Yeah, I start blogs and then I ignore them. I'm still learning to balance my work at home and being a mom to a now 6 month old, so pardon the brevity.
To that end, here is that 2011-post-thingee that's going around and what the hell, I'll drink the Kool-Aid.
1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before? I gave birth!
2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't do resolutions because I feel we should strive for goals on a daily basis.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yep, me! And a few other friends, too.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No.
5. What countries did you visit?
Haaa! I was pregnant. No visiting of any countries besides home happened.
6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you didn’t have in 2011?
A thinner waist-line.
7. What dates from 2011 will be etched upon your memory, and why?
1/27: the day we found out we were having a boy
6/30: the day I was told I had to be induced
7/1: not only was it my husband's birthday, it was also the day we welcomed our son
8. What was your biggest achievement of this year?
Laboring for 22 hours
9. What was your biggest failure?
Personally, I will always feel I failed at breastfeeding, even though I know it wasn't my fault. That will always leave a sting.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Nope, just recovered from an emergency c-section.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
A Honda Pilot. A Keurig coffee maker.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
My husband. He attended summer classes, never having really missed any surrounding the birth of our kid, took on night feedings when I needed sleep, carried us through my baby blues, and works his ass off so that I can work from home and be with our baby.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Anyone that is anti-healthcare. You all suck.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Pretty sure it's a toss up between Babies R Us and Target.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Meeting my son for the first time.
16. What song will always remind you of 2011?
It's not even a modern song, but "God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys. In the earlier days of Nerdlet's life, I watched all seasons of Big Love and, of course the first three seasons have that as the opening credits. It ended up being a song that will always be reminiscent of the wee hours with my newborn son.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer?
Happier. Fatter. Richer, but not in material wealth.
18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Relaxing, being less angry.
19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Being angry.
20. How did you spend Christmas?
On the Eve, with my family as always. On the Day, with my little family of my son, my kitties and my husband.
21. Did you fall in love in 2011?
Didn't even know it was possible to love a tiny human as much as your own child. A million times, yes.
22. What was your favorite TV program?
Glee
23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
I prefer dislike, and why spend time on the negative?
24. What was the best book you read?
Wish I read more.
25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Kate Davis
26. What did you want and get?I got everything I wanted and more.
27. What did you want and not get?
Winning the lottery.
28. What was your favorite film of 2011?
Ha, like I have time to watch movies!
29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 33 and I was just out of my first trimester. We stayed home and family came to visit.
30. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Can't say much. My heart was filled to the brim the moment I became a mom.
31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept of 2011?
Maternity.
32. What kept you sane?
My mom, my husband.
33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Didn't have time to really give a shit.
34. What political issue stirred you the most?
Politics and religion: things I care not to discuss unless I want a gigantic discussion, which I do not.
35. Who did you miss?
My grandmothers.
36. Who was the best new person you met?
Aside from Nerdlet, Nerdlet's Godmommy. We actually met up at the end of 2010, but our friendship grew immensely in 2011.
37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.
Let go of the anger. It will only hold you down.
38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
But we're never gonna survive unless
We get a little crazy
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Bottle Feeding Momma: One Of My Challenges
Contrary to popular belief, bottle feeding a baby is not a lazy task. In fact, it is quite the opposite of lazy. I spend every day washing and cleaning bottles - many times a day, actually - and when it comes time to prepare bottles, I have to remember how many ounces I am mixing for. I can't tell you how many times I've dumped a bottle down the drain because I sleepily made a bottle and just wasn't sure how many scoops of formula I put into said bottle and, for fear of watering down my kid, I would start over. When going out for an entire day, I have to calculate how many bottles this kid will need and, of course, pack one extra just in case. If anyone were to tell me I was lazy for bottle feeding my kid, I'd punch them in their lazy mouths.
This scenario was not my choice as you may have read previously, but as a mother, if you're feeding your kid, you're winning. It's that simple.
Aside from the daily regimen that comes with bottle feeding a baby, there is one very specific challenge that I face when it comes to nourishing my kid and that is other people wanting to feed my baby.
Now, I understand that, because we come from such large extended families, everyone and their mother wants a chance to feed the baby. I get asked on several occasions if so-and-so can feed the baby. It's always "can I feed him?" or, sometimes it's not a question, but more of a "well, maybe he'll come to me this time and let me feed him." While the person in question generally means well, I am kind of bothered by it. Why?
If my baby was a breastfed baby, no one would ask "can I feed the baby?" You know why? Right. Because said person most likely doesn't possess the power of being able to make milk from their boobies. (Unless of course you're one of my BFing moms, well, then yeah you technically could, but.....well, no.)
It bothers me because, even though he's bottle fed, I'm still his mother and feeding still is a very precious moment for me. I like doing it and, when I can't, I love that my husband CAN, but here's where it can get complicated.
When I was first home with Nerdlet, I had a really difficult time. My first week home, while surely a joyous occasion, was not without its challenges. I was recovering from a true emergency cesarean birth, dealing with the fact that I was bone dry in the boobie area, and I was just plain tired. I was dealing with the emotional challenges of being a first time mom (Am I going to break this kid? Did I just feed him too much? Did I burp him too hard? Did I make his diaper too tight?) and healing from major surgery. As beautiful was it was to be a mom, I was barely keeping it together. The only people I trusted that week to keep me grounded were my own mother and, of course, my husband. Had my mother not been here to help bottle feed the baby, had my husband not taken over countless night feedings, I would be worse for wear and my kid would be starving. They were, in essence, my saviors.
Cut to 5 months later and yes, yes I am still dealing with the fact that I was not able to breastfeed. It's one of those things that I can deal with better now that some time has passed, but I'll never be over it. It's a thing, and I'm not sure I could very well explain it to anyone else, lest you've been a mother yourself.
So, I bottle feed. To me, that time with him is my time, and just because I have to feed him from a bottle doesn't mean the entire free world should be doing the same. I appreciate extended family wanting to do it to "give me a break," but the fact of the matter is, it's not a break for me. I like doing it. On the weekends, the only person giving me a break is my husband. I'm okay with him feeding our son and I don't think that needs an explanation.
It's complicated because there are very few exceptions to the rule of feeding my kid, and those people know who they are and why. If it's my choice, it's my choice and no one, absolutely no one, has a right to feel slighted for not feeding my baby. I'm his mother. He's my son.
I shouldn't have it any differently than a breastfeeding mother.
I don't think it's great for Nerdlet, either, to be passed around to different arms and such to be fed. That time is, by nature's standards, supposed to be ours.
I've had people feel insulted for my saying no to their wanting to feeding him, and to that I am sorry for whomever it was feeling bad, but I am not sorry for wanting it any other way. I will never be sorry for wanting to feed my child, regardless of the fact that his nourishment comes from a bottle and not from me.
Maybe I'm a little crazy for being so emphatic about this very thing, but if that's a crime, then well, throw me in jail.
That's not to say there aren't moments where I'll pass the kid off with a bottle to someone else. It's those instances that, yes, absolutely, I do need a break. And perhaps that is one of the few perks associated with bottle feeding a baby. But people should know to wait for that cue. Bottle feeding is not always by choice and, in my humble opinion, any feeding momma should have her space respected.
And that's all I have to say about that.
This scenario was not my choice as you may have read previously, but as a mother, if you're feeding your kid, you're winning. It's that simple.
Aside from the daily regimen that comes with bottle feeding a baby, there is one very specific challenge that I face when it comes to nourishing my kid and that is other people wanting to feed my baby.
Now, I understand that, because we come from such large extended families, everyone and their mother wants a chance to feed the baby. I get asked on several occasions if so-and-so can feed the baby. It's always "can I feed him?" or, sometimes it's not a question, but more of a "well, maybe he'll come to me this time and let me feed him." While the person in question generally means well, I am kind of bothered by it. Why?
If my baby was a breastfed baby, no one would ask "can I feed the baby?" You know why? Right. Because said person most likely doesn't possess the power of being able to make milk from their boobies. (Unless of course you're one of my BFing moms, well, then yeah you technically could, but.....well, no.)
It bothers me because, even though he's bottle fed, I'm still his mother and feeding still is a very precious moment for me. I like doing it and, when I can't, I love that my husband CAN, but here's where it can get complicated.
When I was first home with Nerdlet, I had a really difficult time. My first week home, while surely a joyous occasion, was not without its challenges. I was recovering from a true emergency cesarean birth, dealing with the fact that I was bone dry in the boobie area, and I was just plain tired. I was dealing with the emotional challenges of being a first time mom (Am I going to break this kid? Did I just feed him too much? Did I burp him too hard? Did I make his diaper too tight?) and healing from major surgery. As beautiful was it was to be a mom, I was barely keeping it together. The only people I trusted that week to keep me grounded were my own mother and, of course, my husband. Had my mother not been here to help bottle feed the baby, had my husband not taken over countless night feedings, I would be worse for wear and my kid would be starving. They were, in essence, my saviors.
Cut to 5 months later and yes, yes I am still dealing with the fact that I was not able to breastfeed. It's one of those things that I can deal with better now that some time has passed, but I'll never be over it. It's a thing, and I'm not sure I could very well explain it to anyone else, lest you've been a mother yourself.
So, I bottle feed. To me, that time with him is my time, and just because I have to feed him from a bottle doesn't mean the entire free world should be doing the same. I appreciate extended family wanting to do it to "give me a break," but the fact of the matter is, it's not a break for me. I like doing it. On the weekends, the only person giving me a break is my husband. I'm okay with him feeding our son and I don't think that needs an explanation.
It's complicated because there are very few exceptions to the rule of feeding my kid, and those people know who they are and why. If it's my choice, it's my choice and no one, absolutely no one, has a right to feel slighted for not feeding my baby. I'm his mother. He's my son.
I shouldn't have it any differently than a breastfeeding mother.
I don't think it's great for Nerdlet, either, to be passed around to different arms and such to be fed. That time is, by nature's standards, supposed to be ours.
I've had people feel insulted for my saying no to their wanting to feeding him, and to that I am sorry for whomever it was feeling bad, but I am not sorry for wanting it any other way. I will never be sorry for wanting to feed my child, regardless of the fact that his nourishment comes from a bottle and not from me.
Maybe I'm a little crazy for being so emphatic about this very thing, but if that's a crime, then well, throw me in jail.
That's not to say there aren't moments where I'll pass the kid off with a bottle to someone else. It's those instances that, yes, absolutely, I do need a break. And perhaps that is one of the few perks associated with bottle feeding a baby. But people should know to wait for that cue. Bottle feeding is not always by choice and, in my humble opinion, any feeding momma should have her space respected.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Internet Is Awesome and Evil
You guys, this? (click it) Bothers me.
It bothers me that my friend Allyson had to write that post. It bothers me that I have to read articles like this one in the New York Times (click it) It saddens me that this is even an issue but it is, and I have a few words (or more) to say on the matter.
I realize that while the Internet has been around for a while, it’s still kind of new. It’s new in the sense that it’s ever evolving. Nothing ever seems to stay the same around here. I remember using Google in the late 90’s for my college papers and I remember websites then were about as plain as you can get. There were no social sites. E-mail was still DOS for me. It was a very different place.
Here we are – hell, here I am – out publicly for the world to see, however the world lands here, and the landscape is a lot flashier, no? We’re all socially connected on Twitter, Facebook, Google+ and wherever else. Some of us blog. Some of us don’t. It’s kind of cool and it’s kind of creepy. The Internet, it’s like The Force. It binds us. It penetrates us. It brings us together. It breaks us apart. It’s a crazy thing, this series of tubes, you know?
But you guys, what’s going on in the world? I feel like nothing is safe.
As a mom, I am absolutely horrified that people are swiping photos of other people’s kids and misusing them. HORRIFIED. It shouldn’t be happening, but it is.
I realize there are two very different sides to this, and I do understand both. I do.
One could argue that anyone who publicly publishes photos of their kids on the WWW is just asking for it. You’re putting your kids faces out in the open for the world to see and that you’re just a ticking Pandora’s Box waiting to cause problems for yourself.
But, like I said, this place is old, yet it’s still new. There are no rules here yet for this sort of thing. We’re all still trying to figure out how the hell to govern a common place that seems to have no geographical jurisdiction.
Me, personally, I am an open book. I love having this space that I just started (after many failed attempts at blogging), however, I don’t feel right putting photos of my son on this site. There was a time where I had posted quite a few to Twitter, but I soon realized that I didn’t want those pictures existing anywhere I didn’t have control because you know what? He may be small, but I started to not feel right posting photos of a person who has yet to make an identity for himself. He’s still growing and learning and becoming a person in the world, and while he depends on me to make every decision for him 100% of the time, choosing to put him out there is not a decision I am making. That’s my ethical stance on the matter for my family, but that’s me.
I am in no way saying this is how it should be for everyone.
Photos exist of my son on Facebook under lock and key and that is a somewhat controlled space I feel I okay with. (Although with Facebook’s ever changing privacy policies, I may have to revisit that statement and take them down sometime soon.)
But there is an actual culture of blogging amongst moms that exists to share photos, information and real-life stuff that I find kind of awesome. Some good friendships have developed in the blogosphere and it’s those instances in which I think the Internet is kind of a groovy place.
You know, I worked with Allyson briefly a few years ago. Thanks to social networking, we connected after our brief co-working experience and we socially interacted online.
I haven’t seen Allyson since I worked with her. But I have been able to “hang out” with her, watch her pregnancy with her first daughter, and eventually her second. I have watched her blossom in her career. I have laughed with her. I learned how not to freak out while trying to conceive (mostly) from her and I also learned that mothers are human, too. And it has all happened from the comfort of my own sofa whilst clicking away on my MacBook.
It’s because I’m socially connected to Allyson that I reconnected with someone from my past who I can now affectionately refer to as godmother to my son.
The Internet, it is awesome.
I’ve yet to actually hang out with Allyson in real life (let’s set something up soon, mmkay?), but we’re connected.
While posting photos of family, friends and children is not something I want to do personally on my own blog, I don’t see the problem with it for others. That’s their subject matter. That’s what makes their blog theirs. It’s what makes them who they are.
That’s their decision and THAT IS OKAY.
There are SO many countless families out there doing the blogging thing and I like seeing that real life stuff. I like seeing life happening in the world. It is real reality, unlike reality TV. I’ve learned things about motherhood that I’ll never learn from a book because I’ve seen real moms doing it online, pouring themselves out in the open, the real, nitty-gritty stuff that no one talks about.
But, just because it is out there and in the open in no way gives anyone the right to go ahead and help themselves to photos and misuse them in some twisted game that, for reasons I will never understand, exists.
It’s sick, you guys.
I hate that a friend of mine has to go through this. I hate that anyone has to go through this. I hate that the little creeps decided to latch on to me to get to my friends. I’m sure they were waiting for me to post pictures of my little guy. Well, they can kiss my ass. I’m not doing it. I’m not-not doing it because of them, but all the same, they can still kiss my ass.
This is the Internet. As I was just told by a good friend of mine, there is no jurisdictional issue here. Copying data from unsecured sites is not illegal. There is no digital break-in.
There is a way to 'lock' jpegs to prevent anyone from downloading them, but even that extra-cost measure doesn't prevent someone from taking a screenshot and using that bit of information.
So, since it’s not illegal, allow me to go ahead and show you MY screenshot of someone who has been stealing photos of little girls and using them in an online game. World, meet “Kalina,” an Orkut user. I’m sure that’s not her real name and we all know that’s not her real photo.
Why am I doing this?
I’m not stooping to her level. No, that wouldn’t be right. What I can do is at least go ahead and grab pictures of every single user tied to my friends’ kids’ photos and plaster them all over the Internet in hopes that hey, maybe some of you will go ahead and help me report them all to Orkut. There’s a nifty button that allows you to do so. You have to join, but we can all create aliases, just like these little asshats have, and report, report, report.
EDITED TO ADD: YOU GUYS! I found Kalina's YouTube channel! (CLICK!!) Hey, go report the little jerk, will you? She has many videos featuring photos and video of OTHER PEOPLE'S BABIES.
Perhaps you won’t. Perhaps you will.
Whatever the case, I’m standing by my friend who, because of all this bullshit, feels she has to hide her voice because it’s been violated in a really creepy way.
As a fellow writer, that’s just sad. It’s sad and it’s unfortunate and I hate that anyone has to feel that their outlet, the place which they feel is the most cathartic, has been sullied.
Grow the hell up, little girls of Brazil. Grow up.
One by one, I promise you, you'll all be deleted.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
That One About Boobies and Feeding
It’s really late. I should be getting to the list of items in my queue that need to be written because, you know, I like getting a paycheck, but I’m slightly over emotional right now in a bittersweet way.
So, that post on feeding? It’s about to happen. I’m a little raw, so pardon the rawness contained herein, but I’m a little sad ducky.
See, the thing is I never really produced any milk after I gave birth to the Nerdlet. I’m pretty sure he got some colostrum, although how much is a mystery. We couldn’t leave the hospital because his diapers showed some crystals in his urine. Essentially, he was dehydrated.
I know that c-sections can lead to a late start on milk production and heck, even a low supply, but it can happen and it does. For me, there was no low supply. There wasn’t even a late start. There was a little leaking, but try as I might, I made him latch, I pumped, latch, pump, latch, pump, latch – nothing.
I cried. I was tired. I hadn’t slept in days. He was hungry. So was I. I was in pain.
It was here I had to make the decision that every mom who wishes to breastfeed doesn’t want to make: go formula or go home.
I know there is a lot of excitement over the fact that hospitals are doling out less samples of the free food of doom, but you guys, had I not had something in the house at that moment, my kid would be really hungry and no, in my state I wouldn’t know what to buy. I thank Similac now for sending me that stuff because that stuff that everyone thinks is evil? Fed my kid. And he was satisfied. And I didn’t have to sit in a grocery store crying over which brand to get because I felt like a failure, that he was hungry, that I was tired and in pain.
I’m not asking for boob sympathy over here, but it really hurts me to see article after article chastising mothers who formula feed because some of us do not have a choice in the matter. It hurts me to the core in a way that mothers who successfully breastfeed won’t ever know. You know what? I am ELATED for breastfeeding moms. I’m envious, in fact. Because in those really few moments I did have a latch from my kid, I felt that bond. It is awesome. But it was short lived. I didn’t have the letdown he needed and he shortly thereafter refused me.
I spent weeks crying over that fact. Weeks. I kept thinking that hey, maybe I can re-lactate like some articles suggest (although, who was I kidding? RE-lactate? That indicates there was lactation to begin with, and for me there was not.) I took fenugreek. I pumped. Nary a drop came from my girls. All I was doing was pouring salt on a wound that couldn’t heal because I couldn’t let go. And I cried some more.
It’s hard to cry, however, when you see your baby so happy and thriving. Nerdlet was gaining weight like a champ. He was extremely alert at just 2 weeks. He was on a schedule by then, too. He was a happy baby. It’s hard to cry when your baby is healthy and happy, no?
But I still cried. I cried for me. I cried because I wanted something and I couldn’t give that something to my baby. But, again, he was happy. I cried just for me.
Tonight, I felt a tear in that wound that mostly healed.
My li’l guy has his first round of the sniffles, so he’s not sleeping too great. Despite the fact that it’s super late and I have to work (work I seem to get done after he goes to bed), my guy needed me. I won’t ever put work before his needs, ever. I don’t care if that means pulling an all-nighter. For him, I’d do it.
Just now, I took him out of his bassinet and swaddled him. He was really feeling crappy, I could tell, so I just put him on the bed with me for a bit and snuggled him. A few moments in, he turned towards my body, his face nestled against my bosom, suckled on his pacifier and put his hand on my chest.
It was reminiscent of those first few days where I had him latching and, honestly, it was a beautiful moment and a sad one for me. It brought back the heart-wrenching guilt of not being able to nurse him, but at the same time, it was so nice seeing him so comfortable against me like that. Clearly, for him it was a soothing moment, as he went right to sleep without so much as a whimper and yet there I was, stroking his baby fine hair, shedding a few quiet tears because I was reminded that those lumps on my chest were broken.
It’s an odd feeling, looking at these things my husband seems to find great joy in and yet I’m absolutely loathing them for failing my kid. Rock, hard place. Scylla, Charibides. It’s a stuck-in-the-middle feeling I can’t quite describe, but these things are stuck on me, so I have to live with them and pray that they don’t remind me for an eternity that they failed to do their biological purpose and, you know, feed my baby.
I suppose I should just shut up and enjoy the fact that, while they didn’t do their duty as a food source, they sure as hell put my li’l man at ease in some way. I at least have that to rely on.
And that moment I just had with him? It was precious. I just wish it didn’t remind me of what was so painful to begin with.
(OH I am so a mother, I am now feeling guilty for feeling sad over a moment that should have been beautiful. WHY DO WE DO THIS TO OURSELVES, MOMS?)
At least my Nerdlet is tucked in and sleeping. I guess I could go work. Maybe I’ll just go steal a few more moments with my guy. Sometimes I need them just as much as he does.
So, that post on feeding? It’s about to happen. I’m a little raw, so pardon the rawness contained herein, but I’m a little sad ducky.
See, the thing is I never really produced any milk after I gave birth to the Nerdlet. I’m pretty sure he got some colostrum, although how much is a mystery. We couldn’t leave the hospital because his diapers showed some crystals in his urine. Essentially, he was dehydrated.
I know that c-sections can lead to a late start on milk production and heck, even a low supply, but it can happen and it does. For me, there was no low supply. There wasn’t even a late start. There was a little leaking, but try as I might, I made him latch, I pumped, latch, pump, latch, pump, latch – nothing.
I cried. I was tired. I hadn’t slept in days. He was hungry. So was I. I was in pain.
It was here I had to make the decision that every mom who wishes to breastfeed doesn’t want to make: go formula or go home.
I know there is a lot of excitement over the fact that hospitals are doling out less samples of the free food of doom, but you guys, had I not had something in the house at that moment, my kid would be really hungry and no, in my state I wouldn’t know what to buy. I thank Similac now for sending me that stuff because that stuff that everyone thinks is evil? Fed my kid. And he was satisfied. And I didn’t have to sit in a grocery store crying over which brand to get because I felt like a failure, that he was hungry, that I was tired and in pain.
I’m not asking for boob sympathy over here, but it really hurts me to see article after article chastising mothers who formula feed because some of us do not have a choice in the matter. It hurts me to the core in a way that mothers who successfully breastfeed won’t ever know. You know what? I am ELATED for breastfeeding moms. I’m envious, in fact. Because in those really few moments I did have a latch from my kid, I felt that bond. It is awesome. But it was short lived. I didn’t have the letdown he needed and he shortly thereafter refused me.
I spent weeks crying over that fact. Weeks. I kept thinking that hey, maybe I can re-lactate like some articles suggest (although, who was I kidding? RE-lactate? That indicates there was lactation to begin with, and for me there was not.) I took fenugreek. I pumped. Nary a drop came from my girls. All I was doing was pouring salt on a wound that couldn’t heal because I couldn’t let go. And I cried some more.
It’s hard to cry, however, when you see your baby so happy and thriving. Nerdlet was gaining weight like a champ. He was extremely alert at just 2 weeks. He was on a schedule by then, too. He was a happy baby. It’s hard to cry when your baby is healthy and happy, no?
But I still cried. I cried for me. I cried because I wanted something and I couldn’t give that something to my baby. But, again, he was happy. I cried just for me.
Tonight, I felt a tear in that wound that mostly healed.
My li’l guy has his first round of the sniffles, so he’s not sleeping too great. Despite the fact that it’s super late and I have to work (work I seem to get done after he goes to bed), my guy needed me. I won’t ever put work before his needs, ever. I don’t care if that means pulling an all-nighter. For him, I’d do it.
Just now, I took him out of his bassinet and swaddled him. He was really feeling crappy, I could tell, so I just put him on the bed with me for a bit and snuggled him. A few moments in, he turned towards my body, his face nestled against my bosom, suckled on his pacifier and put his hand on my chest.
It was reminiscent of those first few days where I had him latching and, honestly, it was a beautiful moment and a sad one for me. It brought back the heart-wrenching guilt of not being able to nurse him, but at the same time, it was so nice seeing him so comfortable against me like that. Clearly, for him it was a soothing moment, as he went right to sleep without so much as a whimper and yet there I was, stroking his baby fine hair, shedding a few quiet tears because I was reminded that those lumps on my chest were broken.
It’s an odd feeling, looking at these things my husband seems to find great joy in and yet I’m absolutely loathing them for failing my kid. Rock, hard place. Scylla, Charibides. It’s a stuck-in-the-middle feeling I can’t quite describe, but these things are stuck on me, so I have to live with them and pray that they don’t remind me for an eternity that they failed to do their biological purpose and, you know, feed my baby.
I suppose I should just shut up and enjoy the fact that, while they didn’t do their duty as a food source, they sure as hell put my li’l man at ease in some way. I at least have that to rely on.
And that moment I just had with him? It was precious. I just wish it didn’t remind me of what was so painful to begin with.
(OH I am so a mother, I am now feeling guilty for feeling sad over a moment that should have been beautiful. WHY DO WE DO THIS TO OURSELVES, MOMS?)
At least my Nerdlet is tucked in and sleeping. I guess I could go work. Maybe I’ll just go steal a few more moments with my guy. Sometimes I need them just as much as he does.
Monday, October 10, 2011
What Do I Want to Be When I Grow Up?
I often think about this very topic late at night when all of my boys are asleep (2 cats, 1 baby, 1 husband, for those new to this place.) Have I fulfilled my childhood dream? Do I know what I want to be when I grow up? Wait, am I a grown up already?
Personally, the question should be more along the lines of what the hell was my childhood dream? Because I? Was a chameleon. I changed with my every surrounding, not to mention mood. If the sun was aligned with the earth on the third Saturday in October, I wanted to be a princess. Sunday, it could have very well been an astronaut. (Actually, I did want to be an astronaut at one point. Blame it on a childhood fave movie, Space Camp.) I had the brief ballerina phase that a lot of girls my age went through, but that phased out shortly after I was ready to be a veterinarian. I like animals.
I think somewhere in middle school I realized vets put animals to sleep, so I decided that if I was going to be a vet, I would be the kind that didn't do that, because in my mind all animals would live and be happy and I would heal them. Then, you know, you find out Santa isn't real (shut up, I was a late bloomer. I found out at the end of 5th grade. My mother had to tell me....but only after I got in trouble for not cleaning my room. Way to kick a kid while she's down!) and start to grow up and those sorts of ideas aren't really real.
And then I wanted to be a writer. In fact, I'm pretty sure I threw that in a few times as I changed my mind profusely, to strive to write. I always enjoyed a good story. I loved to read. Writing made reading happen. I wanted it. I dreamed of it.
So I wrote stories. I remember in the 5th grade (you know, the same year I found out Santa wasn't real and that unicorns did not, in fact, exist) taking some sort of writing test in which we had to create a story. At least, I think I'm remembering this correctly, it was some sort of fictional writing thing. I wrote about a family adopting some creature, probably because I watched Harry and the Henderson's one too many times, but I vaguely remember this story pouring out of me quicker than butter rolling off a hot biscuit and thinking "yes, yes! THIS is a good story!" and then I was all too bummed when our time was up and we had to finish.
My teacher was so proud of my story, and apparently I did very well. It was then that I decided to fulfill my dream of being a writer.
Middle school came and went. Not much writing happened.
Then high school happened, and oh, what teenager doesn't go through the dark, emo stage and writes profusely in her journal? While it was not Pulitzer Prize winning material, I wrote a lot, so much that I was sent on a young author's conference and yes, yes I was going to be a writer.
And then I went to college. I really hated all those literature classes. I cut my hair short, dyed it black, smoked a lot of cigarettes and hung out with a cool professor and hosted a poetry radio show with him. I was the cliched beatnik Keuroac-ian everyone made fun of. Except I was cool.
I fell in love. I got engaged. I broke up with that guy. I met another guy. I started an MAW program (Masters of Arts in Writing). I started a tech editing job. I stopped the MAW program. I fell in love with the other guy. I got engaged. I adopted two cats. I got married. I left my job. I started a business. I folded the business. I started freelancing. I got pregnant. I became a mother.
Somewhere in between all of that, I wrote a lot of stuff, but around the time of starting the tech editing job and starting/folding a business and freelancing, I stopped writing. Sure, I get paid to write tech stuff, but it's not really the writer I expected myself to be.
I think in my head I was going to write about pirates or adventures or something. Something epic. The problem is the amount of writing I had actually done never amounted to a finished piece. I had a lot of good starts, but I never had the fin. The end. The closure. To this day, I have a young adult/kids piece sitting in a box of other unfinished pieces that's just waiting to be written and finished. In fact, it did well when I started it, at least the group I was working with at the time said it was something worth continuing.
Somewhere in my head, I had thought, much like my childhood, I was supposed to just change and move onto the next thing. Except I was no longer in the 5th grade and all of a sudden I was a grown up. I had grown up but I was still......not what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Until I had my son.
In between the in between all of that stuff and unfinished pieces, I grew up to be a mother.
In fact, I remember thinking the moment my son came screaming into the world, ah, this? Is the best thing I could have done. And when they brought his little face over to mine for a kiss from his mommy, I told him right then and there
You are better than any story I could ever write. You're the best thing I can ever do.
And so, I suppose all I really want is to be a mom when I grow up. This is one project I don't ever plan to finish, but rather write continuously, for however long God lets me.
Personally, the question should be more along the lines of what the hell was my childhood dream? Because I? Was a chameleon. I changed with my every surrounding, not to mention mood. If the sun was aligned with the earth on the third Saturday in October, I wanted to be a princess. Sunday, it could have very well been an astronaut. (Actually, I did want to be an astronaut at one point. Blame it on a childhood fave movie, Space Camp.) I had the brief ballerina phase that a lot of girls my age went through, but that phased out shortly after I was ready to be a veterinarian. I like animals.
I think somewhere in middle school I realized vets put animals to sleep, so I decided that if I was going to be a vet, I would be the kind that didn't do that, because in my mind all animals would live and be happy and I would heal them. Then, you know, you find out Santa isn't real (shut up, I was a late bloomer. I found out at the end of 5th grade. My mother had to tell me....but only after I got in trouble for not cleaning my room. Way to kick a kid while she's down!) and start to grow up and those sorts of ideas aren't really real.
And then I wanted to be a writer. In fact, I'm pretty sure I threw that in a few times as I changed my mind profusely, to strive to write. I always enjoyed a good story. I loved to read. Writing made reading happen. I wanted it. I dreamed of it.
So I wrote stories. I remember in the 5th grade (you know, the same year I found out Santa wasn't real and that unicorns did not, in fact, exist) taking some sort of writing test in which we had to create a story. At least, I think I'm remembering this correctly, it was some sort of fictional writing thing. I wrote about a family adopting some creature, probably because I watched Harry and the Henderson's one too many times, but I vaguely remember this story pouring out of me quicker than butter rolling off a hot biscuit and thinking "yes, yes! THIS is a good story!" and then I was all too bummed when our time was up and we had to finish.
My teacher was so proud of my story, and apparently I did very well. It was then that I decided to fulfill my dream of being a writer.
Middle school came and went. Not much writing happened.
Then high school happened, and oh, what teenager doesn't go through the dark, emo stage and writes profusely in her journal? While it was not Pulitzer Prize winning material, I wrote a lot, so much that I was sent on a young author's conference and yes, yes I was going to be a writer.
And then I went to college. I really hated all those literature classes. I cut my hair short, dyed it black, smoked a lot of cigarettes and hung out with a cool professor and hosted a poetry radio show with him. I was the cliched beatnik Keuroac-ian everyone made fun of. Except I was cool.
I fell in love. I got engaged. I broke up with that guy. I met another guy. I started an MAW program (Masters of Arts in Writing). I started a tech editing job. I stopped the MAW program. I fell in love with the other guy. I got engaged. I adopted two cats. I got married. I left my job. I started a business. I folded the business. I started freelancing. I got pregnant. I became a mother.
Somewhere in between all of that, I wrote a lot of stuff, but around the time of starting the tech editing job and starting/folding a business and freelancing, I stopped writing. Sure, I get paid to write tech stuff, but it's not really the writer I expected myself to be.
I think in my head I was going to write about pirates or adventures or something. Something epic. The problem is the amount of writing I had actually done never amounted to a finished piece. I had a lot of good starts, but I never had the fin. The end. The closure. To this day, I have a young adult/kids piece sitting in a box of other unfinished pieces that's just waiting to be written and finished. In fact, it did well when I started it, at least the group I was working with at the time said it was something worth continuing.
Somewhere in my head, I had thought, much like my childhood, I was supposed to just change and move onto the next thing. Except I was no longer in the 5th grade and all of a sudden I was a grown up. I had grown up but I was still......not what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Until I had my son.
In between the in between all of that stuff and unfinished pieces, I grew up to be a mother.
In fact, I remember thinking the moment my son came screaming into the world, ah, this? Is the best thing I could have done. And when they brought his little face over to mine for a kiss from his mommy, I told him right then and there
You are better than any story I could ever write. You're the best thing I can ever do.
And so, I suppose all I really want is to be a mom when I grow up. This is one project I don't ever plan to finish, but rather write continuously, for however long God lets me.
Monday, October 3, 2011
I Tawk This Way
I took this prompt from Cool Legumes who also took the prompt to go ahead and do a vlog on accents. Rather than write it out, I'll let you watch me (in all of my un-made-ness) do the "tawking."
Say the following words:
Aunt, route, wash, oil, theatre, iron, salmon, caramel, fire, water, sure, data, ruin, crayon, toilet, New Orleans, pecan, both, again, probably, spitting image, Alabama, lawyer, coupon, mayonnaise, syrup, pajamas, caught
And answer these questions:
What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?
TP-ing of course
What is the bug that curls into a ball when you touch it?
I have no idea, and I really don't want to know.
What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
Champagne! ;) Soda, actually
What do you call gym shoes?
Sneakers
What do you say to address a group of people?
It all depends, but usually howdy, greetings, hey - nothing in particular to write about
What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
Daddy Long Legs
What do you call your grandparents?
Maternal grandparents were Mama and Poppy, paternal grandparents were Mommom and Poppop
What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
Shopping Cart
What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
A sunshower
What is the thing you use to change the TV channel?
A remote
And there it is, me, talking about talking.
Say the following words:
Aunt, route, wash, oil, theatre, iron, salmon, caramel, fire, water, sure, data, ruin, crayon, toilet, New Orleans, pecan, both, again, probably, spitting image, Alabama, lawyer, coupon, mayonnaise, syrup, pajamas, caught
And answer these questions:
What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house?
TP-ing of course
What is the bug that curls into a ball when you touch it?
I have no idea, and I really don't want to know.
What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
Champagne! ;) Soda, actually
What do you call gym shoes?
Sneakers
What do you say to address a group of people?
It all depends, but usually howdy, greetings, hey - nothing in particular to write about
What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
Daddy Long Legs
What do you call your grandparents?
Maternal grandparents were Mama and Poppy, paternal grandparents were Mommom and Poppop
What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
Shopping Cart
What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
A sunshower
What is the thing you use to change the TV channel?
A remote
And there it is, me, talking about talking.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
On Birthing
A lot of you moms out there know this. It's been written about probably 100 times, so forgive me for lacking any sort of originality here, but I have my own gajillion cents to add to the subject that is judging when it comes to birthing and feeding. OH, ye mothers, you do it. You judge and you do it hard and often.
These are two subject areas, my dear ladies, that really are none of your business. How my baby was brought into the world and how he is getting his nutrition is really between me, my obstetrician, his pediatrician, and my husband. My husband had a hand in the kid making, so I like to keep him informed. Also, he was lucky enough to watch me labor for 22+ hours and made it out alive. He deserves to at least know how I've progressed since.
My baby, aka Nerdlet, was brought into this world first by induction and then, after the aforementioned 22+ hours of labor, emergency cesarean section. Now, what I didn't know was that hospitals are apparently evil! What had happened was "not my fault!" and medical "intervention*" is a horrible, no good, very bad thing! Yes, yes I was told all of that and more by an owner of a local burger joint who thought that, after my having mentioned that my recovery was rough (my mistake, I gave TMI and opened myself up for more interrogation on the matter), didn't really want to know that my emergency c-section was, in fact, a real emergency.
Can I ask an honest-to-goodness question?
What the hell is it with you Ricki Lakers out there?
I understand this whole birthing movement. Yes, there are stats saying that there is too much medical "intervention*." But, what will it take for it to be too little? How many babies have to die or, you know, mothers die with their babies before it's just enough "intervention" for you?
People argue with me that, had I not had an induction to begin with, then I would have delivered naturally and beautifully and held my baby on my belly and my vagina would have been stretched to welcome that screaming, bloody baby into the world. Sure, that's quite possible. But my induction happened for a reason. My placenta - you know that thing that basically supplies all sustenance and life to the baby? - was losing function. And fast. Correct me if I am wrong, but that's pretty bad. I was already 40 weeks, my cervix (what, this is a labor story - you can't have a story of this nature without the mention of a few lady parts. Deal.) was not ripe nor was it dilated even half a centimeter, let alone one or more. Despite my kid's noggin pushing on that thing for weeks and weeks and weeks, my cervix did not want to budge.
Now, as an interesting back story, let me tell you about my grandmother. My grandmother was pregnant with her first child many moons ago. Her labor was, for all intents and purposes, three days long. She apparently had issues like me - no dilation, slow moving, etc. So she labored. For three days. On a hospital bed. And when it finally came time to get that baby out, he (yes, it was a boy) didn't do well with the delivery. I don't know all of the details, but I can tell you that her body and that baby weren't working well together and, because of the era, you couldn't just have an emergency c-section. Nope. You had to have special permission from the state. And so she delivered him vaginally, he didn't do well and then he died. He died and then they whisked his dead body away from her, never having seen her first baby, and he was placed in a mass grave. His name was Peter.
What does my grandmother have to do with my birth story? Well, for one, I am shaped just like her. My body was doing exactly what hers was doing during her labor except there was one major difference. I gave birth in the year 2011 and hospitals will get that baby out via c-section if absolutely necessary. I didn't need special permission from the state. I had the right to a healthy baby and, as my OB always promised me, delivered my son safely and in the best way possible for all.
Again, many people today have argued that had I not been induced, this could have been avoided. Except no, no it could not have been avoided. Remember, my placenta was losing function. I was losing fluid. And before any of you crunchy granola types think that I could have avoided that by drinking a gallon of water, consider genetics and how I very much take after my grandmother. I didn't want to have to wait to labor for three days on a hospital bed, only to end up with a dead baby. No. I didn't want a dead baby. Had my grandmother had the exceptional care that I had, I would have an Uncle Peter.
I can't even fathom what my grandmother went through. I never knew this story until she passed away. Sure, she went on to have 3 healthy children, one being my dad who was also a twin. But she carried the sadness of her first born her entire life, knowing that her baby that she never got to know was in a mass grave somewhere. Can you imagine? Can you really?
I know. I know that c-sections are at an all-time high. But please, for the love of all that his holy, take your stats elsewhere and don't assume every woman had a needless c-section. Some of us really had to have one. A genuine emergency.
My plan was to have a healthy baby.
I labored for 22+ hours with that baby. I gave it my all. I made it to 6 centimeters pretty seamlessly. It was right before 7 that I was the one that spiked a fever. My kid was tachycardic. These are two very bad things. He had to come out. He had to come out right at that moment.
Again, my plan was to have a healthy baby.
Guess what? Aftera rather quick surgery A LOT OF NECESSARY MEDICAL INTERVENTION, he came out and was 8 pounds, 15 ounces. He was pink. He had 10 fingers and 10 toes. He had hearty lungs and an amazing appetite. He was alert from the very beginning.
I had a healthy baby. He got here the way he was supposed to.
So, all of you anti-c-section women can take your stats and Ricki Lake movies and shove it where the sun doesn't shine. I'm happy for all of you that delivered your babies through your vaginas. Be happy that I delivered mine through a really neat looking scar in my belly.
My baby smiles, is amazing, has been sleeping through the night at 2 months old. He coos and laughs and kicks his legs. He has a mean left hook.
My kid is pretty awesome, and how he got here is not a situation for you to judge.
Next post: FEEDING!
----
* every time I hear/see the word "intervention" when it comes to birthing, I think of a pregnant woman in labor in the middle of a room and a bunch of family/friends trying to coax her out of a c-section. You all need to come up with a better term for this. It's kind of funny.
These are two subject areas, my dear ladies, that really are none of your business. How my baby was brought into the world and how he is getting his nutrition is really between me, my obstetrician, his pediatrician, and my husband. My husband had a hand in the kid making, so I like to keep him informed. Also, he was lucky enough to watch me labor for 22+ hours and made it out alive. He deserves to at least know how I've progressed since.
My baby, aka Nerdlet, was brought into this world first by induction and then, after the aforementioned 22+ hours of labor, emergency cesarean section. Now, what I didn't know was that hospitals are apparently evil! What had happened was "not my fault!" and medical "intervention*" is a horrible, no good, very bad thing! Yes, yes I was told all of that and more by an owner of a local burger joint who thought that, after my having mentioned that my recovery was rough (my mistake, I gave TMI and opened myself up for more interrogation on the matter), didn't really want to know that my emergency c-section was, in fact, a real emergency.
Can I ask an honest-to-goodness question?
What the hell is it with you Ricki Lakers out there?
I understand this whole birthing movement. Yes, there are stats saying that there is too much medical "intervention*." But, what will it take for it to be too little? How many babies have to die or, you know, mothers die with their babies before it's just enough "intervention" for you?
People argue with me that, had I not had an induction to begin with, then I would have delivered naturally and beautifully and held my baby on my belly and my vagina would have been stretched to welcome that screaming, bloody baby into the world. Sure, that's quite possible. But my induction happened for a reason. My placenta - you know that thing that basically supplies all sustenance and life to the baby? - was losing function. And fast. Correct me if I am wrong, but that's pretty bad. I was already 40 weeks, my cervix (what, this is a labor story - you can't have a story of this nature without the mention of a few lady parts. Deal.) was not ripe nor was it dilated even half a centimeter, let alone one or more. Despite my kid's noggin pushing on that thing for weeks and weeks and weeks, my cervix did not want to budge.
Now, as an interesting back story, let me tell you about my grandmother. My grandmother was pregnant with her first child many moons ago. Her labor was, for all intents and purposes, three days long. She apparently had issues like me - no dilation, slow moving, etc. So she labored. For three days. On a hospital bed. And when it finally came time to get that baby out, he (yes, it was a boy) didn't do well with the delivery. I don't know all of the details, but I can tell you that her body and that baby weren't working well together and, because of the era, you couldn't just have an emergency c-section. Nope. You had to have special permission from the state. And so she delivered him vaginally, he didn't do well and then he died. He died and then they whisked his dead body away from her, never having seen her first baby, and he was placed in a mass grave. His name was Peter.
What does my grandmother have to do with my birth story? Well, for one, I am shaped just like her. My body was doing exactly what hers was doing during her labor except there was one major difference. I gave birth in the year 2011 and hospitals will get that baby out via c-section if absolutely necessary. I didn't need special permission from the state. I had the right to a healthy baby and, as my OB always promised me, delivered my son safely and in the best way possible for all.
Again, many people today have argued that had I not been induced, this could have been avoided. Except no, no it could not have been avoided. Remember, my placenta was losing function. I was losing fluid. And before any of you crunchy granola types think that I could have avoided that by drinking a gallon of water, consider genetics and how I very much take after my grandmother. I didn't want to have to wait to labor for three days on a hospital bed, only to end up with a dead baby. No. I didn't want a dead baby. Had my grandmother had the exceptional care that I had, I would have an Uncle Peter.
I can't even fathom what my grandmother went through. I never knew this story until she passed away. Sure, she went on to have 3 healthy children, one being my dad who was also a twin. But she carried the sadness of her first born her entire life, knowing that her baby that she never got to know was in a mass grave somewhere. Can you imagine? Can you really?
I know. I know that c-sections are at an all-time high. But please, for the love of all that his holy, take your stats elsewhere and don't assume every woman had a needless c-section. Some of us really had to have one. A genuine emergency.
My plan was to have a healthy baby.
I labored for 22+ hours with that baby. I gave it my all. I made it to 6 centimeters pretty seamlessly. It was right before 7 that I was the one that spiked a fever. My kid was tachycardic. These are two very bad things. He had to come out. He had to come out right at that moment.
Again, my plan was to have a healthy baby.
Guess what? After
I had a healthy baby. He got here the way he was supposed to.
So, all of you anti-c-section women can take your stats and Ricki Lake movies and shove it where the sun doesn't shine. I'm happy for all of you that delivered your babies through your vaginas. Be happy that I delivered mine through a really neat looking scar in my belly.
My baby smiles, is amazing, has been sleeping through the night at 2 months old. He coos and laughs and kicks his legs. He has a mean left hook.
My kid is pretty awesome, and how he got here is not a situation for you to judge.
Next post: FEEDING!
----
* every time I hear/see the word "intervention" when it comes to birthing, I think of a pregnant woman in labor in the middle of a room and a bunch of family/friends trying to coax her out of a c-section. You all need to come up with a better term for this. It's kind of funny.
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