I am convinced that on the days you most need/want your little one to have a nice, long, predictable nap, there is a sneaky little being I will call the Nap Gnome. And I hate him (or her, to be fair).
Here's how the Nap Gnome struck today. We were driving back from a lovely outing to the Children's Museum. Hannah was clearly tired, but also very involved with her PB&J, so I was confident we could make it home in time. Torrey and I were planning to go see a movie together, a rare pleasure, so a good nap was essential to keeping the grandparents willing to babysit so we can spend some time alone together.
So then, I made a fatal error, and set out to take 99 to I-90, rather than I-5 to I-90. Thus, I got caught in HempFest traffic. My fault? No, it was the Nap Gnome. Do not be deceived.
So I lost a precious fifteen minutes to traffic, then heard the kiss of death: Hannah's sudden and total silence. I convinced myself she would transfer just fine, in spite of the story that history tells. So we peaceably drive home and pull into the driveway, a minefield of nap-thwarting obstacles.
Obstacle # 1 - my father in law was meeting with a plumber about doing some work on the house. Where? In the driveway, of course. I pulled right up to the tips of their toes, practically, and into the middle of their conversation.
Obstacle # 2 - our screechy miniature poodle sees us come home and, as usual, goes completely batshit crazy. I couldn't sleep through his dramatics if I were on sedatives.
Okay, so by now, Hannah is awake, but I'm just certain I can pull her back into sleep if I scurry inside past any more excitement. But then she sees grandma, and she wants to play with grandma. Grandma gets it, though, having been a sleep-worshipping mother, and clears our path to the bedroom as though we were fleeing a mob.
We're on the bed, and Hannah is sleepily asking for "beebie", which I'm certain will lull her back to sleep. Just as I feel her body start to slacken and ease toward sleep, the damn dog starts whining to get back out of the bedroom that he was whining to get into just seconds before. Hannah's blue eyes pop open, and she performs her amazing flip-twist, in which she quickly and with near superhuman strength flips from a side-lying position to her knees before I can even hope to convince her otherwise.
Eventually, I lure her back to lying down, having her beebie. Then grandpa and the plumber walk along the side of the house, right by the window above our bed, which is open. Repeat above scenario. Except now she wants to go play, because grandpa is synonymous with play around here.
Round three. I swear she's almost there, then daddy busts in singing "There's a Dog in School", much to Hannah's delight. Seriously? Seriously?!
Eventually I gave up. What is it about a missed nap that makes me feel like an abject failure as a parent? Our plans worked out just fine and she was easy on the grandparents. At bedtime she basically dove in. But there is something about that two-hour break in the middle of the day that is so essential for parental sanity, necessary for a child's health and well-being, and yet at times, utterly elusive.
Nap Gnome, you will be defeated tomorrow. Watch me.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
NOW I Know What Fear Feels Like
I went shopping today with Hannah while having my car serviced, and emerged a new kind of mother: one who thought, for a brief and terrifying moment, that she may have lost her child.
I don't want to be melodramatic here, because the truth is, I knew deep down in my mommy gut that she was somewhere in that store. But the thought crossed my mind, for a fraction of a second, that maybe I was wrong and she wasn't. It entered into my consciousness that I could lose my child.
So Hannah is in the dressing room with me while I try on clothes. Things are going well. This particular dressing room has curtains instead of doors, and naturally, Hannah chooses the moment I have become topless to make a break for it. "Hannah, stop please. Listen to your mama. Come back here," I say calmly as I hurry to make myself decent. Then I emerge from the dressing room, confident that I will find her within 10 feet or so.
Instead, I see a store full of people who definitely did NOT see a toddler dashing by, unattended. I called her name. Nothing. She has never hidden from me, and there's really nowhere to hide in this store. I look back at our dressing room to see her beloved monkey and the doll my mom bought her for Christmas laying on the floor, and I have my moment. It was a completely internalized moment of indescribable dread. Did some creep come in off the street and snatch her as I was pulling a shirt on? Was she so fast that she made it out the front door without anyone noticing? Oh my god, I think my whole life just changed forever. This all happened in approximately one half of one second, and only another parent knows just how keenly one can feel something in such a short period of time.
Then, knowing Hannah as I do, I spot the most clearly off-limits part of the store, will myself to keep breathing, and find her quietly heading down the back staircase. I hurried down to meet her, crouched down in front of her and told her "Hannah, honey, don't ever run away like that again. Mommy was so scared. I thought I lost you, and I love you more than anything in the world." She must have sensed the truth of my fear, because then she made a sad face, said "Mommy" and gave me a bear hug. Sorry for the melodrama, but I swear my love for her grew exponentially in that moment, when both of us understood that we cannot take each other for granted. (At least, I assume that's what she understood - it was likely much less profound!)
In the spirit of Bill Maher, I have 3 "New Rules."
1. New Rule - Unless I can immediately break into a dead sprint after my child, I will strap her down in some fashion. Monkey backpack/leash/harness thingy, stroller, Ergo, carseat or highchair.
2. New Rule - I will call my mom and dad and tell them, again, how sorry I am for doing things like not coming home at night when I was in high school. I guess that's not really a rule, but still.
3. New Rule - I will eliminate distractions when I am with my child, because clearly everything can change in a nanosecond.
And in case anyone reading this plans to open a retail clothing store, may I suggest childproof dressing room doors? Please and thank you.
I don't want to be melodramatic here, because the truth is, I knew deep down in my mommy gut that she was somewhere in that store. But the thought crossed my mind, for a fraction of a second, that maybe I was wrong and she wasn't. It entered into my consciousness that I could lose my child.
So Hannah is in the dressing room with me while I try on clothes. Things are going well. This particular dressing room has curtains instead of doors, and naturally, Hannah chooses the moment I have become topless to make a break for it. "Hannah, stop please. Listen to your mama. Come back here," I say calmly as I hurry to make myself decent. Then I emerge from the dressing room, confident that I will find her within 10 feet or so.
Instead, I see a store full of people who definitely did NOT see a toddler dashing by, unattended. I called her name. Nothing. She has never hidden from me, and there's really nowhere to hide in this store. I look back at our dressing room to see her beloved monkey and the doll my mom bought her for Christmas laying on the floor, and I have my moment. It was a completely internalized moment of indescribable dread. Did some creep come in off the street and snatch her as I was pulling a shirt on? Was she so fast that she made it out the front door without anyone noticing? Oh my god, I think my whole life just changed forever. This all happened in approximately one half of one second, and only another parent knows just how keenly one can feel something in such a short period of time.
Then, knowing Hannah as I do, I spot the most clearly off-limits part of the store, will myself to keep breathing, and find her quietly heading down the back staircase. I hurried down to meet her, crouched down in front of her and told her "Hannah, honey, don't ever run away like that again. Mommy was so scared. I thought I lost you, and I love you more than anything in the world." She must have sensed the truth of my fear, because then she made a sad face, said "Mommy" and gave me a bear hug. Sorry for the melodrama, but I swear my love for her grew exponentially in that moment, when both of us understood that we cannot take each other for granted. (At least, I assume that's what she understood - it was likely much less profound!)
In the spirit of Bill Maher, I have 3 "New Rules."
1. New Rule - Unless I can immediately break into a dead sprint after my child, I will strap her down in some fashion. Monkey backpack/leash/harness thingy, stroller, Ergo, carseat or highchair.
2. New Rule - I will call my mom and dad and tell them, again, how sorry I am for doing things like not coming home at night when I was in high school. I guess that's not really a rule, but still.
3. New Rule - I will eliminate distractions when I am with my child, because clearly everything can change in a nanosecond.
And in case anyone reading this plans to open a retail clothing store, may I suggest childproof dressing room doors? Please and thank you.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Pretend life
Last time I wrote, I was just about to step out of the whirlwind of my first year as a full-time working mom. I made it through approximately 170 5am wake ups, and nearly as many dark and rainy commutes to Seatac with my toddler. I was running mile 26. I used up all of my sick days and then some, on actually being sick. (A side effect of only stopping to sleep.) I had just been cussed out by a student, which seemed so important then, and now seems like it happened in another life.
That is the miracle of summer. Teaching is one of the only professions in which you get to have a pretend life for several months out of the year, for which you continue to get paid. I would argue that teaching is also one of only a handful of professions in which this is absolutely necessary to avoid complete and total burnout. Teaching is, after all, the 2nd most stressful job in the world, I hear. Second only to air traffic controllers. (I didn't make that up, but I'm not saying it's gospel.)
But this is not a post about teaching. It is a post about getting to play the part of a stay-at-home mom for a few months, and how the grass is always greener. It is also about ice cream melting on sticky toddler hands, my naked daughter running through the sprinkler, sleeping in, and basically having a two-month weekend.
I love being a mom. I love reading board books, playing silly games, taking classes with Hannah and learning how to appreciate a life that is simpler, slower and a whole lot less sexy than a life without children. I don't love being hit in the face repeatedly at nap time, and I don't love grocery store tantrums. But at the end of the day, being a mom is the absolute best part of my life. So it's hard to face going back to work eight hours a day, even if it is to a job I truly love. It is fulfilling, and absolutely necessary, so I strive to be the best mom I can be and be as present as I can for my child the other 16 hours of the day that I am physically in her presence. But it's hard.
See, there's not really a place for working moms in society. You're not able to be nearly as dedicated and ambitious as your colleagues. Suddenly all their dedication and ambition seem kind of stupid to you. You also don't get to connect with other moms in the way you would if you were at every play group and every enriching toddler class. Right now, today, I feel like a stay at home mom. I'm tired and could really use some intellectual stimulation, but knowing that will come, I am loving every minute of this. But come August 23rd, I fear I'll be back to feeling like I live in no-woman's land. Because, you see, other full-time working moms absolutely do not have time to form working moms play groups. Grocery shopping and is a bit of a stretch (thank you for existing, Amazon Fresh).
So I try to just embrace that this is my path. I love my work, I love parenting, and I have a very full and a little bit crazy life. Right now I get to enjoy a short season of undivided devotion to my role as mother, so I suppose the only thing to do is just enjoy.
And now for a little taste of our sticky, silly, wonderful summer so far. =)
That is the miracle of summer. Teaching is one of the only professions in which you get to have a pretend life for several months out of the year, for which you continue to get paid. I would argue that teaching is also one of only a handful of professions in which this is absolutely necessary to avoid complete and total burnout. Teaching is, after all, the 2nd most stressful job in the world, I hear. Second only to air traffic controllers. (I didn't make that up, but I'm not saying it's gospel.)
But this is not a post about teaching. It is a post about getting to play the part of a stay-at-home mom for a few months, and how the grass is always greener. It is also about ice cream melting on sticky toddler hands, my naked daughter running through the sprinkler, sleeping in, and basically having a two-month weekend.
I love being a mom. I love reading board books, playing silly games, taking classes with Hannah and learning how to appreciate a life that is simpler, slower and a whole lot less sexy than a life without children. I don't love being hit in the face repeatedly at nap time, and I don't love grocery store tantrums. But at the end of the day, being a mom is the absolute best part of my life. So it's hard to face going back to work eight hours a day, even if it is to a job I truly love. It is fulfilling, and absolutely necessary, so I strive to be the best mom I can be and be as present as I can for my child the other 16 hours of the day that I am physically in her presence. But it's hard.
See, there's not really a place for working moms in society. You're not able to be nearly as dedicated and ambitious as your colleagues. Suddenly all their dedication and ambition seem kind of stupid to you. You also don't get to connect with other moms in the way you would if you were at every play group and every enriching toddler class. Right now, today, I feel like a stay at home mom. I'm tired and could really use some intellectual stimulation, but knowing that will come, I am loving every minute of this. But come August 23rd, I fear I'll be back to feeling like I live in no-woman's land. Because, you see, other full-time working moms absolutely do not have time to form working moms play groups. Grocery shopping and is a bit of a stretch (thank you for existing, Amazon Fresh).
So I try to just embrace that this is my path. I love my work, I love parenting, and I have a very full and a little bit crazy life. Right now I get to enjoy a short season of undivided devotion to my role as mother, so I suppose the only thing to do is just enjoy.
And now for a little taste of our sticky, silly, wonderful summer so far. =)
Facing down the fountain at Crossroads Park
Morning snuggle time with her dollies
Taking off down the Portland riverfront
Scheming
Hannah's personal heaven - a pile of soccer balls
Missing her friends at school? Maybe just a little?
About to be blissed out
Riding the Lala
Popsicles!
A reminder for mom
Snuggling during the thunderstorm
Family fun at the Ziggy Marley zoo concert
Off on an adventure!
Scary strong!
Block party fun time
Is there anything more summer than kids running through the sprinkler?
Story time
Mommy-Hannah silly time. The hoods were her idea.
Kindermusik!
At a concert on the farm
Goin' crazy at the zoo
Wearing last year's Halloween costume in the middle of summer at the Farmers Market. Because you only live once.
After splashing in the fountain at UVillage.
G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Letting Go
A website called "Tiny Buddha" listed blogging as an example of a creative outlet that can help one let go of stress, anger, and the like. So here I am. Poised and ready to let go.
I am feeling rather wrung out at present. The harsh reality is, I have direct responsibility for my feeling wrung out. Not total responsibility, but responsibility just the same. I want resolution, and sometimes there isn't any. Sometimes there is just the lesson.
So all school year, I have worked with a student who is the single most challenging student of my career. I won't bore you with specifics. To quote Jerry Maguire, I would love to say to this girl "you don't know what it's like to be me, out here for you. It is an up at dawn, pride swallowing seige that I will never fully tell you about!" I have spent hours of non-contracted, unpaid time in meetings with her and her family, developing behavior plans for her, thinking about how to help her, communicating with all her teachers to try - against all odds, it seemed - to find a way to help her start passing some classes. You could say I'm not exactly objective when it comes to this girl.
Part of this pride swallowing seige, though, has been a trust and a rapport that developed between us. When she started to make impressive strides as a student, I felt so proud of her. I felt as if my work was not in vain. I should add that this kind of stuff is why I became a teacher. Not my insatiable love of literature, or a masochistic desire to grade essays. I am a teacher because I love watching teenagers transform themselves.
Last week she clearly gave up. Worse, I could see her dragging her best friend, a girl who had a 0.7 first semester and now has a 3.5, down with her. She became disrespectful as all hell, in an assortment of charming ways. I was angry. Scratch that - I was FURIOUS.
But naturally, as teachers (oh, and as mothers! So for me, all the f-ing time) we're supposed to be the model of patient, empathic communication. We are expected to respond and never to react. Well, twice last week, I full on reacted to this student, and I own it. She reacted back by screaming at me and cussing me out. It was so dramatic that you could say she went out in a blaze of glory.
Now, she's no longer my student, I have heard nothing from her mother (except that my initial email to tell her about the incident was "one sided"), and I have a lingering dark cloud of guilt for not responding to it all with the smiling face of the Dalai Lama. I feel maligned, deeply disrespected and completely discounted. Did I make some mistakes here? Sure. But the fact is, the same personality that allows me to connect with and truly love my students has an underbelly - and it's called a temper.
I can discuss all this with my principal, and maybe (but probably not) with her, but ultimately the letting go - and the learning - is on me. Right now, I feel really sad (though significantly less so than at the start of writing this!), but hope that this will become another milepost in my journey, one at which I learned something that actually did inch me closer to responding to hate with love, to sadness with joy, and to anger with peace.
3 more days, and then onto summer! And with it, blog posts about long, lazy summer days with my busy, brilliant little toddler.
I am feeling rather wrung out at present. The harsh reality is, I have direct responsibility for my feeling wrung out. Not total responsibility, but responsibility just the same. I want resolution, and sometimes there isn't any. Sometimes there is just the lesson.
So all school year, I have worked with a student who is the single most challenging student of my career. I won't bore you with specifics. To quote Jerry Maguire, I would love to say to this girl "you don't know what it's like to be me, out here for you. It is an up at dawn, pride swallowing seige that I will never fully tell you about!" I have spent hours of non-contracted, unpaid time in meetings with her and her family, developing behavior plans for her, thinking about how to help her, communicating with all her teachers to try - against all odds, it seemed - to find a way to help her start passing some classes. You could say I'm not exactly objective when it comes to this girl.
Part of this pride swallowing seige, though, has been a trust and a rapport that developed between us. When she started to make impressive strides as a student, I felt so proud of her. I felt as if my work was not in vain. I should add that this kind of stuff is why I became a teacher. Not my insatiable love of literature, or a masochistic desire to grade essays. I am a teacher because I love watching teenagers transform themselves.
Last week she clearly gave up. Worse, I could see her dragging her best friend, a girl who had a 0.7 first semester and now has a 3.5, down with her. She became disrespectful as all hell, in an assortment of charming ways. I was angry. Scratch that - I was FURIOUS.
But naturally, as teachers (oh, and as mothers! So for me, all the f-ing time) we're supposed to be the model of patient, empathic communication. We are expected to respond and never to react. Well, twice last week, I full on reacted to this student, and I own it. She reacted back by screaming at me and cussing me out. It was so dramatic that you could say she went out in a blaze of glory.
Now, she's no longer my student, I have heard nothing from her mother (except that my initial email to tell her about the incident was "one sided"), and I have a lingering dark cloud of guilt for not responding to it all with the smiling face of the Dalai Lama. I feel maligned, deeply disrespected and completely discounted. Did I make some mistakes here? Sure. But the fact is, the same personality that allows me to connect with and truly love my students has an underbelly - and it's called a temper.
I can discuss all this with my principal, and maybe (but probably not) with her, but ultimately the letting go - and the learning - is on me. Right now, I feel really sad (though significantly less so than at the start of writing this!), but hope that this will become another milepost in my journey, one at which I learned something that actually did inch me closer to responding to hate with love, to sadness with joy, and to anger with peace.
3 more days, and then onto summer! And with it, blog posts about long, lazy summer days with my busy, brilliant little toddler.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Are you mom enough? Why yes, yes I am.
So I read the Time article "Are You Mom Enough?" and I don't see what all the fuss is about. The magazine cover is totally sensationalist and not at all an accurate picture of what breastfeeding looks like at any age, but I wouldn't expect anything else from a magazine. Isn't that their job? To sensationlize things so they can sell magazines? Maybe our job is to take them less seriously.
I've read countless blogs since about how the cover sets full-term breastfeeders up to be gawked at like freaks. I had a moment, nursing my 20-month-old on the floor of Target in hopes of off-setting a brewing tantrum, in which I wondered how many of my fellow Target shoppers were indeed gawking at me like a freak. Then I realized that it's probably a little self-indulgent to assume anyone is that interested in me or my nursling. As it turns out, they seemed much more interested in choosing just the right socks or freezer bags.
The article itself was just not that shocking to me. Dare I say it even came off as objective? Attachment parenting is a beautiful, complicated and very challenging way of raising children, and is treated as such by the article. Big whoop.
What I want more of is articles and books that are honest about what a crazy ride parenting is. I hope we can put down the stupid baby books and start talking more openly about what a walking contradiction we all are. I'm totally on board with all things attachment parenting, yet I work full time and my daughter goes to daycare. Half the time I feel guilty about not being a stay-at-home mom, the other half I feel guilty for not keeping up professionally with my colleagues. But more and more these days, I don't feel guilty at all. I feel like someone who is doing a hell of a hard job and loving it for the exhausting, joyful mess that it is.
2 hours and 52 minutes until I can justify a glass of wine, but who's counting?
I've read countless blogs since about how the cover sets full-term breastfeeders up to be gawked at like freaks. I had a moment, nursing my 20-month-old on the floor of Target in hopes of off-setting a brewing tantrum, in which I wondered how many of my fellow Target shoppers were indeed gawking at me like a freak. Then I realized that it's probably a little self-indulgent to assume anyone is that interested in me or my nursling. As it turns out, they seemed much more interested in choosing just the right socks or freezer bags.
The article itself was just not that shocking to me. Dare I say it even came off as objective? Attachment parenting is a beautiful, complicated and very challenging way of raising children, and is treated as such by the article. Big whoop.
What I want more of is articles and books that are honest about what a crazy ride parenting is. I hope we can put down the stupid baby books and start talking more openly about what a walking contradiction we all are. I'm totally on board with all things attachment parenting, yet I work full time and my daughter goes to daycare. Half the time I feel guilty about not being a stay-at-home mom, the other half I feel guilty for not keeping up professionally with my colleagues. But more and more these days, I don't feel guilty at all. I feel like someone who is doing a hell of a hard job and loving it for the exhausting, joyful mess that it is.
2 hours and 52 minutes until I can justify a glass of wine, but who's counting?
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Mommy Purgatory
Hannah is just on the heels of turning 18 months, which is almost impossible to believe. I hear that milestone is a game changer. MY mom still remembers how hard it was with me between then and about 2 1/2, and that was nearly 30 years ago. Other sentiments include "the first time it got harder instead of easier" and "oooh, just wait." Yipee.
First the positives. We were out and about the other day, and Hannah galloped with excitement about where we were going. She squealed with enthusiasm and delight at the playground this morning, in a way totally unlike baby squealing. This was real, built up, genuine thrill. She is learning how to jump, and she's got some sick dance moves. Her vocabulary expands daily, and she repeats song lyrics. She reaches up to hold hands, leans back into me to read books on the couch, and can clearly communicate simple preferences. Watching her grow is the adventure of a lifetime.
And then there are tantrums. Holy shit.
I'm pretty sure today was our first official, full blown, toddler tantrum. We were grocery shopping, and I knew trouble was brewing when Hannah wanted to get out of the cart and push. Trader Joes was just stupidly crowded - which is, naturally, when they always do their restocking - and staying near me and walking wasn't enough. She needed to run, and run fast. So I put her back in the cart. Sounds simple, right?
The meltdown came, then the aftershocks. (Which lasted for about an hour, including all the way home.) I can handle Hannah freaking out. I'm her mom, and would gladly throw myself into oncoming traffic for her benefit. What could potentially put me over the edge one day is the disapproving glances from John Q Public, which suggest I should be somehow able to magically control the situation. Surely they don't expect me to just abandon a full grocery cart and book it out the door so that they don't have to hear her cry. Surely they have considered that we have no food in the house and the work week starts for us, too, tomorrow. Surely they have spent a cumulative five minutes in the presence of toddlers throughout their lifetime and know that tantrums don't mean that the kid is spoiled, doing something "bad", or that the parent of said toddler is a total failure.
Staying serenely calm, soothing and gentle during all this is a spiritual discipline. I love my little girl, but let's call a spade a spade. Bedtime was sweet tonight. Looking at her angelic sleeping face, it's hard to imagine it tear streaked, dramatically contorted and snotty just hours before. Well, toddlerhood, let's do this.
First the positives. We were out and about the other day, and Hannah galloped with excitement about where we were going. She squealed with enthusiasm and delight at the playground this morning, in a way totally unlike baby squealing. This was real, built up, genuine thrill. She is learning how to jump, and she's got some sick dance moves. Her vocabulary expands daily, and she repeats song lyrics. She reaches up to hold hands, leans back into me to read books on the couch, and can clearly communicate simple preferences. Watching her grow is the adventure of a lifetime.
And then there are tantrums. Holy shit.
I'm pretty sure today was our first official, full blown, toddler tantrum. We were grocery shopping, and I knew trouble was brewing when Hannah wanted to get out of the cart and push. Trader Joes was just stupidly crowded - which is, naturally, when they always do their restocking - and staying near me and walking wasn't enough. She needed to run, and run fast. So I put her back in the cart. Sounds simple, right?
The meltdown came, then the aftershocks. (Which lasted for about an hour, including all the way home.) I can handle Hannah freaking out. I'm her mom, and would gladly throw myself into oncoming traffic for her benefit. What could potentially put me over the edge one day is the disapproving glances from John Q Public, which suggest I should be somehow able to magically control the situation. Surely they don't expect me to just abandon a full grocery cart and book it out the door so that they don't have to hear her cry. Surely they have considered that we have no food in the house and the work week starts for us, too, tomorrow. Surely they have spent a cumulative five minutes in the presence of toddlers throughout their lifetime and know that tantrums don't mean that the kid is spoiled, doing something "bad", or that the parent of said toddler is a total failure.
Staying serenely calm, soothing and gentle during all this is a spiritual discipline. I love my little girl, but let's call a spade a spade. Bedtime was sweet tonight. Looking at her angelic sleeping face, it's hard to imagine it tear streaked, dramatically contorted and snotty just hours before. Well, toddlerhood, let's do this.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Mastitis and Other Motherly Musings
A friend said I probably needed to post about my boobies, so here we are.
I have been thinking about my boobs probably as often as most men think of sex since I was in grade school. I lusted after training bras years before they were necessary. (Are training bras ever actually necessary?) I waited in anxiety through 5th and 6th grades for my boobs to come, and was sure they never would. When they came in my 7th grade year, as I was assured by a family of well endowed women all around me that they surely would (and that I would hate them - right again), I got called fat by jealous, flat chested 8th graders. So, logically, I started starving myself, got rid of the boobs I had so desperately longed for, and started fretting about whether it was possible to be rail thin and have big boobs.
When I let go of my need for rail thinness, my boobs came back in spades, and have remained my faithful companions ever since. Actually, I've rather liked them ever since.
And now I have a 17-month old who points at my boobs, giggles, and says either "nuh nuh" or "mine." In the past year and a half, my boobies have finally found their purpose, and what a trip it continues to be.
I'll never forget Hannah's first latch, shortly after her birth. In the coziness of our bed, after a solid hour of skin-to-skin eye gazing, her cord was clamped and she was placed at my breast. Our midwives and our doula coached me on how it should feel, how it shouldn't feel, what her mouth should look like, etc. None of this had I considered for even a second while pregnant. The moment of her first latch, I realized the amazing journey Hannah and I were about to take together, the journey of nursing.
That journey has included five bouts of mastitis. Five! WTF? Who gets mastitis FIVE times with the same baby? The girl who has had her boobies on her mind since she was 6, that's who.
The first time, I thought death was imminent. Hannah was a week old, my body was broken open from birth and had a lot of healing to do, so I couldn't fight off a thing. Bout # 2 came when Hannah was 3 weeks old, and this time I knew what was happening to me, and while I cognitively knew I wouldn't die from it, it sure felt possible. When it happened again at 7 months, it tested my will to live.
But seriously, after that, I was just sure I was in the clear. The stats, even for well-endowed women with abundant milk supplies like mine, were in my favor. Not so soon, sister. Bout # 4 came just before Christmas. No flu symptoms, not nearly as much pain during nursing. I just got my antibiotics and got on with my life. Got on with my life until this week, when bout # 5 came.
Now it's personal. I think this monster we call mastitis is personally out to get me.
This time, it amounted to three days off with the slight inconvenience of remembering to take my antibiotics. No pain, no sickness, just an infected boobie. Wierd? I'll say. My doctor is stumped - I'm like a mastitis circus freak. So, they tested for anemia and thyroid issues which could be contributing to repeated infection - no dice. My milk culture will come back in a few days, and who knows what we'll find.
Being who I am, of course, I have to find a deep, spiritual significance for everything. Nursing has been a meditative practice for me, a time when I am forced to be utterly present and still. I am overcome with love when I look down at Hannah's big doe eyes gazing at me while she reaches a chubby, sticky hand up to play with my face or my hair. I physically feel myself relax and slow down into the present moment with my babe at my breast. I am proud to be a nursing mom, because I know I am doing something so beneficial for my girl, something that nourishes her body, yes, but also her soul.
If there could be a test to my will to breastfeed, 5 bouts of mastitis would be it. I'm just waiting to be asked "why don't you just stop nursing? She's almost 1 1/2." To that, I will answer, "it's not time yet." This journey of ours is so not done. Hannah still needs it, and frankly, so do I. It's soul food for us both. It's been a challenge to my body, a challenge that reminds me to find out how to take exceptional care of myself. (Obviously I'm still learning.)
How often do we want to give up on a million different things? But we don't, not if they matter to us. Two things will remind me never to give up on anything, and that I can do anything: birthing Hannah at home, naturally, and nursing her when it was hella hard.
I bow to your power, mastitis. Now please leave me alone.
I have been thinking about my boobs probably as often as most men think of sex since I was in grade school. I lusted after training bras years before they were necessary. (Are training bras ever actually necessary?) I waited in anxiety through 5th and 6th grades for my boobs to come, and was sure they never would. When they came in my 7th grade year, as I was assured by a family of well endowed women all around me that they surely would (and that I would hate them - right again), I got called fat by jealous, flat chested 8th graders. So, logically, I started starving myself, got rid of the boobs I had so desperately longed for, and started fretting about whether it was possible to be rail thin and have big boobs.
When I let go of my need for rail thinness, my boobs came back in spades, and have remained my faithful companions ever since. Actually, I've rather liked them ever since.
And now I have a 17-month old who points at my boobs, giggles, and says either "nuh nuh" or "mine." In the past year and a half, my boobies have finally found their purpose, and what a trip it continues to be.
I'll never forget Hannah's first latch, shortly after her birth. In the coziness of our bed, after a solid hour of skin-to-skin eye gazing, her cord was clamped and she was placed at my breast. Our midwives and our doula coached me on how it should feel, how it shouldn't feel, what her mouth should look like, etc. None of this had I considered for even a second while pregnant. The moment of her first latch, I realized the amazing journey Hannah and I were about to take together, the journey of nursing.
That journey has included five bouts of mastitis. Five! WTF? Who gets mastitis FIVE times with the same baby? The girl who has had her boobies on her mind since she was 6, that's who.
The first time, I thought death was imminent. Hannah was a week old, my body was broken open from birth and had a lot of healing to do, so I couldn't fight off a thing. Bout # 2 came when Hannah was 3 weeks old, and this time I knew what was happening to me, and while I cognitively knew I wouldn't die from it, it sure felt possible. When it happened again at 7 months, it tested my will to live.
But seriously, after that, I was just sure I was in the clear. The stats, even for well-endowed women with abundant milk supplies like mine, were in my favor. Not so soon, sister. Bout # 4 came just before Christmas. No flu symptoms, not nearly as much pain during nursing. I just got my antibiotics and got on with my life. Got on with my life until this week, when bout # 5 came.
Now it's personal. I think this monster we call mastitis is personally out to get me.
This time, it amounted to three days off with the slight inconvenience of remembering to take my antibiotics. No pain, no sickness, just an infected boobie. Wierd? I'll say. My doctor is stumped - I'm like a mastitis circus freak. So, they tested for anemia and thyroid issues which could be contributing to repeated infection - no dice. My milk culture will come back in a few days, and who knows what we'll find.
Being who I am, of course, I have to find a deep, spiritual significance for everything. Nursing has been a meditative practice for me, a time when I am forced to be utterly present and still. I am overcome with love when I look down at Hannah's big doe eyes gazing at me while she reaches a chubby, sticky hand up to play with my face or my hair. I physically feel myself relax and slow down into the present moment with my babe at my breast. I am proud to be a nursing mom, because I know I am doing something so beneficial for my girl, something that nourishes her body, yes, but also her soul.
If there could be a test to my will to breastfeed, 5 bouts of mastitis would be it. I'm just waiting to be asked "why don't you just stop nursing? She's almost 1 1/2." To that, I will answer, "it's not time yet." This journey of ours is so not done. Hannah still needs it, and frankly, so do I. It's soul food for us both. It's been a challenge to my body, a challenge that reminds me to find out how to take exceptional care of myself. (Obviously I'm still learning.)
How often do we want to give up on a million different things? But we don't, not if they matter to us. Two things will remind me never to give up on anything, and that I can do anything: birthing Hannah at home, naturally, and nursing her when it was hella hard.
I bow to your power, mastitis. Now please leave me alone.
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