This morning I saw a post on Facebook about a guy I used to date; his wife wrote that they are expecting triplets. I was stunned-- largely because I can't imagine ANYONE having three babies at once-- but also because it's weird to think of him as a dad.
I don't mean any slight against this guy. We dated in 2008, during a summer and fall that were among the most frivolous seasons of my life. Looking back, we had little in common besides summer rental houses in Newport. He was a generous, kind, gentlemanly type when we were alone, and a partying, immature man-boy when with his friends. Once out for dinner, as I talked of how I liked the book Catch Me If You Can better than its film counterpart, he said with both astonishment and disdain: "You read? Who reads?" Um, have you forgotten the part about how I am an English teacher? A week later we were broken up, and I know he was just as bored with me as I was with him.
Still, after our break- up phone conversation, I was a little sad. We'd had a lot of fun together, and I'd gotten used to talking to him every day at exactly 5:30 when he would call on his way home from work. He was funny, and he listened. And we had a physical attraction and connection. When I thought about it, I knew I'd never see him again despite that age- old break- up promise to "stay friends." He continued to drunk- text and Facebook chat me with booty calls (NONE to which I obliged, thank you very much). There was some satisfaction in knowing he was still thinking of me, but I knew why; hence, I never went to see him. I ran into him at a PF Chang's once a few weeks later, and he was sweet. I remember knowing I didn't want to go back to dating this guy at all-- he was all wrong for me-- but there was something about this boy. And probably, I just missed the companionship.
About three months later, a friend told me that this guy had a serious girlfriend. I was upset. "How could HE end up with someone while I've found nobody? And how could he go from sending me those inappropriate texts to falling in LOVE with someone?!"
I got over these feelings soon enough. Fast- forward several years and we are still friends on Facebook. I've gone through my list and unfriended almost every guy I went out with in the past. I don't need these now- random men, to whom I have not even a tenuous friendly connection, seeing pics of my children, or any other aspect of my life. But this guy still seemed harmless, and I felt I'd shared more with him than with some of the others. Plus, I somewhat enjoyed seeing his updates. There is something fascinating about his being a husband and dad-- and I'm sure he is good on both counts. He came from a nice family, and he really did want to settle down with the right person. But it's hard to reconcile that this silly and childish lush is now about to be a dad of four.
It got me thinking about how we consider people from our pasts-- however insignificant or significant they may be. This guy I have been describing, for all the descriptions I gave, really is rather insignificant in terms of the chapters of my life. Yet, he spurred me to think more about this whole "break- up and break- all- off" concept.
I still think of.. was it Mack that I called my ex- husband in another post? Think so. I don't think of him daily, but I think of him. And I have, yup, I will confess it, searched him in Google and on Facebook. I can never find much, but a few basic searches have opened up a bit about his current life.
I know he is a dad to three. I truly am happy for him. I know he always wanted a family. I think he must be a pretty good father-- I can only assume he's very involved in his kids' lives. I start to shudder when I think of how controlling he also probably is, but I bet he cares lots for his kids.
I have no idea what his kids look like, or what their everyday life is like. I really have no more outlets to Mack's life, as our mutual friend list has dwindled over time. I haven't seen Mack since March of 2008, and haven't spoken to him since that July. Some days, it's incomprehensible to me that someone I spent 8 years with, and 4 years married to, could be a 100- percent stranger to me now. I wonder if I'd know him if I saw him in a crowd.
And so all of these thoughts led me to see that demises to relationships-- be they big or small-- are deaths. I grieved my divorce in terms of the fact that love had dissipated over time, or changed form or whatever. I grieved his moving on to a new girl really freaking fast. I grieved the loss of a husband, through and through. But I never really thought of how sad it was that Mack would ultimately end up "dead" to me. I don't mean that in a Mafia way, but more just that he is in no way involved in my life in any form.
And as a woman of 35 who dated through her teen and college years and then again from 28 to 31, I see that there are lots of guys who are dead to me. I know I sound naive because, yes, that's the essence of a break- up--- getting to say, 'I don't want to see you anymore." But it's weird. You let people in, share tons about yourself, experience all these things that become memories, and then eventually you never see them again. What a crazy phenomenon.
As time passes, the same thing happens with friends, coworkers, and even just the people you have little everyday encounters with, such as the dental hygienist. You talk lots and let people in, and then they're gone. One of my "best friends" from high school is now nothing more than a Facebook acquaintance, for no reason other than the fact we lost touch, she lives far away, and we don't seem to have much in common. No fight. No blow- out. No break- up. No divorce. Time just.... happened.
The same sadness comes over me when I think of former students. By this point, I have taught thousands of kids. I like to think each year, "There is no way I will ever forget any of these kids." But I do. Of course I do. The human memory is not capable of more. And even with the ones I remember, I know I won't see them again. These kids who spent ten months in my room, sharing insights, working hard, and laughing at jokes, and even sometimes crying to me or sharing life's difficulties--- most of them I will never see again.
All I can make of this realization is that life is about the people whom we come in contact with, and each time, it must be for a reason. Some people teach us little things, and some, even when they don't know it, play much larger roles. Even a silly fling that lasted 4 months could end up showing you a lot about your needs and emotional well- being. A long relationship or friendship could have played a role of support for you for many years-- and then maybe they go help someone elsewhere. Maybe neither of you needs the other anymore, and there wasn't enough in common to begin with in order to keep the friendship going.
I have people in my life whom I could not imagine EVER straying from or leaving behind. EVER. And there must be some kind of tight indescribable bond that ropes us together. It's a good thing, because we need them there when the other ones come and go. It's hard sometimes for me not to be bitter after friendships fade or people leave, but it's a damn good thing there are those who will always stick around. And when a relationship ends that you never thought would, you get to find out who the ones are that really care-- and they will, thankfully, remind you over and over.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Name
On Facebook, as with many social media outlets, you choose how you want your profile to look to others. You pick a photo, and you decide what info about yourself is to be displayed-- including your name. One might think the name is the most basic of profile elements, and I always thought it was too. When I got married to J, though, I started to think more about what's in a name.
After our wedding, a couple weeks went by and one of my girlfriends commented on a picture of mine that it was "time for the name change!" I hadn't even really thought about the change in terms of Facebook. I'd always known that I would be happy to have J's name once we were married-- it's a great name-- and I like that it's his, and our family's, and I want to have the same name as my kids. I had already started thinking about the paperwork I needed to do with Social Security and the like to change my name officially-- I just hadn't thought about it on Facebook.
J and I chatted about the whole name thing one night, and he said he wanted me to do what I preferred-- that he would love for me to take his name but if I felt strongly about keeping my maiden one, he understood. I told him that while I can be feministic in many ways, not having changed my name on Facebook or at school was in no way a "women's rights" move. I just hadn't felt comfortable switching my name at work well into the school year, and with Facebook, well, it just hadn't crossed my mind. Since I had joined FB in 2008, I'd always had one name-- my maiden name-- and that's all I knew.
But I really was (and am) proud of my new name; I hopped on Facebook and went to change "Brown" to "Thayer" (yup-- pseudonyms). I liked very much looking at my first name with Thayer. But it seemed natural to post my name as "Brown Thayer." There was just no question that I would leave the maiden name with the new one.
Most of my married friends-- all but just a couple-- have their maiden names with their married names on Facebook. I think the most common reason is that people are often searching for/ coming across folks they grew up with or haven't seen in 20 years. Those people wouldn't know you by your married name. When I thought about why I insisted on keeping Brown, that common reason was one of mine. But I knew that wasn't the whole picture.
After my divorce in 2008, I had to reinvent myself. I had been with my ex since I was 21. I was his girlfriend, then his fiancee, and then I was his wife. I never took his name-- not through the government nor at work-- though I had taken it in a couple places (voter's list for the town, a couple credit cards, the phone book). I hated his name. It was one of those names that make middle- school kids (and let's face it, adults) chuckle. It had a word in it that is a nickname for testicles. As a high school teacher in her twenties, there was no way I was being Mrs. You- Know- What. Just no way. And truth be told, I was embarrassed of the name in general life too. He and I had many a squabble over this issue. He didn't see anything wrong with the name, and I tried not to hurt his feelings but I loathed it.
Looking back, the distaste for the name was symbolic or maybe symptomatic of grander issues in the relationship. If I'd been happy with him, I would have been able to grin and bear the name for the sake of our family. Instead, I agonized over teasing our future kids would endure, and wondered about ways I could possibly alter or edit the name. These worries were all in the time frame when I was miserable in the marriage, feeling trapped by our ill- suitedness for each other.
So there I was at 28 and a half years old, starting over, and of course I was happy I was still "Brown" and didn't need to revert. No major changes needed. But even though I had always still been Brown on most papers, I was now Brown in heart and soul. I was on my own-- nobody to provide for me, nobody to talk about a future with me, nobody to want to start a family with me. I was okay with this. And I grew to be independent-- and to think about how I might always be Brown. There might be no Mr. and no family. I didn't like that prospect but had to make peace with it.
When J and I fell in love and got married, I couldn't have been prouder to be his wife. But there was this nagging from the city- livin' independent lady saying, "Don't give up who you are! You are still YOU! A Brown!" For the past 12 years, I'd been Ms. Brown at work. I'd bought the Brown family crest when I was in Ireland. I had my bills and letters delivered to all my apartments as Brown. I was proud to have my parents' name. A piece of me didn't want to let go.
My real name is longer than Brown, and my married name is a lot longer than Thayer. It probably looks somewhat ridiculous on Facebook for me to have such a long name. But I won't take the Brown out. I love being a Thayer-- and now am one officially in every way, shape, and form. On my Social Security card, on my license, on bank accounts and ATM cards, at work (still getting used to my students calling me Mrs. Thayer), and on mailings. I love my newish name. I love being a Mrs. I love having the same name as J and my kids. My heart is completely into Thayer-- but I think that forever--- whether it's from what I went through during and post- divorce or whatever else--- my soul will always be Brown.
Most of the students I had last year or the year before, whom I still see in the hallways, call me Brown. They don't know of the change or don't care to get used to it since they don't see me daily. Yet, there is something so endearing and comfortable when I hear, "Hey, Ms. Brown!" in the corridor. I never correct them. Maybe my secret joy in hearing my old name means I haven't fully adjusted to the new one yet, or maybe it means I enjoy thinking about my "old self" as I hope she hasn't totally disappeared.
After our wedding, a couple weeks went by and one of my girlfriends commented on a picture of mine that it was "time for the name change!" I hadn't even really thought about the change in terms of Facebook. I'd always known that I would be happy to have J's name once we were married-- it's a great name-- and I like that it's his, and our family's, and I want to have the same name as my kids. I had already started thinking about the paperwork I needed to do with Social Security and the like to change my name officially-- I just hadn't thought about it on Facebook.
J and I chatted about the whole name thing one night, and he said he wanted me to do what I preferred-- that he would love for me to take his name but if I felt strongly about keeping my maiden one, he understood. I told him that while I can be feministic in many ways, not having changed my name on Facebook or at school was in no way a "women's rights" move. I just hadn't felt comfortable switching my name at work well into the school year, and with Facebook, well, it just hadn't crossed my mind. Since I had joined FB in 2008, I'd always had one name-- my maiden name-- and that's all I knew.
But I really was (and am) proud of my new name; I hopped on Facebook and went to change "Brown" to "Thayer" (yup-- pseudonyms). I liked very much looking at my first name with Thayer. But it seemed natural to post my name as "Brown Thayer." There was just no question that I would leave the maiden name with the new one.
Most of my married friends-- all but just a couple-- have their maiden names with their married names on Facebook. I think the most common reason is that people are often searching for/ coming across folks they grew up with or haven't seen in 20 years. Those people wouldn't know you by your married name. When I thought about why I insisted on keeping Brown, that common reason was one of mine. But I knew that wasn't the whole picture.
After my divorce in 2008, I had to reinvent myself. I had been with my ex since I was 21. I was his girlfriend, then his fiancee, and then I was his wife. I never took his name-- not through the government nor at work-- though I had taken it in a couple places (voter's list for the town, a couple credit cards, the phone book). I hated his name. It was one of those names that make middle- school kids (and let's face it, adults) chuckle. It had a word in it that is a nickname for testicles. As a high school teacher in her twenties, there was no way I was being Mrs. You- Know- What. Just no way. And truth be told, I was embarrassed of the name in general life too. He and I had many a squabble over this issue. He didn't see anything wrong with the name, and I tried not to hurt his feelings but I loathed it.
Looking back, the distaste for the name was symbolic or maybe symptomatic of grander issues in the relationship. If I'd been happy with him, I would have been able to grin and bear the name for the sake of our family. Instead, I agonized over teasing our future kids would endure, and wondered about ways I could possibly alter or edit the name. These worries were all in the time frame when I was miserable in the marriage, feeling trapped by our ill- suitedness for each other.
So there I was at 28 and a half years old, starting over, and of course I was happy I was still "Brown" and didn't need to revert. No major changes needed. But even though I had always still been Brown on most papers, I was now Brown in heart and soul. I was on my own-- nobody to provide for me, nobody to talk about a future with me, nobody to want to start a family with me. I was okay with this. And I grew to be independent-- and to think about how I might always be Brown. There might be no Mr. and no family. I didn't like that prospect but had to make peace with it.
When J and I fell in love and got married, I couldn't have been prouder to be his wife. But there was this nagging from the city- livin' independent lady saying, "Don't give up who you are! You are still YOU! A Brown!" For the past 12 years, I'd been Ms. Brown at work. I'd bought the Brown family crest when I was in Ireland. I had my bills and letters delivered to all my apartments as Brown. I was proud to have my parents' name. A piece of me didn't want to let go.
My real name is longer than Brown, and my married name is a lot longer than Thayer. It probably looks somewhat ridiculous on Facebook for me to have such a long name. But I won't take the Brown out. I love being a Thayer-- and now am one officially in every way, shape, and form. On my Social Security card, on my license, on bank accounts and ATM cards, at work (still getting used to my students calling me Mrs. Thayer), and on mailings. I love my newish name. I love being a Mrs. I love having the same name as J and my kids. My heart is completely into Thayer-- but I think that forever--- whether it's from what I went through during and post- divorce or whatever else--- my soul will always be Brown.
Most of the students I had last year or the year before, whom I still see in the hallways, call me Brown. They don't know of the change or don't care to get used to it since they don't see me daily. Yet, there is something so endearing and comfortable when I hear, "Hey, Ms. Brown!" in the corridor. I never correct them. Maybe my secret joy in hearing my old name means I haven't fully adjusted to the new one yet, or maybe it means I enjoy thinking about my "old self" as I hope she hasn't totally disappeared.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
On The Eve of Change
I should definitely be asleep right now. It's 11pm on the night before I rise early and head back to the job that I've had for 14 years now. Back to school is always bitter- sweet come late August, but it's not usual painful. It's not usually making me sob like a baby into my comforter while I try to use the silly Kardashians as a distraction, and my sweet family sleeps. It's not usually something that terrifies me. And it's definitely never been something that has made me incredibly sad.
Tomorrow I will go to work for the first time in seven months, and as I revealed in a previous entry, I never thought I would wrangle so much with the idea of leaving SAHM- hood. I have shocked myself with how much I have loved being home with my babies. I want to make time stand still.
Since I can't do that, and I also can't stay up all night crying (though I may have zero control over that), I thought blogging would help. Rather than feel terrible, I thought I'd try to practice an "attitude of gratitude." And so, I wish to compose a thank you letter to my maternity leave-- my messy, stressful, life- altering, beautiful seven months with my children.
Dear Leave:
Thank you for sessions of sitting in bed together on rainy days, watching Caillou and Dora and Sesame and deciding that it was okay to go until noon in our jammies. Thank you for bananas and strawberries and "wice cakes" and "seeral with milk." For Dottie's first bites of mangos. For Mabel's obsession with chocolate ice cream, and her drippy chin, and the many clothes she ruined with desserts, even though I pissed and moaned about the stains. Thank you for the jubilation she found in eating that ice cream as messily as she wanted, at Dairy Queen while we talked about the different cars whizzing by, or at Black Cow when Mabel took so much pride in picking our table. Or at Spruce Pond when we all sat on the bench and let the refulgent summer sun hit our faces.
Thank you for giving me the need and then the courage to seek two Mom's Groups, and for the wonderful women I met. For Mabel's delight in playing with Kai and Cece and Julie and Lily and Avery, and for getting so tuckered out she nearly fell asleep in the car on the way home each time. Thank you for letting me see how stay- at- home- moms do it, and for letting me appreciate their work and plight. How great it was to know new people and drive around in one mom's parents' farm tractor, while Mabel lit up and couldn't stop remarking about how "MANY TREES THERE ARE!" Thank you for getting me to my first indoor kids' playspace and making me see they're not so bad, and that if your kids are having a blast, you'll hang out just about anywhere.
And then there were our zoo trips-- to Capron and Southwick. I have never seen a more perfect sight than Mabel's excitement over feeding animals. Thank you for giving us sunshine. And thank you for bringing us to playgrounds and letting Mabel discover monkey bars and Dottie light up swinging for the very first time. Thank you for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, BIGGER! Make the pushes BIGGER!" What a brave and fun-loving little girl she is-- slides, swings, poles, ladders, ropes--- she explored it all.
Thank you for the changing interactions between Dottie and Mabel-- from Mabel's being unsure of how to act around a teeny baby, to understanding it at a level I never thought possible. Nothing compares to seeing them bond as sisters. Thank you for Dottie's gorgeous smile when her sister approaches, and for the change to a big, ecstatic laugh, just because Mabel is there. Thank you for letting me watch Dottie simply stare in awe at Mabel. And thank you for showing me how Mabel "reads to" her sister, and talks to her on the phone (Hull-oh? Oh, hi! What ya doin'?), and says her name with the sweetest accent. Thank you for the way when Mabel wakes up and groggily rubs her eyes, the first thing she does is ask where Dottie is. And thank you for the way Mabel comforts Dottie when she cries; Ryan Huston sings, "Only you know me like the winter knows the rain, and only you know just how to make it all okay." This is Mabel and Dottie.
Thank you for silly bath tub splashes and tickle tortures, and funny chalk drawings. And for chasing and racing, and making Mabel think Dottie was going to get up and start walking to "geeeet her!" Thank you for dance parties to Party Hits, like "Return of the Mack," while Dottie jumped non- stop in her jumper and Mabel did the Shoulder Shimmy and Happy Feet. Thank you, even, for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, DON'T dance!" or "DON'T sing!" because she wanted the spotlight.
Thank you for cooking together, and letting Mabel organize the silverware after dishwasher runs. And for Dottie's quiet contentedness in her Bumbo chair. Thank you for both kids' excited squeals when J got home from work, as we told him excitedly what was for dinner.
And while there were some challenging moments, thank you for the tough times too. Thank you for giving me perspective, and for making me see that even after a temper tantrum, all I wanted to do was hold Mabel or Dottie. Thank you for giving me sympathy and empathy for other mothers in those hard moments, and for not losing my marbles when Mabel wouldn't leave the Providence Children's Museum or whined over and over about wanting to watch TV in the car. And for somehow not flipping out when Mabel colored walls with crayons.
Though I never valued them at the time, thank you for the extremely anxious post- partum days in Jan and Feb, for riding around with Dottie in the back seat and listening to "Magic" and crying my eyes out over how perfect she was. For the days I got to spend with just Dottie while T cared for Mabel. For the hours I spent, total, peering into Dottie's eyes as she ate or just played in my lap or smiled up at me and pulled my hair or scratched at my nose.
No matter where I am, work or home, nothing will ever change how much I love you both. I will only love you more each day. You, with your father, are my greatest gifts. I am blessed to have spent these months with you in our home or at play, near and far-- the three of us. Our conversations. Our time at the lake in Hopkinton. Our outdoor breakfasts. Our walks in the double- stroller. Our car rides to Target and Marshall's and Jamie's house. Our time chilling in Mabel's tent. Our trials and tribulations with tricycles and ride- on cars. Our snuggles while reading Pinkalicious and Little Hoot and Polar Bear, Polar Bear and Does a Kangaroo Have a Mommy Too? Each day you get up, Mabel and Dottie, you have no idea how you make everything in my life better. And while I am thanking my leave-- the time I got with you-- it was the two of you who made the months into the most precious time of my life.
I hope you can learn through me about how women can work in any career they want, and also be moms. They can find fulfillment at work and at home. They can dread going to work tomorrow yet know in some deep cavern of their hearts that going back is actually right, and will be okay. They know they would do anything to provide in the best way possible for their kids. I love you both... How much? As we always say, "This much? Nope. Thiiiiis much? Nope. INFINITY amount. That means no limit, no end. I love you that much."
Tomorrow I will go to work for the first time in seven months, and as I revealed in a previous entry, I never thought I would wrangle so much with the idea of leaving SAHM- hood. I have shocked myself with how much I have loved being home with my babies. I want to make time stand still.
Since I can't do that, and I also can't stay up all night crying (though I may have zero control over that), I thought blogging would help. Rather than feel terrible, I thought I'd try to practice an "attitude of gratitude." And so, I wish to compose a thank you letter to my maternity leave-- my messy, stressful, life- altering, beautiful seven months with my children.
Dear Leave:
Thank you for sessions of sitting in bed together on rainy days, watching Caillou and Dora and Sesame and deciding that it was okay to go until noon in our jammies. Thank you for bananas and strawberries and "wice cakes" and "seeral with milk." For Dottie's first bites of mangos. For Mabel's obsession with chocolate ice cream, and her drippy chin, and the many clothes she ruined with desserts, even though I pissed and moaned about the stains. Thank you for the jubilation she found in eating that ice cream as messily as she wanted, at Dairy Queen while we talked about the different cars whizzing by, or at Black Cow when Mabel took so much pride in picking our table. Or at Spruce Pond when we all sat on the bench and let the refulgent summer sun hit our faces.
Thank you for giving me the need and then the courage to seek two Mom's Groups, and for the wonderful women I met. For Mabel's delight in playing with Kai and Cece and Julie and Lily and Avery, and for getting so tuckered out she nearly fell asleep in the car on the way home each time. Thank you for letting me see how stay- at- home- moms do it, and for letting me appreciate their work and plight. How great it was to know new people and drive around in one mom's parents' farm tractor, while Mabel lit up and couldn't stop remarking about how "MANY TREES THERE ARE!" Thank you for getting me to my first indoor kids' playspace and making me see they're not so bad, and that if your kids are having a blast, you'll hang out just about anywhere.
And then there were our zoo trips-- to Capron and Southwick. I have never seen a more perfect sight than Mabel's excitement over feeding animals. Thank you for giving us sunshine. And thank you for bringing us to playgrounds and letting Mabel discover monkey bars and Dottie light up swinging for the very first time. Thank you for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, BIGGER! Make the pushes BIGGER!" What a brave and fun-loving little girl she is-- slides, swings, poles, ladders, ropes--- she explored it all.
Thank you for the changing interactions between Dottie and Mabel-- from Mabel's being unsure of how to act around a teeny baby, to understanding it at a level I never thought possible. Nothing compares to seeing them bond as sisters. Thank you for Dottie's gorgeous smile when her sister approaches, and for the change to a big, ecstatic laugh, just because Mabel is there. Thank you for letting me watch Dottie simply stare in awe at Mabel. And thank you for showing me how Mabel "reads to" her sister, and talks to her on the phone (Hull-oh? Oh, hi! What ya doin'?), and says her name with the sweetest accent. Thank you for the way when Mabel wakes up and groggily rubs her eyes, the first thing she does is ask where Dottie is. And thank you for the way Mabel comforts Dottie when she cries; Ryan Huston sings, "Only you know me like the winter knows the rain, and only you know just how to make it all okay." This is Mabel and Dottie.
Thank you for silly bath tub splashes and tickle tortures, and funny chalk drawings. And for chasing and racing, and making Mabel think Dottie was going to get up and start walking to "geeeet her!" Thank you for dance parties to Party Hits, like "Return of the Mack," while Dottie jumped non- stop in her jumper and Mabel did the Shoulder Shimmy and Happy Feet. Thank you, even, for Mabel's telling me, "Mom, DON'T dance!" or "DON'T sing!" because she wanted the spotlight.
Thank you for cooking together, and letting Mabel organize the silverware after dishwasher runs. And for Dottie's quiet contentedness in her Bumbo chair. Thank you for both kids' excited squeals when J got home from work, as we told him excitedly what was for dinner.
And while there were some challenging moments, thank you for the tough times too. Thank you for giving me perspective, and for making me see that even after a temper tantrum, all I wanted to do was hold Mabel or Dottie. Thank you for giving me sympathy and empathy for other mothers in those hard moments, and for not losing my marbles when Mabel wouldn't leave the Providence Children's Museum or whined over and over about wanting to watch TV in the car. And for somehow not flipping out when Mabel colored walls with crayons.
Though I never valued them at the time, thank you for the extremely anxious post- partum days in Jan and Feb, for riding around with Dottie in the back seat and listening to "Magic" and crying my eyes out over how perfect she was. For the days I got to spend with just Dottie while T cared for Mabel. For the hours I spent, total, peering into Dottie's eyes as she ate or just played in my lap or smiled up at me and pulled my hair or scratched at my nose.
No matter where I am, work or home, nothing will ever change how much I love you both. I will only love you more each day. You, with your father, are my greatest gifts. I am blessed to have spent these months with you in our home or at play, near and far-- the three of us. Our conversations. Our time at the lake in Hopkinton. Our outdoor breakfasts. Our walks in the double- stroller. Our car rides to Target and Marshall's and Jamie's house. Our time chilling in Mabel's tent. Our trials and tribulations with tricycles and ride- on cars. Our snuggles while reading Pinkalicious and Little Hoot and Polar Bear, Polar Bear and Does a Kangaroo Have a Mommy Too? Each day you get up, Mabel and Dottie, you have no idea how you make everything in my life better. And while I am thanking my leave-- the time I got with you-- it was the two of you who made the months into the most precious time of my life.
I hope you can learn through me about how women can work in any career they want, and also be moms. They can find fulfillment at work and at home. They can dread going to work tomorrow yet know in some deep cavern of their hearts that going back is actually right, and will be okay. They know they would do anything to provide in the best way possible for their kids. I love you both... How much? As we always say, "This much? Nope. Thiiiiis much? Nope. INFINITY amount. That means no limit, no end. I love you that much."
Monday, August 18, 2014
Time in a Foreign Land
I suppose you could say that during the summers, I am a stay- at- home- mom (SAHM). I don't work for those ten weeks, and until this year, the two summers that I have been a mother have meant lots of rewarding alone- time with Mabel. Yet, by the end of August each time, I have been somewhat looking forward to getting us back into the usual routine. I figured I would always feel like that come August.
Dottie was born in January, which meant I started my maternity leave in the winter, and I had seven months off total. I am headed back to work next Monday, and not even an ounce of me is ready or willing.
I am stunned by my own feelings here. I've never felt that I was cut out to be a SAHM, nor that I would want to be one. And I know that deep- down I want to work. But these seven months of existing in the foreign territory of the SAHM have been eye- opening... and even a little appealing.
I keep trying to figure out what's different this time besides the obvious (that I have two kids now instead of one). I think part of my sadness about the SAHM time being over stems from my being able to see my two kids interact a lot as of late. Dottie was not much more than a cute little blob who sat there for a few months, but now she emotes, moves all around, and, most significantly, is in love with her sister.
We've developed quite a few daily rituals over these past months, and I am crestfallen to have to see them go. One is that each morning, Dottie wakes up around 6/ 6:30, and she and I hang in my bed. We "chat" and she drinks her bottle and coos and plays with my face, and rolls around and stretches. After about an hour, the poor thing is tuckered out again and needs a short nap. Somewhere around there is when Mabel gets out of bed and runs into my room, chanting, "Hi, Mommy! I'm awake! I'm not tired! Hi!" She then climbs up into the bed and we watch Caillou until we hear Dottie cry for us. At that point, Mabel insists on going to see her first. She tells me, "Mommy, DON'T come!" and then goes to get her "shtep- shool," and plants it in front of Dottie's bed. That's when I usually creep in and adore what I see.
Mabel sticks her little head down into Dottie's crib and proclaims, "Hi, baby sister!" She then tries to hug her and always asks me, 'Take it out?" I laugh daily that Mabel hasn't mastered those pronouns yet and calls her sister an "it," but I comply and lift Dottie up. I hold her from her underneath area and make it like she's standing in the crib. The two then hug, and Mabel goes absolutely crazy for the whole thing. I can't imagine that anything else could make her as happy as she is when Dottie is awake, which for weeks she called "abake." And the feeling appears mutual; Dottie never smiles so openly and exuberantly as she does when Mabel is around. The moment Mabel walks into any room, Dottie stares and smiles like a romantic kid with a crush. If Mabel cries, Dottie cries because she fears Mabel is not okay. It is incredible to me how siblings sense their bond from the literal beginning.
We then do diaper changes and head downstairs for our breakfast. We sit together, as Mabel insists on being near both me and Dottie in a "grown- up" chair while Dottie chills in the high- chair. Over breakfast, we chat and sing and play songs with our drumming hands on the table. At that point, even if I already have a plan for us, I ask Mabel what she wants to do that day. Sometimes it's something I can make happen. Other times, I love to surprise her with news of a playdate or time at the zoo.
I could go on and on and describe our days in this fashion, as there are so many fun rituals we have created. But it doesn't matter much WHAT the rituals are-- it's that we have them, and both M and D (and I!) have gotten used to them and have found comfort in them. I am terrified to have that security blanket leave us.
In my time at home creating these memories, I have also met some permanent SAHMs. I've made many observations and it's been enlightening to hang with people whose lives are so different from mine. More on that to come in a part 2...
Dottie was born in January, which meant I started my maternity leave in the winter, and I had seven months off total. I am headed back to work next Monday, and not even an ounce of me is ready or willing.
I am stunned by my own feelings here. I've never felt that I was cut out to be a SAHM, nor that I would want to be one. And I know that deep- down I want to work. But these seven months of existing in the foreign territory of the SAHM have been eye- opening... and even a little appealing.
I keep trying to figure out what's different this time besides the obvious (that I have two kids now instead of one). I think part of my sadness about the SAHM time being over stems from my being able to see my two kids interact a lot as of late. Dottie was not much more than a cute little blob who sat there for a few months, but now she emotes, moves all around, and, most significantly, is in love with her sister.
We've developed quite a few daily rituals over these past months, and I am crestfallen to have to see them go. One is that each morning, Dottie wakes up around 6/ 6:30, and she and I hang in my bed. We "chat" and she drinks her bottle and coos and plays with my face, and rolls around and stretches. After about an hour, the poor thing is tuckered out again and needs a short nap. Somewhere around there is when Mabel gets out of bed and runs into my room, chanting, "Hi, Mommy! I'm awake! I'm not tired! Hi!" She then climbs up into the bed and we watch Caillou until we hear Dottie cry for us. At that point, Mabel insists on going to see her first. She tells me, "Mommy, DON'T come!" and then goes to get her "shtep- shool," and plants it in front of Dottie's bed. That's when I usually creep in and adore what I see.
Mabel sticks her little head down into Dottie's crib and proclaims, "Hi, baby sister!" She then tries to hug her and always asks me, 'Take it out?" I laugh daily that Mabel hasn't mastered those pronouns yet and calls her sister an "it," but I comply and lift Dottie up. I hold her from her underneath area and make it like she's standing in the crib. The two then hug, and Mabel goes absolutely crazy for the whole thing. I can't imagine that anything else could make her as happy as she is when Dottie is awake, which for weeks she called "abake." And the feeling appears mutual; Dottie never smiles so openly and exuberantly as she does when Mabel is around. The moment Mabel walks into any room, Dottie stares and smiles like a romantic kid with a crush. If Mabel cries, Dottie cries because she fears Mabel is not okay. It is incredible to me how siblings sense their bond from the literal beginning.
We then do diaper changes and head downstairs for our breakfast. We sit together, as Mabel insists on being near both me and Dottie in a "grown- up" chair while Dottie chills in the high- chair. Over breakfast, we chat and sing and play songs with our drumming hands on the table. At that point, even if I already have a plan for us, I ask Mabel what she wants to do that day. Sometimes it's something I can make happen. Other times, I love to surprise her with news of a playdate or time at the zoo.
I could go on and on and describe our days in this fashion, as there are so many fun rituals we have created. But it doesn't matter much WHAT the rituals are-- it's that we have them, and both M and D (and I!) have gotten used to them and have found comfort in them. I am terrified to have that security blanket leave us.
In my time at home creating these memories, I have also met some permanent SAHMs. I've made many observations and it's been enlightening to hang with people whose lives are so different from mine. More on that to come in a part 2...
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The Beast of the Breast-- Part 2
I'm back. One kid is playing with a toy in the bouncer chair, and the other is eating a snack while watching Caillou. We will see how this goes...
So, back to the breastfeeding trials...
As I indicated, I really, really wanted to make boob- feeding work this time around. I ordered that pricy pump and said, "I learned a lot the first time. I have to eat and drink a LOT. And I have to pump a lot to get milk. Maybe this baby will just be an easier breastfeeder-- a better latcher-- and maybe I will be better too."
When she arrived, Dottie was of course hungry, as they all are. The nurse had asked me beforehand if I would be formula or breastfeeding, so when Dottie emerged they knew to put her to my breast minutes after. My kind nurse reminded me of the method: wait for the gape, close down, hold. If it hurts, it's wrong; if you feel pressure, it's right. Try the cross- cradle, and if not, the football hold.
In the elation of just having given birth, I was convinced all was good in the land of feeding. Dottie fed from each boob and seemed satisfied. Of course, in those early days, it's the early milk-- the colostrum, or the "liquid gold" that I am apparently supposed to be very grateful my kids both had. Dottie had a good first day and night-- the nurses brought her in to feed, and just as with Mabel, they helped me get her onto breast well. The second night, she seemed very hungry, very often. One of my favorite nurses decided I should pump since I wasn't producing enough to fill her; the theory is that milk begets milk, so pump and feed, pump and feed, and you'll be able to pump and feed.
That nurse came back, though, and told me they were out of pump tubes. "Let's just try to feed her at breast again," she suggested. I was still on cloud nine, and still willing to do whatever. The summary is that we left the hospital with Dottie thriving.
I remember getting to my parents' house after leaving the hospital, as we had to pick up Mabel, and I fed Dottie on their couch for a while. She was clearly sucking, and I don't think making the clicking noise. Good, I thought. This is already going better. My nipple was starting to look like a used lipstick, which I knew it was not supposed to post- feeds, but we were going with it.
A few days later, when Dottie was about a week old, I set up the pump. My boobs were sore-- one of them being scarily full and not diminishing. Lo and behold, the pump helped. And thus began my regiment of "the machine," as Mabel called it. I had my little pumping station set up by the fire place. Mabel would help me with the cups and it became even a little fun. I alternated feeding Dottie at breast and via pumped milk. Her weight looked fine at her first couple appointments, and I met with the lactation consultant at one of them. I told her about the chapped and sore nipples, and the fact that I still wasn't sure whether I was feeling pain or pressure. She recommended that I buy a nipple ointment available only at old- fashioned apothecaries, as Lanolin "would not work" to heal them. Huh? Do we even have an apothecary nearby? I am just gonna have to suck the pain up.
Meanwhile, we were going through some horrible digestion issues with Dottie. Her gas was so bad that she would scream when pushing gas or a poop out. She began pooping so often that she got the worst diaper rash I have ever seen in my life. She was pooping literally every 30 minutes. And when she would feed, she would often writhe in pain, and arch her back to the heavens. The pedi felt she had a case of acid reflux, and that we could wait it out or decide to treat it. The misery of all this, and my hating to see her feel sick, caused us to add formula-- but we had not yet given up on breastfeeding. I kept at the boob and the pump all the while. She was drinking about 60 percent boob milk and 40 percent formula.
And then came the night of the red... I was waking myself to pump in the night, or else my boobs were in such pain that I wanted to cut them off. I also wanted to keep up a good supply. And so, on this one night, I woke at 3 to pump. I was in the dim living room with only the light of the TV to guide me. My left nipple was beyond pained at this point, and the boob became engorged because I was scared to feed from that side. I pumped for a few minutes and could hear the cup filling, but I couldn't see the white of the milk. Hmm, that's curious. I brought the cup to the TV for light, and there it was-- 2 ounces of blood, with a tinge of milk. I nearly vomited. Somehow I was courageous enough to pump the other side; I got straight- up milk there and went to bed for a few.
The next day on the phone, the lactation nurse told me that I SHOULD FEED DOTTIE THE BLOOD TINGED WITH MILK. Nope, you can't make this shiz up. She told me it was healthy, and she would not be harmed. I promptly told this nutbag that I had discarded the blood- milk, and at this point was truly worried about myself and my breasts. She said it sounded like the chappedness of the nipple gave, and that's why it bled. Or, the engorgement may have been to blame, But that in a couple days time, I should be back to bloodless milk. Ho. Ly. Crap.
When I thought of quitting, there was that damned, dogged guilt. I was chock- full of post- partum anxiety again, and the tears just streamed and streamed. In the midst of all this, J was taking two evening classes, leaving me home alone with a toddler and newborn every Monday and Wednesday night. During the day, I had Mabel and Dottie home with me on Tuesdays and Fridays. Utter tiredness was simply kicking in. I was a mess, but I didn't want to give up, despite the reassurances from several friends, and even the pediatrician.
Once again, the pedi supported me in whatever decision I made. She told me, again, that the important thing would be for the baby to thrive, and for me to be a happy and attentive mom. I continued to pump-- feeding was too painful and wasn't yielding much milk. The pumping went on for another week after that point. My original goal was to give Dottie boob milk for two months. I knew, though, that to tend to my family properly, take care of my anxiety and fatigue, and heal my freaking boob, I would need to relent. Dottie would ultimately get boob milk for over a month, but I wouldn't meet my original two- month goal.
When I felt that I was ready to stop, I chatted with two friends who never boob- fed at all, and two friends who had very briefly tried it but had problems and stopped. Their support was overwhelming. And I know all their kids, who are just fine despite the formula- food.
The funny thing is that this time, despite the determination, I felt better about quitting than I did with Mabel. Maybe it was because I knew I had given it all I had. Maybe it was because I knew Dottie's stomach issues were so much better on a sensitive formula. Maybe it was because we were all sleeping a little more. Maybe it was because I didn't feel as depressed and anxious. Maybe I just had a gut feeling that I had to do what I had to do.
Dottie's stomach issues were far from over. We went through four different formulas-- and even tried thickening via cereal. We were very close to going to Prilosec. Around 3 months, her feeding issues improved noticeably, and by 5 months they were all but gone.
And so here I am, being, for the most part, a formula feeder for my two kids. I still go through pangs of guilt and worry. I become nervous that there's some essential what- have- you that they didn't get enough of. I worry that something is wrong with ME that I couldn't get this to work well. But then I stop myself and remind myself that I COULD have kept going. It's not that I was ill- suited for the job, as I have felt from time to time. I am not lacking a mother gene. When I stopped this time around, I was confident. I knew in my heart of hearts I had done what I could, and since Dottie's health is the most important thing to me in all this, I had done what would honor that importance.
More and more, I hear of people who have chosen not to b- feed or have struggled with it. I do think it comes more naturally to some people than others. I 100 -percent believe that some of us suffer with post- partum depression/ anxiety more than others, and this constant feeding business becomes too much. Not to mention, the strain on the body can be catastrophic. Right now, my Dottie is bouncing away in her Exersaucer after having downed a bottle of "poison," as some would have you believe. Hard to believe she's suffering when I hear her squealing for joy and throwing her toys up.
I also don't mean to sound haughty about bottle- feeding, either, though. How to feed your baby is the most personal choice you make when it comes to a newborn. Let people choose and enjoy, Live and let be. I have to tell myself this mantra if the guilt seeps in. The good news is, as opposed to the Mabel days, that dang guilt is rare.
So, back to the breastfeeding trials...
As I indicated, I really, really wanted to make boob- feeding work this time around. I ordered that pricy pump and said, "I learned a lot the first time. I have to eat and drink a LOT. And I have to pump a lot to get milk. Maybe this baby will just be an easier breastfeeder-- a better latcher-- and maybe I will be better too."
When she arrived, Dottie was of course hungry, as they all are. The nurse had asked me beforehand if I would be formula or breastfeeding, so when Dottie emerged they knew to put her to my breast minutes after. My kind nurse reminded me of the method: wait for the gape, close down, hold. If it hurts, it's wrong; if you feel pressure, it's right. Try the cross- cradle, and if not, the football hold.
In the elation of just having given birth, I was convinced all was good in the land of feeding. Dottie fed from each boob and seemed satisfied. Of course, in those early days, it's the early milk-- the colostrum, or the "liquid gold" that I am apparently supposed to be very grateful my kids both had. Dottie had a good first day and night-- the nurses brought her in to feed, and just as with Mabel, they helped me get her onto breast well. The second night, she seemed very hungry, very often. One of my favorite nurses decided I should pump since I wasn't producing enough to fill her; the theory is that milk begets milk, so pump and feed, pump and feed, and you'll be able to pump and feed.
That nurse came back, though, and told me they were out of pump tubes. "Let's just try to feed her at breast again," she suggested. I was still on cloud nine, and still willing to do whatever. The summary is that we left the hospital with Dottie thriving.
I remember getting to my parents' house after leaving the hospital, as we had to pick up Mabel, and I fed Dottie on their couch for a while. She was clearly sucking, and I don't think making the clicking noise. Good, I thought. This is already going better. My nipple was starting to look like a used lipstick, which I knew it was not supposed to post- feeds, but we were going with it.
A few days later, when Dottie was about a week old, I set up the pump. My boobs were sore-- one of them being scarily full and not diminishing. Lo and behold, the pump helped. And thus began my regiment of "the machine," as Mabel called it. I had my little pumping station set up by the fire place. Mabel would help me with the cups and it became even a little fun. I alternated feeding Dottie at breast and via pumped milk. Her weight looked fine at her first couple appointments, and I met with the lactation consultant at one of them. I told her about the chapped and sore nipples, and the fact that I still wasn't sure whether I was feeling pain or pressure. She recommended that I buy a nipple ointment available only at old- fashioned apothecaries, as Lanolin "would not work" to heal them. Huh? Do we even have an apothecary nearby? I am just gonna have to suck the pain up.
Meanwhile, we were going through some horrible digestion issues with Dottie. Her gas was so bad that she would scream when pushing gas or a poop out. She began pooping so often that she got the worst diaper rash I have ever seen in my life. She was pooping literally every 30 minutes. And when she would feed, she would often writhe in pain, and arch her back to the heavens. The pedi felt she had a case of acid reflux, and that we could wait it out or decide to treat it. The misery of all this, and my hating to see her feel sick, caused us to add formula-- but we had not yet given up on breastfeeding. I kept at the boob and the pump all the while. She was drinking about 60 percent boob milk and 40 percent formula.
And then came the night of the red... I was waking myself to pump in the night, or else my boobs were in such pain that I wanted to cut them off. I also wanted to keep up a good supply. And so, on this one night, I woke at 3 to pump. I was in the dim living room with only the light of the TV to guide me. My left nipple was beyond pained at this point, and the boob became engorged because I was scared to feed from that side. I pumped for a few minutes and could hear the cup filling, but I couldn't see the white of the milk. Hmm, that's curious. I brought the cup to the TV for light, and there it was-- 2 ounces of blood, with a tinge of milk. I nearly vomited. Somehow I was courageous enough to pump the other side; I got straight- up milk there and went to bed for a few.
The next day on the phone, the lactation nurse told me that I SHOULD FEED DOTTIE THE BLOOD TINGED WITH MILK. Nope, you can't make this shiz up. She told me it was healthy, and she would not be harmed. I promptly told this nutbag that I had discarded the blood- milk, and at this point was truly worried about myself and my breasts. She said it sounded like the chappedness of the nipple gave, and that's why it bled. Or, the engorgement may have been to blame, But that in a couple days time, I should be back to bloodless milk. Ho. Ly. Crap.
When I thought of quitting, there was that damned, dogged guilt. I was chock- full of post- partum anxiety again, and the tears just streamed and streamed. In the midst of all this, J was taking two evening classes, leaving me home alone with a toddler and newborn every Monday and Wednesday night. During the day, I had Mabel and Dottie home with me on Tuesdays and Fridays. Utter tiredness was simply kicking in. I was a mess, but I didn't want to give up, despite the reassurances from several friends, and even the pediatrician.
Once again, the pedi supported me in whatever decision I made. She told me, again, that the important thing would be for the baby to thrive, and for me to be a happy and attentive mom. I continued to pump-- feeding was too painful and wasn't yielding much milk. The pumping went on for another week after that point. My original goal was to give Dottie boob milk for two months. I knew, though, that to tend to my family properly, take care of my anxiety and fatigue, and heal my freaking boob, I would need to relent. Dottie would ultimately get boob milk for over a month, but I wouldn't meet my original two- month goal.
When I felt that I was ready to stop, I chatted with two friends who never boob- fed at all, and two friends who had very briefly tried it but had problems and stopped. Their support was overwhelming. And I know all their kids, who are just fine despite the formula- food.
The funny thing is that this time, despite the determination, I felt better about quitting than I did with Mabel. Maybe it was because I knew I had given it all I had. Maybe it was because I knew Dottie's stomach issues were so much better on a sensitive formula. Maybe it was because we were all sleeping a little more. Maybe it was because I didn't feel as depressed and anxious. Maybe I just had a gut feeling that I had to do what I had to do.
Dottie's stomach issues were far from over. We went through four different formulas-- and even tried thickening via cereal. We were very close to going to Prilosec. Around 3 months, her feeding issues improved noticeably, and by 5 months they were all but gone.
And so here I am, being, for the most part, a formula feeder for my two kids. I still go through pangs of guilt and worry. I become nervous that there's some essential what- have- you that they didn't get enough of. I worry that something is wrong with ME that I couldn't get this to work well. But then I stop myself and remind myself that I COULD have kept going. It's not that I was ill- suited for the job, as I have felt from time to time. I am not lacking a mother gene. When I stopped this time around, I was confident. I knew in my heart of hearts I had done what I could, and since Dottie's health is the most important thing to me in all this, I had done what would honor that importance.
More and more, I hear of people who have chosen not to b- feed or have struggled with it. I do think it comes more naturally to some people than others. I 100 -percent believe that some of us suffer with post- partum depression/ anxiety more than others, and this constant feeding business becomes too much. Not to mention, the strain on the body can be catastrophic. Right now, my Dottie is bouncing away in her Exersaucer after having downed a bottle of "poison," as some would have you believe. Hard to believe she's suffering when I hear her squealing for joy and throwing her toys up.
I also don't mean to sound haughty about bottle- feeding, either, though. How to feed your baby is the most personal choice you make when it comes to a newborn. Let people choose and enjoy, Live and let be. I have to tell myself this mantra if the guilt seeps in. The good news is, as opposed to the Mabel days, that dang guilt is rare.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
I haven't forgotten...
... about this blog! I think daily about needing to follow up.
The truth is I am finding it hard to make time to sit down at my computer in peace. I have a couple other blogs for stories and photos about the kids, and I feel like I need to make sure I update those for family. This one has taken a backseat, which I hate! But I will be back soon.
The truth is I am finding it hard to make time to sit down at my computer in peace. I have a couple other blogs for stories and photos about the kids, and I feel like I need to make sure I update those for family. This one has taken a backseat, which I hate! But I will be back soon.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Realization #2: There Are Many Trials at the Teat
This is a long one-- so it'll be a two- parter.
There are lots of mom- wars out there--- let your kid cry it out, or tend to him?; use organic baby food, or go for the cheaper stuff?-- but perhaps none has stood the test of the battle as sturdily as the war of breast or bottle feeding.
When I was prego with Mabel, I didn't really know about the war at first. I knew I could boob- feed her, or I could, as my mother did for us, give her a bottle with formula. I did some preliminary research and was scared into submission. All I could gather from the many sites I slogged through was, "You better breastfeed this kid, or you'll eff her up for life." I decided I would therefore try it. But since I was still a little scared, I didn't even buy a pump, wanting to see first if I could or would commit.
In the hospital, the nurses were helpful in getting Mabel to my teat in the proper way. I remember being half- asleep, and they'd wheel her into the room in her little cart and prop her up, getting that perfect latch accomplished for me. She fed on schedule and was well- nourished, though I was having trouble doing the latches myself and was becoming sore. When trouble arose, I just rang that handy bell and in came a nurse who had the know- how. I remember one saying, "If this is too much, consider supplementing. Being a first- timer is really hard." I thought, Okay, but I think I should be able to get this down.
WRONG. Nervous to abandon my support system, I left the hospital terrified of being on my own with these "perfect latches." Mabel would cry and we'd go into the bedroom where I'd try to get her comfy on the Boppy pillow in the cross- cradle position she seemed to like. I'd tickle her mouth with the nipple, as I'd been advised, and look for the BIG gape. I knew I had to, in that millisecond, get her to latch down. Boom, her mouth would close down, and about 50 percent of the time, I'd be thinking, They said it should not be pain, just pressure. Is this pain or pressure? I don't know... Still, she seemed to be enjoying the experience so I would go with it, but most times, Mabel would come off a teat that looked like a dog's chew toy. Not my best work, but I'll get it next time. I was determined indeed.
It was probably about our third or fourth day home and I was obsessing over how much Mabel was getting at each feed. They said I should hear a swallow-- was that a swallow? They said there should not be a clicking-- was that a click, or a swallow? Why is she hungry every 30 minutes? My mom, a new mother of the late 1970s, was tireless in her pursuit of getting me to quit it and "Just fill her poor belly with some formula, for crying out loud!" But that damn guilt. What if she got Rubella because I didn't breastfeed?
And so we kept on. Now my nipples were cracked and sore and one was bloody. I was beginning to dread each feed. I was struggling with post- partum anxiety and had no appetite, so my milk supply was terrible. At this point, I decided I needed a pump. I went out to the baby store and cried the entire 20 minutes in the car-- I guess because I felt I was screwing up royally, and didn't get why all this seemed so easy for everyone else.
I'd sit in our oversized chair with the two milking devices attached to my teats, and it was truly the end of romance when J had to come over and push my boobs downward to get the milk to flow. Sometimes I would get 2 or 3 ounces-- if I was lucky. I tried hydrating more, and even bought Mother's Milk tea... but the situation was status- quo. No pun intended, I sucked at this.
It was a Friday and I was sleep- deprived and completely out of my head with every emotion I could ever feel zig- zagging around when I finally lost my marbles. I recall that my mom was there, and she and J launched a full- on "Give yourself a break" campaign. J said, "How about if we just give her a little formula?" I relented because I was that tired.
My mother bought Similac and fed Mabel a bottle while I slept. And then J fed her some more. All I can remember is that I slept and slept, and J said Mabel did too.
From there, we did combination feeding, but the more we supplemented, the less milk my body could produce. I was down to a few drops per pump or at- breast feeding. Mabel was starving and restless; I wasn't getting anything close to a "perfect latch" with her; I was still chapped and cracked; and all I wanted was for her to be healthy and happy. Shortly after, the pediatrician told us she needed to gain more weight, and that I looked "haggard and tired." (She was my pedi too, so she can talk to me like that without it being weird.) "The most important thing here is for Mabel to thrive," she reminded me, "and for you to be a present and healthy mom. You decide, but there's no sense in torturing yourself."
I pumped out the last little bits of breast milk I had and called it a day. In the immediate moment, I didn't feel guilt-- just relief. Mabel would gain weight. We would all sleep. My hormones would take a break and I'd feel better. And so it went for a month or so, when I got into some guilt- inducing reading that made me feel terrible about my choice.
In a fit of self- fury, I flew over to the GNC store at the mall up the street and bought more of the tea and two supplements for re- lactation. I was determined to make my boobs fill again. I pumped once an hour, painfully so, but wanted to jump back on the breastfeeding train more than anything, convinced that I had failed Mabel and she was about to develop every disease and allergy under the sun.
You can imagine how this newest endeavor went. And in time, I had to let it go. She was gaining weight beautifully, we were all getting sleep, and J was participating in feedings, which was probably the best part. People told me over and over that I shouldn't feel bad, but the guilt never really went away. And so when I got pregnant again, I swore I'd do better. I bought a 300 dollar pump this time and got myself ready for a whole new b- feeding experience.
To be continued...
There are lots of mom- wars out there--- let your kid cry it out, or tend to him?; use organic baby food, or go for the cheaper stuff?-- but perhaps none has stood the test of the battle as sturdily as the war of breast or bottle feeding.
When I was prego with Mabel, I didn't really know about the war at first. I knew I could boob- feed her, or I could, as my mother did for us, give her a bottle with formula. I did some preliminary research and was scared into submission. All I could gather from the many sites I slogged through was, "You better breastfeed this kid, or you'll eff her up for life." I decided I would therefore try it. But since I was still a little scared, I didn't even buy a pump, wanting to see first if I could or would commit.
In the hospital, the nurses were helpful in getting Mabel to my teat in the proper way. I remember being half- asleep, and they'd wheel her into the room in her little cart and prop her up, getting that perfect latch accomplished for me. She fed on schedule and was well- nourished, though I was having trouble doing the latches myself and was becoming sore. When trouble arose, I just rang that handy bell and in came a nurse who had the know- how. I remember one saying, "If this is too much, consider supplementing. Being a first- timer is really hard." I thought, Okay, but I think I should be able to get this down.
WRONG. Nervous to abandon my support system, I left the hospital terrified of being on my own with these "perfect latches." Mabel would cry and we'd go into the bedroom where I'd try to get her comfy on the Boppy pillow in the cross- cradle position she seemed to like. I'd tickle her mouth with the nipple, as I'd been advised, and look for the BIG gape. I knew I had to, in that millisecond, get her to latch down. Boom, her mouth would close down, and about 50 percent of the time, I'd be thinking, They said it should not be pain, just pressure. Is this pain or pressure? I don't know... Still, she seemed to be enjoying the experience so I would go with it, but most times, Mabel would come off a teat that looked like a dog's chew toy. Not my best work, but I'll get it next time. I was determined indeed.
It was probably about our third or fourth day home and I was obsessing over how much Mabel was getting at each feed. They said I should hear a swallow-- was that a swallow? They said there should not be a clicking-- was that a click, or a swallow? Why is she hungry every 30 minutes? My mom, a new mother of the late 1970s, was tireless in her pursuit of getting me to quit it and "Just fill her poor belly with some formula, for crying out loud!" But that damn guilt. What if she got Rubella because I didn't breastfeed?
And so we kept on. Now my nipples were cracked and sore and one was bloody. I was beginning to dread each feed. I was struggling with post- partum anxiety and had no appetite, so my milk supply was terrible. At this point, I decided I needed a pump. I went out to the baby store and cried the entire 20 minutes in the car-- I guess because I felt I was screwing up royally, and didn't get why all this seemed so easy for everyone else.
I'd sit in our oversized chair with the two milking devices attached to my teats, and it was truly the end of romance when J had to come over and push my boobs downward to get the milk to flow. Sometimes I would get 2 or 3 ounces-- if I was lucky. I tried hydrating more, and even bought Mother's Milk tea... but the situation was status- quo. No pun intended, I sucked at this.
It was a Friday and I was sleep- deprived and completely out of my head with every emotion I could ever feel zig- zagging around when I finally lost my marbles. I recall that my mom was there, and she and J launched a full- on "Give yourself a break" campaign. J said, "How about if we just give her a little formula?" I relented because I was that tired.
My mother bought Similac and fed Mabel a bottle while I slept. And then J fed her some more. All I can remember is that I slept and slept, and J said Mabel did too.
From there, we did combination feeding, but the more we supplemented, the less milk my body could produce. I was down to a few drops per pump or at- breast feeding. Mabel was starving and restless; I wasn't getting anything close to a "perfect latch" with her; I was still chapped and cracked; and all I wanted was for her to be healthy and happy. Shortly after, the pediatrician told us she needed to gain more weight, and that I looked "haggard and tired." (She was my pedi too, so she can talk to me like that without it being weird.) "The most important thing here is for Mabel to thrive," she reminded me, "and for you to be a present and healthy mom. You decide, but there's no sense in torturing yourself."
I pumped out the last little bits of breast milk I had and called it a day. In the immediate moment, I didn't feel guilt-- just relief. Mabel would gain weight. We would all sleep. My hormones would take a break and I'd feel better. And so it went for a month or so, when I got into some guilt- inducing reading that made me feel terrible about my choice.
In a fit of self- fury, I flew over to the GNC store at the mall up the street and bought more of the tea and two supplements for re- lactation. I was determined to make my boobs fill again. I pumped once an hour, painfully so, but wanted to jump back on the breastfeeding train more than anything, convinced that I had failed Mabel and she was about to develop every disease and allergy under the sun.
You can imagine how this newest endeavor went. And in time, I had to let it go. She was gaining weight beautifully, we were all getting sleep, and J was participating in feedings, which was probably the best part. People told me over and over that I shouldn't feel bad, but the guilt never really went away. And so when I got pregnant again, I swore I'd do better. I bought a 300 dollar pump this time and got myself ready for a whole new b- feeding experience.
To be continued...
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