My mother and I spent a portion of Mother’s Day at Wal-Mart, her favorite place in the whole world. She was bothered that I didn’t have enough nightgowns. I guess new mothers should never wear pants. Once we were in the bowels of the women’s section, my mother picked out these paisley ensembles that made me about as sexy as a bag of russet potatoes. I told her, “Mom, couldn’t you find something more modern and less Me-Maw? I’ve not only become a mother, I’ve become Nan Mona.” Now, if you’re Chamorro, you should be laughing at how hysterical that is, and if you’re Chamorro and not laughing, then you are probably my brother. Whatever, George.
I made a mistake last week. While at the hospital, I fell for the whole, “Let’s take a picture of your newborn for an outrageous amount of money” scheme. It’s a scheme. Don’t do it. Please have the strength I lacked to say no. When the photographer had first asked if I wanted pictures, I sent him away with the “I have to talk to my husband about this” retort. But then he returned while I was breastfeeding and Mike was filling my prescription at the pharmacy so I said yes to the pictures, yes to the goddamn Family Album Package. I hate being rushed to make a decision and I hate spending money when I could have gotten a better deal elsewhere. I had “sucker” written all over me.
It wasn’t a complete loss. We did manage to get this shot:
I figured out what I was doing wrong with breast-feeding. I had him in the wrong position. It was much easier in my breast-feeding class. We practiced on dolls and those doll babies were cooperative. They never pulled at my bra strap or gnawed down. Nathan sometimes hangs on and forgets what he’s doing so I have to rub underneath his chin and say, “Focus! No dilly-dallying!” And if I remove Mr. Succu-Boob (get it? succubus? okay, nevermind) before he’s ready, he enters some kind of head-bobbing where’s-my-food seizure. He then latches on in a way reminiscent of a dog violently sinking into and shaking a piece of steak. It’s really cute.
Mike asked if I miss working or going to school. I do miss carrying on adult conversations that don’t involve me breaking out in a high-pitched sing-song voice or pulling out one of my boobs. I miss reading the news. When I’m not sleeping, I’m watching Little House on the Prairie. I know more about what’s going on in Walnut Grove than what’s happening in Seattle.
I’m focused on poopy diapers and feeding times. Speaking of poopy diapers, I don’t think poopy is strong enough a word to describe what my son emits into his diaper. If he were older, he would probably call everyone within the sound of his voice over to examine the amazing amount of feces he unloaded. Wouldn’t you?
But I must say, when I’m with this one, it’s hard to think of anything else.