Hey-o. Mindbling here. This was all cued up to post Wednesday, but we had a small problem with our electricity. Namely, we didn’t have any. So I was internetless for 24 hours. Clearly, we all survived, although it was touch and go for a minute there when I realized that with no electricity, I could not make coffee. Wormy used the power of the interwebs to find a functioning Starbucks nearby, but dear lord, when the apocalypse comes, I had better have a French press handy. Anyhoodles! Happy reading!
So it’s been a tad over a week since I have birthed. I thought this would be a good opportunity to look back, see what I’ve remembered from jr., what I have learned, maybe add some things I forgot in the birth story, and try to paint for you a picture of what it is like to live a day in the life of ol’ mindbling here (spoiler alert: it involves breasticles. Lots and lots of breasticles).
A few things I wanted to include in by birth story but forgot: I did not require a single stitch. Not a rip, not a tear. Nada. So, I would like to thank my super awesome vagiznizzle for holding up under the pressure. Well done!
I would like to thank my trainer, Ivyann, for keeping my butt in shape during my pregnancy. Thanks to Ivyann, I only gained 19 pounds from start to finish. I am also pretty sure that being in shape is what triggered a four hour labor, saving me from the agony of countless hours spent laboring. I am a big fan of the Whoop, There it is School of Birthing, so, thank you Ivyann!
To compare this to jr., I gained 90 pounds and had a 19 hour labor. No, that is not a typo. I actually gained 90 pounds. When I was moaning and complaining about being overdue with Mavbling, I kept referring back to jr., because he popped out two days early. Mavrick, always the thoughtful one, offered this theory:
“Um, sweetie. You gained 90 pounds. Are you sure he didn’t pop out two days early because you were smothering him?”
He always knows just what to say. *sarcasm* I would be remiss if I didn’t also thank Mavrick for keeping me in shape, both with lots and lots of sexercise, and intelligent food choices. Even when I wanted a deep fried chocolate covered strawberry dipped in ranch, he made me eat hummus. Thanks, honey. My ass appreciates you, even if my pregnant belly wished you death.
Speaking of bellies, I forgot how long they take to go down. To those of you that haven’t birthed, let me explain. You don’t pop out the kid and hop into your super sexy bra and panties and go strolling down the catwalk. Only Heidi Klum can do that, and she very obviously worships some sort of satan god to get that body back so quickly, and as much as I want to wear my jeans, I do not want eternal damnation, so I will wait the 6 weeks or so it takes to not look 5 months pregnant.
In the meantime, I wear sweat pants. Lots and lots of sweat pants. If being pregnant meant feeling womanly and sexy, being newly not pregnant is pretty much the exact opposite. It’s basically about a month or so of still feeling pregnant, but with more mood swings, crying, hunger, dirty, tangled hair, laundry piles, feelings of isolation, developing a fear and loathing of sweat pants, sore nipples, leaky boobs, tender lady bits, and that is just you. Add the baby in, and you can see how some new moms get a little, shall we say, frazzled.
Most of this I do remember from jr. But it’s fuzzy memories. I mean, it was almost 15 years ago. I tend to remember the good stuff. Like how cute he was, and how much I loved to rock him, and how I could sit with him in my lap for hours and just look at him. I was much younger, so I had more energy and required less sleep. Now, at 35, I feel every hour of missing slumber.
But the biggest difference between jr. and Mavbling is that I bottle fed jr. He insists that this is why he struggles with math and science, but Mavrick was bottle fed, and he is a CMU grad, and I was breast fed, and I can’t balance my check book, so …that theory can suck it. And speaking of sucking it, I AM breast feeding Mavbling. For now.
I say for now because every day I feel like giving up, waving the white flag, and fixing a bottle. I want to quit. Now, before all you granola crunchers get your fair –trade, organic panties in a twist, let me explain.
I am a selfish person. It’s true. Just ask anyone. And breast feeding is by far the most unselfish thing I have ever done. Because I’m exclusively breast feeding right now, I literally cannot leave my house without the baby. I did leave to do our PodCamp presentation, and I literally ran to my car afterwards, sped like a demon, and ran traffic lights to get home. I could hear him crying when the garage door opened, and I was stripping off my shirt as I ran up the stairs. I was gone for less than two hours.
We decided to feed on demand, so that means anytime my munchkin gets hungry, he gets the boob. I have had sore nipples, latch issues, clogged ducts, sleep depravation, and crying jags. You would think breast feeding is easy. Natural even. You just lift the baby to your boob, and viola! Dinner! And you would be wrong.
There are several different ‘holds’, latching techniques, nipple softening, pillow placement and, my personal favorite, wind-milling hungry baby arms. Let me set the scene for you:
It’s 4 a.m,. mindbling has been asleep for three hours. Mavbling stirs. Mavrick gets the baby out of his crib while mindbling prepares her pillows and whips out her boob. She softens her nipples doing a technique the nurse at Mavbling’s circumcision showed to her. At least, mindbling hopes that was a nurse, and not some random orderly just trying to pinch her nipples.
The baby is starting to get really fussy now. He is crying and his arms are flailing. mindbling is trying to get him in position, and remember everything she has learned about positioning and latching. By now, milk is squirting out of her boob and hitting the kid in the face, while she desperately tries to get the nipple in the proper way, and avoid sore, cracked nipples. Because let’s be honest, that doesn’t sound fun.
The baby is full-on wailing now, and his arms are going 90 miles an hour. It’s like breast feeding an angry octopus. Finally she gets the nipple in at the proper angle. He is drinking like a champ! YES! Annnnndddd he’s off. He has, for reasons unknown to our tired hero, spit out the boob. Let’s start over. And let’s do this about 10 more times today.
So you see, breast feeding is like no other commitment I have ever made in my life. I am fully responsible for my son’s nutrition right now. That means I still can’t drink, which is total horse shit. I have to eat well. Which is fine. And I have a kid on my boob more than I don’t. It’s a lot for someone like me.
But I’m doing it. And I’m not giving up. I said I might WANT to, but I WANT to do a lot of things, like star on Broadway, and that shit ain’t happening, either. So cruchers, lay down your pitch fork and reusable, hemp-woven shopping bags. I will continue to breast feed my baby.
And to chronicle, as much as I can, what it’s like when a former lush has to put down her bottle (and her smokes. Dear god I miss smoking) and do this whole mommy thing all over again.
Now, I gotta go. Baby’s crying.