How to Piss Off Your Wife in 527 Convoluted Steps, OR, A Formula for Anger

Okay, I’m mad at Tom and I thought I’d give you the joy of crawling inside my psyche to see just how I got here.

Topic of Anger: Baby Formula.

Now before you point out to me that my “babies” are almost 9 and 11, I’d like to say, “Hold onto your hats, it’s going to be a wild ride.”

Still with me? Okay.

So when Molly was born, she was tiny, even scrawnier than her scrawny older brother. Sleep deprivation and the fact that I somehow forgot everything I had learned about babies from number one, left me a basket-case on child number 2. That she was yellow, nursed constantly, and took nearly a month to regain her birth weight did not help my confidence.

I remember walking into the kitchen and seeing a teeny tiny rotisserie chicken on a plate and bursting into tears. With those scrawny little appendages, the bird looked just like my baby—but with no head! Let’s just say it was a stressful time.

SOOOO, when the doctor advised us to give her a few bottles of formula to help her gain weight, we did and then went back to nursing for the rest of the year. Even though everything turned out fine, those days just remind me of fear (Will she ever grow? Just grow. Please grow!) and guilt (Is my milk in? Is my milk out? Is my milk skim? Please, Molly, please!)

Fast forward to her first birthday. Her daddy wrote her a sweet note to give her when she was old enough to read it. I know you are ooohing and aahhing right now about what a great guy he is. Fine. But let’s remember whose blog this is and get back on task.

In the note he shared several memories of their year together and his number one memory was—wait for it-- “Feeding you bottles of formula.” Really? 12 months of daddy/daughter time and that’s what you come up with? Sorry to steal your thunder, but did I not spend the first four months of her life “sleeping” in the guest room with my nipple in her mouth?” This human pacifier couldn’t even get up to go pee, yet you give her 3 bottles and that tops the damn birthday list?

Okay, let’s move on. So a couple years later when I was slightly less psychotic, slightly more amorous, and finally open to discussing the possibility of a third baby, I threw out what I thought was a brilliant concept. After nursing both kids for a year each, feeling more comfortable in my own skin, and becoming a lot more flexible about the whole topic of bottle-feeding, I lobbed a proposal I knew was win/win.

I shared with Tom an arrangement our friends Nicole and Trey were using with their new baby. Nicole would breastfeed her, but Trey would bottle feed her once in the middle of each night so they could bond and Nicole could sleep. I told Tom I’d be open to having another baby if he would do that (remember he just loooooooooves bottle feeding, right? It’s apparently the zenith of his parenting experiences) His response? “No. I would be too tired at work the next day.” "Seriously?" "Seriously." End of discussion. I was pissed. Thanks for the honesty, Tom. Our still fictional 3rd child thanks you, too.

Fast forward to today. I’m finally over my nausea from last week’s flu outbreak and it’s been nearly 16 hours since I’ve cleaned up any vomit or diarrhea. The 18th load of laundry of the week is spinning happily in the dryer, and I’m cruising the Internet. What pops up on my screen? A Parental Control, set up by Tom. Fine.

And what is the Password Clue? Out of every possible clue in the UNIVERSE?

Is it my Mother’s Maiden Name? Childhood Pet? Winningest team in the NFL? Dream Vacation? Square Root of 8674? The name of the sled in Citizen Kane?

Of course not.

It is: “Baby Formula.”

Thanks. In one fell swoop you get the trifecta of reminding your wife of the absolute lack of credit she got for nursing your offspring for 24 months, you've taken her back to a very stressful, anxious time when she worried she couldn’t provide what her baby needed, and you've even managed to conjure up bitterness about her nonexistent third child!

This, on top of micromanaging her computer access. Woohooo!
I pound the keyboard with SIMILAC. INFAMIL. GOOD START. Nothing. Is it ENFAMIL with an E? My blood is boiling.

And these parental controls? I AM a parent. And it’s not like I was trying to look at porn. I was trying to look at house plans, which is my kind of porn, but still.

So, I don’t know how to wrap up the world's longest post except to say that while I am NOT against baby formula, I am against baby formula ever, EVER, being mentioned by my dear husband in any way.

And Tom, if you are reading this: I just found out Nicole and Trey are expecting a 4th little “whoops!” bundle of joy. Looks like their unorthodox feeding plan didn’t make Trey too tired after all.