I haven't been breathing.

And all at once I heard a sound that took my breath away, deep in relief and frenzy.

I haven't really been breathing since.

Ha! I laughed, airlessly, as this tiny being cried into my ribs, coated and uncomfortable, his sounds echoing into the vacuum of my breathless torso.

Is it okay? I asked the woman peering over me. I don't know, she said, then quickly Yes. Yes. Of course it's okay. But I wasn't speaking of you.

Is it okay to feel as though you are a small nothingness, slipping off the side of the head of a pin, holding the most important thing you've ever seen. Is it okay to feel the weight of dumbness over you like clear waves, pressing you into the dark sand below. Is it okay to want to sleep forever wrapped in gasping fear and wisdom all at once. Is it okay to feel love tearing through yourself, like a sun burning up the clouds over the sea. Love is ripping each cell apart, the friction of newness explodes all neurons in fire and the smoke waters your eyes. And it's okay.

Can I take him home? I asked and they laughed, but I meant it. When can I leave and can it be right now and can we never leave home again? The world was already bored of snow that year and the path we took circled through the forest and past SCENIC LOT NUMBER 65. Once we saw a snow fox there, but not this time, probably because it heard us coming, all important and deafeningly breathless. All full of potential and worry.

And this is where your family sleeps, this is where we wait for frost and thaw, this is where we hold you, without the rise and fall of ribs for fear of waking from this fog. This is where your feet will grow, this is where the lights will glow deep into 4am one night, ears red with fury and the first stabbings of pain. This is where we soak in baths, and wait for sleep. Wait for sleep and wait for sleep.

I admit defeat and I opened my skull and I know nothing. I know everything about you and I know nothing else. You are the most important thing I've ever seen and some days I celebrate the fact that I don't understand you at all. I force myself to breathe. I remind myself to take air, I focus on the pattern, on the wheeze of my unused nose. I remember when it came easily to me. Breathing. Before there was you.

Very Big Thing - The Cheese Edition.

a Very Big Thing is happening. I haven't tweeted about it because there has been too much to say. I haven't blogged about it because the vastness of my feelings about this subject were surely going to be misconstrued.

We had Squeaky D allergy tested. I was terrified, for many reasons. It was all very complicated.

But when the RAST test happened without a single tear shed, without a single food reaction. A heavy veil was lifted. Because we only tested six items, the allergist asked if we wanted to do a blood test. He was concerned about my reports of gastric pain in Baby D, about his belly rashes and eczema. Signs of sensitivity to something, he said.

The slippery slope of cute.

And then I was terrified about drawing a toddler's blood. People do this all the time! I told myself, unable to convince myself. Thankfully good friends advised me to go to the Stollery Children's Hospital and ask for a pediatric collector. They told me exactly how to hold him, and in the end it went much better than anticipated (besides the nurse telling me afterwards not to breastfeed him when he was crying in case he chokes. MEGALOL.), and he got a sticker at the end, which made him very proud. Who knew he gets stickers now? Not me.

The results came back perfectly clear! The only test that wasn't done was the test for Celiac Disease, as neither of us consume gluten and you have to have the protein in your system for 6 weeks prior to the blood test.

So? WE HAVE BEEN EATING CHEESE AGAIN, YOU GUYS.

CHEESE! And firetrucks and horses, I guess.

I've been dying to say something. Brie! Havarti! Swiss! Feta! Edam! All my favourite cheeses! I ate a creamy dip. I had scrambled eggs! There has been mayonnaise, a latte, ice cream, and OMG REAL GREEK YOGURT. Cookies baked with egg and butter.

I will say this. I'm skeptical. Very skeptical. Squeaky D so far hates egg and dairy. Refuses to eat much of anything, including melted cheese (Theories abound that he may not be mine, but I watched him come out of me and he didn't really leave my sight after that, so...). His eczema on the backs of his hands has become worse. At first, he did have little bumps across his belly though it seems to have become a mix of eczema and dry skin, now. The medical community tells me that this is simply NOT related to his diet, it could be anything they say.


So here I sit, a baby who is suffering, doctors who have no answers, and a mountain of milk chocolate at my disposal. Milk chocolate, you guys.


A Very Big Thing, indeed.

Monotony and the self.

Just write something, she said. I believe in you, Mama.

But what is there to write when day in and day out is monotony? Granted, the most meaningful monotony of my entire existence, but monotony just the same.

This is my first post in 2012, since November to be clear, and it is, so far, worthless. How do you write about each day when each day looks exactly the same as the last? How do you write about the feelings when the feelings never change, a veritable roller-coaster in grey. Things are sunny, things are dark but ultimately they are all the same. Get up. Milk. Breakfast. Milk. Playtime. Milk. Groceries. Milk. Lunch. Milk. Nap-time. Milk Milk Milk. Clean clean clean. Cook cook cook.

Is he walking yet? Is he talking yet? Is he a super-star rock n' roll basketball hero yet?

I remember when I used to be creative, but not vividly. I remember it like I remember looking at a powerful photograph, not as though I was really there. I remember when I used to feel that my art meant something. To me, mostly, and maybe to other people, too.

What is a blog for, is it for me? A space to be honest about who I am to a world of people who only wish to tear me down silently behind their computer screens? Or is it a space for me to harp about the parenting choices I make, subsequently making other people question their own monotonous existence? If it is meant to be a space to connect, how do I feel so disconnected? Compared to everyone else at all times.


The other day I realised something again, but for the first time. We are nothing, all of us. We are specs of nothing on the grand scheme of nothingness. This is very freeing, as it means I can do anything I want, I can make any choice I'd like to make. I have only me, I can only control myself. No one else is working to make me happy. No one.

I have begun to consciously choose selfishness. But only when the little one is sleeping.

Has it been a year?

I wear my age proudly, like a child.

Each year that passes, I look back at what I've come through. I thumb through old journal entries and letters. I think to myself, I have survived this. I made it through the difficult days and the wonderful ones, too. Each year just seems to get easier.

So, why not? Be proud of how I get older, I mean. It's fantastic, isn't it? Like a puzzle I am building - aiming for a picture of grace, wisdom, humour, and compassion.

February 2010

Sometimes this motherhood thing can be intense. It's true that everybody tells you, everybody says: it changes you. But what they don't say is that it can rip the you right out of your body for a while. Right out of your experience. That you will find yourself watching your life pass by as though you aren't even living it anymore.

You are so quickly thrown into the fire of passion and motherhood that you don't even have time to notice how you are not you. You are other. It isn't necessarily bad. It is just so scary, at first, and so different. It can be hard to know exactly where you are going, anymore, and if you are going anywhere at all. I used to be a steam engine, laying tracks seconds before I powered over them. And now I ask myself if I am even going anywhere at all. We've scaled this mountain side, and now we take pause. Which path leads this train to happiness?

Even now, as I explore this new role, I'm still dig dig digging into the back of my mind, deep in self-reflection. Even now, nearly a year later. Nearly a year since I walked out of the hospital wide-eyed in disbelief that they were letting us take this tiny fragile human being home in our care. To our home. Forever. Even now, I'm still not sure who I am.

But I can see myself, coming through the forest, with a steady pace and a more confident step than I have had in years. I can see all the strength inside myself, the willingness to be magnificent and electric. Without ego. Simply to be the best human I can be, for myself, for my son. Within my own boundaries. 

And I like that the glimpses of my old self still shine through in so many tenacious and spectacular ways.

From a Breastfeeding Mom to All Moms, Everywhere.

From a Breastfeeding Mom to All Moms, Everywhere.

I'm a breastfeeding feminist. I believe that breastmilk, evolutionarily, was made for human consumption. It is complex and, scientifically speaking, ideal for babies.

That said, there are times when mothers choose to quit breastfeeding. There are times when mothers choose to quit pumping breastmilk and bottlefeeding. There are times when mothers do not breastfeed at all.

And you know what bugs me the most out of all of this? That those mothers consistently feel the need to explain to us, the breastfeeders, the world, why they formula feed. Formula feeding moms feel the need to justify to the world - "This is why I'm not breastfeeding!" - they have to explain to us the reason why they made that parenting decision.

And yeah, that makes me pretty sad. Do you know why? Because I trust those moms to make that parenting decision. I am not those women. I do not live their lives, I do not know what they have gone through, I do not know the challenges they have faced. By that fact alone, I have no right to judge the choices they make regarding how they feed their babies. Even Jessica Valenti said that formula feeding was 100% right for her. Why should we ask her to justify that decision? We don't know her and we don't live her life.

A friend Sarah and I were out with a group of moms recently, and when I disappeared to talk to someone else, the topic of breastfeeding - and struggling with breastfeeding - came up. Sarah told me later that two other moms out of the large group professed having difficulties before my friend spoke up about her experience with public health nurses telling her she was starving her child and the subsequent the guilt trip she faced on the internet when she blogged about supplementing with formula. And she confessed to me that as soon as she put it out there, as soon as her story hung over the group in silence, she was nervous about what the other moms would say. Thankfully one wise mother piped up and said something I have said before, too: "We as mothers have enough to worry about, we need to be free to make the decisions that are best for our babies without being made to feel guilty."

If you formula feed or if you breastfeed - your baby is fed and loved and cared for. You are an amazing mom.

Squeaky D raises his fist in Solidarity

I do talk about breastfeeding a lot. It's what I do these days. But I've also shared the story of a Formula Feeding mom. I am a close supporter of many moms who formula feed. I want people to know that you can support and encourage breastfeeding without leaving formula feeding moms behind.

In the last week or so, things have become very heated in the feminist twitter community. Yes, there is one, it's weird and awesome all at the same time. Of course I love it.

Firstly, it must be addressed that there are some women who are not kind. Bluntly, that is it. There are women who champion breastfeeding without being considerate, without being kind or compassionate. Some of them even spread a hateful message. I do not stand behind these women, and I encourage everyone I meet to be inclusive and kind. This is very obviously a sensitive topic and I don't think there is anything wrong with treating it as such.

And secondly, breastfeeding in this modern time has become, unfortunately, something that is mysterious. There are a lot of misleading half-truths that are consistently spread by older generations, doctors, nurses, hospital "lactation consultants," and formula companies. We desperately want to spread truth about breastfeeding, and sometimes that means questioning things that women have heard.

For instance, someone shared in the midst of the kurfuffle that her mother could not breastfeed because she was intolerant to breast milk. Babies are not intolerant to breast milk. A baby could have an allergy or a sensitivity to something a mother is eating, but maybe that mother would have made the choice to eliminate peanuts or eggs (or whatever) from her diet and continued breastfeeding. Maybe not. But maybe so! And isn't it her right to know that and make an informed decision? It is hard for us breastfeeding mothers to stay quiet when we hear people repeating misinformation and all at once respect the relationship that mother may have with her choice to formula feed.

We know about the "mommy guilt," all of us. I know of it so deeply that sometimes it is crippling and I can feel weighed down and crushed by it. I can't imagine what it might be like to be bottle feeding publicly have have someone shame me for parenting my child. As a breastfeeder I fight for the right to breastfeed publicly but I have never had someone insinuate that I was a bad mother for breastfeeding. How upsetting, how demoralizing, how infuriating, how utterly cruel. This is not a comfortable position and I myself would probably also take a defensive stance. My worth as a mother is hardly defined by how I feed my baby. 

Please, my formula feeding moms, my fellow moms. Please understand that so many of us, we don't think you are stupid. We don't think you are uneducated. We don't think you didn't try hard enough. We don't think your baby is eating poison and we don't think your kid is going to be stupid.

We just want formula companies to stop their false advertising. We don't want them to lie to mothers anymore. We don't want them to pretend to offer breastfeeding support.

That's it, really. We just want the truth and the experts on breastfeeding to be the ones offering breastfeeding support. We want educated doctors, nurses, and internationally certified lactation consultants handing out unbiased information and support. I don't mind that formula companies exist and I think formula should be available, I just want them to keep a respectful distance from a mother's right to educate herself about feeding her baby.

We want all moms to make the best choice for them and their babies and their families. And you don't have to justify it to us, the breastfeeders, or anyone else.

Can I say it again? Your baby is loved and cared for. You are an amazing mom. We can all support all mothers so that each one knows her rights and has the access to make her best decisions, no matter what they may be.

What is Burning Man about? I'll tell you.

Yes, I have been to Burning Man. And the number one question I hear is, "What is Burning Man about?"

I'll tell you.

No, Burning Man isn't a giant rave in the desert. Despite what you've heard, it isn't really about music. It isn't about sex or drugs or nudity either.

Burning Man 2009 - Open Playa

It is about people. It is about community. It's about coming together and creating a city void of social status, void of judgement, void of consumerism and greed.

A 3-Story woman made from cables.

It is about pushing ourselves to the limits just to see what we can do. It is about respecting our peers and giving them the space to be and do what makes them happiest. It is about realizing your own personal abundance and gifting the excess to everyone and anyone who happens by. It is the realization that everything we do - a hug, a shared story, a smile, a gin and tonic for a friend - is an experience, a gift of its own right. It's about Art. Or the idea that creativity doesn't live within the boundaries of success and failure.

Yes I made this costume myself.

It is about always striving to be a participant and never just a spectator.

And this year I am staying home. I stayed home last year, too, seven months pregnant and no way in hell was I interested in the physical toll that is living in a tent in a dried up dusty desert-hot lake bed. But my Handsome Mandude wasn't going, either, and I was content in taking a year off.

This year I am not pregnant. I am a Mama. And my Handsome Mandude is venturing down into the desert without me. And he is bringing two of my closest friends.

Yours truly, FireHooping before we lit up The Man

It's true that I could probably go. Other Mamas with babies as young as mine (or younger) find a solid babysitter and make the trip. I'm, personally, not ready to be away from Squeaky D for that long. And I'm breastfeeding and that relationship is more important to me.

And maybe it is possible to bring a baby to Burning Man. But I wouldn't, and I would advise anyone thinking about it not to do it. I'm just not sure it is fair to bring a little person into a world so dusty, hot, overstimulating, borderline dangerous, and overwhelming with no real means of escape. At least not until they can communicate to you about it.


I guess I'm just feeling nostalgic about the whole thing. About the freedom of it all, to be myself and to be fearless about it.  Nostalgic about the people that I've met there, the friendships I have made. The incredible art that people work so hard to drag into the desert for me to climb on, experience, and enjoy.

This Cape used to be a tablecloth.

The ability to wear whatever I want; a tutu, a fur bikini, a bad-ass road warrior leather ensemble, or a giant red cape made from my friend's old silk tablecloth. I'm remembering the cool desert evenings filled with rushing to eat, clean, dress, be ready for the chill and excitement of the dark dark night. The laughter and spontaneity of riding our blinky glowing art bikes through dunes of playa dust, veering from structure to structure, covering miles of rock hard earth just to seek out a little bit of adventure and exhilaration. I'm wistful over that feeling at the end of the week, covered in a dust so fine that no amount of washing seems to take it off, bursting with desire to create, create, PARTICIPATE, climbing the highest art piece and shouting my poetry into the dust storms. Seeing The Man explode with fire, the culmination of all our excitement and experience, until he dwindles down to nothing but embers, ashes, nuts, and bolts.


I'm feeling nostalgic about The Temple, the most quiet and sacred space at Burning Man, built carefully with intricate details, then flooded with emotion literally stapled, written on, and pinned to its wooden walls. Then on the last day, fifty thousand people gather silently - absolutely silently - and solomnly watch it burn down. Let me just say, there is something beyond magical about being one of fifty thousand quietly contemplating all that it means to see the week end and the temple burn to the ground.

Temple in Daylight

Temple at Night

I was going to write a post about how experiencing Burning Man - how being a Burner - has made me into a better parent. But instead I was feeling nostalgic and wrote this. So, in the spirit of art and community and sharing, I will leave you with a poem that I wrote after my first year at Burning Man, a poem that will be pinned up to this year's Temple which, eventually, will burn down to the ground. Simply because it must. And I'll talk about parenting another day.

=================

Handsome Mandude and I

there were good things and magnificent things 

and bad things and horrific things and i saw them all, 

i experienced them all, and they made me different. 

i blocked the sun and i made it shine, 

i helped and hindered time 

and allowed this mass to hurtle onwards. 

i rolled my eyes and rolled my tires 

over dunes of pure dust, through walls of it, 

rolled in it, slept in it, basked in it. 

i climbed on creation and filled my eyes 

and my hands, my mouth. 

my heart. 

i was part of an awe-filled silent crowd 

and i joined gangs of animals 

surging out loud. 

it seethed and was frigid, 

it was comforting, chilling. 

i swung and was flung, 

and we laughed, we wove stories, 

we shimmied, we shared, and we cried. 

we created community and we burned it all to the fucking ground
just to see if we can do it again next year.

xox

Farren Square

Breastfeeding is a crazy (wonderful) thing.

You know, breastfeeding is a crazy thing.

Forget the fact that it is a hot-button issue these days. Forget that it is often disrespected and women are shamed for nursing publicly. Even forget the fact that people who don't understand it, often, for some INSANE reason, sexualize it.

Just think about how, for thousands and thousands of years, it was the only choice. It literally IS how our species has survived infancy since the beginning of our time. Wow. Not only that, but think about how truly complex and fantastic our human bodies - our mammal bodies - are for being able to not only create and store milk, but to transfer it to our babies in such a loving and comforting way.

Before I go any further, I want to make a disclaimer. I want everyone reading this to know how I feel about breastfeeding and mothers who do otherwise. There are no hard feelings here - and I want to stress that we all love our babies and we all share, cultivate, and bask in this love in meaningful ways no matter how we feed them. It is true that, unfortunately, some mothers have more success than others. But to all of you who have put a baby to breast, who have breastfed at all - think back to the calm quiet moments, even if those moments can be so few in those early weeks. Think to yourself - My body made colostrum, my body made milk and I gave it to my baby. I did that! 

Breastfeeding Then.

Maybe it is just that, in all my life, I had actually never considered my body's potential in this way. In the last decade of my life I have noticed a very profound appreciation for my body's potential in many different ways. I could jump, and climb trees, ride my bike pretty fast. I could swim fairly well. I rode horses and ran races and drank an obscene amount of alcohol in my early twenties. My body was great.

In the last four years of life, my appreciation grew deeper. I started sharing my poetry. And people other than me liked it! I met a handsome mandude who taught me how to view each experience as an opportunity to see art and creativity. I went to burning man and experienced a real community, a life lived without fear of judgement - FOR REAL - for the very first time. I realized that the most single important and incredible thing that we could do as humans was to create. We can create something from nothing at all - a painting, a poem, a novel, a dance, a warm moment, a hug, a crazy wild experience - from nothing but the pit of our minds and maybe a bit of legwork. My body was amazing.

And then I became pregnant and I realized that, though we both had a hand in it, I was completely on my own in growing and creating this tiny little life inside me. I couldn't help but ponder, as it squiggled around in there, how fantastic it was that I had a factory inside me for making more of me. I felt very connected to the women who came before me, who had carried the beginnings of humanity. I could sense the juxtaposition of how far we have come laid against what has not changed, will never change. But mostly I ate. And grew. And ate and grew, and the baby did, too, and my mind expanded along with us. This is crazy, I thought. I made a HUMAN BEING with thoughts and preferences and an idea about the world someday. And I'm going to push it outta me and then what!

Breastfeeding Now.

And then what? I started breastfeeding. And my baby emptied my colostrum. And my baby brought in my milk. And then, through those first days, that haze so thick with love, and soreness, and obsession, and sleep deprivation, and love - it struck me. Breastfeeding is so intricate; a mix of hormones, knowledge, support, instinct, circumstance, confidence, and science. Breastfeeding is at once complex and natural. It is so easy and perfect and yet at times it can be a struggle. And you know? It wasn't all easy for me, and I think it is okay to be honest about that, but I grew to love it. Ultimately, I was sustaining human life. An entire life, outside of mine. I was nourishing his every need with my body. This blew me away. Here he was, my son. And we could lay, stomach to stomach and doze. And he was being fed.

And then I realized. Our bodies are good and amazing. They are fantastic and spectacular! And breastfeeding is a crazy (wonderful) thing.

Happy World Breastfeeding Week.

My Brilliant High-Maintenance Baby

I have a confession.

I think I might have a high maintenance baby. As I write this, he is attempting to take a nap because he is exhausted. Every 20 minutes he cries like he has seen the boogeyman and needs me to come to him and gently pick him up so that he can calmly fall back asleep in my arms. I lay him down, he sleeps peacefully, and 20 minutes later we begin again.

Play with me!

If we are having an in-house day, he needs me nearby at all times. He likes to look up into my face and make sure everything is hunky-dory. He wants me to read to him. He wants me to play with him. He wants me to sing to him, change his diaper, sit him up, lay him down, put him in the Jump-mo-tron, take him out, carry him around, nurse him, toss him around, bounce him, nurse him while bouncing him, and GOD FORBID if I try to sneak out of the room while he naps. He knows. It's as if he can smell that I've left.

Does all of this make my baby difficult? No! All of this makes my superfluous life difficult! Blogging is difficult, cleaning is difficult, keeping my etsy store fully stocked is difficult, showering is difficult, having a quiet cup of afternoon tea is really difficult.

But I refuse to think about the time I spend with Baby D as difficult. I'll admit that I have felt overwhelmed. I have felt completely burried by his needs and his heartwrenching little cries. I had to make a choice and the choice seemed clear:

If I can't change this situation, then I am going to change my outlook. 

No longer do I "suffer" through naptime, I relish in our quiet bedtime moments. No longer is Desmond feeling "fussy" he is particular and dependent - he needs one of us to help him feel alright. No longer do I worry about my dusty furniture, uncooked dinners, unfolded laundry. I cheerfully spend my days on the floor where he wants me, singing made-up songs about him and his farts and his toes and how much I love him. I joyfully wear him around the neighbourhood to keep him entertained. I happily stay home in the evenings, missing most of the adult fun my friends are having, just to splash around in the bath, give him a baby massage, and cuddle him to sleep at night.

People ask me if he is a "Good Baby" and I still say yes. Of course he is a good baby, all babies are inherently good. If you want to know my heavily biased mom-pinion, he is more than just good. He is spectacular and brilliant and so emotionally connected. And I'm choosing to enjoy every damn second of his baby brilliance.



Tell me I'm not alone. Do you have a brilliantly high maintenance baby?

Mom Voice and Stockholm Syndrome

Alright, my little bean. You've done it. You have successfully laid claim to my head and brain and thoughts and words. My vocabulary is shot. My spelling and grammar is worse. I can't keep an appointment or coffee date in my mind long enough to make it real.

My Captor

You have won. 

I'm absolutely, 100% yours. My heart belonged to you the first time I heard yours beating. But now you've won my smart-ass wise-cracking quick wit, too.

These past three days I've had the chance to hear my recorded voice in two different instances. On Sunday This Manic Mama posted a Mother's Day podcast featuring an interview with me. Today I showed Desmond's Babushka a video of me prompting him to say her name: "Babababa."

Oh, the mom voice. It killed me. It literally stabbed me in the chest with its vile high pitched tone and pulled out all my pride with its sing songy joy. Just know that if you are ever near a mom and she is pulling out that crazy voice - chances are she knows how terrible it is. Chances are she wishes she wasn't doing it in front of you. And chances are she won't stop. I won't stop. I know I won't - he loves the mom voice. And I am a sucker to do the things he loves.

Because the deeper I get into this heart-stealing, mind-controlling, head-over-heels love I have for my son, the more I realize that parenting is just a really intricate, intimate, and joy-filled form of Stockholm Syndrome. And damn if he isn't the most lovable captor.

We Hope for More Good Days.

It's easy to post about the good days. The giggles. The smiles. The day he said Mamama for the first time. The day he sat up unassisted for a good chunk of the afternoon.

It's worthwhile to post about the inner dialogue. The struggle to connect with other women. The desire to stay neutral yet supportive when all moms are doing their very best.

It is so difficult to post about the hard days. The hard nights. The hard weeks on end. It would be so lovely to paint motherhood with this lovely brush, a scene where one woman has it all together and nothing ever goes wrong.

But it isn't like that in my household. We have hard days. We have especially hard nights. We have weeks without sleep and hours that stretch on and on like molasses in the sun. Sticky and tar black, inescapable.

Couch Cuddling on a hard day.

I could blame teething; the rivers of drool and rashy red cheeks tell me to expect baby teeth any time now. I could blame his sensitive tummy; one slip up in my elimination diet and he explodes into painful little sobs. He goes back and forth between wrenching around in pain and then stiffening harder than steel, all while breaking my heart with his little baby cries. I want him to know I would fix it if I could. I would rather feel it ten times worse than he ever has just to guarantee that he never will again.

The good days, oh we float! We are like clouds, we drift over the day in a haze of love, marvel at the sunshine and rain happiness on the people around us. We laugh and tickle, we strut around unconsiously bragging about our love bubble.

But the bad days, we close the curtains. We try anything. We try everything. But mostly we rock and cuddle. We dance and we bounce. We sing quiet songs and say "Shh shh shh, baby, I know. I know."

And we hope for more good days.

Being a Mom is Hard Enough - Guest Blogger Cerlandia

Before becoming a Mom Sarah received a Master of Arts degree in Sociology and worked with troubled youth. Currently she enjoys staying at home with her two young children and crafting whenever she has free time. You can see what she's up to over at Cerlandia.

I had to really think hard about doing this guest post. I was incredibly honored to be asked, but I value my family's privacy (as well as my own) and I try to find humor in all things. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of humor in this story; even I who can find humor in Husband finding out his product was moving to Seattle while our kitchen was torn down to the studs still fail to find humor in Daughter's birth story.

Or better, the story of why I was unable to breast feed. I talked with Husband about the privacy issues I had with it and we both agreed that people need to know that not everyone can breast feed, nor does everyone want to for their own reasons. People should be respectful of other's choices and in part, it was this lack of respect that made me hate leaving the house when I knew I had to feed Daughter. I will try not to get up on a soap box, but I make no promises. I'm sure that I will be opening myself up to a lot of criticism, but as a tech at the emergency room who was trying to start an I.V. told me, I have tough skin.

When Husband and I found out we were pregnant there was a mix of emotions, but we came to terms and we were excited. We chose a wonderful midwife whom we both really liked and the pregnancy was going so well. The baby was doing great, there was no reason to think she wouldn't be healthy. Until 31 weeks. I had a tiny spot of blood and mentioned it at my appointment the next day. Turns out I was 1.5 cm dilated, the head was down way lower than it should have been and after the stress test the midwife found that I was having contractions every minute. I had no idea. A premature contraction feels a lot different than a full term contraction (I learned that later - it has been likened to your baby curling into a ball) and pair that with my high pain tolerance I didn't even notice. We were sent off to the hospital (I think this was 4 days before Christmas) where I was admitted for three days while they did their thing to stop the contractions and gave me steroids to help her lungs develop. There is a bit of irony there as I wanted an all natural pregnancy only to end up getting steroids.

I made it two weeks on bed rest until my water broke. Daughter was born at 33 weeks and 3 days (I used to say she was 6 weeks early until a doctor clarified that they call that 7 weeks early). During labor a doctor from the NICU came in telling us what to expect having a baby that early. I don't really remember anything but the baby will most likely be in the hospital until the due date. The birth was not the easiest, but that's a story for another day. I was only able to hold her for less than 5 minutes. We did skin to skin, but didn't even try having her latch on because the doctors were worried about her breathing. She was taken to the NICU for tests and to get cleaned up, but we were told they would bring her back if she showed signs of wanting to eat. About an hour later when they were done cleaning me up we asked the midwife to go back and see about her. She came back with great news; Daughter was going to be brought to our room!

That's when the breast feeding struggles began. Turns out that back in the NICU they decided (even though our chart and the bassinet clearly stated I wanted to breastfeed) to give her an ounce of formula. At the time I had no idea the damage that may have been done; that you're supposed to nurse your baby as soon as possible. It wasn't until 6 hours later, when it was well past her next feeding, that the nurse had a lactation consultant come in. It wasn't that I didn't try to get help from the nurses, because I had. Daughter's latch on looked wonderful, she wasn't sucking. I kept trying to tell the nurses there was something wrong and they kept putting me off telling me the lactation consultant would be in as soon as she came in for the day. Approximately 12 hours after Daughter was born a pediatrician was called in and confirmed that there was indeed something wrong. Her blood gases were high and she wasn't getting enough oxygen. Plus a heart murmur.

The day after she was born

Here's something else a lot of new moms may not know, if you can't breastfeed for any reason, it is important that you pump as soon as you are able. And then every 2-3 hours after. Nobody brought a pump to my room until 14 hours later. I got the tiniest amount of colostrum for her and then my milk came in. I pumped ever 2-3 hours for the almost 4 weeks Daughter was in the NICU and made an ounce a day. That is what she was eating every 3 hours. You would think the nurses would have been supportive, but the NICU was my first experience being judged simply because I didn't make enough milk. Not because I wasn't trying, I did skin to skin every time I was there and pumped every 2-3 hours. I don't think I went out except to get a meal once in a while or visit the NICU. I heard such comments from the nurses as:

This is all you have for us?

You need to drink more fluids!

Don't you know this is the amount she drinks at one feeding?

I already felt like a failure for having a premature baby, but now I got to feel like a double failure because my body didn't produce enough milk for my child. I never got to see the lactation consultant in the hospital again; unless you were having issues feeding you didn't get to see her (it was a large hospital and she was extremely busy). We did rent a hospital grade pump, like it was recommended, it just didn't help.

When Daughter was getting healthier and her sucking reflex started to kick in I wanted to breast feed. Not one nurse encouraged it. Instead I was told that I could breast feed but that she'd still have to be fed the ounce of formula since I wasn't making that much and she couldn't lose weight. I was told that the doctors needed to know how much she ate and they wouldn't be able to tell that if I breast fed, but the choice was ultimately mine. So basically if I wanted to doom my daughter to the fate of being in the NICU longer then I could breast feed. At least that's how it sounded to me. I should have fought more, but I really really just wanted Daughter home so I let them give her the formula.

Two days before she went home

When we got home from the hospital I tried breast feeding a lot, but I had a lot of the same fears. We were told at discharge that if she didn't eat so much per day (and we were supposed to keep track) that she'd be back in the hospital. Nobody told me that it would be okay to breast feed and then bottle feed. That it wasn't a big deal to mix formula and breast milk and that my daughter would be able to tell me if she wasn't getting enough food. Instead we were taught (like a lot of NICU parents) that we should not trust a preemie.

The Monday after she was discharged we had an appointment at the breast feeding clinic (the one they never told me that I could have gone to when she was in the NICU to get help with low milk supply) and the lactation consultant walked in to us giving her a bottle. You would think that a lactation consultant, or anyone really, would be happy that at least the baby was getting food. But no. She seriously yelled at us. As in raised her voice and yelled at us for giving her formula. And so I explained why I was giving her formula and that's when she became helpful. She told me to breast feed, then give the bottle, and then pump to try to increase my milk supply. She also gave me some herbs to try and told me that there was a prescription medication that could also take, but she hesitated going that route (as did I, Daughter had had quite enough prescriptions in her young life). So I tried all of that. This was my routine:

feed for an hour

bottle feed for a half hour

pump for a half hour

sleep for a half hour

get up and do it all over

It worked fine the week my husband was home so that he could do the bottle feeding and I could get an hour of sleep, but when he went back to work there was no way I could keep up that schedule and still stay sane. My milk supply never increased even though I was told it should within a week. I just physically and mentally couldn't do it anymore and so we switched to formula.

And if I thought the nurses and the lactation consultant were bad they were nothing compared to others (some complete strangers). One said it was a shame because breast feeding is the best thing about being a woman (now I'm a bad mother and just a shame to women everywhere? Might as well take me out back and shoot me; I'm sure the jury will understand). I was told that my child would be stupid, overweight, would hit puberty early, and wouldn't be good at math (I'm still trying to figure that one out). And the looks strangers would give could be horrid. Which is hilarious because I've seen strangers give those same looks to breast feeding moms; so the only thing I can come up with is that moms who are still feeding their children from a bottle or breast just aren't allowed outside the home.

I can't help but wonder if without all of the pressure to breast feed and with actual support from people I knew and from people who were caring for my child I might have made it a little longer. I'll never know and as guilty as I felt then I don't anymore. Daughter is 5, is not stupid, or overweight. I have no idea if she'll hit puberty early or not and I'm not going to worry about it. Girls are hitting puberty early, some have even been breast fed. I do know that I had a Son three years later. Everything went right and I still didn't produce enough milk for him. I started to do the same thing in terms of breast feed, bottle feed, pump until it suddenly occurred to me that I was exhausting myself and not being as good of a mom as I could be. From that point on I just breast fed during the day and pumped only when Husband was doing night feedings. And I was a much better mother.

Being a mom is a hard enough job without people judging you on how you feed, whether you cloth diaper or use disposables, or whether you cosleep or babywear; and I can't help but wonder if we supported each other instead of judging each other if maybe (just maybe) this mothering thing wouldn't be as hard.

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I am honoured to host this guest post from Sarah at Cerlandia, and invite you to leave supportive comments as well as visit her lovely blog.

xox
Farren Square

A History of American Motherhood

I don't have a TED talk for you today. I'm in the middle of moving, actually I'm going through all my creative gear and crafting supplies right now, and things have been so hectic that I haven't really had the time to watch anything!

But I have been listening! Today I listened to an incredible podcast from backstoryradio.org about the History of Motherhood in America. Though at first I was skeptical [how can three men present an accurate and unbiased representation of Motherhood?], it turned out to be a very entertaining and very informative historical podcast with several different guest questions and viewpoints. They even presented a feminist perspective.



Though I don't think it is a complete look at what it is to be a Modern Day Momma in North America, I do think it was worth listening to, and definitely worth checking out if you are into the cause and effect that historical accounts can so often underline.  While I do not have a TED talk for you today, I present to you the first podcast I have recommended,

Click here to Listen to The Good Mother: A History of American Motherhood 

The most interesting piece of information, in my opinion, was the account of Anna Jarvis, the "inventor" of Mother's Day - and what she actually intended Mother's Day to represent and to celebrate. Her intentions were much more noble than a box of chocolates and a bouquet of $9.99 roses - and next Mother's Day, I intend to make sure that people are aware of positive ways they can celebrate their mothers as well as make positive changes to their communities.