Independence Day

Freedom Bra

Shortly after celebrating the Independence of our nation and before celebrating the Independence of C from my womb, I declared independence for the vast nation of my boobies...bordered by my neck and my torso (although the nation of boobies is always threatening to invade the peaceful land of my torso, and it is taking increasingly strong walls to resist).
The morning of July 9th was C's last taste of the boob.  It seemed like a good time because Jake had the week off and could attend to her more often.  Most people I know stopped breastfeeding because they dried up or their kid made the decision for them - I did it because I was tired of my hair falling out and my body was screaming that I needed to stop giving away my hydration and nutrition and freedom.  I had to Google how to do this because I didn't take the freaking breastfeeding class because I was tired of seeing the hospital and figured either C and I would figure it out or we wouldn't.  Well, we figured it out. And we stuck with it.
The first day we snuck it under the radar pretty easily, but by day two she got the hint and wanted to make sure we knew she did NOT approve. It took about 5 days of violent tugging at the neckline of my shirts, dirty looks, and climbing into my lap and putting herself into prime boob eating position, for her to really give in.  As long as I fed her food or distracted her every time, she seemed to be mildly okay with it.  However, it wasn't lost on me that she became very attached to Mr. and -call me crazy (or stand in line to do so) - but I'm pretty sure she essentially STOPPED saying "mama."

WTF?! and Where Can I Find One of These?

I did alright too...I did not let myself dwell on the fact that we would never have that particular bond again or that this was a true sign that she was moving on from being my little baby or that if we crashed on a desert island, LOST style, I couldn't single-handedly keep her nourished (yes, these things cross my mind more than you'd like to know).  I was easily able to bring up the feeling of "done-ness" that inspired this in the first place.  I was Pamela Anderson for about a week...with rock hard Jugs that hurt like crazy and couldn't be any fun even though they looked great.  I had to bind them and heat them and ice them - ironically in my office the only ice I had was a leftover frozen bag of breast milk - and once I even broke protocol and emptied out the super producer (otherwise known as LEFT BOOBIE) in the shower to relieve some of the stabbing pain - and discovered that should be PART of protocol.  It hasn't had any further pain since then.  (now on day 15).
So now Mr. can get up with C - although the universe's joke is on me...since she's not gonna get any boob juice, she's not so interested in getting up in the middle of the night anymore.  I can now wear high necked anything and regular bras...speaking of which, I'm researching one that makes cream puffs out of flapjacks.  Suggestions appreciated. They are definitely not full on pancake boobies, but the have migrated slightly south and lost a little gusto - like a week old Mylar balloon.  Ok, enough about my fun bags.  C is done breastfeeding and I own my body once again.  At least for the time being....

Get Me the Number for CPS

It was the scream (2 in a row actually) heard 'round the world (or my world...about a 1/4 square mile of it, I'm guessing, because the windows were open).  After some failed attempts at crib-napping my little sleep resister, I tried laying in my bed with her.  She was up climbing over me and then doing laps to the end of the bed and back.  She would crawl, sit-to-turn, and crawl back.  I figured I would let my little free spirit get her sillies out then maybe she would sleep...but before she did, one off-balanced sit-to-turn resulted in me watching my daughter spill backwards, and disappear over the end of my bed.  I screamed twice and then went into mommy mode.  When I got to her, she looked a little stunned...understandable since it was her first solo back-flip dismount...but instantly started silent-superlongbreathless-followed-by-howling-crying.  The fact that this proved she lived made me feel better for about 0.2 seconds, and then I was overwhelmed by the tidal wave of guilt that crashed over me.  I calmed her down, telling her over and over that "we" were ok ( insert C thought bubble here: "of course you're okay, you sorry excuse for a parent! You laid there while I plummeted!").

 Once she was calm, I put into practice my extensive experience as a D.H. (Doctor of Hypochondria) and checked for bruising, moving limbs, fluid from the ears and nose, bleeding, or weird eye movements.  In my hysteria I figured I was missing the sign that I had permanently damaged my child.  I picked up the phone, considered 9-1-1, but I looked out the window and called my neighbor instead.  She came over and took C while I lost my momentary calm.  She checked her over and told me stories of HER son falling off of HER bed.  Finally, mom's sharing their stories gives me relief- there's a first time for everything!! Ultimately I convinced her we were both fine and she left, giving me a little welcome to the club grin.  I was still not ready to smile.  I was, however, ready to call the nurse so she could tell me what I knew in my head - that I needed to rush my daughter to the emergency room.  Turns out HER babies fell off the bed too! Damn, are we a bunch of shitty moms or WHAT?! She said the baby sounds fine and told me the stuff to watch for - like if it ever happened again, because she was so sure C was ok.

At this point I just sat holding her for the hour or so until Mr. got home. He wasn't all that concerned - hello! Aren't any of these people as compelled to call Child Protective Services on me as I am? I'm obviously an unfit, lazy parent - who, by the way, at this point was also having PTSD-style flashbacks of the fall.

I'm told this will not be the last time, and that this is parenthood. Well, that's not acceptable. See how easy that is? C is strictly forbidden from being in any form of danger or getting hurt in any way. I may have laughed in the past - but I am SOOOO not against a full time helmet policy. Or a full time bubble wrap policy. Whatever works...hey, you live under my roof! If a plastic bubble is good enough for John Travolta, it's good enough for my little nugget!

P.S. - Don't ever write a similar blog, and then look for a picture by Googling "Bubble Wrap Baby." Trust me on this one.