Showing posts with label breastfeeding. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breastfeeding. Show all posts

Monday, March 04, 2013

See? Sometimes I actually leave the house without oatmeal on my shoulder.

So, I got a new work/date dress and I kind of really love it and wanted to share.

Fortunately, I know this is not where you turn for hard-hitting news. Or soft-hitting news. Or, you know, anything of global consequence.

But back to my dress.

By work/date dress I don't mean that I've become an escort. More that I think it's serious enough for the office but that I can tart it up for evening. No?
This is my subdued for work look. Black tights and boots. Black cardigan when I'm cold.
But I feel like for a nice date night like perhaps next week for Nick's birthday, I could wear it with pops of bright color...maybe red? Fuchsia? I don't know. I have fuchsia shoes, but they're for warm weather.

I don't have any red shoes. I probably should, no? It seems like red shoes should be a staple. But, anyway, can you wear colored shoes with dark tights? Maybe just very red lipstick? Or a bright sweater? Or scarf?

Because honestly, I can't think of any footwear besides wool socks and boots right now. Seriously, it's supposed to snow tomorrow night!?

If Snowquester keeps us all home, I'll be all, "Jordan, India, Betty, sit still so I can practice the smoky eye!"

But back to the dress: I think it makes me look super curvy and like I have boobs, which I still sort of do, but less and less as we head towards Boob Liberation Day, which is right around the corner. But there's that nice optical illusion piece in the front that seems like a bit of magic.

Turns out I had a lot more to say than I thought.

Hi! Monday!

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

The opposite of making out with a teenage boy

At the risk of sounding antediluvian, does anyone remember those cigarette vending machines? The kind with the pull-out knobs?

I can't imagine they would still have them, would they?

(They, of course, being...them?)

Yah, so I'm still nursing India. And I haven't started smoking. Or making out with teenage boys. In fact, I hadn't even thought about doing so until the other night.

Because there we were like every evening, my daughter and I, sitting in the dark, having a nurse and cuddle before her bedtime.

She was lying on her side, firmly affixed to my boob, one hand tucked around back of my body.

Jordan, when he was nursing, was always so focused on nursing. He ate and ate and ate and then he was all, oh, so tired! Need to sleep!

India. However. She turns out to be a multi-tasker.

Because yes, she's eating. But much like I eat lunch at my desk and surf the Internet and answer a phone call, there she is, flailing around with her free hand.

The rogue hand. Is how I now think of it.

Because we could be sitting there having a sweet moment in the dark. It could be lovely and relaxing.

But instead, I spend my time fending off the rogue hand.

The hand that reaches over to my other nipple and GRONK! pulls it like a vending machine nob. And then whacks my cheek. Pokes me in the mouth. Pokes my lip. Picks my teeth. Pulls my hair. Pats my boobs. Rubs my stomach.

In any of the above order. And repeatedly.

So we do this elaborate wrestling sort of dance in the dark, my kid and I. I follow the hand and block. In this case out of self-preservation rather than modesty or shyness or whatever else kept my clothes on way back then.

So there we were, like every night, and it suddenly occurred to me that my daughter is just as handsy as a teenage boy. But with an antipodal agenda.

She already has the naked boob. It is everywhere else she is up for groping.

Thursday, January 03, 2013

These boobs were made for talking...

While looking through 2012 photos to make a calendar, I realized the following: I have a lot of photos of my nipples.

Always one boob at a time. I clearly spent a lot of my maternity leave taking pictures of India in milk-drunk bliss, right off the boob. Also, I clearly spent that same time sitting in the red chair with at least one breast exposed at all times.

None of those made the calendar, in case you're wondering. It's not that kind of calendar.

So by this point, India has an old friend kind of relationship with her cafeteria staff.

She'll be nursing, and then she'll pull back, and chat to my nipple. She'll pat my breast, all, "Good job! I'm a big fan of today's flavor! What is that? Peppermint and chocolate? Good stuff!"

She might look up at me - although not with the same surprise that Jordan did - and give me a hello or a smile or something. I mean, she's glad I'm there, generally.

And then she'll turn back to eating and hanging out with her friends.

Wednesday, December 05, 2012

Cabbage is magic and so are Ryan Gosling's abs

I've learned or realized a number of things recently:

1. I think the ideal time to fart in public is when you are just about to get on an elevator.  That way the doors close and whisk you away.

A bad time to do so is in an elevator, even if you’re the only one in there. Because, besides the obvious negative of being stuck in a small enclosed space – even smaller than an airplane, which is perhaps the most terrible place to have a terrible fart – invariably the doors open to people who get in and know it was you. 

2. I'm a sleeper-arounder in my dreams.

Because the other night I dreamt that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie wanted to marry me (I know, I know, the arrogance on my part) but I had to tell them that actually, I was pregnant in both my uteruses, and while I was sure that one baby was theirs, I didn't actually know about the other one. Which wasn't Nick's.

I awoke all, Brad Pitt? He was so cute in Thelma and Louise, but now he just looks dirty to me.

3. Ryan Gosling, on the other hand, is kind of a delightful bon-bon.

How am I so many years behind in learning this? We recently watched Crazy, Stupid, Love and I gasped audibly when the man took off his shirt. Holy Christmas, people.

I love my big bear of a husband and I'm not at all wishing I were with Ryan Gosling instead but I cannot promise that I wouldn't ask if I could just pat his abs once - in a totally innocuous, friendly kind of way - if he were, I don't know, a friend or neighbor or I passed him on the street or something.

4. Shopping on zulily is dangerous.

So, a friend was wearing a very cute dress one day and I complimented her and asked where it was from and then she sent me a zulily invitation and said that if I signed up from her link and then ordered something, she'd get $20 in credit.

Of course I signed up and of course I ordered something because the deals! They arrive in your inbox and oh, the cute! And the brands!

Aaaand I may or may not have just ordered a pair of Fly London boots because one, they are awesome, and two, you know I have a boot problem.

Basically, I need to start recruiting zuliliers to support my habit. God. Does that make it like offering your friends drugs?

5. Cabbage is magic. This one is a re-learn. I knew this three years ago when that vegetable basically saved my life.

I am cutting down on the pumping, which last week led to some boob backing-up and soreness and I am not kidding you when I say that it's kind of hard to focus on anything else when you have a big, solid, scorchingly painful lump in your boob. You're in a meeting and all you can think is "MY BOOB! MY BOOB IS ENGORGING AS WE SPEAK!"

Or anyway, something along those lines.

And I'm not so great with the pumping anyway, so fixing a boob crisis with a pump never works for me. I got India to do some sideways nursing, to which she was amenable in the middle of the night but pretty what the fuck in the morning when she knew what was going on.

And - most importantly! - I stuck a couple leaves of cabbage in my bra on the hurty side. I had to change it a couple times, and within a day, fixed!

I am telling you: magic!

Maybe not so magic if your objective is not to fart in elevators or where-have-you, but that's if you eat it. Sticking it in your bra is a whole nother matter.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Big pumping, spendin' Gs redux and yet another reason I love Canada

So. Is it Gs or cheese? I think I wrote cheese last time. But Gs make more sense, no?

You know me, all Big ole Chedo Lino.

My sweetie sweetness and the entire reason I am doing this damn pumping.
And doesn't it look like she has a devil horn?

Anyway. The point of this post is not that I am an inane lyrics understander or misunderstander, although I am. The point is that I'm having a nipple issue and Medela is not helping.

And also that Canada is kind of like a magic place, and it seems to me that the next time I am looking for something, maybe I should just start there. like, why did I waste all that time on Match in my zip code? I should totally have been looking in Canada.

Even though I'm deliriously delighted about how things turned out in the end and thankthegoodlordImeetNickandlivedhappilyeverafter. But maybe if I'd realized the magic of Canada years ago, I wouldn't have had to wait so long before not dying alone, or at least had better experiences along the way, you know?

Recognizing, of course, the difficulty of going on multiple first dates with denizens of Canada rather than the District.

But back to the issue at nipple hand.

Oh, wait, before I do, I should put in a plug for Medela's lanolin nipple cream, which they gave me in the hospital. It's easier to spread than Lansinoh, and doesn't smell sheepy and just nicer all around. Also: I totally recommend using that stuff for chapped lips, dry cuticles, and generally everything except maybe as hair gel or for masturbating. I wouldn't think it lends itself to either.

So anyway, I've returned to work and to pumping and it just sucks in 54 different ways. No pun intended.

Also, let me get off on a side bar here and say that if you have ever squozen milk out of your boobs and then preserved it for future use and then someone like your husband just blithely defrosted something like eight ounces back when your baby wasn't taking a bottle, it might remain a thing for you for quite some time.

Like, sorry I forgot to turn on the stove fan and now the house smells like fried eggs but you wasted eight ounces of my milk without even blinking, you fucker.

Someday I will let it go.

OK, and now I must tell you that THIS is precisely why I haven't been writing. Because even when I have something to say, look how disjointed it is. I walk into the bathroom with a purpose and then I'm all, huh, wonder what I wanted here? I don't need to pee or brush my teeth...maybe I should take a shower?

And then it turns out that actually, that's where I left my shoes.

Now really really back to my point. My point is that I threw away my old pump breast shields because they weren't suctioning well anymore. And I didn't realize that they were like leprochauns and no matter how many places you thought you were about to find one, you couldn't.

You see, they were soft and siliconey and comfy. While it wasn't the boob equivalent of sitting in an easy chair and watching Downton, they were so much better than the alternative. I've recently learned.

Because now all I can find are these hard little sucker thingies. Which make my little cupcakes not quite so happy.

I thought I could get more with a trip to Target, but nay. Then I figured with a few scant clicks on the internet. Surely Amazon? Nay again.

In fact, Medela stopped making them and nobody has them! I've called and emailed a ton of small web stores that look like they have them up for sale, and they've all been like, "Oh, sorry. I shipped the last ones out yesterday."

These little suckers are impossible to find.

So I gnashed my teeth and raised my fist to the sky, cursing Medela and also whoever had bought the last ones at every last place in the U.S. of A.

And then, then I found them in CANADA! Oh, Canada! The land to the north of good people and universal health care and excellent maternity leave. I filled out the little BUY ME RIGHT NOW form. And then they said, oh, but you must have a shipping address in Canada.


Not to be thwarted, I left a Facebook message for my Canadian in Canada friend Sophie asking if I could have these breast shields shipped to her. It turns out she thinks she has the very things I need in her cupboard! She thought they were weird and never used them! And was about to get rid of them!

We conducted the whole conversation on her wall, about which I didn't think twice, until a guy friend said he felt like a voyeur.

But once you've given birth, breast shields are the least of it, you know?

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Which would just be terribly awkward for all involved

So I don't know if you've ever sat in your cube and contemplated how you might furtively squirt breast milk onto your finger? Or really, any part of your body, for that matter.

Because here's the thing. I sliced the tippy tip of my little finger with a scissor. This turns out to be a particularly inconvenient cut, because my wee finger is too small for the finger bandages we have, and it's hard to type with a band aid anyway. But it's a spot that re-opens easily.

And since breast milk is magic - seriously - I realized that I had this amazing resource right at my fingertips.

Now, one of my boobs is all, "Oh, pick me, pick me!" enthusiastic. That one has been known to squirt through a T-shirt. Sometimes India will pull off and she has these sprinklers of milk dousing her little face. She blinks all sweetly and confusedly.

The enthusiastic boob, however, is on the finger-cut side. The other one will rise to the occasion for India, but you really have to cajole it for pumping.

The reluctant boob would be the one I'd have to use. It wouldn't be quick and easy.

So I pictured myself sitting at my desk, shirt up, bra unhooked, squeeezing my boob, working to coax a few drops of milk onto my pinky finger...and having a colleague stop by.

What would you even say? "Hi! Want, uh, some milk?"

Awk. Ward. Horror.

So I toughed it out and waited until the pumping - the dread pumping, in the "quiet room" - and then used a little for medicinal purposes.

In other words: I'm back at the office. And, hi!

Tuesday, August 07, 2012

I got 99 problems but a boob ain't one

When I say we've tried approximately 537 types of bottles what I really mean is we are getting down to the fucking wire here, and if little miss sugarpoops would just oblige and drink from a goddamn bottle, it would make me feel a hell of a lot better.

I might even cut down on the motherfucking profanity.

Jordan didn't care where his food came from. Boob? Sure. Bottle? Why not? We used Dr. Browns for the most part, but genuinely, he did not care.

This kid, after taking a bottle about every other week starting just after three weeks, which is when the pediatrician told us to start, one day just said fuck it. No. More. Bottles!

She said it LOUDLY. For hours.

Then I read something about excess lipase in one's frozen breast milk, making it taste sour or soapy. So I tasted a sip of my frozen milk. It tasted sour.

However. I'm also highly suggestible. If I read a description of wine that talks about undercurrents of cigar box and magnolia shrubs, I can always taste them. I wasn't the best candidate for hypnosis, but I'm clearly susceptible.

We tried with freshly-squozen breast milk.

Nope. No way.

So then we decided to just try formula in the bottle. Whole nother experience!

Nothing doing.

Besides Dr. Browns we have Medela, and Avent, and Adiri. We've tried a sippy cup. At the suggestion of Miss Dallas, I ordered this fancy boob-shaped bottle. Naturally, I had to immediately pull it out of the box, place it to the side of my boob and ask Nick what he thought about my profile.

Nick was amused, but then asked sceptically, "Do you really think you're going to trick her with that?"

I can't remember what I said in return, but I'm pretty sure it had the asshole word in it.

Which matters not one bit because India was all, "I spit on your fake boob! Fuck you! Give me the real thing NOW RIGHT NOW I MEAN RIGHT RIGHT NOW OR I WILL SCREAM MY TOOTHLESS HAIRLESS LITTLE HEAD OFF!"

I discussed this with our daycare director, whom I adore. She said their hardest case refused a bottle for three weeks. She sees that as worst-case scenario. She assured me this will not happen.

However, she added, if India goes for four weeks, they will not be able to keep her.

This is fair. Just, you know, frightening.

So far, cajoling hasn't worked. A stranger giving her the bottle hasn't worked. Threats muttered under my breath have gotten me nowhere. Same with pleading and bribery.

She comes by her stubbornness honestly. But still.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Disposable Dixie-cup drinking I assassin down the avenue

I'm now right about at the point where, with Jordan, I had my meltdown and my friend Tori told me she respected my boobs.

I don't want to go on and on about the fact that things are so much better this time...but they are, they so are.

And I have this new friend who I met during the exit session at the hospital.

Sibley's exit class was over an hour long, and we were told all kinds of things like how to bathe our new progeny and how to keep track of wet and poopy diapers on our little charts and the importance of continuing to squarch our vaginas.

GW's exit class was a lot shorter, and consisted mainly of this video on how your baby might scream incessantly and you might have the urge to shake him or her but it is vitally important not to do so. Of course I'm simplifying, but that was the gist. And then the nurse told us not to eat broccoli because it could make our babies gassy.

Anyway, the important part is that I made this friend who had a baby girl the same day as India and who lives a scant four blocks away. She's extremely interesting and funny, and it feels very lucky to have a new friend who is both of those things and in the same at home and sleep-deprived state as me.

So we decided we'd meet up weekly to walk and talk, but our walking plans typically go all to hell because basically we just take turns nursing and burping our daughters. One is happy and the other is hungry, and so on and so forth.

But this week when we met up I suggested walking to Whole Foods. I needed more prenatal vitamins.

We both nursed a bit, then set off, agreeing that there were multiple spots to stop along the way if need be.

Shockingly, both were sound asleep when we arrived, and stayed asleep through the admittedly short shopping trip. At the checkout my friend suggested we push our luck and have salads at Sweetgreen.

We got our salads and set ourselves up at an inside table, and then both girls started fussing, so we moved to a marginally more private corner table, with me sitting on the short end in the window bench, and her sitting on the long side in a corner. All barricaded in by our sizable strollers.

We installed ourselves just in time for our little bundles of delight to really open their mouths wide and kick up a fuss.

Thus, without hesitation, we each whipped out a breast, stuck our respective daughters to it, and covered up with a blanket. So there we were, lunching near, if not with, each other, eating salads one-handed, me dropping quinoa on my kid, her dropping chickpeas on hers.

At some point I noted that not only did we have the same type of blanket, but hers matched her outfit, and mine matched mine.

We began to wonder if they would think we were having a nurse-in.

When both babies were happy and we'd each shoveled as much salad as possible into our faces and were organizing ourselves to go, we realized that both little buttercups of sweetness had some serious business in their little tiny diapers.

My friend suggested heading to the Breastfeeding Center to avail ourselves of their changing tables, which we did. In case you need nursing supplies or advice, I highly recommend this place. They helped me immensely with nursing Jordan.

We made it as far as the little park at Florida and Mass before India was enraged. It turned out she was just hot and crabby, but I offered her a boob in case.

There was a bus across the street, and I saw a man realize what I was up to and open his eyes wide in shock. I thought about waving but I needed both hands.

I got these great shirts from Target, which aren't officially nursing shirts but are both cuter and better than the nursing shirts I have, so you can tell that I have a kid on my boob, but you don't have a view of my business.

And then my friend, her daughter, my daughter and my business and I got up and went home.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Five feet high and rising

I've been looking for baby pictures of myself to compare to India, and in the process, I came across these photos - the first taken when I was nine months old; in the second, I'm almost three. I thought you might get a kick out of Betty's 70s outfits and hair.
She had some fabulous dresses, jumpsuits, and shoes. Things I would have quite enjoyed wearing over the last decade, had she kept them through all the moves.

So it kind of struck me this weekend that now I really feel like a mother.

Is this weird?

I mean, I've been a mom for almost three years at this point. And it's not that I haven't felt like Jordan's mother.  It's more that I also felt like I had my own separate identity.

And with India, something shifted. I don't know if it's because now I have two. Or because this birth experience was so positive, and I don't have PPD, and I'm able to nurse without supplementing. I have this immense satisfaction that comes from being able to meet all her needs right now.

With Jordan I was mostly resentful. Doesn't that sound terrible? I feel so guilty when I say it, but it's true.

Everything was so hard, and I felt so stuck, and nursing took forever, and then I'd still have to make him a bottle. Day after day, night after night, I would just sit in the chair and feel like I was suffocating.

The PPD was evil. I wanted to escape from my life so badly. I loathed my husband at least 17 times a day. I mentally divided up the furniture at night. I reveled in my time at the DC DMV. Whenever I left the house alone, I never wanted to go home.

Now I and nurse and look down at my baby and think about how time goes so fast. She's already bigger than she was last week. Pretty soon she'll be heading to college.

I mean, it's not that I don't think of sleep deprivation as torture. It's not that I haven't thought of her as a bamboo shoot. It's more that this time I have perspective. This will pass, and fast. This is not all there is.

And she's my second and my last and I know the time goes.

But back to feeling like a mother. I think that now it's probably the biggest part of what defines me. First and foremost, I'm a mom.

On the one hand, this is who I am and who I have worked very hard to be. I'm so happy to have children. I have my own family, and they're the most important thing in my world. I'd give up anything but my family.

I guess it's caught me off guard, though, to feel like a mom is all of who I am. Which is how I feel right now.

Like, from my current perspective, I cannot imagine ever feeling attractive again. I feel like I have this huge cloud of momishness surrounding me.

Seriously. I feel like I have this big sign above my head that says things like: Here, let me cut your dinner into little tiny pieces for you, to make sure you don't choke. Do you want your milk in a big boy cup or a sippy cup? Uh, oh. Time for a diaper change.

And I'm shlumping around in my maternity pants. I'm wearing a bra night and day. I have two perpetual round milk stains on my shirts. In fact, I smell like milk all the time.

I know this will pass.

But! Now that I have two kids! I have visions of a future filled with sturdy mom jeans, comfortable shoes, practical tops, and judicious behavior.

It's not that I think being a mother means you're unattractive. I know myriad beautiful women who are mothers. Their kids mean the world to them, but they aren't their entire worlds.

So I think that maybe it's that I feel MATRONLY. Matronly! A word that for me conjures up aprons and washtubs and baked puddings and no nonsense.

I think you'll agree that in a Venn diagram, the Attractive circle, the Fun circle, the International Woman of Mystery circle...they have no overlap with the Matronly circle.

You know?

Monday, April 04, 2011

I suppose Monday's as good a day as any to talk about nipples

I had this brief thought of, "Hmm, maybe a nipple post isn't really appropriate on a Monday." But then I was all, "Seriously? Because nipples are more of a Thursday thing?"

I don't know.

So. One of my colleagues recently returned from maternity leave.

Actually, I should stop here with a warning: if you're a woman who has never breastfed, but is considering it, you might want to skip this post. In fact, if you're anyone who is particularly fond of nipples, same goes.

So the colleague came back to work, and on her first day back, another colleague and I ran into her on her way to the new lactation room to pump.

Prior to that you could do it in our small library. You had to wait until nobody was in there and then lock the door. I never put a sign up, because I wasn't sure what to say. (Pumping? Office motherhood in action? This fucking sucks?)

The library, however, was a much better situation than several years prior, where I've been told you had to hook your boobs up in the bathroom and kind of hover near the sink, since that's where the plug was. Also, the library has Internet.

And if you have ever pumped (or expressed, if you prefer) milk, you know that it super sucks.

Hahaha! Punny!

Except that it does. It really really does. It's dreadful all around.

If you've never done this and you're still reading, let me tell you. You put these clear plastic things that look sort of like funnels on your boobs, and they're hooked by tubes to a machine that provides suction.

So you can watch in horror as your nipple is stretched an inconceivable distance away from your torso. Seriously. You would never imagine that your boob could be so squozen or that it would stretch so far.

Unless, of course, you've had a mammogram or are one of those women in rural Africa who roll up their boobs.

With the pumping, you also get to see how much comes out with ever squeeze. And you get more if you're relaxed. So sitting there going, "I have a meeting in half an hour and my boobs are so full and godfuckingdammit WHY isn't any milk coming out?" does not help.

No. What you need to do is sit there and take deep breaths and be all serene. You could see, through the clear plastic, the direct correlation between your level of relaxation and your production.

I kind of expected my success rate to go up when I looked at shoes or celebrity gossip online, but it didn't. Reading blogs was variable, depending on the topic. Reading work email shot it all to hell.

So mostly I'd sit there all deep breathing and mantra-ing about milk production and serenity and la la la.

But what I am getting to is this. And this is the bad part.

We wound up talking about the horror of looking down while pumping. And how you just cannot believe this is happening to these very important pieces of your body.

"The worst part, though," I said, "is that they never go back to the way they were before."

Her eyes widened. "Never?"

I shook my head in lamentation. I looked at another colleague, also a mother.

She shook her head slowly and sadly. "Nope."

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Mammaries, all alone in the moonlight

So last week at the crack of dawn, and through no action of my own, I got my ornamental little cupcakes back.

Maybe you are wondering what the hell this has to do with the roast pig. And what cupcakes?

Bear with me.

You know how I'd been going on and on about how Jordan got teeth and I was going to cut him off and that was that and I want my body back and la la la la la?

I was so full of it. I just couldn't do it.

The truth is, he cut back. Once he started really moving, the idea of sitting still long enough to nurse was just unbearable for him.

You can chase a kid around with a bottle. Not so much with your boobs.

So daytime nursings on my days off went out the window. He was still cool with it first thing in the morning and before he went to bed. Which were the best snuggle times anyway.

And then he just stopped being into the nighttime boobfest.

We were down to first thing in the morning. Which was very convenient, because you can still be mostly asleep at 5 am with the nursing. The staggering downstairs to make a bottle? Much more awakey, I've discovered.

And then last week, last week he was just like, "Yeah, no thanks. But what are those? I've never really taken a good look!" Flick! Flick! "And now I think I'll try to twist them like little pink radio dials."

Which was when Mama put them away for good. I knew we were really done.

But the pig!

So here's how the pig figures in. In case you actually want to know.

Have you ever given any thought to the term "suckling pig"?

I never had.

And then one day I looked down at my little boy, and I thought, holy crap! Suckling pig! Is a pig who is still nursing! And they pull him away from his pigmama and conk him over the head (I think) and stick him on a spit and everyone is all, oh, tender!

I asked one of my friends at the pig roast who said yes, absolutely! Suckling pig is the veal of pork!


Saturday, June 19, 2010

A cardinal number, nine plus one

Today my big little steamrolling handful, today you are ten months old.

This last month has just been huge.

About a week ago you started crawling. And now you crawl like the devil is chasing you.

You've also started standing up, although you still do the toe-point thing. And while that's helpful in ballet, it hampers you in the balance department. But still, you pull up and stand at every opportunity.

We got you an inflatable pool and you splash and crawl furiously around the inside perimeter. You also spend a lot of time flattening the sides and patting the ground and reaching for things just outside your grasp.

Wherever you are is not as interesting as where you might be.

I'd say you've inherited this grass-is-greener attitude from me, but for one thing: Being a city baby, you have very little contact with it. And when you do, you freak out. Grass is creepy.

And you notice everything. Everything.

I painted my toenails blue during your nap yesterday. When I picked you up, you looked down, and did that bulgy-eyed "the hell?" thing that you do when something is new. And then you insisted on feeling them.

You kind of suck in the eating department lately. You spend a lot more time slapping the spoon away and banging the tray than you do eating.

You like Cheerios, but you're suspicious of just about everything other finger food we put on your tray. Cheese, for example? Weird.

Cheese in a jar, though? Yum. Don't tell Dad I let you try some yesterday. I think the Costco lady was a little surprised.

But! On a positive food note!

We've discovered that you love, absolutely love, pupusas and tamales. You will share them with Dad but you can also eat them all by yourself and oh, rapture! You shove the bits in your mouth by the fistful.

You often say "Mama!" when you see me in the morning or when I come home at night, which makes me certain you know I'm Mama. But then sometimes you say it to the rug or the bottle or the ball, and then I'm not so sure.

You move a million miles a minute and you make us very tired. But you're the biggest joy in our world, and it just keeps getting better.

I love you like crazy. Like a million crazies. Um, that doesn't sound the way I mean it. But you know what I mean.



Monday, March 29, 2010

Give me Liberty or give me...skinny ties?

I don't know if you have an opinion on skinny ties?

This came up because I'm currently kind of fixated on Liberty of London for Target.

You know I am all kinds of into textiles and I love pretty prints. And I used to do a lot of printing and dyeing, but then I got all knocked up and stopped using toxic dyes for fear of having a mutant kid, and then we moved, and then I had a baby. As you know.

And now I fantasize about screen printing but time-wise it's kind of far from reality.


Ever since I discovered my new favorite matchy-matchy outfit - which, I promise you, I am going to wear in public (and document reactions) if it ever gets warm - at Target, I've been all about the Liberty.

Although, as some of you noted in the comments on that post, Target has pretty much nothing available online. And I've been to two Targets, and the selections are skimpy.

I know it's popular. But it makes me want to ask them why the heckfire they promoted this so hard if they're only going to stock 17 of each item?

And then, when you ask a clerk for an item, they're all, "Uh, yeah. My little hand-held thingy says we have some in stock. Try aisle 9? Maybe?"

They don't know. And they don't know if they have more in the back. Or if they'll get any more in stock.

I considered whipping out my boob and breastfeeding on our favorite display couch in the hopes that a manager would chastise me, so I could be all, "WHY don't you have any Liberty items? And why don't any of the employees here have any idea where the things that your computers say are in stock might actually BE?"

But that seemed so ridiculously consumer-y, when really, no babies will die if I can't get more fun printed items.

Oh! Which leads me back to! What do you think of narrow ties?

I hadn't given them a second of thought, but then I bought Nick a couple Liberty ties. . .and they turn out to be narrower than his typical ties.

And so I'm thinking that they are not Nick ties. Because he is not trendy. He wears conservative suits. Plus, I have this fear that skinny ties on a gigantor man will just look like little toy ties.

What do you think?

Thursday, March 25, 2010

His vorpal blades! The snicker-snack!

So it's not like I really want to dwell on my nipples.

But sometimes, sometimes life is just like that.He resisted my initial attempts at documentation, but I think you'll see in subsequent photos - the kid really has teeth.

You probably know where this is going. You maybe even did a squeamy little cringy oh-the-nipples! eeeee! dance in your chair.

They started out as ittybitty nubs. The teeth, I mean.

And they've turned into small, sharp, dangerous little white weapons.And they're all super adorable, ooh, look at the little white dentition blossoming in the pink pink gums!

Ahh, cutie cute! Love the teeth!


Until you settle in for what you think will be a nice little cuddle and nurse. And your kid looks up at you all lovingly. And grabs your shirt with chubby pink fingers. And snuggles close.

And opens his mouth wide.

And CHOMPS! With glee!Chomps, holds on, pulls back, scraaaaapingly back, as if to assess his work. . .

. . .and only lets go in extreme surprise because of the sheer volume of pained, horrified epithets pouring out of Mama's mouth. That'll frumious Bandersnatch you, it will.

BLD is fast approaching, my friends.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Three cheeses and one trickily named non-cheese

I used to think of myself as a person who would try just about anything once - with the main exception being weird meats.

And before I go any further, let me just mention that this is a very link-y post. In case that kind of thing irritates you. Sometimes I'm just not in the mood for a bunch of links, personally. And yes, I know you don't have to click them. But sometimes their existence just bugs.


I've realized that there's an entire world of stuff I will not try, not once.

Because the other night we went out for dinner with one of our friends who got a charcuterie plate that included head cheese.

And of course I was all, "What kind of cheese is head cheese?"

You guys, it is not a cheese. No! It is meat jelly. Replete with pieces of the head of a cow or pig or sheep.

Clear meat jelly with chunks of animal head. In case you missed it the first time.


So that's the non-cheese. Moving on to the scariest cheese ever.

I learned about casu marzu - or maggot cheese - on a date several years ago.

Back when I was in the throes of my Internet dating career I went to NY for work. In a short span of days, I managed to not only have drinks and drinks and drinks and dinner with the Dementor but to pack in dates with two guys from the Internet as well.

What? I'd have moved to NY for love.

So, lots of alcohol, one museum, several meals, and I learned about maggot cheese. Ooh, and as I recall, I bought a really cute jacket. And I haven't been back to NY since.

ANYway. Getting back on topic.

For me I think the second worst cheese is Milbenkäse, which is this German cheese that's left to sit in a box with cheese mites - the digestive juices of which permeate the cheese and cause fermentation.

Which is not as bad as live maggots, but still very creepy to me.

However, I think I'd eat the cheese mite cheese, or maybe even the cheese mites themselves spread on toast, before I'd eat cheese made out of someone else's breast milk.


Seriously. Daniel Angerer, a NY chef, makes cheese out of his girlfriend's breast milk. She produced a ton of milk, and they were all, why waste it? And we like to make cheese! A recipe for it is on his blog.

Yah. So would you try any of these? How would you rank them?

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Pump it up a little more, get the party going on the dance floor

I've become one of those people who is a threat to nurse their kid until he's a teenager.

Seriously. I now see how it happens.

However. I am slowly slowly heading towards Boob Liberation Day (BLD). Just much more slowly than I anticipated.

You know, I started out all, no way am I going to pump! I'm going to breastfeed until I have to go back to work and that is that.!

And then I got all sore-nippled and wandered around half-naked and the PPD was crushing and I felt so suffocated and just plain trapped under the weight of my child and milk-filled boobs. And I just wanted my body back. I wanted someone else to feed the kid. Every single day I decided I would get through one more day of nursing, and then I could quit.

And then suddenly it got easy and fun. Even if we didn't have as much of a mutual bond as I believed.

So then I decided we'd get to six months. Six months would be my cutoff point.

And then six months arrived. And I decided I'd just nurse morning and night. No more pumping. Because it's the pumping I'm sick of.

But this doesn't exactly work if I nurse on the weekends. Which I do.

So now I pump once a day if I can get away with it without my boobs exploding. I sometimes picture them exploding in a meeting. Or while walking down the hall.

I'll be sitting at a conference table or walking past someone's office, and all of a sudden, BLAM! PFFFSSSSSHHHHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSSHS!

So now I'm thinking seven months. Seven months. BLD, here I come.

And then, then my friends, I am having a big fat BLD happy hour.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Inadequacy revisited

So in the beginning, when I wasn't producing enough milk, I felt totally inadequate.

I couldn't feed my baby. He'd dropped a pound in the hospital. As soon as we got out, the pediatrician made us return three times in a week for weigh-ins.

And every time he nursed, I'd get all clenchy. Sometimes I'd cry. Or just think hateful thoughts.

As you may imagine, this helped a great deal. And was super fun.

But a couple things were going on. One, with the PPD, I felt so trapped. And then I'd be physically stuck in the chair or bed. I felt like I was suffocating every time.

And then, then he'd nurse and still be hungry. Which made me feel like a huge loser. And made me so resentful. I'm doing my best. You're sucking the life out of me. And it's still not enough.

I dreaded feeding him. I dreaded everything, really.

I just wanted to walk out the door, lock it behind me, get in my car and just keep driving. After I had a huge nap. And a stiff drink or five.

Yes, I realize I'd have gotten pulled over for drunk driving. I didn't really think it through - particularly since I'd have been drinking and driving on top of Vicodin.

But I didn't flee, drink, or drive.

And then Mr. Zoloft made things better, fast.

So things got better, and then they even got good. More than good. Wonderful.

But at the point where they were wonderful, and he was entirely on breast milk, and I was really liking having him nurse, I went back to work.

And no matter how much I visualize while pumping, I just can't make enough. I sit there all, "I make huge glasses of milk!" I imagine a tall, cool glass of milk overflowing.

This helps. But not enough.

I also read blogs during the pumping. And sometimes a totally random post will make my milk just gush. Weird, I know. I can't explain it.

So he is back on formula. Which is fine.


Except that whenever I read anything about breastfeeding, I feel like crap. My kid should be exclusively breastfed. Exclusively. For the first six months. You're practically poisoning your kid, plus being a bad mom, if you supplement.

The more I read, the worse I feel.

I know this is stupid. He's well fed, he's healthy, and he's happy. But I still feel inadequate.

I'm doing my best, and it's not enough. I can't feed my kid.

Wednesday, December 09, 2009

Big pumpin', spendin' cheese...

So now I am doing the whole pumping at work business.

Like there aren't enough worky things to do. On top of that, I skulk off to a private room to hook up to a milking machine every few hours.

I sit in a cube. So it's not like I can just close my office door. I have to assemble all my stuff and haul it off to a locked room. I emerge with milk to go in the fridge, milky pump to wash, and the work I've hauled in there so I am using my time productively.

I've considered just staying in my cube, so I can be at my computer.

I sit against a window, so you have to come around a wall and past another cube to get to mine. I briefly considered just putting up a big sign, so people just wouldn't walk back here.

The Quad
has disbanded, what with people quitting and moving around. Jenny, thankfully, is still here. And in the Quangle, we have Kay and Maricel, and Fabulous Cake Lady. None of whom would be the least bit bothered.

However. There are people who would.

And I'm pretty sure it falls under Things You Shouldn't Do In Your Cube. Like farting loudly and deliberately or masturbating or playing show tunes at top volume. To name a few off the top of my head.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

You're lucky to be drinkin' here for free cause I'm a sucker for your lucky pretty eyes

You know how I was having all those production problems with the milk before?

We're all good now. (And tomorrow I go back to work and figure out how to maintain.)

It increased - with the help of daily oatmeal and an herbal tea we like to call Boob Tea. So Big J has been an only boob man for quite some time now.

It is a weird thing, though, the milk-making. One of the more bizarre things I've ever experienced is milk squirting straight out into the air from my body. It's not like peeing, where you can clench and stop it. I tried.

Because sometimes Jordan will squawk, and all of a sudden my boobs will be like, "Hi! Here! Have some milk! Nownownow!"

Kind of like if you sat down at a restaurant to order and the server immediately flung an appetizer in your direction.

But now I really like the nursing. It is such an amazing connection. And it just makes my heart so warm to have my sweet boy all snuggled around me. He settles in and he pats me with his chubby little hand. He's just so incredibly comfortable.

Sometimes I am sitting there all beaming, thinking about how much I love him, and how comfy and happy he seems. He'll close his eyes and make these "Mmmmm! Delicious!" noises.

I'm all, oh, he knows I'm his mother, and he's feeling so nurtured. He's so delighted to be all cozied up next to Mama. We're sharing a moment.

And then suddenly he'll finish eating and open his eyes. He'll pull his head back, his brow will furrow, and his eyes will get very wide in surprise.

And then, then he'll get this huge smile on his face all, "Hey! You're here too! This is great!"

Monday, November 23, 2009

Everyone gets fed

We had dinner last night with lovely Laura and her new husband! last night.

We went to Dino in Cleveland Park. I've only been a couple times, but I love the place. The food is delicious and they have wine specials on Sundays and the owners are so pleasant and really interesting. And they like kids.

And if you are breastfeeding, I highly recommend the place. But I will get to that.

I'd forgotten to make a reservation, so we arrived a little early and asked if they had space for all and a baby. They juggled things around and gave us a table very quickly, even though they were busy.

While sitting down, we got dirty looks from the two women dining at the table next to us. Or rather, our boy did.

Which puts you on my bad list. Don't you stinkeye my baby!

I thought about assuring them that he's a good baby, but then thought, ah, fuck it. I also wanted to taste the one woman's Brussels sprouts, but decided to order my own. Yum.

(Note to Laura: just because you call them Brussies doesn't mean you are actually more familiar with them than I.)

So Big J needed to eat NOWNOWNOW almost as soon as we sat down, and I was wondering how the whipping out of the boob would go over. And then I noticed the large triptychs we had for menus.


So Nick held up the unfolded menu, J glommed on, and for a good chunk of time it just looked like I was seriously absorbed in deciding what I might want for dinner.

We passed him around as we were waiting for our meal, so everyone could get a sweet baby squeeze. He just watched and watched.

The previously pilly women next door were all charmed. Such a good baby!


And then he got tired, and when this happens, Nick is just the best person to lull him to sleep. It's like reclining on a big pillowy mattress.

And by pillowy of course I mean big firm pecs of steel and abs of titanium but still very comfortable mattress.

So we put the napkin over his head to reduce the excitement of lights! and people! and wow! I just feel I ought to explain this, in case you are all, "Lis, a napkin clearly fell on his head and you are such bad parents you don't even notice." No. We are deliberate napkin-on-the-head kinds of parents.

And yes, we understand you can't substitute a plastic bag for a napkin.

So when you have a butt hand and a pat hand, you have no more hands with which to eat your lasagna.

Which is when your adoring wife steps in.