To Boob, or Not To Boob: That Is None Of Your Damn Business

[... Continued from F You and the Placenta-Fueled Kombucha Wagon You Rode In On.]

My personal relationship with breastfeeding was rather tumultuous. B.K. (Before Kids), I was already resistant to the the aggressive guerrilla warfare of the Breast is Best movement. When I got pregnant, I thought to myself, "If it works, great. If it doesn't, no biggie." Then, my son was born. We didn't get meaningful skin-on-skin time right away because they briefly whisked him off to the NICU for reasons I honestly can't even remember (and this is why I really should have written down my "birth story!") Then we were literally in, like, a closet, and doctors and residents and nurses and nurses-in-training and possibly janitors wearing scrubs (?) were parading in and out of my room every half-hour to manhandle various and sundry lady bits and it just wasn't the calm, nurturing environment I had hoped for.

It became apparent pretty early on that my god-given vehicles of earthly sustenance were lemons. This may or may not have something to do with the fact that I have had two breast augmentation surgeries (judge away). However, one helpful lactation consultant informed me that my breastsesses were "defective" to begin with. If it hadn't been so physically and emotionally painful, the scenes from those early days would've been comedic. A nurse and a lactation consultant telling Daddy Mack to "squeeze it like this!" Literally six hands "on deck" while I angled the tiny mouth of my screeching, red-faced son to my nipple. It was a non-starter.

The hospital sent us home with formula and this weird syringe thingy but I had already internalized the "Breast is Best [and you are a failure as a woman and a mother if you can't make it work]" mantra. Dammit if I wasn't going to feed this child the way little baby infant Jesus intended. We had a private and pricey lactation consultant come to the house every day for a week. I rented an industrial-strength pump from the hospital. I pumped after every (unsuccessful) feeding, and between feedings too. I popped fenugreek like a junkie on oxycontin, and walked around smelling like IHOP for weeks. I don't know what, if anything, he was getting from my "love-sacs" but neither of us was feelin' the love. And there just wasn't much to give. I remember, once, I got almost two ounces of milk, and I was ELATED. Never before had I had such a bountiful breast-harvest. I was SO PROUD of my little milk-makers!

I remember that sad little container of watery, pale-blue milk sitting in the fridge. At this point, I had no idea that other people were stockpiling milk by the freezer-full, theirs yellow and creamy like half-n-half and mine more like fat-free.

In my defense, Jack didn't like any food. We tried everything. Boob. Weird syringe thing. Seventeen different types of bottles guaranteed to feel like "the real deal." Nada. He HATED eating, and usually spit it up shortly thereafter. We took him to the doctor who tossed some vague diagnoses our way: "tongue tie," "reflux," "colic" (a.k.a. your baby cries non-stop for four hours and there's really no medical explanation or solution).

In retrospect, I was clearly suffering from a case of the "baby blues" and I'm sure it was pretty obvious to everyone around me. My husband was probably trying to salvage my sanity as he encouraged me to go to a yoga class with my BFF while he and my mother-in-law watched Jackson Jay. I jumped at the opportunity to escape the den of my inadequacy.

I was readying myself to leave the house, trying to find pants that fit and sadly discovering that I hadn't lost 40 pounds upon delivery. My in-laws had just come back from Babies R Us with the latest arsenal of baby bottles to try. I was summarizing for my MIL the trials and tribulations we'd been through with respect to feeding in the short life of this small, hangry child. I gave her the litany of instructions necessary for my 45 minute absence. I asked her to exhaust my paltry little shot glass of milk before turning to formula. She said, sort of offhand, "Maybe it's your milk that's making him sick?"

I know she didn't say it to be hurtful. But the rage-heat rose from my toes to the tippy top of my skull in 4.3 seconds. Hot fiery pokers stabbed me in the chest. I was SO UPSET. It's one of the few instances in my life where, when I think about it, I can still FEEL the fire in me. This moment was symbolic of my failure at the most elemental level. This is literally what my body was MADE FOR, growing and sustaining a tiny human being, and I sucked at it.

I was actually objectively surprised at the tenacity with which I held onto this damn breastfeeding thing. It was like I was hovering outside myself, looking down, shaking my head and thinking, c'mon woman, let it go already, time to read the writing on the wall. I gave up not long after that, but not without a substantial helping of guilt and regret. It didn't help that days after I "quit," Similac recalled five million containers of formula because it was infested with beetle bits. I mean, seriously??? Those crazy ass breastfeeding Nazis weren't even wrong when they said formula was poison. I continued to kick myself, thinking "Maybe if I'd tried this? Maybe if I'd done that? *They* say anyone can do it. Hell, even women who weren't pregnant can create a milk supply, what is wrong with me?" "Well," I thought, "maybe next time."

Sorry baby. No superfood for you.

Fast forward to "next time." I had done my research. I ordered a "Supplemental Nursing System," which is this kooky contraption where you basically strap a bag of formula around your neck with this tiny tube attached to it, and then you tape the tube to your nipple, and then you have to wrangle the boob AND the tube into the hungry baby's miniscule mouth to feed. "Bring it on!" I thought.

Miss Colby Jean popped out and took right to the boob. In fact, she would happily hang out there for hours. And hours. And hours. No fighting. No crying. Well, no crying for her. It hurt ME like hell. I would sit there, gritting my teeth, tears running down my face. My nipples soon cracked and bled. I kept asking my friends, is it supposed to hurt THIS BAD??? But SHE was happy, and despite the searing pain, I was so excited that it seemed to be working this time.

Then I took her in for her one-week weigh-in and she had lost more than 10% of her body weight. The pediatrician sent me to a lactation consultant, whose reaction was, "Holy Mary Mother of God, what have you done to yourself?!?" My boobs were angry and bloody and raw. One nipple had been clamped and gnawed and cracked to the point where the sticky-outy-part was dangling halfway off. She confirmed that I had something called mammary gland hypoplasia, which basically means you don't have enough mammary tissue to produce milk. She also said the baby was "tongue-tied" and "lip-tied," but I later asked the pediatrician about getting that fixed and he said "That is not an actual thing." The consultant gave me some tips, but said that supplementing with formula was a necessity. She told me to stop on the way home for nipple shields, nipple cones, nipple cream, and a variety of other ministrations to try to nurse my not-so-fun bags back to the land of the living.

I gave it the ol' college try, but it never became easy or "natural." I gazed in awe at my friends whose babies effortlessly latched on, who could carry on a conversation, make eye contact, or move more than a millimeter while simultaneously feeding their child. It was always a struggle for me. I dreaded it, but still felt thankful that she didn't host a flat-out hunger strike like her big brother had. And it got to the point where I could do it without crying in pain, so that was a plus. Still, the more alert she got, the less compliant she became, and she did NOT like that damn plastic tube.

I wasn't ready to give up yet, though. Again, logically, I knew that I was going to somewhat ridiculous lengths for very little benefit. But when you're being assaulted with stuff like this, your judgment gets a little screwy:

To answer your question: No. Apparently, I am not.

Seven weeks in, I was pretty proud of myself because this was a week longer than I had lasted with Jack. I planned to keep it up until I went back to work at 12 weeks, but didn't hold any illusions that it would last any longer than that. My BFF Claire had her second baby a month before Colby was born. For Mother's Day, we decided to go to Vegas for 24 hours. Mothers of the Year, I know ;) We brought our pumps so we could "pump and dump," though mine was really just for show, as I never broke the 2 oz. high water mark from back in the Jack days. Claire pumped shortly after we arrived, and she produced like 12 ounces of milk. I was blown away. "Wait wait wait! Is THAT how boobs are SUPPOSED to work???"

I decided I was done right then and there, and only felt 43% guilty about it. I didn't have some painful weaning process because I wasn't really producing anything, anyway. I had been going through all of this rigmarole - the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder-boob-tube-thingy, the latch battles, pumping literally drops of milk, the fact that I had no hours in the day to spend with my original baby... and for what? An ounce of milk at most? And any nominal benefit was probably outweighed by the fact that she was consuming quadruple that in the toxic jet fuel that is formula. So, that was it. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

A week later, at Colby's two-month appointment, the pediatrician asked me if I was still breastfeeding (in a way that indicated there was only right answer). I lied and said yes. We had already been through a lot with that baby chile. She was born with a medical issue and they wanted a definitive diagnosis right away. She was poked and pricked and prodded from the moment she was born. Watching a nurse try, unsuccessfully, seven times to catheterize your infant isn't for the faint of heart. She's fine, now, and I know from our brief stints in the PICU and NICU that it could be so, so, SO much worse. We are very lucky. But I just didn't want this guy to think I wasn't doing everything I could for my poor, sickly baby.

A few months later, I brought her in for her six-month check-up. In the intervening time period, there had been a scary trip in an ambulance and a hospital stay. It was a minor miracle that she was doing so well despite a rough start. She was enormous - off the charts, and so healthy. The doctor was ecstatic. I was eating up his praise, as though the "luck of the gods" was my own, personal achievement. He then said, "You're still nursing her, right?" I came clean and told him no. His demeanor flipped on a dime. His face made me think about lying again and adding "Not exclusively." But I'm a pretty bad liar and figured he'd see right through me. He did, anyway. I anxiously started listing my excuses - work, life, toddler, supply problems due to a physiological defect... He put up his hand as if to say "Stop." I did. He said "We both know if you really wanted to do it, you could do it."

I should have told this self-righteous prick (who, PS, HAS NEVER PERSONALLY BREAST-FED A BABY BECAUSE HE DOESN'T HAVE ANY GODDAMN BREASTS), to kindly fuck off. I should have grabbed my happy, healthy, ginormous, formula-fed baby and walked out of that office then and there. But I didn't. I looked up, to keep the tears from spilling out of my eyes. I looked down, in shame.

The moral of the story is, fuck that guy.

Bottom line: I believe we're all doing the best we can with what we have, and that is enough.

A different kind of "Supplemental Nursing System," consisting of mimosa and a crazy straw.
Like I said, Mother of the Year, baby!

This post by Ashley at Pink Sky Serendipity was kind of the impetus for getting my own story down.

I also loved "My Struggle With Breastfeeding," by Ramblin' Mama:

"All I’m saying is that people choose not to breastfeed for a multitude of reasons. And of all the moms I know, not a single one of them stopped nursing out of convenience or vanity.... I’ve learned that life is too short and too precious to feel guilty about things we cannot change. All we can do is keep trying, keep learning, and give ourselves credit for all the things we get right along the way."

And in case you need some scholarly literature to mitigate your mommy guilt:

Breastfeeding and Formula Feeding Moms Both Need Support, OBGYNs Say, Tara Haelle, Forbes

Doctor says: When it comes to breastfeeding, your health and happiness matter as much as your baby's, Vivien K. Burt, Sonya Rasminksy and Robin Berman, The Washington Post

Is Breast-Feeding Really Better? Nicholas Bakalar, New York Times

The Unapologetic Case for Formula Feeding, Amy Sullivan, The New Republic

Kombucha Wagon

I belong to a few touchy-feely, no-judgment-zone mommy groups online. Mostly they're comprised of kind, thoughtful, well-meaning people, but I gotta say, there are always the outliers. Everybody has their pet issue, like, "I believe you should just be your best self, I don't judge, unless you [fill in the blank], in which case you are a terrible mother and I feel sorry for your children." And look, I'm not about to claim I'm Benevolent Queen Even Keel, doling out support, smiles and sunshine without assumptions or conclusions. I've come a long way, but I still catch myself formulating unfounded opinions about people I know nothing about (and people I know very well). I'm working on it.

To be clear, I'm talking about "judgment" per the modern mommy vernacular. Negative judgment. The snap decision that someone is "less-than" as a parent or a person because of the decisions they make, or their circumstances, or the way they look, act, speak, etc. Judgment in itself - the ability to make considered decisions or come to sensible conclusions - is an indispensable tool. You're going to have a rough time without it.

As I've mentioned here before, I think even the nasty kind of judgyness is somewhat ingrained. We stick with "our kind," we understand them, we trust them, we feel safe with them, they "get" us, we can be ourselves. Conversely, we distance ourselves from "others." It think this is human nature, at least in part. Then again, so is cannibalism. And that's kind of what judgment is. Cannibalism of people's souls.

Just because we're hard-wired for a particular behavior doesn't mean it's right or good.

Honestly, I'm not even judging your judgyness. I totally get it. I always think I'm right. I have, hundreds of times, thought to myself, "Ugh, I just wish I could live that person's life for them because they are DOING IT WRONG! I would obviously do a way better job." But this approach is problematic for many reasons, including, but not limited to:

1) Even if someone is making a mistake, they need to figure that out for themselves. No one is really going to change unless it's their decision to do so. Maybe I just surround myself with stubborn mules, but I have never had someone say, "Wow, you know what Mackenzie? You are so right. I have seen the error of my ways. Thank you for showing me the light. Thank you, Oh Wise One, for guiding me to the path of righteousness." No. If we're being real, telling somebody they're doing it wrong is just a sure fire way to get them to dig in their heels and do it even wrong-er-er.

2) Obviously, if you're using yourself as the rubric for a straight-A report card in Life, everyone who is "not-you" is going to fail. (By the way, I am so not using myself as a rubric. Maybe "Me" circa 2007, or even 2013. Certainly not me now. I would say I am presently a solid C student at Life.) Anyway, you get my gist. People are going to fall short if you're expecting them to do exactly what you would do in any given situation. But guess what? You're not Jesus! Nobody cares "What You Would Do."

Probably the numero uno judgy issue among allegedly "supportive" parenting groups is breastfeeding. I kid you not, even the men get up in arms about it, which I find to be completely asinine. OF COURSE you "strongly believe" women should breastfeed their children! You're not the fucker whose nipples are getting gnawed off!!! How convenient for you!

This one mom literally said "I never judge other mothers for anything, except if they don't nurse their children, because that's basically child abuse." ERRRRRR. WRONG ANSWER. I mean are you kidding me with this shit? That actually dovetails nicely with a recent article on Scary Mommy titled, "If you don't breastfeed your baby, I'm judging you." Well you know what? Fuck you and the placenta-fueled kombucha wagon you rode in on. (Okay, see? I'm being judgy. But really just for comic effect. It's not my cup of tea, but more power to ya with your placenta-burger and your fermented bacterial beverage. I bet you feel really... fortified...? :))

I'm not even going to give credence to the "I'm judging you" post by linking to it here, but I'll give you the Clif notes: She says if you don't have a legit medical or psychological excuse not to breastfeed, and you still choose not to, you suck. One of my "non-judgy" mommy "friends" commented, "Well, she has a point. You should at least try." No. You're wrong. And here's why. I MADE this child. THIS BABY, AND THESE BOOBS, INCIDENTALLY, BELONG TO ME. So back the %&$# off.

We as a society place a great deal of worth on the rights of parents to raise their children as they see fit. This is a monumental responsibility, of course, and it still kind of boggles my mind that we have to take a test to drive a car, or interview to work at McDonalds (which actually seems hard, by the way, especially if you're the person that has to talk and listen at the same time?!) but they just let us walk out of the hospital with these tiny humans and say, "Good luck with that!" However, we trust that (most) parents have their kids' best interests in mind, and they will do right by their kids whenever and however they can. Sure, we're going to screw 'em up a little along the way. But that's what makes us us such interesting, beautiful creatures. That's what makes us human.

I understand that "breast is [probably] best," from a purely nutritional standpoint. And of course we all want to do what's best for our children. But if breastfeeding makes you want to slit your wrists or throw your baby out the window... if it is, quite literally, making you crazy, the equation gets a little more complicated. Add the wracking weight of guilt that has been institutionalized by the freakin' American Medical Association, the abysmal state of paid parental leave in the United States, the fact that you're a social pariah if you DON'T breastfeed, but you're an amateur porn star if you do it in public, and a crunchy granola whackadoodle if you do it too long, etc etc etc, and we're talking some complex calculus and shit. It's just not as simple as "they" make it out to be.

In the wise words of JJ Keith, "You can't win at parenting or homemaking. If you think you're winning then everyone else thinks you're a dick." Anyone who denies making compromises and concessions is a dirty, rotten, liar-face. Maybe, like me, you failed at breastfeeding, and fed your kid Monsanto formula. After that, perhaps because of the internalized formula-guilt, you lovingly spoon-fed your littles nothing but homemade, organic baby food. Then, possibly, the pendulum swung back too far in the other direction, and your children's diet now consists primarily of pizza, dino nuggets, and things that are orange.

Maybe you exclusively breastfed your first child for four years, but your second survives solely on condiments and food he finds on the floor of the minivan. Maybe your child has never watched TV in her life, but you use - GASP - sunscreen with PARABENS in it. Maybe you home school your kids and they're fluent in three languages but they binge on Netflix every night (in Japanese). Maybe your munchkins are violin virtuosos but they wear inorganic poly-blend clothes made by tiny children in Bangladeshi sweatshops. Somethin's gotta give, you know? (Okay, seriously though, Bangladeshi sweatshops are effed up.)

Here's another funny example. The other day a friend posted a picture of giant vats of Ranch dressing and nacho cheese at Smart & Final. I sheepishly admitted that I was pretty sure that was the same size Ranch that we regularly cycle through at our house. "Plus," I said, "look at those verdant valleys on the label! It's obviously super healthy! Who doesn't want industrial-sized nutrition in a bottle with a handy, spill-proof cap?" Someone commented "You should really look at the ingredients, that stuff is crap!" My reply: "Ignorance is delicious ;)" She responded "Ignorance will land you 6 feet under!"

Listen. The world is full of potential threats to life and limb. There are things that might kill you quickly (planes, trains, automobiles, texting and driving, fucking sharks (I mean darn sharks, not sex with sharks, but both are probably lethal). Other things will kill you slowly (cigarettes, sleeping pills, not-sleeping, BPA, parabens, sulfates, nitrites, gluten). And let's be honest, we're probably all going to rot away from thumb cancer in thirty years anyway. I admit, Ranch is probably pickling our organs. But. Of all the terrible ways to die, Death by Ranch Dressing is not the worst. ;)

I feel like this is such an apt representation of online interactions in general. Not to be rude, but, why do you care that a stranger on the interwebs is eating Ranch? I mean, thanks for the concern, I guess, but, there have got to be more productive outlets for your time and energy.

Colby and Jack's fights are actually a tiny microcosm of the internet. Jack inherited his mom's pesky trait of perpetual right-ness, and we keep having to remind him that it doesn't [fucking] matter, dude. We're like, Buddy, how is it a personal affront to you if your sister believes that Leonardo is the purple Ninja Turtle?

(Side note: remember this nanny I interviewed that said Ranch dressing was toxic and suggested I make it from scratch? Lady. I haven't washed my hair in days. I am single-handedly supporting the market for dry shampoo. I don't think I've peed since Tuesday. My kid is eating something green! So what if it's floating in Ranch Soup? Cut me some slack!)

Anyway. Bottom line: You gotta do what works for you and your family. Nobody is winning all of the time. It's a juggling act and sometimes you drop some balls.

Why can't we just trust that we are all doing the best we can with what we have, and leave it at that?

Parenting Math

* Symptoms may vary.

[Stay tuned for Part 2 of this post. It was getting too long, even for me!]

mustache rides

I have been remiss about posting lately. This isn't a passionate and riveting expose, just wanted to share with you the minutae of what's been keeping us apart.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought we might actually get to school and work on time, and then I walked out into our driveway and saw this. Good times. Good times.

Honestly the biggest problem wasn't that a large tree fell down, blocking our driveway and knocking over fifty feet of fence. The biggest issue was that we live on a shared driveway, and this situation would require communications with our grumpy neighbor, or "The Mean Old Man," as the kids call him. In the four months we've lived at the house we have had exactly zero positive communications with this crotchety dude.

A little background - before we'd even closed on the house, I had a charming conversation with this fellow wherein he (1) accused us of bringing down property values based on the price we'd paid for the house, (2) said he hoped my kids weren't "maladroits" like the kids that lived here before, (3) said we better not be planning to play baseball or put up a basketball hoop out front (this was, in fact, exactly what we planned to do), and (4) warned me that we better bring some integrity and maturity to the neighborhood (cuz, you know, that's a reasonable expectation with a 3.5 and a 5 year-old). The following week he stormed into my front door, through my house, and into my backyard to berate me for allowing someone to park their car three feet onto his portion of the shared driveway. Since then he has repeatedly yelled at workers and service people, and shouted at my kids to "play in front of their own house." He also told my in-laws not to disturb the piles of dead pine-needles that lined his portion of the fence (wtf?) Finally, we later discovered that he once went off on another neighbor while wielding a freaking axe (for parking in front of his house, naturally). So yeah. The guy's a peach, basically. He also has a Benghazi bumper sticker. Even though I'm more of a Bernie fan, I'm seriously considering a Hillary lawn sign. Maybe both. Just for shits and giggles.

Source: Dave Ross

Much to my surprise, my conversation with The Mean Old Man about our shared predicament was actually the most pleasant conversation I'd ever had with the guy. At least it was, until he said "Well, it could be worse. We could be in the Middle East getting carpet-bombed by those diaper-heads." Mmmmmkay. I said, "Well, my husband's parents are from the Middle East so I can't really say I'm on board with that sentiment." Then he started to tell me about this "one guy he knew" from "I-Ran," and how he worked from the Army and loved 'Murica and was a real stand-up guy. Charming.

So then I had to take the kids to school in a cab because Uber is apparently unavailable in North County San Diego at 8am. Sixty dollars! And this is why people don't like cabs. Well, one of many reasons. Remind me to tell you about the NYC cab driver that COULD NOT drive in a straight line. Seriously, it had to be intentional it was so bad. Like, if you were trying your absolute hardest to make someone carsick, you could not be as bad a driver as this guy. Never a dull moment.

Anyway. The next day I went to San Francisco on a work trip. I stayed away from booze, benzos and over-sharing so it was an improvement upon my first business travel experience. Before we left my boss said he was going to make dinner reservations and asked if there was anything I didn't eat. I said "Meat." He said, "So sushi? Japanese?" I said, "Yeah, sounds great. I can always find something on the menu."

That night he said he hadn't been able to get a table at the place he was thinking (because this was leading up to the Super Bowl and SF was crazy town!) But he'd made reservations at the Japanese place at the St. Regis called "Ame." (Aim? Ah-may? We may never know.) Him: "It has a Michelin star." Me: "Right on." (Translation: I have no idea what that means.)

Fast forward to dinner. I found out what "Michelin Star" means. It means "This is a Japanese food restaurant that doesn't serve RICE." WTF. Him: I always order family-style. Is it alright if we both just get a bunch of stuff and share? Me: Uh, well... I can't eat much of this so that might not work out that well. Him: What do you mean? Me: I don't eat fish. Him: You don't eat FISH? I thought you said you didn't eat MEAT. Me: It was my understanding that "meat" is animal flesh eaten for food. I have always included fish in this definition. Him: Maybe you should have said something when I asked if sushi/Japanese was alright? Me: Japanese is generally a safe bet! It's not my fault you picked the one Japanese restaurant in San Francisco, nay, THE WORLD, that doesn't serve rice! How hard is it to make a cucumber roll?!

Anyway, I ended up ordering the one vegetarian option (that wasn't even on the menu). Some vegetable risotto dish. (Risotto is NOT rice, by the way.) The dish comes out COVERED in tiny skinny slimy penis-looking mushrooms. I died a thousand silent deaths. I HATE mushrooms. They make me want to murder myself. And this dish was just infested. There was no eating around them. It was like a 1:1 risotto to fungus ratio. There was no way I was going to say anything, as my boss was already convinced I was a total high maintenance nightmare diva queen. So I ate in queasy quietude, grinning and gritting my way through each chewy, gummy, slimy, micro-mushroom-penis bite, shedding silent tears in my mind, trying not to audibly gag, or worse, projectile vomit all over the senior partner seated across from me.

Meanwhile, he peppered me with the usual hilarious carnivorous jokes "So, I'm assuming you don't eat slabs of raw eel then? How about scallops? They're hardly an animal. Caviar harvested from an endangered beluga whale in the Caspian Sea? No?" (I do eat eggs, sometimes, as long as I haven't recently thought of them as embryos, so, technically, I suppose I could eat caviar. But why anyone would choose to do so is beyond me.)

I basically ran back to my hotel room (across the street from the St. Regis because I am not a fancy partner) and started desperately searching for the room service menu, but I quickly realized there was none to be found. A hotel without room service? How is that even a thing?! Even Motel 6 has a damn vending machine! I called the front desk in disbelief, and they only confirmed my deepest, darkest fears.

But lo! Little brother to the rescue! In short order, he showed up with 2 cupcakes, 6 macarons, 2 scoops of ice cream, and a bottle of dessert wine. I now have diabetes, but it was worth every bite.

The actual work part of my trip went great. I then walked approximately 97 miles around the city, spent $6 on a bottled coffee drink that was, apparently, made from cold-pressed unicorn tears, got caught up in the Super Bowl 50 melee, and did the friendship equivalent of speed-dating. As I was waiting for my ride to the airport, my brother and my friend KC and I were discussing our weirdest Lyft/Uber driver experience. We were talking about that woman who was kidnapped and raped by an Uber driver. KC said she recently had a driver who told her he'd murdered someone in Spain and gotten away with it. Not sure how they missed that on the employment application. And my brother shared his favorite story about a driver named Kevin who truly believed he was a dragon trapped in a human body. As my Lyft driver pulled up we assessed. Older Asian man. Looks harmless. Almost definitely not a serial killer. Clean new car. Okay. You're good to go! Definitely not going to get locked in a rape dungeon or told dragon tales. Once I got settled in the car, I looked up, and was surprised to see ... my driver only had ONE ARM!

While initially unexpected and hilarious, I actually think this is pretty cool. I've had a couple of deaf Lyft drivers as well, which is probably an ideal disability to have if your job description includes driving around drunk people. More power to ya, Lyft!

To top off my domestic adventures, DM and I went to New York City - BY OUR SELVES, for 48 hours. I was supposed to go for work and he was going to tag along. But then at the last minute the work obligation was canceled, and we had already gotten tickets to a show and a hotel for an extra night and we thought, fuck it! We're doing this thing! And we did. I think we went to more bars in those 48 hours than we've been in the preceding 48 months. And I ate ALL THE FOODS. We missed and stressed about our littles, but they were in good hands. We certainly paid the price upon our return, but it was so worth it. It's crazy how easy it is to forget you used to be an actual person apart from your identity as a parent.

Salud!

One of my favorite moments was in the wee hours of the morning at this random bar in Greenwich Village. It appears that the average NYC bar-goer has been acculturated to bartenders with suspenders and waxed mustaches serving complicated cocktails consisting of locally sourced organic mint fertilized with human shit that doesn't stink, painstakingly-peeled Valencia oranges grown by the light of the Harvest Moon, Reiki-infused ginger root, and gluten-free alcohol served in vintage apothecary jars. So this guy orders something befitting the man-bun atop his head, and the bartender replies, "Bro. I would just like to point out to you that it is 1:30 in the morning, and your choice of adult beverage should reflect that fact." Keepin' it real. Oh, and they were playing Frozen on the widescreen. I <3 NY.

Let it GOOOOO! Just order a fucking beer bro.

Gratuitous NY snaps:

Sold.

Always.

Not normally a food pic person but c'mon.

The world is strange and delicious. :) Donald Trump notwithstanding.

The End.

DO ONE THING AT A TIME.... AND SMILE. 

breaking news: control freak lets go

Life is good. Compared to Costco-sized can of Whoop Ass we were being served a few months back, pretty much anything seems chill. But it occurred to me that this era of chill is due in part to the unclenching of my rear-end and the release of the stick that's been stuck up there for the past 30-odd years.

I will refer this recent phenomenon as The Great Letting Go of 2016, but it has been a long time in coming. This letting-go has actually been a gradual process over the past, oh, I don't know, five years, six months and three days or so :)

And I had a revelation of sorts the other day. Maybe everyone else already knew this. But just in case.

Say you have something that needs to be done three days from now. It will take X hours of actual work. It could be anything, a legal brief, a birthday party, a bake sale. The old me would spend the last three months plus today, tomorrow, the next day, and the final X hours before it is due finalizing and perfecting the thing.

Here's an example. Whenever we used to go on trips, I would pack, say, a week ahead of time. And then two or three days prior I would unpack, assess, and then re-pack. I honestly can't even remember why, or how, or what, or WHY. But anyway. That was my process.

Before

Now (well, as of January 16th, 2016), my process is to just pack, once, at the last possible moment I can do so without increasing the overall stress of the situation.

After my Patented Program. Guaranteed to drastically lower your standards and your stress in five short years.

I traveled for work last week. I knew I didn't have any suits that fit. I've known this for a year, actually. Yet I was at the store the day before buying a suit that I could actually zip. The sales lady was like, Oh, you're one of those. Perhaps counter-intuitively, the New and Improved me kind of sucks at life. But the thing is, if I'm going to end up stressing out about it at the end anyway, why spend any more time and energy than that?

Of course, turning off the preceding three hours or three days or three months of preparatory stress isn't as easy as it sounds. That was just the way that my brain worked. Still works. But I guess I've just started to train myself to fight back against that all-encompassing stress. I think of that stress like a stream that's always been traveling down the same well-worn path, and recently I've begun to build a dam, one rock, one pebble, one stick at a time. And slowly but surely, I'm turning the tide on that stress, forcing the energy to flow in a different direction.

The Super Bowl was on Sunday. On Saturday I was recounting to DM the litany of things that needed to be done before the 2pm Super Bowl Party the next day: Get strawberries (because of course the store I went to Saturday night was sold out). Make chocolate-dipped strawberries shaped like footballs (obvi). Buy a bottle of booze for the host (because of course I forgot my ID the night before and they wouldn't sell to me, crows feet and super-sized eye-bags notwithstanding). Make jalapeno poppers. Make custom, non-candy Valentines for The Boy's class. Do a weeks' worth of laundry.

Side note: I will say, another little thing that has helped in my handling of stress has been DM's reaction to it. I read this article by an online "friend" a good while back about how your partner needs to validate your stress-ball tendencies, rather than trivialize them. It makes a difference. I swear. See Seven Reasons Why Your Wife Acts So Stressed Out All The Time by Samantha Rodman aka Dr Psych Mom. See also, The Invisible Burden That Leaves Moms Drained about "Kin-Keeping" by Katie McLaughlin on Pick Any Two. I felt so validated by this. I love that there's a name for what so many of us do! It got me thinking though. Most of this stuff falls squarely in the "Should" department per my BFF Claire, and as we all know, "Shoulds" are toxic to your health. The author writes "Just think about how different your own childhood would have looked without birthday cakes and family beach trips and homemade gifts for Grandma, and you’ll see how valuable these kinds of tasks really are." But who's to say the product of all the "should-work" wouldn't be replaced with equally meaningful memories, even if the birthday cakes were from a box and the gifts were from the dollar bins at Target? I can personally say that while the end-result of all the kin-keeping may benefit my children, it ain't too pretty seeing the sausage get made, or the kin gettin' kept, so to speak. My kids might actually choose cheapy perforated supermarket valentines and store-bought cupcakes if it meant a mom who would sit still and really be with them more often as opposed to a mom running around like a stressed out banshee trying to make Pinterest-worthy creations and picture perfect moments. (Side note to the side note: When Jack first started at the preschool years ago and they said they didn't celebrate Valentine's Day, I may or may not have called them Nazis. But this has turned out to be a blessing in disguise. God Bless the Fruit Snack Fascists!)

Anyway, DM made all the right murmurings Saturday night: "OMG, that's horrible, we'll never get it all done! But we'll give it our best shot!" (What a man what a man what a mighty good man :))

So, Sunday was his day to sleep in. He comes down around 10 in the morning. The kids are watching TV and I'm sitting at the kids' drawing table in my robe, coloring one of those grown-up coloring books that're all the rage.

DM: Ummmmm..... What's... going on?
Me: What?
DM: What are you doing?
Me: Coloring.
DM: ...
Me: What? I like coloring.
DM: Okayyyyy... I have never seen you color in a coloring book in the 14 years we've been together, but... whatever you say.
Me: What? The farmer's market doesn't even open until 10.
DM: It's 10.
Me: Dude! What do you want from me?! Am I supposed to be at the market the second it opens?

The thing is, the "old me" would have been. Poor guy was just so completely floored that I hadn't already been running around like a chicken with its head cut off for four hours, he didn't even know what to do with himself. He said "I feel like I woke up in an alternate universe."

Long story short, the strawberries and the jalapeno poppers and the valentines got made. The laundry lived to fight another day. But really, is laundry ever done? Not in my house.

I can't really feel my fingers these days, so them're some wobbly footballs. But guess what? NOBODY CARES! ;) 

Printables by Kudzu Monster on Etsy (natch')

Later that night DM told me he was really content and that life was really good and that he was especially happy because I seemed like I was in a good place with respect to my psycho stress ball ways. He said he was so glad that I had finally "lowered the bar" to a reasonable and achievable level.

This actually had me a little worried. If he thinks the bar is low, I may have gone too far.

But then I woke up this morning and found this - the reformed scrounge troll organized the junk drawer in his non-existent free time! So, basically, we've switched personalities. This is some Freaky Friday shit but I'll take it. Apparently, if you lag hard enough, your partner will pick up the slack. Who knew?!

If you had any idea how crazy this was... Next thing you know, he's going to go KonMari on my ass.

As I was getting ready this morning, DM asked me if we had hotel reservations for our trip to New York that was happening in less than a week. Me: Um, not yet. Him: *Speechless.* Then I picked up a shirt off the dirty laundry pile, put it on, and said "No one saw me wear this yesterday and it doesn't even smell that bad." DM: "I don't know who this woman is, but I like her. I like her a lot."

Anyway, it's not like I've completely rid my life of stress or anything. That's what bedtime is for! Baby steps.

Source

Jesus is Not My Homeboy

If you've been around these parts a while you probably know I am not a religious woman. I come by it honestly, I assure you. My mother grew up in an evangelical Christian family (her grandparents founded the local Church of Christ), and eventually ran away to California and eschewed anything that even remotely smacked of religion. She attempted to be neutral on the subject for our benefit, but you didn't have to be a rocket scientist to pick up on her aversion to all things Jesus. Yet, as I've mentioned before, she was never able to completely shake that foundation of faith. This dormant dogma cropped up at unexpected times.

I inherited this complicated relationship with religion in general and Christianity in particular. I get the hives when people start talking about ChristOurLordAndSavior, but I will listen to the most Jesus-y, Keep-the-Christ-in-Christmas music you ever did hear. I went to "Jesus Camp" in high school, and even attended weekly bible study for a while. I have read books on both sides of the fence - The Case for Christ, The God Delusion, etc. I actually own multiple Bibles, and keep one on my bedside table for regular perusal. At times in the past, I have been outright hostile toward religion, but now it's more of a "live and let live" attitude. I am respectfully skeptical, but hey, whatever you need to do to get through the day, you know?

I've come to realize that it's not religion or God that I have a problem with, it's when people use God as a sword and a shield to defend and assert (what I believe to be) asinine political positions. A friend's mom just posted this great article titled "5 Stupid Things The Church Needs to Stop Doing to Make Progress." You can read it yourself, but I'll paraphrase my favorite part: If you're assigning a political ideology to your God, you're doing it wrong. The author writes "God is not a Republican or a Democrat, or in my country, a Conservative, Liberal or New Democrat. Nor is God an independent. God is God. When your church becomes a mouthpiece for a political party, you cease to be the church." He (the author, not God) also says "Stop being so weird online." Ha! I think this is a sound piece of advice that every single person on the Internet should heed, not just religious folks!

I also resent when people try to force-feed their particular brand of God to others. Same as parenting advice: If I want it, I'll ask for it. I basically feel about religion like I do about cigarettes: I don't get it, but hey, whatever, you do you. Just don't try to sell it to me or my children, or corner me in a small room with no ventilation.

The issue of my kids and religious indoctrination is where things get tricky. I'm a big girl. I have taken the time to research and draw informed conclusions on subjects about which I feel strongly. I also have a carefully calibrated bullshit-meter. But my kids' brains are thirsty little sponges. And they still believe in Santa Claus, so their powers of deductive reasoning leave room for improvement. It is both elating and terrifying to think that people other than my husband and I can and will fill those sponges - with mind-boggling knowledge, crack-pot Kool-Aid, and/or useless trivia and movie quotes.

After the whole red-shirting dilemma, we decided to send Jack to a private kindergarten this year. It's a "Country Day" school that is reportedly without religious affiliation. However, when I was filling out the paperwork, I had to sign this "release" that said that I acknowledged that the children would recite a daily "secular prayer." Now, as a person with a basic understanding of the English language, I was a bit thrown by this phrase, "secular prayer." Secular: denoting attitudes, activities, or other things that have no religious or spiritual basis. Prayer: a solemn request for help or expression of thanks addressed to God or an object of worship. Sounds a bit oxymoronic, dontcha think? I asked for some clarification and the woman looked at me like, "Oh joy, you're one of those." (Side note: WTF is up lately with people telling me, "Yeah yeah, don't worry about reading it, just sign the contract." Yeahhhhh, no. I'm a lawyer. That's not how we do.)

Anyway, the following week we had Kindergarten Orientation and the teacher handed out this packet that contained these so-called secular prayers, and let me just say, there were an awful lot of "Lords" and "Gods" in there for something supposedly secular. At the end, the teacher asked if anyone had any more questions, so I started circling the blatantly religious language and wrote on my paper, "How is this 'secular???'" and showed it to DM. Hoooo-eeee, boy! If looks could kill. He definitely thought I was being a nightmare. I got the message loud and clear: "Shut your trap, devil woman!"

On the way home from the orientation, we discussed the legal implications of the "secular prayer." My fancy constitutional lawyer husband reminded me that it's a private school and they could teach our kids about Christ on the Cross if they felt like it.

Well! Funny you should mention that, Daddy Mack. Because not three months later, Jack comes home from school and starts talking about the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus H. Christ. At this point even DM, whose parents are Muslim (which, in their view, makes him Muslim), but who probably has a more stereotypically Christian belief system than I do vis-a-vis a supreme being and the afterlife and whatnot, was like "Whoa whoa whoa, hold the phone. What was that again???"

Let's break this down a little bit. First, just to be clear, I'm not trying to shield my children from any and all mention of Christian theology. I mean, we live in America. It says "In God We Trust" on our money. For better or worse, it's in the ether. I myself refer to the nebulous concepts of Heaven and God, even if I don't refer to him/her as such, mainly because I don't know know how else to explain death to small children. But the crucifixion? Really? Isn't that kind of intense subject matter for a five-year-old?

For those of you who do believe in The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit, and don't see anything wrong with this kind of "enrichment," let me try to explain to you how this felt to us heathens. Imagine your child came home from school reciting passages from the Quran, or informed you that when you die, you will come back as a happy cow. That. That is how it felt. We were both like, W. T. F. Then DM said, "Well, Jesus was an actual dude so, I guess we can think of it as a history lesson?" (And as my mother-in-law likes to say, Muslims believe in Jesus, too ;))

The thing is, were we to continue on the private school route, I would totally send my kids to a Catholic school, or a Christian school, or a Jewish school, and not think twice about it. Because at that point I would know what I was getting into, and I feel like I could inoculate them against religious and spiritual tunnel vision. It's the false advertising aspect of it that bothers me.

However, this same woman has, somehow (maybe with God's help because I can find no other logical explanation), taught my son to clean his crumbs from the table, fold his blankets, and turn his socks right-side-out before he puts them in the laundry hamper, so, at the end of the day, religious brainwashing seems a small price to pay. Plus, I guess I should be thankful our poor little pagans are getting a spiritual education somewhere. Lord(-with-a-capital-L) knows we've been neglecting them on that front.

One of my cousins shared a post a while back: It starts, "If my child marries yours... I just want you to know I'm praying for you..." As I often do with things I find lovely or thought-provoking or infuriating, I saved the link with a note "Write something about this." That was almost a year and a half ago. Better late than never I guess :)

Anyway. It's a sweet post. I love couching mutual goodwill and understanding in terms of our children marrying each other one day. Something about that inevitable intertwining of the lives of strangers really drives it home for me. But as noted above, I am not a praying woman. This got me thinking, especially in light of all the divisiveness and ignorance and fear-mongering and bigotry surrounding race and religion these days... What would it look like to zoom out on this idea a bit? What if your child married a Muslim? A Jew? A Buddhist? An Atheist? Would you still pray for me? What if my child married an evangelical Christian, a staunch Republican, a Santerian? Would I still send you good vibes and golden bombs of light and love? I guess this kind of goes back to my recent post, "don't be a dick," which, along with "stop being so weird online" are pretty good general guideposts for life. Was it Martin Luther King, Jr. who originally said those? Anyway, I'm certain he said this: "We may all have come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now."

In that vein, I give to you my "Agnostic Prayer" -

I may not understand your culture, your values, your beliefs, your religion, your politics, your family dynamics, or your parenting style. But understand this:
I believe full stomachs and full hearts can trump any differences we may have.
I believe we are more alike than not.
I believe you are a good parent.
I believe you love your child.
I believe you are doing the best you can with what you have.
I believe you can call your kid an asshole with love.
I trust you. I hope you trust yourself.
I respect you. I hope you respect yourself.
I'll cut you a break. I hope you'll do yourself the same favor.
I'll keep my knee-jerk judgments in check. I hope you'll do me the same favor.
I'll laugh with you, cry with you, or just be with you when I don't know what else to say.
I'll say the wrong things, and you can too, because we're family and that's what families do.
I'll resist the urge to "fix" you if and when you are brave enough to show me the cracks in the facade, or hell, smash that shit into a million little pieces.
I promise I will not, though I will be tempted to, sweep up the shards of your beautiful busted self and try to glue them back together. I will leave them scattered on the floor as a testament to your grit and your guts and your humanity. You outgrew your shell. You will find another. Or you will stay naked and raw and real and true. Whatever works best for you.
You can say no.
You don't have to apologize, justify, or explain.
You don't have to pretend you know what you're doing. The secret's out: We're all making it up as we go along.
Actually if you do pretend you know what you're doing, we may have a problem ;)
That being said, you know more than you think you do.
This gig is tough as hell. But so are you.
Amen.

I'll leave you with this (it wouldn't be truly Cheesy without a quote!)

There've been times when I wander
And times when I don't
Concepts I'll ponder
And concepts I won't ever see
God isn't one of these
Former or latter
Which did you think I meant
It doesn't matter to me

Bug - Phish

And some extra credit reading:

The Biblical Argument for Bernie (Okay, I know this goes against the "God Is Not a Democrat (or a Socialist)." But still. I liked it. Not least because my boyfriend Mark Ruffalo posted it on The Twitter. Food for thought.