Blog a la Cart

Month: September, 2009

Men in pink.

The Bug may have been born in the 90210, but with family like this (i.e. preppy men in pink polos) and a nickname like “Sunny,” her New England roots are bound to take hold.

We shall be schooling her on the lessons of a tea party soon enough.

pink

pink2

And send a thank you note… in cursive.

1 year.

1 year.

What an utterly life-altering and earth shattering year it’s been.

We were told we couldn’t conceive. But despite the odds, here we are.

Last year at this time, my heart was bursting with love. I could not have imagined being filled with more joy and contentment.

Until we created an “us.”

Our “us” has given me more love than I ever knew was possible.

US

I mean these words even more today than I did when they were spoken one year ago:

In this place where it all began, on this day when it all started, I promise, I will…

Love you as my best friend, my other half, my love for life. I will share my whole self, my dreams, and the strength to make them constant with you.

Each day, I will choose to love you when I wake, I will choose to love you as we fall asleep, and through all the uncertainties of the future, and the pressures of the present, I will love you.

I will give my deepest care, compassion and understanding, my constant comfort, all my strength and support, all my joy and happiness, to make your life more beautiful.

I will celebrate your triumphs; guide you through life’s stumbles, my hand in yours.

I will listen intently to what you have to say, I will speak respectfully – always with your best interest at heart. I will give freely of myself – I will compromise.

I will highlight your strengths, I will embrace your weaknesses, and I will be the best version of myself with you. I will never ask you to change who you are.

And as our love evolves, and we grow together, I will let our love mature.

I will cheer you on; I will be a source of constant encouragement. I will be the person who is always on your side.

No matter the distance, or length of time, I will miss you terribly when we are apart.

I will never give up on you; I will always fight for us. I will be your sanctuary.

As I have given you my hand to hold, I give you my life to keep.  Forever and always. I do and I will.

6 September 2008

It feels so good when it hits your lips.

Yesterday we celebrated James’ 26th birthday. It’s hard to believe that six years ago, he was just a red-faced-drunk 20 year old that I met at a college birthday party in the bowels of a dank dormitory. Ah, we’ve come so far.

Or have we?

beer doda

beer doda1

My dad came to visit (read: free babysitter), and we went out to lunch to celebrate the day. The boys got beer. And lots of it. When the waiter asked, “Small or large?” I don’t think this is what they were expecting.

That’s a lie, this is probably EXACTLY what they envisioned. The waiter offered to put the brews in “ice buckets” to keep them cool in the roasty sun. No need. They drank them swiftly enough so as not to be effected by the heat of the day.

And apparently, Doda is promoting underaged drinking. The wee one was HIGHLY intrigued by the cool beer glass that was larger than her person. She kept lurching forward toward the glass and pulling it to her lips the way she does with any and all objects that reach her grasp. We’ve entered that phase, where EVERYTHING goes into the mouth. Cleanliness and sanitation are now mere utopian concepts in our household. We did let her place the glass to her mouth, because it feels so good when it hits your lips, but minimal brew was imbibed. Promise.

beer baby

Don’t judge the drunk baby too harshly.

Ceremonial burning.

I imagine that my dealings with the SUPER NIPPLE are comparable to what life would be like if the Bug didn’t LOATH pacifiers (binkys? fufus?) and rocket them across the room when ever offered in an attempt to sooth her cries.

A GIANT PAIN IN THE ASS, that’s what.

From the beginning, the nipple shield has been a proverbial thorn in my proverbial side. Not only does it draw extra and unnecessary attention to my bare breast (I can just hear a parent trying to explain to their traumatized child that I am not an alien with a JUMBO clear nipple who’s come to earth to poison babies with my alien milk), it often is pushed, launched, THROWN off my person and onto the filthy floors of our dog-hair-ridden home or worse, public restrooms or even the dirt of a nearby lawn if nursing en plein air (yeah, just call me a flanurse rather than flaneur). The hassle of tending to the dirtied nipple shield while managing a hungry babe is anything but pleasant. I see why parents just shove that binky in their mouth and then offer it to their child, all, hey, if it’s clean enough for me!

In the middle of the night, the shield became a particular hurdle as James and I both fumbled around half-awake with the light of the iPhone to try and position synthetic nipple onto human nipple and then guide our little naked-mole-rat to the motherload. If I’d forgotten to put the nipple shield by the bedside table, minutes of precious sleep would be lost trying to locate a CLEAR object in the pitch black house. A fun game we came to call, WHERE’S SUPPER NIPPLE?

And the most frustrating aspect of this particular device was the gallons of my own bodily fluid that would get POURED all over my person whenever Addison decided to pull off the boob (read: FREQUENTLY). The shield would pool with milk, and then, SPLASH, Bug and I would share a mutual milky shower. Further sticking us together in a very literal sense.

Well, folks, today is the day that we may officially bid farewell to the SUPER NIPPLE! The Bug and I have conquered nursing au natural- and I could weep with joy from this development. OUR LIVES HAVE BEEN REVOLUTIONIZED! I no longer have to panic every time I leave the house with baby and forget the shield. Starvation or making mommy’s life miserable will no longer be a repercussion of such forgetfulness. I need not fret about cleansing and keeping track of that sneaky bugger. And I’ll sleep AT LEAST an extra 5-10 minutes a night, and yo, when you’re netting meager hours, minutes are comparable to centuries.

Today we shall hold a ceremonial burning of the nipple shield. Or perhaps I’ll just let Ursa chew it to bits the next time she gets her slobbery paws on it, something we’ve come to anticipate with some frequency.

Actually, those suckers are $8 a pop, so I’ll scurry them away in case any future children similarly struggle with my anatomy (or lack thereof).

Now we’re off to play in our baby pool. A necessary addition to our lives thanks to this insufferable HEAT! Maybe I’ll whip out a boob and nurse in the pool, because GUESS WHAT?! I can!

pool

NATURAL NIPS, FUCK YEAH!

The Bug among her fellow Bugs.

We may be taking her nickname a little too seriously. You are witnessing the Bug among her array of bug rattles on her bug playmat.

And, I may or may not have received a Lady Bug bedazzled shower cap from my mother today.

Two words: Next. Level.

bug

The unexpected.

Motherhood has come with a whole host of unexpected lessons and experiences. While I like to think of myself as an information hungry over-achiever, and I, consequently, read every parenting/baby/pregnancy/nursing/boob/vagina book I could get my hands on while preggo, I’ve come to find that there are many experiences to which the written word cannot do justice. Because what can truly prepare you for motherhood?! NOTHING! That’s what. It’s a trial by fire exercise. Every. Damn. Day.

Here’s a few thoughts on breastfeeding and yes, my boobs, that I couldn’t have seen coming even with the  aid of the Hubble Telescope and a healthy dose of feminism:

I never could have anticipated needing to adjust my ENTIRE wardrobe to accommodate my now overflowing rack. I know, you’re thinking, “Isn’t that every chick’s dream? BIG HOOTERS?!” Yeah, big hooters that sag, come complete with lava-like stretch marks, flying saucer areola, and enough bodily fluids to feed a small nation? I think not. Unless you think expressing breastmilk is fun party trick or that nip stains are TOTALLY a conversation starter, I’d say negative. Look, before pregnancy and breastfeeding, my boobs were a non-event. Not too small, not too big, just right. Straight up Goldie Locks. They didn’t distract. They didn’t hinder my clothing repertoire. They just were. A handful. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Okay, you get the idea.

NOW? Well, now I have to not only worry about my access to them (because being able to flash a boob in a hot second is of utmost importance when you only have 10 minutes to pump during a class break, k? Or a screaming, hungry infant, that too), but I have to worry that I’m not walking around like Tits McGee offending everyone with my larger-than-life nipples that like to peep out of shirts that were previously acceptable enough for a church. Yes, as in Ashley’s boobs pre-Bug would not have traumatized the Baby Jesus. Not now, folks. Now my nipples want to greet every passing stranger, EVEN JESUS, with a little HI, HELLO, DO YOU LIKE THIS DRESS?! I need a straight up birkat to try to contain them and the cleavage that has resulted from my flowing mammary glands.

And on that note, finding private or “suitable” spaces in which to feed or PUMP my engorged chest? Futile. I might as well stand naked in the middle of the USC quad, in broad daylight, during class changes, and hump Tommy Trojan. I would feel less in the spotlight, and would receive far fewer glances of disgust and disapproval. Not to get up on my soap box, but I am LIVING every Women and Gender Studies course I’ve ever taken (that’s a lot). That little critique about our patriarchal, man-loving society not being so friendly, or welcoming, or accommodating to nursing mothers?! ENTIRELY TRUE! And don’t get me started on trying to navigate stairs and doorways to public buildings with the stroller while onlookers awkwardly avert their gaze and shuffle their feet to avoid helping the flustered mother whose nips are waving at them for assistance. I feel for the wheel-chair bound in a whole new capacity. And I mean that seriously.

Today I spent 40 minutes of my day pumping breastmilk while seated on a public toilet. My ass crack has been ripped asunder and my butt cheeks are no longer a pair. I did this because there was literally no other option save standing in a hallway, or whipping it out in the middle of class (I WISH I were that bold) to relieve my aching breasts. See, when the milk comes in, a searing pain rages in your chest, and you can literally feel the ducts raise up into mini-river-like-passageways with a big ol’ dam clogging the flow. You gotta release the dam.

So during a brief 10 minute break during a 3 hour seminar, and then immediately after class, I assumed the position on the porcelian throne. I do hope that my stall mates enjoyed the hum of the pump.

My favorite part of this new ritual is that each Wednesday I pack myself food in a cute little lady bug lunch box to help get me through the 12 hour day. I include ice packs in this box to keep my beverages FROSTY. During that twelve hours, I fill plastic baggies of milk that then get thrown in among the plastic baggies of snack food. I then tote my bodily fluids around campus as though they were a Capri Sun.

For whatever reason, I am amused all day by the vision of my boob milk jostling around with my Cheez-Its. Mainly because no amount of reading could have prepared me for this necessity.

Only in motherhood.