Monthly Archives: September 2012

But WHY are you touching him?

“Oh, how PRECIOUS! Is he a good baby? HELLO!”

And then Nasty McGermyfingers reaches for my kid and I cringe.

Look nice bank lady, I know you’ve probably grasped the idea behind personal hygiene because you work at a bank, but you also WORK AT A BANK. I worked as a cashier for 5 years straight. There wasn’t a day that I didn’t wash BLACK CRAP off my hands from touching money all day. Now it’s true, this lady wasn’t behind the desk and she’s probably not had to count bills in years, but even so…why do you HAVE to touch him?

Why does everyone HAVE to touch him?

I get it, babies invite touching. Babies are soft and cute and have the most awesome silky skin, they smile and giggle and reach out…but they’re also so very vulnerable to the 304958304958396 billion fucking diseases you carry. Now, I breastfeed, I have had him immunized (and no, not worried one bit about Autism…Autism does NOT come from shots, FFS!) and I keep him clean. I know that him encountering SOME germs is plenty important, which is why I don’t worry if one of his toys hits the carpet at home or he grabs my blanket to gnaw on. I let family members hold him, I let family pets investigate.

But I also know the medical history of all those things. I know who’s had their shots, I know what’s irredeemably disgusting, and what’s probably not a big deal.

But you, nasty chubby bank lady…you I don’t know. I don’t know if you wash your hands after taking a dump. I don’t know if you just went to visit your diseased cousin in the hospital yesterday. I don’t know if you are reaching out with a clean hand or a dirty one.

And I’m so shocked and mortified…I let you do it. I want to choke the life out of you…but instead I stand there like a moron, washing him smile at you before finally saying, “He’s getting grumpy.”

“This is grumpy?” Shocked.

“Oh yes. Very. He’s teething.”

“He’s…this is teething?” Pure disbelief now.

“Yep.”

“…”

“He’s pretty easy going, but I should take him home now.” I smile wildly at her, and off I go.

 

Thing is, I’d lie if I were of a mind to – but I don’t even have to. HAR HAR.

 

Now let’s get the little man home so mommy can wash off all the nasty bank-lady germs. YUCK!

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Adventures in breastfeeding…

Yeah, basically that. It’s been a while since I’ve written but to condense the story somewhat I had been mucking about with having my little man nurse when he was in an especially good mood and willing to try it out. Then came the day where I forgot his bottle. We were in the middle of dinner, an HOUR away from said bottle, and he looked me right in the eye and began to suck on his lip. Then chew on his hands. Then curl his back and whine. Take him out of his seat, bounce him on my knee – there’s no way he could be hungry, I fed him like an HOUR ago, and like 6 ounces…there’s NO. FREAKING…

Oh gods, he’s starting to whine. People are starting to look. Ugh, okay…well…no bottle. And…no nursing canopy. Wait, this restaurant had a picture of a pregnant lady on the outside asking people to not smoke near the door…they’ve GOT to have a seat in the bathroom for breastfeeding!

Nope. Another sign saying “don’t drink while pregnant”. Awesome. No changing area either. So off to the car with me. Change him, and he’s still mad as hell, basically saying in every way he can that he needs his bottle NOW, and there’s just no pretending he’s not hungry.

I’ve TRIED to breastfeed him when he’s in this state. It doesn’t work. He just gets mad.

Well…there’s not much to do since my husband was still in the restaurant with our company, and even so it would STILL be an hour before he would get his bottle…so…apologize, pull out a boob and hope for the best. He screamed bloody murder at me for at least half an hour – before he managed to remember how to latch, and I’m trying not to cry…when a motorcycle (tiny Asian crotchrocket) pulls up beside me. I feel a little embarrassed and exposed, but it’s sort of dark and he’s going for sushi, right, not going to look…

And another motorcycle pulls up – into the same spot. The two guys start to chat. My belly lurches, I’m getting more and more upset…and a third bike pulls up. Now there’s three of them, the third one’s bike is still on, lighting me up like a Christmas tree, and Ollie gets it in the face.

Latch breaks.

Screaming ensues.

Now I don’t have to explain that I look like a whale. It should be a given. But when I say that I’ve got huge fucking knockers, I need to explain how big – they’re like…bigger than large cantaloupes. They’re at least size H. I have giant aureolas as well, which stand out against my pale skin like no tomorrow – so let’s just say in my suddenly well lit car, half of the city could see my giant tits, and I had a screaming baby beckoning all eyes towards me.

Finally, fought with him a bit more, got him latched again (well, his screaming mouth around my nipple…let him figure out the whole sucking thing when he calms down again), attempt to cover myself without pissing him off too much, and listen to the guys talking not but a foot away from me. Now they’re not talking about me as far as I can tell, but they’re smoking like crazy and laughing loudly.

Finally my husband comes out and gives them the longest dirtiest look he can manage, which doesn’t faze them at all (takes balls, I have to say – my husband is a HUGE guy!)

And I get the “Are you okay?”

No. No I’m not. I have a baby screaming at my tit, and 3 foul smelling idiots and their crotchrockets beside me probably talking about how fat I am, and I’m hungry as hell.

But by then my little man has tucked in again, and is breastfeeding – all the while grumping loudly at my nipple about how unimpressed he is with the whole situation.

3 months. Already talks with his mouth full. ::facepalm::

And no…they didn’t go away. Ollie just got full enough that he stopped screaming, we went in, I ate a few mouthfuls of food and then the waiter was giving us a dirty look because we’d stayed past the one hour limit.

Yeah. Fun.

I’ll remember the bottle next time.