She snuggles in, latches on, and munches away. I feel relief. She twists her little hands in my shirt. I hold her close, and wish I never had to let go.
This is a time I will never get back. This is the one time in her life when she needs me for comfort and for food, and it is something that no one else can provide.
I'm going to try and make this time last as long as I can.
The first time, it barely lasted three weeks, as I was fighting against my own ignorance and a baby who, at best, could be called challenging.
The second time, I fought hard to make it work, through tears, hording pain pills to deal with the agony of the early weeks when we were both learning the skills.
The third time, I know all the tricks, from the difference between eating and comfort sucking, where to buy the Lansinoh, that oatmeal and lagers increase milk supply and Sudafed will kill it.
I'm using every trick in the book to make this time last. I know some disagree with breast-feeding, others just don't understand. And few women in the United States make it past six months. I'm determined to make this time last as long as I can, and enjoy as much as I can.
It's my last time with a nursling, and honestly, it rates among the best time I've ever spent with my kids.
22 February 2005
16 February 2005
Amen, Sistah!
You want to know what my life is really like?
Really?
Go read the current issue of Newsweek, on newsstands now: February 22, 2005. "The Myth of the Perfect Mother" by Judith Warner. It's not on the Web, so you have to actually read paper.
Yes. To every word she says.
Highlights:
As Gen-Xer moms, we are preconditioned to be perfectionists. To try and do it all, and do it all well. After growing up listening to '70s feminists, Betty Freidan, Patricia Ireland and their ilk sold us on the fact that we could do it all, and we drank the Kool-aid.
Here's the deal: We can't. I speak from experience. It is impossible to hold down a full-time, high-powered job, have kids, be super-involved, find great daycare, join the PTA, have dinner on the table, and a perfect house.
Can't be done.
So she calls for radical changes: Tax-subsidies for companies that offer part-time work arrangements. Let money flow back to the middle class, so we don't HAVE to have two-parent working families to make ends meet. Actually put money into the daycare and educational systems, so we don't have to worry about our kids, and enroll them in extra classes after school to make up for the drastic cuts to music, art, and gym to pay for more drill work to meet the idiotic state standards tests.
And I'm a lucky mom: I have a boss who understands parenting, because he's a Gen-X dad. We both burn the candles at both ends, but we make it work. Sort of. As long as no one (especially us) is sick. I have a great husband who tries to pitch in when he can, despite the fact that he works 50- and 60-hour weeks.
Read the article. Then help us poor, tired moms lobby to make some serious societal changes.
Really?
Go read the current issue of Newsweek, on newsstands now: February 22, 2005. "The Myth of the Perfect Mother" by Judith Warner. It's not on the Web, so you have to actually read paper.
Yes. To every word she says.
Highlights:
As Gen-Xer moms, we are preconditioned to be perfectionists. To try and do it all, and do it all well. After growing up listening to '70s feminists, Betty Freidan, Patricia Ireland and their ilk sold us on the fact that we could do it all, and we drank the Kool-aid.
Here's the deal: We can't. I speak from experience. It is impossible to hold down a full-time, high-powered job, have kids, be super-involved, find great daycare, join the PTA, have dinner on the table, and a perfect house.
Can't be done.
So she calls for radical changes: Tax-subsidies for companies that offer part-time work arrangements. Let money flow back to the middle class, so we don't HAVE to have two-parent working families to make ends meet. Actually put money into the daycare and educational systems, so we don't have to worry about our kids, and enroll them in extra classes after school to make up for the drastic cuts to music, art, and gym to pay for more drill work to meet the idiotic state standards tests.
And I'm a lucky mom: I have a boss who understands parenting, because he's a Gen-X dad. We both burn the candles at both ends, but we make it work. Sort of. As long as no one (especially us) is sick. I have a great husband who tries to pitch in when he can, despite the fact that he works 50- and 60-hour weeks.
Read the article. Then help us poor, tired moms lobby to make some serious societal changes.
11 February 2005
The Little Bird, The Little Bird
That line from "The Crucible" sent my friends and me into hysterics during sophormore honors English back in 1988. But the larger story, the story of witch hunts, both historical, fictional, and in an era when folks were finding Communists under every rock, or in every screenwriter, sparked the tinder that led to me becoming a journalist.
I owe that to Arthur Miller. He died yesterday. He was 89.
I can't wish him well with Marilyn, as I believe she's in Heaven teasing Joltin' Joe, who loved her more. But I can thank Arthur for sparking my will to fight injustice and fear. And to write about it when I can.
Here's his obit from The New York Times:
Read the obituary here
I owe that to Arthur Miller. He died yesterday. He was 89.
I can't wish him well with Marilyn, as I believe she's in Heaven teasing Joltin' Joe, who loved her more. But I can thank Arthur for sparking my will to fight injustice and fear. And to write about it when I can.
Here's his obit from The New York Times:
09 February 2005
Pensive mommy
How is it possible that my boy is nearly 3?
Just a mere two years ago I was cuddling him on the couch, nursing him, snuggling with him. Every moment I can cuddle them as they are small seems blessed, and they are passing too quickly.
Now he is up and around, talking in complete sentences. He hardly ever wants to "swuggle" anymore.
My little baby started rolling over this past weekend. She's started cereal.
My eight-year-old daughter barely resembles her infancy. Some days that's a blessing, but other days, her approaching teen years seem like a curse.
This is the last time for the baby firsts for me: I know we're done. To steal a phrase: My quiver is full.
And while I don't want any more babies, the aging and growing older is stabbing my heart a bit more each day.
I now know what it means in the Stations of the Cross when they say that "sorrow pierced her heart."
It's bittersweet, it's painful. It's also what you know they need to do, know where they need to be.
You can't keep them little forever. Though God knows I'd like to.
In spiritu humilitatis, et in animo contrito suscipiamur a te, Domine.
In spirit humble, and in soul contrite
may we be received to You, Lord.
Just a mere two years ago I was cuddling him on the couch, nursing him, snuggling with him. Every moment I can cuddle them as they are small seems blessed, and they are passing too quickly.
Now he is up and around, talking in complete sentences. He hardly ever wants to "swuggle" anymore.
My little baby started rolling over this past weekend. She's started cereal.
My eight-year-old daughter barely resembles her infancy. Some days that's a blessing, but other days, her approaching teen years seem like a curse.
This is the last time for the baby firsts for me: I know we're done. To steal a phrase: My quiver is full.
And while I don't want any more babies, the aging and growing older is stabbing my heart a bit more each day.
I now know what it means in the Stations of the Cross when they say that "sorrow pierced her heart."
It's bittersweet, it's painful. It's also what you know they need to do, know where they need to be.
You can't keep them little forever. Though God knows I'd like to.
In spiritu humilitatis, et in animo contrito suscipiamur a te, Domine.
In spirit humble, and in soul contrite
may we be received to You, Lord.
07 February 2005
Impressions in a busy week
"Rubber Ducky" in full arrangement played by my daughter apparently sounds impressive to other parents attending her school's talent show. So much so that one was stunned when she found out that we've been teaching her in our spare time.
My son was thrilled to learn that the object of bowling was to knock pins over with a heavy ball. He was in absolute bliss the entire time we played at the local alley.
My littlest daughter can sleep eight hours solid if she wants to sleep for eight hours.
Even a nearly three-year-old boy can need some serious snuggle time during the Super Bowl.
Being asked to dance by my son was the highlight of my weekend. Even if it was to Sir Paul McCartney's performance during halftime on Sunday night.
My son was thrilled to learn that the object of bowling was to knock pins over with a heavy ball. He was in absolute bliss the entire time we played at the local alley.
My littlest daughter can sleep eight hours solid if she wants to sleep for eight hours.
Even a nearly three-year-old boy can need some serious snuggle time during the Super Bowl.
Being asked to dance by my son was the highlight of my weekend. Even if it was to Sir Paul McCartney's performance during halftime on Sunday night.
01 February 2005
Overbooked, over guilt
So, I've managed to cram my week with not just meetings, but also mommy-guilt make up time.
As in:
* Extra nursing sessions to help accomodate the child with a growth spurt and the daycare workers who don't know how to cope with a breastfed child.
* Going to child's talent show on the one evening I don't have much of anything going on, after a full day of back-to-back meetings.
* Delivering snacks to my daughter's Girl Scout troop on Friday afternoon, even though I really don't have time on my lunch hour to get the snacks (see above for why).
* Delivering a home-cooked meal to one of my Moms Club folks, because she just had a baby. And they did it for me back in September. Payback is hell.
* Trying to fill in for overworked husband on the parenting end, so he can have some semblance of free time this week.
* Finishing gigantic project at work that was neglected for weeks because of ill children taking up my work time.
Why do I do this to myself? I know superparents don't exist.
But in one quick bound off a tall building, I leap into parenting duties and work without fear of speeding bullets (or deadlines).
As in:
* Extra nursing sessions to help accomodate the child with a growth spurt and the daycare workers who don't know how to cope with a breastfed child.
* Going to child's talent show on the one evening I don't have much of anything going on, after a full day of back-to-back meetings.
* Delivering snacks to my daughter's Girl Scout troop on Friday afternoon, even though I really don't have time on my lunch hour to get the snacks (see above for why).
* Delivering a home-cooked meal to one of my Moms Club folks, because she just had a baby. And they did it for me back in September. Payback is hell.
* Trying to fill in for overworked husband on the parenting end, so he can have some semblance of free time this week.
* Finishing gigantic project at work that was neglected for weeks because of ill children taking up my work time.
Why do I do this to myself? I know superparents don't exist.
But in one quick bound off a tall building, I leap into parenting duties and work without fear of speeding bullets (or deadlines).
28 January 2005
Terroristic?
I'm an editor; I admit it, I'm a bit more, shall we say, annoyed, about the butchering of the English language than your typical person on the street.
But the local television news channels butcher it, stuff it in sausage casings, and hang it out to dry.
Tonight, for example, I heard a T.V. reporter state that the accused had threatened a "terroristic" act.
Terroristic?
Exactly in what dictionary would one find that word? Its definition, please?
Think before you speak. Reread what you write. Please, people, stop tormenting the rest of us.
But the local television news channels butcher it, stuff it in sausage casings, and hang it out to dry.
Tonight, for example, I heard a T.V. reporter state that the accused had threatened a "terroristic" act.
Terroristic?
Exactly in what dictionary would one find that word? Its definition, please?
Think before you speak. Reread what you write. Please, people, stop tormenting the rest of us.
25 January 2005
So Long, John
May you see God, learn Molly's secrets, and spend eternity picking their brains . . .
See John's last column here
23 January 2005
Two into Three
The year from age two to age three is the year a baby changes into a little person.
At two, they can barely communicate. Grunts, points, and crying; not so many words. They physically look closer to babies than older kids.
As the months pass, and my little boy moves closer to three, the signs of the baby he was are quickly disappearing.
He speaks in full sentences, with adjectives and adverbs. You can understand what he is saying--no baby gibberish for my boy.
He even looks like a preschooler. Those loving baby eyes have transformed into pools of impish devilment, sparkling with life.
Hugs and kisses are fewer and further apart; sometimes those signs of love are sprinkled with the spice of mommy manipulation.
It's a rough year, from two into three. Temper tantrums abound as he learns limits.
It's a bittersweet one for me.
At two, they can barely communicate. Grunts, points, and crying; not so many words. They physically look closer to babies than older kids.
As the months pass, and my little boy moves closer to three, the signs of the baby he was are quickly disappearing.
He speaks in full sentences, with adjectives and adverbs. You can understand what he is saying--no baby gibberish for my boy.
He even looks like a preschooler. Those loving baby eyes have transformed into pools of impish devilment, sparkling with life.
Hugs and kisses are fewer and further apart; sometimes those signs of love are sprinkled with the spice of mommy manipulation.
It's a rough year, from two into three. Temper tantrums abound as he learns limits.
It's a bittersweet one for me.
19 January 2005
Sleep, or lack thereof
There once was a time, not all that long ago, when I thought it was a great thing to stay up all night. Sleep seemed unnecessary.
Those days are past. Sleep is very necessary.
Nights like last night make me long for the days when sleep came uninterrupted. One small, crying, inconsolable child up for all hours of the wee sma' hours can drive a human to the pits of desperation. Anything for five minutes to rest. Even if it means a somewhat supine, semi-slumbering state while a small child noshes on you.
So here I sit, working on less than five hours rest for the second day in a row, longing for the days of eight uninterrupted hours of slumber.
Oh, to sleep, to dream . . .
Those days are past. Sleep is very necessary.
Nights like last night make me long for the days when sleep came uninterrupted. One small, crying, inconsolable child up for all hours of the wee sma' hours can drive a human to the pits of desperation. Anything for five minutes to rest. Even if it means a somewhat supine, semi-slumbering state while a small child noshes on you.
So here I sit, working on less than five hours rest for the second day in a row, longing for the days of eight uninterrupted hours of slumber.
Oh, to sleep, to dream . . .
17 January 2005
Success at Last!
She took a bottle today.
At four months old, that shouldn't be huge news. But it is. For you see, Mommyhood blinded me to the eternal fact: Not all children are alike.
I blithely planned my return to work when she was two months old: Expensive breast pump-check; La Leche League-approved bottles that worked for her brother-check; test runs with bottles fed by Daddy- not check, but hey, it worked before.
My other children took bottles without any problem. One preferred them.
But as the days at daycare progressed, something was wrong.
She wouldn't take a bottle.
She'd hold out for me, no matter how long it would take.
The daycare workers were worried. I was frantic. I had to leave for 10 days in March; she had to eat. Something had to give.
After multiple bottle hunts, sippy cup attempts, cajoling, force-feeding, she held firm. Mommy or nothing.
On a whim, one caregiver tried the el-cheapo bottles they keep for emergencies.
She took a bottle today.
At four months old, that shouldn't be huge news. But it is. For you see, Mommyhood blinded me to the eternal fact: Not all children are alike.
I blithely planned my return to work when she was two months old: Expensive breast pump-check; La Leche League-approved bottles that worked for her brother-check; test runs with bottles fed by Daddy- not check, but hey, it worked before.
My other children took bottles without any problem. One preferred them.
But as the days at daycare progressed, something was wrong.
She wouldn't take a bottle.
She'd hold out for me, no matter how long it would take.
The daycare workers were worried. I was frantic. I had to leave for 10 days in March; she had to eat. Something had to give.
After multiple bottle hunts, sippy cup attempts, cajoling, force-feeding, she held firm. Mommy or nothing.
On a whim, one caregiver tried the el-cheapo bottles they keep for emergencies.
She took a bottle today.
13 January 2005
Addiction
My husband and I are hopelessly addicted to caffeine.
My preferred mode of consumption is coffee.
The kids need their lovie fixes.
For those not of the parenting ilk, lovies would be those ratty stuffed animals or blankets you see short people lugging around.
My eight-year-old daughter cried the day we told her this summer that her threadbare stuffed rabbit really had to go on the shelf if it was to live another day.
My two-year-old son can't live without his gankie. The world literally ends for him if it is lost. My husband once frantically called me on my cell as I was driving to K.C. because he'd turned the house upside down and couldn't find it.
And the newest addict I discovered today: My four-month-old munchkin has discovered that sleep will not come unless she rubs her tiny face in the soft, satin-lined blanket that Grandma gave her.
A small word to the folks at Carter's: For the love of God, stop changing the blanket styles. Small toddlers (and even smaller kids) don't care about trendy. They want what they want.
This mom is tired of frantically searching shelves looking for a replica of the precious object that you've heartlessly discontinued.
You can't tell a bankie junkie that the fix isn't there anymore.
My preferred mode of consumption is coffee.
The kids need their lovie fixes.
For those not of the parenting ilk, lovies would be those ratty stuffed animals or blankets you see short people lugging around.
My eight-year-old daughter cried the day we told her this summer that her threadbare stuffed rabbit really had to go on the shelf if it was to live another day.
My two-year-old son can't live without his gankie. The world literally ends for him if it is lost. My husband once frantically called me on my cell as I was driving to K.C. because he'd turned the house upside down and couldn't find it.
And the newest addict I discovered today: My four-month-old munchkin has discovered that sleep will not come unless she rubs her tiny face in the soft, satin-lined blanket that Grandma gave her.
A small word to the folks at Carter's: For the love of God, stop changing the blanket styles. Small toddlers (and even smaller kids) don't care about trendy. They want what they want.
This mom is tired of frantically searching shelves looking for a replica of the precious object that you've heartlessly discontinued.
You can't tell a bankie junkie that the fix isn't there anymore.
12 January 2005
Do-over
That's what today should have been--a do-over.
One well-child appointment in the morning, followed by a phone call on my cell from the daycare center. One frazzled call to husband to cover sick kid at home while I sat through a two-hour meeting. One pile of work left behind to go care for ill child. One more visit to the doctor's office. One slightly confused doctor's office staff at seeing me back a mere five hours after the first trip.
One drive by Walgreens. One search for lost bankie. One tired, ear-infected two-year-old.
One blog created to test my skill at this before one frazzled, exhausted mom and editor sets one up at work tomorrow for one writer.
One of those days. Should'a been a do-over.
One well-child appointment in the morning, followed by a phone call on my cell from the daycare center. One frazzled call to husband to cover sick kid at home while I sat through a two-hour meeting. One pile of work left behind to go care for ill child. One more visit to the doctor's office. One slightly confused doctor's office staff at seeing me back a mere five hours after the first trip.
One drive by Walgreens. One search for lost bankie. One tired, ear-infected two-year-old.
One blog created to test my skill at this before one frazzled, exhausted mom and editor sets one up at work tomorrow for one writer.
One of those days. Should'a been a do-over.
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