Eleanorism.

(Scene:  Eleanor has vehemently refused a nap, instead playing for two hours in her bed.  At that point, CAGB enters the room to organize the closet.  Eleanor, exhausted, is tantruming viciously.)

Eleanor:  I WANT TO GET OOOOOUT!  Get me oooout!

CAGB: No, Eleanor, I need you to stay in your bed while I finish this.  I think you would have felt better and I would have gotten some things done if you had napped during nap time.

Eleanor:  NOOOO!  GET!  ME!  OUT!

CAGB:  Eleanor, you are driving me crazy.  You are driving the train to crazy town.

(Eleanor looks at CAGB, with a horrified expression, bursts into tears.)

Eleanor:  I am TOO LITTLE TO DRIVE A TRAIN!

Eleanorism.

(Scene: Me wearing a daring, vaguely sexy outfit, very un-typical of my style, looking in the bathroom mirror. 

Enter Eleanor.)

Me: Eleanor, do I look silly?

Eleanor:  Yes, you look silly.

Me: You really think so?  You don't like this?

Eleanor:  Mommy, that shirt is too small on your breasts.

If someone would be please tell me...

...where Eleanor learned the phrase "Girl Power!" or how to identify a "quarter moon," that would be really helpful.

You know how some people jam the handle when you are trying to unlock the car doors?

And their impatience causes the door unlock mechanism to malfunction?

Well, it's that same sense of impatience and urgency that has made me jam my bags of breast milk around when reorganizing the freezer.  They're frozen, right?  So, who cares if they bang clamorously together while I shove them about?  Not me.  Until I put one in a mug, turn the tap to warm, walk away, return, and find the bag empty.  Upwards of 10 ounces, gone, straight down the drain. Turns out, rock hard bags of milk, when jostled and slammed often tear and shred in small places.  Be warned.

Speaking of rock hard bags of milk, I wish I could tear my boobs right off.  Just saying.  Another warning, it takes quite a freaking while to stop Medeling it.

Oh, and one more thing.  I am fully on mission sippy cup with Josephine.  She is not extremely into bottles anymore--she likes to chug on one while playing and put it down to get back to later.  And, as much as I love liquid gold drizzled all over my house, I think it would be far more sanitary to get her onto a cup sometime before she starts high school.  And, if she's not taking much b-milk from a bottle and isn't digging the cup, what is she drinking?  Not much, that's for sure.  So, I am looking to find a cup that she likes.  I've tried: Nuby (classic and hard top), Gerber, Avent, Playtex, a bunch of take and toss cups, and the next I plan on trying is a First Years cup recommended by my friend, Melissa.  And, I remember Eleanor liked the Nuby sport sipper.  I should buy stock in sippy cups.  Because, you know, they have that--a stock called "sippy cups."  I am a stock broker on the side.

Oh, and one more thing.  Napstrike 2K9 is back on.

Any given moment...

Eleanorism.

(Scene, Josephine napping, Eleanor laying on the couch with "Cars" playing and a mechanical dinosaur chomping on her arm*, CAGB sitting on the couch editing a dissertation on the laptop.)

EAB: Mommy, you happy?

CAGB: Yes, I'm very happy -- I just have all this work to do.

EAB:  You got work to do?  Me too.  Me got work to do.

CAGB:  Oh yeah?  What kind of work?

EAB: Lotsa hard work watchin' Cars.

*Not my finest parenting moment.  Or editing moment for that matter.

Just stopping by...

...to tell you that: 

Eleanor has a long, blonde french braid that stretches down her back.  I can just see her in a riding helmet, ratcatcher, and breeches now.

Josephine has five perfect, identical ringlets on the back of her head.  It's a little Jerry Seinfeld, but it has the potential to be extraordinarily cute as it grows in!

My Umes.

I was just witness to the grossest scene of my life.  Grosser than two days ago when Josephine grabbed Eleanor's diaper, and before I could get to her, literally ate sh*t.  Grosser than this morning when I had to use nail polish remover (against my better judgment) to unpaint Eleanor's "lady parts."  Those are instances of kids being fast - they get into trouble lickety split.  But, this was just nasty.

Eleanor and Bill are outside raking leaves.  Well, Eleanor actually isn't raking at this moment.  She lost interest in that and retired to her playhouse, where I found her in her little rocking chair.  I opened the house's windows and found a knotted bundle of umes*. 

Me: "Oh, ew Eleanor look!"

Eleanor:  "I know.  Those are my friends, the umes*."

Me:  "You knew those umes* were there?"

Eleanor:  "I put those umes* there.  They are my friends."

(Eleanor then proceeds to pick up the piles of umes* and cuddle them to her bosom, petting them and rocking.  She sings "Rockababy in a tree top" softly to the umes*, and kisses them gently.  I vomit.)

*worms.

You wanna kiss me through my bars?

Eleanor is still in a crib.  Partly because I never want to stop smooching her through the bars.

Josephine...

...is like a jar of peanut butter that has just been opened.  She is perfectly silky and light brown and pleasant to look at.  She is wholesome and a wonderful balance of sweet and salty.  Looking at her is like the moment when you peel off the aluminum lid - the smell of comfort overwhelms you.  And, you look at the peanut butter's untouched smoothness and know that pretty soon it will never look that way again.  Stay small, Baby Jogi.

"I hate you."

Today, I took the girls to the post office and then to Big Lots.  It was four pm, and as usual Eleanor was in full tantrum mode.  Walking through Big Lots, she had a serious case of "The Gimmes" a la Berenstein Bears.  "Eleanor wants candles."  "Eleanor wants towels so bad."  "It's snack time.  Eleanor wants a snack."  So, I said to her, "Well, Eleanor we are not having a snack now - you'll have to wait until we get home."  She looked down at the ground and muttered, "I hate you."  I was agape. 

"You hate me?" 

"I HATE YOU!" 

"Did you say, 'I hate you.'?"

"Yes.  I hate you."

Needless to say, I scooped her right up and we left the store.  We had a long talk about how she hurt my feelings.  That saying "I hate you" is not ever a nice thing to say, etc.  She apologized profusely, and by the time we got home, I'd cooled down enough to put her in bed with a kiss.  She slept for three hours.

Later on, at dinner time, for seemingly no reason, she looked at me then looked down at the table and muttered, "I hate you..."  Huh?  I nearly flew off the handle then and there.

So, Bill said to her, "Eleanor, did you say, I hate you?"

"Hate you."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Nemo.  Nemo says it.  He says, 'I hate you' to his own daddy."

Wow.  Relief.  So, she might have been mad at me, but she doesn't legitmately hate me of her own accord.  Yet.  Give her a few years.

And, as a sidenote, she may have a career in theatre, because go watch Nemo (which we did later to confirm the scene where the offending words are shown).  The downward glance and muttered words are absolutely exactly what she did.  Crazy.

Pumping for Comfort.

So, I've pretty much decided to stop pumping.  When I started, I never set an end date, but I definitely had a goal in mind: Store as much milk as possible.  And, store I did - 1,100 ounces of milk.  That means baby Jo will have my milk until she's one.  If I quit, cold turkey, today.  Which I do not plan on doing, for two reasons. 

1) That would hurt.  Until starting to cut back a few days ago, I was making 30 ounces a day.  I do not want 30 + ounces building up anywhere in my body.  Ever.  That would just be excruciating.  So, as of now, I am pumping for comfort about two times a day.

2) I feel horribly guilty.  I know that Josephine has been exclusively breastfed.  And I am really proud of that.  And, I know she will be good to go until she's one.  But, my reasons for stopping are selfish, however legit.  I need that time for schoolwork and the girls.  I am just so busy, and it puts a real kink in my stride when I have to sit down for 40 minutes at a time.  (Yes, at this point it takes that long.)  Pumping still hurts, and at its best is super-uncomfortable - nothing natural about it.  I am emotionally and physically ready to be unstrapped.  But, I do know that the frozen milk is just not quite as good.  And I feel terrible about that - that is the definite downside.  But, she's eating way more table food than she is drinking now anyway, and most importantly, I do want to use it.  Why did I spend all that time squirreling away like a Depression survivor, if not to make use of my liquid gold? 

But, do you know what I feel like, if I'm being honest?  Like it will seem like I don't love my baby Josephine with my whole heart if I stop.  Like I won't deserve to be her mom.  There it is.  Also, I worry that I will go into a deep sadness because I will feel like a bad mom, but my milk will be irrevocably gone.  There.  My neurosis laid out on the table.  Anyway, so, emotionally as well, I am pumping for comfort.

Ugh, as you can see, I am mixed at best.  This is one of my least elegant bits of nonsense.  But, for my family, and my sanity, this may be the best thing.

Please, any comments or feedback would be appreciated, if you're someone who's interested in this topic...

Two side notes:  1) I ALWAYS have to look up the word "turkey."  I always second guess whether it's actually spelled "turky." 2) Where on Earth is the spell check feature on the new blogger layout?