Perhaps In the Near Future I Will Write About Something Other Than The Baby Or My Breasts

So it looks like I am going to be returning to the working world in two weeks, bringing my alleged maternity leave (unclear whether one can actually take maternity leave when one is a freelancer) to an abrupt end. This is one of a handful of decisions I have recently made that have resulted in me feeling like I'm probably a crappy mother. Or at least, like the women of Urban Baby would feel comfortable comparing me to Joan Crawford. The other decision that these women, and perhaps the vast majority of female society, would probably totally chastise me for is that I'm probably going to quit pumping breast milk for Milo around that time.

The second decision came about because the pediatrician told me, when I asked what the recommended time was for me to continue pumping, that breast milk is only important for the first week of life, and that after that formula is just as good.

"If it feels good to you to give your baby breast milk, give him breast milk. If you hate pumping and it's making you miserable, stop," was more or less what he said, in an Australian accent that for some reason I found reassuring. He then went on to say that all the studies proving how great breastfeeding is are politically motivated, and that formula is now so well made that it's almost identical to the real thing. He pointed out that Milo has gained two pounds and grown two inches since birth, and seems to be a perfectly happy baby despite the fact that he is only eating breast milk about fifty percent of the time.

All of which made me wonder what sort of force would be behind a politically motivated breast milk study. The breast pump manufacturers? People who organize things like this? Or maybe it's The Man, keeping us down by making women feel like terrible, horrible people for wanting to do something other than attach their breasts to either baby or pump every two hours?

Either way, my breasts immediately rebelled against this information by forming into hard, painful slabs of concrete when I tried to skip my first pumping session in order to start weaning them off pump. Evil pump; highly addictive.

The return to work at six weeks post-partum means that I have absolutely no clothing that fits me. My shirts are too short because my boobs are ginormous, and my pants are too tight because my hips and ass still think we're pregnant. It also means that now I'm going to have to think about something else other than baby baby baby all day long. Which I'm looking forward to, but also a bit terrified by. What if my brain has been permanently altered by childbirth and I can no longer have a coherent thought about Information Architecture? What if my boobs start leaking in the middle of a meeting? What if I miss the baby and this is all a huge, terrible mistake and I've signed on for an 8-week project and I can't get out of it and in those 8 weeks Milo does something totally amazing (like...um...smiles, I guess? Rolls over...maybe?) and I miss it and we're never able to bond ever again and he grows up to be a heroin addict all because I went back to work when he was only six weeks old?

Milo and I had a big bonding moment a few days ago. I was sitting at my computer holding him in my left arm and he suddenly flailed his big head in that way he does, like a big floppy fish, and his head smacked straight into my keyboard. He looked stunned for a minute, and then turned bright red and let out a massive wail. I looked at him all red-faced and miserable, and knew that if I was responsible for him suffering some kind of permanent damage all because I wanted to check my email that I would never be able to live with myself. Which is to say, I felt his pain and it caused me pain in a way I had never experienced.

I got him calmed down fairly quickly, then called the pediatrician, who assured me that Milo was fine (and also added that she had whacked her son's head on the door frame on several occasions). And then Milo went to sleep and I burst into tears. And I think that for both of us, it was a weird bonding moment. Milo learned that he can whack his head into the keyboard and Mommy will make it better. And I learned that I care deeply about whether or not Milo whacks his head. Which will be good for both of us to remember when I abandon him and go back to work. (Just trying to keep you in diapers, Milo. The good kind.)