Friday, August 13, 2010

Stream of consciousness


God, why does every surface of everything have to be covered with clutter?
Yes, you can have something to drink.
No, she hasn’t been changed yet. Has you mom said it’s okay for her to come tonight?
If I had known that they wanted the entire month’s tuition, I wouldn’t have paid the first installments of all those medical bills this week.
You’re going to pay the mortgage late? Oh, yeah I guess it doesn’t matter that much.
Why am I wasting my time and talents working for these fucking ungrateful people? Oh yeah, bills.
I don’t want to brush that hair. I just don’t.
Why do we keep this stupid ass dog around? I know you let him out a million times. Are you going to clean that pee?
If you don’t put some panties on you don’t get to watch any shows or play any games on the computer.
Yes, you can have chicken soup for breakfast.
Where is Maddie’s pacifier?
Check it out, I pumped 14 ounces this morning from just one boob.
What kind of bubble water would you like? Orange, lemon-lime, cherry or regular?
I guess we could just thaw out some chicken, or there is always frozen crap to eat.
Are you going to be late tonight?
What time is his surgery?
Pick up your shoes and put them in the shoe drawer.
Oh, fast music? Yeah, that’s a fun way to clean your room.
Why is there noise coming out of every single room in this house?
Why does my body ache the way I imagine it should ache when I’m 80?
God, my toes look even worse wearing Geo’s sandals.
Yes, sleep. I need it so badly.
For the millionth f-ing time, why, why, why can’t he learn how to hang a towel straight so it dries?
Need a new bouncy seat now.. great.
Mickey Mouse? Okay. Which episode? Mickey’s Camp Out. Okay.
Where’s your cup?
I need to make a phone call. Could you be quiet for 3 minutes?
Mom, let me call you back when it’s a little less crazy. I love you, too.
“WHAT?!, Zoey? I’m on the PHONE.”
“I love you, mommy.”
“I love you, too, sweetie.”

Saturday, August 7, 2010

The messy truth

DSC_1862 copy

Her hair.

It’s a damned mess most of the time.

Frizzy, fly away, multiple lengths of strands going this way and that.

Sometimes in the morning she has this mass on the back that is so teased it looks like she’s headed to an 80’s revival playdate.

Her preferred style? Messy, and in her face.

About a year ago, SHE decided.

“No more munitos.”

Munitos are the Cuban slang for rubber bands, or tie backs, or just about any hair clippie or accessory. Doesn’t matter, none of those things would be on her head or in her hair, thank you very much.

And we battled at first.

Things got ugly, tears were shed, mommy and daughter both had tantrums over this issue.


A few times, yes.

“I’ll give you ______________, if you wear a ponytail.”

No. Not anymore.

Even when we are having a quiet moment and I do that thing where I play with her hair and gently tuck some strands behind her ears, she pulls it back out and thrusts it aggressively in her face.


Yes, I’ve given a few.

“Zoey, you have the most beautiful face but I cannot see it with your hair in your face.”


“Zoey, all the other girls wear munitos in their hair.”

Answer: “yes, and I do not.”

“Zoey, if you would wear munitos your hair would not be so tangled all the time and it wouldn’t hurt when I brush it.”


So tonight when going through my photos, and editing a few, I noticed something funny.

I love her messy hair. I’ve taken dozens of photos of it, backlit and glorious.

I thought I wanted her to put it in little sweet pigtails (and I do still!), but that wouldn’t be the truth of her.

And turns out her messy is my beautiful afterall.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Love in a bottle

Can I start this post with a pun? .

How about “I suck at breastfeeding.”

Please don’t refer (or report) me to La Leche League. It does no good.

I’m on my second baby now, and second month of it. Mostly her luscious, wonderful, nutrient and antibody-filled elixir is delivered from a bottle.

I can hear the tsk, tsks of those judgey moms who seem to have been born to breastfeed.

Sometimes I’m actually pumping while bottle feeding her and it seems like some kind of strange Rube Goldberg contraption.

Why pump?

Why pump when I could simply do what nature intended and offer up my breast and share a quiet, warm and wonderful feeding session with my baby. We’d both relax and I’d stare at her while she coos and the stars in the sky would smile down on us, right?

I blame two things: our modern, too-busy lifestyle, and my uptight, control-freak personality.

When I was in the hospital with her, the nurses hardly ever found me without her attached to my breast.

The most powerful urge a new mother has is to keep her baby alive, which means keep it fed. (and don’t drop it.)

So the moment she would wake, I brought her to me and let her take as much of that colostrum as she could handle.

We did have those wonderful, quiet, dark nursing moments. But uh, you are only in the hospital for two days.

When I came home and was inevitably engorged to porn star proportions, the breastfeeding issues began.

I pumped for some relief and stored away all the extra in the freezer. Maddie nursed like a freak, gobbling and gulping and gasping. She’d choke and sputter and vomit a lot. I’d worry and wish it were easier.

After consulting Mother Google, I figured out I have overactive ta ta’s. Adding even more complexity to this very “natural process,” each of my breasts has a separate personality. My left one, Big Bertha, does most of the work but she’s too aggressive; fills up too full, comes out too fast. My right one, Lazy Suzy, takes too long to let down, doesn’t make as much milk and generally doesn’t care.

Maddie doesn’t have time to deal with all that boobie drama, so she just gets irritated and feedings become stressful for both of us.

So back to me being a control freak.

With a bottle, Maddie gets the milk delivered in a consistent flow.

There is a perfect 4 oz marker right there on the plastic so I can see how much she eats.

If I make too much milk (which I do), I can guarantee there is always plenty stored away for whatever might come up.

I’m honestly not up to the task of learning the “art” of breastfeeding.

I wish I was one of those amazing babywearing, co-sleeping, pre-natal yoga doing, kashi eating moms who could somehow breastfeed and lead a modern life, too.

Maybe all those breastfed babies who fall asleep listening to their mother’s heart beating go to Harvard or something?

My Maddie, who is lulled to sleep by the rhythmic mechanical sound of my electric pump, will at least make it to technical school.