Flashbacks

As a post script to yesterday's entry, I'm going to post a couple of pictures. Sometimes, when recalling RK's babyhood, I start to question whether I am remembering correctly or perhaps my dates are off. You know, time does have a way of warping things. I rummaged around baby pictures and sure enough, I was remembering right.

These were all taken on the same day. The date they were uploaded on April 4th, but if I remember right they were taken the last half of March while Mike was in a conference here in Seoul. Either way, she was about three and a half months old.



Reilly Kate was pretty pleased with herself when she discovered she could prop herself up to sit. Her content to sit was short lived however. It took just a couple of weeks before she'd grow frustrated with merely sitting. This was about the stage at which she began to whine. She wanted to STAND!




And stand she did. She'd get so excited. She'd look around at all her toys as if to say, "Hey! Look at me! Towering above you, way up high." She'd get so excited she's swing her free arm up and around until she'd lose her balance and wind up flat on her ass wondering what the hell just happened. Then she'd want to do it all again.




Reilly Kate, like most babies, hated tummy time. She'd work herself up on all fours and rock back and forth, still pissed off about being in this position. I guess that's why she didn't crawl for too long. She started crawling around 4.5 months and a month later she was cruising the furniture. To her, crawling wasn't a mode of transportation, it was a form of the much despised tummy time.


Roman, on the other hand, was deliciously average on his milestones. Pictures of that another day.

Baptism by Fire

Before Reilly Kate was born, I really and truly believed I was going to be a great mother. I thought I had good instincts. I researched everything. I was starting down a path of good choices and sound parenting philosophy. Little did I know that it was really the path straight to hell.

Within a few days of Reilly's birth, she was hospitalized. The whole ordeal is still so painful that I cannot even delve into much more than to say she was the right infant at the right time to play practice patient to four interns... and I was unable (and perhaps unwilling) to protect her the way I should have. That single week has colored every day of my mothering existence. Therapy, which I will someday seek to sort through this, will only take the edge off my torment at the cost of thousands of dollars. Not a great way to start out. My rock solid foundation of confidence was left in crumbles.

Then there was the breastfeeding. I had resisted the temptation of getting breast reduction surgery for ten years because I knew I wanted to nurse my children. I thought it would be this magical experience, a thing of beautiful bonding between me and my baby. Like everything else, I researched and read, attended classes and workshops. I was prepared, armed with enough information for a titty convention all my own. I watched my friend, four months prior, effortlessly establish a wonderful and awe inspiring nursing relationship with her first born. I had no reason to expect anything less.

I put Reilly Kate to my breast and... it hurt. The worst fucking pain and that's saying a lot having just come out of a pitocin induced labor without pain medication. I was told time and time again that if it hurt I was doing it wrong. Unlatch. Relatch. Painful? Unlatch. Relatch. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. As proof of my inability to get a proper latch, my nipples blistered and bled. Not once did anyone suggest that this might just be normal. Not once. I saw lactation consultants, post partum doulas, midwives, doctors, even LLL leaders. They all told me that my discomfort was the result of a poor latch.

I've been nursing for almost five years straight now and I can tell you, without any doubt, that when I put this third child to the tit it is going to hurt like holy bloody hell. Not only is the pain totally normal for me, I've discovered it is the dirty little secret of breastfeeding. Yeah. It hurts. Suck it up and be a woman. If only somebody had told me that. Instead, though, I added it to my growing list of motherhood failures. I still nursed, but thought my pain was my own fault.

Then there was little Miss Reilly Kate herself. This child... I just couldn't figure out how other moms were doing it. I couldn't let her be for five minutes. She hated the sling, the bouncer, the swing (which she did use for her once or twice a day fifteen minute long nap), the floor, her crib, my bed, my lap. She was only really happy if attempting to do something. Yes, even when merely just weeks old. First it was the rolling. She would attempt to roll and would get very pissy and vocal if I didn't assist her. Then it went to sitting, then standing and crawling, and finally to walking followed shortly by running. Thus was her infanthood gone by the ripe old age of 8 months.

She completely gave up on naps at about 3 months. This isn't to say she hasn't taken a nap since. She has. Just the other day she laid down for a nice half hour snooze. But it's been rare and a struggle. I tried all methods. The schedule. Co-sleeping. Crying it out. Ferber. Baby wearing (by about four months she would actually do short stints in the sling which normally would induce a bit of shut eye provided I kept walking). Driving around in the car. Eventually I quit trying and was happy on the occasion that she did take a nap.

By the time she was about five months old I had come to the conclusion that I wasn't such a good mother. In fact, I was pretty lousy at it. I felt like I didn't know what I was doing and what I was doing was all wrong. This feeling continued until Roman came along and I realized it wasn't me. It was, well, it was her.

Not that anything was or is wrong with Reilly Kate. She's just a different kind of child. Completely different. She marches to the beat of her own drummer. Literally. Many of us have children like her, that are different and as a result challenge and at times outright difficult. But those of us blessed with our special case as our first child have our confidence shaken. I've met a few other mothers like me and they've all felt the same way. It isn't till the second child comes along that we realize we don't suck as much as we thought.

Other mothers didn't even believe me. When I would complain about the extraordinarily difficult day I had, I would get rolled eyes or come backs about how all of us were going through the same thing. Many of my internet friends got horribly angry with me since I was scarcely online. They'd sit in chatrooms for hours during the day while their newborns napped or played with their toes whereas I was lucky if I could squeeze a five minute shower in without having her turn purple with frustration.

I've even been called a liar, to my face, when I talked about the stuff Reilly Kate was doing. She was crazy early on her milestones which to some mothers who's children aren't in this category is a badge of honor flaunted around to make them feel less than. Sadly, ask any of us who've had their three month old roll themselves around the house. It's nothing to envy. Having a child like this can kill any sense of competition one might have.

All this has been rummaging around at the forefront of my brain lately as I think of what this next addition is going to be like (due date, by the way, is February 6th). I tried very hard to remember how difficult Reilly Kate's babyhood was so that I didn't just remember the good times. I think mothers somehow forget how hard things were and only remember the warm fuzzy moments. Once, while grocery shopping with the two kids and older woman came up to me to tell me how much she missed her children being small. Much to her shock and dismay, I replied, "I cannot wait until I miss when my kids were this age." Times are always better when they are past.

Regardless of what this next baby is like, I'm a good mother. I know I am. I'm not great. I'm definitely not the best (although, Reilly Kate does tell me that I am the best several times a day). But I am good. Good enough. So I look down at my ever expanding belly and think, "Bring it on, baby. I'm ready for you. I've been baptized into motherhood by fire."

Catch Up

If you'd excuse me for just one more day... Mike's back and it's been a long time since we... uhhh... played Yahtze. All I need is a king of diamonds and I've got Bingo!

It Rained, It Poured for 40 Days-ee Days-ees

It's been raining here pretty much without reprieve the entire time we've been back. This monsoon season is the worst Seoul's seen in something like 20 years. The flooding is bad. Hundreds have died in the North, about 50 down here in the South. It's serious, actually.

Here on my hill, I've got the kids standing lookout for an ark to come floating down the Han River. Not that an ark would do us any good really. I doubt we'd get picked up and taken aboard. But at least I could stop checking the weather forecasts to find out when the rains will stop (we're on our 38th day of rain here, by the way, with no end in sight).

I've got water leakage near all my windows because, no, I didn't bother to follow any advice on caulking. Thankfully, most of our stuff is stored in waterproof plastic bins. The air inside is muggy and stale, but I can't really open any windows to allow "fresh" air (if there is actually such a thing in Seoul) in. Somehow, amazingly, the kids have gotten colds. Nothing too serious. Runny nose and cough. Considering all the fighting they've been doing lately, it'll be a shock if they don't wind up with broken bones.

Needless to say, we haven't ventured out much. Trapped inside a high rise apartment with two young children and a dog that needs to be walked every three hours despite the constant torrential downpour is starting to take its toll on my sanity. If it goes on much longer I'm sticking Truman in the crockpot, decorating my children with tempora paints and fruity snacks, picking up pipe smoking and writing cubist poetry. Then I'll gather all the expat freaks in Seoul to come entertain and excite me in my salon, 504 Rue da Hyundai Hometown.

Now, who wants to fly out here and be my Alice?

Speaking Roman

I have to share a couple of really cute things that Roman's said before I forget them completely. In some ways this blog serves as an archive of my kid's babyhood. Who needs baby books these days, right?

Roman doesn't use "I" at all. Instead he says "Me." I've corrected him a few times, but I'm a firm believer in the kids will develop at their own pace philosophy and Roman is absolutely NOT ready to use proper pronouns. While we were visiting my friend Holly, she took his language misuse and abuse as her pet project.

Roman: Look! Me have my candy bag!

Holly: Say, "I have my candy bag."

Roman: No, me no say that. You no have you candy bag.


Not one to easily give up, Holly gives it another try.

Roman: Me have my pencil!

Holly: Roman, say, "I have my pencil."

Roman: [sighs deeply] Okay. You have you pencil.


I think she has now come along to my thinking that hopefully he'll straighten it all out on his own before he goes off to college. Of course, that's not the biggest of my worries. I'm more concerned that he quits nursing before high school. I don't think it'd look so good to have me sitting on the football team bench right next to the Gatorade just in case he needs a quick tug at the tit. I'm sure he'll give it up before then. I'm sure he will. He will, won't he?

Indulge me one more Roman funny. He loves to walk around with a toy hammer, tapping on walls, floors, furniture, his sister, whatever, while saying, "Ham, ham, ham, ham." See? It's a hammer. It hams. How stinking cute is that?

There's no place like... hell?

I was going to write this out last night, after I put the kids to bed. But I laid down with them to say prayers and woke up shortly after midnight, fully clothed with my underwire bra so firmly implanted in my arm pit, I thought I might have to have it surgically removed. Sadly, after putting on pajamas and actually going to bed, I tossed and turned for four straight hours. At least I was lying down.

To avoid a similar mishap tonight, I took a nap in the afternoon while Almin played with the kids at the park. I laid down with the kids, but didn't crawl under the covers and cranked the AC so it'd be good and cold. I still fell asleep. Fortunately, I woke up just three and a half hours later at about 10pm. Unfortunately, I seem to be suffering from hypothermia.

Yes, it's good to be home.

As I have still yet to receive any prenatal care (and for those interested, I am now entering the second trimester), I called over to the hospital here on base. I was told by the OB clinic that I am not eligible to be seen there. I was given a memo that explained I needed to make an initial appointment with the Family Practice clinic and they would then in turn refer me to a Korean doctor. So, dutifully, I called over the Family practice clinic. There I learned that I can only be seen by them through a "same day appointment." Same day appointments are booked early in the morning. If you want one, you need to get on the horn to them no later than 8am. I, by the way, was calling them at exactly 8am and, I was told, there were no same day appointments available.

No problem, I thought, I'll just call back early tomorrow morning. Except. I was then told, I am not eligible to make any same day appointments before 10am.

"Huh? If I call after 10 all the same day appointments will be filled."

"Yes, ma'am."

"So, let me get this straight. I need a same day appointment to be seen by your clinic. To get a same day appointment I need to call before 8am. But I am not eligible to make a same day appointment until after 10am, when they are all booked. Correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Anyone ever read Catch 22? I swear to the good lord above, this is how the damn military works. It is amazing that we are able to blow shit up and invade other countries and provoke despotic leaders into launching half ass missiles. Really. I would think with the complete stupidity in which our military functions, we wouldn't be able to fight our way out of a underdeveloped country. Oh, shit. That Iraq thing again.

When I inquired about just getting that referral without the same day appointment, I was then told that the Family Practice clinic does not refer patients to Korean doctors. So I asked, how would I go about finding out which doctors to go to and was told that really wasn't something she knew anything about, after all, "I'm not at a Korean hospital."

I'm not sure if I'll be getting any prenatal care. I'll probably give birth at home with Mike in the background screaming, "I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies." Then the North will invade and I'll resort to saying silly things like "As God as my witness, I'll never go hungry again."

Yeah. I love it here. It's good to be home.

What a long, strange trip it was

We're back and alive... barely. I swear, that flight takes years off my life. Doing it alone with two children robbed me of at least ten good post retirement years. Plus, Mike stayed just long enough to pick us up from the airport and put the kids to bed. He's gone for a week. Important conference in an important city with important people because he is, ya know, important.

I'm exhausted. The kids are getting up in the wee hours of the morning having not yet adjusted to the time change. Roman ran a pretty high fever today, too. It lasted only about 6 hours. Anyone heard of the 6 hour flu?

Quite honestly, I am so tired and sick to my stomach that I've spent the last two days in bed. I'm sitting upright in the computer chair right now just long enough to post this as there is something important I want to say. I've tried to wrap my brain around a clever way to say it, but I am too spent to conjure up anything.

So here. Here it is. Take a look. Figure it out. Come up with something clever yourself. Entertain me. But nothing more hearty than a slight chuckle, please. Anything more and I'll vomit on the keyboard.

The Devil wears Prada AND drives a Minivan

You didn't think I forgot about this blog, now did you? I've just been busy lately. In the last week we've been to Chuck E Cheese's... twice, Greekfest at St. Nectarios where Danny and I had a screamfest over onion covered gyros, the Field Museum to see King Tut's loot, the ER at Northwest Community Hospital (don't worry, everyone is healthy and intact), Arlington Park Racetrack and lost more money than we won, three different Targets and a Sam's Club where I was reminded how much I hate the Waltons, Kiddieland, boating on Fox Lake... twice, the Hyatt Regency Woodfield to celebrate our 12th anniversary by eating hot wings in bed and falling asleep to the History Channel while the kids spent the night at the inlaws, and an afternoon spent in my parents' backyard marinating my offspring in a play pool filled with grass clippings and bits of twigs and leaves.

Know what I kept thinking as we did all that? Well, besides "I'm tired and really need a nap." I just kept thinking, "Why in the world would anyone willingly drive an SUV?" You see, we were forced to rent an SUV as they stock very few minivans and the ones they did have were already rented out. We even got a free upgrade to a "much larger and nicer" SUV. I believe it is a Toyota Four Runner which should really be called the Toyota More Dumber.

Now, before you tune me out for being a clean air loving envirofreak (which, of course, being an air breather, I am), hear me out. This post has little to do with the costs of air pollution, parking and traffic, dependence on foreign oil, consumerism, bloodshed and war, roadway menaces, and general ugliness that SUVs bear down on our country, future generations, and, indeed, the world entire. No, no. This post is simply about utility and vanity.

I am all about sacrificing utility for vanity. For the love of Prada and all else that is over priced and superficial! I am the same woman who hiked Diamond Head in three inch wedge platforms that made my legs look long and lean and damn hot for a 30 something, overweight mother of two despite the handicap they imparted as I lugged my rather large backside up the mountain. Vanity thy name is Heather!

And it is with this in mind that I will tell you SUVs are neither useful nor flattering and if you own such a beast, take it immediately to the dealership and get yourself something that is better suited for someone with say, enough gray matter between the ears as to generate even a remote glimmer of a brainwave. In other words, if you can read this, you're too smart to be driving such a dumb ass vehicle even if you drool on yourself while reading.

There is just nothing utilitarian about SUVs. They are large and bulky and difficult to drive and park. And, at the same time, not much bigger inside than your average sedan. The piece of shit we're currently driving comfortably seats four with room enough in back for a small stroller and a diaper bag of average size. Throw my Louis Vitton handbag into the mix and we're cramped.

The doors swing open instead of sliding which means that if you are parked in between two other dingbats driving oversized, overpriced, and over glorified SUVs, you can forget getting your kids in or out of the vehicle. You may not be able to get out yourself. The doors simply won't open wide enough.

The gas tank costs 70 bucks to fill and it probably gets about 3 miles to the gallon. At least it feels that way compared to my minivan. We're always shelling out money to fill that fucker. The air circulation sucks and the engine seems noisy. Plus, the cab sits way the hell up off the ground for reasons I'm sure having to do with its off roading capabilities. Yes, yes, it does have 4 wheel drive which I'm sure is a good thing for those who wish to take it out into muddy mud pits in the middle of nowhere, but for a fat, suburban housewife with small children it's of no difference. And I don't think Enterprise Rent A Car would appreciate it much if I did take it off roading.

So, to review, an SUV is of little utility.

Why then, why on earth, why in the name of all that is hot and trendy is the SUV taking over our country? I'll tell what I've gleaned from asking those that own such beasts. Misguided vanity.

I've heard time and time again, "I could never drive a minivan," or "I'm just not the minivan type," and "I swore I would never own a minivan." My personal favorite, "My husband/wife would never allow a minivan." These deluded individuals seem to think that a minivan will make them look like... oh, I don't know... like... ummm... the middle aged parents they are! And that somehow an SUV is going to make them look young and sporty. Really it only makes them look pathetic.

Think of the balding fat guy going through a midlife crisis that drives a 'vette through town with The Cure blasting through the speakers. Do you think he's hot? No, he's pathetic. So is the minivan mama struggling to pull her supersized derriere into the front seat of her sparkly Lexus SUV by using the old jump and hoist technique while her children sit smashed in next to one another and the dog must run beside the car since there just ain't no room inside for Rover. Quite frankly, it is unflattering as hell and I'm perfectly happy to sit in my unsporty minivan that I can climb into in such a way that simultaneously deemphasizes my jiggly belly and draws attention to my super sexy legs in pricey Prada shoes.

Driving an SUV for vanity is pathetic and dumb. Face it, an SUV is NOT going to make your boobs perky or allow your husband an erection without the use of Viagra. It isn't going to smooth away the years of tanning bed use or make your size 8 jeans fit without a visible camel toe. You aren't going to be cool again or hip or know that Nelly is a boy who raps and not a mean girl on Little House on the Prairie just by driving an overpriced status symbol that guzzles gas and pollutes the air.

Hell, even I know that 50 Cent is sick and I drive a minivan.