Rededication

Consider this post a formal resolution that I am going to rededicate myself to blogging.  Really, the voices in my head are commanding me to to share with you all the random thoughts and useless information inside me.

The voices tell me to talk about my abnormally large breasts. Yes, that is what inspires me today. I found my stash of Palmers nipple cream, nursing pads and various other tools to assist me in nourishing my child. As I was organizing, I had a decision to make - toss it, donate it, or keep it. See, my breasts let me down, or my biology did. I failed miserably at breastfeeding. Before giving birth, I was an avid potential breastfeeder. I read everything - The Womaly Art of Breastfeeding, The Breastfeeding Book, and Breastfeeding Made Simple. The ultimate bonding experience! I was going to do this!

But then...

My labor and delivery was EASY! Granted, I was induced and had an epidural, but thing went fairly smoothly. I pushed for an hour and half...my husband and I marveled our 8 pound, 22 inches long little Oucha Bucha (nickname). I heard the midwife tell my husband our sum scored a 9 on his initial APGAR, then 8 five minutes later (great). A few minutes after the cord was cut, the midwife and nurse started working furiously to work out the rest of my placenta, they seemed to hurry to a worried pace - not panic, but close. I felt warm, gooey stiff ooze out of me. I apologized because, I thought I peed. The midwife smiled and said, that I was bleeding alot.

They ushered my husband out of the room, then brought out son to the nursery. I remember telling him to get me a Subway sandwich before the shop closed. He said, he would and was going to head home to pick up a few things I had forgotten.

I was still oblivious that something was wrong. The midwife gave me a shot of this god-awful stuff to stop the bleeding.  I cannot even get myself to write what this drug made my body do...a few hour later, I felt like I had been hit by a train. They almost gave me a blood transfusion because I had lost over a pint of blood.  Bedraggled and crazy looking they brought me to my hospital room. My stuff was there and a Subway sandwich was on the nightstand.  It was nearly midnight.

Naturally, minutes later, they brought my baby to me. Great, here is the moment - I was going to nourish my offspring. He latched beautifully, the nurse smiled and said that I had great nipples - they were meant for this! He drank for nearly 15 minutes, then switched to the other breast. He soon fell back to sleep, this routine carried on every two hours.

We brought him home, he seemed hungry and fussy all of the time. He lost a great deal of weight, turned yellow from jaundice. They has a bilibed delivered to our house because his bilirubin counts were high, he was not thriving. The doctor told me to pump, I did - producing a measly ounce of milk from both breasts. I called his pediatrician, she scheduled an appointment with the lactation consultant.  In the meantime, I supplemented, mixing what little breastmilk I had with formula. Oucha Bucha drank with a vengeance. His bilirubin numbers slowly declined, we returned the bilibed.

We spent the week working with the lactation consultant, she was puzzled as to my lack of breastmilk, despite his good latching and my "great" nipples. I took fenugreek like a madwoman, still nothing. A little over a week after giving birth, I was rushed to the hospital with a fever of 107.  I had retained placenta that caused a nasty infection. It was flushed out my giving me methergine. Great, now my body will realize that I am not pregnant anymore and my milk supply should go up - RIGHT?

No, weeks later, pumping 12 times a day for less than 2 ounces, it wasn't going up. One late night my husband woke to our son screaming, he found me asleep downstairs with the pump in my hand. He quietly prepared a bottle, fed and diapered little man and brought me to bed.

The next day we talked about what to do, both of us felt like we were going crazy. He smiled and told me I was doing a good job, but maybe we should just call my large breasts "false advertising" and move on to formula. Soon, our son was sleeping regularly and by three months, we were feeding him every 4 hours. By six months only twice a night.

Nearly two years later and I still obsess about this. My breast betrayed me. Next time will they, I hope not, that is why I decided to hang on to these lost nursing treasures. 

Civility and the toddler brain...

I have recently been thinking a lot about the proper way to handle disagreements with my husband. There is not doubt in my mind my insecurities about our relationship play a role in our fights. For this, I accept responsibility.

More concerning, is his anger. I am always worried about two things (1) my crying; and (2) his yelling. Despite the numerous times I have talked to my husband about how our son is too young to realize that we still love him, even when we are fighting, that our battles will leave emotional scars. Despite my pleas, he keeps yelling - then I keep crying. I do not even know what is on my husband's mind as he gives me a verbal beatdown in front of our son. Does he think this will strengthen his character? I know the answer - it will not strengthen him.


If our child grows up in an environment where mommy is always crying because daddy is yelling at her, he will feel as if he himself is under attack and his sense of security, peace and happiness will be destroyed. I think all parents will become angry with each other in the presence of their young children, but the key is to attempt to maintain a reasonably pleasant atmosphere until you are alone. It is my hope this will spare our son from dealing with relationship complexities before he is developmentally able.

Checking in with Dr. Phil he states that parent who have yell at each other in front of their young children are a part of a "silent epidemic." This behavior does not strengthen then, but makes them more—rather than less—vulnerable to stress. Dr. Phil further confirms what I inherently know (and tried to tell my husband). The toddler brain cannot process exactly what is happening, they just know their environment is threatened, volatile and uncertain. This is very scary and confusing for toddlers who lack the mental capacity to understand - I am always worried about the insecurity issues this can cause if our arguments continue to be so severe or frequent.

I really hope we can focus on saving our disagreements for when we are alone. At the very least, he needs to stop yelling, then I will stop crying. If he cannot stop the hostilities, then I need to remember to breath, reassure my son by saying, "Despite this argument, Mommy and Daddy love each other and we both love you!"

I never have been a Dr. Phil fan, but he proposes a few simple rules for fighting with civility. I think it would be wise for my husband to consider these.

We need to do our best to contain our anger until you are alone. I am hoping that my husband will realize that will be easier to postpone our argument in order to nourish our son's emotional security and physical health. I cannot express this enough. The urge to protect brings out a strong flight instinct in momma bears, as wrong as it may be to even consider such things in light of personal history.

So last night was hard. I went upstairs and cuddled with my husband watching "2012." I figured, why not live it up if this is our last night on Earth, given the coming Rapture. As, I ventured to the bathroom, I check in on my little toddler. Before I got to him, the smell of bile hit my nose hard. I rushed over to the crib. There was so much vomit it reminded me of the Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Thank god, he was in a sweet vomit covered sleep. How come I did not hear him?

So I quickly wetting a wash cloth and cleaned him off. After changing him into new pajamas, I laid him in bed next to my husband then went to gather up his bedding. The smell was so vile, I spent the night doing laundry.

So, today is the last day on Earth and I feel terrible (not fine). Oh well, Alex is fine today, not missing a beat.

Evaluation: Can I do this?

I am evaluating whether or not I a truly dedicated to writing this blog. I had a strong start, but I have been lousy at keeping it up. Part of it has to do with a very deep sadness I feel that prohibits me from doing beyond the bare minimum. I know, it sounds like depression - but I do not think it is quite there yet. I find it so exhausting to keep up with my son. Intellectually and physically, I am seeking new and old ways of stimulating his development - swimming, tumbling and bike rides. Hey, in the process, I have lost five pounds - only fifteen to go!

I need to make this a part of my routine...

Happy Mother's Day

Honestly my Mother's Day kinda sucked. I hate to say it, but I have all of these expectations on how I want the day to go, and it always falls short. I wanted to sleep in, get breakfast made for me, get a backrub. I love my husband, but he has a difficult time doing what I want for a day. He is always reminding me that me is the sole breadwinner in the household - and how lucky I am to have someone take care of me. Do not get me wrong, I am happy that I get to stay home with my son...but this stings because he knows I would rather be working.

Overall, we had a good day. I wanted to go to the zoo, we went. I got a present, a small peice of pottery. All I wanted was some pleasant family time. I spent the afternoon with my mom and aunt. My husband cooked for all of us. I came home and fell asleep in a somewhat wine foggy daze.

All day, I felt sad. I kept thinking about the baby I lost and how I would be at the end of my second trimester. I really, really need some time to feel the gravity of this loss.

Mourning - a slow and scattered process

As I sit here and try to make sense of the loss of my unborn child, I cannot help to reflect upon all of the well meaning advice I have gotten for coping. Many people have offered a religious outlook on the loss, and I genuinely appreciate it, because talking does help. I will take any type of comfort on the topic of early pregnancy loss.

I guess, I tend to be more spiritual, rejecting the authority of organized religion. I was raised Catholic, but I never really thrived in an what felt like such a oppressive sect of Christianity. I cussed a nun out during my Confirmation classes when she informed our class that a man was coming to lecture us on how abortion is murder. I told her that a man, who will NEVER have to make that choice, should not be coming to class to tell me what I can and cannot do with my body. I told her that if a woman wants to come and talk - fine, more impactful, a woman who made the choice and regretted it.

I have explored other forms Christianity, but nothing felt right. I am very liberal in my political beliefs, so I turned to a few Unitarian churches, open to gay marriage and not so focused on the anti-choice movement. That did not fit. I guess, I am just not comfortable with with such public rituals revolving around biblical doctrine. I tend to be a bit anti-authoritarian.

But for me this is not a religous journey. It is a phychological and scientific journey. My baby died of complications arising from a freak extra chromosome. I hear the diagnosis over and over again - Alobar Holoprosencephaly. If she had lived to make it into this world, I would have gazed upon her deformed features with love. I would have watched her suffer a painful journey in an already painful world. I would have spent my time with her waiting for her to die. The babies who have lived more than a year with alobar holoprosencephaly did not have the facial defomities that my baby had.

So as painful as this choice is, I would have chosen not for that to happen, that choice was taken away from me. Even so, I am happy that I live in a country that gives woman the right to chose. I firmly believe that this does not mean that I am not in touch with God and all his glory, or that I am going to hell. Hell would be making my child suffer her short time on this earth in order to subvert my alleged tenure of eternity in Hell for making the choice not to impose suffering on my child. Someone might decide otherwise, that just would have been my choice.

Guilty...I am. I have not written in two weeks.

Well this month has been busier than usual. On March 30th Alex took a terrible tumble. He was running - full force - fell and hit the corner of a cabinet. He had a gigantic lump on his head, it formed faster than anything I had seen. I panicked, called the doctor and scheduled an appointment for an hour later (it was shocking that they had an open spot). Alex was doing better than me after his injury, in the car he was laughing and singing (lalala, his favorite song). The doctor and I held him down, and iced it. The doctor quickly assessed the head injury. She said it was "not a concussion, but it will look worse before it looks better." Holy smokes, was she right. It started out like this:

Then morphed into two black eyes... turned out that was the worse before the better...

Every time we go out, to the gym, to the grocery store, ECFE class, anywhere - I have to retell the story...Oh, he was running, fell, lump, turned into black eyes. People eye me suspiciously - the people who have no experience with hard hits to the forehead, or nose, don't know that you can get two black eyes after a blow like this. Yup, this one puts me in the running for a "Mother of the Year" award.

White Room Transformed

Many people who know me, know that I have a hard time sitting still. It is one extreme or another - a complete catonic trance in from of the telly or obsessive cleaning and some project underfoot. Ask my friend Ann, she found me under my dining room table (confession: Shania Twain blasting) dusting all of the wood relentlessly. Since that day she has nicknamed me "Monica," from the popular show Friends, well known for her OCD fit of cleaning. Anyways, I decided my son needed a place for all of his toys, art supplies and other playthings. I then decided, the white room would be the perfect spot for him. Over the course of two weeks, I transformed the place from a mudroom/lounge area, to a playroom. Good riddance to the White Room. Here is the final result: