the sport of competitive mothering
I've noticed of late that I'm not very good at my new sport, that of competitive mothering. I think I'm too aware of the game, and thus come off simultaneously cynical and over-serious. Or maybe I'm MORE competitive, to the point that I try to act like I'm not playing the game at all I'm just that good. Case in point:
I'm walking down the hall of my chuch, grumpy as HELL because I've had no sleep in a week and I'm moving a mission display back to the front of the church, where I'm certain it will continue to be ignored (turns out I was wrong). I see ahead of me a *new* mom with what appears to be a 5 mo old, and (insert ominous drums here) Bridget's Mom.
Bridget's Mom is a supermom. I think she may have eventually returned to work, but I know she stays at home a lot, forbids Bridget (now 18 mo) to have a pacifier, dressses her in only cutesy stuff and fanatically wipes down the church highchairs with industrial grade cleaner, because who knows what they've been doing since the last pot luck. I gave KT's highchair a halfhearted swipe with a baby wipe; horrified, she swooped near to proffer aforesaid cloths. I declined; foolish, germ loving mother that I am.
Anyway, as I pass the pair I hear Bridget's Mom say "well, when I pump, I usually get at least 6-7 ounces at a time, which of course is able to completely fulfill one feeding..." I stop in my tracks. I look at New Mom. She has that same horror stricken look in her eyes of "OH MY GOD I'VE NEVER PRODUCED THAT MUCH MILK I AM KILLING MY CHILD". So...I butt in.
"Excuse me, is this conversation about pumping breast milk?" I have the hottest come on lines to moms, I swear.
New Mom looks at me hopefully, a new voice; Bridgets Mom virtually rolls her eyes. I clearly know NOTHING about breast feeding. My boobs aren't half as huge as hers, hidden in her tent-dress. (See? See that vindictiveness right there? That's what I'm talking about! Let's hear it for some passive-aggressive action!)
Bridget's Mom: "Yes."
me: "I'm sorry, I've got to get in on this one."
New Mom: "I'm back at work and I'm having a hard time pumping enough milk."
At this point Bridget's Mom goes back to talking about how much milk SHE produces, on the rare occasion that she has to. I but in again--
ME: Oh wow! I've never in my life pumped that much! I'm lucky to get 4 ounces! But my baby doesn't eat that much.
Bridget's Mom: How old is she? 8 months? Oh she should be eating that much by now.
ME: Hey, she'd let me know if she was hungry. Babies cry when they're hungry, and I feed her when she does, but (to New Mom) sweetie, I've never gotten that much. What are you doing?
New Mom describes how she pumps at work and at the end of the day. I mention that my doctor recommended pumping right before feeding, to skim off the easy-to-reach ounces that the pump can get, then the baby gets the harder to reach richer stuff right after.
Bridget's Mom: OH, but that can lead to engorgement.
ME: Not me. I'm trying to get more milk to come in anyway.
Bridget's Mom says something about trying to avoid formula. New Mom says she'd considered giving one meal a day as formula. I declare that I give one meal a day as formula, because FORMULA DOES NOT KILL BABIES. (caveat, at least in America)
Then I offer her the organic mother's milk tea that at least psychologically helps me out; Bridgets Mom says consolingly "That's an herbal tea."
ME: Yes, but my doctor assures me it's safe. (And, although I didn't mention it, it's not listed as an unsafe drug in the book Medicines and Mother's Milk. That's right, I have research! She shoots...)
The coup de grace? New Mom says thank you, I give her my info and ask her to call me (Bridget's Mom has NEVER offered to call ME) and she says "I didn't think you could actually be a new mom. You look too good"
I should state here that I looked like greasy-hair-no-makeup-wearing-glasses HELL. But I'm wearing my original pants and proud of it.
ME: Thanks! I was really excited to fit back into my pants! (she scores!)
Bridgets Mom just stares.
Bridget's Mom: 0
ME: 1!
hey. she started it.
I'm walking down the hall of my chuch, grumpy as HELL because I've had no sleep in a week and I'm moving a mission display back to the front of the church, where I'm certain it will continue to be ignored (turns out I was wrong). I see ahead of me a *new* mom with what appears to be a 5 mo old, and (insert ominous drums here) Bridget's Mom.
Bridget's Mom is a supermom. I think she may have eventually returned to work, but I know she stays at home a lot, forbids Bridget (now 18 mo) to have a pacifier, dressses her in only cutesy stuff and fanatically wipes down the church highchairs with industrial grade cleaner, because who knows what they've been doing since the last pot luck. I gave KT's highchair a halfhearted swipe with a baby wipe; horrified, she swooped near to proffer aforesaid cloths. I declined; foolish, germ loving mother that I am.
Anyway, as I pass the pair I hear Bridget's Mom say "well, when I pump, I usually get at least 6-7 ounces at a time, which of course is able to completely fulfill one feeding..." I stop in my tracks. I look at New Mom. She has that same horror stricken look in her eyes of "OH MY GOD I'VE NEVER PRODUCED THAT MUCH MILK I AM KILLING MY CHILD". So...I butt in.
"Excuse me, is this conversation about pumping breast milk?" I have the hottest come on lines to moms, I swear.
New Mom looks at me hopefully, a new voice; Bridgets Mom virtually rolls her eyes. I clearly know NOTHING about breast feeding. My boobs aren't half as huge as hers, hidden in her tent-dress. (See? See that vindictiveness right there? That's what I'm talking about! Let's hear it for some passive-aggressive action!)
Bridget's Mom: "Yes."
me: "I'm sorry, I've got to get in on this one."
New Mom: "I'm back at work and I'm having a hard time pumping enough milk."
At this point Bridget's Mom goes back to talking about how much milk SHE produces, on the rare occasion that she has to. I but in again--
ME: Oh wow! I've never in my life pumped that much! I'm lucky to get 4 ounces! But my baby doesn't eat that much.
Bridget's Mom: How old is she? 8 months? Oh she should be eating that much by now.
ME: Hey, she'd let me know if she was hungry. Babies cry when they're hungry, and I feed her when she does, but (to New Mom) sweetie, I've never gotten that much. What are you doing?
New Mom describes how she pumps at work and at the end of the day. I mention that my doctor recommended pumping right before feeding, to skim off the easy-to-reach ounces that the pump can get, then the baby gets the harder to reach richer stuff right after.
Bridget's Mom: OH, but that can lead to engorgement.
ME: Not me. I'm trying to get more milk to come in anyway.
Bridget's Mom says something about trying to avoid formula. New Mom says she'd considered giving one meal a day as formula. I declare that I give one meal a day as formula, because FORMULA DOES NOT KILL BABIES. (caveat, at least in America)
Then I offer her the organic mother's milk tea that at least psychologically helps me out; Bridgets Mom says consolingly "That's an herbal tea."
ME: Yes, but my doctor assures me it's safe. (And, although I didn't mention it, it's not listed as an unsafe drug in the book Medicines and Mother's Milk. That's right, I have research! She shoots...)
The coup de grace? New Mom says thank you, I give her my info and ask her to call me (Bridget's Mom has NEVER offered to call ME) and she says "I didn't think you could actually be a new mom. You look too good"
I should state here that I looked like greasy-hair-no-makeup-wearing-glasses HELL. But I'm wearing my original pants and proud of it.
ME: Thanks! I was really excited to fit back into my pants! (she scores!)
Bridgets Mom just stares.
Bridget's Mom: 0
ME: 1!
hey. she started it.