Rash Guard

A rash guard is something surfers and bodyboarders wear to guard against rashes on their torsos. Before you surf you have to wax your board so it's not too slippery, and of course sand gets stuck in the sticky wax, and then you are paddling out on an abrasive surface that may lead to a rash.

Obviously, this is something Roan needs. Thank you Grandpa Mac!

Baby Pool

I shot this video last Saturday when Jay came home with a baby pool. These are the stages to Ro's first baby pool experience:

1. Acclimation

2. Tentative splashing

3. Vigorous splashing

4. Wildman splashing accompanied by squealing

5. Intense water study; total loss of interest in surrounding toys

6. Calm contentment

7. Attempted escape

I caught all these stages on camera, but will post only stage one for now.

Splash from Cameron McClure on Vimeo.

Sprinklers at Slope Park

Ode to My Breastpump

My son is 8 months old. This means that for the past 8 months, if I've gone anywhere without him, my breastpump has tagged along. Maybe there are women who name their breastpumps like they are pets, but I prefer not to get that personal with mine. I'd say our relationship is personal enough already.

I love breastfeeding my son. But I've come to despise my breastpump. Maybe because I have to schlep it back and forth to work. Maybe because it forces me to take time outs in the middle of the day and realize how exhausted I am as I watch the life force literally drain out of me into two 5 ounce bottles. Maybe because it doesn't fit easily under a barstool. Maybe because it's hard to feel sexy or even moderately attractive while lugging around a large black bag full of your own warm sticky breastmilk. Maybe I'm just plain tired of all the pumping. Maybe I'm ready for my boobs to be small and useless again.

Some facts:

1. In Chelsea I carried my breastpump no less than 10 miles every week, which made it the closest thing I had to an exercise partner.

2. In Brooklyn I bicycle commute with my breastpump, which ruins my only chance of being mistaken for a hipster.

3. I spent more money on my new breastpump than I paid the hospital to deliver my baby.

4. It is probable that I spend more time carrying my breastpump than carrying my baby.

People will tell you that breastfeeding is free, and maybe this was true before the invention of things like my breastpump and the $50 nursing bra. Breastfeeding is not free. The number of Medela products that come between your boobs and your baby is just staggering.

I was saving money by using my cousin's old breastpump, and it worked beautifully for the first 5 months. Then, one day at work, I pumped for the usual time, and barely got 1 ounce. Combined. I was like, okay, don't panic, I'll just try again in a hour or so. And I did. And I got another measly ounce. This went on and on and by noon I was panicked. Was I weaning? Is it possible to wean in a single day, by accident? It had to be the motor, right? It sounded funny...no wait, it sounded the same...um, did it always sound so Darth Vader? Either the breastpump was broken or I was.

At 2PM my boobs felt heavy with milk and were getting sore. I needed my baby, any baby. There were babies outside, on the street, would their nannies let me breastfeed them? That wasn't so crazy, like a wet nurse situation; people used to breastfeed other people's babies all the time. I practiced my approach in my head:

"Hi there, your baby looks really hungry and I have this milk I need to release like right now and if you'll just let me take your baby into the back corner of this wholesale sock store we can both be satisfied..."

Right around this time my dad called and I told him everything.

Dad: You've probably just got moisture in the motor. Or you need a new seal.

Me: Okay.

Dad: Or the something-something-something needs to be swapped out.

Me: Um...

Dad: You can get one at the hardware store.

I pictured myself at Home Depot and practiced my approach in my head. This scenario was even worse than my Please-May-I-Breastfeed-Your-Baby approach. I don't need a bunch of guys with power tools snickering at my rock boobs.

At 3PM I went to Buy Buy Baby and bought a brand new breastpump. I hustled back to my office to pump before a 4:00 meeting, and it was pure bliss. Best Pump Ever. When it was over I felt so relaxed, and gazed at the newer, sleeker design of my breastpump. It has this special button you can press for let downs, and a netted pouch to store the tubes. It was so clean. I like to remember this moment, because it reminds me of how much I once loved my breastpump.

Oh, Breastpump! At 3:30 on a Monday afternoon you were everything I needed! I'm sorry it couldn't last, but passion like ours never does. After that first heady pump, we settled into the predictable relationship of quiet resentment and finance charges. And now you are just a heavy piece of machinery that weighs me down wherever I go. We all have baggage, mine just happens to be literal.

When I bike to and from work I check out all the other bikes, and what the riders are carrying. I have yet to see another breastpump. I don't know what I'll do if I find one. There's a part of me that likes the idea that I may be the only lactating mom schlepping her breastpump over the Manhattan Bridge. It's not much, but it keeps me going.

Prospect Park

We are within walking distance of one of the best parks in New York City: Prospect Park. It is said that Olmstead (the designer) corrected all the mistakes he made with Central Park when he designed Prospect Park. At least people in Brooklyn say this. (I remember reading it in Devil in the White City).

Roan isn't as enthused about the park as I am. He likes the ducks and all the trees, but seems just as happy at Slope Park, the local cement park that has swings and sprinklers. In fact, he seems bent on deforesting Prospect Park, one patch of grass at a time.

And eating it. Maybe he loves Prospect Park so much that he wants to eat it all up.



Thanks to Grandpa Lyons for the first two photos, and Vassi for this last one - all taken with camera phones.

Moving

Last week we moved to Brooklyn. Packing up all your belongings is a drag for anyone, but throw in a ticking clock (we had 36 hours from the time we came home from Texas) a baby who is afraid of packing tape (Roan started shrieking whenever he heard it), and 8 months of sleep deprivation and you've got the worst experience since natural childbirth.

It should have been easy. Our old apartment is less than 600 square feet. Where did all this stuff come from? When we finished boxing it all up, you couldn't see the floor. There was no where to walk. I began to see the the advantage of certain suburban requisites, like garages.

My mom flew in to keep us on task. If it weren't for her work ethic, we would probably still be in Chelsea, muscling through boxes to get to the bathroom. Even with Roan off site (we hired a babysitter to keep him outside all day) this was more than a three person job. I kept trying to take breaks for things like lunch, sleep, or a shower, but my mother kept pushing me to fill just one more box. In a way, it was like my first month of motherhood, except I spent all my time packing instead of all my time breastfeeding.

I love our new apartment. It's more than triple the size of our old place, and we have a private backyard. Roan has his own room, and has slept through the night twice! Jay and I have our own room, too! We no longer have to sit on top of each other (we have a couch and a table, with chairs!), and Jay doesn't have to participate in all my phone conversations (I can go in a different room!). There is a downstairs that we haven't really used yet, because having the option of being on separate floors is just too bizarre. Jay set up his new grill last night, and BBQ'd steak for his parents, which we ate outside. After the meal, I caught Jay hugging his grill. It has replaced Roan as the wallpaper on his phone.

If I'm honest I have to admit that despite all the extra space, we are still sitting on top of each other. When the three of us are all home, we probably spend 90% of our time all in the same room - even if it's Roan's room, which is very small. I'm so fortunate to have all this space, but I'm even more blessed to have a family who is happy living life within 100 square feet of each other.

Little Jay

Self Esteem

Imagine you were this pleased with yourself every time you stood up. You would be a much happier person, and everyone would want to be around you and grab your chunky legs and feed you and nearly everything you did would result in applause.

With this kind of encouragement, you would pull yourself up on anything and everything. Including your Grandma's feet.

I remember being a kid and thinking it was so fabulous that wherever I went, I would never forget my hands. They were always there when I needed them! It also made me happy that I never forgot my singing voice. I could always sing - no matter where I was! I loved my body. It was always with me and I knew how to make it do really cool things. Do you remember feeling this way? It's wonderful to realize your body is so full of possibility, and so completely under your control. I imagine Ro felt like this when he first started crawling, and now, when he pulls himself up.

Every morning I pull myself out of bed 3 hours earlier than I want to. I won't be modest: it's a herculean effort, requiring no less strength and stamina and determination than Ro deploys to pull himself up to standing. So where is my applause?

I would ask Jay to clap for me, but he won't take me seriously, and Roan doesn't know how to clap yet. So tomorrow, I will applaud myself. Because it took me a long time to develop the strength and coordination to pull myself out of bed (to say nothing of the willpower). And because every once and a while, it's good to acknowledge all the very basic things we take for granted.

Pool

We just moved apartments, which is why I haven't updated lately. In the meantime, here are some photos of Ro in the pool at his Grandparents house in San Antonio (two weekends ago).