A Sticky Subject...

I recently came across an article entitled, “Don’t Glorify My Breast Milk,” discussing the book, “Is Breast Best?  Taking on the Breastfeeding Experts and the New High Stakes of Motherhood,” by Joan Wolf.

Wolf’s stance is: “It’s time to end the glorification of breast milk and the shaming of mothers who choose formula. For many women, nursing works; for many others, it doesn’t. But accusations of selfishness and bad mothering won’t contribute to anyone’s good health.” 

I can agree with the last sentence wholeheartedly. 

This is harder to swallow: “[N]ot all women are able to nurse, whether it’s because the baby doesn’t latch, it’s painful for the mother, she doesn’t have time, or she simply doesn’t like it. In those cases, says Wolf, the pro-breast-feeding studies, without appropriate scientific evidence, make the mother feel inadequate.”

Hmm.

At the end of the day this is a choice every mother has to make, and ultimately, she should do what is going to work best for her and her child (and I realize not all women even get to choose; for various reasons this decision is sometimes made for them).  However, I have to admit I find it unfortunate when a woman won’t even give breastfeeding a chance, when the decision is made before baby even arrives … especially when it falls under the reasons of time and/or inconvenience. 

Get 'Em Out

Did you know it was World Breastfeeding Week last week? 

A friend on Facebook posted an event, “Big Latch On,” that was being held in conjunction with the week’s festivities.  The event was held outdoors at a park downtown, where breastfeeding mommas could convene, connect, and nourish their little ones.

I had honestly never heard of World Breastfeeding Week before, and for some reason it sparked a memory of a sentence I read in some breastfeeding literature awhile back: “breastfeeding in public is legal in all 50 states.”

At the time I did a double take when I read this.  Really?  Someone had to tell me this? 

It never occurred to me that there may have been a time when it wasn’t legal, or that it even needed to be written down somewhere that breastfeeding in public isn’t considered obscene (if you’re curious about breastfeeding laws in your state, go here).

That being said, it’s taken me some time to get comfortable breastfeeding in public. 

The reasons for my discomfort initially were quite varied:  I didn’t want to “flash” myself at strangers (easily avoided with a nursing wrap), I didn’t want to attract attention to myself (I’ve always been this way), and most of all I didn’t want anyone to be offended.

It shames me to admit that I thought publicly feeding my child might offend anyone.  Or rather, that I cared if it did. 

One of the larger underlying issues was that, quite simply, I had almost never seen anyone else breastfeeding in public.

When Eli was a newborn, breastfeeding went poorly.  I didn’t have confidence feeding him in the privacy of my own home.  It was a frustrating ordeal, and the thought of feeding him in public, with a potential audience, was anxiety provoking at the highest level.

I would plan all of my errands, and essentially my entire day, around his feeding schedule.  I would feed him, Vinny and I would look at the clock and say, “let’s go to lunch now so we can get back before he needs to eat again!”  And so on…

This is no way to live, mind you, tied to a feeding schedule, feeling rushed wherever you go.  After awhile I would feed him in the car if we were on the go.  And eventually I did nurse him in public with my nursing wrap.  For all my nerves over it, I can’t even remember where/when our first public feeding was!

All the while I never felt particularly comfortable in what I was doing, but I was getting more and more determined that I shouldn’t have to hide away in our apartment or in my car to feed my child. 

At this point I have breastfed in various stores, the mall, the park, dressing rooms, restrooms, restaurants, museums, the airport, the doctor’s office, and I’m sure several other locations I cannot recall.  I still always prefer to feed at home, where we are both most comfortable, but over time I have grown more confident breastfeeding in public.

I am one of those people that tries to be very discreet when I breastfeed.  I don’t like to flop my boob out for all to see, and it’s not because it would make me uncomfortable at this point, but rather, I realize it does make others uncomfortable.  I have come to understand that many people are not necessarily offended by women feeding in public, it’s more about them being uncomfortable seeing a private body part so openly on display.

I don’t get this, exactly.  On any given warm day in most of our country, countless women wear tank tops or other such clothing that not only leaves little to the imagination, but quite often offers a peek at their girls if you’re really so inclined.  You don’t see anyone complaining about that. 

Regardless, nudity of any kind still tends to shock people, whether it’s for the greater good of feeding a child or not.

Which brings me back to the fact that I so rarely see anyone breastfeed in public (well, other than people I already know).  Since having Eli I feel like I have a keener eye for this sort of thing, and I can count on both hands how many times I’ve seen a breastfeeding momma out in public over the last two years.   

In some ways I feel it is my duty to breastfeed in public.  I’ve heard little kids whisper to their mom, “What is she doing?”  I’ve rarely heard the response given.  I imagine not all kids get the most positive reaction, but I hope the experience stays with the child.  I don’t remember seeing anyone breastfeed when I was a kid, ever.  I wish this would have been “normal” to me, to know that people breastfed, to know that it is acceptable to do in public, to know that it is encouraged.

Breastfeeding is difficult enough without feeling nervous about having to do it “out there.”  I’m happy to report that with Sophie I have had none of the reservations that I experienced with Eli.  If we have something to go do, we do it without thought of when she may need to eat next.  And wherever we happen to be, that’s where she’ll eat.  It’s worked out beautifully so far.

Now, getting back to the "Big Latch On.”  A fine idea, but I have to say if I had stumbled upon that park and not known what was going on only to find tons of breastfeeding mommas?  Well, it certainly would have felt like a Twilight moment, albeit a very welcome one…

Mom Radar

It’s crazy how once you have kids this weird, instinctual “Mom Radar” kicks in. 

I’ve never been a heavy sleeper, and can’t remember the last time I slept an entire night without waking up (it was well before having kids).  After Eli was born, he slept in our room.  That is, until we couldn’t take it anymore.  I swear all he would do is sigh and I would bolt upright, wide awake.  Is he okay?  Is he breathing?  Having him close meant fewer seconds of panic, and almost immediate reassurance. 

However, the slightest little fuss, coo, or kick would wake me up.  Vinny learned to sleep through it all pretty quickly, as he is a heavy sleeper, and has never woken up during the night since (either that, or he puts on a really convincing show in the name of not wanting to get up).  After a few weeks of this up-even-when-the-baby-isn’t-hungry-crying-etc. routine I was desperate for sleep, so I decided it was time to move Eli to his crib.

Well, that was harder than I anticipated, too.  Sure, he was only maybe twenty feet away in the next room, but that short space felt like miles to me.  What if I couldn’t hear him?  What if something happened and it took me longer to discover something had gone awry? 

People like to say, “Well, I don’t know if the baby is ready to move into his/her crib in his/her own room yet.”  Fess up, people.  It has nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with our own comfort and need to have the baby close. 

So I was torn.  Baby close and no sleep or baby slightly further away and potential for no sleep because I’m panicked?  I decided there wasn’t much of a difference sleep-wise and gave it a try. 

The first night was rough.  I probably got up ten times just to check on him.  So I couldn’t make the call either way after that trial.

The next night I was a bit calmer (and wouldn’t you know, really, really tired … maybe from getting up so many times the night before?), and fell asleep quickly.

Here’s the amazing part, friends:  Mom Radar works even at a distance. 

I don’t know how or why, but if either of these kids wakes up and makes even the slightest fussing noise I wake up.  Sure, they may be into a full-fledged wail by the time I actually get to their bedside, but it’s never taken them getting to that point before I wake up.  And somehow, I only seem to wake up when they actually need me, and not for every little sigh, coo, or kick.  It’s a beautiful thing.  

Here’s the equally amazing part:  Mom Radar only works with kids.  Vinny can get up in the middle of the night, toss and turn, cough, elbow me in the head, etc., but if I’m already asleep this does not wake me up.

And of course, Mom Radar works during the day, too.  I suspect it’s one of those “perks” of being a mom that never goes away.  But it has saved a few spills off the couch and other such catastrophes (though by no means all). 

I’m sure there’s some kind of headache-inducing scientific explanation for all this.  Mostly I find it very cool, and know I can rely on Mom Radar on any given night, although there are moments where I wish to once again be a heavy enough sleeper that my husband was bolted awake before me.  Just for one night.

What-ifs, Worry and Windows

I’m currently reading A Map of the World, by Jane Hamilton.  I’m nearly 100 pages in and am not sure I’ll be able to continue (I’ll explain in a moment).  The premise so far is both intriguing and horrifying: A woman is watching her friend’s children and one of them (a two-year old) drowns in her pond.

The reader in me wants to continue to see what the aftershocks of such an event are and how the protagonist deals with them.  The writer in me is increasingly annoyed with the author’s writing style, in particular her use of dialogue.  At times I can barely stand it, the way the characters speak to one another, the way they always address each other by name (think about it, how often to you address the person sitting across from you by name?).  Suffice it to say, I’m hanging in for now. 

Reading frustrations aside, the mother in me is getting put through the wringer.  What a gut-wrenching ordeal this woman is going through.  When it came to the scene of the little girl’s funeral I had to put the book down.  I was in a waiting room and could barely keep myself from crying.  No one needs to see that.

Beyond its entertainment purposes, the book has led me to consider regret, guilt and worry.  I’ve realized that in many ways these are hallmark emotions when it comes to parenting.  Well, at least the dark hallmark emotions.

Growing up it exasperated me how much my mom worried.  She was, and still is, a huge worrywart.  I don’t know how many times I said to her, “Mom, I’ll be FINE.”  To me, it seemed a huge waste of time and energy to worry about things that would almost certainly never happen.  I’d come home from doing whatever it was she was worrying about and say, “See?  I’m fine.”

Could something have gone wrong?  Sure.  Did her worrying keep me safe?  No.  Had something happened is there anything she could have done about it?  No.

But, I know with certainty that if something bad had happened, she would have been racked with guilt and regret.  These emotions seem to go hand-in-hand, traveling together at all times.

Now that I’m a parent, I have a new appreciation for what my mom (and dad) were going through every time we set foot outside the house without them.  Now I think to myself, “How did they let us leave the house?”  Because when I think about either of my kids leaving and going off to do their own thing, on their own or with friends, I nearly have a panic attack.  Just thinking about it.  No one’s going anywhere yet, and already I’m freaking out. 

I also find myself freaking out over the “what-if” scenarios.  Right now my biggest worry-related obsession is our second story windows.  When we looked at the house last fall all I saw were huge windows in every room letting in all kinds of natural light.  In Michigan this is important as the winter months are dreary and gray, and, after living in California for nearly nine years I am used to sunshine nearly every day.  Yes! I thought to myself, these windows are amazing!

It’s worth noting that our house is over 100 years old and our windows have these annoying “pop in” screens.  In my nightmare the kids are a little older, playing in the room, I leave the room to grab a Kleenex (or whatever) and when I come back one of them has pushed out a screen and tumbled two stories to the ground below. 

I hate that I even think about this.  It makes me feel ill every time I do. 

So, naturally, I am paranoid about letting Eli play in his room with the windows open.  My husband is in the process of building screens for all the windows, but I’m still not satisfied that they’ll be secure enough, so now I’m on the hunt for some kind of window guard.

Regardless, I never would have thought of any of this before having kids.  I wouldn’t have imagined someone falling out a window.  I wouldn’t allow myself these kinds of panic-inducing indulgences.

But that’s what you do.  You worry about things that may or (more likely) may not be a true hazard.

As for regret, I have always stood by the belief that there are no regrets, only mistakes you learn from.  In theory this makes sense, but in practice it’s a whole other story. 

So the book is a challenge to me.  Of course what happens is a mistake, the woman would never intentionally let a small child wander out of her house and down to the pond.  But how could you not be consumed by guilt and regret?  I wonder how, if something so disastrous happened to me, would I even be able to forgive myself? 

Thankfully my challenges as a parent are less harrowing, but I am thankful for the food for thought, the what-if-something-like-this-happened-to-me opportunity that reading provides.  At the end of the night I can close the book and go to sleep, distracted from my window obsession.   

I can worry about it tomorrow. 

Get Out While You Can

*  *  *  *  * 

Update – Several of you have inquired about the outcome of my OB visit.  First off, thank you for your concern.  A few of you had ideas, suggestions, etc. as to what may be causing my problem.  I appreciate the support, and am once again reminded that yes, I should be as open and honest as possible in my little corner here. 

The good news is that my ultrasound came back normal.  If “things” don’t completely stop soon (I’m attempting not to gross anyone out this post), then I will be put on the pill for a couple months to force my body into a cycle.  It was a huge relief to know there is no need for some kind of procedure, which would only further prolong my already slow recovery.

Enough about that…

*  *  *  *  * 

So in the last two weeks I have been able to go out with my husband not once, but twice for dinner.  No, don’t rush over that sentence.  Okay, in case you missed it, I have spent time alone with my husband outside of our home TWO times in the last TWO weeks.  Prior to this, the last time we’d spent any time together sans child was way back in November 2010. 

There are several reasons for this, the main one being we were living on location while Vinny worked, away from family and friends, and I am paranoid beyond belief about having someone I do not personally know well watch our child (now children).

And now, as I continue to breastfeed our second child and avoid my breast pump as much as possible (I can’t help it, I know it “buys” me freedom, but I hate pumping), we are once again reduced to life revolving around my boobs and Sophie’s feeding schedule.  Mind you, I say this with no irritation or ill-will.  It’s my choice to do this, my preference, and in the grand scheme of things, committing a year of my life to feeding her is a blip on the radar.  It flies by. 

All this being said, would I like to “get away?”  Would I like to spend time just with Vinny on occasion?  Hell yes.

Thankfully, this is starting to happen (a rather huge perk to our cross-country move).  We enjoyed an evening out courtesy of my parents, and then a little more than a week later (and 200+ miles away) an evening out with Vinny’s sisters and their husbands, courtesy of his parents.

You’d think I would be totally and completely thrilled to have this time away.  And mostly, I am.  But I do find myself lingering between wanting the time away and then feeling like I am going to miss something while I’m gone.  Evenings are toughest.  Although it is the most draining part of the day, it is also my favorite time of day with the kids.  I love the last bit of cuddling in the evenings: rocking Sophie to sleep, reading Eli a couple bedtime stories. 

Knowing that Sophie is our last, there is part of me that doesn’t want to miss a moment.  She is growing and changing so quickly.  Then there is Eli.  He is so much fun each and every day.  I love this age with him, and know that I will look back on this period with longing when he is older.

Of course we all need a break from the wee ones now and again.  But I never anticipated leaving them with so much reluctance, even for a short two-hour break. 

In the end, the time away always does me good.  I feel recharged, refreshed, and thankful for adult conversation.  The car ride to and from is always quiet, and man, does it ever feel peaceful.  It reminds me of how much I love (and miss) spending time just with Vinny. 

Now that we know we have occasional babysitters, we are plotting for the days when Sophie is off the boob and we could escape, er, leave for an entire day (or more? Dare we wish for such a thing?). 

As good as it feels to get away and spend some quality time together, there is always such a rush of happiness when I see the kids upon our return.  Cliches tend to originate in some grain of truth, and as much as they tend to annoy me I have to admit some of them have taken on more depth for me as time passes.  What is that saying?  Absence make the heart…?  Just kidding, I know how it goes, and so do you.

Until There Are Answers…

Milk Machine Mom, where have you been?

Well, readers, let me just say this: Don’t move across the country seven-ish weeks postpartum.  Not that any of you would.  But me?  Well, I may just be certifiable…

As you might imagine, packing, moving, unpacking, all the while caring for two small children, has eaten up more minutes than there are in a day.  Sleep?  It teases me occasionally, although Sophie is starting to put together some longer stretches at night.  Now if I could only get my butt in bed earlier…

On top of all this fun (and it is fun moving into our first home, despite the overwhelming nature of moving itself), my body is struggling to heal.

WARNING: If reading about blood and/or my lady bits is going to traumatize/offend/sicken you, I suggest you stop reading.  Now.

Okay, for those hanging in, here it is:  I haven’t stopped bleeding since Sophie was born.  The “norm” for this lovely after effect of pregnancy is a few days to eight weeks.  Sophie will be ten weeks old on Wednesday.  So yes, it’s like I’ve had my period for nearly TEN weeks.  Please, weep with me now. 

I’m reminded again that when it comes to anything pregnancy related there truly is no “normal.”  With Eli, this particular fun lasted four weeks.  At my six-week check-up, my OB in L.A. reminded me that this labor and delivery was especially long and taxing, and healing will be slow.  He told me that if I was still bleeding after eight weeks I should come in and have an ultrasound.

I laughed and said, “Yes, but I’ll be moving across the country at that point.”  This was if-I-don’t-laugh-I’ll-cry laughter, mind you.

When you are occupied with something as all-encompassing as moving, it’s easy to push something worrisome to the back of your mind.  Okay, maybe not easy, but at least you don’t have the time to sit and dwell over it.  There are boxes to pack (and unpack), dammit!

But now, as all the essentials have been located and unpacked (though we still sit in a maze of disarray), my mind has had more opportunity to linger over the “what-ifs.”  This is always dangerous territory and a source of so much unnecessary worry.

The pattern goes like this:  What if something is really wrong?  What if I have to have some kind of “procedure” done?  What if I have to have surgery?  Will I be able to pump enough breastmilk for Sophie beforehand?  Will it affect my breastfeeding long-term?  What if…?  Will I…?  Can I…?

The questions pile up, with no answers.

I go in tomorrow to see my new OB here in Michigan.  She comes highly recommended from a friend, and if nothing else, I am looking for some peace of mind, however that is delivered.

Sometimes the answers, whether they are what we want to hear or not, at least give us a point from which to move forward. 

Most days I tell myself, “You’re still healing, it’s just taking a really, really long time.”  Or, “You packed and moved and are now unpacking … you need to REST, lady.”  Or, “If there is something wrong, it will be fixed.”

The body is an amazing apparatus.  Despite whatever is going on (or not), my body has continued to allow me to function every day, do what absolutely must be done, and most importantly, has continued to allow me to feed Sophie.  That baby fat is piling up as the days pass, so clearly she is not suffering any ill-effects of whatever my body is continuing to do.  And when I see her smiling at me, it’s easy to push the worries to the back of my mind, for a few more minutes.     

And Then...?

Sleep deprivation.

Yup, I’m in the thick of it now.  With Eli, weeks 5-8 postpartum were the worst, and I find myself in repeat mode with Sophie.  The first few weeks after you bring the baby home you seem to coast along on some kind of magical fuel.  You’re tired, sure, but manage to keep going and going and going…

Until you don’t. 

I knew it would be different in some ways this time around.  And it is.  Breastfeeding is going better, Sophie goes back to sleep easier than Eli did after night feedings, and these two things alone have saved me so much grief and frustration.

However, Eli is up and at ‘em most of the day and that makes any kind of daytime rest difficult.  Plus, Sophie’s been on a feeding rampage and one day will be full of feedings every one-to-two hours and then the next she’ll nap like a champ (but I won’t).

Were we not gearing up to move across the country in just over a week, I would be viewing this stage of exhaustion with more amusement.  Normally, I like an occasional bout of sleep deprivation.  No joke. 

There’s something about entering this phase of mental meltdown that I find fascinating.  In the past I’ve had this experience while working extremely long hours on film shoots.  At some point you cross the threshold into this altered state where you are still mostly functional, with now-and-again brain hiccups.  In college one of my friends referred to this state as “film trippin’.”

One of my favorite sleep deprived moments came while working on Jarhead.  I was working on location and we were putting in 16-17 hour days, and had been for a couple weeks.  We were filming at an empty military base and as I walked across the base to our office I randomly stopped and picked up a stick with a leaf on it and said, “Jeanine would like this” (Jeanine being one of my co-workers and very good friends). 

Of course I frightened Jeanine with my “gift,” and under normal circumstances I would not be inclined to pick up stray objects off the ground.  But in the moment it felt like the most natural thing in the world, and this is the part of sleep deprivation that I find fascinating.  Why wouldn’t I normally pick up sticks off the ground?  What made this action so normal (and pleasant) in this instance?  My intentions were good, even if the action was a little strange.  And so part of me wonders if in my “normal” state I am too rushed, too oblivious to the small details around me, blind to the small bits of beauty that sometimes lay at my feet. 

Regardless, this memory has become precious to me and always generates a good laugh when it is recalled.

When it comes to being sleep deprived with small children I have to admit there is much less to giggle over.  At least, not in the moment.  Later on you’ll find amusement at your mindless mishaps.

The other day as I was feeding Eli oatmeal I held the spoon up to him and asked, “Would you like more email?”  Thankfully he isn’t old enough to mock me.

I’m not sure what happens in your brain, what synapse misfires as you search for a word and then replace it with a completely unrelated one.  That, or at times your brain shuts down altogether.

“Hey, I’m going to…”

Hmm, going to what?  It’s amazing that you can launch into a sentence and completely forget what you were going to say four words into it.  I can’t tell you how many times this has happened: I start a sentence only to drift off and stare into space.

Where did the thought go?  It’s not like a bowl of ice-cream just floated in front of my face, or I noticed that our apartment is suddenly clean.  No, nothing like that.  But sleep deprivation is distraction at the highest level. 

My inability to pay attention to anything or anyone for more than four seconds (if it requires any type of thought or concentration) is embarrassing.  I forget what people say to me as they’re saying it.  I can’t recall details that should be difficult to forget.  I have newfound sympathy for anyone that struggles with an attention disorder, as it is ultimately very frustrating when you are trying to be “on it.”

I only wish I didn’t have to be.  “On it,” that is.  I wish I could sit here and simply enjoy my children without our daunting “to-do” list staring at me, our rooms full of belongings still waiting to be packed, my up-and-down ride of emotions as I flip from excited to devastated when it comes to our move.  In the throes of this sleep deprivation every emotion is amplified, every brain fart is annoying rather than amusing, and I sit here wishing for more sleep.

That time will come.  Part of me feels guilty for wishing my days away, wanting to be in that “land of more sleep” since I know this is our last baby.  I should savor every second.  Part of me feels wistful, wishing I could be infinitely amused during this latest bout of sleep deprivation.  Part of me feels…

Shit, I forgot.