining room in silence while Anya banged a concerto on the piano and giggled at herself.  After all efforts to remove said vomit from Anya's room created a smog of chemicals Rich took Anya up to our bed to fall asleep and I dried my mop of maybe cleaned hair.  My arrival to my room produced a sound asleep toddler, a drained spouse and anxiety.  Rich went downstairs to clean himself up and watch some TV to cleans himself of the grossness and frustration.  I crawled into bed bone chilled.  Hour after I hour I stared at the clock, my feet felt dead of blood.  I started getting reflux and couldn't get the rot of bile from my throat.  12, 1, 2, 3 I turned up the heat 2 degrees, put on 2 pairs of socks, and downed a gallon of milk and finally fell to sleep...all the while Anya off in dreamland without a stir. 

Xtra Xtra: Dairy Maid goes on date with Sandman

I'm tired.  No, actually, I'm exhausted.  My eyes are burning with weight and no toothpick is strong enough to hold up the fort.  The effort it takes to lift a limb...ugh...let me go make some tea.
...
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English Breakfast with honey...so aromatic.  I don't think it's going to help me, but at least I can enjoy the moment.  Mmmm. 

I'm taking inventory: tired, but not depressed.  Huh....that's a new one.  Can it really be that I'm moving along the highway?  Have I accepted or merely tricked myself into forward motion?  Did someone labotomize me in my sleep?  Not possible...I don't sleep.  Aha...but I do...in luxurious four hour cycles thanks to a lovely invention called Playtex drop-ins with Good Start just-add-water-powder at 7:30 PM. Finally she has lost the bottle war and I'm gaining ground in the sleep battle.  I remember (in my previous life) my motto being, "I'll sleep enough when I'm dead." Those words from a former party queen are foreign now. I never would have thought that sleep deprivation could affect an insomnic so negatively. I'm used to four hours a night...after all I married a drummer...I live the rock star life...not anymore...and neither does he. 


You know...we try so hard to con our children away from the bottle to the sippy cup, yet here I am praising her acceptance of said infamous beverage dispenser. It's a good thing too because my boobs are protesting their continued use as milk jugs.  I'm preparing now for the end of milkmaid mom.  In months past this thought brought tears to my eyes and pain in my chest.  Suddenly, I'm like...they are mine kid, and it's time to give 'em back.  I mean really.  She's 10 and a half months old.  Are you going to fault me for falling short of that 1 year mark?  Have I done a dis-service to my lovely angel because I've introduced formula...gasp...for shame!  She's been eating baby food since she was 4.5 months old and is now eating little girl breakfast like waffels and french toast and sometimes shares a grownup dinner - if we have couscous and peas - her favorite.  Her nutritional needs are being met; she doesn't rely on my liquid gold any longer.  On weekends she let's my boobs engorge and ache, pushing the time limit longer and longer.  Finally they are giving up, or more accurately drying up. 

I've cut my daily pumps at work back to two.  It's amazing how much better my workday flows.  I actually feel like I can work and accomplish my tasks with less stress.  I used to watch the clock like no one's business, schedule real meetings around my appointments with the pump, would pick projects with limited time commitment, and generally believe that at the end of the day nothing really got done. I couldn't seem to multi-task at work for fear that I would lose track of time and miss my expression.  I pumped like it was my job and now I realize that I was only freelancing and my contract is almost up.  I don't need to keep that second job.  Milkmaid to mom will do just fine please. 

A small voice, who I picture looks like Whistler's mother, points her finger, "Failure!  You are her mother.  Your milk is her lifeline.  One year is not too much to ask.  You aren't trying hard enough.  She deserves more.  You selfish woman...".  I don't listen to her anymore.  Instead I listen to a gentle birdsong like coming spring.  I picture dresses and tops without a V-neck, new push-up bras, having beer and wine with friends - oooo and my precious martinis of yum.  I envision dinners out with my husband, maybe even some dancing and seeing friends play at the local pub while Anya sucks away on a beverage of vitablock nutrients in the arms of her aunts or good friends for the evening. 

Every morning I wake up and wonder, "Is this the day?"  Usually the ferocious slap, pinching and clawing at my face and neck after realizing there wasn't enough milk for her to fall back asleep is enough to tell me "no."  I have to convince myself that she will adjust.  I run downstairs to fix her a few ounces of formula.  She pushes the bottle away and twists her face into my chest.  After several tries she aborts and surrenders to the bottle and I rock her back to sleep before I jump in the shower...late again.  I feel success, then sadness.  I know she is hurt and confused.  I don't want to be the cause of that suffering.  Her whimpers as she falls off to slumber make my stomach twist.  But I know...I know.

I'm ready.  I hear the clock ticking.  I taste a hint freedom (in the guise of future vodka).  I feel the breeze and it tells me it's coming.  The weening process is as much of a milestone for me as it is for her.  We both hurt and don't want to let go.  I need to let go for her sake.  The frustration she feels from an empty source will hurt her more than a nourishing bottle.  I need to let go for my sake.  The frustration I feel from lack of sleep and a body not my own aches more than allowing her to grow into the strong woman I know she'll be.  Not too much longer...

...maybe this is the first real step out of my fog.