Wednesday, April 20, 2011
"He Sticks Everything Else in His Mouth"
Wesley wasn't very impressed with his first taste of "real" food. But then again, most people don't relish the opportunity to eat rice flakes mixed with water. He has since tried sweet potatoes, apples, carrots, squash, peas, bananas and pears. Aaaand he loves them. A true Summers/Crews, he likes to eat. : ) And at 18+ pounds, it shows. I love his chubby thighs and arms--very cute!
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Dear Medela: THIS Is How You Pump in Style.
POSTED FROM SOME DATE IN LATE JAN 2011 Dear Medela, Until now, I thought your Pump In Style breast pump was a misnomer. I was not sure how any method of applying plastic cones and tubing to your breast to exract milk could be stylish. Now I know. Here begins my adventure of pumping at the office:
I sat in Pepperidge Farm's version of a mother's nursing room...a small closet, stacked high with Goldfish tchotchkies, enormous PF banners and of course, our founder's original wheat grinder--what else? That's normal, right? I got all 27 pieces out and connected them. It's like tiddliwinks, only more...maternal...and less fun. With the breast shields securely suctioned to my boob, I could now kick back with my feet up...on our box of Pepperidge Farm aprons. I relax. And by "relax," I mean I used that time to write out my list of items to tell my movers not to pack (all the usual items...you know, fridge, blinds, breast milk). You see, making lists is like breathing for me. Lists and I go way back.
Anyway...Two minutes later, one bag was full and the other...well it had pulled in a hefty 6 drops. Sigh. I had to put my list-making aside and assist ol Lefty-the-Lame. I thought, "Well, what woman doesn't want to milk herself?" So I glamorously employed the squeezing method my lactation consultant taught me during my modesty-aside, bare-all visit. There I sat, squeezing my boob amidst the corporate rubble, then trying to pour breastmilk into little baggies without spilling it on myself, the floor or the PF notepads...all the while thinking, "now I get it, Medela...this IS stylish!"
I sat in Pepperidge Farm's version of a mother's nursing room...a small closet, stacked high with Goldfish tchotchkies, enormous PF banners and of course, our founder's original wheat grinder--what else? That's normal, right? I got all 27 pieces out and connected them. It's like tiddliwinks, only more...maternal...and less fun. With the breast shields securely suctioned to my boob, I could now kick back with my feet up...on our box of Pepperidge Farm aprons. I relax. And by "relax," I mean I used that time to write out my list of items to tell my movers not to pack (all the usual items...you know, fridge, blinds, breast milk). You see, making lists is like breathing for me. Lists and I go way back.
Anyway...Two minutes later, one bag was full and the other...well it had pulled in a hefty 6 drops. Sigh. I had to put my list-making aside and assist ol Lefty-the-Lame. I thought, "Well, what woman doesn't want to milk herself?" So I glamorously employed the squeezing method my lactation consultant taught me during my modesty-aside, bare-all visit. There I sat, squeezing my boob amidst the corporate rubble, then trying to pour breastmilk into little baggies without spilling it on myself, the floor or the PF notepads...all the while thinking, "now I get it, Medela...this IS stylish!"
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