Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Do the Hustle!

It's hard to blog when you've got a small human being attached to your boob (evidenced by tiny hand on right side of the photo), a 5 year old daughter who wants to help (read: squeezes the side of said boob which actually does help, thankyouverymuch), plus a neurotic abyssinian cat who just wants in on the action.So yes, there's that, plus packing up our house to move this weekend (!) and the very small job of keeping not one but two children alive. I'm telling you, it's enough to make a girl feel downright accomplished, even if she hasn't showered in days...

'Course the good news aside from my new and improved kick ass family (now with more balls!) is that I am fitting into my pre-pregnancy jeans again. Which makes me feel a little bit like this, although this could also be from lack of sleep.

Doing the hustle from my living room couch,

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Fun with the Fisheye Lens

Little did you know I gave birth to Wilford Brimley. During the day he stands in the doorway grumbling for those damn kids to get off his lawn. At night he squawks about heartburn. In reality, he is quiet. (Too quiet! says the hand-wringer inside of me.) He makes these little squeezy noises instead of cries, loves car rides and holding hands. (We haven't tried yet, but I am sure he also likes long walks on the beach.) Somewhere between slathering Zoey's butt with Desitin and discussing the merits of Captain Jack Sparrow with her (we both agree that he's an exceptionally goodlooking man), I forgot that it takes time to get to know your baby. To stop seeing character actors in his face and attributing a grumpy old man's words in his sighs. It's slow-going, but we have all the time in the world. In the meantime, he's in his La-Z-Boy Recliner right now (the one that vibrates and chirps lullabies), muttering something about what is with kids wearing their pants so damn low these days...

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Publica Breastaefeedaphobia

It has been 2 weeks and 1 day since glitter spilled from my vagina in the form of baby Ozzy. (Which is kind of a lie since he was born via c section, but the mere mention of the word vagina lends the idea a bit more gravitas, no? Vagina, vagina, vagina, BAM! Just add glitter and what you get is pure magic. Ask anyone.)
The most part of these 2 weeks and 1 day I have spent crammed like so many worn tissues into the folds of my couch, one pillow propped under the right arm, another beneath the left, boobs out, back aching, wondering how they make it look so easy, though I have no idea who "they" really are. Despite the presence of nipples, here there is no glitter. Just me and my nipples, Luck be a Lady de la Leche, and at night when I use the breast pump the wheezing in and out of the machine sounds as if it's talking to me. Make more, make more, make more... (Or what a bore, what a bore, what a bore, milky whore, milky whore, milky whore...)

Me thinks that when your breast pump starts talking to you it's time to get out of the house, no?

So this weekend I decided to take this show on the road. Armed with two of my oldest and bestest, I went to the park with Ozzy, my boobs and an artfully draped cloth festooned with little cars for diversion. And at first it was easy. We were the only people there, and for a second I felt a little like Bill Murray in "What About Bob" tied to the mast, I'm Sailing! I'm Sailing! That is, until a toddler and his overly-Spandexed, Vibram-footed father spotted us. It was almost like I had cotton candy stuffed in my bra, or dollar bills--the kid would not leave me alone. He pulled and yanked at my artfully draped cloth, pushing his face beneath, even with me saying no, no honey! The baby's eating! And his father was no help, either. Guess my son's a boob man! he said, talking a little too close to my friend. It was weird. He was weird. The kid was weird. They. Would. Not. Leave. And so it would seem that my first pass at public breastfeeding was a bust, no pun intended.

And lest you think I'm being hyperbolic, yesterday I decided to get right back on the hooter horse and set up camp on my front porch. (Baby steps, people. Who knew "What About Bob" would be so apropos?) So there I was breastfeeding Ozzy while Zoey played in the garden, the sun shining the hazy yellow of a memory of a movie, when suddenly my neighbor's Chihuahua came bounding over to excitedly press his nose into my nipple. Which of course made his owner, a 50 year old man I've met maybe once, come over to see what his dog had found. Again with the the possibility of cotton candy hidden inside my bra, or maybe it was a piece of rawhide, more dollar bills, something, because the dog Would. Not. Leave. And eventually his owner had to reach down into my artfully draped cloth to retrieve him, my cover blown for the second time.

Oh, how I wish I were one of those women who whipped out her boob all so what and yeah, so? Daring you to look or not caring at all, without two fucks to rub together because she really doesn't give a flying one. But I'm not. Instead I'm a WASPY girl of a woman who thrills at the mention of vagina and glitter together, a fumbling mom with Publica Breastaefeedaphobia, a condition that does not even exist in the world of WikiGoogleWebMD so I had to make it up myself, all faux Latin-ate and official. Because the truth is I don't even sail. I get sea sick.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

But How Do You Really Feel?

I have to warn you guys: my skin is like vellum right now, tissue thin and see-through. I cry at Dr. Phil which means of course that I watch Dr. Phil, an event that in and of itself signifies that something is not quite right. Of course nothing is quite wrong, either. Simply hormones stabilizing, so I stand at least once a day buck naked in front of the mirror to see if my uterus has shrunk down any farther because that is something that I can actually see, measure, wait for. (Oh, how you would have loved me as a teenager, all sighs and sads and nobody understands. I am just thankful there were no blogs back then.)

So you can imagine what the discovery of this website did to me, written by a woman who spent years taking care of patients who had gone home to die. When she talked to these people about any regrets they had, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the top 5:

1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

2. I wish I didn't work so hard.

3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

Now that's something to cry about, n'est ce pas? And a reminder for those of us that have some time. So here's what's on my To Do list today: wash the dishes, take a shower, express my breast milk along with some feelings, let myself be happy.

What's on yours?


Tuesday, June 7, 2011

I Must, I Must, I Must Increase My...

Are you there WWW? It's me, Margaret. Behold a real life Before and After. Now, I was not able to breastfeed Zoey for a few different reasons that are now 5 years old. But this time? My milk came in and shit got real. Real to the tune of an E sized bra that is all kinds of ugly. Please tell me that this, too, shall pass. The hormones, yes, the sleepless nights, the fact that I am now chained to the couch with my nipples hanging out of humongously horrible E-sized boobs.

And if it isn't going to pass? Then lie to me.
with love from the living room,

Monday, June 6, 2011


Guess who turns one week old today? This guy, that's who:
Introducing Ozzy Allston M. (I wish I could tell you our whole last name 'cause it sounds super kick ass all together.) Born May 30th, 7lbs. 13oz. This is what I know of him so far: his head smells like warm cotton, his eyes are the prettiest slate blue, particularly when he wears his blue onesie, he squeaks instead of cries and when he poops he scrunches his face up just like Renee Zellweger. Although I have never seen Renee Zellweger poop.

Here's a pic of Zoey meeting her brother for the first time. If I had told her that there was no Santa and that Unicorns simply do not exist, she still would've been smiling like this, so stoked was she to hold her brother.

Here she is being a bossy big sister, telling my mom how to properly diaper Ozzy.

As you can imagine, we are all a wee bit sleep deprived and some of us (me) have had their abdominal muscles sliced open and then stapled shut, but still--I'm going to try to post more often now. Although I should also mention that we bought a house and move in 3 weeks, so there is that. Too.

Told you. Woosh.