Monty's pediatrician recommends starting babies on solid foods at six months. He has a hand out with "helpful" information, including what foods to start with and how much. He gave it to us at Monty's four month check up. I put it on the fridge and forgot about it. When Monty was a week shy of six months I decided to start him on solids. I went with sweet potato because I'd heard somewhere along the way that that's a good first food and apparently I'm making all my parenting decisions based on information I hear in passing. So, we steamed up some organic sweet potato, pureed it, and gave it to Monty. This was met with a modicum of pleasure insofar as Monty didn't cringe or spit it out, so we counted it as a success. The next day we tried apple sauce. Then I saw the hand out on the fridge. You should start with avocado. And you should introduce one food at a time. And you should feed them the new food only in the morning. And you should feed them that food for 3-4 days before moving on to the next. And you should start with two teaspoons on the first day, four on the second, an ounce on the third day, and two ounces on the third. It should go like this: Avocado Sweet Potato Apple Sauce Banana Squash Carrots Prunes Green Beans The first six can be interchanged, though you should try to stick to Veggie, Veggie, Fruit, Fruit, Veggie, Veggie, and etc. ad infinitum. I got paranoid that starting Monty on solids a week before he turned six months was going to somehow ruin his digestive system. So, I put the purees in the BPA/CANCER CAUSING CHEMICAL-FREE ice cube tray and stuck them in freezer.
A week later we got an organic avocado, mashed it up and gave it to Monty.
Three days later we gave him sweet potato. Three days after that, Apple Sauce. I sat down and created a food introduction schedule so that by Thanksgiving he would have a plethora of Thanksgiving-type foods to make things easier. I swapped out a few of the first six foods and moved green beans up a couple notches even though GREEN BEANS ARE NOT ONE OF THE FIRST SIX AND IF YOU INTRODUCE THEM TOO EARLY YOUR CHILD WILL BE A SOCIOPATH. Then I put his food schedule on a Google calendar so Kurt could keep abreast of where we were.
We went to Brooklyn for Thanksgiving to see my family and I emailed them beforehand with a list of the foods Monty was eating and a request that they get everything organic and steam them for the shortest amount of time possible in order to retain the most nutrients.
While back in Brooklyn (where Kurt and Monty and I stayed in the room I grew up, just BY THE WAY) my dad dug out a box of stuff from my childhood including a "Baby's Firsts" book. There are only a handful of entries. My parents were never the sentimental types, a trait I clearly picked up from them given that we don't even HAVE a "Baby's Firsts" book. But, under "Baby's First Christmas" my mother, in beautiful penmanship, wrote the following: "Daisy had candied yams (with rum and marshmallows) and whipped cream." I was seven weeks old. So, tonight we're giving Monty a bone in rib eye, mashed potatoes with butter and cream, green beans, and a piece of key lime pie. And a couple fingers of Macallan 16 year. "Food schedule". Really.
(Listening to Sarah Vaughan) Me: Listen, I need to confess something. Kurt: Okay. Me: I don't like Sarah Vaughan. Saturday, November 23rd, 10:17am. New York City: (Listening to Marilyn Maye) My dad: I have a dirty little secret to share. Me: Okay. My dad: I don't like Sarah Vaughan.
I took Monty to yoga for the first time yesterday. His pediatrician says it's time for him to be taking classes to, you know, stimulate his brain or whatever. He suggested "baby yoga", which I Googled and found out was this:
Ima go ahead and assume he meant Mommy and Me yoga.
So, I took him to Golden Bridge where I still have a bunch of prepaid classes left from when I was taking prenatal yoga. Golden Bridge is a SUPER hippie dippie yoga studio in Hollywood where everyone pretends to like coconut water and painfully contorting their bodies, and where, on the patio you can hear Hollywood types gossiping about directors cheating on their famous wives with starlets over a plate of mungbeans and rice. Between the pinched nerve in my spine and Monty's insistence on nursing every 5 minutes, I missed a good 80% of the exercises. But whatever, the classes are already paid for. There were four of us in the class and the instructor and her two dogs (which she brought because of their healing energy.). Before the class began we chatted about milestones. The instructor said her daughter was walking at 8 months. I said I would imagine that would be hard because at that age a baby can't understand you, so it's hard to keep them away from dangerous things. I have a friend whose baby was running at full speed by nine months. It wasn't easy. "Oh, no!" The instructor said as though I had said I thought all kittens should be drowned to death. "No, no! They can understand you. Babies can understand you in utero." Which launched everyone in to a one upmanship about how they read Tolstoy to their babies and they never say anything bad about anyone in front of their babies because their babies know what they're saying and will become mean people if they hear us disparaging anyone. Because god forbid we have a negative feeling. I talk to Monty ALL DAY. "I'm washing these dishes so we can make more dirty ones!" "I'm going to take a shower because I stink." "I'm going to go put some makeup on so I don't feel like such a hideous troll." I talk to him about what we see on our walks. "Look, Monty! A truck! A truck! A big, red truck! Wow, that truck is LOUD! I have a college diploma!" I can finally talk to myself in public without feeling self conscious. "What's that? Oh, I was just explaining to my 6-month-old that people in Los Angeles seem to think Stop signs are just suggestions." I talk to him because I think maybe it will help him with his vocabulary. I don't know. But that kid has NO IDEA what I'm saying to him. Trust me. When I tell him the bottle is empty he's not like, "Oh, cool. Okay." No, he just keeps reaching for it and sucking down air.
Kind of like if someone started speaking to me in Chinese I wouldn't know what the hell they were saying. Because I don't speak Chinese. At the end of class the instructor asked us to share any thoughts or questions about parenting. I said I was struggling to figure out how to schedule things like yoga or any other kind of activity in between Monty's naps which are about two hours apart. I was told I need to "honor" my baby and follow his cues. To "listen to his heart" rather than to what a book says.
"Yeah," I said. "It seems to me like his cues are telling me he's tired every couple of hours..."
One of the other moms said, "I used to get really obsessed with all the books and with doing everything 'right', but then I just decided to let Windsong just be herself. I can't change her."
"Yeah," I said again. "I totally get that. I don't read the books
anymore either. What I'm saying is, my son APPARENTLY needs to nap
every couple hours and I don't know how to schedule much around that."
Another said, "My friends all know that I'm going to be late. I'm like, 'We have to meet RIGHT NOW' or I'm, like, an hour late."
"Right, but, yoga, for example, is scheduled for 12:30. It's an hour and half. If I'm an hour late, I'm missing the whole class. See what I'm saying?"
"You just have to go with the flow!" I decided to read the cues of the women in the class. I listened to their hearts. They said, "Your six-month-old understands everything you say. We, on the other hand, have no idea what the fuck you're talking about."
Kurt and I decided to bite the bullet and get Monty sleep-trained. We waited until we got his frenulum snipped to be sure that he wasn't having any nursing issues. I was still feeding him every hour at four months when he should have been able to go AT LEAST two (ideally three) between feedings. We were concerned that he wasn't getting enough at each feed because of his tongue tie, so we FINALLY got it taken care of. It took us four minutes to decide whether wanted to cut the end of his penis, which contains 20,000 to 70,000 nerve endings, off or not. It took us four months to decide whether we wanted to snip the tiny piece of tissue, with hardly any nerve endings, that was holding his tongue down to the bottom of his mouth, or not. We got so much conflicting advice on it, including from a speech pathologist who told us the surgery would make Monty lose trust in us. Because, you know, that's how babies work. The surgery took 10 seconds. I had to sit out in the hallway with my head between my legs. Monty cried for 30 seconds and then was completely fine. Although since then I'm pretty sure whenever he looks at me he thinks, "That's the cunt who made me feel pain that one time. Who's to say she won't do it again someday. HOW CAN I LIVE UNDER THESE CONDITIONS??!!" Whatever. His future partners will thank me.
Anyway, his tongue is normal now.
I skimmed The No-Cry Sleep Solution, The Sleep Easy Solution, the section on sleeping in Sears and Sears' Baby Book and talked to Monty's doctor and some friends. My friends were letting their babies cry it out. They were giving their babies the "gift of sleep", they said. The Sleep Easy Solution requires charts and graphs and stickers and math. There's also something about don't look at your baby and don't touch them. I don't know what parent of an infant has the wherewithal for that. The No-Cry Sleep Solution suggests checking in on your baby at intervals, eventually graduating to standing in the doorway of the nursery to reassure the baby to sleep. So, in those intervals, what, exactly, is the baby doing if not crying? And if he's not crying, why do I need to go in a reassure him? "Hey, I know you're not upset, but I just want to tell you, just in case you were thinking of being upset, you know, don't." I suppose just the fact that the author SAYS the baby isn't crying is enough? The author also refers to placing one's baby in their crib as "dumping" them there. Because nothing sells books like making people feel shitty about themselves. Sears and Sears basically advocate letting your baby sleep in your bed until he's ready for college.
I built sleep training up in my mind as this nearly
insurmountable nightmare that was going to leave all three of us scarred
for life. I was putting it off. Monty was still nursing every hour or so and I told myself he wasn't ready to sleep for long stretches.
I brought in a lactation consultant to help me figure out how to prolong the intervals between feedings. She quickly determined that we were not having a nursing issue. She asked me about his naps. We were lucky if he slept 30 minutes for each nap. She asked what time he took his naps. "What time?" I asked. She might as well have asked me how often I see unicorns. "What TIME? When he's tired. I don't know." "You don't put him down at set times?" "You mean, awake? Like put him in his crib, just, awake?" "Yes." "Uh, no," (idiot) "I don't." Monty rubbed his eyes. "Why don't you put him down now." "Awake?" "Yes." She also suggested I put him down on his belly since he was rolling over constantly anyway. (He can roll from front to back and back to front and can hold himself up, so don't get on me about SIDS. I've done the reading. If he dies of SIDS you can say you told me so, though if you do I will FUCKING HAUNT YOUR DREAMS.) I put him in his crib, turned on the white noise and patted his back. He cried. Five minutes later I went back in and patted his back again and told him I loved him. He cried. Five minutes later I went in and patted his back and told him I love him. Three minutes later he was asleep. And he slept for two hours and 45 minutes.
We tried the same method that night at bedtime. Monty slept from 7pm to 2am, I fed him and then he slept again til 5:30am. And that's how it's been for the most part. Some nights he wakes up before 2 (which is when I've decided we'll do our nighttime feeding) and usually he wakes up once or twice in the second stretch. We pat his back and tell him we love him. Admittedly Kurt is better at this than I am. The longest Monty has cried has been about 30 minutes with 5 minute check-ins. If he gets really worked up and is screaming, I usually fold and pick him up and start again. The books say I'm erasing all the work we've done when I pick him up. Oddly enough though, the next time is usually easier. He goes to sleep faster and with less fuss. Last week I browsed a couple books on sleep at the yoga studio. Big mistake. Both told me I was basically abusing my child for not letting him sleep in our bed and/or running to him the moment he makes a peep. Never mind the fact that babies need their sleep and my son sleeps BETTER in his own crib. When I read "children who are left to cry in their cribs grow up to be emotionally unstable adults" I closed the book. It was written by Dr. Paul Fliess, Monty's first pediatrician. It's worth noting here that Dr. Fliess's daughter is Heidi Fliess. The infamous Hollywood Madam. So, I DEFINITELY want to follow his child rearing advice. Last night we put Monty in his crib at 7pm. Despite the fact that, according to Dr. Fliess, we were traumatizing him by leaving him alone, he didn't cry or fuss. We watched him on the monitor for 15 minutes while he rolled around, chewed on his pacifier and rubbed his lovey on his face. And then he fell asleep. This morning, when he woke up, he was all smiles and cuddles. Clearly traumatized. Clearly emotionally unstable. Here's the thing about child rearing books. Fuck them. Need to know how to set up a safe sleep environment? Look in a book. Need to know roughly how many hours of sleep your baby needs according to their age? Look in a book. Need to know how high a fever can get before it's dangerous? Look in a book.
The rest of it you already know how to do. Here's some pictures of my abused, traumatized child at a pumpkin patch with his pal, Frida, on Saturday:
I was just reading through a discussion thread about relationship dissatisfaction on a facebook group for moms and I came away feeling so relieved about my own situation. To hear other moms talk about their partners you can't help but wonder why they chose to have a child with them. Unless they suddenly became stupid, insensitive, and incompetent over night. "I don't understand. Before we had a child my partner was completely competent. Now he's the biggest blithering idiot I've ever seen. And his penis is also smaller." I appreciate that we're all tired and hormonal. And I appreciate that women like to complain about their spouses when we get in groups (The same way men like to talk about sports, I guess. Stereotypes are FUN!). I also appreciate how hard it is to have a baby under the best circumstances and many of us are dealing with other major life stresses. It just makes me sad to hear how much new parents seem to fight (If self-reporting is to be trusted.) when they need each other more than ever with a new baby to take care of. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not Suzy Sunshine, but this whole
experience has really changed my perspective about a lot of things. From the beginning, when Monty has been "difficult", as hard as it is, I find myself thanking my lucky stars that he's not colicky or worse. Yes, it's hard, but it could be so much worse. Case in point, we saw a baby in stroller today hooked up to an oxygen tank... Yes, we're on a pretty tight budget, but we have a great apartment in a safe, beautiful neighborhood, with two cars, and Kurt has a decent job. It could be a lot worse. Yes, Kurt is at the laundromat today doing three weeks worth of laundry (when we could be spending time together) because we don't have a washer/dryer. But we turn on the tap and drinkable water comes out of it. So, how can I really complain? True, I have no idea how I'm going to get my career going again and I feel like I'm dug into a hole that just keeps getting deeper, but I've had a few jobs already since Monty was born and work will come and at least I don't have to work at McDonalds. I hope. Kurt and I have had a couple blow outs. I called him an asshole the other day. But I think about how much harder this would be without him and I apologize promptly and he does, too and we move on. We don't try to one up each other over whose life is harder. Yes, I'm home with Monty all the time and it's exhausting and challenging, but Kurt has to go to a job he hates and be away from us so that we have money to eat and live. What's the point in comparing? We're both doing what we need to do to raise our child to be a healthy, caring, smart person.
Also, it bears mentioning that Kurt and I were BROKEN UP when I found out I was pregnant. We didn't even MEAN to have a kid together. But we have him and we both recognize how important we are to each other and to our child. Everywhere we look we're being conditioned to see the "opposite" sex as our enemy. It turns out that woman are not from Venus and men are not from Mars. There doesn't HAVE to be a battle of the sexes. There's enough competition in the work place. Let's try to keep that shit out of our personal lives. We're all just doing the best we can with what we have and we could all do with a little slack-cutting. Especially when it comes to the father of our children. This whole "Ugh, just let me do it!" mentality that I hear a lot of women express is demeaning. Let your partner be a partner in the raising of your child. If you're the one going to the parenting classes (because he or she is working), share what you learn so that your partner can be on the same page. That way, and I know this is going to sound INSANE, but that way, you don't have to feel like you have to do everything yourself. Instead of complaining that your partner doesn't have to get up every time the baby does to feed it, ask him to give the baby a bottle once or twice at night. If your baby doesn't take a bottle, ask your partner to sit up with you while you feed the baby. Tell him you need the emotional support. If he refuses, maybe he wasn't the best person to have a baby with? Your partner doesn't put your baby's diaper on the way you think it's supposed to be put on? How about you show him how you like it done. OR, let him diaper the kid the way he thinks it should be done. If the kid doesn't piss and shit all over himself and his circulation isn't being cut off, MAYBE his method of diapering is not stupid and wrong and "YOU'RE SO USELESS!!!!!" Equal parenting is a wild concept, I know, but I bet most of our partners are a lot better at parenting than we give them credit for.
Please understand, I am not saying that I never feel sorry for myself or sit on the couch and cry or fantasize about running away from home. I do. A lot. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. But what I try not to do is take it out on Kurt. I know it's the hardest thing he's ever had to do, too. And I know he's a man and expresses himself differently than I do. But it doesn't mean that he's not freaking out and occasionally wanting to run away from home, too. It's just, we went into this together, we might as well try to act like a team. The next time your partner is being insensitive or stupid or lazy, think about where you would be without him or her. Take a deep breath. Take a bath. Have a couple fingers of scotch. And sit down and talk like grown-ups. You already have an actual baby in the house no need to behave like one. (If you need to have a tantrum, have a tantrum. Then apologize to the person you chose to have a child with. The person you love enough to have made another human being with.) Unless he really is a useless sack of shit. In which case, kick him to curb and move on.
Faithful Readers, I am well aware that it's been close to a month since I've posted an entry. My friend Jess, who built this awesome site for me, has reminded me on several occasions that I should be posting at least once a week if I want to get some kind of revenue. But here's the thing:
THIS SHIT IS HARD.
My therapist said she sees couples who have full time nannies and house keepers and are still felled by their infants and to those people I say "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you."
If I had someone come in ONCE A WEEK for a couple hours it would be a huge help. As it is, I'm doing this alone (during the weekdays), and while I love Monty endlessly, trying to keep him entertained all day every day gets real old real fast. There are days I don't have time to eat, let alone write a blog entry.
The Blogger app has this really nifty feature where if someone calls you while you're in the middle of writing a new entry and you take the call everything you just spent the last HOUR working on gets deleted. ...
It's day 372 of our trip to Seattle. What's that? It's only been six days??? Well, I don't know what kind of calendar you're using, but I assure you we've been on this trip for over a year now.
When I think that just one week ago Kurt and I thought we could operate according to a plan, all I can do is shake my head and have a good laugh. We were so young and naive back then. Turns out there's no such thing as a plan when you have a four month old. For example:
The whole we're-never-using-formula plan? After it took us seven hours to go 250 miles on Wednesday I called the pediatrician who surmised that Monty probably wasn't getting enough to eat. He is probably going through a growth spurt and a cognitive surge (according to the schedule all babies keep apparently). The Doc, despite being all into homeopathy and all natural remedies and shit, told me to stop beating myself up and get some organic formula and some sleep.
Side note on formula: My reticence to use formula was not because I thought it would make him stupid or whatever. The main concern was about how it interacts with good bacteria in the gut and can cause some g.i. issues. Considering that my gang name is Gaseous Clay, I want to do everything in my power to ensure that Monty has a stronger system than I do. A secondary reason for my opposition to formula is that I think the formula industry is evil and has caused a lot of harm in the name of making money. Formula is a wonderful convenience for people who need it. But the marketing has made people think it's comparable to breastmilk and has made giving up on breastfeeding far too easy when it is far and away the best thing you can feed your child for the first six months of his or her life (at the very least). The real trouble with this is that the popularization of formula has caused all kinds of problems (from health to financial) in poor communities here and abroad. Like a multivitamin, formula ideally should be used as a supplement not a replacement (Please note, I'm talking about people who have no or few actual problems breastfeeding and/or can't pump for whatever reason.)
Getting off my soap box now.
One of the supposed benefits of formula is that it takes longer to digest than breastmilk so it helps babies sleep longer. The night of the day we introduced formula was a personal best for Monty if his goal is to make our lives completely miserable. He woke up NINE TIMES between 9pm and 5am. For those of you who have trouble with math, that's once an hour plus one. And who has two boobs and fed him EVERY TIME HE WOKE UP like an asshole? Need a hint? It was me. Kurt finally came in at 5am, found me weeping while feeding Monty for the 6000th time that night and insisted on taking him so I could sleep because he is an awesome human being (also he knows that without sleep I may go on a murdering spree).
So, the ONE THING I wanted to do while we were in Seattle was visit Pike Place Market and go to a seafood joint I'd seen a segment on on The Travel Channel. Our PLAN was to get there at 10am, go to town on some crab cocktail and chowder, then head back over to see the family one last time before getting back on the road for home. But Kurt let me sleep til 10:30 and we didn't even get going til noon. I'm not going to get in to the details of it because living it was traumatizing enough. But here are the highlights:
Pike Place Market on a Sunday is a MAD HOUSE of tourists and I have a rough time in crowds. Pike Place Market has no directory or map, so good luck finding anything. Monty took a huge dump just as we found the seafood place and we forgot the diaper bag in the car. Kurt demanded we go back and get the God damned crab cocktail because we had to "conquer this". We had to move the car from an underground lot (Which, incidentally was the lot for City Target which is a fancy way of saying "The Target that doesn't stock anything you need" and at which we stopped because I lost my pumping bra. They didn't carry the pumping bra, so I got a sports bra and cut slits in it. It works just as well and is half the cost of a proper pumping bra. And if you guessed that the pumping bra was in a side pocket of the pump bag all along, you win!) to an above ground lot which aside from costing $17 for an hour would have meant the dogs would have died from heat stroke.
We didn't get the crab.
By the time we got to Kurt's brother's place all I could do was sit in the car and silently cry. I was crying because I was exhausted. I was crying because I was hungry. I was crying because I was overwhelmed and completely in over my head. I was crying for my loss of freedom. I was crying because I was angry at my son. I was crying THAT I was angry at my son. I was crying because I JUST WANTED TO DO ONE THING WHILE WE WERE IN SEATTLE. One thing.
So, we're on the I5 again. The PLAN was to take the 101 on the way back down and sightsee. Hilarious. We made it back to Halsey, Oregon last night. It took us about four hours this time. We stopped at the same Travelodge we had on the way up. We felt like we had just survived a tornado. We ordered dinner from the trusty Pioneer Tavern, got a six pack of local beer and nonchalantly discussed which five albums we would bring to a desert island while Monty ... SLEPT. And then I cried again. This time for the enormity of this job we have taken on. We know we have to start letting Monty soothe himself back to sleep when he wakes up and we know that sitting on the other side of that door while he screams for us is going to be monumentally hard. It will be hard for him, sure, but it will also be hard on us. All we want to do is make him feel loved and safe.
Monty slept from 8pm to 1am and then again til 5. He's also on his third nap in the car right now. It's amazing what a full supply of bottles can do. That and I think he's done with this particular cognitive surge. I'm expecting him to be able to do complex algebra any minute now. And so, probably very foolishly, we're making our way to the 101 thinking we might actually get away with a stop or two in a nice scenic town.
We are out of our fucking minds.
Desert island albums:
Paul's Boutique
Revolver
The Bends
New Favorite Graceland
Is it just me or does my man look like Alfred Hitchcock?
We didn't make it to Seattle by Wednesday. We didn't even make it to Portland by Wednesday. Monty had an epic melt down some time around 4:30pm on Tuesday and would not be comforted unless he was out of the car completely. With frayed nerves, we pulled off the interstate in Halsey, Oregon and into the parking lot of a Travelodge. We decided we would eat at the Pioneer Tavern and assess the situation. I thought the diner smelled like B.O. Turns out it was me. Halfway through dinner we realized getting back on the road for the four more hours it would take to get to Seattle would be tantamount to child abuse. So, we called it a night and got a room.
An hour after dinner which consisted of an 8 ounce sirloin, a baked potato and a salad, I was hungry again. I sent Kurt back to restaurant for spaghetti and a piece of pie. Pretty much the instant I was done shoveling my second dinner down my gullet my stomach began hurting. I spent the next hour doubled over in pain, sweating, and moaning as quietly as I could on the bed next to Monty who had finally fallen asleep. Kurt dutifully ran out to the truck stop convenient store and got me some kind of medicine which I chugged down with no regard for dosage.
Here's the thing about these intense bouts of abdominal pain I've been experiencing, it feels like gas. I should be farting enough to burn a whole through the mattress. But I'm not. And I'm not being modest. My dog farts a lot. If you catch my (smelly) drift... But these painful episodes are not accompanied by any wind-letting (if you will). Most of the time I wish I could control my back door emissions. When I'm writhing on the bathroom floor with what sure feels like gas, I'm begging myself to just fart already, and not so much as the teensiest toot will issue forth.
So, it's probably cancer.
Also, I should probably take it easy with the meat consumption. I was a vegetarian up until about a year and a half ago. When I started eating meat again I was careful to limit it to organic and humanely raised and slaughtered. Now I'm eating steak at motel diners off the interstate and telling myself that because the name of the cattle ranch the cow supposedly came from is "proudly" printed on the menu, the cow was treated well and hugged to death and definitely did not spend its days huffing big rig exhaust.
I didn't post an entry yesterday because I was too busy fantasizing about suddenly opening the car door and jumping into traffic. Monty has had it with the car and his car seat and screamed pretty much the whole way to Seattle. We stopped five times to feed him or change him or just calm him down before we got to our final destination. The fact that he calms down instantly when we take him out of the car is encouraging in that at least it indicates that he's not in pain. He's just bored and annoyed and is over the car. And frankly, if he didn't need to stop, I needed to pee every half hour anyway (Because of the cancer, I'm sure.).
We pulled up to Kurt's buddy's place where we're staying for the (now) three nights that we'll be in town around 5pm. I'm not ashamed to say I had a couple martinis. If you're judging me you've clearly never been in the car for three days with a four-month-old who's going through a growth spurt. So, save it.
In a rare quiet moment, Kurt sank into the bed, rubbed tears from his eyes and quietly said, "He's so little and he's kicking my ass."
I'm not even going to get in to the night we had. Monty hates us. Monty hates the world. Monty hates being away from home. Monty is growing. Monty's bones hurt. Monty's brain is full of new and confusing things. Monty needs to eat all the time. Monty needs to be IN BED with me. Monty needs Daddy to sleep on the couch so Mommy can have more than three inches of the bed to sleep on.
Suffice it to say that at about 2:30am a high pitched alarm went off in our room. Kurt ran around frantically trying to figure out its source while I yelled from the bed, "It's behind the TV! It's over by the chair! It's under the window! FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, TURN IT THE FUCK OFF!" I'm super helpful in a crisis. Turns out it was a "water alarm", alerting us that the crawl space under the house was flooding. Because it rains all the time here. All the time.
I want to put my fist through the wall. But I don't have health insurance so I can't afford to break my hand. Especially since the cancer is already going to bankrupt me.
Want to hear a funny joke? We have to drive home on Sunday.
Here's Monty sitting on the couch like nothing is wrong:
Let me just start off by acknowledging that when we got to the motel last night I found the damned battery pack for the pump. It was in the pump bag. So, yeah. I'm THAT guy.
We made it as far as Corning last night. We pulled off the road just before 11 and just as delirium was setting in.
Once again Monty woke up every one or two hours last night. At 4 am I finally caved and let Kurt give him a bottle. Today he's eating like a coke head does coke. Frequently and a lot. And he cries if he doesn't get it fast enough. I swear tomorrow he's going to be a pound heavier. Consequently we only have half a bottle left and at least five hours til we get to Seattle. If we don't stop. Which, of course we'll have to.
Speaking of which, I have to pee. Again.
My body is falling apart. I've got a pinched nerve in my right shoulder and some jacked up nonsense happening in my lower back. When I get out of the car after any stretch of travel I hobble for a good ten feet before I can manage to bring myself upright. It occurs to me that if I don't start doing something about this now, I'm going to be in a wheelchair in five years. My 71-year-old father has fewer aches and pains than I do.
Meanwhile, my skin is broken out like a 16-year-old Pizza Hut employee's. The Bugles, Chex Mix, Good n' Plentys, and Cinnamon Bears are probably not doing wonders for my complexion. I have a compulsion any time I'm in a gas station convenient store to buy crap. Also, I get really into truck stop diner food on long hauls. I could feel my skin breaking out as I was jamming biscuits and gravy from The Iron Skillet into my maw this morning
Between my old man hobbling and my bepimpled (It's not a word, but face it, it totally should be.) face I am looking SUPER hot, guys. Try to contain yourselves.
A road trip seemed like such a good idea when we were mapping it.
We're about 200 miles south of Portland. We just passed a sign that read "Wake up America. Obama is killing us." Maybe that's why he wants us all to have health insurance? We stopped for lunch in Ashland at The Wild Goose Cafe where we had some dangerously good cherry pie and fantasized about buying a house in Ashland and working at Oregon Shakespeare Festival.
We're passing miles and miles of grazing cows. Does it worry anyone else that our meat and dairy cows spend a good deal of time breathing in car and truck exhaust? I don't know. It just seems... gross?
I did an episode (is that what they're called) of Ryan O'Conner's Tell All podcast. You can listen to it at www.tellallpod.com.
Here's what Monty looked like just after we passed from California to Oregon:
This is Kurt trying to comfort Monty to sleep after he screamed his head off for an hour. Monty screamed. Not Kurt. If Kurt had screamed his head off for an hour I would have left him on the side of the I-5.
Remember that time I said Monty was chill?
On the plus side, we found the AC adapter for the pump. Turns out the one we found at a gas station 300 miles back but thought wasn't the right kind totally was...
P.S. Only two and half more hours to Redding. THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD IDEA.
Day one of our road trip to Seattle to introduce Monty to his Grandpa, Uncle, Aunt and cousins on Kurt's side. We got a late start. I collapsed into bed at 9pm last night after a long day and some white wine. Monty woke up every two hours to eat. Kurt usually does one of the night time feedings, but we needed to save the bottles for the car trip. He kindly let me sleep in until 9 which is when we anticipated leaving. And of course I hadn't packed. I'll hand it to us, though. It only took us two hours to get out of the house. That with the showering, packing, feeding Monty, shoving scrambled eggs and coffee in our faces, and loading the stuff, the boy and the two dogs into the car. We would have hopped right on the 5 north, but I had to deal with some finances on the west side which was well worth it as I'm now the owner of a used Prius that I got for a song from a friend who's upgrading to an electric version.
(Side bar: My 1996 Honda died on the off ramp of the 10 Freeway a few weeks ago. I'm lucky there wasn't any traffic because if I had had to stop on the freeway, I would have been broken down in the middle of traffic. As it was, I knew the car was about to go and I was praying it would wait til I got off the freeway. So, I made it to the off ramp where she quietly passed over to the great parking lot in the sky. Before I had the chance to call AAA, a sheriff came by. He found me weeping behind the wheel and asked me what was wrong.
"My car broke down," I sputtered.
"Is there anything else wrong?" He asked.
"Well, it's a million degrees and my baby is in the car."
"Okay. Is there anything else?"
In lieu of saying "Is that not enough things wrong? Because that feels like a lot of things wrong." I just cried harder.
He pushed me to a gas station where I called AAA and tried to feed my screaming son under the glaring sun and withering stares of customers. My therapist showed up with a banana and a protein drink and entertained Monty while I dealt with the tow truck guy and waited for Kurt to show up from clear across town. Oh yeah, I was on my way to therapy when this all went down, where, I should mention, I was planning on complaining about the enormous stress of driving around in a dinosaur on its last legs with a very young infant in the car...)
It's 4:45pm and we're about 160 miles south of Sacramento. We're hoping to make it to Redding before the end of the day.
Monty is a trooper. He's pretty chill. He cries with purpose. He's hungry or he's tired or he has shit in his pants. Frankly, those are all things that make me want to cry, too, so I can't really blame him. More often than not, it's something we can fix.
In the department of TMI, my digestive system seems to have rewired itself since I gave birth. I've never had the hardiest system, but ever since I gave birth I've had one bout of gas that almost took me to the hospital and often my stomach hurts within minutes of eating. The pediatrician recommended I cut out dairy, all green vegetables, beans, soy, onions and garlic in order to keep Monty's gas down to a minimum. We stopped at Taco Bell a couple hours ago as that was the lesser of about five available evils at the rest stop. In one meal I had four of the six forbidden foods. So, you know, go me.
We meant to stop at The Pump Station before we left town for a car adapter for my pump, but we forgot and somehow there has not been a single Target in the 235 miles we've driven so far. Target, like Starbucks is one of those place that is everywhere until you actually need it. So, I have neither fed Monty nor pumped since 11 this morning. I'm probably irrevocably diminishing my supply and am therefore the worst parent ever.
I haven't taken any pictures of Monty today, so here is one from a couple weeks ago. He has started rolling over and laughing. He is the absolute tits. I swear.
Last week I posted an entry about this ad for The Standard Hotels in Dujour Magazine:
Pretty fucking gross, huh?
I brought the ad to the attention of my pal Rosie over at makemeasammich.org and she created this fantastic petition calling on The Standard and Dujour Media to apologize and make reparations for this disgraceful exploitation of women for their profit.
Apparently the people over at The Standard and Dujour need to be reminded that violence against women is a serious problem and should not be trivialized for any purposes. Using images such as these normalizes a problem that can lead to permanent physical and emotional damage and death. It's no wonder most of us are acutely aware of our lack of safety every time we leave the house.
Please sign our petition and demand an apology from The Standard and Dujour Media. Let them know this kind of marketing will not be tolerated. It will only take 30 seconds of your time and can affect real change.
While you're at it, don't stay at an Standard Hotels or buy an Dujour Media publications until they have made this right. The only way we can create a world in which our daughters will be safe is if we hold people accountable for their contributions to a culture of violence against women.
This is one of the best videos I've seen ever. It literally made me weep the first time I watched it. Not only is it super catchy (it's been running through my head nonstop since I watched it yesterday), but the message is important. Let me stress that. The message is REALLY important.
Breastfeeding is undoubtedly the best way to feed babies. The health benefits are undeniable. Only a psycho (or someone who works for formula companies) would argue that formula is BETTER for babies than breastmilk.
Unfortunately, there has been a lot of misinformation put out there and some people seem to think that formula is not only comparable to breastmilk, but actually preferable to breastmilk (judging from the myriad comments I've seen on breastfeeding forums calling it disgusting and asking why we don't just "buy formula like normal people?" No joke.). Companies like Nestle have gone in to economically depressed communities in this country and in third world countries touting the benefits of formula to mothers whose budgets are already tight. Never mind that breastmilk contains everything baby needs, it's FREE. Not to mention communities with contaminated water sources being told to use that water to mix the formula, exposing babies to illness and death. For people who are barely making do on meager (if any) wages, why would anyone push anything other than a perfect and cost free food source. Oh, right. Capitalism.
Inevitably, many of the comments posted to the video on Jezebel.com were of the "what about me?" variety. "Why doesn't she talk about how it's hard for some women to breastfeed?" "My nipples cracked when I breastfed!" Fortunately, there's a really simple answer to that:
IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU!
This video is about celebrating breastfeeding and about spreading the word that breastfeeding is an AWESOME thing.
This video is NOT about the fact that sometimes breastfeeding is physically and emotionally painful and SOMETIMES impossible. This video isn't even about being anti-formula. It is, quite simply about raising awareness of the benefits (to both baby AND mother) of breastfeeding. It does not negate other experiences.
Here's what UrbanMatriarch says about why she made this video:
This song and video was inspired by the many moms who I have helped
breastfeed and my own breastfeeding experience. This is an effort to
promote breastfeeding as a healthy and normal way of life for mothers
and babies.it is also intended to teach new moms some basic tips for
successful breastfeeding. We had fun making the video and hope you enjoy
it.
It seems to me, more and more these days, people take everything they see online so damned personally. Yes, there are people who are holier than thou about breastfeeding and make formula moms feel shitty about their choice to feed their babies the way that works best for them. But this video is not saying that. I am sure that UrbanMatriarch wouldn't begrudge a woman who chooses to formula-feed her baby. Sometimes there are legitimate reasons why a woman can not breastfeed (or doesn't want to). Obviously the second best choice would be getting donated breastmilk from healthy, disease free mothers, but if that's not an option, formula is the right one. The problem is, there tends to be a lack of good information out there, and some women never get the right opportunity to try to make breastfeeding work in the first place.
Recently, in the waiting room at Children's Hospital Los Angeles, a woman remarked on how skinny I was having only had Monty three months earlier. I told her it was because I breastfeed (and eat right and walk a lot). She said she still looked like she was nine months pregnant three months after having her son. I asked her if she breastfed. "Oh, HELL no! No, thank you!" was her response. What? It was as if I asked her if she eats shit. Ironically she was wearing a cross around her neck. I considered asking her why she thought God made women with the capability of feeding their children from their own bodies if it was such a disgusting concept. I didn't.
We need more education available to new mothers not only about the benefits of breastfeeding, but about HOW to breastfeed (which, obviously this video strives to touch on). Breastfeeding can be really hard and painful (For example, Monty falls asleep at my breast and if I put him down he wakes up. I spend a large portion of my day tethered to my sofa not able to get much done. It's hard). But for many women some basic education can help fix some of the problems associated with breastfeeding. Sometimes it's painful at first and then just gets better. For some women, enduring the pain outweighs stopping breastfeeding all together. I have a friend who can't breastfeed (for various reasons) and has chosen instead to exclusively pump, that way her nipples are saved and her baby still gets breastmilk. I am very aware, however, that many, many women are not in an economic position to buy a pump. Encouraging women to stick with breastfeeding is a GOOD thing. It does not mean putting formula mothers down.
So, how about, if breastfeeding doesn't work for you, you don't take this particular video as some condemnation of your mothering abilities? Trust that you're a good mother who is making the right decision for yourself and your baby and let THIS VIDEO be a celebration of breastfeeding not an attack on you.
Dujour magazine ran an ad in its summer issue for The Standard hotels clearly meant to warn women to steer clear of the hotel or face violence and/or death.
At least, that's what I assume the ad means.
Let's thank Dujour CEO Jason Binn for publishing this public service announcement letting women know they aren't welcome at The Standard brand of hotel. You can Tweet at him here or let him know on the Dujour Facebook page. And, of course, let's also express our appreciation to The Standard hotels' owner Andres Balazs for forewarning us to stay away.
If you would prefer to send them hard copy thank you notes, you can do so here:
The other night I had a gig in West Hollywood and had to find street parking. There were brackets painted on the street delineating parking spots. I parked, making sure I was within the brackets, and headed to my gig.
When I returned to my car I found this on the windshield:
along with a loogie hocked onto my windshield.
Chalk it up to exhaustion. I NEVER take more than one spot. I'm always really careful about it. What kind of idiot city uses one set of brackets for two parking spots?
I'm wondering what the ellipses is for. "Don't do it again...." or what? He's going to kill me? And why the extra "dot". Were three dots not enough? Was the extra dot meant to indicate how serious he was? As if the loogie wasn't indication enough. "I'm so mad I'm going to put my bodily fluids on your stuff!"
Anyway, the joke's on him. My car broke down and I have to get a new one, so even if I DO take two spots again (....) HE'LL NEVER KNOW IT'S ME!!!!!
Monty slept for six hours last night. IN A ROW. That said, he also woke up at 6:45 ready to go. I'm told this is a pretty normal hour for most people to start their days. I was unaware until recently that there even is a 6:45 in the morning... By 7:30 he was clearly over me pretending we could stay in bed for a couple more minutes.
Everyone kept telling us that the first six weeks were the hardest. "Don't worry," they'd unnecessarily console, "it gets easier." We couldn't understand what they were referring to. The first six weeks were a cake walk. All he did was eat, sleep and poop. We hung out in bed all day watching Netflix. He napped so much that any sleep we missed out on at night was more than made up for during the day. Also, Kurt worked part time for the first six weeks. So, I only ever had to be on my own for half the day. Pretty much as soon as Monty turned six weeks and started to become more alert and aware and Kurt went back to work this shit got hard.
My days are mostly spent trying to entertain a person who has the attention span of a flea. "Look! Look! This thing lights up and plays a tinkly tune when you touch it in exactly the right spot!! Look! Look! Here's a thing that rattles! Look! Here's something that squeaks when you squeeze it? Oh, right. You can't hold things. Look! There's a tree! Look! There's a birdie!! A car! A dog! A set of keys! My boob! My boob!! MY BOOB! Look!! Here's Mommy having a nervous breakdown!! Look!! Daddy's home! Here Daddy, don't you want to take your screaming child? Look!! Here's Mommy's glass of scotch."
Last week I took Monty in for his check up and shots. I was all twisted in knots over the fact that he was going to have to get a shot. I HATED getting shots as a kid (still do). I remember having to be held down by two adults whenever I had to get a shot. True, I might have been a bit of a drama queen, but that shit hurt. Anyway, the hospital was out of cluster vaccines, so he had to get THREE fucking shots. This meant that not only was he got to have to get stuck with a needle three times, it also meant that he would probably have pain in three different spots later in the day. I was already pissed about the shitty advice the doctor had given me during Monty's check up, so it took some serious deep breathing and self control to not start screaming at everyone I came across (starting with the woman who gave me dirty looks in the waiting room when I was breastfeeding). I had spent the day with a friend and her new baby when he got his vaccines. It was not fun. He wailed and wailed for a good hour. My friend was hesitant to give him Tylenol. I don't know why. Risk of death or something? So, I was prepared. He was asleep when we got home. I broke out the baby Tylenol and a pair of scissors to get it open and ready before he started really screaming. As I was slicing through the plastic around the bottle with a pair of sharp scissors (you know, the plastic with the perforated part that makes removing it a breeze...) I sliced my finger open. I dropped everything a stumbled/ran to the bathroom where I ran my hand under the tap, trying not to cry and/or vomit. I envisioned Kurt getting home two hours later to find me passed out on the floor and poor Monty screaming his head off in his carseat where I'd left him napping. I put my head between my legs and held my towel-wrapped hand above my head. If Monty could get stuck THREE TIMES with needles the size of barbeque skewers, I could deal with a minor laceration. By the time I had pulled my shit together Monty was waking up. I changed him and he watched his mobile spin around over his head for a while. Incidentally, if you're low on fundage you can skip the fancy mobile and just hang pictures of your boobs above your wee one's crib. Trust me, it'll keep him/her happy for hours. Anyway, as soon as Monty started crying I plied him with Tylenol and not only did he not die but that dude was chill and happy ALL DAY. This, I'm sure was partly due to the drugs, but more due to the fact that Monty is a God damned ROCK STAR. And now I don't have to worry that he might get Polio or die if he cuts himself on a rusty nail. I mean, whatever. I have the best baby. Also, Kurt took the other day off to spend with Monty while I was shooting a new show for Ovation (Broadway Bash airs on Friday nights at 7 and 10pm after Smash.). He sent me this picture:
