Back when I worked and Fluevog was king

What defined me before I became a mother? Was it my job as executive director of a non-profit organization? Was it my private piano studio? Was it my public performances as a musician? Was it my stunning good looks and sparkling personality?

No, I think not.

It was my boots.

I've been wearing boots since I was four years old. My first pair were sort of a tan, camel color with rubber soles. I would stuff my jeans into them and zip them up. At least, that's how I remember it. Boots, jeans, and my favorite striped shirt.

Fast forward to high school. It was the 80's. I had little grey ankle boots dubbed 'the elf boots,' and more traditional calf high boots. Most notably, I owned a pair of purple suede boots. Bright purple. Suede. Awesome. I loved those boots.

All grown up now, I still am drawn to boots. I wear them all year. In my first pregnancy, I rocked my boots up until the very end. With Colin, my calves got chunky and I had to move to some Dansko clogs. Without being able to wear my boots, I felt like a frumpy dumpy the whole winter. Boots make me feel dressed. Put together.

I love my Rocket Dogs and my Destroy boots (which, do they only make kids' shoes now?), but most of all, I love my John Fluevogs. The Fluevogs are fantastic, fantabulous boots that are an obscene amount of money. I know this to be true now because after giving birth, you apparently develop a keen sense of don't-spend-any-money-on-yourself. At least, not on a pair of fabulous boots.

So tonight, I'll just window shop and reminisce. Even on clearance, these won't be my boots, but I can love them anyway.

And because it's the now thing to do, I will tell you that I didn't receive any compensation or free stuff for professing my love of John Fluevog. If he offered, I would gladly step off of my bloggy high horse and jump into materialistic blogging with both feet. Both feet looking FABULOUS in those boots, of course.

Katy Perry and I can both laugh at ourselves

Have you seen Away We Go? The movie where Maggie Gyllenhaal plays the crazy attached mama?



If you are like me, and hate to watch video while reading blogs, what makes me laugh so hard is when she says that she wouldn't want a stroller because she loves her babies, "Why would I want to push them away?"

I laughed my fool head off at all of her scenes. The first time you see her, she is standing up with her foot on a chair tandem nursing a toddler and a not so small infant - but the stance she has taken is like that of some woman warrior. It's really funny.

As I was laughing at her, Kevin turns to me and says, "You know they are making fun of you, right?"

"Well, duh. That's one reason it's so funny. Especially since I never expected to end up in the throes of attachment parenting."

One thing I have learned to do since my super sensitive days of high school is to laugh at myself. I can be pretty ridiculous. Especially when I have a soap box or a cause. I'm not apologizing for that, I'm just saying that it can be on the comical side.

So yeah, while I think that Sesame Street was absolutely right to pull the Katy Perry and Elmo video where she comes off more as a pedophile than a playmate, I still think this SNL clip is hilarious.



I like her a little more now, now that I know she can laugh at herself too.

In which I whine about cancer again

Tomorrow morning I'm headed to the TypeAMom conference in Asheville.

The reason I started blogging was to have an anonymous place to vent the dust bunnies in my mind. My parents were sick and across the country. I had just been through a divorce. My soon to be husband had just been through a divorce. I had job issues. Stress abounded. Of course we all know how anonymous the internet really is . . .

I didn't know what a blog was until my friend Susan introduced me to Kristen's blog, Motherhood Uncensored. I was instantly hooked. I popped open Blogger, signed up, and never looked back.

Not too long after that, Susan started Toddler Planet. For months, we were our only readers. It was a great way for us to stay connected. In high school, we often shared our writing with each other. In fact, I still keep a journal that she gave me 20 years ago in my nightstand. It has lived right next to my bed for years and will continue to do so - even though my poetry in it is so cringe worthy, I won't even let Kevin read it.

But Susan has. She's read it and still likes me. A friend that can see through your cheesy poetry is a good friend indeed.

In 2007, we both bought our passes to BlogHer and looked forward to attending the conference together in Chicago. Then, shortly after a phone conversation in May that went sort of like this (and I'm wildly paraphrasing because only the last line really stuck with me):

Susan: Do you remember how your mom knew she had breast cancer?

Moi: She found a lump one morning under her arm. It was the size of a baseball.

Susan: There is something weird going on with me. Do you think it could be cancer?

Moi: Heavens, no. Of course not. You are too young. You have no family history. You couldn't possibly have cancer. I'll probably be the one to get breast cancer. You know, genetics and all.

Oh my dear word, how many times have I wished I never uttered any of those words to her? Could I beat my own head against the wall any harder? Could I have chosen something MORE stupid to say? Bad poetry AND my stupid mouth, and yet, she's still my friend.

Our BlogHer plans went out the window. I went without her and felt a giant hole in my heart the whole time. I wore my Team Whymommy shirt, cried on people's shoulders if they pressed me too much about her, and felt terrible that I was there, while she sat back home, starting her battle with cancer.

In 2008, we both made it to San Francisco for BlogHer. It was a whirlwind. I had Christopher with me. He was six months old, and I was still so full of anxiety that I kept him on his regular schedule which put me back in the hotel room at 3:00 PM for bedtime. I was a crazy woman. Susan was busy. I was crazy. But we were there together, and that was wonderful.

Last year, Susan hit BlogHer and I hit TypeAMom. Again, I had a good time, but for me, blogging is so much a part of our friendship now - I just felt like she should have been there.

Fast forward to 2010, and we were planning again. We both had our TypeAMom passes. I have another infant, but am far less ridiculous. Susan is just coming off of an amazing time at BlogHer where she rocked the crowd as one of the Voices of the Year. I know I would be sharing her with an awful lot of women again, but it just felt right that we were going to be there together.

DAMMIT.

I know that I am not the one who has cancer. I know this, and I understand that to many people, this probably means that I shouldn't complain.

But for CRYING OUT LOUD. Could cancer please leave the people I love alone??? There will be no trip for Susan again this year. Chemo has got her resting at home.

I miss her.

And while I'm griping about it, chemo has knocked Momma on her rears as well. Colin has yet to be baptized, and I can't decide if I'm being ridiculously selfish even asking her to come administer the sacrament. I mean, I really want his Nana to baptize him, but it's not the best thing for her.

So forgive me. I'm sad today. I'm feeling really put out with the not only the effects of cancer on the two women I love most in this world, but I'm really freaking pissed at how it's messing with our plans.

We have things to do, Cancer. There is LIFE TO LIVE. Why don't you just leave us the hell alone?

/pityparty

Open letter to my bee-hind

To My Dwindling Posterior:

While I appreciate your willingness to return to pre-baby size and shape, I would like to remind you that you were serving a very important purpose in your inflated state.

Holding up my pants.

For whatever reason, the only weight I have been able to lose after giving birth 8 MONTHS AGO is weight that you delighted in gaining. Finally, there was actually some shamoopie-booty for Kevin to slap as he walked past me in the kitchen. Finally, I didn't have to pull at my waistbands incessantly. Finally, I would not feel left out when the song "Baby Got Back" was played. 

But you just don't care. You can't wait your turn and let the belly take a vacation. Noooooo, you have to go ahead and ditch out all by yourself. You know, you could have taken a little of the back fat with you for company. Even that would have been nice.

Instead, you have vacated the premises, leaving me with a disproportionate figure and a perpetual plumber's crack. Thanks a lot.

Sincerely,

Flatty Bottomous

Katy Perry plays dress up on Sesame Street, forgets to wear clothes.

I talk about boobs a lot. I realize this. Even before I was so passionate about breastfeeding, I talked about boobs. I've gone on and on about bras and whined about carrying around huge boobies. I've rallied behind my friend Susan during her fight with Inflammatory Breast Cancer. I've talked about my momma's fight with breast cancer. I've even delved into a little bit of the sexy boobie talk, but we won't go there today.

Boobies get a lot of air time here at Chez Canape. That's just the way it is.

I'm alright with women looking attractive, even using their breasts as an asset to their appearance. After all, we have to carry them around, right? They might as well look good.

For some reason though, I'm NOT alright with this.



Whatever, Katy Perry. I don't particularly find your music enjoyable, but I CERTAINLY don't need to wondering if you have enough double stick tape in your bustier to make sure that your boobies aren't going to bust out while you are singing and dancing with ELMO on SESAME STREET.

The idea for the song to be used in teaching opposites is cute. It's catchy. But really. REALLY? Couldn't she have actually worn some clothes to play dress up with Elmo?

If I'm turning into my momma, that's a-ok with me. But we'll be skipping this episode of Sesame Street. My boys aren't going to grow up thinking that's an acceptable outfit to wear to a playdate.

Bah.

Just a little longer

Dear Colin,

Yesterday I could feel the rough top edge of one of your bottom teeth where it had finally broken through your gum. Teething is so very cruel. Today the gum is swollen around it, but I'm sure by tomorrow, that tooth will be present for all to see and admire.

I don't like it. That tooth. I wish it wasn't here yet.

It's not the baby fever that I feel. I'm giving away maternity clothes. I'm passing on what you and your brother have outgrown. I'm selling your old diapers because I know that we don't need them anymore. I'm alright with that. We have enough children, and I know that our family is complete.

What I have though, is this unrelenting ache for you to stay my baby just a little longer. When I felt that tooth, a little part of my heart crumbled away under the weight of the knowledge that you are weeks or maybe days away from crawling. You are pulling up to stand with your own little chubby thighs. You are eating more and more solid foods. You are less and less a baby.

Pretty soon, the only thing that will remind me of you as a tiny baby is your shiny bald head. You are one bald little dude, Dude.

Daddy is hot to get you boys into your own rooms. Christopher needs to be in a real bed. His poor feet hang out of the crib. And Daddy would love to have you sleeping by yourself. I thought by now, I would love that too. Not the case. I don't know how to describe the completeness and contentment that warms me to sleep when I lay down next to you, pulling you into my arms as close as I can. Always close enough to rest my cheek on your head. I love sleeping with you.

You stayed in the church nursery this week. As in, stayed without screaming every baby curse word in the book at the caregivers. You knew I would come back for you. Plus, your brother was in the same room. I'm sure that helped.

But this tooth. I've been dreading it. The beginning of the end of you being my baby. It's come too quickly.

I don't want another one. I just want you. Just you, being my baby for longer than you will be.

Love,

Your Mama

How to move a grand piano

Okay, so I'm not really going to teach you how to move a grand piano yourselves. Because you shouldn't. Just don't even try. Call Larry Takas. I'll be happy to connect you with him. But, because everyone who comes in our house asks, "How did you get that piano in here?", we documented the move to the even more impressive location of UPSTAIRS.

This is my first baby. My 6'4" Mason & Hamlin AA grand piano from Ruggero Piano (the only place I would EVER buy a piano. Even if I lived on the West Coast.). It is not a piece of furniture; it is my livelihood. It is a workhorse. I love it so very much.

This morning, Larry and his crew came to move the piano from the family room up to the new studio space. Keep in mind that this piano, because of the unique Mason & Hamlin frame, weighs 900 pounds. That's more than a 9' Steinway (and sounds better too - heh). It's massive.

Here's how it's done.

Remove the pedal stock and one of the legs.

Use this cool magic leg piano rocker to roll the piano onto its side. You can see the device between the guy in orange and the GIANT man in black. Having this device is useful so that the leg of the piano doesn't snap when you turn the body on its side. Having a GIANT man in black is also useful.

Get GIANT man in black to lift 900 pound piano so the dolly can go underneath it.

Secure piano to dolly so that it doesn't fall off and squish anyone's toes.

Wheel piano through the downstairs, including my semi-painted dining room. Avoid chandelier.

Use several men to pull the piano up the stairs using lots of straps and their brute strength.

Leave GIANT man in black below the piano for obvious reasons.

If reasons aren't obvious, let's just say the GIANT man in black pushed the piano up the stairs with his right shoulder, all while eating a donut with his left hand and a slice of pizza with his right hand.

Slide piano carefully onto blankets at the top of the steps so as not to scratch the gorgeous new floors installed yesterday. Notice how they are casually letting the GIANT man in black just keep shouldering the piano while they do this.

Move the piano into the sunlight flooded happy corner of the studio where I will bask.

Better pictures of the rolling leg device. (And yes, I realize these are now centered. Stupid Blogger. I'm not re-doing it because Heaven knows when my sleeping babies will wake up. I only have so much time here.)

Rolling the piano back up onto it's two attached legs. Looks like they are giving the GIANT man in black a break. Oh wait, I forgot. He's back downstairs bringing up a rack of Kevin's gear. BY HIMSELF.

Unwrapping my baby, who made it through the house and up the steps unscathed and intact.

And of course, all that is left to do after that, is dance to some Gershwin Preludes.

Thank you, my shamoop. Thank you for this new space and again for this phenomenal instrument. I love it, and I love you.

It's a football bat

It's been a busy week. Colin has had a cold, which for him, means large amounts of projectile vomiting whenever he wakes up. Fun fountains of frothy mucous and breastmilk. In our bed. Awesomeness.

We did walk to North Hills on Friday to run all of our errands. That has been one of my goals since they finally got the crosswalks and lights on Six Forks up to par. It isn't a bad walk except for the stroller getting extremely heavy uphill. It's good for me though. I've got some serious belly to lose.

After hitting REI, Target, and GameStop, we stopped for some lunch at Chik-fil-a before heading home. Christopher got a football in his kids' meal, and he was beyond excited for Daddy to come home and play FOOTBALL (always said with a toddler fist pump) with him.

They did play. Sort of. Christopher threw the football at Kevin and mostly got it pretty close to him. Then he would turn his head or run when Kevin would throw it back to him. The best part though, was when Christopher picked up one of his golf clubs, whacked the football with it, and declared it a "football bat." Good stuff.

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Kara tagged me in a meme. Of course, she also called me a serious blogger, which, bless her heart, I wish I was. I'm far too distracted to be that. Case in point: I have owned my own domain for three years now, but have never even redirected this page to it. That's pathetic.

Anyhoo, I actually love a good meme. Especially when I've been SLACK about writing. I kind of miss that more people don't do them anymore. So here goes -

1. What is your favorite flavor of ice cream?

Probably Caramel Turtle Fudge from Swenson's. Waiting tables at Swenson's was my first real job. It surprisingly enough, did not suck. I got to meet and work with a lot of people who were way outside of my tiny Northeast Jackson box. And while I was actually far too clumsy to work there (read: many falls, dropped trays, spilled drinks, and cups upon cups of soup dumped out on the table), I survived. I also ate an enormous amount of ice cream and still managed to be wafer thin. I can honestly say I have outgrown that trait.

2. What was the worst job you ever had?

That's a tough one. I'm pretty flexible when it comes to working. I like to be busy and productive, feel like I'm not wasting my time, and help people. So I guess I would have to say that teaching piano at a private school here in Raleigh was the worst job. However, I met some of my favorite people at that job, so I can't say that I hated it. I wouldn't do it again though. Let's just leave it at that.

3. What is the best vacation you have ever taken?

That's an easy one. The two weeks I traveled around Britain and Amsterdam with my momma. I had spent the semester in London, so I hadn't seen her in several months as it was - then, when I finally did get to see her, we got to hang out in Europe. Way cool. Except for her driving. That was a little frightening. And the hotel in Amsterdam left a lot to be desired. Okay. So it wasn't the smoothest and most luxurious vacation, but it was definitely the most adventurous and most fun. Plus, we played Pooh Sticks off a bridge in the Hundred Acre Wood. You can't beat that.

4. What is your dream job or career?

I would love to write songs. Like songs that actually get recorded and make money. I don't feel like I have to be the one to record them anymore, but I would still like to write them. In some sense, I get to have my dream job in small doses. I absolutely love playing with Bill even though it is very part-time, and getting to write for and perform with the North Carolina Symphony was definitely a dream come true.

If I never worked another career based job, I would be happy. Mama is the best title I've ever had. It would be a-ok with me if that was my career of a lifetime.

5. Who was your favorite teacher and why?

Another easy one. Dr. Sclater, my composition professor in college. I'll answer this one more in depth in a separate post this week. He retired this year, and the college asked me to come back for his retirement concert/celebration and speak on behalf of his students. My remarks sum up plainly why he was my favorite teacher and one of my favorite people in the world.

Alrighty then. I've done everything but tag. I'm going to tag Grandma Sandy, because I don't think she's ever been tagged before (and by the way, she's nobody's Grandma). I'll also tag Abby in high hopes that her laptop is fixed, because it would just be cruel to ask her to blog from her iPhone. And if I didn't tag you, but you are inclined to play along, leave me a link - I would love to read your answers!

Open letters to some of my recent Facebook blockings

Dear Person Who Randomly Unfriended Me,

I blocked you. Because I always thought you were weird anyway, and now that I don't have to pretend to like you, I would prefer to just not ever bump into you. Plus, it was a nice passive strike back at you for unfriending me for no reason.

Love,

me

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Dear Person Who I Used to Think Was My Best Friend,

I blocked you too. I don't care to see who of my real friends you keep in touch with. I don't care to see your ridiculously private profile page where you can't even send a friend request. I hate to tell you this, but I'm pretty sure there aren't that many people looking for you, that you have to fly under the Facebook radar like you try to do.

I was surprised to see you pop up on my friend's page. I admit, I clicked over to see who else you were friends with - which of course you have hidden.

Then, I remembered that I was a whole lot happier when you had stopped existing in my life. Remember? That was what you didn't like about me at the end. That I "wasn't sad enough." That I was HAPPIER. Weirdo.

Love,

me

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Dear Former Roommate,

I blocked you too. Because you married that crazy one in the previous letter.

Love,

me

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Dear Former Bandmate,

I blocked you too. I'm pretty sure I didn't need to since you never returned my phone calls or emails after the divorce. But now I don't have to bump into you on anyone else's page and wonder what in the hell happened to your hair.

Love,

me

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Dear Wife of Former Bandmate,

I randomly blocked you because I stumbled upon you and never really liked you anyway.

Love,

me

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Dear Person My Husband Used to be Married To,

I blocked you, actually awhile ago. Not because I need to hide from you, because I'm well aware that you can log into your daughter's account and see me that way, but because it means I don't have to see you. And that always makes for a better day.

Love,

me

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Dear Person I Used to Be Married To,

I blocked you. And out of all the people I blocked last night, this decision was the one that wasn't spiteful. It was just a little too awkward to watch you interacting with one of my best friends. It felt like I was eavesdropping or spying or something. And of course, because it's Facebook and one can't help ones self, I clicked over to your profile to see who else we had as mutual friends, and bammo. You have NO privacy settings at all.

Well, that was just odd. And I didn't feel right knowing that I could pop in on you whenever and see what was up. It's not that I would or want to - it just felt invasive that I could.

So, I blocked you. Now, you don't have to listen in on my conversations with our friend, and I don't have to see yours. Not spiteful, just comfortable.

Love,

me

Natural infant hygeine, because it's really cute

A few months ago, I switched the boys to cloth diapers. I got a lot of advice from friends, and something that Kara said stuck in my head. She mentioned in passing that most mamas who cloth diaper do elimination communication as well. Elimination communication (or EC) being the use of timing, signals, cues, and intuition to take care of your baby's need to eliminate waste.

It didn't immediately take hold in my brain, it just simmered there for awhile. Then, on a whim, I picked up this tiny potty at a consignment sale. And all of the sudden, I am checking off two more things on my "I'll never do that" list of parenting.

1. I'll never buy a used potty. It's just gross.
2. I'll never do elimination communication. It's just weird.

You'll be happy to know that I am holding on to another rule, "I'll never take a picture of my child's poop," even though I was incredibly tempted to break it as well this past week.

Recently, another friend posted on Facebook that she had "caught" her child's first pee and poop. He was about two weeks old at the time. That comment that Kara made - the one that had been simmering - reached a boil. The next time I saw Erin, I asked her about her experience with elimination communication.

What she said made perfect sense. She said that you learn to read your baby's cues. That just like you know when they are hungry, you know when something needs to come out the other end. For whatever reason, the way she put it clicked with me, and I decided to give it a shot.

Colin is seven months old, which is actually a little old to start "infant potty training," but the up side is that he doesn't poop as much now, and I really do know when he is about to go. Our first run of EC found us on a five day streak of poop free diapers. I'm not as good at catching his cues for pee yet, but I'm working on it.

I realized that I already knew these things. I already knew when a diaper was going to need to be changed, and it just made sense that if I could put him on the potty before instead of wiping his bottom afterwards, wouldn't that be more comfortable for him? I mean, wouldn't he probably prefer not to poop all over himself? It is certainly less work for me to dump out a potty and spritz it clean than it is to change a diaper, rinse it, put it with the dirties, run them through the wash, dry them, sort them, and fold them.

I think he does prefer it - he loves sitting on his little potty. We have a song we sing that goes to the tune of "De Do Do Do De Da Da Da" by The Police, just with potty appropriate lyrics. I sit on the floor with him (because as my friend Tara pointed out, yes, he will fall off if I am not watching him closely), sing, and make a "ssssssssssssss" sound to remind him to pee.

This is by no means a guide to elimination communication. I'm fairly certain what we are doing probably can't even be called that. We are being really laid back about it, and if I can keep him from pooping on himself, then I call it a success. Or maybe we are really doing it; I don't know. What I do know is that what you call it doesn't matter. This is just another in a list of things that feel right and natural for our family that I might have tried sooner if I had been more open to my instincts.

I don't have any grand expectations of "potty training" my baby before he is ready. I still expect for him to be in diapers a grand long time (heavy sigh), but IF we can help him not have to sit in pee or poop, and IF we can get him comfortable with the idea of the potty, then I think we have done a good thing.

And IF Christopher starts showing an interest in it because Colin is doing it? Bonus.

Medela wants you to pump and "share the magic"

Usually I fall on the side of treating Twitter like an online cocktail party. I breeze in and breeze out at my leisure, joining in conversations where I can and following links when I have time. It's not a place I get into arguments or even champion a cause.

Yesterday, that changed. Someone, a company, rather, made me really angry.

I expect for formula companies to advertise, cajole, twist information, and outright lie to sell more of their product. It's something that they had to create a false market to sell because while is serves a purpose in some cases, it's not a necessity for most families, and it certainly isn't the best choice most of the time.

However, Medela is a company that makes some really great products for breastfeeding mamas. Their hydrogel pads were absolute lifesavers for me with my first child. I spend the extra two dollars on their breast pads because I think they are that much better than the other brand. I even like their lanolin better than the traditional purple tube. It's no Earth Mama Nipple Butter, but it's good stuff nonetheless.

I own two Medela pumps, a double something or another and a Swing pump. I even rented the Symphony for the first two months of breastfeeding when I had supply issues after following some terrible advice from our former pediatrician.

Last night, when I logged into Twitter for a quick peek, imagine my surprise when I saw this:



I had to read it three times before I could believe it. It was followed shortly by another tweet that they claimed to be a "correction."



The correction was the addition of the word "breastmilk" to their statement. Nevermind the complete absurdity of the rest of the statement.

Pumping breastmilk is freaking hard work. It takes a ridiculous amount of extra time and effort. Working mamas who pump in order to keep breastfeeding their babies after returning to the work force are among the women I admire most in life. Breast pumps are a fabulous invention that allow women to keep giving their babies the best nourishment they can, even when they can or choose not to be there themselves.

But the fact is, that while breastmilk is best for babies, the breast is the best and most normal way to give it to them. Mamas who have the privilege to exclusively breastfeed (and yes, in our society, it is most certainly a privilege), should NEVER be encouraged to pump out their milk, thereby screwing with the balance of their supply, just to allow "others to share in the magic" of baby feeding.

Aren't mamas doing enough work in this world? After making the decision to breastfeed her child, committing to the process, fighting the learning curve, dodging the booby traps, and creating a successful breastfeeding relationship with her nursling, THEN they are supposed to feel guilty about not "sharing the magic" of feeding her baby with the rest of the world?

Is there any choice that mamas make for their babies that someone isn't going to infuse with guilt?

Medela isn't alone in offering this craptastic piece of advice. At Colin's four month visit to the pediatrician, the hand out I received on development and what not also said that I should begin pumping to allow others to bond with the baby through feeding him. I had a PA student working with us that day, and she got an earful about how to support breastfeeding mamas and how this was NOT a good way to do that.

Any piece of advice that takes a baby away from the mama's breast is NOT advice that is supportive of breastfeeding.

Could we all say that together, please?

ANY piece of advice that takes a baby away from the mama's breast is NOT advice that is supportive of breastfeeding.

What makes me so angry about Medela's actions here is that I expected so much more from them. Their advice, if followed, leads to the purchase of more of their products. Their advice doesn't support breastfeeding, it supports the market of breastfeeding accessories.

When will I learn that companies, no matter what they preach and what their mission says, are always out to make a profit?

I am so disappointed, but sadly, not really that surprised.

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Medela did send this out to Twitter:



And while I'm glad they felt led to apologize, it always makes me raise an eyebrow when someone apologizes for a "miscommunication" because when I do it, what I really mean is, "I'm sorry you didn't agree with what I said," not "I'm sorry I said something stupid."

They also sent me a direct message with an apology and asked if they could do anything. I don't know. I have been known to hold a stiff grudge and usually am pretty black and white about stuff like this.

That's not the plan this time. I think that overall, Medela is still a good company with good products. Maybe it was let-the-intern-tweet day or something like that.

I just hope that in the future, when they are considering marketing strategies, they rely more on the good reputation and quality of their products instead of dishing out reasons to buy them thinly veiled in horrible advice.

No, actually, it's not alright

This is our anniversary cake. Each year, I order a small cake that was like our only slightly larger wedding cake. It is a lemon cake with a raspberry filling and simply has our monogram on the top.

It is supposed to be a plain white buttercream frosting, giving it an embossed look.

This year, the girl on the phone at the Square Rabbit said, "Oh, well I'll put the monogram in yellow so it shows up better."

I simply said, "Alright."

It wasn't what I meant. It wasn't alright. I wanted it to be all white, just like it has in years past. Because I've gone soft, I just acquiesced to her and said, "alright."

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Last night, we were at a neighborhood party; a lovely monthly event that our neighbors so kindly host during the summer. The kids run themselves until they pass out on the lawn, the babies get passed around and smooched, and the adults chat with neighbors who they don't get to see often enough. It's always a good time.

As I stood chatting with another baby holding mama, a third woman came up to us. I don't really know her other than her name and a little of the latest gossip. We might not have even been introduced ever - I can't remember.

There wasn't an earth shattering conversation going on when she approached us; just some catching up between friends.

Here's the thing.

She walked up, said nothing to me, and started a totally new conversation with my friend. She took my friend's baby to hold and then angled her back towards me. Where a triangle could have been created, she cut me off, leaving me just standing there like a moron. They talked about the night before, a bunco gathering that I had declined to attend because I still am where Colin is. I smiled politely, not that she could see me with her back turned to me, and waited for the tide of conversation to shift again to a threesome.

Instead, this woman who had interrupted us, leaned closer to my friend and started talking about some super secretive something. It was like sitting at the damn lunch table in 7th grade again.

She leaned into the woman I had been talking to and said something like, "So when are we going to finish up that thing? You know, that thing we have to finish." In a freaking talk-whisper.

My friend looked slightly uncomfortable, and I just snapped.

"Why don't I just leave so you can talk freely?" I said.

The woman's jaw hit the driveway. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. As if she hadn't seen me there in the first place. Like I hadn't been STANDING THERE THE WHOLE TIME.

I was already gone.

****************************************************
Much to my surprise, I feel better about the second story. There was a time in my life when I spoke up for myself. There was a time when I felt things passionately and acted on that passion. I could be impulsive and opinionated.

There is too much "alright" coming out of my mouth these days. Too much censoring myself because I want to be liked or accepted when really, I like myself better when I don't give a shit.

I'm not talking about being rude to people. I still like the part of myself that goes out of my way to make someone else feel comfortable. In fact, that's the part of me that has such little tolerance for the rude and immature behavior of that woman last night. I would never have done that to someone. And people that I like? People who are my friends? Don't act like that. So really, why should I care if she now thinks I'm a bitch?

That's what I have to work on. The consequences of standing up for myself, what I believe, and the opinions that matter to me.

I've gone soft. I would like to get some of my edge back. You know, if you don't mind.

This is not a rehearsal

I think I've probably screwed my oldest kid up. He's only 2 1/2, but I'm pretty sure that I've taught him how to yell, how to be socially awkward, and how to withdraw into your imagination so far that you literally have to be shaken out of it.

He can't walk to the other side of the room without being distracted by a book. He can't figure out how to join in a group where he would like to play too. He can't find a way to express his anxiety, frustration, anger, nerves, or whatever, without yelling.

Is is wrong to want for your child to stop being so much like you?

I want for him to be like his father. I want him to take that ability to be so deeply distracted and turn it into the ability Kevin has to concentrate for hours on a tiny task until it is completely complete. I want for him to be slow to anger like his father, saving a raised voice for a time when it really matters, not over the stupid stuff for which I raise my voice.

And I really want for him to be able to make friends more easily than either of us do.

But none of that is going to happen unless I model it for him. Two and a half years of crappy modeling, I've done.

I yell too much. He yells too much.

I slam something down in anger. He hits the wall when he's mad.

I constantly intervene when he does anything that I think might be interpreted as "mean" or "rude" to another child. And not for the right reasons. He has had no real lessons of real human interaction because I'm too busy butting in and manipulating them.

Say you're sorry. Give her a hug. Don't talk like that to your friends. Don't yell. Wait your turn. You have to share.

I know there is guidance I have to give him, but I watch him lately and fret. I worry that I've already screwed the pooch on this one. How much of his personality is already ingrained?

Kevin says that he is only two. I worry too much.

Yes, I suppose I do.

But I really don't want for Christopher to suffer through life as my "practice run."

Pissy and snarky

Stupid computer. Just ate my post. Probably for the best. I'm too tired to rewrite it, and it probably would just be pissy now instead of snarky. By the way, what do you think of those words? Uncle Dave does not approve of them, as they are not real words. I rather like them, personally. Especially snarky.

All I have left for today is this:

Someone told me today that I have Julia Roberts hair. That's sexy.

And this:

I was digging crumbs out of my cleavage on the way home from dinner tonight. That's so not sexy. So very not.

World Breastfeeding Week, tandem style

I have a picture of both boys nursing in tandem. It shows the top of their heads, the bottom half of my face, a whole lot of boobie, and the two brothers holding hands.

It is one of my favorite pictures.

I considered sharing it for World Breastfeeding Week, but I decided not to use the whole thing. There is something way too personal about that moment. Something that I want to keep for myself. But I had to share the little hands. I love that they have this bonding time together.

Tandem nursing won't last much longer. As it stands, Christopher only nurses now about once a week. It is truly a social thing for him. It's about being with Mama and Colin. And I'm okay with that. He knows that most of the time I'm going to offer him water or milk or a snack instead, or that I'm going to try and divert his attention with a book and a prime spot on my lap.

But it's been 30 months. 30 months of nursing my first born, and I'm so happy that it worked out that way. We had such a rocky start, so to know that we've got 30 months under our belt is very gratifying.

Breastfeeding is just one of the choices I've made in mothering my children. My hope is that I'll be able to support other mamas who want it to be one of their choices too. Happy World Breastfeeding Week, y'all.

Glass houses and logs in your eyes

Last week, the boys and I headed to North Hills to get our stroller fixed and buy me some new sunglasses so I could be guaranteed to find my old ones (which I did the very next day). It was lunch time, so we headed over to Chik-fil-a, but stopped by the commons to play for a minute first.

There is always something going on there in the mornings for kiddos. That day, they had tents set up for shade and play mats out for tumbling. Christopher took his shoes off and started to play.

Another mom was standing near me. She had twin girls that looked to be about two. Maybe a little younger. The girls were busy busy, getting water in cups from the cooler that Starbucks provided and dumping it out onto the mats. Every time the mom would wrangle one of the girls and get her to stop, the other one had started doing it. She was trying her best, but they were playing her.

I had my hands full with my two boys, but tried to give her an understanding smile as she ran circles trying to corral the twins. A third mom sat on the ground, watching her phone mostly. She looked at the twins' mother and said, "Can you clean that up please? Someone is going to slip."

She had a point. Water on the mats was kind of dangerous, but rather than just telling her, couldn't she have helped her?

I blew it off because it didn't seem to bother the twins' mom. She went into Starbucks (having to leave the twins to get more water while she wasn't watching) and got some napkins to pacify the bossy mom.

Meanwhile, an older boy had started chasing Christopher. Even though they were the same height, it was obvious that the boy was a good two years older than Christopher. As soon as he would catch up to Christopher, he would spit on him.

Mama wasn't happy.

I watched for a second to see what my little boy would do. He turned to the older boy and said, "Please stop."

Just like that. Please stop, politely. Of course, when the older boy didn't stop and just pursued him more aggressively, the polite voice that Christopher had turned into screaming pretty quickly.

I headed over to get him away from the older boy and finally figured out which one was his mom. She had turned to see who was screaming at her son.

Bossy mom. That's right. Little Miss Clean-up-that-mess was too busy bossing around other moms to notice that her son was bullying a two year old.

Nice.

My passive aggressive kicked in as we stood next to her to put Christopher's shoes back on. I praised him loud enough for her to hear. I praised him for asking the boy nicely to "please stop" and told him that sometimes kids didn't listen or play nicely. Then I told him he could always come to me for help if that happened again.

I doubt she took any notice of any of that though, because she most likely was already back to patrolling the other, less perfect than herself, mothers.

Both boys at 6 months

I looked and looked for these pictures of Christopher to post right next to matching ones of Colin last night, but since my pictures are scattered between four different computers, I wasn't successful. I just happened to be on the right computer this afternoon and finally stumbled across them. You always find what you are looking for when you stop looking.


Christopher at 6 months:













Colin at 6 months:













Christopher at 6 months:











Colin at 6 months:













They don't look as much alike as I thought they did. Poor Colin definitely has ears from my side of the family. It's funny, Christopher looks more like his daddy, but he has long limbs like me. And Colin looks more like me, but has his daddy's long torso. That's pretty cool.

There really wasn't any point to this. Just a record for myself. And more pictures of the boys, because you can never have too many of those.

Oh my heart. The cuteness. It almost hurts me.

Seriously. Have you ever seen anything as cute as this? The six month old huge happy smile is by far my favorite part of babydom.

Those thighs. That perfectly round bald head. The little baby feet pointed outward. The rolls upon rolls of baby fat. The little baby mewbs. Every part of him is gorgeous.

But the huge, open-mouth, about-to-guffaw smile makes me want to smother him with kisses.

Little Colin is six months old now. Hard to believe. In this much time again, he'll be one year old.

I really don't have anything to say. I just needed an excuse to post these pictures of him. I could eat him up. He's so delicious.

Bad parenting

Last night, Christopher sat in the tub and played with his toys. His toys were using their angry voices as he splashed them around yelling, "Stop that! Stop it!"

It hurt my heart.

My goals today are to go back to trying to redirect and not yell. Wish me luck. I'm seriously going to need it. Luck, and a lot of Rescue Remedy.*




*Not a sponsored link, I just know my momma is going to wonder what that is.

Functional ingredients in formula

As a follow up to yesterday's post, I'm expanding a little bit on what exactly we want for Congress to consider. I didn't go into very much detail because quite frankly, I didn't think anyone was actually reading it. Funny how bloggers always think that about the very public internet. I am no expert, however, and I am simply passing on some of the research that I have done. I'll include the links I've used so that you can follow up if you like.

Alright. Functional ingredients in food and drink are things like antioxidents, omega-3 fatty acids, probiotics, vitamin D, and fiber. They are found in certain whole foods, but there is a trend of adding them to any and practically everything in the supermarket. Some examples are not new, like adding vitamin D to milk, but then there are the newer products like Naked's Superfood juice, and of course the wildly unsuccessful Diet Coke Plus.

Some of the claims that products make regarding the health benefits of these added ingredients are regulated by the FDA. However, many times they are not, and you will see located on the package, "These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease."

Instead of going into the misleading claims by formula companies, I'll just focus on the bill at hand.

The beginning of this article on the Center of Budget and Policy Priorities sums up the issue well, without moving into the breastfeeding side of things.

"Several foods offered through the Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) are now sold in higher-priced versions containing “functional ingredients” that manufacturers claim confer health and developmental benefits. While the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) ensures that these ingredients are safe, neither the FDA nor the Department of Agriculture (USDA) assesses whether they are beneficial. Moreover, WIC has no mechanism for considering scientific evidence when deciding whether to purchase foods with these ingredients— using taxpayer funds — for millions of low-income women and very young children."

Last year, WIC spent upwards of $91 million on the higher priced formula without having scientific evidence to prove that the functional ingredients actually have an effect on a baby's development and nutrition.

Of course, in a perfect world, WIC would take the $91 million spent on the unproven, higher priced formula and put it towards helping women from low-income families get the home and workplace support they need to be successful at breastfeeding.

A good start though, would be getting Congress to start holding the formula companies accountable, making them prove their claims before they raise their prices and raise parents' hopes of what they are feeding babies.