It’s Possible That Breastfeeding Is Like Gay People Kissing On Days Of Our Lives.

 

I have a confession to make:

I’m a housewife and I watch Days of our Lives.

I also have another confession to make:

Seeing two guys kiss kind of makes me uncomfortable.

 

 

My favorite daytime Soap now has two homosexual characters that are starting to make out on a regular basis.  Whenever I see it… I feel kind of weird.  It’s a little shocking… in an ice water kind of way.

I went to a performing arts college – practically half of my class was gay.  I was also a working actor for over a decade after that, and have very dear friends that are gay.  However, most of my gay friends now live on different coasts and since becoming a housewife I have been severely… underexposed.

I don’t feel weird when I see a husband kiss his wife on the sidewalk in front of my house.  I don’t feel uncomfortable when the heterosexual characters go at it on Days of Our Lives.  I think it makes me feel weird because it’s something I’m not used to.  It’s shockingly different.  My weekly viewings of Glee aren’t enough to make it still feel normal to watch.

I imagine it’s how some people feel when a woman breastfeeds in public.  People shift in their chairs…

They whisper to each other…

They slightly shake their heads…

They feel uncomfortable…

They ask a restaurant manager to make the woman leave or stop.

Breastfeeding advocates around the world encourage women to nurse in public because of the idea that the more people see it, the more normal it becomes.

It’s one of the most normal, natural things in the world, but I’ve found myself on a number of occasions huddled in my car trying to uncomfortably feed my baby.  I’ve sat on a bench with my son under a nursing cover hoping that no one would notice… then felt strangely guilty for feeling ashamed.  I’ve felt bold.  I’ve felt natural.  I’ve felt nervous.  I’ve felt dirty.

I can’t help but wonder if any of my gay friends feel that way when they kiss their partner hello or goodbye in a public place.

I don’t want you to feel that way…

and I don’t want to feel as uncomfortable as I do when I see it – my self-touted open minded and open heartedness is crumbling before me.

Gays of the world, I need your help.

I need you to kiss more in front of me…

and since you never know where I might be at any given time, just do it wherever you are when the urge strikes you… and hope that I see it.

I don’t need you to lick your partners face off – gay or straight that may make me dry heave a little…

But I need to be exposed to more simple displays of homosexual affection.  Seeing love should not make me uncomfortable…

We need a new normal.

You kiss the person you cherish when the moment calls for it.

I’ll nurse my son on a bench when he’s hungry.

Let’s make our acts of love more commonplace…

and then lets make a sandwich, put our feet up, and watch today’s episode of Days of Our Lives.

 

 

 

 

 

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Bittersweet Amazingness. (The ghost of PPD)

 

His deep trusting eyes look up at me, and he grins the slightest grin.  He nurses in silly happiness at my breast while I caress his foot.  This is our moment.  This is our moment of relaxation in the midst of our chaotic life.  This is our moment of connection.  This our moment where he tells me how happy he is to be my baby.

He demands a lot from me.  He needs to be close.  He needs to explore… but only if I’m near.  He needs to feel my heartbeat several times throughout the day.  He has my love, my attention, my soul – every ounce of me.  He demands it.  He demands the acknowledgement that he was inside me, that he is a part of me, that we are tied.  It’s exhausting… and marvelous.

I look down at him as he pulls himself close to me… he smiles – milk spilling out of the corner of his mouth.  He will be a year old  this week.  How is this possible?  Has he lived outside of me for that long?

He looks inquisitively at me and puts his hand on my chin.  I know he knows I’m thinking something.  We communicate so often even though he has no words.  The gesture is so unbelievably tender that I cry a little.  I cry because of the thick sweetness of it.  I cry because of this titanium bond I never knew could exist.  I cry because I feel guilty…

for not having felt this with my first son.

It was my postpartum depression… later my postpartum psychosis.

My firstborn is four now and quite an amazing child.  I feel we truly began to know each other around his first birthday.  He is my heart beating outside of my body, but sometimes… in the quiet moments… I wonder if I cheated him.  I know him.  I know his heart… the winding path his thoughts take… but I didn’t then.  We have an amazing bond – we truly do, but I wonder how much stronger it would be if it had started earlier?  This was a question I had not asked myself until my second boy.  I did not know it existed.

I am truly struck by the amazingness of fully experiencing my infant as a mother.

It is bittersweet…

this primal attachment between mother and baby…

because I’ll miss it in the future…

and I’m missing it in the past.

I’m trying to move forward in joy…

while holding hands with regret.

 

 

 

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We Need A Reality Show About People Who Don’t Take Apart The Oreo.

 

What we need is a reality show about people who don’t take apart the Oreo before they eat it.  I know some people who don’t do it – not even a little piece.  They are not tempted in any way to lick the creamy insides.  I’d like to hear them defend themselves.  I’d also like to put them in a house with ten other cookie eaters who only eat the cookie after eating the creme.  Dunk?  No dunk?  Double stuff?  No Oreo at all because of all the refined sugar?  There could be some serious cookie drama on a show like that.

 

I would also like to see a show about people who put the toilet paper roll on with the paper rolling out underneath instead of over top.  I would be interested in seeing what makes these people tick.  I want to know what has happened in their lives that leads them to the “under” toilet paper choice.  Most of all, I just want to hate them.  Under is wrong.  Over is right.

 

I’m also hoping that soon I will be able to watch reality programming that covers things like mothers who have infants and still keep their nails super long and painted.  How do they get their squiggly infant dressed without poking his/her eye out?  Why would they risk scratching their child’s butt as they wipe it, or worse – scooping poop with their nail?

 

Above all, though, I’d really like to see some scandalous reality show footage of mothers who have chosen to breastfeed their children beyond their first birthday – oh wait, yay, it’s already in the works!

 

 

Thank goodness, because we thrive so on sitting on our couches, pointing, and judging choices that are different than our own.  We need the drama, the ridiculous drama that the microscope of the camera brings out.

We need it…

and hoorah for us, we’re getting it…

another reality show centered around something that

isn’t a big fucking deal

at

all.

 

 

 

 

 

Kicked. (Last of the 8 lines)

* Last of the 8 line posts spurred by this one >> 8 mm.

*****

Love affair with Texas Ranger = kicked.

Dependence on boob umbrellas = kicked (Can we say like leather?).

Ingestion of multiple pain pills = kicked.

Preoccupation with the FrankenPussy = kicked… well maybe one last look.

Scheme to cheat on posts by posting only 8 lines for over a month = kicked.

The year 1995 = the last time I used the word kicked.

Postpartum Depression/Anxiety = getting my boots on for kicking it.

My pity party’s keg = so kicked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nipple Shower Dance (8 lines)

* A month of 8 lines in honor of this post >> 8 mm

*****

 

Dodge the water needles.

Dodge them for the love of God.

Soap and splash rinse…

Shimmy to the left.

Half turn to the right.

Make boob umbrellas with my hands.

This is how postpartum bathroom accidents occur…

Doing the raw nipple shower dance.