Updates from my perch on the couch

Well, I made it out alive. Can't say the same for my boobs.

Five hours and two surgeons later, the mastectomy was successfully completed.  In the spirit of over-sharing, I had to get expanders put in -- my wish for same-day reconstruction was thwarted by uncooperative skin -- and I'll have to have a second surgery sometime in September.  So if you see me a few weeks apart and think to yourself, "Holy smokes, her chest seems to magically double in cup-size every time I see her," you'll basically be right.  Except it won't be magic; it will be 60 CC's of injected saline every Monday morning around 10:00.

The day-to-day recovery has been made possible by a doting husband, a mom who relocated to Boston for a month, and a healthy ingestion of painkillers.  As expected, the hardest part of it all has been not being able to lift Owen.  As I lay low in my pajamas, hair in a messy side ponytail, wearing in a butt-sized indentation on the couch, he must think Mama turned into a huge slacker.  He looks at me expectantly when he wants to be held, and doesn't understand why mealtimes/baths/diaper changes/getting dressed/being rocked to sleep have all been outsourced to Daddy and Grandma.  But hopefully in another 2.5 weeks, I'll be given the okay by the plastic surgeon to resume my beloved mommy duties and life will look a little more normal.

Eight months vs. nine months

On the Friday before my surgery, Julette (Owen's nanny/my "co-mom") and her awesome daughter, Rheanna (right), threw me a little surprise party.  Nanny friends and Owen's playmates came along, too.  Too, too sweet.

Disclaimer: Not Funny

I had a long internal debate about whether to mention this here -- this is Baby Spam and not Katie Spam, after all -- but I realized that the story of my first year of motherhood would be incomplete without it.  So here goes...

As many/most/all of you know, on Monday morning (June 11) I'll be having a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy at Mass General.  The key word is prophylactic: I have no active disease, just the credible threat of one.  Thanks to the BRCA1 gene mutation that seems to overstay its welcome, generation after generation, I am one of the way-too-many women in my family that faces an 80% (but in our case, closer to 100%) chance of developing breast and ovarian cancer.  I am profoundly grateful that I have the chance to act preemptively where so many did not; however, right now that fact doesn't seem to be making this process any less daunting. 

My most immediate fears are about the physical aspect.  I’m scared of the recovery process.  I’m fearful of needles and pain medicine and stitches and drains and swelling and loss of motion and chronic discomfort.  I’m dreading that first look in the mirror, facing an alien body.  But more than that, I’m unbearably sad at the thought of not being able to hold my precious son close to my chest and rock him to sleep.  I’m devastated that, for a time, I’ll be unable to lift him and cuddle him close and be his normal old mommy.  I feel, already, the sense of loss awaiting me when his unborn siblings arrive and cannot take their rightful place at my breast after their hard-won entry into this world.   

But Owen needs his Mama more than Mama needs her boobies.

So I will dutifully sacrifice two healthy body parts to reduce the risk of my children being left motherless, my husband being left a widower, and my own body being left ravaged by the brutality of cancer treatments. Empowered -- by information, access to world-class healthcare, the support of family and friends -- I will cut my risk of breast cancer from near-certainty to near-zero. I know this disease all too well -- the surgeries and chemo and radiation and bone marrow transplants -- and those things simply do not have a welcome place in my family's future.

So there ya have it. Hopefully I'll be back in no time, writing about my devious schemes to get Owen to crawl around the house after me (since I can't lift him) and get Aaron to make cookie deliveries to the couch (since I can't lift myself).  It's game time. See you in a week or so. And if my first few posts are a little incoherent, blame the drugs.

Cherishing all my mommy cuddles

Tiny Dancer

Unfortunately, it looks as if Owen has inherited his mother's dancing skills.  What first emerged a month ago as a seemingly involuntary neurological tic has now evolved into a full fledged head-banging, arm-shaking, booty-wiggling baby dance.  True, it's not the most coordinated movement, but it sure makes us smile.

Social Awkardness

Socially awkward things happen to people with babies.

I'm not really sure why, and I don't blame myself entirely.  Sure, there was a time when I was speaking exclusively in the third-person and unable to talk about anything but baby poo.  But I converse with adults again.  I get babysitters and go out to dinner and sleep more than five hours a night.  And yet I haven't had such a high incidence of uncomfortable social interactions since I was 13, in headgear, growing out my bangs.

I blame strangers.  All 6.8 billion of them.  There are some predictably awkward encounters that I seem to have again and again, leaving me speechless and feeling like my bumbling, pre-teen self.

Take, for example, the Uninformed Gender Hypothesis (UGH).  Lacking adequate context clues (read: pink or blue clothing), the stranger unilaterally guesses and applies a pronoun.  It's impossible to say how many times Owen has been a "she."  I'm honestly never offended; most babies are inherently androgynous and there are only so many really manly outfits I have in the arsenal.  Sometimes he's going to wear yellow and sometimes people are going to guess wrong.  But the trouble starts when strangers guess wrong, never stop to verify, and initiate an entire conversation under the pretext of my son being a girl.

For whatever reason, this seems to happen most during the deplaning process at the end of flights.  Because why wouldn't it happen when you're being held hostage by the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign and that over-packer in Row 6 who can't unstuff her "carry-on" from the overhead bins?  Once, the man behind us started in:  "What a beautiful girl she is.  She'll have you absolutely wrapped around her finger one day.  If she wants a pony, you can betcha she's gonna get a pony.  And you can tell she's going to be smart.  She talked the whole flight!  Girls are just so much more advanced than boys at this age."  All you can do is smile and nod and pray he doesn't happen upon you during a diaper change.

Another awkward stranger move is speaking directly to the baby and pretending the mother is invisible. Every single day, without fail, at least one stranger will ask Owen what his name is, as if 1) he can talk, and 2) he even knows his name is Owen.  Often they continue:  "How old are you?  When is your birthday?  Uh oh, did Mommy forget to put socks on you today?  Aren't you hot in those long pants?  Do you feel safe at home?"  Hmm, I seem to be extraneous here; would you like me to excuse myself while you finish up this conversation with my infant?

Since gender-specific features and advanced conversation skills are still a ways off, there's nothing to do but continue smiling and nodding and hoping that all this social awkwardness isn't contagious and chronic.

To prove his love of blondes I mentioned in my last post, this video captures Owen's reaction to seeing this magazine cover shot of Marilyn Monroe

The rare photo of Owen smiling in a car seat.  (He was probably just gassy.)

Owen and his friend, Cameron.  They barely acknowledge the other's presence, yet somehow find a way to collude when it comes to causing mischief.

We heart Amsterdam

Vacations remind you how to be alive.  They transform bedtime from a moment you spend all day waiting for into a formality that stands between you and another beautiful morning.  They license you to eat a heaping piece of apple pie after lunch, sip an afternoon beer outside, and consume as much creamy cheese and crusty bread as your expanding tummy can handle.  They nudge you to walk a little slower, linger a little longer, and remember that the means can also be an end.  Vacations are just the best, and I'm so sad this one's over.

Simply put, Amsterdam was wonderful.  Hoping to be included on future trips -- and sensing the potential for future banishment to the grandparents' house while Mommy and Daddy travel -- Owen was a total champ.  He slept or played quietly during the long flights, flirted shamelessly with any pretty lady who'd make eye contact with him, took long on-the-go naps in his stroller, and happily gummed baguettes and gouda while we restaurant-hopped around the city.  And best of all, thanks to the time change, he went to sleep around 11:00 each night and slept until at least 10:00 every single morning.  

Um, can I please emphasize this point?

Aaron and I got 10+ hours of sleep every night for seven days.  Over 70 hours of sleep in one single week.  At home, it can take twice as long to accrue that kind of rest.  And I can't even remember the last time I woke up to a clock that led with a double-digit number.  Central European Time Zone, I think I'm in love with you.  

Owen's suitcase > Owen's body

People-watching from the hotel room

After a lovely dinner at a great little restaurant, Owen is still going strong at 10:30PM.  Thank you, Central European Time Zone.

Travel requires flexibility, which means an occasional (baby) lunch on the side of the street

Daddy staring lovingly at Owen.  Owen staring lovingly at the three blondes one table over.

My guys

 Taking a break in the hotel courtyard while Owen naps in the Mobile Operations Center 

It didn't take long for Owen to figure out how to overtake the Nap-Inducing Stimulation Blocker (aka Aaron's jacket) and stroll only on his own terms.

Owen loves to scream in places that echo.  This church echoed.  It was also pretty much silent.  Until Owen realized that he could scream.  And then we realized we had to find an exit.  Fast.

Joy.

Setting Expectations

If there's one aspect of motherhood I've mastered, it's setting my expectations low.  Like, if-you-accomplish-nothing-other-than-keeping-Owen-fed-and-relatively-clean-from-6:00AM-to-8:00PM-you-are-a-freaking-superwoman kind of low.  How sweetly you can be surprised when you're expecting nothing at all.  Really, it's all about perspective.  An example:

A Sample To-Do List Pre-Owen

1. Visit farmer's market for fresh, local produce
2. Do hot yoga and find inner soul
3. Read the latest Economist, cover to cover (and don't skip the UK section)
4. Save the world

A Sample To-Do List Post-Owen

1. Wake up 
2. Place left foot on floor
3. Place right foot on floor
4. Warm bottle
5. Change poopy diaper
6. Feed baby
7. Put baby down for nap
8. Turn shower on
9. Shampoo hair
10. Condition hair
11. Rinse
12. Put on clothes

See what I just did there?  THREE times as many tasks accomplished.  Just imagine the satisfaction from crossing twelve items off your list.  And if I happen to find myself near a grocery store, maybe -- and just maybe -- I'll pop in for some waning, foreign produce and practice yogic breathing as try to lug baby/stroller/diaper bag/groceries up to our second-floor apartment.  (Obviously, I would then retroactively add all of those things -- in as much minute detail as possible -- to my to-do list.)  Whew!  Look at all that accomplishment!  You deserve a glass of wine and thirty minutes of trashy reality TV.

So it's with these new low expectations that we're setting off for a little family adventure:  on Tuesday, we're headed to Amsterdam for a week.  With an 8-month-old.  On a 7 hour flight.  In our laps.  

WOOHOO!!!!!  I can't wait.
(I'm being serious.)

You can laugh at and with me -- and please feel free to throw in some Told Ya So's when it's all over-- but I'm thinking this is going to be fun.  Yes, as I look down at my list of things to pack for Owen (baby wash, diaper cream...nighttime diapers, daytime diapers...sleep sacks, sun hats...2 baby food jars/meal x 3 meals/day x 8 days = a hell of a lotta baby food), I wonder if maybe this was a crazy plan.  Owen might spend the whole flight screaming.  Teeth are threatening to sprout up any day now.  The time change could throw his whole schedule into a tailspin.  We might all get the Ebola virus from eating infected monkey meat and die a swift and painful death.  Ahh yes, lots of things could go wrong in the next two weeks.

But you only live once (and babies only travel free for two years), so why not?  Worse comes to worse, we'll make a plane's worth of enemies and not sleep for 7 hours; we won't ever leave our hotel room (just like home, but with a maid) and be forced to spend a week bonding together as a family.  But if things go well, maybe we'll spend some time walking by charming canals or wandering through the Van Gogh museum or taking meandering bike rides to nowhere.  Either way, I'm excited.

Back in Action

I spent the better part of the last month writing final papers for class.  I submitted the last one on Friday, which means two things:  1) I officially survived my first semester in the dual (dueling?) roles of mommy and grad student, and 2) I'm ready to start writing on some...hmm...more fun topics.  So exit words like "thereby" and "whereas" and "thusly"; enter "baby proofing" and "finger foods" and "drool."  Here we are -- back in action -- at least until classes start back in the Fall.  Or Owen starts walking.  Whichever kills my limited free time first.

If only the world included a few giants who'd bounce us on their heads, do you think we could all have a daily belly laugh like that?

Funny how the walker wagon went from fun-entertainment-for-mom-and-dad to lethal-home-destroyer once Owen figured out how to use it on his own

An area we affectionately call "The Cage."  Owen enjoyed his first few bouts in captivity, but was less than enthused when he figured out the bars weren't just there to help him stand up.

Daddy and Owen as babies