My Life in a Suburb

I wrote the following piece almost two years ago exactly as a guest blogger for my friend Josh. I came across it again and thought I would post it. I haven't updated it (save a few grammatical changes), deciding that I liked it as is. It gives a small glimpse into my life in the suburbs. Maybe I'll change the theme of this blog...

Ah, suburbia. Growing up, I never quite understood what all the fuss was about. Actually, I don’t even think I paid much attention to the term suburbia. I grew up in a town of roughly 24,000 in southern Illinois just outside of St. Louis. That there was a difference between the city and the suburbs never occurred to me. The city was 20 miles away; I could see the Arch from a couple streets over from my house.

Afterwards graduating from a small college town even further south in Illinois, I moved to Chicago. Now that is a city. I lived for six months, at one point, without a car. It was surprisingly easy. I took public transportation to work and everywhere else. As a temp I even worked on the 28th floor in one of those huge skyrises downtown on Michigan Avenue. I volunteered with inner city kids. I saw just as many white people as Asian or African American or Indian. I worked in two restaurants across from the Art Institute (and volunteered in the Art Institute) and saw every kind of tourist there could be.

Two years later, I moved back to the where town I grew up, and another two years later I’m still here. Now there is a difference. And not only is there a difference, but I damn well know it and can see it. It even bothers me a little bit.

I’m not quite sure if it’s because I am back to where I started, an observation I noted as I walked through the Wal-Mart (yes, Wal-Mart) where I bought my first training bra and my friend shoplifted and my mom bought the material for my First Communion dress. Or maybe it’s because everyone here is fat and white. The “city” of St. Louis is so quiet downtown that, after living and working in bustling downtown Chicago, I can barely bring myself to call it a city. Either way, it’s unsettling. Am I glad I live in suburbia?

In suburbia’s defense, I hated Chicago. Well, I was unhappy at least. I missed my family and I missed having grass around me. I felt trapped, knowing that if I wanted to drive out of the city I had about a five hour window where I could leave and not get caught in amazing traffic. If I wanted to go somewhere, I had to wait 20 minutes for a bus. The city was different, and I guess I didn’t totally like it.

But I do miss having different people around me. I remember once, at an outdoor festival here, I saw an Asian couple. I couldn’t stop looking at them and wondered at my fascination with them for a good 30 minutes before I realized, “Oh! They’re not white!” I miss having restaurants around me that aren’t chains. I miss being able to walk outside and be by myself but still be surrounded by people. The only time I get to listen to my iPod is when I run.

There are no sidewalks here, and small towns are very pedestrian unfriendly. People look at me like, “Do you need a ride? Why are you walking?” My best friend, who still lives in Chicago visited me recently and laughed at how close the grocery store is. We drove there.

I now live in a house. That I bought. With my husband. I have a commute in a car. I work in a cubicle. I’ve gained five pounds. I have a yard that needs to be mowed. I have walls that need to be painted. In about three years, the pressure to have kids will no doubt start knocking on my mind. But I have grass (that is too tall), and I have my family (that screams dysfunction), and I have my car (that I spend so much time in it feels like a second home). There are days when I am inside cleaning and doing laundry and my husband is working in the yard or on the house. We have two dogs.

So, who knows. This is suburbia. This is the Midwest. This is where I live now. This is the part of the country that has a close-minded, redneck, fat and white stereotype. Besides its pros and cons, I just have to admit to myself: I’m a country girl. I’d just rather live here. But despite my access to my own vehicle (one that is not a minivan, although I wonder if one day I’ll cave), suburbia has its own way of making me feel slightly trapped.

Author's note: I recently purchased a cross-over vehicle (read station wagon) with my husband. For our baby. Welcome to the rest of my life.

Let go.

Most of you know my love/hate relationship with breastfeeding. One day I love it, the next day I hate it and I'm giving up. Starting back to work has been a hassle of pumping and trying to keep up.

Recently I let go and finally stopped trying to kill myself and gave my daughter a few bottles of formula while she is at her babysitters 3 times a week. If my husband and I go out for a date, I don't try to kill myself to make sure enough is pumped and I let her have another bottle of formula. The girl is still mostly breastfed, but the stress is gone now that I've allowed myself to give her some formula. A less stressed out mom is better for everyone. I also don't resent breastfeeding anymore.

Then I saw the video of Salma Hayek breastfeeding another woman's baby in Africa. The baby was hungry, and her mother wasn't lactating due to malnutrition. Salma was still nursing her daughter, so she agreed to feed this baby. The look of gratefulness and peace on that baby's face as Salma fed her broke my heart. And to think I hated doing it and I'm having such an easy time with it.

A co-worker told me, as I whined about having to go pump, "You can do it!" and she rubbed my shoulders Rocky-style. We talked for a while about breastfeeding (she nursed her son until he was 13 months old, which is what most doctor's recommend). She said her in-laws weren't the most supportive people about her nursing her son. I never understood that, how people could be UN-supportive about something that is the absolute best for your child. I mean, I've had my days of absolutely hating it, but I never denied that it was what was best for Story. Anyway, she told me how she would nurse anywhere, just pulled out her nursing cover and went for it. She did it at restaurants, her in-laws' house, anywhere. That kind of amazed me. I could never do that.

Finally, yet another co-worker, a woman about my mom's age, told me that it was because I was breastfeeding that Story was doing so well. She's big and healthy and happy and already teething at 4 months old. She told me she still has dreams about nursing her two girls. That really touched me.

So last night, instead of stressing out about Story being hungry in a restaurant, I asked my husband to get my nursing cover out, and I let go and fed Story right there at the table. It was weird, I'm not going to lie, and we totally freaked out our waitress, but it was ok. You can't see anything because the cover is so big, and it helped that the restaurant wasn't very busy and we were seated at a booth instead of a table in the middle of the place, but still, I was so proud of myself. 

I am not anti-formula. It's every woman's decision how she wants to feed her baby. I will continue to give Story several bottles of formula a week to keep myself sane. But medical reasons aside, I hope everyone at least tries to nurse her baby. When I work from home and all weekend, I will nurse Story every time. Give it a couple weeks, read all about it before you give birth, and just try it. It's a pretty amazing thing. Its taken me 4 and a half months, but I finally appreciate how much it means to Story to do this for her. I've fought against it for so long, stressing out about where I would be if she needed to eat, not wanting her to fuss and disrupt others around us, but last night I finally just gave in a let go and did it. And in the end, my husband and I (and Story too) just enjoyed our meal out, without stressing or worrying or fussing, and I finally had one of those content evenings that I've been wanting for so long. I just had to let it happen.

Discontent.

I feel blue. I mean, I'm not really upset, but just... blue. 

After having Story, things just aren't the same. Obviously, they aren't. I don't mean it in an obvious way. I mean it in a way like... things just aren't the same. 

I don't know how to juggle everything. I don't know how people work 5 days a week at jobs where they have actual work to do, unlike my job that consists of not a lot of work and a lot of Facebook checking. I don't know how people have organized houses. I don't know how people squeeze time in for hobbies. I was thinking about it the other day: I don't even know what my hobbies are. I don't know how people have time to do anything other than what is absolutely necessary for life: laundry, dishes, groceries, and trips to Target. I don't have time to clean my house. How do people do it? How do people spend quiet evenings at home together? How do people spend quiet evenings at home with their family? I can't figure it out, and therefore, I kind of feel like a big, fat failure. Why aren't I better at doing this? 

How do people do it? 

I miss lots of things too. I miss listening to music. I miss being any kind of "indie." I miss my Chuck Taylors. 

I feel old. I feel old.

Over it.

I am officially over my "back to work blues." I am entering Week 4 of back to work-ness and I have to say, I'm kind of loving it.

I am being wary, though. Several things could be contributing to my new outlook. For one, it's winter which means it's cold which means I am in the house a lot. When I am stuck inside, I am also stuck inside with a baby, that I love dearly, and a husband, who I also love dearly but, let's face it, people get sick of each other in tight quarters. When I'm at work I'm around other people and fresh faces. Also, going to work means I get to look presentable. At home, I wear jeans or sweats, and I may or may not wear makeup. At work I get to dress nice, wear shoes that are not slippers, and wear makeup.

How do I know I'm over the blues? After being snowed in for three days in a row I was about to lose my mind. My husband asked me if I was dreading going back to work this morning and I said, "Not at all. Get me out of this house!"

My attitude could change at any time. I could also be ready to go back to work because it means I won't have to breast feed anyone for a full 9 hours. So for now, work is A-OK with me.

A working mom.

In the moments between Story waking up, and my husband coming home with my mother-in-law, I felt like finally blogging again. 

I started back to work this week, both excited and reluctant. All the working moms I know said something along the lines of "I cried my eyes out the whole way to work after dropping my baby off for the first time at daycare." I was expecting this, so when I dropped Story off at a babysitters and not shedding a tear and feeling pretty good, I was pretty surprised. I was even more surprised when, picking her up that evening, I felt kind of sad. I had missed her whole day. And while her babysitter is amazing and I'm so glad Story is in such great hands, I didn't know what her day was like. I got an outline of when she slept and ate, but what was she like? Then, imagine my surprise when I worked from home the next day with Story by my side, I felt even worse. I couldn't get any work done, and now Story's schedule was all screwed up so she's fussing and I don't know why. Before if she was fussy all I had to do was look at the clock to figure out what must be causing the tears and then fix it, but now I had no idea and I felt as though I was back to square one. All that hard work down the drain. And to top it all off, I felt like a terrible mom for not knowing what was going on with my daughter.

I am no longer a new mom on maternity leave, I am a working mom who has to use her damn breastpump at work. That's a treat. Let me just say this: whoever said that breastfeeding is more convenient than formula is a damn liar. No it is not. Breast milk is better for the baby, that's where the convenience ends. So now I have to spend 60 minutes of my work day pumping. And also, by the way, not producing enough to feed her the next day. Having depleted my milk supply when Skip and I got sick, I am down to my last stock of breast milk and it's not enough for the day. She'll have to have some formula. Which isn't a big deal, but any mom can tell you the guilt some moms feel for giving their normally breastfed babies formula. I feel like shit.

Sorry to post such a bitch-fest of a blog, but this sucks. I just want to stay home and take care of my girl. It's the one job I'm actually good at.

The towel.

I have had a lot of jobs in my life. A lot. Literally upwards of 20 jobs in my 27 years on the earth, starting from when I was 16. I remember after the first day of any new job, driving home and thinking, "That was so hard and stressful" and then realizing it wasn't over, I had to go back the next day and do it all over again. Something so hard had to be only a one time thing, the thought of going back always scared me.

Being a parent is a similar sensation. This past week has been the hardest thus far. Late last Sunday night I started to get sick. Really sick. From 2am until about 7am, I was puking every 45 minutes, topped off with some serious diarrhea. It was incredible. I haven't been that sick since I was a kid. I couldn't believe my luck that Story decided to sleep 8 hours straight that night, if I'd had to get up to feed her, I am sure I would have puked all over her. 

My husband called off from work the next day and stayed home with me to take care of the girl. I spent the morning upstairs, seriously dehydrated and totally wiped out. About noon, he started to get sick too. My sister in law came over and took the girl for the day. Luckily I had a store of breast milk in the freezer that would last the day. We spent the day in bed, sleeping and moaning and feeling awful.

We slowly made it back to life. I felt good enough for Story to come home later that night and take care of her, although I was terrified because I was still exhausted. The thought of having to walk her around the house to calm her down made me want to lie down and sleep. She has also decided this is the week to be the fussiest she's ever been. 

Then came Christmas. Having barely eaten anything more than toast and Sprite all week, my husband and I still felt yucky, him being worse off than me. Christmas Eve at my dad's house had Skip going home early after presents and me following shortly after. Story was still super fussy. The next day was the run around to the moms' houses, but by now we could at least eat a little bit. Story got a cold, thus the fussiness. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was ready to quit. Story had just spent most of Saturday night awake and crying, and I remember laying down on the couch just thinking, "I quit. I quit." I wanted to throw in the towel, roll over and go to sleep. How could I get up and do this all again the next day?

Sunday afternoon, we all went over to my mother-in-law's house and I let myself be a slug. She took care of Story, fed us brunch, and I proceeded to lie on the couch and cuddle up in a blanket for 2 hours while we watched a movie. I couldn't have done anything more if I wanted to. I couldn't move. I have never felt so exhausted and further from myself. I was drained.

Having a 2 month old and being so sick is scary. Will she get it? If she does, we have to take her to the hospital. Is it the flu? Is it food poisoning? I also had to worry about producing enough milk since I was so dehydrated and undernourished. Her nose is stuffed up, is that a cough or is she just clearing her throat? I still haven't bought the parents' Christmas gifts. We don't have food in the house. I'm too tired to get up and get dressed, let alone make sure the girl gets a bath. Skip missed 4 days of work, will we be ok financially?

All of this lasted one week, but it easily felt like two or three. Story cried all week. It was the holidays. We could hardly eat anything. We got no sleep. 

That was so hard and stressful. It's indescribable.

Time?

Over the past few weeks, I've had dozens of ideas about blogs that I want to write. But the moment I get a ...er, moment to write one, I forget what I want to write then I discover something else I'd rather do. Like clean up all the junk mail clutter that trails throughout our house.

This blog first started off with  me tracking my weight loss accomplishments after the first year of marriage left me about 10 pounds heavier. It was great to see the results and also have a venue to vent.

It sort of ended with me getting pregnant and being too tired to do much of anything other than sleep and eat. I continued to work out for a while, although I had to skip my beloved half marathon, but I got discouraged at the thought that I couldn't really push myself anymore. When I work out, I like to sweat and I like to hurt a little bit and I like to be sore the next day. You can't really do that while pregnant, I was too tired anyway, so I gave up working out.

Thus, here I am. With a tiny, awesome little being on my hip and about 15 extra pounds everywhere else. I probably went a little too gung-ho on the whole "eating for two" thing, but hey, I've learned my lesson and I won't do it again. I was excited, when I was pregnant, to gain the weight because I was totally up for the challenge of losing it again. But then I had the baby, and now I have no time. For anything. Including blogging.

But here's the cool thing: you know how you hear new moms talk about the new respect they have for their body after they've had a baby? Yeah, that is totally true. I am a freaking champ right now. My body doesn't fit into the "fat jeans" I had before I got pregnant. I've had to go up two sizes from where I was earlier this year. My once flat stomach is kind of flappy, so are my arms, and I've inherited my dads thick legs which are, at the moment, without much tone.

And it's pretty okay with me. Don't get me wrong, I really want to start working out again. Badly. I want to start running. I want to lift weights and get sweaty and kick my own ass again. With the cold weather making going for walks impossible for an 8 week old, and her not ever wanting to be put down making it hard to for me to pick up my weights, I find myself just trying to watch what I eat and go with the flow. I'm trying not to freak out when I hear about celebrity "post baby-bodies" (Heidi Klum did the Victoria Secret fashion show two months after having her third child, how do you compete with that??), and I'm doing an okay job. I'll get back into the swing of things once it gets warmer outside and she starts sleeping for longer periods of time at night (I've been tired for almost a year now). I read somewhere once that a way to help your child feel a secure love is to make certain sacrifices, which can include sacrificing your once-svelte figure to spend time with your child. 

So it's okay with me. For right now I'm going to enjoy the holidays, eat as healthy as I can (the great thing about maternity leave is having time, sort of, to make great dinners), and just enjoy this time because I won't ever get it back. One day she will be too big to be held and kissed and rocked and cuddled, and I know that I will miss these days. So I'll stick with my few extra pounds, thank you, if it means a few extra hours with my girl.