Blog a la Cart

UP UP Hurray!

Yesterday, we took our first big adventure out of the house. I’d done small trips with Addison, all lasting under an hour to guarantee that I would not have to navigate the waters of GASP! public breastfeeding. We’d hit up the grocery store, made a run to the post office, even swung by Kinkos to print some of the millions of photographs my trigger-happy finger can’t stop snapping of my newest bundle. But again, these ventures all were within the 1-hour time constraint.

My dearest friend from college, a now Harvard educated doctor, was out visiting and helping with the babe. I decided what better time to try a real outing than with a friend slash doctor by my side to help defray some of the attention and insecurity should I have to whip out my boob in front of a crowd. We chose to go see a movie, a lofty venture indeed as we were risking a public meltdown that might disturb the other viewers movie-going experience. We decided to see “UP,” in the middle of the day, reasoning that the demographic in such a theater would be more sympathetic to a wee child’s screams.

I must say, Addison was a champ. She slept for the first half of the movie, and when I saw her car seat beginning to sway with movement, I quickly snapped her up before she could make a fuss. She bounced in my lap, and then, at the quietest, most moving part of the movie, the point where the grumpy old man has an emotional, heartfelt epiphany, her face down turned into that perfect little frown and I held my breath waiting for the wail. Fortunately, my knees unconsciously responded with more rapid, bouncing fervor, momentarily distracting and overwhelming her from really letting loose. The film transitioned into a much noisier, more action filled scene and I began scrambling in the dark for those dang nipple shields, while simultaneously bouncing and fumbling at my nursing bra. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation in flashing my boob and awkwardly sticking both shield and child to my chest. I couldn’t even tell if she was getting any milk, but she was peacefully sucking away in the dark. It didn’t matter that I was literally a human pacifier and had endured my first bout of public flashing compounded by the SUPER NIPPLE! (to be said as though it were an action hero). We had watched the ENTIRE movie, without causing a scene and being booed out of the theater by the crowd of little old ladies behind us. I felt like a functioning member of society for the first time since birth, braving public to go enjoy an afternoon movie with a friend and my child.

UP, UP Hurray indeed!

SITC comes in handy with baby

My pediatrician had warned my husband and me that the infant we described as “easy” might occasionally deviate from this descriptor. I took her advice with a grain of salt. Bad idea.

Addison chose Saturday evening to allow the devil to take hold of her soul. She wailed and fused and demanded constant access to my boob, all the while pitching a fit and knocking the nipple shield, and thus breast milk, everywhere.  Nothing would sooth her. Not the usual nursing, or rocking in daddy’s arms, or even warm bath. She was filled with rage and fury and would not be pacified. We spent until 5:30 in the morning trying to get our furious, milk-drenched babe under control. I had taken charge of her around 1:00 am to allow my husband to get some sleep, but at 3:30 am, the exhaustion took hold and I collapsed on the bathroom floor in a puddle, sobbing equally as loud. My husband arrived in the bathroom and looked helplessly at the screaming competition happening on the floor. Addison ultimately won that fight, as James swept her up in is arms and demanded that I try to get some sleep and pull it together.

The next morning, we all awoke, still grumpy and tired and generally pissed from the night before. It was a long fussy day for the Cart family. James loaded us all in the car and headed to Babies R Us on a mission to find the perfect, soothing baby swing. Hadn’t I seen that “Sex and the City” episode where Miranda’s life was revolutionized by the presence of a swing in soothing baby Brady? Why no, James, but obviously YOU have. We meandered our way to the swing section, screaming infant in hand, and literally test-ran every dang swing in that store, as people looked on in horror as our child screamed as we passed her from one crazy machine to another. Of course, she selected the most expensive of the bunch, as demonstrated by her eased tears, but it didn’t matter, we would have sold ourselves to slave labor if it meant we could get this child to be quiet.

Ever since the arrival of said swing, our household has been one of peace and serenity (as peaceful and serene as a house with a two month old baby can be). Heaven forbid it ever breaks and I’m forced to use a vibrator to solve the problem.

See “Sex and the City” episode Critical Condition. Season 5, Episode 6.

Adventures in Boobland

Breastfeeding has been an adventure, to say the least. I thought it would be a breeze, and that the tough part was accepting the horrendous changes happening to my boobs in preparation for this feeding commitment. Not only did my breasts triple in size (something my husband found exhilarating, until I chose to purchase a boatload of granny bras for maximum comfort and support. Not so sexy now, eh?) Due to the rapid increase in size, my breasts also became plagued with dark stretch marks, and my areola now look as thought flying saucers have taken refuge on my chest. Seriously, I have never seen nipples so large and dark, I assumed all these changes meant that my body was prepping to become the ultimate nursing machine. Alas. No such luck.

Turns out that although my areolae were now the size of Jupiter, my nipples were too small and unassuming for my daughter to get a proper latch. As though I needed to have my nipples protruding forcefully out of my shirt whenever I caught a cool breeze, screaming, “Chicken’s done!” And as if I had not been humiliated enough, I had to endure the hospital’s lactation consultant poking and prodding my nips, trying to get them to jut out farther, all the while my daughter screaming and writhing like a little naked mole rat, hungry and unable to figure out why no one was remedying that problem. After making it to second base with the consultant, she determined that synthetic nipples were going to be necessary and whipped out nipple shields. Essentially, nipple shields are like the ultimate, plastic, jumbo nipple, guaranteeing your child has NO ISSUE figuring out where to take her hourly snack. After practice suctioning these bad boys on to my chest, adding to the already ridiculous appearance of my breasts, Addison finally found the motherload! For me, however, it felt like a little baby dinosaur was sucking the life force out of me. I sat in the hospital bed, starring at my husband in horror, kicking my legs back and forth to try to distract myself from the discomfort, all the while thrilled that she had FINALLY caught on and was blissfully eating. My child wasn’t going to starve. Hallelujah! My nipples, on the other hand, they might never recover from serving as a human pacifier slash vending machine.

Fortunately, now that I spend close to four hours a day with my babe suctioned on to my chest, I’ve found interesting ways to entertain myself. Thank you, Apple, for the many iPhone applications that now amuse me during the wee hours of the morning as I lie in wait for my hungry bug to fill her belly. I don’t think I’ve ever read so many articles from the New York Times, or spent so much time Twittering and Facebooking, all from my mobile phone. And best of all, I am becoming a master at Sudoku! I’m just grateful that I live in a digital age where it’s so easy to reach the outside world with the navigation of only one hand and another being strapped to my body.

Multitasking is swell.

My DOULA-oblongata

I grew up in a household where the word “modesty” was not in our vocabulary. Our upstairs hallway was lined with nude black and white photographs, and my parents’ bedroom was a gallery of female nude paintings courtesy of my great-grandfather. To say the least, all my more reserved` friends would cringe and walk through the upstairs like a horse with blinders on to avoid confronting these naked figures. I, however, just accepted it as completely normal. I’ve never been shy about discussing my bodily functions, sexuality, etc. thanks to this liberal upbringing where nudity was a common occurrence and it wasn’t unusual to pee with the door swung WIDE open. One would think that this childhood would have prepared me for the joys of pregnancy and childbirth where your body is completely outside your control and you’re constantly required to let all sense of dignity and modesty fly out the window in front of complete strangers. ONE WOULD THINK!

Four weeks after the au natural delivery of my whale-of-a-daughter (9lbs!) with back labor, I’m still horrified by the number of people that bore witness to the most difficult, intense experience of my life. One where I writhed and screamed in pain through each contraction, pooped while pushing, tore as she entered the world, and popped an astounding number of blood vessels in my face during the process… all naked and spread eagle. To say the least, I did not birth gracefully.

To be honest, I can’t imagine that many women DO birth gracefully, but I just wish the entire birthing process and all its lovely little details was something that was talked about more openly. Apparently, most women poop during labor. A heads up would have been appreciated! Apparently, women bleed and pass golf ball sized blood clots for weeks after labor all while rocking a foot of padding between their legs cradled by net underwear. Again, could have used a heads up. And apparently, the first bowel movement after vaginal delivery is a fear-inducing event that requires coaching by my already traumatized husband. Why was there no warning?

Each and every person is here on this earth because some woman bravely and probably, ungracefully, welcomed him or her into the world. So why is childbirth still such a mystery? Looking back on the experience, I am incredibly grateful for the presence of not only my husband, my partner of almost six years, my little sister, the woman who knows me best in the world, but also my doula (A whatta? Medulla oblongata? It’s okay. That response is tres typique!), an amazingly rational, experienced birth coach who guided me through the terrifying process that is labor and delivery and made it a little less scary and more manageable. I wish every woman knew about the service, support and EDUCATION that a doula could offer her. Hands down, hiring a doula was the best decision I made during my pregnancy, and I would recommend every pregnant woman do likewise. While there were still some surprises on D-day, I know I was far more prepared and educated thanks to her guidance. Bless you, Tracy Hartley!

To learn more and for help finding a doula in your area visit www.dona.org, Doulas of North America.

Welcome to Motherhood.

As I sit down to write this, I’m coming off of a rough night with my little one, a night where she decided that she had no intention of resting, sleeping or keeping that deceptively cute mouth shut… for the ENTIRE evening. I’ve come to realize that in my former life, my life pre-mommyhood, every night with an infant would have been described as “rough. How quickly my expectations have changed now that I’m a parent. Before May 18, 2009, any evening that I didn’t receive my standard 8-10 hours of slumber validated a pot of coffee and a free pass to behave like Cruella Deville. I want to turn to that naive former self and scream, “LADY, You have no idea what’s coming!“ A good night now is any evening where I get three to four consecutive hours of sleep before being awoken by violent baby howls demanding a boob, MY boob specifically, to sooth her screams. An even better evening is one where it only takes an hour to rock her back to sleep so I can squeeze in a few more brief hours of shuteye. There are evenings, however, where my bug just wants to party it up from 2am-5am, and sleep is NOT on the agenda. In these instances, I bounce around the house in my milk stained nursing bra (a sad attempt to support my now saggy, leaky, stretch-mark-ridden-boobs), belly bandit (an even more feeble attempt to hide the lingering pregnancy ponch), granny panties (still lined with a pad the size of Texas) and fuzzy slippers, acting as a human rocking chair. I am a vision!

Like so much of new motherhood, I’ve lowered all standards for my personal physique and dignity. At age 26, it’s been challenging to let go of my 20-something body to make way for one rocked my hormones and stuck in a state of perpetual exhaustion, breasts that flow like Niagara and now act as a vending machine, a vagina literally torn apart as my 9 pound plus babe entered the world Sunny Side Up, and an abdominal area that may never recover despite a religious commitment to crunches. What’s been most fascinating about this new life and body is that the transition has been completely free from regret. Do I sometimes feel angry and resentful? Absolutely. And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean I don’t love my child, only that I am human. I wish more mothers would realize this. But the joy and love that has entered my life by the presence of this squirming, pooping, crying little bug is unmatched. My heart aches it is so full, and it is worth every sleepless night, every drooping boob and every ounce of pain it took to welcome her into the world. In just two short months, it’s become more than apparent that motherhood is the most difficult job in the world, but also the most rewarding.

Blog a la Cart

I’m a new mom. Creating a blog. How original.

While I consider blogging to generally be an incredibly self-serving and self-centered endeavor, now that 99% of my day is devoted to a pooping, screaming, drooling, wriggling little bug, I understand the compulsion. This will be my outlet. We are launching with the help of my wife’s SEO reseller business which will make this whole thing worth it I think!

Warning: This blog will be unfocused. I may write about my little munchkin, the love of my life despite all activity that would commonly repel such affections. Or my wacky dog and her addiction to crack, and by crack I mean her tennis ball. Or my lil green biz and helping out Mama Earth (read shameless self-promotion. Check out: www.greeneyed.com! It’s the GREATEST WEBSITE EVER! The BEST REUSABLE BAG IN THE WORLD!!! No, but seriously, go buy a bag. The best bag. E-V-E-R). Or my crafting compulsion (OCD medicated by knitting, sewing, needlepointing, etc). Or my obsession with the sun and thus southern california and thus my current place of residence despite my partners’s midwest roots and longing for grey, dreary, rainy, miserable, gloomy days (read life in New England).

Considering my brain went out with the placenta, this will be a lovely attempt at repairing the synapses. Or just some word vomit.

Enjoy!