|Before the bleaching.|
|My hair instantly started to lighten. Yours will too.|
|Yes I got some on my neck but it’s okay because I’m a soldier.|
|I didn’t even leave the house.|
Since I like being honest (or whatever) with you guys I wanted to let you know that I originally wrote this post in April for Deep South Moms but that blog is defunct which means, well, nothing to me. All I’m saying is that this isn’t NEW content unless you’ve never read it before. Then it’s new to you.
When I was pregnant I spent countless hours browsing baby registries and reading product reviews to make sure I selected the perfect things for my angel.
NO. NOT REALLY.
Instead of doing that I was probably reading chick lit and stuffing my face with pita bread and hummus.
Again, just kidding. I craved cheeseburgers.
I didn’t want a crib. The baby could sleep in a dresser drawer. We registered for a pack ‘n play so why the hell did we need a crib? It appeared to me that most baby related products were unnecessary. Do you really need a diaper wipe warmer? NO. Do you need a bottle sanitizer? NO. I nursed my daughter so I didn’t even need bottles! A Boppy? Really? Couldn’t I just use a pillow?
As for the stroller and car seat? FORGET IT. My niece was only sixteen months older than her cousin-to-be so we would be getting her hand-me-down car seat. A friend of mine whose oldest child was five had a stroller she no longer needed so she gave it to us. Sure, the stroller was kind of ugly and needed to be cleaned. But it had wheels and a place for the baby to sit or lay down.
And did I mention it was free?
I would bundle her up, lay her in the stroller and push her around the block as she fell asleep. It was magical. I would pass other moms pushing their babies in their fancy BOB and Quinny strollers while I was rolling around with this rickety old stroller and I felt a little embarrassed. It was hard to steer and you could forget about pushing it with one hand. I wanted to kick my own ass for not getting a new stroller when we actually had two incomes and could afford it. Since I chose to be a frugal jerk I was stuck with this navy blue plaid monstrosity that my daughter didn’t even like sitting in.
The stroller is to a mom what a car is to a guy. It’s a status symbol. What was I saying to the world with my stroller?
I’d had enough. I was uncomfortable and hated using the stroller and I am pretty sure that my kiddo hated it too. When our tax refund arrived I waited exactly thirty seconds for the check to clear before I hopped online and started looking for strollers. I created a must-have list – the handle had to be high enough so that my husband could comfortably push it, it needed a large storage compartment and I needed a damn cup holder! I ogled the ritzy ones that I knew were out of my price range. Can’t a girl window shop?
I found the one that was perfect and made my purchase. It arrived on my doorstep a few days later and once my husband assembled it we took it for a test drive.
It was the best walk EVER. I didn’t feel like a loser pushing a piece of crap stroller. I felt like a mom. Like SUPERMOM. I looked like I knew what I was doing. I looked put together. Maybe I’m materialistic (I know I am) but I actually enjoyed taking my daughter for a walk and she liked it too. My thirteen month old actually fell asleep while I was pushing her in the new hotness. I was amazed. I wanted to hug my new stroller.
But what would the neighbors say!?
I am a writer.
I am not talking about blogging (I’m a blogger too as if that means anything anymore). I am talking about WRITING.
I have to write. When I get an idea in my head if I can’t jot it down at the moment it comes to me it will vaporize and be lost forever. And that kind of sucks. There have been so many stories that I wanted to share or anecdotes or stupid jokes that have died before ever being manifested onto paper (or Open Office. Yeah, I use Open Office instead of paying for fucking Microsoft programs. No thanks. I’m already a slave to the man as it is). It kills me. I’m not saying that anything written by me is worthy of mass production but the stories are at least good enough to share with my husband who has recently expressed interest in writing science fiction.
Did I marry a fucking writer and not even know it? My husband and I don’t have many things in common (except for the big stuff) so this? It made my day. We can encourage each other and set goals and read each others stuff. He will need editing help and I know that I will need help with continuity and structure. Strangely enough while I am a bad ass editor (hire me!) I have a hard time editing my own work. I love the stream-of-conscious style (um, no shit Lauren. Your blog is your brain vomiting) and while it’s perfectly rad for a blog post it isn’t something that a publisher is going to want to pay for. Let’s face it – my writing style isn’t unique. But ya know, keep that to your fucking self. Maybe the check signers at Random House or Harper Collins will think I give a fresh new perspective on, um, whatever it is I write about.
Do I have a novel in the works? No. A short story? Nope. Not even a goddamn haiku. Other than this blog and the sporadic guest post there is absolutely no new content coming out of me. Every time I get an idea I am half asleep or I don’t have anything to write it down on and like I stated earlier if I don’t get it down it will die.
So what have I learned? Carry a fucking notebook and quit making excuses.
You have changed my life in ways even I cannot fully comprehend.
I love you, Netflix. I can watch every season of Weeds on my laptop while my husband watches (boring ass) anime on the TV. We can even watch something together if we can ever agree.Your instant play feature is GENIUS. I haven’t even watched the DVD that arrived a week ago.
I love how you are compatible with our Wii. I was already in love with the Wii but you have taken my love to another level.
Netflix, if you were a man you would be the man of my dreams. I love you unconditionally.
Except that your instant play feature doesn’t offer all of your movies which is bullshit. Work on it. Then you’ll be perfect.
Sure, I may have watched more television in the past week than I have in the past month. But thanks to your wide and varied selection I have watched a lot of documentaries. Netflix, you are making me smarter.
Oh Netflix, I can’t quit you.
I no longer nurse my baby.
Rather, I no longer nurse my toddler. My baby who is practically an adult and doesn’t even look like a baby anymore no longer receives my milk. Officially.
After I returned home from NYC I decided that I would not start nursing her again. After all she went several days without it and would surely not even remember the goodies inside mommy’s shirt. I was so fucking wrong. She woke up in the middle of the night on my first night home and when I picked her up she grabbed at the neck of my shirt and aggressively groped me to get her point across. Her point, obviously, was “GODDAMMIT MOM GIMME MILK BEFORE I SCREEEEEEEEEAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I caved. Of course I did. I couldn’t handle her cries. I was exhausted and wanted to go back to sleep so I tucked her not-so-little body next to mine in my bed and nursed her back to sleep. That lasted for an hour. She woke up again and I kept giving her my tit but she was squirmy. My little girl didn’t want to snuggle anymore. She was now a wham bam thank you, ma’am nursling.
After a couple of nights of this bullshit I decided that it was in fact time to stop.
Our routine didn’t change much; instead of her waking up earlier than me she now sleeps as late as I do. Before I left for NYC she would wake up at least an hour or two before I was ready so I would bring her back to bed with me and nurse her back to sleep so that I could get more sleep. I didn’t need to do that anymore.
The feeling is bittersweet. My little girl still needs me but she has outgrown the one thing that only I, her mother, can provide for her. And that? Breaks my heart.
My milk has been slowing drying up for weeks and I rarely leak through my pajama tops anymore. I certainly won’t miss that part of nursing. I will miss the closeness but we can still snuggle when she’s actually in the mood to do it. I haven’t lost my baby but I’ve regained my tits and that is a victory in my opinion. And my husband’s.
People suggested that I photograph our last nursing session so I did. Hi baby girl.
It seems like everyone I know is either pregnant or trying to conceive and I am so happy for them. Babies are AWESOME. I should know; I have one and she fucking rocks.
Jacob and I are planning to start trying for baby number two in March after Avery’s birthday. That way our kiddos will be around three years apart and in my opinion that seems like a good plan. But what do I know?
I am working on making myself healthy so that I can handle a 100% natural birth. This means that I am losing weight (I am!) and getting into shape. I am eating healthier. Taking vitamins. Practicing yoga. I am also researching birthing centers and midwives and looking for a place/midwife (MW) that will perform a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean).
That last part? Finding a midwife to do a VBAC? That will be the hardest task to check off of my list. And it fucking blows.
I visited a birthing center today that appeared to be very crunchy. Once the midwife was available for our scheduled tour I asked her, “Do you guys perform VBAC”? The answer? “Not anymore but I wish we still did.”
What the hell does that mean? Did a mother die during a VBAC at the birthing center? I doubt it. I should have asked why they no longer do them but I was silently panicking about my next birth. I pictured a sterile hospital with my lower half behind a sheet and needles. I wanted to cry in the waiting room of this lovely birthing center but I held back. The midwife kept the tour short- a woman had just arrived and was apparently ready to have a baby. She looked beautiful: tall, healthy, sipping what I imagined was some all natural tea out of a SONIC cup. She was doing what I want to do. I felt jealous. Before leaving the center the midwife suggested that I find a lay midwife because they are more likely to perform VBACs. What, you ask, is a lay midwife?
An UNCERTIFIED midwife. Yeah. Someone who isn’t licensed or certified. Yeah, that’s great. Thanks.
She had the best of intentions but I was vulnerable. It hurt. I don’t think she meant to push me out of the door or make me feel like what I want for my future births is unreasonable. It still stung.
I came home and Googled and found another birthing center in the metroplex and called them up. And smiled. They perform VBAC’s! Victory!! I cannot wait to find out more about this birthing center. It gives me hope.
What disappoints me is that midwives are the last frontier for women taking control of their bodies and their births and yet they won’t perform VBAC’s. They fight for women to birth naturally but once a woman has a cesarean they turn their backs? A midwife can talk a good game but will she actually back up all of that talk with practice?
I am not attacking midwives. I love midwives. What they offer women is a choice. A choice to take back control of our bodies. And how can I hate that? I believe in choice. I just don’t get it. Help me understand.
EDIT: Added, well, soon after this post was published:
I am not blaming midwives. I am not saying that they don’t want to do VBAC’s or are refusing just because. I am wondering what is tying their hands? Insurance reasons? Legal? Didn’t some new law or guidelines come out saying that VBAC’s are actually a good thing and should not be discouraged?
I am looking for answers. So let’s find them together.
I need to write about New York.
Have you ever walked into a place and instantly felt like you belonged there?
Aside from the garbage smell (which I assume you get used to) it was AWESOME. I sound like such a country bumpkin when I talk about being in the big city and you know what? I don’t fucking care. I was born, raised, and currently live thirty minutes from a relatively large city but it’s not a city like NYC. Dallas sucks. It has no downtown.You can’t walk around downtown Dallas. It’s fucking dangerous and completely pointless. There are little sections that have overpriced restaurants and shopping but you can’t walk from one pocket of interest to another. Why? It’s scary. And yeah, chain restaurants and chain stores and BORING.
New York, I ate your food. I walked your streets. I partied in your bars. I met your people.
New York, I have a crush on you. I know you’re taken but I can’t help it.
On Saturday afternoon I had a quick lunch at the hotel and then walked to the park all by myself. I was worried that I would get lost so I didn’t venture too far into the park but I never felt like some bad guy was lurking behind a tree waiting for some unsuspecting tourist.
HOWEVER I’d like to think that I blended in pretty well with the locals. I was wearing all black and actually wore sensible but cute shoes. I could be a New Yorker.
Now to convince Jacob and my entire family that it’s a good idea to move to the most expensive city in the country and 1500 miles from everyone we know. That is NOT going to happen. I can still visit, right?
New York, I’ll be back.
I want to write a quick “what happened at BlogHer” post and I think that a bulletted list will be adequate for now. I will get deep about a few things but that will occur later. Because I’m fucking tired.
So that’s a really fucking lame run-down of my weekend. Basically it was a vodka fueled friendship happy fest that I would be stupid if I didn’t do again next year.
Unless I get pregnant. I won’t go to BlogHer if I’m preggers. It’s just not fair.
Hello you! I am not here this weekend but I am here instead. And hopefully you are too.
This is me:
I am not tall but I will be easy to find. I’ll be the one constantly smiling to hide my panic. Come say “hi” to me. I promise I won’t throw up on you.