ME... AND EVERYONE ELSE

Over the weekend I saw Up in The Air, a film that centers on the recent economic plunge this country has taken. Plot-wise, while I've been going back and forth in my mind whether or not I loved it, there is one thing I'm certain of: HOT-wise, George Clooney is still very much number 1 on my list. Having said that (hello Larry David), no amount of his perfectly salt and peppered hair could have taken the depression away that lingered from watching his character Ryan and his company lay off thousands of people from their jobs each day....

Considering that I too am currently unemployed (i.e. devoid of a "real" job and "real" work and certainly devoid of the income that comes along with those "real" things), I felt the fear during those scenes. Not knowing where my next check is going to come from has definitely made me feel a little sorry for myself... If I don't have a "real" paying job, and don't get paid for what I love to do (write!) then how do I measure my success?

Today I literally called three different retailers nearby to see if they needed extra help during the holidays with gift wrapping (they're not hiring. Go figure). But, I mean... Really?! That's what it's come to? Gift wrapping?! Like in the stock room with the teenagers picking up extra money during Winter Break?! (BTW, you can thank the job I had at Williams Sonoma during high school doing the exact same thing for my appreciation of copper cookware. Nerd.) The point is, What's next?? Becoming a cashier at Hot Dog on a Stick??? I mean, my life seems to be working in reverse and I feel like with each and every day (that I don't get "the job") I lose the ability to go after what I really want... Will I ever have "the job"? Will I ever do something worthy? Something good? Something that gets on the map? Something that puts me across from Barbara Goddamn Walters?!?!?

(Not so) Ironically, it is my 2 year old who continues to talk me off the ledge and calm my fears. This morning, chasing him down the block as he stomped and crunched leaves in his big boy rain boots, he came to a complete halt. Turning the corner, was what seemed like the most massive garbage truck I have ever seen.

"Whoah, Baby-Ko. Look at the garbage truck!" I said.

His eyes lit up.

Slowly, the Garbage Truck drove up the block towards us.

Baby-Ko started to wave. "Hiiii Garbage Truck! Hiiii!"

As it pulled up along side of us, the window rolled down: Two Garbage Men with the biggest smiles you've ever seen leaned in and waved back. "Hiiii!" They said as they honked their horn.

"Byeee Garbage Man!!" Baby-Ko shouted back and sort of leaped in delight, "Byeee!"

My heart was warmed and in that moment I knew that it doesn't matter who I become.... That no matter where I end up, what I end up doing, and whether or not it's where I thought I would be, somehow in some way, I will (hopefully) put a smile on someone's face....

I just hope it's not bagging groceries at Trader Joe's. Because between the Ginger Snaps and Pita Chips, I could get very fat working there very easily...

PARTY'S OVER

As I pushed the stroller past the windows at Trader Joe's today, I caught a reflection of myself and for some reason the reality hit:

It's been 6 Days since I have pumped and 10 days since Baby-Ko has nursed.

I am officially done with breastfeeding.

I pushed Baby-Ko through the doors of the Hawaiian flared market and suddenly all the cheap, non-preservative, goodies it has to offer started to taunt me. "You are not breastfeeding anymore, lady, you do not get to eat me. You will not burn extra calories just by feeding your child. You will not get to have 'just one more cookie' after your midnight pumping session 'just because.' And you will certainly not be able to use the excuse of being exhausted because you are nursing and it's so much pressure, whah whah whah... Face it, THE PARTY IS OVER."

I bee-lined straight to the produce area (despite the fact that Traders is the shittiest place for produce). As I searched for the pre-packaged Country Italian Salad (my fav), a tinge of sadness came over me. For the past 7 months, I haven't looked at one nutrition label, haven't thought about fat, calories, sugar, or sodium. I have eaten to my heart's content AND still managed to lose all my pregnancy weight, and fit (okay, squeeze) back in to my size 27 jeans. Breastfeeding has been like a miracle drug and for selfish reasons only, I will miss it.

Who am I kidding? I tell myself as I ignore the best pita chips known to man. I hated breastfeeding! There were times that I secretly wished my milk would dry up so I would have no excuse but to give Baby-Ko formula. Plus, my chest is a fucking mess. All the stretch marks that should have gone to obvious places like my stomach and ass have ended up creating quite a lovely and astonishing pattern on my breasts. My areolas have gotten so large that one more month of nursing, a spear through my nose and a cloth over my crotch, I'd seriously be mistaken for a feature in National Geographic. Call me Ngudu. No joke.

As I pass all the cases of Two Buck Chuck, I realize something else: MOMMY CAN DRINK AGAIN. And not just a little glass here or there. I can get drunk! Yeehaw! Okay, fine. I probably won't get smashed, at least not while I'm taking care of Baby-Ko, but the point is I can drink and not worry about it affecting the baby-

Oh, the baby... My sweet baby who is staring at the lights and ceiling fans with amazement. What if I cut him off too soon? What if breast milk is so much better for him and the formula is poison? What if I should have tried harder and nursed for a whole year instead of 6 1/2 months? WHAT IF-

I stop myself. Baby-Ko is giggling and flirting with the cashier while trying to put his foot in his mouth. Oh my god, When did he get so big? When did he develop this little personality? When did he get to be so much fun?? My guilt has been diverted. The party is far from over. Clearly, it is just beginning....