Methodist Chili

The Methodists are trying to kill me.

It all started out well enough. The fair is in town, so we took out a second mortgage, loaded up the kids, and spent a good part of the day with 8 million of the great unwashed.

There is no venue in the world that holds a larger collection of mullets and moose knuckles, and as a special treat this year - an 80 year old woman in a cardigan. With no shirt underneath. And no bra.

The girls are content with just a few rides each, and then we were able to enjoy my favorite part of the fair - the exhibits. This years' theme was "Everyone's a Hero", and boy - do they mean everyone.

The animals are always a hit with the kids. There was a camel with the saddest humps you've ever seen and the Husband, Mr. Funny Guy, says "I see she's breastfed three kids, too."

Ha. Ha. Ha.

But. About the Methodists.

Fair food is delicious, but it's also a terrific rip-off. But there is an area where local churches, policemen, firefighters, and civic organizations sell basic food for a decent price. We got the kids their $100 corn dogs and then, in an effort to be frugal, I opted to hit the firefighter's booth. Plus, you know, cute firefighters.

I'm standing in line for the firefighter's hot dogs and they are taking for.freaking.ever. and I look over and notice the Methodist church booth. There is no one in line, their hot dog deal is a buck cheaper, and the old couple behind the counter appears to be looking at me and smiling.

Now, I like the Methodists. They are not pushy and aren't always walking around asking me if I'm saved, or giving me shit for being a cannibal because Catholics eat Jesus. Methodists are reasonable.

So I give up on the firefighters and walk over to the Methodists' booth (where they also offer a kids' meal! With PB&J! For like $4!) and place my order. They have it to me less than five minutes later - hot dogs loaded up with chili and onions and mustard and slaw, and a kids' meal, all for less than $10. At this point, I am considering converting. I am so pleased that I ignore the marginally suspect chili on the dogs and scarf them down.

The Methodist Chili. 

We finish the afternoon at the fair and go home, happy and full up on fair-ness. While I'm pretty tired, I decide to run out to the grocery store to do our shopping for the week. Alone, which is a treat.

I'm about halfway through the shopping, still high on the fair and even the Methodist Chili. So much so that I've put a pack of hot dogs in the cart to have later in the week. So much so that when the first rumblings begin, I'm not the least bit concerned.

Gas. It's to be expected. 

But somewhere around the bread aisle, the rumbling makes it clear that this is no ordinary gas, that this is not simply gas, that this is - indeed - a problem. Now, if you know me well enough to be familiar with my bowel habits, you know that I am not a public pooper. My system completely shuts down when I am away from home, to the extent that it often takes up to five days on vacation for my sphincter to loosen up enough to let anything happen.


If you consider the last paragraph to be too much information, you may want to stop reading right here.

I am not jazzed at the prospect of using the toilet at the grocery store, but my gut has made it clear that I have two options - run like hell out of the store and maybe, maybe, make it home; or go to the back of the store and use their restroom and pray that no one comes in. I choose the latter.

I text the Husband from the bathroom.
OMG so sick grocery store METHODIST CHILI

He doesn't text back.

I manage to pull myself together enough to feel like I can finish my shopping. For about ten minutes, and then I'm right back in the bathroom. This time, I don't even bother to text him, but I do have the phone ready - just in case. I am feeling hot and flushed and a little light headed and I am absolutely terrified I am going to pass out. So I type the text, but don't hit send.

COME GET ME IN BATHROOM PASSED OUT DON'T LET ANYONE IN, ESPECIALLY METHODISTS.

I figure I can hit the send button as I fall to the floor.

But I don't pass out, and I am able once again, through sheer will and strength of character, to regain my composure and finish the shopping. I can hear my voice quivering as I answer "Paper or plastic?", and my hands shake when I hand over my coupons. I load the car and get in, and I am little concerned that something will happen on the quarter mile drive home. To be on the safe side, I scribble a note ("Look at the Methodists!") and put it in my pocket. That way, when they find me dead, they will know where to start the investigation.

By some miracle (perpetrated by a Catholic God, no doubt) I make it home. I walk in the back door, my eyes filled with tears, my heart beating fast, and look at the Husband sitting blithely on the couch.

"Didn't you get my text?"

He looked at me dumbly, then picked up his phone and read the text. Surely he would jump up and run to me, maybe even pick me up and lay me on the bed, where he would administer immodium and cool cloths. But no. Instead, he turns to me and says -

"What do you have against Methodists?"

Mommy Wars - Baby Edition

Moms are a curious breed. While our male counterparts are out competing with each other via the size of their TVs and trajectory of their golf swing, our greatest weapons are our children.

It starts during pregnancy. There's nothing a group of women love more than surrounding a pregnant first time mom-to-be and bitching and moaning about how awful their pregnancies were, how long their labors, how the doctor noted that it was the biggest/longest/most dangerous whatever he had ever seen. If you've wondered if there's a secret scorecard system, there is. It goes something like this:

Straightforward, vaginal delivery - 1 point
Unplanned c-section - 1.5 points
Planned c-section - .5 points
Emergency c-section - 2 points
Drug free - 3 points
Labor Under 12 hours - 1 point
Over 12 - 2 points
Over 24 - 4 points

etc. Bonus points awarded for things like pooping on the floor, yelling FUCK YOU! to anyone in the room, and having the presence of mind to tell off one or more of the medical staff because they are not following your birth plan. I SAID NO HIP HOP! YOU ARE RUINING MY CHI!

After delivery and recovery, we can move on to the really cutthroat part of the competition. Bottle or breast? If you nursed, for how long (bonus if your child refused to ever take a bottle!)? When was he holding his head up? Sitting? Crawling? Do you make your own baby food? Is it organic? How much does he weigh? He seems awfully tall. Is he tall? Look at all that hair (I always win this one)! Then, the penultimate goal for the first year - when did he start walking?

There's always some nutjob in your circle who insists that their infant is either potty training or reading. There is actually a process called "elimination communication" in which you run to the toilet every few minutes with your wee babe and hold them over it. When they invariably produce something, you can announce to your friends and family that your child is potty trained at 8 months.

The commercials for the your-baby-can-read programs are equally ridiculous. I do not believe that an 18 month old can sit down and read. I call bullshittery. If they can, I've said it before -big deal. Your baby is reading, but he's also still shitting his pants. I'd rather have a kid who can use a toilet than one who can read Green Eggs & Ham.

If you have a kid who can read and does elimination communication - you win. I can't compete with that.

Mother Knows Breast

I'm an unlikely lactivist. No one in my family breastfed. At the time Katie was born, I had no close friends, or even acquaintances, that had breastfed. I don't even own a pair of Birkenstocks. And yet, when I finally got the hang of it with Katie, something really kind of amazing happened. In the midst of all the hormones and emotions and doubts and concerns and obsessive worry about what kind of mother I might turn out to be - I found a quiet moment where nothing existed but me and my baby.

Nursing Katie was rough in the beginning. I thought we were doing okay in the hospital, under the guidance of the Tit Nazi (the one who grabbed my boob and shoved it in that tiny mouth). But when we got home, I freaked. Katie cried and cried and my milk didn't come in. My support system, trying to be supportive, suggested I give her a bottle. I didn't want to, and I don't even know why. I don't know why, suddenly, it was so important to me to breastfeed. Before having her, I'd had a pretty take it or leave it attitude, but now it was a matter of pride. Of failing, without feeling like I'd even really tried.

I will always be grateful to a stranger at La Leche League, who talked me through those first five days until my milk came in. For my husband and mother, who indulged me and helped my syringe feed Katie. Who kept encouraging me through those first weeks of sore nipples and toe-curling latch. Within a month I had forgotten how awful those first few days were.

I fell in love with my daughter in those still moments of middle of the night feedings. I felt all the stress and anxiety leave my body as my milk let down. I watched as she grew and got fat on nothing more than what I provided her, and that is something that still amazes me.

When I went back to work, I continued to nurse. I pumped while at work (which takes every bit of sweetness out of breastfeeding. There is nothing relaxing about being hooked up to a milking machine. Moo!) and she got bottles at daycare. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't horrible. She weaned at a year, my milk supply and her interest both dwindling.

And then came Julia. The Barracuda. Who sprang forth from the womb with her mouth wide open, a natural nurser. I remember her at 1, a mouth full of teeth. Friends would watch her cuddle up to nurse and gasp "You're still breastfeeding?" I never considered myself an 'extended nurser', but I happily nursed her until she was 2 1/2.

As Henry approaches his first birthday, he still nurses frequently. His daytime feedings are efficient and all business, because he has better things to do. But when he's ready for sleep, or just waking up, he'll cuddle contentedly for the longest time. Sometimes, he'll pop off and give me a milk drunk smile. It's those moments that take my breath.

I know that breastfeeding doesn't work for everyone, for many reasons. I've had friends who have had issues and gotten frustrated and stopped, and I don't blame them. I've had friends who've had a horribly tough time and kept at it, when I am sure I would have given up. Every mom has to make the choice that is right for her and her baby. I'm lazy and cheap, so breastfeeding was the obvious way to go.

I read stories and hear from friends who've had a bad experience nursing in public. I've nursed babies in restaurants and stores, in the elementary school and during church, in the middle of meetings and movies. I have left a place to nurse in the car, but only when it would be more comfortable and less distracting for my baby. I have never been asked to stop nursing, or leave an establishment. In fact, with the exception of one elderly woman (who said "It is so nice to see a young mother nursing.") I have never had a stranger comment on me breastfeeding.

It has been so deeply satisfying and rewarding to me, in a way I never could have imagined in those first, stressful days. Henry is almost certainly my last baby. I am storing up the memories of him nursing - the funny half laugh, half cry before he latches on, his warm smallness curled up against me, a little hand rubbing my chest, dark eyelashes on a fat cheek as he drifts off to sleep. He is beautiful, and right then, it is only us.

Me and my baby.