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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.

How do you play with a 3 month old?

I ask this not because I don’t play with my three month old, it’s just that his favorite games are (now) just complex enough socially that I’m forced to really pay attention to him, but they’re so very subtle that I get very distracted by…well…knowing that I should probably be doing the dishes, or maybe making myself something to eat for lunch, or heck, maybe just taking a nap (since I do not sleep well!).

His latest favorite games are as follows:

~ Blow bubbles so Mommy will wipe them off.

~ Make a “Hmm” noise repeatedly so Mommy will look over.

~ Slide down onto my back and whine so Mommy will sit me up.

~ Shove my fingers down my throat and make myself barf so Mommy will clean me up.

The issue is that he’s able to now play these (or combine them) for hours. And because they basically require my undivided attention, I’m getting even less done around the house.

Now while I’m of the opinion that it’s more important to have a happy kid than a messy house, and that you really can’t spoil a baby under the age of 6 months, I’m still very tired out by all this because well…no matter how I scold myself, I still get terribly bored and distracted. I try to make new games with him, to read to him, or to play exercise games or practice sitting or standing, but he would really much rather do more social things and babble at me for hours.

And then there’s the curse of “the little eyeballs” – sometimes he just stares at me, smiling, watching, cooing and blowing bubbles at me. At first it’s sort of cute, but on another level, I have extreme social phobias, where I much prefer to limit my social contact to a set design where I can break eye contact when I like, back off when I like, and be standoffish when I like. When I feel exposed, I really freeze up, panic and want to run away.

And maybe that’s why this is so especially tiring for me. Because he wants me to look at him, and he wants so badly for me to approach him, and he wants so badly to be held and loved…and I’m just not that way. My husband and I love each other very, very much and do cuddle, but we often do so while the other is preoccupied. It’s okay for us, because we’re both that way. We’re both highly distracted and need to do things iwth our hands or eyes and do so while hugging on the couch.

But you can’t be like that with a baby. He doesn’t understand that I love him even if I’m looking at the computer. He needs to see it on my face. He needs to be hugged and held.  But I still stress over it so very, very much, because I know what I’m like and I know what makes me happy, and I’m very content to just…entertain myself and be comfortable.

But with him, I need to entertain him, and make him comfortable.

I know the whole socializing thing is SO important, and during SUCH a fragile time…but man it’s hard for me.

 

Reminds me of a quote: “I see these mothers that can do everything and I think…maybe I should get them to do some stuff for me…”

To a moron who would deny motherhood’s place in feminism…

Oh yes. That’s what I want to teach little girls. “Don’t be a mommy if your family can afford for you to do so! That’s not a real job! You should be working and paying someone ELSE to be your kid’s mommy! Go back to work and make sure those men KNOW that you can be completely disconnected from your children in order to make a buck!” Wait. Does that mean that nannies aren’t doing work? Why the hell do we pay them if being a caretaker of children (and a manager of the household) isn’t work?

It’s MORONS like this woman, that help men think that being “JUST” a mother isn’t enough to be worthwhile. Homemaker on a CV shouldn’t be a mark of shame – it should be a mark of “I wanted kids, I went out and got them, and now I’m back in the workforce, way more able to take care of my life because hell, working 18 hours a day pushing papers around and “crunch time” moments of “going to have to work this weekend, too” ARE A FUCKING JOKE NEXT TO 24 HOUR, 7 DAYS A WEEK mommydom.” I’m sorry that your dusty old vagina never managed to pop out a brat, bitch…but your job is a fucking joke next to being a mother.

Oh and you really want people to believe that 86 percent of full-time mothers spend the same amount of time with their kids as a stay-at-home mother? Where the hell does THAT add up? 40+ hours of the full time mother’s week are missing from that child’s life, until that kid is going to school. Unless the mother is working overnights, all of those hours are going to be ones that the child is awake for – in the care of…you guessed it…ANOTHER PERSON (probably another woman!). I’m sorry but ZERO percent of full-time-working mothers spend as much time with their kids as stay-at-home mothers. That’s just fucking LOGIC.

And just because “anyone can get stuck in this situation” doesn’t mean a damned thing. With the advent of abortions, if you’re not willing or able to keep that child, guess what? You don’t have to. Which means that being a mother is a choice, not an inexcusable “oops”. And for those who make the choice to keep their kids, doesn’t make them any less a hard worker, or any less worthy of a job when they head back to the workforce (whenever that might be!). YOU are the one reading failure and regret into a pregnancy. No man wants to fathom labor, and reminding them of the awesome power of your body is a good way to one up them.

You could note that she brings up the “women who are stay-at-home moms” as ones who are insanely rich, that have nannies, which results in their spending all their time freeloading and spending their husband’s money, but it should be noted that having kids or not, these woman would be doing just that. It’s got NOTHING to do with motherhood at that point – just being a freeloader. Not to mention that for the majority of the article, she is fiercely stating that if you are not able to support yourself without a man in your life (for any reason), then you are the cause of (not the victim of, BUT THE CAUSE OF) sexism in the workplace. Well fuck you, darling. Most countries in the world give a mother the chance to be a mother to their children without being a “freeloader” and this leave? Not always called Maternity Leave – it’s often called PARENTAL leave…and can be taken by the father, if he wishes!

If you want to change how the 1% view motherhood…you need to learn to respect it yourself.

There is nothing that anyone should be more proud of than being a mother who is willing to be a mother (not a freeloader with a fucking nanny doing their job for them!).

You aren’t edgy, and you aren’t a feminist. You’re an apologist for chauvinistic pigs who would vomit if they ever had to do something like clean a dirty diaper in their own.

To idiot-mitten or not to idiot-mitten…

My son has taken to scratching his face. He’s just turned 11 weeks, and up until now, no scratches at all. I figured that the older he got the less likely he would do it, so the idiot-mittens have remained in a box. But the first time…out they came. But I couldn’t bring myself to put them on. I have baby nail clippers I use on him, and he’d been recently trimmed, but…well fine we’ll wait until he passes out and trim and he’ll be good.

Nope. Another one the next day. Right on his nose!

Well, maybe he had a baby booger, and I don’t have a baby-booger-sucker-bulb-thingy, and maybe he just managed to do it…

Nope. Another one.

I don’t even know how he’s managing it, his nails are short, and I can’t trim them any closer…he’s just aiming for his face with whatever edge he can manage.
So now the subject of idiot-mittens are back on the table. But I STILL can’t bring myself to put them on. He’s JUST learning to grab things of his own volition. He’s JUST learning how to play with toys. He’s JUST learning to put his hands to his mouth when he’s NOT hungry. (Also, he occasionally gives his toys the finger.) I put mittens on that, now he’s unable to do any of that. Even if I just pop them on when he’s unconsious – it’s not fair to him if he wakes up and hell, he’s probably scratching himself while he’s learning to do this stuff.

So we put them on all the time? All for the sake of what? Tiny, itty bitty scratches that will totally heal? Fuck that.

No idiot-mittens for my boy.