A girl with a baby and a craniosacral therapist meet in a restaurant...

It’s HOT y’all, seriously hot. Kentucky is sweltering. It’s not quite the “go outside and take a gasp as you try to inhale” heat of last summer, but it’s definitely what one might call the dog days of summer.  Just so we’re clear on how non-exaggerative I’m being, our thermostat is currently on 70 and it’s 79 in the house. Yech.

And yes, that introduction was necessary to my next story.

Vivi and I have had a very busy couple of days, with Thursday being our standing Mom Group Potluck and Friday we had a coffee date and lunch date back to back. We ate lunch at Café Classico, which is a lovely little place to dine, but not exactly well regulated when it comes to temperature. It didn’t help that I had just spent the last several minutes standing outside the 100 degree heat on Frankfort Avenue, trying to change a poo diaper between appointments. With only about a mile in between destinations, it wasn’t even a long enough ride to cool the car before we got back out into the sweltering heat. So here I am, lugging the 25+lb car seat (not including Ms. Big Stuff’s 7lb little body) and diaper bag into the restaurant. I was the first of our party to arrive, and quite frankly it was way too hot. I seriously considered bolting for the door, but was far too hungry to go anywhere. The waitress came by and, with sweat dripping off of me, I asked for water and an iced tea, STAT.

My dear husband and our friend arrived shortly thereafter and all was going well until Vivi got hungry. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, pumping is both a blessing and a curse. You can feed the little munchkin anywhere without worrying that you’ll get kicked out for indecent exposure, but 1. I have a picky child who refuses to drink cold milk, so therefore access to hot water is absolutely necessary and 2. If I underestimate the amount of time I’m going to be gone or how hungry the little lady is, I’m in serious trouble.

That second statement proved to be an issue on that day. I didn’t pack enough milk and so we had a very irritable, hangry (that’s hungry plus angry) baby on our hands. And how do babies communicate? By screaming, of course.

So here it is, easily 80 degrees in the blasted restaurant and I’ve got to figure out how to nurse her without flashing the two men directly ahead of me. And this is far too much detail, but in light of my dainty little girl’s small mouth, it’s necessary for me to wear a nipple shield in order to nurse. Yeah, go ahead and look that up. Basically, putting one on is a two-hand effort and not exactly discreet enough for me to do in front of the men seated nearby.

I put the shield on, take Vivi in another part of the restaurant in order to get her situated, and pace a bit to regain my composure while sweat drips off both of us. (Two hot-natured girls smashed together just isn’t pretty.)

A lady in a pink shirt walks nearby, and I assume that she’s making her way to the restroom, which I was blocking. “I’m going to be very bold,” she says. (Inward groan inserted here.)

“I wanted to give you my card. I’m a craniosacral therapist and I often work with new moms who are anxious and nervous and help them get through those rough first few weeks.”

Really? Clearly I don’t want to be bothered, and this lady had misinterpreted my frustration at being hot for anxiety about nursing in public.

Motherhood has made me a bit blunter than I used to be, and not to mention I have a husband who is quite direct at times. I shot back with, “I’m sorry, what exactly is your background?” in a voice that was more accusatory than curious.

“A craniosacral therapist. Well, my background is in massage therapy, but I haven’t done that for a long time. If you want to make an appointment with me, I wrote my number on the back.”

I look down at the hippie-style card and do my best to refrain from wrinkling my face. Is this some kind of joke? But I smile politely, tell her thank you, and then began to walk away.

It may seem like an insignificant event, and in the grand scheme of things, it was. But here’s the thing: no mom wants to be called out for essentially appearing anxious in public, no matter what kind of service you offer. Number two, the perceived problem or issue may actually be different than reality. Please don’t assume you can tell the difference. I was hot, Vivi was hot, and nursing isn’t Vivi’s primary method for receiving her nutrition. Lastly, and possibly most importantly, if you’re a craniosacral therapist, it’s likely that less than ten percent of the population knows what the hell you’re talking about. If someone bothers to ask you what your background is, give more of an explanation for the product you’re pitching than, “helping new moms through this time of transition.”

And that’s my random rant for the weekend. I’ll be hibernating until the heat wave breaks.