Here’s how it starts — I’m sitting at my computer, or in my car, and I suddenly feel trapped. I need to go somewhere, have an adventure, do something memorable. In college we would drive day and night to get somewhere new just for the sake of saying we went. Canada, New York City, Alabama, the Mississippi River.
Last night I was lying in bed scrolling through my phone when I came across this.
Unfortunate timing, since I had approximately 2.5 hours left of being 34. I figured I should take stock of my current sexiness, seeing as how it was soon going to vanish like Cinderella’s flaky Godmother (why only give her until midnight? If you’ve got the power to make her life better just do it forever. Geez).
Remember how I wrote that “The Dishes Can Wait and Other Lies” essay? And how I put it up on HuffPost and people who must have had an unfortunate accident as a child that removed both their sarcasm gland and sense of humor took me way too literally and seriously? The best was that they went both extremes. Some took it to mean that my house was a complete disaster all of the time, and that there were ants everywhere, because all I did was take the “they’re only young once” advice to heart. And then some people were sure that my house was perfectly clean, because I was shunning that advice entirely.
This past weekend was our annual Mother’s Day friend camping trip. We go camping with this group of people at least a couple of times per year, and usually one of those times is Mother’s Day weekend. Except for last year, what with the premature birth.
I have a confession to make: I really don’t particularly love nursing Rowan. I love the idea of it, but in reality he is at a stage that is something akin to trying to nurse a manic octopus. He claws at my arms, breasts, and face. His newfound locomotion has him trying to crawl while he nurses, gymnastic feats of sticking his butt in the air and doing the nursing equivalent of the dizzy bat game. He can’t seem to keep his top teeth off of me, and occasionally bites down — apparently just for the fun of it. He’s distractible, and he pops on and off repeatedly.
Let’s get the obligatory disclaimers out of the way: I fully support a family’s right to feed their baby in whatever way works best for them. Formula is not an enemy. And for women who desire to breastfeed we need to do everything in our power to help them succeed. We should be bulldozing the hurdles and sewing up the loopholes.
I figured the time around Rowan’s birthday would throw some hard days my way, as memories were dredged up and pushed to the front of my brain in a way they haven’t been in a while. I expected moments of sadness over everything surrounding his birth and the time after — the bittersweet joy of his first birthday.