Got Milk? Got Privacy?

Just about every morning, my son comes in and says "Good morning mommy!" and jumps into bed and gives me a big hug and kiss. It's a wonderful way to start the morning. Some days he's not in a good mood and just crawls in next to me and wants his hug. Those are the easy days, filled with snuggling. Some days he's wired as if he had 6 shots of espresso and starts jumping up and down, yelling at me to get up. Those are the challenging days.
And some days he pulls a Monty Python and does something completely different. This morning was a Monty Python morning.
"Where's mommy?" and he crawls on top of me.
"Where's your milk?"
I'm much too groggy to understand what's going on, until I realize my son has stripped all covers and clothing off my top and started squeezing my breasts.
"All Gone? Where's your milk?"
"My milk's all gone honey. Mommy's milk is for babies. You and your sister are no longer babies." I cover myself up.
"Oh." And off he goes, yammering on about putting his syrup on his pancakes.
Did my son just strip me down and feel me up? Yep. My daughter weaned back in August. How come this morning my son is interested in whether or not I'm lactating? Why not last week, or back in August? And what's with the stripping down?
We all know that our lives change when we have kids. But that simple statement is the understatement of the millennium. You don't just lose sleep. You don't just have a priority higher than yourself for the rest of your life. You don't just remain on call 24/7. You lose privacy. You lose your body - it's not your body. It's your children's body. Whether you breastfeed or not, you are going to lose your body to pregnancy, and you're going to lose your privacy to your children. You're also going to have a filthy household compared to what you had before kids, but that's another story.

Goodbye Toddler, Hello Son

A couple of years, err, decades, ago, my mother bought me a coat. I think I was going off to college, or perhaps it was my winter break from my freshman year in college, whenever. As she was paying at the counter, I gave her a hug and kissed her and said "thanks mom!". The checkout lady moaned "awww" and sighed, longing for affection like that from her child. She said to my mom "I wish my son would kiss me every once in a while!" My mother mentioned my brother wouldn't ever kiss her either, and they commiserated as only mothers can.
For some reason, that story stuck with me through all those years. I had never given a second thought as to how many times I hugged, kissed or thanked my mom. I just did it because I was taught to appreciate gifts given to me. I gave hugs and kisses regularly because we were an affectionate family that hugged and kissed each other.
But boys seem to be different when it comes to affection. When my son was born, I kept thinking about that department store discussion my mom had with the checkout clerk, and I spent every moment I could, hugging and kissing my son.
But now my little baby boy has turned 4, and has begun rejecting my hugs and kisses, opting for climbing, jumping, running and hide and seek.
How could this have happened? I've never gone a day without kissing my big guy before. Now I must be content with only a goodnight kiss? And when will that become "yucky"? Why is it my son will happily shove an earthworm into his mouth, but shies away from his mommy kissing him on the cheek? Is it something in toddlerhood that makes them want mommy's hugs and kisses, and the end of toddlerhood means the end of childhood hugs and kisses?
I know I still have a lot of kisses in my future, but the weaning of childhood affection has begun, and mommy's feeling the pain.

Holidays Suck

The Eight Crazy Nights are fast approaching, and I'm dreading their arrival.
I used to love Hanukkah. I'd go to parties, we'd light candles, eat a ton of fried food, and drink wine. We'd talk about everything and nothing, perhaps watch some football, and just have a wonderful time. But that was all before children.
When you have children, Hanukkah is all about the presents. Quality time with friends and family is nonexistent to a child - it's anathema. Your presence is tolerated because that's the only way the kids will see those presents.
But even worse: you want to buy your kids everything. You look at your measly budget and think "I don't need to eat for the next several days, I can swing this purchase!". Then your stomach reminds you there's a reason you're 30 pounds overweight, and you don't purchase that Handy Manny overpriced whatever. Instead, you buy a 5-scoop sundae at Friendly's to drown your depression at being such a poor parent who can't give your children everything they want, and what is this "teach them budgeting and delayed gratification" crap anyway?
My inner child awakes when I walk through the store, and sits on my shoulder like some bad 70's movie:
"Your son NEEDS those Thomas the Tank Engine tracks!"
"I don't have the $69.95 for the genuine Thomas tracks. I can get twice as many tracks if I buy Imaginarium, and it's only $39.95."
"Loser. You know those generic alternatives are crap! Stop being so selfish and get him the Thomas! You don't need to pay the phone bill in January because all your friends will disown you for buying the loser version of those tracks!"
On and on it goes. Row after row of guilty pleasures, me constantly wondering if I've taught "enough" of a lesson of delayed gratification and the finite nature of money to my children, and maybe just this once, I can splurge on them. Forget that I gave in 3 days ago and bought Wall-E; I haven't bought anything for them today, have I?
I was hoping to make menorahs from tongue depressors and glitter; have fun with my kids making latkes in the kitchen; playing dreidel and telling dibbuks. Instead, my son runs up and says "where's my present?"
Oy vey.

Missing Crichton

On Tuesday, November 4th, we lost a great author: Michael Crichton.
I can remember reading The Andromeda Strain back in 1982. I was absolutely mesmerized. The writing style was like nothing I had encountered. I was so excited to find an author writing about Scientists. Even though I was 12, I knew I was going into some scientific field, and it was refreshing to find that we were worth writing about. I scoured my mother's bookshelves, reading every Crichton novel she had. Then I scoured the library. I was depressed at the small number of books by Crichton, but I found Science Fiction that year, and got busy relishing in my geekdom.
The good news is Crichton's writing remains, influencing future generations.
So everyone run to your bookstore and pick up a copy of one of Crichton's books and enjoy the ride.

Why Husbands Have To Do It

A couple of weeks ago, we received a recall letter from our grocery store, stating that our cat food might be recalled due to a small salmonella outbreak, and could we please check the lot numbers on the cat food we purchased, if we have an affected bag, return to the store for a full refund, blah blah blah.
I gave my husband the letter and asked him to please check the bag of cat food. A week later, he still hadn't done it. I asked him to do it again. Then my husband asked me a question that he's still begging forgiveness for: "Why do I have to do it?"
I was so shocked I didn't say anything for almost a minute. He just looked at me, as if he had asked a perfectly reasonable question. After my initial shock, I spent the rest of the day torturing my husband with his infantile statement. Time to cook dinner. My husband asked his daily question: "What's for dinner?" and I said "Why do I have to do it? Why don't YOU cook dinner?". I tossed his dirty laundry on his bed. He looked at me. I simply sneered "Why do *I* have to do your laundry?". Same with the dishes, vacuuming, changing the kids diapers, changing the kids clothing, mopping, picking up toys, fixing toys, taking the kids outside, running errands, paying the bills, you name it.
The next day my husband had finally realized just how uneven our work was, and he shut up with his selfish, childish comments, and started doing it. He repented by picking up all the kids toys and vacuuming the entire first floor. It's been almost 2 weeks since I've had to ask him to help with the daily chores - suddenly he's getting his laundry off the floor, noticing when the dishwasher needs to be emptied, and is making sure the kids are out of mommy's hair when she's cooking.
He's not testing my mood yet - he disappears when I'm cutting up food using a sharp knife. He's no dummy.
So husbands: you have to do all these things because we women aren't stupid enough to ask these questions. You do it because it MUST get done. You do it because you don't want your wife to make your life a living hell. You do it because your wife can wield a knife better than you thanks to all those hours of cooking for your lazy ass.
So get off your duff, pick up your stinky socks and put them in the hamper where they belong. The World Series doesn't start until Wednesday - go empty the dishwasher. And for Chrissakes, don't ask such a stupid question.

The End of an Era

It's all over.

My daughter is a nursling no more, and she has now voluntarily gone enough days without getting her milk from the tap that I'm all dried up.
Now the boobs just sag because they're tired.
No more will I have to worry about leaking. No more ugly nursing bras. Okay, I'm glad about the nursing bras going away. I was thinking of burning them, but with all the money I spent, I just couldn't. I donated them instead.
But alas, this is our last child, and there's no turning back from that decision, thanks to a urologist and brave husband. I'm too old for more kids. We're too broke for more kids. The house is too small. The cars are too small. We're already running on empty with just two. The reasons go on and on.
But there's an element of sadness, of finality, of... SOMEthing that is unexplainable. I'll never be pregnant again. I'll never make milk again. The next infant relative that I'll hold in my arms - if ever - will most likely be a grandchild. That's a long, long way off.
This milestone was not met lightly on my part. I'd consider encouraging weaning, then would decide against it. I did this for months. Eventually, my daughter decided to make the decision for me. 19 months is enough mom, thanks. Dad can have them back now.
Now, a milestone that I'd love to reach is potty training. My previous entry explains why.

The Poop of the Matter

My daughter is 18 months old, and has decided that diapers aren't as much fun as baby powder. Unless...
Mother has put the baby powder away.
My son runs into the room and says "Sister has poo poo!" We're trying to potty train my 3-year old son, so I ask him if he has to poo poo as well. Nope. "Sister has poo poo on leg!" Uh oh.
I should have run screaming.
My daughter, happier than, well, than a pig in shit, had dug into her diaper and found this warm brown stuff that made perfect finger paint. She painted her legs with the stuff. She smeared it on her arms. It was all over the floor with little finger-painting swirls.
I picked up the little uh, turd, and took her straight to the tub. I stripped her onesie and considered just throwing it away. The diaper went immediately into the trash - worthless that it was.
I spent the next 20 minutes scrubbing my daughter down, using the rest of the bottle of baby wash and about 15 washcloths. I just left the tub drain open and the spigot on. Luckily she thought this was enormous fun and enjoyed shoving her disgusting shit-stained hands in the fresh water, actually helping me. She wasn't too happy that she wasn't allowed any toys for this bath though.

Future parents, be warned: Being a parent is probably the most disgusting job in the world. At least when you watch "Dirty Jobs", you can think to yourself "at least they have protective gear! Where's MY protective gear to pick up a shit-smeared baby?"