Hopes and Fears

It's been a trying week. We are now on Plan C with the lactation consultant. I made a mistake with Gwen's weight, thinking she had gained 4 ounces, when in fact she was losing, so that was scary. And I didn't write about that, so I kept having people come up to me and say "Wow, good for you, so glad to hear that things are going well with Gwen's nursing!" which made me feel even worse.

Aside from the sheer physical work of managing Gwen's latch and doing whatever I can to make sure as much breast milk goes into her as possible, this is bringing up all kinds of emotional issues for me.


When I first met with KG and learned about Gwen's latch issues, gag reflex and seal failure, I was elated. It explained so much. Her failure to seal means she is swallowing air constantly, which explains why she is such a gassy baby. Her latch issues explain why she can't take in enough milk to pile the weight on, and why my supply is poor, since she's not stimulating the nipple enough to signal my body to make more milk. Her gag reflex explains why she latches so shallowly, causing her to fall off constantly and feedings to take for-freaking-ever.


And yes, I knew it would be a hell of a lot of work to fix these things. But I dared to hope. I dared to dream.


I allowed myself just one evening of imagining that all the work was behind us, that Gwen became an efficient, contented eater. I imagined the gassiness gone. I imagined what it would be like to be able to nurse the baby and carry on a conversation at the same time. I imagined what it would be like to be able to tell, concretely, when a feeding was "done". I even imagined, for just the briefest moment, that I would get the breastfeeder's high, that incredible rush of blissful bonding that people talk about.

But before I can get there, there is work to do. I know that. I understand that, and I respect it. Slogging through a difficult time to reach a cherishable goal is something I'm familiar with and even good at. But there's another person on this journey with me, and she didn't have a choice in the matter.

Before I started on this mad scheme, a feeding might go like this: Feed Gwen on one side for awhile, till she starts to fuss. Try burping her. Repeat until she fusses as soon as she is put to the breast. If she is still unhappy and crying, get her a bottle.

Post-mad scheme, it was more like this: Feed Gwen on one side for awhile, till she starts to fuss. Try burping her. Feed her on the other side for awhile, until she starts to fuss. Try burping her. Repeat on first side, then second side, and so on back and forth until she fusses as soon as she is put to the breast. If she is still unhappy and crying, get her a bottle.

If you read between the lines, you might notice that the second scheme requires Gwen to cry nearly hysterically before she gets a bottle. It also ensures my nipples are getting as much stimulation as possible, the better to produce milk, but at what cost to Gwen's peace of mind? I told myself that feeding from a bottle is less work for her, so maybe she is not starving so much as simply lazy. Still, listening to her scream like that at every feeding really made me question my motivations. In a year, or five, or ten, will she care that she was fed formula instead of breastmilk some of the time?

It's times like these that I question whether I am doing this for the right reasons. Is it really that important to me to eliminate formula from Gwen's diet, and put her through all the crying and frustration to do so? Is it because I want what's best for her, or because I want some shred of bragging rights that I managed to overcome one more obstacle and finally get her off the formula?

The nurse who facilitates our Healthy Beginnings group said something a few weeks ago that just really resonates with me. She was speaking to another mom who was feeling pressure from her husband to pump milk so that he could feed the baby. The nurse advised her that if she wanted to pump and have a break, that was great, but if she wanted to turn down her husband's request, that was fine too. "Whatever you decide to do, just don't feel pressured, because no matter what, you will never get back that first year with your baby."

It's so true. Gwen is growing and changing right before my eyes. What will I regret in years to come? Will I wonder if I could have gotten her off formula if I just tried harder? Will I wish I'd spent less time stressing about it and just enjoyed her babyhood, no matter what she was eating? Or perhaps both?

I don't have all the answers yet. I know I want to keep breastfeeding, though I don't enjoy it for its own sake. I have ordered some fancy herbals online that will hopefully increase my supply. And continuing to work on Gwen's sucking skills and latch issues will certainly benefit her. But I don't think I'm going to sign on for any schemes that will cause her to scream through our feedings, either.

We have another meeting with KG next week. For the past few days, I have been taking an approach somewhat between the two above, and tracking Gwen's formula intake, which seems steady at about 4 ounces per day. If she continues to need a supplemental 4 ounces, good grief, that's hardly anything, and she probably won't even notice it disappearing once solids are established. If my supply responds to the herbals and we can get her off altogether, that's great too.

And okay. Maybe I'll never get the breastfeeder's high, and maybe I'll never have an easy, contented eater. But I can sure as heck keep her from being a starving hysterical one.

Hickeys and Hair Loss, I am TEH SEXAY

First of all, I am not losing my hair. No. On the contrary, I know exactly where my hair is, and the answer is freakin' everywhere. On the floors, on the counters, on the couch, in the bed, on my clothes, in between Gwen's adorable pudges, and maddeningly tickling my chin, shoulders, neck, and back at every opportunity. I would prefer if my hair was lost, actually. I would prefer if I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and was half-bald. Then at least it would be over with. My house looks absolutely disgusting with my hair all over every surface. I'm pretty sure there's enough hair to build another Laura, but as I doubt the usefulness of a hair clone, I don't think I'll bother. Unless there's some way to make the hair clone lactate?

I think the real reason moms cut their hair after having a baby is so they'll be finding much shorter, more manageable clumps of hair around the house. That's my theory.

Also, Gwen had a crappy sleep last night, and so I did too. She usually moves into our bed at 4am. Last night she came in at 2am. Sometime during the next six hours she latched on wrong and I have a bizarre-looking hickey to prove it. I can't remember the last time I had a hickey, but I'm quite certain that when I did, it was a sign of love and affection (or at least physical desire), not a misguided attempt to procure food. Of course, once she latched on and didn't get any food, she would have only sucked harder. I vaguely recall the sharp pain of this happening in the middle of the night, but I guess I didn't react soon enough. Bah.

In any case, our week is going rather better than I expected, and I did get out this morning for a long walk while Gwen stayed with her Grandma. I spoke with KG yesterday and reported good progress: Gwen had only 2 ounces of formula yesterday, and her weigh-in showed a good gain (nearly 4 oz in a week, with healthy range being 3-5 oz). So I'm optimistic. There have definitely been some really hard times along the way, and there will probably be a few more, but I am seeing progress and that's very encouraging.

Red Letter Day

Yesterday, September 2nd 2008, is a red-letter day.

I was alone in the house with Gwen. And I made dinner. That has never happened before!

Gwen played happily on her playmat while I artfully arranged nachos on a plate, sprinkled with pre-shredded cheese, and cooked some ground beef to go on top. She even entertained herself for the ninety seconds the plate was in the microwave, but most importantly of all, she continued to do so during the 10 minutes it took me to eat dinner. Yes. I got to prepare, cook, and eat dinner while Gwen amused herself! This has never happened before.

Sure, it's only nachos, but one has to start somewhere.

Posts To Cry By

A couple of posts that have made me sniffly lately. Mind you, I think there may be some hormone issues at play in my case.

In all seriousness, posts like this are part of the reason I keep this blog. These women are incredible writers, and these posts are great examples of what I strive to achieve: a way of capturing a moment in time, before it slips through our grasping fingers.

Dylan, six months and counting

When I see you smile

Kindergarten

Awkward Stage

Gwen has hit an awkward stage.

She can roll over from back to front very reliably now - I put her down on her blanket to play, and by the time I've straightened up she's flipped onto her tummy. Impressive, for sure. But she hasn't totally mastered the moves to get from her tummy onto her back, and she sure as heck can't crawl yet, so sometime between 10 seconds and five minutes later she'll get all frustrated and upset and I have to come rescue her by putting her onto her back again.

At which point she flips over again. Whee!

She's so into this rolling over thing that she's doing it at night. I remind you, she is swaddled to sleep: and yet, she flips over in her crib. If you think turning your frustrated child over is annoying during the day, just wait till you try it at three in the morning!