You haven't lived until you have milked yourself

I am a breastfeeding momma. My first baby was exclusively breastfed with the exception of maybe 5 bottles for an entire year. That, I assure you, speaks less about my mother of the year credentials, which were ruined when the Kraken stuck an apple chunk up his nose this morning, and more about how often I get out.

Baby number two has taken momma's home cooking for six straight months. But . . . there is a wedding coming up and the possibility for mini weekend getaways for my husband and I and so Rosie is learning that plastic nipples come with some advantages (such as having the undivided attention of daddy or grandpa or grandma, not getting dirty looks from people in public who should mind their own business, and having a little peace from that crazy mother of hers who is such a drag).

This is where my personality splits. Part of me, the terrible mother part, is a bit relieved for the break. I am not one of those women who love to breastfeed. I do it because it is best for my children. I am grateful to God that I had two easy breast feeders. I know that some women struggle and struggle and morn the loss of this bonding experience and for them my heart aches, but I just don't necessarily enjoy the act of breastfeeding. Maybe we should blame my Kraken for this. He is a loud and angry drinker, often feeding on all fours like a puppy, stretching my skin to its limit. (No, not kidding, you can ask Yaya who happened in one morning to witness my torture.)

My other self feels very guilty. Like I said, the breast is best. And being a second child myself, I want as much of Rosie's start in life to be the same as my son's: same first picture moments, same video moments, same time we start solids, same trips. And so on and so forth. I will let you know how that goes. Not so well already I am horrified to report.

All I know, as will any breastfeeding mom, is that missing a feeding is not good for comfort. Hugs are painful and any crying infant or thought of a crying infant releases the flood gates and a puddle ensues. I’m pretty sure “the wet look” was meant for hair dos and not specific areas of my tee shirt. And so we are forced to pump. Pump to save the supply. Pump to stop the leaks. Pump to stop the pain. Oh how I love to pump. Let me just say you haven't truly lived until you have milked yourself. I’m sure hearing that distinctive, rhythmic whirring gets my hubby hot and bothered. It certainly makes me feel sexy. If that wasn’t awkward enough, anyone who comes over and raids the fridge gets to stare at my secret milk stash. It makes me think twice before offering visitors ‘anything you can find in the fridge.’ Yummy.

Pee at your own risk

I have an irrational fear of public restrooms. Not the germs per say, though I am a squat and hover. (My mommy brain tells me a little background info is necessary to add at this time. I believe there are three types of women grouped by their approaches to the public restroom. There are the squat and hovers, such as myself, the wipe it, wrap it and sits, and the momma didn’t raise me right sit and deal with the consequences. Now that I have that off my chest, let’s continue.) I am terrified that I am going to be murdered in a public restroom.

Now I admit that my brain is a bit, to steal a term, fantastical, but I didn’t come up with this fear all on my own. I blame Sigourney Weaver. I do. She was in the movie Copycat, which looking back on it now has quite a few good actors involved, where a man or maybe two men attempt to kill her in a public restroom two separate times by going over the side of the stall and hanging her.

Stupid, right? Yes. But anytime the urge hits while out and about or on toll roads where public restrooms are impossible to avoid, I pray and pray and pray that it will be extremely busy. I will wait in line for any length of time because it means I am safe. No one is going to hang me with so many witnesses. If the toilets are empty, and I am all alone, my heart races, my palms sweat and I perform the hurry up squat and hover while craning my neck to look up at the ceiling for the noose that is my doom. (Ladies, this is why you should not just sit down on the pot. I am a kind citizen and will be neat and wipe the seat if I sprinkle when I tinkle, but for crying out loud!)

Once I flush another problem arises. I have given up my location. The killer knows where I am. I take a deep breath and open the door quickly as if to take my murderer by surprise. I have imagined a million different crazies standing on the other side of the door. My heart goes out to the poor woman who happens to sneak in to the restroom while I am doing my business without my knowing. I cannot be held responsible for what I will say or do if someone is in fact standing on the other side of the stall door. Oh, man. That could be really horrible. Really funny, or really horrible.

Um, Hi babe. Could you please come and pick me up at the police station? I terrorized a woman in a public restroom. . .

At least I will have a friend in my support group.

A momma and a . . . Volume 1

I am a momma and . . .

an activities coordinator - I plan fun, safe activities usually with a splash of learning and a coke machine nearby.

a chef - Mac and Cheese? Please. That was so yesterday. Tonight we are having something delicious, nutritious that doubles as beautiful wall decor when splashed with a plastic spoon just so.

a calf wrangler - Have you ever tried to change a two-year old's diaper mid dance marathon?

a limo driver - Here my darling, let me help you into the car. No, please let me buckle that strap. Don't you lift a pretty little finger. We are here, but please don't move. I will be around shortly to lift you gently into your ride while out of the car.

a filing cabinet of useful and not so useful knowledge- Rosie needs to go to the doctor on the 5th. The Kraken has a play date on the 6th at noon. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes, size 9. Bananas are on sale this week. There is a coupon for half off children's socks at Kohl's in my bag. Rent is due in two days. The cars are about due for oil changes. If I take a left on Main I will get to the park two minutes faster than if I go straight. Sleep deprivation is caused by a lack of sleep. That rash looks more like eczema and less like poison ivy. My mother-in-law's birthday is the first of the month, and her card will be late no matter when I send it. The trash man comes on Wednesday. The mail comes at 2pm unless it is a Thursday because the mail lady hates Thursdays so it's a little later than 2pm. My bra strap is going to snap at any point, but that isn't a priority today. If you add an acid to a base you will get a salt and water. Antifreeze is green. Violets are blue.

an exterminator - I hate bugs. Hate. Loathe entirely. But my son was stung by a hornet on the finger and freaks at the sight of bugs, especially big buzzing ones and runs to momma to fix it. Which I do.

a stuff locator - Your shoes are under the table. The matching sock is in the garage. Your wallet is on the stove. Rosie's blanket is in the microwave. Your blue shirt with the funky orange stain is the third shirt from the top in the left hand stack of the top right hand drawer of your dresser. His sippy cup is in the dishwasher. I'm sure I left my brain in here somewhere. The mail is in the basket.

a hazardous waste handler - refer back to 2 year-old diaper change

a puke bucket - Turns out when my son is sick all he wants is for momma to hold him. This usually occurs just as the puke comes and so lands all over me not in the bucket. Yum. Lunch anyone?

a fool - Dance momma! But we are in the middle of the grocery store. Dance momma! Ok. Fine. Bee Bop Mo Shoo Bop A Whop Bam Boom.

There will be no sleeping tonight

My son is addicted to his paci. He calls it his memaw. At least 4000 times a day he asks for the memaw. It's his symphony, his theme song of life. Unfortunately, sucking on a binky during English 101 is a tell tale sign that he will either be living at home forever or married to one crazy loony toon. So, it is up to the momma to end this addiction before the school bully pounces.

Knowing this task is not going to be pleasant, I sought out help from other moms with experience. Some negotiated release with a toy, some sent the plugs to children less fortunate, some took it away and wore earplugs . . . the suggestions were endless but only one really appealed to me (and my gutless "I don't want him to hate me forever" ways). A friend of mine cut a slit in the paddy mo causing it not to work correctly. Her daughter eventually just got bored with it and let to gather dust in the corner. Aha! I won't be the bad guy.

So that was the plan, but when I was going to carry out the deception was still up in the air . . . but then he dropped the darn thing during a long car ride and proceeding to scream his bloody head off. I was done. Over it. Today was the day.

I tucked my son in for naptime, handed him one sabotaged paci, placed the second one on his headboard and kissed him goodnight. All was quiet for about 30 seconds. Then the Kraken called out "Momma HELP." I walked in expecting tears, screaming and terror. What I got was an outstretched hand holding both ruined plugs as if handing me change from a purchase. Then he calmly said "Memaws broke. Go bye bye. New memaws please."

My heart was broken. What a cold hearted momma. All he wanted was a little comfort, and I broke his memaws.

Jumping Jacks

Little Rosie is the happiest baby I have ever seen. Super laid back and happy happy happy. She doesn’t need much, just a look and a smile to get her laughing and smiling right back. Even when her big brother smacks her on the head, she will look at him, decide if it really hurt or not, then smile wide and squeal in delight that he is paying attention to her. Silly little princess.

Her favorite activity is jumping jacks. In the pool, on your hip, in the stroller, in her bed: leg popping, arm swinging, jumping jacks. (It seems I make really active children. I mean really active. So active that my dream house has a rubber track running around the fenced in backyard good for timing races on foot, bikes, skates, scooters, unicycles, stilts . . . while momma sits in a very comfy chair with a stopwatch.)

She isn’t the best sleeper just yet and will wake multiple times each night and fuss. As soon as she sees another living thing the smiling and jumping jacks commence. She could be half asleep and go into full on exercise mode. As if to say “Oh, hello momma. What are you doing awake at 2am?” It is hard not to smile right back at her.

I guess my only concern is for her future husband because that could get really annoying and possibly dangerous.

I don't wanna go and you can't make me. So there. Take that.

I am awake and it’s not a good day. I am extra tired. I am extra grumpy. And I am pretty sure at some point I am going to vomit. So, I’m not going and you can’t make me. And I’m not a bad mother because it is going to rain any second, I can feel it in my bones. And I’m pretty sure the kids will both need naps, and we won’t be able to make it anyway. Ok. I guess I’ll get out of bed now.

Alright. Fine. We’ll go. Let’s load up kids, but if I vomit in the car don’t say I didn’t warn you. And I didn't pack any extra undies so if I am hit by a bout of intestinal distress the day is done. Over. And don’t ever say I didn’t love you Mr. Kraken. Just know this is all for you and your social butterfly ways.

We are on time to the play date at the park, but I take an extra lap around a random neighborhood just so a crowd has gathered and we can sneak in. All the other mothers look nice enough, and yet sweat is dripping down my back. Please don’t puke on anyone. Please don’t puke on anyone. Hopefully no one notices that I am shaking. Please let it rain. Please let this be over. HELP!

The Kraken had a great time! Hooray. Rosie was patient as always. Hooray. I’m still alive. That’s nice. Now get me the heck out of here.

Kip the Dip : Busting through social anxiety one play date at a time since 2008.

Zen Riddle

I eavesdropped as my husband got The Kraken ready for bed. This is what I heard.

Do you want to take a bath?
Yes. No. Yes.
Um, Let’s go take a bath then.
No. No Baby Bath! No.
OK. Let’s put on jambos.
Please daddy. Baby Bath Please.
You want to take a bath? Let’s go.
No. Yes. No.
Do you even know what you want?
No. Yes. No. Yes.
Are you crazy?
Yes.
Well, at least we are on the same page there buddy.