My last week. Last night I felt the heavy hand of dread on my heart, urging me to pack up in the dark and find a place where I can't be followed. Tomorrow I go to visit my portable (ugh) and assess its decorating potential. Thursday I go in to set up & photocopy for the first day. Friday I put on my slightly uncomfortable work skirt and stare down my surly of teens. Yee haw, motherfuckers.

In case I haven't mentioned this before, I don't plan to pump at work. Rest assured, I have read all the appropriate literature before coming to an informed decision. Blake will not be entirely weaned from "mother's best," but continue to partake mornings, evenings and night-times. During the day he will drink homogenized cow's milk. Why?

1. It is wicked hard to teach highschool. Even one day drains me like forgotten headlights drain a car battery. Do I have the energy to find a quiet space? Do I have the energy to pump as frequently as Blake demands to "nurse!"? Do I have the energy to refrigerate little bottles, not to mention sterilizing them each day? Hell. No.
2. Even during my moo-iest days, I couldn't pump enough to make a decent white sauce. Now that we're well into the second year, my typical output can be compared to a springed-up maple: thin, steady, and agonizingly slow to accumulate.
3. Highschool kids are all about the love. If they could spend an entire class giggling about an open fly, how do you think a milk-soaked blouse would go over? Hee hee hee! Remember when Miss Rocketbride had to change her shirt? That was awesome.
4. Speaking of milk-soaked blouses, my professional wardrobe has been stretched to the limit by my body expansion (no pun intended). I don't see myself having enough clothes to bring a spare shirt.
5. Blake is nearly 14 months old. Even Dr. Sears says that it's okay to give him cow's milk.

   And the best reason to avoid pumping:

6. As a working mother, I just don't have enough to make me guilty. This should fill the bill nicely.

Some great news: Preacher phoned a few nights ago to say that he got a parish in Staten Island. Martha was accepted to a prestigious theological institute this year, and he was trying to find a place to work close by. And what a place! It's gaw-geous: huge stone walls, arching interiors, & a Tiffany window over the altar. The rectory has nine bedrooms, stained glass and multiple fireplaces. It's like a fairy tale come true.

But the best part is that we get to visit them in NYC this summer! I've never been and I'm vibrating with glee. Bethany, here we come! Other NY'ers, book me now!

It occurs to me that I never finished my story about purchasing a new car-seat, rather I left y'all hanging with an utterly boring description of my thought-process. We did end up buying a seat last week. It, like Preacher's new rectory, is beautiful (although it has fewer places to set on fire, one assumes). We ended up going for the "more expensive with cooler features" model; since it was on sale, we felt like we were getting a deal.

The really odd thing was that because of the sale, the place was swarming with parents, so much so that we couldn't get near the seat at first. The one we wanted was surrounded by a confused black family and a silent white salesgirl; as we fretted & waited for our turn, the family tried to work the seat with little success while the salesgirl stood like a fashionably-dressed statue. Eventually I jumped in and showed them how to work the belts, the buckles, the recline, the anchors and the shoulder-adjustment thingee. While I was being helpful, the salesgirl silently slipped away. My mom took the opportunity to track her down and ask after the seat; we were assured that there were still seats available. Good thing too, because I made a sale. If that other family had grabbed the last seat because I was doing someone else's job, my neck would've exploded in a pillar of righteous anger.

Still, it was pretty funny at the time. I don't know why I feel compelled to teach, help & straighten out the world. It's like my professional description soaked into me on a cellular level and I'm helpless to watch helplessness. Obviously, I need help.

Blake's language development continues to expand. Now that he's caught on to "mama," he's using it as his placeholder phoneme. It's not uncommon for him to move through his environment chanting, "mama! mama! mama! mama!" I like to respond to him, but this is wearing me out effectively.

Now that he can ask to nurse, he's kicked up the frequency of day nursing, just because he can. Of course, now that he's asking verbally, I've started to refuse him verbally. He just takes that in stride too, changing "nurse! nurse!" to "nurse no. nurse! no. no." He's not quite sure how those two concepts are related yet. It's fascinating to watch the connections forge.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 1/31/2005 08:10:00 p.m.