A Working Mother: my boobs hurt all the time

I’ve recently gone back to work. Now, the job I’ve acquired is fairly coveted and legally quite unique. Much like medicine, it has major legal implications as well as deadlines. So, when approaching the lovely subject of pumping breastmilk. It can be, how should I say it… A GIANT BITCH. Now, my supervisors are understanding and helpful when it comes to the necessity of having to pump, and all of the co-workers I’ve encountered have been either very understanding and/or unconcerned. Unfortunately, all those nice realities don’t really mitigate these truths: 

A) OMG PUMPING REQUIRES SO MUCH EFFORT AND DISCOMFORT 

B) WHY IS IT SO DIFFICULT, EVEN WHEN EVERYTHING GOES RIGHT

C) I HAVE TO WASH STUFF SO OFTEN AND I’M SO LAZY

D) A TINY MACHINE ATTACKS MY NIPPLES AT REGULAR INTERVALS AND IT TAKES SO. MUCH. TIME. 

E) Because of the nature of my work, after a certain point in the day, breaks aren’t really an option, so the tail end of my work day does in fact get difficult and irregular. Going sometimes as much as 7 hours without being able to pump. 

Luckily, it’s timed in such a way that it lands largely in the space of time where My milk production is usually lowest, so I can make it from my lunch break to my driving home pump session with relative ease. 

But, the long and short of this post is a sincere message to all those women who pump at work (especially hard labor jobs that are time sensitive):

YOU ARE DOING A REALLY HARD THING AND YOU SHOULD BE PROUD. Because it can be painful, scary, embarrassing, and insanely inconvenient. Way to fucking go. 

I Can’t Think of Anything Funny to Say

Is this a diary or an essay? 

I’d like to turn this blog into a successful job, to inspire people with my casual, humorous retelling of daily life, my wry wisdom shining through… I’d also like to complain a lot about shit that pisses me off, without the people who are currently pissing me off, FINDING OUT that it is they, who piss me off. 

I don’t know if I’ve made it clear, but I like commas and complaining. 

So, how do I do that? How do I keep it within the lines of funny and engaging, without just being a nasty bitch? 

Fuck if I know. 

Filthy Baby Mummy

Bad mom or just stupid? 

I don’t wash my baby. My kid has skin problems from here to somewhere rashy. When we were kids, we had similar issues with excema, scabies, and, of course, leprosy. In fact, we still do. 

One of the big mistakes my mother made when she was trying to keep us alive, was washing us too much. With every good intention in the world, she stripped our skin of any protection it had. She realized her mistake, and passed her wisdom on. With that in mind, I don’t wash my friggin’ baby. I tried to, at first, every couple days. But as it became more and more apparent that his skin would mirror mine, I stopped. 

He’s lucky if he gets a bath every two weeks. He’s not actually dirty, he gets wiped down and his little crevasses hide no yeast or lingering poo. His hair was oily for about a week then promptly stopped being oily (much like mine when I started shampooing only 2-3 times a week). But yeah, people who wash their little ones every day blow my mind. 

And it worked quite well, for a while. But the winter cold has set in, and my baby has once again become a rashy mess. With his family history, his pediatricians have agreed it’s probably just excema and even given their blessing on the bathless chaos. We tried dairy elimination, just to be safe. But it persists. 

And now I’m scared… 

Did I fuck up? Maybe I’m too far on the other end of the spectrum? Should I bathe him more than I am? Did I do something wrong? Is it as normal as I think? It’s probably nothing. But what if it isn’t? Am I being paranoid? Shit. Shit. 

So, I hauled the little creature into the shower with me, his baby bath carefully in the tub as I cuddled him and washed him up. Of course, I’m constantly stricken with fear that I’ll drop him, despite having the baby bath positioned just so and gripping him like he’s a golden goose. 

After our shower, I dried him off and wrapped him in a loose swaddle, to which he happily nodded off… shit. Should I have been swaddling him more? I know I largely stopped once he hit three months. I know you aren’t really supposed to swaddle them after a certain point, but when exactly is that? Why don’t I know this? Would he have been happier all along? I thought he was kicking too much, he always just kicked any blankets off…SHIT. SHIT. 

Now, I ask… am I a bad mom or just stupid? I’m not sure. Maybe a bit of both and neither. I don’t do a lot of what people say you should, I don’t treat him like he’s terribly fragile, and everything has worked out fairly well… but is that luck of the draw? His development is spot on, if not a little better. His weight is a little low but he’s long and has a little pudge. One testicle likes to hang out pretty high BUT they are both there… 

I don’t have a clue, really. I have a healthy enough kid who’s happy and likes to put his hand in your mouth. So as long as he stays that way, I’m just going to take a bunch of pictures of his adorable  face and send them to people who are trying to work. 

Falling In Love: Baby Poo

I recently read an article that was filled with nastiness aimed towards people talking about their pregnancies and offspring. Now, it was total bullshit. The person was angrily telling people that they were required to edit their harmless commentary and sharing of their own lives, because they (the writer) was annoyed by it. I say to that, with utmost sincerity, fuck off. Not being insensitive or sanctimonious is one thing, but “it’s annoying and we don’t want to hear about it” can be solved with an unfollow or an unfriend. There are plenty of things that I and others post that won’t interest others, are oversharing, annoying, etc. … but they are harmless. There is no hate speech, no detrimental effect, it’s just silliness. SO IGNORE IT. Because crapping all over others is a pointlessly cruel venture. 

That all being said, I was thinking about my own social media commentary on my little one, his bowel movements, my bowel movements (hemorrhoids, yo), and all the various pictures. I’ve also recently started a new job, and I find that he’s one of the only things I talk about…

And all that got me thinking. I’ve fallen in love. Now, I’ve never been one for dramatic love. While being a drama queen, myself, I like my romantic love straightforward and humble. I want to pay the bills with you and see you naked. I want to wake up to you farting in your sleep and the fact that you will NOT STOP LEAVING HALF FULL BEER BOTTLES AROUND THE HOUSE, MATT, FINISH THEM, WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU. Ahem, what I mean to say is: I’ll write love poems, and you will never ever see them because… eww, eye contact. 

I always assumed the love of one’s child was the same, but without the romance. I was right, it is… BUT IT’S DRAMATIC AS HELL. I literally cannot stop thinking about his potato face. 

At this new job, I spend the whole time thinking that, when I’m done, I get to go back to him. For perspective, I am working night shift. When I get home, I’ve sometimes been up for 24+ hours. I need to sleep. But he will start waking up, so I’ll sleep for a fitful 2-3 hours, while he alternately thrashes, cries, poops, and naps. Then I’ll get up to do some chores and entertain him for the day. He’s pretty damn annoying and I’m REALLY tired. And yet I adore him and I’ve just spent the night thinking about hugging his little body to me and the way he smiles when he sees my face…

So, I guess what I’m saying is: 

I love my son.

And, I’ll talk about his poop if I want to, bitch. 

Postpartum Depression

So, I’ve got some postpartum depression. It doesn’t help that my mom died this summer, a little over a month before my son was born. He would be her first grandchild…

Now, I’m going to be honest, I’m drunk and sad. My body is even weirder than it was before having a baby, I’m heavily in debt, I had to leave a job I loved to move to a new home with new people who I don’t know… I’m very happy with my life. I love Mathew, I love our son, Morgan, I love our new home and the area. But I’m sad.

My mom has been sick for a long time, and while she wasn’t diagnosed with anything up until this last year, I knew. We all knew. She would cough and gag, she was so weak, and she wasn’t stable. The kindest way I began to phrase it was that my mother, “didn’t perceive the world the same way we did.” And that was kind. It turns out my mother had undiagnosed hyperthyroidism, specifically Graves’ disease… which eventually resulted in irreversible complications. So, I spent much of the end of my pregnancy sleeping in the hospital and watching my mother die in the summer heat. 

ANYWAYS. Initially, I cried a few times a day, just for a second. During labor, I wanted my mom… and then I had my baby, and that went away for a few days… and then it came back. My partner was working 50-60 hours a week, and often away at work for a week at a time. He’d been doing this for several months, so I was used to it. But with a newborn, it was harder. As my newborn got older, I started to think of my mom again. I would reach for the phone to call and ask her questions, and I’d remember I couldn’t do that anymore. I wasn’t showering or eating or drinking. A screaming baby just ground that pain in like broken glass. Then I thought of her once a day. Once a day I’d cry, and then I’d move on. I’d bend over, clutching my stomach (the tummy that now made me think of her’s), and I’d cry… then I’d straighten up and keep folding clothes. 

Now, I cry every couple days. I miss my mom. I miss my job. I miss not having a baby and being close to my friends and family… I’ve just started working again, and when I do, I miss my baby. I’ve been working nights at a nursing home, and as I turn people in their beds and change them into clean briefs and warm clothes; I see my little boy, and I think of his warm little body and I want to hug him and feed him. 

When I was a child I had a hormonal imbalance. I was severely depressed and I became suicidal. And it’s interesting, the contrast. I was a small child, around 9. You’d think that it would be different, but it’s the same. The slow ache, the mood swings… and somehow that is reassuring. Knowing what this is, talking about it with friends and family, relieves so much of the burden. 

It’s okay that I don’t feel okay. 

And I know I love my baby, and Matt, and my family, and my mom…

And it’s okay that I’m still not okay. 

Goddamn Text Widget

For love or money, I cannot get rid of that text widget and picture. Do you see it?! Because I see it. And I’ve deleted it, tried to fill it, everything I’ve tried doesn’t work… it haunts me.

Fuck that widget. 

Stretch Marks

Since having my infant, I go back and forth on my body. I didn’t gain too much weight, and I’m back down to pretty much what I was before. But, what is weird is that my body is absolutely NOTHING like it was before.

I’m the same size shirt and yet my shirts don’t fit. I’m the same size pants and yet they sit differently. My stomach is stretched out, the skin hangs loose and puffs out when I zip my jeans over it. It’s true, I have fucking mom bod. Even the stretch marks.

I remember when I first started getting stretch marks. I was nine or ten and hitting puberty. They started to pop up on my hips… These purple-ish marks. They wouldn’t go away. I wasn’t sure why I had them and they ruined the body that I was already so self-conscious of.

What I didn’t know was that almost everyone got them. I didn’t know that they were normal. What I DID know was that there was yet another thing that my ugly, little body had developed to make me sad.

So, when I started getting them during my pregnancy, I felt my heart sink. Mom had them, she had a lot. I knew that I’d get them. But when it appeared on the right side of my belly button, where my baby liked to lay, it made me cry.

Everyone said, “just put [cocoa butter, bio oil, vitamin E…]” Now, those all help fade marks, but they do not prevent them. THEY DO NOT FUCKING PREVENT THEM. When I read that, it was a huge relief. It wasn’t that I was doing it wrong, it wasn’t that I had fallen short. It wasn’t another thing to add to the laundry list of things that make women feel like they’ve failed. No, it was goddamn genetics. Now, that means I’m still screwed, I’m still getting the marks. But, it also means that the constant comments, “well, you should have…” could go fuck themselves.

I still have the marks, and I will have them. My partner and I have talked about eventually having them lazered away, because it still makes me sad sometimes. But for now, I have my marks. My tummy makes me think of my mom’s. My clothes don’t fit but I’m starting to get new ones… My kid gets a soft spot to sit.

So hell, rock on, mom bod. 

Don’t Be a Dick, Yo

In the last year, I went from having little to no experience with “mom” stuff to losing my own mother and becoming one to my son. In that time, one resounding thing has become clear to me: 

WELL MEANING PEOPLE ARE OFTEN DICKS… AND HAVE NO IDEA.

I want to emphasize, the things I am about to list were said by people who meant SO well. Alas…

1) “I think you are further along than you think you are.” No, motherfucker, I know the exact goddamn dates. I’m just huge, okay? When I tell you that, repeatedly, I’m not mistaken. TO. THE. DAY.

2) “Just use cocoa butter!” Genetics, water intake, weight gain, body type… I have intense stretch marks. So did my mom. My epidermis tears easily, and that wouldn’t have been prevented if I’d “just put more cocoa butter on it.” I gained the amount of weight I was supposed to and it still happened. If I’d oiled up like a pregnant slug and slid everywhere, I’d probably still have stretch marks. Cocoa butter is wonderful, not fucking magic. 

3) “Sleep when the baby sleeps.” It’s not a bad sentiment, and while it didnt really apply to my kid, I can see it being super helpful to someone! However, DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE SAID THIS TO ME?! SO MANY. 

4) “Oh honey, losing your mom? When you are about to have your first?! So horrible for you.” Look, the people who said this to me were so loving and wanted to help. I was trying (and still am) to be okay. It is hard and it fucking sucks. But, being reminded almost every day and being told that I should be so upset? It does, in fact, remind me how upset I should be.

5) “I’ll be your new mother.” Again, some of the kindest people I know said this. But… I HAVE A MOM. She may be gone now; but please don’t ever act like you could or should replace her. 

6) “You can’t spoil him!” OR “You’re going to spoil him!” Look, my kid’s an asshole. I love him so much and he is an asshole. His father and I will fuck it up either way, as long as we don’t kill him, whatevs. 

7) “No, no, no. This is what you need to do…” I know it’s just my own personal immaturity, but UGGGGGHHH. I love advice, but it’s that: Advice. Not Law. I am not beholden to you because you are older and wiser (or have more of a “mom” haircut.)

8) “Oh, you didn’t do natural?…” Bitch, how dare you? I have a beautiful, healthy son. Just because I had a needle crammed into my back before I popped him the hell out of my vagina, does not make him any less beautiful or healthy. C-section, water birth, non-medicated, stillbirth, adoption, birth defects, complications… whatever the fuck we do… we had babies and that’s amazing. So fuck off. 

9) “So, are you going to get married? Does he WANT to get married?” I mean, I’m not terribly concerned on the subject, but WTF. Why is it that it’s somehow my fault for not ensnaring my partner into marriage? I am incredibly in love with him and we will get married soon enough, bar some significant change of heart. But why is it, “she got herself pregnant, she hasn’t gotten him to propose.” I mean, are we really so condescending towards men that they are not responsible for their actions in this world? You better believe he participated. He participated hard, yo. 

10) “Well, you NEED…” I mean, there are some things that make a significant difference in the ease of pregnancy, childbirth, and raising children. Some are universal, that is absolutely true. But, when you start naming off weird shit that’s hundreds of dollars and will be used for like, three months? AND THEN you tell me it “has to be brand new” because I’ll somehow hurt the baby if I expose them to spotless, within safety-date, gently used material and equipment? Considering the history of the human race, I feel like my demon-spawn will prevail without. 

This Won’t Be Inspirational

Never Have I Ever: Blogged.

Actually, I have. It was pretty bad, and I was trying really hard. ACTUALLY, I plan on trying really hard for this one, too. Because I want to be liked and have people laugh at my jokes. But also, fuck you, I’m hilarious.

Anyways, I briefly blogged but not a lot, nor successfuly. So, I guess I should say, Never Have I Ever: Blogged Well.

I plan to document and, I can only assume, embellish the goings on in my new life as a new mother. I’ll talk about the life I lead with my partner, our kid, and our creatures. I plan to do so with comedy, vulgarity, and focus heavily on making myself feel funny and showing you pretty pictures I took. So, fuck yeah.