Damn you Disney...

When I was a little girl this always made me cry. And now, as a twenty-something with a child, it gets me even more.




'08

Since I haven't talked about boobs enough...

I read a lot of blogs. As of late, at least among the "mommy blogs" there is one heated debate and one heated debate only- breastfeeding. It's the subject that never dies, is never taken lightly (and perhaps it shouldn't be), and since I've started my blog I've never really touched on the topic. But here for the first and last time on Lullabies, I'm going to go ahead and "go there".

My name is Amanda and I breastfed for 6 weeks.

Some people gave me a pat on the back for the good ol' college try. Some insisted that I "could go longer you know." And I yes I did and do know. Some got up on a high horse and shook their heads down uponeth the scourge of the Earth. Some gave me support. More did the former.

Let me go on record as stating- I think breastfeeding is in fact the best thing you can do for your baby after they're born. It's scientifically been proven as the absolute best nourishment, it can help bonding, and there are multiple benefits for mother as well. But not all experiences are created equal.

My birth process was one great big ball of "oh, you want this? Well the exact OPPOSITE is going to happen." I wanted a vaginal birth and fought and pushed until I threw up, until I was so exhausted I needed an oxygen mask and six people to assist me. When Jack's heart rate started dropping and when his head was nowhere near close enough despite three hours of the most strenuous pushing, they called the shot and prepped me for a c-section as I cried in fear of the unknown, of the loss of the idea that I had about birth and how mine would go. My epidural (oooohhh, she used pain relief for a watermelon coming out of her vag for the first time ever! What a weak woman!) was barely hanging in there, the general anesthesia wasn't enough and if you'd like to know what the pinch of the scalpel feels like towards the end of the incision or what a persons hands feel like entering your body through your stomach feel like, just let me know. When I let the doctors know, they put me under completely.
I woke up probably an hour or so later. War torn territory, stitches and arms so sore I could barely hold my own baby. My body had never been in so much pain. To feel like you're dying and be presented with life, all swaddled in pastel stripped blankets, watery eyed and new...well, that's a different post entirely.
After I greeted Jack for the first time, I was presented with the next challenge- breastfeeding.
I thought it would be easy. I knew it was the most natural thing in the world so "why the hell is this not working?! Give it to me straight lady, are my tits broken?!" But they weren't, not entirely anyway. It was just harder than everybody had waxed poetic about. And it continued to be hard all the way through.
I cringed at every feeding time, which was always. My milk took a tad bit longer than I had thought. Once my boobs looked like Pamela Anderson's on roids I knew it was there, and then I thought it would get easier. I thought wrong. My boobs hurt so bad at every feeding, like my nipples were cracking open and he was sucking my blood like a vampire. And he was insatiable, since I made next to nothing milk wise. 4 oz. every 4-5 hours makes for a hungry baby, a tired mom, pain, frustration and sadness. I talked to consultants, I talked to my pediatrician and by the 6 week mark, after very little progress, after my breast pump threatened carpal tunnel and I threatened the pump and my body and Greg and whatever powers that be that were playing this cruel joke on me, I finally buckled and we took the drive to Target to buy our first can of formula, my eyes holding back tears from feeling like a failure.
And so it went. Jack ate when he needed to and to satisfaction. He grew and developed on point, and he only got sick with the croup once when it was going around the fall/winter of '08. I should have been happy with that. Happy that he's such a healthy boy and beaming with life every day. But I'll never forget the feelings I felt those first weeks of his life and I resent that if I had just not been inundated with judgement from other women, I would have enjoyed a time that he outgrew so fast. And I'll never let women get to me like that again.


I don't give a rats ass about what choices you decide to make as a parent. I've got decisions I need to make and a toddler I have to raise which is quite enough in and of itself. And if you're a woman that gets off on judging people for their choices because you think you're just so perfect, than I'm going to go ahead and say something I should have said three years ago- FUCK YOU. I don't suffer fools lightly anymore.
I believe in educating yourself about breastfeeding and in trying it and I believe in supporting one another if that doesn't work out. There are soooooo many other variables in life to consider other than breastfeeding. Yes it is an important thing but it isn't THE important thing. I believe it takes all kinds and that the world isn't black and white. I'm amazed I haven't completely given up on the idea of sisterhood, hell even just humanity, considering the things I've read, seen, experienced from other people, specifically women. But I won't give up. Let's be friends, sisters, women, mothers, wives and human beings. And let's support one another in the choices we all make in those roles. Perhaps I'm naive, but I feel that that shouldn't be so hard.

What do you think?

Vodka after bedtime...

I've been a pretty social person these last couple months. I think it started with all the insane visiting during the holidays and shuffling back and forth from tables of food, arms of relatives, toasts, resolutions. I suppose it left me with an excess of momentum, which I never previously experienced as a lifelong hermit. Up until December, eventful nights for me were junk food, 30 Rock and maybe a whooppie sesh with the husband. That was until I inadvertently made the resolution to take back my social life. I figured I owed it to myself after oh, 3 or so years of social ineptitude/ambivalence.
Of course, being a mother I'm oft plagued with the 'ol maternal guilt. Am I hurting him by going out once a week or so? Does he miss me? Am I being selfish? I usually leave after tucking Jack in bed, after reading him "Goodnight Moon" for the umpteenth time, safe, sleeping under the watch of his father. I don't want him to know I'm not going to be here to squash any monsters that arise in dreams.
After mulling it over, guilt tripping myself, talking about it with Greg and friends and in-law's and the neighbors cat, I think I've let it go. I think that I've finally allowed myself to have more feelings outside of our safe, cozy, familial nook.
I go out because sometimes I like to feel the bass, the kick drum, the energy of a friend's band vibrating through the room. I go out to laugh at things people say, in real life, rather than the internet. I go out to lose my equilibrium for a few hours, find it again and nurse it back to health, tonight I'm my own baby. I go out for autonomy. I go out to see faces I haven't seen in days, months, years. But more than that, I go out to come back in. To take off foot crippling heels and put on pajama's and to feel a sense of relief instead of the contempt of monotony. To look at sleeping faces and feel like I'm home. To feel like maybe next weekend 30 Rock, junk food and whooppie sesh's are exactly what the doctor ordered.

I think every mom, woman, deserves that. Guilt-free, judgment free. Have your vodka, your cake. May your "walk of shame" be to the crib and the coffee maker.

The park:1, Jack:0

Only in motherhood can you take pictures of sleeping people and not be considered a "weirdo". This is my nightly ritual. A stroke of the hair, replacing of the blanket and, at times, a flash of the camera.

Goodnight Jack.

How To Fight Lonliness...

Greg is heading up to Phoenix for a night of guy stuff with his brother, and Jack is in the care of my uber awesome in-laws. We agreed that we all need time to get our own respective freaks on. Something I've needed for a long time. About two years or so long. Or so I thought.

I have plans tonight, I keep reminding myself, because if I don't remind myself the crushing feeling of being alone in this apartment will bring me down. Have I become co-dependent on my family?

I used to be independent to a fault. Always ready to fly off on my own. Take the bus downtown and walk around aimlessly, i-pod to my ears, carelessness to my heart. I hated answering to anyone (and in fact avoided a cell phone for years because of this). I reveled in anonymity. I slept in and ate dinner when I wanted. I shopped by myself and watched movies alone. I loved it all. Fast-forward (very fast) and now I've grown accustomed to always being surrounded by people, by chores, by responsibility, life, motherhood and spousehood. I've catered to so many needs for so long that I've forgotten what it's like to have my own. It's strange, sad and true.

I am not a nomad
I am not a rocket man
I was born a housecat
By the sleight of my mother's hand

Today I'll answer again to nobody but myself. I'll watch movies and eat dinner without being interrupted or pulled at. I'll move at my pace and invent my own time. If only I can stop counting down the hours until little hands and wedding rings come knocking on my door.