No Room for Nursing

Those who have breast fed before know very well that though "breast is best" for baby, trying to maintain this after returning to work is difficult at best. But, as determined as I have been to take on this task, I am not prepared to give up on my efforts in favor of the easier, pricier and less healthy formula alternative.

My efforts, however, are increasingly becoming more futile. Before I returned to work, my complaints about pumping in privacy helped me secure a colleague's permission to pump in her private, windowless office whenever I have a few free minutes. Her office is in Siberia - clear across campus from me - but the door locks, and only she and security have the access key.

But here begins the series of problems:

Number One: finding free time.

Lunch for the high school teacher is a mere 30 minutes bell to bell, with 5 of those needed to usher kids out of the class and to greet them upon return. Subtract about 7 more minutes to get from my classroom to a potential pumping station and I am left with 18 minutes to put together my breast pump and eliminate my engorgement.

Number Two: finding a permanent pumping place.

Using the colleague's office has worked for the last four days. Though I have been rushed in my process, I've pumped a good 6 ounces for Ya's daycare bottles each time. Today, though, I carried my pump kit and munched on a slice of cold pizza (my lunch) toward Siberia and found the office door locked.

Sucking my teeth, I turned on my heels and walked to another colleague's classroom. She has a covered window on one door and a closet that blocks the view from another door's window. But in her classroom, she was not. Instead, I found a substitute sitting comfortably in a student desk in the middle of the room munching on a homemade PBJ sandwich. I assume he thought I was a student when I said, "Oh, she's not here," as he then asked, "Who are you looking for?" - a question that warranted a "duh" response. Of course I meant the usual teacher, but I politely answered him before venturing out in search of another pumping place.

I was told earlier in the week (during a mad dash toward the Siberia) that the nurse had a private restroom. I borrowed her key and after a fight with the lock (I turned it the wrong way), entered a dimly lit student restroom. I sought a handicap stall, but the plug was on the other side of the room. Great. Is this what I was reduced to? Though the bathroom was clean (due entirely to the fact that it is not in use), it is a bathroom. I stood in front of a mirror, pump in hand, trying to be as covert as possible with my process in the event that someone need to use the facility. I am in no way an exhibitionist. My pumping station was the sink, which conveniently allowed me to rinse the pump in the last minutes of my lunch period, but was otherwise a dismal and degrading location for such an important process.

Is it worth it? Surely I am not the first mother to return to teaching? In a career that draws more women than men, one might expect some accommodations. I mean, I'm not asking for free time, just a private space (preferably with a chair) that doesn't double as a human waste receptacle.

Mama Don't Hurt Em

Pushed to the edge of her patience with the tremendous stress of meeting nearly 150 peer-pressured strangers in hormonal excesses, Mommy Rachelle hit her breaking point. It happened around 7 p.m., which was well past the time when her Chub Chub would have taken a nap or gone off to spend quality time with his Dad were he home from work.

But the evening was not a typical one. Chi had homework, which was begun as it usually is with Mommy's guidance. The first page of spelling work, then, was completed correctly and without tears, whining, or hair pulling. Then came math. Mommy thought she had read the directions to Chi with some clarity, but discovered later (and well after Chi had escaped upstairs to watch T.V. and create microscopic art pieces with scissors, markers, and glue) that Chi had merely written numbers from 1-10 in succession. She was supposed to have added the number on the top column to the number in the left column and written the total in the box where the two columns intersected. Simple, right? Wrong.

When Mommy discovered the error, she called Chi down to revise her work. At this point, Chub Chub decides to refund his last feeding on Mommy's shirt and pants. Mommy promptly puts him down on her bed. Then he proceeds to scream because he is now hungry. Chi does the usual half-listen - the one where she knows you are talking to her, but hears only one or two words in each sentence - and erases the entire math worksheet and shoves the eraser bits onto Mommy's bed (an action she hates). Then she frustrates Mommy by adding each set of numbers with her fingers (starting at one each time instead of with the higher number as in 7 plus 2 is 7..8..9. It's 9.) and then putting the result in the wrong box.

Realizing Mommy has elected not to react to the tandrum by picking him up, Chub Chub works himself into such rage - legs and arms flailing, eyes spewing tears - that he rejects more of his stomach contents onto the comforter. Amidst the screaming, Mommy begins to yell at Chi - partly because talking was rendered inaudible in the wails and partly because Chi was no longer interested in what was being said - as she repeatedly places random numbers in boxes all over the sheet and erases correct answers when Mommy tries to have her fix the errors. And Mommy does not pick up and cuddle the screaming Chub Chub, she merely wipes his mouth clean of the vomit and plugs her right ear to muffle the intensity of the cries.

Is this what it'll always be like when Daddy comes home late? At least Chi doesn't hold a grudge and gets it that Mommy is only trying to get the homework done right even if the way she does it is at high-octave, ear shattering volumes that can't possibly be conducive to enjoying the process of doing homework.

Back to School for Mommy

First day drop off

You might call it a drive by... Mommy pulled up to the daycare and put the car in park with such sudden force that it rocked on its wheels and the headlight beams shook in the grass, evidence of running just behind target times for the first day of school. She gingerly pulled Chub Chub from his car seat, slung the daycare diaper bag over her shoulder and partially closed her driver's side door (because it sometimes locks on its own and leaves her outside shivering with a $75 locksmith bill looming over her head). Ringing the doorbell of the daycare, she waited impatiently, shuffling the weight back and forth on each of her feet and trying not to think about leaving her still-too-young baby boy with strangers. The director happily greets her at the door and welcomes her into the facility. Mommy casually hands over her precious cargo, says she can't take off her boots to go into the baby room (which requires bare feet), and signs in Chub Chub. She says goodbye just as quickly and turns on her heels to jet out the door and away from her first born son. There was no time for tears, or for watching her little sleeping one settle into his crib. Instead, Mommy raced back to her car, fastened her seatbelt and fussed to herself about the quickly elapsing time she saw on the dashboard clock.

First day pick up

Leaving amidst the flurry of students heading to their 7th period classes, Mommy jumped into the car and let her senses work their auto-pilot magic to the daycare. She pushed the doorbell and waited impatiently, shuffling the weight back and forth on each of her feet, for someone to let her inside. Flashes of a pink (eww) blanket being removed from a tiny, tiny baby with soft brown-black curls sent heart ache through her. Instinctively she reached for the little boy, but was told he needed changing, as he'd been asleep for a little while. Thwarted from the reunion, Mommy "talked" with the other babies who were awake and alert in their bouncy chairs or in swings. Then, finally, she was given possession of her Chub Chub, whom she immediately smothered with kisses. It warmed her heart to see that the still-sleeping infant had formed his precious mouth into a smile and nestled close to his Mommy's bosom with contentment. He did recognize her - without looking, he had heard her voice and smelled her smell and knew that Mommy had come to rescue him from his day in the foreign room with all the unfamiliar babies and women with plastic bottles.

The Last Precious Day

How quickly eight weeks have passed! It seems like yesterday Chi was pestering me with "How many more days until Baby Brudder is born?" and I was scrambling to count the final weeks in my head.

I remember trying to pack my hospital bags of everything I knew I'd need - like the makeup I wouldn't get to wear during his delivery, but had to have for the plethora of hospital photos. I packed several outfits and a nightgown. Turns out I went home in what I came in (though it was much roomier) and I never touched the book or beauty products I brought. Instead, my hospital experience was spent with a television stuck on TBS (and no channel changer!) across my room. The one nearest me (my room was designed as a double) had a short and turned itself off every five minutes. For two of my three days after birth, I was strapped into the bed by an oxygen mask and IV. I spent much of that time begging all who would listen to bring me some contribane food since the nurses wouldn't feed me (though one snuck me saltines) and the cafeteria room service was under doctor's orders for my room - first no food or drinks at all, then only liquids. Excuse me?

The whole experience was new to me. It was as though I'd never done it before. Honestly, I spent the two weeks after Chi's birth in a near-comatose stupor and didn't get to do things that mothers take for granted - like holding their new babies, sleeping with them against their chests, telling them how much they love them. I remember little of the events surrounding her birth aside from, "Miss Jones, we're going to have to go to a c-section, your baby is in distress." I remember the bright lights of the OR and clutching mom's hand as I complained about pressure. I don't remember her first cries. I don't think I was conscious when they held her up for me to see. And I couldn't stay awake on the rare occassions they brought her from the nursery to progressive care unit to visit me. Chi went home with my parents, and I stayed in the hospital. She was dangerously close to being given to social services and we had to fight to make my parents her temporary guardians. It would be 14 days of touch and go for me before I got to be a mommy, which was the only thing in my life I desperately wanted. I think it was the possiblility of not getting to raise the baby I obsessed over for nine months that pulled me out of whatever health issues I was having.

Now fast forward to Ya's birth. Flawless. Scheduled. Exactly according to plan. Wow. I relished in the ability to breast feed - the most natural thing a mother does. I cried when it seemed my milk wouldn't come in - probably because I wasn't eating. I demanded that his crib-thing stay in my room and stayed up whenever the nurses took him to the nursery for tests, check-ups, and whatever else they do in that room. I noticed a draft over the left side of my room, so Ya slept in my hospital bed with me. I cried for hours when they told me he was Jaundice and feared that it was something I had caused. And then they cleared us to go home. I strapped him into his car seat. I rode out in a wheel chair with him in my lap.

And Chi, my simply amazing baby girl, displaying not one twinge of jealousy. She accepted without a complaint that Mommy was going to have time - lots of it - with baby. And she welcomed her little "brudder" with pride and satisfaction. Everyone knows he's hers, he's "zero" years old, and he's what she asked for.

I'm on my last precious day with my second angel baby. The daycare has his personal crib ready, we've dropped off diapers and a bottle. In a few hours, I'll type up the "What you must know about Yadon" list. I'll probably do it through tears... I've willed myself to get sick and am suffering from a terrible sore throat. I've had that persistent shooting pain in my right side near my incision which I am certain indicates I need at least a week more of recovery time. And now I think Ya is sick, too. Surely I should call in.

In the back of my mind I keep thinking he'll forget me. He's too young to remember who mommy is and he'll forget how to breast feed because he'll have bottles all day. Will they keep him awake so I have a sleepy little man by the time I pick him up? Will I miss his increasing coos and smiles? Does he know how much I adore him, how even when he cries I cherish him?

I'm going to avoid staying after school as much as possible. Surely I cannot conference about students I've never met? I hope the stress of this transition won't cause my time with my kids to be strained. I arranged with a colleague for me to pump in her office during the day - to build up my food supply for Ya (and avoid to painful and embarrassing engorement and leaking from fewer feedings).

In a perfect world, I'd have more time. I'd be able to live it up as a stay at home mommy and still keep my bills paid. I'd have more time to document my babies' every moment - their landmarks, triumphs, dreams. My utopia is being with my kids. It's spending a carefree day taking Chi to the pool. It's going to the pottery painting shop or the movies or the park. It's cuddling Ya and soothing his tears away. It's kissing his chubby cheeks, his forhead, his ears. It's enjoying the two precious gifts God has given me, my two beautiful babies.

It's the last precious day with Yadon before the real world invades my sanctuary.

Saying Goodbye

I killed my first born son. No, I didn't beat him or dish out some violent abuse, but he's dead nonetheless. I'm such a poor mommy that I didn't even notice he was ill or suffering.

Poor Sterling. He was just a few months past his 6th birthday. He was - as far as I could tell - happy. He was full of life.

Every night he made it a point to say "Night Night" as the lights went out and I went to my bedroom. He sang "Hello" in several octaves to acknowledge me. He asked for things; "Sterling treat" was a common request. And he had an uncanny ability to duplicate every sound he heard - my car alarm, the dogs, the baby, trucks backing up, the doorbell.

I killed him with neglect.

He stopped asking for "Shower" a long time ago. He didn't wonder why I never took him out anymore. He accepted that with three dogs and two human kids Mommy just wasn't available to him.

And yet he whistled with me when I wanted him to... our song was the theme to Andy Griffith Show. He practiced the "CarWash" clap because I liked it. He laughed with me (in my voice) whenever he heard me laugh. He hung like a bat from the top of his cage and attacked his toys in play to amuse himself.

I should have checked his cage. Should have played with the feathers on his head. Should have given him the shower I kept putting off. Should have let him stretch his wings outside the cage. I should have noticed that last night he didn't send me to bed saying "Night night."

I'm sorry, Sterling. Mommy failed you.

One Handsome Little Man

M.Y. has become such a heart breaker! Look at how precious he is...

Oh yeah, and I am looking for people to join my protest against returning to work after 6-8 weeks maternity leave. My body has already begun campaigning, as my side has been searing with pain at my c-section incision site frequently for the last two weeks. It's as if it is saying, "You're not healed... Stay home."

Diverting Danger

Friday was a wake up call for me. I had a pleasant visit from Lisa who dropped off the most beautiful portrait of Yadon and I to date. She also listened to my woes of the endless crying and discomfort Ya has displayed for weeks. It's the latter I am most grateful for.

The little behaviors I had just chalked up as Ya's fussy demeanor seem to add up to classic acid reflux disorder. Wow. So the non-stop eating of my chub chub is a soothing mechanism? The hiccups are not growth spurts but his body's efforts to fight the acid build up. And the constant crying is a result of painful heartburn, not the desire of a spoiled baby to be held all the time.

My poor little one.

Anyway, I called the pediatrician and got an appointment within two hours of my call. We waited impatiently in the waiting room (thank God on the "well baby" side away from all the germs) for about an hour, then in the medical room for another hour for the doctor. It was worth the frustration of the wait. Yadon ate in the room, then promptly threw up all over the examination table when the doctor entered. He then started a heavy swallow (pushing the rest back down to his tummy) and the hiccups began. So did the screams of tortured baby. After the demonstration, our doctor agreed that we were dealing with reflux and he prescribed a generic form of Zantax to be taken. Clearly I am not one of those over reacting Mommys with a colicy baby... or at least I wasn't overreacting this time.

He also gave a prescriptive order for an abdominal ultrasound - which turned out negative for some unpronouncable "p" thickness disorder that males are prone to. Now this appointment was also unscheduled and took place at the hospital. For a few minutes it seemed that because I had fed my almost-eight-week-old baby, we'd be unable to have the procedure. Then the registrar read the doctor's order and said the magic words: "STAT." This is hospital code for you have to see them because it is imperative to the welfare and health of the patient. I tried to arrive between feedings, but more waiting put us right into one. So I checked with the receptionist who said softly, "They already penciled him in. Go ahead and feed the baby, they'll never know."

Of course the sono tech did know, because Ya's belly was full. This was partially because of the feeding and partially because he'd been holding a BM since Friday (he's a once a week pooper). Ya was content for a few minutes despite being undressed to his diaper and having the jelly rolled around his tummy in the dim lit room. Then he'd had enough and actually grabbed the ultrasound hand held unit and yanked at it. It was reminiscent of his inutero sonograms! Next came the most uncomfortable breast feeding ever. I had to whip it out in the room and try to convince him to eat while sitting up and with the tech still rolling the sensor thingy around his tummy. Talk about awkward! The result? He doesn't have the p... whatever it was.

So, my baby is on drugs. He sleeps a bit more than before. He isn't as fussy. He actually coos and is more alert when he's awake. And he's okay with being mummified at night so he can sleep better. What a difference. And maybe, just maybe, one of these days we'll get to see his real personality...

Sleepless nights, Simple coos, Satisfying recognition

Where has the time gone?

I have just one week remaining in my maternity leave and I am not looking forward to the major adjustments necessary to return to work. It goes without saying that I don't want to lose any time with Yadon (7 weeks today!), and I enjoy the relaxed nature of mornings with Chi. Professionally, I dread the transition from substitute to permanent teacher, regaining control of my classroom space, and dealing with the backlash from quarter one disappointments.

Lately the miracle has lost its fabulousness. Houdini can escape from the blanket one arm at a time and then the psychotic screams he belts out are enough to wake the dead from eternal slumber. I still have twinges of guilt mumifying my kid just to get a few hours of sleep, but what am I to do? As much as I try to create a schedule, he does everything in his power to break it.

I think I'm creating a sumo wrestler. Chubchub eats whenever he can. All day and all night he eats. And I'm not talking quick five minute "nibbles." Chub can go twenty minutes at a time every two hours if I let him. Then let the hiccups hit and he expects me to feed them away. At night if he is co-sleeping (because the wrap didn't work and I just wanted a few hours of peace), Ya will crawl toward me and expect to eat. I've woken up more than once with him clawing at my shirt and bobble heading my chest.

Yesterday I was shocked to find that a 10 minute pump session produced 4.5 ounces of milk. If Ya is pulling the same results, he is averaging more than 9 ounces a feeding about eight times a day! He's not fat - yet - but the sallow cheeks, deep set eyes and itty bitty arms and legs have been replaced by pudge. At least I know he's well fed...

If he didn't spend so much time crying, I think Ya would be talking by now... instead we get the beginnings of a wail followed by a sigh-like 'aaahhh' or 'ahhh'. It's a rarity, though.

As for knowing his mama, Ya stirs at the sound of my voice in his [rare] times of sleep. He will turn his head to find me [especially when hungry] if someone else is holding him. He even has special expressions just for me. It's flattering. It would be even more so if I thought it was because he loved me and not because I'm a breathing, talking, moving milk bottle.

Mummy? I'm asleep!

If there's nothing else I've learned during this parenting experiment, I gained valuable wisdom in this: complain often. Somehow those folk who hear your whining read it as a plea for help and offer fabulous advice to fix the issue.

The most recent tidbit? Use The Miracle Blanket to ensure sleep-filled nights. Now as the cynical skeptic, I didn't believe a simple blue and green blanket was going to fix anything related to Ya's nighttime activities. But I got the blanket from a friend of Dad's, so it was harmless to try. It turns out that the idiot-proof mummy wrap created by the swaddler actually holds our Houdini inside. Without the freedom to twitch, kick, and scratch, Ya has a pleasant nights sleep. WOW.

Now if only I could convince him to stay in the papoose during feeding times, because trying to refit the thing around a flailing child in the pitch black of two a.m. is near impossible.

Halloween Preview

Autumn Woodland Faerie
I've been studying some of the new "lifestyle" photographers (which is the portrait artist's term for environmental portraiture) to see what is in style... and then Chi and I sought to duplicate it.

My sassy faerie: How'd we do?

{Thanks to Lisa for the brushes tip! I found a simple tutorial at Obsidian Dawn.}

ACCORDING TO THE EXPERTS...

Month 2

• Begins to develop a social smile

• Enjoys playing with other people and may cry when play stops

• Prefers looking at people rather than objects

• Studies faces

• Gurgles and coos in response to sounds around her

• First begins to express anger

WHERE WE'RE AT:

• smiles in sleep, but not in reaction to outside stimuli
• pouts when not soothed
• determined that co-sleeping and nap cuddles are preferred
• rolls over
• scooches toward people (smells - - mommy smells? apparently I smell like food)
• coos in reply to certain tones of voice
  
• demonstrates anger (usually frustration at bedtime)
• studies faces (and then grimaces at them)
• plays for a limited amount of time... but gets bored easily
  

Why are things so... constipated?

This is a post about bowels. Mommy had issues with hers in the hospital. When they don't move, the nurses and doctors don't feed you. Get them working, and you have the entire menu of room service at your request.
Now it is Yadon's turn to deal with the stubborn bowels. And no, I am not going to cease the feedings until he gets them functioning.

Anyway, poor Ya...

We went from explosive and routine BMs to virtually nothing at all. Imagine being excited to call his dad to say "We have BM" and hearing a cheer on the other end of the line - - that's how far apart these events seem to be now.

We are burping and are reasonably content, but still there's got to be some discomfort without the sweet release that is a BM.

Daddy M gave Ya a pep talk this morning. It went something like this: "Now, you have to poop today, okay? A lot."

While I totally agree, I think I found myself saying, "Yes, but save them for tonight when Daddy is home to change you." But seriously, if we get a BM, it'll be cause for celebration even if I am the lucky diaper duty devotee.

Here's what our 5 week old (my Chub Chub) looks like these days:

Pumpkin Guts

I don't care much for getting dirty. Things that make me sweat, not a frequent activity. Things
that are slimy or stain, I'll stay away from them. Things that combine both uncomfortable results? Avoid without a second thought...

So why was I elbow deep in pumpkin guts in the sweltering heat of noonday sun? Because my baby girl wanted to carve her 18 lb pumpkin, of course.

I don't remember the last time I attempted this feat. Maybe never. Initially, after beginning the gross process of removing the sinewy interior of the pumpkin by hand, I said never again.

I read the instructions given with the pattern and carving knife. Then Laura picked out the facial features she wanted her pumpkin to have. We drew them on with a permanent marker, cut open the pumpkin's "head," and I quickly moved the entire process outside when I realized just how messy this endeavor could get.

Yadon sat contentedly in his carrier seat while Laura busied herself removing the seeds from the pumpkin guts with a spoon. I bent my spoon trying to remove all the guts, so I resorted reluctantly to using my bare hands to finish the job. Why on earth didn't I throw on one of the 200+ gloves we brought home from the hospital? Duh!

We had a bit of difficulty cutting the round shapes of the face we'd hoped to create, but ultimately did a very good job getting a rather handsome orange fellow completed. Perhaps we'll do this again sometime...

Back Is Best...

but Ya prefers his tummy! If I hope to get anything accomplished, this is how he must be placed. Of course, I am paranoid, so I check on him every 10 minutes to confirm he's okay. It's kinda cute seeing his diaper laden booty in the air.

And here's the ramble:

We've battled a bit of constipation (Ya's, not mine) and I suspect that my love of WaWa coffee is the culprit. Darn, cause I was really enjoying the DAILY run to pick up a mug after I dropped Chi off.
***
Ya continues to suffer from baby acne... much like Chi did. I'm miserable about it, because it means Mommy has to minimize the photos. After all, what self-respecting teenager wants a scrapbook full of photos with a face gone haywire? And we all know I plan on displaying those books whenever I get the chance!
***
Continuing with the scrap books, the budget has confirmed that it cannot handle me running out and making new purchases, so I am forced to use my stockpile. I suppose that this is no big issue, as the reserves fill my 10x9 scrap space and most of Ya's closet... but where's the fun in this?

I have about 20 pages complete in Ya's first baby album and dozens of photos printed and ready for inclusion when I have a moment. [perhaps I should say when Ya is asleep and I'm not sitting at my computer staring at Facebook or MySpace ::yikes::] Ritz has become a new stomping ground, though it disturbs me that they sometimes forget to use the matte paper I prefer. And as a bonus? Cold Stone and Starbucks are neighboring stores... so is Michael's (craft store). The wallet is pained by the neighborhood, but the consumer likes it a lot!
***
I found a new breast pump that works, so I am alternating between feeding and pumping to keep Yadon happy and to prepare for my eventual return to work which is looming before me. I must have overdone it yesterday, because I was operating on empty for Yadon's bedtime feeding. After about 20 minutes of frustration as he switched from breast to breast, I had to resort to Enfamil samples. Ya didn't like the taste, actually let go of the bottle's nipple, contorted his face and stuck out his tongue! But then I suppose hunger took over and he determined the meal was easier had, so he downed the entire 4 oz bottle like he'd never eaten in his life.
***
Tonight is back to school night at work... I'm going to be introducing myself to strangers who have the strangers enrolled in my classes. FUN!!! Attending required finding a sitter I trust for Yadon (5 weeks today!) that was available at 5 p.m. It's a good opportunity for Gram D. and Yadon to spend some time together. Chi will spend the evening in NHS care at the school.
***
And now? A flash back in photos from the portfolio collection I am working on. This was Chi at 3 months old, 2003: