No Nipples Were Actually Hurt In the Making Of This Post

Breastfeeding did not come easily to me.

My nipples cracked, they bled, I got thrush, which shot white hot pain through my body with every feeding. It was joyous.

(As an aside, was anyone else shocked that: 1) your nipple is like a sprinkler head, rather than a single hole? and 2) that your nipple could stretch EIGHT FEET? Anyone? Just me?)

Moving on.

I had such an incredibly hard time breastfeeding and I tried so hard with the Mother's Teas and the pumping and the massaging and nursing Boppies and the Ebay shopping (oh, wait. That last one might not have had anything to do with breastfeeding at all actually).

The point is, I was determined to succeed. How hard could it be to stick my boob in a baby's mouth and relax?

As it turned out, very hard.

My milk would come in. It just wouldn't let down.

I would sit and lay my head back and try to think about the surf crashing onto the sandy shores of Hawaii. I would do deep breathing exercises. I would do yoga just before nursing. I tried everything.

And we would sit. And she would nurse. And nothing.

Sucking.

Nothing.

Sucking.

Nothing.

Most of the time, after a full two minutes of sucking, my milk would let down. And let me tell you, THERE IS NO BETTER FEELING IN THE WORLD. I would start weeping every time.

But, other times? Savannah would pull away, her face red with exhaustion and absolutely WAIL. Wail with frustration, wail with hunger. Wail that she had such a high-strung malnourished CHILD for a MOTHER!

And I would rock her and calm her down. And we would try again. Often, with the same result.

And so, was our dance for nine months.

All of this to say, I was exhausted with breastfeeding. I wanted it so badly. And it just didn't want me. And my milk supply was dwindling BY THE DAY. And my baby was losing weight.

Well, one night, in the midst of all this "stressfeeding", Chris and I met his family and a large group of their friends for dinner.

Prior to walking in the restaurant, Savannah and I had just had yet another go-round of crying and nursing in the car out in the parking lot. We battled it out and finally walked into the restaurant, a half hour late.

And as we approached the table, filled with many people I had never met, my mother-in-law's best friend (who is a lovely woman, generally) shouted out "WHERE ARE YOUR BOOBS? AREN'T YOU BREASTFEEDING? YOU HAVE NO BOOBS!".

And the entire table, including many men, stared at my lackluster chest. And I stopped walking and just stood there, stunned.

My mother-in-law attempted to do a little damage control, but her friend just steamrolled right over her.

"BUT, HER BOOBS! THEY'RE GONE! HOW CAN SHE BE BREASTFEEDING A BABY LIKE THAT?!"

And I sat my horrified self down at the end of the table with my fussy starving baby, tears stinging my eyes and mumbled something about "my boobs" and "it's the shirt" and "do you want me to show them to you". And she started to drill me: How often are you nursing? What positions are you using? The football hold! What? What are you eating? Are you burping her? Is she latching? She's probably not latching! Are you drinking coffee?

Needless to say, I ended up back in the car for the rest of dinner, crying.

And would you like to hear the best part?

Having my breastfeeding capabilities questioned caused me to mentally step back and take inventory of my motivations for continuing to struggle with breastfeeding despite my body's unwillingness. I realized that I had been so wrapped up in judging MYSELF and berating MYSELF for what my body SHOULD be doing that I had lost sight of the end goal: to have a HEALTHY baby.

And it wasn't until someone else made me angry doing the same thing I was doing to myself - judging - that I was able to snap out of it and make the adjustments that were ...wait for it...RIGHT FOR ME AND MY BABY.

I started supplementing with formula the next day. And Savannah thrived. As a matter of fact, just this morning she ate three donuts. Don't judge.

Did you breastfeed? If so, were you blissed out by it? Or did you want to stab yourself in the eye sometimes?

***This post is dedicated to Liz of Mom-101, Christina of A Mommy Story, & Tammie of Soul Gardening for their Babeeeee Shower. May assvice not make you cry in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant and may you remember the BEST advice: you'll always feel guilty, so you may as well get used to it.

The Other Woman

One of my college Literature courses focused on reader perception - how reading is an interaction of the author's thoughts and the reader's own life experiences and perspective.

Our professor gave this picture as an example:

And then he asked us "How do you think this quote is meant to make you feel?".

We all, of course, say things about being "protected" and "safe" and "loved".

Then he asked "How do you think this quote makes a person who has been abused by their father feel?".

We were silent.

"What do you think 'caught' means to them?"

---

I think of this often.

Because I was never a daddy's girl. And yet, I'm raising one.

Shame is a reluctant companion to this topic, so I don't write about it much. While I've admitted that my father never once made me feel beautiful and was all around unkind, I've never actually admitted that my father was, and continues to be, an everpresent destructive force in my life.

Until the day he died, he  never made me feel anything other than small. Ugly. Unloveable. Desperate. Bad.

I place the blame squarely at my father's feet that I was desperate to be loved by men, that I didn't care how they treated me, as long as they did. That my wee 14-year-old heart was wrapped up in a manipulative, controlling relationship for four years because abuse felt like love.

For years after that, almost every relationship was with the same man in different packages - my father - over and over again: life of the party, handsome, loud, angry, violent, possessive. And I ate it up. It felt so familiar to be loved and hated at the same time and to love and hate them back.

It wasn't until Chris came along that I thought "Hey! This love thing can be, like, happy? We can just watch a movie and no one throws anything? Neat!".

And I slowly started to soften. But, I know what I'll never be. I'll never be the woman who trusts, who caters, who is vulnerable, who feels safe.

Now, I see Savannah's face light up when Chris walks into a room and it feels so foreign. I can't fathom what that feels like. I see her wait at the front window for his car to pull up. I feel her crawl into his side of the bed in the middle of the night when she has nightmares. Every morning, she goes to him first to cuddle in his lap. She can't start her day without her daddy.

It's as if our childhoods are happening on different planets, they're so different.

My daughter runs to her daddy to protect her from nightmares and my father gave me nightmares.

And I just don't get it. But, I want it. I've always wanted it. And sometimes? To see it hurts. It hurts the little girl inside of me. I love that my daughter has what I didn't. She deserves it. But, I wonder why I didn't?

It pains me to admit that. It makes me feel like a horrible mother. I feel like I should feel nothing but selfless joy over my daughter's close relationship with her daddy. But, I often just feel out of place.

I know that this relationship with Chris will make her the woman she couldn't otherwise be. Savannah will grow up in the world flanked by a big strong protective grandfather and father. She won't need to wait for a man to tell her how she feels about herself. She won't fall for the first guy to brush her hair out of her face and tell her she has nice eyes. She will never doubt that she is safe. That she is protected. That she is cherished.

She'll be the woman I will never be.

Because I'll never get it.

How was your relationship with your father? Good? Bad? Average? Non-existent? How did it affect you as a child? As a woman? As a mother?

Build-A-Girl

Right now I'm reading about the 10 different women you will be in your lifetime.

These are all necessary phases and they happen in different orders for each of us. But, the lesson is that to truly find happiness and contentment, you need to dabble in all of them. As you read through them I'm sure you'll think of women you know (or maybe you) who have been stuck in one phase for far too long.

For instance, I am in stage 9, but visit stage 7 often. As I read through the different "women" last night, I realized that that means I have gone through eight stages of my life already. Why yes, that DID make me have another glass of wine and melt cheese on something! Hooray for almost being done with, um, life. But, seriously, it made me feel a little proud.

For the first time I realized that all the crappy stuff that has happened to me was necessary. And right on schedule.

I've been dumped, fired, broke, sick, lonely, depressed and left.

But, I've also been romanced, loved, needed, healthy and blessed.

It's feels good to be ...average.

These are the 10 Women you will be:

1. The New Graduate (living on your own, life in the real world, completely naive)
2. The Dollarless Diva (Cereal, Tuna, and a lotta debt)
3. The Worker Bee (I can do it all!)
4. The Party Girl (Life is getting too serous, I need a release!)
5. The Body-Conscious Babe (Vitamins and mineral water)
6. The Chameleon (Morphing into what HE wants you to be)
7. The Crisis Chick (Junk Food and Sleep, Depression)
8. Ms. Independence (Learning from your mistakes, taking control of your life)
9. The Wirl - Half Woman, Half Girl (Call me ma'am and you'll die)
10. The True You (Arriving at "me")

Where are you now?

The Gift

One of my friends cried when she found out she was having a boy.

Actually, a few of my friends did. Of course, we cry at Downy commercials when we're pregnant (he's just so soooooooooooooft! *sob*). But, they were truly disappointed. They smiled during the ultrasound. They dutifully made their phone calls and announced they were having a son. But, then they went home and cried their eyes out.

Because there was a boy with boy parts growing inside them. And they were afraid they couldn't be good boy moms or that they wouldn't enjoy dressing him up like they would a girl or that he would eat snails in front of them.

Want to know my secret? I was CONVINCED I was having a boy. No doubt in my mind. When I was three months pregnant, I went and bought an entire boy outfit. It was baby blue with little zoo animals all over it with little knickers and a little bow tie. Apparently, I was expecting a gay boy.

Anyway, eight weeks later we had our elective ultrasound and I can still hear the sonographer's matter-of-fact voice like it was yesterday: "It's a baby girl".

And I screamed. I screamed loud. And I cried. And I bounced all over the table with joy. (It wasn't a vaginal ultrasound just so you know, because: OW.)

I guess I wanted a girl.

I wonder now if I was just downplaying my hopes by "expecting" a boy. If I subconsciously knew then that I personally would need a daughter. If I was too afraid to even let the possibility enter my mind.

I look at Savannah now - on a constant quest for sparkles! and tulle! and Zach and Cody! -  and I can't imagine her being anything other than HER. I can't imagine her name being different, her hair being different, her voice, her eyes. Not a single detail isn't exactly as it should be.

And my friends? Who cried when they found out they were having boys? Not only are they completely enamored with the mother/son relationship now, but when two of them got pregnant again, they prayed they'd have another boy.

We have no idea sometimes what we need.

Did you find out what you were having? Were you surprised? Or did you already "know"?

Gut Check

I once read that most every woman that has been raped, robbed, or murdered had a split second to escape.

But, she didn't trust her gut.

Yesterday the scariest thing happened.

My friend, Vi, and I were hanging out in my backyard while our girls played inside the house. Then Savannah came out and told us that there was someone at the door and she didn't know who it was.

(Incidentally, Chris' ears started steaming when he found out Savannah stuck her face in the front window to look - she can't help herself: it might be a party invite!)

So, we get up and I go to the front door and look out the peephole. Nobody's there. I open the door and both the girls immediately run outside. And I see a HUGE man with one eye lumbering back up the driveway toward us.

Alarms started ringing.

But, I ignored them...because I didn't want to be rude.

See, this man only had one eye because half of his face had been burned. I didn't want him to think I was afraid of him because of his disfigurement, so I remained on the front lawn. Vi, on the other hand, being a bright girl, quickly grabbed the little girls and sharply said "EVERYONE BACK INSIDE, LENA" as she rushed back in.

I started to back away as he came toward me. I quickly took in the fact that he was dressed head to toe in black and wearing a huge black coat. It was about 75 degrees outside.

But, he was talking as he approached me. And being the nice STUPID MORONIC girl I am, I didn't want to shut the door in his face.

"Oh, hi" he said as he lurched forward. "I'm kinda broke right now..."

"Uh-huh" I back up further.

He takes another step toward me.

"I'm just looking for some honest work".

He's grinning. And there's something "off" about his grin.

I quickly take two more steps backward and I'm back in the house.

"We don't have anything for you" I say as I close the door.

And lock it.

And he stands on my front porch.

Who walks down the street knocking on doors in a damn trench coat in the middle of the day when no one is home but stay-at-home MOMS? Who??

A murderer, that's who. A burglar. A rapist. A psycho looking to prey on "polite" young women at home with their kids.

Or maybe just mow their lawn. But, STILL. You never know.

I couldn't get this out of my head for the rest of the day. He could've grabbed me. He could've strong-armed his way into the house. And I had a split second. I had a FEW seconds. Where I just stood there. Ignoring my internal alarm so as not to be rude. Or overreact.

I'm so mad at me! Why did I hesitate?

I have two other experiences where I didn't listen to my gut and put myself in potentially dangerous situations. One was a massage (yes! An almost-rape massage! How relaxing!). And another was a late-night-alone-in-an-office interview (HINT: I didn't get the job).

I'm still a little shaken up, but I might share those stories later. Right now, I want to hear yours.

Have you ever been in a situation where your gut was telling you to react? Did you? Do you think it saved you? Or did you ignore it? Were you concerned about being "rude" or "overreacting"?

EDITED TO ADD: You guys? Your stories are FREAKING ME OUT! I'm obsessively reading them and re-checking my front door lock. Skerred.

Knock Knock

Somehow The Crazies know the best time to email me nasty emails is Monday morning. Like this one from "Shelly" (if that's your real name). 

"You don't change your daughter's sheets for a week? Thats gross."

What she lacked in substance she made up for in brevity (not even letting the pesky contraction apostrophe slow her down!). I appreciate that.

Well, actually Shelly, it was more like two weeks. HA!

And this is why:

These freaking stuffed animals. Bears and beavers and horses and mice. There must be 1,000 of them. And the tinier they are, the closer they are to my daughter's heart.

Like this one:

Do you have ANY IDEA how many hours we've spent looking for this damn seahorse?

Anyway, they may look innocent, but they turn a normal sheet-change into a big 'ol headache. So, that before you know it, a good firm hand swipe across the sheets every few days seems like a perfectly reasonable alternative to laundering.

Now, excuse me, I have to go put Savannah's flea collar on her so I don't have to vacuum.

---

ANYWAY. Before we were so rudely interrupted by Smelly, I was going to ask you about your bedtime rituals with your kids.

Chris used to read a book to Savannah, we would both kiss her goodnight, then she would go to sleep.

Eventually, she insisted that I have more of a part in the bedtime goings-on. So, I started to sing her a song every night.

That is, until we babysat my adorably honest nephews - whose mother has the voice of Shania Twain. When bedtime came around, Savannah announced proudly "Now, my mom's gonna sing!". And with a fire in my heart I put my all into "Adelweiss". And do you know what her cousins did? LAUGHED THEIR HEADS OFF. They genuinely could not contain their hysteria. It's true: I have a voice for blogging.

When we returned back home to our little ritual together, Savannah's eyes had been opened and she gently suggested maybe we start doing "something other than singing". (What she didn't say: "Like singing lessons".

So, we tried the Grateful Caterpillar for awhile (those are the paper circles on her wall), but that got boring. Then we started laying out her clothes for the next day, but that seemed so ...practical. And I was out of ideas.

Until Melissa over at Alpha Mom's Buzz Off did a Joke Rounduppy thing. And voila! Our new bedtime ritual was born.

Now, every night I go in and Savannah and I exchange jokes.

Sometimes it's dreadfully painful (HER: "Knock knock" ME: "Who's there?" HER: "Butterfly" ME: "Butterfly who?" HER: "Butterfly on you! AHAHAHAHA!" ME: "...Mhmm").

Other times she's deliciously clever ("Why did the gum cross the road?" "Why?" "Because it was stuck to the chicken's foot! AHAHAHA!").

It's only taken us five years, but we've found the perfect ritual for us. And the best part is she goes to sleep laughing.

And there is no better sound ...than sleep ...because then I can watch Tivo uninterrupted.

What is your bedtime ritual?  (If you say "changing the sheets", that's just plain mean.)

Are they the same ones your parents did with you?

Do they inevitably end with "Dammit! Get back in bed!" like mine?

--

P.S. Sorority update: 220 members and counting. My God, you guys deliver. Last week I had one friend and this week I have 220!

*preening self*

Now, remember to email me if you want a lame sign. Otherwise, you should see your name appear in the left sidebar over the next day or two. Email me (cheekylotus (at) gmail (dot) com) if you don't see your name go up.

Or if you want it linked to a different site.

Or if it's spelled wrong.

Or if you just want to taunt me.

Odds of You Rolling Your Eyes During This Post 1:1

• Chances that Savannah would wake up with some malady today seeing as it is my only day to work this week: Excellent

• Odds that it would be some obscure scary looking rash: 5:1

• Chances that I would go into full-on panic mode after Googling, convinced it was Measles or possibly Malaria: Good to Quite Good

• Odds that I would look at the accompanying paperwork for the antibiotics she's taking and it would say all of the following words: "rash" "common reaction" "severe rash" "fatal" "local emergency room": 2:1

• Chances that I would make my impressionable daughter cry by blurting out "I hope it's chickenpox!" and then "soothing her" by describing them as "just bumps all over your body that will itch for a week. What? Why are you running away crying?": Very Very Excellent

• Odds that I would call the Doctor and insist "We must be seen NOW!": 1:1

• Chances that the doctor would deem them "hives - a mild allergic reaction to the antibiotics" (you know, THE antibiotics) and that Savannah could go to school after all: Surprisingly Very High

• Chances that Savannah would INSIST that I tell the Doctor that I hadn't changed her sheets in a week and she thinks its bedbug bites: Embarrassingly High

So, by 10:30 this morning I had Googled furiously, obsessed insanely, rushed Savannah to the doctor, was flooded with relief, took her to school, got my bagel (late - they were out of sesame), grabbed my coffee and sat down at my desk.

• Chances that I then took a nap:  Exhaustively Good

• Odds that a nanny could do a better job at this: Off the charts

Because Lord Knows I'm Normally a Whore For the Numbers

Do you have any friends?

Doesn't that question alone make you feel something? Defensive? Sad? Proud? Popular? Lonely?

When I was in kindergarten I remember there was a workbook page that fascinated me. It was a picture of a brick wall with about 15 bricks. And each brick had an empty line in the middle for you to write a friend's name. The title of the page was "My Friendship Wall". (In retrospect, what 5-year-old has 15 friends anyway? Way to set us up.)

I was able to fill in three bricks. Just three. And this bothered me. I kept that workbook and for YEARS after I would fill in the bricks as I made friends. We're talking maybe possibly into my teens.

As I grew up I kept the same core group of girlfriends with 5 or so friends revolving on the periphery. I was even (ahem) considered a queen bee. And our futures were all laid out (MASH may have been involved - remember that? Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House?).

Sabrina and I would move to New York.

Donna and I would time our pregnancies together.

Dottie and I would co-author a novel.

Rachel and I would date the rich and famous.

Shawnnie and I would marry twins.

Renee and I would keep each other grounded.

Until we became adults. And a wives. And mothers. The visits grew further and further apart. The agendas changed. Animosity developed.

And by the time I had Savannah, hi no friends! I've written about my pitiful self before, about how I struggled with PPD in the echo of loneliness, about my attempts to make new mom friends at playgroups and OH LORD GYMBOREE (I wanted to die). I desperately wanted my old friends to come back into my life.

And eventually they did. And the most interesting thing happened: we had nothing in common anymore.

Just recently I finally let the last of my old friends go. And while I still get nostalgic for the friendships I used to have, I realize now that my new friendships, including ones I've made through this site, are just as valuable. They may not have the history that my old friendships have, but they also don't carry the baggage. They're like a fresh start. And a perfect fit for who I am NOW.

My "Friendship Wall" may not be completely filled, but my life is. Take that, Department of Education 1982 Curriculum.

So, in all honesty do you have alot of friends as an adult? Are any of them from childhood? How many of them are from the Internet (and you don't truly know whether you're BFF with a 400 pound hairy-backed perv, hmm?)

P.S. Just to update you on the Sorority House: it's jumpin over there! And did someone put my panties in the freezer last night? Because that was not cool.

Mean Girlz

This happened on Friday.

I have to tell you, my little girl has been wounded.

It's been three days since those mean little brats rejected her and she is still emotional about it. Yesterday was filled with overreactions, constant tears, and self-deprecating pronouncements (my god, I just realized that could be my new tagline). Anyway, after being irritated with her for most of the weekend, a light bulb finally went on and I asked "Honey, do you feel sad about Lindsey?".

And she just sobbed in my arms.

I'm reminded of the lyric "the first cut is the deepest". Up until Friday Savannah assumed everyone wanted to play with her given the chance. She assumed that Lindsey genuinely liked her. She assumed they were friends. Most of all, she assumed her mom wouldn't be a complete idiot and perpetuate this fake "friendship" way past its expiration date by paying this girl to come play with Savannah. Do you have any idea how crappy I feel about that now? (To those of you who told me not to do it back then, you are wise women. Wise, ignored women.)

After she had a good cry, I tried the best I could to explain to her that she's a wonderful little girl with a beautiful caring heart. I told her that sometimes people can be mean and it hurts, but it's NOT ABOUT YOU. And I realized that I'm almost 30 and I still have this pep talk with myself and for godssake are we doomed to always feel this way as females?

She sniffled her way through the conversation and tried to understand, but I could see it. The pain. The betrayal. And I felt an emotion so overwhelming that it took my breath away. I couldn't sleep last night because it flapped like a furious trapped bird inside my chest.

Compassion.

Such tremendous compassion for this precious baby that just wants to be liked; that just wants to be accepted. She just wants to belong.

So, I got up last night and went into her room and looked at her sleeping little form clutching her bunny. And I stroked her head and I thought "You belong to me."

No Time For a Title Because Where Are Savannah's Minnie Ears??

What's that you say? It's Spring Break? And I'm on my way to Disneyland??

Kill me now.

In my absence, there's a new question up at the Cheeky Lotus Sorority House. We're talking post-baby ass fat today, my friends. Bring yours. Or just go brag about your hotness.

And think of me being harassed by Winnie the Pooh and then possibly dying of heatstroke. She was a nice Cheeky.

When you join Cafe Mom, be sure to send me an email so I can make you a pretty sign, complete with my own made-up compliment.