Nourishment

The thing about having a kid is you have to give up. You give up your freedom,
you give up your sleep, you give up your arms. You give up your income, you
give up your time, you give up your relationships. You give up your nights, you
give up your nice clothes, you give up coming first. You give up.

Sir Dick isn’t talking to me. He isn’t sending his usual blasting emails, he isn’t
calling. Silence. I am starting to worry. I am back in my Toronto apartment (for
a few days, ’til the subletters arrive), he is in our Granny House in Smalltown
surrounded by a mess of boxes and hopelessness.

I hadn’t tried living with anyone for twelve years. Within a week: explosive temper
tantrums from him, hysterical crying from me. Sir Dick gave up his independence.
I am giving up my fantasies. Not sure where to go from here. What I am sure of:
this explosiveness isn’t good for the Guppins.

I have been comforted by emails from the group: Sleepwalking mama’s report of
unwrapping the iPad she bought her husband for Christmas and whipping it at
his head, for example.

But through all this, this mad journey, including a rather good visit (shockingly!)
with my mother on her Frozen Lake, I made a discovery.

The Guppins has been a little bit sick, restless, all over my boobs.

I long ago gave up trying to give the Guppins a bottle. She would give me a look
when I tried, as if to say, “What kind of head fuck are you trying to pull on me
anyway? That’s not your nipple! It’s you, but it’s not your nipple!”

We tried and tried, I pumped and pumped, but to no avail. I would go out, Sir
Dick would try (of course, not knowing he had to remove that stupid cap thing
that stops the milk), nothing worked. Once she was on solids I tried giving
her milk in a cup. No interest. I have been concerned for her weight, and she
pounces on my boobs whenever possible, still, at 20 months. Not much of a
sleeper, not much of an eater.

Yesterday I visited Tightrope mama. Her son loves milk. She warmed some on
the stove, put it in a bottle, popped the soother out of his mouth, and he took it.
Guppins pointed, looked at me, and said,

“Uh?”

I asked if she had an extra. I thought, maybe…maybe… it sure looked good the
way she so effortlessly did it, I sort of wanted some too. I heated the milk, put it in
a five-ounce bottle, and wouldn’t you know, my daughter drank an ounce and a
half!

Cheered, I took her home and pursued the business.

She fell asleep, heavily, unprecedentedly, during our nighttime book routine, after
downing a total of twenty ounces, and almost no breast milk. She only awoke
once during the night, then back to sleep ’til morning.

Like a miracle. I texted Tightrope. “You are a friend Like A Miracle.” Because it’s
not what we necessarily do for each other. It is just that we are there. You learn
by imitating. We all see it, even in our children as they play computer, play wash
the stove (well, maybe not wash the stove), as they do as we try courageously to
do.

My friend doesn’t want to take credit; of course it’s no big deal. But it is to me.
Having her for an hour, having someone who is giving up just as much as I am,
made me give it a try, give it one more try.

Nourishment.

We all need it. Sometimes we just don’t know where to get it. But without it we’re
just hollering at a tired old boob.

-Drama Mama

[image: milk bottles via Pinterest]