out of Kadesh

Well, it’s been far too long since I posted something totally inappropriate. Let’s get started here.

Noah has two top teeth. For those of you who have never nursed a baby whose top teeth have just come in, allow me to help you understand what this means. To demonstrate, I’ll need you to fetch two forks. Hold one in each hand, on either side of the nipple of your choice. Now, rapidly bring the forks together.

Ok? Are we all on the same page now? (Helpful tip: you’ll need to stop screaming and wipe the tears from your eyes to continue reading this post.)

I don’t do well with pain, y’all. For some reason it makes me angry. If something hurts me, a rage wells up in my blood like only my neighbor has ever been able to replicate. I’ve been known to throw my hairbrush across the room when I snag a tangle and let out a stream of curses so violent that sailors all across the sea blush involuntarily. It’s definitely a character flaw, especially when one has an 11-month-old. Noah grabs and yanks fistfuls of my hair and flesh on a DAILY basis, and stifling my urge to pound my fist into the nearest wall is almost impossible at times.

The first time Noah bit me, I ripped him off my boob and basketball-dunked him into his crib. As I was storming out of his room, he let out a wail so deafening I was sure I’d hurt him, but I looked back and he was just sitting there in the middle of his bed. Heartbroken. I felt awful, but I still had to walk away for a couple of seconds just to breathe and collect myself while my nipple stopped throbbing.

When I was pregnant, and even when Noah was a newborn, I used to just assume I would wean him around a year. With the top teeth and the biting and the horror stories I heard from moms whose kids reached down their shirts to pinch their nipples while they were in conversation with other people, it only made sense. Also, I’m a total prude. I’m weirded out by the thought that Noah might remember nursing, like, EVER. The last thing a teenage boy wants is to be able to call to mind the memory of his mom’s tits. THINK OF THE THERAPY BILLS, Y’ALL. And despite all the nursing blogs I read and what a huge breast feeding advocate I’ve become, to me my boobs are still pretty, um, sexual. Yes, I know their primary function is the nutrition of my young, just like all mammals. If you want proof of that, watch a nature program and tell me if you see even ONE other female mammal’s mate groping her teets, or someone shooting photos of her breasts for exploitation in consumer-driven magazine ads. Furthermore, I’d love to hear someone talk about how gross or inappropriate it is for a dog or a cow to nurse her young. Out in the middle of all the other dogs and cows. Like, oh my gosh where the other dogs and cows are trying to EAT. WITHOUT A BLANKET TO COVER THOSE THINGS.

BEGIN TITTY TANGENT

What I’m trying to say is, even though I totally agree that the whole reason I have these fun-bags is so that I can make milk to feed to my baby son, they still are, to me and to a certain other male person in this house, well, FUN-bags. If you get my drift. So I’ve always had to really separate the boobs for the purpose of the feeding of the baby with the boobs for the… other…. things. I do not let Noah touch, or play with, or even really LOOK at, my bare chest. The only contact he really has with them is for nursing. And when he pulls off and looks at me and smiles, the boob gets tucked neatly back into its brassiere before he has the chance to explore further. To some nursing mothers this is probably shocking and even silly, but I told you I’m a prude. If I let him play with my boozies, when someone ELSE in this house wanted to play with them, I could definitely not get excited AT ALL. I think my brain would explode with just the sheer weird-gross-ness of it all.

Disclaimer #1: This really is not true for every mom. It’s just MY thing. I’m not in any way commenting on anyone else’s ability to let her kid have ample bosom-time and still have fun with them in the bedroom. I just can’t disconnect that way. Also some moms don’t even like boobs to be part of their bedroom fun, so none of this matters to them anyway. Hopefully their hubbies are butt-men and not boob-men.

Disclaimer #2: I also am in no way commenting on a baby playing with his mom’s boobs. It really is totally innocent. Baby sees boob and thinks food-slash-teddy-bear. Kind of like most people see bacon and want to hold it close to them.

END TITTY TANGENT

Now here I am, at almost one year. Noah’s definitely not ready to stop nursing, seeing as he cannot sleep for more than ten seconds unless he is latched to my breast like a milk leech ALL NIGHT LONG. Nursing still seems to be his primary source of comfort, and I rest easier (figure of speech, y’all) knowing he’s still getting all the nutrition, antibodies, and other health benefits of breast milk on a daily basis. Noah’s never had anything worse than a cold, and I attribute that mostly to breast milk. And if I’m honest, I’m really not ready to wean him yet either. I love knowing I’m burning all those extra calories still, for one selfish thing. I love the closeness of my baby boy, and the way he still needs me so much. But most of all, y’all, I’m lazy. When Noah cries or generally starts acting like a pain in the ass, I know all I have to do is whip out a boob. It’s like a miracle drug. It calms him down when he’s irritable, cheers him up when he’s cranky, gives him energy when he’s tired, and puts him to sleep at bedtime. And again, at 11pm. And again, at 1am. And again, at 2am. You see where I’m going. I just can’t imagine not having that silver bullet. Like the other day, I heard a baby crying in one of my neighbor’s houses. The baby cried and cried and cried, and then just when I thought she was done, she’d start wailing all over again. And I just kept thinking, OMG can you not breastfeed her? I know that sounds so judgmental, and maybe it is, but I just feel like raising a baby is hard, and there is this one awesome gift we mothers have been given, and that is a set of mammary glands. I just don’t understand it when some moms decide not to use them.

Yet here I am, sore-ass nipples with fresh teeth-marks in them, remembering how I used to want to wean at a year and thinking maybe it’d be a good idea. If I weren’t so freakin’ lazy. For real.

So basically I’m trading pain for laziness. I guess I can deal with that for another year. And if you give me any crap about nursing my baby till he’s two, I’ll kick your ass and tell you to read the WHO recommendations. In that order.

Lance: “So apparently the iPhone auto-corrected ‘w00000000t’ to ‘apollonius,’ and my brother posted it on my facebook wall. Because, you know, I’m known for my —”

Me: “W00ting?”

Lance: “—w00tness. If you know what I mean.”

Me: “Your w00tness is definitely what I know you for, baby.”

Dear Noah,

I think subconsciously Mommy has been avoiding this post because it means you’ll be one year old in one month. I don’t think I’m quite ready for you to be one year old, since I am just now getting used to the idea that you actually belong to me and you’re not just someone who’s hanging out with us for a while. But I’m finally sitting down to write this, so I’ll try and save the waterworks for next month’s letter.

This month you have graduated from baby to full on little boy. Your personality is HUGE, and you’re so smart I don’t know what to do with you. I’m glad your Daddy is around because I’m going to need help conversing with you when you’re insulting me in Latin and quoting Einstein’s theories at me. Seriously, you have learned so much in only a month; I can’t imagine what you’ll be doing in another year!

For example, you stacked blocks the other day. I’m not sure what the appropriate age is for doing this, but you had never even played with blocks before and you just picked them up and stacked them one right on top of the other. And I showed you how to play with some big Legos, and you took them from me and did it all on your own. If I show you how to do almost anything, you watch for a second and then you do it. Like those stackable rings. You can do them all by yourself now! You’ll be playing by yourself in the corner, just talking to yourself and singing, figuring things out, and we’ll look up and you’ll have stacked all those colored rings, in the right order, and you’re moving on to something else. Like your dump truck. Oh, and did I mention that you’re ridiculously smart? You took that Lego man and put him in the driver’s seat before you started pushing it around. You should know that I’m controlling my outbursts of pride and glee all the time, because when I don’t I tend to scare you. What a big boy you are… already loving trucks. You don’t care much for stuffed animals; but give you something with wheels or buttons and you’re a happy boy.

You can walk holding on to furniture, and you can walk with a little push-mobile! It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen; you crash that thing into walls, back it up, and push it forward again to crash into something else. Personally, I can’t wait for you to start walking. Maybe then you won’t pick up EVERY. SINGLE. ITEM that the vacuum cleaner didn’t pick up. Like that one strand of dog hair or that minuscule leaf. Even though I vacuumed oh, you know, twenty minutes ago. The machine whose sole purpose is the sucking up of crap off the floor missed it, BUT YOU FOUND IT. Of course, then you’ll be grabbing things on counter tops and pulling them down on top of your head, but I still think it will be easier.

You can communicate with us almost perfectly now. You made up your own sign language for food: pointing at your hand, then your mouth. You point at whatever it is you want, usually with an annoying whiny grunting sound. Just to let you know, I understand you with just the pointing. You can totally drop the whiny grunt. PROMISE. You can also say “Hi, Daddy” and “Mama,” and you love saying “Diddle, diddle, diddle,” but your favorite word is still “daa.” Don’t know what that means, but it’s very important to you and you get very loud and vehement when you need to.

Like yesterday at church. You were being so quiet and patient, just sitting in my lap all throughout the service, and then when everyone stood up to sing, you sang “DAAAAA!” with us. It was perfect timing! But when we were quiet to pray, you prayed “DAAAA!” really loudly. I started giggling and was about to say “Shhh…” but then Daddy showed me the Order of Service. It clearly said “Prayers of the people, silent or out loud.” I guess you just wanted to pray out loud, and that’s perfectly fine with me. After church someone came up and commented that you clearly already understood the Book of Common Prayer, which means you’re doing better than Mommy and Daddy, Bubbs.

One thing I’d like to talk with you about is your new-found habit of teeth grinding. OH. MY. GOSH. Combine that with your freakin’ Nazgul screeches and I think I’m going to die of Goose Bumps. Holy schamoly, kid! You have FOUR TEETH! What in the world would possess you to grind them against each other? I think compared to some of your daily noises, if you would run your fingernails over the chalkboard wall and scrape a fork against a plate while setting off three or four smoke alarms, all pitched differently by a half-tone, I’d be all, Whoa, WHAT’S THAT PLEASANT ORCHESTRAL SOUND?

Oh how you are exploding with personality, and playing with you is so much fun. You can play peek-a-boo, you can clap, you can pet Lucy and Paddington, you can show me your toys, you can point at pictures in books and turn the pages, and you laugh at your Daddy and me, or just randomly at things you think are funny. Half the time you’re laughing at yourself. And clapping for yourself. Because you know you’re awesome. My favorite thing you do, though, is dance. Every time music starts, even if that music is just me singing or saying “Ontz ontz ontz,” you have to move your body to the rhythm. HAVE TO. You can’t be stopped. In fact, today you were in your high chair, unbuckled because Mommy is irresponsible, and I turned on the music and you stood up in your chair, cheerios and banana abandoned, and TURNED AROUND so you could grab the back of the chair for better dancing leverage. And then you started shaking your booty. It was amazing. You get that from Mommy.

And after you’ve been playing or reading a book for a while, you come over to me and put your arms around my neck and squeeze. And you put your mouth on my cheek and give me kisses. And my life is complete in those moments. I love you, my darling boy.

Love,

Mommy

I’ve been baking a lot. A LOT a lot. Part of it is that this time of year is perfect for baking; it’s FINALLY cold outside, the leaves are falling, and mostly the pumpkin cans are flying off the shelf and into my grocery cart, and then I get home and I’m all, Lance, I swear, I didn’t even LOOK at the pumpkin. And just what are we going to do with 17 cans of pumpkin? And then the Brown Eyed Baker’s all like, Ooo I know! I know! It’s all her fault I’m getting paunchy again. My belly is like dough, which I guess makes sense since that’s all that I’ve been eating.

I’m depressed.

On some level I realize that Noah waking up every hour and wrestling around like a pig in mud must be a contributing factor. I’ve finally drifted off and I wake up to Noah’s toes underneath my bottom rib or inside my kidneys, and he’s pushing against them with all his chubby leg strength. Or I wake up to him rolling around and around and around like a sausage on a spit. Or I wake up to him crying. It’s usually around 3 or 4 in the morning that, unbidden, the image of that beautiful wooden knife block sitting so innocently on the kitchen counter appears in my mind. And then Noah, who has been horizontally climbing my body, butts his head into my upper lip, which simultaneously hurts my face and my heart, and I wrap my arms around his little body and squeeze him to me. And after an entire night of that, I wonder into the kitchen to drown myself in coffee and try not to zombie out at some crucial moment during the day right as Noah is sticking batteries in his mouth or pulling the lamp down on top of his head.

It’s also because Lucy has to get a $2,800 surgery for her torn ACL. Which is no big deal, because we’ll just dip into our savings account, which we have full of money for just such occasions as this. OH WAIT. And don’t you feel kind of like the vet is the same as your car mechanic? You don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, so they could really say anything and you’d have to go along with it. “Uh, ma’am, I’m afraid your Rooter-Scooter is busted. Now a new one has to come over from Tribethany, so with the new part plus the labor, that’s gonna run you about seven gagillion dollars. Plus tax.” And I’m all, “Oh gosh, um, what’s going to happen if I don’t replace the Rooter-thingie?” “Well, ma’am, you’re lookin’ at an Enginetopia Turnoverby, which’ll blast into your Gastometer, which could cause instant death for everyone in the back seat, followed by slow death by Entrapcementia for everyone in the front seat. In fact, I wouldn’t drive it off this lot if I were you; I’d just leave it here overnight. Which, by the way, runs you $600 per day while we wait for that part. Your choice.”

Yeah that’s what the vet sounds like, too. Sure, she tore her whu-huh? Ok and she’s in pain you say? And if I don’t do surgery she’ll just continue to mope around and never run again, making me, as a pet owner, no better than those guys that do dog fights? And I should just go ahead and saw off my arm now and give it to you as payment? Oh, right of course, that’s just the downpayment. Well, at least let me keep my middle finger, I’M GOING TO NEED IT IF I EVER PASS YOU ON THE STREET.

Also, ugh, family issues. OH HI GUYS. I DON’T EVEN CARE THAT YOU’RE READING THIS. What did I do to deserve such hostility from people who are supposed to love me unconditionally? (Rhetorical, y’all.) And who are supposed to love my son who, were he just a little bit older, would wonder where all those people who used to hang around him have gone? In a way I’m glad this is happening now, before he feels like somehow he’s to blame for their sudden disappearance from his life. I’m facing a Thanksgiving, Noah’s first birthday, and Christmas cut off from my family, who are only going to be 20 minutes away! It’s like divorce, only I didn’t choose it and I didn’t get any perks in the settlement.

Except maybe some peace. At least I have that to look forward to once the pain and anger subside.

I wish I knew how to just be ok with it. It’s unfair that while they cling to each other, I’m the one left bitter and lonely. But there’s fight in me too, and that keeps me going. However cold and clouded I may feel, there’s an ember deep down that represents my son. I will not let him go through this. I may be weak for my part, but for him I will be strong.

Possibly tying all this together is how far from grace I have felt really for the past year. My faith in God has changed, and I’m trying to figure out what that looks like. Earlier this year I explained how it started with Noah not sleeping. I prayed and prayed for help, but no help came. Instead, I got IMAGES OF KITCHEN KNIVES. Then at some point I wondered, if God isn’t answering, for whatever reason, even if that reason is that babies will be babies and some don’t sleep, what makes me think God will answer my plea for Them (thanks, Jena) to keep Noah safe? My prayers for him to not die of SIDS tonight? My prayers to keep him healthy and strong? Babies will be babies and some die… how is it any different?

And then I started thinking, what’s the point of praying if God’s just gonna do what God’s gonna do? I’m still trying to figure things out. But I will tell you this story. Noah had his blood checked for lead at the pediatrician’s office, and they called us and told us his lead level was high. They said the only thing they were going to do was recheck in three months, and if it was still high we’d discuss what action needed to be taken. So I got off the phone with the nurse, and sat down on my front steps and put my head in my hands, and instinctively I began to cry out to the One who is my Help. And it didn’t sound like my prayers used to sound before all this began in my Spirit. It sounded like me saying “God” over and over again, and trying to formulate some other words, but saying “God” in their place.

And Reader, I swear it was the strongest prayer I’ve prayed in years. Afterward, I felt better. I mean, still worried as hell of course, but hopeful, like maybe everything wouldn’t end in complete catastrophe. And like my prayers had broken through. Like God was beside me on the porch, and like I mattered to Him after all.

It was a beautiful discovery, that at least I know whatever I’m going through I will always have that. I will always have my God.

That, and my fabulous pumpkin chocolate-chip cookies.

I thought I’d post some of my thoughts for you. Feel free to a) laugh, b) scoff, or c) call me and/or meet me for coffee and tell me all the reasons I’m painfully deluded (if you’re my dad). OR (I dare to dream) d) realize I’m brilliant, come around to my way of thinking, and vote against the Tea Party today.

I just lost half my readers. Shake it off.

I started thinking about this in September, when I visited my friend Michael in Savannah. Michael introduced me to some of his friends, all of whom are medical students. We had dinner and ended up in deep discussion about medicine and insurance companies and hospital practices, etc. It was encouraging to meet all these idealistic doctors-in-training. They all have such good hearts. They aren’t in it for the money (there isn’t that much actually); they truly want to help people and make them well. It was only in discussion with them that I realized how utterly bound they are by the iron fist of the insurance companies. Everything they do has to be documented. It’s actually part of their training to learn how to do billing. I had no idea; did you, Reader?

A couple of weeks ago I read a news article about whooping cough killing 10 babies in California. Six of them were under three months old. I was furious. I kept thinking, if Noah were too young to be vaccinated and some other kid whose parents had decided not to vaccinate came in contact with him and he contracted the disease, I WOULD KILL SOMEBODY. No, seriously. You’d find my rotting corpse in a maximum security prison somewhere because I’d be all LEMME KILL SOMEBODY ELSE. WHO ELSE CAN I KILL. It’s just so completely unfair. And it made me think of all the kids who are suffering from some completely preventable disease because their parents didn’t want to vaccinate.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was just so upset. I was like, why wouldn’t you immunize your child? Lance reminded me of the autism link. It’s a very real concern. And although most medical professionals, including the CDC, the American Academy of Pediatrics, and the World Health Organization agree that the link is unfounded, many parents still argue that vaccinations caused their child’s autism. I respect that, I really do. Most doctors argue that teething does not cause fever. But they weren’t up all night with me when Noah cut his first two teeth. I think parents know more about their own child than the WHO and the AAP. BUT. All the major cases linking autism with vaccines are actually prior to 2001, when vaccines no longer contained mercury. Meaning even the slight chance that mercury-based vaccines were the cause of autism is no longer a reasonable argument against vaccinating. And the fact remains there is no hard evidence to support the vaccination-autism link.

And y’all, I gotta be honest. Even if there were a link, I’d still rather my son be alive with autism than dead from whooping cough. Just sayin’.

Now let me just say this, although I hope it’s obvious. I am in no way advocating rushing your 2-month old off to the doctor and getting him all shot up without doing your research. Not sure if you can tell from all the links I just pushed in your face, Reader, but I’m a huge proponent of doing research. I don’t think it’s right to just shrug and go along with whatever. In fact, even though we came up against a lot of opposition from friends and family, because of all the research I did before Noah was born we decided not to circumcise him, and I could not be prouder of our decision to leave him intact. (I’m sure his teenage self is going to really appreciate me telling you that. Do me a solid, y’all: if you ever see him, don’t mention to him that you are aware of the condition of his penis.) All that is to say, please find out what is happening to your kid and make informed decisions. That is all.

Back to the point. Somewhere in my fuming I remembered all my good friends who have children. It occurred to me that several of them are either vaccinating their children on a slower schedule than recommended and only getting what they consider to be the absolute essential vaccines, or not vaccinating their children at all. I realized my thinking was wrong because these friends of mine love their children dearly. They aren’t what I was picturing with the news articles about whooping cough, these dumb-ass parents who wanted to be hippie and cool and oops! their kid died. These are parents who are doing what they honestly believe is best for their child and who would be DESTROYED if anything ever happened to them. And it changed my perspective of the parents who hadn’t trusted vaccinations and therefore their children had died. They had just cause for not wanting to vaccinate. They had just cause for not trusting that medicine or the research that indicates no link between autism and vaccines.

So, new question. Why do many parents, especially today, believe that what is best for their child is to keep them away from those needles? Why is there currently such a huge mistrust of the medical community? Think about it. Our generation has seen a huge surge in home births or all-natural hospital births, circumcision rates are lower than ever, more moms are breastfeeding advocates (even though doctor’s offices continually hand out formula propaganda), and now this: vaccinations are on the downward slope.

I have the answer for you, Reader. INSURANCE COMPANIES. Insurance companies have been given too much power. They are the ones holding all the reigns. And people are afraid if they have their baby at the hospital, they might be forced to have an unnecessary C-Section. And why would a doctor, who went to school for 12 years to learn how to help people, do something like that? I honestly believe it’s because the insurance company is deciding when and how much they get paid. And doctors, in the end, have to feed their families too.

Please don’t misunderstand me; I’m not excusing corrupt doctors. But I believe that when the insurance companies became the controlling force behind the medical profession, that’s when bad hospital practices, unnecessary surgeries, and general corruption in the medical and pharmaceutical fields began to peak. Insurance companies screw the medical community just like they screw sick people, y’all. I had never thought about it until that night in Savannah.

And Obama wanted to change that. Yep, bringing it back to the election. You knew I’d get there dint ya? Tea-Partiers are trying to convince Americans that health care for everyone is a bad thing. That taking some of the power away from the insurance companies is a bad thing. That you, hard-working tax-payer, are going to be fucked financially because you’ll be paying for health care for children whose parents can’t afford it. That we, as Americans, will be fucked because we’ll be putting health care in the hands of the government and our health care will be so shitty then. Like how Canada, with their subsidized medicine, has shitty health care. Oh wait, they rank 30th on the World Health Organization’s list of countries’ health ratings… and America ranks 37th? WTF? Can that be right? (I’m employing the use of sarcasm, Reader. I know you don’t see that side of me very often, since I’m usually so gentle and kind when I rant.) And France and Italy have grabbed the first two spots on the list. BOTH COUNTRIES HAVE UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE, Y’ALL.

Tea-Partiers want to keep things the way the are. I don’t understand that. They want to avoid giving the government control of medicine in favor of letting the insurance companies keep it. Lord, have mercy on us if things continue the way they currently exist! Who knows what deadly disease will come back next.

In other news, I watched this and laughed my ass off. You should watch it too. (Thanks, thisisfyf!)

Please vote. Since I’m in favor of being honest, here’s my dirty confession: this whole post is written to assuage my guilt at not registering on time. I hope you can forgive me. Unless you are, in fact, a Tea-Partier, in which case you can buy me a drink later. ((sigh))