scattered thoughts from a mother that is no longer breastfeeding . . .

Things fall apart.

Then fit back together.

Then look kind of shitty because they're all pieced together with glue and you can see where the cracks are. Even if they fit back perfectly into place, they'll always show the moment that they fell apart.

That is this blog.

(And my deflated boobs.)

If you were to go back to the beginning, you might find that I was methodically documenting my day. Got knocked up. One became two. They came out of my vagina. I went crazy. We made art together. I ate a ham and cheese sandwich last night. We were out of Muenster so I was forced to eat Swiss. I don't really like Swiss. My armpits reek. The problem was this: I wasn't sleeping and survival was my only motive. When one foot struggles to step in front of the other, you hardly have time for wit. Intentions to write clever stories about your milk-filled gravel-sacks are crushed by the walls whispering lukewarm lullabies in your left ear.

Then I had an idea.

I stood a folding dinner tray by the computer and sat trusty old Pump on top. Thus was the beginning of FREE therapy. The words were inside, just waiting to spooge all over the keyboard. And a baby was made. My dearest freckletree.

While there are weeks of blogging deep inside, I have to focus on one thought at a time, otherwise I might drag you deep into the woods. And I might just smell like blood. And fear. And that could get us in trouble in the deep, dark woods. So, FOCUS, JOY, FOCUS!

After a good two months of gradual weaning, my gravel-sacks are finally empty socks. Tube socks. Praise Jesus, the milk is dry and THE TIME THAT I HAVE IN MY DAY TO . . .

To . . . .

To do things other than write.

To wash bottles.

To do laundry.

To go to the park before noon.

To focus on something other than myself.

Was this blog a means to get by?

To feed my children?

Is this blog already a "was"?

Just. like. that?

The truth is, I very much miss writing. Everyday, it's what I want to do for myself. My wish upon a hazy star (or is that a satellite? a what? a flying cigarette over gastonia? our county bird?? the flying cigarette . . .?) is still pretentious and full of shit-- to write a book. For people to laugh at my boorish take on life. To do for moms of multiples what Heather Armstrong did for me after having a baby. She helped me laugh. At myself and my situation. Yes, the walls were talking. The comfort of it all is that the walls talk to lots of new mothers. Sometimes, in the bottomless pit of four a.m. you hear your five pound baby talking to you. Saying things that you. will. never. repeat. And then you can't sleep when your head hits the pillow. You know that you are crazy. Bonafide whack-a-doo-zoo. Better hope those pills start working soon. You've read Ken Kesey . You've eaten hallucinogens-- FOR RECREATIONAL USE-- how hilarious is that? YOU INGESTED A DRUG THAT ENABLED SHORT-TERM SCHIZOPHRENIA!!!! Only entertaining until you realize that you might not have "short-term" on your hands. Only a good time when you hallucinate without drugs . . . and your doctor threatens the psych-ward. Holy Peter, Paul and Mary, am I ever afraid of acid.

Oh yeah, (exiting dark woods . . . .) I miss writing.

I miss all of you reading what I write.

Maybe I will be back more often in weeks to come.

But things are happening in my life . . . for instance:

• The girls have teeth-- like lots of them-- and they grind them-- all three to five of those teeth.
• Zadie must be held.
• Lydia must be held.
• Our modem is down.
• I am still fat.
• Panera is not the most relaxing place to write.
• I don't know of any bars with wi-fi.
• Holidays.
• Upcycled sweater hats-- called "hOOhOOTS"-- Christ Jesus, if people don't start buying them we will all be hungry-- all but Zadie, who apparently has taken a liking to the taste of human flesh.
• DRUMROLLLLLLLLLLLLL: My second set of twins has finally arrived. My brother and his wife brought sweet little identical boys into our world last Tuesday. Levi Willis and Liam Jackson . . . . the honeysuckle hams are on the way home from the NICU as I write this. Hopefully their mama and pops will realize the wealth of my brilliance sooner than later. Shit, what I would have given to have a recently mothered-of-twins on tap those first couple of months. More to come on this most beautiful and wonderful story later-- I JUST HAVE TO SAY THIS-- my sis-in-law was in the hospital from 32 to 35 weeks for threatening preterm labor. She woke up on Tuesday morning and took and shower because she was "crampy". An hour later two babies jumped from her vagina. Just like that. The doctor came in to check and SHE WAS A TEN-- A TEN, PEOPLE-- for those of you that have never graced the likes of a dilating vagina, a TEN means "PUSH NOW, THAT FLIRTY BABY IS WINKING AT ME . . ." So, she did. She rolled over and pushed, um, two babies out. With no pain meds WHATSOEVER. And while many of you might be ALL FOR natural labor, I know for a fact that my sis-in-law WAS NOT. When they told her to roll over and push, she replied "Um, can I get my epidural now?" But she was too late. The boys were already starting Kindergarten.
  
• That said, I hope to have a new twin experience all over again. One where I am wiser and less hysterical. One where I am not the mother. I am so flippin excited.

Basically, don't give up on me.

My intentions are not to leave forever.

Just to find another subject since my boobs aren't so interesting anymore.

words.

"Every day as I love this baby in my lap, I think of my other baby. Poor older brother, poor missing one. I see the infant before me, the glory of the soles of the feet, the lips fattened and glossy with nursing, the nose whose future Edward and I try to predict daily. The love for the first magnifies the love for the second, and vice versa."

-from Elizabeth McCracken's An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination

shame on a mommyblogger who tries to run game on a mommyblogger. keyword: shame.

You know how you think of ideas in your head? And before you can complete the idea you forget what it was? No? Oh.

Okay, you know how you get a idea in your head and you're all "this would make a great post and I haven't posted anything all week and my devoted readers are probably reading some other mommy blog that is nicer and isn't consumed with guilt and self-loathing and they're going to realize that I'm really just bringing them down and that's why they come here everyday to read my blog because they kind of like the feeling that they get from my misery and then they're all, 'I'm sick. I need help' so they go to counseling." Um, you're welcome. And I've been getting those ideas all week but Zadie flails and gnashes her three teeth every time that I stop walking. Oh yes-- not put her down-- but STOP WALKING. Have I mentioned that I have another infant in my care? I keep telling Zadie but she shrieks and pulls at the half an inch of red fuzz on the back of her head. Selfish like her mama.

Before I can write anything else I have to get this out . . . I am an idiot. Beyond idiot. Let's get out the thesaurus for this one: I am a nincompoop. A muttonhead. An utter imbecile. I am an ass.

A most hilarious twin-mom had a dream of starting a blog with another most hilarious twin-mom and-- wait for it-- me. Because I must be most hilarious as well, right?? Um, wrong. I am most boneheaded. Moronic. Nonsensical. The three of us funny ladies were gabbing about ideas for the blog and I had a lot of foul, distasteful contributions-- no surprise-- and thought that they should be forewarned just in case they didn't want vulgarity on board. Primarily vulgarity regarding religion.

How do I say this????

Okay, I was trying to tell them that I make a great deal of fun on behalf of Christianity because it is in the air I breath and water I drink and NO I DO NOT DISLIKE YOU IF YOU ARE A RELIGIOUS OR SPIRITUAL PERSON IT IS YOUR LIFE AND I RESPECT THAT so don't get in a tizzy-- but I didn't want to use the word anti-christian. It just didn't seem like the appropriate word to use . . . but then a word popped into my head. And people, I desperately want have a good reason for my brain pulling this word-- like Lloyd Christmas wants to make love to a schoolboy-- but the shame OH THE SHAME is so great and nothing is great enough to excuse a blunder such as this. My twin-mom brain? The mastitis that is eating my breast from the inside out? The years of smoking pot that has reduced my brain to four dwindling cells? No excuse will justify my preposterous, mindless, ridiculous, unreasonable, foolishness.

I thought of a word. A polite word that says "I make Christian jokes because I live inside of the buckle of the bible-belt." That says, in all modesty, "I don't want to offend you or the future readers of this blog-- after all, your names are on it, too." A very easy and nonthreatening word that allows me to get a subtle point across without making a splash. Well, here, I'll just copy and paste the message I wrote:

". . . if we are to collaborate you will find that most all of my ideas are antisemitic . . ."

Did you see that word? Antisemitic? Did you catch that?

ANTIEFFINGSEMITIC?????

Holy shit, I wrote that word in a message. That word pertained to ME in the message. That word popped into my head, seemed like the appropriate word to describe myself, I wrote it in a message describing myself, and I sent it to two women that want to write a blog with me.

One of the women-- the one that happens not to be Jewish-- replied that hating Christians was fair game but not Jews . . . AND NO, I DON'T HATE CHRISTIANS. I LOVE CHRISTIANS. I LOVE JEWS!! I LOVE!!!!!!! . . . Jews? Hmmmm . . . hast thou inner-dictionary forsaken thee? What does this have to do with Jews? Dictionary.com . . . .

Anti-Semite –noun.
a person who discriminates against
or is prejudiced or hostile toward Jews.

That's how I described myself. I told these fellow twin-moms that were interested in collaborating with me that I. was. a. Nazi.

After responding that I am stupid and please believe me-- I AM NOT A HITLER LOVING RACIST-- I AM NOT!!!!!!!!!!!-- what is written is written and they have an image of me: the southern mom of the blog, sitting around and reading Mien Kampf and doodling swastikas on my forearm. THAT IS NOT ME!!!!! THAT IS NOT ME!!!!

The tragedy of this is that I was raised in a town where racism flowed as freely as strawberry wine-- no wait-- I lived in a dry town-- anyway, you get the point. I was a racist child. Not knowingly-- I actually knew no other way. I had plenty of black friends in school and thought nothing of it. I'm sure that I never gave a second thought to racism at the time, but when I became an adult-- and left Hicksville-- I saw how blatantly racist I actually was. That I viewed myself different because of the color of my white skin. And that, no, all people are NOT that way. I was beyond ashamed. I am still beyond ashamed. Even though I am nothing like that person. My children will be raised to celebrate diversity and embrace cultural differences. We will never teach them that they are different-- OR BETTER-- than anyone else (except racist Nazis-- they can go to hell).

My adult life has been spent peeling away layers of guilt and shame.

Only to proclaim myself antisemitic.

Shit.

This episode of "Pimp My Gestation" is brought to you by . . . Pilsner Urquell: "The Pure Pilsner From Pilzen. Uncomprimised Since the Beginning."

Zadie is playing on the floor after drinking three of the seven ounces of milk in her bottle.

Lydia is propped on Brandon's lap, entering the **clean plate club**.

My head is laying in Lydia's lap.

The three of us are on the couch with our eyes closed.

Me: We should totally have our own reality show.

B: ?

Me: I think people would much rather watch this than Jon and Kate plus a bunch of kids getting shuttled around and bitched out.

B: I don't think people would be interested in this.

Lydia farts.

B: Who was that?

Me: Lydia. We could do an entire clip show of us farting. All of us. Thirty minutes of farting.

B: . . .

Me: (singing along with the miserable Sesame Beginnings theme song that is. on. repeat. repeat. repeat . . .) Beginning to giggle, babble and walk. Slitting your wrists, with a box-cutter. Tying a noose, and stepping on a chair . . . then stepping off and swinging down, make sure the knot is tight. Beginning to lay down, on the highway. Where is the gun? I need some more shells . . . . Really, Brandon, people would LOVE to see this.

B: Yeah, I guess.

Me: The three of us, laying on top of each other, half-asleep and Zadie tearing up the living room . . . they would love us.

B: . . .

Me: And my mom would finally move in forever.

B: Where would she sleep?

Me: Somewhere between us and the babies.

B: . . .

Me: And we could get Pilsner Urquell to sponsor us. Dear Pilsner Urquell, We are giving you the opportunity to sponsor our reality show. We promise to drink your beer in every scene. See, that means we have to ALWAYS be drinking because it's a reality show.

B: Now your talkin. (sipping Miller High Life) And we won't drink any other beer on our show except your beer. Unless you don't sponsor us. Then we will drink other beers.

Me: I'll still drink their beer.

B: But wait! If you sponsor within the next ten minutes you can give us beer for the rest of our lives.

Me: I'm going to look really fat on the show. You can tilt your head down in pictures but you can't lie on video.

B: Can we have one of those confession rooms, like on The Real World?

Me: Oooh, bad idea. I'd be bitching in the confession room all day instead of taking care of the babies.

B: Like your blog?

Me: AND MY ASSHOLE HUSBAND GETS TO GO TO WORK AND WALK TO A STARBUCKS AND POOP BY HIMSELF HOLY CHRIST I'M GOING TO PUT MY HEAD THROUGH THIS WALL IF I HAVE TO CHANGE ONE MORE DIAPER! And then you'd come home and I'd be nice. It's really a bad idea.

B: . . .

Me: A LAYLA-CAM! That would be perfect! It would watch Layla lay around. Then she'd pick up a shoe and wag her tail. Then she'd lay down. Then she'd bark at us. For like, four hours. Then she'd pick up a shoe and wag her tail. People would love that.

Lydia is now sitting up and playing with her empty bottle. She begins sucking air.

Me: See, stuff like this: our child is sitting here drinking an empty bottle and we didn't even notice.

B: It's empty? I just pushed it into her mouth!

Me: Perfect!

Zadie pulls up on the couch and I stick her half-full bottle in her mouth. She stands and drinks.

Me: I've got a good idea.

B: Yeah?

Me: You know those water feeders in rat cages where the rats go and drink whenever they want?

B: Yeah.

Me: We should have their milk in something like that and they could crawl right over and pull up on it and drink. That would totally work.

B: That's way better than what I was thinking.

Me: What were you thinking?

B: She stands at the same height as cow udders. We could just get a cow.

Me: But that's cow's milk and they aren't supposed to drink that yet.

B: Why not?

Me: Because they just can't. Not until they're one.

B: Yeah, but that's pasteurized milk. This would be straight from the cow. Baby cows drink it . . .

Me: It doesn't matter, they can't have it yet.

B: If it's good enough for a cow, it's good enough for my baby.

for uncle bob. and aunt bettes. and the beautiful family that is their legacy.

I once had a definite theory of death.

Death was scary.

Death was the most tragic thing that could ever happen to your loved ones.

Honestly, I never thought that I would have to deal with it until I was old enough to be comfortable with it.

So sure that age brought acceptance and familiarity.

Diminished fear.

Then Death and I got to know each other.

So much earlier than expected.

In such a miserable way.

My fears of Death's haunting tragedy were confirmed.

My life was ruined by it.

And so I knew that every death in my life would bring about such unbearable grief and a loss of myself.

Hoping to never see that face again, but all the time knowing that I was not invincible. If Death found me once, it could find me again.

And it did.

This is when I learned that all deaths are not created equal.

As I grieved for the loss of my best friend, there was overwhelming regret, guilt, shock, astonishment . . . how could this happen to her?

Then I lost my nephew.

At thirty-five weeks, my sister-in-law felt that something was wrong. The baby wasn't moving that Sunday morning.

She was right.

No explanations.

No answers as to why a heart stopped beating.

I was twenty-four weeks pregnant with my girls.

I knew what it felt like to love a baby that wasn't born.

I knew that a child didn't have to be held in your arms in order for you to be a parent.

I grieved for baby Jax.

The lost baby that I loved.

He had lived in my dreams and played with my children.

But more than grieving for Jax, I grieved for my brother and sister-in-law.

Of course it was different, but I think that it was an even stronger grief than I had known when I lost my best friend.

I was baffled by the amount of pain that I could suffer on the account of another person.

That I still suffer.

For the living.

For the loss within them.

Even now, as my sister-in-law lays in a hospital bed at thirty-four weeks pregnant with twin boys, I grieve for her. And for my brother.

What is lost is not replaced.

The death within them will never live again.

I will always grieve for them.

My grandfather died this past Spring.

The love of my life.

The man of my dreams.

The song in my head.

The greatest shock with this visit from Death was the ease of it.

I did not grieve for him the way I had grieved before.

It was so terribly confusing.

Still, I can't help but wonder how I am doing this.

Living every day without him and feeling nothing but happiness and love and such a sense of pride and gratefulness in our time together.

I cry for him.

I grieve for my grandmother who has lost herself.

But I am so thankful that he died in his sleep.

If there was weakness, we did not see it.

Death didn't stop him from planting the Spring's flowers the day before he left us.

He had a secret.

I truly believe that my grandfather knew that he was about to die.

He didn't want us to know.

He was successful in Death.

How could I be sore about this?

It is the greatest blessing that Death has given me.

There is a man so very much like my grandfather. Proud, humble, intelligent and beautiful. Singing and loving and appreciating life. Living life. Loving his family. Loving the life that has been spent with the same woman. Sixty-three years together. This man has a legend in his beautiful family. His amazing family! All so brilliant in their own unique ways. So confident and charismatic. All a magnificent piece of him.

While my grandfather passed in peace, this man was progressively enduring a battle with ALS. A slow process of losing all but his brilliant mind. I curse the world for such a terrible thing. For unsuccessfully trying to take a man's dignity.

And so, Death and I meet again.

And again, I am amazed by it's many faces.

While you can mourn the loss of a person, you can also find relief in their peace.

A stoic man of greatness has left us.

Mourn a selfish disease and it's greedy intentions.

Celebrate a respected man, the honor that comes with his passing, and the profound legacy that is his gift to a grieving family left behind.

SNAPS october 29-november 6 (look, i get it. nobody cares to see so many effing pictures of my kids.)

way back whensday. bring on the sag.

It's okay.

Those are not my dinner-plate-sized-nipples.

They are the fuzzy heads of two hungry babies.

Babies that grunted and mauled and sucked and fed . . .

Until now.

Friends, followers, supporters and haters: I am officially a quitter.

After my four-days-postpartum-psychotic-breakdown I made the decision to pump. Pumping would allow my husband and mother to help. Pumping would hush the talking walls. Pumping was my Lord and Savior. While lactation specialists begged and doctors huffed, I kept right on sticking those giant gravel sacks into my Heavenly Torture Device. It enabled ten minutes of sleep here and there. Books were read. A blog maintained. Wars were fought and then more wars were fought. So far no wars were won. But that is irrelevant. You can not blame the Holy Medela.

I once passed out on (not in) the toilet because of menstruation pain. I love that Christians blame a WOMAN for the eternal damnation of bleeding vaginas. Really? Really? You think Eve wanted an apple so bad that she was willing to screw womankind forever? By having them lose their insides out of their vaginas every three weeks? Accompanied by three weeks worth of poop? And raging emotions? And cramps? And weight gain? And tenacious cravings for Snickers? Come on, Christians, you could have at least put a bottle of Pinot up in the tree. Beside of some cheesecake. Graham-cracker crust, please. Then we would buy the story. We might even thank Eve for the fact that wine and cheesecake grow on trees. That would be worth a lifetime of plastic applicators. It would also dissipate the urge to pump until menopause. Let's be honest, I haven't been sending Miss You cards to my period. In fact, it is one thing that has been worth all of the trouble of the past eighteen months (second to the kids, of course). At some point I even forgot all about it. It, however, did not forget about me. It was waiting all the while. Patiently hiding in the shadows, behind Oestrogen, knowing that I would forget and then UGGGGHH! WHAT IS THAT? That, my dear friends, is a period. While I am weaning. The bitch didn't even wait for me to stop. Still sucking a solid twelve ounces per boob and WAP! there's one perfect fit and honey this one is it . . . I'm feeling so excited cause we're reunited yeh yeh . . . Except I'm not feeling so excited AT ALL.

In all honesty, it's not the period. I decided to quit before Peaches and Herb decided NOT TO QUIT. Just days after committing to pumping until Spring, I got yet another nipple infection. Always with the right nipple! Why can't you be more like your sister? SHE doesn't blister up and sing like Julie Andrews on a mountaintop every time the Almighty Lord comes around . . . Had I not been producing over twenty-four ounces of milk in my two daily pumpings, I would have quit then and there. Enough is enough, Righty. I've won the battles, but you win the war. Thus began the weaning of Our Savior. I'm down to a daily twelve, which, holy cannoli, is a massive drop from my fifty-ounces-a-day record.

While Zadie still wakes up before daylight to snuggle and suck, I have made the decision to end the madness that has sustained my children and saved the souls of a lost mankind.

A bittersweet ending to the greatest story ever told.


p.s.-- way back whensday. is a feature of Twinfatuation's crafty blog.

presuicidal haiku: "a cry for help"

Zadie wakes at five
boobs can not save us any more
time change is a bitch

the other white treat.

the other white treat. from freckletree on Vimeo.