Some of us parents from last semester's early childhood education class met up on Friday evening. And on a rare night away from our kids and the mundane tasks associated with taking care of babies, we well, talked about babies. And Halloween. With our kids ranging in age between 12 and 15 months, they just don't get Halloween yet. Heck, most can't even walk, mine included, and candy is pretty-much off limits for them, so the best part about Halloween, trick or treating, isn't a baby-friendly activity. Yet we all clearly felt a parental responsibility to do something for Halloween, but weren't sure if we were doing enough. Who had taken them to Boo Bash on Grand Avenue? What were our trick or treating plans? Did we buy a new costume just for the occasion or borrow one? But when we passed around photos of our kids in costumes and awwed at our adorable they all were, I realized that simply by dressing them up, we had fulfilled our Halloween duties as parents. As long as we had pictures documenting how darn cute they were in that duck outfit, we'll look back at previous Halloweens with fond memories.
Most early-childhood milestones are about the photo ops. The one-year-old smashing a piece of birthday cake. The child sitting on Santa's lap. And cute little babies dressed up as ladybugs, pumpkins and various cuddly-looking animals. Oliver didn't go to any Halloween parties this year (they occurred during nap time) or take part in Halloween-related festivities, (how did I know the kids were supposed to dress up for the baby story time the week of Halloween?) but Chris and I did dress him up in a lion costume we borrowed from a friend and took him to his Grandma Nan and Grandpa Dan's house for his very first round of trick or treating, followed up by visits to some neighbors.
When Halloween rolls around next year, Oliver probably still won't get it. But just as Chris's mom did when he brought home a new girlfriend and she hauled out albums containing pictures from early Halloweens, (Chris and his brother made cute dandelions!) we took tons of pictures for future generations.
Kiera, Matteo, Oliver and Soren
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Oliver update: 13 months
During last weekend's trip to Philadelphia, I would not have been as relaxed bringing Oliver to dinner in the dining room of my grandmother's retirement home, with its carpeted floors and white linen tablecloths, if he were still in his food-throwing/dropping stage. I realized a few weeks ago that I couldn't remember the last time food ended up on the floor on purpose and that I wasn't changing the newspaper I had laid out underneath his booster seat very often. I had been so frustrated by this stage and yet it seemingly vanished without my noticing. Oliver actually puts food he's not into back on his tray (although he still has the habit of squirreling away food underneath his leg - a habit my friend's kid does as well!) And for everyone who's laughed when they've seen Oliver be stripped down to his diaper prior to a meal, I actually let Oliver eat his lunch the other day with all his clothes on.
Around Oliver's first birthday, his appetite dropped significantly, (totally normal for a twelve-month-old when the body is trying to grow in length and not in girth) and I've finally adjusted to the idea that he doesn't eat as much as he used to. If we ate lunch away from home, I'd pack an entire cooler of food, fearful Oliver could eat through the entire stash. Now lunch isn't much more than a piece of toast, a piece of fruit and some veggies, and he rarely eats all of the three. If we're on the go, I can even get away with Cheerios, a few sticks of cheese and a banana - a combo that's relatively mess-free and can be eaten while riding in his stroller.
After consulting with the wise moms from my moms groups about Oliver's picky-eating tendencies, I've taken a new tactic when serving food. It's now take it, or leave it. No more offering up fruit or toast if Oliver doesn't want to eat what he's served. He won't starve, they assured me, and I'm not going to be stunting his cognitive development if he doesn't eat a well-balanced diet every meal, or doesn't eat at all. Just follow up with a bottle of milk and offer him a snack when that time rolls around.
I just wish I'd done this earlier. I now understand where picky eating starts and how easy it is for parents to become enablers. Although I've heard this numerous times during discussions on nutrition that parents are supposed to determine the what (healthy foods), when (at meal times, and not any time they please) and where (at that table, and not running around noshing on snacks) when it comes to food and it's your children who should always be in control of how much (and you need to trust them on that), it's easy to succumb to the fear that your kid isn't getting enough to eat. I worried that if he didn't eat enough at that meal, he'd be hungry later or he'd end up with "failure to thrive" diagnosis at his next wellness check-up. I mixed up denying him a particular food when he had other healthy alternatives on his tray with denying him food period. Sure I could explain to a three- or four-year-old that the only food he was getting was what was being served for dinner, but to a one-year-old? It didn't seem right. So if Oliver threw a fit at the table, I tried offering him something else instead.
Oliver may always be slow to try new foods - that's just part of his unique temperament and and there's nothing wrong with that. But I still have a choice in how react. I make exceptions to my hard-line stance when we're away from home and don't want to create a scene or if I'm desperate for a few more minutes of mealtime piece (because once Oliver is finished his food, he doesn't sit quietly - something we'll have to work on at an older and more appropriate age). But it's worked out well. I don't give in to his demands for a particular food, but I also don't push food on him. And I've learned that sometimes he's really just tired and would rather have his bottle and take a nap, than eat. And sometimes he eventually eats whatever he was previously protesting!
As you may know from a previous post, I gave up breastfeeding and Oliver is now exclusively on cow's milk. We're working, well supposedly, on weaning him from the bottle, which his doctor would like done by 18 months. I have a special cup I give him to drink out of, but given that half the time he'd prefer to bang the cup against his tray, I haven't dared put more than a small amount of water in it. The alternative is a sippy cup, but I can't find one he's into and I just don't have the energy yet to deal with his protests when he doesn't get his milk in bottle. Oliver at least seems to be getting over his demand that his milk be served warm. One of the same friends who advised me about it being okay to not offer Oliver different foods if he didn't like what he was being served, said that it was even okay to go for a week allowing him to refuse cold milk if he was getting dairy and the healthy fats associated with it in other forms like cheese or whole yogurt.
The upside of that whirlwind weekend visiting family a two+-hour plane ride away is that the shake-up in Oliver's schedule actually had a positive affect on him. The past few weeks had been a struggle with the slow transition towards one nap. Whether he took a morning nap or not, he seemed to always be cranky, yet wouldn't sleep long in the afternoon and some days I thought I could have put him to bed at 4:30 p.m. and he would have welcomed it. Then we went away for a weekend, when he never went to bed on time, and attempts at having him nap in the car failed, (despite this being a successful tactic on our trip to Seattle in August) yet we landed back in Minneapolis on Sunday morning, made it home just in time for lunch and Oliver went down for a long nap and woke up the happiest baby alive. He repeated the one long nap and happy demeanor the next day, which I thought was going to be his sleep-all-day-on-no-schedule-catch-up-day. I don't dare declare Oliver "transitioned," because he then went a three-day stretch at two naps a day, but knowing he's capable of long afternoon naps and can manage napless mornings, even if that doesn't make him the happiest of fellows, makes me more relaxed that we're on the right track.
Oliver still isn't walking or standing on his own yet, but he's crawling, cruising along furniture and pulling himself up on everything. The only walking he does is behind his push cart, which he can lean on for support. He looks so happy and proud of himself when he's cruising the lower level all by himself. His happiness easily turns to frustration, though, because he can't figure out how to maneuver the cart around obstacles, like a wall or furniture. So he erupts into tantrum-like tears until someone diverts his cart towards a clear course. I'll admit to hiding his cart when I don't have time to turn him around every two seconds and hopes he finds another toy just as entertaining.
I also need to make sure the gate at the bottom of the stairs is closed, because if Oliver sees the gate open, he makes a beeline for the stairs and wants to engage in his other new favorite activity - climbing. If you pry him from the stairs, he protests, but if the gate is closed, shaking the gate is clearly just as much fun as climbing, but that doesn't need supervision.
I'd predicted last month that Oliver could have two teeth by thirteen months, but that one tooth on his bottom gum line is still making its way in. You can see it now, though, we he smiles. Every now and then I check to see if I can feel anything else coming in, but so far nothing.
Maybe no one else agrees, but I'm convinced Oliver's hair is starting to grow. We went outside on a really windy evening and believe it or not, his hair was blowing in the wind.
Oliver is still not saying any discernible words, although he's consistently saying, "Mum, mum, mum." My friend, whose son is two months older and now says "Mom," and it's clearly directed at her, said his "Mum, mum, mum" babble is a pre-cursor to saying mom.
You can help develop your baby's pre-literacy skills by reading to him or her. We're working on that....Oliver doesn't often sit still for longer than a three-page book. He likes to turn the pages, but if he realizes you're actually trying to read the words on the pages instead of just letting him turning the pages as fast as he can, he tries to crawl out of your lap. He does show interest in "reading" interactive books, like those with different textures on the pages he can feel, or those with flaps he can open and close. He likes ripping books off shelves or pushing them off the coffee table. But the experts say that's all part of creating a positive association with books. And when he puts them in his mouth? The tongue has more nerve endings than the fingers, so that's just how babies explore their new world. I always leave a book with him in his crib at night and during nap times and every now and then I find him paging through the book. My little bookworm - so adorable.
While I've long been familiar with the term pre-literacy and have always known it's good to read to kids, I just recently learned about "pre-math" skills. Oh, Chris will be all over this one. I've noticed in the past couple of months that Oliver likes to stack and sort toys, which is typical at this age. Who knew that activities like stacking blocks or matching shapes to the appropriate cut-outs in the lid of a bucket is a child's start to understanding math concepts?
Around Oliver's first birthday, his appetite dropped significantly, (totally normal for a twelve-month-old when the body is trying to grow in length and not in girth) and I've finally adjusted to the idea that he doesn't eat as much as he used to. If we ate lunch away from home, I'd pack an entire cooler of food, fearful Oliver could eat through the entire stash. Now lunch isn't much more than a piece of toast, a piece of fruit and some veggies, and he rarely eats all of the three. If we're on the go, I can even get away with Cheerios, a few sticks of cheese and a banana - a combo that's relatively mess-free and can be eaten while riding in his stroller.
After consulting with the wise moms from my moms groups about Oliver's picky-eating tendencies, I've taken a new tactic when serving food. It's now take it, or leave it. No more offering up fruit or toast if Oliver doesn't want to eat what he's served. He won't starve, they assured me, and I'm not going to be stunting his cognitive development if he doesn't eat a well-balanced diet every meal, or doesn't eat at all. Just follow up with a bottle of milk and offer him a snack when that time rolls around.
I just wish I'd done this earlier. I now understand where picky eating starts and how easy it is for parents to become enablers. Although I've heard this numerous times during discussions on nutrition that parents are supposed to determine the what (healthy foods), when (at meal times, and not any time they please) and where (at that table, and not running around noshing on snacks) when it comes to food and it's your children who should always be in control of how much (and you need to trust them on that), it's easy to succumb to the fear that your kid isn't getting enough to eat. I worried that if he didn't eat enough at that meal, he'd be hungry later or he'd end up with "failure to thrive" diagnosis at his next wellness check-up. I mixed up denying him a particular food when he had other healthy alternatives on his tray with denying him food period. Sure I could explain to a three- or four-year-old that the only food he was getting was what was being served for dinner, but to a one-year-old? It didn't seem right. So if Oliver threw a fit at the table, I tried offering him something else instead.
Oliver may always be slow to try new foods - that's just part of his unique temperament and and there's nothing wrong with that. But I still have a choice in how react. I make exceptions to my hard-line stance when we're away from home and don't want to create a scene or if I'm desperate for a few more minutes of mealtime piece (because once Oliver is finished his food, he doesn't sit quietly - something we'll have to work on at an older and more appropriate age). But it's worked out well. I don't give in to his demands for a particular food, but I also don't push food on him. And I've learned that sometimes he's really just tired and would rather have his bottle and take a nap, than eat. And sometimes he eventually eats whatever he was previously protesting!
As you may know from a previous post, I gave up breastfeeding and Oliver is now exclusively on cow's milk. We're working, well supposedly, on weaning him from the bottle, which his doctor would like done by 18 months. I have a special cup I give him to drink out of, but given that half the time he'd prefer to bang the cup against his tray, I haven't dared put more than a small amount of water in it. The alternative is a sippy cup, but I can't find one he's into and I just don't have the energy yet to deal with his protests when he doesn't get his milk in bottle. Oliver at least seems to be getting over his demand that his milk be served warm. One of the same friends who advised me about it being okay to not offer Oliver different foods if he didn't like what he was being served, said that it was even okay to go for a week allowing him to refuse cold milk if he was getting dairy and the healthy fats associated with it in other forms like cheese or whole yogurt.
The upside of that whirlwind weekend visiting family a two+-hour plane ride away is that the shake-up in Oliver's schedule actually had a positive affect on him. The past few weeks had been a struggle with the slow transition towards one nap. Whether he took a morning nap or not, he seemed to always be cranky, yet wouldn't sleep long in the afternoon and some days I thought I could have put him to bed at 4:30 p.m. and he would have welcomed it. Then we went away for a weekend, when he never went to bed on time, and attempts at having him nap in the car failed, (despite this being a successful tactic on our trip to Seattle in August) yet we landed back in Minneapolis on Sunday morning, made it home just in time for lunch and Oliver went down for a long nap and woke up the happiest baby alive. He repeated the one long nap and happy demeanor the next day, which I thought was going to be his sleep-all-day-on-no-schedule-catch-up-day. I don't dare declare Oliver "transitioned," because he then went a three-day stretch at two naps a day, but knowing he's capable of long afternoon naps and can manage napless mornings, even if that doesn't make him the happiest of fellows, makes me more relaxed that we're on the right track.
Oliver still isn't walking or standing on his own yet, but he's crawling, cruising along furniture and pulling himself up on everything. The only walking he does is behind his push cart, which he can lean on for support. He looks so happy and proud of himself when he's cruising the lower level all by himself. His happiness easily turns to frustration, though, because he can't figure out how to maneuver the cart around obstacles, like a wall or furniture. So he erupts into tantrum-like tears until someone diverts his cart towards a clear course. I'll admit to hiding his cart when I don't have time to turn him around every two seconds and hopes he finds another toy just as entertaining.
I also need to make sure the gate at the bottom of the stairs is closed, because if Oliver sees the gate open, he makes a beeline for the stairs and wants to engage in his other new favorite activity - climbing. If you pry him from the stairs, he protests, but if the gate is closed, shaking the gate is clearly just as much fun as climbing, but that doesn't need supervision.
I'd predicted last month that Oliver could have two teeth by thirteen months, but that one tooth on his bottom gum line is still making its way in. You can see it now, though, we he smiles. Every now and then I check to see if I can feel anything else coming in, but so far nothing.
Maybe no one else agrees, but I'm convinced Oliver's hair is starting to grow. We went outside on a really windy evening and believe it or not, his hair was blowing in the wind.
Oliver is still not saying any discernible words, although he's consistently saying, "Mum, mum, mum." My friend, whose son is two months older and now says "Mom," and it's clearly directed at her, said his "Mum, mum, mum" babble is a pre-cursor to saying mom.
You can help develop your baby's pre-literacy skills by reading to him or her. We're working on that....Oliver doesn't often sit still for longer than a three-page book. He likes to turn the pages, but if he realizes you're actually trying to read the words on the pages instead of just letting him turning the pages as fast as he can, he tries to crawl out of your lap. He does show interest in "reading" interactive books, like those with different textures on the pages he can feel, or those with flaps he can open and close. He likes ripping books off shelves or pushing them off the coffee table. But the experts say that's all part of creating a positive association with books. And when he puts them in his mouth? The tongue has more nerve endings than the fingers, so that's just how babies explore their new world. I always leave a book with him in his crib at night and during nap times and every now and then I find him paging through the book. My little bookworm - so adorable.
While I've long been familiar with the term pre-literacy and have always known it's good to read to kids, I just recently learned about "pre-math" skills. Oh, Chris will be all over this one. I've noticed in the past couple of months that Oliver likes to stack and sort toys, which is typical at this age. Who knew that activities like stacking blocks or matching shapes to the appropriate cut-outs in the lid of a bucket is a child's start to understanding math concepts?
Monday, October 18, 2010
Our Loss
Chris and I had been looking forward to finally announcing the news that I'm pregnant, but sadly, I suffered a miscarriage. Although it occurred rather early in my pregnancy, it still has been heart-breaking. In the relatively short amount of time we had since learning I was pregnant, we had begun to imagine a future with a second child, full of limitless hopes and dreams. I know with time we will move on, but in the mean time, I (particularly) struggle with disappointment over what could have been and the fear of this happening again. I'm emotionally exhausted and tired, but am otherwise physically fine.
We're not looking for explanations about why I miscarried or theories on a greater meaning, but simply support as we move on. Although it's sad to lose a pregnancy, I don't want this to be something that should stay a secret or be talked about in a hush-hush manner. The experience is extremely personal, yet I don't feel secrecy helps my healing process or others who've had a miscarriage.
We're not looking for explanations about why I miscarried or theories on a greater meaning, but simply support as we move on. Although it's sad to lose a pregnancy, I don't want this to be something that should stay a secret or be talked about in a hush-hush manner. The experience is extremely personal, yet I don't feel secrecy helps my healing process or others who've had a miscarriage.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Book Club
My neighbor invited me to join a book club and I debated, given my reading track record since I'd had kids, whether I'd be a contributor or a drag on the group. I last completed a book in early July, and only managed that feat because it was an easy enough read that I could read the entire book while nursing over the course of a five-day stay at the cabin. Usually what happens though is that I check out a book from the library, renew it and then eventually pay a fine on it before even cracking open the cover and then returning it long overdue. Would I be able to handle the pressure of reading an entire book every month?
But I was drawn in by the desire to meet new people and SOCIALIZE. Chris agreed that I need to get out more and not talk about babies. (But showed up and learned two members are pregnant, so I don't think this group will escape baby talk.) If everyone weren't so darn funny and nice, they'd be intimidating, these people who had stories to tell that didn't revolve around nap schedules and babies' bowel movements. One woman is a college English professor who's about to publish her memoir. Impressive. (I kept mum on what I used to think was the super cool blog I've been writing.) But I realized during our inaugural meeting that some light-hearted intellectual conversation soothed the dulled brain cells worn down after talking to one-year-olds all day. Even when next month's discussion will be about the book titled I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated. At least I wasn't the only one who pushed for something easy and funny for our first book. Really though, the professor said it's well-written.
But I was drawn in by the desire to meet new people and SOCIALIZE. Chris agreed that I need to get out more and not talk about babies. (But showed up and learned two members are pregnant, so I don't think this group will escape baby talk.) If everyone weren't so darn funny and nice, they'd be intimidating, these people who had stories to tell that didn't revolve around nap schedules and babies' bowel movements. One woman is a college English professor who's about to publish her memoir. Impressive. (I kept mum on what I used to think was the super cool blog I've been writing.) But I realized during our inaugural meeting that some light-hearted intellectual conversation soothed the dulled brain cells worn down after talking to one-year-olds all day. Even when next month's discussion will be about the book titled I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated. At least I wasn't the only one who pushed for something easy and funny for our first book. Really though, the professor said it's well-written.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Breastfeeding from the Trenches
WARNING: The following blog entry contains the word "breast" in every other sentence. If that makes you uncomfortable, cease reading.
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My goal was to breastfeed for six months and I made it! (And then some.) Right after Oliver was born, though, I wasn't sure if I'd make it even six days. Six weeks felt like an eternity. Six months suddenly seemed impossible. Before Oliver was born, I had decided on six months, because I'd heard it was a recommendation by some well-respected organization whose name I can't remember. In those first two or three weeks, all I could think was, "This sucks," and about how sad I was that I wanted to give up on something I was so confident beforehand that I could do.
Breastfeeding, in theory, is not difficult - no bottles, no mixing and warming formula, it's readily available and ready to go. It's the details, the ones that are glossed over or not talked about unless you hang out with a breastfeeding woman and hear about what the commitment really entails. Although there's a lot of education among my generation to promote breastfeeding, and doctors, hospitals and workplaces are lining up in support, much of the details about breastfeeding remain a mystery to those, like me, who just didn't have a lot of exposure to the practice until I was doing it myself. You rarely see women breastfeeding in public, and unless you're close friends with someone breastfeeding, you're not going to be privy to the ups and downs. Thus, I was surprised by how lonely, overwhelming, frustrating and boring the experience initially was.
I was lucky in that I didn't have any "mechanical" challenges to overcome - Oliver figured out how to latch quickly, I never experienced painful clogged ducts or mastitis, and my milk supply, while a little late to come in, was always adequate. Other than some clumsiness as I figured out how best to position Oliver and encourage a good latch and a lot of really uncomfortable engorgement - all really unavoidable when you're a newbie - my foray into breastfeeding was "by the book." Yet, why was it still rough going?
I recently listened to a podcast about breastfeeding and the guest on the show, a nurse and lactation consultant, was the most straight-forward of any breast-feeding proponent I'd encountered about the reality of breastfeeding. Most focus only on the benefits of breastfeeding and why you should do it. Sure, this woman did that, but not while also gushing about what an "intimate experience" it is, or how it's a "selfless act" or how it's the ultimate form of "bonding." Please. If I hear any more of these descriptions, I'm going to gag, because I find these cliches about what the experience is supposed to be like and the phrases hardly described my own.
The lactation consultant's job was to promote breastfeeding and help women correct challenges, but I also appreciated how forthright she was. It's monotonous, she said. You're going to feel like you're never going to do anything else but feed your baby and that you're never going to move from your position on the couch. Oh, and it's boring and lonely, she continued. Back in the day, child-rearing was more a collective effort and you most likely had a mom, cousin, sister around - someone, thus, to talk to to pass the time away. You weren't sequestered in your office or a lactation room pumping or alone at home all day. I listened to that podcast 10 months too late.
I feel so naive now, but that podcaster wasn't kidding about breastfeeding being time-consuming. I'd never done the math. Well, first of all, I never even thought about how long it could take a baby to eat, not that I could have planned for that since you just can't know ahead of time what kind of eater you'll have. Multiply that by 8-10 times in a 24-hour period. And when some book I read during pregnancy said that most newborns need to eat every one to two hours, it didn't mention that that's every two hours from the last time he started eating. So if he ate at 9:00 a.m., and it took him 45 minutes to eat, it's already 9:45 a.m. and he's going to want to eat again in another hour and 15 minutes, not at 11:45 a.m. So I was unprepared for how long I'd be stuck in one position with a baby literally attached to me. Hours a day.
I'd had this image in my head of the happy, adoring mom nestled in her glider in the softly lit nursery as her baby quietly suckled. Forget that it could be the wee hours of the morning. Forget that those feedings could last 45 minutes and you could be bored out of your mind staring at the wall. Forget that you can't be doing anything else at that moment. Suddenly I wanted to be doing dishes, the laundry or mopping the floors. Menial housework would have felt liberating. So the reality was me sitting cross-legged on the couch, for sometimes hours at a time (it took Oliver so long to eat that by the time he was finished, he was hungry again) and often crying because "HOW COULD THE BABY STILL BE HUNGRY!" and all I wanted was the freedom to go do something else, anything else at that very moment, because it was 6:00 p.m. in the evening and I was ready to call it a day. I'd probably already had a baby latched onto my breast for eight hours that day. Staring adoringly at my baby boy, as awe-inspiring as he was, was not enough entertainment for me, so either the TV or computer was on, because this is how I kept myself from falling asleep with my baby in my arms in the middle of the night, or to keep me from dying of boredom. That was the reality of what our nursing sessions looked like.
I so desperately needed a break, but breastfeeding isn't a commitment you can back out on whenever you don't feel like it. To keep your milk supply up, you ideally should be either feeding the baby every time he or she needs to eat, or at least pumping. Uncomfortable engorgement is probably nature's not-so-gentle reminder to feed, or else. So even getting away for a few hours entailed either being back for a feeding, or finding somewhere to pump, as well as a way to store the milk and transport it home, unless you just dumped it.
It was this realization that I couldn't take a break or that I couldn't roll over in the middle of the night when awoken by the baby's cries and tell my husband, "It's your turn to feed the baby," that left me really overwhelmed much of the first few week by this responsibility as my baby's soul source of nourishment. I had felt proud, for instance, when the visiting nurse weighed Oliver in our kitchen after his first week of life and announced he'd gained a pound and was healthy, (sustaining another human being with my own body was awe-inspiring) but still overwhelmed. I had carried the baby, I had given birth to the baby, I was physically recovering from the birth (after a long labor followed by an unplanned c-section) and now I was the only one who could feed the baby when all I wanted was a goddamn nap? I was frankly resentful of my husband, resentful of all the pro-breastfeeding sources that had convinced me the only responsible, healthy way to feed my baby was by breast and resentful of even my own stubborness to not give up because I would have had to admitted to everyone that I had failed.
Breastfeeding was also often very lonely at the beginning. I've never been a night owl and despite having gone to college, never pulled an all-nighter. But once Oliver arrived, I was up multiple times each night, sometimes for hours at a time. Those nights were so lonely and unpredictable, (how many times would I be awakened, how many minutes, or even hours, would I be up at a time?) I started to dread nightfall.
So those nights were lonely - and cold. How did I miss the part about night sweats? I took a class on breastfeeding, I read books, I listened to podcasts. In all of this, how could night sweats never have been mentioned? The first time I woke up soaked through all my clothes with slightly damp sheets underneath my once soundly-sleeping body, I was convinced we had the thermostat set too high. Not only was I sleep-deprived and alone to take care of a screaming and hungry baby, I was also wet and cold. When I dragged myself out of bed, I had to wrap myself in one of Chris's ridiculously large hooded snowboarder sweatshirts that came down to my knees to keep from shivering uncontrollably. I eventually laid down a towel on my side of the bed to keep from soaking through a fresh set of sheets every night and kept a spare pair of pajamas nearby to change into before going to feed Oliver.
Those were the emotionally-laden, steep-learning curve first months. But as the woman who ran my parent support group at the hospital said, bottle feeding is easier in the beginning and breastfeeding is more difficult, but breastfeeding eventually becomes easy and bottle feeding becomes difficult. She told our group this weeks after Oliver was born and just when breastfeeding was starting to feel like second nature for me. I was happy I'd stuck with it. The night sweats stopped, Oliver's night-time feedings started to drop, he slowly became a more proficient eater and the out-of-control engorgement and springing a leak (literally) without warning ceased seemingly overnight. Oliver and I had found our nursing groove and when his six-month birthday arrived, I saw no reason anymore to stop. Those first few weeks with the steep learning curve suddenly seemed like a distant memory and breastfeeding felt like something I was comfortable with and like I always knew how to do.
The logistics of it all never ceased though. Even as the number of times a day he nursed dropped, I still planned my day around when he needed to eat and I had to consider where I'd be when this time rolled around. Would there be a quiet and comfortable place to sit and nurse? After a few months, he was too easily distracted if I was even talking to someone else, and as he grew, I literally needed space around me. Nursing in a plane seat, at a popular storytime where crowds packed into the small bookstore, or even in a chair with arms that came too high, was impossible. I was limited in what I could wear based on how easily I could breastfeed in it. Dresses, form-fitting anything, button-down shirts were all out. The only bras I could wear were unsupportive nursing bras that left me feeling frumpy in anything I wore. The warmer weather did make breastfeeding easier when away from home - suddenly feeding on a park bench was an option - but not when dressed in a sports bra and sweating profusely during a muggy Minnesota summer day.
As much of a positive experience breastfeeding turned out to be for me, I'm honest with people that Oliver was never exclusively breastfed, and that was by choice. When it was first recommended while still in the hospital that we supplement with formula because Oliver was supposedly jaundiced and my milk hadn't yet come in, I was upset, even though I eventually relented. Knowing what I know now, maybe I wouldn't have supplemented with formula, but knowing what I knew then, I made the best decision I could have. Although I felt a lot of pressure at the time, I had to make a choice and move on and formula supplementation is what we did.
Formula quickly went from something that wasn't even an option to a welcomed supplement. Chris often gave Oliver a bottle in the evening in the early weeks to give me a break and I truly believe that daily respite kept me from losing my mind. I also refused to be a slave to a pump, (an option I could forgo as a stay-at-home mom) so formula allowed me extended or overnight breaks. When away from home, I pumped for comfort, not to save up for future feedings, and then relied on patience and persistence to bring my supply back up when I was back to exclusive nursing. Because of Chris's work and school schedule, I was responsible for Oliver, the house, and of course myself (hey, I've got to eat and shower sometime) for extended time periods, and pumping required time I didn't have. Even if I knew I was going out for awhile, I literally didn't have time in the days leading up to my few hours of freedom to stockpile bottles of breastmilk. I did pump some in the first three or four months, but then decided that for the limited times Oliver was away from me, he'd get formula. And that I wouldn't feel guilty about it.
I travel in a very breastfeeding supportive circle, which is awesome, but I have friends who brag about how little formula or no formula their babies have had, and I refuse to let breastfeeding be an all or nothing deal. I gave what I could physically, mentally and logistically and consider what I accomplished a success. I just hope other women feel comfortable continuing with breastfeeding even if they have to, or choose to, supplement with formula. Sure, "breast is best," but formula isn't considered poison in my book.
When Oliver turned one, I had reached my revised goal of breastfeeding until age one, which is the recommendation by the American Academy of Pediatrics, which supports "exclusive breastfeeding for approximately the first six months and support for breastfeeding for the first year and beyond as long as mutually desired by mother and child." Earlier in Oliver's life I didn't know if I'd be sad when I would eventually decide to wean him, but his lessening dependence on breast milk ultimately made my decision to wean at a year less guilt-ridden. It was amazing to notice that even in just the last month of his first year of life, nursing him took two or three minutes and sometimes he'd literally take a few sips and be done. I had begun transitioning him to cow's milk at eleven months, so by the time his first birthday rolled around, I was only nursing him in the morning. One morning a week after his birthday, he threw a fit when I tried putting him to the breast. I'd been holding onto one nursing session a day just to keep my milk supply there in case I regreted my decision to wean. But when he "announced" he was finished, the mix of emotions I thought would be there weren't. We're both ready for the next stages in our lives and it'll be then, that despite frustrations and challenges, what I'll remember above all about my breastfeeding experience is the sight of my once small cuddly baby who had nursed to sleep in my arms drunk on mommy's milk.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
My goal was to breastfeed for six months and I made it! (And then some.) Right after Oliver was born, though, I wasn't sure if I'd make it even six days. Six weeks felt like an eternity. Six months suddenly seemed impossible. Before Oliver was born, I had decided on six months, because I'd heard it was a recommendation by some well-respected organization whose name I can't remember. In those first two or three weeks, all I could think was, "This sucks," and about how sad I was that I wanted to give up on something I was so confident beforehand that I could do.
Breastfeeding, in theory, is not difficult - no bottles, no mixing and warming formula, it's readily available and ready to go. It's the details, the ones that are glossed over or not talked about unless you hang out with a breastfeeding woman and hear about what the commitment really entails. Although there's a lot of education among my generation to promote breastfeeding, and doctors, hospitals and workplaces are lining up in support, much of the details about breastfeeding remain a mystery to those, like me, who just didn't have a lot of exposure to the practice until I was doing it myself. You rarely see women breastfeeding in public, and unless you're close friends with someone breastfeeding, you're not going to be privy to the ups and downs. Thus, I was surprised by how lonely, overwhelming, frustrating and boring the experience initially was.
I was lucky in that I didn't have any "mechanical" challenges to overcome - Oliver figured out how to latch quickly, I never experienced painful clogged ducts or mastitis, and my milk supply, while a little late to come in, was always adequate. Other than some clumsiness as I figured out how best to position Oliver and encourage a good latch and a lot of really uncomfortable engorgement - all really unavoidable when you're a newbie - my foray into breastfeeding was "by the book." Yet, why was it still rough going?
I recently listened to a podcast about breastfeeding and the guest on the show, a nurse and lactation consultant, was the most straight-forward of any breast-feeding proponent I'd encountered about the reality of breastfeeding. Most focus only on the benefits of breastfeeding and why you should do it. Sure, this woman did that, but not while also gushing about what an "intimate experience" it is, or how it's a "selfless act" or how it's the ultimate form of "bonding." Please. If I hear any more of these descriptions, I'm going to gag, because I find these cliches about what the experience is supposed to be like and the phrases hardly described my own.
The lactation consultant's job was to promote breastfeeding and help women correct challenges, but I also appreciated how forthright she was. It's monotonous, she said. You're going to feel like you're never going to do anything else but feed your baby and that you're never going to move from your position on the couch. Oh, and it's boring and lonely, she continued. Back in the day, child-rearing was more a collective effort and you most likely had a mom, cousin, sister around - someone, thus, to talk to to pass the time away. You weren't sequestered in your office or a lactation room pumping or alone at home all day. I listened to that podcast 10 months too late.
I feel so naive now, but that podcaster wasn't kidding about breastfeeding being time-consuming. I'd never done the math. Well, first of all, I never even thought about how long it could take a baby to eat, not that I could have planned for that since you just can't know ahead of time what kind of eater you'll have. Multiply that by 8-10 times in a 24-hour period. And when some book I read during pregnancy said that most newborns need to eat every one to two hours, it didn't mention that that's every two hours from the last time he started eating. So if he ate at 9:00 a.m., and it took him 45 minutes to eat, it's already 9:45 a.m. and he's going to want to eat again in another hour and 15 minutes, not at 11:45 a.m. So I was unprepared for how long I'd be stuck in one position with a baby literally attached to me. Hours a day.
I'd had this image in my head of the happy, adoring mom nestled in her glider in the softly lit nursery as her baby quietly suckled. Forget that it could be the wee hours of the morning. Forget that those feedings could last 45 minutes and you could be bored out of your mind staring at the wall. Forget that you can't be doing anything else at that moment. Suddenly I wanted to be doing dishes, the laundry or mopping the floors. Menial housework would have felt liberating. So the reality was me sitting cross-legged on the couch, for sometimes hours at a time (it took Oliver so long to eat that by the time he was finished, he was hungry again) and often crying because "HOW COULD THE BABY STILL BE HUNGRY!" and all I wanted was the freedom to go do something else, anything else at that very moment, because it was 6:00 p.m. in the evening and I was ready to call it a day. I'd probably already had a baby latched onto my breast for eight hours that day. Staring adoringly at my baby boy, as awe-inspiring as he was, was not enough entertainment for me, so either the TV or computer was on, because this is how I kept myself from falling asleep with my baby in my arms in the middle of the night, or to keep me from dying of boredom. That was the reality of what our nursing sessions looked like.
I so desperately needed a break, but breastfeeding isn't a commitment you can back out on whenever you don't feel like it. To keep your milk supply up, you ideally should be either feeding the baby every time he or she needs to eat, or at least pumping. Uncomfortable engorgement is probably nature's not-so-gentle reminder to feed, or else. So even getting away for a few hours entailed either being back for a feeding, or finding somewhere to pump, as well as a way to store the milk and transport it home, unless you just dumped it.
It was this realization that I couldn't take a break or that I couldn't roll over in the middle of the night when awoken by the baby's cries and tell my husband, "It's your turn to feed the baby," that left me really overwhelmed much of the first few week by this responsibility as my baby's soul source of nourishment. I had felt proud, for instance, when the visiting nurse weighed Oliver in our kitchen after his first week of life and announced he'd gained a pound and was healthy, (sustaining another human being with my own body was awe-inspiring) but still overwhelmed. I had carried the baby, I had given birth to the baby, I was physically recovering from the birth (after a long labor followed by an unplanned c-section) and now I was the only one who could feed the baby when all I wanted was a goddamn nap? I was frankly resentful of my husband, resentful of all the pro-breastfeeding sources that had convinced me the only responsible, healthy way to feed my baby was by breast and resentful of even my own stubborness to not give up because I would have had to admitted to everyone that I had failed.
Breastfeeding was also often very lonely at the beginning. I've never been a night owl and despite having gone to college, never pulled an all-nighter. But once Oliver arrived, I was up multiple times each night, sometimes for hours at a time. Those nights were so lonely and unpredictable, (how many times would I be awakened, how many minutes, or even hours, would I be up at a time?) I started to dread nightfall.
So those nights were lonely - and cold. How did I miss the part about night sweats? I took a class on breastfeeding, I read books, I listened to podcasts. In all of this, how could night sweats never have been mentioned? The first time I woke up soaked through all my clothes with slightly damp sheets underneath my once soundly-sleeping body, I was convinced we had the thermostat set too high. Not only was I sleep-deprived and alone to take care of a screaming and hungry baby, I was also wet and cold. When I dragged myself out of bed, I had to wrap myself in one of Chris's ridiculously large hooded snowboarder sweatshirts that came down to my knees to keep from shivering uncontrollably. I eventually laid down a towel on my side of the bed to keep from soaking through a fresh set of sheets every night and kept a spare pair of pajamas nearby to change into before going to feed Oliver.
Those were the emotionally-laden, steep-learning curve first months. But as the woman who ran my parent support group at the hospital said, bottle feeding is easier in the beginning and breastfeeding is more difficult, but breastfeeding eventually becomes easy and bottle feeding becomes difficult. She told our group this weeks after Oliver was born and just when breastfeeding was starting to feel like second nature for me. I was happy I'd stuck with it. The night sweats stopped, Oliver's night-time feedings started to drop, he slowly became a more proficient eater and the out-of-control engorgement and springing a leak (literally) without warning ceased seemingly overnight. Oliver and I had found our nursing groove and when his six-month birthday arrived, I saw no reason anymore to stop. Those first few weeks with the steep learning curve suddenly seemed like a distant memory and breastfeeding felt like something I was comfortable with and like I always knew how to do.
The logistics of it all never ceased though. Even as the number of times a day he nursed dropped, I still planned my day around when he needed to eat and I had to consider where I'd be when this time rolled around. Would there be a quiet and comfortable place to sit and nurse? After a few months, he was too easily distracted if I was even talking to someone else, and as he grew, I literally needed space around me. Nursing in a plane seat, at a popular storytime where crowds packed into the small bookstore, or even in a chair with arms that came too high, was impossible. I was limited in what I could wear based on how easily I could breastfeed in it. Dresses, form-fitting anything, button-down shirts were all out. The only bras I could wear were unsupportive nursing bras that left me feeling frumpy in anything I wore. The warmer weather did make breastfeeding easier when away from home - suddenly feeding on a park bench was an option - but not when dressed in a sports bra and sweating profusely during a muggy Minnesota summer day.
As much of a positive experience breastfeeding turned out to be for me, I'm honest with people that Oliver was never exclusively breastfed, and that was by choice. When it was first recommended while still in the hospital that we supplement with formula because Oliver was supposedly jaundiced and my milk hadn't yet come in, I was upset, even though I eventually relented. Knowing what I know now, maybe I wouldn't have supplemented with formula, but knowing what I knew then, I made the best decision I could have. Although I felt a lot of pressure at the time, I had to make a choice and move on and formula supplementation is what we did.
Formula quickly went from something that wasn't even an option to a welcomed supplement. Chris often gave Oliver a bottle in the evening in the early weeks to give me a break and I truly believe that daily respite kept me from losing my mind. I also refused to be a slave to a pump, (an option I could forgo as a stay-at-home mom) so formula allowed me extended or overnight breaks. When away from home, I pumped for comfort, not to save up for future feedings, and then relied on patience and persistence to bring my supply back up when I was back to exclusive nursing. Because of Chris's work and school schedule, I was responsible for Oliver, the house, and of course myself (hey, I've got to eat and shower sometime) for extended time periods, and pumping required time I didn't have. Even if I knew I was going out for awhile, I literally didn't have time in the days leading up to my few hours of freedom to stockpile bottles of breastmilk. I did pump some in the first three or four months, but then decided that for the limited times Oliver was away from me, he'd get formula. And that I wouldn't feel guilty about it.
I travel in a very breastfeeding supportive circle, which is awesome, but I have friends who brag about how little formula or no formula their babies have had, and I refuse to let breastfeeding be an all or nothing deal. I gave what I could physically, mentally and logistically and consider what I accomplished a success. I just hope other women feel comfortable continuing with breastfeeding even if they have to, or choose to, supplement with formula. Sure, "breast is best," but formula isn't considered poison in my book.
When Oliver turned one, I had reached my revised goal of breastfeeding until age one, which is the recommendation by the American Academy of Pediatrics, which supports "exclusive breastfeeding for approximately the first six months and support for breastfeeding for the first year and beyond as long as mutually desired by mother and child." Earlier in Oliver's life I didn't know if I'd be sad when I would eventually decide to wean him, but his lessening dependence on breast milk ultimately made my decision to wean at a year less guilt-ridden. It was amazing to notice that even in just the last month of his first year of life, nursing him took two or three minutes and sometimes he'd literally take a few sips and be done. I had begun transitioning him to cow's milk at eleven months, so by the time his first birthday rolled around, I was only nursing him in the morning. One morning a week after his birthday, he threw a fit when I tried putting him to the breast. I'd been holding onto one nursing session a day just to keep my milk supply there in case I regreted my decision to wean. But when he "announced" he was finished, the mix of emotions I thought would be there weren't. We're both ready for the next stages in our lives and it'll be then, that despite frustrations and challenges, what I'll remember above all about my breastfeeding experience is the sight of my once small cuddly baby who had nursed to sleep in my arms drunk on mommy's milk.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Oliver update: 12 months
Oliver survived his birthday party. He would have been just as happy to chase a ball around the house with a few of his baby friends and not have 20 people watch his every move. He nibbled on his cake, but seemed happy we finally gave him some cantaloupe and eventually ditched the cake in favor of the fruit. (That's my boy!) But the first birthday party is kind of a like a right of passage in my parenting book, and besides, I had fun entertaining and baking and decorating a cake. So thanks for humoring me Oliver.
I almost scheduled Oliver's 12-month wellness check for his birthday, but decided I couldn't do that to the little guy since he was due for some shots. The damage was four booster shots, a blood draw, and if he's going to get pricked so many times, why don't we just throw in the flu shot and get it all over with? His test results from the blood draw (to check hemoglobin levels and lead) came back great. Oliver's percentiles for weight (20 lb. 2 oz.) and head match those from his nine-month appointment, (10th and 50th respectively) but his height at 29 3/8 inches is back in the 40-50th percentile range instead of the 10th. After watching the nurse try to mark the height of a squirming baby, I was reminded that the percentiles are only as accurate as the measurements taken.
While a few of Oliver's early-teething baby friends are getting their last teeth, about three weeks ago, I felt what appeared to be on Oliver's lower gum an emerging tooth. With the aid of the pediatrician's flashlight and tongue depressor, I was finally able to catch a glimpse of the slightest bit of tooth poking through the gum line. Chris practically cheered during a dinner of ravioli when he saw a tooth mark in the dough. By next month, he should have at least one, maybe even two, bottom teeth.
Thus, I don't know if it's the teething, another readjustment of his nap schedule, or separation anxiety reappearing, but Oliver is suddenly crying a lot more. If I go outside to set up his stroller, he'll sit in the foyer and weep. If I strap him into his car seat and don't get immediately into the car, I come back to the car to find him bawling. The reappearance of Mom is still the fail-proof remedy, but although he stops crying immediately when he sees me, he does so begrudgingly.
But I'm also afraid he's sleep-deprived. His morning nap is no longer a given, but he's not yet ready to drop it. He's often tired around his normal 8:00 a.m. nap time, but either will talk to himself and play in his crib for an hour, or will finally fall asleep close to when he normally would be getting up from his first nap. He still happily takes his afternoon nap, but I'm trying to figure out how to handle the transition of the afternoon nap turning into his only nap. Do I give him lunch earlier and then a nap earlier, or can I somehow encourage him to sleep longer in the afternoon?
While Oliver is not walking yet, he's proficient at crawling his signature crawl - two hands, his left knee and his right shin, which he propels himself forward with. He can now climb stairs - slowly, but confidently. When we headed out to the car this afternoon, I placed him on the front walk and I dashed back up onto the porch to lock the front door. When I turned around, he was clearing the last step on the stoop. With three more weeks until he's 13 months old, I'm not sure if he'll be walking by then, but he could surprise me. He will walk someday, of course, it's just difficult to imagine it'll really happen. When he was a little, little baby, I couldn't ever imagine him sitting up unassisted, let alone pulling himself up, then crawling. So until I have a better frame of reference for child development, I live in the present with Oliver and celebrate every milestone as if Oliver were the first baby to master a particular skill.
I almost scheduled Oliver's 12-month wellness check for his birthday, but decided I couldn't do that to the little guy since he was due for some shots. The damage was four booster shots, a blood draw, and if he's going to get pricked so many times, why don't we just throw in the flu shot and get it all over with? His test results from the blood draw (to check hemoglobin levels and lead) came back great. Oliver's percentiles for weight (20 lb. 2 oz.) and head match those from his nine-month appointment, (10th and 50th respectively) but his height at 29 3/8 inches is back in the 40-50th percentile range instead of the 10th. After watching the nurse try to mark the height of a squirming baby, I was reminded that the percentiles are only as accurate as the measurements taken.
While a few of Oliver's early-teething baby friends are getting their last teeth, about three weeks ago, I felt what appeared to be on Oliver's lower gum an emerging tooth. With the aid of the pediatrician's flashlight and tongue depressor, I was finally able to catch a glimpse of the slightest bit of tooth poking through the gum line. Chris practically cheered during a dinner of ravioli when he saw a tooth mark in the dough. By next month, he should have at least one, maybe even two, bottom teeth.
Thus, I don't know if it's the teething, another readjustment of his nap schedule, or separation anxiety reappearing, but Oliver is suddenly crying a lot more. If I go outside to set up his stroller, he'll sit in the foyer and weep. If I strap him into his car seat and don't get immediately into the car, I come back to the car to find him bawling. The reappearance of Mom is still the fail-proof remedy, but although he stops crying immediately when he sees me, he does so begrudgingly.
But I'm also afraid he's sleep-deprived. His morning nap is no longer a given, but he's not yet ready to drop it. He's often tired around his normal 8:00 a.m. nap time, but either will talk to himself and play in his crib for an hour, or will finally fall asleep close to when he normally would be getting up from his first nap. He still happily takes his afternoon nap, but I'm trying to figure out how to handle the transition of the afternoon nap turning into his only nap. Do I give him lunch earlier and then a nap earlier, or can I somehow encourage him to sleep longer in the afternoon?
While Oliver is not walking yet, he's proficient at crawling his signature crawl - two hands, his left knee and his right shin, which he propels himself forward with. He can now climb stairs - slowly, but confidently. When we headed out to the car this afternoon, I placed him on the front walk and I dashed back up onto the porch to lock the front door. When I turned around, he was clearing the last step on the stoop. With three more weeks until he's 13 months old, I'm not sure if he'll be walking by then, but he could surprise me. He will walk someday, of course, it's just difficult to imagine it'll really happen. When he was a little, little baby, I couldn't ever imagine him sitting up unassisted, let alone pulling himself up, then crawling. So until I have a better frame of reference for child development, I live in the present with Oliver and celebrate every milestone as if Oliver were the first baby to master a particular skill.
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