Poppy Mom

Bad day, okay day

It's been a rough one here, Folks, so excuse me if I'm not my usual chipper self.

Very long day. This week, I have been gradually weening myself from my delightful breast pump. A quick review: Clara Jane ran in terror - well, she didn't run, but if her newborn legs could have carried her, she would have - from my gigantic ta-tas coming at her tiny head, so we were never successful in breastfeeding. But I'm stubborn, and I wanted her to have breastmilk. For the past 4.5 months, I've spent at least an hour a day, often more, attached to this milking torture devise.

In recent weeks, as Clara "HUNGRY!" Jane has become a more voracious eater, I haven't been able to keep up. One day last week, it hit me: I'm done. I knew that I would know when the time was right to stop this infernal pumping. As much as I would have liked to quit cold turkey, I did the right thing. I've gradually been decreasing my pumping time. I am glad to say that I haven't stuck any parts of my body into a vaccum in two days.

One problem: nobody tells women about the hormone effects that go along with bringing an end to lactation. A couple of my friends gave me a heads-up last week, luckily. It still wasn't enough, though. Today, the excess progesterone in my body declared war on my brain.

The troops are currently regrouping. As it stands, my brain is currently winning, but only slightly. Lots of little brain cell soldiers were severely wounded in action today.

I wonder how crushed-up Prozac capsules would taste sprinkled on ice cream?

And poor Clara Jane - she was so cranky today. The child refused to take a nap. Before it was all said and done, we were both exhausted and completely cried out. And yet, we're still awake.

Before I completely slammed into the hormone brick wall, I noticed some things amiss with my thought process. It probably didn't help that I had changed my shirt three times before noon. Since Clara Jane was insisting on being held, I was in the line of fire everytime she spit up. Hormonal and reeking of baby puke. Always a good look for any glowing new mom.

During one of her fussy spells, we were rocking in the living room. I turned the TV to Noggin, in hopes that the noise from the kiddie shows would distract her. I don't think she noticed, but they certainly distracted me.

A word of advice to my fellow girl-type people: Don't watch "Blues Clues" when you're on the verge of a hormonal breakdown. Just don't.

For starters, I got entirely too excited when I solved one of the little puzzles. I have an IQ that the tests claim is over 140. At least, that was before the hormones starting kicking the shit out of my brain. How low do those points have to drop when solving a Blue's Clues puzzle makes you feel like a genius?

I was so proud, and then so sad.

And then things got really weird. Definitely hormone-weird.

Now, I think we can all agree that Steve is cute in an impish, virginal sorta way, possibly with a brooding, slightly rumpled indie-rock hottie trapped inside.

Today, thanks to my hormones, I see Steve in a whole new light. And my friends, the lightbulb shining that light could use some Windex, because it's dirrrrrrrrrrrrrrty!

How is a hormone-addled mom supposed to take it when Steve says, "I bet she'd use that paw later."

Oh yeah, she will!

Or, "It has a circle at the end and long lines down the side."

Yes, sir! I'll just bet it does.

Steve does little drawings of the clues. A penis-shaped paper towl tube. A vaguely vaginal tissue box holder.

Add some talking inanimate objects to the mix, and a woman's brain is weakened enough for the hormone troops to strike. And strike, they did.

Yes, sir.

Posted by Robin at June 30, 2004 10:07 PM | TrackBack