On Motherhood and Such

Sorry for not writing much. The main happening in my life is waiting anxiously for another loan to go through on another house. Until it happens, I'm awash in crippling anxiety manifesting in dizzy spells, ennui, and irritable bowel syndrome. In other words, I'm not much fun.

But for good news, my little nephew is pure sweetness. We were back in Houston to see him two weeks ago, and we got to my sister's apartment just as they were getting back from the hospital. Gwennie, Emma and I were pushing and shoving to be the first to hold him. I won. Finally. They're small, but scrappy.

We spent some time there and then left to go out for the evening with some friends. The next morning, I got a call from my sister who was crying very hard. My heart turned to burning ice and the adrenaline flushed out my hangover but swiftly.

"IS THE BABY OKAY???" I bellowed.

"Yeah, he's fine," sobbed my sister.

Turned out she was just overwhelmed with learning how to breastfeed him. The nurses at the hospital had been such psycho, Nazi bitches about it, telling her that if he didn't eat every three hours, they were going to keep testing his glucose (which involved pricking his heel), so she better cooperate and give him a bottle. I really thought those days were long gone, but apparently not. So my poor sister was terrified that he wasn't eating enough when all the poor little thing wanted to do was sleep.

Jethro and I still drove over as fast as we could and I spent the day just trying to be calm and assuring her that her dear little baby was just fine.

Now I'm not trying to brag here, and I'm not putting my sister down at all for her panic, because she really did have a bad experience with those nurses that I never had, but when I look back to how I did with Gwennie at 23 years old, I'm pretty proud. It never occurred to me that I had done a good job. I have always been sure that I had done a mediocre job. But I actually did well. I didn't enjoy breastfeeding, but I did it until I got pregnant with Emma which was a solid 9 months and I nursed Emma for a year. I have plenty of faults as a mom, to be sure, but I also have strengths. And the best thing I ever did was to ignore every piece of advice that came my way once the baby was born. It's probably the strangest notion, but my rationale was if crack addicts can raise their children past infancy, then I can. And it worked. The thought kept me confident.

Anyway, I'm done here, and must now feed my children as the law dictates.