Sunday, May 18, 2008

The Coffeeshop Entry

My husband is in a samba school that meets on Sundays, and he dropped me off at a coffeeshop avec le bebe. Dude, I am such an ecrivant, peppering my sentences with french words. Meanwhile, I've hurled Tallu over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes- I'm sorry, sac du pommes de terre- trying to get a belch, and typing with my left hand between back pats. Tell me this is how JK Rowling began on the road to becoming richer than Her Majesty!

Yeah, so...we're at week seven, and Tallu is still here. We had a harness check at CHOP this past Tuesday, and the doctors were visibly pleased with her progress. June 3 she goes for an ultrasound of the hip and a stress test out of the harness. Let's all pray that she does well, and that when they take the harness off she will never have to put it on again, and no one mentions surgery (an unfortunate, but real possibility if the harness therapy isn't enough).

The breastfeeding is going well. She's definitely rounding out, and as I was feeding her in the coffeeshop I noticed how much heavier she's feeling. It's hard to tell how big she really is, what with the harness and all. Yes, I was feeding her in the coffeeshop. I whip out the guns whereever man: the train, a street fair, anywhere but a public bathroom, cuz who wants to eat in a public bathroom? (that's the pro-breastfeeding mantra)

I bought this cover-up called a Peanut Shell, which shields her from public view. It's an apron with a wire in the neck so you can see what's going on down there. It is very conspicuous; I'm not trying to pretend like I'm not breastfeeding, mind you. I just don't want people watching me fumble with my teets jutting out. Plus, I'd like to keep our private time as private as possible while I'm out and about.

Diaper changing is a different story. I just changed her on the chair next to me. I can't pack up everything and walk downstairs to the bathroom that may or may not have a changing station. We have a diaper bag with a travelling changing pad, so I slapped that on the chair and changed her quickly. No crying, and at least I didn't change her on the table where people eat (you're welcome).

The moral of the story: mothers have no shame. We do what we have to do, where we have to. I learned this from my mom, who would make bologna and cheese sandwiches for herself, my dad, my sister, and me on NYC trains. At least we weren't hungry, and my baby won't have diaper rash.

No one's called scheduling appointments for my husband. He's a little disappointed. But that's my fault, since I didn't publish my cell :-)

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