Second, and I'm sure you've noticed by now, I've dropped from being www.redcanuck.com to my old blog address at blogger, redheadbananabread. Personal blog domains just don't fit into the budget of a single income family these days. Especially when the non-income earning spouse is sporatic at best about using the domain name! Hopefully the name will still be available if I ever have the disposible money, and time, to once again utilize it. until then, i hope to continue on amusing (or not) my readers (or reader) here.
Last night, for example, a group of girlfriends and I were planning on hitting the movies...Twilight: New Moon (yes, I'm that kind of loser and you still love me).
My first thought wasn't on food, or transportation or timing; no...'cause that would be *normal*. My first thought was on what kind of chair the movie theater has.
No really, I'm serious.
The kind of chairs a movie theater has is a vitally important bit of information!!! This essential, critical, vital, indispensable, crucial, and for lack of a better word, all consuming bit of information is needed to determine...
which pair of underwear to wear.
Think about it for a second. Women have such a vast plethora of underwear styles to choose from, and to be frank not all of them are suitable for every activity.
Thongs? Not for marathons.
Granny panties? Not for anniversary dinners.
Boy shorts? Not for movie theaters!
Most older movie theaters have chairs without the additional head support, causing most normal people to alternate between a slouched, head-resting-on-the-back position, and sitting upright to relieve back crampage.
Am I right or am I right?
This constant sliding up and down friction (while enjoyable, but that's for another blog entry!) on the buttocks area really affects the undies abilities to stay OUT of the butt crack! Boy shorts, not having that bottom elastic, just really cannot cling for life, like a good granny panty can.
And have you ever tried to pick a wedgie in a movie theater? Not comfortable!!
Really, it's all very logical, if yes, weird. Older theater = granny panties. No and's if's or but(t)'s about it!
First, i tried the cradle hold. The hold that is immortalized in paintings such as "The virgin with the green pillow" by 16th century painter Solario. One has got to reason that if the hold's been around for at least 500 years, it has to work, right? Well. Not so much for us endowed breastfeeders. Unknowingly I had entered the boobmuda triangle. The desire and commitment to breastfeed, but the lack of knowledge on how to do so.
To my rescue came not a shiny knight in armour (and let's be frank, who wants knights in armour when you're just pushed out a bouncing watermelon size child through your lady bits, after sweating and swearing for 26 hours? Not me!) but rather a Lactation Consultant who took one look at me, one look at my husband and introduced us to each other all over again. "Wife, meet husband. Husband, meet wife. Together you are now going to feed your child!"
"You, you and you, cutie pattotie (not the husband, thankfully), are now a feeding Triad. Congratulations!"
The Lactation Consultant Goddess handed our son to my husband, handed a stack of pillows to me and got us set up in what we both soon learned were our "positions". Me, pillows built up to support the baby and my generous mammary glands, and my husband, in charge of positioning and holding our son where he had to be until we got the act on the road.
I know, isn't simplicity awe-inspiring?!
My husband, the maker of half this child, had a role in feeding our son! A vital role, one in which you could just see him puff up in pride! And me, his loved wife, had a partner to help figure out how object A inserts into slot B while supporting objects C, D, and E.
That first time was magic. Once I was positioned, my husband brought over our son and held him in the football hold which I got lined up and latched on and then he made sure he was fully supported while I learned how to tuck his bum into my side with my elbow and cradle his head in one hand. I could not have done it solo, there were just too many things to hold onto in those early days, and worrying about dropping my brand spanking new child was not something my hormone flooded brain needed to be worried about!
We soon settled into a routine, and we all thrived by working together. My husband wasn't left to sulk in the corner while I "bonded" solo with our son. His role left him feeling involved, and needed and all the other good stuff that new Dads sometimes are missing. I loved the fact that at our son's first hint of hunger, my husband was eager to get us set up in our triade and feed his son. My Husband wasn't just any old guy - to his son he was the bringer of the food!
Those first few days flew by, as all moms know, and I soon found myself more adept at baby wrangling and tucking in arms and legs and lining up nose to nipple. Slowly my husband was able to take a step back and watch us soar high, just my son and I.
The thing was...even once I could do it all solo, my husband was so integral to our nursing relationship that he picked up other jobs. Finding my nursing pillow. Changing mid-feed diapers to help keep sleepy babies awake. Writing down feeding times and lengths to show the midwife. Tickling toes, massaging shoulders and finally just being in awe that his help had made it possible for his son to get the best start in life with a minimal stress on his wife.
I know, isn't simplicity awe-inspiring?!
Almost 4 years later, my husband still speaks proudly of our Feeding Triade. And I get to share with new dads that breastfeeding doesn't have to be all about mom and baby. They still need, and want, you.
Want to know more about Natural parenting, breastfeeding and cloth diapering? Check out one of my favourite sites, www.parentingbynature.com
I don't like to toot my own horn...much...but in this case, I feel obliged. I deserve it 'yo. Cause I am THAT good, I tell you.
This, here, is the product of hours and hours of sweat. tears. blood and yes, swearing. I earned a new brownie badge... Hand to hand combat with a temperamental (my guess is hormonal) hot glue gun. My nemesis. Arch nemesis if you will. We danced the funky chicken and I emerged victorious!!
Here that glue gun?! I WON!! wipe that smirk off your little glue gun face, I won baby, i won. But yeah, I do have my war wounds. 8 war wounds, nice shiny burn marks.
The things I do for my loved ones, i swear.
Today, my son was bitten while at Preschool.
Today, we both learned some things about people.
I learned that no matter how protective I am of my son, and no matter how much I love him, he will still get hurt.
My son learned that playing with others can sometimes bite you in the ass...err...arm. While I do wish neither of us had ever had to learn these lessons, after some angry words and even angrier thoughts, I realized I have to keep in mind that I am thankful my son was able to live for 3 1/2 years without that lesson. And I had 3 1/2 blissful years where I was blissfully naive enough to think that I could ALWAYS protect my son.
But I can't.
He's growing up
And you know what? That sucks.
So. Today. Shit happened.
What matters now is what we do with the things that today offered us, good AND bad.
This...this is a praying mantis.
In my backyard.
In October. Mid October.
(that's in the northern hemisphere, just so's we're clear)
Never, EVA in my many years walking these streets, have I ever seen a praying mantis. Until this little guy started insisting that my kids outdoor playhouse was *his* house, thankyouverymuch, goodbye.
yeah, dude was all macho trying to get us to leave his little green butt alone. I tried to point out to him that he would fit comfortably under my big, descending foot, but he dissented.
So the big softie that I am, I used the fly swatter to....move him. yes, move him, I promise! He now resides under my sage plant.
He's a weird dude.
Do yourself a favour, and do not wiki praying mantis. The words "sexual cannibalism" should never ever be linked. Ever. like...ever. Save yourself, and you sex life. No wiki-ing, please. You're welcome.