Let's Do the Time Warp Again...

My day is about three hours too short. Before I had kids I managed to accomplish all sorts of things, and still got a full night’s sleep (even the occasional nap). Why should things take so much time, you ask. I asked the same question Before I Had Kids (BIHK). Here’s the answer: If you ask an adult to cross the room, he could do so in a matter of seconds. If you ask a child to cross that same room, he’s first going to ask you why (and since he probably won’t move until your response becomes ‘Because I Said So’, you may as well start out with this one). When he finally does start to move he’ll get about halfway across the room before he turns back because he’s decided that he wants to cross the room backwards and has to start over to get it right. Then he’ll want to cross again as a kangaroo. A frog. A snake. This describes any given activity with a child.

Like most people, each of our days begins with a list of things to be done. This list is ordered by priority and divided into what can be done with the kids awake and what needs to be done while they sleep. But a day with children is never predictable and this list suffers many modifications and sadly most things get pushed to the next day when you swear you’ll make the time to get it done. Most days I have to choose between taking a nap and taking a shower. And even though I have jelly in my hair I choose the nap more often than not. Little things suffer neglect. Who has time to replace the batteries in the remote or check the mail (we’re expecting our mail carrier to vandalize our house any day now).

I also used to wonder BIHK why parents of small children were always late to everything. Now, I pride myself on the fact that I’m nearly on time more often than not (at least within the margin of error), but leaving the house in a timely manner takes the timing and precision of a military operation. While the kids are sleeping or otherwise occupied, I gather all supplies necessary (diapers, snacks) for our trip and put them by the door. Way ahead of the game, right? Not so fast. Now begins the Circus of Getting Out the Door. My boys often remind me of the Pac-Man ghosts. They bounce around until they hit an opening and then go through it. Therefore, I spend a maddening amount of time going after one and then the other (and then the first one again because he left my grasp to go bouncing around the room). Then the baby starts screaming because he doesn’t like the car seat and the other two begin to fight because they both want to be the one to open the door. Once we’re out the door (and I’m already tired) my task then changes to keeping them on path toward the car without being distracted by rocks and dirt (I suppose this is their version of cheesecake and diamonds; things I personally cannot resist). So the next time you see a mommy arrive at an event with children in tow with everyone reasonably dressed and breathing, give her a standing ovation. She certainly deserves it.

Meatloaf Has A Very Nice Pair

Bigfoot. The top of Mt. Everest. A member of the Osmond family with cavities. Dirty looks while nursing. All things I had never seen before and never expected to see. I sat down at Chick-Fil-A the other night about to enjoy the bliss of Food I Didn’t Cook when it happened. I set the big boys up with their nuggets and fries and then began to give the baby his dinner. That’s when I spotted it. A man and woman in a booth across from us exchanged a horrified look and rolled their eyes in my direction. Understandable since I was naked from the waist up and had shouted “It’s MILKING time” just before I latched my little one on.

Wait a second. That’s not what happened. I was seated in the corner of the booth with an ample-sized cloth (aptly named The Hooter Hider) draped over my body. I was practically dressed to go mountain climbing in Tibet. Was the objection that somehow the cloth would fly off, exposing my chest? Or perhaps that another human was attached and eating? I’m far from being a crunchy granola type but I find myself confused as to why anyone could object to the most natural process a human can experience. Do you ask pregnant women to hide their bellies because it announces to the world that she’s had sex? I suppose that’s what we used to do. Our ancestors had to go in “confinement” once their pregnant bellies became obvious and it wasn’t until Lucille Ball in the 1960’s that a pregnant belly could be shown on television. I just thought that here, FIFTY years later, no one would look askance at a woman nursing her child. I was wrong.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened either. I got some uncomfortable glances at the mall once when I had the audacity to sit in the food court with my family instead of finding a dark hole somewhere to nurse like I need to be ashamed of myself. This negativity is doubly ironic at the mall when everywhere you look is a young lady either flashing more flesh than fabric or squeezed into a garment clearly meant for someone a good deal smaller than she. Where is the outrage? Where are the long-suffering sighs and sideways glances? What is the obsession with boobs that produce milk?

Any nursing mom will tell you how lonely the business of feeding your little one can be. Too many times I have been enjoying the company of other adults (a luxury those of you without children cannot fully appreciate) when the time came for my infant to eat. Then, like a disciplined child, I gather my blanket and find somewhere secluded to sit for the better part of an hour, continually glancing at the clock and listening wistfully to the merriment taking place without me. Therefore, whenever I get the chance to nurse AND be a part of the action, I never pass it up. If you must roll your eyes at me when I do so, so be it. But, be advised, I’m not moved by your discomfort. I will not scurry away to make you more comfortable. To quote the movie Notting Hill, they’re just boobs. Every second person in the world has them. More actually. Meatloaf has a very nice pair.