It’s January. We’re 9 months in. He reaches for the tissue box and looks back at me, already aware that I’m gonna say “No.” I’m trying to remember what the parenting books tell me I’m supposed to do in this situation: set a boundary? Or let him explore? I can’t remember, so I tell him, “Ok, one time, so you can get it out of your system.”
And he pulls those tissues out with such gusto. It’s like he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment, which, quite possibly, he has. And he’s waving them around like a little mini modern dancer and then he starts tearing one apart and I hide the rest, then I hide all of the tiny pieces when he’s done so that he doesn’t eat them, but all the while I’m starting to worry: does this mean he’s gonna grow up to be a serial killer? Like, why all the destruction???
When do we get to the building towers out of blocks instead of just knocking them down? When do we get to the actual coloring with crayons instead of just eating them?
But then my mom tells me I spent an entire airplane flight ripping apart a magazine when I was a baby and she let me do it because (and I quote) “You were being quiet and not bothering anyone.” So I let him do it, because I didn’t grow up to be a serial killer.
And, later this evening, when we embark upon our first flight together so that I can give my paper at the Dance Studies Association conference at Northwestern University, I intend to do the same. Especially because I, in my infinite wisdom, accidentally booked out flight for 9:30pm instead of 9:30am. You know… because toddlers are known for becoming increasingly angelic as the night wears on.
That feeling when your kid’s got 5 teeth coming in at once, you’ve run out of baby Tylenol, and it’s snowing…
(No, you’re not crazy. It’s not snowing today. But it was when I wrote this post at 3:00am a few weeks ago. Thankfully the snow has cleared and the Tylenol has been procured. Phew.)
So it’s mid-February, I’m home sick, and I’m watching trashy reality shows on Netflix while planning my kid’s first birthday (because I can “stay in bed and rest” and STILL multitask, mothafucker!).
Halfway through the first season of “Yummy Mummies,” I discover two crucially important things:
1) We must have a first birthday cake smash. You can’t have a kid and not have a cake smash. It would be a crime against humanity. And Pinterest. And we don’t want that now, do we?
2) If you have a girl, she must wear tutu. Because ballerinas spend all of their spare time chowing down on cakes… they’re, like, known for it. (Not.) But if you have a boy, it’s a different story. Boys, you see, must be dressed as wee Chippendales:
I’m not sure what’s more absurd about this photo. The god-awful shade of kelly green (which, as you can see in the description, is perfectly suited for both Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day) or the fact that the baby is dressed as an exotic dancer, complete with a bare chest, a bow tie, and the requisite pair of suspenders.
I think we’ll pass.
I can still remember the day my husband and I went to Buy Buy Baby to look at strollers. We walk in, as clueless as clueless can be, and find our eyes glazing over at a display that stretches wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Each stroller is parked in a little compartment on a purpose-built shelf, like some sort of futuristic looking multi-level parking garage, and they’re stacked three high.
There are so many different types, and shapes, and colors, and it takes us a good ten minutes of wheeling the damn things around to realize that we’ve not even made it to the regular stroller section. Oh no. We’re only looking at the clearance models…
If you had asked the old me if I thought I’d ever end up cruising around with a $900 stroller (or that I’d spend my third trimester taking “practice” walks with said stroller to get our dimwitted dog used to the idea) I’d have looked at you like you had two heads.
But the new me, the mom me, is the proud owner of an UppaBaby Vista 2018, complete with an infant bassinet attachment and a leather handlebar because how on earth can you raise a baby without a leather handlebar?
It’s the moment of truth: the end of the semester, my students have their concert, and I’m heading to the official on-campus Lactation Room (instead of my usual closet) for the first time.
I stop at the Starbucks kiosk (which isn’t a real Starbucks and therefore doesn’t take Starbucks gift cards) and order what I hope is an appropriate amount of caffeine to get me through the papers I need to grade, the concert itself, and the drive back to Philadelphia without, you know, making my kid totally crazy with mocha-laced breastmilk.
The barista appears to be a friendly middle-aged motherly type, so I lower my voice and ask if she knows where to find the Lactation Room. (The deceptively labeled “Pump Room,” it turns out, was referring to a different sort of pump. Something probably less baby-oriented and more, you know, facilities maintenance.)
Unfortunately, the barista is a little too past her childbearing years to have any idea what I’m talking about but the young man in line behind me decides that he can help.
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
I can tell he thinks I’m a fellow student, which happens a lot when you dress the way I do to teach (leggings… or yoga pants if it’s laundry day). I consider flashing him my faculty ID and my wedding band all in one fell swoop but instead I pause and try to find the right words to explain to this 20-something-year old kid that I am trying to find the room where I can hook up a machine to my boobs to pump breastmilk for my infant son, all, you know, without scarring him for life or embroiling myself in a lawsuit.
A second barista comes to the rescue and assures me that the“Lactation Room” is indeed nearby. And she believes it is near the bathroom. So I take my caffeine and thank the now completely befuddled student and head down the hall towards the restroom and there, in all it’s glory is the official “Lactation Room” sign, except of course it doesn’t say “Lactation Room” because that would be too embarrassing for everyone involved because this is America and we don’t talk about these kinds of things…
Instead it’s a little image of a mother and child, all Christmas card-like, and you’re supposed to just divine that this is the place, and hope that you’re not actually about to accidentally disrobe in a lecture hall full of students.
But it’s not a lecture hall. It’s a little stall partially-but-not-completely inside the restroom, and it’s got terrible artwork on the walls, the kind that you paint yourself, half drunk at a bachelorette party, but there’s also a little cabinet, and it’s stocked with wipes and diapers and all sorts of parenting paraphernalia. It’s entirely mismatched but impeccably organized and for a brief second I get a little teary eyed because I realize this isn’t the work of the university. This is the work of other moms. Fellow moms.
I don’t know any of them—at least not any who are currently breastfeeding and lugging their pump bags to and from campus—but now at least I know they’re out there, and I’m part of their secret clubhouse, and I’m gonna get through this.
(Now can we please get some better art for the walls?)
So I’ve made it for about 7 months without actually using the Lactation Room on campus, in part because I never got around to filing the paperwork, in part because I still don’t know where the damn thing is, and in part because when you’re carrying three bags already as it is, it’s easier to just pump in a closet before your classes begin (and then again in the car after they’re done).
But at the end of the semester I had to stay late on campus to attend a student concert, and I had to pump, and I couldn’t pump in my usual closet, so went to HR a full three days ahead of time and asked for the paperwork for the pump room.
Except no one knew what I meant by “pump room” (even though I had seen a room with that very designation printed on the door just outside the library) and I couldn’t remember any of the more workplace appropriate euphemisms for “my boobs are leaking” (i.e. “lactation”) so I stood there just suggesting related terminology— nursing? breastfeeding? BABY???— until someone figured out what I was talking about and hurried me into an office down the hall.
I received a form to fill out and a lukewarm assurance that my swipe card would now give me access to the official Lactation Room, and that said suite was located somewhere nearby in an adjoining wing.
To be continued…
Twerking Mom lives in Philadelphia with her husband, their baby, and their dog. She wishes her hair looked this good in real life and apologizes for the fact that this blog isn't actually (sorry to disappoint) about twerking.