Rocky Mountain Moms Blog

An American Girl

 There are a lot of stereotypes around the world about us, ladies.  Loud, rich, obnoxious, ignorant, and sexually loose, to name a few.  I’m sure you’ve heard ‘em all.  I was reminded of just how prevalent these ideas are recently while sitting on a bus to Punjab amidst a sea of turban-clad Sikh men and their families. 

Blaring so loudly I had to stick tissue in my ears, a popular Hindi movie screamed the entire five hour journey long.  And when the token American Girl appeared in the film, she acted as to be expected.  Boobs hanging out, butt cheeks exposed, the Bimbo twirled her bleached locks between her fingertips and popped her gum while the men in the film drooled and ogled, despite their wives’ scolding.            

It was all quite comical, actually.  The fact that there happened to be an American portrayed in this particular Hindi movie.  The fact that I happened to be on that very bus, in the middle of India, as white and gleaming as I am.  And it definitely got me thinking.  However incorrect or at times, correct, that stereotype may be, I’m damn glad to be an American Girl. 

I'm Bringing My Breast Pump to India

I’m bringing my breast pump to India.  There.  I said it.  I’m doing it, despite what everyone and their mother tells me I should do.  Yes, I know I probably won’t be able to keep my supply up being gone for nearly a month.  And yes, I know it will be a pain in the ass trying to deal with pumping on international flights and on moving Indian trains in a place where toilet paper is considered a luxury.  Believe me, I’ve thought about all of it.

Alas, I am going to do it anyway.  Call it attachment, call it lunacy, call it what you will.  But I suppose this is my process.  I need emotional weaning as much as my daughter needs it literally.  The truth is, I secretly hope to keep some kind of supply so that when I get back, I can still breastfeed.  Even just a tad.

Plus, the way I see it, there may be many hidden benefits to me bringing my pump along to Asia… 

Comfort in the Chaos of Moms

I was at a friend’s birthday party this past weekend when thank Buddha, I found them.  The only other mommies in the room.  Without effort or intention, we stumbled upon each other amongst the horde.  We must have given off a new-mommy-vibe or something.   

Throughout the night, I bobbled back and forth between groups, saying hello to old friends who are still single, boobs still perky and un-mom-ified, and chatting with newly married couples about big travel plans.  I made the rounds and loved every second of it.  But man-o-man, how nice it was to come back to my mommy-pod between minglings. 

I barely knew one mom yet felt totally comfortable going on and on about how I’d “been crying all day ‘cause I can’t get my baby to latch anymore. And I somehow can’t get over it and she seems totally fine!”

Try saying that to a group of single ladies at a party, sans baby…Total buzz kill. 

Healthy Attachment

We’d been building up for this moment for weeks, months even.  Our first weekend away since baby.  And we were going to Vegas.  Ridiculous?  Yes.  But it was a big birthday for my husband; we had to go all out.  Aside from a few friends, it would be just the two of us again, finally.  No possible late night snafus, no early morning wake ups, no diapers, drool or do-do---only unattached freedom. 

But alas, the moment came when we had to drop our daughter off at her grandparents for the weekend.  Though I knew she was in good hands, I broke.  On our way to the airport all I could do was cry.  Were we bad parents for leaving her at only 7 months old?  Selfish and inconsiderate?  “She doesn’t really know your parents’ house,” I cried to my husband, “will she feel totally disoriented and lose it?”  Not quite like you are Dear, I’m sure he was thinking. 

I don’t tend to be a woman ruled by my emotions, but when it has to do with my kid, I’m bubbling over with them.  Part of our belief system as a family has to do with letting go of attachments, or at least striving to create healthy ones.  But how on earth does one remain unattached from their baby?  Man o man, being a parent has really tested this belief. 

When I Was Cool

There was a time, circa 1990, when I was part of the ‘in’ crowd.  At least, in my mind I was.  I used to get up early each day before school, curl my bangs just so, and use about a half a can of hair spray.  I’d heavily line my eyes with blue liner.  I’d peg my jeans and make sure my leggings went with my fluorescent socks, which matched my sunglasses that went with my snap bracelets.  That’s right, I was hip. 

Fast-forward 20 years.  I am sitting at the kitchen table helping a kid I tutor edit an essay he wrote.  He’s an 8^th grader, and though he claims to detest the popular kids, he definitely has a pulse on what is ‘in’ and what is not. 

As I am trying to explain why LOL and OMG don’t really strengthen the argument of his essay, he drops it on me: “I bet you were cool once,” he says.  

I look at him.  I think I am supposed to be flattered.  He awaits my response… 

Nay to the Nay Sayers

I have this image of myself in the first week home from the hospital after birthing the babe scarred into my brain.  I am in the shower.  I am crying, bleeding and uncontrollably spraying the wall directly in front of me with my newly flowing knockers.  My poor husband is standing in the bathroom overly rocking our screaming pink wonder, and simultaneously trying to calm me down.  It is a damn funny thought to me now, though 6 months ago it was hell. 

I tell this story to most of my friends hoping to get a laugh.  And most of the time, I do.  But I have started to realize that there are a select few with whom I cannot share this story: the 9 months swollen, to-be Mommies, and those who just fired one out of the shoot.  Among other things in my mommy-hood journey, I am learning the art of discretion.  Sarcastic realism is the last thing those poor souls need when they are in the trenches (or about to be).

My Lighter Half

When we were kids, my dad used to take us sledding while my mom stayed home and made hot cocoa (now that I am a mom, my bet is she was probably watching tv or taking a bath).  Nevertheless, we were gone, and it was special Daddy bonding time.  Something we did with only our dad.  And we loved every minute of it.  But it was frigid, and we got cold, our clothes wet and our faces chapped. 

I’ll never forget my then four year brother, Jeremy, crying and saying that his face hurt from the cold.  Thankfully, my dad always had all the answers.  “Don’t worry,” I remember him saying amidst the masses of kids flying by us on inner tubes, “I brought ChapStick,” a sparkle on his front tooth. 

Are You There Body? It's Me, Brie.

Well, it’s official.  I am not a super model.  And while the better part of me would go up to Heidi Klum if I saw her and tell her that she is amazing for being able to get back on the runway two months after having a kid, the bigger part of me would break her skinny ass in half.  I mean, all my love to the super models of the world, but two months?  Seriously? 

Here I sit with a nice layer of new-ish mommy goodness covering my tummy five months later.  I keep reminding myself that underneath my squishy exterior is an ex college athlete.  Underneath this dimpled flesh is a woman who is a trail runner, a yogini and a former marathoner.  It’s only a matter of time, I tell myself as I suck my gut in to force yet another zipper.

Bad Santa

Though it seems ridiculous, I took my 5 month old to see Santa the other day.  I know, I know- I am lame.  And I know, I know-she doesn't care yet.  Believe me, I've heard all of this from my husband.  But I can't help it.  I had to take her for picture's sake.  

And we all know that when he's not in the North Pole, Santa lives at your typical urban sprawl shopping mall. So, we made the trek out to Flatirons Crossing last week.

After waiting in a stupidly long line of other mommies and babies that are too young to give a flip, it was our turn.  

A Buddhist Christmas

My husband and I were both raised Catholic.  Growing up, we both went to church every Sunday, were baptized and confirmed, and took Communion.  But somewhere along the line, each in our own ways, we realized that God wasn’t really for us.  Not to knock God by any means.  Catholicism just didn’t fit our paths, individually. 

Completely unintentionally, I met a Buddhist teacher while studying in Nepal in my early 20s.  I was completely taken with him, and with the philosophy about which he spoke.  This was what I had been looking for and didn’t even know it.  And I couldn’t wait to get home from my semester abroad and tell my Catholic family all about it that December of 2001. 

“Well, why don’t I go ahead and take all these gifts back,” My dad said jokingly, looking towards the brightly sparkling tree, “I’m pretty sure Buddha wasn’t into Christmas trees and presents and stuff.”  I suppose he had a point.