Sundays with Stretchy Pants

You know that scene in “Pulp Fiction“  where Pumpkin and Honey Bunny are trying to rob the diner? Only Samuel L. Jackson’s Jules isn’t going to let that happen? Pumpkin and Honey Bunny are all confident and robbing the joint and everything until they come to Jules and everything and everyone just flips the ef out for a bit and Jules is all, “Tell that bitch to be cool!” That whole scene is what it’s like to bring a breastfeeding newborn home from the hospital.

Pumpkin and Honey Bunny are the new mom. And Jules is the the breastfeeding. He’s the hiccups along the way and he’s the voice of “this is how it’s going to happen. You’re gonna be cool, and we’re gonna get this done.”

Every time it works, it’s like when Jules gives Pumpkin the $1500 from his wallet. Then Vincent (John Travolta) has to go and undermine that success by running his stupid mouth. Like, say, power-tripping nurses and our own insecurity. When Jules quotes that Bible passage at the end, “those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers” are clearly all of the people in a new mom’s life who think they know better how to care for her baby and who take it as a personal affront that a brand-spanking-new mom would deign to have an opinion and a need to do something for her baby that only she can do for him. They attempt to poison and destroy the breastfeeding relationship because of they are selfish and they are insecure and their egos get in the way of helping mothers and babies. And it’s bull.

This clip is definitely not safe for work or children:

Yeah, it’s like that. For about a week. The longest week of your life. A week isn’t that long, and I do miss my babies, but you could not pay me to go back to that week full of chaos, doubt, tears, pain, small successes, huge setbacks, fear, shame, insecurity, mistrust, feelings of rejection, perplexity, and all around effed up shit. You couldn’t pay me to go back. And you couldn’t pay me to not go through it because, eventually, on the other side, you suddenly look down and you’ve latched your baby on without a second thought. Just like that, the turmoil is over and you walk out of the diner with $1500 and a brand-new life. I wish there were a way to get there without going through hell week, but, in general (I know there are exceptions), the people who surround a new mother make hell week inevitable.

Just be cool, bitches. It’ll all be ok.

It’s World Breastfeeding Week. Everybody celebrate! The theme this year is Breastfeeding: A Vital Emergency Response, so, uh, get ready for blizzard season by breastfeeding.

Seriously, this is a huge issue:

RATIONALE

• Children are the most vulnerable in emergencies – child mortality can soar from 2 to 70 times higher than average due to diarrhoea, respiratory illness and malnutrition.
• Breastfeeding is a life saving intervention and protection is greatest for the youngest infants. Even in non-emergency settings, non-breastfed babies under 2 months of age are six times more likely to die.
• Emergencies can happen anywhere in the world. Emergencies destroy what is ‘normal,’ leaving caregivers struggling to cope and infants vulnerable to disease and death.
• During emergencies, mothers need active support to continue or re-establish breastfeeding.
• Emergency preparedness is vital. Supporting breastfeeding in non-emergency settings will strengthen mothers’ capacity to cope in an emergency.

I would totally come out of retirement as a La Leche League leader to help breastfeeding mothers during an emergency. I wouldn’t tell La Leche League cuz they can suck it (no pun intended), but I’d totally take to the streets and help. PS Don’t donate formula when there’s an emergency. Donate wet nurses:

Hurry and check out this post over at One-of-Those-Women (thanks Dawn). If my telling you to go look at it isn’t enough to make you do it (don’t you trust me?), here’s a quote from it:

As I signalled in an earlier post, the Male Gaze is problematic for mothers of breastfeeding babies: they use their body in a way that’s culturally challenging: they feed their hungry babies in daylight, not hidden in the shadows! One element I’ve always felt caused more reaction than not, was that mothers in photos of with their breastfeeding babies, always tend to look to the baby, excluding the onlooker. None of these sparky mothers are looking at the baby! Some are looking directly at you, is a powerful and obvious challenge. This is totally not the scenario of weakness and ‘being looked at’ in most glamour and fashion photography (and soft core pornography).

There are lots of interesting things in the post, what with the whole feminists with make-up on?!? (*gasp*) thing, but what I love the most is that she pointed out that these mothers are not looking at the nurslings. There they are, looking fashionable and gorgeous, nursing their babies, and they’re all staring right at you pervy onlookers like, “Yeah, I’m nursing a baby. With my breasts. Grow up you idiot.”

Indeed, I have lots of pictures of me breastfeeding and I could only find one where I’m looking at the camera. It was taken when Lena and Liberty were 5 months old and I’m nursing them both. They’re sleeping with their legs all intertwined under a blanket and I remember looking at them and just getting all giddy and wanting a picture of that moment. It was not too long before that that we were still struggling with all kinds of premie issues and birth defect issues that scared the hell out of us for many months. It had been a whirlwind and everything had finally been a-ok for more than a couple of weeks at a time, and that happiness just washed all over me (thank you oxycontin oxytocin) and I wanted a picture of the preciousness. I remember taking great care to make sure the blanket covered every. bit. of. skin. before Bryan snapped it because I didn’t want the film developer at Frank’s Supermarket (Chesaning’s number one grocer!) to turn me in for indecent photographs.

Yeah, um, well done.

And out in public? For as much as I knew that if anyone ever came up to me and asked me to leave because of breastfeeding my baby/toddler/pre-schooler I would say, “No, thank you,” I was certainly very quick to turn away from any spectator, thus avoiding giving off any bring-it-bitch vibes. My vibe was more of a “Yes, I’m using my dirty pillows out in public, but I don’t want any trouble. Look at how I’m looking lovingly at my baby. Aren’t we precious? Please just keep walking, just keep walking, just keep walking.” *sigh* That post makes me want to borrow somebody’s nursling (or two) so I can run about breastfeeding in public and staring down the gapers with my new and improved grow-up-you-idiot vibe. I love the internet. I wish it would’ve been alive when I was little.

I love my life. I’m doing exactly what I always wanted to do. I love my husband. I love my kids. I love staying home with them and I especially love homeschooling. I loved breastfeeding long enough for the weaning stories to include lines like, “Your milk’s all gone, Mama. It went down the drain in your nipple.” I love co-sleeping and I love gentle discipline. However, I’m fully aware that in doing all of these attach-y type things, it is part of an effort to re-do my childhood. I was raised by people who didn’t have very good childhoods. I believe both of my parents have attachment disorders. I believe I have an attachment disorder. And I believe I didn’t know what love was until that first day that I walked out of the hospital and left Lena and Liberty there because they were too premature to come home with me. I further believe that if I hadn’t co-slept and breastfed these girls on demand, I would not have been able to take that fierce mama love and translate it into attachment. I believe my parents love me, but attachment is a whole different thing.

Anyway, I’m putting this out there because, while I would not trade my life for anything, sometimes it’s hard. It’s hard. And sometimes I write about it with a derisive style and I don’t want people to get the wrong idea. I don’t tell my kids that I think they are black holes of need. That would be mean. I try to meet their needs and then I meet my needs by drinking. Just kidding! I try to meet their needs and it is impossible. Because they’re children. This impossibility and my inadequacy as a mother weigh on me and I deal with it, like I deal with most things, with sarcasm. Self-preservation can be ugly. I’m just trying to make it a little bit funny. The end.

Breastfeeding is legal? In Public? But, but, there are breasts and feeding involved. Offensive.Ha ha on you, Fossil, Inc. I’m glad that this case went beyond your typical staged nurse-in with media coverage. I’m glad this mom threatened to sue and I’m glad she walked away with a little bit of compensation from Fossil. It does get me wondering, though, if this kind of thing will stop happening any time soon. Every time there is a publicized case like this, I tend to think, “There, now we’re done with that nonsense.” Um, rose-colored glasses anybody? In my many, many years of baring my breasts for the purpose of sustaining life or, quite frankly, to get a kid to just be quiet for a minute, I was never asked to leave anywhere and I never even endured any mean looks or comments (well, except maybe from family and/or friends and/or other people in the privacy of my own and/or their own home, but that’s to be expected. Ahem). And more than half of my breastfeeding years were spent in a very small town where that kind of thing is just not typical. It’s a little bit shocking to me that this particular case happened in a Manhattan show room. I would think a big city would be the last place a breastfeeding mother would have to endure that kind of harrassment. Small towns, excuse me, some small towns are not typically tolerant of people who do things a little bit differently. Maybe that’s the difference. A small town might have its hands full bitching at the librarian for asking if it would be a problem if she put the award-winning book And Tango Makes Three on the shelf*, so they wouldn’t have time to wig out about public breastfeeding. I wonder if there is a master list somewhere that ranks the wig-out worthiness of these offensive things. Maybe I was never harrassed for breastfeeding at, say, the library in my hometown because the people who would have harrassed me were too busy scouring the shelves for gay penquin porn. GASP! “There’s that Aldrich girl breastfeeding one of her toddlers right here in the library! I’m gonna give her a whatfor. Wait, let me look at the list:
1. Gays
2. Protestants
3. Breastfeeding mothers
4. Murderers”

Who knows? Maybe I was saved by that list on more than one occasion.

*Last time I was visiting family, I attended the hometown book club with my very special friend Mechelle and the librarian asked us what we thought about having that book on the shelf. It’s pretty sad that she had to ask, but it’s super extra sad that one mother (speaking for the majority there) said with a shudder, “I wouldn’t want to explain that to my 4 year old!” Irony of ironies, the book we were actually discussing at the book club was Maus. Well, I thought it was ironic anyway and I had lots of trouble restraining myself from drawing comparisons between this mom’s ideology and that of Hitler’s. It was tough, but I held back. I want it noted that I held back even after she implied that the fact that I don’t have a problem with homosexuality is because my mom is, um, more active socially** than her saintly mother. Huh? I know, it was hard for me to follow too. And it was hard for me to not stand up and say, “Oh, you did not just bring my mama into this!” and stuff. That would’ve been very Jerry Springer of me and that is where I draw the line.

**In this case I’m using the phrase “active socially” with a wink and a nudge. I’m not talking about volunteerism and stuff like that. Just wanted to clear that up.

ETA: If this story leaves you with an overwhelming urge to donate a copy of And Tango Makes Three to this library, do not hesitate to contact me and I will get you the info. I’m donating a copy with a bookplate inside that says “In honor of God and The Holy Spirit who, with the help of their surrogate, Mary, were able to become fathers to their beloved baby Jesus. Amen.”