Written September 2008
We were sitting in my mother’s happy kitchen last Sunday, the soft hum of the dishwasher signaling after-lunch peace, when my sister-in-law posed an intriguing question: “When are the good old days?” Her point was that we often look back at our lives remembering, through rose-colored glasses, the past.
Meanwhile, we trudge through our daily lives; and if we’re not looking back, we’re looking forward. We’ll be happy when the weekend comes. We can’t wait until vacation rolls around, then we can have fun. Maybe when the gifts are wrapped, the food prepared, and all the running around finished, we will finally relax and enjoy Christmas.
There’s nothing wrong with looking forward. Only sometimes, in the constant anticipation of what’s coming later, we neglect now.
As the mother of a toddler, time has existed in a strange warp the last 18 months. The first two months blew by like a tornado; fast, wild, and leaving a trail of destruction in the house! The next couple of months crept by ever so slowly while we dealt with nearly constant crying: Rafe’s and mine. He had colic, and I had postpartum depression. Thankfully, those months passed with the help of an army of support: good doctors, my unshakable husband and our extended family! Now, as I look back, I wish I could have spent more time enjoying and less time worrying.
The key, for me, is to realize that through paying bills, changing diapers, and trying to find the bottom of the laundry hamper, life is happening. Moments that I want to treasure happen all the time. Happy Saturday morning moments when Jason and I laugh hysterically at who knows what while we set up for a yard sale at dawn. Remarkable Monday lunchtime moments when the three of us play on the floor and Rafe says, “Catch!” for the first time. Or, moments like this one, when it’s almost naptime and my sweet boy brings me a book and climbs into the chair with me (the baby, not the husband).
It’s worth the interruption of whatever task I leave for later, because these moments are fleeting. It’s a privilege to catch so many snapshots in time. I make a vow to myself to stop worrying about what’s wrong with the car and how much it will cost to fix, and really pay attention to the bears in Rafe’s book. I’ll put extra animation in their voices and watch him smile at his silly mother, because the “good old days” are right now.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Day of Rest
As seen in the Sand Mountain Reporter Newspaper
Saturday August 2, 2008
Sunday morning comes with the promise of worship, fellowship, peace… Well, peace is a stretch. Our Sunday mornings come at the speed of light, riddled with every conceivable catastrophe.
Saturday nights have morphed into “the old folks at home” most weeks, peppered with an occasional dinner out. Even so, we have trouble getting to bed at a decent hour. Whatever tasks are required for Sunday are frequently left until bedtime Saturday night since the week is so chaotic.
So Sunday morning comes. I always feel a little sleepier, partially due to the late night, and partially because the temptation to lie in bed all morning is a mighty one. The clothes are pressed and laid out (if they weren’t, no one would ever manage to get out of the house.) Yet even with the night-before preparations, the calamity strikes. In earlier days, spit-up played a role. Without fail, the spitting up covered both the baby’s clothes and at least one adult outfit. More recently we’ve happily gotten past spit-up as a bodily function that delays, but others shift into the vacancy. Then there’s the inevitable leaving-behind of something important. Or, as the wonderful parents that we are, forgetting to feed our son breakfast. In our defense, it was a weird morning and he went back to bed for a nap before church-unheard of! So with the leaving behind comes the going back, which always takes a bit longer than you expect, because you catch sight of your hair in the mirror, and believe me, it needs work!
This Sunday morning, I was so proud of myself that I got up and got ready in time to go to early choir practice! That extra sleepy factor usually sucks me back in. Almost ready, my husband comes in the room to say he’s been called in to see a patient and will meet us at church, later. We go into express mode to get Rafe ready, with opposition at every step: he doesn’t care that his nose is disgusting or that breakfast (that he was lucky to get!) is still on his chin, he doesn’t want to get cleaned! I finally get us both in the car and realize that the shoes I have on just won’t work because I have a blister on my toe from wearing them the previous day and I can barely limp along. Going back in, I realize I had left my notes for children’s sermon on the kitchen table, spattered with oatmeal, no less. After changing my shoes, dropping my cell phone (my prop for children’s sermon) twice, and tripping on a small wooden animal, we were on our way: to worship, fellowship, and just maybe, a little peace.
Saturday August 2, 2008
Sunday morning comes with the promise of worship, fellowship, peace… Well, peace is a stretch. Our Sunday mornings come at the speed of light, riddled with every conceivable catastrophe.
Saturday nights have morphed into “the old folks at home” most weeks, peppered with an occasional dinner out. Even so, we have trouble getting to bed at a decent hour. Whatever tasks are required for Sunday are frequently left until bedtime Saturday night since the week is so chaotic.
So Sunday morning comes. I always feel a little sleepier, partially due to the late night, and partially because the temptation to lie in bed all morning is a mighty one. The clothes are pressed and laid out (if they weren’t, no one would ever manage to get out of the house.) Yet even with the night-before preparations, the calamity strikes. In earlier days, spit-up played a role. Without fail, the spitting up covered both the baby’s clothes and at least one adult outfit. More recently we’ve happily gotten past spit-up as a bodily function that delays, but others shift into the vacancy. Then there’s the inevitable leaving-behind of something important. Or, as the wonderful parents that we are, forgetting to feed our son breakfast. In our defense, it was a weird morning and he went back to bed for a nap before church-unheard of! So with the leaving behind comes the going back, which always takes a bit longer than you expect, because you catch sight of your hair in the mirror, and believe me, it needs work!
This Sunday morning, I was so proud of myself that I got up and got ready in time to go to early choir practice! That extra sleepy factor usually sucks me back in. Almost ready, my husband comes in the room to say he’s been called in to see a patient and will meet us at church, later. We go into express mode to get Rafe ready, with opposition at every step: he doesn’t care that his nose is disgusting or that breakfast (that he was lucky to get!) is still on his chin, he doesn’t want to get cleaned! I finally get us both in the car and realize that the shoes I have on just won’t work because I have a blister on my toe from wearing them the previous day and I can barely limp along. Going back in, I realize I had left my notes for children’s sermon on the kitchen table, spattered with oatmeal, no less. After changing my shoes, dropping my cell phone (my prop for children’s sermon) twice, and tripping on a small wooden animal, we were on our way: to worship, fellowship, and just maybe, a little peace.
Watch Your Mouth!
Written July 2008
I knew it would happen. I just never imagined it would happen so soon. My son has begun to repeat what he hears. Just today, my sixteen month old son, Rafe, parroted at least three different words; “puppy, please,” and much to my chagrin, “poopy”.
It’s funny to me how my perspective has changed in terms of language. Words that I never considered particularly ugly before, I cringe with dread when I think of hearing from my baby’s mouth. I’m terrified when I imagine what he may one day hear at school, but I know what he hears at home will have more impact on him. Rafe watches and listens very carefully, and mimics us. It’s a mighty burden and a powerful chance to shape him properly. My five year old nephew told me a motto he learned in Sunday School last week, which went like this, “Watch your ways, and control what you say.” That’s a lesson most parents would do well to remember, myself included, particularly when your children begin to pick up your words and phrases.
We live in a really old house, in which the floors aren’t exactly level, to put it mildly. Therefore, doors tend to close by themselves. I grasped just what a sponge our boy had become when he pushed open a door yesterday, then shouted, “Day!” translation, “Stay!” I had heard my husband give the same command to the doors of the entertainment center the night before.
I dread the day, and the day will come, when one of my "slips" slips out of his mouth at church. We must try our very best as parents to “watch our ways, and control what we say.” The happy flipside of the teeth gnashing “poopy” moments is when we’re so proud of something copied. At meals or bedtime, when Rafe folds his baby hands, unprompted, in preparation for prayer, I think, just maybe, we’re doing a few things worthy of imitation.
I knew it would happen. I just never imagined it would happen so soon. My son has begun to repeat what he hears. Just today, my sixteen month old son, Rafe, parroted at least three different words; “puppy, please,” and much to my chagrin, “poopy”.
It’s funny to me how my perspective has changed in terms of language. Words that I never considered particularly ugly before, I cringe with dread when I think of hearing from my baby’s mouth. I’m terrified when I imagine what he may one day hear at school, but I know what he hears at home will have more impact on him. Rafe watches and listens very carefully, and mimics us. It’s a mighty burden and a powerful chance to shape him properly. My five year old nephew told me a motto he learned in Sunday School last week, which went like this, “Watch your ways, and control what you say.” That’s a lesson most parents would do well to remember, myself included, particularly when your children begin to pick up your words and phrases.
We live in a really old house, in which the floors aren’t exactly level, to put it mildly. Therefore, doors tend to close by themselves. I grasped just what a sponge our boy had become when he pushed open a door yesterday, then shouted, “Day!” translation, “Stay!” I had heard my husband give the same command to the doors of the entertainment center the night before.
I dread the day, and the day will come, when one of my "slips" slips out of his mouth at church. We must try our very best as parents to “watch our ways, and control what we say.” The happy flipside of the teeth gnashing “poopy” moments is when we’re so proud of something copied. At meals or bedtime, when Rafe folds his baby hands, unprompted, in preparation for prayer, I think, just maybe, we’re doing a few things worthy of imitation.
Home, Cluttered Home
Written June 2008
As I sit at the computer, I can hear the sounds of ripping paper behind me. My little mouse has found a roll of adding machine paper and is in the process of tearing it to shreds. This stops my work momentarily, and I pause to trade him an empty box (one of his favorites) and try to regain my train of thought. Sometimes, the offense is small enough that I glance back and keep typing, thinking the price of cleaning up 200 envelopes will be worth the mental continuity.
Ah, being a stay-at-home mom/writer/marketing liaison/lousy maid, there’s just nothing like it. The upside is that I often get to work in my pajamas. The downside is that my toddler wreaks havoc in his pajamas while I attempt to work. A delicate balance is required for working, parenting, playing, and housekeeping. Striking that balance continually escapes me.
On top of the day-to-day insanity of my life, I’m responsible for many duties at Vacation Bible School this week, and my husband is out of the country for two weeks. Jason takes an annual mission trip to Zimbabwe with a small group, where they minister both spiritually and medically to the people of the Tonga tribe. While I am so proud of him for risking himself for the mission (literally, things are quite dangerous there now), I miss his company and his help. Usually, he’s away at work during the day, however, when he comes home, he shares equally in the child care. I have a special prayer in my heart for single parents these days, and I wonder how they manage.
The true upside to my life is that God has blessed me with a Christian husband, a healthy child, a wonderful extended family and enough sense to recognize how fortunate I am. Once in a while, when my boy says, “Mommy, play,” I stop. I save my text, sit down amidst the envelopes, flashcards, and foam peanuts to play with the sweetest baby this side of the Zambezi River. The clutter and chaos will still be here when we‘re done, but I’d like to think as he grows up, the thing he’ll remember most is that Mommy played.
As I sit at the computer, I can hear the sounds of ripping paper behind me. My little mouse has found a roll of adding machine paper and is in the process of tearing it to shreds. This stops my work momentarily, and I pause to trade him an empty box (one of his favorites) and try to regain my train of thought. Sometimes, the offense is small enough that I glance back and keep typing, thinking the price of cleaning up 200 envelopes will be worth the mental continuity.
Ah, being a stay-at-home mom/writer/marketing liaison/lousy maid, there’s just nothing like it. The upside is that I often get to work in my pajamas. The downside is that my toddler wreaks havoc in his pajamas while I attempt to work. A delicate balance is required for working, parenting, playing, and housekeeping. Striking that balance continually escapes me.
On top of the day-to-day insanity of my life, I’m responsible for many duties at Vacation Bible School this week, and my husband is out of the country for two weeks. Jason takes an annual mission trip to Zimbabwe with a small group, where they minister both spiritually and medically to the people of the Tonga tribe. While I am so proud of him for risking himself for the mission (literally, things are quite dangerous there now), I miss his company and his help. Usually, he’s away at work during the day, however, when he comes home, he shares equally in the child care. I have a special prayer in my heart for single parents these days, and I wonder how they manage.
The true upside to my life is that God has blessed me with a Christian husband, a healthy child, a wonderful extended family and enough sense to recognize how fortunate I am. Once in a while, when my boy says, “Mommy, play,” I stop. I save my text, sit down amidst the envelopes, flashcards, and foam peanuts to play with the sweetest baby this side of the Zambezi River. The clutter and chaos will still be here when we‘re done, but I’d like to think as he grows up, the thing he’ll remember most is that Mommy played.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Motherhood: A Year in Review
Written January 2008
The tiny scrap of hair, skin and flattened nose that made his entrance last year has bloomed into a gorgeous, blond life-force of crawling, chattering energy. Yes, my boy has just turned one.
What a ride! Everyone told me what a whirlwind this year would be. I still can’t believe its come and gone. All you moms and moms-to-be, this is for you. For you who are just about to enter this phase of your life, please don‘t be afraid! If you’ve just been on this journey, I’m sure you’ll find some commonalities. If you’re the mother of two, or three, or five, then sit back and chuckle at this rookie’s naïve words.
I divide the stages of my motherhood evolution into these:
The Euphoria
Just as I imagine a skydiver feels after that first jump, I was exhilarated immediately after childbirth. My husband and mother, both knowing what a pain-fearing ninny I really am, praised my performance over and over. I was proud of the fact that I didn’t collapse into hysterics at the advent of pushing a nearly nine pound baby into the world (oh no, the hysterics would come later). The feelings of accomplishment were, of course, accompanied by the sheer joy of having a healthy and perfect baby. My husband and I didn’t stop beaming at each other for days. After coming home the euphoria waned a bit, but didn’t go away. If the night wakings were not easy for me, the early mornings were murder. Still, I was positive, happy, and not at all frightened by the aspect of motherhood. Rafe was a good baby, rarely crying. I felt a little clingy to my husband, Jason, which is not really my style, and I confess that I was weepy at bedtime. Ever late to bed, this new regimen of early bedtime was challenging, and I felt very alone when I was up with Rafe during the night feedings. So I struggled a little then, but chalked it up to the baby blues. Jason went back to work, and I began my life as a stay-at-home mom.
The Colic and the Terror
About six weeks into my maiden voyage into motherhood (no pun intended), two things happened to change the course of the world for us. Rafe began to cry. And cry, and cry. For what seemed like hours on end, he cried. His pediatrician, after multiple visits and after hours calls, finally told us, “It sounds like colic.”
At the same time,maybe even a bit before that, my baby blues blossomed into depression. Even on the days when the baby wasn’t crying, I was, ceaselessly. I questioned my ability to deal with motherhood. I dreaded the time I had to spend with Rafe. I resented Jason, for what I perceived as his unchanged routine, while at the same time clinging to him and needing to be near him desperately. If I could have crawled inside his chest, I would have, and still not have felt close enough. I called my mother ten times a day and asked her if I was crazy. I called my sisters-in-law to ask if they had felt like me. I begged my husband not to leave me and go to work. I awakened every morning with a sick feeling that an entire day stretched out ahead, filled with caring for a screaming infant. I started to feel afraid to be alone with Rafe. I imagined myself dropping him, or falling with him, or worse. I felt so wretched that I just wanted to run away. I literally would beg to go to the emergency room just to escape.
Worse, I felt disconnected to Rafe. I didn’t want to hold him, I just went through the motions. Jason would ask me, “Isn’t he precious, Mommy?”, and I couldn’t muster up feelings for him. I was terrified. On top of the fear was the guilt. Here I was, with a healthy baby, a supportive husband and family who loved all of us, but I couldn’t feel happy. No matter what, I was just so sad and frightened. I knew I was experiencing postpartum depression. Even so, I told very few people what was happening. I was good at putting on a show. At church, at the grocery store, I smiled and said my life was wonderful, all the while hating everyone I saw because they felt a happiness that escaped me. My husband was superman during this time. He would calm me down and tell me the feelings were temporary, that soon, I would feel better.
About the third time my mother came over and I sat in her lap and cried, she made me promise to go to my doctor. She said, “Tell him everything. Don’t sugarcoat it, don’t try to be the perfect mother, just tell him how you feel.”
Now, if you’re reading this, and you are feeling any of these feelings, I beg you to tell someone! Don’t be ashamed. These feelings stem from a chemical imbalance, and you are NOT to blame. Tell your doctor, tell your mother, tell your pastor. TELL SOMEONE.
The Rise from the Ashes
I did go to my doctor, and I did tell him how I was REALLY feeling. He took me seriously. He asked me some very serious questions. Then he prescribed medication to help the chemical imbalance right itself.
It took a few weeks for the dread to subside. It took a few more before I could come home from running errands while Rafe was with his grandmother, and not feel nauseated, sweaty, and panicked. Truthfully, I still obsessed about the crying, but that was getting better as I did. The pediatrician recommended we add rice cereal to Rafe’s diet, and that seemed to make him feel better quickly. I still worried about our lives never being normal again. I wondered how people adjusted their lives to include a child without becoming slaves.
The Happy Mommy
Thanks be to God, who heard my often hourly prayers for strength and help, I recovered. I began to relax and enjoy my sweet baby. I started to cherish the days and hours I could play with him, and teach him, watch and listen to him. I felt privileged to be the one on whom he depended.
I revel in each new accomplishment, now. When Jason asks me, “Isn’t he precious?” I can answer without reservation. As I photographed him digging into his first birthday cake this past weekend, I was struck by how far I had come in my journey to be his mother. How blessed I am to be healthy. I know the joys shine brighter after the darkness.
Now, maybe Rafe needs a sister…
The tiny scrap of hair, skin and flattened nose that made his entrance last year has bloomed into a gorgeous, blond life-force of crawling, chattering energy. Yes, my boy has just turned one.
What a ride! Everyone told me what a whirlwind this year would be. I still can’t believe its come and gone. All you moms and moms-to-be, this is for you. For you who are just about to enter this phase of your life, please don‘t be afraid! If you’ve just been on this journey, I’m sure you’ll find some commonalities. If you’re the mother of two, or three, or five, then sit back and chuckle at this rookie’s naïve words.
I divide the stages of my motherhood evolution into these:
The Euphoria
Just as I imagine a skydiver feels after that first jump, I was exhilarated immediately after childbirth. My husband and mother, both knowing what a pain-fearing ninny I really am, praised my performance over and over. I was proud of the fact that I didn’t collapse into hysterics at the advent of pushing a nearly nine pound baby into the world (oh no, the hysterics would come later). The feelings of accomplishment were, of course, accompanied by the sheer joy of having a healthy and perfect baby. My husband and I didn’t stop beaming at each other for days. After coming home the euphoria waned a bit, but didn’t go away. If the night wakings were not easy for me, the early mornings were murder. Still, I was positive, happy, and not at all frightened by the aspect of motherhood. Rafe was a good baby, rarely crying. I felt a little clingy to my husband, Jason, which is not really my style, and I confess that I was weepy at bedtime. Ever late to bed, this new regimen of early bedtime was challenging, and I felt very alone when I was up with Rafe during the night feedings. So I struggled a little then, but chalked it up to the baby blues. Jason went back to work, and I began my life as a stay-at-home mom.
The Colic and the Terror
About six weeks into my maiden voyage into motherhood (no pun intended), two things happened to change the course of the world for us. Rafe began to cry. And cry, and cry. For what seemed like hours on end, he cried. His pediatrician, after multiple visits and after hours calls, finally told us, “It sounds like colic.”
At the same time,maybe even a bit before that, my baby blues blossomed into depression. Even on the days when the baby wasn’t crying, I was, ceaselessly. I questioned my ability to deal with motherhood. I dreaded the time I had to spend with Rafe. I resented Jason, for what I perceived as his unchanged routine, while at the same time clinging to him and needing to be near him desperately. If I could have crawled inside his chest, I would have, and still not have felt close enough. I called my mother ten times a day and asked her if I was crazy. I called my sisters-in-law to ask if they had felt like me. I begged my husband not to leave me and go to work. I awakened every morning with a sick feeling that an entire day stretched out ahead, filled with caring for a screaming infant. I started to feel afraid to be alone with Rafe. I imagined myself dropping him, or falling with him, or worse. I felt so wretched that I just wanted to run away. I literally would beg to go to the emergency room just to escape.
Worse, I felt disconnected to Rafe. I didn’t want to hold him, I just went through the motions. Jason would ask me, “Isn’t he precious, Mommy?”, and I couldn’t muster up feelings for him. I was terrified. On top of the fear was the guilt. Here I was, with a healthy baby, a supportive husband and family who loved all of us, but I couldn’t feel happy. No matter what, I was just so sad and frightened. I knew I was experiencing postpartum depression. Even so, I told very few people what was happening. I was good at putting on a show. At church, at the grocery store, I smiled and said my life was wonderful, all the while hating everyone I saw because they felt a happiness that escaped me. My husband was superman during this time. He would calm me down and tell me the feelings were temporary, that soon, I would feel better.
About the third time my mother came over and I sat in her lap and cried, she made me promise to go to my doctor. She said, “Tell him everything. Don’t sugarcoat it, don’t try to be the perfect mother, just tell him how you feel.”
Now, if you’re reading this, and you are feeling any of these feelings, I beg you to tell someone! Don’t be ashamed. These feelings stem from a chemical imbalance, and you are NOT to blame. Tell your doctor, tell your mother, tell your pastor. TELL SOMEONE.
The Rise from the Ashes
I did go to my doctor, and I did tell him how I was REALLY feeling. He took me seriously. He asked me some very serious questions. Then he prescribed medication to help the chemical imbalance right itself.
It took a few weeks for the dread to subside. It took a few more before I could come home from running errands while Rafe was with his grandmother, and not feel nauseated, sweaty, and panicked. Truthfully, I still obsessed about the crying, but that was getting better as I did. The pediatrician recommended we add rice cereal to Rafe’s diet, and that seemed to make him feel better quickly. I still worried about our lives never being normal again. I wondered how people adjusted their lives to include a child without becoming slaves.
The Happy Mommy
Thanks be to God, who heard my often hourly prayers for strength and help, I recovered. I began to relax and enjoy my sweet baby. I started to cherish the days and hours I could play with him, and teach him, watch and listen to him. I felt privileged to be the one on whom he depended.
I revel in each new accomplishment, now. When Jason asks me, “Isn’t he precious?” I can answer without reservation. As I photographed him digging into his first birthday cake this past weekend, I was struck by how far I had come in my journey to be his mother. How blessed I am to be healthy. I know the joys shine brighter after the darkness.
Now, maybe Rafe needs a sister…
Got Milk?
As seen in Valley Babies
February/March 08
Ah, childbirth. I was terrified of it. I’ve always been a bit of a Nervous Nellie, to say the least. So when it was over, I was really happy! I had a healthy, beautiful baby, I felt pretty good, so on to the next challenge, right?
My son took to the breast with no qualms. He latched on the first time as skillfully as he does now! The problem was, the nurses said he acted as though he was starving. The colostrum wasn’t satisfying him. They would bring him back to me after bathing him, and he’d be howling. We began to give him formula with a nifty little contraption called a supplementer. Without getting into too much detail, it allowed him to get formula through a small tube that attached directly to me while he nursed. It was a great temporary solution.
Like many mothers, breastfeeding made me apprehensive because I feared the baby wouldn’t get enough nourishment. Therefore, when my milk still hadn’t come in by the time we came home from the hospital, Nervous Nellie grew more nervous. The supplementer was becoming tedious to use, particularly at 2 a.m. with my mother and my husband hovering over trying to help. Make no mistake, I was grateful for ANY help I could get, but it added to the pressure.
Obsessing is one of my greatest talents, and I put it to use in those few days. I waited and watched, terrified that no milk would come. I had read book after book during my pregnancy. I could recite the way it was supposed to happen, how it should feel. I asked anyone pertinent who came to see us, “How did you know when your milk came in?” They always answered with certainty, “Oh, you’ll know!” But still, nothing. Five days had passed. The supplementer solution, intended as a temporary fix, was becoming less and less user friendly.
On the sixth morning, just before going to the pediatrician’s office for Rafe’s first check-up, I undressed to shower. When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I knew. I hadn’t felt any of the sensations I’d read or heard about, but there was no mistake, the milk fairy had visited while I slept. I was so overjoyed I ran (well, walked gingerly, I had just birthed nearly 9 lbs of baby) into the bedroom to let my husband in on the good news by showing the proof. He would have thrown beads if he’d had some handy! My dear mother-in-law also was startled to see the proof when I hurried into the nursery to flash the happy tidings. I think three adults have never danced around so merrily at the advent of properly functioning mammary glands!
Breastfeeding has become so routine now, I can’t believe I felt that nervous. I was blessed that Rafe had such an easy time with it. I personally am glad not to boil bottles, warm formula, pack milk, etc. I’ve got the goods already packed, warm, and with us where ever we go. The sheer convenience of breastfeeding sells me on it again and again.
Sure, there are drawbacks, like being solely responsible for your child’s meals for most of the first year of his life. Even if you don’t physically feed the baby yourself, you still must pump to keep up your milk supply (and to preserve that precious nectar for when he sleeps over at Nana’s!). And with the pumping, you get the boiling, steam cleaning, storage, etc. You also miss out on adult conversation if you don’t feel comfortable covering up and nursing in the room with some people.
However, for me, the pros far outweigh the cons. In addition to the health benefits for him and for me, I get something even more precious. For a fleeting few minutes, and for a few more months, I sit down with my boy. I have his total attention, and he, mine. What a privilege, this cherished connection with him that no one else gets! I consider it a miracle. God gave me the ability to perfectly nourish my child, all the while looking into his sweet face and catching the corners of his mouth turning up when I talk to him. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.
February/March 08
Ah, childbirth. I was terrified of it. I’ve always been a bit of a Nervous Nellie, to say the least. So when it was over, I was really happy! I had a healthy, beautiful baby, I felt pretty good, so on to the next challenge, right?
My son took to the breast with no qualms. He latched on the first time as skillfully as he does now! The problem was, the nurses said he acted as though he was starving. The colostrum wasn’t satisfying him. They would bring him back to me after bathing him, and he’d be howling. We began to give him formula with a nifty little contraption called a supplementer. Without getting into too much detail, it allowed him to get formula through a small tube that attached directly to me while he nursed. It was a great temporary solution.
Like many mothers, breastfeeding made me apprehensive because I feared the baby wouldn’t get enough nourishment. Therefore, when my milk still hadn’t come in by the time we came home from the hospital, Nervous Nellie grew more nervous. The supplementer was becoming tedious to use, particularly at 2 a.m. with my mother and my husband hovering over trying to help. Make no mistake, I was grateful for ANY help I could get, but it added to the pressure.
Obsessing is one of my greatest talents, and I put it to use in those few days. I waited and watched, terrified that no milk would come. I had read book after book during my pregnancy. I could recite the way it was supposed to happen, how it should feel. I asked anyone pertinent who came to see us, “How did you know when your milk came in?” They always answered with certainty, “Oh, you’ll know!” But still, nothing. Five days had passed. The supplementer solution, intended as a temporary fix, was becoming less and less user friendly.
On the sixth morning, just before going to the pediatrician’s office for Rafe’s first check-up, I undressed to shower. When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I knew. I hadn’t felt any of the sensations I’d read or heard about, but there was no mistake, the milk fairy had visited while I slept. I was so overjoyed I ran (well, walked gingerly, I had just birthed nearly 9 lbs of baby) into the bedroom to let my husband in on the good news by showing the proof. He would have thrown beads if he’d had some handy! My dear mother-in-law also was startled to see the proof when I hurried into the nursery to flash the happy tidings. I think three adults have never danced around so merrily at the advent of properly functioning mammary glands!
Breastfeeding has become so routine now, I can’t believe I felt that nervous. I was blessed that Rafe had such an easy time with it. I personally am glad not to boil bottles, warm formula, pack milk, etc. I’ve got the goods already packed, warm, and with us where ever we go. The sheer convenience of breastfeeding sells me on it again and again.
Sure, there are drawbacks, like being solely responsible for your child’s meals for most of the first year of his life. Even if you don’t physically feed the baby yourself, you still must pump to keep up your milk supply (and to preserve that precious nectar for when he sleeps over at Nana’s!). And with the pumping, you get the boiling, steam cleaning, storage, etc. You also miss out on adult conversation if you don’t feel comfortable covering up and nursing in the room with some people.
However, for me, the pros far outweigh the cons. In addition to the health benefits for him and for me, I get something even more precious. For a fleeting few minutes, and for a few more months, I sit down with my boy. I have his total attention, and he, mine. What a privilege, this cherished connection with him that no one else gets! I consider it a miracle. God gave me the ability to perfectly nourish my child, all the while looking into his sweet face and catching the corners of his mouth turning up when I talk to him. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.
Getting Surly About Surly People
As seen in the Gadsden Times
Sunday October 8, 2006
I don’t know if you can hear the scraping, but my soapbox is heavy, so I have to drag it along behind me to get it into place. My complaint is about surly people: ones who look surly and especially ones who act surly. I once read somewhere that if you smile, even if you don’t feel like smiling, your attitude will catch up with your face. I think many of the people I encounter have either not read this adage, or have read it and discarded it, because some of them look like their attitude wouldn’t recognize a smile if it smacked them in the mouth, (no pun intended.)
I took it upon myself to do some research into the subject by studying folks while out and about. The grocery store and Wal-Mart are two of my main spots for observation. I have grouped the grumpies into three categories: the unintentional frowners, the common downers, and the downright miserable scowlers.
Let’s take the first category. This is the mildest offense. These are people who probably don’t realize they look so unhappy. We’re all guilty of the unintentional frown occasionally, because it’s the look of concentration we get when we can’t find the Velveeta at Wal-Mart (another subject for another soapbox). The unintentional frown is usually temporary, disappearing after the resolution of the problem. The people in this group will usually snap out of it and return a smile if you beam at them persistently.
The second group is a little more offensive. The common downers are the people who, when asked how they are, say, “Fine,” and leave a dreadful silence while you wait fruitlessly for them to ask how you are. People in this group will also resort, when asked about themselves, to using my very favorite response, “Well, I’m here.” This is generally accompanied by a deep sigh. Their chief crime is not purposeful surliness, but rather a lack of enthusiasm. This bunch just doesn’t realize the effect they have with their dreariness. An example of this is the person at the drive-through window who says, “It’s a great day at (insert restaurant), could I take your order?” with about as much gusto as a child at Christmas, thanking the giver after opening socks. If you expect to have a smile returned by a member of this group, beware, the result is typically half-hearted. More often than not, it turns out as more of a smirk, with no joy reaching the eyes.
The third group is the worst! The scowlers actually spread discontent with their expressions. This is the cashier at the grocery store who won’t speak, but simply scans your items and slams them down on the other side. When forced, these group members may respond to a determined, “How are YOU?”, but they won’t be pleased about it. You’ll probably want to tear out your hair when you ask where you might find blank note cards and hear the answer of the scowling clerk who rolls her eyes and says, “This is not my department.” Further, my research shows that in face-to-face contact, 4 of 10 strangers met were miserable scowlers who wouldn‘t smile back no matter how hard I tried. That’s quite a statement.
Now, please let me qualify by saying that last Sunday, I listened and agreed with our pastor when he spoke about the evils of judging people. He said that we most often don’t know all the facts, and therefore are in no position to draw conclusions about how people act. I do realize that some people have valid reasons for being surly. Moreover, I’m not trying to pick on people who happen to work at Wal-Mart or the grocery store, many of whom are as cheerful (and helpful) as possible. Nor am I condemning truly shy individuals who have trouble meeting someone’s eyes, much less speaking to a wildly enthusiastic person.
We all feel surly from time to time. I’m sure we’ve all fallen into one or more of these categories sometime in our lives. It’s human. My point is that we should really be aware of the expressions on our face, because just like the flu, they’re contagious. So why not spread around a little happy. I know some miserable scowlers who could really use a smile today.
Sunday October 8, 2006
I don’t know if you can hear the scraping, but my soapbox is heavy, so I have to drag it along behind me to get it into place. My complaint is about surly people: ones who look surly and especially ones who act surly. I once read somewhere that if you smile, even if you don’t feel like smiling, your attitude will catch up with your face. I think many of the people I encounter have either not read this adage, or have read it and discarded it, because some of them look like their attitude wouldn’t recognize a smile if it smacked them in the mouth, (no pun intended.)
I took it upon myself to do some research into the subject by studying folks while out and about. The grocery store and Wal-Mart are two of my main spots for observation. I have grouped the grumpies into three categories: the unintentional frowners, the common downers, and the downright miserable scowlers.
Let’s take the first category. This is the mildest offense. These are people who probably don’t realize they look so unhappy. We’re all guilty of the unintentional frown occasionally, because it’s the look of concentration we get when we can’t find the Velveeta at Wal-Mart (another subject for another soapbox). The unintentional frown is usually temporary, disappearing after the resolution of the problem. The people in this group will usually snap out of it and return a smile if you beam at them persistently.
The second group is a little more offensive. The common downers are the people who, when asked how they are, say, “Fine,” and leave a dreadful silence while you wait fruitlessly for them to ask how you are. People in this group will also resort, when asked about themselves, to using my very favorite response, “Well, I’m here.” This is generally accompanied by a deep sigh. Their chief crime is not purposeful surliness, but rather a lack of enthusiasm. This bunch just doesn’t realize the effect they have with their dreariness. An example of this is the person at the drive-through window who says, “It’s a great day at (insert restaurant), could I take your order?” with about as much gusto as a child at Christmas, thanking the giver after opening socks. If you expect to have a smile returned by a member of this group, beware, the result is typically half-hearted. More often than not, it turns out as more of a smirk, with no joy reaching the eyes.
The third group is the worst! The scowlers actually spread discontent with their expressions. This is the cashier at the grocery store who won’t speak, but simply scans your items and slams them down on the other side. When forced, these group members may respond to a determined, “How are YOU?”, but they won’t be pleased about it. You’ll probably want to tear out your hair when you ask where you might find blank note cards and hear the answer of the scowling clerk who rolls her eyes and says, “This is not my department.” Further, my research shows that in face-to-face contact, 4 of 10 strangers met were miserable scowlers who wouldn‘t smile back no matter how hard I tried. That’s quite a statement.
Now, please let me qualify by saying that last Sunday, I listened and agreed with our pastor when he spoke about the evils of judging people. He said that we most often don’t know all the facts, and therefore are in no position to draw conclusions about how people act. I do realize that some people have valid reasons for being surly. Moreover, I’m not trying to pick on people who happen to work at Wal-Mart or the grocery store, many of whom are as cheerful (and helpful) as possible. Nor am I condemning truly shy individuals who have trouble meeting someone’s eyes, much less speaking to a wildly enthusiastic person.
We all feel surly from time to time. I’m sure we’ve all fallen into one or more of these categories sometime in our lives. It’s human. My point is that we should really be aware of the expressions on our face, because just like the flu, they’re contagious. So why not spread around a little happy. I know some miserable scowlers who could really use a smile today.
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