dairy queen, 29 weeks, 3 days

Lately, I’ve been thinking about boobs. Specifically mine. Specifically my impending role as full-time-dairy-cow-nurse-maid nursing mama. Apparently, my body is already marshalling the energy for this riveting new gig – last week I noticed that my chest is currently running at least 86 degrees warmer than the rest of my body. Because, you know, PUMPING BLOOD TO VITAL AND NO LONGER B CUP BOOBS. For the baby.

According to wise ole Alphamom, I should also now be noticing other exciting-knocker-related-changes-and-party-tricks – but not having known what colostrum was before I Google image searched it,[1] I’m pretty content to live in a world of denial – no need to contemplate that I could, at any moment, begin leaking through a business suit. We can save that frightening possibility until after I give birth and have returned to work, dazed and confused, and possibly probably covered in spit up. Pleaseandthankyou.

In the meantime, my newly sweltering bosom prompted me to TAKE DRASTIC ACTION: I signed up for a lactation class. “Breastfeeding Essentials: Part I[2]” promises to prepare me for “successful nursing” using “videos,” “photographic books,” and “props” <I’ll wait here while you snicker childishly at the double entendres, intended and otherwise. No, really, I’ll wait.> In the face of my offer – wanna come look at boobs with me for a couple hours on December 4? – C remained steadfastly mature and professional. Please label this upcoming class under strangest date we’ve ever been on.

In other mammary related news, a few dear friends gave me the heads up that my insurance company might cover the cost of a breast pump. Seeing as I’ll be returning to work a mere 10 weeks after I push a giant baby out of myself and so as to avoid the aforementioned business-suit-leakage, I have big pumpin’ plans. For efficiency and because, you know, MORE SEXY!, I plan to go for the double: you can't unsee this[3].

Trying to be a good sport because I made him, C volunteered to call our insurance company to inquire about coverage. Apparently they will cover the cost – in fact, the Affordable Care Act now all but requires it[4] – but they ask that we reach out to various medical supply vendors with the make and model that we want. Devoted husband that he is, C made the first call:

C: Hi. <Literally no transition or introduction whatsoever> Do you sell breast pumps?

Medical supply vendor: excuse me?

C: <Without missing a beat and apparently totally unable to read social cues> Do you sell breast pumps?

Medical supply vendor: <to coworker in the background> what a creep

*Click*

He swears this happened, word for word. I swear that he is either (a) lying in an attempt to get me to deal with this or (b) actually on the spectrum and totally unable to read social cues. I’m also not ruling out a combination of (a) and (b) because, c’mon! Ahem, readers, what do you think?

In the meantime, apparently the NYTimes Health section is cycling right along with me – they recently posted this timely article bringing to light the challenges women face in obtaining coverage not just for pumps but for lactation services. I guess I better plan on taking Breastfeeding Essentials: Parts II-XI before December 20.  

And that, dear blog-o-sphere, is this week’s installment in hooter related news/my feeble attempt to incorporate many different synonyms for “breast” into one post.

Also, this: how on earth am I twenty-nine weeks pregnant? GAH!

Most awkward cropped shot ever. Also, first casually-dressed-pregnant-Sarah-while-apple-picking photo.  Also, don't tell C that shortly before this photo was taken, I climbed a tree - there were really good looking apples up there.

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[1] Probably don’t do that. Not because it’s particularly racy, more just confusing: as in, why so many baby cows? Why?

[2] <Panic> there are multiple parts?!

[3] Is that white wine? Also, this. And this. The latter obviously a stock photo from the 1980s and the former uh, I don’t know, from another planet and era entirely. You’re welcome.

[4] Obama, you’re the breast! <couldn’t resist> <boob humor> <sorry>.

baby capitalism, 13 weeks, 4 days

We’ve done it. We’ve dipped our toes in the treacherous waters of baby commoditization and THERE IS NO TURNING BACK NOW. Hold on to your Sophie the Giraffe[1] and Manhattan Toy Winkels!

It all started with Adam Davidson’s recent piece in the NY Times Magazine, The Sippy Cup 1%. The article is a rather startling ethnography of the hypercompetitive commodity market of all things baby, through the lens of the Brooklyn Baby Expo – which was, no doubt, an insufferable affair, full of children named “Seneca” and “Juniper” and “Grover[2]” and parents comparing their children’s raw diet and “diaper-free” living.[3] The article tells tales of a $5000 stroller – which obviously converts into a spaceship because, GAH, so much money! – but is also an interesting and profound commentary on the fact that, basically, all parents are TOTAL SUCKERS who will buy anything if it keeps baby safe/BPA free/ivy league bound.

Of course, it left me wondering. How much does a stroller cost? And does this mean I can’t name my baby Juniper?

So, first trimester safely under our belt and nausea now relegated to an every-other-night-annoyance, C and I took a dive into Amazon-baby-registry-land. The only safe space, behind the glow of a laptop, where other moms-to-be can’t judge and where my future employer, who does not yet know I’m pregnant, can’t run into me in the cloth diaper aisle. <Furtively looks left to right>.

[Cut to C and Sarah perusing the Amazon Baby Best Sellers feverishly and with abandon]

<Exclamations of panic and horror over the price. OF LITERALLY EVERYTHING.>

<Labored breathing/wipes sweat from brow/tries to contain self/checks bank account/recovers>

C: Ooh diaper bags, what’s going on in the world of diaper bags? (Dead serious, and interest piqued. Inexplicably. Is this my husband?)

C: We’re not getting a prissy diaper bag, are we? We need something made by craftsmen.

S: <perplexed look>. So… you want a diaper bag made of reclaimed wood?

C: Oh yeah, look at that baby gate, that’s the kind of gate I like!

S: A gate? There are bath towels with bear ears and you’re interested in a gate?

S: Ooh, I like this ErgoBabyCarrier. But “supportive hood” just makes me think of Guantanamo – it sounds so dark.

C: What?! Who ARE you?

Then, in between describing various “bouncers” as “frightening” and debating the merits of a diaper genie – utterly disgusting or shockingly necessary? WE MUST KNOW NOW! – we were stopped dead in our tracks.

"Am I busy? Oh no, not at all!"

(I’ll give you a minute to digest this totally amazing photo).

How on earth can this “mother[4]” be casually chatting away on what appears to be a giant, antiquated Blackberry. Doesn’t she know there are giant plastic contraptions dangling from her boobs, meanwhile she is suffocating in some kind of restrictive, medieval girdle? LADY! GET IT TOGETHER!

We laughed our heads off for entire minutes. We are so much better than this woman! This woman is CRAZY!

We said. Before growing eerily silent. We both knew what was coming. I plan on breastfeeding. I also plan on working full time. <Deep breath, looks at feet>.

<Quietly now, and with great resignation>. I will be buying a restrictive, medieval girdle and hanging giant plastic contraptions off my boobs EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

You win, Amazon. You win.

<End scene.>

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[1] Seriously though, what is it about this giraffe?

[2] I think we all knew that a Portlandia clip would make it in here somewhere.

[3] For real. I could not make this up – a friend of mine just confided that one of the other parents in her son’s day care subscribes to some totally bananas heretofore-unknown-potty-training-“method” wherein after two months, she goes entirely diaper free. She literally holds her infant over the toilet at… random intervals? Every ten minutes, just for good measure? WHO KNOWS. One thing is for sure, she spends an inordinate amount of time dangling an infant over a toilet making futile pleas for it to act on demand. (Moments later: Okay, so I totally just Googled “diaper free” and the first hit was a thoughtful commentary about diaper-free support groups and “elimination communication.” I can’t even. I just can’t.)

[4] I put mother in quotes because her stomach is far too flat and clearly not-recently-the-carrier-of-a-fetus. Amazon, you devious bastard.