Public nipples aren't odd anymore

 When I dropped off Hudson at nursery school yesterday there were two little girls sitting on a bench with swaddled doll babies at their chests.

"We're giving them milk!" one excited girl said. "From our boobs!"

This struck me as weird (and not only because a toddler looked me in the eye and said "boobs").The girls seemed too young to "get" motherhood and be free of the inhibitions that might stop me, but don't anymore, from nursing in public.

This got me thinking: how many people find me "weird" when I nurse in public?

I mean, it's politically incorrect to stare, acknowledge or giggle these days. And, if someone looked at me askance I'd throw them a nasty death stare and swear as they walked by... but still.

There is still something odd about public nipples.  

I whip out boobs (now, to me, orbs linked more closely to plastic containers than bulbous appendages once used to attract cute guys) in the strangest places.

When Hudson was nursing, I bared my boobs in London, England's Westminster Abby (to the horrified gawking of onlookers), but now it's at the butcher, for instance.

"Mind if I feed her here?" I asked one of the owners of Vince Gasparro's - a butcher shop on Bloor St. at Shaw St. around 3:30 p.m. yesterday as Scarlett let out panicked yelps for food. We had spent the day out, grocery shopping, running errands and getting home wasn't an option. In fact, I rarely nurse at home these days, or in a comfortable chair. 

"Ah, sure," the butcher said, slinging two soup chickens I ordered onto the counter. 

I plunked myself on one of two foldout chairs across from the blood-soaked butchers block where I've witnessed many a cow gutted - this day the block was strewn with stray chicken livers - undid a few sweater buttons and cradled Scarlett like the toddlers did their baby dolls in Hudson's class.  

One elderly butcher tried to keep his eyes on his meat. Patrons paid me no mind, except for one woman.

"Good for you!" she said. "Assert your right!"

More than weird looks, I get a lot of encouragement from random people, especially when I feed at grocery stores, which I do often, on the floor, any floor I can find, in professional, government and doctor's offices, the gym, the car, my boss's front hallway during a recent dinner party.

In that last scenario, I nursed in projectile-spitting distance of colleagues, including male colleagues my age who I might not be eager to get undressed around. You know, it's so unprofessional!

One colleague, a friend, strode past me crouched at the foot of the home's staircase.

I'm not trying to get a look or anything, he said, cheekily, completely joking (and I paraphrase because I can't remember his exact words.). 

"Ha," I said. "There's nothing good to look at anyway!"

Well, that's not entirely true. There is Scarlett. She's pretty cute.

 

 

Why won't she sleep?! Seriously, I'd like to know.

Putting Scarlett to sleep is like playing "Whack-a-mole" with a particularly wacky mole. 

By "wacky" I mean sadistic.

I have put her to sleep - rocked, shushed, strolled, nursed, driven, slung, bjorned, lulled - no fewer than 14 times in the last two hours only to achieve success - or so I think because her lids close and breathing slows - and then see her blue eyes pop open three minutes later.. or less.

"She's broken," I wrote to Ted in an e mail because the poor guy is working late. "I'm serious. It's not cool. It's weird and freaky."

Now she's lying beside me in bed staring at me with those wide open eyes. She's mocking me. 

It's not nice to mock your mother! 

Bah. 

Forgive me. I have sinned.

Like Catholics, Jews are endowed with a healthy (gulf-sized) amount of guilt.

That sinking feeling in the pit of my Jewish gut doesn't seem to stop me from doing bad/stupid things. However, transgressing does make me thirsty, er, feel horrible. 

Herewith, a short list of this week's sins in an attempt to alleviate some of my pain:

1) Ignoring my kid

"You're fine, sweetheart," I kept insisting when Hudson complained, his face grimaced and red, that the wetsuit I just stuffed him into was hurting around the collar. He was late for swimming and needed to get into the stroller (so we could run him there) immediately. There was no time to change.

"But mummy, it's too itchy," he whined.

"You're fine," I said authoritatively.

"But mummy," he said, fingering the wetsuit collar.

"You're fine," I said, more authoritatively.

Hudson developed a red, splotchy rash ringing his neck. It lasted for three days. 

2) Ignoring my kid 

Hudson was trudging lethargically around his playroom Saturday afternoon and, even though he wasn't demanding a nap, clearly needed one. 

"One moment, sweetheart," I said, when he asked me for a peanut butter sandwich, a clear sign he was tired because he rarely - if ever - asks to eat. I was two pages away from finishing a chapter in a great book. 

"Mommy, I'm hungry," he said again, just as my cellphone rang.... 15 minutes later I remembered that he wanted something to eat. I went back to his playroom to see if he was still interested and.... he was lying like a forgotten drunk on the floor, fast asleep.

3) Ignoring my kid.

Did I mention I'm reading a great book?

"Just one more TV show, mummy," Hudson said, pleading. 

"Sure kid," I said seven separate times Saturday afternoon, leaving Hudson in front of the TV for more than three hours so I could finish my book.

What? Sue me! Some TV sometimes isn't the worst thing ever. Leave me alone! I needed that time... (and I could use a drink...). 

 

Bathing suit blues

I peeked around the change room corner, took a deep breath and sprinted to the communal showers hoping no one would notice that my bathing suit didn't fit.

No such luck. 

"Oh!" one of Hudson's teachers said, nearly colliding with my wiggly boobs and stomach, both spilling out of my suit. She smiled nervously as if trying to conceal her alarm.

Her lips were saying "you just had a baby," but her eyes were begging to understand why a mother would come to a nursery school swim class looking like a porn star decades passed her prime.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered. "I'm nursing and I don't have another bathing suit right now that will, um, fit this well... I've got a lot of weight to lose."

I fumbled to cover myself with one of Ted's t-shirts but that plan fizzled quickly in the shower (again, nursery school is not the place for a wet t-shirt).

Every Friday Hudson's class goes swimming. Parents are strongly encouraged to come and help out in the pool. I'm on mat leave, how could I NOT go?

Guilt.

The thought of Hudson, stuffed up to his neck in a life jacket and bobbing alone in a pool of giggling parents and tots because I'm too vain to bare my thighs and (enormous) boobs in public, became too much. So, last Thursday night, hours before the morning class, I summoned years of therapy, wrestled down my insecurities a bit and decided to, um, take the plunge.

I made a three part plan:

1) encourage myself to be an adult: this resulted in several Stuart Smalley moments, standing in front of mirrors talking to myself:

"I'm good enough, I'm "thin" enough (lying to yourself is OK if it's for your children) and gosh darnit, no one will look sideways at me anyways!"

Besides, I reasoned, the brown line beneath my belly button looks, um, not THAT bad, and seeing my pancake butt and rippled thighs in the bright white lights of the pool deck will encourage me to hasten my weight loss efforts. 

2) Do not try on the swimsuit or think about the class until seconds before it starts (so I can't rethink my brave decision).

3) Do not look in the mirror once swim suit is on and avoid eye contact with everyone

That's the part of the plan that didn't work so well. 

I smiled pleasantly at Hudson's teacher while nudging my reluctant son into the shower for a pre swim rinse, then wrapped us both in towels. And, unfortunately I caught sight of myself in the mirror. 

A week later I'm still exorcising those demons...

What a parent won't do for her kid!

I'm bracing myself, because I have to go through this all again tomorrow...

 

Hormones to the rescue!

When the officer slid past the window I threw my cellphone onto the seat and, to show I wasn't really breaking the law, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and started talking into the air.

"Pull to the side," I heard the policeman say.

Crap.

"I'm so sorry," I stammered, rolling down my window. 'It's just habit, the holding my cell phone thing, total habit. Please don't give me a ticket?"

Scarett and I were on our way home from a series of errands, which included dropping Hudson at nursery school and a friend at work around 9:30 this morning. Rain drizzled down my window so I couldn't make out whether the policeman looked at all sympathetic.

"Who's car is this?" he demanded.

Confused, I glanced around at the half eaten pieces of rye bread and banana peels, the coffee cups, pacifiers and crushed paper bags littering the back seat to reassure myself I hadn't stolen something big this morning - a reasonable proposition given my sleep deprivation.

"Um, mine?" I said.

Well, your license plate is expired.

The officer's face was stern, his ticket-writing fingers twitchy and I promised Ted I wouldn't get one more ticket this year (okay, I'm a horrible driver, with a knack for parking illegally too).. or else.

"Oh," I responded, thinking I had to do something and quick. If ever I was going to use that whole new mom thing it was now:

I mustered my best flustered look (it wasn't difficult given my unkempt, un-showered appearance. My hair, wiry and wild was pulled into a lopsided ponytail and I think my giant nursing bra straps were poking through my ratty t-shirt).  

"I. Am. So. Sorry," I whined. "I didn't realize I had an expired license plate. I... I just had a baby, I'm exhausted. I haven't been paying attention to anything but the baby and the not sleeping.... And she's a tiny baby... And I don't sleep..."

"I see the baby," the kind officer said. "Okay, okay, listen, don't talk on your phone again. It's a $190 ticket. And please, please, tell your husband to register the plate. Okay?"

"Okay!" I said - a headache, which had just started its descent to my forehead, halted. "Thank you sir! Thank you!"

As I pulled away I exhaled and tried to think of the lesson I learned from this experience: seem more hormonal next time. 

 

 

My little lion learned a word

Hudson bounded down the steps of a pumpkin-adorned house Halloween night like a kid who, well, just left a candy store. 

Treats in hand, his face flush with the thrill of trick and/or treating, he looked back at the door and opened his mouth as if to say thank you, but instead out came:

"Idiot!"

In the dark and excitement of Halloween no one heard him but Ted.

"Pardon? What did you say?"  my husband asked, stunned, flashing back to two weeks ago when he could have sworn Hudson greeted him by saying: "I want mommy, you're an idiot."

Hudson gleefully repeated the word 10 more times. 

Our cute little son - in glitter makeup with black whiskers and round as a pumpkin because we slid the lion costume over his ski jacket - was taking after his mother and my potty mouth.

Crap.

"This is horrible," my husband says, forehead in his palms. "What if he says that to another kid at school? He'll get in trouble."

Actually, I'll probably get in trouble.

But what am I supposed to do? Stop talking? I'm barely aware of the things I say until they come out of Hudson's small scarlet lips. It's only because of his chatter that I've come to realize I overuse the following phrases:

"what are you talking about?", "seriously?" and "are you kidding me?" 

The bigger problem is... I think it's hilarious when he says them, especially things like "idiot." 

That makes me a horrible parent and bad person, I know, but I can't help myself. I just find him so darned cute.

Besides, is the word "idiot" really that bad? 

 

Here, my potty mouthed lion in a not-so-great picture I snapped before he went trick or treating with his dad ...