Working Girl (2)

Sometimes motherhood knows no bounds in it's ability to bring me to my knees. Literally.

Imagine this.

You're at some work function, it's the type of thing that features a sea of featureless faces and fancy graphics flying around giant screens, stage lighting, and funny but wince worthy videos. Anyone live in corporate land and know what I'm talking about?

So let's ignore that it doesn't make sense that I'm there. Let's just let that go for now. Let's just say that it's an old day job that came up and I'm happy to be there. 


Back to you. So you're there, the place is filled with thousands of people, but most of them are men. I'd say 80%. And before you go all 'Samantha' on me and think that the numbers sound good, I'll tell you that the actual numbers of the men you'd like to see their face is 10%. So the ratio isn't that special.

But the point of the above paragraph is that you're happy about it because there are never lines in the restrooms. Like at hockey events. And you go in and no one is there but in one stall you see a pair of black boots that are facing the wrong way. That's odd. And you hear a toilet repeatedly flushing, like back to back to back. And again. And these boots are there, the owner is squatting and time is passing but you don't hear anything. By now you expect to hear the telltale wretching of the night before gone wrong, but you don't hear that. Instead you just hear the tiny splish splish splash of tiny squirts of some petite liquid hitting the water.

Do you know what it is?

If you're a mom you're going to guess faster.

And if you guessed milk,
 you're right!

Silly me, I thought we were more or less weaned. Silly me I thought it was fine to go on this business trip without the pump. Silly me, I was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Leaning over the toilet is something I used to do alot when I drank too much. So my face too close to porcelain today was all too familiar. But there was something even more sad and pathetic about the grown woman squatting and squirting with vigor into a churning tank because the damn auto-flush function was in overdrive so I was occasionally getting splashed in the face thinking are you effin' kidding me with this!? all the while wondering what the nice lady who is always there to ensure that the place is super shiny is thinking as she paces by. Meanwhile I"ve GOT to get back in there to work but it's also critical I commit time to this activity I don't get a plugged duct or something horrifying.

And I so desperately miss the little creep who's fault this is. The physical pain is a helpful place to put the heartache I feel. I'm guessing the person who decided the dates of this event is a man and maybe not even a Dad because I had to fly away from the sweet little giant headed baby on Mother's day - before he or the sun even awoke. Which sucked.

But skulking past the bathroom lady 6 or 7 times today enduring her dirty looks and figuring out which of the 18 stalls the auto flush is mercifully broken and wondering what bladder trouble I needed to invent for my co-workers and trying desperately to find a pump but deciding that it was too expensive was how I spent my day. And I thought y'all might get a kick out of the story.

Looking a LOT like a porn star,



PS - I took these pictures yesterday as everyone prepared for the onslaught of people today. I think they perfectly captured how I felt after flying across the country away from my boy for the first time. I was so profoundly alone. These chairs and tables are lonely and beautiful little flowers.

Milk

Tonight I went to a writing class.

Uh-boy, not a good opener. Now you've gotten the idea that a good post follows and well, friends, that just ain't happenin'. No really. I need you to let it go. With these words...gently, open your hand...release that silly little idea, let it float away into a sweet spring breeze....now take a deep breath. What do you smell? Ah yes, the dog crap I didn't pick up in the front yard. Right I'll get on that. Now that you're inspired to keep reading, here's what's up:

I'm just having a crappy ass time of it. There. I said it. No rainbows, no unicorns. Just that sticky residue of unnamed, unreasonable emotions that remain unexpressed due to the lack of funds req'd to do the rock star therapy thing. So to the writing class I go for the therapy that I need. And to you, dear interweb therapists, I guess I'm a- bringin' it to you. Thank you in advance for your sage advice and wisdom. Thank you for your virtual ear.

Tonight I'm all jacked up on ideas and Pinkberry. If you're not in LA - let me just say this. You're lucky. This Pinkberry stuff is totally delicious, totally useless, likely completely toxic and open until 11pm on weekdays. I go through phases with this fancy fro-yo stuff. I really only eat it when I'm full of self-loathing. So there you go.

I mean, it's pretty awesome how perfectly rotten it makes me feel. I eat it, I check my watch and then wait for the headache to show up between :22 and :28 minutes later. Tonight it came on in a quick :12 minutes, but likely that was due to the fact that I ran through the rain thusly accelerating it through my system.

So what does all of this have to do with milk? (the title of my post). Well I'm doubtful that there is any actual milk in the product of which I've been rambling, so that isn't it.

No, it's about me. About the fact that I am still serving it 3-4 times a day and while deep down I'm a stinky, stinky hippy who would be probably be willing to nurse through toddlerhood and beyond I've had some recent experiences that are threatening to end my run of being a walking dairy dispenser for the little baby with a big head.

Well, you can't see them in this picture - but there are top teeth as well in that little cartoon mouth.

And like anyone with new tools that they'd like to try out, he's been checking out his chomping skills.

And like anyone who is learning their way around emotional states, lately he's been taking his anger out for a test drive.

Ok. I've said enough. Y'all are smart.

Although I will say this, I'm proud to say that while much harm as come to me, no harm has come to anyone else in this family. When the little bite n' pull showdown went down the other night I calmly put him in the highchair while I calmly went to warm up the lentils and rice mush and I calmly served it and while he was not so calm I was quite. It was almost eerie. Perhaps being emotionally shut down has it's place.

And since I left the boy and his Dad before the final milk session tonight in order to go deep into Hollywood for my class, now I've got the surplus and the accompanying pain. Of course there is no serving it anyway because it's laced with Pinkberry toxins.

So while my milkmaid status is potentially precarious, I offer this math. 20 months ago, in June of 2008 my body got taken over by the production of a person. 11 months ago in April of 2009 it became the diary farm that it is today. Here in March of 2010, I'm about ready to take it back for my own uses, even if they are not noble or good. Anyone want to back me up on this decision?

Your organic farmer,

PS - It's probably obvious if you're read this far, but I could use some encouragement. Life is kinda kicking my ass right now, so if you've got any - please do share.

**EDIT, 3/4** - I just found out that when the boy was getting his last song last night he starting looking around wildly for me. Watching the door and pushing the sweet singing daddy aside, he was clearly wondering when the usual milk delivery was coming. When it didn't come he finally wailed 'Mom!' and collapsed into an inconsolable wail.

So he has been saying Momma and Dad -dad-dad-dad it's a little non-specific, we're not sure if he's placing it with us. So that was a first, and it's pretty damn touching. I am twisting my hair into dreads right now so that I can merge with my image of a long-term breastfeeding momma (you know I say stinky hippy only with complete love, right?) and see if I can keep this party going. I"ll keep you posted.

Falling Down

Today started out like any other day. Stayed up too late last night, slept in while the boy hung out with the cute hubs. This is an almost daily ritual, while I fade in and out of sleep, BHB sits in his bjorn bouncee chair doing his screaming banchee thang and kicking himself into a rockin’ rhthym while Hubs does the dishes. And if you’re wondering why I”m such a lucky Momma that gets to sleep in and did I say Dad does dishes? I did. I’d say I wonder too. But since I am the one on the hook to get up during the night, I think it might be semi-fair.

Went to the Feeding Little Foodies workshop and met some awesome other Momma’s and got some handy tips on how to make baby mush. It was great. I totally recommend it. I feel that much more capable and willing to make the food and freeze it and ya know, if I open a jar, I open a jar.

So in all the excitement about learning how to be feeding a little foodie I had not put any foodie in my body and since I’m still producing all the food for the little doody, I was famished.

To solve this problem I skipped loading the boy into the car and left him in the Ergo carrier and wandered down to the main street. Wilshire. I immediately found a cool little snackee place next to the El Rey theater that has found a hilarious line between Indian Food and Mexican. It’s called Cowboys and Turban’s and um hi, how fun is that? I ordered a chicken tandoori quesadilla (seriously).

I sat outside with my big-headed baby as we waited for this wacky concoction. In recent days I’ve realized he’s no longer the patient lap sitter he once was, he’s now a guy who needs entertainment. You know, like toys n’ shit. And in my haste to find nourishment, I dropped off the diaper bag that contained such things in the car and so I was caught basically empty handed. This is where my perfectly lovely day became other than.

BHB has been enjoying practicing his standing skills on our laps and laughing into our eyes. Needless to say looking into his starry blue eyes is uber sweet and this is what he was up to in this moment.

My arms are looped around him (imagine like a basketball hoop) and he leans into the left arm. I laugh at his laughing while the hand at the end of the right arm digs through purse for something fun for him to hold onto and or stuff into his tiny mouth. Two thoughts, lightening fast. Give him the glasses case. Take the glasses out first. So I avert eyes to open hinged case only I realize now the boy is missing. He’s down, he’s fallen down, he leaned back too far over my arm and flipped onto the marble below. My six month old child is screaming bloody-murder, no wait that scream was me. Now it’s him.

Before the brain has time to think, don’t pick him up he could be seriously hurt his back could be broken he’s up in my arms and I’m moving on the tiny patio in circles my voice says My baby, My baby oh my god I dropped my Baby and the nice Indian Man is out of the door saying, he’s okay, he’s okay I dropped both my kids yesterday this is what happens this happens all of the time until they are five then a nice guy who I noticed a few moments before as a hipster lanky guy with kind eyes is next to me saying He’s okay, he’s startled he’s okay he’s startled and I’m thinking or speaking Startled? Are you fucking kidding me? he hit the marble, that floor is marble is that cement or marble oh my god I dropped my baby as tears stream down my face and I try unsuccessfully to contain hysteria.

And now I’m also trying to get him to eat. Doing anything to create a sense of normalcy, my usual very modest public breast-feeding has become completely national geographic tribal and I just don't care. And the nice Indian man is yelling, seems to me he's yelling You have to Calm Down, He’s not going to calm down unless You calm down. And they are both very close to me, everyone is too close to me and I’m finally sitting down and the crying baby is thinking about latching but is too busy being upset. Like me.

And then he eats and it grows quiet except for the buses thundering by.

And lanky guy says, okay did he hit his head? And I’m looking at his perfect little head and I don’t see anything, not a mark. Lanky notices the angel's kiss on his forehead and thinks that is a problem, no I say, it’s a birthmark - there is literally not a single bit of evidence. I’m circling his fuzzy little head with a frantic hand as he feeds. It feels perfect.

And I call the pediatrician, only a nurse practitioner on duty today, she is going to call back.  And I sit there, on the patio looking down at the place where he fell. And he eats and he falls asleep. And the Indian man eventually comes out and brings the quesadilla. And lanky comes by a few more times and shares more kindness...and concern, what if he has a concussion? He should not sleep. So I wake the poor guy up, even though I know in my gut he is okay. Somehow he managed to perform a triple Lutz onto cement or was it marble three feet below and leave his head out of it. I guess all of that belly time paid off because he kept his head up.

After about 40 minutes, after the nurse practitioner called and we rule out head injury due to the fact that his head is not scratched and the fact that he’s giggling and banchee screaming and focusing fine and just basically behaving perfectly normally. My breath is finally coming back. The tandoori and cheese is good comfort food but you know, too rich but I’m not ready to be separated from his sweet breath by a car seat so we continue to sit there. I steal glances at the spot on the marble or is it cement where he landed.

Split seconds change a life. These moments which were orchestrated by random facts. I  didn’t bring food for me. The weather was nice so I walked. I found a place where we laughed. I looked for something for him to do and he was gone.

How fleeting. How dangerous this place. How much do I want to lock my family into a padded house with single ethnic food (no need to mix) and just laugh into each others eyes and steer clear of all hard surfaces. Needless to say I’m so grateful he is okay. I’m so sorry that he potentially wasn’t. I don’t know how anyone would survive this same moment going differently, I just don’t.

The good news is that I know what happened. After he backflipped out of my arms, he was caught by angels who then carefully lowered him to the ground where they placed him on his belly. The reason he cried was because I screamed. And cried. See Lanky was right, he was just startled. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

Life is pain, Highness!

...Anyone who says differently is selling something.  (name that movie for a giveaway!) Ahem, I don't have giveaways yet. But a girl can dream.

So for those of you playing along, I apologize for not posting in a while. I've mentioned my slap-down from the PPD fairy more than once, and yes, that sparkly little beeyatch got a hold of me and swung me around by my hair a bit in recent times. It's a strange phenom to one moment be a normal person mildly annoyed by the incessant gardening that goes on in my neighborhood and the next...

Quick digression: By gardening I don't mean harvesting string beans and red-leaf lettuce, by gardening I mean the horrific buzzing created when those pick-up trucks arrive with 14 leaf blowers and tiny men to drive all crap into the air and into our house. I literally run around closing the windows to protect my surfaces 'cause lawd knows I'm not going to dust.

Ok we're back...moment I'm a weeping wonder with not a hope in the world for a better time. It's a freak show of "we're all going to die, not even Obama can save us, why did we bring a child into this awful world, and why do I suck so bad as a Momma". I know Brooke Shields and others have written about this terrible affliction, but let me just add my voice to the din and say this. Holy Kee-rap it Sucks Ass. Truly.

So I am writing from a new land. It's a little bit better. But then last night happened. The cute hubbers offered to put the boy down while I wandered off to a WIF meeting. I recently directed two PSA's for those lovely womens, and a fun fact is that one of them is nominated for an Emmy. Touch me, right? Let's be clear, it's a local LA Emmy, so I'm not going to hang out with Liz Lemon and other such celeb. But it's still pretty cool. So I went to you know, network and stuff at the meeting and he bravely stayed here for the Italian Opera which what we affectionately call the putting-the-boy-down process.

Apparently our little opera star wasn't having it as he has come to expect a large intake of milk and delivered in that special way that well, only the Momma's got. Sure he takes a bottle people! We didn't f that up at least. But sadly I've made the fatal mistake of having the sleep association run by the aforementioned delivery. Okay, I'll say it. I nurse him to sleep and yep, it's by the book wrong, I know. I know! Go ahead and feel free to tell me again, but I know. So god bless hubs, last night turned into two hours of inconsolable wailing. When I got home the baybee had just gone to sleep, apparently just flopped onto Dad's chest from the pure exhaustion of singing the No Momma Blues.
 picture featured: father's day 2009. Back when sleep was easy...

Oh man.  That was me, just trying to be a networking chic. Looking down the chute for another gig to feed this little machine we've got running here. And what do I get? An email letting me know that putting down the baby with out me is not an option, and that the pain was too much to bear. I know that married people probably shouldn't discuss really important shit via email, but, we did. I emailed him back the quote that opened this post which was preceded by...

You mock my pain!

And by that I wanted him to know I wasn't mocking his pain, or the boy's. I'm just flailing around here trying to find a way, some way to make this all work. And I agree, it's painful at times.

But my current angst is that my boobs and I are probably not going to be attending the Emmy ceremony. Damn.

Grumpy Bobblehead

According to one of the books I read to make sure I feel completely guilty and overwhelmed by the responsibility of shaping this young man's life, destiny, and huge therapy bills, the brain is pretty much built in these formative years. And so by doing the right stuff, like lots of face time and putting the iPhone Down you can affect IQ by 30 points or more. Apparently at birth 10% of neurons are linked and working and that multiplies to where 90% of the wiring is in by age two! So grow those synapse's little one - get 'em while they're hot.

This weighs heavily on me, and the books have differing opinions. Stimulate! Neurons need entertainment food, like Hulu for the drooling set. Or, baby needs sleep. Work your life around a nap schedule and Suck it up if you think you get to go out of the house for more than 60 minutes at a time or at night. If you don't sleep train him you'll suffer and so will he. If you do, the stress from the crying will kill all of that good face time and the IQ points you've worked so hard for are lost. So the books battle it out there on my bedside table and in my brain and basically the result is a delicious new feeling - Mommy Guilt. Oh it's yummy juice, part crushing shame, part low-level constant anxiety, add a dash of hormones for drama and a squeeze of lemon. (as in lemon in a paper cut)

So when the lil bobblehead is grumpy there are many reasons that he could be so - ALL of them my fault. I didn't catch the pre-nap stare and he's overtired. I missed my fish oil yesterday or god forbid I ate any of the b'feeding no-no's like chocolate, caffeine, tomatoes or you know, brown rice. Who knows what might piss off a little guy via milk. He's overstimulated? Under-stimulated. He needs to learn baby signs and oops I probably missed the window to teach him French. And thanks to my over-achieving control-freaky personality I'm obsessively trying to do this 'right' and as you can see, it's awesome!

I guess the best I can do is have a lil gratitude about the fact that the post-partum-depression fairy hasn't visited in while. Anyone else friends with that little bee-yatch? She's an odd one - she visits some of the momma's, not all of us. Just the lucky ones who get to endure the fawking hormonal-coaster from hell where all perspective is lost and no good yummy "I love my baby" feelings are to be found. I was lucky that while she did bitch-slap me pretty hard for the first weeks, it subsided around week 7. Oh the PPD fairy still does a drive-by here and there and I'm lost in the soup of self-pity and crushing despair, inadequacy and suicidal thoughts. And then I'm fine. And he's cute and I'm cheerfully trying to find the words to little bunny fu-fu so I can sing them to him. Of course I have to get the words right and I wonder if the lyrics are too dangerous for his little ever exponentially expanding mind. But! It does explain the big head.

Finally in my 2nd way-too-long post I want to give a shout out of thanks to Stefanie for linking me up. You are such a beacon of sanity and humor for all of us lost Mommies.