In Which Photos Redeem Another Crappy Entry

This weekend I got my hair highlighted like a real live person.

And I managed to put on a pair of real live pre-pregnancy jeans.

(Just one pair, mysteriously. The rest of my jeans? Oh, we shan't speak of them yet.)

Other Completely Awesome Things I Did This Weekend:

1) I thought VERY SERIOUSLY about getting a pedicure.

2) I went out for dinner sans baby (thank you, Jason's mom) and ate oysters. Glorious, dangerous oysters!

3) I sat around while my mother-in-law CLEANED MY ENTIRE HOUSE. TWICE.

4) I got projectile pooped on at 5 a.m. two mornings IN A ROW, which I am calling awesome only because honestly, it was some IMPRESSIVE POOPING. Although afterwards I kind of sat there and wondered if any bars were open that early in the morning.

5) I sobbed hysterically after reading "The Giving Tree" (Thank you, Kirsten! A thank-you note will be sent out sometime this century, I swear) out loud to Noah, because I just realized THAT I AM THE TREE and this child is going to strip me bare and yank out big portions of my heart when he grows up and moves away and I WILL BE THE HAPPY ABOUT IT AS LONG AS HE IS HAPPY. WAH.

6) I bought lots of new hair products. Products that I may tell you about on Wednesday, which is the tentative date for the Return of the Wednesday Advice Smackdown: Journey to the Center of the Bad Advice Universe.

7) Yes, really! The Advice Smackdown is coming back, and although I have about three years' worth of questions piled up, new questions are being accepted at advice@amalah.com. (And I hereby declare that all questions will be answered using a completely random selection system of my own invention, known as Whether I Feel Like Answering That Question Or Not.)

One Other Not So Awesome Thing I Did This Weekend, Which I Am Including Because I Cannot Have An Entry Without A Boob Reference These Days:

1) The Return of the Fibrocystic Breast Disease. Yes, I discovered a pocket of cysts in my right boob. Noah won't nurse from it because the cysts make the milk come out verrry slow, and because he won't nurse and I am Very Bad About Remembering To Pump Regularly, the milk is drying up on that side.

2) MOTHERGODDAMNDINGDANGFUCKER.

Anywho, I'll Think About That Tomorrow, In The Meantime, Here Are Some Sleeping Baby Pictures, And Yes, He DOES Wake Up Occasionally But He's Much Easier To Photograph While Zonked Out On Mylicon Drops:

The Girl Who Cried Boob

So. The Great Nursing Strike of 2005 is over.

I reached my breaking point yesterday and decided that I? Was quitting the breastfeeding thing. Ding! I'm done, crack open the Similac and let's all toast to Modern Engineered Nutrition.

But I didn't have any clean bottles. So I popped everything in the sterilizer and stuck it in the microwave.

But I didn't feel like listening to Noah scream for four whole minutes. So I popped open my shirt and stuck him on the boob.

FORTY MINUTES LATER, I burped him and put him in his crib.

FORTY MINUTES. OF PURE, UNADULTERATED NURSING ACTION.

He had his one-month physical today and weighs 10 pounds, 10 ounces. He's gained a full inch in length. He peed on Lactation Consultant v.1.0 and nursed for 20 minutes right in the exam room just to make me sound insane when I tried to convince her that seriously, this child REFUSED TO EAT FOR DAYS AND DAMN NEAR SCARED ME TO DEATH.

Sidenote: I actually kind of like Lactation Consultant v.1.0 now, since I have mastered the secret Zen art of the "Smile and Nod" whenever she starts going on and on about something that a less Zen person might perceive as an attack on her mothering skills.

LC v.1.0: This baby doesn't have a set bedtime yet? He NEEDS a set bedtime! Now! Set a bedtime!

Amy: *smiles and nods, thinks about ponies*

Anyway, I want to thank the Internet at large for all the wonderfully reasoned and supportive comments on Tuesday's post. I have witnessed more brawls break out over posts about breastfeeding and seriously -- I was expecting some kind of throwdown or a couple whackjobs to tell me that Hitler's mother quit breastfeeding at four weeks too, so there you go.

I didn't delete a single comment. And I didn't get a single whackjob email. In fact, I got very very NICE emails. Emails that, if I were not a very awful person, I would probably respond to in a timely fashion.

But right now? I have to go breastfeed my baby. Again. For like, the 40th time today. Because he is making up for lost time and oh my God, I haven't closed my bra all day and why did I want this so much again? Something about antibodies? And bonding? Bah.

The Internet Really Needs Another Rant About Breastfeeding

(I'm finally working on The Birth Story, Part Two. But first, one last boob-related tantrum.)

(Last. Haaaaaaaaa.)

My mom was a witness to the Great Nursing Downward Spiral last week. She watched Noah go from eating like a champ on a regular basis to being a fussy, distracted eater who would only nurse for a few minutes before pulling away in either red-faced fury or complete boredom.

So we talked about breastfeeding. A lot.

When my oldest brother was born, in the 60s, no one breastfed. It was barbaric. It was Third World. It Was Not Done. Formula was the Modern Civilized Way and produced Super-Brained Babies of the Future.

So when my mom decided to breastfeed, she had zero support or instruction.

Not surprisingly, it didn't work out. My brother didn't latch correctly and lost weight. My mom was shocked by how much it HURT and developed mastitis. Her pediatrician yelled at her for starving her baby and berated her until she gave up and switched to formula.

She didn't even try to breastfeed her next two babies.

By the time I came along, it was 70s, and the tide had turned. La Leche League was around and breastfeeding was finally coming back in vogue. So she nursed me for five months, which is when I woke up one day and absolutely, steadfastly refused anything but a bottle.

Out of the four of us, I was the baby with the chronic ear infections. I had tubes put in my ears when I was five. I had a frillion food and drug allergies. I was always, always sick.

Was there a connection? Feh. Probably not. I was just a kid who got a lot of ear infections. I was never in daycare and never had a drop of formula until I weaned my damnned self. So...that's that, I suppose.

Since I've been writing about my own Boob Tribulations, I've gotten a lot of emails. Some have been full of the worst kind of assvice ("Don't give up! Formula is SO AWFUL! Stop giving him bottles! You're confusing him with pacifiers! Stop drinking milk/wine/juice/caffeine/meat/bread/calories and it will all get better!), some have been encouraging success stories -- and others are personal accounts about Why I Quit Breastfeeding Because Goddamn, Enough Already.

Those stories? Are so sad, because y'all are trying SO HARD. You're fighting through thrush and mastitis and low supply and bleeding nipples and clogged ducts and pumping and weight loss and milk drying up overnight for no apparent reason.

And when you admit that you quit, the guilt and shame and regret are palpable.

It's funny. Most of us have a support network that my mom's generation could only dream about. We have lactation consultants at our pediatrician's office who give us their home phone numbers and books and pumps and special breastmilk storage containers and detailed instructions for pumping and storing milk tacked up on our fridge. We have Boppies and Soothies and prescription nipple creams.

Yet we're still having a motherfucking hard time.

And while there are hundreds of people who will applaud our decision to breastfeed now, we're all terrified to admit that we want to give up. That it's not working for us. That we aren't one of the women for whom the whole process comes easily and naturally and look! We're already so skilled we can do it out in public without any screaming or multiple failed latches or showing our boob off to the entire food court.

I haven't given up. I'm still trying. I'm still in pain and I'm still a fucking wreck because Noah is not nursing like everybody tells me he should nurse. A few minutes here and there and a tendency to pull away violently, which OW OW OW.

(Oh yes, that whole shebang about breastfeeding only hurting if you're doing something wrong? Or if the baby isn't latched on right? Bullshit. SHUT UP, La Leche League.)

I thought it was my diet affecting the flavor of the milk. Until I pumped, put the same milk he'd just rejected in a stupid bottle and watched him happily slurp an entire four ounces down.

I thought it was reflux. I gave him Mylicon drops and burped the kid so many times per feeding he's probably all twitchy from the back-thumping. Still. Five minutes a boob is the most I can get him to commit to.

I thought it was a flow issue. We bought slower-flow nipples for his bottles to make him work harder, which suceeded in making him hate the bottle, but didn't change his nursing patterns at all.

I've let him sleep through feedings to get really good and hungry. I've woken him up and forced him on the boob while still half-asleep. Same result.

He poops, he pees and he sleeps peacefully for hours at a time. He doesn't have colic and he's outgrowing his 0-3 month clothes already. He holds his head up and is extremely alert and good-natured. He smiled at me yesterday.

All signs point to a baby who is doing Just Fine.

His mama, however, cannot take this kind of stress. First it was the low supply. The pumping and the fenugreek and the supplementing with formula.

Then it was the thrush. (And OH MY GOD, the THRUSH. THAT RASH. THAT HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE RASH THAT NO ONE UNDERSTOOD WAS NOT A NORMAL DIAPER RASH AND COULD NOT BE SOLVED BY CHANGING DIAPER BRANDS OR ANY OVER-THE-COUNTER BUTT PASTE KNOWN TO MAN.)

(What finally worked? The prescription stuff from the doctor, corn starch and a buttload of patience.)

(Buttload. HA!)

So. We continue to limp along. We see the lactation folks on Thursday for the moment of truth: is Noah losing weight again? Is he miraculously getting enough in these super-short feeds? Should we withhold the bottle or not? Continue pumping to keep up the supply or accept that maybe we'll all be happier if we just switch to formula?

I don't know the answers yet. So really, this rant is probably premature, as I have No Fucking Point Whatsoever.

I am still committed to breastfeeding.

I am also committed to not driving myself crazy. To not letting my baby go hungry to force him to nurse. To not beating myself up over this or to view it as a "failure" if I decide to quit.

I'm committed to Noah, no matter what.

I'm reluctantly keeping comments open on this entry, since I think some readers need a place to vent and share their own frustrations, victories, defeats and experiences. But please -- no judging, no assvice. Any comment that is even remotely assvicey or judgey (whether of me or any of my commenters) will be deleted. If a commenter specifically asks for advice, feel free to offer some. If you have a story to tell, please, tell us. But as of right now, nobody has asked for your opinion, so I respectfully ask that you stick a sock in it.

This is the Best I Can Come Up With When Left to My Own Devices

Today I am on my own. Just me, the baby, the cat and the busted-up dog.

Oh, and the kitchen contractor guy, who is here to finally (FI. NAL. LY.) finish our goddamn kitchen.

I have no idea what I'm doing all of a sudden. Noah cries and I just stare at him like, "You're going to have to give me more information, because I have no idea what you want and the more you cry the more I can sense the judgement of the kitchen contractor guy because I CANNOT GET YOU TO SHUT UP."

THESE ARE ALL THE PARENTING TRICKS I KNOW HOW TO DO:

1) Pick him up.
2) Offer boob.
3) Offer other boob, because hooray! There are two!
4) Change diaper, get peed and/or pooped on, stay cool about it.
5) Swaddle.
6) Walk in circles.
7) Walk in zig-zags.
8) Reason with child in a soothing, high-pitched voice.
9) Dump child in swing.
10) Shove pacifier in mouth.

Let's just say I spend a lot of time replacing the batteries in the swing and even more time reinserting the lost pacifier into his mouth. Rinse, repeat, life goes on.

I am proud of the fact that I managed to get a shower this morning, which I accomplished by dragging the bouncy seat into the bathroom and periodically sticking my foot out to give it a bounce or two. (Noah enjoys the bouncing, but not the battery-powered soothing vibrations, which makes me kind of hate the bouncy seat because WHAT IS THE POINT IF I AM STILL EXPECTED TO ATTEND TO HIS NEEDS? RAISE MY CHILD, FISHER PRICE AUTOMATION!)

When I stepped out of the shower, Noah greeted my naked self with a look that can only be described as wide-eyed horror. I don't blame him -- I make the same face when confronted with a full-length mirror these days -- and I'm actually hoping the sight will be enough to put him off girls for several decades.

AND ANOTHER THING NOAH WILL ONE DAY DISCUSS WITH HIS THERAPIST:

(The sleeper says "Give peas a chance." Get it? GEDDIT? And the hat is a little peapod thing? Because it is cute and we are lame? Anyone? Hello?)

Penance

No hangover today.

But I do have a child who officially hates my boobs with all the passion and fury in the world. The hatred has been building for a few days, and is now at a fever pitch of screeeaming rage and anger. We also have the return of the crunchy toast point nipples from my dogged determination to NOT LET THIS CHILD REJECT MY BREASTS AT THREE WEEKS OLD AFTER ALL THAT PUMPING AND FENUGREEK GODDAMMIT.

He appears to have made his choice. Fuck you, Dr. Brown.

I think a pounding headache would hurt less than this.

Mommy Blog THIS, Bitches

Drunk!

Yes! Am a little drunk. Is fabulouss. Mom was all, "Go out! Go have fun! Leave Baby with me!" And while I was a little afraid she might devour his whole delicious self while we were gone, we went out to have fun.

We went to dinner and had much wine, thanks to my friend the breast pump, about which I probably told more members of the waitstaff than were really necessary, but you know, I didn't want to be Judged.

(They totally did not care that I am doing the Right Thing by breastfeeding but were only happy to see that I was doing my share to pad the check once again.)

I wore Actual Clothes that sort of fit and also? Verry high heels. Stilettos! For the first time in ages. Shit, those bitches HURT. How did I wear them every damn day?

Oh yes. Wine. Because of the wine.

Oh! I took Noah to my office today to show him off to everybody, and he rose to the occasion by screaming his fool head off the entire time and then he peed on my coworker's carpet.

Now he is sleeping. And adorable. And I missed him at dinner. And yet I totally did not miss him because OH MY GOD, WE WENT OUT FOR DINNER LIKE REAL PEOPLE AND DID NOT DISCUSS THE CONTENTS OF ANYONE'S DIAPER THE ENTIRE TIME.

Going to sleep now. I can't remember what hangovers feel like. Amateur.

A Post That Does Not Contain the Words D-I-A-P-E-R or R-A-S-H

So yes, I suck with the updating all of a sudden. I tease you all by being all diligent and posting every day for awhile, and then my mom shows up to wait on me hand and foot and I decide that napping is much more fun than talking to InternetLand.

Well, it IS more fun. I'm sorry, but I'm tired. I even started an entry about just how tired I am the other day, but it mostly went like this: I am really tired. The end.

I also started an entry about the post office, but I never actually made it to the post office. I had some packages to mail to Zoot and started to walk to the post office, but the post office was ACROSS THE STREET and there was a FedEx store on the side of the street I was walking on and so I decided to FedEx the packages instead and nothing interesting happened at the FedEx store.

Except possibly the realization that no one holds the door open for me anymore, even if I'm laden with packages and a stroller and a newborn and still kind of look pregnant.

Not pregnant enough, apparently. Fucking assholes.

We did have a sort-of interesting lunch when two little old men came over to fuss over Noah, and then the one man went away and the other man would. Not. Leave. And. Kept. Calling. Noah. A. Girl. And telling the same stories over and over again. And asking the same questions over and over again.

My mom guessed it was Alzheimer's because she is Nice. I assumed he was drunk because I am Jaded and Suspicious.

Anyway, that's the kind of week it's been. Next week? I'm on my own and will surely come crawling back to InternetLand for amusement because I will have no one to talk to except a squalling infant. And while he's UNBELIEVABLY BRILLIANT (he stares at high-contrast black-and-white images! he can sort of smile! he craps his pants with great aplomb!), he's not so much of a conversationalist yet.

Sure is cute though.

Can't you see how tired I am? And yet the iced tea, she is decaf. Also, the pets are circling with plans to do away with the child in the high-waisted pants.

When he gets really good and mad, his face kind of blends in with the wall color.

Oh man. That face. You can almost go blind from the adorableness.

My eyes!

Mommies

My mom would like everybody to know that I am an awesome mom and very calm, in control and totally not fucking up at all. Except for my tendency to let the baby go sockless. But that's why she's here -- to protect my son's toes from my negligence.

Also to walk and cuddle my poor busted-up dog, help with laundry, make coffee and take out the trash. And this morning she changed the cat's litter box and I did not protest at all. Because it really smelled bad.

Yes, this is the same mother who just had a mastectomy and kicked breast cancer's ass just two months ago. I have a wee incision on my belly and am all, "Waaaaaahhhhh, bring me cookies."

I wrote two sentences of the Birth Story, Part Two and then fell asleep, because the child has hit some kind of growth spurt and is eating every five minutes and gets hysterical if he isn't eating the instant he wants to eat and will even get hysterical WHILE HE IS EATING because he'll pause to like, breathe and then freak out because WHY ISN'T HE EATING? ARE YOU TRYING TO TAKE MY FOOD AWAY? AAAAAHHHHHHEEEEIIIIIIII EEEEEEAAAATTTTT.

The rash is not really getting any better. I'm sure this is all the Internet's fault, because you just didn't send me any good suggestions.

(GAH! KIDDING! PLEASE STOP SENDING SUGGESTIONS. Trust me, I've heard them ALL many many times now, from corn starch to Aquaphor to yogurt to to breastmilk to sitz baths to Lotrimin to voodoo rituals.)

(We're trying several new tactics that y'all recommended, however, so I am grateful. I'm just ready to Move On And Not Talk About The Diaper Rash Anymore.)

I'm also ready to take a shower now, because the child seems to be okay with not eating this very second so I may have a three-minute window. Wish me luck.

(Oh, and out of 400 frillion comments, I got exactly one that sort-of bemoaned the fact that everything I write now is about Noah and probably will be for the next 20 years. And it bummed me out because I really hope not, but to be fair, two weeks postpartum is a little early to be all, "Dude, Amalah's gone all mommy blog now and it sucks." I mean, the site does suck now, what with these random entries with 17 sets of parentheses in them, but be patient. I'm planning to leave the house today! I'm going to the post office! It's going to be awesome!)

A Quick Exception to the No "Dear Baby" Letter Rule

Dear Noah,

I'm really, really sorry about the Indian food. I ate seventy metric tons of curry while I was pregnant, so I figured it would be okay now.

But we'll just consider last night's projectile spit-up-a-thon a lesson learned and never speak of it again.

Love,
Mama

P.S. Just so we're clear, I did not actually feed the baby Indian food. I ate it, nursed him, chaos and horror ensued. I am clarifying this point because of the disturbing number of readers who misinterpreted my orange juice comment as me actually feeding my two-week-old baby orange juice, which PEOPLE, COME ON.

P.P.S. My mom is coming to stay with us this week, though, so you can all rest assured that she will stop me from doing anything breathtakingly stupid, like giving the baby beer or drugs or pudding.

Two Weeks

SOME RANDOM SEMI-RELATED THOUGHTS AND MILESTONES WITH NO NARRATIVE STRUCTURE WHATSOEVER, JUST BECAUSE I AM DETERMINED NOT TO WRITE ONE OF THOSE "DEAR BABY" LETTERS THAT EVERBODY ON EARTH DOES.

Two weeks ago today, I had a baby. We named him Noah because we liked it, and as Diana pointed out, the only Noahs most people know are "the Bible guy and Hot Doctor Carter."

His middle name, Corbin, is the Latin version of my maiden name. It was Jason's top choice for a first name -- a choice I vetoed strongly because of Corbin Bernsen and also because I suspected Jason really liked it because The Fifth Element is one of his favorite movies, the big adorable nerd.

Noah has sandy brown hair that's getting lighter and blonder by the day.

His eye color continues to be a mystery.

He has a very pronounced overbite that he got from me. I'm sorry. I'm living proof that it can be fixed by middle school, however, so that's a plus.

He has a very deep dimple on his left cheek.

His umbilical stump fell off too soon and had to be cauterized. It's still icky but it looks like a nice little innie belly button is forming beneath the ick.

He has a small birthmark on his left arm that oddly, was not there at birth.

He smiles a little when Jason strokes his head. He screams when I do it.

He weighed 10 pounds, 1 ounce at Wednesday's doctor's visit -- he's gained back everything he lost and then some. I was officially declared the superstar...um, lactater of the lactation practice.

The pump has now been downgraded to necessary evil to a use-for-convenience-sake kind of thing, i.e. when Mama wants to drink some delicious wine.

Although he's over his birth weight, he looks nothing like the fat, rolly-polly newborn I had at the hospital. His body is long and lean with just a few little chubby spots, although he does seem to have like, six chins.

Orange juice makes his tummy very, very mad.

My thrush symptoms are all but gone, and his mouth is spot free. The only persistant sign of the infection is the horrible, stubborn rash on his bottom.

I have started saying "bottom" instead of "ass" or even "butt."

Things That Have Been Tried On The Evil Diaper Rash That Have Not Yet Worked, And Any Suggestions Not Found On This List Would Be Appreciated:

1) Desitin (Creamy AND Regular), Balmex, Dr. Bordreauxhoweveryouspellit's Butt Paste
2) Perscription-strength butt paste.
3) Centany ointment.
4) Gentian Violet.
5) Apple Cider Vinegar solution (which to be fair, was only tried once, but my GOD, THE SCREAMING)
6) Cetaphil and warm water instead of baby wipes.

The Thrush Incident has us sterilizing everything that comes within a foot of Noah's mouth or my boobs and washing our hands constantly, like creepy Howard-Hughes-In-The-Aviator constantly.

Also, why didn't anybody tell me what an awful, awful movie The Aviator was? I feel like I should have been warned. I was at least warned about A.I. so it was my own fault for wasting like, five hours of my life watching THAT ponderous piece of shit.

The problem with Netflix is that you need to mail movies back before they'll send you more, which is unfair because that means I'm expected to go to an actual mailbox which is really, really difficult all of a sudden.

My shoes fit.

My wedding rings don't.

My tummy is going down, but is still a mushy little pooch of overextended flesh.

My pre-pregnancy jeans still don't fit. Damn mushy pooch.

I went to The Gap and bought a pair of Emergency Fat Jeans two sizes above what I used to wear. When I got them home I realized I'd forgotten to test them while sitting down, which, OW.

And HOT DAMN. I FEEL FAT AND HIDEOUS. I know I should suck it up and get some goddamn perspective, but I can't right now. Chalk it up as another deep personal failing on my part.

I really, really love my diaper bag. SO THERE.

I was recognized by a reader at Panera, and by my neighbor across the street. It's weird, yet awesome. Except that I always hope they aren't thinking about my nipples.

Not that I could blame them, because I have talked about my nipples a hell of a lot lately.

If anyone else out there gets nipple thrush, I highly recommend the apple cider vinegar solution -- one tablespoon vinegar and one cup water, apply with a cotton ball after feedings. It'll clear things right up (well, at least when combined with Diflucan and a prescription cream) and is less messy than that Gentian-Violet-Smurf-Nipple-Purply-Blue stuff, which I cannot stand.

I'm terrified to let Noah grow up.

When I think of sending him out in the world where other kids will be mean to him...where his feelings will get hurt and I cannot make it better...where some adults think nothing of hurting children...where I cannot protect his little heart and body from All Bad Things...

I start to shake with anxiety because MY GOD, my love for this child. It's off the charts.

Well.

(I'm...um...also anxious because apparently it has been decreed that we all must give up lip gloss and go back to matte lipstick for fall, and I'm not sure I'm up to it, emotionally speaking.)