Breast feeding has finally settled down into being fun. When I first started going back to work, I was on a mad dash to be at home and make sure the baby didn't have formula but my milk (as our nanny calls it).
This meant I often felt as though I couldn't win at work or at home -- I was always losing. But for the first four months or so this period of time was a welcome buffer between the morning at work and the afternoon at home.
I would feed him, climb the stairs, and we'd take a 2 hour nap together. I knew the dangers of this much sleep having encountered a similar pattern a few years ago when working at the national university. I was depressed and my waistline, energy level, and overall outlook on life reflected this.
But I couldn't seem to shake it. When I finally talked myself into working out, it would be just before we had to go out, so rushed, and short. Half though I would always regret not having started earlier. Right now I'm trying to just get up in the morning and get to it. My gym is right outside our bedroom door on the second floor of our house.
To my surprise, I love breast feeding. I'm amazed my body can do this for our baby. I am sustaining him with something I am producing. No one else can do it: not his father, not grandparents, not our nanny, who dotes on him.
Imagine my horror when I started my period. I thought this signaled the end of my milk. I called the lactation consultant in a panic.
"How do I know?" I asked, driving through town.
"Remember the diapers," she said.
Yes, those diapers. The explosion he had while we were at a poker party last Friday proved that my milk is still coursing through him.
And I've almost made it twice as long as I thought I ever would. My original goal was 3 months! We're in month 5 and I hope we can go even further.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
You're Pregnant
"Not any more," I told the gushing acquaintance last night whom I hadn't seen in some time.
"Oh," she said and I just kept going to help her recover her embarrassment.
The fact is our son is now five months old and I was hoping that breast feeding was going to melt away the pounds as it had for one of my husband's colleague's wives. The fact that she is a nosy busy body and walking around the size of a toothpick doesn't engender any warm feelings either.
My disappointment at the myth of breast feeding is only eclipsed by the horror of having to see photos of myself in the newspaper and other places.
In order to motivate me to lose weight, I struck up a competition with a co-worker who was also trying to lose weight. He is a 6 foot plus South African and we both had the same goal: lose 20 pounds.
At the end of two months he beat be, barely, by losing one kil (2 pounds). I had lost none but maintained 140, the weight I basically came home from the hospital with.
Happily I was kicked out of the office because I had too many unused vacation days. Every day since the start of this 'staycation' I've exercised first thing in the morning.
I realize why rich people look so good. Looking good takes time. By the time I've exercised, showered, and am ready to do anything, it's usually 12:00 pm. Half the day has gone by.
I'm trying to be gentle to myself and take these two weeks to create this sustainable habit of exercising four times a week. I've never been able to do it even when working out with a personal trainer, going to the gym to private classes, or using the compound's bike, elliptical, treadmill.
Three days, three nearly 1 hour work outs. Let's hope I can keep it going even during the upcoming holiday season.
"Oh," she said and I just kept going to help her recover her embarrassment.
The fact is our son is now five months old and I was hoping that breast feeding was going to melt away the pounds as it had for one of my husband's colleague's wives. The fact that she is a nosy busy body and walking around the size of a toothpick doesn't engender any warm feelings either.
My disappointment at the myth of breast feeding is only eclipsed by the horror of having to see photos of myself in the newspaper and other places.
In order to motivate me to lose weight, I struck up a competition with a co-worker who was also trying to lose weight. He is a 6 foot plus South African and we both had the same goal: lose 20 pounds.
At the end of two months he beat be, barely, by losing one kil (2 pounds). I had lost none but maintained 140, the weight I basically came home from the hospital with.
Happily I was kicked out of the office because I had too many unused vacation days. Every day since the start of this 'staycation' I've exercised first thing in the morning.
I realize why rich people look so good. Looking good takes time. By the time I've exercised, showered, and am ready to do anything, it's usually 12:00 pm. Half the day has gone by.
I'm trying to be gentle to myself and take these two weeks to create this sustainable habit of exercising four times a week. I've never been able to do it even when working out with a personal trainer, going to the gym to private classes, or using the compound's bike, elliptical, treadmill.
Three days, three nearly 1 hour work outs. Let's hope I can keep it going even during the upcoming holiday season.
He is so white
This is a comment that I've heard often enough to make me pause when out with our baby.
I am South Asian and brown; not dark or light. My skin is my skin. After growing up in suburban Florida, I've learned to be completely comfortable in it, despite being aware of the fact that lighter is always better.
Unless you're white. Then it's tan that people spend a fortune and put their health at risk to seek (will NEVER figure that one out). Yet racism still exists because people think those with different skin color are in fact different from them.
The first time it happened I was in the spa with my son. One of the staffer's I'm not really fond of - she told me at 8 months pregnant I was really big - came to stay hello and coo at the baby.
"Oh, he's so white," she said.
I let it go because she has been pushing my buttons since we became members and now I didn't have the excuse of hormones to blow up at her.
A few days later, I was at the frame shop, picking up a few items with my Sudanese American neighbor's son. He is perhaps the most precious child I've seen outside my family (the nieces have a firm place in my heart).
"He's so white," one of the women said.
Again, the first time I let it go. But she had to say it again.
And then: "Not like his brother."
I realized she was talking about our neighbor who is clearly of African descent.
"That's not his brother," I found myself saying, though it was none of her business.
Multiple comments about our baby's color makes me realize that he is in fact a child of mixed races.
This may sound odd, but my husband and I are both children of Asian immigrants who grew up in emotionally reserved families with demanding fathers. We both work harder than we should at our jobs and enjoy traveling in style.
In short: we have more in common than in differences. If we were to list the differences they would be in the area of personality: he's an extreme introvert and I'm so extroverted, I wish I could run electricity off my energy to save on the power bill.
I've never thought about our different appearances. Though everyone kept saying "we can't wait to see what combination your genes will produce," I didn't really equate that with old fashioned notions of race or color.
At least for our son's sake, he was lucky and got the favorable color: whiteness.
I am South Asian and brown; not dark or light. My skin is my skin. After growing up in suburban Florida, I've learned to be completely comfortable in it, despite being aware of the fact that lighter is always better.
Unless you're white. Then it's tan that people spend a fortune and put their health at risk to seek (will NEVER figure that one out). Yet racism still exists because people think those with different skin color are in fact different from them.
The first time it happened I was in the spa with my son. One of the staffer's I'm not really fond of - she told me at 8 months pregnant I was really big - came to stay hello and coo at the baby.
"Oh, he's so white," she said.
I let it go because she has been pushing my buttons since we became members and now I didn't have the excuse of hormones to blow up at her.
A few days later, I was at the frame shop, picking up a few items with my Sudanese American neighbor's son. He is perhaps the most precious child I've seen outside my family (the nieces have a firm place in my heart).
"He's so white," one of the women said.
Again, the first time I let it go. But she had to say it again.
And then: "Not like his brother."
I realized she was talking about our neighbor who is clearly of African descent.
"That's not his brother," I found myself saying, though it was none of her business.
Multiple comments about our baby's color makes me realize that he is in fact a child of mixed races.
This may sound odd, but my husband and I are both children of Asian immigrants who grew up in emotionally reserved families with demanding fathers. We both work harder than we should at our jobs and enjoy traveling in style.
In short: we have more in common than in differences. If we were to list the differences they would be in the area of personality: he's an extreme introvert and I'm so extroverted, I wish I could run electricity off my energy to save on the power bill.
I've never thought about our different appearances. Though everyone kept saying "we can't wait to see what combination your genes will produce," I didn't really equate that with old fashioned notions of race or color.
At least for our son's sake, he was lucky and got the favorable color: whiteness.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
A Month Later...
It's been nearly a month since I last sat down to post my ruminations on this blog. And it isn't because I haven't been ruminating. In fact, sometimes I feel that's all I do now, that somehow having this baby has opened up so many news spaces in my life.
It's true I've shed lots of old habits in order for this to happen. I keep an eye on the clock after a certain part of the morning push back from my desk within fifteen minutes of the time I say I'm going to. I race home, guilty, sweaty, slightly angry at the thought of being controlled by an 8 week old.
But when I get home and see him -- his eyes, and yes his miles of hair that everyone exclaims about -- I never regret the decision to leave on time.
Working 9-2pm is a different style for me; the workaholic who infamously ran a company by herself for the better part of a year.
But I don't want to do that anymore. Even though my body and mind don't know this: I was jangly tonight after passing up not one but two networking opportunities to come home.
Even after coming inside the door to find my husband watching football on television I couldn't shake the nagging feeling I'd somehow made the wrong decision. But when I was upstairs with the darling and he had fallen asleep on my shoulder, all such silly thoughts vanished.
People comment on one of two things when they see him: his hair or his temperament.
"Does he ever cry?" a parent of another two month old asked. I tried not to simper with pride.
Because of course he does.
"He vocalizes so much," another mother said of him in comparison to her own child who was only a week older (lots of kids born this summer!).
Again, I resisted the urge to preen. My parents put horrible burdens for behavior and expectations on us and before I found comfort in faith, I teetered under the weight of their demands. I don't want to do that to my child -- particularly starting when he's so young.
But this afternoon when he has his fingers in his mouth, it's REALLY hard not to snatch them out!
Instead of being angry at him, I decided to give in and see what the worst was that could happen. His sucking of his fingers got so loud, even my football watching husband could hear them.
It's true I've shed lots of old habits in order for this to happen. I keep an eye on the clock after a certain part of the morning push back from my desk within fifteen minutes of the time I say I'm going to. I race home, guilty, sweaty, slightly angry at the thought of being controlled by an 8 week old.
But when I get home and see him -- his eyes, and yes his miles of hair that everyone exclaims about -- I never regret the decision to leave on time.
Working 9-2pm is a different style for me; the workaholic who infamously ran a company by herself for the better part of a year.
But I don't want to do that anymore. Even though my body and mind don't know this: I was jangly tonight after passing up not one but two networking opportunities to come home.
Even after coming inside the door to find my husband watching football on television I couldn't shake the nagging feeling I'd somehow made the wrong decision. But when I was upstairs with the darling and he had fallen asleep on my shoulder, all such silly thoughts vanished.
People comment on one of two things when they see him: his hair or his temperament.
"Does he ever cry?" a parent of another two month old asked. I tried not to simper with pride.
Because of course he does.
"He vocalizes so much," another mother said of him in comparison to her own child who was only a week older (lots of kids born this summer!).
Again, I resisted the urge to preen. My parents put horrible burdens for behavior and expectations on us and before I found comfort in faith, I teetered under the weight of their demands. I don't want to do that to my child -- particularly starting when he's so young.
But this afternoon when he has his fingers in his mouth, it's REALLY hard not to snatch them out!
Instead of being angry at him, I decided to give in and see what the worst was that could happen. His sucking of his fingers got so loud, even my football watching husband could hear them.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
First trip
There are so many firsts that people record: steps, words, smiles. For us we just had our first airplane trip and that at six hours to Paris, France. With our six week old baby in tow and grandpa on hand to babysit, carry the diaper bag, push the stroller, plus cousins to do any of the above, it was an ideal vacation.
The way back was a night flight, departing at 10:30 p.m. and arriving in Qatar at 6:00 a.m. The baby was a bit fussy in the airport because he was hungry. And I grew new contortionist skills, pulling aside layers of fabric to nurse him on tour buses, airplanes, and in the hotel room.
This is one of the reasons I don't know if I will make it to my October 30th/3 month deadline. The timing of breastfeeding - all day, almost every 2 hours on the clock - puts a major wrench in one's social life. Several times my father-in-law was prevented from coming into our room because I was feeding the baby.
The ready made formula bottles I fell in love with at the hospital came in handy because we often were places I just didn't want to mess with the apparatus of breast feeding. Or the fact that I was exhausted and couldn't really get up the energy to pull one out.
I've talked to every mother I know about breastfeeding and the stats are inconclusive. Some say they did 11 months (how?!) and others couldn't at all because their babies rejected the nipples, didn't like their milk, or other scenarios. Some do only breast, some do a mix.
My cousin-in-law said with her first she did 3 months and with her second she did only 1.
My boss said she did however long her maternity leave was.
A colleague said she had done it for 10 months for her older daughter and didn't feel that she could jilt her son, so was going for 10 months again.
Since my milk has come, and the baby is on a schedule, it feels like a betrayal to our baby not to do for him what all the books talk about. But my diet is affecting him: we have gas at the same time and also have to go the bathroom at the same time. It's slightly hilarious.
I can't deny that the sight of those big, brown eyes looking up at me from the crook of my arm is a sweet feeling. Now that I'm not sleep deprived or as worried about banging his head into something sharp, I like breastfeeding. As long as I'm home, on vacation, and have nothing else to do.
Perhaps I'll take to doing only nights. The fact is I don't like to quit or not give the best of anything. And so trying to make it to four months for solid food and breast is my dream. I don't know if I can get there.
I do know that being surrounded by family and their delight in your child is one of the best encouragements towards having another child. This was the perfectly timed visit because just when all our local friends have doted and cooed; delivered meals and gifts, we then had a fresh round from our cousins and one of his grandparents.
While I had wanted a tropical getaway and balked at the idea of going to Paris; the trip was restorative in a multitude of ways in giving us the first night out with both of us and minus the baby. We didn't worry at all. We knew he was in great hands. Which may mean we are slack parents or that we had confidence in my husband's father and aunt. Or in our very sedate baby. In any case we did not call 100 times or rush back home early. We had a lovely dinner and counseled our cousin on some major issues going on in his life.
All in all, it was a week well spent. And I'm looking forward to a few days at home to catch up and to reset my clock. Gone should be the days of 2 hour naps. Instead I need to write and exercise during those times I normally sleep.
Oh: and Paris wasn't that bad either.
The way back was a night flight, departing at 10:30 p.m. and arriving in Qatar at 6:00 a.m. The baby was a bit fussy in the airport because he was hungry. And I grew new contortionist skills, pulling aside layers of fabric to nurse him on tour buses, airplanes, and in the hotel room.
This is one of the reasons I don't know if I will make it to my October 30th/3 month deadline. The timing of breastfeeding - all day, almost every 2 hours on the clock - puts a major wrench in one's social life. Several times my father-in-law was prevented from coming into our room because I was feeding the baby.
The ready made formula bottles I fell in love with at the hospital came in handy because we often were places I just didn't want to mess with the apparatus of breast feeding. Or the fact that I was exhausted and couldn't really get up the energy to pull one out.
I've talked to every mother I know about breastfeeding and the stats are inconclusive. Some say they did 11 months (how?!) and others couldn't at all because their babies rejected the nipples, didn't like their milk, or other scenarios. Some do only breast, some do a mix.
My cousin-in-law said with her first she did 3 months and with her second she did only 1.
My boss said she did however long her maternity leave was.
A colleague said she had done it for 10 months for her older daughter and didn't feel that she could jilt her son, so was going for 10 months again.
Since my milk has come, and the baby is on a schedule, it feels like a betrayal to our baby not to do for him what all the books talk about. But my diet is affecting him: we have gas at the same time and also have to go the bathroom at the same time. It's slightly hilarious.
I can't deny that the sight of those big, brown eyes looking up at me from the crook of my arm is a sweet feeling. Now that I'm not sleep deprived or as worried about banging his head into something sharp, I like breastfeeding. As long as I'm home, on vacation, and have nothing else to do.
Perhaps I'll take to doing only nights. The fact is I don't like to quit or not give the best of anything. And so trying to make it to four months for solid food and breast is my dream. I don't know if I can get there.
I do know that being surrounded by family and their delight in your child is one of the best encouragements towards having another child. This was the perfectly timed visit because just when all our local friends have doted and cooed; delivered meals and gifts, we then had a fresh round from our cousins and one of his grandparents.
While I had wanted a tropical getaway and balked at the idea of going to Paris; the trip was restorative in a multitude of ways in giving us the first night out with both of us and minus the baby. We didn't worry at all. We knew he was in great hands. Which may mean we are slack parents or that we had confidence in my husband's father and aunt. Or in our very sedate baby. In any case we did not call 100 times or rush back home early. We had a lovely dinner and counseled our cousin on some major issues going on in his life.
All in all, it was a week well spent. And I'm looking forward to a few days at home to catch up and to reset my clock. Gone should be the days of 2 hour naps. Instead I need to write and exercise during those times I normally sleep.
Oh: and Paris wasn't that bad either.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Four weeks old
Last Monday our son turned a month old. And it was like an invisible cue had been given to my entire body to just sigh in relief.
I had managed to go an entire month and:
--breastfeed as much as possible for me (5-8 times a day depending on the day)
--not hit his head on the corner of our nightstand while picking him up for 3am feedings
--change countless diapers without wincing, avoiding, or griping
We finally got what each other were about, my boy and I.
I understood that he could wait a few more hours to eat and that not every cry meant that he was in fact hungry. Sometimes he had gas, or a stomach full that he was trying to dump, or a wet diaper. I discovered he could sit in his poop all day but thirty seconds of his own pee was more than he could be asked to handle.
He started smiling at the sound of my voice and calming down if I entered a room. He showed us how good he could be in the car seat and slept through the blaring music of the mall, the blistering heat of a never ending Doha summer, and being passed around like a party favor at my 32nd birthday.
The rest of the people in the house are around story: they wrecked his schedule this past Wednesday out of misguided sympathy because the kid was working the angles with his cries while I was out at an office gathering. It took me a full day to get him back on his schedule.
Now I'm counting how many more cases of ready made formula we'll need before he's on solid food.
Though it's exhausting, mentally and physically, to breastfeed I have committed to do it for the first three months of his life. This means October 30th. Crossing the one month mark gave me the confidence to look ahead to the end of September. Since we are still on Ramadan hours, and have a week's holiday, this should not be that hard.
No one could believe I went back to work three weeks after my first child was born and by C-section. I dreaded it myself. I wasn't sure how it would go or how much energy I would have. The thought of postponing it was available: I had an appointment to go to the Embassy to apply for his passport the first morning I was due back. But like removing a band aid or setting a broken bone, I rescheduled and went it. There were no balloons or welcome signs, but it felt strangely good to sit down at my desk and get back to work.
Granted this was for all of three and a half hours; it felt like my play job. For the past three weeks we've settled into a routine of getting up, going to work, coming home, eating lunch, and sleeping for two hours. I don't know who will miss the nap more: me or the kid. This is the wonderful thing about Ramadan and the reduced working hours. Since the majority of people are fasting, if you work for the government or Arab company, then the day is only five hours. Subtract from that the fact nursing mothers get one hour, either to come in late or to leave early, and I'm turning off my computer at 1:00 p.m. everyday. The end of Ramadan brings with it some trepidation, however, as I know this cannot go on forever.
But over the weekend I wrote out the schedule again, adjusting the times slightly, and I think even after the Eid break we will be able to carry on more or less the same.
I had managed to go an entire month and:
--breastfeed as much as possible for me (5-8 times a day depending on the day)
--not hit his head on the corner of our nightstand while picking him up for 3am feedings
--change countless diapers without wincing, avoiding, or griping
We finally got what each other were about, my boy and I.
I understood that he could wait a few more hours to eat and that not every cry meant that he was in fact hungry. Sometimes he had gas, or a stomach full that he was trying to dump, or a wet diaper. I discovered he could sit in his poop all day but thirty seconds of his own pee was more than he could be asked to handle.
He started smiling at the sound of my voice and calming down if I entered a room. He showed us how good he could be in the car seat and slept through the blaring music of the mall, the blistering heat of a never ending Doha summer, and being passed around like a party favor at my 32nd birthday.
The rest of the people in the house are around story: they wrecked his schedule this past Wednesday out of misguided sympathy because the kid was working the angles with his cries while I was out at an office gathering. It took me a full day to get him back on his schedule.
Now I'm counting how many more cases of ready made formula we'll need before he's on solid food.
Though it's exhausting, mentally and physically, to breastfeed I have committed to do it for the first three months of his life. This means October 30th. Crossing the one month mark gave me the confidence to look ahead to the end of September. Since we are still on Ramadan hours, and have a week's holiday, this should not be that hard.
No one could believe I went back to work three weeks after my first child was born and by C-section. I dreaded it myself. I wasn't sure how it would go or how much energy I would have. The thought of postponing it was available: I had an appointment to go to the Embassy to apply for his passport the first morning I was due back. But like removing a band aid or setting a broken bone, I rescheduled and went it. There were no balloons or welcome signs, but it felt strangely good to sit down at my desk and get back to work.
Granted this was for all of three and a half hours; it felt like my play job. For the past three weeks we've settled into a routine of getting up, going to work, coming home, eating lunch, and sleeping for two hours. I don't know who will miss the nap more: me or the kid. This is the wonderful thing about Ramadan and the reduced working hours. Since the majority of people are fasting, if you work for the government or Arab company, then the day is only five hours. Subtract from that the fact nursing mothers get one hour, either to come in late or to leave early, and I'm turning off my computer at 1:00 p.m. everyday. The end of Ramadan brings with it some trepidation, however, as I know this cannot go on forever.
But over the weekend I wrote out the schedule again, adjusting the times slightly, and I think even after the Eid break we will be able to carry on more or less the same.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The (Un) Natural Truth About Breast Feeding or Pump Wars
You don't want to deny your child anything within your reach to give him/her even while also not wanting to spoil them rotten. Early on in parenting, you realize that the choices of what you can give and what it costs often make seemingly cut and dried decisions much more difficult. And this includes the milk that your body could potentially produce. The milk that is full of antibodies and other things that could protect your child in his/her early years.
"The World Health Organization says you should breastfeed for two years," someone said to me.
"You should be feeding 10-12 times a day," the doctor who delivered my son said at my two week check up.
Right. 10-12 times a day means that's all you would do.
And then I think of women like a colleague I know who breastfed TRIPLES for TEN MONTHS. I called her in my hour of discouragement and received a great pep talk to get me through the day. And thought about starting a cheerleading group for myself to make it to October 30th, our son's three month birthday.
Breast feeding is the blight of mothers; if you do it, you are resigning yourself to sleepless nights and missed social opportunities. The second cost may not be true unless you are really adept at using a hooter hider, talking, and checking on your feeding one OR have such great self esteem that you don't care about exposing yourself in front of all and sundry.
As you can tell - or may already know from your own mothering experiences - the choices are really non-choices. Which is what makes motherhood one of the most selfless experiences a human can have.
It struck me in the days after my own mother left to get back to her own life, leaving me with the newborn, nanny, and his father, that human beings are strangely resource intensive. After all, since the moment of his birth, my son has had a team of people looking after him. Four people to be exact once we got home from the hospital.
I shared this rumination with one of my friends who was visiting me during a coffee morning here at the house. These visits kept my morale up by making me feel special. My friends celebrate this achievement of mine which is as old as time but new to me. This and a father who does diaper patrol at nights and the two hour afternoon naps have been key in keeping the postpartum depression at bay.
I'm convinced that women get the baby blues largely because of sleep deprivation. Think about it: if it can be used as a means of torture, should anyone voluntarily give themselves over to it? Women get overwhelmed by newborns because this wiggling, squirming, bundle of love is introduced into an already full life and often nothing gives. We still have to cook, clean, have sex, work, and now look after someone so small, that he/she can't be left alone even for a second.
Back to the breast.
When the lactation consultant came over four days after my son was born, she had some ominous words for me.
"Your body makes all the milk your baby needs."
Well, as great as that line is, many mothers will tell you this is not necessarily their experience.
As during the course of my pregnancy, talking to other women has gotten me through the last three weeks. Lately it's been getting advice on how to increase milk production. So many people have said that they obsessed about how much milk they were or were not making that now they would do it all differently.
"Do what's right for you," or "Do what works for you," have been the supportive responses to my worries that my hungry caterpillar is not satisfied with what he's getting out of me alone.
This had me at the GNC kiosk last night to pick up a bottle of fenugeek which two people told me stimulates milk production.
My wars at the pump, as in breast pump not gas pump, are disheartening. The very first time I tried using it, I didn't realize how far down your nipple has to be in order for the suction to work. So ten wasted minutes later, I shrugged and put it way. Then I asked a few friends at the tea we had for my visiting mother.
"It's got to be down in there," a mother of two, her bouncing three month old just a few steps away told me. With both of her children she has had to supplement with formula because of low production. And she does not have small babies.
The second time I pulled it all out, I almost cried when 45 minutes into it, I only managed to eek out 1.5 ozs. Determined not to repeat the drip, drip, of the second round, I pulled it out at night while we were watching T.V. the third time. An hour later, about the same amount, and this from two sides!
Needless to say, my dreams of building up a bank for my child to eat while I was at work were quickly disappearing.
I never thought about how long I would try to breast feed: the whole idea was a vague notion in my head. Last night I promised myself three months as that is supposed to be the critical period. But today, as my young one screamed his head off only an hour and a half after we had nursed and sucked down 2 oz. of formula in less than a minute, I gritted my teeth, thinking of how I would make it to next Friday; one month after his birth.
"The World Health Organization says you should breastfeed for two years," someone said to me.
"You should be feeding 10-12 times a day," the doctor who delivered my son said at my two week check up.
Right. 10-12 times a day means that's all you would do.
And then I think of women like a colleague I know who breastfed TRIPLES for TEN MONTHS. I called her in my hour of discouragement and received a great pep talk to get me through the day. And thought about starting a cheerleading group for myself to make it to October 30th, our son's three month birthday.
Breast feeding is the blight of mothers; if you do it, you are resigning yourself to sleepless nights and missed social opportunities. The second cost may not be true unless you are really adept at using a hooter hider, talking, and checking on your feeding one OR have such great self esteem that you don't care about exposing yourself in front of all and sundry.
As you can tell - or may already know from your own mothering experiences - the choices are really non-choices. Which is what makes motherhood one of the most selfless experiences a human can have.
It struck me in the days after my own mother left to get back to her own life, leaving me with the newborn, nanny, and his father, that human beings are strangely resource intensive. After all, since the moment of his birth, my son has had a team of people looking after him. Four people to be exact once we got home from the hospital.
I shared this rumination with one of my friends who was visiting me during a coffee morning here at the house. These visits kept my morale up by making me feel special. My friends celebrate this achievement of mine which is as old as time but new to me. This and a father who does diaper patrol at nights and the two hour afternoon naps have been key in keeping the postpartum depression at bay.
I'm convinced that women get the baby blues largely because of sleep deprivation. Think about it: if it can be used as a means of torture, should anyone voluntarily give themselves over to it? Women get overwhelmed by newborns because this wiggling, squirming, bundle of love is introduced into an already full life and often nothing gives. We still have to cook, clean, have sex, work, and now look after someone so small, that he/she can't be left alone even for a second.
Back to the breast.
When the lactation consultant came over four days after my son was born, she had some ominous words for me.
"Your body makes all the milk your baby needs."
Well, as great as that line is, many mothers will tell you this is not necessarily their experience.
As during the course of my pregnancy, talking to other women has gotten me through the last three weeks. Lately it's been getting advice on how to increase milk production. So many people have said that they obsessed about how much milk they were or were not making that now they would do it all differently.
"Do what's right for you," or "Do what works for you," have been the supportive responses to my worries that my hungry caterpillar is not satisfied with what he's getting out of me alone.
This had me at the GNC kiosk last night to pick up a bottle of fenugeek which two people told me stimulates milk production.
My wars at the pump, as in breast pump not gas pump, are disheartening. The very first time I tried using it, I didn't realize how far down your nipple has to be in order for the suction to work. So ten wasted minutes later, I shrugged and put it way. Then I asked a few friends at the tea we had for my visiting mother.
"It's got to be down in there," a mother of two, her bouncing three month old just a few steps away told me. With both of her children she has had to supplement with formula because of low production. And she does not have small babies.
The second time I pulled it all out, I almost cried when 45 minutes into it, I only managed to eek out 1.5 ozs. Determined not to repeat the drip, drip, of the second round, I pulled it out at night while we were watching T.V. the third time. An hour later, about the same amount, and this from two sides!
Needless to say, my dreams of building up a bank for my child to eat while I was at work were quickly disappearing.
I never thought about how long I would try to breast feed: the whole idea was a vague notion in my head. Last night I promised myself three months as that is supposed to be the critical period. But today, as my young one screamed his head off only an hour and a half after we had nursed and sucked down 2 oz. of formula in less than a minute, I gritted my teeth, thinking of how I would make it to next Friday; one month after his birth.
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