Some biggish deadlines have been looming at work, and so I've missed a few days here at toddlerspit. But things have been happening.
We had another pretty vicious poo strike on Nolie's part; she usually poops on Tuesday afternoons (no kidding about that--we call it Puesday because it's so regular). But she was cranky and gassy all weekend and finally let it fly Monday, after which she slept through the night, evidently exhausted from the effort.
As a result of her crankiness and gassiness, Eric and I decided to try replacing her evening feeding with formula. This has raised unexpectedly mixed emotions in me. For the most part, breastfeeding is a pain in the, er, boob. It requires a lot of planning, and forces me to just sit for extended periods of time (I've tried feeding in the sling while I putter around the house, but the bigger Nolie gets, the harder this is on my back). Also, Nolie is allergic or reactive to something I eat, and we have trouble figuring out what that is, so she frequently is gassy and unhappy when she's eating, meaning my nipple gets stretched to mind-boggling lengths before she wrenches away.
That said, my hormones seem to be doing their job; the thought of weaning Nolie (even if it is just for one feeding) has me a bit weepy and sad. When she's not pulling a gumby on me, the whole nursing thing is pretty pleasant. She cozies up and I can stroke her head and sniff at her, monkey that I am. And it releases all sorts of delightful, relaxing endorphins. So I'm a bit wistful at the thought that we might be making a transition to formula. Or maybe just wistful at the thought that she won't be a baby for much longer.
What else? Oh, silly things. Like, I was ironing today, and saw that the black pants I wore to work yesterday (with blue and white striped underwear underneath) had a big hole in the buttseam. Thanks to everyone who didn't tell me my ass was hanging out in front of an entire class of 18-year-old freshmen.
Or, when I was ironing today (big day for ironing), and was watching Oprah, and there was this quartet of male pseudo-opera singers (you know the type--the Josh Grobin-alikes), and I was being snorty and snarky about how dorky they were, commenting to myself that one guy's nostrils were HUGE, like train tunnels. Then they started singing "O Holy Night" and for some reason I started bawling. It was just really beautiful. I asked my friend (and cousin) Nancy why she thought I could go from being so cynical to being so mushy in the space of ten seconds, and she said it's because I really want to believe in these things. That things like this Christmas carol being sung by the modern-day equivalent of the Kingston Trio have meaning and depth, and that I try to use sarcasm to distance myself from the cheese because the cheese hits so close to home. This may make no sense when I say it. But it made perfect sense when she did, and I think she's right.
Also, I did finally get a second opinion about the blood-in-the-urine thing (toddlerspit is all about bodily functions, after all).
A little background: when the blood kept appearing this summer, before Nolie was born, my ob-gyn said off-handedly, "Oh, it's probably nothing. Or it's bladder cancer."
Um, thanks. That's exactly what a woman who is eight months pregnant needs to hear. Excellent bedside manner, doc.
So I had the whole scope of all the important orifices, and they turned up nothing. So my ob says that it's probably nothing, that I just have chronic blood-in-the-urine.
Not a very satisfying explanation, right? The thing is, I'm not that freaked out about it. I mean, I can't see the blood--it's microscopic amounts that just show up on a dipstick test the ob does on all pregnant women. But at the urging of Eric and some friends, I go for the second opinion last Friday.
At which the second doctor says, "Oh, it's probably nothing. Or you have muscular dystrophy."
So, now we're waiting for the blood test results (which were supposed to be in yesterday, thank you, HMO). The thing is, there might not be any blood in my urine after all--the second doctor didn't see anything when he looked at it under the microscope. So the dipstick is showing positive for blood. But the blood thing on the dipstick is also triggered by the presence of myoglobin, which can be an indicator of muscle disease. Sweet. Now you get to learn something at toddlerspit.
I'm trying to be funny about this. Because chances are, it's nothing. Chances are, I'm one of those women who just has microscopic bits of blood in her urine, for whatever reason. But it's scary when there's that other thing out there, that shoe that might be waiting to clunk you in the head.
Which leads me to the last big thing, which may be nothing at all. I'm not even sure how to write about it, because it's just an essence at the moment, a feeling. And that is the feeling that something large is about to come my way (not something bad, like MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY, for Christ's sake, but something good, something important and life-changing). Am I having a spiritual moment? Am I divining the future? Am I imagining things, inflating my own importance in the universe, inviting catastrophe? I don't know. But I feel a weird sort of tingling, and existential tickle in the regions of what might be described as, oh jeez, I don't know. A soul? A force? Feely-ma-bobbers?
Believe me, these words make me wince. I'm very wary of anything smacking of religion. But I'm not quite sure how else to explain it, except to say that it feels as if something is coming my way, that I am in line for something.
Perhaps this will be nothing at all. But maybe you should keep reading, just in case.
UPDATE: It's Thursday morning now, and the doc just called. I've a clean bill of health. Yay for that. Super yay!