Irony:

Is it weird that going to Blogher sort of made me want to stop blogging?

Bottles, Blogher, and Boobs:

1. As reported to me, bottle feeding The Olive went swimmingly well today. I was away for seven hours, and she drank about six ounces. Since I have no idea how much she regularly eats during these hours, I feel satisfied with the outcome. The bottle winner? Playtex Drop-Ins. Grandma kept saying those were the ones to use, but they weren't on the 'what babies like' bottle lists I kept finding online, so I sort of scoffed at them. Shouldn't I have learned by now to listen to my mother? The Olive was completely fine when I got home (which of course makes me feel wonderful, because now I can do things like enjoy Kabuki with Wood this week, and alternately horrible, because didn't my baby miss me at all?)

2. So I went to Blogher, again. It was HUGE; much bigger than last year. I didn't bring my computer, or my camera, so I'm sure I looked as technologically-challenged as I really am. It was fun to meet people, see people, and listen to a few panels. I was reminded that while I love this outlet, obviously, and I do think about blogging a lot, it is not as much a part of my life as it is for some people. It's hard for me to get really riled up about blogging.

3. While away for seven hours, I was, of course, forced to pump. Luckily the organizers of Blogher set aside a room for such activities, but it was also shared with the daycare nap room. Sorry to the young boy who was napping and awoke to see a strange lady with an even stranger contraption on her chest! I spent my pumping time talking to the head daycare girl, who seemed totally unphased by what was going on. But really, how are you going to respond to that situation but to pretend it's not actually happening? Because that was what I was doing.

Three Months:

The Olive turned three months yesterday (incidentally, it was also exactly two years since I quit smoking, which, quite frankly, I don't quite understand how I've managed to avoid these last three months). Three months is a lot different from two months, and a world away from one month. Already I am longing for those simple times.

Three months is about wanting to do things. Which is cool, right? I mean, the baby no longer just seems like a larva, but rather like a real live baby, with chubby cheeks and grabby hands and a loud little voice. But dear god, that girl is a mover and a shaker. And me? I'm more of a relaxer. We seemed a good fit for awhile, but those days are clearly over. Now she wants to do things other than sleep and nurse. Like, for instance, to stand up. But this is clearly not something she can do on her own, of course. Which means I have to hold her up while she looks around and looks damn pleased with herself. But god forbid my arms get a little tired, and I want to lie her down. Because then the "eh, eh, eh" noises begin. Noises that are clearly communicating that she is not pleased in her current position, and won't I do something, PRONTO?

Also, there's the back arching. And the squirming. It's the clear sign that she wants to be doing things that aren't quite possible yet, and then the noises of frustration begin again. Oy vey, those scritch scratch noises. Evolutionarily designed to make a mother's hair stand on edge.

The physical aspects of this job are becoming abundantly clear, and I am simply not prepared for them. A nice walk, a good nursing session, napping together- these are more my pace. But suddenly I've been thrown into a holding up, dancing around, holding down time, and I have not worked these muscles. And I am damn tired.

But then as soon as you really feel like you are going to jump out the window, there's this bullshit, specifically created to make you know it's all worth it.

Bottles, Take Two:

I am here to report that bottle-feeding The Olive is not going well. In fact, I would say it is going rather poorly. Not totally poorly and I'm not giving up, but I definitely do not have an bottle-feeder on my hands yet.

Since Friday, I have made two "nipple trips"- trips to the store to choose nipples that might appease her. Silicone, rubber, slow flow, fast flow. She has tried them all. I think our best going so far is the Playtex Vente-Aire with a Stage 2 nipple (I. cannot. believe. I. know. this. shit. It is truly no wonder I have no brain cells left for other things, like the Middle East or the word for "those things you pull out of a box and put in the dryer" (side note to side note: That is a real quote from me the other day)).

We have tried giving her a bottle every single day. At every possible time of day. I have tried, The Lovely Beausband has tried, Wood has tried. Nothing. Or rather, not enough. She will take an ounce or so if you really, really try at it for an extended period of time. I do not think an ounce is going to get the baby through the 12 hours I am planning on leaving her for on Saturday.

I have also thought of other options. Like bringing her. The ladies from Blogher said it was ok, but didn't seem thrilled about it.

I also thought about just getting The Lovely Beausband a hotel room by the conference for the day, but for obvious reasons (what is he going to do all day in a hotel room with a baby? at least at home she is comfortable in her surroundings.), he was not thrilled with that idea.

I am also considering just going for a shortened amount of time. This might be the option we end up with.

But long-term, we obviously have a situation on our hands. I spoke for a long time about it with a friend this morning, who pointed out that we could start her on rice cereal a little early- in a month, when she is four months- and that I would just have to get through this month. That might be a possibility.

Another Open Letter:

Dear Ani Difranco,

So! You're pregnant! What fabulous news! You are going to be an amazing mother; no doubt about it.

I'm sure plenty of people are telling you that things are going to change. Maybe you believe them, maybe you don't. Maybe, deep down, you sort of laugh at them and think "Well, things changed for you. But my baby? My baby will be different. I'll just sling it to me and get on with my life. None of this neurotic baby-raising." To this, I say: Talk to me after your fussy-ass baby hasn't napped in six hours and you would like to just do one little thing, like, say, respond to an email, but you haven't had two hands, or even one, available for six straight hours, not even to go fix yourself a little something to eat, even though THAT is also for the baby, since now you are really eating for two. Then maybe you, too, will realize that Hey! My baby will sleep if I do x, y, and z, so I am going to do those things every day, even if it kills me, just so I can keep up the most bare level of management of my life. And then you, too, will never be able to leave the house because it's always either time for a nap or time to wake up from a nap or time to wind down to a nap. And then you will start referring to yourself as The Nap Nazi as well (oh, and get ready to refer to yourself in third person at all times, because for inexplicable reasons of biology, as soon as that baby pops out, you will have no choice but to become Mama, or Mommy or Mom).

You may also start to shun some of the things you previously loved. For instance, I know you have expressed your affinity for motorcycles before. Ha! You will now begin to consider motorcycles the work of the devil, specifically invented to drive you to the breaking point, after you have listened to your baby scream bloody murder about being in the carseat for half an hour and then FINALLY, THANK YOU JESUS CHRIST, fallen asleep, only to be woken up by some punk-ass kid revving his motorcycle at the stoplight right next to you. That noise does wonders for a baby. That is, if you consider making a tiny creature jump out of its skin "wonders". Even if it sounds funny now, talk to me when your hormones are raging and you haven't slept more than three hours in a row for three months. Your whole idea of funny changes.

Speaking of hormones, if you think the angst you felt at 19 was something, oh boy, are you in for it. And I do mean in for it. Remember when you were 13 and PMS washed over you and you would sit there and sob and sob for reasons you couldn't explain? Remember how totally irritable you would become over the smallest thing? Oh, Ani. Postpartum is like that multiplied by 100. All day. Every day. And add sleep deprivation to the mix and youthful angst will seem so petty and blase that you cannot even imagine that you ever felt it. And then you will realize that holy shit, this little tiny baby is going to go through that one day as well. And then you will imagine that little tiny baby going off to college and you will suddenly begin thinking that cheesy country music makes sense after all. And then you will go cry an ocean of postpartum tears.

I do hope the father of this baby is a helpful guy. But I can tell you this- it does not matter how much or what he does to make your life easier, it will never be enough. This is the true joke of feminism, because the mother is always going to have more responsibility. It is a biological function and there is no amount of socialization that can make things equal. I am sorry. But you get something special that no man really ever gets to experience.

People will tell you that you will love your baby like nothing else, and that is true. But it is unlike a love that you have ever known. It is love, yes. But it is also mixed with some sort of biological urge to protect, and nurture, and take extreme care of this little tiny being. And I don't care what sort of success or highs you have had in your life, and yours have been numerous. There is no higher high, or more powerful feeling, than when you see you have created a whole other life. There are only cliches to describe it; and they are all true, and yet none of them serve to actually express what this feels like. You will just have to see for yourself.

I wish you luck, Ani. And also can't wait to hear the inevitable turn from punky-folk-singer to lullaby hummer.

Another Milestone for the Baby Book That We Don't Have:

The Olive rolled over today. I think. I was sure it happened a few hours ago- I called The Lovely Beausband and everything to tell him, but now I kind of think I imagined it. Could that really have happened? Was I helping her? Did I just make it up in my head?

Bottles, Take One:

Since it seems we have so many pregnant lady readers here at posthipchick, I'm going to start this out with some assvice. And that is: I do not care what your doctor, lactation consultant, Dr. Sears tells you about waiting six weeks to introduce the bottle. If you are not having breastfeeding problems, start the bottle at week two. And do it every freaking day, even if it means you have to pump and turn around and pour the milk into a bottle for your baby. There is so much paranoia about nipple confusion and simply not enough about nipple refusal. I'm sorry, but no baby is going to prefer a hard, plastic nipple to a soft, warm mama boob. Would you? It will make your life 1,000 times easier if, in a month, or three months, or six months, you can go do something and not worry about your baby screaming and gagging on a bottle and refusing to drink anything. Trust me.

So, obviously, we are attempting to get The Olive on a bottle now and then. Because Mama has to do things like go to work. Or, go to Blogher next weekend. Now I have left The Olive plenty of times, but never for more than four hours. And she will sort of dabble a little milk into her mouth during that four hours, from what I hear, sometimes with complaint, sometimes without. But I have not been good about giving her a daily bottle, and I have not been good about trying different nipples, probably because I didn't have to.

So, now, I am going insane. Because I am going to be gone for about 10 hours, and a little ounce of milk ain't gonna cut it for her. And I hate- HATE, down to the very core of my being- the thought of her here screaming. I actually physically cringe at the thought of it. So we are trying everything here- room temperature milk, cold milk, just pumped milk. Avent nipples, Playtex nipples, Dr. Brown nipples. Me giving it to her, The Lovely Beausband giving it to her, Miriam giving it to her. Cradled in our arms, on a pillow, from behind. When she's not too hungry, when she is really hungry. Tired, awake. Slipping it in while I'm breastfeeding.

I am determined to make this work, but it is so hard. I hate to see her scream and, honestly, I feel guilty that I have to leave her and she has to suffer through this. I know there is a school of thought that says that the baby will eat if she is hungry enough. And maybe that's right. Maybe after nine hours of screaming, she will eat. But who can stand to put their child through that? I don't think I can. I really don't. I mean, isn't it my job to ensure her contentment right now? She's certainly too little to provide it herself.

So I will keep trying. Every day. Every way.

Because a girl wants to be able to go to Blogher, you know?

An Open Letter to the Dude/ Dudette Who Found It Necessary to Shoot A Gun/ Set Off Fireworks/ Make A Loud Noise With Lights at 3:15 a.m.:

Dear Dude/ Dudette,

You have a mother. Maybe you see her, maybe you don't. Maybe you live with her, as many, many a young folk these days tend to for far too long. Whatever. I want you to call her today- from your cell phone or from your living room, I don't care- and ask her about when you were a baby. About how she would have felt after being up TWICE ALREADY in the night with you at 3:15 a.m., if she heard a loud noise and had her room light up EIGHT TIMES with god-knows-what? Ask her how she felt after calling 911 and reporting it? Ask her if SHE could have gone back to sleep before 5:30 a.m. after that? Ask her about the fucking-post-pregnancy-hormones-that-cause-horrific-insomnia. Please, go ahead and ask her. I'm sure she will tell you to keep your ass inside at 3:15 a.m. and leave the poor new mothers of the world alone to sleep.

Or! Maybe you have a baby of your own. One who woke you up at 3:15 a.m., and you went outside to blow off some steam by firing a gun/ shooting off fireworks/ making loud noises for fuck knows what reason, except that you are being driven to the brink of insanity with sleep-deprivation. In which case, I totally understand.

Next time, just please ask me to join you.

The Fourth Trimester:

Today is the last day of The Olive's fourth trimester (I know! Can you believe it?).

Before she came out into the world, I was a nervous freak trying to figure out what I would need. Everyone seemed to tell me something different and I was terrified that if I forgot something, all hell would break loose. I forgot something. And guess what? Target stays open after you have a baby! I KNOW!

Everybody is going to have a different experience in regards to what they need (I have a friend who couldn't keep enough burp cloths around because her baby spit up constantly. I don't think I've used more than two of the thirty I have. But hey, good cleaning rags!). Also, where you live, what season it is, etc., affects what you will need.

But, if you are having a baby, or know someone having a baby, here is my unsolicited advice about what you will need. Take it as you see fit.

1. Food. Food, food, food. At least for the first week, try to ensure that you have meals set up. If you are super-duper lucky, you live in a place that has a service like this. Whole Foods also delivers meals. Hopefully, so do your friends.

2. Diapers and wipes. Suggested brands are Pampers Swaddlers, size N and Tushies wipes. The wipes you can choose, but I stand firm on the diapers.

3. A changing pad of some sort. And two covers.

4. Get at least two outfits that are newborn size (First Impressions from Macys does a good line), and at least six 0-3 onesies. But when they are teeny-tiny, they don't fit into most 0-3 month clothes. Hence, the newborn size.

5. Tucks medicated pads. Get the biggest bottle you can find cause you will be using those babies. Trust me on this one.

6. Get your pump before the baby comes. When engorgement occurs, you will want it. Also, a handful of bottles & nipples, because you never know what your baby is going to take.

7. If you can afford it, arrange for a housecleaner to come once a week for the first month. Or once every two weeks. I wish, in retrospect, I would have done that.

8. Some sort of robe to wear over your yoga pants for easy breastfeeding.

9. I'm sure a lot of people would swear they need breast pads, but I didn't. BUT! Maxi pads. A lot.

10. A nursing bra. I really like this one.

11. Love, Love, Love the Glamamama nursing tank top. Get two, why dontcha?

12. Have somewhere for the baby to sleep, even if you plan on co-sleeping. It's a safe place to put them down when you have to do stuff (and by "stuff", I mean something super-exciting like going to the bathroom).

13. How could I have gotten this far into my list without mentioning The Boppy?

14. Or, the bouncy chair? What, did I just forget how I manage to take my showers daily? Sheesh!

15. I wouldn't be here today to tell you all of this if it weren't for the Magic Yoga Ball (not really magic but shhhhh....). Bounce on this while holding the baby for a narcotic-like sleep (for baby, hopefully not for you, as that would be dangerous, and we at posthipchick do not want to endanger you or your baby in any way).

16. Just go ahead and up that cell phone plan now because EVERYONE will call you a million times.

17. It seems that everyone but me is a swaddling fool. I never really caught on (read: bad swaddler). But get some swaddling blankets nevertheless.

18. Those glowy pregnancy hormones disappear right away. And you are not sleeping. Get something to make those tired eyes just a little less perky, so that your mom doesn't have to tell you you "look gray".

19. One really cozy baby blanket.

20. A stroller. A car seat. (I'm not even going to touch brands with a ten-foot pole).

21.A baby bath.

22. This & this, for the baby bath.

23. Those adorable little baby towels with hood (shut up, I am not bath-obsessed).

24. This book (even if you're not having a baby).

25. A sling, if you're going that route.

Ok readers, chime in with whatever I missed.

File under Things I Will Regret One Day, Probably Very Soon:

The Olive learned to yell yesterday. She really put two and two together and hollered. I, of course, encouraged this lovely development by busting into full-on gut laughter each and every time she hollered her head off. And, because she saw me laughing so much, and she wanted to please me (do you hear this? SHE is wanting to please ME. talk about developmental stages), she continues to do it every time I look at her. I continue to crack up.

I will probably begin regretting this on Wednesday, at the latest.

At least SOMEONE in the family will make some money:

Arborist, Astronaut, whatever. We're flexible.



















Thanks, Ellen!

Cause I've got nothing to say:

I mean, I could regale you with tales about how The Olive is arching her back like a mad woman, and kicking her legs, making me think she's going to flip over sooner than I am ready.

I could also tell you about how she babbles on and on now, blowing bubbles and squealing and endearing me to her even further. Or how she prattles on until I hold the phone up to let my mom hear, at which point she merely eyes it suspiciously and shuts up.

I could also go on about the newfound freedom I am experiencing, now that The Olive gets nursed to sleep and then I can GO ABOUT MY DAY!

But all of this is so banal, even to me, and I'm living it.

Instead, let me direct you to a few new reads:

First, Jonathan Lovell, a former prof of mine and writer extrodinaire. I imagine you're in for some good educational dialogue right there.

Also, a reinstated blog of a friend of mine. First, librarian. Now, mama.

And a beginning blogger, with one mere entry to date, of a friend who is going to make you laugh your ass off, I'm sure.

The Littlest Nazi:

We have discovered The Olive has a new favorite activity- sitting on a blanket under trees. We're pretty sure this means she's going to be an arborist, which is fine by us. We like trees! Trees are good!

When The Olive lies under her future employers, she squeals with delight and can not be redirected for anything. She will get hungry and need to nurse, but damn you if you position her in a way that does not allow for viewing the greenery. She will have none of it. You must lie down on your side and do a sideways nurse, allowing her to eat and enjoy the view at the same time.

What is most surprising, although it shouldn't be, is the new need to be part of every social situation we are in. Don't you dare hold her facing inward when we are out and about. No, the girl must see the world. Wherever we are, even just with her dad & I in the living room, she must be able to see all that is happening.

She is her mother's daughter, indeed.

Expletive Hell:

One of the side effects of having a child that nobody warned me about (hello? warners? where where you?) is the absolute and complete rage you begin to feel about things. Things? you may ask. Yes, things.

The headrest of the carseat has born the brunt of my rage. It has brought me to tears numerous times, and the other day I threw it on the floor in the doctor's office because the damn thing DOESN'T WORK. It has never fit on anywhere, no matter how often I try. Just thinking about it gets my blood pressure up. My mom especially appreciated that display of emotion, reminding both of us, I'm sure, of when I was 13 and my hair JUST WOULDN'T DO THAT THING!

The house has also been the recipient of much of my anger. I call it the "fucking house", as in "this FUCKING HOUSE is driving me insane." I have always been a mellow housekeeper, homedweller, etc. But now? Now I am driven to the absolute edge of insanity by the things like cords. Absolute. Edge. I can see the water from here, folks, and it ain't pretty.

And The Lovely Beausband? Through amazing strengths of feat, I have managed not to express the absolute inappropriate things that have run through my head. Having never even had these sorts of thoughts before about such a gem of a guy (no, seriously), it scares me a little. Where does this anger come from? And why am I so suddenly full of rage? Is it because I start every day with a different ointment on my butt than my nipples? Because that is probably enough to put anyone in a bad mood.

What is odd about rage, having never really had it before, is how quickly it passes. I am all worked up about something and then- blip- it's gone.

I have always been pretty easy-going. I mean, I'm a neurotic mess, but it's all about me. I can't think of a person in the world who would coin me as controlling or angry. Is this just a hormonal blip that will pass? Or does having a baby make you suddenly unable to handle the small parts of life? And if so, how is the world full of parents who are still functioning?

Anonymous:

Without naming names, someone here discovered their thumb last night. Someone also discovered that it is the perfect suck toy. Someone had trouble sleeping for all the excitement of such a delightful find.
Someone else was woken up all night by someone slamming their hands around their shared bed. Someone was very tired this morning.

Another Year:

Are you going to Blogher? I am going to Blogher. I went last year, last minute, and had a great time, even if it did mean having to get up early during my summer break. It was worth it.

At the first event, I sat with the ladies who would be speaking at the Mommyblogging panel. I told one of them that I might be joining their ranks soon; I had not confirmed my pregnancy yet and even just saying that sounded totally far out. I had not yet told anyone that we were trying to conceive.

"Do you have anything big planned?" she asked.
"Just a trip to Paris," I replied.
"Oh, then you are DEFINITELY pregnant," she said, "Anytime you plan something big, your plans will get ruined."

And she was right. Less than a week later I was staring at a stick with two very, very faint lines. This year I'll be leaving my 3-month old daughter FOR A WHOLE DAY (Hey, are there going to be pumping rooms at Blogher?) to go listen and talk and meet people.

Will I meet you? I get a sort of social anxiety thinking about all these people whose lives I follow every day being in the same room. You know, maybe there's a reason that bloggers are bloggers. Maybe they are too socially retarded for real life. I certainly am.

Itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-blue-and-flowery-bikini:

No, seriously, could you die from the cuteness?


















I want to nibble her.

Another here.

The Life Of A Mom:



I am at a party right now. Well, rather, there is a party going on in the house that I am present in. Where am I right now? In the back bedroom with a sleeping baby. If I leave, I can't hear her, and I didn't even think to bring the baby monitors (next year, in Israel! With the baby monitors!), so I am just sitting with her as she sleeps. I just finished cup two of Mother's Milk Tea, because I've suddenly slowed down milk production (I think, based on my University of Google research, due to the fever), and I have to think: Mmmmm, there is nothing like a cup of hot tea in 90-degree weather. I have to stay up for another hour to take my last round of antibiotics and Motrin, and I might just spend that hour with acidophilis smeared on my nipples.

The life of a mom is glamorous, indeed.

I've been indoctrinated by the Northern California hippies:

Before I got pregnant, I never gave much thought to breastfeeding. I don't know why, I just assumed it wasn't a problem or question. While pregnant, many of my friends ran to breastfeeding classes, while I maintained an attitude of "It's biological, right? The baby will obviously latch on and be fine." I will admit to even having a superior air about it. Classes? I scoffed. Survival of the fittest! My baby will be fine. And you know what? She was. She latched right on and suckled away and I sat on my high horse. I figured that my friends who had problems had them because they were neurotic freaks (I mean this in the most loving way. I, too, am a neurotic freak, just- for unknown reasons- not about this.).

Three weeks into breastfeeding, I got my first case of mastitis. I don't know about you, but I don't get fevers all too often, and that is something fierce. The chills, the aching, the burning up. Not to mention the sore boob.

Then I went on antibiotics, which gave me thrush in my nipples. Thrush in the nipples is described by my doctor as "feeling like there are tiny shards of glass in your nipples when you nurse."

Then the anxiety kicked in. And, being that I'm breastfeeding, means I can't take anything for it. So I just quietly freak out. Which is fun for the whole family.

I will spare you the details on what is going on with my butt, again due to breastfeeding hormones.

And now I have mastitis again. I spent last night with a raging fever, shivering in 80 degree weather, unable to get up to get The Lovely Beausband to help me. For an hour and a half, I laid in bed, shaking like crazy and burning up. I finally was able to get up and get help, and The Lovely Beausband spent the next two hours putting ice cold washcloths on my face and neck to break my 101-degree fever. My right breast now looks like someone beat me- bright red and in searing pain.

But yesterday, in the ER, I got a doctor who was a total dick about it. When I told him I had mastitis, he pointed his chin at The Olive and said "You know you are getting this because you're breastfeeding, right?" Thanks, Doctor. I hope your medical degree didn't cost you much. He then told me I'd have to stop breastfeeding while on the antibiotics, which I questioned because they certainly never told me that before. He asked who my other doctor was, and said I could do as I please, but he would write on my discharge papers that I should stop breastfeeding. He informed me that "his children were raised on formula, and they turned out fine." After he left, the nurse came back in the room, closed the door and told me in no uncertain terms that I could keep breastfeeding just fine. You could tell she thought he was as much of an asshole as we did.

The thing is, I never thought I'd be this committed to breastfeeding. But now I'm willing to go through hell to continue doing it, because I do actually believe it is the best thing for my baby. I fall for the line that my body is making exactly what she needs. I instinctively shudder at the thought of bottles, or pacifiers, or formula. I've become a total breastfeeding asshole.

I know this is completely wrapped up in where and when I am doing this. Thirty-five years ago, and I would have given my baby formula, I'm sure. If I lived in Dallas today, maybe I would feel embarrassed to breastfeed in public. But here, in San Francisco, in the year 2006, I would be embarrassed to give my baby a bottle. I would feel judged.

When I called the doctor awhile back about the anxiety and asked her if I could take Ativan, she said that while she couldn't say yes, she also couldn't say no. She also said it wouldn't be the worst thing to give the baby formula. "Keep in mind," she said, "that you live in Northern California. In the rest of the country, people are not so adamant about breastfeeding. And the doctors would tell you to go ahead and take the Ativan."

I realize this, and I also realize my opinions are largely influenced by my location. But, for that, I am grateful. I am glad that I live in a place and time where doing this, no matter what the cost, is considered best. I know breastfeeding can be hard; I know that a breastfeeding mama suffers a lot. But I still think it's worth it.

Not Again:

Fuck me. Mastitis again. And, of course, this would happen on one of the two days I have been uninsured in 15 years. Insurance will kick in retroactively to today, but still. Oh, and we are out-of-town, visiting friends, who are having a big pool party today.

And I am lying in a dark room with a heat pack on my boob. In 100 degree weather. LOVE. MY. LIFE.