DWITYTD* -- Pump up the Jams

*Do What I Tell You to Do: a series of totally-unsolicited-proffered-expertise-conferred-solely-by-virtue-of-birthing-two-babies...

One of the many delightful parts of the WOHM-itude is everyone's favorite: pumping. The frequent breaks are nice (though definitely cut into my productivity, and since I share an office with my boss/dad I am SO NOT doing the hands-free pump at my desk thang). And I am super glad to express enough that Baby G has her mama-milks when we can't be together (though for a while I couldn't keep up and she was getting one bottle of formula, no shame in that game). I was using a little manual pump at first but soon graduated myself to the mighty Pump-in-Style. A few months of missteps and being super annoyed with the constant washing and clutter of pump parts and bottles and etc... I have finally hit on a system that works for me, thanks to loads of research, ignoring said research, and alternatively following and ignoring the unsolicited advice of other moms. As you do.

Anyway, let's share, shall we?

First, I remember reading somewhere that milk supply tends to be highest in the morning, shortly after your first nursing session of the day. Ah yes, here it is. For me, that was so very not true. If I don't put a good three hours between nursing and pumping at any point during the day, my output is sad. Nothing like dusty, dry boob to make you feel like a failure as a mother. So I wait until I feel ever so slightly uncomfortable for that first session, and then pump every 2 hrs after that. And then once more before bed. All for -- at best -- 16 oz of milk total for the day. It helped to decrease my expectations per this article. I also drink the Mother's Milk tea sometimes and eat a ton of oatmeal.

[PRO TIP: don't be an idiot like me and assume that turning the pump way up is best. Stupid goddamn OW. I start at a high-ish speed and then turn it down as much as possible during the expression phase.]

Too cute! Ow! My boobs!

Lie back and think of England your baby during your session for best results. Seriously, I have loads of video of Baby G being adorable and 1200 other photos to scroll through. Works like a charm, also is good for distracting boss/dad when he wonders why I must take 1.5 hours of breaks every day.

Between sessions I just stick the bottles with the flange and all attached in a plastic freezer bag and put the whole kit in the fridge. With a nice note: "ANYBODY TOUCHES MY STUFF...YOU FUCKING DIE."

Then! My best hack ever! At the end of the day, I cap off the bottles of milk and take apart the pump parts and put them into the baggie to travel home. When I am cleaning up after dinner, I squirt some dishsoap into the bag, fill it with the hottest water I can stand, seal up and swish it around for a bit, poke at the weird tiny crevices with my little brush from my bottles (which also fit right onto the pump, win/win), rinse the parts with hot water and put them on this awesome little drying rack. Every couple of days/when the dishwasher is full, I put everything into this wonderful amazing thing, just to get everything all hot and sanitized.

(Why, yes, in fact, getting excited over plastic bits from Target does give me an identity crisis. Domesticity FTWTF.)

So, there you have it, folks. Much ado for about pumpin'. Any other mamas have any advice to add?

Con muchos besos, A

Than It is to Rust

I am having a hard time starting this post. Figuring out the tone. Finding a way to convey that I am well aware that he was just a cat, and that if he had to go, at least it was quick, and he was healthy until the moment he died, and knew he was loved (Do cats care about that? He at least knew all his needs would be met with great haste, and isn't that what cats demand of us?).

But, you guys. My cat got run over, and I am sad.

You never know how pervasive these creatures are, the pets we choose to share our lives, until they are gone. I keep seeing him disappear around corners out of the corner of my eye. I catch myself waiting to hear him tap-tap-tapping into the den to sit next to me and purr too goddamn loudly before I start my nightly episode of Mad Men. My heart seized last night when I thought I heard a rustle in the corner where he liked to sleep (on a pile of my maternity clothes that was meant to be bagged and sent to Goodwill but I kept because he liked to sleep on it). Every morning I push the container holding his steroid pills (the stupid guy had asthma, have you ever heard of such a thing) further into our vitamin cupboard. I can't throw them out, yet. His bag of treats is still sitting on the counter, though my father-in-law picked up his food bowl and hid it away in the pantry.

He was the cat we worried about most when we first brought Little A. home from the hospital. Worried, like, would he scratch the baby? Would he scratch up the couch because he is mad about the baby? Our worries were completely unfounded. He was the most awesome cat after all. He would let the baby pull his tail, or a handful of fur, and never once raised a paw. He would give me a oh god please help meeeee look, and I would accordingly unclench the fat fist from whatever body part. But never once, not once, did he even threaten to hurt anyone. Not even when Little A. squished his most-amazingly-soft underbelly, or tried to pick him up by the front paws, or when Baby G poked him in the eye and pulled his whiskers and put his tail in her mouth.

Grey kitty photobomb

Every morning, he would meow his way up the stairs, thump into our bedroom, jump onto my nightstand, meow some more and then grumble around trying to find a place to cuddle in the middle of the family wake-up routine. This Sunday, I woke up to find him already cuddled next to the baby, who was having her post-super-early-nursing-session snooze next to me. I said hey you're not allowed at this end of the bed, and he gave me a very cat you talkin' to me about rules, mama? Psssht. look. And Little G rolled over, delighted to see Kitty! Pull fur! Fur in mouth! YAY! 

A couple of hours later, while we were packing up for a trip to Gramma's house at the lake, and doing the last minute locate-and-lock-down-the-pets routine, Tim discovered his body in the middle of the road. No one stopped, we didn't hear any brakes.

Mama is very sad, Little A., because Grey Kitty got killed by a car, and we are never going to see him again.

Don't worry, Mama. We can get another one, she said, soothingly, and patted my arm. Don't be sad.

But I am going to be sad, for a little while longer, because while it is most likely we will get another cat, we will never find such a good-natured, fat, incredibly soft cat, who I will imagine is gay, into furries, and has a British accent (c'mon, you don't over-anthropomorphize too?)

No, this one is irreplaceable, and now he is buried in his most favorite sun-dappled spot in the yard, from whence he would survey his territory, and protect the chickens, and come dashing when I called for him. For even though Tim brought him home from the shelter years before I met him, the Grey Kitty was truly mine. And I miss him so.

Con muchos besos, A

The Rainy Dampish Soggy Squishy Wet-Everything Blues

Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain. Rain. Rain. Rain drizzle rain.

You get the idea. It has rained a shitload recently, and all of the rain went into my motherpluckin' basement.

Home ownership. It is lovely for about...3 months out of the year. When the grass in the backyard is lush green, and one can sit on the deck with a glass of wine listening to birdsong, or the entire landscape is curvy white with snow and the air smells new. When the leaves are all burnt sienna and a deer tiptoes across the treeline. Before we have to turn on the heat in the fall or the air conditioners ('cause Mama don't sleep in a hot bedroom) in the summer. When we have a houseful of friends because we can. When the chickens are pecking through the bugs and the kids are on the back porch and I can open the kitchen window and breathe in the fresh Maine air. And smell a little chlorine from the pool.

And then there are the other times. When the boiler craps out because someone *ahem* forgot to call the oil company like she said she would. When staring at a pile of laundry that the dog peed on that can't be washed because the machine decided to be a bitch. And, I found out, when waking up on a Sunday morning to discover the kitty litter box floating on top of 6 inches of water in the basement. Dudes, this was seriously gross. I mean, at least the water wasn't IN the box, but. That is a small comfort. The dank water was actually high enough to snuff the flame to our oil burner, which meant no hot water.

And the cat was so mad about having a swimming pool around his box that he barfed on our bed. 

They're smiling because they can't smell themselves.

I dunno about you, but for me, with two small kids and a dog and a cat and smelly butts all around everywhere, hot water is a necessity. I was not in the mood to go all Little House (which we did several times this winter when said boiler crapped) and put a pot of water to simmer on the stove, so decamp we did to my parents' house, my childhood home. We brought pizzas and grandkids so my folks were not put out. Little A. got to play with my mother's ancient dollies and have ice cream. Baby G greeted my dad with outstretched arms and didn't want to leave his lap the rest of the night (which might have been the cutest thing I have ever seen).

And I had a glass of wine and read O Magazine after the girls went to bed and Tim went home and sump-pumped out the basement because if you're going to have a crappy old house it is very handy to obtain a partner who knows how to fix all kinds of things so take my advice and get one of those. And also a sump pump, and a fire extinguisher, and a good homeowner's insurance policy. By Monday morning, the oil burner was back on, and by that evening, the cellar floor was basically dry.

So we all lived happily ever after, except for all the piles of sodden disgusting crap (some literal, some figurative) in the basement. When you next visit, please ignore the dumpster in the driveway. We're trying to keep it classy around here.

Con muchos besos, A

Babyface

I miss her all day. T-friggin-GIF.

I Can Do Yoga with a Yak all Year in my Yard

EXT: Grey station wagon pulling out of suburban driveway onto a busy road.


Cut to slightly frazzled looking MOM in the front seat, adorable 3-year-old LITTLE A in the backseat, looking out the window. BABY G is sitting in her car seat next to LITTLE A., only barely visible. All is quiet, except for the radio and the little jingles of the baby's toy. But then....

LITTLE A: Why do we go this way every day Mama? Why do we wait our turn? Why did Daddy leave before us? Why did you put on your blinker? Why is baby G chewing on her hands all the time? Why do you drink coffee? Why did Brad go to the train station last night?

MOM: Well, A., that's because --

LITTLE A: Why do we go frew the toeboof? Why we give that guy a dollar? Why does that guy have tattoos? Why isn't the lady working today? Why does Daddy work on cars? Why do some people get lasers after? Why are they fixing the bridge? Why did you pack me a snack for my Sunny Days? Why are we going on the highway?

MOM: We have to give them a --

LITTLE A: Why we stopping now? Why we waiting our turns? Why is it bad to have an axtident? Why do we have to wear buckles? Why is Baby G looking at me? Why is it starting to rain? Why is that truck red? Why does it have wheels under? Why is it not good for me to poop in my underpants? Why is Nat-Nat in Florida?

MOM: If the car gets --

LITTLE A: Why is that squirrel died? Why did our black cat die? Why is grey kitty not died? Why does Miss Missy have a blue shirt? Why does Baby Jacob sleep in his swing? Why do we have to feed Fifi-fishie two times? Why does Floyd pee on the rug?

MOM: Sometimes people and things just --

LITTLE A: Why you go to work after 5 minutes? Why you pick me up? Why does Baby G go in her car seat that way? Why she have fweet potatoes for breakfast? Why is it so stinky when I poop in the potty? Why did you stop now? Why are we waiting our turns? Why did Daddy go in the different car today? Why are we having fish cakes for supper? Why do you have your hair in a bun?

MOM: (unintelligible mumbling)

LITTLE A, leaning forward: WHY YOU SAY YOU NEED A DRINK MAMA?

She sits back again, content. Looks out the window at the passing scenery. Just as she begins to open her mouth again, the screen goes black. 

FIN

Con muchos besos,  A

I See You

Little A. wants to go higher, higher, higher all the time. Can you do an underdogs? she pleads. I want to go SOOOPER HIGH! I'll only do the coveted underdog move when she is in the toddler swings, but it still makes me nervous. When did she learn about underdogs, and when did she start loving to swing so high? Just weeks ago, she would panic over anything more than a 15-degree arc. 

*****

I never chose my girlfriends wisely, or was an inadequate friend; I was never certain, but I never could hold on. Once I reached middle school, I gradually dropped my sweet, loyal elementary school friends because I wanted to talk about boys and wear OP and do theatre and listen to the Beastie Boys and they weren't quite there yet. This was, I hope, painless for all involved: we simply grew apart, but were always friendly.

Just once, I was the mean girl: renouncing Julie, my best friend the previous year at camp to hang with the cooler girls in the shack. We teased her and made her cry. The power was intoxicating: just like I would feel later when I smoked or drank too much, giddy and sick at the same time. Admittance to the cool crowd was tenuous for everyone but one or two founding members. You never knew when it was your turn to be the chum. Nerve-wracking, to say the least.

Of course I never would have mentioned this to my mother. She never seemed to notice (or perhaps just didn't mention fearing my hormonal wrath) when my best friends at home, the ones I talked to for hours on the phone, wrote notes to each period, and hung out with every weekend -- first Reshanna, then Michelle, then Ingrid -- suddenly stopped calling or coming over after some disagreement that never, to me, seemed like grounds for ultimate dismissal. I'm not sure it would have made me feel any better to talk to her about it. So I never did, and eventually just presumed that best friends for life were not something that actually happened. Or that if it did, it would be a boy.  So I put all my eggs in the boyfriend basket, and hung out with HIS friends, who stopped being friends with me when I (thank the gods) realized that I was not meant to be Mrs. Todd Murphy, class of 1992, after one semester at college. My mother did notice that, and told me several times that we were too serious. How was she to know that I considered him my only friend?

*****

A group of tween girls is wrestling with the gate to the playground. Either they are pretending to not know how to open it, so no one will look too eager to get inside, or they are just purposefully too skinny and malnourished to get it open. Little A. is shouting instructions to them, and to me: PUSH HARDER! NO, PULL! COME ON IN BIG GIRLS! COME ON THE SWINGS! HELP THEM MAMA! When they finally figure it out and tumble in, gangly puppies outfitted by Justice, Little A. jumps off her swing, tell me I want to play with the big girls and proceeds to follow them around. For the most part, they ignore her and move to other parts of the space when she approaches. I don't think there is any malice; they seem more awkward than cruel. They are just supremely uninterested in the advances of a toddler girl. But after they leave Little A. runs back to me with a huge smile on her face. Those big girls were so nice! she exclaims. One of them said "Hi" to me! I fwinged next to them! Do you have any more space fishies for snack?

*****

After several years of therapy, yoga, and realizing that my first impression can be as welcoming as a hedgehog, I have somehow made a handful of wonderful, loyal, amazing women friends. After years of trying to crack through the veneers and speak the language of aloof trendsters, I lucked out and found a tribe (albeit a small one, and mostly too far away) of gorgeous, goofy, perfectly imperfect ladies who love me back. Dear Lord and Almighty parenting books, how will I teach my daughter to be a good friend, a kind and loyal friend? How will I encourage her to stay sweet, not put up walls and pretend at cool, like her mama did and maybe still does? How will I teach her to discern the ones to keep, the ones for the moment, the ones forever?

*****

She makes a game of running away, but not too far, and never in parking lots. I catch her, call her my gingerbread girl and and kiss her curls and tickle her still chubby, perfect belly. As we sit reading before bed, she turns to me and says Mama, we are best, best friends! My other best best friend is Nat Nat and Launa. And Phoebe. And Max. And Baby Warren. But not Pop, he teases me.

I will always be your best, best  friend, my silly bean, I tell her back. And say a little prayer: may she always, always have so many best bests, and always, always, talk to me.

Con muchos besos, A

Halfway

Or, the conclusion of the saga. TL;DR takeaway: DON'T BE LIKE ME, PLAN AHEAD.

When will I learn? I guess, never. Other mamas carefully, prenatally, research options, go for visits, send deposits. I must subconsciously ENJOY the extra pressure and stress that comes with my lack of preparation and forethought. Because now I have done it TWICE.

But also: Somehow, we've hit upon a happy ending. So, so fortunately.

After a week or so of hemming and hawing and bringing the baby to work with me and generally flipping my wig, I pulled on my big-girl panties and called a couple of centers. Begged, pleaded, for infant openings. Went on a couple of visits, dragging the girls with me. Endured awkward visits with weird ladies whose centers smelled of pee and sadness. But then. We walked into the appropriately named Sunny Days and lo, the clouds were chased away. Of course we would love to take both girls, the director said. You are an angel straight from heaven, I said back.

And so both of my girls are ensconced at the same daycare as their beloved cousins. Halfway between our house and my office. It's a Christian center, which gave us pause, but, in the end. Seriously. They are really little. We can just deprogram them later, if we need to. But that discussion is for another post.

And! I am seeing, already, positive changes in my big Little A. She is NAPPING during the day, and greeting me with a smile on her face and no wet pants in her bag. She has given me a couple of moments of drama about missing her friends at her old place, but otherwise seems to be handling the transition like a champ.

Baby G is not napping but that's because she is so excited! About other babies! Doing stuff! And looking at them! And growing two teeth! And there is a noise over there what is happening!!! But that is a 4 month old for you. And she greets me with a smile every day, opens her arms wide to grab my face and pull my hair.

I miss them both so much during the day, but this is how it has to be for now. Today I took them both out to a bagel shop for breakfast, to celebrate a great first week of our new routine. All of the regulars cooed over the girls. Then we drove off to the daycare and walked in to see the latest of Little A's witticisms* displayed right at the front of the center for all the grownups to see. My heart grew 3 sizes, and I cried happy tears on the way back to the car.

I mean, now I have to pump 4 times a day at the office, nothing new for any working BFin'  mom. At least I can watch Food Network at the same time. My life. Is not terrible.

Con muchos besos,
A

*Her teacher asked her "Is it hard work, being so cute?" To which Little A. replied, very seriously, "Well, I don't have to do it on weekends at home, and I take Mondays off too. So it's not THAT hard." OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES PEOPLE.