Because, it turns out, I matter too

Or, why I'm not going to have a large family

Well, I do have a large family in the sense that my babies are hefty.  Phred was 9 lbs 5 oz which is no pixie.  But I'm not going to keep doing this.

I hardly need to hash out why I wouldn't relish another pregnancy -- anyone who knows me or reads this should be well aware that I view pregnancy as some kind of prolonged torture, all the more so because of the pressure to "love" or "treasure" it. What else are we supposed to cherish? Having a newborn because it goes so fast and these moments are so precious etc.

Well, I don't.  I love my baby.  I love his soft fuzzy little head and his snuggles and his weird facial expressions.  But I think about future milestones with glee I don't bother to conceal.  My body has apparently signed up for the "weird and rare and miserable" version of bringing children into this world.  First I vomit for nine months straight.  Now (as I did with P) I have D-MER -- Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex.  In more simple terms, producing milk feels emotionally horrible.  I'll leave it to the scienticians to explain the whys and hows, but basically milk letdown is triggered by various hormones swimming around my body.  I experience this horrible wave of depression and sadness that comes out of nowhere.  It subsides, and a few seconds later I can feel milk letdown.

So imagine that many times a day you're living your life (boiling water, combing your hair, having a conversation) and suddenly you feel like you could never be happy again.  The feeling lasts for maybe 30 seconds, and then it goes away just as suddenly.  Then your nipples start stinging.  A few minutes later your baby starts screaming.  It's like the world's worst alarm clock reminding you to feed your child, as if the crying weren't going to tip you off.  Also if you forgot to put in absorbent pads, now your underwear is soaked with sticky milk that will smell terrible tomorrow.  Wheeee!!!!

Perhaps you're thinking "30 seconds -- that's not so bad!" Well, neither is breastfeeding if you're imagining it in complete isolation.  What's twenty minutes in an arm chair? Why the complaining?  Oh, it happens every two hours around the clock for the foreseeable future? You never get a day or even an afternoon (much less a night) off? This is just what your life is going to be for the next year? Cool.  My baby is almost a month old.  Or, one might say, eleven months away from drinking cow milk and me closing up shop, not that anyone is counting.

So yeah, I'm cherishing ever single precious instant of all of this.  Or maybe, just maybe, it's okay not to pretend to love the reproductive aspect of womanhood.  I actually think that I have intrinsic value and that my experience and happiness matters too.  If formula feeding weren't expensive and an even bigger hassle, I'd be there.  In Oregon that is basically like admitting you are willing to feed your children bleach but what can I say, I'm an unnatural and vicious woman.  In the mean time I'm treating my body to what it likes best to make up for the many cruelties children inflict.  I go for long walks with the stroller and put in my earbuds and pretend I'm alone. I periodically say "mmmhmm" in response to my toddler's chatter but mostly I listen to the vulgar swearing and gore of "My Favorite Murder."  I ate most of a batch of cookies this weekend.  I do fragments of workout videos before my children interrupt me because I like how lifting weights makes me feel.  I took a nap today and it was amazingly wonderful.  And I am counting the months until my body is my own again.  I don't really care if it's floppy and scarred and limp in some places and rotund in others.  I'm just looking forward to having it to myself.  I'm going to buy a brand new dress because I won't have to provide access to my chest every few hours.  It's going to be dope.