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breastfeeding, motherhood

7QT: Thrifting, non-pregnant nesting, and the epic saga of breastfeeding woes continues

August 23, 2014

Ciao, tutti. It’s time for another rousing rendition of what’s going on inside Jenny’s nursing bra.

Just kidding.

Well, mostly. How about 7 quick takes mostly unrelated to lactation? Mostly.

1. I must have caught something from my latest re-read of the Nesting Place, because suddenly I’ve gone full on guerrilla mode on our humble abode and no piece of furniture is safe (nor is it securely in place) in this home. I hit up my favorite of favorites, my local Savers yesterday with all the bambini in tow, and out we walked with the coffee table-turned-crafting-space of my dreams, a standing floor lamp not from Target and not sporting an upside-down dog collar for a shade, and a giant ass Thomas the Train expandable play tent which has been journeying throughout my house over the past 24 hours and can be thrown satisfyingly down the basement steps at a moment’s notice. Best $2 I’ve ever spent, I think.

2. Isn’t this hideous?

3. How about now?

4. I’ll tell you what, once I get going with a can of spray paint, I tend to get a little out of control. I’d asked a friend earlier this week to meet me after bedtime at our place for a little crafting and after I spied this beauty on Pinterest I decided there were enough droplets of turquoise paint left in the can to coat our wreaths. We also followed this simple felted flower tutorial and with our hot glue guns and a couple bottles of Stella, we had ourselves a good old fashioned girl’s night in. The great news is that when we’re both 65 years old, we will already have the template for what qualifies as a “good time” down pat.

I’m in love with this wreath. I’d like to take it out to dinner.

6. Speaking of being old and fabulous and domestic, would you guys like it if I did some kind of weekly or bi-weekly thrifting post? I know it’s not the “tone” of this blog, per se, but I take so much delight in finding worthless crap and giving it a second chance at life. I also take joy in finding J Crew lovelies with the original tags still on, but that’s not quite the same thing. So what do you think? Should I branch out from bodily fluids, Catholic apologetics and s-e-x and give you more frequent glimpses into the deep, dark world of my Goodwill addiction?

5. But let’s talk about what you really came here to read about today: Nipplegate 2014. Let’s start with the good news. The good news is that I have the very best hookup with the sweetest IBCLC on the planet, and after a 911 call to her voicemail earlier this week, she counseled me over the phone (in Target, obviously. My deepest condolences, fellow shoppers in the lamps and home goods department) and she was encouraging + compassionate and just the right touch of “well, 8 months is a fantastic amount of time to nurse, and if you want to to ahead and try the one-sided route, that’s a great idea, and if not, that’s great too.”

(Basically she’s the perfect combination of confidence, professionalism and compassion. If you live in Denver or the surrounding area and ever find yourself in need of such services, I’m happy to point you her way.)

This is an unrelated picture of a reindeer. Never will I ever invite the neighbors to the lame-ass birthdays we throw for our own toddlers.

The bad news is that while I was letting things heal up on the injured side, the uninjured workhouse, old right n’ reliable, got an overuse injury or something and now I’m having a doubly uncomfortable time replete with all manner of unmentionable horrors (Dave already is aghast I’ve said so much on the blog. But you all are so helpful! How can I hold back?). The bottom line is that as of last night, I’d gone 24 hours without nursing or pumping on one side, and my supply is tanking. I’d all but decided we were officially broken up in the breastfeeding department but then around 10:30 pm I burst into her room in a fit of hormonal angst and dream fed her. So, I don’t really know where that leaves us. She’s probably taking 90% of her liquids by bottle now, but I’m resolved to keep nursing her first thing in the morning and last thing at night, if she wants and if my supply can rise to the challenge. Ugh, motherhood is just full of feeeeeeeeeelings and stuff.

Evie be like “I don’t give a bleep just feed me. Anything.”

7. Whichever one of you brilliant people recommended Peg + Cat is my very favorite, because my kids can count and add and subtract…and I’ve done nothing. Now this is my idea of homeschooling.

See you over at Jen’s place.

breastfeeding, motherhood, Suffering

An experienced mother becomes a hand-wringing idiot

August 20, 2014

Hi there, just checking in for a quick second tonight whilst I gulp my illegal beer down (definitely not Whole 30 approved) and wait for dinner to finish simmering. (Deeply ironic paleo beef stew, since you didn’t ask.)

So about that boob injury I referenced last week on the blog’s Facebook page. Yeah, go head and cover yo eyes, male readers, because it’s about to get real.

Evie is 8 whopping months now and while she is of course old enough to wean to formula and of course there is nothing wrong with formula feeding your baby. NOTHING. I’m just…reluctant. You see, about a week ago something went horribly and terribly wrong one one side of her nourishment delivery system and suddenly there is like blood and cursing and all kinds of writhing in pain at every feeding.

It’s been difficult to know what to do, because while my brain (and my very supportive husband) are like wean that baby you’re squirting blood in her mouth and oh the suffering (sorry for that detail. Just…sorry.) my mother heart (and I suppose my oxytocin-addled mind) are like nooooooooo, must nurse the baby until she decides she’s done and my particular favorite, THIS IS SUCH A BONDING EXPERIENCE! HOW MUCH DO YOU FREAKING LOVE YOUR BABY RIGHT NOW?! which is a totally true statement, but it feels weirdly amplified by the very real hormonal hit that accompanies each nursing session.

So. That leaves us here, on Tuesday, one week into the great boob trauma of 2014, whereby I have decided on 4 separate and consecutive days that I am going to a. wean her, b. wean her to one side only (is this possible? It doesn’t feel possible), c. call my $$$ lactation consultant who is literally on speed dial and drop another Benjamin on a cozy private conversation, or d. go to Whole Foods and buy all the organic formula made from the delicate tears of pastured, free range celestial cows.

Here is where the rant ends and the questions begin.

Mothers of the nursing variety, have you ever/has someone you’ve known weaned a baby to one sided feeding? Did you look like a sideshow specimen in your clothes? Did the awful one-two punch of nipple trauma + engorgment finally abate and you found yourself left with one sufficiently productive breast? Can you explain to me why it’s fine to write “breastfeeding” but when I write “breast” I feel like I’m 13 years old and male on the inside?

Any comments or anecdotal accounts are welcome, but just know that I’ve tried all the lanolin, all the pumping, all the weird natural concoctions and all the healing compresses. There’s still a situation resembling the San Andreas fault, and I’m pretty sure that I will never, ever look or feel the same on that side.

(Dad, I hope you stopped reading a long, long time ago.)

About Me, breastfeeding, motherhood, toddlers

A Day in the Life

April 9, 2014

In the spirit of preserving memories for future generations and because people seem to dig these kinds of posts, I figured I’d give it a go…

(*disclaimer: this may have been the very worst day of my entire motherhood to chronicle, but journalistic integrity compels me onward.)

Let us begin…

7:09 am: someone is snorting and tugging on my shirt. I open my eyes and blink at Evie, lying in a sweaty little bundle under my arm. Oops. I don’t really remember pulling her into bed with me, but I suppose it happened at some point in the night. Oblige her by nursing until she falls back asleep.

7:19 am: roll carefully out of bed and watch as Evie stretches out like a teenager, flopping her arms over her head and trying her best to take as much bed space up as possible. Blow gently on her floppy black hair and laugh before creeping out of the room to find…

7:20 am: COFFEE. My amazing husband has an espresso waiting for me on the counter and has already fed both boys. Bless him. I could never breastfeed without the tag team system we have in place, whereby I handle the nighttime parenting and he takes the 6 am – 8 am shift. If I know I have at least an hour of two of uninterrupted sleep coming my way at dawn, I can handle almost any nocturnal shenanigans. Which reminds me…

7:26 am: peek into boys’ room. Whew, no fresh vom. Joey’s 6 hour stomach flu seems to have run its course, and the dorm smells only faintly of puke and Dawn dish soap. Crack the window open to let in the spring air and flee the scene.

7:31 am: sit down with my egg and Arbonne protein shake. Hear my phone ringing from the other room and run to see a missed call from my little sister. Dang, it’s my day for preschool carpool. Slam the shake down and run to pull on actual pants, and a shirt that is not black. I have maybe 3 shirts that are not black, so this is a sign of real effort in living.

7:45 am: breakfast is done and I really should leave, but Evie is ‘wolfishly hungry’ says Daddy. Dave is going in late this morning because he has a lecture series to emcee this evening, so he agrees to watch Evie and JP while I run Joey and his cousin to school. I nurse Evie for 5 minutes to abate her hunger and scan Facebook for morning news.

7:56 am: oops. We’re late. I toss gently place Evie in her Rock n’ Play and shout a hasty goodbye to Dave before bundling Joey into the van. He’s wearing a retro thrifted Superman t, a Fargo-style fur-lined winter hat with ear flaps, a puffer vest, and his little brother’s gray cargo pants. He is a legend in his own mind. After a quick blessing from Daddy, he’s in the van and ready to roll.

8:01 am: a minor accident has traffic backed up. Joey is delighted by a firetruck and ambulance parade and reminds me to pray, so we say a quick Hail Mary and inspect the bumper damage as we creep by. He knows about a third of the words to the prayer now…Catholic school FTW!

8:11 am: roll up to my sister’s house and grab a nephew. We’re gonna be so late…

8:19 am: arrive at school, running to the preschool entrance to beat the timed lock that automatically seals at 8:20 (I think? I’ve never been late enough to actually miss it). Hustle the boys into their classroom, check their mailboxes, make awkward small talk with their teachers and run back to the parking lot. Remember that for once I didn’t do a guilty leave-behind of any other offspring in the van and relish the temporary silence of having no additional cargo for the 17 minute drive home. Mentally recommit to Dave Ramsey’s principles as I look longingly at the beautiful houses in the neighborhood surrounding our parish. Resolve to never eat out again or buy any clothing so that we can buy a house sometime before 2019.

8:39 am: Home again. Take a hungry Evie from Dave as he is one-handedly finishing the breakfast dishes. I. Married. Up. Sit down to nurse and read a couple morning blogs.

8:46 am: Dave is asking me if checks and pinstripes can work together. Nope.

8:58 am: Finish an impromptu dusting session of the main floor. Look regretfully at my 2-week-old white cami that I’m using as a dustrag before throwing it down the basement steps to the laundry. Curse our ‘new’ old top-loading washer that has so far shredded the spaghetti straps on five camis and an embarrassing number of other unmentionables with stringy parts. Try to remember to buy one of those stupid mesh bags to wash delicate laundry in.

9:00 am: strip protective plastic trash bag off of Joey’s pillow (under the case; no suffocating allowed in this house) and decide to run through all the bedrooms and bathrooms dumping the small trash cans into it. Arrive at the front door with an entire trashbag full of dirty diapers and thank God mentally for modern conveniences and the good sense to have given away my entire stash of cloth diapers before we moved to Rome. Never again, landfills be damned.

9:01 am: Dave is ready to go and we pray a quick morning offering with John Paul sandwiched between our legs shrieking about ‘his monies!’ Dave takes the trash bag from my hands and heads off to work and I see that our cans already lining the curb. I have the best husband.

9:06 am: scrub the kids’ bathroom down with a pair of diaper wipes. Wonder if my toilet will be any less disgusting when my boys are teenagers. Decide the answer is probably not one I want to know.

9:10 am: sit down to start writing this lovely thing. JP is still screaming for ‘monies,’ so I dig 33 cents out of a dish on my dresser and line the coffee table with change for him to count. He squeals with delight and finds an old Trader Joe’s bag to use as his ‘purse.’ I try not to be too disturbed.

9:40 am: look up and see John Paul lying in the Rock n Play, cackling to himself and counting his monies still. I’m a little embarrassed that all I’ve been doing for the past 30 minutes is recalling my day thus far, but not embarrassed enough to stop.

9:43 am: time to switch gears and start looking at headlines for Heroic News. Look at my open tabs from last night and count at least 3 bizarre headlines that apparently caught my attention before bed: “Jesus didn’t care about being nice or tolerant and neither should you,” “NH Teacher fired for friending students on Facebook” and “How to spot a psychopath.” Decide that I probably am one, and get to work.

9:50 am: JP alerts me that “Evie doll is cwyin, mama” Find a somewhat unhappy baby in her swing and get a whiff of JP’s 3rd diaper bomb this morning. Carry both offenders into the boys room and set Evie down on Joey’s bed (mattress on the floor) for some dreaded tummy time while I address JP’s nasty. Mentally vow to find and kill whoever keeps feeding him raisins. Wonder if it was me.

9:56 am: nurse again. Reflect in gratitude for Evie’s stellar nursing abilities and my own gift of being able to type while she eats. Lovingly stare into the screen of my MacBook Air and rejoice in its small lightweightness.

9:57 am: JP is trying to put a pull-up on his stuffed monkey and is laughing hysterically. Wonder if it’s time to think about potty training him, as Dave insists. Mentally slap myself across the face for even thinking this thought. Think about going to the library and/or Target before preschool pickup. Ask JP if he wants help outfitting his monkey. Help him.

10:01 am: He decides monkey would prefer a diaper.

10:02 am: Evie is no longer pleased with my multi-tasking. Shut computer.

10:20 am: Target it is.

11:16 am: Ooops, Old Navy was closer. $89 later and many spring colors later, I’m now late for preschool pickup, but I no longer look like a haggard recovering meth addict in a facility issued head-to-toe stretchy black uniform.

(School pickup, Lunch, nursing, phone calls, texts answered, bathroom trip with creepy 2-year-old observer in tow.)

1:24 pm: Ahhh, naptime/quiet time. Joey has been fighting this relentlessly since around Christmastime, but now that it’s warming up he has relented to lie on a Superman sheet in the backyard with a stack of library books and a handful of roly-polies. I harvested the roly-polies for him. Vom.

1:25 pm: the remains of JP’s quesadilla is hardening on a paper plate (survival mode 4ever.) I’m only semi-drawn to it, so this new eating plan must be working.

1:27 pm: they’re all quiet at the same time. Evie in her swing and the boys in their respective nap zones. The second best part of my day has now begun.

1:28 pm: Joey is back. He needs a paper bag and a handful of sticks to have quiet time with. He asks me if I’d like to join him. I stare at him, wondering why God thought it would be funny to make my firstborn an extrovert.

1:30 pm: I settle down to write and check some emails. I see one from my editor at Catholic Exchange and I start thinking up ideas for another piece later this week. I never plan posts ahead of time, and I hardly ever write down ideas that come to me, but maybe I should. At this point what I write is 90% spontaneous, though I do have occasional insights in the shower.

1:31 pm: I haven’t showered today…

1:37 pm: And I’m not going to. Joey is back and he is “all done with his quiet time.” I break his heart by telling him he is mistaken. I wonder if i should start planning dinner, and then I remember the chicken sausages I put on the counter to defrost this morning. I move them to the fridge and, remembering that Dave has a work dinner, consider making salads for dinner for a second night in a row. Joey must have taken me seriously, because he wandered back outside with a sippy cup filled with Pellegrino. I absentmindedly finish the rest of the bottle.

1:44 pm: Retire to my room to hide from Joey for the remainder of ‘quiet time.’ A friend texted us an invite to come play afternaptime, and I consider waking JP up early just to get us all out of the house. Evie is crying to nurse from her swing. Flop onto the bed to nurse her while browsing for news stories with my free hand. Update the site with breaking news. I love having a baby who loves to nurse lying down.

1:59 pm: I got distracted by the internet. I look up from my reading to see Joey sitting in my doorway with his stuffed animals in his arms. He looks at me guiltily and then sits down on the hall floor and starts reading the atlas. Whatever.

2:03 pm: I can’t imagine anybody is still reading at this point. I can’t believe how many times each day I am interrupted. Start streaming the new Ingrid Michaelson album (free on iTunes for a week!) and Joey crawls up into my bed and announces “I just want to beeee with you.” I send him to wash his ropy poly hands before letting him crawl up next to me. He covers my the back of my arm with kisses and snuggles into our bed. Now I’m a mommy sandwich.

2:30 pm: naps are a bust. Wake a sleepy John Paul and toss all 3 kids in the car for a trip to a friend’s house and some magical Vitamin D time in her stay cation of a backyard. Pick up a nephew on the way because YOLO, and my sister has to take somebody else to the doctor.

4:05 pm: Why do I bring them anywhere? Oh yes, socialization…

4:43 pm: cooking dinner. Way too early. Trader Joe’s chicken sausages on the barbecue with asparagus and baked potatoes.

4:50 pm: everybody is yelling for something, but I’m happily sweeping through the house and flinging dirty laundry/errant toys/random books down the basement stairs. All our toys and books now live in the basement, and my favorite part of the day is pitching things down the stairwell one by one. Clean house = happy mommy.

4:52 pm: dinner is served.

4:59 pm: dinner is over. Dammit, I’ve overplayed my hand. I run a bath for the boys and they run screaming towards the bathroom, shedding clothes as they go. The floor is littered with asparagus, but I did make them ‘mop’ the spilled milk under the table.

5:15-5:46: books are read, diapers are applied, teeth are brushed, and then I sort of lie there on Joey’s bed, letting them both jump on me while they yell “fight fight fight!” and proclaim it wrestling time. Wish for the hundredth time today that Dave was home for bedtime.

5:50: prayers. A quick, incoherent story about some pigeons, a penguin, Lightening McQueen and Mater flying to Rome for JPII’s canonization. Lots of random words in Italian. Ends with a trip to Old Bridge for gelato. Joey is satisfied. Hit the lights and head to my room to nurse Evie.

5:58: brag on Facebook about having put my kids to bed 2 hours before sunset. Hear banging and shouting from the back bedroom,

6:35 pm: Both boys are watching a double episode of Curious George on a laptop propped on their dresser. Eating granola bars. I’m a sucker.

6:40 pm: fine, one more episode. Evie is asleep in her swing, so I unload and load the dishwasher and spray down the counters and table. Check for new headlines and get briefly immersed in a stupid post on Facebook. Wonder why I came crawling back to my social media habit for the umpteenth time.

6:46 pm: because the internet.

6:50 pm: bedtime for real this time. Good night, sleep tight.

7:00 pm – 8:00 pm: Sit at computer. Think about doing a couple waiting loads of laundry.

8:05 pm: is it too late to take a shower? Evie wakes up and wants to nurse. I don’t feel so hot…

8:25 pm: oh, the stomach flu. Now it’s my turn. Spend the rest of the night in a prone position on the bathroom floor, returning occasionally to bed to lie there moaning. Please, God, don’t let the baby get this.

11:54 pm: PLEASE GOD don’t let the baby get this. Dave offers her a bottle and she refuses. Violently. I attempt nursing in between bouts of vomiting. Joey wakes up screaming that he’s hungry and Dave goes to comfort him.

Maaaaaybe this was not the greatest day to chronicle…but it’s certainly not one I’ll forget.

breastfeeding, motherhood

Thirsty Thursday

January 31, 2014

Honestly I think I’ve nursed this baby 9 times today, and we’re not even to 10 pm yet. Anybody picking up what I’m putting down? I have a love/hate relationship with breastfeeding fo sho, and while I’m very thankful to be able to do it, I’m not always in love with the amount of ‘hands on’ time involved, so to speak. Touched.out. Amiright?

Anyway, I also managed to squeeze in 30 lunges and I plucked my eyebrows before calling it a night. Yesterday’s self-care items included 3 miles on the elliptical and some hastily painted nails in an Essie shade I adore, given to me by my sweet little sister-in-law. I’ve found that higher quality (read: more than $5 per bottle) polish applies smoother, lasts longer, and takes fewer coats to look good, so technically it’s cheaper in the long run. Right? Right?

Don’t tell me if I’m wrong. All future trips to Target depend upon it.

Hunkering down for the night with my ravenous baby, a few episodes of House Hunters cued up on Amazon prime, and the snow dumping steadily outside our windows. Hope your dreams are pleasantest.

p.s. This is motivating me to continue producing baby fuel:

“You’ve probably heard the delicious fact that breastfeeding uses up the fat stores you laid down in pregnancy. The greatest weight loss is seen in the three to six month period. You’ve just hit the start of this uber fat-burning period.”

Hell to the yes. 6 more weeks till game time.
breastfeeding, motherhood, toddlers

Snow Day

January 24, 2014
We got 4 big inches overnight, which are mostly melted by now, but which nevertheless sufficed to turn my kids batshit crazy for the morning, so, rest of the country? I (somewhat) feel your pain. But not really, because it will be 52 tomorrow and we’re going sunbathing.
I call this image: “What up, that’s my dead Christmas tree on our front porch.”

Today at Chipotle, my male cashier confided to me that he is going to have kids someday just so he can  “wear them like that,” pointing at my Ergo-strapped load. In potentially related news, the entire strip mall in which said Chipotle resides reeked of (legal) marijuana. Hail, Colorado.

Last night was date night, and we had a real sitter lined up and everything…okay, it was my little sister, who lives in our basement for 29 more days until her wedding (WOOT WOOT), but still, she was willing to sit on babies for free. And yet somehow, by 7:19 pm with both boys in bed, I couldn’t summon the energy to put on real pants. So we improvised with a stowed away bottle of Malbec and an amazon prime gem about Beatrix Potter’s love life. Gentlemen, you wish your wives treated you this good…

(Wine was a bad choice.)

After reading one too many posts about children light-years younger than Joey this week, I made a snap decision and announced to him that he had outgrown pull-ups and was now a man who could use the facilities at night. He excitedly asked if this meant I could take the lock off of his bedroom door knob and then proceeded to use his newfound freedom to visit the bathroom 9 times last night (that we know of).

Whatever. He woke up with dry sheets this morning. Now onto my next project, teaching him to pull a decent shot of espresso.

Tonight is not date night, but it is “Mommy flees the house with a sister and/or girl friend for one drink, one trip to the thrift store and maaaaaybe a pit stop at Target, if she’s lucky.” The real question being: to pump or not to pump. I think if I do go the pumping route, I might get myself 4 whole hours of freedom. Not that I could stay out that late. But still, the thought of being able to is tantalizing.

So I guess either lunch at Chipotle or pumping breast milk is my one thing today…bit of a reach, but it’s that kind of day.

And since these kinds of posts are clearly the reason I was nominated for a Sheenazing award in the categories of best mom blog (okay) funniest blogger (well…) coolest blogger (not even close) and smartest blog (I’m sorry, I’m competing with Simcha, is that even real? No.) why not hop over to Bonnie’s and cast your vote. 

Abortion, breastfeeding, Contraception, Parenting

Broad Spectrum Mothering

October 11, 2013

I just swept my kitchen table with the same broom I’d used moments before on the post-lunch bombed out floor under the swine’s side of the table, and felt only the vaguest sense of shame washing over my subconscious in so doing.

Having spent the morning procuring various essential oils named after Olive Garden staple ingredients at our local Vitamin Cottage, I then trotted my two sick tots down to our NFP only, “vaccine whatever-you-say-goes, mom” family doctor where we waited half an hour to score some pink syrup in a BPA-full bottle. The good stuff. You know what I’m talking about.

Did I mention that while the boys were playing in the waiting room I gave them each a toxic plastic fire-engine shaped sippy cup to sip unfiltered tap water through? Or that I bought the pair of them used at Goodwill earlier this week.

Ew.

Later on we ate organic cheese and gluten free quesadillas before I rubbed both their feet and chests down with Italian herb and cheese scented oils and sent them off for a long afternoon nap. And it occurred to me: I am all over the board with this motherhood gig.

I have friends who babywear exclusively for months and months and monthsandmonthsand…don’t actually own strollers. Or don’t use them, anyway. I also have friends who co-sleep, friends who work as doulas, friends who feed their kids Kirkland’s best frozen pizzas without batting an eye, and friends who spank swiftly and surely.

Some of us are vaccine avoiders, others are FDA-approved compliers. Some like organic berries and buy the rest conventional, and others wouldn’t set foot inside a Walmart if there was an Anthropologie giftcard dangling enticingly over the ‘entrance’ sign.

I don’t know if this is a unique phenomenon to practicing religious mothers or not, but for my circle of friends, far-flung across the globe and across the income spectrum, it seems like our philosophies for life and parenting are more informed by the Catechism than by the cultural pulse on parenting trends.

I have been to a breastfeeding support meeting where a woman tearfully admitted to some abusive behavior on the part of her husband in front of the entire group of moms…and the discussion immediately honed in on his demand that she give the baby a formula bottle at bedtime. Um, what? I was wondering if I had somehow become high off my neighbor’s patchouli essential oil body butter because doubleyou tee eff, this woman had just uttered a kind of cry for help and everyone weighed in on the audacity of her husband to suggest formula. Forest for the trees, huggers?

In Catholic parenting circles, at least the ones I float through, there doesn’t seem to be this rabid need to ‘define’ one’s parenting style patterned after some theory or school of thought or whatever…aside from natural law. And the Magisterium of the Catholic Church. So we don’t use contraception, we don’t abort inconvenient family members, and we don’t discuss divorce as an option with our girlfrinds over cocktails. We also don’t do much husband bashing, as Kaitlin thoughtfully observed in her post yesterday.

As far as the actual nuts and bolts of it all? Bring it on. It’s so nice to be able to discuss this or that idea/behavioral theory/discipline strategy without someone shutting down or feeling personally attacked because you just questioned their belief system. And believe me; I’ve been to enough playgroups where Dr. Sears is a prophet, and chiropractic care versus Western pediatrics is the only responsible choice a loving mother would make for her child.

Vom.

Pass the sugar-laden dum dum bribe sticks and the organic Vitamin D milk. We’re all the hell over the place at our house, and figuring it out as we go. Thankfully, I can still meet my dairy free yoga-practicing friend for a trip to the mall, where we can discuss the proper dosing recommendations for garlic oil during ear infections along with J Crew’s fall catalog, and nobody feels the slightest bit put out by anyone else’s best practices on the home front. That’s what I call freedom.

breastfeeding, Life in Italy, motherhood, Parenting, sleep issues

Language Barriers

February 1, 2013

So I have this incredibly weird relationship with breastfeeding. (Pulitzer prize material, that opening line.) On the one hand, I’m so thankful I can feed my babies this way, and completely in awe of the way my body works.

On the other hand, I’m sick of being 10 lbs overweight, waking up at all hours of the night, and being on call 24/7 for an almost-20-lb ‘newborn’ who can’t seem to self soothe because, wait for it…he has never had to. Idiots, we are.

“I own you, Mother.”

Yesterday, after a lengthy facebook chat with my best friend, and the 23rd consecutive night of broken sleep in Italy, I made the heart-wrenching (Really? wtf is wrong with me, seriously?) decision to (gasp) buy formula and (shudder) put it into a freaking bottle and let Daddy go on night duty.

It should be noted, I actually have a rocking breastpump, a perfectly willing husband who has offered multiple times to take over night feedings, and an apparent complete inability to relinquish control of this area of child-rearing, but for whatever reason, last night was the night to pull the trigger.

I think it maybe had a little something to do with the 9.6% ABV of the Scotch Pub Ale I consumed with dinner at our (our) very own little Irish pub downstairs from our apartment. I swoon. But I also digress.

Fortified by strong drink and terrible, terrible salad topped with fennel, raw salmon, and radicchio, I made my way down the block to a nearby Farmacia (highly confusing to this Colorado girl, as they are marked by neon-lit green crosses, which mean something a bit different in my mind) where I stared stupidly up at a shelf of overpriced baby goodies for something like 15 minutes.

As I scanned the shelves, looking for something that looked like formula, the internal debate raged:

Am I a terrible mother? Is this admitting defeat? Will this actually help me sleep at night? Will I get pregnant in 11 minutes when my cycle comes back after feeding JP one bottle? Are the store workers talking about me right now?

I finally settled on a can of what looked to be promising powder, and read it while walking home, trying in vain to decipher the Italian.

Dave, whose schooling has continued and who is much more fluent already than I can ever hope to be, was equally puzzled by the stuff, but I consulted my memory banks from years of babysitting adventures and scooped 4 tbs into a bottle of sterile water (actually, flat mineral water, which probably tasted absolutely delicious.)

I went to bed after nursing the little beast last night, filled with a mixture of hope and guilt, and much to my delighted surprise, he woke only once last night. ONCE. And he drank some of the bottle Dave offered him, only to demand a top-up from yours truly around 2 am. But still….going from 3 or more wakings to one was a dream come true.

I faced this morning with a strong cup of espresso and a new gleam in my eye, and I examined the bottle from the night before, noticing something rather odd, something that seemed quite out of character for formula to do.

Breakfast of champions.

The bottle had completely settled out in solution, so that it looked like on of those Jello desserts from the early 90s, with 3 different layers of something special, each a different shade of taupe.

Um, ew.

Being the fantastic mother that I am, I bravely lifted the bottle to my lips to sample what my youngest wolf had been feasting on in the night.

Powdered biscotti is the answer. I shit you not.

I don’t know, it felt right at the time of purchase.

I gagged on a mouthful of chalky, biscuit-y mineral water, feeling a mixture of disgust and relief. I mean, technically, I hadn’t given him formula after all…he had sucked down a bottle of gruel last night, and he slept! Hallelujah.

Still, after tasting that stuff, I think I have a better idea of why the Italian birthrate is so low.