I got friends in no places...

Today marked my husband's and my 8 year dating anniversary, so we celebrated by venturing to a hipster vegan kitchen and treated ourselves to some curried tofu. This is remarkable for two reasons: one, I have been putting up with his incessant blanket hogging for the better part of a decade, and two, going out in public forced me to socially interact with other human beings.
In my "past life", public appearances were an afterthought, but recently I discovered that I have the social etiquette of a cat in heat. Read: I have no friends and I am painfully desperate to talk to anyone old enough to vote (liberally, of course). Exhibit A...
The other night I needed some serious alone time, so I went to my happy place... Target. Of course, my time spent away from the baby drove me straight to the aisles of rubber duckies and other childhood fanfare.  Even in solitude I spend my moments thinking about my son... motherhood is totally inescapable. Anyways, it's here that I run into another mom, also shopping for her son. I feel like a jungle cat stalking her prey, soaking in all the details (I know, I can be very dramatic).. Ponytail. Tattoo on foot. Wearing PJ's. I could TOTALLY be friends with this woman! We start talking, and before I know it I'm trying to figure out how to form some sort of relationship with this complete stranger.  Maybe I should pass her a note asking "will you be my friend?", with two boxes for checking yes or no.  Then reality smacks me in my oily face... GROWN UPS DON'T DO THAT!!! Sigh. I proceed to check out with a bottle of shampoo and a bruised ego.
Exhibit B...

The following day, I mysteriously found myself BACK at Target.  After spending an hour looking through discounted Halloween items and wondering why on earth aisle 16 is lined with Christmas trees, I exited to the parking lot... and that's when I saw it.  The glorious champagne-colored Neon decorated hood to trunk in "Meat is Murder" stickers. OH. MY. GOD. Up to this point, vegans in central Florida were only found in fairy tales, and surely this was a sign. So I did the unthinkable... I left a note on the battered Neon... asking this person, this total stranger, to (gulp) be my friend. WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH ME?! Clearly, the isolation of motherhood has driven me over the edge of insanity straight into Desperation Town. Who does that?  In retrospect, definitely not one of my shining moments.
I had another one of those moments today at the restaurant (Vegans wearing Ohio State stuff, can you blame me?), but I will spare you the ugly details.  After the curried tofu, our little family unit went for a walk around the park across the street.  I saw a playground area, so naturally I was drawn to it (either that or strollers come equipped with magnets attracted to swings).  But my lofty vision of going down the slide with my son was quickly extinguished by the sight of the three teenage boys hanging out on the picnic tables.  Shouldn't they be in school?  Where are their mothers? Wait...what's that in their hands? Is that a... a... a JOINT? Oh my GOD these kids are going to... well I don't know exactly but I sure as hell don't want my BABY around such rebel-rousers! Ummm, did I just say, Rebel-Rousers? When did I turn into Mr. Wilson??? It may come as a shock to some of you (or not) but I used to "dabble" in college.  So why was I suddenly flipping out over a couple of harmless kids takin' a toke in the park? I honestly don't have an answer.  But it's the same reason why I about had a conniption fit that some jackass was smoking near my car as I was putting Holden in his car seat (did I mention I used to smoke a pack a day??).
Anyways, I'm not too sure what my point is here, but again I felt compelled to be brutally honest and express how motherhood has impacted my life in ways unexpected.  But maybe that's just the vodka talking ;)

Mama Drama (edited)

My writings here mainly consist of my experiences as a mother, or lessons learned in parenting.  For example, tonight's lesson: what really happens to lasagna if you bake it without covering with foil?* (I know, my life is painfully boring sometimes).  I try to offer my experiences as tuition-free knowledge to new mommies, but, I'M a new mommy myself, and I have a lot to learn.
One thing I really grapple with is where to draw the proverbial line with other mothers and their children.  Seriously, the last time I saw any lines drawn were on that EPT I took last year.  Seeing as how I am a playgroup dropout, I don't know when it's appropriate to interject in some situations.  Sure, there's the obvious: "Oh Tommy, hunny, don't touch the dog poop, that's ucky." But there is an awful lot of gray area too.
Last week I took my son for an evaluation for a continuance of his physical therapy.  Like any good waiting room for children, there was one of those giant blocks with the loop-de-loops & little wooden pieces which my son just happens to love.  So there we were, playing with the cubes & spheres very quietly... when suddenly cerberus itself had escaped the gates of hell and was running through the waiting room, pulling the blocks away from my son & shoving a sippy cup in his face whilst shrieking "BABY! BABY!".  Where was these children's mother and why wasn't she plucking them up off the blanket (and you KNOW it was the one I knitted while I was pregnant!) and sitting their little butts down in the corner on leashes where they belonged?! I was like a deer in headlights... I didn't know if this was an appropriate time to ask the children to play nice and not put their grubby little paws on my precious angel or if I should be scowling at the mother, sending her telepathic messages riddled with four letter words.  And so I did what I always do. Nothing.  I forcefully smiled at the children, swiftly put Holden in his stroller, and wheeled him over to the waiting room chairs, hopefully out of their sight.  Well, as it turns out, we were out of sight... out of the mother's, that is.  The woman I sat next to was legally blind, and was there with her two children (i.e., cerberus) & seeing-eye dog.   That may be the first time in my life I was grateful I didn't say something, and I felt that I had been given a reminder... don't be quick to judge & have a little patience.  Seems simple enough, right? After all, it worked for Jesus & the Buddha (except for that whole, died-on-the-cross & self-starvation-in-the-woods thing.  I know, I'm going to hell in a hand basket).
So, here is where the line-drawing & the non-judging intersect...

(this portion has been removed by the author to prevent any further mama drama!!!)

I don't intend to use my blog as a vehicle to "mommy bash", but these are just a couple examples of my not knowing how to respond since I don't know all the rules yet.  But, to hell with it. I was never really one for rules anyway.

*As for the lasagna, i regret to inform that nothing extraordinary happened without the foil wrapping. Sigh.

If I only had a Brain

In the words of Bill Cosby Himself, "My wife & I used to be intellectuals"...

I graduated from Business School with a BSBA in Marketing and a 3.4 GPA.  I would often find myself meandering in art galleries or participating in heated discussions about religion & politics.  I always kept my journal at an arm's length and a book in my messenger bag.  Nowadays, the only degrees that matter in this house are on the thermostat. The last piece of artwork I saw was a pumpkin hand-painted by a child (painted orange, nonetheless). My heated discussions consist of breast or bottle.  The only thing I have time to write is a grocery list, and my messenger bag has been traded in for a diaper bag, complete with the literary work titled "Hello Giraffe". 
Is it any wonder then that tonight I found myself putting vaginal cream on my toothbrush?  This remarkable phenomenon of deteriorating intellect is known as Mommy Brain (MB).  Since the day I found out I was pregnant, my brain cells began popping like bubble wrap.  This was evidenced by the fact that I checked my calculator for missed calls at the office, and when I sent a fax through the copying machine.  Six hundred copies of an invoice later, I had noticed a pattern.
I understood that in order to grow a human from scratch, sacrifices had to be made.  But I was wholly unprepared for the brain damage I would incur as a result.  I figured the lapses in judgement would subside postpartum... until the morning that I found myself haphazardly putting coffee in my son's bottle.  Or the afternoon that I violated my refrigerator trying to make the George Foreman Grill fit on the bottom shelf.  Or the time that I replaced the cap on the Pedialyte with a bottle nipple and placed it back in the fridge. 
I know I am not alone in my diagnoses of MB... I have several girlfriends who are also stymied by this condition.  The other day I received a text from one of my mommy friends, apologizing for dropping out of our conversation because she placed her cell phone in the cereal cabinet.  Another put oatmeal in her rice cooker instead of, well, rice.  Even my husband has been found guilty of stashing the remote in the freezer.
Symptoms of MB include the inability to form complete sentences, severe bouts of butter fingers, and heavy consumption of caffeinated beverages.  While there is no cure for MB, there are steps you can take to alleviate the pain.  Talk to your local grocer about which wine is best for you.  Side effects can cause deep relaxation or unintentional sex with your husband. Do not use wine while operating heavy machinery, if you are attending a 12 step program, or are completely unprepared for baby number two. Or three. Or four.

Take a Walk on the Child Side

I had a conversation tonight with someone who made me think about what happens when you become a parent... where does your old life go?  Does it die and go to heaven? Get lost in the ether? Perhaps it's just taking a break in the Bahamas.  Well, I can't really answer that question because all the things that make me ME are still there... I'm still an indie-rock-loving vegan who often forgets to brush her hair that has an incredible soft spot for hand-knit scarves and cheap red wine. But it is also true that I haven't been on a date with my husband in over eight months, haven't been to a happy hour in over a year, and can no longer fit my boobs in to any of my old bras.  You would at least think that last one would be a perk, no pun intended, but my boobs aren't so much bigger as they are just shaped differently. Sigh.
But those things pale in comparison to the joy my son brings.  Now, I'm not the mom who sugar coats my reality in the defense of motherhood perfection... yes, I would love an excuse to actually put on makeup & there are times where I am ready to throw up the white flag, but motherhood is complicated. It's frustrating & dirty & tiring. But it's also humbling & hilarious & sincere.
Not only does your life change, but the world itself changes.  Once you put on those mommy glasses, everything grows fangs and claws... the world becomes seemingly dangerous.  Before my son's birth, I had not one maternal bone in my body.  I would have rather swallowed diaper pins than spend an afternoon with someone who couldn't use toilet paper, let alone "use their words".  But once I saw my son for the first time, I immediately felt an intense, primal instinct to protect him.  I still do, and I find myself getting offended when people talk about children as if they were cockroaches.  I had someone who always said to me, "You don't have kids, so you don't understand." That would irritate me to the moon and back... of COURSE I didn't understand! How could I have? So I try to extend a courtesy to people that they really DON'T get it and not fault them for something they haven't experienced.  But when I see snarky things online about kids at the pool or babies chewing on merchandise at stores my inner mama bear starts to stir.  I've been on both sides of the equation, and personally, I like being on this one.  The moments of pure & innocent joy from a child more than make up for the moments of dirty diapers and lost sleep.

Nothing will teach you to live in the moment like having a baby, because that's all a baby has-- the present.  One minute you are living on sunshine & unicorns... and then you pull your head out of the rainbow because your sweet little angel has morphed into an inconsolable gremlin who wants nothing to do with you and all you want is a cocktail but you can't have one because it's only 3 o'clock in the afternoon and good mommies read to their children instead of making gin and tonics so you rock your gremlin side to side and get a bottle thrown in your face while singing Yellow Submarine because let's face it you're no John or Paul or George or Ringo and your gremlin KNOWS it because otherwise if you were he wouldn't be screaming because all John was saying was give peace a god damn chance and now all you can do is cry with your gremlin because you're exhausted and that's when you realize... you're gremlin is no longer crying... he is fast asleep in your arms. So you put him in his crib, look down at that sleeping baby and say to yourself, "what an angel".  And that's only something a mother could understand.

On your stretch mark, get set, go!

Each week during my pregnancy my husband photographed my ever-expanding belly.  I loved comparing the weekly silhouettes and mentally documenting their differences.  Until some time in the third trimester.  That's when I noticed the tattoo on my hip (or at least where my hip used to be) was looking less like an ohm and more like a blown out tire.  I thought I had narrowly escaped the wrath of rapidly stretching skin, but it turns out they were there all along, hidden beneath my range of vision. As any mama knows, with a growing belly comes the disappearance of any body part below the belly button.  This can lead to some hairy situations (pun DEFINITELY intended).
For a while I suffered from SSMD--Serious Stretch Mark Denial, and by this point, my favorite sentence was "Hun, can I have another brownie?"  And so it went, and 37 pounds later I was teetering dangerously close to the 200 mark on the scale.  But I didn't care, because I was making a human!  And we all know that takes a LOT of chocolate.  Besides, slap a little cocoa butter on that belly and those stretch marks will disappear faster than your post pardum sex life.
Seven  months later and I am still the proud owner of those little (big) red lines, happy reminders that my body is actually pretty extraordinary. Besides, scars are poetic, so why should stretch marks be any different?  If you got 'em, rock 'em.

Oh, go suck a nipple!

So today I woke up a bit early to do my morning routine sans baby... pour a cup of coffee, kiss the husband goodbye, and log onto cafemom and check out "the stir" (it's like huffpost for mamas). Lately though, the site has been irritating the crap out of me because it has become extremely conservative, and, well, I'm not.  My problem here isn't the columnists' opinions necessarily, but their inability to see things from another perspective.  For instance, this morning I came across THIS little gem of an article...

http://thestir.cafemom.com/baby/123763/pumping_moms_face_risks_we

This made my blood boil.  I think it's deplorable that the topic has been raised, especially with such negative connotation.  If breast pumping was being studied to give other pumping women support, fantastic, because holy shit is pumping difficult. But this is just another way to make women feel guilty for not breastfeeding... and it's still breast milk!! Yes, we all know that breast is best, but what about the moms who can't do it, or choose not to?  There is a multitude of reasons, and each mama is different, and each baby is different.  So if a woman is committed to pumping, she should be praised for all her efforts, not made to feel scared about "hidden dangers" or guilty about improper use of oxytocin output.

Some mothers don't have a choice, especially if they go back to work.  And maybe they do have to pump in bathrooms... that doesn't mean each mother is an idiot who is gonna stick the bottle in the toilet before expressing milk! And have you ever tried to cuddle a baby while pumping to obtain maximum bonding experience? If you consider cuddling doing a balancing act like something out of cirque du soleil, sure then. In all seriousness, I am tired of hearing other mothers try to one-up each other on the breast feeding front.  Why must we try to validate ourselves in this manner?  It doesn't make us better mamas, and it certainly doesn't make us better girlfriends. 

Clearly I had trouble breast feeding.  It started about 15 minutes after my son's birth... when he stopped breathing.  This was the most horrifying moment of my life, as any mother can imagine, but after bagging him and giving him some air he was breathing again.  But because of this episode, he was whisked off to the nursery for a battery of tests, leaving me with no baby.  Needless to say, I didn't have the opportunity to try to breastfeed after birth.  Once I could walk and visit him in the nursery, I tried my first go at breast feeding... not successful.  Apparently, the pregnancy had caused my left nipple to invert, so I was instructed to get nipple shells to try to pop that sucker out again.  This made me look like I was walking around with golf balls in my bra, but the maternity ward is no place for vanity, so I just kept on truckin'.  I repeatedly tried breastfeeding at the hospital, but Holden was NOT having it, and the nurses were not helpful.  On my last day at the hospital, I finally got the lactation consultant I had been needing.  When she saw Holden push me away and scream when I tried to feed him, she introduced me to the SNS (supplemental nursing system).  This was a little device used to finger feed babies who have latching issues.  Once we got home, I desperately tried to continue breastfeeding. No luck.  The next morning however, I woke up to Nature's boob job, and I ran around the house topless for about an hour because for the first time in my life I had boobs!  But this was short lived, because I was severely engorged and my breasts felt like they were in vice grips. I was advised to put cabbage leaves on them to help the swelling go down, so now I ran around the house looking more like a salad. In the meantime, I was pumping every two hours.  This became MORE than a full time job, especially since all I had was a single pump.  So, I would pump one boob for 20 mins, then pump the other for 20 mins.  Then I would assemble the SNS & feed my son. This was a painfully slow process, as the SNS was difficult for Holden to master. After feeding the baby, I had to wash the SNS, put the nipple shells back on, and clean the pump.  After the entire process was finished, it was basically time to do it again. My life was set on repeat, and I was exhausted. 

Shortly after the baby was born, my in-laws flew to California to come see their Grandson.  Lucky for me, my mother-in-law was an OB nurse for 40 years, and volunteered to help me feed the baby.  I figured she would have me well versed in the art of breast feeding in no time.  After multiple attempts, we weren't getting anywhere... Holden was just one of those babies that absolutely refused to latch on, so I just kept pumping.  And pumping.  And pumping.  Somewhere in week two of my son's life,  I started popping capillaries in my left breast, causing me to pump blood.  This was my breaking point.  All I wanted to do was give my baby what nature had intended and my body was not cooperating.  Thank goodness my husband was so incredibly supportive, because I was seriously about to jump off of the Manhattan Beach Pier and plummet into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.  Shortly thereafter, I noticed my supply was not where it should be, and I was no longer able to produce enough milk to keep up with my son's needs.  I started taking fennugreek & blessed thistle from the health food store & drank a special tea.  I also had to buy a natural nipple cream because all the pumping had left my nips sore, cracked, scabbed, and bleeding.  Despite all this, I continued to pump.  I pumped around the clock every day for four months straight, until I dried up. 

The inability to breastfeed my child in no way compromised our bonding experience.  We started out cuddling skin-to-skin, and continue to bond in other ways such as story time and physical therapy.  Holden has torticollis, which may actually explain why he couldn't latch on... it may have just been too painful for him to turn his little head.  But now everyday we work on it and I encourage him & celebrate his progress, no matter how slight.  Also, bottle feeding our son has meant that Dad gets to join in too, so he gets to bond with his baby in that manner & I can take a quick shower or finish the dishes!

Thankfully I had an amazing team of cheerleaders in my corner... my husband, my mother-in-law, and my girlfriend Jordan (aforementioned milf in previous post). Without them I don't think I could have carried on for as long as I did.  Which brings me back to my original point... we should be encouraging & praising women for pumping--it's a lot of work!! Even if a mother chooses to formula feed her baby from birth, we should be supportive of her, not critical.  Giving birth and raising a child is hard enough, so let's do ourselves and mommies everywhere a favor... don't be such a boob.

Hunny, does this haircut make me look fat?

So, I'm a mom (as you may have noticed), but does that mean I have to look like a mom?  Don't get me wrong here, I wear my spit-up-and-mashed-banana badges (and of course, the stretch marks) proudly, but there are some things that are just not up for debate.  I have already sacrificed my waist and thighs, what else is there??

I admit it... I am guilty of wearing my gauchos more than I should and my hair looks like it's trying to eat itself, but hey, I'm trying.  It's not easy making time for yourself when you're a mom, especially when your clothes dryer is a string between two wooden poles and your dishwasher needs a manicure. I have no clue how the moms-of-yore did it. I complain about the A/C not being high enough, and they were having babies in fields and then plowing those fields ten minutes later.  All the while I am sure they didn't give a damn about what their hair looked like.  Well, I do, and in one of those "I have to get out of the freaking house NOW or I'm gonna go POSTAL!" moments, I handed off my screeching bundle of joy to the husband and decided to treat myself to a haircut. Apparently, it's been so long since I have had a conversation with someone who doesn't raspberry me in response that I have simply forgotten how to communicate.  I may as well have sent a feral cat to explain how I wanted my hair to look, because next thing I knew, my previously boob length hair is up to my shoulders. WTF?! I said I DIDN’T want mom hair! My hair is now so sad that it needs Zoloft. I guess that’s what I get for leaving the kitchen. Sigh.

Well, I may be rocking the mom-do (until it grows out or I dye it purple), but you sure as hell won’t see me driving a minivan… that’s where I draw the line.  Yeah they’re practical for carpooling and hauling kids to soccer practice, but they are just so un-cool.  Although I do have a girlfriend who drives one, but she doesn’t count because she’s a total MILF who would look hot in a potato sack (I know… if I didn’t love her, I’d kill her).  So I guess I will just have to go to play dates & listen to Nirvana lullabies in my Subaru. 

At least that’s one thing I can handle, because this “mom” thing is no joke.  I started this blog three days ago, and after every few words I type somebody needs something.  The dogs need to go out, the baby needs a diaper change, or my husband needs to poop, therefore rendering him useless to baby-tending.  My life revolves around everyone’s bathroom schedule.  At least it no longer revolves around the laundry/weather schedule.  When I started this blog, I was still line drying my laundry.  At first I was doing it for environmental reasons, as I consider us a pretty eco-friendly home, and then one day it rained.  And it rained the next day.  And the next. And the next.  I checked weather.com and the 10 day forecast was scattered t-storms every. damn. day. Considering we use cloth diapers, my job as Mommy just got even harder.  Our bathroom & kitchen had been converted into a full scale drying operation, with bibs & undies hanging from every knob, hook, and bar.  My home was starting to look like a frat house.  After a month of drying my laundry in this manner, my husband noticed that half of my mom-hair was now gray, and finally got me a new (used) dryer from craigslist.  And let me tell you, you know you are getting old when getting a household appliance is better than smoking a cigarette after sex. 

Anyways, the next morning my husband hooked up the new (used) dryer, and there was so much excitement in the air that HE did the first load of laundry!  And again, let me tell you, you know you’re old and married when your husband doing laundry is the sexiest thing you’ve seen in a while.  Moving on.  With this new found freedom from line drying, I managed to save all sorts of time. I tried to incorporate this idea by multi-tasking as many things as possible, so when my husband announced that he was taking a shower, I made him take the kid in there with him.  Of course, right after I put shampoo on my son’s head (because obviously the husband needed help), the water shuts off.  What the…??   Turns out a wasp family decided to build its nest in MY water pump, blowing the motor. Clearly, no eco-deed goes unpunished, and now I can’t even wash the damn laundry. Or flush the toilet. Or rinse the shampoo off my kid’s head. But I did learn a valuable lesson… when life hands you soapy babies, call the repair guy.