Working girl: Part I

I don't know if the laws are still the same, but when I turned 14, kids could legally work if they had magical "working papers" which could be sought at the school district office with proof of age. There you'd find the district's 200-year old secretary (oh, it's a fact) who'd squint at your documents from behind her half-frames, purse her wrinkled pucker, and then retrieve from one of the file drawers lining the wall a precious blue index card for you to present to your new employer.

This blue card allowed you to hold down a real, taxable job, contingent on a number of child-labor discouraging regulations, such as not running belt sanders after midnight. You know, stuff like that.

I don't remember exactly what my rush was: my parents didn't pressure me to get a job at 14, and it didn't seem like many of my friends were running out to get 'real' jobs. I think I just wanted some dough coming in on a regular basis - I never received an allowance because my parents are Italian and Italians just don't do that. Most of the cash I came into consisted of the occasional $20 my grandpa slipped me...or later, the occasional $20 I slipped from mom's wallet. Hey, she left her pocketbook on the kitchen counter -- I'm sure she knew. So yes, that was it: I needed to feel the power of having my own cash flow...and, I wanted a leather bomber jacket - I mean, it was 1989 after all.

McDonald's struck me as the easiest and most glamorous job I could get. I am not being cheeky. In my naive 14 year old head, I imagined myself the fresh new face of our local friendly McDonald's counter: headset, visor, and totally adorable. Watch me work this cash register all cute-like. Is that for here or to go, Sir? Have you ever seen someone so effervescent!? I'm having fun, wearing eyeliner, AND making bank. Boom. Except we didn't say "making bank" in 1989.

I never, ever imagined there would be other tasks involved.

My first day was mostly spent watching corporate training videos in the manager's office. I don't remember how long I was (locked?) in there, but it seemed like hours. After, she showed me around a bit, issued me a uniform, and told me I needed to procure black shoes with non-slip bottoms. My first 'real' shift would start the following Saturday.

I chose black hi-top Reeboks. You know, the kind that went with aerobics and leg warmers, or acid wash and hairspray - whatever your poison was in those days. These were probably the most slippery shoes I could choose besides stilettos. What does a 14 year old girl know about non-slip work shoes? Come to think of it, my mom was with me. Why didn't she intervene? Sometimes I think she was just watching this whole thing unfold in amusement.

Saturday came and my mom dropped me off at the McDonald's on Route 6. Grinning from ear to ear, I punched in like I'd been shown, and located the manager. She was not as excited to see me as I thought she would be.

"You'll start on fries."

"OK!" I practically yelled.

Wait. What? Fries?

"Oh, um, but I think I'd like to work at the counter instead?" I added.

"Everyone starts by learning the fries" she said, not even smiling. She was a meanie. A meanie with a bad perm.

If you've worked in a fast food restaurant, you know that fries duty is hard, physical work. It's not just dropping the fry baskets and flinging around the salt. Oh, no no - that's the glitzy part. The part they showcase out front. There's this whole other dance that happens...you see, because the fries have to come from somewhere. That somewhere is the walk-in freezer, stacked with cardboard boxes containing bags of frozen fries. As the french fry lackey (my term, not theirs), you wield this teetering vertical cart, which is about 6 feet tall, with hooks for at least a dozen fry baskets. You roll it to the freezer, open a box, and as I recall, each bag in the box filled one fry basket. You keep opening boxes and ripping open bags until you fill up all the baskets, hook each basket back on to the cart, and you roll this monster back to the fryer. Where it's hot. And slippery. The floor is slick with grease and your hi-top Reeboks will be the death of you. You keep on frying, dropping in full baskets, hanging the empty ones, until the cart runs out of fries, then you refill the whole thing, over, and over again.

As I learned the functions of all the buttons, what the different beeps meant, and how much to salt each batch, I grew increasingly upset. This was nothing like what I'd imagined. I was sweating, my hands hurt from handling the stainless steel baskets for hours, I was thirsty, and hungry. I never sat once. I never even thought of asking for a break, and no one offered me one. I just worked continuously until my shift was over. I was scheduled to work again the next day, and I showed up, reluctantly.

I was on fries again. On this day, a gentleman working in the back was friendly to me on my way to the freezer. Or maybe I'm just remembering Louie Anderson washing the lettuce in Coming to America. Honestly, the details of that day are hazy.

At some point, someone sent me out to clean up a spill. I managed to figure out the mop bucket and rolled it over to the table. Milkshake everywhere. EVERYWHERE. As if someone spilled the largest milkshake available for sale in America at this very table. It started on the table, pooled onto the seat, and finished on the floor, and was still spreading. I wiped and mopped and wiped and mopped and the more I wiped and mopped, the more milkshake I found. The manager was telling me to hurry and get back to my station. My french fries station. MY station? Oh no. This is not working out.

As I ended the shift, the manager told me she'd be calling me to give me my next hours, as she set up a more regular schedule for me. A couple of days later, the call came.

"OK, so I'll need you here at 6am next Saturday."

"6 am?"

"Yes, 6am."

What the? Who does she think I am? Some sort of old person who gets up early? This won't do.

I protested.

"Um, I'm sorry, but I just can't come to work at 6 am!!" Ah-ha! Now I've got her! She will now realize that maybe she's been mistreating me, keeping me at the fries...she will realize that I should be at the counter after all - she'll realize how mean she's being!

"OK, then we don't need you here. You can come and turn in your uniform this week."

"I..uh....ok, thanks?"

Click.

I was stunned. Then, relieved. I cried a little bit and then I laughed. And I told my parents. And they laughed at me. Or with me. I still don't know for sure. I think they thought all the same things you are probably thinking.

Later that week, my mother drove me to return my uniform and pick up my paycheck: $58. I'll never forget because it's the first line right on my social security statement - $58 earned in all of 1989, and I earned every damned penny of it.

One time I did this thing for almost 2 years

In honor of World Breastfeeding Week 2015...

Shit! I just lost half my audience, didn't I? Oh well, they'll miss out (losers).

Like I'd started, in honor of this week promoting and normalizing (can you believe that crap? We are still working on normalizing in 2015...because America can't deal with tits or something) breastfeeding, I'm gonna share my experience, but of course I'll make it funny and touching and universal and and the best thing you ever read....because I know that's what you expect of me by now, and I'm here for you. Maybe though you should raise the bar a little bit? Whatever, I don't judge (except sometimes).

I made the decision to breastfeed while I was pregnant, but it wasn't a committed decision until the very end - or the very beginning, depending on how you look at it. I remember my mom breastfeeding my younger siblings, so I suspect (because I can't remember) that early on in my pregnancy I'd assumed I'd be figuring that part out when the time came. I do, however, recall the process of solidifying the choice to avoid formula altogether, to breastfeed exclusively, when I was commanding a huge, super round and shiny belly, and absorbing every piece of pregnancy/birth/newborn info I could find in the weeks before I was due. I knew it all, bitches. I was ready to yell at the entire hospital staff if necessary. I had a midwife. I had read 3 entire natural birthing books, and about a million and a half articles.

Fast forward to the birth NOT going anything like I'd planned. Because my little guy decided to literally sit down inside me and get his tiny ass stuck in my pelvis, because two back-to-back attempts at external cephalic version (when they try to manipulate a breech baby, from the outside, to flip into the right position - it's really painful and it was the worst thing ever), and because countless headstands, yoga bullshit, music, directed light and other coaxing didn't help to get him flipped into position, I had to finally succumb to a scheduled c-section.

I use the word succumb because at the time, it felt like complete defeat, even though it was an informed and thought out decision. I had been prepared for, and rather obsessed with, a natural birth, which I now felt cheated out of. That's another story for another time...and I got over it, no worries. However, because I'd read that having a c-section can negatively impact one's success in breastfeeding, I now felt like..ok, I lost control over this birth, I am definitely not losing control over how I feed him!  And I think that was maybe the moment I literally turned into a milk monster. Lactzilla. Nippleratu.


Titacabra.


I'd also read that in the recovery room, they are observing, among a number of things, for signs that the spinal block is wearing off, so that you can be taken back to be with your baby again. I made it clear to my c-section team that I knew this information and I'd be monitoring myself. I'm sure they all rolled their eyes. Don't care.

In recovery, as the cocktail of narcs that had been pumping through me for hours began wearing off, my face starting itching intensely. Like inside my face. I thought I would scratch my face right off - they gave me Benadryl for it. That was an awful feeling, but also kind of cool - for a moment I imagined I was a famous junkie rock star, in withdrawal, doing a stint in rehab against my will. My face has worms in it! Spiders! I need a fix! It's not funny. But it is.

Except I was a post-surgery blobby mess and probably not remotely cute, or funny, or cool at all.

Once I could finally wiggle my toes, I let the nurse know immediately that it was time for me to latch the baby. He needs colostrum or he'll DIE! Roll me back up to maternity at once, you bastards!

Latch the baby. What a fucking joke. It just wasn't working. I think every nurse on that floor, including sweet, quiet mustached Stanley, handled my stupid boobs and inadequate nipples in an attempt to help. I didn't care who it was - if you knew anything at all about babies and breastfeeding, you were going to be introduced to my breasts.

Oh, my dad is here? Cool, here's my left breast just chilling. It's out because it doesn't work. I'm gonna whip out this other one now and try it again. Poor guy. My dad was great about it actually and never made me feel weird. I'm not gonna ever tell him or thank him though because that might be weird. Some things just don't need words.

Nipple shields. SNS tube. Cup feeding expressed colostrum. Pumps. Engorgement. Let-down. I learned a new language in a couple of days. The more walls I hit, the harder I fought. The more people tried to tell me it's ok to 'give in' the more single minded I became.

Anyone that came to our house in those first few weeks got a boob show because I did all the things they tell you to - go topless as much as possible. Air dry those poor nipples. I was a little bit more reserved in public, sometimes positioning a small cotton blankie early on, but I never used an actual cover up because fuck you, people that think I should. That's right: I'll breastfeed on the hood of your car, in front of your kids, and laugh.

It took almost 3 months for things to work smoothly. I breastfed exclusively all that time though, through mastitis, cracked and bleeding nipples, thrush, and poor latch - but we kept going, and he kept growing and thriving, and then one day, just like that, it stopped hurting. And it was easy and mindless and convenient. I soon went back to work and figured out the whole electric pumping thing, (which is really on the edge of weird dystopian fuckery if you think about it), and I had accumulated a respectable stockpile of frozen breastmilk. My monster ways yielded amazing results. We kept right on going past his first birthday and almost to his second. It was around 20 months when  he was down to just one breastfeeding a day, usually the last one they give up, first thing in the morning. He just started forgetting about it...and I didn't remind him, and he self-weaned. That's kind of how it should happen. I still had milk for months though. That was freaky.

I can still imagine what it feels like to have a let-down. It's part pain, part pleasure, and all life-giving. It is a super power. I can close my eyes and see his little round baby face looking up at me, breaking away from my body for a second and giggling, then going right back for more. Even years later, I'm still so grateful for the experience. Looking back, I can see that I should have cut myself some slack, and that by not doing so, I caused myself a lot of anxiety with my constant, unwavering focus...at the same time, that was part of my learning process: I learned how deeply and fiercely I can dig in my heels when I know with all my heart that something is right, and it's a trait that has served me well much more than it hasn't.

So anyone out there breastfeeding - you're at one of the peaks of motherhood. You are the vessel that sustains your baby. You are full of magic at the same time that you are so very normal.

Everyone else - support breastfeeding mamas everywhere. Protect them, and stand up for them, and smile when you see them. Because that's the normal thing to do.