Category Archive

Four years and six days, and we are finally weaned.

I spent much of the spring conflicted about it. On the one hand, I was so ready. Her demand to nurse every morning, sometimes before I opened my eyes, just seemed the first link in an endless chain of petulant daily requests. I never got thanked. It caused strife between the kids at six-frakking-thirty. It was something that Taxman could never handle, no matter how tired, sick, or cranky I was.

But she seemed so attached. Out of emotional need, jealousy of AM,* OCD-like habituation to routine, or all of the above. (Will she even remember? Will she ever realize what it meant to her? To me?)

So I did back off when things were getting crazy, but at the end of May, as the June boxes on the calendar were being filled in with “last day of school,” “Miss M’s birthday,” “first day of camp,” I plopped the open page in front of her and told her to pick a day. She knows her numbers and probably would have gone for the highest, but the shared days at the end of the month (22/29 and 23/30) probably threw her. She picked June 24th.

I studded the week prior with gentle reminders that her last day to nurse was coming. We made encouraging noises about how big she was, she had her birthday, her family dinner, and her outing with friends. She encountered a small avalanche of gifts and some end of school excitement.

That last morning I had intended to let her nurse as long as she wanted. AM, by the grace of some kindly spirit, was still sleeping in his own bed when she awoke. I stroked her messy curls as we lay together nursing for the last time. But the magic spell had been broken months before. Her latch had become lazy (for her) and uncomfortable (for me); I had never corrected it because she was only nursing for 10-20-30 seconds a day. Only two or three minutes into that final session, I couldn’t take the discomfort any more and counted to 10, our signal to stop.

And it was over.

The next day, I had gone to the gym and was in the shower when she woke up. She asked to nurse; Taxman reminded her of the New World Order. She cried, but she was crying anyway over her scratchy throat and croupy cough.

The day after that, she asked and was again reminded that she had had her last time to nurse on Tuesday. “Oh,” she said, and happily recited what she wanted for breakfast.

Today, she didn’t ask.

Breastfeeding Miss M has been unlike anything else I have done in my life. I was lucky from the start; (over)educated on the mechanics; emotionally and physically supported; blessed with a full-term, capable, nearly textbook nurser and a excessively tolerant partner. It was our rosh pina, our cornerstone and foundation. Nursing into toddlerhood wasn’t necessarily something I anticipated, but as the months marched on it seemed the obvious choice, particularly when we uncovered a dairy sensitivity and removed it from her diet from 11-18 months. AM’s surprise conception didn’t put a damper on things, and I was determined to let her get her full 2 years, if she wanted them. Along the way, there have been boundary negotiations and re-negotiations, gentle pushing and pulling, laughs and tears.

It was sometimes the magic bullet to cure everything. Except my personality. I wish that breastfeeding had made me a better mother, more patient, gentle, and understanding. Less prone to exasperation and yelling. On the other hand–maybe it has. Maybe I would have been less [fill in the blank] without it.

I am relieved that weaning is done, because I’ve been dreading it for so long. Any emotional impact for me has surely been lessened by the fact that not only is AM still nursing, but he also appears to be cutting molars, so no rest for the weary breasts and “Again? You want to nurse again? You just did!”

Will I give him the same opportunity? To age four? I wish I knew. I want to say yes. But I am still so very tired.

* I have to imagine that were it not for him nursing she would have lost interest before–or I would have had more of a justification for stopping her earlier. There have been times in the past two months when she’s skipped a day or two, always when I was already out of bed and busy in the kitchen and he was still asleep when she came padding in to demand breakfast. 

I don’t even have time to bullet today (maybe once my parents are gone), but I leave you with my amusing tale from the stirrups. Others may be awash in advertising and sweating through the paper gowns, but I’m bringing the milk.

I had my annual GYN appointment Friday, taking advantage of the grandparents babysitting. It was lovely, really. I got to read two whole pages of a New Yorker article. I got to have adult conversation with the receptionist. I got to go to the bathroom by myself.

During the breast exam, my OB/GYN always describes how one should do a BSE. And then he got to the part where he said to try to express something to see if you get bloody discharge. And he got a squirt of milk near his face.

“Still nursing,” I said, laughing.

“I can see that,” he said. “Nice trajectory!”

I do aim to please.

Or: It’s the weaning, stupid.

A couple of afternoons in the warm sunshine have been good for everyone. Not being home between 3 and 5pm has been excellent for morale. Mine, at least.

Apparently the mere notion of taking a break resulted in all sorts of bloggable material.  Because that very day I had a heart-to-heart with Miss M that made me realize that as much as I am desperate to wean her, she is equally desperate not to be weaned. To the tune of being willing to give up all rights and privileges of a big kid to be a tiny baby again because they nurse.

So we’ve got to figure out a way to make this less traumatic than it’s shaping up to be. And hopefully that will take care of some of the behavior stuff we’re wading through. I could also probably eliminate more tantrums if I let her wear a skirt to school every day, and though I have planned for that for next year, for now she’s stuck with what fits. (And the daily arguments about putting on clean underwear and clean socks? WHY? WHY WHY WHY???)

But the exceptionally bloggable part was when she asked me how babies get into their emas’ tummies. She’s not even four!!!!

Oh, and AM would like the general public to know he is more well-read than I implied in my last post.

One of the hardest parts of parenting in general, but stay-at-home parenting in particular, is that there are no sick days. My HR rep won’t take my calls on this point, so I am sort of stuck.

All I want to do is crawl into bed. Barring that, I’d like to watch the television programming of my choice. Neither is realistic, although my father-in-law did me the tremendous favor of fetching Miss M from preschool today so I could rest while AM napped–and I didn’t have to wake him up, as usual. (His naps have been completely screwed up by a 12-1 therapy slot and a new 11-12 music class on Thursdays.) He slept for 3 1/2 hours.

I realized that it’s been a while since I’ve run a fever. Headaches and colds are kind of par for the course, but there is a kind of distinct crappy feeling that comes with a fever. I’ve been in this body long enough to know when I’ve got one–when I lifted AM from the floor at the end of music class, I had a certain ache in my legs; by 9pm I had chills and was a general mess.

Unfortunately, the nursing juggernaut has no breaks for the feverish, despite Taxman’s best efforts to run nighttime interference. At least I can do it in a reclining position. Most unfair of all is that I am sure I picked up this virus from AM, who was slightly feverish and very rashy at the beginning of the week. But the breastmilk, I’m positive, took the edge off of his illness and within a day he was back to his regular personality. Of course, he insists on sharing my pillow. So he bought himself one cranky Ema.

We had sleepover company for Shabbat, friends who have moved a few states north. Their daughter, D, was Miss M’s first real friend–we got them together at least twice a week. They still play well together, if by “play,” you mean harass the adults in their lives into reading every Curious George book (classic and otherwise) in our library.

Miss M was very excited to wake up on Friday morning and see D sleeping in her room. “Ema,” she stage whispered as she sat on the potty, “D is my best friend.” 

They were chatting as I herded them into the living room and went to see about their breakfast. “Ema,” Miss M called after me. “I didn’t nurse yet. I want to nurse.” Then she turned to D, who did nurse as a baby but is now three and very attached to the more traditional milk of preschoolers, and offered, “Do you want to nurse too?”

(Uh. At least her heart was in the right place.)

After Shabbat, D’s parents packed up to head for her grandparents’ house in New Jersey, and our kids got ready for bed. Miss M, as her parting gift, gave D a hug and one of her recently trademarked, inappropriately intimate open-mouthed kisses. Reserved only for really good friends and blood relatives.

Assuming she wants one!

Then I will tell her the following story. If she doesn’t find it funny, then I didn’t tell it correctly.

We were away for Shabbat, visiting friends who used to live down the block from us but lit out for the suburbs when they were expecting their second baby. The kids had a great time, especially Miss M, who had the run of the playroom (full of toys and paraphernalia that goes with girls who are 5 and 7–kitchen! dollhouse! princess dress up clothes!) and the basement (trampoline!) and a horde of other guest kids to play with (ranging in age from 4 to 10) on Shabbat afternoon.

Taxman and D got to relive their pre-child years for a single hour on Saturday night, when J and I magnanimously allowed them to go out bowling while we fed the kids dinner. Finally, an hour past normal bedtime and dressed in sweats, Miss M and AM were trundled back into the car, where they fell asleep on the Cross Island Parkway and graciously transferred to their own beds without protest.

Until 6:30 the following morning. When Miss M was horrified to realize that she had slept in her clothes. “Ema,” she wailed, “I’m not wearing pajamas!” We tried, in vain, to reassure her that it was ok, that she had been wearing comfortable clothes, that she had slept all night without waking up. “I didn’t sleep in pajamas!” she shrieked, absolutely beside herself. 

So, after a potty trip awash in tears, she opened her top dresser drawer and gratefully pulled on a pair of pajamas. “I have pajamas on,” she said, all smiles. “Now,” she demanded, crawling into bed with me, “I want to nurse.”*

* This, of course, set off AM, who feels that my breasts are solely his property, despite daily evidence to the contrary.

Yes, I should be cleaning my living room for company, but honestly this is the daytime cup of tea I have had all week.

• Miss M is by turns infuriating and cute. (What? This is BRAND NEW INFORMATION!) No, really. The cute is that she says funny things and “reads” books to all of us almost verbatim.
• The infuriating is a long list: We have caught her sucking her thumb at night because, we think, AM does it. But he started at three months old. Three and a half years seems a tad late for that, no? She has started dawdling to the max while eating or dressing. Grrr. Her latest response to being told no, or not now, or I don’t think so, is to violently throw herself to the floor. I think this is very obnoxious and will ultimately result in her really hurting herself. But she didn’t ask my opinion.
• AM is getting more defiant by the day. Still very cute, but OY! it is only a matter of time before he gets hurt or I lose my mind.
• I have had to try very hard not to respond to either/both of them with the phrase: “This is SUCH BULLSHIT!”
• Because I’d lose all of my mother of the year votes. So close to the end of the year, it seems a shame.
• We had two therapy evaluators come Wednesday to see AM. The speech therapist gave an initial diagnosis within two minutes. There were a lot of questions about his eating habits, which turned out to be related to her suspicions. He stuffs food into his mouth, which I thought was just a toddler thing, but apparently relates to his jaw musculature and oral sensation.* Also very important was Taxman’s seemingly (to me) irrelevant comment that he likes spicy/garlicky food. That was kind of the linchpin. She was afraid, though, that he would score too high in other areas to get services. “But I only hear him making vowel sounds, so that’s good.” I said, “Off the record, he does make consonant sounds while he is babbling.” “I didn’t hear that!” she exclaimed. Good grief.
• Meanwhile, the special ed teacher was shocked by how good his “play skills” are and his responsiveness and critical thinking and attention span.
• Hey, state of New York, we never said he wasn’t smart. He just doesn’t speak and now we have a good sense of why! If you don’t approve us for therapy we are NOT going to wait six months to re-evaluate. We are going to take our good health insurance benefits and use them!
• (Chichimama, thanks for the heads up on all the qualifying vs not stuff!)
• I have been obsessing about really unimportant things lately. For example, I made a meal for a family who is spending a lot of time at the hospital. I spent way too much time debating if I should make salad dressing from scratch or just pop some bottled Italian into a Dixie container. Because really, when your husband/father is battling pancreatic cancer, salad dressing is what you are going to notice. Of course I wound up making honey mustard vinaigrette from scratch and sending extra brownies; food is emotional comfort, right?
• Both my book clubs pushed their January books to the extreme end of the month. If I read now I will never remember what happens. I feel like I am at loose ends. I grabbed Girl with a Pearl Earring last night, but 15 pages in I am not sure that I will really love it.
• I think I got almost seven hours of sleep last night. Wow.
• I should be less cranky if that’s true.
• I am very torn over trying to nightwean AM. Many nights now, he does nurse but goes right back to sleep without a problem. And he really nurses, as if he is hungry, so I think it is more than just a comfort thing. (Miss M, who we nightweaned at the same age, would wake up, nurse for 10 seconds. That was not worth it.) He often goes 7p to 4a (or even 4:30), which is just so much better than 2:30, somehow. If we do it, there will just be a lot of crying and more disturbed sleep. I am not sure I am up for that.
• I really should go to bed at 10:30 every night. It makes a huge difference.
• But then we’d have to be invited out for Shabbat meals every week for the rest of our lives. Because I can’t get much done when the clowns are awake and climbing the furniture. It took me 25 minutes to put together a chicken marinade this morning–if I had done it when everyone was sleeping it would have taken less than five. So you see my dilemma.
• Ok, 20 crayons are calling me from the floor. “Put us awaaaaaayyyyyy!”
• How’s by you?

* Um, yeah, so I feel pretty dumb/guilty for not noticing and/or not thinking that it was relevant. In my favor, though, I did pick up on the fact that he drools more than I think he should.

Some middle-of-the-night conversations.

Starring AM, self, and other self.*

AM (grunting, trying to hoist himself up onto my bed by pulling on my pillow): Ehhhhh!
Me (reaching over to help): C’mere.

Self: WHAT are you DOING?
Other self: Wha? Whozat?
Self: You are TRYING to NIGHTWEAN him, you DUMBASS!
Other self: Well, it could be 4:30 in the morning. Or even five! That would be ok.
Self: And what time is it?
Other self (propping on an elbow to look at the clock): 2:30.
Self: Put him back in his bed right now!
Other self: I am so tired. I am just going to lie right here. He will settle down.
Self: Whoa, are you stupid!
Other self to AM, who is signing to nurse: Honey, we’re not going to nurse right now. We’ll nurse later.
AM: Waaaaah!
Other self: Shhh….ok, you can nurse, but only for one minute. Ema is going to count to 10 and then you will be all done.
Self: I can’t even talk to you anymore!
Other self: Ok, AM, you’re finished.
AM: Waaaaah!

AM stops fussing, but proceeds to do his usual “I am a honeybee, and I have the pollen 411″ dance in bed.

Other self: All right, let’s go back to your bed.
AM: Waaah!
Self: It’s about time. Although waiting 30 minutes? Bad idea.

Twenty minutes after that.

AM: Eh!
Self/Other self: Lie down, AM! Stay in your bed, please.
AM: Waaahhh!

Ten minutes later, AM is climbing my pillow. Again.

Other self: I give up. AM, you can nurse.
Self: You know, you try to be all smart and read Ask Moxie, but at your very core, you are a dumbass!
Other self: Shut up! I am just!so!tired!
Self: So this is really helping you out.
Other self: Did I ask for your opinion?

At 4, I take AM back to his bed, where he sleeps until 5 and rejoins me.

At 6:44, I hear thud, thud, thud in the hallway.

Miss M: Ema, I want to nurse, please!
Me: Go use the potty. Now. And please whisper–I don’t want you to wake AM.
Miss M (crying): I want to nurse!
Me: Just go to the bathroom!
AM: Ehhh.

Some day, I will spend a night in a hotel. With an Ambien. I will wake up and be a human being.

I look forward to that day.

* Taxman would help if he could, but AM + Taxman at night = unearthly shrieks of displeasure. But when we really go for the nightweaning, I think that is how it’s going to have to be for a few nights. Just trying to find the time to schedule it.

Monday

The La Leche League meeting I hosted was really fun. Sometimes there are so many moms and babies in my not-so-big living room, or some really serious issues–newborn not latching, 3-week-old not gaining weight, etc.–but this one was comparatively loose and carefree. The youngest attendee was six weeks and already nursing like an old hand, so we wound up talking about strategies for nursing in public and comparing nursing bras and tanks (yes, by lifting our shirts). It was very Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, but for grownups. And way cooler.

Tuesday

My attempt to get a “younger siblings of 3 yr old classmates playgroup” off the ground was, yet again, partially stymied by people who I think don’t like me very much because they can’t be bothered to remember dates or write them down or act the slightest bit interested after the initial contact. But honestly? The three kids who were here (AM, a neighbor, and one other) had a good time and the adults were actually able to have a conversation because there were plenty of toys to go around.

Wednesday

Miss M’s favorite school day of the week was subverted by pre-Thanksgiving festivities. Turkey for lunch (boo!), but also sweet potatoes (yay!). Topped off with the arrival of Taxman at 5:15 pm–just an hour after dark! So we kicked up our heels and went out for mediocre pizza. Well, we had just had pizza days before so I had a greek salad. But it was the principle of the thing.

Thursday

Do I sound like I am about 80 years old if I say that one of the highlights of Thanksgiving was parking my behind in a chair at the kitchen table, talking with whomever happened to be in the kitchen at the time, and not getting up? For an entire hour, just sitting? (The kids were, naturally, not present.)

Friday

I did my shopping for Shabbat at 11:00, returning home at 12:00. Shabbat started at 4:14. I made mushroom barley soup, honey orange chicken, baked chicken for the fusspot Miss M, roasted potatoes, and grilled zucchini & eggplant for dinner. (Making up for subpar Thanksgiving eats? Why yes, I was.) And then baked ziti for lunch. I got it all done, plus left the kitchen in decent shape.

I never, ever want to do that again. The time pressure, it makes me unpleasant. Ask anyone.

Saturday

Miss M woke with a raging case of pink eye.* Treated with multiple courses of breastmilk in the eyes. (PSA: breastmilk is antibacterial, gentle, free, and does not require a prescription. Handy for holiday weekends. Am I already worried about a time when it will not be in my house? Yes, since I had trouble expressing an ounce to use. Nursing two older kids doesn’t demand on the body quite like an infant.) Praying she can go to school Monday.  Taxman and I scraped by with a minimum of childcare duties in favor of reading Harry Potter (6 for me, 7 for him).

Sunday

Skipped a bris in favor of a funeral. My grandmother’s. (The funeral, not the bris.) It was sufficiently non-traditional that Taxman, a kohain (descendant of Temple priests–not allowed to be in the presence of a dead body or human remains), could attend. So that was weird, for me but especially for him. My mom and my aunt gave amazing eulogies, considering that my grandma was a difficult spirit. In many ways. But holy moly could she cook.

All week long

Insomnia, why do you torture me so?

Just 26 days until the next four-day weekend…

* It should go without saying that she smeared it from one eye to the other, despite our almost literally tailing her with a squirt bottle of hand sanitizer all day Saturday. It should also go without saying that AM, also known as “the boy in my bed (sharing my pillow),” has it now as well.

In case you’re a new reader (< 2 weeks–please feel free to delurk!), there’s something you should probably know about me.

My entire parenting philosophy for the first 12 months of my baby’s life can probably be boiled down to the following statement: Nurse the baby. 

The next 12 months? Keep them safe, guide them, limit them, love them. Oh, and nurse the toddler.

The next 12 months? Introduce limits. Again. Teach about sharing. Try not to tear your hair out. All this–and, if they want to, nurse the toddler.

The next 12 months? Not out of the woods yet on this one. So far, it’s been negotiate, say please, pee first, snuggle in bed in the darkness before dawn, and nurse. Realize that it is bigger that two minutes a day; it must be, to be so precious to a little red-haired girl who talks, hops, wears Curious George underpants, writes, and paints.

Dani’s post today tipped me off to something that I (shamefully) did not know about–the Great Virtual Breast Fest. You go, moms!

Sometimes I have to get all snarky and political.

Sometimes I get overly involved when it’s really not my business.

Sometimes I get frustrated that breastfeeding is something that I cannot share with anyone else–but five minutes later, even in the depths of the night, I realize that I really don’t want to. Poopy diapers, bathtime, reading, feeding, discipline, potty training, sibling relations…now for those I would like help, please. Allowing my body to nourish and comfort my children? No help needed. It’s primal. It’s beautiful. It is, frankly, the one thing I can say with confidence that I was born to do.

Unlike most mothers, I did not struggle with nursing in the beginning. I had loads of help. I had full-term babies. I had a nice glider. I had champion nursers. I had, apparently, breasts that could stand up to the task from the get-go. I was mentally prepared for a hard road but got a walk in a leafy glen.* Sometimes I feel like I haven’t earned my stripes because I didn’t suffer.

Remarkably–or perhaps not, with my penchant not to appear in pictures but rather to take them–I have no pictures of myself nursing. Not on purpose, but really, do you have pictures of yourself putting on socks? Washing your face? Paying bills? Doing dishes? I don’t mean to demean breastfeeding at all, but by now, for me, it’s such a basic, given part of every single day that I am not that surprised that I never captured it on film.

Someday the years of my children being babies will just be memories. I think breastfeeding will be the sweetest among them–especially once I have a romantic getaway (just one teeny-tiny night) with Taxman. Maybe 2008 will be our year?

* My labors, however, will not vex anyone.

To avoid this.  

It takes a lot of carbs and water to replace what I’ll be drained of tomorrow. I actually felt fine after my fast on Tisha B’Av, but we were traveling to Maine that long afternoon; I had a lot of distraction and so did the kids. 

Good news: Miss M’s down to one two-minute nursing.

Bad news: AM just really made the connection between signing “milk” and getting me to nurse him. He uses it often.

On the other hand: Up until now he’s been plopping himself in my lap and trying to unhook my bra, so really no difference.

Remarkably: This was the child I was terrified would wean himself nine months ago because he was so distractable. He didn’t. Which is good.

Yom Kippur, like Rosh Hashana, has been temporarily (I hope) swallowed up by the kids and their (relatively) incessant waking demands. Except tomorrow without the distraction of Laurie Berkner, magic markers, or leisurely family meals.*

If anyone sees my spiritual life lying on the sidewalk somewhere, please feel free to give it a friendly shove in my direction. Thank you.

* I haven’t seriously considered getting a babysitter so I can go to synagogue because the kids are not easily adaptable. AM is finally at the point where I can leave him with my mother-in-law, a regular (minimum 2-3 times a month) visitor, without tears upon departure. But a stranger? No way.

First of all, thank you all for the thoughtful comments on my last post. I am not sure why I am so invested in this–it makes it hard to keep my objectivity. But here is good news:

• Baby latched today
• Milk is coming in
• Mommy is recovering
• Mommy has a fancy breastfeeding pillow
• Baby is very cute
• LLL Leader, who lives in the next building over, made a housecall to new mommy and daddy
• Everything will be fine
• Daddy is very involved and wants it to work, but also wants to know if they can put Baby on a schedule (*snarf*). I told him he’s got to wait three months, and then she’ll let them know the plan.

So the joke over at NSLS’s the other day is that I am the militant breastfeeder of this here parcel of the blogosphere (unless someone else would care to step up?).

But recent events have proven that I am not, really. And it’s twisting me up inside.

Friends of ours in the neighborhood, C & A, just had a baby girl. They were pretty much the last of our contemporaries* (say, 32 ish) to have their first. A couple of weeks ago we had them over to dinner, and I was just pushy enough to find out that she wanted to breastfeed; she had purchased a breastpump, and we started a discussion about nursing tanks. I lent her a book. I encouraged her to come to the local La Leche League meeting, just a couple of days afterwards.

The meeting actually could not have been a better mix–two leaders, several experienced moms, and three or four newborns, plus C. We talked about optimal positioning. We talked about colostrum. We talked about pitfalls of the hospital stay. We talked about Life With Newborn. I sent C home with bullet-pointed tear sheets. I emailed links to Ask Moxie and its accompanying breastfeeding posts.

When we called to offer our congratulations, I got C on the phone. For reasons I have yet to discover, she had a C-section. Eventually I got around to, “How’s the nursing going, if I can be nosy?” Well, the baby had a stuffy nose and didn’t like to be lying down. She seemed to latch “ok” but couldn’t breathe very well while she was nursing. C had tried to pump colostrum, but got only drops (totally normal, given her situation). Finally A couldn’t take it any more, decided his baby was hungry, and gave her a bottle. Then she slept peacefully.

What did I want to say? “Of course she was sleeping! He stuffed her full of the equivalent of two Thanksgiving dinners! How is a couple of teaspoons of colostrum equal to two ounces in one of those adorable little bottles? One-day-old babies aren’t hungry–they are PISSED OFF because it’s cold and bright and loud out here and they don’t like it! They want to go BACK IN.”

Of course I wasn’t going to berate anyone. (I know how easy it is to get swept up in the moment of a crying baby and the palpable relief when it ends.) These are our friends, but in a limited, nicely social way. It’s been a long time since I had friends I could really call on the carpet. I couldn’t figure out how to frame what I was thinking nicely, so I didn’t say much of anything other than to make encouraging noises and later email the phone numbers of our La Leche League leaders.

But I was up at 5 the next morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. Perhaps it was the wriggling baby hogging my pillows, but it was more that I kept trying to figure out where the messages I had been desperately, but nicely, sending had gotten garbled. In the operating room of the C-section happy hospital? In the doctor’s office? I had used the same obstetrician, so by the time AM had finished sucking the very marrow from my bones nursing on both sides I was questioning my decision to not use a midwifery practice. Four years ago. When there is no way in hell I would have. Now is a different story–now that I have pretty much guaranteed that any future children would be surgically delivered. How’s that for a productive use of time? It did get me right up to the point where Miss M padded in, veered to the left to use “Abba and Ema’s potty,” and then demanded asked to nurse.**

I know that a two ounce bottle of formula in the hospital isn’t going to kill anyone. I know that. I know there is time. But is there the will? Somehow I just felt like I was a teacher whose student had been studying really well and then sort of shrugged at the midterm as if it didn’t matter all that much.

The whole reason I hadn’t wanted a C-section the first time was because I was afraid of the breastfeeding disruption. (It wasn’t so I could be the weirdo with the 87-hour labor.) But after the fact I literally had hands-on help in the hospital. My doula putting Miss M to my chest as I was still shaking and paralyzed from the spinal. A friend who stayed in an extra bed overnight, faithfully getting up every three hours to watch my latch and correct my positioning. A husband who knew that I valued breastfeeding above pretty much everything else baby.

C hasn’t asked for that kind of help. At least not from me. I am sure she is overwhelmed. I know she’s hurting. I should probably be more charitable.

My paperwork has been submitted to begin the process of becoming a La Leche League leader myself. But after this week, I’m feeling like I don’t entirely deserve it.

* NB: This is not really a neighborhood where single people live. Despite being New York City, based on the taxes and alternate side parking and all, the sidewalks pretty much roll up at 9pm.

** But she said please! Unprompted! Usually I get a whimper and a whine even if my shirt is already up.

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. 

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.

* Yes, politically incorrect. But “Please non-specific-gendered mail carrier” doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Just to follow up on my post from Sunday–thank you all for your kind words!

As far as sending this into the real world, which a couple of you suggested, where do you think it should go? I’d do it if I didn’t think it would be tossed to a slush pile somewhere.

NB: My senators are Clinton and Schumer, who presumably could not stop for five seconds to think about this (given the running for President for her and whatever he’s doing that’s prevented his staff from updating parts of his website since, I kid you not, 2002).

[I have no complaints about New York, which has some of the strongest pro-breastfeeding laws on the books, or New York City, which is attempting to eliminate free formula from hospital gift bags (good luck with that, Bloomberg--it didn't go over well in Massachusetts). This is all about the feds anyway, because the breastfeeding survey was done by the CDC and Healthy People 2010 is a federal initiative.]

And most importantly, how much snark do I have to cut? More or less than 50 percent? I can do serious if I have to, but the sarcasm…it comes so naturally….

Policy Wonks
U.S. Government

August 5, 2007

Re: Breastfeeding rates

Dear Wonks:

Seriously, how stupid are you?

I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but some keys to successful breastfeeding include time, support, education, and understanding.

Under current U.S. federal statute, paid maternity leave doesn’t exist. Women cobble together vacation time, short-term disability, unpaid leave, and/or paid leave from generous employers (clearly only at the will of the employers, because they are not required to do).

Maybe someone hasn’t explained it to you, but breastfeeding a baby is a job.  A hard one. There is the potential for it to be hugely rewarding, but at the same time it’s an enormous commitment. Nights, weekends. Sore nipples. Thrush. Engorgement. It’s a learned process–but instead of learning it when we’re young and confident, as we are when we learn to walk, read, or ride a bike, we have to do it when we’re overwhelmed with the responsibility for a brand new life. If you think that three weeks or six weeks or even the 12 unpaid weeks allowed by the FMLA, for which, of course, not every employed mother is qualified and even fewer can afford, is enough to put a large percentage of moms and babies on the blissful path of six months of exclusive breastfeeding, it’s not.

And when women come back to work, exactly when and where are they supposed to pump milk? In the bathroom? In their cubicles with half-walls? On their 10 minute breaks? On the factory line?

And thanks but no thanks for the heaps of free formula,* coming at expectant and new moms from every angle. Bought some pantyhose at a popular maternity chain? Here! Free formula! Had your 36 week check at your OB? Here! Free formula! Had your baby in a hospital? Here! Free formula! Why is this ok? Because the pharmaceutical lobby says it is? Are you new here or have you always been so guillible?

Where are the free home visits from lactation consultants? Where are the coupons for free nursing bras? Where are the free double-electric breast pumps? Where are federal statutes protecting nursing moms from harrassment? If the federal government wants to push the rates up to a respectable level, where is the federal support?

Clearly a lot of women, even college-educated, upper-middle-class white women, the ones who are most likely to nurse, according to the statistics, for long periods of time don’t understand how lactation works. If they did, they wouldn’t give formula bottles at night and hire overnight baby nurses for a month. Yes, they’ll be well rested–as much as it’s possible to be well-rested with a newborn baby!–but dollars to donuts they won’t have nursing babies at 12 months. Which is the ultimate recommendation of the AAP, dontcha know.

So you government peeps keep wringing your hands, setting unrealistic goals. Don’t get me wrong–I’d love for 60% of American babies to be nursing exclusively at three months and 25% at six months–in three years, no less–because I absolutely believe that it’s what’s best for them. But it’s never going to happen without the support and infrastructure for moms.

How about universal paid leave for 12 months? How about real lactation education? How about fewer surgical births? How about nixing free formula? How about real, tangible benefits for nursing? Tax breaks? Personal chefs? Something?

While we’re at it, how about making abortion accessible for the young, poor, and rural women (who are most likely to use formula, according to the report) so that motherhood becomes a choice instead of an eventuality? Hey, even better, how about real sex education for teenagers, including a full range of birth control options, instead of the feds abstinence-only line, which is so abhorrent that some states have actually turned down federal funds so they can truly educate on the topic?

But, really, I digress.

If you government drones want to know how to help moms reach breastfeeding goals….ASK THEM, THEY’LL TELL YOU!

Cordially,

One Tired Ema

–who knows that she is one lucky dog to have been able to walk away from a job where pumping would have been very difficult

–who has the best and most supportive husband, mom, doula, friends, and pediatrician in existence

–whose greatest achievement in her 32 years of life is that her two children, between them, have had zero ounces of formula and will, please G-d, meet or exceed the two-year nursing recommendation of the World Health Organization and UNICEF.

* Just to clarify: formula is not inherently bad. There have always been some mothers who, for whatever reason, are not able to nurse, and their babies have to be fed. In prior centuries this fell to a wet-nurse. In the past few generations it has become the domain of formula companies, who have far better marketing departments than the wet-nurses.

This morning in the wee hours (4? 5?), I was nursing AM for the second or third (or fourth?) time overnight.

I was on my right side.

And I looked over my left shoulder, to where he normally sleeps, and had a panic attack because I didn’t know where the hell he was.

It didn’t last for more than two seconds, but long enough to realize I had to blog about it. Assuming I remembered. (And I did!)

This is going to be a little disjointed; see any random post for sleep-deprivation tally and its effect on my brain.

So I have been thinking about pediatricians lately. And how it’s hard to advocate for your kids in the face of authority.

I am emailing with someone who is moving to the neighborhood from another NYC borough, and she is looking for a new doctor.

I’ve also been an alternately sympathetic and outraged ear for my friend D, who has gotten some zingers lately from a local pediatrician. I have no idea if D is blogging it out herself; of course my original thought was, “She has a 2 1/2 year old and a 4 month old. How can she have the time and headspace to blog?” But then look at me–would any of Miss M’s classmates’ moms think I am offering up my snark to the universe? Probably not. They might even think I am nice.

Pediatricians have a big job. The good ones appeal to the small set but also know how to talk to their parents. Unlike a “regular” internist, who might see any given patient once a year or less, a pediatrician sees a kid from birth to 12 months probably a minimum of six times (this is assuming, in my privileged way because I am too scandalized to admit that it is otherwise for millions of kids, that the baby has health coverage). Even if each appointment is only 10 minutes, that’s a lot of face time.

And even more than that, parents, especially first-timers, are often looking for guidance that inches beyond medical and into “lifestyle.” Would you ever imagine troubling your grown-up doctor about what kind of laundry detergent to use? What about a brand of underwear? Or plastic cups?

So it’s a fine line. I admit this.

But really, if your heart’s not in it, there are plenty of specialties where you don’t have to interact with kids andtheir parents. Hell, there are specialties where you don’t have to interact with patients all that much (radiology, hematology, pathology). I suppose that once you set your path and do more training it’s difficult to change. Honestly, though, it would be great to give it some thought beyond internship and residency and the hotshot toys. My dad was planning on being an OB/GYN but realized he didn’t want to be delivering babies when he was 50; he picked another specialty.

I’m not saying my pediatrician or her practice are perfect. I was trying to parse the “the office is closed” message yesterday–clearly a fever, sore throat, tummy ache and sore ear isn’t an “emergency,” but some antibiotics were looking pretty necessary–and wished for a way to get through to a person. (We got dosing instructions from our neighbor, and my dad called in the Rx.)

But overall, I am really happy with our pediatrician. She’s kind to the kids, who are inevitably screaming from the first crinkle of the paper, and she is my biggest breastfeeding cheerleader. You should be a La Leche League leader. Nursing through pregnancy? Good for you! Tandem nursing? You’re such a great mom!She never forgets that the kids are individual parts of a family and everyone’s health and attitude reaches out and affects everyone else. (She was disappointed to learn that my evening book club was only once a month. “What else are you doing that’s just for you?” she wanted to know. Does blogging count?)

Anyway, our path to this pediatrician was twisty. We started with the practice where D’s kids are now. I “interviewed” with them when I was pregnant. But, really, what could I possibly have known? I knew that I wanted to breastfeed. Did I know that I would breastfeed until college pre-K? No. Did I know that we’d actually love like babies in our bed? No. Did I know that I would instantly know that my daughter really would cry all night if left alone in a crib, rendering any kind of sleep training an impossibility?* No. Did I know that our crib would be a great place for laundry? Also no. Did I have a clue that we’d wind up with a second car, rendering moot our desire to have a pediatrician’s office within a 10-minute walk? No.

So at Miss M’s 4-month appointment, when the doctor said, “Get her out of your bed,” I bristled. At 10 months, I was instructed to stop nursing her at night because that was causing her gastric distress (it wasn’t; it was the dairy sensitivity that the doctor completely missed in his eagerness to get her to cow’s milk) and that it would make her fat. I took umbrage to such a bald-faced lie and resolved to leave the practice.

But D is dithering. She’s at the pediatrician a lot. Her older son, a classmate of Miss M, is sick a lot. He’s got a million food allergies and frequent ear infections. Her younger son was a very fussy newborn, tons of stomach distress. She reported to me that the pediatrician (she sees the woman in the two-person practice) told her at one month that the baby was allergic to her breastmilk and that she needed to wean him immediately to very expensive “pre-digested” formula. What? No, seriously. What?!I told her to cut out all dairy (her first attempt to do this was really half-assed) and to ignore such idiotic advice. When her older kid is so allergic (to dairy, among other things) she should stop breastfeeding? But here’s the thing–it wasn’t her sister-in-law or a nosy neighbor feeding her such crap. It’s her pediatrician.

Then last week D reported that the baby’s 4 month checkup had included the lovely advice to nightwean him because he’s big enough (weight-wise) to not need to eat at night. And to sleep train him, “First let him cry for five minutes, then eight, then 11, etc.” and that if D couldn’t stomach it, “Don’t worry, it doesn’t make you a bad mom.” Even if the doctor was joking…you just don’t say that. If she wasn’t joking, what the hell is wrong with her? I wish I could call the American Academy of Pediatrics on her. Dangerous nursing advice and ignoring medical research and obnoxious comments all in a neat little package. And I love these little pronouncements–hey, doctors, if it’s so easy to resettle a baby without nursing at 3:00 in the morning, here are my keys…you come do it.

Naturally I’ve been pitching my pediatrician. “You have a car,” I told D. “It’s not that far. This office accepts at least 25 insurance plans. What are you doing staying there? It’s toxic!” She sighed and said she didn’t know.

I’ve been there. You have to reach your limit before you really break out of the complacency. But once you do, you can hardly believe what you put up with in the past. I hope it comes soon for D and her boys.

* We never even tried, and I’m not sorry. Even though it took two years for her to sleep through the night, it took much less time for her to go to bed peacefully.

Here I go, carrying on like a lunatic (to be fair, yesterday was “not a good day”) when the lovely and equally-if-not-more-so sleep deprived twin mommy Persephone linked to my blog. She nurses twins, so she automatically rocks.

So I apologize to anyone who might have caught me at less than my sparkling brilliance (hahahaha). I do have a real post brewing that I hope to write. If Miss M naps today we’re golden. If not, there is a whole stack of videos waiting. She is sick, after all.

After 24 hours of a feverish AM, it was time to see the doctor.

And here we are: Baby’s First Ear Infection. I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later, but it’s been over two years since Miss M had hers; I had forgotten how miserable it is for everyone. The pediatrician, not “ours” but another in the practice, complimented me AM’s immunity thus far and gave props to the breastmilk, adding that while he was obviously hot, sick, and miserable, he was well-hydrated and would be just fine once the meds kicked in.

In the meantime, though, it’s now been 36 hours of him wanting me within inches. While awake. While sleeping. Pretty much whenever he’s not in the car or in his highchair.

So the apartment, which, as you all know, is only neat on Thursday at 1:30, is now sporting an extreme, “fresh from a tornado” look.  Two loads (unfolded) of clean kiddie laundry from several days ago are obscuring the love seat. There are toys and books all over the floor of the living room. I think I managed to get all the dirty dishes into the sink, but I can’t be sure, and there are items (yesterday’s mail, container of sugar, teabags, cereal box, and lots more) all over the kitchen countertop.

I have done very little sleeping in the past 36 hours, although AM’s refusal to stay asleep for more than three minutes without my presence forced me to go to bed last night before 10. Which turned out to be extraordinarily fortuitous because my night ended at 3:30. After nearly two hours of wailing, fussing, nursing, and restlessness, he finally passed out strapped to my front in a mei tai. I was not even going to try to take it off right then, so I watched two shows on DVR before trundling us off to bed as Taxman and Miss M got up.

Despite the impending condemnation of our living quarters and the absolute lack of freedom of movement,* I feel a little gushy inside. Miss M has been slowly figuring out that Abba is the nighttime softy, who willingly lies down next to her “just for a minute” then promptly falls asleep until morning. AM, however, only has eyes for me when he’s feeling sad, lonely, sick, or scared. I know that as soon as his fever is down he’ll be willing to dump out the Duplos without a second glance at me. He’ll stay asleep without me near. In the long run he won’t be sleeping in his prized place, squarely between Abba and Ema, close to the headboard. He won’t tug at my shirt in the middle of the night. He’ll be the one calling out to Taxman for a drink of water or a tissue in the hopes of getting a midnight snuggle.

For now, though, listening to his soft snoring and willing his fever to break put the exhaustion in its place. We’ll all get through this rite of passage, hopefully with a little grace.**

* The concept of wireless Internet deserves a meta-prize. Bigger than Nobel. Bigger than whatever the really big prize in engineering is. Just big, you know?

** I am only feeling magnanimous towards Miss M because she peacefully went to sleep hours ago, after not napping and then hitting AM in the bath. Thank goodness we already have plans to be out of the house for much of tomorrow.