girlfiend

In the past week, possibly because of the return of my womanhood (obnoxiously referred to as AF by the crazy messageboard women- 5 points to the first person who hasn’t been pregnant or on baby boards who guesses what AF stands for) I’ve lost a few more pounds. I now have less than 20 pounds to go. 19.5 to be precise. I’m pleased that it’s less than 20, as it sort of seems like a milestone, but I think I’ll be even more pleased when my weight gets down under 130.

Of course knowing me, if I ever reach that milestone I’ll probably say that I won’t be happy until I’m under 125. Then 120. But for now, I’ve got less than 20 to go. Sweet.

With all the debate about public nursing, and although Lawmummy probably said it better than I will, I wanted to make sure my opinion was clearly stated. I feed my baby whenever and wherever he’s hungry. I won’t feed my baby in a public bathroom and I refuse to be homebound because I might be offending someone. If it means I have to feed him at a park, in a restaurant, or in the seasonal section of Target sitting in patio furniture, so be it. He’s a baby and he gets hungry about every two hours during the day. Though I prefer not to feed him in public, I usually have to when we’re out. Since my overproduction debacle I’ve had serious difficulty pumping to the tune of not being able to pump anything at all, so bottles aren’t so much an option. But I don’t see how breastfeeding is any more of a liability than giving your kid a bottle or a sippy cup. (Even when my breasts were flowing like a waterfall I didn’t make puddles where I sat.)

The cover of this month’s issue of Baby Talk magazine did not offend me. It’s a baby eating. There’s nothing sexual about it. Let me repeat: There is nothing sexual about it. I’ve never felt less sexy than I have these past few months. I felt more sexy when I was pregnant and sixty pounds heavier than I do now that I have a baby attached to my breast. Breastfeeding isn’t sexy. There’s nothing hot about it. My breasts are not as cute and perky as they once were, and when I’m full of milk they’re lumpy and weird. I don’t want people looking at them, and when I feed the Fiendling in public my intent is not to draw attention to myself or titillate. I don’t know any nursing women who intentionally show off the goods while the baby’s having a snack.

I’ve found that being discreet isn’t all too difficult with a hooter hider or my sling. I can generally nurse without visible boobage if I’m in mixed company. Around close friends and family I don’t care, but in public, I don’t really want people looking at my boobs. And that’s the way I’m pretty sure most nursing mothers feel.

I nurse my child because it’s the best thing for him. If formula was a better choice, I would love to have the luxury of mixing up a bottle and going out for a night on the town without worrying about my two hour window. But it’s been proven over and over that breast is best. Even my father randomly calls me to tell me about some article he’s read about how great it is. My mother-in-law is in nursing school and she’s all excited about the breastfeeding facts she’s learning.

So far I’ve been lucky. Everyone has been incredibly supportive of my choice and only once has someone obviously been offended by my baby’s lunch. I was feeding the Fiendling at a chain restaurant and an older couple, probably in their seventies, stared. The woman stared at the Fiendling’s feet hanging out of the hooter hider and mock-whispered, ” I can’t believe she’s nursing her baby right here.” They left shortly thereafter.

My best experience was at the place I’d least expect- Cracker Barrel. The Fiendling was still teeny-tiny and I’d just fed him in the car in the parking lot. But he was still hungry. So I fed him right in the booth. I felt embarrassed because I didn’t have anything big enough to hide him completely and when the waitress walked by and looked right at me I was afraid she was going to say something negative. Instead she smiled and said, “Aww, how sweet.” I left a big tip.

There’s no question in my mind that breastfeeding is the best choice for me and the Fiendling. I understand that it just doesn’t work for some women and that’s a shame. Whether it’s by breast or by bottle, babies need to eat when they’re hungry, not when it’s convenient. Any person who feels that nursing publicly is offensive, shameful or sexual is an idiot.

The Fiendling bit my nipple tonight. Oh. My. God. I had no idea that the bite from one tooth, a tooth that’s not even all the way out of the gum yet, could hurt so much. I didn’t want to scare him, so I did my best not to cry out, but man is that thing sharp.

Though I most certainly did not enjoy being bitten, it’s not something that will deter me from nursing. I was reading some random posts on my crazy lady message board and saw a few from mothers who weren’t deterred by a few pesky teeth either. It appears that they have been nursing nonstop since the beginning of time. Well perhaps 34 and 40 months ago isn’t exactly the beginnning of time, but as the mother of a four and half month old, the idea of nursing him until he’s three years old makes me feel a little queasy. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with nursing for that long, but I don’t know that it’s a choice I’ll make.

Speaking of nursing, Doodlebug wrote about breastfeeding last week. I hate to be smug, but I agree with what she has to say about being dedicated. But 40 months? That’s one hell of a commitment.

First, a guest entry from Mix.

I have hijacked girlfiend’s blog once again.

I am at home recovering from weight loss surgery, which if you were wondering is a bitch. I got a new scale that also measures your percentage of body fat.

Being the ever so supportive friends they are, Boyfiend, Girlfiend and The Fiendling came to visit me. Within minutes of being in my place girlfiend noticed the manual for the scale. In all fairness I should have seen that coming. Anyone who spends anytime with girlfiend will notice that she reads EVERYTHING. Signs, flyers, or even a coupon dropped on the floor. It ‘s actually pretty amazing when you pay attention to it. She seems to file these little bits of information away for later use. I never realized how unobservant I was until I noticed her superpower.

Upon seeing the manual she immediately started reading and before she got to page two she was off talking about body fat. Boyfiend sprang to his feet to weight himself and find out his body fat, but having not reading the book, did not know how to program. Girlfiend to the rescue, boyfiend returned to the living room to watch the fiendling, and girlfiend headed to the scale. After a minute of beeping she had the scale programmed with her height, sex, and age. She returned wearing one less shirt. I asked her why she took off her shirt, and she said she didn’t want the shirt to impact her weight. Then she mentioned that she also took off her pants and contemplated getting naked.

After reading the body fat percentage chart she concluded that both hers and her husband’s body fat is normal. I then mentioned that a clear sign of her being obsessed with this is that she was thinking about getting naked in my place to find out what her weight and body fat was.

Fully aware she replied, “This is why I don’t own a scale.”

I hope no one ever buys her one.

Look, there’s no question I’m obsessed with my weight, but really, as soon as I can once again fit into my Seven for all Mankind jeans, the ones that make my ass look great, I’ll be fine, even if I weigh more than I did before. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I just want to be able to fit into my pants. And I mean fit. No muffin top or cameltoe. Squeezing doesn’t count. And the naked thing? I weigh myself at the gym. I have no interest in taking off my clothes to get a completely accurate weight there. Besides, I doubt it is accurate. Mix’s digital scale has decimals. When I took off my top layer I was down .2 of a pound. I just wanted to see how much difference my pants would make. But I didn’t.

Boyfiend’s even stranger than I am. He weighed himself before and after he peed. He lost a pound.

I was lucky enough to chat with my friend Tony (whom you may recognize from Tony’s China Blog or some another blog that started with Ompha* that I lost the bookmark to when I upgraded to a newer version of Firefox) online the other day. I like Tony. We used to teach together but then he moved on to bigger and better things, like getting married to Erica, honeymooning in South America, teaching in China, moving to Berkeley, making his own pork products and growing a beard. He’s a good guy. Now he’s applying to medical schools and working as a blogographer. His new blog, Leina’s Life (by Tony), is a semi-authorized biography and a great read.

Here’s the second entry, from the December 2005 archive.

Going South

Today is not completed yet, but for those interested in what Leina might be up to at this moment, I believe she has gone to Mountain View or Redwood City or one of those ridiculously named cities south of San Francisco to visit with/support her friend Miki, whose mom is sick with a tumor and I think she is having brain surgery today. So we all hope that Miki’s mom is okay, and thank Leina for being a supportive friend and spending some time with Miki during a really stressful time.

That is a theme you will notice with this blog. Leina is super supportive and always doing nice things for other people. Even if they don’t deserve it (though Miki definitely deserves it).

And for breakfast she probably had shredded wheat and some melon.

I’ve only read the current entries and those from December, but I think Tony’s really on to something here. Boyfiend thinks he’d make an excellent biographer as well. He may be right, but I don’t know if he’d be able to find a subject as ideal as Leina.

*I just looked back at an email and found that the “Ompha” blog I referred to is Omphaloskepsis. The blog appears to be on hiatus, but Tony did write about making his own scrapple. He sure eats a lot of pork.

See that? He’s teething. And not just drooly, shoving things in his mouth, a tooth may arrive sometime in the next few months teething- there’s an actual tooth pushing through the surface. His gum has split and you can feel that fucker. The Fiendling, brow furrowed, can’t stop poking at his sharp spot with his tongue. He wants to be his usual happy-go-lucky self, but that shit hurts and he’s got the middle-of-the-night waking and tugging on his ears and scrunching up his face and whimpering to prove it.

I blame it on Boyfiend. Though she can’t remember when he got his first tooth, his mother tells me he had eight teeth by six months. Eight. Most kids don’t even get a tooth until after six months, but Boyfiend had to go ahead and be an overachiever.

So yesterday, while Boyfiend helped his dad cut up a fallen tree, his mom stayed with the Fiendling so I could run to Target and pick up some teethers. Every single one of them said not to put it in the freezer. I’d already given the Fiendling one frozen rattle which he seemed to enjoy immensely, but because I’m cautious I put the new ones in the fridge. Useless. Even though it’s cooler here than it has been in weeks, as soon as they left the fridge they were room temperature. So now they’re all going into the freezer. And if they explode and the Fiendling ingests some of that weird gel I’ll probably win some kind of award for the worst mother of the year, but at least he’ll get some relief in the meantime. 

Saw this sticker on our way home from the shore. Weird, right? 

Last night we sort of decided that we’re done with going to the shore. As much as we love the beach it’s just not worth the trauma or drama.

When I was down last week when Boyfiend was away things were fine until I walked into the kitchen around 5.30, cocktail hour, to find her smoking. Furious, I immediately packed up and left without saying goodbye. Oblivious to the fact that I left in a rage my mom called a few hours later to ask me to give the Fiendling a kiss for her. I calmly explained that I’d asked her not to smoke in the house when I’m there with the baby. She swore up and down that she was just lighting her cigarette off of the stove and she planned on going outside to smoke it. She said it would never happen again. Annoying as it is that she’d smoke in the house after promising not to three times, it’s not a deal breaker, so Boyfiend and I went back Monday to escape the heat.

I’m not entirely sure what happened this time, but by the time we got to the point where my mother got us sandwiches I was on edge. I admit that my reaction was overdramatic and uncalled for when I totally threw a hissyfit and acted like a baby. But my mother, knowing full well that I don’t like mayonnaise and raw tomatoes and never have, bought me a turkey hoagie with tomatoes that was dripping in mayonnaise. I lost it. It took me close to two hours to control my rage. It was just a sandwich, and I should’ve just let it go, but no part of the sandwich was salvagable, it was so covered in greasy, disgusting mayonnaise. It wasn’t even just on the bread, it was on the turkey, the lettuce and the tomatoes. I didn’t yell at her or anything, I even told her it was nice of her to get the sandwich, but it was obvious that I was disgusted and furious.

On the beach she asked Boyfiend if I acted that way in front of his family. He honestly told her no, that I only act that way with her. Later, at home, after we’d gone to bed and the Fiendling decided to wake up, Boyfiend took him for a walk and busted my mother smoking. I was sound asleep by the time they got back, so I wasn’t privy to this information until later.

The next day when I apologized for being such a bitch, rather than accept my apology my mother told me that I was a good mother but I’m a lousy wife and a lousy daughter. She told me that she’s disappointed in me, that I’m going to lose Boyfiend, and that she raised me better. I somehow managed not to mention that I reacted so poorly because I’m her daughter and because that’s how she raised me. Boyfiend, upon hearing this commented that the majority of fights we have occur because I’m acting like my mother.

So we’re taking some time off. At least a week, probably more. It’s hard for me to be there without being angry, and there’s really no solution. As soon as my mom opens her mouth she inevitably says something that makes me feel bad, like, “See her? That’s how you should dress. She’s wearing a bikini top and a sarong. I don’t like what you’re wearing at all.” And sure, I can ignore that, but when she tells me that she’s not of the eaters and I am, and she says it as though eating is this bad, dirty thing, and Boyfiend’s an eater, and I’m an eater, but she’s not, she’s a grazer and being a grazer is somehow more virtuous, it makes me feel even worse than I already do about the 20 pounds I still haven’t lost.

Then she tells me that I need to adjust my gym schedule, because going in the morning doesn’t work for her, even though I go in the morning because the Fiendling sleeps until 9.30 or 10 most days, and I wait until after his next feeding to go to the gym because I don’t really want him on the beach at the height of the midday sun, so if I go to the gym around 11.30 or 12, we don’t get to the beach until 2 or 3, which is perfect, because then we can stay until 6 or so. But of course that doesn’t work for my mother. For some reason she thinks I should wait until 5 to go to the gym and it’s a shame, but if it means I can’t get to the beach, so be it. And she’s not even involved at all. When I work out, the Fiendling’s with his dad. Why does she even care?

So yeah, did I mention I need some time off? I wish there was a solution, but the truth is that she doesn’t respect me enough not to smoke in the house, and I’m not strong enough to ignore the shit that pours out of her mouth. And it is shit. She says all the time that she lives alone and talks to hear the sound of her own voice, so most of what she says is just shit and means nothing to her. It’s meaningless, yet she’s incapable of listening to me, and understanding that the shit she says hurts. It hurts and she doesn’t care, so I’m the one who feels like a fool when she says I should be wearing a bikini top and a sarong, and she’s bought me a sandwich, only it’s dripping in mayonnaise so obviously she didn’t care enough to get me something I’d actually eat which probably means she doesn’t want me to eat at all, because she’s not of the eaters, so I shouldn’t be either. Still, deep down in the back of my mind I believe that even going down to my pre-pregnancy weight, 112, isn’t nearly thin enough, because she’s told me on numerous occasions that I’m supposed to weigh 108, which I only ever weighed when I flirted with anorexia and when Boyfiend broke up with me and I was physically unable to eat for a few weeks.

So we’re done. Sort of. We have a ton of stuff there, like clothing and a kayak and toys, and there’s still more than a month left in the summer and we both love the beach and wish there was a way to make things work. So we’ll take some time off and hope that when we visit again things won’t be as bad. Because the last visit was bad. Really, really bad.

I should work out, not you. My joints are getting bad. My knees hurt. I can’t even get up from giving a blowjob. (laughs hysterically) Why did I say that? That was so crude. Pretend you didn’t hear that, Fiendling. (to me) Do you want some coffee?

On an entirely unrelated note, I left for the shore with all three of my cats locked in the basement. It’s a good thing Mix was pet sitting this time around. If it were anyone else, they’d probably still be down there.