Boom

Years ago I had this epiphany in the women's bathroom of the law firm where I was working.  I do my best thinking in bathrooms, don't you?  I always used to talk to myself in the bathroom as a kid. Probably because it was the only place I could be alone in a tiny house with six people.  Getting back to the major moment, it was February 2006 and I was miserable.  I hated my job, my living situation, my completely dysfunctional relationship with my boyfriend and, essentially, my life.

For the previous four months, I had spent most of my day either fighting with my boyfriend or sobbing about fighting with my boyfriend.  He had moved away for graduate school and we were trying to make a long-distance, cross-continental romance work.  For various reasons, not the least of which was that he wanted to revel in his freedom while knowing that I would be there waiting for him when he needed me, it was definitely not working.  Unfortunately, every time I tried to break up with him he would promise to change.  We had an awful co-dependency that was killing me. Once I finally cut the cord, I felt like a balloon, floating freely up and up.   I immediately knew that was one of the best          decisions I would ever make.

Yet I still had the other issues in my life-the job, the apartment- that I knew were within my control. So, the epiphany that struck me as I stared at the beige stall trying not to pee too loudly was that I only have one life.  I was the only one who could make it not suck.  Sheer genius, I know.  But, somewhere along in the previous couple of years, I had lost sight of this obvious point.  I really had spent far too much time waiting for the "what ifs" or "whens" rather than just enjoy my life as it was or change it as needed.  If I always believed that things were going to be better at another point, there was no need to really focus on the present.  It was like someone smacked me in the head with a giant "THE FUTURE IS NOW" stamp.   

Fast forward six months and I was living in a new place, with a brand new job, in a new field.  The day after I started my new job I (re)met my future husband (technically we'd met once before but whatever).  It's amazing how much you can change once you decide that things need to change.

I'm starting to feel that same energy shift now.  While I'm not sobbing all day and talking to myself in bathrooms (sadly, this is no longer a solo activity), I don't feel as happy as I imagined I would while not working and playing with my kid all day.  It's hard.  Harder than I thought it would be.  I miss being me and don't like always being mommy (mom-me).  A change is coming.   Not a radical one, mind you.  Perhaps a 25-40% change in the status quo.  Once I figure out what that means, I'm going to get right on it.

Ebb and flow

Dear Weekend,

Thank you for you tireless efforts to prove to me, once again, that motherhood is basically a journey of the highest highs and the lowest lows.

Friday night, I stayed home while my husband went out and got some bro time.  True to cheesy form, I somehow convinced myself to rent "The Vow."  Shut up.

Saturday, we woke up to a pile of vomit in the crib and it was all downhill from there.  Most of the day was spent hugging my sick son while tears streamed down his face.  The silent agony was far worse than his screaming, grunting and crying could ever be.  His fever was fairly high, due to a Dr. Mom-diagnosed combination of required monthly toddler sickness, teething and maybe a reaction to the live-virus in last week's MMR shot.  FYI, maybe don't go to the good Google when researching MMR reactions unless you're really prepared to open that door.  While I don't see any definite correlation between vaccinations and autism, it is rather frightening to read these posts as your kid is refusing to eat, move or even look at you because he's so miserable.

The whole day he just seemed confused and sad, like he was trying to work out why this was happening to him.  Thankfully, he fell asleep easily for the night and miraculously slept straight through me taking his temperature multiple times like a mad mama. 

Sunday, we had a new little man on our hands!  Ah sleep, is there anything you can't do?  Although our daredevil was back, we took it a little easy and abandoned our special hiking plans (sorry, Tony).  Mr. Schneed made breakfast though conveniently forgot about dish duty.  I did, however, get about 45 minutes of silence to read the NYT, which was pure Mother's Day bliss.  I also met some of my besties for ice cream during the wee one's nap. 18 months in and I'm finally beginning to realize that ice cream or wine make blessed nap time even more blessed.

We went for a family bike ride to a local park to round out the day.  Shorty managed to find every tweeked out, stoned or drunk couple to say hello to as he was roaming around.  In Dolores Park, you can really pick your poison.  Oh, and I let him run around without shoes as he conveniently lost one on the bike ride to the park.  Definitely not my proudest moment as I looked down and saw bottle caps (and worse) every six inches.  Hooray for socks! 

Eating a healthy meal of french fries and only french fries.

I'm feeling quite lucky to end this weekend laughing with my boys and all ten of their toes.

With (mostly) Love,
Elana 

P.S.-We found the missing sneaker on the street as we were biking home.  Miracles do happen.

Don't hate the player, hate the game

When I used to see kids misbehaving, I assumed that at least some portion of the blame fell on the caregiver. Obviously, the mom/dad/nanny wasn't setting limits and guiding the child into a life of productivity, kindness and healthy attitudes about body image and reality television. And maybe this is still true about older children. What the hell do I know about older kids? I have a toddler. A toddler who likes to throw fits in public places and has consequently thrown all my annoying pre-child judgments right the hell out the window with my sanity. I've needed to remind myself many times over the past couple of weeks how much I love my little monkey. He's a hilarious, quirky kid who really enjoys hugging tummies, frozen blueberries and making people laugh. I love his wide leg cowboy swagger. I love his hysterical laughter when I even pretend I'm going to tickle him. I love his excitement about the world, and particularly the sandboxes, around him. I HATE his shrieking.

We are in a Level 1, red-hot, teaming screaming zone these days. He seems to do it most when he has the maximum audience capacity and is surrounded by calm, quiet toddlers who make him look even more maniacal in comparison. The more folks around to gawk at him and mommy, the better. Library storytime offers the biggest return per scream. He makes the most of that forum and goes full-throttle. I believe he's inherited my lung capacity. Yeah, yeah, he's got a lot of personality and he usually screams because he's excited. He's active. He's energetic and spirited. Even though he's not doing it on purpose (or is he?), he's becoming kind of a PITA. But, he's still my PITA. And, I have to take him to these storytimes or else he'll never learn to read or write and will definitely kill squirrels in our backyard.

Not ready to live the life of an agoraphobe, I've been trying pretty much everything I can over the past month to "discourage this behavior." From what I've gleaned while talking (whining) to mommy friends, reading the very much on point and spookily clairvoyant babycenter emails, and grilling his pediatrician, these are the ONLY truths about the situation and my role in it:

1. Stop Caring--what does it matter what other people think about my mini? Apparently, I take this shit way too seriously. After the third person in the playground muses that my son must be a lot of work, you'd think I'd learn to just shrug it off. Chances are I'll never see that person again (and why would I want to since he/she clearly hates happy, sometimes loud toddlers) so I'm determined to stop letting it drive me crazy and feeling like the world's worst mama.

2. Ignore--obviously this is easier said then done, but I am trying as hard as I can to ask Mr. Monk to stop screaming/throwing things/thrusting his pelvis, explain why he should not scream/throw/thrust and then ignore him until the undesirable behavior stops. I really should have gone into acting because I say these things in the sweetest, happiest, most kind I love you voice ever even though I am seething inside.

3. Easy come, easy go--you know those old rainbow striped Emergency Broadcast System TV spots that beeped for a minute and then reminded you that it was just a test? Well, this too is only a test. It might be a hard, annoying one, but it'll be over soon. Most likely, the screaming is a result of him not having the language to properly express himself. So when he does begin to learn more words (everything is "baby" or "this/that" these days), I can look forward to him never shutting up. Right? Right? Please tell me this is just a test of the Emergency Broadcast System and my (mostly) sweet child is not a terrorist.

Blurry, but I love the hair wings

Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em

I think it's time. Truthfully, I can't even believe it's still happening. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even want to anymore. Both of us have been crying about it. The dog days of nursing are over.

Yesterday, for the first time, the boy up and bit me hard as he could. It was as though he was trying to tell me, ENOUGH ALREADY; I'm over you. After hearing so many stories about the anguish, physical and mental, of weaning a baby who can't quit the boob, I know I'm so lucky. And yet, there is no relief. No excitement. Only sads. What the hell? Where is the woman who couldn't wait to get her body back? Maybe I can't function without my oxytocin fix. Do people become addicted to breastfeeding? I need a new vice (and a new excuse to eat as much dessert as I want).

I think tomorrow might be the first day when cow's milk is the only milk on the menu. I have been feeling some guilt about weaning right before cold/flu season, but that can last through March. I know I can't. My fluctuating hormones combined with Mr. Monk's four incoming teeth from hell have made this one awesome week in the Schneed household. No wonder the Mr. decided to catch the flu. Fun times.

So, now I get to go bra shopping, right? At least the empty inside comes with a pretty, lacy outside.

And, I'm pretty sure the babe will be able to find himself a new source of nourishment...Mexican!

Frankie Says Relax

After spending the better part of an hour this morning mopping my floor three separate times (spilled oatmeal, spilled applesauce and spilled milk), I decided it was high time I used the spa gift certificate I got for mother's day. Calgon, take me away. I believe in the power of a stranger's hands on my back to make the world a better place. Angela, masseuse lady, you were pure magic today. Thank you for giving my brain an hour off this afternoon and for ignoring the fact that I may or may not have farted in my sleep.

I used to think that a massage was like pizza, even when it's bad, it's good. Then I learned that when you're naked and lying on a table, things could definitely get a little weird. Here are my top 5 massage mishaps:

1. In the middle of my last massage a few months ago, I started to feel a serious shaking. About 15 seconds in, I just knew we were in the middle of an earthquake (this is northern California...). I oh-so-casually asked the masseuse if she noticed the ground moving. She laughed and told me that it was just the laundry next door. Apparently, I had the best room in the house-if you like random vibrations in the middle of your massage.

2. While getting a massage once up in Tahoe, the masseuse told me that "regular massage can really help with the scoliosis." Say what? This woman gave me a wicked case of hypochondria until my next doctor's visit confirmed I did not, in fact, have scoliosis.

3. At a nail salon in NYC, this tiny Asian manicurist was no match for my rock hard shoulders. After about a minute of attempting to massage me, she had to sub out. Another woman took over for her, but not before she told me that I was the most tense person she had ever touched. I win!

4. This one masseur at a nice spa in NYC repeatedly massaged down my chest, dangerously close to my lady humps. I was so stunned by it that I didn't say anything. In retrospect, I wish I had complained so that he would know it was creepy if he wasn't doing it on purpose to be creepy. And, if he was being skeezy, I wish I gotten his ass fired.

5. Last October, the week of my due date, I used a gift certificate to a prenatal massage trying to coax the baby out (fat chance). The masseuse was super chatty and started telling me about her love life. I heard all the deets, including how she and her new man haven't been as careful as they should be and why she would definitely need to get an abortion if she ends up pregnant. Mind you, I'm lying there on my side like a beached whale wondering why the eff this woman was getting waaaaaay too up close and personal. Again, I probably should have said something when I checked out but I needed to get my bloated, oiled self home or to a hospital.

Upping the ROI on baby clothes

I think it's pretty safe to say that spending a lot of money on baby clothes is not a sound investment. Even under the best of circumstances, when the item manages to escape in one piece from the barrage of food, dirt, teeth, prying fingers and various other indignities heaped upon it by a curious child, it is only going to last for a preset period of time. It says it right on the label! Can you imagine buying clothes for yourself if you knew that they wouldn't fit after three months? Sadly, that probably is the case with some of my purchases in recent months. Note to self--do not go shopping after completing insanity workouts and then going awol on the program. Moving on.

So, even though baby clothes aren't financially sound, I can't help wanting my kid to look super fly. The majority of the clothes that Mr. Monk wore for the first year of his life were gifts. I've only recently started doing any shopping. My primary rule is that I can't spend more on a cardigan for him than I'd spend for myself. Ok, maybe that isn't the best barometer, but I did notice quite a few baby sweaters costing close to $100. This morning I pulled out a recent purchase for the (not so) wee one and was utterly confused to find him looking like Mr. Hulk in his new green henley. We had ourselves a situation. Now, my kid is decidedly unchubby so I was totally confused as to why this shirt wouldn't fit when I only bought things in the 12-18 months size. Could it run that small? When I checked the inside label, I saw that it was only 6-12 and must have been mismarked on the price tag. Grrr. Having washed it pre-wear, I couldn't return it. And that, my friends, is what I call a waste.

The one comfort I have is knowing that all of these clothes have a definite second life with my nephew. He may be 3,000 miles away in New York and 6 months younger, but he'll be rocking some of Mr. Monk's Cali gear for as long as he'll tolerate it. Pretty sweet that my sister never has to do any shopping, eh? Straight into the box goes the new green shirt, post-breakfast trouncing of oatmeal, beet juice and yogurt.

If you're looking for a way to reincarnate your kids' clothing, check out Loved Twice. This organization specifically collects newborn-one year clothes for itty bitty babies in need. Donating your items helps new mamas feel good and their babies look good. There is nothing more important than keeping a baby safe, fed and clothed. While based in northern California, Loved Twice works with agencies all over the US to that kids in other states can enjoy your most cherished (and mistaken) purchases. The site also has its own buy one, give one program. Time to clean out that closet...

Mrs. Schneed Finds The Good!

At Thursday night's Rosh Hashannah dinner with good friends, the hostess asked us each to reflect on how we want to better ourselves or the world in the coming year. The ages at the party ranged from Mr. Monk (almost one!) to mid forties, with a good number of four- and five-year-olds mixed in there. As the rounds of "cleaning my room" and "listening to Mommy" were heard, I started to wonder how easily I could enhance the world or myself. Shouldn't I be already be striving to do that every day in some way? How else could I teach my son to value life if I wasn't actively trying to improve it? Maybe it was the sense of community and love in that room, maybe it was the wine, but I had an epiphany that I want to share with y'all. This is it! This blog is going to be part of my betterment project. Instead of just babbling on about how cute my baby is (quite) and the latest weather in SF (gorgeous), I will do that AND write about at least one thing a day that you can do/see/make/experience that will either improve your life or the life of those around you.

From now on I am dedicating some space in every blog's stream of consciousness ramblings to finding the good.

I figured it might be best to start with the familiar. I've been doing a lot of shopping lately (must stop), so why not combine the impetus to do good with the desire to look good. Here are three retail companies that really try to make the world a better place:

TOMS--I just recently bought my first pair of TOMS (and I call myself a San Franciscan...). The company was founded on such a simple concept--for every pair of shoes purchased, a pair will be donated to a child in need. Just think of what could be accomplished if more entrepreneurs thought this way. Plus, the shoes are darn cute and comfortable. My husband looks all hipster in his grey ones. Even better, tiny Toms!



Warby Parker--So, my eyeglasses do not get a lot of time out in the sun. I wear them exclusively at night and in my house. Never liking myself in glasses, I always think I should buy a cool pair and find the right look to give my eyes a break from contacts. Thanks to Kathy at Foodebia, I learned about this cool, quirky eyeglass shop that a) offers attractive rx glasses for less than $100! and b) partners with a non profits to provide one pair of glasses to someone in need for every pair sold. Win win! I'm excited to get myself some once my shopping hiatus is over. In the meantime, I may just have to test a few out through their smooth home try-on program.



Baby Eggi--These baby/kiddo clothes are stylish, soft and sophisticated. Buying the adorable threads for your adorable ones is totally and completely justified by knowing that 20% of the net proceeds go to a partnering charity benefiting children and families. The company was started by two sister moms and an LA tattoo artist to the stars designs the artwork featured on their tees. Coolio. Best of all, some of my favorite pieces were in the sale section.

Sliding doors

I am leading a double life. These past few days in London I have been mostly on my own as my husband attends a business conference. Wandering around neighborhoods, popping into shops, ordering meals for one and generally doing whatever I want, whenever I want has been marvelous (or marvy as they'd say here). I feel strangely like myself again. My old self. The pre moving to San Francisco, pre marriage, pre baby, pre me now self. And, I like it.

Without your baby around, you don't always have to talk about your baby. While the hub and I have the "I wonder what Mr Monk is doing right now" conversations about 30 times per day, no one else here cares. Which is just fine by me. As much as I enjoy being the source of nourishment, entertainment and overall contentment for my wee one, I am appreciating the reminder that I have other interests. Such interests mostly involve shopping and gawking at the pretty, pricey pieces. But, I did manage to check out the Tate Modern today. London is undergoing a face lift in preparation for its coming out party at the Summer 2012 Olympics. It seems the entire city is under constant construction and improvement. A little nip here, a little tuck there. The Tate, already a glorious museum, is in the midst of a major transformation and even has its own cool cranes.


These few days are a lovely little respite from mommyworld. I'm sure come Saturday I'll be pushing people out of my way to jump off the plane and grab my bebe, but until then I'm going to enjoy being just me. The me who has to force herself not to buy her son the most adorably British outfits because no.

Cheerio!

Last night as we were flying 33,000 feet above land, I kept picturing my little baby’s face. His blond swirling hairs, his pretty red mouth and his itty bitty nose appeared under my eyelids as if to tell me that he’s always with me no matter how far I go. I left him once before for a night but I was only a car drive away. A ten hour flight is a whole nother deal. He and his sweet toes are on another continent! Though I know everything will be fine, it’s still scary to imagine being so far away if anything should happen. But, it won’t. I know, I know!

He was crying when I left, though I think that had a little more to do with him dropping his bottle than his fear of missing me. I’m fairly certain that he’ll be so spoiled by his two grandmas that he will hardly notice I’m gone. As long as the milk lady left her milk, he’s chillin'. And leave it I did, down the plane’s drain. That was rough. Bye bye 10 ounces. I’ll be throwing out a lot more this week. What a waste. I may try to see if I can donate it here since I can’t freeze it and bring it home. Somehow, I have a feeling that there is a good deal of bureaucracy involved in that. Though, maybe I should just sell it and pay for the trip (whoa...no!).

I’m so excited to sleep tonight (first time I’ve stayed up 36 hours straight in YEARS) and wake up to London tomorrow. We spent much of today walking around and getting lost, which is my favorite traveling pastime. I’m quite good at it.

Also, on the plane yesterday I discovered a new obsession--FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS! Holy moly, that is an engaging show. The Mr. had to shove me to realize that it was our turn to disembark the plane. I kind of wanted to ask him to wait for me till the end of the episode. I know I’m super tardy to the party but I need to Netflix that series asap.

Learning the hard way

So, today was not the best day. Nope, not a happy one for Mr. Monk and therefore not a happy one for me. It started out all well and good, with lots of oatmeal eating, dog tail pulling and furniture cruising. But, as soon as we got to our friends' BBQ, it was all downhill. The hub and I took turns watching the little sleep in the car as we have previously learned our lesson about waking that sleeping babe. He woke up about an hour after we got there and we thought he would be cherry chipper after such an awesome nap. Yet, no.

He started whining the minute he woke up and wouldn't stop. I tried everything I could to calm him, but he was pretty much inconsolable. I played it off, all mellow mama-like, "He's fine. Just a little fussy. He's usually such a happy baby. Dude, how hot is Eric on True Blood?" I wanted him to be fine so I could enjoy myself. After an hour of non-stop whining, I started to think maybe he wasn't so fine. I suddenly noticed that his cheeks were super flushed and his head felt HOT to the touch. And, then I realized that my poor baby had been trying to tell me that he was actually sick for the past hour and I was too busy socializing to notice. Bad mama.

Turns out he did have a fever, but it went down to almost normal a few hours later. Man, teeth are evil. He's sleeping now and hopefully dreaming about penguins, igloos and other cool things.

When I was putting him to sleep, he kept looking up to check and see if I was still there. It hit me as I stared into his squinty eyes that I'm really his mother. I'm the one who is supposed to make everything alright. The one who puts down the glass of wine and leaves the party when her kid is sick. The one who does everything in her power to protect him from harm. The one who sings "The Wheels on the Bus" for the whole hour ride home just to put a smile on his face. It was as though someone turned on the light in that dark room and showed me that my relationship with this boy is just getting started.

London Calling

{via}

In my junior year of college, I went abroad to "study" in London. Although all my friends were headed off to exotic locales like Madrid, Prague, Tel Aviv, Arizona, I always knew I'd go to London. I had dreamed of the city ever since I saw Mary Poppins, Peter Pan and the Nanny. That accent just got to me. I pretended to be British all the time as a kid, though I think people probably just thought I had a speech impediment. Anyway, off to London I went.

It was similar enough to NYC, where I was attending college, to make for an easy transition but different enough to make for interesting adventures. The first thing I noticed was how expensive it was. Damn. Coming from NY, that was saying a lot. I found a job working in a Uni pub. Every single student from the University of London it seemed went to the same Uni pub where I worked on Wednesday and Thursday nights. For some ridiculous reason, I was assigned to be a pre-bouncer. Given that I am "not a particularly large person"--as I have now been told twice by the nurse at my pediatrician's office when I asked about why my son's weight gain has slowed...backhanded compliment?--me up against hundreds of Brits and their liquor was no match. I was supposed to find the ones who looked right pissed and pass them off to the real bouncer (a huge guy named Marcus) so he could make sure they didn't throw any punches or vomit on the property. Ah, vomit. I never in my life so so much public vomiting as I did that year. Vomit on the bus, in the street, in the dorm hallway. After a few weeks, Marcus called me over for a chat and told me to "cut out that American shite of wishing people a good night as they leave." Apparently, he found my inbred politeness annoying as hell and made me knock it off. This might have been rude if not delivered in that awesome accent. You could tell me anything in British and I would find it charming.

The best part of working at the pub was that at the end of the night I could usually find about 20 pound coins on the floor. They apparently come out of your pants pocket easily when you've had upwards of 15 beers. As part of the cleanup crew, I got to keep these earnings, which provided a nice, steady tip. Some might call scrounging for coins on the floor pathetic, but I thought I was enterprising.

For some reason (beer?), the only class I remember taking was a modern art class that I loved. That spring break, I did the whole eurail trip across Western Europe and got to see all the paintings we studied in person. I also gained 10 pounds despite the fact that I hated all the food--why ruin a perfectly good peanut butter sandwich with mayo? Instead I ate my meals out of the ubiquitous Cadbury chocolate vending machines. And maybe my newfound appreciation for beer might have had something to do with the extra jelly. Maybe.

I hear the food has changed much in recent years, which is exciting because I'm planning to head back to London town in September. Mr. Schneed has a business trip and I'm tagging along. That is, if I can muster the strength to leave Mr. Monk with his grandmothers for five or six days. Hey, look kids, there's Big Ben!

Sins of the mother

Last night I experienced what will likely be the first of many parental failings (er, learning opportunities). My baby fell off the bed and it was all my fault. The irony was that it happened in the middle of me lecturing Mr. Schneed about never turning his back on the baby while he's on the changing table because he's flipping around so much lately. Because he was flipping around so much, I put him on the bed to change him. And, of course, I just had to grab his socks while he was on the bed, leaving him at least two seconds in which to crawl over and dive head first off the bed. So much for depth perception. I was turning around when I heard the frightening thump of his sweet baby head hitting the hard wood floor. His face froze in terror for a few seconds before he howled in pain. Isn't that the worst? When they are so freaked out that they can't even cry? My heart drops every time that happens. I hugged him tightly and consoled him and two minutes later it was like it never happened. For him. For me it was far more traumatizing. I let him get hurt. Oh, mommy guilt is fierce!

Mr. Monk now has the tiniest bump on his forehead today where I expected a giant egg. No doubt this will happen again (and again). Good thing my little guy is absurdly strong. I had no idea how tough babies were until I gave birth to a mini hulk hogan. While riding the train the other day, I was holding Mr. Monk when he suddenly jolted backwards, whacking the back of his skull against my brow bone. The shock and force of the reverse headbutt caused me to burst into tears. I honestly thought he split my eyebrow open. My crying scared the babe so he then started screaming (we're a barrel of fun on a train). Thankfully, both of us were totally fine though my eyebrow is still a bit sore and swollen.

Another time the babe was sitting on his grandfather's lap at a restaurant. Before my father-in-law had the chance to notice, Mr. Monk grabbed the paper placemat in front of him and shook so hard that the wine and water glasses resting on it both went flying and shattered all over the table. Everyone around us started laughing and clapping, which doesn't exactly discourage such behavior.

Is my baby a vampire? Incredible strength, impervious to injury, moves faster than we can see, pale...hmmm. What will he be able to do once he's mastered some hand eye coordination?


Can you spot my bruise?

No (more) boob for you

In playgroup yesterday the other mommies and I let each other in on a deep, dark secret. We. Are. So. Over. Breastfeeding. At first we danced around it and then, sensing a unified front, we collectively admitted what a chore it’s become. Now that our kids are all about seven or eight months, it seems as though we might be on the downward slope. Here in San Francisco, not giving your baby nature’s most perfect food is even worse than buying a purebred dog, or owning more than one car, if you can imagine such horrors. Please note that my husband and I are guilty of both. It’s amazing our tax dollars are even accepted.

I had initially planned to BF for a year based on all the findings that kids who suck down the liquid gold for at least that are more likely to publish a novel by age 30, bring about world peace, and generally be better-looking and have more friends. Feeding the wee one is essentially my job during this non-working period of my life. If I don’t perform my primary task of motherhood, would I still be good mom? Why would I then be any better than a bottle-feeding nanny? Of course, I realize that I am more than my boobs, but surely they are the main reason that my babe loves me more than anything else on planet Earth right now (even more than paper and he loves him some paper to rip and eat).

Many people tout the convenience of breastfeeding. After all, you’re already toting those puppies around all day. But, it can be a bit annoying to navigate BF’ing in public, unless you’re one of those folks who truly don’t mind whipping it out anytime, anywhere. I can safely admit that, while I fully support a mama’s right to feed her youngin, I am just not coordinated enough to nurse while wandering the aisles at Whole Foods. Enter breast pump, stage right. Anyone who has ever come in contact with this contraption will agree that something’s just not right about fitting your girl parts into a machine that literally pulls the milk right out of them. If you’re giving your kid more than one bottle a day, you have to make up for those feedings by milking yourself. The worst is having to pump right before heading to sleep so that I don’t wake up completely engorged. While I say a prayer every night thanking my baby for sleeping straight through the night so I don’t have to wake up and feed him, having to fill the bottles is not my idea of a relaxing pre-sleep activity. In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t yet had nightmares about being sucked to death.

One of my main concerns with continuing to BF is that I’m starting to feel a little selfish about my girls. I want them back. And so does my husband. It’s hard to feel ownership over your body parts when they are being controlled by an 18 pound writhing, screaming little being. I’ve become very hostile toward my husband even looking at my breasts these days. I’m fairly certain he hasn’t touched them in the past year. Memories of enjoying the bosoms prior to being pregnant have been so repressed that I am beginning to wonder if they existed at all. People do have use for these things, right? Not to mention, I was already doing quite well filling out a bikini before, I didn’t need any help from the full ducts I’m now carrying around. I may be one of the few people looking forward to the promised decrease in size once nursing is done. Of course, with my luck I’ll get pregnant immediately after weaning and the fun will begin anew. It’s like I’ve donated my body to science.

Fret not, I will persevere and soldier on to fight the good fight (though I draw the line at biting). I know I will miss this special bonding time with my son and the ridiculous smiles he gives me like he can’t believe he gets to drink this stuff every day. Also, it is free. I never could pass up a bargain. I just hope he thanks me someday in his acceptance speech.

The New Normal

So yesterday at playgroup Mr. Monk cried nearly the whole time. I kept trying to put him down to play with his friends, but his face would immediately scrunch up and the tears would flow. At first I played it off “oh, he’s DEFINITELY teething this week” or “perhaps he has his period?” After an hour or so of fairly continuous whining, I stopped trying and just let him hang out in my arms (super fun outing for me, I tell ya). He was clearly in a crabby mood and didn’t want to be hanging around a bunch of friends. I can’t say I blame him. When I’m in a funk, the last thing I want is a bunch of people staring at me wondering why I’m in a funk.

As I drove home, he passed out (finally!) and I starting wondering if maybe I am missing some of his cues lately. He normally is a little butterfly, smiling and flirting away. This week, however, he’s been downright surly. Is he getting sick of me? Has the fun gone out of our relationship? There’s such conflicting info out there about what to do when your baby is upset. Do I pick him up and cuddle him all the time or will that make him needy? Do I let him cry and comfort himself or will that make him feel abandoned? What’s a mom to do, especially when the usual drinking wine and whining with other mamas doesn’t go as planned (see above)? Maybe we’ll just go to the park and swing. Usually helps me cheer up.