The Feminist Breeder

Who Says Romance is Dead?

...If this conversation doesn't end up on Lamebook, I don't know what will.

I Guess This is Why I Stay Married To 'im

... Because he thinks giving him babies made me hotter, even after a cesarean scar and a stretchy vagina.  What a weirdo.  But we should all be so lucky.

(from a recent twitter convo in which I wax not-so-poetically to my twitter friends about my lost ability to jump on any adorable 22 yr old I see on the street.  And no, I did not think MrJohnCC would be on Twitter that day, cause he never is.)

FeministBreeder: Do u ever see a hot 22 yr old and think to yourself "when did I get too old to fuck hot 22 yr olds?" Major bummer.

MrJohnCC: yet to see a 22 year old hotter than @FeministBreeder."

Feminist Breeder: @MrJohnCC - I'm SURE you see 22 yr old's hotter than me... they just ain't had yer babies.

MrJohnCC: that's why there aren't 22 yo's hotter than @feministbreeder. I know, I'm twisted.

................... whatta man.

Jonas says "Mommy said Bullshit."

Yeah. Today is by far my most humiliating day ever as a parent.  This trumps me crapping on the table while pushing my 10 lb baby out. This even trumps my 3 yr old yelling, in a crowded public restroom, "Mama, are you going CaCa?!!?  You're going CaCa on the potty!  Yay for Mommy!" and listening to all the other ladies in the neighboring stalls giggling under their breath. No, today was worse than any of that because today I saw a side of myself that makes me feel like a crappy parent.

Jonas's daycare teacher is no-nonsense.  Every time I pick him up from daycare I feel like I'm going to be in trouble for something.  Once it was because he peed his pants (and they have essentially a zero-tolerance policy on accidents.)  On various occasions, the parents (as a group) have been lectured on making sure our 3 yr olds can wash their hands by themselves, button their pants, and zip their coats, all without assistance, so it's easy to feel inadequate around this woman.

Today, I was in big trouble.  I went to pick the child up and the teacher said "We need to talk."  Ruht-Ro.  I have a hard time with confrontations, especially when I feel like I'm in trouble for something.  My heart starts racing, the adrenaline is pumping, and I have to resist all urges to turn on my heel and start sprinting in the other direction.

The teacher says to me "I'm just gonna come right out and say this. Your son never talks, but today he stood up, said he had an announcement, and proceeded to tell the class 'Mommy said Bullshit!' - and when I asked him to repeat himself, he said it again, even louder - Mommy Said Bullshit!!!"

I'm mortified.  My son is at preschool telling the class that I swear.  And worse!  Teaching them the swear words in the process!  I know the teacher isn't lying because after we got into the car I asked him what he said at school today, and he repeated the exact phrase to me.

Obviously he's heard me say this word.  I'm not going to try to deny it.  I have a penchant for cursing like a sailor, and as much as I tried to curb my behavior once I became a mother, I have obviously not done a thorough enough job.  Oh hell, let's face it.  I don't even try anymore.  I'm sure the children hear their father and I fighting (along with all the swear words spewing from my mouth in the process) and I'm sure this is adding to all the therapy they'll need someday.  I have told their father on 16 million occasions that I wanted to divorce him if for nothing other than the fact that I do not ever want to let my children see or hear their parents fighting the way I saw this type of behavior when I was a child.  It messed with me.  But the hyphenated husband will not entertain the idea of divorce, so I feel trapped, and I act out like a child.

So there it is.  I am just as white trash as the people that raised me.  I am the bad parent I never wanted to be.  I'm an embarrassment to the version of myself that was convinced I'd always be better than this.  You can take a girl out of the trailer, but all the hard work, telling myself I'm different, the private school education, the 4.0 GPA, won't take the trailer out of the girl.  I am no better than they.

So what now?  Well, today is the first day that I've truly considered getting back on Zoloft.  I've resisted the idea of being medicated simply to put up with my marriage and ease my temper, but I also realize that the "bullshit" sets me off a lot easier than it probably should.  And my kids are seeing it all.

Who are these women who don't get driven insane by their husband?  Who are these women who can look at a dirty floor, a floor that this husband has never thought to clean in 4 years of marriage, and not feel their blood boiling beneath the surface?  I want to be one of those people.  The problem is that my intensely feminist self sees "letting things go" as really just "putting up with things", and that I can't have.  I don't "put up with" or "settle" for anything, and that's the only reason I was able to drag myself out poverty, and the only reason I was able to marry a man who wasn't a cheater and a wife-beater like every other woman in my family.  I'm sure my husband is better than most, but I keep score, and if he's not putting in exactly what I think I deserve then we have problems.  Big problems.  But perhaps some Zoloft could gloss over some of those "big" problems, and help keep me from spewing expletives in front of my small children.

I suppose I could take this day and turn it into what they consider a "wake-up call."  But really, I just want to pull my son out of pre-school and pretend the whole thing never happened. Today is not a good day for mental health.

 *dialing the number for the doctor's office.*

The Feminist Breeder Goes to Philly

Like I mentioned last week, I'm headed out to the Philadelphia area to visit a vaccination production facility. (yes, GlaxoSmithKline did come through with the plane tickets and hotel room, so I'm really going.)

Now here's where you come in. I'm sure I'm not the only inquiring mind around these parts, so comment back with any questions YOU would have if you were going, and I'll add that to my research.

And if you live in Philly (I'm talking to you girl-friend, and others) then let me know if we can work out dinner or breakfast or something.  I'm flying in on Thursday late afternoon, spending all day Friday either at this plant or commuting to/fro - then I'm flying straight out Friday evening.

I won't have a ton of time there, but the nice 30 hour break from my toddlers is well-timed.  Jonas (the 3 yr old) peed all over my freshly-cleaned floor yesterday about 2 minutes after he got off the potty and Julesy (the 16 mo. old) has taken to screaming bloody murder every single time I sit down (apparently I'm not allowed anymore.)

I can't wait to see how the hyphenated husband handles the two for the day while I'm gone.  If it's anything like the way he handles them when I sleep in on Saturdays, then the entire house will be ripped apart, he'll forget to feed them, and he'll be trying to put them down for a nap 20 minutes after they wake up.  Of course, he's already recruited his mother to take care of the kids while he stays outside doing yard work so at least I know THEY will be taken care of.  Lately I've been wondering why I even think he's such a great dad.  He's really been pissing me off.  He comes home from work a half hour late every day and then sits on Facebook while I try not to stick my head in the oven.  That's where he was yesterday while I was making dinner and watching my toddler piss all over my clean floor.  This isn't what I signed up for when we agreed that I'd stay home.  I'm not Suzy Freaking Homemaker.  And all I can do is bitch and yell about it, but that does no good. 

So yeah... I'll go to Philly.  And maybe I won't come back. 

Why Don’t Men Have a Choice? (Part 2 of 2)

Some time back I enjoyed a thought provoking post by a blogger I admire.  I don’t want to make her uncomfortable by naming her outright, because in this post I am going to (gently, if I can) disagree with what she said (scratch that, she's given me permission to name her, so if you want to see who it is, make with the clicky-click on that link).  I’m glad she posted what she did, because it was not something I had ever thought too much about before reading her position on it.

In her post (and I’m paraphrasing here) this blogger expressed her annoyance with people who had always asked what she wanted to “be” when she grew up.  She claimed she had always wanted to be a mother.  End of story.  Simply put, she never wanted a career, unless that career was being a Mom.  And she felt that anyone who thought that she needed a life plan outside of motherhood was being critical and disrespectful.  After all, feminism is about the choice to be a mother or not, right?

I certainly think it’s just fine if a family agrees that one partner should stay home with the children.  Sounds totally fair to me.  Marriage is a partnership, and families need to figure out what works best for them.

But what I find problematic about her position is this: How can you decide you’re going to be a mother when you grow up – and not a wage earner – before you find the person who’s going to give you babies and support you?  Do you know of a single man who got to decide this for himself as a child?  With women, it’s expected that they should have this choice. With men, it’s expected that they won’t.

Picture this:  Teacher asks a little boy what he wants to be when he grows up.

Little boy says:  "A Stay at Home Dad."

Teacher says:  "Okay, you want to be a husband and a father – great, admirable even – but what do you want to do, like, for money?"

Little boy says:  "Nothing.  I only want to be a house-husband."

Teacher: "Okay son, but you really need a backup plan."

Why does he need a backup plan?  Well, not to be insensitive, but his plans in life rely on a whole lot of things that are entirely out of his control lining up perfectly for him.  What if he doesn’t find a wife?  What if they can’t have children?  What if the person he falls deeply in love with either cannot support him, or she had decided at age 9 that she wanted to be the one to stay home?  Who gets to stay home?  Or what if his perfect wife loses her ability to work?   What then?   And let’s say all these things work out perfectly for the little boy.  What does he do in the meantime?  You know, that time between age 18 and whenever you meet your spouse?  Surely he needs to make some cash while he’s waiting for Mrs. Right (and their offspring) to come along?  Right?

But come on.  Boys don’t get this choice.  Okay, in some progressive relationships they do (like how mine started out) but this is not a societal norm.  The fact is, when kids come along, and one person can afford to stay home, it’s usually assumed by everyone on the block that it will be the mom.  People say “It’s her choice – that’s what feminism is all about.”  But where was Daddy’s choice in the matter?  Nobody ever mentions that Daddy should have gotten the option as well.

But why?  Some would argue that mom is better at it, and I would say that is just not true in our house.  My husband is just as good of a parent as I am.  In some ways, he’s better.  He’s more patient, and less jumpy.   He doesn’t handle the minutiae the way my Type-A, over-achieving, aggressive personality does, but he’s also a lot more temperate and rational than I am.  Who says the kids would be worse off with him (or any dad) at home?

I find the whole argument that “feminism is about choice” problematic in and of itself.  That’s all I’m saying.  I can’t quite figure out the solution to what I see as an unbalance, I just want to acknowledge that it’s there, and it’s strange to me.

These two posts aren’t meant to be any sort of hard line political statement on the issue (though I’m quite certain some people will read something into them and send me hate mail anyway.)  They are merely meant to be a written catharsis about my guilt over quitting my job and subsequently putting all of the burden on my husband to pay the bills.  Maybe if he made more money, and my joblessness was barely noticeable to our finances, I might not feel so bad.  But when everyone talks about how feminism gave me the right to stay home with my kids, the equalist part of me just wants to know what sort of movement will give Dads the right to do the same thing? 

I started to write a long list of things I think our society could do to “even” out the parenting roles, but I’m more interested in what you all have to say about this.  Tell me – can you imagine a world where it was okay, expected even, for a boy to grow up with only the dream of becoming a Stay-at-Home-Dad?  What do you make of that world?

(Before you comment, I will say that we can probably have a truly intellectual little conversation about this providing that nobody decides to take this as some attack on their Stay-at-Home-Mommyness.  It's okay to be comfortable with your choice, but to also question the meat and potatoes of that choice at the same time.  That's what I'm doing, and I hope you'll join me.)

Now This is a Choice I will Own

I got all bent out of shape some time back when my favorite uncensored mommy blogger suggested that people should suck it up and “own” whatever situation they are in.  Easy to say when you’re half-white, decidedly middle-class, and don’t have to leave your kids in someone else’s care 50 hours a week while you shuffle off to a job you absolutely despise, cursing the whole way, and plotting the ways in which you will make your husband pay for doing this to you.

But, I get her point.  She wants people to be happy.  And it's not her fault. She just happened to post that at a time where I was especially miserable with my circumstances, and wasn't gonna listen to anybody tell me I needed to "own" any part of it. I was in no mood.  I don’t agree that people need to shut the fuck up when they aren’t not happy, and I don’t believe that being happy is as simple as some middle class whilte folks make it sound.  But hey, I really do want to own my choice – so long as I actually have a choice.  I could bore you all with a philosophical theory on the origin of ownership and how it is not possible to own that which you have not purposely either cultivated or bartered for, but c’mon, you guys don’t come here for a dissertation on Locke, so let’s just do this the navel-gazing TFB way instead...

I think people are essentially responsible for themselves.  Sure I do.  I was raised in a conservative household.  You know, the kind of people that grow up poor as hell, but still vote Republican because they think that other people want to take away all the money they don’t have.  Yeah, those maddening people.  The Joe 6-Pack people.  But for all their mislead political alignment, I am bred with a “pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps” mentality, and that is essentially a pretty positive, Protestant, hard-working approach to life.  Thus, I work my tail off, and I take responsibility for the things I am responsible for.

But add marriage, kids, and global economic crises to the picture, and I think the waters become a bit muddied.  People are not islands, and sometimes the choices of others contradict what you may have chosen for yourself.  It’s not always as easy as walking away from their choice, especially when you are contractually or genetically bound to these people and responsible for their well-being.

So, for a very long time, I suffered through doing what I had to do instead of what I wanted to do.  I focused on work and fit school in where I could, instead of focusing on school and finishing my law degree.  I ached for leaving my kids, but I slaved over a breastpump all the hours of the days so I could do right by them even when I couldn’t be physically present. 

But now, I get to make a choice.  It is not an easy choice; that is certain.  It’s not like a Coke bottle filled with gold coins fell out of the sky and landed in my bank account so I could just walk out of my job without a single backward glance.  There is a lot of uncertainty, and a lot of second-guessing myself.  But, there came a point in life where my corporate employment was no longer worth the opportunity cost of the other things I was sacrificing in my life.  It’s very hard to come from poverty and not place an intense amount of value on money and stability. However, I am trying to focus on all the good this change will bring, and not feel suffocated by the $1500 deficit we’ll be facing each month: a deficit that I will have to find a way to make up with cake orders and school loans (and the money I’m pulling out of my 401k, and the loans we’ve already taken from the mother-in-law to help us get out of that condo debt, etc. etc.)
 
Even though we will not be comfortable financially, and I have no idea whether I’m cut out for being a work-at-home-mother , this is still easier than what I was doing.  This choice I made.  This choice I labored over and worked for.  This choice wasn’t made by someone else without my permission.  This one is mine.  And I will be happy to own it.

Look out world... here I come.

The Storm Before The Calm

Jesus.

Shit is crazy.

Work is nuts.
School is nuts.
Cakes are nuts.
Kids are nuts.
And I have a bad cold this week.

If I make it through this week without maiming someone, it will be by the grace of God-the-Mystical-Sky-Fairy.

This is what it looks like when you cut off a chicken’s head, and its body keeps running around the barnyard.  I’m beyond overwhelmed.  Besides all the stuff I HAVE to do, I really WANT to finish the ICAN of DuPage startup materials so I can get that out of the gate before our September 14th meeting. 

And then there’s this blog.  Oh poor blog, you have been neglected so.  No, of course I don’t have to write, but if I don’t write for a few days, it nags at me – like the feeling of having to go pee, but being too busy to do it.  If you go too long, you’ll end up with a bladder infection.  In my case, it’s a “too-many-words-in-my-head” infection, and the catharsis of this blog is often my only relief.

So, like I said, I started school again last week, and these are certainly the two hardest class I’ve had so far.  One is a political philosophy course with a 101 year old teacher whose rules are the bible and who, I can tell already, will be very hard pressed to give anyone in the class anything higher than a C because that’s how hardcore, old-school philosophy professors operate.

This oughtta be fun.

The second class is an ECON 201 course (Microeconomics) and (let me put this in big, bold letters so you understand I’m very serious) – I SUCK AT MATH.

I know the math teachers of the world are gasping in horror now, but those are the facts.  I’ve gotten through my whole life without ever learning how to multiply a fraction, or plot a grid.  But now, if I want to pass this class, I’m going to have to learn how to do both of those things, and a lot more, in the next 7 short weeks.  I had to buy graph paper for the first time in my life last week.  I found it in the “back to school” section, next to the crayons and glue sticks.  Is this what my life has come to?  Shouldn’t I be buying these things for my own children?  Aren’t I beyond this?

Apparently not.

If I don’t get a break soon, I might lose it.  I really might.  I wrote many, many expletives in an email yesterday to my fucking boss, and only had the good sense to delete them about 3 milliseconds before I hit the Send button.  The Husband took me out to eat last night to calm my nerves, and before we left I overheard him begging the 3 yr old to please be on his best behavior because mommy is not feeling well and she might get all screamy if certain people couldn't act right in the restaurant. Sad.

But tonight I won’t get home from work/class until 11:30 pm, at which time I have to decorate 4 dozen cupcakes in the theme of “Ralph’s World” for an order due tomorrow morning.

And then there's more class. And more cakes due. And these kids won't give me a break.

Have I mentioned that I haven’t slept in a couple of years?

September 15th.  Please, please September 15th, come as fast as you can.

***now where did I stash that few-year old bottle of Zoloft?***

The Best Souvenirs I've Ever Come Home With

Two years ago, my family of three went on vacation, and came home with this –

 

Well, he didn’t look like that at the time.  He was a blastocyte that would eventually become this smiley, beautiful little boy. But sure enough, his life began on that trip to Mexico and the Caribbean.

Two years later, my family of four went on another Mexican vacation and came home with this –

I absolutely love this simple piece.  As soon as I saw it, it made me think of my nursling and my ankle-biting toddler – one constantly cradled at my breast, and the other reaching for me from his place at my feet.  The husband isn’t one to spend money on things like this, but he also fell in love with it as soon as he saw it. He said it looked like me.  And it made him smile.

Now I look off into the future and wonder what my next “souvenir” will look like, or when I’ll bring it home.   What are your favorite/most important souvenirs?

Announcing my Big, Big News...

I quit my job.

No, let me rephrase that: I quit one of my jobs.

When I posted last Friday that I had a big announcement coming up, 46 people guessed I was pregnant (jeez, is getting pregnant all I ever do around here?!?), 2 people correctly guessed that I quit my job, 1 person thought I started a new band (you wish, RE!), and 1 person guessed that I got a book deal (that was my absolute favorite guess.)

I handed in my resignation letter at 9 am this morning, and I’m giving them until September 15th.  After that date, instead of working in an office all day, sitting in a classroom all night, baking cakes until 3 am, and seeing my kids whenever I can – I will no longer be sitting in the office all day.  The rest, I’ll still be doing.

I will be a full-time Student of law, Full-time Mom, and part-time cake business operator – never in that order.

Leaving my day-job means being able to finish my degree in half the time, which means spending less money on school, and a shorter time until I’m making money again.  It also means not paying out $2000 per month in daycare, which of course means being able to see my babies while they’re still babies.

People have been telling me for a long time that the amount of jobs/responsibilities I have on my plate is just crazy.  It is crazy.  People shouldn’t do this to themselves. My health and my family are suffering.

But giving up a $50,000 a year job is also crazy.  Especially in this economy. This has been the scariest decision of my entire life.  I’ve been with this company for 3 ½ years, and leaving anything you’ve done for that long can be an emotional struggle, even without the financial worry.  Additionally, I have to say, the idea of being technically unemployed is really, really hard on my Feminist conscious.  It puts me in a very unfamiliar, unsettling position of being reliant on my husband for financial support.  But this marriage is a partnership, and I went back to work 5 weeks after a cesarean so my husband could focus on school.  It’s my turn now.  I earned this, and He's the first person to say so.

We’ve managed to work out a plan that will help us survive until I’m finished with school - HOPEFULLY.  A month ago this wouldn’t have been possible, but Husband’s mom (seeing what we were going through) stepped in and offered to help us lower some of our bills.  Without her help, we’d never have been able to do this.  I also applied for a “Loss of Income” adjustment on my school loans so I should be able to take out some more money for us to live on until I’m through with my degree.  And of course I’ll make more cakes... anything I can do to keep us afloat.

Now, please send me all the love and support and well-wishes you can because I am quietly freaking the fuck out over here.  I know in my heart I made the right choice, but my head is a little harder to convince.

~TFB Out.

TFB Won't Be a Victim - You're Not Worth It (The Stalker Confirmed.)

I've talked before about the fact that I've been in some high-profile situations that left me bloodied and bruised by hateful gossip.

Well, I'm once again the subject of some internet hate- but this time I'm not bruised at all. I couldn't care less.  I'm surprisingly zen about the whole thing actually.  I think with age comes wisdom.  8 years ago I defended myself the way a 22 year old would.  Today, I prefer to let people rot in their own egregious idiocy.  This guy is begging for a virtual hand-job from me, and I'm not giving it to him. I already feel like I need one of those "Silkwood" showers to burn his stupidity off my flesh.  Just like when I played with Ms. Love, being in proximity to this makes me feel... icky.

I also know who this "source" of theirs was, and she is a psycho-stalker who we had to block from our band's Myspace page yeeeeeears ago because we were sensing a very "John Lennon/Mark David Chapman" vibe.  Veruca Salt also banned her from their forums because she was clearly totally mentally unstable, and I've also recently had to block her IP address from blog from and my Twitter account. She was desperate for attention, and this dude gave it to her.  Good for them.  Let them all rot in each other's insanity.

I do appreciate those who visited their bullshit and stuck up for me though.  Thanks guys.

UPDATE: The psycho-stalker has been confirmed as the source of the email to TheBlockFM.  I knew from the second I saw that email that it was her, she's been doing this kind of thing for 6-7 years, and when she realized I was onto her, she emailed them again and copied me.  She's Kathy Bates, yo.  She's "trying to help" me and just wants to "be a friend." Holy total insanity.  She must have gone off her medication today, and I'm really not kidding. If anyone knows whether I can file a restraining order on her because cyber-stalking, please let me know.  I know that she knows where I live, and claims to have family here (though she lives in Seattle.)  I also want to know if I can name TheBlockFM in any legal proceedings since they are aiding her behavior.  If she loses it and hurts my family, I want the courts to know they were involved.  Please make with the free legal advice peeps.

Wordless Wednesday

Breeding With the Enemy: My Story of Feminist Conversion

This is the story of how I went from being a decidedly childless feminist, to a Feminist Breeder, and what that change meant for my conflicted views of the Modern Woman.

I inherited my early feminist views from my non-traditional family.  I had no mom or dad around, so I was raised by grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and sometimes lived on my own for months at a time while the guardians went off to find work in other areas.  I find that horrifying these days; that a child not more than 10 yrs old could be left in another state to feed themselves and get themselves off to school in the morning, but such was my life, and it all seemed normal at the time.  This helped me develop an independence that lays a fertile soil for feminist ideology.

My maternal grandfather was the type of man who wanted his girls to be able to take care of themselves.  Though terribly physically and emotionally abusive (which I now attribute to a lifetime of undiagnosed anxiety and clinical depression), there was a part of him that treated women with far more respect and dignity than most men of his generation.  Women were complex and mysterious creatures to him, though I believe he was sometimes so intimidated he lashed out, and those were the days I got my ass kicked.  My grandmother handled everything of importance, and whatever she wanted she got.  He wanted his daughters (of which I was always considered to be one) to excel and succeed.  He taught me to change the oil in my car so I wouldn’t have to depend on a man to do it.   He tried (in his own way) to raise me with common sense and a good work ethic, so I could make my way in the world.  He raised me like a man raises his son, while still entertaining my need to be a girl sometimes.  I suppose if anyone “taught” me to be a feminist, it was him. 

There were no Stay-At-Home-Moms in my family.  The women in my family worked; not as a matter of politics or choice, but as a matter of survival.  My grandmother worked as a roofer right alongside my grandfather, every day for nearly 40 years.  She didn’t get to stay home with me, even when I would beg her.  Not working meant not eating, though there were many days I went hungry anyway.  We were poverty-stricken, a fact I did not fully realize until I became an adult.

My aunt liked to tell me that “Every woman is only one man away from welfare” – meaning don’t rely on anybody.  My aunt helped raise me when my grandparents couldn’t and she’s as Feminist as a woman can be.  Well, any woman who’s never been a mother, that is. It’s not that she didn’t want babies, she did, desperately, but she was not able conceive, and then re-married to a man who didn’t want them anyway.  She’s Pro-Choice in terms of reproductive freedom yet often refers to pregnant women as “a buncha whiners.”  She has little tolerance for anyone unlike herself, and even less tolerance for women complaining about their girly bits.  She also helped convince me during my first pregnancy that childbirth was "deadly" and “thank god” for that birth rape cesarean or I’d have ended up just like Great-Great Aunt Mable from the old black & white pictures who died during childbirth in the 1910’s.  I had never spent any time around women who discussed birth, and only knew what I saw from shows like "A Baby Story" or "Maternity Ward" so I didn't question any of this.

After the trauma of being gutted like a fish in an operating room with my arms strapped out at my side like Jesus on the cross, convulsing and throwing up all over myself while my husband watched in horror, I started to question my Aunt’s understanding of feminism and politics in general.  If being a feminist meant allowing masked Med-Pros to violate my body, I don’t know if I’m cut out for her feminism after all.

Because of my upbringing, I saw children as a punishment.  I had never seen a planned pregnancy in my family.  The children all seemed to be consequences of a loose, irresponsible woman looking for love in the wrong place.  Nine months later, a welfare case was born.  I decided very early on that I would not be one of those women.  I did not want children.  I didn’t want to be punished.  But if I there ever was a day when I wanted a child, they would be born into a stable family – into wedlock at least – unlike any other child in my family’s sordid history. 

To me, feminism meant avoiding anything and everything that was exclusive to women.  Childbirth seemed oppressive, as did my biology in general, and I wanted no part of it.  As far as I was concerned, it could all be removed and I'd be better off.

When I got accidentally pregnant, I was angry.  Angry at myself for being so stupid, and angry at my (now) husband for wanting me to keep it.  I always assumed two pink lines on pregnancy test would have me out the door to Planned Parenthood for my quickie abortion before the urine dried.  But until I was in that situation, I never could have known how I would end up handling it.

As it turns out, abortion wasn’t an option for me.   Not at that time.  Not in this relationship.  I felt that I just didn’t “qualify.”  While our circumstances at the time were less than ideal for starting a family, I wasn’t a crackhead or a scared teen either.  I had the things I felt were required for accepting the responsibility of a positive pregnancy test: a responsible mate who already asked me to marry him, a place to live, help from our family, a good head on my shoulders, and a healthy body.  And most importantly, I couldn’t do that to him.  He wanted the baby, and I knew that aborting it would kill a part of him that would never recover.  I couldn’t justify terminating a pregnancy simply because I got sloppy one night.  I had made a bed, and the grown-up thing to do was lie in it.  And the fact was, ladies and gentlemen, I wasn’t getting any younger anyway.  Every woman in my family had already finished having babies by the time she was the age I was when I got knocked up.  People in the family had actually begun to assume I was infertile.

Now, people often ask me when I “knew” I wanted to be a mother.  I always have the same answer: “At 7:27 pm, August 1st 2006 – the moment my son was born, and not a minute sooner.”  Even through those nine months of pregnancy, I wasn’t sure I was cut out for this.  I was a feminist, dammit!  I couldn’t be tied down with a child.  I had school to finish and places to travel to.  There were times during the pregnancy that I told my new husband I wanted out, and that I’d give the baby to him and his mother after it was born and they could raise it.  Why not?  That’s what my mother did with me. She wasn’t up for the motherhood stuff, so she left me on doorsteps and took off.  Why would I – should I – be any different?  Well, my mother was/is also a horrible human being and ought to have been chemically castrated before she went on to ruin three more childrens' lives – but that’s a whole other story.

Instead, on that date 3 years ago, I was transformed.  Physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally – all of it.  The moment I heard my child cry, my brain chemistry changed, and suddenly I realized that being this person’s mother was not a punishment.  On the contrary, it was a gift I probably didn’t deserve, but I would spend the rest of my life trying to deserve it.  Though I was overjoyed by this perfect little miracle I had just produced, I felt sad and robbed that he was cut from my womb, instead of being birthed by me.  I never knew how much that would matter until it was taken from me.  I vowed that my next child would be birthed by his mother – not by a man in a mask.

I started that pregnancy thinking breastfeeding was gross.  I’d never seen it done, but it seemed like it was something white trash women did.  I was clueless.  Then I had my baby, and nurturing him from my breast seemed right.  After all, I had made this little baby in my body - it made sense for me to keep feeding him with the same body that had done such a good job making him.  Unfortunately, thanks to a cesarean and a period of separation, along with little support from my doctors, breastfeeding wasn’t successful for me with my first son.  Once I had to switch to formula feeding, I realized just how oppressive and sexist formula feeding, and formula companies, truly are.  Here you are born with two sources of perfect nutrition right there on your body, and our patriarchal society convinces you that custom-made milk isn’t good enough.  Your body isn’t good enough, and what you’re providing for your baby – without their help – isn’t good enough.  They convince you to enslave yourself (and your wallet) to the formula manufacturer - the buying, mixing, heating, and washing of bottles - all while their product undermines your health and your baby's health.  And they do all this while convincing the vast majority of women that it’s somehow liberating them.  *headshake*

Right then, my feminism changed.  That cesarean, and that formula feeding, taught me that the most feminist thing I could do for myself was to take back my body and my autonomy.  I birthed my second baby through my vagina, and it was the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life.  I made breastfeeding work that second time, and am still nursing my son 15 months later.  I wanted to be an excellent mother and raise my children up to be good people who will become the next generation of feminist freedom fighters. 

Having a uterus and breasts wasn’t oppressive anymore.  My feminine biology was a gift that no man will ever get to experience, and it is my duty to protect the sacred gift which mother nature provided to me – not to shame myself for having it.  

And so, I fight the system, along with all my feminist mothering sisters. 

• I fight for a women’s right to give birth naturally, without the medical community descending on her and compromising her health or autonomy with their (often unnecessary) drugs, instruments, and surgical deliveries.
  
• I fight for women to breastfeed when and where they want without a Puritan, patriarchal society shaming her for her womanly ability to nurture her young.
  
• And I fight for women’s right to be both a mother and a worker, without having to sacrifice her family just to keep a job or get ahead.

This is what feminism means to me now.  And I have my children to thank for this.  They opened my eyes to a world beyond anything I had imagined, while forcing me to eat many of my words.

Thank you children.  Life wouldn't be the same without you.  And knowing what I know now, I would never want it to be.

Top Ten Reasons I love my Hyphenated Husband

I tend to not be the nicest person to my husband a lot of the time.  It's not that I don't love him - I just like to blame him for all my crappy days, which I've had a lot of lately.  Every time he does some dumb little thing, I pounce on it like I'm judge and jury of our relationship.  Eh. I know. I suck.

But the past 8 days I've been feeling great.  I don't know if my depression subsided, or it was because I got a little more exercise than normal, or if it's because our vacation is coming up, but all the sudden the cloud of stress and misery I'd been living under since around April just floated away, and I'm immediately more attracted to and appreciative of my husband.  So what better time to dedicate a post to him.  I better do it now before the bitchiness creeps back in again.  I tend to forget all the things I like about him when I'm yelling at him for leaving the diaper sprayer on for the 60th time.

So here it is, ala David Letterman, The Top Ten Reasons I love my Hyphenated Husband:

#10 - He does the heavy lifting.

#9 - The older I get, and the more kids I have, the more attracted he is to me. Go figure.

#8 - He cooks/cleans/changes diapers as often, or maybe more often, than I do.

#7 - He supports me and all my exhausting ambition.

#6 - He knows I wear the brains in the family.

#5 - He changed his last name for me.

#4 - He wants more babies with me.

#3 - He is a very, very, veeeerrrry generous lover.

#2 - He would do anything in the world if he thought it made me happy.

#1 - He puts up with me taking far more than I give.

All this leaves me feeling Supah-Dupah excited about spending time in a jacuzzi with him on our vacation next week.  We desperately need this time to reconnect outside the business of 30 jobs and full time class loads.  Maybe I'll come back with Ten more things...

Yay Husband.

Okay, nobody panic…

...but I woke up with something missing this morning.  Everything seemed normal, aside from this ridiculous cold I have in July.  But there I was, drying off from the shower when suddenly I realized: I’d been burglarized.

My boobs are missing.

Just a day or so ago, they were there.  The same C-cups I’ve had through the last 2 years of pregnancy and nursing.  Not even 48 hours ago I stuffed them into a swimsuit I was trying on.  I remember them being there.

But today?  A cups.  I’m truly not kidding.  I’m not even exaggerating.  These are the kind of A cups that make people wonder if you may have been a Man at one point in your life.

I feel like I should file a police report.  So, I consult the husband:

Me: “Do you notice anything missing?”
Him: “Like what?”
Me: “My boobs are gone.”
Him: “Oh yeah, I know, I noticed that yesterday.”
Me: “WHAT!??!  You noticed!?!”
Him: “Yeah, it was strange – it only took about 2 days, but they went away.”
Me: *Gulp*

So I’m not just imagining it.

Add this to the column of Totally UnGodly Yet Perfectly Natural Weird Ass Things That Happen to A Mother’s Body.  Apparently my chest got the hint that I wasn’t nursing as much as I once had, and it decided to lay off at least 80% of the Milk Production workforce.  This comes as quite a shock to the system.  Just when I thought I had gotten used to my body doing all sorts of unexplained things, it transforms itself completely overnight.  I give up.

The most frustrating part of course is that I need to go drop money on all new brassieres now.  Though I suppose "they" are so little now, I might be able to get away with wearing only a couple of Band Aids and a tank top.

It’s a really good thing my husband is not a boob man.  I had A cups when he met me, so he knew the Baby Boobies were probably only a temporary toy.  My rear end is the reason he married me.  But I swear if I woke up tomorrow missing my booty, he’d probably have divorce papers messengered over to me by the close of business that day.  I suppose if there's a silver lining in this anywhere it's that, thankfully, I’m the only one of us who cares that my chest took off and left me.

Of course, now I’m wondering if all my recent weight loss only came from the upper half of my body.  That sure would explain a few things...

Being a woman is just all kinds of bat-shit crazy.

I Never Wanted to be a Working Mother

I absolutely hate being a Work Outside The Home Mom (WOHM) at this point in my life.  I hate it.  If you’ve ever been to my blog, or ever seen a single tweet of mine, this will not come as a huge shock to you.  So I’m going to spend this post bitching about something that has crawled under my skin, laid eggs, and hatched a giant, frothing, green-eyed monster that is unapologetically jealous and pissed off.

I will not make any apologies for however irrational my feelings are about this.  This is my view of my world as I know it, and my feelings are about ME, not about YOU.  This has all been building up since the day I realized I wouldn't be able to stay home with my first son - like we planned.  Plans?  Oh yeah, we had plans.  Smart, well-thought-out plans.  Then the economy happened.  I’d also add that the stress I’ve been feeling lately, combined with the partial cessation of breastfeeding and whatever hormonal changes may accompany that,  seems to have aggravated the post-partum depression that lurks beneath my surface, which makes TFB crankier than normal.

So here are two things I’m absolutely sick of right now:

1. SAHMs acting like they have it as hard as WOHMs.
2. SAHMS telling me it’s my “Choice” to be a WOHM.

Now, I have zero judgment about whether someone is a SAHM, WAHM, or WOHM.  Let’s get that part out of the way right off the bat.  I could not care less what somebody else does. There’s no “war” to me.  Whatever works for your family is Coolio with me.  I will never attempt to say that any one way is the “best” way to go about it – I don’t think there is a universal “best” way. 

But when either of the two aforementioned things come up, I am flat out insulted.  And that insult adds to the injury I already feel being in a situation that depresses the living shit out of me every day.  It’s a slap in the face – so I’m gonna talk about it.

First of all, being a SAHM is NOT as hard as being a WOHM, and I’m going to give you a list of reasons why. Perhaps this will make those who’d complain about it recognize what a sweet position they’re actually in.

#1 – Being SAHM is absolutely a full-time job, but going to work doesn’t mean you have a DIFFERENT full-time job – it means you now have TWO full time jobs - or more if you're like me.  That means you have to go put up with other people’s shit for 10 hours a day, then come home and do all the things you couldn’t do because you weren’t home all day (like cleaning, spending time with kids, meal planning, etc. etc.)  Those chores don’t just disappear because you’re not there!

#2 – Nobody will fire you for having a bad day as a mom.  I mean, unless you have a “somebody-call-Child-Protective-Services” kind of day, nobody is going to take that gig away from you (cause frankly, there is no 22 year old recent college graduate eyeing your job as a mother.)  I’ve seen some pretty crappy-ass moms who still don’t get fired for the lousy job they’re doing.  You don't live in fear of the moment you'll get called into the boss's office because your performance standards have slipped after being up all night dealing with two sick children at home.

#3 – Okay, being a SAHM is a job, but you don’t have to shower for it!  Yes you wake up early, but so do I.  And you don’t have to wake up at 6 am, rush around making sure the kids are taken care of/shipped off to daycare/whatever WHILE trying to shower, look presentable, and get into the appropriate business attire. You can stay in your fraking track pants all day long if you want to.  If I show up looking like a Mom, HR will have a “talk” with me.

#4 – You don’t have to pump breastmilk at work, or worry that you’ll lose your job if you do.  Enuf said.

#5 – Not everyone who works for a living has a corner office and an assistant who will bring them lattes all day.  If you think all Working Moms look like the women on the cover of Working Mother Magazine, go visit a production plant and talk to the barely-minimum-wage factory workers who stand on their feet all day and have to ask to take a bathroom break. Quit romanticizing the Working Mother role.  About zero percent of us have that corner office.  I bet your home working environment is a billion times better.

Now before you get all "but-some-women-have-no-choice-but-to-stay-home" let me say I'm not even going there in this post because I KNOW some women have no choice in that respect.  But that's not what this is about, so let's focus here people.

Secondly, I am so sick and tired of people telling me that it’s my “choice” to be a working mother.  It shouldn’t even make me mad.  I should find it hilarious.  I should think it’s funny that they live such stable, middle-class lifestyles that they cannot even fathom how it could be necessary to have two incomes to survive.  And I am outright insulted, deep in my core, when any person suggests that I’m leaving my kids every morning because I want to.  I could write, so, so much more on this, but I think I have to sum it up in with this:

NO, it is not my “choice.”  NO, we cannot afford, not even by the most creative budgeting known to man, to live on His income.  You don’t live here. You don’t know how we got here. You haven’t walked a mile in this family’s shoes. You don’t know how poor I grew up.  You don't know what I've had to do to drag myself out of poverty.  You don’t know how badly I don’t want to be there again.  And if You want to take a look at my balance sheet and figure out HOW I could “choose” to stay home, then you are 1000% welcome to do that.  But if you can’t – seriously shut the f*cking f*ck up because you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not stupid, and if I can’t figure out a way to make something work, then it cannot be done. Not here. Not under our currently unchangeable circumstances. And to assume that everyone is in the same situation you are in is incredibly short-sighted.

This reminds me of the time the “Feminists” on the Ivillage board told me it was my fault I got Post-Partum depression because I didn’t plan my life better, and also because I didn’t anticipate that having a baby would mean having a cesarean.  Oh we silly women… always misplacing our crystal balls. Boy, maybe, just maybe, if I had been raised in any sort of stable environment I would have had another woman around to tell me what to expect when I had a baby.  But since I have no mother and no siblings, and had to endure that pregnancy without any guidance, perhaps I couldn’t have known what to expect?  It’s pretty difficult for those who “have” to understand anything about those who “have not.”  And they don’t even try.

And here’s where someone will say that it’s a “choice” to feed my kids.  Well, to me, letting my kids starve and losing the roof over our heads is NOT an option.  Not. An. Option.  If it’s an “option” for you, then call me when your kids are starving and you have no place to sleep – because until you’re in that situation, you have no way of knowing whether you really believe that’s an “option.”  You have the luxury of not having to make that "choice."

And the fact is, I have it way, way better than many Americans.  Having a child is the #1 cause of poverty spells in the United States.  I wouldn't even have health insurance if I didn't have a job - so what happens if my kid gets sick?  Now I've "chosen" to have a sick child that I can't get treatment for?  Clearly, my family is not the only one facing these situations.  We’re not in dire straits right now – but if I quit my job, that will change fast.

And that pisses me off.  I’m trapped.  I’m sad.  I want to be home with my kids.  I don’t want to work two jobs and go to school full time at night for the next 6 years anymore.  I’m angry because I ended up exactly where I didn’t want to be. I’m flailing.  I’m trying everything I can think of to change my situation.  And at the end of the day, I still can’t make it go away.  But on the average day, I deal with this fairly well.  I get up and go to work until 5 pm. I get off work and sit in class until 10 pm.  I get out of class and go home to make cakes until 2 am.  And I pack every second of family time in where I can.

But then someone tells me their life is soooooo hard being a stay-at-home mom, and I want to fracking scream.  And when I scream, they tell me that I could be a stay-at-home mom if I just “lived within my means” or planned a little better – and then, I want to break down crying, because those people are so out of touch with what my family/many families go through to try to provide the very basics for their kids.  Those familes have no idea what my down-to-the-penny Excel budget looks like each and every month.

And because they’re so out of touch, they’ll never understand.  So here’s where I stop trying to make them.

*exhale.*

Why I Can't Fault Kate Gosselin

I really try not to get wrapped up in the celebrity gossip.  These people are people too, and their skin is just as thin as ours - a hard lesson I learned when I was momentarily on the other side of that gossip.  You see, when I was briefly thrust under the microscope way back in 2001 when Ms. Love announced I was the newest member of her band in a worldwide press release, everyone in the "biz" wanted a piece of me.  All the sharks wanted to know what I weighed, and who waxed my eyebrows.  And though no one in the entire world had ever seen me play with her, they all had their opinions, some good and some terribly hurtful, on what I would be like if they ever got the chance to see it.

My dad heard the news about my new job on the radio, and before he could get me on the phone he stumbled upon a message board online that had an entire thread dedicated to whether I was fat or not.  My poor father, just trying to be a good dad, signed up on the board and started defending me, and, well, these days anyone with an internet connection knows what happens when you feed trolls.

That all sucked.  And it made me feel sorry for anyone who's subjected to that pettiness and cruelty.  So this is one of the two reasons I have to give Kate Gosselin the benefit of the doubt.

The other reason is this: I've been her.  Actually, I've probably been a much, much worse version of her.  I'm willing to bet many of us in perfectly functional marriages have been her at some point.  If someone was editing together all of the horrible fights my husband and I have been through and airing them on national television, I would once again be the butt of an international hate-fest.

Let me say this.  My husband loves me, and I love him.  I try to avoid talking about Him or complaining about our problems on my blog (though a few frustrated moments have slipped through) because, honestly, I know I won the husband lottery.  My husband is the kind of husband other women dream of marrying, so it's ridiculous to bitch about the petty arguments we have.   It makes me ashamed, and here's why:

• He loves and respects me unconditionally.

• He thinks I'm hotter now than before I had two children, and not a single day goes by that he doesn't tell me that.
• He does everything in his power to try to make me happy.
• He takes equal share of all the household and childrearing responsibilities.
• He puts himself out nearly every day to try to make my life a little easier (example: On nights I'm in school, that man will park the car at the train station for me and walk himself home so I don't have to walk home when I get off the train late at night.  He also gets up early to make my lunch every single day, and washed/packed my bottles every single day for the entire time I was pumping at work.  How many husbands do those sorts of things for their wives?)
• He's a hard worker, working two jobs right now to help us get ahead
• He would NEVER cheat on me, and NEVER leave me.  This man is a lifer.  I can safely say that pigs would fly before the man would look twice at a woman who wasn't his wife.  He is hardwired for monogamy.

So there's a short list of the reasons I stay married to him.  But those things are not enough to keep me happy every day.  I may have won the Husband Lottery, but that doesn't mean I think he's perfect.  On the average, uneventful day, I consider myself a relatively intelligent, sane, loving human being.  But nothing in the world can bring out my anger issues like He can.  I've spent a lot of time in the last few years hating his effing guts.  He's able to do tiny, little things, that make me feel totally betrayed, threatened, and unloved.  These are things that other people may not see, but I sure do see them.

It started when I got pregnant.  I didn't want to be pregnant.  I/we had plans.  I was in school and finally getting somewhere with my life.  We had a big wedding planned, and had dreams of what our life would be like when we got all our ducks in a row.  But a surprise pregnancy complicated all of that.  I love my son more than anything in this entire world now, but If I had my way then, I would have had an abortion.  But ultimately, I knew that an abortion would absolutely devastate Him, and our relationship would never recover from that.  I couldn't put us through that, and He promised me that if I had the baby, he would find a way to make it all okay.  So I trusted that He would make it work, reluctantly stayed pregnant, and hated him every single minute for it.  For the first year, he really didn't hold up his end of the bargain of "making it all okay", and I felt stupid for trusting that he would.

I hated him for the sciatica pain.
I hated him when I got fat.
I hated him when I was overdue.
I hated him when I had a cesarean.
I hated him when I had to go back to work 5 weeks postpartum.
I hated him when He quit school mid semester without consulting me.
I hated him because I had left school and worked full time to support us so he could finish college, which he just blew off.
I hated him because I was starting to be the only Grown-Up in the house.
I hated him when I found out he was being incredibly financially irresponsible.
I hated him when I found out he was accepting thousands of dollars from his mother to hide his mistakes from me.
I hated him because this wasn't what I planned.
I hated him because he trapped me.
I hated him for all the hatred I felt.
I hated him for turning me into this person that I didn't even recognize.

And without realizing it at the time, I was also suffering under a serious case of PPD/PTSD.  Times were very dark.  Fighting and hurting each other became a daily activity.  At one point, I broke a brand new MacBook by throwing it at him.  On more than one occasion, I told him I wished he was dead.  And that became the tone for much of our existence.

So why didn't we get out?  Well, not for lack of me trying.  I wanted a divorce every minute of the day.  I called lawyers.  I even met with one.  I know I said "Till death do us part" but my brain doesn't even understand the concept of permanence.  I was raised a gypsy and went to 26 different schools between K-12 grades, so instability is completely normal to me.  I've never been able to plan a month or two ahead in my life, so promising I'd do something forever was sheer temporary insanity on my part.

But He is different.  He was born and raised in the same house his whole life, and stability makes perfect sense to him. When he said "I Do" he meant Forever, and not one day shy of it.  It didn't matter how bad things were.  It didn't matter how much stuff I broke in the house.  It didn't matter how many horrific things I said to him, or he said to me.  We were married, and we would find a way to work it out.  He loves me, and He believes that no matter how mad I get, or what I say in the heat of the moment, deep down I love him too, and we'll be just fine in the end.

And he's right. We will be just fine.  We both have some growing up to do, and we both have communication issues to work out.  He has to learn to stop doing stupid shit, and I have to learn to stop taking his stupid shit so personally.  But we're in it together, and we're learning to navigate all of the good, bad, and mediocre times together.  Our first two years of marriage were the hardest test I can possibly see a couple facing, and we survived it.  Marriage is tough, man!

But lord knows, if someone had recorded those first two years, and broadcast them all over the internets and blogospheres, Perez Hilton would be drawing little horns and pitchforks all over my picture, and probably talking about how fat and ugly the marriage made me.

So I won't judge Kate Gosselin for what's happening in her marriage.  I am in no position to pass judgment.  None of us are.  Thankfully some mom bloggers are stepping up to admit that their marriage isn't perfect, and yours probably isn't either.  Until the day comes when you'll allow your ugliest, most personal moments to be televised for the rest of us to see, try to focus on what's happening in your own house/marriage/family.  I bet that's a whole lot more interesting than what's going on with these celebrities.

And just try to remember how you'd feel if someone said these things about you, or your sister, or your mother, or your daughter. 

Ouch.

To Wean or Not to Wean: That is the Question

My son will be One Year old in 10 days.  Long before I ever got pregnant with him, I said I would breastfeed him for a year.  My older son was barely breastfed for a month, and I have a full time job and a full time class schedule plus a business I run on the side, so breastfeeding for a full year, without any formula supplementation whatsoever, was certainly a lofty goal for this mom.

But I did it.

I suffered through supply crises, plugged ducts, mastitis, and the stress of a pumping schedule that would make most hardcore lactivists cringe.  I sat in stinky toilet stalls at Loyola University and pumped away while the 20 yr old college students wondered what the hell the swooshing noise was coming from the stall.  I revolved my work schedule around my let-downs, and worried every single morning and every single night that I might forget my horns or my bottles or my milk or my Mother’s Room key or my pump and Oh My God, what would happen then?  I cried when I accidentally left a whole day’s worth of pumped milk in my school bag, ruining the entire batch.  I filled myself with Fenugreek and Blessed Thistle, drank disgusting Chinese broths, got acupuncture, and still none of it worked to keep me from worrying that one day I might just dry up, and my plans of breastfeeding for a full year without using any formula whatsoever would be completely ruined.

But even through all of that, I made it.

And I have been anxiously awaiting the day that I could close up shop, pack away the pump, and never have to worry about another plugged duct again.  But now that the time is near, I’m not so sure I’m ready to call it quits.  I have been sick to my stomach over this decision for some time now, so I am soliciting stories, opinions, advice, or support to help me make this decision.  Please, fill up my comments with anything you can think of to help me navigate these crossroads.

Here is my Type A, logical breakdown of the situation:

REASONS TO KEEP NURSING

• I love nursing him, and he loves nursing.
• It’s the one thing I can offer my child that nobody else can, which is important since I’m away from him so much with work and school.
• There are numerous health benefits for continuing to nurse for another year
• I won’t have to go through painful weaning, which will certainly piss him off, and probably cause me some plugged ducts or mastitis along the way
• The WHO recommends breastfeeding for 2 years

REASONS TO WEAN

• I cannot take one more day of managing these breasts.  I miss the days where I didn’t have to constantly worry about them.
• I can’t lay on my stomach or I’ll get a plugged duct. 
• I can’t get more than a few hours of sleep or I’ll get a plugged duct.
• As long as I’m nursing this baby will NEVER SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT (and I’m sorry AP folks, I think babies SHOULD be sleeping through the night at this age, and this whole family is suffering from this baby’s need to use me as a pacifier all night long.  It’s NOT FAIR to any of us anymore.  Judge away, I don’t give a shit – tell Dr. Sears to attempt 18 hour work days, 10 page papers, presentations to Senior VPs, and decorating buttercream Cinderellas all in one day, and let me know if he still thinks a toddler should be keeping him awake all night.)
• I have tried “Night-Weaning” Julesy and that goes over like a fart in church.  He screams bloody murder like we’re ripping him limb from limb until his brother is woken up crying too, and then I finally give in and pop a boob in his mouth.  I suspect that it’s going to be All or Nothing with this kid.
• Sometimes I think he ONLY sees me as “The Boob”.
• I can’t have too much alcohol or I’ll get the baby drunk – I’m not a huge drinker, but god damn, I AM an adult and sometimes this adult would like to be able to have a few glasses of wine without the possibility of being charged with child endangerment.
• I can’t (won’t) get back on Zoloft while I’m nursing, which I’m really starting to feel like I may need again – though this could only be a temporary hormone fluxuation from the breastfeeding slowing down.
• I am completely touched-out all the time, and it really makes me detest being touched by my husband.  Not great for the spirit of the marriage, let me say.
• I want my body back for at least a year before we start trying to get pregnant again.
• The AAP recommends breastfeeding for 1 year – I have done what is asked of me.

So there it is.  I’m not really ready to be done, but I am SO READY TO BE DONE.  Sounds simple, right?  Not so much.

How can I have it both ways?

We're Going to Disneyland!

Mama needs a vacation. Bad.

We haven't been on vacation since the vacation where we concieved Jules.  He's about to be a year old, so that should illustrate how long it's been.  I've been begging the husband to consider a vacation this summer, as it would be considerably cheaper than admitting me to rehab.  But the husband is a penny pincher.  Not that I'm not extremely frugal - I can usually spin gold out of discarded toothpicks and I have a gift for bargain hunting - but I do like to enjoy myself every once in awhile too.  One cannot live on 18 hour work days and Tuna Helper alone.

So when the husband got a referreeing gig bringing in an extra $160 a week for 9 weeks (on top of his normal salary) I said "There it is! That's our vacation money!"  I know we could use that money to pay down some more credit card debt, but right now having a week alone with my family without work/school to stress me out is higher on my priority list. 

It didn't take much convincing before we agreed to start vacation shopping, and before long we had it narrowed down to Busch Gardens in Tampa.  We'd both love to see Busch Gardens - I've been there - and we know Jonas would love it given his current obsession with anything animal-related.  I also get discounted tickets through my company.  The thing is: We Hate Florida.  Hate it.  No, hate is not a strong enough word.  Florida is the gate to hell.  It is the vortex of ignorance.  I lived there when I was a kid, and most of my superbly white-trash family still lives there, along with my absent mother whose terminal insanity would only be allowed out in public by a state like Florida.  Then I watch the show "Kath & Kim" and I think "it would be funny, but it's all too true."  Sorry to all those Floridians I have undoubtedly offended, but seriously ya'll - you must know.

So, as much as we liked the idea of Busch Gardens, about halfway through the day I asked the Huz to consider California for a vacation instead.  We both have good friends in LA we need to see, and I want to take Jonas to Disneyland and maybe SeaWorld.  And again, I get discounted passes through my company so it would be cheaper than expected.  Once he agreed, I rushed back to my desk and found cheap flights.  I IM'd Huz the results and I assumed he would tell me to wait to book the flights (wait for what?  I never know, but there's always some reason he's hesitant to let me book things.) But to my surprise he wrote back "Do it! I trust you."

So we are now going on a week-long vacation in July, and I'm so excited I could barely sleep last night.  I think I'm actually more excited that the Huz let me book a vacation without making me beg, scream, or threaten him into it first.  He's always eventually happy with the things I do, but for some reason, always - ALWAYS resistent in the beginning.  It's hard to explain, but he insists on making everything harder than it has to be.  For example: I wanted an entertainment center 2 years ago.  Jonas was crawling and I didn't want him to be pulling on the exposed wires coming out of the back of the TV.  So I picked out an entertainment center that would house everything up nicely.  John resisted.  He fought.  He didn't want to spend the money.  But I big, fat, did it anyway (because I know him) and not 2 weeks later he sat staring at the entertainment center saying "that's really so cool, I'm so glad WE got it." - like it was his idea all along.  I coulda strangled him.  Anyway, the point is, he does this with every single purchase we make, so being able to book a vacation to California with his blessing was just the single most merry-making thing that's happened in our relationship in quite some time.

I think he might be growing.  California, here we come!

What a Ridiculous Day

My day started out sucky at 2 a.m. - and it has only gotten worse.  I must have done something bad for the universe to be this pissy with me.

    Sucky Incident #1 - 2:00 AM: The only three times in the last year that I have gotten a decent stretch of sleep (and by decent I mean 4-5 hours) I have awoken each time with a plugged milk duct.  The second time, I got mastitis, which is something I honestly would not wish on my very worst enemy.  The strange part is that I can easily go 6-7 hours between pumping when I'm awake without even getting all that engorged.  But g*d forbid I get an ounce of sleep.  I have come to think of plugged ducts as my punishment for getting a tiny bit more rest than the universe apparently wants me to have.

So last night I woke up at 2 a.m. with a rock hard wedge in my right breast.  I poked John and told him to go get Julesy so I could nurse him.  Well, after Julesy drained the rest of the breast, the rock hard wedge was just that much more pronounced.  I went to look in the bathroom mirror and I could actually see it then.  My boob looked half deflated.  I went back in the bedroom and told Huz to feel it and as soon as he touched it he jumped back and said "Holy crap!"  So, I jumped in the tub and started trying to work it out, like I did the first time this happened (the time I didn't get mastitis).  Luckily this time I knew exactly what I was looking for, and I located the little white sliver right away. It only took a few seconds of squeezing and it popped out, then the geiser of milk flowed behind it.  The most insane thing happened next -- it KEPT shooting out.  I wasn't milking myself at all, I just cupped my breast on either side and watched it shoot out a stream of breastmilk halfway across the tub for 8 or 9 straight minutes (I was watching the clock.)  Imagine if you filled a water balloon and stuck a tiny pinhole in it.  It would shoot out a little pin-sized stream of water until he was completely deflated.  That's exactly what my breast did.  Man, these are some weird-ass parts we females have.

After the geiser died down, I got out of the bathtub, pumped 5 more ounces, then laid in bed for another hour and a half unable to sleep.

Sucky Incident #2 - 7:30 AM:  When I woke up with Julesy this morning, I realized his eye was almost swollen shut.  It was looking kind of bruised yesterday and the day before, but we thought it might just be an irritation from allergies, and decided to keep an eye on it to see if it got worse. Well, this morning, it was much, much worse.  He looked like a boxer.  So we rushed around calling the doctor, seeing what could be done, then getting him ready to go to the doctor with Grandma while we had to go off to work.*

Sucky Incident #3 - 9:00 AM:  I get to work, open my backpack, and realize I don't have my laptop with me.  My company-issued, only-computer-I-have-at-work laptop; the laptop that I absolutely must have in order to complete any work at all.  I was so distracted by the puffy-eyed baby that I completely forgot to put my laptop in my backpack.  Since I'm all the way downtown, I know it will take me a few hours back and forth (dependant on the train schedule) to go home and retrieve it. Crap!

I called MIL to see if she was already on her way to the doctor, thinking she might be able to bring it to me.  She was already on her way, but offered to turn around and bring it to me.  Since I knew she was already running late for the doctor, and since I didn't want to make her drag the kids all the way downtown, I decided just to tell my boss about the missing laptop and see what she suggested.  Luckily she'd had the same thing happen to her some months back.  She told me that our technical center had loaners they could give me for the day - so that's what I'm typing on now.  Of course I'm missing some files I need to get some things completed, but all-in-all I can live without my own laptop for just one day.

It's 11 a.m.  How much worse could it get today?  I have a midterm tonight.  Perhaps I'll bomb it and wrap up this day on the same sour note it started on.

Wish me luck...

_______________________

*BTW, it turns out Julesy's swollen eye is from an ear infection - the infection spread from his sinuses, into his ear, and caused the fluid to build up behind his eye.  crazy. Some antibiotics have been prescribed to treat the mess.

There's a Name for It - "Equally Shared Parenting"

In the past few days -- due to a combination of me joining Twitter, and simultaneously stumbling into a whole new world of awesome mommy bloggers thanks to the ridiculous Rosin article -- I have been more informed and exposed than I have been in a very long time.

I found a wonderful site called "Blacktating" - the title alone makes me thing this woman is incredibly smart and funny.

I found a site called PhD in Parenting which led me to many other feminist/mothering sites that I wish I had found years ago.

But I think the biggest surprise of all was finding a website called Equally Shared Parenting, run by a mother and a father who, well, as the title suggests: equally share parenting duties.  Isn't that an interesting idea. (<--note the period, not a question mark.)

The thing is that the Hyphenated Husband and I have been doing this "Shared Parenting" for 3 years.  We shared pregnancy, as much as that is physically possible.  He read all the books he could, and tried his hardest to help me navigate the rough pregnancy waters.  We shared the birth, as much as that physically possible.  He studied Bradley coaching, and fought for me in the hospital when the doctors tried to cut me open the second time - and we won that battle, thanks largely to Husband.  And parenting has always been BOTH of our responsibilities.  Even breastfeeding is shared between us.  No, of course Husband isn't putting the baby to his breast, but he's doing pretty much everything else.  He cleans all the bottles and packs them up for me to take to work every day.  He puts the milk away when we come home.  If I need to pump at home, he sets everything up for me and then puts everything away when I'm done.  If Julesy needs to nurse at night, Husband brings him into our room, and takes him back when I'm done.  Since I'm the one actually making food with my own body, managing the equipment is really the least the Husband can do.

Cooking, cleaning, diaper changes, laundry, and childrearing are also things we share.  Why?  Because it's both of our house, both of our kids, and both of our responsibility to keep things running smoothly.  He didn't marry a maid or a nanny.  He married a feminist, and he wouldn't have it any other way.  The man hyphenated his last name with mine, so even our name-change was "equally shared."

Now, I realize that many women live in households where their husbands just sort of come and go as they please, play golf on the weekends with their buddies, and wouldn't do a dish or change a diaper to save their own life.  But I certainly would never be married to that type of man.  I have a hard enough time putting up with this man, and he's about as great as they come.

I'm so happy to see that this modern movement has a name - and a website filled with great advice to help couples achieve this parenting style.  But I think it really just boils down to what a woman will put up with.  If you don't mind being a Single Mom with a husband, then a-okay.  But if changing every single diaper and doing every single feeding is not your idea of fairness, then it's time to talk to the man about "Equally Shared Parenting."  Tell the husband to put down the video game controller and get it together.  ESP is where it's at.  As the website says, it's "half the work, all the fun."

Another Session Down; a Million More To Go

This week was rough.  I had finals, a huge project at work, and had a cake due on Friday.  On Thursday, I was at work all day, got home from class at 11 pm, and had to stay up until 2 am finishing a cake order that was due on Friday at noon.  I should mention that I finished this session with my 4.0 gpa intact - which is only safe until next session, which starts a week from tomorrow.  I dont know how I survived this week, with perfect grades, being as tired as I am.  I was up until around 2 am every night this week working on one thing or another, which turned today into 'catch-up-on-sleep' day.

Thankfully the husband and I are fighting again which means he hides in the basement all day and night and leaves me alone.  It also means that we trade the kids off, so instead of being with him and the kids all day long (like I would be if we were getting along), instead we angrily pass them back and forth so they're him in the basement for a few hours at a time, leaving me alone upstairs to do whatever I please, which translates into naptime, since napping is all I ever want to do when I'm alone.

It's times like this that I think being a single parent would be sooooo much easier.  Sure, I wouldn't have help part of the time, but part of the time I wouldn't have them at all.  Not that I don't want my kids... of course being around them is pretty much all I ever want to do, but goddamn I need to sleep some time too. 

I think of this girl I used to know, and she's basically a part-time parent since she's divorced.  She has her daughter half the week, and then the other half of the week she basically has a free babysitter (her ex) so she can go out and do whatever she wants with her new husband.  This sounds like a pretty sweet deal if you ask me.

I mean seriously.... I don't see the kids 2 nights a week as it is since I'm in school.  Those could be the two nights a week that they're at Daddy's house, and I could come home to an empty, peaceful house where I wouldn't have to deal with somebody else's shit.

I'm just exhausted.  And I have a million more semesters of school left.  But right now it's time to take my first shower of the day.  I'll figure out the rest later.

What the F*&@ is Wrong with You?!?

I'm about to go off.

Pardon me, but what the F**K is wrong with these woman who continue to smoke while they are pregnant?  What the friggen A?!?!?  Are you freaking STUPID?!?!

And don't give me the dumb bullshit about how it's "sooooo hard" to quit.  Tough!  I smoked for 14 YEARS!!! But the minute I found out that there was a fetus breathing in that smoke, I stopped.  Immediately and Permanently.  I seriously won't even let my kids be around someone who smoked earlier that day if I know about it (or can smell it - and let me tell you that I CAN smell smoke a thousand miles away these days.)  I wouldn't let my dad's latest ex-wife hold Jonas because she smelled like a damn bar.

And then there are these woman who quit smoking while pregnant, then start back up again after they have the baby.  Well, I have a classmate whose baby died at 3 weeks old from second hand smoke exposure (DIRECTLY ATTRIBUTED) who will tell you that you're being as stupid as they come.  Her boyfriend's smoking literally choked the poor baby to death.  And don't go congratulating yourself for smoking "outside" or "away from the baby."  It's called THIRD HAND SMOKE.  Look it up! 

Why go to all the trouble of having a baby, then expose them to toxic chemicals leaching off your skin and clothes?  Jesus... of all the preventable things in the world...

Excuse me, but if you think smoking once you've decided to bring kids into this world is "okay" then I call BAD MOMMY!  And Dad, you're not off the hook either.  Get the EFFING cigarette out of your hand and give it up!  Think about what you're doing to your kids when they have to watch daddy deteriorate and die a slow painful death from that smoking.  I have a grandfather who has basically ruined the last 10 years of his wife's life by dying the slowest, most painful death possible from emphysema and heart disease.  He's still hanging on though..... barely.

You may have had an uncle who smoked 2 packs of Camels a day and lived until 96, but I guarantee his qualify of life was crap that last 20 or 30 years.  Nice way to die. (insert eye rolling here.)

That's it.  I'm done.  For now....  but I swear to god if there was a committee I could join to completely OUTLAW parental smoking, I would so be on that committee.

Sometimes...

...they make up for being complete idiots......sometimes.

 

(This would be the breakfast in bed that I got after the husband totally effed up our anniversary dinner plans.)

3 Years Ago Today...

I was getting married.  It's hard to believe that I've been married for three whole years.  Those years have flown by, and we've done so much.  In that time we:

• bought a condo

• sold a condo

• moved into a house in the 'burbs

• had 2 sons

• got "real" jobs

• finished semesters of schooling

• visited Paris, Bruxelles, Grand Cayman, Cozumel Mexico, Pennsylvania, Florida, and Washington D.C.

It's especially hard for me to believe that it's been 3 years because I have literally never done anything for three years.  I never went to the same school for three years.  I never lived in the same place for three years.  I've never kept the same job for three years (although that won't be true in a few months.)  Three years is a pretty major chunk of time in my book.  It's a longer commitment than I've ever made to anything.

And it's flying by.... pretty soon it will be 5, then 10, then 20, then 40 years.  And it's kinda freaking me out.

Cloth Diapering (a.k.a.) Making my Brain Bleed Again

Cloth diapering keeps coming up in my world.  A friend who lives half a world away from me just started making her own (and they're freaking adorable.)  Then a discussion came up on my Mommy group about them.  And the more they get brought up, the more I want to try to make the switch.  They are just too cute.  The problem is:

A. I cannot figure out how people afford the start up cost.  This is goddamn expensive compared to the $30 a month I spend on Luvs. John and I have already been in a fight today about me spending the money on them.  He just does NOT want to do it.  And if you know John, you know just how miserable he can make my life when I spend money on something he doesn't want to spend money on.  We don't have a wedding video or a SINGLE PICTURE from our wedding because of him.  Was that stupid on his part?  Well, he thinks so now... but there was no convincing him at the time.  Oh.. I could really go off about that... but moving on...

B. All the washing instructions I've seen make this look like a full time job... and I do not need ANOTHER full time job.  If this was so easy, then why does it take every single site I visit an entire long ass-page to explain how to wash a simple little diaper?  TOO HARD, I say!!!!

But I can't help the fact that I know it's better for the environment and all that jazz.  I also know it would probably save us money in the long run if we have some more kids (although I'm not convinced that the diapers would even last through a couple of kids because I keep hearing people talk about needing to replace theirs with the same baby, and eff that noise.)

I don't know... this just seems like one of those things I should be doing... just like all the other "granola" things I've come to find important.

The first time I heard of someone doing cloth diapering I laughed my head off... "Wow, now that is effing stupid!" I thought to myself.  But... I also had the same reaction to breastfeeding, natural childbirth, and making baby food --- all things I'm huge a believer in now.  Contrary to popular belief, my mind CAN be changed about things... as long as I'm presented with evidence.  I might be stubborn and passionate, but I'm not stupid.

This is somehow different though.  I keep trying and trying and trying to understand it... but I keep coming up empty handed.  As far as I can tell, getting started with Pocket Diapers (the only kind I can figure out AT ALL) would cost about $400 MINIMUM.  I mean... WTF?!??  Who has $400 sitting around?  I have some school money coming in soon, but if I spent $400 of it on that instead of paying off a year old Circuit City bill, not only would John have an aneurysm, but I'd also be paying 19% interest on that $400 too.  Spending $30 a month on Luvs seems FAR more affordable.

Here is what I need:  a button that says "Click here to buy the perfect cloth diaper that will work for your family and fit your baby all for a price your husband can swallow without losing his damn mind."

No button... no cloth diapering for me, I 'spose.

A Rare Night Alone.

Tonight the hyphenated husband went out to see a band.  He goes out without me about twice a year.  I go out without him probably once every 4 months.  We just don't do things without each other that often; never have.  John gets time alone while I'm at school, but I really never, ever get any time alone when I'm home.  I take extra long showers just to get some personal space, but then John bitches about the water bill, so even those aren't guilt-free.

And tonight, Jonas is also spending the night at Grandmas house, so once Jules is down for the night, I will really have the whole house to myself to do whatever I want.  Hard to believe.

In anticipation of the few undisturbed hours I'd have tonight, I picked up the first book in the Twilight series, which was recommended to me by the other moms in my mommy group.  They said it's hot, as in "want-to-rip-the-clothes-off-your-husband-after-you-read-each-chapter" kind of hot.  I can definitely dig that.

Now it's time to feed Jules some more of my homemade baby food, then put him down so I can start my night of peace and quiet.

Day 2: Baby Food Making Success!

My husband is at Super Target right now buying chicken stock and fresh fruits and veggies for me to make more homemade baby food.  After watching Jules gobble up everything I've pureed in the ol' Cuisinart for the last couple of days, and seeing how easy and cost effective this little project will be, John's fully bought into the idea now.  He even tasted the ham/mixed veggie puree I made for Julesy's dinner tonight and was like "Oh wow! That's good!" 

I KnoW!!!

I'm so dang proud of myself.  I don't know why I was so scared of this before.  It's pretty easy, and I feel good about the fact that I will actually eat the food I'm giving to my son, whereas I couldn't even stand to smell, let alone taste, those crap "Stage 2" dinners out of the jar.  That shite is naaaaaasty.

Poor Jonas.... Julesy is getting breastmilk and better food - and his entrance into the world was far more natural, loving, and warm.  I'm quite sure Jonas is no worse for the wear, but I do sorta feel like he got cheated out of some things.  If I could go back and do it over, he'd have breastmilk and homemade baby food too.  Instead, I guess I'll just have to spoil him a little extra for the rest of our natural lives.  I'm sure that will suit him just fine.

Proud of the Husband

I'm very proud of my husband today.  He just got accepted as an Illinois High School Association "Official" which means he can officiate at high school games.  The acceptance came with little badges, an ID card, business cards, etc.

This is a pretty big deal because The Husband has a history of being... hmmm... how can I say this.... not as motivated as yours truly?  :) He's a wonderful husband and father, he goes to work every day and comes home every night, and he does heavy lifting around the house very nicely.  But I would be lying if I said I haven't wanted to divorce him on a thousand occasions because I don't feel like he will ever live up to his potential.  Or, rather, the potential I thought he had when we got married.  He's effed up his academic career maybe to the point of no repair all because of his procrastination and mental laziness.  Now, being a the student I am, you can see how this would infuriate me.  He thinks everything just comes easy for me.  I think he needs to get his head out of his freaking ass.

But this IHSA thing... this is a different story.  He decided he wanted to do it, took the tests, and now it's official.  It may be a small thing, but I am proud.

An Unexpected Guest

Aunt Flo popped back into my life this morning.  I honestly had forgotten all about her.  However, I am now convinced that my "baby pangs" from a couple weeks ago were my body telling me that I am now fertile again.  I believe Aunt Flo showed up exactly 14 days after my first "I-think-I-want-another-baby" daydream.  I really need to start trusting the fact that my body talks to me.

Well, I knew this day was coming.  Aunt Flo came back just 6 weeks postpartum after Jonas. I'm more than 6 months postpartum from Jules now, so she really did give me a nice long break this time. 

This time we're going the Natural Family Planning route.  I think when I was growing up they just called it "The Rhythm Method" - which was just something I always heard as a back-handed "yeah, that baby was concieved on the Rhythm Method" kind of remark.  I, however, do not like any of my options for birth control.  I won't take any hormonal contraceptives, latex thingamabobs are just too expensive and annoying, and I'm not getting any plastic devices implanted in my uterus that could snag on my uterine scar and do bad, bad things.  Nope!  I've become a medical minimalist.  Once we're done with kids completely, John will get the old nip-tuck done on his junk, and that will be that.

Off to take more Advil now.  Thank you Aunt Flo.

Mommy No Habla Espanol

Add to the list of adorable things my eldest child does: Speaks Spanish. 

Of course his bilingual skills were a deliberate and calculated act on my part.  See, I married a Mexican.  Okay, half Mexican, half Irish.  But John's first language was actually Spanish.  His police-officer Irish dad speaks spanish fluently (he needed to in the streets I guess), his police-officer Mexican mother obviously speaks english as a second language, and his Mexican nanny spoke only Spanish to him until she left them when he was 8.  John didn't learn how to speak English until he went to kindergarten.

Then he took many years of Spanish language courses, so he speaks and writes formal Spanish too (the fancy European kind.)

Oddly, John's bilingual skills are the thing that turn me on the most about him.  I love to hear him speak Spanish.  I've decided that the reason I like it so much is because it's the one and only thing that John can do that I simply can't do.  I don't speak a lick of Spanish, and I'm always more impressed with skills that I myself do not possess.  I also know that I'm at a disadvantage in the world (especially Chicagoland) because I don't speak any other languages.  I think it makes me kinda stupid.

So when we had Jonas, I said right away that I wanted him to be bilingual from the start.  I told John's mom to only speak Spanish to Jonas, and John speaks both languages to him.  I figured I might learn the language through osmosis or something if I was surrounded by it.  I never really thought my child would catch on quicker than I would.  He says Adios to us when we leave in the morning... but who doesn't know the word Adios?  That's an easy one.

Which leads me to my point.  On Sunday, Jonas is pointing to the top of his closet demanding "loose, loose, loose!"  He has a big closet that we keep his little kitchen in and He likes to pIay in there.  So I just looked up at the hangers, wondering what kind of word he was making up this time.  "What's loose in there, Jonas?"

Then Daddy walks in and turns the closet light on.  "He was saying 'Luz' - that's 'Light' in Spanish."

"Oh." 

So my son's multi-language skills have now surpassed my own.  I'm so proud.  And scared.  Now Daddy and Jonas have a secret language that Mommy doesn't understand.  But it's pretty fricking adorable seeing my pasty little white kid speak like a latino.  That'll confuse some people.