Wednesday, October 26, 2011

People Who Have Seen My Boobs: A Comparative List

April 13, 1980 - September 24, 2011
  • Tulpehocken bunkmates, Camp Onas (unavoidable communal showers)
  • 8th grade gym teacher (traumatic accident during swim class)
  • College boyfriend
  • Gynecologist
  • Jeff
September 24, 2011 - October 26, 2011
  • My father
  • My mother-in-law
  • My brothers-in-law
  • My grandmother
  • My aunt
  • My uncle
  • My 21 year-old male cousin
  • My mother's book group
  • Jeff's best man  
  • Our landlord
  • The pediatrician
  • The cable guy
  • Waiter, busboy, and approximately 10 other diners at Cafe Luluc on Smith Street
  • Anyone walking past our building after dark who may glance up to see a weary, half-naked woman frantically wiping poop off of her screaming child's genitalia under harsh overhead lighting
 If only I could blame any of the second group on an ill-fitting bathing suit....

Monday, October 17, 2011

Pump Up the Jam

I have this book I read over the summer called "Breastfeeding Made Simple". Today I pointedly farted on it.

OK, that's a lie. I didn't. But I should have. Because breastfeeding? Not so simple for me.

Exhibit A:

I MS Painted some shorts on myself for everyone's sakes.
That's how you're supposed to breastfeed an infant when you have a clogged duct on the underside of your boob. My atrophied triceps and thigh muscles were not amused. Then again, on the plus side, he's going to be great at shotgunning beers someday.

Exhibit B:

#YouKnowAWhiteGirlHasAFeverWhen she starts flashing pretend gang signs.
That's me throwing up "I'm hardcore" fingers with a 102-degree fever right before feeding S. on a breast that seriously looked like a Macy's Day float filled not with air but with the burning fire of a thousand angry suns. Right around Wednesday of last week, my girls started resembling Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger from the movie Twins:  one was red and rippling like one of Mr. Universe's steroid-laced glutes, the other was soft and tubby and started making its own limoncello. I would rather have watched that movie than had mastitis, though. In fact, I would rather have given birth again. I'm totally serious. At one point I was sobbing and biting down on a wooden spoon while feeding S. on my teat o' pain and watching the Breaking Bad finale. He already has lots to talk about in therapy. I do what I can.

Exhibit C:

This is my new BFF, an Ameda elite breast pump. I love that it looks like a '50s typewriter, or some kind of stenographer's machine that your tits dictate into. "Take this down, Ameda. I'm feeling a bit nippy today!" Whenever I'm not feeding the little man, refreshing the various cotton pads that line my entire body, or picking out my least stained pair of Christmas-themed pajama pants to wear in order to seduce Jeff into ordering me Thai food, I am hooked up to this thing like a Holstein. A very underachieving Holstein, I might add. My cups do not currently runneth over, they dribbleth out.

So, I think I've provided you with enough sexy mental (and physical) images for the week. You are totally welcome, as always. Don't say I never gave you anything.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Amazing Talents of the Newborn

So, you know what's not fun? Mastitis. Which is what happens when boobs stop being polite and start being real, if realness can be measured in searing pain and fever. Between the jacked up nipples and this nonsense, there is so much drama going on with my mammaries that they should have their own soap opera. Tits of Our Lives, maybe, or Nips Landing.

Anyway. Before I fell ill, my mom gave us this DVD called "Amazing Talents of the Newborn." It's about how babies can mimic your facial expressions, crawl down to their mother's breast to feed, handle a power drill with surprising accuracy, etc. But having observed Baby S. for 17 days now, I decided to start my own list.

1.The innate Black Power salute:

He also does a "Heil Hitler," but it's not as cute.
2. The unbelievable ability to shoot poop up underneath their own tiny balls.

3. The Spidey sense to wake up screaming precisely 30 seconds after you finally fall asleep.

4. Stealing second base:

5. Accessorizing on a budget:

More to come as soon as I recover. And please let me know if you have any specific questions you want me to answer on the blog about the birth or first few weeks. I've been understandably distracted (mostly with scrotal cleaning--that shit is no joke).

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

No Sleep in Brooklyn

They never tell you how hard it is.

Well, OK, they do. It's just that you, hugely pregnant and well-slept and freshly showered, throwing back fried mac and cheese balls like it's your job, don't hear them. Because you have big plans to spend your first few postpartum weeks gazing beatifically down at your clean, glorious newborn as neighbors drop by with myrrh and frankincense and maybe a nice bottle of Sancerre.

And then. Oh, and then.

Then you suddenly wake up on the living room floor at 4 am, wearing mismatched socks, one boob hanging out, manually rocking a bouncy seat as you listen to something called "Ocean Waves," but which you suspect is actually just someone's shitty iPhone recording of an industrial dryer. Your week-old infant is wailing, and you must choose whether to let him cry while you pee or take him with you. A moment later, squatting over the toilet while trying to keep his blankie out of the stream, you begin to seriously question your decision-making skills.

Your new go-to conversation-starter is a state of the union on your nipples. You tell visitors that they look like they got into a bar fight. And you should see the other guy. He had... really hard gums. Ba dum bum. I'll be here all week. No, seriously, all week. On this couch, mouth breathing and having fever dreams about actually falling asleep. No one laughs, and worse, no one offers you wine.

But it's getting easier. I turned on my computer. I typed this blog, albeit one-handed. It's getting easier every day. And this little face makes it totally worth it:

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