Sunday, February 6, 2011
Babies in Peril
The blood donor clinic in Halifax is moving to a new location. The husband, kid and I were out for a walk last weekend and sauntered by the current building. It’s an older brick low rise that looks a little worse for wear. While pushing the stroller, my husband turned to me and said, ‘you know, we could buy that, it has potential for the zombie apocalypse.’ I replied, ‘Too many windows and I don’t like the location.’ He mumbled something about an effective blockade of the windows but I scrunched up my nose and shook my head.
This is the first time we’ve discussed the zombie apocalypse since the birth of the child. A shared interest in zombie invasion tactical planning has been a contributing factor in our happy marriage. We’ve discussed the merits of a variety of locations with relation to supply lines, defense; long term survival. The joy associated with the purchase of our first home was dimmed by the prospect of giving up our all but zombie proof third floor apartment. Those of you rolling your eyes, enjoy eating your neighbor’s spleen.
After we had the kid we were too tired to think about anything but sleep so it didn’t come up for a while. This summer, we were cat-sitting for some good friends who have a massive television. It’s an ‘oh my god I can see each blade of grass I would love to watch golf all night’, type of television. Left alone with the TV and to our own nerdy devices, we put in, ‘The Return of the King,’ the last Lord of the Rings movie. It was awesome. The battles were bloodier, the elves were hotter and Middle Earth was more breathtaking than New Zealand.
Anyway, we finally got to the last big ass battle. I’ve seen that movie five or six times and I never gave two hoots about the people of Minas Tirith. There’s too much other stuff happening; a whole lot of orcs and creepy trannies on elephants and Legolas. Who gives a crap about random peasants? On this viewing I notice it. I mean, it’s barely a subliminal message of a shot. It’s a woman with a small baby in the city with nowhere to hide when the orcs came.
Sweet Jesus.
I looked at the husband, our eyes met and then we both looked at the snoozing infant. I mean, that would be really scary man. The rest of the movie was ruined due to my tension. Well, some might say the rest of the movie was ruined by Peter Jackson but my being freaked out didn’t help.
Not two nights later I watched Cold Mountain. I find the movie annoying but there’s a super hot sex scene near the end so I figured I would hang in till that went down. There’s a minor scene where Natalie Portman’s baby is absconded by Yankees and left out in the cold with no covers. Previously, I thought the baby would be fine, whatever, give them the pig. This time, I literally clapped my hands when Jude Law shot the Yankee bastards.
If fake babies in peril are this upsetting, how the hell am I supposed to concentrate on a real life zombie escape plan? When I allow my mind to wander over to zombie town I’m reminded that we have chosen to live on a peninsula! What were we thinking? This is one of those surprises that parenthood has shoved under my door. Maybe when he’s a bit older I’ll be able to work out something. For now we’re just going to have to wing it.
Boobs
According to the literature, breastfeeding is a soulful, emotionally enriching activity that will cement the bond between mother and child. Conversely, formula feed baby’s diseased riddled bodies will inevitably suffer an early death due to a meth lab explosion
No pressure.
I did it. Do I think my baby and I would have connected without breastfeeding? I mean, I think so. I’m done now and we still get along. Me and the baby, we’re tight.
There was stuff I just didn’t like about breastfeeding. I did not like taking my top off at parties. Even in my wild and crazy youth I wasn’t a top taker offer. The lit cigarette in my mouth during my twenties wouldn’t have permitted it anyway.
I hated the crappy bras. One of my best girlfriends got me to buy an expensive sporto nursing bra. She loved hers. That’s great, but my girls will never be as self reliant as hers. It was like I was wearing a fanny pack.
I didn’t enjoy the amount of reality television I was subjected to. Don’t get me wrong, I am not fancy. I keep up with the Kardashians. It was just that it took so long to breastfeed that I watched the same shows day after day. I mean, the same damn episodes, over and over, groundhog day like. It’s sad to spot plot holes you hadn’t noticed during the last viewing. I mean, I didn’t go to film school but I was pretty confident I was catching the subtext of what Randy was saying to the latest bride at Kleinfelds. Not so much.
I’m glad I did it. The health benefits go without saying. It was handy. It was cheap. I think it would be ridiculous to NOT do it if you can. I’m just saying that I don’t miss it.
Seriously, I'm busy
Being a stay at home mom is weird. In the beginning, I was defensive when my husband asked me what I did all day. I would glare at his raised eyebrows and snort that he had NO IDEA how busy it was. The thing is, behind my rant I was thinking, ‘What the hell DID I do all day?’ I still wonder about it.
At the end of the average day, I haven’t produced anything. I may or may not have dipped some discount chicken legs in shake and bake. I feel I should have something to show and tell about the last ten hours. There’s no physical manifestation of work. I mean, the baby’s alive, but that’s it. That’s all I’ve got.
Why does this bother me? I was rarely troubled about not making anything when I ‘worked’. There were many days when I produced way less than a couple of chicken legs.
I’m not looking for any validation, I’m busy here. Keeping the baby alive and the house in order and the shaking and baking really does eat up ten hours. I’m just saying it’s weird. Maybe I would feel more industrious if I put on heels and drove the baby to another building for the day.
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