Tag Archives: breastfeeding

Some things don’t need a sequel…like pregnancy

I am not pregnant.

I know, I know. You probably don’t care if I am or not. Unless you’re my husband, my traumatized dog or my uterus, you have no stake in my reproductive habits. But let me tell you, typing out those four words is among the top five best feelings in the world.

Not that I’m anti-children or anything. I love children (except for that one kid…he knows what he did). In fact, I have one of my own. And even my black soul is partial to that little bugger. He’s amazing. I love him even more than I love cheese. And I’m someone who has an entire drawer in her fridge dedicated to just cheese (which I’ve creatively dubbed “The Cheese Drawer”).

But he’s also the reason I feel such relief at typing those four words.

See, before I had a baby, I was always terrified of getting pregnant. Or at least I thought I was terrified. Any time my period was even five minutes late, my evil brain tortured me with thoughts such as:

“But I’m not ready to be a mother.”

“But I don’t have the money to raise a kid.”

“But my freedom!”

“But wine!”

“But what if he turns out to be a serial killer? Or worse, an urban kale farmer with a weird mustache?”

Ha! How naïve I was. Because see, now that I’ve actually had a baby, I know the real things to be terrified of. So last week, when I was five days late, I was curled up in the fetal position beside my 9-month-old as the following thoughts raced through my brain:

“But I’m not ready to not poop normally for nine months!”

“But I don’t have the energy to vomit for four months straight and then pee non-stop for the next five months.”

“But wine!”

“But, oh god, the midnight feedings. And the 2:30 a.m. feedings. And the 4 a.m. feedings. And all because of…”


Just like someone who is finally released from jail and finds themselves in a less than legal situation again while police sirens slowly grow louder, it was like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

I can’t go back to jail, man.

I won’t.

Not that I never will go back. I mean, sure, yeah, my husband and I have talked about having another kid. We both agree it would be nice. To eventually give Riker a sibling. In the future. When we’re both ready again.

Like when he’s getting ready for graduate school.

But we know too much now. It’s all still too fresh. The pain. The exhaustion. The farts.

Oh god, the farts.

Which is why I rejoiced when my menstrual cycle finally did get off its lazy ass and cycled again. I may have been in the electric chair but the governor called in the nick of time.

And it feels good to be free again. Er…well, at least on probation. I still have one kid I need to report to on a daily basis. But I’ll take it.

Because you can still drink wine on probation.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the warden is demanding a game of peek-a-boo and he gets cranky when I show up late.

Why women should run the world

There are a lot of reasons why women should run the world. For instance, most of us usually carry tissues with us at all times (in addition to the 52 other random items in our purse), which could come in handy when dealing with, say, a maniacal dictator who has a runny nose.


Woman: “Would you like a tissue?”

Dictator: “Why, yes, I would. (Blows nose). OK, fine, no death to America. In fact, I’d be willing to step down if only you could also give me stolen sugar packets from various restaurants and lotion that smells like a pumpkin spice latte.”

Woman: “Well, as a matter of fact… (reaches into purse).”

But let me give you the most obvious reason we should run the world:


Breastfeeding, you say?

Yes, breastfeeding.

Let me explain.

I want you to imagine the following scenario:

You are in a hospital, where after 33 hours of labor and no sleep followed by major abdominal surgery  (in which the doctor says “you will feel some pressure” but really means “you will feel like the bottom of your stomach is peeled back all the way up to your neck while a bunch of rabid squirrels root around in your intestines,”) they will hand you an adorable honey badger that they then want you to put on one of your most sensitive body parts, which the honey badger will gnaw on until it bleeds and cracks.

And then you are asked to repeat that last part every two to three hours while you recover from this major surgery and continue it, at least according to the breastfeeding Nazis out there, until the honey badger goes to college.

Also, and this is the most important part, despite the fact he is ripping that extremely sensitive body part to shreds on a daily basis, you are not allowed to punch him in the face. Even though you would instinctively resort to such violence should anyone else on this planet cause you that much physical pain, you must never. punch. the. baby. in. the. face.

(This is a mantra you will repeat often to yourself).

Are you imagining all this? If you are, it means you are a man. See, because women don’t have to imagine it. We are expected to do it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like sobbing heaving sobs at 4 a.m. while your nipples are sadistically tortured is totally normal. Like contemplating chopping off your own hooters with a dull ax because it simply HAS to feel better than continuing to breastfeed is par for the course when you’re a mother.

This is why women should run the world. Not only because we are made out of the strongest stuff found on Earth (evidenced by the lack of news stories of women routinely being arrested for punching their baby in the face while breastfeeding), but also because you buttheads owe us. If you exist, it’s because some poor women gave up her body and her sanity to create you and then destroyed both a little bit more to keep you alive.

So, if you’re a world leader, or have a senate seat, or run an evil empire from a giant cave hidden in a boulder that looks like a skull, it’s time to step down and give that position to your mother.

She’s earned it, goddamn it.



Give it a breast already

In case you guys haven’t heard yet, I’m pretty much the best person on the planet.

It’s true. I mean, sure, Pope Francis had some good moments this year. But when it comes down to it, no one can compare to my pure and humble unselfishness. My pure, unadulterated courage. My pure and utter lack of pride in how completely amazing I am.

In fact, I’m so amazing, I feel bad for everyone else. No matter what anyone ever does from here on out, they’ll never compare to me.

So just what have I done to deserve the title of Best Person Ever, you ask?

Well, I…(cue dramatic church organ music)…am planning on breastfeeding.

breastfeeding 1

OK, OK, perhaps breastfeeding alone doesn’t necessarily make me the Best Person Ever (pretty sure I’m still in the Top 5 though). But judging from how people react when they find out I’m planning on breastfeeding once I pop this kid out, it does automatically put me in the category of Better Person Than You.

Yes, apparently any woman who breastfeeds in this day and age deserves her own parade, carried through the streets on a litter by the lowly parents who decided to feed their children formula.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the following:

“Good for you! You’re going to be such a good mom!”

“Breastfeeding is tough. You’re so brave for making this decision.”

“You’re obviously the superior parent. Will you raise my children?”

And that’s all from just planning on breastfeeding.

But here’s the thing. I don’t deserve all these accolades. One, because even though I want to breastfeed, it doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be able to or that I can hack it as a breastfeeder. Many women stronger and tougher than I have tried and failed.

Two, here are the reasons I decided to breastfeed, in order of importance:

1. Cheaper than formula.

2. Will help me lose weight.

3. Good for the baby or some junk.

And three, while breast may be best, our society has gotten out of control with the Judgy McJudgerson act regarding those who decide to bottle feed.

breastfeeding 2

Seriously, I’ve heard people compare using formula to child abuse. I have friends with babies who have had to sit through lectures from strangers about how selfish it is that they aren’t breastfeeding. And God help you if you can’t breastfeed for medical reasons but then don’t spend your life savings to buy breastmilk from some hippie mom you found on the Internet.

Sadly, as I’m quickly learning, the breastfeeding debate is just the front line in the bigger conflict known as the Mommy Wars, where every parent feels they know not only what is best for their child but what is also best for your child.

And I’m about to enter the fray woefully unarmed.

But, truth be told, I’m kind of glad I’m unarmed. Because I’d rather just assume you’re doing what you think is best for your child and I’m doing what I think is best for my child. And regardless of what we are actually doing, chances are still high that neither one of them will turn out to be a serial killer.

And if we’re REALLY lucky, neither of them grow up to be that know-it-all co-worker who interrupts every conversation with “well actually” either.