For Mother's Day I Got Deep Tissue Bruising and Crushing Guilt

RH investigating the properties of grass

I woke up yesterday morning with dread in a lump in my chest. RH had woken up four hours earlier, had refused to nurse for the third morning running, and gone back to sleep.

It's always a bittersweet thing when your baby stops nursing. And she was holding true to form- her sudden decision to give up the breast cold turkey is precisely what her sisters did as well. But her timing couldn't have been worse. Because on this day that she woke up four hours before her routine dictates, she wasn't allowed to have any other foods. She was going to the hospital to get an MRI. More than that, she was going to be put under general anesthesia, have a half dozen blood draws, and spend an hour and a half lying unconscious in the cold, surrounded by strange noises and people.

To say I was anxious would be putting it mildly.

My happy girl

As I was getting ready to leave the house, the phone rang. It was the imaging center at the children's hospital, and they were running early. If I hurried, I could get RH's MRI over with more quickly, so hurry I did.

As I was snapping her into her car seat, I was hit by a car.

No, this is not a joke. (And no, this wasn't a repeat offender.)

Our block is home to a whopping three churches, and frequently we find ourselves coping with the incredibly thoughtless drivers coming for services0.. I can't tell you the number of times I've actually rolled down my window and asked the single adults parked in front of my house if they wouldn't mind moving so that I could carry my twin infants and two bags of groceries into the house, to be completely ignored. But the worst cases are situations like yesterday.

I'm pretty sure there was a funeral, and whoever it was trying to park in front of my house had discovered a long-lost friend or relative in another car parking across the street from my house. She was idling her SUV inches away from the passenger side of my car- making it impossible for me to get inside. I managed to gesture her away, but as I was buckling RH into her seat, suddenly I was pummeled under the arm by what I assumed must have been a two by four. A quick glimpse around after picking myself up showed clearly that the lady driving had taken her foot off the brake while she gabbed out her window with the woman across the street.

I had a moment's hesitation. Do I give this lady a HUGE piece of my mind for just hitting me with her car? Or do I suck it up and hurry to the hospital to get the MRI over with. I gritted my teeth, promised myself I'd leave a very strongly worded note if she was still there when I got back, and off we went.

RH, despite not having eaten in over 24 hours, was a delight. She smiled and cooed and babbled for the nurses, and the anesthesiologists, and strangers in the hospital elevator. And after weighing her and measuring her and squeezing her more more tightly than she probably enjoyed, I handed her to the nurses, and allowed myself to be led to the waiting room.

Sink bath!

It's amazing. Every MRI waiting room is essentially the same. They have the same fundamental feel to them- it's just a matter of what color the chairs are, or whether or not there's a cup of tea handy. As I've done dozens of times, I picked a seat, and I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

I watched other parents come and go. I watched brothers and sisters come and go. I watched the same two nurses come... and go. Over and over again.  And I read a book, and I watched the clock, and I waited some more.

And finally, the nurse called my cell phone. She didn't want to come and get me because RH was crying so hard, and she felt bad passing her off again.

By the time I reached her, I could hardly contain myself.

It's incredible- no matter how much you know, fundamentally, that your child is fine... that there is nothing wrong that a few minutes of calm won't fix, the gut-wrenching pain of seeing your child so hurt and confused and upset and being utterly helpless to stop it is one of the absolute worst feelings in the world.

I wept. I tried to nurse her, to comfort her in that way. She attempted for about two minutes and then only screamed louder. I dug through the diaper bag and realized that in my haste I had left her favorite lovey sitting on my bed. I sang to her, she only cried more.

Such a tolerant little thing.

Every few moments I would find another little bruise or cut. She'd had blood drawn from both elbows, from one hand, her IV was still in place on her foot, which was taped to a board to keep it still. He chest was covered with adhesive. Her face was red and irritated from the bandages they'd taped onto her eyes from drying out in the MRI. She had bruising on one cheek, I still don't exactly know from what. She had a rasping cough from the ventilator. She was wrapped in pre-warmed blankets, but she was cold, and essentially naked.

Each time they removed another bandage, another bout of screaming would begin.

She cried like she's never cried before. I cried like I haven't cried in months.

And eventually, she came around.  Eventually, she let me get her dressed and take her home. I was relieved to see that the lady who hit me was gone, and I could just forget it ever happened. Suddenly I realized how long it had been since I'd eaten, that it had been five hours since I left the house. I crawled into bed, feeling hungry and exhausted and miserable. And inexpressibly guilty.

I know it was the right thing to do. Her particular combination of delays and her family history are cause enough for concern, and I would rather know and be able to do something than find out when it's too late.

But I still feel like a terrible human being to put such a sweet little baby through such an ordeal.

Such a happy baby

I know she'll have forgotten all about it in a week. I know she won't harbor any long term resentment towards me for this.

I know she won't because I remember being very, very, very small, and my mother handing me off for a medical test I found terrifying.

I don't blame her.

But right now, I don't know how easy it's going to be to live with myself.

A Happy Mother's Day to all of you- may it be free of guilt and car-related injuries.

Have a great weekend!

Unintended Boob Job (And other mundane pregnant breast details)

Last week, I had that pesky spitz nevus removed.

They took off a nice big chunk of my chest.  Well, not THAT big.  But big enough to have a few definitely unintended side effects.

1.) I look like I have survived an ill-planned attempt to stab me through the heart.  Ill-planned because the would-be assassin stabbed me on the wrong side.  The stitches are gnarly, and healing really badly as that whole "don't lift more than 20 pounds" thing is impossible when you have two toddlers who weigh more than twenty pounds apiece.  Never mind that they just LOVE poking at your bandage and declaring, "Mommy have band-aid!  Got hurt underneath!"  And then tug at any bit of the sutures they can reach.

2.) I seem to have gotten a breast lift.

Note, that's not TWO breast lifts.  Just one.  Yeah, that's right.  My right boob is now definitely higher than the left boob.

No, I'm not going to put up an illustrative picture.  You'll just have to deal with that.

Okay, fine.

Of course, this is incredibly obnoxious.

I've been planning on getting a boob job for twelve years.  You see, I have very... ample... proportions when it comes to my upper body.  Starting when I was fifteen, my doctors began recommending that I get a breast reduction.  At that time, I was graduating into an F cup.

That was a long time ago.

I decided not to for two very important reasons.  One, I wanted to wait until I know what my "normal" was going to be.  At fifteen, with my breasts still growing and growing and growing, I worried that if I got a boob job they would simply grow back again.

The other reason was that breast reduction surgery- ANY breast surgery, for that matter- can cause all manners of complications when it comes to breast feeding.  And for my entire life I've known I wanted to have kids.  (Someday maybe I'll ask Poppa or Grandmommy to write a gust post on how he thought my preschool was brainwashing me on this topic.)  And for as long as I've considered such things, I knew I wanted to nurse them.

I also figured, selfishly, that after having and nursing several kids, I might use the excuse of a reduction to also have a bit of a REAL lift done.  Because... hey... I'm sure I could use that, right?

I imagined having the surgery once, and having it all be for naught.  Then I imagined being in my 30s, done with weaning, and with a nice pair of post-lift, post-reduction breasts- I'd look amazing!  So, I decided to wait.  I would wait until I was all done having babies, nursing babies, and weaning babies to get work done on my insanely sizable bosom.

So I waited.  And they kept growing.  I finally leveled out- hit an established size that was *my size*, and hovered there until my first pregnancy.

Allow me to share with you a blog post (from my old livejournal) from that time:

Just bought a new bra. My third new bra since my boobs have reached *truly* epic proportions.

It's a 34J. For those of you who have never conceived of such an excessive size, this is how bra sizing works:

The number is the circumference of your rib cage, BELOW the boobs, in inches. The letter is determined by measuring your boobs at the largest point to get the circumference around your body above the rib cage. Each increase in one inch relates to a step up in bra letter. Unfortunately, the bra letters are not so simple as just reciting the alphabet. Lots of double letters are standard, because after you hit about a D cup, the bigger they are the worse it really is for you. On top of that, different brands make bras differently, so frequently you might be one size in one brand but a different size in another- PARTICULARLY in larger sizes where one inch really doesn't seem to make nearly so much of a difference. Cup sizes increase in this order:

A B C D DD DDD DDDD E F FF G GG H HH I J JJ K L M MM N O OO

I have not been able to locate ANY bras- period- larger than a OO. For those of you not so quick at math, my breasts are now 16" larger around in circumference than my rib cage. I can wear this bra as a hat- and it comes down to my nose.

Oh- and my boobs keep getting bigger. They're likely to keep growing slowly all though this and the last trimester. Then when I'm ready to pop, all my milk ducts will flood with grubling juice and my boobs will swell up to an additional three sizes more. I am now expecting that when I am in need of a nursing bra, I'll be looking for a size N at least. Not to mention all the trouble I'm having trying to find a bathing suit for this summer.

They're deceptively enormous,

Lucky me, after the initial post-partum swelling, my breasts returned to that J cup.  And since weaning the girls, they shrunk down a bit more.  I've been rocking H and I cups since the girls stopped nursing.

Well, here I am again- back into those old nursing bras.

This time around, my chest has been KILLING me!  I didn't get painful and sore and miserable last time around, when I gained even more size.  But this time?  I feel like each night I get beaten across my bust with tennis rackets, or something like that.

So I have these wacky, gigantic, swollen breasts... and now one of them is about an inch higher than the other.

Go ahead and laugh.  It's pretty darn comical.  I do.  With my top off, I look like a cartoon by a hormonally charged and slightly cockeyed preteen boy.

...except also pregnant.

I don't know why M keeps acting like he thinks I'm cute.  It's absurd.

When I'm wearing a bra, I'm sure nobody can tell about my boob job.  But I know.

And now, so do you.

It'll all be worth it, in the end!

Pregnancy is glorious, isn't it?

Parenting on Instinct

Baby wearing love

I'll admit it.  When I was pregnant, I was totally lost.  I had no idea what I was going to do with a baby- for those first six months I really couldn't think of anything that babies DID.  I figured it was a weird time of limbo where you just waited for your child to finally get... interesting.

I did a few of the standard pregnant and clueless things.  I bought a few books, I accepted sometimes completely contrary advice from anyone who would offer, and did what I do best.  I decided to wing it.

Now, I know that it might seem to you out that I officially subscribe to a few defined parenting techniques.  I never did that on purpose.  Everything that I've done as a mother has been done following a few basic guidelines.

Breastfeeding love

What's best for the babies?
What's best for ME?

Best for the babies?  Breast feeding.  Best for me?  Moving the girls to their own room.  Best for the girls?  Baby wearing.  Best for me?  Potty training.  Starting last week, sort of.

We use cloth diapers because of the environmental impact, but more importantly because I think it's best for the girls to be aware of their bodily functions and to avoid the nasty rashes that come from artificially dried poo.  We breast fed until the girls self-weaned, because the human breast milk is ideal baby food, and they were happy to eat as much of it as they could.  I made most of their solid baby food, because I knew every ingredient was natural, healthy, and delicious.  I was constantly shocked at what Gerber and the like will put gelatin into.  That said, we're keeping the girls on a vegetarian diet until they're old enough to make an informed decision on their own.  It all seems pretty crunchy, huh?

Solid food love

But I never let myself feel like I HAD to do (or not do) something because of some ideal of granola parenting.  I supplemented with formula without giving myself a guilt complex- hell, nursing twins at all was an accomplishment, I wasn't going to treat myself like a failure if I wasn't always able to produce enough milk for two hungry babies.  I got my kids vaccinated on the pediatric recommended schedule- I wouldn't know what the measles looked like if I saw it, and frankly the same goes for whooping cough and mumps.  I moved my kids into their own room when they were about four months old.  After all, they comforted each other better than I could, and we all slept better.

In short, I've been basing my entire parenting philosophy on instinct.  Does this feel like the right thing to do?   Do I feel like this is a good idea? 

I found as I was reading parenting books- ALL of them- that I found the authors at best irritating and at worst complete idiots.  The multiple specific books were no doubt the worst of the lot.  I constantly felt like I was being talked down to, and if there's one thing on this earth that is guaranteed to enrage me, it's condescension.  I stopped reading parenting books before half of the full shelf I'd acquired had even been opened.  I just couldn't be bothered.  I obviously knew best.

Sleep-in-your-own-room love

And I still felt like I didn't know anything.  It was all a matter of watching my children, listening, and trying to figure out what they were trying to tell me.  I introduced solid foods as soon as the girls started acting really interested.  I stopped breastfeeding when they made it clear that they were just plain done.  I started vaguely potty training when they started acting upset about being around their own feces.  (And I'm totally flying by the seat of my pants here, too.  Right now my version of potty-training is a lot of "see Mommy using the potty?" and reading potty-themed books.  They know what the potty is, and I think they're starting to get an idea of what it's for.  So far, we haven't even tried actually using it for its intended purpose.)

Book worm love

We human beings are bad at remembering that, fundamentally. we're ANIMALS.  We're mammals, primates, bipedal, social, verbal... those are the things that define most of our development.  The things that we do for babies are completely tied up in being those things.  Being a highly civilized creature just complicates matters.  Everything about having a baby is primal- from pregnancy until the child is functionally verbal.  So as far as the parenting of my own babies is concerned, I guess you could say that I've reverted to some kind of inner animal nature.

I think my kids are remarkably close to perfect.  So is it undignified that I tend to think of us as neanderthals in order to get through the immeasurably difficult years of baby- and toddler-hood?  Perhaps.  But it's working.  It makes me feel good about our lives and every milestone my children reach, and I have no regrets whatsoever.

The parenting choices that M and I have made have made all of us very happy animals.

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Nothing Easy is Ever Easy

When I was pregnant, it was my intention to nurse my babies.  I wanted all sorts of crunchy mama things for my babies- cloth diapers, breast feeding, co-sleeping, a natural delivery...  But breastfeeding seemed (for obvious reasons) the most important.  And the most daunting.  I knew my mother had a very difficult time nursing, her let down was excruciating, and while most women seem to experience some pain with nursing that gets better over time, hers never did.  I knew that most women in the U.S. give up nursing early, that it's too difficult, that it's too inconvenient, and that it's a ball and chain that keeps you tied to your home, completely disrupting your social life.  And here in the U.S., we're all about our social lives.

I set myself a goal.  I was going to try to nurse for six months.

Six months came and went, and the time came to reassess my goals.  The pediatric recommendation is at least one year, and the first six months had been HARD.  So, I wasn't just going to give up.  If getting nursing "well established" had taken me four months, a two month return just seemed a little weak.  So my new goal was set- I wanted to nurse until my children self weaned.  Or until I decided they were "too old" to keep going.

According to my reading, most babies self wean between eight and twenty four months.  That's a big window, and I always assumed that I would be holding out until the farther end of it.

Last week, my girls weaned.  In one day.  Before their morning nap, they nursed like champs.  When it came time for their afternoon nap. DD wouldn't have anything to do with it.  She fussed and cried until I stopped trying to nurse her, and then she went right to sleep.  SI decided that if it wasn't good enough to DD, it wasn't good enough for her either.  I kept at it another two days, trying and trying to get the girls to latch on and have themselves a meal.

Nothing.  They were done.

I know I should have felt proud of myself.   I had accomplished a fairly heady goal- I had nursed twins until they self weaned.  That's not exactly easy.  I had nursed two babies for just shy of ten months.  Damned close to a year.

That's a lot of breastfeedings.

Still, I didn't feel proud.  I didn't feel accomplished.  I felt rejected.  When DD refused to latch on and get happy and cozy with me, I felt so sad I nearly burst into tears.  It wasn't those nursing hormones (which are all touchy-feely and remarkably addictive), it wasn't that I knew she was giving up a perfect food source- a FREE food source to boot.  She was giving up ME.  She was done with Mommy.

That SI was so willing to go along with DD and be done with Mommy as well... that was just icing on the abandonment cake.  I was miserable.  I was old news.

It took a few days to get my head straight.  First of all, they eat SO MUCH solid food that I doubt it's really hurting them at all to stop nursing.  Secondly, nursing had become much more a sedative than a nutritive activity.  Last of all, weaning meant all sorts of good things for me.  I could return to taking medications I had given up, and therefore improve my quality of life somewhat.  I could start planning days not around their eating/napping schedule, but around my own needs.

I remembered my resolution- I could find other ways to have special me/baby time.  It's much harder now to have special time with both girls at once, but that doesn't mean we can't feel snuggly and happy and close one at a time.  Now I sing the girls to sleep, rocking them and giving them kisses.  I take advantage more of times when one girl is asleep to spend a little more time with whoever is awake.

I'm back on a birth control that doesn't make me crazy.  I'm back to taking painkillers for my migraines that can do me any good.  I can use dandruff shampoo and acne cream.  I'm taking whole afternoons at the gym.  These are things that I couldn't do while I was nursing.

So weaning was easy.  Weaning involved me doing absolutely nothing, and letting the girls do exactly what they wanted.  They won't even take a bottle anymore- if it's not coming from a cup, it's not good enough.  I didn't even have any engorgement issues.

So by just about any reasonable standard, weaning these children was a breeze.  There were no tantrums, there was no pain, there were no repercussions.  For the girls.  I, on the other hand, found myself completely wrong footed and confused.

It was a pain in the ass to get good at nursing.  It took four long months of pain and tears and sleeplessness and angst.  And now it's over.  If I ever have another baby it won't just be picking up where I left off, it will be starting all over again.  It was hard, and it was worth it, but the idea that it's just... over?  That it's going to be instantly forgotten by two of the three most important people in my life?

I am profoundly saddened, even as each day gives me more perspective and pride.  I've done something that one year ago I was terrified would be impossible.  Something that during the first month of their lives occasionally seemed like torture.

It's a chapter in my life, in the story of my motherhood, that is over.  Every ending is a little death, a little sadness.  But every step forward for my girls' development, for their becoming children and adults and human beings... each change is a rebirth, them becoming who they are.

I am proud of myself, and I am proud of them.  But I already long for their early days, when they were so small and helpless, and they needed me.  They need me still, but less.  And one day I'll wake up, and they won't seem to need me at all.

Mother Nature's Sadistic Sense of Humor

As you probably remember from our last episode, SuperMommy had been DEFEATED by the Horrible Confederation of Evil Illnesses, and had finally called in the reserves.  There was no air conditioning, her children were waffling on the edge of heat exhaustion and illness, and her husband was fast falling into her well of misery.

SuperMommy started taking antibiotics, steroids, using an inhaler to help her breathe.  All of which did NOT interrupt breast feeding.  Miraculous, but true.

And then, Mother Nature thought up a very funny joke.  Mother Nature said, "SuperMommy!  What's the ONE THING that I can do to you that will make you more miserable and uncomfortable?"

Yes, after pushing two years, the red menace has returned.  The antibiotics interrupted SuperMommy's birth control, and here she lies- retaining more water and cramping in this ungodly heat, with her head a solid block of lead and her lungs an immobile knot.

Oh, Mother Nature, some days I could just throttle you.  Or cry.

Damn you, Confederation of Evil Illnesses!  Damn you, Mother Nature!  Thanks to you, we're down to one breast feeding a day, with all signs pointing to "Wean Soon."

Oh, Mother Nature.  Some day I will learn to bow to your whims without complaint, but not today, you heinous bitch.  Not today.

Makin' with the Milks

Breasts are pretty awesome.  They're warm and snuggly, they're pleasantly roundish, and they make food.  Past that, they're pretty fun in other ways.  I'm very pro-breast.  As a sort of thick Jewish girl, I've had breasts for a long time.  Big ones.  Before my pregnancy, I'd been holding steady for about eight years at a 34G.  I would wander through lingerie sections snorting- those measly C cups!  Those adorably petite DDs!  Then of course, I had to go and procreate, and now?  Boobs of doom.  Yes, doom.  Did you know bras only seem to go up to a double O?

Of course, they're more useful now.  Never mind that it took me six months of constant searching to find a supportive nursing bra that I didn't have to get custom made, or otherwise altered.  Never mind that my breasts enter the room four or five minutes before the rest of me, never mind all of that.  They're doing an important job.  And I am beginning to wonder about when that important job will end.

You see, my children are growing teeth.  Those adorable toothless grins haven't changed much- YET- but those teeth are visible.  Pretty soon those teeth are going to be more than adorable little pearly spots, they're going to be vicious tools of destruction.

I'm not considering weaning as a purely pain related issue.  Frankly, I'm not sure SI (who used to be a FIERCE biter) even registers that she could nibble me anymore.  DD might figure out that she can get a funny reaction out of it, but they know what boobs are for and it isn't biting.  No, I'm not too terrified of the teeth.  Only terrified enough.

What seems almost pre-arranged is that the girls are essentially weaning themselves as they cut their teeth.  They only nurse two or three times a day now, mostly if they're sleepy and want to wind down for a nap.  They get three solid meals, as many as two of what we call "booby snacks," before a snooze, and then their bedtime eating routine.  They don't want bottles before bed, nursing until they're all sleepy is all it's about, not another real meal.  They decided they were ready to move on from their previous diet, and their mouths corresponded.

I love nursing.  I never expected to say that.  It was hard to get started, really freakin' hard.  There are a lot of women out there who were born to nurse, but I am not one of them.  For one thing, my mother had a hormonal imbalance that made her let-down EXTREMELY painful.  For another, (and I can't believe I'm actually putting this out there,) I have one semi-inverted nipple.  I fully expected an nearly impossible latching situation.  Amazingly, the thing stayed popped out the right way from the get go, but not nearly as much so as its counterpart.  And preemies aren't so good at latching or sucking so that breast was a bit of an issue.  Even if they have the skills they tire very easily, and if they tire before they get to eat they fail to thrive.  I fully accepted the idea of supplementing with bottles early, it was unavoidable.

Getting started breast feeding was hard.  It involved a lot of crying, a lot of disappointment, and a lot of anger.  Nothing has ever made me angrier than being post-partum.  But we finally got the hang of it a few months in.  And it's wonderful.  Not just because the girls are big and I credit their diet, not only because I know they're getting the best food they possibly can, and it's not because we're saving a fortune on baby formula.  A few times a day, I get the opportunity to just sit and hold my babies, to play with them a little, to soothe them, and to generally feel like we're the only people on earth.

It's a little like falling in love, a couple times a day.

Sometimes, it's just a pain in the ass.  Sometimes, it's another thing I have to do that keeps me from doing the things I need to do.  Sometimes, the girls don't cooperate and there's screaming and there's tears and I am helpless furniture.

I'm also getting very good at repeating the motherly phrases, "Don't hit your sister," and "Eyes are not for grabbing."

I'm pretty sure I'm going to miss nursing when it's all over.  I'm just as sure I'll be relieved- freed to return to tight and complicated clothing and nights out.  But I understand the women who keep up nursing into the second year and beyond.  The girls and I are both so calmed, so comforted by just getting that warm, snuggly skin-on-skin time together.  It's a beautiful thing, nursing your babies.  It's not exactly an essential thing, it's not something that works for everyone, but it is an awfully nice thing.

I found that goals helped keep me going.  When I started, my goal was to nurse for six months.  When that turned up, I decided to aim for a full year.  I'm halfway there, and I think at this point I'm going to let them wean themselves.  There are days that they don't nurse at all before bed, that pre-nap nursing session is purely a sedative.  I don't know that I'll ever have to really work on weaning, they're so cooperative most of the time, but it's coming.  Three teeth between two babies, two to three booby snacks a day...

They're not little babies anymore.  They're big babies.  And soon they'll be children, and I'll find another lovely thing to do with them that makes us all happy and calm before bed.  We'll read bedtime stories together, sing our lullabies together, get tucked in and kissed goodnight...  But for now?  Nursing is still awfully nice.  Because breasts are amazing.

My Nemesis

SuperMommy is, of course, a heroine of epic notoriety. Like Superman, Captain America, and Professor X before her, she rights wrongs and helps those in need. Most notably, her children. But also like these other heroes, she has an arch enemy. For SuperMommy, her enemy and single vulnerability are one. Lex Luthor and kryptonite combined into one horrible and sinister foe.

Hormones.

Hormones are amazing. Without them, I could never have children, never nurse them, and probably wouldn't fall so desperately in love with them on sight. However, hormones are also an evil the likes of which have never been known.

You might have been wondering where I was these last few days. The short answer is Minnesota, but the long answer is that I was a captive of my evil hormones, holding not only me but my entire family hostage.

You see, the girls have been eating more and more solid foods. They have two of their meals each day completely solid, and they have at least one opportunity a day to "play" with solid food. Smooshed peas or chunky bananas mostly get shoved into armpits and dropped on the floor, but occasionally make it from the high chair tray to a baby's mouth, by way of baby's own hand! It's amazing. However, what I didn't realize when we started giving the children more and more solid food was that it meant I was, essentially, beginning to wean my twins.

The human female body is amazing. We come equipped with four innate forms of birth control. The first is pre-pubescence. The next is menopause. The third is pregnancy itself (thank god we can only do THAT once at a time), and the last is breast feeding. Unfortunately, breast feeding is not perfect birth control, but if your body is producing enough milk to COMPLETELY satisfy at least one baby, the odds of you getting pregnant do go down. The more babies you're feeding, obviously the more milk you're producing, and again the less likely a pregnancy becomes. Yeah, it would be great if it were a perfect system, but as far as birth control methods go it's pretty good. Those first eight weeks that you're not hardly sleeping at all, that you've got a little monkey eating constantly... you're probably not going to get knocked up while all that's happening. And that is a relief.

But the weaning comes, as it must, and then you're up the creek. Now you haven't had a period in nigh a year and a half, and your body might be a little slow on the uptake as far as remembering exactly how to cope with that.

Now, I have never had particularly bad PMS. But this last week I've felt as though I were in danger of literally killing people. Besides being hysterically upset, generally depressed, and irrationally angry, I've broken out like I haven't since high school and CRAVED sugar and salt in a way that my pregnancy couldn't come close to comparing with. While my not-in-eighteen-monthly visitor hasn't actually arrived, I'm expecting her any day. And, oh hormones my hormones, the madness that has consumed me seems to have one suggestion to offer.

My hormones, these same demons that have me throwing vitamin bottles at doors and shrieking to the useless Comcast customer service reps that I'm going to puke on their carpets (only possibly an exaggeration), have an EXCELLENT idea for how to not go through this miserable PMS-ish ordeal.

"Let's have another baby!" say the hormones. "Let's have it RIGHT NOW!"

And, weakened by exhaustion, by aches and by my own fury, I think to myself, "Now that might not be such a bad idea."

Damn you, hormones! Damn you all! I thank you for the many gifts you've bestowed upon me, but this relationship is becoming far too abusive. All at once I'm doubting my ability to parent what with the anger and the crying and the constant nutella sandwiches, yet you've very nearly got me convinced that I just want to be pregnant again.

And I remember how much I hated being pregnant.

Hormones. My nemesis. This time I conquer you. This time I grit my teeth and wait for the tide to rise and wash over me and then to return to a modicum of sanity.

I win this time, hormones. I win this time.