Cheek

For the Girls 1

Dear Chloe,

You are ten weeks old and soon I will go back to work and leave you for almost eight hours a day with someone who is not me. Thinking about this moment makes my stomach do a freefall into my gut--how can I be away from you? What will happen to me without you? When your sister went to daycare, I cried every morning and rushed there to see her after work. I imagined her falling and someone else having to kiss her booboos and I died, a little, knowing this. Letting her go, watching her get big and run off was hard enough, and now at barely three months I have to let you go, I have to share what was once completely my own. Is that what parenthood, then, is? A series of letting go, each moment harder than the one before it? Or will I grow accustomed to it, hand you off to daycare easily instead of with a lurching ride into the pit I have already titled Without You?

Every morning I check your hands and clean them while you nurse. You hate it, and your fists ball even tighter as I pry them apart. I check for hairs, which wrap tightly around your pudgy fingers, threatening to cut off circulation. Once, it took me ten minutes to unwind the hank of my hair that was snaked in and out of your fingers. I clean under your knifelike nails, which you despise and which makes you yell in indignation and suck harder. I wipe your hand clean with mine, and then, finally, I kiss the back of your hands, over and over. Who will do this when I am at work? Will I have to worry about your poor trapped fingers all day long?

You smile now, sometimes mid-cry. Everything about you is delectable and lovely--your wrist rolls, your wrinkled forehead, your creaky door noises as you wake up, the way you sleep on me, arm flung carelessly, claiming me as yours. When I take off my shirt, you coo and smile. When I take you off me before you're finished eating, you squawk. We call you Stevie Wonder because you move your head from side to side, we call you Creaky Door because you make these old hinge noises as you wake up, we call you Poopy McGuillicutty because sometimes you poop on and on and on.

I love the balls of old millk that congregate in your neck rolls and make you smell, always, like coming home. I love your always-damp strawberry tinged hair, your curling hand on my shirt, your downy ear tufts. I love when you smile during sleep. I imagine that you are dreaming of more milk, of a land of many boobs and warmth and mobiles to watch and coo at, of mirrors to check out, of soft bellies and hair massages, and kisses, your offered cheeks sweet, ripe mangoes.

I can't believe I have to give you up, even for part of the day. It is too soon, too soon; I have only just begun to know you, baby.

Love, Mama

******************

MP next.

No Thanks, I've Got My Own Pop

Those durn kids.....

The other day MP was walking around with this big wooden sausage that she owns as part of a whole wooden foodie set.

It's painted brown and has realistic grill marks. It's a pretty nice wooden sausage, as far as those go.

She started licking it. Enthusiastically.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"That's my pop," she said. She continued licking the sausage.

"Honey, we don't put toys in our mouth," I said. I was sitting on the couch nursing Chloe so couldn't get up to take it away. Plus, MP's usually pretty good at listening to rules like that.

Then she stuck the sausage in her mouth till half of it was gone. At that point I got up (Chloe attached, so it took quite the effort, as she is porking up beautifully these days) and went over to MP. She hid the toy behind her back and promised me she wouldn't put it in her mouth again.

When I sat back down she came over and held out her sausage.

"You want a lick of my pop?" she asked.

I told Random this story and he immediately went and found the sausage and hid it far, far away up on our bookshelves where MP would never be able to get it. Good move, Random. Otherwise she could grow up and tell her bathroom contractor that she liked caulk or something. (And if you don't know that reference, I'm sure someone will fill you in.)   

**************************

My girls are so delish.    

But You're Paying Us Rent

On my most recent post, "Adoptee" comments

Why say to the young man that your first daughter is "adopted"? You wouldn't say she was a C-section baby or has red hair. Saying yes, I have another child, but she's adopted is unnecessary, and you yourself would be offended at this if you witnessed this prior (just look back at your writing). I hate when my parents used to do that. Why point that out and differentiate? She is still your daughter, and he's still a stranger

I guess I should clarify things like this when I write, because I have written so much on this topic. I agree with "Adoptee's" comment: no differentiation is necessary when you are talking about your children and how they came to be your children. But I did want to comment on this comment, and why I said and wrote what I did, because I think it's important.

When I got pregnant, everyone in the medical profession asked me if this was my first. Receptionists, nurses, ultrasound techs. "No," I would say. "My second." I would not clarify at all how MP came to us. At that point most people would ask me follow up questions--who did my first child look like, was my pregnancy with her like the one I was having, did I have any problems with her birth. I then told them she was adopted or from China, and more often than not, they started asking me exciting questions about adoption. People were entranced with the idea that I had adopted and was pregnant--not because I was pregnant, but because they thought it was so cool that I got to have both experiences and wanted to hear my perspective. I also had to fill out a few questionnaires about my health, and checked off the box for "number of previous children" as "one"; then "number of pregnancies" as "zero." I felt no need to clarify until a confused tech looked at the questionnaire and asked me to explain.

Once in the hospital every. single. nurse asked me if Chloe was my first. I said no, and before they could ask further questions, I told them about our adoption. Part of me hated what I was saying--the "it shouldn't matter how she came into our family" part, but almost all of them were so interested and I had more than one conversation about adoption in general because either they had family who had done it, or they themselves had thought about it. It's amazing how many people do think about adoption but don't have people around them who have actually adopted. Adoption in theory is very different than adoption in reality. Just so you can understand how many times we were asked this question, it got to the point that when one nurse asked me if this was my first Random just said "yes" because he didn't want to have to get into any of the follow up questions that would come ("oh, did you give birth here? Were you induced then too? Was Dr. S your doctor then? Blahblahblah").

And I don't really believe that it doesn't matter how a child comes to you. The theory sounds great. But Chloe's birth was very, very special to me; it matters a lot. And MP's adoption was very, very special; we talk about it all the time. Saying that her adoption doesn't matter is saying that her birth country doesn't matter, that her birth family isn't important; we are an adoptive family, and we are more than proud of it.

Maybe I am going through a reverse of what I went through before we adopted. I was angry and bitter at the world, then, for its attitude towards adoption--"less than," "not real," etc. I wanted to make sure that the world knew that I equated birth and adoption the same--both equal in every respect, that no differentiation was required. I was pissed when I read celebrity's kids labeled as adopted--as in "Nicole Kidman's two adopted kids." What does it matter? I said. Just like the commenter above, I didn't see why the designation had to be made. Kids are kids, and they are your kids.

Maybe now I've swung the other way a bit too far, though. I'm so happy we adopted, so eager to spread the joy that we've gotten from it, that I don't mind questions or interest anymore. I want my daughter to be comfortable in her skin; I want her to know I celebrate the fact that she is adopted just as I celebrate my other daughter's birth and the surprise pregnancy that led her to us. Both of our children are miracles, in the way they came to us and in who they are. But as "Adoptee" says, I don't need to volunteer that information to strangers. (And usually I don't.)

Anyway, back to the wheelchair guy. I was probably hasty in my response to him, probably because of habit at that point--I can't remember whether he asked questions before I volunteered our adoption info or not, but I'm ultimately glad I did tell him that we had adopted. Because what I didn't write about was the look on his face when he said "Good" after telling him we loved our daughter like crazy. I said more, too, that I didn't write in the post--that I couldn't believe he could say that, that her adoption had been the best moment of our life. He seemed comforted to hear what I was telling him, as if he doubted that his parents could love him and was testing me. His face lit up as I clarified our feelings. I don't know if I managed to validate how he felt about his own adoption in any way, but the fact that he asked such a bizarre question in the first place as an adoptee seems to suggest that he had, at least, some issues with it.   

So I totally get "Adoptee's" comment above, but I also struggle with the fact that I am not shy about being a public advocate for adoption. In front of MP, I do not talk about her adoption. We haven't had too many people ask questions--occasionally someone will ask where she's from, most recently another adoptive mom; she was probably the most inquisitive, ironically. For the most part I am left alone, although everyone freaks over how cute MP is. When I am just out with Chloe, I am no longer looked at as an "adoptive" mom. And I'll admit, it feels weird, like my leg is missing.

Maybe I'm wrong in all of this, but it's so much a happier place, this overspilling joy. I don't volunteer MP's adoption info on a regular basis, but I don't hide it, either. MP knows she is from China. She knows she was with her friend, A., and the nannies; she knows she has another family in China. The other day, we were talking about her adoption, and how we went there and brought her to America. She talked about how she wanted to visit China, and then she said

"there are a lot of babies in China, mama."

I gasped. "How do you know that? Who told you that?" I had never told her that.

"I told you that," MP said. "Please we bring all of the babies who came here back to China?"

My heart broke. "No, sweetie," I said. "I don't think they would want to go back to China now. Would you want to go live in China now or stay with mommy and daddy?"

"Stay with mommy and daddy," she said.

Until you're fifty, kiddo.

****************************************************

About That Brazilian

Monday, June 9th, I went for yet another obstetrician appointment to check my high blood pressure and get another non-stress test for the baby. After peeing in a cup, weighing in (four pounds gained over the weekend, making my total gain a horrifying 49 lbs) and getting cuffed (pressure still alarmingly high), I went in to see my beloved OB, who wears Birkenstocks and multi colored plastic framed glasses and who supported my plans to go au naturel (I somehow believed I had a "high pain threshold" and would be able to "ride the contractions" like some kind of "pregnant surfer goddess." I'll just visualize! I told everyone).  She breezed in, did some palpating, and prounounced all and sundry "ready."

"Let's do this thing," she said. "Tomorrow. 7:30. We'll get you started with Pitocin."

Right away, the au naturel thing was at least partly abandoned; I was being induced because my blood pressure was pretty high, my mother had terrible problems with late term babies, the baby was already estimated to be pretty big, and I was far enough along (38w,5d) that induction seemed appropriate. Plus, I was gaining four pounds in two days. My feet were so swollen I had to wear Adidas sport slippers and undue the velcro all the way. My finger vanished when I poked my ankle. It was time.

I was hooked up to the monitor and left for an hour, watching my baby's peaks and valleys as she moved around. I wondered what she'd be like--if she'd be as feisty out of the womb as she was in, if she'd hiccup all the time like she did. I tried to read the charting as if it held the secret to who she was. I marveled at the way a decision to have a baby could be made with the words "Let's do this." It seemed so simple, especially after eight years of infertility, where nothing had been simple.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I called Random, said "Are you ready to have a baby?" He immediately freaked, thinking I was in labor. "No silly, tomorrow!" I said.

"Oh!" he said, much less shaken, almost calm. "Yeah! Sure." Like this was something he did every day. You know, old pro Random.

I called my parents (who were frantic, being that they were still in South Carolina and I'm in New York), my mother in law. I called my doula, who promised she'd be there early and told me to relax and enjoy the last day. I went home and packed my bag--mints, hairdryer and curling iron (hey, a girl's gotta look good), yoga pants, big t-shirts, old underwear, my sexy (haha!) hospital gown (ordered from the Internet), my What To Expect and nursing books, and three huge pictures of my daughter, MP, that I intended to use for visualization.

When Random got home we arranged care for MP--the woman who takes care of her at daycare would have her overnight--and had our last dinner together as a threesome. I couldn't sleep that night; I was scared something would go wrong. The doula had asked me whether my OB had done an internal check, and she was surprised she hadn't--I had read, too, that inductions went far better when mothers were already primed, dilated, ripe. We had no idea what my cervix was doing apart from that it was short. I had no idea what to expect.

We got to the hospital a little late--dropping our daughter off at daycare took longer than we thought, as we had to say extra special goodbyes (plus, I had to curl my hair. Shuddup!). Once at the hospital we were immediately shown to our birthing suite, which was large, had big windows, and its own bathroom. Random took a few "before" pictures (in which I look like a huge, shining, blonde elephant, albeit one with good hair). I was given an internal exam (showing I was already one cm dilated) and hooked up to an IV and a monitor. The Pitocin was started, and dripped slowly into my IV. My doula came in a few minutes later, big bag of tricks slung on her shoulder. We were ready.

My OB came back and whipped out something resembling a crochet hook. She used it to break my waters, and suddenly I was soaked in fluid. Going to the bathroom was a treat--dragging the IV along with me, leaking blood and stuff everywhere. Random followed me with a rag and wiped everywhere I went. After I used the bathroom it was a gore fest; Random cleaned it up. If I could rent him out as a birth helper he'd make a lot of money for us, he was that awesome.

It was a while before things really got going, though. We watched the View, I had internal exams every couple of hours, and contractions started but were easy. I was dilated 2 cm, then 4. I walked around a lot, sat on the birthball, rocked in the chair. I hopped from foot to foot. The fetal monitor kept slipping, so I had to be careful how I sat. My nurse, specifically chosen and requested for me (illegally) by my doula, was from Norway; we chatted about Scandanavia, since my family is from Denmark, and I fell in love with her--a really important thing when you are undergoing something as momentous as giving birth.   

Somewhere around 2 pm things started getting crazy. I was contracting hard. I remember lying in bed, using visualization: my family (me, Random, MP, my dog) were climbing steppes somewhere out West (I've never done this). Or we were running through a field, grass swiping our lithe limbs. My doula had new agey music playing and was massaging my back and shoulders. I tried to ride each contraction. I pictured myself on a giant surfboard, contraction crashing on the beach of my big belly. I stared at the pictures of my daughter and used her smile to help me through each one. It worked, for a while. I made it to about 6 cm.

Around 3:30 was when I started to get too tired, too overwhelmed with the pain. The contractions were exhausting, coming constantly and coming hard. When one came the only thing I could visualize was how good it would be to not be in the pain I was in and how much I wanted to axe something to little bits. At some point I started to cry, and then I knew I had had enough.

"I NEED an epidural," I told my OB when she came in around 4. "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaase. Please! GET A NEEDLE IN MY BACK NOW!!!"

Another doctor came in a few minutes later to give me the epidural--it seemed like freaking hours later. He ordered Random out of the room and told me not to move at all. As he was poking me in the back, a contraction shook me and I moved, of course. "Don't move!" he said, as he stuck me with glorious drugs. Ass--how are you not supposed to move when an earthquake is ratcheting your uterine walls? But all was well. In five I was smiling and laughing and gloriously numb, all thoughts of killing innocent bystanders wiped from memory.

And my contractions, apparently, were getting harder and longer. According to my doctors. I just lay blissfully in bed, listening to Enya, relaxing, and chatting with my doula and husband.

Somewhere around eight pm it was determined that I was 10 cm and that the baby was in position. I was instructed to push. I couldn't really feel my legs, but I could move them; this was one of the weirdest sensations ever. My husband grabbed one leg and my nurse, Ann Marie (a different nurse, also "illegally" requested for me, this time by my OB), grabbed the other. I held my thighs and hooked my arms around them. My doula stood at my right side. My OB turned off all of the lights except for a big one she shone right on my crotch, and wheeled over a mirror. I tried not to look, because I still wasn't sure I wanted to see, but it was pretty hard not to look; thankfully I didn't have on my glasses so things were a bit blurry. Contractions started coming fast and furious and I was told to bear down and push for the count of five. I was yelled at nicely for not pushing correctly. I made jokes about how it must have been hard for my OB to see anything down there (I hadn't been able to shave or trim anything for a while, due to my enormous belly...at one point I remember saying

"I'm so sorry, I should have gotten Random to take care of all of that!" to my OB, who said

"You'd be amazed at how many girls I see who get Brazilians. And Ann Marie knows, I've seen a lot of vaginas!"

So I turned to Random, who looked all uncomfortable (Lordy knows why!) and loudly proclaimed
"I promise, honey, when this is all over I'm going to get a Brazilian for you."

He scoffed and looked away, red-faced. Everyone laughed. I was yelled at to push again, then berated (nicely, sweetly) that I wasn't pushing well enough. It was 8:20 ish, and Chloe's head had made an appearance, but it would pop a little out and then back in, pop out and then back in, as if it couldn't make up her mind. "Something is keeping her in there," my OB said. Yeah! Her HUGENESS!

"How is she breathing in there?" my husband wondered.

I was yelled at again. "PUSH!" Everyone screamed. "NO! NOT LIKE THAT! LIKE YOU ARE POOPING!"

I remembered how, all pregnancy long, I had been terrified of pooping in front of everyone. "Make sure you don't let my husband see if I poop!" I had instructed my OB. Now I didn't care, although I still didn't want to poop if at all possible. Plus the mirror and everything, doubling the poop. Not a good look for my goods, even as obstructed as they were. I had taken as many precautions as I could during the day. I did apologize profusely for the possibliity that I would maybe "let a little something go"--"excuse me if I am a little flatulent," I announced to everyone. "Things are a bit out of my control at this point." But I didn't, miraculously (considering it was all I had done for the past month).  People were laughing a lot, Enya was still chugging along on the doula's stereo, the lights were all nice and dim, and I had three incredible women and my incredible husband all cheering and heckling me on. It was awesome. It was just crunchy and natural enough.

And I pushed. Sometimes I did a good job, sometimes not. Decisions were made to stop the Pitocin and I started feeling my legs again, which made it easier to push. I bore down, I pushed, I felt my eyeballs popping out of my head, I felt aneurysms peppering my brain. My face, I was sure, was purple; Random confirmed it one second later by saying "Gee, your face sure is purple." I felt my hair frizzing, each individual curled strand escaping from its coiled, shining nest to twang out like a broken guitar string. My makeup was gone--I had tried to reapply somewhere around 4 ish in anticipation of birthing but had found it hopeless given the fact that I was dripping fluids wherever I went, like a giant snail. You can't put a bow on a garbage dump to make it look pretty; I'd have to rely on my maternal glow and the baby's cuteness to detract attention from my huge sweatyness.

Somewhere around 8:45 I sensed frustration blooming in my OB, and I began apologizing to everyone--sorry to my doula, who had been there for over 12 hours already (she had told me the longest birth she had been at was 18 hours, and I felt I HAD to be under that); sorry to my poor OB, who is overworked and overtired; sorry to my husband, who had patiently wiped up vagina debris all day long with nary a complaint. I heard the words "forceps" and maybe I imagined "vaccuum," and I definitely heard my OB say "this is like that birth yesterday, where we had to have the mom swing from that pole," and that did the trick. I pushed like a madwoman and my pushes started to elicit praise. "Good push!" everyone sang. "That was a good one!" "Ohhhh, you can see the head really well now!" I heard clapping and praising and "Thank God's."

Suddenly things got hectic. Someone ran off to get a cart and wheeled in what was a whole set up of scale and warming thinger and tools. Someone else yelled "we're having a baby in here, get anesthesiology down here." I just pushed. Everyone's faces seemed so shiny and happy. My OB was going to town down there; she had moved the mirror so (thankfully) I couldn't see, but Random would later tell me she was yanking me up and down  and in and out like she was working clay on a pottery wheel. He was surprised I wasn't yowling from pain. I felt nothing, just the need to push. And push I did. I pushed past their measly counts-to-five, skull straining against my scalp, veins popping everywhere. I pushed over the din of my OB announcing that she was numbing me with some local as she brandished a needle the size of my head. And then, my OB said the magic words:

"Karen, look down.!!!!!"

I looked down and out slid my daughter, who was caught by my OB and immediately placed on my chest. She was yowling. She was pink and fat and alive. Hands dried her off as I held her. I was crying. My husband was bent over us. Then he was handed a tool and shown where to cut the cord. I held her for a few moments. Then she was quickly brought to the warming table, weighed (8lbs, 1oz), dressed in a blanket and hat, and checked for Apgar scores (she got a 9/10). She was brought right back to me after no more than two minutes and I started nursing her immediately--my doula was shocked at how easy she took to it. I was delirious with love. I couldn't believe how full of love I was. I wanted nothing but to relive that moment over and over--the second the baby is brought out of you--and resigned to convince Random, no matter what it took, to do it again. It was pure and complete bliss, those moments after her birth. I didn't even notice my OB, stiching me up below, until I saw a long line of black thread coming out from between my legs. She had given me an episiotomy to help with the birth. "What the hell?" I asked her.

"Eh, you just needed a little help," she said, peering at her embroidery work.

My parents then came in--they had driven 14 hours in one day in order to be there and had just made it there minutes before I gave birth. They were crying. It was incredible to be able to share that moment with them, since we hadn't been able to share the early adoption moments with them. I felt like the star (disheveled, greasy with sweat, floppy stomached) of a made-for-TLC "My Shocking Story" special--"I Had A Baby! Can You Fucking Believe That!!!"

Outside, we were having an insane thunderstorm: crashing and lightning and huge rolling cracks of thunder. It seemed, somehow, fitting: the weather gods were marking the enormity of what had just happened.

Later, Random went home to sleep and take care of our dog, and a doctor came and removed the epidural. It hurt like hell when she ripped off the bandages, and she remarked that I must have a "really hairy back" (to which I said "um, I think my husband would have told me if I had a hairy back" and then whispered, really quietly, "beeeeyotttch.").  Around midnight I was transferred to another room in the mother/baby unit. I remember nursing a lot, and that it hurt. I was exhausted but could not sleep. Chloe was taken to the nursery and I tried to sleep but couldn't. I couldn't get up myself to go to the bathroom, so I had to be wheeled there in a chair. At one point, Chloe was in my room (I wanted to room-in at first) and she made little whimpering noises. I wanted to pick her up, but couldn't get out of bed without feeling intensely dizzy. I rang for the nurse (a different nurse) who came in. "I need someone to get my daughter for me," I said. "I don't know what I'm doing." She looked at me like I was a freak and gave me Chloe. I nursed and nursed and nursed, all through the night. I might have dozed at some point with Chloe lying on top of me. Very early that morning the sun came up outside my window and I watched the sunrise while nursing, my daughter's warm head nestled against me. I knew I was the luckiest woman in the world at that point.

The next day was full of visitors--an amazing fruit basket dipped in chocolate from work, my friends stopping by with Ralph Lauren baby dresses, my parents with balloons and flowers and my daughter, who was entranced by her new sister. I continued to nurse, but they wheeled Chloe away for long periods of time, to test her and bathe her.

The next night was again a constant nurse-a-thon. I was so exhausted I would fall asleep in seconds and wake up again in seconds over and over. One nurse came in and begged me to give Chloe formula. "She's wearing you out!" she objected. I said no. She took Chloe to the nursery and returned ten minutes later claiming that my daughter was "waking everyone with her constant screaming." I put her to my breast and she stopped instantly.

The next morning, discharge morning, I examined my nipples and saw a huge, blackish bruise on one of them; the hospital lactation consultant (who we finally managed to wrangle into our room) laughed and told me that sometime that night I had allowed Chloe to latch on to my areola and not my nipple, and that essentially I had a hickey on my boob. My nipples were cracked and bleeding, a little. Nursing hurt like fuck, but I was more determined than ever to make it work. Another nurse (something you learn quickly: nurses change like crazy, and some of them aren't very nice) came in and called Chloe "a little pig" for all the eating she was doing. I wanted to smack her.

We left the hospital early afternoon, laden with flowers and fruit and carrying our perfect baby in her new carseat. The man who wheeled me out was chatty, and asked me if she was my first.

"No," I said. "My second. My first was adopted."

He looked interested. "So I guess you don't love her anymore," he said.

My jaw dropped. "Um, what?" I asked. "No, that's totally wrong." I wanted to jump up and belt him one for saying that (it seemed that was becoming a trend all of a sudden, like I had used up all the hospital's normal, sweet people), but I couldn't, as I had my bag on my lap. Random was carrying Chloe behind us, and didn't hear.

"I'm adopted," the young man told me.

"That's great," I said. "I love my daughter. She is the light of my life."

"Good," he said, approving. Then he proceeded to tell me how he still lived with his parents (he was about 27), had recently claimed bankruptcy, had lost a child (I don't know whether he meant "lost" as in lostlost or "lost" as in didn't have custody anymore), and had a terrible relationship with his ex. It was the weirdest wheel-out ever, this guy telling me his Jerry Springer life story.

At the hospital entrance Random ran off to get the car and I sat in my chair and waited. A woman next to me asked if my newborn boy was my first. "That's a GIRL," my wheelchair attendant said. "God, how stupid are you? Can't you see she's wearing pink?"

Ummmm, OKAYYYYYYYYY.........

The woman made oohing noises as she peeked in at Chloe. Then she turned on me. "Is she a push baby?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"A push baby! Did you push her out?"

"Errrrr.....yeah," I said. Is this what I had to look forward to? Weirdo personal questions and strangers telling me the sordid details of their lives? Did having a newborn bring out the Wacko in people?

Random came and rescued me then. And we drove off into the sunset, mama, baby, and doting daddy. Well, it wasn't the sunset, it was midafternoon, and I was wedged into the backseat, sore and banged up and exhausted, but we made it home.

And you know the story from there. The nursing hell began. The jaundice, the hospital stay (again), the lost weight, the late milk.

But so far, the perfect ending is all I pictured--and except for the fact that I have to go back to work in two weeks and the sudden lack of cleanliness both in my house and on and of my body, we are happily figuring out this having-two-kids thing. MP is getting more and more jealous each day she realizes Baby Chloe isn't going anywhere, poor kid. I've gone on Weight Watchers to lose the last of the baby weight (and hopefully a chunk of fat more), we're watching our stash of frozen breastmilk grow and grow (it's around a whopping 30 oz now), and Chloe is chunking up deliciously, a little too fast in my opinion.

And I'm still going to make that appointment, Random, I promise. Someday. Before the kids are in college, I swear it.   

Lookee!

I'm in a book!

And so are a lot of other really, really, REALLY cool writers and bloggers and mamas and one dad, too.

Go here to look!

I stayed up all night to read this book, and it's freaking AWESOME. (And I'm not just saying that because I'm in it, yo.)

It made me realize that I've got to get back to writing--real writing, not the lame-o drivel I've been doing here recently. I cracked open my journals and read through some of them, resolving to post better and crank those creative muscles into high gear. So, um, yeah. Better writing, one-handed.  

Anyway. Check it out!

Food Me Mama

Okay. So I think I'd like to take a shot at this feeding anthology thing.

If you have a story you'd like to share, or an essay or how-to that you've written or would like to write, or one that you know someone else wrote, email me the piece or info at [email protected]. I will read all pieces and choose the best ones for the anthology.

I'm thinking of these categories (these are only ideas to organize the stories you send me, not actual chapters):

• Breastfeeding Gone "Wrong"--Disappointments, problems, getting sick, latch issues, etc.
• Breastfeeding Success--This can include problems too. 
• Formula Feeding
• Feeding Outside of the US
• "Extreme" Breastfeeding--This would be mamas who have breastfed their kiddos for longer than the US average.
• Pumping Stories
• Tips on Nursing and Pumping
• Nursing in Public Stories--Funny is good!
• Support or Lack of Support Stories
• Adoptive Breastfeeding
• Breastfeeding Multiples

I would hope to include the following in this book:

--Statistics

--Information on nursing in other countries

--ALL types of personal stories, however they end--because I think knowing other women go through similar experiences no matter how they turn out is comforting.

If you email me your story, please include in the heading the area you think your story fits in.

THANKS! I can't wait to read these and get started on this. I have some publishing experience (not a ton, but a bit) so hopefully I can actually do something awesome with these stories!

The I'll-Get-To-That-Birthstory-Soon Post

(I'm never going to get to that friggen' birthstory. I have writer's ADD.)

1. Possibly a Good Idea?

I have been throwing around the idea of putting together an anthology of babyfeeding stories, stories that end with women happily breastfeeding, stories that end with women happily formula feeding, and maybe even some stories that end with mom unhappy about her choice. I don't know if there's already a book out there that chronicles the feeding experiences of women--I have a few books on breastfeeding and a lot of them seem so utopian. Honestly, breastfeeding still hurts like hell, and still takes up most of my day, and you all know the craziness I went through to get here. I love reading case stories of people and think a book on nursing--with anecdotal, personal stories--might be really cool to put together. Especially since I've read so many amazing feeding stories and this is one area in which women can really support each other no matter what their choice. What do you think?

2. Must-Have Baby Items Listy

Because this list keeps on growing in my head (I keep running lists there), I thought I'd better get it down so I can stop obsessing about forgetting items. Please add your number one baby item below!

1. Wipes. I go through a package every two days or so. I don't know if you need as many if you formula feed, but man that bf poop gets everywhere. And girls pee all over themselves too. Plus, you can remove the makeup you never removed the night before your with them! You can also get rid of pesky spit up stains from your carpet! And unless you want to give a bath every two hours, I recommend investing in boxes of wipes.
2. The Graco Metrolite Stroller Travel System. I never thought I'd recommend something as mainstream as a Graco; you know me, I'm a sucker for pretty. Initially we bought the Maxi-Cosi carseat, in the color "juice," and a double stroller that would fit it. We quickly renamed the Maxi-Cosi the "Maxi-Sucky" because it took forever to get baby in and baby would be screaming the entire time. Essentially the straps required master puzzle-like abilities to fit them together and slide them in the latch at the exact same time. One hot day I was struggling to get Chloe in the seat, MP was running around and tripping over everything, the baby was so red faced and upset I thought she was going to have a baby stroke, and I was dripping sweat all over the Maxi-Sucky's juicy and oh-so-stylish fabric as I cursed up a storm trying to get the damn-ass latch together. I gave in and went straight to Babies R Us, where I caved and bought a Graco travel system that latches independently--meaning you don't have to be a voodoo puzzle master to get baby into the seat. I quickly divorced Random and married the seat, which fits so nicely on the stroller, which is a cinch to collapse and set up and which does not weigh three thousand pounds like the double stroller. Hurrah!
3. The Baby Bjorn. Sigh. I have four other carriers--all stylish and awesome in their own ways--slings and pouches and mei-teis in hip, cool colors, and I finally gave in and bought this because it's not 400 degrees to wear, it's easy and quick, and you can use it with newborns. And it doesn't break my back.
4. Some kind of bouncer seat. Chloe has the Combi Pod Bouncer. We love it--it's cute (finally, something stylish that works!), vibrates nicely, and she sleeps in it. It keeps her at a good angle so she doesn't spit up as much. It's lightweight so you can heft it around from room to room. And you can attach your i-Pod to it and rock out.
5. Swaddling blankets (square). I am quite good at swaddling Chloe, and it's the only thing that lets her sleep long hours at a time, otherwise she flails all over the place. I also like the Miracle Blanket. I have three things I can swaddle in (2 blankets and one Miracle) and four Swaddle-Me's (--a velcro contraption you don't have to think to use--I think of these as the "lightweight" version of swaddling, and use them for her naps, as she can get out of them pretty easily). I will swaddle Chloe until she is 21.   
6. A pump. If you plan on bf'ing, a pump is awesome to have even if you aren't going back to work. I've woken up many a time with rock boobs and baby is sleeping sweetly away, and that pump, as much as I hate using it, is the only thing that helps. They do cost a million dollars, though. (I checked with insurance, and mine won't pay for a dime--but yours might.)
7. A gym with a mirror. Chloe loves checking her bad self out. I can put her there for a few minutes while I pee, make food, or take the dog out. Somehow it makes me feel like she's more secure than if I just plopped her on the floor.
8. A scale. Peace of mind that your little one is A) gaining weight and B) taking in enough food, if you're nursing or C) not spitting up all her food, if you are FF'ing or nursing. I weigh Chloe all the time, so when the pediatrician told me today that she's in the 80th percentile for weight--she gained over four pounds in two months on breastmilk and weighs 12.4 lbs--it was no surprise, but it was awesome to hear.
9. A Collection of Boppies. I have the regular Boppy, which is good for nursing and for propping Chloe up, and the maternity Boppy, which is also good for nursing and sleeping. My whole family loves my full-body Boppy. We fight over it. It's cuddly and huge and you can completely enclose the baby in a pillowed circle. In bed I nurse Chloe on top of one end of the maternity Boppy and use the other end to prop myself up against the wall with a few extra pillows. It's squishier than a regular Boppy, so it works better in bed.
10. Medela Sleep Bras. I'm talking about the one that's one full piece with no hooks or anything. Mine barely fits, but it's so comfy and requires no unlatching or messing about--you just yank it over your boob when you want to nurse. Even if I didn't nurse I'd love this bra--it's just right to sleep in if, like me, you like to sleep in bras because you are paranoid about droopage.

Okay, there's my essentials list for new baby. Add something you can't live without so I can justify more shoppy!

I Pump In Style, Yo

OK, since we're on the topic of pumping, I've got some more questions for you.

First, to answer some of your concerns--some of you were curious as to my pump: I own a Medela Pump-in-Style and a Medela Harmony (hand pump). Some of you were also horrified at the suggestion that I callously woke Chloe up in the middle of her baby beauty sleep at 4 AM (I could feel the Internet fingers wagging at me through the computer screen!). Here's what happened: She was fussing, and because she can sometimes put herself back to sleep without fully waking up, I scooped her up and she latched right away, then fell back asleep ten minutes later. So I didn't REALLY wake her up--I just kept her from falling completely back asleep without eating.  I did, however, wake her up later at 6 AM to show her the new bracelet Random got me for our 8th wedding anniversary:

Yes, it's hot, and it goes very well with my deep dark tan (obtained from hours of beach-going and tiki bar-hopping); my new size-2 clothing (of course, I lost all the baby weight PLUS an additional 40 lbs! Silly); and my gorgeous long post-baby hair (highlighted to perfection, no skunky oil stripe for ME!)

Actually, it goes very well with my newly healed finger, which apart from the huge red scar tissue and the black fingernail (from the silver nitrate), looks almost normal. The plastic surgeon told me to go get a manicure, so there you go. Orders from my doctor, people.

So here are my questions, and by answering them I will shower you with pictures of my killer kids.

1.) How the hell do you guys use the hand pump to get so much? First off, it HURTS after about five minutes--hurts as in my hand gets all achey. Do I need to build up my hand strength or something to use this sucker?

2.) Also, one of you claimed to get 8 oz or something in the SHOWER. Explain, please. I tried this yesterday and the results were pitiful--three measly drops. I don't get how you shower and keep the water out of the suction part so you aren't just suctioning water into your bottle.

3.) I pumped this morning at 7-ish and got a lameo 3 oz. I didn't pump a lot, just for about ten minutes, and I definitely let down at the pump nicely. I didn't want to pump too much for fear that Chloe would wake up (she was sleeping next to me) and I wouldn't have anything for her. She woke up right after I pumped and I've been feeding her on and off ever since (it's about 11 now). I do wake up engorged but when is the best time to pump in the morning? 

4.) How the heck do you pump and feed a baby at the same time? I've tried this multiple times and the bottle basically has to be upside down to fit in there--unless I use the football hold, it isn't working. Tips on this?

5.) What's a good amount of ounces to have in your freezer? I've started to build a freezer stash. I think I have about 12 oz so far. 

6.) When I go back to work I am quite possibly screwed in the wardrobe department. Here are my concerns:

• I have a very, very big chest right now. As in extra larges in button downs don't fit, or if they do they are incredibly large everywhere but the chest. So I can't rely on button downs. This also makes other tops hard to fit into. And zippered dresses. And jackets, unless they are made of lycra.
• I have a bunch of really cute dresses that actually (finally!) fit (despite the fact that I have about 12 lbs to go before I get to pre-pregnancy weight and 30 or so before I am not overweight), but they are not pump-friendly.
• Nursing bras peek out about two-three inches from almost everything I own. Unless I want to be boiling hot and wear tank tops under everything (my work isn't air conditioned) I either have to wear regular bras or turtlenecks. 
• I need to look as good as possible going back to work. Trust me on this. I just do. You know when you see an ex-boyfriend and you want to look damn fine so that he wishes he was still with you? Yeah. So no shlumpy clothing. 
• So basically I have very few outfits that I actually fit into, look great, and are also pump-friendly.

What did the stylish and large amongst you do?  I am considering just yanking up my entire dress to pump at this point. 

7.) I love that my pump is supposedly "Hands-free," but I haven't mastered this at all yet and suspect there's something I need to get to make it "hands-free." Right now it requires all the hands I have. Where do I purchase a "hands-free" item?

Okay, I think that's it for now. Here's your thanks.

Pump Up the Volume

I keep sitting down to write my birth story, but then there's a crisis (MP smacking into a wall after tripping over Random's big old shoes as she was galloping through the living room; Chloe pooping out her diaper onto the floor; you get the idea). And now there's another crisis--one that's keeping me up at night despite Chloe's four-hour-stretches of sleep, one that I need your help with.

I suck at pumping.

Rather, my boobs suck at pumping. Maybe the pump sucks at pumping, I don't know, but something sucks at something. In the past week, I've been pumping after feedings to get a nice supply for a night out that Random and I were foolishly taking to celebrate our anniversary. Or I've been pumping when Chloe only takes one boob, or in the middle of the night if she's sleeping 6 hours. I managed to amass 10 oz at the rate of about 2-3 oz at a time (I pumped about once a day). I put 7 oz in the fridge last night at 5:00 and had fed Chloe right up until then; she still seemed hungry, so when my parents came to babysit at 5:30. I handed my dad a bottle of 2 oz, leaving 5. I figured: she's just been nursed; now she's getting 2 more ounces; she goes down for me at 10 pm-ish; she'll eat 7 oz or so between now and her bedtime. I showed my mom how to swaddle and informed her that this was, really, the only way to get her to sleep. 

When we got home at 11:30, Chloe was still awake. My mom was patting her on the back and informed me, as we walked in the door, that "this baby has colic." My father came in and started to lecture me on Chloe's colic.

"She doesn't," I told them. "She can be consoled very easily."

"How do you know? I know colic," my dad said.

"She ate all the bottles you left," my mom said, "including 5 oz of formula."

So--my "colicy" baby ate 12 oz between 5 pm and 11:30. (Of course--I was crushed she needed formula, since I had worked so hard at getting what I thought would be a good supply.)

"Did you swaddle her?" I asked my mom.

"No," she scoffed, "it's too hot."

"You can't wrap a baby up like that so they can't use their arms!" my father admonished me.

"It's the best way to get her to sleep," I told them. My father made "you're being ridiculous" noises. And yet my girl was still awake at 11:30 when she goes down for me, nicely wrapped, at 10. And I need to wake her up for night feedings because otherwise she'll usually sleep through the night if she's in the swaddle I have finally perfected. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Yep.

Anyway, the fact that I'm right and my parents are crazy is not the point of this story. Or the help that I need.

The point is that I did not pump enough for a 7 hour stint. When we got back, I fed Chloe but because she was swaddled she conked out immediately. So I pumped like a madwoman and got--WAIT FOR IT--4 oz. This after SEVEN hours of not nursing. Then I woke Chloe at 4 and after feeding her from one side, I pumped again, and got a measly 3 oz.

If babies need about 1.5 oz an hour, I am SCREWED when I go back to work. How am I supposed to get that much milk to tide her over when I can barely pump 3-4 oz at a time after that long? I go back to work at the end of this month. I wanted to continue exclusively breastfeeding and planned on pumping at work. But I can't see myself pumping 12-18 oz a day--if she's in daycare from 7-3, and I feed her right before I leave (assuming I can do that) and right when we get home, that leaves at least 8 hours.

How am I going to pump that much at work? I can maybe pump twice a day at work--MAYBE.

If I can't continue to exclusively breastfeed I'll be really sad, but I'll take breastfeeding some of the day over not at all. Has anyone done this--nursed some of the day and formula fed the rest? Does it work? Are there any special magic tricks I need to make it work? Will it wean her faster? The thought of weaning her breaks my heart--we've worked so hard to get this thing going, and she's thriving and growing, and I really don't want to have to stop.

HELP!