Driving, rebellion, and law enforcement (all much less exciting than it sounds...)

Yesterday was day three of the latest bout of mastitis, and while I was feeling a bit better with the antibiotics, young Squid was not in a good mood, and by five p.m. I had been peed on, screamed at, and spit up on (being shit on had to wait until eight-thirty, but we managed the bodily-fluids hat trick, too, at which point I cried a little). Himself was getting ready to leave today for a week-long business trip, and I was feeling woefully underprepared for the first week of solo parenting. We had talked about a nice dinner together, but by six p.m. all I wanted was a babysitter, a babysitter, a babysitter, and 24 hours alone in a quiet hotel room, none of which were on offer.

So we ordered out from our favorite pub in town and Himself took the baby while I went to pick up the food. God, it felt great to get out. I mean, I get out of the house avec bebe several times every day for errands and walks, but this was the first time in over two weeks I had been neither sleeping nor caring for the baby, and it felt...like I could breathe. I mean, I love the Squid, let there be no doubt, but before he came along I spent the majority of each day by myself, and the transition has been a very difficult one.

So I rolled down the windows and geared up the iPod and blasted the Throwing Muses and Bikini Kill all the way to the pub and back. I felt ridiculous, but it felt good. I mean, those bands are not for thirty-something suburban moms with earnest bumper stickers, are they? When I saw those groups play, my life had a lot more to do with the sex, the drugs, and the rock-n-roll than the onesies, the mortgage, and the meeting planning. But I found it very satisfying, somehow. It felt like yet another part of my adolescent rebellion against the person I've become, which is fairly pathetic but ongoing.

Even more pathetic, however, is when the already ridiculous "rebellion" is reduced to playing girly punk music too loud in my Toyota Camry while I go to pick up the takeout. I can't even get wasted and stay out all night. No, I go get the burgers, and come home and change the diaper...and get shit on. Ah, adulthood. In better news, Squid slept almost eight hours last night, which is more exciting than I can possibly express to you.

I feel like I have become boring even to myself. In the past, even if my life wasn't interesting to tell about, it was still pretty interesting to live. Lately less so. I'm not unhappy, I'm just...tired, and in lock-step with the eat-burp-bounce-nap-pee cycle of a 2.5-month-old. This all has to do with another post, about the conflict between caretaking and wonder, that I've been working on for a while, but that will have to be another day.

Instead, I want to share with you that breastfeeding spared me a traffic ticket today. The cop stopped me on the way from dropping Himself at the airport to tell me I was wearing my seatbelt wrong, that is, under the left arm and breast rather than over the shoulder. I explained to him with an artfully embarrassed laugh (like I have ever been embarrassed talking about my tits, HA!) that I am breastfeeding (he peered in the backseat to verify Squid's existence) and have mastitis, so it hurts to wear it over, which was a wee lie - it doesn't really hurt. He let me go "in support of motherhood".

I did not explain to him that I've been wearing my seatbelt wrong all my life, because I hate having things touch my throat (I don't wear turtlenecks either) and I feel like I'm choking if I drive with it the "right" way. I also carefully failed to mention that this is the second time I've been stopped (and let off!) for this violation. But the third time's the charm - guess I'd better start driving the "nagging feeling of strangulation" way from here on out. Argh. But hey, a perk to motherhood other than, you know, a baby! Rock on.