How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane

by Johanna Stein

  I stamped my foot on the floor repeatedly, mostly to keep myself from punching my baby in the face. (Truth is, I would never punch my baby. I may, however, wait until she’s fifteen years old and give her one retroactively. I’m fairly certain she’ll deserve it by then anyway.)

  Two hours and several hundred dollars later, Binky sent us away with a hospital-grade pump, which I was to use every three hours until my supply could match my daughter’s demand.

  When we got home, the husband bottle-fed the baby while I zipped on my hands-free pumping bra, turned on the pump, and then watched it stretch my nipples through a transparent sleeve, like Augustus Gloop going through the pipes of Willy Wonka’s chocolate river.

  Now that I could actually see the milking process, I understood the problem. Milk wasn’t flowing, it was eking out of my nipples, like tiny beads of Elmer’s glue. One hour of Hoover-strength milking left me with a grand total of a half-ounce of milk. And most of that came from the right breast; the left was completely useless. If my right breast was a slacker, my left was its illiterate cousin who lost half his brain in a tragic pig-farming accident.

  But I would not be beaten. Over the next few weeks the husband bottle-fed the child, while I pumped every three to four hours for up to an hour at a time.

  I learned all about “galactagogues,” which, though it sounds like an alien form of governance, is actually any substance that encourages lactation. As a result, I ate oatmeal in large amounts, drank Guinness beer in small amounts, and ingested an herb that made my skin smell like a combination of maple syrup and curry (mostly curry).

  I took a prescription medication for reflux, one side effect of which is increased lactation, another side effect of which is depression. A positively hilarious situation for a new mother, if you think about it!

  I went to breast-feeding support groups and listened to other new moms complain about their problems with excessive flow, saying things like “Ah-ma-gad! I am literally gussshhhing! I’m storing the excess in our freezer—looks like we’ll be drinking breast milk with our coffee for the next twenty years!” I smiled with empathy while imagining punching them in their overflowing gazongas.*

  But mostly I pumped. And pumped. And pumped. And pumped.

  Until little by little, drop by drop, my milk started to flow—or at least dribble. Not nearly at the rate the child was drinking, but enough that I could supplement her formula feedings with a little of my own milky love.

  I was winning. Soon we would be the very picture of skin-to-skin maternal bliss.

  But, as one slow-flowing nipple said to the other, “not so fast.”

  The child did not want the breast.

  When I offered my ever-so-feebly lactating nipple to my daughter, she would give it a look and a suck and then scream into it like a rapper yelling into a microphone. Sometimes I’d try to fool her by making her laugh, and while her mouth was open I’d jam my nipple in there. But she never took to it. Instead, she’d just stare at me like I was some kind of sick pervert.

  The worst part was that she could be calmed only by the other Binky, her pacifier: i.e., a silicone version of my nipple. This is what is known in the breast-feeding world as “nipple confusion.” But if you’d asked my daughter, she would’ve said there was no confusion. That savvy four-week-old knew exactly what she wanted, and she couldn’t have been clearer if she’d e-mailed her thoughts to me and b.c.c.’ed her lawyer. It was hard not to take it personally—almost as hard as it is to saw through a silicone pacifier with a steak knife.

  I continued to pump around the clock and would then pour my liquid gold into little bottles that the husband would then feed her. I did this for five months until it occurred to me that the six hours a day I was spending with the pump might be better spent with my child. As much as I believe in the benefits of breast-feeding, I believe in the benefits of bonding even more.

  That’s when I eighty-sixed the pump, and from five months of age, my kid became 100 percent formula fed. That was five years ago, and now she’s a happy, healthy, lovely child, and I’m at peace with my choice to abandon breast-feeding.*

  *Boobs, tits, ta-ta’s, “the girls,” chesticles, naughty pillows, “Buddy & Bernice.” These are all phrases I wanted to use in this story but which my editor advised against, on the basis that their usage would make me seem immature. To which I responded, “You’re worried that’s what’s going to make me seem immature? Do you even know me?!”

  *That might be the best/worst pun I’ve ever made. My sincere apologies.

  *Unless you’re into that sort of thing. And if you are, then (a) each to his own and (b) Blortch.

  *Gazongas. I’d forgotten that one.

  *And that last part is a complete lie.

  Back when she was still on the “F” (formula) I had a recurring nightmare about a citywide chemical explosion after which robots would take over the water supply and my baby would die because I wouldn’t be able to feed her during the ensuing apocalypse.

  Now I have more rational concerns . . . like the fact that having been robbed of her mother’s milk she’ll become a high school dropout and date a guy with a tattoo of a snake on his face who will try to rob a liquor store and accidentally shoot and kill kindly old Sheriff Jenkins and my dumdum of a daughter will get blamed for it and end up on death row where Susan Sarandon will try but ultimately fail to spare her life, leaving me to attempt a poorly planned prison break that will end with my death in a fiery hail of gunfire.

  Of course I recognize this anxiety for what it is—an absurd and totally irrational fear that has no basis in reality but is predicated on an insidious set of cultural beliefs, which contribute to the notion that there exists a “perfect” style of mothering, but which of course we can all see is “perfect” only in that it is “perfectly” unattainable.

  On the other hand—if I do die trying to bust my daughter out of prison, I think I can safely say that that “Mother of the Year” Award is mine.

  four

  SEXUAL DISINTERCOURSE

  SOMETIME IN 1982 3:17 A.M.

  I am awakened from a dream that involves me and one of the Hardy Boys engaged in a spicy bout of tonsil hockey. I sit up and stumble groggily out of bed and into the bathroom.

  Sit. Pee. Wipe.

  Stand. Wobble. Flush.

  Still half-asleep, I put my hand on the bathroom doorknob to return to bed (and to a shirtless Sean Cassidy, I hope) when I hear coming from my parents’ room what sounds like furniture being dropped on the floor. Repeatedly, rhythmically, and with great effort.

  Fully awake now, I jerk my hand from the doorknob, as though a chemical fire is raging on the other side. I drop to the floor and pull the nubby, mildewy bath mat over my head. And there I wait until I am certain that the banging has stopped. And then I wait thirty minutes more, until I am absolutely, positively sure that I am the only one still awake in this house, and that no one will ever know, that I now know, what my parents were doing under their polyester comforter that night.*

  If I’d have been younger, the fact that my parents engaged in sexual congress probably wouldn’t have phased me, and I would have skipped happily back to my room not caring that my father and mother were knocking boots just six feet away, on the other side of my pink cloud–mural-covered wall.

  But at fifteen years old, the majority of my waking activities were centered on the topic of sex. Thinking about it. Dreaming about it. Looking it up in the school library dictionary, multiple times a day. Writing it in my notebooks so that I could study those three illicit letters arranged in such a filthy order.

  So this sudden awareness that my parents were freely enjoying it—with each other, no less—it was a living, (heavy) breathing, gag-inducing nightmare. Because as anyone with a pituitary gland knows, there is nothing more disturbing to a teenager than the knowledge that your parents have sex.*

  But the lasting impact of this decades-old memory goes beyond my horrified fifteen-year-old self. Yes, the memory of
it still gives me the sensation of having eaten raw chicken, but more than that I am left with an overwhelming feeling of wonderment and the enduring question: how did they do it?†

  How did they—having been married, at the time, for more than twenty years—find the interest, the energy, and the will to do it?

  SOME VERY UNSCIENTIFIC RESEARCH FROM A NOT-SO-RELIABLE SOURCE WITH FAIRLY LOOSE TIES TO REALITY

  Leaving the example of my parents for a moment (and which I must if I am ever to properly digest a meal again), let’s ponder the usual course of monogamous sex:

  In the beginning phases, a typical monogamous sexual relationship is rife with newness, discovery, and laser-powered lust. There’s a fire in each of your respective loins, and when you rub them together it’s like starting a barbecue with truck-stop fireworks and diesel fuel. Your face is chapped raw from cheek to chin, you’re bragging to friends about your weekly bladder infections, and the sound of your beloved’s voice is like that of an angel singing . . . in the nude . . . with a boner.

  Compare this to what happens after you’ve taken on the shared responsibility of parenthood:

  You forget the basics of human grooming, allowing the hair on your body to grow so long that from behind you could be/have been mistaken for an elderly Greek man. You choose a self-initiated tax audit over being intimate with your spouse. And the sound of your beloved’s voice is as pleasing as a dental instrument being jammed into your ear canal . . . in the nude . . . with a boner.

  All of which begs the question: What the crap is going on here?!

  Well, according to science,* married couples with children report significantly lower rates of sexual satisfaction than married couples without children.

  In other words:

  And Boom, there it is.

  According to science, children steal your sex life, those adorably selfish little buggers. They impede the very act that created them, with unspoken and ironic delight.

  But why? Why does passion fade like a jean jacket from H&M after just three days of wear? How is it possible that one minute you’re unable to keep your hands off each other, and the next you’ve forgotten that you possess compatible naked parts under your clothes?*

  “WHY, OH WHY, DOES THE BOINKING GO BUH-BYE?”

  In order to answer this question, let’s break it down with a few more very unscientific observations:

  YOUR SHRINKING BANDWIDTH

  This new human interloper is commanding a large chunk of your time—time that you once used for a variety of important activities, like personal hygiene, keeping up with those pesky Kardashians, and taking naked running leaps onto your boyfriend. Now all of these activities are fighting for the limited time you have between diaper changes, staring at your angry nipples, being cornered by dead-eyed Stepford moms at the playground, and remembering how letters combine to form words.†

  “REAL” YOU, MEET YOUR “REAL” PARTNER

  Before the kid showed up, parental stress was purely theoretical. Once that kid arrived, the poopoo hit the fan, literally, figuratively, and with shocking frequency. You now find yourself facing new challenges every day, many of which you will not handle well (i.e., “Is that a diaper rash? Call 911!”). As a result, your co-parent may be left wondering why s/he ever found you sexable in the first place. (In my case, I’d guess that my husband was not exactly filled with desire for me the day that he watched me cuss out, kick, and cry at a stroller that wouldn’t fold properly.)

  SUBCONSCIOUS RESENTMENT

  Far be it from me to put words in your mouth, but could it be that, in helping to bring this new game-changing person into your family, you subconsciously blame your mate for ruining your life? And while I’m gently depositing phrases into your oral cavity, may I also suggest that maybe you don’t feel like having sex right now because (a) you don’t want to risk this kind of thing happening again and (b) you’ll be damned if you’re going to give that bitch/bastard/jerk/effing effer even one effing iota of pleasure anytime this effing century.

  NATURE IS FINISHED WITH YOU

  As I’ve said before, what I know about science could probably half fill a small notebook, but that doesn’t stop me from making grand generalizations about things that other people spend lifetimes studying. Hence my conclusion that once you’ve satisfied your hormonal imperative and are in the process of raising a child, “nature” has a waning interest in your continuing to reproduce and therefore hits the kill switch on the old libido machine and sends you off to find a new purpose. Like blogging about needlepoint. Or mastering chair yoga.

  CONFLICTING EMOTIONS

  Many couples experience difficulty adjusting to their dramatically changed roles. You may have trouble enjoying the image of your baby’s father engaged in something that, only months ago, would have driven you wild with desire (i.e., that time he wore a rhinestone-studded G-string and gave you a lap dance to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me”). Similarly, your partner may now have trouble accepting the image of you as a sweet, loving mother figure when just last year he celebrated you in the heat of passion by yelling, “HOLY SCHNIKES, YOU COULD SUCK THE GLAZE OFF MY GRANDMA’S HUMMEL FIGURINES!”

  OLD COPING MECHANISMS NO LONGER APPLY

  Back in the prekid days, when you and your partner quarreled over something important,* you could make a dramatic exit, then return twelve hours later with a new outlook and some cheap wine in your gullet, raring to go for some exhausting and satisfying makeup sex. But all that’s off the table now. What made for “hot drama” before—slamming doors, dramatic ultimatums, disappearing into the night—has morphed into “irresponsible parenting” at best and “child endangerment” at worst. Not cool, man. Not cool.

  YOUR HOME HAS BEEN OVERTAKEN BY THE DETRITUS OF BABYHOOD

  No more lava-lamp lighting or sensual Patrick Nagel prints on the wall; your love den has been transformed into a waypoint for thousands of dollars of unsexy, plastic-molded, primary-colored crap. That leopard-print love seat on which you once posed seductively? It’s now home to a pile of stained baby bibs. That groovy beanbag chair in which the two of you used to get nasty? It’s now covered in a layer of mysterious and foul-smelling slime. And if you do somehow manage to get your cranky, tired engines started, you can look forward to rolling over onto a radio-controlled triceratops and pinching a spinal nerve in the aftermath. And trust me—I speak from experience when I say that it’s near impossible to keep your motor running after pulling a piece of Lego out of your butt crack.

  As the previous examples clearly illustrate, parental lovemaking is like a rare, endangered ferret that must be caught, cornered, and beaten into submission if one is ever to enjoy its fruits again.

  But beat it we must. Because in any long-term relationship, sex is like the glue that holds together that unsightly Ikea bookcase you’ve had since college. Sure, it’s cheap, ugly, and it doesn’t match the decor—but it’s keeping everything in order. And yes, you could buy something newer and more expensive, but why bother? We’re all gonna be dead soon anyway.

  That is why I have devised a helpful list of activities, many of which I have personally attempted, to help you reintroduce the ever-elusive parental grinding back into your life.

  IDEAS FOR REANIMATING THE CORPSE THAT WAS ONCE YOUR SEX LIFE

  TAKE A CLASS TOGETHER

  Nothing stokes the home fires like learning a new skill side by side. The husband and I recently started taking classes in the martial art of Tae Kwon Do. It’s gratifying to grow with him, to share in the struggle of this unfamiliar skill, and celebrate together as we develop and evolve in our abilities. It’s also gratifying to surprise him when he comes out of the shower with a roundhouse kick to his solar plexus.

  Check your local community college for other potentially sexy shared educational opportunities—some ideas: Accounting 101, Spot Welding, Small Animal Veterinary Surgery, and the Art and Science of Hostage Negotiation.

  BE A LOVER AND A FIGHTER

  It’s a wel
l-known fact that Makeup Sex is the third-best sex there is*—so don’t wait for a fight to happen organically; go out and pick one. Here are some helpful starter lines that have worked for me:

  •“Last night I had a dream that you cheated on me. YOU BASTARD!”

  •“The toilet paper goes over, not under. What are you, some kind of maniac?”

  •“Wow. I never noticed how far apart your eyes are.”

  You might also try making rude comments about your mother-in-law, unless your spouse doesn’t get along with his or her mother, in which case you could speak at length about your mother-in-law’s wonderful qualities or simply wear one of her cardigans to bed.

  THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE

  No one wants to knock boots with predictable, sensible footwear. So keep your partner guessing, not just at nighttime but throughout the day:

  •wake your spouse in the morning with a kiss and a loving blast from an air horn

  •give him/her a sultry look while stirring relish into his/her morning coffee

  •cover his/her eyes and play “Guess Who!” at unpredictable times, like when he/she’s attempting to merge on the freeway, or just as he/she’s about to go under for a colonoscopy exam

  BABY YOUR SPOUSE

  Many partners feel neglected with the arrival of a needy new family member in the house. Make sure your spouse knows that you love him just as much as the new baby by cooking a romantic dinner and spoon-feeding it to him (steak, wine, and chocolate makes for a very sexy combo, especially when puréed into a blended smoothie). Other options: diaper your spouse, wear him around the house in a Baby Bjorn (size XXXL), or Ferberize him.

  ROLE-PLAY AND FANTASY

  Fantasy is a wonderful tool for injecting a little fun into your relationship—feel free to incorporate elements from real life: