Mmmm. Waffle cone, please

As I was feeding Diddly at 2:30 a.m. last night, I decided I'd write a breastfeeding update post.

I know, I know. Hooray.

So many of you left encouraging comments on the post I wrote in which I expressed my disappointment and anger over not getting a delivery from the Milk Fairy, I thought it'd be neat to do an update. Wouldn't people like to know, for instance, that I'm still at it? Offering the girls at every feeding, even though what Diddly gets from me is akin to a cube of cheese at a seven course dinner?

It's not a cheese plate but dammit, that won't stop me.

When I signed into my account however, so I could get my blog thing on, I was side-tracked by the 5,987,733 emails with subject lines like "For your blog! A boob story!" and "This made me think of you and your blog!"

All led me to this story:



I'm so happy that a story about breast milk ice cream (called Baby Gaga, no less) makes you think of little old me. Seriously, thank you.

I thought I'd read the article and immediately vomit (even breastfeeding stalwarts have to admit it's kind of icky), but I was too fascinated by the rationale behind the ice cream to upchuck. Like, the woman who donated her stuff actually said "...if adults realised how tasty breast milk was more new mothers would be encouraged to breastfeed."

Really? Throngs of people walking down the street, merrily licking their cones then smacking their foreheads and crying out "Shit, this is delicious! We simply must get our aunt/sister/school teacher to breastfeed!"?

Really?

Then there's Icecreamists founder Matt O'Connor who said, "No-one's done anything interesting with ice cream in the last hundred years."

But of course. Ice cream is so boring. Why not increase the price and skeeve factor by making it from a new "free-range" human source? (Incidentally, free-range simply means that the food source has ample room to walk around. How the mobility of a lactating woman effects the ice cream's appeal is beyond me.)

It's just silly. Silly, I tell ya!

Anyway. Would you order a double scoop? Could you?

Questions to which I just don't have the answers

Mrs. Mullet: "Junior, look! It's Mrs. Butterworth. She came to our house to give you syrup for your pancakes!"

Junior (eyes bulging): "Who is she? Does she have friends? Where does she live? Is she syrup? Is that syrup? Where are her eyes?"

Mrs. Mullet: "She's like Santa, except she gives kids syrup. For their pancakes and waffles. Isn't that neat?"

Junior: "Who is her mommy? Are you her mommy? Can she talk? Why isn't she talking?"

Mrs. Mullet: "She, um, talks in syrup. It pours out of her mouth."

Junior (growing agitated): "Is it blood? Do forks hurt her? Why won't she talk to me? Does she live with us? I can't see her mouth."

Mrs. Mullet: "Sweetie, Mrs. Butterworth's mouth is right here. Listen, she's talking. Hello, Junior! May I put some of my delicious syrup on your pancakes?"

Junior (having mild panic attack): "I can't see her eyes! Why does she have two faces? Her head is sticky! Is it syrup? Is her head syrup? Am I syrup?"

Mrs. Mullet: "No, honey. Just Mrs. Butterworth and her, er, family. Eat your pancakes, okay?"

Junior: "Where are they? Do they live with us? I can't see them."

Mrs. Mullet: "Junior, she's a sweet little syrup woman. I don't know where her family is." [Bangs head on table]

Junior: "I can't see them, Mommy."

Mrs. Mullet: "I know. I know. Say goodbye to Mrs. Butterworth, okay? Goodbye, Junior!" [Puts Mrs. Butterworth in cabinet. Gets vodka bottle and takes swig]

Junior: "Is that where she lives? Is it? Is she alone?"

Mrs. Mullet: "Yes, sweetie." [Slumping to floor] Dear God, yes."

If you answer yes to the last question I'll hog-tie ya with your bathrobe cord

Chuck and I have the house to ourselves. My mother took Junior for the night and Diddly, at six weeks of age, doesn’t really count because all he does is cry, eat, sleep, and cry some more. Sure he’s a time suck but not in the way that a three-year-old who's crying “Play with me, Mommy! Come watch my trains!” is.

Chuck’s enjoying the down time by lounging in his pajamas and watching television. I’m enjoying the down time by gunning down his leisure time with questions.

Questions like “What should we do? Should we move boxes to the place in Mulletville Lite? Should we vacuum? Dust? Paint? What do you want to do? Should we go out? Should I go to the grocery store? How about our taxes? Have we done our taxes? Shouldn’t we do something?”

I might sound like a pain in the ass, but I’m realizing something about myself, which is that I cannot function without productivity. I just can’t. Worse, if I don’t have a productive day, I feel guilty. When I wake up in the morning I say, “What should we do today?” Chuck says, “Shut up and get back in bed.”

His attitude? Makes me crazy. My attitude? He thinks that my inability to have an unproductive day without feeling guilty is a psychosis. (Myah, now you know: my poor cooking is actually a cloaked attempt to kill my husband).

A psychosis!

At least I’m not alone. My friend Sandy confessed that if she’s going to watch garbage on television, she’ll actually make a pile of books and magazines in front of her to make her feel as if she’s reading—which we all know, as a past time, pacifies the productivity gods (in case you’re wondering, chronic masturbation does not pacify the productivity gods, so you’d better get your hands out of your pants).

I think her strategy is brilliant. She’s so mired in productivity she needs to give herself the illusion of it while enjoying mindless tasks. I get it. For the record, Chuck thinks her strategy can also be classified as a psychosis.

Whatever, Chuck.

All of this leads me to yet another Carrie Bradshaw moment. My and Sandy’s upbringings weren’t driven by militant scheduling. We didn’t have Tiger Moms (sorry, couldn’t help the nauseating reference). And as adults we understand there are no bonus points or slaps on the wrist for how balls to the wall our days were. Simply, there’s no judgment. So why are we so hard on ourselves?

I ask you, dear Mulletheads: Where do you stand? Do you live in your jammies guilt free or do you have a mental clip board with which you start your day?

And really, are we psychotic?

The one thing I'd leave my husband and children for

Dear hotel room bed with fluffy pillows:

Let's not waste time on pleasantries. I wanna get with you. So bad. So very bad. I'm really desperate. I want to try every position: fetal, spread eagle, face down--all night long. You can be on the top; you can be on the bottom. It doesn't matter as long as we are alone.

Blissfully alone.

But when? When can we be alone? I keep calling, but you're never home. What am I gonna do. Tonight, tonight, tonight - oh. I'm gonna make it right...

Wait, how the hell did this letter turn into a Genesis song? Oh, right, I've been up since 4:30 a.m. feeding my damn kid. I'm delirious. See? Do you see how badly I need you and your expansive white mountains of uninterrupted REM ecstasy?

You could make me whole again.

Call me. Now.

Affectionately, longingly and horizontally yours, Mrs. Mullet

Stop me if you've heard this one

Mrs Mullet: "Chuck, honey, could you please do some dishes?"

Chuck: "I did."

Please, for me, don't sled in a rubber suit

I spent a lot of time in doctors' offices in 2010. I was pregnant and of "advanced maternal age," which meant extra ultrasounds and tests. I had gestational diabetes and had to check in at the Mulletville Diabetes Center once a week. I had horseback riding issues. Junior had tubes put in his ears. You get the idea.

As grateful as I am that I had health insurance, I resented the time I spent in waiting rooms—sometimes more than an hour. I had to use sick time to cover the time; that ate into my paid maternity leave. That pissed me off to no end. I needed to do something to offset that anger.

Biting Chuck didn't help, so I stole. Just doctors' offices parenting magazines mind you, but I stole them blatantly and with zeal. Towards the end I got so bold I'd actually shove a magazine in my purse as they called my name.

I know. I'm a bad ass.

The fact that no one said a word or that there were no charges for magazine subscriptions in my bills actually isn't the point of this post. The point is that what I read in the pilfered magazines scared the bejeezus out of me.

Stuff like this:



And this:



Magazine after magazine bore more things of which to be fearful. I read about rubber bands that asphyxiated little fingers. Slammed toilet seats that obliterated genitals. Even sledding, that lovely winter past time, now needed a helmet, knee pads and bubble wrap for nearby trees.

"Johnny, no! You might fall in the snow!"

I learned that even the unassuming Superbowl party was fraught with danger:



Did you know that your television should be bolted to the table lest it topples and decapitates your guests' children? Hot snacks can scald little fingers?

"Johnny, no! Stay away from that chicken finger!"

Seriously. The fear mongering has got to stop. There aren't enough hours in the day to be afraid of everything.

Parenting magazines are doing a real disservice to parents by presenting the world in a Johnny-could-die manner. The preservatives, saturated fats, and colorants in a chicken finger are more of a health hazard than its temperature. And if your TV hasn't fallen on your own head, it's probably not going to fall on anyone else's head.

So look, it's ok to sled and go to the bathroom. It's ok to let your child watch TV while holding a rubber band.

It's ok to not live your life in fear or to constantly be fearful of what might happen to your child.

Deep breath.

It's ok.

Random Tuesday thoughts on the sly

I told Chuck I'm working on a freelance project right now. Except I'm blogging. Mwaahahaha.

Our house was built in 1020 BC. Honest. They didn't have that pink insulation back then, so some of our rooms are fr-fr-freezing. Our bedroom is one those rooms. It's also Diddly's bedroom for the time being, so I've been cranking the heat.

Guess who's bedroom isn't freezing? Junior's. He's melting. The poor kid asked if he could sleep with frozen corn under his pillow. I wasn't sure what to say. I mean, I guess it's ok if he sleeps with vegetables, but what if this is how fetishes start? What if Junior gets hooked on niblets? What if he brings some chick back to his dorm room and she finds frozen peas in his bed and spinach in his sheets and he never gets laid again?

You just never know.

My mother is visiting. Thanks to another snowstorm, she'll be stranded with us for a few days. I love my mother. Honest. But she does weird things with my sponge. She thinks I keep lubricant in my refrigerator. She thought my house was haunted.

In all fairness, I can understand why.



One of the reasons I love having a blog is that I get to play the "Where was I at this time in [insert year]?" I'd completely forgotten that two years ago I was channeling my inner rebel by building a snowslut. One year ago I became a redhead.

This year? I'm about to buy Pajama Jeans.

Hold.Me.Back.

Shit, here comes Chuck. For more randomness, visit the UnMom. She saw Elvis at her blog conference. Honest.