What they didn't tell you

...about breastfeeding.

Seriously, I get really pissed off by lactivists who feel they have the boob-given right to march up to another woman and comment on her way of nursing a child (yes, bottle feeding is nursing, too). And I think that the case in favor of breastfeeding has been overstated, if we are going purely on hard, cold study-based medical facts.

Yet I also want to beg all IFers out there to give breastfeeding a try. Why?

Because there's a chance that if you can get things going, you'll have a great time doing it. Yes, I'm talking about you, as a person, and not the baby. Fancy that!

Why? Because those hormones... they are sweet. It's like falling in love, after the perfect hot bath and a glass of the finest Cote du Rhone. I shit you not.

I know not everyone will be able to breastfeed: Apparently about 1/3 of PCOS gals have supply issues, and in some very difficult births (like, say, when you're birthing multiples), your body is so stressed that the pituitary goes pfft and doesn't get much, if any, milk flowing. But in most cases, with help from a good lactation consultant, you can do this. You can.

But there are going to be all sorts of dimwits and assclowns who will think they have the right to tell you it's not working. Everything--from a baby nursing constantly due to a growth spurt, to gas, to sore nipples, to the moon passing through Aquarius--will be interpreted as "oh, maybe you're not making enough milk." Screw that. If your kid's peeing, pooping, and growing, chances are that's not what's up.

But it's NOT an easy ride at first. I don't think I had a particularly shitty time, and it took us 11 weeks to really get the swing of things. At first, I was pumping around the clock: Bruiser latched but then completely couldn't manage the whole latching thing suddenly, and we used a bottle with expressed milk for the first three to four weeks. Advantages: My guy did a lot of feeding and cuddling and felt very, very good and needed. Disadvantages: Imagine a woman, weeping inconsolably over a hospital-grade pump at 3 AM while a teeny boy on her lap sobs in hunger.

After that, I thought I wouldn't make it to three months, forget six or even, gasp, a year.

But suddenly, Bruiser hit his due date and started loving the boob, albeit with a nipple shield to help him get a handle on things. This silicon sombrero became my constant accessory for the next two months. I always had one tucked in my cleavage, or sealed in a colostrum cup from my early pumping days in our diaper bag. It really sucked at night: my milk would carry the sombrero off on a slick Swanee River and Bruiser would get so discombobulated and pissed.

Then, all of a sudden, he decided he hated the thing and wanted to nurse commando. He went from needing the shield 80% of the time, to never using the confounded thing again in the space of a day. Babies are crazy that way: When they're ready, they'll do the impossible overnight.

Now, life is a bowl of cherries by comparison. Bruiser and I have a night routine going that gets me enough sleep not just to function but to actually think and be in a fairly decent mood. I'm losing weight.

And I'm loving the oxytocin high. Seriously, if they made this stuff in pill form, the world would be a much happier, mellower place.

Lifechange

Many women, at least those of the natural birth/hippy/granola persuasion, believe--or at least hope--that birth will be a major life changing, self affirming experience. Despite my misgivings, it actually was that for me. But that was pure accident, more or less.

Instead, I've been thinking lately that too much store is being set in the psychological or emotional transformation that that tiny, uncontrollable slice of time is supposed to bring. We can't really control the events that equal building a family, and perhaps we can't even control their meaning.

What comes next, the weeks, months and years of caring for a small human being, is the source of greater meaning. Notice I write "greater"--again, too much store is set in parenting as a way to deepen one's life purpose and open one's heart. If you don't have a clue why you're living or how to feel gut-wrenching, heart-melting compassion for others, then maybe you should reconsider your life, not just go get knocked up.

I have felt my life changing at certain moments in this journey, moments when my husband and I wept in despair together; moments when I felt like I couldn't go on and would actually, frankly welcome death; moments when I had a curious sense that it would all get worked out and end well. But in these moments, nothing happened, except in my inner world.

Milestones

Dissertation? Draft done. Sent to committee. Godspeed. Defense in April.

Bruiser? Just turned over, three times in a row, from tummy to back. All by himself. And beamed with pride, the goofy dear.

Great perspectives...

Wow, I just have to say thanks for all the food-for-thought. There's tons to think about--the pressures on women to reenter the workforce as fast as possible, the necessity to balance the actual raising of a child (aka discipline) with the love that physically and psychologically flows from us as caretakers (be we parents, relatives, close friends).

I think your point is well-taken, Misfit: Any parenting approach that's so doctrinaire as to make the Chinese Communist Party look fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants spontaneous is not going to work. Maybe the kid does have some psyche issues. But even if that's true, inappropriate parenting and a complete lack of boundaries have done her such a massive disservice as a human being that nobody--especially those of us who may be her teachers, partners, coworkers--wins.

I think we have to understand both our own personal, deep, vital needs as people (i.e. I must have an intellectual and social life of some sort; I need a shower most days; I want to cook yummy food and exercise at least a bit) and our desire to show love and structure to kids. I think it's easy to get fixated on a certain outcome--because that's what I did for a while. You feel you MUST get your child to do something by an arbitrary deadline, and s/he just isn't there yet. Doesn't mean you never try, or never say no. In fact I've found if I keep experimenting and hanging in there, eventually, I see major movement in the direction I want to go. It's just gradual, or two steps forward one step back.

And while I don't advocate leaving a child to cry alone, at least not early on, I do think they will fuss and even cry sometimes. Once I learned that, I had a lot more freedom to balance my sanity with Bruiser's needs and wants.

So if you're headed for parenthood, or already there, I say figure out how to kindly put your vital needs first. As an IFer, I bet you already know exactly what they are--survival mode and dark times make them clear. Put on your own oxygen mask first, then baby's/babies'...

What do you think?

Dependence

I'm fascinated: We Americans (and Canadians? My friends from the North, please chime in) are extremely worried about dependence.

I mean, what other concern would propel us to put even our tiniest citizens into a separate room where they are expected to learn to deal with life's crap (or self-soothe or whatever) on their own at a very tender age? Separateness and independence are just fine, and as an American I have been raised to love and crave them. Yet they run against the primal urges of babies and mothers: When we slept in caves or rough shelters for tens of thousands or years, baby's place was squarely in mom's arms, at her breast, or curled up on her chest (my personal favorite Bruiser resting spot).

Yet that is the past. Things that smell of extended dependence--breastfeeding past 12 months, say, or bed sharing into toddlerhood--are seen as hippy quirks with questionable motivations at best and pathological or deadly tendencies at worst. Now, since WWII I'd argue, we feel we must maintain a certain distance from our young. And I have felt the irritation at having someone totally dependent on me, hanging off me, unable to deal even with a moment alone.

I have these feelings, though my final mothering decisions have led me a bit away from the mainstream approach. Story of my life.

My question, for myself and society at large, is what are we afraid of? And what are the effects of this fear in the long run?

Our cherished independence, our confidence in ourselves as free agents and liberated actors is the one of the first things to go as we struggle with IF, and this loss is one of the hardest things to face. Then, when/if we become parents (and regardless how), we once again must let go of this dear value.

Body Image

So, I woke up Jan. 1st to my new body. I'm 40 lbs overweight.

I've never been skinny, and I've always had to think about my weight and health as an adult. But I've always been in the upper range of "normal" BMI-wise, likely because I used to walk, run, swim, and do yoga all the time. I've got a very high-energy personality that languishes when inactive.

I'm not stupid: I know changing my current state will be tough. It's one thing to whittle away at ten extra pounds, and another to cast off four to five times that.

But I have to do it. I don't feel like myself. I can't stand the feeling of all these sweaty, uncomfortable folds of flesh. I hate that I have dollops of back fat (though thankfully nursing has taken care of some of that). Sometimes, and this is embarrassing, I get so fed up with my body that I pound my fist on couch beside me, as I sit through yet another endless nursing session. I've been walking and going to the Y as much as I can, and finally, now that I'm not so desperately sleep deprived, I'm watching my food intake, but damn if this isn't a slow, frustrating process.

It's particularly frustrating because my body just piled on the pounds during pregnancy, even when I did my damdest to eat 2000 cals a day and exercise more than moderately for 30-45 minutes per day. All for a teensy tiny little baby. Seriously, I only lost about ten pounds giving birth.

I don't want to look like a stick with boobs Hollywood star. I just want to wear my old clothes again. I don't want my old life back. I just want a new one where I feel vaguely attractive and a little less Rubenesque.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying (yeah, right) and Love Co-Sleeping

As an IFer, I'm terrified of baby dying. Not that someone more fertile would be cool with infant demise, but if you know this might be the only biochild you'll ever, ever have, SIDS and stuff scares you shitless. Again, not that a fertile myrtle can just replace someone they lost, but...well, you know what I mean. It's a little different for us.

So I was horrified in some respects when we first tried to put Bruiser down to sleep. And he wouldn't do it. The urge to hold his darling, tiny, hungry little self was stronger than the American sense that I was ruining his chances of developing proper sleep independence or whatever. Regardless, Bruiser refused to sleep, even in a side-car co-sleeper contraption, even if already soundly and deeply slumbering. The instant you put him down, he perks up and starts fussing determinedly.

I mentioned it to our pediatrician at our two month appointment that we were co-sleeping. Or to be more precise bed sharing, when the kid's in your arms in your bed, not just in the same room. She exclaimed that we shouldn't be doing this, that the last two cases of SIDS or infant death or what have you were co-sleeping situations. She said to try a pacifier or even to let him cry until he got used to a different, safer sleeping arrangement.

So we went home, with our sad little guy who just got his first shots, and tried to get him to sleep in his own little side-car space.

Ha.

Bruiser's motto: Accept no substitutes. That breast pad and dryer-warmed blanket? That pacifier? An insult to his baby dignity. He knew what he wanted, and that was to lie next to a boob in my arms.

The wise blogger Moxie has come up with an important distinction when it comes to babies. There are those who cry and blow off steam, eventually (i.e. in 10-20 minutes) settling down, and there are those who cry and cry and cry as their tension and horror and despair escalate. They may fall asleep at some point, but it's out of hopelessness and sheer exhaustion, not "self-soothing." Bruiser will work himself up to such an extent that he throws up, turns beet red, and frankly wastes all those calories I spend all day pouring into him that he should be using to grow.

So I had to learn about another important and neglected distinction: there's safe and unsafe co-sleeping. Interestingly, some of the countries (China, Japan) with the highest co-sleeping rates have some of the lowest SIDS rates in the world. Why? Because their beds are radically different from your typical American set up: hard mattresses close to the floor with light blankets and few pillows. Sounds a lot like the CIA prison-style bedding recommendations for infant beds, right? Then, there's another point: moms in these low SIDS-rate countries often sleep alone with their infants, not with other adults or children.

So we laid down our old futon at the foot of our bed, and that's where Bruiser and I sleep. We're near my husband, and he can come and cuddle with us (or with just me), but no one has to worry about Bruiser getting hurt somehow. My guy barely slept when we tried sleeping with me holding Bruiser in the side car (and talk about uncomfortable), so this new arrangement works pretty well for us.

Though I still have some mornings when I wake up feeling like a truck hit me due to stiffness, I'm actually able to get some good sleep. And this morning, I had my first truly pleasant experience: I woke up to nurse the little guy, and just felt so wonderful cuddling his warm, sweet cheese-scented little form as he sleepily had his first of four breakfasts.

Then why did my otherwise pretty cool pediatrician declare so categorically that this was a terrible idea? Because, kind of like alcohol during pregnancy, the way to do it right is pretty complicated. No smoking, or even second-hand smoke (a strong correlation to SIDS in co-sleeping situations). No naps on the couch with baby. No alcohol or sleep aids before bed. No headboards, guardrails, or gaps between the bed and wall. No big pillows or fluffy duvets near baby. That's already a looong list to tell a sleep-deprived parent. So the docs just say don't do it at all.

I'm writing about all this, because I think as an IF survivor, I've got a head full of fear. I think it comes with the IF territory for most of us. We end up listening to people in authority (and often that's a good thing) but there are times when our needs and those of our loved ones contradict the party line.

I want to pass along the message that just because this has been a hard-fought and -won victory, you don't have to be perfect, or even great. Just be adequate and choose your own adventure. Now that you're on the "other side" of IF, so to speak, you have nothing to compensate or make up for. Just let your love and instincts guide you, and keep using the wits that finally got you here.

Dr. Google is still an asshole

...even postpartum. Seriously, never ask the internets about all the things you should worry about if you have a low birth weight baby. Apparently, studies show they are either doomed to be emotionally troubled janitors with poor hand-eye coordination, or they aren't different at all from their normal weight counterparts. Which makes for a curious mix of emotions.

Part of that mix is the eternal return to the throes of IF madness. The feeling of being defective, different in a bad way, unfit. The feeling that my "selfish" need to have a biochild (in my case, the darkest corners of my psyche argue, to satisfy my husband's burning desire for offspring) resulted in damage to another person, a small, helpless one at that. The feeling that some terrible, hidden flaw in my body (thrombophilia, perhaps inherited from my grandma?) could have killed my child, and may have permanently hurt him.

Lord help me.

But then comes the uplifting part, where the warrior emerges. In which you are determined to do whatever it takes to claw back normalcy and health and happiness for your child, by any means necessary.

Lately, that's meant nursing him 24/7 as he attempts to triple his weight by four months. Which goes to say that all of our paths are different, forming stories that belie the statistics. We defy odds every day with our eccentric beings. Take that, Dr. Google...