Travels of a Wannabe Nomad
  • Home
  • About Me
  • City Guides
    • Arenal Region
    • Athens | Αθήνα
    • Ayutthaya | อาณาจักรอยุธยา
    • Bangkok | กรุงเทพมหานคร
    • Barcelona
    • Capri | Cápri
    • Chiang Mai | เชียงใหม่
    • Costa del Sol
    • Delphi | Δελφοί
    • Granada
    • Jaco | Jacó
    • Kanchanaburi | กาญจนบุรี
    • Madrid
    • Monteverde
    • Phitsanulok | พิษณุโลก
    • Pompeii
    • Rome | Roma
    • San Jose | San José
    • Tetouan | تطوان
  • My Travels
    • Italy & Greece >
      • Intro to Italy
      • Ancient Rome
      • Dessert and Discrimination in Trastevere!
      • Vatican Exploration
      • New Year’s Eve In Roma!
      • Paradise in Capri
      • Pompeii Ruins
      • Opa!
      • The Belly Button of the World
      • Everything in Moderation
      • It's All Greek to Me
      • The Jump that Almost Landed Us in Greek Prison
      • The Midnight Meal
    • Costa Rica >
      • Inside a Volcano
      • Toil and Trouble
      • La Fortuna
      • Volcanic Hot Springs
      • Coasting on Cables
      • Swimming with Piranhas
    • Thailand >
      • Jet Lag
      • Stairs of Death and the Emerald Buddha
      • The Broken-Finger Dance
      • The Squatter Toilet
      • Tuk Tuks and The Night Market
      • Topical Roofie!
      • Indiana Jones’ Bridge
      • Bridge Over the River Kwai
      • Tiger Temple
      • Dawn in the Jungle
      • Elephant Ride
      • Orchid Farm
      • Thai Hills
      • Seafood on the Beach
      • Ringside Thai Kickboxing
    • Spain & Morocco >
      • Sweet Sangria
      • Wedding Crashers
      • Karma on the Madrid Metro
      • Fried Fish Fiasco
      • Moroccan Medina
      • Fieldtrip!
  • Don't Drink the Water
  • Contact Logan

The Stain

1/30/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
If I had a dollar for every time my friends say to me “that would only happen to you” I would definitely invest in a private island of some sort. But that’s usually what I hear when I relay a story that almost always involves humiliation (on my part) and laughter (on the listener’s part).
 
Take, for example, what should have been a relaxing date night last week. With a 2.5 year old and a newborn at home, going to the movies with my husband happens about as often as a total solar eclipse, and I’d been looking forward to seeing M. Night Shyamalan’s latest thriller for months. So with a purse stashed with candy and my trusty hand pump (since I would be missing a feeding with the baby), we set off for the 5 o’clock show.
 
We chose seats in the back corner of the theater so as to avoid any prying eyes since I would have to pump during the movie. I had done this once before when my oldest was an infant, and it had been no problem since it was completely dark and I could easily hide behind my husband’s big frame. 
 
I stealthily withdrew the pump 45 minutes into “Split” and placed it under my shirt and pumped until I had a few ounces. I readjusted my jacket and switched sides. For some reason though, I wasn’t producing any milk (OR SO I THOUGHT!!) and after 5 minutes I decided to call it quits.
 
It was at this point that I saw a dark stain approximately the size and shape of Lake Michigan on my left leg. I frowned and touched my thigh. SOAKING WET. As in, dripping wet. Totally baffled, I furtively held the bottle up to eye level and saw to my unamused astonishment that I had indeed been producing milk. For my mom friends who don’t know this, when a Medela brand bottle is full to the brim, it will start back flowing out of the pump. I cursed my decision to change into LIGHT gray sweatpants moments before walking out of the door. Literally no other color can offer such contrast when wet. I hissed to my husband to go and fetch paper towels and when he asked “right now?” I hissed-shrieked “YES! Right now!” and frantically attempted to organize bottle and pump parts all while trying to remain still.
 
A couple of minutes later I see my husband starting up the stairs toward me, paper towels in hand. I snatched them and quickly tried to remedy the situation. Randy had the genius idea for me to change seats (duh!) and when I stood up, the feeling of wet cotton against my bottom confirmed my worst fears.
 
I can only imagine that I pumped roughly 8 ounces into my lap and chair while captivated by a story about a man with dissociative identity disorder. Meanwhile the milk stain spread quickly and without mercy to whatever absorbent material it could find.
 
I sat on the paper towels.
 
I peered to my right and imagined that I saw a couple of older people glance in my direction. A wild and uncontrolled giggle escaped my lips. I clapped my hand over my mouth. It was at this point that I was rendered completely and utterly incapacitated by a bout of such uncontrollable laughter I think I pretty well alarmed my husband. I could not contain the idea of what this must look like to my fellow movie-goers: a young couple sitting in a dark corner of a theater while one of them makes furtive movements underneath a jacket. Then the man fetches paper towels while the girl giggles uncontrollably.
 
If only life as new parents was that exciting.
 
I just felt like waving my arms and announcing ‘nothing exciting happening over here, folks! Just a couple of tired parents out for a much needed break.’
 
By the grace of God, somehow my pants dried to an acceptable shade of heather gray by the time the credits rolled, and we escaped the theater leaving nothing behind except a smell of sour milk.
 
The joys of being a lactating mother!  

0 Comments

SAHM

12/2/2014

3 Comments

 
Picture
I won't lie: I used to think that phrase "stay at home mom" was a job title that mothers who were too lazy to have a "real job" would assign to themselves to ease their guilt of not contributing financially to their family. 

I'm not proud of it. 

After all, my own mother was a homemaker who stayed home with me and my sister and I never once thought any less of her because she didn't punch a time clock or receive a paycheck. 

But somewhere in between my freshman year of college and the final semester of my Master's program, my indifference towards about stay-at-home moms had morphed from apathy into bitter cynicism. The liberal education I received sort of brainwashed me into thinking that women can and should work in the same fields and positions as men, and any woman who doesn't take advantage of our progressive society is lazy and anti-feminist. 

I won't go into the responsibility that every mother has. Many pens (and keyboards) have covered the subject so thoroughly (and more poetically) than I could ever begin to describe: the sleepless nights, the 24/7 work schedule, the constant physical and emotional demands that often feel under appreciated--and often unnoticed. All of which is unpaid. 


Anyone who has children will attest that stay-at-home moms have the most difficult job there is. 

No, I wanted to talk about how I really didn't expect to feel heartbroken every single day that I have to get in my car and drive to work. Like every mile I put in between myself and my infant daughter makes me feel a kind of despair I really wasn't expecting. How the things my co-workers and customers say to me in an attempt to make me feel better actually drive me into deeper discouragement. Things like 

"You can be a better mom when you haven't been around her all day. You need to do something for yourself."

Or

"You're still breastfeeding?? That's too much work. You need to switch to formula."

And even

"It's better for kids to be at daycare, you know. There's structure there. And you have to think about yourself."

Every time this happens (which is almost daily), I feel like screaming. I want to grab these women and shake them and say "NEWSFLASH!! Having children isn't about YOURSELF! It's about them!" 

My last intention is to hate on moms who have chosen to work because they love what they do. People who are making a difference in the lives of others through their work: teachers, health care professionals, counselors, and the like. Or even moms who are just passionate about their careers, or the ones who work part-time to bring in additional income. I also don't want to hurt moms who sincerely NEED to work because they don't have a husband, or because they're faced with insurmountable student loans or medical bills.

No, I'm talking about moms who are running the rat race. 

The ones who work--not because they genuinely cannot make ends meet without their salary--but because they can't keep the lifestyle they are accustomed to: The manicured nails and dyed hair. The fancy car. The latest fashions and newest iPhone.

As if they are saying, "I care more about my appearance and the size of my house more than I care about my children." 

Hear me out--I AM A WORKING MOM. But I would give absolutely anything to stay at home with my daughter. My husband and I have considered everything, including selling our house and moving into a mobile home that we could purchase outright with the equity in our house. Because we don't care what other people think about us. 

I don't care if people notice that I never buy new clothes, or that my husband and I cut each other's hair. Or that the only bills we have that fall into the "want" category and not "need" is cable.  

At the end of my life I seriously doubt that I will lay on my deathbed and wished that I had earned more money so I could buy more crap. 

No, I think I would be happy if the things I was leaving behind weren't things that were purchased with a magnetic strip on the back of a plastic card. The Lord tells us in his Word to store up treasures in Heaven where moth and rust don't destroy.* I want to leave a legacy, and the way I think I can do that is to raise Sarah in a way that is honoring to the Lord. 

So I want to encourage other women (and men!) to value mothers who choose to stay at home and raise their children. Don't discredit her. Understand that she is making a sacrifice not for her own sake, but for her children. 

Recognize how backwards our society is: that we WORK so we can have money to PAY someone else to raise our children, clean our houses, and cook our meals. Instead of saving that money by doing those things ourselves. 

And I think it's hard. I think it's why so many women say they HAD to go back to work, but if they were really look at their heart, they CHOSE to go back to work because they just don't desire to be home with their children all day. Everyday. 


I admit that I used to judge women who labeled themselves as "homemakers." But I never will again. I will NEVER scoff at a woman who has perhaps given up a rising career, a big income (and the comforts that come with it), or the accolades of working in the corporate world. 



I applaud the SAHM for your sacrifice. And I can't wait to join you one day. 


*Matthew 6:19-21


3 Comments

Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk

10/24/2014

1 Comment

 
PictureSarah demonstrating crying for the camera. Thanks for being a good sport baby girl!
I've always wondered why people say this... the phrase has always made me picture a toddler having a tantrum in the middle of the kitchen after he (unsuccessfully) tried to pour his own bowl of cereal and failed miserably as the entire gallon of milk cascades onto the tile floor.

As a breastfeeding mother, however, I recently had an epiphany as to the history of this common idiom; it is--without a doubt--referring to breast milk. 

If you're a breastfeeding mom (particularly a working mom who has to pump continually at work), then you know the feeling of despair that follows the loss of even one drop of your precious "liquid gold." After all, you don't necessarily look forward to being hooked up to a machine that is attempting to mimic your baby's feeding habits, so it's perfectly logical to burst into tears at the end of the day when you realize that you must not have screwed the cap of the bottle on tightly enough, and your baby's meal for the next day has been steadily leaking into your lunch cooler all afternoon.

And if you work in the field like I do, then you spend half your days searching for (semi) private places to pump. To add insult to injury, you have to pump in your car because restrooms don't have an outlet in the stall (because after all I would just love to pump while sitting on the toilet in a gas station).

It's ironic that your milk production will suffer if you are feeling stressed... Wow, I can't imagine why I would feel stressed (or embarrassed. Or anxious) when I have failed AGAIN to find a private place to park my car to spend 15-20 minutes getting partially undressed and attaching myself to a contraption that makes me want to say "moo." 


Women are supposed to be in a relaxed environment, with minimal distractions, preferably watching a video of their baby to encourage milk production--not watching over their shoulders to make sure no creepers are staring in my (un-tinted) car windows. 

So to lighten things up, I've decided to compile a list of some of the places that I've visited while performing my motherly duties. Highlights include:

  • an abandoned rock quarry in north Georgia 
  • every parking garage in metro Atlanta
  • the parking lot of a Catholic church
  • the parking lot of a Catholic preschool
  • the parking lot of a Catholic high school 
  • outside of a hospital
  • outside of Six Flags
  • various city halls
  • jail
  • a couple of different universities (Berry College actually has a "mother's room" dedicated just for this reason)
  • IKEA
  • Atlantic Station
  • I-75 (reader advisory--don't pump while driving down the interstate. You will realize a couple of ounces into the process that while the sedans and minivans driving next to you are not privvy to what you are doing under your shirt, the same cannot be said of semi truck drivers. Whose vantage point is about 7 feet above the average Toyota and angled just perfectly to see the tubes, bottle, and power cord hanging out from under my blouse. They seem very curious to what's happening udder there. Pun intended)
  • the Cancer Treatment Centers of America
  • a boxing gym
  • a nursing home
  • a cemetery (just kidding. I pulled in, got everything set up, then felt I was being sacrilegious somehow, so I settled for the parking lot of a nearby church)
  • Jimmy Johns
  • Several different law firms
  • the side of the road
  • Firehouse Subs
  • more gas stations than I care to remember


On the bright side, I've acquired a whole new set of skills, and developed a different sense of what "modesty" means! Breasts are for feeding children, people. 


My first experience with the pump seems just like yesterday, in which my sister-in-law had to show me how to put the darn thing together and hook it up. Sarah was about 3 days old, I was a puddle of tears (and hormones), and when Cecily pushed the "on" button, I experienced a reaction quite similar to Westley on the Princess Bride when he's strapped to "the machine" and has the life literally sucked out of him. I shrieked because I thought my skin was being ripped off, but couldn't press the power button because both hands were occupied holding the pump to my chest. I yelled for Cecily to take the thing off the highest setting (which it was surely on). To which she informed me that it was on the lowest setting possible.


But now I can eat my lunch, talk on the phone, and write in my calendar, all the while feeling pretty grateful that I'm providing Sarah with the best nutrition possible.


Now that's multi-tasking. 

1 Comment

    Archives

    September 2017
    January 2017
    September 2016
    July 2016
    March 2016
    January 2016
    October 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    April 2014
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    March 2013

    Author

    Christ-follower, mommy blogger, video maker, book editor, outdoor lover, wife, reader, writer, mother

    Categories

    All
    Animal Shelter
    Awkward
    Baby
    Breast Feeding
    Bucket List
    Childbirth
    Crossfit
    Dog
    Driving
    Exercise
    God
    Gospel
    Health
    Healthy Eating
    Inanimate Objects
    Lip Reading
    Memory
    Music
    Nutrition
    Ostrich
    Parenting
    Pregnancy
    Sarah
    Stay At Home Mom
    Travel
    Vaccine

    RSS Feed

Tell me what you think! Logan@wannabenomad.com