This Week in Guilt

So week two. My first almost-full week, minus Monday, which means next week could suck progressively more.

I hate it. I hate it hate it hate it.

Noah loves it.

So there you go.

TUESDAY:

I have a conversation with a mother in Noah's room about the fabulousity of the Dr. Brown's bottles as we carefully label our children's food with colored tape and a Sharpie. 

The other mother is labeling a dizzying array of bottles, fruit and cereal for her nine-month-old and casually mentions that she never tried the wide-necked Dr. Brown's because her daughter was never breastfed. I look down at my standard, non-wide-necked bottles and quietly mumble that Noah is breastfed, but still never liked the wide-necks, and then realize that I sound like a total asshole.

I write BREASTMILK on two of Noah's bottles -- bottles that required four days' worth of pumping to fill -- and I write FORMULA on the last one and shove it in the back of the fridge. Asshole.

As I leave, I see Noah's eyes widen as he scans the room, looking for me. I make a choked-up, gasping noise that startles a staff member walking by, and she asks me if I'm okay. I affirm that I am and quickly walk away. I make it all the way back to the car before I start crying.

Every working mother at work stops by to offer encouragement and promises that it will get easier.

When I go back at noon to nurse him, he's settled in and barely notices that it's ME, MAMA, THE ONE THEY CUT YOU OUT OF AND WHO STILL CANNOT POOP RIGHT BECAUSE OF IT until my shirt is open and hello! Boobs!

But he keeps pulling away because he wants to turn around and see what the other babies are doing. He's fascinated by them, particularly the two older babies who can sit up and crawl. One of the teachers notices him watching the room and sings out his name, and he squeals with delight.

They play music to the infants all day long -- lullabies and sing-along songs and classical music. I realize how many Simpsons episodes have probably already embedded themselves in Noah's subconscious and feel a twinge of guilt.

When I pick him up in the evening, his teachers have written notes on his schedule to tell me how much they love him already. Jason isn't nearly as touched as I am, because "You know they're probably told to do that for the all new parents. So you won't freak out and withdraw in a week and not give them all your money."

Yeah, I know. But I quietly paste the schedule into Noah's baby book when Jason isn't looking.

WEDNESDAY:

I notice that there are a lot of dads who do the morning drop-off. They look only slightly less pained than the mothers.

There's a notice posted that the center has a confirmed case of the chicken pox.

I've never had the chicken pox, but can't get vaccinated until I stop breastfeeding. I put three bottles of formula in the fridge because I only managed to pump two measly ounces the day before.

Today, Noah doesn't look for me. He's all smiles and baby talk as I slip out of the room.

I'm really tired.

An older woman at work welcomes me back and asks to see photos of Noah. She asks me about childcare, and I only get as far as, "He's at a daycare center right down the..." before she scrunches up her face and makes a sad little "Oh!" sound.

When I drive over at lunch, there's a woman panhandling at an intersection. She's holding a sign that reads HOMELESS MOTHER OF THREE CHILDREN PLEASE HELP GOD BLESS YOU. I'm sure it's a scam -- other days there's a guy here with a different sign who claims to be a Vietnam veteran -- so I keep my window up and my eyes straight ahead. I feel really shitty by the time the light turns green.

His teachers are feeding two babies their cereal when I arrive. I quietly nurse him in the corner and try to ignore the baby who is howling in his crib to be picked up. The teachers call to him and sing and hurriedly feed the older ones before they go get him.

Part of me is horrified at the thought of Noah being left to cry all those agonizing minutes, and part of me remembers how that very morning I let him cry while I packed up his bottles and extra clothes while Jason hurriedly walked the dog. And then how he cried again when I put him down while I looked for my keys in the couch cushions.

At home that evening, Noah cries. A lot. I worry he's getting sick until I, going on sleep-deprived auto-pilot, call him "Handsome Boy." It's his teacher's nickname for him. He immediately smiles and laughs.

Huh.

THURSDAY:

This is easy! Dropping him off is great! Look how happy he is! God. Why is he so happy? Why doesn't he scream like he does at home? Why did he cry all night last night and refuse to nurse? Why won't he stop smiling at his teacher? Why does he like these women better than me?

The center announces that it also has a confirmed case of pink eye.

I'm really, really tired.

Noah nurses distractedly at lunch again, and I'm getting the distinct feeling that the lunchtime visits are definitely more for my benefit than his. The more bottles he takes, the less patience he has for breastfeeding, and what's worse -- the chubbier he gets.

I always assumed Noah was just one of those long, skinny babies. One week in daycare and big fat bottles of formula, and he's getting a double chin and fat rolls on his thighs.

"My GOD," I tell Jason on the phone, my voice quivering, "I've been STARVING him for 12 WEEKS. What kind of STUPID PERSON am I?"

Jason says it's probably just a growth spurt, but my hatred of my stupid, non-producing boobs burns once again.

When I arrive to take Noah home, one teacher has gone home and an aide is helping out until the room gets down to three babies. (Maryland law states that the ratio must be one teacher for every three infants.) She has Noah on a Boppy pillow and is singing to him. He's transfixed and smiling.

I pick him up and realize his diaper leaked and his clothes are wet.

His teacher is horrified. She chastises the aide for not noticing. She assures me that she just changed him less than a half hour before. She pulls out his chart to show me, that yes, he had been changed recently. She snaps at the aide again.

I suddenly realize she thinks I'm angry.

I laugh and assure her that this is Noah's favorite trick, and that I can't count the number of times I changed him, only to replace his entire outfit (or better still, his outfit AND mine) 15 minutes later. Diapers leak, and my boy pees a lot.

She doesn't seem convinced and apologizes again. Then tells me that Noah drank all the bottles I brought that morning and was acting hungry and fussy but they didn't have anything for him. Could I bring in an extra bottle tomorrow in case it happens again?

And now it's my turn to be horrified.  I apologize. I stammer. I go on and on about how I don't know how many bottles he needs since I nurse him at home. I tell them about the can of powdered formula in his cubby, but learn that the center meant a can of the pre-mixed formula, because of the rules about using tap water in the babies' bottles or something, and oh my GOD, I DIDN'T SEND IN ENOUGH FOOD FOR MY BABY, WHAT KIND OF MOTHER DOES THAT.

So we stand there for awhile, each frantically trying to explain a situation that didn't really need explaining, when Noah suddenly pees again. It arches up and in between us and we both yelp and jump out of the way.

And he laughs, and we laugh, because we both just want the very best for this hilarious little person.

When I get home, I realize that we conceived Noah exactly one year ago tonight. Holy shit. When I remind Jason of this, we spend a few moment in awed silence, gazing at Noah and thinking about the million other ways our story could have ended, and how ridiculously, insanely blessed we are.

FRIDAY:

Noah is asleep in his carseat when I arrive in the morning. His teacher unhooks him and gently lays him in his crib. I put bottles of formula in the fridge -- more bottles than he could possibly drink in a day -- and go over to say goodbye. He opens his eyes and gives me a lazy smile.

And I fucking lose it.

I stand over his crib and sob. His teacher is alarmed and tentatively puts an arm around me. She tells me that he is happy here and that they take special care of him. That they do everything they can to give him a mother's love.

I don't know how to tell her that's not it at all, and I cry harder.

The homeless woman with three kids is back at the intersection today. I roll down my window and give her a dollar.

Then I remember the $10 I paid earlier for the massage program my company offers every Friday and I feel like shit again.

Noah is asleep today at lunch. I wake him up anyway and push him to nurse. He eats a little, but decides he'd rather watch his teachers as they sit on the floor with the other babies and sing song after song. Reluctantly, I let him join the circle and creep out the door.

I'm so bone-tired I fall asleep within the first five minutes of my massage appointment. It's the best $10 I've ever spent.

I think my milk is drying up. I don't think Noah cares. The center has a confirmed case of strep throat. I use my shiny new office door lock and try in vain to pump a few ounces, staring at Noah's picture and suddenly creeping myself out by imagining a guy hunched over a photo of a naked woman with the same intense concentration for the task at hand.

It's not getting any easier.

 

I drove to the center tonight, exhausted and feeling just generally kind of weepy and shitty. I'm afraid of crying in front of his teachers again for some reason. I'm just so tired.

When I arrive, the aide tonight is a young girl with Down's Syndrome. The teacher introduces her as a early education student from the local community college who is here for training. I smile too broadly and speak too chirpily -- clearly trying to communicate that I think this is great! I don't have a problem with this at all! I am not judging!

Asshole.

I pack Noah up and she talks to him and tells me how many ounces of formula he drank and how many times she burped him. She's very sweet and well-spoken and coaxes smiles from Noah as I buckle him into his hated, hated carseat.

And now we're home. Hanging out, listening to a CD of lullabies and waiting for Daddy to get home.

I wish I had a nice happy ending for this post. I wish I could tell you that I feel blessed and fulfilled and am a better mother for using daycare and I was able to pump 10 ounces at work today and blah blah blaaaaaaaaaaah. I'm too tired for any epiphanies or insight or heart-tugging treacle.

Right now I'm home with my beautiful, charming and happy little boy on my lap, and he's drooling on my arm and yanking on my hair. I think he just pooped.

I'm so very, very happy right now.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Dear Internet.

Re: the whole Cease & Desist thing. We're done. Over it. Move on. Now go eat a damn sandwich.

Love,

The Foodarazzi

Anyway, how's about an Advice Smackdown? Remember those? Weren't they sort of amusing once, a long long time ago?

(Be honest: Do y'all really like the Smackdown? Are you just sending in all these questions to humor me? Would you be sad if it went away or is the whole thing just cutting into your baby picture crack habit?)

(By the way, the Noah photo essays are, apparently, a "trainwreck." The Internet is so nice! And so full of people with very rich and rewarding hobbies.)

(Yeah, I took the link down because I think they just orgasmed all over themselves with glee and ego over the little flurry of traffic they got, so they went apeshit with the personal attacks on me and my "e-cock" or whatever. I...don't really get what I ever did to these people, so I'm just going to back away from the whole thing verrry slowly. Wow.)

Anyway, use the comments section to vote for either 1) Save Our Smackdown, or 2) Kill It Dead Please, for the Love of Bacon.

Dear All-Knowing Amalah, Mother to Quite Possibly the Most Beautiful Baby in All the Land,

Winter reeks havoc on my skin! My t-zone gets so dry, and thanks to being raised by a hippie mother I am clueless when it comes to all things makeup and skin related. Can you give a poor girl some guidance and point me in the direction of a good moderately priced moisturizer?

Kate

Hmm. The key here is what, exactly, you consider to be "moderately priced."

Moisturizers can be obscenely expensive, falling just short of anti-aging treatments on the cosmetic price scale. I use Ahava moisturizers (the Matifying Moisturizer for oily skin, to be exact), and at $28, it's money well spent for my tempermental, combination skin.

If it's just your t-zone that's dry (and your cheeks and neck are okay), then I'd suggest you try their basic moisturizer for normal to dry skin. It's also $28, but I swear, it will last a very long time. Ahava makes thick, creamy and almost-concentrated moisturizers that require a light touch.

I have a friend who swears by the "very dry" version, which costs $42. Her skin would actually crack and flake in the winter, and she STILL buys me the occasional martini as a thank-you for telling her about the Ahava line two years ago.

Considering most of the high quality (read: non-drugstore) moisturizers at Sephora average between $35 and $50 (and go all the way up to $570, holy mother of crap), I think $28 can qualify as moderately priced.

Of course, for the cash-strapped among us, there's always Cetaphil. Wonderful, miraculous Cetaphil. I'll use the cleanser in the winter when my skin gets raw or chapped (and on Noah's tush), and while I don't think it has the same staying power as a "real" moisturizer (your face may re-dryify itself by lunchtime), it's super gentle and best of all: super cheap.

Readers? Any suggestions to fill in the price gap between $6 and $28?

Hi Amy-        

I saw today a piece on tabloid tv regarding the resurgence of the headband.  All the stars are doing it, should I?

Melissa S.
Martinsburg, WV

I will not lie: some girls look so totally gosh-danged adorable wearing headbands.

Unfortunately, I am not one of them.

Even more unfortunately, I refuse to accept this and will still occasionally buy a headband and (even worse) attempt to wear it.

It does not end well, because I usually spot my reflection in a store window or something and realize that oh my GOD, I look like an MORON and I yank off the headband and shove it in my purse and then I'm left with a  headband dent in my hair the rest of the day.

So if you want to try a headband, you have my blessing, but I advise you to be really, really comfortable with your headband so you don't change your mind five minutes after leaving the house because it only takes five minutes to achieve a permanent headband dent.

Dear Amalah,

I came across your site by accident one day last winter, when blogging was still, to me, something that they mentioned on CNN once in a while, and since then I've been hooked.  I absolutely love it! (and had a very sad moment when I realized that I had, indeed, read every archived entry, and had no more that I could use to distract me while waiting for an update...)

I started looking at your blogroll and started reading a few of the links there, too.  And now I think I'd like to expand my horizons even further...But I don't know exactly how one goes about finding interesting blogs, if you know what I mean.  So, how did you find all the blogs that you like to read?? Also, I would like to find some in other languages because I am really geeky that way (well, German, since that is my other language, and maybe French as well, since it would probably help me improve...), and while I realize that you might not be able to give personal recommendations, I thought you might have general ideas of how to go about looking, or your readers might have some ideas...

Thanks so much!
Lena

Ha. One of the first questions I get from people after they find out about my website (and yes, I have someone in my life who calls it a blob too, and I am so jealous of Dooce's new masthead because I was TOTALLY going to do something blobbery like that, only more ugly probably, and now I can't, and this sentence has gone on just long enough), is usually along the lines of, "So...how do people...find your website? Like, search engines?"

No, only people who are searching for "damn flour beetles kill die hate" find me through search engines.

Most people find me through other blogs. But this confuses the questioner even more, because how do people find THOSE blogs?

It's like the chicken or the egg thing, except that here, it's just a really bored person with a high-speed internet connection at work who came first.

I find blogs to read by visiting the blogrolls of blogs I already read. Like, my links page lists sites that I read and have followed for awhile and with a few exceptions (type a cough cough), they all update regularly and are basically my reading recommendations to y'all.

I also have an unlisted blogroll that I keep in my browser: it's mostly made up of my regular commenters' blogs and other sites I've just found and maybe even a trainwreck or two.

There are blog "directories" that list blogs in other countries and languages, but personally I've never found a site I'm really interested in through one. They're kind of like the blog yellow pages, while I prefer to let my reading list evolve organically through friendly recommendations.

So keep visiting the recommendations of bloggers that you already read, and pretty soon you'll have a list of sites so long you will never get anything done ever again and will basically be chained to the Internet 24 hours a day.

And to speed that prcess up, let's go to the phones. Readers? Any good German or French blogs out there?

Okay listen, I have a couple more questions I want to answer and YES, I have baby pictures to include, but I left the camera at home and also I kind of have a job now. So I'm going to post this drivel now and let you get started with the recommendations and the Smackdown votes and the yelling at me for the lack of baby pictures, and then when I get home I will post the rest, I SWEAR.

Unless I forget! Ha!

Update! A Bazillion Hours Later!

I didn't forget, honest. It's just that at home there's a cranky hungry baby and cranky hungry cat and a dog that crapped on the carpet and no food and no clean dishes and then an Indian food delivery and the dog got out when the delivery guy got here and ran down the stairs yap yap yap yapping and got trapped in the trash room and I couldn't find her and I left the baby in his swing and the Indian food on the coffee table and the baby was screaming and the dog was howling and the cat got into the Indian food and is now puking all over the damn place.

But here are your baby pictures!

Hell, they're better than mopping up curried cat puke.

This one dates all the way back to CHRISTMAS, which was like, forever ago, and it's documenting Noah's first viewing of a Baby Einstein DVD, and my sister's not-super-impressed reaction to Baby Einstein, but HA HA, THIS IS HER FUTURE TOO, as she's having a baby boy in March.

(I ask you, does she look six months pregnant? NO. SHE DOES NOT. HATE.)

(Except not, because I am besides myself with excitement because Noah is going to have a little cousin and I get to scare the crap out of my big sister with the little-boys-pee-in-your-MOUTH stories.)

You know, Noah was a little surprised at how much attention the whole Buck's Fishing and Camping thing got yesterday, and hopes that his jaunty hunting cap does not cause similar controversy.

The Naked Turtle.

Feet! Big feet, by the way. Big feet that do not fit into any of those little twee socks anymore and since I haven't had time to go BABY SOCK SHOPPING, and yes, it will be a whole separate shopping trip, Noah is wearing some too-big socks that his Grandma bought (thinking he'd use them like, next year sometime), and he's all trash baby in daycare with the losing of socks left and right and yeah, I'm THISTHISCLOSE to wrapping ponytail holders around his ankles to keep his damn socks on.

Noah and Red Lion, seconds after Noah punched Red Lion DOWN, YO, and seconds before Noah barfed on Red Lion.

Poor Red Lion.

My boy, he is lovely.

And drooly.

Christ on a $9 Cracker

The Amalafoodie household received its first Cease & Desist letter this weekend.

Awesome.

Blah blah intellectual-property cakes, here's my take on the whole mess, because it's apparently ignited the INDIGNANT FURY OF THE INTERNETS and every damn DC metro, dining and/or legal blog out there seems to be talking about it today and y'all, I WAS THERE. I GOT ME A T-SHIRT.

The long-drawn-out-and-self-aggrandizing version: Jason and I went out for dinner at a well-regarded little neighborhood place called Buck's Fishing & Camping. The chef has a reputation for both brilliance and...well, let's just say she can be a little prickly.

But hi, Jason and I are restaurant groupies. We love eating out. We love adventurous cooking and I would personally detail the cars and fetch the dry-cleaning of several DC-area chefs whom I absolutely idolize. Jason generally only writes about restaurants he really likes (because he won't write a bad review based on one visit, and we just don't have the time or money to make repeated trips to a place that sucked the first time), and he always credits the food photos and usually leaves a card behind to let the restaurant know that a write-up is forthcoming so they can contact him with any concerns.

I call Jason an Insufferable Food Snob all the time, and I mean it in the nicest way possible.

Basically: if there are two people who get what chefs are trying to do and would put up with all kinds of egotistical bullshit, it's us.

But if you harass us over dessert because you heard we snapped pictures with a fucking CAMERA PHONE, and then follow that up with a letter threatening to sue us for damages and whatever the fuck else?

No. We will not put up with that kind of egotistical bullshit, no matter how awesome my fish was.

And sadly, it was incredibly awesome. And pretty!

(Well, pretty for something that still had its dead fish head and dead fish eyes still attached.)

Before this entry turns into a full-on Crazy Person Rant, let me start at the beginning.

Friday night, we go to the restaurant. We take the baby. We drive around the block 200 sizillion frillion times to make sure the baby is asleep and will not disturb anyone. We order wine, appetizers, entrees and desserts. We rack up a decent-sized check because hell, we don't have to pay a babysitter and I enjoy giving the Internet evidence that no, I DON'T love my baby very much and put him in daycare just so I can spend $8 on a fucking wedge of iceberg lettuce.

We take four measly pictures of our plates with Jason's camera phone.

Halfway through dessert, the chef comes over and says that she heard we've been taking pictures of "her food."

We smile, a little worried that Jason's been recognized, but play dumb anyway. (NOT because we were trying to hide anything, but because sometimes when Jason gets recognized at a restaurant, the chef or host or waiter tries to comp something, which we don't want and it's awkward and blah blah integrity-cakes.)

And then it just got strange. She asked us why we were taking pictures, did we ask if we could take pictures, and did we know that we couldn't use the pictures without her permission, because she didn't want them ending up on (eyeroll) the Internet. We thought she was kidding around, even though her tone was kind of...well, prickly.

Now here's the sticking point: Legally speaking (and OH, how much I know now about laws governing photography in public and private areas), Buck's has every right to prohibit photos of the food and interior of the restaurant. Of course they do! It's their place! Their rules!

BUT! They kind of have to TELL PEOPLE about their policy. A sign in a prominent location. A footnote on the menu. Because most reasonable people assume that photography (for whatever purpose, be it a group photo of a birthday celebration or a photo for a personal website) inside a restaurant is okay.

Buck's did not do or have any of these things, despite what the C&D letter says. We were never told that we couldn't take pictures, just that we needed the chef's permission before we could use them.

Which, nope. Sorry. Photos that have already been taken are the sole property of the photographer. You do not have the right to dictate their use or confiscate our film or demand that we erase photos. (Note: She did not go that far. She simply asserted that we were not allowed to use the pictures without her permission, and she wasn't giving it to us, but gee, she hoped we enjoyed our meal.)

The co-owner of Buck's spoke with us afterwards, free dessert wine in hand, and tried to smooth things over. (To say that we [mostly I] looked VISIBLY ANNOYED AND PISSED OFF would be an understatment. Who likes to be scolded like a kid passing notes in homeroom over your $9 piece of cake?)

Once my red-hot embarrassment kind of simmered down and my hearing returned, I realized he was talking about the online DC food scene, the message boards and the blogs and what-have-you. I think he mentioned DCFoodies or some other blog and before I could stop myself I blurted out that yeah, his chef just bitched out DCFoodies, how you like THEM heirloom tomatoes with fresh buffalo mozzarella drizzled in basil oil?

He told us we didn't have to pay attention to the chef because he owned the place too, implying that it was totally okay to post the stupid photos if we wanted. We felt better. We paid our hefty bill, left a generous tip and went home. Noah never opened an eyeball.

Saturday morning, Jason wrote a very nice and balanced review of our meal (his entree DID suck, sorry) with just a casual mention of the weird encounter with the chef at the end. By the time he was done, the Cease & Desist was in his email inbox, rife with spelling and grammatical errors, and accusing us of disregarding a stated no-photography policy and insinuating that the restaurant would take us to court if any of the "improper photographs" appeared online.

Well! That's nice.

Anyway, the whole thing? So stupid. And avoidable. If the chef had nicely expressed her concerns (like say, she just doesn't like amateur photos being published) at the restaurant instead of trying to bully us with sweeping declarations of what we were "allowed" to do with our own photos, Jason gladly would have obliged. Like I said, he doesn't want to bash restaurants or create ill-will with local chefs. The fact that we were told something different by Buck's co-owner created some confusion, and the Cease & Desist letter was just a fucking slap in the face, and should insult any restaurant patron who naively thinks that the food they order and pay for is theirs to do whatever they fucking please with instead of "propriatary [sic] and confidential."

Look. I get it. The food is her art. She's protective of it. And while I personally didn't see anything super artistic about a piece of chocolate cake with a scoop of whipped cream on top, art IS subjective in all its forms.

Threatening your customers (bloggers or not) with legal action, is complete and utter bullshit. The end.

I'm telling the amalah.com audience all this because 1) I like to think you care about the minutae of my fabulous, below-the-law life, 2) all the other cool blogs are talking about it, and 3) there are a hell of a lot of you, and I like seeing you riled up, because you're so PRETTY when you're all riled up.

Plus, if we get sued, I won't be able to afford daycare or quit my job ever and Noah will have to live in a cool wet sack under a highway overpass.

Y'all, my mom did NOT get my permission before taking this photo with her camera phone. I'm totally going to sue her uppity ass.