We’re standing in front of the dairy case when Evan starts coughing. “Cover your mouth” I say sharply. I can feel the eyes of the other shoppers boring into my back and I know they’re thinking “Ugh, kids and their GERMS.”

And then he throws up. On me. On himself. On the cart. On the floor. It’s awful and smelly and EVERYWHERE and all those people who were watching us just a few seconds before have suddenly disappeared. Evan looks up at me with huge eyes and said “I spit up. Spit up on you Mommy. Spit up on Evan. I sick.”

I think “No crap, Kid” but I say “I’m so sorry buddy! It’s ok! Let’s clean you up!” I use a handful of baby wipes to clean off his face and hands and hair and neck and ohmigod how did he get puke in his EAR?! I pull of his sweatshirt and throw it over the mess on the floor. I grab the extra pair of pants from my diaper bag (thank goodness I restocked it this morning) and lickety-split change him right there in the aisle.

A few shoppers slink past, avoiding eye contact.

I use his dirty clothes to wipe everything down but we both still stink. Or maybe it’s just me. I grapple with my desire to abandon the cart and flee with the kids but I hate to waste our shopping trip so I suck it up. By the time we’re in the next aisle Evan is running around like crazy, bouncing off the walls, getting in the way, shouting and laughing. I guess he wasn’t so sick after all.

I think for a minute about how this sums up motherhood – surprising and messy and gross and horrifying but you DEAL WITH IT because there’s no one else who will and seeing your kids happy makes it all worth it. But that doesn’t make me smell any better, so we head home to shower.

So Caroline is officially weaned as of March 1st  (14 months, 12 days of breastfeeding). She was probably ready to be done a few days earlier but I kept saying “Oh, just one more time!” and drawing it out. I am both ECSTATIC and TERRIBLY SAD at the same time. One second I am doing a jig because I am freeeeeeeeeeee and the next I am wiping away tears because mah baybeeeeeeee doesn’t neeeeeeeed meeeeeeeee. As if all the hormonal stuff wasn’t enough on its own, the mood swings are turning me into a total wreck.

In the end, what worked best for us was cutting out one feeding at a time every few days. First I dropped her post-nap nursing session, then the one before lunch, then first thing in the morning, then the one before nap, and lastly the one before bed. She had been occasionally sleeping through the night, so we just sort of phased out the 2 am feeding as we went. E went in to comfort her a couple times but even when I was doing it she wasn’t nursing for more than 30 seconds so obviously she was just ready. I was worried she wasn’t drinking a ton of milk from her sippy but she does drink lots of water and she still eats like a horse, so I doubt she’s going to end up dehydrated or malnourished. The whole process took about 2 months and my supply regulated itself easily as I decreased the feedings. The weaning wasn’t child-led, but it was gentle and mostly tear-free. I’m happy. And sad. SO CONFLICTED.

One of the things I was most worried about is that we were going to lose all of our cuddle time, since she’s such a very busy and independent toddler. But she’s replaced nursing with being a little clingier – more hugs, wanting to be held, sitting in my lap – which I am HAPPY to oblige. It’s nice to get affection from her that isn’t boob-related. Having someone try to rip off your shirt every time they see you is only flattering for so long, you know?

The end of nursing also meant the end of my extra Weight Watchers points and for a couple days I was a little panicked. I needed those points or I’d be starving all day. But then I remembered, oh yeah, the breastfeeding is what makes me so hungry – SO HUNGRY – and now that I’m not making milk anymore I don’t need to eat like a horse. I’ve also dropped several pounds wicked fast in the last week, something my lactation consultant had mentioned ages ago. My body was holding onto extra fat as a back-up in case my caveman food source ran out and I had to keep my young alive through a starvation period. It’s good for the survival of the human race (I GUESS) but sucks when I was trying to “get my body back” and my body refused to cooperate. I used to drink alcohol too, but with the advice of WhiteSands Tampa, I stopped that altogether because I was breastfeeding. But now it’s all “Whatevs, your young can totally fend for herself! Look at her, shoving her face full of a pound of grapes and cheese a day! Go ahead and starve, Mom!”

If breastfeeding wasn’t an all or nothing situation with her (it was with Evan too), I think I wouldn’t have been so ready to wean. Her refusal to take a bottle or a cup was SO FRUSTRATING. I felt like I was trapped. I worried constantly about how she would deal if something happened to me. Would she starve? Would she be traumatized for life? I don’t want to sound over-dramatic but having someone THAT dependent on me often felt like more than I was prepared for. I think part of my problem with anxiety came from the pressure I put on myself to breastfeed – but I ALSO put a lot of pressure on myself to wean before vacation. It was all I thought about. It’s sort of crazy how even though I think of myself as being super laid back and low stress when it comes to parenting – and in a lot of ways I am! Eat food off the floor! Rub your face on the dog! – this is such a stressful topic for me. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE breastfeeding and will absolutely breastfeed my next kid and wouldn’t take back the almost 30 combined months of nursing between Evan and Caroline. But I’m not going to let myself be the only food source a baby will accept again. My mental health suffers too much.

P.S. Caroline VERY CLEARLY asked for nursies on Tuesday around dinner time, so I caved and let her latch for a few minutes. I don’t know if she got anything but she remembered how to do it. I’m not going to pump while I’m gone but if she wants to go back to nursing once a day when I get back I’d be fine with that. Probably.

Our vacation is quickly approaching – 19 daaaaaaays!!! – and although I am insanely excited about it I’ve started to think about the practical aspects of leaving the kids and house in someone else’s hands for a week and I’m freaking out.  My reasons are two-fold, and I will of course tell you about them now in great detail.

Reason 1 is because how can anyone besides me take care of my beautiful, special, magical snowflakes? They are delicate flowers! Fragile angels! Helpless babies! No one besides me can give them the care and love and constant attention they require to blossom and grow on a daily basis. I am their Mother, giver of Life, completely Irreplaceable.

Of course on a daily basis my love and life-giving mostly involves handing them cheese, playing trains, pouring juice and making sure they don’t kill each other. Not exactly rocket science.

But on the other hand, there ARE a lot of small things that matter an enormous amount to two toddlers but other people wouldn’t know. At bedtime, Evan wants me to sing his songs in a specific order. Caroline likes different sippy cups than Evan does. Her favorite games are hard to understand unless you realize punching you in the face is playing. When Evan asks for a “chocolate bar” he means a granola bar. Are their lives going to be RUINED if someone else does things differently for a week? No, of course not. And because my folks are coming here to our house the amount of change really is minimal. I just want things to be as easy as possible for everyone.

Reason 2 is because there are going to be PEOPLE in my HOUSE and I won’t be here to help them find things which means when they need extra towels or more toilet paper they are going to be opening closets and looking under beds and oh God it’s giving me heart palpitations just THINKING about it. Despite my best efforts and intentions, I am not a well-organized person. Yesterday I “cleaned” the guest room, which consisted of ten minutes untangling yarn, three minutes staring hopelessly at the giant pile of stuff still left to organize and thirty minutes of shoving craft supplies under the bed. Success! Or…not. At least it looks better than the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Or the pantry. Or our bedroom. Or – OH GOD – the basement. THE BASEMENT.

Then there’s the tiny issue that my mother is the kind of person who cleans my microwave every time she visits and my father is the kind of person who builds a new patio every time he visits so things need to be CLEAN and projects need to be FINISHED. Of course, I’ve known about this trip for a year so obviously my anxiety levels aren’t at the level of “get off my butt and do something” yet.

So here is my question for anyone who has left their kid(s) before OR hes watched someone else’s kids for them: How many pages of instructions are helpful vs. crazy-pants obsessive? Evan isn’t helpless, he can ask for the sippy cup he wants, but no one’s going to know what he means when he asks for the “camp-it hoot show” (Captain Hook show = Jake and The Neverland Pirates). Do I need to catalog our exact bedtime routine, or just “Bathtime at 7, in bed by 7:45” good enough? The most stressful part is I’m going to be virtually unreachable, so if I forget to write down “We usually ride the elevator a few times when we go to the mall, even if we don’t need to” I’m imagining the kids sobbing on the floor while my parents look on helplessly.

I don’t think there’s any advice for the house-mess situation, unless you want to come over and clean it for me. Ok, thanks, see you soon.

First off, thank you all for being so kind on Monday (and in real life since then). I got not one single comment that was anything less than totally supportive and awesome – not even anonymously or in my spam filter. I was LOOKING for someone to tell me to go screw myself for being a lousy mom and a lousy human being – because that’s how I’ve been feeling about myself for months – but now I guess I’ll have to stop beating myself up and just enjoy feeling like a person again.

Ok, phew, back to our regularly scheduled posting.

On Tuesday I took the kids to visit the preschool a friend recommended. I’m SO OVER calling around and trying to find info about every single program we might even consider considering. I HATE making phone calls, especially because  for some reason these schools are harder to track down than Osama Bin Laden (is that still a joke? What else is hard to track down? Big Foot?) They aren’t listed anywhere, they don’t have direct phone numbers, NONE of them have websites, which is ridiculous. IT IS 2012. GET ONLINE. Anyways, I called for info on this particular school a few weeks ago and read through their packet and it seemed nice so we went in to look around.

I liked it. Evan seemed to like it. They have a toddler program Caroline can attend when she’s 2-ish. There weren’t any children chained up in the corners and I didn’t see anyone pushing meth behind the play equipment so I guess it’s…good? What are the standards for preschool? Am I supposed to judge whether their circle time is appropriately circular? Should I be worried that some of the butterfly craft projects were done in non-complementary colors? They had lots of blocks and puzzles and dinosaurs and OK fine, so it’s going to feel a bit like I’m just paying to let him play three days a week but is that really so bad? I like the idea of someone else arguing with encouraging him to pick up after himself and doing the same puzzle over and over and helping him wash his hands every time he thinks they have gotten even the tiniest bit sticky. I think that would be good for both of us.

Based on my completely non-scientific survey on Twitter the cost seems reasonable (although my husband is still having a minor heart attack) and within our price range. I suppose if it was REALLY REALLY important we could figure out a way to pay for a fancier school. And if I started buying our fruits and vegetables off the bruised cart and switched to generic toothpaste and don’t buy ANY new clothes for the next 5 years we might even be able to afford the fancy Montessori school for a semester or two. But do I really want to apply for tuition assistance for a 3-year-old? Am I somehow failing my kids if I don’t send them to the very best thing available? And who even knows if that WOULD be the very best thing? Maybe Evan would hate it. Maybe he’s going to hate any preschool. I’m pretty sure I got kicked out of at least one myself – also known as the Great Block Throwing Scandal of ’86 – so I wouldn’t be too shocked.

This decision really shouldn’t be this hard. I keep telling myself I should just be glad we don’t live somewhere that super competitive waiting list $10,000 a year preschools are our only option. I think it’s helping, a little at least.

I finally scheduled a doctor’s appointment to get referrals – one for the scary mole on the back of my arm and one for the scary shouting I can’t seem to control. The appointment was at 9 am on a Thursday at the military healthcare building. On Wednesday, I realized my car didn’t have updated stickers and I couldn’t get on base without stickers.

I went to get new stickers.

I couldn’t get stickers because my ID had just expired, so the guy gave me a temporary pass to get to the ID office.

I went to get my ID.

I couldn’t get a new ID because my sponsor – my husband – has to be with me OR I needed a power of attorney OR he needed to come in and fill out a form.

I called my husband.

No, he couldn’t come. No, he had to be at work. No, he couldn’t do it on his lunch break. No, he couldn’t do it tonight. No, there is no way it could be done before my appointment tomorrow.

I started to cry.

“FINE!” I screamed into the phone, “I hope your job is REAL HAPPY when your wife goes FUCKING CRAZY because you couldn’t take TWO MINUTES to come sign a piece of paper. GOOD LUCK WITH THAT.” I hung up.

No stickers, no ID, no form, no appointment. No no no no no no no no no.

I watched the kids run back and forth in the grass outside the building and wondered if I was just imagining going crazy or if it was something that was actually happening. It was 55 degrees in January, after all. Maybe this wasn’t real life.

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 The next day I was really embarrassed about my temper tantrum, just like I always am. I calmly rescheduled my appointment and couldn’t figure out why it had felt SO URGENT only a few hours before. I should just stop overreacting and calm down. There’s no reason to be so angry. Good mothers don’t shout so much. I told myself I just suck at everything and need to get over it. Just like I said the time before, and the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before that… I kept my appointment.

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I talked to my doctor for a long time on Tuesday and filled out her questionnaires as honestly as possible. She said it sounded like anxiety – which I was just calling OVERREACTING TO ALL THE THINGS – with mild depression. I don’t know if it’s technically postpartum anything but when the doctor said “It’s OK, you’re not imagining things, I can help” I felt better than I have in months.

I took my first tiny Zoloft pill last Tuesday. I am still not sure how I feel about it. I am still not sure that it’s working. But I AM sure talking to my doctor was the right thing to do because she even recommended me to check this list of things that can help me in my troubled journey. I can’t believe I waited so long. I can’t believe I still feel so reluctant to share this. In my online life I know so many women who have dealt with or are fighting  or have overcome postpartum depression or anxiety or OCD or some other form of baby-related hormonal brain disease. Some days I wondered if I was crazy for NOT having postpartum depression. And then when things started to feel out of control I wondered if I was just exaggerating so I could fit in. Oh look, another mommy blogger on medication. What a cliche. Doesn’t she know Dooce already did that? It’s so 2009. Besides, my “baby” is 13 months old – didn’t my ticket to postpartum mental disorder town expire in December?

Although I know the internet is FULL of support, in my real life things like this are Not Talked About. The only person I’ve ever heard mention PPD was the sad, weepy, exhausted mom at breastfeeding support group who was so obviously depressed I wanted to bundle her into my car and drive her to a therapist myself. I’ve never felt like that. No one has ever said “You look like you’re struggling.” My husband has never taken the baby away from me and suggested I talk to someone.  I think my family is going to be really surprised to read this. I’m worried what they’re going to think. But hopefully soon, I won’t have to worry so much about what I think.