What I Will Miss About my Baby

I literally wished away the first year of her life.  All that crying - all those epic poopy diapers.  All those sleepless nights.  All those days I could barely get out of the house.  Then I wished away a few more months.  Then, we hit a sweet spot.  The cutest months of a child's life.  About 17 months - 24 months.

During this small window of time, toddlers learn how to speak the cutest sentences, they walk, they make the best facial expressions, they copy everything and they learn and do something new every day.

It is utter, and complete wonderment.

My "baby" girl will be two-years old in just a month.  And all I wish I could do, is freeze time.  Right now. 

Just keep her at this wonderful stage, of wonderment and pure happiness.

I can't ever get enough of her belly laughs.  I could squeeze and kiss her baby leg rolls forever.  I want to watch her pig tails bounce forever.  I want to listen to her sweet, sing songy voice forever.  I want to feel her pudgy little fingers wrap around my neck forever.  I want to feel her squeeze my legs tight with excitement every day (she squeezes so hard she shakes).  I want her to smile a huge smile, with crooked teeth and scrunched eyes forever.  I want her to tell me, "two more times, " every time we get ready to leave the park and she wants to go down the slide, "two more times, " while holding up her pointer finger and middle finger.  I want her to pull up her shirt and show me her proud belly.  I want her to tell me every night, "Mama, sing baby song."

And I cry.

When daddy chases her around the house and says, "I'M GONNA EAT YOU!"

She yells back, "No EEEAT You MEEEEE!!" all while laughing and running away.

I love how she makes her stuffed animals kiss.

I love how she loooovvess to give kisses.  She usually gives the sloppiest, open mouth kisses - but it's the best kiss ever given.

She truly has baby's breath.  That flower was named after something very real. The child doesn't brush with toothpaste, she doesn't nurse and yet her breath is the sweetest smelling scent.

More tears.

These last few months of my life with both of my girls have been the most wonderful months of my life.  I will truly miss every moment.  Sure, there will be other wonderful, amazing moments in our lives ahead.  But none so beautiful as these.  They will be beautiful in a different way.

This is sad, but I literally don't remember any moments like this during my older daughter's life.  Her life 17 months to 24 months is a blur (exceptions to her first steps at 19 months old and potty training). 

I don't remember it being so sweet.

It's probably because I was so miserable taking care of my little newborn baby, that I couldn't focus on my older daughter's wonderful toddler moments. 

But in a weird way, the moments my younger baby robbed me of with my older daughter, she gave back to me ten fold.

And I sob.

I thought I wouldn't make it as a good mom when I was in the throws of raising two babies at the same time.  One would cry, then the other would cry - and I would have to figure out which one to pick up first. Who do I console first?  And as I tried to hug and pick up both at the same time, I would just hold them on our kitchen floor and cry.  How horrible to have to choose.

For nearly a year, all I did was feed, change diapers and scream "FUUCCCKK!!!" every time I tried to get out the door.  Y'all mothers know what I'm talking about.  Life with a newborn is hard.

Raising two babies at the same time put me in a very dark place for such a long time.  I imagine others cope better than me, but I didn't have the skills.

Now, as the last baby grows into two-dom (I know it's my last cuz hubby is snipped), I feel like I've been given the greatest gifts on earth.

She will be my "baby" forever.

My older baby will be the super verbal one, the head strong one, the fighter.  And I love her for that - she is me.

My younger daughter will be the baby, the lover, the affectionate one, the judicious one.  And I love her for that - she is my husband.

And I cry.

I never got emotional for the first birthdays - I was like yelling, "Hooray!" at the very thought of my child being one-year old raising my glass to it as someone (who knows?) was cutting the cake.

Two is different.  Two means my baby will be a little girl soon.  A little girl that won't want to be cuddled, that won't want to be picked up, that won't want to give kisses, and won't want to hug all of the time.

Instead, we can look forward to endless tea parties, playing princess and fairies, epic shopping sprees and mani-pedi mama/daughter dates.

And on the eve of my baby's birthday, I realized why God gave me both babies back to back. 

Because we all need each other.  Life wouldn't have been complete without my youngest baby.  The three of us have a bond, that only mommies and daughters, and sisters do.

I'm reminded of a book my mother used to read to me and my sister at bedtime. 

It's called Love You Forever.

The mother in the book sings to her sleeping baby ... and keeps signing to her sleeping baby even when he's not a baby anymore.

I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.

Ovvvv Coouurrse the home emergencies happen when you're gone

There are two observations in life that I have.  Home repair emergencies and car repair emergencies happen at the most ridiculous times (like when you're husband is on a damn business trip).  And they always happen right after you receive a random, un-expected chunk of money.

Let me explain.

Last week hubby went out of town.  The day before he left, a lovely water stain showed it's ugly self on my celing in my foyer.  Awesome.  I kept going back and forth - is it the tub leaking upstairs?  Is it the roof?  Is it some awful plumbing issue?  Or maybe seriously, the roof is fucked?

After a few phone calls - I decided to go with a roofer.  Two roofers came out, and sure enough my roof is fucked to hell.  Basically amateurs laid down the roof, and this leak is just Part I of the impending disaster.  The roofers fixed the roof within 24 hours, and for only a couple hundred bucks. Phew! Dodged the bullet.

HA!

A day later, as I'm washing dishes in the kitchen, I hear a trickling water noise.  I'm like, aww damn, here we go.  The roof wasn't fixed right.  I gotta call those bozos back out here.

I check.

Nope.  Not the roof. 

I walk downstairs in my creepy, dirt floor, 1920's basement.....ohhhh yyeaaahh...freakin' water flowing out of my clearly cracked pipe.  About 2 inches of water is standing underneath it.  Awesome.

So I text hubby.  Not sure why.  He can't do a damn thing hundreds of miles away on a business trip.  So I start making phone calls to get some estimates.  Turns out, plumbers are not cheap.  Half of them won't come to your house for free.  I got one estimate that was pretty astronomical.  And then out of principal, I decided any plumber that charges more than $30 to come to my house can go fuck themselves.

I went a whole day with said leak.  As in, dishes all day long were piling up in my sink.  My kitchen stunk to high hell.  And finally, I got a decent recommendation for a plumber.  Next day, my husband comes home, makes the phone call and plumbers are over my house in a matter of hours.

The plumbers were only supposed to check the leak.  They come, determine the problem, and are like, "okay ma'am we're gonna get to work now.  It will be a few hours.  You won't be able to use any of the bathrooms."

Ummmm excuse me?  Just like that, me and my two kids are kicked out into the street.  I got no plan of what to do with 2 brats.  Two brats that I am supposed to spontaneously entertain during the most crucial hours of the day.  Nap time.  Nap time for god sakes.

Well, I keep them out of the house for a good 3 hours.  I go back, my freakin' potty is sitting in my front lawn and the plumbers are still there.

Oy.

They're not even close to being done.

I decide to take the kids for a walk around the neighborhood.  I take the kids to the bakery - get them sugared up.  Then, as we're about 10 minutes away from the house....the shit waves start.  Not for the kids, for MEEEeeeee!  Like I gotta gooooo bad.  My stomach is cramping up, I'm sweating.  I'm like fucking speed walking down the sidewalk.  Why did I have to have a salad and coffee?  Ughh!

Then as if on cue, my toddler starts screaming bloody murder.  Of course!  She's exhausted.  It took everything in my power to not just sit on my potty in the front yard and take a dump.  No, instead, I was a little more classy.  I handed the screaming baby to daddy (while daddy was on a conference call).  I ran out the back door and backed my car out of our driveway at about 40 miles per hour.  I parked at the closest CVS.  And thankfully, their bathroom was unlocked.

Relief.

I picked up some mouthwash and bandaids just because I felt bad about shitting in their bathroom and not buying anything.

And then I went home, fully relieved.

The men were almost done. 

In the end, the plumbing issue was very expensive.

However, the funny part of the whole thing is....... I happen to put in A LOT of work hours the week before the home disasters.  Which means, I made a whole lot more money that week than I normally do.  So just as I'm thinking I might do something fun with that money - like actually save it, the money goes down the fucking drain, literally.  That always happens to me!

I guess I'm supposed to be thankful that extra money was there, but what the fuck?! It pisses me off.  The delicate balance of life.

I will admit, I did have a breakdown at some point.  But, life was a bit of blur for 2 days, I can't really remember which day it occurred on.  I'm allowed a mini-breakdown now and then.  Did I mention the coockarachas are back too?  Happy Spring muthas!

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I'm a Motha-Freakin' Soccer Mom 4 Eva

I'm the soccer mom that walks onto the field in some Chuck Taylors, greasy ombre hair with over-grown bangs, big sunglasses and an Urban Outfitter ensemble.  If ensemble is even the word for it at this point. 

Hot mess...I don't really own an athletic pair of shoes (my gym shoes are 10 year old Nikes)..or a matchy matchy track suit or fleece.  I don't believe in them.

I don't yell for my little girl - even though she's fucking awesome. 

I watch.

I clap.

I prefer to silently support.

I don't have a bumper sticker that says, "soccer mom."  I don't believe in bumper stickers...period.

And as a side note (complete tangent), I am against those stupid fucking stick figure family car decals (you know the ones with mommy, daddy, Susie, Johnny and little doggie Max) and mini-vans.

Okkkaayyy, that felt good to get out. Anyways....

Let me tell you why I wouldn't miss a soccer game for the world. 

My 3-year old has never really played a sport on an organized team.  For the first couple of practices, she was shy.  Sometimes, it was hard to get her to play.  I didn't push her, daddy didn't push her and the coach didn't push her.  After a few practices she had enough confidence built up to not feel shy.  Even though - she's the smallest and slowest of the whole pack.

She's a runt.  My little, low-birth weight baby.  The smallest one on the team who tries as much as she can to keep up.

After practice she tells me, "Everyone is really fast."

So she is aware that she's slower.

To avoid completely agreeing with her (and putting anymore unnecessary judgement on her skills) we say things like, "Yes, and you really kicked that ball super hard that one time."  Or  "And you can trap the ball really well."

With a few practices under her belt and words of encouragement- it's game time. 

We're on the field with the rest of the soccer mommies and daddies early Saturday morning.  They are so chipper.  Immediately the feeling wears off on me.

Although for a brief moment, I did think to myself shouldn't I be getting in my kickboxing class?!

That's selfish.

Moving on.  I take in a deep breath of morning Spring air. It's crisp and my feet are cool in the dewy grass - but my face is so warm from the beating sun.

The energy among the team is electric.  The kids are so pumped to have their new team jerseys.  All matching, all neon green.  The team is called Dynamo.  Half of kids have no idea what a game is or how to play it (my daughter included).  They're just happy to be there.  They can tell, that this is going to be really fun.

The coach mixes and rotates the players in the game so perfectly - so all of the kids have a chance show off their skills, and build upon them. 

I did watch a lot of the game (okay mostly the parts my own daughter played)...whatever..you get it.

So while she was resting on the sidelines - I saw a lot of other cool things too.

One of my daughter's teammates has taken my little daughter under her wing.  She's older, taller and super fast on the field.  But she is always sure to give my daughter pats on the back and high-fives.  The girl even puts her arm around my daughter while they watch the games on the sidelines. 

This older girl totally accepts my daughter - and treats her as older.  Which in Little Girl Land (as we all know) feels awesome.  My whole life I wanted to be older and accepted by the older girls. (Except when I hit 25 and realized that I really want to be accepted by the younger girls...the girls whose tits aren't on the fast-track to sagville.)  Ohh wait, ANNND I was knocked up while everyone else was having cocktails.

Moving on.

Another little girl, instead of chasing after the ball like everyone else, is dancing with her shadow on the far end of the field (blissfully unaware of what's going on).  Her mom points her out and laughs so hard she cries.  Sure it waaas funny.  But those tears - tell it all.  I know them well as a mom.  They come unexpectedly.  They come when you realize how cool and amazing your kid is - when they're NOT doing what everyone else is doing.  When they ARE being awesome - while being completely different.  And you, as a mama, are so proud you cry.  I got a little welled up for a second.

My other observation - was of another completely spaced out kid.  This kid totally gave me the hippy dippy, mother earth little girl vibe.  She was picking up inch worms on the sidelines.  Collecting them really.  She let the worms crawl all over her hands - and she showed them off to her teammates.  Then - BAM! she gets called into the game.  She tries to run onto the field with the worms - and about half-way on the field, she realizes she has to put them down.  She runs back to the sidelines and carefully places the worms on her hoodie.  She tells my daughter to keep them safe, especially the one she named, "Rainbow."

Of course, you already know.... I have no idea if my kid's team won the game.  Don't know the score, don't care.

I still don't even know if my daughter understands how to play a soccer game...maybe by game #3 she'll get it.

But I am addicted.  For all of my childless readers - this probably sounds like the stupidest, sappiest load of bologna.

Maybe you were wondering if I brought my flask? my cooler? Maybe this is a wine-soaked musing on a Saturday morning.

No, this was a completely sober, sappy soccer mom moment for me. (I was hungover, but I thought it would be bad sportsmanship like conduct to bring that up).

Watching my daughter play soccer filled me with pride and happiness that I've never fully experienced before.  Totally raw (finally in a good way) and pure.

Yes, I've seen her try new things, experience new things... but to go out on a field, the smallest of the pack - with a bunch of other intimidating kids around (boys included - little assholes....just teasing..not really), and kick a ball.....it was awesome.  Best reward yet. My child doesn't give a fuck if she's a girl, if she's small, if she's slower.  Boom -point for me.

By the way - you dooo realize I was smoking cigarettes and walking around the track during gym class in high school, right?  Oh yeah, with heavy black eye liner and lots of hair spray too.  I had ZERO confidence in my athletic abilities, and in my awkward teenage mind, I decided to be the bad girl who was too good for sports instead.

Some things never change.  But at least, I'm teaching my kid something different.

So while I may never fit the soccer mom mold or stereotype, I'm a soccer mom for life!  (Or basketball, volleyball, track, football, dance, activity-of-the-moment mom)....for life.

And here's a link to Urban Dictionary's definition of "soccer mom." Hilarious!  Personally, I feel like I might be #5.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=soccer%20mom

Talking to your kids about scary news

Let me preface this by saying, I very rarely watch the news.  Maybe some local news to get the weather forecast, but almost never national.  I know this is weird as an ex-newsie.  But I like to think of it, as I am a recovering newsie.

This week - with the Boston Bombings, Waco Explosion and M.I.T. Shooting - we've been glued to CNN.

So as I am watching the Boston Bombings story un-fold in the first hour on national television, my 3-year old is siting on the couch wondering why she' s not getting her daily dose of Dora the Explorer.  I try to explain to her that something important has happened, and mommy really wants to watch her show to see what happened.  She sat patiently enough.  She sat through videos of explosions, she heard people screaming on the video clips and even saw blood. She saw people's agonized faces.  She saw people's horror.  She heard the quickness in the newscasters voices. She heard the tone. 

She's 3, so I totally don't think she gets the severity and gravity of the recent tragedies.  And because she didn't really ask me what was going on - I never explained it to her.

But, if I am exposing my child to explosions - do I need to explain them?  Instead of just ignoring her possible curiosity, I didn't broach the subject at all.  Is that more damaging?

I can't possibly imagine sitting down my 3-year old to explain bombs, death, amputations and terrorism.  Like, what do you say?  You don't want to scare the living shit out of them.

So obviously, if you're going to explain the Boston Bombings you have to dumb down your language a bit.  But by doing that - you're already taking the seriousness, the emotion and the horror to a lower level.  And that to me - is not really doing your kid any favors.  I'm more of a tell it like it is parent. Can a child handle the full throttle explanation even if they don't understand it?

So my reaction to the past week has been not to say anything about the recent events, unless she brings them up.  I don't need to subject my child to some horrific conversation, if she's not even the least bit interested in it. 

I hear reports on Good Morning America-  the newscaster says, "how do you talk to your children about the recent tragedies?  We'll tell you .... coming up."

Ummm... how about you don't talk to them about it?! Why do we need to disclose everything to our kids?  If your kid does not seem impacted or effected by the situation - why do they need to be told about it?

Three-years old is a tricky age.  They know a lot, they're especially aware of their surroundings.  They see their environment as black and white.  But there's not much inference going on.  Not much analyzing.

I imagine if I keep watching the news every morning and every night, she may start asking some questions.

In the meantime, CNN has a great article about how to talk to your kids about scary news.

http://www.cnn.com/2012/07/20/living/talking-kids-scary-news

No, I don't want to volunteer at the bake sale

I don't want to volunteer at the bake sale, spring fling, or anything else to do with my child's pre-school.  I don't want to bake cupcakes, pies or breads.  I don't want to sit and sell my germ-infested cupcakes (the kind where your kid licks her hands while doing the frosting and sprinkles for you) for 4 hours on a perfectly wonderful Saturday.  A Saturday....that I should be spending quality time with my family. 

I don't want to help do "Spring Cleaning" at the school.  I'm already late on the clean fest at my own damn house - why would I clean yours first?!

And I definitely don't want to volunteer in the classroom and help 2 perfectly capable teachers watch my kid and 14 others.  Other kids with snotty-noses, poopy diapers and temper tantrums.

I know I should want to -- like all of the other nice mommies, but I don't.

I signed my kid up for a progressive pre-school.  The emphasis is on learning through play and real life exepriences with little interference from teachers.  The progressive theory thrives on community/parent involvement.  That's it in a nutshell.  You're not going to see teachers holding up flashcards of ABC's and 123's.  You will NOT hear any teachers say, "Good Job!" to any of the pre-K students - it's against their theory.

So....community involvement really means...parent involvement.  Let me tell you - the reason I put my kid in pre-school started off as very selfish reasons.  I wanted more quality, alone time with my younger child.  I feel like having my kids back to back deprived the little one of my attention.  AND...the big reason I enrolled my older darling in pre-school is because I wanted to work more.  Soooooo.. here we are at this progressive, hippy-dippy school and they want my time.

As a busy mom of two, I'm pretty selfish about my time.

ANNNDD...excuse me, last time I checked, I PAY you people to entertain/teach my kid.  Why do I need to be there?

So as soon as we got older darling signed up with said hippy dippy school - I learned that my involvement was apparently mandatory.  I didn't know the extent of involvement before I signed on the dotted line....how convenient for the school.

They demand that parents attend the pre-school as "room parents." As in, you volunteer your morning to come help the pre-school.  Parents are supposed to help hold down the classroom, set up crafts, set up snacks and clean up after the little brats.

Who the hell in the right mind, who is PAYING for pre-school wants to hang out in the classroom as a volunteer?!  I don't see my husband rushing to take a day off from work anytime soon to "help out in the classroom." So why should I? 

I'm sorry, it makes about zero sense.

And on top of it, when I don't sign up for "room parent" duty - these bitches get mad.  I'm like, dude, what the fuck, I work part-time, and pay for this shit - I don't need to be here.

Then.....ughh...I get those emails from the admins of the pre-school...."Parents! Come help at our school's bake sale! We need volunteers and you could help us make money for our pre-school!"

Ummm...okay - that's yourrrrr job.

My kid is like 3-years old - what the fuck do I care if the pre-school makes money?  She seems very happy, and is thriving in the bare minimum school you are currently providing.

I'm sorry, our basic needs are simple - we want socialization for my kid, some toys and guidance (teachers that make sure the kids don't end up dead).

That's it!

So, despite all of the judging looks I received from the involved parents - I remain steady.  I will NOT volunteer.  I have causes that I actually give a shit about (that I dedicate my time and money to), but other than that - I don't care.

Why do I have to be the PTA parent in training while my kid is 3-years old?

Over it, stop asking me pre-K.  I'm saving myself for PTA in the big leagues and driving my kids back and forth to various extra-curricular activities for the rest of my ever-living life.

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Ode to my Baby's Daddy (and husband)

You work a full 8 hour day, sometimes more
Always providing for our family
Making my job, taking care of the kids, less of a chore

Five o'clock rolls around, and you step in the door
It's like a rockstar entrance
The kids hit the floor

They scream, they shriek, they run and yell.
So happy you're home.
I needed a drink, what the hell?!

You play with the kids while I stir the sauce, nice and steady.
Then after 5 minutes, you ask me, when will dinner be ready?

Um excuse me, it's ready when I've had enough to drink.
Thank you kind sir, and I give you a wink.

Dinnertime is never peaceful, and yet you stay cool.
Older one fights with every bite.
And little one acts a damn fool.
I take another sip, can someone hand me a light!?

After the dinner drama, you either play daddy doctor with the kiddies or wash all of the dishes.
You already know if you don't
You'll be sleeping with the fishes.

You're always down to play dollhouse
Performing in different voices
You make up the best story lines
I don't have to play again! Mommy rejoices!

Bath time is a breeze with you
I don't have to do a thing
You handle it all, thanks boo!

We read stories to the kids, and you're really quite entertaining
You don't always know the words (and we're talking toddler books folks)
But, hey, I'm not complaining

If the babies wake up during the night weeping
You always give cuddles
But next time, when I nudge you, can you stop pretending you're sleeping?

You sometimes lock in to the TV when it's on
Forgetting your kids are in the room
Swamp people, Weed Country, Moonshiners..
Would you answer me if I called you John?

Even though you move at a snail's pace
I know it's cuz your Southern
And you'll get that chocolate off little one's face, not leaving a trace.

At the end of the day, you're here front and center
And if you weren't
It'd be quite apparent...that you didn't need to be a parent.

I may stay home with the kids, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook
You know that, I don't have to say it, I don't have to give the 'look'.

So thanks for being better than most of these chumps
You realize this family unit is a team
Not just about mommy always kissing the bumps

It's an honor to share this responsibility with you
Being a dad isn't just about being a dad, it's about being there too.

So let's raise our glasses to the dad's that make money, provide a home, change diapers, stay with the kids while mommy has girl time, washes dishes, does yard work and provides love to his family non-stop.  We women can appreciate the work - cuz hell, we do it too (only as history shows, we've been multi-tasking much longer).
Holla to the good and active daddies out there.

Boob Job and the Right to Choose

Before you all get excited (men in particular), this isn't about the silicone implants.

This post is about the job your boobs are biologically engineered to perform when you pop a baby out (well, most of us can do it).

I have survived the shame and guilt of choosing NOT to breastfeed.  So I now feel comfortable enough to write about it.

Even for awhile after my babies grew into toddlers, other moms would ask me how long I breastfed for.  I was always lowering my voice to a near whisper, covering my mouth on one side and saying, "About 3 months with the first one, and about a month with the second."

There I said it.  I gave it a good shot for 3 months with my first baby.  And to be really honest, it wasn't exclusive and she wasn't always ON the boob.  There was a lot of pumping.  I absolutely hated breastfeeding.

With my older darling I remember being bombarded by hospital nurses for my 3 day hospital stay (c-section) after she was born about breastfeeding.  I was read the benefits of breastfeeding fifty million times. 

Immediately, after my 4 pound 11 ounce baby was born - she was put on my chest- being guided by 2 nurses to my boob.  Like, she's 4 pounds folks...my milk hasn't come in yet - shouldn't someone get this low birth-weight baby a bottle with some formula??  That was my maternal instinct.

Day 2 at the hospital, a lactation consultant came into my room, grabbed my boob and tried to get my very tiny baby to suck.  I was like horrified.  And yet, I kept trying.  I would try every 2 hours just like they told me to.  Even though my nipple was the size of my little baby's head.  Even though there was like no way in hell she was going to latch her tiny mouth onto this gigantic watermelon.

As I pumped away at the hospital, I couldn't help thinking, for being the "natural" thing to do - breastfeeding is an awful lot of work.  Complete with pumping machines and consultants for God sakes.

And then it happened - disgusting, grey, black tarry looking colostrum came out of my boob.  The crowd (nurses) went wild.

I had succeeded at the first step of breastfeeding - now I was supposed to feed my baby this shit.  It took about an hour of convincing.

Day 3 I requested to take a shower.  I couldn't even do that alone, the nurse who brought me my meds came into the bathroom to give me the pills while I was in the damn shower.  She proceeded to stay in the bathroom to give me a lecture on why I need to stick with breastfeeding.   Really lady?  I just want to clean myself in silence for 10 minutes, and you're in here talking about breastfeeding and all of it's wonderful benefits. Thhaaannnkks.

Within the first 2 weeks, I knew breastfeeding was not for me.  My baby would sometimes nurse for 40 minutes (20 each boob), I'd have 20 minutes to eat something, take a shower..whatever...and she'd be wailing.  Hungry AGAIN.  I don't know if I wasn't doing it right.  I don't know if my boob wasn't working right...whatever it was ...this was just not happening.

I decided to stay attached to my pump.  Only pumping, and giving a bottle to my baby.  But I was literally pumping for 3-4 hours a day for the first and second month.  That's a part-time job.  I had supplemented formula since birth, so at 3 months old, while on a trip to New York, I left the pump behind and let the boobs dry out.

I never had those "romantic" nursing night sessions with my baby.  You know the ones by moonlight where a precious baby sucks away, totally content, looking lovingly into her mother's eyes.  Giving it up was easy for both of us.  She took to a full formula diet just fine.

And I could finally break free of the being tied down to the pump, being completely alcohol-free all of the time (I mean 9 months of sobriety is enough in my book) and she could be babysat for longer than 2 hours at a time.  Made sense for my life.

With the second child, I did feel the same pressure, but because she was allergic to milk it was much easier to make an excuse to give it up.  She needed a non-dairy formula to survive.  And seeing that I wasn't going to eat a non-dairy diet anytime soon - formula was a given.

I couldn't help being plagued by the thoughts that my formula fed kid was going to be sick 10 x's more than breastfed kids, or that my kid wasn't going to be as smart as the breastfed kids..etc.  You know what, my kids were just as sick as everyone elses - and they're just as smart (if not smarter....hahah), as those boob-lovin' kids.  I have no medical evidence to back this up, but I call it as I see it.

Here's my take on tit-feeding.  Breast is not always BEST.  Above all - happy mommy and daddy's make happy babies.  If you're not comfortable breastfeeding, don't want to be attached in that way, or physically can't do it - then move on.  That's why formula is on the market.  No need to agonize over this decision to not breastfeed.

If you are breastfeeding, good for you.  That's awesome - and I hope more laws are made in support of breastfeeding moms to do it in public.  I don't get grossed out by breastfeeding moms.  I don't care if your tit is out in the middle of Olive Garden - I won't lose my appetite. 

So seriously, boob-feeding advocates - lay off of us formula feeding moms.  We're doing OUR best, just like every other mom.  Sorry if our personal best involves formula.  And where's our advocacy group?  I might have to start one. MFFM: Moms for Fake Milk?