Sweaty Mouth Prevention

The reason why Thing 1's face smells so fresh and clean this evening (in a manly, musky sort of way) is because while I was attempting to get Thing 2 down for a nap this afternoon, she found her way into the bathroom.  She had climbed onto the toilet, found a stick of men's deodorant, and had just removed the cap when I found her,

"Smells like Daddy!" she informed me with delight,  nodding emphatically, "YES, smells like Daddy!"

She then proceeded to RUB the deodorant onto her cheeks, nose and mouth while I stood frozen in horror.

"NO! We do not put that on our faces! That is not lotion!" I shrieked while attempting to remove the deodorant from her hand without smearing more on her person, fish the cap from behind the toilet where it was making friends with the dust bunnies and replace it, and lift Thing 1 down from the toilet with one hand while holding a fascinated Thing 2 with the other. "We DO NOT put that on our FACES!"

As I was desperately looking for a clean washcloth, Thing 1 stood staring at me in the doorway of the bathroom with giant innocent eyes.

Then she LICKED her deodorant smeared lips and said, "Mmmmmmmm....I like it! I LIKE IT!" nodding emphatically again.  "Smells like Daddy. Nummy. I LIKE it! More?"

"No. Wash your face." I said as I tried not to gag and handed her a soapy washcloth.

She looked at it for a moment, shoved it's soapy goodness in her mouth, and began sucking noisily.

"NOOOO!" I wailed, "Don't suck on it! WASH WITH IT!"

 Then she dodged out of my frantic reach and ran from the room, declaring to the house at large; "Mmmmmmm!!!! I LIKE IT!!!! NUMMY!!!! I LIKE IT!"

Which is why, if you were to kiss  my daughter good night, you may have caught a whiff of Irish Spring mixed with Old Spice.
At least she won't have a sweaty mouth.

Lactation Paralysis

Today I would like to raise awareness for a little known condition in new mothers. Particularly those that decide to breastfeed. No one ever warns you about it. Not the midwives. Not the nurses. Not the doctors. Not your own mother who really should have said something, except I am pretty sure she has blocked out the first 16 years of all her children’s lives.

            
 It is called “Lactation Paralysis”.

             
At first I didn’t notice it because I didn’t have the energy to do anything but sit on the couch/bed and wonder how I was still alive after pushing a human out of me and then sleeping 4 non-consecutive hours a day for two weeks. But as my energy began to return, I became aware of thing around me. 

Things like the dirty diapers under the couch keeping company with a petrified apple core. And the soda bottle on the bookshelf. And the books on the floor next to the laundry basket full of clothes that may or may not be clean. And the family of empty toilet paper rolls that had moved in under the bathroom sink. None of these things would be hard to fix. 15 minutes of cleaning tops. Easy. Right?

            
This is when I notice that I CAN’T MOVE. Why? Because there is a tiny human being attached to my breast for a half an hour, every two hours, all day long.  So I stare at the apple core, the fine layer of cereal crumbs on the floor, the coat that has fallen off it’s hook, the toys and cds that are having a mixer under my dining room table, and panic begins to bubble. I have to move. I have to clean. I want to clean. I'm a clean person. I can’t live like this. I start to making to-do lists in my head, because I am holding Thing 2 with my right hand, and I can’t write a list with my left hand.

            
 I take deep breaths and force myself to stare out the window and think about green meadows and unicorns and Jedi Masters. I wait for her to go to sleep. Then I attempt to lay her down. Her eyes fly open as if to say, “Psych! Just kidding mom, I was never really sleeping because I have GAS!” 

By the time she has burped my mental list has been transformed into a blazing mental scream of “MUST MOVE! MUST CLEAN! PLEASE GOD LET ME CLEEEAAANNN!” And then another adult enters the room, and casually tosses something where it DOESN’T belong, and I turn into a psychotic weeping bundle of paralyzed nerves.

            
The good news is that lactation paralysis doesn’t last forever. My mind can’t maintain that level of stress for long, so I slowly stop caring about anything while nursing except that I am actually keeping her alive and that is probably more important than dusted bookshelves.  As she gets older, the paralysis begins to recede, and I discover I am able to do things with one hand. 

Like anyone recovering from a serious illness, progress is slow. Most of this post, for example, was written after Thing 1 decided it was a good idea to break out the xylophone while Thing 2 was trying to sleep. Which means my right side has been lactation paralyzed while I laboriously typed one handed with my left. For someone who can type 70 words a minute with two hands, it has been a special kind of torture. BUT I DID IT, GOD DAMN IT! Because I refuse to be a victim. I conquered lactation paralysis once before, and by golly, I can do it again.