Category Archives: FAIL

Crowned Queen of Colostrum

Posted by taylorharris330 in breast milk, FAIL and tagged with , , , , , , , ,

I wasn’t going to blog. I was going to stay in my baby cave, where my responsibilities center on pumping and sanitizing nipples (not mine, Dr. Brown’s). I’m pumping because Christopher has declared a state of independence. He’s his own man, won’t be attached to anyone’s chest. Won’t be called a mama’s boy.

They tried to help me help him get a strong latch in the hospital. You know you’re in trouble when the nurse, after assuring you you’re doing “everything right,” finally drops the nice girl shtick and says, “I’m going to call the lactation consultant.” Seriously, she might as well have tattooed Epic Fail on my chest.

The LC, she was official. As soon as she stepped through the door, I tried to straighten myself up and look fresh, like I didn’t just push a live mammal out of my womb the day before. Like I wasn’t wearing a big girl diaper. Like I was Beyoncé and had the whole maternity ward to myself. I pulled my gown together and put on my, “Oh, what seems to be the matter, dear?” face. She didn’t buy it.

First, she tested my skills. Then she started with the scary stuff. Totally claimed that if I put my baby high up on my chest, he would actually wiggle down and toward my breast, like some sort of African-American garter snake.  No thank you. That’s not impressive. That’s reptilian. And racist.

Anyhow, we kept trying, but the problem was his mouth was the size of mouse’s, and she wanted it to be the size of Shaq’s. When I told her my baby was neither Shaq nor a Barry U. PhD, she really got creative. Pulled out a plastic spoon—no joke, like lactation MacGyver. Like Hurry! Give me that Greek yogurt with the tiny wooden spoon. I’ll get a latch out of it before this whole breast blows! So she took the spoon, showed me how to express colostrum and feed it to my sleeping baby.

Oh, the possibilities…now I could nurse anywhere—from the condiment center of a Sbarro’s to the back table of a Cheesecake Factory.  And then, she said this. And I didn’t know how to take it. She said, “Oh, wow, you have so much colostrum. Some women try and try for only a drop.”

Gulp. Thank you?

I mean that’s not really something my husband can brag about on the basketball court. He can’t drive to the hole and then be like, “Yeah! All day baby, just like my wife’s colostrum.”

It’s not something he can share during testimony time at church. Like, “I’d foremost like to give honor and glory to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, for out of the desert, he hath brought forth colostrum exceedingly and abundantly.”

He can’t even take my calls during class because of it. Can’t say to his students, “Excuse me, I have to take this call. It could be my wife’s colostrum.”

Anyhow, this is totally a breast-half-empty take on things. The good news is, Eliot has taken a liking to my pump. She begs to push the power button. Only problem is, you know how there are two modes—one that mimics quick sucks and then one that has longer sucks? Well, sometimes instead of allowing me two minutes on level one, she switches to level two right away and sucks me halfway through the breastshield. She thinks this is funny. I think I should numb myself with ice before pumping. Give myself a homemade nip-idural. The other thing she’ll do is wait until my milk is really flowing and then turn the pump off. She thinks this is funny. She has no concept of engorgement, cabbage leaves, or mastitis.

Anyway, I wasn’t going to blog. Because now that I’m out of my cave, folks will think they can start knocking on my door for sugar or milk or flavored cigarettes. And I’m not ready to answer. Not just because I don’t smoke, but because I don’t want everyone putting a face to the name Charlottesville’s Colostrum Queen. I mean, it’s an honor and all, but it makes me blush. And when I blush, my milk starts to drip. And when my milk starts to drip, I have to wear those annoying breast pads. And when I have to stuff my nursing bra with glorified gauze, I suddenly remember that even though I live in my college town, “We’re not in a 20-year-old’s body anymore, Dorothy.”

Don’t Let That Baby Catch Cold

Posted by taylorharris330 in FAIL and tagged with

I did it. After years of making fun of black friends and strangers in grocery stores and parking lots, I did it.

I overdressed Eliot.

You see, African Americans have a long and cherished—and even mildly dangerous—tradition of layering their babies. It’s true. I found this related quote in an Ohio newspaper from 1898:

“I saw a light-skinned Negro baby today at the market. I knew the baby was Negro, as the poor lad was sweating in no less than a blizzard.”

I didn’t make that up. I found it on microfiche.

I can have my baby in a sweater, snowsuit, hat, Uggs, and an oxygen tent with a space heater strapped to her chest, and some well-meaning church lady cooking the green out of green beans in the kitchen after service will warn me: “You better wrap that baby up. It’s cold out there.” And she’ll hand me Aluminum Foil—the heavy duty kind only churches can order. “Here, drape this over her face to keep the cold out.”

I pride myself on letting Eliot breathe. She can walk around the house in a diaper, sleep in a onesie, and even swim in a pool without wearing a white t-shirt. I know, this is breaking all kinds of cultural norms.

But this week, I found out that I am no rebel. You see, it was January, and I assumed a fleece and hat were appropriate outerwear for my trip with Eliot to Target. Yet after I parked, I turned and saw something that almost made me pee my pregnant pants without even sneezing:

A mom of the Caucasian persuasion was gingerly walking with her baby in a carrier, and the baby’s feet—gasp!—were bare. No jacket. No mittens. No Easy Bake Oven to warm his face. Then I looked at my baby. She was sitting in her carseat, and if I turned her head to one side—yes, I could see it—a bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. FAIL.

There was still a chance the white mom was under-doing it. I checked the temperature—70 degrees. Baaaaaah! The white mom had it right. You can wear flip-flops in January. And here I was, one step away from asking my baby to wear one of those plastic sauna suits while running on a treadmill. The shame.

Pooping with Rick James

Posted by taylorharris330 in bathtime, black dolls, FAIL, poop and tagged with , , , ,

Man, you think you’ve seen it all after having a baby. I’ve changed the diapers, I’ve caught the spit up, I’ve even picked the boogers out with my bare pinky. And I do it out of love. Anything for Elie Mae.

But there are times when I find EM pushing the limits just for the fun of it.

Like the time we were on our way to visit friends and Elie Mae squirted out a week’s worth of sloppy poo in her carseat. I don’t mean like, “Paul, can you hand me a Ziploc? I need to pick up a little poo.” I mean like, “Well, crap. Everywhere. Just crap. Grab a garden hose.”

Elie Mae, I have the picture on my iPhone, and I will show it to you one day when we have our talk called “Pushing the Limits.”

Today she did it again. (Not the carseat shtick, she’s over that.) And she is so sly, you see, because she’s been sick. She’s had a fever for three days and now a rash, and for the two weeks, every time she tries to go #2, she squints and pops out a Play-Doh pellet. The thing is 5cm wide but smells like a landfill. So my sympathy level has been high.

Before I took her to the doctor today, I figured I’d better bathe her. I filled her little pink tub that sits within a regular bathtub. Then I sat her in it with all her favorite toys: a measuring cup, a foam star, and a butter knife. And a vintage Rick James doll. And an old piece of weave.

But anyhow, all was well. Elie was splashing and babbling, and I was enjoying seeing her perk up.

Suddenly, she sat up a bit straighter, extended her pudgy legs straight in front of her, and focused. She started blowing bubbles. From her backside.

Now this was funny. I am into farts. So I’m laughing at Eliot, the human tugboat, and she relaxes a bit, herself, realizing everybody passes gas. She blows a few more bubbles, makes her bottom roar deep and low, and then I look behind her.

This isn’t funny. There are tiny bits of poop floating behind her–an archipelago of human waste. Thankfully, I had already washed her body, and her hair would just have to wait.

But I hadn’t seen the worst (cue Thriller music). I picked her up and laying on the bottom of her pink tub was a firm train of poo. And because it was in water, it spread. Soon the foam star was eating poo. Rick James had on turd glasses. The butter knife was spreading apple crap butter.

So I did what any other responsible stay-at-home mom would do. I told my husband. I cleaned Eliot, dressed her, and marched downstairs. “Guess who pooped in the tub?” I asked. (Luckily, he didn’t take the low road in answering.)

“Oh, good!” he said.

“In the tub!” I repeated.

“Oh, well, I meant good that she pooped.”

Now I am all into silver linings. Jesus is like the best at that. He’s all, “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be fine.” Like, “Yeah, it’s gonna rain for 40 days, but behind door number 3… is a beautiful boat!” So I’m into that kind of thinking. Just not when it comes to seeing live human waste floating in water.

I love my Elie Mae. But in the back of my head, all I can hear is the voice of Dr. Claw, the evil nemesis of Inspector Gadget. “I’ll get you next time, Elie Mae, next time. Muahahahaha!”

Why I Must Make Elie Mae’s Costume Myself

Posted by taylorharris330 in black dolls, FAIL, formula, Holidays and tagged with , , , , , ,

I did the unthinkable.  I bought Elie Mae a Halloween costume.

I know, I know. I had planned to sew her the Confederate flag onesie and make her push a small cannon through the streets. I thought this perfect for an 11-month-old.

Alas, I’ve been sucked into the microwave generation. I walked into Old Navy and bought the sprinkled cupcake outfit. It was 50% off, and I was done. Easy.

But I didn’t grow up in store-bought costumes. I grew up with a mom from the Midwestern pot roast generation, where you spend hours, not sewing, but stitch-witching fabric into something almost identifiable.

Case in point: First Grade. I’m not sure what lame-o costumes my friends wore, but I came in a burlap sack with TV Guides stapled to it. And there were brown eyeliner dots all over my face. I was, of course, a couch potato.

Second Grade. I wore an awesome white sweat suit and a big plastic bag filled with white balloons. I was a bag of marshmallows. When my bag sprung a leak during Trick-or-Treat, I was just garbage.

Third Grade. Mom had this terrific idea, this sort of double entendre of Halloween creativity. She stitch-witched bands of white, torn fabric to my clothes and handed me a baby doll. I was a “Mummy.” Get it? “A mummy!” Nevermind.

Fourth Grade. Mom was into boxes. She wrapped a big, empty box in paper and punched a few holes in it for my head and limbs. I was a gift.

Fifth Grade. Mom wasn’t ready to face that iron-on stitching yet. She painted a box blue and stuck some empty bottles and old newspapers around it. I was a recycling bin.

So, you see, I have to step my game up.  I’m thinking of saving the cupcake for Elie Mae’s first birthday party and making her a costume before Monday. Something low maintenance. Something brilliantly abstract that will make up for my lack of design skills. Here are a few ideas I have so far:

1)   A copy of Cain’s 9-9-9 plan.

Pro: We might win the Godfather’s Pizza Halloween Costume Contest.

Con: I’m sure this one’s already been taken.

2)   A shelf of Similac.

Pro: She can feed herself while she trick-or-treats.

Con: To be a true shelf, she’d have to lie horizontally all night. And to be a Similac shelf in our neighborhood Kroger, she’d need a security camera that beeped every time you passed her.

3)   Colic

Pro: Real tears could yield a high return in candy.

Con: No one really knows what colic is (Think: my mummy and doll costume).

4)   Lactose Intolerance

Pro: I just bought a half-gallon of milk and some cheese.

Con: Seriously, I need to tell you?

5)   The Black Church

Pro: White gloves and a nurse’s hat should be easy to find.

Con: Those mint balls you suck on all service are a choking hazard.

Please let me know which costume you think would be best for Elie Mae.

Don’t Call Me. I’ll Call You…Back.

Posted by taylorharris330 in Acting, FAIL, modeling and tagged with , , ,

Oh schnap. We got a callback from last week’s audition.

Getting the news was sort of like getting baptized again—only this time the water was warm and I wasn’t wearing white underwear.

As the good book sayeth, “He hath opened the heavens and rained down blessings upon the Umble.”

The Hebrew word for blessings literally means: “opportunites to star in very local commercials.”

And the English meaning for “umble” is simply “humble.” Ahh, the good Lord giveth the H and the good Lord taketh the H away.

But this post isn’t about theology; it’s about awesome acting.

When we walked into the audition site, we were forced to do that whole meet-and-greet thing. You know, pretend like we weren’t sizing each other up. I tried to keep my compliments simple but exciting and truthful. Like “Oh, little Bobby has boisterous ears!” and “That Victoria has the sweet eyes of a sick kitten.” And when all else failed, I went with something poignantly bland: “Oh, would you look at those feet in those shoes!”

But after 90 minutes of waiting at the audition site, even Elie Mae was over it. She had eaten all the peach-flavored puffs her belly could handle, and when the other kids decided to watch Winnie the Pooh, she was all, “Screw you guys, I’m going home.”

Then they called us. I grabbed Eliot with one hand, straightened my mom jeans with the other, and hoped my eyebrows weren’t touching in the middle. This was going to be a good day.

We stepped into the back room, and it was all hot and schweaty.

I sat down with Eliot in a wicker chair, facing all the big guns. And it went a little something like this:

DIRECTOR: “Taylor, you are over it. You are tired of being on this plane.”

ME: #FAIL. #DON’TQUITDAYJOB. #SOMEONECALLHERMANCAIN.

DIRECTOR: “Let’s try it again. And this time, Taylor, you are almost catatonic.”

ME: This hurts me more than it hurts you, BET–I pretended I was watching “The Game.” I think I was perfect, because soon after, they let me leave.

Some people might celebrate a callback by going back to work. But Me and Elie Mae? Nahhh, shun. We grabbed us some beef patties and coco bread. We prefer the kind where the grease soaks through the brown paper bag, which is why we never watch Dr. Oz. But on the way home, we got back to business. We practiced our skills just in case we book the commercial.

Watch a video of our improv acting exercise, “The Man,” below.