The Booby Blues

Say what you will about John Mayer and his slutty Hollywood gallivanting, but the man sure can do a song.

“Stop This Train" was on the selection today as I went for a walk during my first lunch break post-Harper. I am back full time today, and I’ve decided to counter my painful lack of sleep (two hours maybe? Thanks, Harper!) with walks during lunch. This apparently will give me the chance to solidify my belief that Darmstadt is a clumsy and unappealing mishmash of industrial areas, Kebab joints and government housing. I walked past a place today that specializes in animal cremation, not too far down the road from the pet-supply store I sometimes buy Lilly’s food from. I hope that they are not in cahoots with each other, although there would be a few lucrative possibilities.

And if I could hand out baby report cards, Harper would so be getting an F in Jesus Christ Would You Please Go To Sleep, Kid? Offered seven days a week, the kid kind of likes to skip class on this one. However, she is always in the first row at Booby Time 101, also demanding tutoring at all hours of the night. And I find myself failing more and more at my attempts to not freak out in fits of self pity …because Mommy needs to get some fucking sleep, and while she doesn’t need her nipples to do this per se, it would be nice if they weren’t being taken through the Baby Dyson night after night. Last night was the first night that Harper pretty much refused to sleep without my boob in her mouth. I’ve been nursing her to sleep for ages, but last night she would not let go. And if I did the removing for her, crying ensued. And at about 12:30, I wasn’t having it anymore. But by 2:30 and several rounds of singing, rocking, carrying around (only by mommy …. Daddy was apparently uncool), I was indeed having it again.

While those kinds of nights are the kind that make me want to throw in the nursing pad, I know that we’re in this for the long haul. Another mother I know sent a mass e-mail around recently to all of her other mother friends. Her daughter is one day younger than Harper, and the mother invited everyone to come celebrate her successfully weaning her kid. And then the flurry of mails that ensued between all of these friends (I only know the e-mail writer and a few people who also got the mail) honestly got me all disgusted and up on my high horse. I just couldn’t understand why someone would wean a 9-month-old baby, only to have to buy sub-par industrial milk for three months. And especially during this time of the year, when everyone is spreading their snot and germs (oooh…I almost wrote Germans there…) on every door knob in the country. And here her friends were, congratulating her and well, you know, we’re all glad to have our bodies back to ourselves and let’s go have some martinis. I said nothing, of course. But apparently no one told them that once you start having kids, it’s not just your body anymore. Not for a long, long time. As a mother, you are your baby’s home, the place they come to to be picked up, to be comforted, to be loved.