Wet Feet

Boobie Talk *Links Added!*

(Originally posted 7/28, but I bumped it back up to the top)

I saw the cover of BabyTalk magazine the other day, I forget where. I saw the boobie. I was SHOCKED, I tell you. UTTERLY SHOCKED that they would put a NAKED BREAST on the cover of a magazine that CHILDREN MIGHT SEE. The should have at least put it in that opaque plastic that the Playboys are in.  Don't they know that breasts SHOULD NEVER BE SEEN? Unless, of course, they are poking up out of a tiny string bikini on the cover of FHM. Or they are selling beer or cars. Breasts are SEXUAL, people. Let's keep them in context. No CHILD should ever be in the same frame as something so BLATANTLY SEXUAL. That's GROSS. And SICK. And UNNATURAL.

Oh. Wait a second. Wrong personality.

Now, really people. The naked spherical mass on the right of the page is clearly a breast, but it's been as de-breastified as much as a breast can be. There's no hint of a nipple. There is nothing marking it as sexual, no bra strap dangling over a shoulder, no other breast meeting in the middle to form seductive cleavage. NOTHING. Take away the rest of the picture, and it could be anything. A bowl laying on it's side. A piece of peach paper.

Is it any shock that women don't nurse longer, as the cover queries? If 25% of BabyTalk's readership (25 fucking percent!) is this opposed to seeing an airbrushed debreastified breast uncovered, can you imagine the uproar that goes on in their heads when a women whips it out at storytime? And even if no one says anything, that woman tensely trying to breastfeed is going to remember the furor over this, and she's going to know she's offending someone.  Do you know how hard it is for a baby to nurse from a mother who is feeling so much tension and insecurity? Do you know how hard it is to relax enough to have a letdown when you think you're offending someone? It's damn near impossible. You might as well try to have an orgasm in front of a judge.

And if you think that picture is bad, if you think that's indecent, look at this picture. This is me, nursing as I normally do at home. Want to make a statement? Leave this indecency where your children might see it. Want to be a real rebel? Post your own indiscreet nursing picture.

*UPDATES!*

Boobs from around the net...

afrindimum

Bridget

Emmie

Deirdre

Beth

Breanna

kenya

Lillian

Lisa

Jody- she also has a great roundup of relevant links.

Leah

Katie

Tracey

Ally

CCW

Casey

MomSquared

Giselle

Kristin

kiwi

Chris

Kori

Meg

Karen

Y

Angie

Rachel

Emily

Alpha

Vanessa

Heather

Jenifer

Queen of Spain

StacyG

Chele

Mary Tsao

Shoshana

Jody

CityMama

ccap

Korin

Penny

Tressa

Lousli

And check out this topless news report on the subject at hand. You'll notice there are two nipples visible in this one.

**If you posted a picture and I missed you, email me and I'll put up a link. If you'd rather not have the extra traffic, email me and I'll remove the link.**

The Less Said, The Better

the lack of milk

in the fridge

when it was needed

sends me down

to my knees

in a shrieking puddle

of Freaking Mommy
(but I'm okay)

Mother of Invention

I forgot my sling. How could I forget my sling? I thought I had one stashed up here. But I didn't. In the shuffle between the mountain house and home, I un-stashed it. Dumbass.

With no sling and no sewing machine, and my parents unwilling to sacrifice a bedsheet, you'd think I'd be fucked. But not so fast!

A trip to Wal-Mart (EW. But my only option) and I'm re-slinged. I used two yards of a thin cotton knit, folded lengthwise (to double it) and knotted at the shoulder. Knits have stretch (and this fabric was quite flimsy, even with the doubling), so I had to keep tightening the knot as the fabric got more and more stretched out. Once it got stretched out all the way it was quite comfortable and forgiving. And I didn't even use scissors!

It would have been even better if Wal-mart had a set of heavy-duty metal rings in their hardware section. But alas, no rings, and none of the shower curtain rings I found were sturdy enough for the job. I plan on purchasing a set of rings because I'm kinda jazzed about my new stripey orange sling.

Another option would have been a wrap style carrier, a la moby or Ellaroo. I've done this before, back when Naomi was about a year old. I bought five yards of rainbow tie-dyed fleece (because it was cold outside) and cut it into a strip 25 inches wide. At this width, you could make two carriers. Cut it 20 inches wide and you could get three carriers, but the width would be too narrow for a safe back carry.

Playing Doctor at Casa WetFeet

Naomi: "doctor doctor! I'm sick! I have a fever in my ear and a bellyache!"

Doctor, aka my mom the hospital administrator: "We're going to have to operate!"

Naomi (lying down on "the white bed"): "here's my insurance card."

Doctor: "I'm sorry, only the incision is covered, not the closure."

Crow: Eaten

One of the things I swore I'd never do (back when I was pregnant with E and an expert on everything) was keep her a secret.

I'm not ashamed, I said. She's not something I should hide.

Things turned out to be a little more complicated than that, of course. Even among people who knew I could never just bring her up, because there'd be that awkward silence of no one knowing what to say, the consciousness of treading too carefully for easy conversation to continue.

I didn't foresee that just talking about her could refresh the pain ("I'm not losing her. I'm just relinquishing my parenting role"). People who know me and love me can see the spasm of grief when she is mentioned. They'd be fools not to tread carefully, unless they wanted to reduce me to a mass of quivering jelly.

I never know what thought or word will detonate the sleeping bomb. Most of the time nothing happens. Sometimes the world collapses. I never know how fragile I will be.

I underestimated my own vulnerability. E is my achilles heel.

Imagination: We Likey

I few weeks ago I remarked to someone (can't remember who) that I'm surprised that Naomi dones't have an imaginary friend yet, considering her personality.

She names inanimate objects and has drawn-out conversations with them (although I have to "talk" them for her). Mr. Railing is a particular favorite.

She recently took the big leap into true Imaginary Friendship. Not one to do anything halfway, Naomi has two imaginary friends who are frequent visitors.

Ask her about Tentacles (said like tenna-coles) and she'll say "Very very long yellow hair all the way down to her BUTT with pigtails and decorators in her hair. and pink shoes and big pink goggles with a spot for her nose and little purple goggles with no spot for her nose."

And Twizzler? "purple big goggles with a spot for her nose, and yellow curly hair with no decorators, little pink goggles with no spot for her nose. her shoes are ruby slippers too!"

Tenna-coles is her favorite. We often have to leave room on a chair for Tenna-coles and we have to fasten the extra seatbelt so Tenna-coles won't "get squashed".

At least Tenna-coles doesn't need snackies. Another kid nursing might just drive me over the edge, even if she is imaginary.

Small Talk, Big Feelings

I was having a casual conversation in the park with the mom of one of Naomi's school friends. Her daughter is clearly adopted. I don't remember what she said that inspired me to trust her enough to reveal myself, but I did.

"Is it open?" she asked, clearly in the know about adoption issues.

"yes" I answered, then remembered. "Well, not really, not anymore" I amended.

Like a geyser suddenly shooting out of a cool deep pool, it rushed from my chest to my head and leaked out my eyes. Tears very nearly fell. A blink, and I am back in control.

On a bright summer day, blinking back tears can easily be mistaken for squinting into the sunlight.

The intensity in that moment was as strong as ever, the thing that has changed over the years is that I've gotten better at the deft emotional sidestep. I carried on the conversation as if I had not been newly eviscerated by the loss of my first daughter.

Grief, delivered fresh, anytime of the day or night.

It's Good to Recycle

I started to compose my response to Dawn's primal wound discussion, and I had a flash of deja blog. Haven't I written this post before?

In fact, I have.

For those who don't remember the discussion, it occured just before getupgrrl's baby was born to her surrogate. It's a shame her archives her down (but you can find some of her thoughtful comments on those posts), an examination of the primal wound theory as it relates to a child born to a surrogate was fascinating reading. She was taking measures to reduce the severity of the disruption: she and the surrogate spent much time together, getupgrrl was present at the birth, the baby was to recieve his natural mother's milk for as long as she could pump it. Getupgrrl and her surrogate became close friends, there was every reason to believe the relationship would continue long after the baby changed hands. Closeness that would be intesely coercive in an adoption was possible here because of the lack of ambiguity over who the baby belonged to.

Where the hell did getupgrrl go, anyway? I wish she'd come back.

I have a recurring dream.

I can hear a baby crying, and I go from empty room to empty room searching, panicking, (like the panic I feel now in that long moment between the thud and the cry), the crying never gets any closer, and I'm running faster and faster in search of the cry in a blind panic, and then I am catapulted out of sleep, in a cold sweat, my ears ringing, stars before my eyes, a drumbeat in my chest.

This has never gone away, I just had a variation on this dream last week, even though adoption is one of the last things on my mind lately. It is a little souvenier I've come to accept.

There is no question in my mind that I suffered what can only be described as a primal wound. Like one of the mothers in The Girls Who Went Away said, (and I'm paraphrasing here) this is a loss you feel in your body, not just in your mind. If I had been knocked senseless and the memory of everything adoption related had been erased, I would still be feeling this loss.

I can only imagine that many adoptees feel the same.

Bitchin Bridesmaids

I used to be a dancer. My cousin Kelly (who is two years younger than me and the closest thing I have to a sister) and I used to stage elaborate productions to the Nutcracker and Debbie Gibson and Little Shop of Horrors.

Josh doesn't dance, never has. At our wedding, we had no dancing. We played ONLY BACH.

Kelly is getting married a year from tonight. Kelly, who weathered the pains of adolescence with me, who made tapes of fake radio stations and pretended to have boyfriends and be teenagers with me. She's getting married a year from tonight so she took out her bridesmaids for an evening of drinking and dancing. Girls, we have to do it again. And AGAIN.

My first instinct was to say no. I have a baby, I need to be home, I've never been the type of mom who puts the baby down for the night and goes out. But, how many Cousin Kelly's do I have? How many women are there in the world who I would gladly wear fuschia for? There's just one. So I said fuck it, I'm going DANCING. I'm the MATRON, damnnit. I HAVE to be there.

When you spend most of your life in the cheerio and puke world of motherhood, two hours in a low-scale New Jersey club to let down your hair feels like luxury. I didn't waste a moment. My cell phone lost it's signal. Unknowingly, I was without my tether for the evening. Oops. Cinderella hour was 9:30 and I overshot it by 30 minutes, playing as hard as I was.

This spot is being held for the picture that Kelly will send me. It's a surprise. I don't want to ruin it. Kelly, I know you're reading. Send the fucking picture. Edited: Hey! She sent the picture! See how, um, happy we were? SEE?

A side note: RetroActive is the new wavey digital cable OnDemand station. When I got home, they were playing Headhunter by Front 242, More by Sisters of Mercy, and Let's Go To Bed by the Cure. Funny, because the last time I was going dancing regularly (eleven years ago) those were the songs I was dancing to. Methinks a Goth was doing the programming tonight.

Stop me if I talk too much

I have very little positive experience dealing with divorcing people. Not divorced people, divorc-ing.

OKCupid doesn't have a category for divorcing or separated. You are married, or you are single. That tells you something about who is date-able. Not that I would know ANYTHING about OKCupid.

There was this lady at a nursing support group I went to when Naomi was a baby. She was about 90 pounds and haggard, her eyes had that frantic look of a mother who hasn’t slept in weeks. She took any slight lull in the conversation to talk in rapid-fire about the custody issues she was having with her 2 year old, and how her husband was trying to show her as an unfit mother because she was still nursing him. Her bitterness was like a cloud around her. I edged away from her frenetic self-centeredness.

Supposedly, people come around to being their somewhat normal selves again after the stress of divorcing gives way to the steadiness of regular living. I’ve read that this isn’t all that unusual.

Today in the park I was making idle chatter with a another mom of two, and I realized why divorcing people can't shut up about divorce. Is there anyhthing that's not affected by the state of my relationship? Where I live, my vacation plans, Naomi's schooling (will she stay at Beacon if we move?) Besides real estate and education, what else do mothers make small talk about? The weather? Well, the weather sucks, so I stuck my foot in it, and she was like "it was really great to meet you! See ya round!" and I remembered my self three years ago, shrinking in fear from crazy divorcing woman.

Full circle, baby. Maybe divorce is contagious.