If you ask me, it’s because our main body of water, the muddy Willamette River, looks like it’s just a big shit flow. But, ya know, maybe that’s just me.

BusinessWeek ranks Portland at top of “unhappiest cities” list

I don’t know, maybe it’s because I have a psychotic ex (and I don’t just mean he’s annoying; he’s certifiably mentally disturbed, I swear), but I find this site absolutely rivetting. Sometimes it’s chilling, sometimes it’s cringe-worthy, but it’s always a good read.

Enjoy!

p.s. If you are an ex and a reader of this blog, you can go ahead and rule yourself out as the psycho ex. Just sos you know.

When you live in Portland, you never feel green enough. Even if you carpool/bike to work, recycle, compost, take your own bags to the grocery store, and use cotton diapers on your kid, there is still something you’re not doing. You should feel horrible about it, naturally. And you do because there are reminders everywhere about what else you should be doing.

When I read this on the front page of the NY Times at Starbucks this morning, I just about cried. Suddenly, I get to feel guilty about what I’m wiping my ass with, too. And, as a girl, who drinks a lot of water, works from home quite a bit, and appreciates a nice, fluffy wipe, I have lots to feel guilty over.

So when it came to be my turn in line for my morning decaf, I decided to splurge and buy a pound of coffee for our troops. It’s this promotion Starbucks is doing right now, and thank god they are. I needed a way to balance out my karma after realizing that I should be foregoing the Cotonelle in favor of cardboard.

In all the years I dreamed of motherhood, thinking of what it would be like to have a baby and be responsible for its rearing, I never anticipated this near constant feeling of being just shy of proficient. It seems that no matter how good a day I have with Signe or how amazing she is, I feel like I could be doing it a little bit better.

I’m sure this is in part because I tend to be a perfectionist and I’m a bit hard on myself. E.g., I walked out of a doctor’s appointment where the doctor called Signe supergirl and all I could fixate on was the doctor’s suggestion that I should be producing more breastmilk.

But I think feelings of inadequacy are part and parcel of parenthood. Just about the time you are feeling smug about being able to breastfeed your baby for almost six months, you hear another mom talk about how she’s using cloth diapers and you’re right back to feeling sheepish because you use disposables and you’re killing the planet. I guess it’s a grand plan to keep us humble.

It’s also what keeps us from being too judgmental of other moms. For the most part.

Because I know how hard motherhood is and how ubiquitous the feelings of not quite doing it well enough are, I try not to pass judgment on the decisions other moms make for their kids. If I’m on some mommy message board reading about how another mama is feeding her four-month-old 32 ounces of formula, two servings of rice cereal, and two servings of fruit-based baby food every day, I try to ignore my first thought (which is that this crazy overfeeder is likely one of the causes of rampant childhood obesity in this country) and applaud her for paying such close attention to her offspring.

However, and I know this is probably opening a large can of worms, I have issues with parents who refuse to vaccinate their kids. I understand that they are doing what they think is right and safest for their babes, and I know how hard those decisions are. But when those decisions are based on what we now know is erroneous information and especially when they put my child in danger of diseases we thought were long gone, well, I get a little pissy.

So I greeted this story and this one warmly.

I’ll leave decisions about breastfeeding vs. formula, cloth diapers vs. disposables, wooden toys vs. plastic ones, tummy sleeping vs. back sleeping, and staying at home vs. daycare to each individual mama. But can we all please start vaccinating our kids now? Please. Lest we welcome back polio and small pox.

Big enough for her exersaucer!

Signe’s got rhythm. And she’s definitely got music. She’s got her daddy. Who could ask for anything more?

We took Signe in for her four-month check up on Wednesday and, for the most part, we got a gold star for our parenting skills. Signe met all her developmental milestones and the doctor even called her Supergirl (because she’s so active and strong). However, when we learned that Sig is in the 75th percentile for height but only the 6th percentile for weight, the doctor suggested I up my milk production by adding a fifth pumping session to my day, preferably just before I go to bed.

That night, I went home and tried it. After putting Signe to bed, pumping, and doing my nightly routine of brushing my teeth, taking out my contacts, etc., more than an hour had gone by and I was exhausted.

Despite being so tired I wanted to die, I got very little sleep that night, unable to keep visions of my new life as a dairy cow at bay. I got up Thursday morning for my 6:00 a.m. pumping session completely drained and feeling very defeated. I worked from home, cried all day, called my mom, called Greg, called my counselor, called my mom again, called Greg again, and came to the decision that the only option that allowed me to keep breastfeeding without a hundred daily pumping sessions was to up Sig’s daily caloric intake by supplementing with formula.

This decision was heartbreaking. I know there are just as many healthy formula-fed babies as there are breastfed babies. I know that breastfeeding Signe for over four months gives her a great boost and that there is no shame in supplementing. And I have no judgment of moms who use formula (whether by choice or not) to feed their babies. But I had a plan of giving Signe only breastmilk until she started eating solid food at six months. And that plan is now gone. And I’m not very good at dealing with changing plans.

On Fridays, Signe spends the day with Oma and Abuelito (a.k.a. GTB’s parents). Since they know Sig so well and only live about ten minutes from my office, we decided that they should be the ones to try formula with her for the first time. I figured if it didn’t go well, they at least have extra breastmilk in the freezer and I’m just a short car ride away if they need me. But most importantly, I didn’t want to be around when she drank the formula. Both because it’s believed that if a baby can smell the real thing, she won’t take formula, and babies can smell their mom’s milk from 20 feet away (supposedly), and because, melodramatic as it is, I couldn’t bear to watch her drink something that didn’t come from me.

Reportedly, Signe took her first bottle of formula without incident. It took her a long time to get hungry again, which I’d heard would be true with formula, but other than that, all seemed exactly as it had been before.

Until we got Signe home last night and she took her first post-formula poop.

First of all, it wasn’t the long, explosive, gas-filled BM we’re used to. Signe briefly made her little poop face (tongue half-way out, eyes wide, face red, followed a little grunt) and next thing we know, the whole room smells like a Honeybucket. I handed her to GTB who put her down on the changing table, took off her diaper, and turned green almost immediately. He started yelling “Wuh, whoa!” as he put his face in his armpit. A second later, he was pleading for help. I grabbed her ankles and went through about ten butt wipes as he took the offending diaper to the garbage can where he double-bagged it and threw it outside.

We knew that at some point, Signe’s diaper changes would go from non-smelly, mustard-consistency breastmilk poop to real grown-up person poop, but I didn’t expect it to happen overnight. And so now I’m suddenly reconsidering my relationship with my pump. That thing may suck the life out of me, literally, but at least it doesn’t turn Signe’s butt into a biohazard.

And being a dairy cow isn’t so bad, is it?

Signe’s resolutions:

-Gain ten pounds
-Stop spitting up
-Walk
-Say “Mama”

She’s really committed to these. Don’t be surprised if she accomplishes all of them. She’s disciplined like that.

Before Arctic Blast 2008, I was well on my way to being excited about Christmas for the first time in YEARS. I don’t know if it was because of Signe or because we were going to my parents’ house for the holiday for the first time in a few years or what, but I was drinking the Christmas Kool-Aid.

And then the snow came.

One week, sixteen inches of snow, and five house-bound days later, the Christmas spirit was gone. Maybe it was due to the fact that the only other people I saw (aside from the myriad Newschannel 8 reporters keeping us posted on road conditions in places I had no intention of traveling to) were Megann, Greg, and Signe. It’s hard to be in the holiday mood when you aren’t out shopping or enjoying the lights amongst strangers. Or maybe the cabin fever just overtook any burning Christmas desires.

Last night, after desperate pleas, false starts, and ODOT’s infuriatingly ridiculous decision to plow I-5 at 4:30 p.m. the day before Christmas Eve, we were rescued from the prison of our own home by my father-in-law in his 4-wheel-drive tire-chained Volvo. On the hour-and-a-half ride from our home in North Portland to the in-law’s in Tualatin, we listened to the local all-Christmas-music-all-the-time radio station. By the time we got over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s house, I was back to being excited about Christmas.

This morning, despite the snow, I made it into the office, again via the Volvo. Since I was the only person here for a while, I turned on the crappy little clock/radio in my office to the Christmas music station. It only took about an hour for me to realize there just aren’t that many Christmas songs. I heard “Jingle Bell Rock” twice in a two-hour span. (And every time I hear it, I can’t help but picture the dance Lindsay Lohan and her gal pals do in Mean Girls.)

I’ve heard “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” so many times I want to barf.

I suffered through Celine Dion singing “O Holy Night” on the way into the office and I’ve already heard it again, only this time it’s being sung by someone who sounds like Peabo Bryson. This used to be my favorite Christmas song. Not anymore.

I’m currently listening to what I think is Michael Bolton (that no-talent ass clown) do his take on “Little Drummer Boy.” Someone kill me.

I think I’ve heard every song from the Charlie Brown Christmas album. What used to be a great jazz album now feels cheap and common.

And no matter how many times I’ve hoped for a White Christmas, hearing Bing sing about it this year just makes me remember that snow may be pretty, but it can severely fuck up your Christmas plans.

“The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” has been on, count it, THREE times.

Oh god, now it’s that Transiberian Orchestra version of Deck the Halls. I have to go throw up.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all…well, here’s to the day after Christmas when we no longer have to hear this bullshit.

These days, the only question I get more often than “Is she sleeping through the night?” is “How is Niles doing with the baby?” The truth is, Signe and Niles are just now starting to notice, and, it seems, like each other. They were pretty oblivious those first few weeks, but they seem to have come to some sort of understanding. And I’m pretty sure that understanding is “Whoever gets to the mommy first gets to sit by her.”

Sig is just beginning to explore with her hands. Of course, this means she puts everything she can in her mouth. But mostly, she just grabs at stuff. And lately, her favorite thing to grab is Niles’ fur. Niles, naturally, loves this. He’s pretty good natured though, so he puts up with it. Either that or he’s realized that if someone is going to get kicked off the couch, it ain’t the baby.

As patient and tolerant as Niles is though, it’s pretty clear that his favorite time of day is the hours between 7:30 (Signe’s bedtime) and 10:00 (our bedtime). He gets all the attention and love he can stand, for a good two or so hours.

So to answer that second question, Niles appears to be doing OK. He has yet to poop on my pillow, and for that I am grateful.