The Children Have Been On Me Lately

By "on me" I mean that my body is being used as a toddler playground - slash - ultimate fighting ring.

I am routinely kicked, climbed over, punched in the head. Last night, somehow a plastic bottle was launched into the air and landed square across my cheek. It didn't actually hurt but still, I was struck in the face with a foreign object by my child. Isn't that like an episode of Oprah or something?

I don't wear earrings because they are not actually jewelry - they are toddler levers and pullies. I might look nice at 10am with my dainty drop earrings off-setting my nicely done hair, but by 11:30, my ear lobes are a bloodied torn mess and each child is clutching one earring in their thieving little hands.



That’s when they decide my hair needs to be combed into a bun and they start running their dirty hands through it and lopping piles of it on top of my head and admiring each others handy work (Doesn’t Mommy look like Princess Aurora?”) until it is a mess of tangles and I look like a cross between Ronald McDonald and Phyllis Diller .

Oh and necklaces. Necklaces are not really pretty adornments meant to show off my bosom. No, necklaces are meant to attract small children with their shininess. Necklaces are like Jim Jones and my children are members of the cult (“Touch me. I am shiny. Drink the Kool Aid.”)


Necklaces, my children believe, are vines meant for monkeys to swing on and zoom through the jungle, pulling on Mommy’s back until either my spine cracks and completely breaks apart from my body, like drift wood, or the necklace breaks into thousands of little tiny beads all over the floor, which means I will have to get on my hands and knees to pick up the thousands of little tiny beads.

And this will inspire another of their favorite past times - jumping on my back and riding me like the mule that I am. Why is being on my knees on the floor an open invitation to ride me like a barn yard animal? I don’t know the answer to this, but it never fails.

And there are the stains on my clothes. I can put on a perfectly clean outfit and within 12 minutes, one child will run into me with pommegranate juice, covering me in black, un-washable, forever-staining liquid or she’ll wipe her snotty nose on my pant leg or try to paint my ass pink with a loaded paint brush or wipe oatmeal on my sleeve because they don’t have a napkin within two inches of their persons and it doesn’t dawn on them they should, you know, ask me for one.

Yesterday, Edie dumped hot chocolate down my blouse. It was hot.


After returning home after a long hard day of fun and treats, the kids often look at me with their sad, weepy faces, arms extended pathetically into the air, requesting that I pick them up and carry them the last two feet to the front door. This is a funny occurrence, that they both need to be picked up and carried the last few feet home, because if their friends rounded the corner at that very second and shouted their name, they would jump up and scream and start running madly toward their friend with a burst of energy so enormous that it could only be generated by the sun itself.


But when they are with me, they can barely push their tired, worn-out bodies down the corridor and I must carry each one of their limp, lifeless, whining bodies in my arms, while pushing a stroller no one wants to sit in and a gi-normous bag of toys, fresh underpants and old half-eaten snacks, that is also weighed down with mounds of dirt in a plastic shopping bag that we must bring home because it’s not really dirt, but magic fairy dust.

And this is why it takes us 20 minutes to walk the 50 feet from the elevator to our front door.

You might wonder why I don’t say, "You are big girls. You can walk" when they beg to be carried. And sometimes I do. The plan goes to hell though when one or both of them uses the highly effective "Mommy, hold me," uttered in the most sad and pathetic voice ever to hit sound waves and used in conjunction with a noticeably quivering lip and watery puppy eyes.

It would be infuriating to be so obviously manipulated, except that it is so incredibly brilliant. I am amazed by it's beautiful execution, with just the right amount of manipulation, neediness and affection so perfectly designed to pull at my biological need to mother. I am humbled, not only by the impact of their deeds, but also by their seamless and unapologetic execution.

My kids are like little maniacal geniuses. It’s like a free pass to CarryMeVille.

And don't get me started on the breastfeeding. As Edie gets older, her affection for my breasts increases. My boobs are no longer my own. There has been a vast right/left wing conspiracy to rid me of my breasts. There is a pecking order now(and prepare yourself, feminists everywhere will flinch as they read this) – First, they are Edie’s and then, David has some kind of claim on them and by the time, they get to me, I am done with them except for taking them to get a mammogram to make sure they aren’t diseased.


Now, even Lucy has staked a claim on them.

Lucy? Did you hear me say Lucy? Lucy who refused to breast feed and the very sight of my boobs made her ask me to cover him, lest they accidentally reach out and touch her with their nipples extending out at her like scary octopus arms?

Apparently, Lucy now thinks my breasts make good puppets.

Last week, Lucy entertained Edie by making each of my breasts speak to each other in Spanish. She grabbed one boob, pulled it out of my shirt before I knew what she was doing and moved it up and down saying, “Como se llama?” and then, she grabbed the other breast and moved it up and down and said, Me llamo Boob.”

And then she and Edie thought my talking breasts were like the funniest thing they had ever seen and they laughed uncontrollably on the floor for the next 15 minutes begging me to let them do it again.

I declined. We're getting Lucy a real puppet theatre for her birthday. Obviously she needs one.

xxoo YM

PS: Lucy and Edie just walked over here as I was writing this and asked what I was writing about and I told them I was writing about how they made my boobs speak Spanish and the two of them started laughing hysterically and Lucy said, "Making your boobs speak Spanish is funny, Mommy."

Nice.

Continue Reading...

This is Not Me...

Special thanks to Cheesemongers Wife who sent this to me after my post about weaning Edie. It's hilarious. And not me.

Really, not me.



Also, not me - I found this screamer on the same You Tube page. It's about a British woman who is still breastfeeding her 8 year old. She does it on camera. And the kids draw pictures of her breasts and lovingly give them nicknames and talk to them and shit. It's so bizarre, I thought it was a mockumentary at first.



Now, I'm frightened. I may need to wean Edie this weekend.

I'll write something fresh tomorrow. I'm trying to finish the sample chapters on my book proposal and I'm just starting to get Twilight out of my head. Go away, Edward Cullen. You are messin' wit my mind. Oh, and must go buy food at the grocery store before the family keels over from hunger. Bad vampire, bad vampire.

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

Okay, Okay, It's Time. Get Off My Back Already.

To me, Edie is still a baby. "Little Mama" as she is known around here, because she is my shadow. And so, I've let the breastfeeding go on now, much longer than I ever intended because she loved it so and it was something special just for her and I together.

It was nice while it lasted.

But yesterday, I heard myself say something so utterly ridiculous, I realized, it's time to wean her. Here's what I actually said, out loud, in front of people in an elevator. Like in public, not in my head:

"Edie, you have to take the gum out your mouth if you're going to have boobie."

And the people on the elevator, who were gratefully our friends and who choose only to mock me to my face, broke out laughing and it hit me - I'm breastfeeding a child old enough to choose which boob she wants to drink from. She's clacking her gum like a Long Island secretary and this never dawned on me? Pretty soon she's going to be picking up the phone and dialing the lactation consultant to see if she can improve the milk production in my left breast.

Just to be perfectly transparent, you all should know that Edie is breastfeeding as I'm writing this. Oh, no...yeah, she just switched from the left boob to the right. Uh, now she's watching Dora.

It's hard to keep up with her schedule.

And so, last night I flashed forward and realized I could be one of those Moms who's, like, breastfeeding her kid in the car before she sends her into kindergarten. Or like second grade. God, or like the junior prom.

So, the weaning is on, except I don't have a clue about how to do it with kindness or firmness or any idea where to start. So, if you see a woman in the subway with a baby latched to her left breast, pouring over a copy of "Weaning for Dummies", that'll be me.

My kid will be the one with the nipple and the wad of gum in her mouth.


xxoo YM Continue Reading...

I'm Speechless...

I was on Google Analytics for like the 3,000th time this month and have been thrilled to see my reader numbers increasing a lot and decided to happily troll through the the search terms that people use to get to my blog, just to see what people are looking for. Many were predictable, food and kids and marriage related, some very cool - apparently a lot of Martha Stewart fans come here to read about me lovingly making fun of her - and some just down-right perverted and ridiculous.

I share the perverted and ridiculous ones with you now. Because that's the kind of blogger I am. And it's Friday. And I am trying to amuse myself. Three very good reasons.

Now, remember what this means is that at least one person, usually more, typed this phrase into Google. And somehow my blog popped up. My comments and observations are in italics.
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Pictures of girls in big girl underpants (leave my blog and never come back. Asses)

Yummy sperm (Well, okay...)

Aussie whore (That’s tea whore, freak)

Are fish sticks good for sperm? (yes)

Pork yogurt (sounds tasty)

Eats her boogers (all the time. Tastes like chicken)

Glimpse of my nipple (can’t you see your own nipple?)

See her hoo ha (and?...)

101 uses for maxi pads (I got one use, that’s it)

Big boobs of yummy Kim (got me some of those)

Boob torture video (my nipples know torture. Video has nothing on me)

Then he touched my hoo ha. (why do you Google this?)

Wife likes big coq. (that’s cock, you freak.)

Bourdain sperm (obviously the work of Evil chef Mom and Saint Tigerlily)

Can you sue Pathmark for a wet floor? (the litigious even come to my blog)

I apply curd on my wife’s boobs. (this isn’t you Cheesmonger’s Wife, is it?)

I see my mom take sexy shower. (this sentence should never even appear in your brain)

I still wee in my big girl underpants. (use Depends. Helps a whole bunch)

Kids that eat their own poop. (apparently many kids eat their own poop and their parents are turning to Google in record numbers. And then ultimately to my blog)

Poo eaters.

Poo eating mummy.

Poop eating kids.

Is it better to say poop or poo?

Daddies who have kids who eat poop.

Mommies married to Daddy’s who have kids who eat poop.

Do your kids eat poop?

What to do about kids who eat poo.

Shrimp poop eaters. (huh?)

My boyfriend wants to eat my poop. (get new boyfriend)

Spray Lysol on crotch. (you’ll need to if boyfriend is asking to eat your poo)

And my personal favorite.

Kim Foster naked. (obviously the handy work of someone with good taste)


My readers are nuts.


xxoo YM

PS To Robin at Local or Express?: This is why you need to get on Google Analytics immediately.

PPS: And yes, Molly at The NonHipster Mom. You're right - the picture from my last post of the woman on all fours with a milk machine attached to her breasts will not help. Continue Reading...

Are They Smokin' the Crack Over at PETA?

I got the following piece from Jennsylvania, who got it from WNBC.com.

VERMONT -- People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals sent a letter to Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield, co-founders of Ben & Jerry's Homemade Inc., urging them to replace cow's milk they use in their ice cream products with human breast milk, according to a statement recently released by a PETA spokeswoman.

"PETA's request comes in the wake of news reports that a Swiss restaurant owner will begin purchasing breast milk from nursing mothers and substituting breast milk for 75 percent of the cow's milk in the food he serves," the statement says.

PETA officials say a move to human breast milk would lessen the suffering of dairy cows and their babies on factory farms and benefit human health.

"The fact that human adults consume huge quantities of dairy products made from milk that was meant for a baby cow just doesn't make sense," says PETA Executive Vice President Tracy Reiman. "Everyone knows that 'the breast is best,' so Ben & Jerry's could do consumers and cows a big favor by making the switch to breast milk."

In a statement Ben and Jerry's said, "We applaud PETA's novel approach to bringing attention to an issue, but we believe a mother's milk is best used for her child."

I think animals need better representation.

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

My Name is Yummy Mummy & I Breastfeed in Restaurants

There. That's out.

I admit it. I can put down half a cow while not even realizing that a child is hanging off my left boob in a nice restaurant.

My tits are machines now. Completely utilitarian. Baby-soothing bottles protruding out of my chest, always full and always at the ready. No longer imbued with any kind of pornographic meta-messages, except to my husband who has generously shared my breasts with Edie until he lost nearly all claim to them, I barely am aware that a toddler has pulled my shirt down to my belly button to lovingly inspect the nipples. While the whole world looks on.

That I breastfeed in restaurants seems weird except that it is so much a part of my every minute that doing it in a booth to comfort the child or giving her a little because it's handy, seems so natural, so us, I barely even think about it.

I try to keep my breasts under-wraps as much as I can in public and God knows my husband is like running after me tucking pieces of towel and cloth across my chest to preserve whatever sexual appeal and mystery they may have left, but I admit, you could be sitting across from me in a nice restaurant, lifting your fork full of escargo to your lips and in the corner of your eye catch a glimpse of my nipple. That could happen. It probably will.

Which brings me to the mild uproar over at Chow recently on Helena Echlin's Table Manner's column which introduces the topic of breastfeeding in restaurants. Here my 10 Favorite Wack-a-doodle comments from that post. And my responses.



10. Yes, I think it's rude for a woman to just whip out her boob and feed her kid in a restaurant. But, when I can tell they are being discrete (the nursing blankets, etc.) it really doesn't bug me. Probably because I don't see the actual process. I don't know if breast milk has a smell, but the idea makes me gag. The vomit that often ensues after a baby eats is enough to ensure I wont be finishing my meal.

YM: Can anyone really see baby vomit three tables over? If you can, you are spending way too much time looking at me. Eyes back on the foie gras, lady.


9. Stay home and feed your child in the privacy of your own home. Nobody wants to witness the intimacy of you bonding with your child in order to feed it. And nobody wants to have dinner in adult settings like restaurants when there are babies there. You decided to have a child, not everyone who went to dinner at the restaurant. And nobody thinks it is cute to see your hooter in your kids mouth. Stay home and cook for yourself and your family until the child can order for itself and have a glass of wine.

YM: Dooh! This guy's pissed. NYS law says you have to deal with my breast in my kids mouth, dude. Thems the breaks. Please stop calling them "hooters". This isn't a bar.


8. I think the mother-child connection can survive a two-hour hiatus known as dinner at a restaurant. Do you really believe the relationship between a mom and child suffers because mom missed one natural feeding because she went out for a couple of hours? I mean, really? What do you think happens to the baby when mom is at work? When a mom goes to work, does that mean she's severing the mother-child connection?

YM: Thanks for schoolin' me on the ways of the mother-child bond. Glad you're stickin' to what you know.


7. I was one of the original posters who frowned on it in the other column, but I mainly object to rude yuppies who think motherhood gives them the right to ignore everyone else, except to the extent that they serve as handmaidens.

YM: I am zee handmaiden. I meelk zee cows and...What is she talking about anyway?


6. Personally, I do think, as long as you're breastfeeding—for how long, a few months, a year tops?—you should try to stay out of nice restaurants with the baby as much as possible. You did sign up for the gig, presumably, aware that there would be temporary sacrifices to be made. I don't think a nice restaurant where people are conducting business or celebrating privately or what have you is the place for a baby, *whether or not* it's feeding. The potential is always there for disruption: wailing, pooping, etc.

YM: Duh! Another romantic interlude foiled by a pooping child! Little bastards.


5. I agree completely that there are family restaurants where it seems less out of place. If you simply must get have the nice meal and aren't cool with pumping, then the special clothing also ameliorates the problem, for sure. It at least shows you give a shit about other people. You don't have to fully agree with other people's concerns to respect them, and many of the responses of you mothers show you do try to meet your/your baby's needs and acknowledge others' concerns too. That's what polite society asks of any of its members, I think.

YM: Yeah, I'm not wearing a "Hooter Hider". Sorry.


4. I'm pretty sensitive to smells too, and I would be bothered by it within "smelling distance". But would I say anything? Hell no. Why? Because I would be crucified for it. That doesn't stop me having a problem with it.

YM: The stink of breast milk is overpowering, indeed. In like some kind of reverse world where flowers smell like skunks and kittens smell like buffalo.


3. Babies are not quiet while they feed, and some of us find the little weeweewee nummy noises less than appetizing.

YM: If I've said it once, I've said it a million times - I can barely think with all those suckling noises coming from that 2 week old.


2. But seriously, I feel that infants (or any non-toilet trained child for that matter) should not be brought to public places that don't have changing tables provided in the restrooms. It's a big hint that the babes aren't welcomed.

YM: Let's just keep all the ankle biters locked up in the house, shall we?


1. The idea, however, of seeing a three year old nurse, quite frankly, just disgusts me completely. I've asked my friends and family about this, too, to see if I was the odd one out, but they all agreed. It's your business if you want to nurse a three year old, but please do it at home. If a child is old enough to eat food off of the menu in a restaurant, when out at a food establishment, that's where he or she should be getting his or her meal. Certainly, the child can wait until getting home to nurse, unlike an infant.

YM: Okay, Edie and I are bent over hysterically laughing. She just pulled my boob out of her mouth long enough to look up and me and say, "Hey Mommy! If that lady were the Queen of us, we'd never be able to leave the house!" And then she pooped.


Oh, you kids keep me young...

xxoo YM Continue Reading...

For the Record...

This is my idea of nirvana (except David would be there, too).

What's yours?

xxoo YM


PS: No, those aren't all my children.

PPS: Yes, all I do is breastfeed. Continue Reading...

Better Than Boob

I finally figured it out.

I figured out how to make Sunday lunch without having to stop mid-prep so that I can look down and see a wailing, blotchy-cheeked mess of a baby, pathetically clinging to my leg, so disconsolate and grief stricken because my affairs in the kitchen have prevented her from having my nipple in her mouth for, like, all of a half an hour.

The answer. The kitchen sink.



A simple idea, but profound in it's execution.



There was all sorts of filling up. Pouring out. Filling up. Pouring...You get the point.

It was downright captivating.



It's like my boobs stopped existing for all of dinner prep.



Ah! See? There in the back is the laundry basket where I grabbed David's underpants and used them as a pot holder the other day. Remember that?

Hey. It happens.


Really, like my boobs weren't even in the kitchen.



Oh right. That's not me.

It's a good thing these aren't my boobs. Edie would LOVE these.



In the end, a happy kid. A wet floor. A sink full of clean dishes. A completed dinner service. Breasts that aren't the size of Idaho.

Life is good.

xxoo YM

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