Tag Archives: breastfeeding

Daisy cooks, too.

30 May

Now, I know Violet has been the resident recipe poster, but I can get down with some cooking too. Violet asked me to share a few little tips and tricks that I’ve shared with her, so here you go..

I have great eaters. I really can’t complain, they will eat just about anything. Why? Not sure. Is it luck? Did I expose them to different foods when they were young, via my eating habits & breastmilk? Who knows. Maybe a good combo of both. Even with my great eaters, one of which (Diva) lists raw broccoli as one of her favorite foods, I still like to sneak in even MORE vegetables than they would normally eat.

Funny story, when Diva & Intuitive were about 2 or so, we were grocery shopping, strolling through the produce section, in fact. Diva begins a full on tantrum because she thought I didn’t put broccoli in the cart. Can you imagine this little pig-tailed girl, screaming her little brains out because she thought that mean old mommy DIDN’T get broccoli? The laughter coming from the other shoppers was pretty excellent when they realized that she was yelling for broccoli.

Anyways, “hiding” veggies in meals isn’t a new concept. There are cookbooks written on the subject. These are just some of the things that I’ve done.

Making spaghetti? Using jar sauce? Good shit, go for it. Whenever I make it, I will use a large grater and grate a few carrots, some squash, zucchini, finely cut spinach. Dump the jar of sauce in a big saucepan and dump the veggies in, simmer it all while your pasta is cooking. The veggies will cook down, and be completely unnoticed by even the pickiest eaters. My kids KNOW I do this, and couldn’t care less!

Tacos? Grate some of the same veggies into the meat while you’re cooking it. Same concept as the sauce, noone will notice.

Has your kiddo said no to baby food? Is she ready for the real stuff? Don’t worry. I’m sure you have 8 million extra jars of baby food sitting around, so USE them for your cooking. Dump a jar of carrots into your spaghetti sauce. Any veggie, really. Have some fruit ones? Make your kiddo some PLAIN oatmeal, and put some in the oatmeal.

Sneaking good stuff in is easy. It’s easy, and no one will ever know.

You’ll probably feel kinda bad ass for pulling a fast one on your family.

Any other ways you guys sneak some good stuff in? Let us know!

-Daisy

Celebrity Parents

30 Mar

Celebrity culture has always been somewhat of a twatwaffle to me. I don’t get into the drama; I don’t understand the hysteria. I don’t follow Perez Hilton’s blog. For all intents and purposes, I think celebrities are a bunch of middle class morons who happened to fall upon fame and wealth because they were either a) favored with big tits or b) can make themselves cry on cue. (Daisy and I are blessed with both of these attributes. Where are our millions?) At some point in their journey from mediocrity to internationally irrelevant, someone issued them all (collectively) a license for weirdness.

I didn’t used to mind the weirdness. Tom Cruise wants to put his money in a tax shelter and call it religion? Fine. Follow that up with a critique of psychology as a legitimate medicine practice? He’s an asshole, but I didn’t give him enough credit to care. Fergie wants to pee-pee in her pants without a Huggies, then shower in champagne to cover it up? Have fun! But then these weird-ass movie stars decided to tell the world how to parent. That’s when I became annoyed.

First, we had Mayim Bialik telling us that we need to breastfeed our kids until they’re five. (Anyone else think of the movie Grown Ups when you hear that?!)  January Jones, of Mad Men fame, wants you to eat your own placenta after you deliver your afterbirth. (And I know that in some less civilized cultures, that’s acceptable, but I’m a middle class American. We don’t cannibalize our extraneous organs.) Now, Alicia Silverstone wants us to feed our children like we’re pigeons by chewing our food and spitting it into the waiting infant’s mouth. Oh, hell no.

Here’s my problem: for one, parenting is a completely individualistic practice. No two mothers are alike, and no two children are alike. Prescribing any parenting practice is risky business (haha, Tom Cruise joke!) because methods that worked in one family may fail in another, and who will the failing family blame? The person who offered the advice in the first place. Not a wise idea if your income is based on your likability. My other problem with this celeb-mommy-culture is that too many people put these assholes on a pedestal. For these people, anything a favorite celebrity spews from her mouth is scripture. Cameron Diaz wants me to exfoliate with llama fetus eyeballs? Sounds great! Jack Black suggests I huff Dorito Cheese dust to make my hair grow longer? Yum! So when the Hollywood-types tell you that you should cover your kid in olive juice every day to prevent AIDS, some ignorant imbecile will take that to heart and buy a Costco-sized jar of olives.

Weirdo celebrity parents: keep your strange-as-shit thoughts to yourself. If you want to name your kid Pilot Inspektor or Jermajesty, be my fucking guest. No skin off my back. But to promote your strange (and possibly harmful) parenting tactics to your unassuming, impressionable fan base is wrong. You’re fucking with a child’s well-being when you tell his parent to eat a lock of his hair every year on his birthday, or whatever unusual shit you do with your children. Just like with politics, Hollywood Freaks, keep your nose out of shit you don’t understand, and stick to acting/singing/slutting.

Daisy’s breastfeeding escapades

25 Feb

By the time I reached the “Extremely Pregnant” phase of my first pregnancy, I decided that breastfeeding would definitely be in my future.  I asked the only person that I personally knew had breastfed for some advice. First words out of her mouth, “It hurts.”  Now, my extreme naïveté sure matched my “extreme” pregnant self. I had expected rainbows, cotton candy, and joy, yet… “It hurts” was what I got.

Quickly followed by, “When they try to tell you it doesn’t, they’re lying.”

She followed that up by saying something along the lines of, “The only thing that saved me for those first 6 weeks was clenching my teeth and reciting the alphabet, and usually by the time the alphabet was done, I wouldn’t want to throw the baby across the room.”  Now, did you just say the basic alphabet, or did you add the whole “next time won’t you sing with me” bit?  Eventually, we got to the rainbows, cotton candy, and joy. Bonding, yadda yadda, sweet, yadda yadda, free, yadda yadda. I never really got to use her advice with the results of that first pregnancy.

Instead, I got to become well acquainted with a human torture device, or as “they” like to call it, “a hospital grade pump.” Spawn of Satan, I say. If you enjoy feeling like Elsie, hanging out in the barn, with her udders on display, I would recommend you invest in one. Now, it did get the job done and my premature twin girls feasted on “booby milk” (hey, only the most accurate of terms here.) for about 8 months before the infernal thing got thrown out the window. (Or returned to the hospital. The rent on that thing was expensive.) Once Diva and Intuitive started  needing me to pump about 60 oz. each per day, my mammary glands protested and went on strike.

Fast forward, albeit not very far in the future, to my son’s birth. Come hell or highwater, I was gonna breastfeed this one until the cows came home; straight from the “tap”, or my name wasn’t Mommy.  Where was I? Oh yeah, birth of child number 3. The two older ones were about 19 months old. I really couldn’t fathom getting up in the middle of the night 87 times and dragging my ass downstairs to make a bottle. I also couldn’t fathom telling two 19 month olds to “sit tight” and not suffocate their newborn brother while I ran to make bottles 87 times a day. Breastfeeding, it would be. It had to be.

So, on that lovely evening that Handsome was wrangled out of me, as soon as the nurses let me, I threw him on the boob. 12 hours later, I was happy I remembered the advice I had recieved some 2 years earlier. I used my judgement and made sure to add “now you know your A, B, C’s, next time won’t you sing with me” at the end. I got a few strange looks from nurses when they’d walk in our hospital room and find the newborn suckling and the “new” mom mouthing the ABC’s. I never filled them in on my secret, I’d rather have them think I was a little crazy.

Sure as sugar, 6 weeks or so flew by, and I was finally able to stop singing myself into submission. After the initial shock to my, uh, lady lumps, everything was smooth sailing. I fed that child whenever, whereever, for FREE! The mall, Disney World, P.F. Changs, it was all good. Surprisingly, I only had a few obnoxious comments. Usually from half-dressed 20 something girls. Listen, chickie, if I can see your thong and half of your ass when you’re in your seat at dinner, don’t fuck with me about feeding my kid, ok?

17 months later, Handsome was all done. He was ready for the bright lights of big boy cups and milk from a jug, instead of from my jugs. My mom, “The Mayor” spent the first couple of nights with us after we weaned, and by golly, when she went in to comfort him when he woke up at his normal nursing hours, he just went back to sleep. The day we stopped breastfeeding was the first night he slept through the night.

With my crew well into childhood, I miss the newborn stage. Does that mean I want to pop out 75 more little darlings? Nah, not at this point. But, uh, if you have a newborn I can borrow for a few hours, let me know. I promise, I’ll keep my boobs to myself.

Oh, and if you’re wondering if breastfeeding can be fun, just ask Violet about the time that I showed her how far breastmilk can fly. Her bathroom mirror was never the same. Don’t let her try to convince you that she didn’t do it when she was breastfeeding Pterodactyl.

-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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