Punctuality smunctuality…

Why is it children always act insane whenever you have a deadline?

Gotta paint your toenails before you go out tonight? Your kids will want to play “this little piggy” with your feet.

Gotta pack a house and move in ten days? Your son will play “let’s follow mommy around and pull out of boxes everything she puts into boxes!”

Gotta get to school/work/playdate on time? Your eldest will develop the urge to beat the Guinness Book of World Records for slowest walk.

Like a shark smells blood in the ocean, children can smell a deadline from miles away, and they have evolved over generations into perfect deadline destroying machines.

This morning we had a play date at our free water park. Monkey delayed our departure by eating her cereal exactly one flake at a time, and Otter pitched into our lateness with a bad case of the melting protest. (You know the one I mean, when their limbs transform into boneless tentacles as they collapse onto the floor in a huge rorschach-esqe pile of baby protest. It’s a coat of arms!)

We finally got to our date, late of course, and spent the day splashing with friends in the warm summer sun. Then we went to a pizza party, which we were also late to, due to the fact that Otter likes to abscond with his sister’s shoes. (He hides them in various places.)

Then we came home and Monkey watched the Secret of NIMH while Otter followed me from room to room screaming as I attempted to pack another box. (Feel sorry for me please) He has followed me from room to room screaming for three days. The only time I can get him to stop is when I put him in the Mei Tai and carrying him on my back while I am packing.

On the D-MER front, the effects seem to be lessening now that I know to expect them and understand their underlying cause. I am really grateful to be able to prepare myself for the rush of depair, and then to remind myself that it is chemical.

Nurse until you cry.

I popped over to Pumproom Confessions yesterday and saw a button on the sidebar that said “Breastfeeding shouldn’t be a downer.” As I am ever interested in the world of nursing, I clicked on it. It led me to a website for Dysphroic Milk Ejection Reflex. Suddenly I was reading account after account from women who experienced the same thing I do when nursing.

I love to nurse, the closeness is amazing and I am a long term advocate of it. So I found it a bit dismaying that each time I sat down to nurse my son I would suddenly be overcome with a deep wave of despair. It would punch me right in the stomach and sit there for a minute to two. I told myself it was mild post partum depression. I told myself it was a reaction to finally sitting down and not distracting myself from my grief over a departed friend. I didn’t connect it with my milk letting down. I didn’t connect it with nursing at all, even though it happened every time I sat down to do it. I just figured it was something else. I never knew it was a documented condition that afflicted other moms as well.

I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me that I am a) not alone, b) not insane c) not imagining it. I feel so much better simply knowing that there is a physical reason for those moments of despair, and that there are people researching it to see if there is something that can be done. Clearly some wire in my brain is crossed. Evolutionarily it makes sense to have pleasurable emotions released when your milk lets down, not despairing ones.

If you are a nursing mother, and you feel inexplicably sad, anxious, angry, or depressed for short intense periods while nursing, check out the website on D-MER. Breastfeeding is challenging enough without having to battle intense and nebulous emotional demons along with it. I feel so much better simply knowing more about the problem, and I would bet you will too.


I was walking past the mental hospital the other day (I know you know the one I mean), and all the patients were shouting ,’13….13….13′.

The fence was too high to see over, but I saw a little gap in the planks and looked through to see what was going on.

Some crazy idiot poked me in the eye with a stick.

Then they all started shouting ’14….14….14’…

(Sent to me by a friend… Thank you Laura for the laugh!)