It's nice to meet you!

I've fallen into the unfortunate habit of over-sharing the mundane details of our adventures in erranding, especially trips to the grocery store.

I'm sorry.  

I'm even more sorry that I have no real plans to stop.  

I tell myself, "okay.  Okay.  That's enough for a while," but then we go to the grocery store and while I'm wearing Quin on my front, he discovers the wonderful world of (and do excuse the lack of sophistication in the following term) motorboating.  Not the water sport, friends.  The face-in-cleavage kind.  With loud and exuberant sound effects.  And I'm pushing Rhys in the cart and he and I are shaking hands non-stop while I say emphatically, over and over again, "It's nice to meet you!" because that's our grocery store game and he finds it hilarious and it keeps him from jumping ship and escaping to the banana display.  And then Quin decides that motorboating is significantly more fun if he grabs onto my ears and pulls outward, so now we're really attracting attention as I push our cart with one hand trying to avoid a collision while one child practices manners, the other practices a total lack thereof, and my ears are stretched beyond the realms of normalcy and any pretense of comfort.  And as all this is happening, I'm thinking how I really need to do a post on this because I have no self control and I cannot stop.  

And so I'm sorry.

Ownership.

Let's talk "sexy" for a minute. Not to each other. I don't know you that well. Let's talk about sexy.

We Americans are rather puritanical. Not YOU. Of course not YOU. But the collective us. We live in a society that functions much like a confused fourteen year old. One minute we're stuffing our best friend's mother's romance novels under our mattress, all the good parts carefully highlighted in neon green, and the next we're sitting in "sex ed" learning that sex is for marriage, and that while some people will break the rules and become lustful much earlier, those will be the folks who end up crying alone in the bathroom stall, pregnant at 15 with a raging case of VD and no place left in heaven for their soiled soul.

It's no wonder that breasts confuse us.

I wrote a post when I was pregnant sharing my joy over the fact that at the tender age of 27, I had finally sprouted some hormone induced breasts. An angry reader recently pointed this out to me, accusing me of being a hypocrite and suggesting that all of "this" (lactivism) has nothing to do with my core beliefs and everything to do with my wanting to "show off" my new curves.

I'm concerned. If I thought this was one isolated view point, I would leave well enough alone. But the confusion over the purpose of women's bodies, the FIGHT over the purpose of women's bodies, needs to stop.

So since this is my blog, and since I am the sole and rightful owner of MY BODY, I'm going to talk about it.

I am a human being. A woman. Sexual. I am a wife. A mother. Strong. Passionate.

I don't want to settle for simply feeling comfortable in my own skin, I want to (and most often do) feel ecstatic in it. I'm not perfect. I'm working to accept the stretch marks left from having babies, but they're new, and I need time. But I know who I am. Physically, emotionally and mentally. I like this person. I love her.

I am amazed by my body's accomplishments of the last several years. My body worked hard to heal and overcome endometriosis and infertility. My womb nourished and grew two beautiful babies. My breasts produce milk to feed those babies. They provide solace to those babies when they are sad. They provide comfort when my babies are sick or hurt. They provide safety when my babies are scared.

My identity, my purpose, extends beyond my role as mother. As much as I cherish, love, and adore that role, I also cherish, love, and adore the other facets of my life. My body accompanies me on every adventure. My breasts do not cease to exist when my babies aren't around. The value and functionality of my breasts does not begin and end with the ability to lactate. The fact that right now, my breasts serve a primary purpose of nourishing babies does not negate or detract from the fact that they are also (GASP!!!) sexual.

For me, that is the beauty of humanity. We are all multi-faceted. Life is not black and white. There are hundreds of thousands of beautiful shades of grey. How sad to go through life trying to force every minute detail into the correctly shaped container. Motherhood, womanhood, individuality, love, lust, sexuality, these elements of who I am rarely, if ever, enjoy a show stopping solo. They are intermingled, intertwined, and deliciously co-dependent.

Empowered women, unite. Our bodies belong to us only. We do not need to look externally for the definition of how and who we should be. Dance if you want to dance. Be sexual, be maternal, be beautiful, be all of those things, be none of those things, or be something else entirely. Wear a push up bra, wear a nursing bra, wear no bra. Celebrate your body, your mind, your spirit, and your soul.

We're human beings. It's messy. Beautiful. Complicated. We can embrace it or not.

I hope that I'll always be brave enough to embrace it.

Offense.

Facebook hasn't written back.

And Ellen hasn't called and said "yes! I will do a show on breastfeeding and fill my audience with lactating mamas who I will shower with lanolin cream and fancy nursing bras. Yes!" Oprah hasn't called either. And Tyra hasn't. And NPR hasn't. And my local news station hasn't.

And you know what? I think they're missing out on an opportunity. Because this image is still on Facebook, as the profile pic for the Big Boobs application, which has 55,842 monthly users:

And this image is still on Facebook, as the profile pic for the "Tits" application with 12, 260 monthly users:

And this image is still on Facebook, the profile pic for the "T i t s" fan page, with 1,863 fans:

And this image is still on Facebook, the profile pic for the group "Titties" with 580 members:

And I'd like to say I'm surprised. Because Facebook has a policy against sexually offensive material. And given the context of each of these pictures, I'd call them pretty damn sexually offensive. So I reported them. Each and every one. And included my letter to Facebook as my comment for each one. No response. No removal of the pictures.

But you know what picture Facebook did remove?

This one. Originally posted on the "Hey Facebook, breastfeeding is NOT obscene" group, with 258,448 members.

Here, where, after three years of infertility and a traumatic and pre-term birth, I finally tandem nursed my babies successfully for the first time. Facebook told me this picture was offensive. And warned me that they will delete my account if I continue to break the rules.

Hey Facebook?

Fuck you.

Where sleep and itsy bitsy collide.

There are times when my life seems to have turned into one big swirling mass of "making it through." That makes it seem as though things are quite bleak, which they are not. Things are actually quite wonderful. But life with twins is a shitload of work.

Days sometimes mesh together in odd medleys: poop, bath time, begging the babies to sleep, marathon nursing, and desperately singing Itsy Bitsy Spider as though my very sanity depended on its ability to quell the storm.

The babies have developed a taste for the leisurely life of vacationing. They regularly take vacations from pooping (for 8 days, in our longest stretch), and a particular favorite, vacations from sleep.

Sleep.

Honestly, the word itself makes me want to cry. I love it and miss it so.

Up until about two weeks ago, we had made some progress in the area of sleep. The babies would go down (after much encouragement) in their cribs and sleep for 1-5 hours, after which they would nurse on and off throughout the night but for the most part would transfer happily back into their cribs with nice full bellies. Life was really freaking delicious.

And then.

I wish I could tell you what happened next. But I don't know what it was. And that's a part of the problem. Because all of a sudden, the sleeping just stopped. We seem to be back at square one. "Bed time" is followed by frequent wakings every 20 minutes. This pattern continues on for sometimes as many as five hours. And for the last five nights, this trend has gone on basically all night long, resulting in almost no sleep for the desperate and weary parents.

Last night, somewhere in the midst of a luxurious three hours of sleep, I felt a fluttery little scurry across my forehead and down one of my arms. I don't like things that scurry and went into an immediate state of panic. My panic was quickly overruled by my exhaustion, which refused to cooperate with my repeated commands to flail, jump, scream, and make gagging noises whilst simultaneously slapping at my own flesh until all things scurry-ish met a certain death. So I lay there in a lumpish ball of exhaustion, until finally my still very panicked brain managed to feebly lift an arm and make sloppy swipes in the general direction of arm and forehead.

And really, to be attacked by some unknown predator in my own bed when I'm already sickeningly deprived of sleep hardly seems fair.

Morning came, and perhaps pushed to the edge by my mid-sleep attack, I finally hit "the wall." My reserves were just gone.

I called in tired to work.

I brought the babies to Grammie's house.

I went home and slept. I slept like a person who's drowning gasps for air. Greedily, deeply, desperately.

Close to four hours later, I woke up feeling like Madonna in her cone bra. I rubbed my eyes and looked around.

Laying next to me on my bed was the crumpled dead body of a huge spider.

I killed Itsy Bitsy. And not just with my singing this time.

Am I caught up on sleep? Hardly. But those four hours were beautiful and precious and necessary.

Onward and upward.

Except not for Itsy Bitsy, may he rest in peace as I work on healing the many spider bites all up and down my arms.

Now it's just about the beer.

I'm running in a 5k on Sunday.

I signed up really only because I thought that it would be cool to casually run my 5k while pushing the jogger containing four month old twins that grew to fruition in my womb.  And I knew that when I came in last, people would hardly notice, because hey - cute babies.

Things have sort of unraveled from my initial plan.  And really, I deserve it, cause I was sort of just trying to be casual-cool-runner-mom.  Devastatingly beautiful, casual, cool, runner-mom.

Turns out you cannot run with babies in our jogger until they're eight months old.  And desperate as I may be to have my babies make me look good, I'm going to trust the manufacturer's advice on this one.

Turns out that even sans babies, I'm clocking a sturdy TWELVE minute mile.

Turns out, I am rarely casual.

Let me repaint the projected image of my 5k in a little color I like to call reality.

I will frantically run the 5k, constantly concerned about the well being of my sweet twins (who will be in the very competent hands of a very competent friend at the finish line), scarcely able to mask my jealously of the women in their nineties who gracefully bound past me like ballerina gazelles.  I probably won't be able to suck in my residual baby bump while I run, and it will jiggle.  Also jiggling will be my breasts, and this is a new, addictive, and marvelous concept for me.  So I probably won't be able to get over my awe that real, live, cleavage attached to my real, live, body is actually bouncing, and I'll spend much of the race looking down and wondering if people can tell that I'm not really Pam Anderson.  I'll also spend much of the race worrying that this jiggling will lead to some sort of tear, and that one of my highly prized boobies will end up SPLAT! on the ground.  I'll force myself to run all the way to the finish line.  Unless I've given in to my little ice cream-for-breakfast habit, in which case I'll develop a torturous cramp and have to walk.  Ach.

And here, my friends, is what will make it all worth it:

This race happens to be at a brewery.  A brewery that gives you beer at the finish line.

I will take my sweet babies in my arms, hike up my shirt, latch on the little guys, and take a long, sweet sip, ignoring (totally not ignoring) all judgment.

I refuse to stop dreaming.

What I Eat

I have this organic cotton tank top that’s screen printed with lovely purple vegetables and the words, “what I eat.” I wear it to channel that sexy-hippy-chic vibe.

Lately I’ve been considering creating an updated version of the shirt, or at least taking out a Sharpie and sketching in a few additional food items to more accurately reflect my breastfeeding diet. Because I’m really just a liar if I omit the fact that half-cooked brownies have become the staple of a food group I like to call “calories: get ‘em fast.”


Although I did not enjoy pregnancy, I am adoring my newly acquired role as a mother. Throughout my pregnancy, there were two aspects of motherhood that I particularly looked forward to: cloth diapers and breastfeeding. More about diapers later. When I was pregnant and would explain to people that I planned to breastfeed not one, but two babies, I got a lot of mixed reactions. Especially when I’d add in that I hoped to nurse the twins for about two years. Oh lord. One of THOSE.

I have to admit that I’m quite proud to be successfully breastfeeding twins. It was a rocky start trying to learn to breastfeed in the NICU. The doctors told me that I couldn’t make milk rich enough in calories to get the twins to grow. They tried to convince me to mix Enfamil formula with my breast milk and feed it to the babies from bottles once they were discharged from the hospital. I took a tip from the DARE program and ‘just said “no.” So it’s pretty amazing to consider that at ten weeks old, my little preemies are almost triple their birth weights.

Needless to say, I am a fan of boob-feeding. I won’t review all the benefits babies get from breastfeeding; but the benefits are wonderful and the main reason I was adamant about nursing. But I think that the benefits moms get from breastfeeding sometimes get left out. For instance, boobs are a nice little bonus. Large boobs have replaced my medium-sized pregnancy boobs, which replaced my small-sized regular boobs. I may become a wet nurse after the babies wean just to keep these puppies around.


So boobs are good. But they’re not nearly as great as food.

I can eat anything.


I’ve read that you need an extra 500 calories per day to nurse a baby. So I’m guessing that I need an extra 1000 to nurse two. But the reality is, no matter what I eat, I can’t seem to eat enough.

Here’s an example. A few nights ago I was cooking a healthy meal salad with chicken on top. After cooking the chicken, I removed the skin and set it aside to throw away. Mere seconds after doing so, I found myself innocently cutting carrots while absolutely devouring crispy, dripping, chicken skin. And not just a little taste. Every. Last. Piece. Ouch. And for those of you with relatively normal appetites who aren’t nursing two insatiable little babies, I totally groove with the fact that this is DISGUSTING. In fact, many items in the “calories: get ‘em fast” food group are fairly disgusting to the non-calorie deprived person.

Perhaps less disgusting but similarly disturbing is the maniacal way in which I consume sugar, which packs a nice calorie punch. I’ve taken to making batches of brownies from the box, and sprucing them up by dumping loads of caramel sundae sauce, chocolate sauce, and coconut on top before cooking. And I use the term “cooking” rather lightly. Because these days, I only allow my brownies to cook until the edges are firm, at which point I remove them from the oven to let the goopy middle “set.” Once set, I dive in. I can put away a batch of those bad boys in about a day.


And sometimes I just go straight to the source. I wish I was lying when I tell you that in the last two weeks, I’ve eaten three jars of caramel sauce straight from the jar with a spoon. I try to tell myself it’s like pudding, but I hardly even care because it’s just so damn good. I’ve been brushing my teeth a lot, lest they should realize what I am doing and just go ahead and rot and fall out as a good preventive measure.

Here's where it’s really amazing. Cellulite that I used to pretend didn’t exist seems to have taken a hint and hit the road. I once again fit into my skinny underwear - you know you have some - the ones that suddenly cut the circulation off at the thighs a little bit. Circulation is cut no more - not for this caramel swigging babe. I’m eating and eating, and I’m the amazing shrinking woman. With large-ish breasts, mind you.


I’m not sure I’d ever realized life could be this great. I eat naughty, naughty foods. I’m the skinniest I’ve been in years, with the biggest boobs of my life. I think they should make a breastfeeding commercial out of me. Because hey Enfamil. Does your formula do all that?

Cleavage: I have that.

Yup. Boobies. Breasts. Sweater meat.

I got it.

Before you're tempted to feel offended, I feel the need to offer up the fact that I've lived quite happily for 27 years with my rather boyish figure. I gave up on push-up bras some time around the age of 17. Once that snow-ball got rolling it didn't stop: bras were out the window altogether by the time I finished college. And goodness, the liberation!

So for as much as I've not really minded my rather plankish form, I have to say that my new beautiful ta-tas are not to be minded either. Here's why:

1. They jiggle, for goodness sake, and that's just fun.
2. From the side, I look like the letter B, but with legs and a head. And who doesn't like the letter B?
3. I have a cute little freckle that looks quite fetching when it's sitting atop my massive cleavage.

And after waiting for this pregnancy so long, I fully intend to throw myself into the experience with joy and hopefully only a few teensy complaints (like the terrible headaches that have become my constant companion).

So if there's ever been something to feel joyful about, I think I'm there. Two babies in my belly and I've finally reached a full B cup (yup...didn't mis-type that...not C, not D, just celebrating the B here, folks!) feels like heaven.