Feed Me

With summer in full swing and episodic season just over a week away, I am in desperate need of a wardrobe make over.  My fashion sense seems to be perpetually stuck in autumn in NYC.  Greys, blues, browns, and black predominate my wardrobe, which not only makes me a good candidate for What Not To Wear, but also makes dressing for the weather in Los Angeles, not to mention auditions, meetings, social events, and just your basic going-to-the-grocery-store type outings a serious chore.

I would say my closet is not usually this messy and blame it having a 7-week-old, but that would be a lie.  I'm a slob.

But my current financial situation prohibits me from doing any real shopping.  Add to that my boobs which fluctuate in size by at least a cup depending on how long it's been since Monty has eaten.  Even if I had the resources to get new clothes, all of my tops have to be designed with easy access to my boobs, which limit the possibilities to button downs, strapless tops and T-shirts with flippity flappity necklines.  Also, they have to accommodate the nursing pads which, if I don't wear, I leak like a milk cow whose calf has been shipped off to the veal factory.

All of this would make things difficult enough if it weren't for the fact that when I Google "Summer 2013 fashion trends" shit like this comes up (I made the picture extra large so you can fully appreciate how Auschwitz-y this person is):

Feed me.

In fact, you might as well take a stroll over to Huffington Post to see what fashion trends they've picked for this season.  Apparently we've all collectively forgotten how hideous we looked in the early '90s.

In related news, Monty has no trouble with fashion.  Here he can be seen rocking various hand made items:

Blanket by yours truly.

Blue blanket by 95-year-old Great Great Aunt, Florrie.  Orange blanket by "Uncles" Allan and Tom.

Blanket by Gramma.

Hat by "Aunt" Tara.

Shall We Dance?

Don't be jealous, guys. I'm a SUPER good dancer.

Head Games

A couple hours after I posted Monday's blog, Tears in Heaven, in which I highlighted my annoying habit of worrying about various terrifying things that could befall Monty, we took him in for his one month check up.

We see the nurse practitioner who checks Monty and answers some questions we have about green poop and other fun baby things.  When she's done she sends in the actual doctor siting that as this is our last visit (they don't take Monty's new insurance) she thinks he should see Monty one last time.  The doctor, a very respected and very old man, has to look at Monty's paperwork every time he wants to refer to our son by his name.  He can't remember Monty's name literally from one minute to the next.  He proceeds to give us completely conflicting advice from that which had just been given to us by the nurse practitioner and adamantly disagrees with three of the five calming methods espoused by Dr. Harvy Karp that we have recently come to rely on (namely, no pacifiers, no swaddling and no "shushing".  The "shushing", by the way, is a means of white noise to mimic the womb, not a means of telling your crying baby to shut the fuck up.).  Whatever.

We reward ourselves for enduring the frustrating visit with lunch at one of our favorite restaurants (at which I have a glass of wine, something I'm sure that would have made the doctor's head fall off.  "Your baby will have low self esteem!!!").  After lunch, on our way to Target to pick up a bottle warmer (seriously, if you're having a baby, do yourself a favor and get a bottle warmer) we get a call from the nurse practitioner who tells us that she meant to tell the doctor to check out Monty's skull but she didn't have a chance to catch him before he came in to see us.  She's concerned that his skull bones are too close together.  If that is the case, she explains, his skull will not be able to grow which, in turn will mean his brain won't grow.  "It's easily fixed with surgery," she says.  ON HIS SKULL.  She goes on and on about Monty's new insurance and finding a new doctor right away because if he needs surgery it needs to be done sooner rather than later and he's probably in pain...  Meanwhile Kurt is watching me getting this horrifying information and is practically swerving into oncoming traffic with worry.  She finally shuts up and I'm able to pass the info on to Kurt through sobs.

I spend the evening frantically trying to wipe away thoughts of Monty's head being sawed into and of baby coffins, while Kurt, more practically, searches the internet for more information.  He is not convinced.  There are lots of other symptoms that Monty would be displaying if he were actually suffering from Skull Boneitis (I don't know what it's actually called).  It's too late for me.  I'm in a panic.  I spend the night alternately imagining the worst and having nightmares about it.  I am sure that the next year of my life is going to be spent in hospital waiting rooms while people poke and prod at my son's head with sharp things.

The next morning I schedule an emergency appointment with Dr. Ed, the pediatrician who saw Monty at the hospital just after he was born.  We loved this doctor and in retrospect can not explain why we didn't chose to go with him to begin with.  But everyone raved about the doctor we picked.  He might have been terrific in his day but I'm guessing he should have retired when Nixon was impeached.

Dr. Ed (who not only doesn't have to keep rechecking Monty's chart to remember his name, but actually remembers him from a month ago when he was born.) checks Monty and very casually says, "Your son's skull is perfect."

"Seriously?"  How can it go from "Your son's skull is deformed and won't grow" to "Your son's skull is perfect"??

"Seriously.  There is not a thing wrong with it."

I take Monty home and watch him sleep.  He has no idea what I just went through.  As soon as he wakes up I cover his face with kisses.  I kiss the perfect ridges on his head.  He smiles.

This is my life now.

Tears in Heaven

More frequently than I would like to admit I find myself imagining awful things that could happen to Monty.  Accidents, diseases, etc.  Usually I end up waving my hand in front of my face as if to physically wipe the thought away.

Yesterday Kurt caught me frantically waving my hand in front of my face.

"Are you having a seizure?"

"No.  I'm trying not to think about Eric Clapton's son."

"Just imagine Monty bouncing his grandchild on his knee."

At that I burst into tears because I realized I won't be here anymore by the time my son has grandchildren.  Ideally he'll live far beyond I will and if he does have kids and those kids have kids I won't be around for any of it.

I suddenly understand why people need religion.

Here's Kurt and Monty and me.  And my boobs.

Never has a man appreciated my boobs like my son.

The Letter (Addendum 1)

Dear Monty,

Firstly, I need to amend a claim I made in my last letter to you in which I stated that The Office was a good series until about season 4 or 5 and then "went off the rails".  This was precipitous and based on a few weak episodes in season 5 and a handful from the final season I managed to catch while waiting for Parks and Rec to come on at 9:30.  However, recently I have found myself with an abundance of free time and I watched all 8 seasons of The Office on Netflix and I'd like it to be stated for the official record that I was wrong.  All in all The Office was a very strong and well written show throughout its first 8 seasons (at least).  Furthermore, John Krasinski is a phenomenal comedian.

Now that that's out of the way...

I keep promising to post the rest of your birth story, having posted the first half last week.  But this keeps happening:

Also, this:

Also, it turns out that it's nearly impossible to type and breastfeed simultaneously.  And you eat a lot.  Like, a lot.

In the meantime, let's point our readers toward a couple awesome ladies of the internet.

Follow Lindy West on Twitter and read her column.  She says the things in my head only way more eloquently and smart and stuff.  Also, watch her school Jim Norton on Totally Biased about the culture of rape jokes:

And follow Rosie R. on Twitter and read her incredibly well written and insightful blog.



Love,

The lady attached to the boobs.