Compost maggots and other reasons July sucks

It was somewhere between my boob sweat, the beetles on my kitchen floor and the maggots camping in my compost bin that I realized, I hate July.
I loathe July like I loathe winter, but July has at least one decent perk; sending my kids outside without 3 pairs of pants.
Open scene:
Monday night, the trash goes to the curb. It’s always the same, tedious, icky and it’s boring.
We take turns dragging out our weekly refuse and then we hose the bin, let it dry and bring it back. We even line our compost bin with a bio bag. (Biodegradable)

This week in July has been particularly gross and excessively muggy. I try to take walks to stretch my legs and live longer. I push a double stroller usually full of free loading babies, and I just end up sweating from my bra clasp down to my stretchy lycra waist band.

I guess it’s also primetime fly hatching weather. And nature provides bountifully.
When I removed the compost bag from the bin, a swarm of flies came darting out as if I’d summoned the Candy Man. The smell was not of this earth. It was a stench too putrid to have been born on God Fearing Land. Surely, this was the work of a devil. 

I ran for soap or matches or a flame thrower.
My husband was inside, coughing from pneumonia. The fever could take him any moment, he was house bound and trapped by weak lungs. It was like a novel out of Colonial New England. He was of no help! I had to hurry and clean up, the children would be looking for me and I damned sure did not want them touching maggots. Or asking questions.

The first bottle of solution I happened on in the shed was organic Castile soap. This would lightly scent the maggots with almond oil but I was desperate. My toddler was already at my heels in nothing but a diaper. Not even shoes. (Cmon now, there’s maggots in a bucket and he’s not wearing shoes? Someone is going to call DCF. PS DON’T do that! He’s tended to!)
“Mama! What you do? Mama doing? Mama clean?!”

“There’s no time to talk! Be brave, run, save yourself!”
But he follows me instead, peppering me with the same question. “Mama doing? Mama doing?”

“Mommy’s drowning maggots.”

I inhumanely euthanized those three repulsive larvae with a fifteen dollar bottle of biodegradable-earth-friendly-pocket-book murdering soap.

I Tekken-style finished them with the garden hose and dumped the whole sloppy mess over my neighbors fence.
And that’ll teach them to never trim their bushes and run motorcycles at midnight, and fireworks; don’t even get me started.

I was relieved to have it done with. Maggot free is the way to be.

What’s more than awful is that I can’t scrap the compost idea altogether. You see, my town implemented an Earth Saving (cheap, money grubbing scheme) to charge two dollars per trash bag that you toss. Accountability, guilt, greed, I dunno, same umbrella.

I buy a roll of five special, gilded, bourgeois garbage bags for ten bucks.

With two diapered babies and a preschooler who trows out food like we’re Vanderbilt’s.

But compost is free removal! All you have to do is put paper and food waste in a separate bucket and ditch your nose and bleach your memory.

Go to hell compost. I don’t care how free you are.
But I’ll still see you in my office on Monday.
You’re on notice July.
I can’t wait until October.

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Compost maggots and other reasons July sucks

It was somewhere between my boob sweat, the beetles on my kitchen floor and the maggots camping in my compost bin that I realized, I hate July.
I loathe July like I loathe winter, but July has at least one decent perk; sending my kids outside without 3 pairs of pants.
Open scene:
Monday night, the trash goes to the curb. It’s always the same, tedious, icky and it’s boring.
We take turns dragging out our weekly refuse and then we hose the bin, let it dry and bring it back. We even line our compost bin with a bio bag. (Biodegradable)

This week in July has been particularly gross and excessively muggy. I try to take walks to stretch my legs and live longer. I push a double stroller usually full of free loading babies, and I just end up sweating from my bra clasp down to my stretchy lycra waist band.

I guess it’s also primetime fly hatching weather. And nature provides bountifully.
When I removed the compost bag from the bin, a swarm of flies came darting out as if I’d summoned the Candy Man. The smell was not of this earth. It was a stench too putrid to have been born on God Fearing Land. Surely, this was the work of a devil. 

I ran for soap or matches or a flame thrower.
My husband was inside, coughing from pneumonia. The fever could take him any moment, he was house bound and trapped by weak lungs. It was like a novel out of Colonial New England. He was of no help! I had to hurry and clean up, the children would be looking for me and I damned sure did not want them touching maggots. Or asking questions.

The first bottle of solution I happened on in the shed was organic Castile soap. This would lightly scent the maggots with almond oil but I was desperate. My toddler was already at my heels in nothing but a diaper. Not even shoes. (Cmon now, there’s maggots in a bucket and he’s not wearing shoes? Someone is going to call DCF. PS DON’T do that! He’s tended to!)
“Mama! What you do? Mama doing? Mama clean?!”

“There’s no time to talk! Be brave, run, save yourself!”
But he follows me instead, peppering me with the same question. “Mama doing? Mama doing?”

“Mommy’s drowning maggots.”

I inhumanely euthanized those three repulsive larvae with a fifteen dollar bottle of biodegradable-earth-friendly-pocket-book murdering soap.

I Tekken-style finished them with the garden hose and dumped the whole sloppy mess over my neighbors fence.
And that’ll teach them to never trim their bushes and run motorcycles at midnight, and fireworks; don’t even get me started.

I was relieved to have it done with. Maggot free is the way to be.

What’s more than awful is that I can’t scrap the compost idea altogether. You see, my town implemented an Earth Saving (cheap, money grubbing scheme) to charge two dollars per trash bag that you toss. Accountability, guilt, greed, I dunno, same umbrella.

I buy a roll of five special, gilded, bourgeois garbage bags for ten bucks.

With two diapered babies and a preschooler.

But compost is free removal! All you have to do is put paper and food waste in a separate bucket and ditch your nose and bleach your memory.

Go to hell compost. I don’t care how free you are.
But I’ll still see you in my office on Monday.
You’re on notice July.
I can’t wait until October.

image

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Modern Motherhood, An Exercise in Futility

I typically don’t make a habit of writing open letters on the internet or writing any scathing responses to internet articles, so consider this opus an exception to all of my rules.

The Elite Daily has published some rotten piece of rubbish that seeped under my skin and hurt me in a place I didn’t think was even going to be reachable. I have dedicated my adult life to my family and it’s anything but fabulous. Read all about how fashionable and luxurious it is to be a Modern Mom like me here, and get your own torch flame blazing.

The idea that motherhood can somehow be glamorous is smashed into pieces by the realities of actual living, breathing modern motherhood. I’ve never cared about matching outfits with my kids, because they require changing four times throughout the day. Wearing heels serves absolutely no point and a nude peep-toe isn’t going to earn me cool points while I chase my kids around the public pee infested pool, what counts is that I kept my two year old from nose diving into the shallow pool and ruining the potential for a beautiful, living childhood.

My sunhat keeps my wrinkles from rooting deeper at a faster speed, as I’ve just now gathered enough courage at the age of thirty-one to stand confident, pale and a shameless size fourteen. I learned a lot in my foolhardy twenties, and the importance of sunscreen hadn’t embedded itself in my stubborn young head until the evidence of premature aging rippled across my eyes. It’s not about looks; it’s about preservation and my new aversion to chemotherapy.

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I embarked on a journey of having three kids in four years. I didn’t set out to do it with intent, although that wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. The point is I am here now, and I am immersed in the culture of being a mother in the age of the millennial.

I can’t speak for the people who identify with comparing selfies on Instagram with Kim K. I cannot speak for the people who shop tirelessly for the perfect matching mother-toddler swim gear. I can’t speak for everyone.

But I’m more than willing to wager a wife-bonus that for every woman out there creating perfectly pinterested parties to upload to social media there are more moms like me, who struggle to prepare four lunches through hard-earned sips of coffee while the naughty kid in the bunch is throwing ham on the floor to “Fee Da Ants Mwammy”.

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GMO’s are delicious, rave toddlers everywhere

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Glamorous, Pinterest-worthy lunch making in progress

The moms like me read every article on the internet about GMO’s and we roll our eyes because we get that it causes cancer but we also can’t afford preschool tuition on an Organic eating plan. I would like to be able to heat my house in the winter as well, because when I bitch about freezing my ass off I only get two “likes” on Facebook, which I would think an uber cool millennial mom would “get”.

A modern mom is concerned with finances, just like the mom who came before her, and the mom who came before her. Imagine a time when we had avocado colored refrigerators, laminate floors that probably leached cancer into our lungs and moms who hunched over the dining table with a calculator and a check book. That’s today’s mom, and that’s yesterday’s mom. We care about the future, so we plan for it. Even though it kills us that we can’t buy the amazing retro sundress we saw at Mod Cloth because it means saving up for the deck we hope to build in five years.

Modern Mothers are more responsible than we’ve been given credit for. We work harder to be proud of who we are and stop shaming ourselves over our weight, or our five o’clock shadow. We admit to not showering every day and we confess that we actually like having sex with our husbands.

Modern Moms are killing it, but not in the ways described in the elitist self-centered article.

We embrace feminism, we get to choose birth control and we discuss it in private Facebook groups where we also lament breastfeeding and wiping our kids’ butts. We confess things to one another about motherhood, we admit to it being hard, to knowing that we have to be done having kids because sometimes, motherhood is too emotionally challenging. We talk about guilt and how expensive preschool is. It’s seriously really ridiculously expensive.

We find tribes, and we find ways to relate to the people around us and we don’t want anything to do with mommy wars.

We care more about politics, the environmental future, the figurative climate and the literal one.

We talk openly with our kids. We discipline them with a little more understanding than a beating had previously offered in my up and coming generation.

We hide in the bathroom when we can’t handle breaking up one more sibling argument.

A drive thru has saved my ass in more than one situation. And while we all would love a home cooked meal every single day, sometimes it’s best for our egos to not watch our kids throw our handmade spaghetti and meatballs on the rug and refuse to take even one bite. And so pizza happens.

We are a generation of well-read women who stay on top of current events and enjoy glasses of wine and discussions about politics.

I stick my kids in front of Disney for an hour so that I can type out a blog post in response to the idea that Modern Motherhood is superficial, and that we are unimportant unless we are fashionable, thin, white and of moderate wealth and privilege.

I work too damn hard at being a mom, paying attention and being a self-aware human being to let that kind of pop culture egocentrism endure.

This is my Alamo.

WE ARE BETTER THAN WHAT THEY ARE SAYING WE ARE.

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Maybe when the kids are older

I feel like I’m holding the wheels on a rickety bus barreling down an Audubon.
It’s coordinating schedules, meals, balancing life. Make time to exercise, make time to read. Watch the news. Keep up with Facebook. Keep the kids clean. Diapers are piling up. The 4 year old is dumping Lego’s on the floor and the baby wakes from the racket. She needs solids and the high chair is a mess. I forgot to feed her lunch. Breastfeeding is easier, no high chair involved, no scrubbing.
I secretly wish she would refuse solids altogether.

My own ears throb in pain and frustration with the decibels and screams of my kids. One is hungry, one is wet and one is screaming because the cool kids are doing it.

Clean the house again, cook another meal. The kids have already had three yogurts and  two applesauce packs and I want to give them donuts because donuts keep them quiet. When they’re quiet I can check Facebook and zone out of my duties and forget the guilt I’m faced with every waking moment.

It’s 3 pm and their teeth still aren’t brushed. They haven’t seen a dentist in a year.
Oh, another diaper to change.

Don’t forget to do sit ups because it’s raining today and the kids can’t go out for a walk.
The kids won’t go outside so we sit in and torture each other while the rain ping pong patters and drips from the roof.
We need gutters.
Add it to the list.

I should do yoga. It’s supposed to be good for my blood pressure.
Maybe when the kids are older.

The toddler screamed in my face and hit my chest like an angry chimp.
Thank god he’s napping. Now I have time to do arts and crafts with my preschooler.
Father’s day is coming up and we need to get to work.
We love daddy but we don’t show it enough.
He comes home from work and the house is all but crumbling from the foundation up.
The kids teeth. I’ve forgotten again.
Daddy grabs the kids and hugs them when he opens the door, he kisses me and asks me how my day was. He doesn’t even get mad that I gave the kids donuts while I cooked dinner to keep them quiet, and now they’ll have no appetite and we will fight them for each precious bite they begrudgingly take.

He loves me. He loves us all deeply. I need him and his patience.
He needs space. The phone rings and he says he needs a night out to go play cards.
A hobby I don’t understand anymore than I can understand people who walk into lion cages. He needs to escape and I’m burdened by the “What about me. I need to escape too” thoughts that creep in and wreck havoc on my guilt pile.
Hanging up the phone and breathing a “Fuck You” with my last dying breath is no way to show my appreciation and gratitude to a good man. But it still feels better.
I don’t deserve him.
“Why him? Why does he get to have all of the freedom?” My jealousy overtaking my guilt momentarily and then fading away, giving into the realization that he is human, I am human and we’re both clinging to those wheels.
“Now is just not my time.”
“He deserves space.”
“We all do.”
It’s just not my time.
Maybe when the kids are older.

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Pictures For My Funeral

I enjoy sitting down in the morning. I enjoy drinking coffee through the day and I enjoy quiet times of reflection.  As an adult these are my rites of passage.

I worry about bills, education and the environment. I pay homage by enduring the evening news and shaking my head at the travesty. I enjoy the consumption of a novel and staying up later than appropriate time allotments for reading. My head drops to the side in mid sentence at a perfectly regrettable hour of the morning.

I love to let the characters seep into my soul and let the story absorb so deeply that I will not rest until I finish a chapter, or the entire book so that I can end the wanting.

By day I exist in a world where I am never alone with my thoughts and my mind is kept from silently wandering off. I never get to fully explore my passion for sitting down and my love of coffee keeps me going, but hardly fulfills me.

Because I am a mom. And my kids are sometimes my passion, and sometimes my bane, but they are always my responsibility.

There is more than a fair amount of struggle for my attention. I have two boys. Two wrestling, fighting, punching, kicking, pulling, yelling, screaming boys. The competition is endless, if it’s toys or space or people, they are vying for it and they will kill each other in a Greco-Roman death match if no referee is present.

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When any new baby enters a family the jealousy isn’t always instantaneous outrage, rather it gradually seethes and becomes palpable, and the child in need of the most love is often revealed by their behavior. The survival of the fittest has just amped my household up to a god damn eleven. The baby is cute, it’s no wonder they feel suffocated by her presence. Look at her, she’s like a double rainbow.

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If I go pee, they follow me into the bathroom and sit on the floor.

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Should I need to evacuate the bowels and lock the bathroom door, they either bang on it, break vases over each others heads or go completely, terrifyingly silent.

The silence is a good indication that I will be opening the bathroom door to a painted floor or a kitchen doused in flour.

If I nurse the baby, which I do often because I hear she needs it to live, the children will climb on my head in a sudden gripping need to “snuggle” my brains out.

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I don’t know which child I’m nursing. But it was sweet that he gave the baby his legos. Sharing is caring.

It got slightly less adorable when his big brother decided to make mush out of my ears by slamming on the untuned piano keys next to my head.

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Things then became downright annoying when my toddler jumped off of my lap and ran across the room to redecorate.

That's fine. I've only cleaned that floor three thousand times today.

That’s fine. I’ve only cleaned that floor three thousand times today.

And then the toddler was decidedly parched after his adventure, so he ran to the dining room table, climbed atop it and smashed my water glass into shards.

No photo.

It’s obviously time for a break, any foreman on the job would have stopped for coffee by now. Because coffee is my savior and my day can only be improved with extra caffeine, but it’s a false prophet. I should have made a martini.

Because while I may have the calmness of a chilled iced coffee in my hand my toddler has taken the opportunity to break into the dry goods and start some early dinner prep. Your honor, Exhibit 35 C.

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And then while I grab the broom to sweep up the mess, he excuses himself to go outside.

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And grab a sword to beat me to hell with while I sweep. This is the worst version of Snow White. They don’t poison my apples but they do steal them from my mouth, take one bite and discard them on the floor.

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Thankfully it’s nap time and I have a few sacred minutes to plan my funeral. If you don’t hear from me soon, tell the investigators to look under the kiddie pool in the backyard. I plan on hiding there with a bottle of Vodka for the next Ten years.

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Ruining Baby Food in 1,000 Words No Less

I’ve never been particularly handy with anything other than a remote control or a pen. I’ve just always found ways to scare myself out of using a drill to hang pictures or fix things on my own. My moral compass of feminism is going fucking haywire but, I am woman enough to confess that I leave the drilling to my husband. I’m a worst case scenario kind of girl; I can worry my way out of just about everything, which worked for me for a while in my single days. But then, kids came a-meddling.

At first, becoming a stay at home mom with a new baby meant just taking care of the baby’s needs while lightly maintaining myself and keeping our house from becoming a hoard.

Four years and three kids later I find myself wanting to move on to bigger and better projects and take the initiative on “Things” that are more useful and hands-on than a sink full of dirty dishes. I want to use my brain for more than Bravo marathons and diaper changes, if for nothing else than to prove that I can. So once in a while I get a bug. The bug crawls up under my skin and creeps its way into my brain. Once I contract a bug the only cure for the craving is to spontaneously begin a project or create some change. Usually my house serves as my canvas.

But as aforementioned, I’m not going to be the girl who can build you a bathroom, fear of electrocution and whatnot.

So I start small.

I pick some familiar task I saw on HGTV or something that sounds easy, like how I started painting my deck a week ago.

*Sounds* easy (raucous laughter), but it probably won’t be finished until October.

Sometimes I pick a soft open, something I used to do well. For instance; making baby food. Delilah, my main chunk, is six glorious months old now, and technically her pediatrician would like her to start solids soon anyways.

Bolstered by reasoning I adamantly decided I’d make a batch of blueberries, because that was the only thing I had on hand without a stitch of fuzzy mildew and I have this delusion that we will use what we have before we buy more. Unless I’m buying lipstick, or shoes, or yoga pants.

Motherhood is full of duplicity.

I began by digging the blender out of the pantry and cleaning the dust off of the little guy. It’s a cute blender with an impish little smiling face painted on. “Hi, just your friendly blender here, ready to fortify your feelings of accomplished homemaking skills”.

Adorable.

I can harken back to having my first child, the last time I attempted to make baby food and keep on-trend with all the good moms who care too much about their children to give them preservatives.

It’s been a dogs age since I’ve cared that much.

Memory serving intact, we must first cook the berries. So out with the sauce pot, and in with the berries. I heat the stove to simmer and now someone is already whining. Attention must be paid to whatever melee awaits in the other room where the children are free-range eating grain off the floor. (Aw, my homestead).

I return to the pan to find that I’ve missed the place between whole berries and burnt mush. Oh delight. I’m sure my baby is going to love the Cajun-char of berries for her first food. Her palate is probably quite sophisticated what with all the wine and Cliff Bars I consume. So I just do what anyone who can’t stand to waste a whole pint of berries would do, and I add water to the pan and reconstitute. My outdated, depression-era guilt-laden frugality has finally paid off after all these years.  We have edible mush. IT’S ALIVE.

Now just pour it into the blender, a clean Mason jar is on deck and ready for what I think is called canning. (But my head needs to call it “jarring”, amiright?)

I should have expected nothing less than the blistering burn of imperfection that ensues whenever I make an attempt to stray from my normal, stagnant place in the household.

I don’t know where everything starts to go wrong, if I can’t trust my smiley blender than who can I trust? This world is a cruel place. I still maintain I did nothing to deserve what I got next. No justice I say.

Berries in blender, check.

Lid on the blender, check.

Hand on the lid on blender, check.

AND PULSE…

The obnoxious whirr of the blender and then the…

SPLAT

OUCH

My hand is burning, what bloody massacre has occurred? Sacre Bleu!

My kitchen is purple, my hand is stinging! The lid is still on the blender and my hand is still on the lid and yet there is purple blueberry hell fire seeping out over the edges of the blender, oozing onto the counter tops like Ghostbusters slime and it’s creating the prettiest purple puddles. And my face, and neck, and my kitchen are all splattered with murdered blueberries. I don’t know how many times I can kill one pint of blueberries but I’m pretty sure we’re getting close to the edge now.

After washing my hands and toweling off the counters I am able to assess how much baby food has survived what I’ve tried to do to it. After pointlessly adding it to my Mason jar I can measure about four ounces. The fruits of my labor; four pathetic ounces of blueberries.

Can you see the blueberry on my white shirt? Maybe? It's there, DAMNIT

Can you see the blueberry on my white shirt? Maybe? It’s there, DAMNIT

I dunno, maybe five if I'm being generous.

I dunno, maybe five if I’m being generous.

Lo, it seems I forgot that I have living children in the house where I am trying to be a better failure of a housekeeper, and I round the corner to check on the kids in the play room, to find this majestic shit going down:

Kids are assholes

Kids are assholes

I would have been better off sticking my blueberries into a cocktail.

There are parenting short cuts for a reason, and I’ll burn my baby food blender in effigy to the struggle.

Proof

Proof

Learn from me, buy your jars and just lie to whoever you’re trying to impress and say it’s homemade.

But if you think this incident with homemade baby food appeased the gnawing need I had to create something, you would be wrong.

Someday I’ll tell you about that time I showed up with a twelve foot pool on a ninety degree day and true to form, I totally didn’t nail that either.

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Work In Progress Parenting or Surviving Three Kids

When you have three kids you hear a lot of; “How do you do it? One is so hard, I can’t imagine three!” And yes, it is hard. It’s so hard that I sometimes always drink too much wine when the kids are sleeping screaming and none of them can write their ABC’s because the struggle is in getting pants on all of them, and it takes until 10 am just to get all of our teeth brushed. By the time our basic needs are taken care of I’m ready for my third cup of coffee and a cartoon to take the edge off of the “MOMMY’S”.

Then it’s time to actually feed the kids and spend an hour trying to decipher what “I want a PB&J without any peanut butter or jelly or bread” means. (So you want a miracle for lunch then?) So no, we haven’t learned how to write or read yet but there’s still time to work on literacy just as soon as I’m done whipping up some gluten free air to feed to the kids.

I have had to cut a lot of corners and drop several of my standards in terms of nutrition and safety in order to make a large family possible. When three kids are screaming moms are a hell of a lot more likely to just say yes to the juicebox and fruit snacks. When you’re nursing a baby and your toddler decides to pull a chair up and climb a counter top full of scissors and knives and hypodermic needles you kind of just decide to let it play out so that your baby can eat and your child can develop a little independence, healthy borders and whatnot. Cut the apron strings and beef up your insurance. (I’m like, half kidding. Got your attention though, didn’t it?)

My patience is thin. Thinner is my wallet. I introduce myself as “The Lady Who Screams at Her Kids” when I meet my neighbors and we all have an uncomfortable laugh but I think we all feel better when the truth is set free.

I avoid shopping unless someone who qualifies as an adult can come with us or stay home and babysit. *GASP* who would ever avoid Target? A lady with three under five, that’s who. Popcorn, Starbucks, Yoga pants and Diapers can’t even drag me out of my house and that’s basically the same thing as Wild Horses.

You’ve seen the ladies who go grocery shopping with a stroller and a shopping cart? They’re geniuses and I only just now learned how to copy them. Three kids don’t fit into shopping carts no matter how many times I try and squish those nubile thighs into the seat.

“Your hands are so full!” they say. Luckily they’re too full for any stranger punching.

Breastfeeding has been shockingly easy. I thank Delilah and the experience of feeding two boys with no shortage of struggle for leading the way to this symbiotic relationship. Some women have five kids and still can’t nurse, milk supply herbs and pumping and latch cures and the planets all in perfect alignment on the day the lactation consultant arrives still can’t make the baby gain weight. I feel for those women. I have been in that seat. No matter what anybody says, failure to breastfeed feels exactly like a Failure. And you do take it personally despite knowing better and being smarter than that. For my lucky break of a lifetime the third child was the easy one and I finally have a baby who eats when hungry, stops eating when full and gains weight on a pediatric chart, amen.

Gone are nursing covers. Gone is shame.

Shame about the stretch marks, the size of my hips and the parts of my body that jiggle after I’ve stopped moving are all left in my past. I bought a bigger size and added about twenty kilos of lycra to my closet and I’ve never been happier.

I pull my shirt open anywhere I happen to be when Delilah is hungry and I feed my baby. It doesn’t matter to me anymore if men, the elderly, a priest or children are present.

My breasts feeding a baby shouldn’t be more offensive than a ten dollar omelet, birth control laws drafted by men or the pair of boobs selling you a Bud Light in a bikini in a snowstorm. I’m feeding my baby, not you so cheers.

Having three kids is a challenge. Challenges are for conquering, for finding light at the end of a dark and raucously loud tunnel. When your legs are giving out on mile three of the 5K but you push for personal best. I’m shooting for personal best with bad jokes about my screaming kids and a boob hanging out of my shirt.  Okay, both boobs are out because remembering to clip my nursing shirt is hard, but do me a solid and look away. It’s less embarrassing for you if we can both pretend it’s not happening.

My third child saved me from a lifetime of guilt and worry that I’m messing everything up and has instead showed me that there are more important things to lose sleep over, that letting go is more than just an annoying song, and that we have always been and will always be okay.

I stay in more than I go out and I’ve lost and mourned a lot of connections with people who I still consider friends. It’s simply survival, and I expect a gradual transition into a life that fits me and my kids in just the right way. Because having a baby changes everything, and adjusting to three of them changes not only the way I fit into the world, but also the way I look at it.

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