Pump and Run

In a panic last night when my breast pump stopped working. I was sure the poor old thing had given up the ghost when Christian walked by and gave it his version of the Fonzie tap. Amazingly, the magic touch got it right up and running again, avoiding a dilemma about whether to buy a new pump in what is very likely the homestretch of my nursing career.

I despise pumping on a number of levels. It brings back memories of Henry’s infancy when I returned to work at the French Embassy in DC (worst job evah) and used to slink off three times a day to pump in a conference room or vacant office. Everybody in my division looked at me like I was some kind of freak walking down the hallway with my pump, sterilizing my accessories in the office microwave, etc. Brings to mind an article I once read in Le Monde about how French women don’t really breastfeed (apparently it puts a crimp in their identities as independent women—um, yeah…). Anyway, mine is one of the “pump in style” type contraptions that looks like a large shoulder bag. I used to lug that thing on my nightmarish commute (involving automobiles, multiple buses and, often, a 30-minute walk. I swear I have permanent rub marks on my neck from the strap.

That said, it was easier to brave the frowning frenchies with pump in hand than a rowdy preschooler who perceives that I’m (literally) tied down and exploits the situation to get up to no good. These days, I pump once of twice a day to get some milk for little Coco’s oatmeal, give her some practice with a trainer cup and build up a small emergency supply in the freezer. I try to time the pumping session so that it takes place during Hank’s nap, but of course it doesn’t always work out as planned. Am occasionally able to pump before bed, a couple hours after Coco goes down, but don’t usually find it very productive—guess my boobs are as exhausted as the rest of me by the time 11 o’clock rolls around.

The biggest drag about the pump, though, are the quantities of little bottles and plastic parts that need to be washed. All of this leads me to an even greater appreciation--despite all the minor annoyances (leaky boobs, blocked ducts, having to stop the car all the time on road trips, etc.)—of the beautiful simplicity of breastfeeding. Nothing to clean, nothing to refrigerate, nothing to carry. That said, I’m feeling a little French in admitting that the end is in sight and I’m looking forward to being detached. I’m committed to going a year per the recommendations of the baby docs and will enjoy all that oxytocin to the fullest, but after that I’ll be shutting down this popsicle stand and Co will move on to goats milk so mama can consume a bottle of Champagne and a couple of full-caf americanos. Just hoping the pump will hang in there for a few more months…

In Case You Need Something Else to Fret About...

It's hot as hell these days, and I’ve got hyperthermia on my mind. There was a big story on France Info today that was very similar to one in my local paper last week: Dad forgets to drop child at daycare and goes right on into work, leaving child to die in the sweltering heat of late July. There was also a case in the news a year or two ago involving, if memory serves, a minor public official in Maryland. Both the guys in France and VA, I believe, have been charged with manslaughter. Can’t remember if the guy in MD was charged…Also brings to mind an old episode of CSI where the dad left his baby in the car and pretended it was an accident, but Grissom and co. discovered he had really done it on purpose because the baby had some kind of horrible genetic disease (that’s the Hollywood twist, I guess).

Was curious about how often this kind of thing occurs and went looking for some stats. Found an interesting study on a site called Kids and Cars. According to this report, over 2/3 of cases involved kids who were left in cars (intentionally (car seat as babysitter!) or unintentionally) and the rest involved kids who got into someone’s car while unsupervised and got trapped. The most common sitch, it seems, is something like the ones in the news lately: people just forgetting the kids are back there…

So my question is this: are these guys freaks (it does seem to be a guy thing based on the accounts I’ve come across) so absorbed in their jobs that they forget all about their offspring--or could it happen to anyone? Is it so unthinkable with all the distractions and the general fog of parenthood? My irrational (I hope!) fears have always run more along the lines of leaving the baby somewhere, of not getting her into the car, rather than leaving her inside. I occasionally find myself reaching back to touch Coco’s little toes, just to make sure she’s back there (OCD much?). I have to admit that I accidentally shut one of our cats in my car last summer. I had left the back door open while retrieving some recyclables and he snuck in. Fortunately, I had to go out shortly thereafter and discovered him no worse for wear, but was distraught thinking about what might have happened. Not that my stupid cat story is in any way comparable to a kid dying in a parked car, which is, of course, truly heartbreaking. Guess I’ll try to get more sleep and keep on praying for presence of mind.

Mama's Night Out

Had my first solo outing since Coco was born last night. Wish I could report that I’d done something exotic, but the fact is that it started with a haircut and ended with me closing down a local Target. Embarrassingly, that’s the best I could come up with. I’m out of practice and have vowed to get more creative next time I manage to escape. Little Coco, who has taken to her trainer cup like a champ, was totally unfazed by my absence and, I suspect, secretly happy to have a little quality time with her beloved. Hank, on the other hand, was screaming and clinging to my leg as I was trying to get out the door. He’s in mama mode these days, and while it’s nice to be wanted, it’s all a little suffocating..

I’ve been craving solitude lately, but did feel like something was missing as I headed down the driveway to a few hours of freedom. It was a little sad looking back there at the empty car seats, but didn’t take me long to get over it. Between the coiffeuse and the big box, I hit Panera (once again, low marks for creativity, but I like that they use antibiotic-free chicken!) and had a nice long phone conversation with my girlfriend Manon in Brooklyn. She’s recovering from foot surgery (cut a tendon in her foot on a broken plate—ouch) and not in the best of spirits. Was so wishing I could be up there to give her a hand. She’s a tough cookie, but we all need to be taken care of sometimes…

Didn’t really feel like hitting a bar on my own and too late for coffee, so on to Target where I had some birthday related errands to complete (the boy's is coming up). Kind of wandered around looking at stuff until they announced closing time. I can see why some people like to shop at night--it was pretty darn mellow in there. Don’t think I’ll make a habit of it—I’m more of a morning person. Drove home through the town I grew up in, and it felt like old times cruising around the same streets, stopping at the same 7-11 I used to hit in high school. That got me wondering, as I sometimes do, what the hell I’m doing back here. I really don’t have much to complain about though. I mean, people flock here from other places because it’s a great place to live. As for me, it’s pretty simple: love brought me here and love keeps me here. And I get a better haircut here than I ever did in New York…what more could you want?

French Reflections

Well, it’s Bastille Day here at the funny farm, and we are listening to our favorite (and, for now, only) Carla Bruni CD to mark the occasion. I don’t yet have her latest which was just released and is apparently causing quite a stir in France. We have Quelqu’un m’a dit which was a birthday gift from our dear friend Colette (little Coco’s namesake and fairy godmother) a few years ago, long before she (Carla, that is) became first lady of France. It's a fun record. Carla was big on the runways when I was living in Paris in the mid-90s. I think she was dating celeb-lawyer Arno Klarsfeld at the time. I spotted him once at Café de Flor way back when, but never ran into her at any of my eurotrash haunts...

I’m dying to get back to France. Haven’t visited since spring 2005…Nice trip, but I don’t recommend Paris while pregnant. I found it excruciating to have to abstain from all the plentiful/cheap/delicious wine and raw milk cheeses. Thank God for the amazing macarons from Pierre Hermé which provided some consolation.

No voyage in the cards for the near future, with airfares through the roof and the miserable exchange rate. So for now I’ll have to be content with Gainsbourg, Georges Brassens and France Info on iTunes and reading Maxou and Babar to the kids. Unfortunately, Henry doesn’t care much for Alouette, but I have to admit that song gives me a headache...

Anyway, we'll try to have a glass of wine in honor of the fête nationale and Henry will have to tolerate a quick rendition of La Marseillaise.

Exquisite Mess

Somewhat astonished to note that we do not, in fact, have the messiest house in America. I finally got around to reading a hilarious/unsettling article that appeared in WaPo last month about a new cable reality show where they take some poor slobs and clean up/makeover their house.

Not that I’ll be watching it…As a member of a TV-free household (actually, we do have a television set on which we watch Netflix, but no reception whatsoever), I’m pretty much out of the loop on the latest in reality programming. I didn’t even know there was a “Style Network” until I read this piece. We did watch a couple episodes of Top Chef while on vacation with my sister and her gang a couple of months ago. Entertaining-- but not enough to make me sign up for a satellite!


Still, nice to know that there’s somebody out there in worse shape than us. Our house is pretty chaotic. My mother, God bless her, has to be one of the worst housekeepers of all time, so I come by it honestly. The truth is, Christian and I are both embarrassingly disorganized—in different ways, of course, just to be sure that we drive each other totally crazy. In my previous life, I kept it together by simply not accumulating stuff. I’m a minimalist at heart. I really do get some kind of endorphin buzz from throwing stuff away. But I’ve discovered that one of the harsh realities of parenthood is that you start to acquire things related to the health and happiness of your children and are forced, for one reason or another, to hang onto them. Also doesn’t help that I’m married to a collector. Our house overflows with boxes and boxes of his unsorted junk. When we were dating, the sneaky bastard stored all of his extraneous belongings in a conveniently unoccupied apartment across the hall, only to have to reclaim them all around the time I moved in. This is the guy who, as a fifth grader, had his desk dragged out of his classroom and prominently displayed in the hallway as an example of how not to maintain one’s personal space. "It really was an exquisite mess," my beloved recalls, with what sounds like great nostalgia. They gave him until lunchtime to clean it up, which he did. Afraid, I guess, of being forced to skip a meal.

Anyway, the pathetic folks on the show are in a totally different league. The question, as raised in the article, is when does clutter become pathological. At what point does messiness reflect honest-to-god mental illness? It sounds like poor old Mindy and Phil may have crossed the line. As for us, I think we remain, at least for now, on the side of sanity. I usually manage to clean the bathrooms once a week and good old Papa hits the catbox with something approaching regularity. We just need a good purge (five years and I’m still waiting!), some storage solutions and to remember to put things away when we’re done with them (Mama!). I haven’t yet tried withholding food as a motivational technique but may be on to something….

Department of Small Miracles

My kale—gorgeous! It’s amazing—I kind of feel about those kale plants the way I feel about my kids—except I’m planning to eat them!

I’ve been sautéing the kale in safflower oil in my big stainless All Clad skillet—a wedding present from Sara and one of my favorite pieces of cookware. We are avid juicers and I love a few kale leaves in my juice. My go-to concoction lately is as follows:

1 granny smith apple (I like GS because they add a nice tartness to the mix)
1 large cuke (or 2 small!)
15 or so baby carrots (I buy a big bag of organic carrots at Costco)
Chunk of raw ginger (I like it pretty spicy)
3 large kale leaves

I juice all that in our Champion and then add a capful of store-bought aloe vera juice. Very tasty and incredibly energizing.

A Double Shot of Independence

One of the perks of living in the Center of the Universe is that we get to participate in two Fourth of July celebrations, one of which takes place on the third. Our own home base of Lovetown celebrates in style on Independence Day Eve. This is apparently because the fireworks are cheaper, and a little old town like this one has to watch the bottom line… Things start out with a grand parade including the Sheriff, Mayor, our long-serving State Delegate, and Miss Loudoun County (I had no idea we had our own beauty queen in town!). I was particularly heartened to see a group of Obama supporters marching in the parade (but not, unfortunately, the candidate himself). Nobody out for McCain…A sign, perhaps? One can hope!

We had the good fortune to be invited over to our friends Sean and Amy’s (the lucky Versa owners!) place. They have a sweet little bungalow right on the parade route where we sat beneath a shade tree and watched everybody go by. They were all throwing candy, to Henry’s great joy. He is now a full-on sugar fiend, I have to admit. This is the kid who, not so long ago, asked, “What’s that blackness?” when handed a Petit Ecolier cookie. He didn’t even know what chocolate was! He has since had a course in Candy 101 (mostly from his more worldly cousin Scarlett) and now he’s a connoisseur. To top it all off, Henry’s Grandpa Albert, also invited to the gathering, gave him his first Coke while I was otherwise occupied. Good Lord! Riding that sugar high, Henry had a blast playing basketball and Frisbee with Amy’s nine-year-old Sam and a pack of his friends. When the big boys took off for the Community Center on their bikes, Henry was ready to grab a set of wheels and tag along, only to have mean old mama clip his wings.

We had to cut out early for sleepy Coco’s sake, giving up a front row seat for Lovetown’s world-class fireworks display. Christian did drive Henry to the end of our driveway to watch them while I put the babe to bed… I was so delirious with exhaustion (pretty much a perpetual state) that it took me a few seconds to figure out what the bizarre noise was coming over the monitor. Was relieved to realize it was just the sound of bombs bursting in air.

My folks live nearby in the quaint and more tradition-minded village of Waterford, which holds its parade on the Fourth. The Waterford parade is rather loosely organized--mostly kids in wagons and on bikes, a few tractors and some old cars. The kids and I were actually in this one (as are most of the village’s residents, leaving one wondering who’s left to spectate, but never mind). Once again, Obama was a no-show--mystifying…

The parade was followed by a do on the town green with hot dogs, ice pops (more sugar) and lollipops (bring it on!) and some rousing patriotic numbers sung by the local queen bee tween set. Henry once again found a group of nine-year-old outlaws to hang with, nice kids who tolerated a pesky three-year-old with aplomb.

My sister and family were out for the day and joined us back at the farm for a nap for the kids and some work in the garden for the grown ups. Then we headed down a series of dirt roads to a fête at new friends Jennifer and Michael’s. It was a fun scene and right up my alley--a bunch of Gen-Xers with babies and young kids, tasty barbecue, and a little bit of conversation. They were serving mint juleps, which I can no longer handle (I don’t think I’ve had a drink with hard liquor in it since my bachelorette party!). I opted for a refreshing Verdejo which I’ll have to get the name of. I could have drunk a bucket of that stuff, but stuck to the one glass rule…And cupcakes—my favorite—which always bring back memories of Magnolia bakery in the West Village, back in the day, before the line got so impossibly long.

Henry was a maniac as usual, and I had my hands full as the Ever Lovin’ was gigging (the annual July 4th extravaganza across the river in Hagerstown, MD). Our amazing hosts had rented a moon bounce, which had gotten pretty soggy thanks to some afternoon showers. A few intrepid kids were determined to enjoy it, and mine was first in line! In short order, he had had enough of his wet clothes and proceeded to ditch them all for some naked revelry. Somewhat amazingly, I actually had the foresight to bring a spare outfit and finally got him dressed again after a half-hour or so Then it was on to his next object of fascination: the keg. He insisted on working the pump, and several kind souls let him fill up their cups with foam. When it was time to leave, I literally had to drag him away kicking and screaming and resorted to bribery with--you guessed it-- more candy.

It was an action-packed 24 hours. But I must say, the greatest cause for celebration was our little Coco, who, after conducting herself with great composure through all of the proceedings, went on to sleep through the night (9 to 7—woohoo!) for the first time. Independence indeed!

Nightmare at Chick-Fil-A

Some folks from Henry’s playgroup had gone to a nearby city for a matinee showing of Bee Movie and lunch. I knew that we were not in any way ready to sit through a 90-minute movie, but I had some shopping to do in town and decided to meet the group afterward at a nearby Chick-Fil-A. For a number of reasons, we don’t really do fast food. But I must admit I have a soft spot for the Chick (must be those waffle fries) which we hit three or four times a year.

Henry, who had not yet discovered the joys of the fast food play area, was delighted to discover that this place had a slide inside. I was (barely) able to get him to inhale a few chicken nuggets and smuggled in carrots before he gleefully trotted off for some good clean fun. No sooner had I finished listening to some eye-opening tales from the playgroup ladies about the questionable hygiene of those places when Henry came out into the dining area, smiled and said, “I have poop on my foot.”
Cringe.
“Whose poop is it?” I asked.
“My poop.”
Of course it is. Of course my child is the pooper.

It was, it seemed, the mother of all poops. The poor kid was wearing a diaper, but it was no match for this super blowout. It was all over Henry and in a few seconds all over me, too. The Chick-Fil-A manager arrived looking exactly as a fast food honcho should: a chubby, balding, pasty looking guy with a mustache. “Everybody leave the play area,” he shouted and called for whatever unfortunate person happened to be on clean-up detail.

The ensuing pandemonium brought to mind the Baby Ruth scene from Caddyshack as mothers rushed to retrieve their darlings. Mortified mama passed Coco off to one of the playgroup moms and whisked the offending preschooler to the ladies room, but not before brushing the back of another kid’s shirt with poop from Henry’s foot (please tell me that didn't just happen!). I swear to God I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was on the verge of tears in the bathroom but shook it off. Carried the diaper clad Henry (hello, white trash!) to the car, snuck back into the dining area to grab the little girl and got the hell out of there.

Obviously a not-quite-three-year-old’s bodily functions are nothing to get in a tizzy about, but my insecurities flared right up. Will Henry become a playgroup pariah? Did I handle this properly or have I come across as a flake, terrible mother etc...?

As I slunk away, I made a mental note never to let my kids into one of those bacterial breeding grounds again. But they will undoubtedly find their way back in there at some point. And no doubt, come dinnertime, there would be another crop of kids in the indoor playground at Chick-Fil-A, oblivious to the afternoon’s catastrophe. Sunrise, sunset, life goes on. Just don’t forget the hand sanitizer.