Category — Things That Piss Me Off

Aside from the dirty fridge, please tell me what’s wrong with this picture.

Oh well. Happy Father’s Day?

Things are up and down with my boobs, which is stressing me out and probably causing more problems.

I went to the La Leche League meeting on Thursday. I, as with most breastfeeding mothers I know, had heard many rumors about LLL. Namely, I’d heard that they were militant, feminazi breastfeeding proponents who advocated “nurse-ins” and attachment parenting. Several of my friends were very eager for me to report my findings from the meeting.

My experience was this: La Leche League is definitely a “niche” group, not appropriate for what I’d consider average, Pamper-using, Babies R Us-shopping type families. I will preface my account with the full acknowledgement that I will come across as judgemental and possibly rude, neither of which I’m intending to be. But I admit that I was kind of disappointed with the experience and will not be attending any more meetings. In detail:

From the moment I walked in, it was glaringly obvious I didn’t really belong there. I was the only woman with a stroller — as in, everyone else was “wearing” their babies in various forms of cloth slings and other baby-wearing contraptions. The leader made sort of a big fuss about where to put my stroller, making things slightly more uncomfortable for me.

One by one, ladies and children filtered in as the leader waxed on for a good 20 minutes about the benefits of LLL membership. (Meetings are free but you have to pay for membership, which made zero sense to me. Not much of a business plan in my opinion, but anyway.)

At one point, a woman walked in and, while I didn’t notice how many children were actually hers, I believe she had no fewer than four. What was interesting about her, aside from the number of children, was the fact that she was wearing an uncomfortably short tennis skirt on her very overweight frame. Like I said, not trying to judge. But when she sat cross-legged on the floor, I was like woah damn.

Moving on.

Maybe I was misinformed, but I thought La Leche League was a breastfeeding support group sort of thing. So I was surprised when the leader presented a topic of discussion and we all had to talk about it like we were at an AA meeting. The topic was how much work mothers do when it appears we do nothing at all. We were told to talk about the things we do around the house, and we “learned” how to say them in a more “high-fallutin’” (the leader’s words, not mine) way to give gravity to the otherwise mundane-sounding chores of motherhood.

I actually really liked the topic, but I was getting antsy because I wanted to ask why my boobs were failing me and what I could do to make them work again, and I had two babies who’d had their nap interrupted to come to this group of breast-baring ladies, and here we were trying to make “I clean up shit and vomit” sound more important.

Next, the leader wanted to provide support for the two pregnant women in attendance, which was awesome. Finally, an hour and twenty minutes after the start of the meeting, she opened the floor for breastfeeding questions from the rest of the moms.

By this time, the children were bonkers. Babies were separated from mothers. Boobs were lactating. Kids were crying. Toys were usurped and diapers were desecrated. The din of wails, sobs, gurgles and giggles was distracting, to say the least. I desperately tried to raise my hand but couldn’t quite get in the loop. The mothers clucked at the evils of plastic toys from China. I shyly tried to retrieve my toxic toys from a hemp-shirt-wearing toddler.

Finally, I managed to jump in. “I started on the mini pill and my supply is practically gone. Does anyone have any experience with this? I’m trying lactation cookies, Mother’s Milk tea, fenugreek and cutting caffeine. It’s very important to me to continue breastfeeding.”

For a couple of seconds, no one acknowledged my question. Then, one mother chimed in, “Try Cat’s Claw tea for contraception.”

“Huh?”

“When taken in excess, Cat’s Claw tea can provide natural contraception.”

The leader further pushed for stopping the pill, which I was leaning toward anyway. Another lady suggested sesame for increasing supply, which I hadn’t heard of but found partially corroborated here.

So, after about 60 seconds of addressing my question, we were done. The meeting further devolved from there and I left shortly afterward.

The fenugreek is helping the most, I think. After just two doses (six pills total), I actually sprayed Elise in the face while feeding her at the meeting and have woken up somewhat engorged on a couple of mornings. Unfortunately, this seems to be short lived. Despite the tea three times a day, the cookies, the pills and the EXTREME LACK OF CAFFEINE, my boobs feel “empty” again.

This might just be them regulating, but it’s hard to  understand why “regulating” means not producing enough for my babies. The girls are starting to wake up earlier and earlier for an extra feeding at night to make up for the lack of food during their bedtime feeding. They usually sleep from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m. straight through with no feeding. Over the past week, they’ve woken up at 6 a.m., 5:30, 5, 4:30 and finally 3:30 last night.

I am getting super stressed about it, which I know doesn’t help. The horror with Kramer the Kitty is probably doing a number on me, too. I stopped taking the pill three days ago, but so far no change.

I refuse to believe I’ll have to give up breastfeeding. If the girls were 11 months old, I might not feel as adamant, I might not feel such a profound sense of impending loss and failure. But they’re only seven months old and I’m not ready to give up — not for them or for me.

I just don’t understand. Why is my body failing me?

Why is this happening? Is it really that I had such a negative reaction to the pill and those antibiotics from my rotten tooth? Why aren’t all these lactogenic measures “sticking”? Will I have to keep up with these crazy fixes and potions until I wean the babies? How much more do I have to try to make this work?

I’m not worried about the fact that my right breast is approximately one cup size larger than my left.

Nor am I freaking out about my nipples still looking like something out of “National Geographic.”

I am freaking out about my supply. As in, breastmilk supply.

I’ve had many moments of doubt and fear throughout my time breastfeeding. I mean, I’m breastfeeding twins. When I told people I planned to breastfeed my twins, everyone all but laughed and told me that you can’t. You can’t breastfeed twins. But I’ve known people that have, and I’m doing it, so . . . 

So. Now I see where the doubt creeps in.

You see, about three weeks ago I decided to start taking the mini pill. First, you must know that I hate the pill. Hate it. I swore to myself I’d NEVER go back on hormonal birth control ever ever ever again. But the diaphragm has been causing, um, issues. I believe I may have a bit of a latex/rubber sensitivity. That’s all I’ll say about that. So I needed something else, and the mini pill was my best option.

The first week, I broke out ALL OVER  my face and pretty much felt like a pubescent 13 year old all over again. By week two, I was picking fights, including arguments over text message, with my husband for no good reason. I was angry with random things like dust and wind and forks. Basically, that little dose of hormones was turning me into a raving lunatic. I started to doubt my decision about this whole “pill thing.”

Then, during this third week, I noticed the worst side effect of all: My breastmilk supply dwindled.

I’m freaking the fuck out about it. To boost my supply, over the past few days I have done the following:

• started taking Fenugreek, three pills, three times a day
• drinking Mother’s Milk tea two to three times a day
• been eating lactation cookies, four per day
• added a pumping session in the morning
• forced an extra nursing session 
• cut caffeine to just one diet Coke instead of three

Tonight sent me over the edge. The girls nursed for less than a minute for their bedtime feeding before my milk ran out. 

I’m devastated.

This fucking stupid pill and that stupid round of antibiotics for a goddamned rotten tooth that STILL isn’t fixed (another story entirely — yes, there’s more) is fucking up almost seven months worth of hard work and dedication. 

FUCK.

If I can get my shit together early enough, I plan to attend a La Leche League meeting tomorrow morning (from 10 a.m. – 12 p.m. Seriously, two hours? With babies?)

Oh Boobs, please don’t fail me now.

I went in to go get my crown. 

The knowledge that I had no nerve in my tooth made me feel confident, relaxed even. First, the assistant came in the room. She was wearing black scrubs. I’ve never seen black scrubs. Who wears black scrubs? Morbid. I then noticed all the assistants were wearing black scrubs. The other day, they’d been wearing blue scrubs. I guessed they had a strict dress code. And a clause in the employee manual requiring the receptionist to wear porn star makeup. 

Black Scrubs made small talk about kids. My twins were so cute. Thank you. Did she have kids? Yes, her youngest was 17. Unremarkable, except that Black Scrubs looked to be about 36. Oh, that’s cool. Young mother, probably inspired by an Everest College commercial during the “I’ve Tested 13 Men and Still Don’t Know Who My Baby Daddy Is” episode of Maury, went back to school to become a dental assistant. Made something of herself. Good for her.

She wielded a sharp hook. Wait. Were the assistants supposed to have the sharp hook? I thought the doctors were the ones with the sharp hook. She scraped out the packing that the endodontist did. 

When the doctor finally came in, looking all freshly made up with a bedazzled jewel clip in her long, strawberry blond hair, she pulled the drill out of the lineup of shiny, terrifying instruments dangling from a plastic tray table. Shit, the drill. Shit shit shit. Um I’d forgotten about this part. They needed to shave my tooth shell down to a stump to put the crown on. 

Dr. Sucksdicks applied the drill to my tooth while Black Scrubs held a water pick with one hand and a suction tube with the other. With every passing second of the high-pitched squeal of the drill, my ankles tightened, my breathing shallowed, my fingers curled into gnarled hooks of anxiety. Maybe I should have saved that other Xanax for this. What is she doing? Why is this taking so long? Ugh. What was that, Doctor? Turn my head toward Black Scrubs? Why, can’t you see well? Turn head, open mouth wider to make sure she can see the tooth. Black Scrubs, you’re getting a little energetic with that water there. Is something wrong? Is the drill on fire? Shit, why does it smell like burning tires in here? Oh sweet Jesus, she just drilled so hard that the drill stopped. That can’t be good. Drills only stop when there’s something wrong. Maybe she burned the motor out. Maybe I’ll get moved to another room. Why am I in a different room anyway? Is this the room with the the adrenaline shot that they’ll stab through my sternum when my heart seizes up like that one scene in “Pulp Fiction”? Maybe Dr. Sucked Her Way Through Dental School doesn’t know what she’s doing. Doctors don’t wear jewelry in their hair. It’s unprofessional. Turn back toward the doctor? Lady, are you sure you can see?

The doctor and the assistant are having a conversation but I can’t hear any of it over the sound of the drill. What could they possibly be talking about in the middle of this crucial procedure? Why is Black Scrubs laughing? Why is the doctor laughing? Are they talking about my tooth? “Man, look at the shitty job I’m doing on this tooth.” “Yeah, it looks like a Tic Tac!” “I think I’m going to stuff the root with sardines. That’ll really throw her off. She said she has cats, didn’t she?” “Hahaha! Doctor, you are soooooooooo FUNNY!” From the cadence of their voices, I start to believe that Black Scrubs is Dr. Fellatio’s subordinate lesbian lover. She’s saying coy, flirtatious things like “Yes ma’am,” with that bubbly emphasis on the “ma’am” that suggests clandestine weekend  shopping trips to Restoration Hardware and Ikea in the next town over so no one recognizes them, because their relationship would definitely be interpreted as a conflict of interest and possibly sexual harrassment if things got all “Fatal Attraction,” which I could totally imagine since Black Scrubs obviously had a child young because of deep-seated Daddy issues.

Ugh. Why is she still drilling? Can’t they tell I’m getting freakin’ lockjaw? Turn back toward the assistant? Jesus H. Christ, will you make up your mind? Can you please quit squirting water into my sinuses? Shit, the drill stopped again. I need this tooth stump, Doc. You know this. Holy shit, why is the assistant suctioning something in the middle of my tongue? Oh God, she must suctioning up a chunk of tooth. Crap, my freakin’ tooth is gone. There’s no going back. I have to pee. I should have gone pee before we got started. I hope this doesn’t take much longer. The ole Kegel muscles ain’t what they used to be. I think I just leaked. Should’ve worn a pantyliner. Shit. Burning tires. I smell burning tires again. Come on, Doc, lay off the drill. Why is there shit spraying on my forehead? What the hell kind of dentistry is this?!? You have nice tilework out front! You’re supposed to be a good dentist!!!

Finally, the drilling was done. Black Scrubs squirted something awful-tasting on my tooth then stuffed my mouth with gauze. “I’m just going to stuff some gauze in here because this stuff tastes really bad. It’ll stop the oozing. Your tissues are oozing.”

My tissues. Are oozing. Sob.

The doctor and assistant proceeded to take 3D photos of my tooth. I shit you not. The data would be translated to the milling machine to magically make a crown to fit my Tic Tac tooth. They sent me to the waiting room while my crown was milled on site, on demand. Neat. 

After an hour, the receptionist informed me that they were having problems with the milling machine and could I come back later that afternoon? Wow, really? Problems with the machine? That didn’t sound good. 

And it wasn’t. Four hours later, at 5 p.m. on a Friday, I was called back to the office. Dr. Fellatio put the crown on top of my tooth stump and it was immediately apparent that it didn’t fit. 

Dammit.

Fortunately, they’re taking me in on Sunday so I don’t have to worry about childcare. Unfortunately, the temporary crown they put on has already broken into a billion pieces and I’m chewing overcooked pasta with swollen gums and a smudge of white bone that used to be a tooth.

This post hurts to write because if there’s something that’s a testament to a woman’s womanliness, it’s her ability to cook.

I really like to cook. Correction: I really like to think I can cook. Much of my 20′s was spent watching hour after hour of the Food Network. (Holy shit, a channel where all they do is cook all day long? God bless America.)

Just recently, I rediscovered the wonder of the Food Network. Did you know they have a hi def channel? I watch it a lot.

Anyway, I get it. Via osmosis, I’ve learned how the different seasonings harmonize, how to pan fry meats, how to cook once and eat twice, etc.

So far, I’ve tried:

• Buttermilk Pecan Chicken – This was just a bad idea, in retrospect. However, marinating chicken breast in buttermilk is really the only way to go.
• Blue Cheese Stuffed Fillets – Not horrible, but the butter blob you stuff into the meat just kind of disappears into the ether
• One Pot Chicken Over Cheesy Rice – Tasteless is the best I can describe it. That, and gross. Also, what’s up with Emeril’s mug shot? Creepy.
• Black Bean Salad – This would have come out awesome had I realized that the canned corn was already salted. The end product came out tasting like I’d taken a big lick of Guy Fieri’s sweaty forehead. (I love you, Guy.)

Tonight, I came dangerously close to crying because the goddamned pecan-and-panko breading for the chicken breasts ONCE AGAIN stuck to the stupid frying pan. WHY CAN’T I GET THE BREADING TO STICK TO THE CHICKEN.

Considering I usually follow the recipe as stated, is it possible that every single recipe I’ve tried just happens to suck? Maybe it’s my pots and pans. Maybe it’s my electric stove. Maybe it’s my oven that smokes when I turn it on because I really need to clean it.

It’s me, isn’t it?

I honestly don’t understand what fails in the translation between the recipe on paper and the horrible execution of the cooking process. It’s remarkable. I mean, the food is edible (tonight’s semi-raw chicken breasts notwithstanding). But the flavor sucks.

In the end, I really just feel bad for my husband. He knows better than to say anything because, at this point, he’s just trying to avoid rickets and scurvy.

Yeah, I said it.

I’ve always had a penchant for sending crazy emails. Random, empty can in my 12-pack of Sunkist? Email to the manufacturer. Typo on a menu? Email to the restaurant.  I enjoy the smell of your new line of deodorants? Email to Degree.

But now that there are children involved, my electronic correspondence is getting nasty. Since becoming a mother, I’ve become shameless. Hormonal, even, to the point of employing ALL CAPS the angrier I get.

The story:

While I was pregnant, I registered for this baby monitor. I’m really not sure why. The two-monitors thing kind of turned me on, me daydreaming that I’d be out in the yard gardening while Chris re-tiled the pool and the babies slept peacefully for six or seven hours at a time. You know, because babies don’t cramp your style or anything. And because having twins would magically motivate the two laziest people on the planet to become DIYers.

Anyhow, after the girls were born, they slept in their bassinet next to our bed for the first four months so we didn’t use the monitor. When Althea started to roll over, she also started smashing Elise and waking her up, so we moved them to their own cribs in their room. This is when we finally tried out the baby monitor. It worked for exactly one night before the damned thing stopped transmitting a signal.

Because it’d been so long since we purchased it, Babies R Us wouldn’t take it back. I had to contact Fisher-Price directly. The half-wit on the phone convinced me that I needed to unscrew the back of the receiver piece, even after I insisted it was the transmitter piece that was broken. After I destroyed the receiver trying to follower her instructions, the company sent me a new receiver.

But I still had a broken monitor. Because the f’n TRANSMITTER was broken, lady. Ugh.

Keep in mind that this entire time, I’d been sleeping in the girls’ room on the spare bed because we didn’t have a monitor.

Anyway.

Once the new piece arrived, I promptly called the customer support line again. This person listened to me and agreed to send a voucher for a new monitor in the mail once I mailed back the faulty monitor. Cool. Except for the part that I had to pay for the shipping costs to mail back a piece of shit monitor that they manufactured.

Dammit.

I waited more than two weeks. No voucher. This is when the nasty emails began. Note the use of ALL CAPS GODDAMMIT to convey my anger.

From: Me
To: Fisher-Price

Hello -

I mailed the monitor to you over two weeks ago and still have not received a voucher. I’m really getting frustrated with your company and lack of attention to a faulty product. I haven’t been able to sleep in my own bed for weeks because of this. Now that I’m looking around the house, EVERYTHING that we have for our twins that has broken has been Fisher-Price. I will NEVER buy anything of yours again and will warn fellow parents to not purchase from Fisher-Price either.

Please inform me of the status of my voucher. I’m angry that I’m being forced to purchase another one of your products.

***

From: Fisher-Price
To: Me

Thank you for contacting Mattel regarding your Private Dual Monitor.  We apologize for any disappointment or concern this may have caused and thank you for bringing this matter to our attention.

We have attached a traceable United States Postal Service mailing label for the return of your item.  You will need to pay the appropriate postage for your package when you take it to the post office.  It’s important that you request and retain an insurance receipt for protection against loss during transit.

Our mailing label has been sent in PDF format, which can be viewed using Adobe Acrobat.  If you do not have Adobe Acrobat, you can download it for free at the Adobe website, http://www.adobe.com/.

Please return your Private Dual Monitor to us within 30 days.  Upon receipt of your returned package, a voucher in the amount of $56.00 will be sent within 4 to 6 weeks.  If your product is still within the service policy and if the purchase price is more than this amount, it is necessary to include your original sales receipt showing the retail store name, the product name, the purchase price and date.

We appreciate this opportunity to assist you.

Sincerely,

Mattel, Inc.
Consumer Relations

***

From: Me
To: Fisher-Price

Today, I received the voucher you sent. The problem now is that the monitor we bought cost $64.99 and you sent a voucher for $56.

I cannot even begin to tell you how FURIOUS I am with Mattel/Fisher-Price. I demand that you send a voucher that will cover the FULL price of the monitor, including taxes. I can’t believe I’m even having to ask for you to pay for a defective product that your company made. On top of all of this, you made me pay for shipping to send the monitor back to you! Unbelievable!

Florida state sales tax is 7% for a total of $4.55, bringing the cost of the monitor to 69.54. Please send a voucher for the remaining amount immediately.

***

From: Fisher-Price
To: Me

Thank you for contacting Fisher-Price. We appreciate the opportunity to respond.

Under separate cover, we are sending an additional $14.00 voucher, for the difference in the cost you paid for your item.  We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.

We appreciate the time you took to check with us.  If you have any questions or concerns in the future, please feel free to call us at 800-432-5437, Monday – Friday, 9:00 am – 7:00 pm, ET, and Saturday, 11:00 am to 5:00 pm, ET.

Sincerely,
Mattel Consumer Relations

***

So we went back to Babies R Us and got another of the same damned monitor! But I sure fooled Fisher-Price. I had a coupon that made my monitor much cheaper. This allowed me to use the vouchers for more Fisher-Price products, so we bought toys! There was a $16 overage that I had to pay in the end, but . . .

Wait.

Dammit.

They won again.

I fit into my old size six pants.

Okay, so “fitting” is a stretch. However, I can stuff my multi-layered ass into the pants and zip them up without splitting any seams or breaking any buttons. 

Okay, so I only tried one particular pair of size sixes.

And I didn’t dare bend or sit.

There was muffin top involved.

BUT.

I got them on, goddammit. And that counts for something.

I think I’m about seven pounds away from comfortably fitting into some of my old pants, and realistically I’m 12 pounds away from being in the neighborhood of my pre-pregnancy weight.

I really don’t try hard enough, though. I do work out four to five days a week. I even started doing a pseudo-jog thing while pushing the girls in a totally non-jogging stroller.

(You must understand that I am not a runner. I am not athletic. I don’t “do” exercise in the way that some people “do” exercise. But I do it because I have to and ultimately my ass heart thanks me for it.)

But I don’t consistently watch what I eat. I have ice cream every single night in serving sizes that defy any caloric quantification, which I stuff into a tiny ramekin because it makes me believe that I’m eating less than I actually am. I eat bacon, mayonnaise and cheese, but insist on buying 1% milk and pouring it over mulch-in-a-bowl cereal for breakfast. As I type this, I have splatters of oil all over my shirt from tonight’s dinner — something called “chicken-fried chicken,” which I prepared with homemade buttermilk ranch dressing. 

And served it over organic spring salad greens.

I used to eat like shit. But I’d only eat, like, four bites of shit. I just can’t do that anymore, not now that I’m trying to, you know, nourish two babies and all.

Sigh.

As I run errands at Burlington and Kohl’s and Target, I’ve started eyeballing bathing suits too. Not bikinis, mind you, because although my stomach is less scary than I thought it would look, it’s still not ready for its beach debut. No, this year will be the Year of the Tankini. And boy, those things are uuugggglyyyyy. The patterns are horrifying. And breast support? Nada! My boobs look like lactating pancakes underneath swaths of Lycra-psychedelic-grandma prints. Since I’ve never had boobs before in my life, I’m not sure if this is normal.

(Here’s a visual for you: Hold up a flip-flop to your breast area. That’s what my boobs will look like after I stop breast feeding.)

Anyhow, what I’m finding interesting about this whole post-partum body experience (which is not unlike an out-of-body experience) is that, while I have every right to be — nay, I should be self-conscious about what has happened to my body, I just kind of don’t. I have brazenly stripped off my shirt and pumped or breastfed in front of friends and family, knowing full well that they see my bizarre-o stomach shape and stretch marks, but I just haven’t cared enough to be modest. It’s almost as though I defy anyone to say shit to me because if I can carry 13 pounds of people in my uterus, I pretty much have the right to throttle anyone who dares say anything about my body.

After one week of staying at home with the babies, I feel, in (mostly) no particular order . . .

Guilt. I think this has been my overarching emotion this week, creeping up unexpectedly throughout the day. The first couple of days were the worst. I cleaned, did laundry, made mental to-do lists, over-played with the girls, searched for jobs.

After just two days, I broke down to Chris about my feelings of guilt. I felt — no, feel – horrible about not bringing in money. It makes me feel useless and guilty, like I’m not contributing in any significant or tangible way to the house. And frankly, when it comes down to it, I’m not. Is it great that I get to stay home? Uh, YES. Is it helpful? In a practical sense, not really. Without income, there’s no house to come home to.

Fear. Maybe paralyzing terror is more like it. I just realized that there are only a couple more paychecks coming in during the next month, and then we’re kaput on my end. Scary.

Separately, there’s the very physical fear of being home alone and vulnerable. What would I do if someone busted down the door — and I was nursing? What would happen if I took the girls out on a walk and some maniac attacked us at the lonely end of the park? What if we went out to run errands and I got in a car accident?

Loneliness. Toward the end of the week, I really just started feeling lonely. The girls are wonderful and amazing and beautiful, but having that many one-sided conversations with two infants can start to weigh on a body. I can see how so many women just become insulated in their homes. You feel lonely, you start to get paranoid, so you stay inside with the doors locked and chained. Plus, the thought of getting presentable for the public and packing up two babies just seems overwhelming.

Disbelief. I can’t believe I’m actually a stay-at-home mom. It feels like maternity leave again, except a lot harder.

Also, and honestly, I can’t even believe I feel this way at all. All of these conflicting emotions. The almost-painful love and tenderness I feel toward my babies. I never liked kids, really. And now I feel this way? To the point of quitting my job? I just can’t believe it.

Gratitude. Toward my husband, who is eternally supportive and optimistic. Thank you. I remind myself constantly of the women who would love more than anything to be able to stay home with their babies.

Toward my mom, whose feedback has been nothing short of amazing.

Relief. I have these horrible flashbacks of the look on Elise’s face when I left them that one day at daycare — that look on that innocent, wide-eyed face. “Ama, where are you going?” I left her there in that too-small swing with those indifferent strangers. My eyes were blinded with tears. My heart broke — no, ripped, burned and withered. That look. Good god, I’ll never forget that look on her face. If only to never see that unknowing look again, I would live under a bridge if I had to.

Finally. Finally. I don’t have to worry about who is taking care of my babies and how.

Opening up a can of worms here . . .

The girls had their four-ish month appointment last Tuesday. Doing well, growing steadily along the 25th-ish percentile. Elise is at 12 lb 12 oz, Althea’s at 12 lb 9 oz (both gained exactly 1 lb 3 oz each since their last appointment last month). Etc. Because we thought we were doing daycare, I had to get a regular round of shots this time, whereas we’d been staggering their shot schedule to not do more than two at once previously. 

And the shit hits the fan. 

The day of the shots isn’t bad, really. It’s the weeks after that scare me. Since this last round of shots, Althea has been a royal pain. Crying. Whining. Complaining. Unhappy. She arches her back violently, rolls all over the place, complains incessantly. Her previously stable sleep schedule has all gone to shit. Two of her three daily naps are sucking.

Elise, on the other hand, is sleeping more than ever. A two-hour nap is now easily three or more hours if we let her. She’s happy enough, at least. Both girls are back to being up multiple times at night, where they used to wake up just once.

The same thing happened for about two weeks after the last round of shots, too. I chalked it up to their four-month growth spurt, but now I’m wondering. And worrying.

I had this conversation with a friend this weekend. We both raised the same suspicion that there’s something rotten in the pharmaceutical industry. I recently heard a pediatrician say that we’re lucky anyone even makes vaccines because there’s no money in them. I find that incredibly hard to believe.

The whole thing scares the hell out of me. So I want to know, dear readers (I know I have more than two, c’mon guys): What are your opinions? Go ahead, cite research, give me anecdotes, spill your shit. I don’t have the answers, but I know what I’m seeing and I don’t like it.