Things that go bump in the night

So last night, we tried it.

"It."

"It" didn't exactly work out the way I'd been envisioning it for the past two months.

"It" actually went like this:

10 minutes to 9, we're both in bed, hoping this will make the baby go to sleep on time. I actually mean to do some writing work. so I bring the laptop to bed and we talk while I "computer" as my BF calls it AND nurse the baby. The baby seems to be asleep by 9:30. I get up to out her in her criblette, but her eyes pop wide open. We make her poop with some leg crunches, change her, swaddle her and stick her back on the boob for sleep-inducing hindmilk.

By 10 it seems like she's passed out. But so has the Dog. Put her in the criblette and go to brush my teeth. Maybe I'll go in for the snuggle and wake him. I am mid-brush when I hear her -- she's up again. Grrr...

By 10:30 she's fast asleep. I'm pretty sure. So I go in for the snuggle and life springs from my sleeping husband. Alright! We have the makings of something here. And it starts out very good. Except he's thrown his back out, so I must do all the work. I'm OK with that.

So I manage to get myself psyched up for "It" by controlling all the foreplay and barking out orders. Then I take a deep breath and go for "It." Except "It" doesn't get very far. That's OK, I think, we'll take it slow. I need to relax, breathe into it. And then... thunk!

Ow, I think, that's not quite right.

The Dog: "OW! What the fuck was that?"

I have no idea, but something is not right. But we try it again. Slow, slow, THUNK!

OW! Ugh, this is depressing.

The Dog: "OW! OW! It's like my dick's getting caught on something."

Me, optimistic: "Maybe it's a stitch."

The Dog: "Maybe we should have felt our way around in there first."

Hmm, good point. I take a stab at the examination. Aha. Something is not quite right, indeed. I have no idea what it is, but one side in there has something hard bulging out and it's not scar tissue.

I am immediately depressed. Things are not as they were. Will they ever be again? Too soon to tell I suppose. Will need the doctor to check it out before I really hit rock bottom about my bottom.

The lovely thing about marrying for love instead of money is that you end up with your soulmate. I forget that. I'm too busy worrying about bills and whether we can afford to order as much takeout as we have been. But he was so tender and comforting after all that. He saw that I was crestfallen, that the inability to be properly intimate made me feel distant and lonely. "We'll work it out love. Don't worry. We'll take our time."

So few people have the courage to write frankly about the ups and downs of sex. I know that many people think it's too private and sometimes even I astound myself at the things I reveal. But I've always maintained that I started this site to help people. That they might see themselves in me and giggle or feel less alone. Now I'm the one who needs to feel less alone. Some come forward battered vaginas of the world. Let's compare battle scars. Woo me with your tales of episiotomies and disastrous attempts at lovemaking post-baby. My snatch could use a good laugh.

Post Traumatic Sex Disorder

On the Friday before Canadian Thanksgiving, I was supposed to have my 6-week checkup. You know, the one where they make sure your vajuj doesn't look like Hiroshima? The doctor is supposed to make sure your stitches have healed, give you your birth control talk and the sex prognosis. As in, "Yes, go ahead if you'd like." Or,"No, not just yet."

I know most women are hoping for a prescription that would buy them a few more weeks in the chastity belt, but I don't fall into that category. Oh sure, I'm tired and a bit apprehensive -- more like worried about pain -- but I am desperate to feel a bit less like a mother and more like my old wicked self. Plus fathering is dead sexy, especially when done right, and it's been hard to keep my hands of my husband. More importantly, I'd just like to know if everything is more or less in tact and feeling like it should. Don't worry, my expectations are not high.

Regardless, I was looking forward to the visit and even booked a sugaring appointment for the next day, so I could begin the de-sasquatchification process and get back to being foxy. But the fucking doctor canceled on me! And it's not as simple as rescheduling for the next available appointment -- he's gone on vacation! So by the time I see him I'll be at 9 or 10 weeks of no sex! I haven't had a dry spell like that since I was single and living with my parents!

Clearly no one is more disappointed than the Dog. What is it about mothering a newborn that makes me so desirable to him? Oh sure, my tits are out all day long, but they smell of sour milk and usually have a baby attached. I just don't get how he avoided me through 9 months of whoremones, yet as soon as he saw a giant baby decimate my punani, well he wanted to get down to the site faster than the FDNY got to Ground Zero. I know this because he has been dry-humping my ass since the night we came home from the hospital. (Yes, that is the extent of my husband's mating ritual: being an all-round good guy and dry-humping me when he wants some. And apparently I'm OK with that.)

I proceeded with the necessary hair removal anyway, the prospect of which was more terrifying than the sex that should have ensued. I didn't go to Brazil or anything, but the ripping and pulling in the general vicinity of filled my heart with fear. I imagined my pussy exploding into a million bits, the esthetician covered with bits of pube and flesh -- like that scene in Pulp Fiction where Marvin's head gets accidentally blown off.

Thankfully, that didn't happen and I'm still in one (though somewhat looser) piece, just a little less hairy. I was thanked by my husband with a generous helping of his latin forte (Of course I am a freak and looked it up to make sure THAT was OK without the doctor's consent) and I'm happy to report that no clitorises were harmed in the making of this baby. Phew!

So of course we are at 8 weeks of no sex right about now and I'm growing impatient. Yes, I know that you are all dropping your jaws in shock, but I swear that although I am too tired to write, I am apparently not too tired to consider making sexy time. Last night we were watching Brokeback Mountain again, which is basically like Hollywood porn for me. (I can't be the only woman out there who finds Heath Ledger kissing another guy hot.)

We went up to bed, because Mr. Practical thought we should do the "sleep while the baby sleeps" thing. But of course, I did not have sleep on the brain. I roll over for the good night snuggle and kiss, but I kiss with a message. He reciprocates. OK, I think, I am ready to test the equipment again. I reach down to show that I mean business and he seems into it, though his eyes are closed. That's nothing unusual.

What was highly unusual was that he started snoring. That's right -- SNORING. While. my. hand. was. on. his. dick.

"Come on. Stop joking around," I giggled. To which he replied, "ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

I collapsed into giggles, which of course made the baby start to whine in her sleep, which made me laugh even harder. Oh my fuck. This is my life now. The hat box full of French lingerie, the closet containing ridiculously sexy and vertigo-inducing high heels, the naughty drawer... all for nought. My breasts are plates, serving up hot food several times a day. My ass, well, for sitting on while I deliver said boob food. And my vagina, the gift box that delivered our incredible daughter, is getting tossed out with the recycling.

At least I can laugh about it.

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Hey, anybody know a graphic designer who's good with blog templates and works for cheap? Whatever I've done to this site is causing it to crash some people's machines (Thx for the heads up Candace) and I would like to resolve it as well as tweak a few things, maybe even move to a proper URL and possibly another blog software. Any interested parties can email me at scarbiedoll[AT]gmail[DOT]com.

It's all over but the crying

I hope the adage "A picture says a thousand words" holds true, because this little girl ain't allowing for much more than a few seconds of computer time here and there. Mommy's brain desperately wants to get back to her love of words, but her daughter has other plans.

I know I chose this, that I wanted a second child, but there are definitely moments when I wonder, "What the heck I was thinking?"

My girlfriend J's husband (also the parents of a second -- and very new -- child) is quick to point out that prisoners in Guantanamo Bay are tortured with sleep deprivation and the relentless sounds of babies crying. I can see how that would be a highly effective tool. Though, when Lucine turns into Linda Blair, a stint in a dark concrete hole in a tropical country with food passed through a slot intermittently sounds like a vacation. You say prison, I say resort!

Although I have done this before, I had forgotten how you can love a baby with your entire being and want to throw it against a wall in the same moment. You find yourself losing what seemed like a hell of a lot of patience and thinking, "Ack! Go to fucking sleep already!" Or, my favourite 3 AM grumble from the opposite side of the bed, "What the fuck does she want now?!" To which I groggily think, "Unfortunately Love of My Life, not what you have. But here, change a diaper so I don't resent you as much."

Last week, as we approached the 6-week peak crying phase, we grew desperate. I think we would have done just about anything to make it stop. I made my way down to my bookshelf in my ugly nursing bra and maternity knickers to find a book I had stockpiled for the ever-growing and very long list of girlfriends who are now expecting. The Happiest Baby on the Block by Dr. Harvey Karp.

I have been known to trash such books as a gimmick to get frantic new parents to buy more stuff. And here I was, a somewhat seasoned veteran, grasping for answers in the middle of the night. Until I read the book, I thought that l'il Lucy was just not into the swaddling. After all, we were doing it the same way we did it for Nate and she was having none of it. Well, we often forget that Nate was on an incredibly strong sedative for the first 8 months of his life and well, baked for that time period. He was happy to be alive and therefore, I'm thinking he didn't really give a shit if he was swaddled correctly or not.

Lucine, on the other fallopian tube, is a super-active, super sensitive princess. (She rolled onto her side on day 2, swats her brother in the face with intent and is already holding her head up like a pro, but that is another story altogether.) She wriggles out of any wrap and tends to pound her dainty face with the bulging, brutish arms she inherited from her father. (She is quite the juxtaposition of opposites, this child.) Dr. Karp's technique involves a very thorough description for binding your child like a Chinese princess' foot. The key is to make it impossible for them to move their arms, thereby reducing the startle reflex feeling of falling and preventing their flailing limbs from bonking them in the face and waking them up. I'm talking straight jacket tight. (Oh, my girl is so ready to show up those chicks on ANTM. Nobody does straight jacket modeling like my daughter.)

There's also some really loud shushing (hence Nate's face in the photo above) and some vigorous rocking involved in Dr. Karp's methods, but the overall effect is stupendously calming. My adorable shrieking fool melts into a serene little angel. And we melt into her chameleon eyes and that wee bow of a mouth with its amazing, disappearing bottom lip. (Now you see it, now you don't!) Even the Dog is smitten. Thanks to the blanket burrito method, she is sleeping in more organized pockets of time and making it easier to love her.

(And then just when we think, "We've got it figured out! We've got this down pat!" Miss Thing gets wise to our incredible parenting ways and throws us a curveball. Mother Nature isn't helping either. Fucken global warming! You try swaddling your child when it's 90 degrees out -- in October!)

So I'm sleeping when she sleeps, partaking in one-armed activities like, ahem, talking on the phone, eating pumpkin pie and reading. (Just finished Graham Swift's Tomorrow -- how I love a well-crafted book with an exciting secret. Too bad your interest wanes once you actually learn what the secret is. Moved on to The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy by Fiona Neill -- so much fun! Kinda like pumpkin pie -- predictably good and comforting.)

When Nate is home with us girls, I somehow manage to get all three of us in bed for a group nap. Things are getting a bit easier in that way. We're all getting used to each other. I'm getting out of the house more and more, scheduling playdates and the like to make the most of the buddy system -- now that I actually have mom buddies. I even made it to a mommy and baby movie screening last week!

Experience also makes you wise to the portability of the newborn and the fact that she doesn't run on a clock for the first few months. So she's been out to my local watering hole and even attended her first girls' night last week -- to watch The Bachelor and Model of course! She has definitely been a freeing spirit since she moved in. Much like her dad, she somehow gives me the courage to get out of my comfort zone.

And now, for that dilemma that happens every night -- do I stay up till the midnight-ish feeding, or do I try to catch some zees with the horrid chance that I may be awakened 15 minutes into my "making out with Jude Law" dream? Who will be crying then, I ask you!

(Shoulda stuck to the photo -- now I've gone and written over a thousand words and it's after midnight! Guess who's gonna pay for that bit of "me time"?)