Let's pretend for a minute that you woke up in the middle of the night screaming for me because you pooped your pants. Like, really pooped your pants a lot.
Because I presumably love you, I clean you up - while you scream in my face the entire time. I'll go ahead and chalk that up to the fact that no one likes to sleep in an inescapable container of their own poop.
Now, let's assume you're a bit of a hog and since you're awake, you decide you might like a little snack and who can blame you really. I just cleaned up a good portion of your body weight; so it stands to reason you would be a little peckish.
While we're at it, let's conjecture that your favorite meal is milk...from my breast. And we all know I'm a giver. So I get us set up in a comfy chair because it's 3 in the morning and I want you to have a full stomach so you can go back to enjoying your blissful dreams.
To recap our imaginary scenario: It's 3 AM. I've cleaned your poop mess. I'm getting ready to feed you because you're hungry.
Why, I ask you, why would you thank me with a titty twister?
Showing posts with label Breast Feeding. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Breast Feeding. Show all posts
Monday, December 5, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Hippie Membership Cancelled
Dear Breastfeeding,
Suck it (pun totally intended...unless it wasn't funny).
Hearts and sparkles,
Mrs. D-Zo
Look, I'm not a touchy-feely person. In fact, I'm the awkward person you meet who never goes in for the hug. I have to know someone an average of 25 years to feel comfortable hugging them. You could be coming at me with wide open arms and I will place my hand shaker firmly in position. Because hugging is confining and what are you doing behind my back anyway Marcus Brutus?
Cuddling? There is a reason the bed is this big. Get on your side unless you want to be shanked.
During The Bean's Vomitpalooza last week we had to use a bottle so I could regulate how much milk she was getting at each feeding. More than 1.5 ounces and the boob juice would gush forth...from her. So we pumped, we measured, we fed, we didn't throw up.
What I'm about to say will oust me from the Hippie Mom Club for life.
I didn't miss breastfeeding for one second. Not a one.
The Bean has inherited my aloofness and her father's desire to not.miss.anything.ever.or.I.might.die. So breastfeeding for us is not this dreamy bonding time where we are surrounded by flying fairies, singing squirrels and dancing cupcakes. There are no snuggles, coy gurgles or shared secrets.
It's a business transaction. Boob. Milk. Make it happen.
In fact, I find it downright intrusive, especially since The Bean has a new found fondness for swinging from my nose hairs, or eyelids, or whatever else she can grasp with her shockingly strong grip.
This past week was liberating.
I'm sure mothers around the world are gasping, but it's the truth. And if I feel this way, there is bound to be one other mother out there ready to pull her hair out strand by strand because she is tethered to whipping her boobs out every two hours for someone who doesn't even have the courtesy to check my schedule for important events like conference calls, eating chocolate or contemplating if potato chips would indeed make the best hot dog topping.
It's empowering being able to whip your boobs out on your schedule.
Now unbunch your panties. She still gets breast milk only (I haven't let go of all my hippie tendencies) and we still feed straight from the hose in the morning and evenings, but we are using the bottle more and more.
My name is Mrs. D-Zo and I do not enjoy breastfeeding. Bite me.
Suck it (pun totally intended...unless it wasn't funny).
Hearts and sparkles,
Mrs. D-Zo
Look, I'm not a touchy-feely person. In fact, I'm the awkward person you meet who never goes in for the hug. I have to know someone an average of 25 years to feel comfortable hugging them. You could be coming at me with wide open arms and I will place my hand shaker firmly in position. Because hugging is confining and what are you doing behind my back anyway Marcus Brutus?
Cuddling? There is a reason the bed is this big. Get on your side unless you want to be shanked.
During The Bean's Vomitpalooza last week we had to use a bottle so I could regulate how much milk she was getting at each feeding. More than 1.5 ounces and the boob juice would gush forth...from her. So we pumped, we measured, we fed, we didn't throw up.
What I'm about to say will oust me from the Hippie Mom Club for life.
I didn't miss breastfeeding for one second. Not a one.
The Bean has inherited my aloofness and her father's desire to not.miss.anything.ever.or.I.might.die. So breastfeeding for us is not this dreamy bonding time where we are surrounded by flying fairies, singing squirrels and dancing cupcakes. There are no snuggles, coy gurgles or shared secrets.
It's a business transaction. Boob. Milk. Make it happen.
In fact, I find it downright intrusive, especially since The Bean has a new found fondness for swinging from my nose hairs, or eyelids, or whatever else she can grasp with her shockingly strong grip.
This past week was liberating.
I'm sure mothers around the world are gasping, but it's the truth. And if I feel this way, there is bound to be one other mother out there ready to pull her hair out strand by strand because she is tethered to whipping her boobs out every two hours for someone who doesn't even have the courtesy to check my schedule for important events like conference calls, eating chocolate or contemplating if potato chips would indeed make the best hot dog topping.
It's empowering being able to whip your boobs out on your schedule.
Now unbunch your panties. She still gets breast milk only (I haven't let go of all my hippie tendencies) and we still feed straight from the hose in the morning and evenings, but we are using the bottle more and more.
My name is Mrs. D-Zo and I do not enjoy breastfeeding. Bite me.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Wherein I Start Writing about Parenthood Again - Like I Was Supposed to Be Doing
Depending on how you look at it, I hit an all-time high or an all-time low in my parenting the other night. I'm going with all-time high owing to the ingenuity and on-the-spot decision-making I exhibited. Since this is my blog and my story, my opinion is the one that counts.
All you mothers should totally be taking this stance too...blog or no blog. Last time I checked the thesaurus I could not find where 'parenthood' was a synonym for 'everyone should judge me for the choices I make when raising MY child because someone who spends less than 24 HOURS A DAY with my child is probably way more informed than I am and should voice their opinion even if I didn't ask for it."
Wow. Where was I?
All-time high.
I go shopping for myself roughly once every six and a half years. Not because I don't have the time or the money (though there's not much of either), but because I hate it. There's the crowds of people who make you wonder how they managed to get out of their house alive, the sorting through 1,343,587 items of clothes to find the one piece that makes you look less fat than all the others and the 'I most definitely would rather be sleeping' factor.
So when I needed to go buy a new pair of shoes for an upcoming event, I was less than enthusiastic.
The shopping isn't the focus of this story, but I will have you know my superpower is going to the discount shoe store and finding the three pairs of shoes NOT on any sort of sale and with no discount from their designer counterpart. And of course, I had to have all three. I'll also have you know, I have since returned two of those pairs of shoes and can now afford to eat the rest of this week.
The point is, I was out of my house and in a public place that was not a doctor's office (which seems to be the only reason I leave the house these days). This was a pretty big deal.
So when the girlfriend I was with suggested we grab a quick cocktail at the end of our shopping jaunt, I got caught up in the moment and agreed.
Even though The Bean was with me. Even though she would be hungry in mere minutes. Even though it was nearing bedtime.
I was desperate to feel like myself for half an hour. Not Mama. Not Wife. Not Worker X at Company Y. Just me.
We sat down, placed our orders and immediately the judge machine in my head whirred to life. "You know The Bean is about to be hungry and as soon as you have this drink, you won't be able to feed her for two hours. There isn't a bottle of pumped milk at home so you're going to have to use formula. It's her bedtime Right. Now. You're messing with the schedule just as soon as you created it. Why are you doing this, you selfish beast of a woman. Shame. SHAME. SHAME."
And then The Bean started fussing.
So before our drinks came, I went to the restroom to change her diaper. At least I could solve one issue.
The changing table was inside the handicap stall - which is a critical piece of information. You see, once The Bean was on the table and I was bending over her to change her diaper, I noticed something. Something very interesting.
Her head was at boob level.
Oh yes I did.
5 minutes later, The Bean was changed and had enough of a snack to fall asleep while Mama enjoyed her cocktail and good conversation related to nothing about children, work or husbands.
Sometimes you just need to press the sanity reset button. Even when you feel insane doing so.
All you mothers should totally be taking this stance too...blog or no blog. Last time I checked the thesaurus I could not find where 'parenthood' was a synonym for 'everyone should judge me for the choices I make when raising MY child because someone who spends less than 24 HOURS A DAY with my child is probably way more informed than I am and should voice their opinion even if I didn't ask for it."
Wow. Where was I?
All-time high.
I go shopping for myself roughly once every six and a half years. Not because I don't have the time or the money (though there's not much of either), but because I hate it. There's the crowds of people who make you wonder how they managed to get out of their house alive, the sorting through 1,343,587 items of clothes to find the one piece that makes you look less fat than all the others and the 'I most definitely would rather be sleeping' factor.
So when I needed to go buy a new pair of shoes for an upcoming event, I was less than enthusiastic.
The shopping isn't the focus of this story, but I will have you know my superpower is going to the discount shoe store and finding the three pairs of shoes NOT on any sort of sale and with no discount from their designer counterpart. And of course, I had to have all three. I'll also have you know, I have since returned two of those pairs of shoes and can now afford to eat the rest of this week.
The point is, I was out of my house and in a public place that was not a doctor's office (which seems to be the only reason I leave the house these days). This was a pretty big deal.
So when the girlfriend I was with suggested we grab a quick cocktail at the end of our shopping jaunt, I got caught up in the moment and agreed.
Even though The Bean was with me. Even though she would be hungry in mere minutes. Even though it was nearing bedtime.
I was desperate to feel like myself for half an hour. Not Mama. Not Wife. Not Worker X at Company Y. Just me.
We sat down, placed our orders and immediately the judge machine in my head whirred to life. "You know The Bean is about to be hungry and as soon as you have this drink, you won't be able to feed her for two hours. There isn't a bottle of pumped milk at home so you're going to have to use formula. It's her bedtime Right. Now. You're messing with the schedule just as soon as you created it. Why are you doing this, you selfish beast of a woman. Shame. SHAME. SHAME."
And then The Bean started fussing.
So before our drinks came, I went to the restroom to change her diaper. At least I could solve one issue.
The changing table was inside the handicap stall - which is a critical piece of information. You see, once The Bean was on the table and I was bending over her to change her diaper, I noticed something. Something very interesting.
Her head was at boob level.
Oh yes I did.
5 minutes later, The Bean was changed and had enough of a snack to fall asleep while Mama enjoyed her cocktail and good conversation related to nothing about children, work or husbands.
Sometimes you just need to press the sanity reset button. Even when you feel insane doing so.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Lessons in Breastfeeding
Do not eat 5 pounds of fresh tomatoes over the course of three days.
Your child will scream at you for 10 hours straight.
Thank god for previously pumped frozen breast milk. And wine.
Your child will scream at you for 10 hours straight.
Thank god for previously pumped frozen breast milk. And wine.
Monday, August 15, 2011
I Didn't Win, But I Didn't Lose...But Then I Lost
Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck...
I love that people try to help. Really, I do. But there's the old adage about "no good deed..."
In preparation for our trip to Texas, I was a breast-pumping fool. I'm not sure what I thought, but I was pretty convinced having roughly 405 bottles of milk on hand, just in case, would solve any and all road trip issues.
On our drive out to Texas, a trip we did in two days, I used approximately zero of these bottles.
No worries. You can save and store breast milk and having a stockpile means that if there is a day where I ever discover five minutes for myself, I might actually be able to enjoy a glass of wine or two.
Texas is where Michael's family lives and many of the D-Zo clan came out of the woodwork to meet The Bean. And because The Bean is the cutest thing ever (see Exhibit A, entitled "Bean and Nana"), people were more than happy to hold her, change her, feed her, steal her, what-have-you.
Which means one thing for Mama.
Sleep.
On our first night there, the impossible was going to happen. I was going to have a full night's sleep. People (namely Michael and his mom) were going to take shifts with The Bean so I would be able to sleep from 9 PM to 6 AM...something that has not happened since well before The Bean was on this side of the womb.
I don't mind feeding The Bean every 2-4 hours, but if people are willing to take on the graveyard shift...you jump at that shit.
This was going to be better than Christmas and Free Ice Cream Scoop Day, combined!
At 2 AM I awoke in a pool of drool deep enough to drown a very short chicken [editor's note: it's 3 AM, cut me some slack]. It was clear I had not moved a muscle since my head hit the pillow at 9.
So why the hell was I awake now?
That pool of drool? Turns out it wasn't drool at all. I was leaking. You know, from my boobs.
I knew I would be missing a few feedings because we had bottles and willing folks to feed The Bean. My boobs never got the memo and continued the milk factory production at full steam ahead levels.
And like an overfilled water balloon, I popped.
So there I was at 2 AM...pumping...because, naturally, The Bean was fast asleep having enjoyed a bottle not 20 minutes earlier.
Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck...
I Didn't Win.
However in the interest of full disclosure, I was able to pump in 15 minutes and get right back to bed and sleep until 6 AM as planned.
So I Didn't Lose.
I awoke so well rested. There was nothing I couldn't accomplish that day if I wanted to rustle up any give a damn (I didn't).
I profusely thanked Michael and his mom for letting me sleep. I saw the world as a shiny, happy place of love and possibilities. Glitter was shooting out of my ass and I didn't have one murderous thought all day long.
That afternoon we began our trip back home and pulled into New Orleans for the night.
Everything was business as usual and after dinner we settled in for the night.
When The Bean awoke for her first night feeding at midnight I wanted to shove daggers into my eyes and die.
NO!
My body was in full-fledged revolt mode. It had tasted freedom and normalcy and a brief encounter with non-exhaustion...and it was willing to shank a puppy to get it back.
But I don't have a wet nurse. Or a dry nurse. Or even a clever, dexterous dog who can feed The Bean bottles while I sleep the night away. So I pulled out the boob and we quickly fell back into our routine of feedings every 2-4 hours.
My night of sleep ended up being a tease and threw off my schedule enough to make the next few days hell as I readjusted to my life of "sleep while you can, milk bitch."
So I Lost.
I love that people try to help. Really, I do. But there's the old adage about "no good deed..."
In preparation for our trip to Texas, I was a breast-pumping fool. I'm not sure what I thought, but I was pretty convinced having roughly 405 bottles of milk on hand, just in case, would solve any and all road trip issues.
On our drive out to Texas, a trip we did in two days, I used approximately zero of these bottles.
No worries. You can save and store breast milk and having a stockpile means that if there is a day where I ever discover five minutes for myself, I might actually be able to enjoy a glass of wine or two.
Texas is where Michael's family lives and many of the D-Zo clan came out of the woodwork to meet The Bean. And because The Bean is the cutest thing ever (see Exhibit A, entitled "Bean and Nana"), people were more than happy to hold her, change her, feed her, steal her, what-have-you.
Which means one thing for Mama.
Sleep.
On our first night there, the impossible was going to happen. I was going to have a full night's sleep. People (namely Michael and his mom) were going to take shifts with The Bean so I would be able to sleep from 9 PM to 6 AM...something that has not happened since well before The Bean was on this side of the womb.
I don't mind feeding The Bean every 2-4 hours, but if people are willing to take on the graveyard shift...you jump at that shit.
This was going to be better than Christmas and Free Ice Cream Scoop Day, combined!
At 2 AM I awoke in a pool of drool deep enough to drown a very short chicken [editor's note: it's 3 AM, cut me some slack]. It was clear I had not moved a muscle since my head hit the pillow at 9.
So why the hell was I awake now?
That pool of drool? Turns out it wasn't drool at all. I was leaking. You know, from my boobs.
I knew I would be missing a few feedings because we had bottles and willing folks to feed The Bean. My boobs never got the memo and continued the milk factory production at full steam ahead levels.
And like an overfilled water balloon, I popped.
So there I was at 2 AM...pumping...because, naturally, The Bean was fast asleep having enjoyed a bottle not 20 minutes earlier.
Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck, Whirrr Suck...
I Didn't Win.
However in the interest of full disclosure, I was able to pump in 15 minutes and get right back to bed and sleep until 6 AM as planned.
So I Didn't Lose.
I awoke so well rested. There was nothing I couldn't accomplish that day if I wanted to rustle up any give a damn (I didn't).
I profusely thanked Michael and his mom for letting me sleep. I saw the world as a shiny, happy place of love and possibilities. Glitter was shooting out of my ass and I didn't have one murderous thought all day long.
That afternoon we began our trip back home and pulled into New Orleans for the night.
Everything was business as usual and after dinner we settled in for the night.
When The Bean awoke for her first night feeding at midnight I wanted to shove daggers into my eyes and die.
NO!
My body was in full-fledged revolt mode. It had tasted freedom and normalcy and a brief encounter with non-exhaustion...and it was willing to shank a puppy to get it back.
But I don't have a wet nurse. Or a dry nurse. Or even a clever, dexterous dog who can feed The Bean bottles while I sleep the night away. So I pulled out the boob and we quickly fell back into our routine of feedings every 2-4 hours.
My night of sleep ended up being a tease and threw off my schedule enough to make the next few days hell as I readjusted to my life of "sleep while you can, milk bitch."
So I Lost.
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