22 February 2010
Guest Post!
Follow the link to Woman, Uncensored where I was honored to write a guest post for the lovely Rachele!
18 February 2010
Can't Wumbo them all
There comes a time for every Wumbologist when a situation can't be Wumboed.
Try as I might, I can't Wumbo Alice's stubborn cold. There's no joy to be found in the dejected hang of her head, her nightly battle with the rattle in her chest or the alarming temperature that comes and goes. I can't find anything entertaining about her being sick.
My youngest daughter has been knocked out by an insidious flu bug, leaving her half-heartedly clinging to my hip and sticking her hands down my shirt with a constant desire to nurse. While I type one-handed, she fiddles with the snap on my nursing bra. As I balance her on my thigh and pee (sick baby can't be put down), she caresses my chest. As I sit on the floor to blow dry my hair, she tugs at the towel wrapped around my torso in hopes of having access to the baby feeders.
Although I love breastfeeding my baby, her near-constant demand for the comfort and security of nursing has become borderline ridiculous.
On a recent outing to Wal Mart---the fourth consecutive day we visited the retail giant due to my desperate need for some kind of social interaction---Ali was strapped into the blue and white shopping cart cover. I had deliberately breastfed her right before we left the house in hopes of an uneventful and quick trip to the store.
Ali had ideas of her own. Her baby brain was Wumboing itself into a frenzy. I could hear the cogs clicking in her head, each tick saying the same thing: "nurse, nurse, nurse".
Her pitiful blue eyes beseeched me to lean ever closer to her as I pushed the shopping cart past the lobster tanks. She wiped a hand across her snotty nose, stringing green goo from her nostrils to her hairline. Then she thrust her sticky hands towards me. Her perpetual desire to nurse only submits to her even more overwhelming need to sleep. She was becoming cranky as the shopping cart did not accomodate either of these compulsions. Her eyelids drooped over her bloodshot eyes, as if we had hotboxed our little hatchback Vibe on our way to the store.
In an effort to keep her happy, I obliged, trying to ignore the fact that I was now walking around a superstore bent over a shopping cart. At first, she only wanted me to snuggle her and let her stick her fingers in my mouth, her universal "Hello" to all the people she is fond of. She orally probes her father, her sister and her babysitter as if our individual bicuspets identify us more thoroughly. When meeting new people, she will attempt to jam her pudgy little hands into their mouths, smiling when the bewildered person allows her curious fingers to explore molars uknown.
Quickly, her feverishly hot hands were tugging at my black nursing tanktop. She pulled the stretchy fabric towards her with one hand, using the other to fondly pat the tops of my breasts. I immediately put my hands over hers, hoping to distract her somehow while simultaneously averting publicly flashing my chest. She began more adrently slapping my skin, thumping my sternum and spitting the Soothie out of her mouth. She whined as I crouched to retrieve the blue pacifier from underneath a Ragu display.
Even though I couldn't Wumbo away her sickness, she could Wumbo her way into my arms.
I sighed resolutely, looking for a quiet place to nurse her. Having left my cover in the car and unwilling to part with my half-filled shopping cart, I dug through the diaper bag looking for something to cover us up. To me there is no shame in breastfeeding, but as a deeply modest woman, I just don't like showing strangers my areolas (even if they are aimed at a hungry baby's mouth). My search came up fruitless, but in a stoke of genius, I took off my cardigan and tied the sleeves together at the wrists. I pulled the bulk of the fabric over Ali and I, the knot pressing into my left shoulder blade as I positioned Ali on my right breast.
She smiled and babbled, greeting her favorite body part with joy as she latched on and immediately nursed herself to sleep. My toddler amused herself with a crackling bag of egg noodles, taking her shoes off and putting them on the wrong feet, and waving at every employee who came within 10 feet of us. Less than five minutes later, Ali sat up in my lap and began pulling the green makeshift cover off her head.
I quickly tucked myself back into my shirt, put my sweater back on. We skipped the usual chatter with our favorite checker and made it out of Wal Mart and pulled into the driveway of our home less than half an hour later.
As I lifted Ali from her carseat she smiled at me, the Wumbo shining in her eyes. She nuzzled my shoulder and fished a nursing pad out of my tanktop as I hauled the groceries into the house. She quietly but constantly toyed with the hem of my tanktop, busying herself while I made trip after trip to empty the hatch of the car two or three bags at a time. Her ploy had worked; she had Wumboed me too.
Amid a sea of shopping bags, in the middle of the afternoon, I propped my feet up on a bag of frozen chicken nuggets and closed my eyes as my persistent little nursling drifted off to sleep in my arms, milk dribbling from the corner of her mouth.
Try as I might, I can't Wumbo Alice's stubborn cold. There's no joy to be found in the dejected hang of her head, her nightly battle with the rattle in her chest or the alarming temperature that comes and goes. I can't find anything entertaining about her being sick.
My youngest daughter has been knocked out by an insidious flu bug, leaving her half-heartedly clinging to my hip and sticking her hands down my shirt with a constant desire to nurse. While I type one-handed, she fiddles with the snap on my nursing bra. As I balance her on my thigh and pee (sick baby can't be put down), she caresses my chest. As I sit on the floor to blow dry my hair, she tugs at the towel wrapped around my torso in hopes of having access to the baby feeders.
Although I love breastfeeding my baby, her near-constant demand for the comfort and security of nursing has become borderline ridiculous.
On a recent outing to Wal Mart---the fourth consecutive day we visited the retail giant due to my desperate need for some kind of social interaction---Ali was strapped into the blue and white shopping cart cover. I had deliberately breastfed her right before we left the house in hopes of an uneventful and quick trip to the store.
Ali had ideas of her own. Her baby brain was Wumboing itself into a frenzy. I could hear the cogs clicking in her head, each tick saying the same thing: "nurse, nurse, nurse".
Her pitiful blue eyes beseeched me to lean ever closer to her as I pushed the shopping cart past the lobster tanks. She wiped a hand across her snotty nose, stringing green goo from her nostrils to her hairline. Then she thrust her sticky hands towards me. Her perpetual desire to nurse only submits to her even more overwhelming need to sleep. She was becoming cranky as the shopping cart did not accomodate either of these compulsions. Her eyelids drooped over her bloodshot eyes, as if we had hotboxed our little hatchback Vibe on our way to the store.
In an effort to keep her happy, I obliged, trying to ignore the fact that I was now walking around a superstore bent over a shopping cart. At first, she only wanted me to snuggle her and let her stick her fingers in my mouth, her universal "Hello" to all the people she is fond of. She orally probes her father, her sister and her babysitter as if our individual bicuspets identify us more thoroughly. When meeting new people, she will attempt to jam her pudgy little hands into their mouths, smiling when the bewildered person allows her curious fingers to explore molars uknown.
Quickly, her feverishly hot hands were tugging at my black nursing tanktop. She pulled the stretchy fabric towards her with one hand, using the other to fondly pat the tops of my breasts. I immediately put my hands over hers, hoping to distract her somehow while simultaneously averting publicly flashing my chest. She began more adrently slapping my skin, thumping my sternum and spitting the Soothie out of her mouth. She whined as I crouched to retrieve the blue pacifier from underneath a Ragu display.
Even though I couldn't Wumbo away her sickness, she could Wumbo her way into my arms.
I sighed resolutely, looking for a quiet place to nurse her. Having left my cover in the car and unwilling to part with my half-filled shopping cart, I dug through the diaper bag looking for something to cover us up. To me there is no shame in breastfeeding, but as a deeply modest woman, I just don't like showing strangers my areolas (even if they are aimed at a hungry baby's mouth). My search came up fruitless, but in a stoke of genius, I took off my cardigan and tied the sleeves together at the wrists. I pulled the bulk of the fabric over Ali and I, the knot pressing into my left shoulder blade as I positioned Ali on my right breast.
She smiled and babbled, greeting her favorite body part with joy as she latched on and immediately nursed herself to sleep. My toddler amused herself with a crackling bag of egg noodles, taking her shoes off and putting them on the wrong feet, and waving at every employee who came within 10 feet of us. Less than five minutes later, Ali sat up in my lap and began pulling the green makeshift cover off her head.
I quickly tucked myself back into my shirt, put my sweater back on. We skipped the usual chatter with our favorite checker and made it out of Wal Mart and pulled into the driveway of our home less than half an hour later.
As I lifted Ali from her carseat she smiled at me, the Wumbo shining in her eyes. She nuzzled my shoulder and fished a nursing pad out of my tanktop as I hauled the groceries into the house. She quietly but constantly toyed with the hem of my tanktop, busying herself while I made trip after trip to empty the hatch of the car two or three bags at a time. Her ploy had worked; she had Wumboed me too.
Amid a sea of shopping bags, in the middle of the afternoon, I propped my feet up on a bag of frozen chicken nuggets and closed my eyes as my persistent little nursling drifted off to sleep in my arms, milk dribbling from the corner of her mouth.
09 February 2010
He-She-Me, Wumbo.
My toddler was laying on the couch, a fraying afghan pulled up to her shoulders. She banged her head as she sang her own version of the "SpongeBob Square Pants" theme song. She sounded more like a drunken sailor than a sweet, toe-headed little girl child, but she happily garbled the words around her soft pink thumb and smiled at me. "SpongeBob" keeps her busy for a half-hour at a time.
Although I felt a pang of guilt, the kind that chides me for babysitting my child with a television set, the overpowering need to get something productive done around the house overrides the nagging voice. I have made peace with sacrificing a handful of my child's synapses in return for a cabinet full of clean dishes or a pile of neatly folded laundry.
As long as she's not watching "Paranomal Activity" or "Girls Gone Wild", I figure she'll be okay. I'll balance out my woefully inept mothering later with some A-B-C flashcards.
The chorus of the opening sequence fades away as the title of the SpongeBob episode flashes on the TV screen. Even though I'm fairly certain she can't read yet, my daughter still kicks her feet in delighted excitement, burrowing deeper into the couch as she laughs manically with her hand over her mouth.
I tune out the cartoon easily enough, busying myself with hunting down and banishing every tiny choking hazard I can find on my hands and knees. There is no more effective way to find all the fascinating albeit inedible bits of junk on my floor than to do it from a crawler's point of view. I've been meaning to do it sooner, since in the last few days I have dug leaves, cat food, toilet paper (unused, thankfully), gift wrapping ribbon, corners of diaper wipes (also, thankfully, unused) and cardboard out of my youngest child's mouth.
As I scoot around on the floor, half-listening for the happy sounds my 10-month-old baby makes when waking up in her crib, the dialogue on the TV catches my attention.
Patrick (a starfish wearing hawaiian shorts) and SpongeBob (a sponge with a snappy collared shirt and necktie combo) are trying to figure out how to work a superhero belt. A closeup of the belt shows hundreds of tiny switches and knobs, and a large blue "M" that serves for a buckle. SpongeBob has been inadvertantly shrinking his friends with one of the buttons on the belt. He's trying to figure out how to un-shrink them.
Patrick: "You've got it set to 'M' for 'mini' when it should be set to 'W' for 'wumbo'". Patrick turns the 'M' upside down so that it looks like a 'W'.
SpongBob: "Patrick, I don't think 'wumbo' is a real word."
Patrick: "Come on, you know. I wumbo. You wumbo. He, she, me wumbo. Wumbo. Wumboing. Wumbology, the study of Wumbo! It's first grade, SpongeBob!"
SpongeBob: "Patrick, I'm sorry I doubted you."
Patrick: "Well, alright then. Let her rip!"
SpongeBob aims the belt, now upside down, at his friend. Green and yellow lights engulf Patrick, shrinking him to the size of a pickle. I guess Wumbo didn't work out for the now miniaturized starfish.
That doesn't mean it won't work for me.
The art of Wumbo is a simple one: when the answer is unclear, in the face of uncomfortable truth, at the mouth of the yawning chasm of the unknown---find a way to make it work for you. When it starts working, believe it with every fiber of your being. Even if your quest to find the silver lining means denying the fact that it's raining, Wumbology requires a Pollyanna outlook on life. The downpour may leave you cold and wet, but you just got your clothes washed without any effort and absolutely free of charge!
I find myself practicing Wumbology in my everyday existence. In fact, we all use some degree of Wumbo in order to survive. It's a skill that enables the user to tailor the facts of their life to fit into their expectations of it.
In the study of Wumbo, I have declared myself a doctor of Wumbology, a practitioner of Wumboing. I've developed a self-preservational denial of the things that I don't want to intrude into my own carefully crafted reality. It works so well that I can take the unexpected (sometimes unchosen) paths in my life with a smile on my face.
When life gives the Wumbologist lemons, we make orange juice.
When you Wumbo yourself into a corner, there's nothing left to do but wrap your feet with sticky-side-out packing tape, make like SpiderMan, and go but up.
Wumbo is wonderful.
Sometimes, however, things can't be Wumbo-ed. A carefully strung together web of Wumbo can tangle, the wisps of half-truths and out-right lies weaving themselves into knots that can't be undone no matter how nimble the fingers or how dedicated the effort. It is at this juncture that lemons become sour, a sudden rainstorm leaves you with pneumonia or your spouse gets orders to a new Navy Base less than two years after you arrived at the first.
It's the moment that the Wumbologist realizes that she really is the size of a pickle.
My attention drifts back to SpongeBob. He has realized the folly of Wumbo and panicked, shrinking every single inhabitant of his small town and putting them all into a pickle jar. The Non-Wumboers in the jar stage an uprising, literally exploding out of the jar to attack SpongeBob with tiny fists and feet.
A moment of clarity strikes, SpongeBob exclaims, "I've got it!" and holds the super hero belt out in front of him. With the "W" aimed at the town, he shrinks all of the buildings that make up Bikini Bottom. Then he turns the Wumbo towards his face and smiles, saying "Cheese!" and pressing the button to shrink the last "normal" sized inhabitant. He immediately drops to the ground, the same pickle-size as the rest of his friends.
"What's the difference, right?" one of the townspeople is overheard saying.
It was the truest moment of Wombo, the purest definition of Wumbology: even the physical intrusion of reality could not damper a sunny disposition. When the limitations of the situation no longer supported SpongeBob's reality, he simply altered the definition of normal until he could resume his happy, wholesome, undersea life.
Now, faced with all the possibilities of the unknown, I choose to make like a sponge and Wumbo. I will take the boundaries that define my life as a woman, wife, mother, Doula and writer and rearrange them as need be, until I can be satisfied with my work.
I will Wumbo 'til I thrive.
Although I felt a pang of guilt, the kind that chides me for babysitting my child with a television set, the overpowering need to get something productive done around the house overrides the nagging voice. I have made peace with sacrificing a handful of my child's synapses in return for a cabinet full of clean dishes or a pile of neatly folded laundry.
As long as she's not watching "Paranomal Activity" or "Girls Gone Wild", I figure she'll be okay. I'll balance out my woefully inept mothering later with some A-B-C flashcards.
The chorus of the opening sequence fades away as the title of the SpongeBob episode flashes on the TV screen. Even though I'm fairly certain she can't read yet, my daughter still kicks her feet in delighted excitement, burrowing deeper into the couch as she laughs manically with her hand over her mouth.
I tune out the cartoon easily enough, busying myself with hunting down and banishing every tiny choking hazard I can find on my hands and knees. There is no more effective way to find all the fascinating albeit inedible bits of junk on my floor than to do it from a crawler's point of view. I've been meaning to do it sooner, since in the last few days I have dug leaves, cat food, toilet paper (unused, thankfully), gift wrapping ribbon, corners of diaper wipes (also, thankfully, unused) and cardboard out of my youngest child's mouth.
As I scoot around on the floor, half-listening for the happy sounds my 10-month-old baby makes when waking up in her crib, the dialogue on the TV catches my attention.
Patrick (a starfish wearing hawaiian shorts) and SpongeBob (a sponge with a snappy collared shirt and necktie combo) are trying to figure out how to work a superhero belt. A closeup of the belt shows hundreds of tiny switches and knobs, and a large blue "M" that serves for a buckle. SpongeBob has been inadvertantly shrinking his friends with one of the buttons on the belt. He's trying to figure out how to un-shrink them.
Patrick: "You've got it set to 'M' for 'mini' when it should be set to 'W' for 'wumbo'". Patrick turns the 'M' upside down so that it looks like a 'W'.
SpongBob: "Patrick, I don't think 'wumbo' is a real word."
Patrick: "Come on, you know. I wumbo. You wumbo. He, she, me wumbo. Wumbo. Wumboing. Wumbology, the study of Wumbo! It's first grade, SpongeBob!"
SpongeBob: "Patrick, I'm sorry I doubted you."
Patrick: "Well, alright then. Let her rip!"
SpongeBob aims the belt, now upside down, at his friend. Green and yellow lights engulf Patrick, shrinking him to the size of a pickle. I guess Wumbo didn't work out for the now miniaturized starfish.
That doesn't mean it won't work for me.
The art of Wumbo is a simple one: when the answer is unclear, in the face of uncomfortable truth, at the mouth of the yawning chasm of the unknown---find a way to make it work for you. When it starts working, believe it with every fiber of your being. Even if your quest to find the silver lining means denying the fact that it's raining, Wumbology requires a Pollyanna outlook on life. The downpour may leave you cold and wet, but you just got your clothes washed without any effort and absolutely free of charge!
I find myself practicing Wumbology in my everyday existence. In fact, we all use some degree of Wumbo in order to survive. It's a skill that enables the user to tailor the facts of their life to fit into their expectations of it.
In the study of Wumbo, I have declared myself a doctor of Wumbology, a practitioner of Wumboing. I've developed a self-preservational denial of the things that I don't want to intrude into my own carefully crafted reality. It works so well that I can take the unexpected (sometimes unchosen) paths in my life with a smile on my face.
When life gives the Wumbologist lemons, we make orange juice.
When you Wumbo yourself into a corner, there's nothing left to do but wrap your feet with sticky-side-out packing tape, make like SpiderMan, and go but up.
Wumbo is wonderful.
Sometimes, however, things can't be Wumbo-ed. A carefully strung together web of Wumbo can tangle, the wisps of half-truths and out-right lies weaving themselves into knots that can't be undone no matter how nimble the fingers or how dedicated the effort. It is at this juncture that lemons become sour, a sudden rainstorm leaves you with pneumonia or your spouse gets orders to a new Navy Base less than two years after you arrived at the first.
It's the moment that the Wumbologist realizes that she really is the size of a pickle.
My attention drifts back to SpongeBob. He has realized the folly of Wumbo and panicked, shrinking every single inhabitant of his small town and putting them all into a pickle jar. The Non-Wumboers in the jar stage an uprising, literally exploding out of the jar to attack SpongeBob with tiny fists and feet.
A moment of clarity strikes, SpongeBob exclaims, "I've got it!" and holds the super hero belt out in front of him. With the "W" aimed at the town, he shrinks all of the buildings that make up Bikini Bottom. Then he turns the Wumbo towards his face and smiles, saying "Cheese!" and pressing the button to shrink the last "normal" sized inhabitant. He immediately drops to the ground, the same pickle-size as the rest of his friends.
"What's the difference, right?" one of the townspeople is overheard saying.
It was the truest moment of Wombo, the purest definition of Wumbology: even the physical intrusion of reality could not damper a sunny disposition. When the limitations of the situation no longer supported SpongeBob's reality, he simply altered the definition of normal until he could resume his happy, wholesome, undersea life.
Now, faced with all the possibilities of the unknown, I choose to make like a sponge and Wumbo. I will take the boundaries that define my life as a woman, wife, mother, Doula and writer and rearrange them as need be, until I can be satisfied with my work.
I will Wumbo 'til I thrive.
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