Of Breastfeeding

I'm going to keep this short because I doubt there are more polarizing topics than breast vs. bottle.

Personally - and please, don't think I'm throwing judgement around like a football on Sunday - I felt breast was best. I'll spare you long discussions on how much I hated it at first. Watch me as I skip over explaining what it's like to have to pump every two hours, day and night. Gloss over the myriad of excuses I tried to make myself believe to try and give myself justification to stop when I knew in my heart I was in for the long run.

Almost seven months later, my daughter has never tasted formula and Goddess willing, she never will. I find myself loving what I thought I couldn't stand for even a single day more. That time we spend together in that rocker - awesome.

Pregnancy, babies, labor - those early months when mother's are programmed to be the primary caregivers of this new life - are private battlegrounds. No shortage of advice, surely. But in the end, we all have to do what's best for us and us alone. That bond with our baby is the most sacred of trusts and no one has the right to judge what that mommy feels is right for that baby.

This comes in the aftermath of reading an article that slams breastfeeding mothers. It's core argument was that less than 14% of mom's make it to the six month mark without formula so if anything, we're the freaks.

I envision a future where breastfeeding is such a singular rarity that it isn't talked about in polite company. Where young mother's are briefly coached on how to let their milk dry up and ways to make it happen as quickly and painlessly as possible. (This one already happens, Andrew and I had to sit through a class on it).

Not too long down the road, breasts will become sex objects totally and completely. Serving only to attract a mate but not to sustain life. We'll keep dicing them and stuffing them, lifting them and worshiping them as toys until one day...

One day it won't matter any more. They're wisdom teeth. They're the appendix of the chest. The thumb on the whale. The bat's molars. Generations from now, breastfeeding will be at the best a nostalgic study on how misguided but well meaning our ancestors were. At worst it will be used as an example of how hard mother's had it before science stepped in. Deity gave us the ability to think and to improve our lives, surely He meant for breasts to be sexual objects and not ways to feed our young... surely...

Speaking from that 14% of freaks that have exclusively breastfeed, I can't feel anything but a sad resignation for our future on this topic.

Blessed Be.

EVE

Six degrees

I have a new project.

I'm going to use facebook to see if I can connect myself with anyone famous.

Here's how it's going down:

I'm going to pick a family member and click on to one of their friend's facebook link. And from there, pick another link. Rinse and repeat.

Send and Receive

"This job is like a fudge pie from a distance. And then you get closer and it's like, 'that's no fudge pie'. - Andrius

Names. Funny things. Labels.

Andrius changed his name when he became a citizen of the GRAND o'l US. His name was too old to make it over the thick teeth of English speakers. 'Williams' breathes easy with a pace that invites familiarity.

In some universe out there, my husband kept his born name. In that universe of never-was my name's Els Volkoviene. I imagine she has my sense of humor and when she signs her initials, she does it phonically to justify having a neat signature on the dotted line.

I'm 26. I work at a healthcare outsourcing center. I'm a medical auditor. A passing stage of three years and counting.

Welcome to my moment. Here it is. Right here. Right now. This is the best it gets. The apex of my skill. Years of education boiled down to the pounding of this keyboard with a venom dips down bent elbows as I rush against time to get as much smeared against this screen as I can before -

I remember it was snowing when I first saw Andrius. Him in his green vest, me in my work clothes. His camera was hanging from his neck with the lens off, taking stock footage for his then job at the news. A few hours later in the warmth of the downtown Starbucks as we chat over a cup o'joe, I knew I had just met my best friend.

Let's move to Paris.

I wake up every morning with a distinct advantage over the rest of the world.

I'm not waiting for Friday.

While everyone else is looking forward to the weekend that will be spent in a drunken daze as they try to cram a week's worth of living in to burning nights, I'm alive in the ever vanishing moment. They get two, three days max, of recreation. I pick up the other four days. I want the Mondays. Bring on the Wednesdays, watch me dance away Thursday. And the Tuesdays. Let me tell you about the Tuesdays. They are lazy and wonderful. Each day I drive in to Denver, I'm singing in my car because I'm exactly where I want to be, doing what I want to do. My weekend is here. It's right now and I'm thriving.

I know a secret that only happy people know. Happy people, truly happy people, will be happy no matter where they are or what they're struck with. And I'm happy. Happy to the very core of my being. Happy to the point that I don't need events to sustain it.

Having arrived here I find it hard to relate to anyone else.

But you can watch me try.

Blessed Be.

EVE