Cat Pecking

ORDER.  The Feline Pecking Order has taken weeks to become established.  There are 2 cats that live with Miss M, one very skittish, stand-offish Pan, and a fairly laid back always hungry Agnes.  At first hiss Porter understood that he was low on the totem, and he acted very respectful as a guest in Their house.  Slowly, slowly Agnes let Porter get a little bit closer, and a little bit closer, every day or so.  At about 2 weeks they were able to be within a couple of feet of each other peaceably.  Then it developed our Cow-Print Killah figured out just how panicky Pan-kitty really is.  So he's turned bully, and chases her up the stairs if he sees her coming down for dinner.  Miss M keeps the spray bottle close at hand so that bullying doesn't get out of hand, but still Pan takes most of her meals in the bedroom.

  

One morning, too early to be human, a catty racket echoed through the house---apparently between Porter and Agnes.  My guess, Porter must have made his move on Agnes to be Top Kitty, and she would have none of it.  He was so unnerved having his tail served to him, he started horking up his dinner.  The Man bolted out of bed and rushed convulsing kitty to the bathroom to avoid cleaning carpet.  In the daylight Porter had a scratch on his nose, and spent the day in his kennel-box under observation.

Currently, the order stands now with 1) Agnes, 2) Porter, and begrudgingly 3) Pan, at least for the next 2 weeks until we move to The Townhouse.

I mentioned Agnes is hungry, always always always hungry.  She'll start the mewing at 4 am or 4 pm making sure to get the early reminder in to the household that it will be time for Her to eat---in two hours!  Apparently she's started panhandling at doors down the street as she was recently returned by a neighborhood kid.  In addition to learning what time food is dished here and adopting local attitudes about it, our kitty is quite taken with the menu here.  He's a special needs kitty, with his Adult Urinary Tract Formula cat food, he cannot eat much of anything else or he'll back up his tract.  It doesn't stop him from getting in where he can though.  The Man came upon him licking out the bowl after Agnes had finished eating.  And when I sprinkled a few meager pieces of food during a feeding one evening, Porter immediately proceeded to hunt down each and every one, munching away.  That's just sad, but then I have to admit that a strict diet of only food that will support urinary tract health doesn't sound appealing to me, either.

Hallmark Mama

Recently in a conversation with a friend whose children are fully into adult hood, we touched on the subject of "the mom I want to be".

I remember a childhood searching the racks of greeting cards for something suitable to send the absentee biological father.  I was never able to find anything to my liking because none of them would have been honest, and why send a card that lacks honesty?  It's an empty gesture, useless---when I receive one it borders on insultingly comic, and I feel somewhat saddened the sender and I aren't more connected.  Most cards describe idyllic scenes that I felt I never really had.  I find it impossible to send a card that lacks honesty, it's important to me that words, even in a store bought card, have some reality to back up the idyllic fluff.

So my friend mentions that she's happy to receive cards from her adult daughter and is fully accepting of them because she knows what the card says is true.

I want to be that mama.  When I get the Hallmark card in the mail and it's reminiscent of "sunny afternoons, kissed away hurts, and homebaked cookies", I want to know that it's more than accurate.

I want to be the Hallmark Mom.

Hair today

Pulling my hair out, by the handful it seems...because it's too easy right now. This is phase two of postpartum, when hormone withdrawal truly sets in making for roller coaster days here and there and my hair ends up in and on everything.

Recently, post shower--woo-hoo! a full shower!--as I'm pulling my wayward hair from the comb, the drain, the floor of the bathroom, preparing the perennial ponytail. Miss Monkey asks what I'm doing.

"Well, my hair is falling out. It's what happens to most mamas after having a baby."

Big eyed, "It's not ALL gonna fall out is it?"

"Heh, no, honey, when I was pregnant I didn't lose any hair the whole time, and now that I've had the baby my body is sort of 'catching up' with the hair it was supposed to lose."

I pause, at this point it's unwise to complicate the explanation further. The data definitely goes in, it sticks, and is regurgitated when I least expect it, in the oddest situations and usually for complete strangers.

Baby E's hair has changed considerably, also, her newborn straight trading for an auburn-blonde fuzz. She's definitely more baby than squishysoft-humalien. Cradle cap was an issue for a little while, which I hadn't dealt with before. "They" say not to pick at it--damn near impossible not too 'cause the little crusty head is right below my chin most of the time, plus we are primates.

To remedy, I took an expired natural, soft, toothbrush of the firstborn's and some Johnson's Baby (contains citric acid) and after a couple of good scubby shampoos it's cleared up nicely.

On another note Miss Monkey, after cutting her hair, again, and then my poor attempts to remedy it with bangs--which turned out okay, she can pull it off 'cause she's 4--anyway, she's got a killer cute cut now, "rockstar" as a friend said. Though I know bangs and shorter hair are more maintenance it seems to be a good fit with her particular hair growth.
Rock on.

GO, FULL BOTTLE!

Go milk yourself! Possibly an insult to anyone other than a lactating female—there is a great relief associated with emptying an engorged breast. Baby E has finally gotten a handle on the firehose-like nature of my let-down reflex. Though, rather than bigger gulps as her sister did, she pops off my breast to take a break which has led to many a milk shower for her and anyone nearby.

I feel more secure with a freezer full of breastmilk, and I tend toward a compulsion of replacing bags thawed for bottle feeding. There's a certain udder pride with production of a full bottle (or more) of milk. It pains me to waste my milk. I winced when I had to pour "expired" breastmilk down the drain t'other day. Once, when F was ~10 months, I almost started sobbing in the airport as a gentleman told me I couldn't take the milk I'd pumped all weekend onto the plane. I was saved the tearful scene, as a Papa himself he understood and found a way to make it work, I reached home with milk in hand. Making milk is hard work! It is indeed a superpower of sorts. All the energy into making milk that sustains and nourishes a new person, it's amazing. Magically the babyweight disappears and I begin to feel more and more like myself.

This baby girl burps herself. The First Born took some effort to burp, but this new one—if I let her rest a bit before sitting her upright—she'll burp upon reaching a vertical position. She's really more of a belcher, I could hardly call these gaseous pops the typical baby burps. On one occasion she was beside herself with discomfort, I took initiative to frustrate her more with a burping mid-nursing session, she cried-urped-cried-urped until all the gas was gone, then finished her meal with much more comfort. There have been multiple incidents of blubbery flutter-blasts of the breast (a.k.a. rasberries or zerburts) as she has burped while nursing. Both girls have been noisey nursers, imagine the gobbling panting gulping eating noises interspersed with "BLAUT-TWAUT-twuttwuttytwut"—but not the other end as a mama might expect! To which I giggle and she re-latches and keeps right on going.

The Epic of Gilgamilk seems a bit obscure, maybe Mantra of Milk Monster, or "Here's milk in yer eye!" Just call me Wonder Wo-Mom.

Moving is completed after many many trips to ARC Thrift for donations, the the storage room, and to Miss M's who generously opened her home to us for this month.

The second to last trip from the rental house, sweaty, tired, crying baby behind me, rush hour traffic, and a toy in a bag next to me singing a random "camptown races sing this song, do-dah, do-dah---DING DONG!---BEEP-BEEP!...camptown race is---HONK-HONK!....do-dah, do-daaah---DING-DONG!"

It's more warbled and mistuned because the batteries are dying.

I just laughed and laughed. The ridiculousness of the enormity of what I'd just completed in the past few days culminating in hilarity. Insanity made sane by grace and ease, knowing this too shall pass and it does not have to be done all at once.

Thank the goodness it's over for the time being. May a house to own soon be ours!