By now, you’ve probably gotten the memo:
I’m still breastfeeding M. and Little Homie.
It’s like a spread in National Geographic magazine over here–M. on one tit, Homie on the other. I think B. may have taken a picture or two, because, hey, if Octomom got offered $1 million (and dental insurance!) to star in a few pornos, maybe I could sell these pics to Hustler.
You may assume that I’m one of those crunchy granola mamas with the wind blowing through my armpit hair, all hippied out and high on my attachment parenting ethos.
I’m really not.
The only reason I tandem breastfeed is because it’s convenient (read: it’s easy to shut up my daughter by shoving a tit in her mouth when she’s tired or sick or just being, dare I say it, bitchy).
The women on this kibbutz are way more badass than I am. They all lift up their shirts with reckless abandon to feed their kids, and the men don’t even bat an eye. In fact, when I was skulking around the Kibbutz dining hall the other day looking for a potted plant to nurse behind, one of the other mamas asked me why I just don’t feed the baby at the table like everyone else.
And while I’m down with others nursing in public, I can’t bring myself to do it. It has nothing to do with modesty. I’m really not a prude. But in the immortal words of Chris Rock:
“Forty-year-old titty? That’s your man’s titty. Twenty-year-old titty? COMMUNITY TITTY.”
And while I’m only 29, after two back-to-back pregnancies, serving hard-time with a Medela nursing pump when M. was little, and breastfeeding for almost three years straight, it boils down to this: My breasts look better in a bra. Under a shirt.
And besides the convenience of breastfeeding–tandem or otherwise–I believed that my boobies would make lots of shiny, happy antibodies, and M. and Little Homie would shit rainbows. Basically, I thought that nursing would make my kids healthier.
But not so.
Newsflash: My boobies are not magical.
There’s a rumor going ’round these parts that I’m having an affair with the brooding, intense, and incredibly sexy ER pediatrician at the nearby hospital.
I suppose this begs the question how did I meet an ER pediatrician in the first place.
Ever since we landed here, our entire family has been body-slammed with disease.
I miss the halcyon days when I used to think that the sniffles was something serious. I remember hunkering down with M. or Little Homie, brandishing the bulb syringe, steaming up the bathroom with a hot shower and eucalyptus essential oils or whatever, and speed-dialing the doctor.
“My 8 month old is congested!”
Those were the good old days. Cozy times wasted worrying over a little snot.
My worldview has changed after facing the following:
1. Bilious vomit (everyone)
2. Throat infections and swollen glands (everyone)
3. Mastitis (yours truly)
4. Ear infections (Little Homie and M.)
5. Allergic reaction to Amoxicillin (Little Homie)
6. A nasty-ass croup that never ends (M.)
And now this:
Little Homie is really sick.
For the last seven–seven!–nights, we haven’t slept. Normally, the boy is pretty stoic unlike M. who goes all Greek Tragedy on us when the wind blows through her hair. But this time he’s really suffering. And together, we’re cranky, crying, and covered in crud, curled up on the couch waiting for dawn.
Not that it’s much better during daylight.
And yesterday, after his fever climbed to 41 C / 105.8 F–no, seriously–we got the diagnosis:
Little Homie has pneumonia.
(INSERT OMINUS MUSIC HERE)
As in, pneumonia.
(Even the word sounds kind of creepy.)
And while I can name about 20 other kids here who have the same thing, it still scares the shit out of me.
A nasty case of the sniffles can’t kill you. But pneumonia can.
Even with tremendous help from B and my Fairy Godmother in Law, my mind is starting (starting? ha!) to crack open and leak all over the blogosphere.
And if we survive this latest onslaught, maybe I’ll stuff my not-so-magical boobies into a real bra, slip the kids some formula and pass out piss drunk under a bush somewhere go on vacation.
I think I need it.