'Twas the week before Christmas,
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring,
...except for me, stirring the fudge mixture I was making to give away with Christmas presents. Being on maternity leave is great, but the pay cut makes home-made gifts something of a necessity.
Why, oh why did I decide to make fudge? Yes, the recipe looked easy: chocolate, condensed milk, vanilla. I threw in some marshmallows, because I'm just that good a cook. Making the fudge was the easy part. Not eating the fudge? Just a bit harder.
I had good reason to stay away, though. Sure, I have the same challenge this year that every new mother faces, especially during the Christmas season, of laying off the sweets in a desparate attempt to shed the baby weight. I have another reason to avoid chocolate, though, and it's not just for my own good. Every time I eat chocolate, the Little Man gets gas. I'm not talking about funny little toots, or even a raunchy belch or two. That I can live with. I mean the kind of gas that seems to build up in a little tummy and then just stay there, causing discomfort and tears. (It seems to trouble the baby, too.)
Not long after he was born, the little guy started drying until he exhausted himself and us on a regular basis. He was inconsolable, and we tried everything. We bundled him up; we let him flail his limbs around like a little tree in a hurricane. We gave him gripe water (alcohol-free, though the alternative was tempting some evenings!). We gave him warm baths, we walked him, we rocked him. We didn't think it was colic; the crying wasn't happening every night, and it only lasted for an hour or so. It was time to look at my diet.
Some experts say that what a mommy eats does not affect how breast milk tastes, nor does it give the baby gas. I'd like them to explain the look on my little guy's face when he nursed after I ate chicken shwarma, but that's another story. I have no doubt that my diet was the source of the trouble, and I promised him I'd do whatever I had to to help him. Now, I don't eat cabbage. I don't eat much broccoli, and I never touch brussels sprouts (thank God for vitamin supplements!) or any foods that tend to cause gas in grown-ups. Then I read somewhere that chocolate could be a problem. I reluctantly decided to try going a few days without. Now, please bear in mind that this was the week before Halloween, and the hubby (God love him) had just brought home a huge box of mini chocolate bars, all of them favourites. I feel guilty admitting this, but I actually half hoped that it wouldn't work. Then we could find some other source of the problem, and I could continue to stuff my face with chocolatey goodness. No such luck. The situation improved immedeately. I was crushed.
Once we got through Halloween, things were OK, though sometimes less than satisfying. I missed my chocolate bars, chocolate donuts, and chocolate chip cookies. I slipped up occasionally; I honestly forgot that hot chocolate does, in fact, contain chocolate, and my poor babe paid for my mistake. We were surviving. But now... Christmas. Season of egg nog, turkey dinners, and, that's right, chocolate. Chocolate advent calendars, chocolate cookies, chocolate stocking stuffers. Aisles of the stuff in Wal-Mart. And the holy grail of the chocolate world... Lindor. They say that a majority of women would rather have chocolate than sex, and if we're talking about those creamy little balls of chocolate, I'm there. I haven't had a Christmas (or a week of PMS) without them since mom and I discovered them several years ago. I'm drooling all over the computer here just thinking about them. That's a tradition I'll have to forgo this year if I want anything resembling a Silent Night.
I'll miss my annual affair with my beloved sweets, but this year I guess I've got a bigger craving. I want to see the Baby Boy smile. His happy little face melts my heart, and that's the sweetest treat I could ask for. Besides, a happy baby is WAY better for my thighs and butt!
Friday, December 23, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Terrifying and Wonderful
I've been in love before. I love my family. I fell in love with the hubby pretty quickly, and very hard. That hasn't changed. But this new person who has come into my life has introduced me to a new kind of love that is at once wonderful and terrifying.
I love the Baby Boy. I always knew that I'd love my children; that's what mommies do, right? But the ferocity of this love has taken me completely by surprise. In my case, it was love at first sight, but the love has grown so much more since that first meeting on an operating room table, since the first time we looked into each others' eyes, since the first days at home. It has taken over.
I'm not saying that there's nothing else in my life that's important. If anything, my love for the hubby has only grown along with this new love. I still enjoy the things I enjoyed before. Things are just different, now.
Now this little fellow invades my dreams at night, for better or worse. Sometimes I want to cry when I watch him sleeping, because my body can't hold in everything that I'm feeling. I pray every night when I put him to bed that God will watch over him through the night, and then I go and double-check that the doors are locked. The thought that anything could take him away from me tears me to pieces. It's not a rational fear; I know that the odds are that everything will be relatively OK. And I don't obsess about his safety during the day - I like to think I'll be able to let him be adventurous and independent as he grows. I trust that God will take care of us. It's not easy, though.
The fear that we'll be separated is terrible, but it has one benefit: When the Baby Boy and I are together, I remember to enjoy every minute we have. Life is unpredictable, and childhood is mercilessly short. Every moment with my love is precious, and I plan to enjoy every one, especially during this time when I'm still the centre of his world.
And the love itself, while it scares the bejeezus out of me sometimes, is truly wonderful. My heart warms at the thought of this lovely little person. He makes me laugh. He pulls me out of myself, and lets me live for someone else, because it's hard to be selfish when you're so full of love for another person. I wonder if God allows us to have His precious little ones so that we can have a little taste of the love he feels for us.
My own mother told me something when I was pregnant that I believed, but didn't understand at the time. She said that to have a child is to allow your heart to live outside of you for the rest of your life. What a terrifying thought... and what a wonderful gift.
I love the Baby Boy. I always knew that I'd love my children; that's what mommies do, right? But the ferocity of this love has taken me completely by surprise. In my case, it was love at first sight, but the love has grown so much more since that first meeting on an operating room table, since the first time we looked into each others' eyes, since the first days at home. It has taken over.
I'm not saying that there's nothing else in my life that's important. If anything, my love for the hubby has only grown along with this new love. I still enjoy the things I enjoyed before. Things are just different, now.
Now this little fellow invades my dreams at night, for better or worse. Sometimes I want to cry when I watch him sleeping, because my body can't hold in everything that I'm feeling. I pray every night when I put him to bed that God will watch over him through the night, and then I go and double-check that the doors are locked. The thought that anything could take him away from me tears me to pieces. It's not a rational fear; I know that the odds are that everything will be relatively OK. And I don't obsess about his safety during the day - I like to think I'll be able to let him be adventurous and independent as he grows. I trust that God will take care of us. It's not easy, though.
The fear that we'll be separated is terrible, but it has one benefit: When the Baby Boy and I are together, I remember to enjoy every minute we have. Life is unpredictable, and childhood is mercilessly short. Every moment with my love is precious, and I plan to enjoy every one, especially during this time when I'm still the centre of his world.
And the love itself, while it scares the bejeezus out of me sometimes, is truly wonderful. My heart warms at the thought of this lovely little person. He makes me laugh. He pulls me out of myself, and lets me live for someone else, because it's hard to be selfish when you're so full of love for another person. I wonder if God allows us to have His precious little ones so that we can have a little taste of the love he feels for us.
My own mother told me something when I was pregnant that I believed, but didn't understand at the time. She said that to have a child is to allow your heart to live outside of you for the rest of your life. What a terrifying thought... and what a wonderful gift.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Of Bottles and Breastfeeding
Have you seen the posters they put up in hospitals and doctors' offices that promote breastfeeding? They show happy mothers cradling contented infants to their breasts, happily nursing in public, surrounded by laughing friends. Why don't we tell the truth to new mothers? Because if we did, no one would give it a shot, that's why.
I'm happy that I'm able to breastfeed my baby. There's so much to love about it: I know he's getting the best food for him, there are health benefits for both of us, and nothing beats the feeling of closeness. The way he gazes up into my eyes, like I'm the absolute centre of his world. This little guy lived inside me for nine months, give or take, and I miss him sometimes. When he's nursing, though, we're just as close as we've ever been. That's the good stuff, and I wouldn't have it any other way... But that's not the end of the story.
We got off to a rough start, my little man and I. He was in the NICU for 3 days (which is another story entirely). I visited him as often as I could to try and nurse, but I was up in the maternity ward trying to recover from a caesarian section, and often needed help getting to him. He wa a sleepy little fellow, nearly impossible to wake up for feedings, and the fact that he was being fed by IV didn't exactly motivate him to wake up and eat. I had to wake myself up every 3 hours to hook up to the torture machine (which the nurses referred to as "a breast pump"). During my stay in the hospital I developed a distinct appreciation for what dairy cows go through every day. But I digress... We were both frustrated and ended up crying more than a few times. It was only with the help of various nurses and lactation consultants that we made any progress at all.
The little guy did latch on before we left the hospital, and everything was going well, if you don't count the fact that my new nursing bra was lugging boulders instead of the soft, full breasts I had entered the hospital with. They were no longer boobies. They were knockers. We did really well for a few days. We slept like babies(meaning that we woke up every three hours for feedings), but I didn't even mind that. I loved having more cuddle time with my baby, plus I discovered the wonderful world of late-night TV. I think I might actually have been having an affair with Conan O'Brien; I spent more nights with him than I did with my husband.
Of course, one of the things they don't tell you is that it hurts. A lot. Every time he wanted to eat, I cringed, knowing what was coming. The books said that the pain would last for a few seconds; I was in pain as long as he was feeding. It got worse and worse, until I was crying at every feed. My husband suggested (God love him) that maybe I was building it up in my mind, and the expectation of pain was making it worse. Now, one advantage of our early troubles was that the little fellow had taken some supplemental feedings from a bottle in the hospital, so I could give him formula for a few days to give my poor, aching nipples a break. Out came the breast pump, necessary both to keep the milk supply up and to relieve the pressure. It turned out I was not able to, as Madonna sggested, express myself. The pump I had (and have) at home bears little resemblance to the milker at the hospital; it's a discreet manual model that leaves lovely flower-shaped imprints on my boobs. I sat down while Baby Boy was napping, and pumped... blood. No milk came out, but I got a nice, dark red clot... it was like a horror movie. I was raising a vampire baby. It did, however, explain why his poop was a rusty brown colour; the poor kid was drinking some kind of mamary coktail, blood and milk (shaken, not stirred). It also explained why it made me cry when the human leech was attached to me.
That was the worst of it for me, at least so far. I've heard the horror stories about mastitis, infections, and (God forbid!) sagging, but we're OK for now. Baby Boy will take a bottle of pumped milk, though he'll give you a dirty look when you first offer it. He hasn't had formula since that first month, and I thank God for that, because that stuff is horrendously expensive.
So what is the truth about breastfeeding? All I can tell you from my own experience is that, while it can be as beautiful as those posters would have us believe, it's hard. Really hard. As a wise woman once told me, "Breastfeeding is natural, in the sense that it's something our bodies were designed to do, but when you try it, you'll find that it feels like the most UN-natural thing in the world." It takes work and practice, and in the end, it might not be for everyone. I have nothing but sympathy for mommies who have switched to bottle-feeding - I know many of them had a harder time than I did. And I know that they share just as close a bond with, and have just as much live for their babies as I do.
And as for nursing in public? We haven't really figured that one out, yet. Thank God for stores with comfortable fitting rooms!
I'm happy that I'm able to breastfeed my baby. There's so much to love about it: I know he's getting the best food for him, there are health benefits for both of us, and nothing beats the feeling of closeness. The way he gazes up into my eyes, like I'm the absolute centre of his world. This little guy lived inside me for nine months, give or take, and I miss him sometimes. When he's nursing, though, we're just as close as we've ever been. That's the good stuff, and I wouldn't have it any other way... But that's not the end of the story.
We got off to a rough start, my little man and I. He was in the NICU for 3 days (which is another story entirely). I visited him as often as I could to try and nurse, but I was up in the maternity ward trying to recover from a caesarian section, and often needed help getting to him. He wa a sleepy little fellow, nearly impossible to wake up for feedings, and the fact that he was being fed by IV didn't exactly motivate him to wake up and eat. I had to wake myself up every 3 hours to hook up to the torture machine (which the nurses referred to as "a breast pump"). During my stay in the hospital I developed a distinct appreciation for what dairy cows go through every day. But I digress... We were both frustrated and ended up crying more than a few times. It was only with the help of various nurses and lactation consultants that we made any progress at all.
The little guy did latch on before we left the hospital, and everything was going well, if you don't count the fact that my new nursing bra was lugging boulders instead of the soft, full breasts I had entered the hospital with. They were no longer boobies. They were knockers. We did really well for a few days. We slept like babies(meaning that we woke up every three hours for feedings), but I didn't even mind that. I loved having more cuddle time with my baby, plus I discovered the wonderful world of late-night TV. I think I might actually have been having an affair with Conan O'Brien; I spent more nights with him than I did with my husband.
Of course, one of the things they don't tell you is that it hurts. A lot. Every time he wanted to eat, I cringed, knowing what was coming. The books said that the pain would last for a few seconds; I was in pain as long as he was feeding. It got worse and worse, until I was crying at every feed. My husband suggested (God love him) that maybe I was building it up in my mind, and the expectation of pain was making it worse. Now, one advantage of our early troubles was that the little fellow had taken some supplemental feedings from a bottle in the hospital, so I could give him formula for a few days to give my poor, aching nipples a break. Out came the breast pump, necessary both to keep the milk supply up and to relieve the pressure. It turned out I was not able to, as Madonna sggested, express myself. The pump I had (and have) at home bears little resemblance to the milker at the hospital; it's a discreet manual model that leaves lovely flower-shaped imprints on my boobs. I sat down while Baby Boy was napping, and pumped... blood. No milk came out, but I got a nice, dark red clot... it was like a horror movie. I was raising a vampire baby. It did, however, explain why his poop was a rusty brown colour; the poor kid was drinking some kind of mamary coktail, blood and milk (shaken, not stirred). It also explained why it made me cry when the human leech was attached to me.
That was the worst of it for me, at least so far. I've heard the horror stories about mastitis, infections, and (God forbid!) sagging, but we're OK for now. Baby Boy will take a bottle of pumped milk, though he'll give you a dirty look when you first offer it. He hasn't had formula since that first month, and I thank God for that, because that stuff is horrendously expensive.
So what is the truth about breastfeeding? All I can tell you from my own experience is that, while it can be as beautiful as those posters would have us believe, it's hard. Really hard. As a wise woman once told me, "Breastfeeding is natural, in the sense that it's something our bodies were designed to do, but when you try it, you'll find that it feels like the most UN-natural thing in the world." It takes work and practice, and in the end, it might not be for everyone. I have nothing but sympathy for mommies who have switched to bottle-feeding - I know many of them had a harder time than I did. And I know that they share just as close a bond with, and have just as much live for their babies as I do.
And as for nursing in public? We haven't really figured that one out, yet. Thank God for stores with comfortable fitting rooms!
Monday, December 12, 2005
Occupation: Not Specified
So here I am, setting up to start blogging (which I once mistakenly thought was a euphemism for vomiting). I look at my profile, thinking I'll add some information about myself, but I'm having some trouble finding myself (aren't we all?) in the occupations list. I used to work in retail, and I guess I'll have to go back when my maternity leave is up, but that's not the work I'm doing now. I'm a mommy, and I have been for a little more than three months. Of course, job preparation started a year ago... more about that later. This is the hardest job I've ever had; my industry has to be listed somewhere. Let's check the list:
accounting- that's part of my job, but only a small one. I'm the family bookkeeper and general initiator of shopper's remorse (sorry, Sweetie!), but this hardly covers it.
chemicals- no, but a huge portion of my time is spent dealing with biological waste...
education- this is getting a bit closer. My little guy has a lot to learn, and for the next few years, I'll be his most important teacher. So what if the most profound lesson I've taught him so far is that "the doors on the bus go open and shut"? I'm an English teacher, a Phys Ed teacher and a Music teacher. I do more than that, though...
law-enforcement- ask me again in a few years.
non-profit- nobody's paying me to mother, unless you count maternity benefits, which hardly cover the basics. I profit, though, more than I ever would have believed. I'm paid in chubby-cheeked, toothless grins and warm nighttime cuddles. Some day I'll get a raise - kisses and hugs, and if I'm lucky, maybe a construction-paper purse or coloured tissue corsage for Mothers' Day. Definitely not a "non-profit" position!
student- more than anything. There's no steeper learning curve than the one you're on when the hospital sends you home with your little bundle packed securely into that new infant car seat. I'm learning a whole new language, interpreting cries and responding in noises that have never been a part of grown-up conversation. I'm learning how to make a new person smile, how to balance the needs of myself and the two men in my life (the big one and the little one), and how to stay sane while stranded at home. (Just kidding- I lost my marbles months ago.) This education is never going to end, as far as I can tell. I know there are going to be tests and plenty of pop-quizzes, and I know I'll fail some, but I hope to pass most.
So where do I fit in here? All of the above, I guess. Like I said, this is absolutely the most challenging job I've ever had. I have to work through hunger and total exhaustion. I don't get to call in sick, and I don't get days off. I'm on call 24/7. And I love it. This is the best job I'll ever have. I guess I'll just leave that space on my profile blank until there's an option that says "mommy". That will say it all.
accounting- that's part of my job, but only a small one. I'm the family bookkeeper and general initiator of shopper's remorse (sorry, Sweetie!), but this hardly covers it.
chemicals- no, but a huge portion of my time is spent dealing with biological waste...
education- this is getting a bit closer. My little guy has a lot to learn, and for the next few years, I'll be his most important teacher. So what if the most profound lesson I've taught him so far is that "the doors on the bus go open and shut"? I'm an English teacher, a Phys Ed teacher and a Music teacher. I do more than that, though...
law-enforcement- ask me again in a few years.
non-profit- nobody's paying me to mother, unless you count maternity benefits, which hardly cover the basics. I profit, though, more than I ever would have believed. I'm paid in chubby-cheeked, toothless grins and warm nighttime cuddles. Some day I'll get a raise - kisses and hugs, and if I'm lucky, maybe a construction-paper purse or coloured tissue corsage for Mothers' Day. Definitely not a "non-profit" position!
student- more than anything. There's no steeper learning curve than the one you're on when the hospital sends you home with your little bundle packed securely into that new infant car seat. I'm learning a whole new language, interpreting cries and responding in noises that have never been a part of grown-up conversation. I'm learning how to make a new person smile, how to balance the needs of myself and the two men in my life (the big one and the little one), and how to stay sane while stranded at home. (Just kidding- I lost my marbles months ago.) This education is never going to end, as far as I can tell. I know there are going to be tests and plenty of pop-quizzes, and I know I'll fail some, but I hope to pass most.
So where do I fit in here? All of the above, I guess. Like I said, this is absolutely the most challenging job I've ever had. I have to work through hunger and total exhaustion. I don't get to call in sick, and I don't get days off. I'm on call 24/7. And I love it. This is the best job I'll ever have. I guess I'll just leave that space on my profile blank until there's an option that says "mommy". That will say it all.
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