Hidden treasures in my phone.
- At July 25, 2008
- By Lotus, aka Sarcastic Mom
- In Haiku, Love, My Son, Parenting, Poetry
41
Was actually
thinking about not posting
at all on Friday.
Just not feeling like
it really. I vomited
my soul yesterday.
So what’s left today?
Then browsing my phone’s photos…
felt compelled to share.
Here are some photos
taken with my phone since B
was born. Such treasures.
In the hospital, day after birth. (10.17.06)
Grin
March 30, 2007
Cutesie
Just like Momma.
Just like Daddy. (04.28.07)
Lookin’ good together. (10.21.07)
Baring it all. (11.14.07)
Jammin’ a nanner. (11.18.07)
Bathing with a buddy. (12.05.07)
Evil car nap. (12.18.07)
Being his silly self. Such long hair! (02.09.08)
There are many more,
to be sure, but I will spare
you further photos.
These hidden treasures
are there to be found when we
seem to need them most.
You can tell I’m on my period when I talk about “the indicent.”
Or when I tell you in detail about how I have PMS or, you know, just flat out announce that I’m on my period. That’s also a good way to tell.
But you can rely on me to talk about the miscarriage around this time of the month, too, I’ve come to realize. Because, really, it’s actually more painful to me than the date on which the miscarriage happened, this bleeding that says there is no life within these fleshy walls we call “my uterus.”
The bleeding that says, “AH-HAHAHA, YOU ARE ALONE IN THIS SHELL OF MEAT.”
I don’t think my depression about the matter is excessive. It’s not worse than it was in the beginning, but it’s not really getting better either. How about that, y’all? I guess it takes more time. Or magic dust. Or what-the-hell-ever.
Most “normal” days I am “fine.” Whatever that is. Sometimes stupid things make me cry. Sometimes un-stupid things make me cry. Sometimes people say asshole things, and that makes me cry. But mostly, on “normal” days, I am fine. And I think, “Oh, I am getting better, and next time I have my period, it will probably not bother me so much like last time.”
But I am wrong.
I have not gotten past the part where I want that very baby back. Somehow I feel like I should have been able to let that go by now and want a different one, but it’s just not happening for me. I have times when I can clearly acknowledge the fact that I still want to have another child someday and that I cannot have THAT child someday, and so I would have to have a DIFFERENT child someday.
But I don’t want to.
And then I think about it some more and I wonder if I really DO want to have another child someday. Maybe I just still think I kind of sorta like the idea of having another one someday, but that it’s not really true that I actually want to have one.
And I really don’t need to hear any more about how often it happens, or why it probably happened. I especially don’t want to hear about how it was probably ”for the best” because of why it probably happened. Thanks, but telling me that my “embryo” [my baby, asshole] was probably some kind of fackin’ chromosomally mutated freak isn’t going to make me want it back less. If Braden had some type of disease, I would also still want him, I’d just WANT HIM TO BE HEALTHY.
Also, Braden has been extra challenging for me lately. He is pretty much always up my ass so far I’m choking. Quite often, he is screaming/whining/throwing a tantrum/crying. I don’t quite know what to do when, for example, I’ve been playing with him all day and then I’m just trying to have a conversation on the phone with my husband who is NOT HERE and whom I MISS and Braden comes over and shoves a toy in my face. I tell him to wait, but then he cries, screams, or just gets another toy and hits me in the face with it instead. I get frustrated and raise my voice at him telling him to, “Just let me talk to Daddy for a few minutes!” but that just makes John mad at me.
It’s all just triggering a level of insanity in me that I am not mentally coping with very well. Icanhasdrugz? Maybe that’s what I need.
I’m reaching the end of my rope and finding it’s just a frayed knob and when I look down, there’s a pit of glass shards waiting below.
What with my inability to let go of the desire to have my dead baby back, and Braden having been really, extra difficult lately, I kind of really am starting to sort of think I maybe don’t want to have another one, not even someday, not even one day. Not ever.
And it’s making it really hard to make love to my husband. Because THAT’S HOW YOU MAKE A BABY AND I’M SCARED.
(Ooops, I just said that to The Internet, didn’t I? Oh well.)
That ends this installment of Pity Theatre. Also known as, “Oh, Poor Me!”
Not likely to be seen on Broadway anytime soon.
Hi. Here I am, being depressing again.
Almost seven weeks
since it started; we’re still stuck.
Would now be twelve weeks.
We are still not sure
when we’ll want to try again.
Sooner or later?
Some days, I think, “NO.”
Other days, I think, “maybe?”
It is confusing.
Afraid to chance it.
What if it happens again?
So soon, I might break.
Then again, it seems
no matter the length between,
the pain won’t differ.
Also afraid to
wait too long… time rushes by,
thyroid gets worse. *sigh*
Mostly we still want
to wake up from the nightmare,
our baby still here.
So probably not
ready to try again yet.
But still, there’s longing.
Braden’s latest word
is “baaay-beeeee,” complete with sign.
God, please help me cope.
(Breast)feeding Carnival
Click here for an explanation of today’s Carnival.
When Marie interviewed me, she suggested that I re-post my story about breastfeeding Braden.
Kat suggested that it would be cool to do it and ask other people to link in with their stories. I agreed because the idea of not only sharing our experience, but having the opportunity to share yours with you, and learn from it, struck me as a really wonderful thing.
And thank you in advance, also, to all of you who will read these stories. You’ll find the stories of other participants linked in at the bottom of this post. You are welcome to add yours, as well.
I hope that you find something in them that you needed, even if you didn’t know you needed it.
And now, here is “The Braden Boobie-Milk Story…” or “How My Son and My Boobs Parted Ways”
***
I have always planned on breastfeeding my children. I planned to do it before I even thought about it. By that, I mean that I don’t think I ever even considered NOT breastfeeding them, if that makes sense. It’s like it wasn’t even an option.My mother breastfed all 3 of her children (openly, proudly, and happily). Maybe you get saggy boobs; who cares!? I know about the positive benefits for the child, from the wonderful immunity boosts to the great bonding and comfort. Add to that the increased ability to metabolize the Junk in My Trunk, and the fact that IT’S FREE, and breast milk becomes God Juice.
While I was pregnant I read at least 3 books solely about Breastfeeding, as well as many which included sections on the topic. I read magazines, web articles, forums, and various other posts, until I had BF Info pouring outta my ass.
I researched breast-pumps, nursing pads, nipples creams, etc. I bought several nursing bras and tops. Up to and directly after Braden’s birth, I borrowed, bought, and stocked all the things I thought would help in the breastfeeding journey, from pillows to pads to pumps to creams.
I was SO READY.
Braden inhaled meconium upon entering our lovely world (8:35pm on 10.16.06) which caused some respiratory distress. I didn’t get to hold him right after he came out. That, in itself, really sucked. But you can hear more about it when I (re)post his Birth Story on March 24th.
Once he was stable, I got to hold him for a very BRIEF moment, and then he was gone to the nursery for observation and monitoring. I didn’t get to see him again for hours, and I didn’t get to hold him again until 4am. That whole part of my Birth Plan about how “I want to nurse immediately after delivery!!!” flew right into the fan, along with the shit that had hit it moments before.
(Er, or did it even have a chance to hit the fan before Braden sucked it into his lungs?)
When we did start nursing later that night, I thought I was doing okay, but, let’s face it… even after all the reading and such, I didn’t REALLY know what the hell I was doing! This was the first non-romantic booby suck I’d ever had!
The next day, a Lactation Consultant helped me with Braden’s latch. I had been DREADING the LC. Throughout my pregnancy, I (internally) swore that nobody was going to be all over my boobies telling me what to do with them. Not only am I stubborn, and headstrong (I know how to do everything right the first time, and I don’t need any help, ever. DUH.), but I’m not into the whole “another woman’s gonna touch my boobies now, YAY!” thing. (Except with you over there, Mm-hm, you know who you are. *wink*)
Ha! By that day, I didn’t give half a rat’s ass who saw my knockers. (The day before, countless people saw every uncharted inch of my body, and I didn’t care then, either.)
I WELCOMED the LC to be all over my boobies telling me what to do with them. And she REALLY HELPED. She gave me some tips and showed me some things that made it easier to go about setting up a proper latch, actual demonstration of different “holds,” and cues to look for that would tell me Braden was actually swallowing nourishment.
That night, Braden puked up a bunch of yellow stuff, and I freaked out.
(This falls under the category of “OMG, IS HE BREATHING??” and “MY BABY THREW UP, HE’S DYING, I KNOW IT!”)
Ah, the wonders of being a first-time parent (read: paranoid, semi-idiot with offspring) during the first week. Heh.The nurse we frantically summoned to our room from the nursery told me that it was normal, and it was yellow because he was getting lots of colostrum; a good sign. I was relieved, as well as proud. That’s right, people, the Mommy Juice was A’flowin.
Later that night, Braden started crying. He was fed. Changed. Swaddled. Rocked. Cuddled. Sung to. Prayed Over. Fed. Changed. Rocked. Cuddled. The crying became an awful, wailing, screaming.
It. Just. Wouldn’t. Stop.
That’s when another part of the Birth Plan – “No bottles or pacifiers are to be given to my son at ANY TIME!” – went right out the window. (No more fan, we’re just chunking things out of the 3rd story window now, thanks.)
John went to the nursery and got a paci. Upon his return, he told me that a nurse in the hallway saw him with it, and remarked, “It will become your Best Friend.” Ohhh, how right she was. (But it’s the only best friend I’ve ever wished had never existed.)
It soothed The Boy. Thus began a long love-affair with Paci-Poo.
We took our amazing, beautiful miracle home, and started the Journey Of Parenthood on Wednesday, October 18th. He was a joy. Sure, he often seemed cranky, irritable, and farty… but we just thought it was because he was taking after me. And when he made that loud, grunting Turd Announcement, we just thought it was funny, and we laughed….
On Friday night, I was changing a diaper, and noticed a tiny speck of blood amidst the mustard. My mind reeled. My stomach lurched and churned. My heart was running a marathon. I called John (he was on The Road with Chris Cagle) to freak out in his ear. We decided that since Braden seemed fine otherwise, we’d wait until his scheduled appointment on Monday.
That was a long weekend.
During Braden’s visit, his pediatrician asked me if I had brought a stool sample. DOH! Didn’t think of that one. She had to stick her finger up his butt to get some poo, which he LOVED. It was tested, and the result was positive for blood.
She looked grim. My heart sank.
That began my dairy exclusion diet. Let me make the point here that I LOVE DAIRY, ESPECIALLY CHEESE. But I was going to do whatever it took to breastfeed. So. No Dairy.
For those 2 weeks, I consumed no dairy, and I struggled with my little boy.
We’d have awesome nursing sessions… and then we’d have the “I love your booby, NO I HATE YOUR BOOBY, IT MAKES ME CRY… wait, I love it, I love it… NO I HATE IT!!!” sessions. His latch made my hoohas burn. My hoohas made him cry.I cried a lot.
A LOT.
Whining moment: I was a new mother. Super educated, and yet, still clueless. EXHAUSTED. Worried. Confused. Scared. Frustrated. Not allowing myself caffeine, alcohol, or dairy. Wondering why my body was being such a piece of shit. Doubting myself as a mother. Feeling like a failure, and mad about it.
Andsotired.
At the next Poop Test, I remembered to bring a used diaper. No finger. But still blood.
Dr. Hunter said we should give it more time because it can take awhile for all the remnants of dairy to clear out of our systems.
More trying. More crying. Pumping so Daddy could help feed.
Thanksgiving Day. Rather pleasant… until 10pm.
Non-stop, High-Intensity Screaming Cry from 10pm until 4am.
That’s right, friends. The COLIC had arrived.
“Hi, COLIC! We’re The Carrolls! Here’s our Jugular, why not get it over quickly?”
But nooo, no getting it over quickly was going to be had.
The crying, every night. The utter helpless, frustrating feeling of complete failure.
Next Poop Test. Blood. AGAIN.
That began the addition of Soy Exclusion.
DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PRODUCTS CONTAIN SOME FORM OF SOY?
No dairy. No Soy.
Mommy so tired.
We tried so hard. I don’t know what words to use to express the anguish of moments when my son would be SO HUNGRY and latch SO EAGERLY and then completely reject my breasts, crying, because he was IN PAIN.
It was almost sad that we actually DID have some really GOOD breastfeeding sessions. (Don’t ask me how or why. I guess sometimes his gut pain wasn’t as bad as at others.)
I knew what it was like when it was right. Why couldn’t it be that way all the time???
Next appointment was December 18th.
Dr. Hunter left the room with Braden’s Stool Test Card. We waited.
She came back, looking bummed. Blood. STILL.
I think I had to use all of the strength I’ve ever summoned just to stop myself from crumpling onto the floor of the examining room.
She reluctantly suggested that it was time to put him on a special formula for babies with milk protein allergy. She said I should pump every 2-3 hours so that I could still possibly breastfeed, if necessary.
If.Necessary.
The tone of her voice and the look on her face didn’t say it would be necessary. She told me that if I couldn’t keep breastfeeding him, I could always try again with the next baby.
The.Next.Baby.
The meaning of her words was too heavy, and I started crying. I cry every time I remember this moment.
Dr. Hunter was gentle, thoughtful, kind and reassuring, and I got it together. On the outside.
We put Braden on the formula (Enfamil Nutramigen, aka Liquid Gold). Within less than 24 hours, he was a completely different baby. He was happy. He smiled a lot. He cooed.
He allowed us to put him in his bouncer and eat together, at the same time, you know, while neither of us was holding a baby???
WE WERE STUNNED. Elated.
Still, I pumped my dirty pillows. I pumped and pumped and hoped and waited and watched and pumped.
I HATED pumping. It HURT. Anyone who thinks that pumping is easy is a dork. One that should be punched in the face.
After almost a week, I went to my husband and we had The Talk.
It was time to stop pumping. I stopped adding to my Freezer Full of Breast Milk. I washed the pump and Put It Away.
Again, I cried.
But I also rejoiced, because my son was HAPPY.
It took 2 more visits for us to get a test negative for blood. Do you get the thrust of that? The proteins in my breast milk were ripping up the insides of my son’s intestines so badly that it took him a full month to heal completely.
I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t feel slighted. I did. I have a long list of laments: loss of ability to give my child greater immunity, loss of bonding time, loss of that special feeling (that Words Can’t Describe thing about BF your infant), loss of MONEY, loss of self-worth, loss of ability to burn extra calories, damnit.
But what I gained was priceless. A happy, healthy baby.
Incidentally, I kept the Freezer Full of Breast Milk until I was forced to clean it out when we moved in May 2007. (I cried again, of course.)
Braden is my sweet, amazing, beautiful, funny, crazy, smart, happy-go-lucky, fast, silly, HEALTHY son.
I’d do anything for him.
Even NOT breastfeed.
I support Breastfeeding Moms, Pumping Moms, Bottlefeeding Moms. No matter whether you’re putting a boob or a bottle in your infant’s mouth, no matter if there’s breastmilk, goat’s milk, or formula flowing into your child’s stomach, no matter how long you do it, or the choices you make about being ‘discrete,’ I salute you, MOMS & DADS.
I’m in Support of Moms and Dads who love, care for, nurture, and comfort their children in healthy ways that are right for their families. Period.
Thanks for reading this. I think (know) I needed to write it.
PLEASE ADD YOUR BREAST/PUMPING/BOTTLE- FEEDING STORY TO THE LIST OF LINKS BELOW!
I only ask that you link in with the DIRECT LINK to your post, NOT your main website address. This way, visitors who come here much later will still be able to easily find your story and benefit from it!
Irrelevant links will be deleted.
You know you want to nibble him.
Theme for January 5th, 2008: “Delicious”
What could be more delicious to a Mommy than the sweet days gone by? The dwindling memories… stirred by photos…
…of a first-day-on-earth fuzzy face…
…or a shiny, new baby-belly-button?
How about a chubby baby cheek…
…a pair of tiny, delicate fists…
…or those little, tender footsies?
I almost weep when I revisit these. He is tender… sweet.
The Great Breast-Fest or Facebook Blows
Yesterday I was reading Veronica‘s latest blog “The Great Booby Fest” over at her blogsite, Sleepless Nights. I learned that apparently Facebook has gone and removed pictures of women breastfeeding from user accounts on their site.
From ‘League of Maternal Justice:
[On October 10 at 10am, women around the US and Canada and - we hope - the world will breastfeed for justice. We'll nurse our babies or bottle-feed our babies or reminisce about doing either of those things and we'll post pictures and video, all together, and let the world know that there is no shame, only power, in caring for our children.
Spread the word by placing a button on your blog, and then set up your web cam to live broadcast on your blog on October 10 at 10am (your time). If you don't have a web cam, but have a video recorder, post some breastfeeding video! Load it up on YouTube and tag it "The Great Virtual Breast Fest" on October 10!]
Read the blogs at that site. See the whole story. It’s ridiculous. (There wasn’t even breast showing in the original banned photo.)
The woman that writes this blog: One Small Step for Breastfeeding…. is the one that had her photo banned and her ACCOUNT DELETED originally, but Facebook has continued deleting breastfeeding pictures now. (But they don’t even ban pedophiles!)
The removal of these pictures is another example of our society not being willing to accept the MORE THAN wholesome images of women nurturing their young the way nature and God intended.
It’s sick that provocative ads slap you in the face no matter where you turn (billboards alongside the road, ads on buses, TV, magazines, online, etc), promoting sex and pushing the idea that women should look and act sexy (read: slutty) all the time. Most of the time, thin, yet big-busted women are seen in ads wearing provocative clothing which reveals cleavage and leggage, leading to assage. Imagery in movies and tv shows isn’t any better.
Of course, we should all STRIVE to look this way, and be morbidly depressed if we don’t. In fact, if you have an ass at all, by the way, you can’t find a decent pair of jeans unless you shop at the “Fat Store.” More on that another day.
What I’m getting at here is how Tits and Ass are pushed in our faces all the time in the most UN-wholesome manner, and yet, when a woman wants to breastfeed in public there is such an outcry that you’d think she was masturbating in front of a crowd instead of FEEDING HER BABY.
It’s not right. Do you hear me? It’s Stupid, Sad, and Sick.
What kind of culture are we to support a vision of women that does nothing but treat them like second-class citizens? We women are held to ideals about our bodies which are near to impossible to achieve, we are expected to pleasure men willingly, and yet, if we do, are labeled as “loose” or “easy” (read: fun to party with, but not to marry?) and when we try to do what is right by our offspring, our beloved children, we are insulted and treated like criminals.
Breastfeeding moms are made to feel like they are doing something dirty; they are frowned at and talked down to, pushed into proverbial dark rooms and expected to feed their children in bathrooms, of all places! Even people who agree that breastfeeding is in the best interest of the child will tell you that they have no desire for a woman to do that in their presence.
[By Janet Fuchs Jackson:
If a woman breastfeeds with her whole breast out of the shirt, there's someone in the room wishing she would pull the shirt down a little more.
If she pulls her shirt down a little more, there's someone in the room wishing she would put a blanket over her side boob, or cleavage.
If she blankets her boob, there's someone wishing she would put the blanket over the baby's head.
If she blankets her baby, there's someone wishing she was in the corner.
If she moves to the corner, there's someone wishing she would face the wall.
If she faces the wall, there's someone wishing she would leave the room.
Can't please 'em all, so do what feels right to YOU, I say. But regardless of how you do it, keep nursing, ladies.]
To have such a stigma on a thing that is so RIGHT is disgusting.
Please, whenever you have the chance to stand up for Breastfeeding Moms, do it. Support them, and their children, whenever you can.
Please don’t think that you can’t offer your support if you’re not breastfeeding, or if you don’t have children. ANYONE can offer their support. Let’s make a difference whenever we can, as a society!
If you’d like to put a button, like this one:
Or even:
or one of the others, on your site, blog, or anywhere else, you can get the codes for them here.
If you’re a member of Facebook, and you’d like to join the protest group there, it’s at: Facebook Protest Group. You’ll have to login, of course.
And don’t forget the “Breast Fest” on October 10th, @ 10am!
Facebook needs to know that when there’s a picture of a mom breastfeeding her child, this is no different than a picture of a mom (or dad!) feeding, nurturing, or loving a child in any other way. Let’s tell ‘em.
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