Stuffed Animal Hater*

I am one; I admit it, not reluctantly. Sure, most of us have had one or I'll even grant up to 3, special stuffed toys to get us over the rough spots of childhood, but please tell me why anyone needs an army of stuffed animals taking up space and being un-special in abilities or looks.

When I see all the stuffed animals out for Valentine's Day or in baby stores as suggested gifts, I mourn the loss of imagination and the person who gets one for me, as if to say: I find you totally unremarkable! Here's something patronizing to take up room in your life!

I am sure this, like most everything else I write, is an absurd overreaction to nothing. Nonetheless I will do my best to keep Andrew unburdened by the stuffed toy habit so many children suffer(ed) from, except those of his own choosing, especially if they are the supercute Manhattan Toy Company variety. Otherwise, I hope to keep this scourge away.

Sincerely,
Bizardclaw Ma

*I actually have a lot better topics to blog on, but this is the only one I have enough patience to type on my phone, which is pretty much the only way I can blog between work and Andrew. Any leisure time at the computer is designated for online shopping!


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Now You See It...

My complaint so many months ago that baby gear doesn't come in gender neutral colors often enough may not really have any teeth. As it turns out, in East Texas at least, there's almost nothing, NOTHING that is not available in mossy oak camouflage. And that's a color scheme for the whole family: amirite?

Spotted at the Nacogdoches Wal-Mart on Tuesday: mossy oak car seat strapped to a cart (that's buggy to East Texas natives like me). I should have snapped a photo (seeing still might be disbelieving!), but I was distracted/horrified by the parents arguing over who would put mossy baby in the car...so no one did for a couple tense minutes as both parents attempted to sit one another out, while baby remained unattended, still strapped to the cart. Awesome.

But back to my point about mossy oak: how can I claim I don't have options when I *obviously* do? Seriously though, can we get some plain old red or green up in here? Actually, never mind. After perusing the baby wares at Wal-Mart, I didn't want to buy anything anyway. Regardless of color, all my options still fell into the category of extremely inadequate and crappy. Le sigh.


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Live Feeds

I have a little bit of a quirky sense of what's intolerable. For example, I don't like a hot drink from a clear vessel. I don't like a vertical fold line on my shirts. Toilet paper should really roll out from the top, not the bottom, of the roll. And when it comes to word choice, I am especially particular.

Never, have I ever, been able to keep from twitching when someone uses the S swear word to describe a bowel movement, even from an animal. It does not bother me as much if it is in reference to say, all the items amassed by a hoarder, though it's still not a word I use. (I do enjoy liberal use of the initials b.s.)

I really get irritated with the modern, casual dining waiter who jovially asks "Can I take that for you or are you still working?" I am not working; I am enjoying a meal. Perhaps it reflects a certain new social norm to "conquer" your giant plate of mediocre food, instead of nourishing yourself physically and spiritually through food and companionship. I dislike this overly fake friendly attitude among waitstaff in general and our cavalier attitude towards food as something to scratch an itch via our gullets, but because I have another point I'd like to make, I won't dwell on the major shortcomings of generic American dining/ meal times, etc. (for now).

Actually, this pervasive idea about food intake as simply a means to an end may be exactly where I find fault with referring to breastfeeding as "eating" or simply "feeding" as though breastmilk is just a readily available option on the dollar menu at a drive-thru (though it is a value!) What I specifically want to discuss is NURSING a baby and why "feeding" is not really the only objective, though most people would say it is the primary objective of offering Baby the breast. (I would say it is the primary objective... sometimes.) Therein lies the rub of what to call it. I prefer the term nursing because I feel it is the most comprehensive, but I also use breastfeeding. What I *do not* say is that Andrew needs "to feed" or that he "is eating." In my mind, to do so misses the point of nourishing Baby by putting him in the arms of his mother. "To feed" sounds to me like I may as well set him in the trough and have him take his food Viking-style. If he were simply eating, his food could come from anywhere or anyone. But it doesn't.

Nursing comes from the mother, with the warmth and softness and heartbeat of the mother that Baby has known his whole life. Sure, when I am nursing Andrew, he is getting nutrition and hydration from my milk, but he is also getting antibodies for good health, the security of a warm and familiar place, and a human connection--someone who talks and sings to him, creating neuropathways and enhancing sensory development. Nursing is, in short, a way to meet Baby's every need and critical to his development: cognitively, emotionally, physically... To refer to doing something that miraculous as "feeding" is a major downgrade.

I have been asked several times if I ever pump so that Matt can have the joy of feeding Andrew. I have nothing against pumping for future times when I am not available, but no, I don't do this. Bottle feeding Andrew, even if it is breast milk, cannot bring Matt the joy that nursing brings me. And it cannot meet Andrew's needs in the same way. Simply put, that is not Matt's role. Though I often feel like I'm banging my head into a wall when I say to Matt "it's not just about hunger!," Matt also understands: it's not his role. He is the other important relationship to Andrew that teaches that love does not have to come with a snack.

In the very early days of nursing, when my milk was slow to come in and my nipples were painfully sore, I knew that come hell or high water, I would keep nursing. (And not just because I sort of consider myself invincible after the pregnancy from Hades.) Not only is it perfect nutrition for Baby, it is a mood-enhancer for me, releasing oxytocin and endorphins to help me deal with the adjustments to motherhood. It is healing, restorative, miraculous, and a beautiful way to bond with your child in a way that no one else in the world can.

After considering all this, how can anyone think of this perfect dance between mother and baby as a feed? What am I? Google reader? As for me and Andrew, we will nurse.




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The Way We Were

Today is the last day of my maternity leave and I'm heartbroken. Even being able to take Andrew with me to work and being able to work from home does not make up for this hurt.

I doubt it would be easier in a month or two, but it just seems extra awful because he's just one month old. I don't have a lot more to say about this that isn't better articulated through tears. I just want to be a full-time mommy a little longer. I'll never get this time back.

Tangential story to distract me: Matt and I watched a Hoarders the other day and the therapist made the hoarder lady repeat "I'll never get their childhood back" until she dissolved into tears. Her kids were in high school and she was still hoarding the equivalent of their Sofie the giraffe x a million. I don't want to be like that lady! I better quit...







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Have Baby, WILL Travel

Before Andrew was born, I naively believed he would be slightly easier to make travel arrangements for than say, a 66 pound pit bull. After all, he is a human. But no, I guess I took for granted our culture's total intolerance of children, and fear that children might suddenly have needs or-- God forbid!--feelings during adult center-of-the-universe time.

Today, Chay called a rural inn about a room we're going to share during an upcoming conference. By a turn of conversation, the innkeeper discovered Chay has a newborn and told Chay she'd need to consult her husband about the matter (?) and also informing Chay that the inn had no "baby stuff." Chay's clever response was that her baby is very fortunately portable. When the woman called back, Chay was able to surmise that she had booked us for the cow pasture. Finally, the woman asked for my title to address the invoice and when Chay told her "executive director," she backpedaled and asked "Oh, will that room be nice enough then?"

...

In olden times, this would have been funny to me. Does my title make me sound like I office out of the Ritz Carlton? But now I'm mad. The room is nice enough for a mother and young baby, but not the director of an organization hosting a small-time meeting? I have half a mind to boycott her business and just bunk up at the Holiday Inn 15 miles down the road, except that this woman is not yet aware that there will actually be TWO newborns! Ha! Andrew is a bonus attendee!

Also, the B&B where I usually stay when I am in Austin for business apparently has a no children policy. I'm not positive that this is illegal, but suspect it might be. At the very least, it is inconvenient and inhospitable. I fear this is only the first of many places where I will find myself turned out (or was the wedding Andrew was uninvited to the first?) for having the audacity to be out in the world with my child instead of banishing him to the land of non-stop babysitters and chicken nuggets until he is off to college (nothing against nuggets or babysitters) while I pretend to have a life that doesn't include him OR shunning myself to adult conversations during once-a-week playgroups only. It's ridiculous our culture should be so segegated, so intolerant.

And just because it burns me, why do some bizards with yippy toy dogs get to take them everywhere in rhinestone satchels and no one says a word, but both my adorable baby son and well-mannered and sweet big dog are personae non grata? Well world, look out. The mayor of Bizard City has a bone to pick.


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Test

Hello out there in TVland.

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A Spoonful of Compassion Helps the Chillaxin Go Down

If I have learned one thing since pregnancy and birthing Andrew, it is that any opinions (especially strongly-held ones) I have before actually experiencing a situation are going to be put to the test and are very likely to be modified or abandoned. Compassion and non-judgment are coming to me in greater measure all the time (don't worry, I am still a card-carrying member of the Better Bizards Bureau) and best of all, when I fear that science or my own body has failed me, I have discovered how surrounded I am by caring friends (and strangers!), who help me put my fears in perspective. Without getting too absurd, I am reminded of the teary conclusion to It's A Wonderful Life (sorry if I spoil it for you, but it's not like you haven't had 75 years to see it by now) when George Bailey's guardian angel leaves him a copy of Tom Sawyer with the inscription "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends." [sob]

Obviously, Andrew's two weeks post-dates birth at the hospital with an obstetrician using forceps and an epidural were NOT part of my original birth plan (full birth story to come). And yet, under the circumstances and given my state of mind and health and various other factors, I consider the whole experience a significant triumph, a case of divine intervention, and no small measure of hubris for me.

When my milk took a week to come in and Andrew's non-following to the letter of baby progress charts left me in mental anguish, I kept thinking I was an idiot for leaving the sample of formula in our hospital room in the hospital. And I am sure anyone reading this right now knows that I am a lactivist to the max. Fortunately, my milk did come in and nearly 3 weeks later, I am almost calm about it (ha!), but desperation is a bitter pill.

And in a less life-or-death situation, but no less a dramatic turn of events, I never thought I would feel so warmly towards Bass Pro Shops. Before this last Friday, my opinion of them was "Why would I go in there?" I have now softened to this REI for rednecks, where the whole business hums in the key of mossy oak, to appreciate how family-friendly it is. There are quiet, cool spots for nursing; the aisles are roomy enough to push a stroller; the bathrooms are very clean and have changing stations; and there's a restaurant inside. Sure, the heady youth in me has no use for these amenities, but the overwhelmed new mother trying not to pack saddle bags like I'm heading into the great unknown for 3 months instead of a shopping center while my car is serviced, is greatly, greatly appreciative of them.

And so I conclude this surprise testimonial to epidural and Bass Pro Shops, though I stop short of giving a kindly opinion of formula companies who enjoy swooping in during times of desperation. Though I certainly have a LOT better understanding of the kind of support it takes to be successful with breastfeeding and feel a lot of compassion towards new parents struggling with this decision, I still think formula companies do some pretty evil things to sabotage the confidence of new parents. So who would have thought this is where I'd stand on the issues just a few months ago in my roaring 20s when I was so freewheeling (freewheeling with nausea!)? Not me, but I am grappling with the fact that the universe/God/life-force has many plans not yet revealed to me. Though I can't plan for them and that makes the taskmaster in me nervous, I can put my trust in the wonderful people I have surrounded myself with, including Andrew. And I can just chillax already because there's nothing else to do.

Note: This will probably not cause me to chillax. I am still myself, after all.