Working Pumping Mom

I weaned Ilan at 7 months, because it got too hard to keep up my supply during my days in the office. It was hard for me to take all the breaks that pumping required, and I got irritated by the air-tight scheduling I needed to make it work.  I miss nursing Ilan, but I do not miss my breast pump.  I found this abandoned post from early June and I'm copying it below, since it depicts a bright spot in the whole working pumping mom experience.

"Last week I worked a full time schedule, attending Book Expo America, a trade show for book industry professionals. I am still breastfeeding Ilan, so I brought my breast pump along. Every 3 or 4 hours I took a break from the meetings and events to walk down a series of flights of stairs and long concrete hallways to the Nurses' Station, where I was given one of the two exam rooms to pump in.

On my first visit to the Nurses' Station I was anxious and slightly out of breath; I'd rushed there and was trying to squeeze in a pump session between meetings. Both rooms were occupied by other lactating moms. After 10 minutes they were still not finished, and I couldn't wait much longer. The nurse suggested I pump in the bathroom, which was standing room only, or the supply closet (though I could see she was hesitant to leave me alone with access to all their drugs). I finally asked if I could simply pump with one of the other moms. Which is how I found myself sitting on a foot stool in a room with another topless mom in slacks and fancy shoes, pumping milk with a breast pump / shoulder bag designed to look discreet but immediately identifiable as a breast pump by its sheer bulk and lack of style.

Hilariously, the other mom ended up being the publicist for one of my authors - someone I had wanted to meet with but couldn't fit into my schedule. So we had a meeting, there in the exam room, accompanied by the air hiss sound of our pumps working away. If you have never conducted business while topless and hooked up to a machine, well, it's strange, but both of us had long since mastered the art of e-mailing and taking phone calls while pumping, so it didn't really phase us.

Throughout the week I took the long walk to the Nurses' Station many times, and ran into  other pumping moms. There were only about 7 or 8 of us, which may not seem like a lot, but it was eye opening for me. Pumping at work is isolating. Sometimes I forget that mine is not the only life that is messy and complicated, and that the decision to pump, which feels like I'm trying to be in two places at once, is one that others are likely conflicted about too. I felt a great sense of comraderie for these working moms, hustling through dark hallways to wrestle off their tops, pump milk for their babies, and rush back to their meetings in time to pretend like everything is business as usual, bottles of warm milk buried deep in their bags like secrets, next to their catalogs and rights lists. I wanted to sit down with them and hear their stories and laugh with them. But the working pumping mom does not have any free time, especially at these fairs. The most we can afford is a knowing look, a conspiratorial smirk, before it's back to the business of passing ourselves off as regular people.

Thank you, lactating mothers of Book Expo America, for making me feel less alone."

If you're wondering how I felt about my breastpump when Roan was this age, you can read an Ode to My Breastpump.

Rules of the Road

Roan,

Last summer, when you were 2, I rode you to summer camp on the Frankenbike, and we spent half the trip on the green road, a (then) new and much disputed bike lane on Prospect Park West. This year I've mostly been walking you to camp in our new stroller, a sit and stand that you pretend is a train. But lately you have been asking to ride your bike.  I've been saying no, because the thought of running after you in my work clothes, lugging my work bag and my breast pump, in the heat, just seems terrible. But last week Ilan weaned and I put my breast pump away. The weather cooled down. I was running out of excuses. 

I pulled out your helmet and fingerless gloves and said okay.

I knew you'd want to ride in the green road. There is no fooling you, you know it is the place for bikes.

Everyday, at the start of the green road we go over two rules. #1, you must stay in your lane. The green road is a two way bike lane, and you must stay to the right of the yellow line. #2, you must stop at every crossing and look for people. The green road runs parallel to Prospect Park, so cars don't cross it. No one expects cyclists to stop, and you are such a novelty that people always stop for you. The real purpose of rule #2 is to give me a chance to catch up.

After two weeks I am still not used to seeing you zip along in an actual bike lane, hipsters on their fixies whipping by, parents commuting with empty childseats, me dodging trees and balancing on the curb to stay close and answer your incessant questions. If I step in the green road you reprimand me. "No mom, only bikes."

You are into rules. Which makes taking the green road hard. Cyclists, at least in this country, are not known for following rules. You are constantly asking why that bike did this or that or the other thing - nobody stops at crossings, everyone swerves out of their lane to pass you, and I can see how each infraction offends your sense of order. People riding scooters in the bike lane, people biking with their dogs, a man on roller skates, a woman without a helmet, the garbage truck idling in the lane all need to be explained. It's exhausting. And I worry that rules will become meaningless to you at too young an age. Any day you will ask me why nobody follows them.

My heart is always in my throat, just a little bit, watching you ride the green road. But I am also proud of you. You are becoming part of our community, inserting yourself in the world in a way that makes total sense to you, even as it baffles some of the passerby. You are so curious. You are figuring things out.

On our way to camp one day we stopped to watch a car getting towed. "Why?" You asked. "Because the car parked wrong," I said. "Oh," you said. "That car is bad." "Maybe not," I said, "maybe that car was just in a hurry." Then I explained what a hassle it is to get your car out of impound. "Oh," you said, "that tow truck is mean."

Things are mostly black and white for you now, but eventually you will see how the world is full of gray. That life, like the green road, is full of surprising things that don't quite belong. Such as, say, a three-year-old in a bike lane.

Hair Family Reunion

I'll admit that I was not looking forward to this family reunion.  Located in Pacific Beach, Washington State, it involved a 6 hour red eye flight followed by a 3 hour drive in a rental car.  In addition to our usual luggage, we schlepped two car seats and a pack n' play.  There was a point, 2 hours into the drive up from Portland, where I lost it.  Lani had been screaming for the entire car trip.  This was followed by the 4 hours of screaming he did on the plane.  Jay and I hadn't slept.  I told Jay to pull off the highway right now, because I needed to get out.  He exited into a massive traffic jam caused by construction.  When we finally reached a parking lot, I left the car and thought about not coming back.  I remember thinking to myself that nothing could possibly be worth this much hassle.

I was wrong.  There's something special, maybe even magical, about family reunions.  Sure, we only see most of these people every 2 years.  But there's a connection, there's an ease in being around family, all the shared memories, the common history that everyone remembers a little bit differently, everyone understanding where everyone else comes from.  I pick up some of the closeness second hand, watching my mom reconnect with her brothers and sisters, all the teasing, the old jokes.  The travel was brutal.  But it was worth it.  I would do it again.

My top 10 reasons why this family reunion was great:


1. We don't have to hold the baby.

2. The Hair sisters dance the Mohey Tawa.

3. We fly kites

4. We get air.

5. We celebrate new life.

6. Grandpa follows us everywhere.

7. We play sports

8. We tell stories.


9. We watch "shows."

10. Matching outfits Grandma bought.

TLON

Back in February, when my Dad was in town, he took Roan to the Children's Museum and bought him a train from the gift shop.  He also bought a gift for Ilan - a train that spelled his name.  Except that when you're shopping with a 3-year-old, it's not always easy to focus on things like spelling.  Instead of the letters I L A N, he came home with T L O N.

This is just the kind of thing I find hopelessly hilarious.  We constantly teased my poor Dad, though in all honesty, the letters I and T looked so similar that nobody noticed at first that he'd bought a T instead of an I.  It took a neighbor to point that one out.  Of the four letters in his grandson's name, my Dad had got two of them wrong.

Months later, Jay finally exchanged the T and the O for and I and an A.  Here is the ILAN train, though we still call it the TLON train.

No Fun Beach Trip

I'm calling shenanigans on beach trips.  The beach, a place I dearly love, is no longer any fun.

It first happened in California, when I was visiting on maternity leave with Lani and Ro.  My sister was also in town with her son.  We decided to go to the beach.  It took us nearly two hours to actually leave.  Stuff had to be packed, diapers had to be changed, more stuff (that we previously forgot) had to be packed, another diaper change, then whoops, everyone was hungry because it's lunch time, so we ate, followed by yet more packing, more diaper changing, and then everyone was crying and we realized that the car doors won't close all the way with 3 carseats in the back, but we'd spent half our day getting to the beach, we couldn't stop.  We finally left, turned back at the last minute to grab suscreen.

We arrive at the beach.  It is hot.  We are each schlepping 40 pounds of supplies and three children across a vast desert.  We sweat and squint into the sun.  We brought two large umbrellas, and none of them work.  We attempt to put sunscreen on our boys as they roll around in the sand.  We drop the watermelon, it is wasted. We are stranded without any of the comforts and conveniences that we rely on to deal with our children. Ilan cries while I try to make shade for him.  Zachary will not stop filling a little boy's hole with sand.  Roan, as always, pretends to be a very loud train.  Erica and I exchange a look.  The look says, "can we go home now?"

When we leave, we experience a classic beach conundrum, unexplained by logic or science.  Our stuff will not fit back into our bags.  It has, somehow, during our time at the beach, gotten bigger.  Much bigger. Or our bags have gotten smaller. Everything is heavy with sand.  

Here is Roan during the terrible no fun ABYC beach trip of March 2012. 

Because I am a masochist with a terrible short term memory I truly love the beach, we went back last weekend, this time to the Rockaways in Queens.  I was thinking that surely, with my husband along to create an equal adult / child ratio, the beach would be fun again.  

Here is what I love about the beach: swimming in the ocean, floating on my back far from shore, laying in the sun, playing smash-ball, eating cold watermelon, running into the water as fast as I can, the feeling of a powerful wave crashing over me while I'm safe underwater, my fingers dug in the sand, making drip castles, salt on my skin on the drive home, salt in my hair, the resulting tan.

Did I experience any of this at the beach with my two children?  No.  The most achievable thing is probably the watermelon, but you only have two arms and when it comes down to watermelon or sand toys you suck it up and leave the watermelon at home.

Here is our Rockaway beach experience: we get in the car, the battery is dead.  Some neighbors give us a jump, Ro plays with their kids, we hang out with the neighbors.  Finally, we leave for the beach an hour and a half after we intended to.  Our schedule is thrown off - Ilan does not nap in the car, we can not find parking, the beach is crowded with people with stereos and terrible taste in music.  We set up camp: umbrella, blanket, chair, towel, food and water, within seconds everything is covered in sand.  The baby has sand in all his crevices, there is sand on our pizza, we are helpless to clean it, because we have so much sand on our hands.  When everything is somewhat de-sanded we lay back, exhale, and relax.  And that's when Roan says he has to go poop.

You know what? All the hassle would be worth it if our kids had some fun. I would settle for these new hard work beach trips if I felt like I was passing the torch, enabling my children to love the beach as I always did. But last week, they whined and moaned and Roan got sun stroke. Nobody had any fun.

In this photo Ilan sits in Jay's chair while Jay accompanies Roan to the baking hot public restroom and waits for Roan to poop, during the no fun Rockaway beach trip of June 2012.

Summer Haircut

San Antone