Being a Woman, Being a Mom.

Yesterday I read a very personal piece about breastfeeding by the talented KLZ of Taming Insanity.

Her poignant and powerful post stirred up so many things inside of me, particularly my feelings about being a woman and how I define it. How I struggle with it, even now at the age of 34.

Without medical intervention, I can't get pregnant. I don't ovulate because I have PCOS, which you can read about here. I have blogged about our journey several times, most recently here for the Red Dress Club.

What I've been thinking about lately is how my own feelings of femininity are closely tied to my inability to conceive. How being a women at its most basic level means being able to bear children. Carry said children in your womb naturally, effortlessly, beautifully. There is honestly nothing I love more than a pregnant belly--preferably mine, but I'll take yours, too--and I miss mine desperately sometimes. So if I come up to you and ask to feel your belly? Please consider letting me. And then don't worry too much when you see me start to cry.

The times I've felt most feminine, most proud to be a woman? Were undoubtedly when I was pregnant, my belly full of babies, round with potential, an outward sign of my femininity, my power, my prowess:

 18 weeks

 22 weeks

 23 weeks

 28 weeks

front and side views

at 30 weeks!

I know I am so lucky. I consider myself blessed to have my two little miracles, blessed to be a mom. Despite everything we went through, I now have my twin daughters, Abby and Izzy. Nothing can ever take that away. I am a mother.

I am a mother. I am a mother. I am a mother.

I am a woman.

Hear me roar!
If I can do this? I can do anything.

Abby & Izzy's Birth Day, 12/9/05

Where do you think your feelings of femininity come from? Am I just nuts? I'd love to hear your opinions & perspectives on this.

Trapped With Twins and My Medela Breast Pump

I'm linking up again today with the Red Dress Club. We're doing "flash fiction." If you're unfamiliar with flash fiction, think of it as a condensed short story. Shorter than short. The word count for flash fiction typically ranges from 100 to 2000 words.

and the prompt I've chosen is:

 "Trapped"

I'm trapped in the mire; the thick, dripping, caramel-like consistency of my mommy brain. Neurons fire in a mad frenzy, crashing into one another--then disappear, POOF-- in a cloud of dust. I am incapable of a single coherent thought.

OVERLOAD. OVERLOAD. CANNOT COMPUTE.

I'm so exhausted I'm falling asleep at the pump. The Medela Pump In Style, that is. Though there's nothing stylish about it.

I sit, boobies locked and loaded to this dreadfully slow contraption (the one I got to use in the hospital was like a Mercedes, while this was more like a Yugo):

photo courtesy of www.medela.com

Listening to the obnoxiously loud motor, rivaled only by the obnoxiously loud screaming of my twin baby girls. One is howling in my lap, the other lies on the floor next to me, red faced and squawking. Fortunately with all this carrying on my let-down reflex is uninhibited; yet the noise is closing in on me, trapping me in its tight web.

Sometimes you can say the same word over and over until it becomes a string of meaningless sounds. Well, the crying is kind of like that, too. Soon it barely interrupts my tired trance. I'm staring at the wall, one forearm holding the pump's parts in place with my free hand pressing a paci into Abby's mouth. I realize my mouth is sagging open and that it's time to switch out bottles. Which is messy and complicated with a baby in one's lap. Let's not even talk about how many times I've spilled milk on the carpet trying to do this dance.

It's January in Kansas, and bitterly cold outside. Because the girls are preemies, their risk for RSV is exceptionally high and their neonatologist told us not to take them out. Too many germs. So we're sequestered. Only my husband uses his Get Out of Jail Free card for work every day and has intelligent conversations with actual adults. He also gets a regular shower. He eats meals in peace, even if they're sometimes rushed.

Me? My hair is filthy. I smell like milk. I've been wearing the same pair of pajamas for three (going on four) days. Sometimes after the girls are fed, burped, and freshly diapered, I swaddle them tightly and strap them into their vibrating Fisher-Price seats. I turn on their white noise machine, poke the pacifiers in, and pull their bedroom door closed behind me. Then I go to my room, closing my door quietly behind me.

I'm trapped. I crawl into my bed, close my eyes and pray they fall asleep.