Dec 192013
 

I’m writing this post from my phone. Typing on the little tiny screen with one hand. My left hand.  My right hand is immovable and my right arm is falling asleep. My right boob is out. It is dripping milk and the milk is running down my side. And I can’t wipe it. And still I type. Why? Because I want to remember this. And I want you to, too. (except for maybe the part about my right boob.)

I just finished nursing my little boy and now he is asleep, splayed out on my chest like a rag doll.  My first thought was, “He’s sleeping!! Put him down and go work/launder/clean/pack/shower/eat/caffeinate while you can!”  I have a freelance job and a lot of work to do before we leave tomorrow for vacation. Oh yeah, and we leave tomorrow for vacation, which means I have three people to wash clothes, pack and stress out for. I am busy. Really busy.

But outside it is raining and cold.  And I am warm.  And I have one of the great loves of my life asleep on my chest. And it is peaceful. And good. And so I reminded myself to take this moment to soak it in. Yes, I am busy. I am always busy. But he is not busy. He has nothing he would rather do than lay on my chest and snuggle. And it won’t last long. Soon he WILL be busy. Most of the time, he will be too busy for me. And the sad part is that is precisely when I will stop being so busy. And I will spend my newly acquired freetime dreaming of the days that he snuggled on my chest like a warm piece of heaven. So for now, I will soak it in. I will be busy later.

Apr 172012
 

Exactly one year ago… and precisely one week late… my life changed forever.  Ok, well it actually changed forever exactly 41 weeks + 52 weeks ago…what is that… 93? I’m tired.  And why do people with babies insist on counting time in weeks?  But  then again, exactly 93 weeks ago, I didn’t know that it had changed yet, so does it count?  So maybe it was 93 – 4.5 weeks (that’s math I can’t do right now) ago, when I found out I was pregnant that my life changed forever.  Hmmmm…  Is it the moment of conception, of realization or of admission into the world that changes your life?

Anyway, I digress…

I had a fairly easy labor and delivery… considering that it was labor and delivery (for those of you who have not had the opportunity to squeeze a human being through your body, past your internal organs and out a hole that somehow is just never big enough… I’ll spare you the grisly details.  I’ll tell you when you are older, or perhaps when I am drunk.) Then the magic moment came when my daughter sprung forth… actually she sort of oozed forth… from my loins.  The nurse immediately placed this sweet, tiny (albeit screaming) baby on my chest and I finally stared into her beautiful blue eyes and felt… really fucking tired.  I was expecting to feel fireworks, or a sparkly magical connection, or at least somewhat like a mother.  I didn’t.  What I felt was definitely joy, but it was tempered with disbelief and pure exhaustion.

I felt as though I were outside of my body, looking down at myself.  Looking down at a mom who had an ecstatic husband and the most beautiful baby in the world, but who didn’t know what to do with it all.  I felt numb.  And because I felt numb, I felt fear.  What if I didn’t love my baby as much as I should?  What if I wasn’t cut out to be a mom? What if I had postpartum depression? What if this whole thing was a mistake? And because I felt fear, I also felt guilt.  I guess that was when I should have known that I was truly a mom.

For those of you who are judging me right now, try to give me a break.  God knows I didn’t give myself one. But let’s take an honest look at the situation.  When you give birth to a baby, you top off the most tiring and uncomfortable ten months of your life  (TEN MONTHS, NOT NINE. 40 weeks. Do the math) with the final month of total discomfort and pure exhaustion (it’s really hard to sleep when you have to pee all the time, every appendage is swollen to 3 times its normal size, and you have a baby doing zumba in your belly all night, every night).  The good news is that all of this leads up to the most physically demanding thing you have ever done, which, besides being a marathon of huffing, puffing, pushing and tearing (sorry),  almost always involves not sleeping for at least 24 hours.  Then, right away you get to start the toughest job you’ll ever have, working for the most demanding boss in the world.  I mean, if any other job required working around the clock, sleeping for only single hour stretches, and taking care of every single solitary need for a thankless boss prone to total meltdowns… the unions would be all over that shit.  I mean, I was up all night without sleeping, going through a very painful as well as physically and mentally demanding journey,  when suddenly this creature who has been in my belly for 10 months is laying on my chest, greedily searching for my boob as I lay there helpless as a rag doll.  So yes, I was tired.  And no, I didn’t have the immediate and earth-shattering connection I expected.

For those of you still judging me… go ahead.  I truly hope that you had or will have an immediate connection with your son or daughter.  Some people do.  But not everyone.  And not me.

What I can say is that as the day wore on, I started to come down from the high induced by extreme exhaustion, physical pain, drugs for that pain, the euphoria of finally seeing my baby, and the intense fear that comes from knowing that you are now 100% responsible for someone’s life… and that someone happens to be the most important person in the world.  And as I started to emerge from my fog, I started to submerge into my daughter.  The less I thought about the birth itself, the more I started to appreciate the miracle of it. I spent a lot of time examining the tiny little girl who was now semi-attached to my breast.  I studied her tiny hands… so much like mine but so very, very small.  The detail that went into making those hands in miniature was insane.  The tiny white crescent on her fingernails, no bigger than a swipe of a pencil.  The wrinkly little fingers, with a fingerprint 100% her own.  Her perfect little mouth.  Her teeny little nose.  Her big eyes, staring up at me as if they could see directly into my soul. And most amazing of all was her personality… even at birth, already more individual than her fingerprint.

From those moments in the hospital, when I should have been resting but couldn’t for the fear and excitement I felt, and from every moment afterward, my love has grown.  So my daughter and I might not have had fireworks right away, but as I have come to find out, we had something better.  We had a spark, just enough to catch fire.  Every single day it burns brighter than the last.  And this fiery love and my daughter herself have illuminated my life in ways I never thought possible.

Thank you my darling Lyla for not giving up on me that day.  And thank you for filling my life with more joy, more laughter and more poop… than I ever imagined.

Feb 212012
 

My daughter was only 9 months old when she broke her first heart. As is the case with most heartbreakers, she had no idea that she had left another’s heart in shambles… but she did.  The unwitting fool who let this happen?  Her mother.  AKA Me.

For the past 8 months I had gotten used to being pretty much the one and only in Lyla’s life.  I mean, she absolutely adores her daddy, her grandparents, and her many, many aunts and uncles – both blood related and not.  She has also had various love affairs with stuffed animals, puppets and, oddly, even a Tupperware lid.  But Mommy is Mommy, and for a small baby NO ONE can compete with that. Besides the fact that I spend almost every second of the day with her, I think that babies are hardwired to automatically and unquestionably love their mommas.  I read once that a baby can smell her mother’s scent up to 50 feet away.  Now, I know that motherhood has done me no favors in terms of how often I get to shower, but smelling me 50 feet away is pretty incredible.  Like superpower incredible.  What would her name be?  Super Schnoz?  Wonder Nostril?

Anyway, before I started rambling on and amazing you with my super interesting scientific facts, I was making the point that when my daughter was small she was almost exclusively a momma’s girl.  So imagine my distress when my husband was holding Lyla, and as I reached for her, she desperately clung to him and cried like I was some creepy Great-Aunt – you know the ones who wear too much drugstore perfume and kiss you on the mouth with their lipstick-caked lips that are somehow just a little too wet?   Yeah, that’s who my daughter was acting like I was.  A creepy, mouth-kissing aunt.  Not the mother who carried her in my womb, and who gave birth to her, and who has a mouth of normal wetness.  But regardless, she cried and refused to come to me, and totally broke my heart.

So what did I do? I am ashamed to admit this, and the only reason that I am admitting it is because I promised myself and my readers that I would be honest about everything.  So… what did I do?  I cried.  A lot.  I cried and I cried like a little baby.

Now intellectually I know that my daughter loves me.  I also know how much she loves her dad.  Who can blame her?  EVERYONE loves her dad.  He’s a much nicer person than I am.  Intellectually I know that she sees me nearly every minute of every day, so I am nothing new. Her dad, while very loving and involved, is at work all day so when he is home, it’s a bit more exciting.  I get it.  To my baby, I am like the sky… it’s nice and all, but you don’t really think about it too often.  You don’t even have to look outside to know that it is there.  It’s a constant.  But her dad? Her dad is the sun. When the sun is out, you can’t help but notice how beautiful it is.

So intellectually I know all of this to be true.  But emotionally? Emotionally, it killed me.  It felt like a rejection of the worst kind.  Worse than the boy who didn’t ask me to prom in high school.  Worse than the friend who betrayed me.  Worse even, than the guy I loved who didn’t love me back.  It felt much, much worse than any of these, or a million other rejections that I have faced in my life because, quite honestly, I have never loved anyone the way that I love my daughter.  And so, because in many ways I am still that fourteen-year-old girl without a prom date, and because rejection really fucking hurts, I cried.

So how does this tale of unrequited love end?  Well, like most fickle-hearted flames… by that afternoon she loved me again. She woke from her afternoon nap, and gazed up at me with her sleepy eyes and then broke into the most amazing smile.  And, like most forsaken lovers, a little attention was enough to make me forget the heartache she had caused. I giggled like a school girl and all was forgotten as swept her up into my arms.  Then she farted hugely and the magic was broken… but her spell over me was not.

Feb 022012
 

Since my post on breastfeeding got such a big response, and I know that it is something that a lot of women love but also struggle with, I thought I would let you all in on something that really helped get me through.  If you are a wino like me (and I can honestly say that I need my glass of wine more after becoming a mother than I ever did before,) these Milkscreen test strips are a godsend.  You know the rule, “Wait at least two hours for every one drink before breastfeeding.” And usually one drink is sufficient.  But for parties, bbqs, mimosa brunch, or just a random Tues when one just isn’t enough, these genius strips will tell you in three minutes whether your little one is getting bottle or boob.  Dip the strip in your milk or squeeze a couple of drops on it (go for distance and it’s a fun party trick)  and wait a few minutes.  The strip’s color will tell you if your milk is safe.  It’s like a litmus test for wino moms!!  Brilliant.  Go ahead and judge me and my wine if you want, but I think this is a lot more responsible than just guessing (although not as responsible as actually not drinking but I never pretended to be perfect.)

Of course, I don’t have to tell you that getting totally shit-faced and taking care of your baby is NEVER a good idea (babies need to be taken care of by an adult who is not swaying and babbling like a toddler.) And as a general rule, if you feel tipsy at all, then your milk likely also has notes of blackberry, pepper and aged french oak, and shouldn’t be served. But if you don’t feel drunk but are still worried about any lingering alcohol that could harm your baby, these should give you peace of mind.  Cheers!

Jan 202012
 

After nine months of having a small human almost permanently attached to my breast (a feat I haven’t accomplished since college,) I am finally weaning my daughter from the boob.  Now I am going to work on weaning my husband back ON the boob, since I think he has come to fear my milk torpedoes… but that’s a story for a whole different blog.  Aaaaaanyway, while moving from the breast to the bottle is freeing in many ways – no more worrying about which medicines I can take or how many glasses of wine I can drink, or trying to discreetly cover up my moneymakers while nursing in public with a daughter who seems intent on giving the world a free show (you’re welcome Los Angeles)– I also feel a little sad about it.

Breastfeeding is truly an incredible thing.  It is amazing that a woman’s body can produce the only real sustenance that a growing baby needs for her first year. It is also a very intimate bonding time between a mother and child, and selfishly, a role that only a mother can provide. And it makes me a bit sad to give all this up.  But not only do I feel sad about ending my adventures in breastfeeding, I feel guilty.  When my husband politely asked what exactly is in the formula we are feeding our daughter (a valid question,) I snapped back, “Idunnoandstopmakingmefeelguilty.Whydon’tyoubreastfeedherifyouaresoworriedabout it??!!”  Over-sensitive much?

But it’s not entirely my hyperactive hormones’ fault.  Doctors, nurses, parents, friends and most of society make you feel like you are a horrible person, akin to a mass murder of baby kittens, if you don’t breastfeed your baby.  Now, I know that “Breast is Best.”  I know that breast milk builds your babies immune system and fights off illness and guarantees them either a Nobel prize or an Oscar. I know that there are about 8 million, 42 hundred thousand ingredients in breast milk and only 5 in formula.  I know all of this, and it’s why I chose to breastfeed my daughter.  But I also know that every person is different.  Some women cannot breastfeed – they don’t make enough milk or they get mastitis or have a variety of other reasons why their bodies simply say no.  Some women have multiple babies at once or their bodies stop producing when they go back to work. For some, breastfeeding simply doesn’t work with their lifestyles.

I know that this is a very sensitive subject, and I am not in way encouraging women to NOT breastfeed their babies.  It is a remarkable and beautiful thing, if you can do it.  What I am encouraging women to do is to support one another, no matter what our choices are.  Parenthood is hard enough, and mothers do enough self-flagellating without having to bear the judgment of everyone else. Offer other mothers your support, help, and advice…not criticism.  And most of all, tell them if they’ve forgotten to put their boob away after nursing. (It happens)