Breast Feeding in Public

Since arriving in NYC, I've been trying to gauge the level of acceptance of public breastfeeding (under my "modesty sheet" of course. Very Victorian.) And I've noticed that I now, a month in, feel a lot less comfortable with it than I did in Canada.

SIN

Ok, I probably have about seven minutes to write this, given the inner baby sleep clock I’ve developed.

 
- Alice said "da da" while looking and waving at M. She said it with intent, and purpose. It was definitely different from the usual baby talk. It was magical. It actually felt like magic.

- Last week, I had a meeting with a media company about some past work. I can’t really say which one, except lets call them SIN. They have a Yes/No list that’s pretty infamous. Skaters. Extant photography. Anyway, they wanted to ask me about research I had done in the past for a segment they’re working on for their video department.

Fourth of July

Fourth of July- we pack Alice up and make our way to the Macy’s fireworks display. It’s two hours of punishing heat, pushing the stroller up hills, weaving it around people so as to not skin their ankles and dragging it up long flights of stairs. But there’s a break- The subways here are for the most part air-conditioned, which means 45-minutes of lovely. About four hours before the fireworks are set to begin, we get off in Chelsea and make our way to the park to set up camp. The crowds are starting to grow, filling the sidewalk and spilling over onto the streets, and the police everywhere, looking serious and damp.

Sunset Park

We’re here! Well, not quite. We have two weeks in Brooklyn before we move into our own place in West Harlem. Right now, we’re staying in the Sunset Park neighbourhood, a Chinese/Hispanic community. Yesterday evening, when it started to pour, you could hear surprised exclamations in both Spanish and Mandarin. I had gotten Alice ready in her stroller for an evening walk, and as soon as we got to the door, the rain started. People slapped wet Chinese-language newspapers onto their heads and ran for cover. Alice and I trudged back upstairs, and once we were comfortable in front of the window to watch the rain, she heard thunder for the first time. She didn’t seem to think much of it.  

It’s an interesting hybrid, Chinese/Latin. There’s an OK 24-hour Mexican restaurant down the street, followed on the next intersection by Chinese storefronts selling linens and a locksmith service. I think I’ve seen four white people so far. I practice my Mandarin with my landlord and his family, who occupy every other suite in this building, and older floral Latinas bless Alice in grocery stores and bakeries.

Also, holy baby jesus it's hot. Sweat, just sweat. Everything's sticky. We live in front of the fan. 

I’ve only left the fan once, well almost. It was to meet Michael on the southern edge of Times Square, at about 30^th and Broadway, on the edge of the fashion district, and I had decided to walk the last ten blocks. It was about 7pm, and I trudged upstream with the stroller and all of Alice’s gear through the flow of young female professionals leaving work. Their dresses were fantastic – interesting, perfectly accessorized, expensive. They conducted business on headsets. They were younger than me. And as I lumbered along, the stroller cutting a wide line in the stream, my status – a stay-at-home-mom, a SAHM – flared up with the contrast.

This is what I do now, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done (Alice didn’t get to sleep until midnight last night! When I’m not taking care of her, I’m cleaning. You’re on call 24/7. It never stops. She's the most amazing thing ever in the history of amazing.) But involved is a military-style exercise in destroying the construct of the self. I can’t work for the next year probably, maybe two. And eking out writing time is like wringing ink from paper. To keep our muggy, AC-less apartment from declining into garbage-infested chaos, I am constantly working. I’m a housewife, and will be for a while. Nothing against this very hardworking profession, but it’s a shift in definition. I’m not used to not thinking about myself constantly.

But I'm throwing myself into it. Yesterday I read that egg yolk mixed with warm water removes most coffee and tea stains, and that a child needs consistent, loving care from ages 0-2 for their brains to grow right. 

Anyway, baby crying. Day begins. Happy Fourth!