In some ways I feel like life as I knew has come to a screeching halt. My “professional” work doing occasional freelance writing has dried up just like my milk supply.
It wasn’t totally intentional that I would stop writing and breastfeeding around the same time, but apparently, the less time I sit at my computer to write, the less milk I produce.
In my current, sleep-deprived state, I’m not necessarily missing conducting interviews while bouncing baby burrito in his seat, or having engorged boobs in the morning. But, it’s nice to be needed. The cries of hunger that eminate from the crib can now be quenched by daddy, or nana, or just about anyone who I beg to come over to help so I can just. go. pee. I liked being the only one who provided nourishment for his little (not so little at 3 months) belly.
It’s also nice to use my brain. There’s only so much television I can watch in an afternoon (and the DVR makes it so much easier to pack it all in). As much as a small assignment stresses me out, I like having my BlackBerry calendar buzz with a calendar reminder of something other than “Get Diapers.” (Yes, I set calendar reminders for such things.)
Motherhood the second time around has brought me a lot of pride, not the least of which is that I felt comfortable enough to breastfeed in public multiple times, not anxious whatsoever to hide the baby under a terrific hooter hider. (FYI, as a Bravado Ambassador, I found it interesting that according to a recent Bravado Breastfeeding Information Council report, where, when and how to feed your baby away from home is a source of concern for many new breastfeeding moms. Up to 30 percent state that having to breastfeed in public creates anxiety for themselves and their spouses.)
I also felt I could conquer more than perhaps I could. Having two kids decreased the amount of free time I had by a factor of like 70, not two. And such, I can’t really feel good about myself putting the baby on the activity mat and the older in front of the television just so I can write up a few paragraphs.
At least not yet.
I’m in a bit of a personal and professional lull and I’m thinking that’s probably okay for now. While my lack of milk will be a permanent change to my body, the professional well will fill up again as soon as I can see QWWERTY straight on my keyboard again. (See! A typo on QWERTY!)
They don’t stay babies forever, and so if I’m not being needed in the same way, I’ll take what I need for now. A little lull.
by selfmademom on February 16, 2010 · 1 comment
Son: “Mommy, why did such and such (name witheld) leave our class earlier this year?”
Me: “Well, she quit.”
Son: “What’s quitting?”
Me: “Hmmm… (realizing I probably shouldn’t use that term loosely around an almost four-year-old.) It’s when you decide not to do something anymore. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad. Like, remember I used to work? Remember I showed you my office downtown? But then I quit my job to stay home.”
Son: “Yeah… you quit because you wanted to be a mommy. And be around kids.”
Me: “Yeah, something like that.”
If only it were so cut and dry, right?
One of the bonuses of my son attending preschool is that he has a new appreciation for art. One major downside to this newfound love of drawing, painting, doodling and crafting is that I now have art littering decorating the house. What to do with all of the art projects we’re debating throwing away collecting is clearly beyond me.
Case(s) in point:
Go fish. Lots of crumpled paper, a little glue, and loads of ”don’t throw that paper on the floor, please” can get you this masterpiece. It sure adds a lot of ambience to our ottoman, don’t you think?
At one point I tried to be organized and put all reject memorable art projects into a folder. Result? New meaning to junk drawer.
In theory, a bulletin board is a great place to showcase a child’s scribbles artwork.
Somehow the art projects migrated to my nightstand by mandate that I have artwork by my bed.
And when you just don’t know what to do with that paper bag costume your kid insists on bringing home, it ends up in a most unusual place. The floor, of course.
If you have any bright ideas of what I can do with at least the mildly appealing artwork, I’m all ears.
Just when I thought I was hip (just the action of going out on a Friday night with the girls and wearing heels will do that to you), I was reminded by the conversation at the dinner table that I’m actually not.
As the topic of conversation shifted from applying to private school (kill me now), to home buying (thankfully not buying any) we then started down the slippery (or scraggly) slope of the best techniques for hair removal.
Nothing says appetizing like hot wax, right?
How did it come to this? Discussing hot lasers over beet salad?
Things I learned: they now sell micro razors for bikini lines, and that my dear friend once waxed her arm hair. Ouch.
Things I also learned: There’s something bonding about the common suffering we, as women, go through to look beautiful, or bring lovely babies into this world. No one else can understand the beauty of a smooth armpit or the comfort of a baby sleeping on your chest. We can all laugh about the time we forgot to shave our legs when we went to the beach or when the kid spit up all over our “going out outfit.” (A.k.a. me last night)
There’s some point of pride when you’re brave enough to “take it all off” or endure contractions without drugs. And while I may not have been so hip to know about the latest techniques, I felt grateful enough to have friends who could clue me in a bit. That’s about as cool as the newest laser.
