The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Month: January, 2009

The Lemon Tree

Every winter, just down the block, in a glass store front, a lemon tree blooms. You walk by day after day, and then suddenly, lemons–fat and heavy–and you wonder when they appeared; you wonder how the plant could have flowered and become fruit while you were doing little more than knocking ice off your boots and longing for spring. And one day, you just stand there; maybe your baby is in your arms or you’re holding your love’s hand or maybe you’re alone, happily alone, and you can almost smell it, and you just know that if you were behind the glass you’d become absolutely intoxicated with the scent, heady with the citrus, and lemons, you say, right here in Brooklyn, and you hope you keep noticing them; you hope that every time you walk by you remember this feeling that’s rising inside you and that the lemons won’t disappear–that you won’t let them disappear–as suddenly, and desperately, as they appeared.

Day 60: Batteries Not Included

My mother says that in the last days she and my father were together he gave her some of the best advice she ever received. He was talking about me, still so very small, and Mary, he said, she’s not a doll. You can’t just take her down and play with her when you feel like it. Of course I thought of this on Monday when–after a very failed movie attempt with friends–we came home to play dress-up. Yes, my father’s advice is sound advice, but can’t a girl have a little fun?

Eva as 1950’s pull-my-string doll:
“ma-ma, ma-ma.”
Can’t you just hear it?

Eva as groovy Peruvian my other-car-is-a-snowboard doll:
Eva as preppy jock doll:
Eva as ballerina-bird-with-bow doll flying through the blue, blue sky:
While she may not be a doll, she sure does look like one.

Tits Only

Wandering around the breastfeeding store yesterday, I saw the onesie: “TITS ONLY,” it read, and hmm, I thought, wow, tits only. That’s one way of putting it.

I must admit that in the past eight weeks I’ve felt like little more than a gigantic boob. Baby crying? Give her the boob. Baby gnawing on hand? Boob time. Baby licking her lips? Pass the milk, please.

And maybe it’s just me (like when you buy an El Camino and then see them everywhere), but I also feel like breastfeeding is all over the news. It’s apparently no longer allowed to post breastfeeding pictures on Facebook (as if I want Tom Ford from eleventh grade English seeing that much of me. Sorry Tom!). Then there was the whole pumping story in the New Yorker which gave fodder to intellectual mom’s groups everywhere. And just yesterday, on, a whole slew of “ireporters” were giving their two cents about breastfeeding in public.

It’s funny because in my neighborhood in Brooklyn, you’re more likely to be looked down upon for pulling a bottle out in a restaurant than a boob. Really. Everyone gets very sanctimonious about breastfeeding, and while I know “breast is best,” I can’t help but look in the mirror at my formula-fed self and over at my formula-fed husband and around at my many formula-fed friends and wonder about all the hullabaloo. I know women who put themselves through inordinate amounts of pain (the woman who had her inverted nipples “sucked out” before leaving the hospital comes to mind) and still feel self-conscious about not being uber-feeders.

I could go on and on (but baby needs boob!). Anyone want to shed a little light on this? How do you feel about breastfeeding in public? Breastfeeding on Facebook? Breastfeeding in general? I know your formula-fed minds are IQ-deficient but surely you can think of something!

New Mom Porn

Man chopping vegetables while holding baby.
Does it get any sexier?

Day 55

And just like everybody else in Brooklyn, she dreams of spring, even though she’s never known it, even though all she’s ever known is winter with its crunch of snow and screaming tea kettles. I try to tell her about spring: how the layers peel off and the birds go wild, how the cherry blossoms explode and the sun never seems to set, but she wails, inconsolably, so certain it’ll be winter forever, so sure we’ll be sitting in this house staring out the windows until we’re as old and gray as the sky. How can you believe what you’ve never known? Sunflowers, I tell her, as big as your head! And tulips–everywhere–the streets littered with their petals. But she is tired and unbelieving, so I bounce her, rock her, bounce her. Hush, I say, and over and over I tell her, spring will be here soon, hoping she believes me, hoping I’m right.

What the Doctor Said

Doctor, doctor, I said, it hurts when I do this.

Do what?

Do this, doctor. It hurts so bad. So bad!

Doctor says, Well, don’t do it.

Such was my conversation with the gyn yesterday. And what, you may wonder, was I referring to? Getting on the scale! Oh that lousy scale!

But doctor, I said, I have to!

No, you don’t.

But what about the Amanda Carona Challenge, doctor? What about the millions of Blue Pitcher fans out there who are a Twinkie away from falling off the WWagon?

They’ll live, she said, or didn’t say, but might have said. Actually, all she told me was to stop weighing myself. Give yourself a break until the birdie’s got wings. Woman, I wanted to say, I’ve got wings!!! Have you checked out my triceps lately?

And such is my dilemma. Here, in my winged-Bovine state, I’m wondering what to do. Anyone wanna weigh in on this ridiculously vain topic?

Shout-Out for the Future

Weigh-In Monday

Okay, so yesterday, i.e. weigh-in Monday, I was not doing my usual jaunt down to WW. Nope, I was sitting in Joy’s Country Skillet about three hours outside of New York watching through a greasy window as the snow fell and having this conversation:

Hubs: What do you think is worse–a Waffle with two eggs and bacon or a grilled pastrami and swiss with fries?

Me: Worse?

Hubs: You know, the most points.

Hmm…Meanwhile, I was wondering if the meatloaf was made with lean meat. (Don’t worry–I didn’t ask!) So…there are no weigh-in results. I seemed a bit down on my own scale (I opted for a bowl of Beef Barley & a Greek Salad), but, I’ve never been one to count my chickens (or maybe I am: about a point an ounce), or for that matter, my chicken fried steak (about a million points an ounce).

In other news, Eva and I have a giant playdate to watch the inauguration today. Yes, it’s true: one can simultaneously breastfeed and watch history unfold. And here I had started to think of myself as a one-trick pony!

Day 50

(All love and sleep and diapers and eating and smiles
and love.)


Makes me wish I didn’t throw like a girl.
From here.