I Am A Character In A Greek Myth

Taking care of a newborn calls to mind many a Greek or Roman mythology allusion. The number of rags and receiving blankets we tear through is obscene; the moment I put on clean sheets, and tunnel my way into clean, soft, bliss, they are christened with sprays of breast milk (my fault) or spit up (Little V’s fault). Sometimes, during a diaper change, Little V will pee and/or poo right as we are putting on the new diaper. On one particularly egregious occasion, I went through 4 diapers before I was able to finally take leave of the changing table. On another, after putting away 3 loads of laundry today, I realized another entire (almost full) load had accumulated in the meantime.

The time she spends feeding is not per se an unmanageable amount of time, but it seems that with the feeding, burping, feeding again, changing, burping again, then possibly changing again, a 40 minute process turns quickly into a two-hour ordeal. Or I finish the process, sit down for 10 minutes to start something, and it’s time to go again. I’m usually an extremely efficient person, and it’s difficult to suddenly realize 4 hours has passed, and not really be able to identify what I’ve accomplished, aside from feeding Little V. Today, I finished putting away 2 loads of laundry – by the way, I didn’t even do the laundry, my dad did – wrote a thank you note, cleaned the cat litter boxes, Googled symptoms of newborn constipation and acid reflux, and called an online boutique to bitch about the fact my order was placed 19 days ago and still has not been shipped. It’s now 1:45 p.m. Next up on the agenda include a call to lactation support, working out, and bath for baby. Let’s see how we fare.

This certainly harks back to the story of Sisyphus, who was doomed to roll a gigantic boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back to the bottom, repeatedly, for all of eternity. My mother once told me cleaning up after us was a Sisyphean task, except she was referring to me as a teenager, not a newborn, so I guess this will continue for many years.

I also frequently describe leaving the house with a newborn (to do practically anything) as a Herculean task. Even a quick trip to the grocery store has required a concerted effort. We’ve had to learn how to make her comfortable in the car seat, time the outings when she is sleeping, and make sure there’s an exit plan in case she starts crying or gets hungry while we’re out. I like to think we’ve actually done quite well. We usually take no more than 15 minutes getting everything together on our way out, which I think is an accomplishment in and of itself. Yet, the planning and supplies that go with any outing do feel a bit daunting.

I’ve also always said that reproduction is an act of narcissism, in that people’s self-love drives them to replicate themselves. I do look at Little V sometimes and think she bears quite a bit of similarity to me as a baby. On the other hand, I saw a picture of her the other day and hoped she had not inherited my asymmetrical eyelids and that it was merely the angle of the photo.

We used to receive extra credit in Latin class for discussing daily references to Greek or Roman mythology, and I’m pretty sure this post would have pleased Ms. Altieri.

Yet, despite my complaints and ridiculous comparisons to mythology, I am incredibly grateful to be able to have a child in my particular circumstances, with the aid of a wonderful husband, parents, friends, advanced medicine, and Google.

The Worst of Belgium

Pictured above is one of many awesome Belgian beers.

This past weekend, I went to the grocery store to pick up some veggies, and happened to walk down the beer aisle. There were several good beer deals, so I ended up with a couple of 6-packs of IPAs, as well as a pumpkin ale. However, I happened upon this offending display:


The “best” of Belgium? Really?! True, Leffe is not bad. The first time I had it, I was at a little dive in Brussels, and it was one of the most amazing beers I’d ever had – up to that point. Even now, I like both the blond and brune versions from time to time. And to be generous, no one can deny the Hoegaarden and its lemony touch is pleasant on a hot summer day. These are not at all remotely close to being the best Belgium has to offer, but at least they are acceptable, even good beers.

Then we get to the heinous, egregious, and unforgivable inclusion of Stella. You have got to be fucking kidding me. You know they call that shit “wife-beater” in the UK, right? It’s like the Bud Light of Europe. It’s flavorless, ugly, wretched, piss. Given the choice between drinking Bud or Stella, I’d actually take the Bud – not because of the flavor, mind you. They are equally piss, except the Bud is cheaper. Let me ask you – would you rather drink cheap piss or expensive piss?

That’s what I thought. And I like how they refer to this as a “celebration of Belgian beer.” No, not so much. More like a funeral march.