The Crazy Files, Vol VII: I Probably Ruined Bubba’s Life By Not Breastfeeding

As I imagine is the case with most new mothers, the first months of Bubba’s life were all about survival. It only took a few sleepless nights for me to abandon virtually all of my preconceived notions about parenting and to start making decisions based on only two factors: will my kid survive, and, presuming so, is it the easiest possible option available. Sure, I had assumed that I’d breastfeed with ease and that baby would sleep in his crib and wear cute outfits and I’d probably shower from time to time or something, but within weeks I had that kid sleeping with me, drinking bottles, and both his outfits and mine were perpetually covered in layers of spitup I simply could not be bothered to remedy.

The sleep deprivation hit me hard, and everything about taking care of a newborn was so much more difficult than I had ever imagined — especially breastfeeding. Prior to having Bubba, I barely gave a passing thought to what nursing would be like, so convinced was I that it would be effortless. But when he arrived and I discovered that breastfeeding required endless patience along with every last ounce of my extremely limited energy supply, and that it could be totally uncomfortable, and that the use of what amounts to a torture device just to pump milk for him while I worked would get old real fast, I quickly determined that it was more than I had bargained for. When Daddy offered to give the baby some formula at three weeks so I could get a little sleep, I agreed without a second thought, and by the time Bubba was seven weeks old the ease of formula feeding had won me over and I gave up on the boobs entirely.

Months later, once the haze of the sleepless newborn days had finally worn off and I had some time to reflect on Bubba’s infancy, I felt a twinge of regret about my decision. Was I an awful person for choosing comfort and sleep over nourishing my child? Could I have done more and tried harder? But Bubba was perfectly fine! He was happy and healthy and smart and clearly no worse for the wear, so I let that assuage my guilt and moved on.

Then I had Baby G, and with him came the opportunity to learn from the mistakes I made with Bubba and do things differently. I decided to give breastfeeding another try, and as it turns out, everything is easier the second time around! My body is already used to reduced sleep, and just knowing what to expect makes a world of difference. To my great surprise, the breastfeeding experience this time around has been a breeze — Baby G is a champion eater, my milk supply is stellar, and other than a couple of clogged ducts (TMI? Gross) things really couldn’t be going any smoother.

And I feel so, so terrible about it. 

Not for Baby G, of course. No, I feel horribly guilty that I couldn’t do it for dear Bubba! I was okay with my decision for three years, but now that I’ve had success with Baby G, I am plagued with guilt and regret and am kicking myself daily for not having had just a little bit more patience with my firstborn. How could I have been so selfish?

And of course my brain doesn’t stop with just a little regret. No, I go further off the rails: what if Bubba only seems fine to me because I had nothing to compare him to? What if this kid grows up to be way smarter or more athletic and it’s totally because of the breastfeeding?! And poor Bubba is left watching his little brother thrive while he withers away due to some as of yet unknown deficiency and he never achieves his dreams and then he finds out it’s all because I let him drink FORMULA and then he HATES ME FOREVER and I can’t even blame him for hating me because it’s ALL MY FAULT?!

On the other hand, I’m surely ruining this baby’s life by never being able to offer him my undivided attention because his big brother is always around and by taking selfies while he nurses, so perhaps I can take comfort in the fact that both of my children will grow to hate me in due time.

MOM I’M EATING THIS IS PRIVATE STOP WITH THE CAMERA

Silver linings!

The Crazy Files, Volume VI: The Search History of a Paranoid Nutjob

Someone got to my blog this week by googling a very peculiar query: “newborn gives me dirty looks.”

Like any sane person, my initial reaction was a mixture of amusement and curiosity. I imagined a wild-eyed, sleep-deprived new mom — covered in spitup and leaked breastmilk, obviously — desperately trying to interpret her baby’s facial expressions and growing more paranoid with each passing sleepless hour. “What a lunatic,” I chuckled. “Why would someone worry about such nonsense?!”

And then the part of my brain that is self-aware caught up, and I remembered that I myself am a lunatic and have turned to Google with a myriad of my own cringe-worthy concerns over the past couple of years. Here’s a sampling of my humiliatingly deranged search history from my pregnancy and the first fifteen months of Bubba’s life (and sadly, NONE of these are fabricated or even exaggerated; I am, regrettably, truly this crazy):

• Odds of miscarriage at ___ weeks pregnant. I was very, very terrified of miscarrying, right up to the third trimester, at which point I transitioned my fears over to stillbirth.
• Does being startled affect a fetus? I got startled by a loud noise (it was my shampoo falling down in the shower…don’t judge me) when I was about six months pregnant, and my heart was a-poundin’ for a solid ten minutes. I started to worry that that the baby’s blood pressure would be impacted and that the poor little lad would suffer some sort of problem thanks to my weak nerves.
• What does the death rattle sound like? Bubba was three weeks old and making a really weird snorting sound in his sleep…I was concerned. And tired.
• I hate breastfeeding. Poor Bubba. I tried!
• Infant Motrin accidental overdose. I got confused between Tylenol’s and Motrin’s respective dosing regimens and dosed Bubba about an hour earlier than I should have. Panic ensued. (He’s fine.)
• Long-term impact of daycare on mother-child bonding. Legitimate concern.
• Toddler refuses to say “mama”. I suspect it’s personal and deliberate at this point. Perhaps because I sent him to daycare!

Thinking your newborn is showing some sass by shooting you dirty looks doesn’t sound so crazy anymore, does it?

Dirty look? Sweet smile? You be the judge.

The Crazy Files, Volume V: Replacement Wife

Thanks to my fascination with true-crime TV coupled with my inherent lunacy, I harbor a serious fear of being kidnapped, tortured, and (obviously) subsequently murdered. Every time I go jogging alone, I’m on high alert:

• I obsessively scan my surroundings for any potential evildoers in my path (and if I pass someone along the way, I always peek over my shoulder a few moments later to make sure they haven’t decided to follow me)
• I make sure TFW knows exactly where I’m running and how long it should take me so he can call the police if I don’t return promptly (his instructions are literally as follows: “if I’m not back by 6:00, assume I’m dead and call the cops so they can start triangulating the location of my body via my cell phone pings”)
• Whenever the terrain changes (e.g. moving from the paved road onto a dirt path), I think about how the forensics team will be able to use the evidence from my shoes to determine where I was abducted and to prove that their suspect was in the same location (“the soil in the soles of her shoes clearly matches the minerals found in the treads of your tires, you guilty sonofabitch!”)
• I try to make eye contact with or say hello to as many people as possible along the way, so that if I disappear and my story gets on the news, there will be plenty of witnesses who can provide the investigators with information about my last known whereabouts

(When I’m running with the baby, I don’t worry at all…I seem to have convinced myself that a toddler and a jogging stroller are surefire deterrents to all manner of miscreants and malcontents. I never claimed to be logical.)

As you can see, I’ve really put a lot of thought into this — going running exhausts my brain as much as my body. But my fears don’t end with my hypothetical abduction and homicide: I have also done a lot of thinking about what will happen to my family after my untimely demise.

Specifically, I have a lot of concerns about the horrible wenches my darling husband could choose as my replacement.

“But you’ll be dead,” you’re probably thinking, “so why should you care what the hell is going on at that point?” OH, BUT I DO! I’m not going to let a silly little thing like logic prevent me from worrying about something about which I have no control! No, I’m really quite concerned about this. TFW and I have a very special relationship — I can’t be replaced by just anyone. And of course, there’s Bubba to think of — I certainly don’t want him to have an evil stepmother. And I obviously don’t want to be replaced by anyone better than me, either. Come on!

So like any totally sane and not at all crazy person would do, I’ve come up with a brief set of guidelines for TFW to follow in the (hopefully unlikely) event that I am met with a tragic fate:

1. If she doesn’t show sincere interest in Bubba within the first five minutes of meeting you, kick her to the curb IMMEDIATELY.
2. It would be best if she looked completely different than me…everyone will think you’re a creepy weirdo if you pick someone with any resemblance to me.
3. She should be uglier than me, and preferably fatter. Dumber, too. And less witty.
4. You should like her or whatever though, I guess.
5. I authorize you to select someone who is superior to me in the following categories only: fashion (maybe she can make sure our son doesn’t go through life looking like a hobo), home decorating, and dancing. I should come out on top in any other comparison.
6. She can’t have big boobs. Ghost-me will get a complex.
7. If she doesn’t like Seinfeld, something is probably wrong with her and you should immediately reconsider.
8. Pick someone who already has a kid or wants to have one with you — my death does NOT mean that you automatically get to win the “Bubba should be an only child” argument. MY CHILD WILL HAVE SIBLINGS WHETHER I’M HERE TO CREATE THEM OR NOT.
9. Make sure she knows how to clean, because you sure don’t and I don’t want my child living in filth.
10. If she rolls her eyes about something awesome like going to Disneyland or watching Big Brother, don’t waste your time. She’s a fun-sucker and should be banished from all societal interaction.
11. If she knows all the lyrics to the Animaniacs theme song, she’s probably a keeper. Quiz her early so you know.
12. Find a way to test her mental health before you get too attached. If she shows any signs of being crazy, like thinking she’s going to be murdered every time she goes out for a jog and then writing lists of requirements for your next mate, get out while you can.

And if you fail to heed these “suggestions,” I’ll haunt you from the grave.

above: murderer-repellant

The Crazy Files, Volume IV: Jinx!

If you read my entirely-too-long account of Bubba’s birth earlier this week, you may have noticed that I seemed completely blindsided by the labor and delivery process, as if I were one of those imbeciles who claim to have not known they were pregnant despite the 9-pound kicking and rotating and hiccuping human being enjoying residence within their womb. I’m sure you’ve all been scratching your heads for days now, wondering why such a clearly brilliant woman (humor me) would do such little planning for such an obviously consequential occasion, particularly one for which there was no shortage of time in which to prepare (specifically, nine months). Forget those “I didn’t know I was pregnant” nutbags — what kind of incompetent excuse for an adult knows full well that she’s pregnant for nine months and is still that unprepared to give birth?!

(And if you haven’t yet read that delightfully self-indulgent two-part tale, what the heck are you waiting for!? It includes the word “mucus” AND features a near-topless photo of a very-pregnant me, wherein you can bear witness to the spectacle of a seriously stretched-out tattoo. What more could you want? Go read it!)

Allow me to answer your question: a crazy person, that’s who.

The fact of the matter is, I spent my entire pregnancy in a constant state of fear, certain that something was going to go wrong at any minute. During the first trimester I was convinced I was going to miscarry (a prior miscarriage and some intermittent — but ultimately innocent — bleeding in the early weeks ensured that this possibility remained firmly in the forefront of my mind at all times). Later on, I worried about stillbirth, chromosomal problems, birth defects, the cord getting wrapped around his neck, early labor (probably caused by too much worrying), emergency c-sections, me dying during childbirth…name a hypothetical pregnancy/childbirth-related catastrophe and I assure you I spent a sleepless night or 10 panicking about it.

The Crazy Files, Vol III: Dear Abby-In-My-Brain

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved advice columns. Why reading letters about marital problems, etiquette, and relationships would interest an eight-year-old is a question for another time, but boy did I love reading Dear Abby and Ann Landers dish out their sensitive and savvy guidance every morning before school.

(Sidenote: I also loved Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal, and even had subscriptions! At least I had the self-awareness to be ashamed of this – I remember trying to fabricate some explanation for why the magazines were addressed to me and not my mom when a friend saw them. I needed my Dear Heloise and Can This Marriage Be Saved fix!)

Anyway, I’m not sure why I had a 70 year old woman trapped inside my body in elementary school, but the point is, I got hooked on reading these succinct pleas for help and how logically Abby and Ann could solve any problem. Both Abby’s and Ann’s responses are almost always my favorite type of advice: not patronizing (both of those old bats have no qualms about telling fools when they’re in the wrong) and straight to the point (you deserve better, ditch the loser boyfriend! Your mother is a whacko, mourn your childhood and cut her off! Talk to a trusted adult about your creepy biology teacher!).

At this point, you’re probably thinking “well that’s not so crazy – lots of people like advice columns. Maybe not kids (weirdo), but you’re an adult now. Where’s the crazy?”

I’m getting there.

The Crazy Files, Volume II: Ryan’s Rolling Results in Reduced Rest (for Mama)

Ry Ry has been rolling over for a while now, but until a couple weeks ago it was just an occasional and essentially accidental occurrence (always accompanied by an adorable look of bemusement on his face – “What the… how did I end up here?! And why is Mom so excited about it?”). Eventually he got the hang of the trick and realized he could actually perform this feat on purpose, which came in handy (for him) when he was sick of being on his belly, but it wasn’t until last week that he made a life changing (for both of us) discovery: rolling around can actually get you places!

We’ll get to why this exciting development is driving me crazy in a moment, but first, check out how freakin’ cute it is (and yes, he really is this deliriously happy just about all the time):

The Crazy Files, Volume I: Baby Cam!

My radar is detecting some nearby insanity! Oh, it’s just mom.

As I explained in my introduction, I’m a bit of a crazy person when it comes to mothering (and everything else… but this blog is about my craziness with respect to my child, so we’ll stay with that theme).

I have a tendency to assume bad things are going to happen to me. When I was pregnant, I spent the whole 9 months saying (to myself – I don’t want people to know I’m crazy!): “don’t get too excited – if you do, the universe will punish you for your arrogant optimism and cause something to go awry!” Strangely, the baby being born perfectly healthy didn’t assuage my fears as much as one might hope – instead, I just have a million new things to worry about!

(If that sounds like a terrible way to live, you’re right! It totally is. I’m working on it, I swear. The most effective way to work on something is to pretend everything is fine, right? Ok, great.)