One Hundred and Fifty Ounces of Breastmilk or Bust

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts about BlogHer this week—and this is going to be another one of them. (My apologies to those not attending. That was me last year, and I hated it.)

The phrase "ten days to BlogHer" keeps repeating in my head today. I think I'm reaching critical mass when it comes to nervous excitement. I spent two and a half hours last night cleaning my house, and another two hours the day before that organizing all of my son's toys. Evidently my brain thinks I'll be giving birth on the expo floor.

Despite being an utter girl about picking out outfits and jewelry (I don't feel obligated to dress up, I want to take advantage of a chance to dress cute and by cute I mean not in a nursing tank top that smells suspiciously sour) and despite my gut-twisting fear of flying and habit of sobbing while writing "in case I explode" notes to my kids and hiding them in envelopes in their clothing drawers, my biggest concern isn't fiery-death or fierce-shoes related.

My biggest concern has been accumulating enough breastmilk to feed my eight-month-old. (If you have a baby at BlogHer, beware. I may start wibbling and smooching the baby.) Though my Moose has started solids, he’s still only having one or two meals a day. I haven’t noticed a huge decrease in nursing. So I’m estimating that he’s still eating about 26-30 ounces of milk a day.

Since I’m leaving on Thursday morning at the butt crack of dawn and getting home on Sunday just after his second feeding, I figure I’ll need about 100 ounces. (The first bottle and a half on Thursday will be from my early-early-morning get-the-boobs-un-engorged pumping session.)

My old Pump In Style bit the dust near the end of my pumping with my first son. (I guess pumping three times a day for 14 months was too hard on the old girl.) Colleen shipped me her older Medela model to help me out, but I discovered that my breasts didn’t respond all that well to it.

I put a tentative plea for help out on Twitter. This time around (working at home) I don’t need to pump all the time the way I did with my first son. I couldn’t afford to buy another pump just to go to BlogHer, but I couldn’t go to BlogHer without pumping half a freezer full of milk. I started to freak out.

When Judy from A Mother’s Boutique sent me a message to let me know that she’d found me a pump, I totally squealed like a little girl. We exchanged a few emails and within five days I had a brand new Ameda Purely Yours Ultra on my doorstep.

After buying a few bras and receiving one test bra for YourMamaReviews.com, I’d learned that Judy’s store was absolutely treasure trove of pumping and nursing goodies. But I had no idea that Judy was such an absolutely saint.

I’ll be posting a full review of the pump after I bring it on my grand adventure to Chicago. Hopefully I’ll be able to share some pumping-while-traveling tips after I figure it out and consult with some other pumping mamas on the trip.

Thanks to Judy at A Mother’s Boutique, I now have over 130 ounces of breastmilk in my freezer. We’ve done a few test bottles and I’m highly relieved to say that the Moose is finally accepted them. I AM GO FOR LAUNCH PEOPLE.
When I am glomping you at BlogHer or nervously hiding or darting off to pump, you can thank Judy for sponsoring my boobies. I’ll be bringing my Ameda pump (in its cute tote) with me to the conference to pump around five times a day. The tote comes with an awesome storage cooler, but for the sake of convenience I’ll be dumping my milk instead of trying to store it and fly home with it. (I know, it’ll feel like dumping gold down a drain. However, I plan on being a bit buzzed each evening, so that milk will be useless anyway.)

A Mother's Boutique carries maternity clothing, breastfeeding clothing, nursing bras, breast pumps, slings and breastfeeding accessories. Judy blogs about breastfeeding and parenting at Mommy New and Views. Judy has also written two great articles for breastfeeding moms. She includes them with every order, but you can read them online as well: Breastpumping Tips for New Moms and Working & Breastfeeding.

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I wish I had a funnier story to tell about this.

On Tuesday, while I was watching Michael’s Jackson’s crazy circus of a memorial service and waiting to find out the results of my mom’s biopsy, she called and said, “you better pause the TV.”

My heart stopped. I heard the word oncologist and I began crying. In my panic/anger/frustration I blurted “My mom has cancer” on Twitter and then slipped off the couch to curl up on the floor and sob while she kept talking.

Almost twenty years ago, my Nana died of ovarian cancer in hear mid-50’s after a grueling battle. She was the matriarch of our family, the heart of it in many ways. She suffered horribly until she passed.

As my mom spoke, the specters of that downhill battle haunted me.

After waiting three weeks for her pathology report from the dermatologist, my mom learned that the tumor that had been removed from her arm was malignant. She was told that it had grown off of her vein and that the very rare form of tumor had a high likelihood of appearing in her internal organs, specifically her brain or liver. The office made her an oncologist appointment for the very next day, patted her back, and told her she would need immediate radiation and further surgery.

“This is very serious,” the dermatologist told her.

My mom drove by on her way home and I held her and we both cried.

My husband left work early. I walked around in a fog. My stomach ached and all I could think was that my mother, my beautiful gentle strong amazing mother—who hates going to the doctor more than anything else—might face terrifying, invasive procedures.

“I’m just so worried about you,” she told me. “What if I can’t watch the boys?”

Because that’s my mom.

In the midst of my freak out after my mom left to go home and call my dad, I walked back to my computer to see dozens and dozens of replies. Sympathy and prayers and thoughts.

Despite the fact that I blather on and on on this blog and on Twitter, I freak about getting a lot of attention. All those comments were at once touching and terrifying. I started apologizing for spazzing out (and I still feel bad about TWEETING something so serious) but the comments and emails and phone calls kept coming.

I called my mom again. She doesn’t read this blog, she doesn’t follow me on Twitter, and she doesn’t really “get” social media. But I told her that she was a rock star and that tons of people were thinking about her and praying for her and sending good vibes.

And you know what? It helped. She felt shy about getting the attention but I could tell it bolstered her mood.

That night dragged on and on.

The next afternoon the moose-baby and I headed to the oncologist with my mom. After waiting for about 45 minutes he met with us in a small office.

He glanced at the paperwork and eyed us. “You don’t need radiation,” in a tone that suggested my mom was some sort of radiation addict looking for a fix. “I could do surgery if you wanted, but it’s probably fine. Tumors like this are normal.”

I saw my mom getting upset and flustered.

“Why did her doctor tell her that she had other tumors and that this was a rare and very serious condition that could possibly affect her eyesight and other organs,” I asked, bouncing Moose on my hip and shooting evil lasers out of my eyes.

“I don’t mean this negatively,” he shrugged, “but he overreacted. We share a lot of cancer patients. I’m 95% sure this is fine, but you can make an appointment with a surgeon if you’d like.”

He shook our hands and left.

We walked to my car, my mom shaking visibly. I wasn’t sure what to say to her. We felt relieved and angry and confused. And violated by the way that the doctor had spoken to us. All the build up and anticipation and anxiety had led to a non-answer and contradictions.

Fortunately, my dad was able to call in a favor to get her a second opinion immediately. We raced across town to another oncologist.

This doctor—a spunky, small woman—had my mom get in a gown. She expressed concern and disbelief when we tried to catch her up on the whirlwind of the past couple of days, as well as the original botched surgery to remove the tumor that resulted in a huge hematoma and bleeding the next day. She frowned at the incomplete paperwork and said, “Don’t worry, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

She did a full check of all my mom’s lymph nodes and the still-swollen incision and then got out a big book to show us some pictures of various types of tumors she felt it might have been. She made plans to call the dermatologist who removed the tumor, and said that she’d be consulting with another surgeon. The tumor, according to her interpretation of the path report, definitely needs more surgery because it’s the type that can grow back from even a tiny scrap. And it would grow back bigger.

So now we’re playing a waiting game again. But we are insanely relieved to know that it is NOT CANCER and is hopefully nothing serious or widespread and does not require radiation. My mom needs more surgery (by an actual surgeon, not a dermatologist) to get all the tissue from around the tumor out. But beyond that, everything may be totally fine.

Right now the mystery tumor investigation is hampered by the fact that the dermatologist (this is the guy who told me I'd have 2-3 stitches and ended up giving me 12) took inaccurate notes before surgery (he actually laughed to himself in front of my mom, saying, “Oops, I wrote down that this was a mole) and the fact that no pictures were taken of the area where the tumor was. We’ve had to re-assert several times that she had no discolorations or raised skin or moles. It helped when my mom mentioned that the dermatologist initially felt that the super super hard little tumor was a teratoma. (The other two doctors assumed that she had a bump removed, not a lump removed. If that makes sense.) My mom also mentioned that after the hematoma happened the dermatologist remarked that he probably shouldn't have been the one operating on that kind of tumor.

ANYWAY.

I truly believe that all the positive energy sent her way helped. We’re blessed that she was able to get some answers and forward momentum without having to spend another night scared and anxious.

My mom and I are both relieved that Doctor #1 was wrong, but we’re very angry at the way he gave my mom a definitive diagnosis that was by two accounts completely incorrect. We’re angry that Doctor #2 did nothing to help us understand why a doctor would have said the things that Doctor #1 did. And we’re grateful that Doctor #3 treated my mom with sympathy and understanding and an aggressive interest in getting to the bottom of a chain of fuckup events.

I know the knee-jerk reaction to this is "sue them for malpractice!" but suing someone is not like pointing a magic wand and making money happen. We're taking steps to try to get documentation of all that's gone down. My mom hates confrontation, this entire situation is upsetting her tremendously, and if it all ends up being absolutely fine she's probably going to want to put it behind her.




And.

(I feel so guilty for being so scared and grieving and crying over a misdiagnosis when so many are facing battles with cancer.)



So.

(that’s that for now. And anyone who devalues social media can blow me. My Twitter friends gave me a sparkly awesome force field of strength on Tuesday and Wednesday. I want to send everyone fruit baskets and chocolate and flowers and fuzzy kittens and big, weepy hugs.)

(Thank you.)

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Girl Talk Thursday - PRAWN

Women I meet don’t talk about porn0grphy very often. I find that when they do, it’s usually to mention something critical about it.

But I don’t object to p0rn. And my close friends know that I can be downright vulgar when I want to be. (Such as, ahem, writing erotic literature.)

But to be honest, I know that the adult industry isn’t always the most woman-friendly industry. However, I’ve discovered that through careful research and some creative Googling, it’s possible to find adult videos and websites produced by women.

For me, that’s a great way to get around my squicks—which aren’t about p0rn itself, but about the way female employees (both behind the scenes and in front of the camera) are sometimes treated by douchenozzles. (The male kind, not the literal kind.) Along those lines, I’m frustrated by female actresses and models and employees who dive into the industry without the emotional stability it requires.

(I object to the way certain big box stores run their business empires more than I object to the adult industry.)

I don’t think there’s anything morally or spiritually wrong with porn0graphy. If you remove the bullshit that sometimes goes on behind the scenes, there’s nothing wrong with it in my opinion. I believe it can help sexual relationships, and I believe it can be a wonderful way for a woman to get to know her own body and her own sexuality. I believe porn0graphy can be a safe outlet for fantasies, curiosities and even frustrations.

(As far as partners/husbands/boyfriends watching porn—that’s not what I’m addressing here. I fully acknowledge that that is a more complicated topic that ties into self-esteem and confidence and I’ve had enough angst this month.)

It may be a “guilty pleasure” but it’s not something I guilt myself about. I don’t partake in the pr0n that often, but when I do, I enjoy it and then I’m down with it.

My tastes are pretty varied. I think high-end stuff is generally silly. (Pirates, anyone?) But soft core and cinematic-quality adult movies have their merits, particularly in the fact that they open up the adult genre to men and women who may have been nervous or ashamed to rent an adult DVD or visit an adult website.

I don’t go for Gone With the Wind length porn for the most part. Give me ten minutes on a computer and I’m good to uh… go. If I’m browsing online for a few video clips, I’m probably not going to find something artsy or amateur produced by respectful, savvy women. So there’s the rub. (Ha ha.)

There are huge differences between nude art, erotic art and porn0graphy. It upsets me when they’re all lumped together.

All of this being said, I don’t think women who object to porn0graphy are prude. It’s a personal preference. There’s nothing wrong with finding adult content distasteful or uninteresting or even gross. I’m not going to judge you for disliking it — I’m even interested to know why you don’t.

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Since July is a mighty month of squee for many of us, Drew from Eden Fantasys is letting me draw two Girl Talk Thursday winners. The first will be on Monday, so get your posts up before then to be eligible to win a $25 gift certificate good toward all sorts of sex toys or lingerie or DVDs or even candles. Whee.

Bust your link onto Mr. Linky below and PLEASE also leave the link in the comments in case Mr. Linky goes tits up again. Thanks!

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wordless - my mom and my chipmunk

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identity

I'm never really sure what I'm doing here. Playing, chatting, reading, babbling, writing.

Sometimes I write crazy things that make people laugh. Sometimes I post serious stuff that makes me feel accomplished as a writer.

But a lot of times I just talk about my kids.

And you know what? That's okay.

They're cool kids.

Funny, creative and mouthy kids who help me take pictures for Girl Talk Thursday:

Strange, toy-biting eyelash-y kids who learned to stand this week:
My "business" cards for BlogHer have my kids on them. And that's okay too. They're kinda the coolest things I've made in a long time.

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adventuring

At seven-thirty on the Fourth of July, after an afternoon swimming at my mom’s, I dragged Chipmunk out of the house for a totally totally awesome awesome fireworks adventure.

Already half-aggravated by some spaz-out he pulled just before leaving, I took a deep breath, rolled down all the windows and the sunroof (my husband prefers having the air conditioner one) and announced, “We’re going on an adventure, just you and me!”

We cut through the humid evening air toward downtown.

“Are we going to Tampa?,” he asked. (That’s where we saw fireworks in February.)

“No, we’re going to downtown St. Petersburg.”

As we walked about half a mile to the basin from our car, he asked, “Is the wind gonna get the sweaties off us?”

(It didn’t.)

We saw traffic, four “police mans,” a few thousand drunk people, and a lot of annoyed babies. We bought bottled water and an apple juice at a corner store. We watched my sister run the hostess stand at a crowded restaurant, listened to a jazz band, and met an old dude with a Margarita when my son reached over to try to steal the limes off it.

We bought two glowing necklaces. He asked for a pink one, and I got a neon green one. Then I sat on the sidewalk and pulled him into my lap for a picture.We both jumped when the fireworks started.

Then he spotted a young toddler with a helicopter push toy.

When the finale ended, we ran across the street and darted past people on a sidewalk. He giggled and trotted beside me in his bright green Crocs, and by the time we got back to our car we were the first ones to the lot. The drive home wasn’t too bad, and we played “I spy fireworks!”



Three has been challenging. But despite the challenges, we have exciting developments like conversation! and leaving house without a diaper bag!

And I love you Mama, you’re my best buddy.

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Girl Talk Thursday - SHOES! Discuss.

From Middle School to senior year, I wore two pairs of shoes. A pair of Birkenstocks Arizona women's sandals and a pair of Converse basketball high tops. (They weren't chucks.) These weren’t just any high tops. I'd scribbled with a ballpoint pen over every inch of white space. Weird things about my teachers, the Luck Dragon from Neverending Story, quotes from Romeo and Juliet, and lots of doodles.

They were epically awesome dorky shoes. I wish I had pictures of them.

In college, I wore my Birkenstocks most of the time. In the winter, I wore them with toe socks. I had about 30 pairs of toe socks. (Dudes, I wore them to work.) When I wasn’t wearing those, I wore a pair of men’s Simple shoes.

(It’s a wonder my husband came onto me when he met me at 18.)

At some point after college, I had a weird epiphany in a Dilliards shoe department.

I liked… shoes. Not Birkenstocks or sneakers. I like perky little kitten heels and patent leather.

Little by little, my shoe collection began to grow. A few years ago my mom called me out on it. "Since when do you like shoes?" she asked me incredulously, when I returned home from work with a pair I'd purchased on my lunch break.

I noticed a few hang-ups when it came to shoes:

1. I don’t like very high heels. I’m 5’8” and I never learned to walk in them properly. (I honestly only own four pairs of shoes with a true heel.)
2. My toenails are gross, and don’t look particularly awesome in cute open-toed shoes.
3. I’ll just ignore #2 (see evidence below)
   

In 2006 I discovered the joys of flats and picked up a few pairs of Sugar shoes in the Smokin’ Cat style. While they looked adorable on, they REEKED TO HIGH HEAVEN when I wore them without socks. My husband used to ask me to keep them outside or keep my feet outside or something or anything at all to make the god awful foot stank stop.

(Sigh.)

When I started working in Tampa in 2007, I had to dress up for work. And I worked with a buttload of women. And these women wore cute shoes all. the. time. At the same time, I discovered DSW. (Which I think stands for discount shoe warehouse, and oh man the discounts are discounty.) I picked up some cute Rocket Dog sneakers/flats for $12 that I still wear a lot.

I found another pair of awesome-but-stinky shoes for my New York trip in late 2007. I think they're Sketchers. I don't wear them anymore because I can't wear them with socks and they're just too smelly.

Despite my medium-sized shoe collection, I still wear the same shoes every single day. For the past couple of years they’ve been the same pair of green Old Navy $3 flip flops. These damn shoes are now so worn out I’ve had woodchips from the playground stab right through them.

(I need new summer shoes.)

When I'm going out or wearing dresses I usually wear brown or black flats. Once in a while I'll wear a cute pair of shoes for a really nice occasion.

I haven’t bought a new pair of shoes in over a year, with the exception of my cute pink gym shoes. Sadly, these shoes don’t get much love because the gym doesn’t get much love. The gym needs more love, but that’s another post entirely.

Evaluating my shoes helped me prep for BlogHer, where I want very badly to look somewhat fashionable. This is less to impress people and more to indulge in actually dressing like an adult for two entire days. I’ve been working from home for NINE MONTHS now and that’s a terrifying-ly long time after seven years of working in an office before that.

I’m very excited to wear earrings and necklaces. (No tugging babies.) And a few different pairs of shoes that cost me more then three dollars. (Remind me how happy I am about the shoes and earrings when I’m drunkenly spontaneously weeping about being away from said tugging baby.) (That is yet another post entirely.)

ONTO THE SHOES! (PS does anyone have some nail polish remover I could borrow?)

I keep most of my shoes on the back of my son's bedroom door.

And the rest get tossed into the coat closet.

These are most of my shoes. (I know you're fascinated.)

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If you participate, please leave your post in the Mr. Linky AND in the comments in case Mr. Linky dies again. Before BlogHer, TWO participants will win $25 gift certicates to Eden Fantasys, the sex toy shop I trust. (It's not just a snazzy tagline.)

Don't forget to visit your fellow Girl Talkers to share the shoe love (or hate!)

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