Marshmallow Mother

I'm such a softie.

Ben's now four months old, and for the past three months he's refused to nap anywhere but in a sling, curled up next to my body. In some ways it's great, because I am relatively free to walk around and do a limited number of things, mostly involving eating. I can't/won't do anything involving hot substances, open flame, or sharp edges, so cooking is out, as is any housework other than half-assed vacuuming or light dusting, because I can't bend over. If he's to get a really good nap, though, I have to sit on my trusty yoga ball and bounce away for 45 minutes. It beats running up and down the hallway with an aggressive bounce in my step, which is the other alternative.

Most days I don't mind this. It's three or four extra cuddle sessions with my little man, with his face buried in my armpit and one hand looped around the front of my shirt. I know this is a phase, that it won't last, and that soon enough he'll be pushing me away after the briefest of hugs so he can go pick up worms and eat garbage. Some days, though, all I can think about is the cat fur on the couch, the cat fur on the floor, the cat fur everywhere, and how it sure would be fun and fulfilling to get rid of those cats the fur. Those days I think that if he would just let me put him down for his naps, I could get so much done. We could eat a meal that's not overdone/underdone, overspiced/underspiced, whatever. Lately all of the compliments BG pays me after dinner are from meals his mother's made for us. And I hate that when Ben's awake and happy is when I have to leave him to his own devices because that's the only time I can conquer the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking.

Some new-mom friends of mine have had great success teaching their babies to sleep on their own through various techniques; schedules, gradual transitions, routines, books. I commend them for their strength, bow down to their fabulousness. I am weak. Every night I tell myself, "Maybe tomorrow..." and then the day comes, and when Ben starts to rub his eyes and fuss, I slip him into the sling and he drifts off without any problem, and is snoring within seconds. It's so easy this way. Also, the cuddles. I bounce bounce bounce away, lower back aching, shoulder knotted from wearing the sling for a quarter of my waking hours, blogging.

Kind of like now.

Sleeping and Shopping

I took Ben to the grocery store yesterday.

Actually, my initial target was this shiny new arts-and-crafts store that just opened up around the corner. I wanted to check it out, even if I'm not going to be arts-and-crafting any time soon, and wandered around the aisles checking out yarn and scrapbooking supplies. The second I got into the checkout queue, Ben started to wail.

It was a really long line. He cried a lot... and everyone was looking at us, frowning at my ineptitude, shaking their heads at my poor mothering skills, judging. I'm sure of it.

The items I'd intended to purchase suddenly seemed superfluous, so I put them down and bolted for the parking lot, wailing baby and all. I put him in the car -- crying. Loaded up the diaper bag -- still crying. Packed up the stroller -- still crying. Started the car -- silent. He'd fallen asleep.

Obviously we couldn't just go home because he'd wake up when I took him out of the car. So we drove on, letting slumber take hold, and as we approached the grocery store I pulled in simply because there was nowhere else to go.

Once inside the store, the mental grocery list I always keep vanished from my brain. Get a cart? I don't know how to attach the car seat. I'll use the stroller. Stop to get a basket? Nah, I'll just get a few things... And so it began. I raced up and down the aisles at breakneck speed, desperate to maintain baby sleep status quo. Ooh, oatmeal. I need that. Ooh, salad dressing. Oh, we need yogurt. Oh yeah, I wanted to buy some nuts.

Suddenly I found myself with an armful of groceries, a giant stroller, and a sleeping baby. I couldn't slow down. I was miles from the baskets. I pushed the stroller with one hand. I dropped the salad dressing, knocked over several 1-kg bottles of honey, banged into the bulk food bins. I rammed the ankles of at least three other shoppers. I was a menace.

Ben slept the whole time. All in all, a successful shopping trip!

My Friend Joee

I don't have to do this.

I don't have to tell you that Joe Wong's (aka Joee) photos are amazing. I don't have to tell you that he is an incredibly talented photographer.

His work speaks for itself.

Just look. Even I don't see the messy new-mother ponytail and hoodie. I look at that photograph and I think, "That woman is in love with her baby."

Which, by the way, I totally am.

Just look.



Joee writes on his website of the "Joe Wong Experience", and having spent some time with him in front of the camera now, I totally get it. You don't look at his pictures and think, "Wow, that's a very nicely framed shot." You look and you think, "That couple is in LOVE." "They're so happy." "That woman is totally in love with her baby." Joee takes a camera -- a very nice one, in his case -- but a mere machine, made of metal and glass, nonetheless -- he captures the warmth and reality of human emotion, and intensifies it, reflects it back to you more powerfully than you thought possible.



And he makes me want to go back and squeeze this adorable little baby, even though I've been holding him all day and he finally, finally, went down for a nap. It'd be worth it.

He's not good. He's great. He's a magician. He's also the most gentle, personable, and kind-hearted person you'll ever meet. He's a hands-on family man, taking care of his kids during the week while running a full-time photography business. He's a mentor for budding photographers. He's got great hair, a great car... and a great heart.

To my wonderful friend Joee: Thank you, for everything.

ET Phone Home

It occurs to me that blog entries from 2010 have a considerably different tone than those of 2007-2009. It occurs to me that this turn of events has possibly alienated our old audience. It occurs to me that world travelers may not want to hear about the exciting word of diapers and milk.

I am really sorry, guys. It's just... this is how our lives are now.

Sometimes I look back at the last five years and have to shake my head. I thought we had done a lot. I thought we'd accomplished great things. I mean, I climbed a mountain. I have a black belt -- actually, I have three. We watched the sun rise over an ancient Mayan city; we worked with orphans in Thailand, rehabilitated penguins in South Africa. We drove through the gusty deserts of Namibia and navigated the wilderness of Botswana on our own. We rode in a helicopter over Victoria Falls, walked along the Great Wall, and swam with sharks and seals in the Galapagos Islands.

And then my baby was born and he wouldn't nurse.

In the past three months I have tried: finger-feeding; bottle feeding including the purchase of at least half a dozen different kinds of bottles to "mimic breastfeeding"; two excellent lactation consultants; clipping Ben's tongue tie; herbs to increase milk supply; prescription drugs to increase milk supply; infant craniosacral therapy; hours and hours and hours hooked up to a breast pump; attempting to latch while standing and bouncing; attempting to latch while balancing on a yoga ball. I have read books. I have read websites. I have talked and thought about very little other than the natural act of nursing. I have crawled into my husband's lap and wept, telling him I couldn't do it any more. I have postulated and theorized about why my baby wouldn't latch. I have considered the option that my baby might just not like me. I definitely thought there was something wrong with me.

At first I'd feed him with the bottle even though I knew I should be trying to nurse, and I'd feel guilty. Then I would offer Ben a breast and he would scream and I would feel guilty. Gradually he came to accept nursing with a crazy supplemental feeding tube and I would feel guilty that I wasn't trying without it. I felt guilty for wanting to quit, and I felt guilty for putting him through such a torturous ordeal. I felt guilty for talking to everyone about it nonstop. I felt guilty that I wasn't doing enough. I felt guilty that I was wasting everyone's time.

I was housebound, chained to a breast pump. If I went out I had a three hour window, or less, between feeding the baby and pumping. Being at home was an ordeal too, because I'd go to pump and the baby would cry after a few minutes alone. I'd be trying to get him to sleep and all I'd be thinking about was how I'd finally be able to pump once he was down.

It was making me crazy. Finally, I gave myself a deadline -- Thanksgiving weekend. But then I felt guilty for even thinking about giving up.

I was certain we wouldn't make the deadline.

And then, the Thursday before Thanksgiving -- he just did it. He latched on the day he turned 12 weeks old. He's been a happy little nursling ever since. I have been the most relieved and happy nursing mother you ever laid eyes on.

I didn't do it alone. I couldn't have done it alone. The days where I cried, I wanted BG to tell me it was ok, that I'd done enough, to just give Ben a bottle. He never said it. There were hours that my mother and mother-in-law and sisters held the baby so I could sit in front of a breast pump. None of them ever told me that I was being crazy or obsessive. None of my friends ever told me that I was insane. Everyone listened, everyone said nice things to me, and everyone cared.

So, now I can reflect on everything we've accomplished and I can put this at the top of the list. I have a nursing baby, and getting to this point is one of the hardest things I have ever done -- maybe the hardest.

Tomorrow, we're going out for a long time... just because we can.

Two Months

Ben is two months old now. Time is just flying by; where did the summer go? I spent the first half of it waiting for a baby to be born, and the second half recovering from his birth.

In my spare time (hahahahahahahaha!) I like to look back at the pictures we've taken since Ben was born. The photos of his birth are my favourites. They bring me back to that day, so vivid and so surreal in my mind. The first few photos remind that, when he was pulled out, blue and silent, I thought to myself, "Make a sound. Please. Please, cry." And then he did, and it was the most beautiful sound ever.

From pictures in Recovery, I remember the moment when my mother and mother-in-law met him for the first time, when they both became grandmothers.

I look at the pictures of him in the Isolette, under UV lights to treat his jaundice. I remember that he cried in there, that he hated it, and I couldn't take him out because he needed the lights, so I stood up most of the night next to him and stroked him so he would, maybe, hopefully, know that I was there.

I look at pictures from his first week and marvel at how small he was; how squishy his face, how round was his head. In these photos I see onesies and outfits that he has outgrown - clothes that I remember washing and hanging on the line in preparation for his arrival earlier this spring. In these photos I see his first moments: his first bath, his first car ride, his first meetings with aunts and uncles and cousins and friends.

When babies are born, people spend so much time looking forward. "Things will be better when he sleeps through the night." "Things will be better when he's nursing." "I can't wait to see what colour his eyes will be." "I can't wait for his first Christmas."

I have spent so much time looking back and looking forward to things; what strikes me most when I look at the photos is to wonder: Did I look at that moment when it was happening? Did I take it all in? Did I enjoy every precious second, or was part of me wishing to be somewhere else? Sadly, it's in my nature to be thinking of several things at once. I certainly did enjoy my son's first bath, but I probably rushed through it so I could put him to bed and then get myself there too.

These days, little Bento is grinning on the change table, cooing and gurgling as we converse on the couch. His eyes are still blue. His hair hasn't fallen out. He's slept through the night on a couple of occasions, both of which made me terrified initially, elated later. I'm on my own with him most days now, a huge responsibility. He's forgiving of my errors, thankfully, and is happy to cuddle down for a nap in the afternoon. He loves to go for walks, and his Dad is teaching him his repertoire of 80s tunes. We're venturing out most days at least once, on a walk to Starbucks, or to the grocery store, or, still, to the breastfeeding clinic. We're starting a program called "Stroller Fit" this week - it will probably be worth blogging about.

There are hard times, of course. The whole "Breastfeeding Saga" still consumes my life, and it's two steps forward and 400 steps back every time we make a breakthrough. I want to quit every single day. I don't know why I haven't yet. Sheer stubbornness, perhaps. I'm looking forward to announcing to the world that Ben's nursing.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to being present for every moment -- good or bad.

Yum Yum Yum

I was such a jerk before I had a baby. I was an even bigger one before I got pregnant.
This is a post in which I eat my words. Good thing they're tasty.

The Things I Used To Say:

• I'm only going to gain 10 pounds when I'm pregnant (try 35.)
• I'm going to work out every day when I'm pregnant (if napping is a workout, maybe.)
• I'm going to eat healthy (cheese) organic (cake) wholesome (chocolate) nutritious (croissant) foods when I'm pregnant.
  
• I am going to do my hair (ponytail) and wear high heels when I'm pregnant (hahahahahahaha!)
• I won't get stretch marks (wrong again!)
  
• I'm going to try to have my baby without any interventions (had a spinal and an emergency c-section.)
• I'm going to breastfeed (still in progress.)
• I'm going to work out every day as soon as the baby's born (hasn't happened yet.)
• I'm going to be back in my pre-pregnancy jeans very soon after baby's born (not. pretty.)
• This baby isn't going to rule my life (!)
• I will be able to put the baby down so I can get stuff done.
• I can do it without help.
• I can do it all.
• I know exactly what I'm getting into.

Om nom nom nom. I'm like the Cookie Monster over here, stuffing these tasty words down my gullet.

Bringing Home Benjamin

Happy Birthday Ben! It's been one month since Ben's birth and I haven't told you a thing about him, for shame! Allow me to introduce you to the newest member of Team Chopsticks.



Ben was born 8 lbs 10 oz and with a full head of dark hair... when we say a full head of hair, we don't mean that his head was covered with typically baby-fine peach fuzz. We mean he was born with a FULL head of HAIR. Like, he has a mullet and the hair on the sides is growing over his ears. This kid has sideburns. His eyes are still blue, and like all good, superficial parents, we are secretly hoping they'll stay that way, even though we know they likely won't. My genetics background knows better.

He snorts when he's hungry, he buzzes like a tiny bee when he has to burp. When he drinks, his right eye closes and his left eyelid twitches up and down in rhythm with his gulps. Sometimes he brings his wee hands up and clutches them together under his chin. Sometimes he clutches at his cheeks in some sort of ecstatic frenzy (I do NOT like it when he does this, but it reminds me to cut his fingernails.)

He's a social fellow, our little Bento. He likes people. He likes to sleep ON people. One of his major pet peeves is being placed in a swing chair or crib once he's fallen asleep. Can you imagine the audacity! He is enraged. He'll sleep upright in your arms, or curled up under your chin, or sprawled across your chest; he's not picky. He just wants to be with people. When he's mad, he stands perfectly upright in your arms, little fists clenched. He throws his head back (because he's beginning to hold it up now) and cries stridently. He loves to rest his head on your shoulder, arms outstretched. When he goes to sleep in his crib, his arms must be thrown up overhead. If you swaddle him with his arms contained, he'll grunt and squirm until they're free.

At one month old, he weighs just over 10 pounds. He's beginning to track movement with his eyes, and he loves to gaze at our photo wall, though I think it's more the contrast of the black frames against the wall than the actual photo content. He's a champion sleeper... during daylight hours. At night he averages two hours between feeds, and he's very alert in the mornings, during his daily French lessons with Grandma. When he's drifting off to sleep we see him smile gently, sweetly. His Grandma says he's seeing angels, an explanation I like very much, because I tell myself he sees the people that would have loved him tremendously, had they been here to do so.

All in all, a typical newborn, but he's ours. Sometimes I still can't believe it.

This is My Life Now

It is quite rare for a new mother like me to have time to be surfing the internet, let alone blogging. Lucky for you, I have a good reason to be here.

I'm pumping milk. My milk. For my son.

Moo.

I'm doing this because he won't latch.

Whether it's because I had a c-section and he didn't get tossed on my squishy abdomen right after birth, denying us of precious skin-to-skin time; whether it's because he was tongue-tied; whether it's because he just doesn't really like boobs... he refuses to take a full meal from my breasts, and for that reason, I am sitting here looking like an idiot, pumping milk into bottles.

Nobody tells you that breastfeeding, though the most natural thing in the world, might not work. Nobody tells you that your baby has to learn to do it. Nobody was more shocked than I when, upon being put to my breast, my baby reared his head back, turned away, and wailed at the top of his lungs. Every time we tried he did the same thing. The nurses on the maternity ward all told me different things: "Your baby has a short tongue." "He needs suck training. Give him your finger." "Try finger feeding." "You have flat nipples." "You don't have much milk because of the c-section." "If you do go with formula, it's not the end of the world." Finally, I requested that a lactation consultant come see me. She had me rent a hospital-grade pump to increase my supply, and warned: "Because of the c-section, you're two days behind with breast feeding. You will have to work very hard to catch up." She had us finger-feeding Ben every two hours with formula, and had me pumping milk every three hours -- a wacky schedule that was impossible to keep.

Finally, at home, I called another lactation consultant. I was near tears as I explained our situation. She arrived right away. She said nothing about flat nipples and raised her eyebrows at some of the advice of the other lactation consultant. She said Ben had a slight tongue-tie, and recommended a pediatrician to look at it. She had him latched on her first try. She gave us hope that breastfeeding was a possibility for us.

So these days, we're visiting an amazing breastfeeding clinic on a regular basis and we're making great progress. It hasn't been easy, but Ben's better with every visit. I'm still pumping milk. Medela, the company that makes my breast pump, has been amazing -- early in pregnancy, I optimistically bought a single pump thinking I'd just use it on an occasional basis -- you know, because I wasn't going to have any problems with breastfeeding. I also opened the package and threw away the box in a frenzy of nesting. A teary, desperate phone call to Medela later, and they'd kindly agreed to take back my pump so that I could buy a double pump and return the rental. They have earned one permanent fan here.

While sitting up at 3:00 am pumping milk AFTER spending 45 minutes struggling to feed your baby is not exactly a great time, I'm okay with it, because three things are happening: 1. Ben is getting fed. 2. I am making milk. 3. Ben is learning to breastfeed.

It'll happen. Patience.

Oh, the things I have learned in the past three weeks. I had no idea.

Introductions

We would like to announce, with much fanfare, the birth of our son Benjamin:



Here we thought our adventures were done. It turns out this is really just the beginning.

The day after my official due date, I was standing in the kitchen morosely munching on an ear of corn. I was wondering how long this baby was going to stay "inside", and what we could do to make him make his appearance in a reasonable amount of time. I felt a sharp pain -- and only had time to think, "Ow, that was weird" when a warm gush of fluid poured onto the floor. I froze, and had to process what was happening. "Um, Beeg... my water just broke!" He froze. Thankfully, my quick-thinking mother ran to the bathroom for a towel to wrap myself in; I waddled to the bathroom to formulate a plan. BG called the doctor, and Mom cleaned up the mess (and then had to clean up cat barf, as the cat had chosen that exact moment to throw up on the hardwood. Thanks, Lucy.)

Our doctor's advice was to call her back in two hours. In the meantime, my contractions were three minutes apart, 30 seconds long. I couldn't believe she said to just wait, as the books and all TV shows we ever saw said to go to the hospital when contractions were five minutes apart. After about 30 minutes, we called her back. BG argued with her: "I'm looking at the labour decision tree here and every path that leads to going to the hospital, we are facing." How could she argue with that? She agreed we could go to the hospital and she'd meet us there. It was now 4:30; I'd been in active, painful labour for two hours, and now it was rush hour.

I don't remember much of the ride down, except that BG swore a lot and he let me hold his hand at red lights. Admitting took one look at me and sent me directly to Labour & Delivery, where I bypassed all of the other pregnant ladies in triage (some of them gave me cold cloths to help deal with the one-minute-spaced contractions) and was put into a delivery room. Things were moving at the speed of light! I was seven centimeters dilated and getting ready to go.

The nurse paused. "Is this baby supposed to be head down?" I nodded, in the throes of yet another contraction. "Because I don't feel a head. I think I feel a bum." Everything stopped for me. I looked at BG and whispered, "If he's breech they're going to do a C-section." Two doctors and an ultrasound confirmed the nurse's suspicions: breech. I was still having long, frequent contractions, and while the obstetrician on call explained what was happening, I was being prepped for surgery and anesthesia. It all moved so fast, though I didn't really pay attention to that at the time.

I held on to the respiratory therapist while the spinal was administered. I was laid out, my arms spread out on either side of me. I started to shake, a side effect of the anesthetic. My teeth chattered, but I wasn't cold. BG was ushered in, and given a stool to sit on next to me. I could only see his eyes. I couldn't feel a thing below my ribs, but my body was rocked back and forth as the surgeons did their work.

Seconds later, our baby was born. BG was summoned to take photos; our alarmingly blue baby was carried over to the warming table to be suctioned and examined. He finally let out a cry, and his skin turned pink. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I had never seen anybody so amazing in my entire life. I was transfixed. I wanted them to bring him to me. I was aching to touch him.

BG carried our son over to me and I smelled his sweet scent as the surgeons finished their work. Finally, I was placed on a stretcher and they handed him to me so I could have my fill. I still couldn't believe he was ours. I didn't sleep the first night at all, but spent the night staring at this tiny bundle of ours, and periodically making sure that he was still breathing.

These days our life is very different than it used to be. It revolves around Ben's schedule of eat/poop/sleep/eat (not nearly enough sleep in there for us.) Thank goodness for grandmothers that come to do the housework and the cleaning. Thank goodness for friends that understand what we're going through. Thank goodness for a husband that gets up with me for nighttime feedings and stays for diaper changes. I had no idea it would be this hard. I had no idea it would be this great.