Lithe Mama: Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Breast?

Lithe Mama: Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Breast?

Farewell Sweet Liberation

This weekend Riaz and I were supposed to go to Wisconsin, for the Green Lake Baháí Conference. It was to be our two and a half days of Freedom: my mom and her husband were going to watch Lua at their house for the entire time we were gone, probably the last chance for us to get away before nursing a baby prevented it permanently. In theory, this seemed like a brilliant idea. Riaz and I would be able to attend the talks, visit with friends we haven't seen in a long time (sans toddler pulling on our pant legs), and do other normal adult things like sitting down to eat calmly for more than thirty seconds at a time. Unfortunately, none of this was destined to come about. Friday morning, Lua woke with a cold that seemed to spread aches and pains from the tippy top of her congested head to the bottom of her wiggly, pea-sized toes. It was all she could do not to tear the hair from my head in her desperation to be sitting on Mama at ALL TIMES, and how could I possibly leave such a sweet, dependent little thing? After all, I am 25 and married and I still want my mommy when I am sick. I was torn to shreds at the possibility of deserting my sniffling daughter for the sweet luxury of a weekend in which I might be able to pee in solitude.

I called Riaz in tears that morning, relating a conversation in which I asked Lua if she wanted to go see Grandma and Grandpa (two of her very favorite people) and she replied, "No, stay Mama! Stay Mama!" I think Riaz realized the futility of arguing with my mama bear instinct immediately, but he gave it a valiant effort. "Libby, she'll be fine. She just has a cold. She'll be feeling good by tomorrow" I knew his words were true but I also knew his pragmatism could not win over my baby's imploring voice. "I can't go", I sobbed. "How could I leave her like this?" Truth be told, I was having cold feet a long time before this cold reared up. I have never left my daughter for longer than one night, and that happened only once - when she stayed with my mom over our 3rd wedding anniversary. At about 10:30 that night Riaz looked at me with nervous eyes and asked, "Do you think we would ever live it down if we went over to your mom's now to bring her home?" (So there, I am not the only one!)

We ended up staying home this weekend, of course. Maybe I am a sucker but from the moment I heard the first cough issuing from Lua's mouth I knew there was no way I could leave. As predicted Lua felt better the next day, and on Sunday Riaz and I even got to spend a day alone together while my mom and Patrick babysat - going to the movies, touring the roof of the TCF building downtown, and visiting the sculpture gardens. I may be a bit overzealous, but I am not one of those parents who cannot even think of leaving their baby for an hour in the afternoon. It's a strange contradiction of desires: how desperate I am for someone else to take over child-rearing by five o'clock every week day, yet how panicked I feel at the thought of not waking Lua up in the morning or putting her to sleep at night. Does this get any better as time goes on, or am I going to be following Lua to her dorm room to make sure she's brushed her teeth and tuck her in sixteen years from now? Only time will tell. For now, though, I'm pretty sure it will be a long time before I get a chance to experience potty privacy.

Self-diagnosis

Recently, Riaz and I decided that we would spend Thursday nights trading spaces: I would go off to work and he would try to entertain the kid for a few hours. In my case, going off to work entails trying to write something. Anything, really, since writing is what I want to do and just writing something down is supposed to be the best way to start. Tonight I wrote about a page and half of what I believed was a story, but what Riaz later pointed out was simply plot-less character development. He said this in the nicest way possible. Not because he is mean or disheartening, but because it was true. He has been the only audience for most of my “stories” over the past few years and is always extremely supportive and complementary, while remaining a helpful constructive critic. Tonight he seemed to finally tire of seeing my writing end before it began.

He is not the only one bothered by this occurrence. I wonder why I never finish the stories that I start, why I never like the characters or the plot well enough to add to them the next day. Am I simply afraid of putting my heart and my time into something that isn’t any good? Maybe. Probably. I am definitely in awe of people who think that they have something original and interesting enough to write 300 pages about and sell it to the public for twenty-five dollars a book. I love writing, and usually I like what I write. But I don’t believe that it is good enough. I suppose that makes me a classic case of something…low self-esteem? Self-sabotage? Laziness? Perhaps I should visit a therapist, or call one of those shrinks on the radio to get a proper diagnosis. The strange thing is, I do not typically sabotage myself, I am only occasionally lazy, and low self-esteem doesn’t appear in any other arena of my life.

I don’t know what else to say about this other than to express my frustration. Maybe one day I will hit the perfect combination of character and plot, and everything will just fall into place. Or perhaps I will simply work very hard to perfect a flawed beginning and continue to rewrite every page until I have something that I love. I hope I won’t give up on writing just because I might only be mediocre at it. While the reading public might appreciate this turn of events, I know I would never forgive myself. Telling stories is not just cathartic for me. It is a passion, and I am terrified to indulge in it.

Letter to my little Big Girl

Dear Lua,
At twenty months, there are so many things about you that seem to have come out of nowhere and implanted themselves in your fascinating brain. For instance, how did you become such a...girl? I swear I have never actively nurtured a love of horses, or shoes, or babies, or kittens, or chocolate in you. Where did these obsessions come from? Whenever your father or I turn on the computer, we hear this refrain: "Picture horsey? Picture horsey?" After some pestering, we will search google images again for photos of horses running, eating, and jumping and you will happily sit with us looking at these for twenty minutes at a time. This thoroughly annoys your father who believes that horses are the stupidest animals on earth and probably wishes you'd ask "Picture DNA strand?" or "Picture hard drive?" instead.
On top of the love of cute animals and clothes you are also very maternal. When we are with a group of people, you always have to check to make sure everyone is accounted for. If someone is missing you get very upset and won't rest until we find them. It's actually quite helpful when we're out with friends and you are looking after the other kids. I am hoping that this continues with your baby brother when he begins to wander away from the crowd on his own.
Speaking of your baby brother, I can't believe how much you already love him. When we say prayers together in the morning, you always want to say one for your brother. You love to look at his little baby clothes and to kiss my tummy when it's wiggling around. Your father and I decided not to tell people the name of the baby until he's born, and people are always trying to get it out of you. When they ask you "What's your baby brother's name?" You reply "Baby Brother Missaghi", which actually sounds more like, "Baby Buh Sagi". Yay, good one! Keep 'em guessing!
I was thinking the other day about what it will be like to have another little one to look after, and what it will mean to my special relationship with you. At first it made me a little sad to imagine sharing our time together with someone else, but the more I think of it the more I know it will be an asset to you. You were made to be a big sister - you're already so helpful and caring and bossy. I can't wait for you to meet your brother, to kiss and cuddle him. I know you will always love him and protect him, and I hope you will be friends for the rest of your lives. Even though it probably won't seem like it sometimes, having a sibling is the best kind of present that Daddy and I could imagine giving you.

Love,
Mama

I Like...

1. Body Pillow - Like this one from Amazon.com. It has been a total lifesaver for me during pregnancy, since I can't sleep on my back or my stomach and it helps me get comfortable on my side. It's great for non-pregnant people too. I know this because Riaz steals it from me whenever possible. If you're going to invest in one, get something down-filled.

2. Bubble Gum Ice Cream - The search for this flavor has been on in our house for months now, and unless you've tried looking for it yourself lately you would not believe how hard it is to find. At long last, we have discovered a source: Nelson's Cheese Shop at the intersection of Como & Snelling in St. Paul. Not only is this the original yummy bubble gummy ice cream with pieces of fruit-flavored Chiclets in it, but it's even better tasting than I remembered. A word of warning, though, Nelson's is only open until 6pm and it's closed on Sundays. www.nelsoncheese.net

3. ERGO Baby Products - Kami inspired me to buy one of ERGO's baby carriers when Lua was about 9 months old, and I've just purchased the infant insert so that I can use it with Parasitic Angel #2. Compared to others I've tried, this carrier is much more sturdy and comfortable to wear, and it's able to support children up to 40lbs. I have also seen studies that suggest that the way in which it supports the child's back is better on his/her spine than Baby Bjorns and others. Finally, the company is very concious about good treatment of factory workers and uses Fair Trade cotton for all of its products. If you have a baby that likes to be carried all the time (and what baby doesn't) or if you're looking for a super useful baby shower gift, check out www.ergobabycarrier.com.

We've Lasted 3.5 Years Already!

This conversation, which took place between my husband and I on the way home from watching Rent at the Ordway, sums up all of our difficulties in communication. Being that Riaz is completely left-brained and I am completely right-brained, I am hoping that our children will each get one whole brain.

"Well, Riaz, now you will never forget how many minutes are in a year"
"What do you mean?"
"You know, the song? (singing) 525,600 minutes?"
"Oh. Right. I will never remember that."
"Why not?"
"I can't remember anything in a song."
"Are you kidding?"
"No"
"I can't remember anything that's not in a song"
"What is that number again?"
"(spoken) Five-hundred-twenty-five-thousand-six-hundred minutes"
"As in 5-2-5-6-double-zero? I can remember that! That's a code!"

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Breast?

Which of these two images would you consider more controversial? If you are like much of the American public, the nursing child would offend your sensibilities and violate your moral fiber more. I mention this because the seemingly benign magazine "Baby Talk" received around 15,000 complaints about the cover of their magazine this month. In general, I try to avoid getting involved in these big, ridiculous, politicized issues (and the breast vs. bottle feeding war is definitely in that category) but when I gave some thought to the complaints against this magazine I could practically feel steam coming out of my ears.

When I first started thinking about the controversy I chalked it up to Janet Jackson at the Superbowl hysteria and simply rolled my eyes. But the more I contemplate our society's obsession/revulsion with the female breast the more curious it becomes. It seems to me that breasts and the female body in general are fine - no, terrific - as long as they are serving a sexual yet mysterious purpose. Meaning, no one cared that Janet's breasts were 3/4 exposed all the way through the show until that little devilish nipple appeared.

Upon seeing the cover of Baby Talk one woman wrote in, "I'm totally supportive of it (breastfeeding) — I just don't like the flashing. I don't want my son or husband to accidentally see a breast they didn't want to see." I wonder if this woman ever considered that breastfeeding has nothing to do with sexuality and everything to do with nurturing the life of an infant - something that everyone's husband and son should support and be comfortable with. Contrary to public opinion, breasts were not created for grown men; their attractiveness is simply a happy side effect (or a perk, so to speak). When being used for nursing a child, there is nothing sexual about them at all. Why does the fact that breasts are functional freak people out so much, particularly women themselves?

I breastfed my daughter for thirteen months and I plan to breastfeed my son for at least that long. I am not part of some kind of crazy Lactation Gestapo - I covered myself with a blanket whenever possible while nursing Lua and I would never put down another woman for choosing not to breastfeed - but I also couldn't care less if someone else didn't want to cover herself up while nursing in public. Frankly, I find shutting yourself in a bathroom stall to feed your baby more disturbing than whipping your boob out in the middle of the mall to calm a crying child.

So, to the lady who is afraid of her husband and son seeing the cover of "Baby Talk" this month, and to all the other people who wrote in to the magazine calling the photo "gross" and "sexual", I hope you stay away from public areas in the Twin Cities starting in October because I and my evil breasts will be appearing all over the place. Oh, and if seeing me nurse in a restaurant sickens you, you can always eat your lunch in the bathroom.

Feeling Blonde

I just want to take this opportunity to let everyone know that my ditziness has not diminished at all recently, even though I have not been writing about it much. Although I have to admit that it has manifested itself in different ways (meaning I haven't locked the keys in my car in about six months!) A couple days ago I had an experience that was just so utterly me that I feel the need to share it. Lua and I had gone to the mall to get some photos developed and after I'd gotten them I wheeled the stroller over to Herberger's to pick out a frame. I found a couple I liked and I couldn't decide between them, so I took one of the photos out of it's pack and tried to stick it in the back of a frame. The photo had other ideas. It went flying out of my hands and hydroplaned over the tile floor and under a big display case. When I tried to retrieve it, I realized that there was only about half an inch of space under the case and the photo was in the middle, completely out of reach. As Lua looked on with a bewildered stare, I bent down, put my face to the floor, and began blowing under the display case. I blew and blew at that photo, but in five minutes of pregnant belly-to-the-floor action, I only got it to move a couple of inches. When I went around to the other side, the photo was still just out of reach. I looked at Lua. "What am I going to do?", I asked her. "Know?" she replied, shrugging her little shoulders. I sighed and leaned against the display case, which promptly rolled out from under me. The damn thing was on wheels.

Where is Dyoz?

For days on end now, I have heard a strange sound coming out of my daughter's mouth. At random times during the day - maybe when we're sitting down to eat lunch or when we're getting ready to go to the park - Lua will look frantically from side to side and yell, "DYOZ!" At first I had no idea what she was saying, but thought it was odd that she was using the same tone of voice that my mother used to use when she was calling, "ELISABETH!" (it still makes me want to hide). Yesterday when I asked her "where did Daddy go?" and she responded by peeking her head around the corner and yelling "DYOZ!" I realized that she was actually calling for Riaz and I had a fit of hysterical laughter. Is she mimicking me? Do I actually sound like that when I'm calling my husband? Sorry honey. But it's still pretty funny.