Monthly Archives: June 2006

Intra AWESOME device

So, at my last doctor’s visit we had the birth control discussion. Breastfeeding is some protection against conception right now, but not total protection, and since Mr. Squab and I would commit hara-kiri if we got knocked up right now, some form of control was in order. Prior to conceiving the Hatchling I was using the Nuva Ring, which is pretty frickin’ awesome for a lazy squab like myself. But the Ring has estrogen, which is contraindicated when breastfeeding on accounta it might dry up your milk supply. So that was out. The only Pill I could have taken was a progesterone only version, and that’s the kind you have to be extra sure to take at the same time every day. I am WAY too scatterbrained for that kind of commitment, people. So my lovely doctor recommended an IUD. I’d never really considered one of those. Not sure why, I just hadn’t. But people, they are AWESOME. I have this new kind that emits progesterone, which means that it reduces cramping, length and heaviness of flow, and all that good stuff. Some people even quit having their period altogether. And once it’s in, it lasts for five years. Five freaking YEARS. I mean, holy crap! But at the same time, anytime we decide we want to start trying again, it just comes right out and bang, you’re as fertile as if you hadn’t been using anything. This is a lazy person’s dream contraceptive! (Well, a lazy and monogamous person’s.) I’m a big fan.

How to Charm Me

Look back at me, bleary-eyed on the sofa as you’re leaving in the morning, and say, sympathetically, “Have a good day at work.”

Taking the Leap

Well, it’s official: I’m not going back to work. I sent in my official resignation this morning, and got back a brief, polite, but unhappy reply from my manager. Now it’s just a matter of filling out the requisite paperwork and tying up all the loose ends. Fortunately, I did an extra thorough job of preparing for my maternity leave in the hopes that I’d be able to make it permanent, so the transition should be fairly smooth.

On paper, you understand, this is an INSANE thing to do. I was the major breadwinner in our family, and we just bought a house, for chrissakes. Of course, Mr. Squab is likely to get a big promotion in the near future, and with the cost of childcare being so insane in this state, most of my pay would have been going towards daycare anyway. But still! We’re a little nervous about this. Mr. Squab will be ramping up his freelance work (he’s a graphic designer), and I’ll have to look for some freelance writing/editing work of my own, or maybe try to pick up a night class at a community college. It’s going to be tight-tight-tight, but after talking it over, we decided it would be worth it. I was absolutely dreading the thought of leaving the Hatchling with someone else three days a week – I know, I’m sure we both would have survived it and I’m just being a baby about it, but I was not looking forward to that first dropping off.

I also realized that I’ve been holding back a little – not completely investing in being a SAHM, just in case I couldn’t find a way to stay home permanently. Now that I know I will be with her all the time, I’m sort of excited about it. Having my mom at home was such an important part of my childhood, and I’m feeling very lucky that I’ll get to provide the same environment for the Hatchling. You know, unless we have to go into the poorhouse or something. Gulp. Wish us luck!

Good enough should be good enough

I had my first public breastfeeding experience yesterday. The Hatchling and I had met a friend and her baby for a walk around the lake, and towards the end of our journey she started getting fractious. I’ll tell you, it’s amazing how a hungry screaming baby can make you lose whatever vestiges of modesty you had left (not that I was that modest to begin with). I whipped out the boob, clutched the Hatchling across me, and shoved it in her mouth. Most of the tittage was covered either by her mouth or my hand, but there was still enough out to be noticeable if you were looking. Fortunately, I didn’t get any comments or leers (that I noticed, anyway), and the Hatchling got enough of a snack to quiet her down for the ride home. But it served as yet another reminder that breastfeeding requires certain sacrifices (of privacy, bodily integrity, comfort) that they don’t tell you about in the brochure.

Which is why, among other reasons, news like this really pisses me the fuck off:

A two-year national breast-feeding awareness campaign that culminated this spring ran television announcements showing a pregnant woman clutching her belly as she was thrown off a mechanical bull during ladies’ night at a bar — and compared the behavior to failing to breast-feed.

“You wouldn’t take risks before your baby’s born,” the advertisement says. “Why start after?”

Great. Really, just awesome. This is exactly how we should be doing this. Christ. OK, there are two things about this campaign that make me see red. First, it’s the coupling of the notion “breast is best” with the notion “and therefore anything else is harmful.” Look, I think you’d be hard pressed at this point to find any expert seriously arguing that breastmilk isn’t superior to formula. That battle’s been won, OK? We get it. But you know what? To imply that therefore women who don’t breastfeed are imperiling their children is holding mothers to a standard that we simply don’t apply elsewhere – even when it comes to other aspects of raising kids. I mean, can you imagine if we did? “What, you don’t dress your kid exclusively in Chanel? Why don’t you just send them out to play on the highway? Sheesh!” or “You use a Graco stroller instead of a Bugaboo??!!? That’s like sticking your kid in a Pinto that’s about to be rear ended!” Absurd, right? Right! Because in general, we don’t demand that people always and everywhere do the absolute BEST thing possible – we demand that they be good enough. Because we recognize that we live in an imperfect world where there are certain unavoidable constraints that don’t always permit us to choose the “best” option – and, moreover, that being expected always to opt for the best rather than the good enough places an undue burden on the person doing the choosing. So breast is best, OK. But dammit, formula is good enough! Hundreds of thousands of highly functioning, capable, talented adults were raised on formula. Maybe some of them would have had fewer ear infections if they’d been breastfed, but christ on a crutch, people, is that worth making a generation of mothers feel like rotting horse crap? No. No, it is not.

The second thing that bothers me about this campaign is how completely, utterly ineffective it is in its tactics. Let’s think for a minute about some of the myriad reasons why a woman might not breastfeed her baby: physical inability (inverted nipples, insufficient milk supply, etc.); logistical inability (must return to work at two weeks, employer doesn’t allow time off to pump, can’t afford to rent or buy a pump, etc.); psychological inability (postpartum depression, finding the thought of nursing distasteful, history of sexual abuse, etc.); and convenience. Now, of all those categories, the only one even potentially likely to change their behavior as a result of this guilt campaign is that last one, which I’ll bet accounts for the smallest percentage of women who don’t breastfeed. Everyone else just feels shittier without being able to do a damn thing about it. Rivka said it best: if you really want to encourage a culture of breastfeeding, try implementing any of the following:

Making an aggressive push for paid maternity leaves; longer maternity leaves comparable to the recommended length of exclusive breastfeeding; exemptions from welfare-to-work programs and welfare time limits for nursing mothers; insurance and/or public funding for lactation clinics, breast pumps, and milk-bank milk; greater support for nursing mothers doing salaried work, including protected opportunities to pump milk at work, increased flex-time employment options, and greater availability of part-time daycare slots; discouragement of routine obstetric and neonatal care practices which hinder breastfeeding; and, of course, stricter controls on environmental contaminants, such as mercury, known to taint breastmilk.

Of course, those things all cost money and require a shift in cultural attitudes about parenting, so, yeah, never mind. I guess the guilt thing is the way to go after all.

Wankers.

In case anyone was wondering

We are NOT a fan of vaccinations.

That is all.

High Anxiety

So, about two weeks ago I went on Zoloft. I never really got the “baby blues” as such, but a little after Mr. Squab went back to work, I noticed that I was starting to worry excessively about little things. I wasn’t sleeping well at all from being so tensed up, and I kept imagining awful (and highly unlikely) “what if” scenarios, like “what if I trip and fall down the stairs while I’m carrying the baby?” or “what if Mr. Squab gets into a car accident and dies?” or “what if the baby’s swaddling comes loose and she suffocates?” etc., etc. I couldn’t stop thinking about stuff like that.

Anxiety and depression run in my family, and I’ve certainly always been a “worrier.” Some of that is just standard oldest-child stuff: feeling responsible for the younger siblings, wanting to maintain order and carry on family traditions, wanting to “fix” things. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve noticed my worrying getting more intense, and sometimes veering into an unhealthy place. And of course extreme fatigue and the stress of a new baby don’t exactly do anything to alleviate nerves. When I was growing up, there was much less awareness of clinical depression and anxiety: my parents, who now take meds for those maladies, didn’t start them until well after I was out of the house. The drugs made a real difference for them, just in terms of keeping on an even keel, and I wonder sometimes how my childhood would have been different if drugs like Prozac and Celexa and Zoloft had been available back in the ’70s. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not like I had a bad upbringing or anything. Quite the contrary. But I think my good childhood was despite my parents’ struggles with depression and anxiety, a testament both to their abilities to overcome those things and to my ability to be blissfully unaware of them.

At any rate, I noticed that it was getting kind of bad, so I talked to Mr. Squab about it and he’d noticed it, too. I think anxiety can be worse than depression in some ways for the people living with the afflicted person. Anxiety can put so many demands on the entire family, making everyone overly cautious so as not to cause an outbreak. I don’t want Mr. Squab or the Hatchling to have to walk on eggshells just because I’m unreasonably nervous. There’s a teensy, irrational part of me that feels weak about this, a tiny little puritanical devil on my shoulder whispering “suck it up and just get over it already!” in my ear. But really, I know better than that: the weaker choice would be not to do anything about it. So Zoloft it is, for as long as I need it. And thank goodness, once again, that we’re among the insured, ’cause baby, those are some expensive pills.

Two Months Old

Dearest Hatchling,

Oy. This has been a rough 30 days. Your doctor says the time between 1 and 2 months is the hardest period, and lord I hope that’s the case because if it gets any harder I’m going to have to do something radical like accept Jesus as my Personal Lord and Savior and Give All My Troubles Unto Him. And nobody wants to see that.

On the plus side, you’ve learned how to coo and do real smiles this month, and there’s just about nothing cuter. You’re really smiling at us now, not just sort of practicing your facial muscles. We get big grins in the morning especially, and you also love to smile and talk at your Daddy when he’s giving you your medicine. You tell long stories composed of “ah-AHHhhh” and “oohaaahh” and “eh” – and really, it’s surprising the range of expression you can deliver with such a limited vocabulary. You especially like your Grandma Carol’s face and voice; she can get a story out of you even when you’re fussy, which lately is A LOT.

The classic case of colic starts at two weeks, so we thought we were out of the woods, but as soon as you hit 6 weeks old you started making up for lost time. Our previously well-behaved infant disappeared, and in her place is a howling, cranky, gassy, fuss-pot. Oh, you don’t cry all the time, and I know some parents, god love them, have it much worse. But you manage to wear us out nevertheless. The worst part of it is that you keep tantalizing us with a good day here and there, a day where you sleep and sleep, and wake up in a good mood and we have so much fun. But then that’s followed by three or four days where you’re all, “Sleep? What are you, NUTS? Sleep is for pussies! Real babies cry, dammit, and I’m nothing if not a real baby!” The only place you’ll sleep longer than 1/2 hour is next to me, after nursing. I’ve been logging in some loooooooong hours on the sofa this month, kiddo. This last week you’ve coupled this disdainful attitude towards Morpheus with an absolutely ravenous hunger, so not only am I sleep-deprived but my poor nipples feel like they’re going to FALL OFF. Oh, for the boobies of yesteryear, those hallowed bygone days when I had tits instead of teats.

But. For all that you can be a royal pain in the ass, I must admit that you’re still worth it. For one thing, when you’re not crying (and sometimes even when you are, actually), you’re still so damn cute I could eat you up. And now that we’ve finally got this breastfeeding thing down, it’s awfully gratifying to watch you get chubbier and chubbier. You finally fit into your clothes, which is a good thing since your Grandma Kathy got you so many outfits you could pretty much wear something new every day of the week. And now that you’re a little more … conscious … than you were last month, it’s more and more fun to play and talk with you. I know you’re trying your best to sort out this whole outside-the-womb thing, and I’m sure it’s crazy-confusing, so we’ll cut you some slack. But see if you can adopt a more Zen attitude in future, OK? I mean, colic is just sooooooo last month.

Love,
Mamala

Ain’t he cute?

The Hatchling’s adoring aunt has taken her for the evening so that Mr. Squab and I are free to do some much needed cleaning. (I’ve been longing to get some cleaning done, a statement which probably just made my mother fall off her chair. Suffice it to say that if I’m looking forward to cleaning, the situation is truly dire.) About 10 minutes after they’ve left:

Mr. Squab: Goddammit!

Me: What’s wrong?

Mr. Squab (holding some of the Hatchling’s clothes): These are so damn cute. Man. (frowns)

Me: Miss her?

Mr. Squab: Yes! I shouldn’t. There’s no reason to, but I do! Why is that?

Squab: Um, because she’s so damn cute?

Mr. Squab: She makes me so frustrated sometimes when she’s here, but as soon as she’s gone I want her back.

Squab: I think that’s called being a parent.

Looking a gift horse in the mouth

So on Friday night, we’re up in Duluth, and we put the Hatchling down around 10:30, as per usual, expecting that being as how we were in a new place and all, she’d probably get up earlier than usual, maybe in an hour or so. We went to bed shortly thereafter. I woke up at 3:18 and realized she hadn’t made a peep yet. So I jumped to the obvious conclusion: she must be dead. I leapt out of bed and went over to the bassinet to see if I could feel her breath with my hand. In attempting to do so, I accidentally hit her cheek. She stirred, and my maternal reaction went in only seconds from relief (she’s not dead!) to fear (Mr. Squab will kill me if I woke her up!). I jumped back into bed, and lo: she kept sleeping until 5:30 in the morning. And just to cement the deal, she did the same thing last night. Oh, blessed day.

We’re off!

Yesterday was Mr. Squab’s and my 4th anniversary. To celebrate, we’re heading up north for the weekend. We’ll spend one night with Mr. Squab’s mother and insanely large dog, and then we’ll leave the Hatchling to her grandma’s tender care for a night while we go enjoy a hotel in downtown Duluth, complete with jacuzzi. Ahhh, yeah. It will be the first night we’ve spent without the Hatchling … I’m both excited (sleeping through the night!) and nervous (what if she misses us?!?).

Have a good weekend.