Blogging is light on the weekends, which makes me feel lonely and bleak. Perhaps others of you feel just as lonely and bleak, and we can use this time to solve the world’s problems. Such as:

1) Do you know where I can get more chocolate-covered dried cherries? I finished TWO entire two-pound bags, and now Amazon.com isn’t selling them anymore, and when I looked up the brand (Traverse Bay Fruit Co.) I found information about dried fruit but not about CHOCOLATE-COVERED dried fruit, and now that I know of its existence I don’t know if I can go on without it. I’ve tried Dilettante chocolate-covered fruits and those are pretty good too, but what I want is pretty much exactly like Raisinets but cherry-based instead of grape-based.

2) If I drink alcohol, my muscles start hurting about five minutes later. Does that…MEAN something?

3) Rob was looking at my US Weekly magazine. He was giving special attention to the “Bikini Special!” section. Rob is EIGHT YEARS OLD. Are we seriously THERE already? And am I supposed to….I don’t know, STOP it? Like, hide my US Weekly magazines?

4) The men in your life—where do they buy their shorts? Paul has been wearing the same shorts for about ten years now, and it occurs to me that he’s looking…out of date. But I’m not exactly hip to what the young people are wearing these days.

Bonus points if you can answer all four.

Edward will not (WILL! NOT!) stop changing DVDs in the DVD player. He takes a DVD out of the slot, puts it away, gets out a new one, puts it in the slot, repeat every 30 seconds. I’m trying to let the twins have as much time out of their playpen as possible, but he keeps ending up back in there because of this. I actually wouldn’t mind if he occasionally changed the DVD, since he knows how, but it is seriously one after another, and once he cracked a DVD trying to get it out of the case, and sometimes he presses the “record” button, and so on. Any suggestions on how to keep him away from it? Preferably something CHEAP.

Henry is six weeks old today. I am imagining you all greeting that news with Jerry-Springer-audience sounds: lascivious woooops or sympathetic groans, depending on how you felt or feel or think you’d feel about having sex after taking care of a newborn all day and night for six weeks following nine months of carrying another human being around in a body built for one.

I copied Devan’s idea and made my six-week OB appointment (note: for those of you who are not hip to the childbearing thang, this is the appointment at which the OB gives you permission to Resume Relations) for more like seven weeks, but even so, here we are within a headache’s distance of it.

Listen, I am well aware that many women CAN’T WAIT to start having sex again. Some of them are rumored to be so hot for it, they break the 6-week rule. I’m not saying we can’t be friends anymore if you feel that way about it, but I’m more at the end of the spectrum where Jamie from Mad About You tries to get away with telling her husband that it’s six months.

Having a baby is very, very physical, and I am not a touchy-snuggly person to start with. Holding and nursing the baby maxes out my desire to feel warm skin against mine. Burping and changing the baby maxes out my desire to deal with another person’s bodily fluids.

And that’s not even including topics such as whether I can imagine doing anything in a nice soft bed except sleeping, or whether I can imagine having sex with someone who spent his whole evening on the computer while I held a crying baby.

I’m not interested, that’s all. Part of it is hormonal (at my 6-week post-William appointment, my OB said cheerfully, “This is what you can look forward to after menopause!”), part of it is the circumstances (newborn, sleep deprivation, milk everywhere, incision just barely finished healing), and part of it is my own personal capacity for physical contact (low).

Simple to explain that to a husband? Um, no. So next week I have to choose birth control (all the options suck) and then I have to act Happy To See Him.

It is astonishing how bad you can feel if your hair is greasy and there are wet milk circles on your pajama top, and the baby first refuses to nurse and then screams steadily throughout the rest of the events of this paragraph, and then your son calls from the bathroom that you have an opportunity to look for the metal ball he swallowed two days ago, and the ball is still not there and then the toilet clogs and you can’t unclog it, and you go back out to the living room and notice a cat has barfed on the couch, and there’s a bad smell coming from somewhere in the house, and remember that baby has been screaming this whole time.

So let’s not talk about that! I have a different topic. My mom and I were trying to pin down which elements of a wedding make it seem tacky or tasteful, over-the-top or lovely, etc. My mom and I are similar in many ways, but we didn’t agree completely.

We have to tread a little carefully here, don’t we, because the things one person considers tac-KAY, another person thinks are awesome and romantic. On the other hand, it’s the snarky comments about the tackiness of weddings we’ve attended that make this conversation the dirty little pleasure it is, so, you know, don’t hold back too much. My day could use some happy snarking.

Henry woke me around 5:00, and by 5:45 he was back to sleep and I had to make the kind of decision that these days confronts me again and again and AGAIN and dominates my mental and physical landscape: Do I try to go back to sleep at this point and then have to drag myself up again in 15 minutes or 45 minutes or an hour, feeling nauseated and resentful? Or do I stay awake, because I’m already awake enough to feel okay about that idea, but then later feel exhausted and irritable because I should have slept more?

I got up. It’s 8:15, too soon to call the decision. Ask me again around 2:30 this afternoon.

I’m up and down as usual. Sometimes I’m despairing because I can’t seem to turn my mind to even one small thing such as a quick answer to a short email. Or because I seem to spend all evening pinned under a newborn, and then bedtime comes and goes with no change in the situation. Other times I’m eating a bowl of ice cream at the computer and I run out of computer stuff I want to do and so I sit there aimlessly feeling all groovy and bored. Or I get a bunch of things done one after another and feel all successful. Or I look back and realize I’ve been gradually successful: it’s uphill, and things don’t get done as often as they should, but for example Rob changed his sheets this weekend when he was cleaning his room, and I had to change William’s when he woke up wet a day or two later, and then last night I was clock-watching for the kids’ bedtime and realized I had a couple of free minutes to change Edward’s crib sheet, and so you see it DOES get done bit by bit and that’s encouraging.

But then at 5:00 in the morning I’m nursing the baby, and he’s writhing and keeps latching on and off, and when I burp him he spits up on my finally-got-it-laundered shirt and on my finally-got-it-showered self. And then I change his diaper and he spits up a little more, onto his finally-put-him-in-fresh-clothes outfits and into his finally-washed-that-kid’s-hair hair, the changing of which and the washing of which had previously been one of my encouraging accomplishments. And then as I sit back down with him, my body sore from sleeping in the recliner most of the night, he fills his freshly-changed diaper. At 5:30 a.m., things can seem cyclical and unending. But now it’s 8:30 and I’m dressed and damp-haired and blogging, and eating from a 2-pound bag of chocolate-covered dried cherries, and ignoring those suspicious sounds from the other room, and things are good again. These first few months are so nuts.

I have a book to strongly recommend! But there is a small problem. My mother-in-law is distantly connected to the author: the author is related by marriage to someone who lives in my mother-in-law’s town. To my mother-in-law, this is almost the same as having written the book herself, and she is taking an unusually intense interest in the book’s success. If I were to write about the book, it would not be astonishing for her to find my blog in one of her searches.

So! I must somehow communicate the book’s title and author to you without mentioning either one! Anyone up for a game of charades?

How about this instead: This super-secret link!

I lovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvved the book. As much as I liked the HARRY POTTER books, I kid you not! Maybe even…MORE.

I ran into a casual acquaintance today at the park. She was there with her husband and kids. After about an hour of watching/hearing her husband, I’m 98% sure he’s abusive–and if he’s not, I’m 100% sure he’s an unpleasant asshole. He’s a guy I knew a little bit in high school, and I hadn’t seen him since. Over the years I’ve known her, I have gone on and on and ON to her about what a fine upstanding fellow he was: so smart and so respectful and so responsible and so mature–because he WAS in high school. I was trying to say nice things (“Great husband! Nice choice!”), but now I imagine her listening to my way-off crap and feeling like now she can’t confide in me that he’s actually one of those tightly-wound guys who, in a movie, would soon be cackling crazily and wielding a shotgun. I feel like a right dumbass. No wonder our friendship never seemed to move forward. Also, I have that “wanting to fix it” feeling (“Should I ask if everything’s okay?”) that never leads anywhere good.

William swallowed a Magnetix ball–it’s like a metal marble. Luckily he didn’t swallow one of the little magnetic parts of the set: those are the pieces that have caused the sets to be recalled. The pediatrician says “all we have to do is watch for it to come out.” Well, I don’t know if you’ve had this “watching” privilege before. I never had. I’m glad that what we’re talking about here is not, say, a valuable item that must be retrieved, and that after I “find” it, I can let it flush right down the toilet.

I am stricken by my stupid procrastination. I’ve been meaning for MONTHS to pack up the Magnetix and mail them in for the replacement toy, but I’ve been so MAD about it: I don’t WANT a stupid replacement toy, I want our money back. We spent a lot of money on multiple sets of Magnetix because they were so awesome, and now they’re, you know, FATAL, and so even though it’s a stupid decision to keep them in the house, I feel angry about the lost money and the replacement toy, and so I put it off. Dumbass.

Also, I feel despair at the way even a six-year-old will still EAT A TOY, when I thought we were about three years past worrying about that.

And I feel hopeless because we’ll probably never find all the little dangerous magnets that have fallen out of the plastic sticks: the other day, the cat had a little chain of magnets hanging from his collar. They’re tiny, they’re everywhere, and they can be fatal if the child swallows more than one, and there’s no way we can find them all. My solution? Don’t think about it. GREAT IDEA! I’m lucky it was William who swallowed a piece, since he can tell me that he did. And I’m lucky he swallowed a non-magnetic component, which is not dangerous unless he also swallows a magnet. And I’m a total dumbass for keeping this toy in the house just because I’m sulking about the money.

To be fair, I’m not the dumbass who ate the metal marble.

Do you know how many tries it took to capture even that crazy-looking picture of a smile? Many. It took many tries. I had to kiss him and make coochy-woochy noises, then quickly get out of the way, put the camera in front of his face, and hope the picture wouldn’t be all blurry from not using the flash. Repeat and repeat and repeat, until the poor baby wouldn’t smile anymore.

The little ingrate smiled first at Paul. Hey, no, don’t take into consideration whose nipples were all cracked but nursed you anyway, taking a layer of enamel off her teeth from clenching so hard with each painful latch-on. Don’t take into consideration who gets up with you at 3:30 in the morning when you want a little snack or a little company. No, no, I wouldn’t want to influence you by reminding you who it was who gave up her body as a vessel for nine months, barfing and barfing in what had better turn out to be a genetic advantage. Heavens no! Neither will I present Exhibit A: stretch marks, or Exhibit B: saggy tum flap, or Exhibit C: hormones you could sharpen a knife on. No! Go ahead and smile first at the other one, that’s fine with me.

I had a bad dream about my mother-in-law last night. She was telling me what a good cook she is (she does tell me this, repeatedly), and how I should really use her recipes if I want to make Paul happy (she doesn’t say this outright, but constantly hints it). I summoned up all my courage and told her that Paul doesn’t actually like her cooking (this is true). She said knowingly, “Oh, I think he does,” and then rapidly started talking about something else–which is EXACTLY what she does whenever I disagree with her on any subject: flatly contradicts me and then goes on to another subject in the same breath so I can’t argue. The whole encounter was so realistic. Thanks to my subconscious, I get extra time with my mother-in-law!

This is Day 5 of her not telling us that she’s coming for a visit. At first I thought–charitably, and then feeling righteous and lovely for being so charitable toward someone I can’t stand–that perhaps she was just waiting to mention it the next time she wrote to us, which would be a perfectly reasonable thing for her to do (more self-awarded points for me, for being so reasonable myself). But she has now emailed us, and has failed to mention the trip, which tells me that she’s hiding it. One thing I hate about Paul’s family is how SECRETIVE they all are. Last time she visited she took a plane, and she hid her departure date. As if we weren’t going to find out! She also won’t tell us how she meets her boyfriends, which of course makes me assume she meets them in some shameful, sordid fashion (I picture her hanging out in the hallways of nursing homes, licking her lips and waggling her eyebrows suggestively at all the old men wheeling by), but probably just means it makes her feel powerful not to tell.

I went to the dentist earlier this week for what was supposed to be just a cleaning. Actually, never mind, I don’t want to discuss this after all, forget I said anything. Suffice it to say that dentist stuff, it SUCKS. Sucks YOUR MONEY.

It seems like everything needs money from us right now: the couch is broken, the kitchen faucet is broken, the lawnmower is broken, the insurance copays have gone up and we got back-billed for two months’ worth of them, the hospital wants to see a little cash for that whole c-section thing, there’s our goddamned teeth which ought to be hand-crafted out of solid gold by the time we’re done paying for them, etc. Paul is all, “It’s going to be okay, it really is,” and I guess it will be, but doesn’t it sometimes feel as if it’s just one huge expense after another your entire life? When will there be big wads of cash that DON’T go for dental work and various insurances and car repairs? And then I can hear buzzing in the back of my mind about how we should have 6 months’ living expenses in savings AND be saving for the kids’ college educations AND what do you MEAN you don’t have a retirement account, you’ll NEVER be able to retire now, NEVER, NEVERRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

I found a couple of old posts I thought I had already posted. Or maybe I did post them and these are unused draft versions, so now I will seem to be repeating myself. Well, whatever, I’ve posted them now:

Now Is Not The Time
LYKWTAMBYTWAWTTO Day!

Go relive April and May!

Yesterday and today I have felt NUTS, like I’m going to fly up in the sky and shoot out sprays of irritation and anger over all the land. Everything is pissing me off, everything is stressful, there are too many stressful, pissy things happening all at once. I can’t even tell if this is a postpartum thing or if life is actually stressful and pissy right now. All I know is that I don’t like anybody or anything, and that it seems like it would feel really great to take a whole stack of plates out to the driveway and smash them one after another. Mmmmm, destruction.

Since we scared all the pregnant women with our postpartum discussion a few days ago, it seems only fair that we now share tips on the things that can help to alleviate the problem. Let’s try not to laugh a hard, bitter laugh as we try to think of things.

I’ve mentioned in another post that it helps me to have good food, and to try to do one small task per day. I’ve also mentioned that I do whatever gets me more sleep. Here are some other things I’ve tried with some success. And when I say “some success,” I assume you know I mean “It may keep me from packing my bag and heading for a hotel hide-out, but it doesn’t take that off the list of options.” These are just things that sometimes make me feel a little better, not things that “fix” anything or make any kind of huge difference. I assume you also know that I am in no way qualified to give out any kind of medical advice whatsoever, and that if you are feeling truly nuts you need to consult a doctor about it because postpartum stuff can be really serious and bad, right? Good.

1) Coffee, small amounts (too much can make me all jittery and snappish, and I think I have gracious plenty of that already), especially with a selection of flavored creamers to stir into it and a cookie to eat with it. I once read on a web site that 1/4th cup of coffee taken medicinally every hour can be helpful for mild depression.

2) Turning on lots and lots of lights. I read that tip on the same website that mentioned the medicinal coffee. I’d thought it wouldn’t help, but it did seem to improve my mood on dark, sad mornings.

3) Taking fish oil capsules. I read a long time ago that a study found fish oil helped with postpartum depression. That could be a total load, but it stayed with me and now if it’s not true I don’t want to hear about it. There is something to be said for the placebo effect.

4) Nice smells. A pretty shower gel, a good perfume–but not a scented candle in this state of mind or you’ll accidentally burn the house down and then think how sad you’ll be.

For the love of god, tell me you have more ideas, because that list is pitiful and the combination of insurance issues and the kids’ giddiness is making me feel like scorching the land with my wrath.