I drank mine. It was the first shot I’d had in ten months, and it tasted like shit! Generally, I only like milk if it’s diluted with Kahlua. That would have made a world of improvement.
Jionni shot his last. He was pretty cool about it, but I could tell he wasn’t going to break into our stockpile of bottles for his morning cereal.
Medela and I grew really close. My pump was my best friend. We went shopping, to the salon, out to dinner. She came along on my first girls’ night out after giving birth. Jenni, Ryder, and a couple other guidettes went out for a few cocktails and hit the club, just like the old days. Only this time, I would have to drain my boobs in the limo on the way there.
One of the girls asked, “You’re bringing a backpack to the club?” Was I a mother, or a drug dealer?
“It’s my pump,” I said. “I thought I’d do a little on the way there so my boobs aren’t sore, and don’t leak all over the place when I’m dancing. Jenni, you should try it.”
I really wanted her to feel the suction. I wanted all of them to experience the Super Suck. We were pretty drunk already. Jenni was willing to let my pump go to second base with her. Slut!
Ryder said, “It might deflate her implant!” We howled at that. It would have been pretty hilarious to see the bottle fill up with saline solution.
Jenni pulled down her bra, and held the flange up to her boobies. I flipped the switch. The pump kicked in, and Jenni’s eyes bugged out. She pulled the thing off like it was trying suck out her soul! Now she had a taste of what I’d been going through.
I danced like a banshee that night. I didn’t pump enough beforehand. My boobs ran like a river and the entire front of my dress was soaked. I was too drunk to notice or care. The whole next day, I had to pump and dump. I could smell the sake bombs in the bottle. My milk was so full of alcohol, I could have used it to start a bonfire in the yard. I could have cleaned the toilet with it. We broke out the alcohol test strips. I dipped one into the milk like a chemist in a lab. The strip nearly melted. Seeing the proof that what I put into my body was exactly what would come out of it changed my attitude about drinking even more than my skull-cracking hangover and the guilty feeling that I’d let myself down. I’d let Lorenzo down, too. He lost a day’s worth of milk for that one night of partying. That wasn’t fair to him.
I’ve barely had a sip of alcohol since that night.
My pump and I broke up after about three months. I had to do some traveling and wasn’t able to pump every three hours. In only a few days of not keeping a rigid suck schedule, my breasts dried up. My boobs killed like they were engorged, but nothing came out. It was both a relief to stop pumping and a disappointment. I wanted to do it for a full year. Next time, I’ll take all the vitamins, stay on schedule, and make sure the dairy farm doesn’t close until I’m ready.
Three months of engorgement, de-gorgement, and stretched nipples left me with ruined boobs. They’re like floppy, deflated beach balls. My plan is to have three more babies, and then I’ll get implants put inside the hanging skin. The milk service will be closed, but I’ll be raring to go!
Chapter 18
Shit Happens
Just as I predicted, Lorenzo was a genius of poop. He got that trait from me. I’m so proud of the little squirt.
The first day we brought him home, he shat on my leg, the couch, his bed, and the floor. It wasn’t because he was rolling around bareassed. We kept him in diapers with a thick layer of butt paste, believe me. There was just so much of it, it oozed out of his crap catcher.
I’d fretted about whether I’d gag while changing him, like that time I had to run from the room when I tried to change my nephew’s diaper. I’m happy to report the good news: I adored my baby’s shit! As I hoped, wiping and changing wasn’t gross with my own kid. Not that it smelled like roses, but it wasn’t bad at all. Just healthy human business. Even his farts smelled wholesome. He’d toot, and I’d say, “You’re so cool.” I loved it. Is that weird? I got misty-eyed doing anything I could for him, including wiping his ass. What a relief, not to feel sick doing the most basic mommy job. For a while, it seemed like all I did was pump and change Lorenzo’s poopie pants.
The shit show was truly spectacular. I oohed and ahhed like I was at fireworks on the Fourth of July. It was just as colorful inside his diapers. I couldn’t believe what came out of a baby’s ass. At first, it was black tar, like alien scat. Then it was green. Then yellow. Breast milk poop looked like mustard juice with brown seeds, and smelled like a dish of cream cheese left on the counter for a few days. It was horrible, but healthy. I came to associate the smell with relief. It meant he was eating well. “Diaper Gold” we called it. We’d open up his diaper and declare, “Struck gold again!” Before long, we were mining for chocolate nuggets.
He always gave us a hint, his pre-verbal warning that a real gusher was on the way. Lorenzo would frown and grunt cutely. He’d make a photogenic duck face and . . . sploosh! We were swimming up Shit River.
Honestly, the sheer quantity cracked us up. How could a tiny body produce so much? It would overflow his diaper, seep up his back, and migrate all the way up into his hair. Jionni and I had to get a pair of scissors and trim the shit out of Lorenzo’s hair. Sounds gross, but it was hilarious, a great experience to have with your husband-to-be. We laughed about his shitty haircut for hours. On no sleep, just about anything can make you giddy. But that one was a winner. We also fell down laughing when Lorenzo pooped in his bathwater. He loved doing that. He laughed and grabbed at the little floaters. I have to confess, that did look like a lot of fun. I might want to give it a try myself.
Our baby christened nearly every square foot of our house with his turds. A few times, we got to witness the phenomenon of “explosive diarrhea.” The phrase pretty much sums up the actual experience, which has to be seen to be believed. I was in the middle of changing him, and he let loose. I was splattered, like a chocolate shake shot out of a cannon. I never loved my son more than when he painted the walls that day. It wasn’t fun to clean up, that was for sure. But in all my life, I’d never been so amazed by the bodily functions of another human being. Lorenzo took me to another level of appreciation for our species.
I could probably clean up anyone’s shit at this point. Having a baby teaches you that shit happens! A lot of shit happens. It’s just a biological function. Poop, pee, puke, drool, snot. Babies and adults are leaky, juicy, wet sacs of one fluid or another. We leak some sort of moist gunk from every one of our holes, be it boogers, earwax, tears, or crap. That’s the way we are from the day we’re born until the day we dry up and die.
If you really think about it, a dirty diaper contains the whole human cycle of life, wrapped up into one stinkin’ little package.
Some deep shit right there. And I do mean that literally.
Chapter 19
Lorenzo Has Two Moms
From day one, Jionni was the most amazing mother I’d ever seen. He changed diapers, got up in the middle of the night, and gave Lorenzo his baths. He did everything for the baby that a mother could do (except pump—clearly that was my job). Jionni had to go to work during the day. But when he came home, the first words out of his mouth were, “Where’s my baby?” He was so excited to see Lorenzo that sometimes he forget to kiss hello.
Yup, Lorenzo had two mommies. It was like Jionni and I were the same sex, because we hardly ever had sex.
There was never any question that we’d be full-time, equal parents, sharing all the joys and jobs fifty-fifty. Granted, we got a lot of help from our families. Living at Jionni’s parents’ was excellent for us, the baby, and his proud grandparents. Thanks to their pitching in during the first month, Jionni and I could grab naps or go out for an hour to the salon or a restaurant. When I had to travel for work or go to the city for a meeting, I arranged my schedule around Jionni’s. We could usually work it out so one of us was home with Lorenzo. If we couldn’t manage that, we’d ask our parents. They loved to babysit.
Friend
s had warned me that I might get frustrated with Jionni. A lot of dads didn’t pull their weight when caring for an infant. But as I said, Lorenzo didn’t have a dad. He had two moms, and we both wanted to do it all for the baby. Jionni and I argued about who got to change and feed Lorenzo. My fiancé couldn’t wait to roll up his sleeves and dive in. He would wake up three times a night to bring the baby a bottle. We actually fought over who got out of bed at 4:00 AM to clean shit off the sheets. As soon as we heard that squeaky cry, we’d elbow each other out of the way to get to the crib first.
That only lasted for a few weeks. Then both of Lorenzo’s tired mothers foisted middle-of-the-night feedings off on each other. It made no sense, really. A turf war over who got to inhale shit fumes? These days, we’re like, “You get him. It’s your turn.”
At first, though, Jionni was such a devoted, single-minded mom, I got jealous of my own baby. My fiancé ignored me and gave all his attention to Lorenzo. He cuddled and kissed the baby all night, and barely touched me. We used to be as affectionate and all over each other as puppies in a basket. But then all of Jionni’s hugs were given to our son. Which was great! Except that it totally sucked. I had to beg my man for kisses. Even with my porn star boobs, we really lost the spark for a while there. I guess he didn’t think my nursing bras were sexy.
Like many new moms, Jionni was very particular. He had to make sure the baby care was done the right way. We bickered about it. He corrected me about technique, how to hold the bottle, how to burp, what speed to set the swing, when to put Lorenzo down for a nap. We were equally clueless in the hospital with our baby skills. And then, on the drive home, Jionni turned into some kind of expert.
When I went to pick up the baby, he would say, “Let me show you how it’s done.” I started to suspect it wasn’t only criticism. Correcting me was Jionni’s sneaky way of taking Lorenzo out of my arms so he could hold him. We both craved the closeness, and as equal mommies, we felt like we each had the magic touch. We fought a lot. I got really upset. Good mommies knew how to share.
Jionni criticized me (or, as he said, “joked”) about whether I went to Lorenzo’s crib fast enough when he cried. He once said, “I’d better give Lorenzo a bath so he doesn’t smell like Mommy.”
Funny. I nearly cracked his skull laughing.
Yeah, I took it personally! Jionni was a mommy, yes. Fine. But he wasn’t the one who went through nine months of pregnancy. He wasn’t pumping his nipples off every three hours. When he “joked” with me, it hurt my hormonally-fueled feelings. When he kept pestering me to wipe Lorenzo with a downward motion, I saw red (also brown).
I guess, in this way, Jionni’s maternal instant was a let down. He could mommy Lorenzo, but I wanted him to be the daddy, too. I wanted him to know that I needed to be cuddled and kissed and told “I love you” and “You’re doing great!” as much as our baby. A daddy would say, “You’re the mother of my child and I worship you.”
Here’s Jionni
I did tell Nicole those things! She just wasn’t satisfied unless I told her a dozen times a day. The bickering in the beginning about how I didn’t cuddle enough was from both of us being so tired. And the criticism was just joking around. I was giving her shit, like we always used to do. The pregnancy was over, and I thought we’d just move back into laying into each other a bit more. I noticed that I was getting under her skin. But I was never serious about it! I blamed the lingering hormones on her reaction. It didn’t last. We got back to normal. I don’t remember how. But we did.
A few weeks after giving birth, I locked myself in my closet for a half an hour and emerged wearing the first decent outfit I’d put on in six months. I felt sexy and good about myself, despite our bickering and arguing about parenting.
Jionni said, “Look at you. You just had a baby?”
That was it. With just those two sentences from my man, I felt good about us again, and the spark came roaring back. I felt seen. Jionni looked at me, and he saw me. For a while there, he had Baby Tunnel Vision, and could only see Lorenzo. I was just an extension of the baby in Jionni’s eyes. And then he noticed me again and remembered I was my own person. He would say he was just paying me a compliment. But it ran deeper than that to me.
When you become a mother, you still have desires and needs of your own. After giving birth, you want to be babied a little yourself. Not getting that from Jionni bugged the shit out of me. But you know what? He was just as exhausted as I was. He gave all of his energy to Lorenzo, like any good mom would.
Mom, dad, whatever. I don’t really care about gender roles. What matters is doing what comes naturally and not worrying about who does what, or whether one of you is doing it more right than the other person. Your baby won’t care if you wipe downward or sideways. He only cares if you use enough butt paste. As long as both parents are doing their share of the job, you’ll have a happy family. Jionni and I are both Moms. We’re both Dads. And we’re all right with that.
This one website called me a “feminist mom.” I read that and thought, Someone understands me! I define feminism as being honest about yourself. It’s not trying to be a certain way, or playing a particular role, or enforcing a list of rules. Jionni is a feminist mom, too. We’re just like every other parent of either gender who’s doing his or her best and trying to have a good time while we’re at it. Feminist moms don’t sugarcoat the reality of being a parent. The truth is, motherhood is a bitch—and a bastard!—and it’s awesome.
Chapter 20
Back to Myself
At the end of my pregnancy, all I wanted to do was give birth and then get back to normal. I missed all of the things I couldn’t do, like dye my hair and go tanning—and get wasted.
About a month after Lorenzo was born, I went on a Girl’s Night Out with Jenni, Deena, Ryder, and our friends Laura and Nina. We had a few vodka shots before we left the house. In the limo to the club, we popped open a bottle of Champagne, and had more vodka. Up until that night, I had consumed only one glass of wine all year. So I was drunk before we hit the highway. All those windows in the big backseat can make even the most seasoned limo rider feel queasy. My poor friend Nina was facing sideways—the absolute worst—especially doing 65mph on the Garden State Parkway with a glass of Champagne in one hand and a shot of vodka in the other. It was too much for her. She puked all over Ryder before we even got to the club. Ryder wasn’t very sympathetic. I can’t say I blamed her. I wouldn’t want to dance smelling like half-digested tuna, either. The driver took Nina home and went to a car wash while we were partying inside. You better believe he got a huge tip that night!
When your friend vomits before you even get to the club, it’s a bad omen. But we had a blast that night. After Champagne we switched to sake bombs—a shot glass full of sake dropped into a beer. Four different kinds of alcohol were pushed through my pregnancy-scrubbed liver. I got twisted. After being a saint for ten months, I had no idea what my tolerance level was anymore. I blacked out, and only found out what happened the next day.
Jenni called in the morning and filled me in. Apparently, I managed to pack a lot of trouble into just a few hours, including giving all the girls a lap dance, making out with, er, everyone, practically assaulting Laura by shoving my leaking boobs in her face, and dancing hard enough to make my sewn-up vagina fall out (it didn’t, thank God). In my defense, I wasn’t the only one who got raucous. As Jenni said, it was like a guidette sorority house. But I was definitely the instigator. I had a lot of time to make up for. I went hard that night. I didn’t feel it was my choice. Crazy just happened to me, like an alien abduction.
On the way home, I screamed out the limo window, “I’m a mom!” Even when I was blackout drunk, I was thinking about Lorenzo.
But that wasn’t going to help me the next day when I had a lethal hangover and couldn’t get out of bed. Jionni kept poking me to get up. When I could finally lift my head, I pumped my boobs (so glad I didn’t leave Medela behind in the limo!). The milk was like rocket fuel and had
to be dumped.
Jionni asked, “What went on last night?”
I knew it had been filmed and that Jionni would find out the truth. I had to tell him what happened, but I didn’t have the mental focus or strong stomach to say it to his face. I pulled a passive-aggressive move and texted him. “I blacked out last night, and made out with Jenni,” I wrote. I also told him that I was sorry and wouldn’t do it again. Obviously, I knew he wouldn’t be happy to hear the news. Remember, this is the guy who flew seven hours to visit me in Italy, and left two hours later when he got angry with me for losing control. He expected me to respect him by not degrading myself. But I was just acting up. That was who I was. I enjoyed having a few drinks and a good time.
To him, my text was a blow to his pride. He read it while sitting right next to me on the couch. He scooped up Lorenzo and said, “Stay away from me.”
It was an ice pick to my heart. Seeing his back as he took my son up the stairs chilled me to the core. If I didn’t know shame before that moment, well, I was starting to get the idea. I sat alone for a while, crying in agony with my hangover headache throbbing in my ears. My phone pinged.
A text from my fiancé. “You’re a coward and a horrible mother and fiancée,” he wrote.
Did it get any worse than that? The combo of physical pain, guilt, shame, and then being taken to task by the most important person in my life? Awful. Jionni is a very intense, sensitive person. I wasn’t sure he was going to forgive me that time.
Was it really so terrible to make out with four girls in public, blacked out on sake bombs while my fiancé and newborn waited at home?
I didn’t think so at the time. But now, seeing it from Jionni’s perspective . . . I wasn’t so sure. If Jionni got wasted at a club and made out with four of his friends, I’d be okay with it. But he wasn’t me. He had his own ideas and opinions. In a relationship, you have to take the other person’s feelings into account. You know what they call someone who doesn’t do that? Single.
Baby Bumps: From Party Girl to Proud Mama, and all the Messy Milestones Along the Way Page 12