My Boobs Hurt: Breastfeeding Woes

So, I know that breastfeeding can be a controversial issue, and I’m not here to preach. The decision to breastfeed is a personal one, and I would never judge a woman for choosing not to breastfeed. That is HER choice. And I know that some women don’t even get a chance to make that choice, they just aren’t able to. I am thankful that I have been able to successfully breastfeed both of my children, but there have definitely been some ups and downs. That’s what this post is about. So, here it goes…

The thing about breastfeeding is that your boobs are “on call” ALL THE TIME. That’s right, 24 hours a day, your baby has access to the girls and all they have to offer. This seems a little unfair, considering that same baby just took over your body for the last nine months, but, that’s what you sign up for when you decide to breastfeed.
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Stuff My Parents Did Right: Left Me Alone

I think it’s pretty common for people to talk about how their parents fucked up. From petty grievances like, say, being an incredibly embarrassing audience member (from theater to sports) to for-real shit, like abuse, everyone has SOMETHING to say about how their parents fucked up. My grievances, I suppose, for the most part are in the former category. My parents and I managed to butt heads quite a few times over the years (we exist on opposite ends of the political spectrum), and I don’t get my irrational anger from (as my mother would say) a stick or a stone. But I’m okay! A few Things here and there, but fairly well-adjusted and not, you know, an idiot. So, those issues aside (for now), I’d like to take a second to give my parents an internet high-five for doing this thing. And this thing? Was leaving me the fuck alone. Continue reading →

Feminist Fridays: Raising a Not-Douchey Boy

I wanted a girl. I wanted a girl SO BAD I convinced myself that I had one inside of me instead of the boy I knew was in there before I even had that damn ultrasound because I like to pretend I have a sixth sense (I don’t). But I grew up with 2 older half sisters, one younger, uh, full? sister, and a plethora of female friends. My plan was to raise her to be a little badass. Play guitar, read Steinem, fight against the patriarchy, listen to 7 Year Bitch. (Some might have suggested “SPORTS!” but we, as a clan, are not athletically inclined at all.) So when I got that ultrasound, and saw my kid poking at his wiener in utero, I thought: What am I gonna do with a boy? Was he gonna grow up to be like his irresponsible father, unable to grasp the concept of accountability? Could I teach him to respect women, despite what his “boys” might dictate later on? That catcalling WON’T win him any points with the ladies (or with me)? Would he follow in the footsteps of way too many dudes in my family, dudes who enjoyed making comments about other women (for better or for worse) in front of their wives and daughters? Worse yet, would he grow up to be an entitled fucktard who was mean to girls? Or, my worst nightmare, a boy who thinks that what happened in Steubenville was okay because girls who are labeled as “sluts” are asking for it? Cue panic attack.

During my pregnancy, I had already resigned myself to the notion that I would mostly be in charge of the kid’s upbringing. His father is…much like a child himself, a statistic of a broken home that I did NOT want to translate to our son (look at me, being diplomatic). So, when our son was 3, I did what any smart feminist would do and gave his father the boot. He sucked up my money, time, and soul and I knew our son was not being brought up in a happy home, nor one that was teaching him how to accept responsibility for himself. In true feminist fashion, my already amazing friends (both male AND female) stepped up to help me out with childcare, advice, and wine.

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Staying At Home: You Can’t Tell Your Toddler To Fuck Off.

Before I was a stay-at-home mom, I worked in the restaurant industry for years. I did a little bit of everything. I waited tables, bar-tended  managed, manned the take-out, booked bands… Pretty much every position except cook and delivery driver. I started working at my last job at the tender, non-back hurting age of 25. The restaurant and I had a deep love/abiding hatred for each other. I loved making double my rent in one night. I loved the fast pace, and the fact that it was always changing. I had regulars, fostered friendships and had all of the fun. At the same time, I hated people. Nothing makes you more scornful of the general public than having to wait on them. People are terrible. Oh, the horror stories I could tell. Continue reading →

Anecdotes Aren’t Data

So, maybe you’ve read this article about the state of daycare in the US. Maybe you haven’t. Would you like to be incredibly depressed? You would? Awesome. I’ll wait while you take a few minutes to read it. [drums fingers] All done? Wonderful. Here’s a tissue. You’re welcome. It was that last bit, wasn’t it? And all of the other terrible things.

I’m lucky. Very lucky. When I decided to actually follow through with my pregnancy, I did so knowing that I had support. I had support from my friends, and from my family. My parents, while not wealthy, are certainly well-off enough, and kind enough, to help me out of a tight spot if necessary. My child’s father, while not a bastion of support, was (for better or for worse) (probably for worse) still around, and he worked nights, which allowed me to return to work after 6 really fucking short weeks and work 12-14 hour days (after being screwed out of my short-term disability pay and almost being screwed out of my health insurance…but that’s another post for another day). So I wasn’t concerned with the cost of childcare.

But as time wore on, I started noticing things at home. Like how the top shelf of my baking cabinet had been decimated. Or my new Urban Decay (bought on clearance, thankyouverymuch) eyeliner had been smeared on my bathroom wall. I knew my child’s father was not doing his job. Granted, he did work nights, but it was at a bar. And I really REALLY doubt he was forced to stay there til the 5 or 6am at which he normally came home. My then 2 year old son was busting out of the baby gate and having his way with my home. In my kitchen and in my bathroom. Cue heart attack. Finally I said FUCK IT, and managed to hire an old friend of mine to watch E 3 days a week hoping to assuage my fears. It was definitely helpful, and I trusted (and still trust!) her with the care of my child. After I gave E’s dad the boot, I had to find a place for him the remaining days because I knew his father was the most unreliable. After making half-assed arrangements with friends (god bless them) and being late to work more times than I could count, I finally sent him to a co-worker’s sister’s home daycare. It wasn’t a nightmare, but E wasn’t having a great time, and they gave preference to their own (horrible brat) granddaughter over ALL of the other children. I had to come up with a better solution. Continue reading →

A Win’s a Win

Autism changes the way you measure progress. It’s near impossible to compare your child with a “neurotypical” kid. If you try, you’re just going to see the ways in which your child falls short and that’s a disservice to you as a parent and your child as a person. So, normal progress charts are thrown out. Your victories are small and hard fought and usually short-lived, but when it happens, when that one thing you’ve been working on finally clicks, goodness does it feel amazing.

We’ve lived together as a family for almost a year and it feels like no time at all until I think about the boys last summer and the tiny changes we’ve made. Things that may not seem like much on the big scale, but in our house they were monuments. Little things that make me feel like a good parent, even when my throat is about hoarse from screaming and I’m looking at the dog’s crate as a reasonable timeout zone.

Charlie eats vegetables now. Before, if it was green, it wasn’t eaten. Now I can make him a salad and he’s happy. Right now he’s tearing up some baby carrots. 10 months ago, those would sit on the plate all night. But I’ve seen him finish carrots before his chips. It warms my tiny, food group loving heart.
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How my daughter taught me to see LOVE instead of fear

I’ve been pretty devastated about the recent bombings in Boston.  Just like I was about the school shootings and countless other unnecessary acts of violence that have happened since my daughter was born.  I can’t believe that I am raising my children in a world where these things happen…frequently.  But the reality is that I AM raising my children in this world. 

Today, as I was thinking about all this while mindlessly emptying the dishwasher, I witnessed my daughter do the most amazing thing.  My son started crying in his rock and play sleeper and my daughter ran over to him and whispered “It’s okay, Liam, I love you, it’s okay.”

I know this may seem arbitrary to most of you, but it made me realize that I CAN raise my children in this world.  My daughter is kind and empathetic and I know that one day, she’ll be the first one to help out in whatever crisis should occur.  That’s all we can hope for, right?  That we raise out children to be better than we are.  If we can do that, maybe, just maybe the world can change.  And if it can’t, at least I know that my children are doing their best to fix what is broken.

Now, as I sit here with my son on my chest, and my daughter by my side, I feel a sense of security, instead of fear.  My daughter’s simple, comforting words were exactly what I needed to know that there will always be good, no matter how bad things get.

 

 

 

 

Bombs In Boston

I’m sure everyone knows that there were bombs detonated near the finish line of the Boston marathon yesterday afternoon. As of this morning when I left my house, there were three dead, almost two hundred people wounded. They aren’t sure how many devices there were beyond the two that exploded. Whether this was an act of domestic or international terrorism is still being investigated. The bomber’s motive is still unknown.

I first learned about the attack from an NPR email alert on my phone. I was still at work, unable to turn on a tv or go hunting online for news. Later, a “story” showed up that was a compilation of tweets, full of pictures that clearly showed blood and injured people. I was sickened, both at the sight of the destruction and the decision to publish those pictures. I deleted the email before finishing, there was no way I could look at all of the images and keep my shit together at work.

When I got home, MSNBC was on. As I sat down to watch Chris Matthews, I was curious to know if anyone had come forward, if they were sure all of the bombs were diffused and accounted for, if there were attacks anywhere else. Instead, I saw video after video of the bomb itself. There was live feed showing people taken away on stretchers. Chris had witnesses calling in to go over what they saw or felt. And in the middle of one of these calls, he asked “Did you see any limbs or body parts lying around?”
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Oops! I forgot about Santa

Cooper was born at the end of September, so he was a very teeny-tiny, barely functioning poop-pantsed baby when he had his first Christmas. He spent most of the day eyes glazed, swatting at balls of discarded wrapping paper like a bored cat. Because of this, we felt no need to mark any of his presents as being “From Santa,” or setting out milk and cookies, or any of those other things that Santa-loving folks do. Next Christmas, he was barely a year old, so it still seemed basically pointless. Then, somewhere around his fourth Christmas, I realized that I kind of forgot about Santa Claus.

Most kids have horror stories from their youth about the time they found out that SPOILER ALERT: Santa isn’t real. There’s talk of betrayal, tears, and an emptiness that persists well into adulthood. I don’t have a story like that, because I don’t remember ever believing in Santa Claus. In fact, I specifically remember being five years old and not believing in Santa. I always grew up with the impression that Santa was a nice character that some parents taught their children about. He’s not real, but it’s also not polite to tell people that. So basically I equated Santa with Jesus very early in life. Continue reading →

Please Stop Telling Me That I Want More Children…..another viewpoint

We’ve all read how our friend Lauren doesn’t want more children and how frustrating it can be when everyone around is asking/pestering her about it.  I feel her pain, but for a totally different reason.

I have heard for years, “So when is baby number 3 coming?”  “Are y’all going to have anymore babies?”  “Your girls really need a little brother, you all should keep trying!”  Usually I just nod or politely deflect the questions.  Using a smile or general “we’ll see” to hide the pain.  See unlike Lauren, I do WANT more kids.  Continue reading →