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Just when you thought you had all the reasons you needed to hate the Bush Administration, here’s another.
To the Department of Health and Human Services:
What is wrong with you people?
The formula companies really contribute that much to GOP campaigns that it’s worth undermining the potential of more breastfeeding mothers? No, no, wouldn’t want to make it easier for them with real maternity leave, free home visits from lactation consultants, or subsidized breastpumps, but you want to make sure women [read: sensitive, hormonal creatures who can't make their own decisions] don’t feel guilty from seeing some hard-hitting ad campaigns.
It’s bad enough that you ignore the science indicating that breastfed babies really are healthier in the long run, but now you presume to patronize and condescend to women this way? While at the same time the CDC is exhorting the American public to raise breastfeeding rates via a Federal iniative.
I smell a rat. And it’s the formula companies getting worried, I bet.
Because starkly graphic anti-smoking ads? They’re part of what is slowly turning the tide of smoking in the U.S. Just ask Altria–sick of the headache that is serving the curiously litigious American public, they are concentrating growth efforts elsewhere, with freedom from those pesky lawsuits.
If American women, governmentally unsupported now, could band together in the face of such “help” and demand HELP, well, maybe the formula companies should be scared.
In the meantime, sign me as
Bitter and Continually Disappointed
One Tired Ema
Edited for two additional comments:
1. Taxman thinks I am coming on a little strong. Of course I don’t think that formula-feeding=drunk driving (imminent danger) or smoking (strong links to, uh, death). As I think I’ve said before, formula has replaced wet-nurses for women who cannot breastfeed. But women who are capable of nursing and/or feeding expressed breastmilk who then choose to give formula instead of breastfeeding IS a public health issue with long-term ramifications.
2. My mom sent me a link to the Washington Post article about four hours after I posted my initial rant. Isn’t she nice? It’s all her fault I am so mouthy about this. She was a card-carrying La Leche League member too.
Miss M’s school moved over the summer. Now it’s just down the block, instead of a 10-minute walk. (Yay!)
But they have to be re-inspected by whoever gives credentials to preschools, so the projected opening date is (grab your smelling salts) September 17th. (Boo!)
The teachers are back, though, putting their rooms together, and I wanted to visit with Miss M–after the camp fiasco, I wanted to try to plant good associations with that sort of environment.
Her classroom was in disarray, naturally, but I pointed out the cubbies and the shelves full of toys and art supplies. We said hello to her teachers, old and new. Everyone knew her and was happy to see her. As we were leaving, I sought out the head teacher of the 3-year-old class, Morah R.
Me: This may seem silly, but I wanted to let you know that I think Miss M is officially on the roll as “M.” It’s her legal name, so that was how I originally signed her up, but she really only goes by that at the doctor’s office [and, of course, that is what my dad calls her]. I didn’t want it to get confusing because I know there is going to be another “M” in the class.
Morah R: Oh, I already took care of it! I got the class list last week, which was alphabetized by first name. I saw “M” [ourlastinitial], and I didn’t realize it was her. But I did ask myself, “Where is Kate and Taxman’s little girl?” Then I matched up the last names. I changed everything to “Miss M.” Everyone calls her that anyway.
Me: Right, except for A [the school secretary, who oversees most of the paper going in and out of the office].
Morah R: Oh, I already made sure that A knows that her name is Miss M.
I already liked Morah R, but now I am very excited for school. Only 18 more days.
Important point of information–with the exception of watermelon, Taxman is the family melon purchaser. I can’t seem to pick good ones, so I almost never buy one without his assistance. (Except at the farmers’ market, where they are usually–not always–much better than average.) Because why throw away $3 or $5 or however much?
Taxman: How’s the cantaloupe?
Me: Well, I had to throw one out yesterday because one end was moldy. This one is tasteless.
Taxman: Ah.
Me: But the kids are eating it. The two of them just ate half of it.
Taxman (sarcastic): Shocking! (The kids are total fruit whores.)
Me: I wouldn’t bother, though. I guess the lesson here is not to buy 99 cent melons. There’s probably a reason they’re 99 cents. And not a good reason.
Taxman and I hit the outlets today.
We don’t live all that far away, but going there is such a project that it happens very rarely. Despite the fact that the mall was teeming with small children and strollers, it is not a day that I personally would want to attempt with a child between the ages of, say, four months and 12 years.
I haven’t been to any large mall, really, for a very long time. We have relatives who generously shower our kids with cute clothes. I pick up something here or there for them at a strip mall Gap Kids or Old Navy, Children’s Place or Carter’s. But a big mall with department anchors? An outlet mall the size of a small town? I get overwhelmed just thinking about it–particularly how I would deal with my, um, hangers-on. Internet commerce, I praise thy name!
But I digress.
My mother-in-law generously agreed to spend a good chunk of today entertaining the beasties, so we charged ahead. Even though we arrived a mere 75 minutes after the stores opened, we parked a generous distance away. Dodging Japanese tourists and Beis Yaakov schoolgirls, we began to spend money. Shoes and pants and skirts and housewares and shirts and kids clothes and a new watch.
But the Gap outlet was so crowded I couldn’t even browse. I spent 30 minutes on line at The Children’s Place to buy the kids matching white shirts to wear in an as-of-yet unscheduled photo session. Everything was jammed. It took 30 minutes to get out of the parking lot. I can only imagine that next Sunday, as vacations reach their penultimate day and school looms even closer, will be worse. I didn’t even enjoy myself–our to-do list was overwhelming and I worried that my mother-in-law was suffering at the hands of my cute-but-sometimes-tyrannical children.
But the real source of my dissatisfaction was that I hardly found anything. I love shopping for books, browsing on-line for just about anything, heck, even food shopping (sometimes). But here I was, prepared to spend some cash to outfit myself for the first time in a long time, and I couldn’t really find anything that fit. I came away with an outfit plus a skirt at Ann Taylor petites in the first 30 minutes, and then it was a big stretch of Things That Did Not Fit.
When Phantom blogged about her triumph of recovering her body After Children, I was uncharacteristically quiet. That’s because what I have to say will have you all pulling out your tiny violins.
But here goes.
I used to be a pretty slender person.
In college I sometimes ate four meals a day (being up for all those hours in a row will do that) and didn’t exercise, so I was carting around a tad extra. Not a lot, but enough to make me a solid size 4/6.
By the time I got married, I had been cooking for myself for 2 1/2 years and was down to a size 4. This is what I should be, I think. I am a small person–genes are weird, and in terms of bone structure I resemble my aunt over my mother. (Miss M takes after my father in her height and Taxman’s family in many other ways.)
After I had been trying to conceive for a year, I stressed myself to a nice case of acid reflux. I also started running to stave off high cholesterol because I couldn’t take any of the medications. My weight was hovering at around 100, but I felt like I was in shape for the first time in my life. I wore a size 2.
Miss M eventually came along. Breastfeeding followed. The baby weight fell off. So did an extra 10 pounds. I looked…hollow. Taxman worried. My OB did blood tests. Nothing. I went to a GI guy for an endoscopy. Nothing conclusive. I finally came to acknowledge my new size. It was a zero.
I finally bought a few new clothes. A week later discovered I was pregnant. Forty pounds up with AM; 35 came off. Still a zero.
It is hard to find things that fit me. That don’t hang or swallow me. That make me look nice and feel good. I always feel like I am rattling around in someone else’s clothes. Hiding what I really look like because I am consumed by fabric. Or tugging at my shirt to ensure it covers my skirt hanging inches below my waist.
I also feel like this is only my temporary body. Someday I won’t be nursing anyone. My hormones will calm down; my incessant sweet tooth will abate; I’ll sleep in my own space, for hours at a time. What will happen then? Will my midriff still remind me, python-like, of my last big meal? Will the weight come back? When? Where will it go?
It’s enough to keep an ema up at night…in case nobody else is.
Scene: My elevator, late yesterday afternoon. Fresh from the park, we have Miss M, AM in the stroller, and me. Add a middle-aged man with a black long-haired daschund (making AM extremely excited–he signed dog and was frantically making noises for the entire time we were in the elevator) and a woman in her 70s.
Woman: “Look at that hair!”
Man: “I know.”
Woman (to me): “What do you do to it?”
Me (wondering if I am misunderstanding): “Do? I don’t do anything to it.”
Woman, in disbelief: “You mean it’s just naturally like that?”* (to Miss M) “Turn around, honey. Can I see the back of your hair?”
Me (as we’re attempting to disembark): “Yeah, she kind of channels Shirley Temple.”
Woman: “Remarkable!”
I don’t know. More remarkable than her actual hair, to me, is the idea that I would sit there curling it! Putting it up in elastics is enough of a struggle! Of course, this poor woman has no idea that I’d probably win the lazy parenting award, if there were one….
* To be fair, the hair was rather showy yesterday–fat sausage curls bouncing around; it wasn’t overly hot, so I just gathered it out of her face instead of sweeping it into two pigtails to get it off her neck.
Apparently, AM can climb into my bed.
Also into the stroller.
I am, once again, Teh Tired because last night I had a typical night.
But really, you ask, what the heck does that mean? Shouldn’t I be over the baby-sleep issues by now? Well, it seems that the molars are taking their sweet time (3+ weeks so far).
Into bed around 11:30.
I toss and turn, because I am an insomniac through and through.
12:10 AM wakes up, stands up on his little mattress and starts trying to climb into bed with me. (He can’t. But he tries.) I get into bed with him, flip him over on his tummy and pat his back as he sucks his thumb.
12:15 He rolls over to face me, signs “more” and “please.” I say, “I’ll nurse you, but just for a minute.” He gets probably two minutes, I count to 10, he pops off and wriggles around in an attempt to get comfortable.
12:25? I sneak into my bed, trying not to breathe too loudly.
12:27? He stands up again. Crap. I bring him into my bed. (It’s a lot more comfortable than the crib-sized mattress.) He snuggles with my pillowcase and his thumb.
12:30 Conversation:
“Ema?”
“Yes, AM?”
(signing) “More, please.”
“You want to nurse?”
(big smile) “Eh!”
“No, sweetie. You just nursed. It’s time for night-night. Time for sleep.”
(crying)
“Shhh, honey. It’s ok. You’ll nurse later.”
Suck thumb.
Wriggle.
Roll over.
Sit up.
“Ehhhhhh!”
“AM, lie down. It’s time to sleep.”
By 1:15, he’s back in a deep sleep.* And then I can attempt to sleep myself. Until 4 whatever or 5 whatever, when he nurses again.
Sigh.
But, but! Miss M slept from 7 to 7! And woke up dry!
Maybe in two years, when AM is the age Miss M is now, I’ll sleep again. Please keep hoping. For me.
* Key: Nobody else in the house woke up during these shenanigans.
If I slept last night from 10:30 to 6:30 (with the customary “who knows how many?” nursings), instead of the usual midnight or later to 6, why do I feel even worse? Is it because we haven’t seen the sun since Saturday?
S.O.S.
- It was chilly enough for long sleeves. Weird. But–don’t get me wrong–beautiful weather!
- The naps were thrown off enough on Saturday that both kids were up for havdallah (8:45 or so?). Also weird.
- As my MIL would say, “It’s almost winter!” (She says this as soon as Shabbat starts getting a little earlier, so about the end of July or so.)
- I wore an outfit two years in the making. As in, I bought the top and the skirt two years ago, then immediately found out I was pregnant with AM, so I couldn’t wear the skirt that fall because of the paunch or the top last summer because of the p0rn star b00bs. When we were out in bright sunlight I looked at the skirt and realized it clashed with the top. Sigh. Indoors it looked ok.
- We voluntarily stayed up until midnight on Friday, hosting friends who are awaiting their first baby any day now. They patiently waited through all the rigmarole of getting our kids to bed and we actually had real!adult!conversation! Much of it related to birth and whatnot, but I got to use three-syllable words and everything.
- The reason we messed with the naps was to go out for lunch, to friends in our building.
- There were five kids under seven at the lunch.
- It was the most kid-unfriendly food I think I have ever seen at a Shabbat table. A touch gourmet, perhaps, but (to go all Top Chef on you) poorly executed. Tough leek ends in the cold cucumber-leek soup (which was an odd combo). Green olives and flavorless dressing in the rice salad. Underdone eggplant in the chicken dish.
- I didn’t like it much either, but I, unlike a preschooler and a toddler, can roll with the punches.
- Taxman went back to our apartment to bring something for our kids to eat besides challah.
- I make half a box of pasta and steam baby carrots and/or zucchini every Friday afternoon to ensure that my fusspot (Miss M) and any other visiting small fry will eat something at lunch.
- People usually exclaim over this like I’ve reinvented the wheel.*
- But really, if you have a toddler, how can you not if you’re going to go an entire day without being able to turn on the stove/oven/microwave/toaster and/or bring in pizza?
- Also at lunch, I got asked if AM has been evaluated for speech therapy. Because “he so clearly has something to say, but he can’t get the words out.” (She wasn’t being obnoxious–she is just a fan of early intervention, as she explained later.)
- I literally felt myself blinking in disbelief as I said, “No, he’s 16 months. He understands everything, and he says Abba and Ema and has over 20 signs.”
- But then I found myself worrying later because the 15-month-old at lunch, who is being raised bilingually, already makes animal sounds.
- I was so worried about Miss M’s speech but not at all about AM’s, which seems to be on a similar trajectory. Perhaps I should be worried just a touch?
- What is wrong with people sometimes?
- In that vein, I made an enormous faux pas with a pregnant friend at the park. I assumed, based on her toddler parenting style, that she’d be breastfeeding. But she alluded to having had breast reduction surgery 15 years ago and being too worried to do it. A little salt and pepper for my foot would have been nice. Makes it go down easier.
* I know that 3daughters wouldn’t, because I’ve spent Shabbat at her house and seen nine kids make a meal out of a pound of pasta and a can of tomato sauce. I’m sure she’d agree that while it’s a nice, sensible thing to do, it falls short of magical.
There are guys right above my windows doing brickwork, as required for city ordinances.
The work requires some sort of drilling. There is a lot of noise. And a lot of vibration. And a lot of chatter among the workmen.
We are not supposed to open our windows while the work is going on. (Monday-Saturday, 8-5.) Or run the a/c. (Hahahahaha.) It’s suggested we keep our shades drawn for privacy.
All I can say is…it’s a good thing the kids can fall asleep/stay asleep through it. (I never could!)
Wait until they’re next to my windows. Can you imagine how much fun I’ll be then?
Update: *happy dance* It’s raining! Thunderstormin’! They had to stop. If anyone got electrocuted, could you imagine how high our maintenance would go? (That’s a little co-op humor for the apartment dwellers among you.)
