Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Public Breastfeeding can be Expressed in Good Taste

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(Featured on the Huffington Post Comedy on March 16, 2015)

public breastfeeding

 

I recently attended an elegant wedding at a seaside resort where the gift table and the guests were well-endowed. However, there was some engorged indignation at the reception as two perky women nursed their babies without discreetly covering the bobbing heads of the darling sucklings.

One of the bridesmaids conveniently wore a strapless gown to easier facilitate the moveable feast. Reaction to the public display of liberal lactation ranged from frothed and pumped up annoyance to flowing praise for the natural and healthy nourishment between the mother and child reunion.

It sucks to be criticized for using a supply on demand device for its original purpose.

“Oh, my, I must warn Harold not to go over there,” a woman muttered to a group of older guests with permed hair, lace hankies and sensible shoes.

“I haven’t seen this many bare breasts since I watched a National Geographic documentary about African tribes.”

“In my day we discreetly fed our babies under a blanket, and my mother hired a nurse maid for her children,” snorted another lady.

The younger crowd seemed nonchalant and didn’t latch onto the uncomfortable tension that leaked into the room. They laughed the night away, draining jugs of wine until they acted like boobs.

To insure that the event wasn’t a total bust, they danced through the spot so the hooters could hoot, the knockers could knock, and the stranded friends could wean themselves away from the dried up and sagging patrons. In a final tit-for-tat, the young adults pulled the older folks out of their bondage and onto the dance floor to lift and separate their drooping spirits.

By then, the contented babies were asleep and the milked mothers had a few hours to pad themselves and dance the Fandango until the cows came home. That way, they could have their wedding cake and eat it too.

The best formula for enjoying a special occasion that involves young couples is to anticipate the appearance of at least one nursing mother.

Offended people can choose to avert their attention to the drunken uncle or the pouting teenager, or the Rod Stewart impersonator in the band. The public nursing only lasts a few minutes and the alternative is to hear a screaming baby and witness a swollen mother in pain.

I nursed my two babies each for a year, and it was a rewarding experience. I never walked around in public hooked up to the little buggers, but I don’t disapprove of those who do. There are far too many neglected babies who hunger for the affection and attachment of loving mothers.

After my children were grown, I cleaned out the house and found a little bottle of breast milk saved in the back of the basement freezer. My younger child was 18 years old and didn’t need it. I couldn’t throw it away so I lovingly placed the bottle into a velvet Crown Royal pouch and buried it under the rose-bush in the back yard. I probably need counseling for that.

400 Blogs, One Daughter

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elaine emily cabo 2014

 

It’s only appropriate that I dedicate this blog to my daughter Emily Nielsen. It’s the 400th blog that I’ve published on this website, and it wouldn’t have happened without her loving guidance and encouragement.

“Get off your butt, Mom, and write something,” were her tender words of motivation. They echo as a gentle melody that meanders through my memories. She truly cared about me.

I was 56 and going through a second divorce. I felt like a total loser. All my career and parenting successes were negated by my monumental failures in marriage, and I plunged into the pathetic abyss of abandoning all hope. I moped. I chewed my fingernails to bloody stumps. I glumly took 15 items in the 10 items checkout lane. I ate chocolate and drank wine. Before noon.

It was 2008, and the domain name of www.elaineambrose.com was still available. My energetic and confident 30-year-old daughter showed me how to obtain the name and set up a website. Then she showed me the elementary instructions for writing a blog. With a background in journalism, I loved to write short feature articles between 500-1000 words. The challenge was exciting.

I decided to call the blog “Midlife Cabernet” and I wrote simple but humorous stories about life as a middle-aged clown. I included recommendations for wine and where to obtain the best bottles. The new activity gave me a purpose, and I boldly jumped into the blogosphere.

Today I’m in Nashville, Tennessee as a speaker at the premiere conference for BAM – Bloggers at Midlife. I belong to a growing sisterhood of women over age 45 who write and publish stories online. The blogs are varied and important.

* Several women write about the highs and lows of the “empty nest.”

* Some write about having children with special needs who always will live at home, so there won’t be an empty nest.

* Other write about food and share wonderful and creative recipes.

* We blog about grandchildren, marriage, divorce, fitness, travel, psychology, sex, and do-it-yourself projects.

* Of top importance, we blog because we’re not done yet. In a world of youth and changing technology, we refuse to become irrelevant.

*So, we blog.

So much has happened over the past seven years. I met a delightful man I call Studley, we married on the Greek island of Paros and moved into our forever home. Both of my children had children of their own, and his children embarked on collegiate and military careers. My mother passed away after an extended illness. Through all these adventures and experiences, I blogged. My topics ranged from the joys of eldercare to wondering why my body was morphing into a pile of dough. People read my blogs, and thanked me for the laughs and tears. I read theirs, and returned the thanks.

So, it’s with delicious appreciation that I finish the 400th blog and tie it with a virtual ribbon to say “Thank you” to Emily. Without her inspiration, I’d be wallowing down by the river sucking cheap wine from a paper bag. She helped save my life. I think I’ll blog about it.

 

 

The Joys of Traveling with Your Children (after age 30)

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elaine 2013 (23)

If given the choice between traveling with small children and having a root canal, I’d be at the dentist office sucking laughing gas before noon. I adore kids but the logistics of getting them more than 100 miles is too much to endure unless they can be shipped like golf clubs or crated like pets.

After my baby filled his diapers with an adult-strength load during takeoff on a three-hour flight, I finally realized there was no reason to ever travel with youngsters. At least not in the same airplane.

Children under five years old don’t know what a vacation is, so tell them that the city park is just like Disneyland except without grinning pirates shooting guns, drinking booze, and chasing women on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Better yet, turn on the sprinklers in the backyard, sit down with a glass of wine, and watch the little darlings giggle and wiggle until they’re tired enough for a nap. Then invite your hubby to swill some whiskey and chase you around the yard. Yo ho ho! Everyone will be happy and you’ll save thousands of dollars. This is a win-win situation.

Traveling with little children requires parents to lie in order to survive the ordeal. Here are a few of my desperate but necessary distortions of the truth I coughed up while attempting to orchestrate the illusive perfect family vacation when my kids were under ten years old.

Driving in rush-hour traffic near Disneyland.

“Of course, it’s okay to pee into a potato chip can, Honey, because it’s against the law to get off the freeways in Los Angeles.”

Trapped at the airport during another flight delay.

“Please stop whining and you can have a new puppy/pony/playhouse if we get home before you’re in high school.”

After four hours of driving through a desolate desert.

“Stop hitting your brother/sister or I will park this car right now and we’ll live off the land and eat scorpions until you can learn to behave.”

After two hours of “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?”

“Sorry, kids. Mommy is going away for a while.” Then I would pull over, stop, and play dead. Worked every time.

I still mutter like a curmudgeon when I see young parents in airports juggling a small mountain of luggage that includes diapers, food, enormous strollers, DVD players, toys, and clothes that could stock a child care center. My ancestors walked for months to Idaho along the Oregon Trail, and their kids and clothes were bathed once a week in the river, air-dried on a log, and stored in the wagon for the day’s journey. They survived just fine.

Imagine if any pioneer child had complained:

“Pa, the wagon’s too bumpy!”

“Hush, Child, and go trap a rabbit, skin it, and help your Ma make dinner. We’re walking ten miles tomorrow.”

The first time I saw the movie The Sound of Music I yelled “Fraud!” at the end as the family climbed over the Alps singing in perfect harmony in clean clothes. When my kids were little, we couldn’t walk from the house to the car without someone falling headfirst into a mud puddle. And forget about taking a hike together. Any incline more than two inches would cause howls of dismay with repeated pleas to be carried. And that’s when they were teenagers! But, in deference to the movie, if evil Nazis were chasing us, we would manage to escape together, with or without matching lederhosen.

cabo family

One splendid advantage of getting older is that family trips are easier and less hectic. My kids are in their thirties and have their own children to handle, so I just need to pack yoga pants, t-shirts, and a wine opener. We recently traveled with 11 family members on a week-long vacation. I was overjoyed to play with the grandkids and sing songs and tell stories. Then came Happy Hour and their parents could take over. As they walked away with the boisterous brood, I overheard one of my adult children say, “Stop hitting your sister or we’ll go live in the desert and eat scorpions until you learn to behave.” My work here is done.

 

 

To My Son as He Leaves for College

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adam elaine football hs

(For those with quiet empty nests, here’s a letter I wrote to my son years ago.)

What do you mean you mailed a college application? Get back down on the floor and play with some Legos. Do you want me to make you a sandwich? Or, you can invite your friends over and we’ll order pizzas. You can stay up all night, if you want. I’ll just go cry in my room, but don’t let that bother you.

Yes, I know I can be obnoxious about mothering you, but don’t leave yet. I’m not done. We need to work on laundry and managing money. And we should have the talk – you know, the discussion about sex, drugs, alcohol, and how the world is full of mean people who could hurt you. Oh, you say you can handle everything? Then tell me, son, how do I handle this anxiety? How do I stop this gut-churning ache when I realize my only son, my last child, is walking out the door and will return as a visitor? Give me some laughs for that fact, will you?

Okay, I’m sorry for that lapse in composure. I’m really happy for you. Really. I want you to march into college and own the place. Let them know you have arrived and you’re ready to pursue enlightenment and knowledge so you can get a great job and support me in my old age. Oops. There I go again. It’s not about me, is it? This is about you. I must focus.

Because I’m a single parent and the two of us have shared this house for several years, I want to give you my best parenting advice before you drive off to the university. So, here goes:

  1. Size matters. You already know this. Weighing in at 11 pounds, you were one of the biggest babies every born at the Gooding County Hospital. You were always the tallest, which made it easy to find you in a crowd of other children. You were sad at age 4 when He-Man underwear didn’t come in your size, and the teachers had to order an adult-sized desk for you in 5th You were 6’6” in high school, and you carried the load for others, as you continue to do today. Sometimes you didn’t like being so big, but many people, including me, see you now as a tall, strong, funny, handsome, and responsible hero. That’s a good thing.
  2. Keep your sense of humor. No one can make me laugh like you do. Your personality is beyond gregarious and that’s why others enjoy being around you. I’ve seen you cheer up a dejected classmate, counsel a young child, coach and encourage a YMCA team, and cause your grandmother to grin. (Dementia made her grin all the time, but you brought a special twinkle to her eyes.)
  3. Stay compassionate. As a two-year-old, you took care of other children at the child-care center. That special trait continued into your teenage years. Several others took advantage of you, and I know you used your wages to pay for a lot of meals, trips, and activities that other kids couldn’t afford. Keep that empathetic characteristic, but watch out for charlatans who will exploit your generosity. Learn from me.
  4. Treat women as wonderful, complicated creatures who can make your life a living hell or a heavenly sanctuary. You will live in a fraternity and there will be raucous parties with coeds. Have fun, but keep your head clear and your pants zipped. Other college men won’t heed that advice, and their new nickname will be “father” or “college drop-out.” The woman you choose to marry will be lucky, indeed. Remember to compliment her, support her dreams, and be delighted in your partnership with her as you build dreams together. Plan great adventures and expect a successful marriage. And, if she ever asks, “How do I look?” always respond, “Wow! You look amazing?” Trust me.
  5. Remember your roots. You were born into a family with a strong work ethic, a love of adventure, and an unwavering love for their children. I’m sorry your father and I lost the marriage, but we continued to make your sister and you our top priority. Take this experience to do better than we did.
  6. Get ready to fly. The next five years will be the most important years of your life. You will go to college, get a job, perhaps get married, and maybe you’ll have children. Life will never be the same again. Take this time to savor every drop of life you can. Meet new people, visit new destinations, make some mistakes, and recover with gusto. But, please, know that if you move far away I know how to make airplane reservations. I’d like a guest room with teal-colored paint on the walls, a coffee maker, and a wine bar.

I think that’s the essential tidbits for now. You’ve got a job so you know about money. As for laundry, just wear all dark clothes so you don’t need to separate the loads. But, always wash your towels at least weekly. I might need to throw a few wet towels on the floor after you’re gone just for the memories.

Go to college, son, and remember that life can’t be one big party unless someone pays the bills and provides the clean-up committee. Be the one in charge of your own celebration of young adulthood. I’ll miss you every day, but soon I can visit you on campus. I’ll bring your favorite cookies! And a pizza. It will be just like old times.

Most of all, I will miss your laugh, so please record it for me. Remember, your first laugh was with me when you were four months old. It could have been caused by gas bubbles, but oh my, how you could laugh! Please don’t ever stop. One more thing: I’ll leave the light on for you.

Love,

Mama (all alone in a big, quiet, empty house)

 

 

To the Bad Dad in the Bleachers

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dad scream sports

Dear Bad Dad in the Bleachers,

You are a bully. You stand and yell at your daughter as she plays in a basketball game, your fists are clenched, your face is distorted in rage. She is only 12-years-old, and your cruel actions break my heart.

She’s doing her best to play for her team, and when she catches the ball she eagerly makes her way down the court. I watch as she looks over at you, hopeful for encouragement. Then an opposing team member snatches the ball. You stand again and yell at her, and I see the pained look in her eyes. Stop it.

She’s at a vulnerable age; not a little girl anymore and not a young woman. Her body is changing and she is unsure of her developing hips and breasts. She’s worried she might start her period during the game and blood will stain her white athletic shorts. She’s thinking about the older boy in the neighborhood who asked to give her a ride. She’s wondering about the party invitation she received for the weekend. She knows it will be a long night because her homework isn’t done yet. She’s embarrassed that you are yelling at her in public, and she cringes every time you scream at the referees and her coach.

You only have six more years to become a better parent for your daughter. Otherwise, when she’s 18 she’ll leave your home and try to make it on her own without the steady foundation of unconditional love from the first man in her life. The world will sense her insecurity and pounce like a wild beast.

I was that girl. I craved but never received my father’s affection or approval, and it took decades to finally accept myself. I am not proud of my two divorces or the way I lost a financial fortune because I trusted unscrupulous businessmen. I wish my father had cheered for me when I was 12.

I don’t know you or your family, but I know how your daughter feels. That’s why I wrote this letter, tucked it into an envelope, and handed it to you at the next game. I waited until you stood again and yelled at her. Please read this in private, and think about this wonderful girl who has such amazing potential in life. If you continue to destroy her self-esteem over a game with 12-year-olds, she will drop out of basketball, she will become distracted and dejected, and she will seek approval somewhere else, probably from someone who hurts her.

Sincerely,

A Mother, Grandmother, and Former 12-year-old Girl

 

When Mom Sang “Que Sera, Sera”

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I was 7-years-old the first time I saw my mother cry. She leaned against the kitchen counter with her face pressed into a gingham tea towel, and I didn’t know what to do because it was my fault she was sobbing. She had returned from the hospital and told me she “lost the baby,” and I yelled at her to go find it. I didn’t understand what had happened.

My grandmother took my older brother and me to the mortuary to see the perfect baby wrapped in a delicate pink blanket cradled into a tiny white casket. They named her Carol, and I wanted to hold her. Grandma tried to explain how the cord was wrapped around her neck but that just made me mad. My friend’s mother had a healthy baby almost every year and they never strangled at birth. All I knew was that I could hear my mother crying when she thought we were asleep, and I only wanted her to be happy.

For weeks after the funeral I tried in vain to make her smile. Then one autumn day she placed the needle on her well-worn Doris Day record album and sang a few off-key verses of “Que Sera, Sera,” shattering the heavy gloom that had settled like an unwanted, sickly guest. “Whatever will be, will be” became my mother’s mantra, and it sustained her through a life of abundance tempered with physical and mental pain.

Mom worked two jobs while my father was gone building his trucking business. She babysat other children during the day and typed reports for various businesses during the night. I remember being lulled to sleep by the clack, clack sounds and the rhythmic ding of the manual typewriter. When I was four, my mother gave birth to my younger brother but my father was gone driving an 18-wheel truck to California with a load of meat from Montana. He didn’t return for four days because he needed to broker a load of frozen food to bring back. My mother waited patiently for him to return and name the baby. I never appreciated the magnitude of her sacrifices until many decades later.

By then, I too was a mother. I’ll never forget the first moment I felt the faint flutter of my unborn baby. I was alone on a business trip to Logan, Utah, and I silently celebrated and also trembled with fear at the mysterious wonder that grew near my heart. My biggest concern was about the umbilical cord, and even though my daughter was born in critical condition and rushed to intensive care, she rallied and we went home together. The first few months, I got up several times during the night to touch her to make sure she was still there. During those quiet lullabies in the night, I promised to love her and make her happy.

Two years later I was blessed with a son, and again, I got up in the night to touch him. The rhythmic breathing of my sleeping children was nourishment to my soul and offered a cadence that motivated me to take care of them. My daughter and son now have daughters of their own, so they know the intense power of parenthood.

Mom was widowed 25 years ago at age 62, and though she maintained her steadfast attitude claiming “What will be, will be,” I noticed a sadness in her eyes as she slipped into dementia. She is frail and frequently talks of angels and of seeing my dad and her departed sister and friends. I will mourn her passing but rejoice when she is free from her earthly limitations. I envision her running to her lost child and rocking the baby without distraction. Then, finally, she will be happy.

(Update: My sweet mother passed away in 2014, and my brothers died in 2017 and 2019. I imagine her smiling with Carol, my dad, and my two brothers.)