I don’t know why Breast Milk isn’t publicly traded.
We have Gold, Orange Juice, Cattle, why not human milk?! It’s waaay more valuable than Gold.
And yes, I did just capitalize Breast Milk. It’s that freaking important. I’ve long envied those who could either produce such a plentiful amount that it seemed as though they were meant to be Brad & Angie’s nursemaids (btw what is UP with having so many kids and going back to your figure in 6 days? The adopted ones aside, that’s still like 3 or 4 kids, right?!), or those that just couldn’t make enough / didn’t want to nurse, and went straight to formula. What freedom! Oh, to be able to pull out your booby on demand, or to pull out that tiny bottle of Similac, anywhere, anytime.
But what about the plight of the mommy who wants to nurse, but also needs the convenience of a bottle? Why, breast pumps, of course!
And so our saga begins.
Get your mind out of the gutter! Did you forget my new Pope-y motto “Only for procreation, Not for recreation?”
OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD!
I don’t think I can do this anymore! This baby hasn’t stopped crying for the past two hours. I don’t know what’s wrong. Why couldn’t he have started this when my house was still full of people?! My mum just left, Andy has gone to visit his parents, and I’m alone with this tiny creature that just refuses to be happy.
I’ve tried everything. Rocking him gently, swinging him from side to side (maybe I swung too fast?), jigging him up and down, throwing him in the air (am I even allowed to do that?), and the pacifier, which has been thrown to the ground and washed more times than I care to count today.
And the nursing.
And the baby bjorn.
I’m so tired.
Yesterday, I told of how we moved the baby into our bedroom. This comes with a new set of master suite rules:
1.) If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown…let it mellow
You heard me right.
My environmental science professor at school insisted we practice sustainable human waste disposal, best remembered by her mantra “If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down.”
If it’s brown and the flush is going to disturb the baby’s ridiculously short sleep cycle, let that thing disintegrate. You are in trouble if you flush it down. Just think of the good you’re doing for the New York City Waste Management system.
I write this under the cover of my duvet.
I’m tired, but I’m wired. I can’t sleep because I’m so nervous that I’ll have to wake up again as soon as I hit my deepest slumber. This is torturous.
Have I mentioned how our home is a mess?
It’s been taken over by colorful, BULKY, immovable pieces of furniture that clash with our décor. The constantly running washer and dryer provide non-stop background music in our apartment, and I can’t think for a minute. My mind is really fuzzy. Is this the “mommy brain” I keep hearing so much about? Does it end at some point? I feel like my head is filled with marshmallow fluff.
Valentine’s Day sucks.
We’ve never celebrated it as a couple, and I’ve never liked it as an adult. Of course as a teen, it was always “bigger is better.” I’m talking about the size of the stuffed teddy bears I’d receive from my pimply amours, obviously.
As a little girl, Valentine’s Day was the most magical day, full of hearts, pink, and glitter. I didn’t even know there was jewelry involved at this point – imagine! I just knew it was of utmost importance. I remember dragging my mother to the newsagent every year, and insisting on picking out two cards – one for each of my parents. I would pore over the selection and read every single one (much to the amusement of the newsagent, I’m sure, and the chagrin of my mother), just to make sure the message inside perfectly described my feelings for each parent. Eventually my ever-increasingly frustrated mother explained to me that Valentine’s Day is for the mummies and daddies to celebrate together, not for the kiddies. It broke my little heart. I gave up Valentine’s Day in an instant, never looking back. Until today.
Don’t they look lovely? I’m not a “Pinterest Mom” by any stretch of the imagination, but the recent spate of disgusting weather in New York left us stranded at home, and – with little to no belief in the results, on one snowy day in Manhattan, I set out to make homemade Play Doh with […]
This tired, perpetually sleep-deprived, emotional wreck in maternity sweatpants and a spit-up stained hoodie simply can’t be the put-together, stiletto-sharp career woman from a few months ago. Add to that a daily dash of an aftershave-ridden, Zegna-clad husband on a perfectly undeterring schedule, and I’m plagued by skyrocketing insecurities and new realizations about why it is men cheat!
What a difference a day makes…the day before I gave birth I was well dressed, made-up and accessorized. The day after I gave birth (and everyday since then) life has been one moving target; my hair is washed on average once a week, my teeth are brushed on average once a day (Yes, “Ewww” I know. But it’s twice if I can manage to not just fall into bed in between night feedings), and the highlight of my day is getting 20 minutes of beautiful alone time for a scalding hot shower, before applying a generous layer of Lansinoh to my chew-toy boobs, stuffing my ever-so-important sleep bra with matching pads, and donning my freshly laundered button-down pajamas. Freshly laundered because of the well-formed crust of dried breast milk across the front every morning, that is. Ah, motherhood at its finest.
That airplane outfit.
You know the one. That tiny, little, white, button down jersey top, with a Peter Pan collar and airplanes and fluffy clouds picked out in silver embroidery thread. It came with matching grey and white striped trousers and was almost too cute to believe. Of course, while most people were worrying about whether they would attach the car seat properly and whether or not to have the baby circumcised, my number one post-baby priority was his first real outfit. I couldn’t wait to get him out of the white side-snap tees and the striped swaddle cloths, and ugh, don’t even mention that awful beanie. So yes, that airplane outfit – the one I bought when I was a few months pregnant and stared at from time to time, imagining the little body adorably snuggled into it.
That very outfit was the one we were staring at in confusion. How exactly was one supposed to get the baby into it? By now I had become accustomed to outsourcing all my infant needs…
The reflection that stared back at me in the most unflattering hospital bathroom light could absolutely NOT be me (WHY do they do this? If I’m paying upwards of $700 a night for the priviledge of my own hospital room, at least throw a mutha some halogen lighting.)
I wasn’t staring at my face though. I hadn’t yet noticed the lopsided, messy bun with a freaking scrunchie wrapped around it, or the fingerprint smudged glasses. All I saw was an old lady’s stomach. A disgusting wrinkled, darkened, deflated midsection. What the hell happened in there? My tummy looked like a helium balloon that had been left to sag and die. I had been sooo careful throughout my pregnancy. I fully expected to still look 4 months pregnant (hey, almost two years now and counting…ba da dum!) but nobody warned me this is what you actually look like after giving birth!
I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t, because not even in my bathroom did I have a moment of privacy. I wasn’t sure why my mother chose to come to the bathroom with me, but at the moment I could see her reflection behind me in the mirror. She was doing a joyful little jig.
We were in the midst of a triage stare-off. This nurse was plainly irritated by my lack of compliance for a calm workplace environment.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked in disbelief. “The epidural may not be available when you do want it.”
“It’s a trick,” I thought, pleased with myself at having been so sharp even while wincing in pain. Of course they don’t want a screaming preggo in the maternity ward stressing out all the other expectant moms!
“I’ll have it when I’m further along. The next time you examine me.”
“Oh, we won’t be checking how dilated you are for hours. Your water’s broken, so the risk of infection is too high.” And with that, she left.
GULP. Hours? I didn’t know this. That wasn’t on my cheat sheet from birthing class.
“Andy – do NOT let me take the epidural until I really, really need it, okay?”
Andy shifted in his seat and looked at me nervously. “Are, are you sure about that?”
“Yes. It’s for the baby!” I panted, in between contractions.
30 minutes later…