every two weeks

We had a long day yesterday. And thanks to mother nature’s Snow Storm of the Century IV, we pulled into our driveway at 10:30 p.m. with a crying baby, a pair of boobs trying to rip out their own sutures and unclear directions as to how best to proceed.

You know that point in labor where you are kind of half crying and exhausted and sort of whimpering “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” ?

It is 8:30 a.m. and I am just past that. I have finally decided to suck it up and push through  this. I have entered the “All right, Goddammit,” phase, which is a much better place to be.

In the meantime, here is an expert list of things in order of OUCH:

1. Pitocin-induced labor contractions

2. 10 week miscarriage “contractions”

3. Pumping OR enduring an engorged breast that has recently had surgery

4. Regular labor contractions

5. Broken jaw

6. Broken arm

7. Pitocin-induced post-baby uterine contractions.

I think that is all I know for sure.

If we were making a list of GROSS, we would have a different winner.

Thanks so much for the well-wishes, yall.

I just SUPPLEMENTED my two-and-a-half month old baby.

With FORMULA.

I’m still waiting on her to explode, implode, go retarded or move out.

Any second now …

I fed Molly 4 ounces of Similac from our stash of free promotional samples and thought, “Well. That obviously was much easier than what I have been doing.”

I turned my head toward the moving pictures projected on the wall and recalled with horror all the days and nights spent force feeding and pumping and the coolers and the ‘good at room temperature for 8 hours’ and the ‘in the freezer up to 6 months’ and up and down the stairs washing containers and lids and tubes and breast shields until the skin chapped off my hands and I think … was it worth it?

Yes.

Yes.

Absolutely yes.

I wonder what mountain we’re going to move tomorrow.

That Hannah Montana reference was only half serious.

It's basically like this only with a breast cyst.

With this post, I think I will have officially mastered the overshare. You have been warned.

My problem boob has been a bit achy this week, so this morning I dialed up ye olde breast doctor (Yes. I have one of those.) I keep forgetting that he prides himself on meeting patients within 30 seconds of a phone call.

The lovely ladies on staff told me to come on in, so I hustled over to Riverside expecting him to feel around a bit and schedule another ultrasound. Maybe he’d offer me an ice pack and an acetaminophen or two and tell me to keep an eye on things in the meantime. I was surprised to hear that I would be needing surgery. On Monday.

What?!

Apparently the benign tumor from 2009 (rhyme!) has grown to Biblical proportions and it will be removed NOW, rendering my boob useless for breastfeeding at least for a week and probably forever.

WHAT?!

IS THIS DOCTOR SHILLING FOR SIMILAC?!

I guess because the cyst has continued to grow and has discolored my skin a bit there is DANGER ahead. He said that it was not cancerous but had “malignant qualities,” and used some big words to describe it that I asked him to repeat but I’m kind of glad I forget. It’s probably best that I stay away from Google.

I’m not sure why Doc went ALL HANDS ON DECK so quickly. If I hadn’t called him, I’d still have my adorable little tumor on Monday–unless of course it’s planning to spring forth from my chest like a cancerous Alien this weekend. I’m beginning to think this guy is an alarmist. A sweet, tender old man alarmist.

The conversation kinda went like this:

“We’re going to need to take that out.”

“But I hoped to continue to breastfeed for a few more months.”

“We’re going to need to take that out now.”

“But I worked so hard to establish my supply and I literally just got comfortable with everything and the milk was flowing and everyone was finally fat and happy and”

“It needs to come out.”

“But”

“I’ll see you Monday morning.”

So.

I’m really bummed. Kind of devastated, actually.

My girl and I were just getting settled in.

Despite the frustrations documented on theteet.com, I actually really enjoy breastfeeding and am not at all ready to even think about giving it up. Sometimes when we pick Molly up from the Manny, we’ll get her home and she’ll eat for like, an hour. Like she missed me or something. It’s our thing. It’s our gig. We talk about things. I’m not ready to detach. I’m very, very sad.

The doctor said I could continue to feed her on the left side after the meds wear off in 24 hours or so, and then I could gradually introduce the right side again after I heal. He said that the right side would likely quit producing milk (but not before the incision would LEAK MILK, of course. Brilliant.) and my left side would either follow along, or it would go into overdrive and try to make up for the loss.

He said I would probably need to “finish her off” on the left side only. And he didn’t sound too positive that this would continue to work. He said I would be way too sore to roll this Lactation Train into the station.

Clearly he has no idea how truly stubborn I am.

So this Sunday I’m going to snuggle in with my little lady and we’ll decide how best to move forward.

My boobs hurt when I don’t feed someone for four hours. A whole week or two is going to be … uncomfortable.

I’m really glad that I’ll be engorged while recovering from having half my right boob carved out with an ice cream scoop. And I’ll be lactating from an open wound?!

This is going to be awesome.

But I do love a good challenge, now, don’t I?

About 15 rounds ago, I used to joke that God was keeping me in the hospital until I broke down and became a nurse like he wanted. Now, I still make that joke, but I laugh nervously afterward.

Ladyparts ATTACK II is turning out to be quite the sequel.

I need to say that ‘most everyone ’round me has made this exceptionally easy. My own shortcomings have made going back to work one of the most difficult adjustments of my adult life. And I just had a baby, so. Go figure.

This is because I miss my bumperhead at toxic levels, but also because I am not a very organized person, and there is a lot of forethought required. And the equipment! Pump, keys, diapers, milk, car seat, coolers, laptop, wallet, cell phone, etc. etc. Heaven help me if I pack a sack lunch.

I’m sad to report that so far, every single day I’ve left something I’ve needed in a different county. There was the one time Seth had a baby but no car seat base or bottles to feed her because I had both those things in my car. There was the other time I was hungry but had no wallet to buy grub (H/T to Greeg for supplying me mac n’ cheese allowance). There was the time I had milk but no cooler pack to transport it. And the time our poor Manny had a mysterious bag of pretzels and a turkey sandwich left in his home.

In fact, I fear we might slowly and absent mindedly migrate the entire contents of our home to the Manny’s residence. Sorry, manny. But he and his sexy assistant have been great. Someone should promote them.

I feel confident that eventually we will find our groove. I might need to find a job closer to home, however. This is not a new discovery. Two separate accident-related traffic jams and two Snow Storms of the Century have not helped matters. It’s a lot of time on the ol’ dusty trail between Bangs, Ohio and back again–especially on the drive home. I simply cannot get back to my little wombmonster fast enough.

For the record, I waited at least 25 minutes in standstill traffic last Wednesday night before I pulled a median-crossing U-Turn that would’ve made Bruce Willis proud. And this was a good 10 minutes after my heart had leapt out of my chest and took off on foot for Knox County, Ohio. Poor heart. Stupid commute. 

This evening I almost took out another deer and a Knox County snow plow. Stupid commute.

Anyway, life outside the womb is hella easier because we employed the services of Padula Manny, Inc. It feels 110 percent better, I imagine, when you’re leaving your offspring with someone you trust. He is so sweet with her. Not to mention his wife, who I heard shout “where’s my baby?!” while hustling over to greet Molly. (As a sidenote, from now on, you are judged not by the content of your character, but by how quickly you reach for my child when we walk through the door.) And if I had to be worried on top of just generally missing Molly, I fear I’d lock myself in the basement and refuse to work ever again. PS – Our basement is REALLY SCARY.

In Columbus, Ohio, Eric already has talked me off the ledge several times. ps – I’ve been back to work for like five days.

I hope I am the first one to sneak away from a staff meeting to weep in the bathroom. But if it is okay with you, I would rather just blame that on separation anxiety. At least on the Internet.

There’s no crying in The Other Paper.

I <3 everyone.

Promise I’ll git better @ life.

It has been used by Mother Teresa, Rambo and Nancy Pelosi. To name a few.

It is worth remembering more often.

Lord make me an instrument of your peace

Where there is hatred,
Let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is error, truth;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, Joy.

O Divine Master grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled
As to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

ATTN MEN: DO NOT READ. NIPPLES AHEAD! AND NOT IN THE SEXY WAY!

I couldn’t decide between invoking Michael Moore before talking about boobs, or calling this post, “Self Expressions.”

Did I make the right choice?

First of all, yes. We like it like that.

My pump and I have always gotten along swimmingly, and I have enjoyed our increased time together since going back to work.

When Molly was all, “I refuse to eat anywhere near that golf-ball-sized benign tumor under your nipple,” my pump embraced it without protest.

My pump has been there for me at all hours. In the car. During dinner. And now, at work. It does not painfully tease the breast by getting milk to come in and then refusing to eat. It does not randomly barf up ounces of breast milk mid-session. It does not get the hiccups, and it will never get teeth. PLUS it has the courtesy to eat from two boobs at the same time. Efficiency!

If my pump had big, blue eyes, or if it could flash a huge, drunk grin at the end of the meal, I wouldn’t hesitate to use it exclusively.

But alas. It does make for a lot of dishes.

I had roughly 20 ounces of milk leftover from my first week of The Dairy System. Molly has never been able to keep up with the pump, but at this rate, I’ll be able to bottle-feed her from my frozen back-up supply until she is 6 years old. This is a huge relief because I was worried to death that I would have enough. Here’s to hoping it lasts!

I am (still) totally in love with the Lactation Lounge. It still doesn’t have a proper nickname.

There is only one hitch: I can’t help but feel judged by the press workers in the warehouse who see me sneak up and back into my little room by myself three times a shift. They all look suspicious, and they should, because the room is sort of a big, locked closet within another big, locked closet.

WHAT IS THAT GIRL DOING IN THERE?!

Every time I have a particularly good session, I resist the urge to open the door, run out to the top of the stairs and hold the bottle of breastmilk for all to admire.

“Behold! Nine ounces of human breastmilk!”

and they will all stop the printing presses and look up to admire my mammaric miracle.

That’s how I imagine it, anyway.

Eric said if I was particularly impressed with myself, I could just take my milk back into the TOP offices and show the staff.

I should mention that he has a lot of daughters.

I went back to work for a little bit today. It was pretty sad. On a drive last night, I passed a church billboard that read, “Time lost is gone forever.” And then a mama polar bear on television killed her cubs by leaving the den in search for food. But whatever. I think we’ll be all right.

working moms carry a lot of guilt

Plus, I’m super-pumped about our company’s private Lactation Lounge. I have a key for the room, but it is in desperate need of a secret nickname. Someone left special herbal tea and some breast pads in there with a scribbled note to “help yourself.”

That pretty much made my day.

Way to go, “Supportive Breastfeeding Employer of the Year 2004,” Columbus Monthly Magazine!!

Grandma J watched Molly for the duration. Tomorrow is MM’s first day with Manny Padula, Inc.!

She and I do okay apart from one another. My boobs, on the other hand, have some serious adjusting to do.

I know that’s probably gross to (repeatedly!) mention, but I challenge you to suddenly find yourself responsible for 8-12 square meals per day for ANOTHER PERSON WHO IS EATING FROM YOUR BODY and then try not to talk about it.

We topped the day off with a two-month check-up at the pediatrician and Molly’s first round of shots.

Scratch No. 346 off the list of Motherhood Cliches: I totally freaked out when they stabbed her. In my defense, she started it. She morphed her happy giggle-face into a look of confused torture-betrayal, turned purple and screamed like we were sawing her limbs off.

Disturbing!

I always said I wouldn’t freak out about baby shots because they are not a big deal, and I always looked down on mothers who made a big deal about it.

But she was looking me right in the eye! NOT FAIR!

My new favorite feeling comes shortly after doing something I used to judge other parents for, by the way. It’s very freeing.

Next time they stab her, I’m not going to look.

In other news, Molly gained a million pounds this month and weighs in at a hefty 8 pounds and 11 ounces.

The doctor was so pleased with her growth chart that he walked it over to show me the series of rising dots.

She still toes the line between the 10th and 25th percentile for height, weight and head circumference.

A consistent runt!

Meanwhile, the B-Cups continue to be distraught and confused by this partial work day. I pumped a record-breaking 10 ounces the morning I was away from her. I think that is pretty hilarious.

Re-plumbing the entire house pretty much mutes the Dead Man Walking sensation that sweeps over me when I think about returning to work on Monday.

For those who have followed our saga, you might have a vague notion that getting fresh water into our house, consumed and out to the septic tank has been a real roller coaster ride.

Now that we’ve redone all the drain work in the house and things are moving oh-so-smoothly into the (clean!) septic tank, we turn our attention to the water supply portion of The Show. As per the “there, I fixed it,” attitude of our previous owner, the house is pumbed piece-meal style with copper, pvc and even some leftover lead pipes from the ancient days. Nothing is in its right place. Everything leaks or has been routed around some imaginary object for no apparent reason. It’s a mess.

And anyone who has experienced the joy of opening up one of our faucets, or jumped into an iron-filled Teter Homestead Scary Shower knows that our water quality is … sub-par. Like, record-breaking bad. And it’s probably already destroyed all our brand new appliances.

But in honor of Molly Mae Teter, some professionals are installing a Cadillac of water softeners on Monday. No longer will her cute baby clothes be stained with rust. No longer will we have to hold our noses when we wash her bottles in the gross, sulfury s(t)ink water. No longer will we have to buy Columbus municipal tap water from gallon jugs at Kroger to cook our humble meals.

Soft, iron-free water? Here we come. I think there might even be some sort of reverse osmosis mixed in there. Very classy.

This will be me on Monday. Notice my radiant hair and skin ... presumably from using 2/3 less soap than all yall.

You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. Even more than STAIRS!

But in preparation for this magnanimous occasion, all hell broke loose. Seth and I were down in the basement pricking around when hubba hubby noticed a dangling wire and decided to test it for hotness by putting it up against a copper pipe.

Never do this.

I cannot emphasize this enough.

The heart-wrenching snap of the circuit breaker was followed by the low hiss of water escaping. One of the supply lines had ruptured (I blame the same mosquito that shot me!) and was spraying mist all over the basement, so we decided to go ahead and rip out all the shoddy work and put it back in ourselves. Proper-like.

Today.

I mean, why not, right?

We’ve only got two sinks, a toilet, a shower and a washer & dryer to supply. Hook-up will be a cinch.

Right now, while Seth makes trip No. 2 to Lowe’s, I am prioritizing which of these amenities I would prefer to have working tonight.

I said we should finish the shower because I can pee and do the dishes in there. It’s a 3-for-1 special.

Which one would you pick?

In other utility news …

For years I have protested certain utility companies that require a one- or two-year contract. Notorious offenders are cell phone providers and anyone who has ever asked you to “bundle.”

Who do they think they are? No other services require such rigid commitments. Most sellers earn monthly business by offering the best product at the most affordable rate. Cell phone company assholes have the audacity to prevent you from seeking out competition, charging you hundreds of dollars to break up with them if you find a better deal. This is anti-capitalist to me.

Eff that.

That is why I am pleased to announce that I just purchased a StraightTalk TracPhone from Wal-Mart. I recommend you do the same.

For $30 per month, I will have 1,000 minutes, 1,000 text or picture messages and 30 mb of websurfing at my disposal. Did I mention that the plan costs $30 per month? My old Sprint plan was more than twice that for half the minutes and no web service.

AND! AND! There is no contract. I can enroll, unroll and re-enroll at will. If we can’t afford a phone one month, there is no penalty for leaving. I can pick up where I left off the next month. AND I can take my old number with me, AND the phones run on Verizon towers.

Verizon towers are very reliable.

What’s the catch? The catch is that I have to buy their $70 phone, and I can’t have an iPhone or an iBlackberry or whatever the kids are playing with these days. The phones offered by StraightTalk TracPhone are nice enough to me. But I probably have low standards.

Did I mention that there is no contract and that the plans are $30 per month?

Unlimited text, minutes and web are $45 per month. I can upgrade or downgrade between these two plans at any point.

I am in love with my StraightTalk TracPhone and I encourage everyone to vote against Verizon and Sprint and their web of deceit by purchasing a StraightTalk TracPhone.

StraightTalk TracPhone.

unplug.

for the past 2 weeks, we have been trimming things up to make room for Molly’s Day Mom in the budget, and Lord help me, i am about to make the call to unplug from satellite television.

unlike a cable relationship, this is a more permanent, heartbreaking occurence. they have to come over and dig the DISH out of your frozen yard. there’s really no going back.

seth and i (read: Seth) have wanted to do this for a while now, but suddenly we (read: I) have the courage to cut the cord. we can access all the shows we watch online for free, of course, but there are several things i am worried about.

no more DVR.

no more brainless background noise.

no more commercials.

can i still watch Teen Mom?

and what are my husband and i going to do at dinner now? talk with one another? huddle around the laptop and spill wine all over the couch?

these are the sacrifices we make for our children.