Back to Work

I've been worried for weeks about today the day I commute 3 hours (each way) from Sac to Santa Cruz with a baby in the back seat who has no predictable eating schedule yet. Lit 101/Marxism is calling -- 8AM lecture.
Things seemed like they were going to work out with less belly-aching than I thought. Dave got the (Cesar Chavez) day off and could accompany us there and back, taking a lot of pressure off our first day back in school.
I prepared all day yesterday to get everything set up for our early morning departure. The diaper bag and school bag were packed, the stroller was stowed, the bottles were made in advance and the cooler bag was ready. All I had to do was wake up, feed the baby, and be on my way. And we were making excellent time, I was to be there with a good half hour to breathe.
Except half-way there I had a vision that did not include seeing myself putting the bottles in the car. I remember throwing the diaper bag and my school bag in the backseat, next to the camera which I thought I should bring. But the bag of bottles, were they there? Nope.
So for the last hour of the journey, Dave and I worried: where were we going to buy formula, and bottles, and how were we going to sterilize them? And would hungry Desmond give us the time to figure all this out? We were straight panicking our merry way over highway 17, and what should have been a pleasant early morning drive down memory lane was nailbiting nightmare.
With a happy ending. Dave called his old Paper Vision bosses who kindly opened their doors to our screaming baby and let bottles be sterilized and formula mixed as I strolled into a packed auditorium pretending that motherhood is really a cinch.
Thankfully, my sister-in-law offered to care for poor Desmond Tuesdays and Thursdays so he'll never have to suffer that drive again.

Pass the Chicken Soup I guess

Yesterday evening we went to pick up a fancy Pali crib we found on craigslist. The woman selling the crib was a local East-Sac mom with a hip husband in a Volvo. They seemed like nice people who decorate their modest home in French bistro decor and stunning black-and-white wedding photos. We agreed to take their crib, and kindly accepted the accoutrements: mattress, crib bumper, sheets. And then the mom let me know that she has published a book and said I should take one home with me. She even signed it. The Light at the End of the Diaper Pail (and I see she has a blog too).
In another life, I think I might have scoffed at a publication of this nature. In fact, because I'm a cynical snob (and probably also jealous of all "regular" people who also have a published book), I did scoff a bit as I flipped through pages that reminded me to "Breathe. Repeat." or to "Love your partner." Little chicken-soup tidbits geared to a specific demographic who just so happens to spend a lot of money on feel-good baby-shower gifts. But it actually did make me feel good. While I may ignore the advice to "Beam. Cry. Laugh. Be real." I do kind of appreciate the reassurance that my hours of sitting on the big bed watching bad cable is acceptable behavior.

Around the Bed

We've been living at my father-in-law's since we got back from France three(!!) months ago. In fact, we've been living in my father-in-law's bedroom, while he's been staying at his lady friend's as his children figure their shit out. J -- my sister-in-law -- and her husband have recently moved from here to their re-modeled mega-house next door. And Dave and I are packing up and heading out to our new one-bedroom apartment, with all the old-school features -- like a built-in kitchen hutch, a Wedgewood stove, and a strange swiveling door that used to house a Murphy bed.
I'm excited about our move, to finally be in our own space with our own things. But I must admit, I'm also regretting some amenities of living in the burbs -- washer/dryer (I'm not quite sure I can live without one at this point . . . this will be a test), no apartment neighbors for Desmond to bother, no utilities or cable bills.
What most characterizes our stay here has been "going around the bed." Going around, that is, the California King sized bed that is the main piece of furniture in the room in which we live. The in-law's bedroom is of a generous size -- bigger than my studio in Paris for sure -- with a bathroom and walk-in closet attached. It also houses a huge flat-screen TV that offers one million channels or something close to that. What I do all day is sit on the bed, feed the baby, walk around the bed to gather clothes to put in the washer, check to see if I've already seen the "What Not to Wear" episode, walk around the bed to get to the kitchen to prepare lunch, feed the baby, walk around the bed to stare blankly at a bookshelf with books that I'll definitely read tomorrow. The bed is big and to get anything accomplished, you must walk around it. Thankfully, I'm not concerned these days with getting much accomplished, so I've been occupied mostly upon rather than around the bed.
Soon I'll be sitting on the new-to-me sofa I bought through craigslist that we tried to squeeze through a series of apt. doors, scuffing and streaking its white micro suede fabric, only to decide that we entered through the wrong entrance. The currently cushion-less couch is now sitting in the back utilities room waiting for Dave to regain his strength to take it through the correct series of doors.

In February, Bad Things Happened

Like two bouts of breast infection -- one of which sent me to the emergency room to have a huge abscess drained, leaving me with a hole that I *affectionately* call my "boob wound" which must be dressed twice daily.
So, with the least amount of guilt that I can manage, I've given up breast-feeding and have moved Desmond to the formula'ed bottle. He doesn't seem to mind at all.
However, I must admit that, despite the decidedly motherly intimacy that breast feeding provides -- I do feel a kind of pride that I am able to produce food to nourish my child -- I was not that keen on nursing. It is really totally exhausting. I know that some of my own happiness and independence must be sacrificed for the good of my dependent, but I had some difficulty coming to terms with the many months and countless hours ahead of me, hunched over a hungry child whose appetite seemed eternal.
What is more, I was feeling a fair amount of resentment toward all the websites and advice books -- and even California legislation -- compelling me to think of my body as a sacred trough that not only provides the best nourishment -- a miracle elixir allegedly preventing diabetes, asthma, obesity and slow-wittedness -- but also points to a morally superior mother who deeply, truly loves her progeny (unlike the bottle-feeding mother who is either conceived of as a self-absorbed diva or a lower-income, under-educated teenager).
Here's a pretty convincing article detailing the breastfeeding trend and questioning the actual medical benefits of nursing.