Weaning Worries

I owe you all an apology for being so behind on my posting. Actually, my ISP should apologize since we've had some Internet connection issues but they appear to be resolved now. Back in business.

Nate had his 1-year appointment with his new pediatrician on Friday. He now weighs 21 lbs, 4 oz. and is 30.5 inches long. 25th and 75th percentiles respectively. Tall and thin. Male model-to-be, perhaps?

She examined him and issued him a clean bill of health. She asked about his verbal and physical capabilities and seemed satisfied with my answers. Everything was going perfectly.

Until I innocently inquired about weaning.

I explained to the doctor that Nate was still breastfeeding around 5x/day (every 2-3 hours) and I would like to begin the weaning process soon but I wasn't sure how to go about it. I described his picky choosy eating habits and illustrated my concern over eliminating this nourishment when it is currently filling the nutritional and caloric gaps. Also, since he hasn't fully adopted the sippy cup, how could I successfully replace breastmilk with whole milk? I explained that he is not consistently STTN and usually wakes to nurse once or twice a night – could this mean that he is not getting enough calories during the day? I wanted to nip all of these issues in the bud but didn't have a clue where to start. I was beyond overwhelmed.

Her advice: cut out breastfeeding entirely. Give him no other option and he'll have no choice but to eat solids and drink from a sippy. And whatever I do, don't give in. Children at this age have the “power to manipulate” and if I breastfeed him after a meal, he is just going to fight me at the next feed until he gets the breast. She told me I could start weaning as soon as I felt ready but the longer I waited, the harder it would be. Soon, breastmilk won't be enough nutritionally so she suggested I think about that when making my decision. Regarding night weaning, she said he is not STTN because I am instilling poor sleep habits. Not because he is not eating enough during the day. A 1-year old is fully capable of STTN for 10 hours or more without food. I should use the CIO method so that he learns to self-soothe and can put himself back to sleep when he wakes. I also shouldn't nurse and rock him to sleep initially or else I'll be doing it to a preschooler. I should put him down fully awake and let him cry if necessary.

I was aghast. Was she serious? I was hoping to wean gradually. Over time. Not change everything all at once without warning. That hardly seems like a healthy approach for Nate or for myself. More physically and emotionally traumatic than anything. Not to mention the backhanded irony of "do it when you're ready but it better be soon or else".

Does she think my son is a robot – a machine that should fall into place on the assembly line of social acceptability? It couldn't possibly be in his best interest to starve him until he succumbs to self-feeding. Okay, maybe he wouldn't starve per se, but it still seemed like cruel and unusual punishment to me. I wouldn't want to be treated in such a way. How could I do something like that to my own flesh and blood?

I nodded in disbelief as she made her way out the door. Nate shed pools of tears from his three vaccinations and I wanted to cry right alongside him. It seemed like I was doomed to fail before I even began. Why does everything have to be so black and white? Is there no gray area here? When it comes to breastfeeding, is it truly all or nothing?

I should have left the office thrilled to have a healthy toddler but instead, I left confused, angry and defeated. I felt strangely guilty – for what I'm not sure. For not starting to research this sooner? For not being more insistent with solid feeding? For allowing myself to become a human pacifier for my son when he needed comfort at night? I just felt ashamed, as if I was solely responsible for the sleep and feeding issues we are having.

Making the decision to wean is inevitable (either baby-led or mommy-led) but it is also an extremely emotional one. I was feeling guilty enough knowing that I would be the one to break the tie that has bonded us so tightly over this past year. I didn't need to be shot down with derision.

I never would have thought I'd say this a year ago but I see nothing wrong with extended breastfeeding. My plan was always to breastfeed for 6 months, possibly a year. But the best laid plans don't always come to fruition. Now that I have bonded with my son and we are in a routine, my plans have changed. My feelings have changed. I want to nurse Nate as long as it remains a positive experience for the both of us. I cherish that time together, especially at night before bed and first thing in the morning. When he looks up and smiles at me with milk running out of the sides of his teeny mouth. But I also want my body back. Is that too selfish? It's been over a year and I have yet to get PPAF. DH and I would like to begin TTC #2 later this year, but without AF, it will be unlikely. We have some time but I wanted to start now because, with Nate being so adverse to change, I know that it will probably take months for us to see progress.

I came home and put Nate down for his morning nap while I did some research online, looking for any tips I could find about weaning. Out of the roughly twenty sites I viewed, NOT ONE suggested a sudden, voluntary cold-turkey approach. Each site recommended a gradual, patient, gentle approach so as to avoid physical and emotional repercussions in the mother (such as plugged ducts, mastitis, depression from hormone fluctuations) as well as the obvious stress for the baby.

In all of my venting and my desperate search for solutions, a friend of mine referred me to a La Leche League coordinator. She lended me her supportive ears and shoulders and sent me some valuable links to help ease the transition. We came to the same conclusion.

This doctor is a QUACK with a capital Q. She certainly has never breastfed and has no business giving advice about such sensitive subject matter. I will possibly be choosing yet another pediatrician due to this experience. That, or I will request that I NEVER see that particular doctor again and will go out of my way to ensure Nate's well visits will be conducted by other pediatricians in the practice. The final verdict has yet to be made.

DH and I had a long talk about how we wanted to implement this change and came up with our own plan of action. We are working on eliminating night feeds as top priority. When Nate wakes during the night, DH is going in to comfort him. We will continue to Ferberize if need be, but so far (knock on wood) we haven't needed to go in more than twice in 20 minutes for him to soothe himself back to sleep. The past four nights, he has only been waking once during the night and goes back down fairly easily, sleeping in his crib until our usual wakeup time of 7am. That's 11-12 hours total. Not too shabby.

I am now offering 3-4 solid meals a day (plus snacks) and am offering a sippy with milk, juice or water with each meal. If he wants to nurse, I offer solids first. Sometimes he is satisfied with the solids and other times he wants to breastfeed afterward. Either way is okay with me. I am just letting him lead the way, as I encourage him to try different flavors and textures. I am confident that with consistency, he will eventually come around and accept these new noshes. I did hit up BRU and practically bought out their sippy cup department so hopefully, soon, we will find one that is up to Mr. Picky's standards.

As he becomes more accustomed to our new routine, I will attempt to remove midday nursing sessions. Last to go will be the first AM and last PM feeds. We'll take it a day at a time until we get there.

He has really surpassed my expectations these past several days. He is eating many more finger foods in addition to his purees. He still fights me sometimes - maybe I time it wrong and he's not really hungry or maybe he's just being obstinate - but as I offer more variety, I can see his interest is peaked. You should have seen his facial expression upon discovering kiwi for the first time. Whoa.

I think I'm still in a bit of denial that our breastfeeding relationship will soon come to an end. I can't imagine not sharing that with him anymore. The thought saddens me deeply. Being able to breastfeed for a year and counting is one of my biggest achievements to date. I am so proud to have been able to give my son this precious gift. But I know all good things must come to an end.

It's just too ironic that all of this happened just in time for World Breastfeeding Week, eh?

You've Gotta Fight For Your Right

I spent my holiday researching jogging strollers. Given our recent time spent ogling flora and fauna, it seemed like a worthwhile investment. Not to mention considering how underwear shopping at Victoria's Secret nearly brought me to tears, this could be the ticket to a more esteemed body image.

So, I packed up the boy and headed to a popular baby superstore with the intention of taking a few for a test drive.

Nate fell asleep on the trip there and remained asleep as I transferred him to the stroller. I walked around and viewed their disappointing selection - only 4 floor models were available in-store - before recoiling to the baby gate aisle. Audible whimpers of a nearby infant woke Nate, who then decided to showcase his imperial vocal endowments. Arching his back in protest and chomping his forefinger in frustration, I could plainly see it was feeding time at the zoo.

One of the fringe benefits to the shopping experience at this particular outlet is an appointed nursing room, complete with changing table, hand sanitizer and homely, floral textiles. The decor may remind me of a funeral parlor and the odor of diapers and spit up pollute the air but I applauded them for accommodating breastfeeding mothers and allowing us a quiet place, free of distraction, for those like my nosey wiggleworm.

As I came upon the door to said room, I obeyed the sign that read "knock before entering" and rapped on the door gently. I overheard some whispers coming from inside but tread lightly, slowly turning the knob and peeking in. I caught a glimpse of a woman wearing a nursing shawl and a man sitting beside her. The man quickly bumrushed me, shouting "someone is in here!" and slammed the door in my face.

I was dumbfounded.

Was/Is this not a public room? There are no locks on the door. There are two substantial couches lining the walls. Surely, there is enough room for more than one nursing mother. I, myself, have welcomed many a nursing mother whilst occupying the room on previous excursions.

Instead, I was banished. Rejected. I stood in the hall, trying to soothe my hungry baby as I formulated Plan B.

I must have swallowed a bitter pill at that moment because the anger and frustration began to build inside of me. My son needs to eat as much as their child. It is my right to breastfeed. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Who anointed him as door guard? I had half a mind to excuse myself and enter stubbornly. But ever the submissive, respectful gal, I decided not to raise a ruckus. I chose not to involve management, fearful that I would again be shunned or told to wait in line. That would rile me up even moreso. And I didn't want to be branded as that mom. The one that gets up in arms about any political cause.

My inner lactivist stirred, urging me to relax in one of the display model gliders and whip out a boob in plain sight to breastfeed. State law doesn't prohibit me to do so. Go ahead, do it. Make a statement. You will not stand for this.

I was just so sick of hiding from the world, perpetuating the social delusion that breastfeeding is a dirty, disgusting habit that must be hidden. I've been so tired of fighting a loosing battle with Nate to keep him under wraps as he eats his lunch. I always try to be as discreet as possible but it is damn near impossible to shield all human anatomy while balancing a 10-month old acrobat. Not that I can blame him. I wouldn't want to dine with a blanket over my head either.

I was this.close to letting it all hang out - for standing up for what I believe in - but in the end, I couldn't. Instead, I departed to the car to feed my baby. With the door open to afford more leg room. After beads of sweat pouring off us in the 80 degree, hot, humid weather, I buckled Nate in, turned on the A/C and drove off, defeated.

I understand that the couple in the room may have been breastfeeding novices and perhaps they were a bit shy. I've been there. Once upon a time, I would have fainted at the thought of baring a nipple within arm's reach of a stranger. But you know - I had to adapt. I came to realize that every two hours - or less - comes quickly. Privacy is not always an option as nature calls. In my 10-month stint, I've breastfed on park benches, mall fountains, bathroom toilets, restaurant booths. You name it, I've probably done it. More than once. Sure, it's not glamorous. But if my son needs to eat, he needs to eat. His nutrition and well-being is decidedly more important than worrying about societal expectations. Now, I hardly think twice before stopping to nurse in public. With or without a cover. It comes naturally.

It is a beautiful, enchanting moment when I can look down at my son, seeing and feeling our bodies connect through nourishment. People often forget that the foremost purpose of breasts are feeding mechanisms. Objects of sexual desire lastly. If only everyone could see it for what it is rather than an eyesore.

I remember the first time I saw a nursing mother as a young girl. It was in a bookstore. The mother was breastfeeding her infant daughter, watching her so intently and stroking her face. I admired her from afar. I was too young to completely understand the process but I could sense there was something special about what they shared. That admiration has grown tenfold since I've been able to experience it firsthand. I nod knowingly and smile as I gaze at others cradling their babies and fidgeting with their tops. I personally enjoy the company. Knowing there's more of us out there. We're a community.

Would reporting the incident to management, begging them to clarify their nursing room policy, really make things better? Doubtful. The public mindset is still there. Whipping out my boob may have garnered some local buzz but it would hardly suffice to erase all ignorance from society.

I'm not looking to change the world. I'm not trying to be a martyr. I just want a fair shake. I don't want to have to retire to the car or some remote place to nurse just because people are ashamed. Because I'm not. I'm unabashedly proud to produce milk for my son. I've worked hard to make it this far and if I have my druthers, I will not be conceding anytime soon.

I regret my lack of assertiveness. For not holding true to what I believe. I regret slinking into the shadows, cowardly. I feel like in some ways, I've failed us. I had the opportunity to educate and foster patronage but I let it pass me by. I was too frightened of the consequences.

I guess it is true what they say: well-behaved women rarely make history.

The Greatest Show on Earth

Step right up, folks. Don't be shy. You will not believe your eyes. See sights beyond your wildest imagination. Grab your inflatable novelties and a bucket of popcorn as you take your front row seat to the greatest show on earth.

There are no elephants or white tigers at this performance. No motorcycle cage riders. Think Cirque du Soleil: The Breastfeeding Saga.

Watch my son defy gravity and logic as he contorts his body around my bosom into unthinkable positions. His aerial stunts will leave you spellbound, your mouth gaping with wonder and amazement. How is it possible that one could eat comfortably while simultaneously writhing into a downward facing dog stance? Have I been fooled into believing the coveted peacefulness at night is instead spent studying advanced yoga postures? More importantly, how can a human nipple be stretched and twisted to infinite proportions and not snap clean off?

It's a bit redundant to state there's lots of action going on under this Big Top.

Nursing has become quite the acrobatic feat these days. Ever since Nate learned how to crawl/pull up/cruise, he's been too lively to hunker down and eat a meal. To his defense, who can be bothered with sustenance when there is so much to observe? So many exotic places to travel? The cradle position is much too restrictive.

What started off as endearingly comical is now dreadfully aggravating. Especially at 3am when my motor functions are greatly delayed. I'm surprised he hasn't yet vaulted himself to the opposite end of the room. At this point, nothing short of a straight jacket can save us.

Will I be able to continue the juggling sideshow act? Stay tuned.

Thanks for the Mammaries

In just one more week, I will have been breastfeeding for 9 months. Considering I have far surpassed my initial goal of 6 months, it feels like quite the achievement. The best part is that I see no reason why we can't make it three more months to my ultimate goal of 1 year. Perhaps even a bit longer. If you would have asked me 8 months ago, I would have laughed at the notion that I'd make it this far.

But there have been some consequences. Namely the aesthetic nature of the tatas.

My girls look fantastic when they're engorged with milk and they nearly cut off the circulation to my neck. They don't feel all that great but they sure do look good enough to be considered a work of art. At least the work of an acclaimed plastic surgeon (look, no scarring!). But after Nate drains them, they resemble donut sticks with shriveled raisin nipples. Not the nice, yummy round doughy donuts stuffed with the filling of your choice. We're talking the thin, elongated ones. With a texture similar to a cruller if you factor in the lovely, silver stretch marks on the sides. Get the picture? It's not a pretty sight.

I imagine that as finger foods become the primary source of nutrition in Nate's diet and my supply dwindles, the funbags are going to get even less "fun". How disappointing.

You see, before I conceived my darling son, I was a member of the IBTC with an A cup. A full A but an A nonetheless. Once I became pregnant, to my delight, they blossomed to a B cup. And when my milk came in, they grew to a C cup. I was ecstatic with my newfound curves. Once my supply regulated, I went back down to a full B. And that is where I remain today. Happily.

I was hoping I could hang onto the surplus I've been granted but I'm afraid my cans will be shelved once the dairy section closes shop.

I guess I should fluff the dirty pillows for the next few months while I still own them.

*Sigh*

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

Tonight, one of my fears came to fruition. My nipples came under attack of Nate's newfound chompers.

Although I had predicted this day would come since the first tooth appeared, it was still a shock to me when I felt the pain searing through the tip of my breast. In my stupor, before I could even react appropriately, Nate unclenched his jaws, apologetically. I stared down at him and pondered what to do next.

I had always been told to push his face deeper into my breast if he should clamp down. This may seem counterproductive (isn't it instinctual to pull him off?) but the idea is to briefly inhibit breathing through his nose. As appalling as this approach seems, it causes him to gasp for air, hence opening his mouth up wide enough for the nipple to be released. But since, in this case, Nate had already unlatched after the great bite, I was dumbfounded. It's not like I could punish him, as he is an infant and unaware of the consequences of his actions. He is teething and doesn't know that biting is wrong. All he knows is that the pressure against his gums is soothing. Regardless if it comes from a frozen washcloth, a teething ring or mommy's nipple. I can't - and won't - practice negative reinforcement out of anger or frustration.

So, I removed him from the cradle position - no more cuddles - and placed him down on the floor near a toy or two while I accessed the damage. There was a small gash on the underside of my boob, but surprisingly, it did not break the skin enough to bleed. I was able to escape trauma. This time.

Granted, this is the first occurrence. And I realize it is likely to happen more than once. I'm bound to suffer more significant injuries along the way.

I worry about how this compromises our nursing relationship. I am already anxious about our next nursing session, fearful that the next time he decides to bite, I won't be so lucky to walk away relatively unscathed. I am concerned that the biting will become commonplace and nursing will no longer be the peaceful, bonding experience that I've come to know and love.

I really am not ready to wean - or to pump exclusively. The thought brings incredible sadness to me. I know all good things must come to an end eventually. But I hope the end is not in sight just yet.

Resurfacing

Well, we did it. It's been about two weeks already (gasp!) but I am happy to report we survived the change of address. Despite several days without Internet access or cable television I lived to tell the tale. Forgive me if I have implied otherwise by deserting my beloved blog.

Although weather forecasts predicted rain, the only earthly element we battled was wind. The sky was merciful and remained clear over the entire weekend. The only casualties claimed by the move were my hamper - some unruly screws decided to escape while in transit - and Nate's bookcase, a hand-me-down which was on its last leg to begin with. Overall, it was a success. I compare it to a festering wound that finally scabbed over. Yes, my view on moving hasn't changed. It still aspirates hardcore.

We're not exactly settled in. In fact, the only rooms that are complete are Nate's nursery and the bathrooms. I just haven't been able to muster the energy to unpack in addition to performing our everyday routine tasks. But regardless of the numerous boxes I must detour, it is slowly beginning to feel like home. It feels right.

No more third story travels, arms laden with groceries or a portly baby. No more lugging trash to a dumpster on the opposite side of the community. No more fighting over vacant parking spaces or worrying about sound travelling through paper thin walls to annoy the adjacent neighbors. We've traded a view of asphalt for a view of trees and nature galore. Best of all, it seems we've nearly doubled our living space. We will need additional furniture just to keep it from looking too bare.

Even though the positives far outweigh the negatives, I can't help but reminisce. Our apartment was where our son was conceived. I peed on the infamous test in the guest bathroom. DH took photos of my burgeoning belly in front of our bedroom door. I labored on the couch in the living room. And we brought our baby home to that apartment. As shiteous as it may have been at times, I will always have fond memories of how our lives evolved there. Call me crazy but there are times I actually miss it. All part of adjustment process.

But I also look forward to making new memories here in our new house. There's sure to be some amazing stuff in store for us.
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Nate turned 7 months old yesterday. I know I say this every month but it never ceases to amaze me as the months pass by so hastily. I hardly remember what life with a newborn was like. I often look back at photos just to recall how much he's changed since we've been properly introduced.

In the span of a month, he now has 4 - going on 5 - teeferoos. It didn't take long for his mouth to blossom with little white slivers once the first one erupted. Everyday I seem to find a sharp, new tenant in his orifice. At this rate, he'll have a complete set by his first year.

Nate is also starting to show signs of crawling. He can get up on all fours and rock back and forth. But as soon as he tries to go forward, he lands flat on his belly. It's only a matter of time until he gets the hang of it and I'll be chasing him, shooing him away from sockets and wires. I can picture the chaos now. He's getting so big on me.

I'm beginning to retire his 9 month clothes in favor of 12 month apparel. With the move, I packed up all of his 6 month clothes. I shed a few tears as I folded them and stuffed them in a big brown box. I also traded his 6-12 month socks for the 12-24 month TODDLER size. Yes, my son could now be mistaken for BigFoot. That is, if he had more than his tuft of blonde fluff upon his noggin.

Solids are still a work in progress. Nate is still not a fan of being spoon-fed and will cinch his lips closed so that no one - not even the most savvy or entertaining folk - can penetrate the fleshy barrier. We've moved beyond rice cereal and oatmeal to banana, peaches, melon, avocado and pears. Out of all the delicious aforementioned fruits, it seems pears are his favorite. But that's not saying much. Only that he shudders rather than gagging. I follow his pace and I refuse to force feed him, even if it means wasting ounces of fresh homemade food (courtesy of my trusty Beaba Babycook, to which I shall dedicate a separate post to its awesomeness). I've tried various textures ranging from thin and watery to thick, soft and chunky. But it doesn't seem to make a difference. Purees - he's just not that into you. I'm beginning to consider that he would best adopt baby-led weaning (BLW).

He seems to be breastfeeding more often than usual and I'm worried that my supply alone won't be able to keep up with his dietary needs much longer. I know Nate can sustain nutritionally on breastmilk exclusively for a year or even more. But pumping is becoming a nuisance. I can barely pump enough to satisfy his appetite for the two days per week that I am at work. I was hoping that we could rely on fruits and veggies to fill in the gaps where my pump fails. Alas, due to Nate's rejection, I fear that we'll have to resort to formula in that instance. Although I will do everything I can to avoid it and stick with mamma's milk.

I'm sure you got more than you bargained for with my incessant droning so I will wrap this up neatly by saying it's good to be back. If you'll have me.

Six Months

Nate is 6 months old today.

Has it really been half a year already? It seems like just yesterday we were driving home from the hospital with our brand new little guy, going 10 miles below the speed limit in the slow lane because we were afraid to jostle or damage our fragile newborn.

When I think of how far we've come, I am astonished. I admire Nate each day and query how he was once the size of a poppyseed inside me. Proof of his existence was just a pale pink line on a stick. And now, here he is. My baby boy - my hopes and dreams - in the flesh.

At 6 months, my little man:

• Wears 9 month clothes and size 3 diapers comfortably. Whoa. I'm expecting him to top the scales at a whopping 19+ lbs at his checkup tomorrow. He's quite the hefty load these days, which makes walking in heels risky.
  
  
• Can roll both ways, although he is much more consistent rolling back to tummy. When on his tummy, he "swims" and gets frustrated, as he can only move in circles and not forward. It's quite amusing to watch actually but I have a feeling it won't be long until crawling commences.
  
  
• Can sit without toppling over for 15 minutes. He can counterbalance himself if he starts to lean to one side. But if he looks up too high, his body follows his eyes and he inevitably falls backward.
  
  
• Can jabber like a monkey, stringing consonants and vowels together like pearls on a necklace. Mostly "aah" type sounds ("da", "ba", "ga") with an occasional "ooh" thrown in for good measure. He is currently acing the "mmm" sound, to which we are coaxing "mama". He tries to mimic our lip motions but is still a tad too immature for words. He is very observant but he is also quite social. He loves to interact with people and talk to himself in the mirror. He is very intrigued by faces and always tries to grab eyes, ears, noses and mouths. Not to mention hair. Ouch. Or jewelry. Yikes.
  
  
• Can laugh and giggle. His most ticklish spot is his chunky thigh. Trust me when I say there is nothing more endearing than a baby's chuckle. After his spell of colic for the first 3 months of life, I never thought I'd see him smile so much. It's more gratifying than I can describe.
  
  
• Can pass a toy from one hand to the other, although he's only done this on several occasions. He can grab an object, such as daddy's remote, and pull it to him in an instant. Once he gets his paws on said object, it goes directly into the mouth. Oral fixation much?
  
  
• Is cutting his first tooth. I can feel a knot under his front left bottom gumline. And he is slobbering so much that I am frightened to lay him face down out of fear he shall drown in the volume of his saliva . I can't quite see it breaking through but I assume it is a matter of time. My breasts are quivering at their fate.
  
  
• Can reach out to be held or shy away when he wants to stay put. He's developing slight separation anxiety when I am not in his line of sight. Even when daddy is attempting to entertain him, he wants to know where mommy is. Luckily, he does not have an aversion to strangers. Yet.
  
  
• Can recognize his name. He will turn toward you if you call him. But only if you are not interjecting while he is captivated by coexisting lights and/or sounds.

While I could go on and on, I should make note that this milestone isn't entirely about age and growth. I'm also proud to say that I've been able to exclusively breastfeed for 6 months. I accomplished the goal I set out to meet way back when I first decided to embark on my journey to parenthood.

I have been able to resist the temptation of formula, even when my nipples were raw from cluster feeding and I cried through clenched teeth, questioning my supply. I have been able to withstand the monotony of pumping in bathroom stalls and storage closets. I have been able to defy societal expectations - or asinine opinions - as to when to wean and begin solid foods. I have been able to fulfill my son's nutritional needs with my body alone. It feels sublime.

I took photos of him this weekend in all of his naked glory (which DH made me promise not to share). Just to remember the body that my milk duds were responsible for. Each roll, each ounce of chub, all from the milk which I produced. I wanted to document this milestone so I can look back fondly in a few years at the result of my success. Our success. I couldn't do without my little partner in crime, who has fine-tuned his latch and suction into an art. That is, when he's not too distracted by his surroundings to demonstrate his abilities.

Happy half birthday, little man. You'll never know how incredibly loved you are.

On Strike

Nate apparently feels as though he is not being adequately compensated for his drudgery and went on bottle strike today. Just in time for MIL to babysit.

After taking a rare 2-hour nap from 9:30am to 11:30am, he woke up famished. His voracious appetite led to extreme intolerance. By intolerance, I mean screaming inconsolably. To the point that our adjacent neighbors probably feared that we were operating a slaughterhouse. MIL tried switching bottles and nipples, varying positions and switching milk - in case one particular vial was contaminated. Still a tomato face. The only thing she could do to get him to eat was to sit him in his Bumbo and feed him breastmilk with one of his soft-tipped spoons.

Oy vey.

After the spoon-feeding distraction, he gained enough composure to concede. And he drank from a bottle with no argument for the rest of the afternoon. Of course, he only drank about 10 oz. in my absence so my boobs have taken a beating tonight.

You'd think after 12 weeks of bottle experience, he would learn that they are not, in fact, demon spawns sent to invade his soul. It's not so much that he's a slow learner. More like a drama king. My temperamental baby certainly knows what he likes. And he's sure to let everyone else know too.

The highlight of the day was that there were no wardrobe mishaps. I arrived home to find him dressed in clothes that actually fit. Also, no assvice was given regarding his gassiness and reflux.

Credit must be given where credit is due. And she paid her dues today.

Lethargy and a Great Misnomer

Daylight savings time can kiss my arse. It hasn't done a thing but cost me time today.

I put Nate down (and thus myself) an hour later than usual last night with the hope that his sleep and nap pattern would not be greatly affected. We retired to bed at 10:30pm. Nate woke around 1am. Pop out boob. Suckle. Back asleep. Stirring again at 3am. Pop out boob. Suckle. Back asleep. Stirring again at 5am. Pop out boob. Suckle. Back asleep. Stirring again at 7am. Usual wake-up time. Gave up the pipe dream of a decent night's sleep. Changed massive pee diaper. Put baby in swing. Watched him doze off enviously. Made myself a cup 'o joe and hopped online to look for holiday gift ideas.

Due to Nate's reflux, we feed from only one side at a time. This limits the spit-up and projectile vomit episodes. But it does mean he needs to eat more frequently - about every 1.5 hours - as opposed to 3 or 4 hours that most babies can manage. His light snacking is not an issue during the daytime but it poses a problem for sleeping through the night. I guess I'm destined for many a sleepless night until his digestive system matures and he can handle the load from both of my milk trucks.

MIL told DH she thinks I should give up breastfeeding, as it makes Nate too gassy, and opt for formula instead. Don't even get me started on this. Yes, I have an overactive letdown reflex and yes, it can sometimes choke him and cause him to gulp, taking in more air. But I refuse to wean him and give him exclusive formula, which would probably be harder on his sensitive tummy than breastmilk. I'm not opposed to supplementation but I have really been trying with all of my might to reach my goal of 6 months exclusive breastmilk. And I don't plan on straying from this objective unless a medical professional convinces me otherwise. How about supporting the decision I've made in my family's best interest instead of insulting me and basically implying that my son's reflux is my fault? Just because you raised two children does not make you an expert on what works for every child. Case in point: I specifically told her that Nate is now in 3-6 month clothes. I even pointed out which drawer to use in case of an impromptu accident. On the one day we ask her to watch him, she purposefully dressed him in a 0-3 month outfit - contrary to my crystal clear instructions - because it was "cute". Nevermind that it looked like a muscle tee and nearly cut off the circulation in his thighs.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

Sorry, where was I? Oh, yeah, reflux...

I've been avoiding meds since Nate has been gaining weight like a champ. I didn't want to administer anything deemed unnecessary. But I'm wondering if I should give them a go and see if we can build up to longer intervals between feeds. Something to discuss with the pediatrician on Tuesday, I suppose.

I'm also conflicted about cosleeping. I do love having him close to me - and simply rolling over to feed is quite convenient and conducive to my laziness - but I don't want to hinder his development or foster dependency on my scent or presence in order to fall asleep in the future. The nurse practitioner at my pediatrician's office practically slapped my wrist at his last visit and told me not to continue with it unless I wanted a three-year old sleeping in bed with us. Then again, I've heard from BTDT moms who said they waited anywhere from 4-8 months to transition to the crib and had very little problem doing so. In fact, they encouraged cosleeping and said that until 4 months old, babies are incapable of soothing themselves to sleep. I'd like to believe I could have the same seamless shift but since things have yet to be "easy" en la casa del Sticky, I need a plan of attack.

We have attempted to cry it out (CIO) a few times to no avail. At bedtime, I would rock him and feed and once he was drowsy, I would lay him down in his crib and quietly leave the room. He would be peaceful for several minutes but eventually whining would ensue. Whining would give way to crying. And the crying would give way to screaming - virtual pleading for me to come back. After 5 minutes, I would go back in to rub his back and soothe him without picking him up, speaking in a soft whisper. I would leave the room again and he would begin crying so dramatically that I feared he would vomit. I reached my limit of 10 minutes before I conceded to his demands and retreived him from his prison crib.

I've tried to use the crib more for naps, reasoning that we could gradually work our way from resting to slumber, but the maximum I can get out of him is 20 minutes. In his swing, I can get at least 45 minutes, if not longer. So, back to old reliable.

I've tried to execute the 3 B's (bath, boob, bed) but when reflux strikes, leaving behind the scent of eau de spoiled milk, or we have a morning blowout from the sheer force of hours of compacted waste, I have to bathe on demand. And since consistency is key to establishing any long-lasting routine, this plan is also unreliable.

I took an outing to the bookstore today and bought several sleep books. I should be able to pull at least one piece of useful advice from these texts. If I can only find the time to read them...

I'm desperate to nail down a routine. I think structure, in whichever form it may exist, is needed to preserve our sanity.

Come and Gone

The "newborn phase" is officially over. My baby is 3 months old. I guess the proper classification is now "infant".

*insert pout here*

I opened up his drawer of newborn clothes yesterday with every intention to pack them away and make room for the larger sizes, along with the 0-3 month collection that is now much too snug for comfort. I held up the articles of clothing, reminiscing about a time when my current roly-poly fit into them with room to spare. So tiny. Fragile. Like doll clothes. I fingered the felt adornment on the front of a onesie and brought it to my face, breathing in the intoxicating baby aroma that still lingered. The floodgates opened. I hurried and threw the disheveled onesie back into the drawer as if it were about to infect me with the Black Plague and rapidly shut the drawer. I'm just not ready to close that chapter. Not yet. The drawers are going to have to overflow to the point that my dire need to organize overrides my resistance to change.

With each milestone we reach, I think about how far we've come. I remember the early days when every peep Nate made would send me into a panic. When the mere thought of breastfeeding made me wince. When the moonlight would perpetuate howling from not only werewolves but my colicky boy. Everything was a guessing game. I may still rely on trial and error but I have my bearings. I don't know why it took me 3 months to realize this - perhaps I'm a slow learner in this arena - but the bottom line is babies cry. It's inevitable. It's no reason to feel like a failure. It is Nate's sole method of communication. Even adults - who have mastered the art of language - can't smile 24/7. So, how can I expect that of a baby? All I can do is equip myself with tools for success (a.k.a read and research) and strive for happiness.

I can now identify when he's crying from tiredness ("ooh" or "eww"), overstimulated/overtired ("waah"), hunger ("geh" or "neh") or gas pain ( sudden bursts of "eh", with legs drawing up to chest). Similar to the Dunstan system but not exact. I can recognize his patterns. Now we have the "educated guess"-ing game.

Around 9 weeks, it was as if someone flipped a switch. I think it is finally safe to say that the colic is kaput. Nate is still fussy around dinnertime - forget about a hot meal for the foreseeable future - but it is nowhere close to the nights we endured just over a month ago. Cluster feeding still rules around this time, as he builds up his caloric intake for the night. My arse is still firmly planted in the glider as the sun goes down. But no more incessant wailing. I'm sure our neighbors are just as grateful as we are.

For as difficult as those first few weeks were as we were both schooled in breastfeeding, it is now a completely natural routine. My nipples must have toughened up from their time in the penitentiary because they can even stand up to the rigors of near-constant suckling without slathering on the Lanolin. I am pleased as punch for making it to 3 months of exclusive breastmilk. It hasn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination but when my baby looks up from my breast and flashes a winning smile, that is all the reward I need.

Everyone - and I mean everyone, even strangers at the mall - told us that 3 months was the magic number. Things would get easier. And while it was hard to believe at the time, I can see the fog giving way to brighter days. It may be hard to admit when we're in the middle of an all-nighter - thank you, f*&^ing growth spurts! - but all it takes is one look back to see how good we really have it.

We may have a long way to go but I can't disregard the great progress we've made. And that we continue to make.

Figure 8

It looks like it's time to bid farewell to maternity wear and say hello to my old friend, size 8. We had been apart for quite some time - about 10 months - but we meet again. I can now manage to zip and button with minimal suck-inage. Sure, I'm sporting the ever-fashionable muffin top but I just gave birth less than 3 months ago so you can cut me some slack, right? I have about 8-10 more pounds to shed to reach my pre-pregnancy weight, according to my fickle digital scale. I'd actually already be down to said weight if my pregnancy hadn't amounted to this:

Uterus: 3 lbs.

Boobs: 1.5 lbs.

Blood: 3 lbs.

Water: 5 lbs.

Fetus: 7.11 lbs.

Placenta: 2 lbs.

Amniotic Fluid: 2 lbs.

Ben & Jerry's: 24 lbs.

Total weight gain: 48 lbs.

But I'm still in a celebratory mood considering my exercise schedule has been nonexistent but for two routines: carrying Nate and his cumbersome carseat up and down 3 flights of apartment stairs or suspending him above my head in a game of Airplane while simultaneously attempting to dodge spit-up bombs. Dieting is a no-no right now so I've made it this far from breastfeeding alone. Amazing. The hormones can actually work FOR me and not AGAINST me for once.

I admit there is sweet sorrow as I say goodbye to the Bella Bands and Secret Fit Belly. One more thing that distances myself from those pot belly days. Those days where I could feel my little man stirring and kicking inside of me. It was our little secret. Now, the secret is out and I have to share him with the world. While I love the life I now share with this little person and love showing him off like the proud momma I am, I do miss those intimate, romantic moments. It will be hard to pack away the skirt I wore to my baby shower. Or the jeans and striped polo tee I wore to the ultrasound that revealed we were on Team Blue. Or the bathing suit that transformed me into a beached whale. Okay, maybe not the bathing suit so much. But I will miss all of the sweet memories evoked by these articles of clothing.

While my bottom appears to be shrinking, my boobs are quite comfortable in their behemoth state. I've gone up a band size and almost two cup sizes since conception. I started out as a member of the itty-bitty titty committee so I'm pleased with my newfound plumpness. Advertisements for breast augmentation surgery no longer peak my curiosity. However, the milk melons are impossible to squeeze into my old, A-cup friendly tops without looking like I'm at home on the Bunny Ranch. I'm a mom now. I can't have the girls flaunting themselves seductively. Besides, the obvious road maps across the continent of my chest are not exactly attractive. So, sad as it may be, I need to harness them. I've found the tops that fit best are the stretch cotton camisoles with the shelf bra. Those are no-fuss for nursing - which is a requirement at the present time - and can be paired with a sweater or a business suit. It's funny how a baby makes you much more simplistic and decisive. If it fits and matches, it's a go. No more modeling in front of the mirror for an hour.

While we're on the subject of growth, at 11 weeks old, Nate has officially shifted from 0-3 to 3-6 month apparel and has been in size 2 diapers for about a week. His toes now frightfully stick over the edge of his cradle swing. I just can't get over how big he's getting. Sigh. Before I know it, he'll be rolling over and sitting up on his own.

Can someone please hit the pause button?

In The Blue Corner...

...weighing in at approximately 13 lbs., all the way from Mother's Womb, the Birth Canal featherweight champion...Nathaaaaaniel Robert!

And in the red corner, weighing a combined total of 330 lbs., hailing from the Land of Sleep Deprivation...the Parentaaaaaal Units!

[in my best Michael Buffer impersonation] "Let's get ready to rumble!"

Are you placing bets yet? Who's your money on?


What a rumble it was. One for the history books. I never knew such a tiny being could put up such a huge fight when it came to bedtime. You would have thought we were attempting to solicit him as bait for mountain lions or something.

The funny thing is that Nate, for the most part, has always been a good sleeper. Well, as good as one can expect from a youngling of his stature. We can squeeze a couple of 3-4 hour stretches at night out of him. Sometimes even a 5 hour stretch if he cluster feeds all evening long. Normally, we retreat to bed around 10 or 11pm and after 15-20 minutes of side-laying nursing (which I call "cuddle time" even though it involves nipple play), he and I would slowly drift into co-sleeping dreamland. Easy peazy lemon squeezy. Or so I thought.

Like the flick of a switch, he did a 180 and decided he would protest bedtime. My itty bitty activist could no longer be lulled to sleep.

Round 1: Friday night

Nate came out strong, unyielding. He was "in the zone" and ready to show us who was boss (and no, Tony Danza was nowhere to be found). He was not going to sleep without a showdown. It was surprising. His tactics threw DH and I through a loop. We were knocked into a stupor. Was he hungry? In need of a clean diaper? A soothing glider? Was he overstimulated? Understimulated? Just plain pissed off? From 10pm to 1pm, we tried just about every trick in the book. My poor girls needed a break from their role as human pacifier so this was his retaliation, I thought. Finally, some alone time on the Bouncing Daddy ride helped to quiet him down enough to concede.

Rounds 2-5: Saturday through Tuesday

Or not. The fight continues. He was not ready to surrender to those heavy eyelids just yet. For four more straight nights, he left us in a perplexed daze. We wondered if this was going to be the new nightly routine. Brush teeth. Put on some moisturizer and eye cream. Pray for serenity while baby screams incessantly. Nate was clearly the victor. As DH and I scrambled for the energy to hit the snooze button each morning, he slept soundly. Even smiling in his sleep. What an ego on this kid.

Round 6: Wednesday

We had to make a comeback. We couldn't let him make a mockery of us. We needed a strategy. At 9pm, I decided to take preemptive strike - a bath, soaking him in lavender bath wash. I dried him off, dressed him in a onesie and swaddled him tight with one of his thick, yet soft and cozy blankets, being careful to leave his arms loose but his body tight. I turned off all the lights but turned on our oscillating fan. We crawled into bed, where I began to nurse him.

20 minutes later, ladies and gentlemen, we had a knockout. The parental units were triumphant. We're not sure what the secret weapon was or if he just snapped out of a phase. But there was a return to tranquility. Not just Wednesday but Thursday as well. We are grateful.
___________________________________________________

In other news, the cluster feeding has ceased. The girls are relieved and are no longer pleading for my sympathies. I thought I was going to have to invest in these, but it seems two may actually be enough.

His hands are still fair game, however. Those poor souls have not been able to save themselves from the slobber monster. I fear they may never escape. But alas, better them than my nips. I doubt they feel pain equally.

Let's just hope there's no relapse.

Owie Wowie

You can file this one under TMI but I have to share what's on my mind today.

My nips hurt.

Not the licked-by-a-kitten, scruffy kind of hurt. More like I'm-a-two-dollar-hooker-on-a-good-day kind of sore. Or maybe that would be a bad day? Anyway, you get my drift. I can barely stand the sensation of my breast pads rubbing against them. My first instinct is to cup them and protect them from the elements, until I realize that my hands are capable of afflicting the same agony.

Can we say OWWWWW?! Guess I need to break out the Lanolin again. I haven't needed it since the first week or two after beginning the Great Breastfeeding Expedition.

For the past few days - and nights - Nate has been quite literally attached to my boobs. Big shocker. We all know they are his most favorite toys in the whole wide world, which have the added bonus of providing nourishment. But lately, it's been so bad that should I remove the boob from his mouth, we get maybe 5 minutes of happy time before I have to plug him back up to quell the wailing. Stubborn child won't be satisfied with a pacifier. Should I offer the colorful apparatus, he shoots me a look of disgust, as if to say, "you must be joking, woman. Fetch me a breast and stop this nonsense!". Just when I thought we might be out of the woods with the whole colic thing, I again found my butt firmly implanted in the recliner all weekend with my girls on display. I felt like a human keg.

Growth spurt perhaps? Homeboy has been gnawing on his hands and slobbering profusely whenever he's actually not nursing. Cute, check. Confusing, check. I'm not sure if he just likes the way they taste and feel or if he is truly giving me a hunger cue.

Tell me it's not teething. Not this soon. I beg of you.

Because, if it is, my poor twins may just detach themselves from my body and run off to a land far far away.

Moo

A pumping mom is not far removed from those of a bovine variety.

Let's think about it. I have tubing and horns attached to my udders (okay, we call them nipples and areolas in these parts) as suction stimulates the flow of milk at mid-tempo. Even the pump motor taunts me with a continuous soft, slow "moo" .

I have to hand it to exclusive pumpers. Breastfeeding isn't exactly a picnic but it seems so much easier now that I'm in my groove. No bottles, valves, membranes or flutes to wash. No need to remember storage guidelines or watch the clock as you follow a rigid pumping schedule. Breastmilk fresh from the tap is always at the perfect temperature and requires practically no cleanup, aside from my overactive letdown that gags Little Man and sprays him in the face if he should suddenly pull off. You know that carnival game where you squirt the water at the bullseye to see who can reach the top the fastest? Yeah, well I could be a champ and I don't even need the gun.

When pumping, I find myself eyeballing the drops. Counting the ounces. Cheering on the boobies. I turn it into a competition. Which boob will give the most milk in the fastest time? Lefty is almost always the winner so I find myself rooting for underdog Righty. After a feed, I can usually get about 2-3 oz. but I've gotten as much as 6 oz. when Nate only fed off Righty and Lefty was engorged (the things I get excited about these days...). My little piggie eats about 3-5 oz. from the bottle now so I need to do a good bit of pumping to provide 4 bottles on those days I will be working in the office.

For me, the scheduling is the hardest part. Nate falls asleep after almost every feed so it is hard to put him down and pump immediately. He is clingy and needs to be held ALOT. If he wakes up shortly after I put him down, he wants to dream feed to soothe himself back to sleep. In other words, I top him off so he gets that much more milk drunk. His feeds can be so sporadic (one boob vs. two, 1 hour vs. 3 hours apart) that it makes it hard to predict a safe time to pump. I don't want to pump and then have only an appetizer if he decides to wake up demanding a 4-course meal. Needless to say, I don't have much of a stash built up for when I return to work next week. But I'm hoping to correct that problem this week. I've been drinking Gatorade left and right (the electrolytes can boost your supply!) and I'm considering getting some Mother's Milk Tea to help me out temporarily. I am not opposed to supplementing with formula, if needed, but I really want to avoid it if I can and stick with exclusive breastmilk.

It's just hard to manage all of the details and I'm hoping that, like everything else, it will get easier and more predictable as time goes on.


BTW: No more nursing strikes so far. Whew. And he is now taking a bottle quite willingly when we offer it. Go figure.

Nipple Confusion is Not a Myth

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the ENEMY. It may seem like just an ordinary feeding device primarily used for babies but if you look closely, you will see horns and a pitchfork. Allow me to explain.

When Nate was 4 weeks old, we decided it was time to introduce a bottle. Breastfeeding was going swimmingly and we needed to prepare for him to take a bottle for when I had to return to work. I bought the best pump on the market and I was determined to do all in my power to ensure a smooth transition.

Well, my son has had other plans.

He flat-out refused any nipple other than the real thing. We tried bottle after bottle and artificial nipple after artificial nipple but he wouldn't have it. Playtex. NUK. Dr Brown's. Breastflow. MAM. Nuby. Adiri. All were a no go. He would mouth the nipple - and sometimes gag himself - before contorting his face to show his displeasure as the tears began. If I made any more attempts to move the horrid silicone and plastic contraption to his lips, the crying would amplify to a shrill scream - to the point where he would be gasping for breath. Yes, all this over a "ba-ba". As you can tell, I have a drama king on my hands.

So, for weeks we have been fighting this battle. And we have made some progress after being painfully consistent. I've endured hours upon hours of wailing, hitting and hair-pulling as he demanded a boobie. I've cried tears right alongside him and wondered if I would have to tell caregivers to syringe or cup feed him in my absence. I mean, I'm flattered that my boobs are in such high demand but although they are portable, they unfortunately cannot be detached.

Over time, he has conceded somewhat. He will drink from a bottle now - but usually takes many breaks to finish just several ounces. He will even take various kinds of bottles. He still fusses and whines but at least I know he won't go hungry if I'm not around.

So, we thought we had everything under control. How foolish of us.

For the past few days, we've enlisted the help of the Soothie, to live up to its name during Nate's typical colicky hours of 8pm - 11pm. It worked wonders. I no longer had to be a human pacifier and could relax in the evening without trying to comfort an inconsolable baby.

Well, last night, after a few hours of paci love, Nate refused the breast.

You heard correctly. REFUSED the BOOB. The boob he courted for so long. The boob he couldn't resist was now being resisted full-force. He would shake his head violently and refuse to latch, all the while sucking his fingers, bobbing his head and displaying every hunger cue in the book. I was so worried that something was wrong with him that I took his temperature and even looked inside of his mouth to see if there was something causing him pain. Nothing - all normal.

Meanwhile, it is 1am and DH and I are at our wit's end after countless attempts to woo him. DH decided to fix a bottle while I did my best to comfort baby. Wouldn't you know that he sucked down 2.5 oz. in the bottle as though he were a starving orphan?

I just broke down sobbing. I felt so rejected. How could he do a complete 180 like this? What went wrong? I thought about the last time I had nursed that day and kicked myself for not being more involved in the experience. For taking it for granted. What if that was the last time I would breastfeed my son? Sure, I could exclusively pump if I had to but I wanted the bond of nurturing him with my body. I cherished that bond we had and now I felt it had been compromised.

Thankfully, the nursing strike ended overnight after some sleep. Maybe some rest helped him to affirm his affection for the boob. But all day today, I've been walking on eggshells. Hoping he won't wean too early or get confused with all the nipples we have floating around. Hoping he'll still prefer the original tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

Who would've thought it could be this complicated?