Another audition but no more smiles

Well, the good news is that I booked that gig I auditioned for from my last blog!!! Yay!!! It is for a sketch on the comedy show, Important Things with Demetri Martin (on Comedy Central). I play a pregnant woman who goes into labor on an airplane. I'm quite certain that my charming boy was the reason for me getting this job. He definitely had the room entertained.

I shot the scene this past week and had a ton of fun! It was really amazing to be back on a set again after such a long hiatus. The fun part was putting on a "pregnant belly". It looked so real, everyone thought I was really pregnant. It didn't weigh nearly what a real nine month pregnant belly weighs, but it was just as hot! The only big bummer was that I was gone from the boy for 10.5 hours. I missed him terribly. And of course, having been away from him for that long, I had no choice. I HAD TO PUMP!!!!! Argh. And this could not have been in a worse situation.

We only got a half hour lunch break and pumping took 25 minutes. And my location choices were trailer #1 (woman's dressing trailer), trailer #2 (make-up trailer), trailer #3 (wardrobe trailer), or a small, stinky bathroom. Trailer #1: way too small. Trailer #2: the make-up artist was a man. Stinky bathroom: no way. So I chose lucky Trailer #3. At least they had an outlet that I could use to plug in the pump but I had to stand up and be about two feet away from the door. Gee, I didn't think to bring my extension cord...

Overall, it was pretty painless. The two very sweet wardrobe ladies came in to eat their lunch while I was all hooked up. The younger one seemed a bit embarrassed and felt like she couldn't really look at me. Or maybe she thought I was embarrassed and wanted to give me some privacy. I declined letting her know that 1.) after having a baby, very little embarrasses me and 2.) I gave up all semblance of privacy since hhhmmmm, when would that have happened? Oh yeah, after having a baby. But that was very gracious of her. The other sweet lady was totally amazed that my boobs could be hooked up to a machine and milk can drain into plastic bottles which are suctioned onto my nipples. Watching it happen is really like a visit to the dairy farm. It's easy to be amazed at the capabilities of the female human body when witnessing such an event. I'm more in awe of the inventor who came up with the idea and wonder how painful it was for all of the lactating moms who were willing to be test subjects.

Anyhow, 25 minutes later, the deed was done. The bottles went into my handy milk cooler and off I raced to the lunch line where of course, everyone was just finishing their meals and heading back to the set. I ate fast. Other than that, a really great day.

So, that was one audition that panned out to be work. I had another audition that same week. This one was actually a callback at the Mark Taper theater so I was pretty excited about it. I had my initial audition on a day when my husband could watch the boy so there were no issues there. But I had no choice but to bring the boy on this day. I scrambled around for some plans on how to handle the situation and I came up with one that seemed to be flawless. For theater auditions, it's nearly impossible to bring a baby into the room. Theater auditions lasts longer than tv/commercial auditions so if I brought him into the room, there would be a strong possibility that the boy would start to make some noise (and probably a cute one). Then all of a sudden, what I thought would be my audition would actually turn into the boy becoming the star of the room. That would not be the time or place to be upstaged by my own child. Wasn't there some famous actor that said, "I will not work with children or dogs"? Smart move.

So my "flawless" plan was to have my friend watch the boy while I went into the audition. Brilliant! Until we decided to sit in traffic for over an hour just to get to downtown LA. Leaving with plenty of time, I picked up my friend who coincidentally lives less than 10 miles away from the theater. At this point, the boy was just about to experience his meltdown but he was so good. He held it back as long as he could. With 60 minutes in stop and go traffic, he still had somewhat of a smirk on his face. The remaining 10 miles is where he lost it. Of course, living in LA, those 10 miles took about 20 minutes to drive. Meltdown slowly escalates.

I pull into the parking lot that I went to last time because I thought it would be safe to stick to things that I am familiar with given the circumstances. It's 4:35 pm and the sign on the parking lot attendant's window says that he leaves at 4:30 pm. Surely there's some way to pay for the parking spot during "after hours", right??? The parking lot is open all night with no gate to let people know that it closes. Not one sign that lets you know what to do in case he's gone for the day. But of course, the biggest sign of all says "ABSOLUTELY NO FREE PARKING AT ANY TIME!"

The flawless plan was that my friend could walk around the area and entertain the boy for 30 minutes or so. He would without a doubt be distracted enough by all the cool things to see. There was even a beautiful fountain that he would have loved. But without paying for our parking spot we didn't want to chance leaving our car there. Oh yeah, after the fierce warning in bright red letters about no free parking, they listed the towing company that you should call in the event that they find out that you parked for free. No messing around with these folks.

At this point I now have 10 minutes to get to my audition. Definitely not in a good place. I wanted to quickly feed the boy before I left so he wouldn't be too hungry but because of his meltdown he was not interested in food one bit. So off I went to my audition leaving my poor friend in the parking lot with my poor boy, crying madly. He was really quite pissed that after making him sit in the car for so long I hand him over to someone else to hold him. Mommy-guilt. On top of it all, there was not an ounce of shade for them to hide under and it was about 100 degrees. And the scenery was worse than uninteresting. It was downright ugly. Just rows and rows of cars. Certainly not the beautiful fountain that I promised him.

I arrived at my audition sweaty and stressed. Definitely not in the mental or physical place I wanted to be. Especially after having prepared so hard for the callback, to be in such a state of chaos was very disappointing. But I had no choice. I did my thing and felt okay about it. Not great. Just okay. The only glimmer of hope I got was that I managed to make the playwright and director snicker a few times and then the playwright actually applauded when I was done. I figured this meant I did a good job or he was just really glad that I was the last person for the day and he was excited to go home.

Either way, I have no idea what they really thought of me but I haven't gotten "that" call yet. It's been well over a week so I've come to accept that they won't be giving me "that" call. I was beating myself up for quite a while though afterwards because I felt like I should have given a better performance. That's the tough thing about being an actor. The bruises and mental torture we endure which take us from one job to the next.

As my husband says, why can't I just focus on the good things that happened? Out of two auditions in one week, I booked one of them! But I wouldn't be a neurotic LA actor if I didn't obsess about the things that I could have done better. It's part of the job description. And like motherhood, it's a job that takes forever to see the pay off.

The (Un)Graceful Art of Breastfeeding

I'm in the Mac store the other day and I feel that my shirt is wet for some reason. I look down and see a small wet circle getting larger and larger before my eyes. I have started to leak. My son is 5 months old and I was told early on that the leaking stops. This is a lie. But what is even more dumb is my insistence each day that perhaps this is the day that I will stop leaking. I had forgotten to put on those handy absorbing bra pads so again I am reminded that my breasts still leak milk. I had no idea that these bra pads would be so integral to my everyday fashion. They are lying all over the house. Used, new, the wrappers, the re-usable kind... I have tried all brands and sizes. I change them more than I change my underwear. And I have unintentionally left them in various places through out Los Angeles county. Stuck to the table at some fancy restaurant (probably covering up some poor waiter's tip), on my dashboard, in Kien's car seat, restroom countertops. I have also found them a few days later accompanied by my new common phrase, "Oooohhhh, that's where that is." I have rediscovered them inside the leg of my pants, in my dog's mouth, stuck to the washing machine, caught in my hair, etc. Even stuck to the back of my shirt as I am walking out the door. I am at one with the bra pad. This does not mean that I enjoy wearing them. While they do work, it feels like I have two giant maxi pads stuck in my bra. And let's talk about, for just one quick second, about how crappy it is when you realize that you have stuck the wrong side to your breast. Instead of the semi-soft, absorbent side against my breast, I have accidentally placed the plastic side against my nipple. You know, the side that has the sticky part which helps it to stay put in your bra. Try ripping that sticky tape off of your boob when you're in a hurry.

Before Kien was born I knew that I was definitely going to be breastfeeding. There was no question. I did have a few issues in the beginning, but I was one of the lucky ones who managed to survive the first few weeks without actually losing something valuable, like say, a nipple. It was one of those things that no matter how many people tried to warn me, it would never have come close to what it truly felt like. Take "engorgement" for example. Before you experience it, you think that your breasts will get larger and fill with milk. Okay, one or two cup sizes. Not a problem. I am prepared to handle that. No one told me that engorgement might also mean it is possible for one breast to stay the same, while the other becomes ENORMOUS. Not one or two cup sizes larger, let's be conservative and say five cups larger. And it's not just the size that I was freaking out about. Let's talk about how completely weird my one breast felt. Hard. Very Hard. Full of knots. And HEAVY! Let's imagine filling a balloon with small pebbles and then tying that to your chest. Your swimming days are over. It's just as well, you'd never be able to find a bathing suit to cover up the anomaly. Just to make sure you have the full image in your mind I will attach fruit to the analogy. One side is a small grapefruit, the other side is an extra large cantaloupe.

We call the lactation consultant to come over immediately. She doesn't even flinch. Apparently, this happens all the time. Yet, I don't remember these warnings in my "Breastfeeding 101" class. Then she tries to get me to hold my newborn baby to my breast with one hand, and hold my 10 lb. breast with the other hand. AS IF women do this successfully all the time. I could not. I failed miserably. Excuse me, but I forgot to do hand strengthening exercises before the baby arrived. I was not only supposed to hold my overly engorged breast with one hand but then she wanted me to have precise control over it so that I could guide it into his mouth. By the time we actually got my baby to eat, three people were involved holding various body parts. Why then, would she think that I could do this on my own? One job my husband had was wiping my eyes as tears poured down my face.

Yes, it's true: it DOES hurt. Don't let those La Leche League people tell you otherwise. I experienced a number of problems. Infection, engorgement, sore nipples, and clogged ducts. The last is like a cruel joke. So your breasts produce the milk, yet the ducts get clogged so the milk can't come out. This is when it looks and feels like your breast is a bag full of pebbles. And all while this is going on, your breast(s) is very hot because it's being traumatized. And wouldn't you know it? The solution from the lactation consultant is to put a hot compress

on it. Exactly what I was hoping for.

There's also something called the "let down" which I think is when the milk actually starts coming out. It has been described as "pins and needles". To me, it feels similar to when your foot or hand falls asleep and you try to get the blood flowing again. If I'm not getting any sleep, then at least my breasts are.

In regards to the let down, I had what was called an "overactive let down". Yes, there is a name for everything. This is when the milk comes out so fast that I water log the poor boy with my milk because it's shooting out like a runaway fire hose. Seriously. This is not an exaggeration. Milk comes spraying, not dripping, but spraying out of four or five little holes in every direction. It hits him in the head, up the nose, in the eye, in his ear, and douses his clothes which just took me 45 minutes to get one arm through because he likes to squirm. Milk every where, except in his mouth. Now, not only is he still hungry, but he's soaked and so I have to change him again.

When he does actually try to drink from the fire hose, he fiercely gags and coughs because he can't swallow fast enough. Then he pulls away from the breast to once again get sprayed in the eye. It's a total bummer being a newborn.

There have been many, many times in the middle of the night when he has screamed in hunger but can't latch on because I'm too full of milk. That's when I sit on the bed, rock my crying baby as I watch my breast shoot milk across the room hitting the sleeping dogs beside the bed. Again, not an exaggeration.

Of course, breastfeeding can not escape the many gadgets out there which claim to help make it more "special". My favorite of all gadgets: My Breast Friend.

First of all, the name is enough to make me hide the product far away in the closet. Admittedly, it was helpful. It's basically a very firm pillow which wraps high around your waist and you secure it with a buckle. You then lie your baby on this pillow so you don't have to hold him/her during the whole feeding. This saves you from shoulder and neck aches, and in my case very sore wrists. (Something else they didn't warn me about: some new mothers actually suffer from carpal tunnel because of all the new stresses.)

Anyway, what makes me laugh about this product is that it has been renamed by my husband as the "cigarette tray". A far better name than My Breast Friend, in my opinion. Imagine if you will, it's 3am, I've had no sleep, I've given up on wearing bras, or clothing for that matter. (I just can't seem to keep anything clean.) But I have this disk buckled around my waist. It sticks out about 12 inches in the front so it's very convenient for holding a plate of food if you're really in a jam. Also try to imagine getting through doorways. It's like a very large bumper for fragile people. Reaching down to get anything below waist level is also forgotten. So, in my topless and sleepless state, I would just roam around the house saying "Cigarettes. Candy. Gum."

This is what you do to keep humor in the house. What really gets me is this: I roam around the house looking and smelling like road kill because I haven't showered in days, I'm strapped down with my cigarette tray knocking anything down that gets in it's way, the recently emptied boob is sagging and flopping around while the engorged boob (the bumpy, lumpy one) leaves a milk trail on our wooden floors. Oh, I forgot to mention that one of my dogs follow me around the house because she thinks this milk on the floor is snack time. The sight is frightening. Not the woman I thought I would become. Yet my hubby will still look at me and tell me that I'm beautiful. I mean really. What in god's name has he been smoking?

Despite it all, I love breastfeeding. I really do. And I know that I'm very lucky to be able to do it. I know there are some women who don't produce enough milk, or don't have jobs where they are allowed to continue breast feeding. And there are some women who barely escaped the first 6 weeks still intact. So, I count myself to be one of the lucky ones. And I don't judge those who don't. It is incredibly hard to learn and I felt it was more painful and difficult than giving birth to Kien. Sounds crazy, but it's true. There are a lot of different thoughts on the whole issue, but I say, "To each their own!" I've heard so many crazy stories about the trials of breastfeeding that there is absolutely no room for judgement. I honestly feel like it's a secret society where the real information is hidden, otherwise women would be too scared to try it. At long last, I'm at a place where I feel the great privilege to be able to provide him with everything he needs to grow. The bonus is that I burn so many calories breastfeeding that I get to eat as much as I want! But it's not the least bit a one-way street. Even now, since we've mastered the art, we still have to work together to do it right. It's one of the most special times of the day, every day. And it is during these times when I see the grace.