I didn’t breastfeed. the moosh had a bottle within the first 24 hours of her life.

She was bottle fed with formula for her entire first year of life.

And guess what? She’s darn healthy and well adjusted for a little kid who had a bottle shoved down her maw for the first 12 months of her life.

Now some die hard breastfeeding mother out there is grumbling at me.

I tried.

Boy howdy did I try.

In the first few moments after she was born, I nursed her. It was so easy, so natural. Even the nurses said I made it look too easy. After the first day, things weren’t going so well. I was bleeding, I was chapped, I was sore. I dreaded nursing her. Nurses and lactation consultants came in to help (read, lactation consultants came in and felt me up something fierce.) Yet nothing came out, not even the colostrum they promised me would come. the tiny moosh screamed, and after a bottle she calmed down, she fell asleep, and I felt relieved. (And when I say relieved I mean I felt a huge amount of guilt for giving my child a bottle because I was going to be nurser extraordinaire.) There was no physical change in my boobs. Not throughout pregnancy, not after birth. (Well, except for the saggy thing. Darn you sag.)

Pediatricians and nurses kept telling me to KEEP UP WITH THE NURSING! My milk would come! Don’t give up! Don’t be one of those moms! Nursing will save society! I promised them I would.

Thus began my ritual of nurse, feed, pump. Every time the moosh woke up to eat I would start by nursing her, even though nothing was coming out. I would then have to bottle feed her because homegirl was hungry and pissed that all I did was shove an empty boob in her mouth. When she was finally settled down it was time for me to pump.

Encourage those puppies to produce!

Yet nothing ever came out. The only thing that hit the inside of that bottle was my sore bleeding nipple.

I did this at every feeding for two weeks.

I tried Reglan.

Correction, I was prescribed Reglan but the good pharmacist caught that I had a history of anti depressants and encouraged me to talk with the doctor that prescribed it. When I told the doctor that I was prone to intense depression he said “DO NOT TAKE THAT REGLAN.” Apparently Reglan, let loose in a postpartum woman’s system with a history of depression can lead to the postpartum woman jumping in front of moving cars and stuff.

Way to take a good history DOCTOR.

This is when I began to realize not a single doctor or nurse who forced nursing upon me was aware of my sickness while pregnant. I got pregnant at 180 pounds, I went home from the hospital with a new baby at 120 pounds.
That’s how sick I was.

No one bothered to consider that I was so emaciated from cooking that little baby that I had absolutely no reserves left for making milk. How could they? As soon as the moosh came out I was done with the puking.

I called the lactation consultant assigned to my boobs and asked her if there was a possibility that it would be physically impossible for me to nurse due to my HG while pregnant.

“I suppose” she said.

“Well then I’m done, this is ridiculous. You can come pick up your machine (pump) tomorrow.”

“But ma’am! There’s so much you haven’t tried! Brewer’s yeast! Supplemental nursers!”

I cut her off. “I am bloody, I am tired, my body is physically incapable of providing milk for my baby. I was bottle fed and I turned out okay. I’m sure my kid will too. Thank you.”

And guess what? The guilt was gone. the moosh was bottle fed, which was actually a huge blessing for me because it allowed others to watch her while I recovered from some serious postpartum depression.

So there you go.

I didn’t breastfeed. I tried. My body failed me.

Bummer.

…we almost got divorced.

Yep.

I admit, it was my idea to do the whole Lamaze thing. IT’S WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO!

But now that I have a neighbor who is eleven and a half months pregnant it’s all rushing back to my just how lame Lamaze was for us, and that fateful day that I actually seriously considered doing all this baby junk on my own.

“If you have the kid on the day of my final I’ll just have to come after it’s over.”

“LIKE HELL YOU’LL COME WHEN IT’S OVER THIS IS THE BIRTH OF YOUR CHILD!”

“Oh yeah, well who’s going to pay the bills if I flunk out of school?”

“YOU WON’T FLUNK OUT OF SCHOOL, OF ALL THE EXCUSES IN THE WORLD THAT WOULD GET OUT OUT OF A FINAL THE BIRTH OF YOUR FIRST CHILD IS RIGHT AT THE TIPPY TOP.”

“My teacher said there’s no excuses for anything not no way not no how.”

“(enter another pregnant all caps raving rant here ending with IF THE BIRTH OF YOUR CHILD ISN’T ALL THAT IMPORTANT TO YOU THEN I’LL JUST DO IT ON MY OWN WHO NEEDS YOU!”

We finally made it to Lamaze. I was steaming FREAKING mad. Crying even. I didn’t want HIM to touch me. I didn’t even want to admit that he was the one who impregnated me.

Have I ever mentioned that I was bat crap crazy when I was pregnant? Because now would be a good time to mention it. I was prone to raving rants of lunacy. At least weekly. More on that later.

Bad news bears.

I forget my point. But there’s an awful lot that’s rushing back with a really pregnant lady around more.

For example SOMEBODY, who just happens to be really pregnant and lives right down the street from me, woke up at four am yesterday to wash, fold and hang her new baby’s clothes. But I’m not naming names.

Somebody else, named me, headed out at midnight to buy a new shower curtain the day before her due date. Not only did she buy a shower curtain, she IRONED IT, STARCHED IT and hung it up before going to bed at 2 am and waking up in labor at 5 am. (The glories of having a baby near Christmastime. Stores are open late to pregnant nesting whims.)

Ah pregnancy. Craaaaazzzziiieeesss….

I love my camera. Love it, stroke it, kiss it, hug it, can’t get enough of it.

I sometimes get overwhelmed at how much my camera is capable of. Will I ever be able to do it justice? (This is where some of you sweet people get all “OH BUT CASEY YOU’RE SO GOOD!” and I’m all “THANK YOU! THAT’S SO SWEET!”)

However you must understand I have set my expectations unrealistically high. My mom is an amazing landscape photographer. I grew up watching her take thousands of brilliant images almost effortlessly.

See?

Of all the photos my mom has taken, this one will forever be my favorite.

My best friend is an amazing journalistic photographer. I want to suck them dry of all they know, and someday when I can I will.

But for now, I get frustrated with f stops and ISO and RAW and shutter speed and OH MY WHY DOES THAT LENS COST SO MUCH? But then I have to remember, this camera has only been in my hands for four months.

Cody’s been in my hands for almost eight years and he’s still a mess. (Dear Cody, love you. -Red)

So instead of being bummed about the pictures I didn’t get, I’m going to focus on moments that I did.

Like this one, having lunch with my best friend in San Francisco. She is one of my greatest blessings.

Who else ditched out on the parties early to do cartwheels in their room just because they could?

This one is by far my favorite. Heather, Kim and I ditched out on a session to go take pictures. Instead of asking someone to take a picture for us we found a shiny window to do the job. We were quite the scene, three giggly girls with SLRs lined up taking pictures of a window. People didn’t quite know what to make of us. But we did, and we were happy.

I was happy. The whole trip was one big pinch me high. It’s disappointing that not everyone enjoyed it and feels it necessary to drag out their disappointment and unhappiness. But as I said, it was what you made of it. And to the people who spent it with me, you could not have made it any better for me. Thanks. Thanks to every single person who stopped me to say thank you or hi or good job or nice shoes. To those I didn’t get to meet, I’m doubly bummed. 1,000 women is a lot to meet. Especially when a lot of the time is spent hiding in a corner with nervous bubble gut. (like me! HI!)

If I was a jerk to you, I’m sorry. Chances are I was on my way to a bathroom to, well, you know. I didn’t meet a single person this year that hurt my feelings or that I felt slighted by. Yes, even Sweetney was a doll to me. So please, before you feel like spreading nastiness around the internets about someone who was mean to you, maybe they didn’t mean it, maybe they just had to poo too. Or maybe they lost their favorite nose hair clipping trimmers and were bummed about it at the moment you decided to say hello.

Benefit of the doubt ladies. Benefit of the doubt.

Huh. Well. That was a random post.

Just be nice dammit.

And tell me what you’re working on that gets you overwhelmed too.

So uh, just wondering…

How many of you at BlogHer started your period early? Because I thought it was just coincidence that five of the women that I met the first night were on their period. Then there were my roommates. Then there was the girl that I pottied next to after dinner one night who’s period took her (and her white! pants!) completely by surprise.

Then there was me. I wasn’t due for another week.

And yet yesterday at the airport, SURPRISE!

I’m sure the Westin is still reeking with estrogen.

******

Yes, pictures are coming. SOMEONE, despite her best editing and whittling, ended up with over EIGHT HUNDRED pictures from the last five days. Yeesh.

Thanks to all 33 of you brave souls who entered the “Let the moosh Whoorl Your Hair Contest Extravaganza!” By the magic of Sarah’s random number magic randomizer juju program (uh, Sarah, screen shot? Hello? What are you, out of town or something?) she came up with #32 which is the woman who just happens to have the best blogroll ever (and not just because I’m on it).

Congratulations Mommy’s Martini! I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I’m done flying on this enormous plane across the country with all these strangers who are wondering what on earth a moosh is.

Yes. There are people who are sad they are not at BlogHer.

Yes. There are people who are out of their minds with jealousy that they are not at BlogHer.

Yes. There are people at BlogHer who are having the time of their life.

Yes. There are people who are at BlogHer who are hating every minute of it.

Lest you think the talk of BlogHer will end after all the planes have left and the suitcases have been unpacked you’d be wrong.

There’s going to be talk of lifelong friendships, there will be pictures, there will be stories. There will also be talk of self pity. Talk of cliques. Talk of outcasting. Talk of no fun.

If you’re not having fun. I’m sorry, but it’s your fault.

I stood on a stage of a swanky San Francisco DANCE club and announced into a microphone “Ladies, it’s time to DANCE.” There were less than a dozen of you that came down and danced who weren’t already forced on the floor by me.

Why not?

Most of you are on vacation. Most of you had nothing more to do this morning than get up and hang out with a thousand of the most amazing women I’ve ever met. So what if you don’t have rhythm? Who cares if you look like a wounded mammal when you dance? We already bare our souls to each other through words, why are so many of you so shy to share yourself in person? I gave everyone a personal invitation to dance with me. I said hi to everyone to came down. I have been trying to smile at everyone, say hi to anyone who will say hi to me.

No posts have shown up today saying “don’t read that moosh lady SHE DANCES TOO MUCH.” I had fun. WHOO. I had fun. And. AND! I was completely sober.

Thank you to everyone who boogied with me. Thank you to everyone who has said hi to me, or who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. You are all fantastic. I’m honored and humbled that I’ve been able to be in your presence this weekend.

So please, you have 24 hours left. Have fun. These experiences will never happen again. There are so many people who wish they were here. If you can’t have fun for yourself, have fun for them.

I met Abby Cadabby.

I cried a little. Sesame Street holds a very tender part of my heart. Abby even called the moosh and left her a message.

I cried a little bit more.
Then I got to make a DVD with Grover.
I KNOW! GROVER!

Abby found out that Kim and I were best friends and insisted on having our picture all taken together.

And then Kim got to make a DVD with Grover for her kids.

We both cried. Our cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
I love Sesame Street, always have.
And now I know that Sesame Street loves me.

The scene: Right outside a local Greek restaurant full of flaming cheese, pita bread and meat pie. Me, in my car with small child shrieking from backseat. Her, a middle aged poufed up smoker with fake black hair and too high of heels for her center of balance. She gets into her new shiny black Range Rover with her two froofed up sidekicks, TooBlonde and SpandexQueen.

Before closing her door she throws (THROWS!) her half full convenience store soda cup INTO the parking lot.

I threw my car into park.

Disgusted.

I am in no way crunchy, well, maybe three ways crunchy, but REGARDLESS! You don’t throw your garbage ON THE GROUND!

My first reaction? Tear out of my car and throw that soda back into her half open cigarette hanging window. Whew, it would have felt gooood.

(Cody’s mentioned something about controlling my rage…hmm…well. Anyway.)

Second reaction? Get out of my car and pick it up myself. With a big HUMPH! and a dramatic twirl back to my car.

However, I did nothing. Dummy, pansy, dummyhead. Driving away I thought through all the things that could have happened along with the fact that I’m a dummy pansy dummyhead. And then it hit me:

Third reaction, get out of the car, pick the cup up and (nicely) say “Excuse me? Ma’am? You dropped your drink!” then she would either have to suck it up and take it back or deal with some serious karma if she laughed in my face.

What would you have done? And why is it that the best comebacks come two minutes after you needed them?

If nothing else send the litterer lady bad BAAAD juju’s.

Inspired by my fellow Community Keynote (holy crap!) speakers Angela and Schmutzie. A few things you may need to know before ever hanging out with me. You know, in large social gatherings and stuff. Maybe even one in San Fransisco. Or in Indiana, or even Utah. I’m not picky.

1. I am not the moosh. the moosh is my kid. I am Casey. Nice to meet you.

2. “moosh in indy” rhymes with “push pin Cindy” not “Mewsh fin slindly”. I say this because:

• A. the pronunciation of “mewsh” bugs me.

• B. I’m too nice to correct you if you do pronounce it “mewsh”, but I will then know you don’t hang on to every mother loving word I write on this blog and you will be dead to me.

Consider this a PSA. I also hate to be called Case. So don’t do it.

3. I have the voice of a little girl. Of course in my head it’s very sultry and appealing. Alas, out loud it comes off as squeaky and the next telemarketer that asks if my parents are home will be smitten with a sore curse.

4. I’ll be the one with the dent in my left shin. You know, from falling down the stairs in Chicago? If you ask I may let you see it up close, maybe even touch it. Heaven knows I won’t be able to feel it.

RIP shin nerves.

5. If I find out you are Canadian and that you did not bring me Wunderbars I will ignore your existence on this planet, eh?

6. I’m kind of kidding on most of these. Of course if you hang on to every mother loving word I write on this blog then you’d already know that.

7. I made my husband breakfast this morning. It involved raspberries, vanilla and a blowtorch.

Intrigued? Check the food blog, Linoleum Dynamite, and if you ever come to my house I will cook for you.