Monthly Archives: April 2009

Tell it!

So, it’s Friday afternoon, and I’m sitting at the dining room table pumping out some extra milk while checking blogs, and I come across this post on babble which almost makes me stand up at the table and shout YESSS! only I don’t because that might wake up the baby and WE DO NOT WAKE UP THE BABY. Anyhoo, it’s this essay about breastfeeding and cultural attitudes thereon, and you really SHOULD read the whole thing, but the part that made me want to jump up and yell was this:

We tell women that breast is best, we tell them to breastfeed exclusively for the first six months, we even tell them it will raise their kid’s IQ (and we should give that a rest), and then we send them home with formula samples, or with a baby whose throat is too sore to suckle, or a mom whose milk is delayed because of surgery, and we don’t teach technique, and we are offended when a woman breastfeeds in public, so we make her feel housebound, and we don’t give a mother and her partner paid leave, and we send her to go back to a workplace without on-site childcare, and so her only alternative to formula is to plug her nipples into a machine, and if she’s lucky she gets periodic breaks and a “non-bathroom lactation room” in which to pump, and if she’s not she gets a toilet, and so on and so forth.

It’s no wonder women are ready to burn their nursing bras.

But it’s not that these public health recommendations are grounded in some return-to-the-1950s conspiracy, as Rosin suggests; they’re grounded in physiology. And science is validating the physiology of the mother-baby dyad — that is, both are healthier when they remain close to each other during the first several months postpartum. It’s not simply the milk that’s inimitable; it’s the mothering. (Indeed, “We actually don’t know if feeding infants human milk has the same benefits as breastfeeding,” says Labbok.) And mothering is something that our culture does not value enough to support. It is this dissonance between physiology and culture that has women so frustrated, and feminists like Rosin grasping at the bottle as a proxy for equality.

But is that really what we want? Powder rather than real power? In a brilliant New Yorker piece about the rise of the breast pump, Jill Lepore questions the direction of breastfeeding advocacy, which seems to be settling on the pump as a compromise to this conflict, with tax incentives for businesses with “Mother’s Rooms” in which babies are explicitly not welcome (“pump stations,” Lepore calls them) and Baby-Friendly hospitals sending women home with manual plastic pumps, and the president of the National Organization for Women calling for more “corporate lactation” programs. “It appears no longer within the realm of the imaginable that . . . ‘breastfeeding-friendly’ could mean making it possible for women and their babies to be together,” writes Lepore. “When did ‘women’s rights’ turn into ‘the right to work’?”

What a great question. Why did American feminism evolve in such a way that we think of biology as destiny, and that destiny as a prison? Why are we so willing to surrender the parts and processes that makes us female rather than demanding that society support them? We’ve broken down doors and cracked glass ceilings, when what we need to do is redesign the building.

YEEEEESSSSSSSSSS. How can we get policy makers to hear this and understand it? How can we get the medical establishment to give breastfeeding and mothering in general more than just verbal support? (Did anyone ever mention to me that my c-sections were likely the reason my milk took so long to come in? No. And have I told you about the crazy night nurse who told me I shouldn’t breastfeed my baby or hold it for too long?!!?) Breast is best: OK. We get it. But it’s also goddamnmotherfucking HARD for a whole lot of us, for a whole host of reasons. Maybe it’s time for the people pushing the breast-is-best message to stop using it to make mothers feel guilty and start using it to push for social changes that will actually enable families to breastfeed if they can or find optimal alternatives if they can’t. For chrissakes.

Oh, and on the same topic – this post has some interesting information, too.

Plaything for a dud economy

Uses to which the Hatchling put a single piece of tissue paper over the course of an hour this evening:

1. Baby blanket for her doll.
2. Pillows for her head and her doll’s body as they lay on the carpet in a meditational pose. (Me: “What are you doing, honey?” The Hatchling: “I just wistening to my music.”
3. Changing pad/diaper, again for her doll.
4. Drape for Daddy’s foot.
5. Toreador-style hankie to wave in the air.
6. Thing to stuff up her shirt, look in the mirror, and try to find it again.
7. Sculptural material for found art project involving carefully removing tiny shreds of the tissue, balling them up, and placing/stacking them around/on the bigger sheet.
8. Elephant Man-style face mask, looking through the holes torn for the art project above.

And I probably missed some uses. I mean, christ: why did we spend all that money on awesome birthday presents when we could’ve just gotten her a damn box of kleenex?

Happy Earth Day

Three things:

1. Not to harsh your enviro-buzz, but check out this post by Kevin Drum. Really puts all that recycling you’re so committed to in perspective, don’t it? (Not that I’m going to quit recycling or anything. But perhaps some legislative oversight is in order, no?)

2. This is a damn good op-ed.

3. Go look at this blog, and crack up. I can SOOOO see the Hatchling doing something like this.

Now go do something tree-huggy.

Three Years Old

Dearest Hatchling,
Boy howdy. You turned three years old yesterday, and what a year it has been! I thought the difference between one and two was big, but the difference between two and three is … also big! This year has been all about growing up, physically, emotionally, verbally, mentally – you’ve been covering all the bases. You’re wearing 5T clothes and toddler size 11 shoes, and you dwarf every other kid your age at school or on the playground. At some point in the future your Viking-like proportions may be a hurdle to get over, but right now you don’t see anything odd in being a good head taller than your peers, and neither do they. Here’s hoping that lasts.

Girls with hats

But your physical prowess is not limited to growth – oh, no! You also are really good at playing catch – I mean, you actually catch the ball a lot, which is pretty good for age three – and you have a scary throwing arm. Perhaps softball is in your future? But then, we wouldn’t want to deny your possibly greater talent for the terpsichorean arts. You’ve loved to dance pretty much since you could walk, but you’ve now reached a point where you can incorporate others’ choreography (you’re particularly fond of the “dancey-dances” from Yo Gabba Gabba) in addition to creating your own. Often, this past winter, as soon as Daddy got home from work, it was dance time for the whole family. You’d spend maybe 10 minutes carefully explaining and teaching us new moves (“Ok-ok-ok, now how you do DIS one is, hands WAAAAY uppa dee air! Good job, evvyone!”) and then it was follow-the-leader time in a joyful free-for-all. Sure, sometimes you look more like you’re channeling Elaine on Seinfeld than Leroy from Fame (Original Fame reference! HOLLA!), but either way the result is purely awesome to behold.

The little ballerina advances

Verbally, you’ve expanded your vocabulary by leaps and bounds, and if you’re still not *quite* as articulate as a lot of kids your age, it certainly doesn’t stop you from communicating with us. Sure, your pronunciation often verges on Swedish Chef, but your dramatic arts are Sarah Bernhardt all the way. The gestures! The expressions! The condescending smiles! The vehement stomping of feet! At our weekly parent and kid class, the teacher refers to you as “exuberant” and that pretty much sums it up. You have big feelings, big reactions to things, and that is both wonderful and exhausting.

Ellie's third birthday

Speaking of wonderful, you’ve been a real trouper throughout the whole pregnancy/birth/baby invasion process. Having a little sister is a beautiful thing, but it’s also a biiiiiiiiig change from being the center of attention all the time, and I’m frankly bowled over by how generous you’ve been with the transition. You love to hold and kiss the baby, and you’re the first person to alert us if she cries or seems at all unhappy. The other day after a tiring morning out, you were on the verge of a major tantrum, but when the Sprout started crying you stopped and said “help baby sister, Mama,” so I’d be sure to know it was OK to tend to her first.

Daddy and his girls

In fact, you’re regularly willing to step aside, stand back and wait for the baby to be cared for before asserting your own needs, and this makes me a little bit sad – because who likes making the switch from star to co-star? – but mostly enormously proud. I know lots of parents who mourn the passing of babyhood or toddlerhood, who miss the previous stages as much as they look forward to the coming ones. I’ve never really felt that way, because you just keep getting better and better with each year. You’re an amazing big sister and an amazing kid, and your daddy and I know we’re so lucky to have you for our oldest daughter. Here’s to another wonderful, exhausting, exuberant year.

Ellie's third birthday

love,
Mamala

The image of grace and dignity

You know what makes an outing to the park on an absolutely lovely spring day somewhat LESS enjoyable? When your nearly-three-year-old makes one of her patented breaks for freedom combined with an attempt to steal another kid’s ball, thereby making it necessary for you to leap up, nursing baby still attached to your left boob, yelling COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW and mouthing “I’m so sorry” to the other kid’s mom, at which point the baby comes unattached, leaving your boob right out there for the whole park to see.

Not that I’m particularly modest or anything. But still. It’s a little wearing.

One Month Old

Dearest Sprout,
Holy hannah, I cannot believe that it’s already been one month since we welcomed you into the world! I’m going to do my best to write you monthly letters for the first year, just like I did for your big sister, but let me apologize in advance if I don’t make it every month. I had no idea how EASY it was with only one kid until I had two.

Sister worship

I must say that, overall, your birth was a lot more relaxing than your sister’s. Sure, you came two days early, but you timed it for when our doctor was on call and Daddy was already off work, so we can’t really complain. My, but you were (are) a big baby, though! Almost three whole pounds bigger than your sister was. Way to raise the level of competition from the get go. It took the medical team quite some time to get you out, even with the C-section, and there was an audible reaction to your size as soon as everyone laid eyes on you. “Oh, that one’s at LEAST 5 pounds,” joked the nurse anaesthetist, and then everyone started laying odds on how big you really were. (The OR nurse called exactly at 10 pounds, 5 ounces.) You dwarfed the other babies in the nursery, and wowed all your visitors with vivid impressions of a grumpy sumo wrestler.

Freshly hatched

So: one month seems to be treating you pretty well, though as I recall it’s the second month that started getting rough last time, so don’t think you’re off the hook or anything! So far you’re an amazingly mellow and sweet little babysquab, happy to sleep and eat and stare around, only crying when you’re hungry or gassy or way past needing a new diaper. To say that your place of residence is a little more chaotic than when your sister was a month old would be a vast understatement, but happily you’ve taken it all in stride, snoozing away while the Hatchling shrieks or dances or pitches fits in the background.

Three Robinson Women

On the one hand, I feel bad that you’ll never get the exclusive, undivided attention that your sister got when she was your age. On the other hand, I’m much more relaxed about my ability to parent you, so the attention you are getting is probably less likely to send you into therapy in later years. It all comes out in the wash, right?

Soooo sleepy

Already this month, you’ve tackled learning how to nurse (still working on that one), getting a bath (hated the first one, loved the second one), getting your nights and days mixed up (you could stop that now, if you wanted), and, oh yes, shooting poop into your mama’s face. You’ve been busy! As for the rest of us, we’ve been pretty busy, too, adjusting to this new addition to the household. I can say pretty confidently that all four of us are pretty tired and overwhelmed, working on getting more sleep and settling into a more normal routine. But the most important thing, as your father observed the day we brought you home from the hospital, is that “our family feels complete now.” Thanks for completing us, baby girl. Now quit pooping in my face.

She's either concentrating, or DARING you to mess with her

love,
Mama

There are good moments

Today, I was changing the Sprout’s diaper and the Hatchling came up behind me to watch.

“Oh. POOOOP,” she observed knowledgeably.

“Yep, I’m changing the baby’s diaper. Gotta get that poop off her butt.”

The Hatchling patted me on the back approvingly, and then asked, “Scwatchy back?”

“Sure!” I said, “I love having my back scratched.”

A brief but pleasurable back scratching occurred; then the Hatchling noticed the Sprout’s old diaper, wrapped up and sitting on the arm of the sofa.

“Oh! I take-a diaper, frow in garbage,” she said helpfully, and proceeded to do just that.

“Thank you, honey!” I said, “that was very, very helpful!”

“OK,” the Hatchling said. You know, like: no big deal, mom.

Those big-sister instincts are definitely kicking in.

I write letters

Dear Sprout,
For your information, the hours between 2 and 5 am are generally considered ideal for SLEEPING, unless you are an owl, a bat, or a college student. As you do not fall into any of these categories, it would be greatly appreciated if you would desist from your nocturnal wakefulness. We enjoy hanging out with you, but if you don’t let us get some sleep we may have to consider selling you to the highest bidder.

Sincerely,
your exhausted parents

Seriously?

The Sprout is (knock wood, throw salt over shoulder, sacrifice to the gods, etc.) an extremely mellow and easy going baby, which is a good thing considering the major conniption fits her older sister is giving me lately, but last night she got me but good in a manner that demanded to be blogged:

So all the houseguests have gone to bed, the Hatchling has finally quieted down and gone to sleep, and it’s just me and Mr. Squab waiting for the Sprout to settle down so we can go to sleep. I figure I’ll change her diaper so she’ll feel all nice and clean, so I put her down on the sofa and get started. She’s had a terrible diaper rash so once the, um, area is all prepared, I get some ointment out and lean in to make sure I apply it in all the correct places. I’ve applied maybe 1/2 of the salve when the Sprout … well, I’m not sure what to call what she did. Projectile shitting? A shart? The unholy marriage of gas and excrement? You get the idea. Did I mention how I was leaning in at the time? Yeah. You don’t know from bad parenting moments until your infant child has SHOT LIQUID POOP ALL OVER YOUR FACE. And yes, my mouth was open, since you ask. “Thank god you had your glasses on,” was Mr. Squab’s response (after running into the kitchen to get paper towels and water to help me clean up).

I tell you what, there is no way to prepare for something like that. But you can be damn sure I’m keeping my distance in all future ointment applying situations.