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.

Nothing Good Happens Past 3 am

I have not been sleeping well. Never mind the fact that I have a 6-month-old baby. He sleeps like a champ. I wish there were contests for baby sleepers because my little one would win. Only night sleep though. Day sleep is a whole nother story, and not a fun one. But, getting back to my sleeping issues, this past weekend while up in Tahoe, I confronted two of my biggest nighttime fears: being eaten by a bear and being crawled on by a spider. Guess which one actually happened?

No, I was not eaten by a bear, but I could have been because on Friday night I awoke at 4 am to find the apartment door wide open. I was so confused and freaked out that I immediately thought a bear clawed its way into the place. Putting aside the fact that if a wild bear got into my home, I’d probably not have been woken up by just needing to pee, I shook D awake and told him he had to go into the hallway to check for a bear. As we both stood baffled in our PJ best, we heard the howling wind and realized that the dang door blew open by itself. Well, not entirely by itself as it was helped by D when he forgot to lock the door. Now maybe he’ll start to understand why I have to ask him at least three times about his locking certainty. You would think that time last month when our neighbor called to tell him that he left the garage door open would have been enough…anyway, our itty bitty baby managed to sleep through this whole fiasco. Even Tonydog didn’t beg to go out like he usually does at the crack of dawn when we go up there. Perhaps the crazy, door-blowing-down wind scared him too.

The next night’s slumber was far more sinister. Somewhere in the fives I was minding my own business and enjoying the security of a thrice-locked front door when I started to feel a slight tickle. At first it was on my neck and I assumed it was one of the eleven thousand hairs that fall out every day from my head (seriously, how is there any left given how much is all over my bathroom floor?). I instinctively flicked the swath of hair off my neck and turned over. Then, I felt another itch on my chest. Again, I tried to rub off that annoying hair thinking that I should have put the unwieldy mess in a ponytail before going to sleep. Finally, there was a distinct feeling of movement on my arm. While half-asleep, I reached down and plucked something off and threw it across the room. My eyes flew open and I screamed. WTF?! I turned on the light as D groggily wondered if the door was open again. I told him that I thought I felt a spider and let out a huge shudder. Of course D goes, “oh yeah, I think I felt that.” I railed at him for not waking me up and instead letting this evil thing crawl its eight legs all over me while I slept innocently beside him. First rule of marriage: always wake your spouse up when there is a third party in the bed. I turned on the light and saw the little beast trying to escape. What, who me? I’ve been on the floor this whole time. I snuffed that creep right out. Normally, I don’t like to kill things but this guy (I just know it was a male trying to cop a feel) had it coming. The rest of the night was shot for me as I felt like I had been dropped in a spider-filled snake pit (only thing worse than spiders are snakes. And sharks). I am still trying to erase that experience permanently from my brain. Where is the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind when you need it?

But, still, the baby sleeps. Some dreams do come true.

And so do some nightmares.

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.

Oh boy!

This morning my dentist told me that she spent two hours in the ER last night with her four-year-old daughter, trying to get out a metal clasp that the little one had shoved up her nose. As if going to the dentist weren’t already scary enough! The entire time she was filling my cavity, all I could think about was how my 6-month-old baby already seems like a little dardevil. He’s always trying to launch himself out of his car seat, stroller, vibrating chair, my arms, etc. Every single thing he touches right now has to be taste tested and shoved halfway down his throat. I have also detected a definite glimmer of delight whenever I twirl or flip him upside down. After emerging from my own childhood basically unscathed, am I doomed to spend my son’s carrying his crutches and signing his casts? Is it too much to make him live in a bubble for the next 18 years? What if I make sure there’s wifi?

When I was a kid, I remember my mom getting mad at me when I’d hurt myself. She was sympathetic and caring too, but her first reaction was always a bit angry. As I got older, I called her out on this and asked her why she would yell as soon as I started crying. She said that it probably was due to her being mad at herself for not protecting me and then projecting the anger to me. After I pointed it out how ridiculous this was given that I was already hurting and didn’t need to be yelled at thankyouverymuch, she tried to curb her reactions. Unfortunately, I have realized in the past few months that I may have inherited this not so wonderful trait. My voice definitely goes up several octaves whenever anything goes wrong. I try to remain calm, but I notice myself becoming more than a touch shrill. I am determined not to scream at my kid when he’s in pain. I figure it’s the least I can do once my kisses lose their magical power to make it better.

We’ve been lucky so far and haven’t had any real scares or issues. Seeing friends go through the nightmares of dealing with a sick or hurt kid makes me treasure my baby that much more. As much as I hope to protect him and keep him safe from his own damn curiosity, I realize that fear and pain are two very important teachers in life. Though I will hate it, I have to let him be stupid and irresponsible so that he learns from his own mistakes. I just hope that those mistakes don’t involve any big booboos.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

Is it bad that my babysitter sometimes weirds me out? I can’t explain it, but I just don’t think everything adds up with her. One day she told me that her roommate stole her computer and that’s why she couldn’t get into her email account to write me back, another time she told me that she was behind a big car accident in the middle of the day and that’s why she was late, last week someone broke into her car and that’s why she had to make an emergency trip home and wasn’t available for the usual sitting time, yesterday she mentioned that she is being abducted by aliens this weekend and that’s why she may be unavailable for a while. Is it just me or does something not add up? After all, this person is watching my kid. He’s my most precious thing. If I wouldn’t want this woman driving my car, I probably shouldn’t have her providing the general safekeeping of my son. I just don’t know how to break up with her. I keep trying to do the fade away (a process I became intimately familiar with from the other side in my early twenties). She’s just not taking the hint. I think we need to have the talk. Ugh. You would think this would be easier as an adult, but suddenly I feel transformed back to 8th grade when I tried to dump my best friend ( we just, um, grew apart and um, shouldn’t hang out as much?). Thankfully, my baby spits up on and gives his drooly smiles indiscriminately so I don’t think he’s yet old enough to notice the switcheroo. Wish me luck!

The Art of Doing Nothing (And Everything)

Another day, another ridiculous Whole Foods experience. This one involved lentil soup and, once again, my poor driving skills. I was wheeling my giant stroller and didn’t see the flaw in using the side cupholder for my soup until I leaned in to get a closer look at the organic bananas (sidenote: why are they always bright green?). There went the spinach lentil all over the bananas. Pretty soon I’m going to see my picture up in the window with a big warning: DO NOT LET THIS WOMAN INTO THE STORE.

WF inanities aside, I’m beginning to feel settled in my stay-at-home-mommying. We’ve got playgroup, music class, gym dates and lunches set up throughout the week. I could have plans multiple times per day if I wanted. Yet I am still bored. I’m not sure what it is I am looking for, as I have recently realized that going back to work wouldn’t be nearly as romantic as I imagine it to be. A quick visit to my office and a scan of nanny/daycare costs confirmed that. So, if I don’t go back to work right now, what else is there? After college, law school and seven years working as an attorney, it’s bizarre to imagine that I am no longer part of the workforce. Am I still an attorney if I don’t practice? Who am I if I don’t have that work self to turn on and off? As much as I love my baby and watching him grow, I know that I can’t spend every minute with him. It will be best for both of us if I have some hobbies, tasks, chores to occupy my mind. Trying to find that balance begins in earnest now.

Just Another Sunday Funday

Wow, I really took a bit of a pause there, eh? Well, I’m back now and am going to try to be consistent with this. For me, that means about two-three posts over the next year. I do feel as though I have something to say and I need a kick in the ass. Hopefully, that kick is coming and it’s not too painful.

So, the other day I hit a car in the Whole Foods parking lot. I was reversing, trying to fix my initial perfectly acceptable parking job (why, why must I be such a perfectionist?) and managed to somehow veer over the line and ever so slightly bump the car next to me. Unfortunately, the love tap from my brand-new suv (compact though it is) was somehow misinterpreted as a knockout punch by the 15-year-old Honda sedan parked innocently next to me. Although I couldn’t have been going more than the bare minimum of speed needed to keep the car in motion, I somehow managed to wreak havoc on both driver’s side doors of this other car. My car, bigger and badder, sustained nothing more than a measly missing paint chip. Of course, I was irrationally mad at the car next to me-how dare it be parked right there just waiting for me to hit it?! I seriously considered just driving away or walking into the store as if nothing had happened (looking at my car, no one ever would have known that I was the one who caused the damage). But, I couldn’t do it. I’m not that asshole.

I went inside, looking forlorn and beaten and asked the customer service agent to request that car’s owner to come forward. When I told the Whole Foods rep what happened, he congratulated me for owning up to my actions. Is that what the world has come to now? We are being congratulated for simply doing the decent thing. Thankfully, the guy who owned the Honda was pretty chill about the whole thing. He acknowledged that his car was a total beater and said he would be cool with avoiding insurance altogether, caring less about it looking perfect than about it being drivable. How’s that for a nice response? I think he felt sorry for me, actually. Or, maybe he felt sorry for my baby who was looking pretty annoyed at the indignity of it all. Ay, I’m afraid to hear what he’ll have to say about my driving once he can speak.

Unfortunately, making this guy’s car drivable is apparently going to cost over $1,500! Something about the rear driver’s side door frame being bent and needing to replace the door? Hello Mr. Honda owner, do you really need someone to sit in that seat when there is a perfectly good spot on the passenger’s side? You even said you don’t use the car much. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable here. Except, of course, I am.

In the end, we have to go through insurance and I’ll end up paying quite a bit of that amount through raised premiums. Insurance is such a racket! You think you’re covered when you have a teeny, tiny accident but, really, you’re not. Oh well. At least it was a relatively easy way to learn an important lesson– Whole Foods is the devil! I was already spending hundreds there a month. Now I’m in it for over a grand. No one needs organic foods that badly. Finis (until the next absurd occurrence that is my new life with baby and sans brain).