The Ninth Floor March 29, 2008

Bravo to the Tribune! They have a “lactation room” on their ninth floor, and since I work in the building, I get to use it, too. I’m surprised that a profession as traditionally male-dominated as journalism is so forward-thinking, but who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? When I have told people that there is a lactation room, they immediately imagine puffy chairs, a TV that shows Oprah on a continuous loop, soft music, and perhaps even a crackling fire. In reality, it’s a tiny room with a dorm fridge and 2 dressing room-type cubbies with curtains decorated with a rubber duck theme. But, it sure beats the heck out of sitting in the bathroom for 20 minutes three times a day with a breast pump. The room has its own industrial-strength pumps, and you just supply all the accessories. Its a pretty sweet deal.

The best part or the worst part, depending on how mischievous my mood, is excusing oneself from the office. How, exactly, do you delicately tell people that you’re going to stick plastic cones on your nipples? I have tried the blunt (“I have to go make some boob juice.”), the practical (“I have to go make tomorrow’s lunch for Darwin”), and the vague (“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”). All of them seem to make people uncomfortable. One colleague calls them her “smoke breaks,” which makes everyone much more comfortable, because they don’t have to acknowledge the fact that she has breasts. Whew! It’s ironic to me that this is exactly what breasts are for, a very practical, and — trust me — unsexual thing, and it’s more embarrassing to talk about than discussing Pam Anderson’s sex tapes.

Although I do admit, it is a little dirty feeling, going to the lactation room. You go in a little cubby, pull the curtain, take off your shirt, get out a contraption, and start looking at pictures to make something happen. And sometimes you get messy, and have to clean up a white milky mess afterwards. No wonder people are embarrassed to talk about it!

But, it’s also kind of nice, because you tend to see the same people, since you’re kind of on the same schedule, so you can be boob friends. I’m on the same schedule as Helen’s mom and Noah’s mom. Helen’s mom is a reporter, and sometimes talks on her cell phone while she’s pumping, which is very funny to me. It would be hard for me not to giggle a little to myself (“titter,” if you will) if I were interviewing someone about government corruption while my jumblies in a vacuum pump. I keep hoping that she’s going to break some big story, and I’ll hear about it first while she’s on the phone making boob juice behind a rubber ducky curtain.

And you know those dreams you have where you go to class in your underwear because you forgot to put on pants? I am often on my way to the elevator after a stint in the lactation room, and become completely paranoid that I’ve forgotten to put The Ladies away. I know, logically, that there would probably be a breeze to tip me off, but I get so worried that I’ll just forget to put myself back together again and get on the elevator with the mail guy or the CEO or something. At least he’d have something to say when his wife asked “What happened at work today, dear?”

Happy St. Patrick’s Day! March 17, 2008

Helpful advice March 14, 2008

No wonder print media are on the decline. Here are 2 recent experiences I had with magazines giving me some “helpful” advice for parents.

I was reading a parenting magazine that I chose because it had on the cover an exhortation to “Bring Sexy Back! Hot tips for tired moms.” Thinking to myself, “Indeed, I am a tired mom, who used to enjoy conjugal relations but now much more enjoys sleeping,” I read with eagerness how to recapture the libido of my youth. I found advice such as “Remember you are sexy.” Now really. I can barely remember where I live most days, or what day of the week it is. Do you really think I have space, in my increasingly long checklist of Things To Remember (#1: You have a baby. You brought him to the grocery store. Bring him with you when you leave), to remember that I am “sexy”? If I did that, I would have to displace something else, and would probably end up forgetting my bus card in the morning. Oh wait — I did that. I went back to get it, and left again only to realize I had forgotten my shoes to wear at work. I went back to get them, and left again only to realize I had forgotten my keys. Etc. Another helpful hint was “remember how you perked up last time when he did That Thing.” Unless “That Thing” refers to “gave you an I.V. of Red Bull,” then no, frankly, I don’t remember. Probably because I’m too busy trying to remember I’m sexy. Where is the REAL helpful stuff, like “Before going home from work for a romantic evening, drink 4 double grandes heavily laced with Jameson’s.” That might actually help matters.

And then, I discovered (while trying to organize the basement. Don’t get me started) an old Utne Reader from 2004 that I had saved specially because it was all about parenting. “Certainly,” I told myself at the time, “A young, hip liberal such as myself needs advice from the Utne Reader about cool, hip, liberal ways of parenting.” And so it was saved. For 4 years. This is why the basement is a disaster. Amidst the talk of the upcoming 2004 Presidential Election that brings nostalgiac tears to my eyes, were these gems on “Soulful Parenting.” The first was to “pick an author to ‘adopt’ into your family. Then every night at the dinner table, ask ‘what does Uncle Dickens’ (or Aunt Allende) have to say?’ and take turns reading a passage.” Dear Lord. I am an English major and that sounds too hokey and mind-numbing for me. Then there was “Make a circle in the corner of the living room an ‘imagination space.’” Slightly better, I suppose, but my friend Julie, who is the best Mom I know, makes their whole house — nay, their whole life – an “imagination space.” You could go to their house and find them sitting on blankets in the middle of the living room, because that’s the only place where the dinosaurs can’t come. Or you may find out that her daughter didn’t take a nap because there was a giant in her room, and he was snoring. Why do you just need a corner? That’s not much fun. And the one that made me stuff the magazine into the recycling bin was “Go to the park and find a tree that exemplifies your sense of humor.” Honestly. How high do they think I let my kid get? (JoeKim notwithstanding). A tree. exemplifying my sense of humor. It went on to give you tips on what to do if you could not find said tree, but I didn’t really keep reading after that. I assume that if you can’t find a tree that seems especially funny to you, you should maybe do an interpretive dance to express your sadness, and bury a box filled with your worries under a bamboo plant during a full moon.

Or maybe go home, have a few coffees laced with Jameson’s, and put the baby to bed early.

TGIF! March 7, 2008

I had forgotten the fabulousness that is Friday.  Forgotten how wonderful it is to feel that your responsibilities end for a while, that you get a respite, get to be your own person for a couple of days.  Of course, just because it’s a weekend away from working doesn’t mean it’s a weekend away from Mom-ing, but the luster of Friday is only slightly tarnished by that.  The world still seems to be my oyster, and I feel like Fred Flintstone sliding down that dinosaur.

Work has been going well – well enough that, of course, I feel guilty about it.  I feel much better (although much more tired) splitting my day.  I think just getting out of the house, feeling like I’m a part of the “regular world,” and the all-important having a reason to put on nice pants, all help to make me feel good.  But, as stated, I feel guilty — as though I should be pining away all day, looking at photos constantly, worrying what Darwin is doing and if he’s unhappy, unable to do anything because I am away from my son, without whom I cannot function.  Does actually liking to go to work make me a bad mom (or just a weirdo who likes going to work)?  I justify it by telling myself that when I get home I am All Mom, All the Time.  I only get about an hour and a half with Darwin before he goes to bed, so I try to really make the most of it, and soak up every giggle and smile, and even the cries and whines.  He’s been waking up more at night again, which I actually am kind of glad about, because even though I’m a lot more tired during the day, it’s nice to get some more bonding time in at night, when no one else is around, and it’s just us.

Motherhood, it seems, just magnifies things — before, I knew that most things are a double-edged sword.  But now, when I realize that in order to have some good time with Darwin and feel like I can meet his needs, I need to get considerably less sleep, the nature of “double-edged sword” really hits home.   And then to realize I’d rather get up 3 times a night than sleep, and if I didn’t I’d be disappointed, is just weird.

So, to recap.  Because I am a mother, I like to go to work, and I look forward to being awakened 3 times a night.  I am going to blame hormones.  How long can I get away with that for all my quirks?  18 years or so?

There’s just no pleasing me March 5, 2008

So, the night after I wrote the post about not sleeping, The Peanut actually SLEPT! He woke up at 2am, but then not again. So, what did I do — use my newfound well-restedness to do a little dance of thankfulness at my fortunate lot in life?

Of course not.

Instead, I became convinced that since the sleep regression is due to learning all those developmental milestones, he must not be learning them. He’ll forever be behind. Maybe he’ll never know that when I put a ball behind my back that the ball doesn’t actually disappear from the face of the earth and then remake itself seconds later when it comes out from behind me. Maybe he’ll never learn to remember anything for longer than 8 seconds, or grab anything with his hand, or talk, or whatever. All because he didn’t NOT sleep right now. It’s pretty amazing how, no matter what happens in this parenting thing, I just can’t let myself be happy about it.

As for going back to work, I’ll tell you about that at the end of the week. I’m too pooped (even with a sleeping Mandu) to even begin.

The Big Sleep March 2, 2008

I am having a very testosterone kind of evening.  We just watched a guilty pleasure, “Die Hard,” and now I’m off to read “The Big Sleep” by Raymond Chandler, starring Phillip Marlowe, private dick.  He uncovers a (gasp) pornography ring!  Indeed!   The leader takes photos of women sitting on chairs — just sitting there — with no clothes on.  It’s scandalous.  A 1930s Larry Flynt, I suppose.  But, the unfortunate thing is, I will not be getting any big sleep myself, as the Young Master has decided to wake up several times a night, after being a sleeping prodigy at 9-12 hours for a month or so now.  There is still not 3am piercing crying — yet — but I’m sure it’s coming.  Probably on Sunday night, since I go back to work full time Monday.  I was just starting to think I had the hang of this mom thing, and now I have no idea what to do. Do I let him roll around unhappily and fuss, and wait until he wails?  Then let him wail longer?  Do I get up and feed him, even though I don’t think he’s hungry?  Do I get him up to comfort him?  Do I pretend to be asleep and hope that Joe gets up?  Oh, wait, he puts earplugs in at night.

The good thing is that it seems this is a common problem.  Four-month sleep regression, some call it.  I haven’t found much on it “officially,” but there are several blog entries like this one that detail it and have many moms rejoicing that they are not alone.  And moms that reassure you that it is hellish for, say, 5 months, but eventually gets better.  Until the next thing.  The explanation for this newfound restlessness is that there is just so much going on in that little 4-month-brain that it can’t sleep.  Object permanence, remembering things for more than 8 seconds, learning to grab with your hand open instead of closed.  All things you’d think would be easy to get the hang of, but really aren’t.  I just keep reminding myself that whenever I start a new job, the learning curve is pretty steep, and it takes a long time to feel like I know what I’m doing.  And that’s just a new job, in the same field, that I go to for only 8 hours a day.  Darwin is learning how to function in the world and actually be a person.  I assume that’s more difficult than museum education.

But gawd, I hope he figures it out quick.