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Dear Mom
Regarding Mothers Day:
As your insane, nearly-graduated, slacker daughter par excellence, you have sadly not received any timely spring flowers nor pastel, earnest greeting card tasked with conveying all those deep mother-daughter sentiments which usually get obstinately stuck somewhere just below my larynx. I’m sorry to say that easy sentimentality and expressiveness just aren’t on my list of strengths.
Nonetheless, I do not want the occasion to pass without recognition of some sort, because while I AM bad at expressing such notions at times, the thoughts and feelings carry on. Thus, in lieu of overpriced/overcrowded brunches, flowers which die too quickly, or greeting cards which inadequately convey complex emotions, I decided to take a different tack and write a public blog post to revel in the happy fact that you are my mother. Hopefully, this doesn’t end up too weird for either one of us.
The first framing of my thoughts starts with a simple but profound realization: I have always taken your presence in my life for granted. I began to understand this most acutely after becoming a mother myself, but as time goes by the fact stares me in the face with greater frequency. This is not necessarily about the things you do or have done, or even the unique person that you are, but basically a burgeoning awareness of the gentle, invisible cocooning that those of us lucky enough to have great moms carry with us at all times. As Meghan O’Rourke observes:
A mother, after all, is your entry into the world. She is the shell in which you divide and become a life. Waking up in a world without her is like waking up in a world without sky: unimaginable.
So I suppose this is the actual ideal order of things; for our children to have such magical and positive parental relationships that they are able to take them for granted. But especially as I mature as a parent, I want you to know that I do recognize and value your presence (and comforting cocooning when called for) in my life. So much of what I know and who I am today was shaped and impacted by you; always for the better.
I believe some of this is best observed in the ways in which we are different; in the ways that, even within our adult relationship, we totally mystify (and yes, sometimes admittedly annoy!) each other at times. Amazingly, this does not dominate or negate the broader picture of our relationship. What a rare thing, to have someone in your corner that respects and embraces your fundamental differences as much as your similarities!
I guess the only thing left is to try and convey how much your endless cheerleading, affirmations, positivism, listening, support, and amazing mom-ness has always meant to me, and always will. There really aren’t sufficient words to adequately describe this…whether stuck below my larynx or floating in cyberspace, so hopefully you are able to use your awesome motherly powers to just understand what I mean.
Happy Mother’s Day….I love you always!
Obligatory lactation post
Well, here we go. Seems to be a required element of any mommy blog.
I saw this video a few weeks ago, where Salma Hayek publically breastfed a sick baby while on a humanitarian trip. I found it to be very touching and sweet, and applaud her for being the kind of woman that could do that and still not make it seem like an overly political or (L)activist maneuver.
Breastfeeding as natural, wonderful and loving was the culture I grew up with and I never questioned that I would nurse my own child(ren). It was basically something I never thought twice about, or even stopped to consider my assumptions. And along came K, a strong, healthy girl with a textbook perfect latch. However, by the 2nd night after her debut, she was a screaming maniac. But being gorked up on pain meds and sleep deprivation (go, go emergency c-section!), I was sort of too close to the forest to see the trees. Not to mention clueless. So she cried, and we soothed, and she cried, and we soothed, and assumed that when the regular milk got in, life would be better. Well, I never got engorged but somewhere on day 3 there was some milk, and she settled down a bit. For about 12 hours. And then it was back to screaming maniac. For the next week.
We went off to her 1-week appointment, whereupon we found out that she had lost an alarming amount of weight…and had dropped down to approximately 4 and a 1/2 pounds. We were told to start her on formula immediately and if she didn’t improve within 24 hours, she’d be hospitalized. It was up to that point, the most traumatic experience of my life, to realize I had ‘starved’ her so badly, and that she suffered for over a week until we figured it out. I cried for the next 2 or 3 days straight, pretty much. I will always carry the blame and heartache for that.
Anyway, I asked the pediatrician what to do about my milk, hoping that I could still provide something for her, and I was told to just pump and discard for a few days until things stabilized and to monitor the amount I was producing. It became apparent within 24 hours that I was barely producing any more than a few drops. Quite literally, I could pump every 2 hours from both sides and be lucky to get 1 ounce total in the course of 24 hours. It was the first time in my life that I understood what it felt like to have part of your body broken, disabled, hopelessly useless. Every time I pumped and poured out a few more drops, I felt a little more broken.
And I tried…oh how I tried. I did everything in the lactation consultant’s book to make milk. I drank gallons. I ate protein. I slept as much as possible. I drank the mothers’ teas. I finally went on Reglan to try and induce milk production. I pumped religiously. But absolutely nothing worked. I just could not produce anymore more than a dribble.
I basically had to try and accept it and make the best of it. I began nursing K before every bottle feeding (and between for comfort if she wanted it) and my amazing girl loved nursing even though it had failed her initially. She was happy and content to languidly suckle away for 20 minutes at a time whether she was full or not. So at least I was able to provide her with a little milk and a whole lot of love and bonding. Fortunately K stabilized rapidly and rehydrated and plumped up and started to quickly gain weight. She had to wear preemie diapers and clothes for about three weeks though, and she finally looked like a “real” newborn again (sizewise) by the time she was about 1 month old.
I also continued to pump religiously when I went back to work, when she was about 3 mos old. On good days, I’d bring home half an ounce to add to her bottle. In the end, she nursed for comfort until she was about 20 months old. It took quite awhile to recover from the grief–and it did feel like a loss to me. The worst times were when I’d run into work colleagues or acquaintances and the topic of breastfeeding might come up (you know how we womenz-folk chatter) and if I mentioned that I didn’t produce enough milk to breastfeed exclusively, I’d always hear responses like “oh that’s a myth, all women can produce enough milk if they XXX enough or try YYY” or “you should just drink plenty of fluids and rest up and it’ll be fine” or “you gave up too soon and went on the formula and it ruined your supply“. And while I understand where they are coming from, because breastfeeding is an art and a lot of women CAN physically breastfeed but they ultimately choose not to because of their challenges, I was not in that category. I just got the unlucky jackpot number to be one of the few that is physically incapable of producing milk in any quantity, due to hormones, lack of viable breast tissue, whatever.
Beyond all that though, nursing was one of the most amazing, wonderful, heartwarming, and awesome experiences of my life. I miss nursing her, and was very sad when our time to share that type of bonding came to a close.
The most important thing to getting through those ‘character building’ experiences was the constant support from FF and my family, especially my mom. She is an old La Leche Leaguer from back when it wasn’t the in-thing to breastfeed, and she nursed me and all my siblings.
So here’s to all the Salma Hayeks of the world, and all those who try to breastfeed but can’t, and all those who try and can, and all those who do what’s right for them and their babies and don’t let other people make their decisions for them when it comes to nursing–even if the choice is to not. As I learned, being able or choosing to nurse is not the only thing that defines a woman and mother.
