Come to http://momstrous.com/ in the next week or so. That's my new home. It's going to be a humor site about motherhood, using mainly hand-drawn comics.
I've already got a bunch of them sketched out and a few drawn. In the next few days, I'll be an uploading fiend.
Can't wait to finally be back for real!
Posted at 10:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)
About four months ago I noticed something alarming.
My period was late.
Now since the crazy-ass fluke that we call Bo happened, we decided in a fit of hysterics that I should be on birth control (hear the psycho in that?) and so I went on Camila, a birth control pill that is ideal for nursing but apparently doesn't protect against pregnancy as well as some of the heavier dose pills. Whatever, it was good enough, since we DID go SEVEN years without a single pregnancy and my FSH was around a million when we stopped treatments. That alone should be ample birth control, but Random was spooked enough by Bo's unicorn-like existence (both of us marveling-- was something magically "fixed" now? Was my body feeling particularly eggy all of a sudden? Were the sperm no longer two-headed beasties?) that we could get pregnant AGAIN if we didn't watch out. We had just recently bought a modest 2000 square foot home in an uber-expensive area (outside NYC) that cost us a ridiculous amount of money and the mortgage payments were unreal (they still are. We still gasp every time we see them, and now our house is worth less). So the basic synopsis is this: we would, in an ideal world, like to have another child. We cannot afford another child, and we really don't have the physical space for another child. Therefore, we will prevent any possibility of another child, no matter how small.
So getting back to the original story: my period was late.
I vaguely remembered skipping a pill or two, because when you have two small children, remembering to take a pill every night is a hassle. A mixture of panic and raw excitement surged through me as I peed on a First Response HPT.
It was negative. It didn't surprise me, but yet I was a little flummoxed (love the word "flummoxed"!); my period had been like clockwork ever since going off hormones, and it had resumed 10 months into nursing, back to its old clockworkian ways. The only time I had been this late, I was pregnant.
In the next few days, I took a number of tests, all negative. I couldn't figure it out. The only thing I could guess was that I was starting menopause. That, coupled with my 39th birthday, was sending me into a gloomy pit of self-pity filled with laughing nubile young women full of fertile hope and non-saggy boobs all pointing at me. At about eleven days late, I called my OB/GYN. I went in for tests, including a pregnancy test.
"Well, you're not pregnant," the nurse called me back a day or two later. "But your thyroid is pretty low. It could be that." Then she told me that I had ovulated, but recently, and could expect my period in about ten days. (This would have put me at about 24 days late, almost an entire cycle).
I went to my thyroid doc, who reviewed the results and upped my Synthroid. He didn't know if my thyroid would cause such a late period, but he was open to the possibility.
A few months went by. My period returned, back to its comfy old self, on time and ready to go. Thoughts of menopause flew gaily out the door and I attributed it all to my thyroid.
And then July happened.
My last period was July 3. It's now August 9, and I've stopped counting how many days late I am. I've taken three tests, all negative. There is no sign of my period except for my incredible ongoing bad mood (I told my husband: It's like PMS but constantly--like it's all built up there waiting but not coming out). My thyroid doc called me last week with good news--my levels are stable and looking good. So my convenient excuse is no longer there.
I could be going through menopause. Right??! And: Fuck.
Or---and this is what I'm now trying to convince myself is happening--it's my continued nursing that's screwing up my cycle. I'm actually nursing more than I was during the year, as Bo likes to nurse for hours in the morning if she can (she is not on board with weaning attempts. Weaning attemps can go eff themselves). The last time I was late (four months or so ago), was right around a work vacation, so I was probably nursing more then too. Maybe? Maybe my nursing is messing with things?
It's plausible, right?
Anyway, I've bought this First Response Fertility Check-er thinger. It's supposed to measure your FSH and tell you whether you can have a baby. I felt ridiculous buying it, but I'm curious. If I really am starting menopause, I would guess that it would tell me I have suck ass chances of getting pregnant.
I know it's crazy, but I don't want to be going through menopause. Even if we are never going to have another kid by choice, the whole mid-life thing is starting to get frighteningly close. I googled "what age is middle age" the other day, and searched until I found a site that said "45-65." Just so it doesn't officially start with my next birthday. My husband told me he thinks I am having a mid-life crisis, and he's right. I haven't bought any sports cars yet, but I've got about four hundred pairs of leggings.
As soon as my period starts, I'm going to measure my FSH and post whatever answer it gives me. In the meantime, if anyone has any similar experiences--either to commiserate or educate--I'd love to hear them. I thought I was done with worrying about my nethers. Ha! They will never allow me that luxury.
Posted at 08:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (41) | TrackBack (0)
Given recent US Magazine headlines, I know that sounds strange (if you're not up on your recent US reading, shame shame. Angelina "STOLE JEN FROM BRAD!!!", after all). But I'm not being sarcastic. I really do think Angelina (yep, first name basis here) has done a lot for my family. Let me explain.
Before we adopted, I was a bit anxious. Ok. I was really, really, anxious. It felt like whenever I told someone, stranger or friend or family, that we were adopting, one of the following categories of responses usually came out of their mouths:
1. You never knew what the child would be like when you adopted--had we heard this horror story? Blabbity blab blab.
2. We would definitely get pregnant after adopting, because the person knew of X amount of couples who that had happened to (i.e., the adoption itself was of no real consequence except as a means to getting pregnant, another form of in vitro if you will, except instead of an embryo an actual child was transferred to your womb/house). Since it had happened to X amount of people, it would ergo happen to us.
3. Why did we want to adopt? Did we not require our "own" children? Would it be weird for us to have "someone elses's child"?
4. What, exactly, was our entire medical history? Because once again, responder knew of X amount of people who had had trouble trying and responder would be happy to share techniques, tips, etc. for bundle of joy delivered nine months from now. Had I tried Robitussin? Sex on my stomach? Sex with ACTUAL egg whites? Visualizing happy thoughts? It had worked for responder/responder's milkman's stepdaughter's cousin twice removed. (I did indeed actually have a neighbor once offer to buy me a case of Robitussin. A woman in her eighties, who had no idea why cough medicine might work but told me that was why her daughter had had babies. I told her why the Robitussin was sometimes handy for some women, and she paled. She deserved it, a little bit.)
5. Well, that was so nice of me because I was giving a child a home and responder would not be able to do something like that him/herself, but I was an amazing person because I could and child would be soooo lucky.
6. I needed to relax. Relaxing was the key. Was I relaxed? Because that was probably it—if I relaxed I would get pregnant.
7. Why international adoption? Why not adopt here?
Sometimes I did get the kind of response you expect when you are pregnant—“omg, that is so wonderful, when is the baby due?” That kind of thing. Pure, unadulterated excitement without any qualifiers or probing personal questions. Although one of the things I realized when I did get pregnant, years later, was that often that kind of response isn’t necessarily standard with pregnancy, either. The responses to a pregnancy announcement can be as uncomfortable as the responses to an adoption announcement. But I think most people know how to respond to pregnancies and have less practice with adoptions, and that was pretty clear to me when I was adopting.
I wrote a lot of posts during that time, angry, bitter, spewing posts. I got a lot of comments of support, but I also got some of disbelief. I will never forget a fellow adopter who told me I must be making all of it up—she hadn’t had the same experience with her kids—nobody questioned them, or her, or made her feel uncomfortable.
I started to doubt myself—I knew I wasn’t making anything up—people were SHITTY when I was adopting. I got some doozy responses to my news, some really inappropriate comments. But maybe, I thought, it was me. Maybe I attracted it somehow.
I don’t know what it was—my attitude attracting the ass comments, or just a proliferation of jackholian people surrounding me, but pretty soon after adopting, it all changed.
Maybe it was MP who did it. Nobody could keep their eyes off of her, after all. People were stunned by her adorableness. And our obvious parent-child bond. I felt like the poster family for a good adoption experience—MP had a bit of trouble bonding, but by month four she was clearly our child through and through, and even though she occasionally called my sister in law “mommy” I knew it was just to piss me off, her being crafty that way even back then.
People questioned us once in a while. “Are you babysitting?” One idiot checkout lane person inquired. I like to think it was because I was so obviously teenaged looking and far too young looking to be considered mom material. “No,” I responded, “This is my daughter.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You look nothing alike.”
Ummmmmmmm, ya think? She wasn’t joking, though. She required an explanation.
“Yep! Her father’s black,” I said.
I WISHED I said. I actually said something like “Yeah, I know, but we act the same” and left it at that. But it was a blip compared to BMP (Before MP).
So I pretty much radiated mom-confidence—secure in my position as the lucky mom of the best kid ever, I roamed my usual haunts meeting a sea of approving nods and huge smiles. No longer did I get asked how much she cost.
And then I got pregnant. All of the jackholes who mentioned that might happen once I adopted were suddenly right, and I pictured them all secretly smirking as they considered my ample belly, rubbing their hands together. We were worried about what it would be like to have a blended family. Before, we had one child who was adopted. Now we’d have two children, one who was not adopted, and we worried about how our children would be perceived, whether it would be obvious they were sisters, whether either would feel less or more special than the other because of the way they entered into our family. We liked to worry. Anxiety fit well, like an old soft coat. We knew how to do anxious. Feeling secure, feeling comfy—well, I never did that so well.
Once C was born, and we ventured out, I waited (anxiously) for the public’s reaction. Why did I care? Because I know how much words and looks can sting. I wanted to protect my kids. And I felt a bit battered myself. I wondered if people would pay more attention to MP and pass over C. I wondered if the reverse would be true. I wondered if everywhere we went people would ask if they were sisters. I wondered if people would smirk and say “see! I and all of my cronies were right! YOU DID GET PREGNANT!”
Instead, I was once again surprised.
This is how people react:
1. Look how cute! Your girls are beautiful. (To MP) Do you like having a baby sister?
2. Wow! What well behaved sisters.
They are automatically assumed to be sisters. Maybe it’s because I’m holding both their hands. Maybe it’s because they're fighting, or hugging, or each eating similar crackers. Or maybe it’s because of Angelina Jolie and her lovely brood staring out at the cover of every magazine. Maybe she’s made people more used to seeing blended families like ours. Maybe it’s all of those things. But people seem to be so much more accepting.
Once in a while, a person I sort of know will tell me the story of someone who adopted who got pregnant, telling me “that always happens.” I correct them, giving them statistics of adopting couples who actually get pregnant afterwards, and they are surprised.
Recently, a teenager I barely knew but had to watch over for a few days started asking me questions about my family. He came from a broken family, and had been in trouble with the law at only fifteen years old. He told me about how he wasn’t close with his family at all, that his parents didn’t care about him. When he found out I had both adopted and given birth, he started hurling questions at me.
“Is it freaky when one of your children isn’t really your kid?”
“Why did you go to China? How much did she cost?”
“Do you love them the same?”
He was clearly fascinated, and I answered his questions, gently correcting some of his language (“both of my children are my kids, my own kids. No, it’s not freaky…..My daughter didn’t cost anything—it’s illegal to buy or sell people. The process cost money, though, and if you’d like to know how much, you can check it out on the Internet…Of course I love them the same, they are both my kids.”) He nodded, clearly impressed with my answers. Maybe part of him was wondering what it would be like to be adopted himself, with parents who cared about him. His friend, who was in a similar situation as he was (broken family, trouble with law) was Asian and very interested in the fact that one of my daughters was Chinese. After asking me questions for a while, they sat back, satisfied, and one of them looked at the other.
“She’s just like Angelina Jolie,” he said to his friend. “That’s way cool.”
I grinned. Okay, so clearly it’s not ONLY Angelina who has allowed blended families like mine to garner more acceptance and respect—maybe it’s also Sandra, and Madonna, and the amazing work done by adoption agencies and charities, and the incredible blogs written by adoptive moms and dads and adoptees themselves. But I didn’t mind being compared to Angelina (even if I don’t love that she “stole” Brad). I didn’t adopt to have a family encompassing “all the colors of the rainbow” (like Angelina has been known to say), but if her family, which seems to be really working, helps others to embrace adoption—or inspires adoption—then hey, props to her.
And hey, props to all of us. Because no matter how our families come to be, we will find ourselves having to defend something about them, someday—and our confidence in our own family makeup is what allows us to stand up to the antiquated idea of what a “perfect” family is.
And now I need to go pay some attention to my perfectly imperfect family.
Posted at 10:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBack (0)
When I thought about nursing my daughter, I always imagined that it would be a surreal, bonding experience; that small birds would alight on my shoulders and my noxious singing voice would suddenly be transformed into that of a Disney princess's. I would sing about how beautiful she was, nestled in my bosom; how bounteous and firm my bosom was in its coreseted top (size 2); how we gazed into each other's eyes until she drifted off to sleep and I could pluck her, her small rosebud mouth opening obediently, off of me to lie, suppine in slumber, in her crib.
Ha. Ha. *Insane laughter ensues*
More like: She nurses so much I have to carry her to the bathroom if I want to pee and I am required to nurse her while I pee. I nurse her on car trips in the car, while she's in her carseat, because she can't go for longer than 45 minutes. I get thrush, so I research that freaky violet stuff which I consider painting on my chest and on the inside of her mouth, but chicken out because I'm afraid it will stain everything. I get endless tubes of Nystatin and wonder how much she can digest before it actually harms her. I dread putting her on and I dread taking her off, because she doesn't want to come off and I literally have to wrench myself from her clamped mouth. She is hot and sweaty all the time and sticks to me. I can't wash there, because of the dreaded threat of perfumed soap offending her, so I feel coated in a perpetual sheen of body grease. Usually, she eats and eats and then throws it all up (all over me), so I'm guessing that's why she's so hungry all the time, like a little bird with a bottomless belly. She didn't look in my eyes. She liked one nursing position and one only. I tried every other one; I either squashed her or it hurt too much or she cried, her little hands batting me in fury.
That was in the beginning, for about the first six months; it started getting a bit easier after that. It didn't get easier when everyone said it would--a couple of weeks, they said--it still hurt terribly and she cluster nursed all the time. But after six months, when we started solids, she eased up a bit. I didn't start her on cow's milk until she was a year, and was still nursing her about five times a day on her first birthday.
Like my idealistic ideas about nursing, I also had idealistic ideas about weaning. I wasn't quite ready when she turned one, so I didn't try hard; I just expected she'd go on a nursing strike and that would be that. But it never happened. If anything, she stepped it up as I started to wean her off feedings. What was most interesting to me was the general and varied reaction of people who heard I was still nursing Bo at her first birthday:
I was either a superhero, a somewhat acceptable freak, or a bonafide freak already, Because at a year, kids can ask for boobs--and Bo was already yanking on my shirt and screaming for it. She liked to stick her hands either up or down my shirt and grab me and yell what she wanted in my face; if we were in public, I'd laugh it off and stick a toy in her hands, but people gave me looks already. I didn't really care. We're already a conspicuous family; my one-year-old grabbing at me every two seconds only really made other people uncomfortable.
As her first year progressed, she did not naturally wean herself like the books suggested she probably would. I had heard all of these encouraging stories about how one day the child just decided to forgo the boob and lo! Nursing was done and there was no drama. But not Bo. As the year wore on a few things happened. Bo came up with her own name for nursing--she calls it "Na-Nums." She would grab me in public, scream "MAMA! NA-NUM!"
She also weaned herself off of my right boob. All of a sudden, one day, she decided she did not want the right boob. And didn't want it after that AT ALL, don't even SHOW it to her, she'll smack it and scream NOOOO. Now, occasionally, she will decide to try it out, and she gets this look on her face like it's such a total lark, like HOLY SHIT, I'M GOING TO TRY THIS THING OUT! LOOK AT CRAZY ME! and then she tries it, and immediately pops her head up, makes a disgusted face and wipes her tongue.
Now Bo nurses once in the morning, when she wakes up; once when she gets home from daycare, at around five; and once after dinner. Three times on the weekdays. On weekends, all bets are off and I am a human milk spigot. If I'm sitting on the couch, na-num's on the menu. Her preferred way is lying on top of me, legs on either side of my belly, her hands up my shirt squeezing my belly. If I get annoyed and resist the belly squeezing (I've always hated people touching my belly) Bo will start to sob hysterically. Ironically, the part of my body that I am most self-conscious about is the part that seems to be an integral part of her nursing comfort.
Now I don't much tell people I'm nursing. I don't know if people don't expect it of me, or if they just aren't used to it, but they are generally surprised and don't know what to do with the information--some people are genuinely shocked. I only know one other person who nursed past a year, and she is a former hippie who still dresses the part; it's what I always pictured a woman who nursed past a year to look like. I'm proud of what Bo and I have done--she's a brave, fearless little girl who is incredibly affectionate and knows exactly what she wants--and I'm proud of what my body has done. It ranks as one of the top three best decisions I've made in my life, after adopting and marrying my husband. And I do, perversely, like challenging people's ideas of what extended nursing is "supposed" to look like. It's not so weird when a baby asks for what she wants; it's no less weird than a child asking for a bottle.
Recently, several people I work with have asked for my advice on nursing their babies. And I've had a couple of friends tell me they now intend on nursing for as long as the baby wants because of how positive an experience I ended up having. These past two years have given me a healthy dose of pain--my mom battled two types of cancer, and I lost my beloved job (and I now work for my replacement, which kills me every. single. day I go to work). But nursing Bo has made a lot of it worth it: I wouldn't have been able to continue nursing her, for example, if I hadn't lost my job. And knowing that other moms might try it out now is pretty awesome.
And-- I ended up losing 60 lbs. Nursing is better than any diet.
So now I am officially "pacimama," used for comfort, falling asleep, and a general panacea for all ills. Bo likes to nurse and watch tv--she'll pop off to comment on the action, then pop back on. Eventually I suppose I'll have to get more aggressive at weaning her, because I don't want to go much past two years and she'll be two in a few days. But every time I think about it, I imagine all the drama. I just want Bo to let it go herself, and I don't think she will.
So tell me your weaning stories. I could use some boobvice.
Posted at 07:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (48) | TrackBack (0)
MP sings so many things opera-style. This is just one example. Note Bo in the background, cheering her on.
Posted at 07:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBack (0)