By now, you’ve probably gotten the memo:
I’m still breastfeeding M and Little Homie.
(And I’m happy to take on another customer or two if you know of anyone in Israel who is interested. I charge 75 shekels an hour. I could really use the money.Thanx.)
It’s like a spread in National Geographic magazine over here - M on one tit, Little Homie on the other. I think B may have taken a picture or two, because, hey, if Octomom can get propositioned by Vivid Entertainment, maybe I could sell these pics to Hustler.
(My contact information is on the right side of this page. Again, I could really use the money Thanx.)
You may assume that I’m one of those crunchy granolla mamas with the wind blowing through my
hair, all hippied out and high on my attachment parenting ethos.
I’m really not
The only reason I tandem breastfeed is because
it’s easy to shut my daughter up by shoving my tit in her mouth when she’s in tired or sick
The women on this kibbutz are way more badass than I am. They all lift their shirts up with reckless abandon and feed their kids, and the men don’t even bat an eye. In fact, when I was skulking around the Kibbutz dining hall the other day looking for a potted plant to nurse behind, one of the other mamas asked me why I just don’t feed the baby at the table like everyone else.
And while I’m down with others nursing in public, I can’t bring myself to whip out my tit in Kibbutz dining hall and feed Little Homie in front of everyone.
It has nothing to do with modesty. I’m really not a prude. But in the immortal words of Chris Rock:
“40 year old titty? That’s your man’s titty. 20 year old titty? COMMUNITY TITTY.”
And while I’m only 29, after two back-to-back pregnancies, serving hard-time with a Madela nursing pump when M was little, and breastfeeding for almost three years straight it boils down to this:
My breasts look better in a bra. Under a shirt.
And besides the convenience of breastfeeding - tandem or otherwise - I believed
that my boobies would make lots of shiny, happy antibodies, and M and Little Homie would shit rainbows
that nursing would make my kids healthier.
But not so.
Newsflash: My boobies are not magical.
There’s a rumor going ‘round these parts that I’m having an affair with the
brooding, intense, and incredibly sexy
oncall ER pediatrician at the nearby hospital.
I suppose this begs the question how did I meet an ER pediatrician in the first place.
Ever since we landed here, our entire family has been body-slammed with disease.
(For some serious Schadenfreude Porn, click here and read about our crash landing in Israel. That should give you a general idea.)
I miss the halcyon days when I used to think that the sniffles was something serious. I remember hunkering down with M or Little Homie, brandishing the bulb syringe, steaming up the bathroom with a hot shower and eucalyptus essential oils or whatever, and speed-dialing Dr. S.
“My 8 month old is congested!”
And, the ever-patient Dr. S would give us the signs and symptoms that are worth worrying about, and I would hang up reassured.
Those were the good old days. Cozy times wasted worrying over a little snot.
My world view has changed after facing the following:
1. bilious vomit (everyone)
2. throat infections and swollen glands (everyone)
3. mastitis (yours truely),
4. ear infections (Little Homie and M)
5. allergic reaction to Amoxicillan (Little Homie),
6. a nasty-ass croup that never ends (M)
And now this:
Little Homie is really sick.
For the last seven - seven - nights, we haven’t slept. Normally, the boy is pretty stoic—Unlike M who goes all Greek Tragedy on us when the wind blows through her hair—but this time he’s really suffering. And together, we’re cranky, crying, and covered in crud, curled up on the couch waiting for dawn.
Not that it’s much better during daylight.
And yesterday, after his fever climbed to 41 C / 105.8 F - (no, seriously) we got the diagnosis:
Little Homie has Pneumonia.
(INSERT OMINUS MUSIC HERE)
As in, Pneumonia.
(Even the word sounds kind of creepy.)
And while I can name about 20 other kids here who have the same thing, it still scares the shit out of me.
A nasty case of the sniffles can’t kill you. But Pneumonia can.
Even with tremendous help from B and my Fairy Godmother in Law, my mind is starting
to crack open and leak all over the blogosphere.
And if we survive this latest onslaught, maybe I’ll stuff my not-so-magical boobies into a real bra, slip the kids some formula and
pass out piss drunk under a bush somewhere
go on vacation.
I think I need it.
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