Some evenings bath time at our house is more like a drive-through car wash than a leisurely play time with tub toys.  Lucy is stripped down after dinner and I pop her in the tub.  I leave the warm water running and I don’t plug the drain. We get in and we get out.  It’s not a party. It is as utilitarian as a diaper change. Get clean and get moving. We have books to read and nighttime games to play.

Tonight Lucy Goose was standing in the tub all soaped up.  She was having a good time.  She grinned right through the hair washing.  With one hand under her armpit I reached over to the towel bar for a washcloth when I was suddenly soaked.

If you have ever lived with someone that likes to leave the faucet/shower lever on shower when they get out than you know what happened.  The sudden water in the face can be a rude awakening.  Wiping water from my eyes and with soaking wet hair I turned back towards the faucet and I saw her.  She still had her hand on the lever that switches the water from the faucet to the shower.  I quickly pushed it.  The water resumed coming from the faucet.

The bath that I had planned on being quick just got quicker. I’ll  just get the soap off and whooooosh.  Water in the face.  Again.  This time she was laughing.

So, help me.  This kid is so bad.  And I usually love it.  But man, I was annoyed. I finished washing the soap off of her.  But I did not brush her hair.  I showed her, huh?

I did a little reading and wrote 500 words in about ten minutes.  Turns out I had a lot to say.  I read it and reread it and thought “Yep.  That’s what I think.”  She did what she thought was right with the resources she has to reduce her risk.  It’s that simple.

As soon as I got to think about mentioning the fact that breastfeeding contributes to reducing the risk of breast cancer I started to second guess myself.  Me?  Hesitant to talk breastfeeding? I started to wonder if I was becoming a broken record.  Would the mention of breastfeeding cause someone to think “oh, there she goes again, back on her soapbox” and disregard the rest of my message? Maybe.  But is that a good enough reason to keep silent? I don’t think so.

I like to add an image to everything I write.  It’s Blogging 101. The pictures that I include in my posts frequently get as much attention as the post itself. In a world where Instagram and Photoshop make it so easy to beautify ourselves it seems people take notice when you put your un-airbrushed self out there.  Pictures of my stretchmarks, pictures of my journey back to some level of fitness, pictures of my leaky wet spots and yes, pictures of breastfeeding, get a lot of attention.  A lot.

But I hesitated.  Should I include a picture of myself breastfeeding  in the post about Jolie and her mastectomy?  I was searching my pictures for an appropriate image when I opened up PhotoBooth while I was writing and snapped a picture.

Recently a picture that I posted of myself nursing Lucy while I changed Emily’s bicycle tire got a lot of negative feedback on Facebook. While I elected to delete the comments and rise above it one comment in particular got under my skin.  ”Some people will do anything to get attention.”  Presumably she was referring to my posting a picture of part of my breast on the internet. But her comment stung because part of me started to feel like maybe I had become a one-trick pony.  My breastfeeding posts get far and way more traffic than any others. I like to think it is because it is the topic about which I am most passionate so they are likely some of the most well written.  But I had to ask myself – am I getting lazy? Is breastfeeding my go-to when I am coming up empty?

The truth is I am nursing roughly 60% of the time that I am writing.  I am nursing 30% of the time that I am eating.   I am nursing 60% of the time that I am talking on the phone.  I am nursing 70% of the time that I read.  Because I am nursing 95% of the time that I am sitting down.  I am nursing a toddler.  And as any woman that has ever nursed a toddler can tell you it is a blessing.  Nearly 100% of the time that I stop to catch my breath I am nursing.  Life moves quickly right now. We are climbing and running and jumping and falling and exploring.  And in the moments that I take pause, the moments where I write blog posts in my mind and dictate semi-unintelligible notes in to my phone, I am nursing.

It’s not an agenda.  It’s just where I am right now.  It’s my life.  Will I be talking about breastfeeding all of the time in a few more years? Probably not.  It will always be important to me but I imagine as my life changes something else will move in to my mental spotlight.

And before someone else can say it – I guess when I am no longer nursing I will have to think of a new reason to take pictures of a single boob and put it on the internet.  The web is saturated with images of pairs of boobs.  It really doesn’t garner much attention.  But a lone boob?  Man, it really gets people riled up.   Is it just a gimmick?  I don’t think so.  But am I going to get all defensive when someone calls me out and tries to make me feel like a jerk?  Nope.

Or I suppose I could think of something else that really irritates people.  And if it has as many benefits to my own health and that of my children I will probably take pictures of that, too.  In the meantime I am just going to keep on keeping on. Doing my thing, raising my kids and being me with a lone boob out.  Because that, friends, is how I roll.

Peace out!

Reblogged from The Outlier Collective:

If something happens to Angelina Jolie's boobs in a closed hospital room does it make a sound? Well. Yeah. It does. Because she speaks up. And it's about boobs and Angelina Jolie so every single news source on the planet picks up that story.

It's likely that by now you've heard that Angelina Jolie elected to have a preventive double mastectomy.

Read more… 715 more words

I am a BreastFeeding Advocate, a Lactivist, if you will.  I learned everything I could about breastfeeding when Emily was little.  I nursed in public.  I helped my girlfriends find resources they needed to succeed in their own nursing relationships.  I spoke honestly about my own nursing relationship in order to bring the mysteries of a nursing dyad in to the light.  I did all of these things for years before I really thought I was any kind of Breastfeeding Advocate.  And if I am honest I am still not sure I have earned my stripes as a “Lactivist” in spite of the fact that I don’t  know anyone in real life that hasn’t seen me nursing one of my kids over the last seven years.

I am an Athlete.  It has taken me some time to define myself this way.  I go to the gym six days a week.  I work hard.  I’m not that girl that is sitting pretty at the smoothie bar.  I have fallen prey to the matchy-matchy gym gear because it makes me feel good but it doesn’t keep me from busting ass.  In the last few months I have found my sport.  A gym rat goes to the gym to stay fit, to see and be seen.  But an Athlete, an athlete goes to the gym to get stronger, faster, harder so that they can kick more ass at their sport.

Not everyone gets to combine their passions.  But I have hit the jackpot.

Best for Babes.  Their mission is a simple one: “to change the cultural perception of breastfeeding and beat the breastfeeding booby traps – the cultural, institutional and legal barriers that prevent parents form making informed decisions and that prevent moms from achieving their personal breastfeeding goals (whether that’s 2 days, 2 months or 2 years) without judgement, pressure or guilt.”

Isn’t that what we deserve?  As a woman, as an advocate for breastfeeding, as an advocate for children it really is that simple.  Informed decisions and the freedom and resources to achieve our goals…. that is exactly what I have wanted all these years.  And the magic of the Internet (and a little extra magic from Amy West) delivered Best for Babes to my digital door.  I found my cause years ago when Em was small but in Best for Babes I have found an organization that is so in line with my ideals that I couldn’t not get involved. 

What does this have to do with being an Athlete?  You’re looking at Best for Babes new Team BfB Team Coordinator.  (Well, actually you are looking at her boob while she changes her big kid’s bicycle tire and nurses her little kid.)

Team BfB is the fitness arm  of Best for Babes.  Run, swim, cycle, tri, pogo-stick – do what you do and raise awareness of and help beat the breastfeeding booby traps.  And what will I be coordinating?  I am not entirely sure yet.  But I know I am PSYCHED.

So, why race for Team Best for babes?  Why not fight cancer with Team in Training or Livestrong? I could stumble around to find the words but my words won’t be as powerful as BfB’s co-founder Danielle Rigg’s.  Her blog post – My Breast Cancer: Why I won’t Race for the Cure gave me the language I had been searching for.  ”But in an era when premenopausal breast cancer, including pregnancy onset breast cancer, as well as many other serious diseases, are on the rise, it is simply unacceptable to me to push the “the cure”  without at least an equal emphasis on PREVENTION.”

She’s right.  In a perfect world I want prevention, not a cure.  I don’t want more women to fight cancer, I want more women to not have it all.  Breastfeeding has been shown to reduce the risk of breast cancer in mothers and in their breastfed daughters.  Danielle’s story is a moving one.  Her diagnosis with bilateral breast cancer after nursing two kids for a combined 44 months certainly provides evidence that breastfeeding alone is no sure way to beat the cancer odds. But it’s a start.

So.  Kelly.  Wife.  Mother.  Breastfeeding Advocate.  Athlete.  Team BfB Team Coordinator.  I added a new title this week.  I’m keeping busy.  I am starting to see a path for the next few years. I like it.

And you?  How do you play in to this?  This is when I hit you up for support.  You knew it was coming.  Click through to my team page to see my sweaty face and support my triathlon endeavors in August.  I can’t be the Team Captain and not raise a single dime.  Please?

It’s not easy to learn the ropes of a new sport and still get my mom on.  But multi-tasking is where I really excel.  It’s no shock that I am digging on the multi-sports.

Emily’s relentless love of skidding out on her bike finally blew out her tire.  I knew it was just a matter of time before I’d have to learn how to change a tire. And I am not sure what sounds more troublesome – change a tire on my bike during a ride with friends on the side of the road somewhere or change Emily’s tire on my front porch while my boobie monster of a “baby” demands my attention.  Changing that tire on the side of the road is looking a lot easier.

Thanks in advance for your support during this new endeavor.  I’m excited.  You should be, too. Boobs!  Athleticism! Girl Power!  You must be in to at least one of them if you keep hanging around here.

This old dog has learned to love running.  I have spent the winter and early spring on a treadmill, running only two days a week and trying to be kind to my body but it was time to get outside before the summer sun prevented me from hitting the streets.   Wanna see me in all my spectacularly slow glory?  Hillsborough Running Club.  Good people, good routes, meeting right near a little street with particularly good beer, bbq and coffee for sale.  Wednesday nights, be there or be square.  I make dinner for the family and roll out.  Solo.  In the evening.  I might not make it inside a bar, but I park right near one and that is good enough for me.  It feels good to be out, to have plans that do not involve the kids or a meeting or a chiropractor appointment.  I have never been such a joiner before but stay at home motherhood has me signing up left and right.  Give me a schedule, give me somewhere to be and I am on it.

I am learning to love running.  So much so that I got a tshirt and a bumper sticker.   Running might be my new favorite band.

I have learned that I can clean my entire kitchen floor and run my vacuum in less than three minutes.  I have fallen in love with the steam mop.  It does nothing on the dog hair front but it steams the dried up yogurt right off of the floor.  (Sidenote: Fisher eats everything that hits the floor and some things before they even land.  But he’s not a fan of yogurt, hence the dried up yogurt.) How do I clean my entire downstairs while the human wrecking ball that is Lucy is tearing around the house? Simple.

The kid can climb.  Up.  And up only.  She climbs up on to the table and she stands there in stunned silence.  I have approximately three minutes to pick up all the tupperware from the cabinets she has emptied, return the board books and the stuffed animals to their cubbies and sweep, mop and vacuum before she gets bored and begins to bellow, begging to be returned to the floor so that she can climb up again.  She stands and watches.  The faster I move the more rapt her attention.  Three minutes.  I learned it only takes three minutes to get “company clean.”

I am a bit of a neat freak in the house.  Note that I said “in the house.”  When I was a teenager a perfect punishment would be the afternoon my father said “C’mon, we’re gonna clean your car.”  Not only was I not going anywhere in said car, but I would be standing in the driveway with my father while my secrets were revealed.  Coca-cola cans and fast food trash, overdue library books and too short skirts were pulled from under the seats.  In spite of the fact that I ended up with a clean car (my father can make a 1981 Dodge Aries station wagon sparkle, y’all!) this was not enough to make me enjoy this ritual.

I am still not a huge fan of cleaning my car. I am better than I was.  I try to pull the trash out of the side door cubbies while I pump gas.  I don’t let the kids eat in the car  often. My car is no longer the trash can on wheels it once was, but it isn’t pretty.  For years my car has been a collection of Diet Coke bottles, peanut M&M trash and outerwear that I brought along to make me feel like a better mother.  No one ever wears the sweatshirt, but dammit you had better bring one.

I have learned to love water.  No more Diet Coke cans for me.  I cleaned my car out this week.  I might have had a few water bottles in there.

I have made peace with the fact that my car is messy.  I am what I am, I guess.  Speaking of making peace with who I am and where I am in my life – I am Sporty Spice, guys. I wish I was Scary, I would love to be Posh and the red hair dye of my early twenties reveals my deep-seated desire to be Ginger.  But I am Sporty Spice and there is no denying it. This week I learned I can put my jogging stroller on my bike rack!  I can take Lucy running on the downtown route I love without cleaning out my trunk to make room for the stroller!

I might have been outrageously excited.  I just might have run four miles only to find that Lucy was passed out and I had no choice but to keep cruising around downtown. Lucy napped through the library, the post office and the co-op grocery store.  And I learned that even when you are winded and you’d like to sit on your ass you will keep walking if it means your kid will keep sleeping.

I had a good week.

I learned that I can clean my shed with help from Lucy.  I can keep her from drinking from the gas can while organizing bungee cords and rakes.  I learned that eating clean is swell in theory but that it is totally possible to eat an entire red velvet cake almost by yourself and not feel bad about yourself at all.  I learned that sucking it up and committing to a nap schedule really will make for an easier bedtime routine. I learned that oven baked chicken is fine and dandy but pan fried in Panko is really where it’s at. I learned how to use two of the thingamajigs on my bicycle multi-tool.  I re-learned the finger tip drag freestyle drill and how to maximize the efficiency of my stroke (say that with a straight face, I dare you.)

 And perhaps the most shallow but the biggest immediate change – I learned that cutting off all of my fingernails did not make my typing any better. But it will mean that Sporty Spice won’t spend two hours a week fixing her damn nails anymore.  Ain’t nobody got time for that.  Not when there is so much more to learn.  Happy Birthday week to me.  May the learning continue…

She practiced waiting tables.  She offered to make me a “fancy drink” but I did some soul searching and decided that even if the baby is asleep in your lap that is not a good enough reason to teach your 7-year-old how to make a gin and tonic.  MQD came home and brought sushi from him (who knew there is a Kelly roll?) and we opted to play outside for a bit before we ate dinner. 

I had some time with my mini-me - And MQD spent some time with his. Em sweetly offered to chase Lucy around for a bit so MQD could make faces at me while I tried to take a picture of him.Eventually it was time for dinner.  I put my phone away (gasp) so my last picture for a while was a quick snap of our menus. (On the inside they said only: sushi. Em came to the table and asked us what we would like and rolled her eyes as we opened the menu and hemmed and hawed before selecting “the sushi.” Note the custom menus – “Mom likes the beach and Dad likes monsters.”)We had sushi and red velvet cake from the little bakery in town. We had sushi on our honeymoon for my birthday.  We had red velvet cupcakes at our wedding and MQD sweetly ordered a small one to be delivered to our room as we celebrated my birthday with champagne in the middle of the afternoon.   I felt special the entire time MQD and I were on our honeymoon.  The intoxicating combination of the “just married” glow and the chance to spend time just the two of us for the very first time created an atmosphere that we might never truly recreate.  But for me, on my birthday, MQD tries.

When I was a little girl your birthday was really special.  There was the dinner that you selected and at least one small gift that surprised you.  It wasn’t surprising because you didn’t know about it  in advance, it was surprising because you couldn’t believe that anyone even knew you wanted it.  I guess I thought that once I was a “grown up” I’d never feel like that again.  I have had awesome birthdays.  I have been to concerts and bars and parties and dinners.  I have been in love, on dates, with my girlfriends.  But not since I left my nuclear family home did I have a birthday like last night.

Last night I had that feeling again (even though I forgot to eat dinner off of the “You are Special today” red plate!) This feeling started while we were playing out in the yard.  But when we sat down to open presents – that’s when this feeling overwhelmed me.

Months ago I was rummaging around in the closet after a couple of glasses of wine.  ”What are you looking for?” MQD asked.  ”My slippers!!  I can’t relax without my slippers!!!” It was one of those moments that as soon as it happens you know it will become part of your family lore.  MQD has since suggested to me that I “go put on [my] slippers.”  I know what he means.  It has given him a way to suggest to me that I chill the fuck out without making me mad.  Now, that’s something.  As the weather has warmed up and my precious slippers have moved further to the back of the closet in favor of flip-flops I have started to eye the fuzzy flip-flop slipper.

Fuzzy, flip-flop slippers.  Why would you wear flip-flop slippers?  What exactly is the point?  I used to think this.  But a few weeks ago I took a second look at them.  And last night I reached in to a gift bag and pulled out a pink pair.  Em picked them out herself.  X-large.  Dearfoam, pink and fuzzy.  ”How did you know I wanted these?  Now I can relax all summer!!”

There were other things.  My favorite gum.  A Snoopy figurine.  Sunglasses.  Deodorizing shoe balls (Very funny, MQD.  Not the most romantic gift but the poor man does have to share a closet with me.) A perfect birthday card, made just for me!

But it wasn’t the cake or the sushi or the slippers or the birthday card.  It was that feeling. It was my birthday yesterday.  And I was special all day.

~

Emily June,

Someday you will read all of this. Some of it will horrify you, I am certain.  Some of it will make you laugh.  But I hope these words make you pause.  You and your dad made me feel so special yesterday.  Thank you. Your kindness does not go unnoticed.  In my wedding vows to your dad I said that I knew he was “the one” our first Christmas together.  His gifts to me reflected his efforts at listening, at getting to know me.  And you, my sweet girl, you gave me pink fuzzy flip-flop slippers and all I can do now while I sit back and drink coffee and enjoy their fuzzy pinkness is think “Man, this kid gets me.”  You are growing up.  And I love it. Keep being you.  Because you, you are special every single day.  

xo, Mom 

Join me on Facebook for a few ridiculous videos of the birthday shenanigans!

I slept in a bit. Woke with the mini-me in time to say goodbye to Em and MQD.

Kicked it in the kitchen with the salad spinner for a bit.  (Side note: A salad spinner is an excellent baby gift!! Better than you think. It has provided hours of fun.)

Hit the gym for a spin class and a short run in my new hat! Thank you very much, Laura!!  (HA! You might kill me for linking to this, but look what I found when I was hunting for your website!!)

And now I think I am going to close my eyeballs for a few minutes.  It appears that turning 37 has exhausted Lucy.

Stay tuned for part two when I share the rest of my birthday with two more special people.  And sushi.  And cake.  And more cake.  And a gin and tonic.  And cake.

I know better than to ignore the quiet.   Screaming.  Whining.  Yelling  Slamming.  Banging.  These are the sounds that say “Yep.  We’re all fine, Mom.” But quiet?

Quiet means you’d be smart to hightail into the room where your kids are playing and be prepared to freak out.

I was folding laundry in my bedroom.  Glamorous life, I know.  Lucy had been wandering back and forth between my bedroom and the living room making the “enh enh enh” sound that means “Pick me up and carry me around. There is nothing wrong with me but I am bored.” I had decided to tough it out.  I would just finish this last load, put it away and then I’d make up for not providing a challenging and age-appropriate activity for six minutes of the poor kid’s life.

But then it got quiet.

I made the foolish choice.  I folded like mad and decided to ride it out.  When I left my bedroom I had half a mind to just go straight to the kitchen for a Magic Eraser.  There was sure to be crayon on a wall.  I’d be grateful for crayon and not Sharpie.  Or maybe there would be a dumped over dog water bowl.

Much to my surprise my sweet girl was sitting quietly on the couch with the dog.  She pointed as soon as I saw her.

Her point was not at me.  It was at the television (which had been muted, so I didn’t realize it was even on.) She pointed.  And she didn’t move.  She sat like a stone and watched.

You recognize the start of those happy trees, don’t you?  My sweet girl that doesn’t watch television because she is shy of 16 months old and I am afraid I will turn her brain in to oatmeal or, even worse, create a kid that is incapable of amusing herself without a screen, was watching TV.

But not just any TV.  She was watching Bob Ross.

And I hope I didn’t ruin her because I sat down right next to her and said “Check this out. First he covers the whole canvas with Liquid White.  Watch and learn, kiddo. Watch. And. Learn.”

She was mesmerized. I can’t blame her.

MQD,

I think we should go out to dinner like grown-ups more than once a year. I should really parade you around in public frequently while you are still my twenty-something year old husband. The clock is ticking. You’ll be 30 in two months. I love you. You look cute in a tie. Marriage looks good on you, too.

xo, Kel

Two hours after I met MQD I knew that he was funny.  Two days after I met him I knew that he was kind.  Two weeks after I met him I knew that I was smitten.  Two months in – I was head over heels in love.  And now we have been married for two years.

And it is still the beginning.  No dragons have been slain.  We haven’t danced at the ball.  Our story is still unfolding.  I love him more than I did yesterday.  I will love him even more tomorrow.  When the dragons come I will love him still more and we will face them together, hand in hand.

Someday, after the dragons have come and gone, when the glass slippers have lost their lustre, we will dance in the kitchen in the quiet for hours and it will be more grand than any ball.  In the meantime, we will sneak a quick kiss when we can, we will have a dance and let the dishes sit, we will raise our children in a home filled with laughter and love and kindness and joy and we will be grateful.  Because fairy tales don’t always come true.  But sometimes, sometimes they do.  And it is only the beginning.  Happy Anniversary, MQD.  I love you more every day.  My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free.