Urban Drool

*What's the big fucking deal about nursing in public?

Do you NIP? Should we NIP? I’ve been thinking about NIP lately.

A while back I stumbled upon a very well written blog called the Reluctant Lactivist. Being a moron who cannot seem to figure out how to actually put a link in my text, you will just have to trust me that it exists. Google “reluctant lactivist” and it will take you straight away to the site.

Reading about this woman’s encounter with the disapproval that a lot of us nursing mothers face when we try to feed our babies in certain situations started me thinking about something that I had not really given a lot of focus to.

I don’t NIP, myself. At least, not to it’s fullest extent. I’m more of a NILP-er. Nursing in (limited) Public. I nurse in homes. The homes of my family and friends and acquaintances. I nurse in the family breakrooms at shopping malls. I nurse in the Ladies Lounge area at my office. I nurse in the car in the parking lot of Target.

And I nurse in the bathroom at TGI Friday’s.

It’s this last one that I really wonder about. It made me think. Then think some more. Then it made me a wee bit angry. Why was I nursing in a restaurant bathroom? Why was I leaving the table, with my warm food and pleasant company and good conversation to drag the poor baby into the handicapped stall in the Ladies room to crouch over the toilet and awkwardly nurse her as I stare at the soiled bits of toilet paper stuck to the floor and shiver from the over-use of the air conditioner?

It triggered something in me.

Why am I so comfortable to feed my baby at will in somebody’s home, sitting right there on their living room sofa? I don’t lock myself into a guest bedroom or bathroom to quickly nurse and then rejoin the others. I just…lift, latch and nurse and continue chatting away and watching Rachel Ray on the Food Network. I don’t even think about it. It’s a non-issue. I don’t believe that I should be ashamed or make a big thing of it.

So in a more public setting, why do the rules suddenly change? I am relatively discrete when I nurse, but not militantly so. But neither am I some uber-feminist boob nazi that insists on making a production out of whipping my 40 D’s out for all the world to see…announcing that I AM A NURSING MOTHER AND THEREFORE YOU MUST WORSHIP ME! I DARE ANYONE TO COME OVER AND TELL ME THAT I AM MAKING THEM UNCOMFORTABLE! I am neither overly cautious nor overly in-your-face. I am simply feeding my child. And I happen to feed my child with my breast. If I had to feed my child with my elbow or my big toe or a bottle or a Fisher-Price shovel’n’bucket, it would similarly be a non-big-deal. Just feeding the baby. And if someone catches an eyeful of nipple, well then, that’s their problem and not mine as far as I’m concerned.

As I am writing this, I am all of a sudden remembering an interesting caveat to the nursing in homes scenario. I do not nurse the baby in my in-law’s home as comfortably as in other homes. The problem is not my Mother in Law – I think she shares my own views on the idea of nursing being a natural, normal thing that is not a big deal. She nursed the Boy until he was 6 months old. But my brother in law and his wife and their children live with the Boy’s parents and they seem to feel…I don’t know. Worried, maybe? Worried that one of their children will be in the room when I need to feed the baby and will catch a flash of boob. The result is that whenever I make motions like I am getting ready to feed the baby, the kids are either rushed out of the room (if they are in the room) or immediately informed to not enter the room (if they have already left). They innocently ask “Why?” and are told “because Lucy needs to eat!!”

(I remember the first time this happened, and the oldest, who is 9 years old, immediately responded, “So? What’s the big deal?”)

Indeed. My thoughts exactly. What IS the big deal? He’s one smart kid.

I proffered weak arguments the first couple times…

”guys…it’s no big thing…I don’t really care.” and

“they don’t have to leave, I really don’t mind if they want to stay.”

But I kept on getting the impression that everyone was less concerned about my desire for privacy and instead more worried about not letting the kids see me nursing. Like it was some shameful thing, or at the very least, something that we all have to make a big production out of. And, despite my own significantly different views on what would happen if the kids DID in fact see me nursing (what would happen if the kids saw me nursing, do I think? Not much. I think they would completely ignore the whole thing, seeing it as the non-big-deal that it is), I let the matter lie.

They are not my kids, and I didn’t want to create a thing, you know?

But nursing at my in-law’s house is not the purpose of this entry. It is the way it is, and I will continue to nurse the baby in the other room, in order to make sure that the precious children don’t see anything a shocking as a breast. Eh. Whatever. I don’t really care.

But I am finding that I DO care about the rest of it. I don’t like sitting on a toilet in a public restroom, trying to feed my baby. Hoping she hurries up so that my food won’t be cold when I get back, or that everyone else will have already eaten. More than once I have had to have my food packed up to go, so that 3 other people don’t have to wait for me to finish eating, once I have actually returned to the table.

But neither do I want to start nursing wherever I go and fight through possible situations where a total stranger approaches me and asks me to cover up. Or asks me to leave. My temper has been short lately, and I am worried that I would not be able to handle a situation like that with grace. I’m afraid that I would blow up and make a scene and embarrass all who are with me.

And I don’t want to do that, because that would mean that I would all of a sudden be making a big deal out of something that has not been a big deal to me. I don’t want to fight for my right to nurse. It would be as stupid and pointless as fighting for my right to breathe or walk down the sidewalk.
**the pre-emptive response to the inevitable “why don’t you just have bottles ready for when you are in public?” question is this: Bottles require pumping. I hate pumping. More importantly, I want to 100% nurse whenever I am NOT at work. It keep my milk production going and keeps the baby interested in nursing instead of drinking from any more bottles than she already has to.**

In truth? I believe that the more NIP is given attention, the worse off us nursing mothers have it. Even triumphant breakthroughs such as the Fred Myers scenario in the Reluctant Lactivist is over-attention to an action that should be as normal and everyday as ordering food or driving a car. I think that one way to making NIP universally accepted and the normal, natural, non-issue that I believe it to be is to downplay it as much as possible. Holding a blinking marquee over my head that says “HI!! I’M NURSING MY BABY” is as confusing to me in it’s needfulness as a blinking marquee over my head that says “HI!! I’M BREATHING!” or “I’M WALKING IN THIS DOOR!”

I seem to be writing in circles now…going over the same point again and again. So I’m going to stop.

Will I start nursing at the table in restaurants? Will I sit on a bench outside Target and nurse? Eh. I don’t really know. I think I will just take every situation as it comes and see what happens.

Because I’m not really out to prove a point. I just want to feed my baby in peace and comfort.

(these last two sentences really wrap it up here, don’t they? Why on earth does someone need to prove a point about something so simple and everyday as feeding their child in peace and comfort? Wow. It’s a hell of a society that we live in…)

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P.S. I would love to have comments here; to see what you all think of this (if you think anything at all about it). But it goes without saying that this is NOT an invitation to open up some ridiculous breastfeeding vs. formula feeding debate. That horse has been beaten dead and buried so many fucking times, and I have zero interest in reviving it’s rotting corpse, like so many insist on doing every flipping day. I don’t care how you feed your baby, as long as you are feeding your baby. I don’t want to formula feed my baby, but I don’t really give one pee-daddle if that is how you want to feed yours. Got it? Any asshole comments will be immediately deleted.

Taking off work one hour early: surprisingly unpainful. (but the Boy got a really dirty look from my boss when he came to pick me up, apparently)

The Boy’s presentation: rocked my socks. I’ve never paid such close attention to a lecture about quick ratios versus close ratios and 56% total gross sales of Decorative Products only bringing in a $.15 profit per diluted share and there was a huge spike in stock in the 1st quarter because the EPA found that there was a cancer causing agent in Teflon and I don’t know what all else. He did extremely well and I was utterly proud.

The Lamaze class “reunion”: not so much of a reunion as a “sit in front of my current Lamaze class and hold your baby and tell all of us how your birth went and your thoughts and feelings about it in the aftermath. Also…answer any questions about your time in the hospital from our currently pregnant class members.” D’oh. Talk about a deer in headlights. The Lumi, she was gravely misled. She was sure there would be sitting in a circle on the floor with all my old Lamaze class cronies and casual conversation and maybe some refreshments? Not so much. I kept a near-panic attack in check and managed to kinda sorta speak. But could not look any of the expectant mommies in the face while I did so. Durrrr… More thoughts on this in a later post.

Celebration Dinner: Awesome. The wine, she was red and plentiful. The salads, they were wilted and gross BUT all was not lost because the calamari, she was tender and tangy and the veal marsala, she was only 2nd in delicious-ness to the grilled chicken and caramelized onions tossed with rigatoni in a garlic cream sauce.

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Also! All is going swimmingly in the self-improvement arena. I have two adorable new skirts, three new pairs of capris and a mish mash of some new tops. All very cute.

I am also using TONER and a REAL LIFE FACE CREAM on my delicate rose-bud like cheeks in the mornings and am remembering (most days) to put on my lip stick and my uber-awesome hand cream which makes my skin smell like lemons. Yummy.

My cute new handbag is super cute and will be my companion and friend thru the summer.

and…and…and…I got a new cell phone. And? She is pink.

OK OK!!! In my defense, I needed a cell phone. It was making me very nervous to be out and about every weekend, driving everywhere with the baby in the backseat and no cell phone. And! Sprint was having a huge sale last week where they were GIVING AWAY FOR FREE these cell phones that are normally $300. And? Free activation. And? Free shipping. So. For the following amount of money: $.00, I will soon be the proud owner of a pink camera phone.

So there.

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And since I am in such a good mood this morning, I shall delight and thrill you with some recent pictures of the pickle.

So, yeah.

There's no guest post of mine over at the Boy's place today.

It has just been too crazy round these parts.

I had an absolute marathon weekend, in which I did the following:

1) took exclusive care of Lucy so the Boy could finish his big project for his MBA
2) spent 13 hours helping my mother clean out her basement, which was flooded
3) spent another 3 hours helping my mother do outside/gardening work
4) helped the Boy by typing the last dozen or so pages of his dissertation (he HATES typing)
5) baked a from-scratch cake for my father's "one week late Father's Day dinner because he has been in northern Quebec for the past 2 weeks"
6) put on a forced grin for 2+ hours when some unexpected guests showed up for said dinner.
7) dealt with the news that my sister and brother in law (they are FINE) were plowed into by a drunk driver who was in a high-speed car chase with no fewer than 5 highway patrol cars (THEY ARE FINE).

And now I have to get through the following events, to take place over the next 11 hours:

1) telling my boss that I am leaving work 1 hour early so that I can...
2) pick up the baby and go downtown to attend the Boy's defense of his thesis
3) then go with baby and Boy to a "reunion party" of all the couples from our Lamaze class. Where I will try and find a way to avoid the inevitable sharing of birth stories. And try to remain calm and smiling and happy when I hear the inevitable 7 different stories of easy-peasy births with zero complications.
4) go to dinner with baby and Boy to celebrate his almost-done-with-Graduate-School-ness

...and I'm going to try and do all this on the 2.5 hours of sleep I got last night.

So, yeah. No brilliant and witty guest post today. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week sometime. Or when Lucy goes away to college.

Plus? The coffee this morning tastes really bad.

Erg.

And also: Bah.

2:17 a.m.

It’s dark and the whir of the air conditioner provides a kind of white noise that would normally keep me in a restful slumber.

But you are hungry and lonely. You need me.

I am still half asleep. Lifting you out of your crib. Slurred mumbles of “Mama’s here. Mama’s go’n take care of you.” begin to quell your mewls of discontent.

I lay you down so that you are facing me. I have gotten amazingly good at lifting my shirt, pulling you to me and wrapping the blankets up and around you all in one smooth motion.

Ouch. It still hurts when you first latch on. My nipples are constantly blanched and raw and tender from the pinching pressure of the pump that I have to use 2 or 3 times every day. But then the milk starts to flow and the raw pain magically transforms into a sweet, gentle suckling that is so soothing that it lulls me into a semi-slumber, myself.

2:21 a.m.

As you nurse and nurse your hunger pains and loneliness away, I gaze down at the perfect shape of your head. I’ve been noticing your ear a lot lately. It looks exactly like a miniature version of mine. Your bottom lip, so full and heart-shaped, is also an echo of the one I see in the mirror every day. But that wee little furrow of concentration that dents the creamy skin in between your eyes is all your father’s.

I love the way we face each other, with your little, chubby body curled up to mine like a teeny question mark.

2:36 a.m.

Rarely are you full fully awake during these noctural moments we share. Your eyes are always screwed firmly shut, determinedly refusing to accept that there is anything in the universe at this moment except for you and your Mama. Blankets, milk and our collective skin creates a cocoon of warmth and comfort and love that never fails to send you back to dreamland.

Papa is laying on his side, facing the wall. His snores are in perfect syncopation with Mr. Harold’s, who is currently underneath the blankets, wedged up against my backside. Maude is sprawled on the floor, underneath your crib. The entire room is filled with life, happy souls that are blissfully sleeping, snuffling, nursing, snoring, dreaming. And I love being the only one awake. I get to lay amongst all who I love and enjoy their breath and life.

3:05 a.m. and you are finished. Satiated and fast asleep. I gently re-swaddle you, rub your back to get a burp and lay you back down in your crib. I am so happy that your crib is tucked right by my side of the bed. I get to be your nighttime companion. The guardian of your slumber. My heart will break a little when we move you into your own room next year.

I don’t care who tells me that I’m spoiling you. I brush off comments from those who tell me that I need to start training you to comfort yourself to sleep – to get through the night on your own. I (mostly) don’t even mind all the sleep that I lose. I want to belong to you during these precious hours, because I cannot be exclusively yours during the day.
I lay back down in bed and am asleep within seconds.

…it’s 6:04 a.m. and you are hungry and lonely again. You need me.

I’m your mother.

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OH!!! I almost forgot!

The Boy is working his fool tail off this week and next, finishing up his MBA. As such, he has no time for blogging (I KNOW! I can’t figure out how he is going to survive either)

He has asked several people to guest blog for him, including yours truly. My time slot is this coming Monday.

So…be sure and travel on over to his blog (found on your left under Da' Boys) on Monday, June 26 to see me in action! It’s going to be a good one! (um…I think. Just as soon as I figure out what I’m going to write about.)

Before I am “approved” to continue onto either individualized or group therapy at the health center where I am seeking help I am required to undergo a 2 part intake process, the first part of which I completed last week with a chirpy young counselor named Wendy.

The majority of the bajillion questions I answered were rather standard and expected – along the lines of “have you harbored any unusual thoughts of harming your baby?” and “what is your insurance group ID number?”

..to which I answered “isn’t any thought of harming your baby unusual?....um, no I have not.” and “BAF649817, “ respectively.

We plowed through query after tedious query:

“Have you noticed any changes in your appetite?” – No.

“Are you currently taking any pharmaceuticals, either legally prescribed or otherwise?” – um…no. Should I be?

She then asked me a question that gave me, shall we say, pause.

“Have you been experiencing any feelings of anger?”

….blinkgaspemptystare….

And the air in the room suddenly became very difficult to breathe.

It was a concept that I had not given a great deal of focus to the past few months, but as soon as she said the word “anger,” a tremendous anger filled me. It was horrible.

Yes, yes I am angry. I am so, so angry.

I thought I was sad (which I certainly am, to an extent). I thought I was worried and paranoid (not so much right now). And I may be these things to certain degrees on certain days. But it became evident to me, at the moment chirpy counselor girl Wendy asked me that particular question, that indeed, the primary horribleness in me is anger. I hadn’t even realized it until just then.

I am angry that Lucy’s birth was so completely not what I wanted nor what I had prepared myself for. Naïve, stupid, STUPID me.

I am angry that people want me to “just get over it” and “not focus on that anymore” because “the birth really does not matter.” To which I say: bullshit. The birth matters so incredibly much.

I am angry that I had to leave her and go back to work 42 hours a week when she was only 5 weeks old. That I was not done healing to any extent, but it did not seem to matter to anyone.

I am angry at every single pregnant woman I see. Anywhere. I am angry because I am so bitterly jealous. Because more than anything, I want to go back in time to the few days leading up to the week I had the baby, so I can “do it right.” And any woman currently expecting a baby has that chance. The chance to do it right. A chance I am not going to have, ever again.

I am angry at my sister’s best friend. Who is a wonderful woman. Who has been like another sister to me since I was 11 years old. Because she just gave birth to her first child this past Thursday. 1 day past her due date. With no dialation or effacement of any kind, they still decided to induce her. And, after 18 hours of relatively easy labor and a nice epidural, she easily birthed her first child. And was home with him 36 hours later. And I am so angry at her for having a first time birth that I will never have.

I am angry at the very sweet and kind girl in my office who is currently 24 weeks pregnant. See previous two points above as to the reason why. Every time she walks by my desk to go to the Ladies Room (approximately 2 times per hour, she IS 24 weeks people) I see her rounded little belly and I want to yell at the top of my lungs.

I am angry that no one seems to care how miserable I am. Everyone is all concerned and fussy and happy and pampering you when you are pregnant. And when you are in labor. But literally…the very SECOND the baby is born, you cease to matter to anybody in any capacity. No one wants to hear any longer about how hard it was to endure 2-3 days of pitocin saturated labor with no pain relief and then to be suddenly strapped to a table and cut open and then the baby is there and…and…Lumi? What Lumi? Who’s that? Is she the mom? Oh…you mean the USELESS VESSEL THAT GESTATED THIS GORGEOUS ANGEL BABY BUT WHO COULD NOT EVEN MANAGE TO PUSH IT OUT.

(see what I mean? Ugly and unreasonable anger)

I am angry that some days I don’t even feel like a “real” mother. That, much as I want to, I don’t have the TIME to perform as a “real mother.” I feel like a robot. A machine that provides money and milk. That is my primary function in my family. I need to make money and milk. And the really hysterical thing is that I cannot seem to provide adequate amounts of either of these things. Evidence to support this: at least twice a week, the Boy will either

a) complain that we don’t ever have enough money in the account or
b) ask me how much milk I managed to pump that particular day or
c) sigh and comment that he STILL needs to make up a few ounces of formula a day to supplement the breastmilk that seems to disappear by noon or
d) all of the above

Money and Milk. These are the things I struggle to provide so that the Boy can stay home and mother the baby.

But most of the time? I am angry at myself. I am SO angry at myself. I have not found a way yet to see myself as anything but inadequate. I could not birth my baby naturally and gently. I could not stop myself from nearly bleeding to death when she was a mere 4 hours old. I still cannot keep her on 100% breastmilk. I cannot buy her every single thing I want her to have. I cannot be there 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I cannot be filled with sunshine and joy and birdsong all the time, because I am still infected with this anger, and I fear that she will somehow sense it. I don’t always know what every cry means. I cannot be the best mother in all the world, and because I cannot be the best, I somehow feel that I am therefore wholly inadequate.

I am angry at myself and I am also angry that I am angry.

Oh, yes, I have been experiencing feelings of anger.

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I am NOT, however, angry at the writers of HBO’s DEADWOOD and the bad-ass wondernous that is Ian McShane. Boy’s Howdy was last night’s episode fucking fantastic!

It sure did make a girl’s Sunday night.

...you stayed calm and rational during my emotional melt downs while I was in my 1st Trimester

...you made me laugh and tickled me until I peed when I was huge and nearing my due date

...you had every single baby gift assembled, put up, put away, installed and/or ready to go within 24 hours of the baby shower ending

...you were the funniest, most involved and definetely the hottest daddy at our Childbirth Preparation class

...you would curl up against my big belly and talk to Lucy at night and always wanted to listen to her amazing heartbeat with the monitor

...you made me laugh with how pissy and obsessive you were about determindly remembering to bring back the belts every Saturday that the hospital issused to us for our weekly non stress tests. And you loved that we had to carry them around in a plastic bag marked "Bio Hazard"

...you were indescribably amazing during our labor, birth and aftermath. You were one of the only reasons I came out of that week with the few remaining shreds of sanity I still possess

...you changed poopy diapers and rocked and sang to the baby for endless days in the hospital when I didn't even have the strength to get out of the bed

...you have taken the most tender care of our pickle from Day 1



...you know her every need and can diagnose it and provide for it before she even realizes that she needs it



...you are already reading and asking questions and preparing for her education



...she is the girl that you love most in all the world. And I am so happy that she has you for a father. A father that has surpassed even my (very high) expectations. I knew you were going to be great. I didn't know you were going to be amazing.



Thank you.

I love you.

Happy Father's Day.

...and don't worry. I'm still getting you your fucking leaf blower. (who asks for a leaf blower, anyway?)

My little pickle has a stomach virus, and I pulled an all-nighter with her last night. 5 projectile vomits in a 10 hour time period and a 100.8 fever at 3 am and nobody was happy.

We were doing the bathing and the Tylenoling and the small nursing sessions and the walking around and the comforting into the wee hours of the morning. And a memory flooded my soul from years and years ago. A memory about my dad. And my late grandfather. And, oddly enough, about Waltzing Matilda.

BACKGROUND NOTES:
My dad was always signing songs to me and my sister. His favorite time to do this was while the three of us were on one of our “adventure” car trips. We would all pile into the car with juice boxes and snacks and would take off for who knows where and leave my mom in peace, alone at the house, for at least 8 hours. And he would sing.

His musicality was undisputed, and he chose to showcase his talents with a rather schizophrenic hodge-podge of songs. These included Broadway show tunes, African-American spirituals, Catholic songs of worship (ALWAYS sung in Latin), the Marine-Corps hymn, college fight songs (Amherst and Welsley were his two top favorites) and folk tunes.

My father also had a penchant for telling my sister and I bold face lies. Fewer things brought him more joy then to (very skillfully) weave a web of deception that would inevitably lead my sister, or myself, or both of us, to believe something that was completely untrue. For several years. For example, it was only very recently that I discovered that there is in fact no amusement park called “Wally World” in the hills of California.

(“But kiddo! Sure there is! I mean, they even made a movie about it! Would Chevy Chase lie to you?”)

RETURNING TO THE POINT AT HAND:
I have been singing a certain song to the Pickle since she was born. She loves it. It never fails to elicit a golden smile and giggles and squees. And the poor thing was so miserable last night (excuse me – at the ass crack of dawn this morning) that I spent nearly an hour singing her that song as I bathed her and nursed her and walked her around. It’s one of the songs that my dad would sing to my sister and I.

You see, I loved that song and would always beg my dad to sing it. I distinctly remember asking him once where he learned it, and without missing a beat the lying bastard told me that my grandfather had made it up. A completely original work. A song that was only to be sung within our family circle, in order to preserve it’s sanctity. Isn’t that amazing? It goes a little something like this…

Once a jolly swagman sat by a billabong
Under the shade of a collibah tree
And he sang as he sat, and waited while his billy boiled
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me

Waltzing Matilda….Waltzing Matilda!
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda will me.
And he sang as he sat, and waited while his billy boiled.
You’ll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me.

The following three stanzas continue the tale of the swagman…

(“what’s a swagman, dad?”…”Well kiddo, your grandfather MADE UP THAT WORD. It means a hobo, or homeless person.”…”Wow. And grandpa made it up?”…”Yep”)

…and his adventures as he stuffs an interloping “jumbuck” into his “tuckerbag”, is accosted by the squatter and his three marshalls (or were they rangers? Shit.), and eventually commits joyful suicide by drowning himself in the billabong.

I would always hum that song to myself as a child, and feel so pleased that my grandfather was such an amazingly talented guy that he MADE UP AN ENTIRE SONG ALL BY HIMSELF!

(grandpa, by the by, had no means of refuting this misinformation, having shuffled off his mortal coil when I was about 2 years old.)

Imagine my surprise when I was listening to a Tom Waits song about 4 years ago with the Boy, and heard a bastardized (but still pretty nifty) version of MY GRANDFATHER’S SONG melded into the tune.

…and yes, I still at that time believed that it was an entirely original work by my grandfather.

…and yes, I completely humiliated myself in front of the Boy by exclaiming that Tom Waits MUST have stolen MY GRANDFATHERS SONG I MEAN COME ON!!!

…and yes, I still had to google the song afterwards, because I did NOT believe the Boy when he told me that the song was, in fact, a very popular, 100 year old folk tune from Australia.

…and yes, I later on laughed until I pissed myself when it occurred to me that once again, dad managed to trap me into one of his webs of merry deception.

The bastard.

But it’s still one of my very most favorite songs ever. And I sing it to the pickle almost daily. And when she eventually asks me from where I know this delightful ditty?

Why, I shall tell her the 100% truth. That her grandfather, my lovely dad, MADE IT UP ALL BY HIMSELF.

And that my friends, is how a lame white girl from a suburban town in the American Midwest came to know and love forever one of Australia’s most cherished folk tunes.

You may now commence with the laughing and the poking fun at my lame-ass self.

My Little Pickle,

This past Friday you turned 4 months old.

…and you decided to celebrate your birthday by getting three vicious intra-muscular injections in the thigh (I know! What a thrill-seeker you are!) and starting the process of cutting 2 teeth.

Wow.

I feel like I could write for pages and pages about all the wonderful and amazing things you have done and seen and been. But then I try and actually write and find that I am at a loss. It’s as if mere letters and words and punctuation are not nearly adequate enough tools to put forth how incredible your very existence is and how much of an impact you have had on my life. How do you find written language to describe the most heart-breakingly beautiful rainbow you’ve ever seen?

But I’ll try…

…you will either greet me every morning with an ice-melting smile and sparkle in your eye or you will shriek like a possessed banshee until a nipple has been shoved in your gaping maw. It’s always a toss-up.


…one of your favorite times of the day has become “Nakey-Baby Time.” This is where Papa and I strip you down to your bare-ass skin and lay you down on our bed (a top layer upon layer of towels of course) and let you wiggle and squirm and squee and coo and flip from back to belly to back and grunt and ggrrrrr in frustration as you try so desperately to crawl. You absolutely adore being naked.

…you have recently discovered the animals that (rule with an iron fist over) occupy our house. They have been there this whole time, but you just now are picking up on their presence. You love the kitties and how soft they are when I run your little pudgy hand down their backs, but I think your favorite is Mr. Harold. Mama’s beautiful, stubborn and completely un-trainable Beagle is gentle as a lamb with you (so far.) He has discovered that if he lays on the bed mere inches away from the farthest that you can possibly reach, you will lie, facing him, grunting and squee-ing and trying to get to him. For endless minutes. And he refuses to move a centimeter closer to you. It’s like the most adorable little game of chess, and so far, he knows that he will always win. He loves it. And so do I.

…every time I am holding you and your father comes up to us to greet you, you dazzle him with HUGE smiles while simultaneously turning your head from him to bury it in my chest. Every. Time. You are so coy and cute – pretending to be bashful. And then you peek out from the sanctuary between my breasts to make sure that he noticed that you are totally flirting with him. And he? Eats it up like ice cream with a spoon.

…you can grab now. And grandpa has an awesome, bushy beard that invariably SCREAMS for you to bury your little hands in and grab and twist. It’s never been so much fun watching my father in agonizing pain.

…you got a little too much sun this past week on one of your daily walks with Papa. And by a little too much sun, I mean a little redish splotch on one of your cheeks. But Papa had to call me at work and confess his horrid failings as a father and you would think that he had callously dropped you into a pot of boiling oil, so sorrowful was he.

…Mr. Blue Raccoon has been dumped. He is gone. He is SO last month. But Mr. Bee continues to be your comrade, your sole confidant. He also must taste really good, because you are constantly shoving some random plastic part of his anatomy in your mouth.



…you really like going over to Katie and Ryan and Mya’s house, but seem to get pissy when Mya (who is 6 WHOLE WEEKS OLDER THAN YOU!) thrusts her bear-like paws into your mouth…or ear…or up your nose. You scream in indignation. And although I always come over to “rescue” you, I can’t help but laugh my ass off. You two girls are the most beautiful pair. Your physical differences make both of you all the more breathtaking when we lay you side by side. One so very fair and blond and blue eyed, and the other so olive and dark and sparkly. Your Aunt Katie and I agree that we are going to enjoy ourselves immensely, watching you two growing up and simultaneously loving and hating each other with every passing day. I can’t wait for the day that I hear,
“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! Mya stole my Polly Pocket and she won’t give it BBBBBBBAAAAAAAAACK!!!”



…actually, I can wait for that day. I am so scared of you growing up too quickly. I have loved every tiny baby-moment of your tiny baby-life. I loved the fresh-out-of-the-oven newborn squadge. I loved the 3 weeks old colicky squadge. I loved the 5 weeks old and can already hold up her head and grin at people squadge. I loved the 3 months old and can wiggle and kinda-sorta-hold things and blink sleepily at me while nursing squadge. And I love, I love, I LOVE the strong, squirmy, smiling, LAUGHING, already developing a captivating sense of humor 4 month old squadge.

Your skin is the softest thing I have ever felt and I can never decide which smell I like better: your just-out-of-the-bath-and-smelling-like-fresh-berries smell or your haven’t-been-bathed-for-a-couple-days-and-smelling-like-warm-sleep-and-milk smell.

I love your unwashed-smelling-like-milk smell. It’s so amazingly compelling. You smell like you belong to me.



Warm sloppy kisses all over your belly,
Mama

1. There will be no season 4 of Deadwood after the conclusion of season 3 (3 more days!!!!!!!!!!). Just some 4-hour-long-series-finale goat dung that's supposed to make us feel all better that they are taking the most fantastic HBO series off the air. Some shit about it costing $50 million to make one episdoe. Suck it up HBO!! ....fucking Hoopleheads.

2. I really want to get drunk again. It has now been over one full year since I have had anything more than a half glass of red wine. People, are you really expecting me to get through a horrid-ass humid as shit Cleveland summer without even one ice-cold vodka tonic? Or Tequila Sunrise? eerrgggg...

3. The Pickle rolled over onto her belly in her sleep last night. And woke me up by shrieking to wake the dead around 3:15 am to tell me all about it. However, she? Is totally forgiven becuase as I opened my weary eyes she was holding her head up, bracing herself on her hands and grinning at me through the bars of her crib.

4. I make the most fanstastic chicken piccata in the Cleveland metropolitan area.

5. The Boy shall not be crucified, because he found his phone (and the damn thing still works) and the greatness that is Apple gave him a brand new iPod for free in exchange for his left-out-in-the-pouring-rain one. Awesome.

I have a very good friend here at work. She was the first person who found out about my pregnancy (she walked in on me in the ladies room last May, as I stood there at the bathroom sink, stupidly staring at a barley positive HPT) and has been a source of constant advice, humor and support.

She is 38 and has a 6 year old daughter. Single mom. Great gal.

Her father died last night.

He was only 68 years old. He went in for an outpatient surgery about 3 weeks ago. Hernia repair. No biggie. Then about a week later, the whole family dragged him back to the hospital becuase his pain was pretty bad and something seemed off.

In about 4 hours time, he went from perfectly fine to unconcsious and bleeding out from a huge bleeding ulcer in his gut that nobody seemed to pick up on during his surgery. He lost a huge amount of blood and after days that stretched into weeks in the Surgical ICU and countless blood transfusions, infections, 2 more surgeries and 2 minor heart attacks, he died last night around 11 pm.

I am sitting here in shock, feeling so awful for her. She and her dad were so close. And I feel so awful for her little girl. My friend's daughter was asking countless times over the past 2 weeks to see her Grandpa, and she was always told she could not (children are not allowed in the ICU). At one point, she was certain that she was not allowed to see Grandpa becuase maybe she had done something bad and everyone was mad at her.

Is that not totally heart wrenching?

Anyway. I guess that's it. It's just so sad. It's shitty seeing bad things happen. It's even shittier seeing bad things happen to really good people.

Here's my friend holding my little pickle when she was only 3 weeks old...